#if they don't understand how sound and the Head Consciousness work. It does sound like person singing. It is a person singing. It's just not

[blackvahana]

Writing idea: Sirens aren't actually singing women, they're manifestations of nature that sing the song of something greater than them that runs through their body, a huge gravitational force that can only speak through song and dance and the song they push through brings people closer because of this magnetisation to bodies. It's a magnetisation to the hive mind that uses nymph-esque beings to reach through

Pay no attention to this being on this blog

[bucksboobs]

you keep saying that your homphobia accusations are only about violent language or calling tommy a predator or being bothered by sex/sex jokes or other manner of things that i agree are homophobic. but then you also did a whole ass two part post about that deleted scene saying it was homophobic not to like every aspect of it because it's the perfect representation of a gay man. you have a lot of other posts saying if you don't like this line or that mannerism or the way he responded here or whatever, that you are wrong because you he is the perfect representation of a gay man. so i genuinely believe there is no criticism i could make of tommy that you wouldn't twist into an accusation of homophobia.

You misunderstand. When I talk about how people make bad faith readings of these scenes, I point to ways in which his being a gay man affects how and why he does certain things and how certain scenes should be read. I do this not to twist up an accusation of homophobia but to encourage empathy with Tommy Kinard as a character, using my experiences as a gay man as the basis.

A refusal to empathize with mlm (and wlw) is often at the root of homophobia, so in trying to get people to better understand and empathize with Tommy as an individual character, I’m trying to get them to avoid falling back on prejudices that lead to them trying to twist him into something he’s not because it better fits the archetype they want to fit him into.

So for example: in the dinner scene, when Tommy’s flirtations with Buck are seen as “sexual harassment” it’s because people that refuse to empathize with him (in large part due to shipping biases) fall back on stereotypes of the gay man as an unwanted sexual predator and twist that scene accordingly. Buck started the flirting by saying they both have daddy issues, but they ignore that because it doesn’t fit the schema they’re trying to build. Buck kept pushing on Tommy by asking if he thought he had daddy issues, but people ignore that because it doesn’t fit the schema of “Buck is being harassed” and “the daddy kink came out of the blue”, because they are working backwards from a predetermined conclusion. All things considered the intentions aren’t consciously homophobic, but socially ingrained biases will sneak their way in, especially when you’re doing mental gymnastics that require ignoring half the scene’s lines in order to complete the line from point A to point BuckTommyBones

And I know this sounds incredibly pedantic but my point is that no one is setting out to be homophobic, they just keep stumbling into it on accident because we all grew up in a homophobic society and have those biases hidden within us, it’s recognizing when they rear their heads that keeps us learning and improving. Just as it’s refusing to acknowledge those biases that pushes us further into doubling down and reinforcing those biases.

[holybibly]

Divine Rosa  ❢ot8xreader❣ 

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader

❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut

❣ Word Count: 10.1k

❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love.

❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior.

❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

❣ Chapter 1: Memento Mori ❣

Have you ever thought about death?

How many times have you asked yourself, “What will happen to us next?” “Is there something on the other side?” “Will we see the shining light at the end of the tunnel and the white-winged angels, or is it just darkness waiting for us?”

We constantly reflect on this, sitting in the noisy company of friends, frozen for a moment in cold numbness; late at night, when there is no sleep and gloomy thoughts creep into your head; on the subway, bus, or taxi returning home from work or school, desperately understanding the desperation of their situation; recurring days in endless solitude.

We should stop doing that. When the time comes, we will ask ourselves other, more important questions.

Nevertheless, we tirelessly continue to be interested in it. Again and again, until our clock stops.

Sometimes I think all we have after we die are flowers and regrets. In our soul, heart, and mind, every second, there are many events that do not obey any rules of formal logic. All that we lose at death. There is no longer the privilege of choice that we had in life; now we have to settle for small, choking on despair and memories, staring into our own reflection on a silver epitaph.

“Our love will stay with her forever.” It would sound like a dream if it weren’t such a dirty lie.

I don’t think love exists. It’s like a sweetener: we feel sweetness, but the brain realizes it's fake, sending out red signals warning of deception. But we still desperately crave this feeling, however painful it may be.

And yet, after death, our lives go on, and in some special cases, we find ourselves more alive than ever before.

It's our time to watch as the new story unfolds, and the usual roles are played by other actors. New names appear on the waiting list, and celebratory ribbons are given to the new queens. See how fake diamonds sparkle in their luxurious crowns. Despite that, you’re the star of this show. Your name is in the news, in the bold headlines on the front pages of newspapers, and every casual passer-by claims to have known you personally while you still existed in a small, closed time period called life.

So what does it feel like to be the only spectator in the front row? The main subject of general regret.

In our cooled consciousness, a sharp conviction of our own uselessness is born and settles. Friends we used to call the best put your stuff in boxes with ribbons of tape. A family that tears the remnants of your life apart, erasing your name from the family register with a sickeningly straight line of black ink. Acquaintances and colleagues, always smiling with an astringent sweetness that glues their teeth, easily remove your number from the contact list and open their palms in a welcoming gesture to those who came to take your place.

All of them, all these people close to us, express their false regrets about your untimely departure, putting a tick in front of the memorized phrase: “Ah, we are so sorry. She was young and beautiful.” Is that what they usually say?

That’s all; our race for popularity is over. The rules of good manners and standards of appearance no longer matter. Your thoughts, actions, and preferences belong only to you, and at this very moment, we feel freedom. Short time, but still freedom.

It is only a short moment until the lid of the coffin closes completely over us. And here we are, face to face with our past, alone.

As hard as it may be for us to admit it, it's true. All that remains for us after death is regret.

Each of us has our own. Someone feels regret for the love that he could not protect and the loved ones that he has lost forever. We regret the things we’ve done and the words we haven’t said, but most of all, we regret the time we’ll never get back.

The dead mourn more than the living.

Besides regrets, we’re taking flowers with us. Yes, these beautiful creatures are leaving with us to one day wrap around our bones, sever the grayish subtlety of our skin, and grow again above the ground, eating us like a parasite. 

The flowers also symbolize the grand finale of our celebration. When the music dies down and the curtain falls, they will be the only ones who will stay side by side while the guests leave the lavishly decorated hall one by one.

Have you noticed how many bouquets are brought to cemeteries?

I like to think of it as a peculiar payment for our rest. Maybe death is as in love with these deliciously fragile things as we are, and that’s why they’re leaving with us. Silent companions who hold our hand as we go into the darkness.

The path to the origins of the great Sanzu River is paved with bloody lycoris and mournful lilies. Truly a magnificent sight. Ugly and beautiful are two sides of the same coin.

When I was little, Mina told me many different stories. Some warmed my cheeks and stretched my lips in a happy smile; others were gray, like days with incessant downpours. I wrapped myself in blankets and warmed my palms with warm cups of herbal tea, but there were other stories that I didn't want to remember until now.

They were sinister, like a spider hovering on a web waiting to be sacrificed. The words were sharp; they pierced the skin, leaving long, stinging wounds. Meaning has always been terrible; like a blade in the tongue, it could not be swallowed and understood. I was afraid. I was scared to death. I could not sleep in the light of a bright day or in the mist of a starry night; in the coziness of the blankets, there was no warmth or protection, and the mocking laughter of Mina made it worse.

My grandmother scolded her and assured me that all this was nonsense, empty words, and legends formed from idleness, but I knew better. There was truth in Mina's stories, and the realization of this only made them scarier.

The most terrible of them was the story of a young man in black silk robes. Beneath the black veil was a sensual smile, and the fox's heterochromic eyes were alluring and sparkling like stars.

Was he a nine-tailed kumiho? A black reaper holding death itself on a leash? He may have been a vampire, desperate and thirsty, but personally, I was sure he was a ghost. A past woven into a single canvas, thread by thread, stitch by stitch. I think I saw him once, during the Lunar Festival. He was the center of my little universe, the otherworldly and inexplicable, his long black clothes flowing to the ground like a waterfall, and the diffused light of the treacherous moon embraced his silhouette like a caring mother’s embrace.

I thought the world was dancing around him. The children were running around laughing and circling like butterflies in the round dance; the couple were whispering nicely, their palms intertwined tightly, as if it would save them from the inevitable parting; and the others were simply enjoying the festival time, waiting for the sheaves of colorful fireworks to explode in the sky.

His eyes pierced my figure so greedily and sharply. I saw hunger in them. A thirst. A goal. 

And then I screamed. So loud and disgusting in a childish way. With a shrill screech, I rushed into the crowd, hoping to find Mina. The colorful ribbons in my hair rushed into the air, and the wind bore me the echoes of his sweet laughter.

He was mocking me. I could have run, but he could have caught me in a second if he wanted to. For a moment, I looked back to make sure that he was still standing there, covered with moonlight and a myriad of stars, but the long, flowing silk of his black robes melted like a mist in the night without leaving a trace.

Mina laughed mockingly as I clung to the lush skirts of her violaceous hanbok, sobbing, choking with tears, and pointing my finger in the direction where I saw the young man with the fox’s eyes.

After that incident, I didn’t sleep for days, couldn’t eat, and was afraid of every noise.

From that night on, I began to believe in ghosts. They are among us. We can see them, reach them, and hear their whispering voices. Science cannot explain them; they are not subject to it. They are mistakenly called fictions, twisted forms of memories that acquire real outlines and are indistinguishable from the real world.

Science calls it imagination; I call it another form of life. Ghosts exist. They’re always there.

The line between the dead and the living is thin and fragile. If you push it a little harder, it’ll shatter.

It’s true—life after death exists.

I was told once that death is like being submerged in water. First, the lungs start to burn from a lack of oxygen; the body gets heavier; the eyes are baking, but we’re still conscious; and the brain continues to function. Then comes the next step. Our body desperately clings to life, continuing to contract the heart muscle. Bam, bam, bam. Deaf blows on the rib. If you start acting now, there is little hope of salvation. No more than a minute. And then, after that, there’s the final stage. Clinical death. Smooth stripe on the monitor.

Our sinking is over. We have reached the bottom. We have met eternity in the muddy depths, blended with the muddy sand and pearls.

That may be true, but for me, death is no more than a moment—until the last flowers on the grave fade.

I never thought about dying. Until it happens to Mina.

The first time I met death, it was with my first breath. I was born with silence—too small, too fragile, and painfully quiet.

Then there were the piercing sounds of medical devices and the screams of doctors and assistants. I was taken away instantly and carried far into the sterile, transparent box. Death retreated, but it didn’t go away.

I was only three when my parents died. Mina was squeezing my hands and talking about a long journey. Grandma took us to her old country house, where secrets were hidden and hyacinths blossomed. At the time, the very concept of grief was not clear and tangible to me; rather, the feeling was like frostbite, when the skin was already dead, but the pain was absent.

So I knew death before I even knew it.

My grandmother died suddenly. Her life was cut short in an instant, like a thread brought to the flame. I knew it; it seemed long before it happened. That summer, I was going to be at a ballet camp, and Mina was the star of the school, and she was planning on spending time with her cheerleading friends. Just one call changed all our plans. Short skirts and ballet points replaced chrysanthemums and black ribbons. Mina was grieving, taking condolences, while I watched from the sidelines. Grandma's leaving seemed like a dull pain from an old injury rather than a sharp cut, and it was easier to deal with than I thought.

This was the third time I'd known death.

And then Mina happened.

The passionate, bloody, grandiose Mina's death. By closing my eyes, I could see her face again. White, sun-drenched, and blood roses, her long fluttering eyelashes, and scattered carmine strands of hair.

She was not at all afraid to die, as if this scenario had been memorized by her. Isn't it an innate instinct, a fear of the unknown, of death? We are frightened by monsters under the bed and horrors lurking in dark corners. We must be afraid of death. We are obliged to do this from the very moment we are born.

Mina was not afraid. She was never afraid of anything, unlike me.

Spiders, darkness, roses…

The list goes on.

When she died, I realized two things: one, nothing lasts forever, and two, I wanted to know what happened to my sister and what became her trigger. Big red button. At my request, an autopsy was conducted to rule out a drug-induced hypothesis that could have caused mental and emotional distress. Forensics found nothing in her lungs except rose petals. Mina literally breathed flowers. It sounded almost fantastical to me. Even her death was beautiful. Forever the first violin in the orchestra. 

The case of her mysterious disappearance was closed. There was no point in looking for someone who was already dead. I asked the detectives to continue the investigation, but despite my desperate pleas, the police were adamant. My sister’s once-radiant life was packaged in a pair of cardboard boxes with a large-scale signature in black marker. “An Mina, case 117”. With each passing day, everything about Mina sank into darkness, but the mysteries and secrets around her only grew larger.

Once upon a time, I could call Mina an open book. It was easy to read—all the emotions, character traits, and habits—everything in it was exaggerated; there was no middle. Her love was never a simple hobby; it was always sharp, risky, and passionate.

Perhaps that is why she so easily fell into an obsession with roses; her feelings took a dangerous path.

I wanted to know who gave her these fabulous roses, who sent her candy and little sweet notes. There was something wrong with all of this, and not just the fact that the lush pink buds didn’t fade. No. It was a feeling, something very ominous, like a calm before a hurricane. A frightening, unnatural silence when all is silent and the air is gathering in front of the thunder's stunning storms.

There’s a long, unrequited tranquility on the other side of the phone line.

In the Japanese language, there is the expression “koi no yokan,” which literally means the feeling of inevitable love for the person you first met. This is not love at first sight, but a premonition of future love. So it was with these roses; they were not evil as such, but they were the inevitable omen of his coming.

True evil does not come in the form of a little red man with sharp horns and a long tail. Evil is beautiful—almost religiously magnificent. His appearance is divine and seductive, attracting the sweetness of the forbidden. Of course, the Devil himself was once an angel. And not just anyone; he was God’s favorite.

So are these flowers. I’ve never heard of people falling in love with soft petals and spiny stems. No one ever sings strange prayers for roses and dedicates his life to them without a trace. Those roses were bigger than they looked.

I think that Mina’s death was not accidental; it wasn’t suicide. Something broke her, violated her mind, and eventually destroyed her. Whether they were roses or people who gave them, that was my question. It was a secret hidden in the white folds of her lace dress, the dreamy smiles, and the names she spoke with such awe.

During Mina's funeral, I was approached by one of the lawyers who handled her legal affairs. I had to sort out the property rights and the lots of pages with numbers, dates, and places. Mina left me not only secrets but also a great legacy. As it turned out, in addition to our common apartment, she had several other assets in her possession, including her grandmother's mansion, which at one time she received as a sole inheritance, shares in various companies, and investments abroad.

I am now the sole owner of all this.

I had no idea where to start looking for answers or where to find the keys to the secret locks. Maybe I can find something in her files between the lines and the capital letters, or maybe it’s all dry formalities. So, going to the lawyer sounded like a good start to me.

How many can hide from those who command our last will?

Even so, I didn't want to be alone with Mina's secrets if I could find something in her belongings. I decided to call Soomin, who was once Mina’s best friend, the closest, to be exact. She was always there, having fun and crying with Mina, supporting and comforting when needed. Soomin was an integral part of her life. My life.

After the incident with the roses, they split up, not on the best of terms. Their conversation completely ended, but I still continued to spend time with her, and we often went to brunch at various gourmet cafés that Soomin loved so much. She was an elite restaurateur and had great taste, not only in the interior but also in food.

In a way, she completely replaced my sister. Soomin always told me, “No orgasm can ever match a stunningly cooked fondant au chocolat”. Yeah, I could totally agree with her on that.

After dialing her number, I waited for an answer. The wait was not too long, and after the second tone, I heard the melodic voice of Soomin on the other side. “Hello” “Soomin, I'm sorry to distract you from work; can you give me a few minutes?

“Sarang? I can’t believe you finally called me. How are you feeling, honey? I’ve been really worried about you, you haven’t spoken to any of us all this time.” In her voice, there was a sincere concern that resembled a mother's. 

Soo has always been so caring and gentle. In her was the same fascinating brightness that Mina possessed, which brought them very close and became the strong foundation of their friendship, but unlike Mina, who resembled a raging forest fire, Soomin was a comforting flame of home. One was ready to destroy everything around her; the other collected ashes in beautiful vases and kept them as precious memories.

After Mina died, she was there for me when I especially needed support.

“Sorry, Soomin, I’m still trying to get over it." I sounded exhausted, even to myself. The days spent in voluntary isolation completely drained me emotionally and physically. I was the alarm of danger light for my friends. “You know, when she went missing, it was hard for me, but I was still hoping she’d come back. I convinced myself that Mina was fine and that she was enjoying life surrounded by her favorite roses.” It was the first time I had spoken openly about my feelings since Mina’s death. “I never imagined that my sister would slit her throat in front of me. I still have nightmares, Soomin, but I’m calling you for another reason, I have a little favor to ask you.”

“Sarang, you should feel like this; it’s okay. What happened to Mina traumatized you; damn it, it would have traumatized anyone if they were you. We agreed to give you time to get over it at your own pace, but when you didn’t answer our messages and calls, we started to worry. Eun Jung even offered to come to you several times; you know how she is.” She was anxious, and I understood why. “I’ll help with everything I need; just tell me how I can do it.”

“You agree too quickly, Soo.”

“Sarang, please stop. The only thing I can offer you now is my help. I can’t imagine how you’re handling all this, and if you need my help, I’ll be there for you. So stop denying me and tell me what you wanted to ask.”

“Do you remember Mina’s lawyer who approached me at the funeral? I think it’s time I met him. It’s all about inheritance and property, but there’s something else.” I started off insecure. “I want to find out who sent her those stupid roses.”

“Why?” in her voice sounded like sincere surprise. “If you were me, would you want to know how it all started?”

“Probably, but aren't you afraid? Judging by how it turned out for Mina,” she stammered for a second. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.”

“No, you’re right. Absolutely. I’m scared, and if things weren’t so messed up, maybe I would have done something different, but listen, Soomin, I have a strong feeling that I’m always missing something, and it’s bothering me.” “People don't change so dramatically, and certainly not because of the roses. You've been friends with her for so long, so you know her as well as I do, and we both understand that it's crazy to give up everything in your life for roses like that. Especially for Mina.” When I spoke my thoughts out loud, I was even more convinced that I needed answers. It really was crazy. “ She left so many secrets that I want to find a clue. I haven't told anyone, but the roses are still being sent. I received a call from the cemetery administration saying that her grave was littered with flowers, and they needed to figure out what to do with them. Not only that, but I also received several bouquets.” There was no point in hiding it anymore. If I want Soomin to help me, she needs to know about those roses that were sent to me.

“My God, Sarang, you should have told me right away. Did you talk to JiHo? This is an abnormal situation. What if you’re being chased, Sarang? I don’t know, it’s all so scary.”

“You have no idea, but I don’t think we should talk about stalking.”

“Why? Maybe it’s a stalker or serial killer; you should be careful. Please tell me JiHo is living with you now.” “First, I don’t think anyone in their right mind is going to come after me, and second, JiHo and I took a pause.”

“Did you break up?” she asked with an incredulous echo.

“I'm not sure if you can call it a breakup.”

“God, the bastard left you. I always told you he was a rare asshole and would run away at the first opportunity.”

“Soomin, let’s not talk about it, but if you want to hear it, yeah, you were right about him.” The memories of our conversation with my ex were still fresh and festering in my mind like a ball of worms.

It’s very convenient to hide behind phrases like “let’s take a break,” “you need time to figure things out,” “emotional vacation,” etcetera. No one wants to be a part of your grief. At this party, the cake belongs entirely to you.

“Okay, let’s close the JiHo thing. Tell me, do you know anything about who sent the roses? Any ideas?”

“Absolutely nothing; I’m stuck. There’s nothing that can help. No address, no sender’s name, Maybe we can find something in her files or stuff; I don’t know.”

“Yes, it’s possible. When do you want to go to a lawyer?”

“This Friday, if you’re free?”

“Give me a minute,” the papers rustled on the other side, Soomin clearly trying to find the day she needed in her diary. Knowing the nature of Soo, it was difficult to make out anything there; her records were always chaotic, and careful planning was not her forte. In this, too, she was similar to Mina.

“I’m totally free. How about going to brunch first and then to the lawyer?

You could use some fun, and I’ve always wanted to go to this new trending place. I hear they serve incredible fondant au chocolate, and the owner looks like God cut him out. How does that sound? “First, tell me, are we going there for the fondant or the owner?”

“You can’t judge me; everyone’s talking about how attractive this man is; I just want to see.” Soo softly dissipated.

“Have you betrayed your love of chocolate for a man? Kim Soomin is something new. Anyway, everything sounds great. Let’s go and see if those rumors are true, but if I were going there solely for the chocolate,” I smiled at that thought. I’ve really been lacking in communication lately. We should start coming back to the real world. “Do you know the address?” “Sure, I’ll pick you up at 11:00. Please wear something prettier than a black dress.” “It’s a classic, and thank you again, Soo.”

“You have nothing to thank me for, Sarang. Finally, I can call you like that, you know, Rosa, it doesn’t suit you. I’ll see you Friday, baby.”

“I think so, too. Until Friday.” I put the phone aside, taking a deep breath. The long stems of white roses had folded in half in the cramped bin. A luxurious wrapping in a rare shade of Solferino and embroidered topaz ribbons lay next to the bulky pile, and a small note was shrunk into a perfect ball that was also lying in the trash.

Whoever sent those flowers should have stopped doing that. I’m not Mina. I don’t like roses.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

How quickly does the waiting time pass? We count the days, the hours, and the minutes until the exciting event we’re expecting, circled by a thick red line in the calendar, but is it really worth our time, which life has measured for us?

It's so strange; the days are like bottles of sand thrown by a restless ocean onto a flickering glass bank. I remember this one, crystal blue—it smells like strawberry cheesecake and summer heat. And this one, made of gloss and pearls, is full to the brim with grave earth and chrysanthemum petals. I like the one that sparkles with diamonds from the royal frosted glass; it smells like a lover’s pillow, and there are memories of the first love. There is another, very ordinary, and therefore the most precious—empty and at the same time full. If you open it, you can hear the gentle wind whispering your name.

My life is all about memories now. I’m just trying to keep what’s left.

The rest of the week passed unnoticed by me. Time, like the rapid trains at the station, rushed by, and I kept waiting to see the stop I needed in this incessant turmoil.

Existing in space is very simple when it belongs only to you. I did actions that were memorized to the finest detail, simple mechanisms that gradually brought me back to my normal state. Feed the neighbor’s cat. Do the cleaning. Go for a walk. Check the mail. Cook dinner. Ordinary things to take your mind off the colorful bottles on the shelves of consciousness and the endless cycle of nightmares.

And I also noticed that at night, time flows more slowly. Second by second, replace the glowing dial until dawn. And so on until the ruthless rays of the sun insidiously penetrate between the tightly woven threads of heavy boudoir curtains, and the golden shadow spills over the pampered skin like boiling water.

I think I'm allergic to the sun and, therefore, to the stars.

Maybe the whole world.

Today I woke up earlier than usual. Somewhere below the horizon, the sun splashed in the golden ichor of the predawn twilight. Yoru stretched out at the foot of the bed, warmed by tiny drops of warm light that seeped into the room through the window. Last night, she refused to leave, stubbornly ignoring my presence and my tender pleas to return home to her mistress.

Yoru was my neighbor’s cat, perfectly embodying all its best features: a slightly aggressive, capricious, and having a little bit of arrogance. Despite this, she had a strange affection for me and often stayed at my house if she was in the mood.

Other tenants avoided Yoru, considering her a bad omen, and it was not only the polished glossiness of her black fur; she always appeared where death later came. I didn't care; I've always loved cats, and having one of them in my house was a bit of comfort. I wasn't alone.

Sensing my awakening, her almond-shaped eyes flashed with the sharp color of precious stones in the slits of the eyelids—a thick amber glow, not yet warmed by curiosity or playfulness. Yoru tossed and turned, clearly unhappy that someone had disturbed her sleep, arched her back and closed her eyes again.

We could lie like this all day long, in silence and some strange harmonization. I’m sure she’ll get close to me a little bit later, calculating her every move, until he presses on his heart with a peaceful, relaxed purr. Unfortunately, today was not the day I could afford it. Soomin will soon be here, and I need to get a little tidy.

Shower. Food. Simple things. Jars of creams and neatly arranged lipsticks Are there certain rules of appearance when you go to a lawyer? What dress should I wear—a deep neckline or open legs? How decent?

Should I still look mournful? Should I wear a veil? Two months have passed; are other colors acceptable? What will he think of me?

So many questions were spinning in my head while I was going, and it seems to me that whatever I choose, it will still be inappropriate. The story of Mina was not a passing affair; probably everyone in the city had fleetingly heard about her death. One of my friends told me she was called “Queen of Roses” because of the flowers in her hair, and I saw the headlines of the “exquisite death” articles.

The black color dripped venomously to the floor with the long hems of the dresses in my wardrobe; the gray, like a mist, settled in the loops of cardigans and oversized sweaters; and the ghostly white terrified me with thin transparent lace and ruffles, just like on Mina's dress. The choice was not too large.

A jacket dress on a naked body made of thick matte silk, a little pearl, and a high choker collar with long falling threads, It was one of the old jewels I bought in a small antique shop. Vintage trinket in the style of Queen Marie-Antoinette. I had a whole collection of such chokers—some studded with precious stones made of expensive jewelry metals, others woven with the finest threads, like a skillfully woven web. Hard made of steel and leather, and soft, like angelic kisses, made of organza and velour. JiHo once said I had a choke kink if I liked things like that; maybe I did, but my ex was too “vanilla” to close his hands around my neck.

After getting dressed and styling my hair, I sat down on the couch and waited for Soomin to arrive. What should I do now? I was lost. Turn on the TV or read a book? Look at the news feed on Instagram; be sure to look at JiHo's profile to see his new photo. Does he miss me or not? Is someone else warming up his bed now that I'm not around? Is JiHo still wearing the same perfume as before, or has he found something different?

Anyway, I never liked his perfume; it was salty like tears and distant ocean breezes and rancid like decaying wood in the dense Amazon. He called them gourmet; I could only agree if they were worn by someone else, say someone more dominant and powerful. Maybe I would even find this strange, gloomy mixture of aromas attractive, inhaling it from someone else's hot skin and feeling with the touch of my lips a steadily beating pulse in the swollen veins on a strong neck.

How long does love last? Three years or more? For me, it's a moment; for others, it's an eternity. I loved him. It's true. Very strong and very long ago. My love did not resemble the indomitable elements or the explosions of colored fireworks; rather, it was the fragrant bloom of wildflowers and the scattering of stars in the sky. She was comforting, not passionate, and I wanted to see someone like me, someone who could comfort my heart and give me tenderness.

Tenderness and comfort alone were enough for me, but deep inside, I wanted something dangerous, something forbidden. I was devout, one of those people who are called “good girls,” but was it really me or the role that Mina gave me?

Maybe in the far corners of my mind, my thoughts weren’t as good and right as they should be. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, but sometimes when I woke up from another nightmare, I was glad she was dead. Dark, reckless emotions made their way through my cracks; they were moments of despair as my anger lifted its ugly head and oozed poison and blood. My cruelty and hatred had the color of roses and smelled like chocolate. She had fox eyes and a seductive smile; desire flowed in her veins, and strangled thirst was heard in her voice.

In my nightmares, I saw not only Mina and bloody roses; sometimes there was a young man in long silk robes and a veil hiding his face. He's just a ghost; I met mine years ago, but somehow he seems more real to me night by night when he comes into my dreams without permission. He crept into them like a serpent-tempter into the Garden of Eden, slipping away at dawn like the shadow of two moons, hiding behind a door I could never open.

Unreal in my reality.

I felt the arrival of Soomin even before her long nails methodically began to knock on my door. It was as if the spell had been removed and all the sounds of the world had rained down on me in an instant. Yoru shook off her sleep and whirled around at the front door, waiting for an unknown guest. The clatter of high heels echoed in my apartment, slipping through the cracks of the door locks, and the thick smell of ambergris and blooming jasmine at night walked ahead of her, warning every one of her approaches. If I didn’t know better, I could easily have mistaken her for Mina. That was my sister once.

The whole world was just a part of her life; she was not part of the world. To be ordinary—what a bad form!

“Sarang! Sarang, open up. I’m here.” and in fact, her long nails caught on the dark wood of my front door, causing Yoru to bristle and hiss.

I was absolutely sure they wouldn’t get along.

“Are you awfully loud? Someone told you this, Soo?” I opened the front door wide, smiling softly. “I missed you, Soomin.”

“Don’t tell me about it; I missed that pretty face.” She hugged me, which made Yoru hiss again, attracting Soo’s attention. “When did you get a cat?”

“That’s not my, Yoru cat, my neighbor from apartment 1366, that door.” I waved my hand to the far end of the corridor, where Mrs. Lee’s apartment was located. “I like her; I don’t mind having the baby stay with me sometimes.”

“I see.” There was an awkward pause between us until Soo broke it. “You want to talk about… you know what.” She was worried about this topic; I could see it from the way she shifted from foot to foot, or was it from high heels? In the light of the electric lamps, the steel studs glittered like sharpened spindles from the tale of The Sleeping Beauty.

“Not now. Better tell me about this restaurant we’re going to.” Soomin was easily distracted if you changed the topic of conversation in the direction of a subject of interest to her.

I walked out of the house, taking one last look at Yoru. The cat didn't even think about leaving my space; he was already ensconced in a pile of pillows on the sofa in the living room. If she wasn't going to leave, I wouldn't force her.

“Don’t you need to return the cat to the mistress? She looks expensive.” asked Soo

“She’s a purebred Persian cat, and no, Mrs. Lee won’t worry about it; Yoru can stay with me for weeks before she comes home. This has happened before.”

“All right, if you say so.”

I shut the front door and turned the key, permanently cutting off my escape routes. Today. I have to do this today or my resolve will wear thin, and I will once again voluntarily isolate myself in the comfort of blankets and tightly closed curtains.

"And so, the restaurant..." This was the beginning of a long story that interested no more than random passersby in a faceless crowd.

“You’re going to love this place, I promise. Everything I’ve seen on their Instagram profile is so fascinating, but you know what makes this place really attractive? It’s the owner. Eun Jung was there last week, and she couldn’t shut up about…”

For the next 30 minutes, I heard about this trending establishment. “ Angels' Share” is the most requested boutique café in the last 3 months on all search engines. A luxurious café with exquisite dishes and a magnificent concept.

But most importantly, it is, of course, divine, and Soomin, the owner, was absolutely sure of this. Hundreds of girls lined up in endless lines from dawn to dusk, hoping to see him, at least for a moment.

On your first visit, the owner of “Angels' Share” personally serves you throughout your interruption there. Your name is inscribed in the book of exclusive customers in gold ink. Their main specialty is gourmet desserts, and if you are not seduced by the angelic face of the magnificent man who runs this place, then the sweets melting on your lips will do it instantly.

Full berries of scarlet strawberries in white Belgian chocolate. Mille-feuille with fresh wild berries. The devil's food is the most chocolate of all chocolate cakes, and, of course, the angel cake has the most delicate silk cream of exotic fruits.

As Soomin told me about it, she was clearly having an emotional orgasm. Her arousal was obvious, but I could not understand what she craved more: exquisite desserts or the sweet kiss of the owner.

“I think he's a real angel,” Soo finished her rant after giving a fiery speech about the unique beauty of a man she had never met in her life.

“I'm not sure if it's all true, Soomin, but you'll be able to see for yourself when we get there. You should not trust everything they say. You're too impressionable and trusting.”

We spent the rest of the journey in peaceful silence. This is the type of silence when there are a lot of questions in the air, but each side is not sure when to start asking them. I know she wanted to ask me a lot of things, and in response, I wanted to finally share my experiences and feelings that I had been desperately hiding for the past two months. Nevertheless, each of us remained silent, as if afraid to destroy fragile comfort with uncomfortable words.

When the car stopped, Soomin smiled approvingly at me, as if to say, “Go ahead, my girl!” She was good at it because she was also a cheerleader like Mina.

“Angels' Share” was impressive at first sight, and not only because of the long line of girls lined up in a perfect line and dressed in intricate clothes like collectible dolls on the shelf.

A myriad of flowers, lace, and feathers, pastel shades, and delicate ruffles—all of them looked like animated sugar fantasies. Their cheeks were dusted with pink blush, and their inflated lips were accentuated by a thick layer of transparent sticky gloss with a fine sprinkle of glitter.

Perfectly well-groomed hair is arranged in children’s cute curls or intricate hairstyles with hundreds of sparkling hairpins and velvet bows. The variety of their images was amazing, as was the height of their heels. This place was definitely something special if the girls were willing to sacrifice their comfort for a couple of desserts.

Or it wasn’t about desserts.

At such moments, I especially understood how much we needed someone else's approval. The list of items seems endless: he likes cute girls, girls with an athletic figure, pale skin, and big eyes; she should not be boring; my friends like her; she has long legs and a thin waist; and she is a certain height. I wonder if he'll use a ruler to measure me. Big boobs or a nice ass—which turns him on more? What will our first date be like? That's right; should I call him Oppa or not? Tell me what you want, and I will fulfill whatever you want. I will fulfill every one of your fantasies. Tell me about your desires.

Seduce me. Surprise me. Love me!

I don’t want to live like this. I want to be who I really am, with all my flaws and imperfections. I want to be sharp and rude; I want to be cruel and honest; I want to look as I want, without colorful tinsel and layers of makeup, with cellulite, stretch marks, and a little overweight. That may be so, but it will be me. Just me. 

The voice of Soomin ripped me out of my mind.

“I told you so,” said Soo smugly, purposefully heading for the entrance, circumventing a string of discharged girls. She was a lioness on a hunt, while they were stranded in colorful piles like scared rabbits.

If you do not pay attention to the girls, the exterior is fascinating. Gold, flowers, and crystal resembled the frame of a precious box. “Angels' Share” was positioned in such a way that the sun flooded it from all sides, creating around it a mysterious golden haze of sunlight and a dazzling iridescent play of crystals.

Everything was so beautiful, I won't deny it, but didn't the gingerbread house beckon the children deep into the dark forest where the wicked witch lived? Everything beautiful always has a downside, and someone knows how to mask it better than others.

While I was looking at the details, Soomin dragged me inside and was already talking to the host girl, who was checking the records for a long list of names. She also, like the girls on the street, looked like a doll. Her hair was long and shiny, tucked away from her face with an embroidered rim with Swarovski crystals, and her eyelashes were so lush that they touched her cheeks when she blinked. I would call her beautiful; she licked to perfection, which made it almost unnatural. She had a sweet, high-pitched voice and an overly friendly smile. Annoyingly friendly. 

“Please follow me; I'll show you your table. Since you have visited us for the first time, Mr. Yoon will personally take care of you today. Please enjoy your stay at “Angels' Share.”

YooA—that was the name of this girl—led us up the spiral staircase to the second floor. It seemed that everything around was carved from pale golden marble, with the addition of luxurious interior items and thousands of flowers—or, to be more precise, thousands of roses. Snow-white, cream, pastel pink, and soft peach—the whole space breathed rose buds that stood in tall transparent vases.

The sight took my breath away, and I was inwardly tense. It's okay; it's just a café, not Mina's apartment. You need to relax and not start panicking; it will not benefit anyone.

As if sensing my growing panic, Soomin squeezed my palm.

“Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Yes, it’s all right; there are too many roses for my taste; you know, it brings back memories.” I smiled tortuously in response to her words. I didn’t want to ruin her day; she was so excited and happy when we came here.

“We can leave if you are not comfortable, Sarang.” Soo still held my hand, gently walking her thumb over my palm in a comforting circular motion. “If you want to go somewhere else, this is fine. I can always come back here later.”

“No!” came out too loud. “No, I’m fine. I can’t wait to try their chocolate fondant. You know I’m here only for chocolate.” She said the last part with me in one voice.

YooA showed us our table, although it was more like a small loggia separated by airy chiffon tulle and pearl threads from the common room. I could easily fall in love with this place if not for the languid, enveloping smell of roses and the beauty of their lush, perfect buds.

“Do you think the rumors are true, and we'll see an angel appearance today?” Soomin leaned across the table to talk about the owner, not so obviously?

“I think you'll find out about it now, anyway.” I couldn't finish my thoughts, interrupted by Soo's enthusiastic sigh. It was a sound of undisguised admiration that she couldn't hold back, even if she tried.

The reason for her excitement was right behind me, and I had to look back a little to see what it could have been.

Of course, all the sounds of delight belonged to none other than Mr. Yoon. In part, I could understand why he was called angel-like. His beauty was painfully perfect, to the point where it became almost terrible. His face was beautiful—almost obsessively beautiful, like the face of a stone goddess on a grave. Surreal. The skin seemed to glow from the inside, like molten silver flowing through the veins. He had long hair—ashes, platinum, mother-of-pearl—everything mixed on a diamond cloth. One silvery strand fell delicately over his face.

Are the melodies of an angelic choir in the air, or does it just seem that way to me?

The more I looked at him, the more his appearance disgusted me.

I felt flawed and unsuitable, like a puzzle that did not fit the picture; my heart did not beat faster with excitement or sweet agony; I did not burn and did not desire it as it should. Between us, it was possible to draw thousands of parallels in a myriad of universes, and none of them ever intersected. Beauty is deceptive, like a serpent promising forgiveness. It’s the pain of a bittersweet injection entering our nervous tissue.

What do we know about them—angels? White-winged light bearers, without flaws and ignorant of evil and vicious desires, are submissive and faithful to their ideals and purposes. Silent watchers who look after our virtue. But there are those who are chained and silken, whose wings are torn out with bloody flesh, for they are sinners.

Their name is the fallen. Unforgiven. 

He was not an angel. He was one of them who traded the vaults of heaven for the flames and steel of the nine circles.

His presence was heavy, stifling, and sharp. Goosebumps ran through my skin as an omen of the imminent end.

I could have sworn that the second our eyes met in his eyes, the color of dark bitter chocolate, anger, and disgust thickened. So everything that is perfect collapses, falls, beats, and crumbles like the great walls of Babylon, kissing the transcendental peak of heaven. Like a Venus flytrap, his appearance was a clever disguise of vice and rot in a velvet cage of flesh, and this place is the very gingerbread house that beckons to certain death.

 “Welcome to “Angels' Share”. My name is Yoon Sung Hoon; I own this place, and today I will make sure your stay here is unforgettable.” The voice flowed like honey smoothly and gently, I could melt at this tone.

“I am Soomin, and this is Sarang; we have heard a lot about this place.” Soo’s cheeks were pink from a shy blush, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was embarrassed. This man was clearly something special, if he could make Soomin behave like a schoolgirl in love with just his presence.

His eyes rested on my figure for a second, and I wanted to shrink into a ball under this appraising gaze, as if he was trying to probe me and understand how dangerous I could be. It was only a moment, and then a smile shone again on his angelic face.

“I hope you’ve only heard nice things about us. What do you want today?” I wonder what he is used to hearing in response. I want you and your love, and I will accept everything you would not give me. Will you be my boyfriend? My husband? Will you give me eternal love? Judging by the expression on Soomin's face, this is exactly what she wanted to ask him, but she pulled herself up in time.

“I want to taste your best dessert.” As they say, kill them with your sweetness. Where has my self-sufficiency and t.” As they say, “kill them with your sweetness.” Where has my self-sufficient and confident self gone? Soo, this blushing mess was nothing like hers.

“Of course, only the best is for you. And what do you want?” All his attention was now drawn to me, and I had no pleasure. Yoon Sung Hoon is clearly not used to girls not falling at his feet like moths hitting the glass. Our dislike was mutual. Our dislike was mutual. “What do you want, Sarang? I would recommend one of our most special desserts: a white chocolate soufflé with candied scarlet roses.” Sung Hoon was smiling, but not at all benevolent; there was something mocking in the exquisite curve of his lips, as if he were challenging me: “Come on, try me.”

Roses. Those damn roses again. It always came down to these flowers. Were they my path leading away from the dark forest, or would they lead me straight to the crystal coffin in the tallest tower of the castle?

Instead of politely refusing, as a true lady should, I have given a crude, hoarse, and utterly evil speech:

“I hate roses.”

For me, flowers are as beautiful as the pain of a broken heart. You can call me a heartbreaker. What will your heart taste like? I'm so eager to try it. 

“My apologies.” Sung Hoon bowed his head, hiding his gaze in the lace of fluttering eyelashes and platinum bangs. With this simple action, Soomin once again made a barely audible, enthusiastic sound. “In this case, I offer you our signature chocolate fondant with raspberry jam and glass caramel glaze. Our clients say that he has a heavenly taste, so celestial that he can be sinful.”

Sung Hoon—there was something about him that disgusted me. His way of speaking, his appearance, his behavior—in general, every detail of it The most beautiful apple on the branch will always be wormy. I couldn't understand how he could charm girls in a split second, without any effort, as if it were in his blood—to cause desire and awe.

During our short conversation, Soo did not look at me once, inseparably studying every detail of the angelic man. If I make an incision in his skin, will the gold pour as befits angels, or will it be the viscous and black acid that Pandora once shed from her eyes?

I didn’t like it here. I didn’t like Yoon Sung Hoon, and he probably didn’t like me. How was I in his eyes—insignificant, puny, ordinary? Our dislike was mutual but totally unfounded; I just knew I didn’t want to be in the same space with him. I can’t breathe.

Guests always leave after dessert. I didn't want to linger, so I agreed to fondant. “Okay, I'll take fondant and cappuccino.” I looked at Soomin again; her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, judging by the bitten lower lip and flushed cheeks. “And matcha latte, please.”

“Of course, ladies…” With this phrase, he finally left us, and I sighed deeply.

“I think I'm in love, Sarang.” Apparently, with his passing, Soo’s brain has resumed active activity. “He absolutely justifies all the rumors about him.”

“Yeah, I can agree with that; he’s definitely something very special.”

After Sung Hoon served desserts and another 10 minutes of heated discussion of his appearance, our conversation took its normal course. It’s like ping-pong; the rules are very simple: move from one question to another, follow the theme, and don’t miss your turn. “How's the work?” “Everything is fine.” “How’s your boyfriend?” “You remember I told you we broke up?” “What have you been doing lately?” “Too much to do; I can’t remember, but recently I came back from Japan”, “Did you like it there?” “Great seats and great cuisine.” “How do you feel, Sarang?” Say it again; I didn’t hear you.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” Once again, you speak unclearly.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” It's so loud here, I can't hear you.

“Sarang?!” Can I skip my turn? I’m tired of this game.

I took a deep, slow breath.

“What do you want me to say, Soo? Something that will calm you down or something that should comfort me? ”

“Truth, Sarang. I want to hear the truth from you.” Soomin looked at me so carefully that it seemed as though she was looking straight into my soul.

My mind moved from one thought to another, not knowing what it would focus on. Truth. What is it like, this truth? She is like a beautiful, spiritually disheveled monster with a lesbian couple of black widows in an aquarium; she exists in an endless eternity of joyful decadence and an ecstatic nightmare.

It’s no big deal to tell someone the truth, but are you ready to see your own reflection in someone else’s eyes? They say alcohol is a liquid truth, but I think it's nothing more than a road strewn with bread crumbs, straight into a dense, dark forest. The more you drink, the deeper you go. Sometimes, through the intricately woven stems of condemnation and bitterness, subtle rays of understanding break through, like the light shed by the dual face of the moon. But this happens so rarely that the eyes themselves become accustomed to the surrounding darkness.

I’m still afraid of the dark and, therefore, of the truth. Now I’m sure I’m allergic to the world.

When I looked at the café, I noticed that there were many more people. Bunny girls with colorful barrettes occupied small transparent tables filled with all sorts of desserts; others, similar to porcelain dolls, put their palms to their cheeks, flushed with embarrassment, and laughed loudly, sitting in the same loggias as ours. The sounds of clicks from selfies and aesthetic Instagram photos did not subside for a second, as did the high play of voices merging with soft background music.

This probably wasn’t the best place for such a serious conversation, but was it ever the perfect place to have a heart-to-heart?

“Honestly, I don't know. Really?” I began, stirring the thick, fragrant foam from the cappuccino. It tasted like a first kiss—a little bitter, a little sweet—something that I would like to repeat again and again. “Secrets, secrets, and more secrets—everywhere I look, no matter what I ask, they only get bigger. Everything is as usual: Mina died, and the world is still spinning around her. Remember, I told you that they still send roses? I can say that soon the cemetery will start selling bouquets because there is simply nowhere to put them. Every day there are fresh flowers on the grave.” Maybe I sounded a little petty and annoyed, but I didn't care. “I may not seem like the best person on this planet, but sometimes I feel absolutely happy that I finally managed to bury her in the ground.”  Yes, this is exactly the right moment; you are not mistaken. That was my truth, like salt and pepper, like ashes, like burned dreams.

Soomin shook her head negatively.

“You shouldn't talk about yourself like that, Sarang; you're not a bad person, and we both know it; everyone around you knows it; and even that bastard JiHo knows it. You have gone through a lot, and if I were you, I would have gone crazy long ago, but look at yourself: you are here with me, in the noise of the metropolis, and you have your whole life ahead of you.” She put her hand on top of mine, and the warmth of her body penetrated mine. “Mina was who she was, and neither you nor me nor anyone else could change her. So don't let her ghost poison your life. I'm not a fan of this entire Nancy Drew thing, but I won't dissuade you. If you want my help, I'm on board.”

I laughed bitterly, taking a sip of the coffee that had already cooled. There was something special about it—sweet, ice-cold coffee, like long-cooled love.

“Yeah, you’re right; she was who she was, but I guess we were wrong about that because those flowers broke her in half. In fact, that’s the whole point of the question: where did the roses come from? She was interested in nothing but flowers and some strange prayers. She frightened me. You know, at first it looked like another love of hers; everything was as usual—she talked incessantly about flowers and admired them, but the more roses they sent us, the less she was interested in the rest of the world. Mina withered and languished while the roses bloomed. I've never seen anyone come to our house or meet someone. Nothing, just roses—hundreds of roses. You just can't imagine how many there were.”

“You know, I don’t really want to imagine it. Okay, let’s say you find something in her files. What’s next? You really need this? Maybe we should just let go, you know, scatter the ashes to the wind.” Breaking off a slice of angel cake, Soo mooed in satisfaction as the dessert was in her mouth. “Mmm, I love sweets. Who handled her legal affairs? If this is one of the free lawyers, we should hurry; the queues in these cantors are worse than here.”

“No, no, we're not going to a free advocacy team. Wait a minute.” I pulled out of my purse a small card from a thick black cardboard and handed it to Soomin. Transparent gloss on a soft matt surface looked refined and very expensive, just like the business card itself. “Silver & Black LTD” was the name of the law firm that handled Mina’s affairs.

“You’re kidding me!” She exclaimed, almost burying her face in her business card. “That’s “Silver and Black.” How did she manage to work with them? They’re one of the most elite law practitioners in all of Seoul, and I’d say across Asia. Their lawyers are real sharks in their cases; for the existence of their practice, they have not lost a single case, and the bills for their services are simply cosmic. How does she have so much money? Sarang, did you inherit her sugar daddy too? If that's the case, ask for more; you're much more expensive than a cheerleader, and nerds are always sexier and more desirable.”

“Stop saying that like I’m a whore. I don’t know where she got the money, but are their services so expensive?” My surprise was obvious. Our family was not poor, but we were not rich; we occupied that golden layer in the class hierarchy where we could just live without any worries about tomorrow. Mina and I were well provided for, but judging by Soomin’s reaction, “Silver and Black” could afford only filthy rich and influential people.

“If I were to be offered the opportunity to trade my virginity for cooperation with them, I would have done it without hesitation. Are you sure we have an appointment with them?”

“Soomin!” Frankness was always such a simple thing for her that I felt awkward at such moments. “Of course, I called them yesterday to confirm the details.”

“What? The cult of virginity is overrated anyway, but now I'm much more interested in it.”

“Let me think, more amazing men?” “How did you guess?” Soo smiled sweetly, shoving another piece of dessert into her mouth. I snorted; I couldn’t help it. "Hey, don’t laugh! You should also consider new options, since you and JiHo have broken up. Listen to me, little Sarang, nothing will warm your bed better than a hot big boy."

"Ew, Soomin." She just laughed back.

[suzukiblu]

Question. How would you go about writing from a mad scientists point of view? Or how would you write a point of view of a character who writes in logs or records their work aloud?

No matter the narrator, I just about always start with the character's base personality, so when you say "mad" scientist, the immediate question for me is are we talking, like, cackling lunacy or cold logic or neurotic obsession? Because I'd approach all of those personality types differently, obviously. So like, using those archtypes as examples:

The cackling lunacy would be very hard to follow and jumping all over the place and their logs/recordings would be very self-referential and full of delusions and hallucinations and just be INCREDIBLY difficult for other people to understand, but still following their own internal logic. It doesn't make sense to anyone else, but it makes sense to THEM. Their notes literally just sound the same way they talk all the time.

The cold logic would be stripped-down and short and full of cross-referencing notes and references to previous experiments or other people's work, and trying to minimize the effects of their personal opinions on the data. Their opinions show in glimpses based on WHAT experiments they're running and what data they find important and how they approach their work, but they don't express them outwardly unless they can back them up with Results(tm). Their notes code-switch to more formal and precise language than they'd typically use in daily conversation, and more clinical and neutral tones/terms, plus a lack of bothering with the kind of put-on social niceties that make talking to other people a less annoying process for them.

The neurotic obsession would be VERY stream of consciousness, weaving in and out of topics and going off on tangents and struggling to concentrate on the nitty-gritty details or things that just don't interest them like their obsession does. Literally just writing down/recording their thoughts without a filter or focus and having to catch themselves and go back to previous parts of the experiment, and possibly need to stop and course-correct or just correct MISTAKES at least two or three times a log, and possibly inadvertently contradicting themself sometimes without actually noticing. Everything is about the obsession, and everything is bent AROUND the obsession and made to fit or relate to it. Their notes just sound the exact same way as their infodumps do when no one interrupts or stops them and just lets them talk their ears off.

So yeah, those are some starting points for my best immediate advice, but I would say above all else, the personality is ALWAYS what most matters, and especially the internal logic the person taking the notes operates on. Also, the additional motive of the question of it these are PERSONAL notes, or if they're notes that the character intends to publish or edit FOR publishing, or if they're notes that another character is supposed to transcribe later? The perceived audience in the character's head is always gonna influence what they do/don't mention or do, whether intentionally or not.

Hopefully that's helpful, feel free to follow up if you've got more questions or want some clarification on anything I said!

[ctrl-alt-em]

Communication is Key

AO3

Robin

I am Morven Hellwain. You have carried my spirit in your body for the last two months. As I am sure you have not figured out, when you lose consciousness, I gain control of our shared vessel. I need you to sleep as frequently as possible. Additionally, avoid bodily harm. I do not appreciate having to cast Cure Wounds when I wake.

Dear Morven Hellwain

Are you the reason for all the strange happenings? Did you explode the wolves? Lug says you killed that monster in the bunk house.

I go to sleep every night. I guess it is every other night? I don’t think I can sleep more than that and still help.

Thank you for healing my leg. Happen says he did not aim for me. His sprites played a mean prank.

From Robin Oatcake

Robin

I cannot fathom how you think you, the village idiot, can be of any help. The only way you can help is by ensuring I am in control as much of the time as possible.

As for your initial questions, yes, I am. I cannot imagine anything of note occurring in your proximity without my influence. I am not directly responsible for the wolves’ destruction; the recent unpredictable outcomes of spells is to blame. You need not concern yourself with magic.

Dear Morven Hellwain

I was not the village idiot. That was Young Man Dan. I was the spit-turner before I lost my job seven weeks ago.

I can be a great help! I helped save Lug from those men. I even injured one! And I was the one that got help when that man turned into a monster. Happen said I did a good job. I even helped us meet our friends and join our adventuring party. You are just upset that I can help just as much as you. I understand that. I was jealous of Tilly the spitturn dog too at first.

From Robin Oatcake

Robin

From the other's accounts of the confrontation with the mob, it does not sound like you played a needed role. It is no show of strength or skill to hit a blinded, maimed man with stale bread. As for the combat at Folkmoot, others surely would have heard and come to our aid, supposing I did not defeat the abomination before their arrival. You did nothing a dog would not be capable of. A dog likely would have been of greater help and less of liability.

Robin

You will get us both killed if you disregard my advice. Your 'help' is not needed nor wanted, I assure you.

To Morven Hellwain

I was thinking about back home, all the weird things people kept telling me. Leslie, the head cook, was cross with me. She said I missed work twice and that I insulted her in the market. I had no idea what she was talking about. I assumed she mistook me for someone else and I tried to tell her so. She said I was lying and fired me! It occurred to me that she might not have been lying. Was it you she saw? Are you the reason I lost my job?

From Robin Oatcake

Robin

Of all the things you could waste my time with, you chose this? Your 'job' is hardly worth the ink we are wasting writing about it. I will acknowledge that I was in control of our body several times before our departure. I did lose my patience with several of the dimwitted residents of the village so I very well may have offended the head 'cook'. I would not consider the loss of any great consequence. If anything, it is beneficial. Your 'occupation' would have delayed your departure for Folkmoot. You may thank me for my help in your next note. Hopefully, the writing will tire you.

To Morven

And what about my house? Did you tell the apothecary she could give it to her goat? If you wanted to run me out of my village so bad, you could have written to me earlier.

From Robin

Robin

If I recall correctly, and I do, the old hag asked me, "How I am supposed to keep a roof over my goat's head if you don't pay?" To that, I said, "Give the fucking goat my roof. I don't care." And I continue to not care. Your hovel was little more than a goat's shelter anyway.

I have spoken with Happen and he is aware of a root that induces a harmless sleep state. I have procured some. It is in the outer pouch of our bag.

To Morven

It is not our bag. It is my bag. And I don't need anything to help me sleep. A long day of traveling with my friends does that enough. Seeing as I have no work or home to return to, I will be with them for the foreseeable future regardless of our mission.

If you want to be helpful, Morven, you will tell me how to use magic myself and how I get you out of me.

From Robin

Robin

You cannot use magic. It would require innate talent or years of study, neither of which you have. Unless such fantasies lull you into a slumber, do not concern yourself with such endeavors.

I am looking into potential methods to separate us. However, until magic has been returned to its original state and I gather more information on what caused my spirit to enter your body in the first place, no significant progress can be made. You need not be involved.

To Morven

How can I not get involved when I already am? You’re in my head! You walk around in my body half the time! I should be the only one in my body!

And how do you know I don’t have inate innate talent? Maybe I just haven’t had need to use it.

From Robin

Robin

Knock yourself out as soon as you see this. Lug, Cressida, and Willowfine have been captured by a group of zealots and I need to go save their skins.

To Morven

No need to worry. Me and Happen did it ourselves. You should have seen how far Lug hit this one guy with his hammer once we got him out.

From Robin

Robin

That is not what I told you to do. You will get us both killed.

Willowfine said she saw you use magic. I can only assume you located a scroll and stumbled your way into using it correctly.

To Morven

You were wrong, Morven. I do have a talent for magic, no scroll needed, whatever those are. Mine is not as pretty or orderly as yours but I can cast spells. Cressida thinks that might be why you didn’t have trouble casting in my body.

You may thank me for my help in your next note. I will not ask you to knock yourself out because I have manners.

From Robin

Robin

I have spoken with Cressida and Willowfine regarding your spelling casting. As must I detest to acknowledge it, I suppose it makes sense. Either my spirit brought my magic potential with it or my spirit was attracted to your magic potential. I do believe the first one is the more likely of the two. It still stands that between the two of us, I am the more proficient and thus should handle any and all confrontations.

To Morven

Willowfine says we should try to come to a compromise. She said our attempts to screw with each other and limit the other’s time awake is annoying.

How about a deal? If I find myself in situations that I cannot handle, I will find a way to allow you to take control if you agree to cease trying to stay awake for days on end. If the group stops to sleep, you sleep and let me take control.

From Robin

Robin

After much strong arming from the others, I agree to your terms.

Robin

Why am I not surprised you have Wild Magic? Of all sorcerous origins, you draw power from the most unruly and unpredictable.

With that said, I request that you cast something that will offer you improved defense or evasion when in a confrontation. You cannot rely on Acid Splash only.

- Morven

[rin-fukuroi]

foxian reader that reminds Blade of Baiheng and it causes him pain that he has never felt before (literally just him being protective but not wanting to admit it) </3

Thank you very much for the request~

I'm sorry for making you wait so long. I hope the wait was worth it.

𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧' 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞 [𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞]

Please do not translate or publish my works without my permission.

The originals of my works can be read here

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Pairings: Blade x fem!foxian!reader

Warnings: a little angst.

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. UNDREAM, Neoni — Nightmare

Note: English is not my native language, so I apologize if there are errors in the text qq

I like this work. Although I usually like to write more about the tougher Blade, sometimes it's nice to remember his softer sides and that deep down he is still capable of love, even if it hurts him.

It's amazing how only one thing, one look, one person can destroy an already shaky structure.

— Oh… — you look so scared. Your ears are slightly tucked in when you step back, away from the numb man. — You must be a Stellaron Hunter.

You're scared. And you're not at all sorry that meeting you broke down the fragile walls separating Blade from his past. Of course, you have no idea what's going on in his head while his scarlet eyes burn a hole in your chest, on which your trembling fist rests, convulsively clutching the fabric of your dress.

— Will you kill me?

Blade doesn't hear a word you say, cornered, with a soft fluffy tail pressed against your hip.

«So much like her…»

You take a step back as opposed to his step forward. The silence hanging between you and the killer wanted all over the Lofu makes your heart pound in your chest, but you can't take your eyes off him. The hilt of the cracked blade is still clutched in his long fingers in a black glove, while the shadow of the menacing tall figure of the man absorbs your whole being more and more, plunging you into a state of terrifying trance.

All sounds disappeared. Only your shortness of breath still breaks the silence for a man, while the ringing in your ears does not allow you to hear even your own rapid heartbeat.

The viscous crimson liquid in Blade's veins boils, and his head is so dizzy that he is hardly sure that he is still standing on his feet. These memories from the past stick into his shaky consciousness like needles. The memories of Yingxing, whose eyes now see in front of them a fragile but strong girl, shining with a gentle smile, from which painful cramps twist the stomach. But Blade's eyes only see you, trembling in horror in the face of death, which you are sure will overtake you right here and right now, in this dark alley, in which you had the misfortune to find yourself at the same time as the Hunter, holding out a bandaged hand to your face.

His cold touch brings you out of your stupor, making you flinch when Blade's thumb gently pressed against your cheek. Trembling lips open when you're about to say something, but the words curl into a sharp lump stuck in your throat.

Of course you're afraid. Of course, you don't understand why Blade is looking at you now with such regret and a desperate desire to utter words of remorse, but he just can't stop. So much… pain. So many memories torment the Hunter at this second, when both of you are afraid to break the suffocating silence. Each for their own reasons.

But you're just as surprisingly brave as the girl Yingxing once knew.

The man's thick eyebrows rise when you grab his wrist with a trembling hand. Now your face looks furrowed when you give Blade an annoyed look.

— If you want to kill me, then do it already, — your voice is permeated with such amazing confidence in what you are saying, and your tail swings so funny from side to side, shuffling along the wall behind you. — Or did you just decide to add harassment to your list of crimes?

Your ears abruptly straighten in amazement when you feel Blade's palm release your face, now moving to his forehead and covering his terrifying fiery eyes while a hoarse laugh escapes from his lips.

— What's your name? — the man asks in a low, velvety voice.

You hesitate, pressing your long ears back against your shiny hair again before, now with less confidence in your voice, giving your answer.

— Y/N…

The corners of Blade's lips lift slightly in a barely perceptible smile, after which a large bandaged palm hits the wall on the right side of your face.

— You are brave, Y/N, — the Hunter puts the blade back into its sheath with one deft movement of his hand, fixing his menacing gaze on you. — We will definitely meet again.

His last words didn't sound like a threat before Blade's figure disappeared into the darkness, as if he had never loomed over you like a heavy shadow.

It was a promise.

✧ ✧ ✧

You couldn't get that night out of your head.

You've never felt the breath of death so clearly before, and you've never seen a person who personified it. One glance at the Hunter was enough to see the road behind him, strewn with corpses, but … for some reason, just for a moment you felt the irresistible sorrow and longing that soaked Blade's fingers touching your cheek.

No, no, no. You were just too scared. Surely, murderers like him are alien to anything human.

But then why can't you get him out of your head?

Just like Blade can't stop secretly watching you, feeling like a real masochist. He could just run away from this suffocating sense of guilt, from the pain that he causes himself over and over again with his own hands, coming back to you over and over again.

Is he even allowed to have warm feelings for you? Blade knows he doesn't. These feelings burn him like an unbridled flame, in which one day he is destined to burn alive for the sin that he is going to take on his mutilated soul again.

But if the pain he feels every time your name pops up in his mind, every time he sees you, is the price he has to pay for the selfish desire to feel happy again for a moment…

Blade is ready to pay it.

Therefore, there is no longer a blade in his hand. Now his ruby eyes look into yours with awe and a desire to protect. Now the pads of his long fingers touch your chin with the certainty that you want it. Blade sees it in your almost childishly innocent eyes, looking at him with a mixture of fright and anticipation when he brazenly invades your life again, making the muscle in your chest tremble with an inexplicable feeling that you cannot resist.

— Sorry to keep you waiting… Y/N.

[your-local-crypt1d]

@urfavcrime hope it was okay to tag but I've been itching for an excuse to talk about Gem and Tommy!! Forgive me if this is a bit ooc I've only watched a few of Gems videos-

Gem takes her role as Auntie very seriously. 

At first, she was a bit miffed about the whole situation. fWhip had no intention to tell her—his sister—about this, and she would have gone on unaware of Tommy even longer if fWhip wasn't terrible at hiding him. Doesn't fWhip trust her?

After fWhip explains the whole situation (Tommy has come from some kind of abusive situation; fWhip doesn't know the details, just that Tommy pleaded to be kept hidden so "he" never finds him), Gem eases up about the whole affair. 

Seeing the fondness fWhip has for Tommy, the way he effortlessly laughs at his jokes and gently scolds him for his bad language, is enough to convince Gem that everything is okay and that her brother hasn't made some huge mistake she'll need to fix. 

Gem's actually quite proud of fWhip for taking on such a big responsibility. I don't think she'd view him as parent material until she sees the way he interacts with Tommy.

Gem acts sort of like an old grandma when Tommy visits, always checking if he's hungry, and even if he says no, she's shoving plates of food towards him. complaining about how fWhip doesn't feed him enough, and he's all skin and bones (which, when you live in the snowy mountains, body fat is very important). 

She lets Tommy borrow a few simple spell books after he whined and pleaded to be taught magic (not enchantment table magic that's cringe and lame, real poggers magic like hers!). If she had any doubts about Tommy being fWhips' kid before, she certainly has none after Tommy nearly blows up half of the Eastvale Manor with magic. He is promptly banned from performing magic at home unsupervised. 

The Crystal Cliffs are a nice getaway from the Grimlands when Tommy needs it. Gems' tower doesn't have the regular echo of explosions and fireworks. Tommy has slowly grown to learn that he's safe in Eastvale and that fWhips' experiments won't ever be used to hurt him. But even if you consciously know something isn't dangerous, that doesn't necessarily translate over to your subconscious, and it certainly doesn't for Tommys' C-PTSD. So on occasion, he goes to stay with Gem when it's all too loud and stressful at home.

The only problem with it is that Tommy has a habit of running off and not telling anyone where he's going. Tommy does it a lot more than he'd admit—a flight response to his fear of abandonment, I suppose. Tommy could get away with it when no one was worried about where he'd be going, but now he has people who care for his safety (fWhip) and would burn down empires to find him. He's raising his whole familys' blood pressure; Papa fWhip is no exception. 

Luckily, Gem knows this and will send a message to fWhip every time Tommy comes to see her, regardless of whether he says fWhip is aware or not. Gem is good at remembering the little things that are important with Tommy: the areas he doesn't like being touched but won't say, the way he likes his tea, the kinds of sounds that upset him, etc. 

Gem, as usual, tries to be the voice of reason in her chaotic family, so she's usually the one who has to stop Tommy from causing problems on purpose (fWhip is an instigator, and Sausage always wants to join in). Think of Gem picking him up by the scruff of his clothes so Tommy doesn't bite someone who mildly inconvenienced him. She can and will invent a whole new spell that's just an up-sized child leash if she has to, young man, do not test her. or she just lightly bonks him on the head with her staff; that works when he steals her hat. 

All that being said, Gem is a lot more forgiving of Tommy if he does something genuinely wrong. I imagine she'd view him in a similar light to the way she views her Pillager students, "good people from bad homes," and all. She's patient when Tommy doesn't understand why something he did is wrong and never expresses anger towards him, just understanding and kindness. It works surprisingly well, especially with some sort of physical touch (handholding, hugs) to help ground Tommy in the present and remind him that he's not going to be exiled or hurt for 'fucking up' again. 

It's confusing for Tommy why fWhip and Gem are both so nice to him when he clearly doesn't deserve it for inconveniencing them all the time. But he's also desperate for the love and attention they give him, so as much as he hates it and feels weak leaning into it, he happily calls her Auntie Gem, and out of earshot, he refers to fWhip as 'dad'. 

Gem is the #1 supporter of fWhip officially adopting Tommy, and she's not subtle about it whatsoever. fWhip hasn't signed the papers yet because he doesn't want to lock Tommy into something he doesn't want, and Tommy hasn't brought it up because he doesn't want to annoy fWhip, and it is so frustrating to watch. More frustrating than Gem watching Scott and Jimmy not realising their crushes on each other are mutual. 

That's all I've got so far with her. Sorry, it's not a whole lot 🖤

[randomreadingtimewithtsuki]

Request: Unohana, Rukia, and Rangiku with an S/O who passes out in their arms after a tough battle. Please and thank you.

Hello! Thank you for requesting!

I Hope this is of your liking!

Let me know what you think!

Tsuki's note: If you have not watched the recent anime Season of this year, Be aware of spoilers for Unohana.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unohana:

She holds you so gently.

Unohana asks you a few questions, like what happened if there is any other injury despite what she can immediatly see and so on.

But you can only mumble things.

She doesn't quite understand you, but she keeps talking to you so you stay awake.

It doesn't quite work, you ended up fainting.

Unohana does a little "oh" when you faint.

She whispers to your unconscious body how proud she is of you for fighting and hanging in there for so long.

She gently carries you to a safe place and proceeds to heal you.

If you were able to defeat the enemy, she would be smiling the whole time, some people might think of it as a bit... unsettling, but she is just happy to have you safe and sound.

If you could not win, well, she is pissed.

How dare they harm you?

She might become Kenpachi again, but that will depends on the situation as a whole.

Is it going well? if yes, then, she will nurse you back to health and keep a close eye to what is happening in the battlefield making sure your aggressor is dead.

If it is not going well, then, she will fight. overkill the bastard.

After nursing you of course, you are top priority!

Rukia:

She is a nervous train wreck.

Keeps asking who did this to you and where else you are hurt.

But you can only mumble and that makes her even more nervous.

Oh she is tiny so the chances of you being bigger than her is high. So, consider that she is probably gently cradling your head.

when you faint, she desperatly call for the 4th squad help.

She is tiny, but she can carry you, no worries.

If you won the battle and the situation as whole is not bad, she will stay with you.

or try to, chances of her being told to wait outside is high.

if you did not win, she will leave you in the care of the 4th squad and proceed to find that bastard.

She is pissed and will fight them.

While battling she keeps thinking about you.

When she is back, she is by you all the time until you recover fully.

Doesn't matter how much you asked her to rest or try to convice her you are fine now.

She ain't leaving you.

Rangiku:

She holds you gently too.

Rangiku gets very anxious and worried, but she tries to talk to you.

She knows losing consciousness isn't good.

It doesn't quite work.

She starts to cry a bit and asks inform Hitsugaya about taking you to the 4th squad.

Of course he allows and covers for her.

Rangiku starts whispering bitter-sweet things like " Don't leave me, baby leave. " , " I know you are strong, hang in there!"

Regardless how the battlefiled is like she will leave you in the 4th squad care.

She cannot let her captain alone, even if it tears her heart in half.

As soon as she can see you again, she is hugging you and holding you close.

She gets clingy.

May bring you some food or drinks while you recover.

She won't allow you to push yourself.

Rangiku will make you use her as pillow, no, this is not an option.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is it!

Thank you for reading!

[stevethehairington]

"and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for."

- you are jeff, richard siken

The back of the Winnebago is so quiet. It is so so quiet.

Four rowdy children under the same roof and not a single one of them says a word now. No jokes, no laughter, no bickering. The only sound amongst them all is their shaky inhales and measured exhales as they all marinate in this— this.

The plan that has to work, the uncertainty of what lies ahead. The heavy truth that this may very well be the last time some of them see each other.

Even Robin and her near constant stream of consciousness rambling is silent beside him. The only way he knows she's actually there is when they sail over a pothole and her shoulder bumps into his.

It's fucking eerie.

The silent knell of a death march — or ride. Whatever.

It makes Eddie's stomach turn.

Eddie is nervous. He's terrified, actually. This is bigger than anything he's ever dealt with in his life before, and he doesn't know how he's made it this far, he really doesn't.

But even more, he doesn't know how everyone else around him is so... calm. Sure, they've all done this before, it's far from their first time, but jesus fucking christ, have they really gotten used to fighting interdimensional monsters that threaten to destroy the world? Does that not scare the absolute bejesus out of them? He doesn't understand how no one else is losing their head about it. How an eleven year old is facing fucking doomsday like its nothing while he quakes in his god damn boots over here.

Eddie tightens his grip on his makeshift spear, knuckles going white. Clenches his jaw so hard he's scared he'll crack a tooth.

He tries not to think about how a cracked tooth is the least of his worries right now. How that actually doesn't even sound all that bad compared to the cracked limbs and cracked jaw and fucking vaporized eyeballs that loom in their futures. In Max's future.

Jesus christ, she's so young. Chrissy was so young. Eddie is so young.

His chest feels tight all of the sudden, his brain fuzzy and unfocused. His vision starts to go a little spotty and he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe.

He can't fucking lose it, though, he can't. Not here, not now. Not in front of everybody else who's fucking cool as a god damn cucumber.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, tries to slow back down. Digs his nails into his palm until the pain of it grounds him. Brings him back.

The fist around his lungs loosens, just enough, as Eddie walks through the breathing exercises Wheeler taught him when he'd nearly lost his marbles last time.

He hasn't even noticed that the Winnebago has stopped moving. Doesn't see that it's all but emptied out. He's the only one left.

Until Steve god damn Harrington slides into the empty space beside him, close enough to touch, and says, "Hey."

Eddie startles, whole body spasming and flinching back until Steve holds up a hand like Eddie's some spooked wild horse and he's trying to ease him back down.

His heart rate slows, but he's still trembling.

Steve reaches out, and his hand curls around Eddie's wrist, thumb coming to rest just over his pulse point. His hand looks rough, still scraped to hell, covered in dirt and blood and dried bat sludge, but his touch is soft. Gentle.

Despite that, it's still solid. Grounding in a way that Eddie needs.

Eddie looks over, because how could he not, and Steve's... he's already looking back. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern, his mouth pursed, like he wants to say more, but chooses not to.

He looks so... he looks so.

And Eddie feels this, this thing expanding in his chest, looking into those glossy eyes, and it's— it almost feels like, like hope or something equally as ridiculous.

It makes him want to laugh, because who the hell could hope in a time like this?

This situation? It's fucking dire. And their plan? It's built on assumptions and fucking faith.

Someone isn't going to make it. That's just how these things work. Eddie's run enough campaigns with storylines just like this one to know the bitter truth of it. There are too many of them, too many moving parts, too many unpredictables. The odds are just not fucking on their side.

(And he has this terrible, horrible feeling, this rock solid pit, in the bottom of his gut, that it's going to be him.

He's the least experienced here, after all, and he's the most likely to freeze in the face of danger.

If someone's going to die today, it's going to be him.)

It's a fact that Eddie has resigned himself to. He's— he hasn't accepted it, per se, but he's acknowledged it. Has started to let it set into his bones.

It doesn't feel real. But it doesn't not feel real either.

He doesn't know what to feel anymore, really.

But Steve, with his big eyes, and his sturdy hands, and his reassuring touch — he feels a lot like hope, like something better than hope.

Something that Eddie can't quite put his finger on, but it seizes his chest in a whole new way.

Eddie wants to chase that feeling.

Wants to let himself believe.

(He knows he shouldn't.)

(Lying in the dirt and a pool of his own blood four hours later, he's glad he didn't.)

[yuri-is-online]

Hi Yuri! I have a little thought experiment for you. Do you think souls belonging to humans from Earth would function differently from souls of humans from Twisted Wonderland? Would they have souls at all in the way residents of Twisted Wonderland recognize them due to coming from a world lacking magic?

…Would that train of thought make Yuu essentially an empty vessel by Twisted Wonderland’s standards? Not me going crazy over the theory of there being something else in the dark mirror that Crowley wants to bring back.

- 🦐

Oh Shrimpy anon! I have been thinking evil thoughts about this for so so long.

Souls are spoken about in general terms a few times in Twisted Wonderland. The soul does seem to have something to do with unique magic, and from various npc interactions in the story and various events (specifically books 5&6, GloMas, and Playful Land) there does seem to be an understanding that everyone has a degree of magic within them, but a mage is someone who has access to a mana pool and the ability to channel that mana into a spell. With that in mind, let's analyze what the mirror says about Yuu:

The main issue with analyzing this set of lines is we don't know what the dark mirror would say about someone like say, Ace's dad, who also has no magic but does belong in Twisted Wonderland. The last exchange probably wouldn't happen, he's from the Queendom so he belongs back in the Queendom, but would the nature of Mr. Trappola's soul also be unclear to the Dark Mirror?

The specific words used are soundless, colorless, shapeless, and utterly vacant. The colorless bit is easy enough to pick up on, when you summon from the Dark Mirror the coffin opens to reveal the color of the dorm the character is from. NRC staff + Grim have grey and special characters like Rollo have a vaguely pale golden brown color. Yuu's soul doesn't share any of those colors so there is no dorm that would be appropriate for them.

Soundless sort of makes it seem like the mirror can't hear Yuu's thoughts? We don't have examples of mind reading spells in Twisted Wonderland... but it sort of makes sense that if a soul is considered magic, and Yuu's world has none that their soul wouldn't make sounds or have the same shape as someone from Twisted Wonderland. Utterly vacant would again just be referencing the complete lack of magic the soul possesses and not the mirror hating on us (too much anyway) because there really is nothing there for the mirror to see. That would technically make Yuu an empty vessel, but just how empty is the question?

Yuu clearly still has a soul or some sort of consciousness. Lilia seems to think we suffer from some sort of curse because of how dizzy our visions make us, and we can still very much be affected by magic. If something (or someone) took over Yuu's body, I think they still would be there inside but utterly powerless to resist. In a way, it would sort of be like their own version of an overblot, but instead of the phantom being attached to the back of their body like a shadow they would be a perfect fusion? Just like the possession that occurred during the second Halloween event... but if that is why Yuu is in Twisted Wonderland then what part does Grim play in this? Is the goal to fuse Grim and Yuu together? Or is Yuu being here a mistake... questions questions and zero answers.

As a side note, I get hung up on how Malleus's magic functions a lot because I could have sworn that people used to think your soul left your body when you dreamed? And if Yuu's soul isn't made of magic like the other souls in Twisted Wonderland that would naturally make Malleus's magic work differently on them but not Silver's. The most logical explanation for why we are in Mickey's dream and not our own is because it would 1) invalidate player head cannons to give Yuu a canon dream about their home and 2) it allows the Mickey plot line to progress but I still would like there to be a reason for why Yuu finds themselves there beyond those two things. If Yuu's soul really isn't magical I wonder if there will be some sort of consequences to Malleus putting them to sleep like this. The light novel intro has Yuya? seeing a vision of the Chimera and hearing someone encouraging him to move but being unable to heed that request. If Grim's overblot happens and picks up right after everyone wakes up from Mal putting everyone to sleep, Yuu being unable to wake up sounds like a good trigger for something like that. It would sort of be the opposite of Book 6 where Yuu goes to S.T.Y.X. for Grim, except this time Grim eats Mal's blot stone and Yuu is unable to stop him because they can't wake up.

Or something i dunno

[natterz-patz]

stop being aloof.

⭑𓂃 get out of lala land and shift!

✮⋆˙

CHAPTERS 1. what is being "aloof"? 2. why does it affect your journey? 3. "how do I fix it?"

1. WHAT IS BEING "ALOOF"?

Take a look at yourself from a mental angle. What do you think about? Throughout the day, I'm sure your thought process changes ever so often, but really, really think about it. What has most of your attention?

People with different interests and events in their life will have different answers. You, I assume, want to shift. Whether its for the first time, or again, you just want to shift. You're ready to go to any length, try any method, find any tip...

Here is where the problem lies. When you do these things, seclude yourself in a bubble where only shifting matters, affirming every second, doom scrolling on tumblr or tiktok every chance you get, searching through a method masterlist on reddit every night, doing (and I'm sure butchering) attempt after attempt. Ask yourself, aren't you tired?

You distance yourself from the rest of the world. Work, school. Family, friends. Even your health.

"No, it doesn't matter. I'm going to shift anyway."

You are detached. You are excusing your every mistake with shifting. You are dwelling on something so much that it's like you're living in your head. This is being aloof, people (in the context of persisting (or should I say chasing) your desires). This is what it is.

2. WHY DOES IT AFFECT YOU AND YOUR JOURNEY?

There are two ways you look at shifting in this perspective. a) You hate it and it's starting to feel like a chore but you still somehow have motivation and you don't want to stop until you get there or b) You're just really obsessed and want your dream life right at this moment because you just hate living in your CR.

Right! Let's discuss how these mindsets absolutely destroy your life and will never make you shift.

A) Shifting = Chore (you must do it)

You push away all other (probably more important) duties to shift/meditate/affim/whatever

You literally neglect yourself (not putting your needs first)

Ruins your perspective on shifting (just makes it seem like it shouldn't be fun)

Messes up your relationships

B) Obsessed Shifter (you choose to do it)

Exactly what the title is (you're so obsessed with everything connected to shifting)

Non-stop thinking/daydreaming about your DR (disconnects you from important things in your CR)

Promotes negative talk/thoughts about your CR self

Both of these perspectives are horrible. Why?

I'm sure you can already understand by reading, but more in-depth...

When you fixate on shifting (or even anything) this much, you start to force it. Aware of it or unaware of it, it starts to feel like you're pushing it. Shifting is supposed to be a smooth, fluid transition to the 4D, but when you tie all this pressure to the subject, all this work effort and decision making, it creates a block. You make your consciousness think this transition is the biggest hassle known to man when it's really not. And that kicks you into a rut that you aren't sure how to get out of.

I promise you if you forget about your DR for just a moment and pay attention to your surroundings, who you are here in your CR, what you like to do, what you're doing in this moment, you'll feel much better. Rested, almost. This is because you are focused on the NOW, nothing more, nothing less. You aren't worried about the attempt you're about to do later in bed. You are mindful, and that is all you need to take you to your DR.

You are too focused on what you need to do to shift, you aren't actually shifting. You aren't shifting because you aren't shifting. Literally!

Chapter takeaway? All this hyperfixation affects your success because you are distracted from what you are supposed to be doing. You aren't supposed to dwell on if something will work. You're supposed to do it so that it CAN work.

3. "HOW DO I FIX IT?"

"Alright, this all sounds pretty bad, but I can't end a bad habit if I don't know how to fix it!"

Right, right. How do you stop this and get yourself on the right track? I got you.

1. Minimize time spent thinking of your DR (or shifting in general)

Once a day, I want you to sit down and imagine your DR. In full detail or not, it doesn't matter. All I want you to do is be aware of it. Tell yourself you are there, then after as long as you feel like, get up and continue your day.

Just for this small amount of time, you are thinking about your DR. Only then. For the rest of the day, keep yourself busy. No tumblr, no tik tok, no reddit. Nothing. It's just you, the people and the events in your CR. That's it.

If you are planning to shift that day, well then good. Decide that in the morning before you start your day. Otherwise, not even a thought about shifting should erupt from your mind.

And if it does, that's okay. But you need to shake this thing of always thinking about your DR. Once you do, you will shift. Promise.

2. Practice self-love and build self-concept

Usually, the people who are always finding a guaranteed way to shift are people who don't believe in themselves. They think that if something is 100% going to work, their opinion on a subject won't matter because it is bound to happen anyway.

To some extent this is true, but it's not a healthy way to think. Focusing on your self-concept can change that! Instead of thinking about shifting, think about you. Take a warm bath, drink your favourite beverage.. You'll realize there's much more to living than just your DR.

Also, once you're confident in yourself, anything you think will shift you, will!

3. Be happy with your situation (express gratitude and stay positive!)

I know it might be hard, especially if you feel like you're stuck in your journey, but you need to keep your head up.

99% of gamblers quit before their big win. "When will my big win happen?" That's the fun part. You'll never know until it actually happens. That's why when you stop thinking so much about it, time passes quicker and you effortlessly receive what you want.

Incorporating gratitude into your thought process is good too. At the end of the day or in the morning, whichever you prefer, take a notebook and write down all you are grateful for. Just write it all down until there is nothing else to put on paper. Then read through it out loud, one by one like, "I am grateful for the support I receive from the people around me."

As you say each sentence, feel the actual feeling of gratitude in you. The more you do this exercise, the more you will actually realize how lucky and deserving you are.

CONCLUSION

Phew! What a long one.

Two good hours of writing and I'm not sure it's as clear as I would have liked it to be (I overthought about it a lot lol).

As you continue your journey, remember to stay aware of what you have now. Take care of yourself and your people and enjoy life for what it is now. Don't get into your head, "I have to shift now!" this and "I need my dream life now!" that. Ground yourself and know that where there's a will, there's a way. You'll be home before you know it.

Asks are open! Go ahead and ask questions if this was confusing...

(ᵕ—ᴗ—)

Love,

Nattie

[uniquely-plural]

I am pretty sure I'm a traumagenic system (undiagnised because my parents just think im "moody" amd dont belive i have other people in my head) but I have so many questions.

Is it OK that I still think of me as me and my alters as other people? I see alot of people who say "us" and "we" but I feel like I can't speak for them.

Is it normal for, when another alter fronts, me to still see through my eyes and know what's happening, but not ve able to control or stop it? It's like my consciousness is only in the alter I consider "me" and then there are other non-me people in my head, is that weird?

Would it be weird for me to say that at some points I've had conversations with my alter out loud, and it was like i could feel a vertical split in my physical body as to which alter was where? They were sort of like a caretaker whenever I was at my darker points, so they would talk to me and I'd talk back and it allowed for physical contact like hugs, ect, but I've never seen anyone describe something similar

Also, how on earth do people figure out what alter is what? It's like my consciousness (me) is in the front park of a semi truck abd the rest are all in the back so I can't see them but I am really sure that they're there.

I havr so many questions and no one to ask T T sorry if this is too much

It's always okay to ask questions! We can do our best to answer.

There are a lot of frameworks we use to understand plurality, and I don't believe any one of them is inherently superior to another. So when you're asking yourself, 'is this okay?' - I would try to ask yourself, 'does this feel right to me? Does framing things in this way help me function better and be happier?'

One person, just as an example, could have DID and figure out that understanding their alters as completely separate people from him was holding back his trauma recovery. Understanding his alters as part of himself and developing compassion and acceptance for them could be therapeutic.

For another system, knowing they are completely separate people who just happen to share a body is the understanding they need to be respectful towards each other and work together.

So yes, in your case? It's totally okay, normal, and common to feel like your alters are other people and you cannot speak for them. Some people always feel this way, and then some people feel like that at the beginning, but their understanding changes once they get to know their system more, or if they work on improving disordered dissociate barriers.

We can speak as an unit because we have a monoconscious, median system core. In other systems, each member prefers to speak only for themselves. That's also perfectly fine.

As for still seeing through your eyes while another alter fronts, that does sound possible if you have no amnesia barriers and possibly co-fronting, in the sense someone else is fronting as in 'control of the body' while you are still in front as in 'awareness of the outside world'. You could look into possession and possession style switches.

In polyconscious systems, members have their own individual consciousness.

It's not weird to have conversations out loud, if that's what helps you communicate. And that link to the possession entry mentions how it can also be experienced as an alter taking control of part of the body, so it sounds like you might have been in control of one half and your alter was in control of the other one, which makes sense to me. I'm very glad to hear they took care of you.

Not being aware of a lot of information about your alters or system is very common. Developing a better understanding is often a process of trying things and finding what works for your system, and it can vary a lot depending on things like level of internal communication, what barriers are present, etc. This post on Mapping your system could point you towards some possibilities.

I hope you found that helpful, and thank you for sharing your experiences.

[modern-inheritance]

How do you come by most of your inspiration, if I may ask? Most of mine just… appears, or I see/hear something that triggers a chain reaction of thoughts and ideas. How does it work for you?

Heya! Thanks for the question!

So, for me, a lot of it is similar to yours. I also have a random little list, so let’s see here, uh…

1. Constantly muttering dialogue to myself. I say this frequently and it is not a joke, about 80% of my time alone I am muttering things the characters are saying to each other and if it fits and sounds right then I chunk it out in a document and build around it. Examples are the Nasuada and Arya conversation in Understanding, nearly every story in the 'For a Future Story' shorts, and quite a few more I can't remember at the moment.

2. I try to write what I know, which means if I find a sensation, typically tactile, that I latch on to then I can probably find a way to work it into a fic. Other times it's things that I've experienced physically. That creepy Durza story, Grip? I was remembering the time I tried to breathe through a precordial catch after I got another one after years of not having any. I felt like I was straight up dying, and I was stupid enough to try and breathe in again and spent a good minute laying there unable to move or breathe at all. Fun stuff! But also delightfully inspiring for torture and yes, before anyone asks, I indeed have had my head examined, and I am fine, if just a little bit...odd.

3. Chatterboxing with my coworker/friends. Some of them do indeed let me stream of consciousness talk about MIC and stuff. Some ideas come from there, though they mostly ignite the random 'omg what wait' posts rather than full blown stories.

4. Rereading the books on occasion helps! Reunion and this current MIC wild phase began there. Also, other media! The Escape series idea was originally started by a scene in the Halo web/miniseries 'Forward Unto Dawn' where Chief punches an ammo storage cage and rips it off its hinges.

5. I'm curious. If I have a question, no matter how strange or out of place or wild or disturbing, I go looking for an answer. Rabbit holes! I learn so much about the body, psych and physical reactions that I can't help but put them somewhere after I learn them. I am always trying to learn new things, and once I've learned of them, if they're something that applies, I go looking for first hand accounts and experiences to learn how other people go through them or feel them, because no one is all the symptoms, no one is all the same, ya know? AskReddit is, funny enough, a wonderful tool when it comes to that.

6. Yes, Arya lives rent free in my head. Sometimes Brom, Glen, Durza, and Islanzadi join her and they have conversations. Eragon and Saphira not so much, Murtagh is mostly absent due to his absence in the war, but they show up still. I've been recently informed this is called Brainrot, but it's only mildly contagious and not always detrimental, so I've held off seeking medical help.

7. Long time ideas. There are ideas and concepts and stories that I have been unable to fully write or get down for well on seven years now I think. Oh god, wait first iteration of MIC was in...2014/15, so...Oh god, I feel olllddd. BUT! These ideas never fully materialized at the time because I just don't have the right feel, the right things to connect them, or just not the right flow at the time. The Escape series was one of these! It took me YEARS to finally get a random spark at work that connected everything together and set off that hell of a ride to 12k+ words. That spark was, hilariously, boiled down to two words: Durza Parade.

8. You!! and people like you!! People who ask me questions about MIC make me think! And that's wonderful for ideas!! You guys make me think about the things I don't typically think about! I learn new things trying to answer! So thank you! For asking questions!

9. Congratulations, you made it to the end of list, so you get my biggest, baddest, TMI'est secret to how I go through bursts of inspo and writing: HORMONES. I have a form of birth control that allows me to choose when that happens and when it stops. If you ever see a lul in MIC and then a sharp spike in me doing the cat gif of scitterscramblezoomies on a bed, then you probably know I'm complaining about taxes on hygiene products but also hanging from the ceiling yelling things about torture and ptsd and recovery and everyone doing stupid slice of life and funny things and cuddling. And/or the hormones are back in the system and it spikes everything that way instead of with Shark Week. *Fingerguns* Which is what is currently going on. Had absolutely no effect going through Shark Week, currently losing my mind going back to regularly scheduled programing.

That's mostly it, I guess. Sorry I went overboard. Sorry for the TMI but honestly if anyone who has stuck with MIC the past year or two looks at the blog activity they could probably track that shit. Which I find fucking hilarious. I write about torture, I'm not shy anymore. Sorry.

Thanks for the ask, and thanks for the interest!! Hopefully you'll stick around for more stories and shorts and wildness to come!

[the-undercity]

Careful With Otherlinking (May Lead To Thoughtform)

(edited as of 8/20/23 to be a little more concise, hopefully sound Less Aggressive, and revised without links for the sake of brevity)

TL;DR available at the bottom!

THE POST:

I'm not an expert on the subject of otherlinking. I'm simply making this post to inform people who either stumble across the community (like I did), or who may be in the community and are not already aware of the information I will be talking about here. Namely that some guides detailing how to form a linktype have a similar enough process to thoughtform creation that there may be the unintended side effect of accidentally creating a thoughtform if you are not careful with what you're doing.

The guides for forming a linktype that I have seen follow the steps of immersing yourself in things related to the linktype you are trying to work towards, which itself is very innocuous and not at all an issue! However, with communities/practices such as soulbonding, the same steps are present. The difference is whether your focus is placed internally or externally (with things such as asking in your head what your chosen linktype would prefer in certain situations, this line of thinking can particularly easily move into the "external focus" area).

With otherlinking having similar steps to something like soulbonding (the example here, and what originally made me write this post), it's no wonder that there have been reports here on Tumblr of people who ended up experiencing accidental thoughtform creation while trying to form their linktypes. The numbers are slim, but the potential does seem to be there, if their stories are to be believed!

Otherlinking itself is nothing that is any different from another alterhuman community. My intention is not to scare anyone off who is a prospective member of their community or make people in the community question what they've been doing already. My whole goal for this post is to inform people that there is the potential for an unwanted side effect like thoughtform creation. You should be aware of the effects of everything you do in life after all!

Whether or not this is a bad outcome to you, or you believe in thoughtforms at all (for those who doubt things related to the topic), the fact of the matter is that it is a serious outcome for people who otherwise may not fully understand what is going on, or what they're getting into. To put it simply, if you follow a guide to form a linktype, you expect a linktype, not another consciousness in your head!

WHAT TO DO:

If you're someone who writes guides for forming a linktype, it would be helpful to add a note about the possibility for this outcome in the guide, or if possible (and if you'd like to), revise any steps that might contribute to the unintended consequence. If you're someone who has linktypes or would like to get into the community, just do your best to be aware and educated! Talk to your peers, get involved, and find out what's the norm and what isn't for your experiences. There's a good chance it'll never happen to you, but do your best to understand the methods you're using and why they work the way they do. If you're someone who HAS experienced what I mentioned in the post, I implore you to reach out and ask questions! Don't hesitate to seek advice or find others who might be able to help you understand your situation better. Finally, if you're anyone else, aside from the above- perhaps even just a curious onlooker who happened to read this all the way to the end (or skipped here)- spread the word if you can! Likes and reblogs help and are greatly appreciated.

Feel free to message me questions, comments, or concerns related to this post. If you think I missed something or should have reworded anything in here, let me know! I wish the best for anyone who reads this. Thank you!

TL;DR : This is a notice about otherlinking's methods of forming a linktype being similar to methods of creating a thoughtform, and that trying to form a linktype may lead to unintentional thoughtform creation.

[zorilleerrant]

Hello, I saw you say that you'd be willing to take SteveTony prompts? If it's not too much trouble, can you do no one believes they're dating?

When does this take place in the timeline? Listen. Don't worry about it. We'll fix it in post. Humor, little bit of fluff. 2k.

“Oh, Captain America!” the teacher says, surprising Steve into an awkward smile. She twirls her hair self-consciously just the slightest bit, and then clears her throat and gives him a professional nod. “Sorry, do you have a meeting here or something?”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it again, and dithers a little bit over what to say. “I’m here for Peter Parker?” Is it awkward? he wonders, watching the teacher’s grin turn into a frown, as she looks around for her student. Maybe it is. Tony picks him up often enough, but Steve isn’t so much the step-dad as the step-mentor, and that isn’t really a thing, so it’s probably normal that she’s confused.

Thankfully, that’s the moment Peter chooses to walk up to them, say, “hey, Steve,” and take advantage of Steve’s enhanced reflexes to corner him into both a hi and low five. “I’m at Stark Industries again, today,” Peter reminds his teacher, saving Steve from that explanation to both his and the teacher’s grateful looks.

“Of course, right, you’re teammates with Mr. Stark,” the teacher says, and writes something on her clipboard, and waves a friendly goodbye to them as she turns back to the rest of the students.

“She’s keeping track of our community service,” Peter explains, which, unfortunately, doesn’t help Steve understand at all. “A lot of people fake their hours, apparently? So we have to do, like, regular check-ins.” He gives Steve a look like he shouldn’t have to explain all of this, and Steve can’t even be sure if it’s the kind of look that people are meant to give him for being a little out of his time, or if it’s just the teenager thing. He gave those looks, often enough.

“I thought you had Tony sign something for that?” Steve says. He is paying attention, it’s just that he isn’t working on developing any of their prosthetic limbs, and won’t be until Tony comes to him, frazzled in the middle of the night, muttering about how he can’t get skin tones to look right in the rubber, and how most of them look a little too gray. That Steve will be happy to talk him through, one of these days. “Anyway, I just assumed your school would be a little more progressive than it was back there.”

“Oh, yeah, they thought it might be forged, probably because I forged it. Mr. Stark always forgets to sign stuff,” Peter tells him, doing some sort of jump and half flip across a mailbox as they turn the corner to the garage. At a Look, he doesn’t do the same to any of the cars. “What wasn’t progressive?”

“Well, she called Tony my teammate,” Steve says, then considers it for a moment. She also called him Captain America, though, so it isn’t like the Avengers weren’t on her mind. Maybe he’s reading too much into things. It’s not like everyone follows his love life in the scandal sheets. He doesn’t either; he wouldn’t even know what they’ve said.

“Um, that is your teammate, unless you’ve decided to have another war no one told me about,” Peter says, and then looks at him anxiously enough that Steve has to refrain from patting him on the head. No teenager wants to be treated like a small dog in a lightning storm, especially not the small ones. “Right?”

“Right,” Steve agrees, getting Peter to relax enough to actually get in the car. Well, what did he expect her to say? Boyfriend sounds so immature and partner is probably presumptuous at this stage, at least coming from a stranger. He doesn’t know what he would say under the circumstances, either, so, well, it’s probably fine. “I guess at least she didn’t call me your step-dad. Your teachers don’t think Tony is secretly your dad anymore, right?” Steve double-checks.

“Ha! No,” Peter says. Steve makes sure they’re both buckled up before he starts the car, and heads out of the city, hoping traffic will decide to be elsewhere so they can get on the open road. “Wait, are you and Tony finally dating? How many dates have you been on? Did someone take your picture at dinner or something?”

“What do you mean finally,” Steve says, looking skeptically at the kid, “we’ve been dating for more than a year, now. You knew this.”

“I didn’t know this! Don’t tell me what I know! If I knew I would’ve made you an anniversary card,” Peter says, a little wistfully, shaking his head. “I’ve got this great shot of, like, two squirrels, where, if we’re being honest, they were probably fighting over that nut, but still. And you guys fight all the time, so it would be fine.”

“We do not fight all the time!” Steve says, aghast. It’s one thing for Peter to take it in stride, but he thought Peter took the relationship in stride a year ago, when they told everyone, and also the news. Do people think they fight all the time? What exactly are the other Avengers telling the kid to make him think that?

“No, you totally had that showdown one time,” Peter disagrees. Beaming, he adds, “I punched you in the face!”

“Everyone punched everyone in the face!” Steve says, taking deep, even breaths so he doesn’t drive them off the road, “that’s not how our relationship is!”

“Well, I hope not, because that had way too many governments involved,” Peter says, pulling his phone out of his backpack and composing messages to someone. “Not to sound too much like a hippie, but I was raised to believe the government should stay out of people’s relationships anyway, you know? I wouldn’t like them in mine. So, what, like, three dates? Or haven’t you had your first one, yet?”

“A year,” Steve says again, and they proceed to argue back and forth for what would otherwise feel like a much shorter drive to the practice arena.

Steve would usually feel the need to open the door for the kid, even though car doors are easy now and even really little kids don’t have trouble with them. But Peter’s still halfway convinced they haven’t been dating long at all, and insisting he’s going to call Tony for confirmation. (He hasn’t, yet. Whoever he’s been texting ‘agrees with him’, and therefore can’t be Tony, unless Steve’s really confused.)

“Can someone here please convince Peter that I would know if my relationship were brand new,” Steve says, leaving every door flung open on his way inside. Natasha looks up at him in amusement, puts her gun back together by feel, and gives him that quirked eyebrow that invites him to elaborate. “The kid thinks we’ve only been dating days, if that.”

Tossing a glance over her shoulder at Peter, Natasha turns back to ask, “who does he think you’re dating? Or not dating, I guess.” She doesn’t even wait until he’s all the way in the locker room to ask, so they’re both treated to an eyeroll.

Steve slaps a towel angrily on one of the weight machines, and then has to rearrange it more gently so it doesn’t fall off. “Tony. Peter says we’re adorable and he would know better than I would whether we’re dating.” The weight machine is already set to Steve’s standard, and he realizes that they’ve all gravitated towards favorites in this gym. Possibly they should do something about that? To vary up their training.

“Oh, well, yeah,” Natasha says, tugging on the lever to start the climbing tower’s ascent so Peter can practice on it. It starts whirring to life, giving Steve a minute to think Natasha’s about to comfort him before it quiets down and she adds, “the kid thinks you two are cute, and I can see why. I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm in claiming you’re dating.”

“We are dating,” Steve says, plaintively, suddenly concerned he’s somehow in a coma and only dreamt every bit of it. Long walks on the beach are a standard, right? Holding hands as they frolicked across the sand could be pure imagination. Luxurious candlelit dinners, well, he can remember how everything tasted, but Steve easily could’ve eaten that food by himself, lit his own candles, only wished Tony could be there. Did he imagine all the soft words?

For a moment, he’s slightly worried he’s still inside that terrible machine, waiting to see if he can be reforged into a weapon, and dreaming endlessly instead.

“Well, finally,” Natasha says, clapping him on the back hard enough to jolt Steve out of his reverie. She flashes him an approving grin, and it settles into a real smile. She takes the bench next to his – well, she sits on it, anyway – and says, “I’ve been waiting to see how long it would take you. You two are so stubborn, even with all of our hints.”

“Stubborn?” Steve says, incredulously. He manages to drop the weights with a clang, and be glad he isn’t using free weights after all. “We’ve been dating. We’ve been dating for a year. We announced it officially!” It’s tempting to hang his head in his hands, but Steve’s never one to give up without a fight, so he steels himself, and tugs against the weights again. They move slowly as he tries to be methodical.

“Wait, what? I thought that was a publicity stunt,” Natasha says, bending backwards to call out, “Clint! Wasn’t the Steve and Tony thing a publicity stunt?” At Steve’s incensed look, she shrugs unabashedly and makes a vague gesture that isn’t anything like an apology. “They were doing that for political reasons, right?”

“Right,” Clint agrees, pulling down free weights and taking a seat near them. His form is way too show-offy. Steve is convinced he spends his spare time using tiny weights on his fingers to get his arm muscles to look just right, but Steve may just be angry Natasha’s convinced him that his relationship is some kind of sham marriage. “For Pride Month.”

“For Pride Month!” Steve repeats, unable to form a response even inside his own mind. They orchestrated an entire pretend relationship for – well, honestly, he doesn’t even know what for. Would that even be useful? What isn’t useful is angrily tugging at his weights, but he can’t think of anything better to do. Clint is curling his little free weights, and Natasha looks half asleep in a handstand dead center on the nearby mat, and Peter’s already jumped up to the top of the climbing tower as it continues slowly moving higher, which is cheating.

It’s long minutes before Steve can think again. Long enough minutes that the irritation has cooled into something like dry amusement, and his weights have warmed him up enough to add more to them, starting to feel that nice itch in his muscles. So he’s only reminded that he’s supposed to be annoyed when Tony walks up to him and sweeps him into a kiss – a relief to the slight part of him that was convinced he really did make some of this up. Although, to be fair, he thinks that’s the same romantic part of him that always enjoys making googly eyes at Tony from across the room, even after a year, even minutes after the last googly eyes.

“Uh oh,” Tony says, taking a step back, “am I in trouble?” Of course, Steve’s already busy gazing at him fondly, and Tony’s expression softens, too. They could probably live lifetimes in each other’s eyes loudly enough to annoy everyone around them.

Which reminds Steve, “why do all these unobservant jerks who claim to be our teammates think that we aren’t dating?” He takes a moment to step closer to Tony, so he can cling a little to his tank top, something that always seems like it should be intimate and sweet, but is really better done before anyone starts to exercise too hard. Bending their heads together to touch softly at the temple is also better done before anyone has a chance to work up a sweat, and Tony kisses him thoroughly for it.

“They what?” Tony asks, through the middle of the kiss, arm coming up around Steve’s back to pull him closer. Tony runs a thumb across Steve’s jaw even as he looks around at everyone else, “they think we’re not dating?”

“You guys want to start dating?” another voice booms from the doorway, as a second adds, “this is joyful news!”

Tony, to Steve’s relief, stares just as incredulously at the newcomers as Steve would, if he hadn’t sat back down heavily on the bench so he could press his face against Tony’s stomach and heave sobs that are only half faked. Come to think of it, a lot of conversations are making more sense now. Or less sense, given that he didn’t think they were being secret.

Tony’s laughter rumbles against Steve’s head. “I knew the news didn’t quite believe us, but, you guys. You guys. Come on.” He tugs Steve’s chin up again, and gives him a soft kiss, just a peck, really. It’s the look that really does it. There’s nothing tentative about the way they meet each other’s eyes; it’s a trust built over many, many conversations about their hopes, and their worries, and nothing at all.

Yet another person calling finally echoes across the room.

[ryuuka-balaen]

@skitariiposting tagging you because it's your fault the idea got stuck in my head to make this, both because of this post and because of a conversation in the discord server you made.

(content warning for my dear friend fae who hates hearing me do this; video with deadvoice ahead.)

[edit: the video embeds closer to the end don't seem to work on the mobile app. they do work in mobile browser though, if you're willing to go to the effort of opening this post in your browser just to watch them.]

it's not exactly what I wanted and I probably should have thought a little more about how to word things beforehand but whatever I'm tired so I'm not trying a second take.

now a few comments to answer the questions i expect to get if any more than the usual 3 people see this before i get them;

those people that have told me they cant voice train have also once told me its ableism for me to say that that's not true and that they're lying to themselves. And yes, there are some people who for medical reasons may not be able to do vocal training due to problems relating to their larynx or voicebox. This is not about them! That said, being autistic does not stop you from doing vocal training. Having ADHD does not stop you from doing vocal training. Yes, it may be somewhat harder because autistic people and other neurodivergents often have difficulty managing their inflections and tone. It may be somewhat more difficult for these people as they will need to pay more attention to those things but that is not an impassible barrier.

For people that say they tried and it just didn't work; You don't know how to move the muscles you need to to be able to train your voice. That's what the exercises are for. That's the entire point! They teach you how to consciously use the muscles you use to change your voice and they strengthen those muscles so that they'll be eventually be able to stand up to constant use.

The tips i have for vocal training! first and foremost i always always always recommend people to read this guide; https://www.reddit.com/r/transvoice/comments/d3clhe/ls_voice_training_guide_level_1_for_mtf/ The first step to making your voice something you like is to understand what it's made of. There are some great exercises there to help you gain better control of the different components of your voice and from that you can start to build a voice that's yours.

aside from that i dont have any actual tips to give lol aside from explaining how i trained my voice; first by reading the guide i linked front to back multiple times to memorize it's content, then trying each of the exercises included once to get a feel for what those exercises were exercising/developing. From there I had somewhat of an idea of how to proceed and started on my actual training:

Streaming On Twitch.

that was all I did for my vocal training, and how I incentivized myself to actually do the training.

That said; I do have a couple proper tips to give, the first of which is that pitch doesnt mean shit for making your voice sound feminine. people of all genders that're into women will rave about how deep or gravelly women's voices sound "mature" and "sexy" and that's because low pitch does not read as masculine. What you should pay attention to in your voice is your resonance and your tone, which are explained in the guide I sent above. To sum up from what I remember, you do not want your voice to be resonating in your chest (a lot of people will talk about "headvoice" for getting your voice to resonate in your mouth, my resonance point is actually in my throat so you don't need to try that hard at that). For tone, it's helpful to know that a voice that fluctuates in tone more is read as more feminine, and a voice that has a more flat tone is read as more masculine.

aside from what your voice sounds like, your choice of words and how you pronounce them has a much more significant impact on how a voice is read than most people would think. a voice that speaks bluntly and emphasizes hard sounds and stops in words is read as more masculine, and a voice that uses indirect wording and sort of 'flows' words together (it's been described to me as trying to sound how cursive looks) by softening and sometimes dropping entirely hard sounds like 'g's or 't's from words will be read as more feminine.

finally; START SLOW. WORK IN SMALL INCREMENTS. it is extremely easy to overwork or pull your vocal muscles and permanently damage your voice. if you ever feel fatigue or pain in your neck/throat while vocal training, the time to stop has already passed, and you need to give your body a couple days to recover. I don't like to share my old twitch channel, but I want to for this post as I feel they're a good way to help me explain. So, as an example of where to start, here's one of my first clips from when I started streaming;

The only efforts I was putting into my voice at this time was one, doing a "customer service voice" that one might do when working a customer service position or otherwise pretending to like someone you're talking to by speaking in an overly friendly tone and lifting your voice a little. And two, I was lifting the resonance point of my voice so it didn't rumble in my chest and instead felt closer to my neck.

That was from Sept.1, and the first clip I was able to find where I feel my voice started sounding more feminine was from Dec.8, so just a little over three months later;

I'm not putting these here as a way to say "it should take you about three months to get to the point you can use a feminine voice," my intent is actually the opposite. because, again, I was speaking for five hours a day every day to gradually work myself up to this point and that's very much not something that most people have the time and space available to do.

The last thing I have to say, I think, is that when people have asked before what exercises I did to train my voice, the answer I've given is "Screaming". and, uh. I don't think that that alone gives a good idea of what I mean, so here. have three examples of Screaming.

looking for those I've realized that I didnt start doing the screaming noises really til after I'd settled into a half-decent feminine voice but I do stand by that that and making strange noises was extremely beneficial in my learning to better control my voice and really settle into a voice that I enjoy and am comfortable in.