#it might not make sense now but in later posts it will

[latenightreadingpdf]

Knock on the Door - Spencer Reid

₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊

Summary: In the midst of an intense investigation, Spencer and Derek bring you into protective custody after a disturbing discovery links you to their case. As you navigate the unexpected situation, Spencer’s calm presence offers reassurance, sparking an unexpected connection amid the chaos.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The quiet street was a far cry from the usual high-stakes BAU scene, but the tension in the air made Spencer’s skin prickle with unease. He glanced at Derek, who was already preparing to knock on another door, exuding his usual calm confidence.

"This one could be a lead," Derek muttered, showing a slight glint of hope in his eyes as he raised his hand to knock. The case had been dragging on, and frustration was growing with each unanswered question.

When the door opened, Spencer noted the faint hint of confusion in your expression. Derek immediately flashed his badge, his tone respectful but firm. "Ma’am, I'm Agent Derek Morgan. This is my colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid. We’re with the FBI."

Your eyes darted between the two of them, registering the serious expressions they wore. "The FBI? What's going on?"

"Have you had any strangers come to your door recently trying to sell you something?"

A flicker of recognition passed over your face, and Spencer leaned in, catching the shift. "Actually, yes,” you said, brows furrowing. “A guy came by yesterday… He gave me his card.”

Spencer and Derek shared a look. "Do you still have that card?" Spencer asked, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

"Yeah, I think so. Let me grab it." You turned back into the house, leaving the door partially open, and returned a moment later with a card in hand. As Derek took it from you, he confirmed with a nod that it matched the cards left at the other crime scenes.

You looked between them, anxiety creeping into your voice. "What is going on? Who is this guy?"

Spencer’s voice softened, his gaze meeting yours directly. "We believe he's a dangerous criminal who may be responsible for several recent homicides. His method involves gaining entry to homes under false pretenses."

Your face paled as the weight of his words sank in. Derek placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "We need to take you back to the station to make sure you’re safe. There are some steps we’d like to take to ensure you’re protected while we gather more information."

"Safe? Is he going to try and kill me?"

Derek’s expression turned serious. "We have reason to believe he might try to come back, and it’s important we get ahead of him."

A sense of dread settled over you as you let their words sink in. You followed them to the car, feeling your stomach twist with a mix of fear and disbelief. As you settled into the backseat, Spencer turned to give you a reassuring nod.

“Just so you know,” he began, his tone gentle, “we’ll have officers posted near your home to ensure he doesn’t have the chance to get in. We’re taking every precaution.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… a lot.”

“Understandable,” Spencer said, glancing at you with a sympathetic look. “We’ll also have you meet with a sketch artist and undergo a cognitive interview. It’s standard procedure, and it might help us learn more about him.”

You looked out the window, processing the reality of the situation. The quiet chatter between Derek and Spencer drifted over you as they discussed possible motives, patterns, and theories. But for now, you were too lost in your own thoughts to make out their words.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

When you arrived at the station, Spencer took a moment to walk you through the cognitive interview process. "It’s designed to help you remember specific details," he explained, his voice calm and assuring. "It might feel intense, but I’ll be with you the whole time."

You nodded, glancing around the bustling police station, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and adrenaline. "Okay, so… I just answer questions, and you’ll be able to get a clearer picture of this guy?"

Spencer gave you a small smile. "Pretty much. Think of it as helping us paint a portrait. Every detail, no matter how small, could be useful."

The interview went smoothly; Spencer’s presence was patient and encouraging, never making you feel pressured to remember something you couldn’t. Afterward, he led you to a small break room, offering you a seat at a worn table with a coffee machine humming nearby.

A few minutes later, Spencer returned with two steaming cups, handing one to you. "Here," he said, "it's not gourmet, but it’ll keep us awake."

You took it gratefully, feeling a sense of normalcy settle in. "Thanks, Spencer." You sipped the coffee, savoring the warmth. "I didn’t expect to spend my afternoon in an FBI station, but… it’s definitely more interesting than my usual routine."

Spencer chuckled, seeming surprised by your laid-back attitude. "Most people aren’t as calm in situations like this."

You shrugged, feeling the weight of the situation but refusing to let it get the best of you. "I don’t know. I figure, if I’m in good hands, there’s no point in freaking out."

As you chatted, Spencer filled you in on some of the behavioral profiling techniques they used, giving you a peek into the mind of the BAU. His eyes lit up as he explained the ways they’d been analyzing the unsub’s behavior to find any possible patterns, and you found yourself genuinely interested, asking questions and absorbing his answers.

"Do you ever wonder why people do these things?" you asked thoughtfully, watching him as he considered your question.

"All the time," Spencer replied, his voice softening as he looked down at his coffee. "But there’s rarely a straightforward answer. The best we can do is study the behaviors and try to make sense of them. Hopefully, it helps us stop them."

A sense of respect grew in you as he spoke, and you found yourself admiring the dedication he had for his work. "That sounds exhausting. Important, but exhausting."

"It can be," he admitted, his gaze meeting yours. "But it’s worth it, especially when it means keeping someone safe. Like now."

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you at his sincerity. "Well, I guess I’m lucky you guys were around."

The door to the break room opened, and Derek poked his head in, giving Spencer a grin. "You two doing all right in here?"

Spencer nodded, standing up to update Derek on the details you’d given during the interview. As they talked, you finished your coffee, feeling a strange sense of calm despite the unusual circumstances.

When Derek turned his attention to you, his gaze softened. "We’re going to have a team set up around your house tonight, keeping a close eye on things. We’ll catch this guy if he shows up."

You nodded, feeling reassured. "Thanks, Agent Morgan. I know you guys are handling it, so I’ll let you do your thing."

Spencer glanced back at you with a small smile. "If you need anything, or have more questions, just let me know."

As they walked you to the main desk, Spencer looked back, his gaze soft. "We'll keep you safe," he assured you once more, his sincerity unmistakable. "Until then, try not to worry. We’re on it."

A small smile tugged at your lips as you nodded. "I trust you," you replied, giving them one last grateful look before they escorted you to a waiting area. And as you waited, you felt a sense of calm, knowing you weren’t facing this alone.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

[24-7-testing]

The end of the year can be tough for a lot of people. My goal is to make it a little bit brighter! Announcing once again the return of..

The Portal Holiday Spirit Initiative!

To help bring a smile to people's faces this year, I am sending FREE Portal-Themed Holiday Cards to anyone who requests one!

This year's cards follow the same format as last year: there is only one card design, this time featuring artwork from your's truly! The cards are still customizable to any Winter Holiday of your choosing, but you'll have to wait for your card to arrive in order to customize it (the method takes cues from the Portal game's sense of humor, and is very much on-brand).

This year is PHSI's 6th year! I'm so grateful to everyone who has participated over the years, whether you've reblogged and shared, requested cards, helped with artwork, or helped in other ways. You all are so amazing! Thanks for volunteering your time, talents, and support to help make PHSI a special fandom tradition!

If you would like to receive a Portal-Themed Holiday Card:

Visit bit.ly/PHSI-2024 ...

Answer the questions in the forms...

Wait for your card to be sent!

It's that easy! Card Requests are now open, and close on December 20th in order to give me enough time to make and send all the cards before the end of the year. Please submit sooner rather than later so I have time to finish them all!

Also, please don’t be afraid to request a physical card if you don’t live in the US! The card service I use says they ship worldwide and, while it might take a bit longer for you to receive your card depending on what country you live in, the cards will get mailed to whatever address you provide, domestic or foreign. Last year I mailed/emailed a total of 111 cards to the United Kingdom, Canada, United States, Brazil, Romania, Poland, Australia, Germany, India, Japan, and New Zealand!

I’m glad to be a part of the Portal Fandom and hope to bring a smile to others in the Fandom this year, just as in years past! Designing and emailing Holiday Cards takes time and effort, and sending physical cards is expensive. While it isn't a requirement to receive a card, I would greatly appreciate if you'd like to give $4 to cover the cost of your card or someone else's. Please visit ko-fi.com/247testing and click the Donate button if you want to help out. Thanks!

Answers for common questions and concerns below:

Worried about providing a mailing address, for whatever reason?

PHSI has an eCard option! All you need to provide is a name for me to call you by and an email address to receive your card!

Worried about requesting a card because you don’t live in the US?

PHSI mails to any address provided, whether domestic or foreign! However, please wait patiently for your card, due to the current global rate of shipping.

Worried that you can’t give $4 to cover the cost of your card or someone else’s?

Requesting a card from PHSI has been and will always be FREE! However, giving $4 to the initiative helps me pay for the printing service and postage to mail physical cards. I gratefully appreciate any contributions received, even if it’s just a comment saying thanks!

Worried because you don’t know how to support the artist of the card you received?

The artist’s social media is listed on the back of every card featuring their artwork. Look them up, commission them, reblog their art, and support them however you can!

Worried because you haven’t received your card yet?

Double check your email inbox and junk folders. I send everyone an email that either confirms your Holiday Card has shipped or includes your eCard! Physical cards take 1-2 weeks to arrive. If your physical card fails to show up after the first week of January, please reach out to me and I’ll send you a replacement eCard!

Worried because you received your card and don’t know what to do now?

Make a post about it! Include pictures, videos, or anything you’d like, and tag me in the post (@24-7-testing) so I can reblog it! If you don’t want to show your card off, that’s ok too!

[bestiarium]

Who was Davy Jones? [Nautical folktales]

This is something completely different from my usual posts. The nautical folk character of Davy Jones isn’t really a mythological creature in the same way as Mesopotamian demons, Inuit spirits or medieval European monsters.

In fact, it turns out the exact origin of the name is hard to pin down. ‘Davy Jones’ Locker’ was nautical slang for the bottom of the ocean, a euphemism used in the context of sinking ships and drowned sailors (as in, he went to Davy Jones’ Locker). As far as I can tell, this term for a seaman’s grave predates any reference to Davy Jones as a separate, actual character. Sailors who died at sea were said to ‘be keeping watch with Davy Jones now’.

As for the name, it’s not entirely clear where it came from but there are some theories. ‘Davy’ might be directly derived from ‘devil’, and according to other authors it might have come from ‘Duppy’, a Caribbean term also meaning devil, though this seems to be less supported. ‘Jones’ most likely comes from Jonah, the Biblical character and later nautical slang for a sailor who brings bad luck to the ship he is on.

It's not impossible that Davy Jones was (based on) a real person but it's not likely.

So, who is Davy Jones and what does he look like?

The oldest physical description of Jones as a being comes from ‘The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle’, a mid-18th century fiction novel by Tobias Smollett. I normally don’t use fiction novels as sources, but we don’t have anything else here and Smollett’s description of the creature seems to have become the basis for iterations of Davy Jones in media, so we might as well. In the book, Davy Jones is said to be a horrible fiend presiding over the wicked spirits of the oceanic depths. He is a monster with blue smoke billowing from his nostrils, a tail and a horned head with large saucer-like eyes and three rows of teeth.

And this is the description Davy Jones was stuck with until 2006, when Disney released Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest, which featured the antagonist that you thought of when you saw the title of this post. This version of Davy Jones became so cemented in our collective consciousness that it’s hard to imagine him in any other shape or form. And, to be fair, it makes sense, because it was a good movie.

(Although it’s hard to beat the first one.)

Sources:

Norton, L A., 2016, Folklore, Superstitions and the Sea, The Northern Mariner/Le Marin du Nord, 26(1), p. 21-30.

Foster, J., 1969, Varieties of Sea Lore, Western Folklore, 28(4), pp. 260-266.

Archibald, M., 1998, Sixpence for the Wind: a Knot of Nautical Folklore, Dundurn, p. 45, 143 pp.

Smollett, T., 1751, The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle, London, p.71, 372 pp., text cited via Greensdictofslang.

(image 1: Davy Jones on his locker. Illustrated by John Tenniel for issue 103 of ‘Punch, or the London Charivari’, 1892)

(image 2: a character from ‘The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle’ disguises himself as Davy Jones to scare others, illustration by George Cruikshank in ‘Illustrations of Fieldeing, Smollett and Goldsmith, in a series of forty-one plates’)

[meticulac]

I have been thinking about constructing a language around the idea of a sort of human-computer pidgin, which isn't quite the same as binary cant due to not being designed for a dystopian setting and for attempting to accommodate the human side of things a little better, but close enough that I have thoughts on this. First, if I were to guess at what such a system would use, my first thought would be a dual-tone multi-frequency keying like in phone landlines, though if single-tone encodings are easier for humans to distinguish by ear I can get why that would be recommended instead. Another thing is that it might be fun to look at the Sarus and Solresol languages, which not only lean further into the musical angle offered by a two-octave range but also, by having seven written characters, can fit into three bits with room for a space, or maybe an escape character in case you want to have the option of throwing control codes in there or something. Now, three bits is less than four, and including parity in the fourth bit doesn't really make much sense in this case because you'd just be dropping the use of certain tones altogether. I guess the easiest way to handle that would be to encode pairs of character in base64 to use ASCII like you would for English? And if you're using ASCII, that could allow for using data-serialization formats encoded in it (most of the ones marked as human-readable ) to structure statements something like {YOUR-MISSION:{DESTROY:{COMMUNICATIONS-TOWER,GENERATOR,AERIAL-LIFT}SECURE:{LANDING-SITE}}} depending on choice of serialization format, which is presumably up to either whatever seems appropriate for conveying the type of nerd a given admech is or just whatever's easier for you to deal with personally. Binary formats would presumably also be used, but I'm not sure how useful they'd be in a roleplaying context. Some type-length value schemes might also be useful to look at.

Also, incidentally: If you want a more machine-looking writing system to go with it, post code style barcodes like POSTNET and RM4SCC use tall and short lines for one and zero instead of wide and narrow lines, which could make them easier to jot down by pen if you want to do that. I have been working on character sets which take barcodes like that and connect the lines in a character with squiggly bits so that the grouping of them is a lot more readable, but I don't know if that kind of thing would fit with the tone of adeptus mechanicus or if they'd prefer to either use the unmodified barcodes or just directly write 1 and 0s, base64 characters, Morse code dots and dashes, or whatever. But since I don't mind if anyone else uses, adapts, or alters these scripting systems, I may as well share it here while I'm at it. Note that I haven't really thought about certain details, like what kind of endianness is most appropriate and stuff like that, so if that's something you care about, feel free to remap in addition to any other changes that you feel might be needed:

I still didn't remake that direct adaptation of RM4SCC that I forgot to save earlier, so I'll have to remember to post that in a further reply later.

I'm also thinking about pronunciation systems that fit the human-computer intermediate language I'm going for, but I don't think anything I have in mind is particularly admec flavored, so I'll save that for another time.

I’m curious how binary cant work for admech since day 1. At first, I thought it’s just high speed alternation in frequencies of sounds to denote 0 and 1, just like how computer cable does with voltage. So I wrote a python script to convert natural language to binary code then to sound based on the idea (so that I can curse in binary in ttrpg). However, since the human auditory cortex can only distinguish sound about 20ms apart, the current commonly used binary coding method (Unicode) that requires 8 bits to encode for one letter (16 bits for one character in Mandarin) would make binary cant less efficient than natural language through the bare ear. As a result, binary cant users not only need vocal implants but also auditory implants to receive info (or perhaps cortex implants to decode). Based on these assumptions, binary cant would be able to happen in sound frequencies not perceivable by the original human cochlea so techpriests conversation can be extremely quiet. And more efficiently, just through data cables.

Or it could be the other way around, scientists might develop more efficient binary language without basing it on the symbol system of natural languages (I’m not that familiar with linguistics so I don’t know if this is possible or not).

However, the sound techpriests made in the game mechanicus doesn’t sound like my assumption. There are definitely more than 2 pitches used in the conversations (which makes it less binary...) and they seem to be faster than natural language. I still couldn’t figure out what’s happening here. Do the twisting pitches actually encode more than one bit? Is binary cant actually an analog signal encoding a digital signal? Or is the sound effect just mean to sound better for the game?

The binary curse program (turn the sound on!):

[diminuel]

I hope the rebound relationship between Doffy and Croco has all the core components of an over-the-top relationship drama.

A one night stand turned into a string of hookups, Croco initially refusing kisses only to become desperate for them after a few weeks. Maybe they get drunk one night and Doffy confesses a desire to be a dad as well as his fear of the kid(s) looking too much like his mom or brother. Later, Croco takes a pregnancy test, and it's positive. While Croco's trying to figure out what to do next, Doffy's planning far into the future, discretely measuring fingers, setting up a flashy proposal and preparing a lengthy speech that momentarily sways Crocodile into saying ‘yes’ only for him to leave Doffy at the alter after *gasp* Dragon calls to reconcile.

Just the epitome of ~drama~

*gigglesnort* I mean that would be funny and leave poor Doflamingo very bitter!

Though I don't think that's what happened. Simply because I tend to enjoy, despite all my silliness, a more subdued, potentially angsty approach to things ;3

While I've had it in my mind that Mini-Mingo is 15, it would probably make more sense if she's 13 post time skip (though potentially older by the time Doflamingo is recruited into Cross Guild), so the breakup and the rebound relationship would take place in tense situations for both Crocodile and Doflamingo.

This wouldn't be the moment to establish enough trust for a romance with hopes for the future. Doflamingo, at that point, might already suspect that his brother is working against him, so if he crossed paths with a warlord of all people, he's going to find that suspicious maybe even if they've previously interacted (possible, Crocodile has to source weapons for the RA from somewhere)

So it'd probably be a "letting off steam" kind of relationship. I can imagine that Doflamingo's always been making advances, maybe even more as a power play than out of genuine interest (not that Croc isn't hot). And usually Crocodile doesn't react to the flirting but if he's maybe a bit drunk and heart-broken he might have a lapse of judgement. (Also, now Doflamingo knows more about him than he wanted him to know. No way was Doflamingo drunk enough to miss that Crocodile doesn't come with the same equipment Doffy does *lol*)

And once that has happened... well, anything can happen. (Maybe this was also Doffy's first time so he's a bit starstruck.)

But yes, I think ultimately Croc does love Dragon, he's got his kids at home, Doflamingo's a bit deranged (especially if he ends up killing his brother), so maybe that's not really the guy to consider as your kids' future (step) dad *lol*

(And then the guy become a warlord himself some years later and now Crocodile has to deal with him again...!!)

[brightlight-dazzlingeyes]

sympathy for the devil | ruben dias

🩸 synopsis: You've been working at your childhood dream club, Manchester United, for a few years, but the reality of chaos, mess, and constant changes is taking its toll. Lately, you’ve been finding comfort in an unexpected place – Rúben Dias, a player from your club's biggest rival. tags: established situationship, rivals-to-lovers, mention of smoking, sports drama, arguing, mutual pining. (written in 2nd person but no mention of yn) (around 3.3k words)

part 1

You slip out of the locker room the moment you can, making a shitty excuse. No one questions you – they’re all too wrapped up in the post-match high, riding the wave of a rare, dominant performance. You should be celebrating, but instead, there’s this sense of dread clawing at your gut.

You’ve been here a few years, but it feels like you’ve lived a lifetime of disappointment, false promises, and crushed hopes.

How many times can you start over before it breaks you?

You step outside, the heavy stadium door swinging shut behind you with a dull thud. It’s cold – November in Manchester always is – but you barely feel the chill as you fish a crumpled pack of cigarettes from your coat pocket. Your hands are shaking a little, either from the leftover adrenaline of the match or the exhaustion that’s been creeping in at the edges of your thoughts for months.

Your lighter flares, a small circle of warmth in the dark, and you inhale deeply, the nicotine sharp and bitter on your tongue. It doesn’t really calm you, but it’s something to do. A familiar habit, a routine that hasn’t changed even when everything else has. You lean back against the rough brick wall, your shoulders sagging, and close your eyes.

They’re all talking about him – the new guy. The Portuguese manager who’s exactly what the board thinks they need to clean up the mess. You’ve seen this cycle before. Another savior, another man with a plan. You’ve learned not to get too attached, not to trust the optimism that comes with each “new era.” You’re tired of being yanked along, like a hamster on a wheel, running in circles while everything around you stays the same.

You take another drag, feeling the smoke burn in your throat. It’s all physiological, you tell yourself. The anxiety, the repetition. It’s just your mind playing tricks on you. But it doesn’t change the fact that this new manager freaks you out. You’re not even sure why, maybe it’s because you know how these things go, or maybe it’s because there’s a chance you won’t even make it to the end of the season with your job intact.

High chances you won’t, if he decides to only work with his own people. Your role’s not exactly critical, and even if you’ve been here for years, that doesn’t make you untouchable. You’ve worked hard, you’ve kept your head down, you’ve given everything you had to this club, but it might not be enough. It never seems to be enough.

You flick ash off the cigarette, eyes unfocused as you stare out over the parking lot, empty except for a few scattered cars. Somewhere deep inside, there’s a tiny bit of relief at the win, but it’s buried under layers of exhaustion and anxiety.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you ignore it. It’s probably Ruben, your Ruben, the one you should have nothing to do with. You’ll deal with that later. Right now, all you want is five more minutes of peace before you have to go back in, put on a smile, and pretend like you’re ready for whatever comes next.

Because Monday’s coming fast, and you know what that means – another fresh start. Another clean slate. Another spin on the wheel.

You stub out your cigarette on the concrete and crush the butt beneath your heel, exhaling one last cloud of smoke.

part 2

You show up at his place later than planned, you told yourself you wouldn’t let work bleed into this, but it’s impossible not to carry it with you. You know you’re dragging that weight into Ruben’s apartment the moment you cross the threshold.

You toss your bag next to the door and kick off your shoes, feeling the tension in your muscles. The sight of him, the comfort of his place – it should feel like a break from the chaos, but tonight it doesn’t.

You exchange a quick greeting, the kind that’s little more than habit by now, and settle next to him on the couch. It’s not awkward exactly, but there’s a distance between you tonight. He looks tired – more tired than you’ve seen him in a long time. 

“Hey,” you say, nudging his knee with yours, trying to draw out something, anything. “How’s the leg?”

He shrugs, not taking his eyes off his phone. “Better,” he says. “Physio says I’ll be fine in a couple weeks.”

That’s all you get. No sarcastic comment, no playful complaint about how much he hates sitting out. He just goes back to scrolling, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You were expecting him to be in a mood – City’s been struggling lately, and the timing of his injury couldn’t be worse. But still, it’s strange, the way he’s shut down. You fall back into the cushions and pull out your own phone, scrolling through Instagram.

When this started a year ago, it was never like this – there was no room for awkward silence or distractions. It was just heat and hands, tearing at each other like you couldn’t get enough. Now, there’s a lot more of this – just spending time together, filling the quiet with the small, mundane things.

Most of the time, you don’t mind. Most of the time, it’s kind of nice, this understanding you’ve built. But tonight, you feel like the air’s too thick, and it’s bothering you. You scroll aimlessly, barely paying attention to what you’re seeing, and it’s only when you hear the soft thud of his phone dropping onto the couch that you look up.

He’s staring at you, his brows drawn together in frustration, like he’s been holding back for as long as he can. “Have you been smoking again?” he asks suddenly, and the question catches you off guard.

Your stomach twists, but you keep your expression blank, fingers still moving on the screen as if you didn’t hear him. “And what does that have to do with you?” you ask, voice flat and dismissive, not even bothering to look up.

It’s a low blow, and you know it. But you’re not in the mood to be called out, not by him, not tonight. He’s watching you from the other side of the couch, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in that way that tells you he’s annoyed but trying to keep a lid on it. You don’t bite. Instead, you scroll past another filtered photo of someone’s perfect life.

“What does it have to do with me?” he echoes, his voice low and tense. “Maybe because you said you were done with that. Maybe because it’s not good for you.”

You still don’t look up. It’s not that you don’t care; part of you does. He just doesn’t get it. Nobody does. The exhaustion, the stress of working at a club that feels like it’s constantly collapsing in on itself. It’s just a cigarette. It’s not like it’s going to fix anything, but it’s something. One small moment of control when everything else is spiraling.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, tapping aimlessly through stories you don’t even care about, “things change.”

He sighs, and you hear the frustration in that exhale with the way it rushes out of him. He shifts on the couch, one knee pressing into the cushion, body leaning closer. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

You finally look up, locking eyes with him, and it’s like you’re seeing him clearly for the first time all night. There’s a heat behind his eyes that you’ve seen a hundred times before, but this time a bit different. Angrier. More desperate. You almost want to ask him why he cares so much, but you know the answer would be another fight.

He’s never been good at hiding his feelings, not when he’s like this, wounded in ways he doesn’t want to show. It’s not just his injury, or the losses, or the fact that he’s benched while everyone else heads off for international break. It’s all of it, pressing down on him like the weight of a season that’s already going wrong, even though it’s barely November.

“What’s going on with you?” you ask, more to break the silence than because you really want to know. It comes out sharper than you mean it to, and you see the way his expression shutters, defenses slamming back into place.

“What’s going on with me?” He lets out a harsh laugh, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “What’s going on with you? It’s like you’re not even here anymore. We barely talk unless it’s about–” He stops himself, cutting off whatever he was about to say.

“Unless it’s about what?” you snap, putting your phone down. It’s an instinct, this need to go on the offensive before he can twist the knife any deeper. “About football? About how fucked up everything is at my job? Or about how you get to sit around feeling sorry for yourself because your team is losing for once?”

The second the words are out, you regret them. You can see the hurt flash in his eyes, quick as a blink but unmistakable. You’ve seen him pissed off before, plenty of times, but not like this.

He nods slowly, like he’s forcing himself to accept what you’ve just thrown at him. “Wow,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “I didn’t realize we were keeping score.”

“It’s not about that,” you say quickly, too quickly, the words tripping over themselves as you try to reel them back. “I’m just–fuck, I don’t know. I’m tired, Ruben. I’m so tired of everything.”

He looks at you for a long time, his eyes searching, trying to figure out if you’re lying or if this is just another one of the walls you throw up when you don’t want to deal with the truth. You can almost see the moment he decides it’s not worth fighting. He leans back, sinking into the couch cushions, and picks up his phone without another word.

The silence stretches out between you, and this time it’s suffocating. You pick up your own phone, but the Instagram feed blurs in front of you. You can’t focus, can’t even remember what you were looking at before he interrupted. You’re both here, sitting less than two feet apart, but it’s like a wall has gone up between you, solid and impenetrable.

“I should leave,” you say, standing up and running a hand through your hair, trying to steady the tremble in your voice. “In fact, I shouldn’t come here when I’m in a bad mood.”

He doesn’t even look at you at first. Then, when he does, his eyes are full of –  it’s either anger or disappointment, maybe both. “That was never a problem before,” he says, each word adorned with a bitterness that catches you off guard. “But yeah, maybe you should leave.”

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. You just grab your bag from the floor, fingers clenching the strap so tight it’s a wonder the leather doesn’t tear. There’s a part of you that wants to drop the bag, to sit back down, to tell him you didn’t mean it – that you’re sorry, that you’re just so fucking tired of pretending that everything’s fine when it’s not. But you can’t. 

“I’ll call you,” you say, even though you both know it’s a lie. You can hear the emptiness in your own voice, and the way he laughs without any humor just twists the knife deeper.

“You won’t,” he says, his tone harsh, too raw, and you see the hurt behind it, the way he’s holding himself together by a thread. “But that’s fine.”

You hesitate, just for a second, standing there in the doorway with one hand on the knob, caught in that familiar push-and-pull of wanting to fix this and wanting to run away before you make it worse. He’s watching you, eyes unblinking, like he’s daring you to stay, and you hate him a little for that – hate him for caring when you don’t know how to anymore.

But you don’t stay. You close the door softly behind you, the click of the latch sounding too final in the quiet apartment. The weight of your bag feels heavier than it should as you make your way out into the cool night air, and you tell yourself you’ll call him tomorrow. You’ll apologize, explain, make it right. But the truth is, you don’t even know if you have the energy to try.

You know, deep down, that he’s right. You probably won’t call.

part 3

It hits you the next morning, sharp and sudden, like a punch to the gut. You wake up too early, tangled in your sheets, and the first thought that drags itself out of the haze is him. It shouldn't feel this intense, shouldn't have you wide-eyed and shivering before the sun’s even up.

But it does. It does, and the weight of it scares you.

Your whole body feels wrong, you skip breakfast, try to force down a cup of coffee, but it doesn’t help. Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles with a strange, feverish heat. You’re cold, so damn cold, but the sweat gathers at your temples and slicks your palms.

Emptiness settles in your chest as you go about your day, an ache that tightens every time your thoughts drift back to the night before. To the way he looked at you. And you hate yourself for it, hate that you need him, that your body is betraying you, craving something you can't let yourself want.

It's ridiculous. It's unbearable. It’s like you’re going through some sort of withdrawal. Just the thought of him – of his hands on you, his voice in your ear – sends a shudder down your spine, and you can’t even focus on the emails piling up in your inbox. You’re not used to this, not used to feeling so raw and exposed, and it makes you feel weak.

Lunch comes and goes, but you barely touch the food, staring blankly at your salad until you push it aside. Your appetite is gone, stolen away by the need that tightens your chest and messes with your breathing. You try to distract yourself, but it's like he's burned into the back of your eyes. Every other thought circles back to him, to the echo of his laugh, the feel of his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

By mid-afternoon, you’re practically vibrating with it. The restlessness, the discomfort, the absence of him. You can feel it in your bones, this weird kind of panic that has your skin clammy and your hands shaking. It’s not normal, this kind of reaction, and it’s making you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

What if you can’t stop feeling this way? What if this is just how it’s going to be now – this constant ache, this physical need that won’t let you breathe properly unless he’s there, grounding you?

You end up sneaking out early, your boss too busy with last-minute prep for the new manager to notice. You don’t know where you’re going, don’t have a plan. But your feet take you in the direction of his place anyway, like you’re on autopilot, the city blurring around you. Your phone buzzes with a message – something work-related, but you can’t even look at it.

All you can think is that you need him. You need him now.

part 4

You hesitate outside his door, you’re jittery, nerves buzzing under your skin, and your fingers hover over the wood, half-afraid to knock.

What if he doesn’t want to see you? What if he’s busy or worse – what if he’s not alone? You feel stupid for not calling ahead, for showing up unannounced like this. But it’s too late to turn back now. You take a deep breath and knock, your knuckles rapping against the door in a shaky rhythm.

Your heart is in your throat, the seconds ticking by in agonizing silence, and you wonder if this is how it all ends – him opening the door with a surprised look, gently telling you he’s got plans, and you slinking away like you never showed up in the first place. You’re ready to walk away, to put yourself out of this misery and pretend you never came, when you hear the deadbolt click.

The door swings open, and there he is, looking more surprised than annoyed. He’s wearing a loose t-shirt and joggers, barefoot, like he wasn’t expecting company. His hair’s a mess, and you realize with a weird sense of relief that he was alone.

“Hey,” he says, and you just stand there, because you don’t know what to say. Hey feels too casual for the way your heart’s racing, for the desperation that drove you here in the first place. He looks at you like he’s trying to read your mind, his eyebrows drawing together.

“I – I should have called,” you stutter, feeling heat rush to your face. 

“No, it’s... it’s fine,” he says, stepping aside to let you in. There’s a weird, careful distance in his voice, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he can tell there’s something different about today. “Come in.”

You walk inside, brushing past him. You feel his eyes on you the whole time, tracking your every movement. It’s stupid how much you want him to close the door, to pull you close and tell you he’s missed you, that he’s felt the same aching emptiness since you left last night.

But he doesn’t. He lingers by the door, watching as you settle on the edge of the couch, your hands clasped tightly in your lap to keep them from shaking. He knows you’re holding back and is waiting for you to say why you’re really here.

You force yourself to look up, meeting his eyes.

“I needed to see you,” you blurt out. You see surprise flicker across his face, but he doesn’t move, just stands there waiting for you to go on. You swallow, your throat tight, and push the words out. “I just... I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s driving me crazy.”

His eyes widen. Then he’s crossing the room, sitting down beside you, his hand reaching out to touch your knee. It’s gentle, hesitant.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, and it’s the concern in it that makes you want to cry. You nod, even though you’re not sure you are, not really. You’re still scared, still feeling that horrible emptiness clawing at your chest, but he’s here, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters right now.

You let out a shaky breath and lean into him, pressing your face against his shoulder, and his arms come up around you automatically, holding you close. The relief is instant, a flood of warmth spreading through you, and you realize how desperate you’ve been for this, for him. His hand moves up to your hair, fingers gentle as they brush through it, and you can feel the tension in your body start to unwind, little by little.

“Why didn’t you call?” he murmurs against your hair, and there’s something almost fragile in his voice, like he’s been waiting for you too, like maybe he needed you as much as you needed him.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want me here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands cradling your face, and you can see the frustration and tenderness mingling in his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” he says softly, but there’s no bite to it, only a strange kind of relief. Then he kisses you, hard and urgent, trying to make up for all the things you didn’t say.

[springypaws]

Literally haven’t posted in what feels like forever but I’ve been mumbling Arcane theories and symbolisms nonsensically in the corner of a private discord server since it came out and I haven’t seen ANYBODY talk about which I doubt is the case because I only noticed this because it was super apparent by the second watch

Okay, so, in the end scene of season 1, the show made sure to SPECIFICALLY show that the bomb was aimed directly at Mel’s back— realistically speaking, there was a literally no way she was going to survive that hit, especially looking at the damage (most) everyone else had— and yet she didn’t even get a scratch, and neither did Jayce, which Jayce himself states clearly.

Every other character in that room was HEAVILY damaged, and yet the people who should have been some of the most hurt weren’t? Again, it doesn’t make sense when you think realistically/logically.

Yet, I noticed, at the very beginning of the episode, we see Mel and Jayce wrapped around one another; everything is dark, a lot of the light from outside covered by ash and debris, and yet Mel’s golden accessories glow— and I’m talking GLOW glow, not just a reflection, like I thought it was the first time. In fact, you can see literal rays coming off of it as Jayce begins to get up (ignore that the picture’s taken from my phone, my Netflix was being weird)

Anyways, long story short, I highly suspect that that gold somehow kept her, and in addition, Jayce (since she was clinging to him physically), from being injured at all. If this is the case, it’ll obviously be mentioned later (… probably), and I’m really intrigued by what it’ll spark relationship wise.

We already know that Jayce is more than upset about the fact that he left that situation unharmed and Viktor wound up… well, Y’know. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was, understandably, equally (if not more) upset to know that the reason he came out unharmed was because Mel grabbed onto him, not Viktor (which honestly makes sense for Mel considering she appears more connected with Jayce than Viktor for obvious reasons).

I’m also curious as to what the origins of this gold might be, if this theory of mine really is the case. I’m not sure how it would be connected to magic like the Hexcore and wild hex are, or if it would even make sense in this world’s programming for it to be magical, but eh ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (god I love that emoticon)

Anyways don’t mind me blubbering this nonsense out loud here cause I’m way too into Arcane right now and will go insane if I don’t talk about it somewhere

Edit: now that I’ve posted this I’ve seen this idea literally everywhere and then DEEPER explored upon in ways I couldn’t so uhhhhhhh pretend this post is mind blowing and not one among dozens okay

[reynardwrites]

originally written after ep 2

this post holds up shockingly well, especially in the context of the conversation Oz and Sofia have in their final car ride.

Sofia didn't see him. She didn't see his ambition, she didn't see his resentment, she didn't see his desperation. To crib some terminology from @maxwell-grant in the ep 7 breakdown, in her mind she was a victim who knew what it was like to have a boot on her neck and he was a victimizer who didn't. Maybe there was a moment she could have learned that in ep 3, but after Oz's immediate betrayal, I think everything he said in that scene got filed away in her head as self serving bullshit.

Which it was, to be clear.

But that doesn't mean it wasn't true.

This whole show, Sofia has been pretty blind to her own privilege, and so she thought of herself as the only one who was so hurt and desperate that she would resort to extreme measures to get out from under someone's thumb. But what Oz convinces the deputies to do, to kill their own bosses... that's literally the move Sofia makes, gassing the family so she becomes boss by elimination.

She didn't see it. Not because she doesn't know what it's like to be downtrodden, but because it didn't occur to her that other people might feel the same way, and about her.

She does now, I think. Whether she is able to internalize it, whether she will act on it, whether there's even a chance for her to change, god knows, I guess we'll find out in Batman 2 or a Catwoman miniseries or whenever we next see Sofia (fingers crossed it's sooner rather than later)

Oz, though... Oz didn't really get her, early in the show. And strangely, I don't think he gets her now, even at the end. "You think I don't understand that," she asks, and, yeah. It seems so. Oz knows how to hurt her in the worst way possible. But I don't know that he really grasps what makes her tick.

When I first watched the finale, this felt like kind of a weird choice. These two have spent the whole show as rivals and foils and it just felt wrong to have this final scene between them where they just talk and have it end with Oz just. Still not getting her.

I think I've come around to it now. I've mentioned before I see Sofia and Oz as being really twinned characters, each having in abundance what the other lacks, and through that lens, this feels really fitting.

By the time she steps out of that car, Sofia understands Oz because she understands herself, sees the way that he has felt how she has felt, how he stoked that same pain in others and made it into his strength.

And Oz doesn't understand Sofia, because he doesn't understand himself. He can't. Oz is so deep in layers and layers and layers of denial and self delusion, he has to walk away from any possibility of really seeing Sofia because if he understood her, he would have to understand the truth about himself.

If Oz were to acknowledge Sofia as someone who was in pain, who was hurt, who was victimized, he would also have to admit to himself that he hurt her, and doesn't give a shit. That there is no real justification in all the justified evil he commits, that he's not a man of the people, he's just a man out for himself.

I find something weirdly satisfying about that, personally. Oz is the most talented bullshitter in Gotham, so much so that even he buys into the shit he spews—it feels right that it is Sofia, whose core and weapon has always been truth and honesty and self awareness, who sees through his bullshit so clearly that he cannot even look at her without his sense of self being challenged.

absolutely obsessed with sofia and oz both seriously underestimating each other, and specifically buying into the public opinion everyone has of them.

like nadia, sofia thinks of oswald as an innate follower, a dog looking for a strong leader who will rise to the top and bring him up along. Even seeing through his manipulations after the maroni raid, she thinks he's trying to ride her coattails, and it doesn't occur to her that he might be so greedy as to want to take everything for himself.

and like the other falcones, oswald doesn't seem to see sofia as anything other than a loose canon he can point and shoot. he's so focused on finding which buttons of hers to press he doesn't even seem to realize he's exposing himself and his methods to her. He's a short con grifter, and sofia is exactly the kind of perceptive that can pull his bullshit apart piece by piece as time goes on.

ngl i am so keen to see how this relationship develops uaghghghgh i want it to be next week already.

[widdlediddle2]

Akko sneezed

Okay wanted to share my royalty au and the change to akko i did

now that akko was born from the stars she actually holds very powerful magic but she doesnt understand it therefore she doesnt know how to control it.

so often chariot or croix would find her doing something weird like floatin around the castle, making her toys levitate or even making one of the maids float!

both chariot and croix have not seen this type of magic before and try their best to help her but unfortunately it grows with each passing day.

But strangely now that akkos a teenager she doesnt have that problem anymore heck she cant even fly on a broom but for some reason akko doesnt remember having magic in the first place. eh it was probably her imagination

[ganondoodle]

so, inspired by the warm welcome the captain received with that rough doodle i posted, i made an updated design for Ki'ita as well (basic and with clothes)

i removed the piercings she had bc considering that they spend the majority of their time in arctic waters i think having metal directly in your skin is a bad idea, no matter how thick your blubber is; i also gave her typical white markings a green hue bc ... i liked how it looked and makes them stand out a little more

(i will not repeat what i wrote on the post about the captain but wanted to add a bit of more info about Ki'ita herself)

(i dont have ALL of their backstory done yet but) the captain and Ki'ita worked together in another organization, one in which the father of the captains child also worked at, before being betrayed and barely managing to escape, after which the both of them founded their pirate crew (possible name is the Solar Pirates bc of their solar powered boat stuff); since the captain had her daughter shortly afterwards Ki'ita managed most of the organisational matters at first, including the construction of their base on an abandoned island they had initially fled to

over the years they invented the solar powered ships that allowed them to gain control over a large part of an important trade route, leaving normal ships (mostly) alone but attacking those of hunters and similar, rescuing demons and mutants, even some humans from them, most of which also join the crew and it quickly lead to them becoming their own little community

Ki'ita does not like to spend alot of time among large groups of people, no matter how much she cares about them, and her originally being from norther lands gave her the idea to explore, and if viable, do underground missions in those norther areas to disrupt the infrastructure the hunters had built in recent years and overall keep the crew informed about things that may otherwise stay hidden; with each of their travels her time absent from the base increased but the patience of the captain is wearing thin so its likely a serious talk is underway on Ki'itas third solo mission she nearly died due to entanglement in abandoned nets made by hunters from an unknown material that she could not break, the massive scars on her tail especially come from that, only surviving bc the date they were supposed to return to the crew had passed and the captain grew to worried about her and made the entire crew rush into an emergency search, including the captain herself and her toddler, who were not suited for the cold climate just like the rest of crew, taking a huge risk that Ki'ita still feels ashamed of for causing; they stayed within the base for a whole year afterwards, not just to recover but also as a silent apology, taking time preparing herself to ensure theyd not get into a situation like that again

(before departing on their next mission the captain gifted her a sword with the blade made from the material of the net, a wooden handle, bc of the cold, and a blue wrap around it reminiscent of the captains striking blue teeth; a reminder of what had happened, a means to defend herself when their strength and teeth are not enough, and also a promise to always return again)

the oldest members of the crew know Ki'ita well and treat her like an old friend, among the newer members she has more of a .. cryptic status, the mysteriously absent vice-captain who only appears every few months or so out of thin air, throws a big party, sleeps for a few days and then vanishes again, the only hint to when they will return soon again being the captain getting noticably grumpier

(OC art, Ki'ita, she/they)

[xxplastic-cubexx]

so like do you think they made the plastic wheelchair ALONGSIDE the plastic prison as a Just In Case situation, only after they realized charles was going to be a frequent visitor, or both as in because they knew charles was going to be the only person visiting him during planning they decided to make him a chair ahead of time

[lialuvsaven]

Icymi but also a little rambling about stuff I added here ( let me have this, I've spent more time w a dictionary writing this than I have in my last two years of highschool) and also bc I thought more writing this than I did any essay in my academic life 😔😔😔😔

1. The parchment shaped wall clock was supposed to be based on. This curio. I was so entraces by its design I pictured how something similar would look like as a clock (and yes this is a curio but it's weird looking enough that you can find it in some empty cardboard boxes or in the trash)

2. The soup made with nettle leaves- is inspired from Cignidaki zumi— an actual Romani dish, soup made with stinging nettle leaves. I found a bunch of romani recipes but this one really caught my eye bc we have stinging nettle plant here I didn't know u can eat them until now.

3. The pink diamond bit is from the jade's timeline thing hsr posted a while ago ofc, I wanted to see a follow up on it and didn't get it so I made my own reality. I don't think finding out his birthday would take jade much effort bc A. The reports mention the avgin extinction being on their religious festival kakava and. His name is kakavasha. B. But other than that, checking his files (esp in the beginning) I like to think the system is advanced enough that it automatically concerts various dating systems and such (they're modern Enough to have the synesthesia beacon)

4. The corundum stone (god BLESS finding a stone similar to his eyes took YEARS OFF MY LIFE) it has other colors? Don't worry. Hsr has better gemstones. We can't even get the diamonds from Uranus.

5. I have.... negative feelings about jade, if you couldn't tell. I tried not to make her like a completely evil lady, but given how she did call him to "talk" post penacony main quest in canon (it had layers too) I like to think between his whole thing in penacony and later actions she thought he might need a reminder. And shed know to pick a good time.

6. virtually no way for the reader to know his personal info if he doesn't give them UNLESS she knows someone like Jade. Had they asked topaz, she'd tell them that he doesn't like it (bc the stonehearts' birthdays and such are an occasion for a party/dinner/ etc, upper class socializing stuff (that is important to the business and cause) but aventurine doesn't do THAT even tho he does throw those necessary parties anyway. So it's obvious that he. Doesn't like celebrating it at least if nothing else. Later scrapped that cuz.... that's a lot of thinking

7. I thought of adding the catcakes bc cats (pets) are a great source of comfort for So many people. And they're incredibly good at sensing human emotions. And (canonically) they're said to be as intelligent as a 6 year old so. The catcakes remind him of food when aventurine is lost in his thoughts (and it doesn't feel like it's pleasant), to distract him and direct him towards a task. They all gather around him when he starts drinking bc while they likely don't understand the concept of drinking well they DO know he's distressed, so keeping him company to help him. They'd be a little freaked out to see him emotional I imagine, bc that's not something they ever saw (hence the immediate nervous attempt at comforting by nuzzling into him) I looked up how real cats act to write this and now I want a kitty do bad 😞😔

I also like. Didn't keep them in focus at all bc like....he's not in the headspace to think about them much. But they keep showing up bc that IS his family, too .

8. Dismissing a comforting smell as a potion seems something he'd do. There's actually an all good potion ( consumable) in hsr and while THAT one didn't end up in the market there's def similar stuff already. I imagine something that makes hospital food feel comforting for the patients would be popular, hence that conclusion

9. Kakavasha's shoes . I actually thought they were different when I wrote this but later realized that they seem ....to be modified. Mended maybe? But yeah. Only a pair of shoes

10. His mother smells of creosote bush. This species is found in the deserts of southwestern North America, and is said to smell of the desert rain. For a child who was blessed by rain on his birth day I think his mother likely smelt of rain, too.

11. I wanted to add in a scene with Aventurine's secretary to show she really NEVER looks at his eyes because they're. Usually seen as freaky and odd by people. And paired with the discomfort itself, she'd naturally be more careful to not do that to not offend him (him being her boss and. Because he knows how everyone sees them.) not like that's what HE wants, but what she assumes. But I decided to scrap that lol

12. Also he only managed to cry that much bc he was inebriated lol I don't think he'll ever cry like that otherwise (plus his house is empty so he doesn't have to hide it(

And I wrote down about him still remembering the painful memories with his family (while he tries to forget the extinction event desperately) bc he needs to Preserve their memory and spent like 10 minutes thinking about it preservation.... preservation....

But anyway that's about it!!

Happy Birthday, Aventurine!!

“Aventurine always tries not to remember. He's never synced the Sigonian calendar system to check the date in trailblaze calendar, never makes the mistake of dwelling on the memories surrounding this day— even when he's too drunk to remember his own name. Done everything possible to not acknowledge it; because this day feels like nothing but a curse to him.

Unfortunately, Jade has now ensured that he never gets to forget his birthday, again.”

Pairing: Aventurine x reader

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Comfort in the end to compensate for everything else ❤️ Reader is not physically present in the fic (they're not dead it's ok)

wc: 3.3k

Aventurine was abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door just as the sun began to slant westward.

With a sigh, he puts down the pen and glances at the wall clock. The hands on the parchment-shaped monstrosity read 1 pm, but his eyes are drawn back to the purple tongue protruding from its massively extended mouth. Seriously, where does Stelle find these items? "An ugly, purple parchment shaped wall clock that looks like it's ready to eat people"— isn't something most people would think to give him, to say the least. But that's the thing—it was Stelle.

She claimed to have found it during one of her "excavations." And even though Miss March 7th did her best to keep her friend from going into further details, stepping on Stelle's toes right in front of him and giving her a sidelong glance, as if he wouldn't notice, he could tell what kind of "excavations" would turn up something like this. Not like he minds the origins of this gift, however. Gifts from friends are few and far to come by, especially ones who actually tolerate him. Not to mention, Stelle likely sincerely believes that it's a cool gift, which is why it has replaced the diamond-embedded wall clock on his wall.

His musings are interrupted by a second knock, which, like the first one, reverberates once around the room before fading away in embarrassment. "Come in." He announces, reclining back in his seat and looking at the door with expectation in his eyes. It was not uncommon for his secretary to appear randomly in his office, constantly fussing over yet another minor issue. He believed it was her; at least, his itinerary showed he didn't have any guest visits today. Maybe it was time to replace assistants—the new hire is clearly not on the same wavelength as him. But he'd only recently had Topaz yell at him for changing staff so frequently; he'd prefer not to tell her that her choice was horribly disappointing just yet.

With a tiny bag bearing a brand he is all too acquainted with, the secretary enters the office. She keeps her gaze fixed on the floor the entire time, hence doesn't notice when her supervisor raises an eyebrow at the sight of his favorite jewelry brand. "Sir," she says in a low, somewhat flat voice, akin to that of a news reporter. "Earlier, a staff of Madam Jade stopped by. You have a present."

A grin appears on Aventurine's face, followed by a joyful chuckle. With how busy work has been lately, he'd almost forgotten when he asked Jade for a pink diamond, as has Jade apparently, seeing how long it's taken for her to send this. His request was a joke, of course, only meant to irritate Topaz. But he wasn't surprised either; Jade always takes good care of her weaponry. "Ahhh, no wonder!" He chirps and presses his palms together. "She must've finally found some generosity in her heart, hm?" He muses, and his assistant can only stand there stoically. He waves her off as she places the bag on his table and departs with an unnecessary low bow, never looking at his eyes once. As always.

When the secretary has left the room, he opens the bag, humming as he removes the box and gift card. Jade's handwriting is distinctive: prim and precise cursive that resembles a font.

"Happy birthday, Aventurine. This jewel would suit you far better than the pink diamond you asked for, don't you think?" — Jade

Kakavasha freezes. His birthday, she says, but she'd need to align the standard calendar system to the Sigonian one to find that out. She sent him a…..….a gift? For his birthday? 

Is this a fucking joke?

The box reveals a chunk of corundum. Raw, uncut, pink and blue hues all over. Shades way too close to his eyes, and it doesn't take a gemologist to tell that Jade had done her searching thoroughly to obtain this. A jewel the color of his eyes, the color of Avgin eyes, neatly wrapped in a box for….to send ..what sort of message, exactly? Oh Avgin, never forget who you were before I found you—unpolished and undeserving. forget your name, but never your roots.  

The note is crumpled and thrown in the trashcan, while the corundum and its box are hastily and carelessly pushed back into the bag. Really, so typical of Jade, he scoffs as he tosses the godforsaken bag into a random drawer, never to be seen again. 

Kakavasha— no, Aventurine always tries not to remember. He's never synced the Sigonian calendar system to check the date in trailblaze calendar, never makes the mistake of dwelling on the memories surrounding this day— even when he's too drunk to remember his own name. Done everything possible to not acknowledge it; because this day feels like nothing but a curse to him.

Unfortunately, Jade has now ensured that he never gets to forget, again. 

In any case, Aventurine concludes that it is not good for him to worry about this too much. Yes, he can just forget about the corundum. Yes, he is able to forget how it resembled Avgin eyes. Yes, he can also forget that Jade most likely sent this to "keep him in check" following the stunt he did in Penacony. But it was a mistake on his part to not see something coming. She had done this before, and it would not be the last time. He smiles at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, composed, shrewd, and calculated. Since a mirror has the freedom of choice, it does not return his smile.

⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆

By the time the car comes to a stop in front of his house, Aventurine is exhausted. His chauffeur unlocks the door for him, and he makes his way to the elevator. Yet he's interrupted again— of course, because it's a cursed day, and Aventurine has to restrain himself from scowling at the gateman, who stands in front of him wearing an anxious expression. "Sir, your friend had visited earlier to drop off something."

He raises an eyebrow and is about to inquire when he notices the bag the man is carrying. Without saying anything further, he simply takes the bag. You are the only one who'd own a dumb clockie bag and the only one who'd ever drop things off at his place.

When he steps in, his three catcakes meow loudly to greet him, and feels somewhat grateful for it. Today was just too exhausting, after all. He understands what this is about, based on the fact that you always give him gifts in person. Why, of all days, would you consider dropping it off today? And with no advanced notice- completely unlike you. How annoying, did Jade really have to do this too? He's never disclosed his birthday to you, so you probably coerced her into telling you, and she was glad to oblige, given you are of value to her.

Aventurine doesn't realize he's been standing in the kitchen for a long time until Spade begins massaging its fluffy body on his legs. He is surrounded by his three catcakes, who are all staring up at him expectantly. The message is crystal clear: We Want Food. He moves swiftly to get their food bowls, chuckling to himself before setting your lunchbox on the counter, sort of as an afterthought. At least they'll be able to go to bed well fed tonight. 

After serving them dinner, he leaves the kitchen carrying a bottle of wine, hoping to spend the remainder of the evening crashing on the couch. He can just leave everything else for tomorrow. The benefit of drinking is that it can temporarily impair your ability to sense emotions. He only needs a short term fix, after all. Come tomorrow, he'll take hangover pills, and walk out of this house as Aventurine of the stratagems again— undoubtedly.

He turns on a random B-grade movie, prepared to drink the night away. And he does precisely that—he pushes down thoughts of how his childhood friends, whose features now misty in his memories, would react if they were to see him. With another shot, he pushes down recollections of his mother's cooking—the special meals for the Kakava—and his birthday. Another to accept the now-blurry face of his sister in his memory as the only proof of her existence. Another to forget the clay dolls she'd made for him, on the last birthday kakavasha got to celebrate, that were broken when he had to run for his life. And one more shot, and another, till he's forgotten everything; till he's numb and emotionless.

Feeling empty and hollow is far worse than anything else, and being unable to cry isn't as pleasant as he thought it'd be. But in his lavish home, where gold abounds in every nook and cranny, he has little reason for tears. Money may not be able to buy him happiness, as he is well aware, but it certainly does spare him from ugly tears unfit for his visage. Maybe that's why he hasn't cried in a while, or perhaps he has simply lost his soul somewhere along the way. He stays on the couch till 3 am, accompanied by his pets. He pretends not to see the troubled looks they shoot at him, whispered words passed between them that are clearly about him. By the time he decides to rest for the night, he is fatigued, sluggish, and barely keeping it together.

When he gets up to grab a glass of water from the kitchen, Ace makes a protesting noise before promptly shutting up. Catcakes are smart creatures, and they understand him better than most individuals in his life (or maybe the difference lies in care) His throat is dry, and ice cold water from the freezer provides enormous relief. However, the respite is taken away from him by the crackling lightning, loud as a whip, pulling out memories up to the forefront of his mind again. Of the lightning without the rain, of Sigonia-IV. The drumming of the thunder is largely hidden by the concrete walls, so it isn't as hard on the ear—but it aches a lot more than it did before. Aventurine sneers to himself, dismissing the idea as ludicrous. As if.

The second time the thunder sizzles, Aventurine has to take a sharp breath and grip the countertop to steady himself. It sounds like playing dead in the bleeding streams of Sigonia-IV, like the booming cackle of the mocking thunder. Had he been an insolent child, just a little more doubtful than he already was, he'd believe it was Mama Fenge herself laughing at her so called "blessed child". The thunder sounds similar, but it's not the same. No, because this is still Aventurine and he's still here and those are someone else's memories, forgotten and buried in sand.

Aventurine sighs.

Drinking too much has never done any good to him.

Just as he is ready to leave the kitchen, he notices the lunchbox sitting the counter out of the corner of his eye. Oh, right. He hadn't even touched it. A distraction doesn't seem bad now, though. If he wants to fabricate a plausible lie about eating the food, he would at least need to know what kind of food you sent. If the mental image of your frown after discovering he never even looked at what you sent is what gives him the final push , he would never admit it.

The lunchbox has a plains bear cub logo: you've always been a sucker for cute things. He sets aside the little note attached for later this time, preferring to taste the dinner first. It looks like you chose to make him some kind of soup. Insulated lunchboxes are a blessing— because it's surely been well over half a day since you made it, yet it's still warm. While the presentation is relatively simple, it smells strangely comforting— effect of some potion? He's heard of those, but they're usually used for sick patients, no? Other than that, this is the first homemade meal he's having in a….while. Not that it matters. Aventurine isn't picky, and while the leafy greens are unfamiliar to him, he believes he can handle at least a tablespoon.

Even the largest avalanche can be triggered by the smallest of things. Just one spoonful, and yet it's enough to make his world stop.

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The dry, broken soil scraped against his bare feet, producing little clouds of dust in its wake. His strides were light and rapid, nearly tripping over himself with excitement and giddiness. Just a little more, and he'll reach the finish line. Even the Sun's typical glare felt kind today; warm and tender against his tanned skin. Jumping over the homemade hurdles, he reaches the finish line far ahead of his friends. They protest and pout, and he taunts them with the biggest smile on his face. The soles of his feet feel slightly sore from running barefoot, but Kakavasha wouldn't risk destroying his only pair of shoes for a game. 

When he hears his sister's voice calling for him, he rushes to embrace her and buries his face in her apron. His mother once told him that the Avgins all possess lovely voices, but Kakavasha believes his sister's is the best, especially when she laughs.

"And when will you listen to me and stop running around in the middle of the day, hm?" She pinches his nose and uses her apron to wipe the dirt off his face. Kakavasha beams at her with no regrets, proudly displaying the gap between his teeth. Once kakavasha had said his goodbyes to his friends, they walk hand in hand towards their tent.

There, his mother welcomes them with a warm embrace that smells like creosote bush and desert rain. “My darling," she coos, putting his small hands in her larger ones, rough from labour. "I remember you promised to be on time for lunch last time?" He grins cheekily, vowing not to do it again. (He's a repeat offender, but he knows that his mother and sister can't stay upset at him for long.)

His mother laughs, and tells him to tidy up before eating. Kakavasha's tummy is grumbling by the time he returns, and he finds the mats his sister laid down to sit on. The two siblings sit next to each other, chatting and giggling as they wait for their mother. She serves them a pot of hot soup with nettle leaves and lentils, just the way Kakavasha prefers it. He's overjoyed; quickly finishing his prayers before digging in. Kakavasha is a growing boy, and that's proved again when he finishes his bowl before his family.

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The soup she'd served him back then wasn't anything lavish; just a simple soup with local herbs and nettle leaves in a broth that smelt so uniquely of hers. His mama may have had a knack for cooking, but due to a lack of opportunities and resources, she never got to demonstrate her abilities. Compared to that, your food is much finer, and while excellent, it lacks the warmth of his mother's hands.  

Nevertheless, he can't resist taking another spoonful and quickly putting it in his mouth because the familiarity is so, so palpable. He recalls that his sister wanted him to eat better, so she gave him half of her portion after he finished his. His mother then gave his sister half of her portion, as they are Both growing children. All of a sudden, the bickering, the laughs, and their voices are as plain as day in his mind. He can't fully recall the glitter in his sister's eyes or the dimple on his mother's cheek, but it's clearer than any other memory he had of them, that's for sure. 

Aventurine can't stop crying, even if he wants to. Trying to halt the choking sobbing is fruitless, as is trying to figure out what's going on. He picks up the little message with shaking hands, hoping—praying—that it will help. You'll make it make sense. Somehow.

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“Dear Aventurine, I hope you have a wonderful birthday!!!!”  

Written in thin, flowing, rounded letters that are noticeably cleaner than your actual handwriting. You undoubtedly put a lot of effort into each letter you wrote. Aventurine was correct in assuming you found out his birthday through Jade, as you have written it here. "Buying a gift for you seems…a little perfunctory," you said, "so I've settled with cooking you something myself."

"And if the dish tastes familiar (which I hope it does) then yes, you've guessed it right— it's a traditional Avgin dish."

The perfumed ink is thicker here, a few ink blots from where you've likely paused to think, go over each sentence in your head before writing them down.

You mention finding the Avgin dishes by reading some kind of research paper on Sigonian culture and food, but Aventurine isn't sure he can believe that. You wrote, "I was fortunate enough," yet chance alone wouldn't get you something like that. Sure, maybe some doctoral candidate was crazy enough to choose a dead planet and its deader tribes to write about, but finding that paper would be too difficult. The biggest issue, however, is that Aventurine believes this dish should not and cannot exist. The stinging nettle leaves his mother used are no longer available, and while he didn't know much about cooking at the time, he was aware that all of the spices he knew were almost extinct. He's looked enough to know.

"I'll be honest, I had some trouble locating the ingredients for it and had to swap the majority of them because I couldn't find them. I really wanted to bring back a familiar feeling, even if it tastes very different from how you remember it. Plus, it's the thought that counts, right?"

In contrast to the light-hearted language, your writing is slightly wobbly and darker here, and Aventurine wonders if you realise your emotions seep through every single one of your actions, laid bare for the world to see.

Noting the disappearance of their owner, curious, the catcakes peep into the kitchen are immediately alarmed to see their owner sitting on the counter stool, sobbing and clutching a box. Spade, unsure of what to do, nuzzles it's head on Aventurine's leg, while the others meow in an attempt to calm him down. Aventurine hasn't sobbed in a long time—he can't remember how to anymore. His body shakes with each ragged and broken sob, sounding shattered and damaged, but he can't stop.

"I hope it brings you fond memories" is what you wrote down, but are you aware of the full impact of what you did for him? Most likely not. Aventurine cherishes all of his memories, including the unpleasant ones: as long as it involves his family. His misery knows no bounds, but he's only had a few years with his sister, and even fewer with his mother. So even the saddest memories are never forgotten, so he can preserve as much of them as possible. They live through his memories, after all. 

Even when plain, his mother's meals provided him with more warmth than anything else back then. To feel that warmth decades later is a blessing he can't repay— but a blessing nonetheless. He doesn't have many memories like this one either, gentle and happy, contrary to the endless memories of struggling. He remembers their love so vividly right now, feels it so strongly, alongside yours— that he has no choice but to revel in it.

(Come tomorrow , when he's sober, puffy-eyed from crying and not as vulnerable, he'll have trouble figuring your reasoning. But for now, he'll be fine. Tonight, he'll go to sleep feeling loved. Tonight, his pets will cuddle him to sleep. Tonight, he'll dream of a Sigonia Only he knows.)

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A/N: I'm honestly still so embarrassed about this bc I have an idea but can't execute it like I want to and 🫠🫠 As always, comments and reblogs are really appreciated!! Thank you for reading <3

[clotpolesonly]

on fathers, homes, loyalties, and defectors

The Raven Boys ch 7 // Dream Thieves ch 5 // The Raven Boys ch 36 // Dream Thieves ch 5

[smallerontheoutside]

I feel like there's a lot of parallels between rose and the doctor's relationship and Amy and Rory's relationship

[serenpedac]

“We belong to the Earth and the sea, you belong to the stars.”

— Zhang Beihai (The Dark Forest - Cixin Liu)

[aastarions]

i cannot believe that since i posted the last chapter of my zhongli multichap (in july 2022) right

ive gotten engaged

ive gotten married

AND

ive gotten pregnant 🧍🏼‍♀️

specifically pregnant with identical twins 🧍🏼‍♀️🧍🏼‍♀️