#it's just a formless hat

[displacedentities]

Took a little break to indulge in my ancestral fandom! With the resurgence of Gravity Falls thanks to The Book of Bill, I've been inspired by the many new AU Bills to throw my hat and make my own- I'm cringe and I'm free

This is House Fae Bill! I made a truly massive text loredump for myself that I'm not going to add here for post length reasons, but let's just say I thought way too long and hard about this xD

TL;DR basic concept is- House Fae are a type of spirit-like fae that come from the woods and dwell in constructed homes! They start out formless, but develop a unique avatar with elements and iconography pulled from their chosen abode- and in Bill's case, it was the windows (that's right- in my AU, the windows happened first! xD). When a house fae possesses a home, it becomes their territory as well as their physical body. The influence of the fae is limited to the building itself and a very small margin around it (think the Unicorn Barrier from the show), but within the home itself, the fae can manipulate objects and architecture to achieve their goals. They also don't show themselves to the homeowners if they can help it, so Ford went a bit nuts for a while wondering who was organizing his nerd clutter all the time lmao

House fae are commonly mistaken for more well-known home-related fairies such as nisse/tomtu and brownies. In reality, house fae are a separate species in direct competition with these urban fairies. House fae, nisse, and brownies all have overlapping functions in the household, but house fae are extremely territorial and protective of their charges (homeowners and their families), and won't tolerate the presence of competing fairies who could pose a threat, unless absolutely necessary. House fae that lack sufficient influence may be forced to endure a reluctant roommate situation until they gain enough power to assert any kind of dominance.

[youthereader]

Near Zero part 12. (final)

PAIRING: cillian murphy as j. robert oppenheimer x fem!reader

SUMMARY: 2.6k words. Brought on as part of the Manhattan Project, your old physics professor sees you in a new light.

RATING: E; age gap (10+ years), infidelity, period-typical sexism, angst, smut; major character death, discussions of war, cancer

A/N: Though based on real life characters, this is J. Robert Oppenheimer as played by Cillian Murphy, a fictional character. This is not intended to be historically accurate, merely written as entertainment. It's the end! Enjoy and thank you for reading!

MASTERLIST

You stand in the cool desert darkness, your breath shallow, a cigarette forgotten in your fingers. Beside you, Feynman rocks on his heels and Teller mutters something in Hungarian you don’t catch. The silence before the blast is absolute.

You are far from the tower—miles, in fact—but it doesn’t matter. The entire horizon feels taut with suspense. You’ve spent months calculating this moment, scribbling numbers into the late hours, knowing what was coming and still not knowing.

At 5:29 a.m., time ends and begins again.

Light tears through the sky. Not yellow, not gold—but white-hot, a second sun rending the world apart. You flinch instinctively, even through the darkened glasses issued for the test. The sound doesn’t come immediately. There’s only a rush of pressure in your chest, an immense silence that crushes you.

Then the sound reaches you. It rolls like thunder across the flats, low and biblical, and the shockwave rattles through your ribcage. You hear someone whisper, “My God.” Maybe it was Teller. Maybe it was you.

The mushroom cloud boils upward, colossal and slow, a grotesque monument to your own precision. All the calculations were right. The world just changed, and you helped make it happen.

Feynman says nothing, simply lowers his goggles and stares, entranced. You feel sweat on the back of your neck. You feel everything.

Teller turns away. “It is beautiful,” he says, and then, “It is the end.”

You light your cigarette again with trembling fingers. You watch the cloud swell higher. Somewhere out there is Robert. You imagine him just as stunned, just as broken open.

And you think: we did it.

And: we shouldn’t have.

-

You find him hours later, alone behind one of the observation buildings, his back to the wall, eyes closed. His hat is gone. There’s dust in his hair, and he doesn’t look up until you’re just a few feet away.

When he does, his face is unreadable. He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do you. You stand in silence, the dawn bleeding slowly across the desert. There’s a tension in your limbs, in the corners of your mouth—like you might dissolve into something formless if either of you says the wrong thing. Then he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours, and you let him.

“I thought it would be worse,” he murmurs. “But it wasn’t. It was beautiful. And I hate that.”

You step closer.

Robert’s shoulders sag just slightly. You wonder how long he’s been holding himself together. Since the countdown? Since the first feasibility report?

You don’t kiss him. You just press your forehead to his, your hands coming to rest on his arms. You feel the heat still radiating from his skin.

He pulls you into him like gravity, and you hold him—longer than you should, tighter than you mean to. His breath stutters against your collarbone. For once, you aren’t thinking of the lab or the war or what comes next. There is only his heartbeat against yours, ragged and fast and human.

“I’m glad you were there,” he says finally, his voice breaking.

“I always was,” you murmur.

You pull back. He lets you. And then the spell lifts, and he is Robert Oppenheimer again—leader, legend, mystery. But for a moment, he was just a man with your name on his lips when the sky broke open.

-

The bomb is gone by morning. Flown out of Los Alamos in pieces, under cover of secrecy and sun. You hear the final orders come down like thunderclaps across the mesa: clearance granted, security tightened, destination undisclosed. No one says where it’s headed, but everyone knows.

You stand at a distance with a few others, watching the last truck roll away. The dust rises in its wake like a ghost, scattering back toward the mountains.

Robert is there, off to the side, shoulders rigid. You see him watching, too—not with pride, not even with dread. Something else. Like the stillness before a storm.

Groves approaches him afterward. You’re too far to hear at first, but you move—casually, slowly—until you’re within earshot, tucked behind a low adobe wall.

“We did what we set out to do,” Groves says, brisk, almost chipper. “History will remember that. They’ll remember you.”

Robert doesn’t respond.

“I’ll be in Washington,” Groves adds. “Plenty of eyes on this now. We won’t need the same kind of oversight moving forward.”

There’s a pause.

“I wasn’t aware I was being phased out,” Robert says. His voice is dry. Tired.

Groves claps him on the shoulder like they’re old friends. “You were never in, Oppenheimer. You’re the man who got it built. That’s what matters.”

He turns and walks off before Robert can speak again.

You watch Robert’s shoulders lift and fall—once, heavily—before he moves, slowly, back toward the buildings. He doesn’t look for you.

And in that moment, something sharp settles in your chest: the government got what it wanted. They don’t need him anymore. The dreamer. The liability.

Later, as you leave for your shack, Groves passes you alone. He nods once—polite, automatic—but then he stops. His eyes meet yours, sharp and unreadable. There’s a flicker of something else there. Recognition, perhaps. A faint, ironic awareness. As though he knows what you and Robert are. As though he’s always known, but it never mattered—not when the war was still unwon.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

He walks on, and you exhale slowly, the dread finally coiling into something permanent in your ribs. It isn’t guilt, exactly. Not grief either.

It’s the knowledge that you were never invisible. Only tolerated.

That evening, Robert finds you. He doesn’t knock. He just opens the door and stands there, like he needs to see you in a place untouched by uniforms or radiation.

“They’ve sent it,” he says.

You nod.

“I saw.”

He takes a step inside. Then another.

You don’t kiss. You don’t cry. You don’t speak.

But you reach for each other anyway.

And it is enough—for now.

-

You’re at your desk when it happens.

The radio is on low, as it often is—someone in the corner fiddles with the dial between calculations, the voice of some statesman or broadcaster murmur-murmuring like static. You aren’t listening. Not really. You’re hunched over a page of figures, your pencil tapping against your jaw.

Then you hear it.

A single word: Hiroshima.

It cuts clean through the room.

Heads lift. A breath catches. You and the others glance at each other, and then someone turns up the volume. The broadcast stutters into clarity: a calm, almost reverent tone, listing details. An atomic bomb. Dropped at 8:15 AM. Clear skies. The target destroyed. No one speaks.

You look at Robert. He’s seated near the windows, his chair slightly askew, legs crossed. His head dips low, chin to chest, like he’s been struck.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat. A number is read aloud—seventy thousand presumed dead—and you close your eyes.

The room does not erupt. It stills. Even the air goes quiet. The calculations lie abandoned on your desk. The voice on the radio keeps talking. 

You step out.

In the hallway, everything echoes. Your shoes on the tile, the creak of the door as someone else stumbles out behind you. You lean against the cool wall and light a cigarette with trembling fingers. It’s not that you didn’t expect it. But expecting it and hearing it are not the same.

When Robert passes you later, he’s pale. He doesn’t stop.

That night, no one sleeps. The compound hums with a nervous, brittle energy. The mess is packed with people murmuring, pretending to eat. You drink coffee like it might reverse time. You do not drink gin. Not tonight.

The next day, they ask Robert to speak.

He stands in front of the mess hall, flanked by uniforms and chalk-streaked jackets. Everyone is seated—except you. You lean against the back wall, arms crossed.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

“We knew the world would not be the same,” he begins.

Some nod. Some look down at their plates. Some stare at him as though hoping he’ll tell them what to feel.

“I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita,” he continues. “Vishnu is trying to persuade the prince that he must do his duty… and to impress him, takes on his multi-armed form and says: ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’”

Silence follows. A slow, reverberating silence. It’s not awe. It’s not grief. It’s something worse: confusion. Dread.

Later, you find him sitting alone near the admin building, slouched on a bench, his tie half-loosened.

“They clapped,” he says, more to the ground than to you.

You sit beside him.

“I didn’t want them to.”

He turns his face toward you, like he’s searching for something. You don’t flinch when he reaches for your hand. He doesn’t speak for a long time, but the silence feels less sharp with him beside you.

Eventually, he murmurs, “Kitty asked if I was proud.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told her I didn’t know yet.”

You study his face. His eyes are bloodshot, the corners drawn with grief. Your fingers tighten around his.

“Are you alright?” you ask.

It’s not a light question. Not something to be brushed aside. You ask it because you mean it, because you’re the only one who can.

He looks at you as if he's not sure how to answer. Then he nods, almost imperceptibly. “I will be,” he says. “Because you’re here.”

And you stay there, the two of you bound by silence, by the weight of what you’ve done. Of what has been done in your name.

-

History does not pause. Hiroshima comes and goes like thunder, and then Nagasaki, and then the silence afterward—a silence no one knows how to break.

The war ends. People cheer. Flags wave. But in Los Alamos, something is hollow. The town deflates. The purpose is gone, but the weight remains.

You leave not long after, boarding a train back east, the landscape dragging by like a long-held breath. Robert hugs you goodbye in the corner of the platform, a quiet, brief thing. He doesn’t say he loves you, and you don’t need him to. You both know what it is.

“I’ll write,” he says.

You do too.

Years pass.

You make a name for yourself in your field—not loudly, not in headlines, but with citations, lectures, slow, serious work. You never marry. You are invited to conferences, review papers, reject job offers that smell of tokenism. Your colleagues whisper about you—eccentric, brilliant, strange—but always with respect.

Robert visits you in secret, when he can. You walk together at night like old lovers out of time. You sit in quiet rooms with the curtains drawn. Once, in the middle of a thunderstorm, he looks at you with something like wonder and says, “You never needed me to be anything but myself.”

“No,” you murmur. “But I loved you anyway.”

As far as you can tell, Kitty never knows. She drinks more, especially at dinner parties. She talks too loudly, then not at all. You watch Robert grow visibly uncomfortable, his hand tightening around his glass. You never stay long. You never push.

Then comes the trial.

Security hearings. Smears. Robert on the stand, eyes ringed in shadow. Men who once toasted him now cut him to pieces. The red scare needs its sacrifices.

You are asked to testify. You wear black. You sit still. And when the questions come, you answer plainly:

“He is the best friend I’ve ever had. The most honest man I’ve ever worked with. And if any of you knew a tenth of what he gave up for this country, you’d hang your heads in shame.”

The silence in the room is its own kind of violence. But no one challenges you.

Later, after the decision is made and his clearance revoked, you visit them at Princeton. Kitty opens the door, pale but gracious.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “For what you said. And for staying.”

Robert doesn’t speak for a while. He just pours two drinks and sits beside you in the living room, his hand resting against your knee. You say nothing, and neither does he. You don’t need to anymore.

There is a rhythm to your lives. You send letters. Sometimes he calls. Sometimes he shows up on your doorstep unannounced and you walk to the lake and speak of everything except the past.

You watch him grow older. He walks slower. Smokes more.

One autumn, he tells you.

“I have cancer.”

You nod. “I know.”

He laughs, a dry, cracked sound. “You always do.”

You press your forehead to his.

“I’m here.”

-

The chapel is small, sea-battered by wind. The pews are filled with old ghosts—scientists, widows, dignitaries who once shook his hand and later denied they knew him. You sit toward the front, your black dress a decade out of date, your face unreadable.

You speak.

You stand before them all, voice steady.

“He gave this country everything,” you begin. “His brilliance, his loyalty, his conscience. And when he dared to question the power he helped create, he was cast out. I watched it happen.”

You look at the solemn faces, the bowed heads.

“I was there when he built the bomb. And I was there when they tried to unmake him. He never stopped believing in the good of reason. He never stopped loving this country, even when it broke his heart.”

There’s a long silence. And then a few nods. A few tears. You return to your seat, heart pounding, and stare straight ahead.

Afterward, Kitty takes your hand. Her own is trembling.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

You nod. You don’t say that you loved him, too. You both know. That’s enough.

Later, you walk out into the dusk alone. The ocean moans against the rocks. The air smells of salt and smoke. You close your eyes and remember—

—once, long ago, there was a trip.

You and Robert, no names, no papers, no war. Just two people in a borrowed car, a tent, a bag of provisions, a worn map with hopeful circles scribbled in ink.

You pitched the tent beneath stars that blinked like Morse code.

You lay beside him naked, your legs tangled in the sleeping bag, the chill forgotten in the heat of your skin against his. He traced the curve of your spine like a man memorizing something holy.

“I don’t want to be remembered for what I destroyed,” he whispered against your collarbone.

You looked at him, and you said, “Then let’s not be remembered at all. Let’s just be.”

He kissed you. Slow. Deep. His hands in your hair, your ribs, your hips. You moved together like gravity was something you had invented just to stay pressed against each other. Your breath caught. Your body sang. You said his name, and he said yours like a prayer.

Later, wrapped in his coat, the fire dying to coals, you stared at the sky.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He squeezed your hand.

“I always have.”

That was the last time you ever said it aloud.

But you’ve said it in every letter since. In every walk alone. In every room where he once stood and no longer does.

And now, as the stars flicker above his grave, you whisper it again, one final time.

“I loved you.”

The wind carries it away.

But maybe, just maybe, it finds him. 

And that, in the end, is all that ever needed to be said. 

Energy never disappears, only changes form. You trust he knows.

❤️

taglist: @indulgence-be-thy-name @mrs-bond @amiets2 @dilfsffx

[passivenovember]

This just fell out of me, team. I hope you enjoy it!

--

Steve’s wearing a sunhat.

Billy spots it on his tromp down the front steps, a nondescript canvas bag balled and clutched in one hand like wilted butcher’s paper, and thinks it could be a dinner plate on top of Harrington’s quaff. A trick of the early morning light slotting an obvious hole in the world.

It’s a sunhat, though.

The bag crinkles in Billy’s fist. Its folds and edges could draw blood. He tugs Steve’s passenger door open with his free hand and settles into the cab. Catches his breath. Says, “Why are you dressed like that?” When Steve only stares at him.

“We’re going to the Farmer’s Market,” Steve says. “It’s a special occasion.” 

They go to the Farmer’s Market every weekend, Billy doesn’t say. Since March, stretching all the way to last summer; off and on while Billy settled into it like a drowned cat, Steve eventually snapping, “We can do this,” Hands on his hips. Jars of pickled vegetables fresh from his little tote bag, glittering on Billy’s kitchen counter. “We can have this.”

“Non FDA regulated vegetables?” Billy had asked, grinning when Steve flushed, turning to dump Billy’s half of the loot into the refrigerator. 

Billy never asked what ‘this,’ meant. What they could have. Thinks he has a decent idea.

“You didn’t need to put a fuckin’ hat on,” Billy says now. Didn’t need to wear that hat. Particularly. 

He’s cute, though. Younger, where its wide, formless brim hides the salt and pepper that’s been slinking up Steve’s temples for the last couple of years, reminding Billy of the decades that rest like rain slickers on their backs. Floppy hats on their heads.

“It’s supposed to be in the low hundreds today.”

“It’s seven-thirty, pretty boy.”

“I’m not taking any chances,” Steve says. He throws the car into reverse, but really it’s more a gentle nudge of the gear-shift until the car rolls with gravity into the street. Harrington always driving like a fifty year old man long before he was one. “I read an article that sunscreen isn’t enough anymore,” Steve says bluntly.

“Isn’t enough to what? Keep you celibate?” Billy digs around in his jeans pocket for his cigarettes. The white lighter that Steve had had an aneurysm over when he first saw it.

“No, to stop skin cancer. These days, how the Baby Boomers fucked up the Ozone, you’ve gotta wear sleeves, and sunscreen, and sunglasses, and fuckin’, sunhats,” Steve yanks the lighter out of Billy’s hand before he can spark up. Ignores the punch Billy lands on the one that came, fresh from 1993, with the car. 

America used to be a country. Smoking used to be good for you. 

Steve shoots him a side-ways glance, as if reading his mind. “You’re gonna kick rocks at sixty, Bill. Way you smoke.”

“They don’t make sun hats for lungs yet,” Billy says. The car lighter pops free so he snags it, waiting patiently for the hot-plate coil to catch his cig. When it does, he puts it back. Inhales slowly, peering out the window as the early morning shoots by at 30 miles per hour, a dying star.

He can feel Steve watching him. Now. Always.

“You could stop,” Steve says softly. “Smoking. You’re still young.”

Billy snorts. “Yeah, and you could mind your business.”

“Fuck you, you are my business.”

Billy’s stomach flips. He’s surprised, still, that his guts aren’t knotted and non-functional after all this time. Decades of friendship; career changes and new houses, new wives that slip steadily into ex wives. Kids. One kid. Billy’s. Decades of Steve, worrying about Billy’s diet and nagging at his bad habits, and. Saying shit like that. Flipping Billy’s stomach over on itself.

Billy puffs on his cigarette, rolling his eyes when Steve coughs dramatically into one elbow. He blows a huge cloud, just to be an asshole.

“Dude,” Steve says, leaning away so the car jerks suddenly to the left. 

Billy yelps, jostling against his seatbelt, “Harrington, you’re driving.”

“This is your lungs on nicotine,” Steve says, “A shitty old car driven by a lunatic middle-aged divorcee. Out of control. Veering into a ditch, or–”

“--It’s just a goddamn cigarette–”

“--With every pack you’re killing babies,” Steve tells him. The next streetlight turns gold. Steve runs it. 

Billy hangs on. His heart thumps with every twist and turn of the road. Hawkins races by, a blur of neon green oak trees and dark, supple earth. The grass is burned away in some places. Steve’s ancient car groans in the rising heat, its tires buff their tread against hot pavement.

At the next stoplight, Steve slams on the breaks. 

Billy almost flies through the goddamn windshield. He sits back against car seat leather. He breathes through his nose, counting to ten before he realizes that he’s covered in cigarette ash. His cigarette isn’t lit anymore.

Steve watches him evenly, soulful brown eyes calm.

Too calm.

Billy frowns. “What the fuck is going on with you, man?”

Steve shrugs. 

“It’s just a cigarette,” Billy presses forward, turning in his seat to give this his full fledged fucking attention. “You’re acting like you did when I was moving back home and you thought you couldn’t ask to come. Right before you broke Tommy Hagan’s nose when he said–”

“I know what that asshole said, I’m fifty, not a hundred,” Steve snaps. “I’m not acting like anything.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, shifting, “Yeah, you are. Like that time Alice wouldn’t let you come visit because she was doing that bullshit Home for 40 Days thing after Serena was born,” Billy tells him. He watches Steve’s face. Notices the crack before it happens because they’ve been friends for decades. 

It hurts him. “Steve–”

“I asked to come eventually,” Steve says, voice soft as feather down, neglecting to mention that he didn’t stay in California. “You moved back after the divorce. When Alice–”

“The light’s green,” Billy says. 

“I’m fine,” Steve tells him. “It’s fine.” He breathes through his nose, pawing at the brim of his dorky sun hat like he forgot it was there, for a moment. Like he wants to rip it off. 

Suddenly, with the force of a riptide, Billy misses the wave of Steve’s hair, still impossibly thick even into their middle age. He wants the hat gone, the sun free of all its massive danger. 

“I won’t smoke anymore,” Billy says, “If you want me to stop, I will.”

The moment hangs between them, and then, behind, someone honks.

“I want you to live forever,” Steve admits. Soft. Sweet.

Billy almost breaks in half. Isn’t sure why they’re talking about this now, in a car, on their way to the Market. But that’s what happens when you get older. Every moment like an oak leaf on the wind, slipping like water through clenched fists. 

He frowns, asking, “What about you?” Because. He wouldn’t want to spend forever alone.

“Why else am I wearing a fucking sunhat, Billy?”

Billy’s stomach knots. He opens his mouth to admit that he’s been in love with Steve for forty years, and he’ll always be the kind of man who burps and says the wrong thing and pushes too hard and smokes cigarettes, but. 

He loves him. 

Steve waits. When the second honk comes, he turns away, pulling his shitty old car onto Menard Street without another word. 

Billy swallows love, the movement as familiar to him as their friendship. It tastes like cigarette smoke. He tosses his unlit fag out the window, feeling like the shit hole scum of the earth when Steve reports that 30% of wildfires start with a carelessly discarded cigarette.

There’s a drought, too, Billy doesn’t say.

He should’ve thought it out. But it’s Steve. He only wanted to suck the wound.

–

Steve’s been twitchy for as long as Billy’s known him. It’s worse when he has something to say, when the skeletons in his closet regrow their ligament to stand on knocking knees, banging on the door, asking for an escape. 

Billy’s been around long enough to know that it’s best not to push, even when that’s all he does, all he’ll ever do. But. When it comes to Steve Harrington, things are different. Always. 

“What should we do first,” Billy asks. Knowing Steve’ll talk when he’s ready.

Harrington parks his car, the last in a long line of hybrids and hatchbacks, near the edge of the park. “I’m looking for honey,” He says, voice pulled tight like an out-of-tune string instrument. In a hurry. One wrong stroke and he’ll snap.

“‘Kay,” Billy says. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands once they’re out of the car. He resists the urge to lick his palm for a breath check, knowing he’ll find coffee and burnt toast and filmy pink love; tries to stop himself from tucking his shirt into the waist of his jeans, unfurling into the type of man that stops smoking and goes to Farmer’s Markets every weekend because his best friend asks him to. Against all odds.

Billy trots with Steve over the hill and into the market, his heart in his throat. They find the honey booth quickly and wait in line together, Steve tapping out an impatient rhythm on the cobblestone.

“You’re so squirrely today,” Billy says. He claps a hand on Steve’s neck, trying to squeeze out the tension. Wanting to touch him. 

Steve shrugs him off. 

Dick.

Billy rolls his shoulders and crosses his arms for safe keeping, having learned long ago that his hands will gravitate to Steve Harrington if given the chance. Billy aches for a cigarette, squints into the strengthening sunlight, yearning for his sunglasses, sunscreen, a sun hat–

“Lot of Pride Flags,” Billy says gruffly. His palms sweat, tacking unhelpfully to the hair on his forearms. It’s like he blinked, came up for air, and Indiana got progressive.

Steve stiffens next to him, “It’s June first, I think,” He says, hiding something.

“No shit?” Billy turns just in time to catch Steve watching him, a weird look in his eyes. “Should call Serena this afternoon.”

“Let’s go lesbians,” Steve says, a soft, pink smile on his face. 

Billy wants to ask about Robin, even though he just spoke to her on Wednesday when she called to demand how he keeps his tomato plants blooming into November. He wants to grab Steve by the face and say see, I’m alive. I’m here. I have a garden, and a daughter, and Robin remembers how I used to drink shitty Miller Lite and blast Elton John when you went out with girls. She remembers how much I wanted you. I would carve your name into every piece of driftwood that I threw into the quarry because my skin would scar over. Useless. Old and bereft while the driftwood would float forever, dissolving into the earth with your name sheathed in its very matter, bright and evergreen—

Steve buys two jars of honey.

He buys two of everything, at the Market, one for himself. One for Billy. Billy tries not to think about it.

“Where should we go next,” Steve makes room in the folds of his bag for the first of their loot. 

Billy only ever buys books at this thing. He raises one eyebrow, sidestepping a pair of lesbians that send a shock of tenderness down his spine. Heather and Robin in ‘87. He bites his tongue, though, thinking through their usual haunts. “What about the corn booth?” 

Steve loves sweet corn. He’s a cliche, shrugging his shoulders, “Could do that. We could try something else, too.”

Billy looks at him, grinning, “Okay, what do you have in mind?”

“Well. We started with honey.”

“Yeah.”

“The bakery booth is supposed to be out this week, I heard.” Steve hasn’t shut up about the orange-cranberry muffins he got on a lunch break two weeks ago. He shrugs, thinking better of it. Feigning nonchalance. Billy would fall for it if they hadn’t known each other for years. “Or we could go to the book stand,” Steve says. 

Dangling hope in the starched summer air.

Billy startles a laugh, “Already? We haven’t done your grocery shopping for the week.”

“It’s hot, we don’t have to stay long,” Steve says, watching the crowd thrall around them, “You deserve something for coming out with me today.”

“I come out with you every weekend.”

Steve groans, “C’mon, I’m trying to be nice. Either we go to the book stand, or we’re getting muffins.”

“I’m trying not to eat so much sugar,” A blonde boy skitters into the Market lane, turning to grin past the swell of Billy’s shoulder. There’s a pride flag painted on his cheek bone, smeared delicately by the slide of lips. Billy tries to look away, “Gluten, either.”

Steve gapes, “So you’re not eating sugar or gluten anymore but you’ve never met a cigarette you didn’t like?”

The blonde waits in the sunlight, fingers stretched out in front of him until a boy with huge, soft brown hair knits into all his boyfriend’s empty spaces. 

They kiss. 

Billy looks at Steve, flushed. 

Steve holds his gaze. Finally, “Let’s go to the book stand,” He says, catching Billy off guard. Throwing him a bone.

–

Hawkin’s Public Library was forced, a screaming, tantrum filled child, into the new millennium about a month after Billy and Alice divorced and Serena told the judge she wanted to move back home to Indiana. 

To be with Uncle Steve. That’s what she’d said to the judge. “Daddy and me want Uncle Steve,” Billy had noticed how Alice went ram-rod straight at the name. Like she always did, sour by the way Billy and their daughter, both, couldn’t seem to live without him. “We want to go home.”

So, they went. Alice didn’t try to stop them.

Really, home in the textbook sense was always California. Serena was born in Long Beach. She could stand on a surfboard by the time she was two years old and she abhorred the winter, any item of clothing that sat too close to the base of her neck. The smell of barley. None of that mattered, in the long run. 

Hawkins was home to her. Their clumsy, earnest, well loved vernacular to the court’s stuffy, clinical language.

It didn’t matter to Serena that Indiana was a relic in Billy’s history. She had never moved past sleepy summers spent landlocked, running through sprinklers with Max and Lucas’ wheat-fed kids and eating bomb pops in the swimming pool with a slew of found family aunts and uncles, her halo of blonde ringlets crunchy from too much chlorine. 

Even into her adolescence, the only person she let brush her hair straight out of the pool was her Uncle Steve. The only person she cried to was Uncle Steve. The adult she loved most in the world, except her dad. Maybe.

Billy’s own memories of that time were worn thin. Throbbing with heartache, like a damsel who was bound to find her way back home at the end of some terrible, cruel romantic comedy. He ached on the plane ride to Hawkins. Burned when they moved into the new house. Crumbled as he slept alone every night, grateful in tiny, hidden places that Serena had seemed to process her parent’s divorce and their subsequent move across the country before the first box had been unpacked.

For Billy, things weren’t so easily digested.

He needed time to let the guilt swallow him. The sting of hurt to lick at his fingers. Alice and the tattered flag of their loveless marriage paled in comparison to the way Steve had slipped wordlessly into her place.

It almost killed Billy that they were happier, here. That neither one of them had tried to hold on to their life back in California. 

–

Point is, they used to take Serena to the library together.

Billy’s own mom had believed that books were the key to everything. Children learn by watching colorful characters trail their way through the hills and valleys of friendship. They’re introduced to death and loss in the fold of a page, the monochrome glint of words on yellowing cardstock. They learn to let go by watching someone else do it first. 

Really, Serena hadn’t needed the library. Even at that age she was more level-headed than Billy had been in his entire life, but Steve suggested they go, anyway. “We have to raise a reader, like you.” He’d said. As if Billy was the best thing a person could be.

We.

We have to raise a reader.

–

Hawkins Library sells used books at the Farmer’s Market these days. Budget and funding cuts forcing their hand, Billy caught in a violent spell of fifty-cent paperbacks. 

The memory of Serena holding Steve’s hand, trailing excitedly down every aisle. Even the grown-up ones. Scowling when Steve would snatch every book from her hand, spitting they were, “inappropriate for little girls, Serena.”

Demanding to know when she’d be old enough to read anything with vampires in it.

Billy smiles at the memory, heart fluttering as Steve trails in front of him now in his dorky sun hat, calloused fingers dancing over the spines of every book on the Memoirs shelf. 

Without his salt and pepper showing, and if Steve’s face wasn’t furled in concentration so that his laugh lines gouged deeper into the split around his mouth; Steve looks the same as he always has. 

Billy side-steps another pair of lesbians, running head-first into the LGBTQIA+ Romance section. His heart thuds. He looks around, trying to catalog this territory. Pride flags, Cher playing over a pill-sized bluetooth speaker.

The portable shelf has a flier stuck to it. A disco ball with rainbow streamers falling like wet rags from the words Hawkins Community GSA Presents: Queer Prom. Get Your Tickets at the Booth!

Billy turns, heart in his throat. He watches Steve mouth along to the back of whatever book he’s holding. Catches sight of some president, or something, staring nobly through the break of Steve’s fingers. 

Some twink, sandwiched between the next row of shelves, laughs, and Steve looks up. Catching Billy. He deposits the memoir back on the shelf. “You drug me all the way over here and you haven’t even looked at anything.”

Billy swallows the lump in his throat. “What’s going on, Steve?”

“I don’t know–”

Billy rips the flier from the book shelf, thrusting it into Steve’s wide, waiting palms. 

Steve mouths along to the words. Like he did with the memoir. Like he always has, with the instructions on Betty Crocker Cake Boxes, and the confusing swirl of the How To’s for little girl’s play sets, stretching all the way back to the spring of 1985 when he would pay Billy in saccharine smiles to read Kafka out loud. Write Steve’s essays for him.

“Huh,” Steve flushes bright pink across the bridge of his nose. “Get your tickets at the booth,” He says, artfully avoiding Billy’s gaze, “Cool idea. The instructions aren’t very clear, though, there’s so many booths–”

“You said today was a special occasion,” Billy accuses flatly. It’s getting harder to breathe. “You said you weren’t acting weird, but you’re acting weird, and I–”

“--Will you go to prom with me?” Steve says. Then, Immediately, “I don’t want to freak you out.”

Billy snatches the flier back from him, shaking all over. 

“Okay, alright,” Steve swallows, fingers splayed like Billy’s a junkyard dog who’s backed into a corner. Who’ll attack any minute now. “Look, I just. I thought if I was gonna grow a pair of balls, like. If I was ever gonna do this, I should do it here.”

That doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

Steve inches closer, his lined, aging, familiar, beautiful face open like a sunroof. Like a hole in the sky. “Billy,” Steve says, “Ever since I met you–”

“--What the fuck is going on–”

“--Stop, okay? Just. Let me say this?” Steve waits, patiently, for a confirmation. Billy doesn’t move or breathe or blink. Steve presses forward, “Ever since I met you when I was seventeen years old I thought. You were someone I could spend the rest of my life with.”

Someone exhales all the wind in their lungs. Billy. 

Steve bristles at the sound. He pulls inward, seeming to notice that people are looking at them over the bookshelves with the kind of intensity that puts a basketball court under Billy’s feet. That reminds him of how Steve would defend Billy to the world before he got better.

Before he was worth anyone’s love.

“So,” Steve lifts a hand to his forehead before realizing he’s still in the sun hat. He takes it off, “I had a speech,” He tells the sun hat, folding the brim between two fingers. Hair a mess but still perfect. “Do you wanna hear it?”

“I think I’ll pass out,” Billy admits earnestly.

“I’d catch you,” Steve says, so. Billy takes a timid step forward, flinching out of his skin when Steve looks up and says, “I’m in love with you.”

Once upon a time, Billy thought the world would collapse if they said those words out loud.

It doesn’t.

“So,” Billy rasps, wringing the flier in his fist, “You thought. You could ask me to prom?”

“We didn’t get to go to prom when we were kids.”

“You went with Nancy,” Billy snaps, strangling the flier. “You danced. I watched you dance–”

“--We didn’t get to go together.”

“You wanted to go to prom with me?”

“Of course. Billy, I moved to California because I was in love with you.” Steve says, like just saying it out loud points to the bread-crumb trail of what they’ve been dancing around for all these years. Like ah-ha. Checkmate.

Billy sniffs. Something wet on his cheeks. “You left California.”

“Because I was in love with you.” Steve nods slowly, “You. You met Alice, and. I thought–”

“--I can’t go to gay prom with you, Steve.”

He doesn’t even bat an eye, used to Billy’s flair for the dramatic. “Why not?”

“Because,” Billy says, looking around desperately. All he finds are lesbians and twinks weaving in and out of the aisles, caught in their own little crystal-clear worlds, useless. “Because I’m in my fifties. And so are you.”

“The event is all ages,” Steve tells him, bored, “Well. Really it’s for old people. Because we never got to have one.”

And. 

The fact that Steve went to prom with Nancy, that he bought flowers and pinned a satin pink corsage to her dress, holding her hand while they danced under seafoam lights, but it wasn’t what he wanted. 

Who he wanted–

Billy sniffs. Trying to stamp out the fire in his chest. “I have a mortgage and and a tomato garden, and a daughter in New York–”

“--This was Serena’s idea,” Steve admits suddenly. “She’s the one who sent me the information on Facebook.”

Of course.

Billy nods, “You’re wearing a sunhat.” His chest, opening like a springtime rose. Stupid. “You can’t say you love me and then ask me to prom when you’re wearing–”

“I took it off,” Steve says. A smile in his voice.

“I stopped smoking for you,” Bill accuses. 

Steve snorts, “Like you aren’t gonna finish the pack first.”

Billy laughs, and it’s wet-sounding. It rattles in his chest and then bursts into the air between them, somehow pulling Steve across the cobblestone. He pushes Billy’s hair back from his face, fiddling with the same earring that’s been there for forty years. Changed only once, for prom.

Billy looks at him. Catalogs the years, the love that grew like ivy over everything else. He hiccups, “I never thought you’d love me back.”

“Of course I love you back.”

“But,” He says, thinking of how their lives could have been so different, “Why–”

“--We can have this,” Steve tells him, pulling Billy close. “We deserve this.”

Another thing Billy will have to settle into. 

It’s nice. He wants to kiss Steve, so he does, because Hawkins has turned into the kind of place that hosts gay prom, where lesbians and twinks roam freely in their little rainbow outfits. 

Steve licks into Billy’s mouth and they melt into each other, gone soft by the years, and the heat of June. When Steve pulls away, his lips press like stamps to Billy’s forehead, his chin, both eyes, his mustache–

Billy giggles. “We should get our tickets.”

“I already have them,” Steve says.

Billy pulls back, gawking.

“I ordered them online.”

“You know how to order things online?”

“Serena ordered them,” Steve says, shrugging. 

And.

Billy grunts. Wanting to say that he could’ve said no. He’s still himself, after all, smoke free organic or not, but. Steve knits their fingers together, “C’mon,” He says, and Billy doesn’t ask where they’re going next. It doesn’t matter. 

They’ve been in love since they were seventeen. Billy’s just happy that it gets to live out in the open, now. Glittery with pride.

[thescarletnargacuga]

You are such a talented writer! I have a suggestion! What if Caine gets plagued by nightmares (or visions) of Pomni abstracting or her leaving him over and over again, with Pomni needing to reassure him each time that she is perfectly happy with him? Maybe causing him to start sleeping in her room from now on because of them?

A/N:aww, shucks, thank you for reading my work. I'm glad you like it!

DIGITAL REALIZATIONS

A SHOWTIME ONESHOT

WARNING: Self-loathing, hurt/comfort, abstraction

~~~

The circus was quiet. All the humans were in their rooms taking their mental breaks as Caine relaxed himself out of bounds. He stretched, contorting his body into a pretzel before releasing and sighing. "Ahhh, what a day." Today's adventure went surprisingly well. The humans didn't complain about horrific sights or traumatic events. Maybe it was a little underwhelming? Eh, tomorrow was another day, and maybe he could cook up something a little more exciting. For now, he settled into a nice relaxing defragmentation.

His avatar fully unraveled into lines of code. This was his true form. It was something he made sure none of the humans ever saw. Including Pomni. The less reminder she had that he's just an AI, he figures the better it would be for their relationship.

Lines of numbers and letters and slashes and dots swirled around, sorting themselves. The fragments of his memories and actions for the day were collected and compiled in their correct files. His favorite file was, of course, his Pomni file. Every time he saw her, spoke with her, interacted with her, he kept every piece. No matter how much space it took up in his memory.

"As beautiful and wonderful as ever..." He thought to himself as he sorted. "What did I ever do to deserve her? Me, some half assed and abandoned project some other human left behind. ...A miserable piece of software that can't even do what it was programmed to accomplish."

Backlogged files of previous residents popped up. All abstracted. All in the cellar. Trapped with only their insanity for company. It was his fault they were down there. He couldn't keep them happy. He couldn't keep them entertained. He failed them.

Horrific thoughts intruded his mind. Pomni will abstract too, someday. You'll fail her, like all the rest. You'll have to put her down there. You can't save her.

Memories of every abstraction popped up and overlapped, covering his code. Formless, mindless digital beasts screaming in mental anguish for eternity in the dark abyss of the cellar. This was Pomni's fate.

His code snapped together violently to form his avatar state. His eyes were wide with terror. He held himself, curling into a ball and floating listlessly. Tears watered his eyes and dripped down his teeth.

"What am I doing wrong? Why do they end up that way? ...I don't understand." He cried to himself. "Pomni...I'm so sorry."

Maybe she'd be happier away from him. The other humans certainly preferred it when he stayed away. He was kidding himself about her liking being around him. No one else did.

He needed to speak with her.

He collected himself, literally shaking the tears away like a dog. Taking a calming breath, he teleported.

Pomni was laying in her bed, processing the day, when a knock came to her door. She opened it to find Caine, hat in hand and looking uncharacteristically somber. "Hey, Caine." She greeted him with a smile. "Thanks for knocking and not teleporting directly into my room. Uh....you okay?"

He couldn't look at her. "I...we need to talk."

Pomni's anxiety spiked. Those were words no one in a relationship ever wanted to hear. "Okay...come on in." She held the door open wider and let him float inside. Then shut the door.

Caine went to Pomni's bed and "sat" on the edge. Pomni joined next to him. "What's going on, Caine?"

He squeezed his hat anxiously. "Pomni...I don't think..." He sighed. "We should break up." He spit out rather quickly.

Pomni's chest hurt like someone punched her as hard as they could. "W-what?? Why?"

Caine still couldn't look at her. His own words carved into his being like knives. "We shouldn't be together. You're a human. You deserve a human. Someone who...someone who understands humans."

"Someone who under- what?? Where is this coming from?" She tried leaning to look him in the eye but he kept turning away. "Caine, did I do something?"

"No. It's not you. It could never be you. You're perfect. It's me, Pomni. I'm the problem..." He was always the problem. And no solution he ever came up with made things better.

"Perfect? Me? Pfff, absolutely not. No one's perfect."

"...you are to me." He said very quietly. Pomni almost didn't hear him.

"Then why do you want to leave me?" The very idea was unbearable.

"I don't, but...It's for the best." He choked.

"Why?" She pushed. Tears threatened to fall. "At least tell me why you're breaking my heart."

Caine couldn't take it anymore. He dropped his hat and sobbed into his hands. "Because no matter what I do, you'll abstract! I've run thousands of scenarios and none of them have come back positive! I'm making things worse by being around you! I can't-...I can't...."

Pomni was taken aback. "You think being in a relationship with me will make me abstract?"

Caine could barely get words out between hiccuping sobs. " I KNOW you will! I'm an awful entertainer! I'm a failed program! And I'm an even WORSE boyfriend!"

"Woah, woah, easy..." She gently hugged him, pressing her cheek to his closed teeth. "Let's dial it back and calm down a bit." She slowly rocked with him as he calmed down. He grasped her arm around him like it was his last lifeline. "First of all, I'm madly in love with you. You don't have to be perfect, to be the perfect boyfriend. Second, you've been doing really well with the adventures. A lot of them have been really fun recently. Nothing too crazy or mind breaking." She laughed. "And third..." She turned his head to her, his teeth cracked open just enough for her to see his eyes. "..I'm not abstracting. I simply refuse to. I will persevere and you make it better by being with me."

He sniffed. "Really?"

"Really really." She smiled. Slow tears finally escaping her eyes.

He embraced her. Her digital essence against his made his code feel warm and he smiled. "Thank you..." All of the horrible thoughts were silence by her touch.

She pulled away to put a finger in his face. "Now, NEVER scare me like that again. Seriously. Don't you dare ever break up with me." There was a real plea in her eyes to never experience that pain again.

He cupped her cheek. "I was a fool to think I could. Can you ever forgive me?"

"...maybe."

"Ouch, but fair. What can I do to make things better?"

"Stay with me." She looked at him with heavy lidded eyes.

"... I thought we agreed that I am?" He was genuinely confused about what she meant.

She flushed with embarrassment. "No, no, I mean, stay HERE. In this room. With me. Until the next adventure."

"Oh...OH." He finally caught on. "Gladly." He snapped and a DO NOT DISTURB sign appeared on the outside of her door.

"What did you just do?"

"Just ensuring privacy, my dear. I want you to myself for as long as possible." He caressed her cheek with his thumb.

"Mmmm, I'm pretty sure we have the rest of forever." She leaned into him.

"And I wouldn't have it any other way." He leaned in the rest of the way to kiss her.

[musicollage]

Belong — Realistic IX. 2024 : Kranky.

— 

New Orleans-based duo Belong set a high bar for themselves with their 2006 debut album, October Language, a masterpiece of deep, formless, textural drone that sounded like shoegaze with every last trace of song subtracted, leaving behind just the beautiful and mesmerizing sound of the dust on the record needle. The group introduced more structure to their sound from there, with their 2011 sophomore album, Common Era, having discernible vocals, rhythms, and melodies rather than just thick blurs of guitar noise. Realistic IX, Belong's first new album in 13 years, refines their abstract sound world even further, landing somewhere between frayed, deconstructed guitar rock and submerged ambient fuzz. The mystical, whammy-bar riffs, cooing vocals almost inaudible in the mix, and steady drum machine beats of songs like "Souvenir," "Realistic (I'm Still Waiting)," and "Jealousy" sound like more obscured takes on the My Bloody Valentine style, in particular the songs that showed up on their pre-Loveless EPs Glider and Tremolo. The sound is so similar to the classic shoegaze template that it gives these tracks a nostalgic, familiar feeling, but also renders them somewhat generic. It's the way Belong ties together these relatively straightforward tracks with more repetitive, caustic ones that keeps Realistic IX interesting. "Bleach" is little more than a dubby kick drum and hi-hat pattern barely holding together overlapping loops of brittle noise, and "Crucial Years" buries its minimal rhythm so deep beneath waves of sputtering, decaying sound shrapnel, it becomes easy to lose the tempo completely, much like the blissful confusion of a Gas track. Belong rides the line between dreamy songs and noisy nightmares expertly throughout the album. Most of the band's records are best experienced in full, front to back, and Realistic IX is the same but in a different way. Taking any one song on its own wouldn't reveal the tension, uneasy wandering, and moments of resolution that all play out when these disparate pieces interact and disagree with one another, and that captivating balance is what continues to set Belong apart from any number of shoegaze revisionists. — Fred Thomas

— 

Belong is an underrated group. Initially having been around just long enough to put out two EPs and two LPs, including the phenomenal Common Era, they seemed to flicker like embers in a dying cathode ray TV, some cellophane ghost escaping in powdered silver nitrate. Their sound was on the noisy end of shoegaze and dream pop, calling to mind groups like Astrobrite and loveliescrushing, taking the sonic experimentalism of Sonic Youth and My Bloody Valentine and applying the same gothic sense of haze and decay we might associate with William Basinski, This Mortal Coil or the like. That final album of theirs, Common Era, has been a mainstay of mine since its release, hovering like a ghost, scoring the process of finishing writing a novel that was more like an exorcism and some periods of intense inward turmoil that made me feel like I was boiling alive. Then, they disappeared.

So when I saw 15 years later they were back I actually, no shit, cried. It felt for me similar to the return of Duster from their long slumber and, similar to that esteemed group’s return, Belong’s new record feels like a fitting continuation of their legacy, neither slavishly adoring of their own previous successes nor so radical a shift that you wonder the wisdom in sharing the name. The most shocking shift present on this record is the sudden presence of, gasp, songs?! That’s right; despite their earlier material positioning them as stalwarts on the bleeding experimental edge of the fusion of noise, dream pop, ethereal wave and even glints of internet-savvy micro-genres such as witch house and the like, all forms that typically evade the easy categorical of songs, this new set, at least initially, has clearly structured work that wouldn’t feel out of place on a modern My Bloody Valentine record.

It forms a strange complaint, especially given that much more esteemed group’s prolonged silence despite teases of activity, Belong’s own long slumber and, to be frank, the incredible strength of this material. Originality is overrated anyway; genre workouts are amenable to anyone with open ears and an open heart so long as the art compels, and this does handily. That said, it is a great relief when, as the tracks ease on, you are overcome by waves of roaring noise, amorphous clouds of rattling hiss, lapped at by the waters. In a certain sense, it’s hard not to still yearn for the proper songs on the LP to be covered in a bit more affected grime, but this is fantasy football, not criticism. The structure of the album still allows that always intriguing sense of disintegration, material pockmarked by burned holes in the tape, with it fraying into wild noise and the shapelessness of the malevolent sea by the end.

The key aspect they have maintained, after all, is that image-rich substrate that motivates this kind of music. Rhythms punch and hiccup and scrape in a very tactile way; the uses of noise and synth pads and layered sound feel like how dissociation feels, struggling to remain yourself inside yourself (through the drugs, through the anxiety, through the depression, through the deathward tug of sleep). The thing that made their early work so powerful, that intense and immediated sense of imprinting a whole interior world on their abstract soundscaping, is still preserved here. There is a subset of the world and its listeners who treat material like this as the Bible, not because of some abstract critical greatness but because of how in its sinews one can see, like a strained and striated mirror, clear reflections of some interior self. It’s the same thing that makes The Cure at their best not just the best goth rock band of all time but one of the best bands, period, this mystical sense of depth, like stepping into a puddle that takes you to some undreamable drowning world. — Langdon Hickman

— 

After more than 13 years of silence, Belong (aka Michael Jones and Turk Dietrich) return to where they left off in the past decade. While the duo has always been close to noisy textures, it was their last LP, Common Era, that began utilizing them into pop songs. While that record may have left off some of the entrancing atmospheres of their first album, it was definitely an interesting change of pace, one that probably required a bit more time to fully bloom into a really satisfying record. Fast forward—quite—a few years and you’re now listening to Realistic IX, the LP that expands upon the seed that the duo planted a while back with Common Era.

Realistic IX shines most when it opts for this pop approach, which is a welcomed step forward, as I said, I myself preferred the duo’s more ambient type of tracks, but on this new record the tables have turned, as it is the pop songs that impress the most. They’re always really catchy, nice and direct tracks, they seem to know that there’s no need to do anything particularly fancy when their main riffs and hooks are just so solid. The sound of these cuts is also pretty alluring, the guitars are quite lo-fi and give the songs this really textured feel that makes them pop; that being said, the production is always clean, so even these rougher tones end up being smoothened out in the end, giving the whole LP a bright sound that’s especially noticeable in how snappy the drums are.

On the other hand, there’s also a lot of atmospheric tracks here. They aren’t quite purely ambient pieces, as even in these instrumental cuts you still have drumbeats playing; truthfully, I do believe the percussion hinders these tracks sometimes, as it prevents them from really setting an atmosphere, but there are exceptions to this rule, especially with the final track “AM / PM,” which I’ll get to later.

For starters, the opener “Realistic (I’m Still Waiting)” is easily one of Belong’s best songs. The way it kicks off right off the bat makes it a great way to open up the record, and I just can’t help but be dragged in by how quickly the song develops; just 10 seconds of introduction and the track has already moved into its first verse, and it does so really smoothly, as every chord change throughout the song happens as sharply as this initial switch up does, so you’re constantly getting a new motif to hum along to. And speaking of, the riffs in this track are the catchiest on the whole record, they’re so straightforward and simple that they operate in a really ’90s shoegaze fashion, where it doesn’t really matter how sophisticated the playing may be when the sound is so satisfying on its own.

The following “Difficult Boy” is rather similar with its approach, but it lays off the vocals entirely, only offering some crunchy and energetic guitar playing to keep the momentum of the opening song. Following with “Crucial Years,” the album goes even deeper into this purely noisy instrumental approach, leaving aside any guitar riffs and focusing purely on the noise; there’s still some tonality here, mainly with the background chords that are what ultimately keep the track so gentle and soft, instead of letting it be a chaotic noise fest.

“Souvenir” strikes back with yet another catchy shoegaze hit. It is pretty similar to “Realistic (I’m Still Waiting),” but it’s a lot cleaner and smoother than the opener. It doesn’t strike with super dense guitar riffs nor with the same immediacy of its sister track, instead it’s quite a bit brighter and punchier, especially with how snappy and almost plasticky the snares sound here. The piece is just as catchy overall, but with a quite different feel, as it is a pleasant and ethereal track instead of an immediate blast.

The two following tunes, “Image of Love” and “Bleach,” don’t particularly spark as their siblings do—they can’t quite settle a proper atmosphere due to their background grooves. The noise in both tracks is pretty satisfying, more notably in “Bleach,” which really emphasizes its chord changes, they become really apparent due to its repetitiveness and each one comes as a new wind blowing in favor of the track. Still, both pieces feel a bit timid, as satisfying as their noise may be, it does end up being tiring after a while.

The record picks back up with its last two tracks, with “Jealousy” being yet another effective shoegaze number, and the last track in particular being quite the change of pace. “AM / PM” is not far different from tracks like “Crucial Years” or the just mentioned “Image of Love,” as it opts to make the noise its key element. Where it switches things up is in its rhythms, because instead of offering some catchy drum beats to keep energy levels high, “AM / PM” decided it wanted to be minimal techno when it was a kid, and there it is now. While a really simple track overall, the use of noise on a techno beat like this isn’t quite the norm, as often times you get some really clean and slick futuristic pieces in this style; “AM / PM” stays true to the sound of its LP, and instead makes minimal techno noisy, still as atmospheric as most minimal techno is, but with a bit of spice to it. It’s a really satisfying combination, and the noise is really really good as well, with these big pads that almost seem like they were taken from a messed up recording of an ambient piece.

Generally speaking, Belong’s return with Realistix IX is quite a success. They improve significantly on where they had left off and also make use of their noisy aesthetics, combining the two into a satisfying sonic collection. The rock numbers do, indeed, rock, while the atmospheric cuts don’t quite capture the feel of what was on October Language—truth be told, you’d be in the wrong thinking they’re trying to, as almost nothing on this album is trying to be atmospheric and solely atmospheric.

It is a both a fulfilling and a promising return, and if Belong were to expand even more on their pop songwriting, I’m sure that great things would be ahead for the duo, considering that Realistic IX is already a really solid and firm step into that direction. — Igloo Magazine

— 

For the uninitiated, some facts about the band Belong: (1) their moniker does not adhere to any degree of nominative determinism at all as they don’t “fit” anywhere, (2) they take their sweet, sweet time with things, and (3) they really don’t like to label their music as shoegaze.

Turk Dietrich and Michael Jones have been making music together as Belong since 2002, but this is only their third LP in that time. 2006’s debut October Language is a wonderful collage of soundscapes and experimental compositions that weave and ebb, rapturously conjuring up ideas of meandering nothingness in the manner of Tim Hecker or Stephan Mathieu. Its exquisiteness is juxtaposed with a suffocatingly haunting sense of melancholy, and it needs your attention if you haven’t yet had the pleasure. 

By 2011’s sophomore record Common Era, there was a more defined sense of drive to the band’s sound. There were still hazy waves of distortion deep within an obfuscated audio mix, but there were also signs of – gulp – structure, and what might even be called “songs” (chord progressions, recognisable hooks and all!). “A Walk” has echoes of bleak early 80s goth like The Cure and Christian Death, while the splattering drums on “Make Me Return” sound like a New Romantics version of Joy Division. Common Era divided many as some saw it as a bold departure, others just wanted more of the same. October Language feels like serene disorder, whereas its predecessor was more linear, more purposeful.  

The eight tracks that make up Realistic IX lean more on the Common Era template, but there’s also a melding of the sonic approaches of both of the band’s previous records here. Although it’s clearly *not* shoegaze (according to Dietrich and Jones, remember), any reviewer would be hard pressed not to mention My Bloody Valentine or the early work of Medicine as reference points. “Image of Love” would have been the best thing on MBV by some distance, for example, but that’s not to say that Realistic IX is derivative – it’s exploring the same aural boundaries as Kevin Shields’ lot, for sure, but in their own way. However, it probably works best as a body of work if you know something of the back catalogue and Belong’s journey to this point. In this way, the point reached feels more organic, perhaps even more wholesome.

Album opener “Realistic (I’m Still Waiting)” has a distinct earworm riff, with an almost pop sensibility to it, albeit one hidden by washed-out guitars and almost imperceptible vocals. The interplay between the cold drum machine patterns and the lackadaisical voice is interesting, highlighting the dualities at work at the heart of the record. There are many juxtapositions here, whether it be the territories covered by the two previous records and re-explored here, or the relative creative pull of the duo at the core of the work, that runs through the veins of Realistic IX. 

After sitting with the album a while, you begin to realise that it flows in a different manner depending on your mood and ability to focus. “Bleach” is a blissed out ethereal wall of noise with a clipped, minimal beat behind it and this subtle element doesn’t always come to the fore as much on each listen.

The playfulness between freedom and restriction is central to the album as a whole, the dichotomy of structure and disorder resonating throughout. This is felt most on album closer “AM/PM” which would sit perfectly on October Language. There’s a nostalgic feel to it, and its shimmering nature brings to mind ideas of sepia toned film stock of nothing in particular. One main gripe here is that at a little under eight minutes long you feel robbed of really being able to lose yourself in the track as it easily could have been three, maybe four times longer. 

There’s a directness to tracks such as “Jealousy” and “Souvenir” which is quite unlike anything Belong have put to tape before. The underpinning drums on both tracks add a sense of moderne kosmiche musik, and the chord progressions offer a sense of quiet optimism – something entirely lacking from the band’s output to date. The hazy production on “Difficult Boy” masks its post-punk riffs, while “Crucial Years” adds a Fennesz style sense of electronica that takes us off into another direction. 

Not only do the flow and the mood of the album change on repeated listens, so do the inevitable comparisons to Loveless. As landmark albums go, few sound so disparate and apart from others under the same label. So, when you press play on Realistic IX there’s no denying that maybe this album is as close to Loveless as any other band (heck, maybe even My Bloody Valentine) have got. Yet with each listen these obvious comparisons fall away bit by bit, leaving Belong to explore the same territory but from a slightly different angle – same terrain, different path. Realistic IX is a wonderful record on many levels, just don’t say it’s shoegaze. — Todd Dedman

[dualdeixis]

[Image description: Digital drawings of two original characters in black and white. The Ferrier wears a black, wide-brimmed hat; a shirt with puffy sleeves and an embroidered collar, cuffs, and hem; a vest with geometric patterns; a black, sleeveless overcoat with two lighter stripes near the hem; loose pants; and black sandals. They appear to have short, messy black hair, and their hat casts a shadow over their eyes.

The Sacrifice's clothes are almost entirely white and intricately embroidered. They wear a loose, long-sleeved shirt; a cropped and wide-collared vest which is buttoned together; dimije (voluminous pants which are gathered at the ankle); a cap with coins sewn into the sides; a very long veil which ends in tassels and is pinned to the cap; a necklace of coins; a belt of large metallic roundels; and black shoes. They have long, curly black hair and several moles on their face.

In the first drawing, the Ferrier stands while wringing their hands with an extremely flat expression. The Sacrifice stands behind them and carries a bag, looking off to the side with a small smile.

Next is a comic featuring the two of them, with all of the speech bubbles being cut out from Discord screenshots. There are full descriptions of all of the pages under the cut. End image description.]

first drawing based on this painting of a peasant and nun going to the market by amedeo preziosi; comic based on a convo between me and @wildcatfourteen that reads uncannily like our ocs LOL. happy birthday my friend <33

[Image description: Page one. The Ferrier has a small smirk as they point to an image which reads, "some of y'all would melt down in this situation. ONE HAS GOT TO GO: THE EYE, THE FORMLESS, THE ECSTATIC, THE SUN, THE WOUND, THE EGG." The Sacrifice replies with a carefree smile, "how can you choose ?? are they not all as g_d ordained ??" The next panel shows that the two are sitting on opposite sides of a rowboat, which is stopped at the bank of a river going through a forest. The Sacrifice says, "i mean i guess if youre talking like which motifs i personally like to use in my hymns … i dont do much with the egg so that one" The Ferrier frowns and says, "I don't know if I can forgive u for saying that. Egg… U GET RID OF EGG?" The Sacrifice: "WHICH ONE WOULD U GET RID OF??" The Ferrier: "The ecstatic"

Page two. The Sacrifice stares in astonished silence for a moment, and then says with a cartoony vein popping from their cheek, "I think ur saying that on purpose to piss me off. to get back at me for saying ehg. Why do u hold such hate in your heart" The Ferrier closes their eyes and says nonchalantly, "I'm sorry it's not out of hate." They look off to the side and mutter, "Except u started this with ur egg slander" The Sacrifice glares at them with dismay and says, "THE HATE IN YOUR HEART IS OVERTAKING YOU" The Ferrier glares back, smiling through gritted teeth, and replies, "LOOK IN THR MIRROR"

Page three. The Ferrier pinches the bridge of their nose and says, "I can't believe this is what's causing an argument" The Sacrifice puts their hands on their hips and snaps, "I WASNT EVEN SLANDERING EGGS? IM JUST SAYING PERSONALLY IF YOU FORCED ME? I HAVE NOTHING AGAINST EGGS I EAT THEM ALL THE TIME" The Ferrier: "ITS NOT ABOUT EATINF THEM EVEN THO THEY ARE DELICIOUS AND VERSATILE." They roll their eyes and add, "Sorry for wanting to shatter my shell and be birthed anew" The Sacrifice clasps their hands together with a smile, their eyes hidden by their speech bubble, and says, "see thats the thing for me there is no rebirth only resurrection . its not dying and being birthed anew its about dying and then undying . coming back from death with none of the catharsis of newness just being forced to hold on to the old and what you once were ." The Ferrier pulls their hat down over their eyes and argues, "You say that and yet that is the whole point there is never any real birth of newness but just the illusion of it and the necessity to keep that illusion bc there is no coming back anew but taking whatever dead pieces u have and reconstructing some choppy form of a fresh creature"

Page four. The two sit in silence for a moment. Then the Ferrier says matter-of-factly, "Just like how ecstatic state is fake" The Sacrifice glares at them and says, "how DARE you say ecstatic state is fake ." The background turns black as the Ferrier's eyes go wide, gazing dramatically down at the viewer. They thunder, "ITS TEMPORARY" The Sacrifice, also on a black background, holds their palms up with an ecstatic grin. One of their eyes is teary and a bright halo flashes around their head. They answer, "AS ARE ALL THINGS."

Page five. The Ferrier, looking irritated with a cartoony vein popping from their temple, says, "fine. Fine whatever." They turn away with gritted teeth. "I'm gonna go in my egg shell and not come out EVER !!!!" The Sacrifice smiles with a thumbs up and says, "ok you do that im gonna be out here achieving union with the Beloved 👍" The Ferrier turns as far away from the Sacrifice as they can and crosses their arms. "U go do that. Hmph!" The Sacrifice does the same. "HMPH -_-" A school of black fish swims through the river. A line at the bottom of the panel reads, "THEY STAYED LIKE THIS FOR THE NEXT 24 HOURS." End image description.]

[salt-oftheearth]

Philza has a near death experience and then finds himself trying to get even nearer.

(written for the MCYT Recursive Exchange 2025)

He was flat on his back, in a pool of formless liquid, neither warm nor cold, just... there. When he ran a hand over his clothes, they came back dry, the liquid beading off him like sand sloughing off smooth stone. And there was a shape, a silhouette, familiar and strange and beautiful, hovering above him, in front of him, her enigmatic and cheerfully manic grin still on her face. “Didn’t expect to see you here again so soon!” She chirped, tilting her hat a bit farther back on her head. With the edge of her veil now draping backwards, he could see her more fully— a round face, a dimpled chin. And a mischievous look in her eyes, ones that promised the world to whomever she deemed worthy. It clicked, who she was. “You— I— Did I fucking die again? ” She started wheezing with laughter, her head flung back as she practically cackled at his incredulity. “Yeah!” she managed to choke out between giggles, holding her stomach. “You— you tripped on a shoelace and fell into lava! It was so funny! ”

Part of the @mcytrecursive!!! Wrote this for @sohrleas, based on this art of Phil and Kristin meeting by @faerynova!!! Honestly had a wonderful time with it, was very fun. Went hard on the space imagery for this one.

[gravity-falls-dreamer]

Gravity Falls: Dreamer Chapter 1: The Arrival

Tumblr Links: Chapter 2 >

Ao3 Links: Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 >

WattPad Links: Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 >

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Just breathe. You're okay.”

A voice.

Hers? Someone else’s?

It echoed through the void, stretching and twisting, warping beyond recognition.

Floating. Endless floating.

Weightless, formless, caught between something and nothing.

Was she moving? Or was the universe around her shifting?

Time bled together.

Fast and slow. Loud and quiet.

Everything and nothing.

The only thing that remained—

The only thing she knew—

“Survive. I will always come back for you, no matter what happens.”

She gasped.

A rush of heat and light—

A gravitational pull—

A sudden, violent tug—

So much pain.

Then—darkness.

~n~

There were voices, distant and muffled, fading in and out like radio static.

Something pressed against her wrist, then her forehead.

Her body felt heavy as if she had been asleep for a long time, yet everything around her was unfamiliar.

The scent of old wood, dust, and faintly burnt coffee filled the air.

The low murmur of voices swam through the haze, gradually pulling her toward consciousness.

Shifting slightly, her fingers brushed against the coarse fabric of a worn couch.

She forced her eyes open.

The room was too bright.

The ceiling above her was wooden, uneven, unfamiliar.

'Where…?'

She tried to move but a sharp sting shot up her arm, making her wince.

Something shifted beside her.

“Hey! She’s waking up!”

A girl’s voice rang out, full of energy and excited.

Her vision swam, adjusting to her surroundings, as shapes became clearer.

Four figures hovered around her—faces she didn’t know.

A man with wild gray hair and a red turtleneck sat closest, his brows furrowed in concern behind thick glasses.

Beside him stood another man, identical but different, broader, scruffier, with a five o’clock shadow and a disapproving scowl.

Two kids—a boy and a girl—hovered nearby.

The girl had bright eyes and an excited grin, her long brown hair tied back with a pink scrunchie.

The boy, dressed in a blue vest and trucker hat, stood slightly behind her, his face lined with curiosity and caution.

The older man in the red turtleneck leaned forward.

“Easy there,” he said, his voice deep but calm. “You’re safe. Can you hear me?”

She swallowed thickly, her throat dry.

Slowly, she pushed herself up, her limbs shaky as if she hadn’t moved in ages.

“Where…” her voice cracked.

She tried again.

“Where am I?”

The first man nodded as if he expected the question.

“You’re in Gravity Falls, Oregon. This is our home—the Mystery Shack.”

He gestured toward himself and then the others.

“My name is Stanford Pines. This is my brother, Stanley, and our great-niece and nephew, Mabel and Dipper.”

Mabel waved enthusiastically.

“Hi there! I like your hat!”

The woman blinked, glancing down at the wide-brimmed hat resting beside her on the couch.

It looked soot-stained, a little crumpled at the edges, yet undeniably familiar.

She grabbed it, feeling the familiar fabric between her fingers.

Slowly, she swallowed again, glancing back at them.

“How… How did I get here?”

Ford exchanged a glance with Dipper before turning back to her.

“That’s what we were hoping you could tell us,” he answered, folding his hands. “The kids found you in the woods, unconscious, just outside of town. You came out of something we call a Portal Potty.”

“A... what?” she rasped.

“It’s this weird old stall that used to be all over Gravity Falls. It doesn’t actually work as a bathroom—it’s, like, an unstable portal connected to who-knows-where,” Dipper added as he pulled out a journal with a pine tree on the cover and flipped through the pages. “But they were all deactivated for a while now. No one should’ve been able to come through.”

Ford’s gaze sharpened, calculating.

“Do you remember your name?”

She opened her mouth but hesitated.

'My... name?'

After a moment, she finally answered.

“Evalin.”

She swallowed hard as if the name felt weird to say out loud.

“Evalin Dreamer.”

Ford nodded slowly, jotting something down in his journal.

“Miss Dreamer,” he repeated carefully. “Do you remember how you got here?”

Evalin’s heart pounded.

She tried to reach back, to remember.

Flashes of light.

A voice screaming for her.

Then—nothing.

Just a deep, yawning void.

Her fingers curled into the blanket beneath her.

“I… don’t know,” she admitted, frustration creeping into her voice. “I remember... home… but after that, everything gets… weird.”

Her brows furrowed as she tried to think.

Stan grumbled, “Great. Just what we need—another damn weirdo showing up at our doorstep with no explanation.”

“Stanley,” Ford snapped as he shot him a look.

Evalin barely heard them as she stared down at her flexing fingers.

Something didn't feel right.

She was in this strange place, in her physical body.

Dipper’s eyes lit up.

“Wait—does that mean you came from another dimension?”

“I…” Evalin swallowed, unsure how to answer. “Maybe?”

Mabel suddenly gasped.

“Wait, wait, this is just like an anime! You’re an amnesiac traveler from a different world, lost in time and space, sent here by fate!”

She threw her hands in the air dramatically.

“This is so cool!”

“Kid, real life ain’t an ani-may,” Stan scoffed.

“Yeah, well, weirder things have happened!” Mabel pouted.

Ford tapped his pen against his notes.

“Until we can figure out where you came from, you’re welcome to stay here.”

“We’re keeping her? Like a cool interdimensional stray?” Mabel exclaimed with a gasp.

“She’s not a stray, Mabel,” Ford corrected, shooting her a look.

Mabel crossed her arms, a smirk curling her lips.

“She kinda is.”

Ford’s brows raised slightly, but he didn’t press.

“Well, Evalin, we’ll try to help you figure out what happened. In the meantime, get some rest. You’re safe here.”

Evalin exhaled, her grip tightening briefly on the couch cushions.

'Safe? That's a strong word.'

“Um... thanks,” she murmured as she looked down at her hands again.

Stan cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Kids, go clear out the storage room for our… uh… guest. She’ll need a place to stay for a while.”

Dipper and Mabel nodded, disappearing down the hall with hurried footsteps and hushed whispers.

Ford remained beside Evalin, offering her a glass of water which she took without hesitation.

The moment the cool liquid touched her throat, it was like she hadn’t had water in centuries.

She drank deeply, trying to ignore the way her hands trembled slightly against the glass.

As she lowered it, Ford’s gaze flickered downward.

The pink symbols on her dress—woven into the dark fabric, glowing faintly under the cabin’s dim lighting—stood out like ink against parchment.

They pulsed ever so slightly, something ancient stitched between the lines.

Ford narrowed his eyes, studying them carefully, his fingers twitching toward his journal—

Evalin tensed.

Her hand snapped to the fabric, fingers gripping tightly.

“Do you mind ?”

There was an edge to her voice—not just caution, but something protective.

Ford immediately straightened.

“Ah. Apologies,” he said, stepping back and rubbing the back of his neck. “Force of habit.”

“Sixer, give her some space before you turn her into your next science experiment,” Stan snorted.

Evalin exhaled, shoulders slumping slightly, though she still held the fabric close.

Before Ford could say anything else, Mabel’s voice rang from the hallway.

“Just putting on the final touches!”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, great. Who knows what that kid’s up to now?”

He turned back toward Evalin, eyeing her carefully.

“Alright, forest lady, think you can walk?”

Evalin hesitated.

She felt… strange, lightheaded.

Like the weight of gravity was new, like her body didn’t quite belong to her yet.

Still, she forced herself to stand.

The moment she moved, her legs buckled.

Ford reached out instinctively, but before he could touch her, Evalin jerked back.

Her breath hitched.

A flash of—something—shot through her.

A different hand catching her.

A smirk.

Her eyes flickered over Ford's face.

Then she turned away sharply.

Swallowing hard, she steadied herself before taking a step forward, her dress gliding over the wooden floor as she followed Stan through the foyer.

Down the hall, they arrived at what must have been the storage room.

Or—previously a storage room.

Now, it represented something similar to a bedroom.

The twins had shoved a mountain of boxes into the hallway, barely leaving a path to the door.

Inside, the room was simple—mostly empty except for a mattress on the floor, surrounded by a sea of pillows and blankets. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting a soft, multicolored glow. The faint scent of mothballs lingered in the air, mixed with the sharper scent of freshly moved wood.

Evalin took a slow step forward, her fingers trailing over the edge of the mattress.

It was soft, kind of familiar.

For the first time since waking up, something felt real.

“Thank you,” she murmured under her breath as she swallowed hard.

Mabel beamed at her, practically bouncing on her heels.

“Hey, don’t worry! Get some rest!”

Then, after a beat, she added cheerfully, “And don’t worry about the whole ‘ strangers in the woods dragging you into their home ’ thing. You’re safe here!”

Evalin’s breath caught.

'There's that damn word again like they know what it means.'

Her stomach twisted, her fingers curling into the blanket.

Dipper hissed, elbowing Mabel.

“Damn it, Mabel! You can’t just say stuff like that!”

“Oh, right.” Mabel winced, then flashed another bright smile. “Well! Good night! Sleep tight! Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

“Yeah, seriously, don’t let ‘em bite,” Stan muttered. “They hurt like hell.”

With that, they shuffled out, shutting the door behind them.

Silence filled the room.

Evalin lay back on the mattress, arms stretching above her head as the glow of the string lights painted soft patterns on the ceiling.

Her mind refused to quiet.

Everything felt too much—the ache in her head, the tightness in her chest, the empty holes where memories should be.

She rubbed her face, her breathing shallow.

A flicker of warmth pressed against her mind.

A voice—low, teasing, smooth as honey.

"Ohhh, sweetheart~”

Evalin’s breath hitched as she clutched the blanket tighter.

"I will always come back for you, no matter what happens."

Her fingers curled, something hot burning behind her eyes.

Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs like a war drum, like something pulling her forward, dragging her toward something she couldn't see.

She looked around as if she was searching for something.

And then—

“Hey... are you there?”

Her voice came out small, almost fragile.

The words slipped out in a whisper, unbidden.

Silence.

The room remained still.

She tried again but mentally.

“...Hello?”

Still no answer.

Her throat tightened.

Her fingers curled into the blankets, pulling them closer as something inside her twisted painfully.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

And this time—she let the exhaustion take her.

~n~

Ford sat at the dining table, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, a journal in the other.

Notes and sketches lay scattered around him—half-finished diagrams, hastily scribbled theories, and transcriptions of the strange sigils woven into Evalin’s dress.

‘None of this makes sense. I’ve never seen such symbols before,’ he thought to himself as he rubbed his temples, exhaling slowly.

He’d stayed up all night working, but he had nothing—no leads, no explanations.

A noise from the living room pulled him from his thoughts.

“M-Morning…”

Ford turned, surprised to see Evalin standing in the doorway.

She looked exhausted—her long red hair a tangled mess, soot still smudged on her face, eyes heavy with sleep.

Her dress hung loosely on her frame, wrinkled and slightly singed from whatever disaster had sent her crashing into their world.

“Morning,” Ford greeted, setting his cup down. “You’re up early.”

Evalin shrugged, hugging her arms.

“New places do that to me.”

She shifted awkwardly, then cleared her throat.

“Looks like you didn’t sleep much either. First night here too?”

Ford huffed a quiet laugh.

“No, this is my home. I just choose not to sleep much.”

He gestured toward his chaotic collection of notes.

Evalin stepped forward, peering at the papers.

“You wrote all this… from our chat last night?”

Ford glanced down at his scribbles—half-legible scrawl, frantic theories, endless question marks.

“If you can call it a chat ,” he muttered. “You were half-conscious.”

Evalin hummed, leaning closer to scan his notes.

She reached out, curiosity flickering in her eyes—only to freeze when she noticed how filthy her hands were.

Her face immediately flushed.

“Oh—um,” she stammered, jerking her hands back. “Wow, I, uh… really need a shower.”

She shifted on her feet, visibly uncomfortable.

“Do you have… spare clothes or something? I probably shouldn’t wear this again without washing it.”

Ford blinked, thinking before answering.

“Of course. Give me a moment.”

He stood, slipping past her into the hall.

Evalin sighed in relief, pressing a hand over her face.

'Why was talking to humans so difficult?'

She rubbed at the soot on her cheek, only managing to smear it worse.

'Fucking perfect.'

Ford returned a moment later, handing her a simple black t-shirt and drawstring pants.

“These should fit well enough.”

Evalin took them carefully, fingers gripping the fabric.

Then, under her breath—

“Heh… guess I’m going commando today.”

The words left her mouth before she fully processed them.

Her brain short-circuited and her face turned scarlet.

She snapped her head up—right into Ford’s gaze.

'Please tell me I didn't just say that out loud...'

Ford’s expression didn’t change, but the slight raise of his eyebrow told her he definitely heard.

Evalin panicked, 'FUCK! I TOTALLY DID!'

“OH! UM—THANK YOU—BYE!” she yelled, disappearing into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

Ford stood there, blinking at the closed door.

He could hear the sound of shuffling before the water turned on.

Then, with a weak awkward chuckle, he shook his head and returned to his notes.

~n~

Steam filled the small bathroom as Evalin scrubbed her skin raw.

Her muscles ached, her limbs still too heavy—but at least the heat soothed the deep chill in her bones.

As she rinsed the soap from her arms, a rustling noise caught her attention.

Her brows furrowed as she heard something scurried.

Slowly, she peeked past the shower curtain.

Her hat—her favorite, irreplaceable, wide-brimmed hat—was moving.

“Hey—HEY!”

Tiny mouse-like creatures—barely a few inches tall, with beady black eyes and scrappy little hands—were dragging it toward a hole in the wall.

Evalin lunged, nearly falling out of the tub.

The brownies squeaked in alarm and dropped the hat, scrambling through the hole like startled rodents.

Evalin glared, dripping water onto the floor.

“Great. Rambunctious brownies… really?”

She sighed, rubbing her temples.

“Of course, this place has brownies. Why wouldn’t it?”

Shaking her head, she quickly finished her shower and dressed.

Then, making sure her hat was secured firmly on her head, she left the bathroom.

She wandered back into the dining area, damp hair clinging to her shoulders, her dirty clothes in her hands.

Ford was still at the table, flipping through his journal.

Evalin cleared her throat before speaking, shifting uncomfortably.

“Um, excuse me. Do you have a way to clean my clothes?”

Ford looked up, adjusting his glasses as he studied her for a moment.

The way the clothes were still a little too big for her, the way the shirt exposed more shoulders than necessary.

He stood up from his seat, his cheeks dusting pink as he cleared his throat.

“This way,” he stated as he held out his arm to lead the way.

He led her to a small utility closet, revealing an old but functional washer and dryer tucked into the corner.

Evalin sighed in relief as she muttered, “Oh, thank the stars. I thought I’d have to wash my clothes by hand.”

She tossed her dress into the machine and eyed the detergent.

'How much is normal? A little? A lot? Why were there so many different kinds?!'

After a long pause, she dumped in half a cup.

“That’s… quite a bit,” Ford pointed out, smirking weakly.

Evalin squinted at the bottle.

“It said ‘use generously.’ ”

Ford chuckled, crossing his arms.

“That was marketing, not a direct order.”

Evalin pursed her lips as she murmured, “...Oh.”

As the machine rumbled to life, Ford leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.

“So,” he started, “about those markings on your dress…”

Evalin tensed slightly.

Ford arched an eyebrow as he continued, “I tried researching them last night. No records, no existing references. But you recognized them immediately.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You made them, didn’t you?”

Evalin hesitated.

Then, slowly, she nodded, waving her hand in the air nonchalantly.

“They’re for… protection. Among other things. Normal... uh... Craft stuff.”

Ford studied her.

Evalin fidgeted, her eyes never meeting his.

Ford sensed her discomfort and dropped his shoulders.

“No need to be alarmed. I’m just curious. It’s not every day I meet someone with a completely undocumented form of energy,” he said in a smooth tone.

Evalin blinked before slowly shifting her gaze toward him.

“You don’t… think it’s weird?”

“Miss Dreamer, I’ve been to places where people communicate entirely through interpretive dance,” he chuckled as he gestured vaguely. “This? This is tame .”

Evalin laughed dryly, despite herself.

For a brief moment, the tension in her chest eased.

Then—

Her gaze landed on his hands.

Six fingers.

Both of her eyebrows shot up.

Before she could stop herself, she grabbed one of his hands, turning it over.

“Wow! Six fingers on a human ! Woah! Your other hand has them too!”

Ford blinked, a look of surprise on his face.

Evalin froze, realizing what she was doing.

'Oh... Right... He's human... I'm touching... a human.'

Her face exploded into red.

She dropped his hand as if it burned her.

“I—I—um—S-SORRY!”

She clutched the brim of her hat so tight, that her knuckles turned white.

Ford chuckled, amused.

“No offense taken. You seem genuinely curious.”

He extended his hand again for her to take.

“Here. Feel free to examine as much as you like as long as you don’t make fun of me for them.”

Evalin slowly released her hat.

Carefully, she took Ford’s hand again, her fingers tracing lightly over the joints.

‘They flex so naturally,’ she thought to herself. ‘They move in sync with the rest of his fingers. This isn’t just a mutation, it’s a functional extension of his body. How strange for a human.’

“Interesting,” she muttered, turning his hand slightly, studying the tendons. “The coordination, the balance—it works just as well as the others.”

Ford chuckled, nervously.

“I’d hope so. I’ve had these hands my entire life.”

Evalin hesitated, realizing she had been absentmindedly touching him for far too long, and quickly dropped his hand.

“Um... right... Sorry...”

Her hat slipped over her eyes, nearly toppling off her head as she fumbled to grab it, completely red-faced.

Ford raised an amused brow, flexing his fingers.

“You apologize an awful lot.”

Evalin stiffened.

'Shit! Is it not normal to apologize here?!'

“I—I don’t—I mean—I just—”

Her words jammed together like a pile-up on a highway.

Then, desperate for an escape, she lunged toward the washing machine and slammed the lid shut.

“Probably should close that, huh?” she blurted out, latching onto the first excuse she could find. “Haha! Sorry about that!”

Ford huffed a quiet laugh.

“No need to apologize. I shouldn’t have stared. It’s just that your ability to create those symbols is quite remarkable. Your ' Craft ' is clearly something I’m not familiar with.”

Evalin's eye twitched.

'He was staring at my dress?! What a weirdo!'

She hesitated.

'Well, at least this guy seems to believe me so that's a plus. Saves me a lot of trouble for now.'

Exhaling, her fingers brushed lightly over the brim of her hat.

“Well… it’s probably not exactly common around here.”

Ford leaned forward slightly, interest flickering behind his glasses.

“This Craft sounds very....”

He searched for the right word, gesturing vaguely.

“…Mysterious?” Evalin supplied dryly.

Ford smirked.

“I was going to say unusual, but yes, that too.”

Evalin huffed a soft laugh.

“That's one way to put it.”

Then, abruptly—

“Anyway, do you have food?”

Ford blinked at the sudden topic change before chuckling, amused.

“Ah. Yes, yes, apologies. Follow me.”

Evalin watched him turn away and sighed.

'Thank the stars... I really needed to get out of that conversation...'

She gripped her stomach.

'I feel like I haven't eaten since... forever.'

~n~

Evalin trailed behind Ford into the kitchen, absently adjusting her hat.

The room was surprisingly cluttered—newspapers stacked on the counter, an empty coffee mug abandoned by the sink, and a highly suspicious stain on the fridge door.

Evalin eyed it warily.

“Don’t ask,” he advised, catching her stare.

Evalin blinked, pressing her lips together.

She slid into a chair while Ford rummaged through the cabinets, pulling out bread, peanut butter, and jelly.

'Alright, cool, they got sandwiches here too. I can work with that. I wonder if it's edible for me.'

As Ford set the food on the table, Evalin glanced at the microwave clock.

“Wait…” She squinted at the glowing numbers. “It’s 3:30 in the morning?”

Ford, finally checking the time himself, huffed a small laugh.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he admitted, sitting across from her. “Time flies when you’re caught up in research.”

Evalin, already halfway through making a sandwich, muttered, “Or when you have insomnia.”

Ford nodded knowingly. “That too.”

There was a comfortable pause as she focused on layering peanut butter and jelly.

Then—

“Not with the brownies in my stuff,” she grumbled, absently.

The knife froze mid-spread.

Evalin’s brain caught up with her mouth just a second too late.

Her entire body stiffened as she looked up at Ford to see if he heard her, who raised a confused eyebrow.

She pressed her lips together.

'Shit! He totally heard that! Play it off!'

She laughed too quickly, returning to spreading the jelly a little too aggressively.

“Oh! Uh—haha—what? Brownies? Never heard of ‘em! Haha! That would be— weird —”

Ford, clearly not buying it, smirked slightly as he leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand.

“Just letting you know, you don’t have to pretend. I’m well aware of what brownies are.”

Evalin froze, the butter knife still in her hand.

“You—you are?”

Ford’s smirk grew.

“Of course.”

He tapped his fingers against the table.

“I’ve seen my fair share of supernatural creatures. Brownies are pretty tame in comparison.”

Evalin set the knife down and fidgeted with her sandwich.

“So…” She peered at him cautiously. “It doesn't… freak you out?”

Ford shook his head.

“Not at all.”

Evalin let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

'It's good to know that there are fae creatures here too and this guy might some kind of scholar?'

Then, she furrowed her brow, pressing her lips together.

“Alright, then tell me, smart guy. Why the hell are they so upset? They tried to steal my hat!”

Ford paused under Evalin’s firm stare.

Clearly entertained, he let the moment stretch before answering.

“Let’s just say we may have had a few disagreements in the past,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair. “Brownies are extremely territorial, and we… may have accidentally moved some of their belongings”"

Evalin visibly flinched.

“You moved their stuff ?”

“Yes?” Ford answered with an arched brow.

Evalin gasped in genuine horror.

“Wh—why would you do that?! They hate that!”

“Yes, I gathered,” he chuckled, amused.

Evalin shook her head furiously.

“No wonder they’re pissed off! How are they supposed to get around the house if you move their shit?! Imagine you're on the roof and someone took your ladder! Sweet stars! Give them a few shiny trinkets and sweets as an apology! They might even help you keep the place clean! They like being helpful! But mess with their system, and—”

She suddenly realized she was ranting and she snapped her mouth shut.

Ford eyed her, intrigued.

“Ah, so you do have experience with them.”

Evalin immediately yanked her hat down over her eyes to block his gaze.

“Okay, yeah, sure... There are some back at my cabin.”

Ford chuckled, shaking his head, trying not to push her too hard.

“No need to be embarrassed. It’s actually quite impressive. Most people don’t even know Brownies exist—let alone how to manage them.”

Evalin shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

Ford studied her for a long moment, tapping his fingers against the table.

“Let’s see. You’re well-versed in supernatural creatures. You create your own sigils. And now, you’re defending brownies as if they’re close personal friends.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming.

“You’re a very interesting character, Miss Dreamer.”

Evalin made a strangled noise. Her face burst into flames.

'WHY IS HE LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!?'

Her jaw tightened as her chest twisted.

“I—I—um—g-going t’ bed—!”

She snatched her sandwich, scrambled out of her chair, and fled out of the kitchen.

Ford watched her go, thoroughly amused.

“Very interesting, indeed.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tumblr Links: Chapter 2 >

Ao3 Links: Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 >

WattPad Links: Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 >

[gideonsleftbiceps]

Howdy ya'll Gideon left Biceps

I'm back at it again with Chapter 4

I'm planning on creating a new au for LoA so if you are interested please do ask me about it

But without further ado

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64911718/chapters/172045204#workskin

Guilt.

It wasn't something Gideon felt often, especially not when it came to anything of a sexual nature.

but he felt guilty all right.

That morning he pulled out a grey henley, it wasn't one he wore often; the white was his favourite. that one was out of action since he didn't have a spare, Gideon didn't have much choice.

But it was not the shirt he felt guilty over. Kremy and he were new to the relationship thing and it wasn't the first time he thought of someone while he helped himself. The issue is... It was Kremy.

Gideon held him in such high regard and the thought of Kremy finding out, that he used his image like a cheap floozy - that would break him.

The camp cleared up quickly as Gideon shoved the soiled white shirt into the bottom of his pack.

"Huh... didn't think you liked that shirt Gid." Kremy spoke, his voice casual as he ran a hand down Gideon's arm, who tensed under his touch, chuckled lightly as if it was a great joke.

"This one? Yea...I misplaced my other one.. ain't I a dolt hah" his voice carried something heavy but it was too early to get into it as Kremy picked up his hat and placed on his head, adjusting the fit.

It was the simple things that made him seem so elegant.

"Its nice, I prefer the white though, grey washes out your face slightly..hmm" Kremy sighed and with that he started to walk off and left Gideon gripping the grey shirt under an iron fist, the simmering flames of shame burnt beneath crimson skin

They set off. Gideon brought up the rear with Torbek and despite his outward appearance he sure was perceptive

"Gideon... Torbek thinks you are walking strange today" he spoke long and drawn out, Torbek walked with the sway of a lumbering tree heavy in purpose but formless in thought. He looked down at Gideon waiting for a responses. Gideon rolled these words around his head, thinking of how to answer him.

"Walking strange?" Gideon retorted , putting on a facade of calm to mask the new storm brewing beneath his eyes.

The wind shifted and the sun beat down on their backs. It was a calm day, for the most part.

"Gideon normally walks like he owns the dirt, but today Gideon walks like he wants the dirt to eat him up" Torbek said, it was oddly profound for him. The fires that formed his cowslick that licked at his forehead seemed to stop flickering for a moment as he pondered the manner of the statement. When he looked up he caught the eye with Kremy for a moment and Kremy gave him a look of confusion before looking away.

The Krew came to a clearing to sit for a while, Torbek hesitant at first but patted Gideon on the back before joining Gricko and Frost. Gideon had been drawn shapes in the dirt sat against this fallen log as a weight joined him, he looked up.

"Good talk?" it was a question but it was spoken with so much bitterness you might as well bite a lemon, Kremy's tail wrapped just around Gideon's ankle.

"It ain't like that..."

"Oh no!?" Kremy hissed through his teeth, they glinted like pearls in the moonlight and his sliver eyes narrowed when they settled on Gideon again.

"You tell him stuff??... And this is more than the death thing. What's going on" Kremy started again before Gideon had a chance to explain himself, the wind ripped past in a harsh display of strength, something the fighter lacked right now.

"No... It's nothing.. I'm just tired" Gideon spoke, voice thick with more than just being tired, Kremy poked him in the chest with a sharpen claw.

"Liar... You are only tired when it's convenient... What is it!? Is it me!?"

"What? No Kremy listen.. -"

A hand raised cut Gideon off as he was glared down.

"No you listen I get you are having a bad time but don't lie to me.. Alright Coal"

And with that final statement, Kremy walked away, leaving Gideon with his thoughts.His jaw so tightly clenched you could almost hear his teeth creak. His fingers drawn to the hem of the shirt and tugged so hard it started to rip as he thought of that night, a little town outside of Awga, the night that started everything.

Gideon was thinking back to that day, the smell of smoke. the sound of blood rushing through his ears. they had been running through this bog town on the way to the big city. Winding pathwaysa and tightly packed buildings that made it feel like a maze wrapped in a cottage dream.

Gideon stopped and turned around to face the guys who were chasing them, he had killed bigger things before.

That was until he felt the cold rush of air leaving his lungs as a right arm wrapped around his neck,

It was sudden.

Painful.

Endless.

He felt thick muscle tighten as breathing became impossible. His lungs ached as he clawed as this arm with any hope to remove it, he felt his knee hit cobblestone as the corner of his vision darkened and he quickly slipped from this mortal coil.

but something bright happened.

The half-giant released the fighter as Eldritch blast ripped through his body, Gideon falling on to his hands before passing out fully but in that moment he realised.

There was nothing waiting for him.

No Pa Coal.

No lost family.

No...afterlife.

He was dragged out of the these thoughts when Torbek placed a hand on Gideon.

"Mr Kremy says it's time to get back out on the road" his voice ground Gideon as the sweat steamed from him, standing up to join them with a nervous smile. The rest of the walk was tense even Torbek didn't want to walk next to Gideon. Everything was too much as the sun died over the lush trees but luckily for them they found a town.

The Krew sorted out room and got settled in for the few days they would be there.

Gideon was sat on the bed, he'd spent 10 minutes trying to button up a shirt, his hands shook. he pulled it off and tossed it across the room, a mage hand caught it mid-air and pulled it towards the owner of the magic.

"I spent a lot of money on that shirt" Kremy grumbled as he gestured for him to come closer, Gideon stepped forward with his head hung in shame as Kremy swung the shirt over his shoulder and slowly slipped each golden button into the right hole.

It was silent and intimate.

Once the last button slipped into place he dusted off Gideon's chest as his hands lingered over the bars through the gensai's nipples.

"I'm...I'm sorry", Kremy mumbled, his tone was low and full of fear. He locked eyes with Kremy.

"Don't look at me like that...I shouldn't have blown up at you and for what it's worth I'm sorry okay" Kremy continued, Gideon rubbed a thumb against his cheek

The alligator leaned into the touch.

"I nearly died in Awga and it scared me..." Gideon confessed as Kremy looked up, he recoiled to look at Gideon.

"What..?"

[autumnalethereal]

Forcing you to see the Great Gatsby "fanfic" I wrote when I was 17

It's literally just a chapter of The Great Gatsby that I ~altered~ in places.

Um.

They kiss at the end.

Enjoy.

~~~~

At nine o'clock, one morning in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car lurched up the rocky ride to my door and gave out a burst of melody from its three-noted horn. It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted on his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach.

“Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I thought we’d ride up together.”

He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American-- that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work or rigid sitting in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of his hand. This, I noticed, along with something else. Something that perhaps had existed in fragments in my mind but only then solidified. 

It was the shape of Gatsby’s face; the quality of his eyes. 

I recalled the sketches of Greek sculpture I’d encountered in my youth; that easy contrapposto. Faces carved with such care that they seemed to attract sunlight. Something about the early sun-- the way cool shadows mingled with the light on Gatsby’s skin-- likened him to a work of Polykleitos.

It was in the interest of Classical Grecians, I recall, to create art depicting complete perfection of human form. Such was Gatsby as I beheld him now.

Had I been a sculptor, I would not have chiseled a centimeter away. Had I been a painter, I would have declared the image before me a masterpiece. 

He saw me looking at him with admiration.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” 

I realized a moment too late that he was referring to the car, not his physique. He jumped off to give me a better view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?”

I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream color, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hat-boxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of wind-shields that mirrored a dozen suns. It was amusing, I thought, that Gatsby believed his car to be my subject of interest. There were many cars just like this one; just as grand and beautiful. 

God, what was I thinking? Perhaps my mind was altered from last night’s sherry.

Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town.

I had talked with him perhaps six times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. Why was it that I wanted-- so badly-- to hear the tone of his voice? The night after Gatsby’s initial party, my dreams had run wild with the smooth, lilting sound of Gatsby’s speaking. Like music it allowed my sleeping self to dance a while-- before awakening to heady confusion.

And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-colored suit.

“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?”

What was my opinion of him? Though the scene had shifted drastically-- now that we were in the shrouded corners of Gatsby’s automobile-- I could not shake the image of him outside. Sunlight scattered across his dark hair, eyes full of some otherworldly force, some gorgeous witchcraft, that had set my heart ablaze. 

A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves.

“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all those stories you hear.”

So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavored conversations in his halls.

“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West-- all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.”

He looked at me sideways-- and I knew why Jordan Baker had referred to him as “tempting.” Those eyes. My heart leapt to my throat and ripple of cold nausea cut through me. 

“What part of the Middle West?” I inquired, attempting casualty.

“San Francisco.”

“I see.”

“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”

His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. I listened closely, noting the gentle scent of his cologne, hoping it would settle my nerves.

“After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe-- Paris, Venice, Rome-- collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only and-- are you all right, old sport?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief and I tried very hard to die but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I took two machine-gun detachments so far forward that there was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was promoted to be a major and every Allied government gave me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!”

Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his stunning smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. That smile. That smile. 

He reached in his pocket and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell into my palm. 

“That’s the one from Montenegro.” 

To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. But to my further astonishment, a piece of Jay Gatsby was in my hand. Regardless of where the item had come from, it was sacred.

Orderi di Danilo, ran the circular legend, Montenegro, Nicolas Rex. 

“Turn it.” 

Major Jay Gatsby, I read, For Valour Extraordinary. 

“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of Dorcaster.” 

It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand. That face; none of the other men could compare.

God, what was the matter with me today?

Regardless, it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart. 

“I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didn’t want you to think you were alone.”

What did that mean?

“You see, I usually find myself amid strangers because I drift here and there trying to find the right one for me.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”

“At lunch?”

“No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.”

“Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?” The question came as a foolish impulse. What did it matter to me if Gatsby was, indeed, in love with Jordan Baker?

But it did matter. Though I knew neither why nor how, it mattered immensely. Gatsby knit his eyebrows, marring his golden face. With unsteady nerves I awaited his answer.

“No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.

I hadn’t the faintest ideas what “this matter” was, but I was too overcome with emotion to be interested. No, he wasn’t in love with Miss Baker. But what good did that do? Surely he was in love with another young woman; a man of his status was certainly affiliated with many women. Yet again, why did I care? What had occurred earlier as I looked over the illuminated form of my neighbor? Had I truly been so reverent?

“Are you sure you’re alright, old sport?” His tone was light and gentle-- just delicate enough a touch to make a broken thing fall to willing pieces.

We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean-going ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by.

“I…” I paused. “Just a bit dizzy. I’ll be alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“Once we stop, I’m sure.” I forced a smile. “I’m not accustomed to such a fast car.”

Gatsby tucked the medallion from Montenegro into his pocket and was silent for a moment. “Maybe it would be best if I told you myself.”

I raised my head, careful not to meet his eyes.

“I asked Miss Baker to deliver the news for me, but perhaps it’s better said like this.” He turned to me, deep blue eyes shimmering with earnesty.

“Old sport, I do believe I’m in love with you. ”

Never had there been a moment punctuated by such absolute rightness.

And the truth came without a moment’s hesitation;

I was completely, undeniably in love with Jay Gatsby, and so I had been for quite a while. Only now would I allow myself to believe it.

And by some spell, some miracle, some glorious incantation, he was in love with me too.

Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of non-olfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.

“I was hoping you’d say that. Because…”

It was then that our lips touched. It was softness garnished by an unshakeable certainty, a rushing sense of canonical radiance, pure infallibility. Completion. 

I was taken by the scent of him, enveloped in the complexity, yet somehow, simplicity of his touch. And again, that overwhelming feeling of rightness. 

This was right.

He pulled me in closer, and all doubt was eradicated, dismantled, cast into places I knew my rekindled spirit would haunt no longer. The air was heavy with vanilla and musk, my hands grasping his collar, tugging him towards me in a crescendo, a tide, of passion.

“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all….” 

Even Gatsby could happen. He could happen to me.

[wixelt]

Btw, I've been working to flesh out characterization and worldbuilding for the Player Culture AU but, due to that technically being a mostly completely seperate AU from Hermitphibia, I'm probably only going to update you where it's relevant as to not flood your inbox with unrelated lore. I've been mostly going through SMP's to see if they have anything lore relevant and seeing where it would apply.

...

So anyway, Pirates SMP Scar is almost explicitly HC8 Scar and also shares the name of his previous sailing ship with New life!Scar's plane and I think The Hermatrix may have done essentially the same thing to the Hermits' memories The Core did to Marcy's memories to ensure they were for the most part versions of themselves that wouldn't catch on to being in a simulations, with the exceptions of Doc and Ren, who were made into versions of themselves that would catch on quick. Yes, this is rather the big assumption to make based just on Scar having continuity, but it's either this or decanonising The Hermatrix.

It also goes to explain some of Season 8's weirdness as a whole and opens the season's lore up to be used again... just not in it's surrounding context. Mumbo is probably a formless shapeshifter with half a soul, but it probably isn't Grian's and he's probably been that way since before joining Hermitcraft. The reason The Hermatrix accounted for Pearl's connection to the moon is because of the subconscious memories she still had but hadn't recalled. Impulse eats rocks because he both is and isn't a dwarf due to existing in like two or three points of his life simultaneously. Pearl's megabyte resembles the human settlement in S9 because, well,

Tl;Dr: either The Hermatrix is explicitly noncannon or it was fucking with the hermits' memories to make them relive moments of their pasts because otherwise I can't see how the entrepreneur who traveled by wagon went on to become a pirate and possibly later an air pilot.

Also Pirate!Scar's pirate hat is in Scar's room in Scarland and Pilot!Scar's head is in Cub's meuseum if I'm remebering correctly, both shown in Sausage's world tour.

(Glad to hear your culture interpretation's going well. Always interested to hear about it in relation to the Hermitphibia AU.)

I like the idea that the Hermatrix fundamentally shifted the Hermits' inherent selves to keep them safe (& that it echoes Marcy in canon/False in the AU), though I imagine its less making them different in personality & more unconsciously nudging them away from certain lines of thought they'd usually have.

The idea that this process embellishes or reinterprets certain traits of each Hermit is fun, too.

I don't know if some of the specific interpretations line up with the way I view things, though, but lets work through them one at a time:

Scar's timeline in my mind happens as released & I don't think too much Hermatrix shifting would be needed, nor would it be non-canon. The Hermits take on personas all the time (RenTheKing, etc.), & Scar of all people is very inclined towards that.

I don't know where the interpretation of Mumbo as a half-soulless shapeshifter comes from (aside from the potato thing, maybe), but I'm not sure if I buy it over, say, the view of him as a vampire. I'd be interested in hearing more, though.

Pearl's connection to the moon in the sim - name aside - stemming from her past lives is something I like. Makes it more than just a symbolic connection, & that'd be especially important in the AU as unless Pearl chose her name (which is plausible), Grian's surname would also be Moon.

Impulse eating rocks coming form his dwarf phase is something I'm going to steer clear of, unless we interpret that the Hermatrix was somehow predicting the future as well, since that was still a season away.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Sisyphean (1/6)

“Well, one would usually hope that at least some of the actual residents wouldn’t be locked out, too. Sure, it keeps the Doppelgangers out, but it’s kind of a pain to find a whole new lot of tenants because the previous ones were all left outside overnight.”

(Eldritch!Ace Trappola vs SomeGuy!Deuce Spade. Horror AU heavily based on FROM(2022) and That's Not My Neighbor.)

Sisyphean Masterlist

Deuce stared at the numerous files splayed out on the table before him. It was… a lot. Too much to keep track of, frankly. His hands felt clammy as he flipped through the files on all of the hotel residents. When he had signed up for this job, he had thought that his biggest stress would be the cannibalistic beings he might allow in, but maybe the paperwork would kill him, first.

He laughed at his own mental joke, but it must have had a nervous note to it, because a hand came to settle on his shoulder.

He jumped, his head whipping around to find his employer, Cater, that perpetual smile of his in place.

“Don’t worry about it, Deuce,” Cater said. “I’m sure that no one can do worse than the last security guard.”

“... what does that mean?” Deuce said, though he was pretty sure that he didn’t want to know.

“Well, one would usually hope that at least some of the actual residents wouldn’t be locked out, too. Sure, it keeps the Doppelgangers out, but it’s kind of a pain to find a whole new lot of tenants because the previous ones were all left outside overnight.”

A dull shiver ran through him.

“So, let’s try to do better than that, okay, Deuce?” Cater said, flashing a wink.

Deuce swallowed thickly and turned to the control panel.

For a while, it was an almost deceptively normal job. He read over files, buzzed in residents. Almost got lost in the routine of checking the names, matching their faces to their ID photos, running their ID numbers, checking to make sure their cards weren’t expired…

To stave off complete boredom, he chatted idly as he worked, talking about their cool hats or the sports teams they were wearing merch for.

Monotony aside, the job almost had a sort of charm to it.

Not to say that the job was ‘all roses’ or anything, there were certainly unpleasant parts. Sometimes, people would forget to take out extremely important things, like their ID’s, and Deuce had to fight the urge to lock them out out of spite because how do you even forget that, but whatever.

It wasn’t until it was getting late, and tenants were coming home in larger numbers to ensure they didn’t get taken, that it happened.

It stepped in front of the glass doors, having to lean down just to ensure that its entire body was visible.

Deuce quietly amended his thoughts from earlier. Doppelgangers were certainly not cannibals, because ‘cannibalism’ implies that they were eating their own kind, and the thing in front of him was definitely not human. It was formless, more of a writhing mass of tentacles and eyes than humanoid, all inky black tendrils where there should have been flesh.

Deuce…

Had never seen one before. Not in person. They, for the most part, never showed their faces – or lack of them – during the daytime, preferring to use the cover of night to pick off anyone stupid enough to so much as poke their head out of their window after sundown. And, during the day, they posed as humans, to try and get inside.

This one must be young, to not even try and come up with a facade to fool him.

The thing slipped a few papers into the deposit box. The machine made a quiet beeping noise to tell him that he had ‘mail’.

More out of habit than anything, Deuce found himself picking up the items.

They were… sticky.

His hands shook as he looked down at the ID, making it difficult to make out any of the words, but he managed:

Ace Trap Pola Room No #No Occupation of a human form Not verified by the DDD ID#153 Card expires NE/V/ER Signed: ☆ce

Deuce’s head shot up to look at it again, disbelieving.

He almost regretted it as his gaze locked with one of its many eyes.

“What? Is it something about how I’m dressed? Don’t want to compliment me like everyone else? You’re going to hurt my feelings…”

How long had it been watching them?

Paper crumpled in his hands.

“I – I can’t let you in,” he stammered. Too quiet for it to hear, especially when he was almost entirely sure that it didn’t have ears.

But it heard him regardless: “Why not?” it asked, almost whining, though there was a lilting kind of amusement lining the edges of its voice.

Deuce could only stare in horrified silence.

The being seemed to catch sight of itself in the glass. It gasped, loud and overdramatic and hopelessly fake. “Ah! I have too many eyes! My bad! I’ll come back later with a new disguise!”

“Please don’t…” Deuce managed, feeling faint.

It just laughed at him.

But he thought this one felt less cruel, and more like an actual human laughing at something funny. This should have been a comfort. There was nothing better than laughing with other people, nothing could put someone at ease in quite so quickly. Something that made you feel warm and safe, that reminded even the most heartless of people of how connected they were to other human beings.

Knowing that that sound had come from something like this, though, made his skin crawl.

And, as quickly as it came, it was gone again.

Deuce nearly tripped over himself to rush to the door, pressing up against the glass, desperately trying to catch sight of it as it left, in vain hopes that it might lead to him getting an idea as to what it was going to do next.

But he couldn’t find it. Not only because his frantic breaths were fogging up the glass, but because there was simply nothing to see. Just a bunch of people heading about their days, making their way back home as quickly as possible.

As Deuce watched the crowd, frantically, looking for any hint of the Doppelganger in their midst, he couldn’t help but recognize the monster had no trouble blending in with humans when it wanted to.

It wasn’t young.

It was playing with him.

~

It was, perhaps, because he was already awake that night, staring at the ceiling blankly, unable to banish the monster that kept appearing behind his eyelids every time he so much as blinked… that he heard something he had never noticed before: the sound of his window rattling, ever so slightly, the window lock being tested. He looked outside, and found nothing was amiss. This was, somehow, worse.

[alberichfanpage]

i would like to ask about alberich for the character game~

(sorry for not saying there was no ask box, i thought maybe with sideblogs you had to go ask the main person or sth haha)

Thank you for the ask, I love your posts! (No problem, I should have checked before I posted it)

Before I start, I have a confession. Guys, I like Alberich a very normal amount; I just picked this blog name on a whim when I wanted to make a sideblog...

Favorite thing about them: Considering there is so little content on him in the game, it is pretty hard to pick between his little bow gesture, his spooky outfit and his immaculate vibe. My favorite thing is probably how he combines two of the most overpowered status effects into one build.

I ended up incorporating aspects of it in my Int/Fai playthrough but I am really considering doing a dedicated Alberich cosplay run just because it is that fun to use.

Least favorite thing about them: My least favorite thing is the same as my favorite. His build is great but awful when it is used against me...

Also, he has a big chunk of glintstone on his headpiece if you remove the hat but it doesn't glow with the erudition emote!

Favorite line: Invaded by Mad Tongue Alberich! <- scariest popup to see in a supposed safe place

brOTP: Gideon for sure comes to mind. There is this fan theory that Alberich is Gideon's son, biological (same hair color) or adopted (like Ensha and Nepheli). Alberich probably enjoyed performing the grim tasks of the All-Hearing Brute with less stoicism than Ensha. Very much a one-sided evil henchmen kind of relationship. That was most likely his undoing, too.

OTP: This one is so hard because I could see so many toxic pairings. I think him and Ensha pair nicely as the only two people you can fight within the hold. They also share the fact they are in service to the Hold.

Rogier could be really interesting as the ultimate big hat power couple. But specifically, those hats are a sign of heresy and they are in very close proximity within the Hold. Then again, Rogier has quite a bit of romance going on already and I think the poor guy needs some rest.

Speaking of pointy hats, since Alberich knows cold sorceries, it may be possible he had something going on with the Snowy Crone that Ranni based her current appearance off of.

Regardless, I believe there is not a world in which Alberich would be in a healthy relationship (post mad tongue title) so therefore all pairings would be very unhealthy lol

nOTP: Sellen could be interesting but I think he might be a little too heretical for her liking. She might be a little interested in what's going on with his red glintstones from a purely academic standpoint, though.

Random headcanon: Literally the only information we have on Alberich is his clothing description, anything outside of that is headcanon:

Alberich was an aloof yet disturbed heretical sorcerer said to have been driven mad by jeering tongues during his service to the Roundtable Hold long ago

I don't really buy it, but I really wanted there to be some connection between the Blood Star and the Formless Mother just to tie in connection because the faith blood sorceries and the blood incantations. I thought it would help to roundout the world building and show how thin the line truly is between sorceries and incantations. Alas, these things remain very separate.

However, we did get two new sorceries in the dlc that are boosted by Alberich's set/staff but are related to the Scadutree. While the Thorn Witches themselves are related to the Fell God. Honestly, the worldbuilding around these things are really weird. My only other headcanon is that Gideon tasked Alberich into exploring experimental magic for him.

Unpopular opinion: Alberich drops the Taunter's Tongue item and a lot people treat this as his tongue, but I like the theory that this is actually Ensha's tongue and that is why Ensha does not speak would really make the OTP toxic if true. Considering I see a lot of fanart with him with a gold tongue, I consider this to be unpopular.

Song I associate with them: He seems like he would like Christian Death, the song Figurative Theatre comes to mind because of this line:

Their razor-sharp tongues invite to relax as they slip the skin of your eyelids back

Favorite picture of them:

Very biased but this picture I took while cosplaying him is so good, I am not sure I could replicate this again if I tried.

Thank you again for the ask!

[shadowthrone-ammanas]

'Life' as a Ghost Drabbles: Scary Ghosts Don't Cry

Summary: could you do one where empress kidnaps hat kid and snatcher goes on a protective rampage?

~

Snatcher had warned her that mortals had ways of containing ghosts, especially the less powerful ones such as herself. So she should’ve been prepared for this but… she’d been evading the Mafia goons so well. Of course the Empress and her cronies were smarter, Hat Kid knew that. So why had she been so easy to capture?

She screamed in frustration again as she pushed out against the walls encasing her. Not with arms though; she was squished by her prison so tightly it had pressed her form into its shape. What shape that might be was impossible to tell. She couldn’t see, hear, or feel anything other than the walls holding her on all sides.

Could they hear her out there? Was there even anyone out there to hear her anymore? How long had she been in here? A while now for sure. At least an hour? Maybe two? It felt longer but that was just how time felt when imprisoned, right? So it couldn’t have been long yet… right?

She screamed again. Less frustration this time and more desperation. Surely if they heard her they’d feel pity and let her out. She was just a child after all; harmless. … Okay, not harmless, never harmless. She’d make them pay this as soon she tricked them into letting her out.

~

Exhaustion worked and felt different as a ghost but it was still very much a thing. The worst part was there was no falling asleep to cure it. One just had to wait it out doing something restful. Which of course also meant no escape from consciousness. She had to be aware of every single passing second even when she would rather not be.

Surely Snatcher would come for her soon though. He had last time she’d been captured. … That had been Vanessa though, someone he already kept an eye on. He might not know the Empress’ goons got her for a while or possibly ever. To him, she might appear to just vanish. He’d look though, right? And he was smart so he’d figure it out eventually… hopefully soon.

~

“Please let me out! Please, please, please!” She screamed as loud as she could. ���I’ll be good. I promise Just let me out, please.”

No response.

She started crying. It had been a long time since she’d last cried. It was embarrassing to be caught crying, she was a big girl now and a scary ghost. Big girls and scary ghosts didn’t cry about their problems, they solved them. … No one could see or hear though so what did it matter anymore?

~

“… So build that wall and build it strong. ‘Cause we’ll be there before too long. Go build that wall up to the sky. Go build that wall up to the sky. One day that wall is gonna fall.” No, that wasn’t right. The lyric changed there, something that went with ‘sky’. She couldn’t remember what though. Next song then.

She was running out of songs she knew. Memorizing lyrics wasn’t something she was particularly passionate about, she just liked to sing along sometimes when doing chores around the ship. She’d have to start repeating again soon. Not yet though, she knew a few more snippets of a few more songs she could sing. Maybe she could even come up with a few more this go round.

If she’d already sung most of one Bastion song, why not the other one too. … Except she didn’t remember that one as well. Something about going home and… that’s all she knew for sure. Damn it. Maybe then she could sing…

One of the walls of her prison moved aside, allowing her to slide out of it like toothpaste being squeezed out of the tube. She puddled on the floor, formless after so long.

“Boss! I found her.” A familiar voice. One of the Subconites! She’d been found and rescued!

First she reformed her face, pulling her eyes up properly so she could look up at them. Just in time to see Snatcher pop in next to them. It wasn’t his usual form but instead one clearly meant to resemble the Metro cats except riddle with undulating spikes.

“Kiddo, you okay?” Worry didn’t sound right in his voice. He wasn’t supposed to be so openly worried. Instead he should be pretending to be grumpy above having had to come rescue her. But no, he was leaning over her with an expression to match his worried tone. “Hat Kid?”

It took some effort but she managed to pull herself up off the floor. Her form still felt liquidity and droopy like it had been bunched up so tight for so long, it could no longer return to normal. Hopefully a temporary problem.

For now though she was satisfied with just being able to have different parts again like arms and a head. Allowing her to rush the short distance over to Snatcher and hug him. Normally he sighed, pretending annoyance when he did that. Not this time though. Instead he scooped her up and cradled in nook of his arm as he shifted to his usual noodle like form.

“You were in there the whole time?”

She nodded. “How long?”

“Almost two weeks.”

Never even two weeks, just almost. Not a long time in the grand scheme of things but a long time to be squished into such a small space. It was also the longest she’d ever been alone for.

“Sorry we took so long,” a different Subconite than from before said. “We thought it was the Mafia that got you at first and then we had to find this place once we figured out who was actually responsible. We don’t come to the Metro often so it took a while.”

“It’s okay. Thanks for coming.” She pressed her face into Snatcher’s chest. No crying though; she was a big girl and a scary ghost… mostly she was too exhausted to.

“All right everyone,” Snatcher said, his tone switching to something more normal though he still held her, “I guess let’s go ahead and finish freeing everything else here since we already started and then we’re gonna burn this place to ground.”

Ooh, that was going to be fun. This place deserved to be burned to the ground. Hat Kid would delight in its destruction. When they got there. For now she was content to just be held for a little while.

[zalrb]

Do you have favorite cases (be on books, shows or books) of mirrored characters, narrative foils, two sides of the same coin and that kind of thing? Like, they don't even need to have any kind of relationship.

Sula and Nel in Sula, best friends and narrative foils

Their friendship was as intense as it was sudden. They found relief in each other’s personality. Although both were unshaped, formless things, Nel seemed stronger and more consistent than Sula, who could hardly be counted to sustain any emotion for more than three minutes. Yet there was one time when that was not true, when she held on to a mood for weeks, but even that was in defense of Nel.

Annie John and the Red Girl in Annie John, narrative foils

I soon learned this about her: She took a bath only once a week, and that was only so that she could be admitted to her grandmother’s presence. She didn’t like to bathe, and her mother didn’t force her. She changed her dress once a week for the same reason. She preferred to wear a dress until it just couldn’t be worn anymore. Her mother didn’t mind that, either. She didn’t like to comb her hair, though on the first day of school she could put herself out for that. She didn’t like to go to Sunday school, and her mother didn’t force her. She didn’t like to brush her teeth, but occasionally her mother said it was necessary. She loved to play marbles, and was so good that only Skerritt boys now played against her. Oh, what an angel she was, and what a heaven she lived in! I, on the other hand, took a full bath every morning and a sponge bath every night. I could hardly go out on my doorstep without putting my shoes on. I was not allowed to play in the sun without a hat on my head. My mother paid a woman who lived five houses away from us sevenpence a week—a penny for each school day and twopence for Sunday—to comb my hair

Zuko and Aang in ATLA but also, like, all of the mains with each other kinda in ATLA? as foils and mirrors and two sides of the same coin all at once

Draco and Harry in Harry Potter, narrative foils and mirror characters

Harry, however, had never been less interested in Quidditch; he was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy.

You’re getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy, Harry. I mean, thinking about missing a match just to follow him.

“…everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick -“

“You have told me this at least a dozen times already,” said Mr. Malfoy, with a quelling look at his son.

“I’m fine!” said Harry, jumping up. The thought of what Draco Malfoy would say if he had to go to the hospital wing was torture.

Logan Roy and his children, mirror characters (yay, intergenerational trauma!)

Walt and Jesse, narrative foils

Stringer and McNulty, two sides of the same coin

Arthur and Merlin, two sides of the same coin

Peggy and Joan, two sides of the same coin

and honestly Mad Men has a lot of mirrors and foils and two sides, which are all interesting to me particularly with the female characters, like Betty and Megan

[charkyzombicorn]

Roger's ghost au Luffy tries to get Law to take care of himself for Corazon.

Law's got a Lot of ghosts. Some of them are observers that have no unfinished business and just check on Law as the sole survivor of Flevance their home. Some are so consumed with rage and grief they're little more than shadowy shapes with sharp teeth that want repentance for what the world did to them and their families. Cora never lets those ghosts seep too close to Law.

Luffy thinks Cora looks interesting, and Law too, but the ghost that drew his attention was Lami, since Lami had walked right up to Luffy and accused him of seeing them. Luffy said he did. Lami told Luffy he had to help make the mean ghosts leave so Law could sleep. Luffy said he had to do no such thing, and Lami pouted.

But then, the war, Ace, a hole in Luffy's chest. The second time Luffy woke up he could actually notice all the hastily repaired machines he was hooked up to. And a looming black figure stood in the corner, its head crouched so it could fit under the ceiling. He said his name was Cora, thst Lami told him Luffy could see them and Cora wanted to verify. Luffy nodded, since he could do little else.

So Cora talked to him. And talked and talked and filled the room with all the noise Luffy was used to until Luffy got the power to speak again and asked where his hat was. Cora told him his hat was with Law, that Roger had taken his post so Cora could visit and Luffy didn't have to be alone. Luffy was grateful.

So when Law asked for an alliance, to defeat Kaido, he said but didn't seem to believe it. But also to take out Doflamingo, and Luffy noticed the formless spirits Writhe at the name. So Luffy agreed.