#long exposed self portrait

[sarahshootspeople-blog]

Scaring the hoes 🚬

[davisbrownell]

untitled self portrait

[marley-harvey]

alone with my thoughts

[volkswagonblues]

a bibliography for us Daniel Malloy freaks

(a loosely pulled-together reading list about print journalism, New York, the 1970s & 80's, and the AIDS Crisis. Most of the credit goes to @islandbetweenrivers who started this)

On Daniel Molloy, California Boy

The show never explicitly states if Daniel went to college, but since college students were exempt from the Vietnam draft, which ended officially in 1973, it could be interesting to imagine Daniel in Berkeley.

Slouching Toward Bethlehem by Joan Didion

The White Album by Joan Didion

Berkeley Barb archives (link) -- weekly underground newspaper that ran in Berkeley between '65 to '80

The Daily Cal First 150 Years (link) -- student newspaper at Berkeley

On Journalism

Iphigenia in Forest Hills by Janet Malcolm

From her reporter's seat, Malcolm observes that a trial is merely "a contest between competing narratives". (Guardian review)

The Journalist and the Murderer by Janet Malcolm

“"Every journalist who is not too stupid or too full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible," wrote Malcolm in an opening sentence that caused a sensation in the tiny, self-referential world of posh American journalism.” (Guardian review)

The Freaks Came Out to Write: The Definitive History of the Village Voice by Trisha Romano

“The Voice’s origins were proudly amateurish. One early contributor was a homeless man recruited from a local street; equipment consisted of two battered typewriters, an ink-splattering mimeograph machine and a waste paper basket for rejected submissions. Morale spiked when a staff member discovered that dried pods used in fancy flower arrangements contained opium, which was boiled up in the office when the time came for a coffee break.” (Guardian review)

Note: The Village Voice was THE alt-weekly newspaper and it was run out of Greenwich Village in NYC. Lots of incredible writers start there and then move onto the Times, Vanity Fair, etc. Very much the sort of crowd a young Daniel would be mixed in circa 70's and 80's.

The Night of the Gun, by David Carr

David Carr redefines memoir with the revelatory story of his years as an addict and chronicles his journey from crack-house regular to regular columnist for The New York Times. Built on sixty videotaped interviews, legal and medical records, and three years of reporting, The Night of the Gun is a ferocious tale that uses the tools of journalism to fact-check the past. (amazing rec from @archive-z)

Note: imagine if Daniel did this and then fact-checked his way into remembering that vampires existed

Rogues: True Stories of Grifters, Killers, Rebels and Crooks by Patrick Radden Keefe

Keefe can paint complicated portraits of victims and vigilantes alike while covering their lonely pursuit of justice. He intuits why a Dutch woman who has exposed the crimes of her gangster brother might lie about her present whereabouts. He understands why a man who lost his brother in an aeroplane bombing might spend the rest of his life trying to find the culprit. Again and again, Keefe surmises that even the most detailed of investigations can only speculate about human motives. (Guardian review)

Note: the sort of deeply human longform profiles that feels like the sort of writing Daniel does, based on his masterclass clip and what he reveals in his interactions with Louis

On New York, New York (in the 70s)

Notes from Underground, by Eric Bogosian + Perforated Heart, by Eric Bogosian

In four billion years the sun will explode. But before that we'll run out of fresh water and before that we'll all die of some mutation of AIDS that's spread by coughing. It's not my fault anyway. I can't think about this any more today. I'm going to masturbate.

Note: The OG. What else is there to say.

Ladies and Gentleman, the Bronx is Burning: 1977, Baseball, Politics, and the Battle for the Soul of a City by Jonathan Mahler

In the long sweep of American history, of course, 1977 is not exactly 1865, 1941, 1968 or 2001. Yet from porn shops to gay bathhouses, from Yankee Stadium to City Hall, from the blackout to Son of Sam, from Rupert Murdoch's New York Post to the rise of SoHo and Studio 54, the city was living through what Mahler convincingly calls "a transformative moment . . . a time of decay but of rehabilitation as well.” (New York Times review)

Remain in Love: Talking Heads, Tom Tom Club, Tina, by Chris Franz (2020)

Frantz’s account of the early days, when the Heads lived in the pre-gentrified Lower East Side of New York, an almost literal war zone. While searching for a loft to live in, they viewed one building that was on fire. One spring afternoon, Frantz walked over to the now-legendary club CBGB to ask for a gig. The place smelt of “beer, roach spray, dog doo [the owner, Hilly Kristal, had a free-roaming saluki] and Chanel No 5”.

Winter’s Journal, by Paul Auster

Note: To me, Auster is one of the closest real-life Daniel Malloy analogues: born around 1950, literary career in NYC, moved to Paris in the 1970s for a few years, troubled middle-class background. Novelist though, not a journalist. There’s an anecdote in this book about a car crash that feels like a deadass Devil’s Minion fever dream. Crazy stuff. One of my personal favourites

On the AIDS Crisis

And the Band Played On, by Randy Shilts

The book chronicles the discovery and spread of the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) and acquired immune deficiency syndrome (AIDS) with a special emphasis on government indifference and political infighting—specifically in the United States—to what was then perceived as a specifically gay disease

The Journalist of Castro Street: The Life of Randy Shilts, by Andrew E. Stoner

Biography of Randy Shilts that’s very helpful for imagining Daniel in the early 1980s newsrooms covering Karposi’s sarcoma

How to Survive a Plague: The Story of How Activists and Scientists Tamed AIDS by David France (2017)

It’s not easy to balance solid journalism with intimate understanding of a subject, and even harder to write eloquently about a disease that’s killing your friends and loved ones. France pulls it off, in his own words (his description of finding a college roommate’s panel in the AIDS Memorial Quilt is heartbreaking) and in letting his articulate sources speak for themselves. (SF Gate review)

Timeline of AIDS (link)

Overview of HIV (link)

And some films, just for fun

The Panic in Needle Park (1971): Drama film directed by Jerry Schatzberg. Al Pacino is a heroin addict and small-time dealer in Manhattan who falls in love with another addict.

Serpico (1973): biographical crime drama film directed by Sidney Lumet. Al Pacino is a hippie cop (yes, I know, its part of the plot) with one foot in the 1970s bohemian art scene

American Graffiti (1973): teen movie set in 1973 Modesto ("I'm just a shitty kid from Modesto"--Danny Malloy)

The Taking of Pelham 123 (1974): More grimy 1970s NYC stuff

All the President’s Men (1976): THE ABSOLUTE JOURNALISM MOVIE??

Star Wars: A New Hope (1977)

Cruising (1980): 1980 crime thriller written and directed by William Friedkin. Al Pacino is a cop (again) but this time he goes undercover in NYC gay leather clubs

Almost Famous (2000): Set in 1973, it chronicles the funny and often poignant coming of age of 15-year-old William, an unabashed music fan who gets the chance to write for Rolling Stone

Spotlight (2015): More journalism movies! The true story of how the Boston Globe uncovered the massive scandal of child molestation and cover-up within the local Catholic Archdiocese

everyone say thank you to @islandbetweenrivers for starting this, I just polished up our google docs and posted it on tumblr.

Also if anyone has something to add please let me know!

[maxxxineminxxx]

I wanna be more part 2 || eddie munson

part one: https://www.tumblr.com/maxxxineminxxx/730923192165826560/i-wanna-be-more-eddie-munson?source=share

warnings: angst, jealousy, cussing, underage drinking, kissing.

summary : y/n attends the party she was unsure about going to, only to find out that Eddies there as well with his "girl?'' Eddie is still ignoring y/n and she is determined to find out why.

A/n; I decided on making a part two I hope its okay. I tried to finish this part and upload it as fast as i could so if there is any errors let me know!

You haven't spoken to Eddie all week, and every attempt to catch his eye seems to fail. The guys from Hellfire, while friendly, are just as clueless about Eddie's behaviour as you are. You've missed being with them, but with the way Eddie's been acting, you doubt he'd even want you around at this point. You can't shake the feeling that he's got Roxanne as a stand-in for you. The two of them seem awfully close.

Yesterday was the first day of the week that you had biology, Eddie was in the same class as you and sat right next to you so you thought you would finally be able to maybe get him to even acknowledge your presence. But he didn’t in fact he didn’t even sit next to you he moved his seat and sat next to Roxanne instead. The two of them giggling the entire lesson.

The cheerleaders have been persistent in trying to convince you to go to the party tonight, but all you really want to do is wallow in self-pity. On Saturday nights, you and Eddie would have your cherished movie nights. This tradition had been going strong since you were twelve, and you hadn't missed one. But tonight, you couldn't help but feel that it would mark the first Saturday where this tradition would be broken. Eventually, though, you decide that it might be good to take your mind off the situation and distract yourself for a couple of hours by going to this party.

As you approach Olivia's house, its exterior gives off elegance and warmth. The well-maintained structure stands as a testament to a comfortable and inviting abode. Olivia's mother graciously welcomes you inside. Following the lively symphony of girlish laughter, you navigate through the house. The source of the cheerful laughter and singing leads you to a room where a flurry of activity unfolds. The air is scented with cosmetics, a delightful blend of powders and perfumes.

 Within this lively environment, a group of girls are engaged in the transformative ritual of hair and makeup, each one a portrait of focused determination. Some of them in pairs, offering assistance and sharing opinions on outfits. The room is vibrant with colour, style, and a shared sense of excitement as they prepare for the party soon.

"y/n, get over here so I can get started on your makeup," Chrissy said to you, patting the spot next to her on the bed. You complied and settled in, letting her work her magic.

Meanwhile, Layla declared herself the outfit maker and designer, convinced that jeans were a no-go for a party. You observed as Carol and Olivia playfully teased each other and spritzed their hair.

 "y/n, you're up next for hair," Olivia informed you, stealing glances at her own reflection.

“y/n is there anyone you like?” Chrissy asked as she finished up your blush. “Yeah, but I don’t really think he likes me back like that, he kind of only sees me as a friend.” You admitted to her, she looked at you with pitiful eyes. “Well, his loss yeah?” you hummed in agreement and carol placed her hands on your shoulders and then spoke. “Hold your breath unless you want to pass out from inhaling too many hairspray fumes, I’ve learnt from experience.”

 This was going to be a long night. Slightly uncomfortable too, outfit wise.

Arriving at Jason's house, a wave of discomfort washed over you. The dress you wore hugged your form, its hemline leaving you feeling more exposed than you were used to. Layers of makeup adorned your face, a foreign sensation that you tried to ignore. Taking a deep breath, you pushed those sensations aside, determined to make the most of the evening. A break from the Eddie situation was much needed.

Compliments from fellow partygoers began to flow, and you couldn't deny the boost to your confidence. It made the uncomfort worth it. Though you couldn't ignore the lingering gazes from the basketball team. In the kitchen, an entire table was dedicated to a bunch of alcoholic drinks. You poured some into a cup, leaning against the counter as you took a sip. It was a moment of peace before you had to socialize. Although it didn't last very long before the girls were running up to you. The girls all come rushing up to you, whispering in hushed tones among themselves.

"Oh my god, you're never going to believe who even dared to attend tonight," Layla announces to the group, imitating a gag. "Eddie Munson and Roxanne are here together," she adds.

 You scan the room, and there they are.

The sting of hurt cuts deep, a familiar ache settling in your chest. It's a harsh truth you've come to accept - Eddie's reluctance to attend parties with you is a wound that never seems to fully heal. No matter how much you plead, his answer is always the same: a resolute no. You've always turned down invitations like this because Eddie didn't enjoy them, and you didn't want to go without him.

You wonder if he would have done the same for you. And now, he's here, amidst it all, with her. She likely didn't need to utter a plea, a thought that only adds to the pain. You watch as she leans into his side, and he holds her close. Your gaze remains fixed on them until your eyes meet Eddie's. He looks at you, then turns to Roxanne, whispering something in her ear. They both giggle.

The alcohol begins to work its gentle magic, enveloping you in a comforting warmth. Leaning into Jason, who's positioned himself protectively between you and Carol, you find solace in his presence. It's surprising, yet oddly comforting. He places a protective arm around your waist.

“you, okay?” he asked with genuine concern you nod and give him a smile. “Just tired.”

Jason had promised to be your protector, ready to confront any guy who overstepped boundaries and made you uneasy. His genuine concern touched you deeply, especially when you confide your uncertainty about the party during your lunch conversation. As the party swirls around you, the noise and bright lights closing in, you start to feel slightly overwhelmed.

You stumble towards the front porch, craving the cool embrace of fresh air and a moment of peace. The alcohol has taken its toll, pushing you on the edge of emotions. Your heart aches for a chance to talk to Eddie, to find out the reason for his distance.

Lost in your thoughts, you settle onto the porch, consumed by all your questions and concerns. It takes a moment before you even register the presence beside you. Glancing over, your breath catches in your throat. There's Eddie, his expression etched with deep contemplation. It appears he, too, is lost in his own world, unaware of your arrival. The weight of your unspoken connection hangs heavy in the air between you.

But when he finally noticed you, he stood up, already ready to head back inside and ignore you once again. But you grab his arm before he can enter the house once more. Your voice trembles with frustration and hurt as you confront Eddie. His attempts to avoid your gaze only fuel your determination.

“Why are you ignoring me, Eddie? I think I deserve a damn explanation," you press your grip on his arm firm. His response feels like a dismissive blow.

"I don't know what you mean," he mutters, a fake innocence in his tone that grates against your raw emotions. It's as if he's trying to gaslight you, making it seem like you've imagined this distance.

"You don't know what I mean? How about how you ignored me all weekend, and then still didn't speak to me at school, no matter how many times I tried to reach out to you?" Your words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of your broken connection. The ache of longing for an explanation pulse through you, demanding acknowledgment.

Eddie's fingers dance nervously over his rings, a visible sign of his stress. He lets out a shaky exhale, struggling to find the right words. "I Dunno," he mumbles, his voice laced with uncertainty.

Your frustration grows, demanding an answer. "What do you mean you don't know? You just woke up and decided you were going to ignore me for no reason, huh?" The hurt and confusion well up within you, desperate for an explanation. You feel your eyes swell up with tears, and you blink them away, worried about messing up your makeup. Eddie’s confession hangs heavy in the air, each word dripping with sincerity and vulnerability.

"I love you, y/n, so much it scares me," he admits, his emotions laid bare.

"I've been working up the courage for years to ask you out or say something, but I figured you would never see me that way, and then I'd ruin our entire friendship. So I needed to get over you. And I couldn't do that by seeing you all the time, I only came to this stupid party to make sure you were okay,” he admits ‘’i even asked Roxanne to help me i don't know, maybe make you jealous, see if you even cared.’’

The sight of you with Jason seems to further drive home the point for Eddie, a bitter confirmation of what he feared. "But you look pretty cozy over there with Jason, so it looks like you couldn't care less," he concludes, his tone laced with hurt. Your heart aches, the weight of his words settling in. This is a mess of misunderstanding.

His words leave you momentarily speechless. He wants more than just friendship, and the weight of that realization settles in, both thrilling and terrifying. As he turns to leave, you find your voice, a mixture of surprise and longing colouring your words.

"Eddie, wait." But you've answered too late; he's already walking towards his car to leave. You run after him, yelling out his name, and he finally looks back at you.

The weight of the moment hangs heavy in the air as you try to muster the words. "Eddie wait” But your attempt at an explanation is abruptly cut off.

His voice trembles with pain, a raw vulnerability in his eyes. "Y/n, save it okay? I don't want to hear it," he interjects, his tone laced with sadness. His words struck you like a blow, and in that vulnerable moment, you couldn't hold back any longer. "I love you too," you confessed, the truth tumbling from your lips as he moved towards his car. You couldn't bear to watch him leave, to be ignored again. You had to tell him now.

As he turned to look at you, his face registered shock and disbelief, a thousand emotions dancing across his features. The weight of your unspoken feelings hung heavily between you, a bridge waiting to be crossed. He moved closer to you. So close that you could feel his breath fanning over your face. “Say that again,” he asked, tucking some of your hair behind your ear and locking eyes with you.

“I love you, Eddie.” He cupped your face with both his hands, and you felt his lips crash into yours creating an electrifying connection that sent shivers down your spine. It was a passionate moment filled with desire and longing. Our bodies pressed against each other as if trying to merge into one. Time seemed to stand still as we lost ourselves in the intensity of the kiss. The kiss was hungry and passionate. You had been waiting for this moment for what felt like forever. He broke away from the kiss and looked at you with a smirk. “I haven't told you how beautiful you look tonight,” he said, his hands roaming your body. You blushed and hid your face in his neck. He held you close, pressing kisses to your cheeks.

‘’Please don’t ignore me again Eddie, i wish you would have spoken to me " you said attempting to make the situation serious again so you could understand how he was feeling.

"I know, I know I should've just told you how I was feeling, but I just couldn't,” he admitted softly. You brushed his bangs out of his face and watched as he gathered his thoughts.

“i didn't know how to talk to you about it or even approach the situation, i thought that if i admitted it to you i would mess it up and become a stuttering mess, ‘m sorry.” he expressed to me, he buried his face into the crook of my neck for a moment before he pulled away and looked at me with a smirk.

 “So what's this I'm hearing about you loving me huh?”

 “Eddie, stop, I'm still mad at you,” you said, fighting the urge to smile.

“Nonoo y/n you love me’’ “Y/N L/N LOVES EDDIE MUNSON’’ he screamed on top of his lungs “Eddie people are staring” you laughed and tried to cover his mouth with the palm of your hand.

“Let them stare, I'm only telling the truth.’’ he leaned in to kiss you once more. “How about I make it up to you with a milkshake?” “Only if its chocolate”

You and Eddie walked hand in hand to his van. It felt like a dream, the reality of your shared feelings sinking in with each step. The joy in your heart was palpable, unable to tear your gaze away from him, grateful that he felt the same way you did.

“y/n do you know what this means” he looked over at me and was suddenly extremely serious. “A cheerleader is in love with me.’’

“You are actually such a dork” you say as you grab his hand to hold whilst the two of you walk over to his van. “Yeah, but I’m a dork that you love.”

tags: (i hope this is everyone tumblr wasnt allowing me to tag some ppl so if i missed anyone im so sorry )

@thedyingwriter @daisyridleyyyy @munsonzgf

@sazifer @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @sashaphantomhive

@boomitsallie1 @emma77645 @ziggeddie @ahoyyharrington

@inesven

[darklcy]

𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

‣ eddie's session runs longer than you thought. bored, with nothing to do, you find his shirt.

‣ eddie munson x reader | stranger things masterlist | 823 words | fluff, established relationship, idiots in love ig

‣ i havent posted him in a while and i just got to rewatching s4, so naturally-

He’d been gone far too long already.

You tried not to complain, not having the desire to suck the life out of his soul for simply engaging in his passion. Dungeons and dragons served as an enigma in your brain, its complexity never failing to swirl your thoughts in knots each time you tried learning to play. If him being late was the only self punishment for not comprehending the rules of the game, then perhaps it was justifiable.

..It was just late. And you were beyond bored.

Boredom was a lazy explanation for the feeling you were experiencing at the moment, but for lack of better word, boredom will do. Body sprawled across his mattress, Gremlins displayed in the living room television down the hall, fingernails touched skin in a pattern, as if counting sheep represented itself through your fingers. The night sky stretched further along the hours as you waited for his campaign to finish, but with the way your eyelids drooped and head bobbed, you may not be around for his return.

Laying back on your spine, ceiling coming into view, you fought the upcoming dreams with all your might to avoid slumber, wanting to greet Eddie properly the moment he stepped inside. Chin lolling to the right, a signature club shirt curiously grabbed your eye, the red faced demon poking through the gaps of his drawer. 

Huh.

Somehow that pumped a vein full of awoken energy throughout your body. Sitting back up, you crawled over to the drawer and yanked the shirt from its clenches, freeing the fabric from its prison. The demon’s eyes met yours in a sneer, and sometimes you wonder if the corners of his mouth grew each time you stared at him. Discarding your own top, you replaced it with his, the remnants of smoke and faint cologne wafting in your nostrils.

Eddie smelled like home, a sanctuary, a safe place. A bit ironic, with fire comes reassurance, in your world, that is.

The garment was a bit loose on your figure, the ends reaching just below your hips. With the canvas of your legs exposed from lack of pajamas, his shirt became your blanket and lover all in one, a figment of the real thing. This will have to do until he returns. 

Cheek pressed to the comforter, Gremlins had just barely faded out into the credits when sleep found you, tucked away and hidden in the cotton of Hellfire.

“Baabe, I’m home.”

Brass met knob when Eddie unlocked it open, enjoying the warm heat of the trailer compared to the brisk November air outside. Campaign was good, as usual. Dungeon Master certainly had its perks, even if repeating senior year didn’t. The journey to his bedroom was swift, eager to finally end his day with you by his side, how it always should be. 

However he wasn’t at all, in the slightest bit, prepared to greet you adorning his beloved club shirt, soft skin of your thighs bare, asleep comfortably in his bed. His bed. Alone. With his shirt on. And boyshorts. Oh, wow. You were going to be the death of him.

It was as if he’d been transported to the Moma, viewing a delicate, historical self portrait of an acrylic artist from the 1700s. You were a sight to behold, and for him only. His feet almost sunk into the floorboards from the sheer weight his heart plummeted against his ribs. He’d just fallen in love  all over again. How do you do it so easily?

A gentle groan emitted in your throat as you shifted. What a sweet sound. You’re so sweet. 

Crouching down towards your face, his ringed knuckle gilded hair from your eyelashes, a smile on his face at the way you stirred from the action. When your eyes awoke to meet his, his lips only stretched wider.

“Mornin', sweetheart.”

Stretching out your arms, a yawn escaped you as a sleepy, “Oh, you’re home,” uttered out in a jumbled whisper. His full palm caressed your face now, occasionally smoothing down your hair while continuing to grin at your drowsiness. He couldn’t get enough.

“Yeah, Hellfire ran a lil late. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

You shook your head into his fingers. “No, you’re fine. I was just bored.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest as he moved to sit beside you. His fingers transitioned from your cheek to the shirt on your skin, rings grazing the neckline and shoulder. Eddie had never seen anything like it, and he wore this exact thing every god damn week. 

“You look beautiful like this.”

It was as if complimenting a model, the way he spoke so carefully and tender. You gave him a look.

“..It’s comfy. I might steal it from you.”

He’d give you anything he wanted if you gave him the word. His lips captured yours in a trance, ending too quick for your liking. 

“You should. You wear it best.”

—

[nyancrimew]

You do a lot of really cool stuff and you do it As You. How do you overcome the fear of being Perceived and Known? Especially when the stuff you're raising awareness about is controversial or big? I have anxiety and while the "fuck it we ball" mindset has gotten me fairly far, I still find myself regretting putting myself out there or regressing back into a shut in.

i feel like what helped me kinda deal with getting pretty well known is probably not really applicable to many other people, because most of it really was that ive just been slowly more and more exposed to a bigger and bigger level of fame since i was like 16 or so. long before i was at the point i am now i was a really well known person in the android modding community and then the broader and broader tech community, i definitely didn't deal super well with some of my first minutes of fame and there's lots of stuff i regret (i def let it get to my head for a while and because i was also slowly burning out at the time i was quite an asshole to a lot of people). i don't think that was necessarily the best for me at the time, but i learned some lessons especially about community building and i did a lot of media work already at the time so ive been honing my communications skills for almost 10 years at this point.

i first started blowing up with hacktivism related stuff around 2019, and then everytime i did again it was bigger and bigger, making massive international headlines for the first time in 2021 (with the verkada story). i still fucked up a lot and got very stressed at that time, especially with my mental health being extremely abysmal and paranoia growing as state repression became inevitable.

after the indictment in 2021 i did more and more press work again (there are lots of portraits of me from that era) but still wasn't like A Celebrity except for those brief moments, which (as i took a break from hacktivism) gave me some more time to grow and learn. by the time the no fly list hack happened in 2023 i had been spending a few months already doing various smaller cyber security related work and working with many of my journalist friends in the industry. in a lot of ways the no fly list leak and the media reaction to it was just routine work for me already at that point, which i think allowed me to take in all the social fame way better as well. it still all felt quite surreal, but i was already mostly media trained, had quite a bit of experience with working with an audience already so it was just kind of a matter of adapting to my new environment.

this isn't to say i was like specifically working towards fame (especially this level) but ive always cared about community/audience building and media communication. i don't think im like "fake" or whatever, but you do have to consider that despite my laid back style im still someone with an autistic special interest in personal branding and media communications. i just don't wanna do that for corporations or for profit and instead use it for my activist and journalist self advocacy to give things a platform.

[s-4pphics]

click! finale (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: you need a roommate, and you love eggplant. [college au]

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

WARNINGS: photographer/roommate!ellie, ocs an artist with a rep and black, parental trauma, self-worth issues, slight disordered eating, brief alcoholism and hypersexuality, heavy grief, pining but depressed

A/N: finally on break yaassss….. sequel? LOL 

The air around you is strangling. You haven’t left your room in two days. You’re not passing this semester. 

The room next to yours, however, is filled with life. Ellie’s back to blasting her music and banging on walls, but you have yet to cross paths. Not in class, not at home; You haven’t seen her. Pickle never hesitates to scratch at your door for hugs. And kisses. She’s brought you so much comfort, even in times where you feel like you’re undeserving. 

Christmas is around the corner, and you’re alone. Amaya never shied away from taking you home for her breaks, but she’s gone. She hasn’t called in a while; You hope she’s doing okay. 

So, you seek escape in a different way and do what you haven’t in a long time. 

Tears flood your vision, your thumb hovering over a number you haven’t touched in ages. Your hands won’t stop trembling. You’re going to regret this. Your heart's already breaking into pieces at the heart and cloud emojis of the contact. 

Soft paws knead your thighs and you kiss kit-kat’s tiny head as she nuzzles your chin. You’re trying to keep your sobs to a minimum, but they’re tearing your throat to shreds.

Your thumb comes down on the contact and the line rings. And rings… and rings until the dial tone sounds. 

“At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press one for more options.”

You knew no one would answer. No one ever answers, but still, you listen for her voice. The steadiness of her breathing. You take a shaky breath, “Hi, mom.” Mindless sentences pour out of you like a waterfall. You just sit there and allow Pickle to playfully bite your finger. 

“I, uh… I’m not…” Another sob, “I’m not doing well.” 

You would never say that if she were here. You always masked your true feelings for her sake; She never needed any additional stress. 

Void images of your father reoccur in your memory, “I think there’s something wrong with me… I don’t think I’m a g-good person.” A barbed tongue affectionately licks at your finger, and you try to smile. 

“I… We found a kitty in the snow,” You whisper, “She's the cutest thing ever.” Pickle looks up like she knows what you’re saying, and you weep at her delicate eyes. 

“It was the weirdest thing…” You huff wetly, “It felt like you put her there to stop me from making a mistake.” More tears flood your shut eyes. 

“I just miss you…” Your palm digs into your eye, “and I wish you w-were here. I’m not…” Pickle climbs to rest in your lap; You always did that with your mom for comfort. Another loud sob. 

“I lov— “

You jolt at the loud dial tone, and the line ends. You drop your phone on your blanket and search around your room, the portrait of your mother standing tall on your desk. You need to make another one for her birthday. 

Your eyes travel over your space, and for the first time, you don’t feel comfort. Your mind is racing with thoughts that expose your truth; They’re vile and dirty and they make you feel like scum. A disease walking. 

The dark nights are restless and the days are silent, halls only filled with soft purrs and pattering paws. 

Your home no longer holds the joy that it once did when Amaya was here. Excitement used to burst through you whenever she prepped your movie nights after work, the living room filled with laughter and corny love lines that made your stomach secretly twist with warmth. 

You’re not happy anymore. Anxiety brews in you whenever you walk into the kitchen, the living room, go to feed and snuggle Pickle. It’s fucking miserable in here, and as difficult as it was for you to admit, it’s all your fault. 

It’s almost finals week, and you’re nowhere near prepared. You can’t focus on anything except the treacherous silence of your space. It’s almost like Ellie’s already gone. 

You should be anticipating her departure, antsy to have your space to yourself again, but your chest aches. This past month was anything but smooth, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. For some reason. Maybe it’s because you got to live your main character moment, even if it was just for a few hours.  

Ellie, as much as you hate to admit it, deserves better. Just like how you deserve to spend your life alone, trapped and secluded with your own thoughts. She should want better for herself; Nothing is worse than being in your presence; Maybe that’s why you have no one. 

You desperately want to do better for yourself, but you’re tired. Your mother would be so disappointed in you. You retire from wallowing and climb under the covers, Pickle clutched tightly to your chest. You hope she doesn’t mind the tears from your tee.  

The portfolio is finished. Ellie can’t stop staring at the booklet enclosed in leather on her desk. 

The online submission process was infuriating, mainly due to her laptop dying during the portfolio render, but it’s done. Her ticket into a life-changing position is no longer hers to judge; It can only go up from here. 

All she needs is that phone call from the recruiting manager and it’s over. She’ll be in the city in no time. She’s excited and jittery; Every buzz from her phone is met with clenched hands and a sweaty forehead. Her disappointment heals when she sees her father’s classic thumbs up emojis surrounded by black and red hearts; Even from miles away, he knows when she needs support. 

Ellie lays her forehead on the leather, sighing in relief for what seems like the billionth time. It’s a surreal feeling, relishing in accomplishments. She's never done it, mainly because her mother never wanted to acknowledge happenings she wasn’t the center of. Hearing congratulations is still a mindfuck years later. 

… Your photos looked stunning. You’re made for this, even if you don’t believe it. 

Ellie will never admit how much energy she put into editing those pictures, specifically the ones you’re in. She spent hours recoloring, scaling, sharpening those photos, and they turned out incredible. Probably some

of the best shots she’s ever taken, and you’re in the center. And your eyes… There’s so much light in those hazel specks. 

Another mindfuck. 

Whenever Ellie comes home, she checks the small space between the floor and door of your bedroom to see if you’re awake. If you’re alive. The relief she feels when she sees a lamp light or shadow eases the tension in her shoulders. 

She never knocks, though. Never. 

So why are you? 

Ellie’s back instantly straightens at the soft pats on her door, heart pounding in her ears. You never knock. 

She’s embarrassed at how fast she stands, chair nearly falling over as she flies to pull her door open. 

She’s met with you; She hopes you can’t hear the shatters from her chest at the sight of your disheveled appearance. Your hair is matted and the brunette river in your eyes are surrounded by redness

“Sorry, I—“ Your voice cracks like you haven’t spoken in ages, “She was lying there and I felt bad. She missed you, I think.” She’s never heard you sound so tedious. You’re always the loudest, goofiest person in the room. Ellie’s brows furrow before following your line of vision. Pickle’s sleep in front of her door, curled like a cinnamon roll. Ellie sighs as picks her up as fluidly

as she can, trying her best not to wake her. 

“You’re gonna have to take her when you leave.” 

Devastation sets in your tone as you stare at the little fur ball, “Why?” She asks. 

“My dad’s allergic.” You whisper.

Ellie peers down when Pickle stirs, “Is… is he visiting?” She asks, just as quietly. 

Your head shakes, “I’m going home.” 

Ellie does an impeccable job of hiding her shock. So many questions race in her mind: going home? Where’s home for you? Is it permanent? Are you moving out? When? Are you and your dad close? 

You’re turning away back into your room, but Ellie blurts out before you can shut the door. “I finished my portfolio! It’s… it’s done. I turned it in.” 

You turn, and your eyes are watery. Your smile is tiny, but genuine. “Congratulations,” you’re so quiet and your voice shakes. Ellie’s mind whirls, “They’re gonna love it.” You take one last look at Pickle, and your bottom lip wobbles. You shut and lock the door before Ellie can say thank you for helping me. 

Ellie’s eyes lock onto the floor, watching your lamp turn off, ears honing in on the shuffling of blankets. She swiftly scurries inside her space when she hears crying. 

Her chest concaves at the sobs echoing through the dark, silent halls. Through the thin wall as she sets the kitty on her favorite pillow to sleep on. She paces around her room and yanks at her pinky. How she wishes to be a fly on the wall; She wants to knock on your door so badly, but she doesn’t know what to say. How to comfort. She's always relied on her father for that. 

So, she just listens with regret and makes her final decision.

If you move from this counter, you’ll faceplant into hardwood. You don’t like the blaringly loud song coming from above, so you down another seltzer. It’s distracting enough. 

You feel yourself leaning forward, so you force yourself back up, practically flung over the counter. You’re never drinking again, you promise yourself. How many times has that one been broken? You don’t remember. You miss Ellie. 

You’re going to fall again, but this time, you’re supported. And not by the counter. You instantly relax at the familiar scent. 

Abby’s mumbling something about something, but it sounds like gibberish. You throw your arms around her neck, inhaling deeply; You miss Ellie terribly. 

We gotta get you outta here. You frown; You don’t want to leave! The party just started! 

Her strong arms wrap around your waist to maneuver you. You’re not sure where she's taking you, but you don’t fight. You simply allow her to snatch your heels off and carry you into the piercing-sharp cold. Just allow her to drag you to safety. You wish it was Ellie. 

The world around you moves in a blur; The pace is making you dizzy. You don’t want to vomit in Abby’s car. When did she get a car? 

“Abby…” 

“Yeah, hun? You good?” She sounds so far away. Your mumbles are incoherent. She's so confused, so she asks you to repeat it. 

You face her from the passenger seat with a sultry grin. You miss Ellie, “I missed you.” Your words are garbled and your hands are as loose as your tongue, shakily landing on her muscular thigh, massaging the skin. 

Abby tenses with a sigh, planting a gentle hand on your traveling one. Her grip tightens when you try to move. “Did you really?” 

That's your green light. Your smile grows as you clumsily unbuckle your seatbelt, “Stop… stop the car.” 

Abby’s foot plants on the break, and you jerk forward. Like the night you found Pickle. Like when Ellie… 

“What’s the matter?” 

I miss my roommate. “I’m horny.” 

Your friend scoffs and shakes her head. Either you’re too drunk or she’s disappointed… Not the reaction you were seeking. Your smile tries to fade, but you force the corners of your mouth back up. 

“No, you’re not.” She snaps, and it takes you a second to catch it. Abby’s upset again. What the fuck did you do this time? Your facade finally falters. Now you’re irritated. 

“How’re y… how’re you gonna tell me what the fuck I am?” You sound like a fucking idiot, but your rage ignites your slurs, “If you don’t want me, why’re you here!” 

“Because you fucking called and I’m your friend! I didn’t wanna leave you by yours— “

“You should’ve!” Your shriek is piercing; You’re shocked the windows didn’t shatter and slice you both. 

“That’s how you fucking feel? Really?” 

You try to swallow tears, but they flow. The words you want to say are on the tip of your tongue; Thank you for coming to get me. I’m sorry for being awful. Don’t leave me by myself. 

But none of them escaped. They sit and rot in your throat. You’ve never seen Abby so… 

And she doesn’t let up, “Now you wanna cry? Are you serious?” There’s fire in her eyes; It burns in a way you’re not used to, especially not her, “This victim shit is getting very old— “

“I don’t care!” 

“I don’t fucking care, either! If you wanna keep getting used like a piece of meat by random bitches, then do that! Leave me the fuck out of it!” Abby slams her hand down on the armrest, and the car doors unlock, “Matter of fact, get the fuck out!” 

“Fuck you!” 

“Fuck YOU! Get out! Get the fuck out!” 

Curses and heated exclamations leave the two of you until you wobbly exit the vehicle, slamming the door as hard as your brain would allow. The wind blows like tacks, stabbing through the skin of your bare arms and chest. Abby zooms off, and you scream. 

You dig in your pocket for your phone, ineptly dialing Ellie’s number. It’s fucking one in the morning

“… Hello?” She was asleep. Your heart eases at the steadiness of her tone. 

You’re shivering, “… E—Ellie?” 

“Hm?” 

“I’m… I’m really cold and I don’t,” sob, “I dunno where I am— “

“What do you mean?” She asks abruptly, alert. Your heart flutters. 

You whimper, “I’m lost, I don’t… I’m a bad person— “

“Send me your location. Where’re your keys?” 

“I— I don’t remember— “

“Are you drunk right now?” 

“Yes,” You mumble meekly. This is so fucking embarrassing. 

Ellie sighs heavily, “Just… Is there somewhere you can wait until I get there?” 

You search through tears, finding mostly dark retail stores and restaurants across the street… Except Jack in the Box! The munchies hotspot never fails you. 

“There’s a Jack in the Crack over there.” You point like she can see you. She snickers softly. 

“Go, then. I’ll be there soon, okay?” 

“Wait! Don’t… don’t hang up, please, I’m scared— “

“I wasn’t going to.” 

You closely listen to the shuffling on the other line as you wobbly trek across the street. You sharply inhale at every slip and stumble on your journey, almost sobbing through every confirmation to Ellie’s small are you okay? 

You finally make it inside and thank God that it’s warm. You take a seat and sigh at the familiar jingle of keys. 

“You in there?” 

“Mhm.” 

“I’m coming, send me where you are.” 

“K.” 

It takes you longer than it should’ve to get her the location thanks to the Casa in your system, but she’s on the way… You really want curly fries. Fuck. 

You hate how your thoughts wander, self-loathing at the forefront of your lobe. You take after your father more than you thought: a filthy, lying train wreck. You’ve ruined every glimmer of hope, of positive influence around you, and you’re forced to bathe in the treachery you’ve created all over again. 

“Hey.” 

You leap out of your seat at Ellie’s raspy tone, seeing your hoodie draped over her forearm and keys dangling in her hand. Your tummy growls when you wave. Ellie’s gaze softens. “Hungry?” She hands you the hoodie for you to throw on. You nod. 

“What do you wanna eat?” 

“… Fries,” you croak, “Curly, please.” 

Ellie nods and waddles to the service counter. You watch her backside under her puffer as she pays and collects a small baggie and water before nodding towards the car. You follow close behind her in silence, munching on your snack. 

The ride back home is silent, but for once, the air isn’t deadly. You’re eased back from your breakdown, and it’s definitely not due to the forest in your roommate’s vision. 

You enter your warm apartment and get greeted with soft purrs, Kit-Kat skipping over to rub against your leg. It’s almost enough to make you break down all over again; You can’t believe you have to say goodbye to her next week. 

You kick your sneakers off and squat down to her level, “I love you so much, baby girl. Thank you for taking care of me.” You whisper and pet her head, all the way down to her tail. She meows like she loves you. Ellie shuts the door and watches you silently. You turn to face her. For the first time, she doesn't fidget at your inspection.

Her eyes are much glossier and she’s picking at the skin on her pinky. She wants to say something. 

“You okay?” You murmur, and Ellie nods. You don’t believe her. Her eyes are downcast. Why does she look so nervous? 

The silence is killing you, so you speak. 

“Ellie, I’m… I’m sorry for everything,” You stand and ramble. “I’m the worst roommate imaginable and I-I’m terrible and impulsive and I fucking suck, but I’m sorry… I’m sorry.” 

I also kinda like you. 

Not even your word vomit lets that slip. So, you apologize, sloppily and snot-filled. Tears drip down your face in waterfalls, “I’m— I don't wanna go... and I don’t want you to go…”

Ellie’s timid facade breaks, only slightly, eyes closing gently as she listens. “I know I don’t deserve t-to ask that and it’s not… I wasn’t apart of your plan— “

“You’re drunk.” 

You’re plummeting into the void all over again, succumbing to a familiar, oddly comforting darkness. 

“H-Huh?” 

Ellie’s as firm as a tree, unmoving. Strong. Still. You’re transported back to your first conversation and how intimidated she made you feel. “You’re drunk… and I leave in the morning. I got the job.” 

Drowning. That’s what this feels like. Strangely proud. Oddly suffocating. You’re underwater, but refuse to resurface. “I-In the morning?” 

Her head jerks. “I, uh. I got rent covered. Sorry for the late notice.” She shoves her hands in her pocket. You shake your head, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “It’s okay.” You whisper. “Where’re you gonna go?” 

“My dad’s. He’s a few hours out. The truck comes tomorrow.” 

Your head bobs in acknowledgement, “H-How was the stats final?” She pauses; Her eyes sadden, tilting like an unwatered rose. “You’ll do fine.” She whispers. 

“Promise to take care of my daughter?” You blurt between sniffles, already moving down the hall, ignoring the loud shattering in your heart when you peep all her boxes in the now vacant room beside yours. 

Ellie mumbles your name but you’re sick of ugly crying in front of people. “Good luck with everything.” You mutter with hot feet.

And with the last click of your bedroom lock, you shut out the vine who entangled your heart for the last time. You give into the feelings of loss, the emotions that come with failure, and release them into your hands. 

What could’ve been, your brain hollers while your heart wails. What could’ve been if you weren’t you. 

You don’t remember waking up, but you’re in pain. Physically, mentally; You're hurting. The intensity of it somehow gets worse at the sound of Ellie dragging boxes out of her — the room. 

You just cry. There’s nothing to do but cry. Your phone has been ringing all morning, but you don’t have strength to reach for it. You relish in the deserving pain of your hangover. Tequila hasn’t done shit for you. 

Hours pass, and your home is silent. Ellie’s gone. Pickle’s gone. Amaya’s gone. Abby’s gone. Your mother’s gone. You take their departures as signs. It’s probably time for you to go, too. 

Your shower is incredibly long. You wash and wash and re-wash, wanting the feelings of cleanliness to cascade down your skin, but it never comes. You tearfully accept your lecherous nature and every vile entity attached to it. You’re a vessel for heartbreak and villainy. Forever your worst enemy. You look in the mirror for the first time in days. Just for a second. You can’t stand to see yourself for longer than that, your naked form a reminder of every violation you’ve had to endure since you were fifteen. 

Ellie isn't thinking twice about you, and yet, she terrorizes your mind, trying to convince yourself that your time together wasn’t all bad. You’ll never forget the color she brought to you. Her seed is forever planted and growing in your heart, her roots forcing their way into your system, intertwining with your rough, cracked bones, enclosing around your lungs with each breath. 

Too bad you impacted her in the worst way. You couldn’t even manage to give her a sober apology before she left. It’s hard to accept the fact that you’ll never see her again, but there’s nothing you can do about it now. 

Once again, you’re too late. 

The short lap around your living room crushes your spirit. Somehow, all of your memories are shrouded in emptiness. All the proof of Ellie’s residency is gone… Except the indent of her body on the couch. She always loved sleeping there.

One last heavy exhale. That’s all you can manage before you grab your coat and beanie and exit, locking the door behind you. You keep your head down on the way to the parking garage, hopping into the driver’s seat. The ride to the academic advisory office is silent and swift; It matches the finality of your meeting. 

Tears glaze your eyes when you ask your counselor, “What’s… What’s the first step of withdrawing? Like, from school.” 

-

-

-

CHRISTMAS EVE 

Your fork picks at the pasta noodles on your barely touched plate. The wine is delicious. 

“Honey, are you…” Your dad says softly before sighing, “How’s the meal?” You blink up at him, focusing on the crinkles in his eyes. He seems youthful somehow. Healing looks good on him. 

You gulp down more maroon, “… It’s great. Thank you.” You mutter. You’re not used to talking to him; You’re glad the feelings are mutual. He only nods, head downcast onto his plate. At least he’s eaten. 

He sets his fork down on his plate and wipes his mouth with a napkin, “I hope you like your gift.” He says before standing to place the dish in the sink.

A dark smile spreads behind your glass. 

“Never thought you’d buy me anything.” You snicker sarcastically. “Don’t start.” His voice slices through the kitchen. You hold back your flinch. You’re not ten anymore. 

You shrug, shoulders heavy, “Just saying.” A glass shatters in the sink, and he curses and storms off, the bedroom door nearly swinging off the hinges with a slam. Your smile grows at the booming echo. Like father, like daughter you suppose. 

-

-

-

DECEMBER TWENTY-SEVENTH 

“Are you ready, kiddo?” 

Ellie’s heart is pounding through her chest as she stares out the window. She can’t believe her father hasn’t commented on the bursting organ. “No.” She whispers, adjusting the camera strapped around her neck. She's fighting not to bite her nails; Her dad hates that. 

He chuckles softly, “Yes, you are.” 

No, she’s not. 

The photography studio is fucking huge and surrounded by tall windows that display suited individuals laughing, conversing, perfecting their lenses. She can see the bright specks of neon color on the white floors, white walls, white couches. It’s so much brighter than she ever imagined.

The colors are reminiscent of you. Vivid. Captivating. Beaming like your smile. There are flashes coming from all directions inside the studio and it’s making her shake in the passenger seat. A strong hand plants on her blazer, giving an encouraging squeeze. “Look at me.” 

Ellie’s head turns, eyes locking with her dad’s. 

“I love you. You got this.” He says with confidence. Ellie nods in agreement, but he doesn’t accept it. “Say it.” 

“I got this.” Not as confident. A lot quieter, but getting there. 

“Eh?” Her dad leans in closer, ear pointed at her. She giggles and repeats herself. A little louder. He decides that it’s good enough, pulling her close over the center console. Ellie inhales as deeply as she can, right in the crook of his neck. He plants one last kiss on her cheek before releasing her. She grabs her bag from the floor and pushes the door open, looking over her shoulder one last time. “I love you.” She whispers. He bops her nose with the most delicate grin. Pride is radiating off him, and it warms her from the cold outside. 

Ellie departs with one last wave, shutting the door and skipping onto the sidewalk, walking right up to the front door of the studio. A final peek at her dad; He sends her two thumbs up. She smiles. 

Breathe in, one… two… three… 

When the door pushes open, she's greeted with wide grins and warm hugs. It feels like home already.

Finally... Finally.

BIG ASS TAGLIST LOOOOOL LOVE YALL: @starologist @hrtmal @ohlawdthebirds @villainousbear @timmy-27 @inf3ct3dd @aouiaa @shurisbigtoe @emothurman @lonelyfooryouonly @imelliesgf @baumbii @brackishkittie @littletinyladybugs @r1miese @horror-whoree @elsbunny222 @elliesatchel @makemescreamel @lav3nd3rhaze @elliezflower @ellieloml @ellies-princess @saverdelrey @womenofarcane@muthafuckingstargirl @mina-281 @yuckyfucky @aimformyheartt @elstoy @skylerwhitwyo @sawaagyapong @nil-eena @dewylittlestars @sakiigami @feelsoseencantdream @ellieslittlegf@fictionalgap @liabadoobee @whooknooows @sarahsmileslikesarahd0esntcare @qtgaslighter @p4ison1vy @eviestevie-14 @weaselot @elliewbbg @elsmissingfingers @lmaoo-spiderman @lyssaspengler @elliewilliamsmunch @gummydummykj @kiwikeysblog @juniorsfav @louleele @alittlextrahoney @tohoko@333-starhotline @girlkissersco @saplingkoi @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @elliew-illiamsmissingfingers @diddiqueen @alexisvs-world @mostlyhornyandsad @lolaaa699999 @elsblunt @niyahlovesu @randomhoex @sunnmoon @elliesaesp @callmewhenyoukan @rubycruzsbitch @deathby1000sluts @skylerwhitwyo

[forestwitchontheroad]

Billford Analysis!

Chapter one: Ford and his blind adoration before the portal incident, or abusive slowburn.

warning! this is a very open and incoherent form of my thoughts, where I do not mention many canonical details but only consider the attitude of the characters towards them.

so, I want to analyze as clearly as possible the interactions of Stanford Pines and Bill Cipher at different stages of their, I'm not afraid to say, very complex relationship, which bordered on both blind near-religious chthonic adoration and abusive violence as from a typical psychological manual.

to begin with, I want to look specifically at Stanford's notes from his Third Journal in order to create a general portrait of how his idea of Bill has changed over the years (later a retelling of the same events will be presented, but from Bill's point of view). most often, the long periods of their interactions before betrayal and finding out the truth about the portal are ignored, but they are especially important in the context of forming a long-term and strong attachment.

Stanford immediately begins to cherish his new acquaintance with Bill - he calls their meeting a secret that no one can find out. his low self-esteem also flashes here, depending not only on what people he knows say about him but also on society as a whole in the form of a scientific community. he keeps his acquaintance with bill secret out of inner shame and anxiety that he will not be trusted, he will expose the external environment as crazy, and all acquaintance with the supreme being, in the eyes of Stanford, will turn out to be a fiction of a lonely mind.

after all, isolation in a small town led Stanford to label their first meeting as a miracle on the decrepit pages of his diary. it was really a godsend for Bill, such a combination of mental genius and naive emotional trauma, but this will be discussed, again, in the next chapter.

calling Bill his muse, he sees his silhouette in the firmament, drawing the outlines of the constellation “William” in his diary on a par with the constellations we are familiar with. for me, this also means treating Bill not as a separate independent being on the level of Ford himself, no. at this moment, he perceives him more as an idea, as something inspiring, as a path to knowledge that can be read in the web of snow-white stars. he addresses his muse as a higher consciousness, which rarely visits him in dreams, and he listens to his every word. It seems to me that Ford's former religious upbringing also plays a role here, as well as the most persistent belief in the paranormal, which was based only on science fiction stories before moving to gravity falls. Ford's egocentricity, his belief in his own exclusivity, perfectionism combined with arrogance, also play here, which led to the fact that he really, without a doubt, believed that he was chosen as the greatest genius of our time. but really, why not believe if he was so successful in finding and justifying the existence of the supernatural in the first place?

and then - even more. all Ford's pages that relate to Bill at this point in time look fabulous, magical, and unreal. as if torn from a dream, depicting cosmic, unattainable expanses of consciousness and flying chess are symbols of knowledge and business cooperation for him. in such a hazy haze of consciousness, Ford very naively and dangerously agrees to give Bill permission to control his body as he pleases. and for Ford, it makes sense - how can a near-divine being, who does not have his own selfish desires and emotions, do something bad to him? even in the cold flame, when shaking hands, he finds an exquisite and mesmerizing moment.

torn pages from Bill's book complement this period in Ford's life - he depicts himself turning to heaven, which also shows his vision of Cipher as an extraterrestrial being that is incomprehensible to his human mind. he treats their relationship as the creation of an important chapter in the whole story, so all his words show excitement - he does not know how to address Bill correctly, is not sure what he should do. after all, it was the first time he found someone who did not turn away from him but found him even in dreams - he could not then lose such a truly fateful chance.

hence, religious servility, and this is it, in its purest form, begins to intertwine with Ford's own emotions, as well as fill a huge hole in his life in the form of the appearance of a friend. reverence begins to mix with respect and the desire to just be friends.

after all, Cipher's flattery is aimed not only at Ford's ambitions - it concerns all his insecurities and questionable life choices. where he speaks almost directly about how Ford is always right, and everyone else is either stupid or envious of Pines and his boundless special mind. Also, these empty compliments are aimed at Ford's main fear - being rejected by society or anyone at all. Bill promises him not power, not money, but his faces on all scientific journals - that is, fame.

the exchange of mutual jokes and thoughts leads to the emergence of friendship from Ford's point of view. he gets used to Bill's extraordinary statements and finds them native in his own way, some unusual feature of his communication style. Stanford is unusual himself, so he is happy to meet not only manifestations of paranormal activity but also sometimes creepy statements by Cipher, finding them exciting, making Bill's recruitment work even easier.

Bill helps Ford with anxiety, constantly advises something, even improved his eyesight - all these countless gifts began to change Bill's title in Ford's head from a friend to a best friend who was with him not only for the sake of transferring some kind of supreme knowledge - but also just like that, in seemingly mortal matters and problems. he was even ready to get a tattoo on himself at the request of his muse, but at the last moment, nevertheless, refused.

it should be understood that Stanford, due to limited experience of communication and socialization, had no idea what was normal and what was abnormal. Now and beyond, Cipher's demands will begin to grow in their seriousness, and Ford will really stop asking questions about them. maybe he justified it by saying that this is what friendship between beings of different kinds looks like, maybe a slight infatuation mixed with adoration with pink glasses closed any logical conclusions.

Ford's birthday is an indicator of a complete departure from Bill's perception of a divine being. Ford received a rather dubious gift in the form of dead rats laid out in his name, but it didn't matter at all to him - the main thing was that his birthday was remembered. the attention paid to the lonely Ford completely killed any rational thinking, so at the moment of drunken singing within the boundaries of reason with his muse, he was happy. He found someone who understood him, worked side by side with him, and was just there for him.

maybe there would not have been this blind infatuation of any character, Ford would have asked more questions about such strange and very disturbing signs of attention, like a tattoo or dead animals, but the emotional nature that he so desperately hid from himself won out again.

the moment Bill listened to him about Stanley, told him, and showed him the last atoms of his destroyed dimension, was the peak of their relationship. the very intimacy of such a conversation, its irreplaceability, when Ford saw not his exalted muse - he saw another being who had lost his home. he is ready to help at the same moment because he cares, and he will do everything to help with the pain, not knowing the whole truth.

later, on the pages about Krampus, Ford puts Bill on the level of Fiddleford's wife and asks in his diary when his muse will appear when his assistant left him. Ford does this unconsciously, which only confirms a young and even innocent love, which Pines himself does not notice out of inexperience.

and that's why he gets angry when Bill doesn't show up to fight the monster on his conversion. he bitterly thinks that Bill inspires another scientist, that is, he is jealous, and that maybe they are absolutely not partners at all, that is, he is afraid of losing Cipher. all these thoughts are recorded in the diary as a single whirlwind of emotions, which again confirms this indifference to Bill.

and when Bill pointed out to Ford his inattention, he immediately wilted, came to his senses, and was ashamed. he really regarded Bill's words as the truth. sometimes returning again to the near-religious servility that had gone away, but in tense moments made itself reappear.

let's end this chapter with a page from the website about the axolotl, which Ford was forced to release at the request of Cipher. Because of Bill's clever mockery of leaving Ford for another scientist, he, in a panic, agrees to everything. he just seems to point out their difference in positions in the relationship a little sadly, no matter what - because Bill always knows better than Ford, and it's better not to argue once again.

In conclusion, we can briefly summarize that Ford went from religious anxious adoration to friendly relaxation and again to loving blind anxiety.

stay tuned for the next chapter about Bill's perspective on this period of time!

[celepom]

For Transgender Day of Visibility, here’s several books about Gender that I haven’t recommended before (I Think)!

Fine: A Comic About Gender

By Rhea Ewing

As graphic artist Rhea Ewing neared college graduation in 2012, they became consumed by the question: What is gender? This obsession sparked a quest in which they eagerly approached both friends and strangers in their quiet Midwest town for interviews to turn into comics. A decade later, this project exploded into a sweeping portrait of the intricacies of gender expression with interviewees from all over the country. Questions such as “How do you Identify” produced fiercely honest stories of dealing with adolescence, taking hormones, changing pronouns—and how these experiences can differ, often drastically, depending on culture, race, and religion. Amidst beautifully rendered scenes emerges Ewing’s own story of growing up in rural Kentucky, grappling with their identity as a teenager, and ultimately finding themself through art—and by creating something this very fine. Tender and wise, inclusive and inviting, Fine is an indispensable account for anyone eager to define gender in their own terms. 

Galaxy: The Prettiest Star 

By Jadzia Axelrod & Jess Taylor (Illustrator)

It takes strength to live as your true self, and one alien princess disguised as a human boy is about to test her power. A vibrant story about gender identity, romance, and shining as bright as the stars. Taylor Barzelay has the perfect life. Good looks, good grades, a starting position on the basketball team, a loving family, even an adorable corgi. Every day in Taylor’s life is perfect. And every day is torture. Taylor is actually the Galaxy Crowned, an alien princess from the planet Cyandii, and one of the few survivors of an intergalactic war. For six long, painful years, Taylor has accepted her duty to remain in hiding as a boy on Earth. That all changes when Taylor meets Metropolis girl Katherine “call me Kat” Silverberg, whose confidence is electrifying. Suddenly, Taylor no longer wants to hide, even if exposing her true identity could attract her greatest enemies. From the charming and brilliant mind behind the popular podcast The Voice of Free Planet X, Jadzia Axelrod, and with stunningly colorful artwork by Jess Taylor comes the story of a girl in hiding who must face her fears to see herself as others see her: the prettiest star.

To Strip the Flesh

By Oto Toda

A moving collection of six short stories that explores what must be stripped away to find the truth and celebrates the beauty of embracing who you are. Chiaki Ogawa has never doubted that he is a boy, although the rest of the world has not been as kind. Bound by his mother’s dying wish, Chiaki tries to be a good daughter to his ailing father. When the burden becomes too great, Chiaki sets out to remake himself in his own image and discovers more than just personal freedom with his transition—he finds understanding from the people who matter most.

Sir Callie and the Champions of Helston 

By Esme Symes-Smith

In a magical medieval world filled with dragons, shape-shifters, and witches, a twelve-year-old hero will search for their place as an impending war threatens. A thrilling middle-grade series opener that stars a nonbinary tween and explores identity and gender amid sword fights. My name is Callie, and I'm not a girl. I am here as Papa's squire, and I want to train as a knight. In a world where girls learn magic and boys train as knights, twelve-year-old nonbinary Callie doesn't fit in anywhere. And you know what? That's just fine. Callie has always known exactly what they want to be, and they're not about to let a silly thing like gender rules stand in their way. When their ex-hero dad is summoned back to the royal capital of Helston to train a hopeless crown prince as war looms, Callie lunges at the opportunity to finally prove themself worthy to Helston's great and powerful. Except the intolerant great and powerful look at Callie and only see girl. Trapped in Helston's rigid hierarchy, Callie discovers they aren't alone--there's Elowen, the chancellor's brilliant daughter, whose unparalleled power is being stifled; Edwyn, Elowen's twin brother, locked in a desperate fight to win his father's approval; and Willow, the crown prince who was never meant to be king. In this start to an epic series packed with action, humor, and heart, Callie and their new friends quickly find themselves embedded in an ancient war--the only hope to defeat the dragons and witches outside the kingdom lies in first defeating the bigotry within.

I Think I Turned My Childhood Friend Into a Girl 

By Azusa Banjo

It's a familiar story: a popular high school student gives their plain friend a makeover and transforms their life. But this time, the path to a new life isn't quite so straight and narrow. Kenshirou Midou has loved cosmetics all his life, keeping his obsession secret from almost everyone except for his childhood friend Hiura Mihate. One day, Kenshirou gets permission to practice applying makeup on Hiura, and the results are earth-shattering: Hiura's appearance transforms from a plain, undersized boy to a pretty, petite girl, and Kenshirou discovers just how freeing it is to apply his passion! Yet he's not the only one who finds the process liberating. Hiura likes the makeup, and the subsequent dress-up in feminine clothes, and decides to start wearing the girls' uniform to school. Kenshirou doesn't understand if he's unlocked something in Hiura, or if he's simply seeing a new side to his childhood buddy that he never noticed before. What are these feelings bubbling between them now--is this attraction truly new?

My Androgynous Boyfriend 

By Tamekou Wako and her androgynous boyfriend don't exactly have the most traditional of relationships. She spends her days working hard in the world of publishing, while he spends his time obsessing over fashion and makeup--all with the goal of making himself beautiful just for her. This romantic slice-of-life story is about love, relationships, and breaking with tradition!

[isfjmel-phleg]

Photographs, 1916

Rachel Doncath, age twenty-five. She stands steadily and faces the camera, but her eyes show a hint of glancing at someone out of the shot. There is a hint of humor about her expression, as if the unseen person were trying to make her laugh. She wears the height of fashion, a dress with a higher waist and a fuller skirt with a hem high enough to expose a pair of delicate shoes that lace up her ankles. Underneath her wide-brimmed hat, her hair is waved. A watch is clipped to her waistband, and she holds her handbag at the ready, as if she hasn't much time to waste in the photographer's studio. A notation on the back of the photograph indicates that it was taken in Otionovia during a state visit from Queen Rietta.

Rietta I of Faysmond, age twenty-six. This is her yearly formal photograph, a portrait of her in state intended for mass production. Unlike most previous years, she sits rather than stands. Her court gown, dripping with various sorts of intricate lace representing different regions of Faysmond, engulfs her, as does an impressive train swept in front of her. The glove of her left hand is removed, revealing her famous emerald engagement ring and wedding ring. The state crown of Faysmond rests on a table beside her, and on her head is a smaller (but not small!) crown. Not a curl is out of place; they seem to have been tamed with some sort of hair product. Her expression is difficult to read. There is something uncertain in her gaze.

Delclis V of Corege, age twenty-five. An unnamed photographer has caught him sitting in the corridor outside a conference room before a meeting. His face is partially turned away toward a large window through which sunlight is streaming. He wears a dress uniform with sash and decorations. His pince-nez rest on his nose. They are attached to a string tied to one of his medals. A wire fox terrier puppy paws at his knee, and he strokes its ears. A faint smile crosses his face. He appears to be desperately trying to grow a moustache.

Elystan, Duke of Gorchester, age twenty-one. He is posing in the full academic dress of a BA from Hollingham University over an elegantly-cut suit. One hand rests nonchalantly on a pile of books on a table, representing his literary studies. The other hand is on his hip, exhibiting the sleeve of his gown. He holds himself regally, shoulders back, chin uplifted a little. His eyes are less dark-circled and his face less hollow than in earlier photographs. He looks very pleased with himself.

Amarantha Melbray, age twenty-one. In a pose reminiscent of a famous self-portrait of her favorite Renaissance artist, Teofila, she sits at her easel lifting a brush to an already-complete painting of a little girl. The painting is identifiable as "Portrait of Chrysantha" (1916), produced during Melbray's time at the Royal Art Academy. Her palette and an orderly paintbox wait nearby. She wears a ruffled light-colored frock that she clearly would never have worn while actually painting. Her hair is pinned high on the back of her head and waves over her ears. She fixes the camera with a steady, intent gaze.

Tamett Låsrygg, age twenty-one. An informal photograph, made clear by the wide grin on his face. He leans casually against the side of an aeroplane. His arms are crossed over his chest. He wears a leather jacket and flying helmet with goggles. A scarf, probably knitted by his sister Emenor, drapes around his neck. Noriberrian insignia is pinned to the lapel of his jacket. The photograph is inscribed with his signature and the words "With love from New Archangel. Watch the skies for me soon!"

Josiah Callon, age twenty-one. He sits at the piano, one hand over the keys, the other holding a pair of spectacles, which he appears to have just removed. His long legs stretch out in front of him; after years of track and field at Hollingham, he is built like a runner. A morning suit, with its cutaway tailcoat, accentuates his height. Instead of the common 1910s male practice of slicking back the hair into flat smoothness using oil, his hair is parted on the side with curls dipping across the forehead above one eye. His expression is not so much haughty as it is profoundly serious and a little sad.

[sarahshootspeople-blog]

I’m just a little volcano in the nighttime, I can see the world burn under my finger tips. 🌋

[davisbrownell]

untitled self portrait

[docgold13]

Batman: The Animated Series - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

The Scarecrow (New Adventures)

Following a prolonged absence, The Scarecrow returned to Gotham.  He now wore a much more frightening costume complete with lifts that made him seem taller, a ghoulish mask and a hangman’s noose dangled about his neck.  

Crane’s further research into fear led to the development of a new fear-toxin.  This was a gas that completely nullified terror and debilitated an individual from being able to feel the least bit of fear or anxiety.  In that a degree of fear is essential in foresight and self-preservation, a total lack of fear was severely dangerous.  

Crane recruited test subjects for the new compound by was of a series of phony self-help seminars aimed toward people suffering from anxiety.  He found that those exposed to the anti-fear gas behaved in a highly chaotic and destructive fashion.  

Batman infiltrated one of these seminars in disguise and ended up dosed with the anti-fear gas.  Although he believed he could handle its effects, Robin quickly noticed that Batman was behaving in an increasingly reckless fashion. Batman was ultimately able to discover The Scarecrow’s scheme but he almost killed a suspect in the process and Robin was forced to subdue Batman until a cure for the gas could be found.  

The Scarecrow planned to hold Gotham ransom, threatening to release the gas throughout the city, sewing absolute mayhem unless an exorbitant ransom was paid.  He had commandeered a subway train to administer the gas.  Robin caught up to the train but was captured by The Scarecrow’s henchmen.  Batman, meanwhile, had escaped Robin’s bindings and followed.  He defeated The Scarecrow and his men and would have killed the villain had Robin not administered the antidote just in time.   

Not long thereafter, the Scarecrow once more escaped Arkham and was pulling a heist.  He was captured by Batman but not before dosing Batgirl with a concentrated version his traditional fear gas.  This caused Batgirl to fall into a comatose-like sleep where she had an awful nightmare that involved her father, Commissioner Gordon, going to war with Batman over the fact that she had been killed in action.  She was terribly relieved when she awakened and discovered it was all a dream induced by the fear gas.  

Actors Actors Henry Polic II, Jeff Bennett and Jeffery Combs have each provided the voice for The Scarecrow.  The villain first appeared in the tenth episode of the first season of Batman: The Animated Series, ‘Nothing to Fear.’  

[eastwindmlk]

Written for @jilymicrofics prompt: Care, Feb 3rd

A little @jilymicro-oops at 1849 words

Companion to Put on Bed Rest

Lily was never one for the cold; she disliked the way it crept into your very bones, the way it would bite at everything that was left exposed. And after a particularly nasty cold, courtesy of James Potter stuffing a snowball down her shirt—something for which he had apologised profusely and she had, in turn, pushed him into the lake over once the frost had thawed. She had learned to stay away from snowball fights. 

Even with James having caught something himself, she was not going to risk it. After a quiet stroll through the snow, she avoided the rumbustious crowd and left before they could spot her. Having retrieved herself a flask of hot chocolate from the kitchens, which she had every intention of spiking with some cherry liqueur her father had brought back from his trip to Austria, she made her way back to her bed. She planned on sitting down and devouring one of Hestia’s harlequin romances. 

She’d promised her that this one was particularly steamy, and that was just what she needed right now. Even if she would not admit it aloud, having been in such close proximity with James, who is patient, clever, responsible, and disgustingly handsome, she needed something to distract her from her own romantic mishaps. 

She had the hope that the whiles of Lucy Brown and her handsome doctor, Travis Walsh, would distract her from her own pathetic predicament. Maybe she’d even got to work off some of that tension that had been brewing just under the surface. 

Or not. 

Lily could see him sitting in the window the moment she pushed through the portrait hole. The same spot he always used when he wanted to be melodramatic and mope. It was where they would find him after a particularly poor quidditch practice. 

It was reserved for the little moments. Things that could easily be fixed, but he just wanted to commiserate. The spot was also notably empty after bigger disappointments. Like lost games or particularly poor news days. She’d learned those were days he would linger at the pitch. He would find somewhere up high to think. 

The redhead considered brushing past him, letting him wallow in his self-pity. Only to hear him sniffle and feel the overwhelming need to comfort him. She could hardly let him sit there like that, right? At the very least, she should check. She told herself, and before she knew it, she had said his name. “Potter?” she’d asked quietly. 

He turned around, his eyes watery and his skin clammy-looking. He looked like he should be in bed, not sitting around trying to read. Her hand darted out, her fingers brushing his forehead. He was burning up. Great. “You really should go to the hospital wing,” she informed him, worried that he might actually collapse not long from now. 

“I’m fine, Evans,” he protested, the words followed by a coughing fit. He was not fine; he was so much not fine that his usual easy smile looked more like a grimace than anything. He genuinely looked like he was in some sort of pain, and Lily resigned herself to taking him to bed.

If he was not going down to the hospital wing, he should at least be lying down. Which was the least she could do, she supposed. Make sure that James lays down and does not injure himself further sitting here. Once he was tucked in, she could resume her afternoon as planned. 

“Back to bed with you,” she ordered, jerking her thumb in the direction of the girls’ dorm. A mistake likely made out of habit. A mistake she did not realise she'd made until he'd managed to get up with a lot of huffing and groaning—his muscles stiff from either the cold or the flu he was nursing. And she barrelled past her, up to the girls' dormitories. The precise direction she had directed him in.

Lily watched, expecting the stairs to sound the alarm and send him sliding down on his arse at any moment now. Only when he made it to the curve in the spiral did she realise that he now had Head Boy privileges. He was not going to be barred from the girls' dorms, and panic struck here. Wondering in what state they'd left their room this morning. 

She dreaded the possibilities. There were plenty of embarrassing artefacts that James could find. Not just around her bed; he wouldn't even know which one was hers. But that did not mean he needed to stumble onto Marlene's knickers or Hestia's collection of raunchy novellas. Bounding up the stairs after him, her hands reached to grip onto his shirt, which caused him to stall and sway, leaving her space to push past him near the last step. 

“Oh no, you are not going in there! No, sir!” Lily protested, placing herself in his path to block the door to her dorm. But he still reached past her to the door handle. This close, she could feel his fever burning through her thick coat, see the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and see the bleary-eyed look behind his glasses. 

James gripped the handle, swaying into her dangerously, and she knew that he would not make it back down the stairs without risking a nasty fall. Never mind making it up the stairs to his own bed. “Fucking hell, Potter. You are really not leaving me any choice, are you?” Lily complained through gritted teeth, her arms wrapping around his middle as he staggered into her. 

She locked her knees as his full weight came down on her, even if it was just for a moment, until he got his footing back. Just don’t mind the mess, alright.” She pushed his hair back, her hand slick with sweat. The door opened, and they were hit with an overwhelming wave of lavender and eucalyptus, undoubtedly Marlene having spelled it up after endless complaints about the smell of her gear. Or maybe Dorcas, who had been complaining about the smell of their soggy boots that morning. 

Whoever it was had overdone it, big time. 

Lily blinked as her nose was assaulted. James started coughing, bending over her, and making her grunt at the added weight. Half carrying, half dragging him across the room. Just wanting to get him into a bed now. Once her hands were free, she could dispel the charm. 

“You have the same bed,” he remarked, barely able to breathe but no longer coughing. 

Letting James collapse into her bed, she quickly kicked yesterday's underwear under the bed before reprimanding him, "Catch your breath before offering commentary.” She gave him a stern look before shrugging off her coat and draping it over her trunk. She was about to ask about his remarks. Effidently, they'd picked the same spot in the dorm during their first year. It almost seemed like fate. 

Something was enticing about the look of James Potter in her bed; she thought she was going to be having regardless. However, she supposed he would be sweaty for different reasons. A thought shook from her mind when James remarked, “Your dorm is a lot nicer than mine.” His eyes caught hers with a tired smile. "Smells better too, once you've got used to it." 

Lily couldn't help but laugh, a little too enthusiastic. When she snorted, Lily wanted nothing more than the floorboards to swallow her up. Hand clamping over her mouth in fear of a repeat, her cheeks warming up in embarrassment. “That is because Marlene’s Quidditch gear isn’t here,” she told him with a roll of her eyes. “You should smell it then.” Hopefully, the little jest could distract him from her little inelegant moment.

She let him recover from the laughter while she dug through her bedside table, certain that her mother had sent her a jar of Vicks. Something that she thought might help him. 

“That might be the problem.” He sniffed. "Too much quidditch gear," he groaned, his fingers pressing into his temples just as she found the little dark blue jar. Holding it out triumphantly, only to realise that James would have no clue what it was or what it might do. Still, she sat on the bed and fixed his collar. 

"Can I? It'll help," she promised, already reaching to pull his shirt up, doing her utmost not to be too distracted by the underneath. Waiting for his permission before pushing the fabric up. Exposing his chest. She kept her face down, hiding her flush, as she carefully rubbed the balm into his chest. Only pausing to feel his heart race under her touch. Biting back a smile. 

Then he was right there, having pushed himself up to get closer to her. His teeth caught onto his lip, sure that this was it. He was going to kiss her, and she would let him. She would love that; it would have been perfect. Like a moment in one of her books. 

As quickly as that moment had come, his heat faded, making her chase it without thinking. Still chasing his lips, wanting that kiss. The enchantment broke when she nearly toppled forward. She had to catch herself on the pillow beside him, draw a shallow breath, and blink back to reality. 

Lily scrambled for what to say, cursing herself for blushing this easily. Or rather, that James could make her blush this easily; no one else seemed to have quite the same knack for it. “Um- I. Can you turn around?” Moving things along, the question made her hesitate long enough for her to explain. “I need to do your back, too.”

“Right, of course,” he stammered, twisting for her to be able to reach over. Her body pressed into his. Carefully repeating the process, she was unable to stop herself from admiring the sculpted back. Her fingers were absentmindedly gliding along his spine. He resists the urge to let her fingers walk along his ribs. She was likely already making him suspicious. 

Pushing herself off the bed, she announced, “All done!" She needed a moment to compose herself as she replaced the jar on her bedside table. “I suggest you take a nap. Let it do its work.”

It would give her a little time to work through all the thoughts and feelings she had surrounding having him in her bed. She moved away to sit down on her trunk, giving him the space to get some rest, when his hand caught her wrist. Making her heart sputter. Letting herself be pulled into him. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

'Damn you, Potter!' She wanted to curse, but she did not trust her voice to be even. Just a moment and a very few breaths to compose herself were all she needed. So, in response, Lily leaned down and pressed a kiss on his forehead. She felt the fever burn through him. All he could do now was rest, and she would let him. 

“Sweet dreams, James," she told him, offering a smile that he would not see as his eyes drooped closed. 

[filurig]

☄️ For Arvo (I adore him sm)

im glad u like my little sminglo hihi >:3

☄️ - From your OC’s perspective, write a short paragraph about their average day. 

[this one will be more like a 'notes he jots down throughout the day' thing as well]

Met with Folke. Interesting discussion. He spoke of fishing and asked me if I had ever done it. Told him I had no interest in it, but would be interested in seeing him do it. Such a seemingly meek human, capable of killing? It would please me to see it. It could prove me right in the end, despite his feeble attempts to argue.

This week's hunt appears to be minor. Collecting faeries.

To remember from Karoliina's notes;

Mostly harmless if one's smell is blocked off. Can 'slice' - thick clothing protects

Will enter a slumber if exposed to smoke from fire long enough

Nests hard to find, will find individuals occasionally near 'faerie rings', fungus rings

Capture alive, most valuable when not damaged

Seal in glass container in order to block pheromones

We are to attempt to retrieve individuals with different morphology. I have been assigned to work with Sjölander (...)

I tried the mask that we are to use when approaching faerie territory - uncomfortable. Yet another test of mettle.

(There are several drawings scribbled about around the notes - some attempts at self portrait, face scribbled out, some depictions of faeries, most likely referenced from Karoliina's drawing. He does not have any issue drawing their faces, in that he hasn't avoided trying. A small doodle of a hat, two prominent feathers sticking out from it, and a scribbled out drawing of a hand.)