#my intuition was so right; it's uncanny

[my-timing-is-digital]

character / blog association.

animal:    cat

color(s):    gold & purple

month:    december

song:    blue skies — frank sinatra, heart of the android — orden ogan, electric touch — a r i z o n a, & stars make progress — thirteen senses

number:    8 — because it is the only counting number that does not contain any sharp edges

day or night:    dusk & dawn

plant:    lupinus flower

smell:    spot — if his olfactory sensors detect spot’s scent it signifies that she is either cuddling in his arms or snoozing on his chest :3

gemstone:    amethyst

season:    spring & autumn, simply because of the seasons’ aesthetics.

place:    the u.s.s. enterprise — his first real home

food:    anything but commander riker’s egg concoction

astrological sign:    aquarius

element:    air

drink:    semi-organic nutrient suspension in a silicon-based liquid medium & beverages that evoke strong emotional responses

Tagged by: @jurati​

Tagging: @heartfledged​, @gnosticpriesthood​, @sayonaradumbass​ (bones!!!), @ensnchekov​, @sohelish​, & anyone else who’d like to do this!

[godsfavdarling]

How could you?

my masterlist, part 2

pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader (established relationship) words: 2,3k summary: You go to Spencer's apartment, only to witness a shocking betrayal that shatters your world. warnings: angst, hurt, spoilers for season 15! a/n: this was one of the ideas for the later chapters of my full story 'Keep Holding On' (completed and available here), but there wasn't really a place for it. so, I decided to just make it into a one-shot with a gender-neutral reader!

You and Spencer have been together for a few years now, your relationship a patchwork of late-night conversations, lazy weekends spent on a couch with books, and long nights in each other's arms.

Although his job isn't easy and you don't get him to yourself as much as you'd like to, you wouldn't change a thing. He and the love you share mean everything to you.

In the quiet moments when you're alone, you find yourself marveling at how unexpected and yet perfectly fitting your love story is. You never thought this could happen to you. 

You never let yourself believe that there would be a man like Spencer loving you and accepting every fiber of your being.

Spencer's presence in your life is like a gentle breeze on a hot summer's day, soothing and comforting. His unwavering support and understanding make even the toughest days bearable. And when he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, you feel a sense of belonging that you've never known before.

You cherish the simple moments shared over cups of coffee in the morning or stolen kisses in the middle of the day. In Spencer's eyes, you see a reflection of your own hopes and dreams, and in his laughter, you find the melody of your heart's desires.

As you drift off to sleep each night, nestled in Spencer's embrace, you offer a silent prayer of gratitude for the love that fills your days and the warmth that fills your heart. 

In him, you've found not just a partner, but a kindred spirit, a soulmate who completes you in ways you never knew were possible. And for that, you will always be thankful.

There's an unspoken language that exists only between you and Spencer. It's a language of love, trust, and understanding that transcends words.

You marvel at how effortlessly Spencer seems to know what you need, even before you do. His intuition is uncanny, his gestures of affection tender and sincere. 

Whether it's a simple touch on the small of your back as he passes by or a reassuring squeeze of your hand when you're feeling uncertain, Spencer has an innate ability to make everything feel right.

You trust him with your deepest fears, your wildest dreams, and every fragile piece of your heart.

In his arms, you find sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world, a safe harbor where you can be your truest self without fear of judgment or rejection.

And as you navigate the challenges of life together, you're constantly reminded of just how perfect Spencer is in your eyes. His kindness knows no bounds, his patience infinite. 

But it's not just his virtues that make him perfect; it's the way he loves you, wholly and unconditionally. In Spencer, you've found a partner who sees you for who you truly are, flaws and all, and loves you all the more fiercely because of them.

Now as you climb the stairs to Spencer's apartment, your heart flutters. Spencer has just started his 30 days of obligatory sabbatical, and you're looking forward to spending more time together now that his only obligation is his teaching job. You've picked up takeout on the way, eager to share a quiet evening together.

But as you open the door, your excitement turns to shock and disbelief.

There, before you, is Spencer, locked in a passionate embrace with JJ. Her hands are cupping his cheeks, their lips pressed together in a kiss that sends a jolt of pain through your chest.

Time seems to stand still as the bags of food slip from your fingers, crashing to the floor with a dull thud. You can't tear your eyes away from the scene before you, the weight of betrayal crushing down on you like a ton of bricks.

A thousand thoughts race through your mind, each one more painful than the last.

How could Spencer do this to you? How long has this been going on? And most importantly, how could you have been so blind to the truth?

Your heart feels like it's been ripped from your chest, shattered into a million pieces by the revelation before you. The love and trust you once shared with Spencer now lay in ruins at your feet, leaving you feeling empty and alone in a world that suddenly seems cold and indifferent.

As Spencer and JJ finally break apart, their eyes widening in shock at your sudden appearance, you feel a surge of anger rising within you. But beneath the anger lies a deep well of hurt and sadness, a pain that cuts to the very core of your being.

Without a word, you turn on your heel and flee from the apartment, tears streaming down your cheeks as you struggle to make sense of the betrayal that has shattered your world.

Everything spins around you in a blur of tears and confusion, you turn and run down the stairs, desperate to escape the pain and betrayal that threaten to consume you.

Each step feels like a marathon, your legs heavy with the weight of sorrow and disbelief.

But just as you reach the bottom of the stairs, your vision swimming with tears, you stumble, your foot catching on the edge of a step. You plummet forward, the ground rushing up to meet you with terrifying speed.

In that split second before impact, a pair of strong arms wraps around you, pulling you back from the brink of disaster. You gasp in shock and relief as Spencer catches you, his grip firm and steady.

For a moment, you cling to him like a lifeline, your body trembling with the force of your emotions.

You can't breathe, can't think, can't comprehend the enormity of what has just happened.

As you collapse onto the stairs, your sobs echoing in the empty stairwell, Spencer kneels beside you, his expression a mixture of concern and frustration.

He reaches out to touch you, but you flinch away, unable to bear the thought of his hands on your skin.

"Please," he pleads, his voice cracking with emotion. "Let me explain. It wasn't what you think. I didn't...I didn't do anything."

But his words fall on deaf ears as you struggle to make sense of the chaos swirling inside your head.

How could Spencer betray you like this? How could he let someone else touch him in that way?

As the truth begins to dawn on you, a wave of anger washes over you, hot and relentless. You push yourself away from Spencer, your chest heaving with the effort to draw breath.

"Don't," you choke out, your voice barely a whisper. "Don't touch me."

But Spencer refuses to give up, his eyes burning with determination as he reaches for you once more. "Please," he begs, his voice raw with emotion. "Let me explain. It wasn't me. It was her."

You place a trembling hand on your chest, trying to steady your racing heart as you struggle to catch your breath.

"How could you?" you utter, your voice barely above a whisper, the words heavy with accusation and pain.

Spencer's eyes are full of anguish as tears well up in his eyes. He reaches out to you, his hand hovering in the air between you, a silent plea for forgiveness that you're not sure you're ready to grant.

But before you can respond, JJ appears at the top of the stairs, her mouth open as if she's about to say something. But then, with a quick shake of her head, she closes her mouth and walks past the two of you without a word.

You stare after her in disbelief, your mind reeling with confusion and hurt.

You struggle to make sense of the situation. You knew of the hostage situation with JJ and how she had professed her love for Spencer. But you also remember how Spencer immediately came to you, confessing everything and reassuring you of his love for you.

He spent the whole night telling you every detail of what happened, assuring you that his heart belonged to you and you alone. He made it clear that you were the one he loved, not JJ.

So what happened? How could he be kissing her now, after everything he said and everything you've been through together?

With a shaky breath, you push yourself up from the stairs, your muscles tense with the effort to contain the storm raging within you. You want to flee, to distance yourself from him and the shattered remnants of your trust.

But before you can take a single step, Spencer's voice cuts through the tumultuous haze of your thoughts, pleading with you to stay. His words are a desperate plea for understanding, for a chance to explain the inexplicable.

"Please," he implores, his voice cracking with emotion. "Don't leave. I need to explain. I swear, it wasn't what it looked like. You have to believe me."

You hesitate, torn between the desire to escape and the need for answers. Despite the overwhelming pain coursing through your veins, there's a part of you that still craves the truth, no matter how agonizing it may be.

You groan loudly, the weight of the situation bearing down on you like a leaden blanket. Your mind races with a million questions, each one more painful than the last.

But for now, you're too overwhelmed to process anything.

With another loud groan, you turn and begin to make your way back upstairs, your steps heavy with exhaustion and despair.

You can feel Spencer's eyes boring into your back, his silent plea for you to stay echoing in the empty stairwell.

As you reach the top of the stairs, you don't look back, you enter the apartment and your only thought is to find a moment of solace in the solitude of the bathroom.

With trembling hands, you shut the door behind you, the click of the lock a final barrier between you and the chaos that threatens to consume you.

And as you sit there, trembling and broken, you realize that there's something about Spencer, something in the depths of his eyes that compelled you to stay, to hear him out.

It's a trust that runs deeper than words.

As you emerge from the bathroom after a few minutes, the weight of the silence between you and Spencer hangs heavy in the air.

You find him on the couch, his leg shaking uncontrollably, his fingers fidgeting nervously. His face is etched with worry and pain, mirroring the tumult of emotions raging inside you both.

He gave you space, just as he always did. It's one of the things you've always admired about him, his ability to recognize when you needed time to process and heal.

But now, as you sit in the armchair nearby, staring at him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, you can't help but feel the need for answers, for some semblance of understanding in the chaos that surrounds you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer speaks. His voice is hoarse with emotion, the words tumbling out in a rush as if he's been holding them back for far too long.

"She just showed up," he begins, his voice barely above a whisper. "Out of nowhere, she started talking about how she loves me and how she was stupid for ignoring it for so long. She said she couldn't pretend anymore..."

You listen in stunned silence, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. So it wasn't Spencer who initiated the kiss, it was JJ.

But why?

As Spencer continues to speak, his words are a desperate attempt to make sense of the madness that has engulfed your lives, you find yourself drawn to him, to the vulnerability etched into every line of his face.

Despite the pain and betrayal that still lingers between you, there's a part of you that can't help but empathize with his plight.

As Spencer falls silent, his eyes searching yours for some sign of forgiveness or understanding, you find yourself grappling with a whirlwind of emotions.

Hurt, betrayal, and confusion war with a lingering sense of empathy and love for the man sitting before you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart and collect your thoughts. "Spencer," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, "I... I don't know what to say."

His eyes widen in anticipation, his expression a mixture of hope and fear. "I understand," he murmurs, his voice laced with regret. "I know I've hurt you, and I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen."

"I need time," you finally say, your voice trembling with emotion. "I need time to process everything, to figure out where we go from here."

Spencer nods solemnly, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I understand," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here, waiting for you."

With a heavy sigh, you push yourself up from the armchair, your limbs feeling like lead. "I'm going to go," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "I just... I need some space."

Spencer nods, his gaze following you as you make your way to the door. "I'll be here," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. "I love you."

You pause in the doorway, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. "I love you too," you murmur, your voice choked with emotion.

And with that, you step out into the cool night air, the weight of the world heavy on your shoulders.

As you make your way home, you can't help but wonder will it ever be the same between the two of you?

[azure-cherie]

PAC : which type of seducer are you

•1~9•

This is based on " The art of seduction" by Robert Greene

With your intuition choose a picture of Adriana Lima , you can choose multiple as well . This is based solely on my intuition however you must observe yourself more for greater accuracy . This is for entertainment purposes.

Pile 1 :

The star

The Star is almost (or completely is) of celebrity status. They, like the Natural, poses the powers of the uncanny -- specifically mixing reality and myth. The star is a dream come true. Physically present, but almost legendary and mythic in essence. They are almost too dream-like to picture in front of us. We imagine them too far out of our league, and that is what makes them so attractive.

Pile 2 :

The Dandy

The Dandy is the Siren or the Rake of the same sex. They attract the traditionally-male with psychologically masculine traits, and they attract the traditionally-female with psychologically feminine traits. They tear down the labels that society has put on sexuality and they play in all spaces. We're attracted to Dandies for their ambiguous and obscure personas, and their freedom to break prejudice sexual behavioural roles.

Pile 3 :

The Rake

The Rake is characterized as the masculine Siren. Playing on society's roles that a female character must abide by, the Rake brings out the oppressed behaviours of a traditionally-femine figure. They bring out the excited feminine in us. Again, male, female, or neutral, we're attracted to Rakes when we've been too confined and comfortable - too restrained - too neutral and unenergized in our day-to-day lives.

Pile 4 :

The natural

The Natural is a reflection of those golden years of comfort and innocent affection - childhood. They portray what both Kubrick and Freud would describe as 'uncanny'. Familiar yet strange. The Natural brings into their persona a sense of youthfulness in an adult body, drawing those that long for the times of no responsibilities, harmlessness, and naive spontaneity.

Pile 5:

The coquette

The Coquette is hot and cold. They touch and go. They attract you with hopeful words or sensual maneuvers and then step back and distance themselves from you. They entice you and frustrate you at the same time, and we're attracted to this because of our human nature to want what we can't have.

Pile 6:

The siren

The Siren is of highly charged traditionally-feminine energy and tends to attract those of a completely opposite, traditionally-masculine energy. Whether or not you identify as male, female or neither, you'll tend to be attracted to a Siren when you show characters on the extremes of traditionally-male behaviour.

Pile 7 :

The charismatic

The Charismatic is the excitement in the room. They exude confidence and energy in all the right places. They are mesmerizing and we're attracted to them because of their sincere obsessions and opinions and actions. They glow a sense of charisma with their animated gestures and fiery persuasive voice. And if they fit our values, they're just a good time to be around.

Pile 8 :

The ideal lover

The Ideal Lover comes to us from our childhood dreams, or rather our lost dreams. They are the ones that bring a hopeless fantasy to life with their ability to mirror the ideals we once had as innocent happy-go-lucky children, but have lost to grey world. They are highly astute at understanding our deepest desires and definitions of affection and bring them to fruition.

Pile 9 :

The charmer

The Charmer has almost a devilish smile you're willing to swoon over. The word "charm" comes from the Latin "carmen" -- a song or a chant that is synonymous with a magic spell. To charm is to literally cast a spell on another. The way that they do this, and the reasons we fall for them, is because they understand 3 fundamental laws of human nature: The law of narcissism, the law of defensiveness, and the law of grandiosity. It's our egos that they stroke, our vanity emotional walls that they align with, and our self-esteem that they praise.

Definitions from the website:

https://aarondanielfilms.com/blog/the-9-archetypal-lovers-you-are-attracted-to

Thank you, hope you resonate 💕

Have a great day/night ahead 😘

[planetsxmore]

SHORT MESSAGES FROM YOUR FUTURE LOVER

one two three

four five six

lowkey inspired to make this as i saw a few other blogs - this a short pac that'll consist of complete/incomplete sentences channeled by your future lover/spouse/soulmate- choose your pile carefully! - you can choose more than one pile if you'd like - used intuition and rw tarot deck for this reading - this is a general reading and may or may not resonate for you all - stay positive,and hydrated loves <33

© planetsxmore rights reserved 2022 • masterlist

your likes and reblogs will be appreciated •

ꕤ PILE 1

you're the sunshine to my darkness

are you okay? because i'm not

stop doubting yourself,you're amazing and complete! i love you for how you are -

i can't wait to have you in my arms but i know that's not possible - even after we meet because it'll take us time to realize how much we love each other

the color blue is our color..

it takes time to heal wounds and broken hearts

you're the best thing that ever happened to me

i'm insecure and i'm afraid you'll run away from the scars i have...

let us dance all night,talk all night - love all night...

i love your smile,it's adorable

ꕤ PILE 2

stop it,you're tickling me...

we're literally more than friends,more than best friends even....

it's uncanny the way we both understand each other. words aren't even needed to express what we want to communicate with each other

we're weird,and we know it- and frankly speaking we don't don't care *wink*

our love is more like an understanding - it's pure,less of the lust and more of the emotional love - we laugh with each other,cry with each other and do absolutely everything together - if we haven't met,i know it's unbelievable for you but you'll believe me once we meet, darling.

you hate my pet,why tho?

our dates are the best - they're soo secretive yet soo quirky lol

you hate it when i snort/snore/slurp - but i can't help it love xD

i gave you my everything yet you didn't think of it alot. why does it feel unrequited at times?

our taste is very similar..in almost alot of things

ꕤ PILE 3

i really love the way your body looks or may look,keeps me guessing...

you're a little too sensitive,can you be a little open? i mean c'mon life's about fun - don't waste yourself overthinking most of the time

whenever i listen to love songs,it reminds me of you..

you're jealous of my exes,but what am i suppose to do if i'm soo hot --

i feel as though so much,so much could be better between the two of us. i'm a little impatient in everything and i can't change that,love - i've tried, trust me

idk why you're soo shy,i'm all in for you -

i hope you understand that i'm not the one to believe in "happy ever after-s" - it's life,babe - we gotta understand it's not a storybook

i love it how you listen to me,it makes me feel as you're the one for me for life - but again,i don't believe in story tales - kinda love. i love it fast - and quick -

clinginess is not anything i love neither co dependency

i love it when my gifts make you happy - the twinkle in your eyes are everything!

[ loves,i don't know how you feel about this pile - but for some of you, i feel you're attracting a very toxic lover/fs - if that's the case,and you don't feel good about this pile- please don't worry since this is the future you're attracting at the moment - change your energy and be a little more positive to attract a better future and partner / you don't need to end up with such an individual if you don't want to - however,if you're fine with this,then no prob! ]

ꕤ PILE 4

close your eyes and imagine - i know you'll feel me around you...

i love how we do homely activities together (cooking/cleaning/working etc.)

you and i are equals. - equals for life

we argue like little kids and make out at the very next moment..

you're my jellybean and i'm your savior.

you always end up in trouble and i always end up fixing it all for you,but i'm with you don't worry

i'll find you but you need to be strong till then! don't let your feelings out for just anyone please

you like my car and i like your lips ...*winks*

it's soo funny how you'll hide your feelings for me and it'll be obvious at the same time..i'll do the same thing.. honestly it'll be a circus and we'll be like two clowns until we confess

please bear with me when i close off. i have past baggages that make me feel isolated at times and opening up can be difficult. just stay with me,i promise i'll open up for you,love.

ꕤ PILE 5

you're literally my drug - i don't know if it's toxic or not,but all i know is that i feel strongly for you ... strongly.

you love my hugs,i know you do .

i know i'm usually very busy and taking out time can be difficult - but i'll manage i promise,just don't go away with anyone else.

you're my favorite - my utmost favorite

maybe sometimes you'll feel as though i'm selfish - wanting all of your body,time and love for myself while i give you less -- but what can i do,love? it's just the way i am. i crave you... can't see you with anyone,even your work bothers me at times when you ignore me because if it - i'm sorry,i'll try to work in these habits...but habits are difficult to change y'know?

i'm possessive,yes i am. i don't want any third party between us - any !

you love our long drives and dinner dates , and i love them with you too !

i love you. i love you right? it's not infatuation,it's not obsession !

i love it when you smile for me, because of me - i love to be your source of happiness!

just be mine, please. when you crush on anyone apart from me,i feel -- i just don't feel good,even if it's a celeb.

[ loves,i don't know how you feel about this pile - but for some of you, i feel you're attracting a very possessive lover/fs - if that's the case,and you don't feel good about this pile- please don't worry since this is the future you're attracting at the moment - change your energy and be a little more positive to attract a better future and partner / you don't need to end up with such an individual if you don't want to - however,if you're fine with the possessiveness,then no prob! ]

ꕤ PILE 6

we're soulmates,yes we are.

do you know how much i had to think over before approaching you? why are you always soo - soo intimidating y'know lol

we're opposite poles of magnets. two parts of a heart - we fit perfectly.

listening to music together soothes me..

i can be a little workaholic but trust me sweetheart, whenever i get time - i rush to you,for you. i just want to build the most stable future for us. I see you in my future..

i'm a little inexperienced in relationships - they never excited me until you came in the picture..

i do whatever i can for you, but if something still bothers you - please,tell me. i don't mind you telling me what i can do better.

love me forever.

i'm all yours,love. the good and the bad. just like the raw ..

i'm scared that our families won't accept us but, no matter what,i'm with you. we'll work through this - you just work on yourself right now, don't stress out. we'll be with each other,as soon as the universe thinks it's time

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SEVEN: LAMB

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the seventh chapter in the series

---

The kitchen is a quiet chaos— Hannibal standing over the hob, his beautiful hands precise at their work, Will slouched, sulking prettily against a countertop, looking into the bottom of a wine glass.

His temper billows about the room. It's a wonder anyone can breathe through such smoke.

You hover at an anxious distance, afflicted by delectable smells and the scar of what you’ve done. Shame beats, eviscerated, under the boards of you; you chose to taunt and then to touch Will Graham, a conscious participant in this play of a poisonous home.

If your hosts were to give you but a minute apart from them you’d chastise yourself for your abasement: three stiff, sweat-inducing planks, a lap of your room, a prison yard exhaustion.

But they keep you under their eye, knowing, like a child, you’d surely run to burn your hand on the stove.

“How do you want me to be around him?” you ask, as Hannibal tastes a truffle sauce with a look of indecision. “Your Agent Crawford. He doesn’t know about us, does he?”

“As I have assured you, it is between you, Will, and I,” Dr Lecter answers. “Therefore, as far as any visitor is concerned, you remain my patient. That is all.”

How easily you are expected to step from one evanescent role to the other. Should your tongue slip, you may damn him and Will both, yet you know Hannibal is without fear as surely as though you had your fingers to his wrist, timing the pulse of his slow calm.

“And what am I to Will today?” you ask.

“A ward, of sorts, for now.”

The word conjures images of chill cells, bed pans, wilful neglect. Something Victorian in its sensibilities.

“A ward,” you repeat. “Right.”

In the peripheries of vision Will sets down his glass with an icy clink.

“Are you intending to be civilised at dinner," he asks, "or do we have to prepare for another devolution into infantile behaviour?”

You’d expected Will to be smug, glutted from his fill, but your mouth upon him has only calcified his antagonism into some crueller compound, still. He does not like that he has taken pleasure from you, is in denial of it, a steadfast separation.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” you say. “I never know what’s going to happen. Usually I’m... not myself.”

Will folds his arms in an impassable cross.

“You’re not being medicated tonight. Your actions will be your responsibility.”

The prospect of sobriety has little power to cheer. You’d rather the drooling oblivion of a dose over the chess match of having to divine the correct answer and micro-expression to every aside.

Intuiting your distress, Hannibal says, “You'll be eating from a slightly different menu to the rest of the table. Light portions, with attention to your safe foods.”

In disbelief, you take stock of the simmering pans, their contents once the meat of your routine.

“My... my safe foods,” you repeat. “But I didn’t even tell you what they were.”

What should comfort holds the sinister weight of interred dead, so familiar as to be uncanny.

“I have observed your preferences,” says Dr Lecter. “Thus, I am able to accommodate.”

He offers you a spoon to taste, which you decline.

“You’re making it easier for me to stick to my old ways,” you point out. “That doesn’t seem right. What’s going on?”

“I’m allowing you space to devote your energy to an unexpected social situation. I know they are not your strong suit, and I wish you to be relaxed. It will benefit us all.”

There is no pretence here of pure intentions; you acknowledge the respect that has been awarded to you in the absence of a lie.

“Thank you,” you say. “Could you do this... more, please?”

“If you continue to fulfil your role satisfactorily, yes.”

Hannibal glances at Will, whose breath of harsh laughter pars the conversation like a shank, short and sharp.

“You remain against her, then.”

“I don’t see that she has any genuine interest in evolving,” says Will, as though you are not there. “Just a cuckoo in an empty nest.”

The phrasing catches like a coat on brambled hedgerow. Alert, you examine your younger captor, interpreting the set of his harsh look.

“What are you to each other, really?” you ask.

“Friends,” says Will, bluntly.

The speed with which he speaks betrays a not-quite lie, a sentence with a postluding clause.

“We are aesthetes of an uncommon kind,” Dr Lecter interjects, over a pearl string of steam. “It adds dimension to our relationship few will ever perceive. In time, I expect you will.”

The kitchen, though of minimal colour—greys, black, pure, clinical white—develops a peculiar warmth. There is invitation, here, open-armed acceptance into domesticity, and whatever midnight cabal weds these two men in their brotherhood.

“I don’t think you want me,” you say, as Hannibal rinses cutlery at the sink. “I’m not interesting. I don’t talk like you. I don’t really understand art, or books, or poetry. I’m not even smart.”

Will’s head turns, the sly incline an eel from a cave mouth.

“Hannibal tells me you were academic, once. What happened?”

Seldom do you care to recollect your school days, which were lived painfully, as a mute ghost at the back of the class.

Attempts to decipher screens and pages through tears that had fallen without sound, and were, thus, philosophically inexistent. Whispers passed down through seated rows. Meetings with teachers and welfare staff on seats of poster blue plastic, your foot shaken against scuffed tiles in soothing motion.

The books and television series you’d once absorbed with eager voracity were parched of their appeal, by then. Your only reading was the secretive message boards into which you’d recessed like a forest to band with others of your starving ilk.

Such memories, and others arise to you. Your grades you can less easily recall.

“I’m only good at one thing anymore,” you say, aloud. “And I’m not allowed to do it here.”

Hannibal begins stacking washed dishes back into the cupboard, undeterred by your ceaseless denial.

“We will not chastise you for your simplicity. The palate can be developed, after all.”

“And not just for the food,” says Will. “Though that would be a start.”

“What if I embarrass you in front of Jack?” you ask; you’re losing this argument, and continue it only to prolong your defeat.

“Jack isn’t easily embarrassed,” says Dr Lecter. “Besides, he has been adequately prepared. You may rest in your room before dinner, little one. Sleep can do wonders for the appetite.”

He walks you to the kitchen door with a subtle insistence— like Will, he yearns to be alone.

Mumbling thanks that border on sincere, you make your egress via the stairs, glad to leave the kitchen and its tiers of expectation in your wake.

Passing Hannibal’s room, you find the door stood ajar. Curiosity draws you in, then, not to the bed—a symbol of tragedy—but to the conjoined bathroom, it, too, unlocked.

It is larger than your own, though similarly tiled in ivory and obsidian; there is a bathtub elevated on ornate feet, a shower walled in opaque glass, a sink with toothbrush and paste arranged like trophies, each surface of a bleached, crystalline sheen.

On the floor lies a set of scales, an oblong of clearest glass.

You had known that he would have one in the house, a man so fastidious in hygiene and health. Standing flat against one wall, you tilt your head, listening for an approach on the stairs, a change in the direction of the voices beneath.

When you are convinced of your privacy you strip of every garment and stand upon the scales, your hands braced at your sides in anticipation.

Even before the numbers flash on the mite screen you know that you’ve gained weight, have felt the itching progress of it across your hips and stomach.

The figure, as you glance down, is far higher than anticipated. Were it not imperative to be silent, you would scream.

You settle to hit yourself, instead, closed-fisted blows into your temple, left to right; only your reflection in the bathroom mirror stays your hand, a corpulent rendering of flesh.

This image has always shifted, for you, between your mental interpretation and its reality. Now they are one and the same, and you will never forgive your kidnappers for having altered your sight, as well.

Whose eyes have they given you, to make out this monster? One each of their own— you close the lids, and see the red of meat in the darkness behind them.

Later, when you return, dressed and sleep-dulled, to wait for dinner, you practice such restraint over your emotion that the effect is a noiseless hysteria. Catching sight of your face in any polished surface reveals a sickly visage, eyes bright and excitable, the skin dull, as of the grave.

Will regards you with a default scepticism, venturing no word. Hannibal, instantly perceptive, takes hold of your face in his cool hands and looks into your eyes.

“Is there something the matter?” he asks, and there is glass under the suede of his soft voice, a cutting menace.

There is a rap upon the door, and Dr Lecter steps free of you to answer. He returns shortly, followed by a man you recognise from the news, broad shouldered in a casual suit. His hair is closely cut, a trimmed goatee on a face that would have been handsome, in youth, and is presently so, though worn between the brows from the stress of his work.

“Good to see you, Will,” says Jack, shaking the younger man’s hand and pulling him into a half embrace. “You look well. Been taking care of yourself, I hope.”

Will smiles. His face is briefly pleasant, the dour mouth creasing at the corners.

“As well as I can,” he says. “The dogs keep me active.”

“Nice to hear you’re still running with the pack,” Jack replies. “How are the little rascals?”

You wait for the smalltalk to end, filing away what information sifts through that may be of note.

At last Jack turns to you, taking your hand lightly in his.

“So I finally get to meet you. Hannibal’s told me all about you, you know.”

A falsified minimum, you think.

Aloud, you ask, “He has?”

“Just enough,” says Dr Lecter. “Now, I must be temporarily rude and make myself scarce; I have unfinished work awaiting me in the kitchen.”

Jack releases your hand.

“Point taken,” he says. “Let's move this conversation to the dinner table, shall we?”

To your relief, once all are seated Jack manoeuvres the subject tactfully away to other things. The men speak of the weather—"I don’t care what anybody says; we don’t need that much rain this side of the Great Flood"—Jack’s wife—who is mortally ill, and immeasurably loved—and of mutual friends, whose names and various details you struggle to map in your ignorance of their world.

You eat with little attention to what crosses your lips; the day, in that aspect, is spoiled, and you cast it from you like a fruit’s rotten core.

Though Jack and Hannibal both attempt to include you in the chatter at points, you do not care to. There is the feeling of being presented to Jack like a shrewdly bargained for article of rare furniture; any comment from you is performance for these men to digest and enjoy, as they do all at this table.

It is Dr Lecter, however, that successfully extracts your opinion on a topic of his choosing. With an ingenuity that renders the shift in topic almost organic, he addresses his colleagues on the matter of their latest case.

“Surely our man will be on the move again,” he says, lifting a shred of lamb to his lips. “He may already be grooming his next subject.”

“He is,” says Will, flatly. “I’ve spent enough time thinking like him to know his heartbreak over losing the last one won’t last long.”

Jack raises his eyebrows, turning from one man to the other with a look that suggests he is almost as nonplussed by their union as you are.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to discuss this in front of your patient, Dr Lecter? The details of this case are particularly disturbing, as you already know. Will showed you photographs from the crime scene.”

“Indeed he did,” says Hannibal. “I will not easily forget it. However, as long as my guest resides under my roof I believe it’s only fair that she is involved in general discussion. Confidential matters of the case will, of course, be between us. But anything that is public knowledge I believe she has the right to know.”

“Fodder for Tattle Crime, you mean,” Will interjects, stabbing at his meal with spiteful vigour. “Freddie Lounds has covered these particular murders with a lurid relish. You’re aware that she’s already named the killer?"

Jack chuckles.

“'The Silicone Lover,'” he says. “It certainly lacks poetry in comparison to some of the others that are being thrown around, but it’s got that Lounds touch. It’s catchy, I’ll give her that.”

You drop your fork upon your plate with a jarring clash of steel and porcelain. Hannibal’s face stills in subtle displeasure, and you make a cringing gesture of apology, your mouth puckered at one corner.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” you say, “but... I remember reading about that case. I’ve always been kind of interested in true crime. I don’t know why. Books, documentaries, all that stuff; I’ve seen them all. But this killer— he’s in my city. Everybody’s been talking about it.”

It’s the most conversation you’ve volunteered all evening, and you sense the interest of your fellow guests open to you like a late bloom.

“I hope you’ve been taking precautions, young lady,” says Jack, bringing his knife to a pat of oozing meat until his plate is a bloody eclipse. “You’re aware you fit the profile of his victims.”

You stutter out an uncomfortable laugh.

“I... I don’t go out much. So I’ve been okay.”

Even before your captivity you’d been a recluse, dissuaded from venturing outdoors by an aversion to being perceived. Short, rushed jaunts to the store had been the sum of your travels, and it occurs to you now that you should have savoured the world beyond the house: the grumbling traffic, the turned dirt scent of rain, all of it, everything. The beautiful mundane.

“Staying indoors won’t keep the Silicone Lover from making you his paramour,” says Will, shortly, one arm flung in a mode of disdain across the back of his chair. “His targets always let him into their homes willingly, and there are no defensive wounds, suggesting he makes himself known to his victims some time before he abducts them. He always gets close enough to either drug or hit them over the head without suspicion.”

“I know,” you say. “I’ve read Tattle Crime, too.”

Will sneers.

“Of course you have. She’s a provocateur. Just your type.”

“Tell us what you know of this case, then,” Hannibal says to you, smoothly diffusing the tension. “Perhaps we will benefit from a fresh perspective, especially from an individual so closely fitting the profile of those unfortunate victims.”

He looks at Agent Crawford, seeking an unspoken permission.

“Go ahead,” says Jack. “As long as you feel up to it, that is.”

His voice softens as he speaks to you, and you think of his wife, folding slowly into the ravening void of cancer. This is a man who understands illness, and has a sensitivity for it; it comforts you, to have him here, obscured though his view of his friends.

Offering Jack a shy smile, you say, “I’ll be alright. It’s just that I don’t want to put anyone off their food.”

There is laughter around the table; even Will smirks, though the expression falls as he catches you looking. You wonder again at his distaste for you, surmising with a coolly adult rationality that he is jealous of you having come between him and his mentor.

“Well?” says Will, with the rudeness of a spoiled prince. “What’s the Lover’s modus operandi?”

You catch Jack’s dark eyes squinting a fraction, and though he says nothing you rally at the knowledge that he has not entirely succumbed to Will and Hannibal’s spell.

“The dead girls are always found in rivers around the city,” you say, “sealed inside hollowed out rubber dolls. You know the kind I mean. The killer cuts open the dolls and mutilates the women to fit them inside, then seals them back up again. Keeps them in there till they suffocate, or starve to death.

Some of the women die within hours, others a few days. They must be so scared, in so much pain. But obviously that’s what he wants. Every three months or so he does it all over again.”

“Meaning we don’t have long before he takes a seventh lover,” says Will. “Fortunately for you, staying here will protect you, to an extent. You’re too far out of the killer’s hunting range for him to take an interest.”

“Can’t keep the princess locked up in her tower forever,” says Jack, cleaning his hands on a napkin. “We'd better hurry up and catch him. Now, if you’ll all excuse me—”

He rises from his seat; a bathroom visit, you realise, and an opening to speak to him alone.

Thinking quickly, you reach for your water glass and dash it across your lap. Your hand is shaking enough for the accident to seem convincing.

Both remaining men glance up from the table, startled. Will all but rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” you say, in a grovelling squeak. “I’ll go and change, if that’s alright.”

Dr Lecter, as always, is crisply polite.

“You may go. But hurry. Our guest will expect you to return.”

For once, Will makes no comment, only returns to his food with the reverence of accepting the wafer at communion.

You pad along the corridor towards the downstairs bathroom, waiting for Jack to emerge. From what you know of Hannibal’s close relationship with the police you cannot rest your hopes of escape entirely on Agent Crawford, but you have seen the occasional teeter of trust, the unspoken perplexity with which he regards the dynamics of the household.

You may yet sway his sympathies, if you are careful. Still, you are so certain of failure that you tremble with mirth, like a drunk.

Jack steps out of the bathroom, stopping short as he notices you wincing in the shadows.

“Hey, there. Are you alright? You look a little green around the gills.”

“Agent Crawford,” you say, in a half-whisper. “I was wondering if you could help me. You know Will and Hannibal pretty well, right?”

“It’s Jack when I’m not working. And, uh, reasonably so, I’d say. Is something wrong?”

You pause, labouring over your response. To imply your wardens are the enemy will surely strike Jack as too outlandish, the mumblings of the mad.

“This treatment isn’t right for me,” you say, rather weakly. “It’s too much, and I don’t think they’re really listening to me. I miss my parents, my own room. I’m suffocating here. I was wondering if you could talk to Will and Dr Lecter. Encourage them to let me go home.”

Jack’s dark eyes soften, and he stoops slightly over you, as he might in order to speak to a small child.

“Dr Lecter told me you might ask me that. The road you’re on is a tough one, young lady, but you’ve got to stick it out. Not just for yourself, but for everybody who cares about you. Besides, I’m pretty damn sure Will and Hannibal would be disappointed to see you go home so soon.”

You turn your head into your shoulder, your neck caught in a miserable spasm.

“Will doesn’t like me at all.”

“That’s just the way he is. Prickly with just about everyone he encounters. Imagine the strain on me, having to keep him in line.”

You do laugh, then, and Jack flashes you a gap-toothed grin.

“He’ll warm up to you. Though to be honest, I don’t know why Hannibal’s getting Will involved in all this when he already has enough on his plate. Between work and those episodes of his, I don’t know if he ought to take on too many other responsibilities. But I guess Dr Lecter knows what he’s doing.”

Episodes?

You’d noticed Will’s fits of illness, a certain fragility; to hear it confirmed is a gold coin in your hand to spend in the future to come.

“I’m going to head back to the table,” says Jack. “Let’s give all this a little more time. If it doesn’t work over the next couple of months I might put a word in for you, suggest therapy sessions over inpatient treatment. But I can’t push it, kid. You’re not my patient. I can’t overstep the line, here. But I’m on your side. You keep up what you’re doing, alright?”

He leaves you there, knuckling tears from your eyes. Regretting that you hadn’t spoken the truth, in all its risk.

*

You go to your room, meaning only to dress. In the end you cannot resist returning to Hannibal’s scales on the way back, called by a manic self-flagellating urge to know much further weight you’ve gained from the meal.

You are not free, will never be free, are worth nothing but numbers. They've become all you are.

It’s as you’re stepping, naked, stupid with despair onto the scale that you hear a voice behind you.

“You must learn to restrain these impulses, little one.”

You turn so sharply that something strains in your neck again. Your hands strive to cover your nakedness. A futility, considering what he has seen, that he has fucked you.

“I assume that you have also spoken to Jack Crawford,” says Hannibal. “Pleading your case to be released. How naughty you have been.”

How handsome he looks, almost young, in the tasteful bathroom light. There is something like death in his sudden beauty, a void coldness.

Terror, a stake of ice from throat to cunt.

He means to kill you, if not now, then soon.

You know of only one way he might forgive so many missteps. Another course: you eat your pride.

“I didn’t mean to, Daddy,” you say. “Please don’t tell Will.”

You lower your arms, forging a sword of your vulnerability. Hannibal glances down only once, and with more amusement, then, than thirst.

“He will never know,” he says. “If you come to my room tonight. There is a lesson you must learn. It cannot wait.”

*

There is a tension about the residence of waiting, after Will and Jack have gone, the dry-mouthed breath before the silver lipped drop of the guillotine.

There is motion about the house, yet you feel rather than hear it; Hannibal has a way of carrying his physicality that seems to possess no weight at all. Ghoulish, his haunting of the rooms below as you sit on his bed, to await him.

You arrange yourself on the dark sheets in sacrificial mode, so ill with fear that it seems all your organs are in torsion, a helix of flesh from chest to womb.

It strikes you that you’d lain so, once, a night your father's friend, Leland Frost, had stumbled the many stairs to your room, beer the umber of his breath as he’d kissed you goodnight.

You had let him touch you, then, as you will let the devil touch you, now. As a child, as an adult, you are absolved: animals must eat, and their prey bear no fault when the hand of God steers them in the direction of hunger.

Hannibal ascends the stairs, each footfall making you jump. Stiff-backed, you turn to a sleek alarm clock on the bedside table, vowing to fix your eyes to its sympathetic face until the hour is done.

A name—yours—blackens your ear, a knell of things more wicked than death.

“Little one,” says Hannibal. “I will not hurt you. This lesson involves no corporal punishment.”

You sit up slightly, slippery in grey silk pyjamas, of whose cost you dare not think.

“Not the lights,” you say, hastily. “Or that metronome thing. I hated it.”

Dr Lecter removes his jacket, socks, and shoes, the quiet process of putting them away a careful rite, his prayer unspoken.

“To begin with,” he says, “I’d like to ask you some questions about your personal habits.”

He speaks delicately, but with an undertone of velvet sensuality that delivers you into fear you cannot resist.

“How often do you pleasure yourself, little one?”

“I don't,” you say.

The words form with such stumbling velocity that you cringe at your own lie.

Hannibal looks down at you with a sort of sorrow.

“If that is your response, then I must teach you.”

“No! I mean, don’t. I’m sorry. I do... do that. But it’s embarrassing to talk about it. I don’t want to.”

“I’m afraid you must. To be a fully-fledged adult it is important to embrace all facets of yourself, including sexuality. So, please address my question.”

Hannibal steps towards the bed, not with threat, but to pursue the lost treasure of your secret.

“Twice a week, maybe,” you admit. “At night.”

“How do you masturbate?”

You’d never expected the world from Dr Lecter. He speaks it factually, without humour, priestly severe.

“With my hands,” you say. “My fingers.”

You’d been too embarrassed to order toys to the house, which still you share with your family, the humiliation of an accidentally opened box an unimaginable discomfort.

“What do you think about as you climax, little one?” asks Hannibal, a question worse still than those before it in the nature of your answer.

You’d watch videos, often violent, peruse literature online which you hastily erased from your history, afterwards. It almost seems you beckoned in this abuse, through your interests, aroused only by cruelty, and the dark.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Different things. Nothing specific.”

Hannibal takes another step towards the bed.

“Answer again.”

Tears char your vision into soot.

“I hate you,” you say, fiercely. “More than I hate Will.”

“Because I cannot be moved in my resolve, as he can,” says Hannibal. “Will is suggestible, to an extent, whereas I am sure in my standing. It sears your ego to obey a man so entirely.”

He pads, barefoot, in a half circle around the bed, a panther uncaged.

“So,” says Dr Lecter. “Speak. What do you think of when you touch yourself?”

You open your mouth, and find yourself mute, truly incapable of speech.

Hannibal seems to understand this, however, for he does not insist again.

“Undress for me. I would like to see you demonstrate.”

Your head swings in a rattling ‘no’.

“Very well. I will attempt it.”

Again you shake your head, and in cumbersome, unlovely motions you struggle out of the pyjamas, ashamed of how clumsy you appear before him.

Naked, you sit up on your knees, covering yourself with your arms as best you can.

“Legs apart, please,” says Hannibal. “Then do as you normally would. I will merely watch.”

He reclines in one of the chairs in the room, his eyes like foreign seas, reflecting the night.

Scalded with humiliation, you bring your fingertips between your thighs and stroke in looping circles. The skin there is parched, unresponsive, unyielding; to be watched in such intimacy takes the pleasure from the act, which has always been in realms of secret sin.

“I can’t do it, Hannibal,” you say. “Nothing’s happening. I don’t feel good.”

It is the only time you’ve used his first name to his face, a trespass into familiarity you do not share.

“Is it because you don’t have access to the usual stimulating material?” he asks, ignoring your blunder.

You snap your knees shut upon your hands.

“I don’t use any.”

Hannibal takes your calves in his hands, a grip which might break.

“I know that you do. When I accepted you as my patient I made a point to visit your house, when no one was home. Your room was as I expected it to be. Juvenile, and stale aired from many days spent there alone. Your laptop was open. It wasn’t difficult to breach. Your password was the title of a book on your shelf.”

Wintergirls. Laurie Halse Anderson had been a staple of your literary youth, and it had never occurred to you that anyone might guess it.

“You didn’t clear your history as thoroughly as you believed,” says Hannibal. “I was intrigued by what I found there.”

You do not resist as he opens your legs, so limp are you in your horror.

“I— what you saw— it doesn’t mean I want this. It’s not the same.”

Hannibal blinks slowly.

“No. I would be uninterested if it was.”

He sits upright again, folding his hands in his lap. How pure they look, a harpsichordist’s tools, an illustrator’s. Evil, beautiful things.

“Begin again,” says Hannibal. “Think of Will and I. What we have done to you. Our touch. Our words. The imposition of power. The ineludible fact of your belonging to us.”

Femoral heat. Your core rings crimson bronze, and your fingers follow its kulning. You want to stop, but Hannibal’s voice alone is a hypnosis, effective even without the ticking and the lights.

“Imagine Will’s hand across your cheek. Around your throat. Envision my own.”

You make some noise, not quite a moan.

Dr Lecter lowers himself down until his breath mists your cunt, and the sensation has you writhing beneath it, maddened by the ephemeral touch of air, and needing it to finish.

He looks up, and his eyes are a reveller’s, a satyr of ancient land.

“How sweet you must taste. I have prepared your meals specifically to assure that you do.”

Your hand cycles in motion, compelled by his mystical art.

Hannibal remains over you, too close, at too great a distance.

“Stop,” he says. “That is enough.”

You are so close that the command is more craven in its dealings than Will’s palm across your face.

Your breaths are the sunken heat of a pagan sun. You burn and burn.

“Why should I give you what is so unwanted?” asks Hannibal, and pauses, as though you might beg.

Speech is inconceivable to your mind, as it is now, a concept like the colour of dying. You only sit with the head of a God between your legs, forced to such a brink that your weakness rides through you like a drug.

Eyes of night pleasure, of deathly ritual—

He laps your cunt for scarcely half a minute before you career over your edge, stacked orgasms that render you sightless with their power. You arc from the bed like an antler, a horn cry blown through your soul.

The pleasure is a stellar whiteness. You writhe up towards his tongue like a wave.

“Poor girl,” says Hannibal, as you lie piteously beneath him. “You can do nothing without me. Even this.”

[pampanope]

Graves Headcanons from Shadows’ POV (Part 2):

Part 1

((hello hello again, more written stuff~))

7-11 sat in his quarters trying to decide which polaroid of the Commander he’d donate to the Graves Manual.

Would it be one of him mid-stretch, wearing knee-high compression socks and thigh length shorts? Maybe.

Or maybe the one with Graves slumped over his office desk, hair askew, drool leaking out of a parted mouth? A lot of potential there, a sleeping Graves is always cute appreciated.

How ‘bout the closeup of the Commander’s face, hair mussed by the wind, head tilted down, one side of his mouth quirked up playfully to expose a prominent canine, piercing steel eyes staring dead on at the camera full of challenge and—

Actually, fuck, no, 7-11’s keeping that one.

But also…

Did Graves know i was up in that tree? From that distance? The whole time? Or was it coincidence and he just happened to look in that one tree’s direction? What the fuck—he’s never—he looked at me—

7-11 took a deep breath and shuddered (out of fear or excitement?).

Right, probably just a coincidence; no way he’s caught on to my personal game, a game that’s been going on for months.

He would’ve said something by now, right?

Right.

Deciding to make a choice at a later date, he turned to his most pressing matter of the evening.

Zorro (9-24) had cornered him after evening chow, his brows all furrowed and mouth pursed in displeasure. He shoved a handful of stained loose leaf paper into his chest and said:

“Rewrite, retype, I don’t care, redo your coffee stained shit, sleepy cachorro, or I’ll let the new recruits know that their favorite, cool, mysterious Lt. is actually a slob of the highest degree.”

7-11 could only blink lazily as he was booped in the snoot with more force than called for, before the Brazilian swiftly power walked down the hallway.

That was hours ago.

Now those entries sat there on his desk and taunted him.

Well I can’t have the adorable receuits go around spreading that slander, he thought, knowing he thrived on their regard as much as he craved the Commander’s attention.

Sighing, 7-11 grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.

——-

• The Commander had a gift for people in general that was uncanny.

• Graves, after spending just enough time with someone, knew which buttons to push, what switches to pull, and which gears he’d need to grease or sabotage within that person to get his desired outcome.

•He can easily gauge the emotional state of his Shadows as individuals or as a whole. His pre-mission pep-rallies (for there is no better word for them) got their spirits up and blood boiling. Graves effortlessly grabs their attention and holds it in a tight grip.

(It was, 7-11 thought, so nice to have a boss who made an effort for you and from the scribbles along the margins, other Shadows agreed)

• This gift for people offered other advantages in the Commander’s line of work.

• He can get a basic grasp of a person’s capabilities or weaknesses through observation and intuition and decide if they’re worth his time. And his estimations were accurate far too often (Extremely useful when ‘recruiting’ in the field…)

(What does Graves see when he looks at me)

• it was akin to having a faded map that showed how best to navigate negotiations and dealings with adversaries, whether in business or combat; Graves intuitively knew when to apply pressure, how to bluff effectively, when threats were necessary, and if honeyed words wrapped in his southern drawl would yield better results.

(That last one was quite effective. Unfairly effective.)

• It’s always a goddamn pleasure to witness the Commander leverage his cards over the target. The smug, triumphant look he wore if his efforts were met with success was exquisite.

•As sure as the Commander’s grin hides a pair of wicked canines, so, too, does this empathy of his. It’s been honed into a weapon that, when turned on his enemies, can be deadly.

• Weaponized empathy.

(Holy hell, the Commander turned a typical Piscean trait into a weapon

EXCUSE ME HES A PISCES?!

Yeah I bribed a newbie in HR for that bit of info so ssshhhhh

Lil shit wont give me the Commanders bday. Yet.

Lemme at ‘em, I’ll make ‘em talk ;))

• It makes him a master manipulator and it’s an oft overlooked skill of Graves; most would look first at his experience in the USMC, MARSOC, and the weapons on his person to determine weapon proficiencies (haha tough luck, he’s proficient at multiple types of firearms and yeet-able objects).

•It’s allowed him to claw his way to success, tango with the rich elite that made up his client base, negotiate contracts with governments, traverse the murky waters that was life as a mercenary

• and safely guide his Shadow Company through it all.

(and always be ready to have the Commanders back should shit go pear shaped because NOTHING is ever certain)

• The Commander maxed out his Charisma stat

——-

7-111 chuckled softly at the surprise addition because yeah, Graves certainly did.

The officers in the D&D club gave after action reports that read like epic campaigns. Fucking beautiful.

7-11 decided to keep the little addition.

With that finished, he stacked the newly revised manual entries, shredded and dumped the originals, and swore to himself he’d apologize to Zorro in the morning for making the other Lieutenant spend some of his personal time tracking him down in the first place.

Hopefully he won’t send Peaches after his ass.

His ass and dignity haven’t yet recovered from the last session with that massive brute.

After shutting off the light, 7-11 flopped into his mattress, nuzzled into his cool pillow and drifted off to sleep to dreams of sharp teeth and steel eyes.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Could you do a list of what’d the M6 would do if their partner/MC was anorexic?

The Arcana HCs: M6 with an MC who has an ED

~ gonna do my best with this one. I've had my own struggles with trauma-related anorexia/bulimia (3 years recovered now!) but I know how important it is to acknowledge that every experience comes about for different reasons and is healed in different ways. If this is something you relate to, please read this carefully with your own wellbeing in mind. I promise you, it won't happen all at once but as long as you hold on it will get better. - brainrot ~

Julian

His approach to understanding it is very clinically informed. He's seen it before once or twice and does plenty of research after falling in love with you

Part of being a doctor means being able to stay calm when he's responding to a condition, so when he's helping you address it he may seem unusually detached

This proves entirely untrue when he's not working through a rough patch with you

He loves you, he adores your body, and wants desperately for you to reach a point where you feel comfortable owning and inhabiting your own self

And also seeing you in any discomfort or pain just makes him sad

There's one tiny problem - he's so harebrained himself that his eating habits are nearly as bad as yours

It forces him to start taking better care of his own body in order to support you in taking good care of yours

He loves to boost your spirits by going out of his way to treat you like a god/ess among mortals

If you let him he will go over every body part you possess (with an anatomical chart to reference) and compliment every single one

Asra

Their approach is much more emotionally/intuitively informed. They probably don't know much about eating disorders beyond what you experience

But he is determined to understand your experience and be there every step of the way

They keep small quantities of healthy snacks that they know you like tucked in the corners of every room so that you have constant access to good food without feeling overwhelmed

He also carries small pouches of different options in his bag for when you two are out and about

Does all of the above so subtly that you never feel pressured

If you're going through a rough patch they'll build a pillow pile and hold you in it with the lights dimmed so it's easier to be vulnerable

If you want to talk he'll listen. If you want to sleep it out he'll join you in your dreams and take you on the most beautiful adventures

If there is anything - and I mean anything - that you feel insecure about, they will admire it relentlessly until you're too flustered to remember why it upset you

Nadia

Her relationship to food is that of a foodie

So while she picks up on what's going on very quickly after she meets you, she has no personal point of reference

She takes two approaches - tackling the issue at its emotional source and taking measures to build different habits

She has an uncanny ability to ask all the right questions, so you'll be unpacking everything contributing to it with her for many hours

She also consults with the chefs for meals that aren't too intimidating to eat but are jam-packed with nutrition

If eating full meals gets distressing for you, she'll set up a schedule of smaller, balanced snacks through the day and hold you to it

All in all this can feel like a lot of pressure at first. You're not used to this level of involvement and it's intimidating

Once you talk to her about it she'll dial down the intensity. However, that much structure and openness does build new habits that really help

She loves to dress you in the most beautiful clothes and tell you how she loves you in them. And how she'd love to take them off

Muriel

Of everyone you know, he can relate the most

His own relationship with food started improving when he met you and you got him to eat something just because it tasted nice

Your own difficulties really showed up during your trip and training with Morga

One moment she was getting impatient with you and the next he was coming to your defense. It was the first time you'd heard him speak like that

He's been your biggest support ever since. Quietly checking in with you a few times a day, carrying some bread and cheese in his pocket at all times

Since he knows you're able to enjoy the way things taste (something he struggles with) the two of you work on cooking together

You collect spices and recipes and introduce him to new flavors, and his involvement in turn makes things feel safer to eat

You two are slowly turning each other into foodies and to your friends it's the plot twist of the century

Food security is a love language for him. On rough days, he'll hold you in his arms in front of the fire, slowly feeding you a slice of toast over the course of several hours

Portia

She loves food. Making it, eating it, sharing it, starting (and winning!) fights with it -

So your symptoms startle and unsettle her. It's clear that you would only be like this if you were unhappy about something, and she hates seeing you unhappy

At first her approach is to barrel through it. She cooks every good dish she knows, she spends hours baking the most indulgent treats, she sits you down at a veritable feast and waits for you to eat it and cheer up

But you don't dive in, and you don't seem to be overjoyed. She's a little hurt

Once you explain, she's very quick to understand and empathize. She invites the Palace's kitchen staff to eat something they haven't cooked for once so it isn't wasted

She starts taking her cues from you instead. She never pressures you to eat but she'll always have something on hand

If you mention a dish you're craving or have fond memories of, she's making it for you

Mazelinka's soup is canonically magical and very healing. You will be regularly dosed with that

It's her idea to be as distracting as possible around meal times so you can't get stuck in your head about anything. It somehow helps

Lucio

He spent three years drooling over food he couldn't eat. As a result, he is so overly tuned in to hunger and eating habits that he notices yours uncomfortably quickly

No tact whatsoever

"Hey MC, what's up with you [insert symptoms here] all the time?" (One short explanation later) "... Well can you stop?"

He doesn't like feeling left out so you're going to have to give him a satisfying explanation before he drops it

He cares about you so much, and he trusts your judgment more than his own, which is why the last thing he asks you is:

"What can I do to help?"

If you just want small, gentle reminders and check-ins, he'll do his best and have Mercedes and Melchior cover for him when he forgets

If you want to talk about what causes it, he'll put all of his attention span into listening to you and then rapid-fire random coping ideas

Some of which are actually quite helpful

If you want to build different habits he'll do it with you. (Five food breaks per day so none of them make you too full? He's all for it)

Has his own methods of hyping you up: "DID WE MAKE [ED] OUR BITCH TODAY?!? I CAN'T HEAR YOU! HELL YEAH WE DID!!!"

~ just wanted to add, I realize that while these address eating disorders, I wrote them as someone who has experienced anorexia and bulimia. I don't know what it's like and don't know enough about binge eating disorders to include details that reference those conditions specifically. If you know of any other works that speak to those, please link them in the comments or send them to me! I'd love to add those links to the top of the post! - brainrot ~

[futurebird]

Coming clean about why I'm here.

There is nothing uncanny or mysterious about time travel. Time travel is trivial. The passing of time is relentless banal even. My contemporaries would do better to ask how one could *stop* time traveling rather than searching for ways to start. And even travel into the past is an easy thing-- that surprises you I see!

You have traveled into the past many times, as have I. Time travel is easy. The actual issue is *realizing* that one has been transported. When you travel in time the imprint, the shape of the present moment is a powerful force. Both the past and future have already been shaped, although the deep past is more rigid, and the deep future, much softer. Our minds can alight within any moment of their continuity. But in doing so we forget, we are reformed into the past version of ourselves, knowing only what we knew then, and nearly always doing the same things we have always done.

The key to time travel is to realize you are likely *already* in your past. And you have, right now, the opportunity totally reshape the future.

Consider it from a probabilistic standpoint: those of us aware of time travel will likely put in great effort to revisit key moments in the past where we could have made a difference, where we could have made a better future. We likely go back again and again, effecting perhaps only small changes each time.

This means it is much more likely that you are, right now, a time traveler into your own past at the precipice of fixing something critical, provided you can overcome the inertia of present shape of the universe in time.

Do you see it? The slightly more difficult but better path forward?

For me it was sharing this idea with you, I think of it often, but have kept it to myself for fear of being called mad. Intuition suggested sharing this with you might be the change I was sent to make.

[cillyscribbles]

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD ARE YOU A MECHANISMS FAN????? OH MY GOD YESYESYESYESYES ANYWAY FOR THE DOODLE REQUEST MAY I HAVE MORDRED AND GUINEVERE BEING COOL BUDDIES 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅

HAHA YOU'RE SO SWEET YES OF COURSE. you also get a snip of a fic i'm writing because i thought it fit the drawing ;w;

Guinevere’s intuition had rarely failed her. For a long time, Arthur had considered it uncanny, though he made no mistake in assuming it hadn’t saved their lives many more times than he could count. She read folk well; could all but sense malice. Look through the eyes and find a man’s core easier than it ever had come to Arthur, for all that he was over-cautious about such things - but Guinevere saw right through them.

[hrefna-the-raven]

Screenshots + drabble

BG3 masterlist

Part 1

The tadpole, the warlock and the devil - part 2

Go to hell

(This scene never fails to make me laugh 😂 I thought it's time for a little twist of Gale saying this to Raphael instead of Tav 😁)

Raphael changed back to his cambion form, stretching his imposing wings with a sigh of relief as he made his way toward your tent. Dealing with his other clients had been particularly unnerving today, he pinched the bridge of his nose as the memories of numerous chases after those foolish mortals trying to evade their due payment of a failed bargain with a devil flooded his tired mind again. Passing the camp fire, the distinctive voice of the pesky wizard who recently joined your merry band of misfits brought Raphael back to reality and made him realise that the camp wasn't as empty as he had presumed.

"Go to hell", Gale chuckled, his gaze lost in the dance of flames.

The devil reprimanded himself for his carelessness but then the spark of a new idea amused him as his lips twisted into a mischievous smile.

"I barely arrived to raise a little hell up here and you wish to send me back again?", he mocked.

The wizard spun around, eyes widened in shock upon spotting the cambion. He approached carefully, brows furrowing as he inspected the infernal being.

"Your face bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain warlock's friend", the wizard grinned smugly, "but I find it hard to believe that he might just be that."

"How very right you are, I am so much more than a mere friend to her", the devil chuckled.

As amusing it was to toy with the, admittedly cunning, wizard, Raphael felt the twinge of pain in his chest at the sound his own words. They bore a dangerous truth in the twisted sense that he was indeed much more while the part he craved most to reveal remained cautiously hidden under layers of arrogance and a well calculated demeanour. As the patron of a human, he couldn't afford himself to display any weakness, neither to the fragile mortals nor to the denizens of hell. The love he harboured for you consumed him more and more, an irresistibly alluring pull towards his own downfall. So strong that he even failed to notice the wizard while mentally reveling in the anticipation of gazing at your deliciously surprised expression upon his unexpected visit. He, the embodied perfection of a creature of pure desire and cunning deceit, fiendish supremacy forged within the fires of hell, wasn't supposed to love. So it was almost natural that ridiculously simple questions infested his mind the longer this charade of a normal pact continued. Why did he crave your affection? Why would his supposedly cold heart yearn for the forbidden warmth of your love? How could he even harbour all these foolishly mortal emotions? You were his warlock, a tool simply forged to ensure his success or, in the vexing case of failure, the gain of another soul.

"No witty words left?", Gale taunted the cambion.

It appeared as though the wizard continued to talk to him while Raphael was being dragged down into the endless vortex of doubts within his own mind.

"My my, you must excuse me, Gale of Waterdeep, but this discourse has been so dreary I could hardly pay attention."

He dismissed Gale with a nonchalant flick of his wrist and proceeded to walk towards your tent. Gale turned his attention back to the warming fire, a self-satisfied grin playing on his lips. Having spent countless years engrossed in the study of magic under the tutelage of numerous esteemed wizards and their different airs and graces and including a very demanding goddess, he had honed an uncanny ability to decipher others and his intuition was telling him that there was more to you and the devil than either of you wished to reveal.

[stormsfell]

𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥,  𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘵,  𝘂𝗻𝗯𝗿𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗻.

˚  ❛  oktay  cubuk  ,  nonbinary  &  he/him  ,  twenty  -  eight  —  the  king  had  summoned  NADIR  MARTELL  of  HOUSE  MARTELL,  PRINCE  of  SUNSPEAR  to  be  judged  upon  their  BRAZEN  and  APATHETIC  nature,  under  his  justice  as  the  ruler  of  the  seven  kingdoms  and  protector  of  the  realm.  while  they  are  notably  EQUABLE  and  INTUITIVE,  many  at  court  are  at  odds  when  it  comes  to  their  true  nature  and  place  in  king’s  landing,  especially  as  they  remind  them  of  SHARP  EYES  GLITTERING  IN  SUNLIGHT  &  A  NEEDLE  THAT  WON’T  ALIGN  ;  A  COMPASS  ALREADY  BROKEN.  in  another  universe,  far  beyond  the  realms  of  the  red  keep,  they  would  have  been  comparable  to  NIKOLAI  LANTSOV  (  grishaverse  )  &  TARTAGLIA  (  genshin  impact  ),  of  whom  they  share  an  almost  uncanny  resemblance  to.  as  their  true  loyalty  lies  to  HOUSE  MARTELL,  when  told  of  robert’s  first  rebellion,  it  was  unsurprising  how  they  were  IMPARTIAL  WITH  the  insurgence  against  the  crown.  with  the  tides  rapidly  shifting  throughout  the  realm,  there  is  no  telling  what  fates  have  in  store  for  them,  as  when  you  play  the  game  of  thrones,  you  live,  or  you  die  —  (  k,  any  pronouns,  twenty6,  aest.  )

i.  chronicles.

some  say  that  king  trystane  and  queen  ornella  martell  lifted  their  second  child  out  of  the  ocean  itself,  right  between  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tides,  just  after  the  sea  spat  him  out  and  before  the  waves  swallowed  him  again.  all  legends  have  some  semblance  of  truth  to  them.  the  water  beat  against  the  shoreline  just  outside  the  tower  of  the  sun  the  night  you  were  born  —  prince  nadir  nymeros  martell,  welcomed  by  your  father,  mother,  and  the  sea.

you  never  understood  why  it  was  only  many  moons  ago  since  the  sea  last  was  a  friend  to  the  forces  at  sunspear.  growing  up,  as  your  family  looked  inward  to  the  great  lands  of  dorne  and  the  rest  of  westeros  beyond  it,  you  turned  to  the  shore  and  never  looked  back.  your  toes  first  sunk  into  the  sand,  then  the  water  came  ankle-deep,  and  then  you  go  under  —  you  drown  in  it,  in  the  tender  embrace  of  the  violent  waves.

the  call  of  the  sea  was  to  thank  for  what  you  became:  brutal,  strong,  almost  wild.  but  make  no  mistake,  you  were  born  a  child  of  the  great  desert  of  dorne.  the  sun  you  wear  well,  eyes  glittering  and  white  teeth  gleaming  under  its  rays  even  as  you  march  north  past  the  red  mountains  to  see  the  rest  of  the  kingdom  of  westeros.  the  shore  says,  you  may  part  with  us,  for  the  sun  will  follow  no  matter  where  you  lead.  with  it  beating  at  your  back,  you  are  free.

this  far  away  from  the  imposing  towers  of  the  red  keep  and  the  iron  throne,  the  targaryen  crown  feels  nothing  more  than  a  mere  trinket,  a  story  of  fire  and  blood  and  dragons  with  three  heads.  it  is  only  now,  when  the  whispers  of  the  ravens  have  reached  even  the  farthest  corner  of  sunspear,  that  you  turn  your  head  and  look.  there  is  a  storm  brewing  on  the  horizon,  and  you  cannot  run  to  the  sea  forever,  no  matter  how  endless  it  looks  from  shore.

so  you  reminisce  of  the  first  time  you  fell  into  its  embrace  and  you  turn  to  it  once  more.  be  my  friend,  you  say.  be  my  lover.  at  sunspear  you  seek  those  who  wish  to  live  a  life  out  at  sea,  and  together  you  build.  a  fishing  boat,  a  ship,  a  naval  battalion  —  who  can  say?  all  you  know  is  that  it  is  time  for  house  martell  to  remember  their  roots  in  the  ten  thousand  ships.

ii.  headcanons.

nadir  has  a  small  ship,  one  not  nearly  enough  to  lead  a  naval  battalion,  but  it  is  his  all  the  same.  it  is  aptly  named  nameless.

he  is  not  shy  of  making  his  distaste  for  most  westerosi  fashion  known.  even  far  from  the  desert  lands  of  dorne,  he  will  only  wear  dresses  in  the  style  of  his  homeland.

iii.   links.

pinterest  board.

[somethingwittyandweird]

Swordtember 2023 Final Collage

Here's the final results for this year's Swordtember! As always it's been a delight to do. When I first saw the prompt was based around owners/wielders (something I knew I wouldn't be drawing) I wasn't sure if I'd like it as well as previous lists. But I'm proud nonetheless of where the ideas have taken me. Huge thanks to all my friends for supporting me and having nice things to say! Until next time.

Here's a link to the master list of every individual post.

Blurbs for all the swords are under the cut.

Witch- This sword belongs to the sole occupant of an eerie wooden hovel on the far edge of a bog. The runes traced on its blade glow unnervingly, and it reeks of indistinguishable concoctions. Though it isn’t wielded by a trained warrior or a paragon of physical strength, this weapon should be respected and feared by anyone who wants to retain their non-frogified form.

Wizard- This sword belongs to a wizard known by many names-  Olórin, Mithrandir, Grey Pilgrim, the Grey, the White, servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor, or simply Gandalf. A relic of the First Age of Middle-Earth, its blue-tinged bladed bears its name in runes: Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer.

Rogue- This sword belongs to a marine mercenary who frequents the disreputable dockside taverns of a port town to ply his trade. For the right price, his services cover everything from larceny to bodyguarding to assassination. His techniques may not be the most refined, but the damage inflicted by the wicked hook of his blade is evidence enough that they are brutally effective.

Dragonslayer- This sword belongs to a reclusive warrior of countless years. Long ago were the days when dragons roamed the sky in great number. This warrior is among the few survivors of the band who came together to drive the dragons into parts unknown. The jade of this sword hums with the energy needed to pierce through any dragon’s magical resistance.

Spymaster- This sword belongs to a royal spymaster and never leaves their side. Though its wielder operates as much in light as they do in shadow, this sword still conceals a few tricks- namely, the hidden compartment in the hilt used to subtly transport written plans or occasionally crucial devices. The symbol on the hilt is used as an identifying sign by their agents.

Knight Errant- This sword belongs to a paragon of the chivalric age. Wandering the lands without castle or title, this knight seeks only to live by the ideals of the code, providing for the unfortunate and thwarting the wicked. It’s rumored that once the knight has wandered long enough to purge their past misdeeds completely, they may at long last witness the incomparable relic they once sought so fervently- none other than the Holy Grail.

Oracle- This sword belongs to a priestess who dwells in an ancient temple. Archaic in appearance, temperament, and vocabulary, she speaks the words of the visions that come to her- not always to the pleasure of those who came seeking them. The sword is her defense against any pilgrim that might unwisely choose to violently object to the sights she sees. In more normal circumstances, the sword itself is used to channel oracular magic through the lens inset in the blade.

Jester- This sword contains the essence of Marx, an innocuous-seeming jester who once schemed to gain ultimate power over the world of Popstar with a wish. Revealed in his true form, his glittering wings reflected prismatically, and the stars of the Milky Way swirled behind him. He was defeated by Kirby, who returned triumphantly home and proceeded to take a nap.

Royal Hunt Leader- This sword belongs to a well respected huntmaster, proud owner of several breeds of hunting hounds. The leather wrapping on its horn hilt matches the leather collars in place on the dog heads carved at either end of the crosspiece. It’s said that between her dogs’ uncanny tracking and her own keen intuition, there’s no place in the royal lands she doesn’t know. 

Healer- This sword belongs to a pragmatic and dependable cleric of a sun deity. The runes on its crosspiece allow them to channel divine magic through the weapon- but, if that well of power is overdrawn, the bandages and spare flask of potion are helpful as backups for tight situations.

Queen- This sword is one of a pair. A more offensively balanced blade, its wielder prefers to make the first move.

King- This sword is one of a pair. A defensively balanced blade, its wielder prefers to let enemies come to them.

Royal Heir- This sword has been passed down from ancient times, but the ages have not dulled its blade or its shine. The gemstone inset in its crosspiece holds a magic that can only be awoken by a member of the Laputian royal bloodline.

Royal Guard- This sword is a hypothetical fusion of the Royal Guard’s Sword and the Master Sword. A sufficiently skilled smith may well have been able to fashion a replica of the latter in the style of the former, if calamity had not struck.

Enchanter- This sword was commissioned from a master weaponsmith and enchanter, who was instructed to provide as many sockets for magic gems as possible. This blade boasts a whopping 16 available sockets, well above the count that would normally be advisable. The fact that the weapon still remains as stable as it does is a testament to the enchanter’s craft.

River-spirit- Infused with the energy of a whitewater river, this sword surges fiercely in its holder’s grasp, and churning spray constantly emanates from it. Whoever would hope to wield this blade must possess sufficient strength to keep the rapids’ coursing power in line.

Forest Spirit- This sword belongs to an elusive guardian of the forest who shows no mercy to trespassers or those with ill intent. Though some believe her to be a human living among the wilds, others are convinced she must be a spirit- no mortal could move as quickly, travel as unerringly, and vanish away so entirely. No encounter with her has lasted long enough to produce a certain answer.

Bard- This sword belongs to Red, previously a lauded singer before her voice was stolen in a botched altercation. She wields this weapon, the Transistor, in an effort to strike back against those who took that from her. A familiar voice speaks from within the blade to to guide her.

Alchemist- This sword belongs to an enterprising alchemist who spends a good deal of time away from their facilities. Rather than carry pre-brewed potions, they've installed an apparatus that can draw from flasks of certain base essentia to synthesize any needed brews on the fly.

Summoner- This sword belongs to a mage tasked with defending a kingdom by calling upon allies from distant worlds. It has historically taken many forms, but has appeared in this day and age as a sword. Its centerpiece forms a socket for the focus the mage uses to summon.

Mermaid- This sword appears to have been assembled using a shattered bowsprit from a shipwreck. It washed ashore and sparked debate on whether it was a prank or if a real mermaid could have made it. If so, the question is: just how big was that mermaid?

Vampire- This sword belongs to a particularly vain vampire noble, who takes every opportunity to show it off. The markings on the blade are enchanted to glow according to the phase of the moon. 

Vampire Hunter- This sword belongs to a well-traveled warrior who has sworn an oath to use the power of the sun to vanquish the creatures of the night. Monsters and dark creatures alike recoil at the sight of this whip-like blade.

Barbarian- This sword belongs to a brash, impatient barbarian who wields it with reckless abandon. Thanks to a combination of heavy use and unwillingness to bother with whetstones, its owner has dulled many blades in the past. He was finally convinced to take up a weapon that could still be effective while unsharpened. 

Inquisitor- This sword is issued to the heavily armored Inquisitors of an unnamed sect. Though their rank is Inquisitor, they actually do very little questioning themselves- instead their role is largely to impose, intimidate, and where necessary, put their heavy blades to use in rooting out dissension.

Artificer- This sword belongs to a tinkerer with an incessant desire for improvement. Its modular design allows it to change forms between longsword and greatsword as the situation calls for it. In its larger form, its crystalline power source is visible.

Assassin- This sword belongs to a lethal covert operative. Its ethereal blade can be summoned or dispelled at will, and makes short work of even heavy armor- the blade passes through it as if it weren't even there.

Druid- This sword was recovered from the remnants of a standing stone circle. Its weathered shape is covered with signs of age, faded mystic carvings, and mossy patches. Its original owner is lost to time, but the one who wields it now gives new life to the ancient druidic lineage.

Paladin- This blade belongs to a zealous warrior who has sworn an oath to bring light to the dark places of the world. Radiant power infuses this blade at all times, causing it to emit a constant glow and a holy aura.

Necromancer- This sword, in the shape of a looming, leering skull, is carried by a wicked practitioner of dark magic. The bite of this blade isn't to be feared, but the withering curse it inflicts on its victims most certainly is.

[9hikers]

So after another round of staring at a spreadsheet for several hours, I have finally come up with my idea for what DPHW/TSHU stands for.

The tldr version is: D:Death, P:Pain, H:Hunger, W:Wrongness, just like a lot of other theories. But I've got a way to vaguely link it to alchemy and fit it better to the statements we've seen so far.

While there isn't an exact, single-word "meaning" behind fire, water, air, and earth, there are general vibes that I see often repeated:

Fire = passion

Water = intuition

Air = life, consciousness

Earth = physical

If you invert these basic elements (like the TMAGP logo is an inverted philosopher's stone) you can turn them into fears: hunger, wrongness, death, and pain.

Now personally, I wouldn't have come up with those right off the dome, but we have two points of comparison:

In German, DPHW is translated to TSHU. That narrows our search down to words whose translations start with the equivalent letter.

As of Episode 7, we have an example of statements with an 8 or 9 in each category: the garden for D, Needles for P, the violin for H, and episode 7's statement for W.

I did as those who came before me and sat down in front of Google Translate for a couple hours pasting lists of every word in the English dictionary that begins with a W. The results? Death/Tod, Pain/Schmerz, Hunger/Hunger, Wrong/Unrecht - I didn't find much that hadn't already been discovered by others.

What I would argue, and what I think makes the statements fit better, is that these are not arbitrary categorizations (deadliness, painfulness, etc.) these are descriptions of the type of fear the entity focuses on.

High 'D' values are not deadlier, they deal more strongly with death-related fear. This can mean fear of dying, but it can also mean fear of the undead.

High 'P' values focus on pain - not just physical. Ink5ouls has a pretty decent 'P' value and they targeted mental pain. This also does not indicate that they are necessarily the most painful, just that their schtick is the fear of pain.

High 'H' values focus on hunger in a more broad sense - obsession, want. A lot of the ones we've seen so far have a focus on a hunger for knowledge.

High 'W' values are in that Stranger/Spiral realm of uncanny. It's scary because it shouldn't exist.

I think, especially if we're dealing with alchemy here, that it makes sense for the building blocks of fear to be an inversion of the building blocks of life.

Edit: I FUCKING FORGOT TO ADD THIS. So fire, water, air, and fire are made up of hot/cold and wet/dry in alchemy. My half-assed fear version of this is corporeal/spiritual and mundane/supernatural, respectively. So hunger (in the passion sense) is spiritual but mundane, death is spiritual and supernatural, wrongness is supernatural but corporeal, and pain is mundane and corporeal.

If that is barely coherent it is bc I am barely awake. Thank u for ur time.

[sunandflame]

Hey babe 💞. Just noticed you are an INFJ, just like Yoriichi. It's such a rare personality type. The only other INFJ I know is my husband, who really is very much like Yori in terms of personality (and personality only).

I am an ENFJ, which I found out is the same as Kyoujuro, Tanjiro, Douma, and also All Might (MHA).

I really love personality tests and found out that my beloved Kokushibo is an INTJ. I was intrigued by the description of that personality type (source: 16 Personalities):

An Architect (INTJ) is a person with the Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, and Judging personality traits. These thoughtful tacticians love perfecting the details of life, applying creativity and rationality to everything they do. Their inner world is often a private, complex one. It can be lonely at the top. As one of the rarest personality types – and one of the most capable – Architects (INTJs) know this all too well. Rational and quick-witted, Architects pride themselves on their ability to think for themselves, not to mention their uncanny knack for seeing right through phoniness and hypocrisy. But because their minds are never at rest, Architects may struggle to find people who can keep up with their nonstop analysis of everything around them.

I think it's pretty spot on. What's your opinion?

AAH OMG FINALLY SOMEONE WHO ARE ALSO INTO MBTI’s! I love this concept of the 16 personalities and I always look into the fan interpretation of diverse characters MBTI’s. Also I'm so honored that you noticed mine on my pinned post. I always talk about how empathic and sensible of the feelings of others I am, since it's one of the main traits of an INFJ’s.

Baby, I could go on and on about the INFJ’s, but we wanna talk about Kokushibo. Yes, I knew he was INTJ and hell yes, it fits him so fucking well! Especially with Yoriichi being the INFJ counterpart. Both are such rare personality types and just varying from the feeling and thinking point, but they are also completing each other so well like yin and yang.

My little sister is also an INTJ and well… The dynamic between us both is a bit similar as with Yoriichi and Kokushibo (though there is no hatred and jealousy between us).

I know some other INTJ’s from my personal life and they are some of the most intelligent people I have met. They are so rational and logical with their thoughts and sometimes so socially clueless it’s kinda funny. I mean they are aware, but they don’t give a fuck about to fit into the norm. If it’s not logical in their opinion, then it’s trash. Also their dark humor is spot on. I do imagine Kokushibo like that and aslo having a dry/dark sense of humor if he is in a good mood.

[fuckmeyer]

DVD COMMENTARY #1.. I have a couple!

***

“Did Marie see into the past, too?” said Phil.

“She read palms,” I mumbled.

“Past,” said Renée, pointing at me, “present,” she continued, pointing at herself, “and…” finally, she pointed to the sky “…future.”

By this point, Edward had gone quiet.

I added, “Mom, don’t you remember the way she would grab your hand and read your palm?”

He could keep wading through her memories, and I could get off the subject of my “psychic talents.” Win-win.

“God! Let me tell you how embarrassing it is to have all your friends’ deaths predicted by your mother whenever they came over.” She and Phil laughed; I chuckled weakly. Edward had no reaction. “She made the freakiest predictions sometimes. Uncanny.”

“What did she say about you?” said Phil

“All kinds of things. Let’s see. She predicted my little girl.” Renée threw me a loving glance. “She also said I would have a boy later in life, though—hm. I suppose that could be David. She said Bella would reunite with long lost family— I’m sure that was Charlie. And what else? —Ooh! That I would die an old, old lady.”

“Not to throw kerosene on the fire, babe,” said Phil with a growing grin, “but that’s pretty vague.”

“Oh, no! She was very specific. Death was her specialty. Her mother— my Nona Cynthia, Bella’s great-grandmother— she was the same way. Nona Cynthia used to run a little business with two friends when she was growing up— all the neighborhood kids would pay a cent to be read by The Psychics Three.” Renée laughed.

“So intuition runs in the family,” said Edward. His voice was scratchy. I gave him a look he didn’t return.

She gave me a knowing look. “Honey, you remember—after a while, I had to tell Nona Marie to stop reading your palm. Oh, she was just awful about the whole thing. Every time she would visit—”

We finished in unison: “Bella, your lifeline has run out.”

Edward looked up.

“Had it?” he said.

My mother and I had both been taken aback by the question.

“Well, of course not,” said Renée quietly with a nervous chuckle. Her hands fidgeted, nails picking at skin.

Edward didn’t need more information. He could see the memory clear as a mountain spring.

“Nona said I would drown,” I explained in a murmur.

Edward swallowed.

***

what made Edward go so quiet? what is Renee thinking that has him so on edge and tense? what is Renee feeling when seeing Edward’s reactions? please please share what you are able to without spoilers!!! and with Renee’s total 360 on her thoughts about Edward… was this when she realized he had this “darkness”?

ooh yay, throw em all my way!

BY STARLIGHT* CHAPTER 10: THEORIES - DVD COMMENTARY

*(no spoilers for future chaps)

“Did Marie see into the past, too?” said Phil.

“She read palms,” I mumbled.

“Past,” said Renée, pointing at me, “present,” she continued, pointing at herself, “and…” finally, she pointed to the sky “…future.” [this line is SO freaky to me. past implies a terminus, & Bells is terminal. the future, like Nona, is dead (& Renee points up, implying ascension). only the present - Renee - remains. like, holy shit Renee, do you have any idea how fucking symbolic you're being rn???]

By this point, Edward had gone quiet. [because Edward DOES realize how fucking symbolic she's being rn]

I added, “Mom, don’t you remember the way she would grab your hand and read your palm?”

He could keep wading through her memories, and I could get off the subject of my “psychic talents.” Win-win.

“God! Let me tell you how embarrassing it is to have all your friends’ deaths predicted by your mother whenever they came over.” She and Phil laughed; I chuckled weakly. Edward had no reaction. [this subject is discussed later, so maybe light spoilers? Edward can go deeper into someone's mind, but it requires more attention and energy. he is not well-trained in his new abilities. right now he's seeing Renee's memories: orange shag carpeting, birthday hats, children laughing, Renee whining to her mother...] “She made the freakiest predictions sometimes. Uncanny.”

“What did she say about you?” said Phil.

“All kinds of things. Let’s see. She predicted my little girl.” Renée threw me a loving glance. “She also said I would have a boy later in life, though—hm. I suppose that could be David. She said Bella would reunite with long lost family— I’m sure that was Charlie. And what else? —Ooh! That I would die an old, old lady.” [no comment]

“Not to throw kerosene on the fire, babe,” said Phil with a growing grin, “but that’s pretty vague.”

“Oh, no! She was very specific. Death was her specialty. Her mother— my Nona Cynthia, Bella’s great-grandmother— she was the same way. Nona Cynthia used to run a little business with two friends when she was growing up— all the neighborhood kids would pay a cent to be read by The Psychics Three.” Renée laughed. [no comment]

“So intuition runs in the family,” said Edward. His voice was scratchy. [i've been wanting to do this "Edward stays out too long in the sun" scene for years. i initially pictured this as the day E&B get back together. i wanted them to be best friends (albeit with unbearable sexual tension). this lunch happens at a restaurant. when Bells would go off to find him, they'd meet in an empty hallway and get it on the janitorial closet or the pantry or sth. not all ideas are good ideas.] I gave him a look he didn’t return.

She gave me a knowing look. “Honey, you remember—after a while, I had to tell Nona Marie to stop reading your palm. Oh, she was just awful about the whole thing. Every time she would visit—”

We finished in unison: “Bella, your lifeline has run out.”

Edward looked up.

“Had it?” he said.

My mother and I had both been taken aback by the question.

“Well, of course not,” said Renée quietly with a nervous chuckle. Her hands fidgeted, nails picking at skin. [she knows how accurate her mother is. she's seen it firsthand. so for Nona Marie to INSIST that Bells would drown EVEN AFTER that incident at Charlie's makes Renee wonder if it'll happen. it's been years, and she's "convinced" herself Bella will live a full, happy life, but she'll never be able to shake the specifics of Marie's prediction (details she's never told Bella), & her insistence that Bella's time is coming very soon.]

Edward didn’t need more information. He could see the memory clear as a mountain spring. [that is, Renee getting the call from Charlie that Bella is in the hospital and Caitlin has gone missing.]

“Nona said I would drown,” I explained in a murmur.

Edward swallowed.

***

what made Edward go so quiet? [although he is a more powerful telepath, slipping into people's minds requires more energy & is harder to control. he's trying to focus & find what he needs to find. i talk about this more in depth in future chaps]

what is Renee thinking that has him so on edge and tense? [reliving the memories]

and with Renee’s total 360 on her thoughts about Edward… was this when she realized he had this “darkness”?

regarding Renee's about-face:

i intentionally set this and the next scene up to be ambiguous. we never actually know how Renee feels about Edward specifically. we do know Renee is worried for Bella. but we only hear about Edward & Renee's interactions through Bells who has proven to be an unreliable narrator. we also hear about Renee's opinion of Edward through Charlie who is at best is paraphrasing & at worst lying to suit his own agenda. Edward never tells Bells whatever it is he may or not may not have read in Renee's mind. is it a 180? i think that's something the readers should decide for themselves based on their perception of the characters :)

i will say, Renee seems to be a worrier. when she's in the middle of an adventure or new experience, she can quiet her mind & go with the flow - it's why she's so impulsive & reckless. here, grief is a constant source of background tension for her as her mother's funeral takes place, while having Bells home blinds her to pretty much everything else. not as to say she didn't notice. she is clearly concerned for Bella to some extent. but i think she had a lot going on around her & needed to reflect on the visit to grow so concerned she calls Charlie.

send me 500 words of my fanfic & i will give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet

[gwydionmisha]

Personal: Assholes at the Lake

Apparently the crack down on illegal fireworks spirred by wildfire risk is working. Not only did we not get a week of random explosions, I couldn't hear professional explosions or neighborhood ones unless I went outside. No one set anything off in my complex let alone right uder the livingroom window as is the usual practice. As far as I could tell the cats didn't notice.

The sky has been subtly uncanny valley for… I'm guessing a weekish? Suntly the wrong colour. No clouds. Yes, in a lot of places no clouds is fine, but here, there are almost always clouds of some sort. Normal cloudless periods are like a couple hours at most. Day after day of no clouds at all is absolutely a climate change thing in our weird little micro-environment, it's only been happening for a few years and I associate it with wildfires. The sky isn't bruise or orange, so that's good, but now and then, I get a whiff of something burning that shouldn't be. I can't explain it, but the sky's the wrong shade of blue to the south. Without clouds, the sky is too big here.

It is very much not helping that I keep having to go out into the extreme heat and pollen, whether I want to or not and it's a problem. I have had heat exhaustion, and once, likely heat stroke, but wasn't given proper medical attention at the time. (I'm not writing about it again now; I am tired). I was never particularly good at high heat and humidity. I can't really function in it at all now. Add in all the pollen and i struggle to think and breath and move about.

The cats are stressed, of, course, but it's because they are worried about my health (I'm moving in ways that show obvious extreme pain and exhaustion) and because of two months of massive disruptions to their schedules and periodic human intruders including men with boots. These things are also freying at me, but I didn't piss all over the sofa, nor did I start a literal pissing contest with a cat in another part of town over which cat Goth Millenial belongs to. My having to deal with all the extra mess and laundry is not helping. I am looking very hard at you, Tavy.

My physio is going very badly. I keep having to pull chunks of excercise sets because my arm noipes out or standing hurts to much to do that many of the ones I can only do standing up.

I did take some of the Millenials out to the lake sunday. We tried to go to the one without invasive wildlife, but spent ages just to not get in. I drove back to my end of town. I always liked that lake better, but you have to decontaminate everything to avoid spreading the snails kayakers brought from new zealand. I didn't see any fish, and it looked like there were fewer dragonflies The trees and the water were still beautiful though. We swam until my arm gave out and we had cheese, crackers, and fresh lychee while watching families swim.

Then the assholes turned up. Aparently they had been there earlier, as they claimed that the crumpled up abandoned looking towel they'd casually dropped at the edge of the cut a body length away from us meant that we were encroaching on them somehow. It was a crowded day at the lake. Four feet would not have been a weird distance even if we hadn't thought it was just a lost towel or they'd had it spread out with gear like a normal person. We weren't blocking access. we had yto be close to the water because i'm an older disabled person and as it was the crawl from the water's edge was pergatorial. (I decided it would be easier and hurt less then them levering me up and me hobbling the distance. Did i mention my spine and hips are nightmares right now?)

So the assholes got angry at us for not intuiting that they owned a 15 yard stretch of close to the water space in a public park by virtue of them having dropped a balled up towel near it. O.o It was 6:30ish PM. You literally can't get a sunburn that late at this latitude, because the angles are wrong. They stood close and sprayed and sprayed and sprayed arisol sunblock all over each other which blillowed towards us in a cloud. And not just us, but a dad and a two and a half year old toddler. I nmentioned I was a lung patient, so she started blowing massive about of vape at us. And the dad. And the toddler with delicate lungs, because that's just how entitled they were to the entire strech of land between too batches of reeds and we all deserved chemical warfare for daring to do normal things at the lake. Which as douche bag white 20 somethings they owned. We all got sore throats and queasy, I was coughing and had lung and breathing trouble all night. The Millenials were angry they were doing this to an elder, especially one who had an assistive devise and was obviously disabled. I was angry that they did this to a baby playing along the thin stretch of beach with her dad watching over her.

I am pretty sure I am not the asshole here.

Bonus? We lost the housing increase battle and somehow I must find an extra $142 a month starting in august while still paying all the other bills and buying things I can't do without, like toilet paper. I am still catching up for the refridgerator. The Millenials are all going through a bunch of no fault of their own crises too and two of them need to move by the end of the month.

It is A LOT. Especially in this terrible unnatural heat. Which I now need to go out in again for arm torture. Sigh.