#need to find my invisible ink pens

[spaceumbredoggos]

I’m planning on posting a few of Ford’s journal excerpts regarding kenz on the Kenz community soon. @fishy--friend @cryptic-platypus @sarosthewizarddude @astralphobia @delicious-trash-tree @confused-canid @wheel-of-eyes let me know if I should go to Michael’s soon and buy a blank book just to put Kenz’s own canon journal entries in. Maybe with some codes and shit and some doodles.

[depraveddame]

Zenith, a sequel to my kinky D/s Professor AU A Great Conjunction, is posted!

Hello darlings! I'm back with another installment of my feral professor and student AU ✨ After six weeks of beautifully agonizing waiting, Professor Fell realizes he cannot wait a second longer to properly fuck his student- he also realizes some of the reasons why he's been denying himself and his lover for so long, and that he also can't lie to himself for much longer.

CWs: D/s, Dom/gentle Dom Aziraphale, sub Crowley, Daddy kink, age difference, university professor/university student, first time anal sex after weeks of denial, rimming, pining, obscene dirty talk, praise/light degradation, begging, emotional sex, aftercare/sweetness/fluff- please read tags on AO3 for more!

Excerpt:

Perhaps Aziraphale’s aptitude does lie in his fingertips, but not by way of putting pen to paper; maybe it’s by touch that he’s meant to extol his student. It comes wonderfully easily to him, praising Crowley with his hands, and the response his fingers inspire seems to indicate he’s far more adept when it comes to this form of veneration rather than the written word.

As they face each other on the bed, Aziraphale scrawls his reverence over the curves and angles of Crowley’s body with fingers and thumbs that pay homage to his allure, his mouth inscribes its devotion and admiration on every freckle it can find and over each peak of bone that protrudes from argent skin, the invisible ink from his tongue leaving behind ephemeral, evaporating verses Aziraphale hopes will bleed beneath the surface of the vellum folio of his lover.

“How do you want to take my cock for the first time, my darling,” Aziraphale murmurs as he palms the dampened lace caging Crowley’s cock and the fingers of his other hand caress his slick entrance, teasingly dipping one past the ring of lax muscle and basking in the strangled whines that follow, "how will I first stake my claim of this body that's been positively aching to take me inside, that's been desperately pleading with me to make a home of it?"

“Oh, f-fuck,” Crowley pants, his entire body jolting as Aziraphale’s fingers play with him, “God, fuck— f-from behind. Laying down. Want you close, professor, and deep— fuck, I need all of you so fucking deep inside, please.”

*

Enjoy ♥️

@goodomensafterdark

[bookworm-center]

Kaz Brekker x gender neutral!Reader (oneshot)

Coat Buddies

In which Kaz and Y/n go back and forth sharing a coat and little messages. (Fluff)

Author's Note: yes, I'm well aware there are plenty of these, but I figured I'd try my hand at it. It's also a hold over until I work on "Dirtyhands and the Bloodbender". Enjoy! 🧡 Not related to DatB at all, just a little oneshot I wanted to write. I've also decided that all oneshot author's notes will now be in orange, just because I think it looks cool.

Kaz Brekker has an incredibly nice coat. Warm wool lining, pockets galore, even a secret section where a dagger could perfectly fit. So, naturally, like the thief they are, Y/n decided to steal it. They planned on returning it, of course, so one could consider it merely borrowing. It's not as though they did a job with it on and got his coat torn to bits in the process. There were only a few scratches and maybe one or two tears, if you were really looking.

The next time Kaz wears his coat, (noting how it looked worse for wear right away) he'd found a little crumpled note in his pocket. The words were written in slanted, hurried cursive, ink smudged along the parchment. "Your coat is nice. Unlike you." His lips quirk at the message. It's not untrue, and it's phrased as more of a random observation than an insult. After all, who really expects the bastard of the Barrel to be nice?

Y/n slips on the coat, fingers fumbling over the buttons. Black stitches close the damaged parts of the coat, nearly invisible in the soft cloth. The bloodstains have been washed, like the coat had never been worn in the first place. They shove their hands into their pockets, winding their way through the crowds in the streets. Snow comes down in sheets, the ground two steps away covered with white. Their gloved fingers close over a square of paper. Y/n pulls it out, squinting at the note. It's not their own; the paper is too smooth, the handwriting too neat. "Oh? I'm not the one stealing coats."

"I can't help it. For someone called Dirtyhands, you keep your coat surprisingly clean," reads the next note, tucked between a small tin of jurda and a bar of dark chocolate.

The next note is written on the paper wrapping of a new chocolate bar. "I keep it clean so I can find things. Unlike you, who keeps shoving things into my pockets."

"What can I say? I'm a talented lockpick and thief. I need somewhere to put my stuff. If you don't want me to steal from pigeons, you should have never recruit me to the Dregs." A little smile is scrawled next to the words. Kaz can't help but grin as he carefully pens out his response.

Y/n finds the next note in the special knife pocket, beside the double edged dagger they'd stashed there earlier. "I don't care if you steal things, love. Maybe your next target should be someone with a nice coat, hm?"

"Well that's no fun. After all, these exchanges are the best part of my day."

The back and forth exchange goes on for months. The snowy months give way, melting over the cobblestones, the days becoming as sunny as possible in Ketterdam. This time, when Y/n goes to pull Kaz's coat off the hook, eagerly awaiting a note, it's not there. Kaz is, hands in the pockets of his coat.

"Hey boss." Y/n sheepishly waves. They have no real reason to be nervous. It's not like Kaz knows their the one taking his coat.

"You've been taking my coat." Kaz says with a deadpan expression. Of course he knew.

"Is there a problem with that?" They cross their arms. It's always dangerous to stand up to Kaz Brekker, but Y/n's never been one to stay on safety's side. Kaz shrugs, pulling out a package from behind his desk. It's wrapped in black paper, tied with silver ribbon. "What's this?"

Kaz doesn't respond, only tossing the package to Y/n, who catches it after fumbling. They rip into it with a bit of effort. In the midst of the torn paper, folded and still new, rests a coat. It's identical to Kaz's, only in their size, and orange thread on the cuffs of the sleeves the bright color of jurda. "So you don't keep stealing my coat."

"Thanks." Both teens stand in the silent. Even though both of them are deadly, both broken and torn, they're at peace. Y/n turns to leave when Kaz calls after them.

"Y/n. If you wanted to keep borrowing my coat, I wouldn't be against it." Y/n grins, before nodding and leaving Kaz's office.

[muddyorbsblr]

the final Lady Sharpe part 3: unorthodox signals

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Part of the 500 Follower Celebration Requested by: @ellooo0ooo

Summary: The first night of your mission to put Lucille away finishes with an unexpected request from Thomas

Pairing: Thomas Sharpe x Reader

Word Count: 5.7k [get a snack or a drink ready]

Warnings: ghosts; the McMichaels; the teensiest bit of steam [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: Reader & Thomas are married; the start of pining

"Do you really think that this will be enough to put her away?"

Your first candle was just about to run out, telling you that over half of your first night in this possibly deadly operation in the hopes of putting Lucille Sharpe away for all the crimes she'd committed since Thomas was barely a young man was already over. Edith had guided you throughout the manner, finding the documents that held the records of marriages, deaths, money transfers and the like not too far from your shared bedroom with the baronet. A cursory glance through all the documents told you that alone they would barely have any leg to stand on and your hopes of putting her away would be significantly lowered.

You needed every morsel of evidence you could find.

Edith kept you company through the night, an invisible apparition of a lookout, talking with you while waiting for ink to dry so you could start copying the next line of the document. Mostly you two talked about her life before it came to a screeching halt courtesy of the business end of Lucille Sharpe's cleaver; how she wanted to be a writer and had made significant progress on her first novel that the murderous Lady Sharpe had burned to ash before ending her life.

If you survived this endeavor, you offered to pen down the novel once more at Edith's dictation to have her story published. So that her name may live on and her soul would live on in peace knowing that one of her dreams had been accomplished in a way.

"All of these together could build a strong enough case," you answered the spirit. "The only thing is it could build a case either against Lucille…or Thomas; there's nothing here so far that could undeniably present that it's her pulling these strings. What do the recording cylinders hold?"

"Enola's testimony that Lucille knows how to prepare the poison, the location of her cleaver, and that the money that has been inherited and co-mingled with the Sharpe estate has been used to complete the machine."

"Circumstantial," you mumbled, finishing up the fourth page for the night, leaving you a remainder of around five dozen sheets of paper along with transcribing the cylinders. "Anything else?"

"How about a spoken confession from Lucille?" That had your ears perk up, putting the pen down and allowing for the ink to dry before moving on to the next line. "Before she killed me she told me about how she made Thomas marry for the money. For the mines and for the machine and ultimately so they could find a way to make even more. But how all the horror that they dealt the world was for love."

"Lead with that next time, please," you breathed out, realizing that you now had the smoking gun. "What about a journal? A place where she kept track of all the prospects before ultimately choosing someone for Thomas to marry?"

"From what Enola has told me those get burned once the marriage certificate gets signed." Your ghostly companion sounded disappointed over that bit of information, almost as if she was apologizing to you for not being able to give you that. "Y/N if it's alright to ask…why did you decide to help Thomas? We could have helped you escape without his participation. In fact, everything you're doing now could have been done without his knowledge. Why tell him and risk betrayal? What if he's telling Lucille about your plan as we speak?"

"Good question," you blurted out a little louder than you intended. "Honestly when he explained to me what had been going on, part of me could see that in his own way…he was a victim in Lucille's plotting, too. I saw the remorse in his eyes as he talked about you…all of you. If he was being sincere and he truly wanted to be free from someone who had utilized him for her own selfish, hedonistic gain since he was but a boy, then I would be cruel to know all this and choose to not help him. Now, if he is betraying me and Lucille comes after me with her cleaver…or God help us something else…then that would be on his conscience if I die tonight. Or they do. In truth I wouldn't face any consequence upon their deaths because it would be an act of self defense."

You'd just finished copying the entirety of the fourth page when you were startled with a loud groan resonating from the attic.

"What in God's name was that?"

"It seems…it's Thomas. Maybe he's giving you a signal? How much of the second candle is left?"

You put the remaining candle next to your thumb. "Just a little over half a thumb's worth…" you trailed off. "I didn't tell him to give me a signal…"

A murmured second voice seemed to have joined Edith, which you surmised was most likely Enola. "She's asleep," Edith spoke after a few moments of less than whisper quiet tones. "Perhaps he hedged on the side of caution and made sure you wouldn't be navigating these halls without a light. How thoughtful of him." The slight teasing tone in her words didn't escape you, but you chose not to question it and instead gathered the original documents and placed them in the order which you found them earlier tonight, rushing over to the dresser in the hall near your bedroom and stashing them back in the drawer.

"Edith…do you think we'll actually succeed in this?" Throughout the night, you kept on inwardly voicing your doubts, wondering if perhaps you'd planned too meticulously, or maybe even not enough. That somewhere along the way in the next few weeks, you would have missed something and instead of tasting freedom at the end of this, you would instead be joining your newfound apparitional friend haunting the corridors of Allerdale Hall.

"You will," she answered you as you crossed the threshold to Thomas' workshop, finding a journal for sketches that you could sneak the copies you'd finished into. "It's too late for me to succeed in something like this, so really all I can do is help you -- and Thomas -- so that you can live your life free from Lucille."

"Our lives," you corrected. "If we make it out of this with our lives intact, he deserves to be with someone he actually loves."

The sound of water filling the bathtub greeted Thomas once he stepped into your shared bedroom, his brows knitting together in confusion once he stepped into the bathroom and spotted you standing beside the faucet in your sleeping gown. He couldn't help but to stare at how the moonlight shone through the window and hit your features in a way that he could only describe as celestial.

As if you were an angel sent his way, about to hold his hand and guide him out of the dark path he walked for most of his life.

"I drew you a bath," you said softly, shutting off the tap and already shuffling your way toward the door when he began to close the distance between you two. "Figured you'd want to clean up after…" You motioned your hand toward the ceiling, vaguely toward the attic where Lucille currently laid asleep. "…all that."

He held you lightly by your elbow to stop you from passing him. "You didn't need to do that."

"I know…" You gave him a tight-lipped smile, so far off from the one that he'd gotten to know before you were married. So distant that you may as well have been standing on the other end of the room instead of mere inches away. Almost as if you'd viewed him as no more than a stranger.

The thought alone made his heart grow heavy, a desperation clawing at him to know what he must do just to see that smile of yours again. The type that could light up a room and draw everyone's attention to you. The kind that dimpled your cheek and reached your eyes and all he could do in response was give you a smile of his own. Or kiss you.

"But personally whenever I had to do something that didn't sit right in my soul, I found it best to wash it off of my body at least before going to bed," you offered, placing your hand over his and easing yourself out of his hold. "Goodnight, Thomas."

Just before you completely slipped from his reach, he wrapped his hand around yours in a delicate hold. "W-Wait…Y/N, please," he stammered, tracing his thumb along the length of your fingers just as he once did even yesterday in the carriage ride as you two made your way to the decaying house.

We should have stayed in the city. The words begged to be uttered, weighing uncomfortably on the tip of his tongue. We could have been happy together.

"What is it?"

"I…I don't wish for the last thing I do before I sleep to be a—a distraction," he mumbled, heart hammering away at his throat, fearing what you would answer to what he wanted to ask of you. "I-If it would be alright with you, the last thing I wish to do before I go to bed tonight would be…a kiss."

Your expression went unchanged, remaining as distant and…almost defensive, as your eyes roamed his features. The silence from you was near deafening to him, the only sound that he could register being the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

"You don't need to say yes--"

"Wash your mouth first," you said in a rush, a tiny tentative smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. "Because I refuse to kiss the same lips she kissed."

Thomas stayed where he stood for a good few moments after you slipped out of his hold, stunned that you'd given only that simple stipulation and that ultimately, you agreed.

The shameful memories of Lucille's touch would not be the haunting lingering thought that plagued him before sleep would overtake him tonight. For even just a fleeting moment, he could convince himself that tonight he would go to bed having only kissed his wife goodnight. He could allow himself to picture what life with you would be like if you both succeeded in this plan of yours.

How you two would live out your newfound freedom together.

The mere thought brought tears to his eyes, envisioning what it would be like to wake in the morning contentedly holding you in his arms, your only concerns in the world paling in comparison to what he worried of now.

Warmth couldn't find you as you sat on the bed waiting for the sound of the water draining from the tub, no matter that you were on the side of the bed that was closer to the fireplace, or that the windows were closed and the wintery wind could not enter the room. The cold was coming from inside you, all stemming from the question of why did you agree to Thomas' wish so quickly.

Were you honestly so desperate to have a semblance of the marriage that you'd thought you signed your life off to that you were willing to instigate a sense of intimacy with a man you found yourself questioning if he was worthy of your trust? Could you even bring yourself to sleep in the same bed as him after all that had been revealed today?

How come the answer to both those questions was not a clear and resounding 'no'?

"I've never felt so stupid," you whispered into the quiet, wondering if Edith was present in the room with you now, the faint pang of disappointment prodding at your mind tauntingly when you heard nothing in return. "Too handsome for me to even have thought of knowing better."

The sound of water rushing into the drain jolted you out of your thoughts, having to make a conscious effort to take steadying breaths when Thomas stepped out of the bathroom with nothing but a thin bathing towel quickly becoming translucent from the water covering his lithe form. Suddenly you were conspicuously interested in the pattern of the flaming embers of the fireplace, keeping your gaze fixed at the blazing corner of the room until you felt the bed dip beside you.

It confounded you more when he shuffled closer to where you sat on the bed, fingers resting gently atop yours as he tucked his fingers under your chin to turn your gaze to him. "What did you gather from tonight?"

You had to fight against your urge to breathe out audibly in relief, your nerves over his request from earlier easing off somewhat at the much simpler turn the conversation had taken. "There are about sixty-five sheets worth of documents. I was able to fully copy four pages, but I think I can go faster if I can make the ink dry quicker…possibly up to seven or even eight pages a night, which would give me more time to work on transcribing the photograph cylinders."

"Would I be able to help you? About the ink?"

You shook your head slightly, shaking his light grasp on your chin only to have him cup the side of your face, fingers weaving through your hair, thumb stroking along your cheekbone. "I need to find a way to warm the paper and also procure thinner ink, so I'll go into the city tomorrow morning and see what I find."

"I could accompany you, make a day of it." The furrow between his brows visibly relaxed when you nodded, accepting his offer. The air around you felt thinner once more when his gaze flickered to your lips. "You truly are ethereal in this light," he breathed out as he leaned in close enough that you could hear his staggered breaths. "Brilliant," he whispered, barely audible, before he pressed his lips to yours in a tender kiss.

A faint whimper escaping you seemed to spur him on, each kiss becoming less restrained than the last, causing a near violent fluttering in your stomach the moment you felt his tongue tracing along the parting of your lips. There was a split second when he pulled away from you that you instinctively leaned toward him, chasing his kiss, before you caught yourself.

The sight of him giving you a tender smile greeted you when you opened your eyes, him seemingly content to stay right where he was, faces inches apart with his thumb tracing along your bottom lip. "Thank you."

"It's the least I could do," you said on instinct, assuming he meant what you'd done and agreed to tonight once he walked back into the bedroom.

"Y/N…" he breathed your name, his warm exhale grazing your skin from his closeness. "You're putting an end to the horror that has plagued most of my life. That is more than enough. More than I could ask for." He took you by surprise when he leaned in to press another soft kiss to your lips. "More than I deserve."

You immediately felt the loss of his touch when he scooted away and laid down on his side of the bed, moving you to follow suit as you wrestled with your thoughts and the outright diabolical turn your life had taken since stepping through the doors of his manor. How now you feared even sleeping only to wake with the maniacal Lucille standing over you with cleaver in hand.

Or perhaps you would not wake at all. Perhaps you would open your eyes and suddenly you would know the face of your apparitional friend Edith, because you were now cursed to haunt the halls of this possessed manor right alongside her.

What puzzled you the most was that if that were to happen, you would miss Thomas. And feel a sense of guilt about you that you were unable to deliver on your promise to end his sister's horrendous ways.

"Y/N, would it be too much if I were to ask for one more thing?" Thomas spoke into the quiet of the room. "You can say no I would completely understand."

"What is it?" You tried to keep your tone even, to not give it away that you were restless as well.

"May I hold you?"

The air left your lungs at his request, your thoughts racing with what his reasoning behind wanting to form this sense of intimacy with you when you knew that after all this you two would be little more than strangers. You tried to weave a sense of rationality into your decision. "Would it help you sleep?"

"Perhaps," he breathed out, already moving his arm to make space for you. "Since we met I always felt I could…breathe easier when you were near. I would sleep easier knowing that when I woke the next morning I would see you again. And now that you're here—"

You moved in the bed before he could finish his answer, shuffling into the space right beside him and settling against his side, grateful for the shadows cast upon your face from the fire now facing away from you, hiding the way your eyes widened and your brows knit together when he let out a sigh and visibly relaxed. When your head rested on his shoulder, he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer and pressing a light kiss to your forehead.

"Goodnight, darling," he whispered into your skin, wrapping his other arm around you as well and pulling you into a full embrace, half of your torso laying atop of his bare chest.

"I'm just saying, Y/N, things around here the last few days have just been a few touches too bleak for my taste without you coming in to request some obscure ingredient or equipment for one of your experiments for Scotland Yard. It's so good to see you again, and married! You've no idea how jarring it was to hear it from Jeffries and Rhodes that you hadn't taken on a case in nearly two months and then so casually mention that they'd last seen you when you dropped by the station to tell them you were taking an indefinite break from cases for your wedding!"

You'd spend the last few minutes catching up with the owner of the assorted goods shop you frequented, Suzanne, a woman that seemed to be able to work miracles and find whatever it was you needed for investigating your cases throughout the years. The moment you walked through the doors of her shop, she dropped everything and pulled you into a tight embrace as if it had been years since you two last saw each other.

Considering the coldness of Lucille back in Allerdale and the bizarre mix of comfort and trepidation you felt this morning waking in Thomas' arms, the familiarity of your years long acquaintance's warmth and hospitality was such a welcome change. So welcome that it threatened to move you to tears with how it nearly overwhelmed you with relief.

"It's so good to see you, too, Suzanne." You picked up the parcel of parchments and a bottle containing a more thinned out ink compared to the one you used last night. "This'll help a great deal. Also…any chance you have a few long candles laying around?"

"Absolutely. How many?"

You did a quick computation in your mind, adding a few for contingency's sake. "Five dozen?"

She didn't even seem surprised by your request. "Is this for another case? None of the detectives I've crossed paths with mentioned you're working on something from their board."

"More a…personal project," you offered, a half truth considering that this would eventually become a case when the station received the copied documents. Or when they investigate your mysterious and untimely demise at the hands of your demented sister in law. "You know me, always have to make sure I have a little more than enough in case mistakes are--"

"Lord have mercy," she gasped out, her attention completely taken by whatever or whoever was at the door. "What a sight."

You suppressed the grin threatening to split your face in two when you caught sight of Thomas walking into the shop and making his way toward you, his overcoat swaying gently with each step. "I've placed the order. Parts should arrive in three weeks," he spoke, all the while keeping a hand behind his back as he approached you. "And as I made my way here I came across this and thought it would be a welcome spot of color in our room."

He brought his hand around to reveal a small bouquet of sunflowers, a bright smile stretching across his face as he saw your own smile playing at your features once you caught sight of the brilliant yellow.

"It complements your eyes," he said softly, holding the flower up next to your face, effortlessly keeping you captive under his steely blue gaze.

The sound of a throat clearing brought you out of your trance, turning to face the shop owner once again. "Suzanne, I'd like you to meet my husband, Sir Thomas Sharpe." Her jaw had gone slack staring at the two of you, giving him the slightest nod and a small wave, all the while the awe never left her expression.

"Have you got everything you need, darling?"

You nearly blurted out that all you needed were the candles when another item crossed your mind. "Nearly everything." You turned to address Suzanne once more. "You wouldn't happen to have some magnesium pills on hand, would you?"

"I'll see what I can find." She gave you both a curt nod before walking into her stock room. "Is everything alright? These are usually a last resort when all you do is toss and turn in the night."

"Just…some trouble sleeping," you called out into the direction of the door, holding up a hand in Thomas' direction when he opened his mouth to question the order. "Might just be the adjustment period after moving and all. Unpacking and familiarizing myself to a new environment."

"Oh! You've left the city?"

"Yes. I moved in to Thomas' home just outside the city. You know Allerdale Hall?"  The sound of her stumbling on something raised your concern. "Are you alright in there? Do you need some help?"

"Forgive me for sounding like a dolt, but I've heard that that manor is condemned. Haunted, even. Everyone that had ever stepped foot across those doors swears they hear voices coming from the walls."

You shared a look with your husband, raising your eyebrow at him in a playfully taunting expression before answering the shop owner, "It's just the East Wind." He held a hand against his mouth to stifle the chuckles that escaped him. "Write it off as nothing more than an old wives' tale, my friend." You quietly shuffled a bit closer to Thomas before finishing in a more hushed voice, "Because what they're hearing are quite literally old wives…"

That had him shaking from the laughter he was holding back, moving his hand to wrap around you and pull you to his side, pressing a kiss into your hair and causing you to slightly shake as well from his barely restrained chuckling. When Suzanne had stepped out of the stock room with a box in hand along with a small tin of what you assumed were the pills you asked for, this was how she saw you two, a warm smile gracing her lips as she visibly melted at his gesture.

"I've never seen a husband so smitten with his wife," she commented as she placed the items on the counter. "It's so refreshing to see a couple so beautifully in love."

The sound of a sharp chime of the bell distracted you from the slight ache you felt from Suzanne's words, a tinge of guilt mixed with what you could only speculate was longing threatening to consume your thoughts. A group of three walked through, two ladies dressed in bright colors and frills with matching hats as a garish show of their affluence, and a gentleman in a definitively more muted business suit.

Recognition dawned in the eyes of each new visitor as soon as they spotted Thomas, the older woman's lip slightly upturned into an unsubtle sneer, while the younger woman straightened her posture, the swell of her breasts nearly bursting from the tight low neckline of her dress. Meanwhile the gentleman a few steps behind them shifted his attention quickly to the small collection of antique photographs by the front of the store.

"Thomas!" the younger woman sighed in a completely unnatural breathy tone that you recognized as an attempt in being flirtatious. "It's so good to see you again. We haven't seen you back in town since Edith's funeral. Honestly I feared that I--" The older woman lightly swatted her arm, both admonishing her and showing you that this was most likely her mother. "That we would never see you again."

It was almost as if the two women were making a conscious effort to disregard your presence, the daughter's eyes constantly flickering away from you the moment her gaze traveled in your general direction, and the mother staring right through you, as if the wall behind you was more interesting. Perhaps it truly was.

"Eunice was so eager to see you again despite the tragedy." The mother's tone reeked of cold calculation, a near mirror to Lucille's back in the manor. As if she were trying to sway his attention to her daughter.

You vaguely remembered something Edith had mentioned last night about pompous women back in her hometown filled to the brim with backhanded compliments and thinly veiled threats of putting others they deemed 'unworthy' in their 'rightful place in society'. This must be who she was referring to.

"It truly did not occur to me you would find yourselves back in London, Mrs McMichael." There was an obvious restraint in Thomas' tone that reminded you of how he questioned Lucille's suggestion for tea when you arrived in Allerdale yesterday afternoon, as if in his own way, he was trying to tell the woman across from you to take a step back. "What brings you back to London?"

"Oh, well Alan is here for a conference and Eunice was absolutely beside herself to return to the city and…all it had to offer." You unsubtly raised a single eyebrow at the poorly veiled weight behind those words. The younger woman, Eunice, had come to see Thomas. And it seemed that her brother was doing a poor job at feigning indifference judging by the way his head slightly moved along with the motion of rolling his eyes. It was only then that this Mrs McMichael looked directly at you, her gaze so cold it was clearly accustomed to being able to cut right into a lesser woman's insecurities.

You…were no lesser woman.

"But I see that certain sights have already become a touch too crowded," she sighed, her tone so condescendingly derisive. "Who might you be?"

"Mrs McMichael, this is--"

"Y/N Sharpe," you cut your husband off, extending a hand towards the haughty woman. "Scotland Yard." The muted 'oooooh' from Suzanne had you fighting off a smirk. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

The older woman took a look at the items before you on the counter. "Seems an odd place for Scotland Yard to send off their secretary on a run for supplies." She then scanned your attire from head to toe, the feel of your husband's hand making its way from your waist to the pocket of your skirt quickly distracting you from the irritation beginning to worm its way into your expression. "Quite odd for them to make you dress in such an erudite manner, too. Don't secretaries back home dress a little more…simply, Eunice?"

You placed your hand over Thomas' inside your skirt's pocket, trying to discreetly pry his fingers away from the handle of your blade while answering the woman no more than a stranger patronizing you over the way you dressed. "Actually I'm an investigator. These aren't supplies for the station, they're for me. For a case." When his hand was no longer closed around your blade, his fingers intertwined with yours, you brought up your joint hands to press a quick kiss to the backs of his fingers, stifling back a chuckle at the seething glare that colored both women's faces. "I have everything I need. Let's go home."

"I wasn't able to ask you while we were in the store," Thomas spoke a few minutes after the two of you had hopped on to the carriage back to Allerdale Hall, the entire time his fingers interlaced with yours, refusing to let you go. As if a part of him was fearful that if he let you slip away for even a few inches, even for the briefest moment, that you might not return.

He wouldn't blame you if that had been the case; being married to him seemed more a dangerous struggle than the blissful, romantic affair that poems and novels were written about. That was the marriage you deserved, and it weighed heavy on his heart to know that he could not give that to you.

Perhaps if you both survived this effort to put an end to Lucille's plotting, and if somehow Fate was kind to him and would not see him suffer too great a consequence for aiding in these schemes, then he could start to craft that picturesque, love-filled marriage that he had longed for his own life. The kind that would have built a home full of warmth, laughter, and comfort even in the icy chills of the country.

With you.

"What is it?" The way your thumb was absentmindedly rubbing circles on the knuckles of his fingers had him itching to pull you closer. To kiss you again like he had last night. And perhaps even test the waters into having it progress into something more.

"The magnesium pills…Why did you get them? Did you truly have trouble sleeping last night? I sincerely apologize if I--"

"No no, Thomas. You did nothing wrong." Your hold on his hand tightened slightly, as if pulling him out of his own head, bringing his focus back into reality. Back to you. "I erm--I actually slept quite peacefully," you mumbled, ducking your head down moments after he swore he saw your cheeks becoming tinged with pink. "They're for you."

Confusion overcame the baronet. Last night had been the most peaceful sleep he had in years, despite his participation in this possibly perilous endeavor you'd both signed yourselves up for. Painted a beautiful picture of what your life together would be once it was truly only just the two of you, and you would both come home after a day's work and settle into a more relaxed, intimate routine as husband and wife. "I don't think I need them, darling."

"I mean, should there ever be a night that you…can't stomach your part in this whole…" you trailed off, your free hand moving about as if you were trying to grasp the right word. "Situation…They're for that." You leaned in closer and spoke in a more hushed tone. "Take a pill, crush it into a powder, and stir it into her tea. They shouldn't give off a telling taste, but you can mask it with sugar if it helps. Put her right to sleep so that you won't have to--"

Your words were cut off in an adorable little squeak from the back of your throat as he leaned in to capture your lips in a tender kiss, his heart awash with warmth when he felt you relaxing against him and heart a soft sigh right before you began to kiss him back. "You are a godsend," he whispered against you.

"Well, it is a wife's duty after all to lighten her husband's load as best she can," you retorted, chuckling lightly as you pulled away from him. He had to fight the urge to pull you closer once more. "It feels only but right to do what I can while I still hold that title."

Thomas felt his blood go cold, the chill spreading even to the tips of his fingers. "Wait. Y/N, what do you mean while--"

"Would I really be so cruel to help you escape one gilded cage just to put you in another?" Your eyes shone with a sincerity, an earnest to simply help with fulfilling a shared interest. "Thomas, when this is all over and if we both survive, the outcome I'm aiming for is that I get to live my life back here in the city. Keep on doing what I'm good at and solve more cases. As for you? You get to be free. To do with the manor what you wish, meet someone new, court them, and marry them by your terms."

He felt his whole body go numb as he tried to make sense of the words coming out of you, watching the images of the life he planned to build with you start to crumble in his mind. The image of a life as a free man without you to hold and kiss at the end of the day held little to no appeal for him.

I might prefer incarceration, he thought to himself bitterly. "Do you mean than when this is over what comes next would be--"

"Dissolution," you finished his question for him, effectively turning his heart into lead and dropping to the pit of his stomach. "You'll be free from me, too."

He could see from the smile on your face that you probably expected him to be relieved with this news. Ecstatic even. But every ounce of him screamed to tell you there was no need. That he didn't see life with you as a gilded cage. That your words felt as if you'd taken your blade and stuck it right through his heart before twisting it.

We should have stayed in the city.

A/N: I don't think he likes that outcome very much… 🥴🫡

everything taglist: @sailorholly @loopsisloops @unlucky-number-13 @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @sarahscribbles @kats72 @kikster606 @evelyn-kingsley @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th @lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @dangertoozmanykids101 @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @lokidokieokie @superficialdomina @anukulee

the final Lady Sharpe taglist: @lady-rose-moon @sassanoe @smolvenger @annoyingsweetsstranger @bombcitymiss22 @ladyloki3 @cakesandtom

[thelastwordsofashootingstarr]

i can’t write anymore. i can’t hold a pen and not think of a knife anymore. these days, you’ll find me whispering to myself every night. “sometimes a wound is just a wound”. sometimes, it’s enough to just make it out to the daylight.

and there’s only so many words i can write before the ink starts looking like blood. there’s only so much i can say before the teeth i’ve swallowed start to hurt. there’s only so many summers i can go without drowning in an invisible flood.

haven’t you heard all of it? i think you’re sick of the same story by now. how this grief is a family heirloom. how only the worthy are loved. how i spill my guts every time i’m alone in a room. how girls with white dresses stain the surface beneath their skin with mud. how i’d rather be haunted than be lonely.

but how can i stop writing when this wound is no longer a wound, but a million stories woven together? and how can i stop writing when i know you’d always listen to the same story a million times, as long as i told it?

// title ideas needed!

a lil self- motivation in honour of the terrible writing slump i’m in

[purplewitch156]

hello I love your works!! especially Of Your Making!! you mentioned that was your first fanfic; what were some of the struggles you experienced if you don't mind me asking? any writing advice you could give for a new writer?

I really appreciate getting your ask today because I’m having an extremely irritating weekend, but this is a good step in the right direction, so thank you!

You know what’s funny, I didn’t struggle with Of Your Making, which is weird because it’s typical to run out of steam or enthusiasm while working on a project (especially large projects) or to come across bumps in the story’s structure or plot or characters that completely derail the creative flow. But that never happened in OYM. Even when I didn’t know what the next scene was going to be or what was going to happen after the Carcerem, I figured out answers to those questions startlingly fast. And I think I know why.

OYM was my fourth full-length story. The ones previous were all original works that were geared toward young teens (I was trying to make a career at it; I’m not trying anymore). And one of the things that you’re told when you’re trying to make a career out of writing is to brand yourself. Find your audience and write to that audience. Your fans will know what to expect from you and they will (theoretically) read your future publications. I was writing stories that naturally fit in with the middle school crowd so that was who all my future stories needed to garner to. The problem was I felt stifled and stuck. I wanted to write more adult themes, but I felt that I couldn’t. Now, I could have made a new pen name and published under that. That’s totally acceptable and something that many people do, but I was also coming to terms with the fact that I wasn’t having fun writing anymore. I didn’t like the pressure and expectations I was putting on myself and so when I started my first fanfic, all those problems that were attached to original writing weren’t there anymore. It was like I was able to breathe again. I felt free in a way that I had not felt in a very long time. And best of all, I was having fun. And I think it was because of this that OYM was one of the easiest stories I’ve ever written. It was the most self-healing writing experience I have ever had simply because I removed all my rules and judgments and wrote for myself.

My advice to new writers:

Number 1: Study stories. This doesn’t have to just be written stories. This can include movies or video games. Pay attention to aspects of a story that you like and aspects that you don’t like and try to figure out why you like the bits you like and why you don’t like the bits you don’t. I’m not saying you should be overly critical about all the content you consume! Just become a bit analytical. A bit curious. If you feel like something’s missing or something didn’t quite work or something pulled you out of the immersion, try to pinpoint it. Try to figure it out. The same goes for the stuff that sucked you in. Try to figure out how it sucked you in. Why it sucked you in. The more you do this, the more it becomes second nature and the more you’re able to implement the stuff you like in your writing and dodge or spot the stuff that’s not working.

Number 2: Pull from yourself. I don’t mean to write everything autobiographically, though you can do that if you want. I’m more talking about pulling from your own experiences. For example, we all know what fear feels like. We all know what happiness feels like. We know what it’s like to make a new friend and what it’s like to lose them. When we read these experiences and feelings, we connect with the character more. We empathize with them. We understand them. We’ve been there, too, and because of that the story resonates stronger. Take this comic by @sarahseeandersen:

It's funny because it’s true.

I hope I was helpful. I’ve actually been reading Invisible Ink, A Practical Guide to Building Stories that Resonate by Brian McDonald and I’m finding it to be quite fascinating. He can be a bit forceful and rule-focused, which makes sense. He’s teaching you how to do something and having a structure or strategy is super helpful for that. So if you decide to read it (and I do recommend it) take his advice (and really, anyone’s advice, mine included) with a grain of salt. Writing is meant to be explorative and creative. And fun. Most especially, fun.   

[acaseforpencils]

Sarah Kempa.

Bio: My cartoons and comics have appeared in various publications, including The New Yorker and McSweeney’s. I also had a short little comic-activity book published with AMU titled, Where Did My Roommate Put My Charger?: A Kind-Of Activity Book for Kind-Of Adults.

Find this print here!

Book link

Excerpt from book

This is my favorite cartoon they've published, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention my true favorite (no offense cartoon!) which is this comic, done in honor of Dolly Parton and the Moderna vaccine.

Tools of choice: I draw all cartoons I pitch to The New Yorker on an ipad using Procreate.... I will forever appreciate the grace it gives me in making mistakes, and the speed of switching tools and adding a wash. I draw anywhere from 7-10 cartoons a week to pitch to the New Yorker, which for me honestly feels like a lot of drawing!! (Bravo to all the other cartoonists who accomplish such a feat without breaking a sweat!)

For the cartoons I pitch, I don't need everything to be perfect, but I do want it to feel like it could be a cartoon in the magazine, so I do my best to add a wash and make them look the part. The most wonderful thing about Procreate is I can do all that while sitting on the sofa watching/not watching Real Housewives, with a small dachshund napping on my lap, and not spill one drop of ink. Just as the cartoon gods intended!

For idea generation, I use Strathmore recycled newsprint, essentially a giant 18x24 pad of scrap paper. I will cuddle up with this pad and go through my different idea generation exercises, until I find something I want to make into a cartoon. The paper is nothing fancy, and I can fill it up with as many things as I want without running out of space. It seems like it's not very practical or portable, but I actually find it to be the opposite. I carry it around the apartment with me, take it outside, use it as a tray to move my workstation from the sofa to table, and have even leveraged a sheet or too as wrapping paper! It's perfect. I use these Muji gel ink pens with it and they pair nicely.

Tool I wish I could use better: Right now I'm working on using watercolors. I like the idea of bringing a little portable watercolor set to the park, and then painting nature, but those are both things I have never put into practice, but sound really nice in theory. 

Tool I wish existed: I always make a mess whenever I use ink, wash, water colors, pastels... you name it. I'm thinking it would be nice to have those invisible ink markers that only work on a certain type of paper, but instead with markers, my paints, pastels, inks, etc that I can't use without making a mess.

Tricks: I'm trying to quite literally do less. I burn out creatively more easily these days, so I'm making the decision to do less, and affirm to myself that it is okay. :) Maybe that means submitting less cartoons in a batch, or not drawing everything I think of that could be a cartoon, just trying to be a bit more intentional to keep the burn out away.

Website, etc.

My book! I think it would make a good gift? 

Instagram

Etsy

———–

If you enjoy this blog, and would like to contribute to labor and maintenance costs, there is a Patreon, and if you’d like to buy me a cup of coffee, there is a Ko-Fi  account as well! I do this blog for free because accessible arts education is important to me, and your support helps a lot! You can also find more posts about art supplies on Case’s Instagram and Twitter! Thank you!

[alinalioness]

Professor Arnold's map 5 Chapter:An abandoned town.

The heroes were flying calmly and noticed an abandoned town.

Alina:Great, all we have to do is find one of the cabins where Arnold got the information.

Cal:I also suggest that we all split up.

When they landed, they split up in pairs. Alina with Tricky, Jelly with Redhead, Jose with Yuri, Fiona with Haoyu, Sana with Eis, Cass with Attilio, Cal with Lucy and Iben with Bruce. The heroes looked around the town and are looking for a suitable one, but they did not find it.

Attilio:Everything is ruined here and it's hard to find a suitable one.

Alina:I think it's worth taking a closer look. Suddenly there will be things belonging to scientists.

Tricky:I found it! (She came out of an abandoned house) I found a notebook with Arnold's name on it. He's in the house where I am.

The heroes approach the house where Tricky ascended and saw a notebook with the name Arnold.

Heroes:Arnold.

But as soon as they opened the notebook, it was completely clean.

Yuri:He didn't have time to write it down.

Cal:(He took Arnold's notebook) Or maybe the ink is invisible.

Tricky:Wow, I didn't know this could happen.

Haoyu:(He noticed something) Hey, there's some kind of iron door.

The heroes came to the iron door and were surprised.

Alina:Maybe Arnold was doing something there. (Tries to open but won't open) Closed.

Bruce:I think he opens it without a key.

Tricky:To be honest, I'm still learning how to make things disappear.

Alina:I suggest looking for another way.

The heroes started looking for something to open the doors. Someone was looking in the closet, someone on the broken floor, and someone in the walls. On the second floor, Alina, Tricky and pets searched, but did not find it.

Alina:No.

Tricky:We'll have to go downstairs.

As soon as they left, Jelly accidentally brushed the books with her tail and one of them fell. When they stopped and then took it, they were surprised to see it...

Alina:Wow...

Meanwhile, with inhabitants.

Cal:Did you find anything?

The rest of the inhabitants:Nothing.

Alina:Found it! (Tricky and pets went down to the first floor) We found a way to open it. We just need to make acid.

Tricky:I can make it appear, but I'm still learning to be safe.

Alina:And how do you make objects appear?

Tricky:Well, they appear when I think for real that these items are real.

Alina:Well, let's practice. The flask with acid should not appear from the air.

Tricky:(She shakes his head) Should not.

Alina:Then look at the floor. (Tricky looks at the floor) Now think about it and make him come.

Tricky used magic to carefully force the flask of acid to appear.

Tricky:Turn out.

Alina carefully took the flask and poured acid on the lock of the iron door. When the flask was empty, she put it down and opened the door. The room was half dark, but that didn't stop the heroes from entering. Later, they came across a table and saw a paper with the inscription "Arnold was here. The notebook is written with an invisible pen."

Alina:Everything is clear. We need an iron to make the words appear. But you need an outlet to work.

The inhabitants saw the closet and opened it. They noticed that some parts and wires were damaged.

Tricky:Haoyu, will you fix this?

Haoyu:I'm afraid it will be dangerous.

Cass:Hmm, what if you put a hot stone to the paper? Will the words appear?

Alina:I don't know, but I need to check it out.

The heroes put a piece of paper from a notebook and put a hot stone to it. Tricky magically made the alarm clock appear and set it for 10 minutes. They started expecting to fall asleep until the alarm went off. When they removed the stone and took the paper, they were surprised to see the words.

"Before I go to the cave, I have to make sure that there will be no enemies and no earthquake. I asked the seller for a small box for my daughter's gift."

Alina:Yeah, so before going to the cave, he bought a gift box for his daughter.

Tricky:Maybe something could fit in there.

Alina:Then go ahead to the cave.

She sat on Tricky, while Tricky, with the help of magic, the pets and inhabitants found themselves in a cage and all flew away together to the cave.

To be continued...

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Vast!Jon AU snippet - Martin, no

Martin has had… a week, and he knows he has, so he takes the time he needs to read this contract.

It’s a two-pager. It’s so clear and simple that he’s tempted to build a fire and hold the contract over it to look for gotcha-clauses in invisible ink.

Peter chills while he does, not pushing, clearly unconcerned as long as Martin is quiet and still (though Martin definitely notices that movement or sound disrupts Peter’s chill at once). 

Martin can’t find anything tricky in the wording.

It has a really smooth quitting clause. There is no NDA. Martin even keeps all the rights, and can use the videos and anything else he creates however he wants. 

The only thing the Lukas family asks for is the right to direct these episodes, and to provide means for Martin to achieve their creative ideas.

It seems too good to be true. It has to be too good to be true. Things like this don’t exist.

“You are a suspicious little bugger, aren’t you?” says Peter cheerfully.

“Well, you’ve got to be, don’t you?” mutters Martin, reading it through a fourth time. “Or else somebody gets you in the back.”

Peter laughs. “Lovely.”

And he still doesn’t push.

A tiny, petty part of Martin wants to make him stand there waiting, for three hours, and see how he likes it.

But he’s hungry, and he’s supposed to meet with Jon tonight, so… 

One more scan through.

He still can’t spot the gotcha. “Just one question. What do you people get out of this?”

“That, Martin, is something you’ll learn as we go.”

Alarm bells. “What, are you inducting people into a cult, or something? Will there be subliminal messages in my videos?”

“No, no,” Peter chuckles. “Though that’d be a trip, wouldn’t it? No. We’re just well aware that more and more people are stuck at home, isolated, and their only contact with the outside world is… well, people like you! And you’re not actually there, are you? It’s a very lonely way to be, and we want to help. You might say it’s been the family business to help just so for a very long time.”

Martin stares at him. “Nice villain speech.”

“Right? It's even funny, though you probably can't see that yet.”

As though they’re both joking.

Martin takes a moment to check his phone.

A warning that the bill for his mother’s care is late.

Not one bite from any job applications.

Not one loan application approved.

And a text from Jon, asking if he wants Thai or pizza, followed by a weird, carefully punctuated rant about the uniformity of pizza flavors and whether they all use the same suppliers or if base ingredients just taste the same by some sort of tradition.

Martin’s heart does a lovely little dance, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He smiles.

Peter shifts. Shifts again.

Somehow, Martin has finally made his sponsor uncomfortable. 

Maybe making him uncomfortable is a bad idea. Martin needs this. And… he can quit any time he likes. “All right. I’m signing.” 

“Fabulous. I knew you would.”

“Don’t get chummy now,” Martin mutters, holding the pen. His hands shakes, poised over the signature box.

“You won't have to worry about that. Welcome aboard, Martin. We’ll be in contact on Saturday - oh! Be sure to leave your bank details here, too. We’ll be wiring money today, as promised.”

“Even though I haven’t done anything for you yet?” says Martin, suspicious. There was no verbiage about having to return it if things went poorly.

“Do you not want it?” says Peter, absolutely as innocent as a snake.

Martin tries to ignore the idea that they know he needs it badly (How would they? How?) and signs.

[troubled-vessel]

Once I was a poet.

I remember.

The words came. The muse visited.

I wrote them down. Scribbled,

Rejoiced.

Blessed her name,

Belssed divinity and the Gift,

The blessing of life..

It pulsed in me.

Still it does,

Like an underground ley line.

Energy beneath the earth.

I believe--have faith--prayer--

That those who are sensitive and pass me by

Can feel its pulse.

Sense how it throbs within me.

How it leaves me breathless.

I imagine them left breathless too,

With the sense of it,

That faint awareness of what lays

Just beneath the surface.

But blind and divided by screens,

I know no one can see, or feel.

Once I was a poet,

Making the invisible palpable,

Catching snapshots of slippery subatomic particles,

Evidence of the un-capturable magic inside us all.

But other parts of me took over, and my pen has dried of ink,

My days dried of time,

And the words are hard to find.

I kneel before the Muse,

Gaze up at her face,

And I know she laughs, and says

"little one, it's all within you."

While her stone face is motionless above me.

Solomon said,

The words must bleed from the forehead.

I must sit, and try, and let them bleed.

And I am afraid, and already tired.

But rivers and mountains run within.

And no one can see them

Feel the grace of their waters and moss-covered stones,

Until my nib scratches the pages

With drops of my own blood.

I spent a year and more thinking,

'I need to find my voice again,'

But I think the truer truth is,

I need to be seen, not heard.

Make visible what is here,

Pulsing and fomenting within.

Invite you to glance,

And look more closely if curiosity piques.

I don't need to yell in your face,

Weep into the wind,

Whisper into the neverending, deaf - blind darkness.

I want the knowledge to rise within you:

the darkness is there,

And the whispers.

And the books heavy with philosophy.

The statues carves with artful profiles.

The stacks of swords.

The drops of inky blood.

The crash of waves mixed with the secret energies of the heart, made visible.

Temples on craggy cliffsides,

Graceful welcoming villas, and carefully tended gardens.

Laughing masters,

Gothic cavaliers.

Dirty imp-girls who will stab you as soon as anything,

But also trade a good book for a blowjob,

If the seller is a trusted friend.

There are ghosts,

And rocks who are palpably contented with the rush of stream-water overhead.

Spaceship cruise-ships,

And tulgey woods with curious ideas of propriety at the tea parties hosted secretly in their necks.

Kneeling, begging, lost exiles waiting for retrieval and recommunion, and suspicious and slippery beasts to guard them.

You can't see any of it,

Unless I fashion a window,

Dashing my skull open on the edge of the writing desk,

And holding up fragments of bone in freely-given offering.

Fragments of bone, breath and stone,

Shreds of words.

Poetry?

No, that urn is shattered on the floor. Those days are lost.

A monk will take a straw broom and sweep up the pieces.

You can hear the sound they make as I gather them into a pile.

There is no voice.

Just the tinkle of pottery and blood.

But....did I make you see it?

I pray it might be so.

[chaotic-archaeologist]

I posted 2,004 times in 2022

1,024 posts created (51%)

980 posts reblogged (49%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@chaotic-archaeologist

@archaeologistproblems

@micewithknives

@saintartemis

@invisible-goats

I tagged 1,758 of my posts in 2022

Only 12% of my posts had no tags

#he speaks - 938 posts

#he answers - 622 posts

#archaeology - 265 posts

#archaeology humor - 145 posts

#20 questions - 103 posts

#academic advice - 91 posts

#academic humor - 76 posts

#life advice - 62 posts

#he learns - 57 posts

#history humor - 54 posts

Longest Tag: 104 characters

#i have several asks in my inbox right now that are a barrage of questions and it feels very overwhelming

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Can you be kinda chubby and be an archaeologist? I’m working on my health and fitness, but I’m still kinda chubby and not really cut out for field school yet. I read this article saying fat people can’t be archeologist and it kinda crushed my dreams. Because I know it will take a bit to get rid of the weight, but I feel so out of place after reading that..

Hi there, dirtling, this makes me so insanely angry. I am incandescent with rage. I would like to find the author of that article and rip them from limb to limb.

You can absolutely be fat and be an archaeologist.

I am so sorry that I have to be the one to tell you this. I am sorry that you have not received support from other members of my community. I am sorry that someone's ignorant fatphobia has crushed your dreams. Please let me try to convince you otherwise.

I have had the privilege to dig with dig with several fat people, and in each case they were an asset to our team. They were just as capable of excavating as those of us who were carrying less weight, and each of them brought special skill sets and unique capabilities to the table that we would have been worse off without had they not been working with us.

You do not have to lose weight before going on a field school. You know your body better than the writer of that article ever can. If you feel like you are capable of performing the manual labor required during an excavation, then I believe your self assessment. There is no maximum weight limit for participating in an archaeological dig.

Even if you don't feel like you're physically able to go on a dig, there are other archaeological opportunities for you! As someone with a disability who can't do a ton of manual labor, I do a lot of lab work because it allows me to be sitting down. There is so much more to archaeology than just digging stuff out of the ground, and there is absolutely room for you in this field of study.

Here are some resources that I was able to find about obesity and archaeology.

The Fat Archaeologist

Who decided it was bad to be fat— Sapiens

The Archaeology of Obesity: Discourse Analysis and Implications for North American Obesity Research

I did actually try to find the article that you mentioned so that I could take apart its argument piece by piece, but I wasn't able to locate it easily. If someone could direct me to it, I would be more than happy to rip it to shreds because it is categorically false and actively harmful. In my personal opinion, that author can suck it. Sorry, not sorry. I'm mad.

-Reid

1,007 notes - Posted June 12, 2022

#4

How to write a diary for future historians

I began keeping a diary at the beginning of the pandemic to document what was going on and how I felt about it in case someone from the future ever reads it. For anyone looking to get started, here's the "diary recipe" I use.

You will need:

Pen with black or blue ink. Ink stains the paper whereas pencil just puts pigment on top of the paper. This means that most of the lead can be brushed off or fall off over time. Black and blue ink are important because they're the most stable over time. Other ink colors might fade or otherwise degrade over time.

Acid free notebook. This is once again a conservation thing. Acid free paper is exactly what it sounds like, and is thus less likely to chemically degrade/disintegrate over time. I personally use a moleskine notebook, but any other acid free paper will do just fine.

Why should I write? Because your perspective matters. You don't have to be famous or important to deserve to have your voice recorded. The fact that you are alive right now and experiencing events as they happen is enough. Your thoughts and feelings and the details of your daily life will be of great interest to future historians.

Isn't it sort of late to start? Absolutely not! The best time to start journaling is always now. Don't worry about having missed anything important. Whatever happens next is going to be important too, and having your unique perspective is vital.

What do I write about? Whatever you want! It can be world events or what's happening in your life or anything else that's on your mind. There is no one right way to keep a diary, and whatever you choose will be an important addition to the historical record.

How do I write? The great news is that there's no rules for this either! You don't have to write long entries if you don't have the time, energy, and interest for that. You can do a couple of short sentences. You can do bullet points. You can copy down headlines that you feel are notable.

How often do I have to write? It's totally fine if you don't write an entry every day. Write whenever you have the inclination to, even if it's only every couple of weeks or months. Don't feel bad about the frequency of your updates— sporadic entries are still better than no entries at all!

History doesn't just have to be written by the victors, it can be written by all of us. Add your voice to the record to make sure that it includes the things you think are important. Your perspective matters.

1,634 notes - Posted April 12, 2022

#3

If i found a ancient coin hoard buried in my backyard could i keep a coin or two when i donate it to a museum?

Absolutely not. I think that this is probably a joke, but depending on where you are, it's also illegal.

I am against private collections and the desire to own the material past. Keeping any item from a discovery is incredibly unethical and would earn you the permanent animosity from archaeologists, museum workers, archivists, curators, restoration specialists, and pretty much anyone else who belongs to a scientific study of the past.

I know that you probably meant this as a joke, and that this was not the answer you were expecting. My firmness is not in any way personal. I cannot stand for the humor about topics that are essentially looting, because humor serves to legitimize the act.

-Reid

3,114 notes - Posted January 17, 2022

#2

This is why fieldwork safety is of utmost importance. I've been in situations where it felt like my safety was not the primary concern, and I constantly worried about things like this happening.

OSHA guidelines are written in blood. They're there for a reason. Don't ever let someone convince you to compromise on your safety. (link to tweet) (link to news coverage)

3,129 notes - Posted July 12, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

BOOK OF KELLS BOOK OF KELLS BOOK OF KELLS BOOK OF KELLS

49,776 notes - Posted April 12, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[arcstral]

as soon as she is able to, caeda requests a return to the monastery from rusalka. she is lucky that her request is granted without much fuss. the dream that she’d had played far too many tricks on her— for her comfort she needed to see her beloved marth again.

though even with his warmth, she was not sure she would ever forget the feeling of dying. the blood that had pooled at her stomach had felt so real it made her nauseous just thinking about it.

caeda has a feeling humans aren’t supposed to remember things like that.

she finds his dorm room with ease and knocks on his door. “marth?” she calls out with her normal voice— disguised to hide her grief in public but still normal. “it’s caeda, i returned from my mission!”

               Wracked by the disappearance of not merely one soul deeply loved, but many others, a king’s mind could only be led to hem and haw of the differences these absences make. To stutter and hitch on its thoughts of useful behavior as consciousness towards the academy, and all else, dwindles to a thread. Amid all this worry it would be foolish to expect of him the same perfect labors as he has portrayed before. The pen in his hand petering off the paper in his state of distraction, misguided ink rubbed away with as slanted a mind, calculations conducted off-beat by more handfuls then pinches.  .  .Can he be blamed for his faulty ways at a desk? Deeper concerns surely lie beyond it!

               The days are joined together ceaselessly by his gnawing concern that he is not there to brave their hostile elements with them in Rusalka; his allies and friends in so much measure. Caeda, Kris, and Katarina among them. Every hour serves to remind that those to whom he might bequeath all the measure of his love are also for all the duration of a month without presence to receive it. But as he is soon to know, there is a difference that cuts this day from the rest, like night and day, sea and sky—

                  Announced with the call of his name then the full and beautiful sight of the former Talys princess herself, Caeda returns to him after that painful hibernation, and for a grateful matter of seconds there is little else that can enter his eye. His arms engulf her at once. “You’ve returned! I hadn’t expected you to be back today, but I am all the gladder for it—oh, you must be positively exhausted! Are you hurt or hungry? Perhaps you’d like to bathe first? Forgive my eagerness without prior thought. I’ve no mind to pile myself onto you at once after such a tiring journey—”

               Every word and function is to halt at his discovery, stopped in their tracks. A thick line of tension stiffening her in his hold where relaxation should have persisted, a studious speed drives his gaze as he draws back to examine her, guided by the knowledge of something amiss. Traveling then lingering on the finer points of expression with invisibility to an unversed eye. The exhaustion buried there, the silent appeal for comfort that only Marth could provide, the signs are enough compel to a different breed of question. The further gaping of a dormitory door as he moves to allow her into his heart and his halls in one backwards step. “...Come in, Caeda. I’d like to hear of your time in Rusalka, and of yourself. As much as you are willing to share, of course. I am sure you have many stories to impart."

[cloudbattrolls]

Rule of Law

Hazard Ailaht | Selatak | Present Night 

Hazard stared blankly at the court summons sitting on the table in front of him, not comprehending a single word.

“What do you mean I’m accused of the deaths of dozens of clowns?” He said, completely bewildered as his blue eyes flicked up and down the page, trying to find any sense in it. 

“Probably that you’re accused of the deaths of dozens of clowns, Hazard.” sighed Lizzie impatiently, sitting across from him with her arms crossed as she leaned back in the dark wooden chair. 

He’d called her as soon as he’d opened the envelope and read it the first time, stunned, needing someone to show up and make sure he hadn’t lost it. Luckily, it hadn’t taken her long to come over; it was close to light out, they’d both long since gotten off work. 

A vague flicker of thought also reminded him he needed her legal advice. 

“I mean that’s crazy!” The blueblood said, waving his hands. “Where would I even find the time? Not like I have a library to run or anything. Not like I’m any good at being stealthy, especially in a circus. Let me just hide behind the nearest tent pole, that’ll work. I’ll be invisible for sure.”

The legislacerator snorted. 

“Disguise tech, Hazard, you ought to remember given Goh Tat had it.”

“Well, I don’t.” He said, rubbing his eyes. “Can I just walk in, let them look at me, search my hive, and realize the odds of me pulling this off are about as high as the governor deciding he’s going to sponsor the arts next sweep?”

“You could’ve had accomplices, Hazard.” Lizzie said in a voice that was trying valiantly to be patient. “Use your brain, I know you have a good one.”

“Ughhhhh, I don’t want to go to court, Lizzie.” He said, voice muffled slightly as he held his head in his hands. “I hate court. It was bad enough I had to go with you to get control of the bloodline transferred to me, and I wasn’t in trouble then.”

“Stop whining.” She retorted, reaching across the table to rap him gently on the arm with a pen. 

“We’ll figure this out. You’re lucky they’re doing this official way instead of just having someone kill you. They’d technically be within their bounds, though without evidence their case is a lot shakier. Probably why they’re going through the courts; they recognize on the off chance they’re wrong, you’re the one person who might have more information for them.”

“I really don’t.” He said bluntly. “All I can think of is that someone at the hospital is synthesizing and selling my venom on the side. Okay, sure, that makes enough sense, but did they really think it wouldn’t be traced back to them? My venom - venoms - are a unique blend. Someone was going to get a toxicology report and figure it out eventually. Surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

Lizzie paused, looking thoughtful.

“Actually…that’s a good point.”

“I make them sometimes.” He muttered.

The tealblood rolled her eyes. “What I mean is that you’re right, the timeframe is odd. As dumb as some clowns can be, they’re not all stupid, and this letter says the killings have been going on almost since you fought Goh Tat.”

She took the letter from him and read it again.

“Hmm. Most of them are from all different sects, too, no more than two or three from each one. I want more information on the victims before we go anywhere.”

“Well, we have a week, right?” He said, thinking of the summons date printed on the piece of paper in bold black ink. “That’s enough time to look into the hospital and these poor dead purplebloods. I can take a night or two off work to do some research.” 

He sighed, feeling like he’d aged fifty sweeps, the full magnitude of the situation hitting him.

It wasn’t that he was any great fan of clowns. He tended to avoid them when possible, though in Selatak, staying away from them entirely was like trying to dodge moonlight. 

But not all of them were horrible. They varied like anyone else, especially in a city with at least a dozen diverse sects like this one had. 

It was very likely they hadn’t deserved to die such awful deaths. His venom didn’t work like it did in the movies when someone got bitten by a snake, or stung by a scorpion. While it took effect more quickly than it should due to the combined potencies, it still usually didn’t kill a troll for some time, especially highbloods. Not that being in agonizing, paralyzing pain was any fun. 

Unless whoever was using it had somehow gotten their hands on a truly ridiculous amount of venom. But if that was the case, why hadn’t it been discovered sooner?

His head hurt trying to unravel the mystery.

Lizzie’s mild annoyance changed to sympathy as she looked up from the letter, teal gaze resting on her best friend’s clouded expression.

“It’ll be okay, Hazard.” She assured him softly. “You’re innocent and we’re going to prove it.”

He smiled at her weakly.

—

ONE WEEK LATER

“Oh, you are totally fucked.” Said the leader of the Dreamweavers conversationally as they leaned against the wall in the court waiting room. They were a few inches taller than Hazard, muscular and long-haired with intricate makeup on their face.

“They’ve all got a bug up their arses and they want someone to blame. Me? Don’t care. This is a waste of my fucking time. So I lost two trolls! Let me phone the news rags, that’s so totally unheard of.” They said in a singsong, derisive voice.

Hazard looked at Lizzie, seeing his baffled expression reflected on her own face at this clown’s behavior.

But then, Plaske Wilhem was an oddity among the church leaders of Selatak; for one thing, they weren’t from the area, their voice’s accent very clearly Western Alternian, though he couldn’t quite place the region.

For another thing, uncovered gills were set along their neck.

“So you’re here only because you have to be.” Lizzie mused.

“Bingo! Got it in one, lawyer girlie.” They said with a yawn, stretching their arms. “The two I lost were just a pair of sideshow rousties anyway.” They said with a dismissive wave of a manicured hand. 

“Some of the things in their cages had more brains than them. But you know, rest in pieces and bless their souls to the messiahs.” They said in an extremely bored tone, accompanying religious hand gesture minimally enthusiastic at best.

“Don’t you mean rest in peace?” Hazard asked, puzzled.

“I said what I said.” Drawled the cuspblood.

“Hazard Ailaht.” Came a deep, rasping voice from inside the courtroom, one that stood the blueblood’s hairs on end, and he knew exactly what creature it came from.

Plaske’s eyes glittered. “Go on in, Ailaht, I’ll be right behind you.”

Hazard gulped and walked into the room.

Oh gods there were so many clowns oh gods they were all staring at him oh gods oh gods -

Lizzie laid a hand on his shoulder.

He remembered how to breathe.

“So are you going to move, oooor…?” Came the bored, impatient voice of the Dreamweavers’ leader behind him. He could hear their foot tapping on the floor.

Rude as Plaske was, Hazard couldn’t help but be grateful that they’d shocked him out of his panic moment enough to take unsteady steps forward to where he and Lizzie needed to sit down.

“Thaaaanks.” They said in a singsong voice and a flicked wrist. “You remembered how to walk after all. You can do that and talk at the same time! Still a step above my charming contemporaries.”

Irritated muttering and insults came from the assembled trolls, largely remarks about the cusp’s less than formal outfit (he was pretty sure it was fancy dancing silks) and their gills.

They didn’t seem to care at all, slowly turning to meet the gazes of the other clowns looking down on them with a wide, lazy smile that oozed disrespect and flippancy before they stretched luxuriously and finally went to take their place among the rows.

“Now that mix Wilhem has entered and the defendants have assembled, we can begin.” Came the voice of His Honorable Tyranny.

Then he looked directly at Hazard and Lizzie, and Hazard’s throat went dry. 

“We are gathered here tonight to discuss the accusation of multiple murders of members of various Mirthful sects by their leaders toward Hazard Ailaht. While there is no genetic or witness evidence, the cause of death in each case was ruled after psychic and physical investigation to the unique blend of venoms possessed only by this individual.”

The great black creature’s gaze was steady.

“Hazard Ailaht. Lizzie Eizzil. What do you have to say in regards to this accusation?”

“Plenty, your honor, all based on my submitted evidence.” Lizzie said calmly, opening her briefcase to take out her notes. “Footage of the accused being otherwise engaged when several of the murders happened. Scientifically verified information about his venom production rate, the amount needed to kill purplebloods of the victims’ sizes, and the inconsistency of the wounds when matched against his fangs and claws. 

And, naturally, testimonials from other trolls in the footage to verify that it has not been doctored and illusionary psiionics or anything similar are not being used to simulate his presence.”

Lizzie. What would be do without her? 

Hazard smiled weakly at how even she was, how ready to defend him.

The clowns didn’t look convinced, however, though he saw that some appeared skeptical as they scrutinized him.

For once, the librarian was glad that he was hard to miss for anyone with remotely functional eyes, and that he wilted in front of crowds. Maybe those facts would help convince these indigos he was innocent. 

“Very well.” Said His Honorable Tyranny, then turned his massive, multi-horned head to look at the circus leaders, accompanied by their assistants and guards.

“Ringmasters of Selatak and its surrounding regions. What evidence do you have to bring against Hazard Ailaht?”

“He is a mutant.” Growled one troll with gold-capped tusks and jagged face paint. “No troll should have venom as animals do. It is unnatural.”

“Easy, Honsui.” Came a deep voice Hazard had heard before at festivals, for this clown was known to frequent even those of his faith did not normally celebrate, its owner dressed in a neat suit with his hands folded politely in his lap. “There is no law decrying venom as a blasphemy against the messiahs.”

Chiloa Teroct, second in command of the Moons’ Eyes, the largest messianic sect in the city.

“Is there a law decrying stupidity?” Came Plaske’s drawling voice. Hazard looked up to see them now stretched across three seats with their feet in the air, entirely indifferent to the expected formality of the court. 

“Look at him. If you’re implying absolutely none of our guards, lusii, or voodoos caught this man, I think we should all just give the fuck up right now and call ourselves failures.”

The cerulean winced, but he’d heard far worse, and the cusp’s words were technically in his favor.

Unsurprisingly, though, there was more angry muttering and cursing from the other clowns; Plaske might have a point, but they were sufficiently unpopular that it might not matter.

Teroct raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t be so quick to judge by appearances.” The man chided. “Though, I must beg to differ with Ringmaster Honsui; venom does not a mutant make, and not all mutants are stains to be cleansed.”

Then he looked at Hazard directly, and the blueblood paled even though the higher blood’s face was calm.

“Ailaht. If you did not kill our kin, then who did? Can you illuminate us in any way as to who might have committed these foul deeds with your venom?”

Hazard thought.

He racked his brains as he had multiple times over the past week, trying to think of who aside from Goh Tat would frame him - Lizzie had investigated his ancestor, and found enough evidence that he hadn’t done it either.

That day, that hot and horrible day when he’d barely made it to fight his ancestor in time…

His eyes widened as he remembered something.

Could it be?

“I don’t know for sure.” He said, managing to keep his voice steady. “But I have a theory. On the day I fought my ancestor - the same day I was forced to stop keeping my venom a secret and had to go to the hospital after he stabbed me - someone else was there at the beginning. He turned up out of nowhere to give me a motorcycle ride.”

He paused, steadying himself, knowing the reaction this name would have on a room of clowns.

“Panzen Roscur.”

There was an immediate uproar of chatter that his Honorable Tyranny had to quiet.

Chiloa was one of the few trolls who remained calm. Both he and Plaske had, though the cusp’s expression was more amused than anything. 

His, meanwhile, was thoughtful.

“The mutant criminal.” Chiloa mused. “That would be a possibility.” 

Honsui hissed in disdain. “That filth would! It is an insult to our city’s sanctity that we have not culled him already.”

Then Chiloa looked more calculating.

“He’d also be an easy person to blame to throw suspicion off yourself.” He said gently. “And we have only your word he witnessed your fight with your ancestor, unless you have testimony for that too?”

Hazard had gone from hopeful to deflated in seconds. He could only shake his head wretchedly, slumped in his chair.

Plaske rolled their eyes.

“Even if he didn’t do it himself, I think you’re all missing an angle here, so wake up and smell the faygo! Maybe Roscur didn’t do the murders himself, but he sure could’ve reproduced and sold the venom. Do none of you numbskulls know what his power is?”

The only troll in the city who had the ability, rare as it was. Hard to forget once you knew, once you’d seen and felt it in action like Hazard had.

“Chromomancy.” Hazard whispered and Chiloa said out loud.

Then Chiloa frowned.

“Roscur has been seen to only be able to sustain solid constructs as long as his psi actively sustains them.”

Plaske smiled derisively.

“Oh, Chi, you ignorant fucking worm.” They said, almost fond. “You’d be right if you weren’t so dull. Mind honey, dummkopf. We know the Day Howlers trade in it. Even you can add two and two.”

The other clown didn’t seem fazed by his fellow’s insults, instead nodding thoughtfully.

“This might be true.” He acknowledged. “But it might also be pure supposition.”

“Who cares?” Snarled Honsui, and a few other trolls called out encouragement of him. “Roscur, Ailaht - each is mutant filth. I say we cull them both and do the world a favor! Even if Ailaht is not guilty, or was not working with Roscur himself, he is a risk to let live!”

Hazard’s heart sank to his shoes as he saw more trolls nodding along with the hateful ringmaster. Plaske was too unpopular and Chiloa was too even; sheer emotional scaremongering was so much more effective on trolls whose friends and quadrants had been killed.

They wanted revenge.

He couldn’t even really blame them.

His Honorable Tyranny interjected again.

“Order.” Came the hard, curt tone. “The case will proceed as attorney Eizzil makes her case for Hazard Ailaht.”

But as Lizzie opened her mouth to speak, as the clowns in the rows of seats glared the librarian down, a massive hyena wearing - armor? - bounded into the courtroom, coming right at him. 

At first Hazard thought he must’ve cracked and begun hallucinating from stress. 

Then the clowns began shouting, His Honorable Tyranny started calling for order again, and that unmistakable animal scent hit his nostrils.

The hyena somehow yanked him up with its mouth, tossed him in the air, caught him on its back as he clung for dear life and it bounded out of the courtroom into the warm moonlit streets of Selatak.

[sleepii-moth]

me: aw its so sad the exclusive invisible ink version of journal 3 is so rare and costs like a bajillion dollars itd be so cool to have :(

the evil project-starting demon on my shoulder: you know technically you can have it all you need to do is find a pdf online of every page of the journal with and without the blacklight ink on it, learn how to bind a book yourself, procure the materials to successfully and accurately recreate the binding, and re- handwrite/draw every page yourself with a nice ink pen!

[lovelymona]

Another complete journal finished! This is my 3 (? Possibly 4) complete journal I’ve filled since around 2017. Growing up I always wanted to be consistent with having a diary but I always had a fear that I would make it nice? Now I know that’s not what I need my journal for. It helps me be a functioning part of society but letting me be completely and utter unhinged within. I can say what I feel can process without judgment. I can doodle over my words and color the pages. I use a glow in the dark pen to write in my journal sometimes just cuz I think it’s fun to write something that no one can see.

In the future I would love to have a journal full of invisible ink. I would line my bookshelf’s with my complete life. And people would to go read my journals and find nothing but some doodles on the margins perhaps.

Tumblr is like another version of my journal. I like that I’m somewhat alone on here. When I had my original account (before I deleted after i spiral and came back in my adult years lol) I did the same thing with my blog that I wanted to do with my diary. I wanted to it be perfect and outwardly acceptable. But I also had nothing to put out there. I didn’t know my self. I am beginning to understand what I need from myself now.

I can be quite aloof. It’s a show i out in for others but I think in reality I have almost tricked myself into being unknowable to me. And I desperately would love to know who she is. What she needs and what she wants. I would love to be able to provide that. My identity is quite the mysterious lover. There whispering dreams and wishes in my ear at night before bed, but gone just before the sun begins to rise.

Every page I get closer to her. On days like today she’s more distant but there are days when I put my own down to the page and she is there with me. Feeling with me. Hurting with me. Laughing with me. And I love that time we have together.

[strangeandun-muse-ual]

@e-m-p-error Leaning his head back, Erasmo closed his eyes for a second. This was the most boring thing he'd ever listened to. He didn't care about all of this biology shit, but he'd failed it the first time around and this was his second chance. He was looking at failing again, because who needed to know about their cells? Not a guy that robbed rich people blind with a smile and some sticky fingers. When he tipped his head back down, he stared at his arm, watching numbers and symbols appear from nowhere at all. He'd heard of this, the whole soulmate thing, but he hadn't considered that he was going to ever find his. Or, at least, hear from them. After the writing seemed to stop, he did his best to decipher whatever the fuck kind of math was now on him, his brow furrowing. "Mr. Martinez," The teacher suddenly snapped, and Era's head jerked up to look, "Do you have something you want to share with the class?" For a moment, the teen was dumbstruck with what he was supposed to say. I just got word that my soulmate is a giant-ass nerd, thank you very much. He stood up, brandishing his arm like a beacon of truth, and announced himself loudly. "I have no fucking clue what all of this shit means, but it's math I didn't put there." There were a few giggles, some 'ooohs' and 'ahhhhs', and the teacher promptly frowned, gesturing for him to take a seat. For once, he didn't get a detention slip out of it, at least. With a red pen in his hand, he considered his options, before finally writing on the palm of his other hand, the same one that the math had appeared on. Are you some kind of engineer or something?

He wasn't normally caught without paper. But of course, he'd lent Missy his notebook during lunch so that she could copy his notes, and she'd forgotten to give it back before running off to take care of some student council business. It wasn't exactly a big deal or anything, but it was a little annoying. His scratch paper had been limited to one sheet, which had gradually filled out over the course of advanced calc.

Emil didn't technically have to write anything down. But the teacher was walking the class through the equation, and Emil--well, he'd always liked trying to see if he could figure it out himself before the teacher got to the answer. So in the absence of additional paper, he'd held his hand flat against the desk, starting to work out the equation on his palm.

And then--ugh--he'd gotten stuck. He was this close, he was sure of it, and a glance up at the board showed he'd matched what was on the board pretty much exactly. He frowned, tapping his pen against his skin as he thought--

--and then he saw something start to appear on his skin. The red startled him for a split second, but that was about all he needed to determine that he wasn't mysteriously bleeding. It was ink, and in handwriting that was definitely not his own, words that he definitely was not writing.

Are you some kind of engineer or something?

Realization flickered across his face at once. The equation forgotten, the teacher having already moved on with the lecture, Emil stared down at his hand, blinking heavily. He knew what that was of course. It was a common enough thing, at their age. His female classmates often took to writing notes on their skin, just to see if it would get an answer. Sometimes they did, and they'd gush about it with their friends in hushed whispers, showing their friends the indisputable proof from the universe that there was someone out there for them.

He hadn't really expected it to happen to him. And yet--there it was. An invisible channel of communication that had just opened up, completely out of nowhere.

He held the tip of the pen against his skin for a moment as he thought, leaving a dot of black ink against his skin.

No just in math class. Didn't have paper.

This was an extraordinarily mundane first conversation with his apparent soulmate. Emil frowned thoughtfully, tapping his pen against his wrist for a moment, before he added on:

What's your name?