#no but i think its good to talk about this stuff

[ktownshizzle]

Love & Lullabies | Part 5

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!) That’s it.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: Sex. Minors DNI. Also, barely proofread, sorry for any mistakes!

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 3.8k

✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 1, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Sorry it has taken me a while to get this part out. But I think you’ll like it. *fingers crossed* FULL TAGLIST TO FOLLOW. Sorry, I'm in a rush today. This is inspired by an ask/prompt sent by @yoongznme. 

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part 4.5 | Part Five | Masterlist

A fancy hotel takeout sits untouched on your kitchen counter, the smell of roasted garlic filling the small space. You glance at the clock—6:47 PM.

Yoongi promised to take you to dinner, but given the circumstances, a quiet night in felt more appropriate. Safer for him. After all, the media has been relentless since the Dispatch scandal dropped close to midnight like Cinderella’s kitten heel at the ball.

You’re kind of pissed, actually. Scratch that—you’re furious. Just when it felt like you finally had Yoongi—finally had the chance to explore whatever this was between you—this bullshit had to rear its ugly head. A photo of his kind of ex leaving his building was enough to set the internet on fire, and now it felt like the flames were creeping dangerously close to your life.

You’ve talked to him once today, and even that conversation was clipped. A text from him at 5 let you know he was about to leave HYBE and swing by his place first. “Be there by 7,” he’d said.

You stare at the pristine takeout containers, willing yourself not to spiral. You’re not that person anymore. You’re not the insecure girl who lets her emotions run wild over things she can’t control. You’ve done too much good work to let this unravel you.

“You’re fine. You’re fucking fine,” you mutter under your breath, pacing the kitchen.

Your phone vibrates on the counter. Namjoon. Always coming to your rescue at the right time.

“Hello?”

“You doin’ okay?” Namjoon asks, his voice calm but laced with concern.

“Define okay,” you quip, though your voice wavers slightly. “It’s been a lot.”

“I figured,” Namjoon says gently. “That’s why I’m calling. Just wanted to check in. Yoongi’s been swamped today, and I know how this stuff can mess with your head.”

You exhale slowly, grateful for the concern but also acutely aware of the simmering emotions just beneath the surface. “I’m trying, Joon. Really, I am. It’s just… exhausting. The waiting, the overthinking, the noise. I just want to know where I stand with him, you know?”

“He’ll tell you,” Namjoon assures you, his voice steady. “Just… don’t let the noise get to you.”

You swallow hard, his words striking a chord. “Thanks, Joon. Really.”

“Anytime,” he says warmly. “And hey, take it easy on him tonight, okay? He’s under a lot of pressure, but trust me, you’re his priority.”

“Will do, dad,” you tease, and for the first time all day, you feel a flicker of lightness.

“Bye.”

You set the phone down, Namjoon’s words lingering in your mind as you glance at the clock again. 

You think about Yoongi and the kind of pressure he must be feeling now. You can take care of him tonight. He deserves it.

You’re rearranging the pillows on the couch, trying not to glance at the clock again for the hundredth time. It’s not even about tidying the place anymore. It’s about occupying your hands, distracting yourself from the swirling mix of emotions in your chest.

Then, the doorbell rings.

7:01pm. 

You take a breath, smoothing your sweater. Calm. Casual. You’re fine.

You open the door.

And there he is. Yoongi stands in the dim light of the hallway, a dark jacket zipped up to his collarbone, a black mask shading his face, somehow directing the focus on the exhaustion in his eyes. But what caught your attention is his hair—slicked back with a little sprout of inky locks on top.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking bashful at the heat in your gaze.

Christ. He looks good. Criminally.

He steps in. “Hi,” he says softly, his voice carrying that calm rasp you’ve missed.

Your heart clenches. “Hi,” you reply, your tone quieter than intended. You clear your throat, stepping back to let him in. “Come in.”

He steps inside, pausing in the entryway as he glances around. 

You then notice the bouquet in his hand—gorgeous white roses and baby’s breath wrapped in brown paper. 

He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes flick over your face. Something in your expression must’ve softened, because he quickly averts his gaze.

“I brought these,” he says, holding them out a little awkwardly.

Your chest tightens, a strange warmth spreading through you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

When you reach out to take the bouquet, your fingers graze his, and the contact lingers for just a second too long. Impulsively, your free hand rises to cup his cheek. Maybe it’s too much for whatever the hell this is between you, but the moment feels too honest to stop yourself.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

Yoongi freezes under your touch, his dark eyes widening ever so slightly. Then, as if the tension in his shoulders breaks all at once, he leans into your palm, just a fraction, and the smallest, most heartbreaking smile tugs at his lips as his eyes flutter close.

“I am now.”

You head to the kitchen, busying yourself with a vase to give the flowers the best chance to survive. You do not have a green thumb, so you pray to the gods the beautiful arrangement does not wither overnight.

“Hungry?” you ask, not turning around. “I bought chicken, shrimp fried rice, and some random banchan.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Yoongi replies, his voice closer than you expect. You glance back to find him leaning against the counter, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You place the vase on the counter and fold your arms. “So,” you start, forcing lightness into your tone. “Survived the day?”

“Barely,” he admits, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. “Had to dodge more cameras than usual. Sat in meetings for a couple of hours. Si-hyuk personally called Sung Kyung’s agency. They assured me that they will investigate thoroughly. I couldn’t eat. I get home and there’s still press camping out. So yeah, shit day and I almost didn’t make it out alive.”

“That’s the longest response I’ve ever gotten from you.” You tease. “You really must be stressed out.”

Yoongi chuckles and for a moment, it feels like the tension that’s been hanging over you both all day melts away. 

You go around the counter and stand facing him where he’s sitting on your bar stool. He parts his legs and you immediately take that space, crowding him a bit more by placing your hands tentatively on his shoulder.

His eyes, warm like molten chocolate, meet yours. “How about you?”

You hesitate, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “I’m fine,” you say, though the tightness in your chest betrays you. “I mean, it’s not like this is new territory for you, right?”

“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Yoongi says quietly. “And I don’t like that you’re sort of affected by it.”

“I can handle it,” you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel, projecting strength since he looks a little broken right now.

Yoongi’s lips press into a thin line, like he’s not entirely convinced. 

“I kinda knew what I was getting into when I knocked in your studio yesterday,” you say softly. “And I’d do it again. For you.”

His eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face at your admission before it softens into something else. Something deeper. “For me?”

You nod, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “Yeah. For you.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Then he straightens up from his slouch, taking one of your hands from his shoulder, pressing his lips softly against your pulse point.

“Dinner first,” he says. 

“Then what?” you challenge.

Yoongi just grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

As you sip the last of your drink, you steel yourself to ask the question that’s been bugging you all day. “So,” you say finally, broaching the topic. “Sung Kyung.”

Yoongi pauses mid-bite, his eyes flicking to yours. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, leaning back in his chair. “What about her?”

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “Namjoon told me you’re co-parenting. But I need to hear where you two… stand?”

Yoongi exhales slowly. “Yeah, we’re co-parenting. That’s it. I don’t have any intention of getting back together with her. At all.” His voice is calm but firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I want Haneul to know his biological mom, but she and I—we’re done. That’s been over.”

Relief washes over you, but before you can fully settle into it, you notice the shift in his expression. His jaw tightens, and his eyes dart briefly to the table before returning to yours.

“There’s something else,” he says quietly, the words heavy with hesitation.

Fuck. You don’t like the sound of it, but you ask anyway. “What is it?”

Yoongi sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A few weeks ago… she kissed me.”

Your stomach twists, and the room feels suddenly colder. “What?”

“I put a stop to it immediately,” he says quickly, his tone insistent. “I told her it couldn’t happen again, that if she wanted to keep seeing Han, she had to respect that boundary. And she has. She knows where we stand.”

You don’t respond right away, staring down at your plate as you try to process his words. 

Oh my god. This is so fucked up. You knew Sung Kyung’s reappearance wasn’t as harmless as it seemed, but hearing it confirmed still stings.

“I just thought…” you start, but the words trail off.

Yoongi’s voice is soft but steady. “You have every right to be upset.”

“Do I?” You think out loud. “We’re not…” You nod slowly, pushing your chair back. “I… need a minute.”

When you get to your bathroom, you release a long steadying breath. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, hands gripping the counter tightly. Fuck. You’re okay. This is–

A knock sounds at the door, startling you.

Yoongi’s voice is muffled as he says your name, but it’s gentle as can be. “Can I come in?”

You glance at the lock and realize, too late, that you forgot to turn it. The door creaks open, and there he is, standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and something softer.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him and his arms immediately slide around your waist. The warmth of his touch seeps into you, and you meet his gaze through the mirror.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You lean back against him, the tension in your shoulders easing but just slightly. “I just… I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“That’s fair,” he presses his lips to your temple. 

“But I need you to know–” presses another on your cheek.

“That I don’t want anyone else–” presses the last where your neck and shoulders meet. 

“Just you.”

Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his voice, and when your eyes meet again in the mirror, the tenderness there leaves you so breathless.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you turn in his arms, your hands sliding up to his face as you pull him down for a kiss. His fingers tighten on your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him.

You walk back to your bed, lips fused with his, your fingers tangled in the soft strands of his hair. The urgency between you grows as you push him down onto the mattress, his back hitting the sheets with a quiet thud. You follow immediately, straddling him, your body molding against his as you capture his lips again. The kiss is deep, consuming, his hands gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You stay like that for a while, tongues teasing, breaths mingling, drunk in the taste of each other. Then, a sharp pull of his lower lip between your teeth has him groaning into your mouth.

You’re driven by lust, and something else. A possessive demon seems to be overriding your better judgment, thinking you’ve been timid with your feelings for long enough. No woman, not Sung Kyung, even if he is Han’s mom, can take what you and Yoongi have been building up to for so damn long.

“You’re in your head,” Yoongi says, nudging his nose against yours.

“Did she kiss you like this, huh?” The words leave you before you can stop them. Your lips return to his, sucking greedily, staking your claim.

Yoongi’s breath shudders as you pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “No, baby.” His voice is rough, lips pink and swollen.

Your fingers slide under his shirt, pushing the fabric up and over his head, tossing it aside before your hands explore the newly exposed skin. He’s warm, toned beneath your touch, and the way his muscles tense under your fingertips only spurs you further. You lean down, lips dragging along his jawline, open-mouthed kisses trailing down his throat. He tastes sweet, salty, and entirely intoxicating.

“Did you fuck anyone else when I left?” you mumble against his skin, your teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

His breath hitches, “No, shit. No.”

“Good boy.” You hum in satisfaction, your lips venturing lower, your tongue flicking against the hollow of his throat. He groans, head pressing back into the pillow.

“Baby, you’re making me lose my shit right now,” he grits out, his voice strained, desperate. His hands now get braver, sliding underneath your top to fondle your tits. 

Maybe you’re delirious. Maybe you’re too turned on to think straight. Or maybe—maybe this is exactly what you’ve wanted since the moment you saw him again.

Your hand drifts down, fingers tracing the outline of his hard length through his trousers, feeling the way he twitches under your palm. 

“You’re mine, okay?” you whisper, nipping at his bottom plush as your fingers give his dick a squeeze.

He exhales a shaky laugh, his lips curving under yours. “Yours.”

He lets you revel in your greed for a few moments, allowing you to do whatever you pleased as you lose yourself in the heat building between you.

He ruts up towards your hand, grunting slightly. Honestly, he’s so hard, it’d be a mercy to release him from the confines of his jeans. So you do, helping him unbutton, unzip, and undress, until his cock springs free and flops on his stomach.

What a pretty dick. Literally lickable—solid, girthy, veiny, a bead of white pooling at the slit. You take him in your mouth, tracing the tip with your tongue, the taste of pre-cum coating your throat. You let drool cascade down his length, slick fingers pumping his shaft while your mouth suctions his mushroom head.

His hand goes to the back of your neck, guiding you in a bit more. “Mmm… that’s it, baby.” 

Yoongi moans your name as you go faster. You feel him twitching inside your mouth. He’s so hard but you don’t want him to cum yet. You pop him off to lap at the base, before your tongue travels upward to trace the thick veins on the underside of his cock. 

Jaw slack, his eyes are dark, dark as he observes you while propped up on his elbows. “Come up,” he says when you reluctantly pull away. “Wanna eat you out.”

Your clothes are yanked off your body as you take his place on the cushions, not a single piece of fabric now separating your skin. He takes you by the hip and adjusts your position so he can get his face close to your mound. Before you can mentally prepare yourself, he shoves his hot tongue against your folds, locating your clit in 0.001 seconds and you know you’ll be careening off a cliff in no time.

“I—Yoongi, that’s… shit that’s nice.” You can’t help it. It does feel nice.

You reach for the little ponytail on his head, gripping it for dear life. He hums against your bud when you pull, the vibrations only driving you more insane.

“You taste so good baby,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?”

“I can eat you out for days, make you cum,” he vows, delirious just like you are. “Over and over… my favorite fuckin’ snack.” 

“Oh my god, Yoongi…”

He feasts, and feasts, and soon enough, you’re shuddering in ecstasy, hips bucking in the process, as he slurps all you give him. He wears your cum like a gloss as he comes up for air, a lazy but proud smile on his face.

You reach for the drawer on your nightstand and pull out a new, sealed, and unopened box of condoms shoving it on his chest. He holds it in one hand, nose scrunching as he suppresses a laugh.

“Someone prepared…”

You shrug as he plucks one and unwraps it quickly, “What?”

“Nothing. You’re too cute for me.”

“Shut uppp.”

He rolls the condom on his dick, propping one hand by the side of your face as he uses the other to rub his blunt tip against your entrance. Your pussy is drenched and he slips right in and bottoms out with a grunt against your ear. He’s thick and big against your walls.

A smack against your ass cheeks makes you clench. “Ah, shit.” And another one lands before he soothes it with a gentle massage. 

You’re going crazy but you need him deeper. Sensing your needs, Yoongi pushes the back of your knees higher and snaps his hips with more force, pounding your pussy as your bed creaks against the wall. Your lids are heavy but you keep your eyes open long enough to see how fucked out he looks, cheeks flushed pink with a coat of sheen on his forehead, teeth caging his lower lip.

“You’re so hot. I wanna ride you,” you declare, stuttering a bit from his thrusts.

“Yeah?” He pants, slows the roll of his hips, waiting for your confirmation. 

When you nod, he slips off with a wince and you feel your juices trickle down your skin. You reverse positions, mattress dipping as you shift your knees on each side of his hips. 

“Do your thing, baby,” he urges, lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows bent outward in a relaxed pose.

Your smile is watery as you use his tip to prod against your clit one or twice before you sink him inside your wet heat. You moan in unison when you're fully seated, the feeling of him snug and warm and so full inside you driving you mad.

You tip your head back, palms planted against his chest as you swivel your hips in a slow dance. 

You look down on him, hair cascading over your shoulder, and you think how much you like this view. And how you won't mind this view everyday, actually. Seems the possessive streak from earlier still has not satiated. 

“Shit—you’re so hot like this.” 

You rock against him, clit stimulated deliciously as you ride his cock. He’s got a cocky little grin as you use him. You throw your ass back, and he has a front row seat and VIP access to your bouncing tits, his tongue slack on the side of his lips. He cups your tits with both hands, the wet pads of his thumbs rubbing against your nipples.

“My turn,” he grabs hold of your waist and thrusts upward so roughly your eyes roll back in pleasure.

He pistons into you, finger digging on your skin to keep you in place and a long moan rips from your throat when he jerks up particularly hard.

Your hands slip to his shoulder as your body bounces by the force of his movements, tits sliding against his chest. His thighs must be burning and when he slightly lets up, you dip your head, shamelessly to lick the side of his face, moaning his name against his ear. 

“Baby—” you beg, not really saying what you need, but he knows.

He uses a sweaty hand to guide a tit in his mouth, suckling at it with a bit of teeth. 

Not a moment later, he’s fucking you again from below, deeper, faster, and when rapidly presses into your sweet spot, you’re a goner.

“I’m close, Yoongi. So close…”

“Me too, baby,” his voice is rough as he lets go of your bruised nipple, brows furrowed in concentration like he is fully intent to give you the orgasm of your life. He pushes into your depth relentlessly, 

White hot heat is blooming inside you, and you feel his cock throb, abs tightening, before he spills his seed in the condom, groaning with his eyes shut to savor the intensity of his release. It’s the pure unadulterated pleasure painted on his face and his deep delicious moan that tips you over the edge, too, clenching against his solidness as you slip into the sinful pleasure of your orgasm.

Chest to chest, you rest your full weight against him, softening dick still nestled inside you. You press your lips against his neck, feeling the vibrations of his throaty chuckle. Then he asks, “Was it good?”

“So good.”

“Mm.” He hums, nosing the side of your face so you’d look at him. “Did you really mean what you said earlier?”

“Which one?”

“That you, uh, despite everything, you’d do it again, for me.”

You start to feel a bit shy, but then you remember you’re literally naked. On top of him. And he is still inside you. The point of bashfulness is long past. It’s time for the truth. “Yeah.”

“Bold of you, no?”

“Dumb, too.”

He pushes an errant hair behind your ear, eyes still glazed from the sex, but fond. “You know I really like you, right? If it isn’t painfully obvious.”

“Me too, Yoongi. Since Stan. Maybe even earlier.”

“Will you be my girl, then?”

Yoongi watches you carefully, waiting for your response. The earnest curve of his lips, the slight scrunch of his nose, the way his fingers still rest on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away—it’s all so achingly real.

You study him for a moment, letting yourself take it in. Everything about him—his caring nature, his tenderness, his immense love for Han, his ability to drive you absolutely insane and still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

The outside world is still in chaos. The scandal, the noise, the questions that neither of you have all the answers to yet. But here, in your little apartment, wrapped in the warmth of him, none of that feels as important as this.

“I will,” you finally say, voice steady.

His breath catches, just for a second. Then, his lips spread into the softest, gummiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, almost like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You nod, “Yeah.”

Your lips meet for a gentle kiss that feels like a promise and the rest of the world falls away. For now, no matter what comes next, it’s the two of you—finally honest, finally sure, and finally together.

:]

A/N: YASSSS. Our babies have finally figured it out. How do you feel right now? Would love to hear your comments! 

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human! Xo

P.S. Am gunning for 1,000 followers before Yoongi’s birthday. :) I think I’ll get there with your help. Feel free to reblog the story if you like, and that can help more people find our lovely L&L couple.

Love you!~

Permanent Taglist (Part 1)

@wonh0oe @hyukaluve @glossdebut @kiki-zb @kookiewithluv

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

@futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7 @granataepfelchen @whoa-jo @annyeongbitch7

@chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts @kpophosblog @tinyelfperson

@yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 @diame93 @janeelizabeth1216

@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm @angellekookie

The rest to follow in a reblog.

[ckret2]

Chapter 84 of human Bill Cipher getting a day pass out of being the Mystery Shack's prisoner: so it turns out Bill and Pacifica have a lot in common! And it's not weird at all! It's—it's very normal. Their childhoods were so normal.

(Since this entire chapter is from the point of view of a character who doesn't know the person she's talking to is Bill, a PSA for those of y'all who missed it. Thanks.)

####

"Okay, that's as much as I can do to help your hair without deep conditioning it," Pacifica said. "Now let's talk about styling it."

They were back in Pacifica's office, with Goldie seated in his folding chair and Mabel sitting in Pacifica's desk chair (slowly spinning it back and forth) as Pacifica lectured them. Pacifica had given Goldie a spare t-shirt to dry his hair with (you could never have too much spare clothing on hand when you were dealing with farm animals), but he'd just loosely wrapped it around his hair and promptly ignored it.

Pacifica said, "You've got this issue where the weight of your curls pulls the top of your hair down and makes it flatten out near your scalp—but your hair's all the same length, so it really flares out near your shoulders. It's called triangle hair and it is not a cute look."

Goldie and Mabel bit their lips and exchanged a look, and Pacifica got the distinct impression that she'd accidentally reminded them about some inside joke she wasn't part of.

Trying to ignore the feeling that she was being left out of something, Pacifica cleared her throat and went on. "So, uh—you can fix it with like, layering your haircut and stuff? But. I don't actually... know how to do that." All her knowledge of curly hair and its care—much less fashionable haircuts—came from fashion and beauty magazines, which covered things like shampoo and flattering styles but assumed you'd leave the actual hair-cutting to the professionals. "So. I can get your curls presentable, and I guess we can figure out a way to pin it that looks nice? But that's the best I can do without an emergency salon trip."

"You sure we can't leave the triangle hair?" Goldie asked innocently. "I think it's cute. It really feels like me." Mabel clapped a hand over her mouth and snorted.

Pacifica raised her brows. "Do you want to feel like you, or do you want to get the guy?"

"Right, of course," Goldie said. "I almost forgot what's really important!"

Pacifica passed Goldie her phone. "Here—I wasn't sure what kind of look you were going for so I saved a few pictures of curly hair styles, let me know if you like any of these." She searched through the collection of makeup on her desk for the bobby pins and hair ties she'd picked up earlier. "The trend this year is for slicked-back styles, braids, and buns—but your curls are so pretty, I'd hate to hide them." 

Mabel leaned halfway across the desk to try to see the pictures too; Goldie's held out the phone to meet her halfway as as he scrolled—and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled. He said, "Good job narrowing down the list to a modest two hundred pictures."

Pacifica said, "Excuse me for wanting you to have options."

Mabel pointed. "Awww, look at that one with all the little butterfly hair clips!"

"It's like butterflies are eating her brain."

"And they look adorable doing it."

"Too juvenile for me. It looks like something Prisma the fairy would wear," Goldie said. "You should wear it."

Mabel's eyes lit up. "You've got to help me make fifty butterfly hair clips."

"You got it." He closed out of Pacifica's pictures, opened up the browser, and awkwardly typed in a search. "Hey, Alpaca, look at this one."

That was the second time he'd called her that. "Do you actually know my name?"

"Rapunzel." He held up a picture of some seventies movie star with thick, feathery hair that fluffed out around her face like the wings of a panicked swan trying to take off. "Think you can pull this one off?"

Pacifica grimaced. "You'd look like my mom." Except even worse and more old fashioned. (She kept that part to herself.)

Flatly, he said, "Oh no, how will I ever convince a male that I'm a prize worth winning if I literally look like a trophy wife."

That would be just about the only part of Goldie that looked like a trophy wife. (She kept that part to herself too.) "And we'd have to give you bangs."

As she suspected, Goldie grimaced and flipped to another image. At least he knew bang weren't for him. "How 'bout this one?"

It looked like a solid helmet of hair, with the ends uniformly curled outward like the embarrassing forced-whimsical hairstyle of the minions of an insane chocolatier. "Ew. That's about the only thing that could make you look even worse than you already do."

"Pacifica," Mabel said sharply. "Be nice!"

"Sorry!" She'd kept so many parts to herself that she didn't have any spare room to keep that part. "I can't do it, anyway. It would need a flat iron and a curling iron, and I don't have either."

"Can't we get some?" Goldie asked. "Any drug store should have 'em, it's a fifteen minute walk to—"

"I don't use them," Pacifica said sharply.

Goldie's stare was like a heat lamp—or maybe that was just self-consciousness heating up Pacifica's face as he scrutinized her. But after several long seconds, Goldie's gaze turned off her face. She quietly sighed in relief.

"Okay," he said. "Then this one." He showed her another picture. It had curly shoulder-length bangs, which wasn't really in style but fine, but behind them was a bouffant shaped like a deflating basketball with a wilting palm tree sprouting out of it.

Pacifica cringed. It was, unfortunately, doable. A note of pleading in her voice, she asked, "Are you really into this look? Really?"

("I think it's pretty," Mabel muttered.)

"Oh, no way!" Goldie said. "Look at that mess! That's way too much effort for a 'do that looks like she did it drunk in the dark in under two minutes."

(Mabel looked at Goldie like he'd personally betrayed her.)

"But," he went on, "it's what our guy is into, and that's what matters here. Right?"

Pacifica studied the picture dubiously. "You're sure?"

"He went through puberty in the 70s! When his libido opened its eyes for the first time, this is what it imprinted on."

Pacifica bit her lip. Well. At least Goldie didn't think it looked good, but. "Can I at least improve it a little?"

"Oh, please!"

She picked up the comb again and grabbed a couple of bobby pins. "No promises, but I'll do what I can."

Pacifica talked a big game, but in truth, she knew a lot more about the theory of hairstyles than she did about actually styling hair. You don't have to film a blockbuster to be a film critic. So at that point, all she could do was experiment with Goldie's hair as she attempted to approximate the picture he'd shown her. She circled around him as she worked—putting in pins, taking them out, occasionally asking him his opinion.

But although Goldie had previously been a non-stop chatterer, the moment she'd started working on his hair, he'd fallen silent.

He only glanced in the hand mirror she'd given him when she prompted him, and then only to give one-word answers—usually "fine." His shoulders were as tense and his mouth as tight as Pacifica's had been the first time she had to wash alpaca poop off the bottom of a boot. And Pacifica had nearly vommed, so, that was pretty serious.

Why? It couldn't be pain. Pacifica had gotten all the knots out of his hair earlier—and even when she wasn't using the comb, it was like she couldn't even move a lock of his hair without him wincing. She kept wanting to apologize even though she was just doing what he wanted her to.

There was something going on here. It wasn't just how uncomfortable he was with being touched. There was also the way he did an awful job of washing his hair even though he knew how to perfectly well. And how he'd rather let Mabel brush his hair into a frizzy mess than comb it out himself. And beyond all that, the first thing Pacifica had ever learned about him was that he'd gotten his hair melted off and needed emergency help to grow it back. "You... really don't like your hair, do you?"

"I like it fine. It's gorgeous." He was speaking through gritted teeth, and he had his legs crossed with his feet under his thighs, palms up in lap, eyes fixed on the blanket Mabel had made, as though having a staring contest with the triangle creep would help him endure the torture without flinching. "I just—don't like messing with it."

"Which is fine," Mabel cut in. "Because I like brushing it!" She quickly amended herself: "Combing it. We've got like a symbiotic relationship going on."

"Yeah! Star girl's my personal stylist! She does my hair and makeup. I wouldn't deprive her of that honor!"

Pacifica nodded slowly. Right—all that, and he was defensive about not taking care of it.

Not embarrassed because he didn't take care of it, it dawned on her; embarrassed because he couldn't take care of it. She had a sense for those sorts of things—a middle school queen bee had to develop that sense—because that was what you targeted if you really wanted to humiliate someone: something that they couldn't help. That was it, wasn't it? He'd said he was apathetic about his body; he didn't care that his hair was messy. Because if he did care that it was messy, he would have done something about it. Unless he couldn't. Like, a mental block.

As she tried for the eighth time to gather the bulk of his hair into an updo that looked sorta fun and casual without looking stupid, she turned over everything she knew about him—about his hair, his apathy, his shame... the things he'd said to her the moment they met, before they even got started.

It wasn't a logical deduction so much as it was an instinct, and just looking at Goldie it seemed impossible; but still she said, hesitantly, "Your mom made you do pageants as a kid, didn't she?"

Mabel sat up a little straighter, confused; but Goldie turned around to stare at her, dumbfounded. "How— What—makes you think that?"

Oh please. He wasn't fooling anyone, it was all over his face. "You're so weird about your hair. It's obviously trauma from your mom."

Beneath his sunburn, Goldie's burned cheeks somehow managed to flush even darker. He gaped at her, wide-eyed and terrified, like she was a psychic who had just told him how his own parents had died. He croaked, "What?"

Pacifica burst out laughing. "Oh my gosh, you should see your face! Listen, you're clearly familiar with pageant life. And I saw so many curly girls getting their hair mauled by their moms half an hour before going on stage. I don't blame you for being weird about touching it! I had it easy—" she flipped her naturally straight hair, "—but even at that, I can't stand using a flat iron to this day."

Goldie relaxed, apparently reassured that Pacifica hadn't read his mind. He settled back in his seat. "Oh, I dunno, I find the smell of burning hair comforting! It reminds me of home!"

"Ha! Okay, yeah, you do get used to it after a while." She started attempt number nine to gather up his curls. "I wouldn't have guessed when you came in. You don't look like a... I mean... you know. No offense."

"Well, duh, you can't tell now." He gestured at himself, "I lost my good looks. What I wouldn't give to have my old body back..." He sighed wistfully.

Pacifica held back a snort. Oh yeah. More than anything else he'd said so far, that convinced her he really was a former pageant kid. In her experience, every single pageant mom trying to relive her own beauty queen glory days through her daughter said things exactly like that.

Mabel said, "Aww..." She stretched a hand out toward Goldie, couldn't reach him across Pacifica's enormous desk, and with a grunt heaved herself up to lay across the top—knocking over a couple of the cosmetic supplies Pacifica had set up in the process—so she could pat his shoulder. "There, there."

"Thanks."

She slid back into her seat. "Did you really do pageants? You didn't tell me that." A note of betrayal crept into her voice.

"I didn't tell her either—" he jabbed a thumb at Pacifica, "—but here we are!" (Pacifica shrugged unapologetically.) "I've got a lotta backstory you're still catching up on."

"Well, yeah, but—you said you just did..." She grasped for the right words, and settled on, "build-y stuff with pageants."

"I didn't say that," he said breezily. Mabel scowled at him; but shot a look at Pacifica, and just sat back without saying anything, arms crossed, her feet audibly kicking at the inside of the desk. 

He didn't seem as stressed about his hair while he was talking, Pacifica noticed. (Maybe that was why hairdressers were so chatty? Or maybe just because it was kind of weird to stick your hands in someone's hair for an hour in total silence.) She asked, "Which pageant systems did you compete in?"

"None you'd have heard about," Goldie said. "They weren't on this continent and it was like a trillion years ago." Before Pacifica could pry about which continent, he added, "Hey, fun fact! Didja know that the first beauty contest in Oregon was established here in Gravity Falls?"

"Pff, duh, of course I know that," Pacifica said. "It was established by the town founder, my great-great grandpa."

"Close, but no," he said gleefully. "It was established by the real town founder."

Pacifica grimaced. "Him? The crazy undead guy without pants? Ugh, no wonder we're the only pageant with a mandatory bird calls category."

"The first three competitions were actually won by birds! They only added a fashion category to balance out the birds' unfair advantage at birdsong. Quentin resigned from the judges' panel in protest."

"He should've taken the dumb birdsong requirement with him," Pacifica muttered. "They make the kids pageant do it too. I had to get a private tutor to learn how to whistle."

"That sounds fun, though," Mabel said. "I can do bird song! Grunkle Ford taught me some. Listen to this!" She let out an admittedly impressive moo.

"Not a bad cowl call," Goldie said. "You woulda killed it at the accompanying bird costume requirement."

Mabel gasped. "I can make feather wings. Hey, do you think I could compete?"

"Not unless you move to Oregon."

"Aww."

"We can still make wings, though," Goldie said.

Pacifica had never had to deal with the dumb bird costume requirement, thank goodness. That only started in the teen brackets. Which made her wonder—"How old were you when you quit? Pretty young, right? Like, no offense, but if you need teenagers to do your makeup..." If Goldie was living as a guy now, it'd make sense if he didn't wear makeup day-to-day; but if he'd stuck with pageants past like age ten, he would have at least learned how to do his own makeup.

"Ha! You're right. I started when I was young enough that my mom could dust glitter on my butt without getting weird looks! I quit around... equivalent to third or fourth grade in the States? She wanted me to keep going—so I said, 'You want me to perform? Fine then—I'll put on the best performance you've ever seen.' And that's exactly what I did!" Thoughtfully, he added, "But for some reason I didn't win the talent portion. I guess the judges weren't impressed that I could play the piano and set it on fire at the same time."

Pacifica cracked up. "Okay wow—I retired during the talent portion too, but how you did it is way more exciting. The year I was aging out of the 9-11 bracket, I kinda had a meltdown on stage over losing to some girl with a hula hoop? Yeah, I did not win supreme that year."

"You shoulda won talent just for that scream! You hit some impressively high notes." At Pacifica's odd look, Goldie said, "Saw it online."

Figured. That was probably coming back to haunt her in ten years. "It's weird. There's like... two ways pageant girls go—er, girls or guys or... whatever."

"Whatever," Goldie agreed.

"Yeah. Either they make it part of their identity? And keep up the makeup and fashion and everything, sometimes stick with pageants as teens or start modeling professionally? Which is what I did. Or they totally burn out, don't want anythingto do with the beauty industry, and just, like, wear sweats forever."

With a faint air of wounded pride, Goldie said, "It's the bedsheet sarong, isn't it."

"No offense! I'm just saying."

"I'll have you know it's laundry day and Jesús stole my clean clothes instead of my dirty laundry." (Pacifica decided to forgive him for the weird fish smell.) "You're looking at me at a low point, kid. I was actually a pretty snappy dresser up until... lllast summer."

Hearing Goldie call her kid gave Pacifica a little jolt of surprise. For a moment, she'd forgotten she was talking to somebody with an age; she'd started to feel like she was being visited by the immortal Spirit of Washed-Up Former Pageant Children. As if he'd died and stopped aging the same time he retired. "What happened last summer?"

Goldie looked at Mabel. "Yeah, what did happen last summer?"

"Um." Mabel froze. "He... lost it all in a... um... overseas parrot circus venture! Yeah—all the trained parrots escaped before the opening night of the circus and he lost all his money."

Goldie let out a shrill cackle. "I like that, I'm keeping that."

Okay, got it, it wasn't any of Pacifica's business. "I think... this is the best I can do with your hair." She stepped back. "Unless you want to pick a style that doesn't suck."

He gave himself a cursory glance in the hand mirror, immediately lowered it, and said, "Sucky style's fine!"

"Don't say that, you look so beautiful," Mabel said. "You look like a babysitter!"

"Well, it doesn't get much better than that." He dropped the mirror on the desk. "What's next?"

####

Next—finally—was the part they'd actually come here for: the makeup.

"Okay, I tried to get around the eyepatch while I was doing your hair, but you've got to take it off for this part," Pacifica said.

He groaned, but muttered, "Fine, I've put up with this tyranny so far," removed it, and looked at her with his previously-covered eye squinted against the light—which was the point at which Pacifica realized that he had eyepatch tan lines... around his other eye. How???

There was no fixing that before tomorrow. She bit her lips, shut her eyes, pressed her hands together, and took in a deep breath. Okay. She could handle this.

"Why do you even wear this?" She tossed the eyepatch to Mabel—it was one of those cheap costume pirate-y looking patches. "Is this one of the Mystery Shack's gimmicky touristy things? Both your eyes work! And wearing an eyepatch when you obviously don't need it is just tacky."

"I've got a neurological condition! Seeing through two eyes messes up my depth perception," Goldie said. "I get migraines if I don't keep one covered! Which is admittedly the most fun thing you can do to your brain without involving narcotics, but it makes it hard to keep down lunch!"

"Oh," Pacifica mumbled. Maybe she should just get to work before she shoved her foot any deeper in her mouth.

She started by slapping aloe vera on as much sunburned skin as she could reach, handed over the jar with strict instructions to apply more in the morning, and gave him an emphatic lecture on sunburns and sunscreen and skin damage that petered out when he cheerfully started telling her about skin cancer statistics. She changed the topic when he started listing his favorite kinds of skin cancer.

She stripped off the nail polish that Goldie had apparently gotten during one of Mabel's sleepovers, and repainted it with, at Pacifica's insistence, something more "mature." (She vetoed Mabel's suggestion to paint little hearts. She vetoed Goldie's request for gold. She gave him the choice between white French tips, pale pink, or solid red. He chose red.)

She hadn't anticipated that her customer would be in such dire straits that she'd need to shave him, so she didn't have any supplies for that; but she also ordered him to get his legs as smooth as the surface of a balloon as soon as he got home—"And do you think there's any chance this guy you're after will see your pits?" "He already has!" "Hm. Okay. Yeah, uh, get those anyway."—and informed him that she would report him to the police for vandalism if he "shaved" using whatever depilatory cream he'd previously used on his hair.

As she finished plucking his brows, she said, "Okay, I think you're finally in decent enough condition for actual makeup." She stepped back, took in his face, and said, "Barely." She grimaced. "I wish I'd bought a concealer with better coverage. I didn't know the situation was so bad."

To his credit, Goldie had taken her criticism (and occasional looks of horror) like a champ. He simply drawled, amused, "The body rituals of the Nacirema are as elaborate as they are bizarre."

She picked up a couple of the foundations she'd bought and held them up next to the eye that had been protected by the eyepatch tan line, trying to determine which one was a closer match for whatever his skin tone was when he wasn't burned. "Who're the Nacirema? One of the tribes that used to live around here?"

"They're still in the area. Look 'em up."

Pacifica thought the darker foundation was closer; she tested it on his inner arm to be sure. "So, how much makeup do you already know how to apply? Any?"

"I can do mascara, eyeliner, and mascara."

"Riiight. Okay, both of you pay attention to what I'm doing." She evicted Mabel from her desk chair and dragged it around in front of Goldie's folding chair. "Because I will not be coming over to do this tomorrow, so the two of you will have to repeat this yourself. Here." She handed Goldie a mirror so he could watch her work.

Mabel hopped up to sit on the desk next to Goldie. "You have one hundred percent of my attention!" She immediately looked away from Pacifica at the makeup brushes laid out on the desk, picked up a fan brush curiously, and started dragging it up and down her arm. "Ooh. Tickly." 

"Emphasize my eyes," Goldie said. "They're my best feature. You can forget about everything else, but my eyes have to look good."

Pacifica looked at his eyes. Pacifica really looked at his eyes.

There was something wrong with his eyes.

She decided to stop looking at his eyes. "Okaaay, great great great, you've got suuuper long lashes, that's fantastic. We can totally draw attention there. You don't even need fake lashes. And you've got nice big prominent eyes. Kinda bulgy, but that should be easy to hide with eyeshadow. I'm thinking maybe a smokey eye?"

"What about metallics? Like gold?" Goldie asked innocently. "Kind of a retro 'secret agent villainess' look, don't you think! It'd bring out the yellow in my eyes!"

Pacifica said, "You do not want to bring out your jaundice."

"Don't tell me what I want."

"No gold eyeshadow," Pacifica said. "Period. If you want to experiment with color, we can try a smoky eye in burgundy. Burgundy is hot this year."

Goldie muttered something about welcoming a bottle of burgundy right now, then said, "Fine! Burgundy."

(As Pacifica looked through her makeup palettes for the burgundy, Bill leaned over to Mabel and whispered, "Do we have any leftover gold eyeshadow?" Mabel nodded and winked. Bill winked back.)

"What about the rest of your face?"

"Skip it."

"I'm not letting you go bare-faced aside from your eyes," Pacifica said. "But we can do a natural makeup look."

"That's so boring," Mabel said. She was dragging the fan brush over her lips now. "If it looks natural why's he wearing any makeup at all?"

Goldie said, "Because humans are insane about the most uninteresting things."

As Pacifica worked her way through the foundation, concealer—she decided his sunburned skin had enough of a sun-kissed glow that she could skip bronzer—and contouring, she said, "You are... really good at holding still when you try." He'd gone completely still, like a statue. A statue that was making direct eye contact with her soul. She felt a bead of sweat slide down her neck. She wasn't sure he was breathing.

"He's super good," Mabel agreed. "It's kinda creepy."

"Thanks!" And just like that, he was smiling and alive again. "I do a lot of meditating! Gimme a focal point to watch and I can go like two billion years!"

"You didn't learn from...?"

"Pageants? Ha! No way, I was the wiggliest little demon you've ever seen. It drove my mom nuts when she was trying to do my lashes. She used to say 'If you love me, hold still' to keep me in place—but you know how contrary kids are when they're mad! Eventually I got fed up and said, 'Well then, maybe I don't love you!' And she didn't speak to me for three days." Goldie laughed. "Ahh, I had the most dramatic mom."

"Wow, my mom would kill me if I ever tried something like that—especially if it was in public where people could see us," Pacifica said. "She hired makeup artists so I'd struggle against them instead of her. Your mom did your makeup? Did she ever hire anyone?"

"Nooo way. We ran our operation on a razor-thin budget to maximize the profits from my winnings. The name of the game was efficiency!"

"My mom's sure wasn't," Pacifica said. "(Shut your right eye, I've got to get your eyeshadow.) We went through like, fifty makeup artists or something. Sometimes more than one while prepping for the same pageant." She lowered her voice a tad, "A couple times when the makeup artist was a creep, I messed up my own makeup just so Mom would fire them."

"Ha! Suckers. Yeah, that's probably how it woulda gone if my mom had handed me off to a makeup artist. I was not afraid to sic her on adults! We didn't have any hired help when I was that age, but the principal was terrified of her. And if another kid at a competition was getting on my nerves, I'd go crying to her that they pushed me and oh, man, she'd come down on their parents like the asteroid on Chicxulub."

"Me too! There was this girl in third grade who was so... I don't know, just—" she pulled a face, "eugh, you know? I complained to mom about her and got her family blacklisted by the whole town. They had to move out of the state just to get a job."

Goldie laughed loudly. "Now that is impressive!"

Pacifica's gut shifted uncomfortably. Was it? "Other eye now." She didn't speak for a moment as she tried to get both eyes matching. "Actually... it was... kinda scary?"

She'd asked her mom if she could puh-lease get this girl out of Pacifica's class. She'd just expected the girl to be switched to another teacher.

Instead, over the next few weeks, she heard about the girl's mother losing her job, then her father. Her older brother got kicked out of the local Future Lumberjacks of America chapter. One day the girl came to school in tears after being cut from the softball team. A couple months later, the girl's friends—the two that hadn't drifted away from her as her family became pariahs—threw her a tearful goodbye party during lunch with a mall-bought cookie cake; and the next day, she was gone forever.

After that first time Pacifica had complained about her classmate, her mom had never once mentioned the girl or her family. She never asked if Pacifica had any more trouble with her. Not even when they left town. It was as though, after her mom ground them under her heel, they were beneath her notice. Just four crushed ants.

But Goldie was staring at her, frowning in confusion, like she didn't make any sense. "What—scary for the other kid?" he asked. "Sure. It's supposed to be, isn't it?"

Pacifica didn't reply for a second. I'm afraid of how good she was at doing exactly what I asked her to do without realizing I was asking for it—that sounded stupid. Finally, she said, "Don't wrinkle your face like that, I haven't set your foundation yet. It'll make it cake up."

"Your moms sound insane," Mabel said. While they'd been swapping stories about their childhoods, she'd been staring at them, chin in one hand, chewing on the fan brush's bristles. "Were you guys tortured growing up?"

"Pfff, what? No, of course not!" Pacifica said. "My parents would never. You've only seen my mom's worst side, she's not really that bad. I mean—not to me. She's horrible to poor people, but that's different."

Goldie said, "Yeah, my mom was my biggest defender! If anyone tried to hold me back, she'd rip them a new one."

"But—forcing you to do pageants until you have a breakdown?" Mabel said, glancing between Goldie and Pacifica, mouth twisting up like the words tasted sour. "Guilting you into wearing makeup and attacking other parents and stuff? That's nuts."

"It's not like that," Pacifica said automatically, then tried to figure out what it was like.

"Now we're calling a kid's temper tantrum a breakdown? You've got a future career in propaganda, star girl," Goldie said wryly. "It's a mom's job to bring out a kid's potential, right? Sure, it drove me nuts at the time—but kids don't want their potential brought out, kids are lazy!" He shrugged, "Yeah, my parents weren't perfect—they didn't really 'get' me, they held me back from reaching my full potential because they couldn't see what it was—but I'd never have gotten on the road to unlocking my potential myself if they hadn't put me on the right path as a kid."

Pacifica nodded. "Totally! That's just normal mom stuff! My parents are exactly the same—they don't get my alpaca business at all—but there's no way I'd be running a business at thirteen if my mom hadn't pushed me to be the best I can be. Or supporting my alpacas through modeling if I hadn't learned how to present myself in the pageant system. Even mini-golf was just a hobby until my parents got me a coach and started taking me to competitions."

"And I wouldn't be the huge success I am today without those early lessons in public speaking!"

Mabel shot Goldie a meaningful look. He pointed at her. "Don't say a word. I've had a bad year, you can't judge me by that. Anyone could've lost their parrots in a freak accident."

"And some kids had it way worse," Pacifica said. "Some parents would hit their kids or scream at them for messing up their routines or getting distracted? Those girls never lasted long, you can tell if a contestant's just going through the motions because she's scared. I was never treated like that. My pageant coach taught my parents to use a 'warning bell,' when they rang it that was my warning to stop goofing off and focus on practicing or listen to them or whatever. They'd pay me in chocolate if I got back in line."

"Ha!" Goldie smacked the desk, "Oh wow, that's hilarious! Pageant coach Pavlov. My parents would have loved that when I was in the toddler competitions."

"Right?!" Pacifica laughed. "Now I'm like, wow, I used to be bribable with a piece of chocolate? Kids are sooo easy to manipulate."

"But hey, it's a good life lesson: the occasional reward and the fear of punishment is a lot more effective at keeping people in line than actual punishments."

Pacifica nodded thoughtfully. "Wow. That's so insightful."

"See?" Goldie beamed at Mabel. "Pageants teach kids all kinds of useful things! Ambition, poise, charisma, self-confidence, social skills..."

She grimaced. "Yeah, but... all the restrictions and pressure and trauma and stuff? That really sounds bad."

"I think you're just bitter that you can't enter the birdsong contest."

She kicked his arm. "I'm serious!"

He pushed back her shoe and waved her off dismissively. "It only sounds bad to you because you were never in the pageant world! It's got its own rituals and expectations, of course it looks weird to outsiders."

"And everyone judges pageants so much more harshly than other competitive sports—which is what pageants basically are," Pacifica said. "Like, pageants and competitive mini-golf took just as much practice, just as much coaching, just as much time and money—but in real life, knowing how to make myself look presentable and talk to adults has helped me way more often than knowing how to knock a ball into a hole. Mini-golf only saved my life once."

"Charisma will get you everywhere," Goldie agreed. "It's the most effective form of mind-control you can do without psychically rewiring someone's neurons."

"Basically! But getting a medal at the Sportlympics has everyone talk about how skilled and hard-working and dedicated you are, and getting a tiara in a national pageant gets people who have never even watched a pageant calling you a bimbo. Like, what?"

"Blatant double standards!" To Mabel, Goldie said, "Both your parents work in Silicon Valley. Their priority is intelligence and grades instead of looks and charisma, so that's why you and your brother get pushed in school—but it's all the same! Parents push their kids to be successful whatever way they know how."

Mabel stared into space. "Huh." She fell silent, gnawing on the fan brush's handle—pondering whether her parents worrying about her so-so grades was comparable to the pageant moms desperate for their daughters' straight hair to be straighter and curly hair to be curlier.

Smugly, Goldie went on, "If anything, the pageant circuit was more useful than school. I—"

"(Stop moving around, I've got to do your other eye.)"

Goldie obediently leaned forward and shut his other eye. "I went from pageants straight into public speaking. I had an entire career before I was out of school. Everyone loved me! I was a natural in the spotlight!"

"Really?" Pacifica said dubiously. She could buy that he might have been a competitor as a kid, but honestly, he seemed pretty creepy to her. Enough confidence could carry you pretty far, but...

He rolled his open eye. "Don't take that tone with me. It was before you were born! And like I said—I've lost my looks. I used to be..."

He trailed off, staring down at his nail polished hands like he didn't recognize them.

He muttered, "I used to be so much better than this."

Mabel reached out and rubbed his upper arm comfortingly.

Sometimes Pacifica caught her mom staring in a mirror, studying her face with an expression somewhere between nervous and depressed, gently touching her fingertips to the thin lines beginning to appear around her eyes and mouth as though she were examining gruesome wounds. Her mother had always said that looks are everything; and even though she didn't talk about her feelings directly, from the way she sometimes snapped at Pacifica to keep up her skincare—moisturizer, sunscreen, hydration, don't frown too hard—Pacifica thought maybe she wasn't worried about Pacifica's face so much as her own.

Goldie only had the faintest traces of the start of wrinkles, unnoticeable if Pacifica hadn't just spent the past few minutes plastering foundation on his face. She wondered how old he was. She wondered whether he had the same fear her mother did: that his body was letting him down, slowly dying all around him.

You don't go through the child pageant world without learning two things: everyone wants you to look and act older than you are; and the older you get, the less anyone wants you.

"I've got to do your lips," Pacifica said, picking out a couple of options: a red so bright it was nearly orange (totally in this year), a nice glossy nude that ought to be a close match to Goldie's natural lip color. "Did you want to stick with the natural look, or...?"

He glanced up from his hands at the offered lipsticks. "What the heck," he sighed. "Let's make it red."

Pacifica nodded. "Pooch your lips out for me, like this." And that was the last they spoke for a while.

####

(Here's your regular TBOB report: no actual plot was changed due to TBOB. I added in a few lines referencing it: the imagery of Priscilla grinding normal people beneath her heel is meant to be reminiscent of Pacifica's giant nightmare on TINAWDC; the "meditating" for specifically two billion years is a direct reference to the barber pole, although I'd already headcanoned that Bill can meditate/dissociate for absolutely vast quantities of time; I already had dialogue where he goes on the importance of charisma and how much everyone adored him as a kid, but I tossed in another sentence or two about charisma just because of how strongly he emphasizes it in TBOB; and originally I had dialogue where Bill went on about what big supporters his parents were, even though he privately feels like they didn't get him—all I changed was deciding to make him admit to some of those feelings out loud, since it's something he says outright in TBOB. I've imagined that he tends to swing between "they were the best/they were the worst" based on how he's feeling at the time with no neutral ground in between—whiiich lines up pretty well with what TBOB gave us.

And unrelated but I spent way too long researching makeup & hair trends in the 70s and in 2013. I had no idea orange lipstick was hot for a while. My idea of doing makeup is painting my nails once every six years.

Hope y'all enjoyed, and I'm looking forward to hearing y'all's thoughts! I've been eager to dive into this aspect of Bill's backstory and Pacifica's POV for a while.)

[revelboo]

My soul is yours for more Jazz 🙏 He's my absolute favorite, I love that big flirty liar so much, I'm so down bad for him

Sure!

Over It Now Pt 22

Jazz x Reader

• “Primus, I love you,” he groans, hips moving against you. And your breath catches, because it’s just sex. He doesn’t mean it. He’d just blurted it out like that about sparking you, whatever that is. It’s not like you’re under any delusions that this can work long term between you. That this can mean anything more than this. And those words only remind you that you’re a temporary diversion for him. Nothing more.

• Didn’t mean to just blurt it out like that anymore than he had about sparking you. Had imagined something romantic, figuring out your human courting rituals and doing this right. But you’re silent. Eyes shifting away instead of meeting his optics. Like maybe this is all of you he’s allowed. And it hurts, but he gets it. That you can’t love a liar. That he’s good enough for a frag, but not to keep around. But Primus it hurts. So much more than he'd thought it would. Slipping free of you, he lets you untangle yourself from him. Why won't you even look at him? "That was amazing," you say, offering him a smile, but its stilted and uncomfortable. A lie and he should know.

• Something shifted and you can feel the tension. He’s back to playing a part, lazily smiling. But there's a hardness to his jaw as he ignores you to right his plating, hiding away his spike. "Yeah. Sure, kitten. You were great." And his tone is neutral, whatever he's really thinking hidden behind that mask of smiling indifference like he had when you’d first met him. And maybe that was all he was after. Sex. Maybe he’s over you now. And you keep thinking about him blurting that he loved you. Another lie? You’d wanted it to be real, not just words. But who blurts it out like that during sex and actually means it? And it hurts because you’ve been falling for him. Think you might even love him.

• Watches you wrap your arms around yourself, awkwardly getting up and hobbling with your cast to the couch to pull a colorful throw around yourself, hiding your body from him. "So, you going to spark me?" You ask, voice awkward and teasing and that ache in his spark expands. Knows you don't understand how badly those words mock him, how much it hurts. That he'd offered you everything, confessed to you and you'd not said anything at all.

• "Drop it, doll." Not even a smile now, his expression is so oddly empty it's unsettling. And you catch his arm when he tries to walk past you. Leaving. "Really. You wanna let go of me." There's an edge to his voice you've never heard before but it makes the fine hair at your nape prickle. Yanking his arm free and walking past you and your own temper flares, hurt that you mean so little. All those days waiting for you. Sitting together talking. Laughing and getting to know each other. None of it meant anything?

• "So that's it? You just wanted to be fucked?" Stopping short at the angry edge in your voice, he doesn't quite trust himself right now. Feels almost out of control as he vents raggedly, internal fans a soft hush. You really want to play the victim now? He'd been honest with you, laid it all on the line and you hadn't been able to give him anything in return. And you're angry?

• "You couldn't even entertain me, could you? Lie to me and say it back." Low, drawling voice sharpening into a snarl, he still won't look at you as his big hands curl into fists at his sides. Say it back? Wait. Breath catching you stare at his back as his door wings drop. Had he actually meant it?

• "No one just blurts that stuff out in the moment and means it," you protest and he glares at you over his shoulder. No, because you still think he's a liar. Always smiling and lying. And why would you think he'd been honest then? Isn't that all he does? Turning and walking away, he hears you hobbling after him. "Wait. Jazz." Ignoring you, he keeps moving and then freezes as something shatters against his back. "I said wait, you idiot." Your face is red and angry when he turns, chin lifting as he looks at the broken glass you'd thrown littering the floor near his peds then at you. "I love you, too."

• And he's just staring down at you, door wings flicking slightly before slowly lifting some. Gasping when he rushes you and hooks his arms around you under your butt, hauling you up off the floor, nearly banging your head on the ceiling fan as he presses his face against you, whatever he's saying muffled against your skin. His servos almost bruising on you. Still irritated at him, but also feeling oddly light. You have no idea how this will work, but you want it to. Want him to stay.

Previous

[xxcrumbxx]

Woo thats cool , i also like ponelapy scott, @r0tting-rat

My user name xxcrumbxx is based of my irl nick name crumb back when i was like 18 i was trying to find a name outside of Amber to go by i was thinking stuff like crome but that just reminded me of the squid word meme "WhY iS EvEry ThIng CrOme" so i was thinking of outher thing and I landed on Crumb a few years later when i was 19 bc im kinda a messy eater bc i have trimers so sometimes my food gets crushed bf i open the lil packit it's in lol .also my depresion was verry bad and Im good with animals and hate the smell of ants when they get hurt( i have a good scetse of smell so its extra strong. and tends to linger on my skin for houers) so i lurned how to pick them up and move them with out hurting them. Anyway one day i was opaning a star burst and an ant crawled out of my sleve tword the candy so i gess affter moving ants with out hurting them. And basicaly supportin a collany via depreshon mills and waring the same hoodie every day they got cumfterbull just hanging out on me so i came up wuth the nick name Crumb bc ants like crumbs and im a little bit messy:)

Also my secontdary name Purfume is based off my mask I was making for halloween thats also my slasher sona / silly lil fella embrasing mania. Face of my face tiype beat ( kinda came apart of my identity but i have a hard time talking about it with out feeling cringe lol also i have d,i,d and i think there forming in to a new one or taking over one idk its hard to talk about excpeshaly bc im still in the early stages and have more then just Atles and Nox but those are the fellas im in communicatshion with the most) . Anyway its named purfume bc whal i was making it i was i rushed it and put it on bf the paint was done brying so my dumb ass huffed paint on accsadent and got a headache. Kinda like when you smell too kutch purfume:]

Tag game🎉

Tag your moots and ask them where they got the idea for their tumblr accounts name!

For my name it was a nickname I was giving back in middleschool! One of our teacher had a system where we worked with 'wifi' eachtime we talked in class we lost a bar of the "wifi" (was a weird joke and we never held count on that) All the kids usually joked if they needed 'wifi' , they would borrow mine if they wanted to talk more. (I was incredibly shy in middle school, I only talked to like 3 people at school;^;)

They called me Ms. Wifi because of that. I just thought it would be funny if I put 'miss' instead of 'ms' because of my terrible actual wifi connection I have at home lol.

That's my story! Now moots, only if you guys want to, tell us your story.

Tags-> @slipping-lately @firequeenofficial @noagskryf @twinklstarrrr @halfbakedspuds @polterwasteist @rokushi-san @mygedagtes +anyone that sees this and wants to do this as well

[baepsays]

Love Hangover⸻ Gojo Satoru x reader

synopsis: "Call me back. Call me back. Call me back." — love hangover by Jennie & Dominic Fike

Cw: toxic relationship, emotional cheating, manipulation, just sex and NSFW stuff, choking (took something from the mv and applied it where I think they implied it :3 ), lot of back and forth, use of the word 'bitch' to refer to the reader (not by Gojo), hate sex, oral sex, fem anatomy, no particular use of pronouns for reader, lowkey angst sorryyy, they are just both pretty shitty lol. Mention of alcohol consumption and cigarettes

'Call me back' received. 2.13AM 

You and Gojo Satoru might be great people, your respective friends will agree. But when you're together it's as if all hell breaks loose. They do not understand. Neither do you two. He makes you so unlike yourself, so unrecognizable, it's often difficult for you to fathom the person you become around him. 

He becomes an unbearable prick; controlling and smothering you, simply too much for you to handle. In return you become a shady bitch; criticizing his every gesture. “Roses instead of lilies? Did you confuse me for someone else?” One day you would be joking over the dinner you made him, next day you would be wishing he was dead. Going through his phone, shouting at him and asking if he is speaking to his exes, was a regular occurrence. Then you won’t talk altogether, but just fight constantly—while lying under your covers together, while eating, on the phone, in public— just making things harder for everyone and yourselves. Until one of you goes;

‘I’m over, I'm so over.’

But you two would always end up where you started. One coincidental meeting with Gojo Satoru somewhere, anywhere, could be that you're across the street from each other; sitting in different restaurants, with different people— and that would be enough for both of you. Doesn't matter he has some girl hanging off his arms. Or the fact you are on a second date with some guy, thinking this might be something serious; a single, double, triple back from him, and suddenly the fact that he was still entertaining his date while you could practically feel his gaze burning your skin, won’t matter—not that it did not bother you. In fact, to put it simply, you do not really mind when he plays you. Because you two will always end up back in each other’s arms. 

‘One minute, we're growin' apart, and next, I'm in her apartment.’

And here you go again. Doesn't matter how many times either of you tell yourselves and your friends that ‘I swear I'll never do it again!’ But you always do it again, and again, and again. He always ends up ringing your doorbell, unannounced. Does not matter you did not pick up his calls, does not matter you did not answer his texts— One “Call me back” at 2 AM, then suddenly he is at your door. And you know he will be there. No matter what, you two always end up in front of each other’s doors. You may not answer his texts or calls; but when you open the door for him and beckon him inside, he will always be welcomed with two glasses of wine. For the sake of the pretense of wanting to have a civil conversation over wine like two grown adults, finally resolving this push and pull and drawing a firm boundary— is all a faux excuse. you still have the keys to his place, and he still has the keys to yours. And they are not being returned any time soon.  

In a flash you're on your couch, back arching off from its surface and fingernails digging in and ruining the fabric. Again. The other hand would be a tangled mess in his hair. The bigger mess would be pooled under you and around his mouth. Again. Eating you out like he has never before, or he might never again. But he knows better than that. 

So, you would start all over again. Things would be blissful for a while. Sweet talking, going on dates, reminiscing about everything which was good. Thinking this time you would take it slow. Take your time with just hanging out and getting to know each other all over again, promising to not repeat the past. All over again. Though when you two would go out for dinner, all that talk would bore you to death. It is not that you feel like staying with Satoru because of who he is, in fact the more you think about that the more it makes you want to leave him, but you want nothing more than to keep him around, forever. And Satoru knows that, hates that really. Always thinking “what's up with that?” — but just as the waiter would bring out the check, you would gaze at him all sultry and go, 

"Let's head to mine."

And all Satoru would be able to utter is , "Okay, awesome."

Subsequently, there would be just lots, lots of sex. Spending days in bed; skipping work, calling in sick, flaking on friends and practically going missing. And everyone would already know what to expect, nothing new, just the cycle repeating itself. 

Spending days in each other’s company giggling about, high on sex and the thrill of having each other back. Then the nights would pass with him being  buried, as deep as he possibly can be, inside of you. Just spending nights watching you get naked instead of watching the movie he chose himself— roaming his hands all over every ridge and curve on your body, encoding new details, leaving kisses and marks all over you. Places where everyone will be able to see, but also places only he would be able to access; tucked away safe even from your own eyes.  Letting the muscles inside your pussy hug him snug, fitting like she has never known anyone but him, because even she knows no matter who comes and goes— his shape will stay. 

As soon as he would get his hopes back up again. Just as soon the momentary bliss would be unexpectedly cut short. One day you are holding each other to sleep after indulging in each other’s bodies, the next moment you are shaking his hands off you and he is waking up with cold sweat all over him. Then you would stop reciprocating his kisses, leaving his lips cracking. Giving short and curt replies to questions, getting irritated over small things. Not that this is unprovoked. Unknowingly to Satoru, before he could delete the texts from the girls flooding his phone and block their numbers; you saw it all.

Back to square one. Fights and nights spent away from each other doing reckless stuff to provoke each other. Because why are you kissing his eyelids and calling him your one and only one moment, and then accusing him of ruining your life another day.

Soon enough you’re going to a club and letting people openly hit on you. Ignoring his calls and texts, to a point he has no choice but to pull up your location (do not ask how he got that). Then letting him drag you back to his place, shout out profanities at you, rip off every piece of clothing from your body. Doing nothing about him pushing you face down on the bed, pulling on the necklace— which he gave you—on your throat from behind and practically choking you, as the necklace leaves behind marks on top of the marks he previously left behind with his lips and teeth. As he thrusts himself inside you, mercilessly, not even letting you turn back around, putting all his body weight on yours— very literally smothering as always. One hand keeping a firm grasp on your throat while the other comes down to place slaps on your thighs and ass, from time to time. You would barely phrase something between loud moans and whines, “F- fuck you.” 

“You are. As always” all he would reply with with a singular impactful thrust. 

Next morning he would wake up to  empty, cold, and wet sheets. A singular half burnt cigarette would be lying on his bedside table, from the stash of cigarettes in his dresser, despite the fact he does not smoke. And a bottle of whisky would be gone from his collection, even though he does not enjoy whisky. All that would be left of your immediate presence, are the shredded to nothing flimsy pair of painties, which you wore last night. Not like you ever went out of his apartment with the same panties you entered through his doors with. 

Concurrently you would be drowning in alcohol, shooting glasses of shots after another to cure the hangover from the day before. You were not one to drink, but you were also not one to be irrational. Yet here you are, hungover and functioning on autopilot. If anyone asked what is wrong, you would not have an answer. Though you do know what this is, the need to never get over this hangover, instead perpetuating and fostering it. Because you know better than anyone that no alcohol will relieve the itch in your throat the way the whisky in Satoru’s cabinet burns down your chest, and alleviates you. You can buy similar whisky, the same brand even, or maybe even a wine or rum— but it won’t taste the same, it won’t get you drunk the same. 

‘I swore l'd never do it again.’

And after a month, Satoru would wake up to a singular missed call from you. 

‘you know I'm gonna do it again.’

a/n: dividers by @/dollywons & @/aquazero, header from the mv for the said song. essentially saw @jumpinglillies talking about wanting to read a Satoru fic based on this song, thanks to them for bringing the song to my attention i hope this lives up to your expectations <3

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

FEEL FREE TO SEND ASKS ABOUT ANYTHING AND LEAVE A COMMENT WITHIN MY BOUNDARIES I WOULD MUCH APPRECIATE THEM <3

tag list: @madamechrissy @cuntphoric @moonlitwitchdaisy @rriwyu @gojocon @aishi-toru @cuntyji @arcanarix @lover-lyn @kazupop

[lovbyler]

caleb talking about lumax: lucas and max it’s iconic, their love for each other its grown its unconditional it’s forever.

finn talking about mileven: romance was not on his mind even initially when he found eleven. at first it was almost like finding an alien like ET like finding someone/ something in the woods yknow government experiment and all this stuff. that relationship is his first romantic feelings for someone. and i think going into s5 they're definitely still a couple going into it.

can you see the chasm between a good couple being built to be the endgame and one that's nothing but bones at this point? “they're still together at the beginning of s5” lol, but it's not going to make it to the end, is it?

[8thwonderz-ofthewrld]

wooo under the cut

- Do you have a large headcount? -- not sure if ~80 counts as large but if it does then yes. we probably have even more considering all the fragments we dont have logged in simply plural

-Do any headmates in your system have typing quirks? -- yes! i (poob) actually have one but its mainly just scag typing this rn lol

-Does your system have any Non-human headmates? -- *looks at the computer in co-front and our 15 other nonhuman headmates that front regularly* i dont think so

-Is your system neurodivergent? -- hell yeah

-Does your system use neopronouns or xenogenders? -- mhm! im sillygender myself :3

-Do any of the headmates in your system have dyed hair and/or is your hair dyed bodily? -- theres a handful of us that have dyed hair (not sure if the splatoon fictives count as having dyed hair) but we havent gotten the body's hair dyed yet ;-;

-Are there any nonspeaking/nontyping heasmates in your system? -- only a few

-Does your system have angry and/or "dangerous" persecutors? -- yeas

-Do your littles use baby talk? -- only sometimes. and its not like full on baby talk its just shortening of words and stuff

-Do you have a large or complex headspace? -- well. were really bad at visualizing it since we only get a good look at it when the host is fronting but i would say so. my area in headspace is an entire mario kart-style racing track

-Do any headmates in your system have exo-memories? -- a few. simon has the strongest though

-Does your system have any tics? -- probably not

-is your system bad at masking? -- we use 'we' when talking to our friends often, so i would say. kinda.

-Do any headmates in your system have an accent that the body does not? -- no

-Do any headmates in your system speak in a different language? -- mno

-Does your system use things like pluralkit and simply plural? -- yup (our simply plural is eighthwonderz-ofthewrld pls plspls add us /nf)

-are you out about being a system? IRL or online or not at all? -- somewhat

- Do you post headmate intros as their own posts on social media? -- yes, but only when said headmate is fronting and we have the energy. which is not a lot

- Do you make those "headmates that would get us fakeclaimed" posts? -- weve been wanting to for a while. in fact i think we're going to do that right after we're finished with this

- Is your system bodily a minor? -- yea

- Do your headmates date in system? -- yes hehe

- Do headmates have different art styles? -- ross has a slightly different art style from the rest of the system, but other than that i would say not really

The Cooler System Ask Game Based On Things People Fake Claim Systems On

- Do you have a large headcount?

-Do any headmates in your system have typing quirks?

-Does your system have any Non-human headmates?

-Is your system neurodivergent?

-Does your system use neopronouns or xenogenders?

-Do any of the headmates in your system have dyed hair and/or is your hair dyed bodily?

-Are there any nonspeaking/nontyping heasmates in your system?

-Does your system have angry and/or "dangerous" persecutors?

-Do your littles use baby talk?

-Do you have a large or complex headspace?

-Do any headmates in your system have exo-memories?

-Does your system have any tics?

-is your system bad at masking?

-Do any headmates in your system have an accent that the body does not?

-Do any headmates in your system speak in a different language?

-Does your system use things like pluralkit and simply plural?

-are you out about being a system? IRL or online or not at all?

- Do you post headmate intros as their own posts on social media?

- Do you make those "headmates that would get us fakeclaimed" posts?

- Is your system bodily a minor?

- Do your headmates date in system?

- Do headmates have different art styles?

No emojis/numbers just send the full question!

this post is based on this https://www.tumblr.com/million-with-a-b/734832850476695552/space-themed-system-ask-game-based-on-common?source=share ask game but with changed wording and some added questions + no dni on it for those uncomfortable with syscourse.

[genderqueerdykes]

I have PCOS and I’ve heard conflicting things about whether I can call myself intersex. I’ve seen people say that since it’s just a hormone thing, it’s not really intersex and since I wasn’t given surgeries as an infant about it, I’m not really intersex. I don’t want to step on people’s toes but I’ve also heard that since because I have hormone things that a majority of cis perisex women (I’m transmasc but all stuff online talks about cis women so) don’t have, I would be considered intersex. Sorry if this is weird, I’m just worried that if I started calling myself intersex, I’d be appropriating a label that doesn’t belong to me

PCOS is an interesex variation, you're all good! i also have PCOS :)

long winded ramble here but i haven't posted much about this before, and i have some thoughts

people who try to separate intersex variations between "hormonal" and "biological" conditions are gate keeping. that's another needless binary- many, many intersex conditions affect hormones in specific. you do not have to have mixed or ambiguous genitals to be intersex. hormone imbalances are more than enough. people who think that there's a difference between "hormonal" and "biological" intersex variations don't know what the word "biological" means, so you're free to disregard conversations like that

a lot of people are very misogynistic & intersexist and think that because there are women who pass and don't show any signs of their PCOS outwardly that they're "basically" or "just" perisex women. it really just comes down to misogyny and for some reason. idk i've met people who are... jealous of intersex people ? i used to know someone who was SO upset that they weren't intersex that they would go on long rants about how THEY should be able to call themselves intersex but not perisex women who "pass as perisex" because those people are "just perisex women and not real intersex people".

the ENTIRE REASON THIS PERSON WAS BEHAVING THIS WAY was because they wanted to call themselves a hermaphrodite. that was it. they wanted to use a slur they couldn't reclaim and were so fucking upset about it that they would bitch and moan about how a perisex cis woman with an internal teste who doesn't "LOOK" intersex shouldn't be able to call themselves intersex, but they should be able to do it because they "LOOK INTERSEX". like absolutely fucking unreal

like let's be real, this specific behavior is about misogyny, NOT caring about intersex people or furthering our rights & acceptance. people getting butthurt over PCOS being considered an intersex variation are raging misogynists & intersexists and its time we called it out. you can be intersexist if you're intersex. we are not immune.

like i've seriously seen people get so fucking upset that they can't use the term intersex for themselves that they take it out on other people. i've seen people who want to call themselves hermaphrodites so bad that they'll literally mock and harass intersex women who don't "look" intersex. it's disgusting. idk why people think intersex is like this Cool Exclusive Club but it's not. you're not stepping on anyone's toes by identifying as intersex if you have PCOS, a literal intersex condition, don't worry! OTHER PEOPLE are stepping on YOUR toes. you are intersex. i'm glad you took the time to ask! i just want to let you know that you do not have to take people's shit over this. PCOS is an intersex variation. people gotta learn to cope.

[annionebutme]

This idea has been distracting me from writing what I'm actually trying to write so I wrote a little.

Boredom was Harry's only excuse. Boredom, angst, and a general disregard for his own mortality.   

He'd sent one of the school owls off with a birthday cupcake for Voldemort, card included, "I wish you were on fire instead of the candle."  Anonymously, of course, but the thank you card and accompanying book of curses to reward himself with (one that made its victims words become water as they were spoken was helpfully marked) were both clearly labelled with his full name. It should have stopped him. 

It didn't. 

Almost a full year now of daily insults and mostly being ignored until Voldemort happened upon something interesting to threaten him with  had passed. Harry was idly planning what to do for Voldemort's birthday and their hateversary when he felt an odd sensation at the back of his neck, like someone was yanking him by the scruff. It snaked upwards leaving a cold, gooey feeling in its wake until it settled about level with his ear. It made his brain feel heavy, almost like sleep might. His vision began to waver, shifting rather than blacking out, until he was sat next from a very casually posed Voldemort in a dimly lit restaurant with large, round tables set into round pits in the floor encircled with a luxuriously soft velvet couch. 

He tried not to panic as Voldemort camly turned to face him. 

"Evening, Harry." 

With Voldemort's faze firmly fixed on him it felt like every moment of his hesitation was being analysed and dissected to use against him later. Harry drew a breath, but did not respond. 

"Thought you might like to join me. I've had the opportunity to take your latest piece of advice." 

 Fuck. What had he said recently? Did he kill someone? Torture someone? Because of what Harry had said?!

"Eat a dick."  Voldemort supplied, still deadly calm. 

Harry blinked. "You sucked someone off?" 

Voldemort smiled it was not the cruel smile showing all his fangs that Harry had grown to expect, but a relaxed, jovial smile whose effect was only slightly lessened by the mouthful of poinnted teeth. 

"This restaurant serves only the reproductive organs of animals. I thought you might join me." There was a glass of dark red wine in his hand that Harry didn't think had existed until a moment ago. 

"Why?" 

"I find myself in need of a distraction. I am dining with the French Minister for Finance who has been informing me of the aphrodisiac properties of eating genitals. He is currently bragging about the prostitute he has hired to test this on. We've only ordered the wine so far, and I do not expect things to improve." 

"Oh." Said Harry. There was no one in the restaurant,  which probablymeant this was in his head or Voldemort's "You're not hoping to just.. y'know, kill him?" 

"That *is* the dream" He said, swirling his wine. "To kill with impunity, but presently It would cause far more problems than simply sitting through a meal would." 

"Even though he's talking about... stuff you don't like? "  

Voldemort seemed like he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "I am more than capable of handling a little locker room talk, Harry, despite it being boring and generally beneath me." 

Harry could sympathise. He'd been in actual locker rooms weekly since he was 11, and the conversation always seemed to be the same. "But you hate me too."

"You're the easiest mind to pop into, and marginally better to converse with. At the very least you can't regale me with your sexual conquests." 

"Oi!" Harry said, a bit friendlier than he meant to. 

Voldemort propped an elbow upon the back of the couch "I have it on good advice that one shouldn't "dish it out" if they are unable to take it." 

Harry supposed he was right. It was true, anyway, and it wasn't something that actually bothered him. Finding the time for such activities was difficult when he was so focused on survival so if he ever had negative thoughts about it he just blamed it on Voldemort and his shame vanished easily. 

"I'll order the milt. It would be a shame if you didn't get the complete experience for your first time"

[saebyeokbliss]

ONCE MORE TO SEE YOU— PART IX.

synopsis: on a cold january day, you were worrying about the reason your girlfriend wasn’t texting back. when she finally does and asks to meet at your apartment, you’re met with heartbreak as she ends your relationship. no explanation. two years later, you run into her at a cafe with someone new. what are you to do?

warnings: angst, death, swearing, yelling, more stress HAHA

pairing: sae-byeok x fem!reader

The hospital always felt colder than it should. The sterile white walls and the faint smell of antiseptic clung to you like a second skin every time you walked through those doors. It was the kind of place that drained the warmth out of you, leaving only a gnawing sense of dread in its wake.

You hated being there. But you hated what it meant to not be there even more.

When you entered Veda’s room, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor greeted you, a sound you had come to associate with her continued survival. She was propped up in the hospital bed, her small frame swallowed by the too-big sheets. Her face was pale, and the bruises from the accident had faded to a sickly yellow, but when her eyes met yours, she gave you a tired smile.

“Hey, Vee,” you said softly, setting your bag down on the chair by the bed.

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice weak but steady.

You pulled up a chair beside her, reaching out to take her hand. Her fingers were cold, and they trembled slightly as she squeezed your hand back. You’d been careful to hide your own exhaustion from her—she didn’t need to know about the sleepless nights, the eviction notice, or the constant weight of your parents’ demands. She had enough to deal with without worrying about you.

“How are you feeling today?” you asked, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her forehead.

“Better,” she said, though the effort it took her to speak made it clear she was lying. “The nurses said I might be able to start walking again soon. Isn’t that good?”

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “That’s great.”

She studied your face for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly. “You look tired.”

You laughed softly, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine. Just busy, you know? Work, school, all that fun stuff.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press you. Instead, she leaned back against the pillows, her gaze drifting to the window. “Do you think I’ll ever get out of here?” she asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. “Of course you will,” you said finally, your voice firm. “You’re going to get better, Vee. I promise.”

She didn’t say anything, but the way her lips curved into a faint smile told you that she wanted to believe you.

The two of you talked for a while, about nothing and everything all at once. You told her about the diner, about your coworkers, about the funny things customers said that made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. She told you about the books she’d been reading, about the nurses who were kind to her, and about the dreams she had of being anywhere but there.

For a little while, it felt almost normal. Like the hospital walls weren’t closing in, and the weight of the world wasn’t pressing down on your shoulders. But then, without warning, everything changed.

“Vee?” you said, noticing how her eyelids started to droop and her grip on your hand loosened. “You okay?”

She didn’t respond.

“Vee,” you said again, your voice rising slightly as panic began to creep in.

Her head lolled to the side, and the faint smile that had been on her lips was gone. The beeping of the heart monitor that had been your constant companion suddenly turned sharp and erratic, the sound cutting through the air like a knife.

“Veda!” you shouted, standing up so fast that the chair toppled over behind you. Her chest wasn’t moving. Her lips were turning blue.

The room dissolved into chaos as alarms blared and nurses rushed in, pushing you back as they surrounded her bed. Someone was shouting something—maybe it was you—but you couldn’t hear it over the deafening roar in your ears.

You watched helplessly as they worked on her, their movements frantic and precise. The minutes stretched on forever, each one more agonizing than the last. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

The heart monitor flatlined, the steady drone filling the room like a death knell. One of the nurses looked up at the clock, her expression grim. “Time of death: 3:47 PM.”

It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you. Your knees buckled, and you sank to the floor, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

But it was.

Veda was gone.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, numb and shaking, before your parents arrived. The moment your mother stepped into the room, her eyes went straight to you. Her face twisted in grief, but beneath it, there was something else—something sharp and accusatory.

“What happened?” she demanded, her voice trembling. “What did you do?”

You stared at her, your mouth opening and closing as you struggled to find the words. “I—I didn’t—”

“She was fine this morning!” your mother shouted, tears streaming down her face. “She was fine, and now she’s—she’s—” She broke off, sobbing, as your father stepped forward, his expression hard.

“This is your fault,” he said, his voice cold and final. “You should’ve been watching her. You should’ve done something.”

Something inside you snapped.

“My fault?” you said, your voice rising as you stood up, fury coursing through you like wildfire. “You’re blaming me for this? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Don't curse at your parents! Who else is there to blame?” your father shot back. “You were here! You were supposed to be taking care of her!”

“I have been taking care of her!” you shouted, your hands trembling as you gestured wildly. “I’ve been taking care of everything! While you sit at home doing nothing, I’ve been working myself to death to pay for her medical bills, to keep a roof over your heads, to make sure she had a chance! And now you’re going to stand there and blame me?”

Your mother’s sobs grew louder, but she didn’t say anything. Your father opened his mouth to argue, but you didn’t let him.

“I’ve lost everything because of you!” you yelled, tears streaming down your face. “My house, my money, my future—everything! And for what? So you could sit there and tell me I’m not doing enough? I’ve been breaking myself apart for you, and it’s still not enough, is it? It’s never enough!”

The room fell into stunned silence, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. Your chest heaved as you struggled to catch your breath, the anger and grief swirling inside you like a storm.

Your father didn’t respond. He just stared at you, his expression unreadable, while your mother cried into her hands. For the first time in weeks, you didn’t care what they thought. You didn’t care about their guilt trips or their accusations. You were done.

The walk back to your apartment felt endless, each step heavier than the last. The cold night air bit at your skin, but you hardly noticed. Your mind was a storm of emotions—grief, anger, guilt—each one pulling you in a different direction until you felt like you were going to burst. Veda was gone. The words echoed in your head, hollow and cruel. She was gone, and there was nothing you could do to change it.

By the time you reached your building, your legs felt like they might give out beneath you. You climbed the stairs slowly, every breath a struggle, until you reached your door. The eviction notice was gone—it was stuffed in your bag, forgotten for now—but the weight of it still lingered, a constant reminder that tomorrow would be your last day here.

You unlocked the door and stepped inside, the quiet of the apartment almost deafening. The single-room space, small and cluttered as it was, had never felt emptier. The air was cold, stagnant, and you couldn’t bring yourself to turn on the lights. You dropped your bag on the floor and sank into the sofa, burying your face in your hands as the tears finally came.

For a long time, you just sat there, the sobs wracking your body as the events of the day crashed over you like a wave. You cried for Veda, for the life she’d never get to live. You cried for yourself, for the weight you’d been carrying for so long. And you cried for the anger you felt toward your parents, for the guilt that came with it, and for the fact that, deep down, you still wanted to make them proud.

When the tears finally slowed, leaving you hollow and shaking, you dragged yourself to the kitchen to get some water. That’s when you saw it.

An envelope sat on the counter, stark white against the dark surface. Your brow furrowed as you approached it, your heart skipping a beat when you saw your name scrawled on the front in hurried, slanted handwriting. You recognized it instantly.

Sae-byeok.

Your hands trembled as you picked up the envelope, dread and confusion swirling in your chest. You tore it open carefully, your breath catching when you saw the contents.

Money. More money than you’d ever seen in your life.

You dumped the stack of bills onto the counter, your chest tightening as you tried to process what you were seeing. It couldn’t be real—there was no way—but the weight of the cash in your hands told you otherwise. And then, tucked beneath the last stack of bills, you found the note.

“You need it more than me.”

That was all it said. Short, simple, and so Sae-byeok that it made your head spin.

Your emotions swung wildly from confusion to disbelief to anger, the grief you’d been drowning in now replaced by a white-hot rage. You stared at the money, your hands curling into fists as the words of the note burned into your mind.

You didn’t want her pity. You didn’t want this.

Before you could stop yourself, you grabbed the envelope, stuffed the money back inside, and stormed out the door.

The diner was quiet when you arrived, the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of dishes the only sounds. Your heart pounded in your chest as you pushed open the door, your steps quick and purposeful as you made your way to the break room. You didn’t care that your shift wasn’t for hours or that barging in like this was bound to cause a scene. You needed to see her.

Sae-byeok was sitting at the small table in the break room, unbothered as she sipped from a mug of coffee. She looked up when you entered, her expression unreadable as her dark eyes flicked to the envelope in your hand.

“What the hell is this?” you demanded, your voice trembling with anger as you slammed the envelope onto the table.

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she set her mug down and leaned back in her chair, her gaze steady. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re trying to buy me off,” you snapped, your voice rising. “Do you think this fixes anything? Do you think throwing money at me is going to make everything better?”

“It’s not about fixing anything,” she said, her tone calm but firm. “It’s about helping.”

“I don’t need your help!” you shouted, your hands trembling as you gestured wildly. “I don’t need your money, I don’t need your pity, and I sure as hell don’t need you swooping in like some savior to save me from my own damn life!”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of anger beneath her calm exterior. “You’re so full of shit,” she said, her voice cold.

Your breath caught in your throat, but she didn’t give you a chance to respond.

“You’re drowning, and you know it,” she continued, her voice rising as she stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. “You’re working yourself to death, losing your home, grieving your sister, and still trying to act like you’ve got it all under control. Well, guess what? You don’t. And there’s nothing wrong with admitting that.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, but she didn’t stop.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to struggle?” she said, her voice sharp and cutting. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything, to feel like the world is crushing you under its weight? I’ve been there. I’ve lived that. And I’m still living it.”

Her voice softened slightly, but the intensity in her eyes didn’t waver. “This isn’t about pity. It’s about survival. And whether you want to admit it or not, you need this money more than I do.”

You stared at her, your chest heaving as her words sank in. The anger that had been fueling you began to waver, replaced by something else—something raw and vulnerable that you didn’t want to face.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “But you need it.”

The room fell silent, the tension between you thick and suffocating. You didn’t know what to say, your emotions a tangled mess as you stared down at the envelope on the table.

Finally, you shook your head, grabbing the envelope and shoving it back into your bag. “I don’t… I can’t…”

Sae-byeok didn’t respond, her expression unreadable as she watched you turn and leave the break room.

You didn’t stop walking until you were outside, the cold night air biting at your skin as you leaned against the side of the building. Your hands shook as you clutched the strap of your bag, the weight of the money inside pressing down on you like a physical thing.

You hated her for doing this. You hated her for making you feel small and weak and exposed. But more than that, you hated the part of you that was grateful—grateful for the money, for the gesture, for the fact that, even in her cold and unrelenting way, she cared.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel completely alone.

taglist: @monroesturnns@everly-summers-solace@holyshtimgay@knfthxv@delfinadolphin@madebysae@jetaimeeeee@m0rtifiedg0th@katieschry1@erika-mon2-blog@tcvazq not taking anymore taglist additions!! sorry!!

[tmnt-soup]

Ok. I have an episode planned in my head for this. Throughout their childhood raph had trouble getting the twins to listen to him until he has this great idea: HE is gonna decide, based on who is being the most older brother at the time(hes the oldEST so hes a great judge for this, obviously). This works great for years because raph uses it sparingly, until one day dear old dad gets wind of this. Whats that you say? An outrageously simple way to get your two craftiest children to do/give you whatever you want? Say less my good man. Wacky hijinks ensue with splinter asking for more and more ridiculous things, on par with the time traveling microwave for donnie and like..memorabilia from his fame or relationship with big mama for leo. Slowly the twins start competing more and more against the “that doesnt sound like something a responsible older brother would do”, until someone (probably leo) figures out that its just a ploy to get stuff from them, and theyre both pissed at splinter, but also at raph for starting it, and now theyre both refusing to be cooperative at all, and mikey is in the middle having to run back and forth to talk to splinter and raph for them. Splinter and raph have a heart to heart about how raph shouldnt have used something his brothers cared about to get them to do stuff, but he also shouldnt have had to care for his little brothers like that, his dad should have been there more, and he ALSO shouldnt have used the older twin thing to get stuff out of the twins(raph mainly actually used it to keep them from being stupid, but also is dumb sometimes he was a kid what can i say) Raph goes to one and has a heart to heart, tells them he overheard dad(he may have misheard? Maybe he didnt?) say something about how THEYRE actually the oldest twin for sure, but please dont tell the other because theyve kinda formed their personality around this argument, while splinter goes to the other and says that THEYRE actually the older one(he cant actually remember) for sure but it was a secret so there wouldnt be a power imbalance. Don and leo decide they care more about each other than being older (but they do still care a little bit) and agree to do rock paper scissors over it per month from now on(but both treat each other as younger when theyre in tight spots, bc they think thats still their little brother, regardless of twinhood) Mikey just wants everyone to get along, and doesnt see what makes being younger so bad, you get younger sibling privileges! Which he abuses to get whatever he wants all the time hehe(someone didnt get the moral of the episode)

Okay but for real now, i'm conducting an EXPERIEMENT, a rise fandom wide experiment (if this doesnt blow up i'm allowed to delete my blog and pretend i never did this) when it comes to the age battle between Donnie and I...the question:

[felassan]

Some more DA:TV and related snippets from Sylvia Feketekuty, Part 5. rest of post under a cut due to length and spoilers. [Post One, Post Two, Post Three, Post Four]

Sylvia Feketekuty: "I agree, the Necropolis IS gorgeous, I was blessed with wonderful level artists, lighting artists, and a fantastic LD who poured their hearts into making it it." [source]

Sylvia: ""But what does Manfred think about Spite?" Good question. Manfred is curious, as always, and can probably sense Spite's on his own plane of existence (in other words, another spirit.) But Manfred also doesn't have a greatly evolved sense of danger, he might not understand Spite's "moodier" moments. I also think Manfred isn't as sophisticated a spirit as Spite at the start of the game. (Though don't let Emmrich catch you saying that!)" [source, two]

Sylvia on Emmrich: "He was a team effort, and I have to especially thank the writers and editors for their early feedback that helped shape him. Emmrich wouldn't have worked as well otherwise." [source]

Sylvia: "it's a huge honour to work on a character who's someone's favorite anything, let alone romance. (Huge props to Allegra, her actor, who just got Josie right away.)" [source]

Sylvia: ""With Cassandra being our only POV into Nevarra" Poor Cassandra. (Emmrich has such respect for her uncle's books!) "There's a lot of deep respect and empathy for all the ways people relate with death and I appreciate it"" Thanks, that was something I'd so hoped would come through." [source]

Sylvia: "It really was a team that brought Emmrich, the Necropolis, and the rest of its guardians to life, I know everyone would be thrilled to know you enjoyed it so much." [source]

User: "Emmrich's fear of mortality really hit hard. Some of those lines are etched into my heart now. Thanks to everyone who helped put that deeply relatable and human experience into the game" // Sylvia: "It was kind of the core of Emmrich, writing the part where he opens up about his fears, so thank you for sharing that, it means a lot." [source]

Sylvia: "I loved writing the MW branches and letting people be a nerdier flavour of Rook with Emmrich." [source]

User: "Nevarra, Mourn Watch and in particular Emmrich's personal missions were amazing! The whimsical and the grotesque in perfect balance. When I replay next year I'll be looking forward to those missions the most!" // Sylvia: "Especial praise goes to the level designers for tackling a bunch of complex stuff in those missions as we planned them out." [source]

Sylvia: "I think we can all agree Emmrich might be a touch eccentric, but I really wanted his interests and compassionate outlook to be heartfelt, so this is lovely to hear." [source]

User: "I was so nervous about the whole Necropolis gang as I have PTSD and a major fear of death. So when Emmrich confided in Rook about his own fear, I was struck with such an unexpected comfort. I've never heard someone describe my own fears and how they make me feel so perfectly." // Sylvia: "Thank you, Bibi. It's a very familiar fear for me as well, and I find sometimes talking about it can ease things. So I'm very glad to hear Emmrich's thoughts on it were helpful for you." [source]

Sylvia: "I like a good sinister necromancer, but really wanted to try something different with the Mourn Watch, something more akin to a sacred duty." [source]

Sylvia on the Necropolis: "The concept, lighting, and level artists, and the level designer, did so much cool stuff there IMO. Seeing it with the final art and lighting in for the first time was a thrill for me too." [source]

User: "special thanks for the Terry Pratchett references in the form and speech of Vorgoth. I don't know exactly whose idea it was, but it was great!" // Sylvia: "Aw thank you so much! Re: Terry Pratchett: oh man, I read nearly every Discworld book multiple times, absolute favorites growing up." [source]

User: "I kinda of assumed that Emmrich just calculates age in academia terms, so no matter how many physical years old your Rook is, you're just a tiny baby who hasn't completed a necromancy phd. "When I was your age" = "When I was a TA."" // Sylvia: "Yes, yes that math checks out." [source]

User on Emmrich: "how refreshing it was to have an argument with a LI that’s specific to their relationship. It gives the characters such texture and dimension!" // Sylvia: "Aw thank you! I liked the tone range we ended up having between everyone, it was more rewarding to do." [source]

User: "Would you guys ever expand more on Nevarra and its culture? I loved seeing the Necropolis, and hope we revisit it. But I'll be honest when I say it made me curious what life in Nevarra is like, and how infused Nevarra's Mortalitasi are with average Nevarran life." // Sylvia: "Since I've left the company, that's not really in my hands, so there's not much I can say. But I get what you mean, because the Mourn Watch are a subbranch of the Mortalitasi with a very special field of study and service. We don't really get much about everyday Nevarra. So whoever tackles that in the future, if they ever do: I think that could be neat. Lots of room to explore different dynamics and customs!" [source, two]

User: "I adore Emmrich, he's so sweet & so thoughtful! I especially adore his love for flowers, and I personally interpreted that as a hint from the writers (you!) that choosing to embrace his fleeting mortality, like the fleeting beauty of flowers, was his "good" path - is that correct? What's your take?" // Sylvia: "I tried really hard to make either choice feel like it could be the right one for him, because I wanted it to be more about a player's own interpretation-and their relationship with him-than author fiat hinting at which one is correct. Also thank you for the kind words! I really liked writing Emmrich enthusing about flowers." [source, two] // User: "He's such a charming character, the vibes of him and Josephine are among some of my favorites in the series, thank you for helping to shape them and for being kind enough to answer my question! Do you, personally, have a preference for which choice Emmrich makes? It's a tough call to make in game!" // Sylvia: "I'm afraid, like a coward, I've not stated a preference because I don't want to accidentally influence people into thinking one was right or not. I'm also in a weird place where as the person writing him, my thoughts are far less subjective in weird recursive ways. If that makes sense." [source]

User: "do you have a favorite flower? It was such a lovely detail in Emmrich's character and it warms my heart to know writing that was enjoyable for you" // Sylvia: "It kind of changes depending on what's growing during the season, but while it's very common, you can't beat the scent of a rose. (Fond of lilacs too)" [source]

User: "Did you have any role in Manfred's wisp being lilac when/if you bring him back? That detail made me bawl 😭 Manfred was so shaped by "living" with Emmrich that his essence became Em's favorite color?! The only wisp we see to do so?" // Sylvia: "I wish! I actually don't know who did that. I'd assume that colour was chosen by one of our animators, or maybe the LD, so perhaps they added in that detail, which is adorable. (Carly, Derek Wilks, was this either of you?)" [source] // Derek Wilks: "I think that was someone in VFX actually!" [source]

Sylvia: "Glad you enjoyed the graveyard date, our animators and music director did wonders there." [source]

User: "Can you give us any hints on when Dorian spent some time at the necropolis? I need to know their circumstances for science (how old was Dorian back then? I could imagine he had a crush on the professor lol)" // Sylvia: "I'm going to chicken out and not pin that down (sorry.) Since I've left BW, my answer would be even more non-canonical than usual, because that would've been something I'd have wanted to talk over with the other writers. But by that same token, nothing I've said invalidates what you want to imagine." [source]

Sylvia on Emmrich: "I am flattered to hear he has become a favorite romance, the team went all out on him." [source] // Sylvia: "So many people worked on those scenes: animation, art, audio, the editors, and huge kudos to his actor Nick Borraine." [source]

Sylvia: "I THINK Emmrich is 6'2 or 6'3, but you'd need a character artist to confirm." [source]

User: "Do the necromancers of the Grand Necropolis have their own sort of culture? Like perhaps their own rituals for marriage, courting, etc.?" // Sylvia: "Hrm. Good question. I'm sure they have some individual quirks and traditions, like any long-running institution. But they probably don't deviate unrecognizably from the mortalitasi norm." [source]

Sylvia: ""i also played a trans rook, and some of emmrich's content for a romanced trans rook made for probably some of the best romance content of all time for me." That's so nice to hear, and I must give credit to some trans people who kindly took the time to give me feedback that made those lines better." [source]

User: "1) are Tevinter exchange students like Dorian common? 2) what are some of the other fraternities of the Mortalitasi? 3) do members of the Mourn Watch often attend social events with the Nevarran elite like other Mortalitasi?" // Sylvia: "1) Yeah, I think they're not uncommon. I took my inspiration from The Grand Tour, and thought it would make sense if Tevinter sent out some of the wealthier scions to see the world a little, pick up a few new spells. [link] 2) I'm afraid I've deliberately left this one blank, for future people to fill in if/when the need arises. Emmrich complains about the palace necromancers, so we do know there's a special cadre of mortalitasi running the show over there. 3. Absolutely. The MW are pretty prestigious in Nevarra with their running the Grand Necropolis. Much as Emmrich dislikes politics himself, there's probably a lot going on at the top." [source, two, three]

User: "Do you think Lich Emmrich would eventually be told by the Lich Lords to sever his mortal ties and return with them to the depths of the Necropolis? It seems like he’s willing to break all their rules to keep Rook with him" // Sylvia: "I'm afraid defining Emmrich's duties/responsibilities/required conduct as a lich would very much be something I'd leave up to the future (even if I were still at BW.) Kind of too big a topic for me to want to speculate here." [source]

User: "did you have a hand in designing how emmrich looks?" // Sylvia: "Yep, I gave feedback as his design progressed. Our concept artists really got him very early on, though, so it was smaller stuff." [source] // User: "was he at all inspired by Peter Cushing & his hammer film characters? He really gives off van Helsing vibes to me" // Sylvia: "Time permitting I want to do a post on influences, but you got it in one exactly. It was specifically the Hammer films I was thinking about!" [source] // User: "would Rudolph van Richten from Curse of Strahd be on his list of influences?" // Sylvia: "I'm afraid, to my shame, I never read much of the core Ravenloft books, so that one's a no." [source]

User: "I needed you to know that Emmerich's conversation in the Memorial Gardens about his thanaphobia really got me. I could never put the words together of what thanaphobia feels like, and his description is perfect." // Sylvia: "It's a familiar feeling to me as well, and I'm glad it rang true." [source]

User: "I've got a really severe death phobia that's been flaring recently, and emmrich's conversation about it captured the feeling perfectly and helped lessen the weight for me" // Sylvia: "I find at least discussing it can ease it, sometimes, so I'm very glad to hear getting to know Emmrich helped in that way." [source]

Sylvia: "Hezenkoss was a blast to write so I'm glad she clicked for you. "preposterous is what you wore to a bog, Orlesian" Oh wow, Skywatcher! It's been an age, so glad that line stuck with you. That takes me back!" [source]

Sylvia: ""And yet I ask the question - what attracts Emmerich to the Hand? Yes, the answer is “perseverance”, but I think this is not fully explored." Do you mean the Hand of Glory specifically? He's intrigued and disturbed by the magic around it, which is why he hones on it, even before he knows its origin" [source]

Sylvia: ""I was wondering if you could tell us about his & Manfred's first meeting or notable moments in their friendship?" This feels like something I'd probably want to leave more to the imagination. And because I'm not a BW anymore, answers would be even more non-canonical than normal. All that said, for some reason, I always pictured Emmrich being alone in the Necropolis the first time Manfred's wisp floated up to him to peer at what he was doing. It just seems a little more poignant that way." [source, two]

Sylvia: "All credit to the team, especially the writers and editors who gave feedback that made [Emmrich] so much better during those early days and beyond." [source]

User: "me + a handful of people were wondering about non-mage mourn watchers! id love to hear your notes/thoughts about them! b/c i didnt remember hearing how they become MW or if reaper uses death magic!" // Sylvia: "Sure! Not much to say, though, I think the MW is likely a mage majority fraternity that accepts a few non-mages who have exceptional skills and temperaments sympathetic to the Necropolis. A warrior of great renown, a rogue of exceptional stealth and quiet, a baby found down there in a grave, and so forth. They'd certainly undergo the same kind of oaths and bindings every Watcher goes through. I always pictured them being provided with the best enchanted gear the MW has to offer too." [source, two]

User: "Hi! About Emmerich being a professor—does he teach at a Circle, or is he specifically a professor to other MWers and Mortalitasi? It seems like the MW has some sort of official schooling for its members since he regularly takes on students each year, could you comment on that at all?" // Sylvia: ""It seems like the MW has some sort of official schooling for its members since he regularly takes on students each year, could you comment on that at all? " Sure, but I think you have it, the MW seems to want to raise well-rounded students with a classical education on top of magecraft. In my mind, it was because they saw every MW as representing the Grand Necropolis, so of course they wanted its members to have training in etiquette and history and generally be able to move in polite society." [source, two]

User: "If I remember correctly, we only really see Emmrich use necromantic magic in-game. Are there other types of magic (elemental, healing/spirit, etc) that you think he would gravitate toward?" // Sylvia: "Hrm. He does have a bit of healing magic, mechanically in combat. It coudl work, but somehow I don't think Emmrich would ever be a high-level healer. He could maybe get the basics but it's not his great gift. Something about the gravic magic of the force mage specialty feels appropriate though." [source]

Sylvia: ""would it be possible for a (romanced) MW Rook join Emmrich in linchdom, eventually?" Yes: Rook can try, bc it's not forbidden to seek the knowledge out. (Emmrich makes it clear Hezenkoss pieced some of it together herself, so we've also seen another mage get it almost-right) It is very hard and probably takes decades to accomplish (and of course, there's no guarantee Rook would survive.) But everything written in game points to there being a chance." [source, two]

User: "I’ve been thinking a little about it and I know it’s mentioned in the game he would be interested in visiting - but how would Emmrich feel about visiting the Avvar in the south? They are one of the few groups that show respect for spirits in a similar way and I imagine he’d have a lot of questions." // Sylvia: "He'd probably love it. He'd be fascinated by their relationship with spirits, in the ways it mirrors and deviates from the Mourn Watchers' own practices. (I imagine there is also like a 15% chance he gets into a heated argument with one of them over a fine point of how spirits work exactly.)" [source]

User: "congratulations on another achievement, Emmrich took the silver trophy" // Sylvia: "I was so excited to see we'd gotten the silver trophy! I hope everyone who worked on him sees that." [source]

User: "Is there anywhere we can follow your future work after this account gets shut down ?" // Sylvia: "TBH I'll probably just reopen it it there's any cool news to share since I don't have a website or anything. (I THINK I can just reactivate it?)" [source]

User: "Thank you for Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet, emmrich, Liara and Leigon!!!!" // Sylvia: "Thank you! (I should mention I was only a part of Legion in ME3 - specifically the N7 mission into the Geth Consensus. Great fun to work on that level though.)" [source]

Sylvia: "I'm lucky to have had the chance to bring Emmrich and Josephine to you all with the rest of the team." [source]

Sylvia: ""I still remember when you introduced yourself on old BSN when Lair of the Shadow Broker came out." Wow, you're right I did! That is a blast from the past. Thank you for the kind words!" [source]

User: "Just wanted to say thank you for all the amazing characters you helped bring to life in DA and ME. I really enjoyed Emmrich and Hezenkoss in DAV. The dynamic between them really made me laugh" // Sylvia: "Thanks! That was one of my favorite pairs to write, the history between them meant everything was always a little more personal, which is always fun." [source]

Sylvia: "Thanks Janette, loved writing Hollix." [source]

User: "Elements of Emmerich's costume resemble the Cerberus logo from ME. Is this just a reference or is there something more to it?" // Sylvia: "Gee, I can't say for sure because I didn't make it, but I'd assume that one's just a coincidence (since the Mourn Watch and Necropolis use hexagonal shapes as their primary shape language)" [source]

User: "I can just tell how well Emmrich is written along his fear. I lost my fear of death and dying as I began to honor the dead." // Sylvia: "I do think talking and thinking about these things more than we normally do helps eases the fear." [source]

Sylvia: "Thank you for these lovely thoughts. I did read some books about different customs around death, and I know a little about pagan/occult/magic practices (in a very basic and generalist sense.) So it doesn't surprise me per se, but I am very glad to hear getting to know Emmrich was a positive thing. And I'm also very glad to hear he's someone you feel you can take into the future with you as a helpful friend." [source, two]

Sylvia: ""Does Emmrich have any guilty pleasures?" Huh. Excellent question. I should really be more decisive about my own character, but while I think that could be fun, I'm not sure what it would be. "Oh one other question , is there a part of thedas you wish you could of explored but wasn't able to be in game?" I've always been interested in the sinister sounding Sea of Ash. What goes on over there???" [source, two]

User: "i have a silly little question bc i also love emmrich. was his scene revealing lichdom to everyone meant to parallel a trans coming out or was that accidental? because i felt on an existential level the thrill of revealing who you are, but also fearing people would be afraid or treat you differently. (and then there's strife discussions, and putting up a glamour some places but not others, and the blooming but gentle self-confidence... he is very transgender to me)" // Sylvia: "Not a silly question at all! After writing the scene I wondered if people would see similarities because of those overlapping themes you pointed out: the dignity of bodily self-determination, revealing your true self to those you love, fear of rejection, hope for acceptance. But during the writing, I mostly approached becoming undead as its own thing, because I wanted to ground it in the MW's particular philosophy. I think there's parallels because of the way the human personal is universal, if that makes sense. That said, if this does feel very transgender to you or anyone else (or not), I'm not against varied interpretations. That's one of the cool things about seeing people actually get their hands on your work." [source, two, three]

User: "I'm not sure what Emmrich's hairstyle is, slickback?" // Sylvia: "Good question. Afraid I don't know what it'd be called either. Googling it, slickback LOOKS correct?" [source]

User: "Emmrich has definitely developed a special bond with Bellara and Lucanis, and yet, both of them don't comment on his relationship with Rook! What would you say their reaction was? Their banter was so good I'm sure we'd all love to know what Emmrich had to say!" // Sylvia: "Ah, that one I'm afraid I can't answer since I'm not their writer, and that would've been something I would've discussed with the narrative team together. Sorry!" [source]

Sylvia: "Nick was indeed brilliant!" [source]

User: "Ive got quite bad thanatophobia and Emmerich's writing is one of the only times I've seen that dealt with actually respectfully." // Sylvia: "Thanks very much! I've experienced that fear, and I suspect it's way more common than we think, and I'm glad to hear it felt that way to you." [source]

User: "My HOF was a spirit healer, very kind & very curious, & for years I've considered how that special connection to spirits might lend itself to an interest in Thedan necromancy & puzzling out where spirits & souls begin & end. Emmrich, Manfred/Curiosity and the wisps gave me so much to think about!" // Sylvia: "that's interesting about your HOF. They may've found some kindred spirits if they ever ventured further north." [source]

User: [was] "Dorian was taken over by a nominated writer for veilguard or if his legacy was more of a team effort ?" // Sylvia: "Dorian was in the capable hands of Writer Chee" [source]

User: "I’m also dying to know what Emmrich did during Rook's stint in the prison-my thought is he not only did the majority of the work on finding Rook, but in leading the team, prob finishing touches on the dagger clone, keeping the team together in Rook’s absence while barely holding himself together at times" // Sylvia: "I think he was indeed having some very sleepless, guilt-wracked nights, working himself too hard, and trying his best on that dagger." [source]

User: "I just wanted to tell you that I love Emmrich's part of the lighthouse the books the fact that it's right next to rook's room and that johanna is in it later and that you can talk to her" // Sylvia: "Thank you! I love what the level artist there did, it's such a cozy den of a place. And I'm glad you liked meeting Hezenkoss afterwards, all praise to the level and tech designers who got her in there." [source]

User: "Are the Watchers overall vegetarian, or was it a personal preference Emmrich developed?" // Sylvia: "I think it's a thing among some Watchers, but not all. Because they think a lot about life and death and the cycle of life, and their place in it, and what constitutes a death they feel comfortable with or not. My actual, original inspiration for it was from an old Call of Cthulhu TRPG book about Miskatonic University, set in the 1920s. There was a great little detail about the campus having a cafeteria that serves vegetarians. And when I read it, I got a little jolt because I was so used to vegetarianism in North America being portrayed as a relatively modern movement. But of COURSE there's always exceptions and cultural enclaves and so on. Just one of those moments you feel your understanding of what we were up to in the past shift a little, even if it felt obvious in retrospect." [source, two, three, four]

Sylvia re: writing Manfred: "Yep, Manfred was my guy too." [source]

Sylvia: "I'm glad you enjoyed meeting our gentleman necromancer. (Full credit to the great feedback I got from the other writers and editors early on, he wouldn't be as good without them.)" [source]

User: "I was curious I know none of emmrich's serious relationships ended up panning out But like did any of them get to the point that him and his partner at the time shared a living space I'm wondering if emmrich has ever lived with anyone besides manfred" // Sylvia: "That's an interesting question. Like a coward I will hedge my bets, but I could MAYBE see a few. Not many though." [source]

[noihavenosanitythanksforasking]

so this is based on my ramble in the byler discord but im gonna try and compress it into something readable n shit

So in the recent panel with my king Finn Wolfhard, my boy dropped a hint. A very important hint.

"The differences? Mike's a lot more brave than me. I don't think I'd be out there in a different dimension trying to save my friend and be in gunfights and stuff like that. Yeah he's way more brave than I could ever be."

A different dimension??

So Mike is going to the UD in S5. Im very unsurprised and im sure you are as well but lets fuckin talk about it bc holy fuck.

So I know this is the byler community but listen to me when i say, hold my hand and look me in the eyes when i say, I highly doubt that this friend Finn is talking about is Will. ESPECIALLY if byler is canon. Finn is very media trained and you can read legit anything he has ever said about the show and know how good he is about keeping secrets. If this friend was will we wouldn't have mentioned it. It's too close to the danger zone. He would have said something like 'i dont think i'd be out there fighting monsters and risking my life' or something like that. Which is much more vague and can apply to all seasons.

My theory is that this friend is max. CALL ME CRAZY. it could be anyone and I dont have exact reasoning on why its Max other than the fact that shes the only friend actively in danger rn and i adore madwheeler friendship with my heart and soul. But imo its def not Will and its not El.

Now if you go through the main characters there are only (if my memory is correct) 3 characters who havent been to the UD yet.

Lucas, Jonathan and Mike.

Other Characters:

El- Season 1 during the school battle (possibly sooner in the lab idk)

Will- all of s1 duh

dustin- season 4 with eddie

max - season 4 when she was vecna'd

nancy- season 1 in the forest or in s4 with robin and steve to kill vecna

steve- watergate and with nancy and robin

robin - season 4 with nancy and steve

hopper- im p sure hes been more than once but season 1 to find will

joyce- same thing i think shes been more than once but to find will in s1

So Lucas, Jonathan and Mike.

What do these 3 characters all have in common.

They are all a part of one of the main relationships that had issues in season 4. And what are these problems? Lets assess.

Jonathan is stressed because he doesnt want to go to the same school as nancy. He wants to tell her but he knows that she'll give up what she wants to be with him. He doesnt want to hold her back. Nancy feels shut out and afraid that Jonathan doesnt love her anymore. She wants to be together but she doesnt want to put Jonathan in a situation where he has to choose something over something else. They are having issues communicating.

Lucas is stressed about max because he wants to be there for her. Max is shutting him out due to the fact that she feels unworthy of his love or because she is scared of getting hurt and attached to someone. Lucas is hurt because he feels max doesn't trust him. They are having issues communicating.

Mike is stressed about about two people. El and Will. And for this brief moment we're going to look at this in a non byler pov. Mike is stressed about El because he doesn't know what she wants. He wants them to be happy but they aren't and he's not sure how to fix that. He also doesnt ask. Communication issue. Mike is stressed about Will because they aren't talking the way they used too. They dont tell each other anything anymore. They've drifted and Mike doesn't know what's going on anymore. Communication issue.

Interesting.

Thoughout the series the UD has been used as a symbol of all the hard things. Depending on what theories you believe (*cough* lonnie *cough*) this can have more or less meaning but lets assess how going to the UD has affected two of these relationships so far.

Jancy-

Jancy in season one was very tense. they were not friends for a good part of the season. They had constant issues with each other and fought a lot. Then barb goes missing. Will goes missing. They go to the forest in an attempt to figure it out. And Nancy ends up in the UD. Her going into the UD and making it out alive is the catalyst for her and Jonathan to get past their differences, to see each other for who they are and to put their pride aside enough to work together and appreciate the other as a fellow person.

Lumax-

Lumax had a lot of issues with communication and not being able to understand each other in the beginning of s4. They couldn't see eye to eye no matter what lucas did and max was very shut out. Then Max get's vecna'd and comes back. And then lumax finds the strength to communicate for the first time in the season, to see where the other is coming from and allow the other to be there for them.

So what does this mean for Mike. Well, both nancy and max had something that they we're struggling to overcome. A fear that they couldn't escape. Nancy's was barb and Max's was billy. Jonathan and lucas both have something they are afraid to express. Jonathan's is that he wants something diff than nancy and Lucas is that he wants to be there for her but doesnt want to intrude. All of these characters were pushed to solving these issues because of the Upside down (well jancy's recent issue hasn't been solved yet but ykwim).

Mike is going to go to the UD. Which is going to push him into a state of giving in on holding back his feelings. He's going to have to overcome something

El wants to be together, to be happy.

Will is afraid of his feelings, afraid of letting himself want what he wants and being hurt. He feels unworthy of love.

And Mike doesnt want what El wants. Mike loves Will but he is afraid of intruding.

So anyways thats why mike going to the UD means internalized homophobia thanks for coming to my ted talk i'd love to hear yalls ideas :D

[transmutationisms]

my mum loves maintenance phase and I've been trying to get her into better stuff but it's slow going. If you have any recommendations that might work for a well meaning but chronically liberal mother please lmk 😭

no one else ask me for podcast recs because this is an anomaly but i do actually have an answer for you. i think christy harrison's stuff can be a really good stepping point for this situation. she has a newer podcast that is specifically about wellness nonsense that i haven't listened to but i can vouch for food psych: harrison is fundamentally a liberal but she invites on many guests who push further into actual material analysis, and she lets them talk; episodes basically just vary in quality depending on the guest but, even at its worst food psych is a better introduction to anti diet / fatlib stuff than the michael hobbes industrial complex. there are a handful of others who have their own podcasts and have been guests on food psych so those might also be worth checking out. i don't really recommend harrison's anti diet book though: it was the rare case in which the book version was generally much more facile and elementary than the podcast conversations

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

“I’m going to get a little wonky and write about Donald Trump and negotiations. For those who don't know, I'm an adjunct professor at Indiana University - Robert H. McKinney School of Law and I teach negotiations. Okay, here goes.

Trump, as most of us know, is the credited author of "The Art of the Deal," a book that was actually ghost written by a man named Tony Schwartz, who was given access to Trump and wrote based upon his observations. If you've read The Art of the Deal, or if you've followed Trump lately, you'll know, even if you didn't know the label, that he sees all dealmaking as what we call "distributive bargaining."

Distributive bargaining always has a winner and a loser. It happens when there is a fixed quantity of something and two sides are fighting over how it gets distributed. Think of it as a pie and you're fighting over who gets how many pieces. In Trump's world, the bargaining was for a building, or for construction work, or subcontractors. He perceives a successful bargain as one in which there is a winner and a loser, so if he pays less than the seller wants, he wins. The more he saves the more he wins.

The other type of bargaining is called integrative bargaining. In integrative bargaining the two sides don't have a complete conflict of interest, and it is possible to reach mutually beneficial agreements. Think of it, not a single pie to be divided by two hungry people, but as a baker and a caterer negotiating over how many pies will be baked at what prices, and the nature of their ongoing relationship after this one gig is over.

The problem with Trump is that he sees only distributive bargaining in an international world that requires integrative bargaining. He can raise tariffs, but so can other countries. He can't demand they not respond. There is no defined end to the negotiation and there is no simple winner and loser. There are always more pies to be baked. Further, negotiations aren't binary. China's choices aren't (a) buy soybeans from US farmers, or (b) don't buy soybeans. They can also (c) buy soybeans from Russia, or Argentina, or Brazil, or Canada, etc. That completely strips the distributive bargainer of his power to win or lose, to control the negotiation.

One of the risks of distributive bargaining is bad will. In a one-time distributive bargain, e.g. negotiating with the cabinet maker in your casino about whether you're going to pay his whole bill or demand a discount, you don't have to worry about your ongoing credibility or the next deal. If you do that to the cabinet maker, you can bet he won't agree to do the cabinets in your next casino, and you're going to have to find another cabinet maker.

There isn't another Canada.

So when you approach international negotiation, in a world as complex as ours, with integrated economies and multiple buyers and sellers, you simply must approach them through integrative bargaining. If you attempt distributive bargaining, success is impossible. And we see that already.

Trump has raised tariffs on China. China responded, in addition to raising tariffs on US goods, by dropping all its soybean orders from the US and buying them from Russia. The effect is not only to cause tremendous harm to US farmers, but also to increase Russian revenue, making Russia less susceptible to sanctions and boycotts, increasing its economic and political power in the world, and reducing ours. Trump saw steel and aluminum and thought it would be an easy win, BECAUSE HE SAW ONLY STEEL AND ALUMINUM - HE SEES EVERY NEGOTIATION AS DISTRIBUTIVE. China saw it as integrative, and integrated Russia and its soybean purchase orders into a far more complex negotiation ecosystem.

Trump has the same weakness politically. For every winner there must be a loser. And that's just not how politics works, not over the long run.

For people who study negotiations, this is incredibly basic stuff, negotiations 101, definitions you learn before you even start talking about styles and tactics. And here's another huge problem for us.

Trump is utterly convinced that his experience in a closely held real estate company has prepared him to run a nation, and therefore he rejects the advice of people who spent entire careers studying the nuances of international negotiations and diplomacy. But the leaders on the other side of the table have not eschewed expertise, they have embraced it. And that means they look at Trump and, given his very limited tool chest and his blindly distributive understanding of negotiation, they know exactly what he is going to do and exactly how to respond to it.

From a professional negotiation point of view, Trump isn't even bringing checkers to a chess match. He's bringing a quarter that he insists of flipping for heads or tails, while everybody else is studying the chess board to decide whether its better to open with Najdorf or Grünfeld.”

— David Honig

[dangerousdan-dan]

hello! do you have any daud headcanons? I miss him :')

Hi, friend!!!

I miss him so, so much. Thank you for giving me an excuse to talk about him xD

Here are some of the headcanons that keep me up at night.

There's a part of Daud that'll always hate Corvo for not saving Jessamine when he should've. In a way, he blames him too for what became of Dunwall, and when they faced each other in the flooded district, yes, it was about giving each other something vaguely resembling closure and about facing his consequences, but it was also about him having the chance to fight the man who (in his irrational logic) helped doom them all.

Now this is just more of my rambles about my previous headcanon. I can't stop thinking about the parallel between their first encounter in the tower and then their fight in the flooded district. How Corvo had no chance that first time, but Daud's defeat is a given once Corvo gets the mark. Of course the circumstances are different, but I feel that having the chance to fight Corvo again and to witness how goddamn good he actually is at it would only fuel Daud's spiral of You could've saved her. You could've stopped me, or it could give him another reason to hate The Outsider even more because giving the mark to the only man who could defeat him only AFTER he actually needed it to stop him could be seen as his cruelest joke. Also, I can't keep this line out of my head: "I'm the one who killed her, but you are the one who failed her." A line from the Dishonored fic I'll never write lol.

Daud loves books. I know it's kinda stupid to say this is a headcanon when it's canon that the man has his study full of the stuff, but I mean that he LOVES them. He writes and speaks with the cadence of a person who is fond of words and the meaning behind them, you know what I mean? Smoking isn't his only vice. I can imagine him stealing books from every aristocrat's home he sneaks into, and how when he's reading at night in his study he silently misses the academy's library and all the mysteries left to unravel there. (Oh, to think of all the trouble he should've gone through to keep his books in good condition and safe from all that humidity... I need a bone charm for that).

Since the moment he was abducted, he forced himself to suppress almost every thought and memory from his previous life. The only thing he perfectly remembers is that he loved his mother, even when he can't really recall more than a few details about her. (I have mixed feelings about DOTO, but Daud calling out for his mom in the void always gets to me).

Now a silly one. Among all the intel he and the whalers have collected over the years, Daud keeps a special file with all the gossip that has genuinely made him huff (or void forbid, even chuckle!!). Is it the most important information to keep around? No, but sometimes the Knife or Dunwall just wants to sit back and amuse himself with how ridiculous these people can be, and who knows, maybe it'll be useful blackmail material one day. Billie is the only one who knows this file exists and its true purpose.

He also keeps a file with all the rumors that have been told about him and the Whalers, and he carefully chooses which ones to encourage and which ones to put out.

After Corvo spares him and he leaves Dunwall, Daud tries to fall into old habits and force himself to suppress every thought of Billie and the Whalers. He fails. He swears The Outsider mocks him every time he instinctively calls on his mark just to feel the phantom pain left by the severed connections.

Daud never regrets the Whalers, nor that he taught them how to exploit their blades for coin. Most of them were already killers, anyway. He simply gave them the means to survive more than a few fights in an alleyway, right?

In a bizarre way, he sometimes even sees the Whalers, not as a family, but as an act of love (I don't think love is the word, but something at least close to it), even with the discipline and the punishments involved. Some of the whalers knew better, others saw that love as well.

To me, the Knife of Dunwall is a silent assassin who rarely engages with a target head on unless he needs to. He's methodical and professional, quiet and efficient. Unless one of his Whalers is killed. Then you'll know what it looks like when he lets himself enjoy it.

Above everything else, his biggest pride will always be Billie.

I don't believe he went fully "clean hands" after Jessamine's death. He killed, mostly for survival and when there was no other option (to him, at least), but the few times he did it, he saw Jessamine's dead eyes staring back at him.