#or attempt thereof

[oatcakespodofficial]

Eh? Some kind of visual representation of one of my ocs? Well... I suppose, yes.

That is, here's a first attempt scribble of Dyfri, one of our Oatcakes trio members. The poor tired faun can't catch a break.

[dougielombax]

TADC Episode 3 without context:

Feel free to reblog if you wish.

[ceph-the-ghost-writer]

Some 1-bit doggos

[thefabelmans2022]

the more i think about the 60th the more i dislike it.

[theclaravoyant]

you know what I’d also love to see is Buck feeling like there’s this massive neon sign target on his back around Gerrard when there’s like . Not . Give me the nuance of being bi give me the nuance of the closet , give me Gerrard who has zero reason to believe bisexuality is a thing let alone that Evan Firehose Buckley likes the d because the only time he’s seen him with Tommy they were acting like normal humans and Gerrard technically actually only said the fairy thing to/about Tommy and he has zero history with Buck and honestly even if Buck dropped hints or accidentally slipped the comp het is so real nobody like Gerrard would believe a known macho playboy sex addict like him is queer unless he really spells it out (which omg , could be hilarious) but I mean like sure Gerrard doesn’t like Nash’s golden boy but he doesn’t have the same kind of disdain for him that he does for the others and Buck finds himself in the difficult spot of being hidden against his will and even though it’s safer it also sucks

[professorsaber]

Since AO3 has been down for several hours, here is a copy of my McFly July fic for the 10th!

Daylight Savings Time

Notes:

Warning for pathetic attempts at Lovecraftian horrors.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Tuesday, September 22, 1992

1:41 PM

(̴O̶̴st̶e̶n̶s̶i̶b̴l̶y)̶

The DeLorean materialized on Highway 147 in pitch darkness.

Doc slammed on the brakes. Fortunately, he had had the headlights on—they’d left 1962 late at night. Marty flew forward in the seat.

As the car came to a stop on the empty road, they both looked out the window.

“What happened, Doc?” Marty asked. “Are we back?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, looking at the time circuits. “Something must be wrong with the display.”

A car blared its horn at them, causing them both to jump.

“Jesus!” Marty said. He looked over his shoulder as best as he could in the DeLorean. “That guy didn’t have his headlights on!”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Doc said, shifting the DeLorean back into gear and driving towards Hill Valley.

They moved slowly. At several points, other cars passed them—their headlights also off.

“This is weird, Doc,” Marty said.

Doc turned right onto Eastwood Ravine Road, towards Lone Pine Mall.

“Something is very wrong here,” he agreed, as they came up to a stoplight. The stoplights worked, but the cars drove through the darkness with their lights off.

As they moved closer towards the mall, Marty said, “Doc, all these people are staring at us.”

He did a double-take at Doc. “Doc? Shouldn’t you say that it’s just my imagination?”

“Uh-huh.”

As they stopped at the light in front of the mall, the DeLorean’s headlights illuminated the sign:

LÓNE PİNẸ MAŁL

1:5̴3 P̃M

“Smudges on the sign?” Marty asked.

“Uh-huh.” Doc looked over the parking lot. “I see your truck. Jennifer’s still waiting for us.”

They pulled up to the truck, bathing it in the glow of the headlights.

Jennifer was leaning against the truck, arms folded, looking away from them. She didn’t react to the sudden light.

“She wasn’t wearing those clothes when we left, Doc,” Marty said.

He desperately wanted Doc to tell him he was wrong, to chide him for having a poor memory of such a thing. Doc just frowned.

Marty looked at his wife. He knew, though. He knew. She was wearing a red top and jeans. But Marty knew that pair of jeans—she’d always roll her eyes when he complimented her when she wore them, but something about that particular shade of blue and the way they’d shape her legs oh so right… He’d know if she’d been wearing them when they left.

It had been a half hour for her, tops. Not enough time to go home and change.

Doc shifted the DeLorean into park and opened his door, leaving the engine running. Marty did the same.

“Jesus!” he shouted. It was cold—he’d be surprised if it was above freezing. He saw his breath in the air.

Jennifer was dressed for summer.

Doc shivered, looked towards Marty, and nodded towards Jennifer.

“Hey, Jen,” Marty said. “Listen—.”

The rest of his sentence died in his mouth as she turned towards them. His eyes went to her legs first—those damn jeans—but he saw her face just in time to see her eyes shift from annoyed to concern.

Her eyes.

There was no color in her eyes.

Jennifer looked at him with black eyes, eyes blacker than night, eyes without light in them and oh god he couldn’t breathe and—

“M̷a̶r̸t̴y̸,̸ ̴w̴h̴a̸t̴'̵s̵ ̷w̴r̸o̵n̶g̵?̷” she asked. There were echoes of her voice in her question, but something else was also behind it. Screeching, screaming, scraping.

“Shit,” Marty heard Doc say, but he was rooted in place as Jennifer (Jennifer?) walked over to him, and as she walked he heard the scraping of metal against metal.

She took his hand, with the same tenderness she always took his hand, and he bit down a scream at the coldness of her hands. It was like that time when he was three, and tried to make a snowball with his bare hands, and he didn’t know snow could be that cold.

“Y̸o̷u̵'̶r̷e̴ ̴s̸c̷a̵r̵i̴n̵g̶ ̷m̵e̶,̷” she said. Then she looked at the DeLorean, as if she had never seen it before, and said, “T̸̩̋h̷͈̽a̵͈͗t̴͜͠'̸̳̾s̵͎̆ ̷̈́͜ḁ̸̍ ̸̹̈n̸͇̓i̸̢̓ĉ̷̯ẽ̷̘ ̸̙̕c̴̤̀ḁ̸̉r̷̼̕ ̸̧̋y̶͚͠o̷͓̓u̶͐͜ ̴̨̈́h̴̬͒ă̷̰v̴̹̄e̸͈͂ ̷̟̚t̶̩̋h̸̳̅e̶͓̒r̵̨̒e̷̺̒.̶̻̆” Less of her own voice was there now.

Marty was dimly aware of Doc circling the two of them.

“̴͕͌Ỳ̴͉o̴̹̿u̸̟̇'̷̳̈́v̶̡̛e̵̠͛ ̶̰̔t̶̹̿a̵̲̒k̵̥̅ȅ̴̝n̸̛͍ ̵͚͋m̵͉̅e̴͙̋ ̸̺̾o̴͇͐n̷̲̊ ̸̧̾à̸̝ ̶̯̃ř̸̞ḭ̸̒d̴̞̋e̴̗̓ ̸̦̚w̸̘̓i̶̙̿t̷͌ͅh̸̩͊ ̴̹̒i̴̹͘t̴̙̆ ̸̨̊b̸̡͐e̶̞̊f̸͍̈́õ̵̲ȓ̶̬ẻ̴ͅ,̷̜̚ ̵̱͝ḧ̶̻́ȧ̴̰ṿ̴̇e̶͔͋n̶̦̓'̴͕͝t̶͙́ ̶̠͂ý̸̜ö̶͖́ü̷̢?̴̻̍”̴͈̀ she said. She looked back at him with those eyes, those eyes with absolute nothingness in them.

Doc tapped her on the shoulder.

She jumped, dropping Marty’s hand, and he saw the color return to her eyes.

“Marty!” she cried, in her own voice. “You have to go back!”

As she fell to the ground, Marty helped her back up and held her face in his hands.

“Jennifer,” he said. “Jennifer McFly, look at me. Jennifer, what’s wrong? What happened?!”

She shuddered and closed her eyes, and when she opened them again they were pools of infinite darkness.

Marty screamed as his her frozen skin burned his hands, and as she spoke her voice was nothing but screams and wails and gnashing of teeth.

“̷̹̃̚Ï̷̜͚͘ ̵̠̯͗s̵̨̛͇a̵͈̐̈w̷̧̍̑ ̴̨̤̚y̴̘͈̕ọ̶͇́u̸̖̬̕,̸̺̏̚”̷̨̟̎̂ she said. “Ĭ̸͍͛ͅ ̴̩̱̀ś̶̪̫a̵͓͋͘w̷̨̚ ̸͇̈̄ȳ̵̧͐ͅo̴̢̺͌u̴̱͑ ̷̦͒͠s̸͈͘k̸̖̤͋i̸̞͍̔p̷̩̭̎ ̵̜͖̂̉à̶̟̀c̴̙̿͊r̵͚̔ͅō̴̯̼s̸̩͐͜s̵͕͘ ̵̧̲͊t̶͕̤͂̏ï̶͚ͅm̴̮͇͌e̶̤̅,̸̪̈ ̶̟͈̚a̵̱̟͛c̷̡̹̾̀r̶̛̦̓ȏ̴̺̍s̸̔͝ͅs̷̻͍̐͑ ̴͇̑̐t̸͖̾̔h̵̰̞̓͘ę̶̔̄ ̷͓̓̉r̶̼͓̊i̶͓̯͋v̷̡̆ë̸̬ṙ̵̬̰ ̴͇̒̕o̸̭͘ḟ̴̗͘ ̴͎͂͝š̴͔̬́p̸̨̗̾̌ä̸͉́̏č̶̩̈ë̷͖̅,̷̢͚̾̏ ̴̣̇a̷͇̭͗g̷͇͊ȧ̵̞̕i̵͍̯͛͂n̶̢̑ṣ̴͒ẗ̸͖͓́̀ ̶͙͆̑ì̵̛͓t̵͐́ͅ,̶͎̊̈́ ̴͓̬̌̑a̶̢̦͑g̸̲̒̍ạ̶́i̷̡̲̇́n̵̠̜͑s̷͕̒ṯ̵͚̇̇ ̵̨͑t̵̟͍̓͆h̴̟̩̿é̷͚̼͒ ̴̟̂̚c̷̯̃͜͝ü̵͎̪ṛ̸̾̇r̷̟̣̽͛è̶̢͝n̸͕̒̂ț̷̉͌,̶͙̮̽́ ̷̹̹̿͒ă̷̞̙͘n̷̗̲͗̎d̶͍͎́̉ ̸̬͆Ḭ̶̟͗ ̴̈́͜f̴̯̔o̴̖͓͗l̵̙̅̋l̸͓͙͂o̶̟̎͒ẅ̵͙́ê̴̹̰d̶̺͐ ̷̜̙̓y̵̭̫̋̌o̷̲̪̚ũ̷̺ ̷̘̈̌h̷̗͇̅e̷̡̯̾̽r̶͓̂ĕ̸̟̲̈.̶̳͊̀”

“Marty!” he heard Doc scream.

“Ȋ̷̲̖̝͔͉͗̽̽͜ ̴̧̦͚̤͘ḏ̵̆i̴̮͍̹̯̔d̷͍͎͋̃̈́͝ͅn̶͍̭̱̒̓͘'̵̧̫̙͙̫̱́̉̒̌t̵̗͌͊͗̂̈̕ ̷̯̜̟̣̥̾k̸̘̺̎̑͜n̸͚̰̬̘̿ơ̶̢̭̖͉̐̎̐ŵ̶̝̄,̶̹͚̲̮̾̄̔̎̎̚” she said. She let go of him and pushed him against the car. “I̵̩̝̾̅́ ̶͈͓͖̑d̴̦̱̅̑̒i̴̳̜̋͝ḋ̴̼̳͈n̵̡̟̮͂̊͝'̸͕̞̗̿̂̎͝ṫ̸̝͎̖ ̷̘̺̈́̾ǩ̶̡̯͎n̷͕͘ò̸͕̼̟̹ŵ̵͙̘͓̀͜͝ ̴̹͚̹̍͋̕t̴͉͓̘͔̿̆̅h̸̟̦̞̝̏̿͑a̸̡̮̿͌͛͝t̵̬̯̽̀̓ ̶͍̬̿ͅt̵̙͌̈h̶͈̲͂̿e̸̜̲̔̒̀̕ŗ̶͇̹̿͗̏e̴̟̥̺͐̉̅̚ ̶͙̜͉̇͛̐͘w̷̩̞͛è̷̝̭͙r̵̨̰̠̓͜è̵̡͉̳͉̍͋ ̴͍͍̏̈͛͐b̶͙̫̺̰̏̈o̷̧͇͊́d̵̩̒̐̓ȋ̶̢͔̰̰͆̍͆ḛ̶̛͎͂̊̆s̶̲̆̽́̚,̵̪̂̚ ̷̻͈̥̦͌͌͝s̴̱̻͉͒̈́͌o̴͉̓̀ ̴̛̣̮̙h̶̲͙̀̚ó̸̼̰t̸̰͊̏͌̇,̶̨̿͠ ̸̗̓͗͝͝s̷̱͎͛̓͘ó̴̮̣͌͒ ̶̛̠̮̈͗͌f̸̹̺̹͛ṷ̶͒̍l̴̖̱̆̂̎̕l̸͕͂̉̄̊ ̴̲͋̈̏͝ȍ̸̫̞̲̲̅̾f̸͔̘̠͍̀͂̑ ̷̪͎͂̾̄̓b̵̺̑͝l̷̨͎̮̑́͑̚o̸̧̪͇͑͝ö̵͚́́͋d̸̛̩̋̂ ̶̞̔ä̵̦͎̗̠́͠n̷̼̲̏̐͆̐d̵̨̦̖͊̾̎͘ ̵̛̖̬͇̑͑p̷͍̙͑̚͝ä̶͚͓̤̙͋i̷͙̗̐n̴̢̼̰̝͂.̵̧͉͖͓̂ I̶̟͎̟̫͇̭͎̙̎̚ ̸̘̼͎́̃́͒̚̕S̷̨̖̩̺͓̘̩̍̓͊̑̔́͝Ạ̵̢̤̮͔̰̱̒́͊̅̐̕͝͝W̶͙̝̖̳͇̣̗̋̀͑̽͐͊̆͜ ̴̭̯̺̯̻̤̹͠Y̷͙̟̱͖̮͂Õ̸̡̢̪̯̼̲̞̻͂́́̉U̷̢̗̥͂̿͌̈̅̌͆.̶̡̡̻̼̰̊͛̽͒̈́̐̿͜ ̶̩͆̋̇͜ ̵̹͕̻͓͚̇̐Į̵̫͔͈̦̮̻̐̀̈̏̾̊̉ ̷̹͈̹̄́S̷̡̙͈̳̭͚̓͜Ą̵͚̹͕̱̌̈́͑̃̏W̶̢̤̫̗͕̘̓̅̉̂ ̵̨͚̆́́̌Y̴̺͙̞̹̟͙̹̮͒͘Ơ̴͈̟͋̂͗͂́͆Ú̶̦͈͍͠͝ ̴͎̃̈͜À̷̱͈̜͈̆̑͌͗͌̃̉G̸̛̠̺͖̝͒͆̌̈́A̸̠̘̖̓̿͐Į̵̳͔͊̆͑̑̐N̷̡̫͉̄̍̕̕͠͠S̷̛̼͚̈́̉̎̆̾͘Ṭ̶̘̉̅ ̷̟̩̉͠Ť̶̞̲̭̞̺͉͈̜̄̿͑̾̍̌͝H̸̺̯̪̬̤͉̐̄E̶͔̠̟͔̠̐̆̀͝ ̷̗̪̄̏̐͊̆͛͝S̵͚̬̼̖͓̤̓̓́͌̚͝͠T̶̙͈̈̍̌͐̊͗͘͘ͅǍ̷̡̻̋̋Ř̶̥̙̝̋͒͗̓S̸̼̥͉̐͋̌̕͠,̴̫̬͙̬̱̺̇̾͆̍ ̷̨͍̠͉̫̥̩̤̀̍̉̚Ą̶̢̜̤̗̐̾͌͊͘̚G̴͙̜̞͙͎̲̥̾̆̍̈A̷̢̜̠̤̺̻͆́͑͋̀Ǐ̴̤͇͎̣̳̔͐͊̉͛N̷̛̫̐̿̑̅̋S̵̝͉̃͒͒̽̐̚T̶̡̪̩̞͓̒͗̿͋͘ͅͅ ̵͔͖̙̹̐̒̓̽̀͝͝͠ͅT̴̡̞̠͎̹͐̌ͅḦ̶̨́͆͆͗̆̒͘͝E̷̢̠͈̗͇͔̬̎̂̇̕ ̴̡̮͕̖̙̎̍M̵̫̬̻̫͕̘̝̜͛I̵̗̞̐̆͑̏̀̎̕͝D̸̨̘͇̝̗̉̌̒̅̍͐Ñ̸̡̨̛͎͙͚̙̣̋͊̚̕͝Í̶̙̺̝̮̦̽̀G̴͚͈̻̀̚H̸̢̫̖̫̑̋̓̿͛͐T̴͚͒̓ ̶̧̧̛̺̞͎̔̏̈͗̕͝͝S̴̛̖̯Ķ̸̨̧̻͔̤̬̜͑͒͌̽́Y̶̥̥͔̑͐̆̚̚͝ ̸̙̳͙̰͊̕̚À̶͕̳̰̙͓̤͓͖͗̚N̵̙̭̞̽͑́̏̅̅Ḑ̷̻̒̈́̈́́ ̵͚̈́̾́̔̒̕͜͠͝I̷̲̝͒̐̒̅̏̎̀ ̷̭͇̻̺̹̀̂͗͐̍̈́̕͝Ẅ̵̪̺͙̮́̎̽̊̀I̶̗̮͗Ḷ̵̡̰͌̈́͆̈́̑̎̈͝L̷͕͎̝̠̳̏̈̾ ̸̬͓͉̈́̕F̷̨͇̣̂Ę̸͉̬̩͒̃̈́̔̑͛̽̃ͅA̸̢͓̖͊́S̸̢̢̯̝͚̰͐̓͘͜T̴̂��̟̖̠̱̩̪̘.̴̱̠̟̝̫̫͉̏̈̈̉̕͜͝”

Marty did the only thing he could do, the only thing more unthinkable than a day without daylight and a beautiful woman with a voice made of screams:

He punched his wife in the face.

As she fell to the ground, he jumped back into the DeLorean. He saw Doc do the same, and neither of them had even closed the doors before the DeLorean took to the sky.

As they flew away to the sounds of enraged screams filling the night, Marty said, “DOC, WHAT THE FUCK?!?!”

Doc was programming the time circuits. “I don’t know what we unleashed in 1962, Marty, but we’re going to put it back. Time to save the daylight!”

END

Notes:

Yeah, I don't know. I'm sorry? This feels so stupid to me. But it was either that or riffing on this XKCD.

I got the "Zalgo text" from this website: zalgo.org

And since you probably had difficulty reading what the Jennifer Entity said, a transcript:

“Marty, what’s wrong?”

“You’re scaring me” … “That's a nice car you have there.”

“You've taken me on a ride with it before, haven't you?”

“I saw you. I saw you skip across time, across the river of space, against it, against the current, and I followed you here.”

“I didn't know. I didn't know that there were bodies, so hot, so full of blood and pain. I SAW YOU. I SAW YOU AGAINST THE STARS, AGAINST THE MIDNIGHT SKY AND I WILL FEAST.”

At the end there, I was kinda ripping off homaging "Midnight," a Doctor Who episode I've only read about on TV Tropes.

Let me know if this was worth reading!

[honourablejester]

Thoughts on Pacing and Emotions in Writing

Talking about horror lately, about different genres of horror and why they’re scary, what fears they’re evoking and how, have me thinking generally about some stuff about writing. About mood, about pacing, about pacing to create mood, and various other things. And I figured I’d take a bit of time to try and pull that jumble of thoughts out into something resembling coherence. So. We’ll see how that goes.

First, some knowledge going in, I’m very much a short-form writer. Between two and twenty thousand words is my bailiwick, usually, and I’m not good at longer forms, so your mileage may vary here on how well stuff works in different formats. But. I read and watch a shit tonne of shit, so there’s probably some threads that work regardless.

This started from thinking about two things. Mood, and pacing. Because one of the things that I often notice that I’m not happy with when I read/watch something is the pacing. Stuff feels like it comes too fast or it takes too long, it just feels like it’s not hitting the rhythm I need it to. And, yes, this is always subjective, but it definitely is a noticeable thing. And mood is a linked thing, because often what the pacing is failing to do is establish or sustain the mood. So I thought I’d have a delve around about what works and why it works. (Again, note, always subjective).

This started from horror, because horror is definitely one of those genres where the mood or lack thereof is extremely noticeable. Horror is about mood, about tone, about emotion. And we’ll circle this, because all writing is about those things, but horror is one of those genres that’s very explicit about it, because horror as a genre is about a very specific set of emotions. Namely fear, dread, uneasiness, shock, sometimes revulsion. Horror is about evoking and exploring negative emotions, and it’s primarily centred around fear. So. It’s easier in many ways to notice when horror is or isn’t hitting its mark. Allowing, naturally, for different things being more or less frightening to different people, and so some subgenres working better or worse for a particular person from a standing start. But it’s still noticeable when something would normally be creepy/terrifying to you, and in this instance it’s just not. It’s not working. So you look for reasons why.

I’ve said before that in horror, mood is key. Horror’s whole point is to evoke and build an atmosphere of a specific emotion. The primary thing you need to do when writing horror is set the mood. Create the atmosphere. And then sustain or break it as best fits your story.

But. The thing is. That is not just a horror thing. That’s actually a basic thing about any story you want to write. But I think that’s not always made explicit to people trying to create one.

Stories are about emotions. On a base level, they’re about having an effect on people. Creating a world and a narrative that will evoke a response. So a basic thing you need to do when you’re writing one is identify what response you’re trying to evoke and about what.

The reason for this is that, when you know what’s important, and when you know what you want people to feel about it, you can then work on consciously structuring the story to show that.

When you think about it, when you read or watch a story that doesn’t work for you, a lot of the time it is because that story clearly wants you to feel something, it wants you to react a certain way, but you’re just not, because, at least for you, it didn’t do the work to get you there. Like, this is a love story but god I don’t care about these people or if they get/stay together. Or, this is a horror story, but I’m more bored than scared.

And other times they don’t work because you don’t know what they wanted you to feel. You go into this thing and you get all the way through and you’re still left wondering at the end, what was the point of all that? Now, I want to pause here, because that can actually be the point, you can have a story where the goal was to leave you confused and wondering what the point was, so this can be done on purpose, but … What writers usually don’t want people to wind up feeling at the end is “… Yes? And?”. You can want someone to realise that a system or a premise is a mess that would and should leave people floundering and confused, but you don’t want them to read your writing and feel nothing. You don’t want them to go, well, that was an hour of my life I’m not getting back.

Pulling back slightly here, I’m not trying to be negative, it’s just that this sort of thing is often easier to notice when it is going wrong. If it’s working, it’s invisible, because this is what stories are. They’re a construction someone made that makes you feel things. That take you on a journey where you don’t notice hours of your life slipping by, because you’re somewhere else and feeling every moment of it. It’s the strange thing about most things, they’re only (or at least more) noticeable when they’re going wrong, so a lot of the time it feels easier to give negative examples of things, to point out where they don’t work, and from there examine why. But you can look at things that are working as well, and hopefully we’ll get to that.

But. Getting back to the point. Some things I think are important to do somewhere near the start of your writing process would be to ask the following things:

What is important in this story, what do I want people to react to and feel things about in it?

What feelings do I want them to be having about it?

And the easiest way I’ve found to do this is to go back to the initial idea you had. When you came up with this thing, the seed of this story, what about it made you want to write it? What was the thing that excited you, that made you want to show it? When you go back, what was the moment?

Was it, I’ve had a horrible notion, and I want other people to be as horrified as I am?

Was it, I have this scene in my head, this triumph, and I want other people to feel the victory?

Was it, this system had a huge impact on me, and I want to explore, and bring other people to explore with me, how it would affect other types of people too?

Was it, this idea for a dragon is fucking cool, and people should know the awesomeness of it?

Was it, I want to show the bleakness and loneliness you can feel even when everything looks all right on the surface?

Go back, drill it down, and find the moment. And I think, maybe this is just me, but it’s usually baked into the initial idea. It’s the thing that made you want to write. It’s the idea that caught you, the thing you felt about it, that you want to share.

And then, when you get that, that’s the lodestone. That’s what you’re structuring around. This is what you want everything in the story to show, to build to, to evoke.

And here is where pacing comes in. Obviously, a shit tonne of other things too, here’s kind of where everything comes in, because everything in your story, all of your techniques and elements, will obviously all be tailored around trying to produce your intended effect. But. I started out from horror, and mood, and pacing, so that’s where I’ll be going for the minute.

Pacing is about, not necessarily length, but about the right amount of build to produce the intended effect. You could argue it’s about ratio, maybe, how much bang to how much buck, but that’s a little … That’s not quite it, I think.

Pacing is about what you want to matter and how much time you spend on that.

In horror, mood is what matters. You want to take the amount of time you need to build an atmosphere, so that your bursts of emotion, of shock, of terror, of revulsion, hit the way you want them to. Because there are some things about emotion that shape how you can do this. Emotions, particularly strong ones, are hard to sustain. A burst of fear is visceral and immediate, but the longer it goes the more it gets subsumed into something more low-grade, more continuous. The system adapts to the new normal. And that can be good or that can be bad. You could want to build to a more low-grade, almost normalised dread. Or you could want to build a base sense of uneasiness first, and build to a burst of more visceral terror. The important thing to do is identify what effect you want to have, and then you work out how to accomplish it.

And this is what pacing is about. You have to work out what you want to build, and how much build it needs to be effective.

I want to think of examples of this, of mood and emotion evoked specifically by the pacing. I’ve got a couple of them.

One bit of classical music where the pacing famously does a lot of work is Grieg’s In The Hall Of The Mountain King. AKA ‘Stress, the Three Minute Musical’. Because this is so clearly a confident tootle around that devolves, very rapidly but very deliberately, into a frantic fucking chase scene. It starts out so confident, someone striding around the halls, a repeating motif of the same few notes, but gradually the stress creeps in, it’s getting faster, and by the end of it the king is chasing you through this goddamn hall and you are feeling every second of it. And it’s just tempo. It’s just pacing. Well, no, there’s a lot of things happening and helping, but the pacing is a visceral part of the experience. Because it built. You started out confident, steady, deliberate, and you got faster and faster, more uneasy, and then you were bolting, terrified. And this doesn’t take long, again, this is three minutes worth of music, but the steady devolution took you on a whole goddamn journey in those three minutes. There’s an arc, a steady, visceral, noticeable arc, from where you started to where you finished. Raw terror wrought wordlessly by a few repeating notes and a gradual increase in pace.

And, another important thing, but the music doesn’t lose control of this devolution. It stays deliberate. You know what is happening, and you know why it’s happening. You can track the rate at which it’s happening. You can see from the first hints, where the unease starts to creep in, where it’s going and where it will end up. You can feel and track the build. It didn’t jump from ‘calm and confident’ straight to ‘bolting in terror’. This wasn’t a startle effect, it wasn’t a loud blaring noise out of nowhere. It was a build. You saw the trajectory coming, and that did not, in any way, make it less effective. It made it more so. Because that build of ‘oh shit oh shit oh shit’ is the point. That trajectory from ‘I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, maybe I’m not fine, maybe I’m not fine, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck’ is the whole journey this piece takes you on.

Pacing isn’t about length, it’s not about word count or song length, it’s not about ‘do this for this amount of time’, it’s about how to guide someone from one place to another in such a way as to create an effect.

Another example is the infamous first five/ten minutes of UP. Carl and Ellie’s story. AKA Pixar absolutely ripping your heart out and smashing it on the floor in under ten minutes. This few minute segment is doing two things. Firstly, it’s a whole absolutely heart-crushing story on its own. It takes us from childhood happiness through adult struggles to the crippling agony of loss all by itself. It takes you through hopeful promises made in innocence, and left by the wayside of adult responsibilities, and finally, crushingly, unfulfilled, because tragedy happened just as it was finally coming to fruition. You will be fucking sobbing by the end of it (well, no, again, people do have different responses to things, but a significant number of people will be absolutely shattered by the end of this). There’s an internal arc to the segment that brings you on a self-contained journey.

But there’s also an effect this segment has on the other journey, the journey of the movie overall. Because this tiny section sets up Carl’s promise, Paradise Falls, and it sets up why it matters. It sets up the entire rest of the movie, where Carl is starting from, what he’s obsessed with, why he’s obsessed with it, how much it matters later when he finally heals enough to be able to connect to other things, other people, enough to even put them before this promise. It … It sets up the entire emotional journey of the movie. It sets up what matters.

That’s what pacing is too. It’s taking the time to establish what matters in a story and why. Enough time. Not too much, not too little. Just enough time to show what matters, whether that’s five minutes at the start of a ninety minute movie or something more sustained throughout. Mileage will vary over how much time is needed for what, and not everyone will feel that length of time the same way. But how much emotion would have been lost throughout UP if they hadn’t take those five minutes at the start to show us why so many things mattered? If you want something to matter, if you want it to have an effect, you do have to take some time to establish and explain and build it.

There are various ways to do this. UP took a particular approach, establishing something in its own little segment at the start. You don’t have to preface the explanation, you can build in it and through in other ways. Explanation can be backdated, or a reveal, an impact, all by itself. You can build frustration and confusion over a character’s actions over a period, and then reveal the origin, so that everyone’s looking back over everything that happened and every reaction they had to it previously with new eyes. Again, it’s about what effect you want, and how to get to it. In this case, the frustration is the build, increasing the effect of the explanation, while in UP the explanation was the starting point, and the slow healing is the build to the emotional denouement.

And finally, to sort of loop this back around to horror, well, by a side route, I want to talk about using pacing to build a mood and an emotion and a tension. Not with a horror story, but with a thriller. I want to talk about Assault on Precinct 13 (1976), because it’s one of those movies that made me notice pacing and the effect it can have.

Assault on Precinct 13 is, ostensibly, about a gangland siege on a mostly-decommissioned police station that’s working its last few days before going silent. It is broadly an action thriller. But it’s also about urban isolation, and the unique circumstances created by violence, and the actions and bonds and relationships allowed by violence that don’t work outside of it.

And a lot of that is built by the pacing of the movie, and in particular the pacing of the opening half hour. Because it’s slow. Famously, to the point that John Carpenter himself said that he wondered often later if he should have shortened the opening half hour, gotten to the action faster. And many people, myself very much included, gave an emphatic no to that. Because the time taken by that opening half hour builds through so much of the rest of the movie. Which is, I do have to say, only an hour and a half long. He took pretty much a third of the runtime before even getting to the ‘action’. And it worked.

Because what the opening half hour establishes, with its slow sunlit trawl through suburban gangland LA, its stultifying, insect-haunted window onto the last, routine-filled gasps of a dying police station, its calmly and quietly horrific sunlit murders, its fleeing man and the car leisurely hunting him down through the sunshine, is build the mood. Build the isolation, these pockets of people surrounded and swallowed by this sunlit vista, these bursts of violence that it swallows completely, so that no one even notices. It sets up everything. How the siege even happens, the vast urban emptiness that surrounds the station, how it’s already so far on its way out that no one even notices it going dark, how murders happen in broad daylight and no one notices, so why would they notice an already-dead station coming under siege? There’s five people in there, no one’s going to notice if they die.

That supposedly empty half hour, before any of the real ‘action’ starts, establishes everything you need to know about why the action starts, and why the action matters. Because no one’s coming. No one cares to come. This whole end of the city, never mind this station, is dead and abandoned to violence already. So these people, these few people you meet enduring their incredibly boring last few days out here, will shortly be on their own, fighting for their lives, and the only people who can help and matter to them are each other. They’re in their own little world out here, and they’ll have to survive it by their own merits, and pay for it with their own strength.

And then … at the end. When the outside world does come back in. They have to deal with the fact that what they built together, during this violent, isolated time, won’t survive the outside world. Because the rules are different out there, where things like murder do matter. The things you did to survive might not be valued when you make it out, because the rules are different now, but you’re still left with the effect they had on you. The violence gets swallowed unremarked by the outside world, but you still have the scars and the friendships and the memories.

(Look, Bishop having to hand Wilson back to the prison system, despite everything they’ve just been through, because Wilson is still a murderer, and that still matters, hit me hard, okay?)

Assault on Precinct 13 basically took its time to build up a mood, a droning, sunlit emptiness full of unremarked violence, that will shortly close around and inform everything that happens later. Because the mood is important, it affects how we feel about what we see, sets the tone for what we’re going into, primes the emotions to either be vindicated or shocked later.

(For real, watch this movie. And not the oughties remake. Or, well, do watch that too, but after, because it’s an excellent illustration of how the events of the original might stay the same, but without the same amount of time and mood and setting, the effect will be different).

The thing I have with pacing is, the thing I keep coming back to is, you need to take the right amount of time to set up and show what’s important. You need an amount of context to show why particular actions, emotions, people, matter later on. Because actions on their own, incidents, aren’t enough on their own. A death could mean any number of different things, it could be played for tragedy or vindication or victory or even nothing at all, a throwaway bit of violence that no one will care about. The fact that someone dies is not enough on its own, we have to know why it matters that they die, and what we’re going to feel about it.

Pacing means taking the right amount of time to set things up so that they will pay off in the right way later. And pacing something right means doing your best to know what is important, how you want it to pay off later, so that you can get a feel for how much of what you need to show and when and how and in what order.

And, yes, there’s always an element of subjectivity to any of this. Nothing will land for everyone, people just react too differently for that. What’s too slow for some is too fast for others, and what matters to some will not always be what was intended to matter. But. You at least want to know what your intent is, so you can give it your best shot.

Mood matters. Time matters. Description, emotion, pacing, matters. Take your time. I don’t necessarily mean go slow, by that, I mean take the time to pull yourself back every so often to reorientate on where you’re going, what effect you want it to have, and how you’re going to get there. Take the needed time, however long or little it might be. Because humans work on context, and stories are vacuums, they only contain what you put into them (well, and what the reader brings into them), so you’re going to have to take the time to build that context. If you want something to matter, if you want it to have an effect, you have to provide the groundwork and the context for why it matters.

Was that coherent at all? I have no idea. But, well. Have some thoughts on pacing and mood and why it matters?

[van-skmugen]

On Ainosuke's birthday last year, bones released an illustration featuring him as ADAM with Reki and Langa that you can see here on Twitter. What I write below is what I thought when I see illustration and I wrote on my twitter but with more text because here I'm allowed. Feel free to read and add your own thoughts. I would love to know more points of view.

Disclaimer: English isn't my first language so if something sounds rouge that's why, I'm still learning to improve it.

It's interesting how Adam show such a carefree attitude leaving his right side "unprotected" towards Reki with his arm raised, while with Langa his body attitude is more of self-protection, if that's the right way to put it?

I mean, he has his arm clutching his heart and the spike of his shoulder protector and arm protector directed towards Langa. Could it be because he doesn't find Reki as a threat? I don't know, it's something that caught my attention as soon as I saw the illustration. I also find it interesting how on top of the shoulder protector is a heart, seeming an allegory to her aunts' teaching about how love is shown "hidden" through violence. (In other words, the protectors end in horns and are shown sharpened according to how they can do damage.)

Besides I find it curious that while Langa shows a calm attitude (asleep) when he has a "spike" directed at him, Reki shows an uneasy attitude when Adam literally has his arm raised, leaving his side unprotected. But it's also interesting how Langa is asleep hugging a heart (love) and ADAM in Japanese is 愛抱夢 (愛=love 抱=to hold in one's arms and 夢=dream) which could be interpreted (or personally I interpret it) in one hand as Langa being in one way or another the personification of ADAM, or as Kojiro once said, Langa could be like ADAM or even worse if he didn't have the support he currently has. Or on the other hand it can also be interpreted as what happened in episode 12, Langa was the one who showed him again how much fun it's to skateboard with his friends, making his heart again open by seeing things from another perspective (regardless of all the healing work he should do for himself to feel loved again by those around him).

I may be overlooking, but I always find it curious how they show body language.

It's something I found curious, apart from always being with people who aren't Tadashi like ADAM and not like Ainosuke (Excluding DK ADAM with Cherry and Joe as we can see when he go to United States, that they should get to know him more deeply during that time (I mean time before when he show his face and said them: お前らは特別だからな [Because you guys... are special.]). In episode 12 Ainosuke is very closed in himself because of everything that happened to him from the past to the present with Tadashi, so it took Langa much more to make him "open his shell" and show his true face during the end of the beef against him, that his a silly boy and skateboard lover who has fun skateboarding with friends, but who refused to do it again because of Tadashi's betrayal. And anyway later during the party for Langa, is shown again as ADAM and not as Ainosuke, so for the moment he has only been shown in front of all the official material as Ainosuke, with Tadashi and in the past with Kaoru and Kojiro (not counting the poster in which Kaoru, Kojiro, Ainosuke and Tadashi meet but in which they don't interact with each other and with Miya, who doesn't interact directly either, but through a written message so it isn't certain that he sent it as Ainosuke but as ADAM, or at least as it has been officially shown.).

I love to do this kind of things, so if you're interested don't hesitate to follow me we can be mutuals, I talk a lot about SK8 and sometimes I upload drawings of them.

[cyberphuck]

*hands over face*

[dougielombax]

What do you mean you’ve come to make an announcement?!

No!

Absolutely not!

It’s out of the question.

No!

No you may NOT piss on the moon!

[saintobio]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐑. (second part to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑.)

in the battle of hearts, he was the conqueror, and you, the conquered, for his love was a war you could never win. but if in this ruthless battlefield, only one can come out victorious, could you still turn things around and let the victor be you?

♱ pairings. sylus, fem!reader

♱ genre. angst, smut, boss/assistant, 18+

♱ tags. villain!reader, reader previously works for onychinus, reader is not l&ds!mc, sylus is a little ooc, main story spoilers, melodic weave spoilers, lots of timeskip, fast-paced, lore heavy, unrequited love, profanity, petnames (kitten, sweetie), explicit smut, cunnilingus (f!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, espionage, reader smoking, reckless driving, violence, spitting, choking, jealousy, usage of guns, suicide (or attempts thereof), death, and a twist in the end i can’t reveal.

♱ notes. 10.4k words too lazy to edit T-T also, there’s a scene that will remind you of nwh :))) part 1 is already fine as is, so this one is just an extra.

— 1 YEAR AFTER.

“Got an invitation?”

Only barely did you lift your head up, just enough to meet the bouncer’s eyes as you handed over the invitation. “I’m a regular.”

“Lady, I don’t think so.” The man scrutinized you with itching suspicion, then turned on his flashlight to verify the authenticity of your invitation by looking at every corner of the paper. Was he trying to look for any flaw just to say it was fake? Jesus. For an entire minute, his eyes darted between you and the letter, as though debating whether or not to let you inside.

“Come on,” you said impatiently, tapping your feet on the ground, “I’m not someone you should keep waiting.”

He was ready with a rebuttal, still reluctant to let you in, until a familiar sight of purple hair peeked from behind the entrance. Your savior for the night—it was Rafayel.

“Let her in,” he said, ushering you inside and giving the bouncer a knowing look. “She’s with me.”

Fucking finally. 

The neon red LED signage of The Nest flickered against the grimy walls, serving as the only bright light in the sketchy dark surroundings. The bar was a haven for those seeking refuge from the law and a place to trade secrets, as it was brimming with intel from a network of people. From high ranking officials, businessmen, and criminals—just offer your part of the bargain and you’d find a good trade in no time. 

It wasn’t your first time there, but your negative impression of the place remained unchanged.

You strode through the crowd with Rafayel, and your eyes scanned the room with practiced ease. There were still familiar faces around, though most of the people had gone unrecognized as it had been awhile since you last came here. 

“Wearing a hoodie in a place like this,” Rafayel spoke into your ear, his voice barely audible over the loud music. “You stick out like a sore thumb, you know?”

You merely shrugged, keeping your face hidden under the large black hoodie until Rafayel secured you inside a private balcony he had reserved for the night. Once inside, you quickly pulled the hoodie down and comfortably revealed your face.

“Just give me what I asked you so I can leave,” you commanded, your tone assertive.

Rafayel, however, only smirked as he sat on the couch across from you. “Be patient. We’re still missing one person.”

One person? “Who—” Your attention was caught by the figure of a lean, white-haired man entering the private balcony in a calm and quiet manner. A person so familiar to you that you couldn’t even keep eye contact with him. Xavier. 

Xavier might be civil around you, but you knew that if the circumstances were different, he would have let Lumiere show up to assassinate you in one strike. It didn’t matter if you were colleagues before, he still always had his guard around you. Though, things had become more complicated for everyone. And friends who had become enemies, were now allies again. 

Somehow.  

“Well, isn’t this a delightful gathering? I have two wanted individuals in the N109 Zone here with me,” you quipped, pointing to Rafayel first. “You’ve got a bounty on your head,” then to Xavier, “You’ve got a bounty on your head, too. Damn, I’d be rich if I turned you both in.”

Xavier stayed leaning against the door with his arms crossed. “That makes three of us, then,” he replied in a stolid mien, nodding toward the wall behind you.

Your eyes adjusted from the dark before it finally landed on a large, tattered poster pinned to the wall near the bar. The bold letters at the top read the following:

MOST WANTED! Y/N L/N Alias: Scarlet Viper Reward: 500,000,000 Credits Crimes: Betrayal of Onychinus Espionage Intelligence Leaks Treason Status: Traitor Last Known Location: N109 Zone, Linkon City Beware: Y/N L/N is considered extremely dangerous and cunning. She is highly skilled in espionage and intelligence gathering, and is now a traitor to Onychinus. Approach with extreme caution. All bounty hunters and loyal Onychinus followers are authorized to apprehend her by any means necessary. Payment will be made upon successful capture or confirmation of her whereabouts. Contact: Report all sightings and information to the Onychinus base. Payment is guaranteed for verified leads.

The grainy image was unmistakable—it was your own face in that poster staring back at you. But instead of acting hurt or even alarmed, a laugh bubbled up from deep within you, growing louder and more unhinged as you took in the sight. Heads turned from outside the private room, curious and wary, as your laughter echoed through the balcony.

“Crazy bastard,” you muttered to yourself between fits of laughter. “Sylus really went all out this time, huh?”

Preferably Alive? You mused at the highlighted words on the poster. Did he want me alive so he’d be the one to kill me? 

The absurdity of it all washed over you. Here you were, once Sylus’s most trusted confidante, now branded a traitor with a bounty on your head. Even Luke and Kieran wouldn’t spare you. In fact, they might even be the first ones to capture you had they received the slightest intel on your whereabouts. Ha ha ha! Your maniacal laughter was a cocktail of bitterness, amusement, and the thrill of the rebellion that had driven you to this point. The very people you treated like family, were now your enemies. 

You composed yourself, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye as you glanced around. The patrons were still watching—Xavier with concern for your sanity, and Rafayel with amusement to your charade. 

“Not what you expected from your ‘lover’?” mocked Rafayel, shifting into a more comfortable position.

But you were ready with a confident reply. “Oh, I expected just as much. It’s flattering, really, that he hasn’t found me despite all his connections.”

Xavier adopted a more serious tone when he added, “He hasn’t been seen anywhere himself. It’s been months since the raid happened, and the Onychinus faction is still leaderless.”

“Sylus isn’t that pathetic,” you replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from your pocket. You lit one up with a flick of your lighter, and the flame briefly illuminated your face. “He’s just laying low. He’s got plenty of properties to hide in, but the H.A. will need to pay me extra if they want intel on his locations.”

Rafayel smirked. “Oh, come on now, we know you won’t give up his hideouts that easily. You still care about his safety after all. Right, Miss Scarlet?”

You displayed a defensive stance as referred to you by your alias. “I care about whether or not that hunter girl you’re all obsessed with stopped chasing after him,” you said, irritation now lacing your once-sarcastic tone. “A deal’s a deal. Keep her out of the N109 Zone and away from Sylus, and I’ll keep my hands off her. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to send a bullet or two to her head.”

“You—” “Don’t even try—”

Both boys sprang from their seats and yelled simultaneously, as if your vague threat against the apple of their eyes activated their mode of defensiveness. In all honesty, you admired how much they cared to protect that girl. That despite their rivalry, they were willing to do anything to keep her safe. You were the biggest threat to her life right now, but eliminating you wasn’t exactly an easy feat now that the H.A. had your back. 

So, this was their compromise. A mutually beneficial arrangement. In simpler terms, they need to keep the girl away from Sylus. Giving intel about Onychinus and its boss was already your part of the bargain. Theirs was to ensure that the hunter girl had no means to contact Sylus or even enter N109 Zone whenever she wanted. 

“Hand out her brooch,” you demanded, gesturing for Rafayel to hand out the very piece you were here for. “It’s about time I come home.” 

Rafayel’s eyes widened in curiosity. “You’re really returning to the N109 Zone?” 

Xavier’s face mirrored his concern, likely because you carried the largest bounty of all the wanted fugitives in the most dangerous No-Hunt Zone. But honestly, their unease puzzled you. If they wanted to keep the girl safe, having you out of Linkon City would be to their advantage. Besides, the brooch would give you unrestricted access to the N109 Zone—something you wanted to take from the hunter girl who generously received it from Sylus.

“Stop stalling and give it to me,” you insisted, your frustration growing by the second. “I’m sick of this place.”

Rafayel sighed and tossed the brooch to you. “You must be crazy.”

~~

— 1 YEAR AGO.

“You’ve already taken everything from me, Sylus. Finish what you started.”

Sylus had the power to end you right then and there. If he truly intended to kill you to protect that woman, all he needed was to intensify the pressure of his evol around you. Yet, as he observed the shifting expressions on your face, Sylus chose to ease the bone-crushing pressure of the black-red mist that encircled your body.

You collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath like fish out of the sea. But Sylus looked down at you with a cold, unyielding gaze. “I’m just showing you mercy now,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “If you dare touch her, I’ll break every bone in your body for real next time. You’re just gonna be another dead body to me.”

With that final threat, Sylus kicked your gun away and vanished into the dead of night, leaving you alone and vulnerable in the dark alleyway. Even Mephisto, who often guarded your safety, was completely out of sight. Sylus must be happy knowing that his last words pierced through your soul—its pain gnawing at your heart and ripping every artery apart. How easily was it for him to tear you asunder despite giving you his mercy? The turmoil inside you was almost unbearable, and you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Ultimately, you chose both.

Sitting on the gravel, you clenched your fists, tears mingling with the dirt on the concrete. Anger, spite, and hatred consumed you. All you wanted was revenge.

And so, a few weeks after that, you decided to pack your bags and run away from the N109 Zone. Away from the place where Sylus was the boss of everyone. Away from a place where his omnipresence would not reach or track you.

Your destination of choice was Linkon, not because you wanted to live in that city, but because it was once your home. Returning to the bustling metropolis after four years was driven by a single purpose, and it was to see a few key people who could help you achieve your revenge.

The bright and busy streets of Linkon City were still a stark contrast to the dark and gritty atmosphere of the N109 Zone. But because you had lived most of your years here than its more dangerous counterpart, it was easy for you to maneuver through the fast-moving crowd while navigating through the complicated subway stations that even Luke and Kieran would struggle with. That day, your mind was set on your first destination: Akso Hospital.

Dr. Zayne’s clinic was tucked away in a quiet corner of the hospital. While it took some finesse to secure an appointment under a false name, you managed it without raising suspicion. After all, four years in the N109 Zone had taught you how to camouflage into roles you never expected to play.

Obviously, he was surprised to see you entering his clinic as if he had seen a ghost. His usual stoic countenance was momentarily replaced by a state of discombobulation when you finally sat across from him in his sterile, white office. “Zayne,” you cut straight to the chase. “I need to know about the girl with the Aether Core.”

Four years ago, Zayne was the last person you talked to about the Aether Core before plunging into the dangers of the N109 Zone. He knew more about it than anyone else in Linkon. Therefore, he would also be the first person you sought out upon your return.

Dr. Zayne’s expression remained impassive, however. “I’m afraid patient confidentiality prevents me from discussing any details.”

You leaned forward, your voice low and urgent, as you pressed a hand against his desk. “I’m not here for pleasantries, Zayne. I need answers. How and where does she have it?”

You had to know. You really, badly ought to know. Because knowing where she had the Aether Core would acquaint you where exactly to target her when the opportunity arises.

But in spite of the desperation in your voice, Dr. Zayne regarded you with a cool, clinical detachment. “Whatever you’re planning, I would prefer that you don’t involve an innocent person in it. If you want answers, seek it somewhere else.”

Dammit! His actions and strange avoidance of the subject were all the hints you needed. Zayne liked that girl. And he would never be the person to put her in a dangerous position. 

In that case, there was only one place left to turn, a place you had avoided for far too long. It even took you three days to gather the confidence you needed to even step foot into the familiar halls of The Hunter's Association’s most secretive department, the Hunter Intelligence Services or the HIS—the very place where undercover agents and intelligence officers resided. It was hidden beneath the city and only the high ranking hunters knew and had access to it, because being a spy certainly wasn’t for the weak heart. 

It was time to confront your true past.

The entryway to the headquarters didn’t change. And to your surprise, pulling out your access card still granted you entrance to the quarters. Were they anticipating your return or did they simply miss the task of revoking your access card?

Descending further into the underground facility, however, you were met with a familiar sense of unease. The sterile, metal hallways seemed to close in around you as you approached Lauryn’s office. She was the head of the department, your true boss, and the person who tasked you into infiltrating the N109 Zone four years ago.

Lauryn was there as you entered, her sharp eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms at you. You were right. She did anticipate your arrival, because the advanced CCTV monitors around the city were displayed all over the room. “What brings you back to the fold?” she asked, stern and unwelcoming, “Are you going to beg on my knees for turning your back against the Hunter’s Association?”

Feisty as ever. Her austerity was harsher than you remembered, but then again, there was no room for shame after all the crimes you committed while supposedly being a spy in the N109 Zone. 

“I need your help,” you admitted, shamelessly. “I have intel on Sylus and the Onychinus. Extremely valuable information that you need. In exchange, there’s something I want you to do.” 

Lauryn’s expression was unreadable as she leaned back against the wall. “So, you’ve decided to turn on your beloved Sylus? What happened to your loyalty? Is it always this unstable?”

You took a deep breath, not allowing her words to get to you. “I just… need to protect my interests.”

“Interests?” The woman guffawed at your chosen words. “And do your interests also include betraying the H.A. because you fell in love with the enemy? Or did the enemy also betray you that’s why you’re crawling back here now?” 

She hit the sore spot, but you masked your voice with defensive indifference. “If that’s how you define it, then so be it. I’m not asking to be recruited by the H.A. again, I know that. I broke the Hunter’s Code and I’m marked as a Tenebra now, but…” Letting out a heavy exhale, you looked into her eyes, “Lauryn, you know I have the most intel you’ll get about Sylus and Onychinus out of everyone. Not even Xavier as Lumiere would have this much intel as I do.” 

How could she deny such an offer? You knew the temptation was heavy since you were speaking the truth; you worked for Sylus for four years. You have all the necessary intel they need to even get to him.

For a millisecond, you caught the corner of Lauryn’s lips twitching upwards with a glint of approval hiding in her eyes, but she was pretty good at concealing her emotions. “Very well. Share your intel, and I’ll see what I can do.”

~~

The past year had been a blur of longing and subterfuge. 

You supplied Lauryn with detailed intelligence on Onychinus’s illicit activities, including their smuggling routes, black market transactions, and the clandestine trade of armory and protocores with corrupt officials. You also exposed Sylus’s personal connections to the high ranking officials who were secretly doing business with him. This information immediately set off a series of events aimed at destabilizing Onychinus, providing sufficient evidence to provoke a significant response from the Hunter’s Association and law enforcement.

In return, you requested two things: 1) for the Hunter’s Association to offer you protection and support against Onychinus’s threats; and 2) for them to enforce restrictions and surveillance on the hunter girl, ensuring she remained completely isolated from Sylus and the N109 Zone.

It would have been better if they had chastised her. You had convinced Lauryn that a public whipping would be the perfect punishment, but the H.A. upheld principles far better than yours. After all, you had been stripped of your morality after living in a lawless environment under the influence of the mastermind himself. Being in the N109 Zone for too long dehumanized you. But for your peers in Linkon… they could never harm that hunter girl for some reason, and had been treating her like a valuable asset under everyone's protection—even Sylus’s.

You hated it. You hated her. And each time you caught a glimpse of her around Linkon, your hands were often itching to take out a gun and end her life. 

But that was easier said than done. Besides, you decided to harness all of your anger towards Sylus himself because he was the one who had tossed you aside after she came to his life. He was the one responsible for the wounds in your heart that would never heal. 

It had been a year. You wondered if he ever even thought about you, or did his anger completely consume him to the point where all he wanted to do was kill you? 

“Of course,” you mumbled under your breath, scoffing as you remembered the bounty he had placed on you. He was definitely apoplectic at the fact that you ruined his plans, and that you took his precious hunter girl away from him. The thought of you betraying him and Onychinus probably made him ballistic. 

But to think about it, who betrayed who first?

Everyone knew the difficulty of getting into the N109 Zone. Keeping yourself safe while inside the lawless city was also another struggle. Yet, for someone like you who belonged here better than in Linkon, you were already used to the ins and outs of its dangerous scene. And having the hunter girl’s brooch was your gateway to return to the city unsuspiciously. 

Pushing through the throng of people, you made your way to a nondescript door at the back of the bar. Two burly guards stood in front, their expressions deadpan as they eyed the beaked mask you were wearing. You wore the Onychinus uniform, one that was similar to Luke and Kieran’s, in order to hide your identity. For now. 

“Is it a man?” 

“No, a woman! Look at her body behind the uniform.” 

“You think we should let her in?”

“Idiot, she’s from Onychinus! You can’t deny her entrance.”

With a nod, you handed over a small token—your entry pass to the underground fight club that operated in the depths of an abandoned warehouse. “Fellas, I have a pass if you need it.” 

The guards stepped aside, finally allowing you entry after you showed a token that was marked by the Onychinus insignia. And as you descended the dimly lit staircase, the roar of the crowd and the unmistakable sound of fists meeting flesh grew louder. The anticipation began to thrum in your veins.

You weren’t entirely sure why you were here, but you knew you needed information on Sylus. Anywhere. And what better way to hear about him than to visit a place where his presence often loomed large? Maybe you could even take out your frustrations in the ring tonight. With every punch and kick, you would remind yourself of the path you had chosen—a path leading to Sylus’s downfall, no matter the cost.

As you stepped into the arena, an irregular thumping in your heart began to destabilize you. You forced yourself to focus, squeezing between people loudly cheering for the current match, screaming their biases, and trash-talking the opponents. Clusters of people gathered around the ring and placed their bets on their favorite fighters. How nostalgic, you mused. You used to come here with Sylus on Friday nights. And turned the rest of those active nights into passionate ones.

Now’s not the time to reminisce. Your chest was starting to feel tighter, unsure if it was because of the crowd or the uncomfortable thought of being back in the N109 Zone. But the more time you spent inside the fight club, the more your heart felt like it was being squeezed. You had to make a move now before it was too late. 

The fight club continued to throb with a visceral energy, and you stood in the shadows, the hood of your cloak still pulled low to hide the overwhelming pressure you were feeling inside your body. You managed to weave through the people, while your ears were attuned to the murmur of conversations in hopes of catching intel on Sylus. 

That was, until a group of grizzled men to your left caught your attention, and their voices were rising above the din.

“I’ve got five hundred credits on the big guy,” one of them boasted, slapping a hefty stack of bills into the hand of a bookie.

“You’re gonna lose,” another jeered. “That scrawny kid’s faster. I bet he’ll surprise everyone.”

You lingered nearby, pretending to adjust your hoodie while listening intently to their conversation.

“Hey, did you hear about Sylus?” one man whispered, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

Your pulse quickened at the mention of his name, and you took a step closer, careful not to draw attention.

“Yeah. He hasn’t been seen in weeks, ain’t he? Word is, he’s gone underground. Something big must’ve gone down.”

“Big? That’s an understatement. They say someone ratted him out to the Hunter’s Association that’s why his base got raided. He’s also got a bounty on his head now, and not just any bounty—a serious one. Every hunter and merc in the zone's looking for him.”

“What about the hot chick he’s been seen with? You think she’s involved?”

“Dunno,” the first man whispered. “But if she’s smart, she’ll lay low. Sylus doesn’t take kindly to betrayal, and neither do his people.”

You bit your lip as the urge to ask questions was getting heavy. But you knew better. Drawing attention to yourself now could be disastrous. So, you had to think of how to navigate this situation first. The fight in the ring reached a fever pitch, and the crowd’s roar swelled. Perhaps joining today’s fight might not be a good idea after all, and instead, you should harness your remaining energy into preparing for the time you would have to face Onychinus again. 

Sylus was in hiding, the hunter girl had been isolated, and you had made yourself a target.

It was for the best that you stormed out of the fight club, helmet on, speeding away on a motorcycle you had rented. Riding in the N109 zone was always a thrilling escape, and it now became your dangerous distraction from the turbulent thoughts that plagued your mind. Sylus. Sylus. Sylus. Where did he hide? 

In your trail of thoughts, you revved the engine, and its roar echoed along the stretch of dark roads as you maneuvered your bike towards the highway. 

There was no other vehicle around you.

Until a truck appeared. 

Not just any truck—it was a supertruck, with its headlights blazing and tailing you like a predator. 

The lights tried to blind you, but you took off, and the world around you instantly became a blur of speed and sound. You leaned into the bike, feeling the wind whip against your face as you cornered into the nearest exit. But no matter how fast you went, you couldn’t outrun such a large, fast-moving vehicle. You knew that if you didn’t accelerate into sixth gear or until you hit the rev limiter, you would be dead. 

He’s fucking out for me! 

Lost in thought, your eyes focused too much on looking back and forth between the road and the stealth mirrors before you got rear-ended by the truck. The impact was jarring, and it sent you flying off your bike and crashing onto the hard, cold ground. Upon impact alone, pain immediately exploded in your body. And the burning, stinging sensation was brought upon by the road rash you obtained after you skidded along the rough concrete road. It was intense pain—like a thousand searing needles piercing every inch of your skin. Your flesh felt as if it were being flayed by red-hot knives, each scrape and cut screaming with a fire that seemed unquenchable. The raw, exposed nerves throbbed violently, sending electric shocks of pain through your entire body, and making every heartbeat feel like a hammer blow. 

Aghh! It was a relentless, burning torment, and the slightest movement amplified the suffering, every breath dragging razors through your shredded skin. But you refused to cry out, refusing to give the culprit the satisfaction. Was it Sylus? 

As much as you wanted to lift your helmet and find the culprit, the shock from the crash was an all-consuming inferno of agony, the kind that made the world blur and darken at the edges, and eventually pulled you into a black abyss of unconsciousness.

The last thing you remembered was being carried in the arms of a man. 

~~

“Think she’s in a coma?”

Voices filtered through your ears, distant yet distinct. Familiar, mischievous voices that sent a shiver down your spine. You could barely open your eyes, your fingers twitching as you slowly regained consciousness.

“Maybe.” That was Luke’s voice. “Or maybe she’s just pretending. Wouldn’t put it past her after she spied on us for years.”

“Yeah, she’s good at that,” Kieran egged on. “Always scheming, always one step ahead. And she’s tougher than she looks! Surviving that crash?”

“But not invincible.”

Their exchange suddenly took a halt, replaced by a discomfiting silence that made you wish you could force your eyes open in a mere count to ten. You tried to move, to make a sound, to let them know you were not in a coma, that you could hear every word. But your body remained stubbornly still, as if pressed down by an unseen weight. 

“You think boss-man will forgive her?” It was Kieran who asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

Luke snorted. “Forgive? She’s a traitor. If she wakes up, she’s a dead woman walking.”

No! Upon realizing that this wasn’t a dream or a figment of your imagination, the beat of your heart began to accelerate, vibrating loud and aggressive against your chest. The sound of the twins’ footsteps eventually faded, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence of your half-conscious state. Fear and regret coiled within you, but there was also a flicker of determination. 

That if you wake up—when you wake up—you would have to face Sylus. And you would have to find a way to survive.

Time lost its meaning as you floated between wakefulness and sleep. A minute, an hour, days must have gone by. Eventually, you could hear classical music being played in the background and became aware of a new presence in the room, then a weight on the edge of your bed. That familiar cardamom and leather scent. A hand soon brushed your forehead, cool and gentle. Sylus? You wanted to open your eyes, to see him, to speak, but your body refused to obey.

“You can’t hide from me forever,” his voice murmured. His breath was warm when you felt it on your ear. “Wake up, kitten. We have unfinished business.” 

Darkness tugged at you again, pulling you under, but not before the fear took root. The weight on your chest suddenly lifted, as if an invisible force released its hold on you. Your eyes then snapped open and your lungs burned as you dragged in deep, desperate gulps of air. 

“Where—” You struggled to sit up with your weak body trembling from days of enforced stillness. Every movement felt foreign, muscles protesting as you pushed yourself upright. The room spinned for a moment before your vision cleared, and you saw him.

“Awake?” Sylus stood at your side, his crimson eyes burning with fire as he looked down on you like a master to his subject. 

“What… what did you do to me?” you manage to ask even though your voice was hoarse. “It was y-you in that truck!” 

“Oh, honey. I don’t ride in cheap trucks. Besides, I saved you from that crash,” Sylus replied, almost nonchalantly. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice. And also a ‘long time no see’, don’t you think?”

If it wasn’t him on that truck, then… “It’s still a hitman you hired because of that bounty!”

Sylus didn’t change. His silky gray hair, his vivid carmine eyes, his pinkish thin lips. Whenever he smirked, it was still the handsome old him. “I won’t deny that, sweetie. But I had to kill the guy for doing a poor job. My instructions were to not get you badly injured, and only to scare you.” 

“Liar,” you spat, “I bet you’d be happier if I was incapacitated.”

“Please. You’d serve no good to me if you’re dead or permanently disabled.” Sylus reached down to pull the duvet away from your body, and your supposed road rash and injuries were seemingly gone, replaced by newly-healed scars. “Your body needed time to recover, and I couldn’t afford to lose you. Not yet. So I had to put you in an induced state.” 

His words sent a chill down your spine. How he did it, you had no idea, but with Sylus, anything was possible. Anything! After all, he had all the connections and the rarest protocores. 

“Three days,” he continued, stepping closer, his gaze never leaving your face as he lifted your chin with his finger. “I kept you under for three days. Enough time for your wounds to heal. You recognize where you are?”

When he trailed off, you looked around the room and realized you weren’t in the Onychinus base nor his presidential suite. It was one of his many residences—the underground shelter. 

“Why are we here?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your efforts to sound strong.

Sylus extended a hand once more, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes remained hard, unreadable. “Ask that to yourself, kitten,” he says quietly. “We’re here because an ungrateful stray cat decided to leak the location of my other residences.”

You swallowed hard when you felt him grab you by the neck, his tight grip restraining any air from entering your windpipe. “S-Sylus!” 

His eyes had unruly flames beneath them. “You were a spy?” 

As his grip loosened a little to let you speak, you still ended up choking from asphyxiation. “S-So what if I was?” You tried to push him off. “It only means I caught you lacking. You allowed me to infiltrate Onychinus without knowing my background.” 

Sylus’s hand trailed gently over your cheek, his touch lingering longer than necessary.  “I’d blame it on your cunning face,” he said, almost seductively. He then shifted to lower himself onto the bed, both knees on either side of you, pinning you down. His eyes locked onto yours with a dark, predatory gleam. “Any man is a willing fool to a pretty face and a sexy body.”

You swatted his hand in response, your back hitting the headboard as you scrambled for distance. “How many times have you recycled that line between me and that hunter girl with the Aether Core?” 

At the mention of her, Sylus’s deep chuckle erupted and reverberated through the dark room. It was a chilling sound that was full of twisted amusement. “Ah, I almost forgot about the root of your betrayal,” he remarked with a mocking grin. “Jealousy.”

“You wouldn’t be laughing if I had killed her,” you spat, struggling to break free as Sylus slammed you back onto the bed. “Let me go—!” It was a fierce contest of strength, with you pinned beneath him, and him on top of you in an undeniable display of dominance. But you fought back. You resisted. And in an effort to offend, you ejected spit onto his cheek. “Let go!” 

Sylus was caught off guard, but he stayed unfazed, wiping your spit from his cheek before gripping your neck again. “You really want to play this game, honey? I love how sick in the head you are.”

“You m-made me like this.” You choked in between words. “In the end, I still achieved my goal. Now you have no way to see or contact that girl.”

“Says who?” Sylus’s sarcastic tone made your heart sink. Is he still in touch with her?!

“What do you—”

“Don’t be dense, kitten.” Sylus soon grabbed you by the collar, handling you like a ragdoll as he threw you onto the floor with a resounding thud. Pain shot through your hip, but Sylus’s expression held no remorse. You knew he could do worse. “I have my own ways of ensuring she’s safe and protected. I can still see her whenever I want.”

That was when the tears started to fall uncontrollably. You couldn’t stop them—nor could you hold back the words that poured out. “Y-You! I ran away from the N109 Zone for a whole year. I disappeared from your life for a whole goddamn year, Sylus. Yet not once did you look for me, not once did you worry about me, not once did you make sure I was safe. But for her, you—”

“It’s only natural to protect someone important to you.” He crouched down to meet your eyes as if pouring salt to the wound. “I’d let the world burn for her, honey. You and her aren’t the same. She’s not someone who would betray me.” 

“I betrayed you because of her!” 

His laughter died down, but the amusement in his eyes only deepened. The cruel curve of his lips was the kind of smile that enjoyed seeing your agony. “It’s always been about her, hasn’t it? You see me with her, and you can’t stand it. It eats at you, makes you act out.”

You tried to move away, but he kept his foot firmly on your wrist, stepping on your hand was his constant reminder of your powerlessness. The distance between you was a stark symbol of how he saw you—a mere object of disdain.

“I’ve seen your struggle,” he continued, his voice soft but laced with wicked satisfaction. “The way you watched me with her, the way it gnaws at you. It’s almost poetic, really.”

In a moment of desperation, you snatched the nearest weapon from his nightstand while tears blurred your vision. It hurt. His words, his treatment, and the stark difference in how he treated her compared to you were too much. You should have ended this long ago before he had the chance to wreck you all over again.

And so, with a gun in your hand, you cocked and raised it. 

But instead of pointing it towards Sylus, you surprised him by pointing it to yourself. 

The gun’s nozzle was pressed against your temple, your finger inching toward the trigger. 

“...All I wanted was your love,” you choked out with tears cascading down your face, flowing out like an endless waterfall, “I j-just wanted you to love me. I turned my back on the H.A. for you. I left all my friends and family for you.” Your breathing was still for a moment. “Now I don’t have anyone left.” Pausing, you locked eyes with his crimson ones. You didn’t want him to be the one to kill you, because the thought alone was fatal. “All I had was you. I loved you. I devoted all my body and soul into loving you, Sylus. Why c-can’t I have even a little bit in return?”

Even as his gaze softened, as a flicker of regret crossed his features, you already drove your finger to pull the trigger. The recoil immediately jolted through your wrist, but before the bullet could find its mark and penetrate your skull, Sylus’s hand shot out and expertly deflected your aim. So instead of blowing your brains out, the bullet ricocheted off the now-shattered window.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Sylus roared, his orotund voice an amalgam of anger and disbelief.

Tears blurred your vision, but you were still able to look at his bright red eyes as he cupped your cheeks. Your entire body shook hysterically for someone who had just almost ended her own life. This is what he wanted, right? You asked yourself over and over, but couldn’t find the energy to respond to his calls for your name. 

“Y/N,” Sylus agitatedly tried to shake you, “Y/N! Enough. Let’s end this game.” 

You stared at his face blankly as reality flickered and faded, like an old film reel skipping frames. “I was never playing one with you.”

Sylus was suddenly a different person in front of you. “I warned you many times before to never fall in love with me. It’s for the best, and it’s what will keep you safe,” he spoke in a low yet softened tone, “Why don’t you listen?”

The tension in the room was suffocating, and each second dragged into eternity. Sylus’s question remained unanswered until the loud burst of the door shattered the silence. You flinched, heart pounding, as you saw the very subject of your heartbreak.

The hunter girl stormed in, eyes wild in fear. “Sylus! Are you okay? I heard a gunshot—” she cried out, scanning the room frantically until her gaze landed on the two of you. She then froze, taking in the sight of you and Sylus on the floor, the gun lying ominously near your hand. Putting two-and-two together probably made her think that you tried to kill the man in front of you. “Sylus, step back!”

“Wait!”

Without hesitation, she aimed her gun squarely at you. But right before you could react, the gun was fired. And the shattering sound of another gunshot echoed in the room.

Time seemed to slow as you fell, the world spinning around you when you felt a sudden, searing pain on your head. Sylus’s eyes widened in shock, his hand reaching out just in time to catch you before your head hit the floor. 

“No!” Sylus’s voice was raw, hysterical, filled with a pain you’d never heard from him before as he cradled your head gently—his face a mask of both horror and disbelief when your blood pooled on his arms. “Y/N, no! Fuck, what did you do?!”

You struggled to focus, your vision blurring as darkness encroached. Sylus’s eyes were strangely wet with tears, desperation etched into every line of his sharp features. The Sylus you knew wouldn’t cry over someone unimportant to him. So, why…? 

You tried to speak, but the effort was monumental.

Who knew that your life would end at the hands of another woman?

Yet, it was the karma you deserved for your wrongdoings.

“I... love... you,” you whispered to Sylus, nonetheless. Each word was a struggle, and your breath hitched as you forced them out, but you had to let him know. For the last time. 

You saw the pain in his eyes deepen, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of something close to peace. That was when Sylus’s grip tightened, his tears falling onto your face as he held you close. “Y/N, please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Don’t leave. I can’t let this happen!”

He must have noticed how your eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring off into the distance without really seeing anything. Pure numbness was you would best describe it. And as your life slipped away, you felt a strange sense of relief. 

In the battle of hearts, he was the conqueror, and you, the conquered. His love was a war you couldn’t win, and your loss, a defeat you couldn’t bear. For in his eyes, you saw both your greatest triumph and your deepest fall, where the lines between the victor and the vanquished blurred into the shadows of a bittersweet end.

But at least, you had said what mattered most, and that in your final moments, you were held by the one person you loved. The rightful owner of your heart. The conqueror of your soul. It was him, Sylus Qin, and no one else.

~~

— 1 YEAR AFTER.

“Two black coffees, three espressos, and a caramel macchiato, extra caramel!” A peculiar guy placed orders one after another, followed by his twin’s mischievous laughter. 

You turned to face them, offering a polite smile even though you were worried deep inside if they were just pulling a prank. They were regulars, always coming in with their complicated orders and playful banter. Yet, something about them seemed oddly familiar, and they always gave you a nagging sensation you couldn’t quite place.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small café you were working at in the Bloomshore District. You were standing behind the counter while the rush of customers was relentless. You barely even had a moment to catch your breath today, and here came the twins creating yet another one of their complicated orders. 

“Coming right up,” was your monotonous reply, your hands deftly moving to prepare their drinks. But as you worked, the twins exchanged amused glances, their eyes flicking over you with a mix of curiosity and disappointment.

“Actually, can I make a small change to that?” the other twin interjected with a grin.

You sighed inwardly but kept your smile. “Sure, what would you like?”

“Okay, so for the black coffee, can you add a splash of almond milk, two pumps of hazelnut syrup, and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top?” one of the twins began. “For the espressos, I need one with a shot of vanilla, one with a shot of caramel, and the last one with a double shot of mint. And for the caramel macchiato, make sure it's extra caramel, but can you also add a dash of sea salt and a drizzle of dark chocolate on top?”

Gosh. They were menaces. 

“Do you think you can remember our orders?” the other twin remarked, leaning on the counter. “Because you don’t seem to remember our names.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “We have lots of customers everyday. I’m not really good with names.”

When the bell above the door chimed, your attention was immediately drawn to the towering man with ash gray hair and bright crimson eyes. His presence was commanding even in the relaxed atmosphere of the café; he carried such a dominant aura that even the twins backed off from pestering you the moment he entered the coffee shop.

“Good evening, Mr. Skye,” you greeted, your tone warming at the sight of him. The man had become a regular fixture in your life. Every day, like clockwork, he came in for his coffee, and every day, he lingered just a bit longer, watching you with eyes that seemed to see more than you could comprehend.

He nodded, his eyes staying on you while he was pointing towards the twins. “Are they bothering you?” 

You were under the impression that the twins worked for Mr. Skye, but the type of relationship they had with their boss was none of your business. That was why although the twins could get really annoying as customers, especially when they tend to change their orders a lot, you still didn’t want them to get in trouble over something as little as that.

“No, they’re fine,” you answered with a smile. “Are you going to get the usual today, Mr. Skye?”

“Yes, please.” The tall man studied your face with a focused gaze—it was as though he was trying to read your mind, trying to interpret the emotions on your face, as he looked at you intently. He always did this. Every single day he came in, even from afar, you had grown accustomed to his watchful gaze. Yet even with the awkwardness it brought, he also knew how to keep his distance. He always treated you with respect and was always the first person to come to your aid when things did get unruly in the cafe. Broken coffee machine, spilled coffee, entitled customers. Name it, and he was always present to help around.

It was strange. Really, really strange. And what’s even stranger was that, every time he looked at you, the tenderness in his eyes that often opposed the fiery red color of his irises. Perhaps, you really couldn’t judge a book by its cover. 

As you wrote his name on the plastic cup, you heard him suddenly clear his throat. “Miss Y/N, forgive me. I couldn’t help but notice that scar,” he said with a poignant stare, gesturing towards your temple. “Quite a story behind that, I imagine?”

Your hand instinctively touched the faint scar, a puzzled look crossing your face. You had always been insecure about the scar on your temple, because not only was it unattractive, it was also extremely visible. Not even a laser treatment could help clear it out. 

“Oh, uh… I’m not really sure how I got it,” you admitted, searching through your mind’s archive to no avail. “I was told it was while I was fighting off wanderers. I don’t remember much from that time because I’ve since retired from the Hunter’s Association.”

His eyes darkened for a moment, as if his heart dropped from a memory he had recalled, but he quickly masked his expression. “So, you’re a hunter?”

You shrugged. “Well, yeah. But it’s all in the past now.”

Mr. Skye stood there waiting for his order with an unreadable expression on his face. And you wondered why he looked heartbroken while lost in deep thought. Was he having a bad day? Going through a break-up? You weren’t nosey enough to ask. Eventually, his order was done and he took the cup, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. 

“Sometimes the past has a way of catching up to us.” His deep voice was smooth and soft when he spoke again. “But perhaps it’s best to focus on the present.”

You smiled, feeling a strange comfort in his words. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Would you like to… have dinner with me sometime? I’d love to get to know you better.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden invitation. A date?! You couldn’t remember the last time you were even in love. All you could recall was having a silly childhood crush on your neighbor, but then again, that was more than a decade ago. You knew nothing about dating at your age and it was ridiculous. But there was something about Mr. Skye, a familiarity you couldn’t ignore, and that rejecting his offer seemed wrong in your head. 

Besides, you couldn’t deny how extremely handsome he was. 

“Um, sure… Mr. Skye.”

“Perfect,” he said with a small smile, his gaze softening into one of genuine joy. “Tomorrow evening, then?”

Before you could agree on a schedule, the sudden flash of lightning illuminated the interior for a brief moment. Then, the subsequent crash of thunder made you jump, following the sound of rain pounding against the windows that filled the small space. Oh, boy. 

“Ugh. How am I going to get home in this weather?” you muttered to yourself.

Mr. Skye, who had been quietly watching you from his spot, gave you an offer. “Need a ride?” he asked, his voice gentle but carrying a note of urgency. “It’s too dangerous to walk or wait for a cab in this storm.”

You hesitated for a moment. “I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Skye. But what about your,” you pointed towards the oblivious twins who were sitting on the corner, “minions?” 

Your chosen term elicited a deep chuckle from the man. “Don’t mind them. They know their way back home.” 

“But boss!”

“Boss, you said you’ll let me drive the sportscar tonight!” 

“I’ll wait for you until your shift ends,” Mr. Skye ignored the duo and responded to you with an endearing smile. “No rush.” 

It didn’t take long until you locked up the shop, but you did feel bad that Mr. Skye had to stay with you until ten in the evening when he could have already gone home. In fact, he had been acting strange. Acting too familiar with you. Did he already know you prior to your small interactions in the cafe for the past few weeks? 

He held the door open for you as soon as you secured the shop, and together you ran through the torrential rain to his black sportscar. You were already aware that he was a wealthy man, and yet, you always wondered why he preferred a small, laid-back cafe in the Bloomshore Distrct rather than the lavish ones in Azure Square or even Universum. Was it to see you all along?

Jeez, you had so many unanswered questions in your head. Yet, you were also afraid to address the elephant in the room because you believed in the saying that ignorance is bliss. So in the end, the drive was quiet, the only sounds being the rhythm of the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. Mr. Skye didn’t speak a word and nor did you.

Once you reached your apartment, he quickly rushed out of the car and headed to open your door. He even used his jacket as a makeshift umbrella, covering you from the heavy rainfall. It was almost funny, really, how his face screamed of danger but he was actually quite a gentleman. 

In return, you had to invite him in out of courtesy. “Would you like to come in for a while? It’s still pouring out there.”

He accepted your offer with a nod, and followed you like a tail inside. “Do you usually invite other people, too?” 

“Sometimes,” you casually answered while the both of you walked through the empty corridors. “Why?” 

“You aren’t talking about male colleagues, right?” he asked, seemingly taking a deep breath. 

That wasn’t any of his concern, obviously. But the drive to test his emotions was strong. “Sometimes,” you said, finally reaching your door and unlocking it with your fingerprint. “Welcome to my home.”

The warmth of your apartment was a stark contrast to the cold storm outside, and you felt a little conscious of your small living space knowing that he probably lived in a luxurious presidential suite. It didn’t help that he started looking around your place, as if studying the smallest details of every corner for a reason you couldn’t quite tell. You weren’t sure if he was simply silently judging the aesthetics of your home, but you were beginning to feel uncomfortable as you placed his coat on the rack, watching the way he stopped to look at your photo on the wall. 

It was like he felt a pang of sorrow. 

“You’ve really erased me completely, kitten,” he quietly whispered.

You turned to him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe that’s for the better,” he replied, but his expression betrayed him. It was clear that he was holding back a flood of emotions. 

Your heart started to race, pounding at a rhythm that you had never experienced before. And just then, you could see how tears welled up in his eyes. Tears that he concealed by leaning in to capture your lips in a desperate kiss. His hands cupped your face, and you could feel the intensity of his suppressed feelings that seemed to transcend the confines of your apartment. The yearning. The longingness. Perhaps, it was even sprinkled with feelings of regret. 

“Mr. Skye, wait—!” You pulled away with wide, bewildered eyes, shocked by the fervor of his kiss. No matter how attractive he was, he was still a stranger to you. But then, your breath came in shallow gasps as a sudden, sharp pain began to explode in your head. A throbbing pulse spread from your temples and radiated outwards. It was a stabbing sensation that seemed to slice through your skull, as if a thousand needles were jabbing into your brain. What’s happening? 

Mr. Skye’s face appeared above you. “Does it hurt?” he asked softly, his voice laced with a mix of worry and something deeper. He was whispering something about a protocore in your head, but you could barely understand a word, not when the ache in your temple was overcoming you entirely. 

You were unable to form words, clutching your head with both hands in hopes of stopping the ache for even a little. But the pain was overwhelming. Too overwhelming for you to handle, and it came to a point where tears of pain began streaming down your face.

“I… I don’t know what’s happening,” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling. 

He gently guided you on the couch, his touch careful and soothing. “Just breathe,” he murmured, offering a comforting presence like buoy in an open sea. “It’s my fault, kitten. I shouldn’t have kissed you so suddenly.” The intensity of the moment had shifted because of how tender his touch was. “You’re safe here,” he gently whispered into your ear. “Let the pain pass. I’ll be here with you.”

As the pain began to subside, you could feel the storm in your head gradually receding. And in his presence, you felt a strange mix of comfort and unease.

Studies say that a kiss can help calm someone’s nerves. You weren’t sure where that research was based on, but it was your body who allowed itself to seek it from the man in front of you. While your mind was telling you no, your heart was urging you to grab his shirt and pull him, once again, to a passionate kiss. 

The kiss deepened naturally, and you found yourself responding to his need as the pull between you became irresistible. You were like a magnet to him—the force of attraction getting stronger and stronger the closer you were. Where was it coming from? How come you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame? 

And while you were engaged in a tight lip-locking moment, you both ended up walking towards your bedroom; stumbling towards the bed, hands exploring, hearts racing. Soon, you were lost in each other, and the world outside was forgotten. 

With both your clothes discarded on the floor, and with your steamy exchange continuing throughout the night, you found yourself eventually straddling him, moving your body to meet him with a gentle thrust. Every sway of your hips made his member hit you at your sweet spot, instantly sending a wave of pleasure within your body. 

“S-Sir—”

“Sylus,” he breathed into your ear, hands tracing your curve, “Call me Sylus, kitten.” 

Sylus. Sylus. The name sounded familiar yet foreign at the same time, but you were too sensually intoxicated to think about the history behind his name. All you could selfishly focus on at the moment was reaching your high. You were losing your mind over the euphoric sensation of having an intercourse with such a man who, not only was attractive on the face, but also on the body. 

Sylus was packed. His muscles were toned from a seemingly consistent active lifestyle and intense workout routines. It felt great when you ran your hands along his broad shoulders, down to his toned chest, and further down to his perfectly sculpted abs. 

“Mmh—!” A moan escaped your lips when you felt his shaft going deeper inside. “That’s…”

‘Good?” he whispered to your lips, encasing yours with his before he trailed his soft kisses around your neck. Each kiss definitely left a purple mark on your skin with the way he was suckling and nibbling on the flesh. 

God, he was huge, too. His member completely filled you, stretched you even, as his cocktip kissed your cervix in a single thrust. He was crazy good at knowing all your sensitive places, holding your hips down so he could start pounding you upwards. Your tits began to bounce wildly and you even had to hold onto the headboard for support, because he was starting to go deeper and faster inside you. 

“Ngh!” 

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed this,” he said in between shaky breaths before latching his mouth into your right tit. He devoured your breast like a meal, playing with the nipple with the precise movements of his tongue. It was so good. Crazy good. It made you wonder how he seemed hyper-aware of the things you liked in bed. But how would that be possible when this was your first time having sex with him? 

Sylus decided to shift the control by flipping you over, and hoisting your hips so he could lower his head down to your lady part. Your eyes almost rolled back when he spread your labia apart so he could lick your inner folds and taste every corner of your slick-coated cavern. 

“S-Sylus,” you whined as his tongue rapidly moved in and out of your entrance until drool oozed down on your cunt. His eyes fluttered as he pulled his face away, soon palming your wet vulva with slow strokes. “Mmh…” 

He eyed you with a tender gaze. “You’re so beautiful to me.” 

It was certainly odd that his compliment seemed to touch your heart deeper than intended—that if you weren’t doing sexual activities right now, your heart would have been fluttering from his sweetness, especially when he met your lips again with a soft, loving kiss. 

This time, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t detach his lips from yours, even as he was penetrating you with his cock again. With a single thrust, you were mewling into his mouth. His girthy member gave you a heavenly stretch that seemed to awaken the lustful demon inside of you. 

Even Sylus was cussing under his breath as he continued to slam his entire length in, soon increasing the speed of his penetration to a pace that made him reach his peak. At this point, the coil in your lower abdomen was beginning to intensify, and you were clamping around his cock as if your walls weren’t tight enough to make him release a series of guttural moans. 

“Are you near?” With a quick suction on your left breast, his own moans left his lips along with the loud squelching noises that filled the room. “‘Cause I am.” 

Coincidentally, you were just arching your back because of how near you were, too. With screams getting louder, gasps causing your mouths to part open, and two people connected into a single body—you disintegrated under him as your lower abdomen signaled your orgasm and your toes started curling. “Ngh—Haah! Aah!”

“Hold on for me, kitten.” Sylus pounded into you through your overstimulation, picking up the pace until spurts of seed were sent straight to your womb. His movements became sloppy and uneven, pulling out of you only to see his semen seeping out of your pussy. 

You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t fucking believe you just hooked up with a stranger. 

But was he really one? Because your heart was telling you one thing, but your mind was telling you another. You didn’t know who to trust and listen to.  

After your passionate session, the room was filled with the sound of your breaths mingling. Sylus, still holding you close, leaned in to plant a soft kiss on your cheek, whispering, “How’s it?”

Curiosity got the better of you, and you asked the very question that had been plaguing your mind, “Sylus, please be honest with me,” you paused, “Did you know me before?” 

He was silent. 

But you continued, “What was our relationship?”

Sylus looked like he was contemplating his answer, his gaze distant. His eyes seemed to have found your ceiling interesting as he thought deeply, drawing in a deep breath, and gently caressing your arm. If you didn’t know better, you swore you could see the sorrow and resignation in his eyes—the somberness he tried to hide with a smile. 

“Let’s just say I’m a fool who was in love with you for years, but you never reciprocated my love.”

“How so?” you asked, turning to face him. You absorbed his words while the pain of his unrequited love intersected with your own confusion. His answer didn’t quite feel right, but if he was truly your lover, then you knew there was a level of trust you should be placing on him. “Why do I get the feeling that I was the one who experienced a one-sided love before?” 

“No, you were loved. You were very loved. There was no one else,” he continued, lachrymose eyes staring back at you as he stroked your hair, “I was the one who wasn’t worthy of you… But I’d like to try and win your heart again this time. If you allow it.” 

Sylus’s eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the facade of the composed, enigmatic man you had come to know seemed to crack. 

The vulnerability in his voice resonated with you, and you reached up to touch his face gently. “Sylus… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry for not recognizing you before. I just… I lost a chunk of my memories, and I don’t know if it’s been altered or what, but…” Realizing that you were rambling, you took a deep breath. “I’ll try to remember, okay?”

“Please don’t.” He shook his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips while thinking of the past that was rightfully erased. “And there’s no need for apologies, sweetie. There wasn’t anything you did wrong.” 

As the rain continued its gentle patter against the window, you both settled into the quiet of the room until he pressed his lips onto yours once more. 

Sylus’s touch was tender as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. “You should know,” he said quietly and earnestly, “that this time, I’ll only have eyes for you.”

FINAL PART

[dougielombax]

Kind of like when they had to make John Kramer look younger for a flashback scene in Saw VII.

But since it was 2009/10 they didn’t have that kind of tech, so they turned to drastic measures.

What did they do?

They just got Tobin Bell to put on a baseball cap and a hoodie.

Observe:

Effortless.

I LOVE IT!

The original Drip!

Exquisite!

And yes I can look past it!

Sure it looks a bit “how do you do fellow kids”, but that’s part of the charm.

Funniest scene in the series (“piranha” is a close second).

Because unlike SOME people (CinemaSins! Wannabe armchair film critics on the internet, nitpickers and morons!) I have no issues with my suspension of disbelief!

If it fucking works, then it works!

CGI de-aging will never hold a candle to the power of sitcom characters appearing in flashbacks to college or even high school looking exactly as they do in the present day, played by actors in their 30s or more, but wearing a wig to give them a hairstyle that was fashionable at the time but deeply dated now

[master-gatherer]

I just remembered when I was in high school was also the big debate about having a morning prayer at school. Like people were arguing to have, in addition to the pledge of allegiance, to have like five minutes of group prayer before the school day starts in public school. And others were arguing to not have that, because it's public school and there's a separation of church and state, and also we shouldn't be taking time away from learning. And as a compromise, they were trying to have like a silent five minutes so that the kids that weren't religious could lay their heads down or w/e while the rest of the kids prayed.

Because, you know.

All the kids are super eager to pray, at all.

Especially teenagers. It wasn't like most teens were w/e on what church they went to except for the real hardcore religious ones that prayed regardless of school sanction or not.

[probablyasocialecologist]

And so it makes sense that these are now the places where fascism grows; that’s what these places were designed for. The suburbs were invented as a reactionary tool against the women’s liberation and civil rights movements. The US government, in concert with banks, landowners, and home builders, created a way to try and stop all that, by separating people into single homes, removing public spaces, and ensuring that every neighborhood was segregated via redlining. The suburbs would keep white women at home, and would keep white men at work to afford that home. These were explicit goals of the designers: “No man who owns his house and lot can be a Communist,” said the creator of Levittown, the model suburb. “He has too much to do.” The reason Target has become the locus of today’s particular right-wing backlash is the same reason countless viral TikToks attempt to convince women that they’re at risk of being kidnapped every time they’re in a parking lot. It’s the reason why true crime is one of the most popular podcast genres in America, and why many refuse to travel without a gun by their side and shoot people if they set foot on their driveway.

[...]

It is of course true that these mass hysterias are part of an organized right-wing movement that is attacking human rights across the country—through legislation banning abortion, gender-affirming care, and books, and making it illegal for educators to teach American history accurately. But the shape this movement has taken is not coincidental; it is in fact the product of the unique shape of public life in America, or lack thereof. Suburbanites do not have town squares in which to protest. They do not have streets to march down. Target has become the closest thing many have to a public forum. We often hear that urban areas are more liberal and suburban ones more conservative, and we’re often told that this is because of race. That may be partly true, though cities are whiter than ever and suburbs more diverse than ever. Instead, it may be that suburbanism itself, as an ideology, breeds reactionary thinking and turns Americans into people constantly scared of a Big Bad Other. The suburban doctrine dictates that public space be limited, and conflict-free where it exists; that private space serve only as a place of commodity exchange; that surveillance, hyper-individualism, and constant vigilance are good and normal and keep people safe. It is an ideology that extends beyond the suburbs; it infects everything. Even cities, as Sarah Schulman writes in The Gentrification of the Mind, have become places where people expect convenience and calmness over culture and community. What is a life of living in a surveilled and amenity-filled high-rise and ordering all your food and objects from the Internet to your door if not a suburban life? To make matters worse, the people who have adopted this mindset do not see it as an ideology, but as the normal and right state of the world; they, as Schulman writes, “look in the mirror and think it’s a window.” So when anything, even a gay T-shirt, disrupts their view, they become scared.

[donatellawritings]

୨୧ based on this submission from @sageworld

boxer!rafe & shy!reader bc they are cuties xx

a big fat reason why you were such a shy and mousey little thing was due to your thick latin accent and broken english. sure, you could hold your own with basic conversations, but your doe eyes never missed the way people squinted into over-exerted focus as you spoke. you were well aware of how you mispronounced words and the way you subconsciously elongated the wrong consonants, so you completely despised having to speak, unless you were spoken to. after spending about an hour with you, rafe was fully aware of your cute quirk and welcomed it with open arms.

quite frankly, the way your tongue carefully sang each word with practiced effort was heart wrenchingly adorable to him … and he silently wished that you’d never stop talking.

“okay, mama — y’gotta use y’words, just like i’ve been teachin’ you, yeah?” rafe calls out from the bathroom, steam leaking through the opened door, his voice raised, thanks to the toothbrush that rested between his teeth.

with a frustrated huff, you quickly blinked back the tears of defeat that welled in your bambi eyes, tilting your head back in a desperate attempt to stop your whiny tears from ruining your makeup that’s you’d spent a whopping hour and a half doing … it was so pretty, soft, and sparkly — messing it up would just send you over the edge.

you remained with your head tilted back for about a minute before the pinned up curls that covered your head became too heavy for your neck, “don’t want to, papi — i feel stupid,” you pouted your lips, swollen from the glittery plumping gloss that you’d applied just a few minutes prior.

rafe had taken it upon himself to be proactive when it came to breaking you away from your shy shell, and he figured that if you tackled your largest insecurity first — the rest would be a piece of cake. so, rafe decided that he simply wouldn’t talk to you, if you only gave him one worded answers or hummed responses.

“hey — fix y’face, no reason to be havin’ an attitude,” rafe enters his bedroom, towel hung low on his semi-wet hips as he snaps a corrective finger in your direction, his glassy eyes glaring into yours as you nod obediently.

adjusting the hem of your powder pink skims bandeau top, or lack thereof, to sit just a bit higher on your perky and swollen tits, you comply, “the pr-press thingy — yo no quiero ir,” you speak, your voice shaky as you approach rafe, bare feet padding against the polished hardwood flooring, “s’too many people,” you add in a low mumble.

acknowledging your concerns with a simple nod, rafe rolls his shoulders, the towel that once hung around his hips now replaced with grey briefs as he glances over at you, before letting out a hum of feigned thought, “that’s what had y’all fussy? jesus, baby,” he sighs, allowing his tight shoulders to soften as he nudges the tip of your chin with the knuckle of his index finger.

letting out an embarrassed whine, you closed the gap between you and rafe, swinging your arms around his tense neck as you jump from the tips of your painted toes, snaking your legs around his waist, earning a knowing sigh from your man, “y’know i can’t have you sitting here alone — need to keep an eye on you, mama,” he coos, keeping a free arm curled underneath the fat of your plush ass and thighs as he continues to make his way towards your shared closet, hiking you up to sit up a bit higher on his buff and toned frame.

“no soy una niña — y’not being nice,” you speak against the side of rafe’s neck, earning a quick slap to your bare ass, “raafe, that was hard,” you moan, lightly swatting your hand against his firm pecs.

rolling his eyes, rafe grabbed ahold of a the crisp navy blue suit jacket that hung neatly, his voice monotone as he searches for his matching slacks, “not a little girl, huh? y’sure as hell are actin’ like one, princess,” he comments blankly, his squinted eyes widening as he nudges your waist with the metal part of the hanger that held his jacket, “hold this f’me.”

with a bratty roll of your eyes, your small hand grips the hanger, your chin resting atop of rafe’s flexed clavicle as your makeup remains in tact.

fisting his slacks and louis vuitton belt in his grip, rafe walks out of the closet, leaving your legs to cling tightly around his waist as he walks towards his king sized bed, spinning lowering his frame to sit down on the edge of the bed, with you straddling him as his loving gaze met your sparkling eyes.

“okay baby, who’s the man that keeps a smile on y’face, huh?”

biting back a blush, you quickly peck your tingling lips against rafe’s, “rafe cameron,” you speak confidently, oblivious to the way the man before you’s dick began to tent within the thin fabric of his briefs. fuck, he loved the way your latin tongue rolled over each letter with innocent seduction.

“yeah?” rafe raises his eyebrows, “and who is rafe cameron,” he pushes, tonguing the inside of his cheek, eyeing the way you fiddled with your fingers as the cogs in your pretty little head began to turn.

batting your wispy lashes, you take a small breath — you practiced this, “rafe cameron is th-the future uni-unified champion and the el-dest son of w-ward cameron,” you exhale, immediately breaking eye contact with rafe as you force yourself to focus on your freshly manicured nails.

“there you go! see, y’talk just fine, hm?” rafe praises, sealing it with a playful nudge to your jaw, just as his free hand snaps the band of your thong to slap the skin of your hip.

with a sharp gasp you sucked your teeth, craning you neck to see the light red marking left by the skin-tight fabric, “ay, rafe dejarme quieta!” you whined, pathetically fighting your way out of rafe’s grip, much to no avail.

securing both of your wrists in one of his hands, rafe patted the meat of the side of your ass cheek, “a’ight, cut it out — was just playin’ around,” he grabs your cheeks with his free hand, silencing you with a sloppy and slobbery kiss.

annoyed whines left your mouth as you felt the sticky gloss smear off of your lips and onto your chin, “hmph — papi, my lipgl-” you were quickly cut off by your own needy moan as rafe slid his tongue up your lips, before swallowing your mouth into a deeper kiss.

“i know, baby,” rafe mumbles into the kiss, your concealer and lipgloss painted on his chin and jaw as you tightened your arms around his neck, both of your tongues lazily lapping at each other.

the messy and sticky kiss continued for a few more minutes, before you ran out of breath — your once flawless makeup now left smeared and patchy as your lips, now red and swollen, and a bit sore stretched into a cheesy smile. a few of your pinned-up curls had fallen, some wild strands of hair sticking to your lips as you wiped the messy corners rafe’s sticky and glittery lips with the pad of your thumb.

“thank you, sweetheart,” rafe chuckled, not missing the way you still couldn’t maintain direct eye contact with him.

who would even begin to think that he still hadn’t even asked you to be his girlfriend yet?

[direbeastrex]

if it's beast, it's meast