#perhaps its time for a reread

[thefastestclockintheuniverse]

This might be the angriest we've seen Karkat yet and that's fucking saying something. Karkat is up there with Tavros in being one of the least inherently violent of the trolls and he's this close to threatening to kill Gamzee.

[corviiids]

i think im done with palacefic ch10. maybe it's dumb to post fic right before NYE but i think im gonna do it anyway PROBABLY. i want to be done with this chapter ive been overworking it for months

[seriousbrat]

i dont think its fair to say sirius almost murdered a student, he just told snape how to get to the shack, severus did it all by himself he knew that there was a werewolf

yeah, and sirius (very intelligent) had absolutely no way to predict what snape (very obsessed with the marauders) might do with that information

i'm sorry there's just no way it wasn't on purpose, and clearly he didn't regret it later:

[holygroundgone]

dungeon meshi (only ever calling it that) is such a fantastic fucking all rounder, it really feels perfect, in fact it almost feels a little too perfect, it's so good and delicious and frankly uncontroversial and palatable despite the high threshold of tasteful but immense horniness, i truly feel like ryoko kui alchemized pure gold

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ The little gifts they give you

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia)

tw: none, pure fluff

✧ Pierro – Love letters hidden in the house

When you awaken in the hush of dawn, your beloved is nowhere to be seen in the house. He often rises before the world stirs, summoned by his obligations as the Fatui Director during the first rays of dawn. However, even if he has to depart as you sleep soundlessly, it’s never without leaving a small note by his pillow.

A small, beautiful card, meticulously folded and inked in his elegant cursive. A masterful piece full of words that he yearns to speak when he is away at work. You only opened your eyes, yet a smile already graces your lips when you spot the letter on his side of the bed. It reads:

“You sleep like a tender beauty, your thoughts are my constant companion. Even when you rise, the pillows and covers grieve for the absence of your warmth, like the departure of summer, leaving but the coldness of winter. So does my heart miss you when I am away. May you rise like a blooming Leucojum, starting off your morning well, while I think of you every waking second.”

He often did that, leaving you small sonnets around the house while he was away at work. His fancy for poetry and writing had endured since his noble youth in ancient Khaenri’ah, a love untouched by time. This way, even when he’s away, he still manages to bring a smile to your face first thing in the mornings.

You’d find other letters elsewhere. One day, he’d leave it in your study room:

“The pen and paper you write in get graced by your wisdom. The tomes that line your shelves store knowledge for your interest, each page covets your attention. Share your discoveries with me when I am back, my divine.” 

Another, he’d hide it by the dresser:

“When you don your attire for the day, the stars and moons would gasp in awe. Yet it is I alone who bear witness to your truest splendor. I count the second until I may once again gather you in my arms, to undo every silken layer-” 

Oops, never mind. Best not to read that one aloud. Too intimate for wandering eyes. Either way, throughout the months, you’d collect these little love letters, always keeping them safe as a memo, giddy whenever you reread them, or stashing them happily for safekeeping. For such excellent penmanship, the Jester truly deserves some extra adoration from you. 

✧ Il Capitano – Exotic flowers and seeds from all over Teyvat

‘Is a bouquet of flowers too cliche a gift for someone you miss?’ – the Harbinger pondered to himself. He stood by the outskirts of Kannazuka, not far from Yashiori Island, where the solemn sea breeze swept by crimson Dendrobium petals. He heard from locals that these flowers were thought to be instinct, yet returned to where blood was once spilled on Inazuman soil.

You’d appreciate the austere symbolism of such flora, and the Captain knelt before carefully picking it by the stem. He paid respect to each bloom, as any warrior who understands the grievances of a quiet battlefield would. Thus, by the time his mission drew to its quiet end, the 1st of the Fatui Harbinger appeared with a bouquet presented to your arms.

“Hm? You plucked these, Capi?” – You looked at him curiously, the bouquet massive in your arms. “But that means they will wilt soon.”

The Captain’s helmet dipped slightly, his unreadable face betraying a flicker of hesitance. Perhaps this was a bad idea?

“...I apologize, do you dislike them?”

You smiled at him, with meticulous swiftness, you moved with the bouquet, searching for an appropriate vase, and to fill it with water. The Dendrobiums were indeed exquisite, yet what you desired was their preservation, especially if such blossoms bore no seeds to sow. Thus, your beloved watched in fascinated silence as you showed him how to remove extraneous leaves and guard petals. It will help the flowers last longer. Now, the Captain had more ideas.

During his other expeditions, he no longer sought out just any flowers; he would seek intel on horticulture or where to purchase high-quality seeds. If he’d purchased flowers, he’d barter for seeds rather than stems and purchase plants nestled in earthen pots. If only you had witnessed the face of the poor Mondstadtian girl who overlooked the Floral Whisper shop - Flora. She went silent as to why a Harbinger was questioning how to properly maintain Windwheel Aster during transport. In truth, he was so excited to bring his beloved one more exotic plant, he could only think of your expression when you see the petals spin in the breeze. 

Thus, you found yourself with a makeshift garden, brought to you proudly by Capitano. Each flower is a fragment of his journeys, a testament of his quiet devotion. He even helped construct a modest greenhouse, sturdy and sun-warmed, to shelter those blooms that craved warmer climates. Now, every time the Harbinger is away and spots a single flower blooming in the wild, his mind wanders back to you; what else might my beloved like? 

✧ Il Dottore – Small inventions to make your life easier

To love someone doesn’t equal to lavishing that person with materialistic luxuries. Dottore knows you have little taste for frivolity, acquiring only what necessity demands. Instead, he attends to subtler needs: when you scribble in your notebooks for hours, your fingers get tired from clutching a pen, the side of your palms are smeared with either ink or graphite. Hence, one evening, he returns with a set of gloves.

“Here, give me your hand,” – he said busily, already cradling your palms as he carefully put on two-finger writing gloves, securing your skin in comfort against the soft material. “I ensured the design is versatile when you’re writing something, without tiring or smudging your hand. Tell me if it feels better.”

You never even noticed or complained about the ache. At times, the Doctor saw you plop down on the sofa, tired and whining from cleaning around. You were always meticulous with your personal space, but none is immune from the hassle of vacuuming, dusting, or cleaning the floors. Especially if it gave you a night of painful back pain. Hiring attendants would have been the simplest solution, he thought. But he preferred an idea far more personal.

“Take this,” – he casually handed you a circular device. You blinked in confusion but accepted the new state-of-the-art machinery. “An automatic vacuum cleaner. It will map out the layout of the house so it can sweep the floors whenever you’re away. Spare yourself the drudgery.”

And another time, when you were delighted by your purchase of a sweet bubble tea beverage, you wistfully lamented how difficult it was to replicate such indulgences at home. Oh well, you shrugged, but Dottore was sitting nearby, already scheming a blueprint.

A week later, your kitchen bore a marvel: a gleaming coffee and tea machine, capable of brewing, frothing, even carbonating any beverage you wished. You just have to throw in the ingredients of your choice. Be it coffees, matchas, smoothies, or bubble teas, not even Fontainian cafes had such appliances.

“Dottore, when did you have the time to wipe out such a machine? That’s massive work!” – you inquired curiously one day, but The Harbinger waved his hand dismissively, stating:

“Hm? Oh, why, this is hardly a strain. I don’t like seeing you toil over menial tasks or seek out solutions that will just burn through your Mora. If you are in want of anything, you can always ask me. You know that, correct?”

Even in matters where you never uttered a single complaint, Dottore’s ever observant nature remained unfaltering. He would silently bask in the sight of you, committing every small nuance of your life and habits to memory. He’d sit with his chin resting on his palm, silently smiling as you enjoyed his inventions or the little knick-knacks around his lab that brought your sincere smile.  

✧ Scaramouche – Learning to cook your favourite dishes

The Ballader never grasped humanity’s fascination with food. Concerning sustenance, survival required little. Animals hunted their prey without fanfare, yet humankind alone had transformed eating into a cult. Fawning over flavors? Creating restaurants? Scaramouche never got it, even when he first lived as an innocent puppet in the rural village of Tataratsuna.

So why was he here, eyebrows furrowed as he looked over the sizzling meat on the stove? Somehow, against all reason, the Harbinger cooked an entire meal exclusively for you! 

“Ah, you’re back at last. Come here,” – he beckoned you diligently to sit down, presenting you with a bowl of Gyudon, a beef and rice bowl topped with egg yolk on top. You obeyed, baffled yet in pure awe, while Scaramouche sat opposite you with arms crossed. “Well? Don’t just glare at it. Taste it!” 

So you did. “Um, Scara… did you cook this?”

He nodded silently.

“Did you… Add any soy sauce anywhere? Maybe salt or mirin?”

Oh no.

Turns out, cooking is no simple art form. There are careful blends of spices and garnishes that make even the simplest dishes outstanding. And unfortunately for the Ballader, he missed all the steps, underestimating the power of spices that one must add to the beef. He watched you gulp down with a nervous, hesitant smile. You radiated so much encouragement that it ached. Scaramouche said nothing, only sat broodingly still. Nonetheless, he had to remind himself that he was no longer in Tataratsune. The simple folks there often kept rice as a garnish, and many imports of spices never reached the rural islands of Inazuma. He does not have to run barefoot to scavenge for Lavender Melons from wind-worn hills.

He didn’t let that deter him. Little by little, he paid more attention to the spices he had to put in. Never too much, never too little. Noticing your love for rich flavors and blends of textures, The Harbinger challenges the kitchen like an enemy, learning new dishes and methods. When you simply asked him why the sudden hobby, he replied:

“I thought humans liked homecooking. So I hoped one day you’d come… knowing there would be some. Isn’t that where a home is?”

“Oh, Scara,” - your hand found the curve of his back, to which he never leaned away. “I think you’re a quick learner, because you made leaps of progress. And your last dish, the Unagi Chazuke? It was perfect.”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it, you know?” – he mused whistfully.

“No, I mean it. I think Chazukes are your best. But don’t get discouraged. Inazuman cuisine focuses on subtle blends of saltiness and sweetness, relying on ingredients like rice vinegar, sesame oil, or soy sauce. But Sumeru? Oh, I heard they have all kinds of spices out there!”

You went on and on with unbridled enthusiasm, weaving tales of harra fruits ground into rare, fragrant spices, prized all over Teyvat. Scaramouche listened silently, more in delight at your simple excitement. Perhaps he started to understand why humans focused so much on food. Not out of survival, but as a cultural effort to spend time together, a silent way to stay a little longer. Because whenever he sat down with you over a meal, it felt more than just an indulgence.

Maybe if he ever gets the chance, he should visit Sumeru…? 

✧ Pantalone – His coats or clothing after each date

It started by sheer coincidence. One time, the two of you were enjoying a splendid afternoon, when suddenly the wind stirred without warning, bearing the chill of an impending October rain. Caught unprepared without an umbrella, and before the two of you could bid farewell for the day, Pantalone stopped you.

“Wait, honey,” – he deftly unbuttoned his coat, wrapping it around your form from behind and adjusting the fur-lined collar to shield you from the cold. “Here, wear this along the road. If it starts raining, the hood of this coat will keep you spotless.”

You wanted to protest, but when The Harbinger saw you half-swallowed by the voluminous fabric, only your gaze barely peeking through, it demanded every ounce of restraint to maintain his gentlemanly expression. ‘My… my sweetheart! They look utterly precious! Like a bundled burrito!’

Your words of worry slipped past him from one ear to the other – “Ahem. Nonsense, my love. You can keep it for now.” 

On another occasion, when he had invited you for a pleasant dinner date at his estate, the atmosphere bloomed with warmth and quiet comfort. The candlelit table was set, as you aided him in arranging the plates and dishes in the dining room. Pantalone, ever at ease in your presence, casually shrugged off his sweater, remaining in a crisp button-up now that the fireplace’s warmth embraced the indoors. However, it wasn’t until you wore his sweater after dinner that he realized he had left it on the sofa, and it piqued your curiosity.

“Ah, if I had a camera on me right now, I would’ve taken a hundred photo shots of you!”

“Sorry, sorry, I can give your sweater back.”

“Not a chance now. Keep it!”

Thus, a habit was formed. Whether by intent or by innocent accident, Pantalone would gladly share with you his wardrobe – be it coats, scarves, his pieces of jewelry, or bigger lounging shirts. You assumed he let you borrow them, like the loving boyfriend that he is. Yet he never asked for them back, even when you suggested taking them off, stating proudly:

“Honey, I have plenty more in my closet. If I were in dire need of taking them back, I could simply purchase tailor-made once more. But I’d rather see you wear them. You look splendid in my clothes.”

It stirred a quiet pride within the Regrator, to be accompanied by his sweetheart in public, and the people recognizing his iconic coat draped over your shoulder. A clear message of who has his heart cupped in their palms, and who he adores beyond reverent adoration.

Yet what truly stole the crown is when you’re together in the comfort of your home, and decide to forgo any garments and simply slip into one of his button-up shirts. He’d find you, re-emerged from the bathroom, looking all cleaned and refreshed, your figure clad in his shirt.

All the blood leaves his head. There is not a single thought in his brain - just the image of you. In bed, his button-up shirt the sole remaining piece covering your figure.

“You know, Pantalone, I must admit - I love the feeling of your clothes. They’re soft and comfortable, yet they carry a whiff of your scent. Thank you for not mind me wearing them. I can give it back if y-... Dear?”

Yep, he’s about to pass out. His beloved is too beautiful. 

✧ Tartaglia – Plushies as souvenirs from different regions

The young Harbinger took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and stretched his neck. A recent mission in Liyue lay completed behind him, but did that mean he could rest and take a break? No, alas, the battle has only started. And today’s battle is shopping in the busy markets of Liyue in search of gifts and souvenirs. 

He often makes a mental list of what presents to bring home to Snezhnaya. New fishing gear for his father, fine garments for his dear sister Tonia, rare tomes for Anthon, and vibrant Liyue kites for little Teucer. His arms often returned so laden with offerings that his family affectionately dubbed him Ded Moroz, or as Teucer would shout in delight upon his arrival: “Father Christmas is back home!” 

Nonetheless, despite the massive ordeal of finding appropriate gifts, the task Childe found most effortless is finding you all sorts of figurines and plushies from each region. 

Maybe this Rex Lapis dragon plushie? No, you already have a five-foot-tall one at home; no need for another. Perhaps this rotund bird plush, fashioned after some grumpy Liyue adeptus? Oh, but there are also beautiful plushies from Fontaine, resembling Blubberbeasts and otters. Even though the sight of otter plushies gave him a dreadful sense of déjà vu. Truly, there were far too many to choose from.

And knowing Tartaglia, his heart would cave in and purchase all of them for you either way. He would return home triumphant, adding to your ever-growing collection, until your bed became a veritable kingdom of pillowy plush creatures, half of them functioning as pillows all over the house. No matter what your cherished brought, you’d smile in delight at his safe return, but laugh when he proudly presented the chunky blubberbeast plush with a boyish grin.

“Oh, by the way, look! I also bought this,” – he suddenly stated and handed you a masterfully crocheted keychain of a little Sumeru creature. Its stitched smile looking silly.

“Ajax, what is that?” - you chuckled, more amused by the Harbinger’s goofy smile.

“The shopkeeper called it an Aranara. There is a legend in Sumeru that these little wood critters roam the jungles, but are only visible to children who retain their innocent childhood imagination.”

You turned the keychain over in your hands, pondering where best to fasten it. It was charming, like every other token Childe so thoughtfully brought you. Yet truth be told, everyone knows your favourite plushy to cuddle was not the entourage of souvenirs, but the Harbinger who bought them. And in Childe’s mind, that alone was the sweetest victory he could claim.

(Some lovelies kindly asked me if I can add the Harbinger missing in my fanfics. I try to keep those specific characters in my stories, but if you ever see me not include Scara or let's say Childe - it's not because I forgot or dislike them, but because sometime in the process of writing I do not want to repeat the same tropes for all the characters depending on the headcanons :< thank you for reading so far)

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 A Picture of a Cat.

Spencer Reid x Forensic!reader

main masterlist

Summary: After months of emailing back and forth, you finally meet the person you've been chatting with every day. Then you realize that Spencer is not just a girl's name.

Words: 2,7k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. with spencer of the early seasons very much in love in mind. the reader has a cat and has little faith in men (literally me, sorry). SO MUCH chaos and maybe lack of communication but happy ending. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This is pretty chaotic and not particularly serious😭 It might be best not to try to make sense of it. They're just two idiots in love, really.

To say that Spencer was dying of nervousness was not enough to describe his true feelings.

From the moment he woke up this morning without any mail from you in his inbox, he began to feel that his day was going wrong and that it was becoming an endless nightmare. He had lost count of all the times he had checked his mail at work, hoping to see even a one-line message from you to calm his anxiety.

As someone who had received your good morning every day without fail for the last four months that you had been talking to each other daily, he was completely taken aback and couldn't quite put his finger on why. Perhaps he had said something to offend you, or maybe you were just not feeling the spark anymore. But astonishingly, none of your numerous emails that he had taken the time to reread on the jet indicated any cause for concern.

Everything had been so positive with you recently, and he was grateful to have someone to talk to, even if it was through a computer, every time he finished a challenging case and his mind just wanted to focus on something else. He found great comfort in reading about your day and your thoughts every morning, as if it were his newspaper. Even the pictures you always sent him of your cat sleeping in cute poses, eating, or doing anything else made him smile and gave him the idea of adopting a pet, even when he had never thought about the possibility of it before. You always helped him realize some desires he hadn't previously considered.

But suddenly he didn't have any of it. Nothing at all.

Reid's gaze fell once upon the computer on his desk, and his face was illuminated by its light as he reopened his email page for what might have been the thousandth time that day. His fingers tapped over and over on his knee in an attempt to calm his nerves as the page loaded at a slow pace. He took the opportunity to look at the time on the clock hanging on the wall in front of him. It was ten o'clock at night, and yet, once again, there was no trace of you among his messages.

His heart stopped for a second when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, and he had to close the page he had opened on his computer at full speed before he could even realize who it was.

“Hey, take it easy, kid.” Derek said gently, removing his hand from his shoulder and stepping back a step. His eyes fell on the computer screen, and he was intrigued. “What were you watching?” He asked, with a playful smile.

“N-nothing.” Spencer's voice trembled beyond his control, and he quickly rose from his chair, trying to shield the computer with his body.

You had been his best-kept secret for quite some time, and he was content with that. He enjoyed the idea of maintaining a certain level of privacy in that aspect of his life, as something just between you two. It was more special and romantic that way.

“Nothing? Is that what they call those things now?” Derek inquired, his tone teasing but not unkind. The boy blushed a little, unsure why. “I must admit I'm surprised.”

Reid had to think for a few seconds to figure out what his colleague was talking about, but even before he could understand, Morgan had started speaking again.

“Anyway, turn that off.” He said, pointing to the computer and settling his bag over his shoulder, ready to go. “Someone's waiting for you in the boardroom.”

Almost automatically, Spencer frowned and watched him, waiting for him to provide more information or at least laugh if he was making a joke. However, that didn't occur. Derek didn't laugh at him or anything of that nature.

“Go, Reid. It might be best not to keep the girl waiting.” He gave his friend a gentle pat on the shoulder and a reassuring smile before heading off on the way to the elevator.

A girl? Waiting for him? How?

Spencer took a moment to collect his thoughts, attempting to grasp the meaning behind Derek's words and the circumstances surrounding the supposed visitor. With a measured pace, he stepped away from his desk and proceeded down the hallway, heading for the boardroom with a contemplative demeanor.

As he opened the door and cautiously stepped inside, he was met with the most glorious sight of his life, the one he had waited so long for, the one that now quickened his pulse and seemed to bring him back to life after feeling dead all day.

You.

Standing at the table, looking intently at the various maps and data scattered around the round table in the center of the room. So deep in thought that you were not even aware of his presence. As pretty as in the pictures of you that he had seen.

He couldn't help but let out a little "oh my" at the sight of you. His heart was pounding so hard he thought he could hear it from across the room, or maybe his ears were just ringing from the blood rushing to his head. Reid stood still, looking at you, amazed. He could see how the light touched your hair and how you bit your lip as you concentrated on organizing the papers and a folder in your hand. It was real. It had to be real.

“Hi.” His voice suddenly startled you, making you realize that you were no longer alone and that the door was now open.

You look up from the documents you are examining and see him by chance. It takes you a moment to realize that he works there, and only by the FBI badge in his pants pocket.

“Hi.” You responded after giving him a very obvious visual scan.

Your voice.

It was the first time he'd heard you speak, and it was just as he'd imagined it would be.

“I’m-” You extended your hand in a cordial manner to introduce yourself, but he interrupted.

“I know who you are.” He spoke quickly, smiling at you. “I...I...you are...” Reid cursed himself for stuttering the sentence as his tongue suddenly felt too heavy in his mouth.

“Okay…I'm waiting for someone.” You said it politely, but your tone showed your anxiety.

Oh, you didn't know it was him.

Spencer let out a laugh to relieve the growing tension, but it came out sounding like a cough. He wanted to hit himself. Why was he acting like a child? He was an agent, for God's sake. His job was to talk to complete strangers every day and do entire profiles without getting nervous. He found it hard to understand how that was changing so much now. He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak more clearly.

“Yes, I know.” He replied, sounding a bit nervous. His voice was a little shaky, as if he was straining to get the words out.

“Do you know if this person is coming?” You were standing there with your arms crossed, trying to see if anyone else was coming after him.

At that moment, a look of confusion came over his face. It had not even crossed your mind that it might be him. And although it was to be expected and totally understandable since you had never seen a picture of him, Spencer still felt a twinge of pain and insecurity inside. Perhaps you expected him to look different, or at least not look like a kid playing federal agent.

Maybe it would have been helpful if he had sent you a picture of himself when you sent yours. That way, you might have had a better idea of what to expect. But you were very understanding of his insecurities and lack of comfort with the photos at the time. So he thought everything would be fine anyway…he was so wrong.

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath before speaking up. “Actually, it's me.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to hide how nervous he was, with little success.

As soon as he said it, you looked surprised, your mouth slightly open, and then you laughed.

“That's pretty funny.” You said it with a slightly uncomfortable smile. When you realized he wasn't laughing, you added, “Good joke.”

Seeing your reaction, Spencer felt the urge to shrink back and disappear, as if that action could erase the last few seconds of your memory and also erase the feeling he suddenly had of having screwed up in an unfamiliar way. He felt his chest tighten as you asked him again if the person you were waiting for was coming. Was it so hard to believe that he was the person you were talking to? The one who earned your trust and affection?

“I spent several hours on a plane, so please let me know if your colleague is coming.” You spoke again, your tone conveying a hint of disappointment and fatigue. “If I'm a nuisance and Spencer doesn't want to see me, I'd appreciate knowing that.”

Hearing you say his first name gave him an unexpected shiver. It sounded so pleasant and intimate. He took another deep breath and forced herself to speak clearly.

“Wait, he does want to see you.” He paused for a moment, realizing he sounded a bit ridiculous. “I mean, I do. I'm Spencer.”

You're momentarily taken aback, unsure if the guy in front of you is joking. His nervous expression suggests otherwise, and you even entertain the possibility that he might be crazy.

Oh my goodness, you were all alone on a practically empty floor of the FBI offices with an insane agent.

“Just let me know if she's coming or not, please.” You said, taking a few steps back to be at a safe distance from him.

His mouth was so dry he could only manage a soft, hoarse whisper. “She? Did you think I was a girl?”

“You?” You furrowed your brow, feeling more confused and uneasy.

At last, he had a suggestion and reached into his pocket to retrieve his badge, holding it out to you in a gesture that seemed to convey innocence.

“I’m Spencer Reid.” He said, his voice betraying a hint of awkwardness as he was caught off guard by the peculiar turn of events.

You looked at the badge, confused, and slowly looked up, looking into his eyes closely for the first time. You studied his face intently, not really believing it.

“Are you Spencer? My Spencer?” You asked.

When you said “my,” he felt a flutter in his chest. His brain was trying to tell him not to get too invested in the moment, but the vulnerable part of him was moved by the way you said it, like he was all yours. There was a special air of affection there that he liked.

“Yes.” He replied, almost in a whisper. “I am.”

You had to take a moment to process the information, eyes glued to his as you tried to make sense of it. Little by little, you come to understand. This was the person you had been talking to every day for months—the person with whom you had shared your fears, stories, and dreams. Yet you hadn't even asked him for a picture or a call—anything that would have made you realize that he wasn't a woman. It seems almost unreal to you to have fallen into such a confusion.

“I sent pictures of my cat to a man?!” Was the first thing you thought, and it managed to come out of your mouth clearly, in an indignant tone. “I said you were my soulmate!”

Now you were the one who sounded insane.

He stood there for a few moments, looking at you and seeing the different emotions on your face. When he finally spoke, his voice had a hint of insecurity in it.

“Yes…but your cat is cute, and you take good pictures.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking a bit nervous. “Did you know that the evocative power of images is widely studied? They can help us verbalize and even rescue forgotten memories and stories from our collective memory and-” He silences himself. “Sorry.”

When he fell silent, your brain couldn't do the same, and thousands of hard-to-filter words began to appear. You had a strange feeling in your chest, a mixture of familiarity with the way his ramblings sounded to you, just like the emails you loved so much, and confusion about the whole situation.

“This is so strange.” You said to yourself, pacing around the room a couple of times. “I was so stupid-”

He observed you with great interest, trying to discern the thoughts and feelings that were likely swirling in your mind. He could empathize with your confusion, as he was also uncertain about the circumstances. He couldn't blame you for feeling bewildered. You had embarked on your journey with the expectation of meeting a girl named Spencer, but instead, you encountered him. You had envisioned a lovely girl, and you found him—a simple individual, a nerd who had been told on numerous occasions that nerds lacked charm.

“No. You're not.” He said, attempting to manage his desire to bridge the gap and offer solace. “It was a misunderstanding. I should have provided you with more information.”

“How would you even start a conversation by saying you were a man?” You let out a laugh to yourself. “I would have stopped talking to you instantly.”

The sentence hit him right in the heart.

The two of you had the opportunity to communicate by mail when your boss asked you to send reports on several of the autopsies with similarities you had done to the BAU. It was then that a picture of your cat was sent in the middle of the files. Spencer was the one who received it and made an attempt at a joke after your long apology. And then another, and another, until you ended up talking for four months until now.

But if you had known from the beginning that he wasn't a woman, you wouldn't have bothered to get to know him at all.

“I...I don't know what to tell you..” He admitted, sounding a little more vulnerable. “But why did you think I was a woman?”

After a moment's thought, you said. “Your name made me think of a girl I knew in college. And you...you were so nice and sweet in your emails that I found it hard to believe that a man could be like that through a screen.”

When you shared how you perceived him through his emails, it seemed that a certain vulnerability came to light. The situation had turned the tables, and now he was the one standing there trying to process the information.

“I thought I finally had a friend. You know what my job is like...and yours is just as all-consuming.” You spoke again, having to sit for a moment in one of the chairs in the place, trying to calm down. “It would've been great to have someone who understood me as a friend.”

He felt a pang in his heart at your words and was instantly reminded of the times you'd confided in him about how isolated you felt in your lab, surrounded by dead people and computers.

“You can still do that.” He replied without thinking. “I’m still the same person as before, just different packaging.”

For you, it was much more than that. First of all, you trusted him in the beginning because you thought he was a girl; that's why he understood you so much and you had that special connection.

Hell, you'd even told him how bad your period was, and he'd understood so well. He'd given you tips and facts that you didn't know that were beyond your expectations of what the average man knew.

“I mean, I'm still someone you can talk to.” He continued, his hands moving nervously in his pockets. “Unless you...unless you don't feel that way anymore.”

When you finally spoke, your voice sounded almost whispery and gentle. He couldn’t help but lift his gaze from the floor to you, feeling how his body relaxed just a bit with the soft sound of your voice.

“No, no. I still want to talk to you…if you’re my Spencer.”

“I am, all yours.” He replied with a smile.

[uncannydevotion]

Can you do toby, hoodie, and masky being instructed to kill their s/o by slender? Would they actually go through with it?

a/n: picture me rubbing my hands together evilly upon reading this request okay. this is so so so short but i felt like it would drag on if i made it any longer im sorry </3 but i hope you enjoy it!! thanks for the request, i love angst <3

warnings: major character death in tobys part!! murder, attempted murder, blood, descriptive death, memory loss, overall everyone has a bad time, but hoodie is like... vibing. also not proofread im incapable of rereading things i write.

MASKY

It's certainly not an order he intends on following, but he's well aware that he's susceptible to Slender's influence, so he's not quiet sure how to avoid it.

The only one of the three to actually try and negotiate with Slender. You weren't a threat to anyone, let alone it. He didn't understand why the being was hellbent on getting him to kill you, especially since it knew that he loved you.

And that's just the reason.

He loved you, so you were a distraction. You were a weakness, and Slender doesn't take well to its proxies having weaknesses.

But it was a reasonable being. For Masky, at least. The man was logical, so they saw eye to eye a fair amount of times. He had yet to go against any of his other orders, so Slender was willing to negotiate.

Its terms? Masky would have to cut all contact with you and your memory of him would have to be taken so to ensure you wouldn't try finding him. And in exchange, you would get to keep your life.

Now, obviously, he didn't want that. Masky loved you, so why would he ever want to part ways with you? Almost as if to show him what would happen if he didn't accept its terms, Slender caused the man to black out, and when he came to...

He was in your bedroom, standing over your bed as you slept, a gun pointing at you. His finger was on the trigger, and he quickly dropped the gun before anything could happen.

The thought of you dying, the reality of living in a world without you in it, was enough to make him agree to Slender's terms. Masky disappeared from your life, and your memory of him went with.

Though he remembered you. A sick form of punishment, perhaps, for falling in love. He remembered everything about you.

HOODIE

Hoodie is, out of the three, the one most likely here to blatantly disobey Slender without fear of consequence. Though Slender is technically his boss, he's not the type to blindly follow orders unless they make sense to him.

No amount of punishment has been able to break him, but he's too valuable of a proxy for Slender to rid of him.

When the order first comes to his mind, he almost laughs from the sheer absurdity of it.

He does not care what reason the entity might have for wanting you dead. Hoodie loved you, so he would not kill you. And should Slender try getting one of the other proxies to try and kill you, Hoodie is not against harming them.

His loyalties lie with you, first and foremost.

You are one of the very few things in his life that brings him joy, there's just literally no way in hell he'll let anything take that away from him. Not even his evil eldritch boss can force him away from you.

And unlike Masky, he won't distance himself from you. He's... pretty selfish, to be honest. His very presence puts you in harms way, and you might have people actively trying to murder you from now on but don't worry!!

He'll keep you safe, trust him.

TICCI TOBY

The only one here who will actually kill you. He doesn't want to, believe me. Toby will actively go out of his way to try and defy Slender like Hoodie, even, but he is the entity's most loyal proxy, so it's a short battle.

Toby's loyalty to the faceless being runs deeper than anything else, even his love for you. If Slender wants him to kill someone, then he will.

But he doesn't kill you willingly, if that makes you feel any better. Toby ignores the order for as long as he can, until Slender runs out of patience. And when it does, it will hound Toby with endless static and agonizing pain, punishment for disobeying its orders.

It will break Toby down, and once it's sure that Toby can't disobey it again, Slender will demand he kill you. And this time, in a mindless haze, Toby does it.

Maybe he thinks he's killing someone else, your screams and cries falling upon deaf ears as he slams his hatchets into you over and over again under you could no longer be recognized, your blood staining his clothes and skin.

Toby won't remember you. You were a weakness that had to be purged, so Slender ensured that every memory he had of you was repressed. But even so, there's this aching feeling in his chest. As if he was missing something important, something he can't quite place.

He mourns you, and yet he can't even remember you. He just feels... anguish, for some reason.

[howlingmod]

your writing is gorgeously thought out, making me awe struck even at the singular paragraph. its something that genuinely makes me reread every single word in the book despite already knowing how the end will be played out <<)).

could i acquire a builderman x reader (that has a stun ability, or lead the killers attention to the other teammates to them) one where throughout the match the reader tries to protect builderman at all cost, whether or not when building a sentry/dispenser, and he thinks of if as a sign of affection. when in reality it isnt; the reader protected him because he was a survivor that could give the killer a debuff. though reader finds it sweet that he found it as a gesture of affecrion <<))3

ah! or perhaps, a similar one, a chance x reader one? includes some 'damn, do they ever gaf💔' moments whereas the reader shrugs the action of chance trying to impress / save them at any cost, because they, too, are a stunner. but then theres this moment that the reader genuinely needs his help —stun on cooldown, low health, whatever— and for once, appreciates it..heart emoji

ALL /NF,, TAKE YOUR TIME AND NAPS THUG,,

-glaggle anon

summary - builderman x reader, more pining than anything

misc - might be written a little strangely, first time doing hcs on my fone ..... :smile: , reader is some kind of swordfighter

-You weren't particularly close with any of the survivors. after excursions, you'd sneak off to your own little corner of the world without so much as a peep until the next venture had to be made. This wasn't to say you went unseen, though. During trips out, you'd stick to a select few a majority of the time, hovering over them while they finished a generator and peeking around corners for the killer.

-Builderman was frequently one of your targets. At first, he thought it was just chance you seemingly paired up with him, randomly selecting him as your choice of company. That was until you kept pairing up with him, routinely finding his side over and over again.

-He'd grown accustomed to you sticking by him, instinctively walking off and expecting you to follow as soon as you got somewhere. He'd make small talk with you, often going unreturned, listing off the things he planned on making, where they'd go, why- you weren't spared his vision. Instead of keeping an eye on you as you hovered around him, he fully trusted you to alert him of the killer, keeping his head down and focusing on rewiring a generator.

-I mean, he'd seen you in action. Maybe you hadn't cut down the killer before, but you definitely pushed them off your guys' trail a few times, holding your own when it came to a swordfight. Where he'd start running off and trying to lose the killer, you faced them more head on, unafraid to clash with them. It was something he'd grown to admire, your ability to face your fears and challenge the killers.

-Instinctively, he'd start to come find you after excursions, checking in on you and making sure you didn't have some secret, mortal wounds you were shaking off the entire outing. He wouldn't be surprised, you didn't exactly stick around long enough for people to assess your condition. So, he'd taken it upon himself to worry about it, keeping an eye out for you the way you did him. If you were looking around a corner, he'd check behind the two of you. If you were going to move, he'd try and shield you from view, claiming it was harder to see him in his attire. It was the little things he started picking up that built over time, feeding his fondness for you.

-It came to a head not long after. You'd both been blindsighted, caught off guard by the killer. A blade came down and Builderman only narrowly avoided it by you yanking him out of the way. While he stumbled back and watched in awe, you took your own weapon up to knock them back, whipping around on your heel and running away dragging Builder with you.

-Eventually, you found what you deemed a suitable hiding spot, slumping against the wall in front of a generator for Builder to work on. He'd gone to check it out before he stopped, looking at you for a few moments longer. You were still holding onto your sword, at the ready for another attack, but your hand hovered around your other arm, halfheartedly pressing down on a wound, barely glistening in the lowlight. You'd made a noise of surprise when he stepped towards you instead, moving your hand aside to try and get a better look.

"Here, why dont you take it easy?" Builderman hummed, smiling at you, "It seems like most of the generators are up. we can wait out here for a signal from the others."

-He pushed beside you, grabbing materials out of his bag for a health dispenser. You could only stare at him. You hadn't expected this from him. It was his voice that'd given away this was more than just a gesture of platonic appreciation, tone too sweet, too genuine in its delivery. Neither of you said anything else, sitting in a quiet rare moment of peace you (hesitantly) allowed yourself to soak in.

-From then on he stuck to your side like glue after outings, finding whatever odd corner you holed yourself up in and sitting beside you quietly. You allowed him to stay, if only because he was quiet and, admittedly, his company felt grounding. He would sit and work on blueprints as you sat and sharpened your blade, paying the other no mind and simply existing together. It felt right.

[harkharknessness]

lucid (part two)

summary: You've got the journal back, but it doesn't help your spiral... especially once you look more closely at what's inside. warnings: nothing really, i think. allusions to sexy dreams. weaponized bureaucracy, mention of “female anatomy” but only in the anatomical sense, it's a slow burn, folks. word count: 5.2k (part one) (ao3)

You stared at the book in your hands. You stared so long that you could see the pen marks on the insides of your eyelids when you blinked.

This couldn’t be real. You had to be imagining things thanks to the lack of sleep and the abundance of anxiety you’d accumulated over the last few days.

But you kept looking, and the words on the page didn’t change. So you flipped to the next page. More red. And on the next. And the next.

Almost every page was littered with annotations, arrows, underlines, and at the bottom of each entry, a grade.

An actual letter grade.

She’d marked up the notebook as if it were just an essay you’d turned in for class. Academic feedback on the dreams you’d had about her.

After one paragraph, which you could tell you could tell by the slope of your handwriting that you’d written in the middle of the night, she noted:

C. Rushed. Grammatically inconsistent. Suspension of disbelief stretched to its limits.

Your face hadn’t stopped burning since she’d handed the notebook back to you, but it was hotter than ever as you read her critique.

You wanted to stop already. You needed to close the book or risk losing any remaining shred of self-respect you still had.

But something wouldn’t let you. Morbid curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps the chance that something she’d written in the margins would give you just a little bit of a thrill, whether or not she’d intended to do so.

A few pages later, in the margins of a longer, more detailed entry:

Your focus wanders here, bordering on sensory overload. Choose a lens: touch, sight, sound? One will do.

Then there was just:

Good.

Good. Good? What was good about it?

You couldn’t bring yourself to revisit whatever dream that comment appeared next to. You hadn’t reread any of them, actually, and didn’t think you’d ever be able to read any of them again, knowing she had seen them all. You’d just think to yourself She’s read this, at the end of each sentence.

And then maybe you’d have to scream into a pillow.

Between all the thinking and screaming, it would take an excruciatingly long time to get through even a short entry.

Still, you quietly folded the corner of the page over itself, just in case you ever did want to find out.

At the bottom of another page she’d written,

B-. Demonstrates a weak understanding of the female anatomy—surprising, considering the extensive knowledge on display elsewhere.

You felt a wave of shame like you’d never felt before. What had you possibly written to make her say that? And was it better that you’d apparently made up for it elsewhere? Or did that make it worse?

Worse. Definitely worse.

Then you read:

An impossible position for anyone but a contortionist, which the professor—to my knowledge—is not. If she is, that should be established earlier in the narrative.

and your knees buckled. Your free hand barely found the corner of your mattress to keep you from falling to the floor. That one felt… different. Like a confirmation that she knew. Like a claim. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

As you neared the end of the notebook, it became harder and harder to continue. You didn’t have to read these dreams to know what they were about. They were fresh, not yet buried with the rest. You knew exactly what she was referencing in her notes now, so when she wrote something that was just a little too specific, you had to take a deep breath and close your eyes, letting the part of you that was begging you to stop and the other part keeping you moving forward fight it out.

When you finally made it to the last page, to the entry you’d made the day the journal went missing, there was a mixture of horror and relief as you read:

Your subject has proven to have quite the manual-oral fixation. Fascinating.

written right next to where you’d described swirling your tongue around her fingers.

You slumped back, your shoulders thudding against the wall, as if your body had only just caught up to what your mind had been feeling for days.

Your eyes swept over the final grade of the book.

A. Compelling, if not overindulgent.

Something turned warm in your chest—an “A” from Agatha Harkness? Unheard of, even in the classroom—but it chilled a second later when you read the line below:

See me during office hours.

You slammed the notebook shut and threw it across the room like it had burned you. Your head fell forward into your hands, fingers pressing against your scalp, trying to give yourself something to focus on besides the inky words floating around in your mind.

It would’ve been one thing to receive the notebook back as it had been. Just your words on the page in dark-colored inks. Nothing more, nothing less. There would’ve still been plausible deniability in that.

But this? There was no hiding from it. She’d not only seen what was inside; she’d read it. Analyzed it. Added her own words to it right alongside yours. Probably laughed the entire time.

And after all that, she wanted you to go to her office hours for what? So she could scold you? Humiliate you more? You weren’t naive enough to hope anything good (Good. Fuck. What an awful little word.) could come of it. Or maybe you were, but you were telling yourself you knew better.

So, no. You wouldn’t be going to office hours. You wouldn’t even be going to class for the foreseeable future. You were going to do whatever it took to never be in the same room with Agatha ever again.

The notebook remained on the floor in the corner of the room overnight—its new home as far as you were concerned—and it wasn’t going anywhere. Not until you moved out or found the nerve to burn it on the roof some night.

Maybe at some point, when you could stand to look at it again, you’d pick it up and put it somewhere a little more out of the way, like under the mattress or in a drawer. But even if it wasn’t in the most convenient place for now, it was still here, in your dorm, and not there, wherever that had been.

(In her office? In her home? If you weren’t careful you could picture her sitting up in bed, notebook open against bent knees and glasses perched on her nose as she read, smirking non-stop. But you tried not to think about that.)

But, as you were about to head out the door the next morning, you found yourself bending down and slipping the notebook into your bag, a self-betrayal you couldn’t stop. It was like you suddenly couldn’t bear to have it out of sight, like if you couldn’t see it or touch it within three seconds of thinking about it, you risked diving headfirst into another spiral about it going missing.

You wouldn’t acknowledge that, maybe, there was something else tethering you to the book, something more than just the fear that it would disappear again.

It was the same thing that compelled you to fan through the pages as you sat in the quad with your mug in your other hand, pretending not to look at it all while hoping for the faintest flash of red ink that would make your cheeks burn and your chest tight at the same time. It was the same thing that made you rub the one folded corner of a page between your thumb and forefinger anytime you weren’t taking notes in your seminar. The thing that had you clutching it to your chest as you peeked discreetly around corners, looking for her even in places she had no business being.

You were flipping through the pages again as you sat down for dinner that night—not seeing anything inside except the occasional flash of color—when Wanda slid into the seat across from you like she’d appeared from nowhere.

You jumped and your finger lost its place in the pages, causing the rest of the notebook to fall closed with a soft thud.

Wanda’s brow raised in amusement.

“Whoa. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” you nodded, then took a deep breath through your nose. “You just surprised me.”

Wanda nodded back, but you could tell you hadn’t dispelled all of her suspicions. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing toward the notebook.

You shrugged, trying to regain some of your composure, but you’d lost the upper hand on subtlety already. “Just notes.”

“Did they get graded? What was all that red?”

“New memorization technique.”

“Can I see?” Wanda asked, reaching for the notebook. The way you saw it, it almost seemed to float into her waiting hand before you pulled it off the table entirely.

“No.”

“Okay… You’re being weird,” Wanda said, and you knew it was true, but you didn’t give in. The notebook remained securely in your grip under the table. “But fine. I don’t need to look at your secret note-taking strategy. If I fail this test for the gen-ed class I’m taking, though, I’ll blame you.”

You laughed once, sharp. “Blame yourself for not taking it freshman year like the rest of us.”

Wanda tilted her head as if demonstrating her decision to disengage, then stood. “I’m going to go get food.”

You followed, but not before putting the notebook back into your bag.

You checked three times to make sure it was still there before you left the cafeteria after you’d finished eating, even though you felt pathetic by the second look. Wanda pretended not to notice.

Thursday morning came and went. You stayed in bed—just staring at the ceiling, not even scrolling on your phone—long past the time you should’ve been in Harkness’s class. But even if you weren’t physically there, your mind was.

The slide on the projection screen would have the name of the day’s lecture in a simple, bold font; nothing garish. She’d probably started with a reminder of the midterm due date, then offered up a general berating to the procrastinators. Maybe she’d looked over to her right, seen your empty seat, and had to pause. Nothing dramatic, just for a second. So brief, no one would really even notice. But you would’ve.

Then you shook yourself out of your own head because, even after everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours, you still wanted that. And it was humiliating.

You spent the weekend almost entirely in your room, surviving off the stash of almost-expired snacks and a few water bottles you’d forgotten were hidden in the back of your mini-fridge. Texts came in from friends, but you didn’t respond to any of them until Wanda threatened to come over and drag you out herself if you didn’t give some proof of life.

Somehow, this weekend was even worse than the last when you had been running all over Westview. You didn’t realize then that ignorance really was bliss. The stillness was suffocating, and the knowing was tearing you up inside.

But that wasn’t keeping you from getting stuck on a whole new set of unanswered questions.

Why had she bothered to give the notebook back, and why had she written those notes inside of it? Was it just to tease and torture you? A silly little mind game she decided to play with you? You wouldn’t put it past her, and if that’s all it was, you’d have to begrudgingly appreciate her commitment to the bit, even if it made you want to disappear to start a new life in some faraway country.

Why had she read it at all, once she knew what you were writing about? Was it just the same compulsive curiosity that had kept you reading her commentary? Just some sort of sick delight from finding something herself pulled into so completely indecent?

But… she had made sure you knew she read everything. There wasn’t a single page without some kind of marking, at least not once you got past the class notes and the less scandalous dream fodder from earlier in the year. That had to mean something. Right?

No matter what you tried to do—read, do homework, or even just scroll on some stupid app on your phone—the questions wouldn’t leave you alone.

More than once, you were tempted to press on the bruise. You’d even pick up the journal and stare for a long time at its cover, but you could never bring yourself to actually open it up. The most you could do was feel for that folded corner and run your finger over the crease, back and forth. By the time you were in classes on Monday, the crease was so soft that the little paper triangle was barely hanging on anymore.

By Monday night, the feeling had become unbearable; you had to do something to stop it from continuing to fester.

At nine-thirty on Tuesday morning, you left your dorm as you normally would, but instead of making the journey to the room on the third floor of the Stark building, you found yourself heading toward the administrative offices.

You were standing in front of the registrar’s window by the time the bell tolled to mark the start of the 9:45 classes.

When the student worker—Kate, according to her name tag—asked you what you needed, you didn’t hesitate. “A course withdrawal form, please.”

She shuffled through a row of file folders before plucking up a half-sheet of paper.

“Here you go,” she said, holding it out for you to take. “Better hurry. Deadline’s Friday.”

You shifted the weight of your bag higher onto your shoulder and clicked your pen. “I can just fill it out right now. I’m not in a rush.”

“You can fill out most of it,” Kate agreed, “but you need a signature from your advisor if you’re going to drop to part-time.”

“That’s okay,” you assured both her and yourself, positioning the tip of your pen on the First Name line. “I still have enough hours.”

“And you have to get one from your professor, too.”

Your heart sank.

Your eyes scanned the form and, yep, down in the bottom right corner, a line for an instructor’s signature.

You glanced back up at Kate. Her face was schooled into a look of practiced sympathy, like you weren’t the first person she’d had to break that news to. “Rough semester?”

You snorted. “Something like that.”

“Well,” Kate said, leaning forward on the surface of her side of the counter. “You can try the online form. Usually if the professor gets it by email, they’ll just sign it and send it back. Nothing in person.”

That was the best news you’d heard in over a week. You looked up at her, eyes wide and grateful. “You are a lifesaver.”

She laughed quietly before collapsing back in her chair. “Good luck,” she said with a tilt of her head before you walked back toward the exit.

The bell in the campus clock tower started to signal it was ten o’clock just as you stepped back into your dorm building. Agatha would be three slides deep into her PowerPoint by now.

When you got back up to your room, you sat down at the desk in the corner. You almost never sat there—the wooden chair was uncomfortable and you could hear the music that your neighbor seemed to play around the clock even more clearly than usual. But it felt like the right place for now.

You grabbed your laptop out of your bag and pulled up the registrar’s website, searching for the digital version of the form you’d crumpled into a ball on your way back; there was no way in hell you were using the paper copy.

When you finally downloaded it, you filled in the fields in record time. You wanted to get it over and done as quickly as possible; there was no point in delaying it. You were never setting within fifty feet of Agatha Harkness ever again, and this form was step one toward that goal.

The basics were easy—name, date, student ID, course number—but you hesitated when you got to “Reason for withdrawing.”

You couldn’t very well say: “My professor read through all of the sex dreams I’ve had about her, so I now need to use the class time to attend very intense and targeted therapy instead.”

So, after thinking a little bit more, you went with, “Course load too heavy.”

It was kind of true, or at least, you could argue it if you had to. Besides, seniors dropped classes all the time, realizing too late that they only had energy for the bare minimum in their last couple semesters.

You sent the completed form to the printer down the hall, then walked down to sign it and scan it back in. As you walked back down the hall with the printed copy in hand, your eyes were drawn to the last space you needed to fill.

Instructor’s signature.

It wasn’t written in red ink, but it haunted you just as much as any of the writing in your notebook.

When you got back to your room, you sat down at your desk and opened a blank email. You attached the scan first, something that allowed you to feel productive without actually doing any of the real work. But once the file showed up at the bottom of the window, loaded, there was just you and a blinking cursor.

You took a deep breath and typed:

Subject: Course withdrawal

Good morning, Professor Harkness,

I’ve decided I need to withdraw from your course. I’ve filled out the form (attached), so all it needs is your signature. Would you mind signing it so I can turn it in to the registrar? The deadline is coming up on Friday.

Thank you in advance.

You scanned the message twice for typos, even in your auto-generated signature. It wasn’t like it mattered at this point, but you had just recently realized you had a fear of being “grammatically inconsistent.”

Then you hit Send.

The reply came almost instantly, even though class should’ve still been in session—maybe you were missing a quiz.

Subject: RE: Course withdrawal

Bring it to office hours.

-AH

You read the email over and over again until the words stopped making sense and a metallic taste tinged the inside of your mouth; in the silence, you’d managed to bite enough skin off your lip that it had started to bleed.

Of course, that’s how she responded. You should’ve known better.

So, now, you weren’t just facing a W.

You were getting an F.

Because there was no way in hell you were going to go to Harkness’s office hours to ask her permission, in person, to drop her class. And there was an even smaller chance of you ever going to class again.

So between the lack of attendance and the assignments and tests you’d miss, you were going to fail.

An F, though… And after you’d worked so hard over the last few years. Were you going to take the hit to your GPA so you could avoid a few minutes (awkward, humiliating, and soul-destroying as they would be) of embarrassment? Avoiding her wouldn’t make her somehow unread those things you’d written about her, and screwing up your transcript wouldn’t change the words she’d written on those pages.

Then again, how much damage could one little F do, right? Maybe it just sounded bad, and it wouldn’t drop your GPA by more than a few decimal points. And you could start planning right now on how to talk your way out of it if someone ever happened to question the course on your transcript.

The ideas chased each other in and out of your thoughts for the next hour as you lay on your bed on top of the covers. You were missing your second class of the day, again, just to stare up at the ceiling of your dorm, like the pinholes in the tiles would rearrange themselves to spell out a solution for you.

Your phone buzzed on your stomach and you almost ignored it, feeling like the mere act of raising it up was beyond your current capabilities. But when it buzzed again a few minutes later, you picked it up.

A calendar reminder was fixed in the middle of your screen.

Harkness office hours: 3-5 PM

You’d set the alert just a few days before your journal had gone missing, assuming you’d want the time to ask a few final questions before turning in your term paper. And then a second alert for good measure.

If you were going to get that signature, you only had two chances to do it—today’s office hours or Thursday’s.

So you could sit with the pit of dread in your stomach for two more days, risk skipping again and securing your F. Or you could go now. Get it over with.

You could probably even avoid seeing her one-on-one. You just had to stake out her office and wait for another student to go in, then interrupt so you’d have an unwitting buffer between yourself and Agatha.

So, that afternoon, that was what you did.

Or tried to do.

You walked into the department and took up camp on a bench down the hall from Harkness’s office, waiting for someone, anyone, to knock so you could hijack their meeting. But you sat there for over an hour, and not one other person walked up to that door. You knew people were afraid of her, but it was midterm season, and still, no one was there.

When an hour became an hour and forty-five minutes, you debated leaving. There was still one more session of office hours before the form was due. You could wait down the hall again, and maybe someone else would show up then. And if they didn’t, well, you’d have a decision to make. But at least you didn’t have to make it right now.

Releasing a deep sigh through your nose, you got up to leave, but a door creaked open further down the hall and stopped you cold, only halfway standing.

You felt her before you saw her; her gaze was too heavy to ignore. But, oh, did you try. And, despite knowing exactly how it would play out, you prayed to whatever higher power was out there that she would ignore you too.

“Leaving?” she asked, cool-voiced, but there was something in the undercurrent that felt familiar in a way you couldn’t explain.

You closed your eyes and let out a soft breath through your nose before finally turning your head to look over at her.

She was standing just outside the doorway to her office, coffee mug in one hand, phone in the other. She was still but not frozen, her thumb hovering deliberately over her screen like she’d been mid-scroll when she’d noticed you. The fabric of her button-down rustled softly as she moved to lean against the door frame.

You scrambled for words. “Yeah, I was,” you said, finally noticing the burn in your hamstrings and shoulders from the way you were still half-hunched over. You stood the rest of the way with as much confidence as you could muster.

“So you’re not here to see me,” she said more than she asked.

“No.” The word somehow stretched itself into two syllables, the second lifting a half-octave higher than you mean it to.

She nodded, raising her mug in your direction before turning and heading down the hallway in the opposite direction, but left her door cracked just enough to say I’ll be back. It wasn’t for your benefit, you told yourself. She’d just left it that way in case anyone else showed up. There were still a few minutes of her office hours left, after all.

A voice in your head was screaming for you to leave. She’d given you the opportunity. You needed to take it. Go. Leave. Run.

But you weren’t moving.

She had already seen you, and as much as you hated knowing that, you hated the idea of retreat even more. Cowardice from afar, you clearly had no problem with. But cowardice in person? It would probably be the most humiliating part of the whole thing when all was said and done. If you left now, you wouldn’t be coming back.

So you took another deep breath, rolled back your shoulders, and straightened your spine. You could do it. You could hand her a piece of paper and wait a few seconds for her to sign it. That’s all it would take. And then you could leave and move on from Agatha Harkness with your dignity intact. (Mostly… Kind of… A little bit, anyway.)

She didn’t seem too surprised to find you’d floated closer to her office door by the time she returned, coffee mug steaming in her hand.

“Thought you didn’t need to see me,” she said before bringing the cup to her lips. Still neutral. Still not giving anything away.

“I don’t,” you said. “I just need a signature.”

You both stood there, wrapped in the silence, before she reached out and pushed the door fully open. “Come in, then.”

She walked inside, and you followed, but at a distance. You stopped only a few steps into the room, maybe because you didn’t know what would happen if you got any closer, or maybe giving yourself space to bolt if needed.

She didn’t offer you a seat, and she didn’t take one herself. She just leaned against the front of her desk, one arm bracing her against the edge and the other holding the mug near her face as she watched you.

“The form,” she said, holding her hand out expectantly. Her first two fingers curled twice in quick succession, and you had to hide the hitch of your breath as you handed the paper over.

She took it and held it just below eye level, gaze flicking back and forth as she skimmed the filled-in fields. “Course load too heavy,” she read, tone deadpanned. Not mocking. Just shy of amused.

“Yes,” you nodded. You rolled your shoulders back again like a change in posture would help anything. “I’m working on my senior project and I have two other required classes I think I should focus on.”

She set the form beside her on the desk, then the coffee cup on the other, before crossing her arms over her chest.

“This isn’t about something else?” Her eyes flicked to the paper then back up like a dare.

“No.” You gestured to the form as if it had already explained everything. “I’ve just got a lot of other work to handle.”

She hummed as if she knew better but wouldn’t say so.

The quiet fell between you again, but she made no move to sign the form. Not even to grab a pen. She just stood still. Unwavering. Even more unnerving with silence than with her most cutting words.

You couldn’t take it.

“They’re not about you,” you finally said. You didn’t know if that was what she wanted to hear, and it certainly wasn’t what you planned to say, but it was out there, and you had to go with it. “I just wanted you to know that. They’re about one of my other professors.”

She tilted her head, the corners of her lips twitching almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t know there was another Agatha on the faculty. You’ll have to introduce me.”

So you had written her name somewhere in those pages. You’d known this whole time it had to be true. You just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

She exhaled through her nose, a small but knowing smirk breaking out across her face, and, God, it felt so familiar—the tendrils that had fallen in her face lay exactly where they always did before you brushed them back in your sleep. You swallowed. Hard.

“Easier question, then,” she offered like it was a favor, but you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from sighing. “How will this affect your graduation status?”

“I can just take it with Professor Hayward in the spring.”

She didn’t even try to stifle her scoff. “The only thing that man hates more than an undergraduate lecture is a department meeting.”

You shrugged. “A class is a class.”

The look that flashed across her face told you she was highly unimpressed with your answer, but it disappeared in the time it took to push off from where she was leaning against the desk and walk around to sit in her chair behind it. Her elbows perched on the tabletop, and she rested her chin on her laced finger, assessing you with sharp blue eyes that somehow made your skin sting.

Finally, she reached one hand out and tapped her fingertips over the form, acknowledging it for the first time since she’d set it down. You watched as her nails clicked rhythmically right over the space that was empty and waiting for her signature.

“So,” she said, breaking your trance. “Am I signing this or not?”

You should’ve been able to answer right away. Yes. Yes. Even a Please, I’m begging you, because what was one more embarrassment on top of the pile you’d already collected?

But instead, you said, “I don’t know.”

You stood there, not quite believing the words that had just come out of your mouth. She let you sit with it for a few breaths before breaking the stillness.

“Well,” she said as she slid the form to the edge of the desk. “Come back when you do. And until you’ve dropped the course, you should remember the midterm is due on Thursday. And that I don’t allow make-up work.”

“I know.”

She leaned back in her chair, the seat groaning softly with the shift of weight. “You missed a quiz today.”

You shook your head, trying to fight a grin while running your tongue over the backs of your bottom teeth. “Figures.”

You stepped forward only as much as you had to pick the form up off the desk, then turned to leave, only stopping again in the doorway when she spoke again.

“Thursday,” she said as if it were its own kind of farewell.

You didn’t say anything more. Just gave her one last look and then stepped into the hallway.

You walked out of the building into the chilly New Jersey autumn air and stopped right outside the doors, clutching the fabric of your coat snugly around your neck as you looked out at the campus grounds. The air that escaped your lips as you sighed fogged around you for just a moment before disappearing.

Somehow you’d walked out of that office with an incomplete form, a half-promise to show up to class again, and no solution to your problem. You weren’t right back to where you started; you were someplace even worse. taglist: @6stolenangel9 @filmedbyharkness @ahintofchaos @sweetmidnights

[tossawary]

I keep getting stuck on the logistical timelines of "The Princess Bride" because it's so fun to think about these things. I need to reread the book properly again and will probably do that soon to pick out what few comments are made about these background operational elements of the story.

Westley somehow managed to be JUST behind Buttercup and her kidnappers, so he probably witnessed SOME part of the kidnapping, perhaps an unconscious Buttercup being loaded onto the boat, but was too late to stop it. Or perhaps Westley came across the kidnapping even earlier, but felt unable to intervene when facing at the same time both a formidable giant AND a swordsman who has an expert look to him, as well as a third fellow who is clearly the boss and the schemer and may not hesitate to draw a knife on the hostage.

Westley is both very clever but also extremely reckless when it comes to Buttercup. If he had any time to confront the kidnappers, rather than seeing them just as they sailed off, I think he would have needed to spy on them enough to at least personally ascertain that it was just a kidnapping and not an immediate murder, giving him time to follow and ambush them later. Personally, I think Westley is mad as hell (unreasonably) at Buttercup at this point in time because he (has been through hell trying to get back and) doesn't yet understand why she's apparently moved on and is marrying their dickhead prince now, but he's also still madly in love with her and I think that he would act immediately (improvising like hell) if he thought her life was in imminent danger and had any opportunity to act.

I think that Westley has to have witnessed some part of the kidnapping because there's not really any other way to find out about it, except from spying on someone like Humperdinck or Rugen, but I don't get the vibe that Westley knew then that Humperdinck was the main threat to Buttercup's life and Movie!Westley clearly meets Rugen for the first time after fighting Inigo. (I don't think Fezzik or Inigo knew who had hired Vizzini either. They're clearly surprised by the murder part of the job. I can't remember how much Vizzini knew about Humperdinck's involvement either.) I think Westley would have probably made some bitchy comment about Humperdinck being a murderer to Buttercup when they were arguing.

So, Westley was probably not far behind Buttercup when she was kidnapped, perhaps planning to kidnap her himself for a dramatic confrontation and reunion when he happened across someone ELSE kidnapping the love of his life. Inconvenient! Infuriating!

And for THAT to happen, Westley was probably in the area beforehand, trying to figure out why Buttercup had apparently left the farm. Both Westley and Buttercup's kidnappers might have BEEN THERE in the crowd when Buttercup was presented as Humperdinck's future bride (going by the general series of events as depicted by the movie, rather than the book timeline with all of its princess lessons cut for time). Which is fun and heartbreaking to think about. In the crowd, a confused and furious Westley might have accidentally brushed up against a bored and daydrinking Inigo, and neither one of them would have made anything of it then.

Anyway, it would be funny if Westley managed to kidnap Buttercup first. Vizzini is very angry about his employer hiring a second team and not telling him about it - the professional disrespect! The prize being snatched from underneath HIS highly intellectual nose! Inconceivable! Humperdinck is probably also angry because HE wanted GUILDER framed for the murder, not for Buttercup to just vanish completely. He can just lie about everything, of course, but it's sooo inconvenient. Or else Humperdinck is angry because what do you MEAN the Dread Pirate Roberts is apparently involved and the Revenge has been seen nearby? That wasn't the plan! He has PLANS! And if Vizzini tries to meet up with and talk to his displeased employer about this at all, probably a secretive meeting without too many witnesses, it may quickly get VERY messy if Inigo Montoya and Count Rugen (either with Humperdinck for backup or sent on Humperdinck's behalf perhaps) end up in the same room at any point. Fezzik, who must know his friend's backstory by now, will presumably ultimately side with Inigo in a confrontation.

(This does raise the intriguing question of who exactly hired Vizzini. If Humperdinck didn't do it himself, and he may not have because he's a prince and a busy man as a warmonger, then it may have been Rugen. Or another trusted underling, but Rugen is the only underling we really know of in on the kidnapping and murder plot here. And if it WAS Rugen, then we can headcanon that Vizzini, who must also be very familiar with the revenge quest by now, presumably noticed the six fingers and simply decided NOT to tell Inigo because he's an asshole and didn't want to lose his personal expert swordsman. And in a Canon Divergence AU, it's all blowing up in his face!)

And meanwhile Westley and Buttercup are probably heatedly making out on a scenic isolated hillside somewhere.

[lustlovehart]

I just wanted to let you know that I've been obsessed with your monster and reverse!monster au 💓 I've been rereading the posts over and over again lol you're a great writer!

I was just wondering what you think would happen if the reader for each au was somehow swapped. Like monster!reader replaces hunter!reader in the monster au and vice versa. Would the monster boys be happy to have a monster darling who they wouldn't have to worry about scaring off, or still prefer the caring mortal reader? And would the hunter boys like hunter!reader more and fight about keeping them in their own ranks?

I guess they would all still be obsessed regardless lol

Thank you for your writings and don't forget to take breaks and rest!

This is such a fun idea ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎ (This ended up being way longer than expected)

The appeal with both of the au’s is the Odd one out kind of thing. As the others are taking a deep interest in you due to their status of being different from you, MH!Reader feels the opposite way, wishing to stem away from the dangers of the unknown (Despite the occupation of Monster hunter holding its mysteries, and the species of monster having their own ways.) This is essentially the make up of both Au’s. Buut, With the roles being swapped around, It surely sounds fun, because now, the cast and you are the same species, making it so they’ll have to find a different reason to become infatuated!

MH!Reader is appealing to the Monster!Twst cast as they’re a human who hunts their kind, while still harboring some form of sympathy towards them. Even with the acts of murder and all that evil stuff, they could fall into your arms, you might be horrified, but you’ll still hug them all the same.

But! If you were to swap them out with a Monster!Reader, you’d need to do something different too! Perhaps you’re the kind who travels instead of staying in one place. In this case, I think you’d have to do something along the lines of protecting humans this time! In the monster world, it’s an all for one thing, fight to survive. At first, when you protect the human they’re about to devour, they assume you’re just trying to steal their meal. But when you tell the thing to run away? They’re convinced you’re a fool.

But when you continually step in their way to stop them? Then they’ll be intrigued. If you’re a low ranked beast, they’ll gladly swipe their hand and let you drop dead. But, you’re ranked just the same as the 7 highest bounty beasts (Or so rumors says) so they can’t simply toss you away. That’s when you peak their interest. Someone as (rumoredly) powerful as you, take pity on humans? It’s pathetic… yet their actions speak the opposite.

“So, You stalk monsters you think are pathetic right? Do you attempt to sleep with them too?” Depending on who you’re talking to, you either receive a sway of the hand, or words of adoration.

The only one who is not affected by this change is Rollo. Just like his Human counterpart, he believes you to be absolutely vile. The way you save humans though is entirely the opposite. So… he’s extremely conflicted.

On the other end, you have MH!Reader with the reverse cast. It’s the same situation, where you spare a monster from the kindness in your heart. But, instead of it being them this time, they’re essentially spying on you as you let your heart get in the way. Truly… they should be executing you for such treasons, but they can’t bring themselves to do it. In this case, I like to think they had their eye on you before your first failed mission, but only when that happens do they actually engage in their interest.

Your status as a specialized hunter (Though everyone just calls you Crowleys favorite), leads to many admirers in the organization. Though, you didn’t think you’d receive 7 different letters (Plus a couple of extras from the newbie), all requesting you to transfer to their unit. They’ve only been talking to you for a few months after that job, you questioned why they were all scrambling for you attention at every turn. Maybe they just needed an extra member…? (no they’re obsessed.)

Riddle insists having someone like you in their group would be beneficial for both of you. You get less sporatic jobs, a more organized scheduele, and he gets to see you. Ace and Deuce would calm down a whole lot too… He has the highest chance of acceptance, but with the way Trey and Cater slump against the door at your answer, he understands he must try much harder. Especially if he’s going against the others…

Leona tells you if you join him, you’d get harder jobs, but will get way more rest than usual. You won’t ever see the first draft of the letter where… Your thoughts disperse when you notice Jack in the corner of your eye, the shadows overcasting him as if he’s a wet puppy. He doesn’t move from his spot when he turns his head, quietly asking if you’re gonna join.

Azul by far has the most convincing letter of request. What is it? You get a better pay and much better work benefits. Truthfully, if this was anyone else eyou’d take him up on the offer. But… Knowing him and those twins, less than ideal business transactions… you don’t think you will join them. Azul buries his head in his hands on the other side of the door, Jade sighing in disappointment while Floyd shifts from a happy mood, to a complete opposite vibe.

Kalim doesn’t actually send you a letter, he bursts in through the door just offering you the position straight up. The one who sends the request is Jamil. His offerings are rather on the standard side in truth. There’s a slight increase in your wage, but the true appeal is his offering to help assist you in your missions. Kalim may be in charge of the Scararbia unit, but Jamil is so capable… Though, you’re a bit off put by the feint smell of iron. You hope he didn't pen this after a job…

Vil is by far the most proper when he writes his letter. You’re sure this is those acting skills he has cooked up, the ones he uses to lure in unsuspecting monsters… He writes with a certain primness, yet a slight desperation that makes you feel inclined to join. You’re close to actually considering joining, but then a chill runs up your spine. You know the feeling all too well. Someone’s watching you. It’s definitely Rook. You set the paper down, leaving the room without showing any sign of knowing he’s there. He sniffs paper when you’re gone, leaving a second letter by him. You don’t read it.

Idia has the shortest letter of all. He lists what he can give you in bullet points, and then below just has a single sentence. “Please join.” Compared to everyone else, it’s the least worthy letter of acceptance. Yet, he’s the only one who gets an in person visit. He’s walking back and forth, tightening his head to the point of suffocation. He’s in a complete panic, why would you ever wanna join him? He’s the unit with the least talkative members… you’re gonna wanna leave the moment you join—

He stops his thoughtless rampage when you pull his head free from that hood. Everyone sees this happening too by the way, and suddenly they’re wishing they did whatever it was he wrote down.

Malleus is the exact opposite. He has the longest letter ever, 5 pages?? The first three are him praising your skills, your looks, you intellect, your kindness, your— It’s too much to process. You don’t even have the chance to finish the letter before Sebek basically hoists you overs his shoulder all of a sudden.

“Malleus is waiting for your arrival! As a new member you can’t be late!” Your head turns quickly towards Lilia and Silver, heavy confusion evident on your face. You… You didn’t even…! Wait, did they just assume you’d say yes to him?? (Lilia knows you didn’t. When you’re alone with him he’ll let you decide. But, convincing you with a little persuasion wouldn’t hurt would it? After all, he hopes you join them as well)

Rollo basically cucks everyone 💀. When you’re looking through and actually considering, he sits next to you. His fingers gently grab your hand and pull you away from the papers, his eyes imagining fire to set to those wretched requests.

“Why would you join them?” His mouth ghosts over your knuckles, never touching them, but connecting somehow. “I believe you’re everything without them.” Rollo attempts to block out the other 4 who nod in agreement. (He doesn’t wanna accept his alone time with you is being interrupted by Fellow, Skully, Neige, and Chenya 💀)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

suspicious detail

I was rereading the prologue to collect some information for a response and came across this interesting tidbit from Crowley:

“The student selection process has not erred once in its century of existence!” So the Mirror of Darkness has been the one selecting and sorting students for 100ish years. This aligns with what we knew about NRC’s nearing 100 loss streak against RSA.

BUT THAT’S REALLY WEIRD???? Because we now know that NRC has been around for MUCH longer than 100ish years. Lilia first got his invitation to the school 500 years ago:

Meaning that NRC was still a thing 500 years ago?? But if we take what Crowley said in the prologue into consideration, that means that the Mirror of Darkness was a recent change in the selection and sorting process. For those 400 other years, some other method was used. (~400ish years is also coincidentally how long Silver was cursed to sleep for.)

Well, TWST???? Care to elaborate??? To explain????? 😭

At this point, we still do not know how long Crowley has been headmaster for. He seems to have been the one in charge when Lilia decided to enroll in NRC 3 years ago, as Lilia thanks Crowley specifically for allowing him to be a student:

Crowley’s beef with Ambrose the 63rd in book 5 seems to indicate a long-standing rivalry. According to Crowley’s Raven Jacket vignettes, he was around as headmaster when Trein was tenured and Crewel was a student. Crowley also questions his own age, wondering how many decades ago he encountered and recruited the cafeteria’s skilled ghost chefs.

Therefore, I believe it’s entirely possible that he has been headmaster for at least the 100ish years of NRC’s losing streak. The question now is how long has Crowley been headmaster for??

If it was more than 500 years ago, then it debunks the “Crowley is Raverne/Malleus’s dad” theory, since it was Raverne who told Lilia it may be valuable to go to that school even after Lilia had tossed the acceptance letter away. How could Raverne be headmaster of NRC and be an ambassador for another country? Why wouldn’t Lilia be aware of this other occupation?

If it was less than 500 years, then it throws suspicion upon Crowley’s identity because WOW, why’s this new headmaster suddenly taking up the reins at this school that he told his friend several hundred years ago to reconsider?? And seeing how it was Crowley who let Lilia in, that’s even more shady. This would also explain the mask he wears at all times, perhaps to keep Lilia from noticing who he really is? (Though the only way this would work is if Crowley was also purposefully faking his voice, as Lilia implies that Raverne’s voice sounds like Malleus’s.)

But then thinking about how the Mirror of Darkness only started picking students 100 years ago… That means whoever was headmaster 500 prior used a different selection method??? And how does that fit into Crowley’s unknown length of tenure as NRC’s headmaster?? 💀

I don’t know if I really ended up reaching a conclusion with this post but I’d figure I’d still put it out there in case anyone found this interesting or wanted to expand on these ideas ^^

[imorynn]

⋆✩ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 ( l. calderu)

⋆✩ pairings : lilia calderu • fem!reader

⋆✩ warnings / mentions : depictions of mental health struggles, burnout, anxiety, emotional distress, comfort, mentions of nudity, baths, angst, fluff, lilia taking care of you! please prioritize your well-being

⋆✩ word count : 3k+

⋆✩ tags : @madamspellmans-met-tet

⋆✩ dividers by : @cafekitsune

⋆✩ a/n : Please remember to be kind to yourself. Take breaks if you need to, allow yourself to feel, and seek comfort in the things that bring you joy and peace. You are never alone in your struggles, and your feelings — whatever they may be — are valid, you matter. This was a little heavy to write, but I hope this brings you a bit of comfort and joy <3

The room languished in dimness, its edges tendered by the reluctant swaddle of twilight, as another indistinct day bled into obscurity. A disarray of papers sprawled across the desk — half-filled notebooks, annotated drafts, and squashed failures that harbored the scars of fleeting inspiration turned sour. Shards of fractured thoughts clung to the edge of a ceramic mug, long abandoned, its contents a cold, bitter leftover of former comfort. Amidst the disorder, a slight, rhythmic clacking emanated from the keyboard, the cadence uneven — hesitant, then rushed — each keystroke could carve coherence from the warren of your mind.

Your body had betrayed you weeks ago. Sleep came in fits and bursts, cruel in its inadequacy, leaving you more fatigued upon waking than when you had closed your eyes. Standing for longer than a few moments brought on vertigo, the world tilting like a ship caught in a storm. Your legs trembled under you; your limbs would not stop from racketing.

Even sitting upright had become an exercise in endurance, your focus slipping like grains of sand through tightened fists.

Your day-to-day flow was unmoored, the concept of time fractured into pieces of light and shadow that no longer adhered to the clock. You could not help but feel hideous, an empty shell of the person you used to be.

Even your brain, once sharp and unyielding, has turned against you. It demands stimulation, then recoils at the slightest effort, leaving you stultified and overwhelmed in equal measure. The cruel paradox is almost laughable, but you can’t even summon the energy for that.

Your posture betrayed the toll; shoulders curved under an invisible yoke, neck stiffened by hours of neglect, digits quivering with a fatigued urgency as they alternated between scrawling ink onto paper and translating disoriented thoughts onto the sterile glow of the monitor. The screen’s light painted your face in stark relief, illuminating knitted brows and eyes ringed with exhaustion.

Each line you wrote — whether traced by pen or clacked with desperate precision — felt both like a purge and a plea, a futile effort to wrest order from the chaos that churned within you. The words blurred together as you read and reread them, dissecting each syllable, cataloging for meaning in the spaces where meaning seemed to slip away.

The soft hum of the computer blended with the shift of cushions beneath you and the whisper of paper beneath your hand, a symphony of toil that bore the weight of an unrelenting inner storm. And still, you could not stop. Could not stop chasing the fleeting promise that, perhaps, the next word might finally bring clarity — or at least silence— to the tempest.

Lilia had been patient — that is, at the beginning. Truth be told, she always harbored such grand patience when it came to you. She had tried coaxing you to bed with the tenderness of a woman who had weathered storms far greater than this, easing the pen from your clutch with soft murmurs that sought to bind you in reason. But reason, elusive and foreign, had long since slipped from your grasp.

The days had obscured, each one bleeding into the next, and with them, so had her forbearance. What began as gentle encouragement turned to silent insistence, her words firmer, her gaze heavier, until tonight, she stood at the precipice of your unraveling.

Her figure filled the doorway, the tender light casting shadows across her features, etching worry into every delicate line. The ends of her maroon-painted mouth, once so immediate in baring into the warmest and sweetest smile for you, were clasped with exasperation, and her dark irises brimmed with something more profound than concern — a spiraled cord of frustration, sorrow, and love she could no longer conceal.

She found you hunched on the couch, a blanket snarled around your clammy frame, lazily draping over your dense shoulders. You did not even regard her at first, too engrossed in the haze of your own misery.

Finally, she inched forward, her footsteps measured and unhurried like the passing of time itself. Her shadow enveloped you before her voice, low and lilting with its natural timbre, sliced through the oppressive silence.

“Enough.” The utter was a soft command, steady but resolute.

You did not turn. Could not. Your gaze remained fixated on the page before you, though the words had long since dissolved into meaningless smudges. Ink bled into the fibers like a wound reopened again and again, staining your fingertips and every letter typed over, your palms, your very thoughts. “I can’t,” you rasped, barely audible, tone hollow and stretched thin. “I’m almost done.”

Her sigh was soft yet audible, a weight in the room that you couldn’t ignore. She moved closer, the ends of her skirt fluttering against the floor before her silhouette draped over your curved form in caution. “No you’re not. You’re grinding yourself into dust, darling.”

The truth in her words landed heavily, a stone descending into still water, the ripples quaking through your chest. Yet still, you refused to meet her eyes, refused to acknowledge her underlying honesty. “I said I can’t stop,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone cracking under its own weight. “Don’t you get it, Lilia? If I stop, everything— everything, just for one second — it all falls apart. I fall apart.”

“And you think this is holding it together?” she retorted, her voice cutting, each remark peeling back another layer of your defiance. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself. Do you even remember the last time you slept? Ate something that wasn’t cold coffee or a stale bag of chips?”

The coolness of her rings bit into her digits when they tightened their hold over the cushions, trembling faintly as if she were holding back something fiercer. “I can comprehend that all those things aren’t easy for you, but you’re killing yourself, piece by piece, and for what? To prove you’re enough? To push until there’s nothing left of you?”

The room seemed to diminish in size, her words closing in around you. The dull pain in your chest spasmed, a visceral reaction to the veracity you attempted so hard in brushing aside even if it lingered, it floated, it haunted. For only a second, the sole sound was the faint hum of the computer and the shallow rasp of your breath, the silence all consuming.

Anger and despair warred for control when your arms came up to push against the table in front of you causing her to slightly step back. “You don’t understand! — You don’t know what it’s like to feel this… this useless. To not even recognize your own body, your own mind. To fail at the one thing you’ve always been good at.”

Lilia’s expression softened, the sharp brinks of her frustration giving way to something deeper, sadder. What Lilia saw brought nothing but ache and pain to her poor heart. You were unwell, eyes ringed red, and bags beneath them practically the size of a quarter. While your complexion still carried its hue, it lacked the depth the sun and proper rest brought upon you.

She moved closer, her movements deliberate but unthreatening, until she stood beside you, one of her hands grappling with wanting to reach out to still your trembling ones.

“I understand more than you think,” she declared quietly, carrying the weight of centuries you could not begin to fathom. “But this… this isn’t strength.” Her hand gestured to the mess, to your body curled in on itself, to the dark hollows beneath your eyes.

“I’m not asking you to stop because I don’t understand,” she gently spoke now but no less wavering. “I’m asking because I do. I’ve been there, trying to outrun the weight of your mind, thinking you can carry it all alone. But you can’t. No one can. And if you keep going like this…” Her voice faltered, saddened. “If you keep going like this, then I’m afraid there won’t be anything left of the woman I love to save.”

Her words maintained a weight, a force a mirror held too close — forcing you to confront the reflection of your spiraling. Your exhale clawed its way up your throat, and your hands finally went still when Lilia’s came in contact with them. The pen fell from your grip, rolling to the edge of the desk before coming to a halt.

You wanted to argue at the beginning, to push her away and retreat yourself into abyss, but the fight had been wiped out of you. The tears came all too fast, unpredictable, hot, cascading down your cheeks. “I don’t know h-how to stop,” you uttered in softness, words barely coherent over the sound of your sobs. One of your hands came up to bury into your tangled hair, defiance slipping into a broken plea. “I don’t know how.”

The space between her shoulders welcomed your exhausted physique, arms encircling to swaddle you just right because gosh, you needed this. Your head bowed into her chest as she drew you into her shawl, her heat, her strength, her homely fragrance. She did not shush you, feed you with false hopes or tell you it would be okay now; she did the simple act of holding you, her hand brushing your hair despite its matted and disheveled state, her presence grounding you, painful and necessary.

The sobs came in hash waves, wracking your body with a ferocity that left you gasping for oxygen. Lilia held you with the cradle of handling something precious, palms cradling you with the utmost care, her lips falling over your forehead in murmured reassurances.

“Come, my love,” She reached down and she coaxed you gently to your feet. She wrapped an arm around your waist and you wrapped yours around her neck for stability.

She guided you into the bathroom, positioning your body over the closed toilet seat. “Sit here while I draw you a bath. ”

You sat down with a sigh, tipping your head back against the wall behind the toilet and letting your eyelids flutter shut for a moment, trying to ignore the pounding of your temples. And although your eyes were closed, your brow remained quirked. As if even in your thoughts you came face to face with the problems you were trying to avoid.

You heard the pause of movements before a soft kiss was met with your forehead, somewhat easing all the tightness you were undergoing, and that little smile of yours was enough for her to resume her actions.

You heard the streams of water pouring, followed by the grazing shuffles of Lilia’s movements; she worked with quiet and deft efficiency, adding a few drops of oil that released a grounding aroma in the air.

Steam rose around you and lazily bent at the shape of the corners in the room with gentle swirls, carrying the fragrance of herbs and oils — lavender, chamomile, a hint of rosemary. All serene and soothing within your aching lungs as you inhaled deeply. The tinge of citrine within the atmosphere made you open your eyes, already sensing your lover hovering over you.

Lilia’s chocolate browns swirled softly with compassion and love, leaking reassurance before she crouched between your legs. “Let me help you, my heart.” Her graceful fingers worked methodically to unbutton your shirt, to slip it from your shoulders with such a tenderness that made your throat tighten, blinking back tears at the nickname she tended to call you, your head dipping down.

Her touch never lingered too long, never straying from what was necessary. When you were exposed before her, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with nudity, she does not gaze at you with pity or repugnance. Only love. Fierce, unyielding love.

She stood from between your legs and held her hands out for you to take, which you obliged. You delicately placed your hands in hers and stood up. She untangled the strewn string of your pants and slid them down your lower body as you stepped out of them.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she husked when your forehead nuzzled a bit against her temple, her fingers moving to tuck a damp curl behind your ear.

You did not resist as she helped you into the water, the damp heat enveloping your coolness. A soreness took over, yet you welcomed the capacity of it, the tension in your muscles unwinding in increments as the heat seeped into your aching joints. “I’ll go get you a towel and set out some fresh clothes.”

You trembled from its temperature, and while the act somewhat alleviated your body’s ache, it did not reach or thaw the hollow coldness concealed in your chest. You sat in the center of the tub, knees drawn to your bare chest, shoulders hunched like a battered bird too afraid to unfold its wings. The water glimmered faintly, lavender-scented and calm, a direct contrast to the tempest inside you. You stared blandly at the surface but could not bring yourself to move.

Lilia returned back into the bathroom and was met with your expression. The light pranced across her features — those soft laugh lines, her sharp cheekbones, and her ever-watchful gaze that had always seemed to see you, truly see you. You could not bring yourself to meet those eyes now.

“I don’t know why you bother,” your whisper was as fragile as a dried leaf, barely holding itself together in the cold season of your tone. You brought your knees tighter into your abdomen, your gaze intended downward as though the clear dampness of it might envelop you entirely. “This isn’t me. I'm not going to stop — I’m not… that version of a person. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

She tilted her head, silver locks framing her features in similar shape to a halo, but her eyes blazed with something sharper than sympathy — resolve. “You’re still you, y/n.”

You shook your head vehemently, tears glazing your eyes as you attempted to form the words that gnawed at your chest. “No, Lilia, I’m not. I’m not the person you fell in love with anymore.” The words spewed out, ragged and raw and shameful. “I’m nothing. I stand here, right before the debris of everything I was, and there’s nothing left — I’m nothing. I don’t even know how… how or why am I still existing.”

Her shawl was discarded, kneeling beside you as her hands, holding a washcloth, dipped into the water and wrung it before shuffling closer. “Tilt your head back for me,” she instructed softly. It was neither commanded nor meek — it was a simple request, spoken with the intimacy of someone who knew how to speak to you when words felt unbearable.

You obeyed, streams of warm water dampening your head. You groaned softly at the feel of warm water on your scalp, slowly letting yourself melt against her touch. Grabbing a bottle of shampoo, she poured a generous amount upon her palm before finding its way to your hair. Discarded from her signature rings, her fingers followed and worked through the unkempt tangles with infinite patience, scrubbing away the residue of neglect, her touch both practical and reverent.

“I know it’s hard to stop,” she began, her hands moving in leisured, circular motions. “You think if you stop, everything will fall apart. That there’s no time to rest. But your body is telling you otherwise. You need to learn and listen. You are wrong, you aren't debris. You are not a ruin.”

A dry and bitter laugh emerged, and you glanced at her finally, your tears uniting with the water droplets pelting your skin, not even sparing a care if the burn of suds collided with your vision.

“Look at me,” you croaked. “Look at me, Lilia. I can barely stand without falling over. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. My body is falling apart, my mind’s barely hanging on, my heart — the very heart you say that’s yours and that you love isn’t good! You're right, there's nothing left to save! And I don’t — I don’t know how to put it all back together.”

Your breath hitched as a sob tore through you. “I don’t know why you’re still here. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t … if you didn’t love me anymore.”

“How dare you.”

You blinked, taken aback, oxygen cutting off as you completely met her gaze. Her orbs were moistened, yet they were fierce, unfaltering in their intensity.

“How dare you think so little of my love,” she spoke firmly and loudly and hurt laced every utterance. Foamed fingers wounded around your shoulders and turnt you towards her in one smooth motion. “Do you think my love is conditional? That it’s so fragile, so shallow, that it would shatter because you are struggling? You, who have shown and given me everything — every piece of yourself, every ounce of your light, your soul, who has taught me to find my way back. Do you think I would abandon you now, when you need me most?”

Her words demolished you, the sheer force of them tearing through the walls you had built around your remorse and despair. Streaks of tears once more down your drenched cheeks, her thumbs stroking them away, her fingers swiftly swatting back the mingled water and soap from your eyes as she tipped your chin up and lightly kissed your forehead.

“My darling girl, let me continue helping you. Let me take care of you. You do not have to endure this all alone.”

With a soft nod from you and another kiss from her, this time directed to your lips, she gently turned you around and proceeded to wash your hair, thoroughly swilling every bit.

She then gathered a washcloth and preferred body wash, dipped it into the water, and rubbed it together to get it foamed. She washed you with exact loving care, moving the immersed rag over your tired muscles, cleansing away the grime and the heaviness of the past weeks. She hummed softly under her breath — a melody you do not recognize but find comforting in the velvet brittle of her octave nonetheless — and you close your eyes, surrendering to her ministrations.

"Your hand?" As she uprose fully, without wasting a second you gave her your fingers to hold, and she steadied you onto your feet as you stepped out. She huddled you out of the tub and bundled you in the fuzziest towel you loved. One palm cradled the curve of your cheek while the other steadied upon your covered waist. "let's get you dressed, my love."

You sat at the hem of the bed, partaking in drying yourself up — though she wouldn't allow it — as she smoothed your lotion over your parched skin, gingerly taking in the way the ointment dissolved across your shoulders that was ensued with a soft kiss.

"You are not debris," she repeated as she slid your limbs into fresh and comfy clothes, aware of the way your eyes brimmed with tears. "You are not a ruin, and you most certainly are not 'nothing'." Her movements were unhurried, as though time itself had decelerated and permitted her this moment to care for you.

She does not allow you to lift a finger, guiding you to the bed with a patience that feels endless. The sheets were warm, the pillows plumped just so, and she tucked you beneath the blankets before nestling in beside you.

Those cinnamon brown pools engulfed you in their safety assisted with the loving strokes of her fingers upon the side of your face. "If you fall, then I will be there to catch you. And If you cannot sleep, then I will hold you. If you cannot think, then allow me to hold those thoughts for you. If you fall apart, and your mind is barely grasping onto reality, I am going to help build you up again, and again, and again. Every version of you, I love and will continue to love. You are here right now, and that is all that matters to me."

Her arms embraced you in a way that left no ounce for uncertainty —you are hers, and she will care for you, no matter how broken you feel. The pads of her fingers continue soothing patterns on your back, her lips landing in tender kisses on your temple, the crown of your head, your soaked cheeks. “You are not a burden,” The warmth of her words bristled through your shaggy tresses. “You are my love. My heart, do you understand? Let me hold you.”

And so you do. You give her the privilege to hold you, relinquishing to her love. It does obliterate the chaos or untangle the knots within you— it simply cannot, unfortunately. Though in her arms, the compressing load you have carried alone for so long felt just a fraction lighter. The tightness in your chest allayed, the burn in your throat simmered down, and the tears you had been swallowing for the past days ebbed. You nestled your head in the hollow of her neck, her heartbeat lulled your aching joints, your segmented soul, your tender flesh, and you let those fatigued eyes of yours droop shut with the feel of her lips touching your forehead.

[thusaliar]

This was it, there was no going back from what he had said and repeated multiple times. He was certain of his feelings, he knew now how love felt - he knew there was only one person capable of waking such emotions within him. P didn't want anyone else to have his love, the feeling belonged to Romeo alone, just like the puppet's heart.

And yet... He sensed the initial hesitance on Romeo's part. Was he dishonest? Did he not feel it back? Just a brief moment, it didn't even last a second, but it was enough to wake the insecurity within P's heart. It was one he hadn't felt in a long time, at least a timeline. It hit him suddenly, almost squeezing the air out of his artificial lungs. Why, at a time like this? Wasn't this supposed to be happy, good? P's hand trembled slightly, a motion that could have been easily mistaken for excitement.

P started down at Romeo, awaiting his response to the closeness and his confessions. He felt his own body go stiff, the heart in his chest pounding almost painfully, aching.

No matter what he did, no matter how many timelines he would share with Romeo... P could never be him. No, despite the similarities, he would never be him. Not to Romeo, not to his own father. Was he ever enough to anyone? His blue eyes met Romeo's and he tried to see if the King was even looking at him. Did he actually see him? Or was he looking past the blue eyes, past the freckles? Did he ignore the gentler nature?

Oh, why did it have to hurt so much?

P grimaced shortly, before being pulled closer by Romeo. He should have moved away, but he allowed him to kiss him, allowed to whisper those sweet words. The puppet melted into every gentle touch and heard every word... And yet, the fear didn't leave him. His heart was torn between happiness and fear. His Ergo filled his chest, pulsing rhythmically, but at the same time, it didn't feel like his own.

"Romeo..." he whimpered between the kisses, the distress slowly showing on his body. P wanted to hear those words, he waited for them for so long... So long, and he didn't even realize he was waiting. Leaning into the last kiss, P pressed his lips against Romeo's, wanting to believe that sweet lie - yet, something was pulling him away. Almost as if someone's hand tried to pull him away from Romeo, away from the spot where he didn't belong. "I want that too." he admitted quietly, his thumbs gently rubbing against Romeo's cheeks, almost asking for confirmation that he was talking to him, to P. Confirmation that he could see him.

Breaking from the kiss, the puppet smiled lightly, trying to keep the expression up. "Romeo..." he whimpered again, his voice shaking just slightly. P leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips once more, almost desperately, as if it was supposed to be the last one.

"I love you." he said again. If he was sure of anything at all, it was this feeling. His heart was beating fast and it was beating for Romeo. The words the King has just spoken, the promises, he wanted them. He craved them. It made him happy. So happy.

"Say my name." he whispered quietly, clinging to the bigger puppet. For the first time, a simple request sounded almost like begging coming from him. Despite the fear, his chest began to glow lightly, the sight familiar only to Romeo. P was being vulnerable, opening himself up to Romeo completely. Why did it have to feel that way? Did he really have to spoil it, at a moment like this? He just needed to hear him calling him by his name, that would be enough.

"Please."

For almost all his life, Romeo wasn't one to ask for anything. He could make do with what he had, and he never took anything what he did have for granted either. This kind of mindset was rather unusual from someone his age, especially as a student of the Charity House. Schoolmates either thought he was strange or putting up a facade, so he didn't have much friends growing up, until Carlo was introduced to him.

The first time in so long, Romeo actually wanted something. He wanted Carlo to be his friend. And so, he did. They became not just friends, but the best of friends. At one point, they had dreams they wanted to reach together; with a bright future ahead of them. He didn't ask for much, as long as he could stay by his best friend's side.

Alas, Romeo experienced the unbearable tragedy of getting what he wanted. When he lost Carlo from the disease, he felt like he lost a part of himself. He never took things for granted, but he had nothing to lose anymore either. The only time he wanted something, it was taken away from him. He decided, no more. No more of that.

The affliction eventually struck him, too. Like everyone else, it was only a matter of time until it took his life. But then, he wanted something again. This time, not for himself. Part of him was scared of death itself, though he felt like his life wouldn't have had much significance if he didn't do anything while he still could. And so, he did. He became a puppet.

He lost his humanity. He no longer knew how to feel, how to think, how to want. It spared him from the pain that he kept to himself all this time. Behind those smiles was actually a soul stricken with grief, loneliness and regret. He didn't want Carlo to see that side of him; he just wanted to be seen as a good friend. But even that didn't last long, as if his own existence was a curse to everyone whom he grew to care for.

Because of his nature for a long time as a puppet, the King didn't even know he was capable of having these emotions to this extent. P reawakened those annals of memories and feelings, supposed to have been long forgotten. So, he was nervous that if he got what he wanted, he might lose everything all over again. But it wasn't just that he wanted P, he loved him. (Wouldn't this make everything worse?)

"I love you."

There it was again. But amidst the doubts and fears, P's gestures were comforting and reassuring. His smile was bright that it would make the sun full with envy. His voice was the equivalent of the calming waves by the seashore. (Romeo was in love. But should he really be?)

"I love you."

The kisses, whether it was the first or the nth, never failed to make there were butterflies flying inside his Ergo. The emotions of trepidation and bliss were in an internal conflict, and made his physical responses weak- as if he was someone who got weak in the knees from the intimacy. He was hesitant, since he didn't want this moment to end so soon.

Eyes blinked when P moved to straddle his waist. The sight was enough to make his mechanisms overheat. Although instead, the smile on P's lips made his Ergo pulse with love. With so much want. With so much desire. Then, he wiped the lone tear away. That was the wake-up call. He decided that he didn't care if it made everything worse. It didn't matter if he should really be in love. He just wanted him, he just loved him.

"I love you."

"I̷ l̷o̷v̷e̷ y̷o̷u̷,̷" Romeo whispered in between kisses of their lips, "I̷ w̷a̷n̷t̷ t̷o̷ b̷e̷ w̷i̷t̷h̷ y̷o̷u̷.̷" A kiss on the corner of his lips. "I̷ w̷a̷n̷t̷ t̷o̷ s̷t̷a̷y̷ b̷y̷ y̷o̷u̷r̷ s̷i̷d̷e̷.̷" He pressed butterfly kisses along P's jaw. "I̷ w̷a̷n̷t̷ t̷o̷ d̷o̷ e̷v̷e̷r̷y̷t̷h̷i̷n̷g̷ w̷i̷t̷h̷ y̷o̷u̷.̷" A kiss on the lips, as if making a promise, forevermore. "P̷l̷e̷a̷s̷e̷.̷"

[cybernaght]

The fandom echo chamber: fanon, microanalysis and conspiracy brain 

As someone who has been in fandom spaces, on and off, for 20 years, I find some fascinating trends popping up in the last decade that I thought to be fandom-specific but clearly aren’t. So, I would like to do a little examination of where those things come from, how they are engaged with, and what it says about the way we consume media. This is a think piece, of sorts, with my brain being the main source. As such, we will spend some time down the memory lane of a fandom-focused millennial.

This is largely brought about by Good Omens. But it’s also not really about Good Omens at all.

Part one. Fanon.

The way we see characters in any story is always skewed by our very selves. This is a neutral statement, and it does not have a value judgement. It’s simply unavoidable. We recognise aspects of them, love aspects of them, and choose aspects of them to highlight based entirely on our own vision of the universe. 

Recognition comes into this. There is a reason so many protagonists of romance novels have a “blank slate” problem. Even when they do not, we love characters who are like us or versions of us that we would like to be. And when we say “we”, I also mean, “me”. 

(I remember very clearly this realisation hit me after a whole season of Doctor Who with writing which I hated utterly when I questioned why I still clung so incredibly hard to Clara Oswald as my favourite companion. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh. Well. That would do it, wouldn’t it?)

Then, there is projection, and, again, this is a neutral statement. Projection exists, and it is completely normal and, dare I say it, valid way of engaging with — well, anything. Is the character queer? Trans? Neurodivergent? Are they in love? Do they like chocolate? Are they a cat person? Well, yes, if this is what the text says, but if the text does not say anything… You tell me. Please, do tell me. Because, in that moment of projection, they are yours. 

And then, there is fandom osmosis, and that is the most fascinating one of them all, the one that is not very easy to note while you are inside the echo chamber. It’s the way we collectively, consciously or not, make decisions on who or what the characters are, what their relationships are, and what happens to them.  

(Back when I was writing egregiously long Guardian recaps on this blog I actually asked if Shen Wei’s power being learning actually was stated anywhere in the canon of the show. Because I had no idea. I have read and reread dozen of fanfics where that is the case, and at some point through enough repetition, it became reality.)

We are all kind of making our own reality here, aren’t we? 

Back when things were happening in a much less centralised manner - in closed livejournal groups, and forums of all shapes and sizes - I don’t remember there being quite as much universally agreed upon fanon. Frankly, I don’t remember much of universally agreed upon anything. But now, everything is in one place: we have this, and we have AO3, and it’s wonderful, it really is so much easier to navigate, but it’s also one gigantic reality-shifting echo chamber, with blogs, reblogs, trends, and rituals. 

Accessibility plays its part, too. If you were, say, in Life on Mars (UK) fandom between seasons, and you wanted to post your speculation fic, you had to have had an account, and then find and gain access to one of the bigger groups (lifein1973 was my poison, but ymmv), and then, if you feel brave you may post it, but also, you may want to do so from your alt account if you wanted to keep yours separate, and then you would have to go through the whole process again. And I’m not saying that fan creations then were somehow inherently better for it than fan creations now (although Life on Mars Hiatus Era is perhaps a bad example - because some of the Speculation Fic there was breathtaking), but there is something to say about the ease of access that made the fandoms go through a big bang of sorts.

(I mean, come on, I can just come here and post this - and I am certain people will read it, and this blog is a pandemic cope baby about Chinese television for goodness sake.)

The canon transformations that happen in the fandom echo chamber truly are fascinating to witness as someone who is more or less a fandom butterfly. I get into something, float around for a bit, then get into something else and move on. I might come back eventually when the need arises, but I don’t sustain a hiatus mind-state. This means that when I float away and return, I find some very intriguing stuff.

Let’s actually look at Good Omens here. Season two aired, and I found it spectacular in its cosy and anguished way; deliberately and intelligently fanfic-y in its plot building; simple but subversive, and so very tender. (I will have to circle back to this eventually, because, truly, I love how deliberately it takes the tropes and shatters them - it’s glorious). And, to me - a person who read the book, watched the first season, hung around AO3 for a few weeks and moved on - absolutely on-point in terms of characterisation. 

So imagine my surprise when the fandom disagreed so vehemently that there are actual multi-tiered theories on how characters were not in possession of their senses. Nothing there, in my mind, ever contradicted any of the stated text, as it stood. This remained a strange little mystery until I did what I always do when I flutter close to an ongoing fandom.

I loaded AO3 and sorted the existing fic by popularity. And there it was, all there: the actual earth-shattering mutual devotion of the angel and the demon; willingness to Fall; openness and long heart-aching confession speeches. There was all of the fanon surrounding Aziraphale and Crowley, which, to me, read as out of character, and to one for whom they became the reality over the last four years, read as truth. 

Again, only neutral statements here. This is not a bad thing, and neither this is a good thing, this is just something that happens, after a while, especially when there are years for the fandom-born ideas to bounce around and stew. I can’t help but think that so much of what we see as real in spaces such as this one is a chimaera of the actual source and all the collective fan additions which had time and space to grow, change, develop, and inspire, reverberating over and over again, until the echoes fill the entirety of the space. 

Eventually, this chimaera becomes a reality. 

Part two. Microanalysis 

Here are my two suppositions on the matter:

1. Some writers really love breadcrumb storytelling. 

Russel T Davies, for instance, on his run of Doctor Who (and, if you are reading it much later - I do mean the original one), loved that technique for his seasonal arcs. What is a Bad Wolf? Who is Harold Saxon? Well, you can watch very very carefully, make a theory, and see it proven right or wrong by the end of the season. 

Naturally, mystery box writers are all about breadcrumb storytelling: your Losts and your Westworlds are all about giving you snippets to get your brain firing, almost challenging you to figure things out just ahead of the reveal. 

2. We, as humans, love breadcrumbs.

And why wouldn’t we? Breadcrumbs are delicious. They are, however, a seasoning, or a coating. They are not the meal. 

Too much metaphor?

Let’s unpack it and start from the beginning.

Pattern recognition colours every aspect of our lives, and it colours the way we view art to a great extent. I think we truly underestimate how much it’s influenced by our lived experiences.

If you are, broadly speaking, living somewhere in Western/North-Western Europe in the 14th century, and you see a painting in which there is a very very large figure surrounded by some smaller figures and holding really tiny figures, you may know absolutely nothing about who those figures are, but you know that the big figure is the Important One, and the small ones are Less Important Ones, and the tiny ones are In Their Care. You know where your reverence would lie, looking at this picture. And, I imagine, as someone living in the 14th century, you may be inspired to a sense of awe looking at this composition, because in the world you live in, this is how art works. 

If you, on the other hand, watch a piece of recorded media and see the eyes of two characters meet as the violins swell, you know what you are being told at that moment. You don’t have to have a film degree to feel a sort of way when you see a green-tinged pallet used, when cross-cuts use juxtaposing images, or notice where your focus is pulled in any given shot. This stuff - this recognition of patterns - has been trained into us by the simple fact that we live in this time, on this planet, and we have been doing so long enough to have engaged recorded media for a period of time. 

As humans, we notice things. Our brains flare up when they see something they recognise, and then we seek to find other similar details and form a bigger picture. This often happens unconsciously, but sometimes it does not. Sometimes we do it on purpose: finding breadcrumbs in stories is a little bit like solving a mystery. It allows us to stretch that brain muscle that puts two and two together. It makes us feel clever. 

So yes, we love breadcrumbs, and, frankly, quite a lot of storytelling takes advantage of this. It’s very useful for foreshadowing, creating thematic coherence, or introducing narrative parallels and complexity. It’s useful for nudging the viewer into one or the other emotional direction, or to cue them into what will happen in the next moment, or what exactly is the one important detail they should pay attention to.

Because this is something media does intentionally, and something we pick up both consciously and not, it is very hard to know when to stop. We don't really ever know when all of the breadcrumbs have been collected. It becomes very easy to get carried away. There is a very specific kind of pleasure in digging into content frame by frame, soundbite by soundbite, chasing that pleasure of finding. 

But it is almost never breadcrumbs all the way down. They are techniques to help us focus on the main event: the story. I truly believe those who make media want it to reach the widest possible audience, and that includes all of us who like to watch every single thing ever created with our Media Analysis Goggles on and those who are just here to enjoy the twists and turns of the story at the pace offered to them. And I think, sometimes in our chase to collect and understand every little clue we forget that media is not made to just cater for us.

One can call it missing a forest for the trees. But I would hate to mix my metaphors, so let’s call it missing a schnitzel for the breadcrumbs. 

Part three. The Conspiracy Brain. 

If you are there with me, in the midst of the excited frenzy, chasing after all those delicious breadcrumbs, then patterns can grow, merge together, and become all-encompassing theories. Let’s call them conspiracy theories, even though this is not what they truly are.

So, why do we believe in conspiracy theories?

One, Because We Have Been Lied To. 

All conspiracies start with distrust.

If you are in fandom spaces - especially if you are in fandom spaces which revolve around a queer fictional couple - especially-especially if you have been in such spaces for a period of time, you have most certainly been lied to at one point or another. 

We don’t even have to talk about Sherlock - and let’s not do that - but do you remember Merlin? Because I remember Merlin. Specifically, I remember the publicity surrounding the first season, with its weaponised usage of “bromance” and assertions that this whole thing is a love story of sorts, and then the daunting realisation that this was all a stunt, deliberately orchestrated to gather viewership. 

And, because we were lied to in such a deliberate manner for such an extensive period of time, I genuinely believe that it forever altered our pattern recognition habits, because what was this if not encouragement to read into things? Now we are trained to read between the lines or see little cries for help where they might not be. Because we were told, over and over again, that we should.

(Yes, I think we are all existing in these spaces coloured by the trauma of queer-bating. I am, however, looking forward to a world where I can unlearn all of that.)

Two, Cognitive Dissonance.

The chain reaction works a bit like this: the world is wrong - it can’t possibly be wrong by coincidence - this must be on purpose - someone is responsible for it.

Being Lied To is a preamble, but cognitive dissonance is where it all originates. In so many cross-fandom theories I have noticed a four-step process:

A) this is not good

B) this author could not have made a mistake 

C) this must be done on purpose

D) here is why 

(Funny thing is, I have been on the receiving end of the small conspiracy spiral, and it is a very interesting experience. Not relevant to this conversation is the fact that a lot of my job revolves around storytelling. What is relevant is that my hobbies also revolve around storytelling. And one of them is DnD. Now, imagine my genuine shock when one of the players I am currently writing a campaign for noticed a small detail that did not make a logical sense within the complexity of the world, and latched on to it as something clearly indicating some kind of a secret subplot. Their thinking process also went a bit like this: this detail is not a good piece of writing — this DM knows how to tell stories well — this is obviously there on purpose. It was not there on purpose. I created a clumsy shorthand. I erred, in that pesky manner humans tend to. And, seeing this entire thought process recited to me directly in the moment, I felt somewhere between flattered and mortified.)

This whole line of thinking, I think, exists on a knife’s edge between veneration and brutal criticism, relentlessly dissecting everything “wrong”, with a reverent “but this is deliberate” attached to it like a vice, because it is preferable to a simple conclusion that the author let you down, in one way or another. 

Three, Intentionality 

I believe that there is no right or wrong way of engaging with stories, regardless of their medium, and assuming no one gets hurt in the process. While in a strictly academic way, there is a “correct” way of reading (and reading into) media, we here are largely not academics but consumers; consumption is subjective.

However, this all changes when intentionality is ascribed. 

The one I find particularly fascinating is the intentionality of “making it bad on purpose” because, as open-minded as I intend to always be, this just does not happen.

It certainly does not happen in long-form media. Even in the bread-crumb mystery box-type long-form media. 

When television programs underdeliver, they also underperform, and then they get cancelled.

If all the elements of Westworld Season 4 that did not sit together in a completely satisfactory way were written deliberately as some sort of deconstruction for the final season to explore, then it failed because that final season will now never come.

(There will likely never be a Secret Fourth Episode.)

And look, I am not here to refute your theories. Creativity is fun, and theorising is fantastic. 

But, perhaps, when the line of thought ventures into the “bad on purpose” territory, it could be recognised for what it is: disappointment and optimism, attempting to coexist in a single space. And I relate to that, I do, and I am sorry that there is even a need for this line of thinking. It’s always so incredibly disappointing that a creator you believed to be devoid of flaws makes something that does not hit in the way you hoped it would. It’s pretty heartbreaking. 

Unfortunately, people make mistakes. We are all fallible that way. 

Four, Wildfire.

Then, when the crumbs are found, a theory is crafted, and intentionality is ascribed, all that needs to happen is for it to catch on. And hey, what better place for it than this massive hollow funnel that we exist in, where thoughts, ideas and interpretations reverberate so much they become inextricable from the source material in collective consciousness. 

Conspiracy theories create alternate realities, very much like we all do here. 

So where are we now?

I am not here to tell you what is right and what is wrong; what is true, and what is not. We are all entitled to engage with anything we wish, in whichever way we wish to do it. This is not it, at all. 

All I am saying is… listen.

Do you hear that echo? 

I do. 

[aixeko]

-`♡´-≐ “ IF THE WORLD WAS ENDING, I'D WANNA BE NEXT TO YOU ” ≐-`♡´-

| Starring | Soft!Arlecchino x Harbinger!Reader

| Setting | Genshin universe

| Scenario | [ SHORT FIC ] FLUFF! Soft with a hint of angst. Pronouns are not used. A bit fast paced. Not proofread. 

► RADIO CHANNEL [Author note]

× This is so mid and I refuse to reread. I’m so sorry if the quality of the fic is not up to par with the others. × Fluff is so boring I'm sorry, It's not my cup of tea.

[ Word count: 2034 ] | Art credit: Blufyrein on Twitter & Instagram

August 20 XXXX…

“The house of the hearth has been blazing with activity ever since the children heeded the upcoming anniversary of my birth. Even with my reluctance, they insisted on celebrating this occasion, one in which I won't prevent seeing the amount of effort and enthusiasm they are collectively putting into this yearly ceremony.

It has been some time now since you last celebrated with us; in fact, it was four years ago exactly on this day, August 20th. Four years in which you had left for your mission issued by the Taritasa to Natlan, and four years since we last heard of your welfare. The children, in spite of the low possibility of attendance, still persist in accounting for your awaited arrivals, and I too bide my time for the day you return home to us.

If it isn't an inconvenience for you, please do not let their hard work wither into nothingness; perhaps even a response letter would be utmost appreciated by the children.

The hearth is set ablaze, anticipating your safe homecoming; the children miss you." 

Two days have passed since Arlecchino sent her most recent letter to you, and the day of her birthday has arrived with the expected ghosting from your side. Her hands focused on providing perfection to the barbecue, moving on their own like a second conscious being, while her gaze stared blankly at the grill, her mind stuck in deep thoughts.

Arlecchino is not one to sugarcoat or disprove the factuality of a situation, but with the lack of responses, or rather no response, over the past four years, the overwhelming, woeful truth has become more prominent than ever.

Her grip on the tongs tightened; with the amount of pressure she was applying, it could bend the steel into a useless apparatus. Furrowed eyebrows follow along with a frustrated sigh and a shake of her head. No, impossible. How can a Harbinger who is soon to be awarded the ranking just below her fall victim to the accursed consequence of life, such as death? It's impossible; the odds are practically none unless you have run into trouble with the almighty archon of Natan; then that is the only possible outcome that can lead to your ultimate demise. Even the mere thought of that possibility is unbelievable; the person whom Arlecchino has married is not one known to be the hostile type despite ranking as a highly potent Harbinger. To hell and back, your personality is enough to make even the devil himself view you as a passive mortal being; you are not married to a woman such as Arlecchino herself for no good reason.

"FATHER!" A young adult male screamed out in horrorstruck desperation.

The sound of her being called awoke Arlecchino from her trance; her head snapped to the young man, whose skin, once flawless, was now bruised, with short ash-blond hair and wearing magician-like clothing that was now dirtied with his own blood. The apron wrapping around her, along with the tongs in hand, was thrown onto the ground as she rushed to her bloody child. The other children near the area hurried to their brother, their expressions sharing concern and anger at the sight.

Arlecchino catches him once his body gives up; desperate, inaudible cries escape his mouth, with the only few words being coherent: Lynette—everyone—hurts!

Those words are enough for her X-shaped eyes to light up to a color akin to flame. Arlecchino's face visibly darkened at the announcement; from its tone, the situation was a lot direr than she could have expected. She gently but hastily lowered Lyney to the ground, her voice booming with command to the children to aid him while she raced to where he had come from. The children who specialized in combat rather than the medical aspects hurtled with Arlecchino despite not being in their Fatui attire; their bodies, enraged, moved on adrenaline alone.

Another one of the children who is limping sees the reinforcements approaching and points in the direction of the ongoing battlefield onslaught. Distant screams are heard, and Arlecchino has no time to properly bring her children to safety; thus, some of the others take charge in retreating the injured to let her focus on eliminating the source of the massacre.

Once she arrives at the cluster of her heavily wounded children and spots the suspect, who's draped in a dark cloak covering their whole body, Arlecchino takes no time transforming into her stronger form.

Arlecchino's scythe bolts at the infiltrator in synchronization with her body, whose speed could be described as quick as lightning. Arlecchino is left with constricted pupils as the mysterious figure dodges the attack with absolute ease, like they have just vanished into thin air.

"It seems like the great supreme Knave has gotten weaker."

The unrecognized tone of a whisper against her ears has her swinging her scythe at a 360-degree angle; this action causes the person to leap backward with a laugh. Arlecchino stands poised, her eyes scanning the figure to make out some sort of recognizable appearance. By the sound of their voice, Arlecchino feels a sense of familiarity coursing throughout all 206 of her bones, yet she can't place her finger on why the stranger is able to invoke such a feeling.

"You made a grave mistake daring to step forth against the House of the Hearth."

One of Arlecchino's hand ignites in a surge of power, and with that, she leaves no time for a response as her scythe hurls at the figure, with a burst of multiple flaming sword-like shapes surrounding the weapon.

Arlecchino's hand snaps out, catching the leg hurtling at her head. Her voice cuts through the air, sharp and full of mockery: "Too slow."

"Not bad!" laughed the person as they disappeared once more, causing a tsk of irritation to be emitted from Arlecchino.

Arlecchino figured that enough was enough and unleashed various attacks all at once, and not a single one landed; it was like this stranger had already calculated and understood every single little detail about her fighting style. The fact that they didn't actually attack but rather used dodge gave Arlecchino a bit of insight; they were playing a game of speed while she was playing a game of strength.

The gleam in Arlecchino's eyes intensified, sparking with otherworldly vigor. Her hand rose, mirroring the spark within as she muttered, "So be it." Her voice breathed life into a realm unseen by mortal eyes, with only an unlucky few witnessing its crimson moon.

The unidentified figure struggles in their stance, proving to be immobile. Play as you like, but to challenge a Harbinger of her standing is nothing to be confident about; daring to try to manipulate the outcome to your desire against another manipulator is pathetically laughable.

Or so Arlecchino thought, because what she didn't expect was for the stranger to be able to move of their own free will, but also to strike her domain as useless and nonexistent with a familiar style.

Her eyes narrowed once back to the real world, for there had only been one person who was informed about how to elude her realm, and based on the dependence on speed rather than strength, it was already a giveaway. Moments later, her suspicion proves true, yet not as anticipated as she presumes as she sees the stranger dashing towards her—well, not a stranger but the one who swiped her caged heart away into a loving shelter, you. You sprint towards her, shedding your cloak through the stride. In a heartbeat, you jump onto her, embracing her tightly with your warmth for an unexpected reunion, but one with no complaints.

"Peruere!"

Arlecchino freezes momentarily at the sudden action, but once recognition dawns, she returns your grip with an equal amount of fierce.

"You're home."

"I'm home!" You grin and draw back to study the face you longed for and missed for the past four years.

Her eyes, no more did they fume with fury; rather, in replacement of it, there radiated a tenderness shown to a small selected lucky few. A rare softness graces her features, an expression reserved only for children and, more intensely, for you.

"Happy birthday—"

You're interrupted by a peck on the lip; honestly, if it weren't for how unexpected it is for the likes of Arlecchino, it would have completely flown past you as some sort of dust.

"I figure the odds of you arriving today would be little to none, but nonetheless, welcome back home, my dear," she paused. "Although that little stunt of yours is not one easily forgiven or overlooked."

Arlecchino glances at the gathering that has formed all around her, more specifically at the young man who is hiding behind his twin sister with a nervous smile.

"Still as stone-hard as ever, I see, but I do admit my twisted plan for a reunion could have been alternated for a sweeter one," you give her an apologetic smile. "My sincerest apologies, Peruere."

"Why didn't you respond to any of my letters?" Arlecchino asked, turning back to look at you and settling you down to your feet to your dismay.

"I did!" you perked. "It just seems like Natlan is a horrible fit for communicating with letters since, somehow, it keeps getting lost and burned to ashes in the lava."

"Your face betrays you, darling." Arlecchino's fingers danced through your hair. "Your face says it all; it's a given that you know there is no hiding anything from me. Don't lie to me; you didn't know I had sent you letters."

"Haha... Look, in my defense, my mission was a mess, and doing anything is a whole other disorder; I'm thankful that the Captain is taking over because that region is a headache to deal with."

Arlecchino places a hand on your waist, pulling you close as her lips make contact with your head. "Setting everything aside, let us use our time together again to celebrate instead of bickering."

The children cheered at the public display of affection between their parents, and the one who was "tending the wounded" was, in fact, actually bringing the barbecue from the House of the Hearth to the large field.

"The children miss you," Arlecchino whispers into your ear, her head pressed against yours.

You wanted to laugh at the children's excuse; she really had not changed much in the past four years, still playing off a cold demeanor to hide the soft shell hidden beneath it, one you had already melted through.

Your eyelids lift, catching her smile, which reveals her pearly white teeth. Your gaze softens. In reality, many things have changed since you first met her, yet she refuses to give herself credit for it. She was once only known as Arlecchino or by her Harbinger title, The Knave, but over the past years, the facade has lowered greatly to divulge the true identity of Father, The Knave, Arlecchino to just Peruere.

"I miss the children too."

For the rest of the day, that smile didn't leave; no, it was displayed for the whole world to see and ravish in. Nor did she leave your side once, insisting on even public displays of affection in spite of being surrounded by the children, and in her own words, "It's to make up for all the time that has been lost."

If only she knew that in the far future, when all of her hair turns white, with yours matching hers, she would realize it was the worst lie she had ever spoken.

If only she knew that in the future she had accidentally made an unspoken oath with herself to spend the rest of her time loving you to make up for the other half of her time that was spent hiding how much she loved you.

The smile, unbeknownst to both of you, would be a permanent fixture. It would endure through your remaining years, brightening each day until your final moments together, when life's inevitable decline finally claims you both.

Even when the world was ending, at least you both would be next to each other, dying with a smile stretching across your features.