#so apologies if my research is flawed

[kathaynesart]

Can I ask what the formulas are that donnie calculates to make a big boom(??)

Just curious, lolol

Of course! There’s a few different ones in there including the infamous e=mc2, but the majority are meant to calculate the energy released in a nuclear explosion. There’s also the Born–Oppenheimer (BO) approximation (which makes the assumption that the wave functions of atomic nuclei and electrons in a molecule can be treated separately) for the sake of his creative process. Admittedly t’s not 100% accurate (because nuclei and electrons CAN move at the same speed) but Donnie is working on the fly here with nothing but his still limited mortal brain and it has been accurate enough to aid his basic needs in blowing up Krang. So uh… just trust him on it haha!

[paper-mario-wiki]

Could you elaborate on how rhythm can greatly feminize a voice? I’d never thought of that and I’m very curious :o

hmm. im showing my ass here just a little bit with how i choose to phrase this, but this isn't really based on any "method" and all the "research" ive done into it is very cursory and for my own situational needs, so bear with me for a second:

you ever heard of "Gay Voice"?

it's an internationally recognized phenomenon-- crossing language barriers even-- that pinpoint a speech pattern, or cadence, which is most commonly associated with gay men.

the basics of the "gay voice" are 1) an increase in your spoken pitch variation (meaning you have a greater range in how high AND low your voice goes), 2) holding vowel sounds longer, and 3) a speech effect relating to the "S" sound, which people often lump into the "gay lisp" category of speech.

now, this may seem like an insane place to start, given the history of what the "gay voice" means in society, but like. that doesn't matter. the reason it's a "gay voice" is because it sounds effeminate. now, to be clear, "gay voice" does not mean "speaking like a woman"-- the research shows that the connection is slightly more complicated than just "gay men sound like women", but the aim of this exercise is to approach femininity from a familiar MtF perspective when you really don't know where to start otherwise.

as is almost always the case in the persecution of the Male Homosexual under a patriarchal social ruleset, their perceived flaws aren't based in how far from masculinity they stray, but instead how closely to femininity they approach. so too is the case with the trans woman: the inherent "shame" is your rejection of masculinity, and your embrasure of femininity. ergo, starting from a "gay" speaking standpoint is already in the direction of femininity.

if you're interested in how im becoming reacquainted with my own voice and would like to do the same, start there, if you can, and pay attention to what you do with your voice unconsciously. yes, im really asking you to sit in your room and do the Gay Voice to yourself.

how high up are you going? how low? are you speaking faster? maybe with more of a staccato in your enunciation? maybe you're speaking more softly, or more sharply. maybe there's a lilt that you don't usually put on that feels good. maybe you're flexing your tongue in ways you're not used to, hitting new sounds on familiar syllables. or maybe your lips are a little tighter, or looser than usual, projecting the voice outward differently.

pay attention to these things. become conscious of what you're doing with your mouth to make the noise called "speaking". pay attention to the words you choose, and the path your sentences follow. become aware of these things, and compare them against the kinds of people you hope to sound like.

you can also try different cartoonishly effeminate voices, like the sultry "Jessica Rabbit" seductress tone. try that on for size too. how does it feel to waltz around words? do you feel like speaking slightly slower helps you maintain a greater control over the delivery? or perhaps you feel it makes you sound too stilted? maybe you're also putting some vocal fry into it, how does that feel?

this, to me, is one of the most helpful places i've found to start on this particular issue. i apologize if some of this sounds silly, or even misguided, but doing this has been a very practical and affirming exercise for me. i hope you found it useful in some way too.

[fridgrave2-0]

I'm tired of pretending that I'm okay with ford being an absolute asshole towards fiddleford and basically abusing him.

first of all, yes, it's not ford's fault that he was manipulated (doubtful tbh) and abused by bill, but that doesn't give him the right to be a jerk who closes his eyes on his friend's deepest traumas. the traumas fiddleford got only because stanford completely ignored his warning and got fidds involved into bunch of shit. like his monster hunting which wasn't even the reason fiddleford went to gravity falls in the first place. he was there to help ford build the portal, not to be a part of ford's anomaly quest. and when fiddleford spoke out against it he was ignored because ford doesn't give a shit about anyone else but himself or his muse. fiddleford got traumatized physically and mentally so deeply that in the need to be able to sleep at night peacefully he completely destroyed his mind to the state that even bill was scared to be in there. and what stanford did? he (the one who couldn't care less about fidds warning him about gremoblin) critiqued fiddleford for using the memory gun and didn't even bother to apologize or say that he's sorry in the journal. god, what am I saying, he didn't even took fiddleford to the hospital after fiddleford feel from the sky through the roof of a fucking barn with a dozen of poisonous quills in his body AND A BROKEN ARM. ford described what happened to fidds in the journal, said he "took him home for a treatment" and the next two paragraphs on the other page is "good news the hyperdrive works" LIKE IS THAT THE ONLY THING YOU CARE ABOUT WHAT THE HELL??? "despite our fortune, I have become worried about my assistant... I myself have survived many monster attacks without trauma, but perhaps F is more sensitive that I realized". no shit sherlock, who would've imagine that seeing your worst nightmares and being poisoned can leave a mark on your mental state. sure it's just fiddleford, he's just overreacting because he's "sensitive"))) /src

ford was ignoring fiddleford's concerns all the fucking time that mcgucket was there with him, he took a superstitious and religious guy with anxiety into the forest with real ass monsters who's no one but ford is used to see. fiddleford was warning stanford about shifty and got kidnapped with his identity stolen by the shapeshifter because ford didn't listen. well, at least this time stanford had bothered to apologize for another traumatic event- ah no, next thing ford said is that when the portal is finished all the traumas fiddleford had been through were "worth it". ford just finds ways to make everything worse

we all know that fiddleford has an addictive personality and that the memory gun is the biggest example of that. what we don't talk enough about is that ford at some point decided that sleeping is for losers, but didn't stop at himself and made fiddleford drink 13 fucking cups of coffee, not allowing him to sleep, what in the future made fiddleford a caffeine addict. ford is not only an overworking idiot who gladly damages his own health, no! he wants fiddleford to be the same and quote "gets frustrated" when fiddleford cares not only about his own, but their both basic needs. fiddleford had to work on the portal, get in the trouble with monsters because of ford, but also babysit this manchild to prevent him collapsing from exhaustion (which is more impossible than building a giant portal into the multiverse)

and here we are, the portal testing. once again (and as always) fiddleford did warned ford about everything. fiddleford was working without breaks for days to make sure if the portal will work, and when he found the flaws, he wrote a whole fucking thesis paper, putting all ford's research into a solid work (not taking even smallest credit even tho he was the one to build the portal. when fiddleford had his own theory in the university, ford helped him to only proof that fidds wasn't going crazy by checking the calculations and ford bothered to take the credit for the whole theory, but fiddleford who was a part and a victim of this monumental theory of weirdness didn't took it because he unlike ford doesn't care only about fame). but what did stanford do? he assumed that fiddleford wanted to steal his fucking fame and backstab him. ford didn't even bother to look at something fiddleford was making for three days without resting to make sure that portal won't hurt anyone in the town and that ford won't end up with empty hand if the portal was indeed a lost cause. stanford coldly dismissed fiddleford like they weren't friends, said that he doesn't really waiting fiddleford for the test of the device that fiddleford did built, and even knowing that the portal was dangerous fiddleford chose to come for the test

and then fiddleford got in the portal and it was the biggest traumatic event for him. it was the breaking point for him from which he couldn't stop using the memory gun. it damaged him so much, that he turned from that bright 30-y.o. man into the familiar to us old man mcgucket in the span of two years. his life was ruined for another 30 years, a half of his life he was a mad lonely guy who lived in the junkyard. the man who could've become someone like steve jobs but much better if only he didn't go to help stanford. his family could've been full, tate could have his father. the incident with the portal was the moment of no return for fiddleford, and what did stanford do?

when fiddleford got sucked in the portal, he thought only about the success of his work, that for fidds it was "a remarkable opportunity to confirm or deny the theory" (which he already did with his pre-test research). he didn't think that it was dangerous on the other side, that the portal wouldn't just disintegrate fidds on atoms. and when stanford saw him speaking in a non-human way, shaking and twitching in shock like fiddleford did after the gremoblin incident, ford decided it was nothing. when fiddleford warned him about the apocalypse because he was in the portal and saw it with his own eyes, ford, as always, didn't listen. he didn't just not care about fidds' condition — he diminished everything fiddleford was feeling and everything he witnessed only because it didn't fit in ford's believes which were based just on bill's words (and for stanford it's not something new to belittle things related to fiddleford. he wasn't taking fidds' dream of creating a portable computer seriously, believing that his weirdness theory was much more important)

and after this, stanford insults fiddleford and his family in the journal. he says that he doesn't regret their partnership (it's not really a partnership if stanford didn't count fiddleford as an equal) and friendship breaking up. "to think I considered him a friend!" I doubt he ever did. stanford doesn't know shit about being a good friend (or even a decent person) to someone who sacrificed everything for him. who did put his life aside to be with ford, who cared enough to stay despite stanford again and again putting him in danger, constantly waving him away and feeling no remorse for that. fiddleford was breaking himself for this guy, he canonically was going through "I am nobody to ford if I don't build stuff for him" (and in the end this is exactly what happened). fiddleford didn't tell ford most of his fears and concerns because he didn't want to bother him. fidds was constantly scared and kept in inside because he wanted to be a "better partner". "if I have an anxiety, I will pop anxiety pills", "I'm gonna get through this". and then he didn't

fiddleford was abused by stanford. he was to stanford that ford was to bill, in some ways even worse. it's fucking wild that fiddleford did forgive ford after 30 years of a neverending madness nightmare with his mind being destroyed so much as like it was the earth in the times of the dinosaurs after being hit by the meteorite. fiddleford had lost literally everything, he wasn't even himself for a half of his life and still fidds found the strength to forgive someone who is responsible for it and who used him with regular emotional neglect. and you know what? fuck this. ford would never forgive bill and fiddleford had every right to stay mad at stanford. ford needed to be stuck in the portal to get his head out of the ass and by that time there were only crumbs of someone who fiddleford once was

fiddauthor and billford both are about abuse and toxic relationships. it's up to you what you like to ship, but we need to acknowledge the fact that fiddauthor isn't some fluffy healthy thing where both are happy. fiddleford was never happy and stanford didn't care about fiddleford and his feelings. they made each other worse and ford ruined fidds' life. THIS is the real fiddauthor

[s4bbatical]

Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want | Part 3. (Rivals Declan O'Hara x Reader 18+)

see masterlist (PINNED) for all parts Warnings: profanities, consumption of alcohol and cigarette use. hints of sex! age gap (reader!22) enjoy!

━━━━━━☆━━━━━━

You're at your desk when you hear the news, the entire office in commotion as Cameron, Tony and Declan appear after the wrap of Declan's newest episode.

"Rupert said yes?" You gasp, smacking Seb's arm. "Fucking brilliant, man." You say, grinning. "Declan's gonna take a chunk out of his neck, it's gonna be grand." You look over at Declan, who's clinking glasses with Tony in his office.

"I'm just grateful our efforts aren't going to waste. Christ knows how much time we put into this sleazy bastard." Seb grumbles, crossing his arms.

"Why you look so down on yourself Seb?" You ask, standing up straight from your previous position of leaning against the oak desk.

"I don't know, y/n. Maybe you can figure that out yourself." He says bluntly, walking away towards the common space.

Your jaw drops slightly, throwing your arms up. "What the fuck?" You whisper to yourself, grabbing the back of your neck. You had been turning down Seb's advances on you due to your clandestine actions with Declan, not realizing how much of an impact it really had on the ginger. You knew he liked you a little more than just friends, you just hoped he'd let go of it sooner than later.

As far as you were concerned, still no one knew about you and Declan. You tried to stay focused on your work and not overthink it much, although it was on your mind every minute of your waking hours. Not telling anyone, especially your new best friend Taggie, was taking a toll on you. How does one tell another that they find their dad very attractive, and also have been banging him in his office after hours? It wasn't an easy feat for anyone. You tried to remind yourself that it was okay to have a little fun, as long as no one else knew about it.

You jump slightly as you notice Declan standing by your desk, straightening out your blazer as you nod towards him. "Declan, hi. Congratulations on securing the interview with Rupert." You say, giving him a smile.

"Thanks, y/n. You've been a great help with it all, I wouldn't be as confident as I am without you." He says, a smirk growing on his face. "Would you mind doing overtime on Saturday? To help me with additional flawed research?" He asks, now properly smiling.

"Ah, I would, but your daughter has asked me to accompany her in catering for Baddingham's falconery that day. I'm sorry." You admit, shrugging.

"That's alright. Will you be coming to our home for dinner afterwards, then?" He asks.

You grin, tapping your chin in thought satirically. "Yeah, I guess so." You say, letting out a small laugh.

"Great, see you then." He says, a light tap on your bottom as he walks away.

You gasp lightly, looking around hastily to ensure no one saw. "Unbelievable." You whisper to yourself, sitting down at your desk.

-

As Saturday rolls around, you find yourself bright and early at The Priory, attempting to hold back your yawns as you prepare cheese and fruit platters with Taggie.

"Can I ask you something?" Taggie asks, rinsing a bowl of grapes.

"Course, yeah. What's up?" You say, slicing wedges of brie.

"Do you think my dad should go through with interviewing Rupert?" She inquires timidly, putting the bowl of grapes on the kitchen table.

"Rupert is an asshole. He deserves anything that is thrown at him." You say bitterly out of respect for your friend, and her father.

"Y/n, I don't think he should go through with it." Taggie says, meeting your eyes. "I'm afraid my father will ruin him." She whispers, frowning.

"Taggie," You start, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Where is this coming from?" You ask, worried about her concerns.

"I think Rupert isn't as horrible as everyone thinks he is. He sincerely apologized to me, and I can tell he wasn't just doing it out of spite for me or my father." She explains, sighing. "After you left before the party ended, we slow danced together and..." She trails off, seeming upset with herself. "We shouldn't've, I know. But there's something about him that isn't worth destroying him over." She finishes.

You furrow your brows and purse your lips. "I'm not the one to call the shots on this, Tags. You know that." You say.

"My father listens to you better than me, for some reason." She says, causing your breath to go still. "I don't know why, but I would like for you to try saying something." She pleas. "For me, y/n. Please."

You let out a deep sigh, letting go of your breath. "Fine, I will. Don't get mad if he goes through with it, though." You mumble, reorganizing the assembly of cheeses.

"Thank you." Taggie smiles, giving you a side hug.

"Course." You whisper, it was the least you could do considering what secrets you've withheld from her already.

"Taggie!" Declan yells, entering the kitchen. He is taken aback by our presence, perhaps not expecting you so early in the morning. "Y/n, hello." He smiles. "Have you seen my plaid shirt your mum put out to dry?" He asks his daughter.

"I folded it up in your dresser, dad." Taggie says, causing Declan to nod.

"Right, course. Thank you darling." He places a kiss on her head, secretly gliding his fingers across your lower back as he steps away. "See you girls later." He says, waving as he exits the kitchen.

"Why'd you look at my dad like that?" She queries, nudging you.

"Like what?" You say defensively.

"Like he was a piece of meat." She says, scoffing.

"Your dad's hot, that's not my fault. It's not like I'm doing anything." You exclaim, raising your hands.

"Good, you better not." She says jokingly, grinning at the banter between the two of you.

You laugh, trying to not frown at your inner thoughts.

Only if you knew, Taggie. Only if.

-

Declan is in the office, going through evidence against Rupert as he notices Charles Fairburn reorganizing his office. "Charles!" He says out of surprise.

"Oh, hello." Charles says. "I didn't expect to see anybody."

"I'm researching Campbell-Black and needed something from my office." He says, approaching Fairburn.

"I never thought I'd see the day when Tony Baddingham had Declan O'Hara doing his dirty work." The road of Baddingham's distaste for Campbell-Black is a long one, and quite complicated enough even for you to even know about.

"I have my own reasons for wanting to take that bastard down." Declan interjects.

"You know, in different circumstances, you and Rupert could've been friends." Charles says simply. "Both complicated, both stubborn, misunderstood." He jests, putting down office supplies on his new desk.

"Bollocks." Declan states. "What are you doing in on a Saturday?" He queries.

Charles clicks his tongue, "Moving offices ahead of my grand return." He says, now holding a clipboard. "Apparently, my recent coronary episode makes me a medical liability." He says, referring to the panic attack that happened on New Years. "Which is why Cameron Cook is now controller of programmes and I'm--"

"Head of Religious Broadcasting." Declan says, reading the new plaque on the door underneath Charles' name. He looks back and gives him a look of sympathy.

Charles scoffs. "I can't begrudge her too much. Climbing the greasy pole requires its own set of skills." He mumbles, sitting down. "Especially when the greasy pole in question, lives in Tony Baddingham's trousers." He says sarcastically. A moment of silence passes by.

"How's the heart?" Declan asks, redirecting the conversation.

Charles sighs. "Oh, you know, broken." He goes quiet for a moment. "How's the new journalist, Declan?" He asks, watching as Declan's face contorts into bewilderment.

"What'd you mean by that?" He asks, attempting to act confused by Fairburn's statement. Heat rose to his face as his heart began to race.

Charles gives him a weak smile before speaking again. "I'm sorry for what I saw at the New Year's Eve party. I was out in the garden and wasn't expecting to see you, especially with y/n." He says quietly, Declan staying dead silent. Fuck.

"I'm not telling anyone." Charles adds, seeing the worry in O'Hara's face. "Don't show Tony any weakness, Declan." He abruptly says. "Or this is what you get." He whispers sadly, referring to his new demoted office space.

Declan looks down for a moment, unable to find words as he slowly walks away. He looks back again at Charles Fairburn before he returns to his office, closing the door and running a hand through his dark curls.

Charles knew of Declan's dirty secret, but regardless of what assurance he is given, he has to keep it completely under wraps now. He has to be careful, and so do you.

He notices a folder on his desk, opening it to reveal a note from the sender mentioning of a phone call regarding Rupert Campbell-Black accompanied by a photo. He grins, his worries dissipating as more evidence has landed in his lap. He folds it up tightly, enclosing it in a new envelope with a devilish grin.

-

You find yourself back at The Priory with Taggie later that afternoon, your stomach unwell from seeing all the dead birds that day.

"God, it's astounding how they manage to eat and drink so much while killing those innocent creatures." You say, taking a leftover ham sandwich and taking a bite out of it.

Declan enters the house, returning after his time at the office. "Ah, how was the shoot?"

"Well, they killed loads of birds," You say, swallowing your food.

"But they liked my food." Taggie finishes the sentence for you. Declan chuckles. "Rupert stopped by." She adds, crossing her arms.

You watch in bemusement as Declan reacts poorly. You take another bite of your sandwich.

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Is there no place free of that man?" He exclaims, walking away.

Taggie furrows her brows, looking over at you to do something.

You sigh, taking the last bite of your sandwich as you follow her father into the other room. "I'll talk to him." You mumble to Taggie as you pass her.

After quickening your pace, you follow him into the master bedroom, where he begins unloading his blazer. "You shouldn't be so harsh on Rupert, y'know." You begin to say, closing the door behind you.

"And what makes you think you have any say in that?" Declan replies with an edge in his voice, putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it.

"Taggie's forgiven him, I think you can let it go-"

"Let it go?! Let go of the fact that he groped my daughter? That my own wife still wants to sleep with him even though he's a horrible fucking bastard?!" Declan yells, aggressively huffing on his cigarette.

"Look, I understand where you're coming from Declan, but this could backfire and then what happens to you, huh? What if he ends up burying you into the ground instead of the other way around?!" You try to explain, holding your place as Declan begins to undo his shirt, tossing it onto the bed. You stare at his torso as he breathes heavily in anger, his chest rising and falling. Time and place, time and place.

"He will not do any such thing." Declan mutters harshly, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray atop his dresser. "You know that Charles Fairburn knows of us, huh?" He says, leaning against a bed post.

Your eyes widen, taken aback by his statement. "What? How?" You ask meekly, guilt mixed with fear rising up your throat from the pit of your stomach. "But no one saw us?" You whisper, beginning to pace back forth.

"Well he did." Declan states flatly. He grabs your arm and halts your movements. "He said he won't tell a soul, but this means we have to keep it controlled or this can no longer happen, y/n." He whispers firmly, staring into your eyes.

"I think I'd rather quit than stop whatever this is." You mumble, turning yourself completely towards Declan.

The two of you stare deeply at one another, Declan placing a hand on your cheek. "I need to control myself." He whispers, leaning in close enough to have his lips hover over yours.

"No one can see us now, Declan." You remind him.

-

The two of you come undone in multiple positions. You find yourself cuddled up beside Declan as he lights a cigarette, inhaling as he strokes your hair.

"Thanks for that, I needed a good fuck." You joke, closing your eyes as Declan hums.

"My pleasure." He grins, inhaling his cigarette once again.

"Wait, shit." You say, sitting up abruptly. Declan looks at you with confusion. "Taggie is still here, she must be concerned why it's taking so long." You say worriedly, getting out of the bed and retrieving your clothes.

Declan watches you with a smirk, his eyes trailing over your exposed body as you shimmy your underwear and jeans back on, following with your shirt.

You run over to Declan's side of the bed, pressing a firm kiss on his lips. "I'll see you for dinner, Mister O'Hara." You tease, smoothening your hair as you exit the grand master bedroom. He simply laughs, inhaling his cigarette.

You hurry down the hall, slowing down your pace as you look for Taggie.

"Tags?" You yell, eventually stumbling across Declan's study.

She had opened his file of evidence against Rupert, abruptly closing it when she hears you approach. "I-I was just looking through it, I'm sorry. Please don't tell my father." She says hastily, getting up from the desk chair.

"Taggie, relax. It's okay." You say, hoping nothing about your appearance gives away what you had been doing for the past half an hour. "I tried convincing him, I really did. He wouldn't budge, Tags." You admit, sighing. "Maybe you can warn Rupert, I don't know. I think your dad has more dirt on him than we know." You warn, running a hand through your hair.

"Maybe I should talk to him, then." Taggie says, beginning to walk past you.

"No-!" You say, grabbing her arm. She looks at you with confusion. "He seems exhausted, I think he needs to be left alone to be completely honest." You say, hoping Taggie would drop the whole thing for today.

"Alright, then." She says, your grasp loosening on her arm. "I'm gonna start making dinner, then. Care to help?" She asks, walking slowly out of the study.

"Always." You say with a smile, following Taggie out the door.

-

As the evening rolled around, you found yourself around the dining table with Taggie to your left, Maud and Caitlin on the other side as Declan sat at the head of the table.

"This food is incredible, Tag." Maud muses, taking another bite of the dish.

"It's y/n's recipe, actually." Taggie admits, smiling at you.

"Oh, y/n. Lovely job, then." Maud says, sending a smile towards you.

"Thanks Maud. It's my mom's favorite dish. I ate it a lot growing up." You say, taking a sip of wine.

"Hmm, American culture doesn't taste as bland as I thought, then." She remarks, taking another bite.

"Be nice, Maud." Declan warns, glaring at his wife.

"Actually, my mom's from Greece. It's Mediterranean, not American." You correct her, trying to hide a shit-faced grin behind your glass of wine.

Caitlin stifles a laugh, earning a light kick of the shin from Taggie.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you." Maud apologizes, clearly embarrassed.

"No, it's okay. I agree, American food is god awful." You assure her, taking a bite of your meal.

"So, what's this big interview you've announced on live television about?" Maud says, looking over at Declan.

"Ah, I'm interviewing Rupert on Valentine's Day." He says casually, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"That's it?" Maud persists, raising a brow.

"He wants to take him down, mum." Taggie interjects, Declan scoffing at the statement.

"I'm not doing anything that he doesn't deserve." He emphasizes, taking a sip of his glass.

"Declan, don't you think you're taking this a bit too far? They're calling you the Corinium Butcher, for god's sake." Maud exasperates, putting down her cutlery.

"I am doing the interview the way I want to and that is that!" He states firmly. "Now, can you all get off my arse about it and enjoy this lovely meal y/n and Taggie put together? Christ." He exclaims, picking up his fork and taking another bite out of his dish.

Everyone goes quiet, returning to their meals.

You feel a bit cold in the room, the peaks of your breasts hardening as you realize something dire-- you've left your bra in their bedroom.

You clear your throat, standing up. "I have to use the restroom, if you'll excuse me." You say, hurriedly exiting the room.

You make your way down the hall from the foyer towards the master bedroom, slowly opening the door and flicking on the overhead light as you scan the room hastily for your bra.

You get down on your knees, looking underneath the bed on the opposite side from the door. You see it just within arms reach, stretching your arm out as the door opens.

"What are you doing?" Maud says, causing you to smack your forehead against the bedframe, unable to grab ahold of your bra as you stand up hastily.

"I uh, Taggie was giving me a tour earlier and I thought I lost my ring in here. I was just trying to find it because I realized I lost it when I was going to the washroom." You lie out of your ass, smiling oddly at a very confused Maud.

"Oh, what does it look like?" She asks, not realizing this ring did not exist whatsoever.

"It's small, really small. Honestly it was super cheap it's not that big of a deal!" You force out, making your way towards the door. "Let me know if you find it though, it was from my mom." You laugh awkwardly. "I'm going to the washroom now."

You hastily exit the bedroom, leaving Maud behind as you run into the nearby washroom and close the door behind you. You panic as you stare at yourself in the mirror, whispering profanities to yourself. You wash your hands as if you had dirtied them with your actions, almost afraid to return to the table.

You take a deep breath and open the door, walking back out to the dining table as you practice breathing normally.

Maud had already returned to eating her meal, seeming disinterested in your bizarre behaviors from before.

"Is everything alright?" Declan asks you, referring to your tense aura now present in conversation.

"Yes, everything's fine." You say, taking a sip of your wine.

"Y/n was trying to find a ring she lost earlier in the master bedroom, maybe you can keep an eye out for it too." Maud says nonchalantly to Declan, whose face drops at the mention of you being in their bedroom.

"Is that so?" He asks, coughing slightly as he tries to swallow his food down. "That's a shame. I'll keep it in mind then."

You watch as Maud gives him a puzzled look, her eyes squinting at her husband with suspicion.

"Would anyone like dessert?" Taggie asks, standing up.

"Me!" You say abruptly, also getting up. "Let me help you with that!" You offer, following Taggie into the kitchen.

She suddenly stops right by the kitchen island, causing you to bump into her. "Something's going on with you y/n. You've been acting weird all day. Is everything alright?" Taggie asks, a look of concern upon her face as she grabs ahold of your hands.

"Sorry, I'm just stressed out about the whole Rupert ordeal." It wasn't a complete lie, ever since you landed this internship you've felt like putting your head in a door way and slamming the door repeatedly on it. You couldn't imagine how many grudges these Lords hold against each other, it would've been disputed in an instant if you were back at home.

"I shouldn't have brought it up, I'm sorry." Taggie says, sighing. "I tried getting Rupert to step down earlier at the falconery, but he wouldn't listen. He's convinced my father doesn't have the capability to take him down." She whispers, afraid of her father overhearing the two of you.

You quickly glance into the next room where Declan was speaking to Caitlin, Maud seeming very displeased in the middle. "I don't know if we have any more options, Tags. I think we have to let them go at it." You say remorsefully, looking back at her.

"I'm not giving up just yet." She says firmly, picking up a platter of desserts as you shake your head, bringing out another bottle of wine to share.

-

It was now Friday, February 14th. You and Seb were in mid conversation when Cameron Cook comes barreling down the office floor, yelling about needing coffee.

"You'd think the promotion would make her happy, but she's angrier than ever." You say, closing your folder. Your desk phone starts to ring.

"I'll get the coffee, you get the phone." Seb says, walking around from your shared cubicle.

"Hello, y/n y/l/n speaking." You say.

"Look, I'm going to make this very clear y/n." Maud says on the other line. "I know that you are seeing my husband." She says, causing your eyes to nearly pop out of your skull.

You laugh breathlessly, looking around as you sit down, almost whispering into the phone. "What are you talking about?" You ask, your body beginning to sweat profusely.

Declan's wife has called you, at work, on the day of all god damn days, to confront you about your affairs.

"I found your bra underneath my bed when I was looking for something else." She says, almost sounding too calm for the circumstances she was speaking of. "I know I am one to talk, but I insist if you know any better, that you no longer see him. His work already keeps him away from our family, god forbid someone at The Corinium starts doing the same." She remarks, her tone never wavering.

Your jaw drops slightly, unable to find your words.

"Oh, and good luck tonight. Don't ruin my husband's career." She says, the line going dead.

You are left in dismay, slowly putting the phone back down on the hook. You look around your workspace once more in complete mortification.

"Oh god." You whisper to yourself, getting up to retrieve a cup of coffee to mask the fear building up inside. You couldn't fathom the audacity Maud O'Hara had to tell you to leave her husband be when she was trying to get with every other well-off man in the county.

All personal feelings aside, you knew you had to listen to her wishes in order to keep your job, and Declan's. It would be unfair to both parties if you kept this up.

You shakily pour the coffee pot into your mug, putting one cream and one sugar in after before stirring it with a spoon. You stare at the ground, unable to gather your thoughts up properly as Declan quickly walks past the kitchen with his focus on papers in his hands, taking a step back when he notices you standing idly.

"Y/n, what're doing just standing there?" He asks boastfully, causing you to jump and spill some coffee on your hand.

"Fuck," You whisper, wincing as you quickly run your hand under the cold tap.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Declan says, coming up beside you and placing his hand on yours. "Is your hand alright?"

You turn to face him, giving him a flat tone. "It's fine, thanks." You say, pulling away as you grab your coffee and step into the hallway. "I have work to do."

He grabs your arm. "What work? You've done it all already." He says, raising a brow. "Is everything alright?" He asks, his eyes full of concern.

"What? Haven't you heard the news?" You quip, staring at him with dread in your eyes. You hated yourself for developing feelings for Declan O'Hara. You were smarter than this, and to allow yourself to dig such an emotional hole was the last thing you needed for your brand-new career.

"Everything is fine, Mister O'Hara." You say, pulling your arm away from his grasp. His face drops when you refuse to use his first name. "Maybe you need to ask your wife the same question." You add bitterly, stepping away from him. His eyes widen at the mention of his wife.

"Elvis is about to enter the building." Seb says, him and Daysee both running down the hall past you two.

Declan looks you for a long, silent moment. "We'll discuss this later." He mutters, following them down the hall.

You close your eyes and sigh, walking away towards your desk.

-

You're now standing in the control room, biting your nails nervously as Daysee counts down Declan, now live broadcasting the interview. You exchange glances with Seb as Declan begins with mundane questions before hitting him with mildly offensive comments that will eventually snowball into something worse.

You cover your mouth as Declan brings up the topic of adultery, and how it must do Mr. Campbell-Black well for life within the Conservative Party.

"I'm sorry?" Rupert says with dismay.

"You know, sneaking around, lying, betrayal, sexual degeneracy." Declan lists nonchalantly, as if Rupert was born for such actions.

"Oh fuck." You mumble into your hand, Seb patting your shoulder with a sympathetic look.

"Remember, Declan's just doing his job." He reminds you.

"I'm no longer married." Rupert exclaims.

"Yeah, but you were, for six years! And yet throughout your marriage, your affairs were common knowledge." Declan states confidently, gesturing to the crowd. "I mean, one Gloucestershire peer has described you as 'rather a nasty virus that everyone's wife caught sooner or later.'" Declan reads off of a card.

"Well if you've seen his wife, it's definitely later." Rupert retorts towards the audience, causing everyone to laugh. Declan's jaw vividly tenses on camera.

You sigh putting your head in your hands. "Oh wow, that's great." You mumble to yourself.

"What a fucking arsehole." Seb mutters, crossing his arms.

"And that's the break in five..." Daysee begins counting down.

You nervously watch as Declan composes himself to announce the commercial break.

"That's time for break. When we return, who knows what Mister Campbell-Black might choose to share with us when we return." Declan says through a forced smile, looking directly at the camera. It felt like he was looking right at you.

"...and we're out." Daysee says.

"Thank fuck." You quickly exit the control room, needing to be elsewhere for the next three minutes. As you make your way through the halls, you run into Taggie.

"Taggie?" You say in a quizzical manner, causing her to turn and face you.

"Y/n, I'm here to talk to Rupert. Something's very wrong about this." She says urgently.

"Jesus, Taggie you can't-" You begin.

Rupert appears around the corner with his assistant. "Taggie, what are you doing here?" He asks her.

Taggie walks past you. "You need to go. Just walk out."

"Rupert, I advise you to not do that." You warn him.

Rupert laughs at you both. "Your father's not the first old socialist who's tried to catch me out." He reassures Taggie, putting his hand on her arm. "Whatever you're worried about, it's already out there."

"Taggie, you need leave-" You begin, tugging at her arm.

"No, I know him." Taggie says, ignoring you as she pulls away from your grasp. "He's saving the worst for later. When he wants something, he's ruthless." She warns him. "He'll do anything, I mean, he's-"

"He's just like you, Rupert." You say, pursing your lips.

"Exactly." Taggie says.

Cameron Cook appears, interrupting the conversation. "Minister, we need you back on set. The break's almost over." She directs Rupert, who keeps his gaze on you and Taggie.

"Listen to Miss Cook, Rupert. You have to go." You say.

"Just walk out of the building with me." Taggie interjects, pleading with her eyes.

"Minister!" Cameron snaps, glaring at Rupert.

"Screw this." You say, walking away from everyone. You return back to the control room, slamming the door behind you.

"What's going on?" Tony Baddingham asks, puffing on a cigar.

"Cameron has it under control." You simply say, returning to the corner with Seb and Daysee.

"What happened?" Seb asks quietly.

"Taggie's shown up to try and get Rupert to leave. She thinks Declan has more blackmail on him than we are aware of." You whisper, grabbing the back of your neck as you watch Daysee begin to count Declan back in.

"Where the fuck is he?" Tony says harshly, looking down through the viewing glass.

You hide your face behind your clipboard, unable to watch the scene about to unfold.

"Y/n look, Rupert's back." Seb says, tapping on your back to redirect your attention. You look over the clipboard at the monitors, watching Rupert Campbell-Black sit back down on the stage. Rupert begins to compare the interview to being back on the playing field.

"Seb, I don't have a good feeling about this." You say quietly, covering half your face with a clipboard.

"Just watch, relax." Seb whispers.

"It's an interview, there are no winners." Declan tells Rupert, who gives him a look.

"That's not true though, is it?" Rupert queries, looking towards the audience. "He wants to beat me." He exaggerates, giving a shit-faced grin.

Your eyes widen as Rupert begins to compare him to Declan, putting both of them under the same umbrella metaphorically. Declan brings it back around by repeatedly shitting on Campbell-Black, about to pull out an envelope from underneath his blazer as Rupert does something no one expected; admitting everything Declan has said to be true.

"Oh god." You whisper.

"I remember what it was like, to be the best. And what I was willing to do to stay there." Rupert says grimly. "What are you... willing to do?" Rupert asks in a taunting manner.

Declan goes quiet.

"To your family?... To yourself?" Rupert asks solemnly, the both of them having a stare down as the control room starts to light up in commotion.

You watch in fear as Tony urges Declan in his earpiece to take down Rupert, your eyes flickering between the multiple camera angles on a very, very quiet Declan.

"You're right." Declan finally says. "I'm a workaholic. And when I'm consumed by something... I can be, um... I can be a-"

"Monster." Rupert finishes the sentence, the both of them sharing a stare once again.

Rupert makes a comment about Declan being a better husband than he ever was, which causes you to look away from the screen when Declan argues against it. You couldn't help but feel as if you're one of Declan O'Hara's many flaws.

The interview starts to go in the opposite direction. You look back at the screen, watching Declan pull out his earpiece as Tony becomes enraged.

"If it's any consolation, we've made some really great television." Cameron Cook reasons.

"This would have worked if you'd just done your fucking job!" Tony yells at her, causing the rest of you to side eye him madly.

"Seb, I need to go home." You tell him flatly, putting your clipboard down.

"What? Y/n, the show isn't over yet! Where are you going?" Seb exclaims quietly, confused by your course of action. Daysee also gives you a look of worry.

"I just said home! I'll see you on Monday." You whisper aggressively, leaving the control room.

You hastily go over to your desk to retrieve your bag and coat. You glance over quickly at the viewing room the rest of the staff was in, your stomach tying in knots as the sight.

Heading down the hallway and the stairs, you push open the front doors and end up outside, where a massive group of fans stood awaiting Rupert Campbell-Black's return. They all share looks and noises of disappointment as they see you, an intern on the brink of tears instead of the acclaimed bachelor.

You push through the crowd, hurriedly approaching your car and unlocking it. You sit inside the beater and stare off in the distance. Your cheeks are stained with tears against your own will, your forehead resting upon the steering wheel as you begin to sob mercilessly.

You felt so hopeless amidst it all, no longer sure of yourself as you were before.

-

i will not lie this chapter was becoming so fucking long it's just gonna end up a continuation into the next part... also im lowkey too awkward to properly write out sex scenes because i give myself second hand embarrassment so forgive me this fanfic is plot driven over sex driven (':

as youve noticed ive started to follow by the episode plot line, it makes it easier for me to write and follow. thank you again for the support, and as always keep interacting with my works! keep me motivated ;)

much love,

isabel

[deergravity]

Seeing as my internal rewards system has moved on to 'trans fiction' from 'queer horror audio drama podcast' I thought I should do a little roundup of everything I listened to the past few months.

A rough ranking:

Malevolent. Just squeaking into the top spot here based on 1) technical prowess (iykyk) 2) compelling characters and story and 3) they are my blorbos your honor!!! Mind boggling that Harlan Guthrie has so much chemistry with himself.

The Silt Verses. Only topped by Malevolent bc season 1 is not as polished, but it really doesn't matter. Top tier characters, amazing worldbuilding, intricate plotting and it had something to SAY about the casual violence of systems, the nature of hope, the complexity of being human in a world that tries to make us inhuman. Also, it doesn't rely on some thin recording contrivance (a framing device that has its place) and instead truly takes the mantle of audio drama without apology.

The White Vault. On the topic of framing devices, TWV has a very cool take on found footage recordings. A group of [researchers/archeologists] are sent to investigate a remote site in [Svalbard/Patagonia] and the podcast is structured as a documentarian presenting the notes, recordings and diary entries in a reconstructed timeline. My favorite element is that many of the characters don't make their notes in English, so the segments will often open with the VA speaking German, Spanish, Mandarin, Icelandic, Russian, etc etc before fading into the translation. There are miniseries between the seasons available on their patreon and they were so worth the $10 I paid to access them for a month. Reveals are slow, but worthwhile, and the mythology built for the show is highly original and intriguing.

Deviser. A one season contained story from Harlan Guthrie of Malevolent. Scifi, psychological, lots of wet awful body horror. If you're a fan of Harlan wimpering into a mic, you'll love this one.

WOE.BEGONE. Long, ongoing, and so so so far from the original premise it's hilarious, I'm ranking this higher than it maybe deserves for two factors 1) the creator and the VAs are clearly having a blast and 2) it's riding the line of taking itself serious despite a premise that invites irony poisoning without becoming too wrapped up in itself. It's fun, I think, that keeps w.bg strong.

The Magnus Archives. Should this be one up? Probably. But everyone bloody well knows tma by this point, it's good, great even! Beyoncé of horror podcasts.

I Am In Eskew. Only knocked down due to the actually godawful sound quality. Truly unsettling stories though (the one with the building architect haunts me) and a surprisingly realistic conclusion. You can see the bones of The Silt Verses here, from the same creative team.

The Magnus Protocol. Everything above this is there due to originality. As a sequel series, TMAGP will always suffer in that measure. However, I like our new cast and I do love an alternate reality. Curious to see where season 2 takes us. I'd like to kill Mr Bonzo in a fire.

The Inexplicables. Another one season story, this time from Rusty Quill, with really fun, flawed characters and no recording framing device!

Wolf 359. Storywise, great! Characters, excellent! Kicking it way to the bottom bc they just would NOT STOP referencing H***y P****r. Yes, Doug's characterization hangs on excessive reference humor, but that was one well I wish they'd left alone.

Red Valley. Knocked for HP references too (come ON british podcasters, do better) but more importantly for veering WAY WAY WAY WAY WAY too close to real life in season 3 onward. I was here for a horror sci fi story about cryogenics, not to listen to my worst climate disaster fears brought to life via hearing rich old sods try to buy their way out of consequences while the world burns and eco terrorism escalates. Too real. Not bad storytelling, just very much not fulfilling my escapism needs.

It's kinda crazy to me that anytime I mention this genre to normies in my life they say, "oh, like true crime podcasts?" And then I die inside. No dude, like radio drama. Like War of the Worlds.

Anyway, I'm off to get even less relatable by reading a zillion niche trans novels (hello Welcome to Dorley Hall, aka, what if there really was a 'trans cult' force femming dudes to undermine their masculinity? It's amazing how much yarn we can make by subverting the cis gaze.)

[syneilesis]

[fic] Impact Factor

Impact Factor

Love and Deepspace | Zayne (Li Shen) x Main-Character!Reader | G | 4k words | ao3 link

god, i'm so lovesick. what have you done to me? You tell Zayne that you're co-authoring a research paper. He finds himself wanting and waiting to read it.

A/N: For @seraphiism 's 2024 writing event. I chose Lovesick by Laufey. I know. Zayne? Lovesick? Lmao I don't know if I pulled it off, but I have to write for Zayne at least once.

I gave this fic a single, cursory proofread. Any mistake is still my fault. Divider by @/saradika

“By the way, a professor of mine in college reached out to me last week and asked me if I was interested in co-authoring an article with her on the phenomenology of vocation of the people working in Hunters Association.”

The clacking of the keyboard is crisp and loud in the silverlined office, accompanied by the low hum of the airconditioner. Zayne's attention remains on the computer, updating your status condition. He makes a brief noise to indicate that he's listening, and when he takes his gaze away from the desktop he finds you watching him with a faint grin on your face.

“Do you want me to guess your reply?”

That faint grin grows wide and whole.

“What do you think?”

Zayne leans back and rolls his chair a little farther, reaching out to turn on the printer. The machine whirls to life, chatters.

“You accepted the offer, of course.” He returns to his laptop and clicks on the print icon. “You don't have the heart to refuse your professor.”

“Dr. Zayne, you know me so well.”

Something in the way you said it compels him to turn to you again. Your expression hasn't changed, but the fall of your hair frames your slightly narrowed eyes that sparkle under the bright fluorescent light, like rare midday stars. It staggers the beats of Zayne's heart for two seconds, seizes his throat, and in that sliver of a moment Zayne forgets to breathe.

“Maybe it's because you're transparent,” he says, after retrieving the prescription from the printer. He hands you the paper, and surprise stretches your features. He clarifies: “Supplements. Undoubtedly you will need it when you begin your research.”

“Nothing less from my doctor.” My. The word is malleable around your mouth. And then: “I'm transparent? Is that a bad thing?”

“It's not a flaw.” He signs the healthcare forms you passed onto him. “But neither is it a virtue.”

“Hmm. Then, I guess I'll watch myself.”

His head jerks at your response, and Zayne has something to say to that—something like your not needing to be conscious of how open you are—but then your watch beeps and you apologize for the sudden departure.

Alone in his office, Zayne sinks into his chair and closes his eyes.

▼

That exchange, brief yet odd, lingers in Zayne's mind, like a stone at the base of his brain, next to the stem and cerebellum. He can feel its weight, its matter, solid and bothersome that at one point Greyson stops and asks him, “Are you okay, Dr. Zayne? You seem to be distracted today.”

A flash of memory; the word transparent, your answer. Were it not for the emergency mission, he would have hastened to add that transparency is closely associated with sincerity—and that is a virtue. He imagines a version of you as secretive as a glacier, as closed-off as a fortress, and the dissonance it invites rings discordant in the history between you—you who have always reached out to him first.

His hands itch for the phone that's secluded in one of his drawers, away from distraction, from memory. Zayne is, after all, duty first, the rest a distant second.

“It's nothing,” he tells Greyson. “I'm fine.”

“Maybe it's time for a vacation? You've been busy—busier than usual—lately.”

“I'll take a vacation at the end of the year. Right now, you're needed in the meeting room for a briefing.”

When Greyson clears the area, Zayne turns and sees Yvonne near the entrance of the lobby, studying him, her face arranged in a way that invites him to defend himself for some reason. But he resists the irrational urge.

He meets her scrutiny with a long and stoic gaze, and she shakes her head, wordless, then continues on with her work.

Left in the hallway, Zayne sighs and goes back to his office.

▼

“Dr. Zayne!”

Shapes of different colors coalesce into your reflection on the glass that displays the myriad cakes Zayne's been deliberating upon for the last fifteen minutes. The figure looms larger and larger, until it sidles up next to him and he straightens up, turning to his side.

“What a coincidence,” you continue with a glancing smile, hand on your chin as you survey the available pastries for purchase. “Are you buying desserts too?”

Earlier, Akso Hospital had a rare moment of slowness that allowed its personnel to indulge in a breather, which afforded Zayne to clock out on time. As a treat—and he will never admit this to anyone—he's stopped by the bakeshop on the way home, and to his surprise, here you are as well.

To your question he can only give a noncommittal sound; then to the cashier he points at the sea salt caramel vanilla slice that he's wanted to try for a while now. Both you and the cashier let out an intrigued Oh! before the purchase is processed at the register.

“Sea salt caramel vanilla,” you say with an evaluatory seriousness, “good choice.”

Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose.

“By the way, I've started on the research project. Been doing some preliminary reading since I don't want to disappoint my former professor. So far I'm doing well—the supplements are a great help!”

The supplements. He had an inkling that, as you are wont to do with every mission, you were rushing into this project with all your mind and body, tunnel-visioned, only the end goal visible in your sights. This unfortunately excludes concerns regarding your health, and Zayne is correct: all nighters and skipped meals, both of which erode the state of a person's health. When you are focused on something, that something takes the highest priority, and he can't always be with you all the time to remind you to take a break, or eat healthy food, or drink water. Which is why: supplements. They're not preventative, but at least they mitigate.

And it seems you're telling the truth: no tightness in your eyes and tautness in the shape of your mouth. In this case—in the case of your aspiration to conceal—you have not changed—or at least attempted to hold yourself back. Something in his chest loosens, smooths the tenseness out of his muscles that Zayne hasn't realized is there.

This is something to ponder, but not at the moment.

“I don't have to remind you that supplements are not substitutes for healthy food and proper sleep, do I?”

“Of course not! Even I know that.” But then your expression turns sheepish. “In practice, that's a little ...”

Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose again.

“But don't worry too much about me, Dr. Zayne! I'm taking care of myself just fine!”

“That doesn't instill much confidence.”

“How about this, then?” And you face him fully, a ready smile brimming with its own confidence and assurance, as radiant as an aurora. “If something happens, you will be the first person I'll turn to.”

At that Zayne pauses. The easy trust you bring between the both of you warms his neck, the back of it, climbing up, up, up to the tips of his ears and to his cheeks. He moves on to the cashier, his back on you.

“Try not to let that 'something' happen, but I know you're too stubborn to listen.”

A chuckle, and then: “I can't make any promises, but I'll try.”

This time, Zayne turns back.

“'Try' implies effort, so I am expecting effort.”

You snap a salute, grinning. “Got it, Doc!”

▼

The day after that, Zayne begins to read up on the subject of phenomenology.

▼

It won't be a couple of weeks until Zayne sees you again—but this time it's under the harsh hospital lights and the din of frantic footsteps and rolling wheels, the mixed scents of blood and antiseptic stinging his nose. A Wanderer surge disrupted the southern part of Linkon, and of the hunters dispatched you had been one of them.

Zayne glides around the moving bodies, steps never faltering until he finds you tucked in a corner, cradling your broken arm.

When his shadow falls upon your involuted frame, you lift your head and a rueful grin greets him. Your glass-sheen gaze doesn't escape his scrutiny.

He's wearing his white coat, and both of his hands retreat into its pockets, where he closes them into tight fists. If Zayne tilts his head a little more to the right, he can see a lengthy gash that lines along your temple and into your scalp, covered by your blood-crusted hair. He is painfully aware that this is part and parcel of your profession, the risk that endangers a hunter during a mission. A part of him is thankful that today it is only a broken arm and a couple of wounds. It could have been much worse, and Zayne refuses to imagine a scenario where you come into the hospital drained of vitality. A frustrated sigh threatens to spill out of him, but he endures, and just pointedly shoots you a disappointed look.

“So this is all the effort that you mentioned just amounted to.”

“To be fair I was doing well for a couple of hours until I had to rescue a civilian trapped in a damaged building.”

“That is commendable.” And he means it. But—“Follow that nurse with the brown clipboard. He's in charge of injuries like yours. Can you walk that far?”

Your uninjured hand braces against the wall and you pull yourself up, the motion not quite fluid but not a slow stagger either. Zayne would have assisted you, but it seems that you can do it on your own.

“It's my arm that's broken, not my legs.” A wincing smile, and you start to make your way forward. “I know that you have to take care of other people, Dr. Zayne, but thanks for checking up on me.”

Behind him, a nurse calls his name, a signal to go back to his work. There are other patients who need his attention more than you do, and overall you seem fine, still put together. A broken arm can heal over time, given proper medical care. And Zayne knows, intimately, that Akso does not lack for anything.

Still. It's not entirely on purpose, but Zayne calls your name.

“I—” he begins, as you slow down to wait for whatever he's going to say. His throat struggles, constricting and opening in subconscious reflex. “I'd still rather not worry about you like this.”

In and around the space between you and him, the hospital remains astir—shadows and silhouettes slipping in and out of Zayne's sight—until they give way to the blossoming smile on your face, eclipsing everything from the back to the fore, a pinpoint mark on the map.

Later, even as he tends to his patients, your smile persists in Zayne's mind, an afterimage that refuses to disappear behind his eyelids.

▼

Exactly one week after that incident, Zayne receives a bouquet of jasmines and a box of banana bread. Attached to it is a pristine white card with a line written: Don't forget to take care of yourself too!

The card stays in his breast pocket well beyond his working hours, right next to his beating heart.

▼

Days pass, weeks, months, and Zayne finds himself browsing through phenomenology journals during his break in the hopes of seeing your name in one of them. He knows that you'll tell him once it's published, but there's a part of him that clamors for the first touch of knowledge, the letters that make up your name woven in the glowing screen of his tablet.

At the same time, Greyson and Yvonne have bitten into their suspicions—whatever they are, Zayne refuses to ask—and swallowed the succulence as if it's a juicy truth. Often he sees Greyson glancing at him with a shadow of a smile, a quick sleight of hand that when Zayne fully faces him his expression is already ironed out and professional. Yvonne is no better: all glimmering eyes and knowing grins and incessant questions about his mood. Once, he asked the reason for the barrage of questions and Yvonne ignored the frost in his voice and tittered, telling him that sometimes in life, they have to combat the monotony with exciting things.

It worries him somewhat that you and Yvonne and even Greyson have been getting along quite well for a time now.

But your name still doesn't appear, and it doesn't seem to be appearing in the foreseeable future. Still Zayne searches, his fingers already making a habit of typing your name in the bar, his heart beating for a yes.

▼

At some point, he's asked about your progress.

“It's been going well,” you answer. “Professor made some comments about the part in my results and discussion, so I'm going to revise that. I think we can submit it by next month if we maintain the pace.”

After a thoughtful pause, you rest your arms on his desk, cushion your chin on them, and angle him a sly look.

“Are you offering to proofread my work, Dr. Zayne?”

“I may need a box of red pens for that.”

That jolts a laugh out of you, and you recover by sending a mock pout his way.

“I’ll have you know that I was a diligent writer in college! I won in essay writing competitions!”

“Is that so? Then I suppose your first foray in academic publishing will be a successful ‘accepted with minor revisions’ reply from the editor.”

“Of course! Oh, fine, fine. I won’t ask you to proofread the manuscript. You can just wait until it’s published.”

A small, genuine smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

▼

Eventually, he receives a text that says, We finally submitted the article! Now we just have to wait 🫣

He excuses himself from a cluster of medical professionals talking about the latest breakthroughs in oncology and parks himself beside the long table of drinks. He texts back: Watch out for Reviewer #2. They’re always the culprit.

It takes a full ten minutes before you reply, and during that period of anticipation four individuals have come up to him and attempted to pull him into a conversation about his accomplishments and recent research—one even braving to entice him into applying to another hospital.

Zayne shakes them off as politely as he can (and to that one poacher he gives a cold and resolute no). When his phone beeps, he turns away and redirects his undivided attention to the screen. All your latest message contains is a single salute emoji and the single-word sentence Gotcha! A laugh startles out of him, which Yvonne—having developed an eagle eye for Zayne in the recent weeks—notices and she scurries over to Greyson, bowing their heads in hushed whispers, glancing at him every now and then.

He's realized what they'd been talking about whenever he's in their vicinity, and he's tempted to refute their assumptions and retaliate accordingly. But the stone-weight in his mind had transformed into a persistent itch that does not choose when it strikes. In most cases it's merely annoying, but on rare occasions it is, frankly, merciless. A good-night text echoes in his dreams, and Zayne wakes with a thick sweetness coating the inside of his mouth. A fleeting touch from your worried hand burns the skin of his arm, the heat seeping into the layers until it reaches the subcutaneous tissue, where it spreads all over his body through the veins. He has to evade your glare to hide the ruddiness of his cheeks. Capitulation is the only option he had to choose in the end, and the idea of surrendering to this melts away the reflexive inquiry of when and how and why—a trait he had to hone as a doctor and a researcher.

What else is left when all the signs are pointing to this one immutable conclusion? 

▼

On the day and hour your article is published Zayne is in the middle of a delicate surgery that takes him five hours and two hysterical family members of the patient—even with Evol involved. He emerges from the operating room with good news and exhausted-yet-relieved colleagues, Greyson's smile emerging from the doors the first indicator of a successful operation.

The patient's mother clings to him in tearful gratitude.

He orients the family on the next steps, and as he signs the healthcare forms he discovers a new slice of wound on the back of his hand, thin but lengthy. He has long since accepted that his hands, his arms, will forever be spattered with scars, and if that's the price he has to pay for saving lives, then it's of no consequence to him.

(Once, he had caught your gaze glued to his hands, so he snapped his fingers, startling you into looking at his face.

“What was that for?” you demanded.

“You're not paying attention.”

“I was just—” you bit your lip, torn. A pause, then: “Did they hurt—each one of them?”

He glanced down and studied each scar. Too many, you'd probably think. But not once had they bothered him.

“I never even noticed them in the first place, so no.”

“Okay.” Your eyes were crystal glass and the deep breath you took was stuttering in all its inelegance. “Okay.”)

A sliver of a break provides him the opportunity to sink into reprieve, and his hand gropes for his phone on the desk, peeking out under a sheaf of documents that he has to fill out later.

A cursory look at the screen, and then Zayne is leaping for the computer.

The research article you and your professor had written is kept behind a paywall. Zayne spares a moment to shut his eyes in irritation. He's fortunate that his university library account is still active, so he utilizes that privilege to gain access to the article’s full version, made available by the university’s database.

When the file loads, he syncs it to his tablet, after which he leans back on the chair and settles to read. He can locate which parts you had a hand in writing, and the parts where your style comes out. It isn't his field, but he has read enough to venture that the insights of this paper are valuable. Unwittingly, a proud smile surfaces on his lips.

At the end of the article, in the acknowledgment section, something is curiously written:

The co-author is grateful for the moral and medical support of Akso Hospital's Dr. Zayne. Dr. Zayne, would you like to have dinner with me? As a date. Yes, I'm asking you out.

Zayne’s mind blanks out and the itch returns, scrabbling at the walls of his skull, loud and frenetic and overwhelming all his senses. His entire body warms and the sensation of crawling needles prickle at his skin. Everything is white noise; his heart threatens to jump out of his ribcage. He gets the ridiculous thought that he can't perform a surgery on himself.

The next thing he knows, he's driving his car at the same time dialing your number. The car speakers amplify the ringing tone once his phone is attached to the dashboard. Both his hands tightly grip the steering wheel.

When the call connects, he opens with “What would you do if I hadn't read your article?”

He can practically hear the smile in your voice; it resounds around the car interior. “That's not an option, Dr. Zayne. You would have definitely read the article.”

Laughter bubbles up inside him; he tamps it down. “Confident now, are we?”

“Of course!” A pause; a shuffle of feet. You must be heading to another room. “I hear car engine, where are you now?”

“On the way to your apartment.”

“Wait, don't—go to this restaurant instead. I'll text you the address. I have it all reserved and ready.”

He blinks once, twice, surprise slackening the muscles on his face. “... You haven't even heard my answer yet.”

“You can tell me at the restaurant. And then we'll celebrate with excellent food, excellent wine, and scrumptious desserts.”

“You sound so certain about receiving a positive response.”

“I'm optimistic that way, Dr. Zayne. I'm heading out now—I'll see you in a bit!”

You hang up, and the speakers beep into silence. Two seconds later Zayne presses the hazard switch. The car slows down and then comes to a halt on the side of the road. Other vehicles zoom past him. Without the need to drive, Zayne can finally give in to the urge to exhale aloud and let out a brief yet astounded laugh, forehead pressing against the leather smoothness of the steering wheel.

You've always been transparent. But Zayne has made the crucial mistake of neglecting the fact that you are also clever. If this were a competition, you've already won.

▼

You're already at the restaurant when he arrives, sat on the corner facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, the shifting lights outside dancing over your serene profile. Your elbows rest on the table, where everything is already set up except the food. A vase of red roses at the center completes the picturesque scene.

You lift your head and welcome him with a triumphant grin once he's a few steps away. And when he settles on the chair opposite you, you lean forward and stare at him expectantly.

“You could have asked like a normal person,” Zayne begins.

“I could have,” you agree, nodding, “but I like it this way. I like to get closer to you through the things you do.”

Another moment of Zayne getting caught off-center: the warmth flushing outward from the core of his body like vibrant ink on clean, clear water. He has to lower his gaze from the sheer brilliance of your certainty, the way your patience and care have allowed this moment between the two of you, something that he has never imagined culminating like this: two people sitting opposite each other, in this softly lit restaurant while the world bursts into festive lights outside it. The tender way your hand moves across the table, stopping right before the flower vase, as if affording him the liberty to arrive at a decision Zayne has already made, many, many months (years) ago, just buried under the strata of responsibilities, boundaries, and improbabilities.

Never the when, never the how, never the why. It is, only, sublimely, this.

Zayne sighs with a rueful shake of his head. “It's not yet too late—maybe I should answer by publishing my own research article.” But the hand meeting yours belies his words.

Your smile: pleased, pleasure, like the sun emerging from the winter sky.

He's too occupied with the touch of your hand and the radiance of your expression that Zayne misses the throwaway comment that tumbles past his lips:

“If we're talking about getting closer through doing the things the other does, then I suppose I should propose to you when we're in the middle of a Wanderer invasion.”

And then he realizes what he just said.

Zayne whips his head up, heart in throat, and scrambles for an excuse. “What I meant was—”

“Getting ahead of ourselves now, are we?” Your face is pure indulgence, pure bliss. Your hand squeezes his, not letting go. “Don't worry, Dr. Zayne; I'm looking forward to it.”

And that lustrous smile, sustained. Zayne relaxes and you release him to clap your hands together, delighted.

“Now then! Shall we have our dinner?”

▼

(You have, indeed, delivered in all aspects: excellent food, excellent wine, and scrumptious desserts.)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

what are Leona's strengths?

[Referencing this post!]

Hey, so 💦 I wanted to address some of the recent asks I've been receiving. I'm glad that people seem to have really enjoyed the original post on Leona's flaws. However, I want to make it clear that I do not intend to make summary posts on every Twst character's strengths/flaws. I feel like it's a false dichotomy to label traits as good or bad to begin with. Something that's good in one scenario might be bad in another. Other traits are neutral but may be bad in extremes (either too much or too little of it). I don't like the idea of strictly sorting things into these black and white categories.

Additionally, I don't want people depending on these posts instead of taking the time and energy to think about it themselves. I feel like once I start responding to these types of "What are [X]'s flaws/strengths" questions, I'm going to be asked to do it for everyone in the cast, and I just don't want my blog to be flooded with this when I'd rather be discussing other things. You as an individual should have your own interpretations of these characters instead of looking at someone else's summarized thoughts on the topic.

The same goes for anyone intending to write these characters; don't entirely rely on someone else's interpretation to inform your own. Reading a list of traits from a list won't help you understand or write them any better; you have to look at the canon materials or other fan works, interpret them through your own lenses, and develop your own takes on the characters. You have to learn the skills and put them to practice, consider the situation you're writing and think about how this would change things. That's not something you're going to achieve by asking for very generalized advice. The only thing I could reasonably pass on is to do your own research and avoid falling into the characterization extremes (ie making them "too nice" or "too mean"). You'll have to determine everything else out for yourself.

I apologize if this was something that people were looking forward to reading… I received many other asks expressing interest in this and was very overwhelmed by them, on top of everything else in my inbox. I just don't feel that things like this should be spoonfed to us, as it is not conducive to critical thinking and independent thought.

I did want to reply to a couple of these asks I received, but ONLY because those had a little more to discuss besides just asking that I make a list of flaws/strengths for an individual character. Please keep an eye out for those if you're interested ^^

[hybbart]

This is perhaps a strange question, but do you have the sketch/lineart/framework/whatever the heck it's called that you use when you draw Tango? I decided I want to learn to draw, and my thought process was, "Ah yes, the easiest way is to try and copy my favourite Tangos cause I know how they look," and it is going... poorly xD.

Alternatively, do you have any advice on how to learn and develop a style, or how to get/keep going?

A reference sheet? I have a couple various ones, though at this point i don't really use a reference unless I need to sample colours, and I'm currently working on a colour reference for myself. Besides the point I suppose... I'll put them at the very bottom of the cut so scroll right past my ramblings if you want to.

As for advice. My advice is do not try developing a style if you are just starting out. style is the last thing that should be on your mind if you're just starting out. Style is something that happens naturally as you grow and learn what you like and get used to your tools, and being able to intentionally create a style is an advanced skill that requires the skill to draw in various styles, strong basics, self-awareness, and proper self-critique.

The rest of this is going to be very incoherent and long winded and backwards so I apologize.

The most important thing to improving is to get over yourself. You need to look at someone else's art and be able to admit it's better than yours or has a quality you wish yours had without that being a statement of self-deprecation. You need to be able to look at your own art and pick out what it is you don't like about it without using it to beat yourself up. You can't improve if you get demotivated by the information required to adjust your course.

If you must, find something in each drawing that you like and focus on learning how to recreate that. If you find yourself with a drawing that you genuinely find nothing you like about it you stop drawing and restart, because that drawing is worthless to you once you recognize that. Analyze why you don't like it, figure out what's causing you to draw that way, ask what you might prefer instead and what the difference between them is, and figure out how to draw what you want instead. The important thing is that when you examine your art and other's art you're using as inspiration you don't instead use it as a tool to put yourself down.

My shadows are flat and poorly angled, and I draw everything lopsides, and I can say those things as simple facts of my art. These are things I still do, and I use tools to fix them, like turning my tablet or using editing tools, or looking up references. If I want to know a certain technique I reach out to other artists I see using said technique and asking, or I research it myself. In the meantime I experiment and accept this flaw in my art. There's other things to like. The important thing is you don't allow your lack of knowledge to demotivate you from correcting that lack of knowledge.

The best thing you can do is ask yourself what you like about art, and what you want to do. It's a bit difficult for me to help with this sort of thing because I've literally always drawn my whole life, so helping someone who is actively choosing to take up drawing isn't my realm of expertise. But art is communication and connection and self-expression. What do you want to express through your art and what medium is that expression best done in, what do you want to convey, what do you want to share that you simply cannot without art.

It's a bit daunting, those sound like profound questions, but honestly they're not. When I draw fanart usually what I wanna communicate is "I like these characters when they do this", and more often than not it's "I really liked this line/palette".

These incomplete character sketches have sat in my main D&D folder and I think about him at least once a month entirely because I was so happy with his proportions and the concept of a dewclaw heel. I ended up reusing the heel in these Jimmy designs.

It can be anything and changes with each piece. Drawing let's me express what I love and emphasize what I love about it or show it from my perspective. I'll use this raau page as an example.

This is actually based on a shop that I've gone to since I was a child, so it's a space that I've seen and thought about many times. Though it's changed, for ease of drawing and to fit into the setting of raau and for the sake of composition, but the things that are important to me are still here. The ceiling that feels slightly claustrophobically low, the rainbow coordinated shirts, the club covers shaped like animals, every inch of the shop being utilized for merchandise until you can barely see the walls, the nook shape of the section, the fluorescent lights with this specific covering that's very "soulless office job" but to me is also the playroom at my grandma's house and how both have no windows.

I wanted to preserve particular qualities of the atmosphere of the place, in order to express that in this image. That vibe that I could not describe in words to anyone who hasn't experienced it themselves so the best I could normally do is describe it and hope it sparks a similar enough memory. But with visual art I can use lightning, context, and composition to simply express it better. I can create the experience for someone else.

Sometimes writing is better at it than words, and sometimes both are needed, so I learned both. Sometimes music is better than either and I'm screwed because I can't do music. That's besides the point though.

When you're starting out you can have a hard time grasping what about a piece compels you. That's why you need to learn to critique art as you learn to draw, and that's also why tracing and copying is good.

Here's an example of me trying out @lunarcrown's art style. I made a collage and traced my favourite frame's shapes to "get my hands on it", if you will, before trying it out on my own, starting with similar poses usually. What I learned from this is I really like how Lunar does hair, actually even though this was a study of Tango I took notes on how she does Jimmy's hair and applied it to my Scar, Impulse, and Skizz, because I'm awful at short men's hairstyles.

I also cemented one of the reasons I love her art is because it does have some qualities that I already incorporate into mine, like the streamlining between flushed materials such as her Tango's skin and skin-tight shirt, or my Tango's sleeves and gloves.

If you know what you like about something it's easier to work towards incorporating it into your own art without simply copying someone else's. And starting out by copying as a way to play around with someone's art the same way an engineer pulls something apart is helpful in doing so.

Which leads me further back into simply go somewhere and draw what you see. The drawing does not have to be good, but being able to just take a sketchbook and see something that scratches your brain and mimic it is important to developing the above skills. Being able to translate reality into an image is important to developing your skills and understanding the fundamentals of breaking things down. Being able to look at something moving or possibly far away and look down and draw it anyways by breaking down its shapes is important in developing your ability to use references.

Drawing is also mostly muscle memory. So it's important to draw things over and over again. You can do this how you want, you're always going to hit a wall where you end up having to sit there and draw circles 50 times on a page to remember how to draw circles like you're trying to get a dry pen to work. You will do this before almost every serious picture. Find a way for you to enjoy this process.

The biggest most important rule about art, though, is that there is not rules. Go about things however you want for whatever reason you want. If you enjoy doing something a certain way do it that way, if you hate a particular process eliminate it. Sometimes the result outweighs a miserable process, if having something look a certain way is more important then suck it up and do so. If you care more about enjoying a motion than what the end result is then do so. You have to ask yourself what you care about in art.

For now, though, if you're just starting out. The best thing you can do is draw a lot of circles and cubes and fruit. It's an unfortunate truth that the best foundation is learning realism, because it's just going to teach your the fundamentals the best, and all abstraction is... well, an abstraction.

Of course, as just said, there is no rules, and if you genuinely do not enjoy drawing those things like me, then you can simply not. It helps improvement the fastest but if it makes you miserable in a way that isn't backed by passion then that's counterproductive. Forcing yourself only really works if you're passionate enough about what you're doing to overcome the temporary discomfort of learning, so if you're satisfied with just being able to mimic something more abstract in the beginning do exactly that and explore what would make you passionate enough to be willing to draw things you aren't stoked about for an end result. You might never be, but that's also fine, you don't have to strive to be the world's greatest artist to justify drawing.

Also accept that you're absolutely going to change your mind on things. What felt like a great line to draw you're going to hate the next day. It's up to you if you leave it be or fix it, neither's the right answer. I tend to lean towards leaving it personally, even when it drive some up a wall, simply because I have very momentary inspiration and don't like returning to old pieces once I'm done with them. Some people will return to a picture over and over again fixing it every time they think of something. Whatever floats your boat.

tl;dr figure out what you enjoy doing with art and just do that as much as you like. Improve by finding new things you want to do with art. Combine as you see fit to create art.

...

okay time for references:

I try to keep my designs simple because the style I developed for mcyt art was intended for animations. I've drifted a bit but in general I keep to simple shape-defined designs with long lines, flat colours, and minimal wrinkles. It's intentionally flat in many ways in order to create more satisfying lines, like the collar of his shirt or the way his hands ' gradient is done with the line art.

Tango is both round and angular, basically he's an almond. His shape is ambiguous in much of his clothing, with very understated joints. This gives him a move cartoony elastic sort of vibe, like he's just a pipe cleaner that can bend any which way, or a piece of rubber that might stretch.

I avoid bogging him down with logic for that reason, his hair is styled like hair but it has the appearance and moves like fire. Which is it? Who knows. Where are his organs? I haven't drawn them so they don't exist.

[soap-ify]

AIM AT MY HEART | eros!john 'soap' mactavish x f!reader.

synopsis — while everyone celebrated love, you met a god. [3.5k words]

tw / cw — mdni 18+, lonely!reader, reader is bit of a loser actually, typical misogyny and objectification of women during that time (just briefly mentioned), spoiler alert soap is eros and is bit of a freak, little breast play, reader is said to be a virgin, cunnilingus, p in v. — please let me know if i missed any tags!

notes — after some research and finding like few different names for love festivals in ancient greece, i decided to stick with calling it the festival of love. this isn't going to be historically accurate or anything, just a silly idea i came up with for valentines. unedited.

It looked like the rain was your date for this festival, the cold droplets gently kissing your skin just the way a lover would.

Every street was simply bustling with people today, all trapped in their own little bubbles forged by them. Married couples and young people in love alike. Now was the perfect time to say that love was in the air. It didn’t disgust you by any means, no. You love love — you wonder if it’s just as dreamy as it sounds. To have someone to call yours, to be touched and to be heard. A feeling that your heart pleaded for, ready to pathetically beg for it even. You don’t see much of it on the streets though, so you wonder if it’s naught but a myth.

Loneliness can mess up with anyone. You were still unwed, always met with the disappointed stares of your mother and the unnerving promises of your father stating that he’d find a groom for you. Probably some old man.

So no, you weren’t disgusted by all the couples roaming around in this festival of love. Just envious, sad — even if some of the love they displayed might just be for the show. On top of that, no one was aware of the incoming rain. Though most were now sheltered somewhere or protected by clothed umbrellas, though meant for the rich. So here you were, strolling in these soaked streets uncovered. Hey, at least the rain was willing to give you some company.

Some people looked at you with a pitiful gaze through the distance. Most men walking in groups whistled at you, staring at you with the most vile eyes. Carnivores. All you could do was just sheepishly stare ahead, doing your best to not look down at the ground while walking and looking like some kicked-out puppy. Even though you definitely did feel like one right now. Fresh food for the predators in the open.

Love. Such a familiarly foreign request. What must you do to get it, pray to the gods? Would Aphrodite listen, or Eros? Why hadn’t they blessed you yet? Taking a turn into the alley, you made the mistake of getting distracted by some plants nearby, instantly bumping into someone. “Oh, sorry, I-” Warm hands steadied your almost falling body, interrupting your apologies. You looked up to see blue eyes staring at you, the scrutiny of the stare making you feel as if he was opening you up like a book and reading everything within.

“Dinnae apologise, hen.” He let you go with a soft chuckle, an understanding smile lacing his lips. The slight amusement in his rough voice was enough to make your heart squeeze unintentionally, your throat going dry as you stared at him with wide eyes.

“Okay.” You dumbly replied and walked past him, not giving any of you a chance to make the conversation progress. How impolite. After all, what were you supposed to say to him? That you’re lonely as fuck and that his voice made you feel all funny inside? You mustn’t lust over a stranger. Probably married.

But oh, those blue eyes were now ingrained in your brain. He had looked at you as if he knew you, as if he knew of each of your flaws.

You missed the way he kept looking at your back while you walked away.

Sleep came to you a bit too easily. It was quite the odd occurrence, considering that you’d always be tossing and turning while staring at the ceiling creepily for a good half hour until you’d fall asleep.

A warm hug to your pillow and you were knocked out within seconds, drowning into slumber.

Darkness. That’s all you could see, that’s all what was within reach. You didn’t know if you were dreaming or not. What you did know was that you felt as if you were floating, higher and higher. Wait, were you dead?

You were just about to reach out to the blankness surrounding you when you felt strong arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you in. When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself in your… bedroom? Bedroom for sure, just more dreamy. As if it wasn’t you who lived here. As if it were the room of the gods. The air seemed lighter, the colours more bright.

You tried to struggle against the strong grip on your waist, your back pressed against something strong. “Quit struggling, hen.” The growl behind you caught you off guard, causing you to go still. That voice. That voice. You remember it all too well, the guy you bumped into in the street earlier.

Once his grip on you loosened, you quickly turned around and faced him, finding him looking at you triumphantly, his body adorned in nothing but a white shawl that covered only one shoulder and his waist. His body was sculpted beautifully, muscles made to be caressed delicately. Perfection, that’s what he was. You caught a small glimpse of the wings on his back — mighty and fluffy. You nervously cowered, mind too overwhelmed to comprehend what was going on here. You were being touched by a stranger. Only tales by some women had warned you about the perverse nature of most men. It terrified you.

Your eyes darted over to the loose blindfold lowered down to his neck, and the set of bow and arrows laid down on your nightstand.

You didn’t know why you were so afraid to look into his eyes. It was as if looking into the eyes of god and being forced to acknowledge all your sins. Was he a god? Or an angel? He reeked of purity, of utter diviness that you couldn’t even dream to look at. Though here you were, being looked at by someone that just seemed so seraphic. It almost made you feel guilty.

“Who are you?” You blurted out, unable to hide the way your hands were trembling. You were forced to look up when you felt something cold gliding against your jaw, soon realising that it was one of his arrows, mapping out your face. Just the way an artist would with his muse.

He was silent for a while, simply observing you. Or maybe just thinking of what to answer you with. What should he tell you? “Ye can call me Johnny.” He finally settled on a name after some contemplation that thankfully went unnoticed by you.

“Johnny…” You tested his name carefully, your hands carefully reaching out to grasp onto his arms, not even realising that you were somehow sitting on your bed now. ”What are you, Johnny?”

“A god.”

And there it was again, that victorious grin. He was proud of the reaction he was getting out of you, the utter confusion and bewilderment etched on your face was nothing short of adorable to him. Poor, poor human.

“Ye looked lonely tonight.” He continued, leaning in closer, his presence seeming even bigger and more imposing than before. “Ye seemed sad. Like a wee lost chick. Made me feel somethin’, ye ken. Sadness f’ye, maybe?” He chuckled and shook his head, gently undoing the blindfold on him. His hands were soft yet rugged, holding yours with great care, gently tying the white silk around your wrists. Not too tightly, just firmly enough.

“Oh…” You weren’t sure why you weren’t struggling against the bindings. Maybe it was due to the fact that your brain had slowly comprehended who he really was. Arrows, playful, love. Eros. You didn’t know what to do, and you definitely didn’t know why you liked it. Gods above, you must be going insane. Wait, he’s a god too. Can he hear your thoughts?

“Yes I can.” He interrupted the raging storm of thoughts in your head with amused nonchalance. You could feel embarrassed heat creeping up on your cheeks, daring you to humiliate yourself further.

“Why is a bonnie lass like ye unwed?” The god cooed, his free hand still holding the arrow and gently tracing your jaw, moving down to the front of your neck, and downward to the neckline of your dress. He didn’t dare to stop there, moving the sharp point of the arrow towards your left breast, grazing against the soft fabric of your clothes. Shove it in, make me find love.

“U-Um…” Your words were caught in your throat, fingernails unknowingly digging hardly into his muscular arms. “I don’t know.” Despite how doltish that answer may have made you look, it was the truth. You didn’t know why you were some lonely maiden staring at the night sky every night, dreaming about the undying devotion you couldn’t reach for.

Johnny didn’t respond to that, satisfied enough to just stare at you. You soon realised that you didn’t feel creeped out by his gaze, you yearned for it. Attention for a god. Even if he viewed you as a lamb of some sorts, temporary affection was making you feel alive.

“I’m not gonna sacrifice ye or anythin’, hen.” He read your mind again, and he was enjoying it way too much. It made you feel a bit frustrated, a bit too desperate.

“Why am I unwed?” You shooted his question back at him, daring to meet his eyes. “My mother hates me and my father, he… Just why can’t I be one of the blessed?” You unintentionally hissed, met with nothing but a mirthful grin plastered on his lips. Would it be a sin to think of a god as some bastard?

“Ain’tcha clever for shootin’ my question right back at me?” He sounded almost proud at you, slowly putting the arrow down and easing you down to lay on your bed properly, putting your tied wrists above your head. You were being so easy for him too, despite the irritation adorning your face. Your body had been starved for this, for some touch.

You didn’t make any effort to stop him as his fingers skillfully undid your garments and teasingly began sliding them off, revealing more and more of you until you were all naked in front of him. A meal for the god. You weren’t worried about being touched like this, especially when you were still not taken. The cool air hitting your skin made your shiver, your legs rubbing against one another.

“I have never been… used before.” You didn’t know how to word it. Well, he probably knew anyway. That’s what was expected from a modest woman. Being innocent and a virgin until she was on her marital bed with her groom.

“Stop thinkin’ so much, hen.” He silenced you by pressing a chaste kiss on your neck, your lips letting out an involuntary whine. Heaven touched you from his lips, and you felt love for the first time.

“Poor ye, so desperate for affection.” You felt his stubble tickle your cheek as he whispered into your ear, the sensation making your body jerk slightly, your wrists lightly tugging against the silk binding. You felt so sensitive, being aware of everything going on while simultaneously being confused by this foreign feeling building up inside you.

“Don’t tease me…” You whimpered almost pathetically, wishing that your hands were free so you could run your fingers through his untamed patch of hair, or just caressed the slightly shaved sides of his head. “It’s not funny.”

“If ye say so.” He snickered, pressing kisses on your cheeks and the side of your neck, making you whine a bit at the ticklish feeling, blood rushing to your face as you squirmed under him. His large hands slowly begin to caress your torso up and down, fingers rubbing against the softness of your softness before sliding up to cup and size your breasts up, thumbs carefully touching your hardened up nipples.

Despite the way he clearly enjoyed teasing you, he handled you with an equal amount of gentleness. It was so considerate, something you hadn’t heard from the tales some of the women would tell you about men.

“How does it feel?” He asked you, his gaze almost warm.

“Good…” You replied weakly, unable to find your voice amidst all the emotions you were feeling. You leaned into his touch, eyes lazily half open, trying to admire his face properly. It felt like a crime to look at such beauty.

He leaned down and started pressing soft kisses along the valley of your breasts, feeling the rise and fall of your chest with every breath you took. Why must he kiss your body as if he was worshiping you? As if you were the god, not him.

His lips traveled down to your naval before finally reaching to between your thighs, his hands moving down to gently part your legs open, feeling them tremble slightly once his eyes settled upon your sweet cunt, already glistening with arousal. "Can I?" He asked, earning a shy nod from you.

"Yes..."

“M’happy my arrows never hit ye before.” He mumbled before pressing a soft kiss against your puffy folds, hearing the way your breath hitched. “Happy that nae one got to touch a bonnie thing like ye yet. All saved for a god, eh?” He sneered, his fingers gently parting your folds so he could properly look at your clit, pressing a kiss right on it.

The sudden sensation made you let out a soft moan, fingers trying to reach for the silk binding on your wrists. Sensitive. Sensitive yet so good. “Johnny…”

His breath alone continued to fan your cunt for a few seconds, his blue eyes looked up at you from in between your thighs before he dived in, his tongue licking a fat stripe. Your hips bucked at that, seeking more of this friction as he hummed at your taste, his tongue making contact with your clit and pressing against it, feeling the soft pulse underneath.

He had to stop himself from biting you, that’d scare you away. Maybe some other day. For now, his hands gripped your plush thighs firmly and kept them apart, feasting onto your cunt hungrily, drool sliding down his chin as he sucked and licked on your twitching clit, feeling it get swollen and all achy with need. You just tasted so good, better than all the things many worshippers would leave at the temple. He wondered if you’d be willing to be his forever, to let him taste you everyday.

It all felt so good and overwhelming, you could feel your eyes tearing up. He went on and on until you felt your orgasm crashing into you suddenly, a bit prolonged as he kept his mouth latched onto your cunt, feeling your hips buck needily, shaky mewls leaving your lips while he eagerly lapped up your release.

You collapsed back breathless, almost in daze, every inch of your skin tingling with the pleasure coursing within you. Your glossy eyes looked over at Johnny who had just finished lapping your cunt up, now proceeding to nip and suckle onto the plush of your thighs, making you writhe. “Next time, m’gonna make ye squirt all over my fingers.”

Next time? Fingers?

Hope bloomed in your otherwise desperate heart as you nodded hazily, soft pants leaving your lips after your orgasm subsided. You felt him climbing on top of you, the soft rustling of clothes making your fingers twitch, your eyes looking over at him through the semi blurry vision. The white piece of cloth he had been wearing slipped off him, falling down to reveal the entirety of him. Big, powerful. He was indeed a god, sculpted better than the statues. You didn’t want to imagine what he could do with all his strength.

Your eyes fell onto his left pec, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart twinge oddly. If you were to stab him with his own arrow, would he love you?

You did your best to not look in between his legs, somehow clinging to the thinning string of modesty.

“Ye’re makin’ me feel unattractive.” That cheeky pout on his lips made you huff softly, your face feeling too warm. Just when you were about to protest, he leaned down to press his lips against yours, silencing you with a kiss.

You felt as if you had sinned, while stepping close to Heaven at the same time.

You let him guide you, his lips parting against yours while you obediently followed him, finding yourself drowning into this kiss. He might as well swallow you whole now, you’d be happy.

One hand reached up to swiftly undo the silk cloth around your wrists, freeing you. You were quick to wrap your arms around his neck, clinging onto him for your dear life, feeling him trying not to chuckle against your lips.

“Look at ye, being so eager. S’cute.” He whispered once he broke the kiss, pressing down into you, making you feel his cock rubbing against your thighs. It felt big, ridiculously enough. You trembled anxiously, finally daring to look down, letting out a soft whimper when your eyes settled onto his cock. You both tried to grind against it and squirm away, your brain melted into nothing but a puddle.

Love — it was threatening to flow out of your chest. Pure, blissful. Your legs lazily hooked themselves around his moving hips, trying to pull him down for another kiss. He was quick to comply, feeling you moan needily into his mouth while he grabbed the base of his girthy cock, lining it perfectly in between your legs. “Fuck… Lemme just-” He knew he had to be extra gentle, he was huge. He carefully eased the the tip of his cock into your cunt, watching you pull away from the kisd and whimper, your warm walls greeding clenching around him, trying to suck him in.

“S’too much!” You whined and bit down onto his shoulder, not caring how hard you might be biting. Your fingernails dug into the firm muscle of his back.

“Ssh, ye can take it.” He hissed under his breath, pulling his face back so he could look down at you properly, one hand gripping the side of your hip while his other reached down to gently fondle your clit in between his fingers. The sudden jolt of pain and pleasure merging together made your eyes roll back, feeling him settle deep within your cunt, some of his cock still not fully in. He wouldn’t dare to anyways, he would never wish to hurt his precious human.

“Such a bonnie lass… Look at how I fit inside ye.” You just looked so perfect underneath him, as if you were made for him, to be filled by him and kissed by him. “Squeezin’ me so tightly, s’too big f’ye, eh?” You shook your head at that, as if you weren’t the one who was moaning about him being too big earlier.

He slowly begin thrusting into you, his heavy cock dragging against the sweet spongy spot inside you, stimulating it. You bit onto your bottom lip, muffled mewls leaving you while his fingers continued to steadily rub your swollen clit, not losing their rhythm. Not even a single halt — the continuous motions caused pressure to build up within you, your legs tightening around his hips.

He eyes moved down to where your body connected with his, aweing at the way his cock was stretching you nice and wide, making him twitch inside you. Fuck. He couldn’t have a mortal holding such an effect over him, but he was far too gone to even think about that anymore.

“Johnny-! Joh-” Your words drowned into your moans once you felt your orgasm hit you even harder than before, your body convulsing underneath him as you clenched hard around him, causing him to grunt. A pretty white ring formed on his base as he continued to thrust into you, The squelching sounds filling the room were obscene, and served nothing but to arouse him more. His grip on your hips tightened just slightly as he felt his own impending orgasm.

“Gonna fill ye up.” He gritted his teeth.

With one final thrust, he released his hot cum inside you, his thrusts not stopping, fully intending to make his cum stay inside you and not drip out. Your fingernails accidentally scratched onto his back at the sensation of being filled up, feeling all warm.

Your legs and arms loosened around him, feeling yourself slump into the soft mattress, all pliable and fuzzy. You panted softly, feeling all sweaty as you stared at him. His hands were quick to craddle your face, pressing a kiss on your temple.

“I might as well just keep ye now for myself, hen.”

You woke up with a jolt, sitting upright on your bed, your breathing laboured. Your inner thighs felt sticky, and your eyes drifted over to your nightstand, catching an arrow alongside a rose laying there.

Would it be possible to be impregnated by a god?

[aita-blorbos]

(Spoilers for Magnus Archives)

AITA for burning my childhood house down

Hello, Jon.

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

WIBTA for starting the apocalypse

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, Jon, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When RS (87, M) first gathered our little band – L, S, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from R, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. RS was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced RS to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years. for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all RS’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met G (70, F) that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But G was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, G’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of G throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing G, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to G’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, Jon?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during G’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when JP attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor H (~20, F). I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

JL (~70, M) was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much G would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective T (~25, F) be assigned to the case when they found G’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

J (27, F) served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. C, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with M (23, F) and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot JH (???, M) misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective T has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor P (~50, M). He really should have left well enough alone. Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about M (same age as you, Jon, M).

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is M, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[icarustypicalfall]

cara mia

ALEJANDRO VARGAS X F!READER

inspired by the glorious lovers, Gomez and Morticia.

a request that i hope will succeed to mend every heart i broke because of certain angst

summary: you can't love someone more than yourself and live everyday as if it's the last.. well, certainly not according to you and your lover

warnings: none, sfw, pure fluff <3

note: im not that good at writing romance.. im an angst person but yeah that was really entertaining, doing some research and planning 🤭 tysm for your request anon, I'd love hearing from you again, tell me what you think 🫶🏻

"I've finally found you, now my life tastes sweet like cinnamon"

"I think they truly love each other, but I'm not entirely sure," Rudy chuckled at Soap's comment as they observed Alejandro and his lover, you, dancing on the crowded dance floor.

Throughout the night, you danced, kissed, and flirted, seemingly inseparable.

Los Vaqueros had organized a party to celebrate their latest mission after the tank operation. It was an ideal opportunity for Alejandro to introduce you to his brothers and new allies: Gaz, Soap, Ghost, and Captain Price.

The evening had started as a simple get-together, but it quickly turned into a display of intense flirting and hours of dancing and drinks.

Rudy would often joke that Alejandro seemed to forget everyone else when he was with you. He was even distracted at the shooting range, nearly shooting one of his own men when he caught a glimpse of you passing by.

The men sitting at the table laughed, sipping their beers while keeping an eye on the couple swaying on the dance floor. "I can't believe this is the same man I used to work with. He is completely smitten with her," Rudy laughed heartily, clearly becoming more and more tipsy.

Shaking his head, he smiled. "No hermano, Alejandro and _ are not whipped. They simply love each other. They've had this connection ever since they met."

You had met Alejandro years ago, during a time when you both had to work together amidst the scandalous movements of the cartel. After a period of dating, he proposed, and within a year, you were married. Though Alejandro had some flaws, such as anger issues and work addiction, he never let that affect your relationship. Any disagreement or argument would swiftly be resolved with passionate apologies shared behind closed doors. Some never started believing in soulmates till they witnessed the Colonel and his wife dancing bachata at 2 am.

To Alejandro, you were a delicate flower, even with your own strong-willed nature. He took pleasure in watching you bark orders to incompetent recruits.

When some of his men playfully asked him whether he'll choose you over eternity.. well of course he chose you. Because, quoting him: "how could I choose a life where you are not by my side, cara mia? I'd consider it as hell itself. For me, amor, I'd rather hold you for a brief moment over any eternities."

You, on the other side, proudly showcased your love for him. The bond you shared was powerful and seemingly magical. Together, you lived for the moment, sucking the joy of life and spating out the sorrow. There wasn't any words that could describe how you feel about him.

Crazy? maybe. Deeply in love? Absolutely.

Taking a break from dancing, you volunteered to get drinks, and Alejandro made his way back to the table. A broad smile adorned his face as he glanced at you, seated closely to him, holding onto his arm. You smiled back, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as he kissed your forehead and kept a protective arm around your waist.

Captain Price chuckled and patted Alejandro's back, remarking, "Well son, you never told us you were married. Rudy mentioned it before he passed out."

You glanced at Alejandro, resting your elbow on the table, cheek supported by your palm, wearing a playful smirk.

"Is that so? He didn't mention me even once? Must have been pretty busy, right, amor?"

Alejandro held your hand, gently squeezing it within his calloused palm and placing soft kisses on your fingertips.

"Just because I didn't talk about you doesn't mean you weren't on my mind, Querida. You reside there constantly, occupying every thought of mine."

"That was cheesy, Alejandro. Eres increíble!" you teased, his eyes seemed to flicker like stars shining in his dark brown orbs. He drew closer to you, his smile wide.

"You really shouldn't speak Spanish to me, amor. You know it drives me mad."

"I'd absolutely love seeing you mad, Hermoso."

The men around the table followed your conversation, enraptured by this side of Alejandro.He was unafraid to show you off, proud of your relationship and unapologetic about his love for you. In fact, if he was to be called out for loving you this much, he'd proudly wear the title. He cherished you deeply, and you had no worries about the cartel using you against him. They knew not to cross that line, for you were a protected and treasured part of Alejandro's life. God help the ones who tried to cross it, let some peace fall upon their limp bodies.

After a long night, it was almost four in the morning when you and Alejandro reached your home. In the blue hour, you both would often take a moment to witness the captivating beauty of nature while wrapped in each other's arms.

Alejandro gently tilted your chin, meeting your gaze with a smile as he whispered slurred words into your ear.

"Do you remember our honeymoon, darling?"

"Which one, amor? Every day with you feels like a honeymoon, and you're definitely giving me a sweet tooth."

"..The night after we got married," he reminisced. "When everyone had left, leaving only you and me. We sat on the balcony, with the cold wind weaving through our hair. I held you close as the sun rose."

A slight smile formed on your lips as you relived the memory. Your fingertips lingered on the burning flesh of his cheek. Closing your eyes, his words sank in the depth of your mind.

"Do you ever realize you become a poet when you're drunk?"

"Just for you, amor, I'll be anything you want, if you wanted me to get you the stars, I'll collect every piece of them, even if i died trying. But if you wanted to shove me away, I'll stick with you for eternity and beyond. You're too precious for me, cara mia"

His hand found yours, in slow movements and dizzy stares, he squeezed your palm. As if the simple mouvement was a promise, a vow for you.

"I want to recreate that moment tonight," Alejandro murmured, his voice filled with warmth and love. "Let's stay up until the sun rises again, and we can relive our love story once more."

You nodded, anticipation gleaming in your eyes. Hand in hand, you made your way to the balcony, watching as the sky transformed from dark to a palette of soft hues. Wrapped in each other's arms, you whispered sweet nothings, promising to love, support, and protect one another until the end of time.

This kind of love that almost felt irreal, you shared a deep mutual connection that none could explain, and neither of you tried.

If anything, you just loved each other. You digged and bathed in the joy, forgetting the sorrow. Was this a blessing of life, an apology for the misery your souls endured during lifetimes?

Or were you simply lucky enough of to find the missing piece of your heart?

For the matter, you both knew that this love was enough to mend your hearts, over and over again.

As the first rays of sunlight kissed your skin, Alejandro leaned in and whispered against your lips.

"Te amo, mi vida. Forever and always."

"Te amo también, mi amor. Nada ni nadie nos separará."

(can i marry him please? i stg he's perfect. sorry if it's not accurate or not what you expected. ily all 🫶🏻❤️)

[novadoesartforfun]

I woke up with inspiration to write something.

Take place after Bruce met Red Hood for the first time.

Bruce looks into the voice sync, Blood test and all that saw how Red Hood matches with Jason. And it broke him. He don't know how to react. His son is alive. He kept up the stoic face in front of shocked Alfred but inside he is breaking.

On his third meeting with Red Hood, he chased after him. They stopped in an alleyway ( could be the one where Jason stole the tires ). Red Hood started sprouting stuff about how his justice is flawed and all that but Batman wasn't listening. He just asked one thing..

"Jaylad...is...is it really you."... For the first time, he couldn't trust his researches. He need to see this for himself.

Red Hood was silent for a few second and removed his helmet. "Took you long enough, B."

[ Change POV to Red Hood ]

This is it. This is how he's gonna break the man that let him die. Or so he thought...he was expecting to see a Dark Knight that's will say some shit like how his style of Justice is wrong. How killing will just make more killer..A Dark Knight that does not care about family and only the mission..

But the Dark Knight took his mask off and all he saw was a broken father....a father that is now kneeling down and apologizing and..crying... how he failed to save his son, how he failed to avenge him.. how he tried so hard to kill Joker but was stopped ( dammit big blue )... This is not the Dark Knight that he's preparing weeks to fight...this is a broken father..... his..father..

He didn't know when but he was already in front Bruce's kneeling form.. For the first time, his Pit Rage isn't there, and he hug his father...

[ Change POV to Dick ]

He waited for Bruce as he Cave-sit with Alfred's dessert. When the batmobile rolled up, he wasn't expecting to see his Little Wing, coming out of the driver seat and dragging Bruce's sleeping body out of the car...

He don't know what to feel right now. As he dropped everything and run toward Little Wing... "Jason...Little wing..is that.."

"Yeah it's me Dickwards. Listen I need-". He didn't let him finished and hugged him. He need to apologize to him. Even if this is a dream, he need to do it.

Bonus :

After everything calmed down and family established Jason asked Dick or Babs for the recording of when Bruce almost nearly killed the Joker.

And he wasn't expecting see a different person..this was not his father or Dark Knight.. this was a broken man out for blood..and now..he started to question if he even want Bruce to kill Joker now.

Bonus, Bonus :

Jason sneaked into Titan Towers to meet his Replacement. The kid is good and he heard the real truth from his family instead of a lying mouth of Talia ( I am SelinaxBruce fan so sue me )

He was about to sneak behind the kid but he's sharp. Threw birdarangs at him and already in position to fight.

"You are Red Hood. How did a crime lord got in here!" Oh they forgot to update his file.

"Just wanted to see a person that allowed Bruce to give my suit some pants"

Jason and Tim talked after that. Jason thanked Tim for looking after Bruce and all that when Tim said "Guess you guys won't need me around now that you are back" Jason shut him down with how he's needed and he rather let Tim have the Robin title than someone else.

"You have no reason to be Robin. Both me and Dick had something to prove as Robin but you decided to be Robin because it's a right thing to do and to save Batman...and I think that's pretty cool of you, kid."

Tim sobs alittle "Thanks.....hey..can you help me with my essay..." "...Sure...Let me see..what the fu-. That's not how you open the essay!"

Cut to Kon coming to ask what Tim wants Dinner and only to see his friend ( crush ) having a study session with a crime lord. He just left cause he ain't dealing with that tonight.

[ Hey man I just want a happy Batfamily ]

[spiral-man]

Hey dudes,

Just wanted to wish everyone a happy-

Hello Jon,

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.-

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. (cruel laugh) Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. (cruel, cruel laugh) Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[kaiyax1]

ford defense essay I wrote a while back, it’s not great

In the world of fandoms, The Gravity Falls fandom has been known for its passionate discussions and debates, but one recurring trend has sparked much controversy: blaming character for flaws.  It is okay to blame characters as long as there is concrete evidence, however, this is not the first time the Gravity Falls fandom has blamed a character for things. For example, one of the most famous videos in the Gravity Falls fandom’s history is a video essay that I unfortunately have been unable to locate about how Mabel is to blame for weirdmageddon. There are now of course countless videos defending Mabel, however when one character gets away from the controversy, another rises. Now let us examine our new “hated” character, Ford Pines. Everyone's favorite six fingered nerd. A recent video that was made about a month ago titled “EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT FORD IS WRONG!” While this video does bring up several good points it does not conclusively demonstrate Ford’s selfishness. In this essay, I will explore common criticisms Ford faces and why many of these claims can be easily countered against with the right arguments.

Ford and stan’s relationship:

The first topic I would like to discuss is Ford neglecting to help Stan after he got kicked out. This is often one of the first things people bring up when it comes to claiming Ford as “selfish”. If you go back and rewatch “A tale of two stans” and watch the fight between Ford and Stan before Stan got kicked out you will notice one major thing. Stan never said Sorry, all he did was suggest they go treasure hunting. While I will agree that Ford should have helped Stan, he had every right to be upset at stan. Most people would be angry if their sibling ruined their future, especially if they didn’t apologize, And it is not like Ford never helped Stan. For example, in the official gravity falls book “Lost Legends” there is a comic featuring a younger Ford and Stan about the two twins trying to find out who stole their father’s gold chain. When their father pushed the blame onto Stan, Ford immediately defended Stan claiming that he had been with Ford the whole day so there was no way he could have stolen the chain. This proves that Ford was not afraid to stand up for stan but he simply could not defend stan when it came to this.

The portal and Bill Cipher’s manipulation:

Another common criticism ties Ford’s relationship with his brother with his decision to build the portal.  This decision was not made in root of selfishness but in the fact that Ford was being manipulated by Bill Cipher. Bill convinced Ford to build the portal by claiming it would benefit humanity and advance Ford's research. By preying on Ford's trust and drive, Bill turned Ford's greatest strengths into his greatest weaknesses. Making this character less of an example of a selfish one and more of a victim of manipulation. 

Restarting the portal:

My next discussion is about Ford getting mad at Stanley for restarting the portal. Ford was grateful for Stanley saving him, but he also knew how much danger it could’ve caused. I will say in Stanley’s defense he didn’t know but still Ford did have a right to be upset. This is actually one of the topics I have a harder time defending Ford on, seeing as he did write his warnings in invisible ink. However, Ford wasn’t trying to be rude; he was expressing his concern. Though as much as I hate to admit it, I just can’t defend ford when it comes to this that much. While Ford's reactions were not perfect however, his frustration came from a place of concern for everyone’s safety, not from a selfish intent. Ford wrote his warnings in invisible ink due to at the time of writing being in a place of paranoia due to Bill. 

Fiddleford’s mental state:

Next up I would like to bring up Fiddleford becoming mentally unstable. Ford did have a hand in this yes, but it was not his fault. Fiddleford made the memory gun on his own after they met the Gremoblin. Ford even told Fiddleford he didn’t like the memory gun and told him multiple times to get rid of it. Fiddleford even multiple times used the memory gun on Ford to erase memories. Ford did not cause Fiddleford to make the memory gun, Fiddleford made that decision on his own. Yes, Ford did have a hand in the reason Fiddleford made it but he was not the cause. 

Ford and Mabel’s bond: 

I would now like to mention the claim that Ford does not love Mabel as much as he does Dipper. Ford loves Dipper and Mabel equally, he spends more time with Dipper because he sees himself in him. It is natural to spend more time with certain family members due to similarities in interests. However, even if you do that doesn’t mean you love them more than another family member. Ford loves Mabel just as much as he loves Dipper, it is unfortunate we did not get a lot of Ford and Mabel interaction but that does not mean Ford does not love Mabel. While there are not as many examples of ford and mabel bonding it does exist. One example is in the episode “The Last Mabelcorn” in this episode, Ford gives Mabel the task of retrieving the unicorn hair to help protect the Mystery Shack. Once Mabel succeeds, Ford tells her he is proud of her efforts. This moment while brief highlights Ford’s respect and care for Mabel even if their interactions are less frequent than Ford and Dipper’s are. 

In conclusion, Ford Pines is a complex character whose flaws are what make him human, not villainous. Critics often ignore the actual context behind many of his actions and understanding his story requires you to do more research than just the show. 

[zer0-otheactualnumber]

statement of me regarding to me

Hello jon, Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other

[terraliensvent]

veal is fucking deranged. a summary.

Please read the posts linked below for a proper chronological detailing of events:

Post #1 : "Rhys eat shit (a summary of events)"

Post #2: Zaga gets doxxed

Additional details: here, here

On with the update.

Veal is the doxxer. It was Veal the whole time. Yep. Lets go through today's events in order.

This afternoon, Dabi had DMed me in regards to the recent speculation we had cast on them, as well as trying to clear Civ's friend group. I'll spare the specifics of the shoddy evidence I received, because it's pointless now anyways. My point in bringing this up is to make note of a certain detail I looked a bit closer into, the Canadian VPN.

When a new user logs into your Discord account, Discord sends a confirmation email with the location and IP of where the login occurred. So, when Veal's account was "taken over" by TTV, Re-uprising staff was (presumably) given the IP from the email, and then traced that IP address to have been through a VPN. This was the IP data as well as the explanation from Zaga, who googled the info after it was found:

The fatal flaw here was poor research. When looking more closely at these and doing some research on my own, it was hard to find a link from Datacamp LTD and CDN77-TOR to eStructure, important to note because Datacamp is an American company and thus would rule out the doxxer only being able to live in Canada. Zaga had made the connection to eStructure because they trusted the google AI result.

The screen recorded search history also showed they had looked this info up, I unfortunately can't upload the whole video because it's over two minutes, but here's a screenshot:

They also sent this video to show where the Google AI had most likely pulled the info from, so suffice to say it probably was an honest mistake

Anyway, as for how Veal was discovered.

When Re-Up was going through their mass re-verification, the TTV account was banned from the server. Then, last night, it was discovered that veal's account was banned from re-up, with seemingly no way to unban them

There was no solution to this, until tonight when they had the idea to try and unban TTV.

Veal's current discord account, the new one they made after the old one was "compromised" by TTV, is the terratimevents discord account repurposed. That means in this post, Veal is just talking to themself. That means that every subsequent action here was done by Veal. That means Veal doxxed Zaga. Veal did it all.

As re-up staff is putting 2 and 2 together, Veal sends a weird message into the chat. Re-up staff decided to confront them.

In an absolute game-changer of a maneuver, Veal decides to blame everything on...an alter.

Discussion is then had with Rhys, who helps piece together more motives.

So. Veal is fucking deranged. It has been said they could be in a manic episode, hence the self-doxxing and absolute scorched earth type shit, I don't really know much about mania so I can't comment. Personally, the alter shit sounds like a load of bull to me and its just all too convenient. And either way, pinning it on some guy in your head still makes you responsible for it, just in some stupid, roundabout way.

There are several apologies in order here, I'll speak on behalf of myself and re-up in saying this truly wasn't expected at all. This anon was the only one that actually guessed it, and honestly could have very well been Veal themself acting out some crazy admission of guilt. Retroactively reading this week's posts and seeing in hindsight that the six-part saga (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) very well could have been them too trying to make others involved look bad, while also haphazardly throwing together guilty thoughts. In my defense, doxxing yourself to a bunch of people and framing the group you hate IS a really crazy thing to do. I just wasn't aware the level of crazy we were dealing with when talking to Veal.

To Rhys, Civ, and Dabi, I sincerely apologize. Veal had crafted the narrative specifically to implicate your group and gave details that would only lead there, such as using their own vents in self-submitted hate anons. Because of the timing and the sheer absurdity it would take for someone to string up the whole operation, we didn't cast doubt onto them, because logically, who would do all that over some guy who wronged you on the internet?? However, this caused your names to be dragged through the mud, assumedly Veal's primary goal. Despite any personal dislike or petty beef I and others have, it's unanimously agreed upon that framing you all for the crime was incredibly wrong. If anyone wants a more personal, in-depth apology, or if you just want to run victory laps around me (completely warranted honestly), my DMs are open on here and on Discord. @/tvntss

In conclusion: Veal is an incredibly depraved individual. Mentally ill, possibly. But overall depraved. Do not interact with them, and report them if you come across them in the wild. It seems they're deleting all public socials, which barely scrapes the surface of being retribution, but at the very least they won't have a platform.

Civ, Dabi, Rhys, and whoever else from that group are completely innocent in this one, a narrative was deliberately crafted and insisted upon to make them appear culpable, and it is my fault for not directly questioning Veal on shit myself. If it hadn't been for Veal being fucking stupid and making this tiny mistake, the group probably could have never been 100% without a doubt cleared simply because of the difficult to prove/disprove nature of so many things here. So lets all thank whatever God you pray to that Veal was stupid enough to keep using that account.