#surplus toes

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Kitchen Dances

~500 words

Jason Todd is in love with his best friend. He knows that. Accepts it. Thrilled with it even. The thought nags at him as he watches you dance around the kitchen, singing as you bake some new treat you wanted him to try. The problem is with how to tell you. How do you tell someone you love them? He doesn't really have any good examples to go off.

Bruce tells Selina he loves her by chasing her across all of Gotham only to let her get away. (After he's recovered whatever stolen treasure she's gotten her hands on.) Cute, but you're not exactly robbing any high priced jewelry stores or priceless artifacts.

Dick tells Kori he loves her by cheering while she single handedly takes on an army of goons with ease. Romantic, sure, but like hell is he putting you anywhere near an army of goons.

Tim tells Bernard he loves him by deep diving into his newest conspiracy theory, well thought out rebuttals and anecdotes that lead to hours of conversation. Classy, but not exactly something you're doing.

Damian tells people he loves them by introducing them to his pets, eagerly explaining how he met each animal and how amazing they are. Hm. Better, but Jason doesn't exactly have a surplus of pets at the moment. Should he get a dog? Or a cat? Would you like a cat better?

A heavy sigh leaves his lips as he glances at the ceiling. None of those are good enough for you, none of them show exactly how he feels about you.

He focuses back on the present, on you. He likes the way you're smiling as you sing. But he also likes the way your mouth moves along to the words when you sing. He's smiling the whole time you sway about the kitchen, stealing glances at you. You don't quite notice, enjoying yourself and letting out an excited noise when your favorite song comes on. But he always notices you. Always.

"Dance with me!" Your voice cuts into his thoughts, light and happy.

"I'm not much of a dancer." Jason protests, but he's already on his feet walking to you. Anything you asked for. Anything you want.

He takes your waist in one hand and your hand with the other, fingers curling against soft skin. He spins you around, both of you clumsy dancing along to the beat, laughing as you step on each other's toes and knock into counters.

It's sweet. Perfect even. Maybe this is how he tells you he loves you. In each note of the song, with the light in his eye that always brightens when he sees you. Maybe this is how you both tell each other you love them.

For Jason, that's all he needs right now. Pounding hearts and laughter tucked under the quiet light of your kitchen, the sweet smell of baked goods in the air, safe in the rhythm of your favorite song.

Part Two

[bitterrfruit]

[he's in a meeting]

A quick horny ramble about your boss failing to control himself. here's [part 2] for you horny, horny freaks (affectionate) Executive John Price x EA f!Reader 18+ mdni - ~1k words

Does that pen taste good? 

It’s the sixth time you’ve stuck it in your mouth in the last minute. 

John watches you through the shimmering glass of the conference room, his spinning leather seat perfectly situated; he can see you where you sit at your desk through the gap in the corridor, just the right angle to see you cross one of your nylon-sheathed legs over the other. Watches the sling-back of your kitten heel slip loose as you buck your foot, wiggling it in boredom, kicking the leg of your desk with the pointed toe. 

You lavish that pen. He’s almost jealous of it. Your gentle teeth bite down on the clicker, he sees you run it back and forth in strokes over your bottom lip. Glossy with balm and spit, the soft pink flesh of your lip pillows out around where you push the plastic in. 

He adjusts himself in his seat, leaning back to stretch out the tension knotting in his abdominals. Turns his head back towards the conference table at regular intervals to ensure he appears appropriately attentive, avoiding comment from his fellow executives that he looks distracted. 

They drone on about the merger, about surplus, about transition plans and communication bottlenecks. They’ll ask him for his input as their senior, he’ll make a noncommittal comment and defer to somebody else to elaborate. 

And he’ll look back at you. 

You lean over your desk and the waistband of your pencil skirt cuts into the arch of your spine, the grey pinstripe material strains over the mouthwatering swell of your ass. The seams look weak. Wouldn’t take much to tear it apart.  

Fuck, he wants to tear it to shreds. 

He���d have to, the fabric is too firm, too tight to be rucked up to your hips; no, he’d grab it by the hem and rip it apart by the stitches. He’d roll down your stockings, peel them from your legs, and use them to bind together your winsome hands. He’d hold your little head against the wood veneer of your desk, he’d knock over the jar that holds all of your pens with the force in his thrusts as he stuffs you full. 

He can hear you mewling in your sweetly surprised voice; Please, Mr Price. That hurts, Mr Price. Harder, Mr Price. 

Gritting teeth, he hopes his colleagues pay no mind to the bulging veins that throb in his temples. To the tendons in the back of his hands wrenching under his skin as they clench into fists. He bounces his knee, some effort at somatic distraction, to keep the blood flowing anywhere else but his cock. 

He knew hiring you was a terrible idea. He saw you waiting outside his office before your interview, and immediately knew it would be cruel of him to subject you to being his subordinate. You were impish and clever during that interview, took everything he threw at you and sucked on it thoughtfully, presented it back to him as hard candy. 

When you left with that saunter, so confident you had gotten the job - he decided then and there that he couldn’t have you as his executive assistant. Because in that short thirty minutes you had invaded every crevice of his mind, you lingered on his tongue long after you left. It took every synapse of his brain to forcibly prevent his body from enacting what it so ravenously wanted to, from tearing you out of your seat and breaking you in half over his desk. 

But, to his dismay, the decision had been taken from his grip. He offered one positive statement about you, and that was that - human resources declared your resume the strongest, your attitude the keenest, and you were hired without much fanfare. 

He insisted your desk be far from his, out of sight and mind; but even still, every morning, he could smell your perfume where it lingered by the coffee machine, could hear your cloying giggles from across the expansive office. 

He had scolded you, once, dragged you into his office in sight of all of your murmuring colleagues. He told you that you were too distractible, too easily turned away from your tasks by things more interesting. He said that if you didn’t like doing what you were told, then this wasn’t the place for you. 

But, no, you simply gave him a sweet and eager smile. This is the place for me, Mr Price. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. 

His cock turned to steel at your desperate apology, at your sycophantic enthusiasm - and that was the last time he scolded you. 

If he were a better man, he would have fucked his fist in a cubicle to the image of you, shot ropes of his pent-up come into some single ply toilet paper and flushed it away, over and done with. 

But he has let it build, has let the pressure mount within his welded seams such that he threatens to erupt like a steam boiler. 

Your tongue juts out only slightly, you lick the tip of your painted finger to help you turn the page of the folder you sift through, and your lip catches in your teeth. 

“‘Scuse me for a minute,” is all he says, it comes out of his throat ragged and strained, and he pushes himself up from the conference table. 

Follow a few murmurs of either dispute or acceptance - they fall on deaf ears, as he shoves open the swinging glass door and marches down the short corridor. 

The footsteps of his leather oxfords are loud despite being muted by the dense, flat carpet - they alert you to his approach, and you tug the wet pen from your lips when you swivel around to look at him. 

You squeak, already fearing admonishment, “Mr-”

“A word,” he grunts, a succinct order, gesturing with a hand for you to follow him. 

Letting out his tie just a bit, he bites down hard on nothing. 

“Oh - yes, of course,” you oblige with a stammer, pushing yourself to stand and smoothing out the creases in your little skirt with flat palms. “Am I in trouble?”

Huffing impatiently, eyes dark, he gives you a single and rigid nod.

“You might be.”

[marypsue]

In that vein (hah), I just have to take a moment to gush about the costuming in The Lost Boys because. Have you seen the costuming in The Lost Boys. Like each costume standing on its own without anyone in it still gives you a sense of a whole character, which is important because some of these characters don't get, uh, lines. We have to be able to distinguish them immediately by visuals, and the thing is, we can, because they're not just dressed to look attractive, they're dressed with the purpose of establishing character.

Like, consider Michael. They kept it very simple for him, on purpose, he's a regular everyman kind of guy thrown into a Situation. But also, he's trying too hard. The white t-shirt, jeans, and leather jacket call back to James Dean, Rebel Without A Cause, but the leather jacket's brand new without a scuff or a crack, not broken in, and it sits uncomfortably on his shoulders. The earring doesn't suit him - it belongs to somebody else, a funhouse mirror version of himself that he's tempted by, but also it literally belongs to somebody else. Who gave him that earring? Star's implied to have done the piercing, for him, which also tracks - the earring's a little piece of someone else, someone darker and wilder, that's been dug right down into his flesh by his association with Star. It's tasted his blood.

It's also a little piece of the boys' uniting aesthetic bleeding over onto him. There's a magpie sensibility to all of them, but then each of them are visually distinct as themselves within it.

Star's clothes have 80s cuts but form a 60s hippie silhouette, solidified in time. She's the most colourful of them all, her white tops signifying a flash of innocence, but at the same time as she climbs on David's bike, she pulls on a big black jacket that almost envelops her, a little piece of his shadow falling over her and devouring her light. Again, it doesn't quite fit her, like she's playing dressup as a darker, wilder self just like Michael is.

And speaking of David. That boy is chin to toe wrapped up in black. The coat references batwings, which is a great detail. And those gloves! He doesn't touch Star; he doesn't touch Michael; he doesn't touch the world, except through a layer of darkness. It's real Old West, white-hat-black-hat level symbolism. Except.

The real villain of the piece isn't the dangerous, sharp-edged boy in black - although of course you need to look out for him, they don't call him 'dangerous' for no reason. The real villain of the piece is the most perfectly conventional, middle-class, unassuming, don't-look-twice take-him-home-to-mother normal guy imaginable. Grey and beige. Business casual.

It's the perfect camouflage for a predator.

(And then also like. I can't wax as poetic about it right now because my brain cells are otherwise occupied. But please consider how much character is there in, like, the Frogs' army-surplus duds and Sam's terrible, incredible shirts.)

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! Thank you for the role you play in this fandom, I don't know what we would do without Aziraphale's fic library

Today I wanted to ask if you knew fics where Aziraphale and Crowley are bitter exes who end up realizing later that they haven't stopped loving the other.

Thank you 💛

Hi! We have #getting back together and #reunion tags you can check for plenty more fics like this. Here are more to add...

Even Now, I Still Love You by Zakani_Donovan (T)

It had been 6 years since Crowley had last spoken to Aziraphale, and considering their nasty little breakup, he hadn't expected their next conversation to start with them suddenly being neighbors.

Down to the River by CemeteryAngel725 (E)

Twenty-five years ago, Tony Crowley walked out of Azi’s life and broke both of their hearts. Since then, Azi has been living in suspended animation, working in the army/navy surplus booth he inherited from his dad and writing horror novels. Now Tony is back from the city, flush with success and wanting to catch up with Azi. Should Azi risk his heart and try to reclaim what they’ve lost? Or is it too late to start over?

Reason Enough by ffonippop (E)

Crowley and Aziraphale’s entire relationship spanned just a little under eleven months. If dissected, the entire affair can be categorized very neatly into three parts: a rocky beginning, a rocky middle, and a rocky end. It devastates Crowley, how something that was so promising and held so much potential could end in such a shitstorm. Diminished to nothing but a hungover, sad, and lonely stain on his couch, Crowley is left to wonder if it was always going to end this way— or if it’s ended yet at all.

Like a Martyr, Not Enough (The Decoy Bride) by vines_and_vellichor (M)

Author Aziraphale Eastlowe had been a dutiful son for the entirety of his life… mostly. After a bout of teenage rebellion, he learnt that disobedience only brings misery and heartbreak to those he cares about; it’s better for everyone to toe the line and make the most out of the plan that has been laid out for you by your family and God. When a courtship with the famous Christian singer Gabriella Archer presented an opportunity to exit the dog-eat-dog world of city life, the last thing he expected was an existence plagued by writer’s block and a wedding so enticing to the British press that the privilege of a private ceremony was tantamount to successfully teaching a duck to play the accordion. In desperation, they turn to Taddesfild, a remote island in the Outer Hebrides, to marry. Things go south when a convoluted plan by Gabriella’s agents culminates in hiring local resident Anthony J Crowley as a decoy bride to put the paparazzi off the scent. The very person Aziraphale distinctly remembered dumping nineteen years ago. The situation is less than ideal: his fiancee is missing, the island is infested with bloodthirsty photographers and he has just accidentally gotten married to his ex.

Borrowed Words by sunrisesinthesuburbs (M)

Anthony J. Crowley, best selling author, has writer's block. He could blame the Accident, but deep down he knows his block started way before. He hasn't written anything in too long, if we choose to ignore the dozens of unsent letters addressed to the angel he lost two decades ago, when he moved to New York City. When his best (and only) friend convinces him to take a little vacation in a small town in Connecticut, he expects peace and quiet. He doesn't expect to see the smile that still haunts his dreams again. Apparently, small towns are full of surprises, and how late is too late? The world stops spinning on its axis or, at the very least, Crowley stops breathing. This is absolutely impossible. He forces himself to swallow, to take a deep breath, as he doesn’t want to scare this girl off. Muriel, who is still smiling, all bright and wide and just like- Oh, God. “A bookshop, you said?” He chokes out. This is impossible, and he’s being ridiculous. He is in London, this is just a sick coincidence and his stupid brain playing stupid games. “Yes, you can see it if you turn around.” Crowley doesn’t move. “It’s called A. Z. Fell Books.” Now, the world definitely stops spinning.

Sinking Ships by AppleSeeds (E)

The world is practically on fire and it feels like nobody's doing anything about it, but Crowley's outlook brightens considerably when a new member arrives at his local climate action committee. Crowley is immediately smitten, and is thrilled when he and Aziraphale become fast friends, although he can't help but hope they might one day become something more. When all of his wishes come true, Crowley starts to feel like life couldn't possibly get any better. He can picture exactly what his future is going to look like, until something happens that feels like a powerful bolt of lightning has struck and split Crowley's life right down the middle, with everything before that moment on one side, and everything that is to come - scorched, lifeless and devastated - on the other. With the help of a counsellor, Crowley begins the difficult journey of picking up the pieces and working through what's happened. When Aziraphale unexpectedly comes back into his life, Crowley finally has the chance to get some answers, revealing that the truth is very different from what he was led to believe. Now he just needs to figure out whether that changes anything.

- Mod D

[darshy]

pretty, pt. 2

some of the formatting on this is screwed, i know, it’s just a struggle adjusting things on a phone ):

n e way, enjoy!!

Megumi Fushiguro didn’t hate Satoru Gojo—at first. It was more of a simmering annoyance, something bubbling under his skin, threatening to slip out and crash. Nothing too dramatic. Tsumiki liked the man enough so it caused Megumi to tolerate him. 

“After all, he saved us. Imagine where we’d be now without him!”

Before his sister said that, Megumi uttered his first curse word in relation to Gojo.

And, after living with the man for about two months, an anomaly occurred. Typically, Gojo would be absent for about a week. He’d say, “I’m just checking on something!” or “I’ve got a long mission—I’ll be back before you know it!”

Now, he’s been gone for a month.

Not that it really matters; the two siblings have a roof over their head and a surplus of food. It’s not their business to be in Gojo’s business.

It’s not Megumi’s business to be in Gojo’s business. 

There’s a creak in the house at two AM. The only creak in this house is located in the kitchen, right in front of the refrigerator. Megumi only knows this because he was tasked—by Gojo—to find every creak in a building as a survival tactic. Just in case he was kidnapped.

Or, if he wanted to sneak some food in the middle of the night. Doesn’t really matter the situation.

Megumi blinks and attempts to wipe the sleep from his eyes. The sound was minor, could easily pass as a tree scratching a window, but Megumi’s gut is twisting. It couldn’t be Tsumiki, she never gets up at night, and it couldn’t be Gojo because he always arrives back in the mornings.

So who is it?

He waddles to his bedroom door, toes twitching against the cold, wood floors. He presses on the lock, satisfied to hear a gentle click. Then, he pushes the door open. It reveals a dark hallway with several other doors in its walls. Tsumiki is just a few doors down to the left and Gojo’s room is the last room on the right. Megumi’s stomach churns as he looks to Gojo’s door.

‘Ugh, it’s so ominous…’

He pushes through anyway. The floor is smooth against his feet as he slowly makes his way down the house. Just as he reaches the middle of the staircase leading downstairs, he hears a murmur. Alarm rings through his mind and his hands shake.

What should he do? Is this an intruder? Should he leave and take Tsumiki with him? Call Gojo? Fight? His technique isn’t very refined—Gojo has been so busy lately that he wasn’t any help—and he’s never actually fought before. He could call for 911 too…

What should he do?

The murmuring gets louder, more audible. Megumi strains to hear from his spot, frozen, too scared to go up but still too scared to go down.

”M’gon’ kill that—- —watch him choke— -“

Megumi leans closer by holding onto the handrail of the staircase while praying that it doesn’t create a creak of its own.

”..she’s…mine. Mine.

“—Megumi, ah, why are you awake?”

Megumi holds his breath as he stumbles down the stairs. He, surprisingly, doesn’t feel the harsh impact of the ground against his bones. Instead, there’s a feeling of warmth and the smell of a girl. Megumi pulls away immediately. He’s quick to mask his face of fear, and instead, replaces it with a glare and a sneer. “Gojo? Why are you here?”

”Am I not allowed in my own house?” His smile is slow going, just a bit wobbly, and rather empty-looking. 

Megumi jerks back even further. “Are you drunk?”

“A question answered by three other questions,” Gojo says with the bark of a laugh. His breath smells weird. Obviously there’s the stench of alcohol but there’s something else there. Lingering. 

Stinking.

”You smell,” Megumi mutters. Gojo blinks down at him. “You’re stinking up the air,” he says a bit louder while conscious of Tsumiki’s gentle snoring. Gojo grins again.

”And you’re drunk. Why are you drunk? I’ve never seen you drink.”

”Awh! Am I worrying you, Megumi-chan? But don’t worry—I’m an adult, so I can do adult things like this.” Megumi cringes at the honorific and cringes even more so at Gojo’s use of ‘adult.’

”There’s no kind of adult in you.”

”..okay! Time for bed!”

Gojo swipes up Megumi and quickly warps the two into the boy’s bedroom. Megumi’s stomach churns and he wants to puke.

But underneath all the smells of alcohol, there’s a twinge of floral essence. It smells like the shampoo and perfume that Tsumiki uses. It smells like a girl.

Megumi opens his mouth to ask another question but then Gojo is gone.

“Why were you awake last night?” Gojo asks as Megumi pours cereal into a bowl. Tsumiki blinks between the two of them, her mouth full.

”I was thirsty,” Megumi says lowly and glances up to his adopted father. Gojo has dark circles under his eyes and his hair is a bit messy.

“I’m glad I didn’t wake you.” His breath permeates the air; now the aroma of mint and toothpaste. His eyes twinkle and Megumi knows that he saw through the lie.

Change is a constant in life. It’s so much of a constant that Megumi is accustomed to it. A new school, a new bed, a new life…

It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t hate change, because he hates change. 

He hates coming home to tiny little curses wriggling about. He hates the new craze in Gojo’s eyes. He hates how the hallways are dark at night. He hates the muffled noise coming from Gojo’s room.

He doesn’t necessarily mind the new smell that tangles with Gojo’s cologne.

He still hates change.

Megumi wakes up at five in the morning. His stomach is killing him. It’s twisting and knotting and spinning.

He moves to the hallway bathroom and is surprised to see the light on, shining beneath the door. Gojo is gone again and Tsumiki never wakes up at night.

”Tsumiki,” he calls gently, holding his stomach. She doesn’t reply.

”Tsumiki, please let me in.”

Silence.

”…Tsumiki?”

There’s a shift of a shadow, a disturbance to the light. Megumi recoils quickly and nearly smacks his head against the picture frame behind him. His stomach rolls.

He decides to use the bathroom downstairs, unnerved.

Tsumiki closes the front door behind them. The heat is nearly unbearable so the siblings scramble to remove their socks and shoes. Soon, they lay against the cool tile floors of the kitchen. Tsumiki is looking at Megumi and Megumi is looking at the ceiling.

”It’s hot,” she groans. Megumi nods in agreement. Both of their faces are flushed feverishly. Megumi wants to take a nap against the tiles so he slowly closes his eyes.

”Hey, wanna get some popsicles?”

Megumi opens his eyes. “Yeah.”

The two stand up. Just as Megumi reaches for his sandals, Tsumiki stops him, “I’ll go—I have the money.” For proof, she takes her pocket in hand and shakes it. Change jingles loudly.

”Huh?”

”I’m gonna go. By myself. Just tell me what you want.”

Megumi’s eyebrow twitches. “But I wanna go too.”

”Just tell me what you want.”

”…fine.” Megumi proceeds to babble about a specific ice cream before Tsumiki takes off. The last words to leave her lips are: “Don’t forget to lock the door!” He dutifully follows—turning three locks until they click—but is then faced by another obstacle: boredom. He doesn’t have homework assigned and he doesn’t really have any chores that needed to be done.

Megumi lays against the tiles again. He sweats, heating the cold surface up, so he slides to another section of the floor. He repeats this three times until there’s dirt and mini pebbles sticking to his cheeks. Tsumiki is not back yet.

The boy makes his way up the stairs and into his room. He can probably find something remotely interesting inside but—oh.

Megumi pauses. His hand that was raised to open the door falls to his side.

Gojo’s room is making noises. It’s scratching and crying, almost like a sound for help. Megumi eyes the door with a tilted head. He takes a step forward and then he hears it.

Pleading.

Megumi’s guts twist and his fingers flex. He’s struggling to breathe and he’s reminded of Tsumiki’s words of “In through your nose and out through your mouth.” It’s not enough.

He staggers backwards. The noises get that much louder with a few more scratches and a few more sobs. Megumi is torn between investigating and leaving.

He chooses to depart. He moves back to the top of the stairs, grasping the handrails so tight they’ll leave marks in his palms.

—but what if this is urgent?

Megumi blinks and squeezes the handrail again and doesn’t take any further steps.

What if they need help?

He turns back to the door. His mind is full of slush and he’s hot and sticky and he just wants Tsumiki to come back with a bag full of popsicles and ice creams.

What if Gojo is hiding something?

He places his hand on the doorknob. He’s shaking. The scratches have subsided but Megumi can clearly hear a sniffle every few seconds.

The knob doesn’t turn. The door is locked.

What is Gojo hiding?

Megumi squats. He presses his face against the floor and peers into the thin crack under Gojo’s door. A single eye and bloodied finger tips stare back at him.

He screams and screams and screams and runs to the bathroom to puke.

Who is Gojo hiding?

”Megumi! I’m back!” Tsumiki calls from the front door. “And guess who I found!” She doesn’t explicitly say who and, unfortunately, the response she receives is silence.

Then, there’s loud crying.

”Ah—Megumi!” Tsumiki hurries up the stairs with Gojo right behind her. The two find Megumi hunched over the toilet, heaving and hacking. Gojo approaches with open arms, a frown on his face. 

“Megumi? What happened?”

Gojo barely grazes Megumi’s shoulder before he’s shoved away. Megumi’s glaring and sobbing. Tsumiki parts her mouth in shock—Gojo tenses up right beside her.

As Tsumiki leans in to coddle her brother, Gojo stands, watching, eyes wide and fists clenching.

What did he see?

Megumi gasps for air as he’s slammed into the fighting mattress. Gojo stands above him, a simple smile on his face. It doesn’t look real.

”I told you to bend your knees more,” Gojo says with a patronizing tone, “If you had, maybe you wouldn’t have fallen.”

That’s a lie. Gojo would have pushed him down anyway, it doesn’t matter how much force he would of had to use.

“I just… I want to learn my technique more,” Megumi says lowly. He claws at a rip in the mattress. Slowly, fluff crawls out of it. Gojo wipes it away with his foot. Megumi huffs.

”To master a technique, you need to learn basic fighting. How else did you think I became this great?” Gojo laughs obnoxiously and Megumi doesn’t feel a tug of his lips or a happy beat of his heart or anything. It’s all been stowed away since he discovered the person trapped in Gojo’s room. If that’s even a person.

Obviously, Megumi has attempted to open Gojo’s room for a while yet. The time windows have been small, unfortunately. Gojo has stayed home for a while now—the scheduling of his missions have gotten more and more bleak. As if the higher ups don’t need him. As if there are less and less curses.

That will never be true.

And besides, Megumi shouldn’t be so worried about it anyway. He could just be seeing things, or it’s some kind a curse that Gojo just wants to specifically torture. (And, even at that, Megumi’s not sure if the thing is being tortured. He’s not even sure as to what happens in that room.)

”—despite the challenges, which you’ll go through by the way, you’ll always come out on top because you have me, Megumi! Oh, and… Hey! Are you listening?”

”No,” Megumi replies before he spots a fist coming right for his forehead.

Megumi watches the two dogs zip around each other. They nip and preen and jump and yap. Their furs brush and mix and it’s pretty to look at.

Tsumiki watches too. She sits next to Megumi, playing in the grass with her toes. Leaves are falling and snow will be arriving soon, but Tsumiki is comfortable going around barefoot and wearing shorts and a tank top.

“Is it a lot of work?” she asks, “To make them play, I mean.”

Megumi shrugs. The dogs freeze for a second, a moment of stillness, but then they’re back to enjoying life.

“Well—at least it’s nice to see.”

Megumi agrees. He doesn’t say that aloud.

Gojo has a girlfriend. She smells a little like Tsumiki.

She’s sitting next to him at the table, hands in her lap, head swirled in his direction. Tsumiki admires her a lot. Megumi shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Gojo spoon feeds her. Under the blindfold, Megumi can imagine the heart eyes.

Later, the couple settle onto the couch, deciding to watch a movie. Tsumiki and Megumi are instructed to go to bed.

”Megumi…!” Tsumiki hisses when Megumi stops at the top of the stairs. “Gojo told us to go to sleep. I don’t want to be in trouble because you’re caught watching TV!”

”She’s wearing gloves, Tsumiki.”

”Huh?”

”She’s wearing gloves inside.”

”Well it’s fall and maybe she runs cold,” Tsumiki says, leaning against a nearby wall. “Or, maybe, she doesn’t have her nails done.” Tsumiki sighs dreamily. “She really is perfect.”

Megumi’s eyebrow ticks. “Ew.” He turns back to look down the staircase. 

Gojo’s standing there, hands on his hips. His lips are puckered in a pouting way. “I said go to bed!!”

Tsumiki laughs.

Megumi’s up in the dead of night.

He makes his way to Gojo’s room with expectations of the sounds of creaking and moaning and crying.

There’s nothing—even as he crouches to peer under the crack of the door, whispering back, promising to help this time.

There’s nothing but faint scratch marks on the floor.

The girlfriend—you—has been around more often. Sometimes it’s babysitting while Gojo is gone (which, by the way, the siblings have never had a babysitter before, as per Gojo’s terrible parenting skills), but most of the time it’s while Gojo is around. The two of you stay in the bedroom for a majority of the visit, so Tsumiki clings to Megumi until you come out.

Currently, this is a babysitting scenario. Gojo’s been gone for two weeks and you’ve been doing your due diligence for the kids. Cooking, cleaning, and playing house seem to be your specialty.

”You’d be a great mom,” Tsumiki says. Megumi physically flinches and you pause your mindless surfing on the TV. You’re still wearing gloves.

“Oh, you think?” you ask rather awkwardly. Tsumiki nods.

”I’m just waiting for the day Gojo proposes.”

Megumi pops his mouth open, to tell Tsumiki to knock it off or something but then she stands up and announces that she will grab some snacks.

Megumi’s eyes immediately find yours after that. “I’m sorry. I…don’t know why she said that.” He feels miffed.

”It’s okay,” you smile gently. It appears that you want to say more but then stop. You curl into the side of the couch, on the complete opposite side of Megumi. You look almost sad, like something is missing in your eyes.

”You don’t have to stay here, you know,” Megumi says and you blink up at him. “I know that Gojo can be a bit pushy—“ he’s under exaggerating— “but he can’t boss you around or anything. You guys haven’t known each other for that long, right?”

Your lips part and just like before, you stop. It’s frustrating watching you pause and struggle by simply not saying what you want to say. Then it’s awkward when your eyes dart up to the clock, waiting for your cue to shout I should head home now!

And just as Megumi gives up, slinking into his side of the couch, face pressed against the armrest, you talk.

”Satoru told me what you guys have been through—so don’t think I’m upset about Tsumiki. I honestly thought it was kinda funny.” You grin a little and Megumi pouts back.

”She still shouldn’t have said that.”

”It’s whatever.” You shrug but still grin and there’s a sparkle in your eyes that is similar to Tsumiki’s. Oh. That’s what was missing in you. That’s probably what made Gojo fall for you.

You’re really nice looking.

Megumi’s face warms. He distracts himself by looking at your gloved hands. Like clockwork, you hide them in your lap, with an uncomfortable look on your face.

”I’ve, um, known Satoru my whole life,” you blurt. Megumi realizes that you don’t want him to question the gloves. “He would visit the US during his holidays and he would find me.”

Megumi leans in and curiously questions, “Find you?”

”Because he wanted me—us—to live here, in Japan, together,” you say and the sparkle leaves your eyes. You’re not so pretty anymore. “And guess what happened.”

You and Gojo must have broken up. The teacher has been disturbed lately. He screams and breaks everything in his sight and he almost appears to lose control. (Of course, this is while the kids are—supposedly—sleeping. He wouldn’t dare show unruly behavior to growing and easily-influenced children!)

Thankfully, he doesn’t lose control, less Megumi be six feet underground.

And Megumi isn’t sad. Your absence doesn’t make his heart heavy. Doesn’t make him want to cry and throw things too because that’s how Gojo does it and Megumi isn’t him. Megumi is simply Megumi. He doesn’t want you back like Gojo does. He’d just appreciate it if you visited once in a while. It would help the broken plates. It would help with the increased amount of curses.

“Sensei.”

”Sensei.”

”No Megumi! Sensei.” Gojo corrects.

”That’s what I’m saying!” Megumi groans. “It’s not like I’ve never said this before. I literally go to school, Gojo.”

”You mean sensei,” Gojo says with a sly smile. Megumi groans again.

He’s growing up. It feels slow, like each day is dragging by. It doesn’t help that Tsumiki has fallen ill, even to the point of bedriddenness. But it’s okay. Because Megumi is growing and he’s going to fix her.

He’s going to fix everything.

“Geto Suguru.” Megumi looks up to his soon-to-be teacher. “You knew him?”

Gojo shifts uncomfortably. “He was my best friend! And now I have to kill him.”

”Oh,” Megumi utters because there’s nothing else to say. He looks back down to the sheet. He squints at a near familiar name. Shoko Ieiri. Megumi taps the small picture of her. Gojo grins.

”Another friend. I don’t have to kill her.”

”Oh,” he utters again, because there’s still nothing to say.

Just before school starts, just before Gojo officially becomes Megumi’s teacher, you’re back. Standing in a pretty outfit, beaming at the two from inside Gojo’s home. Megumi stiffens and attempts to meet Gojo’s eyes. His attempts are ignored in favor of you, however.

The two make it inside. They’re sweating, at least Megumi is, from the relentless practice. And he wants to ask what you’re doing here. Why you’ve shown up out of the blue in a pretty outfit, smelling a bit like Tsumiki and not wearing gloves at all. 

He’s going to ask but then you place food in front of the two and Megumi can’t say no to this.

So he eats. 

There’s comfortable conversation for you and Gojo. It’s weird not having Tsumiki sitting next to him, whispering, prying. She would be waiting for you to finish. She’d wait and wait and wait.

Megumi keeps eating. His mind feels like it’s running a little slow.

”Of course I would, Satoru… Why do you think I’m here?” You say while smiling. It looks weird.

”For me.” Gojo’s smiling too. His is easier to decode than yours. It’s a simple cypher: right corner of his mouth is a bit down and his front teeth are gnawing into the flesh. He’s not upset but maybe a bit annoyed at… something. Megumi’s not so sure. The teacher always carries a look like that when Megumi misplaces his foot. Or when the teen is up at night, creeping into the halls.

Just as Megumi’s head droops, his forehead hovering right above the countertop, he hears you gasp. Blearily, he looks to his two elders. Gojo’s hand is clutched around a wrist you’re attempting to tug back. The teacher’s face is bright red with his glasses slipping down his nose sloppily. “Satoru…!” you whine and pull back.

It’s terrifying how quickly Gojo leaps across the counter to get to you.

Megumi closes his eyes.

Itadori is a mess. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even be alive.

He shouldn’t be in Megumi’s dorm room, but he is, and he’s poking and prodding around. He says things like: “Woah Fushiguro!! What is this?!” and it’s a book about psychology. When Itadori began to open Megumi’s drawers, a pillow was thrown to his head.

“Ahhh Fushiguro, your room is so clean… Where’s all the posters?” Itadori asks. He’s peering over Megumi’s shoulder. Math homework peer right back at him.

”What posters?” Megumi attempts to shrug the other away. Itadori stays and gestures around the room. “You know, like, really hot girls in bikinis! And big butts! Like Jennifer Lawrence.”

Megumi���s face turns red. “Hell no!” And he finally swats Itadori away.

Megumi resumes his work for a few minutes longer before looking over to Itadori. He’s, again, snooping around. Megumi’s eyebrow ticks. “Put that down.” Itadori’s holding a picture frame before flipping it to green eyes. ”Who is this? Your mom or something?”

Soon-to-be. Right. Gojo and you are engaged. Have been for about a month. The wedding will happen in about three weeks from now.

Feigning boredom, Megumi looks back to his papers. “Gojo-sensei hasn’t told you about her yet? I figured he would blab about her every second he could,” he mutters. Itadori appears a bit skittish after hearing that.

”I mean, he talks about his fiancée…”

”Yeah.”

”Oh… OH!” Itadori jumps up and Megumi can practically see the cogwheels turning in his head. “So she will be your mom! Wow, okay!” Itadori turns back to the picture frame. Suddenly, a mouth manifests out of Itadori’s cheek and laughs.

”I’m sure she’ll make a great meal!”

Megumi barely suppresses the punch heading for Itadori’s face.

A runaway bride is what you are. Fleeing the night before the wedding.

Gojo has held a stifling quiet for the past 32 hours. His eyes are dull. Megumi wants to reach out and offer some sort of comfort. Instead, he says simply, “It’s probably just some misunderstanding.”

Gojo doesn’t look up. Doesn’t react, doesn’t move, and Megumi would think that he were dead if not for the gentle rising and falling of his chest.

”I’m tired of her running away,” Gojo says after a pregnant pause. “I know what she wants and she knows what I want. It’s not like I’m going to kill her.”

Megumi’s stomach rolls and it reminds him of being a kid, sneaking around and trying to get into Gojo’s room because he thinks someone’s trapped in there. It’s silly, looking back on it, but his stomach is rolling all the same again.

He makes his way back to the school. He dreams of his warm bed and warm shower and warm clothes. He’s tired of the fighting. He’s tired of Tsumiki not waking up and nagging him. He’s tired of the looks of his friends, each exhausted and on the brink of death after each mission. He’s tired of it all.

As Megumi passes a local store, he smells something like Tsumiki. Floral-ish, like flowers, like how most girls smell. It smells nice and comforting and like you.

He turns to the store. His heart seems to stop in his chest and his mouth dries.

You notice him back. Your eyes lock with wide green ones.

Megumi is right in front of you in half a second. His arms are stretched wide, a hugging gesture, but you don’t take it. You shuffle, holding a wrinkled bag in your hands. Megumi drops his arms.

”Hi,” he whispers. He doesn’t know if you’re real or if it’s just the hysteria creeping into him. He wants to touch and feel, maybe poke and prod while he’s at it. You look like you, but are you really? You smell like you, but is this fake lying?

”Hi Megumi,” you whisper back and Megumi hugs you. You’re stiff (and you shouldn’t be) but you manage to wrap your arms around his middle. Your hair tickles his mouth and he just hugs you closer.

”I missed you so much,” he says into the top of your head. He pauses for a moment to inhale. You tense up like you’re waiting for bad news—and for good reason. Gojo-sensei has been in his quiet, anger mood for far too long. Megumi can’t wait for it to end.

“We want you back home.” He inhales your scent again. Sweet. Comforting. Home.

”I know,” you say into his jacket. (Despair.)

[peeweekey]

i visited idiot street and everyone knew your name!

part i, part ii, part iii

synopsis: the three times you friendzoned Alhaitham, and the one he made damn sure you didn't.

tags: alhaitham/reader ; school setting ; valentine's day special ; reader likes sewing ; miscommunication

Valentine’s day comes rolling around the next year, and you are sadly not present to witness Alhaitham lengthen his trail of broken hearts. A shame, really. This year, you were looking forward to bringing popcorn for the occasion—just to see him squirm.

You’ve been cooped up in the homeroom lab for the better part of the week, sewing and snipping away at one of the costumes for the school’s fair. Unlike last year, you don’t have your seniors to help you pin fabrics right or to assist in hand stitching plastic beads, as the newly appointed tailor's club head you have a lot more duties to take on.

It’s exhausting, you feel the deep creases underneath your eye—dreading to head to the bathroom and accidentally look into the mirror to face your own haggard appearance—and the dull ache in your hands and back is blocking any sense you could have.

The club room is otherwise quiet if not for the lo-fi beat playing from your phone’s speaker and the rhythmic snips of scissors gliding over fabric. You focus all your brain power on the task—fabric is not cheap and you don’t have enough mora in your wallet if you lose focus and mess up—and remain blissfully unaware of any potential distraction.

To be honest, it hadn’t even registered in your head that you weren’t alone in the room anymore, until the gentlest tap on your shoulder has you snapping your focus away from the brocade.

The sight of just who has you unconsciously gaping your mouth like a blubbering fish in shock—Alhaitham.

He stares at you blankly, his gaze is so intense it’s a little unnerving, you freeze up before him, and probably make yourself look like an idiot in the process.

Suddenly, the state of your appearance becomes a presiding worry. Having skipped lunch in favor of patterning tulle perfectly on the dummy mannequin. Your uniform is crumpled, creased with the lack of motion, stray threads and fabric fibers cover you head to toe similar to lint. It’s almost humiliating to be seen so disheveled by Alhaitham—when he himself looks like the epitome of put-together flawlessness.

“Haitham,” you start, smoothing out the fabric laid out on the table, it’s soft and smooth under your fingertips. “Need something?”

He spares a glance to whatever you’re fidgeting with behind you then to your face, which in turn makes you fist the work-in-progress fabric tighter in your hand.

Alhaitham seems to search for something in your expression, his gaze feels like it’s poking and prodding in your soul. Your hands itch to cover up whatever’s he’s fixated on, but you settle on the second best option; staring back just as hard and ten times more intensely.

“The second button of my shirt,” he says, Alhaitham points at his stark white button up, right where a button lay missing. You arch a brow at that, he’s most definitely only here to ask you to mend his shirt. No other reason.

And you are definitely not disappointed right now too.

Swallowing hard, your eyes drift to his face. “Do you need a replacement button?”

A crease forms between his brows. “No.”

Well.

“O-kay,” that stumps you, “What about it then?” you shoot him a puzzled look, folding your arms tightly across your chest.

That makes him pause. “I wanted to check if you wanted it.”

“…your button?”

“Yes, that’s why I came over here.”

He must be kidding. The two of you are standing in the homeroom lab, there’s a surplus of small white buttons, you’d rather pick from there than have him ruin a perfectly good shirt.

“Uh no thanks,” you scratch at the back of your neck, extremely confused. “I have a lot more buttons in the drawer, there’s no need to take one off your back.”

Once you said that and saw the expression on his face, you knew immediately that it was the wrong choice—even if it wasn’t a test question. Alhaitham does not pout, but that’s something he would say. If you were asked, the way his lips twitch downward slightly is pouting.

“I understand,” he says shortly and starts to turn back and reach for the door. You cannot hide your bewildered expression, pinching your brows in confusion.

“Wait—hold it right there,” you call, stepping a step or two following him. You, not wanting your conversation to end on such an unusually awkward note. “What’s up with you?”

“It’s nothing,” he says and you practically hear the sulky edge to his voice—something you swore he left back in middle school—still, he turns back to face you. “If you don’t want it, I won’t give it to you.”

Sighing, you step even closer to close some of the distance, holding your palm out impatiently to him. “Come over here, grumpy. I’ll take the button.”

He eases up slightly. “Don’t force yourself.”

Why you ought to wring this man by the neck. You place your free hand to rest on your waist. “You’re not forcing me, now hand it over.”

Alhaitham stands his ground, but eventually cracks, offering a compromise. “...I’ll leave it on the table.”

“Okay,” your eyes flutter shut in exhaustion and slight irritation—confusion more than anything. “See you, Haitham.”

He bids you goodbye, calling your name softly.

You hear the door slide open, then shut.

When you open your eyes, a singular translucent white button sits on your working table—along with a box of fine confectioners chocolate.

What a loser, you think. Though your smile betrays that thought.

You skip back to your work and suddenly, you aren’t so exhausted anymore.

[easterbonnet]

could you please do some Gilderoy head cannons about literally anything? he's so underrated and I love the hp boys react stuff you did for him

this has taken a shameful amount of time to reply to, i’m so sorry, but thank you for the request and the kind words

Gilderoy Lockhart Headcanons

has definitely had a colour analysis done which told him he is a (light summer?? idk how to work it out) and mainly wears periwinkle and lilac to match his blonde hair and sparkling eyes

he’s the type to say “oh no I couldn’t possibly- oohhhh go on then, just one more!” and tap his nose when asked if he’d like another glass of wine

his peacock quill is so extra that it often wafts him in the face whilst he’s writing just down to the sheer size of it

does fake interviews in the mirror at home and daydreams about winning witch weekly’s most charming smile for the sixth time, before bed

sneaks about in places like nocturne alley for vain things like “teeth whitening potion” or his wigs. I imagine him to tip toeing around with his hood up like he’s up to something but everyone knows it’s him from the fashionable robes and he’s proud of himself when he gets home like he’s just pulled of a heist

sends himself bouquets of flowers and heart shaped chocolate boxes when his fan mail is getting a bit low (low as in still an obscene amount)

always claimed to have a “good” side he insisted on being photographed on but soon realised… every side is his good side!

if you were outside his chambers in the evening you’d just hear muffled giggles - not to worry, it’s just him working on a new laugh

he has a secret perfume line in the works - every bottle smells exactly like him. the range is called something like ‘FAME’ and he’s definitely planning a snazzy advert to announce it. out soon. (the bottles would fall apart the second you used them and be made out of some sort of tacky gold plastic rather than glass)

his furniture is probably just stacks of his surplus books, used as a coffee table or to hold a lamp

another one of his hush hush projects is a gilderoy doll, a ken doll that looks like him and you can pull the string and it says stuff like “fame is a fickle friend” and “celebrity is as celebrity does”

he’s a hot mess in the kitchen

has a normal mirror he’s convinced has a charm on it like the one in Snow White because whenever he asks questions like “who’s the most handsome of them all?” or “who’s the best professor at hogwarts?” he always shows up in the reflection… so it must be true (no one tell him)

all the gear and no idea, but has tried everything: singing, dancing, quidditch, cooking, painting, writing, poetry etc

[cutephlegm]

Bloody knees

VI - The knight

Pairing: Enki x reader

CW: Description of gore

Read on Ao3

Summary: As you get closer to entering Ma'habre, you decide take rest for the night, only to be rudely awakened with a blade pressed to your throat. You decide to aid the culprit, who seeks out an imprisoned man, one that the priest seems rather familiar with.

It had been a couple hours so far since you and the priest had performed the ritual and the journey had become tiresome once more. You had both agreed never to speak of this again and surprisingly the journey wasn’t unbearably awkward, besides some tension it was fine. Eventually, as both of your legs started giving out, you’d wandered into a seemingly safe room.

It smelled dank, and felt somewhat colder than the rest of the dungeon. There was one bed propped up against a corner, and facing is was a statue of a woman holding what looked like a crow. You averted your eyes from it, staring too long made you feel uneasy. Once more in the centre of the small room was an unlit campfire that Enki had already begun tinkering with.

You placed your satchel on the bed and dusted the sheets, clearing some of the dungeons grime that had built up. You produced some of the food that you’d gathered from a pocket in your bag and returned to sit by the campfire that had now been lit. Tired embers fell from the flame, biting at your toes, making you let out a slight yelp as you pulled yourself back out of reflex. “Watch yourself.” Enki scolded you, his eyes dark and stern boring holes into you. Though you swore you saw the priest grin for a split second…

“I wish that there was some way of getting clothes down here…” You breathed onto the hot food that the priest handed to you, sucking in the warm that radiated from it. “I’m confident we will find some, eventually… “He said after a pause, attaching more skewers onto the scorching heat. You considered his words for a moment; it was rather odd that you hadn’t found much material yet. The cloth that you had found was now drenched in the priest’s blood in some hallway. The same hallway you’d shared that intimate moment with only a few hours ago…

“I have a question.” You asked, resting your head on one of your hands drearily. You studied the priest, the crackling flame lighting up his face in contrast to the dark room. “Is it about the incident?” Enki shot you a flustered glare, before reluctantly chewing on a piece of stale bread. “No! No, it isn’t!” You corrected, awkwardly taking a drag of tobacco. “I’m just curious about something…” Enki raised a brow. “What?” “Why did you decide to become a dark priest?”

He stared at you with a conflicted look on his face before leaning himself back slightly, his gaze dragging across the ceiling. “I was born and raised to become this... It was never a choice of mine, although…” Enki hesitated a moment, his eyes softening as they met yours. “I must say I do not think anything else could suit me better.”

“How so?” Enki lifted his palm to the fire, causing small ripples to appear and spring off the open flame. “It enables me to achieve my full potential in this word. For my yearning mind to solve enigmas, unearth vast knowledges few mortals have ever discovered.” He shut his eyes, lost in a brooding trance before they snapped back open. “In short, It has satiated my drive for understanding pertaining to this cruel existence.”

You were at a loss of words for a short moment before forcing out a nod, curving your mouth into an understanding smile. “Is that what lead you down to these dungeons?” “Yes.” Enki twiddled a piece of his hair across a finger. “At the brisk of death… I was granted a vision.” You fought back the desire to flood him with a surplus of pointless questions, instead looking on at him In awe attempting to hide how intrigued you were.

“It was of a prophet, residing here in these very dungeons.” You took another drag of tobacco, blowing the smoke out above the fire. “So, you’re searching for him?” “Not exactly.” Enki held out his hand, reluctantly you passed him the pipe. “The gods guided me. But…now that I’m here I’m free to do as I wish.” He took a drag, his eyes relaxing as soon as the smoke entered his lungs. You hesitated a moment, unsure whether you should tell him about the headaches you had, before letting out a sigh. “So… your goal is to go to this ‘Ma’Habre?’”

He nodded, exhaling the fumes into the misty room. “Yes. I have reason to believe that there may be a place there that contains crucial information.” Taking a long pause Enki passed the pipe back to you, absentmindedly rubbing the side of his face which had now been plagued by fatigue. “The cube you gave me… It’s the key to accessing it. Now all I need is to find that cursed entrance.” He sighed squeezing his temples before rising from the floor. Your eyes followed him, studying his movements curiously. “What are you doing?” “Rest.” He stated walking over to the singular bed and laying himself down on it.

“You’re not eating anything else?” He turned back to look at you, and the remainder of the food cooking above the dying fire. “Eating will only slow me down.” “Eating will give you energy” You retorted. An unreadable expression crossed his face for a split second before he shook his head, angling himself against the wall, leaving a comfortable amount of space for you. “I have enough energy gifted to me by the gods. I have hardly any use for food.”

The priest opened a book and started flicking through pages, which you took as him ending the conversation. You turned back towards the fire that had now dwindled to a low whisper, the heat from it slowly seeping away into the cold air, turning the room almost pitch black.

Getting to sleep that night had been rough. The surplus of food you’d forced into your body had made your stomach writhe and bloat, nausea creeping up your throat, the taste of bile lining your tongue. All while you could faintly make out Enki’s silhouette sleeping peacefully next to you. You wondered what he might be dreaming of- if he even dreamed at all- it wasn’t the type of conversation you’d ever have with him.

Your mind wandered back to the moment of passion the two of you had shared once more, you could hardly believe it had even taken place. It was almost a blur however you couldn’t shake off the memory of undeniable pleasure you’d gained from it, the feeling of his body and yours joining in such an intimate and personal way… it sent a shiver down your spine and lulled you into a peaceful sleep.

You opened your eyes, feeling an awkward pressure digging into your neck- it felt cold and sharp… You jolted awake, trying to keep as still as possible while above you, you could make out a figure. The blade which prodded at your skin was sharp, you could tell that it would make quick work of you in an instant if you dared to move or call for help. Your eyes darted around the room for Enki but he was nowhere to be found. The stranger held a torch closer to your face lighting you up before she let out a gasp, withdrawing her sword from you.

“I’m so sorry- I thought you were one of those… monsters…” The stranger said. Her voice was soft and determined, yet slightly hoarse. As she lifted the torch away from your face you could make her out much better- her skin was pale, her eyes a mystic blue and her hair cut into a practical bob. You let out a sigh of relief as you lifted yourself to your feet, rubbing your neck which had begun to bleed from a small cut caused by the pressure. Taking a closer look at the woman, she seemed to be dressed in armour, the type a powerful and prideful knight would wear.

“I’m D’arce.” She announced, a kind smile prying open her lips, as she extended a hand towards you. “I’m… erm, y/n.” You managed to muster, coyly taking her hand. She shook it, her grasp on you firm against the trembling grip the adrenaline rushing though you caused. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen a man around here perhaps?” She asked, a certain urgency in her tone. You cocked your head to the side, earning a sigh from the knight. “A blonde, about thisss tall.” She said, pointing her hand to a few inches above her.

“Perhaps… that’s a rather vague description you give. Does this man have a name?” You questioned, scratching at the back of your neck. You silently prayed that she wasn’t searching for the priest, if the knight had a problem with Enki, you weren’t confident that he would win against her in a fight…

“Le’garde.” The woman sighed, drearily, a lost and conflicted look on her face. “He’s trapped down here, sentenced to death and I need to find him.” She expressed to you; her voice shaking with a pained melody. Your heart sunk at the woman’s words, you felt strangely sorry for her. She cared a lot about finding this man… and something deep inside of your gut urged you to help her.

You nodded with all the understanding you could muster before grabbing your satchel from beside the bed and slinging it over your shoulder. “I want to help you…” You began, studying the woman’s expression intensely. “In fact, I think I might be able to. My… friend knows a lot more about these dungeons than I do.” “Your… friend?” She pointed her gaze towards Enki’s satchel before narrowing her eyes. “Kind of.”

“Well, I certainly hope he’s not the same man I met earlier in this dungeon.” She spat, the slight hostility in her tone bouncing off the dark room. “Who did you meet…?” D’arce grumbled something under her breath, crossing her arms and sheathing her sword. “A thief, that’s who.” Her sour expression turned somewhat remorseful. “Although… he did rescue me from some rather… nasty creatures.”

“It sounds like you’ve had… quite the experience.” You leaned against the rusty bedpost, still transfixed on how mystical the woman looks- it was nothing like you’d ever seen before, well in your short few days of newfound existence. “Certainly… I can’t wait to leave this wretched place. I just need to find Le’garde…”

“Am I interrupting something?” Called a familiar voice behind the both of you. D’arce spun around and pointed her sword up to the priest’s throat in reflex, causing him to shoot her an agitated look. “This is who I told you about…!” You said, desperately trying to diffuse the situation, taking a step closer to the frightened Knight.

“My apologies.” She cleared her throat, once again sheathing her blade and giving Enki a slight bow. In return, the priest raised a brow towards you, his face plagued with confusion and annoyance, which only seemed to fuel your anger. Whatever the importance of what he’d been doing, by leaving you asleep and vulnerable he’d endangered you. If the knight hadn’t been so diligent and spared you- you would’ve surely lost your head to her.

“You’re back.” You stated, not bothering to hide your bitterness. “This is D’arce, we will be aiding her.” You announced shooting a friendly glance in the knight’s direction. The priest’s eyes widened with irritation before he sighed, pinching his temples. “No we will not.” His eyes shot daggers into the two of you.

“When we made our deal, you specifically stated that the only person I’d have to drag with me would be you. That is what I agreed to.” “Yes, and you failed to do that by leaving me alone here this morning.” You seethed, through gritted teeth. A look of guilt flashed across his face before he shook his head, his eyes darkening.

A few still moments passed while Enki mumbled undiscernible words to himself, before pointing his attention towards the knight who seemed to be watching the ordeal with keen interest. “Fine. What is it you need?” He questioned her with unconcealed arrogance.

“I need your help finding a man named Le’garde.” D’arce’s expression softened once more at the topic of discussion. “He was taken hostage, and is being held prisoner in the depths of this dungeon… I’ve been looking everywhere I can but to no avail. Please, help me find him.”

You caught the priest glance towards you in the corner of your eye, his stoic demeanour slipping as he watched you with an emotion, you’d never seen him display before. However, as soon as you noticed it, it had disappeared and was replaced by his usual callousness. “Tell me about this man.” “He uhh… he is…was… my superior.” She spurted out, suddenly flustered. “The captain of the knights of the midnight sun, he was sent to his execution here, by the Kingdom of Rondon.” Enki's body stiffened, his face lighting up in recognition, a sudden air of curiosity possessing him. He cleared his throat, twirling a piece of pale hair between his fingers, humming a low melody to himself.

“Yes… that seems awfully familiar… I’m confident I know who you speak of. Unfortunately, I don’t possess the knowledge of his whereabouts.” The knights hopeful smile quickly dissipated into a frown as she processed the priests’ words. “We plan to venture deeper though… right, priest?” You questioned; your tone as sympathetic as you could muster. He stayed silent, walking behind you to reach for his satchel. “Which means that we’ll most likely find him there, D’arce!” The knight’s lips spread into a weak smile before sighing to herself. “I suppose you’re correct… would you be willing to accompany me?” Before Enki could retort you nodded gleefully.

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with my journey, I will allow it.” You heard him mumble from behind you. The knight's lips spread into a thankful smile before she lifted her torch to the room’s exit, her gaze following yours out into the unwelcoming darkness. “Do the both of you need more time to prepare? Or should we set off immediately?” She asked, looking back and forth between you and the priest.

“No.” Enki stated blankly, his cold eyes flickering towards you before he disappeared into the hallway without another word.

[fuzzy-oooze]

Rate my aliens.

"The Cogworx are Metallic beings who resemble something between a robot and an arthropod so named due to a translation error when making contact with humanity when they attempted to briefly describe their semi-mechanical nature that ended up sticking, with their preferred name being the Xazid. They have two arms and four legs and are technically a kind of colonial being, with most of their components being semi-distinct yet interconnected living zooids, attached via a series of biological cabling that acts as nerves, wires, and nutrient-transport that fuse together at the intersection. Their diet consists mostly of a kind of purple fluid native to their planet known as Motogen that powers a kind of semi-biological semi-mechanical bio-engine in their core, though they also eat metal-rich stones to heal damages to their structure. They are highly veritable in appearance, adapting to fit their environment and having their own bodies sculpted by themself or others as they grow. They reproduce once they have enough of a surplus of motogen and metal stored up, at which point their cells divide en masse, resulting in them “sweating” a massive amount of metallic slime made of undifferentiated cells that congels, begins differentiating, and forms into a nymph, a state they’ll be in for about a month, during which point they’ll consume massive amounts of rocks and minerals to make sure they grow strong enough to survive.. Due to being already mostly “compete” state soon after spawning, cogworx have no concept of family and, further, due to their asexual method of reproducible, little in the way of empathy and tend to be rather individualist and callous"

"The Zeta-Reticulians are not actually from zeta-reticuli, they’re called that because they have been observing human culture for some time before making contact and wanted to seem more approachable by using a term humans use to refer to aliens that they thought was generic, another name for them that has emerged is “Stickmen”. The stickmen themselves are strange creatures resembling twigs a meter high that bend slightly at the base with a thick exoskeleton made of a coral-like substance and a single insectile leg, like that of a locust, at the two-thirds mark. At the tops of their heads stand a “crown” of five eyes, orb-shaped and encased within a crystalline protective structure, surrounding their mouth, which is ring-shaped and sits directly at the top of their heads. Their mouths contain a long prehensile tongue that divides into two lobes at the end which they use like a hand. They are frugivores, their odd body plan serving to act as camouflage while their long tongues pluck fruit from trees to eat. They make no sounds, but are excellent at color-changing which is what they use to communicate, their name in their own language being a kind of leaf green. They reproduce using long thin eggs. Due to their nature as herbivores, they are a shy, untrusting, but largely friendly species."

"The Giants are a race of lithovorous aliens from a cold, high-gravity planet. Their name comes from their height, with many standing around 20 feet tall, though they call themselves the Akhuthrh’itrurc. They are mostly humanoid, but with feet almost like those of an Ungulate, with their toes fused together and their toenails forming a hoof, which their hands are zygodactyl, with six fingers in a circle all curving inwards. Their heads are round, like those of a human, though their teeth are cube-shaped and they have five small eyes arranged equidistant that almost resemble a visor. They eat primarily rocks and stones, sometimes supplemented by woody vegetation, with their immense strength being because of this diet, with bones made from steel and iron interlaced in their muscles. Their skin is covered with a protective exoskeleton made of excess minerals secreted as a concrete-like compound. On their heads in place of hair is a crown of black crystals which act as photosynthetic organs to gather the energy needed to move their massive, heavy bodies stored in a specialized organ known in their language as the Inner-heart  (as they believed this was where the soul was stored) that acts as a battery. During times of stress, they will enter a frenzied state as the inner-heart pumps it’s excess energy into their bodies, causing them to enter a state similar to blind panic and to move far faster than their bodies usually allow to resolve the situation as fast as possible, with the state known in their culture as a word translating roughly to panic-frenzy. They are a stubborn, stalwart race known for their toughness and slow, focused movements."

[darkestrellar]

𝟑-𝟓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒:

Matte black.

Purples, light and dark.

Bright golden amber.

Auburn, autumn leaf colours.

Bright colours of all sorts (except blue).

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒:

An ever-changing scent profile that speaks of where he's been.

Savoury, overbearing smells from takeaway food.

Stale air from having stayed in the same space for too long.

𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍:

A simple black choker adorned with a curious dark stone; it catches the eye in an odd way for something so plain.

A jacket that adds some volume to an otherwise slight frame.

Close-fitting jeans and shirts with a roomy neckline.

Eye-catching or eccentric items and accessories, worn for fun.

Variable appearance that changes at a whim, from head to toe.

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒:

A rather colourful, shiny butterfly knife. It's perfectly sharp, despite looking more suited to pretty tricks than practical use.

A digital watch with a hidden inhabitant.

Speaking of hidden inhabitants... he always has some kind of accessory or meaningless object on him that he keeps close. The form changes, but the true nature does not.

That dark stone on the choker, more than the choker itself. There's something there, and it reflects in the eyes.

𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄:

A sharp gaze hidden behind faux boredom.

Bright eyes that seem to see everything, and through anything.

A smug, knowing grin.

Relaxed postures that communicate confidence and nonchalance, no matter the surroundings or company.

Controlled yet smooth movements, everything done with intent.

𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒:

Distance. The distance of hanging above the world and seeing everything below you unfold in perfect clarity all at once. The distance of a clear glass screen barring you from contact with what's just in front of you. The distance of someone you sit next to, even touch, and know is miles away.

Eyes. Impassive eyes. Eyes that look down, see all. Empty eyes.

Meaningless clutter. A space filled with mess and surplus objects, but devoid of personality. Clear out all the pointless trash and you will find yourself with an empty room.

Swiftness. The speed of calculations flashing by on a screen, faster than the eye can track. The thrilling rush of running away and knowing you can't be caught, jumping from one lofty landing point to another, ducking out of sight. Blink-and-you-miss-it moments.

Freedom. Of movement, of expression, to be oneself. A refusal to be constrained by anything, and defiance towards anything that might believe it can. The freedom of the empty dark void where everything that burdened you is irreparably lost.

Tagged by @dynamoprotocol 🫡 tysm

[trustinsighters]

Dungeon Dialogue: Baelsar's Wall

Lower Reaches #1 (X: 10.3, Y: 9.1) - Infiltrating the Castrum

Scion Marauder: Stay sharp, everyone! 　↳ Scion Lancer: Aye, this is one battle we can't afford to lose! Scion Conjurer: Not foes to be trifled with, Garleans...

Lower Reaches #2 (X: 10.7, Y: 11.0) - After opening the 1st gate

Scion Conjurer: Seems there's fewer of them this way. 　↳ Scion Marauder: Let's clear them out! Scion Conjurer: Fewer guards this way. Scion Lancer: The wall seems to go on forever...

First Boss, Before engaging (X: 11.3, Y: 13.0) - Magitek Predator

Scion Lancer: That's no armor I've seen before... 　↳ Scion Thaumaturge: Take care around it! Scion Marauder: You're scrap metal!

First Boss, During the fight (X: 11.3, Y: 13.0) - Magitek Predator

Magitek Predator: Ah! Live practice targets! Magitek Predator: Deploy sky armor units! Sky Armor Reinforcement: Anchor away! Sky Armor Reinforcement: Not so fast! Sky Armor Reinforcement: You're mine!

First Boss, After defeating (X: 11.3, Y: 13.0) - Magitek Predator

Magitek Predator: Impossible! This was the latest design... Scion Thaumaturge: Those claws were no joke. 　➝ Scion Marauder: Right, the outer reaches are just ahead. Scion Lancer: We must stay on our toes.

Outer Reaches #1 (X: 11.2, Y: 11.2) - Platform Lift #1: Platform Switch Scion Marauder: Is that the switch for the platform? 　↳ Scion Thaumaturge: Only one way to find out. Scion Lancer: It seems we must ride this platform.

Outer Reaches #2 (X: 11.2, Y: 11.2) - Platform Lift #2: More magitek weapons

Scion Lancer: Ugh, if I never see another magitek weapon... 　↳ Scion Thaumaturge: Sorry to disappoint, but I think there's more. Scion Conjurer: Is it finally over?

Second Boss, Before engaging (X: 10.4, Y: 11.2) - Armored Weapon

Scion Thaumaturge: Oh, this one's definitely dangerous. 　↳ Scion Conjurer: Worry not, I'll tend your wounds! Scion Lancer: It looks like a spider...

Second Boss, During the fight (X: 10.4, Y: 11.2) - Armored Weapon

Armored Weapon: Activating surplus ceruleum propulsion. Engaging enemy. Armored Weapon: Motion tracking activated... Armored Weapon: Activating magitek bit laser grid. Armored Weapon: Deploying magitek slashers.

Second Boss, After defeating (X: 10.4, Y: 11.2) - Armored Weapon

Armored Weapon: Structural integrity compromised. Initiating withdrawal protocol... Scion Thaumaturge: I could've done without the swarm of little ones. 　↳ Scion Conjurer: Those things are relentless... Scion Lancer: Whew, we did it...

The Walk #1 (X: 9.8, Y: 9.5) - Reaching the parapet

Scion Lancer: We've climbed a fair way. 　↳ Scion Conjurer: There's fighting over on the other side as well. Scion Marauder: We're almost to the top. 3rd Cohort Secutor: Pull back! We must withdraw! 3rd Cohort Eques: We've enemies on both sides!

The Walk #2 (X: 11.8, Y: 11.1) - The Griffin’s soldiers

Sword-wielding Loyalist #1: The Griffin has spoken! Kill them all! Lance-wielding Loyalist #1: You go no further! Scion Marauder: It's the Griffin's soldiers! 　↳ Scion Conjurer: If they're here, then that means... Scion Lancer: You can't fool us with those uniforms! Sword-wielding Loyalist #2: Death to the Empire! Lance-wielding Loyalist #2: You'll not spoil our moment of glory!

Third Boss, Before engaging (X: 11.7, Y: 13.1) - The Griffin

Scion Conjurer: The Griffin finally shows his face! 　↳ Scion Marauder: Your scheming ends here, you bastard! Scion Thaumaturge: We won't let you cause any more harm!

Third Boss, During the fight (X: 11.7, Y: 13.1) - The Griffin

The Griffin: I'll give you a glorious end, Warrior of Light! Come! See what awaits you at the far edge of fate! The Griffin: You're all blind! The Griffin: Let's see you squirm out of this!

Baelsar's Wall Dungeon Dialogue Infographic

[mrhaitch]

Hi Mr. Haitch,

Hope you’re doing well. How did you self-learn quantum mechanics? I wanted to learn a few months ago but it required linear algebra, which I’m not there yet. So I ended up just looking at very basic quantum theory, and then narrowing my focus on research papers for quantum biology.

It’s quite interesting because you wouldn’t really expect the applications of quantum theory principles in the very chaotic environment of the cell, as scientists usually try to test quantum theory principles in cold and dry environments. Probably the most interesting subtopic was the involvement of superposition in DNA mutations. Specifically with the electrons of nucleotide base pairs…

Cutting to the chase, I suppose my questions are how did you overcome, if any, the math barrier, what resources did you use, and what aspects of quantum physics motivated you or were appealing in general?

Thanks!

- curious anon

It was a while back, but my process with an unfamiliar topic goes a bit like this:

1. If it's a concept referenced in a different field, say, literary theory or philosophy then track down the author's sources as they might be pretty accessible.

2. If that fails, track down sources or media aimed at the general public: books, documentaries, even YouTube video essays can give you a toe hold

3. Wikipedia is sometimes your friend. Simple Wikipedia (or whatever it's called) doubly so.

I typically find if I can grasp the basic fundamentals, everything else follows. I don't need enough to create something in that field, so I only needed enough of a mathematical insight to understand what I was seeing - anything beyond that is surplus to requirements so I don't bother.

What I do find is I rarely retain the information for long - once I've used it, or surmounted whatever obstacle I'm struggling with, I tend to discard it.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 49 - Idihwisvsga

You go somewhere else.

On AO3.

Muggy air sticks your shirt to your back. The tin siding you lean on is warm without scorching. That’s thanks to the pecan trees planted around. The sun hangs low and orange over the gentle hills in the distance.

You blink.

Uncle Randy ain’t inside. You can tell without checking. His plastic chair with its detritus of twigs and leaves and occasionally pecan shells sits out front. The stinky ash tray sitting on the nearby, wire frame table is cold. His truck is out front, but that don’t worry you.

It’s too nice to sit here, stretch out, and admire the view.

You family had tried keeping cows on this land. Y’all had a good fifty acres, once—courtesy of the government allotment a hundred years ago, cause land was owned by the whole tribe, and busting it up meant they could take the “surplus” away to sell to good, christian White settlers. Last you was here, it was down to ten after some dumbass cousin or another got drunk and sold off shares before the rest of the family found out and, real gentle, corrected him. Your neighbors now are rich White families who do run their cattle on what used to be Cherokee land (that used to be Osage land, because colonizers don’t really pay attention to who might already be living in a place when they shove a whole nation west and draw their own, bullshit boundaries).

This field was your favorite. It slopes down to a pond below. Might technically be a small lake. It’s got sunfish in it. The field lights up green and gold in the light. The water twinkles. The air smells of damp earth and damp grass and heat.

You’re so damn tired.

A thump next to you. A woman sits there. You can’t see her face all that clear; she seems real familiar, though. There’s something about her that pulls you in. Makes you feel safe.

“Quite the view, girl,” she says. Her accent is strange. Southern, but also dipped in something else.

“Mmm,” you say.

The two of you sit in silence a tick. A flock of birds swoops and swirls in a ball above the lake, feeding on the bugs rising up into the early evening.

“Long day?” the woman says.

You snort. “Long life.”

She nods along. “Ye-ah.”

It’s that drawl, the two syllable “yee-aww” you remember from your grandpa. You smile. This was his land, and his mama’s land, and her mama’s land. Your dad grew up here, and this was where Grandpa took you. It was where you found Uncle Randy years and years later. It’s home. You gaggle of cousin-aunties, all “yer kin” as Uncle Randy calls them. This land is what your kin held to as the world around them shattered into pieces, the family clinging to it like a life raft in a storm.

“You eat yet?” the woman says.

Your smile grows. “Not in a while.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” She holds out a folded cloth napkin. Inside, is a biscuit. Still warm.

It crumbles on your tongue, rich and buttery and filled with grape jelly. The two of you sit in the muggy sunshine. Until the biscuit is gone and you feel a little better.

A kid runs into view with a long, straight stick over his shoulder. Three others scurry after him, each with their own—it’s a blowgun, you realize.

“Off them boys go. We’ll see if they come back with any rabbits, this time,” Biscuit Woman says.

You watch them head towards the trees, content. But something niggles. Something about their clothes, their bare bellies and toes stomping through the grass as they talk and laugh.

“You thinking about getting on up?” Biscuit Woman says. You still can’t make out her face. It’s almost like it shifts. Dark eyes, light brown skin, but the features drift, change with every twitch of your eye.

“It’s nice here,” you say. It’s safe, here. It’s home, with your family, with people who won’t hurt you, with no hairy hyena-monsters—

You frown. No, there’s no reason to follow those thoughts back. That way is all dark and sad.

“Uhhh,” she drawls. It’s not an English stammer sound. It’s a nasal thing, swooping up at the end. It means…yes? “That it is. Good to be home.”

The red gravel driveway leading down to the red gravel road. The patch of corn Uncle Randy got from the Nation—“used to be,” Grandpa had said, quoting one of the spiritual teachers, “you couldn’t find no Indian without a corn patch.” The stalks are tall and green in the unchanging light. Two women walk amongst the patch, one with a toddler tagging along behind her, watching.

“But sometimes, you got to go elsewhere,” Biscuit Woman says.

You let your head thunk back on the tin siding. “But what if I get lost? What if I’m too tired?”

Biscuit Woman hums. Looks out over the field and the water.

“What will be is what needs to be,” she says. And reaches out to place a wrinkled, warm palm over your cheek, and suddenly your eyes are wet and your throat is too tight. “You’re a strong’un. Always were, girl. You got more fight in you.”

The tears spill over your cheeks. It’s so warm and soft, here. More women in old timey clothes—skirts and bare chests—in the corn, now stretching down to the water. Kids chase a scrappy puppy and a group of men emerge from the woods with a fresh-killed deer strung from a wood pole.

You want to stay. Want to rest. But there’s an itch in you. A hum beneath your skin. Your palms tingle and your calves flutter with the urge to stand. To move. To go.

“You can do it, girl,” Biscuit Woman says, only now she stands. Holds out a brown hand. Waits for you to take it.

You miss them. All of them. But she’s right. Your bones whisper that truth.

You slide your hand into hers. Her fingers look delicate, but they grip you tight as a raptor’s talons. She pulls you up effortlessly. Leads you as you cry around the side of the house, down to the driveway. Red gravel crunches beneath your bare feet, but you feel no pain.

The men with the deer call out and lift their hands. The women in the field smile and wave. A gaggle of kids comes running up to dance around and poke at you, laughing and giggling. One of them holds out a hand. Gives you something. When you look, you see seven dried corn kernels, blue and white.

“Thank you,” you say and swipe your face.

The kid beams and ducks behind their fellows. Biscuit Woman takes your hand in hers, examines the kernels.

“These could grow into something good, something strong,” she says. Looks up at you. “But only if you plant them, and you nurture them.”

Then she folds your fingers over the corn and you’re at the gate and two men stand there.

One is old, hair white underneath a worn, blue baseball cap. He’s got a hunch, a round belly, and a big smile. He holds out something. Red, small. Lifts his eyebrows.

You…know this. Know him. Like a word you’ve forgotten, the shape of it so close to your tongue. Something about his face, the smell of tobacco, the way he holds that out to you, waiting…

“Ani,” you say. Strawberry. Your favorite.

His smile lights up his whole face. “That’s right, sugar!”

It stabs you. You know this man. You know this game.

But then the second man steps forward. Tattoos ink a line across his face. His head is shaved except for a patch at the back. His face looks familiar, especially when he smiles.

You turn to Biscuit Woman, her hair long and loose, dressed in a skirt and cloak of white feathers.

“But what if I can’t find the way back?” you say. The question is a thorn piercing between your ribs.

It’s the familiar man who answers. Long nose, brown eyes. Something of Uncle Randy in the shape of his jaw and his brow.

“We got good at finding lost cousins,” he says. “Don’t worry, gehooch. We’ll find you, too.”

His hand on the rickety gate. He unlatches it, but only holds it, waiting for you to open it. When you turn, Uncle Randy’s house looks different. Longer, made of wood. Biscuit Woman in her feathered cloak smiles, and the warmth of it trickles through your veins, diffusing through your body.

She says, “Don’dagohvi.”

You nod. And you step past the gate.

***

You’re a child. Maybe five? Probably four. Grandpa stands by the door, wringing his hands as he cries. You don’t know why he cries; grandpa is always laughing about something. But you don’t know why the strange woman and the man are in y’all’s house, either. Or why the woman says your name wrong as she tries to coax you out from under the kitchen table, where you ran to when they came inside.

When they do finally manage it, she leads you over to Grandpa. He picks you up and hugs you, tight. He smells like tobacco, and the brim of his blue hat knocks the side of your head. He hugs you so tight your ribs creak.

“Stay strong, gehooch,” he says. “We love you, you hear? We’ll always love you.”

It’s so cold outside. The woman says she’s your mother and she’s come to take you home. Five other kids sit in the back of the van she lifts you into. The man is her husband, and now he’s your dad. Which makes the other kids your siblings. Mother gives you a plastic doll with yellow hair. Tires crunch over the red gravel and Grandpa stands outside, waving until you can’t see him no more.

And then one of your new sisters takes the doll away from you.

***

You live on the farmstead. It has no address or phone. None that you know. There are a lot of other families here, and even more kids. The oldest remembers going to something called a “school” but you’uns (the grown ups slap your head when you say words like that) do Bible lessons every day, and that’s better. That’s what Mother and her husband, The Pastor, both say.

***

Other kids don’t like you. You don’t know why. You’re not the oldest or youngest. Not the skinniest or fattest or tallest or shortest. You’re quiet. You try to make friends, but they all laugh at you and play without you.

Later, you’ll learn Mother’s shame of you. Her daughter, born out of wedlock and in sin with a poor, dirty Indian. You’re pale enough in winter, but in summer, when the sun touches your skin, you stand out. But all the other kids know your dad was an Indian and that makes you stupid and dirty and weak.

They like to show you this by throwing dried cow patties at you. Or by making you eat mud. By stealing the presents Grandpa sends you on your birthday and Christmas. Until one year he stops. Mother says he got tired of you, and you cry so hard you burst a blood vessel in your eye. Which brings the other kids down on you so bad you do everything you can to never, ever cry in front of someone else ever again.

You learn years and years later that Grandpa died that year, with a pink bicycle with your name on it sitting in his garage, waiting for you to come back. You’ll be in your early twenties before that happens, and far too big to ride that bike, tires all flat, pink ribbon still tied around the handlebars.

***

The farmstead is up in the hills. Surrounded by eighty acres of pastureland and woods. Good deer hunting, better turkey hunting. The locals know y’all are up there, and that y’all might be weird, but it’s good, christian country and at least y’all ain’t one of them new age-y hippie communes or some shit. Religion is a sacred thing here (but only of the christian variety), so they don’t ask too many questions.

You stand in that driveway now, and the dirt is a similar red to that of your family’s land. But it’s a shade off, a shade wrong.

You stand in that driveway and dread oozes across your skin like rancid oil.

Over there is the bunkhouse, where all you girls slept. The boy’s dorm. The chow hall, the main house where Mother and The Pastor and a few of the favorites slept. You’d only been in the main house a couple of times. Never for anything good. It leers down at you, windows empty eyes and open mouth, waiting to crunch down and splinter your bones between its teeth.

You turn away.

And there stands Sarah Greenwood.

You make some kind of aborted sound. Words get all tangled. Nothing seems adequate. In the silence, she smiles at you. It’s a soft thing. A sad thing.

“Sarah,” you finally manage. “Are you okay? Did they…do anything? After I…?”

But she holds up a hand to stop you. “You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

Sarah Greenwood, the oldest of The Pastor’s five daughters. The only one who took you under her wing (she was fifteen when you arrived and she did what she could). She braided your hair as it grew long, all the way to your waist and then past that.

The other girls hated your hair. How smooth it was, how thick and straight and how it never stopped growing, where theirs would break and frizz. So one day, two of them held you down while a third took scissors to it. And when you went to Aunt Patty May (the grown up women were all Aunts, but never aunties), she beat your backside black and blue for shaming yourself and destroying the lord’s property.

Guinea hens call from the trees around the gravel parking lot (not that there were ever many cars). The farmstead stretches off as far as you can see in all directions. Fields in the front, near the main house; they raised cows for a time before the market crashed and it got too expensive. Woods and scrub swallow the rest of the acreage. Trailer homes dot here and there—the other favorite families. Sarah and her husband and their four kids live in one such trailer, closer to the edge of the property. You’d been counting on that when you…

“No,” you say.

You want to go back to Uncle Randy. To where Grandpa took you after Dad died. Not here. Never here.

Sarah’s smile is a ghost. She looks just like you remember—a woman in her thirties, face tired, hair turning gray too-early. But it’s been almost fifteen years since then. She should look—

She holds out a hand. Points. Not at you, though, but past you. To the building you won’t turn to face. The thought of it turns your guts to ice.

The chapel used to be a barn, back when Mother and The Pastor first bought the place. But the faithful worked hard (and cheap) and turned the old thing into their house of worship.

The switching stump sits right outside the door. Perfectly placed for those within to witness.

“I’m not going in there,” you say.

“You have to.”

“I don’t want to.”

You left. You got away. You ran a thousand miles and you never wanted to see this place ever again. Bad enough it paints the backs of your eyelids when you have nightmares. Now she’s telling you to…?

Your stomach clenches. The wind shifts and it smells of sweet, raspberry jam.

“I can’t,” you say.

“You can’t run forever.”

You absolutely can.

The sweet scent gets stronger. Your guts heave so hard you stagger, have to brace yourself on your knees and swallow fast and hard to keep your insides inside.

Fuck. Fuck.

The chapel waits. The big, sliding front door is open, the inside black and ravenous.

Wisps of Sarah’s honey-colored hair escape her long braid to drift across her face. “You can do this.”

You really can’t.

But you take a step. The guinea hens above go quiet. The stump sits to your left. Pale wood worn smooth from many hands, not just your own. It’s cut in a way that you have to sink to your knees to drape yourself over it, skirt up while one of the Aunts flicks the switch still dripping sap from where you cut it (because half of the thing is making you go select your own tool; too thin and it’ll cut, but too thick, and it’ll leave nasty bruises).

Another step. The cicada chir stills.

That was the first time you ever saw the shining line. Judith Engel and her friends stole the doll Grandpa sent you that year, an Indian girl with tassel earrings. Judith and her friends burned the doll as a witch (you would later learn the term “in effigy”). Then you seen her kissing Daniel Sharpe. They were both kids—y’all were just kids—but girls were not supposed to talk to boys, let alone do that with them.

The line had hummed in your mind and you knew exactly what to do. You ran to Aunt Patty May, told her everything. And then you stood with the rest of the congregation as they dragged Judith Engel to the stump and you’d felt such hot, vicious glee. Your retribution. Not you, but her over there as everybody watched her squeal and cry. And she’d picked too thick of a switch. Aunt Patty May beat her so bad she couldn’t sit for days.

The chapel door waits. You spook like a nervous horse. But Sarah emerges from the shadows and beckons you in.

You close your eyes. Take a breath. And step in.

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[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

Also while I'm on the subject of clothes if you're really into Doc Martins I'm telling you to go to an army surplus store and get real combat boots they're way more comfortable they'll see you through basically any terrain they often have a steel toe they look essentially the same except without the weird sole and they're a tenth of the price. I don't care what you think about the army this is the best choice I ever made

[reborrowed-archive]

I've seen other folks make a reference post to how borrowers work in their fiction so here's some random worldbuilding I've done with mine

There's not one universal culture, this varies by community, which can be as small as an individual family or be spread throughout a neighborhood. Communities tend to ally through loose trade networks that at least share a language, if not cultural norms.

The distinction between borrowing and theft is rooted in the idea of taking from surplus/excess. Finer nuances vary by community, but the concept is true whether taking from humans or from each other. There's usually an implication of reciprocity, that you would surrender your excess if someone else has use for it.

I'm a little wishy-washy for the actual size range, but my named ocs range from 3.5" (Kiwi) to 4.3" (Ben).

Senses differ from their human counterparts. They have a wider range of hearing, more sensitive sense of smell, weaker distance vision (but stronger night vision), and lack the degree of tactile sensitivity found in human fingers (which is why they don't have fingerprints, definitely not just because I wanted another reason for Hand Awe)

Most borrowers are colorblind. It's not unheard of to have the red-green distinction, but it's unusual enough that a lot of communities have superstitions around those who do, ranging from "psychic in a blessed way" to "probably gives good advice sometimes" to "probably can see ghosts" to "psychic in a cursed way"

An almost forgotten biological feat by modern indoor borrowers, they go into torpor when the temperature drops too low. Outdoor dwellers are well aware of this fact and factor it into their survival strategies—a frigid but hidden shelter is more appealing than somewhere warm but with a high risk of exposure, even if the latter is more comfortable. (Though of course, hidden and warm is ideal)

Borrowers have long, relatively dexterous toes that can aid in climbing, especially when un-shoed. It tends to be an individual choice to prefer the warmth and protection of full shoes or the dexterity of bare feet/foot wraps. (Everyone is clumsy and uncomfortable when forced to change their footwear habits)

Prolonged eye contact is an intimate gesture, something only to engage in with close friends, family, or lovers and often only when expressing or listening to someone express deep emotion. Lingering eye contact outside that context of closeness is seen as invasive or aggressive and definitely rude

Nipping is a common gesture of affection and excitement, lingering from childhood play instincts and almost never translates quite right across species

Coincidentally, baby teeth canines are significantly duller than the adult fangs that replace them.

Adult fur pattern varies, but typically covers at least the lower half of each limb. Fur along the back and outer sides of the upper limbs is very common. Chest and facial hair is less common, but evenly likely across the two sexes.

Young children, however, are fuzzy all over.

Borrowers require more sleep than humans do, with a healthy individual hitting at least 8-10 hours in a 24 hour period, but not all at once. Most keep biphasic or polyphasic schedules. Winter torpor is the only time long sleep periods are "normal"

There's no strong biological preference for being nocturnal or diurnal, instead people tend to follow whatever schedule they were raised on.

Yelling and screaming are considered inappropriate, animalistic behaviors. It would be like literally growling at someone. Strong anger is expressed through hissing, pain and fear are expressed through squeals and chittering. (And body language, naturally)

Tails are semi-prehensile and used for balance and body language communication. They're technically dexterous enough to wrap around and grab things, but the limb is pretty weak and injures easily when made to pull any weight. Like with rodents, tails are prone to degloving if pulled. Long tails are seen as an attractive feature because they're easy to deform or lose, so keeping a long one intact suggests someone is capable of avoiding danger altogether.

Purr purr purr, like cats, borrowers purr to express joy or as an attempt to self-soothe. In most communities, it's seen as kind of childish in public but still encouraged and enjoyed during positive physical interactions. Someone who purrs in their sleep is often seen as blessed by [insert community's higher power here]

[fazball]

I want to start this with why You should listen to Me about this :^3! Hi, I'm Chip and I have had a special interest in Minecraft roleplay since I was about 9 (assuming Aphmau's Minecraft Diaries was truly my first mcrp) and that would mean I have had this special interest for Nine Years and I'd like to think I know what I'm talking about.

Now onto what I actually want to talk about! I feel that Minecraft roleplay is simply not explored as much as it truly could be. There is so little of this genre, at least compared to things like let's play series and challenge videos, and it is so baffling to me that a game like Minecraft, an open-world sandbox game with little to no actual canon, would not have a surplus of content like this! Of course recently there has been a significant uptick in content like this because of the DSMP, and I am honestly overjoyed about that, but before this there has been almost nothing? Now obviously I cannot know every single mcrp series ever created, nor have I even watched every series I've seen come on my recommended, but I can confidently say there is a lack of content! Specifically a lack of intentional content.

There are so many series/servers that are completely non-rp, but include things with jokey moments where they allude to things in the past as if it was serious and affected their MC character, or are half-and-half. What I mean by half-and-half is that the series is not actually called an rp (or even just not intended to be and slowly became a thing that regularly happens), but there are many moments where there is clearly a story that everyone is following in some way. I think a good example of this is Hermitcraft, of course I have not seen every single Hermitcraft episode and cannot say if its always been like this, but, for example, in season 7 (which I have fully seen a few creators series) there is a semi-clear story with occasional rp moments, but it is still just a normal SMP. I honestly love servers like this as it's hard for me to actually sit down and watch something that could be considered a show, but the amount of wasted potential is so upsetting to me!!!

There are even many series and SMPs that have no rp at all outside of jokes and the push is from the fandom surrounding it. I unfortunately don't have an example from off the top of my head, but they do exist trust me!!!! I think I could, once again, loosely say Hermitcraft as the creators tend to be involved in the fandom. There are a few moments where they did not consider something as a story moment, they saw fanart or someone talking about it in a more serious way, then they bring it up! I love this aswell, I think it's so fun!!! (if i am completely wrong about this do not point it out :( simply believe me)

You could make any story you'd ever want, you have literally anything at your disposal and so little people actually go for it. In a game where you can: customize your character, literally build (and even specifically retexture) the world around you, have others join you as a character in your story, or make your own NPCs and dialogue, you could genuinely make any story you could ever want and I encourage everyone to dip their toes into it. If you have ever thought of making a story, try using Minecraft. I'd say it's even the perfect place to start.

Final messages!!!! If this all sounds like word vomit, thats because it is! I don't tend to make large posts like this and even struggle to make comprehensible paragraphs, I literally started talking about this on my Twitter account then drafted all of it in a personal discord server. Anyways, thank you for reading if you got this far!!! If you'd like any mcrp recommendations let me know, I will warn you that most of my favorites are Old and aren't the greatest quality Or could be considered a complete normal series. I just love mcrp so bad and it's my longest lasting spin, and I hope there are others who share this!!!!!! Okay goot bye :^3 thank you again for reading if you did