#the smell of the Formaldehyde also does not help

[crazy-fruit]

Slowly going insane over the fact that I most likely spend more time in the lab than in the field for my thesis.

[giuliettagaltieri]

Duel of Knowledge

Pairing: Uni Student!Coriolanus Snow x Uni Student!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: The Rival

Warning: academic rivalry, elitism, morally gray reader, greed, Dr. Gaul's laboratory, mentions of mutated animals, Capitol cruelty, nepotism, spoilers

Word Count: 2487

2 of 6

It was a fresh start for Coriolanus Snow.  A life in the university, studying under Dr. Volumnia Gaul. 

After District 12.  He was a different man.  His purpose now was clearer, his actions more calculated, more dangerous.

Society welcomed him with open arms.  The star mentor, the academy protégé, and Crassus Snow’s legacy.

Life was also serving him well.  He no longer had to wear buttons made from the bathroom tiles.  No poisoned rats to dispose of.

Sejanus Plinth’s parents invite him for a luncheon on weekends.  He also met the president a couple of times because of the said couple.  Dr. Gaul has also been most helpful.

Had it not been for her, Coriolanus would still be rotting away in District 12.

The university was almost similar to the academy, only better.

He was with the same set of people he studied with.  Although, Clemensia Dovecot steers away from him now.  Two small scars from sharp fangs reminded her what happens when she crosses Coriolanus Snow.

The lessons are much more difficult than what was taught in the Academy but it was nothing he cannot conquer.  He was blessed with the most brilliant minds.

Connections made in the University are better too.  The people he meets are the ones who are currently the ones ruling the world.

The secrets he learns about them, invaluable.

Coriolanus understands the power that a piece of information can hold.

Information saved his tribute in the games.

Information nearly got him hanged.

Information nearly drove him mad.

There were all sorts of it.  Right, wrong.  It was up to you how you use it.  And use it well, he did.

And then, there was you.

The daughter of Thanatos Swansworth, a former associate of his late father.

He had gotten to know you as the girl who craved his attention and thirsted for his validation.

The last time he saw you, he knew he might have broken your heart.  You were just good at covering it up with your smiles.

And until today, he is seeing that exact same smile from across the room.

The air around you is different.  You are more mature, more sure of yourself.  You carry yourself with confidence like how a real Capitol woman does.

“While ethical implication might raise some concerns about the modified epigenetics, the boldness of the concept and the possibility of pioneering a breakthrough is reason enough to continue this research.  My study can advance the frontiers of science in a way that benefits humanity on a broader scale.”  You spoke calmly to Dr. Volumnia Gaul as she cross examined you for your research.

Coriolanus sat with his back resting against the chair, his calculating eyes watching your firm yet inviting demeanor.

A few more questions from Dr. Gaul did not make you falter, you managed to make every query an opportunity to showcase your work.  It was something that he can commend.

“Miss Swansworth, I would like you to come to my office later on to further discuss these ideas of yours.”  Dr. Gaul grins at you.

A glint of pride is visible in your eyes, making Coriolanus narrow his.

“Of course, Dr. Gaul.”

It seems he has competition for Dr. Gaul’s odd fascinations.

Coriolanus watches you return to your seat, his finger tapping atop his desk.

A focused look was plastered on Coriolanus’ face the entire day, he almost cannot wait to meet you by Dr. Gaul’s lab later.

When classes are over, he makes his way to the secured lab of Dr. Gaul.  The strong smell of formaldehyde greets his nose, he has come to get used to it.

His steps are long and purposeful but he was careful enough to silence his glide.

And he was glad he did.

He finds you crouched in a corner, your skirt touching the floor, you are too engrossed with a mutated animal that was trapped behind the glass.

“You found Thumper.”

The startled squeak you made had a sadistic smile spreading on Coriolanus’ lips. 

You glare up at him before standing up.  “Do not sneak up on me.”  You say coldly.  “Especially here.”

The mutated rabbit in front of you gives a jolt with the sound of your voice, its eyes trained on you.

“What did she do to it?”  You ask silently, looking at the mutated animal with chin slightly tipped higher.

Coriolanus stands next to you to eye the poor rabbit. 

Its once soft fur was replaced with a coarse beard-like iridescent coat.  Its paws were bigger with ears larger than normal, and its eyes, ghostly pale.

“Nothing.  The rabbit was exposed to the toxic aftermath of an outdoor experiment.  We had it captured in case it proved dangerous.”

“Is it?”  You ask, trying to maintain your indifference.

“Do you pity that mutt, Miss Swansworth?”

Both you and Coriolanus straighten your posture as Dr. Gaul saunters inside her lab.

“It simply piqued my curiosity.”  You respond carefully.

Coriolanus leaves your side to sit himself in a desk set off for him and your eyes squint at how he acts so casually in the place.

“That was a good presentation you gave earlier.”  Dr. Gaul says as she cuts open what you think is-...was a salamander.

“Thank you, Dr. Gaul.”  You try to not to sound too giddy, you must have failed as you hear a snicker from Coriolanus.

Her hand stills and she looks at you with those dangerous eyes of hers making you hold your breath.

“You mentioned earlier that your study can advance the frontiers of science and that humanity can benefit on a broader scale.”  She looks at you fully now.  “To whom are you referring to, with this…‘humanity’?”  She waves her blood red glove in the air as she asks.

The scratching of pen stills from Coriolanus’ desk and you match Dr. Gaul’s intense stare with yours.

“Who else but us, Dr. Gaul.  The outcomes of my research will contribute to the collective well-being of the Capitol.  Subsequently, the Districts can derive…some advantages from the positive outcomes we achieve.  We cannot reap the same rewards.”  You tilt your head to the side, looking at her coyly from under your eyelashes.  “Afterall, anyone who is not us is an enemy.”

Coriolanus looks up from his desk to eye you.  Dr. Gaul recognizes the look.  It was the same one Crassus Snow had when he married his wife, and the exact same when he submitted the idea he had stolen from Casca Highbottom.  Dr. Gaul only laughs as she resumes her work.

“Would you be interested in studying under me?”  She asks after calming down from her crazed outburst.  “I see potential in you, just like Mr. Snow.  I would love to watch the two of you rise to power.”

You glance at him from your shoulder and find him already looking at you with so much intensity.  You had your eyes on him as you uttered your next words.  “I would love to, Dr. Gaul.”  With much satisfaction, you watched his jaw tighten, bringing a sly smile to your lips.

Having to work after classes in the laboratory gave Coriolanus a chance to observe you.

You were very much like the person you were before he left, but ironically, also really different.

He recognizes the way your eyes narrow and how your hand finds your chin when you encounter a setback.  You also became really proper.  The smiles you gladly throw at everyone back in the academy are gone.  You attended the social events alone too, no longer following Coriolanus around to get him to ask you to come as his date.

There was also the swarm of boys he loathed.

You did not entertain them of course, kindly declining their invites for coffees and luncheons.

“You seem awfully popular with the male population of the Capitol.”

The comment did not stop your movements, not even for a second.  The decadent caramel tart was far too good to waste a moment.

“Mmh, it appears so.”  You reply to Corioalanus who seated himself in front of you at your table.  You preferred having lunch alone, it gave you time to think.  But apparently, that was too much to ask.

You saw this a mile away.  He was coming to talk to you sooner than later, and here he is.  His caramel tart ignored as the polished man found you more interesting.

Wiping your mouth with a napkin, you reach for your coffee as you locked eyes with him.  Almost taunting him to say something about it.

Now, with his slicked back platinum hair, tight jaw, and eyes so cold and calculating.  He looks every bit like his father.

“Is that all you are here for? To talk about my suitors?”  You lean back in your chair, careful to keep your posture straight.

Certainly, that is not all he is here for.  You have witnessed this all around you, even back in the academy.  Protégés sizing up their enemies and rooting out possible competition.  It was not your fault Dr. Gaul was interested in how your mind works, although you have to be responsible for your mischievous glances after you win an argument against him.

Winning arguments, if only you knew how much he was holding back, to save you the embarrassment, to not scare you away with his twisted arguments.

He is letting you go as you please, letting you think you are winning, it would be far more rewarding when he steals the prize right before your eyes.

Coriolanus wonders if he can get you to cry.

“No.”  He grins charmingly, making your blood freeze.  “The Plinths invited me to golf this Sunday.  They asked me to bring a friend.”

Your eyes dart all around his face, trying to search for something that would give him away.

“What are you playing at?”  You spoke slowly.

Coriolanus only laughs heartily, a hand placed over his chest in feign hurt.  “You wound me.  I simply wanted to catch up.  Afterall…”  His eyes dart to the family crest pinned on your chest, his eyes suddenly darkening, smile sharpening dangerously as he looks up at you with hooded eyes.  “We’re childhood friends, aren’t we?”

He can be very persuasive. 

Especially those eyes of his.

You heave a sigh and gently bring your cup to your lips, taking your time to sip. 

“Alright.”

“Perfect.”  He beams brightly.  There is something awfully unsettling about it.

Coriolanus Snow finds your distrustful nature inviting.  You are right to be wary of him. 

Sunday comes faster than you would have appreciated. 

The Plinths were very kind people.  Partly because they oh so wanted to be accepted in the Capitol. 

You are leaning on the golf cart, arms folded as you watch Coriolanus laugh with Sejanus Plinth’s parents.

Your thinking posture returns as you observe them.  Back in the academy, you do not recall Coriolanus and Sejanus to be very close.  They were acquaintances, yes.  Nothing beyond that.  In retrospect, Sejanus was a really lonely kid.  Everybody loved his money but friendship with him was something the Capitol kids never crossed.  The kindness Coriolanus showed him, he must have mistaken it for bond.

Poor Sejanus.

“Y/N.”  Mrs. Plinth calls you over and you fix your sunglasses back on and you head their way.

“Sorry, needed to cool off a bit.”  You smile at them.

“Oh, of course.  Would you like some refreshments?”  She asked, worried.  You smile at her, watching closely if this is real or not.  It might be.

Coriolanus swings his club and sends the ball flying to the cup.

Mr. Plinth slaps his back showering the young boy with compliments.

You are unaware that it was you who is being watched now.

“It has been difficult for my husband and I.”  Mrs. Plinth says softly as she guides you under the shade and pours you a tall glass of lemonade.

You thank her but are not letting your guard down for whatever she may spring at you.

“Our son is gone but that boy.”  She smiles in the direction of Coriolanus.  “Our son loved him like a brother.  It may be selfish on my part but I see my boy in him.”

You drop your head, watching your reflection in the lemonade.

“And he has the Plinths’ full support for his endeavors.”

This catches your attention and the woman smiles at your expression.

“In every victory Panem has, there is always a Snow behind it.”  She raises her chin to gauge your reaction.  “And a Swansworth to help them see it through.”

You tip your own chin up and watch Coriolanus do a perfect swing.

“And so there is.”  You give her a sly smile and she returns it with her own.

You might have just met an ally.

The day ends and you cannot be upset with how it turned out.

“In a better mood, are we?”  Coriolanus says cooly, lips tugging up to one side.

You shrug as you both enter the building where you both live.  “Mrs. Plinth is not an awful company.”  A playful smile is also thrown his way.  “I also enjoyed the view.”

There it is.

“Oh, you did, didn’t you?”  He stops you dead on your tracks, preventing you from getting in the elevator.

You did not let his height be a great advantage as you met him with a proud smile.  “The golf course, I mean.”

“Indeed, the golf course.”  He nods as he looks down at you, a smirk tugging on his lips.  “The golf course with its blistering heat and dry wind, that golf course.”

“Exactly.”  You smile sardonically.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I must get to my apartment.”

He lets you inside the elevator and he follows closely.

You stand next to him in silence as the elevator ascends.

A couple of times, your gazes meet in your reflection.

“I’m running as president.”

You sigh as your back meets the cold elevator wall.

“I know.”

He looks at you now, arm leaning on the handrail.

“I want you with me.”

You roll your eyes, arms crossing.

“I was afraid you’d ask.”

He chuckles lowly.

For a moment, only the soft whirring of the elevator accompanied by the classical tune playing was the only noise filling the space.

“Forgive me.”  He finally says.

It is long overdue but you appreciate it still.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

The elevator dings and you get off.  He walks you to your apartment. 

“Good night, Y/N Swansworth.”

“Good night, Coriolanus Snow.”

And you gently close the door, your eye contact never breaking until all you see is the hardwood door.

You stand there for a long time, contemplating.  Your apartment is cold and empty but the lights from Capitol reflect inside your apartment, casting a soft glow in your family portrait and you look at your father in the eyes.

“Snow will land on top.”

Hunt for Glory

[thedamselzelda]

Italian Dreams Ripped At The Seams

Author Chat: The first "chapter" of whatever I'm going to name this series. I'm not entirely sure yet, haven't settled on a name. BUT I have been DYING to post and get the ball rolling. I am in nursing school and I am writing almost everyday when I get home. the ideas are within my notes app, it's just the struggle of sitting down to do it.

Featuring: DarkEra! Dazai Osamu

Summary: Silence, it's something to fear in an already unstable world. In yours, it could mean anything. Your thoughts race as you think to yourself what the silence, the lack of communication, could actually mean, especially when that silence is caused by Dazai.

word count: 3k, fem!reader, pm!reader, sfw (light cursing), reader is occasionally called "Izanami" a nickname given to her bc of her ability (I'll let you try to figure that one out, until then stay tuned), reader is described as having violet eyes bc of her father (mentioned within this chapter) warnings: mentioned of self-harm, suicide attempt

~ next part | DBH masterlist | BSD Masterverse

The ceiling of the Italian Villa’s on-suite bathroom was one that could rival the Sistine Chapel ceiling, or at least, you think so. You’d never actually been or had even thought about it while living your life in Yokohama. Perhaps, now with your excruciatingly long stay in Italy, you would find yourself wandering into the building to admire another country’s history and artwork. 

But that is not why you were staring at the ceiling, instead you were mulling through your thoughts of the past week or so. The shortened phone calls, now completely devoid of them, between you and… well he wasn’t exactly your boyfriend. Or was he? You two had openly expressed your feelings, you two fucked around without a care, but was he even exclusively yours?

You scrunched your nose at the thought. That wasn’t exactly the part that irked you. What bothered you was that he had abruptly stopped calling and sending his sweet letters to you six months into your “study abroad” trip that Mori had all but shoved you out for. He was always honest with you, and you with him, so what would change his perception of you now? Was he tired of you? Was he simply that bothered by your leave that distance does not, in fact, make the heart grow fonder?

You splashed more water onto your chest, resting in the warm bath, hoping it would alleviate the migraine that had accumulated while working today. Your last phone call with him wasn’t long enough. It was so short you could remember every syllable that fell from his lips.

“Mori gave him the Silver Oracle, but of course I told him I’d help him even without it.”

“Well, you’re his friend. Did he not believe you?” You brushed your hair, hoping the smell of formaldehyde had been washed away with your evening shower.

“You know he did, but I could still hear some reservations when I spoke to him. Also, you really gotta talk to him about his ‘no killing’ policy.”

You breathe out a laugh, “Look, he’s been wanting me to read those books for the longest. His mantra is his. I’m just gonna let him do him.”

Dazai sighed, knowing far too well that even if your friendship with Oda rivaled that of his, not even you could persuade him. “Oh, I also had to work with your fath- I mean, Hirotsu. I tossed him my game and he totally fucked up my win streak.”

Your eyebrow twitched at hearing the intentional mess up. “Osamu, just commit to the bit next time. Also, why would you even toss your game to him.”

 Dazai chucked on the other side of the receiver, “I had work to do.”

“Oh yes, big mister executive had to go clean up my father’s mess. I see.”

You didn’t hear anything from him for a moment. You knew he was smiling, but it was a solemn one. He knew how much you wanted to be executive. You were born into the mafia, he wasn’t. While it wasn’t technically a birthright, the two of you felt like it was meant to be yours. Pushing back to the previous topic, you spoke again.

“Tell Oda that I’m looking forward to getting a letter from him. He didn’t pick up the phone the last time I called, but it sounds like he’s quite busy with whatever Mori has tasked him with.”

Dazai hummed to you in response, picking his next words carefully. Slipping into rough Italian, as if he couldn’t let anyone know, and spoke, “I’m worried about him.”

Your mouth curled into a frown, placing the brush down on the vanity. You picked your phone up, taking it off speaker, and placing it to your ear.

“How so?” you reply back, your Italian just as rough.

“He’s…” You could tell Dazai hadn’t had as much experience in the language, having only learned it to speak with you while you were in Italy. It was much more help than he could realize, as you were barely able to converse with your mentor, with your native tongue being Japanese and only knowing basic English. Dazai attempted to keep speaking, “He’s up against a skill rival to his. I just don’t foresee any outcome with this group going well.”

You hum back to him this time, unsure of what to say. You had heard through your contacts about this rival group, Mimic. Now, they had taken Ango, one of Dazai’s friends, your acquaintance. You knew dealing with any foreign group such as this always resulted in death, something you were intimately familiar with, so the thought didn’t plague you too much. Rather, the tone of Dazai’s voice and his words meant that it was Oda who could be the one at the center.

You cease speaking Italian, “I’m sure, whatever the outcome, the four of us will end up at Bar Lupin, clinking our drinks together and laughing about all of this in…” You think to yourself how much longer this sentence is, “three and a half years?”

Dazai puffs into the receiver, whining, “That’s too far from now. I’m gonna have to tell Mori I require a much-needed vacation to Italy real soon.”

You laugh, flopping down onto your down bed with satin sheets, “I would like that very much.”

The two of you fall silent, your eyes growing heavier and heavier. The silence was common toward the end of your phone calls. Sometimes, you could swear he would stay on just to hear the sound of your soft breathing. You would have, if that insomniac would ever fall asleep. 

“Bella, you can go to sleep. You’ll get my letter tomorrow. Just imagine I’m reading it to you.”

“It’s not the saammme.” You groan, throwing your arm over your eyes. “I get why Mori would send me here but fuck for four years?! I would serve the organization better if I was there!”

Dazai was silent, almost as if he didn’t want to agree or disagree with your statement.

“He said it was to hone your ability now that he couldn’t focus on you anymore, so I suppose it’s for the Mafia’s benefit more so than yours. You know where I stand regardless.”

“I know.” You voice was light, emphasizing your feelings.

“I’ll be the one that picks you up from the airport, though. I’ll even sweep you up and spin you around if it gives you something to look forward to.”

You roll over, smiling into your pillow.

“You’re definitely going to be dreaming about that now.” He laughs, possibly daydreaming about it already himself.

You chuckle, smothering your flushed face.

“Get some rest, cara mia. I’ll talk to you again in a few days.” His voice was soothing and low in tone, as if he knew his voice was lulling you to sleep.

“Talk to you soon, mon cher.” You sleepily say, waiting for him to end the call-but he doesn’t. You knew he was waiting for you to fall asleep, your eyes closing until you found yourself opening them again in the morning.

You open your eyes once more gazing upon the painted ceiling above you. It had been a week since then, placing you back into your thoughts on why he hadn’t called, written, or at least attempted to contact you in some other form. Even Oda and Mori hadn’t spoken to you. Which placed you in even more confusing thoughts. Surely, you thought to yourself, surely Mori wasn’t eliminating you from the Mafia. If that were the case, you would have already been killed and disposed of, and the mistress of the Villa, nor your mentor were acting anything out of the normal.

You gaze down, pinching the bridge of your nose. Any more thinking on this topic and surely your head would explode, which would be an invited reprieve at this particular moment. Your eyes dance down to the water, noticing your scar, which was deformed by the refracting water. One on your arm, you reached over to touch, remembering how you and Dazai had taken a knife across your arms hoping for it to be a beautiful double suicide, but alas, Mori found the two of you. He stitched up Dazai, forcing you to stitch up your own wound. You could feel a tear breech and slide down your cheek.

The great Izanami does not cry.

You grab onto the porcelain tub, pressing yourself deeper into the water, forcing your neck, then your face into the water. You open your eyes underneath the water, holding yourself there. Perhaps, if Dazai is done with you-if Oda is done with you-then maybe this is how you should go. You release some air from your lungs, allowing you to sink further under the water. You release your hands from the sides, submerging them, too.

Your lungs begin to burn, screaming for you to go up for air, but you refuse. You blink as you hear a garbled voice within the bathroom. If it is the mistress, there was nothing she could do to stop you. One touch and she would be gone. She knew the rule when it came to you. You blink again, seeing a dark outlined figure standing above the tub. You think to yourself, maybe it is him. However, if it is, he would have already pulled you up. So, it couldn’t be.

You find yourself gasping at fresh air as someone pulls you up from behind, their small hands snaking under your arms.

“Honestly, could you please not kill yourself? I’ve invested too much into you.”

You blink as your eyes burned slightly from the water falling from your lashes. A hand towel is handed to you, and you wipe your face roughly before looking behind you.

“Thank you, Elise.” Mori says sweetly to the girl. She rolls her eyes at you, annoyed that she had to soak her dress to retrieve you.

“What are you doing here?” You say in a harsh tone, irritated that he has interrupted yet another attempt.

“I can come and go as I please, since I am the one funding this education of yours.” His voice returns to the irritated, tired tone that he always uses with you. He’s taken a seat at the chair beside the tub, placing a medium navy-blue box tied in gold ribbon on the side table along with a tan file folder.

“I haven’t heard from you in a week. So, I ask again, what are you doing here?” You become irritated by his intrusion, and deviation from your original question.

You sit up within the tub, not caring for his gaze upon you. He was your technical guardian after all, and you knew his interest in young girls. However, you were unbothered by his now as you neared adulthood, his interest had wavered in you increasingly. The only thing that bound the two of you now was his ownership of you and your ability.

“I suppose you were going about your days here in the villa, wondering what the outcome was with Mimic, since I suppose he told you a bit about the issue.”

Mori was visibly irritated, testing to see how much Dazai told you via your late-night calls. The two of you knew it was very risky to converse about such delicate matters, regardless of what form they were put into. However, you longed to be home, so Dazai had frequently indulged you.

“I just know Oda was involved. That’s all.” You tone was steady, you had lied to Mori countless times before, this time was evidently no different.

He arched his eyebrow, studying your face. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s resolved anyway. We got the permit.”

He closed his eyes in thought. You in turn began to study him, curious as to why he would come to the villa just to inform you of the Port Mafia’s success.

“That can’t be the only reason you’re here.” You turn in the tub, your legs folding into your chest as you cock your head. “To what to I truly owe this intrusion, Mori?”

He slowly opened his eyes to look at you. His eyes darted between your violet ones, formulating his next words. “Sakunosuke Oda unfortunately passed during the fight against Mimic.”

Your eyes widen as you lean forward. You breathe out the only word that can formulate against your thoughts. A broken, “No,” escaping your lips.

Mori closes his eyes once more, leaning his head forward slightly, “And Dazai has disappeared. We do not know his whereabouts.”

“What?!” You spring up from the tub, water splashing about the floor and onto Elise and Mori. Elise groans, reaching for a bigger towel and tossing it to you. You wrap it around your body, attempting to create your next sentence against your pounding headache. “No, he… he would have said something. He would have contacted me. He wouldn’t…”

Your words trailed off as if they couldn’t follow your thoughts.

“Therefore, I came here because you needed to be informed of your new position. Or rather, the one you will take on once you finish here in Italy.”

You could barely hear him over your last conversation with Dazai playing out once more in your head.

"I’ll talk to you again in a few days… You’ll get my letter tomorrow.”

You hadn’t actually received the letter, which is what triggered your incessant thoughts. You had gone up to the mistress, day after day, asking if the letter had arrived, yet nothing came.

“While I am completely optimistic that Dazai will return.” Your eyes narrowed, anger seething from your gritted teeth. “I am leaving his executive position open for his return. In the meantime, you will assume a specially made executive position, and I have the documents to a club and a casino I would like for you to have control over to start with.”

He tapped to the file next to the navy-blue box.

“What’s the box for then?” Your eyes glance to the beautifully decorated box, curious to what could be contained within it.

“Dazai passed it to me a few days before he left, wanted me to send it to you. Instead, I thought it would soften the blow of the pervious news.” His hand fanned over the box in a presenting motion. “It’s been screened of course. Couldn’t have a defected member sending you something that would cause my newest executive to defect too.”

He gave a sly smile. He knew of your relationship with Dazai, but he also knew you feared a life without the Mafia more.

You sneered at him, “Why would I want that from a defected member?”

Your words were merely show, something to appease Mori since you had just been given your prize, however, it wasn’t for all your hard work of the past years. Rather, it was desperation on Mori’s part to hold you closer within his clutches.

“My, my… I didn’t expect you to be so cold when it comes to Dazai.” Mori stood chuckling but leaving the box behind anyway.

He began to walk toward the closed bathroom door, Elise opening it to escape the humid air within the room. He turned on his heel, however, before breeching back into your private room.

“I expect greatness from you, Izanami. Do not fail me.” It echoed within your head as more of an order, rather than a statement.

You emit a low growl at the name, hating to hear it from him of all Mafia members.

He smiled, pleased by your response, and closed the door behind him.

You wait for a moment, listening for the next click of the door being closed. Once you heard the faint noise of Mori’s departure, you scrambled, nearly slipping, from the tub. You grabbed the plush robe from the chair, donning it instead of the towel you had been holding up. Once you had tied the robe, you tear the gold ribbon from the box, haphazardly letting it flutter to the floor. Your hands hesitate with the lid. What if he knew he was leaving? What if…?

You sit down in the chair, placing the heavy midnight box within your lap. You take a deep breath, lifting the lid and placing it upon the file. Your fingers gingerly graze the gray tissue covering the contents, trembling. You notice a splash of darkness appearing on the gray paper. You harshly rub the remaining tears from your cheeks.

Why are you so afraid to look? To see the last thing he’s left you? Because it’s the last. There is no more Dazai. He’s dead as far as the, now, executive you are concerned, but the young girl in you? The one who’s lost the one person on this God-forsaken earth that could touch you without consequence? She was afraid.

You began to peel back the tissue paper, first noticing the maroon color peeking out within the box. Your finger grazed upon the soft material as you remove the right covering paper. Your fingers go to touch your lips, a small choking gasp escaping through them as your tears now forcefully fall from your eyes. It was a scarf he had bought because you had remarked how it complemented his eyes, yet he could never bring himself to wear it, stating it reminded him too much of Mori. You attempted to pick it up from within the box, but you discovered the additional contents that had been wrapped within. Three books, all too familiar to you shifted underneath the scarf. You could hear yourself begin to sob as you picked up the last remaining things of Oda’s clutching the items to your chest. You pressed your face into the scarf, hoping to find some comfort, smelling burnt gunpowder and a faint woody scent, reminiscent of him. 

You could barely see through your tears, almost missing the final present that graced you.

In Italian, evident that he attempted way too many times to write the note, Happy Birthday, Bella. All my love. ~O <3

~ next part | DBH masterlist | BSD Masterverse

If I forgot to tag anything, or forgot to mention anything in the warnings, please let me know! I'm still just trying to figure all this out after using Wattpad for so long.

Thank you to everyone who reads this though! Hope you enjoy and look forward to what's to come!

[gr0tesques]

full name: nicholas adriel somer

nicknames: nicky

age: 29 (september 20, 1995)

zodiac sign: virgo

gender/pronouns: cis man, he / him

sexual orientation: bisexual

hometown: kilmer's cove, rhode island

occupation: comedian / funeral home assistant at somer and sons undertakers

financial status: middle class

current residence: tbd

time in kilmer's cove: born and raised, moved away for college and returned upon his parents' death

family: robert and frances somer (parents, deceased), jericho somer (older brother), caroline somer (older sister), tbd older brother.

significant others: none.

BACKGROUND

the sickly, haunted victorian child. there was always something wrong with him growing up (though it persists somewhat less in his adulthood) and one time a relative joked about how it was probably because his parents built an entire business around death and there must be some kind of bad juju that comes with that and the idea has been in the back of his mind ever since.

was defo not planned (sorry nicky!) esp since the gap between him and their eldest is 11 yrs and 8 yrs between himself and his older sister, but having another boy raised the chances of somebody taking care of the family business when frances and robert are gone (ahh the irony of somer & sons being continued by their only daughter !)

mama's boy if only because frances was overprotective of him for being her youngest. tbh it wouldn't be too far-fetched to think that there was some borderling munchausen by proxy shit going on just to keep nicky from being independent tho frances was quick to attribute nicky's 'poor immune system' to her having him later in life than most women.

spent a lot of time indoors as a kid due to always being sick so he relied heavily on his imagination to keep himself occupied. his entire world revolved around movies and his parents indulged him with renting films every week just to keep him busy while his siblings and friends were outside. fell in love with both comedy and horror as genres and found humor as a way to cope with the looming concept of death he grew up with.

started doing 'stand up comedy' for his family since he was like 8, but incorporated themes of body horror in his performances that people at school found weird and creepy whenever he'd do the body horror stuff in class but also kind of made sense for a kid who grew up around corpses and macabre shit yknow??

got accepted into the rhode island school of design for film studies and it was the first time he was really away from home tho his mother demanded he visit kilmer every weekend which he did, for the first year, til his world expanded and he was exploring more about himself and his relationships with other people. (funnily enough, he started getting sick less the more time he spent away from kilmer, but everytime he would stay in town for even just a couple of days, he'd come down with a cough or a fever.)

he was 22 and fresh out of college when his father passed away, and his mother just a few months after. he had plans of moving to los angeles with his then-partner at the time (wc!!) but the loss of his parents thwarted those plans. while he was given time to grieve, something was compelling nicky to stay in kilmer and so he did.

he's been helping out his sister at the funeral home ever since, tho has no real interest in it other than a stable source of income and out of concern for caroline. he mostly sits at the front desk since he cannot stand the smell of formaldehyde and also gets mysteriously ill if he has prolonged proximity to the corpses. he's also been working on his comedy career, mostly performing in bars and comedy clubs but also doing content for youtube and tiktok where his comedy body horror (a la sarah squirm) is making good numbers.

he does believe in all the ghost stories tho for his comedy sets he tries to make fun of the whole thing as a way of coping

[deathandthesoul]

For Jesse and Aidan;

From Appearance;

5. What are your character's opinion on scars?

9.What does your character smell like?

Objects;

Is there an item your character doesn't like to leave without?

9. Does your character prefer to give or receive gifts?

Nature and Weather;

3. What season would your character say they're most similar to?

6. Would your character enjoy sky gazing?

Community and Relationships:

5. Who would your character first seek if they needed medical help?

Mind, Body and Soul:

What is a habit your character has that others might find cute?

2. Are there particular sounds your character is fond of?

8. What scents does your character find comforting?

What are your character's opinion on scars?

Jesse: His make him feel more like himself. He thinks they look good on other people Aidan: HOT

What does your character smell like?

Jesse: Cigarette smoke with spicy deodorant and engine grease Aidan: He bathes in cigarette smoke to cover up his natural rotting corpse stench, also smells like leather, and formaldehyde sometimes

Is there an item your character doesn't like to leave without?

Jesse: His special bonded knife Aidan: His camera

Does your character prefer to give or receive gifts?

Jesse: Giving, unless it's a unique, personalized, handmade item that he wouldn't be able to buy for himself from just anywhere Aidan: Both are about equal. Jesse spoils him and he makes things for him in turn

What season would your character say they're most similar to?

Jesse: Summer Aidan: Autumn

Would your character enjoy sky gazing?

Jesse: No, too boring. He needs a thrill. Unless it's with Aidan Aidan: Doesn't have a strong opinion on it. Something something light pollution in cities but he's used to that. It's more about the company

Who would your character first seek if they needed medical help?

Jesse: His sire/dad Valter is his go-to to yank him out of torpor Aidan: Either Jesse or [spoiler] for getting him out of torpor

What is a habit your character has that others might find cute?

Jesse: The way he licks his lips when he's thinking about blood (Aidan finds this cute) Aidan: The way he passively and mindlessly kills things around him like candles or insects (Jesse finds this cute)

Are there particular sounds your character is fond of?

Jesse: Screeching tires, roaring engines, the crackle of fire, explosions, screaming, begging, and crying Aidan: Harsh music he can mosh to, drummers going absolutely insane, ambulance sirens, church choirs, someone's last breath leaving them

What scents does your character find comforting?

Jesse: Aidan's scent, car exhaust, oil, smoke (from fires or cigarettes), salty ocean air Aidan: Corpses, formaldehyde, blood, cleaning supplies and other chemicals, inner city smell, Jesse's scent, his cat

[julek]

I posted 1,057 times in 2022

108 posts created (10%)

949 posts reblogged (90%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@julek

@samstree

@fawnnbinary

@d-andilion

@mosaicscale

I tagged 1,054 of my posts in 2022

#art - 414 posts

#witcher stuff - 212 posts

#fic rec - 134 posts

#answered - 58 posts

#self rb - 48 posts

#twn spoilers - 46 posts

#mywriting - 41 posts

#about writing - 33 posts

#&lt;3 - 28 posts

#oh my god - 27 posts

Longest Tag: 76 characters

#🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

so back when the year started, @srapsodia gave me the best birthday gift i could’ve ever asked for (my boys being Soft and In Bed) and i forgot to share them with the world. thank you, raps, for thinking of me and giving me Them <3

992 notes - Posted November 20, 2022

#4

read on ao3

When Geralt sees the body on the table, he shakes his head with something akin to fondness.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” he tells Jaskier, whose eyes haven’t opened yet, whose skin still shines pale and unblemished. “One day I’ll really dissect you.”

“Mm,” Jaskier grunts, displeased.

Geralt takes his apron off, given his services won’t be needed with this particular costumer, and leans back against the sink of the mortuary to wait. It usually takes Jaskier a few minutes to regain movement of his limbs, a few more minutes to get his words back.

“What was it this time?” Geralt asks conversationally, mostly because he knows Jaskier won’t answer him. “Jealous husband poisoned your meal? Didn’t look where you were going and shared a kiss with the local transport vehicle?”

“Hng.”

Geralt nods, reaching for the cabinet door. “I know it’s cold. I’m sorry. You know how it is.”

He lays a blanket over Jaskier’s still-rigid legs, and checks his pulse. Faint, but there.

“Just a few more minutes,” he says, watching blood slowly color Jaskier’s cheeks, flowing down the purple-blue veins under his eyes. His arms are twitching. “You want coffee or tea? I got croissants from the bakery you like.”

“‘ea,” Jaskier manages.

“Okay,” Geralt says. “We can breakfast upstairs. I know you don’t like the smell in here.”

Geralt does, though. There’s something about the smell of formaldehyde and antiseptic that soothes his mind. He’s surprised, really, that, for someone who’s visited his mortuary so many times, Jaskier still hasn’t gotten used to it.

Some things aren’t for him to know.

“Ah,” Geralt murmurs, Jaskier’s blue eyes blinking hazily at him. “Welcome back.”

Jaskier glowers at him. It looks more cute than menacing.

Geralt pushes Jaskier’s hair back, presses a kiss to his forehead. Ice cold, as usual.

“When I said I couldn’t do date night because work was busy,” he whispers, “I didn’t mean for you to literally show up at work.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, as if to say well, and immediately grimaces. Expressive facial gestures right after waking up mess up with the slow progress his body makes, and now he’ll be stuck with an inquisitive expression for a few hours.

Geralt definitely doesn’t laugh at him.

(He does). (A little). (He also makes some horrible puns). (Jaskier will make him pay, later).

Jaskier’s hand intertwines with his own. A weak embrace, but Geralt can feel the warmth of his touch in his soul.

“Roach missed you,” he tells him, linking their fingers together. “She’ll be delighted to see you.”

Jaskier’s head turns slightly.

“Well, maybe not delighted. Amused, at least.”

“Mm.”

Finally, Jaskier’s legs regain blood flow, and he shakes them out a little. Geralt helps him sit up on the table.

“How are you feeling?”

Jaskier nods. He looks tired, as he often does after waking up, but everything else seems normal.

“Okay,” Geralt says. He presses his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Still like your tea with four sugars, then?”

See the full post

1,000 notes - Posted May 28, 2022

#3

“Jas,” Geralt calls, not taking his eyes off his journal.

Jaskier stops strumming his lute with a palm on the strings. “Yes?”

“Would you pass me an orange from our pack?”

He hears Jaskier murmur an assent, and goes back to the ardent task of drawing a cockatrice that resembles the one he’d fought the week prior. There’s a rustling sound as Jaskier rifles through their things, a triumphant little ah-ha! as Jaskier, presumably, finds the orange, but then, there’s silence.

Geralt sketches the final lines of the cockatrice to his satisfaction, and takes a look behind him to see what could be taking Jaskier so long in the simple delivery of the fruit.

He finds Jaskier poking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, brow furrowed in concentration as he picks at the orange between prying fingers.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks, coming to crouch beside him.

“Oh!” Jaskier says, his eyes snapping up, as if he’d forgotten Geralt was there at all. “I was just getting all the white stuff out for you,” he says, and presents his palms to Geralt.

It’s a small orange, halved, bright and plump in Jaskier’s hands, and all the white tendrils have been carefully removed.

For him.

The orange almost flies into the other direction when Geralt surges to kiss him.

“Oh,” Jaskier says when they break apart, flustered and a little dazed. “What brought that on?”

Geralt smiles, taking one half of the orange into his hands.

“You.”

1,046 notes - Posted July 9, 2022

#2

“Yen,” Geralt says through gritted teeth. “It’s not wearing off.”

She peers at him across the table. “What isn’t?”

He growls. The potion, he wants to say, the stupid potion that had been innocently placed among his own elixirs, wearing a nondescript label and looking innocuous enough. The potion that is making his every thought escape through his tongue and jump out of his mouth, into the world of the living.

That potion.

“Mm,” she nods. “It’ll go away soon enough. The urge.”

They both follow Jaskier’s moving figure with their eyes, the bard prancing around the tavern floorboards with practiced ease and a salacious grin on his pink-bitten lips. They watch as he belts out a high note, sweat clinging to his skin, pooling in the hollow of his throat, uncovered now that he’s shed his doublet on the back of a chair.

Geralt tries very hard not to imagine what it would feel like to put his mouth there, because it’s a stupid thing to think, and because the filter that usually keeps stupid thoughts at the back of his mind where they belong is broken, and it would be very unwise to let such imaginings out in the wild.

But—

“Seems our bard has found himself some company,” Yennefer says, a smug smirk on her lips, as she waves in his general direction. “Such a handsome fellow, too.”

And, because he’s weak, Geralt tears his gaze from a knot on the wooden table and finds that Jaskier’s singing has stopped, and he’s now animatedly chatting with a patron. A broad-shouldered, heavy-handed man, with charming brown eyes and curls that bounce on his head every time he laughs that musical laughter at something Jaskier’s said, and a well-trimmed beard that frames his face ever so nicely. A man whose hand is resting on Jaskier’s forearm, his thumb rubbing distracted circles on it as Jaskier draws closer and closer.

Geralt’s tankard creaks ominously in his hand.

Yen has the gall to look amused. “Anything on your mind, dear?”

Geralt tries to ignore the way his mind is screaming at him, but it doesn’t work, of course, because that godsdamned serum is still coursing through his veins, still making him— “I want to draw my sword and place it on that man’s neck and watch him sweat, and when I’ve made sure he’s gone I want to take Jaskier back here and have him sit on my lap and show everyone who he belongs to.”

It all comes out in one breath, so fast that he doesn’t have time to feel ashamed, and he feels as though he’s never talked so much in his life. He probably hasn’t.

“Interesting,” says Yen, watching Jaskier saunter back to their table. “Very interesting.”

1,213 notes - Posted March 26, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Jaskier turns in his bedroll again.

“—fucking winter and its wintery fucking— cold as balls, ice frozen—”

“Jask?”

“—good for nothing— oh.” His tossing stops. The ground is so fucking cold. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

One golden eye peers at him. He would say Geralt looked annoyed, but he can’t see most of his face, tucked as it is under his cloak, so he chooses to interpret it as friendly concern. “Your muttering did.”

Jaskier smiles sheepishly at him, even though Geralt probably can’t see him either, with his scarf tied around his neck and covering most of his face. “Sorry. Just...”

“Can’t sleep?”

Jaskier shakes his head. It’s their fifth year on the Path together, the first one Geralt’s invited him along to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen with him — and Jaskier’s excited, really, but sleeping on the forest floor with a thin bedroll and definitely not enough blankets kind of dampens his spirits a little.

They’ve laid their bedrolls side by side, the fire keeping their feet warm, but still Jaskier can’t fend off the chill that’s seeped into his bones. He would blame it on his frilly, beautifully impractical clothing, with its soft but thin fabrics, with its stunning trim but no insulation, but if he did, he’d basically be agreeing with Geralt, and he can’t have that. Not even in the privacy of his own mind.

(He still hasn’t ruled out the possibility that Witchers are mind-readers). (Geralt is awfully quiet whenever Jaskier brings it up, and, well, one can never be too careful).

So he’s been tossing and turning and singing lullabies to himself in a feeble attempt of finally succumbing to a warm, deep sleep. Not that it’s worked, anyway.

The single golden eye looks considering, now.

“Wha—?” Jaskier manages before Geralt stands up, the bare skin under his sleep shirt immediately reacting to the cold air of the forest and erupting in gooseflesh.

Then, a blanket is being tossed to his face.

(It smells like horse).

“There,” says Geralt, not unkindly, his voice a bit rough. “That’ll help.”

“Well,” Jaskier replies, trying to adjust the blanket without taking his hands out of his bedroll, which proves impossible. “Thanks.”

Before he can sit up straight and, like a sane person, rearrange the blanket on top of himself, Geralt’s doing it for him. His hair is a mess from where he’s been laying on it and he’s squinting, but his hands are warm as they reach for the ends of the blanket and he tucks them into Jaskier’s bedroll, making sure his body is covered.

“You’re tucking me in,” Jaskier whispers, something that suspiciously feels like love standing on his heart a little.

Geralt smiles. He smiles his soft smile, the one where his lips stretch over his face and they’re pink and pretty and there’s a shine in his eyes.

“I guess I am,” he replies, checking no corners have been missed. “We’ll reach the mountain soon. No more cold nights after that.”

Jaskier smiles. He doesn’t know what it might look like on his face, lips chapped and slightly cracked. He hopes it shows his gratitude for him.

Geralt sits back on his haunches. The smile is still there. Fonder, somehow.

“What, no kiss goodnight?” Jaskier murmurs, because he’s an idiot, because he can’t help himself.

“Mm,” Geralt says, and for a second, Jaskier thinks he’s getting up to leave, but then Geralt leans forward and there’s a gentle, sweet kiss being pressed to his forehead. His smile is bigger when he turns away. “There. Goodnight.”

Jaskier can feel the warmth on his skin, the skin Geralt pressed a kiss to. He can feel it seeping into his bones.

When he turns around, blanket firmly secured, Geralt is watching him from his own bedroll.

“Goodnight,” he mouths at him, and Geralt closes his eyes.

His cloak is covering half his face again, but Jaskier can see the smile he’s hiding anyway.

1,612 notes - Posted May 4, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[lifubide]

What’s in wildfire smoke and what does wildfire smoke smell like?

Wildfires have become a common occurrence in recent years due to climate change and human activities, with significant impacts on air quality and human health. Understanding the composition of wildfire smoke and its olfactory impact can help us take necessary precautions. This article will explore the causes of air pollution by wildfires, the pollutants they release, the unique smell of wildfire smoke, and what can be done about it.

How Do Wildfires Cause Air Pollution?

Wildfires are essentially uncontrolled fires that spread rapidly through vegetation, forests, and grasslands. They occur when a combination of dry conditions, high temperatures, and ignition sources come together. As wildfires burn through these natural landscapes, they release copious amounts of smoke into the atmosphere.

Wildfires can produce smoke through both complete and incomplete combustion processes. Complete combustion occurs when there is an ideal balance between fuel and oxygen, resulting in cleaner-burning fires. Incomplete combustion, on the other hand, occurs when there is an insufficient supply of oxygen, leading to the production of pollutants and soot particles. Wildfires often involve a mixture of these processes, making their smoke a complex blend of various compounds.

What Air Pollutants Are Released by Wildfires?

Wildfire smoke contains a cocktail of air pollutants that can have serious consequences for air quality and human health. Here are some of the key pollutants released during wildfires:

Particulate Matter (PM)

PM is a complex mixture of extremely small particles and liquid droplets. It's made up of a variety of components, including acids, organic chemicals, metals, and soil or dust particles. PM2.5, particulates that have a diameter of 2.5 micrometers or smaller, can be inhaled deep into the lungs and cause serious health problems.

Volatile Organic Compounds (VOCs)

VOCs are a group of carbon-containing compounds that easily evaporate at room temperature. Some VOCs found in wildfire smoke include benzene, formaldehyde, and acrolein. Exposure to these compounds can irritate the eyes, nose, and throat, harm the central nervous system, and increase the risk of cancer.

Carbon Monoxide (CO)

CO is a colorless, odorless gas that is harmful when inhaled in large amounts. It binds with hemoglobin in the blood, reducing the amount of oxygen that enters our tissues and organs. High levels of CO can lead to symptoms like headaches, dizziness, weakness, nausea, and even death in severe cases.

What Does Wildfire Smoke Smell Like?

Tasty Chemicals Are Fragile

Some compounds in wildfire smoke, like guaiacol, can impart a sweet, smoky, or spicy aroma. Guaiacol is also found in roasted coffee and smoked foods, contributing to their appealing flavors. However, these 'tasty' chemicals are fragile. They break down quickly when exposed to heat and light, which is why the pleasant smell doesn't last long.

Toxic Chemicals Are Tough

On the other hand, toxic compounds like phenol, cresols, and naphthalene are more resistant to breakdown. They are responsible for the harsh, acrid smell that often persists after a wildfire. These compounds can cause irritation to the skin, eyes, and respiratory tract.

What to Do About the Smell of Smoke

Dealing with the smell of wildfire smoke can be challenging, especially for those living in or near affected areas. Here are some practical steps to help mitigate the impact of wildfire smoke odor:

Stay indoors: When wildfires are active in your vicinity, it's best to stay indoors with windows and doors closed to minimize exposure to smoke.

Use air purifiers: Lifubide���s High-efficiency particulate air (HEPA) filters can help remove smoke particles from indoor air.

Seal gaps: Seal any gaps or cracks in your home to prevent smoke from infiltrating.

Evacuate if necessary: In extreme cases, when air quality becomes hazardous, consider evacuating to a safer location.

Conclusion

Wildfire smoke is a complex mixture of particles and chemicals that can have significant implications for both air quality and human health. While it may carry a nostalgic scent reminiscent of campfires, it also contains toxic compounds that can pose serious risks. Understanding the composition of wildfire smoke and its distinct odors is essential for taking appropriate measures to protect yourself and your community when wildfires are in the vicinity.

[remaxx111]

Remaxx: Best Room Fresheners and Air Purifiers in India

Air pollution is increasing at an alarming rate. Having purified air is not just an additional accessory but a necessity. People in urban areas or metro cities like Mumbai, Pune, and Delhi must have a good air purifier. It helps with cleansing the air you breathe in the comfort of your home. A good air purifier in India must be excellent in purifying the air with better value and a great smell.

India is a developing nation, and construction is an ongoing process here. Developing cities are always under construction, and the dust rising is hazardous. Breathing in unclean air can damage your lungs and also cause heart disease. Air purifiers must apply to varied places. Keeping plants and managing them is not practical, especially in big cities. People are busy with their lives, and having clean air is crucial for their health. Air purifiers are the way to go in India.

Skimming for the best air purifier in India? There are several points to consider. Make sure the usability of the air purifier is varied. It must be a portable air purifier to receive the utmost efficiency. The cost and quality should be the best and most effective for it to be the best air purifier in India. We have curated a couple of good air purifiers available in India.

Here are the Best Air Purifiers in India.

Remaxx: Portable Air Purifier

Remaxx is the leading brand in home appliances and daily use products. It is an excellent portable air purifier that is small in size but not less competent. The portable air purifier has multiple uses, the small size makes it a suitable mobile air purifier for cars as well. It has UV Sterilization, killing 90% of harmful bacteria. It offers plenty of control compared to other cleaners. Change the fan speed and keep it ultra-silent when sleeping. It is also helpful for the office desk, to get rid of printing particles, tobacco particles, and pollen. The portable air purifier can filter out molecules smaller than 0.3 microns.

It contains a HEPA filter that removes 99% of impurities like PM 2.5 dust particles, smoke, bad odor mold, and other harmful elements. Remaxx portable air purifier also removes pollutants like carbon monoxide, formaldehyde, and hazardous airborne diseases. The portability offers varied uses like at your home, car, and workplace. It is a great device to travel with or have placed in your vehicle. An excellent AQI is maintained at a steady rate by the portable air purifier.

Dyson: Pure Hot+Cool

Dyson also ranks as the best air purifier to have in India. It adds distinct features to capture the harmful substances in the air. Dyson contains a carbon filter which keeps unwanted particles and pollutants away. The cleaner isn’t the most portable, but it does its job perfectly. It also filters toxic gasses, which many cleaners fail to restrict. The airflow is provided to every corner of the room.

The 350-degree oscillation covers every corner without leaving a trace of impure air behind. It also contains the HEPA filter to capture 90% of the unwanted bacteria and microscopic allergies.

Philips: AC3256/20

Philips ranks amongst the best air purifiers in India. It has the best filter that restricts the majority of pollutants from entering the airflow. One noteworthy quality of this air purifier is the NanoProtect HEPA filter, which captures the tiniest toxic molecule in the environment. It can recognize even the slightest change in air quality with its easy control. It turns the

It isn’t portable like the Remaxx, but it performs well in a big environment. It also contains a Vitashield IPS system that removes any bacteria and viruses. It provides excellent purification from gasses like toluene, TVOS, and formaldehyde. The air cleaner can display the present Air Quality Index with a numerical system and 4-step color feedback.

Coway: AirMega 200

A slim and powerful air purifier is the best air purifier to have in India. Coway AirMega 200 is one of the best air purifiers to have in India. The constant development and construction create a decent amount of dust. It specializes in extracting those harmful particles from the air. The sleek design makes it somewhat portable. Pre-filter removes the PM10 particles, and the carbon filter clears out the VOCs.

The HEPA filter does its job precisely by discarding hazardous particles, allergens, and harmful bacteria. Japanese ginkgo leaves and sumac leaves are used to produce the thick filter, measured at 25mm. It also has automatic control and adjusts the fan speed and the filtration depending on air quality.

Mi: Air Purifier 3

When it comes to best-value products, what is better than Mi? They came up with a great air purifier capable enough to be added to this list. It doesn’t lack any of the features and makes a great air purifier. It comes in an impressive budget range offering features more than it's worth. It displays real-time AQI and has hands-free control with an in-built wifi connection.

The HEPA filter is not much distinct from other purifiers but has more features. The offers temperature and even humidity control to a certain level. It maintains a good Clean Air Delivery Rate covering a wide area.

[mixelation]

was talking to someone about being a normal person stuck in a reverse-harem akatsuki fic and came up with the silliest ranking yet: akatsuki but ranked by how likely they are to gift you a bouquet of severed arms as a token of their affections

1. Hidan. Hidan both rapidly generates severed arms and thinks they'd make a suitable gift. He doesn't normally keep the severed arms, sure, but he wants to impress you. He wants you to notice how cool and awesome he is and also, Hidan would totally think it was romantic if someone presented him with a bouquet of severed arms? He's definitely giving you an arm-bouquet. He's charming as fuck.

2. Zetsu. Zetsu has no idea what humans find romantic, but he thinks arms are tasty, and so he thinks Hidan's arm-bouquet plan is on to something. It's basically an edible arrangement, right? Zetsu will get you an arm-bouquet, don't you worry. Please notice him.

3. Orochimaru. At this point, your collection of arms is just funny. Orochimaru has a high enough emotional IQ to recognize this is not what you wanted, at all, ever, but now it's entertaining enough he cannot help himself. He likes you, and so he wants to see what you're going to do when he ruins your life. He gets you arms with strange extra growths and skin diseases and extra fingers, all smelling strongly of formaldehyde and wrapped in tasteful string lights. "Let me know if you want the legs too," he tells you.

4. Kakuzu. Kakuzu holds off on gifting you a bouquet of severed arms because Kakuzu is the first on this list to consider what sort of gift you'd actually like. He's actually giving himself minor anxiety over it because, well, he understands gift-giving as an act of affection, but the thought of spending money upsets his stomach. Can't you just have an enemy he can pulverize for you? ...oh, what's that? You're trying to figure out what to do with three bouquets of severed arms? Jackpot. Arms are both free AND you seem to be collecting them. Kakuzu will get you the biggest bouquet of severed arms yet.

5. Kisame. Kisame doesn't generate as many severed limbs as those above him on this list, and he probably wouldn't come up with the idea of an arm bouquet on his own. But he's also not a very inspired gift-giver, and he sees you tossing out your rotting arm-bouquets with a distraught look on your face, and it tugs at his heart strings. Finally, he has a thoughtful gift idea for you! Kisame has no problem going out and finding replacement arms for you. He's the first on this list to try and make it pretty, as he picks out only the prettiest arms and sleeves for you.

6. Sasori. Make no mistake, Sasori already has arm-bouquets sitting around, and they're the best-looking of the arm-bouquets on this list so far. The problem is that Sasori doesn't simply gift his art to people. For the first stages of his crush on you, Sasori wants to add you to the arm bouquet. It takes him a while to decide he likes you better conscious and able to have a conversation/spend time with him. Then, and only then, will he give you a bouquet of severed arms. It will be cleaner and better preserved than the other bouquets so far. It will be well-arranged and tasteful. He is going to watch you carefully place it in your room, and you will never have an excuse to toss it out.

7. Konan. Konan is bemused by your growing collection of bouquets of severed arms. She thinks your anxiety over it is cute. She was just going to give you a bouquet of paper flowers, but she shapes the flowers into delicate posed arms and hands. "Careful, they're sharp," she tells you, "in case you need to make more arm-bouquets." Your face goes all pink and wibbly. Very cute of you. You grasp the paper arms tightly. This is your only defense against these people.

8. Pein. Pein has his own collection of corpses he parades around and is unlikely to give their arms to you because he needs them. When he does finally decide that he is so dedicated to you that he can sacrifice his arms for you, it is an act of such deep, symbolic devotion that you will not be able to say no. You will simply accept the arms in quiet horror, Konan's paper arms clutched to your chest in useless self-defense.

9. Itachi. Itachi is not interested in severing arms or in gifting bouquets in general. However, if you're so into the arm thing, he will genjutsu some people into tying their arms together and presenting themselves to you like some for of mind-controlled, arm-based human centipede. Why are you screaming? Put down the paper arms; you wanted this.

10. Deidara. Deidara does think about giving you a bouquet of arms around the time Kisame sets out to make his. However, Deidara recognizes that arm-bouquets are firmly in Sasori's realm of displays of affection, and he refuses to stoop to Sasori's level. If Deidara ends up with a non-vaporized severed arm after one of his artistic displays, he did it wrong. Deidara follows you, whining about your arm collection and trying to gift you other, better pieces of art. It's an almost welcome change to the constant presence of arm-bouquets, except he also nearly blows your fingers off more than once. Deidara does eventually give you an arm-bouquet, completely on accident, when he has a very bad day and blows both his arms off. Please help him. Don't get those mixed up with your other arms, yeah.

[seacottons]

— uni with atz pt. two

notes: swearing, fluff, mildly suggestive dialogue. tags: @latte-fairytaekwoon

seonghwa — [ early edu. + developmental psych. ]

extremely organized in all aspects of his life

your bookshelf at home consists of books on developmental studies in children.

if he isn't in class or volunteering, he's either cuddling with you or reading.

stressed 24/7.

takes very pretty and neat notes.

randomly spits out facts throughout the day.

sometimes, you join him during his volunteer hours at various daycares and schools.

is all the children's favorite teacher.

extremely patient and soft-spoken when it comes to working with even the most difficult child.

also loves being called 'teacher hwa'.

"i don't know, if i were you, i would make the students call me king san."

"they'll probably end up bullying you," seonghwa replies back.

you don't know how he has the patience for the amount of children he has to take care of.

takes you picture-book shopping with him for his students.

finds himself singing nursery rhymes while cooking or cleaning.

has polaroids of you two stuck on the fridge.

brings lint rollers to work.

gets worked up in public if a parent seems too neglectful in any way.

"y/n!" he tugs at your elbow and points with his jaw to the right, "look! his kid is just spilled all that paint on the floor, and he didn't even bat an eyelash!?"

"don't intervene again, please."

"okay, but-"

the whining of metal and steel cut him off, and the two of you jump in fright at the sound of a shelf falling apart.

"some people really shouldn't have kids."

whines when he comes back home that the paint stain and glitter just won't come off his clothes no matter how many times he rubs the spots with warm water.

or how he has mulch stuck in his socks and shoes from taking the kids outdoors to play.

you somehow always end up finding a googly eye or specks of glitter under the couch.

sometimes brings home finger-paintings with numerous colorful hearts and two stick figures in the middle.

"today's assignment was to paint what makes you happy."

you also help him stitch up little felt and cotton dolls for the kids to keep.

often gets sick from working with children.

and passes it onto you by accident.

you know he's had a bad day when you ask him how it went, and his face scrunches up in pain.

stormed into your shared apartment one day and made a beeline to the bathroom.

forty minutes later, he comes out, towel wrapped around his hips, face and chest flushed, and explains that a child accidentally peed on him.

gets flustered when you laugh at his demise.

sometimes uses his teacher voice when scolding you or your mutual friends.

and you all end up teasing him more anyway.

"do you use that tone in bed too, hwa?" yeosang asks one day. mingi and yunho splutter out in disbelief, followed by loud laughter.

you choked on your bite of cake at the sudden remark.

"what did i ever do to deserve this slander," seonghwa grumbles whilst patting your back.

he often stays up late making lesson plans for both his classes and ones to implement at work as well.

takes full advantage of his teacher's discount at shops and restaurants.

sometimes brags about it to his friends to get under their skin.

"you have it easy. just watching kids and getting free food," san says one day in the middle of their game of jenga.

"it's not easy at all," you hear seonghwa reprimand the younger, and laughter rings out from the other four guests.

"you're learning about children! what's so hard-"

you had a hunch that seonghwa purposely tilted the wooden tower to tumble over an unsuspecting san.

"y/n! your boyfriend is trying to murder me!"

seonghwa paces in circles around your apartment whilst studying for an upcoming exam.

asks you to quiz him on certain materials.

"correct! okay, can you define the preoperational stag-"

"how many kids do you want to have in the future?"

"..what?"

"kids. how many do you want to have with me?" he presses further, eyes trained on your face rather intently.

"can't this conversation wait until you finish studying?"

"no. i'm too curious," he licks at his chapped lips and leans in to poke your forehead, "i need to know. this is important information. please."

yeosang — [ biology pre-med ]

met you through your mutual friend, wooyoung, who invited him to live in your shared dorm.

"you didn't tell me you have a dog?" yeosang turns to wooyoung, brow quirked up whilst pointing to the 'beware of dog' sign on one of the bedroom doors.

"oh, i don't. i just put that up to mess with y/n," wooyoung dismissively explained while making a sandwich.

is the reason why you and wooyoung haven't killed each other yet.

asked you out after five months of moving with you and wooyoung.

designated one of the kitchen's shelves as a medical supply closet.

"because wooyoung always ends up hurting himself without doing anything."

"i do not."

stress is his middle name.

constantly contemplates his life decisions.

"wooyoung! shut up! i can't finish my essay with you blabbering every damn second!"

you had to get used to the sight of a full sized anatomical skeleton in his room.

"okay, but i'm not letting you fuck me with that thing in here."

later that night, wooyoung's heart nearly burst in his chest from fright.

"yeosang! why the fuck is your skeleton in my room!?"

some nights, during dinner, yeosang slams his obnoxiously large textbooks onto the table, and insists for the two of you to quiet down while he skims over the pages a few times.

"can't you just enjoy your meal for five-"

"no. now hush."

not only does he have labs, presentations, and essays to worry about, but he also got accepted for a pre-med internship at a local hospital.

hardly goes out anymore during his free time.

most dates include cuddling on the couch or baking something in the kitchen.

stays up late at night to complete assignments.

towers of thick books decorate his nightstand.

"no, yeosang. i really don't want to see you dissecting a cat," you grimace, turning quickly and shielding your eyes from his phone.

"why not?" yeosang whines softly, hand tugging the hem of your shirt with a frown, "it's not that bad, i promise-"

he's cut off when wooyoung snatches the phone from him with a loud cry, "gross! y/n, you're letting him touch you after he touched that?! and fuck- what is that smell?"

"that's formaldehyde. now give me back my phone before i dissect you next."

you join him at the lab when he has extra work piled up.

"you look so cute with a white coat and goggles."

you prod and poke him repeatedly, asking him numerous questions about the specimens in the lab.

"y/n! don't touch that!"

one day, wooyoung comes home sick.

you insist on taking him to see a doctor, only for him to emit a haughty laugh at you.

"why would i waste my time and money when i have yeosang here?"

"but woo, he didn't even get into med-school yet-"

wooyoung insists he doesn't need to see a professional, "yeosang is practically our live-in doctor! why do you think i begged him to move in?"

you roll your eyes, calling for yeosang to persuade the younger male.

"alright, tell me your symptoms," your boyfriend sighs, plopping down onto the couch beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

after wooyoung explains everything and takes his own temperature, he peers at yeosang for an answer, "well?"

"you're dying," yeosang nods simply.

wooyoung's visage pales, and he scrambles to sit up on the couch with a disturbed expression.

"what?"

yeosang is always studying.

always.

studying.

you insist for him to take a break sometimes.

"i can't. i have lab tomorrow. oh, and a paper."

"but you always say that!"

you attempt to tug him out of his seat.

"come on! just for an hour, and we'll be back. promise."

he's always reluctant at first, but finds himself agreeing later anyway.

enjoys the small dates at the nearby lake probably more than you do.

mingi — [ accounting ]

a gifted genius when it comes to numbers.

is your very own math tutor.

jokingly asks you to pay him back.

he accepts kisses and hugs. baked pastries are also a bonus.

"y/n? are you okay?" a hand waves in front of your face.

you blink at him wordlessly, mind fogged from the bombardment of information you just received, "sorry- you lost me. can you repeat the process again?"

he playfully smacks your shoulder with the ruler and stomps his bare feet onto the tiled floor, "this is the third time!"

"i'm sorry! you know how i am with math!"

he begs you to take classes with him as electives.

"sorry, baby. i love you, but there's no way i'll ever take statistics."

"okay, what about economics?"

"no."

"management? business administration!?"

"no and no."

"but y/n! it'll be fun! you'll be with me!"

always whines about how much he hates having to take 'stupid management classes' and the group projects that come along with them.

"they never take the assignments seriously!"

said group visits your apartment to work on projects with mingi.

"aren't you supposed to be working on that project?"

you watch as mingi and his friends suddenly erupt in an explosive argument about the game they were currently playing.

"yeosang! what the fuck!?"

"it's y/n's fault mingi was distracted!"

you let out an indignant squawk and glare at yeosang.

"that round didn't count."

"stop being a sore loser, san!"

"so.. i take it you didn't even start?" you grimace, peering over to the untouched books and papers on the coffee table.

"it's just management class. no big deal," san explains quickly with a dismissive wave of his hand before nudging your boyfriend with a glare, "you better not make us lose this time, or i'll kidnap y/n."

stays up late to finish other work that's due.

loves to wear big spectacles when studying.

it 'helps him focus'.

writes notes on his calculator and slides it towards you while you're both home studying.

'n-3^07-!'

"mingi, what is that?"

"read it upside down, you bum."

has a coffee mug with 'i love π' in big, bold, red letters.

refuses to throw it away even though the rim is chipped.

always bugs you about how you should have a budget plan.

insists on teaching you how to make spreadsheets on excel.

"i can't do this, mingi. too much numbers give me a headache."

"do you want my lucky glasses?"

rambles on about things related to his field, and you can only nod in confusion every time.

"how does your brain keep up with all of this?"

"easy. just be one with the numbers."

"that was a bad pun.."

"you're supposed to laugh!"

mingi was that typical student who complained about studying, but is always the one acing everything with the highest score.

"i should just quit university and become a stripper."

"you say that every exam week, and yet, you always pass with the highest grades," you mumble from the other side of the couch, absentmindedly highlighting a few sentences in your book.

"yeah, but studying is a pain in the ass," he exhaled with a loud groan, head thrown back against the back of the couch, "why me, y/n?"

you roll your eyes while reaching over to pat the side of his face in comfort.

"everything will work out just fine."

later that week, he joyfully bounces into your apartment with a large grin plastered on his face, "guess what?"

you snort in amusement.

"let me take a wild guess. you aced your exam."

"and guess who has the highest score?" he tugged you forward by your cheeks with a bright grin.

"yeosang?" the cheery expression on his features suddenly vanished, causing you to laugh, "i'm kidding."

likes to study while attached to your side, wearing comfortable pajamas and warm socks.

sulks whenever his stock investments drop further than he expects.

and is always in a good mood whenever the prices spike back up.

always has a horrible math pun up his sleeve.

sends you accounting memes and becomes a gloomy mess when you don't laugh or understand the joke.

"what if i propose to you with a math problem? and we have pie instead of cake?"

"please don't bring math into our love life."

yunho — [ broadcasting journalism ]

roommates with you, hongjoong, and jongho.

is called 'newspaper boy' by hongjoong.

is well-known around campus for being one of the student journalists for the university's newspaper.

you have the very first published paper, with his full name printed on the front, framed in the hallway of your dorm.

has the prettiest hands.

and longest fingers you've ever seen.

can put them to good use.

especially when typing out essays. they're practically blurred from how swift he is.

likes to ramble about current international events to jongho early in the morning. the latter pretends to understand, giving the other false hope.

jongho always sends you a pleading look to save you from your lover.

always carries a notebook.

article deadlines = stressed yunho.

complains that his friends are 'uncultured'.

helps you with your essays.

if he has enough time, he'll actually re-write it for you.

"was it really that bad?"

"it's okay, baby. you're good at other things."

"how come you don't re-write my papers?" jongho huffs from across the living room.

"you're not y/n."

interviews you and your other roommates for his projects.

you smile from behind him as he zooms in obnoxiously close to hongjoong's disgruntled expression.

"he zoomed in on my nose again, didn't he?" the blue haired male asks you.

"sorry, but that tomato sauce stain is really distracting me."

hongjoong nearly drops his fork.

"what stain!?" he furiously rubs his face with the back of his hand, "see! i told you that you always interview us at the most inconvenient time!"

is constantly writing.

can be very unorganized.

"who took my ap stylebook!?"

"can you stop shouting? it's 6 a.m., yunho!" hongjoong growls from his bedroom.

mingi and seonghwa often visit your dorm because they're usually partnered with yunho for an assignment.

it somehow always winds up with mingi and yunho fooling around, whilst seonghwa struggles to persuade them to help him with the work.

sometimes, you tag along to help film his public social experiment projects.

is a social-bug, so people are instantly drawn to him.

likes to cuddle with you while watching the films for his assignments.

you think most of them are pretty boring, but being in his lap and tucked against his chest makes up for it.

you like to add glittery stickers onto his video camera and tripod.

is very much infatuated with you, so he doesn't mind one bit.

applied for a paid broadcasting radio station/tv internship over the summer and was quickly accepted.

asks you to help him style his hair for his first day at work.

"but it's just a radio station. no one's going to see you?" jongho questions with a perplexed expression.

"i still need to look presentable!"

and later that day you quickly hush the two males beside you once the clock strikes 2 p.m.

"quiet! yunho should be on any second now!"

"i was just breathing?" hongjoong whispers weakly.

over dinner, jongho often mimics yunho's reporting voice.

"y/n, do i really sound like that?" yunho pouts as you and hongjoong burst into fits of laughter.

"aw, don't be sad. i love your reporter voice, baby."

will wake everyone up early the next morning by yelling at the top of his lungs with his reporter voice just to get back at you three for laughing at him.

[dourpeep]

Some indulgent college student Albedo hc’s because I too, am an exhausted college student. There may be a part 2 later on because this is kinda long, we'll see...

I even cut out a ton because I got carried away with the experiments oifhiehf but also feel free to guess what's based off what I do as a science major

Contains: description of experiments in biology that deal with deceased animals (brief), mention of dry heaving (brief), bugs (caterpillar)

While I do like art student Albedo, I can't help but apply my past knowledge with double majoring in biology + chemistry...

Ironically, though he really would be the Exhausted College Student aesthetic

For lecture days, he comes to class with bed hair (not the pretty kind, either) and glasses perched on his nose, wearing pajama pants

Except the days where he's dressed in nice jeans and a sweater (naturally, non-synthetic fibers due to the amount of time he spends in the labs), his lab coat very neatly kept in his backpack

It's extremely likely that he's that one student that's taking 18 hours worth of classes per semester which does and doesn't work out

Exceptionally smart, he's able to handle all the class load effortlessly and does really well in all the classes he takes...

But, on the flip side, he rarely gets a full night's rest and he lives in the research section of the library and the chem lab

Well versed in lab safety because he's dropped his fair share of test tubes, burettes and (very unfortunately) reaction flasks...luckily he had an ample amount of financial aid left over to pay for the equipment without making too much of a dent

Speaking of chemistry, his absolute favorite of experiments are titration labs and conducting qualitative analysis of an unknown solution

Titrations don't require too much effort save for ensuring you're only dropping a single drop of reactant to your solution and keeping track of how many milliliters you've dropped

It's relaxing, easy, and very pleasing to watch the color of your solution change

Also swirling liquid goes brrrrrrr

Similarly, those qualitative analysis labs are just as exciting

This is usually what most college students dread over due to how time consuming it is, but there's something entirely relaxing in going through the process of determining each possible reagent

Especially once you get towards the more difficult bits

Despite this being his favorite, there's definitely a special kind of frustration that occurs when, 3/4ths through you realize you messed up early on and have to restart with a fresh batch of that unknown solution

Yeah...

Anyway, he's the student that will get through the process quickly (almost inhumanly so) and finish the whole lab in about 40 minutes including downtime waiting for the solution to heat up properly

But, as always, he's also the last to leave because he'll go around and help any of his peers if they're stuck or just need a trustworthy assistant

With biology, he appreciates the change in pace of observational study versus the hands-on application of chemistry

You know how you need to doodle out an approximate of what you're studying either as an example or diagram?

That's where his artistic side come out

He has somewhat messy handwriting, but the accompanying drawings of specimen are incredible

Detailed, concise, and labeled immaculately

You can tell that he likes identifying types of plants because his notebook is filled with outside observations of the plant life around campus

Albedo also does well with dissections

Quick to pick up on correct placements and identifying the sex characteristics if necessary, any student who's grouped with him will leave that day's lab with excellent notes and a full understanding of the specimen studied

But the smell of the preserving formaldehyde...is definitely one he had to get used to

Let's just say that for one of the larger lifeform dissections he had to periodically leave the class dry heaving and tears streaming down his cheeks

Anyway, a few big gulps of fresh, outside air later, he's back in the lab and sketching out the specimen diagram for the assignment

Another thing that he's definitely glad for is the local butterfly population

Though their lives are short, it gives him a chance to inspect the plant life all over campus for any sign of caterpillars or the very small eggs on the tops and bottoms of leaves

With the permission of the dean, he carefully gathers a few specimen and takes them home to observe the butterfly life cycle

It's interesting to him, to see how the little creatures consume so much and spend about two weeks encased in a pretty little chrysalis to emerge as a physically different organism

It's also funny to see Albedo out and about looking for the little beings because sometimes he'll be laying flat on the concrete walkway searching under leaves or halfway in a bush trying to reach a chrysalis hanging on the wall behind it

MOVING ON

Commonly, he'll have enough time between class for a nap

Albedo isn't particularly picky about his sleeping places, so he'll lay on one of the benches beneath a large tree, head on his backpack and arm draped over his eyes while he catches up on much needed sleep

He also will sleep in one of the library's many many (very comfortable) armchairs while trying to skim through a reference book of his choice

Despite his odd mannerisms, he's viewed as exceptionally attractive

He's intelligent, observant, kind, and handsome

Even with his bed head and rumpled pajamas, he has his fair share of fans

But he's also a bit dense

He's so used to helping people with class assignments and tutoring that if anyone asks him to hang out, he'll assume it's for that

Especially because it's commonplace to study at the local cafe

--that's it for headcanons for now iaehfieh

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 21/22 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane, Melanie King, Georgie Barker, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain, Allan Schrieber Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting, Spiders

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter 21 is also up! Sorry for the spam. Read at AO3 above or read here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

In a small cabin somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, they are together. It doesn’t seem right, but Martin quickly forgets that, mostly because he chooses to; he chooses to because he is with Jon, and that’s what matters.

It’s cold here. There’s no heat, and Jon doesn’t know anything about starting a fire, but Martin does. That first night he shows Jon how to crumple newspaper and place it on the grate; he shows him how to layer kindling over and around the first log so the fire can breathe. He tells him not to burn anything too big at first, not until the kindling has really caught. He looks up to see if Jon understands, if he’s explaining it well enough—and Jon smiles at him. He wasn’t expecting that, and it flusters him and fills him with warmth at the same time. He can’t help but smile back.

Martin knows they don’t have much time here; he doesn’t know how he knows this, but he knows they will make the most of it. They learn quickly—to live side by side, to keep warm, to share a bed—they learn each other. They aren’t perfect at it, not yet, but they want to be, and that’s enough for them. They divide the work; Jon cleans and Martin walks to the store in the village when they need things. It gives him space, time to breathe, and he knows Jon will be there when he returns. Jon will be there because he wants to be there, and Martin knows this.

They eat together.

It’s just the canteen at the Institute, but on days like this, when it’s the two of them, it seems like more than that. The first time he thought it was a coincidence, that Jon just happened to ask him to grab lunch when he was having a rough day, but then it happened again, and one more time, and Martin is starting to wonder if Jon isn’t more observant than he’d thought. It isn’t that lunch with everyone isn’t great, or that he isn’t thankful for what they’ve all been doing for him since his mother passed. He does appreciate it, he really does. It’s just that sometimes it’s a lot, and with Jon, he can just be quiet and feel the way he feels.

He reaches for a napkin without looking, and his finger brushes against Jon’s as he does the same. Immediately he pulls his hand back; heat rises into his face. That’s it, he thinks. Jon’s going to notice that little bit of awkwardness for sure. He’ll figure me out and that’s going to be the end of these lunches—I guess I’m glad for the ones we had, though. He’s surprised when Jon simply hands him a napkin. He looks up to find Jon reading something on his phone, which he almost never checks at lunch, and he’s relieved. He feels like he’s gotten away with something, but mostly he’s glad these lunches don’t have to end just yet. Eventually they get up to leave; he heads for the door, but realizes Jon has stopped to throw something in the garbage bin.

He waits for him.

He doesn’t like it here; more specifically, he doesn’t like the smell here. He’s never liked the way hospitals smell. The first thing that hits you is the ammonia, the formaldehyde, the bleach, barely masked with a nauseating layer of chemical citrus. But that’s till not the worst, because beneath it you can always smell the sickness, the infirmity, the human indignities the sanitizers are meant to erase. He’s almost used to it now though, he’s here so much while he waits for Jon.

He sits in a chair next to Jon’s bed, and tries to find ways to pass the time. Sometimes he reads, sometimes he just talks to him; there have been a few times, when he hasn’t slept well, when he’s leaned forward to rest his head on the bed. Once he even read Jon a couple of poems he’d written—not any of the ones about him, of course—but he hasn’t done it again on the off chance that Jon might actually wake up. Today, though, is one of the hard days. He misses Jon. They need him; Martin needs him. He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this. He reaches for Jon’s hand. It comforts him, if only a little, because it makes him feel like Jon is still there.

He needs Jon to still be there.

A loud beep comes from one of the machines; Martin turns to call the nurse, but as he does he remembers that all the machines were turned off some time ago. Jon isn’t breathing; his heart isn’t beating. There’s nothing to monitor. He scans the room; he can’t find where it’s coming from.

The beep continued; Jon, the chair, the hospital room, began to fade away. Martin tried to hold on—he wasn’t ready to let go—but he couldn’t. The feel of Jon’s hand in his fell away, and he opened his eyes.

He had been dreaming, maybe, he didn’t know—but the beep continued, and the smell of the hospital refused to dissipate.

[medical-magpie]

What to expect from anatomy labs in med school

So this is it, you’re in med school finally and it’s the most wonderful time of the year... labs !

The lab days are a way to teach you the basics of various and essential skills that will be needed for your day to day practice. Where I’m from they consist, in 2nd year at least, of semiology, hygiene, anatomy and clinical skills like stitching, monitoring, etc...

All of those topics have in common to be interesting and to bring you closer to becoming a physician, but one may raise some concerns: spoiler alert it’s the anatomy one, lets see what you can expect from it!

Disclaimer: what I’m talking about refers the way things are done at my uni which is in France, it might be different elsewhere, in that case don’t hesitate to add onto it, the more the merrier, right?

1. Introduction

Here it’s of tradition to start the anatomy labs at the beginning of the second semester because it’s winter and it used to be helpful in delaying decay, also the cold air reduce the smells.

You meet up with a lecturer, most likely a surgeon, who runs you through the rules and other recommendations for the labs. Those includes:

Tying up your hair

Keeping your nails short and not having nail polish on

No jewellery, rings or bracelets

Flat shoes

Avoid wool at all costs

Eat properly before coming

They also talk about the general conditions, meaning those labs are mandatory and you have to sign something that attests that you came, if not they might deny you access to your next semester.

Then the first lab will most likely be, preparation and hand washing, you’ll do that each time after that. It’s the routine before surgery.

You’ll also get some additional info such as, formaldehyde stimulates your appetite and some people experience craving for meat (don’t worry it’s not you becoming a zombie or the next Hannibal), and if your uni is like mine, you will not have to see anything during the actual anatomy labs just come and sign.

2. Set up and organisation

So how does the magic happen?

Depending on where your from again you might do the dissecting yourself with the supervision of a lab monitor or a surgeon, universities here aren’t well funded so we don’t do that.

First thing is to get properly dressed, it’s also a great time to put vicks under your mask if you’re sensitive to smell (but please don’t overuse perfume it can be bothersome to people around you)

Then you get to the tables, on those are the people who gave their bodies to science, even if they’re dead usual rules of respect apply. They aren’t meat, they aren’t decorum, they are people who gave you a gift to help you understand the human body better.

That being said you won’t see much of them once everything is set up, just the area you’re supposed to study. Sometimes your supervisor will pull some tendons to show you which muscles do what or use a respirator to fill up the lungs. You might also be offered to touch the different parts, if it’s okay with you then by all means do it, it’s a great way to understand the structures.

3. Are you a bit nervous? That’s alright

Now you know what you’re in for, but do you still feel jittery with nerve? Don’t worry you’re not alone. Don’t hesitate to tell the people who handle everything if you feel lightheaded or anything like that. There is no shame in being out of your element there.

And try not to put any pressure on yourself like “I have to do well because I want to be a surgeon”. You’ll have time to get more relaxed around the body and for a lot of people this lab is the first time they encounter death. It’s perfectly normal to feel like this.

But really tell someone if you feel like you’re going to faint because falling onto the table might earn you stitches or at the very least some bruises.

4. Additional tips

Don’t be afraid to ask questions

If offered to touch a part and if you feel comfortable enough do it

Don’t hesitate to voice discomfort or physical symptoms

If a lab attendant offers to take you out for a bit it might be wise to listen to them

Eat before coming in

Be as comfy as possible but avoid too long sleeves I find that button downs are the best top you can have

Enjoy this learning opportunity

[thecrimsonmonster]

Little Character Things

Just a fun little character game. fill in the below categories with 3-5 things that your character can be identified by. repost & tag away!

tagged by stolen from: my old blog, edited to be more current

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS:

Indifference. Usually his default emotion in terms of people.

Curiosity. Despite his nihilistic perspective, Kimbley is always in the mood to learn.

Amusement. Life is a joke, might as well have a good laugh.

Desire. Not specifically sexual, but he’s always looking for something to want. And this does not mean for material goods, status, power, etc.—he wants something that moves him.

GREETINGS;

As a man of many faces and personas, the way that Kimbley treats his approach to people varies depending on his relationship with them.

First and foremost, Kimbley believes that making a good first impression is paramount when making new acquaintances. This is because he’s always looking for people to use or manipulate, whether for a specific purpose or just for fun. Therefore, upon meeting a new person, he makes sure to put on a pleasant façade and turn up his natural, practiced charm—come off as a handsome, friendly, helpful man to any strangers that might be wandering around Dublith. He’s all warm handshakes and sweet smiles. (And he’s very good at continuing this charade, if need be.)

Of course, there are some people who are aware of this faux mask. Depending on whether or not they are civil toward one another, his greetings change.

With those that despise him, he ensures indifference in his tone—unfriendliness, coldness, and a condescension that clearly states “I know I’m better than you, and I don’t care what you think of me.” At times his “hellos” are laced with blatant, smug insincerity, and he won’t hesitate to throw in some passive aggressive yet subtle insults or gross/morbid humor, to further enhance his apathy towards that person’s feelings.

However, with individuals with whom he’s grown fond, his demeanor is a little less flippant. He doesn’t hesitate to crack his patented twisted, sarcastic smirk and let loose a rather witty welcoming retort. He’s not exactly warm about it, but it’s all in good humor.

This, of course, doesn’t change that he’s an absolute monster.

COLORS;

SCENTS;

His scent is always dependent on the time of day or the activities he’s recently been into—many aromas to go with his many faces.

There is his natural scent—musky, woody, a forest after a rain. He dares not wear any cologne or perfume, as it would be too distracting. His olfactory senses are like an assistant in orienting himself, locating and memorizing things and people with relative ease.

He might smell like parchment and ink—a library filled with old books and dust, during his academic phases.

At times he smells very clean—too clean, like a doctor’s emergency room that’s been scrubbed clean. Very surgical, soapy, laced with just a hint of formaldehyde.

It is true, however, that there is always this underlying smell to him. It’s a combination of distinct elements—copper and iron, along with something like charcoal, ashy and burnt. Subtle but nonetheless obviously bitter if you linger close enough. As though it’s seeped into his skin after all of these years.

CLOTHING;

Like his public behavior, Kimbley finds it important that appearance reflect his cold, precise sophistication. He’s often found wearing suits in respectable, neutral colors—various shades of black and grey (though never white, obviously)—or bold, bloody reds. Whatever the case, he makes sure the colors of his overall outfit with matching undershirt and tie are balanced and pleasing to the eye. His shoes are always well-shined and fancy. On trips away from Dublith, his hands are always encased in thin, black leather gloves—practical and fashionable.

Uneventful, casual days call for less strict outfits—a black sleeveless shirt, relaxed slacks. He’s quite fond of suspenders, actually.

Then, of course, there are his many “disguises.” As someone who loves to deceive for the pure pleasure of it, he’s collected quite the collection of wigs, makeup, official uniforms, and silken dresses. Running around like this, however, is not something he regularly engages in—but it never hurts to have distractions on hand when he feels things are growing a little too mundane.

Despite his attire, he has two accessories that he is nearly always found wearing: one of the Red Stones that he keeps on his person, sometimes as a necklace tucked beneath his shirt, and his golden hair ribbon.

OBJECTS;

Most of the objects he deems “important” are ones he keeps in the secret safe in his room. There aren’t very many, but he takes excellent care of them:

The Red Stones that he has been working to develop in his default post-FMA verse. There are several of these stashed away, though he only keeps one on him at a time.

Books—specifically, in this case, two: A green one labeled “BOTANY” in gold letters, the other a personal journal, for taking various notes. The “botany” book appears to be just that, but is in fact a copy of his original alchemy notes he lost after his imprisonment, though much neater and more precise. It’s handwritten and is accompanied by various lovely and detailed illustrations. The journal is brown leather-bound, the pages within a tan off-white. The information therein alternates between the same neat print and loopy, dreadful cursive, depending on how quickly he needed to jot down whatever was on his mind. Notes might include random musings, specific events, or ideas for various narratives.

A photograph. It is of his father and himself when he was just a young boy. He curses his sentimentality for holding onto this.

VICES / BAD HABITS;

Torture and murder. It’s not so much a compulsion as a great source of joy for him, hence why he engages in being a horrible monster on a regular basis. Ask him, and he’ll give a grandiose philosophical reason behind why it gives him such awful pleasure.

Maintaining a horrible sleep schedule. He’s always getting himself into something—whether it’s reading, writing, or having a night of raucous debauchery—so he’s one of those “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” sort of people.

Stealing. Because why not?

Needless cruelty. Just like murder, he doesn’t have any tic compelling him to do it—he simply greatly enjoys it. This will include anything from being a condescending jerk to purposefully lying to hurt someone. Again, because why not?

BODY LANGUAGE;

Every one of Kimbley’s movements is measured and exact in order to reflect exactly what he wants people to perceive of him.

When around people who believe him the charming gentleman, he makes sure his posture is relaxed and disarming—hands casually in his pockets or clasped in front of him, a stance that displays confidence but is not outwardly aggressive.

In the presence of those he intends to intimidate, his poses are much more threatening. He tends to loom quite a bit, hovering in order to make people uncomfortable around him. Making sure the people who would oppose him know that he is maliciousness is, to him, imperative.

Around his familiars, his habits are a mixture of the previous two—displaying his charm and confidence, but also making sure that that air of danger  is unmistakable.

In terms of speaking habits, his hands are often in constant motion; he has a habit of fidgeting, though it’s hardly out of nervousness or impatience. He simply likes putting his hands to work, and often when he is behind the counter at the Devil’s Nest, he spends his time cleaning glasses, the table, even his nails.  These gestures are not grand, of course, unless he is aware he should emphasize a point, in which case, he moves from subtle to exaggerated.

AESTHETICS;

Surgical equipment—pristine, shining in the light, and neatly organized on a silver tray.

The sound of a building collapsing after an explosion.

A starless night, illuminated by a brilliant blood moon.

Libraries filled with poetry, biographies, and anatomy books.

The smell of lilies growing from a rotting corpse.

SONGS;

Escape from Midwich Valley - Carpenter Brut

Taxidermy - Sharon Needles

Operate - Peaches

Humans Are Such Easy Prey - Perturbator

halo - Collide

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

hello my dear hope you're doing well :) what about 7-11 for the oc asks?

I'm doing well, thank you love!

I've put my other answers under a cut, as I ended up going on a bit

7. Have you learned or realized something about yourself from writing this character?

I'd say the one big thing I've taken from writing these fics is quite broad, which is I absolutely love writing historical fiction. Camille and Valerie are both so much fun and figuring out ways to flesh out their backstories and experiences in accordance with the time period has been such a blast.

8. Can canon characters become OCs?

In my own experiences, I would say sometimes! Especially in a show like Band of Brothers, so many of the characters I'm anxious to include have very little screentime and established personality to work with that it's almost impossible to write them without putting in my own take on the characters

9.  Which canon characters does your OC get along with? Like, they’d take a cup of coffee if he offered? If that character were describing yours, how would they be described?

Camille - Her best friend is and always will be George Luz! They're a rather unlikely pairing, but he helps her laugh and she keeps him grounded and out of trouble. She also has a very teasing friendship with Buck, whom she knows has always got her back

Valerie - Lipton, Grant and Pat are really the only three Easy Company boys aside from Ron that Val has a genuine friendship with. I would say Lipton is her closest friend of the three, because not only was he a gentle and kind presence when she was settling in, but he sort of acts like a bridge between her and Speirs too.

10.  Characters are often a product of their environments. Talk about a place that was very formative for your character - or, if you’re feeling brave, write a short paragraph describing that place or having your character talk about it to another character.

Camille

Her mother's apartment had been the backdrop for her youth - dimly lit rooms carpeted in a deep red, littered with various stains that had barely faded over time, tall windows draped with silk curtains, and dark wood furniture scattered atop with trinkets, battered books, and unwashed teacups from the day before. On the good days, the apartment smelled of floral perfume and mid-range champagne. On the bad, of formaldehyde and the taxidermied animals in Verity's study that had baked in the sun when she neglected to close the curtains on a particularly sunny afternoon. When Camille had run about the place with her brothers as a child, the narrow hallway gad echoed with tiny footfalls upon aged boards, and not a step could be taken in the whole place without eliciting a mighty creak.

Valerie

The lecture hall in which Valerie had first met Leo - the man whose death would eventually send her life spiralling beyond all recognition - had been all at once intimidating to behold and yet her favourite room she'd ever stepped foot into. The room was wide and long, the lower walls covered with polished wood panels, above which were tall windows in thick frames that cast a warm glow of sunlight upon her scribbled notes. The ceiling rose high above her, its white stone engraved precisely with flowers around the edges. Above the desk at the front of the room, stationed squarely between two doors, was a well-used green chalkboard, the corners of which always held remnants of classes gone by, half words and fragments of numbers narrowly missed by lazy erasers. Valerie always remembered the room as making her feel intelligent, accomplished - when she was within its confines, she was no longer a naive little heiress, but a woman of her own divine calibre.

11.  Your OC is feeling a big emotion. Describe what they do physically and let us see if we can guess what that emotion is.

Camille - Her vision blurs, her hands begin to tremble, and her heartbeat hammers out of her chest. Camille is momentarily frozen in time, unable to move a muscle save from the tremors that seem to shake her body uncontrollably.

Valerie - Whatever she was in the middle of doing, she stops. Whether she drops whatever was in her hand at that moment is out of her control. Her eyes appear as if they are looking right through what's in front of her, and her brow begins to rise as a smile creases her cheeks and a laugh escapes her throat.

[divineluce]

The Champs || Frank & Luce

Timing: Flashback to August

Location: Soul on the Rocks & Al’s

Tagging: @frankmulloy & @divineluce

Description: New to the job, Frank gets to know one of the regulars. Luce is as charming as ever.

Warnings: Alcoholism

There was nothing particularly distinguishing about being one of many of White Crest’s bartenders, but Frank has learned that being one who knew how to handle Soul’s more rambunctious crowds afforded him a degree of influence, and that was even without the use of his pheromones. He also learned that Soul’s patrons would sooner bend under a firm fist than a kind word--of course a kind word from him was a force within its own right, so it was just as well that he was just as competent in wielding the former. Unfortunately for Frank, he liked the use of neither, and the result was a bartender who mostly communicated through monosyllabic grunts, and lost more fights than won them. But he kept coming back for his shift the following night with no complaints and no apparent scrapes or bruises and while his pacifist method served him ill in a brawl, he always got the troublemakers out, so they kept him on. As long as they kept paying him, Frank was happy to stay on. 

It was Frank’s second week into the job, but as far as anyone was concerned he was a regular fixture in the beer-soaked tapestry of Soul on the Rocks. In return Frank was also starting to recognise common faces; who was there for a drink, who was there for a fight, and who wasn’t meant to be there at all, then there was Creepy-Joe, and finally coming to the conclusion that Jake was a massive tool. His first memory of one, Luce, was not what she looked like, but of heat. Literally. And Frank, perpetually cold, was like a moth to  flame, conscious of his distance and yet unable to help himself all the same-- heat, and the stink of cheap tequila. He put another shot glass down in front of her, which was an anomaly in itself considering Frank never got near enough to anyone to actually put their order down in front of them, but rather slid it to them across the bar top from a safe distance of at least 6 feet. “Your fifth shot...or is it your seventh? Who’s keeping count.” He wiped his hands down on the towel that was draped over his shoulder. “You sure that’s wise?”

Like so many other nights before her, Luce had been looking to get fucked up the night she’d walked into Soul. After all the shit she’d been through, with the Ring, with Remmy and Erin and Adam and her sister… The horrible, terrifying fucking conversation she’d had with Nadia, or rather, whoever was controlling Nadia’s body. And, as the final garbage cherry on top of it all, they’d been excommunicated. The threat of death at the hands of some of the women she trusted most, at the hands of her mother? It had shaken her up. Their mother had done… so fucking little to keep them safe. She’d abandoned them, banished them, went along with the whims of the goddamn council. And, on top of it all, there was all the normal shit. She was hauling ass all day, every day, trying to stay afloat. Bills had been coming in non stop and it was all she could do to keep her head afloat. After getting out of a particularly long session of tattooing, Luce had headed straight for Soul on the Rocks. She needed alcohol. Lots and lots of fucking alcohol.

Waving a hand at the bartender-- a new guy, she’d seen him around a few times, but never paid much attention to him-- Luce took the shot with a nod. But, his question made her pause and Luce stared at him over the rim of the small glass. Glancing at him blearily, she stared at the shot glass full of tequila. Fifth or seventh was a good question. But fuck him for asking. “Not me.” She said, tipping the liquid down her throat. It hardly burned, but alcohol never really did. Perks of being a fire witch. Swallowing, she set the empty glass back on the bar and stared at him. “Do they pay you to ask if people’s drinking habits are wise?” She replied. 

He met her drunken gaze with his own measured one, undaunted and undeterred. Yet there was a softness that blunted the edge; the good intention behind a stern word, though Frank was never great at dishing out the latter either. He answered her blunt edge in the way he did with most harsh words: an untiring patience and sometimes even a smile. This time, it was a slight upward tilt to the corner of his mouth, as he relieved her of the empty shot glass. “No. They pay me to kick people out when they’ve had one too many, but I like to give them the courtesy of asking before I start lugging bodies out.” Well that sounded horrifically ominous. “Alive bodies. Obviously. Just unconscious--most of them are passed out by the time I get them into a cab.” Frank said with some good-humour, a trace of a chuckle on each word in the hopes of easing the slip of the tongue that was more menacing than he meant. “It’s a lot easier for everyone concerned if I just walk them out instead of carrying them, and it helps the driver find the right building when they’re awake enough to give the right address.”

Frank had his head tilted to one side, quietly observing the woman that sat in front of him. He recognised her to be a regular, he also noted that she seemed off today. Albeit an easy conclusion to make for anyone that used Soul as their regular haunt. Tonight she looked like she brought a history with her and it was etched across her brow, and in her eyes, in a silent language he was not versed in reading. The temptation was to ask if she was alright, but at the risk of making himself over-familiar, he said instead, “should I be getting a cab ready?”

Rubbing the back of her neck, Luce let out a long sigh. Her fucking neck hurt from spending so long hunched over at the table. The piece had turned out great, just like all her work, but christ. It’d been five long hours of nothing but tattooing. So, a drink or five was what she’d wanted. Not some random bartender getting up in her business. “Lugging bodies, huh? Did I step into the funeral home on accident? This tequila or formaldehyde you’re pouring?” She joked, her words running together just a bit as she spoke. Shrugging, she sighed. Either way, it didn’t really matter much to her. She just wanted to get the fuck out of her head, at least for a little bit. And, with Nadia definitely not an option and Remmy… even less of one, Luce had gone for the old stand by. Alcohol. “Fair. Probably works out for the uber driver too.”

At his words, Luce shook her head. “I’m good.” She said, stubbornness apparent in her voice. She wasn’t dumb enough to drive-- she wasn’t interested in wrapping her 4x4 around a tree and having to deal with more fucking bills. But, she wasn’t ready to go back to Bea’s house just yet. Bea was never there anymore and Nell… who the fuck knew where Nell was most nights. Which meant that Luce would be alone. No, she wasn’t interested in going back to that place, the house that felt more like mausoleum than a home. 

“A funeral home is probably a lot cleaner for one,” Frank said, wiping a spill off the bar top as he does. In fairness, you need only step inside of the pub and he was sure that his point was made on first impression, and she seemed comfortable enough in her seat to suggest that she was a frequent patron of the establishment (that information alone had a whole story to itself). He was asked once why he bothered to clean the place up after the close if it was just going to end up being exactly as it was the following night. His answer was something along the lines of: he was more concerned with what the place might look like if he didn’t clean it up at all. “And if you can’t smell the difference between tequila and formaldehyde, let alone taste it, you are a lot more drunk than I thought.” There was a pause. “I mean...not that I would know what formaldehyde tastes like but I would imagine that it is significantly worse than tequila. Like, cancer-level bad. I would assume.” And this is where you shut up Frank. And fortunately for everyone, he does. Her reply hinted at a stubbornness that was both inherent and unyielding, and Frank’s been in enough fight to recognise those that he wasn’t going to win. Of course, that never stopped him from trying either.

 “Look,” he began, the single phrase intermingling with his exhalation until they became one, “I don’t know you. Obviously. So you do whatever you want. But I’m just saying, I’ve served people enough tequila shots to know that the solution to your problem—whatever that is—isn’t going to be found at the bottom of the fifth or seventh or fifteenth shot.” He concluded by collecting any abandoned and empty glasses, loading them onto a plastic tub to be brought out to the kitchen. “But like I said, you do whatever you want.” 

Snorting at the man’s joke, Luce’s expression sobered slightly at the thought of Erin. She didn’t know the funeral home attendant well, but she was very aware of the last conversation they’d had. Fuck. “I’d hope so.” She gestured to the stains on the bartop, the familiar wear on the wood grain, the slightly ripped and faded stools next to her. “Can you imagine a fucking wake in here?” She said with a slight curl of her lip. As the man continued to talk, she quirked an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Sure you haven’t.” She replied before running a hand through her hair. She fucking… didn’t want to deal with the world outside the doors of Soul. For now, she could just sit and pretend like nothing was happening. She could joke and drink and push aside all the stupid fucking feelings and responsibilities that weighed down on her.

But, this shitty fucking bartender just kept talking. Talked about how drinking wasn’t gonna help her-- like Luce didn’t already know that. It wasn’t about helping her, or finding answers. It was about forgetting. Glaring at him, she drummed her tattooed fingers on the wooden bartop, her skin burning hot with simmering anger. “Yeah, you don’t know me,” She paused, the alcohol flowing through her system making her head spin slightly. Squinting at him, she shook her head. “Who the fuck even are you? Shit, I’d rather deal with Creepy Joe instead of some Pop Psychology bro.” She said with a grimace.

Frank took in her anger with a calm appraisal as he continued to dry the newly cleaned glasses with practiced efficiency. While most would reasonably shrink from the fire, he was almost somehow more drawn to it. Like moth to flame—quite literally, it felt as if heat was just pouring out of her in waves. He could not pinpoint exactly when this happened but his 6 foot rule had been abandoned and Frank was now standing close enough that he could touch her. He just needed to take his hand away from the glass, reach out across the bar, and touch her. Boy did he want to, and he almost did, but then she shook her head. Frank found himself almost doing the same as his attention was snapped back into reality and his focus was drawn back to the intensity of her glare. He took a conscious step back and realised with overwhelming awareness how much he did not want to. “Fair enough.” He resigned with a nod. He looked around. A quiet spell had settled over the bar, and the threat of a brawl was distant enough that if he was quick he could probably get away with ducking out the side door for a couple of minutes. He grabbed the towel from the shoulder and tossed it aside, from his jacket pocket he produced a small white cigarette packet.

“Keep drinking then, see if that helps you, I’m sure Joe wouldn’t mind the company. I’m going for some air.” An invitation could be heard in there somewhere; Frank was seldom ever cordial enough to properly extend the invitation…or any invitation. “Do whatever the fuck you want. You’re right. I don’t know you.”

What the fuck was up with this guy? He was leaning across the bar and, maybe the alcohol was messing with her depth perception, but he seemed way too close. Luce pushed back in her seat, just to get a bit of space between her and the bartender. But, he seemed to realize that he was being a fucking creep and backed off himself. Good, she didn’t feel like throwing hands with someone tonight. For one, she wasn’t sure how well she’d be able to do, the alcohol clouding her vision and loosening her hold on the fire magic that dwelled within her. For another, she’d had… enough of fucking fighting lately. She just wanted to drink and sit and not think about all the shit that’d been going on in her life.

“Yeah, you don’t fucking know me.” Luce repeated. The bar wasn’t as busy as it usually was, but her anger had her blood boiling in a literal way. It was too goddamn hot in here. And fuck it, if this guy was going to be bartending at Soul, she might as well try and talk to him. Even if he was weird. The same could be said of most people in the bar, and of her too. Sliding off the barstool, Luce steadied herself on the bar for a moment has her vision swam. “But air sounds like a smart idea.” She said, more to herself than to him. Walking out of the bar, the cool night air washed over her. Thank fuck summer was over and done with. “Need a light?” She asked, leaning against the brick wall of the bar.

It seemed Frank’s entire existence was damned to fight his most basic instincts: to hand his customers their drinks, to close his distance when he was with friends (to have friends), to help steady a stranger who has had one too many drinks and was maybe not as steady on her feet as she first thought. Even as she swayed Frank did not so much as stir, even as every part of him itched to. He let her out first, following behind at a measured distance. “Look at that, a solution to your problem that isn’t alcohol.” He grinned around the stick of cigarette as he brought it to his mouth, “but what the fuck do I know.”  

The air was cool, and with the door closed behind him he was acutely aware of how warm she felt, even at his distance. He made home against a wall a little ways down from her, shaking his head at her offer with a polite thanks, “I’m good,” and he had to be. Mostly because if he wasn’t, that was an invitation for her to come closer, to hand him the lighter, and then for him to hand it back, and that was altogether too many hands for comfort. Frank didn’t smoke for the taste. He didn’t care much for the nicotine either. Like the alcohol, it never lingered long enough in his system to become a proper addiction, but with every inhalation of the hot smoke that was a few more precious moments between him and the undeniable hunger to feed, whether it was happiness or heat. Prolonging the inevitable, as he liked to call it. Not that he ever told anyone why he smoked, most of them were more interested in telling him why he should stop. Frank wasn’t interested in doing either. “So what is your problem?” He said finally, turning to face his new smoking companion, “you were downing your seventh tequila shot in a span of less than an hour in one of the biggest shit-holes in town. That could not have been an inspiring journey.”

“My solution to my problems so far,” Luce let out sigh, her breath coming out in visible trails in the mild fall night, “Have been paying the bills for you. So…. you should be thanking me.” She muttered as she pressed her back against the wall a bit more firmly. Her legs felt like jelly under her, courtesy of the tequila that ran through her system, as well as the run she’d taken earlier that morning. Running. She’d always liked running, but it felt like that was all she was doing now. Wake up, run, work, drink, and then collapse into bed, to try and snag a few fitful hours of sleep if she was lucky. And if she wasn’t lucky, she’d run and run and run until she was too tired to do anything else.

At his question, Luce glanced over at the man for a long minute before shaking her head. “Oh you know. The usual.” Being kicked out of her coven for resurrecting her sister from beyond the grave, nearly dying herself. “Family drama.” The fact that one of the women she’d been sleeping with had been possessed by a ghost, hell-bent on keeping her body. The fact that the other was a zombie who just kept getting themselves in fucking trouble? “Some people I care about have a knack for getting into trouble.” How she was so goddamn tired all the time? Well, that one she didn’t have to lie about. “Insomnia. Take your pick. All of them are good reasons to drink in the biggest shithole in this town.” She corrected. The Ritz Soul was not. 

“Right,” Frank’s mouth shaped into a smirk. A gesture accompanied by a faint laugh that almost, to perceptive ears at least, sounded like a scoff, “yours and everyone else’s in that damn bar.” The solution to most of Soul’s patrons, it seemed, was found either at the bottom of a glass or at the end of a fist, the former was usually a lot less messy. Neither seemed to make anyone any happier come day light. It was a temporary salve to a much deeper wound, and they come back the next night, and the ritual repeats itself again. Frank was no stranger to this particular practice and so, it seemed, was she.

Frank gave the woman a long, appraising look, as she proceeded to divulge the source of her problems. It was as vague as it was short, its details hidden by their unfamiliarity. He didn’t blame her, and a part of him wondered whether it was in his best interest to find out. Probably not. Distance, advised caution. He took a long drag of his cigarette, comforted by the warmth, and eased of his awareness of hers. She looked so tired—more than that, she felt tired. There was plenty of heat (strangely) but with his own cravings temporarily satisfied by the cigarette, there was not much happiness to be attempted by. He could feel the ache in her bones, the very weight of. He recognised it in himself. “Hmm,” his eyes returned to hers, attentive and empathetic. Oh he tried so hard to be hard, but he was always very bad at it, and worse at following his own advice. “You want a burger or something?”  He said very suddenly. “You look like you could use a burger.”

“Well, means business is booming for you.” Luce said glancing back into the bar through the dirty windows, her head listing as her body tilted just a bit more than she expected. Stumbling slightly, she caught herself on the wall. Her elbow smacked into her side, and she let out an involuntary yelp, “Siktir, motherfucker…” She mumbled, rubbing her side. Fuck, her head was spinning, the wall felt like it was shifting behind her back. And unless there was some new kind of fucked up wall monster that was going to… what, absorb her into the wall? No, she’d just drank too much. Again. It seemed like more mornings than not, she’d woken up with a foul taste in her mouth and started the morning with a few aspirin. Christ.

As the man looked over at her, Luce felt her lips tighten into a thin line. There was something she didn’t like about the way he looked at her. It felt like the way that people had talked to her when she’d revealed that Bea had died. Something halfway between pity and judgement, was what she would guess. And she didn’t really fucking want either. But, at the mention of food, her stomach growled loudly. Her stomach didn’t have the same reservations, apparently. “You know what? Sure. Why the fuck not, it’d be a quick walk. Al’s isn’t far from here.” She said, before remembering. Al’s. Celeste, she’d worked there before... Remmy, they’d had that conversation where they told her what they were in a booth tucked in the corner of the diner. Fuck. Maybe not Al’s. That’s what she wanted to say, but now her lips remained stubbornly shut. 

“Al’s it is.” Frank smiled. It was pleasant. Amicable. It was a smile that might have come paired with an offer of a hand to shake or an equally pleasant gesture, but since it didn’t (it never does) Frank had become practiced in making it so that a smile was just enough. Not that he got much use out of this particular skill. Most people couldn’t even get the slightest hint of an upward lift let alone a fully realised smile. Maybe it was his off day. Maybe because when he looked at how tired she looked he saw a reflection of himself. Whatever it was, it remained there as he pushed himself off the wall, extinguishing the last of his cigarette under his boot. Kindness was in short supply in a place like Soul, and this served as a good reminder that Frank was not the place he worked at. Which reminded him—“oh and by the way, when you say business is booming for me, you do realise that just because I serve the drinks there, doesn’t mean I actually run the place, right?”

The walk, as she remarked, was blissfully short, and quiet. This served Frank just fine considering he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, even if his previous insistence might suggest otherwise. She also seemed absent, as if occupied by distant memories, he didn’t need to see the downward tilt of her mouth to know that they weren’t pleasant, he could sense it. He could also sense that no talking, at least on his part, was going to make anything better, although some carbs to soak up some of the seven tequila shots she’d knocked back in the few short hours might. Thankfully Al’s didn’t host a great many customers in the early hours of the morning. “Get a booth,” he told her, which shouldn’t be any hardship considering only one or two were currently occupied, “and get whatever you want. You look like you could use it...no offense.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m familiar with the dickhead who owns Soul.” Luce replied as she made her way down the sidewalk, her feet stumbling slightly as she walked. It was fine. This was fine. The way the world was rotating around her, the way the pavement seemed to rise and fall like cresting waves? Totally fucking fine. She was good. So fucking good. Just another fucking day. “You’re a bartender. Tips. More people, more tips. I know half the guys in that bar and they tip just fine when I work on them.” She said, the words coming out in more of an innuendo than she intended. “Tattoos.” She explained, gesturing to the dark ink that covered both of her arms. “I do tattoos.”

As they entered the diner, Luce looked around at the place-- it wasn’t all that busy, which was good in its own way. “Don’t tell me what to do.” She growled before deliberately walking over to the counter and settling down there. Across the way, Luce heard a startled cough and, before she knew what was going on, a young man had tossed a twenty on the counter and was hurrying out of the door. She spun around in the plastic seat, scrutinizing the man as he hurried away. The light of the diner caught on his face as he opened the door of his car and Luce’s stomach lurched. Will. One of the members of the coven-- her mom’s coven, the coven that had… “Fuck.” She muttered, shaking her head doggedly. She wished she was back at the bar. As the waitress cast a skeptical look at her, Luce quirked a crooked smile. “I’d like a number five. Extra fries. And a large water, please.” As the bartender sat next to her, Luce cast him a long look. “I’m paying for this myself.” She didn’t need his charity.

Frank grinned, but his laughter remained stifled, the only hint of its existence was in the silent vibration of his entire frame. Tips. At Soul on the Rocks. Now that was a joke. “Right, see…Soul is known for a lot of things, but never for their generosity, especially when it comes to tipping their bartenders.” This was not entirely fair. Of course Frank could, as she did, work on them. Being what he was, he could have probably completed the task with even greater success, and with the profits to prove it. Alas, that was never Frank’s style. In his short time working there, he had already created an image of himself as the grumpy new bartender that would sooner bite your hand off than shake it. This was not an accurate assessment of his character by half, though it had more truth in it than Frank pretending to be pleasant and charming. He was bad at it, and he didn’t have the taste for it to try and be better. He turned to her arm as she gestured toward it. “It looks nice.”

Her sharp demand elicited an amused grin as she pushed past him toward the counter. He might have said something, a smart ass reply already half way formed on his tongue, were it not for another stealing his attention. A young man, his plate and drink unfinished, tossed some notes on the counter and hurried out. Strange. More interesting still was the woman’s reaction. They knew each other, more than that, there was a history there. Very strange.  Alas, Frank said nothing on this, but noted it quietly as he pulled up a seat next to her (respectably distanced, of course). “She’s paying for herself, and I’ll have a black coffee. Thank you.” He said, handing over what he owed. The waitress accepted it with a very pretty smile. Frank acknowledged this with a single nod and did not notice the string of numbers scribbled on the back of the receipt, and what was most likely her name followed by the letter ‘x’. The coffee was the first to arrive, blissfully hot. He took a ginger sip, not because he was bothered by the heat, but normal humans weren’t usually as tolerant to scalding hot coffee as he was. “Odd reaction,” he murmured around the rim of the cup. His head tilted ever so slightly in the direction of the waitress who was just now collecting the bill left behind by the mysterious man. Or perhaps not so mysterious if the woman’s reaction was anything to go by, “a friend of yours?” He paused for a moment, “or maybe not so friendly?”

As the man explained his situation, Luce nodded in thanks as the waitress set a large glass of water in front of her. Forgoing the straw, she took a long drink of ice water, the temperature soberingly cold. Well, not sobering, she thought to herself as she regarded the slightly slanting walls of the diner. “You could always go for the ‘grin and bear it’ tactic.” She said, pressing her finger into her cheek and twisting it, offering a fake smile she reserved for her mother and particularly stupid clients. “You could try asking the boss-man to throw on a “Hey, if I’m gonna be an extra bouncer, pay me like one” bonus. Or don’t, whatever. It’s your wallet on the line.” At his comment about her tattoos, she nodded. “I know. I designed them.” It wasn’t a brag, not really, just statement of fact. She did her own shit and she was good at it. That was her whole MO, right? She stayed in her lane and did what she was good at.

Watching the way the girl cast a bright, beaming smile, Luce rolled her eyes. Did this guy think he was some kind of player? But, if he was, he didn’t comment on the receipt. He didn’t even really talk about it. Instead, he gestured towards the seat the Will had previously been sitting at. Scowling at the ice cubes in her glass, Luce’s knuckles flexed around the glass. “Family friend. Bit of a shit, but that’s how it goes.” She muttered, thinking back to August. He’d been a family friend, before he’d decided to come for her sisters. And now, he wasn’t much of anything at all. She could still remember the way he’d fallen to his knees, how he’d willingly submitted himself to Lydia’s commands. A shudder ran down her spine and she took another drink from her glass. “What’s your deal, huh? You like being some kinda… bartender Superman or something?” She asked, glancing over at him.

The twisted smile that warped around her mouth, strangely enough, inspired a more genuine one to shape around his own. “Yeah, the whole fake-it-till-you-make-it thing isn’t really my m-o.” Sure he could be reserved and withdrawn—cold and severe were a few more of the choice descriptors that people often had assigned to Frank. He could be a lot of bad things but one could never say that Frank was ever disingenuous. As much as he might speak ill of his work, which he does when he was ever in the rare position of wanting to speak at all, he’d rather it be him than another person who might be more liberal in using the end of their own knuckles to finish a fist fight. Even, as she rightfully pointed out, if it was his wallet on the line.

Her knuckles tightened around the glass, and her words bit into an old memory—an old wound. A small gesture, a small shift in tone, but neither went past Frank’s notice. Probably best if he kept that particular observation to himself, and he does. “Right. That’s how it goes.” Translation: sore subjection, duly noted. She sought comfort in her glass of water, and he continued to nurse the heat out of his cup of coffee, looking up only when she spoke again. An amused smile flitted across his lips, half hidden by the mug as he lifted it to his mouth, as he mentally traded his wings for a red cape, and his jacket for a blue costume with a giant S on it. He looked fucking ridiculous. “I don’t like being anything, I just want to do my job, get paid, and get the fuck home. Frankly if your standard for Superman is breaking up drunk bar fights, then it is tragically low. Besides,” he took another drink of his coffee and put it back down. It formed a wet brown ring around the receipt, he noticed for the first time black ink stains peering through the damp ring, but didn't bother investigating further, instead returned to the thought at hand, “you’re the one sitting next to me, what does that say about you?”

“You do you. Like I said, it’s your paycheck.” Luce shrugged. She didn’t give a shit, it was this guy’s loss either way. Didn’t affect her any, as long as he kept pouring her drinks. And, given how many she’d had at Soul, he didn’t seem to have a problem with that. The waitress slid her plate in front of her, a large burger with a mountain of fries on the side. “Thanks. Could I get more water, please? ‘preciate it.” Luce said before taking a large bite from her burger. As fucked up as she was, she wasn’t gonna be a fucking dick to people who were just trying to do their job. Which meant the waitress. But, Superman here? Different story. He at least had the sense to drop the fucking topic of Will. “Mhm.”

Glancing over at him, she raised an eyebrow. Swallowing her mouthful of food, Luce replied thickly, “That’s bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.” She pointed at him with a fry. “You just wanna do your job and go home? Unless you’re working double shifts between here and Soul, this,” She gestured to the two of them, “seems pretty fucking off the clock to me.” Luce said before popping the fry in her mouth.  Lifting her now full glass of water to her lips, she shook her head. “It says I’m drunk on a Wednesday night and I need more carbs. Needed.” She deflected, looking at her already half-empty plate. “I guess you were right about the burger.” 

Frank took a sip from his coffee, his eyebrow cocked up from behind the mug in a silent answer to her accusation. He didn’t say anything for a moment, mostly because he wasn’t sure how to, which probably meant that to a certain degree, she was right. Of course, just because he knew she was right, didn’t mean that he also knew the answer to why he did the things he did. Why he warned her against that seventh shot, why he invited her out for a smoke, why he would’ve probably paid for her burger too had she let him. Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to find answers tonight. That was what he paid his shrink to figure out and then tell him about it so he could ignore it completely. Because caring for someone else was just too fucking hard sometimes. Caring for himself infinitely so. “Mhm.” Another sip from his coffee.

“I know.” She had positively tore through her burger. Frank exhaled a short, barely formed, chuckle. “I’m really good at my job.” She was also not the first drunk he’s had to deal with. Although, speaking of jobs, he also had his actual job to return to. Someone was bound to have noticed his absence by now…or not. It was Soul they were talking about after all. He finished the last of his coffee, scrunched up the napkin with the receipt and then dropped it into the now empty mug. He took out his phone from his pocket, pushed it across the space between them and drew his hand back. “Do yourself a favour, call a cab. Spare yourself that eighth shot and call it a night. If you’re lucky you might even hate yourself a little less in the morning.”

“Sounds like it.” Luce said as her eating began to slow, picking at her fries. Grudgingly, she had to admit that this guy had a point. He’d called her out on how fucked up she was. And, though the room still shifted around her, was still fuzzy at the edges, it was better than it had been. The water and food was making all the difference. As the waitress left her receipt on the counter, Luce glanced over at the tall bartender. Soul wasn’t a nametag kind of establishment and she hadn’t bothered to ask his name when she’d rolled up to the bar and ordered shot after shot. “What’s your name, anyways? I’m Luce.” She said, sticking out her hand. At his advice, Luce let out a small snort. A cab? What, and go back to Bea’s house? The house her sister hardly even stayed in any more? With all of it’s baggage and it’s memories and quiet, cold stillness? No fucking thanks. She was gonna crash on the couch at Ink Inc and call it a night there. But, Mr. Superman Bartender Bro didn’t need to know that. “You’re not wrong about calling it a night. Jury's still out on the hating myself bit.” She mused, the last sentence coming out of her mouth without her intending to.

“Frank.” He said, but didn’t take her hand. He almost did. The smoke and the coffee had offered some relief but it did little to distract from the fact that she was still very very warm, and never once did the awareness of her heat escape his notice. His hand hung awkwardly for a split second, unable to touch her but unwilling to pull away. He let his hand fall in the end, but by then the split second was a split second too long, though he managed to cover it by pushing the phone further toward her, as if he was meant to do that all along. He drew his hand back very quickly, and wrapped it around his coffee mug, clinging to any heat that may still be lingering. Jesus H, he always fucking hungry.

Frank could sense that her thoughts were not meant to have formed into words, and even as she said them, it didn’t look as if she realised that she did. That the guard that she had maintained through harsh words and sarcasm had cracks in them, and tender thoughts were slipping through, and she didn’t notice. Perhaps she was more drunk than he thought. Alternatively, maybe she was sobering up, and sobriety was a tiring thing to have to deal with. Frank doesn’t say anything, but he noticed. And now, she wasn’t just some drunk woman he would have sent home on a cab and forgotten about until the next night she came stumbling back into Soul (the way she spoke about it, it was obvious that she was a regular), she had a name. Names were powerful things, and terribly intimate. Frank squeezed his eyes shut, ran a hand over his face. “Or…I could drop you off. If you would like.”

“Frank.” Luce repeated. The name suited him. Short, to the point, and… well, frank. For a second, he left her hanging, as though he didn’t want to touch her hand but then seemed to think better of it. He nudged his phone closer to her which was fucking… Weird. He couldn’t just hand it to her like a normal fucking person. Shaking her head, she pulled her hand back from his and pushed it into her jacket pocket, pulling out her own phone. “It’s not the 90’s, I’ve got a phone of my own. I don’t need you to call anyone.” She growled, though the words lacked their usual bite. At this point, she was just tired. Tired of this town, tired of the well-intentioned people who kept trying to help her, and tired of the fact that she couldn’t do anything to change any of that. As he offered to drop her off, Luce scowled at him as she tossed a bill onto the counter. He really was trying to play that “Knight in shining armor” card, wasn’t he? First his phone, now a ride? 

Shoving her phone back into her pocket, Luce stood up from the counter. “I think the fuck not. Listen, you seem like a decent enough guy, which is why I’m just gonna say, you’re barking up the wrong tree here.” She said, shaking her head. “Trust me, this is nicer treatment than what Jake got when he made a move on me the first time.”

Luce’s reaction was not an uncommon one. The registering of rejection as they realised he would not answer their offer of a handshake with his own, the confusion that inevitably followed because what person was that much of a dick to refuse a simple handshake? Sometimes even outright offence because who the fuck does he think he is? The corner of Frank’s mouth twitched. Perhaps he should attempt an encouraging smile. Jesus H. He had done this a hundred times before yet it never became any less tedious. For his efforts it seemed, rather predictably if her prior behaviour around him was of any indication, she seemed to follow the ‘outright offense’ route as she growled her reply. He thought it wisest to not add acid to fire and opted to silently pocket his phone instead, wondering all the while why he even tried in the first place. Why he kept trying.

She stood up. Very suddenly. He’d thought he was being kind, but clearly Frank wasn’t very good at it. He was silent at first and then, with a start, the weight of what she’d said came flying back to him. “Oh! Ohhh…no. I mean—” He stifled a laugh and it came out as a choked cough. Frank pressed a hand to his face and shook his head, a smile visible between his fingers as his shoulders quivered through a silent laugh. He should be offended that she had made the comparison with him to Jake of all people, but it seemed fatigue had imbued the whole misunderstanding with a strange sort of amusement where there usually wouldn’t be any. “Yes ma'am,” he said once he had recovered some degree of solemnity, “duly noted.”