#thick skull literally and metaphorically

[averysmolkirbo]

Hey guys you wanna hear just how absurdly DENSE i am?

minor pokemon sv spoilers btw

as you probably already know, i am an autism creature, and more than that, very stupid. ok maybe not stupid but very dense and gullible. I just believe what people tell me.

well guess what??? i managed to not figure out the SINGLE MOST OBVIOUS JOKE EVER for a concerning period of time.

ok so yknow how when youre doing starfall street, and then clive shows up, and he's very clearly just the director?

you know how they make it painfully obvious and that's literally the whole joke? is how obvious it is? And how NO ONE could POSSIBLY miss it?

guess what, I DID.

there's probably some gamefreak writer laughing or whatever at how fool-proof they made this joke and how 100% of the audience will get it immediately cuz theyre just that obvious about it. well guess what fucker stop laughing i've out-fooled you, a million to one.

ok also let me explain. im not that blind nor that braindead that it was like i wasn't suspicious at all. I was, at first.

but the game gives you the option to point out the obvious and i choose that option, and then he was like "oh yea no definitely not him" and you know how i said i just tend to trust people at their word sometimes and how it makes me look very stupid? yea thats what happened here. i fucking believed him, for like am embarrassingly long time. they actually fucking got me with the most stupid obvious joke, and im mad at myself for it.

i really went "huh thats weird maybe theyre twins or something, no need to question this further"

if you want to know what "embarrasingly long" is, i'd say anything above a minute or so. yea no i didnt reconsider until i did the SECOND star base. that long. I did a whole other thing in between those two.

After that i was in on the joke but i felt very dumb for not recognizing it sooner and im just gonna blame it on my unique flavor of neurospice

bonus; at the end where you fight him in front of the school when you come to do penny's battle, i also briefly believed that he was also cassiopeia, DESPITE the fact i had at some point in the past already seen that it was penny, i was like "huh maybe spoilers were wrong"

seriously what is wrong with me

[desthen]

when you finally get the metaphor in Dolls of New Albion that the two concepts warring in every act and between every conflict, in every game, are just "Life" and "Death"

[thegreatyin]

let's talk the forbidden yin OC lore. it's not actually forbidden it's just OC lore i've never laid out in detail before. under the cut because it's long and im also tagging this as fallen london spoilers because it's absolutely dipping into some semi-significant deep lore info that may-or-may-not be also absolutely incoherent if you don't know it already. and also it has major spoilers for the end of the "cricket, anyone" ES, because the scoundrel is kind of a walking spoiler for that if you start trying to look at them under a microscope in-depth.

okay, see.

the scoundrel's motivation for pursuing the power ending of heart's desire is that they genuinely, earnestly believe that becoming a space bat will fix all of their problems. like. all of them. forever. they won't have to care about human squabbles, attachments, needs or wants, all of that stuff. they won't need to feel guilt when they're a greedy and capitalistic inhuman monster! they won't need to feel empathy when all they care about is their hoard and their own survival! being human is a curse and a blight upon their person and bat HRT will fix them!!!!

now this is, obviously, an absolutely batshit insane worldview that is disproven by literally everything we know about the masters. but she doesn't know that. and she refuses to acknowledge that.

because if she acknowledges that, it means everything she's done was for naught, and she's ruining herself for nothing. it already struggles to recognize itself in the mirror. it already can't stand taking off its bandages (or tackling its own raging dysmorphia). going through the entire journey to become a curator, only to look in a mirror and realize it's been a worthless and self-destructive venture this entire time?

it would break them. utterly.

which is exactly what happens at the end of their character path, far-off into the future. they're no longer human. they're no longer the scoundrel. they don't know who they are anymore.

and so they break. utterly.

one catastrophic identity crisis and probably rather literal explosive breakdown later, mr cards flees the bazaar. it flees the neath. it flees everything. it tries desperately to reconcile its fucked-up belief system with reality. if losing their humanity didn't work- if it only made them feel worse- then obviously it's being a master that's wrong, right?

(sidenote: the scoundrel's lore runs off the headcanon that mr wines was a judgement before it was a master, because i agree with that idea and i think it's fun. the scoundrel was also directly inspired in-universe by *vaguely gestures at all of wines during cricket*. this is not a good thing.)

this is only one step in the process. they're still human. they're still horribly, disgustingly human. they need to do more. they need to climb higher. they need to climb as high as they possibly can. then, and only then, will they be content.

and so they flee to the high wilderness, and resolve to do just that.

and, well.

there's only so many spots on the chain they can climb to. why waste their time scurrying around in the dirt when they can claw straight up to the highest spot of them all?

(this is, of course, as far as we know, absolutely impossible and also maybe even more insane than the "bat HRT can fix me" thing. but don't tell the scoundrel that.)

(they wouldn't be able to handle it.)

For the Scoundrel it could be Judgement.

judgement works primarily because my original idea for them was.

well.

okay it's complicated.

[koifly]

Toby headcanons

These are just some quick notes from my AU so I'm not going into too much detail with each headcanon!

-German, no not just German roots but he actually lives in Germany

-complex relationship with physical contact/affection

-talks a lot, but not very often. Either he's talking with no red string or is as silent as an owl's flight

-can't stand having a beard/stubble, HAS to shave or else he'll remind himself a bit too much of his dad

-fucked up hands through biting, picking and scratching

-freckles and moles everywhere, pale skin, eyebags

-dark brown hair+eyes, thick eyebrows, slightly hooked nose

-either dresses midwestern emo or how the marauders fandom portrays Remus Lupin since he thrifts his clothes because of the lack of money

-does the hand-flapping thing when he excitedly talks about something/someone that interests him

-DESPISES raw tomatoes

-pretty distant towards most of the creeps, only exceptions are Natalie, EJ, Kate and James (in that order btw, first is the person he's the closest to, last is the one he is, compared to the other three, most 'distant' to)

-prefers sweet snacks over salty snacks

-does the thumbs up+awkward smile thing whenever he didn't listen to what another person was saying to pretend that he did. Or when he's slightly weirded out by someone

-comparable to dogs, racoons and deers in a way

-prefers dogs over cats

-when stressed in the woods he usually sits down near flowers and rips them out before tearing them into smaller pieces

-that guy does NOT know how to properly take care of himself (forgets to eat, doesn't know how to cook etc...)

-unlabelled sexuality, if he likes someone he likes someone and doesn't really care about gender nor appearance

-still sometimes chews on his cheek which leads to his gash not properly healing

-secretly tries to befriend every damn animal he encounters but quickly gets frustrated and gives up when it ignores him/walks away from him

-gets forced to be Nina's makeup/fashion model sometimes (usually James is Nina's first victim but not always)

-Kate and him have a sibling relationship

-admires EJ in a lot of ways but has too much of a thick skull to actually admit that out loud

-sometimes leaves small handmade gifts and/or things he found in the woods in front of Nat's cabin such as bracelets, necklaces, knifes and all kinds of trinkets

-will instantly accuse others of taking his stuff when he doesn't find it just to find it 2 minutes later

-struggles to comfort others when they are crying/ having a breakdown/ etc......So he usually just awkwardly pats their back or sit beside them in silence

-huge Spiderman fanboy, has a lego Spiderman keychain on him at all times

-5'8 or 5'9 idk tho

-will try to get on peoples nerves just to see how they'll react

-hates authorities and people who act like their the boss/better than him

-will bark and bite (not literally, metaphorically)

-will see a rock and instantly compares it to someone's eyecolor/ haircolor (cough cough Nat cough cough...)

uhhhh yeah, that's some of them I guess

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Little ideas for Dandy and Doe(Goat Papa and Mama)

Dandy: wow... your eyes are like sapphires, gee! Heh, that's pretty corny though huh?

Doe: oh no, not at all... Anyone would like it

their theme as Die with a smile

Dandy: everyone's(morph) always asking, Dandy how'd you bag that baddie? How'd you bag that baddie? I didn't bag shit! Doe picked me up and threw me over her shoulders (metaphorically or literally, either way is funny), and I've been here ever since, And I have no plans of getting down!

Dandy:

Doe:

Ahaha! (Dandy is head over hooves for Doe, Doe is head over heels for him, and now Dandy has a wife, Doe has a husband, and they both have three partners who are powerful mutants and are the other loves of their lives!)

Dandy is very sweet, a bit country, very charming, and is very gentle and likes to spoil others (he also let's himself be spoiled). He gets really rough and tough in battle or during missions, and is super strong, has sharp horns, has a very thick skull, and can pick up and haul Logan.

Doe is beautiful and cunning. Don't mess with her sunshine ball of light husband, their amazing weather goddess partner, their charming mimic partner, or their fluffy growly partner. She can and will end someone. She's doting, can pack a punch, wears all kinds of dresses and sweaters, and is very happy when she finds out she' and her partners are going to finally have a baby.

(Yes, those five tried for a kid for, like, several years. They finally get one, and then once Dandy and Doe are gone, so too is the baby, it seems...) (except surprise, it's Reader, who followed/was kidnapped by Sabretooth, and ended up stuck with him)

Dandy, when he finds out he's about to be a dad, starts crying. He sobs, he wails, and he starts trying to think of baby names. Doe is more collected, but ends up also crying and sobbing, and they both hold each other and start trying to think of a color for the nursery. Logan, Morph, and Storm also end up crying. Logan is quicker to shrug it off, bit is so very pleased, Morph is bawling and already attached, and Storm is starting to drag all of them out to start shopping for baby stuff.

(What are Reader's few possessions or possesion they kept from when they were still with their mom, Mama Goat/Doe? Do they have anything from their dad, Papa Goat/Dandy?)

[mildew-dread-mold]

REASONS TO VOTE RONAN AND NOT AANG FOR BALDSWAGSUMMIT

they may be both bald by choice, but ronan would have had dark luscious thick curls, can grow stubble overnight, and has to shave everyday (or enough that it is an explicit part of his daily schedule). not only is ronan bald by choice, he puts much more effort into being bald by choice than aang’s prepubescent, mostly hairless ass.

aang isn’t even bald all the time. at one point he is unconscious for a while and then goes undercover with hair, which spans at least half a season (i think?). ronan on the other hand was also in a coma for a good chunk of time but had not grown enough hair to be mentioned. ronan spends more time in his franchise bald than aang does.

in addition to this, when aang is in his dreams he has hair. ronan is bald in his dreams as well. who’s the ultimate bald now?

aang is bald because of what? his culture? which is cool and all but ronan is bald because when he has hair he reminds himself (and others) too much of his father whom he found dead in his family driveway when he was 15. ronan has a better bald-backstory. his baldness stems from a unique and heartbreaking place. aang is literally just a magic monk.

my friend tried to make the point that aang has a cool magic tattoo (which doesn’t have to do with baldness but does perhaps have to do with swag?) and i’d like us all to notice that ronan has not one but TWO tattoos, one of which was gotten to spite his older brother (swagful) and the other of which is a religious metaphor for dragging himself out of eden and rejecting paradise for mankind, and also is magical and keeps him from falling into a coma again (doubly swagful).

maggie stiefvater frequently uses the word “skull” instead of “head” when talking about ronan’s head because he is bald. which weirdly is a really nice synonym for “head” if you ask me. swagful AND bald. baldswagful. which is what the poll is for. aang may be from a cartoon and thus have no written description but you couldn’t call aang’s head a skull. that sounds wrong.

ronan gets bitches. like an overwhelming amount. adam gansey orla kavinsky. aang has gotten one singular bitch.

aang is 112 years old but ronan is a god so he’s been being since the start of time or whatever.

ronan is also an eldritch horror. nothing much more swagful than that. especially not some element bending pacifist kid.

if ronan loses his friends family enemies and everyone would bully him mercilessly. he would genuinely be devastated. adam would be like “sorry i don’t date bald men ranked below top 5” and blue would say “i could get an undercut and keep half of my hair and still beat your ass.” he would actually never recover mentally physically or financially. aang on the other hand would be perfectly fine. his friends would be like “it’s ok aang we still love your bald self” except for toph but aang wouldn’t care.

(if you don’t want to read all that i’ve bolded and italicized the key points.)

for all of the above reasons and more you should

Vote Ronan Lynch

for baldswagsummit2023. he is balder and more swagful than aang could ever dream to be.

[imtrashraccoon]

This one covers a variety of subjects and the prompt could be interpreted literally or metaphorically. I dunno, I couldn't find a good place to stop writing it lol. Also, I think I'm going to include word counts when these get pretty long from now on.

@owl-bones

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Bad Sansuary: Horror - Sharp

Word Count: 2,900

You were in the middle of sweeping the floors and going some general cleaning, when Axe stopped by again. You'd gotten used to the slow but steady knocks that signaled his arrival by now and since you were a little busy, you just called out for him to come in as you knew the door was unlocked.

The door opened and shut as he actually entered your apartment. Then his warm, quiet voice called out to you, "hey, i brought somethin' if ya want to try it..."

You poked your head around the corner to greet him, only to see how shocked he looked. His red eyelight had shrunk down to the size of a penny and it was clearly wobbling around the edges. His posture was stiff and his fists clenched tightly, despite holding a small crock pot with one arm.

You frowned and leaned the broom up against the wall before approaching him carefully. "Is everything okay?" you asked.

His gaze flicked over you quickly, never focusing on one place for too long as if he was inspecting you, eventually settling on your left hand. You started to ask again when he carefully set the crock pot on the ground and stepped closer to you. He went to reach for your hand but hesitated when you stepped backwards.

"are you okay? what happened to your hand?" he finally asked.

You grimaced and looked down at the thick bandage around your index finger. "Oh, this? I'm fine, I just got a bit careless and nicked my finger with a knife while making lunch earlier." To sort of prove your point, you flexed your fingers, although it was a bit difficult with how wrapped up your hand was.

His gaze lingered on your finger for a long moment before he glanced back at your face again. Sucking a deep breath through his teeth, you could see he was trying his best to calm down again before speaking.

"sorry... i just... i could smell blood and i guess i panicked..." he muttered. His cheekbones seemed to flicker a cobalt colour which, while it was momentarily fascinating, you quickly realized he was embarrassed for getting so worked up over nothing.

You frowned and quickly inspected your bandage for any leakage, but you'd taken great care to wrap it as securely as you could. "Huh, I swear I cleaned up after everything, although there was quite a bit of blood..." Shaking your head, you added, "It pretty much stopped bleeding after a couple of minutes though, so I don't think I need to get stitches."

"i have a really strong sense of smell...helps with huntin'..." Axe picked up the crock pot and turned to you. Before you had time to ask what that even meant, he decided to change the subject. "i think you should try some of this," he stated in a firm voice.

He was already on his way to your kitchen to put the small appliance down on a counter and so you just followed him without protest. Whatever he'd made certainly smelled good, although you'd barely just eaten lunch, and you didn't want to ruin your dinner by eating anything heavy right now. You really hoped he wouldn't be upset by this with how adamant he'd sounded.

Clearing your throat, you moved over to the counter so you could look at him. "It smells really good, what is it by the way?" you asked.

Axe smiled as he removed the lid and gave the heavenly contents a quick stir with a spoon. " 's called chicken divan," he hummed.

"Ooh, sounds delicious." You hesitated for a moment before trying to approach the real issue. "Um, Axe?"

His gaze flicked to you and he tilted his skull in a questioning manner. "what's up?" he asked.

"This looks really good and I can tell you spent a long time making it, but I don't think I could eat much of anything right at this moment. You see, I just had lunch... I'm not trying to be rude or anything... I just..."

His left eye socket narrowed ever so slightly as you continued rambling although he didn't interrupt you, and just waited until you'd run out of steam. He didn't look upset per say but his expression seemed so neutral that you couldn't be sure.

He reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder when you'd stopped speaking. "i'm not offended, okay? i'm just concerned about ya and eatin' even just a little will help..." He spoke slowly like he was trying to explain something but didn't really know the best words.

You didn't really understand why he wanted you to try his food so bad. It was just food, right? He was also acting really concerned when you'd only had a small accident earlier and were okay now.

"How will it help? Am I missing something here?"

"cause it has healin' magic in it... all food made by monsters does," he said plainly.

When you gave him a confused look, something seemed to click and his eye sockets widened in surprise. "you've never had monster food have you?" he asked and glanced around your kitchen as if he'd spot some sort of ingredient to prove him wrong.

"No? I've heard it's good but I've never really paid attention." You crossed your arms when he glanced back at you in disbelief. "Axe, you're my only monster friend and in case you haven't noticed, I don't spend a lot of time out and about making new friends, monster or human."

He hummed thoughtfully before shrugging. "fair enough, i didn't realize. it'll help heal your injury though like nothin' happened."

You couldn't argue with that, especially since your finger was still throbbing painfully, even if it wasn't actively bleeding any more. So, you managed to eat a small portion of the incredibly tender chicken and broccoli in order to ease his concern. It had been a long time since you'd even eaten anything this delicious.

Axe seemed to relax some after you'd finished eating, although you couldn't help but get the feeling that he would've preferred if you'd eaten more. He didn't complain though and when you complimented his cooking, seemed positively pleased. Although, he still appeared to be on edge about something if the way he kept looking you over was any indication.

When you caught him studying you once again, you reached over and gently touched his arm. "Hey, Axe? Are you alright?" you asked.

He seemed to startle and jumped slightly. His gaze silently flicked to your hand and then back to you with a surprised expression.

"i... i'm fine, just..."

You could see him struggling to answer and he couldn't seem to maintain eye contact at the same time. Still, you gave him a patient smile and rubbed his hoodie sleeve in a reassuring manner.

"You can tell me if something's bothering you. That's what friends are for, you know?"

"it's...hard to talk about," he responded.

"I don't mind listening..."

Axe let out a heavy sigh and pulled out one of the kitchen chairs from the table. Following suit, you sat down next to him and waited patiently. He stared at his clawed hands for several long minutes before speaking again.

"things used to be really rough...where i'm from... there was a famine... folks had to resort to...drastic measures to survive... if it weren't for paps and myself, the whole town would've...fallen down..."

As he spoke, you noticed how detached and hollow his tone of voice had become. You could also feel the depths of his pain, as if you were taking a peek into his very soul, and it hurt. Still, you wanted to be there for him and so you stayed seated nearby, resting your hand on his arm in an effort to comfort him.

"it's hard seein' people i care about hurt or even just hungry... i've seen so many just...give up..." He made eye contact with you and held it before adding, "you have no idea what i've had to do just to survive..."

You couldn't help but glance away under the intensity of his gaze. Was it just you or had the room become colder all of the sudden? Swallowing nervously, you steeled yourself to look back at him, only to find that he was still staring.

"Well... I, uh, can't say I fully understand how awful literally starving to death is, but you're doing better now, right?" When he nodded slowly, you sighed and continued talking. "That's a relief to hear at least. I'm touched that you trust me enough to tell me about this when I can tell it's not a pleasant thing for you to discuss."

He continued to stare at you for what felt like an eternity. Unfortunately, you couldn't tell what he was currently thinking from his indecipherable facial expressions. Just when you could hardly take the unofficial staring contest any longer, he finally broke the silence.

"you're a strange human..." he muttered.

You couldn't help the quick bark of laughter at his comment. "I thought we'd already established that by now," you teased.

That same cobalt colour from before flickered across his zygomatic bones and he glanced away, scratching the right side of his skull awkwardly. "heh... right, i almost forgot..."

"I wouldn't have stuck around at all when we first met if I didn't like you, okay? I stand by the people I count as friends and I consider you a good friend, Axe."

His blue blush deepened slightly which was kind of adorable, considering he was such a giant of a skeleton. He certainly seemed easier to fluster today, although a lot had also happened in the short time he'd been here. You would definitely have to tease him about it another time.

"you did it again."

You were a bit taken aback by the suddenness of his statement and blinked owlishly at him. "Did what again?" you asked.

"the thing you did with intent. it was like...you forced all of your concern and reassurance into my soul."

Your eyes widened in shock and you quickly pulled your hand away from him, although he looked a little disappointed when you did so. "Crap, I wasn't trying to...manipulate you or anything like that..." You buried your face in your hands and groaned, "I really have no idea how Intent or magic works... I'm sorry, Axe."

He chuckled and shook his skull. "nah, ya didn't do anythin' wrong. it...felt nice actually..."

"Really...?" You peeked between your fingers at him to check that he wasn't upset, thankfully he just seemed mildly amused. "Any chance you could explain what it is so I can try not to accidentally do it again?"

"eh, i'm really not the best person to ask..." Axe thought for a moment before continuing. "do ya at least know about human soul traits?"

You nodded, "Yeah, it's pretty common knowledge now, although only mages can really know their primary trait. Anyone without magic can't really, unless you know a monster willing to draw you into an Encounter or have to get some expensive procedure done."

"figures," he muttered. "i used to be able to tell at a glance but after everythin' that happened, my magic changed completely. i pretty much only use it to get around now and rarely even then."

"I'm guessing you can't draw me into an Encounter to actually find out then?"

He got a bit of an odd look at the idea and shrugged. "more like i won't... 's not that i don't trust ya...i just don't trust myself..."

"Ah." He probably didn't want to risk nearly killing you again after what happened the first time. The weird thing was, you were pretty sure he hadn't actually pulled you into an Encounter back then, but you'd never been in one to know either.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have asked. I understand they're something personal to monsters and I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

" 's fine, i don't get offended easily compared to some guys i know." Axe took a deep breath before quietly adding, "well, i don't tend to lash out if someone insults me at least..."

"Why would anyone...?"

He gestured to the left side of his skull before you could finish your question, drawing your attention to his large red eyelight but also, the gaping hole in his skull. You'd almost forgotten that wasn't normal as it just seemed like a part of him as a person, rather than a likely traumatic injury.

"Oh... Still though, why make fun of the guy who could bench press anyone without breaking a sweat?"

He shrugged, "dunno, some folks are probably too dense for their own good. i never used to look like this though..."

"How so?" you asked softly.

"used to be shorter...less scary looking too. no claws or sharp teeth either... 's the result of changin' to make survival easier."

It was hard to picture him as anything but the large, sharp-edged skeleton currently sitting at your dining table. He tended to be the honest type though so you had no reason to believe he was messing with you.

"So...is that what you meant by hunting earlier?"

He nodded but remained quiet.

You felt like you had to say something to make him feel slightly better. It was true that he was on the scary side as far as appearance goes, but you'd seen how gentle he could be. He wasn't some scary, evil person, at least in your eyes.

"You know, you are quite scary on the outside. However, unlike a lot of humans I've met over the years, you seem to wear your heart on your sleeve and aren't hiding malicious intentions on the inside." You smiled warmly at him and added, "I... I consider you a good friend... Which is saying a lot because I don't really have any friends."

His permanent smile instantly morphed into the most genuine grin you'd seen to date. He looked like he desperately wanted to give you a hug but was physically holding himself back for the time being.

"heh, i'm touched to say the least..." he said, although you could tell that was quite the understatement. "i consider ya a good friend too and, as i betcha understand, i don't make friends easily."

Hearing that he felt the same, you felt an overwhelming wave of joy flow over you. No one would understand that you got along with this teddy bear of a man better than any of them, despite how scary he looked.

But then, you remembered your previous question that had brought up this conversation in the first place. "So, not to brush aside this awesome moment, but what about Intent? What does it have to do with soul traits?"

He didn't seem to mind that you'd changed the subject and nodded thoughtfully as he considered your question again. "well, i 'spect your primary soul trait is some variation of kindness considerin' how empathetic you've always been towards me. i can't say i've ever met a human who uses intent to make others feel better like you do."

He scratched his skull and added, "it's hard to describe... normal humans can't really sense intent as far as i know, but it's like you're giving all of your current feelings to me."

He chuckled when you gave him a look of bewilderment and took your right hand in his much larger one. "don't worry, ya aren't doing it all the time, at least from what i've sensed, just today and the last time. i think ya need to purposely touch me anyways."

You breathed a huge sigh of relief and glanced down at your joined hands before looking back up to him again. "That's good to hear, I was really worried I'd been acting inappropriately or something."

"nah, you're fine, lil' chip..."

You blinked in surprise and did a great job at imitating a goldfish for a moment, much to Axe's amusement. "Excuse me?! You did not just call me short..." you hissed under your breath.

He actually laughed, to the point of nearly being brought to tears, much to your annoyance. You pulled your hand away and crossed your arms until he finally calmed down enough to speak again.

"what? it's cute, like you, so why not? if we're goin' to be friends, you should know i like to give my friends nicknames..." he said while flicking a stray tear away from his left eye socket.

You tried to remain firm and pout, but you couldn't. He was adorable and while you'd always hated it when people picked on you for being a bit smaller than average, you didn't really mind it coming from him. He seemed completely genuine and not like he was trying to belittle you either.

"Fine, but only because i like you..." you grumbled. "And you better make it up to me by coming to visit more often."

He chuckled again and patted your head in a way that was probably supposed to be affectionate. "okay, okay, i'll see if i can make some room in my schedule so we can hang out more, just for you..."

You could feel your cheeks grow warm with the way he was looking at and talking to you. "You better..." was all you could manage to retort with.

[goldtracing]

APH Russia – Headcanons I

I would like to point out that I originally wrote this before 24.02.2022 and didn’t publish this until now due to current event. Now I have decided just to go ahead these are low-budget anime characters that I’m talking about and f anybody who links this to ongoing geopolitical events

Is surprisingly proficient in German and French. Both were court languages of his at the one or the other point in history, his German also being spread amongst the wider populace and influencing Russian. Speaks both languages with a bit of an accent, yet if he puts enough effort in it, his accent can be nearly untraceable.

As for other languages – he is also fluent in Tatar and Mongolian, although in the later he is far better with speaking and listening than writing. This is also the case with all the other languages spoken in his territory. This is due to his past under the khans. As for English and Chinese – with both he tends to be on the very formal side, with his speech precise and usually devoid of slang and abbreviations. It is because he learned much of those two languages from literature or also scientific reports.

When it comes to Russian he can be very eloquent, having a preference for puns and other plays of words. Can and will criticise others for their grammar, although if he is public and in a formal setting, he would be more tactful and quiet about remarking it.

Has a penchant for literature and opera and plays. Visits the theatre regularly and knows all the ballets by heart. Personally keeps a small notebook where he critiques and rates books and performances. Sometimes he sends them in to a newspaper or an online site.

Writes poety in his free time and sends some of them to his sisters or humans that are close to him at the time. Can also recite all of Pushkin’s poems in his sleep.

Aside from that, he has a love for fairy tales. Not the sanitised, censored versions that Disney and the Grimm brother’s have made so popular, rather the cautionary tales as they were actually intended, The brutal versions where people suffer and suffer and suffer.

Else has written multiple essays and the human condition, often taking characters for classics to elaborate on his points. These are texts that near nobody has seen. Ivan has split them up and hidden them on his various properties.  

Has taken formal dance lessons in ballet and the classics. Loves to dance at balls and is surprisingly elegant while doing so for somebody his size. However, he really shies away from dancing tango, salsa and other dances where both partners get really close and even handsy with each other. If at all, he would have to be really close to his dance partner to even contemplate to doing the Latin American dances.

Other than that, he is also good when it comes to folk dances and possess enough stamina to dance dances such as the Barynya for hours. Has the appropriate leg muscles and flexibility.

Surprisingly, (or not) his dancing skills translate into his fighting style. Can go on for hours without taking any enhancements or sleeping, all while remaining smooth and precise in his movements, like they been choreographed and practised time and time again. He can make difficult movement seem easy.

For centuries he favoured combat with a sword. One of his favourite ones was a curved sabre – a kilij – that he stole as a war trophy from Turkey when the latter was the Ottoman empire. Later, he evolved to be a crack shot with the pistole – he got caught up in a lot of duels when they came into fashion. During the WWII, he was part of a tank crew. Due to the tight space of the T-34, he often suffered sore joints and cramps in his muscles. Also developed an especially thick skull during this time, both literally and metaphorically.

Ivan has participated in the making of multiple movies as an advisor. He makes sure that historical films are historically accurate. Seeing that Russia is big on war movies, Ivan has a lot to do.

Additionally, he is quite a patron for the arts. He has multiple oil paintings in his old mansion. Personally, he paints either an impressionist art style or in the vividly coloured art styles that are native to Russia, such as Gzhel, Khokhloma and Zhostovo.

Adding on to that – there is nothing in his homes that is really plain. He has a sense for the aesthetically pleasing and even opulence. The woodwork is carved and whittled, the ceramic adorn with paintings and the metal work ornate. His living surroundings might have been a bit plainer during Soviet times, however I think he would have pulled a few strings that would have allowed him to keep his old possessions.

[cosmicjoke]

https://www.tumblr.com/makiruz/751280466269716480/and-another-thing-aot-isnt-saying-jews-are-human?source=share

PLEASE fucking read this cosmie

lol, just... why? What is wrong with people? This entire assumption that the Eldian's are meant to be some sort of allegory for the Jews is based on nothing more than the fact that they're kept in internment camps in Marley (a detail shared by countless oppressed groups throughout history), and they're identified by wearing armbands embroidered with an emblem of the nine titans (again, hardly unique to the Jews). What people don't seem to GET is that AoT pulls from multiple sources and historical incidents of oppression, war and prejudice, and that the entire story is an amalgamation of all of these things. It isn't meant as a straight allegory for any one event or group of people, it's a melting pot of various, real-world events and people and history, used to ground its themes and messaging in concrete reality. There's multiple other details which also draw parallels between the Eldian's and the Germans, and obvious resemblances between the Yeagerists and Nazi's. I don't understand how people can't seem to get it through their thick-skulled heads that AoT isn't an allegory at all, it's an original piece of fiction that has parallels and similarities to real-world events because it's dealing with real-world shit like prejudice, bigotry, oppression and war.

The titans themselves are just a metaphor for how all people are capable of being monsters. They aren't meant to be seen as literal monsters, and certainly not meant to be some statement about how Jews have some horrible "genetic quirk", like this idiot says, that allows them to be "mind-controlled" by their oppressors and made to do evil things. Do people know how unhinged that sounds? Yes, I'm sure Isayama really believes Jews have some special genetic quirk that can be used to turn them into giant, man eating monsters. Again, AoT is a fantasy. A totally fictional world where magic exists. Any resemblance to real life is, again, simply because, while it's a totally fictional world and deals in fantastical elements, it's dealing with very real things in its themes and messaging.

The monstrosity in AoT is human nature itself, and the human condition. The ones who act the most like monsters are the higher-ups in Marley. Their deliberate cruelty, driven by their prejudice, selfishness, power-mongering and pettiness, are what make them monsters, not the magical ability to turn into literal giants that eat people. In the end, the titans are just victims of human monstrosity.

I swear, that bullshit IGN article, or wherever it originated from, sure did it's job of brainwashing the susceptible idiots in this fandom. Nobody can think for themselves, these days. They get told something about something, and they just believe it without applying any kind of critical thought or nuanced examination.

I really wish people would use whatever small amount of grey matter they actually posses, instead of continuing to spread this kind of baseless, intellectually bankrupt drivel.

[d-03-109-adoration]

Hmmm it depends how thick do you think that skull of his is? (If he even has one!)

he literally has no solid head structure.. however, metaphorically his skull is as thick as volcanic rock.

[entiretorridaffair]

okay and now for the fun bit!!! (song + book recs)

song rec: thick skull by paramore

literally one of my favorite songs of alllll time its so everything <333 i love paramore so i had to give you one of their songs, but what i reallyyy like about this song is the layering AND hayley william's vocals are stunning <3 the lyrics are also rly gripping and poetic too imo <3

(also, for a less in depth recommendation, i bet on losing dogs by mitski. not even one of my favorite mitski songs but ive been looping it all afternoon so <33)

book rec: gideon the ninth by tamsyn muir!

YOUVE PROBABLY SEEN ME GOING INSANE ABOUT THE LOCKED TOMB (series, gtn is the first book) ON THE DASH BUT. I CANT NOTTTT REC IT <3 i love the locked tomb so so so much it is a series that is about love and grief and identity and also lesbians in space with necromancy and swords and also really bad jokes that WILL make you laugh and also imperialism. its really good overall NO ONEEE is safe. for a more serious synopysis, we follow gideon in a post apocalyptic sci-fi world 10,000 years in the future, who is trying to gain her freedom from the ninth house, the planet that brought her up and that she is indentured to. unfortunately, harrow, the heir of the ninth house, foils her latest escape attempt, only to counter it with a new offer: to accompany her offworld (!!!!!) as she attempts to become one of god's new saints. its sooooooo insane the characters are EVERYTHINGGGG to me adn also very fleshed out and nuanced and none of them are "good people" but i love them all so much. the writing is GORGEOUS im literally in love with tamsyn muir's metaphors andddd the plot is FUN it takes a while to get into the swing of things but it is so good. warning however tamsyn muir is so dedicated to not knowing shit nor fuck (ESPECIALLY as you get into harrow the ninth and to a lesser extent nona the ninth) but it is still very enjoyable and you will get it eventually. warning if you dont like gore then i would unfortunately recommend steering away as a lot of the book is Bones. and Gore. its veryyyyy good though aaaand i rambled more than i expected to DFGHKSLFJA . but in conclusion <333

GOOD LUCK WITH PHYSICS!!!

listening to thick skull right now!!!! growing up i was never a paramore girl just because my friends never listened to them but this song is making me think i really missed out!! do you have any other paramore recs??

and omg! i’ve heard of gideon the ninth in passing but i’ve never had anyone set up the book in such a compelling way! just placed it on hold at my library, i was buzzing just reading your description im so excited to get it!!!!

AND THANK YOU!!!! and i’m going to take a shower, wipe the tears away, and start my homework again!!

[erabundus]

@abyssin &&. said... squinting. leans back, fingers holding his chin in contemplation. a smile. it is anything but warm. "i have this most compelling urge to punch you in the face for some odd reason! we could exchange blows." // KHAKASDHAKSD I'M SORRY FOR THIS AND LMK IF IT WORKS, BUT for that inbox call u liked!!

lips  immediately  curl  in  a  sneer.  it's  INSTINCTUAL,  though  consciously  mulling  over  the  suggestion  only  serves  to  deepen  his  disgust.  most  might  find  such  a  request  alarming,  but  the  wanderer  can  only  bring  himself  to  feel  annoyed.  he  doesn't  fear  pain,  doesn't  fear  injury  —  and  while  it's  true  he  probably  does  DESERVE  to  be  punched  in  the  face  for  a  myriad  of  reasons,  that  doesn't  necessarily  mean  he's  going  to  give  childe  the  satisfaction.  ❝  ... why  would  i  ever  agree  to something like  that? are you an idiot?  ❞  amid  the  revulsion,  there's  a  degree  of  genuine  confusion  that  bleeds  into  his  voice.  the  other  surely  has  no  way  of  remembering  him  (  courtesy  of  the  mess  his  past self  made  )  so  he  can  only  ASSUME  this  is  simply  how  tartaglia  chooses  to  greet  people.  charming. yet it's  not  entirely  UNEXPECTED.  there  isn't  a  single  ordinary,  rational  person  among  the  harbingers.  he  would  know  —  he  was  one  of  them.

... arguably  the  closest  to  rational  in  that  entire  group,  no  less.  a  deduction  not  at  all  steeped  in  PERSONAL  BIAS.

❝  if  you  wanted  to  break  your  hand  that  badly,  all  you  had  to  do  was  ask.  ❞  punching  him  in  the  face  would  presumably  net  a  similar  result.  he  has  a  thick  skull  literally  just  as  well  as  he  does  metaphorically.   ❝  give  it  here;  i'll even  fold  a  nice  paper  crane  out  of  your  finger  joints.  ❞  he's  joking  —  well,  probably.  (  there  are  times  when  even  ren  isn't  entirely  certain,  actions  driven  by  RAW  IMPULSE.  )  it  sure  would  make  for  quite  the  sight.

[epickiya722]

SHAKES YOU stumbles into ur askbox . shakes you shakes you . now. now this is incredibly importance okay. i nneed to know. what do you think abt kirishima and bakugou seperately and Also as friends tell me what you thingk. on a scale of 1 - 10 1 being nah not for me 4 being eh theyre ok and 10 being i care about these fictional characters so dearly , in fact i might explode. this is critically important not To my ability to still enjoy them as my favorite characters ever to exist but to know if you also enjoy them as dearly . gazes into ur eyes

for context i just discovered my brain is massive and i quite possibly may be creating the most incredible work of art the kiribaku but ALSO deku in there somewhere maybe not romantically but he's Definitely Involved enjoyers may ever read in their entire lives please tell me if you want to know more because i am So ready to tell SOMEONE about this <- desperately wants to start posting but knows the ultimate quality of the fic will go down in my mind if i post it prematurely because what if i want to go back and include Fun Foreshadowing and Moments That Will Be Referenced Later ??? passes out dead on your doorstep. do you understand i am abnormal.

Okay, okay, okay. Can I just say I'm enjoying this very much? Currently sick and this is just making me smile. I can tell you're very passionate about whatever fic you're writing.

Now to answer your question!

I adore both boys! Their relationship is one of the first I took to in canon because they just vibed well to me and what worked is because how they are as individuals.

Both are a strong 9 for me.

With Kirishima, I find he's just one of the characters that you can't really hate because he's just so him!! He's such a sweet guy, always there for people, does his best, so manly! That's probably one of my favorite gags in BNHA is how he will anything is manly, I admire that, we need more Kirishima's in this world. There's the fact he's thick-skinned. Literally and metaphorically. Perfect against someone like Bakugou. What I love about that detail most is how he became that way. His growth from middle school and onward is just beautiful to me.

Also, I want to bring up character design here about him. Love how he looks like the typical protagonist with his spiky red hair and even got the personality, but nope! Ha ha! Tricked! It's actually the green one here with the freckles. And his black hair from middle school. I don't know why, but I like it. His hair being down is nice really.

Now onto Bakugou! He is an ass, yes, but that was just a telltale sign to me that "He's gonna get hit with that CD" and what do you know! He got hit with that character development. And I love that. What I love about it is how it's not forced on him by others, like no one really went "dude, you need to change". Nah, over through the story, he makes his own self-reflections which is influenced by the events he went through and how others act around and towards him. Love that he has moments of vulnerability where he cries. We all need to cry sometime. And the apology scene. Oh my gosh, that's my favorite Bakugou moment right there. He pours his heart out and apologizes to Midoriya and does this by himself. No one really told him that he to do that, to apologize, but he does so on his own in front of the others and that's rare for Bakugou to show emotion like that in front everyone else.

And I like that even after that, he's still Bakugou. I know some people expected him to be "nicer" but I didn't and honestly did not care for that if he was because he wouldn't be Bakugou if he was. He recognized his faults and expressed it and that's enough for me.

And that skull shirt. Every time I see that I'm just reminded how I would wear this black skull shirt a lot during my high school years.

[merge-conflict]

💕 self-love time! talk about which ones of YOUR creations (edits, artworks, fanfics) you like the most then send to other creators to do the same 💕

🥰

Alright, so unfortunately all I have to share for this one is pieces that are either technically a WIP, or a cut scene, but c'est la vie.

When I'm drafting out an important scene that isn't dialog-heavy I tend to write in stream of consciousness, hitting all the sensory descriptions and metaphors at a high level, which sort of gives me a frame to actually write the rest of it along? I had to search to find a small example because I've started just deleting them after I've written it.. so from cyberhanami I had:

Born To Die [Johnny Silverhand - thats what the name is for, a construct just like the tower. the whipping wind, the smell of burnt plastic, scorched metal and ganic flesh. moving into the belly of the beast. gummy lids. pain too intense to think. half blinded by the blast but it doesn’t matter. from hotblooded to sluggish. triumphant and then just Dead. he wakes up to see the tower. he wakes up to see the tower!]

I took me a while to start doing that, I think because I felt like it wasn't the Proper Way to outline anything, before I realized that was a dumb reason not to use a tool that works lol. Anyway, at some other point I also realized that if I clean this up a little, it has a very particular energy that is perfect for writing a sensory overload moment, or a sort of dissociative scene. Think like those moments in movies where all you hear is a loud ringing sound while a character is trying to deal with either too much at once, or the literal or metaphorical outcome of an explosion. And I really like having found a distinct style to tell those scenes in, which I did first roughly in a now outdated scene (probably 2-ish years old..) for my longfic:

Which direction she picked she couldn’t tell. Johnny’s voice buzzed in her head, subtle as a jackhammer and just as incomprehensible. She passed people on the street, who regarded her with the well-founded hostility all Pacifica had for outsiders, and she had to strangle the absurd desire to shriek with laughter.

Her throat ached. Her body ached.

Her heart, her sorry bruised broken dead heart, sat in her chest and she wanted to pull it out and scrape it clean, bite it, cut it, eat it, anything to make it stop.

The sun was too loud, glinting off concrete like a spotlight. Her skull heaved. She could feel thick blood oozing out of her nose, her ears, her mouth but though she kept wiping at her face she found only sweat. Tears, too, which stung at her eyes. Every part of her vibrated with panicked fury, shivering in the heat of the midday sun. Johnny’s speech gradually had more pauses, more profanity, demanding a response, but it all washed over her like autumn wildfire.

Which was a lot of fun to write, but even though it's kind of pushing at what the Rules of writing are that I vaguely remember from school, it's still pretty regular. So I thought, what happens when I say fuck the rules, and really mess around with style and presentation. Who gets to decide the format and encoding of this piece I'm sharing? Me! :3

And so even though this is an out of order scene that I still have so much to get through before I decide how and in what form to keep it, I'm very attached to the extremely dissociative style of a WIP I've shared in a few iterations:

“Valentina?”

it was a calm voice, a strong voice, wielded in the kind of tone reserved for something feral and dangerous and pathetic. she could not be valentina, and she could not be johnny, and she could not be human, but the awful cacophony in her head would not allow her to be nothing.

Just with the lowercase formatting, it creates a sense of unease, a sense of distance from being fully conscious and fully present. The sentences run into each other, over each other. Not a fully formed thought, but more of an animal stream of consciousness. The following should resonate with anyone who has had to bear the mortifying ordeal of being comforted during a breakdown:

“I need an answer, Valentina. Yes or no. You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to, but I still need your answer.”

“No.”

her voice weak. her voice soft like rust. an impression where once something used to be.

“Thank you. Now how are you feeling?”

her lungs wheezed, a madman’s laughter, but that was hers that was her right and she was weak and tired but her laugh was sharp like a blade and so long as she could hide her face from light it was enough to keep the ground underneath her feet.

“Valentina–“

“No.” Wrong.

this doctor was not stupid. “V?”

agreement could be a sort of silence– if you were petty about it, if you were cornered and angry and helpless like a cat in alley. a fox in a trap. (no. no more. no more–) if you were coiled in and around yourself, where you could not be, but could not afford not to be, that could be yes.

Even like this, you can see that the panicked animal brain is still being managed by V's reflexive and somewhat painful self-awareness. And I'm really happy with dipping into that style when the story is specifically about sense of self, how far self-control can go, and fighting against your own nature.

Aaaaaanyway this got stupidly long and I'm sorry for that, but I just love deliberately playing with writing style and finding and playing to my strengths, even if it's not everyone's cup of tea. :3

[therobotmonster]

"Nice pad."

Gorinfel looked at the Chet. It was sitting on his counter, shoving handfuls of dandelion flour into its mouth. He once again attempted to cast a glamour over the thing, but it kept munching.

"Steel plate, ding-ding." The Chet mimed knocking on its own skull but said 'ding-ding' aloud in a grating but oddly likable accent. "Iron-headed they call me, it's a good, ah, whatchacalem, meatyfor."

"It's a metaphor!"

"Ooo, gotcha to talk to me, now we're pals!" Gorinfel tried to dodge out of the way, but for a creature that small (or was it big?) the Chet moved fast, and before the Prince of Silver Twilight could shout a protest, it had his hand clasped in its flour-covered paw and was shaking it vigorously. "Nice ta meetcha can I getcha name!"

"Wh-what in Titania-" Gorinfel stammered.

"Ooo, almost gotcha! Not so funny when the foots on the udder hand, right?" The Chet slapped Gorinfel on the back in the way humans did when they like you. It was, in a word, gross. "I know ya day-to-day name, Gori, you got it written on ya doorstep."

"How can you read it? It's not visible to anyone but me."

"I'm gonna break it to ya now, I ain't too careful about what I put in my mouth." The Chet said, walking over to the panty. "That yummy flour, particularly shiny marbles, DMT, black licorice... My mom gave me colloidal silver a lot... Blame whichever one of those is convenient."

The Chet started eating a head of lettuce, whole, working around the eyes and nose as it went.

"Put that down! I wasn't planning on eating him till Sparksday!" Gorinfel lunged for the Chet, but it scurried shockingly quickly for a Chet of its variable size. Mortal things weren't consistent in Arcadia, not without help, and it left most of them too baffled and bewitched to cause much harm.

"I'd love to wanna help ya, pal!" The Chet, on the other hand, seemed to know instantly what size and orientation it would be on at any given moment. Information Gorinfel lacked, and the laughing, variably-scaled man-thing delighted in sending the elf careening this way or that. "But he's mmm-mmm too good to give up."

It went on like this for some time. Gorinfel could hear the neighbors gathering, snickering at him through the frost-glass as he failed to capture one unruly mortal within his own domain.

The time it took for Gorinfel to wind up laying on the floor, exhausted, while the currently tiny human kicked its feet from the rafters and ate the last succulent leaves of lettuce.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Gorinfel said. He thought it was a demand, but it came out as a whine. "Just let me just put you under a cup and put you back outside."

"I like you Gori. That, and I owe a lot of people a lot of money. So when I saw you walking through the woods to the mushroom ring, I just thought I'd drop in and stay with you for a bit. Just until the heat's off."

"How long is that?"

"Oh, six, seven years I figure. You got any weed?"

"YEARS!? Yours or mine?"

"Oh definitely yours." The Chet said. "They are VERY mad. I wouldn't wanna be me, I tell you what."

Gorinfel stared upward in silence.

"Look, it doesn't have to be all bad." The Chet said. He jumped from the rafters, carefully taking the route that made him fill half the dining hall when he landed with a crash. Gorinfel scrambled backward, raising his hands in feeble defense against the now ogre-sized Chet.

The immense thing reached its dusted-white hand into its coat pocket. The elf opened his mouth to scream or plead or shout, he was not sure which. He was only certain that a creature this adept, this terrifyingly prepared, was reaching for an iron spike or a club of coffin-wood to smash the life from him.

Instead, he saw that hand pull out a strange bag. It was clear as glass, but moved like cloth, and inside sloshed a thick, white liquid. Only it wasn't white. It was very nearly white. Cream, one might call that shade.

"1.3 liters of Canada's finest." The Chet said with the glee that Gorinfel recognized as his own, in a moment six centuries past when he dangled an invisibility cloak in front of some wizard or another. "Whaddya say?"

Gorinfel looked up at the bag of cream. 1.3 liters was a lot and those were presently very, very big liters. It was a momentary lapse, but it was enough. Gorinfel grabbed the bag greedily, it's size remaining stable now that it was free of the Chet's grasp. With a poke of one faun-like horn, Gorinfel made a hole and began to sup in absolute delight.

It was, indeed, Canada's finest.

"Thank you." The Chet said, offhandedly, like one might say "good day".

"You're welcome." Gorinfel replied equally offhandedly, his attention fully on his repast. He enjoyed that repast for a full three seconds more before his thoughts caught up with his words.

"I'll get my stuff." The Chet said.

"Roomie."

You know how people sometimes get a cat by just having a random stray cat with no collar and no chip walk in and sit on the couch like "yo fucknuts I live here now", and the people just go "well fuck, guess I gotta go get a litterbox then."

Now consider: Humans doing that to the fae. Not being captured by the fae folk, not taken against their will but stubbornly walking in to their realm and refusing to leave before one of them agrees to take this damn creature. Faeries telling each other "naww come on, you can't make it leave, it already ate your food. Everyone knows you gotta keep them if you've fed them."

And another faery yells back "I did not fucking feed that thing, it climbed into my pantry and was eating flour straight out of the bag!"

[oliviaspeicher]

Linen

Content Warning: Violence, Injury, Discussions of Death

by Olivia Speicher

Harvey was a sheep in sheep’s clothes. Besides that— he was neurotic. Because who else in this place would call  things as they are? In the absence of Harvey, no one would. Life would proceed abysmally blissful, a house full of happy ghosts. Most of all Charity, who liked to pretend as if nothing in her life had ever changed. 

But, of course, it had. Her parents divorced when she was seven, her father remarried Harvey’s mother. A new brother, the two became thick as thieves. 

When they were younger, Harvey and Charity would play with the abacus their mother kept in the living room. They were both inexplicably drawn to math, as it made more sense than the people around them. 

For a long time, Charity’s misinformed optimism spread as far as Harvey’s shackled mind. Her joy was infectious. It plagued the rooms of their home, seeping into even the stained and yellowed carpets. The television would be on: buzzing away as if it had anything of importance to say, and Charity would whisper with a grin to Harvey about the boys at school. She was witty, intelligent: more self-aware than their moronic parents who stumbled through life like those hamsters in multi-colored plastic balls. 

They went to college together. Charity became a different beast. Idiotic, inconsolable, and constantly asking for advice she didn’t heed. She met Jovan, a man of few inhibitions and many desires. Harvey never liked him. He was revolting: a pig in wolf’s clothes. He dined and dashed. In a literal and metaphorical sense. He got Charity pregnant, then graduated and dashed away into swells of icy wind— never to be seen again. Which was perhaps the plot of Gone With the Wind. Harvey wouldn’t know, he didn’t bother with movies. 

So Heather was born, against Harvey’s most ardent wishes. There was nothing to be done about it. Charity was an adult and most capable of making her own choices. She somehow managed to graduate, despite the screaming baby beside her in all her lectures. 

For the first time since becoming siblings, Harvey and Charity diverged. Charity went into Insurance Analysis with her Bachelor’s in Mathematics, baby in arms and a wide-eyed smile on her face. Harvey went to graduate school, got his PhD. Every night he would return home to his desolate apartment— particles floated around in the stagnant air, and the TV would buzz as if it had something important to say.

It would be false to say Harvey did not want relationships. He truly did. The others would flock around each other, clucking and cooing with laughter before class started.  They made utterly asinine comments about the quality of the previous lecture, or the difficulty of the work the professor had assigned from the textbook. These were not complaints Harvey could understand, let alone relate to. The lectures were satisfactory, the assignments rudimentary, and even if he had related to them, what more could he say that hadn’t already been whined over countless times? His entire life people encouraged him to find  the meaning in these meaningless interactions, but Harvey could not do something that was not possible. 

Harvey was the person that rotated on the edge of social orbits, always around but never participatory — present, but unengaged with the goings-on of the group. When he walked the stage for the third time to get his PhD: there were no friends awaiting him off-stage, nor either side of his divorceé parents who had both mysteriously been too busy and too far away to attend. Although, Harvey suspected their absence was more so out of a deep, pungent, jealousy that had ruminated in them ever since the reality that their children were far more successful and intelligent than they could have ever hoped to be penetrated their thick neanderthal skulls. The only person waiting for him at the bottom of the steps was Charity.

When he was offered a job as a professor for differential equations courses at a university in Hanover, the city where Charity lived, she offered most graciously to let him stay with her in her guest room while he got situated. Charity loved charity, but Harvey had long ago begun to resent it. 

Regardless, he moved in. The house was too sweet. Heather was older, perhaps around eight or nine,  so her assignments marked in red one-hundreds hung presumptuously on the fridge. Stuffed toys littered the expensive sectional couch. Rich kid toys which had the craftsmanship some couldn't afford on their winter coats. Heather didn’t stand more than four and a half feet tall, but her miles of shiny red hair called enough attention. She and Charity made for a beautiful family. 

Of course Harvey loved them. Some part of him had known for a long time he didn’t like people the way others did. He had never been attracted to anyone, never had a crush, never felt much of anything at all. There was no wife in the cards for him, no children either. Mostly because he didn’t want them. Charity and Heather would be his only family, and that was fine. 

On his first day, Harvey arrived in the dreary blue rain wearing a thick black wool trench coat. He left his bags in the mudroom, and then Charity insisted upon them all having dinner together. She said she was relieved that Heather would have a male role model around, her genius uncle who always knew patience. Harvey helped her make cheesy pasta and asparagus in the too clean kitchen. It was strange to him that Heather could speak like a human —  seeing as he readily recalled a time, not too long ago, where she hadn’t been anything more than a writhing ball of flesh.

“Uncle Harvey?” Heather’s eloquent little voice chirped around a mouthful of pasta.

Harvey paused for a moment, surprised at her sudden attention. “Yes?”

“Do you work everyday?” She asked mindfully.

“Of course I do. Well, I suppose I have Saturdays and Sundays off. Like your mom.” He replied, cutting down his asparagus into segments. 

“Uncle Harvey is a teacher, like Mrs. Day, but for grown-ups.” Charity interjected, a glowing smile directed towards her daughter. 

“How come grown-ups need a teacher?” Heather drew her eyebrows together tightly in confusion.

“You mean: why do grown-ups need a teacher? And it’s because the things he teaches are too hard for little kids like you to understand.” Charity replied, a smirk spreading slowly across her face.

“Hey! I can understand!” 

“Is that so?” Harvey questioned, his lips curling up despite himself. 

“Yes, of course.” Heather pouted, pushing a piece of pasta around on her plate with a fork. 

“Aw, don’t get sad, baby. We’re only joking around.” Charity soothed, reaching out to push a lock of thick ginger hair behind Heather’s ear. 

“The man calls me stupid.” Heather remarked with a sigh.  The statement perplexed Harvey. As far as he knew, there weren't any men at all in their lives besides himself. Charity shot him an anxious look, silently telling him she would explain when Heather wasn’t around. 

Heather cheered up easily, just like her mother, after the promise of M&M cookies for dessert. Everyone washed their dishes obediently in the sink. Heather begged for a movie but Charity informed her it was a school night, and she had to get to bed soon.  As Charity descended the thick oak stairs, having put her daughter to sleep, she motioned for Harvey to join her in the kitchen.

“Who was Heather talking about during dinner?” Harvey questioned, Charity was facing away from him — hands fiddling to open a bottle of red wine on the counter. 

Charity didn’t respond for some time, clearly choosing her words with caution. 

“Heather believes… there is a ghost in the house.” She stated reluctantly, as the cork finally popped. 

A chill whispered up Harvey’s spine: must have been the open window. Raindrops plinked against the shingles above their heads. Charity began to pour the wine slowly into the two glasses, the liquid made a glugging sound as it escaped from the neck of the bottle. 

She was misled, her tiny head imagined a ghost with a rueful malevolence which voiced the internal doubts plaguing her underdeveloped mind.

“Right, well.” Harvey started, trying to relieve the tension.“Children make up stories.” 

“Yes, they do.” A tight smile appeared on Chairty’s round face. “Now tell me about this new position!” 

Harvey sat in the living room with Charity for two hours. They made painful small-talk. He noticed the abacus they had used as children, sitting on the mantle: a quiet haunting. In the past there would have been some excitable childhood giddiness in their late night conversations. As it were, the two shared stilted anecdotes from their time apart — Charity’s being measurably more interesting and full of new people Harvey had never heard of. It certainly made him feel something.

The idea that Charity had never stopped, that Jovan, and the pregnancy, and the parties, had turned her into one of the clucking birds who whittled nonsense for the sake of noise. That for all Harvey’s  immature attempts to punish her for making the mistake of having a child, his distance and his determination to surpass her academically — for all that she was still happy. Not happy because of the chemically laced naivete of their parents, Charity was far too smart for that, but just content with her life because she wanted to be. 

It made him sad.  

Harvey ascended the thick oak stairs to his bedroom that night, and listened to the soft thud of his rubber soles as they hit each step, because no one takes their shoes off in rich people’s houses —they have people to polish the floors. His head swam with a suffocating, self-imposed, misery. 

Suddenly, there was a tap against his shoulder. Harvey stopped moving, hand on the ornate rail, and turned around.

Nothing was there. The touch was innocent. Innocuous and easily dismissible as the fabric of his shirt contorting in such a way that it pressed against his skin. And it would have been dismissed, because Harvey calls things as they are, if it was not for the heat of it. There was a distinct motivation, a feeling that something had decided most consciously to reach out to Harvey. 

It hadn’t felt like nothing. Yet, that must have been the case. He thought about it as he unbuttoned his dress shirt, as he brushed his teeth — leaving his gums bloody due to his unfortunate lack of regular dental hygiene: even as he slipped into the rich linen bed sheets that his step-sister must’ve chosen specifically for him.  

Raindrops splattered messily against his window— like bugs on a windshield. The sky hummed ferociously with some kind of cosmic displeasure as Harvey attempted to lure himself to sleep. It escaped him most cleverly, slipping away through wandering peaks of anxiety. 

There was no telling how this venture in living with Charity would go. Harvey feared he could never get over how utterly pitiful she made him feel. He had clinged so desperately to the idea all these years that becoming a mother must have ruined her life. The truth was, it had not. She was gorgeous, young, successful, and utterly pleased. She had never been without a companion. As a child: she had Harvey, and as an adult: she had Heather. For the first time, a thought occurred to Harvey. Perhaps he was not as content with his existence as he had so meticulously repeated to himself after Charity left him. Perhaps he felt lonely. 

“Harvey.” Some gruff voice whispered, a distorted thing. 

The air ceased to flow. The storm whipped a crack of lightning outside, and thunder must follow. Thunder must follow, Harvey thought to himself. Yet it did not. 

Hallowed terror sparked through the organs which sat within Harvey’s torso. His stomach twisted around itself in a violent strangulation. He sat up in an instant, wide unseeing eyes scanning the remarkably dark and empty room. He didn’t dare respond. 

“Harvey…” The voice soothed, but the sound flickered strangely.  

His fingers felt so cold: hypothermic, even. He tucked them slowly underneath his legs. 

“I don’t want to scare you.” They spoke again, it sounded like a man. “Harvey, won’t you talk to me?” 

Harvey was a sheep in sheep’s clothing. Besides that— he was neurotic. Things must be called as they are. Voices come from bodies, lightning strikes and thunder must follow.  Who, in this place, would speak? Someone more than him:  a wolf in wolf’s clothes. 

The presence in the room was not domesticated. He felt innately wild, like an overgrown hedge in an otherwise pleasant park. 

“Please, Harvey. It’s so cold in here alone.” The man’s voice broke over the words, begging. 

Harvey never had much of a backbone at all. 

“What’s your name?” Harvey asked quietly, laced with subtle disbelief. 

“Jon. Will you say it?” The presence requested quickly, a juvenile excitement in his tone.

“Jon?” 

“Yes.” 

A chill trickled up Harvey’s spine, underneath his shirt and against the thin layer of skin which separated his yellow-bended bones from the world. Someone was most certainly present.

“Harvey, I don’t like it here.” Jon whispered, a phantom of smoky breath appeared next to Harvey’s bed.

“Why is that?” Harvey indulged — whether this was a night-terror or a genuine connection with the beyond: there was no use in being rude.

“The other two. They’re not like you. You have so much inside — I can see it. I’m like that too.” Jon was even closer.

“Do I?” Harvey probed. Jon’s voice was breathy and low, barely there against the beating sheets of rain pouring from the skies. Harvey couldn’t control the smug pleasure that manifested within him at Jon’s words. Yes, he was altogether better than Charity. She was someone who lacked essence, to the naked eye she appeared happier, more successful, but Jon’s clever gaze was able to pierce right through that. Of course that was the case, he was a being of energy, he was of the beyond and must see beyond as well. 

“Yes.” Jon confirmed, the sincerity in his voice made the small follicles of hair on Harvey’s forearms tingle. 

But slowly, dread began to simmer lowly within Harvey. Something about the interaction felt perverse —as if there were laws and mandates of the world being broken just for the exchange of a few simple words. It was terrifying, yes, and Heather must have been right. There was a ghost in the house. Harvey knew that must be the case because he didn’t dream; he never made up pretend stories, and he never saw things that weren’t there. Harvey called things as they are. 

“Are you dead?” He muttered — scared of the answer. 

But there wasn’t any. The room filled once more with its natural insulated warmth, and Harvey’s ears popped.  He must have said the wrong thing. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Next time Jon visited, Harvey would know the answer already. 

Weeks passed without event. Harvey started at the new university. The students were well-kept and respectful for the most part, he didn’t much have to deal with freshmen. But a peculiar young woman seemed dead set on inserting herself into Harvey’s days. The TA for his Advanced Dynamic Systems course — Fiona Beck. 

She was a graduate student of course, working on getting her PhD as well — an MS in Applied Mathematics already secured. Harvey had no qualms about undertaking her as an assistant, she had seemed more than qualified. What he had not anticipated was her unyielding enthusiasm for their collaboration.

“Professor Macintosh, I am more than willing to grade the first quiz. I know you must have your hands full with research, and as you know I am such a fan of your publications. I would hate for there to be any delay.” Fiona attempted to mention off-handedly, however she came across as unequivocally eager.

“No, Fiona. I should at the very least get an initial understanding of the level my students are at. But, thank you for offering.” Harvey replied, his office was almost too small for two people. He was forced to hunch over his desk slightly in order to make room for Fiona to sit comfortably on the other side. He shuffled the unmarked quizzes into a neat pile, and slipped them easily into his folder marked ‘Advanced Dynamic Systems’. 

“Right, of course. Well, you know you can always reach out to me if you need assistance. That is what I am getting paid for, after all.” Fiona muttered, slightly red in the face. For someone who was in her late twenties, she was remarkably immature. She drudged up unpleasant memories of a misguided Charity in Harvey’s mind.

“I am sure I will require a lot more of your time later in the semester.” Harvey reassured her. 

Every night he would return to Charity’s quiet home, not a stray sock out of place. It seemed like neither of them had any intention of discussing his eventual departure. Perhaps it was out of a desperation on both parts to mend what had been so unceremoniously broken between them. 

Heather was a delight — Harvey had never anticipated how much he could enjoy the company of a child. She was quick, like her mother, always with a joke beyond her years. 

“Uncle Harvey, did you leave the tap on in the bathroom upstairs?” 

“Oh, I suppose I must have.” 

“Yes, you must need an equation to figure out how to turn a knob.” 

Harvey laughed lightly. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Her ginger head would bob around the house on the weekends, strewing stuffed bunnies and blankets and pink costumes about the halls; all of which would be miraculously tidied up the next day.  She would beg Harvey to play pretend, not something he was well versed in. Yet he tried to please her — he and Charity would sit on the ground with her as she played Veterinarian on her massive variety of plush toys. The animals had to have owners, obviously. He even wept with despair as Dr. Heather Freitz informed him his pet lamb had passed on. 

Not another word from Jon the entire time. Harvey would lay in bed at night waiting with bated breath for his much anticipated encore act — and was met with resounding disappointment time and time again. Harvey had never been the kind of person to believe in things he couldn’t see. Life is logical, and things that occur randomly are even logical in their unpredictability, but it would be far worse to believe that Harvey had seen something that was not real. After all, the only thing he owned was his mind. In a tautological sense: Jon must either be real, or not. It wasn’t something Harvey could answer without further observation. It had been an altogether petrifying encounter, and yet his desire to speak once more with the ghost was palpable. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on, precisely. 

Some nights, though, his sheets felt much colder. 

Harvey could only take the unknowing for so long. Had the night been a psychotic break? A desolate and delusional hallucination? Not possible, on a Tuesday night he came to the conclusion he would have to take the first step to making amends with Jon. After a filling dinner of lasagna and roasted broccoli, Harvey resigned himself to his room early. He pulled out from his backpack three candles and a lighter, having read somewhere that they were conducive to a communion with the dead. Each candle lit with a tiny flame that licked upwards —casting the shadow of Harvey’s slender portrait onto the smooth vaulted ceiling.

“Jon? Are you here?” He called out in a hushed tone to his overwhelmingly empty room. The light rain sputtered weakly outside.

There was no response. The insectoid hope that had been so unfairly fluttering inside of Harvey’s inundated mind was crushed under some iron-toed boot. Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

“Please?” Harvey pleaded, his throat cracking. 

It seemed Jon never had much of a backbone at all. 

“Yes, Harvey.” Jon’s quiet voice came to fill Harvey’s ears. It was deeply pleasant, remarkable in its ability to pierce through the rudimentary sheet which seemed to separate the living and the dead. 

“I’m sorry.” Harvey confessed, his shoulders hung in defeat. 

“I have forgiven you. I can’t be mad at you, Harvey.” Jon replied, a foreign lightness in his hollow tone — almost like joking. 

“Why didn’t you come to see me?” Harvey was confused. Jon had apparently been mostly unaffected by the indiscreet question, and yet he caused Harvey such a bitter bender of self-doubt. 

Suddenly they were in an icebox, the temperature of the room dropped sharply off a cliffside and plunged into a roiling arctic sea. 

“They didn’t want me here. Harvey, it's so frustrating. I wanted to see you.” Jon moaned, the effect of it caused Harvey to shudder.

“Do you know me?” Harvey asked, the bravado he acquired in the presence of Jon was unusual. 

Jon moved closer, until Harvey could feel the contradiction of him. The heat of his body, his motivation and intention — yet he made the room so utterly cold.  “I swear I do.” Jon said lowly. 

“I’ve seen you since you first walked into my home. I can see you Harvey. I understand you.” He continued, the curtains blew out from the window with a frigid gust.  “I want you to know me. Do you want me here?” Jon questioned, a lilt to his voice that failed to hide his desperation. 

Harvey couldn’t have been sure. In fact he hadn’t much thought about it during the time Jon was gone. Heather was scared of the ghost. Charity spoke of him briefly, with shaking hands that couldn’t well open a bottle of wine. They misunderstand Jon — exactly as Charity had misunderstood Harvey for the past nine-odd years. Her poisoned enthusiasm had always made her so fucking blissful, and yet so blind. 

“I do.” Harvey could swear he heard Jon’s lip part in a smile.

“You’re so perfect.”

From then on, Jon’s presence became far more noticeable within the home. Cutlery shifted slightly as the family ate dinner, lights turned on as Harvey entered a room — he would leave the papers on his desk in total disarray and wake the next morning to find them neatly stacked. In the sanctified walls of the guest bedroom Jon would speak to Harvey alone. 

It was thrilling. Knowing the so valiantly chased supernatural truth of the world, being the only one who knew it. Jon had chosen him above Charity. Harvey had something she didn’t — the depth he had always known she lacked. Jon simply confirmed it. 

Even while Harvey was at the university, his mind was riddled with thoughts of Jon: the kinds of things he must have done while everyone was out of the house, besides stacking papers. Harvey imagined he would turn on the stereo when he could. What had Jon listened to when he was alive? Bach or Bowie?

“Professor Macintosh?” Fiona’s timid entrance woke Harvey from his wandering daydreams. She cautiously closed the door to Harvey’s office behind her.

“Yes?” 

“I, um, I wanted to ask you something.” She informed him, her face taking on that feverish rouge once again.  

“Of course, what is it?” Harvey replied patiently, although it was wearing thin. His office hours ended in less than five minutes, after which he would be able to return home to Heather and Charity, who would help him prepare dinner. He was anxious to ask Jon about his musical inclinations. 

“Are you free this evening?” She sputtered out.

Harvey was struck with resounding shock. To begin: no, he was not free. Not only that, but even if had been free, why on Earth would he spend his evening with a colleague?

“I am not. Why do you ask?” Harvey questioned, perhaps Fiona had an exam coming up that she had wanted his assistance with.

“Oh, sorry. I’m sorry.” Fiona gasped, she seemed to be in emotional distress.

“Fiona, are you alright?” Harvey attempted, her face was growing closer to the resemblance of a tomato with every second.

“I’m perfectly fine, yes. I was just confused, I think. Most confused, yes. I will see you on Thursday, Professor.” She talked so fast Harvey couldn’t hardly understand what she was saying, and before he could ask for any more clarification, she ran out the door. 

Harvey was certainly aware of his own proclivity to lack a depth of social understanding. Fiona’s actions truly befuddled him. It may be the case that he said the wrong thing; his question was probably too blunt. Even still, he couldn’t conjure up a reason for such a silly blunder to upset the girl so much. 

Perhaps Jon could explain it to him, and as soon as Harvey returned from work: he felt Jon at the door: waiting. 

Jon’s increasing activity didn’t go unnoticed by the others. One evening, as the three of them were watching some mindless television program, Heather said something quite strange.

“The man talked to me again last night.” She commented, almost uninterested.

Charity glanced over at Harvey, an apologetic look on her face.

“Heather, really? I told you those are just dreams.” She lightly chided.

“What did he say?” Harvey asked, attempting to sound nonchalant. In reality, he was distressingly curious. Jon had even said he didn’t like Charity and Heather — he had no reason to speak with Heather. Perhaps except to call her stupid again, a sad but slightly hilarious habit of his. 

Charity turned to him sharply, clearly upset with him for dignifying the pretend monster with a response. 

“I shouldn’t tell you. It was very mean.” Heather informed them, eternally eloquent. 

Harvey’s thoughts stuttered momentarily within the mixmaster of his mind. Ultimately, Jon was harmless. That much was obvious — the girls had been living in the home for more than six years. If he was capable of doing anything outside of light tricks and whispers he would have. It pained him, though, to know Heather was being hurt by Jon’s misguided frustration with the family. 

“Well, now I have to know. What did he say to you?” Harvey tried again.

“Harvey, stop. Seriously.” Charity’s voice spiked, no longer nice. 

“Uncle Harvey I really can’t tell you.” Heather insisted, crossing her puny arms across her pajama clad torso. 

“I’ll just ask him myself then.” Harvey taunted. 

“No!” Heather cried, shifting towards her mother and burying her face against her. 

Charity wrapped her arms protectively around her daughter. Shielding her from her uncle’s indulgence in her falsified nightmare. “Harvey, stop scaring her.” 

“Sorry, I’m sorry. Your mom is right, Heather. There’s no one really there. It’s just something your brain does to try and make you afraid.” Harvey relented, sour guilt starting to creep up his throat.

“Why?” Her tiny voice asked, muffled by the fabric of her mother’s shirt.

“I don’t know. I’m not a psychologist.” 

The next day Heather broke the abacus.  

Of course, it had been an accident. It was a Saturday. She was playing far too passionately with an antique model Ford Torino that probably cost more than Harvey’s monthly salary. It rolled back and forth in a frenzy on the length of the mantle.  An object in motion will stay in motion, or so they say. Almost like a highway collision, the Ford veered too far forward and too far left — a dramatic fall for both parties: casualties involved. The wooden frame of the abacus splintered itself over the Persian rug, and beads flew out across the room in a most explosive fashion. Harvey watched with a grotesque fascination, and yet couldn’t quite identify how the event made him feel. 

Heather began to weep abashedly, profusely apologizing as her mother scooped her up — unconcerned with the broken bits of wood and plastic on the ground. 

“I’m sorry mommy! I’m sorry!” She wailed.

Her mother shushed her gently. “It’s okay baby, it’s okay.” 

Harvey stared at the instrument, in its pathetic state, crumbled into absolution. Charity shared a look with him over Heather’s shoulder. She mouthed the word ‘sorry’. He gave her a shrug, smiled as though it was the most inconsequential thing he’d ever bared witness to — walked over and calmly consoled Heather. 

Jon’s presence appeared behind Harvey. His shallow breath felt warm against his nape. Later that night, Jon asked about the abacus. 

“What did the girl break?” 

Harvey sat up in his bed. He felt the sheets dip slightly beside him. Between his fingers he took the top sheet, it was soft linen, and picked it up. He placed it delicately over the space where Jon should be. The shape of a human appeared beneath it, like a kid on Halloween. Jon snickered. 

“Does this make you happy?” He asked, the clarity of his drifting voice dulled by the sheet.

“Yes.” Harvey replied simply. Then, he reached his hand shakily towards the form beside him. His fingertips touched the fabric, each fiber whispered softly against his skin. He continued to inch himself forward, until he met something solid. If he didn’t press too hard, he could feel Jon’s chest. 

“What did the girl break?” Jon questioned again, snapping Harvey out of his mindless state.

“Oh, it was an abacus. People counted numbers with them a long time ago. Charity and I used to play with it as children.” Harvey explained, tucking his hand underneath his thigh. 

“I see.” Jon whispered. “Lay back down. Go to sleep.” He lulled, his arms beneath the sheet met Harvey’s shoulders — carefully guiding him downwards. 

Harvey felt his hand move forward once more, resting it gently against the place where Jon’s arm should be. “What did you say to her?” 

“What?” Jon responded, his quiet voice delightfully confused.

“Heather said you talked to her again. What did you say?”

“Oh, I see. Are you envious?” Harvey could hear the grin in Jon’s words. “I only pour my heart out to you, Harvey.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Harvey chided him.

Jon’s face underneath the white sheet got impossibly closer. “Go to sleep.”  

“I want to be with you longer.” Harvey complained. 

“You and I will always be together, Harvey.” He muttered before disappearing. Harvey went to sleep that night and did not dream. 

The next day Charity screamed. It was more than just harrowing. Hearing that noise come out of his sister made the world combust. Chemical implosion, and an infinite chain reaction for as long as numbers could count — which was a long time. There was something so completely disgusting about it. It nearly made Harvey keel over, he kicked off the tangled sheets by his feet and rushed down the hall. His sock clad feet slipped mercilessly against the polished hardwood floors — dark wood.  

Everything in the house looked wrong, the pictures hung on the wall were all too long —they drooped. The faces were horrific, intimidating and deeply malicious. They stared at him with vehement anger. Harvey was so scared, yet he pushed Heather’s bedroom door open with such force it hit the drywall with a phenomenal bang, ricocheting off its own frame. 

Heather’s pale body was lifeless. She layed perfectly still on top of her small twin bed. Her face was tinted blue, and all her extremities looked stiff — cold as ice. Charity wailed so loud her throat must have torn itself apart, she desperately clung to her daughter. Harvey hadn’t known he could ever feel so much. An acrid thing crawled up his stomach and chest and throat. It dissolved everything inside of him, so excruciating it made him nauseous.

The sheets circled her neck, like a noose. They were pale pink and had a thick hem at the top. At once Harvey realized that Jon had killed her. He had wrapped the fabric around her throat and strangled her. It was surreal — the knowledge was dizzying, and Charity was inconsolable. 

Harvey stumbled out of the room, scarcely able to control the movements of his body. He struggled back down the hallway to the guest bedroom and began to pack a bag.

“What are you doing?” Jon’s lovely voice hummed from the space behind Harvey. 

Harvey was petrified. It was beyond fear, beyond remorse or guilt or disgust. Heather’s soft orange hair had spilled innocently over her mother’s shoulder as Charity cradled her frigid corpse. That was something Harvey could see. The thing at his back was a monster of his summoning. It lived a half-life in a place Harvey could not see. Yet, he had let himself become so entangled with this non-reality. Something so utterly against himself, something he had known from the start was the perversion of a soul. He had raised Jon from disillusionment, and offered up Heather for the slaughter. All because he had been on a rampage his entire life to fuel his pitiful ego. Jon, who had whispered to Harvey that he was superior. Who made Harvey believe, for the first time, he was able to be known. 

But it seemed there was nothing of value Harvey could ever offer to the world after all. He could calculate the flow of heat between two adjacent molecules, as close to touching the world as he could bear, but ultimately he was a broken cog in a vast machine that had never, ever, wanted him. 

“I’m leaving.” 

“No, no, that’s not what we talked about.” Jon was almost demonic, his fury infiltrated the very air in the room. 

“You disgust me.” Harvey spat. “I fucking hate you.” 

“No, no, no, no, no! It was supposed to be just us! That’s what you wanted!” Jon whined, the lights began to flicker a discordant pulse throughout the house. 

“Kill me or let me leave.” Warm tears stuttered contemptuously down Harvey’s face. Jon was silent, his boiling rage faded to emptiness, and the only sound in the house was Charity’s endless wails.

Harvey left, he stayed at a hotel for several weeks before he found an apartment. Charity moved out of the home, as anyone would. After the funeral, he never spoke to her again. He put in his two weeks with the university. Fiona Beck looked as though she’d been shot, but Harvey could never bring himself to care for her in the end. That life had always been a nice idea.

Harvey’s guilt was indomitable. Heather’s gentle voice would visit him in his dreams, always so forgiving, it made him sick. Charity was robbed of everything she had ever been. Her tremendous wit, her relaxed laughs — reclined against the expensive sectional couch. Her bubble popped, and Harvey was the one who shoved her brutally into the wasteland of the world. 

If there had ever been a place in the world for Harvey, it seemed he was too inept to find it.