#this one was Quite difficult to parse out

[tenderwatches]

summary: jayce deals with the aftermath of their fight—or tries to. Other factors (including Viktor himself) doggedly occupy his mind, which makes things difficult.

There is a particular sort of anguish in mourning someone who is still living. Jayce had stood before a grave when they buried his father; he’s known grief in his life, but whatever space it is that Jayce and Viktor are in now is colder than a tomb. It rattles at the cage of his bones like an animal left to die. He can feel something miserable scratching at the walls, but he is helpless to let it out and can only hope that the space between them will someday smother it. Until then, he doesn’t know that he can move on from it. It’s not the same weight he felt carrying grief forward with him. But what else is there for him to do with it all?

He presses his palm into the centre of his chest as he leans back at his workstation, watching dust dance across his vision. A pain sits there in the root of his body; it’s been there for years, of course. Viktor’s absence has been a slow knife, plunging into him in agonising inches over the time they’ve been apart. His return hasn’t removed it, only lodged it deeper. Not quite a killing blow but close; to hear the resentment he had assumed Viktor felt towards him stated so plainly is all of his worst fears come to life.

The turbulent emotions left from the argument still roil inside of him. Viktor’s bitterness and blame were to be expected—but somehow he hadn’t been ready for how different it would feel to stand in a room with his partner. After their brief and dismissive reintroduction to one another, he’d hoped maybe, possibly, a more private space would lend itself to a true conversation.

If he can just have the exchange he’s wanted to have with Viktor every day since they’ve been apart, then all of this would feel fixable. But it had all fallen apart from the very start. He can take Viktor’s accusations of betrayal—Jayce feels much the same about himself, but Viktor won’t listen to him. He wasn’t prepared to be refused the opportunity to even try. The accusations of his lack of care hurt the most, the way Viktor seemed certain that Jayce would have sacrificed him for something as petty and pointless as public approval.

The lamps have flickered on in his lab now. Distantly, sounds of Piltover’s wealthy thrum outside his window as they amble to and from the stately mansions in this part of the city.

Jayce is hardly aware of the impressions of the world moving around him. In front of him are a jumble of plans, nuts, bolts, and his personal journal. It’s a familiar chaos and yet, he’s a stranger to it. He’s still living in that room. Viktor’s scorn rings in his ears. He hears the way his name is shaped on his former partner’s lips—cold, impersonal, like greeting a particularly unpleasant stranger.

He hates it—and he hates that this is of his own making.

“Jayce?”

Sky Young is lingering at the door, concern on her young face; he wonders what expression he must be wearing to warrant that look from her. He makes a best effort at constructing an expression closer to his usual, but he’s never been good at hiding his feelings. At least, it warns Sky off of prying.

She clears her throat and shuffles forward. “Sorry to disturb you.” Her eyes cross over the mess on his desk, and he can feel her try and parse out what, if anything, he’d been working on. “But we did get the replacement orders in with the artificers… Unfortunately, they’ll not be available for another,” she pauses to consult her notes with a grimace. “Three months.” He huffs and rolls his eyes, and she shoots him a personal little smile that he can tell means she expected that reaction. “I know you said you could have them done in-house quicker, but we need your eyes on the next round of tests. The runic patterns are just… well… you’re the expert here. Thomas tried; I tried, but it’s not our area of study, and we can’t afford to keep replacing parts like this.” He sees her expression wince a bit; it’s obvious she thinks she’s overstepped. She lifts a hand to brush back a gentle curl that’s come loose from its style in a nervous gesture.

Jayce hums and takes the proffered plans from her. Reaching over to the notebook on his desk, he rifles through pages as he tries to pinpoint the report of the previous sequences his assistants have been running. Wherever the report is, he can’t find it, and he feels a sharp, irrational stab of anger at that. He’s on edge—of course he is, as he has been for months—as he is even more so now with the echoes of damning accusations ringing in his ears.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, tipping his face away from Sky. The young woman certainly doesn’t deserve whatever tart response is building on his tongue. “I’ll take a look at it, Sky. Just let me know once we get those components in,” he manages in a civil enough tone, eyes fixed on the plans in his hands.

She mutters a quick confirmation to him, and he hears her turn before she pauses at the door to look back towards him. “I heard, you know. That Viktor’s back,” she says softly, and Jayce’s eyes snap to her. “Will he be coming back here or… ?”

It takes everything in him not to say something ugly in response to that. Of course Sky would ask. She grew up right at the edge of the fissures. Viktor would never have been invisible to her as he seems to be in the upper echelons of Piltover society. In fact, it was his former partner’s recommendation tucked into her impressive personal resume of work that had encouraged him to hire her. Not that she would ever hear that fact from him. It was pathetic enough how he’d traced Viktor’s signature with the pad of his finger like a fool upon seeing it. Others don’t need to bear witness to every particularly humiliating impulse he’d had in their first months apart.

He composes himself and turns what he hopes is a winning smile on her, though from her expression, it probably lands closer to ghoulish than confident. “Oh, who knows, Sky? Doors are always open, of course.”

She blinks at him, and he curses that she is a clever sort who clearly sees through his admittedly terrible attempt at nonchalance. But her shyness wins over her keen perception of Jayce’s withholding nature, and she gives him a sharp little nod of her head. “Right. Well… goodnight.”

As soon as he hears the door close behind her, he folds. Pressing his face into his palms, shame nearly bowls him over. He hates how transparent he is, how he’s now sending his kind and reasonable lab staff scurrying from the room whilst he acts like a madman. He can’t sit here in the hurt of the past forever. The problem that is Viktor will remain; he’s had almost two years now to reconcile that. Viktor’s expected anger is another thing he’ll just have to endure. In the meantime, there are always mysteries to solve.

Abandoning his pursuit of the trial reports, he reaches for his journal and paces over to the chest that currently houses their supply of synthetic crystals, the front of which is embellished with the symbol of Clan Ferros. He slips in a key to peel back the lid, revealing contents that gleam as blue any natural hex crystal he’s worked with.

The first time he’d stumbled upon the original hex crystals, their energy had sung to him, power reaching for him like a warm hand. It brings him back to the moment magic saved him every time. But these crystals… unsettle him.

They are about the same size, smooth, and perfectly round, like the stabilised version Viktor and he had produced before their estrangement. They are significantly more volatile than even the raw versions of the crystals he’s used, and yet, still less powerful. Stabilisation remains an issue, but he’s no longer as concerned about levelling a city block with his mistakes. He knows that these are a creation of some deeply guarded process that Clan Ferros has perfected. Quietly asking around has revealed that they aren’t created topside, so he suspects they’re made somewhere below, slotted between chem-baron plants where they might avoid council oversight and scrutiny from the ethics board.

Beyond that, the synthetics feel hungry, wrong. But scientists don’t make decisions on gut feelings alone, and otherwise, the crystals are simply scientifically frustrating.

The urgency behind adapting them to Hextech is obvious. These crystals, produced by a powerful merchant clan, are vastly easier to procure than the ever-dwindling supply of hex crystals that Jayce has been sourcing for his work. The council has been footing that bill since the gates first opened in order to keep them operational. The unfortunate reality of a miracle like the Hexgates is that miraculous happenings are rarely going to be created without cost. In this case, the crystals themselves are consumed; each use of the Hexgate is another hex-battery destroyed. It’s costly to maintain, and only the extraordinary nature of what the gates have accomplished can offset it.

However, it’s not exactly a sustainable practice. Viktor and he, back when things were good between them, had discussed plans to accomplish this, but with his partner banished to the Undercity, the momentum of their work has cooled. Jayce is smart, a genius by any measure, and that is not just his ego talking; he trusts in his own mind well enough even in the fraught emotional state he’s in. But the two of them together are extraordinary. It’s no wonder the work is moving slower, that the hope for expanding projects and improving efficiency is getting less possible with the city always crying for novelty.

Clan Ferros discovering a way to synthesise something close to the magic that supports the gates promises to be a huge breakthrough that likely would have taken Jayce years to perfect on his own. It will be a triumph if he can manage to integrate it into the existing gates. The benefits are legion; it will drive down costs not just for the funding and operation of the Hexgates, but also for the use of them. He and Viktor had always talked about how cost efficiency could make the gates viable for standard trade instead of being too expensive for anyone but the city’s wealthiest

The idea that doing this work might be acting in service of their original dream has kept Jayce moving in his research on darker nights of the soul than this one. Sometimes the sorrow of what he lost paralyses him, but sometimes it is a raft, propelling him forward through the tumultuous waters of his own mind.

He decides to abandon stabilisation tests for the moment. With half the equipment nonfunctional, it’s less than wise to push it, and instead he brings a supply of crystals into the sealed chamber they use for temperature trials. He spends hours freezing and thawing, making careful notes of each reaction. It’s a more productive evening than he might have imagined after everything, and it’s near midnight when he finally relents, tucking away the supplies from his trials and notes.

He pauses, debating if tonight is the night to push himself, considering the upheaval of the day. Ugh, what the hell. Sleep will elude him as it is. Carefully, Jayce unlocks the desk drawer securing his most personal papers. The thin, early morning hours are the only time he can allow himself to indulge in this particular work—illicit research is best done without the implicating an innocent lab assistant, after all. Settling back into his desk chair, he flips through a series of notes he’s become all too familiar with, trying and failing to ignore how the sight of Viktor’s slender handwriting makes grief come alive in him. Instead, he settles in with a weary sigh and starts to re-read his partner’s words.

‘The nature of magic is not stagnant…’

𓊈 first chapter | previous chapter 𓊉 𓊈 next chapter on AO3 𓊉

AN: Thanks for reading 'Epitaph', chapter four of our fic, Lies We Tell Ourselves! i forgot to post this yesterday 😭 but!! we're up to chapter 17 on AO3 and have just gotten ANSWERS good golly, so please join us over there if you don't want to wait for the next chapter to be posted to tumblr (on tuesday!!)

[moe-broey]

Brain still soup but like. I think making one or both (or more!) characters involved in relationships with each other aromantic makes the dynamic soooooo much more compelling. Because if you remove romance as a motivator, you really get down to the nitty-gritty as to WHY that character is seeking out/involved in those relationships in the first place. Whether that relationship involves romantic factors or is more of a queer platonic thing. Much to think about....

[vorestarr]

i love when Astarion is mean, and i mean like genuinely mean, saying shitty things and lashing out specifically to hurt someone or push them away. i think it really says so much about him and about the specific situations when he feels the need to lash out. i love seeing it with Durge/Tav, but i'm playing a Karlach origin to romance him right now and he's so mean during his first romance scene when he can't even kiss Karlach.

after playing it, i went to look at the parsed dialogue for that scene because i wanted to see if there were any dev notes, and oh boy are there dev notes. walk with me here while i go through them all. (i didn't add alt text to the images below, but i did transcribe the lines i'm referencing in the images below, so all the important information is in the text of the post itself.)

it's the typical Astarion scene, but after his "i've been waiting to taste you" line, he diverges with: "Although your condition means tasting you could be a risky proposition. You're quite the forbidden fruit, aren't you?"

the player (as Karlach) has a few choices in reply at that point, but as long as they pick one that progresses the scene (i.e., not the one where you reject him last minute), he goes down the same dialogue tree. this tree starts with:

Astarion: All denied to us because of what Zariel did to you. [devnote: subtext, thinking about Cazador]

so right off the bat he's upset because Karlach's situation is reminding him of his own with Cazador.

but then his next line is:

Astarion: I - you know, I have no idea what to do with you now. [devnote: Astarion's mask as the flippant libertine is cracking a bit here. He's frustrated but vulnerable here. Because he can't physically seduce or touch Karlach, his usual means of interacting with a person is punctured. He's faced with the reality that he might not know how to handle a situation where he can't bite or seduce his way to the finish line.]

wow. that's a lot in that dev note.

at this point, the player has the option of a few responses, but two options to continue the encounter. the choices to continue it are: "You don't have to 'do' anything. We can just be." or "After the life you've led, I'm not surprised."

if you choose the first option, Astarion is frustrated but less mean. he says:

Astarion: 'Just be' what, exactly? Frustrated? Bored? What do we do, if not... that?

if you choose the second option, he's a little meaner. understandably so, since the player just poked at his painful past:

Astarion: You think you know the life I've led? The experiences I've had? You've no idea the stories I could tell, sweet Karlach. But you - you're just -

then, both the paths converge to the same final statement, which is mean no matter what Karlach has said to this point:

Astarion: Urgh! Why is this so difficult? I'd have already bedded you twice if you were normal.

importantly, there are dev notes for all of his lines here, but the notes are all the same:

devnote: Masking defensiveness with offensiveness. In truth he really does want what Karlach is offering (to just hang out without having sex) but now that it's within grasp he's floundering.

again, at this point the player has two choices to continue the encounter, and one to end it. i'll go down each continue path separately, since they can diverge quite a bit.

path 1

the first choice is to say: "Twice in this short space of time? Doesn't sound very satisfying."

he gets mad. and mean.

Astarion: Karlach! You know what I mean. [devnote: Frustrated] Astarion: Or maybe you don't. Astarion: There may be an inferno in you, Karlach, but at the end of the day you've been frigid for a decade, isn't that right? [devnote: Being mean-spirited in an attempt to drive Karlach away, even though he doesn't actually want to do that.]

the player again has two response options to continue the encounter, and one to end it.

the first choice to continue the encounter is: "You want to try that again? Without being a jackass, maybe?"

in response he says:

Astarion: This is impossible - you're impossible! [devnote: Masking defensiveness with offensiveness. In truth he really does want what Karlach is offering (to just hang out without having sex) but now that it's within grasp he's floundering.]

(at this point, the path diverts to merge with the dialogue tree from the previous branch where Astarion complains about Karlach not being normal. so we'll pause here, and continue down that dialogue tree with the path 2 header below.)

the second choice to continue the encounter after Astarion says that Karlach has been frigid for a decade is to say: "What's really going on here, Astarion? Suddenly you're so vicious."

he replies:

Astarion: Suddenly? Darling, you haven't been paying attention. [devnote: Seething and mean.] Astarion: Listen, it's just - ... I'm sorry, all right? Is that what you want?

again, at this point, he diverts to the same shared dialogue tree as the other response option. that merges with path 2, so we'll continue there:

path 2

to go BACK to the previous branch we went down, where Astarion said he would have bedded Karlach twice already if she was just normal, the other response option for the player is: "I am normal. 'Fucked up' is the height of normalcy."

instead of being mean, Astarion immediately apologizes:

Astarion: Oh no - don't you tar me with your 'normal' brush. My demons keep me extraordinary. [devnote: Karlach has punctured Astarion's bad mood with a joke.]

and then he apologizes, like he does in the other paths, saying he doesn't know what to do without being able to touch her.

Astarion: I - ...I'm sorry, Karlach. It's just, not being able to touch you - having to slow down, it's... I'm just not used to it. [devnote: subtext here is on the slowing down. That IS what he wants. But it's hard for him to see that clearly.]

Astarion: So, can you -... I don't know. Help? Show me what to do? [devnote: First breakthrough. He's asking for help knowing what to do when you can't jump into bed with someone.]

again, at this point, the player has two options to continue the encounter or one to end it.

for the first response to continue, the player can say: "We can just talk. As long as we want. Then we can sleep. Near, but not too near."

Astarion responds to this one pretty positively. he's still a little mean, but it's in his fond teasing way, and not his biting, cruel way:

Astarion: Karlach, champion of the Hells, wants to talk and then fall asleep? [devnote: Incredulous] My dear, you're much more boring than I gave you credit for. [devnote: Teasing] All right, Karlach. Let's try it your way. [devnote: Gently. He's feeling vulnerable, but sees that this might be a chance to feel safe.]

the second response option from the player is: "I don't know either. This is all just as new for me as it is for you."

he doesn't respond quite as well to this one, and goes back to being mean:

Astarion: Well. To quote you: 'Fuck.' Astarion: Why don't we put ourselves out of this misery and just sleep? If I can at least look at you, I won't have wasted my whole evening. [devnote: Peak of Astarion sexy toxicity.]

then, the scene fades to black and it transitions to the morning-after scene with Astarion, where the player first sees his scars.

i also think as a whole, this scene is just so representative of Astarion's early-game state of mind. he's following a comfortable script with all his interactions, but when he's confronted with something new, he flounders.

especially when it comes to sex, which is a touchy subject for him, his first reaction to any vulnerability is to lash out and hurt people. in this scene:

if Karlach brings up his past experiences, he lashes out. ("You think you know the life I've led?")

he blames Karlach for the situation because that's easier than addressing that he doesn't know what to do without his script. ("if you were normal")

if Karlach jokes about him ("Doesn't sound very satisfying") he lashes out even further, calling her frigid and impossible and then even doubling down if she calls him out ("you haven't been paying attention").

but if Karlach jokes about HERSELF ("'Fucked up' is the height of normalcy"), it snaps him out of his toxic bullshit and he's able to take a step back and apologize to her.

then regardless, he's also able to recognize that this is an opportunity to get what he wants without having sex, and recognize that he wants that too.

and then to me, Astarion being mean in that last response choice ("I don't know either") makes perfect sense, given the context of his other lashing out earlier in the conversation. even if the player didn't make those previous choices where he lashed out at them, he can still get mean and toxic on this choice.

crucially, with this choice, he's taken that step of hopeful vulnerability where he recognizes that maybe he does want to just spend time with Karlach without having sex, but he doesn't know how to do it. he asks for help.

if the player says they don't know how to do that either, he immediately puts those defensive walls back up. he doesn't want to flounder around, he wants an answer. he wants to know that it's actually possible to have a positive experience with someone without the script he's always used. the player saying they don't have that answer just pisses him off.

wow okay this post got really long, but i really vibed with the dev notes for this scene, and i think you can see exactly these toxic behaviors from Astarion in other scenes and in romances with other characters as well, but it's just so so clear with the Karlach scene and the dev notes just really highlight that.

[drchucktingle]

Is there a reason you didn't include an acknowledgements section in Camp Damascus?

yes actually, as man name of chuck i have spent a lot of time FINDING MY IDENTITY through masking and unmasking. in early days there were many more layers hiding me away and it took a while for me to understand WHY. over the last ten years buckaroos have very much seen me find myself through art, accepting and talking about my sexuality, neurodivergence, and gender.

there is ALWAYS a layer to protect my privacy, and to allow myself room for POETRY. example i like to give is that if i post 'i pet a dog today' i might have actually pet a cat, but everything i say is true is some sense. in the early days that truth was stretched farther because even i did not quite understand it my dang self, and it has been my journey to strip away as much of this mask as possible (sometimes called removing my skin) and BECOME MYSELF on this timeline (which is something i have always talked about)

if you have been following chuck for the last decade you will see my older posts were much more abstract and difficult to parse, they reference themes that i have since come to terms with, and this journey to find myself is WHY i have been able to do this. some could say it was the journey of a reverse twin adapting to their new timeline, others could say it was the journey of a neurodivergent artist allowing themselves the freedom to find a healthy expression and conquer their chronic pain from constant neurotypical masking.

FOR INSTANCE this is why i am wearing buckaroo suits on tour now, an outfit that is more true to the INNER ME. i used to answer interview questions with metaphor and now i just answer, only hiding certain details when i need to. i talk less about figures in my life back in billings who were REAL IDEAS and PARTS OF MYSELF but sometimes not flesh and blood or ghostly buckaroos. this is my trot, and this is why i am so strongly against gatekeepers in the buckaroo community. i have been becoming myself long before i knew what that meant.

so when it came time for acknowledgments i realized i would have to acknowledge buckaroos who helped along the way but also ABSTRACT IDEAS who helped along the way, symbols and themes that i have since decided i wanted to leave behind. it was important to me to create a new era of my expression where those abstract layers are respected but also stripped away. i have to respect the inner truth i am trying to cultivate, for way of my mental health and also my physical health.

so i DID write out acknowledgments and sent them to my buckaroos privately, then i said please do not include this in the public book. these days i want to hide behind as few layers as possible, that is my artistic journey now. buckaroos were very respectful and supportive.

very quick before we finish, there was one other small and important reason. i am so sincere ALL the dang time it is kind of my natural state to get very emotional and thankful, that i kinda thought 'i am going to give myself space here to NOT stress out over this for once'. i am constantly thinking about acknowledging others and i LOVE this part of my trot, but doing it in a way that is so defined and specific and maybe even performative (gotta write your acknowledgments now bud. HAVE to do it) felt at odds with my inner way.

anyway thank you for this very good question what a dang treat to talk about this detail and how much it means to me to find truth in my inner trot.

[drdemonprince]

hypno audio files on how to deepthroat? would you mind sharing? 👀

I wish I could remember all of the ones that I used.

there are a few cocksucking audio files on The Spiral Machine,

people who like the more casual, conversational style will enjoy Ally Brinken's cocksucker file from that site; fans of more intense brainwashy stuff can find a few other options on there, including some audio files by me! some of the other big cocksucking centric files that I used to use are from creators I wouldn't necessarily recommend to others these days, like neural nets and pretty patterns.... some of the accusations that came out about him were very difficult for me to parse, but the community sure seems to treat him as a persona non grata these days and that doesn't seem to have been arbitrary but rather backed by numerous people having problems with him. but if you do want to look them up on soundgasm, I do have to say they are really well produced files.

I used a variety of cocksucking centric files during the time that I was most focused on it, I prefer the brainwashy style stuff that loops and really just fries your consciousness rather than the more narrative stuff, but your mileage may vary. it's not that anyone particular file is magic or anything like that, it all depends on what works for you. I combined listening to the files with fantasizing about sucking cock quite frequently and trained a bit on a dildo at home. I also engaged in some play with partners that really emphasized a fixation on sucking cock and getting face fucked, and that all together seem to unlock a relaxed gag reflex and ability to take it in the throat for hours at a time shockingly easily. I still kind of blank out every time I'm in that position. Man I love this stuff

[lilacxquartz]

FIRST IMPRESSIONS / final part

choso × gn!reader

ao3 • masterlist • << previous part

summary: choso promises you safety, but you can’t help but feel like staying behind would invite more danger instead.

The entirety of Shibuya was overrun with chaos at this point.

The closer you got closer to the surface, the more you could hear the screams and cries of what was unfolding in the city and you couldn’t help and yet, you couldn’t help but feel lucky in a bittersweet kind of way.

That could have been you up there; suffering with the rest.

You were never supposed to be here, after all. Just a victim of your own ignorance and caught in the middle of something you still didn’t quite understand. You were just barely grasping the concept of sorcery but it was all too late.

You were dragged into it and unintentionally involved and now, there was no way out.

Except through him.

Choso stood right before you, still not too keen on letting you go. His mind warred with itself internally, trying to seek out the logic and reasoning behind setting you free. Realistically, he knew that this was an unsustainable pipe dream unless you were also entirely on board.

He still saw you as a beacon of hope of some kind; as someone who saw him for beyond what he truly was. Being half curse himself, he hated the idea that he was born partially from human negativity and hatred but especially with how he was, for a lack of better words, developed.

Settling on an idea, the area you were both in was technically secure. If you stayed right where you were, he could come back and collect you when the main danger was gone and you’d hopefully be intact.

“Stay here,” he instructed in a slight murmur. “I…I have to settle something, but you’ll be safe here. I’ll come back for you.”

“Wait,” your replied, feeling confused, “you’re leaving?”

Choso was just as conflicted as you were. He couldn’t take you to where he needed to go; it was too dangerous. At the same time, he couldn’t just let you go completely because the rest of the district was in shambles.

“I have to confront someone from my past,” he repeated again, “then I’ll get you out of here.”

“…Who?” you tried to ask, you wanted nothing more than to understand what was going on.

“A curse user called Kenjaku,” Choso revealed, knowing that you were just barely keeping up with him at all. “He’s the one responsible for all of… this. For me. He made me into this and he’s out there hurting people I still care about.”

You cautiously nodded, trying to understand. It wasn’t quite a world you were familiar with, but you could register the sentiment behind his words. People hurt people in ‘your world’ too. It didn’t surprise you that the people with certain… abilities as he tried to explain them to you, were abusing them.

“Please,” he added, gripping onto your arm as he tried to drive the point home. “Just stay here. You’re the only one who has ever made me feel human and I want you to make it to safety. If you want to leave after…” he paused to strain himself, finding the next words difficult to utter, “then you may.”

There was something unsettling that brewed within his tone, as if there was no room for argument beyond the command he gave you. You could only nod slowly as you parsed his instructions even if you didn’t quite agree with being stashed somewhere for who knows how long.

Before he left too, he pressed his lips against your forehead as a kind gesture. It wasn’t quite a kiss, but something about it felt possessive enough.

“You’ll be safe if you stay here,” he repeated once more, nestling you within the underpass, far away from the action. It wasn’t completely safe but it was highly unlikely that you were going to encounter danger this far away even if the entire district was compromised.

“Okay,” you nodded again, although you were unsure if you could truly mean it. “I’ll stay here.”

You watched on as he disappeared into the city; his figure fading off into a blurring silhouette. A part of you wanted to follow him just to see what he was taking about in the flesh, but you were too terrified to move all at the same time.

Being left behind in the middle of everything that was going on however, felt like torture. Especially as your own anxiety began to slowly overwhelm you. Minutes felt like hours and although he claimed that you would be safe if you stayed put, the distant noises within earshot did very little to comfort you.

You tried to stay hidden, just like Choso had asked you but it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay committed to your promise.

Hearing a noise a little too close, you swallowed down a painful gulp and slipped out of the hiding spot. Just in case. You tried to go towards where there was less bustle and noise, eventually walking yourself back into what seemed to be a woman.

You blinked at the sight of her. She was calm, composed and even looked a little annoyed at the sudden clash. Dark brown hair covered her face, just barely concealing desaturated eye bags, hinting at lacking sleep.

She hummed as her eyes glossed over you. “You’re not a sorcerer.”

You gulped, finding that your voice stuttered a little as you attempted to reply, “I-I am not…”

“What is a non sorcerer doing all the way out here?” she asked both you and herself, her tone of voice carrying a distinct calmness to it.

“I-I don’t know,” you stammered, trying to find the right words, “I just got caught up in all of this. I was going to a party, then I got lost and I met this guy who told me to stay here to keep safe but then I kept hearing things…”

The woman nodded as you talked, her eyes gradually narrowing as she tried to understand your partially incoherent rambling. “Alright. You’re a civilian who got caught up in this. Not to worry, if you follow me, I can get you out of this.”

“A-actually… I’m waiting for someone,” you protested slightly, feeling somewhat tethered to the strange man from before. You felt like you owed it to him to at least be within the vicinity, so he didn’t think you died or something similar.

The woman frowned slightly, not liking the sound of this. “…Who?”

“He called himself… Choso?” you replied.

“I haven’t heard of him,” she murmured, feeling some slight concern build within her senses. If it was a sorcerer from the opposite end, then she especially didn’t want a civilian to get involved with the wrong people.

“Oh,” you sighed in a slightly resigned tone.

“You should come with me,” she repeated once more, in the same sort of self assured tone that Choso did. “I’ll get you out of here. Waiting around in this place will only get you killed.”

Gulping once more, you nodded and followed her forward, attempting to ignore the gnawing feeling of unease that twisted in the depths of your stomach. Choso asked you to stay and even though you strayed slightly away, you had no idea who on earth you were supposed to trust out here.

You strayed a little too close to the woman as she navigated you through the quieter streets, meeting with a tan man with thick rimmed glasses and sharp cut hair.

“Got another civilian,” she gestured with the flick of her head towards you.

The man nodded. “I’ll see if I can get a hold of someone to get them out, but it might take a while. It’s hell out there. See them through in the medical bay for now.”

“Got it,” she said before snapping her fingers and getting you to tag along right behind her once more.

This time, she brought you towards a sort of makeshift medical area that seemed to be far away from the main battle. Sorcerers, or what you assumed were such, seemed to be treated for their wounds and you were sat down not too far away, jittering a little as she made sure that you weren’t actually injured anywhere.

“Where were you initially?” she asked, as though trying to gauge just what type of mess that you were caught up in.

“T-the station,” you replied.

Her eyes slightly darkened at the mention. Shoko knew from the briefings from her colleagues that the subway was dealing with transfigured humans as well as unleashed cursed spirits, so the very fact that you, a civilian, had made it out seemingly unscathed was… well, a miracle.

After what seemed to be like hours more, there was a strangely familiar presence within the area. You could feel that you were in trouble somehow and when you saw the man from before closing in on you, you knew why.

“Hold on,” Shoko interjected, as did the tan man from before, Yaga. “Who’s this?”

“Oh,” a teenaged boy with pink hair interjected, seeming oddly cheerful despite the state that he was otherwise in. “That’s my brother apparently, or something. He was misguided before, but now he’s on our side! He’s a death painting so he’s kinda like us but stronger!”

Shoko could only sigh, sensing that this whole incident was getting more and more complicated by the second. “Great…”

You tensed as the pale man closed in on you, his body quickly bridging the gap as he loomed over you. His voice was rough with worry, but he kept his volume confined to just a whisper, “I told you to stay hidden.”

Shoko narrowed her eyes as she watched, leaning slightly towards Yuji. “Hey, kid. What’s his name?”

“Choso, I think,” he replied.

“Huh,” she could only reply, wondering how on earth you got yourself involved with a death painting but chose not to read too much into it for her own sanity.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured out to him, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I heard a noise and got scared but then I found her and it technically worked out, so…”

“Do you have any idea how worried I was when I passed by the area and couldn’t find you?” he replied, not quite listening to you. “You were supposed to trust me.”

“And I do,” you tried to argue back, “but I got scared because I still don’t understand what’s happening.”

Choso’s expression grew taut as his fists clenched at his sides. He could tell that more than a few eyes were on both you and him the longer that he discussed safety matters to someone who clearly didn’t belong. It seemed as though Yaga was close to intervening, but Shoko prevented him from doing so, clearly curious by the turn of events.

“I believe you,” he sighed at last, his shoulders finally sagging. He didn’t want to cause yet another scene, blinded by his own lacking understanding. If he wanted to be more human and even be seen as such by you, then he had to recognise that irrationality in the face of fear was just a part of it.

Despite the slight audience, he pulled you into a hug in an attempt to comfort you, holding you close even in spite of the chaos that could still be heard raging just outside.

Choso knew that this would be an on and off limited thing, since his mission was not yet over but the least he simply couldn’t resist holding onto the very first person who ever saw him for who he wanted himself to be.

“You don’t have to protect me like this though,” you tried to whisper. “I think I’m safe now.”

His expression of serenity however slightly faltered, his eyes boring into yours as he attempted to keep you with him. He didn’t quite understand what you had meant and in his mind, you were close to abandoning him even though it was far from that fact.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked quietly again. “Do you want to leave all of this?”

Of course you did, he thought. Of course you didn’t want to endure this whole mess. How stupid he was to think otherwise—

“—no,” you said instead, catching him by surprise. “I want to know more about what’s truly going on.”

“Then…” he tried to find the right words again, his voice caught in the back of his throat, “would you please let me protect you? Please. If anything happens to you… I-I don’t know what I’ll do—“

“—okay,” you gently interrupted him, trying to calm him down. “I’ll trust you to do so.”

Choso then shuddered out a shaky breath, his body slacking some more as he finally secured a place in your heart, from what it looked like. Pulling slightly back, you felt a little awkward as everyone quickly averted their gazes, pretending as though they weren’t listening in on what to them, was a slightly bizarre exchange.

Choso continued to slightly shake as he took in his newfound responsibility; his body tense with protective need. He wasn’t quite sure what regular human life was like, but he wanted to protect you from the negativity that spawned from within the shadows—to perhaps even learn how to exist amidst the chaos as your hopeful equal—even if it was for just a short moment in time.

After all, how could he even begin to let someone like you go? He was glad that you didn’t want to go straight home, that you wanted to stay, because if he was being truthful to himself; he wouldn’t have let you go.

Oblivious to his spiralling thoughts, you leaned into him as he also did the same, enjoying your company in a rare moment of silence. He would have to let go soon, to carry on with protecting humanity from an ancient evil keen on carrying out its plans, but that didn’t mean that you would be very far.

Choso exhaled slowly, feeling a heavy weight slowly be lifted off of his shoulders as he peeled himself away from the hug you gave him.

It was a brief feeling that he felt from you, but for once, he felt peace within your arms.

Finally, he felt truly human.

And that was enough to keep him going.

And hopefully one day, he would return to you.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Can we see Alfred and shop girl bonding in the Other Half?💕

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Warnings: Mostly fluffy, with a peppering of angst; Shop Girl has nightmares; this is an Alfred-centric chapter for obvious reasons

“I known Frank twenty years. I do that to him, can you imagine what I’ll do to you?”

The words are drowned by a gunshot, and a cruel laugh—

You’re sitting up and scrambling to turn the lamp on before you can stop yourself. You heave in tight, panicked breaths as your memory still crowds behind your eyes and rings through your ears. You look around the bedroom, and for once, you’re relieved to find Bruce’s side of the bed empty. Ever since you’ve returned to Gotham, he’s been hesitant around you. His worry hasn’t disappeared, but he’s been far more careful about voicing that concern. 

You draw a deep breath in through your nose, forcing yourself to hold it for ten seconds before slowly blowing the air out again. You can feel the panicked pounding of your heart as you begin to adjust to your reality, away from your nightmare. 

You look around the dim room, stomach churning in discomfort at the thought of laying back down and trying to fall back asleep with the memories of the kidnapping so close to the surface. You push the sheets aside, tucking your feet into your slippers and taking your bathrobe up from where you’d hung it over the footboard. You pull it open, yawning widely as you head for the door. 

It’s a short trip to the kitchen, but you’re surprised to find the lights on, and Alfred puttering around. 

“Alfred?” You speak up, voice thick from disuse. You smile a little as he turns to look at you. “Is everything okay?” 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

You hum softly, walking over to the stove. “I wanted some tea,” You fib. “Would you like some?” 

“I’d be happy to make it.” 

“I don’t mind. You do these things for us all the time. What are you doing up, anyway?” 

“I had trouble getting to sleep, myself.” 

“Really?” You frown, turning to look at him once you’ve put the fire on under the kettle. “Are you alright?” 

“Quite alright,” He reassures with a gentle smile. “I was trying to parse whether or not Master Wayne may want to do anything for Christmas.” 

“Mm,” You nod. “A good question, consider the catastrophe that was Thanksgiving.” 

You walk over to the shelf that Alfred keeps the tea chest. 

“Would you like a biscuit with your tea?” 

“Oh, yes please,” You smile. 

“Has he said anything to you about Christmas?” 

“Not a word. But communication’s been a little…Odd since I got back.” 

“‘Odd’ how?” 

“Mm, well,” You shrug, opening the lid of the tea chest. “I don’t know, I feel like we’ve been tip-toeing around one another.” 

“That is to be expected, even if it’s uncomfortable.” 

“As long as it doesn’t become our normal.” 

“I’m certain you’ll find a way to work through it.” 

You smile as Alfred joins you at the counter with two clean mugs. 

“Thank you. Chamomile?” 

“How you know me,” Alfred chuckles. 

“Two tea bags?” 

“Yes, please.” 

You set the tea bags down in one mug before taking up a packet of sleepy time for yourself. 

“...Alfred?” 

“Yes?” 

“Can I ask…” You trail off, weighing your words as you put the tea chest away again. “When I asked Bruce about whether or not we were doing anything for Thanksgiving, you know—before the fiasco…He seemed to sort of…Glaze over.” 

Alfred purses his lips, considering. 

“The holidays have always been somewhat difficult for Mr. Wayne, but we haven't celebrated Thanksgiving since he was a very small boy.” 

“Oh…” You slouches back against the counter, scrubbing your hand across your forehead. “I wish I had known that. I’m sure this year hasn't sent him scurrying back to the table for turkey.”

“You couldn’t have known unless one of us told you,” Alfred soothes. “And if you consider it another way: the holiday can only get better going forward.” 

“...That’s certainly an optimistic way of looking at it. Though I may just hop on the bandwagon and never celebrate it again.” 

“It would certainly cut down on the dishes.” 

You snort a soft laugh, jokingly whacking his shoulder in admonishment before turning back to the stove, hearing the kettle scream. You fill each mug, glancing back as Alfred sits at the kitchen table with a plate of biscuits. You sit down across from him, passing him his tea before taking up a biscuit.

“...I take it he’s not back yet,” You hedge. 

“No…But it’s early.” 

Early. Your eyes stray to the clock. It’s nearly half past three. You shake your head a little, peering down into your tea and levering the bag in and out as you think. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“No,” You insist, “I just, um…Every once in a while I have these flashes to when I met Bruce. It was a little over a year ago now.” 

“I remember.”

“How are the gloves holding up, by the way?” 

“They’re in excellent condition.” 

“I better call my old manager. She’ll be so happy to hear it.”

The two of you share a chuckle before Alfred reaches out, resting his hand atop yours and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Drink your tea before it goes cold,” You nod toward it. “I know that drives you nuts.” 

“There is nothing worse than a cold cup of tea.” 

“So you keep telling me. What are your opinions on iced tea?” 

“That is an entirely different matter. It’s alright if the tea is cold, so long as it did not start out hot.” 

“Something tells me you’ve thought a lot about this. I’m starting to think this is what really keeps you up at night.”

“More than you could possibly imagine.” 

Next Part

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

A few quick housekeeping things! First: a friendly reminder that my taglists are CLOSED! If you’re new (or if you’ve been her the whole time and just got here too late for the taglists), you can subscribe to the “#if I should stay” tag and follow along that way! I do my very best to post every 4 days. Secondly, if you’d like to see every part of this in one place, the ellipses below now links to the second part of the fic taglist! I’ve gone back and edited all previous parts so now everything should have a link imbedded in the ellipses. Unfortunately, if you reblogged an older version of a part, you won’t have the link in the ellipses. If you read all this, kudos! Now onto the story.

Part 1 | . . . | Part 28 | Part 29 | Part 30

They get to school and rush in just before the bell. Steve catches Eddie’s eye and blushes before he ducks his head, sliding into a seat and pulling a notebook out from his backpack.

He finds it more difficult than normal to focus, but he does his best, breathing a sigh of relief when the bell finally rings.

“Hey, Eds,” he murmurs as they walk out of class.

“Eds,” he parrots, something in his gaze that Steve can’t quite parse out.

Steve blinks, frowning slightly. “Do you not want me to call you that? ‘Cause I can-”

“No,” Eddie says. “No, it’s fine, just… new.” A light flush paints his cheeks. “I like it.”

“I’m glad,” Steve says, smiling softly.

“Steve,” someone calls from down the hallway, and Steve hides his wince when he turns to see Tommy heading his direction.

He sees the moment Tommy notices who’s with him; sees the moment his face changes. “The freak bothering you, man?” He asks, getting between Steve and Eddie.

“No,” Steve says, maybe too sharply for the way Tommy looks back at him, confused. He takes a breath, tries again. “We’re fine.” He looks at Eddie, wants to say so much, but sees him subtly shake his head.

He takes another breath. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” He asks Eddie instead. “For, uh, the project?”

“Project?” Tommy looks between the two of them, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, for Mrs. Click’s class,” Eddie says smoothly. “She hasn’t assigned it for you yet?”

Tommy looks to Steve, trying to confirm, and Steve nods. “She just assigned it, a two-page paper about the person she pairs you up with. She’ll probably stagger it, though, so you probably won’t get it for another week still.”

Only half a lie; that had been an assignment, and she had assigned it roughly a week later, but he and Eddie hadn’t gotten it yet.

Behind Tommy’s back, Eddie winks at Steve and walks away.

Steve moves to walk to his locker, Tommy following close behind. “Man, it sucks that you got stuck working with that freak,” he says sympathetically, shaking his head.

“Nah, man, Eddie’s cool,” Steve says, forcing the cheer to stay in his voice.

Tommy snorts. “What, that fag?”

“Stop it, man,” Steve says, a note of warning in his voice.

“Don’t tell me you’re sticking up for him,” Tommy sneers.

“Y’know what?” Steve says, stopping short in the hallway. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m tired of being an asshole like you, like my dad. Maybe I want to meet people and have them like me for me, not for what I can do for them, or for the money or the big house.” He shakes his head. “Stay the same if you want, change if you want, but I’m done.”

Tommy grabs his arm, and Steve yanks it away, glaring at Tommy. “Don’t do that,” he says. “And leave Eddie alone.”

“Or what?” Tommy says, grabbing at Steve’s arm again.

Steve intercepts, grabbing his wrist, giving a warning squeeze. “You really don’t want to find out,” he mutters, dropping Tommy’s wrist and walking away before Tommy can get a word in edgewise.

Robin brushes past him on his way to his locker. “Proud of you, dingus,” she murmurs, and he does his best to hide the smile that brings to his face.

Carol’s waiting by his locker, popping her gum obnoxiously. “So,” she said. “Heard you were a bitch to Tommy.”

“Takes one to know one,” Steve replies. “If you’re here to convince me to stay an asshole, feel free to leave whenever you want.”

She shrugs. “Tommy can also be a bitch sometimes,” she agrees. “But the Hagan name holds almost as much power as the Harrington family.”

Steve offers her a crooked smile. “There’s more important things in the world than names.”

“Maybe,” she shrugs, unconcerned. “You know he’s majorly pissed at you.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I don’t really care.”

“I didn’t expect you to. Just thought you should know. He’s gonna try to get back at you.”

Steve snorts. “He’s welcome to try.”

“Alright.” Carol shrugs again, gently nudges his shoulder with her fist. “See you around?”

“Maybe,” he agrees, looking at her. “What do you see in him?”

She sighs, looks down the hallway. “I think once upon a time I saw who he could be.”

“And now?”

“I’m afraid of who I’ll be if I leave him.”

Steve offers her a commiserating smile. “You’ll be yourself,” he says. “But it can definitely be scary.”

She grins, sharp, pulling her mask back on. “Damn, Steve, when did you get smart?”

He smirks at her as he shoulders his backpack. “It’s not that. It’s that I finally care enough to say something.”

With that, he walks off to his next class, mentally thinking about his schedule and holding in a groan. Chemistry. He hated chemistry, the first time, and something tells him he’s going to hate it just as much this time around.

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[nekropsii]

I have a very genuine question and I come with no intent of provoking anyone, but what do "masculine" and "feminine" mean if we don't go by stereotypes like wearing skirts and bows or having a certain attitude? Or are you saying that wearing pants is masculine is an outdated concept? I can understand that man and woman go well beyond presentation and stereotypes, but I thought masculine and feminine meant just that.

Gender is an ever evolving social construct and complete genuine horseshit, but there are some declarations of what is and is not belonging to a certain gender presentation that are wildly outdated. So yes, I’m saying that “wearing pants makes a woman manly” is outdated, because it literally fucking is. That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time. Maybe that would mean something in a piece of media from the god damn 1800’s, but it doesn’t mean shit now, and it’s patently ridiculous to act like most women don’t have a pair of fuckin’ pants in their wardrobe in the year of 2024 in the continent of America.

To look at a woman who is hyper-feminine and declare her masculine on the principle that she is wearing fucking pants is weird and sexist because no normal person thinks that way without themselves also being sexist, often to a very substantial and oppressive degree. There’s women’s pants. There is a women’s pants aisle. Do you earnestly think a pair of bedazzled bellbottoms with BABYGIRL printed on the ass and no pockets and zero crotch room is intended for men to wear? Because they’re not. Like, I’d love for men to wear that shit, obviously, but it’s demonstrably not intended for them to wear - again, zero crotch room, no pockets. Women’s pants are a real thing that exist and they’re notoriously built differently from men’s pants. And by differently I mean often built like shit, and this is why some women, regardless of gender presentation, will shop in the men’s pants aisle, and this does literally nothing to damage their own femininity.

In the context of Meenah, it is even worse to declare that she is masculine purely on the basis that she is wearing fucking pants, Jesus shitting fuck Christ, because she’s very, very clearly Black coded. This dips straight into Misogynoir, quite clearly. A big part of Meenah’s character is her femininity, but she’s often labeled as masculine purely for stupid shit like “being mean” and “wearing pants”. It smacks of how every Black woman has to fight just to be seen as herself, because society so often strips people of the choice to be perceived how they wish to be seen on bigoted grounds. Black women are frequently labeled as manly no matter how feminine they are on the basis of them not performing femininity to white standards - not quiet, prim, dainty, minimalist, subservient.

Any little thing gets a Black woman’s Woman Card yanked from her hands. “Too loud”? Scary, manly. “Too mean”? Aggressive, manly. “Dressed wrong”? Sloppy, oversexual, manly. It’s practically the default form of Misogynoir. And here people are, proudly declaring it and defending it using some logic that only works in the 1950’s and back, or proudly declaring that saying that wearing pants makes a woman more masculine by default is a totally normal thing to say by pulling out some absolute Spiders Georg examples. Tone deaf.

It’s… Really not that difficult to parse, but Tumblr has an issue with recognizing any form of misogyny or racism, especially in itself, Jesus Christ, so… What can one expect.

[vintagerpg]

Well, whatever the problems of the previous modules in the series, H4: The Throne of Bloodstone (1988) has no intention of leaving players wanting. The theme here is “Go big” and, well, it does. The “H” always stood for “high-level” but none of the previous modules earn that classification quite like H4, which has a rating of level 18 to ONE HUNDRED.

Plot? Simple. Get the Wand of Orcus. Destroy it. And also Orcus. In his house. The adventure starts with the final confrontation with the Witch King who had been the source of all the problems in H1-3. They then journey to the Abyss and make their way to Orcus’ fortress. The encounters are frankly ridiculous. Demogorgon, Yeenoghu, Juiblex, Graz’zt and more await to be battled or bargained with along the way. There is a city of 100 liches. There is another tarrasque. There are multiple hard to parse mazes that defy conventional physics. Then you fight Orcus. And after all that, you know what you need to do to destroy Orcus’ stupid wand? It needs to be dipped in the heartblood of Tiamat. Sure, no biggie, off to Hell we go!

I don’t think H4 gets talked about enough. It is possible the most over the top, ridiculous, improbably difficult adventure TSR ever produced (the book offhandedly recommends two DMs run the fight against Tiamat, but gives zero guidance on how that would turn out). Everybody is always like “Oh, yea, gonzo old school, like White Plume Mountain,” or “Oh, yea, deadly old school, like Tomb of Horrors.” This thing has both those beat. Handily.

Great cover by Keith Parkinson. Among my favorites. The lads from the band Final Gasp like it too.

[piratefalls]

once again a mix of oldies, goodies, and oldies but goodies, because apparently my brain decided to start treating fic the way i do books: collect them and forget to read them.

masterlist.

all we are is skin and bones by IndestructibleHeart

Alex didn't plan to push Henry Fox into oncoming traffic.

Amigos y Migas by floatingaway4

“Christ, how is this so good? It’s like magic and science and...and I don’t even know what else.” Henry moans as he swallows another bite. “How the fuck does he do this? And how does he do it in a truck the size of our walk-in freezer?” Pez leans back against the wall. “Are you eating that or getting turned on by it, Henners?” Henry rolls his eyes, even as he tries to glare at his head sommelier. “Can’t I do both?” The sauce drips down his wrist and he shamelessly licks it off.

silk and steel by teacupivy

Thanks to a welcome day off, Henry and Alex spend a lazy morning in bed. Soft, mid-morning cuddles escalate into semi-soft, mid-morning sex.

Never Truly Leave by clottedcreamfudge

"We found something in Arthur's things," Catherine says, without any preamble. "I've never really... gone through his personal effects properly, until now. It's been rather too difficult for me to face." Alex nods. ... "I found something for Henry, but it's... Well, it's actually for you." Alex blinks at her.

Date night (it's a tie) by TheAmberFox

“So here’s what’s going to happen, sweetheart. I want you to strip out of these clothes and get on the bed, so I can tie you to our headboard with both our stupidly boring ties and make you come until you can’t any more. Would you be amiable?”

religion's in your lips (even if it's a false god) by coffeecatsme

“You seriously never heard of Henry?” Alex feels defensive. “Should I have?” he asks, and the guy stares at him for another second before a laugh escapes his lips. “Well, rumor has it he’s turned multiple people here gay.” Or, 5 times Henry brings a guy home and 1 time he doesn't have to. Or, Henry is a rumored sex god, Alex is his roommate, and he's jealous of everyone Henry brings through the front door.

Race You to Forever by allmylovesatonce

Alex comes up with the perfect proposal idea: He and Henry should compete for it. Henry is less than enthused, but agrees anyway. Neither of them could predict the strange things that happen when they're competing for who gets to propose to the other.

a rich and complex tapestry by everwitch

When Alex first hooks up with Henry, he's expecting a fun one-night-stand and maybe the occasional booty call. He does not expect to get so completely pulled into Henry’s orbit that it forces him to reevaluate everything he thought he knew about his sexuality. And he's not sure if it makes it better, or way worse, that Henry is actually a professional at all this stuff — what are the odds that Alex would hook up with the one guy on campus who hosts his own radio show about sex? 'Sleeping With Henry' is about to gain one devoted listener.

I fall to pieces when I'm with you by viciouslyqueer

If once is an accident, and twice is a coincidence, when it happens a third time Henry really starts to think about it. — Three times Alex doesn't want Henry to touch him and one time he understands why.

I must tell you what you will not ask by lizzie_bennetdarcy

Henry's lower lip wobbles, and a fresh tear rolls down his cheek. Alex watches it track down to his chin, and wonders if Henry would mind him wiping it away. “I really was looking forward to seeing them.” Another tear escapes, and this time Alex can't help but lean forward and brush it away with his thumb. Henry's breath catches, and he looks at Alex, wearing an expression he can't quite parse. “Come home with me,” Alex blurts out. Henry's plans for Christmas fall through, so Alex invites him home for the holidays. They're best friends, strictly platonic roommates, so why does everyone think they're dating?

love me long, be my sunlight by weather_stained

“What is it, then?” Henry asks. Alex glances up at him, and there’s laughter in his big brown eyes. “It’s porn,” he says gleefully. “In your handwriting.” While unpacking their office together, Alex comes across some very explicit Star Wars fanfiction written by none other than HRH Prince Henry himself.

we might just get away with it by smc_27

Henry is the most gorgeous man Alex has ever seen. And Alex has seen a lot of gorgeous men. He’s a fucking model. “This is Henry Fox-Mountchristen,” Prada’s current PR lead says, and Alex smiles and pushes his hand out. “He’s a journalist covering the merger.” Alex doesn’t know what merger or what it would have to do with Paris Fashion Week. But he does know that Henry holding a glass of champagne as he shakes Alex’s hand is maybe the sexiest thing ever, and there is just no explanation for that. “Hi. I’m Alex.” Henry says, “I know,” and then does this weird, forced smile at Bianca and walks away. Alex doesn’t know how to like, not be completely obsessed with things he wants. OR, Alex is a model. Henry is a journalist, and a bit of an asshole. Alex wants him anyway, even when it doesn’t feel good.

Someone Special by bleedingballroomfloor

"That was Shaan," Henry explains as Alex snuggles closer to him, pressing his nose to his neck. "The blizzard hit early, apparently. Too risky to fly." "So Christmas here?" Alex says in that sleepy drawl of his that Henry will never get tired of. "Fuckin' sweet."

Because I'm A Scoundrel by inexplicablymine

Alex Claremont-Diaz has exactly thirty minutes to make himself look as slutty as possible for this Halloween Gala. At this very moment he looks a little bit like a sexed up pirate, but with the addition of his small black vest - rest in peace to the Patagonia packers and finance brethren- and a low slung belt with a “blaster,” a very sex-on-legs Han Solo is looking back at him. Henry Fox, who is both a double scull rower with enough Olympic medals it would make anyone other than Alex sweat, and the definitive arch nemesis of Alex - is wearing a white sylvette Princess Leia costume, hugging his curves in all the right ways, the clingy fabric draping to the floor. When you and your arch nemesis show up to the most important gala of the year in a couples costume you either play it up or shut it down. Alex has a decision to make, but the way that dress is hugging Henry’s ass isn’t making that decision any easier.

the super sick(s) by cricketnationrise

Super Six snowed in at the brownstone.

two is better than one by rizcriz

Henry swallows. “You were going to propose to me tonight?” Alex nods. “I still am,” He says, throwing his hands out at his sides. “If I can find the damn ring.” “Right. But,” Henry reaches into his pocket and pulls the ring out of his pocket that he’d quite literally just picked up from the jeweler. “I was going to propose to you tonight.” He holds the ring box up between them. -- Or, Alex and Henry both want to propose.

every tale condemns me for a villain by tintagel

Alex Diaz is one of the worst villains to have come out of reality TV in a while. Just Henry's luck that he's doing a signing for his new autobiography at the bookshop. But it's tough to hate someone when you only see what's been edited together.

Oxidation by Thee_Maxwell

“Well, Alex–” and yep. Yeah. Yeah. His name sounds as nice in Henry’s mouth as he hoped it would. His vowels are open, wide, but he doesn’t hesitate when saying it. It comes out like he knows Alex, like he’s known Alex. He goes a little warmer at the thought, and if he were doing anything other than flirting with a very pretty boy, Alex would blame it solely on the alcohol. “–I’ve got to ask. Is there more to the getup?” That catches him off-guard, and he’s not entirely sure what Henry means, so he tilts his head like a dog watching something that interests him. Henry huffs out a laugh, but clarifies, “Perhaps I’m mistaken. The uh, the hanky. Cowboy, yeah?”

blushing ears and bleeding hearts by kill8a

The man is gorgeous. Like, objectively. Long legs and wide shoulders and wavy blonde hair, cheekbones sculpted from marble, black pressed slacks and a robin egg blue button down, expensive loafers on his feet and a nametag pinned on his shirt… Alex doesn’t understand how someone can walk out of the house and just look like that. or, alex meets henry while studying in the library and is immediately interested

when you know, you know by vibrantsaturn

With shaky hands, Henry pulls out the ring from the box, looking at Alex with tearful eyes that he adores so much. Asks, "Alex, darling, will you marry me?" Alex lets out a watery laugh, swiping an arm across his face to get rid of the rapidly falling tears. He kneels down to cup Henry's face and brushes his thumbs across his cheekbones softly. "Baby. Don't you remember?" Alex whispers, leaning their foreheads together. "We're already married."  or, Alex "marries" his best friend when he's six-years-old. It just takes some time for them to fall in love, but they get there.

if you take a life, do you know what you'll give? by anincompletelist

It would have been one thing had Alexander’s job description been simply to stay in his hotel room and operate the funds covertly, an exceedingly safe distance away from Henry and any of Le Chiffre’s men. As it is, they’d instructed Alex to play the part of Henry’s date for the night, subsequently granting him the access he’d need to the private cardroom within the casino in order to report back to headquarters the funds needed in the precise moment Henry would need them. It's too dangerous, and he knows it. Henry's had a lot of blood on his hands in this life, but he refuses to have Alex's as well.

Got a will to win and a Cheshire grin by @kiwiana-writes

Please find attached the list of collective bargaining agreement breaches reported by the Sports and Recreation Floor in December. As the designated union representative, it is my responsibility to ensure that the rights and interests of our members are protected and upheld, even (or maybe especially) during our busiest time of year. In accordance with the grievance procedure outlined in our collective bargaining agreement, we request that Santa’s Workshop takes immediate corrective action to remedy these breaches. Please set up a meeting at your earliest convenience to discuss these issues further and explore appropriate resolutions. Thank you for your immediate attention to this matter.

You're the Perfect Gift for Me by chamel

“Twenty-one-year-old Scotch,” the man says with a low whistle, looking more impressed than anything else. “Special occasion or just expensive taste?” Alex can’t stop his grimace. “Came up here to propose,” he says, even though this random stranger doesn’t need to hear his woes. “Found out my girlfriend’s getting back together with her high school sweetheart.” “Ouch,” the man replies, the word sounding slightly absurd in his rounded, posh accent. He looks at the bartender. “Leave the bottle.” (Dumped two days before Christmas by his girlfriend, Alex meets a British writer who's spending Christmas on his own in generic Tiny Town, USA, and together they discover something new to celebrate.)

the clementine thing by saintlynomenclature

And, really, it doesn’t matter whether or not Alex explains it to Liam and the rest of his friends. They’ve never really discussed it between themselves through the years. Slowly, Alex had gone from asking Would you please peel this for me? to Please? to silently extending the citrus without any comment at all, just a soft smile. It’s one of the things that make them Alex-and-Henry; the silent conversations and the contentment in each other’s company. Now, as Alex starts to flourish through his position on the lacrosse team, his slew of AP classes, and his role in student government, getting him to slow down at all is a feat. The only way that Henry can do it, guaranteed, is by one of those innocuous little fruits. There’s nothing Alex can’t do—surely, he could peel a fucking orange if he felt so inclined—but Henry delights in being able to do this for him. - Five times Henry shares a clementine with Alex, and one time Alex returns the favor

You're So Attractive; How Did That Happen by @sparklepocalypse

Henry is a big man. He’s tall — taller than either of his siblings and most of his cousins. His shoulders are broad. Years on horseback have helped him develop decent muscle mass. So when Alex storms into his life like a beautiful, infuriating tornado, Henry fully expects to continue feeling big. But Alex has ways of making Henry feel small, cherished, even precious. (Or, three things about Alex that make Henry feel wonderfully small, and one thing that doesn't.)

as always, if you want me to tag you for whatever reason just let me know. see you next week!

@starkfridays @stilesgivesmefeels

[aotopmha]

All of the takes from the higher end FFXIV players I've seen recently feel so out of touch/narrow-minded to me.

I see people complaining about healers when I ran the most recent dungeon as one just the other day and we wiped several times.

I already saw someone complain that the FFXI raid is "easier than Aglaia" when every single run I've had has taken a significant amount of timer and at least a one or two wipes on a boss or two (or more).

Compared to all of the other Alliance Raids, I actually feel like the challenge here is to learn faster play, rather than to avoid wiping. It's the first time I've seen an Alliance Raid reach the end tail of the timer.

Granted, this is the first time I've done anything "on content" (and I've only seen footage of older day one runs, so maybe previous first day runs of Alliance Raids were similarly difficult), but to me, all of this stuff at the very least feels so much more unique and substantial than a lot of the encounters in a bunch of the previous expansions; this feels really cool and unique in its own right.

Prishe's proximity attacks, the group fight with the Archangels (which has a pretty cool use of interrupts), and Shadowlord's twists on various AoE attacks themselves are really cool.

And to me difficulty isn't the only value of an encounter.

They just don't seem to understand that not everyone consumes the game the same way they do, don't seem to have the ability to put themselves in others' shoes nor have the ability to understand that only a small portion of players play at their level.

I don't play healer often and I felt challenged by the recent dungeon.

I felt this whenever I saw some complain about Endwalker encounters, as well, but there I got it better because I could understand the complaint about how formulaic some of the encounters felt.

All Dawntrail encounters have felt unique and, most of all, substantial, to me.

And that was my personal gripe with particularly Endwalker's patch content. Many of the bosses did not have mechanics which evolved and/or had quite slow-paced useage/distribution of mechanics.

I suppose a game has the responsibility to entertain players on all levels of play, but this time around I understand the complaints much less as I see a lot of truly inventive encounter design that brings in ideas the game hasn't used much before.

And even after I stepped into harder content (extremes), the normal content never automatically became a bore to me; just different type of content.

In the end, I suppose I just disagree with people's consumption philosophy, then.

I think the game doesn't need to be "hard", just "substantial", so I suppose it's a very specific difference of opinion, which simply clashes with this different perspective and doesn't gel with the reality within the game I've seen.

I hope those who are unhappy will get something that makes them happy, but I also struggle a bit to see what the encounter designers could do to please this perspective.

Just copy Ivalice step by step? Just complete bullshit with bad telegraphing? Because that's where I felt like a bunch of Ivalice's challenge came from. It was challenging because some of the telegraphing could take a bit to parse and at points only made sense if you paid attention to every little tiny detail. It was challenging because it was pretty unintuitive and while I enjoyed it a lot and the bullshit is "funny", it's not "fun".

Math isn't bad because of the math, it's bad because you have to figure out how it works first. It can tell you "vitals", but the first time you do this, you don't necessarily automatically make all of the connections in the short time the fight gives you. And I personally think this is an issue of conveyance/bad design.

How are you supposed to figure out you need to let the sniper shoot you rather than use to shield to shield yourself in the moment? Where is the logic in that?

Even the magnet stuff is actually good.

Good conveyance is vague, but still solvable in the moment, like Prishe's wind-up punches.

But as said, I suppose I consume video games differently than most FFXIV/MMO players because in my mostly single-player gaming experience bad conveyence/design isn't "part of the fun", it's just bad design.

I can love a game despite it having these issues in its encounters, but to me it is an aspect to criticize when it happens and despite the repetitious nature of MMO design, I think this issue shouldn't just be glossed over because I think you can do challenge without these clunky elements.

[smile-files]

oh yeah, to go back on my unhealthy familial ranhen bs... randall does (or at least did, in his youth) see himself as an integral part of a grand destiny, the chosen one to unearth the secrets of the akbadain ruins; part of why i suspect he has npd is because of this fixation with his own grandeur, and the subsequent breakdown of his sense of self when he feels a) that he has failed to fulfil his role in that grand destiny or b) that this role has been stolen from him. because of this tie between his identity and the role he sees predestined for himself, randall becomes incredibly frustrated when most everyone in his life denies this role: his father sees archeology as frivolous and a waste of time, angela sees it as dangerous, and hershel just can't seem to figure out why randall finds it so interesting. the only real exception to this is henry, who not only understands what randall is thinking, but probably believes it: henry practically worships randall for having had mercy on him as a child (as henry would see it), after all, so it wouldn't be in the least surprising if henry sees the same grand destiny ahead of randall which randall sees himself. either way, henry treats randall like the chosen one randall sees himself as: henry was thus able to help randall prepare for his expedition to the akbadain ruins, as we know, but one can also imagine that henry's belief in randall spurred randall on to continue thinking all of this himself. in a way, randall relied on henry's unwavering belief in him, for nobody else saw himself the way he did - for better or for worse - which made it all the more earth-shattering for him when descole "revealed" henry's betrayal, how henry apparently stole his destiny. by no means do i think randall is malicious or selfish, really; he is naturally quite self-centered, i believe, but he's still incredibly compassionate. he wants the best for henry, and he loves henry like a brother - i just think it would take a lot for randall to really recognize how henry has been worshipping him, and how he's fed off of henry's worship all of this time. and this would be especially difficult to parse through, considering how randall and henry feed into each other's unhealthy loops... randall loves henry, so henry worships randall, so randall loves henry, so henry worships randall...

[kallesque]

the conflict of the mind — three.

cws // none for now (does dottore count as his own warning?)

╰┈➤ dottore x reader: in other words, new meetings. FIC MASTERLIST HERE.

𖤐 “I met Delta earlier,” you affirm, remembering the razor-edged teeth, the flash of pink silk at his neck. Hangman hands closing in on your shirt collar. A shiver traverses the length of your spine and the Dove notices it.

“Ah, that one,” she says, and you can’t quite parse the undercurrent in her voice when she says this— is it fondness? Irritation? Amusement? “He leaves quite the impression, doesn’t he?”

“That’s certainly a way to describe it,” you concur.

Nothing in your life has gone quite as planned for the last month or so. This fact further drives itself home a few days later when the door to Dottore’s laboratory slides open and you’re yanked in before you can even knock, still halfway through executing the action. You trip over your feet in a panic from the sudden blur of motion, the hand on your collar hauling you upright before you can tumble over embarrassingly. 

It’s too early in the day for this. Your heart is hammering too fast and you’ve had it. “Lord Harbinger, is your frequent manhandling of me going to become a habit? Because I—”

“Prime allows you to speak to him like this? My.”

A shiver traipses down your spine and mangles the words on your tongue as you freeze. This voice, familiar yet not— you’re reminded of dissonant chords, arguments overheard down the hallways at night. 

When you raise your head, the spark of outrage that flares within you is extinguished in an instant. Instead of the tapered bird mask you’ve grown accustomed to, this one covers his entire face save for the red eyes that bore into your, unblinking. His hair is styled differently, shorter and curlier than what you remember… and the clothes he dons are in a completely different taste from what you’ve seen Dottore wear.

But it’s the same pale hair, the same cadence— though there’s a certain quality of his tone, something shamelessly unhinged in comparison to the arrogant menace that outlines the contours of your patron’s voice. You can see half of his mouth through the bizarre mask, and his teeth are sharper— edges pointed like a shark’s.

You make eye contact and immediately flinch.

Does he also have…?

“You’re not him,” you say rather lamely, pausing as you try to disentangle the fabric of your shirt collar from his white-gloved grip. To your chagrin, he doesn’t let you go.

He lets out a crazed giggle at your disoriented expression and it wreaks pandemonium on your nerves the same way the unpleasant screech of a bow drawn over strings before rosin has been applied would. “Yes I am.”

You must look even more confused now because he lets you go and moves closer at the same time, drawn to your unease like blood in the water. 

You take a wary step away and he closes in. “Where’s Dottore?” you bite out, words curt as alarm rises in the dark of your throat.

“I am Dottore.” You can’t identify any trace of a lie in those deranged eyes, but you’re nonetheless sceptical. “Just not yours, though.” He grins as if he’s just overheard a great joke, but all you feel is danger.

Your gaze scans the room for an exit, trying not to flinch. Something tells you that such a reaction would only spur him on, and you’re a little sick of this perplexing charade— but then he closes in and the backs of your thighs hit the desk, cornered. 

“I called him a fool for this, you know,” he tells you. He’s not touching you, but you still feel trapped like a prey animal in the jaws of a beast. His presence is unpredictable and he’s even more difficult to read by way of sheer uncertainty. 

Mad, your mind supplies, which isn’t a reassuring thought. 

“But I had to come and find out for myself, and now that you’re here, I see it. I do want to…”

He trails off, breaking into another round of snickering. You don’t know what he’s talking about. You don’t know anything, and you’re not sure you’d like to.

“Delta.” Dottore is standing in the doorway to his office, seemingly having just emerged. His voice is scathing.

It comes as a warning but relief slams into you as you’re suddenly given room to breathe, inching away from him— Delta, apparently, who raises his hands in mock surrender. “I was merely curious,” he scoffs. “They’re a pretty little thing, too. Is that what you see?”

“Back to work.” Dottore orders without a single sign of acknowledgement towards the latter’s comments. His tone is final, and the other backs down, obeying with a sneer.

Maybe this really is going to become a standard occurrence, you think to yourself when Dottore’s fingers close around your wrist and he tugs you into his office.

~

The pads of Dottore’s fingers are rough on your skin as he kneads into your wrist again, the caustic heat from the contact twisting through you once more. You want to cower away from the feeling. You want to let it burn you at the stake.

“Does this hurt?” His touch drags over a sore spot and you hiss at the twinge of discomfort that jabs at you. He’s merciless as he works into it until the pain dulls and you exhale, nerves still frayed and tender.

You still have no idea why he’s doing this, insistent on treating you every day. You want to ask what benefit you pose to him, what he could ever gain from the patronage, if you were going to end up as another subject on the dissection table—

Instead, you say, “I have questions.”

“I expected as much,” he responds, not looking up. “Go on.”

“Who was that?”

“Delta.” The corner of his mouth curves up as he responds deadpan, secretly amused. Your eyes narrow.

“No, I know, but—” you try to gesture with your dominant hand and realise that he’s still holding it down, grip vicelike but not abrasive. “He said he was you, but not you.”

“He’s a Segment.” You stare at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, and Dottore goes on. “Simply put, a piece of myself plucked from one of the varying states of my life, given individual consciousness and thought.”

You raise a brow, but you think you can follow. “He called you Prime, earlier.”

“I am the original, the prime,” he tells you, taking your other wrist and beginning to work on that in turn. “The creator.”

You think of red eyes and the subsequent insanity caged within, the remorseless slice of a scalpel through helpless flesh. 

“I see.”

If that’s the case, haven’t you found yourself in a den of wolves? Out of the frying pan and straight into the fire— another thought strikes you. 

“This implies that there are more of you, then?”

You twitch as he digs into a nerve, holding back a gasp. “Yes, there are more. You may run into them occasionally.” 

The way he says it implies discontent, as if it’s an unfortunate fact—

“But remember this, Composer,” He drawls, acerbic and sharp, “You report to me.”

You wonder if the way his voice dips low like a promise can be interpreted as possessive. 

“Yes, Lord Harbinger.”

For all his previous words about how he’s not going to eat you alive, he certainly smiles like he’s about to. “Good.”

~

Technically, Dottore hasn’t forbidden you from leaving the palace. You’ve just been too wrapped up in a daze of fatigue and stress to think about doing anything else for the last month, and now that the Harbinger has ordered you off playing your instruments until your wrists have recovered, you have far too much free time on your hands. Your passing days have been spent reading and revising your old notes and music scores, but lethargy is beginning to settle into your muscles and you’re itching for a change of scenery.

You recall that the strings on your cello are wearing out. There’s a music store in the nearby village that you can get to on foot, and the salary he continues to pay you even as you’re laid off from playing is far more than enough to cover the expenses. It’s settled, then.

Your eyes sweep over your hands, noting the writer’s callus on your middle finger and the ink stain on your palm, somehow lingering longer than yesterday’s blood. The etchings of your cello’s strings are still raw and tender to the touch when your fingertips brush anything, crisscrossed over old scars of the same design. Perhaps you should buy some ointment as well, for the healing. A musician should have well-kept hands and you’ve never truly cared much about the nuances of this knowledge before— but now you have a patron, and he’s the Second Harbinger. You need to remember that.

Once you’ve bundled yourself up and made sure that you’ve obtained all you need for your errand, you slip out of your room and meander down the hallways. It takes you a few wrong turns and doubling back before you find the exit, but you’re halted by the Fatui guards before you.

“On what business are you departing from the Palace?”

You know it’s standard protocol, really nothing personal, so you’re nervous but steady when you respond. “A personal errand,” you tell them, hoping it’s enough. 

Unfortunately, it's not. “Under whose command?”

Anxiety constricts your vocal chords and you hesitate a beat too long to escape suspicion. You wonder if Dottore would mind you using his name for such a small thing, but you hate going off uncertainties—

“They're with me.” Someone’s hand wraps around your shoulder and pulls you into them, but where you expect light hair and a baritone voice, you’re met face-to-face with Columbina, the Third Harbinger. You barely have time to stutter your acknowledgement before she’s sweeping past with you in tow.

Columbina’s smile is sweet and her touch is gentle when she leads you out of the Palace, but you have the inkling that she’s not helping you out of mere goodwill and that whatever she wants, she will obtain.

“My lady,” you begin, and she laughs, the sound blithe and airy. “Why, you delight me with your honorifics! No wonder our Second likes you so.”

Your mind slows to a crawl at that, trying to process the information. “He, he doesn’t— huh?”

“Oh, don’t play the fool,” she admonishes, voice lilting and sweet as a melody. Somehow, your limbs loosen at the sound of it, and tension leaves your shoulders. “You’re his little composer. I’ve heard all about you.”

“You… have?”

The Damselette nods and the seraphim wings on her head flutter excitedly. “But not enough— there are some things I’d prefer to learn from the source themself! Tell me, little bird, where are you headed off today?”

You remain wide-eyed, syrupy daze blanketing your senses like golden honey. Still, you manage to relate the details of your errand to her and tell her your name. Columbina insists on accompanying you on your tasks, and you’re not sure if this spells disaster or not— but there’s little you can do to protest, allowing her to loop her arm into yours as she speaks to you as one would an old friend.

Still, you can’t shake the crawling sense of disquietude that settles over you in her presence. Your mind seems to settle into a state of calm, too docile, too abnormal from your usual racing thoughts. You don’t sense malice from the Dove— but you’ve heard rumours about her lack of mortality and you suspect that it has a part to play in the half-stupor you’re draped in.

She talks to you all the way to your destination and watches inquisitively as you select and pay for the cello strings you’d needed. It’s all lighthearted chatter— you feel as if she’s trying to lull you into a sense of calm as she regales you with her tales, tidbits of palace gossip that make you giggle softly and promises of tea together in the future. It’s only when you’re heading back to the Palace does she finally expose the core of her curiosity. 

“Tell me about him,” Columbina urges, practically promenading at your side from how light her steps seem. You notice that she’s barefoot, silk ribbons winding up her ankles and legs. Despite the snowy wasteland that freezes around you both, the Damselette pays it no heed, skin porcelain-perfect and unscathed by the cold. You can’t help but marvel at her.

“Shouldn’t you know him better than I do?” you ask. “I was under the impression that the Harbingers worked together.”

She laughs and it’s the sound of windchimes, crystal-clear and mellifluous. “Yes, little bird,” she says agreeably, “but I want to know about how he treats you.”

You rack your brain, trying to muster up a reply. “He’s… okay, I guess.”

Columbina tilts her head, encouraging you to elaborate. You heave a sigh.

“When he took me on as my patron,” you continue, “I expected him to be far more… restrictive with his expectations of my work, but so far he’s allowed me to work with only my own creativity as the limit. Except…”

You crack your knuckles, a nervous reflex. The motion of it grounds you, gives your hands something to do as you twist your fingers into each other and fidget. “…I got a little carried away, that first month,” you admit sheepishly, “and he’s forbidden me from playing until my wrists heal.”

The wings on her head twitch in something you’d call curiosity as she angles her head towards you. “Forbidden?”

Why is she smiling? This is the second time today that you feel as if you’re witnessing a secret joke that you’re not privy to.

You tell Columbina vaguely about Dottore’s treatment of your hands and wrists, leaving out the details. Somehow, the memory of his fingers pressing into your skin makes you shudder. Do you fear him so much, that even the mere thought of that scares you? 

Like the Second, Columbina’s eyes are veiled— behind lace instead of metal— yet she regards you knowingly, as if she knows something you don’t. “Interesting,” she chirps, “so very interesting, little bird. Have you met the others?”

You raise a brow. “The other Harbingers? It’s only been you and him, so far.”

“Oh, no, I meant the other versions of him, though I’m delighted to have gotten to you before my co-workers. If only I’d found you before Dottore had…”

For the sake of your own sanity, you decide to take her latter statement as a joke and your laugh joins hers, bright in the afternoon air. “I met Delta earlier,” you affirm, remembering the razor-edged teeth, the flash of pink silk at his neck. Hangman hands closing in on your shirt collar. A shiver traverses the length of your spine and the Dove notices it.

“Ah, that one,” she says, and you can’t quite parse the undercurrent in her voice when she says this— is it fondness? Irritation? Amusement? “He leaves quite the impression, doesn’t he?”

“That’s certainly a way to describe it,” you concur.

“And did your Doctor say anything of it?”

You ignore the twitch of your fingers when she calls him yours; Delta had done the same earlier. “He reminded me that my patronage was under him, and only him.”

An enigmatic smile flashes across her face, pearly teeth showing. “He never did seem like the type who shared.”

“Huh?” Once again, you’re left in the dark.

“No matter,” Columbina disperses it with a flutter of feathers. “Why don’t you take me to your music room, little bird? I’d love to see your instruments, even if you can’t play for me today.”

Agreement comes to your lips easily and she’s delighted— the Damselette sweeps you up into a whirlwind of conversation once more and you let yourself be drawn in. It’s only when you’re back in the Palace and navigating the hallways back to Dottore’s wing that you realise that you’ve completely forgotten to to buy the healing ointment for your fingers. 

~

Columbina’s company is not an unpleasant one, you conclude. It’s undeniable that she’s a little overwhelming and you have the intuitive feeling that crossing her would be an incredibly foolish decision— but conversation flows easily between the two of you and you’re content enough. Perhaps it’s just a testament to how starved you are of human interaction— it’s been weeks since you’ve had any of it, save for your few exchanges with Dottore.

The Dove sits on your piano bench, mouth open in song. It’s fitting considering her title, you think— the sound of her voice fills the room and holds you captive, silvery and resonant. In all your life, you’ve never heard anything like this— like her, spellbound as you listen, enthralled as you restring your cello.

The case is laid open on the polished floors of the music room. You’re kneeling over the neck of the instrument, fingers twisting the tuning pegs to drop the tension of the string. Once it loosens, you tug it from the pegbox and do the same to the fine tuners, extricating the string completely. 

The hem of your shirt goes to wipe at the fingerboard absently as you select the new string, fingers running over the grooves of the instrument’s bridge before you fit it in, tightening it with the pegs. You repeat the process with the other three strings, and Columbina’s voice swoops low, concluding in tandem with your task so that you can tune the cello.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” you begin hesitantly, but she’s already nodding and the note you need spills from her throat, lilting. You draw the bow over your strings as you match the pitch to hers, the rest of the strings tuned in falling intervals from the first

You sit up, gathering the discarded strings up and returning your instrument to its case, quietly satisfied.

“Do you sing, little bird?” Columbina asks. You pause. 

“At times,” you respond cautiously, leaning back on your haunches, hands folding in your lap. 

She clasps her hands together, feigning a swoon. “We must hear you then.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you’re thinking of a gracious way to evade her cajoling when you sense another presence at the door, one you instantly recognize as your spine stiffens.

“Doctor, how lovely,” Columbina croons, unperturbed. “Your little musician was about to sing for us.”

You instantly protest. “N-no, I wasn’t—”

He steps closer and his shadow slides across the floor, fluid as it settles over you and blocks the light behind his looming figure. 

You’re made to tilt your head up to look back at him— and then you realise what he’s staring at, rushing to explain. “I was just replacing my cello’s strings, I didn’t play…” you mutter. “Much.”

His head cocks to the side, judgemental. “Is the issue your excess of free time, Composer? I can always keep you busy if that’s the case.”

The memory of red flashes in your vision and you’re nauseous for a moment, mouth going dry.

“Stop that,” Columbina chides. “You’ll frighten the poor thing.”

Dottore shifts his attention to her, wings fluttering all around her head. “Damselette,” he intones dryly, a hint of sarcasm in the reply. “Is it too much to hope that you stay out of my affairs?”

“Far too much,” she responds, syllables spilling from her tongue like birdsong. “You always accuse me about my meddlesome nature. Isn’t it lovely to be right?”

“You can turn anything into a curse, you harpy,” he grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. Columbina laughs soft and low, hopping off the piano bench where she'd perched. She takes off in a flutter before you can blink twice and you’re left alone with the enigma who had shifted the scope of your entire life within a few weeks. Your fault, perhaps, for signing the devil’s deal.

You regain yourself, latching the case of your instrument shut and valiantly ignoring how you’re still kneeling before Dottore, tension building. “Lord Harbinger, did you come for anything?”

“Dinner,” he reminds you simply, and your eyes widen. He's right, it is evening and whatever little sunlight there is in Snezhnaya is already dimming into twilight; you can see it through the window. 

A gloved hand is offered to you before you can scramble to your feet awkwardly. You eye it dubiously before you place your hand in his and allow him to help you up. 

You gasp as his hand slides further up your arm— so as not to jostle your wrist— and Dottore pulls you forward sharply into him. You stumble and barely avoid colliding into his shoulder, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. You attempt indignation over the invasion of your personal space, but he's far too close for you to pull out all the stops and you're trying to remember how to breathe. “What was that for?”

He shifts, dipping his head so that his lips are at your ear and his voice rolls over you in a shiver, makes you think of a Dionysiac melody, ritualistic madness and religious ecstasy.

“Just to let you know,” he hums, “The offer remains open. You do seem to have a terrible habit of neglecting yourself whenever I leave you to yourself.”

( It’s a hypocrital thing to say, he knows. But in the face of all the alterations he’s made to himself, his reliance on things like sleeping and eating is far less detrimental, barely a cause for concern. You, on the other hand… )

His fingers loosen and you back away to recreate the distance between you, visibly rattled. Your mouth spreads into a thin line, eyes darkening beneath the guise of something unreadable as you glare at him, accusatory. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you.”

It takes every grain of your self-control to remain deathly still when he chuckles, stamping out the shudder that threatens to shake you to the core. “Doing what exactly?”

You fight for articulation, but your mind features only a rising dissonance, notes crashing into each other as you try for words. “Well, I— you know.”

“Let’s say I was doing whatever you’re accusing me of,” he taunts, voice thick with sarcasm. “Is it working?”

You drawn yourself up a little straighter, more rigid. “No.”

The answer is curt, firm, but you read disbelief in the curl of his lips and the flash of his teeth. You don’t realise that you’re staring at his mouth, noting how his teeth are blunter than Delta’s yet hold their own jagged sharpness. Once more, you recall him saying he wouldn't eat you alive, but he could. Carmine irises flash through your mind again and terror licks you down to the bone from the inside out.

He grins when he catches the expression on your face. “Are you scared of me, Composer?”

“No.”

“Liar,” he hisses. Razor-sharp, the smile that widens upon his visage is savage by nature, the embodiment of a demon by design. You know that all the efforts you’ve brought to the table in an attempt to leverage an edge for yourself pales in comparison to the beast before you. “You do fear. You fear me.”

And you can’t look away, because Dottore’s presence rewrites the gravitational pull of your attention whenever he so much as shares a space with you. Magnetic the same way a black hole draws stars towards it, shredding and consuming them with singleminded ruthlessness. Its very nature demands to devour, and you aren’t sure that his own doesn’t follow suit.

To your credit, you manage your terror remarkably well, diminishing it into something that you can swallow back down. Once you understand that denial isn’t an option you can sell convincingly, you resign yourself. “Perhaps,” you admit to him, “but I hope to never reveal the extent of that fear to you.”

“And why is that?” Wicked curiosity meets you with an inquiry, and you square your shoulders firmly.

“You just don’t seem like a very good person to trust, Lord Harbinger.”

He actually laughs at that, and some of the tension between you melts away. “Smart little thing you are, aren't you.”

The dark sky arcing overhead beyond the window seems to bring him back to his original aim in arriving here— when Dottore offers his arm to you in a mockery of courtesy, you take it and allow him to walk you to his office as you rearrange your face back into careful neutrality.

“I don’t like liars,” the Harbinger says abruptly on the way, and you make a mental note of the minute detail, tucking it away. “You’ll do well to remember that.” 

As you lapse into silence, Dottore’s eyes slide to the still-healing wound on your cheek and he stifles a huff of amusement at how you take in the information, a performer ever-so-eager to please. 

Even away from your music, you are just so entertaining.

find me on ao3 here!

[spectrechosts]

Self Love

This one is pretty recent. Vampire and her haunted reflection, being a lil gay for eachother through the barrier of a mirror. I don't have any followup chapters written but I think I'll write more with them at some point.

False Reflections, as far as Della is aware, are one of the sneakier forms a ghost can take.

No tossing things, no 'GET OUT' written in blood, no transparent figures- just a slight offness on the edge of your mind, gnawing at you. Movements not quite how you think they should look, eyes wide open when you blink. Little things that build over years and years until you've gone mad.

The subtleties of this performance are sadly lost on Della; who sees that she has a reflection at all, points out her fangs in the mirror, makes a rude gesture, turns the mirror around, and goes to bed with the firm resolve to deal with that later.

'Dealing with that later' then turns into 'Researching ghosts' then turns into 'Researching other apartments', because the False Reflection isn't attached to the mirror it's attached to the place and that's a whole pain in the ass that simply chucking the mirror in a dumpster wouldn't have been.

The apartment is, frankly, too good to give up. Not everyone gets to be an old money vampire, some people are using their eternally twenty-three visage to hide the ghastly truth that they are, gasp, twenty-seven, and just as fucked by the economy as every other zillennial. The rent is cheap, it's near her job, and she doesn't even know if undisclosed hauntings are valid grounds to break her lease.

So she puts a mirror in every room and embraces that she has a roommate.

~

Della gets home from work and her reflection waves at her while she takes off her shoes, a second before she waves at it.

They've made… some amount of progress, in these first few months. Communication is difficult, but they have an arrangement. Neither of them wants a priest coming around.

Her reflection doesn't try to keep the ruse going, so at the very least they're on the same page there.

She grabs herself a pack of AB- from the fridge and brews a cup of tea, then takes them both into the living room. She bites into the pack and puts down the tea, watches her reflection pick it up and drink it in the mirror as it sits on the coffee table and cools.

She doesn't know if that actually does anything for the ghost, or if it's just nice to go through the motions.

Settling on something to watch is easy enough. She scrolls through options while keeping her reflection in the corner of her eye, watching her reactions until she finds something they both want.

Now, before she starts it, she does want to talk to the ghost, which is… tricky.

The mirror, obviously, makes no sound that Della can hear. The False Reflection can hear, apparently, but it can't hear her. The TV, for example, exists in her reflected world and makes all the sounds it's expected to. She however does not, replaced by the ghost. They can only see eachother through the mirrors.

She brings out a notepad and pencil, and her reflection rolls its eyes.

"Do you mind if I try on some outfits later?" She writes, and holds the pad up to the mirror.

Her reflection writes on her own pad, holds her answer up and looks away. Della takes a moment to parse the mirrored letters.

"It's your body."

A reflection is, admittedly, rather useful to have. Nobody wants to go out with a bit of blood smeared on their lips, and it's nice to be able to see how your clothes work together. But it's weird when your reflection is in itself a person with their own stuff going on but no real… agency. She can move, Della can leave the TV on for her when the ghost feels like it, but neither of them can make her not Della's reflection.

And that's, as she said, weird, when you're trying on clothes and now the ghost is naked because you're naked. It's doubly weird when the ghost gets all… blushy, about it. Della is cool with that, her reflection can admire and blush to her heart's content, but she can't just put the ghost into that position without asking.

"You're the one that has to stand there and watch." She writes.

"Why would that be a problem?" The ghost replies, evasively.

"Are you about to 'we're both girls' me?"

"I don't know what that means. We are both girls"

Della rolls her eyes.

"FYI, I'm a lesbian."

The ghost reads that and goes pink, scribbles and tears out multiple messages from her notepad.

"I don't know what that is. Is that some modern thing?"

Della breathes slowly through her nose as she puts her thumb and finger to her temple.

"This building finished construction in 1993."

"Irrelevant."

Della sighs. Okay, fine.

"Tell you what, I'll turn the bedroom mirror around between outfits. Just in case anyone would get embarrassed."

"You don't have to do that!" Her reflection scrawls hastily.

"I won't… if you ask me not to."

Her reflection goes pink again.

"I swear it's not for creepy reasons! You're just very pretty and I was caught offguard and didn't know what to do! I can be normal!"

Della laughs.

"You're physically incapable of creeping on me, I'm the one choosing to change in front of you. Be as abnormal as you like." She writes, making a mental note to get some nice underwear to try on for her.

[dailydemonspotlight]

Kinmamon - Day 65

Race: Enigma

Alignment: Light-Neutral

July 5th, 2024

Among the scores of demons in the SMT series, the Enigma race is one of the most curious. Made up entirely of demons whose origins are wholly unknown, or otherwise hard to track, the race as a whole is incredibly difficult to even parse, and unfortunately, today's Demon of the Day is one of those that belong to this accursed collection. Welcome Kinmamon, an incredibly strange god of Okinawa with a notable lack of sources. Yep, we have another one of these.

Kinmamom is a purported Okinawan deity originating from Ryukyuan religion, but almost everything surrounding it is vague and murky before its eventual co-opting into the Ijun religion of Ryukyu. While basically everything regarding it seems to paint it as a recent development, a god created for Ijun to be the cosmic deity above all others, there are many other sources that contest this.

Ijun, a Shinto offshoot religion native to Okinawa, is a modern religion created in 1972 to worship Kinmamom, yet there are many other things relating to this deity that make it difficult to parse- for one, a 19th century play called "Strange Tales of the Bow Moon" purportedly references Kinmamom, as this tumblr post by @yamayuandadu goes over, referenced in the Japanese wikipedia page about Kinmamom. However, of course, Wikipedia is far from a reliable source, but something else which almost ensures that this god didn't originate from Ijun is a vintage article in German that references the god by name, despite originating from over 100 years ago.

Past that, though, a good source comes from... hey, they reblogged my Backbeard post! Holy shit! Wow, I didn't expect things to come full circle like this. Anyway, one of the few sources I can work off of for this outside of several deep insights into Ijun itself is this post by @eirikrjs which talks about his role as a god of the sea who brought 'life' to the Okinawan islands. To quote,

Also known as “the God from Beyond the Sea, Marebito”, Kinmamon is an enigmatic and mysterious deity of Ryukyu Shinto, a branch of Shinto obviously practiced in the Ryukyu islands. His/her connections with sea travel and the implication that he/she brought “life” to the Ryukyu islands are thought to imply it was an introduced figure and was quite possibly Amaterasu who was introduced and then changed through lack of continual contact at the time. The kanji used for Kinmamon’s name, “  君真物 ” literally meaning “the true one”, are also thought to have been used as an honorific title for miko (shrine maidens); consequently, there is also a belief that perhaps Kinmamon is simply the evolution of the deification of miko. In addition, the kanji “ 君” is often used to write “ 神女”, megami or “goddess”, in the local Ryukyu dialect which causes even further gender confusion!Bibliography:   『琉球神道記』  袋中著    宜野座嗣剛  訳  東洋図書出版   “Records of Ryukyu Shinto” by  Hiroshi Azuma.  Orient Books Publications/Shorin Ronshu, 2001.  ISBN-10: 4947667737

But, well, you know the lack of sources is bad when almost everything out there has to be choppily translated. In Ijun, Kinmamon is an all-powerful deity who visited the founder of the religion, Takayasu Rokuro, and instructed him to seek out an ancient book called the Ryukyu Shinto-ki, as gone over in this paper by Christopher A. Reichl. As the paper goes into, Takayasu speaks of Kinmamon as a deity who was once worshipped in the very early ages, though was forgotten about after Satsuma rose to power, phasing out the religion in 1609. Of course, I cannot find any source for this, but it could possibly explain why Kinmamon is so obscure, yet still referenced in ages-old articles predating Ijun itself. A lot of the things relating to this deity are obscure, and it's very fitting for its race being, well, that of an Enigma.

Hilariously, almost all of the sources I could find for this were also confused SMT fans trying to figure out the source for this demon. We really are just an ouroboros of hyperfixated nerds, huh. I haven't played Strange Journey, so I can't give much of a take on Kinmamon's portrayal in the series, but I do find the design very cool and unique- I especially love the symbols on its head and arms, though I'm not sure what they could ultimately mean? Overall, though, I'd recommend digging deep yourselves into this demon's backstory. Maybe you all could uncover something I couldn't!