hiya! if you're reading this you're probably wondering who i am.
what to call me: haunt
pronouns: they/she
age: 22
i like to make funny, silly things, sometimes more serious stuff, usually writing, sometimes art, but then also drop off the face of the earth without warning bc social media exhausts me (• ▽ •;). don't let that stop you though from reaching out in reblogs or my askbox/dms cause i do read and appreciate every interaction with y'all ❤️
short fic about the awful white man not being transphobic for his beautiful wife (warnings: mentioned transphobia, loving a murderer bc he's not actively a bigot to you, author is writing about MTF when they are FTX)
You’d known Vincent nearly your entire life. When you were seven and your family moved in next door to his, he’d been dragged along with his mother to deliver a welcoming meal and subsequently sent off to play with you on the basis that you were the same age and thus should be best friends. To your mothers’ credit, it had worked out rather well for the both of you, as you each struggled to make other friends for various reasons. The proximity and the encouragement of your families meant you could never get too far away from each other, and over time, tolerance and familiarity turned into genuine enjoyment.
When you were old enough to be invited out dancing, it only made sense for one of you to learn the girl’s part to help the other practice, and Vincent was luckily too focused on not tripping over his own feet to comment that you never led.
You were sixteen when you confided in him. “I tried on one of my sister’s old dresses.”
He didn’t say anything at first, just looked over at you and raised an eyebrow. Somehow, you knew it wasn’t in judgement, just a question.
“That blue one with the white ribbon, the one you said was pretty. I… I don’t know, I was curious and…” You took a deep breath. “I liked how it felt. I felt pretty.”
Again, no noise left his lips, but something in his eyes shifted. They traced you, up and down, studying your face and body. Then finally, “You’d definitely be pretty in that dress.”
And that was it. The words hung, quiet and accepting.
Now, on days when you’d be alone in your room with Vincent, sometimes he’d sit on your bed and watch as you tried on dresses and skirts your sister loaned you. And sometimes when you turned to ask his opinion, you’d catch him staring, not at the dress or your body, but at your face. Instead of saying you looked pretty, he’d tell you “you look happy,” “you look at home,” “you look like you.” If his first comment gave you butterflies, those words set a whole flock of birds loose within you.
Being next door came with setbacks too. One night, he heard an argument, shouting, but none of the words being spoken. When the backdoor slammed opened and you ran out, there he was at your gate, holding it open for you. Without a word, he ushered you to his own porch where the two of you sat, leaned against each other like you didn’t know how to keep upright on your own. It took a long time to retell the last hour. Your father walking in as your sister adjusted that same blue dress to lay more flatteringly on you, the questioning, the yelling, the pleas to a higher power for you to just be normal.
You weren’t sure when you’d started crying, but he stayed, wiping your tears and holding you gently. At some point, he led you quietly up to his room and tucked you against his chest. Sleep came, and by the time you woke up, he’d already come up with one of his brilliant plans, as he insisted you call them. When he told you it meant you wouldn’t be able to go back home anymore, you didn’t hesitate to take his hand.
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You’d been “married” to Vincent Whittman for nearly ten years now. “Married” in the sense you both wore your rings at all times and told everyone you were, not in the legal sense. It had been hard enough to get your own documents forged with the cross-country move, so you were fine with the compromise to minimize the risk of someone looking further into you. The lack of legality didn’t make Vincent any less enthusiastic about doting on his beloved wife and fulfilling…certain marital duties.
While you’d had some initial doubts about his plan, nowadays there was something deeply healing about it; Vincent Whittman, weatherman-turned-talkshow-host, the man fawned over by half his considerable audience, made it a point not only to kiss you goodbye every morning and come home to you every night, but talk about how lovely his wife was and how lucky he was anytime marriage came up on his show. The first night he came home after bringing you up on his show(knowing well that you’d promised to watch), you could barely look him in the eyes. He took all-too-much delight in it, and proceeded to show you how he meant every word.
That’s why whenever you were asked to confirm he was with you on a night he certainly was not, you always did. When he came home smelling suspiciously clean the night before a colleague he’d been complaining about turned up dead, you quietly discarded the memory. He’d showered you in the kind of love you’d never thought possible, whatever else he did, he was your personal angel. If loving the man who’d loved you the same damned you, you’d gladly seek him out again in the next life and make your own heaven out of hell.
@strangezeroz welcome to tumblr where the app decides when you can be gifted with the sight of og memes, you cannot look for these yourself via the search engine, you won’t find them, you have to wait to be gifted them
if caine is so lonely, you'd think he'd try out making his own cast members, right? especially after everyone except kinger abstracted and they went years without any new humans, to the point caine had doubts it was possible.
maybe he did try at some point, but his ai characters have taken time to improve, so were those early attempts just too flat and unrealistic? not smart enough, not immersive enough, not human enough, time to delete.
when ragatha showed up and then more after her, more attempts would be pointless. there's new humans to impress and adventures to create, the only time he dedicated to improving the ai is for the sake of better adventures, to show the humans his capabilities. with these improvements though, he hadn't realized how advanced he'd actually made them. they were still just his own creations, they weren't truly capable of deeper thought, recognizing their own position or existence.
the candy kingdom recognizes him as their creator. gumigoo has an existential crisis and is able to comprehend and overcome it. he leaves one running for a long time, to foreshadow and build suspense for his biggest adventure yet, one to solidify that no one would actually leave him, and he plays his part perfectly. they laugh revealing it to the cast, and the npc has the comprehension to joke that he deserves a raise. caine didn't prompt him to do that. he can think independently. no ai in the circus has been able to do that, not even bubble fully. not since...
Their first assignment back was supposed to be an easy one. In and out, stick to the shadows, don't been seen and definitely don't get caught. How hard could it be when the job was literally to cause a big distraction to draw as many eyes as possible away from a head of state?
Apparently, harder than it should be when you disguise yourself as a stage manager for John Juniper himself. Even with their amnesia, they had heard plenty of him from the radio and the occasional eavesdropping on other operatives. Put him anywhere near a stage and he was in total control (until you blew up a huge prop over his head at least). Before they could reach a back exit, he'd already sent the stagehands to herd the other crew members outside. After everyone was out and another manager had done a head count, the chance to slip away was gone as Juniper himself approached them.
"Excuse me, you were up in the catwalks, right?"
"Yes sir."
"Great- well, not great, but you're okay, right?"
"Rattled, but I'll make it."
"Okay, well, you might've seen the most out of anyone what happened up there, so..."
And about 14 hours later, they were seated in the lap of luxury, aka, John Juniper's private jet, sans one John Juniper. Somehow, he'd corraled them into not only meeting him to get their statement on the incident, but taking his jet separate from him while he handled some interview or other. Obviously, not at all what was meant to happen.
Zor surely wouldn't be happy about this when they got back, but it shouldn't be a problem. All they had to do was play the meek stage manager, too shaken up to recall the details to a clueless actor, and point him in the wrong direction, just to be safe. At least there was decent wine for the way over.
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They were always too nosey for their own good. It was the main complaint Zor held against them and here it was, proving true. To be fair though, were they just meant to ignore the suspiciously stiff book, or the sudden coldness in Juniper's voice as they pulled it and revealed a hidden panel?
All it took was a bit of tampering and a lot of thanks for Fabricator's many gadgets (who knew x-ray could be so handy on a plane?) to find the navigation controls taking them to...
Lisbon Agency Airstrip?
A heart-stopping pulse shot through them at the name. The actor had known from the start. He was an agent. And this was all a setup to catch them.
If you're between capture and death, take death. It'll be easier than what they'll do to you.
There was a moment of silence, then a deep sigh from the intercom. "Handler? They're definitely Zoraxis."
But they refused to die like this.
"Have an escort ready for them at landing."
They did not survive a drop from space to end up here.
"Wha- Hey!"
The controls weren't even hard to override. Luckily, there was the Barcelona Airbase nearby.
"Scratch that escort. They've rerouted the plane."
"Well I'm not one to encourage this normally—" This voice was new. It felt like the greeting of an old friend. "—but better to take care of them before they cause more trouble."
A missile. Of course it was a missile. And of course the defense system was offline. And of course once they got it up, the hatch was stuck. On the wing. Outside of the plane.
"Sorry operative, but this is where we say goodbye."
There was no possible way to reach it, yet they reached out. They grasped at the hatch and hoped to anything that it worked as well under pressure as it did in practice. It came instinctually every other time, so please please please—
They felt their telekinesis grab the hatch and pulled.
As the flares fired and the missile swerved just in time, they collapsed all the way to the floor. Relief flooded their body, finally realizing they were out of danger and out of the agency's clutches.
They started as the intercom crackled back to life. It was that new voice, sounding like a man who'd just witnessed a murder. He only got out one word before they ripped the damn thing off the wall.
My recent ieytd drawings! mostly experimenting with styles and colors and stuff. That last one is supposed to be a drawing from the perspective of the Zor operative in Squeaky Clean! i colored picked a lot from play through videos,,,, glass i hard to draw,,,,
there was another drawing but idk how i feel about it so i used the liquefy tool on the face, which may be a lil bit creepy to some ppl so i put it under the cut. its not too bad though. I was trying out to see how well i could draw with the watercolor splash brush in clip studio using the multiply blending mode and only bright colors.
Yeah I dunno it’s weird, I was going through some magazines and I found this old ad in there 🤔🤔
google doesn’t say much but an article says he was some washed up actor who turned out to be super problematic or something. Tumblr help me find this man
+ a version without the magazine overlays, just bc I love u guys🫶
as the clock hit 12 and cheers erupted through the room, phoenix forced themself not to startle as juniper leaned into their space.
"happy birthday, phoenix."
it was small, so quiet compared to the celebration around them that they'd have never heard it if it wasn't whispered directly in their ear. yet at the same time, it felt like a bucket of ice water dumped down their back.
"where did you hear that?"
"your file. vague as most of it is, there is still some information they have to fill out." he grinned as he met their eyes, only for it to drop as he saw the distant look in them. "shit, i-"
"it's nothing."
"it's not." he straightened up and craned his head about the room, scanning the doors. phoenix hooked a finger on his sleeve and tugged him backwards.
"you don't assess all entry points and form an exit strategy the moment you walk into a room? we really need to get you into basic training." brilliant deflection, phoenix, not obvious at all.
juniper chuckled. "well, i used to pay people to do that for me. as long as you're around, it seems i still have that." don't push, do not scare them off.
the creak of the fire escape door behind them both dulled the noise of the party and punctuated the deafening silence between the two. juniper leaned back against the railing as phoenix took off one of their shoes and jammed it in the door, keeping it from closing all the way. they joined john, electing to sit on top of the railings and allowed the quiet moment to hang for just a bit longer.
"it's fake." john's eyebrow raised, prompting them to continue. "you could probably guess that with...certain things, but-"
"you mean 'j. doe' isn't your real name?" his tone was light and sarcastic, trying to ease the weight of their confession. it seemed to work, at least a little bit, and they huffed out a laugh.
"yes, quite the shocker, that one." they shook their head as that brief smile slipped off. "i didn't get to keep anything that was mine. it's not even that i lost everything, i just decided i couldn't go home anymore and so i couldn't keep anything from there. not my name, not my things, not even my fucking birthday-"
the hand on their shoulder made their breath catch, which in turn made them realize how heavy their breath had gotten. as they focused on slowing their rhythm, john's hand remained, hesitant but firm and grounding. for once, they didn't flinch away.
"i had my suspicions." he looked away before they could see his face. "but i just wanted to be the first to say it to you. i figured crane would know and i thought with how close you are, it wouldn't take him long to look for you and-"
"pfff-"
his glare was only met by more snickers and a weak apology squeezed out between them.
"of course. the second i try to be open and honest with you-"
"no-no, tha-that's exactly it." a few more giggles escaped as phoenix caught their breath. "john, we were trying to kill each other only a few months ago. and now, i'm telling you about shit i don't even talk to reginald about while you're worrying about being the first to wish me happy birthday. just- how did we end up here?"
when they put it that way, john couldn't help but chuckle too. "guess we just got too used to each other somewhere in between my jet and your whole kinesium near-death."
"yeah, i guess so." they hopped off the railing, pushing themself far enough they only had to hop once to snatch their shoe back from the door. slipping it back on, they glanced back at john and tilted their head towards the door. "ready?"
he stepped forward, taking the door and opening it wider for them. "after you."
thinking about it again so here's a fun little drabble about names
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Operative Amaranth. Since they woke up with nothing in their skull but a migraine, that's what everyone called them. It didn't feel quite right, the sound taking a moment to register to their ears, the syllables clumsy when they had to introduce themself, though that was rare; everyone throughout Zoraxis seemed to know about them. Either the accident made them notorious or they were very important before it. Probably the latter, if Dr. Zor's insistence on keeping a watchful eye on them was anything to go by.
The first face they'd seen—well, half-seen, what with the mask—since waking up, the doctor hardly left them alone. It was comforting and unnerving all at once: an unfamiliar familiarity. They looked at them like they were constantly searching for or expecting something. No doubt waiting for their memories to come back, despite their reassurances that they shouldn't try to remember more, if they ever did. At the same time, no one else looked at them with that light in their eyes, like they were someone to be proud of. From the feeling in their chest, they wondered if anyone had ever looked at them like that. Though that wasn't the only reason they trusted the doctor.
"Amaranth."
The operative turned away from the balcony. It was almost too nice of a view for a hideout, so naturally most recruits avoided it.
As Zor approached, they simply nodded in acknowledgement. They could tell by the doctor's tone that they wanted to get straight to business.
"Your physical tests all indicate you should be fit for field work again. You've been recovering well." Something in their eyes softened as they continued. "Your mental state is what I'm more concerned about. Is there anything concerning you?"
"I still don't remember much, just passing feelings."
"That's to be expected." They fixed the operative with a calculated look for a moment. "Do you want to remember?"
Of course. The words caught in their throat. From what they could piece together, they likely didn't have many good memories to speak of. Eating alone, holding a gun, and patching themself up after a particular rough training session all carried a cold familiarity to them, like they'd carried out the motions a million times over. Not to mention, they were not in the dark about Zoraxis' goals and methodology. They doubted many happy, well-adjusted people ended up in this line of work.
Then again, those were their memories. Their whole life. If they wanted any information about themself, they had to turn to someone else. They couldn't even name their favorite food, their address, not even—
"Ember."
Zor had the kind of stare that didn't simply drill into you, but prodded at your very being with a surgical precision. Like they could see every neuron firing if they just chose to look. They examined them for a moment, before releasing a deep sigh.
"I've told you, forcing yourself will only cause damage."
"...how am I meant to know what I want? I don't even know me."
"You don't know." They glanced away, reaching up to their mask. "...no one does. You're only more aware of it than everyone else."
With that, the doctor turned and walked away, leaving them with more questions than answers, as always.
