#i can read and write cursive with ease

[nickbutnodick]

see i like pretending ive never heard of a newspaper before to piss off millenials on tumblr

[deedeeznoofs]

You’re? Correction! I’m Yours 

➺ Characters: Ryomen Sukuna, GN!Reader 

➺ Word Count: 900+ 

➺ Genre: Fluff

➺ Content: Non-Curse!AU, Nerd!Sukuna, Established Relationship (with some pre-relationship sprinkled in), Swearing

➺ A/N: Shout out to my wonderful mutual @heian-era-housewife for this post about Heian Era Sukuna doing poetry. If she’s reading this: I hope you don’t mind the tag but your post seriously inspired a huge chunk of these headcanons 🥹

➺ Synopsis: Headcanons of all the nerdy things Sukuna does because deep down inside that’s all he is and all he wishes to be ❤️

➺ At first glance he doesn’t read as someone who would be super nerdy or all that interested in learning. 

➺ I mean, can you blame anyone? No one really expects the dude constantly looking for a fight to pull up with some textbooks during his free time.

➺ Once you get to know him though, you realize that on the inside he is in fact a giant nerd about basically everything.

➺ It starts off subtly: at first you’d ask him questions and he’d be able to easily come up with answers without even giving it a second thought.

➺It could be a question about anything, regardless of the subject or perceived difficulty, and Sukuna would be able to explain it to you. Not only that, but he’d be able to explain it to you in a way that made it sound like the simplest thing in the world. 

➺ At one point you basically just started playing trivia and just started asking him stuff normal people didn’t know the answers for and he’d answer with ease, albeit he’d get really annoyed with your constant random questions.

➺ Sometimes if he’s really excited about a subject his explanations would turn into full lectures that’d put most college professors to shame.

➺ Although it was shocking at first, it started to make sense when you realized that the main reason why he takes time to learn about stuff is because he’s constantly bored and looking for new things to entertain him.

➺ He’s good at basically everything so long as it piques his curiosity, but his one and only love will forever be literature, mostly because of how infinite the possibilities are with the medium.

➺ He’s well versed in literature of all genres and different cultures, but he is the most drawn toward Japanese works (and let’s be honest, his favorites would probably come from the Heian Period).

➺ Ever since getting with you, he’s been leaning more toward the romance genre. Just in case he needs any inspiration on how to spice up your relationship, you know? 

➺ He’s taught himself multiple languages just for fun and to see how far he could go.

➺ He LOVES poetry, he both writes and reads it a lot and it’s his favorite hobby besides eating.

➺ Other than literature, he also has a huge fascination with art.

➺ He designed his own tattoos because he wanted to play with the idea of turning his body into a canvas. It also just so happened to make him look intimidating as hell which was a plus in his book.

➺ He also has a little journal that he carries around and he sketches a lot whenever he’s bored or sees something interesting.

➺ As for styles, he’s a really big fan of Sumi-e painting because he’s allergic to color but he basically just uses and does whatever he feels like at the moment. 

➺ He’s the type of person who draws what he sees, but he would especially enjoy drawing nature. 

➺ He would go out on hikes whenever he felt the need to draw and would walk until he found something interesting. 

➺ He’s really into meditation while he draws and he uses sketching as a way to keep himself level headed during particularly annoying days.

➺ He isn’t too fond of drawing people, but you’d be the exception. 

➺ He would 1000% draw you while you sleep. It’s the perfect time since you’d be still for most of it. 

➺ Sukuna is able to write really good cursive and also does calligraphy because he got bored one time (shocker) and so decided to see if he was able to do it well and to no one’s surprise, he was eventually able to.

➺ The reason why he leans towards the humanities so much is because they’re both subjects no one can really “master”. With both art and literature, there isn’t a point where someone knows absolutely everything about either subject. Since Sukuna loves a challenge, he wants to be the first person to go “Fuck you, I DO know everything about this”.

➺ One of the little things he does every day includes writing you short little romantic poems on a post it note and leaving them in out random spots for you to find. 

➺ Sometimes they would be in your pocket or other times on the bathroom mirror, wherever it is they would make you smile. 

➺ Though, sometimes he would stick them onto such odd spots that you’d wonder just how he did it?

➺ He has TONS of pride in his writing (to be fair, he’s prideful about basically anything he does) and he always appreciates it when you mention his little notes and complement the work he put into writing them.

➺ Sometimes when the both of you are talking together he’d say some of the most poetic sentences that you’ve ever heard like it’s nothing. 

➺ When you gasp he just goes “What? Why are you staring at me like that?” as if he didn’t randomly drop lines that sounded like they came from straight out of a novel.

➺ He’s a dick when it comes to spelling and grammar, especially during petty arguments.

➺ “How many times do I have to tell you, if your going to the restroom put the damn seat down afterwards” ➺ “It’s YOU’RE*, actually” ➺ “Fine, YOU'RE** a piece of shit Ryomen!”

➺ Don’t fret though, because while Ryomen Sukuna wants to know anything and everything there is to know about the world, he knows deep down inside that the best thing the world could have ever offered him was you.

-

➺ Edit: Okay I made this story quite a while ago but I HAVE ANOTHER HEADCANON TO ADD! I think his observation skills are super on point which is how he’s able to understand things so easily

A/N: Everyone list what you think Sukuna’s favorite book(s) would be 🗣️

A/N: If you enjoyed my thoughts on Sukuna, you’d love this story I also wrote paired with some headcanons! 

[borkunlimited]

Siúil a Rúin (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 1

The war has taken fathers, mothers, daughters, and sons and in your little sparrow's home, the seats reserved for her mother and father in the dining table will now forever be vacant. Yet, the winged seraphs can only look away for so long. From the pieces of her broken dreams, you and Sylus will help her make a new one. A Love and Deepspace and Reverse 1999 crossover set in the aftermath of World War 1. Tags: Sylus x Reader, Found Family, Trauma, Implied Domestic Abuse, AU Author's Note: This all started when @cygnuusss and I were obsessing over Sylus and our favorite crew members in Reverse 1999. Enjoy reading! AO3

1: Of Prayers and Silent Vigils

Today, it was your little sparrow’s turn to lead the way to the Union station.

Your usual corner is the third bench from the far right wall of the train station, many soldiers have come and gone, but the station workers have passed by you and your little sparrow so often to know that a small kindness goes a mile, always making sure your spot is vacant once the clock strikes at three in the afternoon.

“Your daughter is very lovely.”

You smile fondly at the kind old lady who compliments your little sparrow, watching her hand her a piece of cookie wrapped in parchment and twine which she accepts, always making sure to say ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ to the giver.

“Waiting for her father?”, she asks and you nod, every conversation a welcome one to soothe your nerves and maybe for her too.

Afterall, anyone who sits in the benches of the Union station waiting for the train that will bring home those sent to European soil are in a temporary state of limbo between the eventual grief or promised reunion.

The presence of your little sparrow seemed to put everyone at ease, always sparking a conversation.

“Have you been a good child to your mama?”, the kind old lady asked her.

You stopped a soft chuckle from escaping your lips and so did your little sparrow.

Still, you aren’t one to miss an opportunity to talk about your little sparrow.

So here you are listing down her achievements from school starting from being able to write in perfect cursive to being able to do simple math.

So here you are quick to show the embroidery of a rainbow, the one your little sparrow sewn together with you in the corner of your handkerchief while both of you are huddled by the window of your home with the leaves of the lone orange tree rustling against the cool, summer air of last year.

So here you are, your eyes shining bright when you share the baked goods you have made together with the kind old lady, telling her how your little sparrow kneaded the dough herself.

The sound of a train engine approaching breaks your conversation and the kind old lady bids you goodbye, telling you she may have spotted her son on a train carriage ahead, and her small form slowly disappears among the crowd of soldiers returning from the Western Front welcomed by their families.

“Do you think my dad knows him, ma’am?”, your little sparrow always asks you, her eyes lingering on a battered soldier embracing his daughter and wife, unbothered that the gesture may have opened his stitches, the white bandages stained with pinpricks of red.

“I am sure he does. Your dad is the best medic, after all.”

“Do you think it is taking him a while because he is still helping the others?”

“He just wants to make sure all the dads of the other little sparrows will return home first.”

Your little sparrow, always quick to give way for the well-being of others, continues to watch families make their way outside of the station and you are sure her wait will be rewarded well but even the best children have a part that becomes slightly envious of the good fortune of others.

They simply choose not to say it out loud, guilty for even having such thought in the first place and in her case, you don’t press her any further, choosing to hold her hand instead.

Your wait is grueling but you are sure hers is more painful.

Your vigil lasts three hours.

The first hour.

You and your little sparrow will play one of her favorite games to pass time where you and her will keep count of the number of items with the color green or yellow.

Her favorite colors.

“Green, three,” she exclaimed, pointing at the dog who leapt out from one of the train carriages, wearing a green vest bearing a red cross.

A casualty dog.

“You have sharp eyes, little sparrow.”

“Scout’s Motto: Always be in a state of readiness!”

“You will be a scout leader in no time, Eagle.”

Her eyes always lit up when you called her by her nickname, a name she picked up after discovering the title of the highest rank for attaining the most badges once she becomes an official member of the Scouts.

“Didn’t you know only boys are allowed to join the Scouting program?”, a well-meaning neighbor once told you when they caught your little sparrow practicing tying her knots.

Perhaps it was the absence of your husband that made you be more confident or perhaps it was your little sparrow’s presence that you finally began to have the semblance of your old self that you replied, “If they give her a chance, she will have the highest rank within less than a year.”

After all, you are her witness to her hard work.

Your little sparrow who stays up late memorizing the Scout’s manual and she will only go to sleep when you remind her that a Scout should have a good night’s rest to have a clear mind.

Your little sparrow who takes a walk with you in the early mornings and with her binoculars, accurately identifies the migratory birds from the local ones.

Your little sparrow who does not hesitate to help and once you received word from school of her tardiness only to find out she helped an elderly lady carry her groceries all the way to her home.

“Oh, yellow, four,” you smiled, pointing at a woman handing out sunflowers to soldiers stepping out of the train carriages, a yellow ribbon tied on each stem.

“Those are very lovely.”

“Do you want us to buy one before we go back to your home?”

“You don’t mind, ma’am?”

You can never say no to her smile and even when it is difficult to make ends meet because of the war, you will always find a way to have another penny in your wallet if it means you can purchase gifts just for her.

In the first hour, your worries are placed in the background and all you can hear is her laughter amidst the bustling station.

The second hour.

You and your little sparrow will open the wicker basket filled with orange sandwiches, granola bars, and a tin of tea both of you packed together before leaving your home but it was mostly for her since-

-You cannot will yourself to eat, even when you want to join her,   the bread suddenly becomes tasteless, your arms cold even when you have bundled up for the winter when the sharp ring of the station’s clock makes you realize you are halfway through your vigil.

“Ma’am?”

Adults will say that all children are naive but they have forgotten that children are always quick to pick-up discomfort and such small hearts will immediately retreat, not wanting to add more to the burden of those who are taking care of them but your little sparrow, she grew up too fast for her crutches to help her chase her dreams had been taken away from her too early.

She’ll huddle closer to you, holding your hand while she continues to take slow bites of her granola bar, her attention now at you and not at the doors of the train carriages opening.

“Ma’am?”, she calls out again.

“I am here,” you answered and then you smiled at her fondly, “I am just excited to meet your father.”

“I am sure my dad would like you.”

You hold on her hand a little longer, selfishly, for when her father returns, so will your husband and when he does, the idyllic days filled with quiet love in your small home will be gone just as fast as it arrived for you and she must go back to your normal lives.

Eagle back at her home with her father and you back at your own house with a husband who bears a heavy hand.

She asks you many times if you and the man you call your husband can come over to her home for she is sure that since you are a lovely person then surely he is too but in your own offhand way (or perhaps it is a small cry for help) that you tell her that not all men are like her father.

“Does that mean we can no longer see each other anymore?”, she will ask after and you are quick to ease her worries, not when you see the look of disappointment in her eyes.

“I’ll always find a way, little sparrow, I promise,” you told her.

You are sure your husband will not be too happy seeing you spending time with a child not your own, especially one being raised by her father alone and his punishment would be severe for breaking rules only he is allowed to break.

Even when you already know your skin will once again be covered with black and blue bruises upon his return, you are not one to break your world you sealed with a pinky promise.

Good wives will pray for their husbands’ safety but your husband had told you more than once that you aren’t so-

-You prayed for the safety of every soldier except his, if it meant you can finally have the happiness you always yearn for.

The third hour.

The Union station experiences a sudden urge of new arrivals at this hour, labor workers, employees, and soldiers all stepping out from the train carriages and then the wide building suddenly became too suffocating. 

Once, a passerby handed you a daisy to hand to the heroes of the Great War but you plucked each petal instead to curb the unpleasant thoughts of your husband’s return-

“Is he coming home?”

“Is he not?”

“Is he coming home?”

When the last petal tells you he will be, you tell yourself instead it is Eagle’s father who will and if the flower tells you otherwise, then you assume it is your husband instead, then you let out a sigh of relief but today, the passerby is nowhere to be found and you can only assumed the person they have been waiting for has arrived home or-

-they received the dreaded letter instead.

Eagle will be more alert at the last hour, her eyes darting at the face of every man who wears an olive green tunic, some missing a limb, an eye, bandages still fresh.

How about you?

Your eyes will be on your shoes, countdown to ten, repeat, until finally the clock strikes at six, and only then your erratic heartbeat will return to normal.

You should be helping her look for her father, the man you always see in the photos of her home but you are afraid your eyes will meet your husband’s instead.

After the third hour, you and your little sparrow will finally take your leave, two set footprints upon the snow, further, further, and perhaps it isn’t too bad serving your sentence in this limbo if all that heaven is asking from you is three hours of heartache so you can keep her a little longer.

(Selfish. You’re very selfish for hoping the days will stay as is while your little sparrow longs for her father, her actual parent, to return home.)

Yet, all cycles must come to an end, all debts can be cleared and all prayers will eventually be granted audience.

A quiet voice spoke.

Only Eagle looked up.

“-’s daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eagle’s hand around you tightens and even when you are far, far away from the shore of consciousness, too deep in the ocean of worry, you squeeze hers back.

When a man in uniform stands in front of you and calls for your attention, he only brings one announcement.

“Are you sure?”

“That’s my dad’s name, sir.”

Third bench from the far right wall of the Union station, between three and six in the afternoon, a promise of reunion was made long ago sealed between her dad with their pinkies locked together and a scout should never break an oath so spring, summer, autumn, winter, your little sparrow dutifully waits.

Determined.

Obedient.

Disciplined.

She almost has all the qualities of a perfect child but even the most polite child has a fragile heart and it only takes one phrase, even unintentionally, even if spoken out of goodwill-

“I need to tell you something.”

Only Eagle heard his next words, the barking of casualty dogs too loud, the station bell clapping more than it should and the conversations around you as if from a defunct radio station with dirty audio.

-To break it into a million pieces.

“You’re lying!”

Suddenly, the noise of the station crashes like a tidal wave, the small hand that anchors you has left your side prompting you to look up and it is only when the owner of the voice and you finally meet each other’s gaze.

You will always recognize the hair of the color of driven snow and even when war has taken his right eye, his crimson gaze still holds the silent determination of a stubborn man who doesn’t bow even to death.

The two men you and your little sparrow were expecting did not return, one you will mourn together with her while the other one you will celebrate quietly even when the weight of his heavy hand now cold is replaced with guilt.

Everyday, you pray for your husband to never arrive home and everyday, your prayer ends with a plea for forgiveness for even asking but prayers will be eventually heard and there are prayers that heaven chooses to answer.

In a distant town by the sea and vibrant orange trees of the sprawling orchard of a long time past, the man who shattered your heart into million pieces has returned instead and now-

-He stands before you as the man who carried out the wishes you sent to the seraphs.

────────────────────

Author's Notes: I love all the stories of crew members in Reverse 1999. In this case, I supposed Eagle's story struck me the most being a child who lost her father in WW1 and how she is rejected several times by BSA (There were no Girl Scouts yet back then). Also yes, don't worry, we will touch that part in the later chapters. Always happy to share stories with everyone here. Thank you for reading! See you in the next chapter. AO3

[cerosin-bis]

Hi Cero! 👋 Can we please get some handwriting hc's for Krueger and Nikto? Messy or neat? Big or small? Unique or generic? Does it vary between Cyrillic and Latin? I would love to hear your thoughts!

(And your new fic is sooo good so far! I love the road trip setting, it's so fun and leaves so much room for things to happen. And the forced closeness makes for such delicious tension. I can't wait for the other parts! ❤️)

I think in cyrillic Nikto has let's say "good" average cursive, quite small. When writing in the latin alphabet he also has small letters but all capitals, so it's very legible.

Krueger... you can see he writes fast, his handwriting in latin is neat, but his cursive is half "textbook" (as in, cleanly formed letters), half ass because he never took the time to properly master it when he learnt Russian.

(And thank you so much for the kind words about my current fic! ♥ It means a ton, I know it's a bit different from what I usually write and I'm not super at ease with longer works, so I'm pleased to know you find the setting and the context pleasant to read 😚)

[e1ectricwords]

Dating Freed

Headcanons and stuff:

--> Sharp wit and quick responses - Freed is not boring!! Texting this man would be so fun. He's got to deal with both Evergreen and Bickslow first of all, so he would have developed ways to insult both of them without them noticing. Anyway, texting you would be fun. I think his responses are perfectly punctuated, and also very quick, but expect some sarcastic responses as well just if you ever ask some really dumb questions. However, yes, very quick responses just because he wants to talk to you. Plus, every single question you ever ask will get answered, not just the last one sent to him. He takes care in reading and responding to every single one of your messages.

--> Long love letters - classic Freed-Core. He's not afraid to write out long letters for you on paper in beautiful cursive handwriting. He'd make sure to date every single one of them, just so you can track his thoughts through the days, months, and years together. Oh and a side note, this man would create the most beautiful vows to read.

--> A blushing mess - classic Freed-Core 2. Yes, he can express himself on paper, crafting the perfect words, but in person he just malfunctions. Do something cute? Stuttering mess. Undress just a bit? Blushing and can't look away. It also doesn't ease up as the years go on, it just continues as intensely as the day you got together.

--> Sitting in silence - picture a quiet Sunday afternoon, laundry is all done, the house is clean. Both of you have a book, have chosen different parts of the living room to read. He lit a candle, you chose the background ambient music. It's silent apart from some occasional laughs as you read your book, and he asks very casually, "something funny, darling?". It's a very calm ritual that you both have, and it's a perfect way to end the week. You might not even share the same interest in books, but he won't judge you for it. He might just try and coax you into trying his favourite genre.

--> Ballroom dates - it seems like something that he would be really into, specifically masquerade balls. You can get each other roses and dress up for the night ahead.

--> Old-school romantic - this ties in with a lot above, but just to add the little extra bits: he would always be opening doors first, pulling our chairs, or gesturing for you to walk ahead. Flip it around and do this all for him as well and I'm afraid you've won his heart. He is also the type to walk with you with arms linked together, instead of holding hands as such.

If you liked this, check out the Masterlist

[animementrash]

AOT veterans headcanons

Characters: Levi Ackerman, Erwin Smith, Hange Zoe

Tags: just random thoughts on the main three vets, they/them pronouns for Hange, some may be ooc?, SFW only

A/N: Here are my headcanons based on how I percieve them, I have some more for the rest of the characters but I'm posting only three for now because they are longer than expected. (I also have NSFW ones but I'm waiting until I get more comfortable with sharing my thoughts before posting those) Hope you like them and thank you for reading!

Levi Ackerman:

Washes his hands constantly, almost too many times a day.

Would rather fight a titan with an arm tied to his back than do the dishes. The mere thought of soggy leftovers sticking to his hands makes him gag.

Avoids going out to public places because he’s aware of his popularity inside the walls and doesn’t know how to act when he’s the center of attention.

Following the previous topic and contrary to popular beliefs, this man would never reject a gift/letter/trinket given to him by a local. It can be the most random thing but he will always accept them with a small nod, he’s deeply thankful for their blind trust in him.

Yawns and stretches ALL THE TIME, he is known for sleeping as little as 3 or 4 hours per night and while he’s able to go on with his day without problems, this doesn’t mean he isn’t feeling drowsy all the time so he’s almost always letting out quiet yawns and stretching his arms to ease the soreness of his body.

Sneezes a lot when cleaning. It’s not rare at all to hear him sneeze when he’s dusting or sweeping, if someone says “Bless you” to him he’ll quietly mumble a “thanks” before getting back to cleaning.

Has a favorite seat at the dining table and gets grumpy when someone takes that place before him.

Speaking of dinner, this man eats SLOW AS HELL, he’s usually one of the last to finish his meal.

Is constantly thirsty because he refuses to drink anything but tea.

Has memorized everyone’s footsteps and knows who’s coming to his office before they even knock the door.

Cleans and calibrates his ODM gear daily even when he’s not planning on using it.

Doesn’t like to be in new recruit’s trainings because he gets anxious when most of them hurt themselves while getting used to work with the ODM gear.

Trims his hair weekly, most people believe he shapes his haircut and has hairdresser-like skills when in reality all he does is trim it to avoid losing the shape it already has.

Can’t read cursive even if his life depends on it. One time Erwin handed him a memo written in cursive and he got so frustrated because he didn’t understand what it said that he ended up ignoring the memo. Turns out Erwin needed him to turn in some reports earlier than usual and got scolded because of it.

Loves eating fruit. Fruit was considered an ultra luxury item in the underground so when he realized how much fruit he could eat once he was in the scouts, he got obsessed with it.

Whines and complains a lot for a person who’s known to be grumpy and stoic. Ask him to do something he dislikes and you’ll hear a bunch of huffs and puffs before he goes to do it.

Talks with his horse. A lot.

Wanders through the empty halls when he can’t sleep and doesn’t bother to bring a candle to light the path, the cadets now believe there is a ghost haunting the headquarters.

Erwin Smith:

Hums and whistles a lot, he’s always making some kind of noise while signing reports or walking down the halls. You can hear this man before seeing him.

Takes more time than he’s willing to admit in styling his hair every morning. He is a firm believer that appearance matters a lot so he puts a lot of effort on his.

 Has a specific pair of glasses he uses when reading, almost no one knows about it besides Hange who helped him choose the right ones.

Talks in his sleep, it can vary between mumbled nonsense to full on speeches.

Has a journal that is more like a diary because he writes all his thoughts/hopes/fears on it but he’d be damned if someone refers to it as a diary and not a journal.

Is lowkey afraid of insects but plays it cool when he comes across one because he doesn’t want to come out as “weak”.

Snaps his fingers when trying to remember something.

People think he’s a very wise and smart man because it’s very common to find him “deep in thoughts”, truth is he just tends to zone out and disassociates like crazy.

Loves dogs, he’s the biggest dog person in the scouts. Often stops and pets dogs he finds while taking a walk downtown.

Cleans and polishes his shoes every night before going to sleep. Whenever his face gets reflected on the shiny shoe a smile appears on his lips.

Not always but sometimes sneaks out behind the barracks to smoke some cigarettes, tries to hide all evidence afterwards because Levi will start complaining about the awful smell.

Would rather be late to an early meeting than go without shaving, has to shave daily because by the end of the day he already has a shadow beard.

Is well aware of his attractiveness and uses it to his advantage when needed.

Visits his father’s grave every Sunday and spends most of the day there. Sometimes brings a book and reads it out loud.

Smacked his face after trying to see through a clear glass Levi had cleaned earlier, after laughing for several minutes Levi scolded him for dirtying his glass.

His wardrobe is full of neutral-colored clothes, he sucks at matching outfits so goes with the safest options.

Knows very well Levi can’t read cursive so when he’s bored, he scribbles gibberish on a paper and gives it to Levi saying it’s important to get it done by end of day just to get a laugh.

Has relatives living inside the walls who refuse to acknowledge him, some of them even pretend he died the same day his dad did.

Has an ongoing bet with Hange to see who makes Levi laugh the most, so far Erwin is winning by one but only because he accidentally fell from his horse and Levi found it hilarious.

Arm-wrestles with Miche a lot, especially after they had a few beers.

LOVES dancing, this man knows how to dance and isn’t afraid to show it. (Sadly for him he also loves to clap when dancing and this makes everyone laugh)

Hange Zoe:

Is both street-smart and book-smart, is the only person who has beaten Erwin in a chess match and also beaten Levi in a wrestling match.

Almost always has pencils sticking out of their hair, they place them there for a moment and totally forget about them.

Levi restricted them from using fountain pens because they would spill ink and stain everything and everywhere.

The reason why their glasses have straps on is not only because the risk of them falling off is smaller but also because according to them “it makes them look cooler”.

Wanted to join Erwin in giving instructions to Levi written in cursive but since their handwriting wasn’t as good as Erwin’s they opted for giving instructions in riddles, this makes Levi even more furious than the cursive ones.

Just like Levi, Hange takes a long time when eating dinner but the reason for this is not because they eat slow but because they talk a lot. By the end of the meal their food is either cold or soggy.

Tried to bite a titan once just to show them how it felt to be “on the receiving side”.

Their horse has tiny braids on its mane made by them when they were nervous.

Refuses to brush their hair because their ideas may “fall off” if they do it.

Tackled Levi once when they saw an “eerie figure” roaming the headquarters halls and thought it was a new species.

Has read more books than anyone in the scouts, knows a little of almost everything.

Says “wait, what?” at least twice when talking with someone, before that person can repeat themselves, they interrupt with a completely related answer and expect the person to continue speaking as if nothing happened.

Almost all cadets go to them for advice, they take this very seriously and never joke around when listening to their concerns.

Just like Erwin, they have relatives living nearby the headquarters but they’re not interested in one another.

Has a tendency to bite their nails when nervous, all his fingernails are short and bumpy because of it.

Is very quick at math and calculations.

Always carry a pocket notebook with them and writes anything that catches their attention so they can investigate about it later.

LOVES bugs, is always trying to catch them and examinate them. One time they trapped a cockroach and created a full design of an “armored suit” based on them, when Erwin asked where they got the inspiration for it, they just placed the cockroach in Erwin’s desk and Erwin almost fainted on the spot.

Randomly goes to Miche and asks him “what do I smell like?”, Miche stopped participating on their little riddles when Hange decided to put rotting food in their pockets before asking.

All their books have little notes and highlighted parts on them. Sometimes has two or three copies of the same book because their view on certain parts changes over time.

Takes pinky-promises as a legit way of commitment.

[spotaus]

Random fun fact (New Age Au)

So. I think I've mentioned I really like having language barriers, right? Well. Hear me out.

Nightmare is super well-rounded in his languages. Most dialects aren't too far off from eachother (like the romance languages using root words from latin) so it's not usually impossible to take wild guesses. He, Cross, Reaper, Geno, Ccino, and Dust are all really quick on either already knowing dialects or picking up on them.

Error, Fresh, Farm, and Lust all struggle with dialects different from their own, but can figure it out if given time.

Killer and Horror? They have it rough.

I haven't mentioned it really, but I've been chewing on these two having trouble w/ basic literacy when Nightmare hires them.

For Killer, he was exclusively taught the Old Tongue, the equivalent of Latin but for monsters. His temple didn't allow him to learn to read modern language, and it's only because he was clever that he managed to figure out how to speak it with Chara. He learned some words and phrases vaguely through signs around towns, but if he were given a book he'd probably not be able to read it, even in his 20s or so when Night brings him to the castle. It doesn't come up for months. His orders are usually word of mouth + the few written things he's given he can mostly understand. I think the only reason someone notices is because Ccino spots him in the library (with the cats) a lot, and because when Nightmare asked Killer's advice for how a letter was worded, Killer had to ask Night to read it out. (He can also speak so fluently + skilled that it never occurred to anyone.)

I also think Killer, in a force of habit, only writes his notes or messages in the old tongue. Very convenient when it's supposed to be coded. Not convenient when it's him letting Dust know he borrowed a robe from the stable.

Meanwhile, Horror was much the same as Killer with picking up on writing from signs and people speaking, but he's just a lot slower to learn and wasn't very shy about how little he knew. His family basically speaks the opposite of whatever it is spoken in Orchard, not even the sane root words, so it's a tough learning curve to figure out writing. And sometimes Horror will do that thing where he doesn't know the word for something and pantomime it (or goes to find it himself). (In contrast, Killer just starts talking in the old tongue if he doesn't know the 'right' words lol.) Horror has less luck than Killer, but he does eventually figure things out. His handwriting is gorgeous though. Like, his home script is usually very flowy and smooth (writing technique) and so he basically does his own version of cursive!

I think when Killer is found out for not knowing how to write (at least in the common Orchard tongue) Nightmare asks Killer if he wants to learn. Killer, with some wounded pride, says yes. Nightmare has to trial and error through several tutors (Night tried + fumbled badly, and Killer got cagey when Ccino gave it a shot) before Killer finally finds one he likes. (I want her to be an Alphys, actually. Like, idk, maybe Outer!Alphys or smth? Someone who was new and inexperienced but VERY passionate.) This, over the course of months/a year, alongside his other training, improves him a lot. His writing default stays Old Tongue, but now he *can* read and write, with only a little difficulty.

For Horror, it took a mix of both Killer and this Alphys *and* Dust to help him learn. Bits and pieces of exposure therapy basically, easing him into it gently, slowly, making sure he doesn't get overwhelmed. He's a fat learner in physical ways (picking up Killer's fighting style, people's tones, etc) but reading and writing? Nah. Not his strong suit. It's missions that really help things make sense to him tbh. Associating letters + words + meanings from paper to the real world. Luckily, he has a support group, and much like Killer, he doesn't need to read/wrote to understand complex thoughts or emotions or concepts. It's just convenient to have as a skill.

Along this same line, I wanna say Fresh struggles a little with this too. I mean, he's clever af and Geno would never let his lil bro go uneducated but... I mean... Fresh writes in chicken scratch, his spoken word is almost like he's spewing riddles (his Slang), and he speaks in growls and clicks to his beasts for over 50% of his adult life. So, when introduced to a *new* language, even if only slightly different? Yeag nah. Not. Not his deal. He'll speak it eventually, maybe, and reading he might puzzle out, but writing? Nope.

[septic-skele]

UT - It's Illegible Chicken Scratch

Summary: Papyrus' classmates think he's a tryhard. His teacher thinks he's not trying hard enough. Sans thinks he may need to do some research on dysgraphia.

A/N: In which I take that one line about Papyrus' puzzle notes (see title) and ruuuun with it

~

Papyrus had a…complicated relationship with his words.

Complicated: c-o-m-p-l-i-c-a-t-e-d. See, he knew how to spell it, unlike some of the other third grade students; he could recite the letters aloud without stumbling and recognize them when they were in a book with ease—so why couldn’t he put those very same letters down neatly on this expectant piece of paper?

His vocabulary (v-o-c-a-b-u-l-a-r-y) was supposed to be a point of pride. He and his brother were font-based by design; words were their specialty. Sans put his practice toward making even the smallest, most casual words more effective but Papyrus had always wanted to aim higher. Maybe it was the upper-caser in him; he devoured the puzzle of sounding out larger, longer syllables, echoing them over and over (even a little uncontrollably sometimes) until they settled just right in his mouth.

When he piped up to contribute to older monsters’ conversations, they would often exclaim that he was “so well spoken for his age!” Sans would look at him with such a fond warmth in his eyelights and reply, “Yep, that’s my bro. He’s the coolest.”

The other kids in his class didn’t seem to share the sentiment, not even after he offered to help them with the words of the day. He had hoped studying together would be the start to a friendship (or at the very least what Sans called a give-and-take relationship.) Maybe if they were friends, they would in turn help him in the areas of study where they all excelled and he might, theoretically, ever so slightly fall short.

Instead they accused him of thinking they were stupid, insulting them just because he knew they wouldn’t understand. They complained to the teacher that he was being a showoff, using all these fancy words to act like he was better than them.

Perhaps it had reminded his teacher of the bad mood she was in last week when Papyrus told her the spelling flash cards were too easy. Whatever the case may be, she had issued a challenge: “Well, if you’re so confident in using your words, you can practice your cursive with the fourth grade word list.”

It wasn’t the more advanced list that dropped Papyrus’ soul into the pit of his metaphorical stomach. It was that one particular word: cursive.

Reading and recitation were doable, give-and-take; he was given letters, words, phrases and took them with him for future use. Writing, however, was…not that. It was the far less fun kind of puzzle, too much giving with too much room for mistakes—and he made many, many mistakes.

The margins of the designated writing zone never moved yet somehow he always managed to over- or underestimate how much room he had on the paper, sentences skidding sideways. The level of concentration he needed to make letters fit between the lines was ridiculous and it usually led to him missing some crucial punctuation. The joints in his fingers ached with every painstaking swirl of the pencil, and that was when he put his all into typical uppercase.

Cursive was, true to the name, a curse, and his teacher was well aware. She couldn’t not be, considering the number of exasperated conversations she and Sans had about it after class. After just such an occasion this afternoon, Sans even put on the serious tone when they got home, cajoling Papyrus to explain what was wrong, to just be honest with him. If he had hurt his hand at some point and decided to hide it from him, if it had healed wrong and it was affecting his line work—

Some of their frustration must have rubbed off on him because Papyrus’ honesty was a little louder than necessary. “It didn’t heal wrong because I didn’t hurt it! Whenever I try to write, it hurts without being hurt! I can see—” That didn’t sit quite right in his mouth for the context. Hissing a sharp breath through his teeth, he adjusted. “I can vis-u-al-ize the words I want but my head can’t make my hand write them! Either hand. I’ve tried both!” When his brother’s eye sockets narrowed, his irritation gave way to pleading, his offending hands flailing at the equally offending worksheet. “Just look at it, Sans! I know those words and you know I know them! I can read them, I can say them, I just can’t make them!”

“You can’t,” Sans repeated, and though his tone was unreadable, it still stung. “Can’t”, however small it may be, was a word Papyrus rarely ever liked using, especially in regards to himself. He preferred to think with enough optimism and time, he could do anything! But this? Detailing every one of those curling, spiraling lines with no slips, no misjudging the size, no smudges or streaks?

“No, I…can’t.” Resisting the urge to hunch his shoulders, he lowered his gaze, took another sharp breath and tried to pretend it didn’t catch in his throat. “But…I can try harder. I can try really, really hard if it means my teachers will stop yelling at the both of us. And I apologize for yelling at you just now too.” That was rather hypocritical: h-y-p-o—

“Hey.”

Sans lightly nudged his mandible, coaxing him to peek back up. His sockets were still narrowed, still serious, but thankfully not disbelieving or angry.

“Just because you can’t do it doesn’t mean you aren’t trying. I’m an expert at not trying, remember? I think I’d know if you weren’t. And just because you’re trying real hard doesn’t mean you can’t have help. But if I wanna help, I need to know when something is hurting you. Cause your homework shouldn’t be doing that. Do your hands hurt every single time you write?”

“Not as much if it’s something short but…even then, the pencil doesn’t make the letters small enough to suit the smaller words. They sit right in my thoughts but not on the paper.”

“Huh. And your teacher, how often is she getting mad at you for this? As often as she gets mad at me?”

That sounded suspiciously like Sans using his casual words to achieve an effect Papyrus might not agree with (or even be privy to.) Why did it feel like he might get someone in trouble? “Only as often as I do it wrong…”

“Huh,” Sans exhaled again, and there was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of anger, just as Papyrus happened to blink. “Well, seeing as she couldn’t be bothered to ask nicely, I don’t see why you should have to bother with this.”

“What? Why not? What does that mean?”

Sans shrugged, folding the paper with surprising neatness before tucking it into his jacket. “I’ll take care of it. I’ve slept through my third and fourth grade classes already; it ought to be a breeze.”

“Sans, you can’t just do my homework for me!” Papyrus sputtered incredulously. “That’s cheating! And it wouldn’t even be clever cheating, considering our very different, very well-known fonts!”

“Who said I was gonna do it for you? I’m just gonna supervise like Teach told me—heh, ‘like a real, proper guardian would’—while Papyrus does it.”

For a moment Papyrus had to uncharacteristically wonder if Sans had gotten enough sleep last night. “Right. Yes. Papyrus…which is me…who, as we just discussed, can’t do it.”

Sans’ only response to that was one of his annoyingly cryptic winks before he padded toward the stairs. “Our fonts are pretty recognizable, aren’t they?” he mused offhanded after three or four steps. “Couldn’t mistake ’em for anything but Comic Sans and Papyrus. We fonts are so recognizable, the computer’s got a database chalk full of ’em. In fact, I think I saw one under the P’s that looks juuust like you and it doesn’t even hurt. The wonders of technology!”

“Wha—Sans!” As soon as his brother took a shortcut out of sight, Papyrus was bounding toward the stairs, hollering after him. “That sounds like a lot of effort to not try while helping me, in the worst possible way!”

“Sorry, can’t hear you! Me and Papyrus are too busy studying real hard up here where it’s quiet,” Sans called down the hall. “And actually, we’re making so much progress and I’m so proud, I might just make a fancy printout of his work when he’s done to show your teacher!”

“Sans!”

Forgery: f-o-r-g-e-r-y.

[gottawriteanegoortwo]

What-If: Dark Meets Damien and Celine as Children

One little art trope that I’ve really enjoyed seeing is when Dark is drawn interacting with Damien and Celine when they are children in some sort of AU or what-if setting. Examples of this are here and here. I’ve decided to finally contribute in my own way with my own spin on the setting!

I’ve wanted to try new approaches of narrative, in particular first-person and writing from a child perspective. In this case, I decided to combine the two into the exploration of a journal from a forgotten time in the past.

-

Word count: 2,590

Warning: there is a strong recurring theme of neglectful parenting throughout the entire piece. Please be mindful if you choose to read this.

—

[The latest addition to the museum is a diary that was found in [redacted]. The diary was written by an eight-year old boy and appears to have been an assignment in creative writing as assigned by a tutor. The journal was a chance for the child to practice cursive in a more casual manner while exploring his creativity with a story that was somewhat unusual for the time period.

For ease of access, we have provided a written transcript of the journal below.]

--- ---

October 12, 10pm

Dear Diary,

My tutor (Mr. Bentley) has told me I have to write a diary to practice my handwriting. He said it would be 'more fun' than other tasks. Because I can talk about myself and my day.

My name is Damien. I am eight years old. I live with my parents and my twin sister Celine in a big house. My father works as a lawyer. I will be a lawyer too when I am grown up. I take lots of classes to make sure I am smart enough to be a lawyer.

Today I woke up and had breakfast and went to school. Then I came home from school. I had a glass of water and then Mr. Bentley arrived to start my tutoring classes. Then I had supper and finished my homework. Then I went to my room before bed to write this diary.

This isn't fun.

I don't want to write a diary. Sorry.

From, Damien.

--- ---

October 13, 11pm

Dear Diary,

I told Mr. Bentley that I didn't want to write a diary. He said I had to if I wanted to have nice handwriting. But then he said that I could write about whatever I wanted instead of what I did for my day. He said it wouldn't be corrected like all my other schoolwork. I didn't have to show him the diary if I didn't want to.

He said that maybe I can find something fun to write about.

I don't know if I do anything fun. I can't think of anything good enough to write about.

Sorry if I never use you again, Diary.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 17, 9pm

Dear Diary,

I saw a man at the bottom of the garden today.

I was sitting in the back parlor with Celine. I wanted to go outside to get some air and take a break from study. It was raining today and Arthur (our butler) said I needed to wait until it was dry.

You are a book and cannot see so I will tell you about the garden. The garden is long and narrow. It has high walls and big bushes beside the walls.. There are steps that go to different higher parts. Arthur said these are 'levels'. The top level is grass. That is where I am allowed to sit if I can go outside. Mark said the garden is too small to run in. But I said this isn't a running garden. It is one for the grown ups to walk in.

But today there was a man standing on the grass near the back. He wore a white suit and his hair was messy. Then he saw me.

I ran to get Celine. But the man was gone by the time we were back at the window. Celine said I was seeing things.

Diary, you are going to help me remember what happened. I know what I saw.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 18, 6am

Dear Diary,

I saw him again!

This time I was in my bedroom! I was getting ready for school and looked out the window. I could see him from upstairs and he was right there at the bottom of the garden! I didn't move this time. I waited. He was looking at something on the ground floor. Then he turned and walked away.

But he walked into the bushes. As I told you in another entry, there is a wall behind the bushes. Is there a secret gate?

Diary, I think we need to look into this after school.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 18, 4pm

Dear Diary,

As soon as I got home I went to the garden. I went up all the steps and looked around. The bush I saw the man walk to is big and I could see a wall behind it. I moved some branches with my hands to look for a gate. I couldn’t find one. The wall is really tall too. I don’t know if any grown up could climb it.

Janet helps with the flowers and she asked me what I was doing. I asked if someone big could climb the wall. She said no. Then she said I might have seen a bird.

Is there a bird that looks like a person?

I should ask Mr. Bentley when he arrives but I don't want him reading you, Diary. Maybe I won't ask.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 18, 10pm

Dear Diary,

I didn't see the man again for the rest of the day. I did not see a big bird. I hope the man is in a house. It's too cold to be outside.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 19, 11pm

Dear Diary,

The man wasn't here today. Maybe he left.

Celine hasn't seen anyone new around the house. But there is a party tomorrow. Maybe the man is a friend of Father's. She said she will help me look at all the guests.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 20, 6pm

Dear Diary,

The man was not at the party. Celine called me stupid. I called her stupid. She pushed me and I kicked her.

We were both sent to bed with no supper.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 21, 7am

Dear Diary,

Father shouted at me today because of yesterday when I woke up. He said I will bring shame to the family if I keep acting out and being rude.

He took away the book I was reading and told me I was not allowed to eat until supper. 

He nearly took you away until I said that this was school work. He sent me into the study and told me to do my weekend homework.

It's not fair. Celine started it and didn't get in trouble…

From, Damien.

---

---

October 21, 12pm

Dear Diary,

I don't feel good. My head feels funny. I stood up to get my history book and I fell. Only that Arthur was beside me I might have hurt myself.

Arthur was angry. I think he was angry that I wasn't working hard enough like Father wants, but he told me to sit outside to get some air.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 21, 2pm

Dear Diary,

The man came into the garden while I was in the garden. I was lying on the grass when I saw someone move behind me.

It was him! The man!

I think he is sick. His skin is grey. Maybe that's why his hair is messy.

I think he was surprised to see me there. I asked him why he was in the garden. He didn't answer and he asked me if I was alright. He knew my name. I never told him my name.

I said I felt a little sick, but I would be better soon because I had homework to finish.

The man sat on the stone step beside me and took a small orange out of his pocket. He peeled it and said I could have it.

How did he get an orange? They are a summer treat.

The man said that I was sick because I was hungry. I forgot I hadn't eaten since the party yesterday. The orange would help me feel a little better. I was told by Arthur never to take things from strangers. The man smiled and said he was a friend.

He did know my name. I said I didn't know his name. But I wanted to be friends. 

He said his name was Dark. I asked why he was called 'Dark' if he had the whitest suit I ever saw.

Dark laughed. He said it's a nickname. That's when someone gives you another name that isn't your name. I asked if it's like how we call William ‘Will’. He said yes.

We talked. He had a really low voice. Sometimes it sounded funny.

He said I'm not a bad son. Brothers and sisters fight. That's what they do. 

I think he wanted to talk more but he saw something in the house and said he had to go. I asked if he would be back. He said he isn’t a bird but it is a secret how he gets into the garden.

He said that he'd be there for me. I would only need to ask for him by name if I didn't see him. I don't know what that means.

He left a few minutes ago and I went inside and I'm trying to write everything before I forget. He was really nice.

The orange is nice too.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 21, 10pm

Dear Diary,

Celine doesn't believe me. She said she saw me in the garden but I was talking to myself. She said Dark was an invisible person and that I was being stupid again.

I pulled her hair and left her room.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 23, 4pm

Dear Diary,

I saw Dark again. 

Mr. Bentley was here today after school so I needed to be fast. I crashed into Celine while running out to the garden.

I gave him this diary and asked him to write something in it so I could prove to Celine that he was real.

He wrote the message that's at the back of this book. There's no way Celine will call me stupid now.

From, Damien.

---

---

[This entry was at the back of the book. As we suspect this is the 'message' mentioned in the previous diary entry, we have elected to include it here.]

October 23rd.

Dear Celine,

I have been told you cannot see me. That's quite alright. Your brother isn't lying when he says that I am here.

Kind regards,

"Dark".

---

---

October 23, 9pm

Dear Diary,

Celine FINALLY said sorry for calling me stupid so many times. She saw me let go of the diary and saw it float in the air. I couldn't show her the message before Mr. Bentley kicked her out before my tutoring class started.

She doesn't know why she can't see him and is angry that Dark is hiding. I don't know why I can see him. 

I said sorry for hitting her and calling her stupid. She accepted the apology and said I needed to help her meet Dark.

I think that is fair. I think Celine will like Dark too.

From, Damien.

---

---

October 25, 11pm

Dear Diary, 

I had too much homework to look for Dark yesterday. I had lots today too. But I could go outside with Celine before it got too cold and dark. 

Dark was surprised to see me and her together. I pointed and told Celine that Dark was right there. She said I was lying. I gave Dark my pencil to hold and she saw it float in the air.

She still can't see him but she could hear him a little better the more we talked. Dark told us that both of us are able to 'see' and ‘hear’ things that others cannot but it takes time to learn how. Celine said it wasn't fair that I could do it without trying. I don't think it isn't fair. Celine can do loads of things better than me and I don't get angry.

Dark asked the two of us to always take care of each other no matter what. No matter if we are happy or angry, we still love each other. He said that's very important.

Celine said that she always looks out for me because she is the big sister. Dark patted the top of her head and said she should keep doing that.

I'm big enough to take care of myself.

We talked for a little while before we had to go back inside. Dark gave me back my pencil and said he won't be able to stay here all the time like he had before. He had something important to do. But he reminded me that I can call on him if I need him.

Mayhaps I will try one day.

From, Damien.

---

---

November 2, 6pm

Dear Diary,

I haven't seen Dark. I called his name and he didn't appear. I hope he is alright.

From, Damien.

---

---

February 3, 1am

Dear Diary,

I didn't do well in my mathematics test. Father was very angry at me. He said that I cannot be a good lawyer if I can't problem-solve fast enough. He said that I was wasting everyone's time and money by not getting the best grades in my tests. He said I was going to have extra mathematics classes on Saturdays until I never do that bad again.

He sent me to bed before supper. I can't sleep.

Celine and Mark have been busy with the school play. William is helping his family after school. I haven't seen Dark.

I wish there was someone I could talk to.

From, Damien.

---

---

6.10am, February 3rd

Dear Damien,

I have finally managed to help you fall asleep. There is not much more I can do to provide you further comfort, but I hope this letter in your journal will suffice.

You are a wonderful, intelligent little boy. I do not think it is reasonable for your father to be disappointed in your grades. I checked the paper that was still on your desk and you only made six mistakes out of fifty: half of them being unanswered questions that you ran out of time for. That is an 88% grade, which is remarkable when you are covering a topic taught to twelve year olds that you are only learning outside of school. 

I am very proud of you, Damien. I know you are capable of so many good things.

You do not deserve to be left up here alone. You should not be allowed to waste your days going from school to tutors to other classes with no time to be yourself. There are so many things in life that aren't judged by how well you perform in a school test or a piano recital. Your life is more important than results.

If I were not restricted by rules that I cannot explain, I would take you and your sister under my wing and bring you somewhere better, where you can play games and see the world beyond carefully curated gardens and stacks of books. Unfortunately… I cannot break these rules. However, it is unjust to simply leave it there.

Though I cannot do what I know is best, I refuse to accept that the 'rules' are more important. I will still find ways to visit you and make sure you are safe. So long as you are still able to see me, I will protect you when I am called upon.

You are much better than what your parents try to tell you, Damien. 

I hear movement in the corridor. I suspect it is Arthur coming to see how you are doing. I will be gone by the time you read this, but know that my absence does not mean a lack of care.

You are loved so much more than I could possibly put into words.

Stay safe.

Warmest regards,

“Dark”.

[rapturewaltz]

[(Introduction to the Stars.)]

"Un ensemble d'enfants, La galaxie s'étend Jardin de l'imagination. Combler la lacune, Voler face à la lune Vois comme nous évoluons."

1,496 words.

Apollo crept drowsily into their study, their mechanical claws grazing the wall as their eyelids fought to stay open. The lovely, comfortable scent of pine wood, old books and jasmine filled their senses, the soft, orange glow of the lit candles dancing onto the Sun’s face, illuminating their dark curls in frail, warm light. Their lips twisted into a small smile as they navigated through the labyrinth of bookcases, plucking several tomes from the dusty wood shelves. Once content with their selections, they slithered toward the desk, where small candles sat, fire kindling from atop them. Saturn sighed comfortably as they slid the old books onto their desk, seating themselves as they lit the desklamp, which drowned out the soft, golden light with harsh white. The Sun winced as the intense glow caused strain against their eyes, before they let out a sigh, slumping in their chair as their metal claws wrapped around the soft, leather cover of a dark blue monograph, and their fingers traced over unintelligible golden engravings that seemed pleasantly familiar to Shams.

There, they sat, gently scanning faded words of ink for hours on end, the sound of the turning of pages and scratching of pens resounding through the room as the flames of the candles slowly withered. Scratchy cursive words littered the pages of the Mind’s notebook as they read, quill resting softly in their hand as they hummed softly.

Just as Neptune's eyelids grew heavy, the creaking of floorboards interrupted the silence. Startled, Apollo turned, squinting against the darkness of their study. Seraph approached with gentle steps, his wings fluttering behind him. Saturn's tense posture eased as they loosened their hold on the tome in their clutch, and a fond smile graced their lips as the Moon's hand traced the wall.

“Seraph,” The Sun called fondly as Icarus finally stopped beside their desk, entangling his fingers into Saturn’s long, unruly curls. Qamar smiled lovingly at his sibling, tilting his head curiously as his fingers grazed over Logos’ writings.

“You’re studying again? This late?” Seraph asked curiously, a hint of disappointment seeping into moon’s voice at Mind’s lack of sleep. The Sun looked away sheepishly, and Pathos frowned, putting his hands onto his hips as his wings flicked.

“Saturn, you should rest. It’s no good for you to exhaust yourself like this.” He said sternly. Apollo shook sun’s head. 

“You needn’t concern yourself with me, Seraph. I assure you, I shall be alright. I do appreciate your worries.” They said softly, taking Seraph’s coarse, lovingly calloused hands into their own cold iron claws. Icarus smiled defeatedly as he shook his own head disapprovingly. 

“Right. You can tell me that when you pass out in the observatory again.” Qamar said sarcastically, moon’s teeth bared in a loving grin. Shams chuckled sheepishly, drawing their hands away to fidget with the watch pinned to their coat. 

“Seraph, I plead. That was simply once. I assure you, I will be fine. ” They said, the whir of gears sounding throughout the room as they tapped their claws together rhythmically. Seraph chuckled, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Whatever you say, Sunshine.”  

Saturn paused hesitantly as Seraph stood still beside them, softly twirling their hair in his fingers. 

“Artem, er… has Asteria gone to rest for the night?” They ask nervously. Seraph hummed in confirmation, and The Sun’s shoulders slumped in relief.

“I don’t suppose you’d mind taking a trip to the observatory with me, then? I… may have forgotten something I require.” They said, tapping their claw gently against their glasses. Seraph chuckled fondly.

“Sure. I don’t have much better to do.”  

Heavy footsteps resounded throughout the long, dark corridors as Neptune slinked up the steps, Seraph gliding not far behind them. The orange glow of candlelight lit the dark, winding stairs as Apollo clutched a chamberstick tightly in their claws, the tail of their coat trailing behind them as their skirts rustled, floorboards creaking under their tendrils. As they reached the top, Seraph panted behind them, eventually reaching the top himself, slumping against the wall.

“I always forget,” he gasped. “How fucking hard it is to climb those.” 

Saturn chuckled softly as they slinked across the room to a small study desk pressed against the wall, littered with unkempt stacks of papers and heavy tomes. They plucked a large stack of documents, held loosely together by a lone paperclip, before abruptly returning to Qamar’s side. They took a moment– only a moment– to gaze up at the sky, the dark, abysmal pool of space adorned patternly with specks of light- like the millions of eyes of a majestic beast, or shards of broken glass. They hummed softly before turning back to Heart.

“Well, I suppose we ought to return, then. The trip down should be much less exerting. I assure you.” They said, as comfortingly as they could as they freed a hand from the papers they clutched to push their eyeglasses back up. Seraph hummed in understanding, his breath hitching as he pushed himself off the wall and trailed behind Neptune.

Soft echoes rang through the hall once more as the Sun quickly descended the spiralling flight of stairs, not a stumble or trip interrupting them as they sped down with precision. Icarus chuckled from behind sun.

“What’re you in a rush for?” Luna asked. Logos shrugged.

“No reason in particular,” They called back. “I suppose I’d just prefer to return to my work quickly. I’d like to rest.” They pondered thoughtfully. Seraph snorted.

“Oh, so now they want to sleep.” Seraph teased. Saturn rolled sun’s eyes as Artem continued on. “Though, I suppose I can’t complain. You’re getting rest one-way-or-another, and that’s all I wanted.” Saturn chuckled softly, pleasantly flattered by their younger brother’s concern. As they strode into the archives confidently, they immediately paused as they heard a familiar sound, and discreetly pulled Seraph around the corner, hidden by years of written wisdom as they crouched behind the bookshelf.

Standing before Saturn’ desk ponderously was Soul, her empty, dead eyes scanning over Apollo’s notes.

“Seraph,” Logos hissed, clutching The Moon’s sleeve softly. “You told me Eris was resting.” 

Seraph stammered nervously, fear dawning unto the moon as he realised the product of Saturn’s panic.

“I-I thought she was. Star told me she was going to bed and– oh, I hope we didn’t wake her…” Icarus said softly, shuddering at the thought of angering Soul. Neptune sighed in exasperation, and The Sun pushed themselves to their feet, Seraph trailing anxiously behind as they approached Soul. 

“Asteria,” The librarian spoke harshly, fighting to keep their own composure as their hand trembled, oh-so-slightly. Sidra’s gaze darted up to Saturn, and her gaze fixed onto them. 

“Ah. Neptune. Hello.” She spoke softly, obliviously, even. Logos swallowed their fear as they approached Eris slowly. 

“Might I inquire as to why you’ve come here?”Sun said, their voice far more harsh than intended. Soul blinked slowly at them, before turning to face the stack of papers on Saturn’s desk. 

“I was only curious as to what you’ve been up to. I came in here to check on you, but you weren’t here, so I waited.” She droned monotonously. Apollo felt a twinge of discomfort mixed with fear ring throughout them.

Neptune cleared their throat. “Well, I’m faring very well, I do thank you, as Seraph and I have actually just gone up to the observatory to retrieve a few documents for myself. Is there anything in particular you require?” They asked, tapping their claws together nervously. They couldn’t help but remember the revolting pain they had gone through to gain them as they watched Soul with anxious gaze. Soul turned slowly, pushing herself to her feet.

“I suppose not.” Eris mumbled absentmindedly. “I might as well return to my own room, then. Goodnight, you two.” Saturn and Seraph watched nervously as Asteria crept out of the library, the wings atop Icarus’s head flicking anxiously as he readjusted himself.

Shams shot Qamar an unnerved glance- not one that he could see, obviously, but one that they certainly both would’ve shared as Seraph clutched his arms with his soft, bruised hands. 

“I, erm… I suppose I should go too. To bed, I mean.” He said hesitantly. Saturn tilted their head, worry resounding throughout them as they placed a hand onto The Moon’s shoulder.

“Seraph, are you positive? I… I don’t know how authentic Mercury was in her words. I… I fret for your wellbeing.” They whispered, concern lacing their voice.

Artem smiled fondly as he took the Sun’s hand into his own.

“I’ll be fine, Sunshine. Promise. You should rest yourself. Try not to shake yourself up too much over it, yeah?” He said. Neptune’s protests were silenced by Icarus as he crept out of the archives, the faint pitter-patter of his footsteps growing distant as Mind’s worries seemed to grow stagnant.

Defeatedly, with a single blow, the strained, dying candlelight extinguished, and the Sun was resigned to the dark.

[dvbee]

Reverse Falls AU Ch. 1

This is an AU I've been writing based on the Gravity Falls Reverse Falls AU. The entire thing will be up on AO3 soon but i'm posting the first chapter here in the meantime. I hope you enjoy! :D

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Pacifica Southeast was a curious spirit. Her parents both knew this. So when she snuck downstairs one night to overhear them in a heated argument about money troubles, they thought it best to send her away for the remainder of the summer. They sent her up to the northwest to go stay with her cousin Gideon Pines. She had never heard of a place called “Gravity Falls” before and the postcard in her hand depicting pine trees and a bright sunny sky almost seemed hard to believe. She flipped the paper over in her hands and read the back of the note written by her great uncle Bud Pines 

“Can’t wait to have you up here! There’s lots of mystery in a town like this one!” - Bud

The cursive was a bit hard to read, but it eased Pacificas worry about the trip a little more. She clutched her purple duffle bag a bit closer to her on the bus as she looked at her surroundings. The bus seemed empty except for her seat, the orange text flashing on the front of the bus clearly read “Next stop: Gravity Falls” and it only made her more nervous for her arrival. Her eyes darted to the window where she saw fir trees, hemlocks, and large redwoods passed by her. 

Soon enough the bus came to a screeching halt as it had arrived at the saddest bus stop ever. None seemed to be waiting on the benches, and Pacifica was worried she had been forgotten about. She reluctantly took her bag and stepped off the bus after thanking the driver. She looked around before spotting someone jogging over to her. A young boy, probably a year younger than her with stark white hair and blue eyes. She recognized him from family photos to be her cousin Gideon and greeted him with a warm smile and waved him over. “Hey summer buddy!!” She cheerfully said to the boy. She didn’t know much about the boy, but her parents mentioned he was a bit timid. “..Hello Pacifica..” Gideon replied after finally reaching her. Now that he was closer, she got a better look at his appearance. He wore navy cargo shorts with a black hoodie. She could also see small freckles adorned his cheeks and nose. He looked up at her, considering she was a bit taller than him, and noticed his moonlight blue eyes. “Wow! You gotta grow a bit more. You look as short as you do in the family photos from when you were five!” Pacifica jokes with him. Gideon smiles at the comment before looking her up and down to come up with his own comeback “And you look like a rainbow thrown up on you!” he says. “Thank you!” Pacifica proudly says. It was true, her bright purple sweater had pink stars sewn into it, and her skirt was pink to fit the color scheme. A periwinkle purple headband holding back her sandy blonde hair as only her bangs crept through it. Even her earrings were a vibrant mix of pink and purple ombre. She was very much dressed in bright cheerful colors. Much like her personality. “I’m so excited to stay with you!” She says. Gideon nods politely as the two of them set off down the street. “Yeah….Just try not to bother my dad too much. He can get a bit snappy at times. But he means well! Just follow his rules and you’ll be alright” Gideon exclaims. Pacifica had heard rumors about the mystery shack from her parents. And even more interesting stories about Gideons relationship with his father. Her grunkle was running as a sort-of tourist trap area to get money. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. But when she came upon a large wooden shack, the exterior of which was adorned with a large sign reading… “Mystery Hack?” Pacifica said, with a confused tone. She noticed the “S” in Shack had started falling off, and was laying on its side on the small roof. Gideon noticed too and only sighed before putting his head in his hands. “I’ll let dad know to fix it…that darn sign just can’t stay put….” He mumbles. “Let's get you inside. You’ll be staying in the attic with me! Dad’s busy giving tours so I’ll show you around the general vicinity in the meantime!” Gideon says happily. 

After a brief tour of the inside of the house, Gideon took Pacifica to where the REAL mysteries began, the part of his home which was turned into a tourist trap. The rooms were all filled with strange exhibits. Eyeball jars, and taxidermied animals which were strangely put together. Rabbit heads with deer antlers poorly glued onto them. Some of the exhibits were more believable than others, however the overall vibe of the shack was very intriguing. Pacifica could see why this was such a successful tourist trap. “Wow! This place is really cool!” Pacifica exclaims as she leans down to a jar of eyeballs in a gray-green liquid. She looks into the jar and feels like the eyeballs are almost looking back at her. “These look so real..” she says, entranced by the realism in the jar. She reaches a hand out to touch it before a deep voice says from behind her “That's because they ARE real!” a loud man says. It startles the blonde girl, who jumps a bit before taking some steps towards Gideon. The man laughs, his hat almost falling off as he readjusts the black cowboy hat on his head. “Sorry darlin’ didn’t mean to scare you! It was just a joke! I’m about 20 percent sure those eyeballs are fake!” the man says. Pacifica takes a look at the man before smiling. “Grunkle Bud!” She says, before running and giving him a hug. “Awww hello darlin’ it's great to have ya here with me and Gideon! I’m sure he’s given you the tour so far. Make yourself at home for the meantime!” He says with a smile. “However if you’re gonna be here this summer, ya gotta work like the rest of us!” Bud says. Pacifica looked a bit confused, she had only done volunteer work for her school up till now. So when she was handed some wooden signs, she was a bit puzzled. “I’ve gotta stay here and tidy up the shack. Keep things from gettin’ messy. Yer gonna go hang up these signs in the forest. Hopefully draw up some new customers this way.” Bud explains to her. Pacifica looks down, the signs had different shapes and styles to them. “So you want a twelve year old girl to go wander around the forest and put up these signs? Sounds safe to me!” Pacifica says before humming and walking away. 

Little did she know her adventure in the forest would turn the tides completely on her summer vacation. As she ventured, she took note of all the different trees and animals she passed by. The sunlight was dim here from the large canopies of redwoods in the forest blocking out most of the light; and half the time she felt like she was being watched by something but she paid no mind to it as she nailed up the signs. She had finished hanging most of them up when she came upon a curious set of trees in the forest. Something about them was different than the redwoods she had observed before. Almost looked fake in a way. As she touched it, she felt the tree bark was cold. She raised an eyebrow before knocking on the tree only to get an echo of metal as a response. Curious, she traced her hand along until she felt a groove and pulled, revealing some strange switches and knobs. “What is this…?” she says to herself before curiously flipping some of the switches. She heard the sound of something opening and when she looked over her shoulder, a part of the ground had opened up. She walked over, to the now opened hole in the ground and found something interesting laying there. A book, with a golden hand with six fingers on the cover. With a simple number written on the palm. “Three? Some sort of journal about the number three?” Pacifica said before picking it up and dusting it off. Its red leather casing looked old, and it was covered with cobwebs and dirt that had accumulated over the years. As she opened the book she was shocked to see that most of the pages had been filled with sketches and drawings about strange creatures and anomalies. She sat down on a nearby tree stump and began flipping through the pages, just skimming the book's contents as she came across something underlined and written in big words. “Trust no one… Man, this writer must've been super paranoid about something…” the blonde girl said. 

“What writer?” A young voice said from behind her. Pacifica jumped, her eyes widened before she looked behind her and Gideon was standing there, a pure smile on his face. “Oh! Just…” she looked down at the book and back at Gideon. Is it a good idea to tell him? Gideon doesn’t seem dangerous and he's the only friend I’ve got for the summer right now. Pacifica debated with herself mentally before smiling. “It's just a journal I found. It talks a lot about strange paranormal stuff that happens in Gravity Falls. Did you know about any of this Gideon?” She asks him. The boy saunters over before peering down at the book. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything in this book before…gnomes…zombies…I haven’t seen one” the boy shrugs. “Some wacko could’ve written it to scare kids and left it here or something” Gideon tries to reason. Pacifica hums in understanding but something told her the contents of this book were too organized and detailed to just be made-up. 

Regardless if they were myths or not, she put the book away in her jacket for the meantime. “I’ll look into it later. Maybe someone’s looking for it. Who knows!” She looks at Gideon. The two just shrug at each other before walking back to the shack. It was getting dark out and the two would have to figure out the contents of the book another day. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re telling me you’ve searched high and low and STILL haven’t been able to locate that damn journal!?!” the voice of a young boy said, seemingly screaming at someone. 

.

.

.

Gffmt Gbnjmjbs epfto'u ju ?

[veryfancydoilies]

My Arthur Hastings Headcanons

🎼Arthur likes classical music. His mother is the person who introduced him, doing so by playing records all throughout the days. He inherited the records they used to play together after her death. He usually plays them while he’s writing or reading at home.

🏢Arthur’s flat in the Parade District is about the same size as Sally’s and quite clean. He's quite an organized person and rarely late for anything. On the walls, there are a couple of pieces of artwork that were once hung in the Hastings home, landscapes mostly, and a calendar with lots of notes and marks written on it (He marked Prudence’s birthday on this calendar as well as the day of the party we see in the game). He has a small collection of books in his bedroom, including novels that he doesn’t always finish reading though he tries. There's also a chess set that he and Percy used to play with. He's very fond of it but because he takes so much Joy, he doesn't remember its sentimental value. I like to think that if he went to visit his flat while at the Parade District during the game, he would take a chess piece as a memento.

🌌Stargazing was another activity that the Hastings brothers did together. At the camping trip Arthur snuck Percy into, Percy pointed out every constellation he saw and told some of the stories behind them while Arthur listened. If the plague wastrels weren't an issue, he would definitely lie down somewhere and look up at the stars. He probably thinks about Percy whilst he does that.

📖❤️Arthur likes to read romance novels. Actually he likes love stories in general and that explains why he was so giddy when listening to that wastrel couple talk in the Garden District.

🪑During his journey, Arthur spends lots of time sitting on the benches to either read a book he picked up along the way or just think. Arthur sitting on that swing at the start of the cutscene with Sally in the Garden District is a good representation of what he does in his free time.

🖋Has lovely handwriting. Like it's the kind of writing you would see on a Hallmark greeting card. He writes in cursive with lots of pretty loops.

🚪Definitely more of an introvert than an extrovert. Arthur values his alone time a lot. However, he doesn’t mind joining his co-workers for a drink at the pub sometimes after work. They’re friendly and he likes them (well, except Clive). He’s not particularly close to them, though. They don’t know his past but then again Wellies aren’t concerned with that sort of thing. Being an introvert isn’t the same as being shy, of course, and Arthur isn’t a shy person as it is shown numerous times in the game that he can talk to people with ease.

@unremarkablechap @we-joyless-few @sea-side-scribbles

[magister-sena]

A letter arrives, delivered by a fiery rosella parrot... The parchment is full of the writer's heavily calligraphy-like cursive that.. seems to hinge neigh on tumbling into what common folk often call "doctor's scribbles". Some letters slant a little, but the script is still eligible.

"Dear Magister Sena, greetings.

I hope this missive finds you well. It's been a while since we last spoke, I hope things are going wonderfully on your end."

The next lines have been initially placed in brackets as if 'removed' then scratched out, then the line was corrected to fit into the letters. It's almost like the author was debating if to even write those lines, then whether to leave them but - in the end, uncertainly did.

"Unfortunately I can't travel to visit in person as of today, as I need to supervise my daughter and care for my son. (Beware that Anna is a little menace if you come to visit– will try to ferret something from you, sweets most likely or a toy.)

But you are welcome to Everstill manor and my home in Ryeham for a cup of drink and chat. (Also, please excuse any blots of blood, my teapot-attendant sometimes accidentally spills a bit while pouring my cup.) ...As for me, Merlin has been getting a little mischievious these days— last time the mage threw me in another Esperia, in Viscount Ludovic's presence. (Leo was bit worried when I didn't return home that day.. and miffed when he learnt of Merlin's antics.) I can sense he'd do it again..."

There's a slip of parchment or card attached to the letter — contact card.

"I've attached my contact card, so you can write to me if you wish. I've also attached a photo of us, figured you might want to see your grandchildren.

—Regards, your herald, Stranja."

Next to the various tea flavors, sure enough— a photo sits of a family.

[ In this photo, Stranja cradles a swaddled infant with a tired but happy smile serene. Next to him stands Ludovic in graceful poise, and the little girl wears a sunny grin half stifled to look more elegant. (Her father had tried to smooth her dusty curls down before the photo but, alas, failed.) And besides the family, stiffly stands general Valka while the two Radinov siblings stand on their right.

...The photo seems to have been taken in Cedartown somewhere. Like a surprise photo but they noticed and posed for the camera. ]

Sena smiles softly at the sight of the familiar red parrot, gently removing the letter from its beak before handing it a biscuit to gnaw on while he works on his response. He shakes his head fondly as his eyes scan over the messy script, making his way over to the makeshift office he’d set up in some hidden corner of the temple.

“Dear Ioan,

It’s good to hear from you, little bat. It feels like it’s been ages since we’ve last spoken, though I suppose that’s to be expected considering the responsibilities placed on us both. It’s good to hear that life has been treating you well since you’ve settled down with the Viscount. I’ll admit, I never would have taken you for the domestic type, but I’m glad you’ve finally found a sense of happiness and peace after everything you’ve been through.

Little Anna sounds like she’s quite the handful, though I’m not exactly surprised by that. I suppose she must have inherited that fiery Hestios nature from her ‘mother’.”

Sena pauses in his writing, chuckling softly as he pictures the nymph’s no doubt annoyed expression when he reads the phrase. Pirin may have mellowed out after becoming a parent, but he was by no means tame, and Sena did love to tease him. Especially about topics that turned the little bat into the worlds angriest cotton-ball.

“It must be a relief to you that young Florent seems to take after the Viscount then, both in looks and tempermant.

Speaking of Viscount Ludovic, I hope him and the other Graveborn are doing well now that the tensions in Whiteridge have finally eased. Please pass my regards to him, along with General Valka, Miss Carolina, Sir Callan and Igor.

I’m sorry that your Merlin is still causing so much trouble for you. Perhaps I should have a word with him next time I’m in Cedartown. I’m sure he can be persuaded to behave himself, at least where you and the children are involved.

I’ll be sure to visit you all as soon as things in Ironhold Bay settle down, and I promise to bring Anna as many treats and toys as she could possibly want, as well as a ‘few’ thing for little Florent.

Sincerely,

Your patron,

Magister Sena

PS. Thank you for the tea. I’ll be sure to savour it.”

Sena removes the teabags, tucking them away for later before taking a moment to stare tenderly at the family photo that would no doubt find itself framed and placed on the desk back in his study, alongside several other pictures of his friends, children and grandkids from across the multiverse.

He then seals his response into an envelope and hands it to the bird whose feathers were now fluffed up in impatience. With a soft laugh, and a few apologetic head scritches, the bird seems pacified and sets off to deliver his response.

[plasticfangtastic]

Building Blocks. Ch. 2

A Butchlander fanfic

a/n: took a while but i managed to write something, updates will be slow but thank you for reading, not proofread I die with this as i ease myself into this again.

edit... forgot to add link to prev chap:

tags: slow burn, romance, dadlander, drama.

Sypnopsis: au where Becca stays with Butcher and passes Ryan as Billy's and is Billy who has to deal with Homelander after the death of his wife

Chapter 2

The woman stared at the vial with incredulity.

He hadn’t invited her in to talk simply handling her this vial on his driveway, naming it ‘Compound V’... something she had never heard before– before asking her to leave and keep low, he didn’t offer explanations simply asking for her hand in case he had to do disappear with Ryan on a short notice, whatever had happened it had him on edge and anxious to get her away from him as soon as possible either for his or her own safety she guessed. So she forgave his rudeness for whatever this was, had him hearing specters in the grass– It certainly wasn’t because he wanted to clean up the place for Ryan based on his appearance clean clothes but dirty hair, the smoke coming from the chimney was the only unusual thing she noted

“What’s on your mind?” She asks, unable to stand his troubled expression any longer.

“I don’t know if am gonna be in trouble.” He smiles weerily– but I’ll need to keep him distracted if I hope to get away from him.”

“Him?”

“Homelander…”

“What does he have to do with any of this?”

“You need to leave Mallory.”

She should’ve found a way to keep an eye on him, but she took the vial and left. Sensing a peculiar unease in his voice that didn’t often come from him.

“Is a bit warm to have the fireplace lit up.”

Butcher meet the Supe in his living room almost having a heart attack on the spot, he looked away trying to calm himself while hoping the Supe had been too self-absorbed to notice but Homelander had just chosen not to care, having more pressing matters in mind.

 Seeing he’d brought a gift box, Butcher studied his appearance, it look rigid yet desperate to appear approachable– boots had been polished and oiled, his gloves tucked under his arm, the flap of his suit down to reveal patriotic red, and his hair had been re-touched overnight there had been more brown on his undercut last time, now it had an almost strawberry tint blending into the browns to appear more natural if he had to take a guest, even brushed to the side lightly, Butcher scoffed finding it all quite funny that he would do all of this to look so artificial– no sterile instead of just looking like whatever his normal self was, perhaps all celebs were like this Butcher thought, yet he did found the present a bit charming.

“I thought I would bring him a present.” He said softly.

“I was burning some stuff…” He picks a couple cushions off the ground, kicking a dog’s toy to the side– what’s in the box?”

“A baseball glove– it’s my favorite sport. I want to share my passion, I guess.” 

Butcher examines the rather fancy wrapping of the box, there’s layers to it allowing decorations to be tucked in the sleeves, and for the life of him, he can’t find much tape on the sides of it, even the paper had a visible thickness to it that screamed excessive… that said ‘I want to impress you’ in cursive.

“I thought… well my assistant thought it would be a nice way to get to know each other” from one of the paper sleeves he pulls forward a set of tickets– there’s a Yankees’s game next week.”

“I don’t know” He has one look at the tickets– ‘Legends Suite’?? Those are great, no…”

“I thought of getting a private suite but I was discouraged”

Butcher took a deep breath trying to ignore the sparkles from the gift and back to business.

“Look… I… I don’t think you can just come in and tell him you’re his dad, his mom just died, he’s going thru a lot, mate.” He said softly, trying to sound as gentle as he could thinking of the burn scuff marks on his hardwood, hoping it wouldn’t be him, he had a handful of guns hidden across his living room but he knew that it wouldn’t do a thing against the blond– I… think we need to slow down”

“Work friends.”

“What?”

“You work for the CIA, I’m a superhero, we worked together on some cases and we are friends. I came today to give you my condolences and try to cheer you up, and then once Ryan is comfortable with me, I’ll do the honors.” He takes a step closer to Butcher pressing the tickets against his chest– eight guns all over the house… that’s a nice rifle in the closet… packs a hard punch. Try it, find out what’s gonna happen to you if you do.”

Butcher can only scowl at the man.

“We can work together, William. I want this to work out for the sake of my son… but don’t test me.”

“You’re not very good with people are you?”

“I’m a professional actually.” His eyes flash red for a brief moment but his charming smile never fades.

“Come back later. When we’re having dinner.”

“Why? He’s a minute away?”

Butcher walked towards the entrance standing by the red door to catch a glimpse of his in-law’s honda accord driving down the road as it emerged from the trees and shrubs.

He turned in a panic, to see Homelander had followed him half-way.

“You stay in the living room!” He screamed with panic.

Homelander paid attention to the man’s heart rate hoping he would just have a heart attack and die, but as the car moved closer he realized it wasn’t Butcher’s heart rate that he could hear drumming in his ears, but his own.

He wished he had a mirror and somebody to check his teeth, he wanted to make the perfect first impression, and as those light steps hopped off the honda, he could heard a voice in his head yelling, telling him to check his posture, to smile, to breathe calmly and by god to not curse in front of the child or cry, or blurt out something that could only scar him.

He hated the story they were gonna sell him, he wanted to run to him and tell him, he was his father, he wanted to rid of Butcher and take his place beside him, but he couldn’t… he couldn’t risk being rejected by him, when he had this man in his life already, a father that had loved him and protected him, and who at least hadn’t thrown him out, he had at least heard him– he almost wished Saunders was here, if she was he could simply seduced her and take them away from Butcher.

It would’ve been easy if Butcher was a woman, no pretense where the baby came from from the get go, he could’ve lowered himself to seduce the grieving widow if he had to.

As he smelled the anxiety rise from inside of him, he blushed at the thought.

“Feeling better, Billy?”

The older man whose eyes looked more tired than Butcher’s spoke first, after urging the kid to let his dog take a leak before coming inside the house.

He stared at his son-in-law, watching those swollen under eyes, he reeked of mouthwash and his clothes looked crinkled, nervously looking past him to catch a glimpse of Terror or Ryan.

“You really made yourself a fool. You weren’t the only one grieving and you had to make a scene in front of your kid, fucking shameless Billy!”

“I don’t need this, Wayne!” He squeezed his fists– thank you for looking after him, but mind your business.” He spat

“She was my daughter too.” He could’ve growled at him, he looked away with a huff before he could say anything else, both men trying to hold their rage and grief back, both eyes stinging as they looked at each other– feed the kid will ya? He didn’t wanna eat anything and barely got him to have some oats.”

“Thanks for taking care of him, I’ll get some chinese.”

His tone was overly polite and just as aggressive, both men didn’t wish to mingle any further, now without her they didn’t need to be friendly, just amiable enough to not push the other away.

Ryan emerged right on queue, he looked anxious as he let the old stubby dog pull on his leash, barking cheerfully, picking up speed as he saw his dad, his brown locks messy and his eyes just as exhausted as the ones on his pops, Ryan slowed down telling himself to keep smiling not ‘cuz he wanted to but for his father’s sake.

“Hi there scamp!” Butcher doesn’t hesitate taking him in his arms, lifting him up as if he was still a babe and light as a feather, squeezing in to make sure this is not but a dream, and from afar the younger man wished that was him.

Ryan said goodbye and it almost felt like it would be the last time he would see his grandfather something was off about his father, something that smelled wrong, his dog barged in wobbling straight to his food bowl barely noticing the supe in the living room, not that he could say the same about the boy.

His eyes glued themselves on that man, lifting his head, begging to be let go as he traded incredulous looks with his father.

“Dad, why is Homelander in our living room!?”

“I… we…”

“I’m a friend of your dad, from work!” His voice was forceful and rehearsed, irking Billy from the get-go– is nice to meet you, champ!”

Billy kept him close, never letting go of him, hand cemented on his son’s shoulder.

“You know Homelander!?” He said with a childish excitement.

“We met on a case. Top-secret.” he winks– he’s here to visit.” Butcher spits anxiously brushing his hair in a soothing motion.

“I heard about your mom… your dad has been such a good friend of mine, I just wanted to see if you— he was okay.” His voice is so fake it goes back to being believable– here I got you a present.”

The kid took a second to process it, looking back for permission before taking the ornate box into his hands. He waits for a nod before tearing that wrapper off, his excitement shortly dwindles as he finds the leather glove and white and red ball.

“Thought we could go watch a baseball game.”

He looks at the tickets only recognizing the Yankee’s as a big name team and nothing else. Homelander can almost taste his anxiety. This was not what he envisioned, it was completely wrong, voices yelling at him asking why the child wasn’t running after him or why he wasn’t jumping with excitement at his sight! He was the world’s greatest everything and the kid just seemed confused. The kid offered a polite smile and said thank you, taking his present and placing it neatly on the coffee table, as Homelander tried so hard… begging himself to not cry, that voice soothed him telling him he had missed the moment their fingers grazed each other.

“Can’t believe you know Homelander, dad.” the kid took his phone out– can we take a selfie none of my friends will ever believe me!”

That left a bitter taste on his tongue, his first interaction was no different from a paid one, he obliged putting his finest smile, his bitterness washed away as he felt those brown locks tickle his chin, as he took a scent of hypoallergenic detergent and dove soap, the little bit of sweat behind his ears, he could feel how warm his boy was, it was short lived but it lingered… etched on what little skin he’d touched, it soothed him, it made it so real, he could burst.

Ryan was his own… he wasn’t a figment of his imagination… he was flesh and blood, he looked healthy… he was tall and his teeth were straight but above all– he had his eyes and a chirpy voice.

“Mister Homelander needs to go back to work, he was just stopping by, right?”

“...William…”

“lol he called you William” he giggled– thanks for the present!”

“No problem, my pleasure. So do I pick you guys up for the game or meet you at the stadium?”

Butcher tensed up, knowing he really had no choice but to give him an answer, unable to kick him out.

“What do you think buddy? Wanna go check it out? They’re good seats.”

Ryan studied his father’s face seeing how forceful his calmness was, Ryan who only wanted to erase that drunken mess from the other day, looked towards the Supe and how his eyes glistened as they waited for a response.

“Why not!” He said cheerily– I’ve never been to a game before.”

“That’s settled! Now why don’t you go take this to your room and let me and ol’ Homelander have a chat.” Butcher could scream.

The kid isn’t oblivious to the sudden tension between them, brushing it off to bad timing.

“He looks a lot like you.”

Homelander comes back to earth as he’s spoken, giving Butcher his attention once more.

“He… goddammit Becca…” He sniffed, covering his face behind his palms, sinking on his couch as he processed it all– please leave… I’ll be there. I bet you won’t leave me the fuck alone otherwise.”

“I’m glad we are on the same page there, William.” His voice is oddly soft– he’s a lot taller than in the pictures… he doesn’t like baseball does he?”

“You might’ve well invited him to go watch Golf!”

“I can… I can get some other tickets… soccer, you guys have a passport right?”

“He doesn't, we never left the states and am not taking a bloody plane to go watch a match with a stranger.”

“I’m not a stranger! I’m Homelander, the most famous person in the whole world! Can get you a copy of my biography if ya like so you can get to know me.” He says with a sneer– can I stay for dinner then?”

Butcher can only describe his emotion as exasperated.

“I was joking…” He says with his prettiest smile showing his fangs as he pretended not to be hurt– see you next week.”

He lingers at the door, despite his eyes looking into the gardens Butcher can tell he’s listening to those behind him, he’s gone and all that remains is the wide open door.

The days go by excruciatingly fast, in a blink he’s in front of his bathroom mirror trimming his beard, it had been a while since he had bothered to keep tidy, ashamed to have looked this disheveled during his wife’s funeral, outside his bathroom door is Ryan who seems to be more well put than he is talking about wanting to check out some spots while they are in New York if they can after the game sounding so normal it scared him– kids were resilient creatures he said to himself, but he worried that the boy was pretending to be alright. The in-laws had visited, M.M. and his family had stopped by and even help clean up (more like Marvin had simply not stopped himself once he spotted a few too many dirty plates for his taste) he couldn’t say the same about himself until this moment. 

Mallory gave him a call and asked him ‘what was his fucking problem?’ whatever he had given her, she’d ended up being called to speak with not just the head of the CIA but the department of Homeland security, she was now without doubt being watched, told to keep quiet and some more.

Calling Butcher was dangerous hence the burner number, he couldn’t see a single suspicious car outside, it would be hard to hide when there was only miles of greenery.

He took a sip of whisky trying to wash away the anxiety of being washed, disconnecting the house phone just to feel safer.

Ryan made no mention about how low the radio volume was, about how quiet he was on the way there, trying not to think of the endless bickering and chatting between his parents, his mother’s scent lingering in the air, her dried coffee tumbler still on the cup holder, an abandoned sweater still in the backseat that filled the space with fading vanilla kisses, Ryan tries not to notice the ghostly whispers in the air, louder than the aircon and the quiet music.

He speaks very little, just grumbling about traffic and parking, complaining until he’s left the car wondering if the parking fee had been too steep for he had never bothered before.

“I can’t see him…” Ryan whispers tugging on Butcher’s shirt.

His cheeks were red knowing he had never once bothered to organize any of this, he simply showed up, not wanting to believe any of this was real, the tickets certainly looked real and the bustling crowd grew bigger and bigger, just a sea of branded clothes and loud people.

It feels hot and heavy as it presses on his shoulder, jolting awake as his body is pushed back effortlessly.

“William you came.” he sounds so happy it hurts.

He hadn’t expected to see him like this, taking a minute to process his appearance, the oversized baseball bomber jacket did very little to hide his thin frame, he expected the padded suit to have been merely ascending his physique not inventing it, Homelander mellow smile died quickly as he felt that man’s piercing gaze on him.

“Wasn’t sure ‘bout the traffic so we got here early, didn’t we?”

“I was gonna say my meeting ran late.”

Both men stared at each other awkwardly, waiting for the child’s response.

With a smile from the boy they both took that as their sign.

He watched from behind as Homelander stood closer and closer to Butcher, how he directed him across the building as if he knew every turn and nook of the stadium, how friendly he was being with him, how much attention he was giving him and his father.

For a game that he had no understanding of, he would admit it was nice that the supe was a walking wiki, both Ryan and Butcher expend most of the time listening to his explanations, it didn’t come off as somebody enamored with his voice, but as someone who wanted to share and they were happy to hear him, it made Homelander’s heart tingle as they asked him to explain what just happened before them or why people were booing upstairs.

Ryan and Butcher could only guess what was going on in his head but he was not scary at all.

he was nice.

“Thanks, I think the kid liked it.” he turned to him as they waited for Ryan to come out the toilet– it was good to get out of the house.”

Butcher didn’t want to admit he’d had a good time even if it was all gibberish to him.

“I got us some dinner reservations…”

“Normal people get full after some steak topped fries and fried chicken subs, sorry but I think we have to pass–

“You and me tomorrow.”

“Bit too early for a rebound.”

Homelander blushed, realizing how it had come out as.

Butcher tried to brush it off with a chuckle turning awkward as he realized this guy wasn’t his buddy so not used to his banter.

“Discussing Ryan! As if you’ve be so lucky.” Homelander fixed his jacket– I’ll pick you up at 7 tomorrow night. Also tell your friend Mallory she has nothing to worry about, just tell her not to be nosey.”

“I gather this Compound V shite is–

“Shhh... Hope you like Indian.”

“I’m english mate I sure luv me a tikka massala…”

“Good.”

[hebrewbyinbal]

In my quest to create the perfect Hebrew learning tools, my perfectionism and deep care for my students' success play pivotal roles.

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[razzberrydazz]

Penmanship

A Dragon Age Inquisition fic - Josephine and OT Lavellan, genfic

"Inquisitor, I encourage you to work on your penmanship. These reports are illegible. I was wondering why you kept putting off turning in your mission reports, but this? I implore you to rewrite them with a more careful hand."

Josephine hands the stack of unreadable parchment back to Inquisitor Lavellan, exasperation furrowing her brow.

"Oh, right, about that... you know how the Mark is on my left hand? Well I happen to be left handed. It makes writing, well, quite a painful endeavor." Inquisitor OT sheepishly takes the parchments back, clearly not intending to rewrite any of them.

"You're left handed? Have you been writing them with your marked hand this whole time?!"

OT stifles a chuckle at the indignation from their dear ambassador. They hold up their hands in mock surrender, that characteristic lopsided grin on their face.

"I've actually been practicing with my right hand, since the Mark hurts to write with. It's, ah, going slowly, learning to write legibly and all. I promise I'm trying, Josie!"

Josephine sighs, then pushes herself out of her chair to approach them. She takes Lavellan's hands into hers, frowning at the marred green and darkened veins spreading over their left hand.

It's gone up their wrist by now, creeping up their arm day by day. What will happen if the mark takes over their whole body? Will they die? Should they nip the problem in the bud by amputating so that the Mark poses a threat to their life no longer?

The ambassador shakes the worrying thought away, instead focusing on sitting the Inquisitor down and handing them a quill and parchment to practice with.

"I know as a Dalish elf, you never went through finishing school. I had to learn to write both in print and cursive, and write both perfectly legibly. I also learned how to do calligraphy, but that's besides the point. It's nigh time you learn to improve your penmanship."

"Are you posing as my penmanship teacher, dear Ambassador? I'm flattered you'd want to take the time to teach me, I know how busy you can get with all your responsibilities."

"I doubt you'll practice this otherwise, judging by how many reports you haven't turned in, and your general avoidance of writing in general."

That earns a nervous chuckle from the Inquisitor. They pick up the quill with their left hand, then palm it into their right. Their hands tremble slightly with each movement. While they've been able to still the tremor in their Marked hand in order to cast spells, it doesn't seem to translate to their right hand for ease of writing.

"Alright. Start by writing out the Common alphabet, lower and uppercase. Try it with both hands so I can see what you're working with."

It takes a few minutes of effort for them to write with their right hand and make it even half legible. With their left hand, they write very quickly, grimacing in pain as they do so, and the resulting hurried cursive is just as illegible as the chicken scrawl script from their right hand. Even a cypher would do little to decipher the markings their pen leaves on the parchment.

"Tell me, inquisitor, can you even read your own handwriting?"

After a pause of squinting at the still drying lines of writing, OT shakes their head no.

Josephine sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose with exasperation. "Okay, try again. You need to practice this until not only you can read your handwriting, but other people as well. Specifically me, since I have to sort through your reports."

"I can practice this in my own time, Josie. Pinky promise, I'm not going to blow it off. I know you should have a meeting with that board game loving noble soon, and I'd hate to eat into your card game playtime with her!"

"Inquisitor, before you-" OT places the quill and parchment back on Josephine's desk and steps past her back towards the hallway, much to Josephine's chagrin. Never resting, never content staying in one place long, so busy all the time. Do they get enough sleep? Do they sleep? The bags under their eyes are evidence against that.

Well, Lavellan was right, Josephine does have a meeting with said noble soon, and she must prepare for the resulting headache of dealing with her. Seems she'll have to address their penmanship at another time.

---

Several days pass, and both the Inquisitor and Ambassador have been too busy to even sit down and chat for more than their daily briefings in the war room. She's seen the Inquisitor speaking with Leliana in the main hall, walking from the library in the main tower of after having talked with Dorian or Solas, walking the ramparts beside Cullen's office, sparring with Cassandra and Iron Bull in the newly built sparring ring by the Herald's Rest tavern. Sitting on the roof of said tavern with Sera and Cole eating cookies. Feeding the horses treats in the stables while joking with Blackwall. Gossiping with Vivvienne.

One day while Josephine walks out from her office by the war room down the main hall and host of steps, she spots Lavellan sitting on the roof of Herald's Rest with parchment and ink. They're using a piece of wood as backing to write, face scrunched in concentration as they etch into the parchment with a quill.

Oh, they're practicing on their own after all. A smile flits on Josie's face as she makes her way down the steps and OT notices her in the distance and waves. She waves back.

The next day, Josephine finds a stack of reports on her desk, addressed from Inquisitor Lavellan. From a quick leaf through, the writing is legible. The bottom of the stack is a letter from them, in deliberate and careful cursive.

Like the finish on a fine piece of woodwork, I will finish what I started.

I jest, I jest, but I did want a way to show you I've been trying, and I care. Hope your report readings go more smoothly from now on, my dear Josie. xoxo

~ Inky OT

Underneath the writing is a crude drawing of cheese, and stick figures of the Inquisitor sitting on a bench with Josephine with hearts drawn around them. Such a cheesy romantic, that elf. Sera's been rubbing off on them with the margin drawings on their reports.