#somebody who can write can write in cursive

[ghostprincessworld]

13 year old Sidney Ellwood going through a phase of signing his name with a little heart over the "i" in Sidney

[angelkiyo]

everytime he scrolls on his social media, he gets bombarded with couples content; forever rose bouquets, dates, and such. he’s been meaning to ask you out for sometime. you, who are as bright as the sun and beautiful as the flowers by his house. you were the volleyball manager assistant of the team, so he had to see you almost everyday (not that he complained). after asking if he should ask you out to the magic 8 ball his parents had bought him when he was a kid, he had no other choice. so when he caught a moment with you picking up the volleyballs alone after practice, he meekly gave you a forever rose bouquet in attempts to woo you, with the message saying “happy valentine’s day” in gold glittering cursive. the only thing he could really say was “here…for you.” he’s not good with words when it comes to the topic of liking somebody so this was his best bet. he felt his heart spring out of his chest when you softly grabbed it from him and kissed him on the cheek, “thank you. i really like you too.”

— kenma, kageyama, sakusa, tsukishima

he might be a little cocky, possibly perceived as conceited but he promises he isn’t that bad. his incessant flirting towards you can probably apply to his public perception, however, he by no means wants to tease you. he’s being for real. you were his coworker at his part-time to pay for this thing he wanted and he was “in love at first sight”. by the two week mark, his friends were already sick of hearing him incessantly saying he’d ask you out with no action, them coming into to loiter and study while he had his shift for moral support. so once valentine’s day hit, his friends gave him an ultimatum; ask her out yourself or get exposed (typical high school friend group). once he caught you finished taking orders for a while, he slid you his note pad for orders with the words “you + me = date?”. he felt his eyes practically staring holes at your head while you took your time to write a following message. once you had slid him the message and clocked out quickly, he rushed to grab the notepad, the words “minus your friends and yes.”

— atsumu, oikawa, terushima, kuroo, bokuto

happy valentine’s day (◜‿◝)♡

[flowery-mess]

somebody else

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x female reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI / short smut, like a paragraph / angst, angst, angst

Words: 3k

Author's note: seems like the only thing that the writer's block will let me write is sad shit. It's inspired by the songs mentioned bellow and one of my older ideas that finally came to life

‼️ Please remember that this is a work of fiction featuring a real person and does not reflect Noah's actual feelings.

Noah Sebastian masterlist

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songs to listen:

Astrid S - It's ok if you forget me

Walking on cars - Somebody else

cursive paragraphs are flashbacks

bold cursive is reader's letter

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You and Noah, a couple that everyone adored in the beginning. It was almost like love at the first sight. You two hit it off shortly after you met, feeling the kind of connection that tells you there’s nothing to wait fot, that you’re meant to be. But were you really?

“Noah we should talk.” you sighed and ran your hand through your hair.

Noah stood by the big window in his apartment where you moved just a few weeks ago. It was nice for the first week or two, but then things took a turn and everything seemed to fall apart.

He knew it was coming, the talk and addressing the elephant in the room. You thought that maybe he just wasn’t used to living with a partner, that he needed time to adjust to this new living situation, but only he knew that the problem was elsewhere.

*

“Noah stop!” you laughed when Noah dipped his finger in the chocolate cream and put it on your nose.

“Nah, you look cute and now I can do this.” he leaned down to lick the sweet cream off your nose.

You were both craving something sweet and nothing seemed like a better idea than to make cupcakes when it was almost midnight.

“You’re disgusting.” you scrunched your nose and pretended to be disgusted. 

“You love it.” and he was right, you did. You loved being able to spend all of your free time with him, doing all those domestic things. And you loved him.

*

“I’m tired, can we-” he tried to speak, but you stopped him before he could finish the sentence.

“No. I can’t pretend like nothing is wrong anymore, I’m tired of that.” you stood your place, determined to not go to bed with tears in your eyes again.

“Okay.” he sighed and kept looking out of the window. He knew this was his fault and he didn’t have the courage to turn around and see your face, the hurt in your eyes.

“What happened? What changed? What did I do?” you whispered the last question, scared of what his answer will be.

One day he came home and it wasn’t your Noah anymore. He became distant, almost cold towards you. Your sweet Noah turned to someone who was barely his shadow.

The subtle touches stopped, his thousand kisses in the morning stopped, going to sleep together stopped, the intimacy of your relationship was gone.

“You did nothing wrong. I just, I-” he finally turned around to face you. When he saw you sitting on the couch in the middle of now yours living room he felt sick.

He was the cause of the tears that were threatening to start running down your cheeks, he was the reason why you felt so small in that moment.

“You just what?” you asked, hoping for an answer. You just needed to know, even if it would hurt you, nothing could be more painful than the change in his actions.

“I don’t think I can do this.” he whispered and closed his eyes with a hope that when he opens them again his head will be back where it was when he met you.

He was happy back then, hell he was happy even now, but something in his head kept telling him that he’s not worthy of this. Of your love, your kindness, the warmth you brought to his apartment, how you always welcomed him home with a smile on your face.

He was open with you in the beginning, telling you that he never imagined himself with a girlfriend in a happy relationship. He told you that accepting love is hard for him, but he promised you that he will try. Try for you.

“Can you come here please?” you shifted to the side so he could sit next to you. He did as you asked him, sat down and left enough space between you.

You saw his body was tense, his head was low and his eyes were full of mixed feelings. He wasn’t looking at you, he couldn’t.

“I don’t get it Noah, I need you to talk to me or I’m gonna go crazy.” you let out a nervous laugh and felt the first tears wet your cheek.

He heard the crying in your voice and he couldn’t help himself but to look at you. He used to look at you differently.

*

“So, what do you say?” Noah asked nervously, watching you walk through the rooms of his apartment.

He just asked you if you wanted to move in. He thought your rent was ridiculously high for the box that you called your apartment and he thought it would be a good next step for your relationship.

“Do you sleep with your window open or closed?” you asked with a serious face.

“What?” poor Noah, he was so nervous to ask you this and now you were teasing him.

“Answer, open or closed?” you kept looking at him like that question was so important.

“Open.” he gave you his answer, wondering what the outcome will be.

“Perfect. When can I move in?” you finally broke a smile and a wave of relief rushed through Noah’s body.

“Really?” he closed the space between you and took your face in his big warm hands. They felt like home.

“Really.” you whispered, leaning your forehead against his.

He couldn’t stop the smile on his face, the one when your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He grazed your cheeks with his thumbs, his gaze flicking between your eyes and lips. The moment felt perfect.

“I love you.” he said. And then he looked at you like you hang the moon and the stars when you said those three words back.

*

And now he was looking at you with “guilt” written all over his face.

“I-” it was hard for him to tell his thoughts out loud, because he knew he’s going to hurt. “I can’t keep doing this. I’m just gonna hurt you and you don’t deserve that.”

You didn’t understand that, you didn’t get what he meant by that.

“I’m always gonna leave for tour, I’m always at the studio and coming home late. I don’t want you to be here alone, waiting for me.”

You didn’t know what to say. You talked about this, about his lifestyle and you knew what you were getting yourself into.

“Why would you think you’d hurt me? I know what comes with your job Noah and I’m okay with that.”

But you knew he was just making excuses, giving you reasons to leave him.

But your love for him was stronger.

You loved waking up next to him, feeling the warmth from his body and the weight of his arms that were wrapped around you every time you opened your eyes.

You loved weekends when you didn’t have to wake up early for work and you could sleep in, have a morning cuddle before making breakfast together.

You loved his sweet little messages during the day.

You suddenly became a fan of doing the house chores, because you were doing it together.

You loved it even when he came home late from the studio, because that meant it was one of the few times he’d let you hold him. You often took a bath together, him laying on your chest, often falling asleep from your fingers running through his hair.

“I’m gonna hurt you.” he repeated. He knew he would never hurt you intentionally, but he was scared that his lifestyle would hurt you.

“You’re just saying that because you don’t know how to accept happiness. You don’t mean that.”

“I’m not happy like this.” he said quickly and with a firm voice.

You took a few breaths before saying the next sentence. “You’re not happy?”

Silence took over the room as both of you tried to get a hold of your emotions.

You kept looking at him, wanting him to say something. But he stayed silent.

“Listen Noah, if this is a phase that we have to overcome because all of this is new for you, then we’re gonna make it work. We just have to be honest with each other.”

“I am.” short and straight answer. But it felt like a punch to your gut.

Anger took over you and suddenly you had a lot to say.

“I’m not gonna let you do this. I’m not gonna let you ruin our relationship just because you think you don’t deserve it. I don’t know what caused this, why you feel like you need to suffer and you don’t deserve to be happy. But I want to help you through it and realise that you’re a person who’s worthy of love.” your voice broke with the last sentence. The man that you were looking at deserved all of the love in the world and it seemed like he was the only one to think the opposite.

His head was hanging low, his hair long enough to cover his eyes when they fell from behind his ears, making it impossible for you to see the tears on his face.

He didn’t know why he was feeling the way he was, he just felt like he doesn’t deserve someone like you.

“I love you Noah, so much. You make me happy every day.” you continued and slowly moved to kneel in front of him. Seeing his glassy eyes and trembling chin broke your heart even more. “You’re so worthy of all my love. You treat me so well like no one else ever did. I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side. I need you to hear me when I say this, look at me.” you lifted his head with your fingers under his chin, gently forcing his eyes to look into yours. “I’m offering you my heart here, all you have to do is accept it. I wanna give you all the love you deserve, make up for everyone who made you feel like you don’t.”

Your hand slowly slid down his clothed chest, taking you back to a moment when everything was still perfect.

*

“So good.” you moaned with your head tilted backwards so you could see Noah’s face. His hips were thrusting into you, his eyes closed from all the pleasure and you used this moment to trace your fingers down his chest. It was covered in sweat and moving up and down from his heavy breathing.

“That’s it, touch yourself.” he encouraged you when your hand slipped between your bodies and started circling around your clit.

You both felt it coming. His head was in the crook of your neck, he was giving you soft irregular kisses as your back arched from the bed when the orgasm took over your body, his own following right behind you.

*

But that was weeks ago. He hasn’t touched you since then. The only physical affection he gave you these days was a quick peck or forehead kiss.

“I’m gonna wait for you when you leave for tour, I already told you that that’s not a problem for me. I’m always gonna be here when you come back.”

You mirrored his movements and let your eyes stare at the floor.

After minutes of silence you understood that his stubborn mind won’t accept anything of what you just said.

“I think that you need time to think about things. I’ll stay in the guest room and give you space. But I love you Noah, and I’m gonna keep repeating that until you’ll accept it.”

You stood up from the floor, ready to jump in a shower and cry, thinking about what you did wrong.

You felt his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from walking away, a small spark of hope that he’s going to open up.

“I’ll take the guest room, you stay in the bedroom.”

“Okay.” you whispered and pulled your hand out of his grip, wanting nothing more than to be upstairs alone.

You thought that giving Noah space would help. That he’d think about what you said to him that night. That he’d process that and his own feelings.

But nothing seemed to change.

From a home full of love and laughter, your apartment became cold and silent.

He didn’t kiss you when he came home anymore, he didn’t send you sweet messages throughout the day, he didn’t come back to sleep in your bedroom and he stopped showing you affection at all.

One day you decided that it was enough, enough of torturing yourself, because that’s how it felt. He left that morning, didn’t tell you where, but that became a regular thing. But the fact that he didn’t even say bye and just left like you were not there was the last drop.

You packed yourself a bag, for a week, ten days maximum. You thought that would be enough, that when Noah will read the letter you left him on the kitchen counter he will realise that you two have shit to solve out.

He came home later that day, the sun was almost set and he wanted nothing more than to disappear behind the door of the guest room just so he could avoid seeing you.

Seeing you hurt and sad, knowing that it was because of him, made him hate himself even more. You didn’t deserve any of that and he was sure he didn’t deserve your love you were willing to give him.

When he noticed your favorite shoes were missing he didn’t think too much of it, maybe you went out with a friend or for groceries. He stopped telling you where he was going a while ago, he didn’t blame you for doing the same.

But then he found the white folded paper on the kitchen counter and something immediately felt wrong. Like if he suddenly realised that you won’t be coming back from a store later.

He took the white paper in his inked hands and noticed the dots where the paper was more crinkled, knowing it was from your tears that he tried to ignore every day, every night when he tried to fall asleep, but heard your cries from down the hall.

My dear Noah,

I can’t live like this anymore.

As much as I want you to know that you’re loved and deserve to be loved, I need to feel loved too to make this work.

I tried to tell you and show you the best I could, but I guess I failed. I guess it wasn’t enough.

Living together like two strangers won’t help us, so I decided to leave for some time, to give you time alone to think about us.

I want you to know that I’m still in this and I want to give you 100% of me, but I need you to do the same.

I just wish I could have the happy version of you back, and I’m sorry if it’s my fault that you turned into this version of yourself. I’m sorry if I ever said or did something to make you feel like you’re not worthy.

Reach out when you feel ready to talk.

I love you, even if you don’t love me back.

He didn’t realise he was crying until some of the words you wrote started to blur.

He never wanted this. He never wanted to make you feel unloved, because he loved you with everything he had. He just couldn’t help it, the voices in his head that kept reminding him that you deserve so much more than he can give you.

You didn’t fail at loving him, deeply inside of him he never doubted your love for him. But the voices were stronger.

This wasn’t your fault, it was all on him.

I love you, even if you don’t love me back.

And he wanted to run after you to tell you he loves you. He wanted you to know, wanted you to stay, to tell him everything is going to be fine.

But he couldn’t.

You came back to his apartment after two weeks when you knew from Nick that he was at the studio. You packed more of your belongings. Walking through the apartment you felt sick. You kept seeing flashbacks of you two, happy in the beginning.

Then you left again.

Two weeks turned into four, then weeks turned to two months and you knew that he won’t reach out.

You went to pack all of your things from his apartment when they were gone for the weekend.

You cried the whole time, feeling humiliated that you were not worthy of a stupid text or a phone call.

When you were packed, you made your way out of there as quickly as you could.

You didn’t turn back, because despite everything, all you could see there were the happy memories with a man you thought was yours forever.

Noah tried to bullshit everyone with lies, that he moved on and that he was okay. He was far from being okay, but the thought of you being happy kept him from trying to make up the mess he made. He wanted you to be happy and was convinced that he could never do that.

And eventually you moved on. It was hard, but you did. You met someone who made you laugh. A genuine laugh that you experienced with Noah at the start of your relationship.

He was nice, attentive and made you feel loved.

But he will never know that you gave your heart to another man, to someone who you were sure you’ll love forever.

Noah found out after Matt ran into you and your new guy at a bar. He told him, because he felt it wasn’t fair to keep something like that from his best friend.

Matt told him that you looked happy, that you looked genuinely happy with that man on the small dancefloor, where he spun you around and danced with you until you ran out of breath.

Just like you and Noah used to, in your apartment almost every night before he ruined it. And now you were dancing with somebody else.

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This story is a work of fiction, with the plot and characters entirely made up. The appearance and name of the main male character are inspired by Noah Sebastian Davis, but the storyline bears no connection to the real person. Please do not steal or repost this work on other platforms without permission.

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[rotworld]

A Bird in the Hand

you've been "partnered" with the nightbound who betrayed you for weeks now and neither of you are happy with how things are going.

->virgilio/reader. explicit; contains hypnosis, blood drinking, mild gore, power imbalance, aphrodisiacs, food control, mentions of conditioning.

.

.

.

Every day, there’s a notebook open on the kitchen counter. You can’t miss it because it sits right next to an enormous breakfast feast, already made, plated and waiting by the time you drag yourself out in hungry desperation. Everything is artfully arranged like it came right out of an upscale restaurant’s kitchen from lightly sprinkled garnish to elegant, swirling sauce patterns. Even the fucking cereal looks like a mouthwatering food blog photo, a row of sliced fruit ringing one side of the bowl. 

There’s a pen tucked into the notebook’s spiral binding. At the top of the page, a single question is scrawled in neat cursive: What is your favorite movie?

It’s late. The sun shields are open and you can see the city skyline glittering through the windows. The only light in the room comes from a lamp perched on the counter, the thick dome shade softening the light to sunset orange. You uncap the pen, watching clouds drift across the moon. 

Fuck you, you write.

*

Some nights are spent at Cassowary Tattoo. 

It’s that or stew in your own misery for long, silent hours, because you’re not allowed to leave the house on your own yet. You claim your spot in the waiting area, stretched out on the sofa by the front windows with a stack of books on the coffee table beside you. It’s so cozy it makes you suspicious, the comforting and non-confrontational vibe almost smothering—lots of plants and pottery on the wooden wall shelves and muted rugs to soften the hardwood floor, some slow-tempo jazz playing over the speakers. Was it already like this or did they do some hasty redecorating? It feels more like a coffee shop than a tattoo parlor.

Your name is called with slow reluctance. “Hey, uh…” It’s the guy working the desk—nightbound. You saw him sipping from a blood pouch earlier. He knows what you are, too. That’s why he watches you like a hawk. He looks young but that doesn’t mean anything. What does is how nervous he is around you, anxiously vigilant whenever you shift around to get comfortable or exhale just a little sharply. Not like he’s scared of you, but scared of potentially having to handle you, like he’s watching a priceless vase wobble precariously on its stand. A lot of fledglings are like that because the older nightbound teach them that witches are some kind of endangered species, rare and skittish, necessitating firm but gentle handling.

He’ll chase you if you try to run. He doesn’t want to. He’s afraid he might hurt you by accident and then Virgilio will be mad at him, and he would sooner chop off his own hand than risk one of his superiors, his elders, being mad at him.

“Yeah?” you say. 

He flinches whether you soften your tone or not. “Are you, uh. Are you hungry? Sergeant—uh, Virgilio wants to know.” 

“I’m fine.” You pretend to be interested in the books you brought along, propped up on your side with one of the musty tomes open in front of you. It’s all dry, boring shit, leatherbound antiques on loan from the Dusk Council’s extensive library. Nightbound biology, nightbound psychology, nightbound history—there’s a lot here that you don’t know despite how they’ve been breathing down your neck your whole life. 

“Oh. Okay.” He fidgets nervously with his phone. “Well, uh. I think he ordered you something anyway.” 

He did, of course, and it shows up just a few minutes later in the hands of a delivery driver. Virgilio appears at the same moment, pushing through the curtain dividing the shop. There’s no doorbell or chime or anything. Every nightbound in the shop can hear it when somebody parks on the street right outside, or when the front door opens with a wheezy creak. Virgilio exchanges pleasantries and leaves a nice tip. He places the takeout bag on the coffee table right next to your books and then he pulls up one of the armchairs. His hair’s up in a ponytail. He’s wearing a black tank top so his tattoo sleeves are on full display—a moon and clouds, raven wings, a skull hidden among full-bloom flowers and half-melted candles. 

His smile makes your stomach twist up in angry, sickened knots. “Hey. Got you something.” 

You don’t answer and you don’t meet his gaze. Undeterred, he pulls a container out of the bag and opens it for you, steam and a garlicky scent wafting out. It’s some kind of spinach dish, sauteed leafy greens topped with crunchy garnish. 

“Smells pretty good,” he says, stirring it with a plastic fork. “Let me know if you like it and I’ll make it at home sometime. Just need some garlic and olive oil. Maybe a little amaretto if you want it fancy.” He slides the bowl across the table, closer to you. “Come on. You must be hungry. You barely touched breakfast.” You still don’t take it and his smile wanes, all that cheerful enthusiasm souring into weary resignation. “I don’t want to put you under but I will if I have to. It’s for your own good.”

“Stop saying that.” The threat of hypnosis makes you sit up, but you still don’t reach for the bowl. You don’t want it. You don’t want any of this. “‘For my own good?’ This is all for you, so you can feed as much as you want.” 

“It’s for you,” Virgilio insists. “So you don’t end up anemic or worse.” 

The wounded look on his face makes your blood boil, soft eyes and furrowed brows like he thought this would go any other way. He wants to talk? Fine. You can talk. “I wouldn’t need to worry about that if you fed from anyone or anything else sometimes. But I’m here, so you might as well take as much as you want, right? Why bother with a donor who actually likes getting fed on? Is that not as fun? You can’t get off if your blood bag is having a good time, too?” 

Virgilio catches your chin between his fingers and jerks your gaze up to meet his eyes. He’s got your mind in a vice-grip before you can even blink and for a blissful moment, there are no thoughts in your head. No anger. No fear. Nothing. Just fuzzy warmth and gentle drifting. His eyes are glittering gold and you’re sinking, all the tension leaking out of your body, all your worries evaporating—and then he lets go, slowly, like a fist loosening. He maintains just enough control that you can’t muster the energy to yell at him or tear yourself away. 

“Eat the fucking food,” he says, his voice low and ragged. You can only think clearly when he stops touching you, and even then, you find yourself picking up the bowl and spearing spinach on your fork. Virgilio leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you mutter between bites. “I didn’t choose to be what I am.” 

Virgilio takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Yeah. Me, neither.” 

*

Every three days, your breakfast comes with roseblood. Virgilio brews it himself on the stove and the delicate garden-fresh aroma fills the whole house by the time you wake up. He pours the first dose into a black mug with a golden bird silhouette stamped on the side, and then he drops in a few colorful crystals that gently fizzle, making little prismatic bubbles at the surface. That’s nectar, condensed and edible magic. The sweet scent makes your mouth water. He sprinkles a couple leftover rosebuds on top and slides the mug over to join the rest of the trays, plates and bowls he painstakingly prepared. 

“Buon appetito,” he says with a grin. He usually makes himself scarce when you show up for food but today he’s decided to stick around. He stays on the other side of the counter, at least, a newspaper unfolded in front of him so he can pretend he isn’t watching you intently. You eat begrudgingly. Virgilio is such a talented chef that it makes you angry. His plating is immaculate and his dishes are perfect whether he’s baking, boiling or braising something—a sharp contrast to the single small plate at his elbow with nothing but a piece of toast smeared with marmalade. 

You watch him. He watches you. Neither of you speak to each other and the only sounds are the clink of your silverware and the whisper of turning paper, the occasional muted crunch when Virgilio nibbles on his toast. The roseblood is delicious, sweet like honey. You catch him smiling when you hold up the mug, enjoying the soft floral scent and the warmth against your palms, but he quickly averts his eyes back down to the newspaper. 

You think about those videos of animal shelters and people who sit with nervous dogs until they stop shaking. That’s how he sees this, you think. A selfless act. Doing you a favor. Coaxing you to him with food and gentle words, like he doesn’t already have the leash around your neck. 

Today, the notebook asks, What do you like to do in your spare time? 

Virgilio’s gaze is drawn by the scratch of the pen across the paper. You scribble quickly and furiously, then shove it aside. He doesn’t have to look to know you’ve written the same words you always do. He gathers up his newspaper and toast and finally gives you some privacy.

*

Some nights are spent in Dr. Griffiths’ office. The two of you look like a couple on the verge of divorce. Virgilio hunches like a man in a confessional booth and you’re scrunched up against the armrest of the big Victorian sofa, keeping one full cushion between the two of you. Your gaze travels across the room in careful avoidance of Virgilio, wandering from the bookshelves to the hanging paintings to the swinging pendulum of a grandfather clock. Candles flicker atop ornate brass stands. It smells like leather, parchment and incense. 

“I just don’t know what else to do,” Virgilio says. “It’s not like I don’t get it. I do. But you have to understand that the second you became active…look, you weren’t leaving that dinner party without the rug getting pulled out from under you, okay? That’s just how it is. If I didn’t do it, someone else would’ve. And I know you hate me for it, you feel like I took advantage—” 

“Let’s not assume,” Dr. Griffiths says gently. “It would benefit you both to ask each other how you feel, rather than jumping to conclusions. Even in situations where you’re certain you already know, is it not better to ask? To have the opportunity to voice those thoughts and feelings?” He’s nightbound, of course, because why would the Council send you to any other kind of therapist? His eyes glint like an animal’s and he has the uncanny, fluid grace of an elder. He dresses somewhat eccentrically for his profession, stylish and formal in a black blouse with translucent sleeves and fitted slacks, his high heels glossy like obsidian. He looks the way people expect nightbound to look, sickly pale and ghostly as though carved from marble. 

Virgilio glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “They don’t talk to me if they can help it.” 

Dr. Griffiths tilts his head, regarding you with a pensive frown. “You’re still not speaking to your partner?” 

“No,” you mutter.

“Why not?” 

“You can’t guess?” 

He smiles and pushes away from the desk. You watch him warily as he comes to stand beside you, resting his palm on the armrest of the sofa. He looks down at you, tilting his head in that odd, bird-like motion the nightbound all share, like an owl tracking a scurrying mouse. “No assumptions, remember?” he asks.

“It’s really not that hard to figure out,” you insist. He hums, urging you to continue. You don’t look at Virgilio but you can feel the weight of his stare. “My life doesn’t belong to me. I’m like his pet or something.”

“That’s not true—” Virgilio starts to say. Dr. Griffiths cuts him off with a sharp glance. 

“Go on,” he says patiently. 

There’s a lump in your throat, the burning sensation of tears forming in the corners of your eyes. You swallow hard. “And my time, that’s not mine anymore. I’m basically nocturnal now because I have to be. Even if I get up early, I can’t see the sun because of the stupid shields on the windows. It’s so dark everywhere, all the time. And my bedroom isn’t mine, it’s just the guestroom in his house. Some of my stuff’s there but it doesn’t matter. He can come in whenever he wants.”

“I would never—”

“Virgilio,” Dr. Griffiths says, firm but gentle. 

“And,” your voice cracks, “and the food, too. He picks that. And I know why, I know about roseblood and the risks and all that stuff, I know that. But it just reminds me that I don’t have anything anymore. I don’t even have myself. And…and…” Your words unravel into sobs. The sofa creaks under Virgilio’s shifting weight and you see him in your periphery looking sick with guilt. 

His hand trespasses onto the cushion between you. You hear him come closer. You know what he’s going to do and it makes you feel even worse, but you don’t try to stop him from touching your shoulder and turning you towards him. You don’t fight the gentle pressure of his fingers on your chin. You don’t squeeze your eyes shut or try to look away. Your eyes meet and Virgilio’s calming presence fills your mind, quieting your sobs to sniffles and numbing the ache in your chest.

Everything is okay for a while. Everything is light and airy, soft and sweet. You’re freed from thought and fear and worry, left with nothing but peace. When you surface, it happens slowly. You feel an arm wrapped around you, a gentle hand stroking your head. You smell chewing gum on his breath. Virgilio holds you against his chest, idly stroking your back and pressing kisses to your tear-dampened cheeks. 

Dr. Griffiths is back by his desk, frowning thoughtfully. “You have a problem with control, Virgilio,” he says. “Understandably, you crave it. You exert it however and whenever you can. Losing it makes you lash out and act impulsively. I would hope, then, that you might have some sympathy for someone who has none.”

Virgilio wraps around you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces. He knows this will end badly once you get home; more tears, more distance, days of agonizing silence and refusing to meet his eye. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, you’re right.” He holds on tight while he still can. 

*

There are indents in the notebook paper, like someone scribbled furiously on the page before it. You turn back and find line after line written and then hastily crossed out. A handful are still legible:

What is your favorite breakfast food? What is your favorite food? What foods do you like? What would you like me to make you? I will make you anything you want if you ask for it. I didn’t know it upset you so much. I thought maybe it upset you, but I didn’t know what to do. I’m trying to make the best of a difficult situation. I know it’s not fair. I’m not good at this. I can’t let you go but I will do anything else, just name it and I will do it. I’m going to put a better lock on your door. Do you want a better lock on your door? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry.

On the next page, Virgilio’s handwriting reverts to its usual neatness. It simply says, List some foods that you like. 

*

Some nights are spent at home. Virgilio’s coworkers say he’s allergic to time off, which is news to you. It feels like he’s around more than he isn’t. Usually you stay in the guest room and only venture out for food but tonight, you reluctantly join him on the living room sectional. Virgilio is hunched over and doodling in a sketchbook, so shocked by your sudden appearance that you hear his pencil lead snap. You flick on the lamp and unceremoniously drop your entire stack of books on the coffee table, picking one from the pile at random to start with. 

You peek over the edge of the book. Virgilio is frozen for a moment like he thinks the slightest twitch might scare you off. You don’t think he’s even breathing. He watches you carefully, assessing you with cold focus like he’s sizing up a threat. The intensity in his stare frightens you. You don’t know what gives you away—quickening pulse? Hitched breath? Some subtle scent? He blinks and his gaze softens. He sets his sketchbook down and turns to give you his full attention. His casual lean, the way he drapes his arm over the backrest, reminds you of the night you met. 

“How about a truce?” he offers. 

You stare at him suspiciously. “What kind of truce?” 

“Less mesmerism.” 

“How about no mesmerism?” 

“Less,” he stresses with finality. The way your expression crumples with disappointment makes him sigh and rub the back of his neck. “What else do you want? Within reason.” 

You almost scoff at that but Virgilio’s anxious stare makes you reconsider. He’s trying, at least. It’s the smallest of consolations, but he’s giving it to you. “Could you talk to me the way you used to?” 

“The way I used to?” 

“Like at the party. Before…” Before he ruined your life. Betrayed your trust. Claimed you in front of the whole Council. Your heart is in your throat. “Like before,” you say quietly. 

The hoarseness of your voice makes him restless. He drums his fingers along the back of the couch and his gaze wanders. “I tried that,” he says. “When you first came here—” 

“When I was brought here,” you correct him. He clenches his jaw. “I didn’t choose to come here. You know that.” 

“The point is I tried that already. I acted like nothing was different. You still wouldn’t talk to me.” 

“Because I was angry. I still am,” you tell him. “I know I didn’t have much of a choice. I know somebody else would’ve done it if you didn’t. But it hurt. I’m allowed to be hurt. You can’t just snap your fingers and make me forgive you—”

“I could,” Virgilio says. He turns towards the kitchen windows where the moon is just a curled sliver. “I could make you. Probably not in one session. I’d need to reinforce it a few times. But I could.” He says it so plainly. Soft and contemplative, like something he’s spent long nights turning over in his mind. “Hm. That sounds extra fucked up when I say it out loud.” You flinch when he gives you a sidelong glance. “I really am sorry. About the way I did it, anyway. If we’d been anywhere else, I would’ve taken you home and talked it over first. I would’ve made you comfortable first. Been gentler about the claiming mark.” 

The reminder makes you pick at the turtleneck collar of your shirt. The scars on your neck are crescents of bumpy, gnarled tissue like the prints left by a vicious mauling. Virgilio follows the movement of your fingers intently, hoping you might peel the fabric down and show him the proof of his claim, but you won’t. You keep it covered as much as possible. The way he looks at it even through your clothing, the voyeuristic hunger in his eyes, unsettles you. 

“And yeah,” he says wryly, “I know you would’ve agreed to it. I would’ve laid out your options, and you would’ve picked me. That’s not a brag. The bar is real low and I know that. I’m perfectly happy being the lesser evil.”

He’s lying. You can’t usually tell. Before he started covering everything up with cloying, overindulgent sweetness, he hid all of his feelings behind a veneer of deadpan sarcasm. But that last part, you’re certain, was a lie. He doesn’t look at you when he says it. His voice gets small and timid, almost ashamed. You set your book down on the table slowly and take a steadying breath. 

“Do you want to feed on me?” you ask him. 

Virgilio blinks a couple times, like he’s trying to wake himself up. “Are you fucking with me?” 

You were really hoping he wouldn’t make a big deal out of this. “Remember what I said at the therapist’s? About how I’m basically your dog?” 

He frowns. “You’re not—” 

“Not looking to argue,” you cut him off tiredly. “Sometimes it feels like you’re trying to train me. Rewarding me for good behavior, punishing me for bad, all that stuff. Well, we’re trying to make things fair with a truce, right? So now I’m going to train you, too.” You lean back against the couch cushions and hook your fingers into the turtleneck, rolling down the collar until your throat is exposed. Virgilio’s pupils dilate. “If you’re good, you get extra.” 

He drags his gaze up from your neck to your face and your heart races. You don’t see him like this very often. Virgilio is old enough to control his appetite, normally unfazed by the sight or scent of bare human skin. The temptation of your blood when he didn’t expect it seems to have caught him off guard. He looks at you like a starving wolf looks at a lone deer, how the same wolf looks at a mate in heat, lust and hunger a single entity. Virgilio prowls closer on all fours, crawling towards you on the couch. You both know he’s the one in control here. He can take what he wants, when he wants. 

But he stops just short of you, one hand landing on the cushion beside your feet, and looks at you with that animalistic tilt of the head. “Have I been good?” he asks, his voice low and eager. 

Heat rushes through your body. “Yes,” you say. “You’ve been very good.” 

There’s something ritualistic about the way Virgilio feeds. You don’t know if all nightbound are like this or if it’s unique to him, but he goes slow. There’s foreplay before the bite. The approach is a dance, graceful and gradual. He caresses your leg as he shifts closer and he presses kisses everywhere, even over your clothes. To your ankle. To your knee. To your hip. They’re chaste but they linger and they feel reverential. He slides into place beside you and pulls you into his lap, hand wandering. He rubs your shoulders and strokes your sides. You see desire in his eyes but also sadness and solemn determination. This is about more than blood. 

His fingers slip beneath the hem of your turtleneck but he doesn’t take it off right away. He feels you first, his palms sliding up and down your chest. It feels good—not just the stroke of his fingers against your hardening nipples but also the undivided attention, the focus on your body and your pleasure, the weight and wanting of his stare. To Virgilio, nothing exists but you right now, you and your warmth and your pulse thudding beneath his fingertips. His lips move hungrily against yours, coaxing you to tangle your tongue with his. He makes small sounds, contented sighs and soft moans. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs, nipping at your lower lip. Your heart flutters at the teasing prick of his fangs, his venom fizzling pleasantly on your skin. “I swear I will. Someday I’ll be worthy of this partnership.” He pulls your turtleneck off and buries his face against the side of your neck, inhaling deeply with a shudder. His hips move involuntarily, short, needy thrusts that grind his clothed, hardening cock against your ass. He presses his lips against your neck, teasing you. He knows exactly where you’re most sensitive. The marks from the last time he fed still haven’t faded. But he likes to feign ignorance, enjoying your quiet moans until he reaches the spot that really makes you squirm.

For all his protests about you not being a pet, he really does have you trained. You don’t flinch anymore when he prepares, stroking the back of his fangs with his tongue until his mouth is full of venom. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses leave tingling numbness in their wake. Testing nips make you shiver in pleasure rather than pain. You wrap your arms around him and hold on tight, not out of fear but in anticipation. Virgilio savors you, dragging his tongue over your pulse. His hand cradles the back of your head as you turn and bare your neck to him. 

“Two and a half centuries in this shitty world,” he whispers, “and nothing has ever been as precious to me as you are.” 

Virgilio’s bite is ecstasy. The moment his venom floods your veins, your toes curl, your back arches, and you cum. If he didn’t hold onto you so tightly and keep your head still, you would thrash and flail wildly. You know he feels just as good, maybe even better, because his hips buck like he’s fucking you, rolling, languid thrusts that lightly bounce you in his lap. You’re aware, dimly and distantly, that the bite is shallow. He’s keeping it light and controlled, sucking the blood that beads to the surface rather than widening the wound, and in a state of pure instinctual want, it infuriates you. You want more, deeper, harder, everything he has filling you. He keeps a firm, steady grip on the back of your head to make sure you don’t try and impale yourself on him further. You whine when his fangs retract and he laps at the punctures left behind. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs against your skin, trying to soothe you. The praise goes straight to your sex, heat and arousal making you move your hips against him. “Mm, yes, you are. So sweet and delicious.” His hand dips between your legs. He doesn’t undress you but he loosens the clothes on your lower half enough to get his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, and then he’s mercilessly working your sex with his fingers. “Cum one more time.” He’s growling, so deep in his own primal need that his voice is low and rumbling. He’s not asking. It’s an order, and it makes you whimper. “One more. Come on. Sweet thing, letting me have a taste of you. Let go for me.”

Already raw and right on the edge, you cum with a sob. Virgilio doesn’t let up, still mouthing at your neck and whispering filth. He coos about the mess you made on his fingers while your hips helplessly chase his hand. He doesn’t stop until you sag against him, worn out and oversensitive. The blistering pleasure phase has run its course but his venom will keep you in an extended post-orgasmic bliss for a while longer. He lays down and keeps you tucked against his chest, gently rubbing your back. 

It’s nice, you think deliriously. Every feeding is nice, but usually you shake him off and demand to be left alone once it’s over. It was a mistake to stay. Now that you know what it feels like to be in his arms, you’re not sure you’ll be able to leave.

“You can take a nap, if you want. I’m not going anywhere,” he says softly. Warmly. He sounds happy, you think. Because you fed him without prompting? Because he’s in control again? You don't know if tonight was a step forward or back, but you aren’t going to worry about it right now. Not when the lights are low and Virgilio’s touch is so tender, and everything almost feels alright. 

*

The next night, you're up and moving a little earlier than usual. Viriglio is still cooking. You sit at the counter to watch. He looks back over his shoulder at you briefly, almost shyly, like he doesn't want to scare you into leaving. He nods in greeting. You nod back. He looks a little disappointed but he smiles anyway and returns his attention to the stove. 

You tell him your favorite movie. 

[tfp-is-my-lifeblood-lol]

How would the bots and cons handwriting be like? (Sorry for my bad English lol)

Ahhh! I love this idea! Had WAY too much fun with this.

Bots and Cons Handwriting

Optimus:

-Can write insanely neatly, and in literally ANY font

-Everything he writes looks like it came straight from Google Docs

-He can perfectly recreate Comic Sans, much to the children's amusement

-Handwriting KING

-He's too powerful

Arcee:

-Her handwriting is gorgeous

-She writes very neatly, definitely in cursive

-Everything she writes looks like a diary from the Victorian era

-Majestic✨✨✨✨

Ratchet:

-Cursive, but MESSY cursive

-Like, REALLY messy cursive. What is he even writing? Who knows? It's a mystery.

-You know, cuz, like, that's how a pharmacist's prescriptions look, and he's a medic. Lol

-Ratchet has messy pharmacist handwriting

Bumblebee:

-His handwriting is so cute😭

-Basically Comic Sans

-Not PERFECT Comic Sans like Optimus, but just bubbly and adorable

-Having legible handwriting is something he practices a lot, since his voice box is broken. Writing is a nice way to express himself if need be.

-He has kindergarten teacher handwriting

-My dyslexia would be so happy

Smokescreen:

-Neat enough handwriting, but HE WRITES SO BIG

-All caps, all the time

-He goes through too many notebooks, because he saves NO space

-Poor guy. He just has a big personality

Bulkhead:

-Unreadable

-His hands are just way too big

-Very messy. Only Wheeljack can read it because he and Bulkhead share the same braincells

-Bulkhead and Ratchet get in arguments, because Ratchet's reads Bulk's handwriting, and is like: "Bulkhead, your attempts at penmanship are downright INCOMPREHENSIBLE."

And Bulkhead's like: "You say that like any of us can read yours!"

And Arcee's like: "I second that."

And Bumblebee buzzes in agreement.

Ratchet just rolls his eyes, like "ugh." Because he can't argue. HIS handwriting is gibberish, too.

Ultra Magnus:

-Opposite of Smokescreen...Ultra Magnus's handwriting is TINY!

-Seriously, where is it? You need a microscope.

-Only the humans can read it, because it's so small. And even THEY have to squint

-It's also PERFECT. His handwriting is very neat

and blocky, like a typewriter

-If only we could actually see it

Wheeljack:

-He's like, a graphic design CHAMPION

-He learned handwriting from Miko, so he loves big bubble letters. He decorates them with cool patterns, like flames, and lightning bolts

-Very stylish

Megatron:

-What I can only describe as "spooky cursive"

-Very formal, and kinda gothic

-He'd use some kind of calligraphy pen with very dark, splattery ink, or, like, whatever the Cybertronian version of a quill is.

-He's an elegant guy...well, sort of, except most of what he writes consists of:

"My dearest Starscream,

It is with great regret (note my sarcasm, Starscream.) It is with great PLEASURE that I must inform you...

I have caught you invading my stash of dark energon, once again.

I will be grinding you into scrap metal momentarily.

Yours truly,

Lord Megatron."

Starscream:

-Starscream has the ABILITY to write neatly, and in cursive

-But he writes very scribbly, because he's angry

-If "ranting" was a font, it's the font he writes in

-Also, he probably keeps a rage journal, where he trash talks everyone he knows

-Somebody help him🥲

Soundwave:

-Handwriting? What's that?

-He probably uses his internal computer to make documents, and prints them

-And when he prints things, they probably slide out of his neck. Terrifying. So he prints things to freak Starscream out

-It's beautiful

-If Soundwave was FORCED to handwrite, he'd do it in computer code, or morse code, or something weird like that. Everyone would be baffled trying to understand it.

Airachnid:

-Very splattery

-But that's what happens when you use energon and human blood as ink.

Shockwave:

-Writes in calculator font

-Like, the font a calculator has

-He says it's "the most logical font"

-Starscream constantly judges him for it

Breakdown:

-Definitely not neat, but not Bulkhead levels of messy, either

-He doesn't have the best handwriting, but he can make some pretty good doodles

-If, for some reason, Megatron assigned Breakdown and Knockout a task involving handwriting, Breakdown and Knockout would both doodle instead of being productive

Knockout:

-Ooo! So majestic!

-It's very bold

-His handwriting is suave and announcer-y, just like him

-It'd also be curved slightly to the right, like italics

-Almost like something you'd see in a commercial, or a movie trailer, or a billboard

-Like a NASCAR advertisement (y'know, because race car)

[the-eclectic-wonderer]

From the language ask game:

☾ : favourite word from your language

♧ : favourite word from the english language translated in your language

✌ : favourite proverb/saying from your language

☮ : translate the first lines of your favourite song in your language

Oooh, thank you! These are all good ones!! Let's see...

☾ : favourite word from your language

I have technically already answered this here, but since I have tons of favourite Italian words, you get another! Specifically, arzigogolato, which means convoluted, especially when talking about a thought process (e.g. un piano arzigogolato, a convoluted plan). I really love that the word itself looks and sounds convoluted (especially when you write it in cursive!), I love the double go sound and the rz pair at the beginning, and I love that it makes me think of another nice Italian word, gomitolo (= ball of thread/yarn). It's just so needlessly dramatic and I adore it.

♧ : favourite word from the english language translated in your language

Oh boy. I have tons of favourite English words, but most can't properly be translated in Italian, lol. I really love English pet names, more than I like Italian pet names, as a rule! My favourite is darling, which I guess could be approximated with 'caro/a' (lit. dear) or tesoro (lit. treasure). Neither of those are quite as gentle, though.

✌ : favourite proverb/saying from your language

Oooh, a fun one! I'm not sure I have a favourite proverb (there's TONS of Italian proverbs and they're all pretty good), but one I say often is 'Dio dà il pane a chi non ha i denti', lit. 'God gives bread to those without teeth [to eat it]'. It's the sort of thing you say when you witness somebody who has an abundance of something that you need but doesn't want it/can't enjoy it, if that makes sense? It's a complaint about the fact that sometimes life is unfair and things go to the people that don't need them. Technically speaking there's also a secular version that simply states 'chi ha il pane non ha i denti', 'those who have bread have no teeth', but I like invoking the name of God at random to complain about my life.

☮ : translate the first lines of your favourite song in your language

Surprise surprise, I have tons of favourite songs! 😂 One that I thought might work for this experiment is The Way You Look Tonight (there's tons of versions out there, but my favourite is this one, by Bing and Dixie Lee Crosby):

Someday, when I'm awfully low When the world is cold I will feel a glow just thinking of you And the way you look tonight

Un giorno, quando sarò davvero a terra Quando il mondo sarà freddo Sentirò calore solo pensando a te E a come sei stasera

What can I say? I'm a romantic.

[Language asks]

[cobragardens]

Another Post About Crowley's Terrible Handwriting

Actually his handwriting here isn't terrible, it's just, like Anathema's spelling, 300 years too late.

So first, I posit that we can be reasonably confident this is Crowley's handwriting because he is very likely the only celestial being besides Aziraphale who can spell devourer correctly.

Crowley has taken more care than usual with his penmanship today because this is a Fancy Presentation, and there are some delightful things to note about it:

--The beautiful serifs on each letter and variation in width of the strokes (the lowercase r's especially)

--Enthusiastic but intermittent capitalization of nouns

--The L that ends "Hail" is a small capital like the ones used in the Bible to spell LORD; the l in Worlds is lower-case

--The lozenge shape of the letter o

--Both s-es are oversized and dip below the writing line

--The kerning is terrible, the script wanders off the writing line at several points, and the location of the writing line is not imagined consistently

I am not an expert in the history of handwriting, but every single point of this suggests to me that Crowley learned to write in English in the late 16th or early 17th century, between say 1570 and 1620, and he learned to do it by copying printed material, not somebody else's handwriting. And it looks like late 16th-century writing. Or rather, like somebody learned to write by copying late 16th-century print and hasn't practiced enough for his style to change significantly in the last 400-500 years.

This means Crowley would have learned using a quill pen, poor devil, and if that's true no wonder he doesn't do it more often. (I wonder if this is why he now owns a pen that looks like it can break the sound barrier; if the Bentley is a permanent replacement for the loathsome, buttocks-abusing horse, maybe he keeps the expensive pen as self-reassurance that he'll never have to write with a quill again.) Quill pens would explain the lozenge-shaped o's: quills can only make a downstroke, so writers who used them shape o's as lozenges made of four downstrokes. Someone who learned writing with a quill would shape his o's like a calligrapher.

16th/early 17th century is the earliest I think Crowley would have learned to write in English because before that there was no block print; there was no print at all, only handwritten scripts of varying legibility, none of which look remotely like Crowley's handwriting does.

Here's what print looked like in Germany in 1471 (printing does not arrive in England for another 5 years after this):

The printing press showed up in England in 1476. Between 1500 and 1600, England got its shit sorted out wrt fonts and typesetting and started turning out what we would recognize today as readable material.

Here's what English printing looked like in 1623, c. 150 years after the German one above:

Not bad, right? I've received Xerox copies less legible than this in classes I paid for. I think it is likely based on his handwriting that Crowley learned to write from printed material a decade or two older than this. The adornments Crowley puts on his letters are serifs, not ligatures: these are not letters that were ever meant to join up in cursive, but letters that were copied from typeset.

From the 16th through the mid-19th century, variations in how a handwriter capitalized letters were very common, and two of these variations show up in Crowley's writing as well.

First, English inherited from German the capitalization of all its nouns. You can see it in Titus Andronicus, above (1623). Due to variations in education and taste, this quickly shifted to capitalization of whichever nouns the writer (or publisher, or printer) felt were important to capitalize, as you can see in Paradise Lost from 1688, below. Hail the Great Beast, devourer of Worlds.

Second, It was also very common during this time to capitalize terminal letters of words, either as a sign to the reader that previous letters had been omitted or because writers using quill pens wanted to be sure readers knew what letter they were looking at through the smudges and weird spacing and general wretchedness of the reading experience imposed by quill writing. I think this latter reason may be why Crowley writes "HaiL" when his other letter L, in "Worlds," is both lowercase and carefully printed with a pretty serif.

Handwriters in English between 1500 and 1800 also had a major hard-on for abusing the letter s, which was shaped like a lowercase f (to contemporary eyes) or a loose S, either of which drop below the writing line. Here's an example in print from 1688:

Use of the long S in print fell out of favor and disappeared abruptly in the UK after 1800.

Crowley's S-es could be a holdover from this: they both drop below the writing line, and they're both oversized.

What I think we can say for sure is that he's not very good at writing s-es, so they always turn out bigger than he intends. The S in "Beast" is noticeably different at the left curve than the S in "Worlds," which I would expect for someone who hasn't written thousands of s-es yet, and the S in "Worlds" looks very much like someone has faithfully rendered a shape they have seen rather than written a letter. Since he can write a letter r elegantly but can't do a curved s, it suggests to me that he hasn't had as much practice doing the curved s yet as he has the other letters, which fits with someone used to writing a long s 75% of the time.

Even the kerning speaks to me of someone who learned to write with a quill: leaving (comparatively) large spaces between letters gives the ink somewhere to drip and smudge without rendering the letter illegible.

There's one other reason I think Crowley probably learned to write in English in the 16th century: He's lazy, and he probably wouldn't have needed to know before then.

The movable-type press arrived in England in 1476. The Protestant Reformation kicked off in England c. 60 years later in 1534 when Henry VIII declared himself head of the English Church. Prior to the surge in literacy among the wealthy and merchant classes in the 16th century, thanks to this intersection of printing press and Protestants (who believe it's important that each person read the Bible for themselves), almost no one knew how to read, including most of the gentry and nobility, and still fewer knew how to write. If you had a message, you sent a guy or you showed up yourself. If you had something you wanted recorded, you summoned a scribe. If you needed to know something, you found somebody who knew and you asked them.

By the time of Queen Elizabeth's accession in 1558, 82 years after William Caxton began operating England's first movable-type printing press, a fully literate royal court were passing each other and their spies and their assassins gossipy notes like everybody was a 12yo in math class. Elizabeth wrote letters and poems. Among the gentry gentlewomen replaced monks as the medical caregivers for their communities (bc Henry shut down all the monasteries), and they wrote and shared and copied multi-generational "receipt books" and herbals of medical and cosmetic treatments. In the space of a single generation, literacy--the ability to write, not just to read--became a prerequisite for functioning in the upper echelons of society.

So if he didn't already know by then, Crowley would have needed to learn to write in English in the mid-16th century. And he would have had to learn it with a quill. (Wearing black probably came in handy for all the ink he spilled or dripped on himself.)

Last to consider is the W in "Worlds," which has no serifs and is not written with any particular attempt at straightness or symmetry. To me this suggests that Crowley learned to write w's from a modern reference, not his original reference. And this makes perfect sense: w was very much in use in the 16th century in English, but nobody agreed on how to write or print it, so there were crossed v's, two capital U's, and this weird gothic lowercase n with extra tentacles. W, Crowley would have learned, always needs to be checked up on before you commit.

Crowley's spelling here is modern, which is frankly a huge achievement for someone who was present for the formation and transformation of all 3 English languages. The contemporary Modern English we use today was a going concern for over 2 centuries before anyone wrote an English dictionary, and it was three centuries before dictionaries became authorities on how to spell correctly and people started giving a shit about that. (Before that as long as people could read the word and understand what you meant by it in context, you'd spelt it correctly.)

Taken together, the W and the modern spelling suggest that although Crowley almost never writes by hand, he reads regularly. This matches with two Words of God I've seen from Neil Gaiman (which I am too lazy to find and link) in which he mentions that Crowley likes to read but won't admit to doing so or to liking books.

Aziraphale should get him a book about ducks for Valentine's Day.

[paperstreetlocal]

Please expand on your Narrator neurodivergency hcs too if you're willing!! I love the ones you did for Tyler.

this isn't just neurodivergent shit its also like other issues sorry i cant stay on topic

autism wise i dont think he really gets overstimulated ? not the type to have a sensory meltdown or something i feel like he just kinda blocks out everything around him if its too loud or whaetever.disassociates a bit.Textures though……thats a whole other thing i think he ust wears simple somewhat tight clothes.half the reason cuz hes boring and has no fashion sense the other half is he just cant stand having anything excessive on him

ithink he stims in more subtle ways cuz he masks a lot Mostly just taps his foot or bites his nails or fidgets with pens/longer objects and flings them around on accident.i feel like he would touch his hair a lot and always keeps it short and tidy cause he cant stand it eing longer.scratches his forearms Generic stuff like that

his ocd gets really bad tho his brain runs literally 24/7 which pairs w his insomnia and the guy just thinks about bullshit constantly.intrusive thoughts galore I dont think hes a perfectionist by any means but he has to keep certain things tidy/closed or it drives him up the wall.specifically his work cubicle which is a mess but organized to nobody but himself n i think he gets extremely paranoid at times especially right around when he moves in w tyler cuz of the lack of lock on the front door and tht stuff

also when it comes to compulsions i think he bites (previously mentioned) and eats his nails and completely decimates them for several reasons and picks at his skin/scalp/teeth/eyes a lot and not in a hygienic way (do i even need to put this in here? nothing about their house or them is hygienic) and having to move into tylers house fucked up with his routine super badly hedidNotlike it in the slightest

e strikes me as the type to be anemic and always be freezing cold (unlike tyler whos a radiator) and overdresses while outside (him in his silly puffy jackets) and i think he sweats waaay ay too much bad eyesight had glasses at one point but switched to contacts and then got his apartment blown up now he gets eye infections cuz he doesnt have any neww ones

for the schizophrenia stuff i mean. somebody hcs him as schizophrenic somebody as a did system .. . personally im either not sure or he has both but i mostly go w the notion that the whole runtime of fight club was the narrator having a schizophrenic episode and i do think tyler may have appeared earlier on in his life in a different form and he just forgot or wasn't aware it was him.i dont think chuck did his best repping either of the disorders so whatever goes honestly lol (my main issue is you can have alters and be schizophrenic but having an alter AS a hallucination is incredibly odd to me? is that even a thing /genq) neeway dont have any special hcs just whatever happens in the book/movie u know abt that already

also extra stuff for tyler i forgot b4 i think he likes sniffing him.his mind cannot comprehend Not Smelling Like Fucking Shit 24/7 (narrator is somewhat cleaner and thus smells ok sometimes. mostly like sweat though) CONTRARY to that id card (ifykyk) i think his handwriting is AWFUL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! his ass does NOT write in perfect cursive ik his shit is barely legible Fuck You and he cannot spell longer words like Wednesday what do you think this is ? Spelling bee ?

[thetomorrowshow]

time enough for counting

heyyyyyyy sorry

cw: jimmy is still dead, mourning/funeral stuff, loneliness, brief mentions of blood/being killed

~

I haeve left the artefaktes in the hands of the living gods. Taeke holde of them bothe and defeate Exor.

Scott rubs his eyes, sits back in his chair. He's read through the Alinar's cramped cursive instructions in the back of the book over and over again.

Because they are instructions, strangely enough. As far as Scott can tell, Alinar wrote his entire plan to defeat Conal in the back of this book, as frustratingly vague as it is.

Written several times throughout is 'mine apologies fore any person who is nowe fighting an daemone, as I have been vayge in my writing. I feare that this booke myte fall into the hands of the enemie, and fore this purpose mine detailes are sparse'.

The details are kind of sparse, but not as badly as he'd expected. For one thing, Alinar details exactly what kind of mountain he'd locked Conal in, specifying that it isn't the exact location that matters, it needs to be a strong holding place connected to Aeor's power. And there's an entire spell written for making a crystal that should be able to trap Exor's Champion. Not that Scott is capable of that kind of magic, but he could give it to Gem and she could probably create it.

The actually frustrating part is the artifacts. Alinar won't describe them, or where they are, or how to use them. He just cites the same 'taeke holde of them bothe and defeate Exor' whenever he mentions them, and twice he writes that he left them with 'living gods', whatever that means.

Scott's pretty sure he has one of the two artifacts already. He'd found the golden antler crown in that cave, and he knows it dates at least back to Alinar, if not before. The scholars that have examined it have declared it to be of magical properties, and he knows that it has a strong connection to one of the only living gods that he knows of.

So he has the antlers. But there is zero description of what the other artifact might be, or where it might be, or who it was given to.

And Scott has no clue where to start.

It's his most important work to focus on, but his councils never give him time to work on it. He is, after all, running a war right now.

The forces of Mythland have joined up with those of the Lost Empire to launch a targeted attack on the Ocean Kingdom. fWhip's still biding his time, sending out spies (which frequently get caught by Lizzie) and little armies to test the waters at various borders. Scott's work so far has mostly been in setting patrols for his own borders, and sending soldiers out to aid the Ocean Kingdom—not desperately needed, but a good show of their alliance. But having all those forces concentrated on the Ocean Kingdom? Giving the other empires plenty of time to prepare their defenses?

Why Xornoth wants to take down Lizzie is entirely beyond Scott.

It's actually been a minute since he spoke with Lizzie face-to-face—two weeks, to be precise.

Fourteen days since that meeting.

Fourteen days since Jimmy's death was confirmed.

Nine days since Scott released an official mourning statement, mostly written by somebody else who had no real idea of what he and Jimmy shared.

And three days since Ilphas gently suggested working with Lizzie to plan a memorial service for Jimmy.

The court, far too late, has ruled that he and Jimmy remained betrothed despite their eschewing of the betrothal law, due to the state of emergency. So added to his mourning robes is a veil, simpler than those he and Jimmy wore during the betrothal period, plain black cloth with a matching hood.

Mourning vestments are generally worn for a year when the death was of someone close, such as a parent or spouse. Or, in this case, fiance.

Scott's stuck in a mockery of the betrothal he hadn't been able to finish for an entire year.

And now he needs to plan a funeral for his love.

Before he can chicken out, Scott grabs his communicator from his new satchel that hangs off his chair.

The satchel was a gift from the Codlands and had arrived the same day the Cod Empire fell. It's hand-stitched, from what he can tell, with a design in blue of a leaping stag and a cod forming a circle on the side, the main bag a demure brown. He finds himself, sometimes, running his thumb along the stitches of the cod in a self-soothing motion. Since he received it, the bag has barely left his side.

It's a humble gift, one certainly not fit for a king. But Scott sees in it the hard work of someone, or several someones, who only wished to show their appreciation and acceptance to the fiance of their beloved Codfather.

Scott carries it as if it holds the same amount of worth as his crown, and his advisors know better than to say anything about it.

Have you any time for a visit to make memorial plans?

He sets his communicator down, flips to a new page in the ancient book. He has an Old Elvish to Elvish dictionary, but it takes forever to even parse through a paragraph of the original story. And this is less the classic tale of the Two Stags and more a history of Aeor, and while that's very helpful and educational, it's stupidly difficult to understand.

His communicator buzzes before Scott can even begin reading.

Tomorrow.

Right then.

Scott should probably inform his council.

-

Scott stops in the church on his way out of town—strange, for him, but he's trying to show his dedication to Aeor—and just wanders through the hall of paintings there: depictions of Aeor, and Alinar, and other heroes and times.

He halts, meandering, before a large portrait of Alinar that's never seemed to draw him in in the past. He remembers being a child, here in the hall on his way to his religious studies, walking far slower than necessary just to gaze at all the art but passing over this one with little consideration.

In the painting, Alinar sits on his throne, the whole hall laid out before him. His chin is held high, his robes lavish and deep blue, his crown of antlers shining gold. The hilt of a sword sticks out behind the back of the throne, a brown streak of paint against the beams of light filtering in through the grand windows behind Alinar.

Alinar himself is missing his left arm—a common depiction of the king, one that Scott read a scholarly debate about several years ago. The generally accepted theory is that it represents the distance and early death of his closest friend, a desert nomad tribe leader known to the elves as Lisdes—one of very few non-elves that has been granted a presence in the most glorious of heavens for his heroic works. Other theories include that it is a representation of the civil war fought under his reign—when Conal, his own twin brother, rebelled, it was like losing his arm; or that it is a representation of Alinar's control in many parts of the world, with one hand overseeing the elven colonies of the east (long gone) while the other rules from home.

There are many theories, but none have been found true, especially since the depiction isn't universal. Somewhere around fifty percent of the artists that have created a likeness of him do so without the arm, but the others include it. For all anyone knows, one artist forgot the arm and everyone else decided it was so meaningful that they needed to copy it.

The last one is unlikely. There's a folk tale of Alinar and Lisdes journeying together to a mountain of fire to retrieve his lost arm, so it probably had its beginnings in something other than a painting. Whatever it was, the truth has been lost to time.

In this painting, there is no one near Alinar. There are groups of people milling around in the hall below his gaze, but none of them interact with him, or even look to him.

Scott's always thought, looking at this, that Alinar was rather haughty.

Now, he sees him as lonely.

This portrait was painted only a couple of hundred years after his death, titled simply 'A King'. No embellishments of the ancient hero, none but those painted: the crescent moon halo hanging above his head, the jewels hanging from his robes, the carefully-detailed chain earring looping down around his long ear.

He's a king.

Nothing more, nothing less.

An elf with the role of leadership.

Adorned in gold and rich cloth, secluded above the other elves, looking down almost mournfully upon his people.

It's funny, Scott thinks, that he's never related to this painting. He'd always preferred the one two paintings down, of Alinar plunging a golden sword into a one-eyed monster, a pillar of light shining down on him from a moon above him.

That one seems to hold less wonder than it always did.

In that one, he can't help but see the pain in Alinar's determined eyes.

How much did he lose in his journey to become a hero?

His brother. Citizens of his kingdom. His best friend.

More, maybe, that was never written.

Never remembered.

Will Scott's losses be remembered?

Will Jimmy be more than a quick mark in the history books?

In the 109th year of his life, King Smajor was briefly engaged to the ruler of the Codlands. The ruler was killed in battle.

To an outsider's point of view, that is the maximum relevance that Jimmy has had on Scott's life.

Jimmy isn't some hero, as Lisdes was. He's just . . . just Jimmy. And his time here was short.

Far too short.

Maybe even insignificant. He established—what, ten years of peace in a country destroyed by war for hundreds of years prior? Only for it to be conquered again?

Who is going to remember the only person Scott truly loved?

Now, for the first time in a very long time, Scott sees just how far ahead the road stretches.

If they defeat Xornoth, he will have to survive hundreds of years without Jimmy. He will have to watch his beloved fade from the memory of mortals, as the world changes and he is alone.

Alinar is always alone in the paintings.

And then, after he dies, there will be nobody to anchor any part of Jimmy to this world.

No one lives forever, but even Jimmy's death will not last.

Scott turns away from the hall of paintings, adjusting the veil covering his face. He needs to plan a memorial worth a place in history.

He leaves Rivendell and sets out for the Ocean Kingdom, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

He can't help but think, in future paintings, he will always be portrayed alone.

-

Scott's shown to a meeting room when he arrives (after he's led to a set of rooms to change from his travel wear and throw some water on his face), and as he waits, examining the carvings on the table, he's reminded of another Ocean Kingdom meeting room, from months and worlds ago, when he had waited half-asleep to request an alliance.

He thinks, maybe, that he was in love with Jimmy, even back then. Back when he knew practically nothing about the man, some part of his soul deep within knew that they belonged together.

Which is a stupid and cheesy thought, as true as it may be. After all, he'd been so worried about Jimmy that he hadn't gotten much sleep in days. What kind of person does that without having feelings attached?

There were so many things to love about Jimmy, too. His sense of humor, the dimple in his cheek, his strong hugs, the kindness in his every action, his perpetually tangled hair, his loud laugh, the soft smiles he reserved for Scott, the feel of his lips. . . .

And he's gone.

And Scott knows that.

And now he has to live with it.

"Hey."

Scott looks up; Lizzie stands in the doorway, dressed in a simple grey dress that hangs off the shoulders. She gives him a small smile but makes no move to join him at the table.

Scott, of course, stands. He inclines his head in a bit of a bow, straightens his crown where it's set carefully over his hood.

"It's good to see you," he says, after what's probably been too long of a time. He waits for Lizzie to step within, but she still lingers.

"I wish they had been under happier circumstances," Lizzie says. "Apologies if I have to be pulled away, my armies are active at the moment."

"All going well?"

"Very," she replies. "As it turns out, it's a little difficult to attack an underwater empire when you can't breathe underwater."

Scott chuckles politely. That makes sense.

They stand in silence for a few more moments before Lizzie sighs.

"Look, Scott," she says. "I don't really want to sit here and talk about my little brother's death. Can we walk?"

Scott hurries to obey, shoving his chair in and tripping over his own robe. Lizzie waits patiently by the door, begins walking as soon as he gets out of the room.

"Not to—not to bring the conversation down—" Scott says, lengthening his stride to keep up (for someone who's only five foot something, Lizzie moves fast), "but . . . isn't that what this meeting is about?"

"Hm?"

"You just said that you don't wish to talk about—about Jimmy," he says, willing his voice not to crack. "But—"

"Joel actually offered to take care of it," Lizzie says. She halts, turns to look out the large windows of the passageway they've been walking down.

Scott stops beside her. They're in an underwater portion of the palace, and out the window is the sea.

A school of fish swim by, right beside the window, beyond them the clear blues of a sun-filtered ocean. Scott watches the waves on the surface (they're only just below) lap back and forth, adding a gentle sway to the floating bits of seaweed and the little bubbles.

"Mezeleans do a three day mourning period," Lizzie says after a moment. "Joel felt bad. He wanted to do more. So he asked if he could plan the service, since he doesn't have a forty day mourning period like us."

Scott blinks. "Sorry, forty days?"

"Yes," says Lizzie. She turns to Scott. "Is yours different?"

Forty days doesn't feel near long enough. That means Lizzie has only—what, three more weeks of mourning? And then she has to go on with her life, as if Jimmy never existed?

"For a betrothed, the elven tradition is one year," Scott tells her, watching her face for a reaction.

Her eyebrows raise, her eyes flick over to his veil before turning back to the sea.

"The court made its decision, then."

Scott nods.

They stand there, silent, staring out the window.

"I can't even imagine a year," Lizzie says at the same time as Scott says, "Only forty days?"

Scott mutters an apology. Lizzie shrugs.

"It gives us enough time to remember the dead, then go on to celebrate their life," she says. "Not long enough that we dwell, but long enough that we honor them. The grief is too heavy to carry it for so long. How can you even survive a year of it?"

"We lead a long life," says Scott. "Most elves live to be a thousand years old. A year isn't so long a time in the grand turning of our lives—can we not give it up for our loved ones?"

That's what he's been taught, at least. Standing here at the beginning of it, a year feels like an awfully long period of time.

He can see the appeal of forty days, even if he can't even imagine it. And worse, Joel—three days. As much time as he spent sequestered in Gem's secret library. That was the entire length of Joel's mourning period.

And suddenly, Scott remembers something that he's been carrying around for the past two weeks.

"I have something for you," he says, reaching for his shoulder bag. Right, he'd left it in the set of rooms that he'd freshened up in— "I found it at Crystal Cliffs—"

"I have something for you, too," Lizzie interrupts. "I thought it looked kind of elvish, but I wasn't sure—"

"Can we stop by my rooms, and I can get it?"

Lizzie nods. "Yours is in the Grotto, we can go on the way—"

And with that, she's off at almost a run, back down the way they came.

Scott follows, robes billowing around him, each step a hard slap against the prismarine floor, as compared to Lizzie's almost silent feet. She stops at the set of guest rooms that Scott had been led to earlier, and he grabs his satchel off the hook just inside the door before she takes off again, to the end of the hall, and down down down a long spiral staircase.

Scott follows, legs beginning to burn. In Rivendell, he usually just glides down cliffs or long staircases. He isn't used to the tight spirals here, no room to spread his wings to their full length.

They go down at least five levels. Scott doesn't really like being underground—even Gem's hidden library had been a little too close for comfort—but he swallows back his discomfort and follows, as Lizzie leads him through a dimly lit hallway and then into a dark, smooth tunnel, walls a beautiful deep blue.

The tunnel's made of glass, he realizes about halfway down, after trying to figure out what material could have been used to create such a mesmerizing blue-ish darkness. It's glass, and through the other side is the depths of the ocean.

As impressive as it is, Scott's not sure he likes that. Water all around him, ready to flood in if the glass breaks under all the pressure? Doesn't really sound like his idea of fun. He can't exactly swim all that well—his feathers get waterlogged instantly and he tends to sink fairly quickly. He found that out when he was around sixty-five or seventy, and Xornoth tried to drown him. Good times.

But he follows Lizzie through the tunnel, trusting that she wouldn't take him down any path likely to break. And trusting a bit more, perhaps, in her ability to save him if he does end up drowning.

Then Scott steps into the room at the end of the tunnel, and feels his eyebrows practically hit his hairline.

This is beautiful.

A cave, small but open, lit by lanterns hanging from the craggly ceiling, lined with shelves and stools chiseled out of stone. The cave sparkles, as if the rock that forms it is actually crystal, or rather, that little specks of gold are woven in so well with the stone that the sparkle has become indiscernible from the rock.

The shelves carved into the rock hold all manners of preciosities, from ancient crowns to sparkling jewels to seemingly ordinary items that glow with a magical sheen. Fishnets hang from the cave wall, and from those fishnets hang exceedingly fine pieces of armor and clothing, some so bright they seem to be a patch of starlight, others made of materials that look like they oughtn't be clothes (is that a dress made of driftwood?). Scott sees a tiara made entirely out of sapphires wired together, a pair of gloves sewn of what appears to be a spider's string, a bundle of bejeweled fish hooks, and a clearly enchanted scepter made of glass all on the first shelf, but Lizzie bypasses all of these things without even a second glance and leads the way to the left side of the cave, where she draws back one of the nets.

She turns after a moment, raises an eyebrow to see Scott still standing in the entryway.

"Right, you've never been down here," she says after a moment of staring at each other. "Welcome to the Grotto, home of the Ocean Kingdom's treasures! Ignore them, though. This is for you, over here."

Scott's kind of afraid that he'll knock something over, considering the fragile items on the shelves and stone stools and the size of his wings. But he inches his way through anyhow, keeping an eye on his every side. His thumb runs along the stitches of the cod on his satchel as he steps sideways around a glowing red rock on a pedestal, each movement careful until he reaches Lizzie.

She's holding back the net on this part of the wall to reveal behind it a little alcove, which begs the question of other alcoves all through this room, hiding who knows what. Scott steps forward, peers within.

Inside this little stone alcove is a pair of soft, blue leather boots, tall and folded over on themselves, the laces a faded white. A script that he instantly recognizes as Old Elvish (a bit of a shock to find here, surrounded by so many unfamiliarities) is pressed into the leather, trailing around the foot and up the back of the boots.

They almost seem to glow.

Scott feels something heavy in his chest, as if his breath has weighed all the way down to his stomach.

They feel . . . powerful. Magical.

Gingerly, Scott picks them up (something ancient pulses out through his fingers as they wrap around the soft leather), turns them over to look at the soles. He's not sure what he expects to find—a label? A size?—but the sole is blank, just barely scuffed from wear.

They haven't been used much, then. Barely-worn.

These boots are the other artifact. Scott's sure of it.

He doesn't know how, or why, but he knows.

He's holding boots that Alinar himself wore. Alinar wore these to face off Exor's Champion.

Was Alinar afraid? Did he stand there, palms sweating, feet flexing in these very boots, just gathering the courage to attack?

Did he think he would survive? Did he doubt himself?

Thoughts that Scott's never had before just push into his mind. In the stories, Alinar is always calm in battle, assured in his power, wise in his rulings.

But now that Scott is almost literally in his shoes, he can't help but wonder if Alinar ever felt the doubts he's feeling. If Alinar felt the pain of his losses so profoundly that he wasn't sure he could go on. If Alinar was scared his plans wouldn't work and he would lose the war, lose everything. If Alinar ever was tired of the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

"They felt powerful," Lizzie says. Scott starts—he had forgotten she was there.

She's right. They are powerful, even if he doesn't understand how yet.

"I think," he says, putting his thoughts behind him, "that these are very important."

He doesn't say anything else about them. He doesn't say that he thinks they might end the war. He doesn't say that he thinks this is it, he thinks he has both the artifacts now and that means it's time to take down Xornoth.

Instead, he asks, still somewhat in awe, "Where did you find them?"

Lizzie shrugs. "Well, you know the Mezelean mourning period?" she says. "Three days of total isolation. We thought it was best, since I am the queen consort of Mezelea, that I participate in it as well. So those three days I spent down here, cataloguing the treasures. I don't know what many of them are, after all. I found those right there in the wall. When I tried to touch them, they . . . they burned me."

Scott looks at the boots in his hands, then back at Lizzie. "And you didn't warn me?" he says incredulously.

Lizzie seems unrepentant. "I figured you knew what you were doing."

"What I'm hearing is that you were going to let me get burned."

"That doesn't matter. So—what do they mean?"

They could mean everything.

Scott just shrugs, though, and shifts them to one arm so he can reach into his satchel with the other.

From his satchel, he pulls the ancient book he'd found, with the unfamiliar writings and the little bag hanging from the spine.

(Unnoticed, the smaller book that was tucked inside slips from between the pages of the book, falling deeper into Scott's shoulder bag.)

"Gem found a secret library," he explains, handing Lizzie the book. "We thought this looked kind of Oceanic. Can you read it?"

Lizzie takes it from his hands carefully, studies the cover.

She goes entirely still.

"What is it?" Scott prods.

She doesn't respond. She doesn't even seem to hear him, eyes scanning the cover of the book. Trance-like, she reaches for the little drawstring bag, squeezes it gently in her palm.

Before Scott can repeat his question, Lizzie turns to the stool beside her, sweeps off the glowing wooden staff resting there without a second thought. Scott hops back as the staff clatters against the stone ground, shooting sparks from both ends.

She lays the book on the stool, but doesn't flip it open. Instead, she picks up the pouch, hanging by the cord, and pulls it open. She peers inside, then tips the pouch over onto the stool.

"What is that?"

"I . . . have no idea," Lizzie says.

The 'that' in question is some kind of ball, a little wobbly like jelly, blue and flecked with gold and green. It's not quite round, parts of it sprouting with something like seaweed, little leaves poking out in a couple of different places.

It looks gross, if Scott's being honest with himself. He can just imagine the way it feels, squishy and weirdly sticky but not and—urgh, he never wants to touch it ever. It definitely is the kind of thing that would make all of his hairs stand on end and shivers run up his spine. He wants to gag just thinking about it.

"I wonder how long that's been in there," Lizzie whispers, sounding almost awestruck.

"Well, Gem's library hasn't been touched in hundreds of years, probably," Scott says. "So a while."

"Do you think it's crunchy?"

"Why would it be crunchy?"

"Parts of it look like seaglass." Lizzie, daringly, pokes the ball. It jiggles.

"Why would you touch it?" hisses Scott, just barely suppressing his gag reflex. "Great, now you probably have diseases."

"Say I were to take a bite out of it."

"Do not take a bite out of it."

"I'm not going to! But say I were. Would it be slimy, or chewy? Or crunchy."

"It doesn't matter, because you aren't going to eat it."

"Don't tell me what to do, Smajor."

"Oh, for Aeor's—" Scott cuts off the curse with a little sound—not a scream, or a screech, nothing undignified like that would ever leave his mouth—of fright as the staff on the floor shoots out sparks again, almost seeming to aim for him.

"Your god is mad at you for invoking his name to stop me from eating the thing," Lizzie says somberly. "He wants me to eat the thing."

Scott puts his hands in the air, still holding the boots. He shouldn't try to argue, it'll only make her more set in her ways. "Look, when you die after eating it—because that thing absolutely will kill you, look at it—tell Jimmy that I tried to stop you, and you made the choice yourself."

Lizzie lets out a snort of laughter, something that both relieves Scott (it was an okay joke to make, they're both starting to heal) and scares him (he just mentioned Jimmy and he isn't crying, he made a joke about his dead fiance, it should hurt more than it does).

"Of course. Any other messages to pass along before I experience this delightful new fruit?"

So, so many things. He oughtn't take this seriously, really—they're just kidding around, Lizzie isn't actually going to eat that thing.

"Just tell him I love him," he says, going for a light tone. It falls flat, sad, and Lizzie just looks awkwardly at her feet.

"If I could've changed anything, I would have," she says after a moment. "That warning message you sent? Hours after I got it, we received word from the Cod Empire that the attack had begun. I can't help but feel . . . maybe I should've gone to check on him. Called him to the Ocean for some reason. But . . . . maybe that wouldn't have really made anything better, would it?"

Scott opens his mouth to protest—Jimmy being alive would make things quite a bit better, in his opinion—but Lizzie continues.

"You haven't been there, Scott," she says mournfully. "The Codlands. It's . . . it's bad. And whether Jimmy was there or not, they would've been conquered. At least, with Jimmy's death, they feel like they have a purpose to keep fighting. Keep going. They think if they annoy Sausage badly enough, he'll just give up on them. If Jimmy was here right now, I don't think they'd have the motivation. So if anything good comes of Jimmy's death . . . I hope it's that."

Possibly the most bleak and depressing thing Scott's ever heard Lizzie say, and it absolutely makes him want to cry.

He's not going to cry, though. Despite the fact that Lizzie said the words Jimmy's death twice just then, and said that maybe good would come of it, Scott isn't going to cry.

Instead, he hefts the boots in his arms, and Lizzie, still looking away, picks up the book again and loops the cord hanging from the spine around her fingers.

"You have the boots," she says, voice a bit thick. "I have the book. Sounds like a deal. Want to shake on it?"

Scott does his best to smile. "Of course," he says, shifting the boots more to his left arm and extending his right.

Lizzie's hand meets his, cool and soft, his thumb brushing against a scale on her knuckle.

Maybe it's his imagination, but as his hand grips hers, something sparks up his arm.

Something electric courses up through his veins, up his arm and through his shoulder into his throat and down to his toes, and Scott doesn't move, frozen by the feeling, but Lizzie's hand jerks a little and he looks up to see her wide-eyed, a frown creasing her brow.

They stand there, hand in hand, unmoving.

All is silent.

"That felt important," Lizzie says in a hushed tone.

"That was some sort of deal with destiny," Scott agrees, looking down at the boots in his grasp, the book in Lizzie's.

These are both something very, very crucial.

And now to get to work.

-

He isn't able to get straight to work, though, only managing to find two books on artifacts and their qualities before he receives a summons to Jimmy's memorial service.

It's held at the Overgrown, and Scott arrives in his best mourning vestments, the Cod-made bag on his shoulder. Ilphas accompanies him, along with three guards.

Lizzie is seated beside him, at the front, hair braided behind her and dress long and layered, gently melding from light grey at the top to black at the hem. Joel sits behind the pulpit, anxiously shuffling papers for the eulogy, dressed normally but for the black sash across his purple coat. Katherine is across the aisle, her normal lavender dress replaced by a blue floral-patterned one, flowers weaved into her hair.

Shelby takes her seat behind Scott, a handkerchief clutched in her hand, dressed in a brown three-piece suit. Gem sits beside her, squeezing Scott's shoulder briefly, wearing her normal but in black.

Pearl finds a place behind Katherine, wearing a sunny yellow shirt under a grey dress, her sunflower crown sparkling on her head. The place beside her, reserved for Pix, remains empty.

The next three rows seat their various guards and advisors, one row left open for the three leaders that had to be invited, but know better than to show up. Scott won't hesitate to kill a man at his fiance's funeral, and he imagines that there would be a bit of a line behind him to pummel the dead bodies.

And behind them, the chapel is full of various minor royals that had been able to make the trip. Scott recognizes several elves, a Mezelean duke, and a representative from the Grimlands who seems very uncomfortable beside the fae that he's seated between.

There are also, to his surprise, near the back of the seats, a handful of Cod people, their finest clothes shabby and their heads bowed.

Scott turns back around in his seat when he catches Ilphas glaring at him. It isn't proper to be peering over his shoulder at all those who file in. He's a king, his job is to look kingly.

So he stares, blankly (hoping he looks at least somewhat enigmatic), at the pulpit.

And the service . . . the service is nice. Joel gives a nice eulogy, and Katherine says a couple of words, and about halfway through the service, the group of Cod refugees perform a traditional Cod song of farewell, which absolutely brings tears to Scott's eyes.

But it doesn't really feel like Jimmy. Jimmy was awkward, and hotheaded, and loud, and funny, and full of so much love. And even though Joel calls him an idiot three separate times during the eulogy, Scott just feels like the whole ceremony is too stiff and polite for it to be right.

And then Lizzie stands up, and makes her way to the pulpit for her closing remarks.

She gazes out among the people, chin held high and eyes solemn. When she speaks, her voice carries all the way to the back of the airy chapel.

"I knew the Codfather better than anyone," she starts, regal and measured. "I knew his character, his dreams, all his likes and his dislikes—or, most of them. Some of them I had no interest in knowing, but I'm sure Lord Smajor can tell you all about them."

A light chuckle ripples through the crowd. Scott feels his cheeks go just a tad bit paler. Lizzie catches his eye to give him a bit of a smile before turning back out to the congregation.

"I knew Jimmy," she continues. "And I know that my brother would never run from a fight. He was brave, and stubborn, and maybe a little stupid—which I can say, because he was my little brother. It was that bravery, that stubbornness—that loyalty that he had, that kept him from backing down. Even at his last moment."

She pauses, eyes on the back of the crowd. "Jimmy fought until the very end," she says, the words strong. "Even as the sword of a Mythland soldier drove past his armor, he fought. Even as his lifeblood spilled from him, he fought. Even as he fell to his knees, he fought."

Her voice is shaking suddenly, not with grief, not with anxiety, but with anger—hot, radiating anger. And Scott's face is wet, the veil sticking to his cheeks, a lump in his throat that he keeps trying to swallow away; he'd made it this far without crying but he hadn't heard those details and he can't control the tears.

Where did Lizzie get details about Jimmy's death?

"My brother fought for your freedom, and died for your freedom," declares Lizzie fiercely, tears sparkling in her eyes. "I would therefore urge you to defend your people, your country, and fight back against the evil of this demon! Don't let Jimmy's death be in vain. His people are currently in the captivity of Mythland, subjected to poverty and brutality, and if there is anything that we can do to keep the memory of the Codfather alive it is fight. Fight for their freedom, for your freedom, and for the eternal freedom of all who have already lost their lives in this war. Fight for Jimmy."

And on that dramatic note, she steps away and sits down. Scott can feel (not quite hear, more the sight of her shoulders shaking in his peripheral) her breathing heavily beside him, somehow managing to sound angry without even making a noise.

Silence.

Not a member of the crowd so much as coughs.

After a long moment, Joel stands again, steps up to the podium.

Scott expects him to be anxious, awkward. He can't well look around behind him, but he can imagine that quite a few of both Katherine's and Pearl's people would be unhappy with that speech, as both empires have currently declared neutrality in the conflict. He expects Joel to make some sort of vague statement about how everyone is doing their part, and maybe remark on how bold Lizzie's words had been with a nervous little laugh.

Joel doesn't do that, though. Joel levels his steely gaze at the crowd and says, words precise and cut-off, "Thank you for your words, your majesty. I'm sure that we will all find them enlightening and instructive."

Joel's mad, then. Scott's seen Joel's performance anger, his blustering and shouting and shaking of his head. He's never seen this frigidity, so perfectly the opposite of Lizzie just moments ago.

He's a little bit glad he turned down Joel's invitation to speak. He doesn't know how he would have competed with the two of them.

"Thank you to all who attended, especially those refugees from the Codlands. Our hearts and swords are with you in this time of loss."

Joel takes another moment just to look out over everyone, face stony, eyes cold. He nods sharply.

"Have a good evening."

Nobody moves. Scott resists the very strong urge to glance around.

Then Joel steps away, and Katherine stands up, and there's the great bustle of everyone else standing and whispering and gathering their things.

Scott doesn't get up. Instead, knowing that he's being watched, he turns toward Lizzie and shakes her hand with a small nod.

"How do you know what you said?" he mutters to her.

Lizzie smiles in return, brushing a pink strand of hair that's pulled loose from her braid behind her ear. "Everarda, a Cod refugee in the Ocean Kingdom," she says in a similar tone. "She witnessed it. She only managed to escape last week."

Of course people witnessed Jimmy's death. He doesn't know why he subconsciously assumed that no one had.

Scott can't even imagine watching his fiance die like that. He can't even imagine Jimmy on his knees, pain in every line of his face, soaked in blood, yet still swinging his sword at anyone who comes near, desperate to defend his people even until he eventually collapses.

He can't imagine the hoarse cries tearing from his throat as he's stabbed, the shuddering of his shoulders as he strains to lift his sword, the clanking of his armor as he falls to his knees, the tears in his eyes as he watches his people fall around him.

And Scott definitely can't imagine that maybe, in those last moments, he'd turned his eyes upward and begged for Scott, searching the skies for his first and final hope.

"Scott," Lizzie murmurs, a note of warning in her voice.

Scott blinks, and a tear falls from his lashes. Not good. He's meant to be stoic and unfeeling and respectable, and this is the second time he's cried in public in the past hour. In the past ten minutes, even.

People are watching. Ilphas is probably going to kill him. Kings aren't supposed to cry, they aren't supposed to actually have feelings.

Hopefully it isn't too noticeable. He has his veil, after all, but his eyes do get uncommonly red when he cries. Anyone could easily see the way his eyes scrunch as he wills himself not to cry, the tears, the splotchy redness, the way his shoulders tremble just the slightest bit.

"Have you heard from Pix lately?" Lizzie says suddenly, staring past Scott to Pix's empty seat. "He was one of Jimmy's closest friends. He should have been here."

Scott doesn't know. He hasn't seen Pix since the End.

He doesn't think about it for long.

He sits there, and thinks about nothing, particularly not Jimmy, until it's time for him to leave.

And when he gets home, he dives right back into his books.

Two days later finds him alone, in his study, head achy from crying, angry at the fruitless searches and his own inaction.

And Scott's done waiting. He's done researching, done preparing. Lizzie's speech hit a chord near his heart.

If the fight won't come to him, he'll bring the fight to Xornoth.

Scott reaches into his satchel, hanging from his chair, and grabs the boots.

[wisteriaiswriting]

Hi! If you can, can I have a romantic match-up with a character? (TF2)

Name: Xyn

Pronouns: Anything but she/her tbh

Sexuality: Omniromatic Aceflux (look it up if you need lol)

Gender: AFAB agender

MBTI: I/ENFP (I'm an omnivert)

Interests: I enjoy drawing and getting hyperfixated on random stuff, I also enjoy being the therapist friend (helps me remember people value and trust me), I also (concerningly probably) enjoy cannibal facts and everything to do with the such, I also have a facination with the human mind and how it works, I enjoy rambling and being rambled to as well :D

Personality: I'd say my morals can fluctuate between not caring who dies or gets hurt unless I'm close to them or to care about anybody but my thoughts of who I hold close never change, I'm loyal af, like so much so it's probably not healthy, I keep promises to my grave unless I forget I made said promise, but those ones aren't usually the ones that are life altering, I'm horrible at finding "healthy" friends, often clicking with people doing worse than me (IE: a sociopath, not kidding), I try to be patient when it comes to my anger, very few things can set me off and the main thing is hurting/making people I care about upset, I've injured 2 people for that reason unfortunately, I'm pretty forgetful, mainly because of my ADHD and the fact that I ration the medication for it as the Pharmacy rarely ever has it, inky taking it days I have school or have to focus for the day

(Omg I rambled O_o srry)

Xtra facts: I have ADHD, Anxiety (General+Social), Sensory Sensitivity Disorder, and Depression, My handwriting is like Russian cursive (it's a bunch of neat scribbles), in a fight, I'd prefer up close since my aim is worse than my writing, Axes mainly but if it's a bigger weapon, I'll probably bonk somebody with it, I often use simple typing and emoticons (as you saw earlier) along with shortened text, but I am an honors student (dunno if that makes people think I'm stupid) just a very burnt out one :P

Don't feel forced to answer lol, I just saw smth like this and thought I'd be cool :] Have a good day/night!

I match you with...

Engineer!

He will hang up your drawings around his workshop, doesn’t matter what they are. (They even get a spot on the fridge!!)

He gets being the therapist friend, but he also remembers to get you to talk about your own issues. Wanting you to have that trust as well.

While he doesn’t mind you rambling about your many hyperfixations and interests, he does become a little squeamish at the mention of cannibal facts. (Not that he hates them, just give him some warning.)

More than willing to talk about the human mind, often bringing Medic to talk to you.

He doesn’t mind reminding you about many things, including your ADHD medication. (Which is much more often due to Medic having a bunch, just don’t question why…)

He does his best to keep you calm, but it can be a bit of trouble. As his workshop is pretty loud, alongside the whole base.

When you’re up in the enemy’s face he’s sitting behind you, watching your back the whole time.

No matter what typing style you use he will understand it, your handwriting on the other hand? Nope. He’ll bring Heavy over if you don’t tell him what you wrote.

Real proud of you being an honors student, even if you’re burnt out, he does his best to try stop you from getting worse.

While I really wanted to give you Heavy, I felt like Engineer was a bit closer.

Heavy - 6

Engi - 6

Scout - 5

Pyro - 5

Medic - 4

Sniper - 4

Spy - 4

Miss Pauling - 2

Saxton - 2

Soldier - 1

Demo - 1

Administrator - 1

[disarminglybright]

Sure @ae-nar ! I'll talk about myself a bit! Fun little tag game below the cut <3

1) are you named after someone?

I named myself after Arin Hanson from Game Grumps. I was between a few different names when another trans friend of mine changed her name to Danny and I was immediately like.... you know what would be funny? And it was.

Gay Grumps Arin and Danny, addicted to the bit <3

2) when is the last time you cried?

Not sure. I think I was at a drunk at a concert a while back?

3) do you like your handwriting?

Eh. I mean it works. Fun fact: I self taught myself cursive for a letter writing RP campaign so I could make my letters look and feel more in character for the character I was playing.

4) what is your favourite lunch meat?

I'm vegetarian so pass!

5) do you have kids?

Nope! And I'm very happy about that.

6) if you were another person, would you be friends with you?

What does another person mean? If you're asking me if I would fuck my clone the answer is yes.

7) do you use sarcasm?

Yes but I also mean every word I say. These things are both true.

8) do you still have your tonsils?

Mine and several other peoples ehehe

9) would you bungee jump?

I have! But it wasn't a very high bungee. I think it was less than 50 meters. I'd love to do a higher bungee!

10) what is your favourite kind of cereal?

Any granola ones like honey bunches of oats

11) do you untie your shoes when you take them off?

I mostly wear boots so yeah lol

12) do you think you're a strong person?

No. I'm like tired all the time for no reason orz

13) what is your favourite ice cream flavour?

strawberry! or any berry flavor!

14) what is the first thing you notice about people?

How much they talk. Not because I'm judgmental but because I try to match that speed.

15) red or pink?

Red!!

16) what do you least like about yourself physically?

Gender. Also my teeth are atrocious. Sucks.

17) what colour pants and shoes are you wearing now?

Black sweatpants and slippers. I just got home (^_^;)

18) what was the last thing you ate?

Potato and egg taco! from a taqueria nearby

19) what are you listening to right now?

Oh Sun in an Empty Room by the Weakerthans just came up!

20) if you were a crayon, what colour would you be?

Like a brick red or a maroon

21) favourite smell?

Coffee. Or fresh laundry.

22) who was the last person you spoke to on the phone?

It was for work so a guest. I don't personally get phone calls anymore so if someone calls my phone I assume it's work or a somebody is dying.

23) favourite sport to watch?

Not a sporty person but I guess I like baseball bc it's a very nerdy sport with loads of stats. Appeals ttcg playing spirit.

24) hair colour?

I've been dying it red for years ❤️ but naturally I think its a dark brown?

25) eye colour?

Blue!

26) do you wear contacts?

Nope! I don't think I've ever worn them?

27) favourite food to eat?

I love to snack so I eat a lot of chips. But I also love mac and cheese, such a comfort food <3

28) scary movies or comedy?

hmmm I don't really watch a ton of movie but some of my favorite ones are spooky so I guess scary! (,,・д・)

29) last movie you watched?

I don't really watch movies! Uhh... I think it was my roommate showing me the Great Gatsby which I had somehow never seen. It was good!

30) what colour shirt are you wearing?

Army green.

31) summer or winter?

Winter. I hate the heat and I hate summer. Everything rots in the heat blech.

32) hugs or kisses?

at the moment.... probably a hug. but we can also make out a little <3

33) what book are you currently reading?

OOH I just started The Age of Deer by Erika Howsare! I love a nature book and this book is a cultural study of how humans understand the natural world told through our relationship to deer.

34) who do you miss right now?

Loads of people! My friends, my mom, myself! It's the cut that always bleeds!!

35) what is on your mouse pad?

Don't have one!

36) what is the last tv program you watched?

I like to play sitcoms in the background while I do stuff so It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

37) what is the best sound?

The Mountain Goats No Children being sung entirely by the crowd

38) rolling stones or the beatles?

Rolling Stones for nostalgia purposes (my mom liked them)

39) what is the farthest you have ever travelled?

I'm from the very bottom of Texas and the farthest I've gotten is Michigan which is the opposite side of the country so I guess that counts! Have never been overseas sadly :(

40) do you have a special talent?

Nah. I'm a hack!

41) where were you born?

In Texas, right on the border with Mexico.

And I don't really know who to tag bc I think most of my mutuals have done this? If you haven't tho I tag u!

[grr-bark-bark]

Archangel is one corny mf. There's a lot to unpack there and of course he's the first bitch that uses cursive and smudgy paper to write a note. What I'm getting is

It probably is our whole family involved (lists our parents, our grandparents, and our sister[s] as people to be obeyed, cites the bible [note: discovered the one drilled into me about our sister is not a real verse])

Us having to stay in our room is probably a programmed thing, it references that as the only thing stopping it from telling our family. We can use this to our advantage ig

It at the very least is threatening to go back already. We will need a front lock on the way there, we will need to block and delete everyone's numbers

Do not let it front around (friend) especially unless we can work with it like we did me. If you feel it coming into front, give somebody our phone to keep until someone else is back. It at least didn't seem to want to use it to talk to our family/etc right now, but I don't want to risk it

I probably am programmed, or they at least know me well. Put my name in quotations, which tbf I did only pick when we stopped masking. Called me "holder of all evil things" lmao. Also threatened me specifically to try to get me to comply. I might have to be locked out of front too, I'd say just make it Mono and Shorter

It has threatened Mono specifically too. I don't know how serious it is, it was part of the several threats against me, but I'm not risking that either. Look after him as much as possible, especially the next two weeks or so. We need him to be able to work, and I'd rather him be safe anyways, obviously

The cursive is pointing to religious programming (duh). We always had to write in cursive when we had to do our verses and shit, I'm assuming that's why its writing is like that

Seems like it is an IP. It refered to itself as god's right hand/messenger, and claimed to be omnipotent. It probably is a high level gatekeeper like we expected, so best we can do is just try to keep track of it if we can. Idk how much you guys can see in that area, but I think we need to work with at least one of the higher ups if we want a chance to keep it under control

Less sure, but it also left a few potential organization programming hints that occured to me. The verse about our sister (the not real one) refers to a gemstone. We were heavily tied to garnets as a child (usually programming code for sexual and dirty), I'm not sure what rubies are but we should look into it jic. It also left a bible verse at the end of the note. It reads "As obedient children, do not be conformed to the passions of your former ignorance, but as he who called you is holy, you also be holy in all your conduct, since it is written, “You shall be holy, for I am holy"", so it could just be yk a bible verse, but the numbers might be something too. 1 Peter 1:14-16. Idk

[citynewsglobe]

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[scoops-ahoy-fics]

miss priss || eddie munson x reader oneshot

good people need breaks sometimes too, and you know you're at your limit. maybe eddie can help? might as well give it a try, what could go wrong?

reader: female

characters: eddie munson

genre: angst to fluff <3

spoiler warning?: none

notes: hiya!! first eddie post of probably many, i know how much y'all love him. i hope i wrote him well! please enjoy! @musicalgamerotaku

Eddie thought it was a prank when a note was slipped into his locker. Ripped from a notepad, words were scribbled into it in cursive. “Woods by the school after class. Please meet me there!” He didn't think it was real and was honestly suspicious. But ... he could be in for a surprise. No signature, no name, nothing that could possibly identify them. Hmm ... quite interesting indeed.

The boy walked into the woods alone, looking around before he saw somebody sitting alone at a picnic table. The person at the top of his class, the person that would definitely not be buying drugs from THE Eddie Munson, you. He tilted his head and walked closer, humming softly.

“Well, the handwriting matches up, but the motive? Kinda missing. Are you the person who wrote this note?” he said, walking towards the picnic table and sitting across from you.

“U-Uh- yeah, I'm sorry. I didn't want to write my name, I didn't want to give myself away- or anything like that-” you said, looking around cautiously. “No one's gonna come find us here, right? I heard this is where you do drug deals and stuff, I didn't know for sure ...” you whispered, fiddling with your thumbs. This was the farthest out of your comfort zone you've ever been.

Eddie's eyes widened, a bit confused. “You wanna do a drug deal? With me? You want to actually BUY drugs? The top of our class, the girl that's gonna go on to work in politics or law, the one who was voted most likely to succeed, is buying drugs from Eddie Munson? What a day!” he laughed, throwing his head back dramatically.

“Please keep your voice down, I want this stuff to stay between us ... if it got out, I would be ruined. I have to keep my reputation up, I would actually fucking die if it were tarnished,” you said, not looking into his eyes.

The male raised a brow. “Goodie-two shoes has quite the unexpected vocabulary. Never heard you curse. Barely here you speak aside from giving answers in class or speeches. You don't have many actually conversations, do you?”

You looked up at him, your eyes showing a confused expression. “Is it that obvious? Am I that- I'm not talking about this right now. I'm just trying to buy something,” you said, your breathing starting to pick up the pace as you tried to figure out what exactly you were doing.

“I get it, I get it. I won't talk about that shit anymore. Got any idea of what you want? I got weed on me, anything else we'll have to go back to my place. Twenty dollars for an ounce,” he said, propping his chin up on his hand.

You gulped slightly, nodding and pulling out your purse. He noticed your hands shaking, and how entirely stressed out you seemed to be. You were normally calm and collected, but you were a total mess. And he knew people who were near a breakdown probably didn't need this right now.

“... somethin' tell me you don't really wanna do this, do you? What's on your mind right now?”

And that's the question that broke you.

You didn't look him in the eyes, you just stared down at your purse, but all of your movements halted. You took a deep breath, attempting to compose yourself. “A lot,” you croaked out.

Eddie thought for a moment before resting his hands on yours and taking them out of your purse. He zipped it up and slid it to the side. “Let me tell you what you need. You don't need weed. You don't need drugs. You need a friend. Wow, I should win an award for that, I'm willingly turning away a customer,” he laughed, before resting his hands on yours.

“Close your eyes and clear you head. You probably have a lot swirling around that big brain of yours, so I'm gonna let you enjoy the silence for just a minute. And then you're gonna realize that you don't wanna do drugs, you still are a little bit of goodie good at heart. You're only doing this to attempt to rebel even though you don't want to. You obviously don't wanna be a druggie but you don't wanna deal with the stress at the top. You wanna walk the middle. So do it ... I'm gonna shut up now and let you think on that,” he rambled on, not really knowing where he was going with this. This wasn't his thing, he was definitely not used to this.

You didn't close your eyes. You just stared at him for a minute. Every single word he said was true. He was probably pretty good at analyzing everyone by now, that's why he was so good at pinpointing you. And it made your soul feel a little less lonely.

The dam holding your tears back broke, letting out a sob as you held your face with your hands. “F-Fuck- you're right! Th-This isn't me, I don't know who I am! I've been so caught up being p-perfect that I'm wasting the best years of my l-life!”

Eddie stared at you for a moment, not knowing what to do. He wasn't really used to people showing emotions, he was used to giving people a good show. So he might as well put on that good show, right?

He walked around to your side of the table and took your hands. “You've still got a life left to love, huh? Enjoy it. Let me help, how about we go around and do the shit you've never gotten to do. Maybe we'll find the stuff you like and dislike, find that personality that's hiding deep down in there. I get it if you don't wanna hang out with The Freak or whatever, but it might be worthwhile.”

You thought for a moment before slowly nodding. “Y-Yeah, that sounds okay ... do you have any ideas?”

Eddie thought for a moment. “Hear me out- now this might sound crazy- BUUUUUUUT. But but but. We go run around every stupid store in the newly built mall, and we find shit you like, and we buy it. I've got a lot of money saved up and I'm sure you've got some too if you were gonna go buy drugs. We can try to find the new you, or whatever.”

You smiled softly. “That sounds kinda cool, actually ... yeah, that could be great!”

The other stood up, offering you his hand. “Shall we, miss priss? Or maybe ex-miss priss. Who knows what's going on in that smart head of yours?”

You rolled your eyes and took it, interlocking your fingers. “Whatever you say,” you laughed, walking with the other happily.

[whaleofatjme1920]

🌹Well, uh, here goes nothing, I guess?

Kitty, creepypasta/mh, she/her, 19, romantic

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several letters end up scattered in a fireplace, written with red ink before the text is scribbled out. Some phrases stand out from the discarded letters, "Too many bones", "is a soulmate possible", "getting old", "I've gotten weak" and so on.

A single letter sits pristinely by the window, sealed with red wax and perfumed with the scent of roses and dragons blood. A small jar of hard candies, two bottles of black ink, a rusty nail, and a silver bell sit next to the letter as well, presumably offerings to the deity.

The letter, much like its discarded predecessors, is also written in red ink, elegant cursive spelling out Yue Lao across the front, little curlicues decorating the corners.

"Yuo Lao,

I have heard that you will grant to blessing of a soulmate upon those who write to you, and I was curious to try. I left a few offerings, of you don't mind. The butterscotch and strawberry candies are my favorite, so I made sure to fill the jar full, as well as the other granny candies. Granny candies is a silly way to call hard candies, but I guess these things won't be around much longer, how shameful. I left ink as well, you might have a use for it. I like it to write with. I've found writing with a quill is easier on my hands than a regular pen. And a bell. Bells are always wonderful. I have an anklet made of bells and they laugh with the light and movement. And the nail I thought was cool, the way the rust climbs across its surface. Don't you think so too?

I don't know if this is allowed, but I would like my soulmate to be tall, if that's alright. Maybe one or two feet taller. I'm rather short, only 5'2", and no matter how feisty I try to be, I don't always get taken seriously. I've taken to biting people, it's that bad. Of course, if you have someone else in mind, that's fine to. Beggars can't be choosers and the whole saying about being selfish and the like.

I have a fondness for being out in the woods. All the things you can find! And it's peaceful, and safe. It feels like home. And it smells good! Fresh pine, sharp cedars, sweet maples. The woods just feel like home.

I've found I enjoy the macabre. It worries some people, but I don't mind. Plushies that look ghouls, horror stories as bedtime tales, bones of willing creatures displayed upon my alter. I have seen scarier things and experienced such.

My body has grown weak. I take such terrible care of it. Perhaps you can send somebody to lovingly scold me, maybe tell me what's wrong so I can take better care of it. Sorry. I'm already asking a lot.

I guess one, final request. Can you make it possible to find my soulmate, whoever they are, across lifetimes as well? I'm scared of leaving those I care about alone after I'm gone. I don't want that to happen. After all, a soulmate is going to be somebody I care about.

Anyway, you probably have other people you've got to get through. Must be very busy, right?

Take care and enjoy the candies!

~Kitty"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you so much, Elsie! And as a challenge, indulge yourself! Eat your favorite food. Watch your favorite things. Finals are rough, but you got this!!

Take care and unclench your jaw!

[Disclaimer: The Red String of Fate event is a special event I'm running from August 12th, to whenever I feel it necessary to end - right now, I'm giving it to the first week of September! Check out rules HERE]

An old God sits on the steps of his palace under the light of the moon. The air is sweet, peach trees are in full bloom and bear their fruit to him as he waits for his trusty companion to return. He hears her soft paw falls, the way she chitters as she approaches him with a letter in her mouth. She purrs as she rubs against his shins before he gently takes the letter from her mouth alongside the offerings that rest on her back in a basket. She curls on his lap as he begins to read.

Yue Lao smiles, his eyes crinkling slightly as he gazes over the words. He takes a candy and tries it, humming at the taste and noting that it wasn't "too sweet" before pressing on further. A laugh escapes his lips as he reads over what you want in your soulmate, someone tall, someone who can appreciate the macabre, someone who can appreciate you for who you are and respect you as an equal. His cat chirps a few times, drifting names through his head.

He ponders the thought some more, spinning the rusted nail in his finger tips before finally coming to his conclusion. Yes, he thinks, you are exactly what he needs. The God clicks his tongue a few times and asks his trusty companion for her to retrieve a spool of thread that looks red in some lights, and purple if you squint. He almost finds it funny - this is the thread destined for those who will continuously meet, and the fact it beckons him allows him to know this is no ordinary match.

He ties the string to your pinky, and your match's left and watches as his cat bites the thread, severing it from the spool. He watches with a sleepy smile as a demon known as "Eyeless Jack" finds himself bewildered at the thread that materializes on his hand, wondering if he'd need to push the being to pursue it.

Jack's asked about this kind of stuff before. His curiosity is endless, and the sudden thread on his finger has brought him more mystery than ever. He's almost tempted to drop all plans to pursue it, but he's read up on legends and mythology of other cultures throughout all his years of life. This is a red string of fate, and whoever is on the other end is his soul mate. Other independents can see it, and they lovingly tease him for it.

"Jackie's finally got a soulmate", they tease as he absentmindedly takes up jobs leading him closer and closer to the thread. He doesn't rush, but he can feel the tug from you. You're eager to meet him, aren't you? The demon takes his time, but can hardly stop the anticipation from swelling deep inside of him. Every job that he takes that's closer and closer to you, he feels his nerves grow. It's not that he's anxious, but what on earth will you think of him?

One evening after the trees and their leaves metamorphose from emeralds to rubies and citrines, he chances upon the house his string leads to. He watches as the light shifts from red to a near purple, fluttering like the butterflies in your stomach, and his heartbeat combined. He takes in a soft breath, wondering if he should greet you like a "normal person" if he even knew what that was to begin with. He steps quietly and takes in the smell of autumn before you swing the door open.

Speechless, the two of you just stare at each other. He's a deeply royal blue in the blazing fires of autumn. He waves almost awkwardly, and you find yourself mirroring it. You step forward, just an inch closer, before looking up at him with a small smile on your lips. Jack watches you, his eyeless sockets wide as he studies every micro movement from behind his mask. He's just a bit tense, unsure of how to feel. Will you hate him? He's never been more nervous in his natural life, certainly not around people he'd normally consider food.

"You're tall."

"I get that a lot."

[omegawolverine]

puts my chin in my hands n kicks my feet behind me. bff do u have any headcanons for craig and those guys, i love the way ur brain interprets these silly paper cutout guys ^_^

yaaaa ofc bestie <3

craig:

-is a movie snob but not in a "this movie needs to be the most well written film Ever" way, he's a snob in a "if this movie isnt so bad my sides hurt from laughing i just wont fucking watch it" way. seed of chucky is peak film to him

-has two left feet but likes to dance <3 his lanky body does not agree with the movement but that wont stop him from bussin it down celibate style or whatever they call it nowadays

-used to build wooden model airplanes and then paint them with tricia (i almost typed ruby somebody take my hands away), most of them are hung in her room but craig kept a few

-this mfer the type to go to college with literally zero plan, decide to take art after being undecided for as long as possible, hate art bc they make him do other types of art besides what he normally does, then drop out or smth along those lines

token:

-the worst excuse for a mom friend but the guys dont care. he can't cook. he will send them a text just saying "go bed" at like 10pm before immediately going to bed himself and not bothering to see if any of them actually Plan To Sleep. carries around bandaids but will not give them out unless they are deserved (you fell jumping off the swing? dont jump of the swing next time, bitch. no bandaid for u). literally only the mom friend bc nobody else could fill the role

-white chicks is unironically his favorite movie, right next to the medea halloween movie (incase yall forgot token canonically likes tyler perry movies. i cannot blame him. they suck so bad they're good)

-he dresses like a 60 year old dad going fishing or like he is going to the most important meeting of his life, no inbetween

-wants to learn an instrument really bad but has sucked at every single one he's tried so far, not to mention he cant read sheet music for shit.

-is the only one in his class who can write in cursive but he only learned bc both his parents wrote in cursive and he got tired of not being able to be nosey when he found notes around the house. turns out they were mostly grocery lists and appointment reminders.

clyde:

-he/they user

-^ goes thru a gender identify crisis in the 10th grade before goin nah. just a dude who likes they/them pronouns sometimes.

-is on the football team all throughout high school but only bc they need more players. everyone knows he sucks at the game. he does not gain any sort of popularity from being on the team, but he stays so he has an excuse to get out of the house more 🤷‍♀️

-dylexic AND dyscalcic. double whammy! with a side of adhd <3

-is craigs certified dance partner whenever the dude starts jamming. craig will just drag him out to the middle of the room and make him lead in a shitty foxtrot.

-speaking of craig, the height difference between them is crazy. craig gets tall, ofc, but clyde is just kinda. at his chest. face in boobies. it's like u got the absolutely twig of a man at 6'4" and then there's his bestie at 5'6", dragging him around by their linked arms.

tweek:

-despite the whole meth thing, regular coffee is actually apart of his enrichment. it's like the adhd meds he never got, without the extra upper of doing way too much meth on a day to day basis! is a fan of the starbucks iced carmel frappes.

-likes to cook when he is overwhelmed but cooking for him means being up and moving the entire time otherwise he will start to overthink again. he cant do none of that oven cook shit. give him a meal that requires a lot of prep work and watching the stove so he will be busy for a good hour and suddenly it's like he was never upset to begin with.

-an alt baby <3 screamo calms him

-^ wants to take the guys to a concert but clyde "has never listened to something not in the top 40s" donovan and craig "nearly died in the pit at a local punk gig that kenny dragged him to" tucker are against this idea.

jimmy:

-him 🤝 craig

shitty scifi movies

-^ anything with bad aliens in it will become his new obsession for like 4 months and everyone will have to hear about it. hyperfixation go brrr or whatever

-hates scripting sets for the life of him. like. will just write down jokes and hope he remembers bc he cannot be fucked to actually attempt to stick with his own plans

-speaking of scripts, he enjoys a bit of acting but, again, cannot be fucked with scripts. he hates memorizing and feels like it sounds more. well. scripted, when he actually memorizes lines, rather than just getting the jist of his lines and how his character acts and improving it. this technique has mixed results and, obviously, does not go over well with other people he is supposed to be acting with

-^ that being said he is a hit in improv classes ofc

-becomes a big fan of photography sometime in high school, is the resident phototaker both of the group and the grade. if people are posting a candid group photo, it's probably from him