#wispy scribbles

[wispy-scribbles]

karkats thoughts on literally everything all the time day 47

[shouyuus]

─── Ⅵ CHAPTER THREE: LOVE'S DREAM

violet; 1,823 words; fluff, drama, smau-intermission, hockey!vi, figure skater!reader, bff!mel, platonic gym soulmates!vijayce, vander doing his vander thing, fake dating, no "y/n"

summary: in which mel and jayce are trying their best to be supportive best friends.

a/n: this is a super short chapter compared to the others, i know buT ! we have some cute lil text interactions so i hope u guys enjoy those ;) FIRST DATE coming up next chapter so this is just setting up the stage for that ! <3

< table of contents

─── Ⅵ “— YOU HAVE TO GET LOWER in that sit spin — and the footwork after your Triple Sal needs work —”

You nod, frowning at the tiny little scribblings in Amara's notebook as you fidget with your gloves.

Amara sighs, reaching out to cup your cheek, “Speak to me, sweet girl. You’ve been so distracted.”

You purse your lips, blinking at her as the cold presses against your back, ever the reassuring friend.

“It’s nothing — I just… I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

Amara’s sharp eyes flicker over your face, and her lips thin into a terse line as you pull away, reaching for your water bottle.

“Hm. Well, let me know if you need anything prescribed — I know you don’t like them but sometimes, it really does help —”

“I’ll be fine, Amara. Let’s — let’s go through it again from the top.”

You push away from the barricade, your eyes catching on the hockey team as they file in from the doors, joking and jostling, huge sports bags slung across their shoulders.

The music starts, slow and sparkling, the piano notes working up in arpeggios, and through the fogged up plastic, your eyes meet Vi’s for a second before you slip into the routine.

On the other side, Vi’s breath catches as she watches you flow through the opening steps of your program. On the speakers, the piano music builds into a rising crescendo — someone behind her bumps her to get her moving again, and she stumbles forward, her eyes still caught on you as she lets the tide of her teammates carry her towards the lockers, her neck on a swivel as you fly across the ice.

“Good, isn’t she?”

Vi jumps at the sound of Vander’s voice, and he grins, watching her watch you with a knowing sort of smirk before his expression softens and he reaches out to pat her shoulder.

“So what’s this I hear about you dating Amara’s top girl?”

Vi balks, “I — uh — it’s —”

Vander lets out a booming laugh, “’S alright, you’ve always liked the pretty, talented ones, eh?” he ruffles her hair and she pushes at his large hand.

“Shut up,” Vi murmurs, rolling her shoulders as she turns back to watch you.

The music swells around you, gathering like sunlight, and you, buoyed up by the sheer magnetism of it all, spinning through the air in a flawless jump, landing with a smooth hiss of blades on ice. Your body lengthens as the music slows, and Vi finds herself once more gasping for a breath she doesn’t remember holding.

“The song’s nice,” she says, watching as you work through a complicated series of steps and spins, Amara tapping her hand against the barricade to each of your changes of edge. Vi feels her heart threading up her throat as Vander chuckles.

“It’s called Liebestraum. Know what it means?” He glances at her.

Vi shakes her head, not daring to take her eyes from you as you swirl into a spin so fast you’re nothing more than a blur of thin limbs and wispy hair. She can taste her heartbeat pulsing on her tongue as you spiral out of the spin, your cheeks red as you work through the final few steps of the routine and the music trails off into silence.

Your lashes flicker and again, your eyes find hers through the paneled plastic.

“Love’s dream,” Vander says, nudging her lightly before turning to herd the rest of the hockey team towards the lockers, leaving Vi standing there, dizzy as she stares at you and you stare right back.

On the ice, you’re chest is burning, your head spinning as you tear your eyes away from Vi and skate back towards Amara, who’s smiling just wide enough for you to know she’s pleased.

“Excellent,” she says, snapping her little notebook shut, her wine-red lips pressing in triumph, “good — whatever you were picturing then, darling, you’d best keep a hold on it. Because that’s what’ll get you to Olympics gold, my dear.”

You give her a faint nod, your heart thumping somewhere near your jugular as you chance a glance back at where Vi was standing.

But, she was already gone.

You waltz out of the rink, humming to yourself. A second later, a pair of arms loops through yours, and you’re accosted by the scent of lavender perfume.

“What’s got you in such a good mood, hm?” Mel asks as the pair of you turn into the parking lot, bracing yourselves against the mid-autumn chill.

“It was a good practice,” you say, not quite able to keep the skip out of your step as the pair of you make your way towards your car, pulling open the back door to toss your skating things inside.

“Yeah, so I saw,” Mel says, her voice low as she slips into the passenger’s seat, “Amara was nearly floating when you got off the ice.”

You smile, starting the engine, letting out a sigh of relief as warm air blasts out of the vents.

“So. Violet.”

You slam on your break halfway through pulling out of the parking space, sending the pair of you jolting in your seats, Mel yelping as her torso jerks forward.

“S-sorry —”

“What on earth was that?”

“Nothing!” you insist, easing your foot off the break and pulling out of the space to turn towards the main street. “You just… caught me off guard.”

Mel folds her arms, “Don’t waste your breath lying to me, darling.”

You sigh, pausing at stop sign before turning right onto campus.

“Fine. What about Violet?”

Mel glances at you, “Have you… spoken to her at all?”

“Yeah. A couple times.”

“And?”

“And, what?”

Mel scoffs, “Have you guys —” she motions vaguely with her fingers, “worked anything out?”

“We —” you lick your lips, “we’re going on a date this weekend.”

“A date? Are you — are you sure this is a good idea?”

You pull the car into student parking and sigh, switching off the engine.

“Mel, you were the one that set us up in the first place!”

“I — I just thought it’d be nice for you to get a little action, that’s all — I didn’t think you’d go and land yourself in a situationship with the hockey team’s most infamous bleeding heart!”

You gape at her for a solid three seconds before groaning and slumping back in your seat, tugging off your seatbelt.

“Yeah well — what’s done is done and —” you run a hand down your face, frowning at your phone screen as another text from Vi pops up on your notifications.

Mel has the base decency not to peer over your shoulder, though you don’t miss the way her eyes flash towards it.

“Fine,” Mel concedes, “where’re you going for this date, then?”

You shove your phone into your school bag and grab a scarf from the back seat.

“The boozy cupcake place.”

“Oh! That’s a good one. Me and Jayce went there a lot in the beginning —”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, grinning as the pair of you duck out of the car, the door slamming closed behind you.

The wind picks up and you both make for the main building, heads bent.

“Just —” Mel turns to you as the pair of you part ways at the foot of the stairs leading up to your separate lecture halls, her eyes flickering over your face, “be careful, alright? And…” her smile is warm as she reaches out to tap your cheek, “if she ever does anything to hurt you… you let Jayce and I know, hm?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, “Thanks, Mel.”

She pulls you in for a quick hug before you turn down the hallway towards the Stats lecture hall, a tingling warmth spreading through your chest all the way out to your fingertips.

“— ninety-seven, ninety-eight — c’mon Lanes, I know you got a few more in you — ninety-nine — one-hundo —”

Vi huffs, grunting as she readjusts her grip on the pullup bars and hoists herself up again, her arms burning as she holds it for a three count before dropping down with a loud exhale.

“I thought we were takin’ it easy today, pretty boy.”

Jayce chuckles, lying back on the bench press even as Vi hovers over the bar, staring down at him.

“No such thing as easy on a pump day,” he says, even as Vi rolls her eyes, settling in to watch him grip the bar and push it off the rack with a grunt.

“S-so —” Jayce says, his voice slightly strained as he works through his sets, “how’ve things been going with —” he cuts off as he sucks in a breath and holds it.

“With little miss Olympics?” Vi supplies.

Jayce makes a grunting noise.

“We’re going on a date this weekend.”

Jayce nearly chokes as his grip slips on the bar and Vi’s hands shoot out to catch hold of it before it can crush his trachea.

“What? Where’re you taking her? Does Mel know?”

Vi snorts, “Probably, since Mel’s like her self-assigned den mother — uh, this… boozy cupcake place?” Vi frowns as she grabs her phone to try and pull it up.

“Oh! I know that place — on Centre street — Mel and I used to go there a lot when we started dating. The cupcakes are huge though.”

Vi stares, her thumb hovering over her phone screen as she stares at Jayce. Then, she breaks into a soft, exasperated laugh.

“Yeah… she said she’d been meaning to go but… she didn’t have anyone to share the cupcakes with.”

Jayce opens his mouth, but he pauses as Vi drops her eyes back to her phone, a faint smile playing at her lips as she scrolls through something on her screen.

“Careful there, Lanes,” Jayce says, reaching out to nudge her with a leg, “you’re starting to sound a little lovesick.”

“We haven’t even gone on a real date,” Vi says, looking up sharply.

Jayce nods, putting a solemn hand on her shoulder, “Yeah, I know.”

Vi’s mouth drops open as she gapes at him for a second before slamming her mouth shut again with a groan.

Jayce grins, “Hey, look on the bright side — at least half the campus is convinced you guys’ve been official for weeks. So even if someone does see you simping, it’s not that weird, right?”

“You better watch yourself, Talis. Next time, I’ll just let that bar drop on your fuckin’ throat,” Vi says, but she’s grinning as Jayce lays back down to start a new set.

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[emmiesoverthemoon]

AISLE BE DAMNED

two: closer than my comfort allows

wc: 6.3k ss count: 8 < previous | navigation | next >

friday, 2:50pm

the florist studio is tucked into the edge of the city like it belongs somewhere else entirely— glass walls half-swallowed by ivy, a hand-painted sign that reads blush & thistle, and the thick, heady perfume of fresh blooms rolling out onto the street like it’s trying to pull you in.

you’re early for once, as opposed to being just on time.

you stand just outside the doorway, one hand shading your eyes from the afternoon sun as you scan the carefully curated front window: a spiraling bouquet of peonies the color of spilled champagne, ranunculus with edges kissed in soft coral, and something vaguely poetic and wispy in cream. the arrangement is asymmetrical in the way only the most meticulous hands can make look effortless.

it smells like the kind of life you never admit to wanting.

you close your eyes for a breath, let it catch at the back of your throat. it already smells like the wedding. like the version of it you can see in your head— soft, decadent, wild around the edges but structured just enough to hold its shape. like magic, but orderly.

a place where nothing gets dropped. where the timeline bends without breaking. where everything just works.

“i knew you being early as a concept was real,” comes a voice behind you. dry. familiar. amused. “but seeing it in person? shocking.”

you turn without even flinching.

“oh my god,” you say, deadpanning. “you’re early and funny. someone write this down. it needs an entire section in the history books that will be studied for generations to come.”

minho steps beside you without looking over. he’s dressed more casually this time— well, casual for him. a slate-grey sweater layered cleanly over a collared shirt, coat folded neatly over one arm, sleeves already pushed to the forearms like he’s bracing to fix something broken. even now, he looks like a walking google calendar. somehow both timeless and scheduled.

he doesn’t glance at the flowers, just pushes open the glass door and steps inside like he’s done it a thousand times.

you follow behind him. “you didn't tell me this place was so fancy.”

“you never asked,” he replies, voice low as his eyes sweep across the shop’s glossy floors.

inside, the florist is already setting out samples on a long oak table— velvet-lined trays of boutonnières arranged like jewelry displays, pale rose bundles rising from glass cylinders in perfectly staggered tiers, tall taper candles resting in antique brass holders that glow soft gold under the skylights. it’s as close to sacred as a planning space can feel.

you catch your breath for a second.

minho, naturally, doesn’t blink.

he slides his coat onto the back of a nearby chair with surgical precision, then rolls up his sleeves and starts flipping through the sample binder like he’s clocking in at a job he plans to outperform.

you narrow your eyes at him. “you’re awfully comfortable.”

he shrugs. “i like efficiency.”

but then he pauses. his fingers stop mid-turn over a page showcasing a trailing jasmine installation, its shape loose but elegant— intentional, but not rigid. something about the mess that makes sense.

he taps the page once.

“this one,” he asserts.

you blink. “…really?”

“your cousin will love it,” he replies simply. “you were right about the overgrown romantic thing.”

you stare at him.

not just because he said it. but because he said it like it cost nothing. like you being right was a given, not an anomaly. like you weren’t supposed to be on opposite ends of a never-ending argument.

“mark the calendar,” you mutter. “lee minho said something nice and no one has died.”

he rolls his eyes. “yet.”

the walkthrough begins in earnest. the florist leads you both through timelines, options, backup options. you follow her across the studio, scribbling in your notebook, nodding in all the right places, but your eyes keep drifting back to minho.

he’s not watching you. he’s not really watching anything.

he’s tracking.

when your pen slips from your notebook, he catches it mid-fall and sets it silently beside your hand. when the florist struggles with the ladder, he steps in without hesitation, holding it steady with one hand while helping rearrange a stubborn garland with the other. when she asks if you'd prefer the jasmine woven through the arch or draped more freely, you pause, unsure— and minho just says, quietly, “the drape. it catches the light better.”

you watch him without meaning to.

watch the way he folds his sleeves again as they start to slide. how he wipes his palms on his pants before handling delicate pieces. how he does things without being asked, does them well, and says nothing afterward.

it’s infuriating.

it’s— kind of amazing.

he’s not just good at this. he’s quietly good.

the kind of good that doesn’t need credit. that doesn’t point to his work when he’s done. that just makes sure the thing gets finished the way it’s supposed to.

you hate how the chaos seems less sharp when he’s near it.

you hate that you didn’t see it sooner.

you hate that you are seeing it now.

and you really, really hate the way your stomach flips when he steps back from the archway, nods at the florist, and says, “better. now it looks like it was meant to be here.”

what the hell is this supposed to mean?

later, as the florist talks through delivery dates, you find yourself zoning out just enough to realise how close the two of you are standing now. how his shoulder brushes yours each time he shifts weight. how he doesn’t seem to mind.

he notices everything, and yet— he doesn’t step away.

you’re not sure what that means.

you’re not sure you want to know.

you scribble a few final notes. mostly for show. your brain is a fog of jasmine, candle wax, and the smell of minho’s cologne that is unfortunately expensive and effective.

the florist asks for a final decision on what centrepieces and small motifs you’d like to order for the dining tables.

you open your mouth to speak, but before you do, minho leans forward, just slightly.

“she wants the low ones,” he affirms. “so people can see each other across the tables.”

the florist nods while ticking a section in her binder, then turns away.

you look at him.

not annoyed. not defensive.

just—

“how’d you know that?”

he shrugs. doesn’t look at you. “your eyes hovered over that section of the page for almost a full minute.”

you blink.

“…what?��� he questions, catching your stare.

“nothing.”

“you’re doing the face.”

“what face?”

“the one where you realise i’m useful.”

you scoff. “i’d rather die.”

he grins.

not smirks. grins.

full, unguarded, slightly lopsided, but bright across his whole face. not for show, not for spite.

just for a second.

just for you.

and it hits you somewhere low and warm. something small but deep and entirely unprepared for.

you look away. immediately.

the florist clears her throat gently. you say something vaguely articulate.

he doesn’t look at you again.

when the meeting wraps, he helps pack the samples with the same quiet competence. he holds the door for her, thanks her for her time, checks the time and murmurs “on schedule, good” under his breath.

you linger by the car after. watching his hands as he scrolls through his calendar. efficient. focused.

you try not to notice his sharp knuckles or the veins raised along his wrists and hands that contorted with each of his movements.

you fail.

you used to think he was cold.

now you’re starting to wonder if he’s just careful.

and if maybe—just maybe—there’s more under that surface than either of you are ready to say out loud.

friday, 8:14pm

saturday, 12:48pm

sunday, 4:23pm

he should have said no to meeting at her place.

he should have said no the second the words “you can just come over, i have snacks and post-its” appeared in his texts like that was a normal thing to offer your co-planner. like it was a completely neutral suggestion to invite someone you had spent the past week or so bickering with into your living room with snacks and oddly aggressively colour-coded planning boards.

he told himself it was fine. he would stay an hour, maybe less. they would rearrange the seating chart, double-check the RSVPs, confirm vendor follow-ups, and move on. he wasn’t there to hang out. or linger. or notice things.

but now he was standing at your door, folder under his arm, coffee in his free hand, staring at the crooked little magnet on your front door that read:

no bad vibes (and also no men with opinions)

he stared at it for five seconds.

then knocked.

the door swung open on the second knock. you were already mid-sentence, wild and animated, one sock bunched halfway down your ankle like you hadn’t stopped moving all morning.

“ignore the mess,” you spoke quickly before he could get a greeting in, backing up into the apartment. “i’ve been in wedding-brain for three hours and i’m down a glue stick and most of my dignity.”

he stepped inside.

the first thing he noticed was the smell. vanilla and paper and something faintly like clean linen or lotion. the second thing was the absolute chaos spread across your living room floor. cushions tossed around a coffee table covered in seating cards, floor plan sketches, colour swatches, and the remains of what looked like a very enthusiastic snack run.

it looked like a storm made of washi tape had landed here and been told to get married.

“you said this would be a working meeting,” he said.

“this is a working meeting,” you replied, nudging a space clear on the floor for him to sit. “it just happens to include a little pizazz. and comfortableness. essentials!”

he didn’t roll his eyes. not outwardly.

but he did hesitate before lowering himself onto the floor beside you.

close. too close, maybe. but the coffee table left no room for distance.

“we’ll be quick,” he informed, opening his folder. “just seating and caterer reconfirmation. no need to—”

“minho,” you interrupted, reaching across him for a pen. “i designed laminated name tags! see?”

he blinked.

“you… laminated them?”

you held one up like it was a trophy, waving it proudly. “mhm, we’re not animals in this household.”

he didn’t respond. but he felt the corner of his mouth twitch once. involuntarily.

they settled into the work slowly.

or rather— you settled. you were cross-legged, phone propped against a jar of markers, flipping through guest notes and muttering about which side of the family was “least likely to start a scene,” or who was most incompatible with the elders of the family. your handwriting was neat but frantic. your mind, faster than your mouth.

he sat straighter. made notes in real time. watched your process like it was a foreign language he almost understood.

and slowly—almost annoyingly—he found himself syncing to it.

you spoke in half-formed ideas. he filled in the blanks.

you reached for one name, he already had it sorted alphabetically.

you frowned at the spacing when it felt off, he adjusted the layout with three quick gestures and no fanfare.

he didn’t ask questions. he didn’t announce when you had made a mistake. he just fixed it, no questions asked.

and for once, you didn’t fight him on it.

sometime between the third snack break and the fourth round of placements, he started noticing things.

like how you always tapped the side of her pencil twice before suggesting a change.

how you rechecked the same line of the guest list even after he’d confirmed it.

how you would squint at the chart with the intensity of someone trying to win an argument without saying a word.

and also— how your knee kept brushing his.

not deliberately. not flirtatiously. just the accidental contact of two people sitting too close for too long, both pretending not to notice.

but minho did notice.

he noticed it every time.

and the longer they sat there, the more aware of you he became. not in a distracting way. not even in a romantic one.

just… aware.

your perfume. faint. sweet. nothing showy. just you.

your fingers. always moving. fidgeting. rearranging.

your voice. lower when you were focused. softer.

your laugh, when you let it slip between sentences— unconfined, quick, like it surprised even you.

he didn’t want to learn these things. he just did.

“what if we moved table six next to the head table?” you suggested suddenly, breaking his spiral. “it’s awkward now, having these people out by the fireplace. it’s too far.”

he looked down at the map. then up at her.

you were biting the corner of her lip. unsure, for once.

he took the name cards. shifted the pieces around. slid your proposed change into place.

“you’re right,” he agreed.

you blinked. “i am?”

he nodded. “it balances the room.”

you smiled then— soft and easy. the kind that didn’t feel defensive or smug or rehearsed. the kind that made something buzz low in his throat.

“you’re not bad at this,” you hummed.

“you sound surprised.”

“just impressed. you didn’t even sigh once this time.”

“yet.”

you laughed again. this time, he let himself smile too.

they sat in that hush for a long moment. paper around them like flower petals. warm yellow light spilling from the lamp above. your shoulder barely brushing his. his thumb tapping absently against the corner of a card.

he didn’t say the thing in his throat.

the one that sounded a lot like you’re easier to be around than i thought. i like this more than i’m letting myself admit.

he didn’t say anything at all.

but when he reached for the final place card and your fingers met his halfway, neither of you pulled back.

not for a second.

then—finally—you stood, and stretched your arms above your head.

the moment broke like sugar glass.

“i’ll finalise this tonight,” you spoke. “unless you want to triple-check everything in your sleep.”

he stood too. adjusted his folder. gave you a look.

“only twice.”

you rolled your eyes.

he watched you without meaning to.

in the car, on the way back to his side of the city, he stared out the window.

not thinking about anything.

but not not thinking about you.

that was new.

monday, 10:02am

wednesday, 1:27pm

friday, 5:11pm

the sky is a melted spill of lavender and peach, the last sun-glow dipping behind the treetops. the breeze is warm for winter, dusted in late golden hour, and you’re adjusting the strap of your dress with a pit in your stomach and a buzzing under your skin.

you smooth your dress again. fix the collar of your coat. stare at your reflection in the hallway mirror like it might give you instructions.

just take a deep breath.

it’s just minho.

just minho, who once called your table styling “visually exhausting.” minho, who adjusted the itinerary once because your bullet points weren’t “uniform enough.” minho, who made planning feel like a chess match played with garden shears.

except tonight, you are fairly certain he is in a suit.

you do not know that for a fact, but you’ve heard him say “semi-formal” in the exact same tone most people say “murder,” and if he took it seriously—which he would—then he is absolutely out there right now dressed like a warning label for heartbreak.

you are not nervous. you are not. you are just slightly flushed from the glass of white wine you definitely did not drink to calm yourself. and maybe your hands are a little cold, and maybe your thoughts are not particularly safe for work, but—

you peek through the front window.

he’s here.

minho. suit-clad. leaning against the side of his car like he stepped out of a magazine editorial called brooding elegance. charcoal grey jacket and black slacks, tie tied almost too perfectly around his neck. his sleeves are rolled just slightly, enough to reveal forearms and a glint of silver watch that should not make you feel the way it does. his hair is still damp from a recent shower, the ends curling just above his temples.

you grip the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping your knees upright.

and then— your phone lights up. his name. your thumb hesitates above the screen before you answer.

“i’m outside,” he informs, voice smooth, low. irritatingly calm.

you nearly drop your phone. “be down in a sec,” you reply, breathless. “hold your horses. or whatever it is you drive.”

the door opens.

he turns.

you descend the steps one by one, heels soft against the concrete, coat draped over your arms, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes catch— how they stay fixed. the way he straightens up as if jolted by electricity.

he blinks. once. twice.

and then— he swears under his breath. quietly. reverently.

he’s trying to stay neutral. to act like your presence in that dress isn’t causing minor system failure. but he is not fooling anyone. especially not himself.

he opens the passenger door for you.

“you look—” he begins, but then his voice cuts out like he changed his mind halfway through.

“you’re driving?” you deflect, half-laughing, already sliding into the seat.

“i can legally operate a vehicle,” he feigns offense, but his mouth twitches into a smile. he sits in the drivers seat. “don’t act surprised.”

“no, it’s not that. it’s just…” you exhale and give him a pointed once-over. “you. suit. behind the wheel. how dare you.”

“oh how dare i, hm?”

his hands tense around the wheel, knuckles white.

“the way you said that. oh that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you murmur to yourself, quietly enough so that he doesn’t hear.

he does hear it.

the rest of the ride is quiet. not silent, not comfortable, charged. like someone turned the volume down on the world but turned the brightness way, way up.

his cologne coils low in your throat. something clean, something subtle, like cedar, cold water, and a hint of heat beneath. you keep your eyes ahead, fingers fidgeting in your lap, trying not to notice the line of his thigh pressed close, the way his hand flexes on the gearshift. the flick of his gaze toward you at every red light.

he doesn’t speak. but he feels. like static across your skin.

friday, 5:44pm

the venue is glowing when you arrive— fairy lights strung in loose constellations through the trellises, draping low over the courtyard like starlight caught in a net. soft instrumental music filters through hidden speakers, just shy of orchestral, just shy of overwhelming. it pools into the golden hour like it belongs there. like it was written to gild the edges of a night like this.

it’s elegant. lush. dizzying.

it’s everything you had wanted for your cousin. it’s everything you had drafted in sketches, pinterest boards, and blurry midnight notes in your phone.

and it feels real now.

you step inside. and minho is beside you.

not ahead, not trailing behind— just there. shoulder to shoulder. like the rhythm has been established and neither of you are willing to break it now.

you both field questions like co-hosts. not just efficient— seamless. one unit split between two bodies.

he defers to you on décor. you defer to him on vendor logistics. a glance is all it takes for a decision to be made.

people notice.

they always do.

someone’s aunt knocks over a glass of wine with a too-wide gesture. you both move at once— him for the glass, you for the napkins. he catches it mid-fall. you’re already blotting the linen. he holds the glass steady as you reach for it. your hands brush— barely.

neither of you says anything.

but your pulse thuds behind your ears.

he disappears at one point and reappears moments later with a new drink, no explanation. he does not ask if you want it. just places it beside your elbow like it belongs there. there for you if you were to want a fresh glass. he would be unoffended if you left it, you know. he just wants you to have what you want.

obviously only in the context of ease and convenience. nothing else.

you do not thank him out loud.

you just hand him a new place card for table five without being prompted.

this is how it goes now. reflexive. unspoken. comfortably in swing with each other.

you do not touch.

but you almost do.

when you reach across him for the floral sample, your sleeve brushes his wrist.

he doesn’t move.

at one point, you bend to fix the ribbon placement along the sweetheart table. he kneels beside you, adjusting the arrangement opposite your hands with quiet precision. you’re close— close enough to see the shadow of his lashes, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he concentrates.

you glance over to him.

he’s already looking at you.

and for one full second, neither of you look away.

your breath sticks.

his fingers pause mid-placement.

then—too fast—he clears his throat and shifts back like nothing happened.

“you handled that toast well,” he compliments—almost smugly—later, voice just behind your shoulder.

you turn your head, slightly.

he’s close enough that the scent of his cologne fogs your senses. warm. dark. something spiced that makes your head hum.

“was that a compliment?” you murmur, lips tilted.

he blinks once. then—quiet, like it’s an accident—he says, “maybe.”

you don’t answer.

but you also don’t move away.

you stand like that for a few long beats. shoulder to shoulder in the half-lit hallway, the sound of laughter echoing off the walls from the next room. the party goes on without you. but your body is tuned to him, now. to the static, the charge, the sharp ache of whatever this is becoming.

friday, 7:32pm

the courtyard is warm with late sun and champagne. the soft glimmer of fairy lights makes the air feel a little enchanted— like something impossible might happen if you just stepped a little farther into the gold.

you step back instead.

a soft breeze trails through the stone archway as you slip away from the bustle, away from the table setup and the politely enthusiastic relatives and the never-ending sea of questions. you don’t go far— just near the fountain, where the string music fades into a gentler hush and the flowers curl around the trellises like they grew just for tonight.

you breathe.

a moment. just one.

and then, your cousin appears. she’s still in rehearsal whites, hair pinned up loosely, glowing with that particular kind of joy that only belongs to the week before a wedding. when she sees you, she smiles like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

"you look like you needed rescuing," she laughs softly, linking her arm through yours.

you breathe out a soft laugh. "i was hiding."

"same thing."

you stand like that for a moment. the breeze is just warm enough, the laughter from inside low and soft like it's part of the décor.

she pulls back slightly to look at you. "so… how are things going with my two favourite planners?"

you snort. "we haven’t killed each other. yet."

"interesting," she hums, tilting her head, clearly playing innocent. "because it looked a lot like i saw minho refill your glass and brush the hair off your shoulder and laugh at something that was not remotely funny."

"he didn’t—"

"mmhm."

you blink, suddenly aware of the residual warmth in your chest. of the way you’d caught yourself watching him earlier— adjusting the lighting chart, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. how he’d glanced over like he felt it too. like he was watching you back.

"he’s just being polite," you dismiss finally.

"he’s never been polite a day in his life."

you glare. "do you want me to plan your wedding or not."

she grins, completely unbothered. "just sayin’. you two are… something."

"something?"

"something. simmering."

a moment passes.

she rests her head briefly against your shoulder, voice gentler now. “thank you. for everything. i know this past time has been hell, i know how he can be to deal with sometimes. i know i dumped you into this on the spot when i asked you.”

you shake your head. “no, you didn’t. i said yes. and… i’m glad i did.”

“even with him?”

“…maybe especially with him.”

she smiles. then, her head perks up like she’s just remembered something.

"anyway—before i forget—do you have next weekend blocked out?"

you furrow your brows. "uh. no? what’s next weekend? i didn't think i had forgotten something was on..."

"oh no, you didn't forget. i just booked this yesterday. it's a super crazy catering presentation, with that chef group you picked out—great taste, by the way. it’s at their fancy vineyard estate a few hours out. the head chef wants you and minho to sample the full menu and sign off."

"that sounds…" you trail off, suspicious.

"delicious?" your cousin offers.

"inconvenient."

"it’s in the evening," she says, all fake-cheerful. "they’re serving everything as a full-course dinner. with champagne pairings. and the estate insists on overnight guests to ‘ensure palette clarity’ or some crap."

"girl—"

"relax. i already booked the room."

"the room? singular?"

"the one room they had left."

you stare at her.

she smiles like she just got away with a crime. "it’s all they had on short notice! i said you were very close coworkers."

"you’re going to hell."

"worth it."

you cover your face with both hands. she hugs you sideways.

"you’re welcome," she smiles into your shoulder. "only good can come from this."

friday, 9:17pm

the champagne goes straight to your head.

not a lot. but just enough.

you’re perched beside him on a low stone ledge in the garden, empty glasses between you, the air full of murmuring laughter and distant violin.

you’re tipsy. not sloppy. you’re still completely in control, just loose around the edges.

your cheeks are warm. your guard’s cracked.

you glance sideways. he’s got one arm draped across his knee, suit jacket folded neatly over a nearby chair, dress shirt unbuttoned just slightly at the collar, tie abandoned to his pocket.

“you look really—” you start. pause. sip your drink even though it’s empty. “—stupid hot tonight.”

minho stills.

you don’t look at him when you say it. you stare straight ahead. pretend it was a joke. a mistake. a side effect of the alcohol.

but he turns slowly.

you feel the weight of his gaze like a hand on your throat.

he says nothing.

he doesn’t need to.

the air shifts. tightens.

his knee brushes yours.

you don’t move.

he should say something. you should say something.

instead, you both just sit in it. the weight of what was said and what wasn’t. the electric hum under your skin. the way your eyes catch on the curve of his mouth every time he exhales.

someone calls you both back, instantly shattering any moment you both were in. minho helps you up and aside to let you reenter the building first, his palm lightly brushing the centre of your back to guide you.

you almost thank him.

you almost reach for his wrist as you pass.

but neither of you breaks the silence.

instead, you fall back into step.

like gravity.

like a pattern already written.

and in every step beside him, in every look passed between wine glasses and candles, the truth lingers beneath the surface:

you are not pretending to hate each other anymore.

but you are still pretending not to want.

and that’s worse.

so much worse.

friday, 10:01pm

it’s later that night, and the party is starting to splinter— guests leaving in soft clusters, heels in hands, speeches echoing in their laughter. minho stands near the exit, nursing the last half of a drink that’s long since lost its chill.

minho does not look for you.

he’s been doing that all night. too much. too obviously.

so now, he’s looking at the chandelier. or the gift table. or absolutely anything that isn’t the swing of your dress across the room.

"you’re brooding," comes a voice to his left.

he turns slowly, and sees the groom looking back at him.

"i’m standing," minho replies.

"brooding while standing, then." his friend clinks their glasses together. “what’s going on with you and my fiancée’s cousin?”

minho exhales through his nose. “nothing.”

"mhmm. and yet here you are, glowering into your whiskey like a tortured protagonist.”

"we’re working."

"you’re working,” the groom echoes, nodding with mock seriousness. “working together. respectfully. professionally. with all that almost-hand-touching and deep eye contact."

minho sips his drink and says nothing.

"anyway," the groom says, smirking now, "the missus told me i was meant to give you a heads-up."

minho raises a brow.

"about next weekend. the vineyard. she booked you both in for the catering run-through."

“right,” minho nods. “the dinner thing was mentioned to me earlier in passing.”

“it’s a whole presentation now,” the groom replies. “chef’s running a full-course mock-up— wine pairings, menu tasting, all that. they’re trying to make a night of it. impress you.”

minho nods once. this was practical. expected, even.

then the groom adds, far too casually: “and they’ve got a room ready for you two.”

minho pauses. “a room?”

“mhm. they only had one left. something about peak wedding season. it's been booked already.”

there’s a beat of silence. the music has shifted— slow, distant, some soft piano instrumental echoing through the space like the tail end of a love story.

minho sets his glass down with a little more force than necessary.

“it’s not weird,” the groom offers, attempting nonchalance. “it’s a huge room. i think. probably. big vineyard. rustic charm. candles and shit. very aesthetic.”

“why would i care,” minho says, voice tight. his attempt to cover the fact that he in fact does care is futile.

the groom’s expression shifts— just slightly. “you shouldn’t. obviously. but you do look a little…”

"i don’t."

“…weirdly tense about it.”

minho closes his eyes for half a second. opens them again.

“we’re professionals,” he breathes evenly. “we’ll manage.”

"mm. you do seem like you're managing. especially when you aren’t staring at her for three minutes straight across the bar."

minho doesn’t reply.

he picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. straightens the collar. and ignores the grin spreading across his friend’s face.

"if it helps," the groom remarks, one last parting shot, “from the time that i've known her, i think she likes working with you.”

minho freezes for half a breath.

then leaves. the silence swells around him, full of everything he didn’t say. didn’t ask.

she likes working with you.

he lets the words sink in.

one room.

one dinner.

not a problem.

not a problem at all.

this might be a problem.

friday, 10:37pm

on the way back, the silence is unbearable.

minho drives.

his right hand stays steady on the wheel, knuckles tight with restraint, the other resting uselessly on the gear shift as though it needs something to grip— anything to ground him. the interior of the car smells like you. your perfume, the faintest trace of champagne on your breath, your laughter still echoing somewhere in the seams of the leather seats.

you do not speak.

you do not dare.

your body is turned slightly toward the window, knees angled just enough to look casual, but not distant. the air between you is vibrating, humming with the static of everything that did not get said. your thigh brushes his once—accidental. then again, more like a whisper. more like your skin asking a question it cannot voice.

he does not flinch.

you are thinking things you are not supposed to think.

what his mouth would taste like— how it would feel to pull him in by the collar and kiss him like you mean it. what sound he would make if you said his name like a secret. if his hands would hesitate or devour. whether his tie is still tucked into his coat pocket and whether he would ever let you tug on it just once.

you grip the hem of your coat tighter in your fists.

outside, the streetlights paint passing gold ribbons across your thighs, your cheek, the line of his jaw when you steal a glance.

a red light.

you risk it.

you look at him.

and he is already watching you.

his eyes are dark, unreadable. but something inside them flickers— something raw and wrecked and wanting. his jaw is tense. his mouth parted like there are words balanced right there on the edge, waiting to tumble out if only he could bear to say them.

he opens his mouth.

your breath catches. you feel it— feel the shift, the second the air grows tight and ready to snap. your lips part too, like maybe this is it. maybe this is the moment everything gives way.

but then—

the light turns green.

he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours.

and he drives.

he walks you to your door because he is polite. because he is eighty-five percent sure you're still tipsy, and you actually don’t know what you’re doing. (you do know). because if he leaves without seeing you inside, he will worry. because if he leaves without one last look, he will break.

you fumble with your keys.

your hands shake a little— not obviously, not enough for him to comment, but you feel it. the adrenaline of something almost-born still stuttering beneath your ribs. you glance up once, open your mouth. the words are right there, tucked beneath your tongue. i wanted to kiss you. i don’t hate you anymore. i don’t want to pretend.

but he speaks first.

“goodnight.”

simple. even. too smooth to be accidental.

you blink.

“…goodnight,” you echo.

neither of you moves.

he stands there, hands in the pockets of his coat, chest rising slowly. you think he might lean in again, just slightly, barely perceptible— but you see it. you feel it. like the universe is teetering forward with him.

his gaze traces the outline of your lips.

your collarbone.

your eyes.

you are all heat, all pulse, and all maybe, and he is looking at you like he might do something unforgivable.

but then— he tilts his head. just a fraction. and steps back.

“see you soon, get some rest,” he mutters, voice thick, rough around the edges like it scraped against everything he did not say.

you nod. even though you are not ready. even though your mouth aches with every unspoken thing you swallowed down instead.

the door closes softly behind you.

you lean against it. then slide down to the floor in your stupid pretty dress and too-warm skin and heartbeat that does not know how to calm down. you press your palm flat to the hardwood flooring, like if you stay there long enough you might still feel the echo of his footsteps through it.

you want to tell him to come back. say something. scream.

instead, you just sit there, clutching your coat like it might explain anything.

outside, he does not move.

minho stands under the porch light, eyes fixed on the crack between your curtains, trying to convince himself to turn around. to breathe. to forget.

but he can't.

his hands curl into fists inside his pockets, like they’re holding him together. like if he loosens one finger, the whole thing might break.

minho doesn't sleep that night.

and neither do you.

both of you lying in separate beds, in separate parts of the city, thinking the exact same thing:

i should have said something.

i should have kissed them.

but the window of opportunity has closed. and the night has carried on, leaving you in the dust.

saturday, 11:04am

the morning is too bright.

you wake with your cheek pressed into your pillow and your hand curled beneath your chin, the imprint of last night’s makeup faint against the fabric. your mouth is dry. your hair smells like champagne and something floral.

you do not open your eyes right away.

you are remembering things. not dreams— real things.

his hand on the small of your back, guiding you inside like it was nothing.

the look he gave you when you stepped into the car.

the silence between you, thick enough to drown in.

you should have said something.

you roll onto your back with a hefty sigh, blanket kicked to the floor, one arm draped across your stomach like it might hold the ache there still. it is not a romantic ache. not a lovesick one. it is sharper than that. brighter. like your body is still buzzing from a voltage it was never allowed to discharge.

your phone is facedown on your nightstand. you consider ignoring it.

you do not.

the screen lights up in your palm— no messages from him. no messages to him, either. not yet.

your text thread from yesterday is still open, like it’s waiting for one of you to admit something.

it mocks you.

you type out thanks for the ride

then delete it.

you type what would you have done if i brought you inside?

then delete it.

you type did you get home okay?

then delete that too.

you lock your phone and toss it gently across the bed.

in the kitchen, your kettle sputters to life, and you lean against the counter, waiting, eyes still swollen from too little sleep. your dress is still pooled on the chair. your heels by the door.

you don’t feel bad.

you just feel… unsettled.

as if something important almost happened.

as if it still might.

somewhere across the city, minho sits on the edge of his bed, tie still crumpled in the pocket of his coat, phone in his hand. his thumb hovers above your name, unread messages unsent.

he’d meant to text.

he’d meant to say goodnight, or you looked beautiful, or what would you have done if i leaned in?

he doesn’t text any of those things.

instead, he gets up, drags a hand through his hair, and stares at the mess on his desk— your invitation designs, your schedules, your ceremony timings.

everything in its place.

everything but this.

he thinks about your perfume.

the way you looked at him when you said that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.

how your fingers almost touched his at the stoplight.

how he almost said i wanted to kiss you and instead said nothing at all.

he makes coffee, and proceeds to not drink it.

he tells himself to let it go.

he knows he won’t.

you sip your tea slowly.

you scroll through photos you do not remember taking— random areas of the venue, family members you haven’t seen in too long, and only one of minho. it appears to have been taken in a random room at the venue, you think he was speaking with some vendors? the memory is foggy. it’s a candid image, and your slightly blurred-drunken photography gives it a dreamy look, making him appear even more ethereal than you remember.

you stop on that one and stare at it for a long time. it’s like you’re frozen in a daze, he’s so capturing.

then, you open your messages with him and him the image.

just that.

no message. no caption. no follow-up.

you leave your phone on the counter and walk away.

when you return five minutes later, there’s a reply.

your heart stutters once.

you close the thread.

and smile. freely.

you’re alone, and you’re sick of pretending he isn’t the reason for it.

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thanks for reading chapter two! keep hanging around for chapter three and beyond <3

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[quandledlngle69]

⸻ 糸師凛 ITOSHI RIN.

TW; obsession, ritual, demonic things, blood, family trauma, deep detail of body, dolls, pain, corrupt religion, child abuse, mention of strangulation, vivification.

ever since you were young, your mother shunned you for your obsession with dolls. hours were spent crafting your first doll from scraps of fabric, straw and animal bones.

you didn't show your mother your perfect creation–knowing her lips would curl in disgust, and she would scoff, turning her head away while mumbling something hurtful under her breath. something about sin, something about god's unlove for such behaviour.

dolls were unholy, vile objects for the devil to merge with, a mockery of gods actual human creations. thats what she told you as she strangled you with a rosemary, the marks indented in your skin for weeks.

your father was an indifferent, absent man. he had spent not a nick of time with you–rather too engrossed in his scientific pursuits then being a family man. you grew up with no friends, a curse and a blessing; not having anyone to talk to beside yourself, but no one to judge you for your rather unnatural hobby. you recall your younger self passing by a workshops with a collection of dolls, always managing to captivate you; your little nose pressing into the glass, fogging it up with your warm breath until your mother yanked you away.

a part of you hoped for your future self that it was just an awkward phase that you would grow out of–though you never did. the gratification you felt making dolls, slowly becoming more life–like the more you matured–as if on the journey with you, made it unthinkable to ever let go. it was apart of you, and it soon surged into something more sinister; human hair, picked off scabs, even blood was shoved into the heart of the doll, sewn up or sculpted behind an imitation of the protective hard, white, calcium rows.

you wouldn't utter to any soul what you created in the dark, hidden behind excuses of intentions and an insatiable itch of something highly unethical.

the last straw was when a young man you were arranged to be wedded to shunned you once he found out about your 'hobby.'

that only instigated a heated screaming match with your mother, who promptly kicked you out once she realised her fears were concrete, that you would age alone, without a ring ever on your finger.

perhaps its the fact you were a misanthropist that coerced you to endure the next decade locked away in a shrubby attic–the rent cheap and no one to disturb you. you crafted what you had never done before, a life–sized anthropomorphic doll. you've had an image of the perfect man since you were a little girl. sketches ranging from little scribbles from when you were a wee thing, to fully fleshed out realism of this fictional man. sometimes he was in your dreams, a whisper away, smoke in the wind that couldn't be heard.

it was trial and error, and you had almost gone into a deep debt with the overly luxurious, top–quality materials and supplies you had gathered. your hands were rough and calloused from the work, your lungs damaged with the hard dust and particles you were too careless to filter out with a mask. from dawn till dusk, the hours not wasted, yet slaving away, a steaming cup of black coffee always on your wooden desk.

when you had finally concluded your work, you had taken a step back and admired it in all its glory. His face sculpted from your callous but nimble fingers, facial features eerily in harmony with each other, sharp like a cutting edge of a diamond.

his figure loomed over you, much taller than most handful of men walking the city streets. the doll's black hair was trimmed accordingly, bangs wispy sweeping across the right side of his eye; in the dim light, it flaunted a subtle seaweed–green tint. it's glass eyes were the most alluring part, most costly–worth an arm and a leg. a bright, opalescent teal–cold in nature, almost reticent. it's long lashes only tied them together like a ribbon of a bow, imagining if it blinked, they would flutter softly like butterfly wings.

you loved it–no, you were full of jubilation.

a familiar name abruptly popped into your mind, a man of a lover in a foreign book you once read. you quickly snagged a fountain pen, your hand carefully stretching out the dolls foot, scribbling heartedly on the sole bottom of the shoe.

Itoshi, Rin.

────────

you would spend the next few days observing, hours spent just staring rather hard at your masterpiece, never seemingly finding a flaw. you would talk to it, even if it was all one–sided, making you feel sheepish at times, yet you never stopped.

but slowly, the insatiable greed for more than this came to your mind. that this wasn't enough. it wasn't enough to just have this immobile showpiece of yours, hiding away in the darkest parts of your studio. in your dreams, it talked, breathed with lungs, a warm specimen as if it had blood running in it's veins.

it was gormless to think this wishfully.

────────

arguably, this wasn't a good idea, standing in a grotesque cathedral, abandoned long ago. it was the witches hour–there was only pitch darkness, the air smelling faintly of wax, dust, and something unsettling–sacrifice. you stood outside of it, the ominous pentagram bold on the wooden floor panels, the stick of red chalk staining your hands. some of the symbols you didn't understand, almost an ancient text that spoke nothing but sinful deeds. five lit candles stationary on each sharp point, their fire threatening to flicker out.

you didn't know what was more unsettling, the fact this suffocating atmosphere was purely demonic or the fact you were still going through with it, aware of the potential consequences. you were sporting a dangerous game, playing as god. this was damning your soul, that truth was crystal clear when the ritual required your blood, a drop long smeared on the dolls cheek.

then came the words–latin, you think.

you stumbled over them, your speech ever slow, butchering the pronunciation; yet evidently enough to indulge in whatever demonic power you were summoning.

────────

It hurt.

it hurt a lot–why did it hurt?

it started from the inside out, the developing cardiac muscle forming a beat, squeezing and expanding. nerves emerged from seemingly nowhere, flourishing in sparks as they danced like undone pieces of thread to every crevice of his body. a warmth of muscle and fat melded together like butter, limbs jerking, fingers and toes flexible with their contraction and flexion.

for the first time, he involuntarily inhaled, like such a thing was a natural urge. it was sharp, painful, it burned like hot coal in his chest. his lungs, fixed behind rows of bone, spasmed and heaved. he could smell. it carved itself in his nose, it was musty, like mildew and sawdust. he could almost taste it on his tongue. he could blink, delve visually into the blurry world in front of him. his skin felt as though it was doused with gasoline and lit with a match, without the mercy of relief.

he throat ached with a sore.

someone was screaming. is it him? is that deep, agony–filled voice belonging to him only?

his head lolled forward, his whole body alamort, eyes rolling to the back of his head. he struggled to open them, his resolve too weak, eyelids too heavy. he felt a warm liquid running out of his nostril, something red and thick. his new given mind not being able to compose a simple thought in such a nebulochaotic state.

he couldn't understand the sudden cold feeling brushing against his cheek, the sudden invasion of aroma, something sandalwood and paint–like. something hoisted his slugged and limp body up, as if he was still a ragdoll. a sturdy warmth bloomed on his front, a muttering of a voice, his nose brushing against what seemed like a neck.

it was the last thing seared into his mind before the world went dark.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

waaaaa i can't remember who to tag for this divider if you know pls lmk

[bugs-dateeverythingsideblog]

More characters design talk! This time it’s about hair for a few characters. In Blake Jenning’s video where he was ranking the Date Everything characters- he noticed that Keyes’ hair was an eighth note.

Absolutely outstanding design there.

Moving on to other characters, here we have Penelope, Stefan, Maggie, and Mateo.

Starting with Penelope, her hair resembles that of pen scribbles- very nice. Throwing in the blue and red pen scribbles is a nice touch.

Now for Stefan. The hair on the side of his head (marked with a circle there) looks like the fire under a burner on a gas stove. Very cool detail

Maggie seems to just have normal hair, but the more I thought about it- it *might* be a play on the term “red herring”. She is after all a magnifying glass. It’s a stretch but it’s a neat thing to think about.

And now for Mateo. For a while, I couldn’t figure out what his hair was supposed to resemble, but then it came to me- His hair is rather wispy and feathery, which made me think of a down blanket. (down feathers make up the insulation of it iirc). When I put that together in my mind, it made a whole lot more sense. Really interesting detail.

[ajortga]

why try?

pairing: tara carpenter x fem reader

based off song request! thank you so much for your requests! many are being looked at now, another 3 are left to write. i'm not very good at song requests and i was actually feeling a little rushed this time, i just wanted to get this out there so i hope this can meet what you may have wanted.

-

??; was wondering if you’d take a song fic request ? mainly asking because i was listening to why try by ariana grande and i thought it might be good with like tara i think , i hope ,,, im not sure anymore lmfao

-

You and Tara didn’t meet each other in the best way possible, you met on bad terms, especially since she crashed into you while running and spilt hot coffee on you, screaming an apology as she ran to who knows what class, not even looking back.

For that whole day your white shirt was now a caramel brown, making you a little frustrated.

Tara was walking to her film history class, her hair in a braided half up half down, basically huffing as she opened the door, as she looked for a seat, the only left was a seat one away from the window. 

A pretty girl with her headphones in sat next to her, scribbling on her notes and wow, her writing was so neat. It reminded her of the poems that lovers would write to each other in neat curvy lines back in the olden days. 

Then she looked down at her sweater, it looked like a coffee stain.

Wait, a coffee stain?

The pretty girl was you, the one she crashed into and accidentally spilt steaming coffee on your sweater while she was running late to her next class, not even being able to make the face as she turned a corner and was gone.

Your gaze shifted from your words to the girl standing in front of you, your warm eyes looking at her, then recognizing Tara as yours narrowed.

“You owe me a new shirt. That was eighty dollars.” You mumble, pointing to the stain on your shirt, your voice soft, but trying to be a little annoyed, sour, and angry, Tara found it adorable.

“I was late to class.” She shrugged, making a small laugh as she sat down.

“That doesn’t mean you can spill your steaming coffee on me, I think I got a rash.” You basically flipped her off without actually flipping her off.

She groaned, “Okay I’m sorry, that must’ve hurt. My name is Tara.”

“Y/N,” you said simply, your voice wispy, sounds like a sweet and pretty sound, Tara could listen to it for hours-

“I’m still mad at you,” You murmur, turning your head away from her as your hair draped over your notes, writing.

She scoffed, a little angry that you weren’t quite talking to her, more like talking to her about the situation that she forgot about.

“Are you always like this?” She said, smiling, a little sarcastically.

“You’re mean Tara,” You turn to her, head laying against your palm. “Can I not be a little upset that you stained my favorite sweater, and basically burned me with your flaming coffee, what a memorable way to know you right? You were already late, why not just take your time?”

Tara huffs, seeing you like a kitten that doesn’t get what they want, saving your sweetness for her and squeezing out a little bitterness. She nudges you on the shoulder, making you shift a little and let out a small quiet giggle.

“Whatever Tickles.”

“Don’t call me that Tiny.”

“Excuse you?”

“Don’t think that teasing won’t jump back at you Tiny Toe Tara!”

“Oh fuck you!” She says sarcastically, “You drive me insane!”

-

Tara was right, you do drive her insane, but not the way you thought of.

Who would’ve known that her mind was you every night before she went to bed, the way she could feel her cheeks heating when thinking of your face. Your hair. Oh god, please don’t get started with your smile. It drove her crazy, in that way where she has seen your face as you talked to someone, just realizing how much of a listener you are. A good one especially, she sees your eyes as you nod, the way you tilt your head in a conversation, fully immersed.

Tara always wanted to have someone listen to her. She was always listening to others, good listening or not, she never got it back.

There were days where she’d tell Sam the things you did, basically screaming as she says how annoying you are. But at the same time, Sam sees the way Tara’s eyes dilate when she talks about you, gushing all her words at once and scrambling some words.

“She sounds like someone you talk about a lot.” 

“Excuse you? She is hot! I mean not!”

“Have you ever seen what she looks like? I think I stare at her too much.”

“Why?”

“Oh pfft, because she’s an atrocious looking pretty looking ogre that I can’t help but feel sorry for how she looks.”

“Pretty looking?”

“Oh yeah. No! You’re getting it all wrong. Pretty looking ogre like her looks pretty like one of an ogre.”

“That’s not what it sounded like.”

-

You and Tara throw insults at each other, she hates them.

“My Tiny!”

“Tararific!”

You annoyed her to bits, she was annoyed at the fact that she was desperate to see you, to talk to you, to see you smile. She was angry that she just couldn’t hate you. Even with your silly personality, teasing remarks, and playful nudges, there were moments where she saw you being you. Seeing you feed stray cats on the sidewalk when she walked to her apartment, your headphones in as she sees your pretty figure asleep on your desk as you took soft breaths, or the way your eyes are different than any other, different in the way that it was special.

She was so lovesick, but she would go through that phase every time if it meant seeing you for a second.

Why try getting her feelings for you to rip?

Knowing that you could still make her heart skip?..

[thefreakandthehair]

no better version I could pretend to be tonight

written for ‘charm’ wc: 548 | rated: m | cw: eddie munson's near-death experience and description of panic attack/nightmares @steddiemicrofic

Eddie wakes up screaming. 

It’s how he experiences the crushing weight of living when he was so certain he would die beneath that fiery, starless sky. No one sees the hollowed out face of Death and comes back through the veil unscathed, but if the only sacrifice Eddie makes for his life is his right nipple, some flesh, and peaceful sleep, he figures it’s a bargain. 

Every night for the last several months, a hole cracks open in his chest where his lungs once were that bottoms out and refuses to hold the oxygen he desperately tries to pull in to fill the void. His skin feels too tight, his throat hoarse, his palms sore from the clenching of his fingers into fists that swipe at nothing. The taste of blood and rust coats his mouth, a phantom sense that nothing but time dissolves. 

Casual shrugs and black coffee disguise his discomfort when asked if he’s okay. 

Never better. I’m alive, aren’t I? He jokes.

That should be enough of an answer for his new friends. And it is, mostly. They don’t believe him, but they leave well enough alone. 

That is, everyone but Steve Harrington. 

Steve’s proven himself to be an enigma, wispy in Eddie’s grasp. He can’t quite get a handle on him, but he’s been nothing but good to Eddie besides his relentless insistence that Eddie try sleeping at his house. 

“Just give it a shot, Munson. I’m tellin’ you, I’ve got this sleep charm.” 

“If you wanna get me in your bed that bad, you’re gonna have to try a little harder than that.”

“If that’s all I was doing, this would be a lot easier.”

The kicker is that he does. He trusts Steve, and maybe he just wants an excuse to pretend that Steve’s his to wake up to but the next time he wakes up screaming, he gathers his shit, scribbles a note for Wayne in the kitchen with shaking hands, and drives across town. He parks, walks up to the door with a pillow under one arm, and knocks loudly, unencumbered by the liminal space that is Loch Nora at two o’clock in the morning. 

Steve opens the door before detaching the deadbolt, sleep rumpled and adorable– save for the nail bat just barely visible through the crack of the door. He’s shirtless in just a pair of pajama pants, blue and green stripes that hang a little loose from his hips. 

“Eddie?” Steve mumbles, his voice croaky and low as he rubs at his right eye. “Fuck.” He closes the door just long enough to undo the deadbolt and holds his arm out, ushering Eddie into the quiet of the house. 

“Here for your sleep charm, or whatever.” Eddie looks around the room, dimly lit by the motion sensor porch light through the window and doubts himself. “This is stupid as shit. I can just—” 

Steve shakes his head and places a hand on Eddie’s lower back, gently guiding him upstairs to his bedroom.  “Don’t even think about it. You’re here, and we’re gonna get you some sleep. C’mon.” 

It won’t be the last time Eddie wakes to the tickle of Steve’s chest hair against his nose and the gentle press of lips to the top of his head.

there's a version of this that's 3k that lives in my google docs and maybe one day, that'll end up on my ao3 [update: the 3k version did, indeed, end up on my ao3]

[iridescent-solstice]

Fic 1/2 made for the amazing @cinsilly for winning this contest I hosted a while back. I hope you like it and also thank you for participating in my silly little shenanigans. If I did my job right, hopefully you’ll join future events too! 🙆🏻‍♀️

The candle by his side burns faithfully as Julian leans over his cluttered desk. Wispy strands of his ginger hair wave back and forth as he grumbles in frustration. With an aching back and cramped wrists, his sleep deprived mind urges him to take a break.

But he won't. Because there is much to be done. Far too much.

He chides himself internally for not working enough. For not being fast enough. Because, despite the countless hours he’s spent here, there are still too many old journals to comb through. Too many documents he’s scribbled and had to scrap or re-read. He's frustrated. Tired. Hungry and extremely worried for all the people out there in worse conditions than he is. The physical states of those already infected aren't getting much better, and the count's temper is only getting worse. "DAMMIT WHY IS NOTHING WORKING!" He curses slamming his fist down on the poor table. It's like he's walking around in endless circles, isn't he? There has to be a cure! He chants in his head. With a library as huge as this, there must be something here about a plague spreading by beetles.

It’s almost beginning to feel like he’s drowning in pile and piles of unending assigned reading. Even with an apprentice, there’s still so much he has to do. If he doesn’t . . . No. Julian shakes the thoughts away. He doesn’t want to think about those consequences. Finding the cure is too vital a task to slack on. And he won't discover it if he spends all his time wondering about what will happen if he doesn't manage to uncover it. He can do it . . . Well, even if he couldn’t, there are too many people's lives at stake to not try his darn hardest. Too people relying on him. The countess. The citizens of Versuvia. The count. But most importantly . . . his apprentice is counting on him too. So, he has to find a cure. No.matter.what.the.cost.

Books, letters, documents and other knick knacks are sprawled all over the cinnamon-coloured table. But the mess inside his head is even worse than the one infront of him. A looming giant window behind him gives a glimpse into the internal state of the city. Cold, dark, deserted and in complete disarray. The normal hustle and bustle is no longer as usual as it once used to be. You’d be lucky if you saw a single person in sight. Not anymore though. They’re all hiding away inside their homes. He has no doubt that you would be too if you gave yourself the luxury too.

But he’s glad you haven’t taken that liberty. That you care enough to stay by his side. To risk your life. He has no idea how he'd do this without you. Throughout all his travels at sea, he's spent a great deal of his time alone. But he doesn't think he could ever go back to that lifestyle anymore. He needs you. 

He needs you to check up on him. To hold his hand and cheerfully tell him everything will be alright again. To not give up. He nee- No he wants you. Wants you to sit suspiciously close by as he navigates the medical forms. While he relays the important findings he just discovered. As he flips through the records. Patient after patient, case after case. It’s almost too much, but he knows he can handle it. With you by his side, he’s sure he can handle anything. Fatigued eyes search all over the table but his thoughts wander to you again. Like they always do when he’s stressed out. Are you hunched over a desk like he is? Huddled up in your shop researching old tomes? He wonders if you think about him too. He wonders if you miss his company as much as he misses yours. He can’t imagine those talking books to be good company. 

[ ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀꜱ ʙʏ: @/fairytopea]

[your-favorite-overachiever]

types of people as fruit:

blueberry: messy buns, windy bike rides, overalls, warm hugs, freckled hands baking muffins, easy laughter, sunshine, reading by the window, knit sweaters, high waisted jeans, bright smile, scented chapstick, romcoms and popcorn, wildflowers

cherry: leather jackets, hair in her eyes, midnight car rides, lipstick stains, high-heeled boots, dog-eared paper backs, liquid liner, loud chatter, whispered secrets, mascara tears, black coffee, glitter everywhere, smokey eye, scribbled poetry, dark acrylics

strawberry: floral tank tops, lips glossed light pink, soft waves, iced drinks, wispy clouds, shooting star wishes, perfume spritz, 19th century novels, mini skirts, jotting down pretty thoughts, slip dresses, wistful gaze, everything showers, ballet flats

apple: the smell of cinnamon, low rise jeans, yellowed pages, rusty leaves, wind-blown curls, heart ache, foggy windows, scratchy wool, hair bows, wine red mary janes, baking in the autumn, white lace, dark red lip stain, academic validation

banana: dirty converse, jean shorts, the state of hurry, friendship bracelets, pictures of everything, glowing compliments, salt in the air, clear lip gloss, sand in dirty blonde hair, magnetism, blown kisses, iced coffee before school, freedom

[wispy-scribbles]

day 2, here we go uh oh she's crashing out again

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

✨Beyond the Circles of the World✨

Am I done with this, or is it just done with me? Who can say. On AO3 here or below.

Théoden discovers what life looks like after death, where he reunites at last with the family he was always denied but has to reckon with some uncomfortable truths in the process.

Théoden woke to a soft breeze against his cheek. 

It stirred him slowly, luring him from sleep with a sweet, fresh scent that perfumed the air and a cooling caress that soothed the sun-warmed skin of his face and arms. He opened his eyes to find a cloudless sky of the most flawless blue stretched out above him, interlaced with the boughs of a single tree laden with white blossoms. As he blinked his eyes clear, the breeze caught a few frilled white petals, cradling them on a drifting current of air until they landed, silky and feather-light, on his chest and hands and the ground beside him.

An endless expanse of thick grasses and wispy sedge swept off into the distance, a plain much like any of the numberless grasslands that had witnessed his days as a boy, a man and then a king. But somehow this plain was different than all the others. Its colors were more intense, the touch of its blades and leaves more gentle. Each stalk or stem looked as though it had been placed there with intention as part of some grand, beautiful design. Nothing in the field was unknown to him, and yet it all still looked new and miraculous to his eye, a first glimpse of the masterwork of a true artist after having only ever known the idle scribbles of an amateur. 

He rolled onto his side and winced in anticipation of the stinging twinge that always accompanied a turn of his spine, but it didn’t come. In fact, nothing seemed to hurt anymore, not in the way he was used to. His knees bent without the feel of rusty hinges reluctantly scraping their way open, and the shoulder of his sword arm didn’t pop or crack as he raised a hand to rub his face. Instead, he felt a peculiar lightness in his limbs, a spry energy from the days of his youth or perhaps a rare morning after he had slept a great many hours undisturbed by either the complaints of his body or the cares of his mind. 

As he pulled himself up to sit, a small noise at his side drew his gaze, and he was startled to discover that he wasn’t alone. An unknown man sat leaning against the tree trunk, legs stretched out before him and fingers drumming idly against his own knee. Friend or foe wasn’t immediately obvious, and Théoden’s hand went instinctively to his hip, groping for the smooth, familiar grip of Herugrim. But no sword was there. His fingers then crept toward his belt, where he kept a fine, bone-handled knife always at the ready, only to find that it, too, was mysteriously gone.

“You won’t be needing those anymore,” said the man, nodding toward Théoden’s empty baldric with a placid smile. His voice was deep and calm, his tone unhurried. “There are no enemies here to fight.”

To blindly take the word of a stranger seemed foolish, and yet Théoden felt himself relax all the same. The man didn’t have a dangerous look to him. He carried no weapon himself, and he made no move from his comfortably propped seat. Instead, he was regarding Théoden with open curiosity, as a child might look at a wrapped gift, and so Théoden felt free to do the same, staring with a frankness that would have been rude elsewhere but only seemed natural at the moment.

His companion was long-limbed and muscled, the build of a mighty workhorse, but his age was hard to discern. He had the bearing and dignity of an elder but his hair was still a rich yellow gold, and Théoden was startled for the second time in as many minutes to realize that he recognized the face that was framed by those yellow braids. It was a face that had stared down at him from the woven tapestries of Meduseld for all his life and whose distinctive features lived on, sometimes more pronounced and sometimes less, in all the great ancestors of his line. It was the face of Eorl the Young.

Théoden passed a hand across his brow again, certain it would wipe the sight of the impossible from his eyes, but Eorl was still there when he looked up, his smile now tinged with knowing bemusement. Théoden reached out next, half expecting his fingers to pass right through the vision before him, but they landed on a real arm, taut muscles beneath a crisp linen sleeve. It was no illusion or phantom. The arm had weight and warmth and strength of its own, and at the wrist was inked a rough tattoo, the same running horse that had been emblazoned across every banner that Théoden had ever served and followed. But how Eorl could be before him now made as little sense as the setting of unearthly beauty or the body that felt no pain, things that shouldn’t have been possible and yet… Little by little, like the sun rising in his mind, the improbable truth revealed itself to him.

“So that’s it?” His voice was hoarse from lack of use, and he wondered exactly how long it had been since he had last spoken. Then he wondered if he would be able to comprehend the answer if one was given. “Am I dead?”

“You are,” Eorl said. “Does that displease you?” 

“No.” The answer was out before Théoden had even considered the question, and he was surprised both to hear it and to know that it was true. There was no displeasure or disappointment, only relief and the lifting of a great weight. He couldn’t seem to recall his last moments, however they came to pass — Snowmane had spooked at the sight of an unexpected opponent, he knew that much — but he was somehow still sure that his death had been honorable. He could feel it in the steadiness of his heart and breath, in the instinct that allowed him to sit here beside Eorl himself without shame.

“No one remembers the very end,” said Eorl, seeming to anticipate Théoden’s thoughts. “I took a spear to the neck, or so I understand.” He ran a few thick fingers across a throat that showed no sign of injury and shrugged. “The mind can’t hold its own death as a memory.”

Théoden prodded gingerly at what he did remember, a cautious test to see if he could force more back, but Eorl was right. He couldn’t summon any clear images or sounds of those final minutes, only vague impressions and wisps of feeling. Winged shadows, damp cold, the smell of rot, and the rigid cage of his mail and armor. Perhaps it was a mercy that the rest was hidden. Whatever happened to him was of no avail now anyway. He had made his last play and done his best, for Middle Earth, for the Riddermark, for…

“Éowyn. Éomer.” Their names sliced cleanly through the raw fog of his recollections, and he started to rise, his heart burning with the urgent need to do something for his still imperiled niece and nephew, though what he could do was uncertain. His knees wobbled as he stood, this version of his body still not wholly familiar, and Eorl helped him to his feet.

“There is no need to trouble yourself over the fates of those who yet live,” Eorl said. “They are not ours to govern anymore. That burden and privilege have passed now to others.”

With only those sparse words and the firm, reassuring grip of his hand, Eorl quieted the momentary excitement in Théoden’s chest, and a surprising calm spread through him instead. He couldn’t have said why, but somehow he trusted Eorl implicitly, as a small boy trusts wholly in the wisdom of his father when he is still too young to understand that even fathers have faults. Théoden had learned that lesson long ago and many times over, but it wouldn’t stop him from trusting again now. Maybe there was an enchantment in Eorl’s words, some special magic that came from this otherworldly place, or maybe the appeal of laying down the burden of leadership at last only felt like magic to Théoden, a relief that he hadn’t realized he craved so deeply. But whatever its source, he drew a deep breath and did as Eorl said, gently releasing his thoughts of Éomer and Éowyn and the Mark itself to the care of greater forces. His sister’s children were beyond his reach for now, though perhaps someday they, too, would be here. And the how and why simply wouldn’t matter. 

A new thought took their place in his mind, a thought at once so obvious and so overwhelming that he almost fell back to his knees again. If he was here now, then maybe others were as well. Those that had come and gone before him and that he had spent a lifetime wishing to see just one more time, clinging to their memories in the fervent hope that he might someday find himself exactly where he now stood and be reunited for eternity with those he loved best. 

In truth, he had always struggled to fully believe the deathlore of his people, fearing that it expected far too much of a world that otherwise didn’t deal out comforting fates to even the most deserving of creatures. But just the possibility had kept him going through many a hard parting, and if there was ever a moment to put his doubts to rest, it was now.

“We have always believed… That is to say, we have always been told that our beloved dead would…” The words caught unexpectedly in his throat, and he didn’t go on, suddenly terrified of the answer he might receive. Was it better just to keep his fragile hopes alive for some other, unforeseen future? Would he regret forever giving up a sweet falsehood for a bitter reality? There would be no way to unhear the truth once it was spoken. So maybe if he just didn’t ask, then Eorl would never tell him that his family wasn’t there. If he didn’t ask, then he wouldn’t lose them all again, even more painful this time because it would be permanent.

Eorl smiled and thumped a heavy fist against his back, once again seeming to know exactly what was in Théoden’s thoughts. “I am proud to say that my house is plentiful among those who have earned the peace of this place. Your family is here, and a good many others as well. We find it best not to overwhelm new arrivals with too many faces at once, but a summons was given when we heard of your coming. All who would follow it will be here as soon as you are ready to receive them.”

How to judge readiness for such a thing was unstated, but it took only a moment for Théoden to decide that his readiness didn’t matter, not when such happiness was awaiting him. For better or worse, he had always been one to plunge forward, counting on his head to catch up with his heart and for everything else to sort itself as it may. He hadn’t labored over his readiness when given his first éored to command, nor when he had married Elfhild or she had first told him Théodred was on the way. Some leaps just had to be made if all of life was not to be wasted in futile waiting for a clear sign that the time and circumstances were just right. 

Eorl could see the decision in his eyes and nodded, pointing to the horizon where the faint outlines of figures could now be seen. They were vague at first, obscured by distance, but with each step closer they resolved a little more. Clusters of forms separated into bodies, the bodies gained features, the features became distinct. Some were regal and proud, some warm and earnest, some clever or lively or thoughtful. Soon he could pick out three of his sisters, his parents, both grandmothers and one grandfather, cherished friends, brothers in arms — face after beloved face, his past returned to walk before him like a beautiful dream that had escaped the confines of his mind to trod amidst the waking world.

He broke into an awkward run, a gangly foal shakily finding its newborn legs, but he steadily gained speed and grace until he was moving with a smooth, practiced stride, drawing ever nearer to his heart’s desire. As the distance between them narrowed, a single figure separated from the advancing crowd, running ahead to meet him with equal abandon and heedless joy, and in the middle of the field they came together: husband and wife, joined in death as they couldn’t be in life.

The years hadn’t changed Elfhild, only thirty when she breathed her last in what was to be Théodred’s nursery, and her beauty still overwhelmed him. As often as he’d tried to picture her over the years, the picture had inevitably faded with time, little details going fuzzy or refusing to appear when called for, and the desired images of happy days were always haunted by his final glimpses of her, grimacing and wan, cold and unmoving. Now, though, she shone with warmth and spirit again, the quiet loveliness of a summer sunrise on a clear, hopeful morning, and the details flooded back to him in wave after beautiful wave. The small peak in her hairline that gave her face the shape of a heart, the little gap in her front teeth that lent her every smile an innocent charm, the way her long, unbound curls tickled the thin skin of his neck when she held him close.

Those curls did their work as she held him once again, allowing his joyous tears to mix with her own when she pressed a cheek to his. He inhaled deeply, breathing in that old familiar pine scent that had always been in her hair and on her clothes, carried over from the resin used on the bow of her lyre. It would always be the smell of home to him.

“I can hardly believe it.” She still spoke softly, as gentle in voice as she was in manner, but there was amazement in her tone as she stepped back at last to cast an eye over his whitened beard and hair. She turned him this way and that, examining him from all sides with eager interest, and reached out with trembling hands to touch both features that she recognized and those that were new to her in his age. “You look just like your father now.”

“That will happen,” he laughed, catching her fingers to interlace them with his. “It’s been many long years.”

There was so much he wanted to say, to ask, to hear, to see. Had she thought of him as often over the years as his thoughts had turned to her? Could she hear all the innumerable words he had still spoken to her after she’d gone, wanting her opinions, her counsel or her company just as he had when she’d lived? Did she hold it against him that he had occasionally sought the comfort of others in his bed during the lonely times, and did she know that he wouldn’t blame her if she had done the same? Did she still delight in making music, eating fresh blackberries, getting up at first light to hear the thrushes greet the morning, devising poems whose lilting rhymes made him feel like she had seen right into his heart, taken its measure and known its every fault and merit?

But those were questions for later. First, there was something more important, something he had waited more than half a lifetime for. It was about neither her nor him, but them — the little family that had slipped through his fingers like a fistful of water, gone almost before it had ever existed. It had been theirs for only those fleeting, precious seconds between his son’s first breath in and his wife’s last breath out, before the world had broken open and swallowed up his every hope and plan in one greedy, sharp-toothed gulp. He had lived on the promise of those few seconds for more than four decades, and now he would see it realized at last.

“Where is our boy?” His hopeful eyes scoured the approaching faces that were now just over her shoulder, anxious to hold both his wife and son at once and finally bring to fruition the beautiful ideal that had always eluded them. Mother, father and child, together and complete. As they were always meant to be. But he couldn’t find Théodred among the smiles and laughs and tears that descended upon him, and he had only the time to see Elfhild’s mouth tighten, a line form between her brows, before he was engulfed in a tide of jubilant embraces, a swirl of welcome so enthusiastic that it threatened to carry him off his very feet.

That crease of worry might have troubled him, but he allowed himself to be swept up all the same, certain that no divine kingdom of bliss could be missing one so deserving and so beloved. And if there was anything that could distract him from his yearning to see his son, it was just this — to be passed from one person that he cherished to another, a constant stream of excited reunion and rediscovery far beyond anything he’d ever imagined. 

Everywhere he turned was another treasured face. Here were Théodwyn and Éomund, full of tearful gratitude for the care he’d shown to their children, and then Edlenniel, full of confident advice about how best to get his bearings now that he had finally arrived. Háma gave a humble bow, and Théoden could have wept to see his captain restored to wholeness once again. His grandmothers came upon him together to fuss shamelessly, calling him handsome and asking after his appetite, until his mother interrupted for a greeting of her own, a few whispered words of gentle tenderness followed by a squeeze so tight that he wondered if death had given her unnatural strength.

Eventually, he found himself thrust in front of his father, and though he now shared the countenance and stature of his elders, it was hard not to feel like a meek young man again in Thengel’s presence. He was still kingly and imposing after all this time, and he eyed his son carefully, his gaze not unkind but exacting. Théoden stood a little straighter, ran a smoothing hand through his hair, aware that he was being sized up and somehow still nervous that he would be found wanting even as he knew that his own deeds had far surpassed any of Thengel’s much more peaceful reign. But he was rewarded with a broad smile, and though it was foolish, that one smile still carried more weight than all the other accolades and glory of all the years of his rule.

He might have stood there happily and recounted tales of bravery or wisdom for hours, basking in his father’s precious approval, but the sight of Thengel also put his own son back in his mind. There would be time enough for everyone else later. Now it was time to find Théodred, to restore the family that fate had broken. He looked once again for Elfhild, the first reassembled piece. 

She was waiting patiently at the edges of the crowd, giving others their turn, and the path to her was strewn with yet more well wishers and friends, another person to waylay him at every step. But she saw him coming, read the intention in his eyes, and with a few murmured words here and there and a steering hand on an elbow or two, she cleared a way for him. In a matter of seconds, she had pulled him free of the pack, and whatever she had said kept the others from following. Instead, she led him off across the field alone, climbing a low rise beyond which he could not yet see.

“We’re going to where Théodred is?” he asked, enjoying the soft warmth of her hand in his again.

“We are.”

“And he couldn’t come with everyone else?”

She hesitated. “He didn’t feel that he could.”

“Why not? Does he still suffer from the wounds that…” The last two words got trapped in his chest, unwilling to come out when the subject was his own child. Killed him. He shook his head, tried again. “Is he still recovering from the Fords? I thought everyone here was restored to health and vigor.” He wondered again how time passed in these lands, whether it had truly only been a few weeks since Théodred’s death.

She studied his face for a minute, though he didn’t know what she expected or hoped to see there. When she spoke again, she spoke slowly, choosing each word very carefully. “He is healed of body, just as you are. But this is an afterlife, not a paradise, and there are other hurts that can linger even here. Hurts of the heart or mind.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “You’re the one who can heal those for him. You can show him that things are not as he believes them to be.”

A pulsing ache awakened abruptly in his chest, almost as though it had waited to be told that such a pain was still possible. It was an ache of warning, his body’s sudden and instinctive knowledge that something was quite wrong even as he puzzled over her words. What did he not yet know? The answer lurked unseen at the edges of his understanding, a bruise still hidden inside an otherwise beautiful fruit. “What is it that he believes?”

She sighed, looking suddenly weary. “That you would not want to see him.”

It was said gently but there was no tone or expression that could soften such a blow, and he swallowed hard on the acrid tide of bile that surged up his throat at the very idea that his son could ever think such a thing. “Surely not that,” he stammered. “He knows better than that. He knows that I have always loved him. I could only love him.”

A flash of something crossed her face — exasperation? disbelief? — and she pulled them to a stop, fixing him with one of those hard looks that had always proved that her soft spoken nature was not to be mistaken for weakness. “Search your memories, Théoden. Are you really so sure that you gave him no reason to think differently?”

It was clear that she thought he had, and he wished she would just say exactly what she meant. But that had never been her way. She would lead him toward her point, but he had to take the last steps on his own, learn the lesson rather than being told. And so he thought, casting his mind back over a lifetime of moments with his son, not entirely sure what he was searching for but hoping he would find it nonetheless. 

A stream of images blurred past. First words, first steps, first rides, first commands. Dinners and birthdays and funerals. Quiet nights together at the hearth and long days at work side by side. Laughing at jokes shared only between them, exchanging wordless glances across a crowded room. Teaming up to wrangle little Éowyn’s mischief or keep little Éomer’s temper in check. Disagreements, yes, but always finding a way back to understanding and love. Celebrating achievements, coming to each other’s aid, seeing each other through illnesses. And, at last, his mind stuck on that final thought. Sickness, decline, despair. 

Fragments of a memory began to emerge, swimming up from the murky depths of those awful months with Gríma always in his ear. They stood as a confused patchwork in his mind, some days clear enough while others drifted in a strange, thick fog, dim and indistinct. In the chaos of his healing and all that followed, he had never bothered to turn his thoughts to those days or those obscured memories, treating them as a wound left to heal beneath a fragile layer of scar tissue. He told himself and others that there was no purpose to wallowing in difficult moments, that what came next mattered much more than what had come before, and no one had pushed him to do otherwise. But he tried now. Somewhere in that neglected past was the answer to Elfhild’s question, and he would find it. He set all else aside and trained his mind instead on Gríma’s pale face in the darkened hall, his cold fingers against a fevered forehead, his voice dripping with honeyed sweetness to mask the acidity of his words.

What returned first was the dizziness and the nausea. The unendurable exhaustion that seemed to slacken only when he allowed Gríma to send all others away, or when he retreated to his rooms, leaving Gríma to issue orders in his name. Next came the relentless pain in his head, knocking around in the soft places behind his eyes and shortening his temper, eating away at his concentration, confusing all his thoughts and trampling all his instincts. Then the maddening frustration that his body had betrayed him so suddenly, making him weak before his time and less than the king he wanted to be. 

And then there was Théodred. Faithful, diligent Théodred, so often before him with well meaning worries, questions for which there were no answers. So often carrying reports of problems needing redress and seeking permission to act when all Théoden wanted and needed was blessed quiet, free of the burden to think of anyone else’s challenges but his own. He had no patience or care for anything but the promise of deliverance from his suffering, which hid always somewhere beyond his reach. His pain led him to despair, and the despair to mistrust and anger, urged on by the false whisperings of the advisor forever at his elbow. Usurper, Théoden had named his son at last, in a voice icy with dismissal. Seeking needless confrontation with Isengard just to stoke your own personal glory. Disloyal to father and crown, who desire only to be left in peace. Go back to the Westfold. You are not wanted here. 

The memory had all the makings of a nightmare, except that he could tell from the look in Elfhild’s eyes that it had really happened. He didn’t have to speak the past to her. She knew it all already, no doubt having heard it from Théodred himself, whose recollections of that day would be unbearably sharp and endlessly pored over even as Théoden’s own were still hazy and thin, just being pulled back into focus. She knew that he had failed at the simplest of tasks, unable to return the love and loyalty that had been offered to him freely by someone who deserved it without condition.

His knees threatened to buckle beneath him, and if he weren’t dead already, he was certain he would die now of the shame, its curdled bitterness indistinguishable from the bile still lingering on the back of his tongue. He took a few deep breaths, trying to find his voice again. “I hadn’t remembered,” he finally managed to whisper. “Those were dark days, and even now I cannot recall them all clearly.”

“Perhaps you didn’t really want to remember them because you were afraid of what you’d find there.”

He felt a reflexive indignation as his pride, still feebly alive, rebelled at the suggestion of such a weakness, to have not only failed but been such a coward as to hide the memory of the failure from himself. But the reflex deserted him as quickly as it came, snuffed out in an instant and replaced instead with raw, piercing regret. She was right, just as she always had been. Always able to understand him better than he could understand himself, willing to look not just at the reflection on the surface but down into the deep waters and sediment. Always unafraid to show him what she had seen down there, the things that he might not want to hear or admit but needed to know, no matter how unpleasant. Where others had skin and muscle and bone, she had something of metal inside, something that never bent or broke. She would have been a queen for the ages. 

Tears pricked his eyes, a welling tide of remorse and grief. “I made a mess of things, Hildy.” He shrank away from her gaze, suddenly feeling much older, more frail. “I didn’t mean to, but I did. He needed me, and I wasn’t strong enough.”

The sternness of her expression softened immediately. “I have only what he confided to me to understand what happened, but I know that you aren’t someone who is given to wanton cruelty. Of course I know that. I wouldn’t be here with you now if I thought otherwise. And, deep down, Théodred knows that, too. He remembers the good and loving father that was at his side for most of his life. That’s why he is so confused by all that happened, and it’s also why I believe he will forgive.” She gripped his shoulders, pulling him up from the slump he’d collapsed into. “You raised a good man, and he can find his way past this… if you can find the humility in yourself to admit error before your son.” 

It was not the way of kings to acknowledge mistakes or seek absolution from their heirs. Old Folcwine, adrift in the grief of his lost twins, had allowed his remaining boy to run wild and unguided for years, until it was far too late to pull Fengel back from a life of feckless greed even if his father had admitted to the problem. Fengel had driven Thengel into exile rather than yield a single inch in the struggles between them, and Thengel himself had been too proud and too stubborn to be on easy terms with his daughters when they felt he’d done them wrong. But Théoden would not be yet another generation to lose the trust of his child, not from obstinate vanity. There was no question in his mind. He would flay the skin from his own bones if that’s what it took to restore himself to his son’s good opinion. He could be humble for Théodred, for Elfhild, for himself. For each of them alone and for all of them together, the family that had only ever lived in his dreams, warm and whole and right. 

“Take me to him,” he said. “Please.” And she nodded.

By now, the day was coming to an end, the sky and clouds above them tinged with the roses and purples of early twilight and the grass below their feet studded with the bright pinpricks of fireflies flitting from blade to blade. Just over the rise ahead, a great hall came into view, made of carved timbers and topped with a thatched roof that caught the last golden glow of the setting sun. A fenced pasture of horses lay to one side, and the ordinary sound of whinnies and nickering brought some comfort to his anxious spirit. On the other side, a lush garden stretched out, full of riotous colors even in the fading light and traversed by a series of neat stone paths. 

A lone figure walked one of these paths now, trailing his fingers through the velvety blossoms and shining leaves that spilled out of every pot and climbed every trellis. Théoden didn’t need to see his face to know that it was Théodred; he could feel it in his chest, in the resetting of something out of place that had shifted back at last into the little groove where it belonged.

“Wait here,” she said, and he watched silently as she went to Théodred alone. 

The sight of them side by side filled his heart to overflowing, at once so wondrously unexpected and yet so utterly natural. Théodred had always favored his mother’s family in face and build, and though he’d died eleven years older than Elfhild had ever been, he was still every bit her child. The resemblance was startlingly strong, and not just in appearance but manner, too. The tilt of their heads when listening, the graceful movement of their hands when talking, the teeth working absently at a bottom lip when thinking. Even a stranger would see it and marvel.

More undeniable still was the obvious bond between them, a well-worn comfort that belied the short weeks since Théodred’s death. He looped his arm through hers as they paced the garden in conversation, and she leaned a cheek to his shoulder when they stopped and took a seat under an arch of flowering vines. They spoke and moved like people who had lived a lifetime together, who were safe and happy in each other’s familiar company. Théoden wondered whether she had built this relationship entirely in the brief time since Théodred arrived or if it had somehow always existed. Perhaps it was a closeness that started before birth, in those months when she was all he knew of the world, and then had slumbered in dormancy during the long years of their separation, a flower waiting for the right moment to burst into bloom again.  

They talked for some time, to a conclusion that Théoden couldn’t discern, but finally she looked up and beckoned him over. 

He hurried to join them, and as he neared, he could begin to see all the ways that Théodred looked different now than he had in the months before his death. His face seemed softer, less drawn, and the dark smudges of sleeplessness below his eyes had faded away. Even the scar that had cut through one brow ever since he took a childhood tumble from a pony was gone, disappeared as though it had never existed in the first place. 

Théoden could still remember the day that scar was earned, his heart in his throat as he watched his precious boy spill to the frost-hardened ground. The wound bled heavily, and little Théodred had tried so hard to be brave right up until he felt the first bite of the needle that would sew it closed again. To distract from the pain Théoden had danced around the healer’s room, jigging and shimmying like a fool for his son’s delight until the stitches were all but forgotten. Thinking again of the sweetly innocent giggles he’d elicited almost made him wish now for the scar’s return. 

Their greeting in the garden was tentative and restrained, and Théoden felt suddenly shy in the face of his son’s reserve, embarrassed by the contrast to the instinctive ease with Elfhild that was all the more apparent now as Théodred’s hand sought hers for reassurance. Théoden fought back the urge to add his hand atop theirs, clasping both at once for the very first time. But as much as he wanted that, he also was sure he couldn’t bear it if Théodred flinched or withdrew in response, and so he only gripped his own hands together behind his back, where he could twist and wring them out of sight. 

An awkward silence settled over them with the dusk. Elfhild gave a gentle cough, an unspoken encouragement to begin — Béma, where should he begin? — and a thousand things to say rushed through his mind all at once. How it had been discovered that Gríma caused his illnesses, tormenting his body so that his hunger for relief could be preyed upon. How it became more and more difficult to fully understand what was happening as Gríma drove everyone else away, leaving him more dependent than ever on his advisor for news and counsel that had proved wickedly and tragically false. How he had been able to see Théodred’s mounting distress over the months, and that of Éomer and Éowyn and even Háma and Elfhelm, but Gríma had convinced him it wasn’t true concern but strategy. How it wasn’t until Gandalf arrived that anyone had laid bare to him what was taking place and how to end it. How, from that moment, he had given his all to make up for his weaknesses and failings even unto death.

But he couldn’t say any of these things, justifications that rang hollow even to his own ears. They were ultimately meaningless in light of the incontrovertible truth: whatever the motive and means, he had deeply hurt his son. There was no hiding that ugly reality, not from himself or anyone else. Théodred might or might not offer him forgiveness, but the grace for such a miracle would surely not come from a self-serving excuse or complicated explanation.

“I love you,” he said at last, choosing simplicity instead. His voice broke on the final word, but he swallowed and continued on. “I never stopped loving you, no matter what happened back there. But you deserved so much better. I’m truly sorry, and I always will be.”

Elfhild gave him an approving nod, but Théodred sat in silence, chewing at his lip in that telltale sign of thought as he weighed these new words against the ones he had carried with him to his death. Théoden waited long, wretched seconds, his breath stopped up in his lungs, searching his son’s face for any sign, good or bad. No terror he’d ever faced in his life could match that moment, the fear that he might have to turn away alone, robbed yet again of the family of his yearning and by his own foolishness this time. 

But just as he wondered whether he could withstand another moment of the anguish, Théodred took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, a decision reached. He shifted over to make space between himself and Elfhild. “Would you like to sit and talk, all three of us together?” A small, hesitant smile came to his lips. “I think I would like that.”

Théoden took the seat with a grateful heart and shaking hands. For the next few hours, he spoke a lot, and he listened even more. There were some hard words and hard truths, which he accepted, but as the moon tracked its bright path across the sky, there was also mercy and understanding, generosity and solace, even laughter and pride. And when the cool, dark air of earliest morning brought chills to their skin and both Théodred and Elfhild drew in nearer for warmth, his heart might have flown out of his chest to soar in radiant exultation among the fading stars overhead. An afterlife but not a paradise, Elfhild had said, and he knew that she spoke true, that he had more work to do and more forgiveness to seek. But at that moment, with his wife and child tucked up against him, nearly everything he loved most in the world fitted into the span of his own two arms, paradise had never felt more real.

**********************

Unnecessary post-story rambles:

Reading Unfinished Tales and getting the fuller story of how Saruman, through Gríma, came to manipulate and control Théoden really changed my view of his character forever. Because his plight wasn’t caused by magic. There was possibly some poison involved but Tolkien straight up says that the primary method was just Gríma’s cunning and skill — isolating Théoden, giving him a lot of bad advice, turning him against people he used to trust and encouraging his worst instincts. Of course, those are all bad things to do to someone, but they’re also things that Théoden has to take some accountability for. Whether he meant to or not, he let some really bad stuff happen while he was still in control of his faculties. People were hurt and even died, and it’s always been a little weird to me how the story just blows right by that. Just because Gandalf wisens Théoden up to Gríma’s game and he subsequently distinguishes himself as a hero, we’re all just supposed to forget those hurts and those deaths? Théoden didn’t feel a whole ton of guilt and sorrow about it all?

SO, I made this my conception of Théoden’s manipulation. He was poisoned, making him physically ill whenever Gríma needed to affect his judgment because it was a lot easier to push him around when he was feeling tired and in pain and miserable. But Théoden made his own decisions, urged on by bad advice and made possible by the way that his physical ailments degraded his quality of life and made him desperate, angry, selfish and impatient. Then once he was “healed” by Gandalf, he literally trauma-blocked the worst of it out of his mind, just refusing to even allow himself to think about it because how could you go on in those circumstances otherwise? It’s not until Elfhild, having heard Théodred’s experience of the whole thing, pushes him to confront those truths that he has any real conscious awareness of the lowest points — and then, of course, can begin to atone for them with those he hurt the most.

(Final note, the point about having more forgiveness that he still needs to seek? That’s the marker that when Éowyn dies one day and shows up in the afterlife herself, Théoden has another BIG apology due for everything about how he allowed the situation with Grima to start, continue and end!)

[captonite]

Mini Mayhem (And the Softest Spiral)

Supernatural | Found Family Fluff | Chaos, Soft Boys, Babyfication |

The witch was laughing. That was their first bad sign.

“Okay,” Dean growled, tightening his grip on the angel blade. “What the hell’s so funny?”

The witch just grinned, all blood and madness. “You’ll see.”

And then she said a word that cracked through the room like thunder, and the air changed.

There was a scream — but it wasn’t the witch.

It was Sachi.

Sam reached her first.

But when he got there, the scream had stopped.

She wasn’t there anymore.

In her place was a tiny child, standing barefoot on the floor, wrapped in an adult-sized flannel.

She blinked up at him. Wide brown eyes. Pouty little mouth. Wispy hair falling into her face.

Three years old. Max.

Sam stared. “Oh no.”

Dean sprinted in behind him, blade still drawn. “Where is she?! Is she—”

He stopped cold.

His face did something Sam had never seen before. “What the hell.”

The toddler blinked at them again. Then she beamed.

“Dee!!”

Dean nearly dropped his blade.

Sam’s mouth fell open.

The baby girl clumsily waddled toward Dean and wrapped her tiny arms around his leg. “DeeDeeDeeDee!”

“Okay,” Dean said weakly. “I’m gonna have a stroke.”

She turned to Sam. “Sammyyyy!”

And then he had a stroke.

Later, at the Bunker

“She’s three. Like—legit, actually three,” Sam said, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Dean was holding her like she was made of crystal, tucked against his chest, tiny fists curled into his shirt. She had finally stopped babbling and was now snoring softly.

“Dude,” he whispered. “Her socks are like the size of Tic Tacs.”

Sam flipped open a lore book. “The witch is dead, which means we’ve got to reverse it ourselves. I think it’s a mind-body curse, tied to regression.”

Dean frowned. “So... she doesn’t remember anything?”

Chubs stirred and mumbled, “Deeeee,” before falling back asleep.

Dean looked like he was about to cry. “I think we’re gonna die.”

Day One

They made her a pillow fort in the library. They fed her mac and cheese and apple slices. Dean tried to teach her how to say “Chevy,” and Sam read her lore books like fairy tales.

And when she fell asleep in Sam’s lap, Dean pulled out his phone and whispered, “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Sam smiled gently. “She’s so small, Dean.”

Dean was silent.

Then: “I forgot how much I missed this.”

Sam glanced up.

Dean wasn’t looking at the baby. He was looking somewhere else — past her. Maybe into the past.

“I mean,” Dean said quickly, like he was covering something, “it’s just... she deserves to have been a kid, y’know? Not just... thrown into our mess.”

Sam nodded slowly.

And they both looked down at the tiny thing asleep in their arms, wearing a sweater Dean had cut and hemmed from one of his old band shirts.

She sucked her thumb in her sleep and whispered, “Sammy.”

Sam's breath hitched.

Dean whispered, “We’re screwed.”

Day Two: Baby Chaos

“You let her eat glitter glue?!” “It said ‘non-toxic!’ She looked hungry!”

“Dean, she just cut her own bangs!” “Technically, you left the scissors on the table, Einstein!”

“Why is there pancake batter on the wall—”

“DEEEEEE,” came the shout from the kitchen.

“...Never mind.”

They’d gone full spiral.

Dean was on Etsy looking at tiny flannel jackets and custom kid-sized boots. Sam had ordered three sets of baby-safe lore books and was halfway through a paper titled “The Psychological Development of Toddlers with Supernatural Memory Regression.”

At one point, Chubs waddled up in a unicorn onesie and showed Dean a scribbled drawing labeled “ME + DEE + SAMMY = HAPPY.”

Dean clutched his chest.

Sam almost choked on his coffee.

They hung it up on the fridge with a pie magnet.

Dean whispered later, “I think this is what retirement is supposed to feel like.”

Day Three: The Spiral Deepens

Cas popped in, saw Baby Chubs wearing one of his trench coats like a blanket, and simply whispered, “...I would burn the world for her.”

She squealed, “CAAAAS!!” and showed him her toy moose.

Cas deadass knelt down, kissed her on the forehead, and said, “I have witnessed celestial miracles. None as pure as this.”

Dean was like, “Okay, we need to do a cleansing or something, because the angel’s crying now.”

Sam sniffled too. “Shut up. So are you.”

That night, Dean carried her to bed, tucked in with a stuffed bunny and a nightlight shaped like a star.

She mumbled sleepily, “Dee?”

He brushed her hair back gently. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

Her little fingers curled around his.

“Stay.”

Dean sat beside the bed and cupped her cheek with his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby girl.”

Day Four: The Return

They found the reversal charm.

Sam was nervous. “What if it hurts her?”

Dean looked down at her — still in his arms, half-asleep and drooling on his hoodie.

“We’d never let it,” he said.

Cas performed the chant. A soft light filled the room.

And then...

She was there.

Older. Herself. Back in her body.

Curled up on the floor in a pile of blankets and Dean’s hoodie.

She blinked up at them. “...Why do I smell glitter?”

Dean didn’t answer.

He just dropped to his knees and yanked her into the tightest hug in human history.

“You said my name,” he whispered into her hair. “You said Dee first.”

Sam hugged her from the other side. “You tackled Dean and drooled on his face.”

Sachi blinked. “Sounds about right.”

Dean was definitely crying. “You wore a unicorn onesie.”

“And you looked adorable,” Sam added.

Sachi smiled slowly. “You guys really missed me, huh?”

Dean pulled back just to look at her face, eyes red. “You have no idea.”

---

Baby Drawings and Flannels

Later that week, they found one of her baby scribbles still taped to the fridge.

It was a stick figure drawing of three people — big heads, smiling faces, labeled “DEEE,” “SAMMY,” and “MEEEEE.”

Dean took a picture of it.

Printed it.

And framed it in the war room.

Sam pretended to protest.

Dean just shrugged. “She made it when she was three. And she still remembered us. That’s gotta mean something.”

Sachi walked in with toast in her mouth and said, “Still remember you now, dorks.”

Dean grinned. “You still call me Dee.”

“Wanna make something of it?”

He held up a tiny flannel shirt from the shopping bag. “Only if you wear this again.”

Sam groaned. “Here we go.”

[randomhomestuckdaily]

Day 38: vriska

go check out my friends blog 4 more vriska @wispy-scribbles

[wombywoo]

how do you get your lineart so smooth? 😩

lots of practice!!! this sounds like a cop-out, but really--it's true! you'll only achieve nice smooth lineart in digital art if you've gotten comfortable with your tablet and pen sensitivity, so that means lots of scribbling and hatching to get a feel for it. my best tip is to make your lines quick and fluid--don't hesitate at all because your pen will pick up on it and turn the line wobbly; make fast, broad strokes and keep going, you can adjust them later. for more detailed lineart, zoom in! try to keep those lines short and precise, less bold than the frame of the figure.

here's an example of what I'm working on now, with some of my pen settings:

I tend to keep the opacity pretty high, but the flow can shift depending on how pencil-like I want the line to be. and for pieces like this, I keep the brush size the same for the whole figure

different textures call for different line types. experiment with the way the brush moves--thicker and bolder in the middle vs thin wispy lines, spontaneous, jerky movements vs. controlled swoops, etc. I tend to exaggerate the juncture where lines meet by filling in the corner a bit, and I'm not too big on having bold and shadowed lines (this is a 'style choice', but really, I wish I could make more dramatic lineart 😔)

all in all--just have fun with it! lineart styles vary, so keep practicing, and you'll be able to achieve a smooth, effortless effect once you've gotten comfortable with it <3

[ukiyoryn]

Hermione barely noticed his arrival. By the time he stepped into her cubicle, her desk was a disaster zone of half-open tomes, scribbled notes, and a half-drunk cup of tea.

She immediately pointed towards the exit, which was… just the walkway. “Absolutely not.”

“Morning, Granger,” Draco drawled, leaning against the cubicle wall. It wobbled, and he gave it a cursory glance of disapproval before standing straight again. “Sorry, I already tried. Kingsley thinks I’m the one who needs to babysit you. Thrilled to be here.”

Hermione sighed and went back to work.

She didn’t bother to look up as she thumbed through the pages of two books at the same time. “I don’t need a babysitter, Malfoy. And I’m busy.”

“So I see,” Draco said, eyeing the chaotic desk and, more importantly, the ominous crate. “What’ve you got there?”

“A delivery.”

“Very quick off the mark, aren’t you?”

She narrowed her eyes, flicking a glare his way, before flipping two pages. “I believe there are some cursed artifacts from Japan inside.” She waved her wand over the crate, muttering diagnostic charms. “I just haven’t been able to open it yet.” The diagnostic glittered into being, sparkling various red and purple hues before exploding into shimmering dust.

“I’m assuming that’s not supposed to happen?”

Her nose wrinkled. “No.”

“How long have you been at this?”

“All fuc—” she cleared her throat, forced a placid smile, and then tried again. “All day.”

She finally resigned to look at him, sitting back in her own squeaky swivel chair, she let her gaze dart over his person. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually spoken to Malfoy. Perhaps two years ago during a New Year’s party at Seamus’s pub?

He looked the same, and by the same, she meant otherworldly attractive and annoyingly posh.

He was still overwhelmingly tall compared to the average wizard—not that she expected him to shrink any time soon—but it was still jarring to witness up close. That shock of pale hair remained coiffed and shiny no matter the state of his person or the time of day, and Hermione found herself glaring at his otherwise perfect, punctilious, prim appearance.

His Auror robes were, of course, immaculately pressed and somehow looked to be without a single hint of lint or even a rogue strand of hair. She resisted the urge to look at her own robes, knowing they must be frumpled and stained from the hours she had spent crouched in various positions all throughout her cubicle.

“I figured, given the state of your hair.”

Her brows nearly hit her hairline beneath her charmed bangs, cast daily to remain in a near perfect state of just enough wispy-ness (humidity non-withstanding). She immediately pat her mane of chestnut curls, no longer frizzy and untamed as they once had been in her girlhood. Her expression darkened when the beginnings of a grin began to overtake his mouth.

Her hair charms were still perfectly fine.

Wanker, she thought, eyes turning into little slits.

Swot, his answering sneer replied.

“So, aside from your failure in figuring out what you’re looking at, what are your thoughts on why exactly my presence is needed?”

“I assume it has something to do with my overwhelming status of importance within the Ministry.”

Her smile was not coy, but positively catty.

“Yes, yes, the Wizarding World’s Leader of Innovating Ideas. I rather believe the title suggests all you know how to do is bore an audience to death with useless knowledge.”

“I’ll have you know I have a combined number of eight degrees, two of which are mastery’s and one a doctorate—”

“—Granger, I jest.”

She snapped her lips together into a tight line.

He waved a lazy hand towards the crate, resigning himself to accept their current predicament. She begrudgingly did the same.

“Catch me up to speed.”

So, she did, and somehow, Draco did not appear to be the least bit bored. He asked her questions, parroted her answers back for clarity before he streamlined some of his own opinions and observations.

[teecupangel]

Once upon a moonlit night, in the forgotten attic of an ancient manor, a spectral figure with wispy tendrils of mist for limbs, sat at an old oak desk. Beside her, a ferret, her faithful companion, scurried about, his tiny paws brushing against the dusty floorboards.

The ghost longed to share her tales with the world, but her ethereal form made it impossible to hold a pen or parchment. Yet, she possessed a voice that could weave enchanting stories. With a rustle of excitement, the ferret scampered over to a worn journal, ready to serve as her conduit once more.

As she whispered her latest creation, the ferret diligently transcribed every word, his delicate claws scratching across the yellowed pages. Together, they brought to life tales of adventure, love, and mystery, each word a testament to their unwavering bond.

One evening, as the stars twinkled outside the attic window, they both decided to send one of their stories to a faraway land once more, where they hoped it would find its way into the hearts of readers. With a flicker of her translucent form, she dictated the letter while he scribbled furiously, his whiskers twitching with concentration.

With the letter complete, they entrusted it to the care of the night, watching as it vanished into the darkness, carried by an unseen breeze. And though they knew not if their words would ever be read, the ghost and the ferret found solace in the knowledge that they had shared a piece of their souls with the world.

As dawn painted the sky with hues of pink and gold, a letter arrived at the post office.

Inside it says: "I've been researching about mythological creatures and came upon the Manananggal. It's creepy and cool so Desmond or anyone else you prefer becoming this would either be badass or angsty."

For those unfamiliar with the Manananggal (and I will definitely misspell it in this post at least once), it’s a mythical creature of the night in Philippine folklore.

During the day, they’re normal looking people but, at night, their upper torso sprout bat wings and separates from the lower toros (some describe it with intestines dangling, some don’t). During this separated form, sunlight burns them so they have to fuse back before sunrise.

It made its debut as the first Filipino folklore related demon in Shin Megami Tensei V too.

…

Okay soooooo…

When I was a kid, I watched this horror movie that has a Manananggal in it. Scared the crap out of me when I was a kid.

There was this scene where the Manananngal was on the roof and the roof was made of some kind of leaves so the Manananggal could slip her really long tongue inside while the people sleep to eat the unborn baby of this pregnant woman.

(Because unborn babies are like one of their favorite food or something)

That gave me nightmares for months (and made me stare into the ceiling unable to sleep at times XD)

And now that I’m no longer a child, all I can think of is…

The Manananggal’s greatest weakness is that finding their lower half and sprinkling it with salt would make it impossible for the two halves to combine and, apparently, Manananngal burn in sunlight IF they’re not ‘fused’ (so yeah, they’re sorta counted as a kind of vampire)

In other words, the best way to defeat a Manananggal is to find their lower half and drench it with salt XD

I absolutely got sidetracked so let’s focus back on Desmond.

For this one, the first time he transformed into a Manananggal, he freaked out because, holy shit, he separated from his lower body.

What the fuck. What the fuck.

And that’s the start of his problem.

First of all: he has no idea what a Manananggal is (unless we throw him a bone and either (1) make him read horror folklore of other countries as a hobby or (2) make his mother Filipino or Filipino descent who knows about Manananggal and used it to scare him as a kid so he’d sleep early) so he’s flying by the seat of his pants (hehe)

And now we have four difficulties:

Easy Mode: Desmond became a Manananggal in modern day (after the Solar Flare? His mother is actually a Manananggal and passed it on him? Shrug). This means he can just check the net to figure out what he can and cannot do.

Normal Mode: Desmond becomes a Manananggal after being transported to Ratonhnhaké:ton’s time. Why is this normal mode? Because Manila was under British occupation for like… a couple of months in 1760s so there is British presence in the Philippines (somewhat) during the long Spanish Colonial rule. By this point, we can make an argument that the Spanish Brotherhood and the British Brotherhood would have some-ish information about the Philippines so it’s possible that they could be able to find information (or have a Filipino Assassin that’s in Spain or something) that can help Desmond.

Hard Mode: Desmond becomes a Manananggal after being transported to Ezio’s time. Leonardo could help try and understand how this all work. But the most important thing is that they would have the Apple depending on when you put Desmond. If the Apple can give them information about Desmond’s current situation, this lowers the difficulty. (aka: hardest during the start of AC2, after the prologue of Brotherhood and, well, all of Revelations until they enter the library)

Hard-er Mode: Altaïr’s time would be a harder time for Desmond because the best time to kick him into that timeline is AC1 so the Apple is with Al Mualim. He’d have to spend months trying to figure shit out while Altaïr tries to help and is also distracted with his missions. Of course, if this is after AC1, then the Apple is there to help out and Altaïr wouldn’t mind using it. (aka: only hard in the beginning then smooth sailing from there)

(As for food, blood is a staple food supply for Manananggal as far as I know so he can drink that instead of you know…)

========= For the alchemist side of this =========

There were many strange and wonderful things he had seen over the course of delivering items from and for the alchemist.

But this…

“I’ll have to check if we can actually deliver this.” He said with a frown, staring at the pair of bat wings that the alchemist had given him.

Well…

Dropped on his poor battered wagon anyway.

“Why? It’s not alive.”

“Oh, that’s not the problem.” He said as he scratched his cheek, “We have a weight and length limit.”

The alchemist’s brows furrowed at that.

“Oh.”

They both stared at the bat wings, each wing as big as the alchemist themselves.

How tall were they anyway?

5’4 maybe? 5’3?

He wasn’t sure.

This might be too big for them to deliver.

Shame.

It looked so real.

“It’s not… like… what do cityfolks call it? Taxidermatology or something?”

“No, it’s purely made with alchemy.” The alchemist answered before walking inside.

He opened his mouth to call them back but they returned soon enough with a wicker basket that had some kind of lid. They pulled the lid open and placed it on the ground before grabbing the bat wings.

He took a step towards the alchemist when they wobbled under the weight of the bat wings and his eyes widened as his jaw dropped when the alchemist began to put the bat wing inside the basket.

Slowly, the large batwing disappeared into the basket. It didn’t change shape or showed any sign of ever receiving such an impossible load.

Once the rest of the bat wing was inside, the alchemist closed the lid and handed the basket to him.

“Here.”

“Uuuuhhh… Alchemy?” He asked as he took the basket from them, earning a nod.

“Yup.”