love-note-musings

[love-note-musings]

So this is a speed up video of not even a demo, more like a prototype for the creepypasta dating sim i working on, that's why it looks kinda ugly JSJSJSJSJSJ these are my main ideas for the game

- I want it to be a history rich rpg, i'm learning how to use rpg maker lol, but with otome components obviously

- Have a customizable MC

- The confirmed routes are my most loved creepypastas characters JSJSJSJS: Jeff the killer, Ben Drowned, Slenderman, Ticci Toby, Masky and Hoodie (mh fans don't kill me), Eyeless Jack and

-Maybes routes: Laughing Jack, Bloody Painter, Homicidal Liu etc

- Girl routes for a future DLC be strong lesbians lol JSJSJSJSJ

- spanish/english translates

and etc etc etc, feel free to ask me about this i will answer with no problem, i can maybe talk a little about the main plot too....... btw if you guys like my work commission me bc i need moneey 😭 JSJSJSJSJS

[love-note-musings]

✶⋆.˚꩜ eyeless jack x reader | creepypasta oneshot

word count 1.9k

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

     He did not particularly enjoy his specific lifestyle. Nor did he have a choice in the matter, really. The first time he realized what he had done, when the senses came back to his head and he felt human again, he couldn’t control himself from lashing out. Trying to slash and cut wherever he could on his body, and it didn’t do anything but make him weak and feeble, causing him to have to hunt again. No, he definitely didn’t enjoy any part of his new life, there was no control when he became too hungry, too weak, and it was like a motor firing up in his body that forced him to move forward, to devour. There was always a feeling of emptiness in his stomach that he couldn’t fill. He was Trapped. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, and he couldn’t hurt himself enough either. 

     It took such a long time to adapt to it all, he wouldn’t have called it “acceptance”, it was more like compliance. This compliance was crafted out of guilt whenever the ‘human’ side of him resurfaced, and he saw all of the blood dripping down his mouth and chest, the flesh caught in his teeth and the stench of death that hung on him, that he carried with him. In all honesty, he found himself disgusting, he couldn’t handle seeing his reflection, wanting to just go around forgetting who he was and only remembering who he had been. But even that small piece of liberty had been fading from him. The part that had once made him human. And he was livid that it was being taken from him too. 

     He’d hope you’d understand his anguish, his one last withering tie to humanity, one last glimpse into that lifestyle. Jack had kept many things about himself hidden, preferring to listen to you speak while he sat next to you on rooftops in the night, he wanted to hear every small and excruciating detail about your mundane day, even if it was almost exactly the same as the day before. He ate up your stories, hanging onto your every word and basking in it. Every time, he reminded himself what he could and what he couldn’t tell you. 

     They say that naturally meeting someone was the best way to start a friendship. ‘Find things in common’, ‘make small talk’, all of those types of things. Like, say you see someone at a coffee shop, you approach them and ask if they come there often, and when they say no you bashfully try to pull off some off-handed joke that ensues more awkward laughter. That’s how you made friends, apparently. 

     You were not like most people. You didn’t find small-talk engaging, you didn’t try to meet people spontaneously or go out of your way to talk to them. In general, you kept to yourself, laying low and apart from the crowds. More often that not you’d be the person approached in cafes, being the one to awkwardly laugh until the other person walked away. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to make acquaintances or that you thought you were “too good” for company, you just didn’t find it easy to talk to people, not exactly ‘shy’ and not exactly a ‘social butterfly’ either.

    And, you’d suppose the one friend you did keep was quite strange, maybe a bit “out of the ordinary”, but he wasn’t bad by any means. No, you’ve known Jack for a while now, meeting him while you sat on your rooftop. Every since then, you met each other there in the night, chatting and conversing about everything you couldn’t say in the daytime. You weren’t able to talk to many people and to be completely honest, you were excited that someone as attentive as Jack was your friend, he listened to what you said with great interest, even if you couldn’t completely figure him out. 

     His physical appearance was the most jarring part, and he wore the same thing every night. A black and blue mask with a dripping substance coming from the eyes, quite an unnecessary detail if you asked yourself. The rest of his attire was all black and consumed his body. It made you wonder if he ate right and worry for his health.

     So whenever he’d stop by, you’d offer if you could get him something to eat, some snacks or maybe buy him a meal. Jack always declined, claiming that he had already eaten earlier. Unbeknownst to you, he never lied when he said that he had eaten either.

     You see, he wanted to keep himself composed around you, calm and steady with no temptations. Thats why he always ate before meeting you, and if he couldn’t, he simply wouldn’t show up. It helped that you had never fully seen his body, otherwise he knew that you’d truly hound him for not eating more, and he knew that you wouldn’t stop until he gave in. No part of caring for him was your fault, you didn’t know the effects “regular” food had on his stomach, about how he had wretched and writhed for days after trying to gorge himself on anything remotely apart of the human diet shortly after his transformation. The only thing his new body had an appetite for was everything he craved to feel like: human. He only ever felt human around you nowadays. Regardless, all of those feelings you gave  him went away whenever he had to eat again. 

      Alas, tonight was a new night after all.

      “How are you doing tonight, y/n?” Jack asked as he clambered next to you on the roof, sitting with his knees to his chest. 

     You let out a hefty sigh and remained fixated on something on the ground, “I’m doing fine, I guess.”

     He observed your expression for a moment, the way your legs dangled off the side and your back was hunched over, arms slack. Your eyebrows were furrowed and you had a far-away look in your eyes. It seemed that you finally went somewhere he couldn’t quite follow you as easily, and you certainly didn’t look “fine” to his guess.

      “Okay, I’m not actually fine.” You admit curtly, trying to regain your composure by straightening your back and turning your focus onto Jack. “I guess you could say that I’ve had a bad day today.”

     Jack listened as you began your rant, raving about the different factors of your day, everything from the mildest inconvenience to… the not so mild ones. 

     “Sometimes I don’t know why I can’t just be normal. Or talk to people normally. I don’t know why I can’t realize that I’m lonely until it happens and I’m really alone then.” Choking out the last couple of words, a few tears dropped from your eyes and cascaded down your cheeks and neck. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what’s happening to me.” You muttered, wiping your eyes frantically with your hands. 

     “I don’t feel it until it hurts sometimes, too.” Jack said. “Nowadays,” he hesitated, “nowadays, I feel it almost all of the time. I understand you. It’s okay if you need to cry, I know that I feel the need too.”

     More tears threatened to fall and you try your best to keep it bottled up inside of you, but your chest hurt and you needed to release that pressure. Your chest strained as you finally allowed those tears to fall, and you hiccuped up and down, suddenly feeling small. You turn to Jack and wrap your arms around his shoulders, hiding your face against his body and allowing the sobs to rack your body more freely, feeling shielded away from the world. “Thank you.”

     Jack tenses. Feeling you so close to him. You. Close to him. He wills whatever control he still has over his body not to tear you open right then and there. “Y..” he swallows a lump in his throat, using every ounce of self-control he still has to remain there, his mind screaming at him to run, or worse, eat you. “You’re welcome.” Shaking and hesitant, he places his hand on your upper-back, guiding you further into him, sharing body heat. Your body shook and you started crying just a little bit harder when you felt him return the gesture, clinging onto him even tighter.

     It took him a couple moments to trust his movements, pleading at himself in his mind to not mess this up, reminding every cell in his body how much these interactions mattered. It took a couple of moments until he fully enveloped you in his arms, catching you off guard as you felt his full embrace. “It’s okay,” he whispered to you softly, “it’ll be okay and you’ll survive. You’ll be good.”

     He wanted to say everything he had been hiding to you right then, to tell you how close you were to dancing with death as you held him close and he listened to your heartbeat. He also wished that he’d never have to tell you, but as he was holding you there, feeling you close to him, feeling how your body reacted, he knew that he’d have a hard time leaving if he didn’t. Jack was attached to your being fully, and he hoped for now he could communicate everything that he had to with this moment. Just you and him, human only for the night.

     And he knew there wouldn’t be any more nights like these in the same way as they were once he told you everything. Once he showed you all of the parts he had come to despise about himself. There was still some bleak glimmer of hope that told him that maybe you would accept him, and that he could learn to trust himself more, and that the two of you would have more nights with your arms wrapped around each other.  

     “Thank you, Jack.” You said murmuring. Not ‘EJ’, you said Jack. Just Jack. And he felt himself swoon. 

     Even if this was just another dream that would dissipate into the night, getting lost and tangled amongst all of the other lovers’ requests to the moon and stars, it wouldn’t matter. Jack tightened his hold on you, drawing you in as close as possible. He didn’t want to feel so far away from you, like the two of you belonged to separate worlds, but you did. And if they would only ever intersect this one time, then it would have to be enough for him. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[love-note-musings]

🕰️ with Satan please?

──★ ˙🍋 ̟ !! Satan x Reader | Obey Me! oneshot

from this emoji prompt list: 🕰 | 3 a.m. philosophical discussions

finally cleaned out all my drafts oops ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .:

You had the avatar of Wrath wrapped around your finger. It was one of those rare nights when Satan was able to have your company to himself, nestled in your bed while you twirled his hair absentmindedly. The novel he had been reading was discarded somewhere amongst the covers, and you had placed a sticky note in it before it had been lost for good.

From the moment he had first introduced himself to you, he realized that he’d be in trouble around you and your natural magnetism. You made him feel like he could tell you anything, your verbose challenged even the most comforting of novels he frequented, it was like you had already understood him. After having to explain himself for his entire life, being able to exist with you was the highlight of his days. You’re the only person who could even dream about having the avatar of wrath cocooned in your blankets while twirling his hair between your fingers. He never had to fight for you to understand him.

Like the sun, you were a beacon of light amongst the shadows casted around him. Satan gravitated towards you no matter how unfamiliar the warmth felt. He wanted to orbit you even if he was one planet out of many.

“Have you ever thought how funny affection is?” He questioned, tilting his head up slightly to catch how your expression changed as he disrupted the calm silence.

His words hung in the air as you thought it over. “A bit, I mean, feelings are fickle and they fleet just as easily,”

“Is that your way of saying that your feelings for me are fleeting?”

You chuckled a bit while ruffling his hair, “No, that wasn’t my intentions, do you think they are?” Your eyebrows raised as you also peered down at him.

“No,” Satan responded confidently while he finally met your gaze.

There was no doubt about it that he was a fighting spirit. He was strong as a habitual trait and traits are hard to ignore. Satan did have fleeting thoughts in these moments of weakness, knowing that broken down barriers only lead to more heartache. Luckily enough, you’ve studied long enough to look past those barriers.

“What I meant to say,” you continued, “is that I don’t think feelings are funny at all. Affection, yes. Feelings, no. It’s up to us whether we act on them or not.”

A spark settled into his chest, twisting and turning like a blanket wound too tight. “What do you mean?” is all he could muster to ask.

You paused, lulling for the words. “I mean that my overall disposition for you is affection, regardless of what I feel. I could be as mad to the moon over you, but I can still choose to defy my feelings to remain kind.”

“To the moon? Oh dear, let’s hope it doesn’t reach Saturn.”

A soft laugh rattled between the two of you, settling the slight apprehension that had experienced. Seems as though butterflies can still fly at night, underneath blankets and books, and between lovers.

“You shouldn’t worry about those things - the whole solar system wouldn’t be enough to overturn my affection for you, that's what makes it funny."

"That's a strange way of saying you're smitten with me, you know." Satan chided, although he couldn't deny that he was secretly pleased with your answer.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .:

[love-note-musings]

˙✧˖°📷 ⋆｡˚꩜ toby x reader // creepypasta oneshot

request: HelloI May i request a oneshot where toby pins the reader against a wall and maybe threatens her but she lowkey can't focus BC she's thinking how pretty he is? The reader has a love hate relationship with him. Sorry if it's confusing.

word count: 3.6k

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──────

     As the last costumer of the day left, your shoulders dropped as the tension ebbed out of your body, dropping the “customer service smile” you had plastered on for the last couple of hours. A lengthy sigh left your mouth and you shook out the tired feeling from your muscles and with a swift lock of the doors, you began your nightly routine of cleaning for close. 

      Working the night shift wasn’t so bad, you had thought, it was generally pretty uninteresting, living in a small town and all, the clientele were the same, jobs were casual, it wasn’t that horrible. Having worked at this quaint restaurant for a couple of years, you knew the ins-and-outs pretty well and you operated most of the tasks you needed to on autopilot. However, the job was one thing, and daily living was another. Of course the pay was less than what you needed to live on realistically, what with housing, insurance, and feeding yourself. You still didn’t mind the nightshift, you found it rather relaxing.

    Wiping down tables, sweeping floors and mopping, cleaning out cappuccino machines, all of it went by as fewer cars passed on the road. You could hear the breeze start of as a small gust here and there until it picked up into a violent wind that rattled the building. Soon, you figured it would begin storming, with big raindrops pelting down and you surely wanted to be in your own home underneath thick blankets before then. 

     Unlocking the back entrance, you began dragging the heavy trash-bags out in the back of the parking lot, the last thing you’d need to complete before heading home for the day. You could feel how the cold nipped at your skin and willed your legs to go faster. 

     The city was always quiet, it was still except for the symphonies trees played nearby in the forest, clanging against each other from the wind. There were stories of course, about people going in and never coming back, but there were lots of people who did come back, more so than the latter, so the locals knew it as folktales. In reality, it was just another ordinary small town, with small-towned people, small-towned restaurants, and small-towned ideas. Forest or not, it was also another small-town ideal.

     Swinging the bag into the bin, you closed it with a sharp bang just as the back door to the restaurant flew with a clang. The weather was worsening overhead with dark clouds hiding the moon and the wind was threatening to take you away with it. Your feet carried you back inside as fast as they could, one pounding after another. //

//     He crashed into the back door with a thud as his legs gave out, one arm trying to hoist himself up and another trying to stop his wound from exuding any more blood. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, but the exhaustion was creeping up his body, the lights had looked like crystallized diamonds hanging off of his eyelids, and he stumbled into them with reckless abandon before collapsing on tiled floor… somewhere. Vision swimming, legs crumpled underneath him, he sat there, body trembling and nauseated, trying to grasp onto his abdomen in an attempt to convince his body to let him back up, to keep moving. It wasn’t even that bad of a wound despite its length, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t  work with, but there he was, slipping on himself in the back of some beat-up building. The lights slightly flickered every few seconds, the buzzing of electrical appliances seemingly rang through his ears in tenfold, there was nothing in his stomach but his body forced him to empty it anyway, spilling out nothing onto the black and white tiles besides the gagging noises coming from him. He couldn’t stop the movement from racking his body once again as he dragged himself forward. 

     There was a scream, a crash maybe, all he saw was a figure with their arms raised high, ready to pounce on him, everything else was foggy besides the lights. Big, bright lights. Groggily, he looked up with lidded eyes, mouth slightly agape, nostrils flaring, trying to allow more oxygen into his lungs. He yelled at his brain to move faster and to process the situation, finding nothing once again but some static sound that filled it. Their mouth moved, and the sound flowed back into his ears, slowly, and then all at once.

     “I said—“ they cleared their throat “do you need me to call the authorities?” There was an umbrella raised threateningly in their hands, knuckles already turned white. It looked like their breath was caught in their throat and their body shaked. He slowly registered the information piece-by-piece, stringing together some semblance of thought. 

     Slowly, he forced his head to move side to side, shaking ‘no’. 

     “Are you hurt?” They asked authoritatively, despite the tremble in their knees.

      Again, another rather slow nod, another no. Hurt was subjective, after all. 

     Sighing, they lowered the umbrella just a little more to their side. “What do you need? Are you in trouble?”

     He ended up coughing violently, his head was spinning and he was mentally whacked. “b.. bath- can I use your b..athroom.”

     They stood off to the side and pointed towards it, watching his movements as he tried to force himself to stand upright. He managed to get up to his knees before crashing over again. 

     “I’m going to help move you there, okay?” they said as they set the umbrella down against the wall and moved closer towards him. He nodded once and they hooked an arm underneath his and guided him to the bathroom. 

     They turned on the light inside, indicated him to ‘be careful’ and that ‘there was a first aid kit under the sink’, before leaving him alone with a soft close of the door. 

     Toby gazed at himself in the mirror, bracing his weight against the sink before shakily turning the knob and splashing himself with cool water. How many days had it been since he had first left? He couldn’t even recall how long he’d been out, but it was long enough for his body to put the brake lights on his activities and start naming demands. And one of the demands was water. He earnestly started to drink the water from the faucet, cupping his hand and bringing it up to his lips over and over again.//

//     Meanwhile, an exasperated worker decided to flick back on the lights to the dining room and begin preparing a small meal to share with the guy who just stumbled into their restaurant. They didn’t really know what his deal was, nor did they care to know, they just wanted to give him something to eat before sending him back out into the storm. If he wouldn’t talk then maybe he’d eat and be able to go back home or something like that. Whatever the case was, it wasn’t your responsibility to know, but you’d also be damned for not trying to help him out just a little bit. 

     It took awhile, but the bathroom door finally clicked open and close again. Toby stumbled along the hallway and followed the light into the dining room. There were bandages wrapped around his abdomen and minor scratches on his legs and arms. His body was exhausted and his mind was more or less alert. 

     “Hey,” when you saw him feebly inch his way, you quickly went over and offered a hand, to which he shaked it off. Regardless, you told him where he could sit in the dining room,  a little booth by the kitchen door, and watched to make sure he settled himself well. You made a note of how determined he was despite his body practically shutting down, and he hadn’t tried to stop himself yet. Even as he fell into the booth, you watched as his body relaxed and his eyes stayed vigilant, always looking this way and that, carefully observing. It was fascinating. But again, it wasn’t your business. 

     You placed a plate in front of him with leftover food from the fridge and a pastry you had been saving to take home. “You have a drink preference? I can get you water.” He shook his head and you got him a glass of water anyway, of which he eyed a bit oddly, sipping little by little. When he saw the food, however, you noticed that he immediately went for the pastry.

     He was…strange, at the very least, that’s what you gathered as you watched him from the kitchen picking at his food and glancing around every couple minutes to double and triple check his surroundings. If you had to admit to yourself, you just wanted to go home, and by now it was raining, evident by the sound of raindrops pattering onto the rooftop. You were tired too, having worked all day, cleaning up and waiting on people, and now doing it all over again for a second time. Thankfully tomorrow you’d have a day off. 

     When he drank all of the water in the glass, you went over to refill it. “My name’s Y/n, what’s yours?” You asked with as much normalcy as possible, hand settling on your waist as you stepped back to watch his expression. 

     “Toby.” He muttered, before eating more and ignoring you. 

     “It’s nice to meet you, Toby.” 

     Sometime while you were re-cleaning the kitchen, you heard the bells on the door open with a clamor and close. Shrugging, you supposed he would have left, and you didn’t expect anything more from him. But now that you were thinking about it, it was kind of weird for someone to stumble in from the back of the building, but lots of things happened out in the forest. People go out with their friends, some people like hunting deer, who knows? Some kid could have just gotten mixed up with the wrong people and left out there. You don’t consider it much, but you sealed it away in the back of your mind as a little note for later as you left the restaurant and headed home. Personally, you had never experienced anything bad out there. //

//    It became more common for ‘Toby’ to show up after closing hours. Every few days or so, he’d show up looking tired and miserable, he’d ask to use your bathroom and then lug himself out to the dining room while you gave him the leftovers. You didn’t push him to talk about himself and settled for short conversations about the weather, or asking if he needed you to call anyone this week. Whenever you asked if he needed anything, he’d say no and continue eating solemnly, playing with his food and acting almost disinterested with it. 

     “What’s your favorite food?” You asked while chewing a piece of bread from the pantry. 

     Toby shrugged, “I don’t really have one.” 

     “There has to be something that you like at least? Can’t you think of something? I can try to make sure we keep some of it here.”

     He pondered for a moment, putting his fork down. You never questioned his sudden movements or verbal outbursts at all, figuring it’d be best not to pester him with questions since he obviously couldn’t control it, other people probably bothered him enough. Toby answered you quietly, “I liked that pastry you first gave me, I..I don’t remember when that was.”

     “Hmm.. okay. I can get it for you next time.”

     And the next time you did, and the time after that, until you were sure that he was sick of it every time you served it to him. But he never said anything and accepted it without a word.

    Perhaps you could say that the two of you had come to a mutual understanding, maybe a friendship, and you wouldn’t admit it to yourself that you looked forward to your short and awkward meetings. You didn’t know much about each other, but you felt comfortable despite his out-of-the-normal appearance and habits. It was non-judge mental, as far as anyone else was concerned, nothing happened here after-hours anyway.

     You found yourself tracing his facial features in your mind, promising them to memory and making mock-paintings in your mind. He had pretty eyelashes, his skin was pale and light, he had deep scarring on the side of his mouth, that’s why you assumed he wore the mask in public, you couldn’t be sure though, and you could be less sure about the googles attached to his jeans. The only thing is that you’d wish he’d eat more since it was obvious his health wasn’t the greatest. Whenever you saw him, he was almost always exhausted and almost ready to pass out. Although, besides the first time you met, you didn’t see him with any more wounds, so you supposed it was just some off-handed accident and nothing intentional. 

     Yeah, you politely admitted to yourself that you were quite fond of your new and odd friend. Perhaps attracted, whatever attraction meant. You found him nice to be around. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to feel the same. It had been a long time since you’ve had a proper friend. . . 

     Rock songs played from the radio atop the refrigerator, melodies soft and sweet, they played from collections of the classics and you loved it. During your shifts you’d lose yourself in the tune, pretending that you existed inside music videos and getting lost in a world where the waiters and waitresses were the main characters. You had asked Toby a while ago if he liked the station you left the radio on, hoping it was to his tastes. He had replied affirmatively, and you had kept the radio on that station every time he visited. 

     “Come on, get up.” you instructed, coming around the bar and onto the dining room floor. 

     “What?” He asked, nonetheless getting up from the barstool and following you along. 

     “You like this song, I like this song, let’s dance.”

     “But I don’t know how—“ Toby insisted as you took his hands anyway.

     You scoffed with a fool’s smile, “Neither do I.”

     At first you dragged him along around the dining room floor, navigating between the tables and chairs, tapping to the beat. He was awkward and didn’t know how to move his legs, flinging this way and that, but eventually he fell into your pattern and moved along. You both laughed, rocking your bodies to the beat hand in hand. Swaying left and right and once or twice trying spin each other. At one point, Toby almost toppled over into a couple of chairs, but you grabbed on tight to his hands and didn’t let go. A silly little smile spread across your faces and the two of you turned giggly as a new song started playing and the dance continued. 

     It was true—the two of you really didn’t know how to dance, and if anyone were to look into the windows they’d see two people who were wildly uncoordinated. You felt like you owned the world and that your body was perfectly aligned to the songs, you saw Toby and how he finally looked relaxed, mouthing along to the lyrics and shaking his arms around freely with his eyes closed. When you started screaming out the lyrics yourself, belting out notes pitches too high or low, he didn’t hesitate in joining you, resulting in one grand cacophonous harmony. 

     When Toby left later that night, it hit him in the face. Realization, fear, all of those types of things that crept up his back and settled into the crock of his neck before lodging itself into thought. That feeling, it settled inside of him and wouldn’t leave, it overwhelmed him and gnawed away at his stomach lining. Toby was never still, and it was more apparent now as the anxiety rose up his cheeks. He gulped, drank from the water bottle you had given him, slipped his hatchets into his belt loops and disappeared back into the forest. He always left his hatchets hidden behind your restaurant whenever he visited you. Just so you’d never see them with all the dents and stains that’d scare you away and leave him alone again. Toby really hated being alone sometimes.

     And Toby also knew who he was. It was evident by those same stains. It haunted him. He would never be able to sleep without seeing all of the things he’s witnessed, that he’s done. While knowing who you also were, he knew that you wouldn’t need him, that you’d need to help other people that got lost at night, who just need a helping hand. He’d hope you’d be able to help a lot more people than just him. You’d need to forget him, or at least you would, eventually. //

//     The night was quieter than normal. There was no radio playing, there were no cars passing by on the road, and there was no rain or wind, clear skies all day and all night. In short, it was boring. You were propped up by your elbow as you leaned over the bar countertop, idly skimming through the contents in some magazine left here by another customer. Only one customer remained, a pleasant old man who stopped by during the weekdays to watch the news on the television here. With a yawn and a tip, he left too, and you weren’t bothered to immediately lock the door after his departure. It had been a slow day.   

    He was behind the restaurant, hunched behind some garbage cans and waiting to hear the last car pull out from the parking lot. Everything was still and he was seeing the place for the first time with orange-tinted lenses.  He shook and shivered, bones rattling, and he couldn’t stop his arms from jerking even as he held himself together tighter. The last customer was gone. Now he just had to wait for you to come outside. Rocking back and forth to calm himself, he toyed with the fraying strings on the edge of his sleeves, occupying his mind and trying to distract himself from the bloodstains forming on his shirt and pants, not to mention the uncleaned hatchets that hung by his side. It wasn’t until a rather loud clang that he was snapped out of his trance.

Shooting up from his hiding spot, he made his way over to you without even a trickle of a sound. 

     All of a sudden you were shoved back towards the building, the air was knocked out of your chest from the force and you stumbled back. Toby had one hand blocking your exit, and another raised high above your head with a hatchet threatening to crack your skull open. 

     He stared at you, questioning himself, looking at you and then the hatchet and then you - you were terrified, and trembling, and god he wanted to disappear right at that moment, to drop everything and cling onto you. And he knew it wasn’t going to happen, but still his arms wobbled and there was a hitch in his throat. One hand slowly went to his mouth to stop the whimperings from escaping and the other slowly lowered his weapon until it fell onto the pavement.

     How could he be so stupid? He caved for the niceties, any inking of kindness and he instantly folded his hand. It wasn’t the terror in your eyes that had stopped him, it was just you. The way it felt to be so close again, how his body responded by going weak, he wanted to stay like that for a long time, he wanted to stay by you for as long as you’d let him. But he couldn’t do that, could he? Trust is a delicate thing. He knew that lesson well.

     You stood there with your back pressed painfully against the wall, your heart was beating frantically against your chest, your muscles were tense, your eyes were glued on Toby as he lost his resolve and crumbled down onto the ground in a heap with his head in his hands. Sobs wracked his body up and down and he heaved. Kneeling down next to him, you grabbed the hatchet and threw it as far as you could, considering for a moment if you should comfort him or not before placing a hand tentatively on his back, rubbing circles once he responded to your touch. The goggles on his face were fogging up, and you carefully found the clasp underneath a topple of tangled brown hair, letting it fall onto the ground as you wiped the tears falling down his cheeks with your hand and slipped off his facial mask. 

     His eyes did not meet yours, leaning over and making himself seem small. He sobbed until there were no more tears left, and even then his chest just heaved wildly as he struggled to find an even breathing pace. Kneeling closer, you wrapped your arms tighter around him, embracing, whispering in a soothing voice. 

     Toby wrapped his arms around your waist, slowly at first before completely enveloping you, resting his head into your lap. You felt nice, and comfortable, safe. He hung onto you for dear life.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──────

originally posted on quotev/citrusyfruits, reposted with permission

[love-note-musings]

helen otis x reader | creepypasta oneshot

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* "up from the ocean floor," bloody painter x pyromaniac reader

tw themes of gender stereotypes and body dysmorphia

if you feel like you've read this somewhere, you may have! i'm just transferring my old oneshots from quotev onto my tumblr

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀

     The two of you sat together, hands lightly entangled, not too tight, just dangling there in that space. You fidgeted. Strings hanging down from your jacket twirling around your free fingers, your leg bounced. Even with the tranquility of it all, your mind wandered while your body was settled into someone else, relaxed yet on edge, waiting to crash. Mostly just waiting. Anticipation gripped onto you with white knuckles, it sent you bounding, it filled the crevices in your brain where the missing memories evaporated into blank cavities, it gushed.

     In the black of night, your art would erupt into one blazing star that spread to all four corners, licking up the walls and floorboards and uniting them under one flame that blanketed the abandoned building. You stood there as your shoulders drooped and you felt the anxiety that toyed with you dissipate, even slightly, watching as the flames mesmerized you, swaying to one another. The stress, anxiety, it all exploded out of you with waves of red, it was illicit and choleric and it lapped at the edges of the walls as the air around it warped into new shapes and patterns. It was all a vivid, prismatic globe that exploded and spread. 

      To Helen, you were polychromatic. 

      You were like a vivid, prismatic globe that would shatter across the night sky, spreading your polychromatic visage against wooden planks nailed together, splattering down until you reached the ground again. The world burned for you, and fire was dangerous, he knew that. Helen couldn’t help but stare, taking in the hues and letting himself bask in the view, making sure the image would imprint all the way down into his bones so he’d be sure to remember it forever somewhere on his body. Visible marks.

     Tensions ebbed and fell from your body little by little as the flames covered more ground, spreading from the floorboards to the ceilings as you sat in the grass by Helen’s side. You were no artist, merely just trying to find a foothold amongst tumbling rocks. Small clicks were nothing in comparison to the crackling embers and his film camera wasn’t enough to do the scene justice.

     Oh, and the way your eyes shined, the colors bounding off your scleras and reflecting back the danger, the heat. You shifted in awe. In your distracted state, Helen leaned away from your hold and positioned his camera towards your face in wonderment. With a snap, the memory would last. 

     What would an artist be without a muse? To repeatedly create but with no admiration, and therefore, with no motivation, allowing themselves to be pulled in any direction of stereotypical beauty without any personal influencers. Helen used to be quite stumped with himself, wondering why his eye was captured by floral lace and monochromatic clothing all the same. Why at times he wanted to feel dainty, and sometimes neutral, sometimes strong and bold. This created categories in his mind, never quite finding the foothold he desired in the narrow categories crafted for him by other people. It left him rattled and defenseless, allowing his interests to sway with a bout of rather disinterest, never staying long with one style or another, trying everything and therefore finding nothing. What did Helen want to be? 

     He had delicate features, that’s what everyone had always said, at least. ‘Dainty, delicate’. At times he found the sight of himself calming. Other times he wanted to smash any and all mirrors, fearing that when he looked he wouldn’t like what he found. When it came time to attempt a self portrait, Helen found he had no idea where to start, how to portray his features, wondering what he looked like to begin with. What did he look like? How did others perceive him? In the end, he settled on feeling, how he felt, what he thought he had looked like. The canvas came out splotched and blurred. Yet when it came to anyone else, he would be able to paint them with near perfection, seemingly being able to pinpoint what about their faces made them unique, their own person. 

     Helen looked through his “self portraits” with a dissatisfied look, flipping through the canvases, never liking how they looked, even with the ambiguity, never liking the shades or angles or anything. He disliked it all. So they sat in the corner of his study covered with a tarp, next to it on the shelf, a box of film photos that he’d shuffle through, looking for something to occupy his time. Photos of wildlife, people, fabrics fluttering in the wind, and even cafes made their way from that box into different art pieces. Sketches, watercolor, charcoal, acrylic and oil paintings, colored pencils stenciled in to make photos with strokes. At least he could make other things to his liking. In the end, he chose the one photo that lit him up the most. 

     And so he sat there, hour upon hour, sitting on a stool splattered with paint as his hands traveled with ease, moving from one corner to another until the patterns corrected itself and the colors meshed, melding into one picture. Dots marking the sides of their cheeks, lips upturned at the corners, eyes fitted with wrinkles that looked appropriate, creating crescents. A blush sank into those same cheeks, dusting the sides, adding depth to the face which had started out as a collection of shapes and ended up being yours. What was an artist without a muse, without beauty to capture? So there you were. Poised in the photograph, sitting patiently, oblivious to the idle fascination found on your features that were once etched into your muscle memory and were now preserved by sheets of canvas fitted to four beams of wood. Acrylic paint, a medium used by the artist to mold you back into life. 

     When the day came down to yet another close, he felt okay with the fact that he could capture every single, tiny, miniature, inconsequential detail that made up the being of you. If he could not find himself in bins of paint and brushes, nor amongst pencils or water, he could find you, the blueprint that led to his heart and warmed it from the bottom up. Helen could have sworn you held the key in some way, some form, that reached deep inside of him to find the urge that spurred him forward, to create, to do, to perceive. Perhaps it was egotistical, but every piece he had every done of you had been perfect. He liked perfect, he was only ever satisfied with perfect. Your beauty and essence gave way to him finding the drive to perfect each line on your face. 

     Time melted away, and soon, it was complete. A near replica of the photograph he managed to capture the first time he saw your eyes light up. 

     You, the actual you, stood patiently behind him, hands folded behind your back as you looked between Helen and the painting. Eyeing him up and down, pretending to circle his newest art piece and ogle at it, lips formed in a line that couldn’t help but result in a smirk with your fingers to your lips. The only thing you were looking at was him. Bangs covering his eyes ever so slightly that you wondered how he could see, eyebrows furrowed deep in concentration, one you knew better but to break. It’s true, you wouldn’t bother him with your own musings. Instead you roamed around his room as if you haven’t been there times and times before. Curious hands found draped tarps and draped tarps housed hidden paintings. Fingers flipping through the collection, your own brow became furrowed.

     “Helen,” you called out, an outgoing dare to break the silence, “what are these?” Turning back to him, you followed his line of sight as it drifted down to the canvases nestled amongst the crook of the floor. 

     “Nothing,” he said cooly, deflecting back into the makeshift world he was creating, being able to live there as long as the process lasted. “Don’t worry about it,”

      A hum left your lips, rocking back and forth on your heels. You knew exactly what you were looking at. “What will you do with them?”

      Helen shrugged, “Burn them? You can tear the staples out from the fabric if you want, I’ll reuse the frames.”

     ‘How environmentally friendly of you,’ you thought to yourself with amusement, heaving up one of the canvases and holding it out for a better look. 

     Well, it had the shape of Helen. Nothing much more to it. Blurred features were what drew your eye in, wondering what exactly the idea was behind the work. Nonetheless you grabbed a pair of pliers and began tearing the staples out, careful with each piece of canvas you ripped from the base, laying them neatly to the side as the pile of stapes layered up. If you could have done him justice, you would have offered to try to capture him in some way, whether by paint stroke or sketch. But you were no artist, and felt it insulting to even try. 

     “Are you sure you want to get rid of them. . ?” You asked, never not anticipating an answer in the negative.

     “Yes,” he replied, matching your assumption. And with that you left the topic at hand until the night.

     When the sun lost itself under the horizon, Helen rolled up those loose canvas pieces and held them under his arm like a newspaper, bundled up as he made his way through the woods. There he’d find you amongst the trees in an alcove of your own design, a burning pit in the middle. Once the scraps were placed in your hands, Helen didn’t bother needing to see it through with conviction. They’d simply erupt into flames and he would be freed from that feeling, right? It would all go away and he wouldn’t have to see it anymore, he could start over again, and he’d be free. 

     Except nothing is ever as simple, and you knew that as you felt the gravity of it in your palms. “Are you sure you want to get rid of them?” You asked one last time, just to be sure, prompted to do so by the slightest of twinges in his expression, just one opening of a sliver into his emotions. 

     Helen huffed, “Yes, of course I”m sure. Why is it any different than the other work I’ve burned here?” 

     “Because,” you reasoned, “its you and you made it.”

     “That is not me.”

     His diction briefly startled you, his voice raised into a raging simmer and dangling off into an eruption, bouncing and cracking. Helen, usually so posh and poised, you knew he had to have his weak spots too, just like any other person. But again, knowing Helen, you knew he wouldn’t be the kind to shed those slivers and open up, tearing himself away from his comforts and instead preferring to become entangled with your own. That kind of vulnerability was different from sharing a bed, from sharing any kind of space; it was the kind that would eat up at your insides, the kind that you wouldn’t let go of until you couldn’t keep it contained anymore. You were patient, it was the long run from here on out, and he was completely correct that it wasn’t him.

     With that, you let fire do what fire does best.

     Helen didn’t much look at the scene, instead slumping into himself, looking a little bit more at peace as the flames picked at the frays. You watched him as his arms wrapped around his sides, his neutral expression nearly settled into a grimace, his eyes concentrated yet unfocused. 

     “I’ll try it again someday,” he said out of the blue, watching the flames dance, his tone calm and steady once more, as if nothing were amiss.

     You made the risk of getting closer to him and placing your hand on divot in his back, you pulled yourself closer to him, “I know.”

     To your surprise, Helen didn’t move away. His feet found themselves shuffling even just an inch closer to your embrace to share your warmth and feel your presence. Your body pressed against his helped those feelings ebb and flow, slowing to a trickle in his mind, grounding himself in the sensation rather than the aesthetic, letting him exist. Even if it was with the help of your feelings, it was still something to grasp onto throughout the onslaught of thoughts that plagued him. It was still different. 

     For that moment and that moment only, Helen compromised on relying on you with the faith that you wouldn’t view him lesser than worthy for exhibiting such intimacy with. He leaned into your side, closer yet now, and settled his head into the crook of your neck. From now on he’d wear blush proudly if you were the one to fluster him, he’d yank flowers from people’s porch side gardens, preferably annuals, he’d press them between pages in the dictionary, he’d grind the petals together to form a paste, coat it with oil to bind, splattering onto new canvases. Helen would wrap flowers and their vines all over your body to squeeze every spot he wasn’t bold enough to touch in reality. The paintings would be just as good, right? gloriosa superba would be his poison of choice, he’d use it smear across his body until he became apart of the petals. Fire was dangerous and he gave into the heat.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

originally posted on quotev/citrusyfruits, reposted with permission

[love-note-musings]

For the Emoji drabble!

🏹 + Leviathan ??

Have a good day! ^^

╰₊✧ ﾟ⚬𓂂➢ Obey Me! Leviathan x Reader

from this emoji prompt list: 🏹 | waking up from a nightmare

✩₊˚.⋆please ignore that this literally was sitting in my drafts for literal years lmao☾⋆⁺₊✧

Envy does as envy knows best. It festers, becomes symptomatic, viral, and infectious. Left untreated, it can leave a nasty scar where there’s supposed to be something tender. And Levi, out of all people, knows this the best. He’s the most infected out of them all.

He couldn’t escape the sensation that he was the worst choice for you even during sleep. The idea that you had merely settled for him out of pity clung onto him like a leech, regardless of the assurances you offered him. Levi knew that constantly reaffirming him was tiring, he knew that it was annoying, but he couldn’t shake this lurching feeling off of him.

Dreams lived to affirm his fears. He could have forgiven you for cheating, why wouldn’t you? He could have forgiven you for falling out of love, for choosing someone else—in fact, he expected it. Out of everything, he could have forgiven you for almost everything you could throw his way if it meant he could stay by your side a little while longer. So, while the amalgamation of his fears constructed itself in front of him, Levi had already forgiven you.

There was a red tint on your face as your brows furrowed, eyes barreling down onto his figure. Hurling insult after insult all the while yelling at the top of your lungs, Levi could only look up at you as if you were a god, listening as you affirmed all of the negative thoughts he had about himself. If you out of all people could see it, then it must be true, right? When he could see how happy and joyful you looked with others, he couldn’t help but compare the smile you gave to him versus the one you gave to your friends.

Levi didn’t notice that he had woken up with tears staining the corners of his eyes, or how they dripped down off his cheek and onto the pillow beneath his head. All he could feel was the gapping feeling inside his chest and the way his lungs stung. He didn’t notice that he was heaving until you placed your hand on his chest.

“Shh, I got you,” you assured while sitting him up on your bed. using your thumb you wiped off some of the tears flooding his face and pulled him close.

He was hesitant even as he felt your arms holding him. Slowly, he crumbled into your embrace, resting his head against your chest so he could feel your heartbeat. His arms shakily held onto you while he hid his tear stained face. You offered him such comfort and softness even when his own subconscious gave him none.

“What kind of nightmare has gotten you so sad, dear?”

Levi found it hard to explain to you something so otherworldly, something so contrary to your demeanor. A nightmare - because that’s all it was. And because you weren’t the amalgamation he constructed in his mind. You weren’t some cruel human who would pluck at his heartstrings and drag them along like a dog on the leash. This was the real you. Your arms were warm, your gaze was soft. In the moment, it felt silly to even imagine you as some sort of poised bully.

Yet, that image always came back as some sort of lurking insecurity. You had certainly done nothing to give him such vivid fears. More importantly, how could he explain this to you all in the dead of night?

"Can you just. . I mean, we can talk about it later. Can you just hold me, like this, for now?" Levi managed to stutter out while he willed to calm his beating heart.

All you did was smile at him. "Yeah, of course, Levi. You want me to put on a show for background noise while you go back to sleep?"

"Sounds good." He answered, more than content to stay right here with you.

Neither of you even seemed to notice that most of your blankets and pillows had already been kicked off the bed.

[love-note-musings]

diluc x reader | captured by fireflies

inspired from prompt list: 🐇 | partaking in grievances

Diluc was a night owl, but not by choice. It was almost as if the moonlight captured him like a moth to a flame, entranced by beams of light that glittered across the water’s surface. And trapped in those rays were his own musings; dull, bland, utterly horrendous, traces of a life long past that could pass you in the blink of an eye.

Lounging outside the dawn winery was peaceful because the night was still, there were no documents laid out for him to attend to, there were no such urgencies that required immediate attention, no mismatched and ugly vases that made him equal parts abashed and shameful. Softened and keen. Because over the expanse of time, he had softened quite a bit.

And as he sits there in the night, he is unable to pull himself from those thoughts. He sits there with them, festering as if the words would exalt themselves from his voice without his free will. Uncomfortable as if there were a gigantic rock caught in his throat.

There is the quiet screech of the hinge from one of the estate's backdoors and he whips around with adrenaline only to see you in a robe holding a kettle.

"I figured you might want some tea," You sat the kettle and mugs down onto the table. "It's chamomile to help you sleep."

"I sleep just fine," Diluc tried to argue, but the look you gave him as you began filling up his cups convinced him to hold his tongue.

You pulled the chair closer to Diluc until your knees were almost touching, leaning in as your hands were warmed from your cup. "You have a lot to think about, I understand."

He bumped his knees into yours as his body relaxed. "I know, I'm simply thinking because-"

"You don't need to explain yourself to me. We can just sit here, drink our tea and enjoy the night, and then we can go back inside and fall asleep in our bed."

Who knows how many times you've drifted off to sleep without him by your side. And who knows when midnight tea became your new tradition. Diluc grazed your cheek with his hand, running his thumb over your dimples. You were always coming along and saving him from his mind. "Thank you."

You planted a soft peck on the back of his hand.

[love-note-musings]

emoji drabble prompts |

send in an emoji & character and i’ll write an s/o blurb for them :”)

🦢 | coffee shop dates

🎬 | late-night rendezvous in the moonlight

💼 | long distance communication

🏹 | waking up from a nightmare

♟ | going to the local bookstore

🧺 | coming home after being away for a long time

⏳ | rainy day activites

🐇 | partaking in grievances

📷 | insecurities es and jealousies

🧦 | unrequited yearning

🕊 | watching the sunrise

🪐 | dinner date disasters

🎼 | visiting the orchestra

🕯 | slow-dancing as the world melts away

🕰 | 3 a.m. philosophical discussions

📜 | sending letters and leaving notes

☕️ | what their love looks like

♠️ | hugs that last a little bit too long

[love-note-musings]

can someone please tell me if there are still stellamore fans out here? guys, i don’t want to have to simp alone 👉 👈 pls 

[love-note-musings]

03:34 // leviathan

you held your arms out to him from within the blanket fortress you had constructed on his bedroom floor, quickly pulling levi into a hug as he slumped down into the fort. he had spent most of the day gaming, and was just now feeling the affects of denying himself sleep as he nuzzled further into your touch, arms snaking around your waist to pull you closer. a sigh escaped from his lips, bellowing out all of the tension from his body as he allowed himself to go lax while he melted into your embrace. you guided him to lay down on one of the numerous pillows under the canopy of blankets before wrapping a hefty quilt around the two of you. levi listened to the steady beat of your heart while you played with his hair, lulling him into a sleep-like serenity. he softly wished for you to have sweet dreams before slipping away to greet you again in his own dreamworld, one that was filled with sunlight and warm feelings, remnant from a life long past.

[love-note-musings]

the one where you fall out of love ☞︎

𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑦 𝑚𝑒! 𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠

𝐴/𝑁: ℎ-ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑦 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑛. . . :“)

it’s the small things at first, being late for dates and being in a rush. the way his eyes seem to wander away from your own, the once familiar spark no longer igniting from your gaze. maybe it’s your imagination. you wanted it to be your imagination.

every relationship goes through rough patches, and the two of you were no exception. this is the hope the both of you held onto.

you felt like a million miles away to satan. whenever your mind wandered off when you were together, he wondered where you ended up. for once, he was nervous. nervous because he knew there was something you weren’t telling him when you used to be each other’s mutual secret-keepers. so what was different?

nothing was inherently different. the two of you still kissed each other goodnight, said ‘i love you’ in the morning, and started everyday together. it was quaint and peaceful, but that’s what the two of you had decided to enjoy together.

the more he thought about it, the more worried he became. analyzing your béhaviorismes more whenever you’d inch just a little bit further away from him or was the first to leave after morning greetings. what were once coincidences were beginning to pile up as evidence, and he didn’t know what to do.

satan only knew one thing: that he didn’t want to lose you. he didn’t know what to do with himself if one day you decided you were done. would he just pretend like this never happened? bottle up his feelings and set it on a self to collect dust? ignore the longing feeling in his chest that occurred whenever you weren’t around?

it wasn’t until that late-night conversation when it all was brought to light.

“i love you.” you said while leaning against his shoulder on the balcony, cold night wind whipping at your clothing. “which is why i don’t want to lie to you.”

“what?” he asked, acting as if he hadn’t been expecting this conversation to arise for the past couple of weeks.

you moved up from his side, sitting up and turning to face him. “i love you.”

“what is it? just say it.”

“but. . .” you looked up into his eyes, something patchy simmering under the surface of his irises as they became glazed over and focused on your every movement, waiting for you to snap while he swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “I’m not in love with you, not in that way.”

abruptly straightening up, he tried to control the nerves that had taken over his body. after being so used to your company, your familiarity, it was hard relearning how to be closed off from you suddenly. “I—I see.” there was no way he’d be able to confess to you all of those times he’d looked at you and thought of himself as the luckiest in all of the three realms, all of the times he’d stolen glances towards you when you weren’t looking with such a lovesick look on his face.

yes, even now he looked at you and thought he had been blessed with the purest of angels. to now know that you didn’t return those feelings was...too much.

“satan. . .” you pleaded while you watched him cling onto his resolve with an almost pleading reverence, his mannerisms betraying how he was really feeling. even as you reached out to cup the side of his face, you could sense the subtle shaking that ricocheted off of him.

instinctively he melted in your touch before quickly rectifying his behaviorism. “don’t.” he couldn’t change how you felt through him, but he couldn’t change how he felt, either. “just...go.”

if he spent any more time with you he might mistake it for hope of something more. and that wasn’t fair to either one of you.

you slowly nodded, barely containing your emotions as you exited yourself from the balcony. it wasn’t fair to either of you.

and in the comfort of your own persons, alone from the rest of the world, the two of you expressed just how unfair it really was with only the night as your witness.

[love-note-musings]

love-note-musings’ blog directory

inbox & requests are open!

imporant info. |

request rules & fandom list

emoji prompts request list

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about me |

I'm writing sickly sweet stuff because I'm secretly sour irl ->

Name: Pomela

Age: 18

Pronouns: they/them

Quotev: citrusyfruits

Hi there! It’s nice to meet you :) feel free to call me Pomela, I’m just a local fanfic writer in my free time that bounces around from fandom to fandom. My inbox is always open if you wanna talk about your fave characters together or if you have any writing ideas you’d like to share!

my thoughts and ramblings: #pomela dilemma

══════════════════════

[love-note-musings]

“Theodore Nott x Reader // Domestic Headcanons”

════════════════════════

Days when neither of you has any obligations and so you just stay home and chill together, maybe there’s a little bit of reading involved... maybe a little baking too...

Theo has a hard time staying in bed after he’s woken up, so if he wakes before you he’ll bring you a cup of tea and sit with you while you wipe the drowsiness from your eyes. 

Drawing back the curtains, he’ll let the soft sunlight into the room while you sip on the steaming beverage. The sound of chirping birds rush away the sleepiness and the morning greets you with a peck on your temple.

Once you stumble into the kitchen, the radio is playing from a 60’s song station and the counter-tops are a little bit messy with various jars of ingredients spewed across them.

Obviously it’s to make breakfast, pancakes to be precise. You help Theo tie his grey apron behind his back before he begins mixing together the flour products and whisking the milk and eggs. 

There’s a carton of fresh-picked blueberries from the gardens and you keep stealing pieces of the fruit whenever he’s not looking until he pours them into the batter.

He has flour on his face and batter on his apron even before he begins spooning out the mixture into the hot pan on the stove, occasionally checking the temperature and tampering with the knob settings. 

You swear that once you’re done putting the ingredients back into the cabinets and pantry that he managed to get even more batter on himself, and the higher the stack of pancakes get, the messier he becomes. 

Wetting a cloth from the sink faucet, you walk over to him while he’s busy hanging up his apron on the pantry door. He’s acting sheepish as you brush the damp cloth across his face, wiping off the flour and batter. 

Breakfast is eaten in the garden on a little patio set with ornate wire chairs that mimic the form of the rose bushes in its patterning. The sun is bright, but the heat of the day hasn’t set it yet as the morning dew adorns the grass. Theo’s hair is illuminated by the rising sun, adorning his bed-tousled hair with an angelic glow, and you can’t help but stare with a silly smile on your face. 

He meets your gaze and offers a shy smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You mentioned something about how good the food was, to which he responded it was okay while he looked away with a blush that was beginning to spread across his face.

Even though this is a scene that he’s seen numerous times before, with you sitting in your pajamas in the garden while the sun rose around you, Theodore still couldn’t control the butterflies fluttering in his stomach when you looked his way. 

Seriously, these quiet, slow mornings were when he tried to commit every single feature on your face to memory, tracing and retracing the lines in his mind, these days were his favorite. Some of his most vivid memories came alive from these types of days. 

Okay, reading is certainly a must in whichever way it comes. If you want him to read for you he’s more than glad to, if you’d rather do the reading, that’s fine too. 

Or, if you just want to read your separate books, it’s all good as long as you’re both curled up next to each other on the couch with a throw blanket tucked in around you. 

If it’s a particularly sleepy day, audio-books are always an option too while the both of you doze away while getting lost in stories about fantasy lands. 

The rest of the morning is spent knocking out the rest of the chores that had been neglected during the week. Nothing much interesting happens besides Theo and you humming along to songs and doing dorky dances while cleaning up and doing the dishes. 

You usually play a game of chess while eating different types of fruits Theo harvested from the garden earlier that day for lunch. By then the windows are open and the breeze pulls and pushes the curtains in and out of the house as a comfortable silence falls over the sun-room. 

Mid-afternoon is when Theo goes to practice violin. Even though he practices in one of the office rooms as not to disturb you, he doesn’t mind if you’d like to accompany him or listen while he plays. 

Before he lets you sit-in on his practice, he has to tell you at least twice that because it’s a “practice” that it isn’t meant to sound pretty all the time. If you play music yourself he wouldn’t be averse to finding a composition that utilizes both of your instruments. 

If you asked him nicely he would totally serenade you with a romantic concerto, how could he ever say no to you? He would prioritize memorization of whichever piece you’d want to hear.

Theo might be able to make an incredible breakfast spread, but he’s no full-time cook and if you asked him to make dinner it has a 50/50 chance of ending in disaster. 

So, it’s just safe to say that the majority of nights (if you aren’t eating breakfast food at night, that is) you’re the one doing the dinner cooking. 

He has a policy of “try everything at least once”, so he’s down for whatever you have in store. But, to be honest, he isn’t really into super-complicated dishes as home-cooked meals. It’s one thing if it comes from a hired personal chef, but, if it’s from you he’d rather you just make something that’s familiar, like comfort foods from your childhood. 

In his opinion, a home-cooked meal has sentimental value, so if you’re sharing a dish that has ties to your adolescent years he definitely wants to hear the backstory behind it while the two of you eat, even if he’s already heard it before. 

At the end of the day, he doesn’t need everything that the “posh” lifestyle he left behind gave him, all he needs is you and a little bit of time to make the most out of it. 

The two of you leave the dirty dishes in the sink overnight with a silent promise to finish the cleaning in the morning and to finish off a serene day he’d hold you close while swaying along to the tempo of an old, vintage love song in the living room as the melody tumbles out of the radio.

Wrapped up in a quilt adorned with embroidered flowers, you feel content as you sink further into the mattress and pull him closer to you, connecting one last time before allowing yourself to slip into a pleasant dreamland. 

[love-note-musings]

Inbox is always open |

fandoms i write for

Genshin Impact

Obey Me! (Otome)

Creepypasta

Stellamore (because everyday we mourn in this household and are thankful for the time we had together)

I only write for my current fixations! This list can change pretty often

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request rules

I reserve the right to deny or ignore your request if it goes against my guidelines or makes me uncomfortable!

I do not accept matchups or requests with a reader that is too specific

character x reader requests will always be written w/ a gender-neutral reader

I don't write smut/anything too sexually explicit - my flavor profile of writing is trauma, not sexy

If you’re unsure if I’ll take your request, feel free to ask me! I really appreciate answering asks :)

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