#I was looking through one of the books and saw THAT POEM AND I FLIPPED OUT TO MY FRIEND CUZ IT WAS SO PERFECT..

[nafohcnis]

Oh what a day !!!

[whiteskullofroses]

Hi! I saw that you accept request for Baldwin IV. If you do still accept, could you pls write one where y/n and Baldwin would stay up too late talking to each other until one falls asleeps? Thanks 💕

Hi there thank you for the request! And to clarify, you can always request any characters you want❤️ Enjoy!

LATE NIGHT TALK

Baldwin Iv x reader

It was a cold night in Jerusalem. You were walking around the palace gazing up at the stars and thinking about life when all of a sudden, a familiar voice grabbed your attention: "Y/N!" He called out to you from his room. It was all lit up with candles so you could see his shape clearly: "Care to join me?" The young king's voice sounded so energetic, even though it was already midnight. You answered: "With pleasure!" And happily headed out to his quarters.

Once you reached the hallway that led to his room, you noticed that the door was already opened for you but still, you knocked on the wood to make your presence known.

He turned from his desk to look at you. His mask shone from the candles around him and made his blue eyes sparkle.

"Care for a round?" Baldwin gestured towards the chess set and sat down at the table. "Y/n" Sitting down and listening to his words "I've missed you tonight. I rarely see you these days."

You smiled and replied: "Work has been incredibly tiring," taking a sip of some wine a servant poured: "I've hardly found any time for friends."

Baldwin leaned closer to you: "Well now it's the time. Relax."

You started the chess game and asked: "How come weren't you at the banquet last Monday?"

The King moved a pawn and sighed: "I had an unexpected meeting which I couldn't miss."

Nodding, you moved on since you didn't want to trouble him with hard topics so late in the night.

"Have you read any new poetry lately?" Asking him like you always do, you always loved to listen to him talk about the things he was passionate about, one of them being literature.

Whether it be myths from across Europe containing dragons and other mystical beings or poetry that many saw as simple, however from a trained eye's perspective it was true art projected onto paper.

"Yes, I've read this wonder piece from a book from France Preseren called 'Poezije'" Grabbing the book from a nearby chair and flipping through it, Baldwin proclaimed: "Would you like to hear it?"

"I'd love to, Baldwin." You supported your head with your elbow on the table, as the late hours of the night cut into your brains. "Where did you get it from?"

"I believe I got this book as a gift from my sister when she visited Carniola."

Finally, he started reading, his voice soft as ever:

Fresh flowers will spread fragrance far and near,

Like roses when the winter's passed away.

Your eyelids became heavier and heavier with every word he spoke:

And spring displays its marvelous array,

While through the trees white scattered blossoms peer

Your breathing became deeper, with waves of relaxation washing through your body. All of a sudden you felt like you were 10 years old again, when your mother used to read you books to help you fall asleep.

All this time away from your parents and away from your childhood made you forget how soothing it was and how much you enjoyed it.

Baldwin continued reading the poem whilst you were drifting off into peaceful sleep, right there on his 'chess table'.

He hardly noticed you falling asleep right opposite to him as he was focusing on the text he was reading. But when he finished reading the poem and looked up from the book, he realized you slept through half of it.

He chuckled to himself. Baldwin wasn't mad or annoyed with you, rather he felt a sort of fulfillment that he managed to get you to fall asleep.

For a moment he just sat there, staring at you. You didn't know it at the time but he admired you deeply. For your intelligence and your beauty. He found that this was one of the times he could truly silently look at you and not feel bad about it.

Whenever he would catch himself gazing upon you he would get this guilt deep in his chest. He felt as though it was appropriate for him to look at you when the two of you were just colleagues.

So he slowly walked up to you and carefully picked you up. Walking up to his bed and laying you down in the middle, he knew he couldn't sleep there that night, that would be simply too much.

He decided to go and spend the night in the guest room. Just as he was about to leave your side, you woke up and grabbed him by the wrist, gently but enough so he could feel it.

"Baldwin, stay."

THE END.

[niphredil-14]

hey so how do you think the rottmnt boys would deal with having a published writer s/o. I imagine s/o has made Leo a jupiter jim fanfic which feels way too accurate it could be one of his comic books. Or like left little poems for Donnie lying around to cheer him up and discuss feelings with it or Fantasy short story for Mikey?

Oh, how the writer in me loves this request!! (also, welcome back to my inbox! nice to see you again! c:)

Leonardo:

Ever since Leo had found out that his lover could write, he had been begging them to write fanfiction for him. They had most likely been forced to watch all of the Jupiter Jim and Lou Jitsu movies before they even started dating Leo. But no matter how much he had begged for fanfiction, they had refused. They were just too busy working on the next volume in their series! But little did he know, that in the weeks leading up to his birthday, they had been brainstorming, plotting, drafting, and editing a special story just for him. When they handed him the gift, wrapped meticulously in Jupiter Jim themed wrapping paper, he was so excited! Before even unwrapping it, he knew that he would love it, just based on the look of pure joy and excitement in their eyes. He ripped the paper off, and found a deep blue binder, filled with paper. On the cover was written, "Happy Birthday, Leonardo" in large letters, and below it, in smaller letters, was written, "All my love, Y/N <3" His heart warmed, and he flipped the binder open, and almost squealed in excitement. Jumping over t them, he pulled them into a tight hug. He did not put it down until he finished reading it, and then he would just reread it. After he almost dropped it while on patrol, he asked Donnie to transcribe it and put it on his phone.

Raphael:

He found out early on in the relationship that his partner was a writer, and while he was very impressed with them and their talent, he wasn't much of a reader, so he didn't fully grasp just how amazing they were at first. While Raph could read, it was always hard for him, and he would have to go back and reread paragraphs over and over until they stuck. Out of love and interest in his darling, though, he began to listen to the audiobook versions of their books while he worked out. And he found out that worked for him, and was enjoyable. And though he often found himself wishing that it was their voice reading their stories to him, he knew from their conversations just how awkward they felt reading anything they wrote aloud to people, he knew how much they hated it, how vulnerable it made them feel, so he never asked. How much and often they talked about their work to him varied, though when they did it was usually just them complaining to him about their publishers/editors, or asking for his advice on the plot, or just using him as a fill in for them to perform the rubber duck theory. However, one day, they burst into his room, holding a book, and practically shaking. He had been sat on his bed, and they quickly sat down beside him, with the book pressed close to their chest. Before he could get a word out, they had begun to speak.

"I have a gift for you!" They trilled, they voice high, and sing-songy. A grin had stretched across his face, even wider than it had when they had first entered the room.

"Aw, Babe, you didn't have to get me anything!" He said to them.

"Well, It's not really that kind of gift, so..." They trailed off, and instead opted for just pushing the book into his hands, forcing the knitting needles aside. He looked down at the book, and found their name written below the title. How they had managed to keep the fact that they had published a new book a secret from him was beyond him, and he paused in wonder. "Open it!!" They exclaimed. And so he did, he flipped through the pages until he came to the dedication, and his eyes began to water at what he saw. Typed in a fancy, swirly, italic font was written,

"To my dearest, Raphael, who has given me endless support, love, and inspiration, who's the best muse anyone could ask for, and who's character is better than any I could create, I have written you into these pages so that your essence may be as immortal as my love for you is."

They had all the talent when it came to words, and he was left with only speechlessness as he pulled them into a tight hug, fat tears falling down his face as he buried his beak into their neck, holding them as close as he could.

Donatello:

It had never been a secret that Donnie was incredibly impressive, and taking that fact into consideration, it was no real surprise that anyone, even as talented a writer as his love, would find themselves often speechless in his presence. With their emotions running too high to properly verbalize them in the moment, they would often find themselves writing out how they felt in long paragraphs until they were able to cut down the words into poems, vague and intricate enough to not be fully clear, and yet so powerful as to make someone know exactly the emotion the poet felt while scribbling the words. Donnie had a very clear understanding of their experience with being unable to verbalize just how they felt, as he often experienced the same thing, and resorted to building things as a way to show his love. Which was why he was so moved when he had found their journal. He knew that all of their final drafts were kept on an ever-growing document on their computer, but he never knew just how those drafts came to be final. And yet, there was a pain in his chest as he held the journal, a disorganized mess of thoughts, in his hands, and was able to see their word vomit be carved down into pure art, not unlike a sculptor chipping away at wood or stone, to reveal the heart of their creation. He had known that he was important enough to them for them to gift him some of their poems, but to be able to look at the proof, to be able to hold it, and to touch it, the proof of just how strong the emotions he stirred up within them were, that was a powerful experience. It was as if his brain had completely shut off for the moments that he held their raw thoughts in his grasp, and all he could think of was how impossible it would be to ever completely and successfully express the same level of depth that his emotions had for them. But he knew that he'd be damned if he didn't try. And with that, he placed their journal back down on their desk, and made his way to his lab, already brainstorming.

(I got kinda carried away with Raph's, I'm not sure what came over me lmao. guess i got possessed by some kind of inspiration ahaha)

[werewolfnightwalker]

Author!Dabi; Part Two

Part One here!

.

Dabi pretended to forget about the book after a while. Hawks never really brought it up again, though Dabi caught him reading it every now and then.

Sometimes he called Dabi "Raven," to which Dabi replied, "Songbird," but that was it. He never confirmed or denied that it was his book, that he wrote, that contained dozens of poems that were dedicated to his hero. He didn't want to, nor did he need to, so he didn't say anything when he spotted even more books by T. T. Arrow show up on Hawks' bookshelf.

He did watch, though. Watched as the first book- Starless Night and Other Poems- was read again, and again, and again. Dabi watched the spine crack, the page corners get dog-eared, the dustcover begin to tear at the edges.

All from repeated rereads.

"Read any good books lately?" He asked Hawks casually as he saw the hero glancing at the worn tome again.

Hawks hummed, smiling to himself. "Yeah, been thinking about rereading my favorite, though."

His favorite. Not even the five stars and essay-length, raving reviews from critics gave Dabi the same warm, fluttery feeling as that simple statement.

Finally, on a rainy afternoon that had him cooped up in Hawks' apartment while the hero was napping, Dabi got up and approached the bookshelf. He tipped the book towards himself with a finger and pulled it out of its place, carrying it with both hands back to the couch.

He retook his seat and flipped it open, searching the front page for… something. A sign, maybe. A reason, an explanation as to why it was Hawks' favorite.

The pages whispered against each other as he turned to the first poem; Mountainside of Embers was the title. His eyes completely passed over the printed words, so nearly packed into their stanzas, as they zeroed in on the messy scrawls along the sides.

"I'm so sorry." It was written in Hawks' slanted, curly handwriting, next to the paragraph lamenting how hard it was to breathe with lungs full of ash.

"I would have dug you out of the ashes and carried you home." Was scribbled at the end, that compared the mountainside to a graveyard for a single child.

Dabi flipped to another poem quickly; Sleepyhead.

"I wouldn't have left your side." Hawks' pen strokes promised next to the story of a sleeping, yet lonely boy.

"And he woke alone, so alone. Second, he thought of hunger, but firstly thought of home."

The whole line was highlighted, underlined, with a scrawled note beside it: "Come home with me!"

That fluttering back in his stomach, Dabi turned the pages with trembling fingers. Poem after poem was highlighted, underlined, scribbled, and doodled by. Notes and comments filled the margins, filled Dabi's vision and chest.

He turned to the first poem he'd written for Hawks, Origami Butterflies, and quickly scanned to one of the middle stanzas:

"Take my sharp edges and fold me together. Make me something beautiful, something that lasts forever. Tuck me safe into your pocket, Into your heart, into your bag, or your locket. Cradle me in work-worn hands, Promise never to let go again."

Next to it, in red ink and in all capital letters, Hawks wrote, "I PROMISE!"

Swallowing against the tightness in his throat now, Dabi looked through a few more before he finally dared himself to look at their poem, Cage of Bone.

The first page was blank.

As was the second.

The third page, where the story of the raven and the songbird ended, only had a single note by the final stanza:

"Begging forgiveness, as towards dawn they flew, The raven sobbed, "I love you, I love you, I love you.""

The poem ended there, in black, printed ink. But the note, written in blue, added on:

"The song bird settled into raven's chest, into his cage, into his nest, And began to sing into the sunrise, "It's alright, raven, dry your eyes. I am swift, and I am strong, And it was always you who heard my song. My wings do ache, my back is sore, So I will rest with you a little more.

Don't weep, dear raven, for you see, When I'm in here, I am free. I will stay in this cage of bone, So you and I are not alone.

Be my wings, and I'll be your heart, Because from you, dear raven, I wish never to part. So you start the song, and I take my cue, To sing on for forever, "I love you, I love you, I love you, too.""

Dabi closed the book like it would fall apart in his hands, carrying back to the shelf and slotting it into its place with the reverence due a holy scripture.

Wiping the blood from his cheeks, he headed for the bedroom, to do just as his songbird, his heart, had said.

He never fully figured out why it was Hawks' favorite book. But when he looked down at his hero, asleep, his head on Dabi's chest, he realized he didn't need to.

Not when the sound of their heartbeats, the sound of their breathing, the sound of Hawks' wings fluttering and the sheets shuffling and bloody tears pattering off Dabi's chin-

Not when they made a symphony, a song, all their own, that sang more than a raven and songbird ever could.

End.

[richincolor]

Book Review: How the Boogeyman Became a Poet

Title: How the Boogeyman Became a Poet

Author: Tony Keith Jr.  

Genres:  Memoir

Pages: 341

Publisher: Katherine Tegan Books

Review Copy: ARC by publisher

Availability: Available now

Summary: Poet, writer, and hip-hop educator Tony Keith Jr. makes his debut with a powerful YA memoir in verse, tracing his journey from being a closeted gay Black teen battling poverty, racism, and homophobia to becoming an openly gay first-generation college student who finds freedom in poetry. Perfect for fans of Elizabeth Acevedo, George M. Johnson, and Jacqueline Woodson. Tony dreams about life after high school, where his poetic voice can find freedom on the stage and page. But the Boogeyman has been following Tony since he was six years old. First, the Boogeyman was after his Blackness, but Tony has learned It knows more than Tony wants to be the first in his family to attend college, but there’s no path to follow. He also has feelings for boys, desires that don’t align with the script he thinks is set for him and his girlfriend, Blu. Despite a supportive network of family and friends, Tony doesn’t breathe a word to anyone about his feelings. As he grapples with his sexuality and moves from high school to college, he struggles with loneliness while finding solace in gay chat rooms and writing poetry. But how do you find your poetic voice when you are hiding the most important parts of yourself? And how do you escape the Boogeyman when it's lurking inside you?

Review: I will admit that I’m a huge fiction girly and very rarely read memoirs. However, the title and the book cover caught my eye at NCTE and I took a look. I love books in verse and when I saw this was a memoir in verse by a spoken word poet I was even more interested. I flipped through the pages, read a few of the poems and I was all in. I grabbed a copy and looked forward to reading this memoir when I had some time. I was not disappointed. 

“How the Boogeyman Became a Poet” reflects on Tony Keith’s senior year of high school and his first year of college as he struggles to figure out who he is. It is during this time that Tony is struggling with what he would like for his future and struggling with his sexuality. He opens his memoir with giving a bit of background about his childhood before diving deep into the numerous insecurities young teens may have as they face their last year of high school where the constant talk is about “which college are you going to go to”. Teenage Tony is struggling with the last few months of school as he doesn’t think he has the grades to go to college but knows everyone around him expects him to. He also feels that he is continuing to live his life as a lie as he has a girlfriend, whom his parents know and love, while going to church, and maintaining an image of a “cool, straight Black teen.” It’s this performance he puts on that he calls the Boogeyman because the Boogeyman shows up to remind Tony that he is living a lie. Tony does express himself though his poetry and one highlight from the book is Tony sharing the poems that he wrote during this time period. There is a distinct difference in the style and tone of these younger poems, from the rest of the memoir, that reminds the reader that Tony will eventually find his way. As Tony attends college and is exposed to a wider world, friendships change, he breaks up with his girlfriend, and does begin to be true to himself. He also begins to find his voice in his poetry as he begins to accept who he is. 

Overall I enjoyed “How the Boogeyman Became a Poet” as Tony’s voice as a confused teen growing into a confident young man moved me. There were so many passages that were truly moving and drew me into Tony’s story. Tony’s poems are lyrical with a flow that moves with a smooth beat. He weaves imagery into pictures the eyes can see and moments the heart can feel. I hope that this book becomes an audio book and that Tony is the narrator as his memoir was an enjoyable read, that I can only imagine how it would sound. 

Here is a taste of Tony Keith's poetry. 

[mirrorsblogs]

𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐖. 𝐔𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐚

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 (𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘂𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗷𝗶𝗺𝗮), 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗮 𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗲𝗻𝗮 𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗴

Maybe it was because you were tired or maybe it was because you finally were at your breaking point but seeing your ex with someone new made you absolutely enraged. It never helped that the new person they were with was your best friend.

After acting for weeks like everything was ok you finally ran behind the sports building where rarely anyone went and cried. With only your portable tissue pack to comfort you, the tears fell for a while.

“Are you alright?” You turned to see a guy you remember as being quiet. Though under normal circumstances you would have just said a quick answer and ran away you decided against better judgment to pour your heart out.

“No!” You threw a tissue into the distance as he sat next to you on the dead grass bordering the building.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

You told him the story which was filled with lots of cuss words and many breaks to cry.

“That sounds like…a lot.”

“Yeah…”

“Do you feel better?”

“Not really.” You leaned your head on his arm, not quite reaching his shoulder even though both of you were sitting.

“I’m sorry I don’t really know what else to help.” The tone of his voice indicated sincerity. 

“It’s alright. I think you sitting here has done wonders.”

You both continued to make small talk with promises from you to take care of yourself and promises from him to talk in the future. The goal was to talk at least once in the next week though Ushijima had vastly different plans. Though you noticed him sticking around on numerous locations:

He sat down across from you at lunch.

“Have you been reading recently?” 

“Yeah, I found this old poetry book at a discount store. It’s pretty good.” You pulled the book from your bag.

“You annonntated it.” Ushijima flipped through the pages and caught glimpses of your notes in the margin.

“Helps get a better feel for the text.”

“Would you mind if I borrowed this?” His index finger traced over a poem that you noticed, because of the structure, was e.e. cummings.

“The poems are about the theme of romance throughout poetry.” You looked down in slight embarrassment but Ushijima continued to be enamored by the poem.

“Could I make annotations?”

He sat with you to watch the sunset.

“Ok what do you think that cloud looks like?” Your finger pointed to a small and spherical cloud.

“A ball.”

“What kind?”

“...Volleyball.” You laughed a little before he pointed to another one. “What do you think that one looks like?”

“Cotton candy.”

“I believe that is a copout answer.” He laughed a little while you shook your head.

“Maybe.” You paused and turned your face to face him directly. “Would you like to get ice cream?”

“Unfortunately not. Coach has us on a diet plan.”

“Booo!” He chuckled but the stick grabbed your hand to stand you up with him.

“But I can walk you to the ice cream place.” You nodded towards him.

The walk was quiet as per usual. Each of you basking in the general ambience the countryside brought though you noticed Ushijima waving at many of the family owned stores.

“Do you know all of them?” He turned his head to look down at you abashedly.

“I just help some of them out of the weekend with unloading. It’s a good workout.”

“That’s nice. Next time, invite me! I can help stock items!”

“Alright.” Unconsciously he found himself glancing at you though you paid no mind. He noted the style of your hair and the darkness to your skin. He saw the little intricacies to your side profile in the short glances but it mapped the beautiful picture he already had of you in his mind.

The ice cream shop was small and clearly needed some upkeep but the old owners never paid much mind. 

“Hello.” You nodded your head towards the old woman behind the counter and smiled.

“Hello there. What would you like, sweetie?” 

“Um mint chocolate.” Your finger pointed to the light green flavor as Ushijima let his eyes roam around the place.

“That’ll be four hundred yen.” Though you tried paying, Ushijima slipped the coins from his pocket seemingly out of nowhere. 

“Hey I was paying!”

“It’s rude to let you pay.” You hit his arm lightly which got the old woman behind the counter to see something.

While you ate at a table in the shop the old lady began to sweep and pretended to drop the broom. She tried kneeling down to grab it but when she could not Ushijima swooped in to grab it.

“Thank you, young man.”

“It’s no problem.” She grabbed the broom from his hands. 

“Say, I’ve been meaning to clean this place up for a while but my bones are too old to do so. Would either of you mind coming by this Sunday to do it? I’ll pay.”

“No need to pay. I don’t mind.” You smiled and threw away your ice cream cup in a nearby trash can.

“Neither do I.” Ushijima made an effort to smile small.

Sunday came by slowly as the school hours dragged on and on. You were entrapped in club activities while Ushijima was drowning in practice. When the day finally came both of you were a little exhausted but ready to help.

“Would you mind wiping the windows down on both sides?” The old woman pointed at the dusty and cobweb ridden windows. You shuttered but grabbed the bucket of soap and water nonetheless.

Ushijima took the outside while you took the inside. Putting some headphones in you concentrated on leaving the area spotless while Ushijima quickly got distracted staring at you.

Though up until a few moments ago he was keeping his cool it was not until you were right in front of him wiping down the window that he stopped entirely. You looked at him before laughing lightly and splashing some soap directly onto the space of the window his face was.

He laughed as well though with a blush on his face and continued silently. Now you both moved in relative sync with your towels moving together on both sides. 

When you finished, the old woman directed both of you to fix some chairs.

“We should get dinner together.” You looked up at Ushijima in shock.

“Like a date?” There was a hopefulness in your voice.

“Is- Is that what you want this to be?” He rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to get his blood flowing elsewhere as his face heated up.

“Yes.” Your assertiveness made him chuckle.

“Then dinner tonight. It’s a date.”

“Ok.”

From the other side of the door the old lady cheered.

[achitka]

Day Sixteen: Grief

Oooo... halfway there now - go me. So this is more about letting go of grief, rather than just grieving. Maybe more moving forward into the light. Something Alma has clearly struggled with.

Day Sixteen: Grief

Camilo tapped the page of the script he was working on for an upcoming project. It was not going well so when he heard a light tap on his door, he grumped and shouted, “Enter!” he was expecting Mira to come help him with some editing and put the sheets into a folder. He turned was taken aback to find his Abuela there. She was holding a somewhat ornate box and said, “Good evening, nieto.”

“Good evening, Abuela, how can I help you?”

“I understand you are working on a play about our family.”

Camilo glanced back at the folder on his desk. He was indeed working on that. It was supposed to be a secret, and he decided he’d have to throttle Mirabel later and said, “Yes, I meant to talk with you about some of it, but... I didn’t want to bring up any bad memories for you.”

“Actually,” she said and came closer holding out the box, “I wanted to give you these. You have quite the talent for writing, and I think these should stay with you now.”

Curious, Camilo took the box and saw it was carved with tiny flowers and butterflies. It was not something he’d seen before and curious he tipped the cover. There were several small notebooks as well as some letters, and he asked, “What are these?”

“Poems, letters and a play your Abuelo Pedro wrote. I want you to use them however you can. You have always had your Abuelo’s flair for the dramatic,” she said.

Camilo looked again at the box and moved to take off the cover, but first he glanced back to his Abuela. She gave him a small smile as she nodded. He set the box on his desk and carefully removed the lid. He picked up one of the little books and gently flipped through the pages. Every page was full, and Camilo recognized the marks of revision on the pages. Some appeared to be unfinished works and Camilo felt weirdly excited as ideas began to storm through his mind. He set the book back in the box gave her a hug, something he’d not done since he was seven and said, “Thank you Abuela, I’ll make sure to take good care of them.”

[akiraiscute]

{ A Slow BURN, of Aaron Hotchner & Fem! Reader. As of right now, you jst look like you!! Not any race color. }

New Episode, Criminal Minds. Which comes with,

Tw ; Gore, Description of Dead Bodies, Slow Burn, 2022 writing (that im fixing rn!), use of You(s) instead of I(s) and her!!

New Case. - Part 3

“Alright, Lets begin.”

JJ said as she put the screen up. A picture of a young girl with (H/C) {hair color!} and soft looks.. appeared on the tv, Jennifer sighed as she looked at the file. Everyone looked at it, As it said.. “Kasse Jayde Cole” “16”

“Police said that Kasse was found in Chicago, {___} at 3:30AM in a park, by park rangers as well. The wounds on her body was completely fresh.”

“Don’t people call 3AM between 4AM the "witching hour" or something?”

You said it quietly but yet everyone heard you.. You looked back at the file, already knowing that reid will say something smart about what you said but. As you flipped through the stuff.. you saw the wounds, it creeped you out really. It looked like vampire bites in vampire romance books or movies or shows too..

“Actually, it wasn’t always the witching hour. It was when "demons" were strongest.. but then, as early as 1775 Rev. Matthew West in the poem "Night, an Ode" started the thing where they called 3AM and the time between that through 4AM the "witching hour"!”

Reid said, and explained. No one stopped him well… you didn’t let them, he has been shut up one too many times. And you care about how he feels so! What if he feels bad about rambling- anyways.. You were looking at reid before looking at the file again. Sighing as you kept staring into the picture of the wound, it felt familiar. Way too familiar, it’s like you have seen the same wound somewhere, just somewhere.. it messed with your mind a lot, you shook your head before looking up at Jennifer or JJ.

“Go on jj..”

“As I was saying. The police called us as they have been dealing with the same problem each time, as so in the files.. This is the fifth victim, the media has been calling the unsub "Vampire" and the police has been encouraging it.”

JJ paused as she pressed a button on the remote that made another picture pop up, a girl with (E/C) and (S/C) {eye color & skin color} You looked a small shocked before shaking your head again, you looked through the file until the girl’s picture popped up.

“Jasmine Bayou Isuma. The police said she was found in an adandom warehouse by teens, the same wounds on her neck like Kasse. Clearly like vampire bites as to the unsub’s name. But Jasmine looked like she was there in the warehouse for a couple of days, but something that they both had been completely drained out of blood, Kasse and Jasmine.”

You looked up from the file and to the screen, completely more shocked than you looked like before. You tried to put stuff together as you looked back at the file, reading Jasmine’s page.. You compared their photos of their dead body. Both pale and their wounds in the same place.. you looked absolutely confused. Before you could say anything, JJ spoke up again.

“There was another girl, but her body was cut off besides her head and neck. The unsub kept the head and neck together as to show her wound on her neck, the same wounds on Jasmine and Kasse.. As of right now, they haven’t found the rest but they do know the identity of the girl. Her name was Eleanor.”

You sighed softly, looking at the picture of Eleanor. It was her high school yearbook picture.. she looked so happy there, Eleanor’s next picture was her head and neck cut off from the rest of her body. It was upsetting that each one of these girls had a whole life ahead of them and all three were only sixteen. You quickly got snapped out of your own thoughts by a chair moving back loudly, it was Hotchner getting up. You absolutely sighed, make annoyed and everyone but him heard it, Derek looked at you and smirked at you teasingly. You glared at him immediately when he did that.

“Alright. Wheels up in thirty.”

WELL! Its another part of new case😊 and get ready!! im literally abt to MAKE A BUNCH OF STORIES. i dont have writer block anymore people!! The next is gonna be surprising! I don’t know how this is alr to post because i haven’t proofread it yet but its alr- i have a bunch of stories to do rn so.. its fun writing this type of series 😊😊

- Akira!.. Akira! Logging.. logg- logging off..

[auroraesmeraldarose]

Here’s some Helene/Gale fluff written in the bath! 🛀

It will be longer eventually, but I feel like sharing what I’ve got so far; I deserve it!

—————

Exams had started, the first year of her MA was over, and for two blissful weeks before her second job as an exam marker began, Helene had time to breathe. Helene marked exams alongside her normal teaching job every year; it was hard work, with little sleep or time for socialising, but it was also an extra £2000 in exchange for just four weeks of intense work. No doubt this year it would come with extra complications, now she had someone she actually wanted to spend her weekends with, rather than secluded in front of a computer screen marking, but that was a problem to solve when it came. Right now, she was making use of her extra frees that used to be Year 11 lessons by clearing out the old English department store cupboard. It had clearly not been tidied for a very long time; Helene had worked at the school for nine years now, and it had always been a dumping ground as far as she knew. There were stacks and stacks of books on shelves all around the small square room, in boxes and piles that reached from floor to ceiling. The school was fifty years old, and she was starting to think she might eventually find books from its first year if she kept delving into the dusty recesses.

As Helene sorted through a torn, ancient looking cardboard box of assorted volumes of poetry, one book caught her eye. It was thin, the edges foxed and worn with age, the cover faded and battered. The author’s name was barely visible, but as soon as she saw it she smiled; Pablo Neruda. Her first thought, upon seeing the name, was of Gale. Helene had adored the poetry of Neruda since she was a teenager. She had always longed to love and be loved the way he wrote about, to feel that beautiful longing that so many of his poems evoked. Now, she had Gale, and finally understood some of those beautiful verses, finally felt herself worthy of such intense, passionate desire. Smiling to herself, Helene picked up the book, turned out the light in the store cupboard, and went back to her classroom. It was 3:30, the students had gone home, and although she usually stayed at work for at least another hour, Helene thought today might be a day to leave a little earlier. She found her phone in her desk drawer and sent a message to Gale.

H- Are you busy? Mind if I pop round for half an hour? Have something to give you xx

While she waited for a response, Helene began flicking through the slim volume of poetry and folding down the corners of her favourite poems. When she had chosen her top three, she flipped back to the front page and wrote a note in pencil.

Η καρδιά μου, η ψυχή μου, ο ήλιος μου, το φεγγάρι μου, και όλα τα αστέρια μου. Σ'αγαπώ.

[My heart, my soul, my sun, my moon, and all my stars. I love you.]

By the time she had finished writing, Gale had replied.

G- Never too busy to see you, ψυχή μου. I’m intrigued…? xx

H- Leaving work now. All will be revealed xx

Still smiling, Helene gently put the book into her bag, changed out of her high heels, and left.

When she arrived at Gale’s he greeted her with a kiss so intense, so fervent, Helene’s knees went temporarily weak. Were it not for Gale’s firm grip around her waist she feared she may have actually dropped to the ground.

“It is a most welcome surprise to see you outside of our scheduled weekends, ψυχή μου!” Gale grinned as he pulled away from Helene’s lips, gazing down into her face as if he wanted to devour her with his eyes. One of his hands moved up to her cheek, cupping it gently. “What delightful mystery brings you here on a school night?”

Finding her feet again after such a welcome, Helene extricated herself from Gale’s arms and began to rummage in her bag.

“I was clearing out the book cupboard today and found something that made me think of you. I wanted to bring you it…” she found the book, and held it out, her face torn between nervousness and excitement.

“Pablo Neruda? A beautiful poet. This made you think of me?” Gale’s mouth curved into another smile, his cheeks flushing slightly.

“Yes… I folded down some of my favourites…” Helene blushed too now, and wondered if she should ask Gale not to read it until she had left.

“I hope you’ve included ‘Potter’? If there were ever a poem to describe you, my love, that would be it.” He had already begun to flip through to the indicated pages, and his smile widened when the first poem he came to was indeed that one. Gale sighed. “Would that he had not written it first, that I could write such words for you.” Helene continued to blush, and looked down at her feet rather than up at Gale. He reached his hand out to cup her cheek once more, lifting her head and willing her eyes to meet his.

“Your whole body has a fullness or a gentleness destined for me.” He began to recite, his hand drifting down from her cheek, fingers gently brushing her neck.

“When I move my hand up I find in each place a dove that was seeking me, as if they had, love, made you of clay for my own potter's hands.” Helene trembled at his touch as Gale’s fingers lightly caressed the delicate skin of her collarbone.

“Your knees, your breasts, your waist are missing parts of me like the hollow of a thirsty earth from which they broke off a form, and together we are complete like a single river, like a single grain of sand.”

Placing the book down gently, Gale took Helene in his arms once more, one hand slipping around her waist, feeling her body, the other moving to the back of her neck, then the base of her head, twining in her hair as he pulled her into another long, slow kiss. She melted into his arms. The book had been intended as a gift for Gale, but hearing him read those words, Helene felt as though she was the one being given something precious.

[visceravalentines]

I'm pretty sure my ask got eaten the last time I tried to send this I had completely forgot about it too before I saw my face reveal post my Internet was a little werid when I tried to send it though if you do have the original or your requests are closed just ignore this 😅

If it's not too much trouble I was wondering if you could write a little something for mine and Vinny's bookshop date please 💜

Here it is my love! I hope you enjoy it, I think it's super sweet!

The Dusty Shelf

Vincent Sinclair x GN!Reader

2.5k words No CWs, just fluff! Reader is described as shorter than Vincent and with brightly colored hair to match the lovely @fluffy-little-demon

There was this place.

It was a secondhand bookstore a few miles out of Ambrose, in a town small enough to be left to its own devices but big enough to have shed some of that small-town suspicion of strangers. You’d been desperate for just such a place when you found it, somewhere cozy, where time stopped for a coffee and a flip through a book of poems about cats. Ambrose was many things. Cozy was not on the list. But the Dusty Shelf was the epitome of close, quiet comfort.

You made an effort to make it out there at least once every couple of weeks. Saturday mornings had this intrinsic promise to them, the feeling of a day open for anything. You’d get a coffee from the shop down the street and lose yourself amid the shelves, almost always leaving with a book (or two, or three) you never knew you needed.

They had this delightful exchange program where you could bring in used books and trade them for ones that were new-to-you. Victor Sinclair had an extensive dusty collection of medical texts and historical novels and not one of the boys had any opposition to you putting it to good use.

At first, you shyly asked Vincent if he wanted to see what you’d brought back. It was an art book, an anthology of sculpture through the ages, and it reminded you of him. He was so enthralled that you let him keep it. You’d sort of intended it for him anyway. After that, if you didn’t come straight downstairs to show him your spoils, he’d seek you out, ask you what you found.

This time, as he thumbed through a well-worn anthology of Greek myths, you ventured an invitation.

“You could come with me next time, if you want.”

He looked up at you, brow furrowed. “I would love to,” he signed, “but…I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, or if you’re not comfortable,” you said quickly. “But…there’s almost never anyone there, and Mildred - the owner - she’s basically blind. So you…you’d blend in just fine, I think.”

You watched him consider, weigh the lifelong fear of being perceived against the deep-seated desire for the normalcy of a trip to the bookstore.

“Can I…get back to you?” he signed.

“Of course you can. I would love to have you with me, but I’m also more than happy to bring back the best parts of it for you.”

You let it be through the week, until Friday night when he approached you in the kitchen. He touched you lightly on the lower back and when you turned, you found yourself looking at his bare face - half of it, anyway. The other half was covered by a waxen half-mask, the seam blended expertly across his skin.

Your eyes widened. “Vince, did you just make that?” He nodded. “That’s amazing, it looks so good!”

“The symmetry was hard,” he signed. “It looks okay?”

“Yes! You did a fantastic job, of course you did.”

He smiles his tentative ghost of a smile. “I thought it might be…easier to go out like this.”

You lit up. “You want to come with me tomorrow?” He nodded. “I’m so glad! It’ll be really fun, I promise. And if you’re uncomfortable at any point, we can leave right away, it’s okay. We can take it a step at a time.” You pulled him into a hug that it felt like he was hoping for, because his arms found their way around you without hesitation.

Just before bed, you found yourself alone in the living room with Bo. Rubbing your tired eyes, you stood from the couch, started towards the stairs.

“Hey,” he said in a low voice. You turned and met his gaze. His expression was inscrutable. “This is a big deal for him.”

“I know,” you said humbly.

“‘S good, I’m not denyin’ that. Great even. But I just wanna make sure you realize. ‘S been years since he’s been outta town.”

You nodded. “We’ll take it at his pace. Whatever he wants.”

“I oughta come with you, but I’m not gonna do that. He’d be pissed at me.” Bo stared at you for a while before adding, “You best take care of him, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

You nodded again, the weight of his trust making you stand a little straighter. “I will. I promise.”

Saturday morning broke with cloudy skies and an insolent wind:  the perfect day to spend in a bookstore. When you met Vincent in the front hallway you realized you’d both chosen plaid button-downs open over t-shirts. Yours was red and his was black.

You laughed and he cracked a crooked smile. It was priceless to you to be able to see that smile with the new mask. “I’ll go change,” he signed.

“No, no. We match! It’s cute.”

His eye shone. “If you say so.”

On the drive, you reached across the armrest and took his hand from its place on his leg. He looked at you with a flash of unguarded vulnerability, just for a second. “You’re gonna stay close to me, okay?” you said. “If you want to leave, you just squeeze my hand.”

He gave you a thumbs-up with his free hand, squeezed your fingers with the other.

“Mildred is really nice, I think you’ll like her. There’s hardly ever anyone there, even on weekends. And even if there is, they’re probably going to be distracted by my hair and won’t even notice you.” Your hair, incapable of remaining the same color for more than a month, was currently green.

Vincent pulled his hand away to sign, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d dye mine sometime,” and then quickly laced his fingers back through yours.

“You mean it?” You beamed. “I would love to.”

As per usual, the street that was home to the Dusty Shelf was almost completely empty. The little café around the corner was the busiest establishment on the entire block. You parked the car on the curb nearby. Vincent eyed the constantly swinging door with apprehension.

“You can wait in the car if you want,” you said. “I can grab us both drinks and then we can drive up the road.”

He thought for a second. “No. Let’s both go in.”

“You sure?”

Vincent nodded.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

You rounded the hood of the car and took his hand. He was already reaching for you. You gave him a minute to gather his courage, waited for him to give you a nod, and then with your fingers woven through his, you led him up the two concrete steps into the café.

Inside was a cacophony of sensory input. Was it always such a spectacle? You’d never thought about it before. The smell of coffee was pervasive. Old country classics played on wall-mounted speakers beneath the clink of mugs and the even hum of a dozen conversations. An impossible number of people filled the small space, queuing at the register or sitting at a handful of high-top tables. You glanced up at Vincent, who bore a marked resemblance to a very large deer in the headlights.

“Okay?” you murmured loudly. He flashed you another thumbs-up without looking at you, too preoccupied with the insurmountable task of taking in everything at once. He examined the crowd, the menu, the entire space with his head lowered, peering up through his thick lashes. You gave him a minute to get his bearings, then indicated the line. He nodded and shuffled forward.

“Do you know what you want? Or do you want me to pick for you?”

He pointed at you.

“Got it.” You didn’t even bother reading the menu board; you knew what you wanted and you knew what he liked.

The line moved quickly and you were at the register in no time. You ordered the drinks and the cashier barely looked at either of you as she punched the buttons. Vincent watched the exchange like a biologist studying some exotic species. You sidestepped away from the register to wait for your order, smiling up at Vincent. He looked almost puzzled, but when you squeezed his hand just to check, he answered with a slight shake of his head.

The girl called your name, handed you both drinks.

“By the way, I love your hair.”

You flashed a polite grin. “Thank you!”

She bid you a good rest of your day with a quick, courteous glance at Vincent. Her gaze skated over his face, didn’t linger, and she was on to the next customer. With your hands full, you offered Vincent your elbow and led him out of the shop.

Outside, he breathed a visible sigh of relief.

“How was that?” you asked anxiously. “Are you okay?”

He stared at the ground thoughtfully before replying. “Yeah. I don’t think she even noticed.”

“Probably not.”

He furrowed his brow. “Nobody…even looked at me.”

A tentative smile crept onto your face. “Yeah. Everyone is always kind of…preoccupied with their own thing.”

“That’s not how I remembered it,” he said, and the hurt in his eye when he met your gaze was a knife in the gut.

“Well, let’s go make better memories then.” You handed him his drink. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah.” That phantom smile was back. “I’m okay.”

“That was the hard part.” You took hold of his hand again. “Let’s go get cozy.”

The bell over the door wasn’t a bell, it was a string attached to a set of windchimes. They tinkled overhead as you entered. A garland of multicolored scarves draped low just inside the doorway; Vincent had to duck to get through.

You watched his face as he took it all in:  the colorful glass lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the bright green carpet, the mismatched assortment of armchairs and loveseats arranged in little groups like families. And the shelves.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves held up the walls and a maze of chest-high shelves filled the majority of the space, every one crammed to bursting with books. Heroically, the shorter shelves also bore the weight of a hundred years of antiques arranged haphazardly across their crowns. The entire place smelt of patchouli and paper, and somewhere a blues record was playing.

Vincent’s eye was wide, flitting from one thing to the next like a hummingbird in a garden of honeysuckle. His grip tightened on your hand and you frowned.

“Do you…want to leave?”

He shook his head quickly. “No! No, it’s just…amazing.”

You broke into a grin. “Yeah…I think so.”

From behind a shelf, a tiny old woman shuffled into view, dressed head-to-toe in a truly devastating mix of colors and patterns. She wore itty bitty gold-rimmed spectacles dangling with a beaded chain and was still squinting with all her might.

“Can I help you?” she said in the voice of a chainsmoking squirrel.

“Hi Mildred,” you said brightly. “It’s me.”

“Ohh, hello dear.” She peered up at Vincent. “Didja bring a friend or didja find a bear?”

You bit back a laugh and shot a glance at him. He was transfixed with her. “A friend. He doesn’t talk much, he signs.”

“Well, we could all stand to talk a lil less.” She abruptly changed course, moving just past you to the worn desk near the door that served as a checkout counter. “Make yourself at home, honey.”

“Thanks, Mildred.” You gave Vincent’s hand a gentle tug. “Let me show you my favorite spot and then we can browse, okay?”

You led him back to the back corner, to an oversized burnt orange loveseat flanked by Tiffany lamps. There was a low walnut coffee table nearly pushed up against the couch, sporting a truly impressive assortment of coasters checkerboarded over its surface like a turtle’s shell. From underneath the table, a skinny black paw stretched out towards your feet, and then another, and then a handsome tuxedo cat emerged, blinking his golden eyes.

“That’s Shep,” you said. “He’s either very friendly, or very rude.”

Vincent knelt slowly and offered his hand. Shep gave him a sniff and then a cuff of his cheek. When Vincent stood back up, the cat meowed at him and leaned against his calf.

“You’re a charmer,” you said. He smiled shyly.

You wandered together through the stacks, pointing out books with odd titles, pulling ones with pretty covers to admire them better, tucking a few under your arm to take back to the orange couch. Vincent retrieved a few that were too high for you to reach, playfully signing, “Little.”

When you’d amassed quite the collection, you returned to the corner. You sat on one side of the loveseat and Vincent sank rather stiffly onto the other. He flipped a few pages, then leaned casually back. You flipped a few pages, then crossed your leg and scooted just slightly in his direction. He pretended to read for a while before stretching his arm along the back of the couch behind you. You abandoned all pretense, stuck your thumb in the pages to hold your place, snuggled in against him with your leg hooked over his, and resumed reading. He let out a soft, suppressed sigh of contentment and you smiled to yourself.

The morning passed in delightful, companionable quiet. When at last the growling of Vincent’s stomach broke the silence, you proposed a quick return to the café to grab lunch. Mildred let you eat in the bookstore if you promised to be careful and brought her back a sandwich. Vincent agreed and you went to let Mildred know you’d be back.

“I know you close at two on Saturdays,” you told her. “But…he doesn’t get out much, and he really likes it here. Could I convince you to let us stay just an hour or two past closing time?”

Mildred regarded you shrewdly. “It’s gonna cost ya.”

You considered the volume of junk in the Sinclair house, in particular the gadgets in Victor’s old office. “How does an antique sex toy sound?”

“Horrendous,” she said. “I’ll take it if you throw in the rest o’ that encyclopedia set y’brought last time.”

“Done.”

You shook on it. When you turned around, Vincent was examining antiques with Shep perched on his shoulder, drinking in the new vantage point with greedy yellow eyes. Vincent turned to you and he looked…well, he looked relaxed, possibly for the first time ever.

“Do you want to stay here?” you asked. “I can grab lunch and come right back.”

He shook his head. “I want to be with you.”

You hoped he could feel the warmth radiating from you as you took his hand again. “Good. I want to be with you too.”

[captainderyn]

for the lotro ask game, what would an intro quest/questline starring Raenor look like? 👀

I saw this pop up and then a lot of stuff went down at work BUT I am answering it now!

An intro quest line with Raenor would first trigger by the ruins of Edhelion when the MC returns there. While wandering around the ruins you can find an old, tattered leather bound notebook protected from the six hundred years of elements by a painted lock box buried beneath the fallen remains of the buildings. Inside the book are time and weather-worn pages filled with poems, sonnets, ballads, and beautiful written words. It will pop up a quest to find the owner of the book and directs the MC to ask around the Refuge of Edhelion where Elladan and Elrohir are for more information on who the owner might be.

The handful of elves there hum and haw at the MC, throwing around how to sonnets sound familiar and how they just can't quite place in their long memories whose book it may be because there have been so many bards throughout the years. Finally, one elf flips through the notebook and lights up, saying they remember the day that one of the poems if referring to. This elf states the notebook is owned by an elf named Raenor and if he is in Ered Luin at all, it would be worth checking in Celondim for him. This elf suggests following the sound of a lute and a voice that sounds like summer rain.

When the MC travels to Celondim they can find Raenor in one of the gazebos around the settlement, near the outskirts closest to the farming fields and wildflowers. The MC will hear him humming as they approach and he will be idly picking at lute strings, tuning it as he goes.

The MC introduces themselves and Raenor is friendly, if reserved, until you attempt to hand him the notebook. At that, his face fills with pain, and he pushes it away saying he wants no part of the memories that book holds. That if you really want something to do with it, throw it into the gorge and be done with it. The MC can ask if that's what he really wants done with it, and that will earn a smile.

If the MC interacts with him again, Raenor will say that if you really wish to know his story, that he will tell you, but on the condition that you actually do toss the the notebook into the River Lune and if you collect five specific herbs and flowers so that he may repaint his lute, decorated with a gorgeous scene that he explains is Rivendell and the Misty Mountains beyond.

Collecting the herbs/flowers and tossing the notebook will bring you back to Raenor, where he will tell you of what happened to him at Edhelion and his journey back to Rivendell after. Mechanics wise, it would probably trigger an instance where you go through the day and the journey with him. The quest rewards you a pocket item that is a small notebook filled with half written songs and poems with a boost for Fate and Will.

Later on, when the MC reaches Rivendell, you can find Raenor in one of the gazebos by the gorge, strumming on his lute. If you speak with him, his dialogue will show that he is singing a longing song for a forlorn woman, but no further quest line triggers.

Even further up the line when the MC reaches Gondor, you can find Raenor again in Minas Tirith. Post War of the Ring he has an optional quest to help find Faewryn, his wayward daughter, who is playing hide-and-seek around the area. The MC can help find her, and she will run from hiding spot to hiding spot. If you find all of Faewryn's hiding spots within the time limit, Raenor will thank you and wish you well and congratulates you on long journey well completed. He promises to spin songs and tales of your heroics, and completion of the quest will grant you a title of 'Song Spinner' which describes you as a inspiration for songs all across Middle Earth, as well as a housing decoration musical instrument of choice, hand painted with the view from Minas Tirith.

[hekateinhell]

Okay, so, Armand collects poetry. It started after he met Lestat and after Nicki had passed. Nicki's writings, when not for the Théâtre des Vampires, were something that mostly annoyed Armand and he didn't see much value in them. It was a mad man's hobby, and something that was a requirement to pacify the man - a tedious supply of paper and ink for their playwright to squander on inane scribblings. It wasn't until after his passing that Armand really looked at anything Nicki wrote, and while it may not have touched his soul or heart (not that he could identify, anyway), it was interesting to him. It was different, threadbare, and vulnerable in a way that even his mind gift didn't reveal to him in other vampires. And despite it being written in Nicki's hand, he realized with some irritation that it made him think less of his tortured violinist, and more and more of the blonde, lively, insufferable idiot of a vampire that was Lestat. I think he saw glimpses into a past version of Nicki that he never knew, and through that he saw the same person who had equally stirred, disturbed, and intrigued the both of them. It was a quiet collection. He kept some of Nicki's writings, less of sentimental value and more of aesthetic nature. He had ones he liked, but he didn't think that he was particularly moved by the words. It was just interesting enough that he would keep them, that was all.

It wasn't often that someone he killed had a book of poetry on them either - what are the odds of that, really? - but it did happen once, and again, out of curiosity, he flipped through the book and found himself thinking back on Lestat, and he pocketed it. A small collection, but a collection nonetheless: it was secret, and it was his. This happened a few times over the next century. Not too many - he didn't particularly seek them out - but his collection grew to a small box full by the time he met Louis. They didn't survive the fire, but in Armand's mind, he didn't particularly care. They were just things that he was never really attached to anyways, he didn't know why he even kept them. And then he saw Louis reading a book one day, and he found that once more, he saw poetry reflected in the man he loved. Nicki's poetry was of hurt and pain and anger, and there was a screaming desire for life and death that made him think of Lestat, but Louis had a more thoughtful selection, a more quiet, placid taste in the little wonders of the mortal world. Armand's collection started again, and little by little, he had assembled a small box of poetry that he associated with Louis. It didn't last long, and Armand insisted he wasn't sentimental about it. Put in a storage somewhere that he wouldn't return to but never forgot, he went on for decades without collecting them again until he met a young reporter boy by the name of Daniel. There were modern trends in poetry that Armand hadn't bothered to look into or keep up with - slam poetry, freeform poetry, words that bounced across pages like ping-pong balls for the fun of it. It wasn't until they were courting each other fully and going from one artist's party to the next that he decided to seek out poems that made him think of his new lover. Modern, rough, strange, young, erratic, hungry poetry. He still has his box of poetry that he associates with Daniel at his home, wherever he calls home at the moment. He keeps it a secret, not just Daniel's, but all of the poems he's collected over the past few lifetimes of the different men he's loved, because those are parts of his heart that he's not sharing.

Klay, dude...

How could you come into my ask box and completely and utterly eviscerate me like this? 🥹

He keeps it a secret, not just Daniel's, but all of the poems he's collected over the past few lifetimes of the different men he's loved, because those are parts of his heart that he's not sharing.

Just the progression of it being something he told himself invoked no feeling and meant nothing, to becoming these cherished mementos and something that is uniquely, truly his...

Respectfully, I am in pieces.

(I hope Lestat, Louis, and Daniel know Armand has a not-so-secret love of poetry and inadvertently add to his collection every now and then).

[donut-cloud]

lifestealincorrectquotes

Spoke making a nuke: I know what I'm doing.

Ro, glancing at a bewildered Parrot: Spoke, even the server admin don't know what you're doing.

Parrot: I know you duped hearts, Mapicc.

Zam: Play dumb!

Mapicc: Who's Mapicc?

Zam: NOT THAT DUMB!!!

Branzy after admitting he's dating ClownPierce: What are you looking for?

Rek, opening up Branzy's drawers, cupboards and shelves: Your standards.

Zam: I'm the type of person who thinks things through

Leo: Since when? I once saw you eat a marshmallow while it was still on fire just because Pangi dared you to.

Ro: i'm so imperfect

Mapicc: you're perfect just the way you are don't worry

Ro: i started a war once

Clutch: Why's it called an oven when you of in the cold food and you of out hot eat the food?

Vitalasy: ...What??

Spoke: What's up guys? I'm back.

Prince Zam: What the- you can't be here. You're dead. I literally saw you die.

Spoke: Death is a social construct.

Purple trio having dinner together

Subz : Vitalasy, can you pass the salt?

Vitalasy: *Throws Branzy across the table*

Spoke: Died and came back as a cowboy, I call that reintarnation.

Bacon: I wasn’t that drunk.

Planet: You colored my face with a highlighter because you said I was important.

Bacon: BECAUSE YOU ARE!

Branzy, under his breathe: Futurehusbandwhoisclearlyinlovewithmesayswhat.

Clownpierce: What?

Branzy: Score.

Rekrap: Clown, will you do me the honour of becoming Branzy's husband

Branzy:

Branzy: ...Did you just propose to him for me?

Rekrap: Someone had to!

(not sure if this makes sense it 2:00 am I only have one brian cell left, I 've forgotten how to spell braim )

Reddoons: Do you really have to blackmail me?

Ashswag: How do you expect me to get your attention?

Reddoons: Uh, ask?

Ashswag: And risk judgment and rejection? Heavens no.

Spoke: If video games make children more violent, why do they keep losing fistfights against me?

Parrot:...

Clownpierce: I just got a message from someone saying that I am a piece of shit

Leo: Tell Zam I said hi.

Mappic : Valentine’s day is just a consumerist holiday that holds no real value other than drive people insane buying heart shaped chocolates for their significant others and pos-

Ro: I wrote you a poem.

Mappic : you did?

Vitalasy: So how does one turn off their emotions?

Ashswag: Oh, this is easy! First go to settings...

Branzy, to Clownpierce: You screamed “there will be blood!” and stabbed some random guy

Branzy: So, no, we can’t go back to that cafe

Spoke: Think fast! *throws a ball at Subz*

Subz: *catches it* No. *pockets the ball*

--

Spoke: Think fast! *throws a ball at Clown*

Clownpierce: *catches it and throws it back like a fastball*

Spoke: oh sHIT--

Cube: Based on genital structure, men should really be the ones wearing skirts and women should be wearing pants.

Cube: The Scots were right all along

Mid: The Scots did it to hide more knives on their bodies

Cube:The Scots were right all along.

This was is inspired for rosesforethan's How to redeem a villain on Quotev

*the Villains playing Clue*

Rekrap: wait, why are our options for suspects so limited? I mean really, if the windows were unlocked, anyone could’ve gotten in!

Cube: Rekrap, it’s been 47 minutes since we set up the game! Stop criticizing the rule book and just play!

PrinceZam: *flips over board and grabs the answer cards*

PrinceZam: miss scarlet? Really?

Ashswag: goddamnit, Zam! It’s just a board game! It’s not like this is actually happening to us!

Mid: actually happening to us..?

Ashswag: Whatever it is you imbeciles are thinking, leave me out of it.

~4 hours later~

Ashswag: do I even want to know how you and Mid put this together so quickly.

Mid: *dragging a limp Leo with closed eyes across the room*

Rekrap: probably not.

Leowo0k: remind me again why I had to be the dead body?

Ashswag: hey, shut up. You’re dead. Dead people don’t talk.

Cube {over a speaker}: just a quick reminder that you have five minutes before the poisonous gas is released!!

PrinceZam: why did there need to be poisonous gas?!?

Cube: Mid wanted to get into character.

Mid: well there’s no real suspense with regular gas, now grab the fake blood cans and follow me.

Leo: How about next time we stick to Go Fish....

The game takes about an hour to play and calls for three to six players to investigate a murder by gathering evidence. The winner is the player who, through the process of elimination, can figure out which three cards are hidden within the secret envelope that hold the answers to Mr. Boddy's murder.

[werewolfnightwalker]

Author!Dabi

Part Two

.

"Hey, check this out." Hawks stopped walking to peer into the display window of a bookstore, his wings fluttering in interest.

Dabi paused and glanced back, to see him eyeing a display of books lit under string lights.

"Starless Night and Other Poems, by T. T. Arrow." Hawks read aloud.

"Sounds pretentious." Dabi deadpanned, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"It looks cool." Hawks argued, admiring the shiny, black dust cover. When he turned his head the right way, he could see iridescent stars littered through it. "I want to read it."

"You can read?" Dabi asked mildly. Hawks frowned at him, before he glanced into the store again.

"BRB." He said, slipping inside.

Dabi waited, lingering on the sidewalk and trying not to look suspicious or anxious. Hawks was back in a matter of minutes, the book in hand.

"Okay, let's go." He said, already flipping it open.

Dabi turned and kept walking, sticking close to Hawks to steer him around people and objects on the sidewalk.

""Dedicated to my mother, my brother, and my sister. I'm sorry I couldn't give you a copy in person. And to my love, may these poems capture even an ounce of how much I feel for you."" Hawks read aloud, before he cooed, "Aw."

"Cheesy." Dabi muttered.

Hawks flipped to the first poem and began to read, his nose stuck in the book all the way back to the villa. ""They cut me open and peered inside, and they all saw where dreams had died." That's beautiful." Hawks muttered as he walked.

"There's a lot of imagery about hospitals." He commented a minute later, "Heart monitors, stitches, surgery- is that a fear of Arrow's, do you think?"

"Hmph. Maybe." Dabi grumbled, annoyed that Hawks got it right away.

"Who is T. T. Arrow, anyway?" Hawks finally looked up as they stepped into the villa, fishing out his phone and typing rapidly. He scrolled as he kicked his boots off and shed his jacket. "Huh. The author's real name is unknown." He frowned, "But he's written a few books, it looks like."

"Hm. That's nice." Dabi resisted the urge to snatch the book away as Hawks walked over to the couch and plopped down, resuming his reading. Begrudgingly, Dabi sat with him, turning on the TV in the hopes the noise would distract Hawks and make him stop.

"Oh, I found one of the love poems!" Hawks smiled, eyes eagerly scanning the page.

"What's it called?" Dabi asked, trying not to seem obvious.

"Origami Butterflies." Hawks informed him, "It's cute." He continued to comment here and there, reading a line or paragraph aloud for Dabi, before he slowly went quiet.

It was a while before Dabi realized Hawks had stopped, and when he finally looked over, he saw tears silently sliding down Hawks' cheeks.

"Hawks? ... Everything okay?"

Without a word, Hawks shoved the book at him, and Dabi's heart dropped when he saw the poem he was on. "Cage of Bone," was the name. Out of all the poems in the book, that was one he knew by heart.

He wrote it at four in the morning, after a night at Hawks' place. The hero had been asleep on his chest as Dabi typed it on his notes app with one hand, eyes blurry and cheeks bloody from tears. Still, his eyes scanned the poem again.

It was a long one, three pages that told a story of a raven that fell in love with a songbird. But the songbird was trapped inside a golden cage, inside a house, and though the raven could hear him sing, what he really wanted to do was to fly with him.

The raven laments that even if the songbird was free, it wouldn't want to fly with him. He was an omen of darkness and death, while the little bird was a symbol of hope and freedom. Yet, the raven couldn't help but love the songbird.

Finally, on the last page, the raven flies into the house and destroys the cage, setting the songbird free. The songbird immediately flew out to join him, but the raven realizes that, even as they fly free, the songbird is still trapped. Because the raven, in his passion, had caught the songbird in his talons, and tucked him into his chest, behind a cage of ribs.

Where his heart was supposed to be.

And thus, he had become yet another prison for the songbird. If the raven wanted to truly let him fly free, he would have to tear the songbird out of his chest, killing himself in the process as he tore out his very heart.

Dabi reached the final paragraph, where the raven begged for the songbird's forgiveness, because he couldn't bring himself to let him go. As he read the final line, the raven sobbing "I love you, I love you, I love you," a fat dollop of blood splattered on the edge of the page, having dripped off his chin.

Dabi sniffed, realizing he was crying, and hastily wiped his face on his sleeve. "It's, uh," he cleared his throat, shutting the book sharply, "It's good. It's a good poem." He rasped.

"No, it's not." Hawks whispered, and Dabi's heart skipped as he looked up.

"It's not?" He repeated, his voice wavering. Hawks looked at him, his golden eyes filmy with tears.

"No. Arrow misinterpreted the songbird." He said, his voice hardening, "It says right there in the poem that the songbird flew out to join the raven, and that it could fly very fast. If the songbird hadn't wanted to be caught by the raven, it would have just flown away. It would've stayed free." He blinked several times and looked away, his wings fluttering. "That's what I think, anyways." He held his hand out for the book, and Dabi passed it over.

Hawks didn't open the book again, though, he set it to the side and looked up at Dabi. Dabi gazed back, puzzled by the burning emotion in Hawks' eyes, before the hero lunged at him.

Dabi yelled in surprise as he was bowled over, Hawks' arms closing around his neck as they tumbled off the couch. "What the fuck, Hawk-" He was silenced by the hero's lips smashing against his, as he pinned Dabi to the floor.

Dabi grunted and attempted to squirm away in surprise, before Hawks pulled back.

"The songbird is not caged." He hissed softly, his teeth bared, before his expression melted into something much softer and he reached up, running a hand through Dabi's dark hair, "He wouldn't want to be anywhere else but with his raven." He murmured.

Blood beaded up under Dabi's scars again and he reached up, tugging Hawks back into a second kiss. "Then come here... birdie."

[unfilteredaj]

A Second Generation Comedian and a dream demon walk into a dreamscape….

(Watchmen + A Nightmare on Elm Street)

——

(Characters: Comedian 2!OC, Rorschach, Freddy)

(A/N: This fic…requires Avengers level amounts of fourth wall tomfoolery. Also the poem in this is called ‘The Changeling’ by Rudyard Kipling

——

Comedian awoke to the sound of knocking on their apartment door. It had to be past midnight… who on earth would be here at this hour?

“Hold on! I’m coming!” They called, scrambling to throw on a pair of pajama pants and their robe. They rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, opening the door.

To their immense surprise, they were met with Rorschach, an uncharacteristic grin lighting his features. He was wearing a striped sweatshirt they’d never seen him in before. It must have been new…

“Hey, Commie.” He chirped. “I was hangin’ around, figured I’d stop by. You don’t mind, right?”

Rorschach didn’t chirp. And Comedian had never heard him sound so eloquent in the entire time they’d known each other. It was one of the little quirks they loved about him. This was getting strange…But they stepped aside, ushering him in.

“Sure, Rory. What’s up, late night or somethin’? Want some coffee?” Comedian asked.

They watched as he hung his hat by the door, which was also unusual.

‘Looks like my Rory… but where is this new attitude coming from?’ Comedian thought.

“Coffee sounds great. Black as night. And yeah, I guess I was just lonely after patrol. Needed some good company.” Rorschach said absently, following Comedian into the Kitchen and over to the coffee pot.

They rummaged around, gathering mugs, and the coffee grounds. All the while they felt Rorschach’s eyes on them. It wasn’t unusual for him to be watchful, but something felt different.

‘It’s late and his visit caught you off guard. That’s all.’ They told themself.

“So, I was thinking…” Rorschach’s voice was suddenly much closer than Comedian anticipated, and they nearly dropped the water they were pouring into the back of the coffee machine.

“About what?” They replied, regaining their composure and ignoring their heart threatening to thunder out of their chest.

“About us. We should spend more time together. It’s like we’re practically strangers. We aren’t as close as we should be.” Rorschach replied.

Comedian placed the coffee pot back into it’s place, turning to face him. He was already standing close, and took another small step, pinning them against the counter. Their eyes widened, and Rorschach stepped back with a grin.

“What’s gotten into you, Red?” They asked.

“Weird night I guess.”

Rorschach’s clipped tone was the first normal thing that had happened so far that night.

Comedian filled two mugs, handing one over to Rorschach. They topped their own off with copious amounts of sugar and pumpkin pie flavored creamer.

The pair sat on the plush sofa, sipping their coffee for a moment.

Rorschach noticed one of the many books scattered across the coffee table, picking it up.

“Oh, That’s one of my poetry books. You’d probably think they’re silly.” Comedian began.

“Silly? Why would poetry be silly?” Rorschach muttered absently, flipping through the pages. He landed on one, his eyes lighting up a bit. He looked back at Comedian, his eyes softening “…You look tired.”

He put an arm around Comedian, pulling them close. Every mental alarm known to man should have been going off in their head, but something about this was so oddly comforting. And it WAS late…

Rorschach started reading aloud, and with every word, Comedian’s eyes felt more and more heavy.

“Or ever the battered liners sank

With their passengers to the dark,

I was head of a Walworth Bank,

And you were a grocer's clerk.

I was a dealer in stocks and shares,

And you in butters and teas;

And we both abandoned our own affairs

And took to the dreadful seas.

Wet and worry about our ways--

Panic, onset and flight--

Had us in charge for a thousand days

And thousand-year-long night.

We saw more than the nights could hide--

More than the waves could keep--

And--certain faces over the side

Which do not go from our sleep.

We were more tired than words can tell

While the pied craft fled by,

And the swinging mounds of the Western swell

Hoisted us Heavens-high...

Now there is nothing -- not even our rank--

To witness what we have been;

And I am returned to my Walworth Bank,

And you to your margarine.”

Comedian was very nearly asleep by the end of the poem, their eyes heavy. Rorschach really had a strangely eloquent side he’d been hiding.

“Hey, Com…” he asked, his voice still soft.

“Hmm?” They replied.

Rorschach absently traced circles along their back.

“D’you ever hear back from your cousin in Ohio?”

“Nancy? Yeah I actually talked to her a couple of days ago. She said she hadn’t been sleeping well but I guess she figured it out. She wants to come stay with me for a while. I think it would be nice. I haven’t seen her in a long time” Comedian babbled sleepily, their eyes drifting shut.

The feeling of lips pressing firmly against their own was enough to stir them awake, though.

Even if Rorschach had been weird tonight, he would NEVER, EVER do something like that.

Comedian shoved away from him, and the person they saw now was definitely not Rorschach.

He was horribly burned, his right hand adorned with razors on each of his gloved fingers.

…

Comedian bolted upright in bed, screaming.

They grabbed their phone, hitting Daniel Dreiberg’s number.

“Comedian, Hi! How are you?” Dan’s cheery voice rang through.

Comedian’s face was already streaming with tears.

“Dan… can I come over? I really need someone to talk to.” They choked out.

“Woah… are you ok? Did Rorschach do something? Do I need to have a talk with him?” Dan’s voice grew serious.

“No, nothing like that. I um… I just had a really awful nightmare.”

[mossyscavern]

A leather book with a single poem.

Candlebrace shipping au re-write

____________________

‘Crap, that was too close.’

Sam thought, out of breath as he looks around the corner from the hallway. ‘Does she ever give up?’ Sam wondered as he stared at the hallway he just came from before sighing in relief. “Apparently she does.”

Sam said quietly, looking around yet another hall he entered. ‘Jeez, how many hallways, stairs and doors do these people have?’ Sam wondered after he turned to see a dead end with an empty pedestal.

He sighed in frustration, turned to leave before spotting something hidden behind the empty pedestal, dragging his full attention.

His curiosity got the better of him as he approached and crouched towards the pedestal. He picked it up to look at it better and hummed in interest.

As a bookworm, he’ll read anything that catches his interest… but if the book ended up being either too much or its not as good as he hoped, he’ll stop.

The book’s leather has a cover picture of a silver hand, holding a silver skull, but not a cover title. ‘… so weird- blank?!’ Sam thought in confusion, flipping through the pages only to still see blank... all but one

The page looked normal enough and Sam does like poems, after looking around one last time, Sam decided to read it.

“With this flame, it’ll keep you safe.

From the darkest minds, you’ll be clear of hate.

With a pure heart and a loving embrace, death’s kiss is what awaits?”

Sam tilted his head while blinking at the page, confused by the words in front of him. ‘If this is a love poem, then it’s the most morbid I’ve ever read.’ He thought, shaking his head and reads the next verse.

“Only a pure candle can hold his flame, just turn around and say his name.

With a bunch of flying feathers at their pace, Tomothy weaver was his name.

Died at an early age of 8, now 23 out of the angels gate.”

While reading the second verse, Sam both felt bad and confused reading that line. Sad at the thought he died very young but confused at the age he is now. ‘How can he be 23 when he died at the age of 8?’

He wondered before shivering as he felt a chill crawl up his spine, he gulped, feeling anxious about reading the next verse... but still read it nonetheless.

“Reading this book with pages blank, he’ll find you at his own pace.

Disguised a Raven as you read this page, he’s now standing in your space?!”

Sam screamed at the last bit, turned around quickly to see at least something odd he never saw before… but found nothing. Feeling frightened he turned back towards the book and sighed a shaky breath, not feeling as confident as he read out loud one last time.

“Y-you’ll know he’s here when you say his name,

T-Tomothy weaver’s found you… cause you said the Angel’s name.”

Sam’s eyes widened, the book slipped out of his grasp as he realised what he had done. ‘I read that out loud… which meant-.’ He thought turning around and almost screamed.

A 23 year old boy wearing a crown made of flowers and rib bones is in front of him.. staring at him with white void eyes. Sam couldn’t move. His feet stayed in place, even if he wanted to he can’t... plus he’s cornered and leaning backwards against the pedestal.

“H-hi..?” He greeted, a little awkwardly but still a greeting. The boy, he assumes is ‘Tomothy’ looks down at the book behind him.

Looked back up, then down, then back up again staring directly at Sam. “You read… my book..?” He asked, tilting his head.

Sam’s thoughts screamed to run! Get out as fast as you can! But he’s cornered and the only way out is behind Tom.

The redhead swallows, not really having a choice but to answer him. “Y-yes.” He told him, nodding his head. “I shouldn’t have done that if it made you up- mmh?!.”

Sam squeaked, eyes wide and completely off guard by the gesture.

This Tomothy person has his hands holding his head, cold lips on his own… and he’s panicking, a lot. ‘What the hell, what the hell. What. The. Hell.” He thought.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” He said after parting. He let go of Sam’s face and ran off, turning into a murder of crows as Sam stands there in shock.

“I-… what did-.” He was about to ask before feeling drowsy, his sight going a bit fuzzy as his legs wobbled before his vision succumbed to darkness.

And all Sam had heard. Was the call of a raven.

____________________

Ok, I’ve finally finished reading-writing the whole thing.

That last one I did for a mutual didn’t really… fit so well.. especially at the beginning. *dying inside of cringe*

But yeah, @chronicalchaos’ au is called the RE village au, just… don’t try to find it in tags you’ll see a lot of stuff relating to RE village as other au’s

Or do if that’s what you want.. I’m not stopping you.