#antique card tables

[thakefurniture]

Antique Card Table, games table, tea table, folding table, georgian card table : Antique Card Tables UK - Antique Tea Tables

[thatswhatsushesaid]

standing in solidarity with all the adult men in the notes of my shitpost meme compilation who also growl at QR codes

is it too much to just give a bitch a paper menu

[darkheartthicket]

been feeling like I’m drowning in unfinished home improvement projects lately but having new people over gives me some much needed perspective. we haven’t even lived here for a year yet and I’ve done so much already to make it feel like home

[yuellii]

🪼 HI USER YUELLII OMG I LUV JEALOUSY TROPES MAYBE THAT SAYS... SOMETHING ABOUT MY CHARACTER BUT I LOVEEEE JEALOUSY TROPES. AND WITH NEUVILETTE????? SOEMONE WHO PRIABBLY DOESNT EXPERIENCE JEALOUSY OFTEN IF AT ALL???? im sold. IM SOLD. PULLING OUT MY CREDIT CARD. IWOULD LITERALLY KILL TO READ UR THOUGHTS ON IT

The Four Stages of Jealousy : THE IUDEX.

STAGE I. — Identification.

There is a threat, that a person may feel losing someone to someone better than them. "I want what you have, and I hate that you have what I want."

Neuvillette wasn’t quite sure of the sudden twist in his stomach as he stood at your doorstep, a bag of pastries tucked under one of his arms and a box of tea bags carried under his other.

Saturdays, three o’clock sharp in the afternoon held meaning: A time in which he’d arrive at your boutique, treats in hand and a pleasant look on his face. He’d try on one of your hats, maybe, for it was a prime time for tea, taken advantage of by the two of you, alone together every Saturday afternoon. It was an evening of the week where he was most happiest, though that might’ve been only an assumption. But the tranquility he usually felt standing at your doorstep was never one he could ignore.

Unfortunately, said tranquility seemed to be lacking this time around.

What he expected as another nice time alone with you ( especially since it was on your undocumented schedule—but who cared for documents, when he looked forward to this meeting every week? ) was instead being interrupted by a certain someone. Namely, a certain Champion Duelist. And maybe, Neuvillette would not be so bothered, had she not been sitting in his seat.

( Said seat was also unspoken, or ‘undocumented’ between the two of you, but still. He sat there every week—therefore by repeated pattern alone, that antique chair in front of the table should be his. )

( And sure, this might’ve been your boutique’s seating area, where everyone comes to sit during the day; But on Saturdays during tea time, he’d like to think that seat was practically reserved for him. )

“Neuvillette!” you practically gasped, facial expression turning into one of lightened excitement at seeing him. There was a blissful ignorance in your voice—‘ignorant’ in the way he was truly glad you didn’t know he was mentally annoyed at the mere fact his seat was taken. But nevertheless, the tightrope of his heart fluttered at the sound of your voice, which always sounded so enthusiastic every week he came back here. Perhaps you were just excited to see him as much as he was excited to see you—the thought alone brings a shiver to his spine.

He approaches forward with a polite smile of his own when you pat the empty spot adjacent to you on the loveseat. Ah, so the theft of his usual antique chair leaves him to sit beside you. Maybe the uninvited guest was welcomed, now that he thought about it.

“What brings Miss Clorinde with us today?” he finally asked, addressing the most obvious outlier first. When he set the bag of pastries down on the table, he watched as the Duelist eyed it with interest.

Clorinde hummed. “I was here for a small chat, then I was told that Monsieur Neuvillette would be ‘arriving soon’. And here you are.” At the recount of events, Neuvillette noticed how Clorinde threw a playful look at you. This playfulness did not stop, unfortunately for him, when she leaned forward to peek at the paper bag he brought in. “Then I stayed, because I thought: ‘What could the Chief Justice possibly say that’s interesting enough for weekly conversations?’”

You gasped at her teasing insult. “Clorinde!” you scolded with slight laughter. “Monsieur Neuvillette is a great companion for tea conversations! He’s very interesting, indeed, I promise you!”

“Thank you,” Neuvillette coughed through his words. He’s beginning to feel a bit awkward here…

“Oh?” Clorinde piped up again, just before Neuvillette could even get another word out. “There’s a lot of pastries in here, and also a new box of tea?”

“He brings them for us to share every week!” you exclaimed happily, grabbing the bag off the table and kindly distributing a treat to everyone. And that’s when suddenly, Neuvillette wishes he only bought one for the two of you, because he watches as you set down the pieces of Conch Madeleines in front of the Champion Duelist, despite Neuvillette knowing those were your favorites. Meanwhile, instead, you gave him and yourself the remaining other pastries. But surely, you wouldn’t just give up your favorites like that… Unless you favored Clorinde. Ah, but maybe he was overthinking it. “Isn’t he the sweetest?”

Clorinde sends him a casual smirk, likely to tease him. “Sweetest, certainly.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to any of this at all.

When he eventually had to leave, Clorinde still stayed there to chat with you, and he felt empty walking out of your boutique. Emptier than usual, actually. It was certainly confusing, due to the fact nothing inherently bad happened, and he certainly didn’t want to say Clorinde’s presence bothered him, or anything over-the-top like that.

Hm.

Neuvillette didn’t get to talk to you as much as he wanted to today.

STAGE II. — Confrontative.

Where negative thoughts start to bloom as "envy." Jealousy begins to indicate love for the person, and the individual is afraid of losing that object of their love.

It’s the following Saturday when he sees you again, and he can’t quite understand why he feels an air of relief upon seeing that Clorinde is not there today.

“Neuvillette!” You greet him with the same smile and same excitement as always, and the rush of paradise courses through his body before he sits across from you in his usual seat: the antique chair right in front of you. He sets down his paper bag of fresh pastries; And upon doing so, he can’t help but smile when he noticed there are only two teacups on the table. One for you, and one for himself. “You seem a little more delighted today”—Was it that obvious?—“What’s gotten you into a good mood, Monsieur?”

He hummed. “Nothing, really.” He actually wasn’t quite sure why he was feeling so joyous today, either, but as long as you were sitting there still smiling at him, then it would all be alright. “It’s just natural, since it’s always my pleasure to spend my Saturday afternoons with you.”

Bring your hand up to cover your mouth, you lightly gasped at his words. “Oh, Monsieur!” you giggled. “I hadn’t known you could be a charmer with your words!”

He liked the reaction you gave him. He thinks he liked the feeling of approval you gave him, but even more. Neuvillette learned rather gradually that you always tended to get a happy sort-of embarrassment from his ‘compliments’. Said ‘compliments’, however, referred to mere truthful facts he’s laid for you. But there’s a certain loveliness that comes with confiding in someone to tell all your truths to, and he’s more than elated that you’re the one he trusts to blabber endlessly to. He just hopes it can stay like this for a long time: Just the two of you, enjoying your Saturday afternoon tea.

“So,” Neuvillette began, watching as you took a bite of the Conch Madeleine he bought specifically for you. He had to catch himself from smiling at you—if his duty was to buy your favorite treat every week, then so be it. “How has your week been since I last saw you?”

Your hand once again flies up to cover your mouth as you quickly finish to chew and swallow the bite before answering him. “It’s been fun, actually! I saw a concert performed by a famous violinist—I believe I might’ve even spotted you in the front row…”

“Ah, yes, that would’ve been me. It was a spectacular performance; I’m happy to know you saw it,” he smiled. Hm, if he knew you were there that night, he certainly would’ve said hello. Your hand moves upwards once more to bring your teacup closer to your lips, and now he’s curious to ask: “And that ring of yours—that’s new, when did you get it?”

“Oh!” After setting the teacup down, you quickly leaned forwards, outstretching your right arm to show off the ring to him at a closer view. “I just got it yesterday, actually. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It is.” It really dazzles to compliment your eyes. Neuvillette catches himself thinking of little things he’s never thought before. Like the way your hair frames your face perfectly, especially at this angle. Or the way your eyes held this delicate shine he admired so dearly, only now heightened by the sparkle of the ring’s reflection. There’s a new tide of poetry unspoken in the depths of his mind, and they might as well stay locked until he figures out just what this emotion is.

When you offer your hand for him to get a closer inspection of the ring is when his breath seems almost stolen from his lungs. Months and months of these weekly tea meetings, and yet he feels this is the closest proximity he’s ever been to you. Here, in his antique chair in the middle of your boutique shop, holding your hand from across the table.

But he feels a spark that he prays you sense as well, for the mere desire of wanting this moment to last forever is enough to tell him that he is completely in love with you.

He leans down gently to reach closer to your hand, kissing your knuckle so featherlight next to the ring. “And it’s even more beautiful on you,” he mutters to you when he pulls away.

Your heart might’ve skipped a beat when you retracted your hand, but he has no idea—he was too lovestruck just now to even think properly. But you take just a moment to recover whilst he’s still stuck in his little daze; Though, who could blame him when he just discovered the ethereal feeling of falling in love?

“Thank you,” you exhaled with a smile that seemed a little breathless. “Lady Clorinde helped pick it, actually.”

…What?

Well, that was a name he completely forgotten until just now. He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure after the sudden whiplash of emotions. From finding out he’s in love, to the pang of unwarranted negativity for the Champion Duelist. As expected, he couldn’t tell what this uncomfortable feeling was, but he certainly did not like it.

“Clorinde was there, you say?” he tried to clarify.

You nodded. A little too happily for his liking. “We went out shopping yesterday.” Oh. “And she said this ring really matched ‘the colors of my personality’, whatever that means!” you wholeheartedly laughed. The way you spoke of her, with all this smiling and all these giggles, was making him crave for something more. Did… Did you perhaps want to see him more outside of these tea times, too? You seem perfectly fine shopping with Clorinde now, after all.

He’s never gotten personal time with you like that. It’s always been solely Saturday afternoons, nothing more. And yet, Clorinde immediately gets invited to your shopping runs, and apparently her opinion is also important enough to make you buy the ring? How unbelievable. Neuvillette bets if he was there instead, he’d buy you every piece of jewelry that you even took so much as slight interest in, because that was what you deserved. But no, here he was, not invited to these outings at all, and further stuck wallowing as your mere ‘tea companion’, and not something more.

The door to the boutique suddenly opens, and the both of you turn your heads to the customer.

But instead of a client, you were met with the face of a slightly-smiling Clorinde, ever so amused to see the both of you here again. Well, she shouldn’t be amused. Neuvillette was here on schedule.

“Ah, you’re here!” you say excitedly, briskly standing up to grab another set of tea; And now, Neuvillette can’t quite tell if you greet everyone at the door with this same excitement, and it’s not just restricted to him alone. He shouldn’t be that selfish, of course, so he thinks perhaps it should just not be directed at Clorinde, specifically.

“Pardon me,” Clorinde announced, making her way to the table after you set the tea display down. “I’ll be intruding on the both of you again.” Neuvillette wishes he had any right to refuse.

This time, now that he’s regained his rightful spot on the antique chair, Clorinde had no choice but to sit… right next to you on the loveseat—the same place Neuvillette sat last week when his spot was stolen. A moment comes forth where he now no longer wants his seat at all ( which he doesn’t understand why, because shouldn’t he be happy his unspoken designated seat is back? ), and prefers the loveseat.

Maybe it was the sight of Clorinde next to you, and the fact she was sitting so much closer than he’d like to imagine. And suddenly, that’s when he realizes he doesn’t like the idea of Clorinde being this close to you at all.

“Oh! You’re wearing the ring I got you!” Clorinde recognizes. She grabbed your right hand to immediately inspect it, and Neuvillette can’t help but feel like someone just shot him. Not only did she comfortably grab your hand like it was nothing ( meanwhile, he had to find both the confidence and the breath to even try to kiss your hand earlier ), but she also got it for you? The little detail you never mentioned: That Clorinde bought you the ring.

Now Neuvillette is internally questioning what exactly this ring means. Is it akin to a proposal? A vow? A promise ring for the future?

The longer he stays here the more insane he may be driven, he thinks.

“Sorry to cut my time here short, but I think I have to get going,” he spoke up. Both Clorinde and you looked over at him, and he figured this was a good idea—he doesn’t think he can handle another tea session where the two of you are happily talking as he sits there awkwardly quiet. “I’ll be off, now.”

“Already?” you frowned at him, and that expression almost makes him want to stay. But the sight of Clorinde still absentmindedly toying with your hand sends him into a spiral of emotions he needs to sort out. He’s already stood up to leave without realizing it.

“Unfortunately so,” he says. He might’ve sounded colder than he meant to. It was clear in your face you knew something was wrong, but didn’t want to say it out of privacy. But when he walked towards the door, hearing Clorinde continue your conversation on like normal, it was fruitless to even consider it.

He opened the door. It was raining.

It feels like he was losing your love before he could even have it.

STAGE III. — Redirecting.

Where pleasure is derived from hurting others, stemmed from unconscious feelings of envy. The envy can come in a so-called as a form of competitive implication.

The next time he saw you was around the market area in the morning, wandering the streets like a normal citizen on this wavering Wednesday.

Normally, he would have just smiled and waved at most, but this time, something compelled him to walk up and join you. “Is this where to find you on Wednesday mornings?” he asked curiously, catching your starling attention and watching as your lips curved to a smile when you recognized him.

“It is, Monsieur.” When you stepped ever-so closer to him, a mere basket around your arm being the only thing between you, he felt as if his feet had turned into bubbles, and there was a flutter of heaven around his shoulders. “My weekly groceries are scheduled for today, however I don’t recall ever seeing you on this side of the city, if that isn’t just my ignorance.”

He chuckled, “I’m usually at my office by this time, so you would be correct.” Then his arm slid against yours, taking the wooden basket out of your hands and walking a few steps forward down the market street you shopped at. “But I’m open to a change of pace, so might I join you on this lovely morning?”

The little smile of contentment you gave him when you answered “Of course” made his heart skip a beat. And when you walked forward to hook your arm around his free one, he swears to the sovereign he might simply dissolve right then and there. The closeness of your presence to him now makes his heart race in a way he feels it drumming in his chest, a feeling that is so human that it makes him almost taste the fruit of mortality. You, walking along with him as you hold onto his arm whilst he carries your grocery basket—you look like romantic partners, and he can’t help but feel sort of lightheaded at the mere thought of that.

“Ah, look!” you pointed, and Neuvillette allowed himself to be guided by the arm to a nearby vendor. “They’re selling slices of apricot pie.”

“You fancy these desserts as well?” he mused, already fishing his pockets for his wallet. “Perhaps we should purchase a slice or two and save them for our weekend tea session.”

You agreed, “I thought the same.” Then you noticed his shuffling and playfully waved off his hand, insisting he needn’t pay. “But I fear it might spoil by the time Saturday comes.”

“You want a bite of mine?” And that’s when Neuvillette wasn’t even surprised anymore to hear the voice of the Champion Duelist appearing out of nowhere. He has such horrible luck running into her, that he’s now just accepted it at this point ( or, for better words: he still has yet to accept the fact that maybe Clorinde was specifically seeking you ). She stood there, leaned against a pole with an easy-going expression and a fork in one of her hands, carrying an aluminum tin with the exact same apricot pie you were just eyeing.

You gasp at her appearance, “Sure!” Neuvillette doesn’t even have a moment to process the mere seconds it takes for you to slip away from his arm, leaving him to follow behind as you skip over to Clorinde. The uninvited guest takes it upon herself to feed you a bite with her fork—it was at this time that the Iudex began to feel like an outlier once again.

“We were actually about to buy a few slices ourselves,” Neuvillette piped in. He did it quickly, perhaps it was instinct so he wouldn’t be left out of the conversation again. “But an excellent point was brought up, that the dessert might spoil by the time we reach Saturday afternoon.”

“Why don’t you just buy one and eat it now?” Clorinde shrugged. Ah. Neuvillette internally scolded himself; He should’ve thought of that. And when you waved off her suggestion dismissively, claiming it was fine now that she let you try it, Neuvillette realized he completely missed an opportunity to have dessert with you on a Wednesday instead of a Saturday. That while he was still a man you only saw once at the end of each week, you’d be seeing Clorinde multiple times throughout it.

He wasn’t fond of the way Clorinde was still feeding you more bites of pie, either.

“Miss Clorinde,” he addressed. If only he had more of a grasp of human sociability, then he might’ve realized how firm his voice sounded in this situation that was… not so serious. “Shouldn’t you be alongside Furina at this time of day?”

“On a typical day, yes,” she answered simply. “And shouldn’t you be in your office?”

He almost glared. “No, actually, I’ve given myself the time to roam around today.”

“Oh wowww,” she teased, though Neuvillette might’ve heard it as something mocking. “Lady Furina would be pleased to hear that. Instead of being cooped up in your office or the Opera Epiclese all morning long, you’re out here at the market, even holding a basket for shopping.”

The Iudex cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll have you know that this basket isn’t mine.” There was an air of competitiveness in his voice, one that almost had him biting his tongue in surprise of himself. Because it was simply just as he said: a basket. But the fact it belonged to you, and the fact that he was carrying it for you—suddenly he wanted to boast it and show it off to the world, especially to Clorinde’s face. “The two of us are shopping together this morning, if you’ll excuse us.” His next move might’ve been bold, but the feeling of possessiveness was so airtight and he had no choice but to hook his own arm around yours once more, getting ready to turn and leave.

“So cold,” Clorinde rolled her eyes. ‘Cold’ was a word often used to describe him, but no, not here. He did not want to appear that way in front of you. “Is this really the attitude you want to spend all morning with?” she asked, this time directed at you.

Something in him snapped. There was an emotion that clouded his head far angrier than annoyance, and it sprouted from the way in which she made him look bad, like the stone-cold Chief Justice everyone thought him to be. Albeit with you, he was trying to be everything but that. Emotional, vulnerable, heartfelt, human—Clorinde was not going to take that away from him.

‘Is this really the attitude you want to spend all morning with?’ The question kept playing in his mind, as if she was any better than him? She, who most people also saw as stoic, should not be seen by you in a better light than him. She, who did not know your favorite desserts like he did, who did not make time for you like he did, who did not fancy you as much as he did—

He felt you tug at his arm, snapping him from his thoughts.

Your eyes held the same, worried look you gave him on Saturday when he left so abruptly. So jealously.

Neuvillette cleared his throat once more. “It seems you are correct, Miss Clorinde.” There was solemness in his voice. Yet he was so quiet as he unlocked his arm from around yours, and handed your basket to Clorinde. “My attitude proves to be too unfavorable for the likes of this lovely morning, I thank you for bringing it to my attention.” These emotions were too much right now; he was starting to fear them. “My deepest apologies to you both, I’ll be heading back to the Palais Mermonia now.”

He bowed his head as diplomatically as he could manage, but the skies were already darkening.

“I bid you both a fine rest of your morning.”

“Wait, Neuvillette!”

Your call was drowned by the deafening drums of his hammering heartbeat, and the patters of light rainfall from the somber sky.

STAGE IV. — Medea.

At this stage, the grip of envy appears almost irreversible. There is a hatred towards others that dominates their thinking, and happiness or success is no longer foreseen.

Saturday afternoon.

He couldn’t see you again, even if it was time for your weekly meeting, not when he was feeling like this.

Not when the sky was pouring from the mere thought of you, and how he’s probably already lost. It was inevitable for a man like him, and he should’ve realized so earlier. Three o’clock, and you were already probably sipping away with Clorinde at your side, pastries on the table and a dazzling ring on your finger. She was much more human than him, after all, and such a shortcoming became his eventual downfall.

The Palais Mermonia was quiet, though that might’ve been due to the endless rain that’s been pouring since Wednesday morning.

While it was nice, he couldn’t help but feel the silence only amplified his feeling of loneliness in this moment. Especially at this time: a time of the week in which he looked most forward to.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” a Melusine knocked from right outside his door. “You have a visitor!”

And before he could even reply, that was when you ignored all formalities, all proper respect as you pushed your way through the door and into his office. The surge of panic he felt from your sudden presence was unrivaled to the way you made haste in getting seated in front of his office table, setting down your handful—said handful consisting of two teacups, and a bag of pastries.

His heart practically shattered. The familiar cups and bag of treats on the table, the way your hair and clothes were lightly damp from the rain—you made the effort, coming all the way here just to see him. Just so the both of you wouldn’t miss a single Saturday afternoon together.

“I believe you might’ve forgotten our schedule, good Monsieur.” A light scolding, yet partnered with the most comforting smile you’ve ever given him, and he starts to feel his hands tremble. “You seem surprised to see me,” you commented further, filling in the silence as he has yet to utter even a word. “Did you really think I’d just let you ditch me like that?”

It was hard to breathe, hard to find his voice when you were so patient with him. “Sorry.” It’s all he can mutter now, this blistering swell of emotions causing a waver in his voice. “I’m so, very sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you chuckled at him. His body tensed when you reached forward to grab one of his hands. But you felt cold just like the chilling rain outdoors, and now he worries you might catch a fever because of him. “I’ve been meaning to ask you what was wrong, but…” Your eyes drooped with a certain sorrow in their crevices, and Neuvillette found himself slightly squeezing your hands. “I couldn’t seem to find a good moment alone with you.”

He shook his head at you, whispering, “I don’t even know what’s wrong, myself…”

You frowned. This atmosphere was suffocating and just from one glance upwards at your face, Neuvillette could easily tell you were holding back something to say. Granted, it was his fault. He’s the one who’s here, sitting and sulking in his office with little to no explanation. He’s the one who’s kept you worried this past week from leaving so abruptly two different times now. If anything, he might understand how to be a human even less after this ordeal.

“Would you be so kind…” he starts, words like lumps in his throat, “to allow me to be honest? To let me ramble whatever nonsense I’m feeling for just a moment, so that maybe you can make some sense of it all?”

You gave his hands a comforting squeeze. “Of course.”

There’s a certain phrase caught dead in his tongue. And he’s never been afraid to speak his mind before, yet suddenly, your judgment of his feelings mattered much more than the truth of his words. But he was feeling so much, and if this was really the emotional baggage humans had to carry all the time, he could only wonder how most people have yet to burst from the hauntings of their own mind.

Or more accurately so—the hauntings of their own love.

These words were doomed to come spilling out. “You’ve bewildered me with mountains of emotions,” he rambles quicker than he thinks. “All from the sleight of your hand, I best believe I’ve fallen in love with you.”

He forces himself to ignore how your eyes widen in that moment, or how the grip from your hands suddenly loosens from the shock that rings through his confession. He doesn’t have a way with words, and he knows this. So in a hasty attempt to piece together a board of emotional exposure his mind cannot even comprehend, he does the only thing he knows how to: talk and talk, until he has no more truth to confess to you.

“But the feelings that came alongside my love,” he began to you, “are unexplainable.” As his voice ended in coarseness, there was such an hopeless look of utter confusion you had never seen on his face before, like he was silently pleading for you to help a poor soul like his own. “The beating of my heart when I see you… A stark contrast to the tightness in my stomach I feel… When Miss Clorinde joins us.” The ending of his sentence dropped to nearly a whisper, like he expected it to be sin. “But what I just don’t understand, is why,” the section of his brows furrow in distress, “because she’s my coworker, and I do not dislike her, but I feel as if I cannot stand her when she joins us…”

You listen quietly. He doesn’t know whether to be thankful or fearful whilst awaiting your reaction.

He continued, “But when she sat with us for tea, and bought you that ring, and joined us at the market…” This confession; It was arguably harder than confessing his love to you. Because Clorinde was your friend—maybe even closer, if he was so unlucky—and he might’ve crossed a line here he didn’t even know existed. “I felt like I hated her,” he finished.

You were still silent, though it wasn’t like he could see your expression anyways. He refused to even look up to it, choosing instead to stare down at your joined hands.

But this silence was deafening. Please, just reject him already. He let out the most exhausted sigh he has ever before, the weight of these human emotions bearing down on him. “So I was just…”

“Just jealous,” you finished for him, and he noticed in your voice how you were almost laughing quietly to yourself. The emotion you just named—he didn’t know how envy even felt like, much less jealousy ( though, he supposes he knows now ). “Neuvillette, you should’ve just told me you felt uncomfortable with Clorinde there.”

“Hm?” He was confused. So confused, that his eyes finally darted up to meet your own. And there you stood, most comforting of smiles on your face as your thumb began to trace patterns on the back of his hand.

You reassured him, “Those are times we spend together, dedicated to the both of our comforts.” Which was true, but he was ready to argue that he felt selfish that way—and that you wouldn’t love nor deserve a selfish man. “I trust you to tell me when you feel things are unfavorable,” you continued, “and I promise you, Clorinde would understand if I told her.”

“But,” he piped up, so much doubt in his eyes as if struggling to believe your words, “is she not important to you?” And now, he could not comprehend the bashfulness that raised blood to his cheeks, or the complete disbelief that you’d wave off the Champion Duelist just because of his silly discomfort. Human relationships; He feared he may never understand them.

“Of course she’s important to me—she’s my friend!” you lightly laughed. “But you’re important to me, as well. Please understand that.” His heart might’ve stopped for just a moment. “And when we have our scheduled times alone together, the last thing I want to have is you feeling uneasy when we’re supposed to be relaxing.” Your words, the kindness you shed—it was all so confusing yet so welcoming at the same time, that he feels it’s only a matter of seconds until he drowns from the sound of your voice. To feel such comfort in a person was bizarre to him, but it’s a feeling that makes him crave your presence all the same.

His eyes fell to another slight frown, voice quieter as if losing the will to argue. “But… I should not have the right to impede on a relationship significant to you…”

Now it was your turn to look baffled. The way he worded it. Oh, surely he didn’t— “Monsieur, do you think Clorinde and I are a couple?”

“Well, I certainly thought you two were getting to that state in your relationship,” Neuvillette answered truthfully, voice flowing without hesitation as if it was the most obvious fact in the world. The man who just confessed his love for you only moments ago was fully convinced you felt romance for another woman. “Hence why I was…” He turned his head to the side, shyly clearing his throat. “Envious…”

You practically burst out into giggles. In fact, one of your hands even let go of his grip just so you could cover your mouth to laugh. “Oh… Oh, Neuvillette, surely you jest!” you attempted to name whilst controlling your laughter. The Iudex was shell-shocked into pure silence, wondering what he could’ve possibly said to make you react this way, because as far as he knew, he was not making a joke. “Clorinde is only a friend to me,” you clarified. “Nothing more.”

He remains silent, but there’s a sweeping wave of new emotions that suddenly flood his shoulders.

“And if she sees me as anything more, then, well,” you continued, glancing up outside and then back down to meet his awaiting eyes. “Unfortunately for her, the love in my heart has already been captured by another.”

“By whom?” The lack of hesitation from his immediate question has more giggles escaping your lips. He looks at you, and your face tells him it’s an obvious question with an obvious answer, and yet he still cannot comprehend this even when you squeeze both his hands in yours once more.

“Who do you think, Monsieur?” And yet even after his face flushes red, he still has a focused look of anticipation on his face—it’s as if he absolutely will not believe it until you spell it directly to his face. “Neuvillette,” you sighed, but there was an air of gentleness in the way you say his name that relaxed his soul. “It’s always been you.”

The rain continued on.

But now the sun shined between each droplet, because if he could cry from happiness right now, he was sure you’d already be busy wiping his tears away. And this sunny rain continued on and on, even as he poured you tea, even when he bit into the pastries you bought, and even when he looked at you fondly across his desk, not a single doubt of your love.

And as for Clorinde, well, he might need a few more days to recover before he can forgive her for all the sporadic heart attacks she’s almost given him.

[fancygirlplays]

[keeksandgigz]

the witch hunt

eddie munson x witch!reader

part 2 of "the love witch"

Summary: You've been good about keeping your magic a secret from Eddie, much to your dismay, so diligent on hiding your true self. What happens when you leave your potion cabinet unattended, he drinks one of your concoctions and turns himself into stone, leaving you to turn him back, right in front of his eyes?

CW: 5k words, no y/n, reader's nickname is 'witchy' , talk of the occult, wiccan practices, description of r's clothing, but no body description, eddie turns to stone, angsty angst angst but with a happy ending, witchy casts some serious spells in this one, mentions of witchy being depressed, eddie being a lovesick fool

thank u to my lovely @reidsbtch for beta reading I love u I love u I love u

Read part 1 here, Witchyverse masterpost here

feedback is always appreciated!

You've been good. You've been diligent. You've been following the rules of the coven.

To not share the gift with anyone, a secret kept under oath, hand over the binding of an old spell book, its surface course and rough, centuries of hands- young, old, powerful and weak, all part of the history of how that book came to be.

When you started dating Eddie, you were summoned, warned by your coven to keep the magic away from your human boyfriend, hidden under a veil of thin shame disguised as indifference.

And six months went by, then a year. You thought you were safe, you thought you'd gotten through the worst part of keeping the secret.

You deluded yourself. He loves you so much, there's no reason he would leave you, not even for a secret as big as yours. You've put protection spells around everything that involved actual magic in your house, the potion cabinet you kept in the hallways as decoration, the spell books hidden under a floorboard in your room.

Although he could not feel it, your apartment pulsated with raw magical energy in its purest form. You really thought you were safe.

A rainy November afternoon, you're tasked to bring some ingredients you've had stashed at your apartment to your aunt Hilda's house, a delivery from Janice- ingredients from Bulgaria, after your shift.

What surprises you about your aunt Hilda is that despite being a witch, she does not go unnoticed- living in one of the Painted Ladies house in the heart of San Francisco, all by herself and her cat, Arsenio.

She always invites you in for tea and a reading, so you step into her house, smelling of antique parchment, tea leaves and a mystical smell of pungent resin and wood, much different from your incense and dried flowers smell.

"I need to invite Janice over one of these days" she says in her veiled voice, pouring you a cup of jasmine tea.

"I don't know if she's going to be able to get out of Haight Ashbury, Aunt Hilda. She's like two- hundred years old or something" you laugh, rummaging through your bag for the delivery you visited your aunt for, placing the jars on the table.

She gasps in delight "You can't get those plants anywhere else, she must have paid a fortune for that blood from a vampire's fangs" she squeals, running to her cabinet to find a home for her new deliveries.

"How's your human, dear?" she asks from the kitchen, followed by clattering of glass and metal.

"Oh, Eddie's fine, he should be off work soon, maybe we'll do something after" you shrug, petting her cat, Arsenio, on your lap.

"And his handsome hunk of an uncle?" you roll your eyes at that.

"God, Aunt Hilda, gross" you groan, sinking in your seat.

"Let me know when he's back in town, I need to invite them both over one of these days, it might be nice. Shall we do a reading before I leave?" she sits back down at the small table and takes a sip of her tea, tarot cards in hand.

"Yeah, I'll ask him for his schedule" you finish your tea "Let me do a one card pull, I need to get home"

"You know, dear, you've been awfully nervous lately- so jumpy" She says, as she shuffles the laminated cards for what feels like forever,

"I'm okay, Aunt Hilda, just stressed with work" you lie, exhaling with anticipation as her wrinkled hand holds the deck. Your aunt's readings have always made you nervous.

You'd been jumpy for a while, the thought of Eddie finding out had been making you nervous, but you wouldn't dare to tell your aunt that.

She offers the deck to you, you pick a card and then give it to her. A gasp escapes her upon looking at it.

A panic rises through your body "What? What is it?" you ask, your bag already across your shoulder, holding on to its strap.

"The Tower" she mutters, destruction, unexpected change, awakening.

A shiver runs down your spine, one by one your vertebrae straighten "I just had a really bad feeling, dear. I would check in on your human boy" she places a hand on her temple, heart racing as you bolt out of your seat and leave.

On the train, panic settles in, wondering if Eddie was somehow connected to this.

A call startles you. It's him.

You tremble when nearing the phone to your ear.

"Hey, witchy, I'm at your house- I used the spare key. I just called 'cause I had a question" he says, voice dubious and vague.

"What is it, Ed? I'm on my way home"

"I was just wondering if it's normal that the cabinet in your hallway is open? I had to stop Circe from getting into it a couple times" you hear a meowing in the background, he must be holding her.

"What cabinet?" you feel your chest rise and fall at an incredibly fast pace.

"The one with the wilted flowers on them, it has a bunch of bottles. Are- are these fake potions?" There's an amused lilt in his voice, almost as if he's laughing at you. Fuck. The potion cabinet.

"Eddie don't touch anything, I'm literally here" your alarmed tone freaks him out, but he has no time to say anything as you hang up and enter your apartment building.

You run up the stairs, heart in your throat, as you reach your front door and slam it open. Eddie's head swings violently.

"Hey, witchy, what's wrong?" he stands up from the cabinet, holding Circe on one arm. You're heaving, irregular breaths, as you see he's still standing, alive, and breathing.

You close the door. "You didn't touch anything in there, did you?" you run towards the open cabinet, checking for missing bottles.

"Witchy, honey, I don't get why you're so jumpy about a couple of fake potions, they would actually be really useful for DnD" Eddie chuckles, reaching into the cabinet to grab a bottle, observing it up close. A greyish- blue liquid swirls inside the bottle.

"Eddie! Put it back! It's dangerous!" you exclaim as you reach for the bottle, but he's blocking you.

"Baby, I think you might be getting a little too carried away with this witchy stuff. There's no way you should be reacting like this over some water and dye" he swirls the bottle once again "I'll even drink it, show you it's not actually that dangerous"

A smug smile adorns his lips, as you watch helplessly while he uncorks the small vial and downs its content. 

“EDDIE NO” You aren’t even sure what it is, which makes a panic set into your stomach, hoping you could reverse whatever he ingested.

“No, no, no, no, what have you done?” your head encapsulated in your hands, feeling the beady sweat on your hairline, falling to your knees with the realization. You’re going to have to tell him.

“See? Not dangerous, baby. I love you, but you need to do something about this obsession, it’s getting out of hand” he sighs “I’m hungry i’m gonna get some food” but before he can even take a step, the rumbling of stone fills the room. 

You grab the empty glass vial and examine its label. Shit. He turned himself to stone.

In a panic, he looks at you. 

“Witchy, what’s going on?” his eyes dart from you to his frozen legs, the stone spreading itself upward quickly “Witch-what- is that stone?” He goes still after that.

A statue. His cold, grey eyes staring up at you in a panic. 

Tears brimming your eyes at the sudden realization that once you turn him back to normal he’s going to know. 

His hands feel cold at the touch as you cling on to your boyfriend’s statued form. Mouth agape, eyebrows pinched in fear, it hurt you to see him like this. You were going to lose it all because of a dumb mistake.

A desperate scream bubbles inside your chest as you hold yourself flush against Eddie’s cold surface, wishing his arms could hug you back, having to come to terms with the fact that this is probably the last time you’ll ever see him in your home. You won’t ever get to hold him again.

Weak and teary- eyed you reach for your phone, wiping under your eyes as you try to stabilize yourself. 

“Hello, dear?” aunt Hilda says through the phone. 

“Aunt Hilda I made a really terrible mistake” you sob, shoulders shaking with the violence of your hiccups. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” the concern is palpable through her voice. 

“I left- left my potion cabinet open and Eddie-” another string of violent sobs follow, rumbled deep in your chest, shaking you to your very core. 

“What happened to Eddie?” The question is cautious, though unfortunately you could feel the alarm and sternness in her voice.

“He turned to stone” you sigh, exasperated, letting yourself sink into the sofa. 

“Stone? How did a human man turn to stone?” ever the help, your aunt exclaims. 

A dramatic exhale you feel like you’ve been holding onto “I left my potion cabinet open and he- and he has a spare key” you sob- all your fault for letting your guard down, all your fault for letting yourself care for him so mindlessly. 

“He got into it thinking they were all fake, I tried to- to stop him” a siffle stops you “he was trying to be funny” a string of sobs followed, unable to speak any longer. 

“You need to pull yourself together,” Hilda says, amidst your inconsolable sobs “you know how to reverse this” her voice is stern, yet shaky, she feels for you, having to let your love go. 

“The mirror” you mumble. 

“That’s right, get a mirror- circle of reflection, circle of protection” she reminds you “repeat those words, he’ll be okay, dear” you can tell that she is hurting, breaking the law of your coven, making you face consequences you haven't even thought of.  

Would you be losing your power? Would you have to move away from him? In hindsight that would be a blessing, as you doubt he would want to stay, now that your secret is uncovered. 

Hilda hangs up the phone as you scramble to get a mirror, and smear salt over his heart. Trying to reverse the spell that might have broken it. 

The mirror faces your boyfriend, his features grey and scared- the last time you’ll ever see him in this lifetime.

Circle of reflection, circle of protection

Circle of reflection, circle of protection

Circle of reflection, circle of protection

The hand that is not holding the mirror is clutched on tightly to his chest, as you keep repeating the words. 

The sound of rubble breaking makes your heart wrench, selfishly wanting him to stay a statue for a little longer, so you won’t have to say goodbye to him just yet, but the stone armor sheds, and his eyes are brown instead of dull and grey, and his arms move, as well as his mouth, closing in itself, breathing as if he’s come to life for the first time. 

He rubs his eyes first, drowsy, like waking up from a one- hundred year old slumber. He looks around the room, it’s familiar to him, the smell of incense that was there, and then it wasn’t, blocked by the earthy smell of rubble and earth. 

“What happened?” he mumbles, shaking his stiff limbs, kicking the broken suit of stone armor at his feet, your hand still on his heart “Witchy?” 

His eyes are blown wide, memories of what had happened an hour before coming to the surface. The same panicked look adorns his face. 

“The potion- it wasn’t” he begins, as you move your hand off of his body, much to your heart’s dismay. You shake your head. 

“It wasn’t fake. None of them are fake” you mutter, staring at the floor, not even daring to look at him. There’s a quiet tension, an almost awkward silence, charged with pain and heartbreak, as Eddie realizes what you mean by ‘not fake.’

“And you brought me back from whatever I turned into” he breathes.

You just nod, head fixated on the floorboards and the rubble surrounding his feet.

“Does that make you-” he gulps. Can’t even bring himself to say it. 

“A witch” you mumble under your breath “a real one,” your gaze falls on his eyes, dilated and sad, as his eyebrows curve up, a line forming on the bridge of his nose. 

There’s once again an unsettling quiet between you two, as he tries to wrap his head around the news. 

His chest feels hollow, where your hand had been just moments before, an unrecognizable phantom pressing down on his heart, rubbing salt in a gashing wound, hoping it would ameliorate it, only to make it bleed more.

He takes a few steps back, watching his step over the rubble, breaking his silence after what feels like hours. 

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” it’s a mere mumble, but the question was clear, hurt, and a little scared, maybe. 

“I swore under oath that I would keep it a secret” you purse your lips, taking a step forward. Your heart shatters when he takes a step back.

His chest is stilled, breath caught in his throat, hands at his sides as he scoffs. 

“You swore you’d keep it a secret? Is that why you’ve been so jumpy lately? You knew I was bound to find out and you didn’t tell me?” his head is reeling, betrayal cuts through him like a knife as more and more of looking at you twists the dagger in his chest. 

“I didn’t want you to find out, Ed. I promised to my coven-” 

“Your coven?  There’s more of you?” you can’t do anything else but swallow on the knot in your throat, scratching and engorging with every word that comes out of Eddie’s mouth, and nod. 

“And you let me drink the potion, God knows what it could have been” he trembles, a shaky breath escapes him. 

“I tried to stop you, Eddie!” you reach for him, hanging on the feeble hope he’ll realize that you have never meant to hurt him in the first place. 

“And- and what if you spelled me, huh? What if you spelled me to make me fall in love with you? Is my love for you not real?” that hurt you more than anything else he could have said, tears brimming your eyes, escaping from their confinement as they streak down your cheeks. 

“I’ve never used my magic on you,” you admit, voice thick with salty tears “my love for you is real, as yours is. I never tampered with your heart, it’s not who I am” bottom lip jutted out and trembling, feeling on the teetering edge of the end.

“I don’t know who you are” a stab to the heart would have hurt less. “You’ve been lying to me for the past year about who you are. No wonder I was so in love with you, you made me fall in love with a person that doesn’t exist, you spelled me!” he’s trembling, you can see it in the way that his fists are balled up– something he does to stabilize himself whenever he’s upset. 

And now he’s upset because of you. 

“Eddie–” you take a step forward, he takes a step back. 

“No. Don’t- don’t come closer.” tears well at the bottom of your lash line, as you watch him turn away, leave and close the door behind him. Words trapped at the bottom of your throat. Words you’ll never get to say again. 

You’re not sure how long you stand there, staring at the doorknob, hoping that it might turn, revealing Eddie once again, ready for you to explain everything to him. 

But the doorknob doesn’t turn, the door doesn’t open, and Eddie doesn’t come back. 

You refuse to sweep the rubble from the last time he was in your apartment, hoping that the smell of him stuck to the cold stone, but there’s nothing left of him in your space. 

The thing about love witches is that when the thing most precious to them, their hearts, break,  the life force of their power fades. 

So within a short span of days, you notice yourself being weakened. Simple spells become a hard feat, as you can barely make things levitate, sitting in the darkness of your room. 

Days begin to merge into themselves, as you get yourself to work, then home, then work, then home. A repeating cycle you don’t intend to stop. You leave around the back side of the store, to not let Eddie see you while he’s on his smoke break, blending into the crowded streets of what once seemed like the best place in the world.

Your aunt Hilda doesn’t hear from you, and neither does anyone else. You fall off the face of the earth, hoping that your hours never coincide with Eddie’s. 

But you can feel it from next door, the pain and hurt that radiates from the record store. You feel it in the way he speaks to customers, in the way he sighs as he gets off his smoke break. 

You hear him ask Janice about you, she tells him that she doesn’t know, that she hasn’t seen you in a while. Respecting your wishes to let him live his life in peace. 

But he wasn’t living his life in peace. In fact, Eddie was miserable. 

He was miserable in the way that everything reminded him of you, in the way that if he stepped too close to your store (to make sure you were working that day), he’d smell the rose incense you’d light at your house. The one he would smell on your clothes. 

The crystals that sat on his windowsill were now tightly packed and shoved away on a far up shelf that he would not be reminded of you. He burned every trace of you, the taste of betrayal bitter in his throat as he sat on his couch every night, always on the left side, because you sat on the right. A place for you was always carved in his mind, whether it was unconscious or intentional. 

 The smell of your shampoo lingers in the pink bottles in his shower, in the silk pillow you always slept on when you went over to his house. A silk shirt you left on his bed, gingerly placed on his pillow as he lets your smell engulf him. That’s the only way he can sleep. 

There’s a fear deeply setting in, that he might just never be able to get over you. Despite the lies and the secrets, he will never be able to not think about you, not when the smell of rose incense or the color pink exist, not when long skirts and crystals and tarot cards and brocade rugs exist. Not when you exist. Not when you keep walking the earth, sadness seeping in every crevice and every crack of his walls.

He knows he can’t go on like this. Not while you roam the same streets he roams, waiting for you to turn around. Look at me, witchy, look at me. 

And you’re so sad. He can see it in your eyes, in the way you don’t carry yourself like you used to– shoulders slouched, dressed in black like you’re mourning the loss of your heart. Mourning the loss of your love.

He debates going back to Hawkins for a bit. Going back to live with his uncle– leave this new world behind, just until the air has been purified of you. Until he’s no longer thinking about the witchy girl who haunts his dreams at night. Go work where his friend Steve works at, shitty, dead- end job, just for a bit. 

Confine himself to the life of a hermit, just so he can allow you to live in peace. 

So he goes back to Hawkins, under the guise of going home for the holidays. He picks up whatever jobs his uncle can’t do anymore because of his age, driving the beat up yellow pick- up truck in and out of town. 

“I never thought I’d see the day Munson would come crawling back” he’d hear a couple of people say on the street. He’s never gone unnoticed, but now more so than before– integrated in the San Francisco scene, he did anything but blend in. And he swears he sees you a few times, walking around downtown Hawkins, your hair, your clothes, your bag. Prancing around like your life is back to normal. 

Could it have been a spell? Did you spell him to not make him forget about you? 

But he knows it isn’t like you. Not malicious, not even as a witch, he assumes. 

He keeps himself up at night thinking about you. You’d never use magic on him. With a sound mind, he tells himself that’s true. Your love for him is real. Is his love for you real? Shivering in the freezing temperature of his uncle’s trailer he’d ponder whether what you had was real or not. 

Real.

He drives himself crazy, the thought of you plaguing his mind. 

Even his uncle grows worried, the purple bags under his nephew’s eyes, all the books on witchcraft Eddie could find at the Hawkins local library sitting on his desk. Staying up to read on anything and everything that could help him.

And when that doesn’t work he goes on his uncle’s shitty wifi he never uses to research anything about witches, about magic, about you.

You don’t sense him anymore. Not through the walls, not in his sardonic laugh. It’s like he’d vanished into thin air. 

You find yourself stepping into the record store after a shift, asking his shitty coworkers what happened to Eddie. 

And you’re so weak. So tired, it is even a feat to be able to make it through one full shift standing up, finding a stool to sit on. You’ve paled, eyes dark and lifeless. 

“He’s gone back home for the holidays” one of the assholes who made fun of you says “left you stranded here all by yourself? Or did he kick you to the curb?” he smirks, and the other idiot laughs. You make a mental note to hex them for good next time. 

If you don’t die first. 

Eddie comes back to San Francisco after the holidays, and it’s like he’s never left. 

Union Square has taken off the tree and the ice skating rink– he wanted to take you there. He thought you’d be good at ice skating. You’re good at everything. Or maybe it’s because you’re magic. 

The restaurant you went to on your first date has closed down. There’s a smile creeping on his face as he remembers you laughing because he couldn’t eat with chopsticks. He misses hearing you laugh. He misses seeing you smile. 

The tiny twinkle, the stars in your eyes. The way he’d braid your hair at night. Petting Circe, nestled in between you two in your bed. 

He sees you for the first time since he’s been back on the porch of your shop. His heart shrinks at the sight of you. Eyes sunken in, buried in layers and layers of woolen fabric, staring blankly at the street in front of you. 

The thing about love witches is that when the thing most precious to them, their hearts, break,  the life force of their power fades. 

He remembers reading that in an old looking book during the holidays. He wrote it down in his notebook. 

A love witch. Thrives on being loved and being in love.  

Her heart is only safe when her love is true and unfettered. 

He sees it now.

He shows up to your house after talking himself into it for a week, with the excuse of returning a shirt. The same silk  shirt he’d been sleeping on top of since he left you. He had it washed for you. It doesn’t smell like you anymore.

He knocks. Is it him or are his hands always that sweaty? Is his heart beating at a normal pace? Is his hair okay? And his breath? Oh shit, he has a zit on his chin.

“Go away Aunt Hilda!” he hears you say, grumpy and grouchy. The veiled sadness in your voice creates a rift between him and the door. 

So he knocks. Again. And Again. 

“Aunt Hilda I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, I don’t want– Eddie” A breath gets trapped in your diaphragm, feeling your heart start picking up its pace for the first time in what felt like weeks. 

“Hi” he gives you a tight smile, the silk balled up in a fist, purple with little black swirls on it. 

“Hi, um, I– what are you doing here? Do you wanna come in?” you slither like a worm, that’s how you feel. The boy you’ve been pining and crying and suffering for is here. Right in front of you. 

You look so much more frail than he’d remembered “I uh–” he holds up the fabric “you left this at my house” 

“Oh, thanks. That’s sweet of you” Your heart drops, you really thought he was going to make amends with you?

You extend your arm, so he can give the shirt to you. So he can be on his way and be gone forever. 

Hands, fingers, knuckles. He misses holding your hand. 

“I heard you went home for the holidays, how was that?” you lean on the doorframe, hands crossed on your chest. 

“It was good, I just spent it with my uncle. He told me to tell you happy new year, uh— even though we’re not—” he shouldn’t have said the last part, he sees you sink into yourself, gazing down at the hardwood floor. His stomach twists. 

“What did you do for the holidays?” he asks. He doesn’t want it to be over, not yet. 

“I just stayed in, I’ve been pretty sick lately, flu season in full swing. I’ve just been—”

“Your heart’s broken, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve been so sick?” your heart drops. How does he know all this? 

He reads your puzzled expression “I um— did some research. That’s what I did most of my holidays.  I just wanted to understand. I know you didn’t spell me, or whatever. You’re a love witch” he takes out a piece of paper, highlighted is a sentence, in light pink.

Her heart is only safe when her love is true and unfettered. 

Your head is reeling, he hasn’t stopped thinking about you. He spent his holidays researching you, your kind. He knows you didn’t lie to him. 

Tears begin to spill onto the old parchment, the tears you haven’t shed in the past two months resurfacing, as you violently jerk and sob in front of him. You missed him.

Eddie quickly steps into your apartment and closes the door, enveloping you in a hug. And it feels good for your heart, a soothing balm for all the cracks and wounds it’s suffered. 

“It’s okay, witchy, you can let it out” he says, as you continue to sob on his shoulder. Soft shushing sounds as he caresses your hair “Shhh…shhh… I’ve got you” and it’s like he’s never left. 

“I’m here now, I’m not leaving” his assurance makes your body feel whole again. He sits you both down on the couch. 

“Witchy, I didn’t stop thinking about you for a second. I would see you everywhere, I thought I was going crazy” he begins, and maybe he sees a twinkle in your eye, something weak, almost like a heartbeat being revived. 

“I thought going to Hawkins, just to distance myself would change things. But I’d keep myself awake thinking about you, all the time, wondering if you were doing okay.” His hand brushes yours, as you wipe your tears with the sleeve of your sweater. 

“I would see you at work, or out and about and you looked so sad. And I just couldn’t explain to myself what happened to you, until I came across that book” he finishes.

And in turn, you don’t say anything, you just kiss him. It’s wet and messy with the tears and the saliva, but he immediately kisses you back, cradling your face in his hand. Your heart beats faster than it has in a while, and it’s like magically, your skin has a bit more color to it. 

And Eddie sees the stars in your eyes again. 

When you detach you just lay your head on his chest. You listen for his heartbeat, lulling you into a deep sleep, the best sleep you’ve had in two months. He follows you not soon after, Circe on his lap, as he falls into slumber with a peaceful smile on his face. 

Once awoken from your sleep, you go make a cup of tea for the both of you.

“Witchy?” your head lifts at the nickname as you pour him his tea.

 “So, are you a witch, a mage or a sorceress?” 

You just roll your eyes and kiss him again. 

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[after-witch]

Look I just got engaged and Im here to feed my own delusions SO (also I love your writing sm!!!)

"What on earth are you doing crashing my wedding like this?" - to Hisoka.

notes: yandere, blood, non-graphic violence

--

You're grateful for the fact that he showed up in your modest little bridal suite prior to the ceremony, rather than storming into the chapel as you were saying your vows.

He leans against the closed door--he locked it, too, you noticed--and gives you a familiar look of appraisal. There's pleasure in his eyes but something else, too. Something that is a little too reminiscent of the corner edge on a playing card.

"I'm stopping you from making a dumb mistake. You really think you're getting married to some low-tier nobody? Especially without my say-so?"

Your fist clenches in the delicate skirt of your gown until you remember how fragile it is--it belonged to your soon-to-be-spouse's grandmother--and you force your fingers to relax, smoothing out the antique lace.

"Why wouldn't I? We're in love."

Hisoka doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then he throws his head back and laughs until tears form in his eyes. They smudge his eyeliner.

"You might love them, darling, but I'm afraid the sentiment isn't quite returned. At least, not all that strongly. Certainly not strong enough for a wedding."

He wants you to ask. You don't want to ask.

But you do, anyway, because that's the game you've played with Hisoka for years. And he knows you always cave in.

"What do you mean?"

Hisoka pushes himself away from the door and approaches you. You know better than to run; the sticky memory of Bungee Gum crawls traitorously over your skin.

He doesn't stop until he's invading your space, until you've got nowhere to go unless you climb on top of the vanity behind you and use it as a seat.

"You do look pretty," he murmurs, leering down at you. "Are you wearing something nice underneath, for the honeymoon?" He leans in closer, a hand going to the fabric of your dress. "Can I check?"

You grimace and consider jabbing him with an eyeliner pencil left on the table behind you. It's not worth it--you might get some on your dress. You settle for smacking his hand away, and he lets you, pouting his lips at the pretend hurt.

"Hisoka. Answer my question."

Hisoka gives you one more appreciative glance before he grins.

"Ah! That. My dear, they began running the very moment I killed the priest at the alter. Didn't even try to help the old man." He grinned and ran a finger through his hair; a card appeared in his fingers and he flipped it back and forth. "I generously told them I was going for you next, and you know what they did?"

"Shut up!" You press your hands over your ears, but it doesn't blot out his words--the thought of the dead priest bleeding out--it doesn't blot out Hisoka.

"They ran out of the church and didn't even look back."

It's your wedding day and your priest is dead and the love of your life left you to die.

"Someone," you force out, voice croaking, mind scrambling for purchase on some bit of hope. "Someone else will come for me." Your mind frantically races over the guest list. Your future father-in-law, he would surely come running up the stairs. Or your uncle and your cousins. Or your friends. One of the other priests at the church, who would do anything to save an innocent like you.

"Oh, sweetness." Hisoka's voice is thick with honey.

He leans in close and brushes the flat end of the card against your cheek. There's something warm and wet on it, and a metallic tinge forces its way into your nostrils.

"What makes you think anyone is still alive down there?"

[spockandawe]

Here we go, a guestbook for my little brother's upcoming wedding! With the way bookbinding has consumed my life, my mother, unsurprisingly, turned to me and asked if I'd be willing to do the guestbook. Yes, of course! Handbound leather 3/4 binding, natch.

But I also am very bored by empty notebooks, and I also learned that the recommended number of pages for a wedding this large was like... twenty pages. If I'm paring leather by hand, the book is not going to be twenty pages. So I thought, and went back to my mother and suggested, 'what if each signer was prompted to draw the bride and groom?' She loved it. My brother has no idea, but I'm confident he'll love it to. He has no taste, and if my babiest brother forgot to constrain his eldest sibling, it's his fault if things run off the rails. When I asked what his wedding colors are, he said 'weddings have colors?' so any problems are on his head! 🤣

We're not a particularly artsy family, but we are a boisterous one! And it's the first marriage among his siblings and his fiancees, so things will be exuberant. And I wanted to set this up to be fun for participants and for the couple, while still generating an aesthetically pleasing book interior. I set out to find an antique woodcut-looking page frame, and ended up with a combo of editing one frame, tracing/drawing rose decorations from a different frame, and stealing some ovals from a third frame to incorporate and decorate to blend. That frame goes on the recto side of each page, with a banner for the name of the signer (and two smaller banners with the names of the couple, which i whited out). On the verso side, to add length to the book and avoid risk of bleedthrough, I traced some animal couple photos and dressed them up for a wedding. Now, i just have to make instruction cards for the guests and distribute them to the tables, which means i also get to come up with a bunch of silly demo photos, hahaha

I'm very pleased with how it turned out! And naturally, the finishing touch, this is why I was learning the k118 style, to have this nice pretty book that still opens BEAUTIFULLY flat for writing. This was a fun project, and I'm super excited to show it to the rest of my family!

[minticecodes]

A (late) piece for dmcweek2024 day 4! I was buzzing to put forward something for the week. Prompt was alt universe.

AU where Eva survived the fire and had to figure out a way forward, believing the twins dead. She becomes an RPG shopkeeper selling wares ranging from antique books to magical goods (Devil May Scry). She's also out for Mundus' blood.

Image descriptions are the same as in alt.

[ID: 7 Digital illustrations and sketches. 1: Coloured illustration of a bookshop at sunset. Eva, a pale blonde middle aged woman mans the bright patterned counter. She wears a turtleneck and red shawl, has shoulder length hair, and diagonal facial burn scar and scarring on her left hand. Light rays illuminate her gently smiling face. Besides packed books, on the shelves are potion bottles, statuettes, succulents, and a displayed katana. Roses and plants decorate the shop. On the counter are a thick hardback, bookscanner, and crystal ball. Cards are displayed inside the counter. On the wall hangs a price sign, featuring doodled vital stars (large star drawn with sunglasses), holy water and fortunes. Beneath it is a rose wreathed divinity statue display, with 2 red orb offerings in a dish. 2: Eva from behind, sitting hunched alone at a table where a birthday cake sits untouched. It's a two flavour cake. By her clenched hand are crumpled tissues. Caption: 'Vergil...Dante...happy birthday...' 3: Eva bracing the Devil Sword Sparda across her shoulders, aimed at the ground. She wears a bell sleeved, ruffled funeral/wedding dress with a slit for leg movement. A veil trails behind her like a ribbon. Close ups of her show the headpiece design; a pacifier made of a long bird skill, feather, rose, and four skeletal 'legs'. 4 & 5: Trish taking on teen Dante's image: a tan teen in black, with chin length white hair, a halter neck tank top, leather pants, kneelength boots and black polish. Her leather jacket collar resembles lightning bolts. She leans against an invisible wall, one leg bent to brace her foot against it. She looks askance with arched brows, lifting shades from her face. The 2nd image is a 3/4 profile with shades perched on her forehead and popped collar. 6: Helmetless portraits of Dante and Vergil in armour, expressionless. Dante's hair is shoulder length and falls across his face. 7: Full body of 2 somewhat lanky demonic knights. One (Nelo Angelo) in black and blue with droopy horns rests his palms atop his blue broadsword's pommel, the sword upright against the ground. He stands straight, staring ahead. The other in white and red and curled horns has a palm clapped on Nelo Angelo's shoulder, other hand at his hips. Somehow the eyes on his helmet express playfulness. At his back is the hilt to a flail, the spiked ball resting on the ground by his armoured heels. They're labelled '~16' . End ID.]

Read more for some wordy backstory and sketches. TW for mentions of torture, abuse and solitary confinement surrounding the twins.

I had...so many more ideas that I'm leaving out to keep this short. It's fun to think how she'd mesh with the cast.

Like! her and Lady. Mother that lost her kid and kid that lost her mother. It writes itself how much unwitting projection can go wrong. And pretty much everything about her, the twins, and Trish :)

In terms of backstory:

After the fire she's alone. Her birth family disowned her long ago. She thinks about revamping the mansion but the idea of staying in that empty space with only memories for company is too much. So she eventually opens a small store.

Starts off paranoid and distant. Still is distant but gets entangled with the local community overtime. Greets people by name and they'll chat about how life has been going. This includes demon hunters and demons and supernatural beings living peacefully; her shop becomes a small safe haven to exchange information to stay safe.

Gets very good at forging protective charms. Haunted by the memory of the enchanted closet, smashed in and empty.

A regular is a schoolgirl who originally came to pick up reserved books for her father but stuck around because hey, this place is quiet and interesting, and the owner serves stellar teacakes. Great place to study. To Mary, Eva's kind, though odd, secretive and a little lonely.

I got inspired by Eva's association with the bangle/bracelet of time and the amulets for her fighting style. It's based around item crafting, like an RPG character slapping on every stat boosting item.

She stitches together different outfits for different needs Cardcaptor style. They're all exceedingly dramatic. It's not clear here but I wanted a bird motif to eventually come through. Phoenix motif, really.

[ID: Rough sketches: A magician esque outfit with vest, feathered tophat and cape. A longcoat with long skirt and long scarf at her back like a cape. The cape is tagged with 'spells stitched into fabric'. Close ups on the coat lapel show two pins (strawberry and wing), labelled 'charm lapel pins.' Close up of the shoes show sharp heals and ankle bracelets. Eva leaping in a black bodysuit and leotard, with feathery collar, quill behind her ear, and ballet shoes with a claw at the heel. Eva making a triangular 2 hand sign in a hooded cloak and longskirt. Around her shoulders are claws. At her hips is an hourglass. Above her heeded head is a clocklike halo. Beside her is a sketch of a woman with a lionhead mask. A funeral and wedding dress inspired outfit. Eva crouches, wielding the Devil Sword Sparda in scythe form. Her face is covered by a tattered veil. She wears a knee length ruffled dress, black gloves, and a long, ruffled cape. Close up of her left hand shows a ring and finger claws Rough comic. Chibi lady talks to chibi Eva. Lady holds up a black body suit with billowing sleeves and a cleavage window. Lady: "Eva what is this" Eva (smiling cheerfully): "Oh - that old thing!" Eva: "My old hunting outfit. Gosh I'd almost forgotten about it. Not the most comfortable thing - so skin tight..." However Lady fixates on 'my old hunting outfit'. The words go in one ear and come out as a younger Eva in a catsuit, pointing a gun with a serious expression, wind blowing through her hair. Lady stares into the distance, bewildered, and slightly blushing. End ID]

Meanwhile the twins are having a terrible time but they have each other, even if they don't remember they're brothers. I think it'd be sweet if they have a bond anyway. Everyone else thinks they're rivals at best.

(Nelo is Mundus' favourite to toy with as the proud, eldest son. But when he gets rough, Bianco butts in and acts up for Mundus' attention. This gets him sent to solitary confinement; Mundus figured out Bianco hates small spaces and designed an iron maiden for him. Others think Bianco is a brute who acts out for a fight. But that's ok. It means Bianco can keep buying Nelo time.) (When lucid, Nelo despises his own weakness when this happens.)

[ID: 2 Images. Nelo and Bianco Angelo in fisticuffs in a cartoony dustcloud, glaring at each other as they fight. They're captioned 'Mundus' most competent generals'. Additional text: 'silent, obedient, crushing force when apart. Perfect soldiers. ... until they're put together. Complement each other's battle style OR clash terribly. Nelo Angelo staring off, arms crossed and furrowed eyes somehow expressing being completely fed up. Behind him, Bianco and Griffin talk at each other. Griffin's glaring. Bianco has a hand up to gesture. End ID]

[illusory-nomad]

02 Romeo! - It's Perfect (It's Not)

Criminal! Scaramouche × Aristocrat! Fem! Reader | Romeo! masterlist

Word count : 1105

TW : Swearing

For all the years Scaramouche lived in the Duchy of Fontaine, he knew one thing: he hated the duke and his daughters.

He had little recollection of his past: one of them being the way the kids would look at him weirdly at the orphanage.

Well, that, and the fact that he was never satisfied.

He never ate to the point where he was satisfied. He never spent money to the point where he was satisfied. Every meal was eaten slowly to result in being full sooner, and every penny was spent carefully.

And if he looked around, everyone seemed to be living the same way.

The duke of Fontaine loved making promises he either doesn't want to or couldn't keep. Free food for the people? He promised that months ago and people are starving. Taxes will be lowered? They seem to be getting higher instead. If Scaramouche ever got the opportunity to see him, he would very much like to slap him across the face. Hard.

To make everything worse, his daughters don't seem to care about how the people are suffering. One is too busy with her acting career, and the other is rarely seen. Scaramouche just concludes that the duke's daughters are, if not as then more ignorant as their father.

No thanks to them, he was forced to avert to more unpleasant means in order to survive: steal, kill, and so on. He left the orphanage when at the end of his teen years, and soon, he formed a small criminal criminal group of six, all about the same age, and all just wanting to survive in the corrupt duchy...

Which brings us to now: he was in his group's shared home, sipping bitter tea in the living room as his eyes boredly skimmed the newspaper. Heizou and Xiao were engaged in a heated card game, while Kazuha was in the corner with a white cat in his lap, writing poems.

The door slammed open after a while, revealing Aether. The blonde held up a bag, a big smile on his face, "I got the fruits!"

"That took a while," Kazuha looked up from his paper, "how much was it?"

"Quite a lot. The merchant was busy arguing with this man about his durian prices, so I went ahead and snagged what I could," Aether placed the bag on the kitchen counter before sitting next to Xiao. He eyed the living room for a moment, noticing someone was missing, "where's Venti?"

"Bar," Scaramouche answered shortly, his gaze not leaving the newspaper in his hands, "said someone has information that could help us steal from the duke's manor tonight."

"We're stealing from the duke?" Heizou stared at him with a raised brow, "you didn't tell us that."

Scaramouche shot Kazuha a glare, "you didn't tell them?"

"Oops," was all Kazuha could say, smiling sheepishly.

"You little—"

The door swung open once more, effectively cutting Scaramouche off. Venti walked inside, a bottle of wine in one hand.

"There's our favorite drunkard," Aether hummed.

"Favorite?" Scaramouche scoffed, rolling his eyes, "favorite is the last word I'd describe him with. Especially considering the wine he bought."

"Now, now. I had to treat our informant something," Venti sat beside Scaramouche, a goofy smile on his face, "you're just jealous you didn't get any."

"Unlike you, I don't drink in broad daylight."

"Mm, pity."

"Anyways, did you get the information?" Scaramouche sighed exasperatedly. Venti took a letter out of his pockets, albeit slightly crumpled. The group gathered around the table as Scaramouche opened the letter, then placed the paper in the middle. It was a small layout of the duke's manor, and directions on how they could enter through the library window and sneak in to the duke's trasury.

"This looks..." Kazuha trailed off.

"Dangerous," Xiao finished his sentence.

"It's perfect," Scaramouche grinned.

It was not perfect.

Scaramouche and Xiao were the ones assigned to the heist. As they were sneaking in, Scaramouche was confident he could snag a few antiques in the halls, and his greed got the best of him, so he and Xiao parted temporarily.

Bad idea, really.

Scaramouche ended up getting lost in the spacious manor, often having to hide as some of the manor's staff would suddenly pass by.

"Tch. Almost got caught again," Scaramouche grunted as he managed to hide from a maid who had suddenly passed by. He started to walk again, picking up the pace as he looked at every door which, unfortunately for him, all looked the same, "where was that damn library again—?"

More footsteps. Great.

Scaramouche looked around, biting his lower lip when he saw there were no good hiding spots. He had no choice but to enter the nearest room, which was a fancy bedroom, and dashed to the far left corner to hide in the small space between the wardrobe and the wall.

The door of the bedroom opened, making him hold his breath.

'Shit, I'm gonna get caught,' he thought to himself. He waited for the lights to turn on, for whoever who came into the room to walk over and drag him out... But instead, he heard the person throw themselves onto the bed, followed by soft sniffles.

Scaramouche peeked out of his hiding spot and although it was hard to see due to the dark, he could make out the figure of Lady Y/N, lying down with her back facing him as her body shook from sniffles.

He desperately wanted to roll his eyes and continue hiding. He hated the duke and his daughters, after all. But the way she was now, she looked so vulnerable, and something in him just felt the need to at least make sure she was okay.

Slowly, he stepped out of his hiding spot, leaving his bag of stolen antiques there for the moment and making a mental note to not forget them. Then with the softest voice he could muster up, he asked her, "why are you crying?"

Y/N quickly turned to look at him, and he noticed her reaching for the light on her bedside table, making him panic, "wait...! Don't turn on the lights... I'm not here to hurt you..."

He held his breath as he watched her hand linger by the lamp for a few seconds before she slowly retracted her arm from the lamp, making Scaramouche feel relief wash up in him.

"And you are...?" Y/N asked softly, her voice still laced with sadness. Scaramouche let out a sigh, quickly thinking of an alias he could use.

Unknow... Anonymous... Stranger... Passerby... Nomad...

"Just call me... Wanderer..."

Author's Note : WHAT THE HECK I FORGOT TO ADD TAGS WHEN I POSTED THIS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 😭

Taglist (open) : @featuredtofu @shutingstar @alatusorrow @skyvella @mellowberrie @sketcheeee @lovelypadisarah @toastedfailure @noellefan101 @scaraenthusiast1 @liuaneee

(Bold : can't tag ;-;)

[thakefurniture]

Georgian Card Table, carved table, games table, demi lune table : Antique Card Tables UK - Antique Tea Tables - Antique Tables, Sussex - Card Table, Tea Table

[deadpoolsoci3ty]

so you're the a (alastor x reader) ch 1

(a/n: so i've been posting this on ao3 for about a week and just decided to post on here too now. also i do not have a posting schedule im busy lol sorry)

summary: finding the radio at that thrift store may have completely changed the course of my life, but really i'm not complaining at all.

word count: 1,789

warnings: none i think (let me know if should add some!)

ao3 link

masterlist

Chapter One: thing of beauty

The cold wind of Chicgo bit at my face as I walked the short walk from my apartment to the thrift store. I’m not totally sure what I was going there to look for, but I just needed to get out of my apartment. The walk was pleasant because I’m a college student home at one o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday, so the sidewalks are barren. The store finally comes into view, and then I’m walking in. I greet the woman at the register, and immediately book it towards the trinkets in the back. I look through their selection of shot glasses and mugs, not seeing anything that I just had to have. I pace around the back of the store until I see this gorgeous antique radio. A radio would be great for background noise when I’m reading, and plus this was a thing of beauty. I may not have a lot of money, but I knew in my heart whatever price this radio was, it was coming home with me. I rushed over to pick it up so I could find the price, but before my eyes could land on the price tag they first saw a small ‘A’ carved into wood in the corner. Maybe it was like an Andy Toy Story situation, a cute little memory from a previous owner. Then I found the price, a solid $60 which I am truly willing to part with for this beautiful radio.

With an extra pep in my step, I made my way to the register to pay for my lovely new friend. I greeted the employee at the register once again, and she looked somewhat excited that I put the radio on the conveyor belt. “Has this been here long?” I asked because I was confused how someone would pass up this piece of art.

“Longer than me, pretty sure,” she shrugged, “all the employees here have made up our little stories about the history behind it.” She rang me up and the screen prompted me to put my card in, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a sweet treat for a week or two but the radio was worth it. “It has been bought before though,” I furrowed my brow because what was wrong with this damn clock? But, to be honest I didn’t care if the radio even worked or not (I was hoping it did though) it was just beautiful. “The people always come back in basically begging us to buy it back, don’t even care for how much. One guy sold it to us for fifty cents one time.”

Now, normally I would not be caught dead with an object that people had been begging to return, and with the way the employee had been describing the situation the radio was definitely scaring the shit out of everybody that purchased it. But, for some reason I needed this radio. A little about me, I’m a textbook snobby english major. I love all things vintage, I think the classics are the greatest works in English literature, and hold a deep detestment for many aspects of modern culture. Yes, I am annoying.

“Mmm, something tells me I’ll be keeping it for the long haul.” I don’t know what possessed me to say something like this, but I’m just gonna go with it. I thank the employee and make my way out of the shop.

The walk home was much less brisk now that I was carrying this heavy radio, but I didn’t think about it much. I was just so excited. My roommate was out filming for some school project so I could fiddle with it when I got home.

After what feels like forever, I see the fence in front of my apartment. I whip out my keys, and put them in the lock of the first door and lock it behind me, while putting the key into the next door which leads to my apartment. I take off my shoes and lock the door. I walk over to the dining room table and put my purse down along with the radio so I can take my coat off. Once coatless, I grab the radio and set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch. I mess with the knobs and dials until I hear a crackle. “Yes!” I yelled, as I began switching through the stations, most of the stations I knew from the radio in my car were entirely static. After a couple of minutes I heard someone speaking, the voice was filtered through what sounded like a microphone from the early days of audio.

“Hello dearie!~” the strange voice spoke, I assumed it was a prerecorded file a station was playing. Like a radio version of the history channel. So, of course I didn’t speak back to the radio. Then, the voice came back, “I said…” a loud static started to emanate from the speaker, “Hello!”

My first thought was ‘fuck me, if this is a demon in here, I’m definitely going to fall for one of his traps’ I had just though about this a couple days ago, I want things! Sue me! And I’m not fucking with you two days ago I had been thinking about this shit and now here I am. Welp, I’m fucked, but still I carry on. And now I was sure I had completely lost my mind, so since that had already happened and I was obviously in the middle of an episode of psychosis, I decided to reply, “Oh! Umm I didn’t think you were speaking to me. My apologies!” Whoever this person who was speaking was, I definitely did NOT want him to be upset with me.

“Oh dear, oh dear! Far in the past now! You’ve got my radio!” I could tell whoever was speaking was smiling, I could hear in their voice.

“This is yours? It’s gorgeous, I can assume you’re the ‘A’ on the bottom of it.” I could have asked so many questions, but I went with this one. I’m not totally sure why, but I really want to know more about the strange voice.

“Alastor! That’s my name, sweetheart!” He seemed excited to introduce himself, and honestly I was just as excited as him.

“Hello Alastor! My name is Y/N! It’s nice to meet you! Where do you live, Alastor? I found the radio in Chicago!” Why was I telling this strange voice over a creepy radio where I live.

“Oh when I was alive, my home was New Orleans. Absolutely fantastic! It made it all the way to the Windy City!” My heart froze after his fifth word, hair standing up, goose pimples all over my skin, and a shock through my spine. When he was alive??? What the fuck does that mean? He’s definitely a demon, yep fuck me.

“Just to clarify, you did just say ‘when you were alive’ right? That wasn’t me hearing things, right?” I was hyperventilating out of my damn mind. I absolutely understood now why people had returned this freaky fucking radio

“Oh yes, of course, dear! I’m coming to you straight from Hell.” The way he said it like it was the most casual thing ever, had me feeling like I was overreacting to what he was saying.

“And you’re not messing with me?” After it came out of my mouth I heard him clench his teeth.

“Oh, now what is your impression of me that says I would do that to you?” He seems frustrated with my question, and that did not sit right with me. I was quick to appease him.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant by that, I promise!” I try to stop myself from spilling my guts to this man who I believe might be a demon, because the voice in my head was telling me giving personal information to a demon was probably not the best decision I could make, but I just couldn’t stop myself. “It’s just I never believed in an afterlife or a religion, so it’s just that you have just told me that hell is real and that is absolutely insane to me because now I’m terrified hell is horrible. Is it horrible? I mean I guess that’s the point?” I took a deep breath before I continued my word vomiting, but before I got the chance, Alastor began speaking again.

“Sweet girl~ please stop with the yammering…” His voice seemed like nectar to me, I could listen to him speak all day, “before we continue with our little back and forth, I am going to need to know what I’m getting out of this?” I immediately started thinking about the things I could offer him, not my soul. Wasn’t there just yet.

“What could you possibly want from me?” This was the most genuine question I had asked in a long time, I had absolutely nothing to offer him. I had money for groceries, rent, and utilities. Most of my possessions were books, he was in hell what use could he have for anything I could give him.

“I just adore your voice, little deer!” He was back to being his chirpy self, and it rubbed off on me making me feel a little calmer. “I’m sure you would love to continue our little chats, and in return I’d just like for you to read to me, from a book of your choosing of course.” I was trying not to let off how excited I was, I wanted him to feel like he was getting more out of this than he was. “I’m trusting you have immaculate taste, but give a couple of your favorites just so I can tell.”

After a few quick beats I respond with, “My favorite book of all time is Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, I’m a big fan of the classics, nineteenth century literature.”

“Oh how swell!” he seemed like he was buzzing with glee, “A beautiful voice with even better taste!” He seemed to chuckle to himself and as his laugh faded out his voice came back, “Well, dearest, I’m afraid I must be going for now! I’ll excuse your payment for today, but be ready for next time, my dear,” I took a deep breath at the thought of a next time, “When you want to contact me again, just tune back into this station, I’ll be able to tell. I won’t always be able to talk, but when I can I’ll be there in a jiffy!”

Before I could respond to him the static that accompanied his voice faded and it eventually became silent in my apartment once again. I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and leaned back into my couch.

(a/n: i've written five chapters so far i'll be posting the other four asap)

[sundays-sims]

A L C H E M Y .  (patreon - beachfront tier, early access)

Spooky season is hereee! For the occasion I wanted to create a special set; alchemy. It contains 18 new meshes, it’s mostly inspired by nature, the occult and the apothecary aesthetic. I surprisingly had a lot of fun creating this, stepping out of my comfort zone by a mile! This set was meant to be made in collaboration with @simspirationbuilds & Hel Studio but I unfortunately found myself super exhausted this month, so I wasn’t able to finish everything on time. I really had to take some time off. It will still go very well with their set & build, available on SimspirationBuilds patreon here [X]! Again, sorry for the small delay of publication & thank you for understanding.

Happy simming to everyone & I hope you enjoy this set!

↓ details & download link under the cut ↓

D O W N L O A D - L I N K : [X] (patreon, early access)

S E T   D E T A I L S :

antique cabinet – 4 swatches

antique frame & art – 28 swatches

antique preparation board – 2 swatches

antique scale – 2 swatches

apothecary glass bottle – 40 swatches

apothecary sideboard – 6 swatches

melted candle (S,M & L) – 10 swatches

floor pillow – 15 swatches

flower petals – 5 swatches

hanging branch & herbs (3 heights) – 2 swatches

leather bound alchemy book – 3 swatches

low coffee table w. cloth – 7 swatches

pillow stack – 16 swatches

tarot cards & deco tray – 1 swatch

** alchemy will be released (free) on October 23rd**

** WCIF: the hanging plants are from @nynaevedesign , you can find them here: [X]**

→ terms of use / TOU ← / / → instagram ←

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Persephone's Devotee (Hello, Mr. Monster AU, I)

Master List

Summary: In the age of Spiritualists and magicians, wyrds winds in different ways to link Dream of the Endless and Aisling Hunt. AU of Hello, Mr. Monster beginning in the 1920s. (Alternatively titled 'We All Hate Roderick Burgess')

Warnings: Implied child abuse/neglect, child left to travel solo, manipulating children for profit (non-sexual trafficking)

A/N: Your bird just got diagnosed with a life changing chronic condition (in addition to being put back on depression meds). We'll see how this post does. Have four chapters planned. The last scene is based on personal experiences with heat exhaustion/borderline heat stroke.

Dream’s tools brought many things to Fawney Rig. Wealth and prestige. Admiration, gifts, and influence. Nearly everything the magus wanted and only a fraction of what he thought he deserved. Roderick’s dreams of power and riches drew another tool to his hand, or perhaps Destiny drew the magus to her. The girl who saw strange things in the dark and found answers to strange riddles in her cards. But her wyrd would always draw her to old house and its shrouded dungeon, in any world or time. All because of what the Burgesses kept there.

In the eight years since the fateful evening he summoned and caught one of the Endless, Roderick had become a man much desired. He found himself with an invitation to Lord and Lady Werthrope’s party, a guest of honor at a soiree at their country estate. They promised a night of occult mysteries and foreign prizes. Bits of people and places from across the empire and beyond. Mummies from Egypt and fragments of Greek antiquities to gasp and shriek over with glasses of champagne and brandy.

Roderick carried himself as Lord Werthrope’s equal, and at least for that night, surrounded by ancient mysteries of all kinds, he was seen as such. He was an expert, a guide, someone to hold in reverence rather than an oddity to gawk over. He told them with his bearing, his dignity, and the ruby he wore on a golden chain around his neck. His wishes became dreams and so became real. He stood like a stronger god beside the broken figure of Apollo and scoffed at the mistranslations of texts he’d only ever read secondhand.

Beside the wonders kept under guard at home, what were these paltry things? He could have any of them he desired, and he’d already claimed better.

His sense of superiority carried him through the party’s early hours, moving from acrobats in elaborate costumes, to fire eaters, to ghost stories and flights of fancy spun by swindlers far below his consideration. He had an answer or alternative for everything. And then he met the girl.

She sat at a bare table with no long cloth to hide rolling ankles, clever fishing lines, or knocking accomplices. Only a candle and a deck of cards separated her from the guests, and she’d drawn quite a queue. Her feet didn’t even reach the floor, swinging idly between the legs of the chair as she read the cards of a distraught-looking dandy.

Taking his arm, Lady Werthrope said, “This one you really must see, Magus. She’s made quite the splash in New York and London.”

The Magus offered a tolerant smile. “And what is the trick? Does she blow out the candle? Bend spoons?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The lady practically vibrated, eager to impress as she led them to the table, scattering the line. “She sees things, and she reads fortunes like no one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve had more than a few pet psychics in my time. This one’s a bit of a sad story.”

The magus clenched his jaw until the muscle in his cheek twitched. He could make whatever sob story the girl shilled much worse. Of all the frauds and liars who feigned knowledge of the occult, Roderick Burgess hated mediums and ghost whisperers the most. The tantalizing promise of connection with Randal – always waved in his face, always ultimately denied – it clawed open the rotting wound in his heart, and he let the poison drip back on any fools who tried his patience.

Let this one try to pull the wool over his eyes, and he’d unmask her in front of this glittering audience. She’d be a penniless sad story when he was through.

“Those people,” the lady said, nodding to a couple flanking the child, “are just the adoptive parents. Saw her family murdered, poor thing. They say that’s what cracked her open to the other world.”

“Do they indeed.” He kept his smile, showing his teeth as his grip flexed over the cane in his free hand. “Then I look forward to her performance.”

The Magus and the lady sat across from the faux family, and the girl looked at them. The people who weren’t her parents did not manage her well, Burgess couldn’t help noting. They’d painted her up with rogue and kohl that made her look even more like a child playing grownup games, and the feather in her headband hung limp and lifeless. She barely managed to grimace through a smile, and she spoke with all the enthusiasm of a student reporting on Ovid to the class.

“What are you asking?” A child’s voice really shouldn’t be so dull. Now that he was nearer, the Magus couldn’t help wondering if she was even younger than he’d first assumed. Not even ten, he thought, and already so exhausted.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He kept his guard, but curiosity stirred beneath. She was no great performer.

Lady Werthrope leaned forward, eager to take the first reading as the girl shuffled her cards. They were nearly too big for her to manage, but in this at least she clearly had much practice. Her handling of the tarot was the most natural element of her demeanor he’d yet to see.

The lady talked about her dog Moxy, a cocker spaniel much loved and terribly spoiled. It was getting on in years, and, well, ought she prepare for anything dreadful? Only, her friend had just lost her terrier, and she couldn’t chase it from her thoughts…

The cards appeared on the table. One by one. The Six of Cups. The Two of Swords. And, lastly, the Nine of Swords reversed.

“Moxy is well-loved.” The child pointed to the first card. “That’s the foundation. But she’s getting older, and she may go blind eventually. She’s accepted it, though, and you will, too.” She smiled a little, hesitantly, like a pet used to getting kicked when she barked at company. The Magus noted how her gaze flicked to her pseudo-father.

Lady Werthrope clucked and reached over to squeeze the child’s hand. “You’re very honest. And very sweet. Now, won’t you show the Magus what you can do?”

Obediently, she gathered the cards and folded the deck, shuffling them with the fresh energy of her next customer. “What do you want to know?”

Roderick considered. It was a little below him to ask anything specific of a child spiritualist, and he still meant to test her. Hate stirred the old thorn in his heart, and although she didn’t speak with ghosts to earn her bread, he didn’t need to justify himself.

“I’ll leave the question to you.” He squinted in a way that may seem affectionate, but it was only sharp, a predator focusing on little fawn to see how quickly it might run. “What do you see?”

She flinched, lifting her eyes from the cards to meet his in a fleeting, startled glance. Like he’d come near to guessing something she didn’t say out loud. But then she bent over the deck, back to her work as the woman behind her set a hand on her shoulder.

“Be good, Aisling,” the adoptive mother said. “Show the Magus your skills. Don’t embarrass us.”

The child rolled her lip between her teeth, sorting the task quickly. One card. Two cards. Three cards. Tap, tap, tap on the bare table. The Magician’s face glowed in the candle light, and Roderick blinked. A good tarot reader must have good luck in order to draw the appropriate cards – or a marked deck. But he’d watched those little hands like a hawk, and he’d seen nothing. It wasn’t definitive proof by any means, but Roderick Burgess knew himself to be cleverer than a child.

Pointing to the first card, the Magician, the girl said, “You’re the Magus. The Magician is your creation of yourself.” The second card was the Nine of Cups. “Your cups all overflow, and you enjoy the plenty you already have.” And then there was the Ace of Pentacles. Roderick wondered for a moment if she’d laid the cards out of the intended order, but she simply said, “There is new wealth coming. You’ve just found something that will bring you more good fortune. The benefits will grow in the months and years to come.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.” He looked for cracks, and there were many. Fatigue clouded her eyes and weighted the end of every sentence. Not a sign of a lie, though. She couldn’t even pretend to be happy for the audience.

He turned the interaction over in his mind through the rest of the night, wearing away the questions and presumptions like the rough edges of a stone, and by the later hours, he thought he might hold a jewel.

The adoptive parents made themselves easy to find. They hadn’t left the table. Neither had the girl. The lord and lady hired them to entertain, and they stayed at their posts. They’d gathered refreshments, but no cup or plate sat on the table, and he wondered if they had any idea children needed things like water after a long night of speaking with strangers.

Really. The scheme was too transparent. The only lies hid in any manner of affection the parents pretended for the child they claimed.

The Magus marched up to the table, rapping the top with his cane to seize the drowsy girl’s attention. She blinked, started licking her dry lips, caught herself, and pinched her mouth closed with her teeth.

“Aisling, wasn’t it?” He nodded to her, encouraging her to echo the motion. “I would like a word with you. No cards. No reading. Just a conversation. Alone.”

The father stepped forward, ready to defend his meal ticket. “Sir, I’m afraid we can’t just –”

“The girl and I will sit here, at this table,” he tapped it again to make his point, “and you will both stand over there.” The cane swung to point towards the bar, which was well within sight but well out of earshot.

When the man moved to protest again, Roderick pulled out his wallet, and the father’s mouth snapped shut. A few pounds bought the adults’ willing compliance, and they went off in search of drinks with barely a backwards glance. Roderick settled into the seat he claimed earlier, watching the girl squirm. Her hands fluttered restlessly between her lap and the table, clearly used to the cards, uneasy without the form and ritual of a reading to guide the conversation.

That was well enough. Roderick had his own plans.

He signaled one of the roving staff, and as the waiter approached, he ordered, “A lemonade for the young lady.”

With a bow, the server hurried off, and the Magus smiled, lips closed, tilting his head as his legs crossed under the table. He was not a client. He was an adult who noticed, who might be moved to care, and in the few hours of their acquaintance, he was already offering more than anyone else.

“So, you see things?”

Her eyes snapped from him to the people who managed her. Then back again, and down to her lap.

“I’m not supposed to upset people.” She picked at the fringe on the garish frock she wore – entirely unsuited to her age and clearly uncomfortable. “It upsets Mr. and Mrs. Foster when I see things. Or when I talk about them.”

The Magus nodded, unsurprised. He wondered if the people who adopted her even realized her talents were genuine when they snatched her up. They had too many connections and too much showmanship to be anything other than experienced con artists. This little Aisling must be very sensitive, and the truly sensitive didn’t see strictly good, kind, or encouraging things. How she must terrify the fools.

The server returned with a cut crystal glass rattling with ice. The girl thanked the server, then thanked her benefactor, and wrapped her hands around the condensation-slicked sides. She sipped carefully, and Roderick could see the tension ease from her posture as she drank. Desperate as she was, she didn’t gulp, and with clear regret, she set the drink on the table still two-thirds full. But she kept her hands on the glass, lest some waiter assume she was finished and spirit it away.

“I won’t be upset, and I’d like to believe you.” Angling his head down to peer at her meaningfully, employing a look he’d once used when his son misbehaved, he asked, “What have you seen tonight that would upset people?”

The girl looked around, shifting so her chair creaked. This time, it wasn’t her adoptive parents she feared. Any ears may be a threat. When she leaned in, the Magus copied her, silently assuring her the secret would be safe with him.

“There’s a guest who’s not a guest, and he isn’t a man, either.”

The Magus hummed. “Say I believe you. Could you prove it?”

Seduced into the invitation of an adult confidant, and revived by the lemonade, she rushed to answer. She wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be believed and heard. The Magus was listening, and he was beginning to believe as well.

“The man paid the footman with holly leaves,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “The footman folded them like bank notes, and the spines stabbed his palms, but he didn’t notice. Look for the one with blood on his gloves.”

“And the man who isn’t a man?”

Shrinking back, the girl shook her head until the headband went crooked. Her hand pressed over her heart, rubbing hard circles as her face creased.

“He’d know I saw him,” she said. “I don’t let them know I see them anymore.”

Now there was a tale and no mistake. A child with enough power to annoy things beyond the veil – one that survived an encounter – was rare indeed.

“What happened?” He lent his tone a shade of concern. Facts, he found, traveled swiftest to a sympathetic ear, and he needed to know everything. Curiosity was growing into practical fervor as the first dreams of a plan grew into place. “Are you ill?”

She crumbled just a little bit more, folding into herself to protect the place she rubbed from some invisible threat. “Sometimes I see things that don’t want to be seen. One of them – hurt me. There’s no scar, but it hurt me, and now it aches.”

The Magus donned a solemn expression, though he felt a thrill at the prospect sitting before him. The little girl had unusual skills, and though she wasn’t handled well by the adults governing her, they must still turn a pretty penny showing her in salons and private homes. He’d confirm what she’d said, of course, validate her little proof, but she was either a better liar than he’d ever met or she was childishly honest. He knew where he’d put his money.

Where he might very well invest it, actually.

He didn’t say goodbye, only nodding as he rose and went in search of the servant with bloody gloves.

Of course, he found him. When he demanded to see what the footman had in his pockets, the boy paled, stammering excuses, only to pull out a handful of forest detritus. As the young man fell into a whirl of confusion and disappointment, the Magus truly smiled. The first real smile since Lady Werthrope brought him to the child’s table.

He must have a proper conversation with the girl’s current guardians.

Aisling clung to her bag, drowning in the heat as the train pulled away from the Wych Cross platform. Men and women fanned themselves with hats and newspapers, desperate for a breeze in the dead summer stillness. Ladies shed their gloves. Men loosened their ties. Propriety mattered less when the air was trying to suffocate them, a crushing, inescapable oven scalding the usually damp countryside.

A miserable day to travel.

Sweat dripped down her back, soaking the neck of her dress, gluing her hair to her skin. But she didn’t have a free hand to stir a breeze. Her bag was too heavy, full of everything she would need in her new home, or at least everything the Fosters thought they couldn’t sell for a profit. Mrs. Foster took her to the train station and dropped her at the door.

“Here’s your ticket. You’re heading to Wych Cross, and then to Fawney Rig. Don’t forget, and don’t miss your train,” she’d said. Then she climbed back into the cab beside Mr. Foster and disappeared into the flow of London traffic.

They’d sold her on to someone else, and now they were free of her.

She peered around the station, but it was really just a platform. In London, there were helpful adults in uniforms and suits who pointed out the right train and the right stairs to reach it. Nothing here told her how to find Fawney Rig, though, and the only adult in a uniform seemed to be the man in the ticket booth.

She’d find her way. She wasn’t a baby after all. She was eight. And she could read very well, and no one was coming to help her, so she better figure it out.

She stood in line for the ticket man’s attention. Surely, he could give her directions. The Magus was rich, and a little famous, she thought, so his neighbors must know where he lived. If the man in the booth didn’t know, she’d keep asking until she found someone who did. While she waited her turn, she set down her suitcase and sat on it, taking deep breaths that tasted like salt. It could be worse. What if it rained instead? Well. Actually. Rain sounded very nice.

Soon enough, she took her place in front of the booth, and the man frowned under his mustache like she’d arrived with a bill or a letter from someone nasty. She smiled prettily, the way the Fosters told her to, and tried to make herself look like less of a problem as she clutched her case again.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but do you know the way to Fawney Rig?”

He physically recoiled, and his frown hooked deeper with glowering doubt as he scanned her. “Fawney Rig? That devil worshiper’s house? Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve been sent to live there, sir. I’m expected, but I don’t think they’ve sent anyone for me.” Manners made things easier with adults. Good manners and clear words – the fewer the better.

But the man wasn’t swayed. He looked thunderous. Like she’d broken something valuable and ought to pay for it with a lashing.

“Do you have money for a cab?”

The Fosters didn’t own her anymore, and they’d given her nothing but cards, and costumes, and a hairbrush. All the cash stayed warm and safe in their pockets.

“No, sir.”

“Then walk down the main road. Go east from the village, and keep going until there are no more houses you can see from the street. There’ll be a path on the left with a big iron gate. Follow that and you’ll find your devil worshipers.” He waved her off like he’d slap her if not for the glass. “Next!”

Manners got her what she needed, at least. “Thank you.”

The other adults all moved aside as she trundled through with her case. It made it easier to avoid clipping ankles and shins with her luggage, but she wondered if they hated her the way the ticket man hated her – because of Fawney Rig – or if she simply smelled after the long, stuffy ride in third class. Not that adults needed an excuse to dislike her. The nice ones called her uncanny and gifted. The mean ones called her a witch, and a bastard devil-spawn, and other names a mother should wash out of their mouths with soap.

She wasn’t sure which ones were telling the truth.

She knew the way forward, though. To Fawney Rig. That was good, even if the other adults didn’t think so. The Magus may not be a nice person, she hadn’t known him long enough for the usual adult lies to wear thin enough to see through, but he was smarter than the Fosters, and he’d given her a lemonade, so maybe she wouldn’t be as hungry or thirsty under his guardianship. She’d still have to work. Adults only wanted her if they thought she could give them something. But everything was more bearable with a good dinner and cold drinks.

She hoped he’d give her another cold drink, even water with some ice, when she reached his home. The train ride left her terribly thirsty.

Leaving the shaded platform, she bowed away from the sun’s violent touch and started on her journey. The village only kept a cobbled road in the center of town. It led up to the train station, linking it to a clutch of shops and offices. A parish church sat a little way back from the road, separated from the secular world by a field of tidy tombstones in heat-bleached grass. People noticed her. They looked. They whispered to each other. But no one waved or offered a hand. Gossip didn’t move fast enough to beat her here from the train, and she wondered how people could tell she was odd. Society had so many rules beyond manners, but no one would tell her what they were, and she never guessed right.

By the time the cobblestones ended, she was struggling to hold onto her suitcase. The handle kept trying to slip from her fingers, even when she held it with both hands, and she had to work harder and harder to keep it out of the dirt. If she knew anything about the world, it was that good children didn’t drag their luggage, and bad things happened to those that did. She’d travelled enough to learn, and she wanted to make a good impression on her new keeper and his household.

The road outside of town went a very, very long way. The ticket seller’s instructions made each step sound the same length: go through town, pass the houses, go down the long drive past the gates. Her imagination had lied to her, though. Every time she thought she’d passed the last house, there came another. Each handed her down the chain of cottage gardens and small homes full of families who pretended not to see. They all knew she’d done something, like she had a brand on her forehead, and she wasn’t allowed to stop. She didn’t try to.

Everything looked sickly yellow in the midday glare. Dust hung in the air, stirred by passing cars, lingering without a breath of wind to dispel the choking clouds. Everything looked flat and dead, so much so she almost missed the gate. Another leg of her trek done. Still too far to go, and the private road leading to the Magus’ home was longer than it had any right to be.

She didn’t feel well. The trees gave her a little protection, but her stomach and lungs felt hard, strained, the way her arms ached with carrying her suitcase. Only they were parts that shouldn’t feel that way, and she thought maybe she should sit down.

But she was almost there.

Even if she walked slowly, and her feet didn’t land quite where she told them to.

She just wouldn’t think about those things. Complaining was just making excuses, and she was expected.

The house appeared out of nowhere, or she was too dizzy to see it through the leaves before the last turn in the drive. It loomed, a very final-looking destination, and her suitcase escaped her grasp. The case was slippery, and her fingers didn’t curl the way they should. She bent to pick it up, and when she straightened, the whole world spun.

She stood very still until it stopped, and she found herself shivering as she approached the front door. Very strange. Was she afraid? No. That didn’t sound right. She felt terrible, too terrible to worry, and none of it made sense.

But she’d nearly made it. She had made it. Almost.

Knocking summoned a young man, and the door creaked open as he glanced down with a quizzical expression. “Hello? Can I help you?”

She tried holding her suitcase with just one hand, but it slipped away again, barely missing her foot. Maybe a handshake was a bad idea. The stranger hadn’t held his hand out for a shake, after all. She was just confused. He might not want to touch her. And she must look a picture after her walk.

She should’ve done something differently. If she were smarter, or taller, or…

“I’m Aisling Hunt, sir. The Magus sent for me.”

“Oh.” The young man’s eyes popped wider, and she wondered if he was younger than she thought at first. Stepping back, he pulled open the door to usher her inside. “I’m sorry. I’d heard someone was coming, but I’d thought you’d be… well, older. And I’m just Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Aisling.”

He nodded and plucked her bag from where she’d dropped it. “Yes. You said. Are you feeling alright?”

She didn’t know. And grownups didn’t really like it when she was unwell anyway. Before she could come up with a suitable lie that would get her what she needed without stepping on any toes, a familiar face appeared at the end of the hall.

“Ah! You made it.” Out of formal dress, the Magus still brimmed with authority. Aisling had met many adults who wore costumes and pretended to be something they weren’t, but the Magus seemed like he’d somehow stitched his chosen persona into his skin. “Welcome to Fawney Rig.”

She wobbled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Magus,” he corrected.

“Thank you, Magus, sir.”

At last, what he was seeing overshadowed his enthusiasm, and the old man frowned. “Did you walk here? From the station?”

“Yes, Magus.”

“The Fosters didn’t even give you money for a fucking cab?”

“Just the train ticket, sir. Magus.”

She blinked, and the whole room turned blue, like peering at the world through stained glass. It looked so pretty she didn’t realize the Magus was asking her another question until his hand settled on her shoulder.

His voice came from far away. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, Magus, I walked, and I found Fawney Rig all on my own, and I’m not useless, please don’t throw me away yet.

But everything looked cool, and blue, and lovely. She was floating in it. Floating and so awfully heavy at the same time. The color slipped in with her breath, eroding her control until it slipped from her grasp like the suitcase had.

The world went dark, and she didn’t see, hear, or say anything more.

And deep below, in the belly of the house, Dream of the Endless waited in his cage, as senseless to the world above as she.

[nhlclover]

blushing sparks fly au

✭ — summary: sofia's friend points out her and rutgers behaviour, hinting towards mutual feelings

✭ — warnings: literally one curse word, realizing of feelings!!

✭ — a/n: paisley coming in clutch

✭ — word count: 0.48k

Walking down the sidewalk to the coffee shop, Sofia admires the trees that lined the street. The leaves had started to turn bright shades of red and orange, while the air now had a bit of a bite. She was on her way to a coffee shop to meet her friend, Paisley before they went to their children’s literature class.

Stepping into the cafe, Sofia is met with the strong smell of espresso beans. She spots Paisley at a table scrolling on her phone, two coffees in front of her.

“Hey Pais.” Sofia says, setting her bag down on the ground and sitting.

“Hey girl, I got you a coffee.” Paisley replies, sliding the paper cup to Sofia.

Sofia thanks her, taking a sip. “So, how was your birthday?” Paisley asked.

“It was good! Luca had me over at his place and his roommates surprised me with a cake, and then we watched Adams’ game.” Sofia explains.

“Cute!” Paisley grins. “Any fun presents?”

“Luca got me a pair of Birkenstock clogs, Adam sent me a Lululemon gift card, and my parents are sending me something,” Sofia tells her. “And, oh my gosh, Rutger gave me this antique copy of Little Women from 1902, it was so friggin thoughtful.”

“I’m sorry, Rutger gave you an antique copy of your favourite book?” Paisley asks, Sofia nodding in response. A small smile spreads on her lips. “Oh my god, Sofia.”

Sofia furrows her brows. “What?”

“This dude is straight up in love with you.” She says.

“What? No, he isn’t. We’re just friends, trust me.”

“Well, I think he likes you as more than a friend.”

“Paisley, please.” Sofia chuckles. “He’s also Luca’s teammate, he knows Luca would kill him if he even checked me out.”

“Okay, whatever you say Sof.” Paisley shrugs, sipping from her cup.

Sofia furrows her brows, scanning her friend's doubtful face. “Why do you think he likes me?”

Paisley chuckles. “Okay, he started reading your favourite book just so he could talk to you about it, he remembers your complicated coffee order, and now he just bought you a probably expensive ass book for your birthday when he’s only known you a month!”

Sofia runs through all those memories in her head. Every one of them made her heart swell.

“And babe, it’s obvious you like him too.” Paisley adds.

“It is?” Sofia asks.

“Girl you immediately blushed when you brought up Rutger, then blushed even harder when I explained why he’s in love with you.”

Sofia slightly cringes. “Do you think he notices?”

“I hope he does!” Paisley says. “Then he would make a move.”

Sofia shakes her head, still in denial that Rutger likes her. Paisley lets the conversation change, knowing her friend won’t immediately admit she sees Rutger as more than a friend.

For the rest of the day, Sofia is stuck in her thoughts, dwelling on Rutger’s behaviour and Paisleys' insight.

[strongermonster]

no one asked or cares but here's how my cottage long weekend is going so far

neighbours next to us have a guy who adds a compulsive laugh to the end of every sentence and it sounds like the last part of woody the woodpecker's laugh, and he is so loud

someone several blocks away is re-staining their deck and using an air compressor for it and it's so fucking loud i can feel it in my bones.

weather is alternating between pissing rain, bright sun deadly lasers 30 degrees melting hellscape, and Wall Of Mosquitos

wifi shuts off at 9pm and doesn't come on again until 9am. i have no fucking idea why.

one plain juice popsicle costs $7+tax dollars at the convenience store. kys.

morning birds begin chirping at THREE A.M.

someone in one of the cabins next to us was either having great sex, or being murdered, or perhaps harbouring 20 or so rowdy gibbons.

we are on Bear Watch

the cabin has proper antique furniture, including a bed frame from the 1930's.

it is WILDLY uncomfortable, and if you so much as breathe in the same room as it it creaks and groans menacingly. just one of us lying on it made it make some terrifying noises so there's no way 2 grown adults are going to sleep on this, so we took the mattress off of it and put it on the floor and shoved the frame out of the way

the dining room chairs are even older (late 1800's) but are incredibly sturdy.

unfortunately, they weigh a fucking ton and are lacquered to shit, so if you're wearing shorts/a dress your ass gets stuck to the seat, and they're so heavy we can't scoot them forward to sit and eat/play cards at the table, we have to drag the whole fucking table closer instead.

the water here IS safe to drink, but has such an overwhelmingly strong metallic taste and smell that is exactly like blood. i am not exaggerating in any way. it's making us all a bit queasy.

the groundskeeper made it very clear that smoking weed outside on the property you're renting IS okay and legal. but good luck telling that to the old people who catch one whiff and are roving around in wailing packs like cursed hall monitors, making vague threats about ~the police~

one of the stumps around the fire pit was filled with live wasps nesting so we couldn't use it the first day until the groundskeeper came and took it away

overall i am having a genuinely fantastic time