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atlabeth · 6 months ago

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unadulterated loathing (pt 2)

pt 1 / pt 3

pairing: fiyero tigelaar x fem reader

summary: you are forced to partner with fiyero on a history project. things don't go as you imagine.

a/n: sprinkling anthony bridgerton references in this because wreck my plans that's my man!! anyways this is actually going to be 3 parts because i have zero self control and ended up writing 15k words in total and im trying to see whether i like posting parts or doing one whole one shot more so there's going to be a third part. but for once in my writer life i have the whole thing written so it will be out in a couple days! have no idea how this fic became this long out of nowhere but i hope you all enjoy lol. stressed reader x calm bf will always be famous on this blog

wc: 4.9k

warning(s): almost cheating? fiyero is still w/ galinda for most of this so the line is very blurred but they dont cross it lmao. the slightest bit of angst but basically all fluff

“Isn’t this nice?” Fiyero spread his arms out as you took a seat in the grass. Idly, you wondered about getting grass stains out before he started talking again. “Fresh air, actual sunlight, and things to look at other than words on a page.”

“I do go outside,” you said wryly. “You act like I’m some hermit.”

He shrugged. “I only ever see you in class or at the library.”

“I’m just there most of the time,” you said with a slight laugh. “I’m not this smart by slacking off.”

Fiyero said your name with surprise. “Was that a joke?”

You laughed again. “Hardly.”

“I think it was,” he nodded. “You really are learning how to have fun.”

“I know how to have fun!” you exclaimed. “We just have different ideas of fun!”

“And what is your idea of fun?” Fiyero asked pointedly. “Studying? Attending class? Going through the intricacies of various languages?”

“That last one is very fun,” you defended.

“How did you decide on linguistics anyways?” he asked. “You’re incredibly passionate about something I didn’t even know was a major here.”

“It’s not, technically.” You shrugged. “I’m a history major. I just convinced Doctor Dillamond to let me be his teacher’s assistant so I could include more linguistics lessons in the syllabus.”

“How do you do it?” he asked. “Oz— why do you do it? You’re stressed all the time. Surely taking one less class or not being a TA wouldn’t kill you. All of this seems like it is.”

“I’m not like you, Fiyero,” you said. “I can’t get kicked out of a hundred schools and still be fine. I’ve got one chance, and if I squander it, then I’ve also squandered my dream. And that’s unacceptable to me.”

“There’s always second chances,” he said. “And third ones, too. Sometimes even fourth.”

“Maybe for a prince,” you laughed. “But not for somebody like me.”

“And just who are you?” Fiyero asked as he sat down next to you. “I know you’re Gillikinese and I know you’re probably going to succeed in whatever you attempt. But I still feel like I don’t know anything about who you are without the school uniform.”

“Why does that matter?” you asked defensively. “We’re project partners, not friends.”

“Because I’d very much like us to be friends,” he answered simply.

That might have been the most shocking thing he’d said all day. Fiyero Tigelaar, Winkie prince and self-declared slacker and desired paramour of nearly every Shiz student, said he wanted to be your friend.

Again, that warmth bloomed inside you. You tried to ignore it—tried to fully banish it.

“Don’t do this,” you said, looking away from him.

“Do what?”

“Act like you like me,” you said, stronger this time. “You— you do it with everyone, and that’s fine, but don’t do it with me.”

“I’m not following,” Fiyero said.

You glared at him. “I know you aren’t this daft.”

“Apologies,” he said. “I’m just trying to figure out how you figured I don’t genuinely like you.”

You blinked. “Because you’re you. You flirt with everybody so you can dance through life.”

“Of course,” Fiyero agreed. “It just so happens that I genuinely like you in addition.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why?”

His laugh was nothing but shocked. “Are you asking me why I like you?”

“Well,” you glanced away with a huff, “when you put it like that it sounds ridiculous.”

“I’ll bite anyways,” Fiyero said. “I like you because you know what you want. You never really stop talking about it, honestly.”

“Are you trying to compliment me?”

“You’re intelligent and driven and you don’t shy away from anything you want,” he continued. “And you thoroughly vex me in near every encounter we have, most joyously.”

“…So you like me because I’m stubborn and confusing,” you said.

Fiyero sighed. “You‘ve got some serious self esteem issues.”

“I do not!” you exclaimed.

“You’ve tied your worth to your academic achievement,” he said. “You can’t see all the good you’ve already done, how smart you truly are, because you only stress about the next thing you need to do. You’d rather lose your mind over what’s to come than realize all you’ve got in the moment.”

Your mouth opened and closed for a good five seconds, like a fish out of water, before it snapped shut.

“I thought you were supposed to be brainless,” you settled on.

“I am,” Fiyero agreed with a chuckle. “But I also know people better than most, and our study sessions have given me ample time to study you.”

Great Oz, why was your face so hot? You felt like you were burning up from the inside out. Fiyero Tigelaar was killing you, and slowly at that.

“Why are you studying me?” you asked pointedly.

“Because you’re interesting,” he said. “And very beautiful.”

“Well, I’m— I’m glad we’ve finally reached a truce.” You tried to sound as casual as possible—you couldn’t let Fiyero know the full effect he was beginning to have on you. You didn’t think he would ever shut up about that, and Galinda certainly wouldn’t either. You didn’t want to make an enemy of her. “It’ll make this project much easier.”

“Yes,” Fiyero mused. “I believe it will.”

Amusement, and maybe something warmer, danced in his irises. A very small part of you wanted to let yourself fall, freely and uncaring, just as every other student did.

You had to lock that part of you away, never to be seen again. You didn’t like Fiyero. He was still a nuisance in every single sense of the word.

You swallowed, trying to cure your cottonmouth. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice.

You needed to finish this essay immediately.

You sighed when you heard a knock on your door. Coralie, for how smart she was, had a habit of forgetting her room key—so much so that you’d stopped bothering to lock the door on the days she went to class before you.

“It’s unlocked, Cora!” you called out. You didn’t want to get up from your desk, not when you were in the middle of writing. You were worried that you would lose the thread of inspiration you’d finally caught the moment you got out of your chair.

“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” a familiar voice said. “All sorts of miscreants could get in.”

Your hand slipped in your shock, but you couldn’t even be annoyed about smearing the fresh ink on the page or getting it on your shirt cuffs because you had more important things to worry about. Namely, your surprise visitor.

“Fiyero?”

“Present,” he affirmed as he leaned against your doorframe. “You’ve got a nice place here.”

“Thank you,” you said. “What are you doing here?”

“Much less pink than Galinda’s,” he continued. “I think it’s the only color she owns, honestly. A bit absurd but—”

“What are you doing here?” you repeated.

“I should be asking you that question,” Fiyero said, eyes narrowing in on you. “I went to the library and you weren’t there.”

You cleared your throat. “I was giving you the day off.”

He frowned and stood up from the doorframe. “Who said I wanted the day off?”

“You,” you said. “When you didn’t show up to Doctor Dillamond’s class today.”

Fiyero brushed his hand through the air. “That’s different.”

You looked at him expectantly. “So you skipped the class this project is for, but you don’t want to skip the actual project.”

“That sounds about right, yes.”

“You don’t even do anything whenever we’re together,” you said. “You just stare at me and complain about doing work and ask me about my life and take an hour to write one page of notes.”

“That also sounds about right,” Fiyero said. “I enjoy your presence. Do you not enjoy mine?”

If only he knew the way he’d been making you feel for the past week. He could never know that he appeared in your dream last night.

“...Your presence is fine,” you said. “I just figured I would give you the day off, seeing as we only have one week left until it’s due.”

“How much have you written already without me?” he asked.

“Five pages, but that—”

“You’ve nearly done half of the project without me?” Fiyero interrupted.

“...Yes?” Why did you actually feel bad about this?

Fiyero got closer so he could look over your shoulder at your work, and you found yourself holding your breath at his proximity.

“Do you think you’re doing me a favor?”

“Clearly,” you said. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner it’s over, and the sooner you don’t have to deal with me anymore.” You shrugged. “You said you wanted to ride my coattails anyways, so I figured I would make it easier for you.”

“Just a few days ago you were chastising me for not doing my part,” Fiyero said. “Now you’re not even letting me try?”

“I—” the words stuck in your throat, and again you felt your face heat.

I don’t want to have to think about any of this more than I have to because I’m worried what I’ll realize.

I don’t want to give you any more chances to take me off course because I know I’ll say yes.

I don’t want to be around you longer than I have to because I think I’m starting to like you.

“Yes?”

“I am doing you a favor,” you finally decided. “You don’t have to worry about it. Go ride that horse of yours, or bother other students, or spend time with Galinda. You’ve earned it.”

“Hardly,” Fiyero said. “I’m doing my part, whether you like it or not. We’ll meet at the library tomorrow morning before class like we’ve been doing.”

“I have class at 8 in the morning tomorrow.��

“...Then we’ll do it after class,” he reneged. “I do need my beauty sleep.”

That got a smile out of you, which spurned one from Fiyero in turn. “I think that is one of the only genuine smiles you’ve given me since we started working together.”

“I smile plenty,” you insisted.

“At your books,” Fiyero said. “Not at me.”

“That’s because my books are oh-so-beautiful,” you said. “And they don’t even need beauty sleep.”

He placed his hand on his heart. “You wound me.”

Your smile grew and you set your pen down. “The library after class?”

Fiyero nodded and tapped on your desk as he stood up. “Library after class.”

He was about to go to the door when Coralie poked her head in. “Why is the door— oh! Fiyero!” She straightened up, plastering on a pretty smile as she stepped inside. “What brings you to our corner of Shiz?”

“Doctor Dillamond’s midterm,” he said. “Your roommate here is trying to save all of the fun for herself.”

“That sounds like her,” Cora nodded sagely. “You’re very good to try and keep her from that fate.”

Fiyero pressed his hand to his chest. “I consider it my duty. But I apologize for the intrusion—I’ll leave the two of you be.”

“Oh, stay as long as you want,” she spoke up. “I’m sure your partner wouldn’t mind.”

“He’s got things to do,” you interceded. “You’ve got things to do, Fiyero.”

He smiled knowingly. “I certainly do. You lovely ladies have a fine rest of your day.” He looked at you and said your name. “Don’t forget tomorrow.”

“How could I?” you said weakly.

Fiyero chuckled and bowed his head in lieu of more parting words. The second he left, Cora turned to you with wide eyes.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“He came here to talk to you!” she exclaimed. “He found out your room number because he wanted to talk to you!”

“Be quiet!” you exclaimed. “The door is still open—he can probably hear your screeching!”

Coralie shut the door and squealed. “He likes you!”

“We are project partners,” you enunciated. “Nothing more.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s what you think,” she said. “Just like I’m sure that he wants to be more.”

“You’re acting like he isn’t with Galinda,” you said. “She controls this whole school—do you remember what happened to Elphaba when she didn’t like her?”

Cora shrugged. “Sure. But I’ve been hearing there’s trouble in paradise.”

That got you paying attention. “What?”

“I knew it!” Coralie exclaimed—nearly yelled, honestly. “I knew you liked him!”

“Be quiet!” you whisper-yelled. “Oz, what is wrong with you?”

“I knew you liked him!” she repeated. “And he likes you— oh, it is too perfect!”

“He does not like me,” you insisted, “and you are crazy.”

“You didn’t say that you didn’t like him,” Coralie sung, and you screwed your eyes shut.

“Fine!” you finally said. “Fine— I like him. Will you stop now?”

“Of course not,” she said, and you sighed. “How bad do you have it?”

“I don’t have it bad,” you scoffed. “I just— I enjoy spending time with him. And I think he’s kind of cute.”

“Oh, you are full on head over heels,” she mused. “You just don’t know it. It’s okay.”

You groaned as you buried your head in your hands. “I hate you.”

She laughed. “And you like Fiyero.”

“Shut up.” Your words were muffled, but you meant them all the same.

You were comically doomed.

The next day went… shockingly smooth.

Fiyero was in the library when he said he’d be—he was even there before you, much to your surprise and he still had the notebook and pen you’d given him, much to his surprise. He made sure to bring an extra canteen of water for you, because he noticed you never had any with you. You were probably concerningly dehydrated.

He tried to be a more attentive student to you than he’d ever been at any of his classes—not that that was difficult. You explained your outline and all the work you’d already done, what he could do on the last five pages and how to make his writing voice match yours to make a consistent paper.

He wrote notes both on what you knew about Ilara Mayfair (a ridiculous amount, in his opinion) and anything else you thought he needed to know (also a ridiculous amount).

He was impressed most of all, though. No wonder you’d isolated yourself from near the entire student body and stressed over every letter in every sentence in every assignment. You were incredibly intelligent, but you were also able to explain everything in a way that even he understood. Fiyero had never really cared about… well, anything relating to school before he ended up partners with you.

But now, Fiyero found himself surprisingly entranced by it all. He’d always liked your voice, and he had a permanent smile on his lips watching you talk so easily about your passions. It put a spark in your eye and a brightness about you that was usually bogged down by everything else that you stressed about.

You were beautiful, especially when you were happy. And Fiyero had discovered over the past week that you were happiest when you got to talk about what you cared about to an interested audience. He only regretted acting like he wasn’t interested for so long.

Finally, when Fiyero called a break on account of his hands aching (he’d never written this much in his life, and it still was only half of what you did basically every day), and you were eating an apple (that he also brought, because you really didn’t take care of yourself when you were doing work, which was always), he smiled at you.

“You know, we really do make a good team,” Fiyero said.

You swallowed the bite of apple you had in your mouth and cocked your head as you looked at him. “You think?”

“I know,” he nodded. “You’ve done the impossible, darling. You’ve actually made me care about school.”

“Well, I think you’ve done the impossible too.” You lifted the apple up. “You made me care about my health during midterms season.”

“It certainly wasn’t easy,” he said wryly. “You kind of took it all kicking and screaming.”

You shrugged. “I’m not top of our class for nothing.”

“Do you have to stress yourself into misery to be top of the class?” he asked.

“I’m not miserable,” you retorted.

It was when you said things like that that Fiyero really began to worry about you. It was part of the reason he was so intent on staying by your side through this whole project—no matter how dull he found the material—after the first session. He sometimes saw you around campus, usually carrying a stack of books or talking with your roommate.

After Fiyero was paired with you, he wondered why he didn’t see you more before it all, considering how active you were with literally everything school-wise. Then he realized you were likely always in the library, and the only time he’d visited the library was on Galinda’s tour. You were there, well enough, but you took your leave as soon as things started getting rowdy.

A shame, he realized. He wondered what your relationship could have been had Galinda not staked her claim on him so soon.

You weren’t going to take care of yourself, clearly enough, so Fiyero decided—at least for the duration of this project—that he would. It didn’t really matter if you were top of the class if you passed out from stress, exhaustion, annoyance, or a mix of all three. Likely a mix of all three.

He didn’t really anticipate those feelings morphing into genuine affection.

“I seem to recall you saying you dream of your future assignments,” Fiyero said, coming out of his thoughts. “That doesn’t sound like the habit of a happy person.”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed. “Everybody has stress dreams.”

“You know, I really don’t think they do,” Fiyero said.

You rolled your eyes as you picked your pen up with your free hand and jotted down a few more sentences. “Sure.”

“On that note,” he said, “why don’t we call it a day?”

“We can’t call it a day,” you said. You took another bite from your apple and swallowed, continuing to write all the while without looking at him. “We’re not finished yet.”

“That is the most casually you’ve said that so far,” Fiyero mused. “I really am making progress.”

You laughed, finally paying him mind. “Progress with what?”

“I’ve been tracking your smiles and laughs this whole time,” he said. “See, this essay was your project, but that was mine—trying to make you enjoy your life.”

“This essay is both of our projects, Fiyero,” you said. “Besides, I don’t think Doctor Dillamond will accept your bar graph of all the times I laughed at you making a fool of yourself.” You frowned. “Or would it be a line graph because it’s over time? Or maybe it could be—”

“Alright,” he interrupted. “You’re going into hypotheticals on my joke. That’s clearly the sign that we need to call it a day.”

“…Fine,” you reneged. “But it’s just a break, not calling it a day. And I get to finish proofreading the rest of the essay when we get back.”

“A compromise,” Fiyero said. “Love it.”

You rolled your eyes as you started gathering your things. “You love everything.”

“Eh,” he tilted his head, and you felt his eyes on you. “Most things.”

You couldn’t help your smile, much as you tried to bite it back. “Whatever.”

Soon enough, you and Fiyero were sitting together by the dock. You let your legs dangle over as you watched the scenery around campus—the ripple of the water, the gentle brush of the wind, the chirping birds that flew around without a care.

“Isn’t this nice?” Fiyero asked. He also had his legs over the edge, but he’d laid down against the stone.

“You don’t have to push your relaxation propaganda so hard anymore,” you said wryly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And I’m grateful for it,” he said. “Someone that works as hard as you do deserves to relax the same amount.”

“We’ve gone over this a thousand times—”

“I know,” he interrupted. He turned his head to smile at you. “I just have to hope that some of it sticks.”

You rolled your eyes, once again unable to hide your smile. “And I have to hope for the same with this paper. Do you think you’ll remember any of this once we turn it in?”

“Oh, but of course. You were the one to teach it to me, after all. I could hardly forget it all.”

“Good,” you said. “Everyone should know about Ilara Mayfair.”

Fiyero chuckled, and you once again fell into comfortable silence.

That was the thing that shocked you the most, you think. Not that you were beginning to like Fiyero, or that you actually liked Fiyero, or that you actually looked forward to spending time with him. It was that you were so comfortable just sitting with him in silence.

It was very difficult to get to the silence, though. Fiyero couldn’t really stay quiet, and you didn’t know if he liked talking or the sound of his own voice. But you found it didn’t really annoy you like it used to.

Great Oz. You really were into him. How embarrassing.

Eventually, when the strain in your wrists and fingers from writing had finally faded, you turned your head to look at Fiyero. “I think it’s time we go back.”

He sighed. “Already?”

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” you said. “Far longer than the breaks I usually take.”

He opened his mouth, likely to say something of the same ‘you need to relax’ ilk, but you held up your hand. “Don’t. Just be thankful you got me away for this long.”

Fiyero smiled, and he pulled himself up off the ground. “I always am.”

He held his hand out, and you stared at him for a moment. “Why do you always do that?”

“Help you up?”

You nodded. “I can do it myself.”

He shrugged. “I told you it was my project to make your life easier.”

“You said it was your project to track my happiness,” you said.

“And they go hand in hand,” he said. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“It happened thirty minutes ago, Fiyero,” you said wryly. “Besides, I remember everything. It’s a gift.”

Fiyero laughed, and you finally took his hand. He pulled you up and once again, you tumbled a bit too close—and again, his hand fell to your waist. He had to be doing this on purpose by now.

“We keep finding ourselves in this position,” Fiyero mused.

Heat flooded your cheeks like usual. “And whose fault is that?”

“Well,” he said, tilting his head, “you’re not exactly pulling away.”

Your mouth opened, trying to think of what words to say when your head was reeling from his mere presence. But then you saw a flash of pink in the background, and your eyes darted away from Fiyero.

Galinda. She was distracted, talking with Pfannee and Shenshen as she went down the stairs. Oz, how did she slip your mind so easily whenever Fiyero was in your proximity? Why did you let him get this close when he was spoken for?

You panicked—nothing less. You tore out of Fiyero’s grasp with a bit too much gumption, and then you stumbled, then you slipped, and then you fell. Fiyero called your name in shock, reaching his hand out, but it was too late. You’d plunged into the water before you could save yourself.

The cold water instantly shocked all your senses, your eyes widening as you gasped out on instinct. Your mouth filled with water and your muscles seized up from the change in temperature—it was so much deeper than you’d imagined, and all your layers of clothing weighing you down were of no use.

You tried your damnedest to ignore the alarm bells going off in your head as you fought against yourself, finally gathering the sense to swim. You kicked your way up to the top, gasping for air once when you breached the surface.

You heard Fiyero yell your name again and you blinked rapidly, trying to clear the water from your eyes. When everything finally came into focus, you saw him on his knees, his coat shed and his sleeves rolled up.

His eyes were wide as he reached his hand out, once again saying your name—this time with a certain desperation. “Are you alright?”

You tried to respond but all you could do was cough, trying to expel the water from your lungs. You took his hand and he helped pull you up onto the dock, where an exhale shuddered out of you.

“I— I am so sorry,” he stammered. It was the first time you’d ever seen him flustered, and you were too busy hacking up a lung to point it out. “Obviously I didn’t think—”

You held up your hand in lieu of saying something, as you didn’t think you could say something.

This was so stupid, and it was something that never would have happened before you and Fiyero started working together. Your paper was due in two days, you’d only just finished the draft, you still had so much proofreading and rewriting to do, and instead, you were here on the docks soaked to the bone.

And you found yourself laughing.

“Oh, Oz,” Fiyero said. “You’ve lost it.”

You couldn’t refute it, because you kept laughing. You could feel the eyes of your classmates on you, could hear them whispering to each other—likely making fun of you—and it only made you laugh harder.

“Are—” Fiyero chuckled nervously as he said your name, “are you okay?”

“I’m soaked,” you got out through your laughs. “And everyone saw me fall into the water. I’m a fool, Fiyero!”

He was still staring at you in that careful way, as if you were made of glass. “I can’t tell if you’re mad or not.”

“Oh, Fiyero.” You wiped the trailing water off of your face and wrapped your arms around him. You felt him freeze beneath you for the slightest moment—it had to have been the last thing he expected you to do. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Fiyero returned the hug, his movements still unsure. He didn’t seem to care that you were getting him wet, just about your wellbeing. “What— what for, exactly?”

For a moment, you couldn’t look away. His blue eyes were meant to enrapture, his soft lips typically an invitation sealed with a smirk. But for once, Fiyero looked genuine—he wasn’t putting on a performance, or trying to seduce anyone who looked at him. He was genuinely sorry, genuinely confused. It only made you laugh again.

“What for, indeed.” A higher voice pierced through the air, and you separated from Fiyero immediately. Galinda, to no surprise, had found her way over to the chaos you’d created, her compatriots flanking her on either side. She smiled at you brightly, but her whole demeanor was like a violin string pulled taut.

“Galinda,” Fiyero said. “Lovely to see you.” He didn’t seem half as shocked as you at her appearance, but his words fell flat.

“And you as well, dearest.” Her smile turned sickly sweet as she shifted her attention to Fiyero momentarily, taking the opportunity to lace her fingers with his and pull him into a kiss. He pulled away first, but if it affected Galinda, she didn’t let it show when she looked back at you. She batted her eyelashes as she said your name incorrectly. “What was it you were saying?”

The sudden combination of cottonmouth and sour guilt creeping up your throat didn’t really help your already flustered state. She knew what she was doing—but you did too, didn’t you?

She was with Fiyero. You knew that. And though Fiyero danced across the line, you took his hand every time he offered.

“I—” you cleared your throat, attempting a casual smile of your own. “Just that I know why Doctor Dillamond put us together.”

“Excellent,” Fiyero said. “Off-topic, but excellent— are you sure you didn’t hit your head down there?”

“Perhaps you should go to the nurse,” Galinda said. “I’m sure Shenshen could—”

“I’ll be fine,” you interrupted, your smile tightening ever so slightly. You looked at Fiyero. “Meet me at the library tonight, and bring coffee. We’re finishing this project tonight.

“Of course,” he nodded.

You nodded as well, and you started to go. Galinda’s gaze was sugary sweet poison, and you couldn’t take the weight of it anymore.

“Wait,” Fiyero spoke up.

You stopped against your better judgment, and he let go of Galinda’s hand to take his jacket off. He moved closer to you and wrapped it around you. His touch, light but certain, lingered on your shoulders once he’d finished adjusting it, and his gaze stayed on yours

“Until you can change,” he said.

“...Thank you,” you said.

Galinda cleared her throat extremely loudly, her taut smile back. You remembered yourself and stepped away from Fiyero.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you said, already starting on your way. You wouldn’t let him stop you again.

“Tonight,” he agreed, bowing his head in parting.

You only glanced back once you were by the stairs. When you did, you saw Galinda speaking rapidly to Fiyero—you were too far away to hear anything, but she didn’t look happy. When your gaze drifted to him, you found he was already looking at you. Almost subconsciously, you tugged his jacket tighter around you. When you realized what you were doing, you stopped. You averted your eyes immediately and hurried up the stairs.

You weren’t out of breath from exertion.

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evegwood · 5 months ago

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Nosferatu’s Contracts: A Linguistic Deepdive

(This is one half of a blogpost I put on my website! Read the full thing for a full list of sources and even MORE information on the contract from the 1922 film).

So I saw the new Nosferatu film the other day and while I didn't think it was all that fantastic (I loved the first half okay, calm down) the one thing that did stick out to me was the absolutely gorgeous scripts used for the contract that Thomas has to sign. Thank you to this Reddit post for sharing a picture of the entire thing:

The BEAUTIFUL red calligraphy is called Vyaz, a form of decorative Cyrillic calligraphy. In Vyaz script, letters are all joined and interwoven together to create a beautiful, ornamental typographical piece. The Wikipedia page about it is fucking pathetic but it does feature this example of text with a coloured breakdown of the individual words that comprise the piece:

Obviously this itched my language brain like crazy. The best resource I have found since to learn more about Vyaz is this full, free guide written by Viktor Pushkarev. He has also released a 254 page PDF for 25 euros called the Modern Slavic Vyaz Calligraphy Workbook and I think I'm going to have to buy it. His examples look stunning and I would love to learn more about this style of calligraphy. Thank you, Nosferatu.

The Vyaz calligraphy is only one style of writing used in that contract. The other is a completely different style of writing and, surprisingly (or not, maybe?) the best place to look for answers turned out to once again be Reddit. This commenter suggests it's another form of Cyrillic:

Here's some Glagolitic, to compare:

In a different thread, this commenter claims to have cracked it:

This commenter replies with an addition:

So that's cool! In that same thread, this commenter says that the contract looks like a Romanian hrisov, or medieval chancellery charter, and recommends this video explaining how they were written. As you can see from the example below that the commenter shared, these traditional contracts look pretty damn similar to Orlok's contract! So let's talk about them real quick, because it's interesting!

The video is by Adrian Gheorghe, a historian whose speciality is the editing and translation of all documents regarding Vlad the Impaler. He talks about how unlike letters, which would be written in Latin, these charters were written in Slavonic, a liturgical and "literary language, based on Slavic dialects of the Balkans, developed by monks in the 9th century" (X). Viktor Pushkarev suggests a book called Grammar of the Church Slavonic Language if you want to learn more about the grammar and syntax. Slavonic was often written in Glagolitic and hey, we've seen that before!

These charters also had explicit and strict structures that they adhered to. This strict standard served to not only prove the legitimacy of a document, but that "the document was drawn up with all due solemnity" (X). Interestingly, each charter would invoke God in the opening lines or would simply have a cross at the beginning, and according to the translations given above Count Orlok's contract does not seem to include this. I recommend checking out the video in its entirety to hear more about this cool bit of history.

But of course... that's not all that's written on the contract, is it? Thomas signs it, and he signs it in Kurrent script, an old traditional form of German cursive. If you'd like to learn how to write in Kurrent, there's a free guide by Margarete Mücke right here! Here's a screenshot I took of the scene along with a Kurrent alphabet for comparison:

Kurrent has a really interesting history. It evolved from gothic cursive at the beginning of the 16th century, which saw a lot of use in the medieval ages. Compared to the vast variety of gothic cursive writing styles, Kurrent was "beautiful, fast to write and comparatively legible" (X). It soon moved out of use solely in chancelleries and into everyday use, becoming more and more standardised.

This script saw a bit of a rollercoaster of popularity; in the early 1900s it was established and taught in all German schools, then steadily became seen as "antiquated and ugly", then the Nazis declared other writing scripts "Un-German" and promoted gothic typography until 1941 when Hitler declared Kurrent and its sister writing style Fraktur "to be of 'Jewish origin' and therefore taboo". More information about this can be found on this page about the history of Old German Script (another name for Kurrent).

So that's that! Count Orlok's contract is based on traditional charters of the region with set structures to highlight their legitimacy and importance as documents, using traditional scripts and handwriting of the time, and is also a style of document that is directly tied to Vlad the Impaler, the inspiration for Dracula and ultimately Nosferatu. Extremely cool and also totally makes sense considering Robert Eggers interest in authentic linguistic detail (like I didn't even mention the language that Orlok speaks throughout the film, which is Dacian, an extinct ancestor of Romanian). Lots of really tasty stuff to look at and I had a blast putting it all together.

Except.......... it's not the end. There's a whole second saga to be told about the contract from the 1922 film, and if you wanna read that (I get deep into talking occult symbols and angel languages) you're gonna have to read the original post on my site!

#nosferatu #not art #long post #nosferatu 2024 #nosferatu 1922

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malusokay · 27 days ago

Text

How I Made Loneliness Feel Like a Lifestyle Choice

What it means to live inside pauses, and why I still think solitude is sexier when no one notices it’s deliberate. (from my Substack)

Everything smelled like rain, and I thought that was enough. It reminded me of the garden after someone had hosed it down. I didn't grow up around cities, but they always seemed to tolerate me. I think I liked being somewhere that didn't know my name, but still assumed I belonged.

Striped sweaters, pleated skirts, tangled headphones, clothes that made me feel like I was always en route to class. Or auditioning for a French indie film. Moving through a city of lights that buzzed louder than conversations, a dull, constant hum that never really stopped, even when the streets emptied or the shops pulled down their metal shutters. I moved through it the way you walk through static: alert, but blurred around the edges. Roaming through busy stations, empty cafés, quiet library aisles, the kind of spaces that were public but impersonal, where everyone passed through but no one stayed long enough to be noticed.

I knew the schedule of trains I wasn't taking, the smell of pastries I never bought, the sound of my own shoes across polished floors. I always wondered what it would feel like to walk in and choose something without thinking, to point at a donut, maybe, and eat it right there. Like a normal person. Like someone with blood sugar, zero shame, and no existential beef with breakfast. But I'm very strict with myself. I'd linger just long enough to let the air hit, warm sugar, butter, vanilla rising from trays behind glass—and then I'd keep walking like it hadn't crossed my mind.

I wasn't running out of anything. That's what made the slowness feel indulgent, not dangerous. Being there didn't serve a purpose, and maybe that's why it felt like a secret, like I was getting away with something small and private, a softness no one had to witness. I came from a world that didn't use public transport. That's probably why I liked it, the quiet subversion of being somewhere unchauffeured. Sitting alone felt earned. Watching the city move without me in it felt like a choice.

I liked places where no one stayed long, where nothing stuck. Where it was normal to be alone, to be quiet, to be looking down at nothing in particular, most of it passed without detail. Just motion. Noise, breath, movement. The lift of a coat sleeve. The scratch of a chair leg on tile.

I wasn't trying to stand out. But I didn't want to vanish into the wallpaper either. I wanted to be the kind of girl you looked at twice, but never remembered why. I wanted to be looked at without having to speak. The kind of presence that makes people wonder but not ask. I think I learned that posture in school, that specific neutrality. Just polished enough to blend in with the ones who mattered, just distant enough to never be mistaken for someone waiting to belong. I walked like I knew where I was going, even when I didn't. That was usually enough. It worked 90% of the time. The other 10%, I accidentally stumbled into a linguistics conference breakroom or a storage unit filled with mannequins missing their hands, with no recollection of how I had ended up there.

No one talks about how loud fluorescent lights are until you've been under them too long. And I was under them a lot. Not because I had anywhere to be, but more because they were always on in the places I ended up. They flickered sometimes, but mostly they just buzzed, high, steady, and inescapable. You don't notice it at first. But then it's all you can hear, like the sound is inside your head, not around it. It doesn't hurt, exactly. It just presses. Constant and low, a hum under everything else. After a while, I stopped noticing until I left the building and felt the sudden quiet of normal air. Even the street seemed softer in comparison.

I think I liked that. The sudden relief. The way silence felt like something you could wear.

I miss subway lights in my eyes, the way they flickered across the windows, breaking my reflection into something softer. Less defined. Easier to look at. Not quite me, but close enough to follow with my eyes as the train moved. There was something comforting in the blur, in the way the glass doubled everything, made it all a little less certain. I could sit across from myself without having to explain anything. No smile. No correction. Just the outline of a girl who looked like she read too much and might start crying if you asked about her favourite movie.

Sometimes I'd stare until my own face went unfamiliar, my mouth wrong, my eyes too far apart, and my hair a bit too dark. It never felt dramatic. Just distant. Like someone I'd borrowed things from.

Loneliness wasn't dramatic then. It didn't lurch or shout or demand anything from me. It just sat next to me like noise, like background static, easy to ignore until everything else went quiet. It lived in the pauses. In the space between songs. In the wait before the train doors closed. I wouldn't have called it sadness. I still don't think I would. It was just a feeling I couldn't shake, one that stayed close but never really touched me. Like a bruise I'd forgotten about until something pressed against it.

That's the part that's stayed with me. Probably always will.

I moved without urgency. There was rarely a reason to be anywhere, and even when there was, I didn't feel like rushing to meet it. Sometimes I rode past my stop on purpose just to see how long I could go before anyone noticed I wasn't where I said I'd be. Sometimes I just forgot to get off. Not in a distracted way, just in that quiet, slow kind of forgetting that happens when the lights blur and the announcements start to sound the same. I always stood in the same place, by the door, leaning against the divider on the side facing forward. I liked the way the movement pressed me into it, like the city was gently holding me in place, even if just by force.

The train kept going, so I did too.

There wasn't much to say about it. Long walks that led nowhere in particular, though they usually ended at water. The kind that gathers without spectacle, canals, harbours, the quiet undersides of bridges. Places where things collect. Leaves. Bottles. Thoughts. I'd stand there for a while, coffee in hand, like I was waiting for something to surface, though I never really expected it to. I always kind of hoped I'd see a seal. Something about their vibe, fat, quiet, mysterious, felt aspirational. I imagined us nodding at each other like two girls who just get it. The coffee would go cold before I finished it, not because I forgot, but just because I didn't like it that much. But it gave me something to hold. And sometimes that was enough. It made me look busy. Like I had somewhere to be, or someone waiting. People don't ask questions when you're holding coffee. It's basically an invisibility cloak for awkward people.

Now I don't even know if I ever liked it, or if I just got used to the taste the way you get used to minor inconveniences, like blisters, or boys who say they hate small talk and then spend forty-five minutes telling you about their crypto portfolio.

Afternoons slid into evenings. Evenings into nights. The kind of hours that don't announce themselves, they just collect. Soft and weightless, but heavy if you stack too many. I stopped keeping track after a while. Someone once asked if I was lost. I wasn't. But I said yes anyway. Just to try on the softness of being helped. Some days blurred at the edges, others vanished completely. I'd look up, and it would already be dark, and I'd have nothing to show for it except a half-drunk coffee and some vague memory of walking somewhere. Sometimes I bought things, like books, mugs, bracelets, or old things. Small enough to fit in a coat pocket. I never needed them, but I always found a way to use them. At one point, I was probably one paperweight away from becoming a hoarder.

I didn't feel bad, exactly. Just delayed, like I was waiting for something to begin, only the beginning kept moving further out of reach. People always talk about time as if it's passing them by. Mine never passed. It hovered. So soft and idle, just out of reach. It felt like holding your breath without realising it until the exhale came in the form of darkness outside the window, the kind that arrives before you're ready, even if you knew it was coming. That's what threaded through. The weightless ache of not moving. Of being still for so long, the air starts to fold around you.

I miss how easy it was to let days slip by without asking for more. To let them spool out behind me like a thread. Nothing dramatic, nothing wasted, just hours layered on hours. Some light enough to forget, some heavy enough to keep. But none of them urgent. I could move through them like scenery, like I was there to notice and not to shape.

And I miss the way that almost felt like enough. Not good. Not exciting. But bearable in a way that made me believe there was something elegant about it. And sometimes, when it's late and everything smells like rain, it still does. The trains, the coffee, the blur in the window, they never really stopped. I still take the long way home. Not out of forgetfulness anymore. My mind knows where to get off. But there's something about delaying arrival that still makes sense to me.

The city feels smaller now. Familiar. I've stopped needing to read the signs. I know where the doors open. I know which step on the stairs creaks. And the buzzing, I don't notice it as much. It's in the walls, it's in the air, it's in the glow of shopfronts at night. It's less intrusive now. Almost gentle. Like background radiation. It's just part of how the world hums.

I think that's the part no one ever talks about—how some patterns don't mean anything until you realise you never left them, how stillness starts to look like stability if you don't call it by its name. It's not that I want to go back. It's just that I never really moved forward. I've stayed exactly where I was. Just quieter now. More fluent in waiting.

In Latin, the imperfect tense describes an action that was ongoing but never finished. I liked that. It felt honest, like naming something without needing to change it.

my insta -> malusokay

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p0orbaby · 7 months ago

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blurb idea- r is spanish and plays for arsenal, one day she finds leah on duolingo trying to learn spanish and finds it so sweet and leah is just emberrased and lalalla and then r convinces leah to let her teach leah spanish (sorry if it’s confusing😔😔)

it wasn’t confusing 🤍

The training ground is quiet, still wrapped in early-morning fog, and you don’t expect to hear anything but the hum of the groundskeeper’s mower. Instead, you catch a voice, stiff and deliberate, coming from the gym.

“Yo bebo… el agua?”

You pause at the door, peeking in. Leah’s standing by the weights, holding her phone at arm’s length like it might bite her. Her brow is furrowed, mouth moving around the clunky syllables like she’s trying to chew them into shape. You’re about to say something when she suddenly groans and yanks her headphones out. The familiar ding of Duolingo announcing another failed attempt echoes in the room.

“La niña’ what?” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. She hasn’t noticed you yet. “How am I supposed to remember if she’s drinking milk or eating an apple? Who drinks milk anymore?”

“Leah?” you finally speak, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice.

Leah jumps, nearly dropping her phone. Her face turns pink immediately, the kind of flush that spreads to her ears and down her neck. “Oh, God. How long have you been standing there?”

“What are you doing?” you ask, even though you know perfectly well what you’ve walked into.

Leah groans, stuffing her phone into her hoodie pocket like the evidence of her crime can be erased. “Nothing”

You raise an eyebrow. “Nothing? Because it looked like you were arguing with Duolingo about la niña’s dietary habits.”

She flushes deeper, and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing outright. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh? So you weren’t learning Spanish on the sly?”

“I—” she pauses, caught. “Alright, fine. I was. Happy?”

You grin, stepping into the room. “Why?”

She shrugs, looking everywhere except at you. “I thought it might… I don’t know, be nice? For you”

That catches you off guard. “For me?”

“Yeah.” She scratches the back of her neck, a telltale sign that she’s embarrassed. “Because, you know, you’re always switching between Spanish and English so easily, and I just thought maybe I could… I don’t know, keep up”

Your heart softens despite yourself. “You could’ve just asked me, you know. I’d have helped”

Leah shrugs, suddenly fascinated with the floor. “Didn’t want to bother you”

“You? Never a bother,” you say lightly, stepping closer. “But if you’d rather an app keep roasting you, be my guest”

Her gaze snaps to yours, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. “The owl’s ruthless, by the way. Keeps telling me I’m on the verge of linguistic failure”

You laugh, taking her hand and pulling her towards the weights bench. “Alright, let’s make a deal. I’ll teach you Spanish, but you have to actually listen to me. None of this owl nonsense”

“Deal,” she says quickly, her grin breaking through the last of her embarrassment. “But only if you promise not to tell the team about this”

“Cross my heart,” you reply, though you’re already imagining the look on the rest of the teams faces if they found out.

You sit yourself on the bench next to her, and start to teach her the basics. As she repeats the words after you, her accent is a disaster, but the determination in her eyes is unmistakable. And when she finally gets a phrase right, the way she beams at you makes your chest feel warm.

If this is her way of showing how much she cares, you’ll take it. Even if it means enduring her tragic attempts at rolling her r’s.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso #woso x reader

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dark-l-angel · 1 month ago

Note

I love your omnilingual reader…i require more…pretty please with a cherry on top😫‼️🙏🏽

A/N: We're making it a series, Huh? 😂

Batfam x Omnilingual Reader - PART 5 : The UN Called, They Want Their Interpreter Back

~ Batcave - 10:42 PM ~

Bruce is doing his usual brooding-in-the-dark routine, while the rest of the Batkids are gathered around the table arguing over who broke the coffee machine again. Reader walks in, sipping Yerba Mate like a world peace delegate on vacation.

Dick: "Okay but can we talk about how you straight up seduced a weapons dealer in Romanian?!"

You answered "Correction: I flirted in Dacian Latin. Man was a sucker for ancient dialects. Not my fault he folded like a lawn chair."

Tim (holding his head): "Do you realize how much damage control I had to do?! I had to pretend to be a UN translator and accidentally told the ambassador’s wife she smelled like wet ham!"

Jason (genuinely impressed):

"Lowkey though, that’s a power move. ‘Yo girl, you smell like deli meat’ Boom. Dominance."

Damian arms crossed, offended: "Tt. That’s not even the worst part. They managed to negotiate a peace treaty between two gangs. In Tagalog. With puppet theatre."

You said innocently : "Puppets transcend violence. Learn the art, gremlin."

Alfred passing by with a tray of cookies: "If anyone needs me, I’ll be re-reading the Geneva Convention to see if ‘Diplomatic Menace’ is a chargeable offense."

~ Flashback : Earlier That Week

In gotham museum gala ~

You’d been tasked with “behaving” and “blending in” Naturally, that meant playing interpreter for Bruce while he schmoozed politicians. But somewhere between the second flute of champagne and the Prime Minister of Spain asking you out, chaos ensued.

Prime Minister: "¿Te gustaría venir a Madrid conmigo? Tengo un yate."

You Translating : "He wants to know if you'd like to visit Madrid and see his boat."

Bruce flatly: "Tell him I don’t date politicians."

You in fluent Catalan, smirking : "He says your boat is probably compensating for something."

Dick trying not to snort champagne :

"That’s the y/n we know and love."

~ Back to the Batcave ~

Tim typing furiously: "I tried to look up what you said to the German arms dealer yesterday and all I got was: (Your soul is as soft as a day-old pretzel.) What does that even mean?!"

You(dead serious): "It’s a German idiom. It means he's emotionally constipated."

Jason slamming the holy ghost of the table : "I knew it. That guy did look like he hadn’t cried since 1997."

Damian: "You’re a linguistic weapon of mass destruction. Father should lock you in the vault."

You tilted your head: "Aw, sweetie. If I’m a weapon, then why did you just ask me to help you write a love letter in Arabic last week?"

Entire cave goes dead silent.

Dick: "Ooooooooooohhhh.. exposed."

Jason (laughing so hard he chokes on a protein bar): "You used the love language cheat code?? You sly little demon."

Damian reddening: "She understood the cultural nuance! Do you know how hard it is to convey sincerity in romantic MSA?!"

You with smug : "Maybe next time don’t call her ‘a rose that blooms even in bloodshed.’ That’s... a bit intense for a first date."

Bruce (rubbing his temples): "We’re banning all languages but English in this cave."

You smiling sweetly : "Fine. But you’ll miss me when the next French assassin refuses to speak English and you accidentally offer him custody of Gotham instead of a ceasefire."

Tim googling 'can one person cause an international incident' ):

"Yup. We're doomed."

~ Later that night ~

~ Rooftop Patrol ~

Jason: "Hey, how do you say 'You’ve got pretty eyes' in Russian again?"

You : "Твои глаза, как два сапфира в ночи."

Jason smirking : "...Damn baby girl. Say that again but like, lower. Slower. With a little bit of threat behind it."

You leaned in : "Твои глаза... как два сапфира в ночи."

Jason: "...Okay, now I have to kiss someone or commit a felony. Possibly both."

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ruiniel · 5 months ago

Text

Another Way - XII

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Summary: what if someone in the 21st century stumbled upon this stranger during a turbulent storm, narrowly avoiding running them over, and what’s more they can’t understand a word coming out of their mouth.

Pairing: Alucard x Reader

Rating: Mature / 18+ only

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, References to Depression, First Meetings, character-meets-world, Near Death Experiences, References to loss, Grief/Mourning, Fantasy, POV Second Person, Language Barrier, Violence, Portal Fantasy, Isekai, Slow burn, References to canon, Rewriting show canon, Because why not, POV Alucard, POV original character, More tags to be added

Also on AO3

Part I

AN: been a while

XII.

He doesn’t like coffee.

This becomes quite apparent with the different flavor of mild disgust over his features after each sip.

“It’s an acquired taste for some,” you try saying with a straight face, because it is more amusing than you’d thought to see a grown man with a perfect jaw and bedroom hair seated at your small table, coming up with the most telling, candid expressions.

After breakfast—during which he insists on turning the cooker on and off, ‘to learn’, and during which, once again, he eats little to nothing—you head over to your desk and obtain for him the work Adrian asked for. It’s not difficult to find, and happens to be the first book printed in the English language, in the 1400s.

“Is… this it?”

His enthusiasm says ‘yes’ when seeing the title page, and you let him take your place and scroll through as you head to get ready for the adventure of helping him look less conspicuous. “All right, enjoy your courtly romance, I’ll be back in a bit.”

“All right.”

You pause, turning to stare but his eyes are feverish on the screen, attention absorbed by the text. Whatever works. You decided to stop wondering.

Having made yourself presentable enough to be outside, you tap back into the room on bare feet. “Ready to g—...” you trail off at the sound. His voice. His voice, with that same mild inflection, but the words are oddly shaped to the ear.

He’s reading aloud from the online scan you fetched him, nodding, writing in the agenda.

“What’s… this?” You near him, narrowing your eyes at the screen.

Adrian turns to you with an excitement you’d not seen or felt in a long, long while. Somehow, it’s endearing. This side feels like him too, a natural expression in contrast with all those confused, dour moods he’d been mired in.

“I need…” He pauses, hand in his hair, eyebrows pinched together.

“What… do you need?...”

He points at the scan of the text, long fingers gliding along the little black rows of archaic words. “... from now.”

“From now?... Oh! A modern version, you mean? From our time?”

Adrian nods. “Possible?”

“Y-yeah. There might be one… wait…” As you search it for him, Adrian waits patiently with his arms crossed, rubbing at his chin. “I get it. You want to learn modern vocabulary equivalents, don't you?” You bring up the 1400s version of the work again. “Wait… you understand this one?” Not that it's impossible, shouldn’t be. But you didn't exactly take him for someone pursuing comparative historical linguistics.

“Yes,” comes the answer, leaving you bemused.

“You know what? I won't even ask. Go ham. Here, I found it.”

As he nears and glues himself to the screen, you dare to gently pull on his sleeve.

“Remember…clothes?”

Adrian blinks in realization, then stares back at the screen with a sort of longing. You get it. He’s making a breakthrough here, or so he thinks, one that’ll be of help in wading through terrain unfamiliar to him.

But the rare practical side of you insists. “You can pick this up when we get back, right?”

He meets your eyes, nodding in acceptance. “Right.”

The bell rings as you open the door to the second hand shop you sometimes frequent, looking behind you to see Adrian entering with care, gazing about with mild interest.

“Well, here we are,” you say as he meets your stare, before looking towards the shop attendant who’s sitting behind a desk, phone in hand, chewing on some gum and watching the both of you with piqued interest—no, rather, watching him.

You cough, “Hi, we’re looking for some—”

“Men’s wear is over there,” she answers, not taking her eyes off Adrian.

“All right, thanks.” Starting to think this is a typical reaction. You make a gesture, urging him to follow.

He has a befuddled look on his face, but walks after you as you reach the rows of clothing boasting jeans, t-shirts and jackets.

“So, listen.” You turn, waving a hand around the space. “You look for something you like.” You pull at your own blouse, pants, and coat. “And there’s a cabin over there, where you can try stuff out, if you like.”

He seems to understand, nodding and tentatively following your lead as you rummage through the merch on display. You notice the way he feels the garments, looking at you with a question in his eyes.

“Take your time,” you offer, going over and taking a seat on a chair.

It doesn’t take long, really. Soon enough he’s gathered a few items under his arm, a bundle of… mostly black, cream and white garments. “Want to try these on?” you ask when he nears, standing before you, uncertain.

When Adrian doesn’t reply but tilts his head in slight confusion, you rise and walk towards the cabin, drawing the curtain and showing him the space. “In you go, let me know if…” You pause as he pulls the worn shirt over his head without much ado, spinning around and drawing the curtain behind him. “... call if you need help,” you mumble, stiffly walking away.

Your heart beats strangely, faster as you meet the stare of the shop clerk, who apparently has less important things to do than follow your exchange.

Whatever. You go and idly sift through the items of clothing, humming to yourself.

“Your boyfriend’s out,” comes the clerk’s voice after a while, and you blink in confusion, head swiveling to stare at her.

“Oh, he’s not my—” Before you can finish that thought, movement has you turning in time to see Adrian emerging from the cabin.

“Right, uh, you look… they fit, don’t they?" Heat rises to your face, damn the air conditioning.

Black faded jeans, tight. A simple, white fitted t-shirt—was he always this…slim? Fit? A dark blue coat, reaching to his knees. “They look like they fit,” you follow, scratching your head.

“Oh yeah, they sure do,” comes the young shop attendant’s voice, and a niggling sensation you’ve been unfamiliar with pinches at your mood.

Adrian seems to agree, looking at himself, then at you. “Good?” he says in English.

You nod. “Yeah, good. That’s one round. Things here are affordable, so uh…” you retrieve your phone, type it in, and translate. “Find another item of each, to have spare clothing.”

He’s surprisingly efficient after that, and it’s not long before you’re returning to your apartment block, Adrian following with a bag in each hand.

“Okay, that was relatively painless,” you comment, turning to look over your shoulder at him, and—

“Adrian?...”

His expression is frozen, light-amber eyes wide and lips parted. It’s not out of fear as much as it is… consternation?

You turn back around, a different tremor running through your limbs at the person approaching.

A tall woman, wearing a flowing white dress suit, her red coat slung over one forearm. Her long, straight dark hair is done up in a ponytail, swinging languidly with each step taken on black pumps. She’s always had a distinct sense of style. Her attitude is the usual—one of those people carrying themselves like the world lies in wait at their feet. You never did know how to feel about her, nor do you know much about her. You do know this is but one of many businesses she has under her care. Well to do, in any case.

Guess it had to happen sooner or later. “Mrs. Hawke, hello.”

The landlady smiles in greeting, blue eyes alighting first on you, then focusing beyond your shoulder. She lands a hand on her hip, “How have you been, my dear?”

The question was directed at you, but you’re perceptive enough—you like to think—to notice the unspoken query following the first.

“Doing well, um. You know how it is…”

“Mm.” Her eyes are still on Adrian, but her gaze is different from that of the store clerk earlier. It holds no fascination, merely a calculating sort of curiosity that disappears the moment she stares back at you.

“I actually wanted to contact you, but didn’t get to until now. You see, Adrian here will be staying for a while, and I know that affects the rent, so…”

Mrs. Hawke tilts her chin. “That’s right, normally so—do you have an idea as to how long your additional tenant will be staying?...”

“Um. Well, I…” You feel an urge to turn and look at Adrian, but somehow her stare arrests you enough that you can’t.

Just then, she waves a hand. “You know, nevermind. I know you’ve had a difficult time lately. Consider no fee added to the rent, for now.”

The impossible has happened. Mrs. Hawke, being… lenient? Forgoing business? Not asking the ‘how’ and the ‘who’ and the ‘why’?

“Er… you mean it? Really?” Your jaw might be somewhere on the floor for all you know.

She nods. “I do. If the time of stay extends indefinitely, then that’s another matter, of course… but for now, we should be fine.”

“Thank… you…?”

She laughs, a light, glittering sound. “Oh don’t look at me like that. After all…” her gaze flicks back behind you, only briefly. “Life does seem to hold all manner of… surprises, doesn’t it?”

There’s something unusual in her tone, but, ah, the prospect of not having to scrounge up more money regularly is a godsend. “You can say that again…”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to run!” And she does just that, without another glance, leaving the two of you alone in the hallway.

“Well, I’ll be…” you murmur, then remember Adrian. “What is it about you, seriously? It's either the worst of luck or the strangest change... Adrian?”

His stare is unfocused, like something blew a fuse behind his eyes. When you touch his arm, he snaps out of it with a start. “Let’s go up?... You wanted to continue reading, didn’t you?”

Shaking his head like someone having been splashed with ice-cold water, Adrian looks down at you. “... reading. Yes. Let’s…let’s go.”

Picking up fast, you think as he walks ahead of you towards the elevator. And maybe it’s just you, but his steps are more determined than before.

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX - Part X - Part XI

Taglist: @hornyf0ckers @the-keep-under-gresit @pencildrawer12 (this is old, let me know if you want to be removed!)

Want to be added to the taglist for updates? Drop me an ask

MASTERLIST: CASTLEVANIA SERIES x READER

More of my work is on AO3 [many stories not on tumblr]

BLOG MASTERPOST (all you need to know)

Likes/comments/reblogs always and forever appreciated

AN:

Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye (1464) is a translation by William Caxton of a French courtly romance written by Raoul Lefèvre.

#alucard castlevania x reader #castlevania x reader #adrian tepes x reader #x reader #adrian tepes x you #another way #ruiniel:fanfiction #alucard castlevania x you #castlevania x you #alucard x reader

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plummy-squish · 4 months ago

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I just finished the book Cultish: The Language of Fanaticism by Amanda Montell. It’s about the language that cults will use to essentially brain wash their members (not in the typical brainwash way that you think about). It’s “the technical terms, the redefined words, the shorthand, the clichés, the euphemisms, logical distortions, and so on set members apart from and above their pedestrian neighbors, families, and coworkers". Montell does not necessarily view "cultish" – the "language" she identifies as the set of linguistic tricks cult leaders use to coerce and manipulate members – negatively, but she believes that people should at least be able to recognize it.”

Anyways fucked me up! In the past two days I’m seeing it everywhere, in marketing, in the slogans in my job, in popular work out groups, cliche phrases we all say…… and then i watched the latest episode of severance! I don’t think I’ll watch this show, and more specifically Mr Milchick and other unsevered employees the same.

In this last episode i wanna talk about that acronym ORTBO that they introduced because it’s the most obvious tactic that they used.

“Thought terminating clichés squash independent thinking” -Amanda montell

Episode 4 Spoilers ahead:

O- outdoor

R-retreat

T- team

B- building

O- occurrence

Wtf when have you ever heard this weirdly stated acronym? Well the innies do all the time! So this is normal for them to hear, i mean they are from the MDR department! Macrodata refinement, even with that longer version of the word it still doesn’t feel like a full explanation as to what their job does. But to them because they are introduced to it and taught to not question their bosses for fear of punishment and so they just go with it. Which now mdr has become part of their everyday vocabulary they don’t even question the meaning.

Cut to this episode, our innies are unconesntionally ripped out of their regular office space and put into this isolating harsh environment phrased as a reward. They are told they have been good enough to earn this trip and give it a title, the ORTBO, and they are very lucky to be experiencing this.

Later when they have been walking for a lot time, feeling lost and hungry are a considering eating a literal frozen dead seal because this “reward” isn’t feeling like a reward. Dylan reminds them, they are on an ORTBO and he repeats its vague meaning trying to convince them not to doubt the company. Almost trying to convince himself as well. This is the same Dylan that’s been getting fed incentives of seeing his family on the side and have been told he’s extra special. He has more to loose than anyone else right now and by repeating it is trying to stop everyone from doubting. Aka the orbto is working.

“Creating special language to influence people’s behavior and beliefs is so effective in part simply because speech is the first thing we’re willing to change about ourselves . . . and also the last thing we let go” -Amanda montell

Cults will make up words and introduce them in this way to make a group of people feel connected. Like they have been let into this new group of special workers allowed out side and given a term phrased as a reward to squash any train of thought leading to doubt or questioning. The further they go on this team building occurrence they will understand the reward.

They also use this new group language to make the group feel superior and anyone on the outside intrigued into what people are talking about. Making learning the language feel connecting with others and like you are understanding the deeper meaning. They feel superior and anyone on the outside feels like they are missing something.

Cross fit does this well! They have new work out terms like dms (delayed muscle soreness) so if a CrossFit gym bro is talking to a regular gym bro and uses the term DMS, the regular gym bro feels dumb for not knowing what this is and not keeping track of it. And is now curious as to what CrossFit has that he is missing before he knows it he’s sucked in. (I bet you they will bring back this term later if they can to alienate other employees in other departments)

Um hello even in the way they advertised this episode is using this tactic! They didn’t give us the meaning or context they gave us the word and now we wanna know what this new acronym is in the next episode.

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Severance universe has literally created a whole new language to keep certain people in the know and others confused. Watch for it!

It’s not always in acronym form; Sometimes it’s a saying, sometimes it’s just a common word given a double meaning to those in the group and out of the group.

Another day another dollar- something we hear all the time to make us just go to work and endure shit we shouldn’t

Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith- something we would hear all the time growing up as Mormon to stop people from questioning and like it’s bad to have critical thought

Endowment- to people out side Mormonism it means gift people inside it’s a whole secret ritual that you are sworn to secrecy or off yourself before telling another soul

lol my work calls its self a village

Its everywhere! It’s in our marketing! It’s in our gyms! It’s at work! We don’t even notice because it’s working.

“Words are the medium through which belief systems are manufactured, nurtured, and reinforced, their fanaticism fundamentally could not exist without them.”-Amanda Montell

Anyways this book has fucked me up and has made severance even better for me

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greentrickster · 3 months ago

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Listen, the thing people need to understand about why the English language is such a bastard language to learn? Is that it's literally a bastard language. The English language, is, in the simplest of terms, the result of French and German having a lot of hate sex, and the resulting offspring then getting unwillingly raised by every other language whose path it crossed. It's a mongrel, with no linguistic heritage willing to claim it as their legitimate child. Seriously, it is not of good breeding and has every disease.

#english language #english #english is weird #english is hard #english is stupid

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valtsv · 9 months ago

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Do you have any tips to get better at writing? Your word usage is so amazing. the way u describe things are so utterly unique, it’s so mesmerizing. You motivated me to write more but I want to reach your level of skill

i'll be honest, i personally find my writing to be rather subpar and lacking in the necessary technical skill to justify its overly stylised prose and excessive wordiness, so i wouldn't necessarily recommend taking inspiration from me. that being said, i'm my own worst critic and i am very flattered that my writing resonates so strongly with you. i'm not a professional writer, so i can't offer much in the way of advice beyond what has, through trial and error and years of practice, worked for me.

something that people often point out to me when complimenting my writing is that i have a rather lyrical style, which i can see. i try to pay attention to the way that words flow together - which words best complement one another - and choose how to structure and order sentences based on that. i do have a fairly extensive vocabulary thanks to reading a lot from a young age, but i also frequently make use of the thesaurus (my most dearly beloved). obviously, trying to beef up your writing by simply using more obscure words that you found in a book will come across as clumsy, and detract from your writing rather than enhancing it, but if you learn how to stitch words together in a way that has a pleasing ear or mouthfeel, you can mitigate that somewhat, and even make it part of your repertoire of skills.

speaking of vocabulary, the more expansive it becomes, the more doors it opens to you in terms of what you can write and how you can write it. this is pretty straightforward common sense stuff, but you'd be surprised by how effective is if you actually start paying attention to it. likewise with grammar. not everything you write needs to sound like it was written for a sophisticated publication in a well-respected 19th century newsletter, but if you read widely and often, you'll find that your understanding of just how many ways the scaffolding of phrasing and punctuation can be used to support incredible linguistic architecture there are grows immensely, and start seeing opportunities to make all these little adjustments and additions and substitutions that enhance your work's overall presentation.

with regard to the above, i'd also recommend considering how you want your audience to feel. you can alter a reader's entire undercurrent of sensational experience simply by changing a few words, according to whatever emotional (or even more primal) response you intend to provoke. you can also mix your palettes, and flirt with crossing the wires (horror tinged with eroticism and vice versa, fantasy with a dose of down-to-earth pragmatism, tragicomedy, and so on). the more you experiment, the more your confidence will grow, and your skills begin to take shape, from crude instruments to refined, specialised tools.

one word of caution i'd offer you, based on my own shortcomings, is that my style of writing does very much neglect realistic-sounding dialogue. the way that i write and the way human beings talk to one another clashes without much grace or redemptive quality (at least in my opinion), and i have yet to find a satisfactory solution to this. i'll let you know if i ever figure it out.

#sorry this is definitely a prime example of pretentious wordiness. i talk like a vampire when im nervous.

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autistic-writer-angel · 1 year ago

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Octonauts Headcanons

May add to this, as I go:

Captain Barnacles:

Just everyone’s Dad™

All of them, except for Professor Inkling, has called him Dad at least once. He doesn’t mind.

Nobody has ever seen him cry.

He spends one on one time with each of the crew members whenever he can (typically once a week with each of them).

Sings in the shower

Showers in the morning

Has pretty strict routines, but can also be flexible, given the unpredictability of life as an Octonaut

Birthday is October 4th. (I Googled when that flower that blooms every twelve years does so, to see if I could narrow down what time of year his birthday is. Apparently, the peak blooming period is in September/October and with OCTOber, I figured it fits!). Then the 4th October was the air date of the first episode.

Cross-eyed (based on this post:)

If anybody on the Octopod were to go to his room and tell him they had a nightmare, he would let them sleep with him. (The only ones who do are Peso and the Vegimals.)

Despite that, he doesn't really like to be seen in his pyjamas, thinking it's unprofessional. (But he's so cute in his little pyjamas!)

Sort of a joke headcanon, but I'mma add it anyway: He has reoccurring dreams about playing his accordion on stage, with hundreds of adoring fans cheering for him. (That's what he's dreaming about here:)

Kwazii:

ADHD

Not just afraid of spiders, but needles too (not that he’d ever admit it!)

Often takes the GUP-B out just for the fun of it, but will also do so to get out of something (normally cleaning or when the Captain’s playing his accordion)

Sneaks into the Captain’s room to play with his model ships

Such a sweet tooth

Favourite kelp cake flavour is jelly

Will eat anything, but may not necessarily like it. From his pirate days, he's developed a stomach of iron.

Messiest of all of them

Birthday is June 24th

Peso:

Intimidated by Captain Barnacles when they first met

Stopped feeling that way after a difficult mission, where the Captain told Peso he was very proud of him

Puts the Captain on a pedestal

Looks up to all the Octonauts, but of course, he looks up to the Captain the most

Youngest and most recent to join

Still pretty recent to join when the series started

Anxiety

He has hundreds of family members and he remembers the names and birthdays of every single one.

Birthday is November 30th

Shellington:

Autistic

Bullied as a child; Pearl stuck up for him and they were extremely close as a result

His satchel is a comfort item and a seemingly bottomless pit. If you see him pull things out of it, you’ll think, Wow! How did you fit all that in there?

Mother calls him Shelly; she’s the only one who does so

(I can’t remember where I saw this theory, but I think it makes a lot of sense.) In addition to marine biology, he has an interest in linguistics. That’s how he was able to learn Vegimalese.

Does not care if you interrupt one of his infodumps. He will just keep talking.

Clumsiest and most absentminded of the crew

Do NOT watch any nautical themed cartoon with him (e.g. SpongeBob or Finding Nemo). He will just spend the entire time pointing out all the inaccuracies.

Best artist on the Octopod

Birthday is March 14th

Dashi:

Octopod’s unofficial DJ

Loves strawberries and strawberry flavoured things

Completely ignores danger while trying to get the perfect photo

Second best artist

Just loves babies! Any kind of babies!

Not good at cooking, but great at baking

Birthday is June 17th

Tweak:

Mother passed away when she was young; Ranger Marsh raised her all by himself Known Captain Barnacles longer than any of the others Even though the Captain is her dad and Kwazii’s her brother, she’s the mum of the Octopod. Plays the banjo Birthday is February 2nd

Professor Inkling:

Most painfully slow driver you can imagine

Other than the Vegimals, he's the best cook on the Octopod

Gives the best advice

Shellington was one of his (most talented) students. That was how Shellington got the job with the Octonauts.

Never leaves the library unless he absolutely has to

Leave him alone with a child and he has no clue what he's supposed to do

Also the case when someone's crying

Birthday is August 8th (8/8!)

Vegimals:

Always make sure they have a supply of everyone’s favourite flavour of kelp cake in case anybody needs some emergency comfort food

Often sleep holding hands (they learned this from Shellington when they were babies)

Sometimes sleep with one of the Octonauts (mostly Shellington, but sometimes the others as well)

We know they get stuck in the kitchen vent. Well, I bet half the time, they get stuck while showing the other Vegimals how they got stuck!

Favourite kelp cake flavour is classic kelp

Birthday is December 21st (since the flashback of their birth is covered in a Christmas episode, I just like to think that they were born in the days leading up to Christmas)

#octonauts #octonauts fandom #captain barnacles #shellington #octonauts kwazii #octonauts tunip #octonauts peso #octonauts professor inkling #octonauts dashi #octonauts tweak #octonauts vegimals #octonauts headcanon

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victoria-writes · 1 year ago

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Elvish For Dummies

Pairing: Legolas x Reader (gender neutral)

Summary: Set after the events of LoTR. You live with Legolas in Mirkwood and he teaches you Elvish. Pure fluff.

Word Count: 1039

Notes: Established relationship, reader is human, tried to make the sindarin elvish as accurate as possible so apologies for any mistakes, I’m multilingual so I based this off of my own experience with learning languages

Read it on AO3 here

Story:

Despite the fellowship having disbanded, each day with Legolas seemed like another adventure. During your perilous journey together, the two of you had grown closer than either of you thought possible. The mere thought of being apart from you pulled at his heartstrings. He could not bear the thought of being separated from his new love. After the one ring was destroyed, the elf invited you to come with him to Mirkwood. Hastily, you agreed, for you too could not wait to start a new life with the elven prince.

Since reaching Mirkwood, many seasons have passed and you two grow closer by the day. Under his guidance, your archery skills and ability to speak Elvish have improved. He took it upon himself to privately tutor you in the tongue of his people. Legolas still giggles when you fumble certain words on your tongue, but is quick to apologize, never wanting to discourage you. He says you have made remarkable progress and that you possess great linguistic potential. Whether that is true or he is exaggerating with sugar coated words, you cannot tell but it feels good to hear his encouragement either way.

Most of your days together included walks through the woods and riding horseback, but today was a gloomy rainy day. A day that, Legolas decided, would be a wonderful excuse to help you get back to your studies. It’s not that you did not enjoy Elvish. Oh no! You quite liked hearing him whisper loving words to you as he held your gaze.

“Meleth nîn, Im tur feel cín emel dring dan sab - My love, I can feel your heartbeat against mine”, he would say as he held you in his arms, his breath dancing upon your skin with each syllable.

Saying you enjoyed that would be the understatement of the century. Everything in Sindarin sounded like poetry. Even the most mundane sentences were said with purpose and flowered language. Unfortunately for you, that also meant the most basic phrases you had to learn weren’t your typical ones. Instead of “I went to the store”, you had to say “I depart to look for food - Im gwann- na thír an aes”. It seems that most Elvish children learn how to say things like “I can feel it in the earth - Im tur- feel ha in i coe” before they learn “please” and “thank you”. No wonder they all sound prophetic when they speak common. Creepy oracle sounding sentence structure as your first language combined with being thousands of years old will do that.

“Meleth nîn, you’re drifting off. Shall we return to our lesson or is a break needed?”, Legolas' words break you out of your trance. You look up from your desk, covered in notes, to see him towering above you, eyebrow raised and arms crossed.

“Apologies, I was merely pondering the linguistic differences between Sindarin and Quenya Elvish”, you quickly come up with the excuse to hide the fact that you were simply not paying attention.

“Is that so?”,

“Yes, yes, the distinction between Elvish languages is very interesting to me”.

“This is the third time this lesson you’ve been distracted by those differences”.

“Ah, well…”, you trail off, caught red-handed.

“Y/N, I will not force you to learn Sindarin if you do not wish it”.

“No, no, no, I want to learn. I promise. It’s all just new to me and takes a moment to sink in. Please, repeat what you said. I’m paying attention”.

Legolas smiles but does not repeat himself. Instead, he moves on to an exercise he is sure will get your attention.

“We shall review what I have taught you thus far.”

…

“ Very good, Y/N. Now how would you say ‘the stars shine white’?”

“ I elena mír thilivern”

“The grass is green?”

“I thár na- calen”

“Very good pronunciation. You have done well. I believe it is time to learn some new vocabulary”.

You take out a new sheet of paper from your stack, ready to write.

“You need not write for this portion. Repeat after me.”

“Okay”. You put your quill down.

“Meleth nîn.”

“Meleth nîn. I know what that means already. You say it all the time”.

“And what does it mean?”

“My love”, your lips turn upward in a shy smile.

“Very good. Let us move on then”, he smiles brightly, as if pleasantly surprised despite knowingly fully well that you knew its meaning.

“I’m ready. Hit me.”

He suddenly sits down next to you and takes your hands into his own.

“Im mel cin”

“Do you know its meaning?”

“No, should I? I’m sorry.”, your eyes widen as you try to recall whether he had said it before in a previous lesson.

Legolas throws his head back with laughter. This may be the hardest you’ve ever seen him laugh before… and it’s at you. Great.

“Apologies. Apologies.”, he manages to get out between giggles, “The look on your face was priceless.” Your face sours at this and Legolas manages to resist a second burst of laughter from it. He thinks you equal parts hilarious and adorable.

“You would not have known this phrase as I have never spoken it to you before. I do think it is high time for you to learn it”.

“Okay, so what does it mean?”, you scrunch your eyebrows together, ego still a little hurt from being laughed at.

His grip on your hands tighten but his touch stays gentle as ever. He has always been gentle with you. His gaze holds the same softness. No, even deeper. The blue of his eyes seem more vibrant and invite you in to look deeper within him. His eyes tell of a love that can never be truly explained in any language. Legolas has always had a staring problem when it comes to you, but this is something different entirely. Your cheeks redden at his seriousness.

“I love you”.

Your eyes widen once more and before you can react, he kisses you. Deeply. Passionately.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” he repeats again and again into your lips.

…

Maybe learning a new language isn’t so bad, if you have the right teacher.

#legolas/reader #legolas x reader #lotr #legolas greenleaf #legolas #lord of the rings #legolas x yn #lotr x reader #legolas x y/n

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wynnyfryd · 2 years ago

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Trailer park Steve AU part 22

part 1 | part 21 | ao3

“…Go ahead,” he relents with a heavy sigh.

He turns the radio back on for background noise, and Robin launches herself into a breathless recap of every minute detail she’s ever learned about Eddie Munson. Genuinely impressive how quickly the words come out; Steve thinks that if her dream of becoming a linguistics researcher ever falls through, she’s got a bright future ahead of her as one of those speedreaders who rattle off the fine print at the end of pharmaceutical ads.

Warning: Discussion of Eddie Munson may cause nausea, heartburn, palpitations, sweaty armpits, and an inconveniently timed half-chub any time you use a pocket knife. Talk to your doctor to see if Discussion of Eddie Munson is right for you!

“Which brings us to tonight,” she’s saying when he zones back in. “Let’s examine the facts, shall we?”

“Must we?”

“Yes, we must.”

She makes a loose fist, lifting her pointer finger with an aggressive flourish to kick off her ‘list of reasons Eddie has a big, fat crush on you.’ “Fact number one: he was conveniently wearing a super nice outfit.”

“He said he ran out of laundry.”

“And we’re buying that?” she scoffs. Her middle finger springs up to join the first one. “Two: he was so disgustingly up in your personal space. Like, you really should have seen it; it was—”

Mwah. Mwah mwah mwah. “Yeah, I don’t need another demonstration.”

“Three” —there goes her ring finger— “he came to a movie rental store that you just so happen to work at and then left without renting a movie.”

“Because you did something to spook him!”

“Which brings me to my fourth and final point.” Her pinky lifts up to join the team, fingers spread wide like a paper fan, and she telescopes her arm to shove them back and forth under his nose until he goes a little cross-eyed and bitches about her distracting the driver.

“Cut it out! You want me to drive us into someone’s trash cans?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yeah, well I’m sending you the invoice when it scratches up the paint.”

She retreats to her side of the car, curling her back against the door and repeating, “My fourth and final point: I think he thinks we’re dating.”

“And? Everyone thinks we’re dating.”

“No, everyone wants us to be secretly dating,” she corrects. “But I’m pretty sure Eddie actually thinks I’m your girlfriend. You remember last week when you dropped me off at school?”

He does. Eddie had actually been there early for once; had been sitting on a bench out by the soccer fields, looking surly and half-asleep while he sucked down a cigarette. Hair all messed up by the wind. Looked kind of dangerous. Wild.

“He was, like, fully glaring at me when I walked into school that morning, and then he was super rude to me in band. Which, at the time, I was like, ‘oh, well I guess that’s just Eddie no one can ever tell what his mood’s gonna be like from day to day,’ but noo-o-ow…”

She starts squirming in her seat again, excitement overflowing as she finally cracks the case. “Now it all makes sense! Oh, my god! He totally hates me because he thinks we’re dating, and I’ll bet you anything he either didn’t know we work together or didn’t expect me to be there tonight and he totally, one hundred percent was there to flirt with you because he’s in lo—”

“Okay, Detective,” he cuts her off, because the tips of his ears are burning, and he doesn’t think he can handle her saying the L word out loud right now. “You’ve made your point, thank you.”

“Tell me I’m right.”

“Uh, no.”

“Come on.” She jabs at his side. “Tell me I’m right tell me I’m right tell me I’m—”

“—A fucking menace? Gladly.”

“Translation: I’m right and you’re mad about it,” she smirks, victorious.

Steve knocks his forehead against the wheel as he pulls up to her curb. “Why do I drive you places?”

“Because you love me." She flips her visor down to freshen up her lip balm, mumbling around the chapstick, "I’m adding Surly Best Friendlish to my list of fluencies; I think it'll really make my college applications pop."

"Yuh huh," Steve grumbles. The thought of Robin leaving for college always sits in his gut like raw bread dough — thick and heavy and gross, rising to form a swollen lump in his throat. "Didn't you already submit all of those?"

"Yes, I diiiid," she sings, shimmying her shoulders with pride. "Duke's gonna say yes, I just know it. Picture it with me: Robin L. Buckley," she gestures to an imagined marquee somewhere just beyond the windshield, "class of 1990."

Steve swallows the urge to be a sulky dick about it. "They'd be lucky to have you," he says quietly.

"Nope. No no, none of that. No moping." She tugs at his arm; links their elbows together. "You're not allowed to mope when we have a party to get ready for."

"No, you have a party to get ready for. I'm going home."

"Steeeve-uh!" Holy shit. He just had to be soulmates with the whiniest lesbian in a 500 mile radius, didn't he? "Come to the bonfire party with me!"

"Yeah, that's a no."

“It’ll be fun!"

It most certainly will not be. "You really want me to go freeze my ass off in the woods all night while a bunch of former classmates talk shit about me the second they think I'm out of earshot?" He's been to enough of his parents' 'networking events' over the years to know exactly how that'll go. A full night of subtly closed-off body language, smirking whispers and judgmental glances that dart away as soon as he meets them head on. Fuck that. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

He just wants to go home. Feels momentarily sick with the desire to drive himself to Loch Nora.

"What did I say about moping?" Robin asks. She shoves into his space, hugging his arm tighter and deploying her most lethal sad wet kitten face (and Steve doesn't even like cats; this shouldn't fucking work on him.) "Pleeeease," she begs. "Vickie's going to be there, and I could really use a friend."

"So ask a friend!"

"I am, dipshit!"

Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Goddamn this woman. Steve hangs his chin to his chest in defeat, notices the weird stain he got on his shirt during work. "I have some conditions," he concedes.

She throws her arms out wide. "Condition me, baby!"

"First— ew. Okay, I don't like that; don't call me baby." Yeesh, and furthermore, yuck. "First, I'm borrowing one of your shirts, and you're probably never getting it back."

"Understandable,” she nods as she gets out of the car. Steve follows her out, propping his elbows on the roof.

"Secondly,” he continues, “I'm getting very drunk at this stupid party, and you're figuring out how we get home."

She reaches out over the top of the car; gives his hand a quick squeeze when he puts it in hers. "That's three things," she says fondly, "but I can work with that."

—

part 23

tag list part 1 below the cut; comment if you'd like to be added tomorrow (not tagging ageless or under 21s unless we're mutuals or you let me know your age ✌️)

@a-little-unsteddie @ahsokatanoss @alyelf @anne-bennett-cosplayer @aol19 @awolfstudio @bambibiest @bananahoneycomb @bronwenmarie @cheonsazu @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @courtjestermunson @dauntlessdiva @dawners @dontwasteyourchances @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @eriquin @estrellami-1 @fandomfix8 @griefabyss69 @grtwdsmwhr @hallucinatedjosten @hellion-child @hiimlevi @honoragreyskull @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @kas-eddie-munson @littlebluejane @marvel-ous-m @melonmochi @messrs-weasley @milklechee @mrsjellymunson @mugloversonly @munsonslure @nburkhardt @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notsopersonalcharlie @novelnovella @nuggies4life @questionablequeeries @runninriot @silver-snaffles @singmeyoursimpsong @slowandsteddie @slutabed @slutforcoffein @solalasoforth @spookednsaucy

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #platonic stobin #my writing #my fic

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