rottentothecarrow

[rottentothecarrow]

properpureblood-emma‌:

A small, relieved sigh escaped the young witch’s lungs. His sterling reputation preceded him, but Emma just had to be certain. Even the smallest possibility of her parents finding out could spell complete and utter disaster for the order. 

She tried to gauge the wizard’s expression to seeing her set out what was easily some of the finest jewels Emma possessed. The rocks were easily worth more than most earned in a year, and there she was eager to part with them when so many would go rabid just for the money it took to purchase them. Was he impressed with her desire to distance herself from the life purebloods led? Did he find it distasteful? It was near impossible to tell. 

“Whatever you think would be best,” Emma said softly, nodding. “I don’t pretend to have a mind for business, but you clearly do. I trust you implicitly. “

There it was; hook, line, sinker, as they said. Had her. Rather easy, this one. Had that... craving, really, for something solid to stand on. For trust, yes, in a world that had taught her little of the thing. Fair enough. Unfortunate, and unlikely to get her very far. But fair. Perhaps he’d felt something like that, once. If he had, the sentiment had withered up and died a dreadfully long time ago, and thank goodness; such an impediment it was, to take any real comfort from other people. Doomed you to incompleteness, didn’t it? To searching, to striving, to wanting something, something dreadfully intangible, that you just didn’t have in yourself. Sounded awful. 

Such treasures she’d brought him, though. And so agreeable; made his part in all this much simpler. “You flatter me. I assure you, they’re in the very best of hands.” Slipping on a fine pair of gloves, Donnie waited until Emma had finished draping necklaces and bracelets and so on across the table between them. When she left them be, he delicately lifted the first item, a stunning choker, for further investigation. “Breathtaking work, truly,” he murmured, tilting the piece this way and that, considering the catch, the settings, the lustre of the stones. Didn’t seem to pain her any, to be rid of it. Perhaps she was just that very much a pureblood, though. “Do you know of any enchantments, on these? Anything at all? I will, of course, examine them thoroughly myself, before proceeding to contact buyers.”

[rottentothecarrow]

I know all your secrets               I know why you keep them                            In the dark, there you stay, waiting for the day                      That you might have to meet them I know all your secrets                Lock them up and keep them                             And I know, you're afraid, oh, there'll come a day                                          When you might have to meet them                                                                              Face your shame

[rottentothecarrow]

The things you saw, when you walked softly and wide-eyed. Or, flew softly, as the case might be. Hidden by those dark, spackled feathers, and the gloom of the stony eave he’d been tucked away under, Donnie had blinked, and watched, curiously, as a Yaxley came striding, purposefully, through the cemetery. Alone. Branwen; faintly familiar, as most purebloods were to one another. He had been quite prepared to drift back to some sort of comfortable doze, lulled by the drizzling rain. Until he noticed whose grave, exactly, she’d stopped at. 

Most intriguing. 

He swept from his perch on silent wings, and found a new one, closer. Listening. Rather suited to it, in this shape. Even then, Donnie could only crane to catch the tail end of whatever she was going on about, half under her breath. Fault. Whose fault had it been, exactly? The papers had blamed the Order, or, what they believed the Order to be, at least. So had the husband. And it did seem entirely likely, really. But the circumstances, precisely. Those, those he had to wonder about. Talons curling as he deliberated, Donnie considered all this. And decided. Dropping out of sight behind a rather tacky Gothic mausoleum, he stood, preening his hair into place and straightening his cloak, neatening the suit beneath. There. Strolling out along the nearest path, Donnie wound his way in Yaxley’s general direction. Taking his time. 

���Terrible thing, isn’t it?” He sighed, slowing as he passed; hands lacing, eyes on that sad, fresh tombstone. Awfully sad, yes. Josiah hadn’t the faintest trace of art to him. No taste. A bland monument, to a woman who’d seemed... more colorful, at least. Especially in the glow of motherhood. Perhaps she’d even have made a good one; impossible to say, of course. Everything about Leina Nott was impossible, now. That’s what death was, after all. The end of possibility. Donnie’s dark eyes ticked up, from that miserable stone, to the woman standing over it. “Hyacinths. I didn’t realize you were so close. In which case, my condolences. Such a shame. That... phoenix-flavored gang, whatever they are...” he fluttered a hand, dismissively. “Who would’ve imagined, really, that they’d stoop so awfully low?”  

hyacinths?

Location: Graveyard Time: Morning, December 29th Status: Closed, for @rottentothecarrow

Bran hadn’t dared to leave the flowers on Mrs Nott’s grave during the funeral. Partly because there had been so many people and she didn’t know her that well personally. It wouldn’t have been proper to push herself forward to throw some sad flowers into the hole that was now going to be her body’s home forever. Partly because floriography wasn’t unknown in the Wizarding World, and the idea to attach herself to Lily Evans’ regret seemed wrong.

But the thought had not left her head, not even days after. Weeks. She didn’t want it to haunt her for months. So one morning she returned, to the family graveyard that was not just the Nott’s family but every branch of respectable pureblood families that somehow interconnected to a large trunk called the Sacred 28. She found Mrs Nott’s grave easily. It was still clean. White. Untouched by time and buried grief.

“Hi,” she said, carefully, quietly, uncharacteristically respectful. “I know we didn’t know each other well, but I’m sorry. For … this. My mother says you deserved better, and I-, I don’t know if I know enough about you to agree but-, but I know your child does. Um…” She cleared her throat. “He’d deserved to grow up with a mum, is my point. I guess. And I’m-, I’m sorry he won’t. Not-, not that it was my fault but-…” She shook her head. What was she even doing? She held up the flowers, as though for Mrs Nott’s closed eyes to see. “Brought you these. I hope you like them. If not, I guess there’s not much you can do about it, aye?” A shaky laugh.

By Morgana, what was she doing?! Unceremoniously, she dropped the flowers on the pile of dirt. Because that was what this wall, all of it: a pile of fucking dirt.  

[rottentothecarrow]

artemthevictorious‌:

Artem let out a huff of annoyance at the way Donnie said it. He made it sound like personal entertainment, not Artem protecting people and property. Was there anything sacred to him? Artem looked away as he continued on about New York and people. They couldn’t pretend the offer wasn’t tempting, but unlike Donnie, they actually cared about the people around them. “If it’s so great, why don’t you go? You’re telling me to think it over when you’re still here. Clearly it can’t be all its cracked up to be if that’s the case.”

They thought they had a good point as they accepted their drink from Barry. Artem had watched as he mixed it, and thankfully he’d gone about as mild as possible. Good. Artem wasn’t interested in both ruining their night and having a terrible time tomorrow with bad potion effect mixes. Granted this was purely alcohol, not a potion, but they’d seen what could happen when the two were mixed. It wasn’t always pretty. 

“Your brother?” Artem repeated, still watching Barry. They got the sense that although Donnie was talking, he didn’t really want anyone to know. Then again, Artem probably wouldn’t advertise it either if they had family like that. Doug was bad enough.

Artem tried to listen without comment, but it sounded like Donnie thought Artem should have reason to tread lightly with his siblings, but Artem wasn’t going to be intimidated by a couple of ex-purebloods with no title, power, or positioning. No offense meant to Donnie.

“Look,” they eventually said, “I do my job. My job involves watching the boys and our few girls to make sure they are happy and safe. If you’re saying your brother might threaten that, I will keep a close eye on him if I see him around again. It’s only been once or twice. That said, I am not going to be cowed around by some guy who lets his sister hold his balls for him. And I’m not particularly worried about her either, by the way. I can take care of myself, but I appreciate your concern.”

To that, Donnie raised his glass, and a put-upon sigh. “I have my own ties that bind, as they say.” And those, he’d leave be. Undefined. He owed no explanations; owed nothing, in fact. To anyone. No matter what they’d come to think. In this - the difference between fact and assumption - there was a lovely, sneaking sort of power. All the power he could ever hope to have, really. Such as he was. “Someday, though.” A promise. To himself, foremost. One he had to remind himself of, more and more, of late. 

Reminders. Yes. It would’ve been lying to say he hadn’t gone cold, the noise and tilt of the club burning too-bright as he recognized the cut of those shoulders, the crisp kick to that walk. It had been years. Nearly half his life, now. 

Not long enough. 

He swallowed, the brandy tasteless for a moment. Just a burn. Nothing, compared to certain memories. “Well.” Neat, tidy, that tone. “That’s very... bold, of you, I must say.” Wasn’t quite a compliment, or clearly a slight, of any sort. Honestly, Donnie couldn’t say what he’d expected. Not more, per se. Not less, exactly. Boldness. Yes, Artem had so very much, of that. Perhaps he envied it. The certainty, there, the confidence. Woefully misplaced as it seemed, to him. 

His fingers tapped against the stem of that snifter, once, twice, then stilled. A lapse. Brief. Faint. Still aggravating. They could take care of themselves. Of course. Artem certainly wasn’t Donnie’s problem, either way. Nobody could say he hadn’t done his due diligence, and then some, warning Tremblay at all. “I do hope you’re right.” That slipped down, circling his glass as Donnie stood, smoothly, and drained the rest. “For your sake.” He meant it, truly. Artem seemed a fine sort. Be a dreadful shame, if the twins ever found reason to turn their attentions his way. Dreadful. 

[rottentothecarrow]

[rottentothecarrow]

The fatal combination of indulgence without feeling disgusts me. Strange to be both greedy and dead. For myself, I prefer to hold my desires just out of reach of appetite, to keep myself honed and sharp. I want the keen edge of longing.

Jeanette Winterson, Art and Lies

[rottentothecarrow]

AFFECTION and EMBRACE

AFFECTION.   how does your muse show affection?

What, you mean, like - real affection? Because Donnie can fake his way through all manner of love languages, when he needs to. 

The person he’s most affectionate with is unquestionably himself, and that looks rather a lot like respecting his own needs for space, for time. Donnie is extremely protective of these things, of his freedom to structure his life as he sees fit, of his nest, so to speak, and his security. Which is part of why he keeps the Order so resolutely at arm’s length. Some call it a lack of loyalty, Donnie insists it’s self-care. 

EMBRACE.   does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?

The Carrow household was far from physically affectionate; Donnie certainly didn’t grow up with hugs as a casual, day to day kind of experience. He doesn’t initiate, anticipate, or especially like them, as an expression of friendliness. As for loving embraces, well, that’s… a little different. But not much. He’s used to being held, now, and holding, but it’s less a thing he likes than a gesture he’s trained himself to withstand, for appearances. 

Most of the time, anyway… 

[rottentothecarrow]

artemthevictorious‌:

Artem looked up sharply at the mention of Connor, but they didn’t detect any kind of threat in it, veiled or otherwise. Giving Donnie a look, Artem replied, “There are consequences. Not extreme ones, not for the small things, but unless you forgot, I am the consequences much of the time.” Artem wished they could do more, wished they could threaten to snap someone’s arm any time they touched one of Ganymede’s boys without permission, never mind that they didn’t necessarily want to follow through. They just wanted to protect everyone here they could.

The offer surprised Artem, but they supposed they could appreciate it. “I can’t go flitting off to New York. I have… people here.” And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Artem had heard about Edgar’s siblings, about how he’d left and never really come back except to flit through their lives on occasion. Artem suspected if they left, they’d do something similar and never come back. “Besides, places like that you offer me extra money to use my charm in the ring, and I’m not going to fucking do that.” They’d been kicked from a ring with no rules twice for such things and been crowded out by a group jumping after a fight in another because they’d won without it. Apparently if Artem could create more spectacle, it was supposed to be his job to do it, not to prove he didn’t need it.

When they got to the bar, Artem flashed Barry a smile, unable to help the wince as the alcoholic smell from the bar hit them full force from the perception potion. Merlin, this was going to be awful, wasn’t it? “Just something small, Barry. Still on the clock.” They glanced at Donnie, almost hesitant to admit this wasn’t their first drink for the night. “And, ah, something that won’t interact with my earlier potion.” The last thing they wanted was to become dizzyingly drunk with a perception potion that made them practically blind in combination. 

To that, Donnie merely chuckled. Darkly. “How could I possibly forget? Always a highlight of my evenings, really...” Hardly even a lie. He was, after all, here primarily to please other people. So that he might wind their potentially useful secrets out of them, like so many meters of gut, reeled away for twisting into strings. What music he could make, from their miserable attempts at pillow talk. Tunes Minnie and her headmaster could look forward to. That, and, obviously, the money. He had a standard of living to maintain, and a future to finance, and he wasn’t above making the most of the indulgent generosity of his admirers. Why should he be, anyway? 

“Oh, of course. People.” That poured out like old champagne; flat, faintly sour. “Well, I assure you, New York’s hardly short of those. Should you find reason to reconsider.” As for the rest - Donnie could hardly relate. So he didn’t attempt to. That would be facetious, and a waste of everyone’s time. He’d always had to make use of every scrap of self that could amount to an asset. Refusing to do so for the sake of... pride, well. That did seem thoroughly Gryffindorian, didn’t it? Though, perhaps that wasn’t it at all. Or not entirely, at least. Not that the reasoning there especially mattered, given that Donnie wasn’t trying to bed, box, or blackmail him. 

Interesting, there. Counteractions. Plenty of potions that they might be concerned over, in that way. Few which were likely to be approved of by dear Confidence, at least while one was, as Tremblay said, on the clock. So far as he could tell, Artem did tend to take his work rather too seriously to fuck about with the limits of that trust. Donnie toyed with his brandy, appreciating the aroma; rich, tart-sweet, caramel and crispness. Idly tallying up possibilities. Very idly. 

As Barry mixed away down the counter, Donnie canted over Tremblay’s way. “A little bird told me,” he murmured, just loud enough for them to hear, through the din, “that my brother’s been stopping by, of late. Not often, thankfully. But considering your position, here, I feel obliged to inform you that despite his... air of utter doltishness, it would be best not to fuck with him, if at all possible.” Especially if he’d managed to sort out how to make any sort of decision on his own, in the years since they’d seen each other last. Though, that seemed dreadfully unlikely... but for the fact that Amycus was, apparently, being let off his historically short leash long enough to slip away someplace like the Ganymede. Alecto would be livid, if she only knew how her twin was spending his newfound freedom. So poisonously codependent, those two. 

Probably because nobody else in all the world would ever be so entirely deranged as to perceive anything remotely lovable in either of them. 

Donnie kept his eyes on the mirror-backing of the bar, gleaming and flashing, their own reflections strangely distorted by the dance of the lights and the ripple of that enchanted glass. “He is, himself, capable of mindless cruelties. But a move against him, however deserved, is a move against my sister. Who is vastly worse.” Another sip, a slow blink. “Do watch yourself. And the rest of them.” The dancers, Connor’s men, here. Merlin pity the poor bastards Amycus set his eye on.  

[rottentothecarrow]

◈ [for bran]

Yaxley is a fascinating tie for Donnie to have, really. Let’s dig in.

Flashback! No, really! They’re close enough in age that it would be fun to zip back in time and see them at school, or some high society function, in the days of the Carrows’ fall from grace, back when the both of them were even more fully ensnared in the worst of those pureblooded perceptions and expectations they’ve come to despise so much. Alternatively, we could keep things present day, and see how they do in that social setting now. For Order work, or the sake of appearances. Whichever! 

Branwen is coming up to something of a crucial moment, it seems, in terms of her fraught connection with her family and what they represent. Donnie might even… feel… something like a kinship, with that particular struggle. Maybe. Don’t quote me. But they both grew up in gilded cages, and he’s one of the few characters available who’d not only sit through her rants and rages, but understand them. And perhaps even give a shit. 

Professionally, there’s some potential crossover between these two. Donnie sells rare items and materials of interest to magical artisans, when he can acquire them - including Dark things, should they come his way. He also regularly refers to experts in their respective fields, when appraising artifacts and reconstructing them. He also some particular needs so far as magical items go himself, needs which Branwen has the skills to assist with. Any of that would be fun to look into.  

[rottentothecarrow]

N for Naughty

 NAUGHTY.   what is your muse like in bed?

What do you think? No, really?

Practice makes perfect, they say, and Donnie’s had plenty of practice - at navigating bodies and desires that may be rather different from his own, and finding artful ways to explore a person, asking the right questions, creating the right spaces. Honestly, Donnie is never genuinely himself when endearing and seducing. That’s not what these people are here for, after all. What he's like (and what he likes) becomes a means to an end, changing to suit the circumstances. So, yes - it is up to you. As for the overall quality of the experience, well. Donnie’s an artist, at heart. Being the center of that particular kind of passion, that care for detail, that consuming attention, can be quite validating, even addictive. Especially when it arrives in such a pretty package. Adonis is a hell of a handle to live up to, and Donnie does his very best. His many darlings seem more than satisfied, given that they just keep coming for him...

[rottentothecarrow]

◈

Edgar. Darling Edgar. This is going to be fun. 

So, as previously discussed, it’s likely to come to Edgar’s attention, quite soon, that the marital bliss of one Rigby Bones has taken an interesting turn. Not necessarily a bad one, but that all depends on Edgar’s assessment, doesn’t it? Hardly Donnie’s fault the poor man (and his husband) fell head over heels for him. What Edgar chooses to do about this revelation is up to Edgar. Donnie’s certainly not about to bring it up. 

Is Edgar often at the Ganymede? If so, they could certainly cross paths there. Donnie’s choice of friends might be a disturbing surprise. Edgar’s tastes are unlikely to shock Donnie, but not much does. It’s a rather different environment for these two to interact in, and the possibilities are intriguing. 

Donnie absolutely circles those artsy events that Edgar knows so well. Another interesting environment to explore their dynamic in, especially as Donnie tends to show up - or at least slip away with - some glossy pureblood or otherwise significant guest. How is that going to be received, given that Edgar knows him to be all tangled up in Rigby’s love life?

Donnie, unlike some people, can enjoy teasing a hypothetical around. Mostly because he’s a coldhearted bastard, or something like that, and isn’t likely to be wounded or made uncomfortable by such talk. This might be something Edgar could discover while sitting in as Donnie works on the house, which he wouldn’t object to. 

[rottentothecarrow]

zzz

  ZZZ.   how many people has your muse slept with?

Really. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Or brag.

Quantity has never been the point, for Donnie, but he’s been bedding his way through the purebloods of the British Isles (and beyond, now and then) since... well, since he was too young. So, yeah, he’s racked up quite the number, over the decades. It’s no long string of one-night-stands, either; most of his liaisons are long term. Ongoing, in fact. That’s his specialty. Fitting into these luxurious lives, however he needs to, in order to make the most of the relationship - and leave them wanting more. It’s also worth pointing out that sex is only an aspect of Donnie’s many, many affairs and seductions, and not always a part of the package; he’s chameleonic, providing what a partner (or partners, some people do know how to share) seems to want from him. Sometimes, sleeping with someone quite literally amounts to sleeping with them, the comfort of having a warm body in their bed. People need what they need. Donnie provides, so long as it’s in his interests to do so.

[rottentothecarrow]

◈ Artem

Oh, Artem. Donnie finds himself rather enjoying their company, but not yet sure, entirely, why Tremblay’s involved with the Order in the first place. (Not that he’s entirely sure why he’s involve with the Order, anyway.) Whatever. He appreciates having Artem around, regardless. They’re just refreshing, you know?

This depends on adminly approval, of course, but given his position at the Ganymede, Artem is a convenient connection for Donnie to turn to should he secure some information of interest to the Order. What Artem does with that information - take it to the Order generally, take it to specifically who Donnie decides ought to have it, keep it to themselves, dismiss him, who knows - will affect their “working relationship,” as will the value of Donnie’s info. They can both be very useful people, but everyone makes mistakes...

Both Artem and Donnie have lingering ties, of some sort, to pureblooded society. That might be useful to the Order, in the future; I’d be interested to see them having to work together in their not-so-natural habitat. Could start some interesting conversations, for sure.

Donnie tries to be easy to underestimate, especially when it comes to his potential to be an actual threat - or to look out for himself. I’m sure his ties to those ridiculous phoenix-obsessed revolutionaries will drag him into trouble, sooner or later, and there’s bound to be violence. Makes a sort of sense that Artem would wind up ordered to provide that delicate not-pureblood spy of theirs with some protection. He wouldn’t say no. Might need them, after all. Might surprise them, too, if it comes down to that...

[rottentothecarrow]

properpureblood-emma‌:

Emma had been surrounded by it her whole life, but some things magic could do never ceased to amaze her. The garden was lush and vibrant, bursting with color and fragrance, even in the coldest harshest months of the year. Even on the sunniest day in London, a garden this lovely wouldn’t be able to thrive. She made a mental note to ask for the enchantment- Emma’s little garden at her cottage was nice, but this was another level entirely. “It’s lovely,” She breathed, turning slowly as she walked to take her seat, enjoying every angle of the view. 

Setting the purse down in her lap, she took her place. Her ankles crossed, and her posture impeccable, she looked exactly like a good little pureblood girl, despite what her intentions there that day were. “I’ve heard you’re very good at what it is you do. I would think discretion is a part of that good reputation and the cost of your services.” As she spoke, she began to untie her purse strings. 

“I’ve recently struck out on my own, and I’m looking to receive as little monetary aid from my family as possible. That being said, they’ve given me what I can only imagine is quite a hefty sum in jewels over the years, that I never use or wear. I was wondering if you might be able to find someone to take them off my hands. They’re not charmed or anything presently, but I’m sure a glamour could be placed on them rather easily.”

It was, wasn’t it? Lovely. He’d certainly put in some work to make it so. All this had taken a great deal more than fertilizer and a green thumb. The trick, as in most things, was the not-too-muchness. In Donnie’s substantial experience and to his thoroughly expert observations, an excess of magical interference always betrayed itself. A sheen, of sorts, a smoothness, a softness, that just felt... wrong. False. Contrived. Art, whatever the kind - on canvas, trellises, or the Ganymede’s plush sheets - wasn’t simply a matter of show, or of substance, but both. Finely arranged, for greatest effect. Too much flash could cheapen the thing, as surely as too little. There had to be wonder. Wonder meant questions, of course. Questions left unanswered, tantalizing. Air of mystery, and all that. 

But. Not too much. Lest you wind up entirely fucking insufferable. 

“I’m rather fond of it. Spoil them awfully,” Donnie sighed, neatly brushing a few fallen petals from the back of his own chair, and perched, precisely, sipping his tea as Miss Vanity, Emma, brought her business to the table. Oh, the suspense. “But of course. I consider the privacy and security of my patrons to be absolutely sacrosanct. What records I maintain, for the purposes of our working relationship, are entirely anonymous and confidential. You’ll be welcome to see them at any time.” He smiled, indicating a sleek bound book of parchment, a black-feathered quill. Quite a special quill. Quite a special feather, if he might say so himself. Discretion. Something of a specialty of his, yes. So unlike his wretched family, in that. 

To say Donnie had an excellent poker face was rather crass. He had an excellent face. Quite simply put. Regardless of what game he might be playing, and his day to day life was rather riddled with games. A Vanity out testing her wings, was it? Resisting the familial fortune? No occasions to rise to, decked in her jewels? Intriguing. “Certainly. I have buyers round about the globe, interested in such items. And a glamour is a possibility, yes, when one wishes to make a clandestine sale.” A possibility, but a poor one. Likely to see trouble for the both of them, down the line, but - no need to harangue the young lady with such details. All he had to do, as he did so often, was reorient things. Point their dealings in a more, well, mutually profitable direction. “There are other methods - more certain to stand up to time and scrutiny - which may be viable. I’ll be better able to determine the most appropriate options after the pieces have been appraised.” So reassuring; an important quality, or fabrication, at the very least, in all his lines of work. 

[rottentothecarrow]

(     *     VALENTINE’S DAY ALPHABET   !    

send some letters to find out more about my muse   !

A   :   AFFECTION.   how does your muse show affection?

B   :   BOUQUET.   does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?

C   :   CHOCOLATE.   does your muse like chocolate? which one is their favourite?

D   :   DATE.   what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

E   :   EMBRACE.   does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?

F   :   FLIRT.   is your muse good at flirting? how do they flirt?

G   :   GIFT.   is your muse good at gift - giving or do they struggle to get it right?

H   :   HEART.   is your muse quick or slow to give their heart away?

I    :   I LOVE YOU.   does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

J   :   JEALOUSY.   does your muse get jealous in a relationship?

K   :   KISS.   is your muse a good kisser? why / why not? 

L   :   LOVE.   who does your muse love?

M   :   MOONLIGHT.   what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

N   :   NAUGHTY.   what is your muse like in bed?

O   :   ODE.   does your muse have a way with words?

P   :   PARTNER.   what does your muse look for in a partner? looks / personality?

Q   :   QUESTION.   would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?

R   :   ROMANCE.   is your muse a romantic or a cynic?

S   :   SWEETHEART.   did your muse have a childhood sweetheart?

T   :   TRUE LOVE.   does your muse believe in true love?

U   :   UNREQUITED.   has your muse had their heart broken?

V   :   VALENTINE.   how does your muse feel about valentine’s day?

W  :   WEDDING.   would your muse get married? why / why not?

X   :   XOXO.   does your muse use / like pet names?

Y   :   YOURS.   does your muse get protective easily?

Z   :   ZZZ.   how many people has your muse slept with?

[rottentothecarrow]

                    I've been fucking around while you've been saving the world I've been out of my mind                             I've been dreaming things                                                 and scheming things                          I've been smoking the poison You've been slinging your anecdotes                         I've been fucking around while you were saving the world                                                                                          From nothing

In the end, the end             Things will never go our way                       In the end, the end                                         Things will never go

                                             So take it in, don't hold your breath                                     The bottom's all I’ve found                We can't get higher than we get On the long way down                      Burning night in my eyes, blinding me from the truth If there's a shadow in me           The dark is a tidal wave inside of you                                               Taking shots at communion                             Getting drunk on your antidote                                                   I'll save you a seat next to me, down below

[rottentothecarrow]