#--; shes the highest muse rn

[bloodymyhands]

alicent hightower starter call ... like for a starter from alicent! <3

multis specify muse or i'll pick at random!

[lingeringscars]

I am a soldier. I am the sun summoner. And I'm the only chance you have.

[llimerrence]

anyway im here for 2-3 hours. lets see what we can do <3

[someotherdog]

I sincerely hope this is okay to ask~ do you have any tips or advice for creating characters? Your roster is so detailed and each character is so vastly different and unique, it's very inspiring :')

anon you're quite literally the sweetest human ever and i adore you so much ;-; i'd love to give you some advice!!! but i don't want seem like some self-aggrandizing asshole so i'm putting it under a readmore just in case anyone wants to scroll by it and not see me wax poetic about my own characters and writing process lmfao.

okay so again thank you for being so nice!!! to be honest, i don't have like a blueprint for character creation but this is my general advice that helps me out when it comes to making a new muse.

Be inspired by anything. now this is more of a roleplay thing, not necessarily writing like actual books to make money off of, but what i mean is do not be afraid to be like 'yeah anne rice (or whichever author you like) did this character pretty good, but i can do it better' or to be like 'hmm i like this trait of this character in a tv show, i want to write someone like them' and go from there. and when i say be inspired by anything, i do mean anything! tv shows, books, music, movies, real life events (as long as ur not a ghoul about it), etc. one of my favorite characters, saul weissberg, was partly inspired by julian sands' character in rose red, a stephen king miniseries from 2002 that i loved as a child that like five people have seen lol (specifically how any line of dialogue sounds like an innuendo/he had kind of a natural animalistic sexual swagger). some characters i have are partly inspired by people i actually know in real life, or of course inspired by myself and my own life. so sometimes you'll just want to do your own version of something, like how my desjardins family characters are my version of the show yellowstone or collie's my ripoff of my sweet audrina, or you'll just be like "hm i want a character that's kind of like lestat, but not french" and use that as a baseline/add on more later. sorry i keep using anne rice examples in this she's the only author i can think of rn lol

Don't be afraid to have two characters with similar backstories. like, don't psyche yourself out bc you're like "oh wait, this character i just came up is too much like a character i already have, i'll scrap them or get rid of the old one in order to have the new one." that's totally fine imo because now it's up to you to differentiate them and make them stand out from each other! for example, i have two characters that are drug addicts: hector and junior. now hector is a hedonistic narcissist that does drugs simply because he's trying to find the highest highs in life and he has no ability to care about others. junior is an addict because of a childhood tragedy by his older brother's hand that orphaned him and he tries to numb the pain of losing his entire family by using drugs. they both deal with the same affliction, but for entirely different reasons and they react differently to pretty much everything, so they might seem similar at first but they don't actually have much in common beyond their addiction struggles.

Sometimes the fc comes first, sometimes the concept does. by that i mean that sometimes i'll come up with an idea for a character (let's say... a character that's an artist that has prophetic dreams that inspires their art) and then i have to scramble for an fc that would fit their vibes, usually by just watching a new show or looking through gif pack blogs. other times, i'll have an fc i want to use... let's say... i want to make a margaret qualley character. so okay, what kind of storyline do i want to write with her? she's got lots of gifs where she looks scared/uncomfortable, so maybe she sees ghosts or something after a near-death experience. or she's quite tall, so maybe she's an inspiring runway model or something idk. a lot of characters i come up literally start with something simple as: i want to write about the satanic panic, so i'll make an oc that worships the devil in the bayous of louisiana (blair) or i want to make a character that's a final boy that survived a massacre à la wolf creek (benny). sometimes (or most times, lmao) i just see a face i think is pretty and want to use them, so i'll be like hmmm let's see what i can do with this face. your inspiration can be as simple or detailed as you like!

Rework characters at your own leisure. if you've got a character you just feel isn't working out, switch shit up! add to their storyline, change their storyline, drop them completely if you just aren't feeling a connection anymore. you can always change things back or un-retire a character, it's your blog!

Remember no one is going to care about your muses as much as you do. now that sounds a little cold but it's just like social anxiety in real life where no one is thinking about you as much as you're thinking about yourself. so what i mean is that does any random writer in the tag actually care about what my muse's exercise habits are or what allergies they have or if they have a bachelor's degree in communications? no, probably not!! and that's okay, because all the detail you put into a character is for you. i write detailed character sheets so i can remember than etan has asthma or that alice wears contacts or that frank has lived in detroit his whole life, not necessarily because i think my writing partner needs to know that information. it's for you to inform your writing of said character! but of course anyone that takes time out of their day to learn about your muses is a treasure and deserves three thousand smooches 🥰

alright i wrote enough bullshit up in here lol, so hopefully that helped you out nonnie!!! and i'm sorry if it didn't because i tend to write word salad ooc lmao sorry. if you want any more advice about anything, don't hesitate to ask <3

[iccarian]

still remaking icons and such but my highest muse rn is sw so star wars moots <3 gimme stuff <33 ( i still need to write a full page for her but trilla's au is that she lived, sought a long path of healing and self - redemption, and joined the hidden path )

[thekavseklabs]

It's not something I mention super duper often (mainly because I'm not on this blog much rn due to life and often Vyn is in highest demand when I am (I'm not complaining i love writing him hence why i do so much)) but Spades, aside from his role as a crime boss/villain, is also a pimp! Before his coming into power, he had lived under the thumb of a pimp and boss known as Beatrice—she preferred to use her first name solely, claiming her surname Faulkner made her sound too old, even though she was, in fact, old fashioned. Beatrice was a cruel person who treated others horribly, and abused Spades deeply, using him as a sort of trophy or exotic specimen to parade about and take fascination in due to his being an alien. She abused him and her workers, and when he eventually snapped and killed her, those workers had nowhere to go, and the criminal underground had a power vacuum.

Spades, having gained courage and confidence after having killed her, took her place, filling that vacuum and more importantly, tearing down every horrible thing she had created, including her clubs—he then sold the properties she'd owned, having gained them by not-so-legal means (read: forged her will, which hadn't existed in the first place as the woman lacked anyone she cared about enough to leave much too, and she'd believed herself invincible and nowhere near death thanks to her power). Using that money and what she'd left behind, he created new properties and connections, eventually building the massive network of power we see today. Most of his old responsibilities have been delegated to trusted workers, as he would be unable to manage such a huge number of people personally alone, but one of the few things he still keeps an eye on personally (with the help of some extra managers and such for when he cannot juggle it all) is the original, first club he built, alongside several others to varying degrees.

While this club is primarily just that—a strip club, albeit a somewhat 'fancy' and classy one—it is also the base of operations for various sex workers, whom he ensures the safety and care of. He is very much caring to these individuals, setting them up only with clients deemed safe and covering the costs of their rent and medical needs, and anyone who mistreats them will have him and his firepower to worry about. Though he has very much grown in power, he views his workers as equals, people he trusts and respects deeply and will always defend and appreciate, as he remembers having been in their shoes and having no one to protect and care for him when he needed it. All in all, he considers himself not to be their boss, but rather their guard and aid—though he's aware that as their boss, he does have power over them, and thus he does not engage in any relations whether emotional or physical with them, knowing that they may feel pressured by his authority over their lives were he to do so.

Just as he handles this, Spades acts as a boss to a lot of different types of crime, with, of course, plenty of delegates and a large network for balancing the work of handling so many different kinds of workers. Pretty much the only type of crime he won't dabble into off the top of my head is anything that hurts the helpless (i.e. innocent people, animals) or involves trafficking and the like. Any criminal muses my friends have can absolutely plot out situations where he is their boss! But, he is the most personally involved with this, aside from the usual organizing large movements for bigger plans.

[viladlind]

one day there was a blank piece of paper and then looce went and spilled pink paint and sparkles and fairy dust and clouds and blood on it and boom!!!

fiyero was born

obviously fiyero exists in canon otherwise how would he be friends with ALL the BG3 cast obviously ur playing a version of the game in the future where she's been released as the newest addition to the party—

yeah duh

anyways ur always meticulous with ur muses from blog design to music to the nifty little quotes u use for tags so fiyero is no exception, he arrives fully assembled and ready to dazzle. i LIKE how she's distinctive from break, both in voice and writing style/vibes??? like there's no traditional victorian gentleman going on here (i mean that in like a good way) and he is his own person.

admittedly i haven't been keeping up with all her threads cause i know u've been writing up a storm here but every time i glance at one or two it's got drama and romance and angst and self-reflection and love and whatever going on, there's always multiple things going on at once with layers of idk prose and poetry and i guess u must like baroque music too with how it all overlaps into one concerto, no wonder u made him a bard;

i also like our thread so far i expected it to be a silly little thing but oh! i feel fiyero's genuine affection in it and it's very warm, just like his shade of pink, and i hope i am give her the love i feel for him too

also hehehe since u told me whatever with pronouns is fine i played around with them for this!! it's fun i hope it wasn't confusing

ok see u next kiss or whatever!!

oc validation for luce

pumping my fist in the air rn. calling my writing one concerto bc there's so many layers of prose and poetry is probably the highest praise i could get i'll b honest. i am so obsessed with poetry and how it fills out the soul and nourishes creativity and i am so glad it translates into my writing. all i could ask for ALSO honestly part of why i've been absolutely killing it w/ writing speed on here is BECAUSE fiyero is so different from break. it's rlly good to hear that they're as distinct in writing as they are in my brain! at this point it's kind of crazy that a lot of peeps don't even know me as the break guy on this blog lol. i will get back to my clown eventually thank u so much lethe u killed it w/ this one i feel so validated ksjfgnjds. also perfect pronoun usage <3 mwah!!

[musesofthesun]

⭐ Gripping you affectionately (this can go for any blog tbh not just here)

send a "⭐" & i will list muses i would be interested in throwing at yours = accepting

DUDE ofc id like. pitch yui at any of ur guys cause shes my highest muse rn. but like in general, i think trina (if she still on tumble) or hope should meet my moth boys.... spins my funny interdimensional post office around. maybe they have a macguffin or something for ur muse /lh that or malice and noir could talky a lil........ tbh putting anyone in malice or dimentios vicinity would be cool. and ofc leah and dimentio gotta meet sometime

[quickdeaths]

Does your muse initiate a lot of physical contact? Is your muse comfortable with, or proud of their body? Are they insecure? Is your muse attracted to any features in particular? Does your muse read smut, own magazines, or watch p-rn? (For Shinobu 'I have no hobbies or interests or crushes on anyone' Yaguchi. Of course. Though I can send in things for other muses too: this is just my daily contribution to the Brainrot (TM) )

Does your muse initiate a lot of physical contact? Definitely not. Shinobu is a reserved and private person, and her experience with things like hugs is that of them being forced upon her, rather than actively seeking them out. With how generally unwanted that kind of contact is, she isn't the type of person to initiate physicality. If it's unwanted on the part of the other person, there's no purpose to it, and if they do want physical contact, it's Shinobu's experience that they'll simply do what they like and Shinobu will deal with it. There's seldom a good reason for them to do anything personally.

With Anzu, they're much more accepting of it, but still rarely initiate. Maybe when Anzu is really down, a pat on the head, or a hand on her back is warranted, but more than that is beyond Shinobu's comfort capabilities. However, it's also the case that there's a certain person whose hand Shinobu keeps finding with her own, even without meaning to. When it comes to that person, and perhaps a future with that person, who can say? For all her claims about being a husk, Shinobu's just a person, after all, and she's long denied herself the comfort and joy of another person's touch. That could change.

Is your muse comfortable with, or proud of their body? Are they insecure? With the exception of one or two things (like her facial scar), Shinobu is comfortable with her appearance. She's an objectively good-looking person, she's athletic and physically capable, and her body does the things she needs it to do - it enables her to compete at the highest levels, she is capable of defending herself if required, things like that. While they wouldn't be opposed to some variety, their body also wears well the clothing they like. Perhaps it hasn't always been the case, but in the present day, she is personally content with her body, when she is allowed to treat it as she likes.

Where it becomes a problem, though, is the way other people react to her, or the ways in other people try to take ownership of her body. Between the ways her appearance is mandated a certain way at home (no earrings, no eyeliner, hair swept back, dojo clothes, etc.), and the way that the image of "cool cold prince shinobu-kun" is projected onto her in public, there's a sense that her body is not entirely hers, or hers alone. That understanding of her body is loathsome and despised, and if there's anything about her body she truly hates, it's the comfort that other people seem to have with it trying to control it.

Is your muse attracted to any features in particular? There aren't many physical traits that Shinobu particularly likes or dislikes. They recognize beauty, but it's not an inherently interesting feature to them. She appreciates a good figure, nice thighs, soft hands, pretty lips, all those sorts of things. What's far more likely to catch her attention, though, is a passion for things that are unusual or seldom-spotlighted. When it comes to popular media, sports, celebrity news, big topics or events that everyone is talking about, Shinobu is bored. When someone is speaking excitedly about a very unusual topic, even if Shinobu isn't personally interested, that pings for her.

In addition, other traits that build interest are conviction in oneself and one's beliefs (not necessarily to the point of stubbornness or inflexibility, but in general), ambition (in whatever form it takes), and, although she'd be reluctant to admit it, genuine kindness. Of course, that's all theoretical for them, given that they claim to have no interest in real relationships.

Does your muse read smut, own magazines, or watch p-rn? Very, very rarely, if ever. If/when Shinobu has those kinds of urges, there are all too many girls lined up for an opportunity, to the point that those sorts of external media wouldn't be necessary. Most of what she's been exposed to has been a result of Anzu's well-meaning attempts to pin down what Shinobu's type might be, to generally little effect. It probably doesn't help that very little caters to her interests or experiences, so she just doesn't get very much out of it. Much of what otherwise line up with their sexual interests is extremely directed towards a male audience or experience that they want less than nothing to do with.

Furthermore, while Shinobu clearly has no issue being personally cruel to people who come onto her, including tearing into perceived deficiencies in their appearance or sex appeal, the very depersonalized effect of magazine pinups and videos is such that it just feels like needless objectification. As someone with a lot of experience being fetishized and objectified, Shinobu doesn't see very much sexy about seeing someone solely as a sex object when they've comparably done little to deserve it. If she truly is frustrated in that sort of way, Shinobu can deal with it without any additional aid.

[technicolorponies]

       Does anyone.... Want a Flutters Starter ??

[crownshattered-moved]

|| anyway I was right, kotoha is WIDE awake and I’m just vibing to her playlist rn—

[cfkillers]

MILLIE STARTER CALL.

[crookedherringcolorclod]

🍐  :    how intelligent is my muse overall?  are they smarter than the average person,  or less than?  are they primarily self-taught,  or did they acquire most of their knowledge in school?  are they more street smart or book smart?

This is for all the three sisters, especially for Amaya

Thank you @summercreolefanfictioner for the ask! Sorry I can’t talk to you rn because of a glitch that made my dm feature disappear 😭😭. Hopefully we can talk again after it’s fixed! ✊✊

•Reiji is crying in relief that these three don’t put shame on the Sakamaki name-

Asa

•Straight 95-99% and has the highest grades amongst her sisters. Although she tends to make a few mistakes, not making it a perfect 100. Asa studied under Reiji’s guidance until she felt ready to study on her own.

•Her best subject is homemaking. Asa learned how to cook when she was living in the manor as a maid, and she continued this out of habit. So school was more like her learning Japanese dishes since she was already good with the basics.

•The food Asa makes is delicious, she would pack lunches for her and her sisters and the food she makes during homemaking would be like an extra meal for her and her sisters. (Mainly her sisters since they eat more. No, it’s more like they needed to eat more)

•Asa is mostly street smart and had to learn how to present herself as someone who is self-assured and does not show any weaknesses, every part of her is always on high alert and she had to focus harder on her surroundings because the souls around her always refused to be quiet and it takes more effort in shutting them up.

Akemi

•Gets 90-95% on her report card. Her best subject is dancing and is known to be good at the performing arts with all the experience she has.

•There was one time there weren’t enough boys in the class and she had to dance the man’s role in ballroom dancing. Next thing you know the girl she was dancing with was swooning and everyone wanted Akemi as their dance partner.

•People even tried to outdo one another in auditions when Akemi gets the main role that needs a love interest. It was one of the reasons why Akemi usually takes secondary roles, but it never meant she’ll not give her all in performing.

•Akemi is not good at math and formulas confuse her. Would ask Reiji for help since Asa would be helping Amaya and she didn’t want to disturb them. Let’s say… Amaya needed some help.

•Reiji was a jerk about it, but he did help her with some of the questions and it paid off.

•When Akemi started living in the Sakamaki Manor, she read almost every book in the library. There were almost no books in the red-light district and the Moulin Rouge, so she was happy to read again.

•However, it didn’t mean she didn’t learn a thing or two in the cabaret. Akemi has good social awareness, is very perceptive of other people, and especially of what they want from her.

•Akemi knows when to touch someone on the shoulder, flash a smile, and say the words they want to hear.

•High social intelligence, especially when it comes to seduction and flirting. Doesn’t flirt and seduce much nowadays.

Amaya

•Gets 70-95% on her report card. She’s not bad, it’s just that there’s this one subject weighing her down.

•Sucks at Japanese history and it’s the only line of 7 in her report card and would ask Asa for help with the names since it’s the prime reason why she’s always on the brink of failing.

•Amaya fears supplementary exams and has no desire to take another test.

•Would do her best to contribute to group works out of fear that her group would kick her out.

•Her best subject is physical education, she’s good at running or anything that includes flexibility.

•Would have loved to go to the swimming club but the idea of going in and out of the water to breathe brings bad memories…

•So that’s why Amaya settled on joining the literature club, they write out stories and other pieces of literature and she was curious.

•Amaya ended up writing a lot and her works consists of a lot of yearning, loneliness, and rivers. It kind of surprised the other club members since they thought she would write more happy poems.

•Amaya finds it nice that she could feel a bit vulnerable with her words permanently sealed in ink and memories.

•She would even laugh at the letters from Akemi’s suitors and dramatically act out the emotions poured out.

“Akemi, I have fallen for you the moment I saw you.” Amaya would fake a cry as she read the letter’s contents. Akemi was sitting on the sofa sorting the other love letters given to her, smiling at her youngest sister’s dramatics.

“Amaya, since when were you so immersed in reading?” Akemi chuckled as she read another letter talking about her hair and eyes, the letters always seemed to repeat themselves, never really talking about anything other than her physical appearance.

Amaya looked at Akemi with a lopsided grin on her face as she plopped down next to her. “Eh, I just started taking an interest, I guess?”

•For most of Amaya’s life she knew how to blend in with the shadows and had to be street-smart. She even fought tooth and nail against others to get something to eat and learned how to think on her feet, because her life depended on it and she’s extremely stubborn about living.

[phanlight]

Twin Flame

 .                                       ✧                   ✵                  ✧                                      .    ✴      .                    ✦               .                        .                 ✦                  .     ✴ 

thank u so much to anyone and everyone who’s stuck by over the years had it not been for ur constant support i would not be doing this rn not in a billion years also i hope i still remember how to write

this is gonna be v slow burn [like a big ol sage sticc] so I apologise for the steady pacing for a first chapter but I wanna set sufficient enough ~ foundations~ so things will pick up soon i promise lol

I digress ANYWAY have some magic

I literally don’t know what to describe this as I guess artist/mage/psychic!dan (if that isn’t a thing i’m making it one), bamf!phil (gotta stay tru to the roots), enemies-to-lovers, semi-surrealism, ethereal-surrealism (I s2g this is gonna be about 5 diff genres wtf am I doing)

✴      .                    ✦               .                        .                ✦                            ✴

summary:

Dan isn't lost anymore. He's finally okay with being an explorer, not a seeker. Content with being a wanderer rather than a wonderer. His checkered luck often leads him to almost hear the laughter of Fate ringing in the sky, but he puts it down to entering the world on the Thirteenth night of June; a Friday full with the Moon. A time where forces higher than usual ripple through the atmosphere, through the night. But he’s okay with that. He’s become okay with that. He’ll look for the light in life, live for the sparkle on summer tides. He’ll find answers at the end of paint tubes and poetry books; get by on his own moral philosophies rather than those of a shattered system. But when he falls into a realm in even further ruins than his own, he himself shatters – and suddenly the cycle begins again. Seeking, wondering – lost down to the soul. But with destruction comes construction. With darkness comes light. With bad comes good. And to exist, they must co-exist.

✴      .                    ✦               .                        .                ✦                       .     ✴ 

actual plot bc that said nothing about what acc happens: 

dan’s a lonely ass painter who loves crystals and one day finds a passage in an abandoned lighthouse that transports him into a spirit realm where he meets someone more lost than him. they don’t get on but for reasons they’ll have to.

.            ✴.                                  .                                .                 .✴              .     

.✴     .                    ✴               .          ✯            .                ✴                      .     ✴.

opposing forces, they attract;

yin won’t exist without its yang.

a sunless moon, a silent act;

in idleness it hangs.

galactic compounds in the skin,

harbour chemicals and cells,

particles, atomic, sub-

vibrate with polar spells.

the grounding force attraction

it ties every single bond.

becomes the gravity,

of life; existence as One.

.✴     .  - Love                                                                                               .     

                                                                                          ✴               .          ✯            .                ✴

                                                  ✴[AO3 LINK]✴

Dan stares at the pale tornado swirling inside the china. Seagulls cackle outside, as if in response to the disgusting abundance of milk.

Fuck this.

The ruined tea goes down the sink with a steamy slosh, and he chokes on the eruption of vapour that partially enters his lungs. Great. The universe has now given him enough to decipher exactly what type of day today will be.

He calls them his Horseshoe Days. He’d had one once – a gift from his grandmother. At the time it seemed something strange to give to a seven-year-old. He was at the age where he wouldn’t know what a horseshoe meant if one came hurtling down from above, bonking the top of his skull.

And it did once – well, nearly. It was only while dodging the thing falling from the shelf, only milliseconds away from meeting his forehead, he realised they might actually be as lucky as she’d promised.

That was, until perhaps, he placed it back on the shelf upside-down. His parents were both blissfully none-the-wiser when it came to anything outside the ordinary – the superstition veining back to his occult-practicing grandmother on his mother’s side (and skipping generation in the process, it seems). They saw a horseshoe as nothing more than a crescent of iron that for some reason sits in the kitchen, whichever way up. It was only once events later that day began to unravel in an unfamiliar manner did a bubbling suspicion of a correlation arise. Dan had vaguely remembered something about the blacksmith Dunstan and how a shoe upturn drains its ‘powers’, but it was only a crashed bike, scraped knee and flattened football later did he actually pay any attention to why his day might have been going so badly.

Well, eventually.  

The entire exchange sits still at the forefront of his psyche, each detail in sparkling clarity. He sees it now, even hears the voices.

“That’s why!” he’d burst out over dinner.

His parents had jumped in unison, and his stepfather elbowed over a glass. The table shone with a thin spread of water, trickling across the mahogany.

The hardness of Gerald’s voice is still nailed into the back of his memory. He used to hate it when he shouted.

“Jesus!” he’d have yelled, scrabbling around the table with a napkin. Dan remembers the kitchen towel surrendering immediately, from sheets to soggy mulch in seconds. He’d then have followed with a favourite catchphrase of his; “Do you have to yell like that?”

It was nothing they weren’t used to. He had a habit of sneaking up on everyone. ‘Feather-Feet’, his grandmother used to call him.

Dan remembers ignoring him, stretching up out of his seat and reaching for the overhead shelf. He doesn’t reckon an upturned horseshoe has ever made anyone this happy but he remembers feeling nothing but delight. It’s a bit of a backward attitude. “I knew I wasn’t just naturally unlucky!”

Being born on Friday the thirteenth certainly doesn’t help, despite giving every single birthday wish to a promise of better luck.

His grandmother used to say it was a good omen. Actually lucky; despite its reputation in amongst the ladders and scaffolding and cracked pavement tiles. The Thirteenth night of June, a Friday full with the moon, she used to muse, eyes bright with love. He misses her.

“What are you doing?” his mother had narrowed her eyes, watching her son reach for the horseshoe. When his elbow disturbed a spherical paperweight in the process and it began a bloodcurdlingly slow descent off the shelf, they flew open wider. “Careful! Mind my-“

He was already ahead of her, he remembers. Fingers clasped around the iron and flipped upright in a fraction of a second. In the other he outstretches his hand, feeling the paperweight plop into his palm in one piece instead of millions more. He‘ll never forget the sigh of relief from somewhere behind him.

He remembers the feeling. The weight of the crystal. The coolness of the cast iron. Saved antique in one hand, upright horseshoe in the other. The absolute thrum of electricity through his bloodstream. He remembers smiling and looking up. “See?”

“See what, exactly?” Gerald had then snapped, masking his panic with anything other than fear. “You nearly ruining our wedding present? A repeat performance of Aunt Nora’s teapot?”

He glanced to his mother, still completely ivory with shock. Her eyes are fixed on the swirled quartz as if it were seconds away from leaping off of his palm again by itself; under its own magic.  

“Did you not see that?” Confusion begins to seep into his initial delight. Were they even concentrating at all?

“I saw you being idiotic,” his stepfather had spat. Dan winces like he did fifteen years ago. The word still holds its weight, even now. He doesn’t know why.

“The horseshoe,” he’d tried to explain. “It wa-“

“I don’t give a shit about the bloody horseshoe!” he’d suddenly exploded. Both Dan and his mother jumped back in their seats.

“Gerald,” he remembers the softness of his mother’s tone, a diametric opposition of the echoes of steel his stepfather had the nerve to call an indoor voice.

“No, I’m sick of it!” he’s erupting now. Bubbling over the surface. A temper like a needle to an overfilled balloon. “He’s always flailing about. Knocking things over. Your mother told me about the vase, by the way,” he spat aside.

Dan’s stomach had dropped. She’d sworn not to say a word. She’d promised.

“You never know what the boy’s next move is going to be,” he continues. “I’m sick of it,” he repeats again, as if repetition be the highest form of emphasis. He snatched the paperweight but ignored the horseshoe, and Dan remembers how it had looked in his grip – the glass probably having more chance of shattering inside his big burly palm than the solid stone floor.

He vanishes and reappears two seconds later, marching back with a face of beetroot and a brow of iron, pressing a daggered glare into the back of Dan’s head. He could feel the warmth burning the nape of his neck, the stare scalding the skin.

“He’s not to be trusted,” he announced as if there were thousands of other ears also listening.

A delicate frown threaded its way across his mother’s brow.

“Wh-“

“Leave it, Penelope,” he’d cut her off before she’d even had a chance to finish the word, let alone the sentence. Dan used to hate the way he spoke to her. “If the boy wants to behave like a child, he’ll get treated like one. No more ornaments in the kitchen.”

Dan remembers thinking then it would kind-of be nice being addressed by name. Just once. Maybe. Gerald’s also about the only person capable of criticizing a seven-year-old for behaving like a child. Make it make sense, Gerald, he doesn’t say. And my name’s Dan, but you’ve probably forgotten that.

She’d thrown her son a quick sapphire glance; a gleaming silent apology. Dan’s heart had lurched at the glint of panic in her eye.

It lurches now. That absolute demon must have given her hell. He’d never been more thankful to see his mother out of a marriage. He was horrible.

And he couldn’t fucking cook. He even remembers what they were eating on the night because it was so inedible. He’s always detested mashed potato, and he’s certain Gerald knew this. He remembers stabbing the offending white lump on his plate during the sacred three seconds of silence His Lordship could manage before that cruel mouth of his opened again.

“Bloody cold, now,” he’d grumbled.

Dan remembers holding back a smirk. As if any amount of heat could make this cement any less torturous to ingest.

He’d briefly wondered if suffocation was in his hidden agenda all along. It wouldn’t surprise him. Death by potato has an interesting ring to it.

Anyway, the whole situation could have been history in under ten seconds. He could have had the horseshoe upright and the paperweight saved in three of those. Job done, panic over, back to dinner in the remaining seven. He imagines Gerald’s reaction had he spoken his mind at the time.

That was fifteen years ago, of course. Being seven, someone could have told him the sky was pink and he’d eventually believe it (maybe if it happened to be during a sunset). From that point onward he hadn’t exactly lapped up old wives’ tales, myths spinning into each other like silver silk, but his superstition remained a conscious glow in the back of his mind; going no further than avoiding three drains and ladders and watching black cats slink across his path with his breath held. Sometimes even whispering a quick wish when eleven lines up the clock (most days he misses, though).

He vowed from that very moment to save anything considered slightly out-of-the-ordinary for those who actually want to hear about it. Those who understand.

He looks at the horseshoe. It’s the same one – it always has been. Seeing three new house-changes and a hell of a lot of life, it sits, still – tightly nailed to the overhead beam of the kitchen. There’s no way it could slip now.

His eyes travel down from the horseshoe at the dazzling abundance of crystals lining and clustering every free available space surrounding the entire kitchen. He figures Gerald’s little ‘no ornaments in the kitchen’ law wouldn’t bode too well here. He’d scream in fear of the raw amethysts by the kettle. Sob at the sight of the glittering chunks of hematite by the sink. Shield his eyes from offending lines of onyx near the spice rack and the little malachite cluster by Rosa (one of many house plants). And as for the great big slabs of rose quartz and Himalayan salt on the windowsill, the glow of sunrise warming the atmosphere each morning; kissing the space with shadowy peaches and dusty pinks – well, his face would be an absolute picture. Priceless. He grins whenever he dusts, love bursting in his heart for each one and humming through every vein in his body. They make him feel like a proud father.

A short, sharp buzz on the countertop interrupts his thoughts. His consciousness snaps back into reality. Shit, how long has it been? Once he gets thinking about Gerald and everything he put his mother through he gets angry, and then half the day disappears and he finds he’s done little else other than stare at a drawer or a wall for the majority of it. It’s easy to get carried away. It happens when he thinks about crystals too.

You okay?

It’s Zema. Part-time housemate, full-time soulmate. It’s almost like he’d heard his thoughts; the voices so powerful they resonate externally. Part of Dan wouldn’t be surprised if he had – Gerald was certainly shouting loud enough in there.

Been better, he answers truthfully. Just made the worst cup of tea known to mankind

I wondered what all that clanking was

There’s a pause, followed by another quick buzz.

HSD?

Dan grins at the screen. Horseshoe day. He’d even remembered their abbreviation.

“H – S – D,” he’d once said. “It’s like LSD. But shitter.”

Dan had snorted. Zema’s about the only person who would compare having ‘one of those days’ to a psychedelic trip.

“Exactly,” Zema had said once Dan had told him this. “It’s not. That’s why it’s shitter.”

Dan hadn’t exactly agreed with him. He didn’t even think it was worth mentioning Horseshoe is actually all one word, but he’d gone along with it because HSD is a lot less effort to type and sometimes it’s good to have a code. Zema’s about the only person who knows about this. He doesn’t trust anyone else enough not to judge him when he tells them he’s basically superstitious, however blanket that definition may be. It’s probably not the correct term, but he doesn’t know how else to describe it. Drawn to the unknown? Like it matters either way. It’s not as if he’s particularly vocal about it. A twenty-three-year-old male, unusually innate occult-esque interests and a static, stagnant society don’t exactly fit together with jigsaw-like ease. Dan doesn’t know why. Dan doesn’t see what the harm is in allowing others to gravitate towards their own pleasures when the concept alone of interests and hobbies is entirely subjective. That’s the beauty of it, he finds. No two beings have exactly the same range, however similar.

Maybe the harm is that there’s no harm at all, and that scares him. The lust for destruction scares him. This planet scares him.

Something like that, he taps back, before pocketing the conversation. 

He gives up with tea involving milk and unlatches the wooden box neighbouring the kettle. It’s stuffed to the brim with teabags of spanning across the entire flavour spectrum.

He picks one up and presses it to his nose, inhaling. Ah, Jasmine.

He picks up another. Camomile and- something. He frowns. Lemon?

He puts it back. Can’t be. He finished the lemon last week.

He picks it up again and sniffs. Ginger, that’s it.

Nah, he tosses it back in for a second time. He only touches the ginger when he’s feeling jaded the morning after a night involving too much wine and not enough water (they happen more often than not).

He picks up another, inhaling the rich, fruity aroma. Red berries. It even smells like the colour red.

He puts it back nonetheless. Strawberries and- well, just about everything else with –berry tagged onto the end – just wouldn’t cut it right now. Ambitious Ribena, that’s what Zema calls it. It hasn’t really tasted the same since he said that.

He picks up another. Jasmine again, he rolls his eyes. He’s seldom ever in a ‘Jasmine’ mood. He doesn’t even know why they have so many – Zema barely touches it either.

He finally settles for a plain green tea. A bit of simplicity wouldn’t go amiss right now.

His phone buzzes again.

Don’t think I can’t hear that kettle. I’ll have a ginseng pls x

Dan huffs out a laugh. Cover blown.

We’re all out of ginseng.

Look under the sink.

Dan rolls his eyes and yanks open the door below him. Six boxes of the stuff stare back at him.

Six??? he taps with one hand, grabbing a box and tearing the cardboard open with another. Really?

Didn’t wanna run out is all that follows.

He shakes his head, but lets the grin tug his lips.

Panic-buying tea now, are we?

Don’t start. You bought six crystals the other day

Ok that’s different. Mercury is in retrograde right now and we’re not taking any chances

What does that even mean

It means u need to stop buying so much tea

I’ll stop buying tea when u stop buying crystals

Dan smirks. He’ll be waiting a while, then.

He assigns Zema the age-old High School Musical mug. It was a gift from Axel one or two Christmases ago, and he imagines the Disney franchise probably didn’t have temperamental dishwashers in mind during the manufacturing process – the boiling steam had left the majority of the characters eyeless and Troy Bolton completely nose-less. He leaves it next to the kettle with texted instructions for Zema to leave the duvet cave immediately before it turns cold, but for what it’s worth, the other boy isn’t exactly famous for his pro-activity early in the mornings. He wouldn’t be surprised if it reached stone temperature before passing his lips. Judging by the lack of audible movement, he’d be safe in assuming he’s probably fallen back asleep.

He pads into the lounge with a steaming mug and a bookmarked copy of Le Fleur Du Mal; completely falling to bits and half of the pages contemplating a permanent escape. Despite his attempts, even the strongest duct tape couldn’t keep this copy together.

There’s something about a parallel translation that fascinates him. How meaning can so flawlessly transcend dialect. He wonders if Baudelaire had this in mind. Whether he knew his works would one day be read in languages far from his mother tongue. Did he know his own craft to be so acute, so fine, that whichever order, whichever laws of letters they’re under – the same meaning shines through? The same rhythm, the same senses, colours, emotions rippling through each sign and symbol? That’s poetry.

His eyes scan the neighbouring verse. Learning a bit more French would definitely help, that’s for sure. His own skill is rusted from years of neglect; having abandoned all hopes of igniting his love for such a beautiful dialogue after school had strode into his life and seeped all the joy and passion out of just about everything he once loved. He’s glad to have reignited that. It was years until he picked up a paintbrush again.

He’s only three words in before he’s interrupted by an all-too-familiar sound.

He rolls his eyes, peering over the edge of the pages. “What now?”

Two eyes wait for him. One emerald, the other azure.

“No,” Dan immediately answers.

The reply is longer, louder.

“Ugh,” his glance scours the ceiling for a second. “It’s literally been an hour, Vee. Where are you storing it all?”

The eyes answer with an innocent glitter, but Dan knows better. His eyes flicker back to the page:

What will you say tonight, poor lonely soul,

What will you say old withered heart of mine,

To the most beautiful, the best, most dear,

Whose heavenly regards bring back your bloom?

We will assign our pride to sing her praise:

Nothing excels the sweetness of her will;

Her holy-

Then there’s a gentle chirrup. He feels his heart turn to jelly. She knows exactly what that sound does to him.

“Venus,” he groans in defeat, elongating the ‘u’. He plops the book down next to him and hauling himself up from the sofa. “Only one, okay? No more.”

She slinks down from the stool, her stool – only about fifty years old and fraying at every single edge. What was once a delicate floral tapestry now existing as aged blobs in various shades of pastel. All four legs, previously smooth mahogany, are now a splintered beige from years of busy carving. He doesn’t understand how such soft paws bear such ceramic claws.

They’d tried everything. From cardboard and cereal boxes to actual climbing towers she would barely look at, let alone touch. Beds she ignored; choosing only Dan’s favourite satin pillow. And she’ll only ever drink water out of a specific pint glass.

“We’ve adopted a human, not a cat,” Zema had once said.

“It’s like she owns us,” Dan had agreed.

She’s trotting along the kitchen floorboards now, her tail high. She stops once she reaches the drawer under the crystal cabinet, throwing her human a demure glance.

“Alright, alright,” Dan catches her up, grabbing the bronze key. He’s thankful cats don’t have the power of thumbs. The world is already chaotic enough. 

He ends up giving her three. It’s those eyes, he tells himself in a small bout of self-justification. Those fucking eyes.

“Venus flytrap,” he mutters, running his fingertips along her silky back. “What are you like, eh? Where do you put it all?”

“Hollow legs,” a voice appears from behind him.

He almost leaves his own skin.

“Jesus!” he clutches at his chest. “What happened to the No-Giving-Dan-Cardiac-Arrest-Before-Noon rule?"

He whirls around to find Zema sat cross-legged on the marble surface just beside the sink, all silken robes and bed-beaten hair. A smirk gets bitten back under his teeth.

“I texted you."

Dan can’t quite believe the twenty-first century has come to this. Texting those who not only live in the same property, but are on the same floor.

They’re not actually too dissimilar in appearance – his head also home to a gigantic mass of thick brown waves, although in a darker shade to Dan’s own hair. His eyes stare back at him in a shade of gentle grey. Chameleon Eyes, Dan calls them; for they reflect their surroundings. He remembers how they looked when they’d first met that day at the beach – bright turquoise; matching the sky and the sea. He remembers how perplexed he been the second time they’d met and his eyes were suddenly a shining shamrock; sharing the glow of the grass. Then a gentle grey on the street under overcast clouds.  He’s always wanted to go into one of those rooms covered completely ground-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, in mirrors. His eyes would probably boast galaxies.

He’s shorter than Dan (a rare occurrence among his friends) and about fifty times as agile – something he and Venus have in common is their blatant disregard for actual furniture. Even she sits on a stool more often than he does. Zema the Lemur, he calls him.

“Because chairs don’t exist,” Dan mutters now, his tone soaked with sarcasm. “Christ, you’re worse than her,” he nods down towards their little family member, still fixated on the drawer.

She trots up to Zema, seizing the opportunity.

“Are you hungry, honeybear?” Zema coos, his eyes sparkling. He gets an emphatic ‘mew’ in response.

“Don’t be fooled,” Dan interjects quickly. “She’s had a bowl and two treats already today.”

“Those eyes,” Zema grins knowingly. Green flashes in his direction. They’ve noticed she responds to ‘eyes’ faster than her own name.

“Those fucking eyes,” Dan shakes his head in agreement. The eyes in question now dart towards him. Whenever ‘eyes’ happen to crop up in conversation between the two, she looks as though she’s watching a tennis match. Dan’s abdomen still aches at the memory of the night they’d made the revelation; both curled up either side of the room in tears of laughter at her light-like response. “How’s the tea, by the way? Not too cold, I hope?”

“It’s lovely,” he sips appreciatively. “Good mug choice. Always better when it’s from Troy Bolton’s brain. It’s like I can taste his thoughts.”

“I didn’t know Gabriella tasted like ginseng,” Dan says. “Cut her open and she bleeds the stuff.”

Zema smirks. He holds the mug up, examining the worn surface in all its glory. “Looks like someone already has. God, this thing’s falling apart,” he thinks aloud, bringing himself ear-to-lip with the partially eroded character. “What happened to your nose babe, eh? Did it fall off during basketball?”

“Troy Boldemort,” Dan mutters immediately. Zema all but chokes, droplets showering the countertop.

He loves mornings like these, mornings where neither of them have any prior academic engagements and they can just sit and talk for hours about – well, anything, really. The final year of University boasts a monumental amount of focus and preparation and just a general resounding ‘oh-shit-this-is-actually-real’ feeling that apparently never really goes away; not even after you graduate, according to one of his cousins.

For Dan, nothing has really felt real since he was about fifteen, so it’s not something that particularly bothers him. He could just do without that ten-tonne workload.

“So what are you up to today, then?” Zema swings his legs over the edge, giggling as Venus begins an attack on his slipper. “Anything exciting?”

“Not much,” he sips thoughtfully. What can he do today? It’s been so long since he’s had a free day he’s forgotten how he spends time on his own terms. “Might get another painting done.”

“Paint me,” Zema beams, carding a hand through his fringe.

“Oh yeah?” Dan raises an eyebrow. “How the fuck would I go about painting your eyes?”

“Paint me in a field,” Zema continues. “And a beach. I wanna see-…” he hesitates. “We need to go to, like, a strawberry field or something. I wanna see if my eyes would go red.”

“Just smoke some pot. Then you’ll be halfway there.” Dan says, before hesitating. “Anyway, if we went to a strawberry field it’ll be mostly green. The strawberries are only the berries.”

“A poppy field, then,” Zema says.

He literally has an answer to everything. Dan rolls his eyes.

“One day,” he finally affirms, and the other boy grins. “In Spring.”

“I’m glad you’re painting again,” Zema says. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you do anything creative.”

“Tell me about it,” Dan mumbles, taking another sip although the tea’s losing its heat. It’s always the case when talking to Zema – the rapid, quick-fire pace of every conversation leaves barely enough interval to drink (that is, of course, unless it’s alcohol). “It’s been so long I doubt I even remember how to paint.”

“I highly doubt that,” Zema fires back, gulping more tea and placing the ghostly mug beside him.

“How about you, then?” Dan gulps down the remaining liquid before it has a chance to grow any colder. “What are you doing with yourself today?”

“I’m off out,” Zema stretches, his voice slightly strained. “Need to be at Eddie’s by ten. We’re doing the bass today.”

They’re two of a wide circle of musicians playing in each-other’s orbit. Zema’s never anywhere without his guitar, Axel the same with his saxophone (Saxel, he’s often referred to as), and Eddie would be the same, he imagines, had he not chosen the piano as his instrument of choice. He bites back a smirk, picturing him struggling with a rope, trying to drag his enormous Bösendorfer Grand onto a train for a gig. Thank almighty Yamaha for the existence of keyboards.

Dan winces, his eyes flickering to the clock. “You’re cutting it a bit fine, then.”

Zema’s own eyes flash towards the time. “Oh, shit,” the remaining tea gets swallowed in seconds and the ghostly mug falls into the sink with a steely clatter. “I’d better go.”

“Nothing they’re not used to I imagine.” Dan smirks.

“Don’t,” Zema cringes, grabbing his bag and shooting down the corridor into his own room. “They brought up my punctuality only the other day,” his voice continues. “Fuck, Dan. Why do I do this to myself?”

“Alarms exist.” Dan calls after him. 

“It wasn’t even that,” he reappears holding a handful of guitar picks and a capo, shoving them into the front pocket of his case. “I decided to stop off on the way. Never in my life have I seen such a queue for the drive-through. It was ridiculous.”

“At least they got a couple of fries out of it.”

Zema stares at him. His expression speaks for itself.

“Okay. Well at least you got a couple of fries out of it.”

“Cold fries. And a melted McFlurry,” he mourns, hauling his guitar over his shoulder and looking Dan dead in the eye. “Word of advice, Dan. Never try eating ice cream while you’re driving. It doesn’t work. There’s a time limit.”

“There go my plans for the day,” Dan scoffs. “I don’t even drive.”

“And it’s about time you learnt, eh?” Zema grins. “Give your bestie a break from all that parallel parking. It’s doing my head in.”

“If it means getting you to places on time, I’m more than happy to,” his eyes flicker to the clock. “You have nine minutes, Zee.”

“Fuck’s sake!” Zema groans. “I’m doing it again. I’m going, I’m going-” he flusters around, filling both arms up with various belongings.  “Can you grab my keys for me? They’re on the plate.”

The Plate, Dan smirks to himself. Keeping vital belongings within reaching distance of the door, it’s the porcelain base to everything – keys; both car and house, cards; both debit and SD, alongside an ocean of lighters, loose change, semi-important receipts, and a Pizza Hut flier that had been there when they moved in. He remembers the delight they’d both shared upon discovering the possibility of five-pound large pizzas – crushed immediately by disappointment upon realizing the flier was from 2006.

It’s filled now to the brim with such a pile had it not been for Zema’s obnoxiously large keyring collection it would have taken him an age to locate them. He grabs them by the ‘Amsterdam’ pipe-shaped bottle opener.

“There,” he thrusts them into his hands with a jingle. “Now go.”

“Lifesaver,” Zema clutches them, slipping out of the door. “I’ll see you around five, yeah?”

“See you,” Dan grins, watching him jog to his vehicle. “Safe journey. Don’t drive through anything this time.”

The look he receives tells him all he needs to know. He watches the smaller figure amble up the road to his car; a battered blue thing with a collage of stickers plastering the rear. It was a seventeenth birthday gift; four metallic walls capturing four years of freedom. Despite having known Zema for only two of those four years, they’d already ridden up and down the country in it; halfway back home they’d had to make an impromptu visit to a tiny town somewhere along the south coast due to a faulty tire, but that ended up being one of the best decisions of their lives.

Because had they not set foot into the first tavern they’d walked past whilst the car was being repaired somewhere up the road; a crooked, old thing with bookshelves for walls and a resident cat asleep on the stool, they would never have been served by a bartender with a nose ring and hair the colour of moss (Dan remembers wondering how someone can suit such surroundings whilst simultaneously looking so out of place). They would never have stuck up a conversation about the clock on the wall and discovered it was an original nineteenth-century piece passed down from Germany, and the bartender would never have noticed Zema’s obsidian pendant and asked him about its origins. They wouldn’t have spent the remains of the afternoon sunk into the floral upholstery, swigging ale-upon-ale with this vibrant character as the sky loses the light before reality dawns and they realise they came here with a car that needs attending to.

He still can’t believe this was how they met Axel. All three of them have evolved so much since then, all grown in each other’s orbit.

(The rapid blossom of the butterfly effect has never failed to astound him. It never will.)

The fade of the engine introduces a silence he hasn’t heard since seven a.m. His smile seemed to have travelled along with the car; with Zema. Shit, has it always been this deadened without him? The quietness cuts into his eardrums, growing sharper and sharper the more he strains; searching for something, anything – a whisper of a tree, a yelp of a dog, a-

He paces away from the front door, finding comfort in the soft pad of his own footsteps. The floorboards groan with every movement, and he’s thankful for the noise.

He can never find his way back to sleep upon awakening on a Horseshoe day. It’s the tell-tale sign for him – if he claws his way out of a biting nightmare bathed in sweat, scrabbling around the duvet until his fingers touch cool amethyst, rough and raw, he knows there are challenges waiting for him.

He doesn’t know why it happens. Or how. He’s only ever tried to explain the whole thing to Zema a handful of times and even then he doesn’t really get it, doesn’t really understand how he can just know something’s about to happen before it does, just feels the flames underneath his ribcage, anticipation burning the embers red.

“You ought to get on those Beta-blockers,” he’d once told him through a mouthful of raw bagel. Several crumbs fell to the floor, something Dan viewed as a skill if not anything; uncooked bagels are near impossible to eat that messily. “They helped me when I started getting those anxiety attacks. No way would I have survived college without them,” as he took another bite, more crumbs parted ways.

“I don’t think the buckets of coffee every morning particularly helped,” replied Dan, before adding, “and every evening.” He’d stopped then, frowning. “And wherever else in the day you can- okay, that’s not the point. It’s not the same as anxiety,” he paused, the corners of his mind struggling to describe something so utterly inexplicable. “It’s-… different. It’s never constant, it’s not like that.”

As he reminisces, he feels the jolt.

Something’s going to happen tonight. Today. Sometime.

That is all he’s absolutely certain of. That an event is around the corner, and that it’ll happen sometime within the frame of the day. Good or bad, positive or negative, it’s the same spike in his gut, the same blade of intuition cutting into his senses. Such a skill sits somewhere on the fence between a blessing and a curse.

He makes every effort to swallow the feeling down, place it anywhere but the absolute forefront of his psyche, and treads upstairs. If there’s one thing he’s learnt during the years of having to contend with this (whatever ‘this’ is), it’s not to dwell on it, not to feel it too much. Whatever happens, will happen. No amount of thinking, feeling, sensing, will change that.

As far as superpowers go, it’s a pretty shit one to have, he thinks. Enemy, up ahead. Wait, it might be a friend actually. How close are they? Fuck knows. We might be waiting a while, but it could be any minute now. I know they’re coming though, trust me.

It would be useless.

He reaches straight for the art supplies as soon as he opens his bedroom door, grabbing as many paints as the laws of physics operating his satchel bag will allow. He relies on oil for today’s medium, seizing handfuls of small foil tubes spanning the entire visible colour spectrum, all thoroughly crinkled with use. A couple of sponges leap into the leather (stained, but he doesn’t have the capacity to start his cleaning ritual right now. Cleaning one art supply leads to another, and another, and then ‘just one more’ until the day sits partially behind him and all he’d have to show for himself is an empty canvas and two very wet sleeves), along with a healthy selection of paintbrushes, and the remaining dregs of his paint thinner (he really ought to get some more. He keeps forgetting.).

He releases a breath he didn’t know was taking up his chest. He’s actually ready for once. Wow.

Breakfast is crunched in seconds, accompanied by two planet eyes and a mass of black fur.

“Vee,” he mews through a mouthful of toast, his eyes rolling. “I’ve barely even started mine.”

Her expression doesn’t falter, her gaze only glittering more. He lasts two more bites before caving in and heading to the cupboard. Her paws are feathers; silent little things, but he doesn’t need to hear her (or even see her, for that matter) to sense she’s trotting along behind him – tail in the air and eyes to the sky. He awards her a third treat, internally self-justified by his forthcoming absence for the rest of the day, and watches as her nose delicately pokes the pea-sized thing before accepting it with much grace.

“What is it about you, eh?” he scratches the very top of her head, loving the way her eyes close in response and a deep purr begins rolling. “How do you do it?” his tone is weirdly devoid of rhetoricism. “All you domestic cats do is sleep and ask for food.”

He hesitates.

“I mean, that’s not all you do. You knock stuff over. Both solid and liquid. And scratch things up. And sleep on important documents. And make me late for things sometimes,” she purrs louder – almost solid confirmation cats can understand humans. Of course that would please her. “Yet we love you unconditionally,” his fingertips travel behind her ears and she leans into his touch. “All you have to do is exist.”

If only that were the case for humans.

His toast is cold by the time he returns to it, but he doesn’t care. He wasn’t particularly hungry to begin with – he doesn’t have Venus’s appetite. They should have named her Jupiter instead.

Binning the remains, he slings his art supplies onto his back and reads the weather through the net curtains. It looks fairly promising; the sky slightly overcast but showing no immediate threat of rain – they’d fallen victims to a heatwave not long ago and then a raging storm the following week.

September is often precarious; not quite summer, but not yet autumn. The sun smiles at him but he makes a mental note to pack an umbrella just in case.

✵

His concept of ‘perfect beach weather’ is a bit weird.

His perfect beach weather welcomes a threat of rain. Embraces stronger breezes. He doesn’t care if there’s a cloud bigger than the sky heading in his direction. As long as it’s comfortable enough to sit and paint without the wind claiming just about everything he arrived with, he’s happy.

When he looks out of his window towards beams of warmth, that’s forest weather. That’s lay-in-sunlight-pools-and-read-the-tree-trunks weather. When whites and greys cut the sky, that’s when it’s time for the beach.

This beach is his home. His sanctuary. The only surroundings that actually manage to cut through the thickening tar of anxiety coating his soul, the sound alone of the hissing waves setting him free of any spikes of fretful darkness still latching onto him.

Here he can think.

Feel.

Be.

His eyes match the horizon. Solitary. Still. He doesn’t understand how an element moving so fierce can appear as nothing but a perfectly straight line.

Then again; Jupiter’s a raging mass of storms and still the perfect sphere remains. As for Saturn.

He whips out his sketchbook, the A1 pages immediately making friends with the breeze. He eventually claws the pages into a surface at least half-sketchable, the paper sheets cutting through his gentle grasp as he tries to wrestle with giant flaps of paper, great white veils. The definitive opposite of a bat, he concludes decidedly. He’s probably a good ten minutes into this whole endeavour before the thought of whipping anything colourful out crosses his mind. His hands hurt now.

He starts with the greens. He always does. Touches of evergreen, of shamrock and a blue-tinged teal make their way onto the palette first. He takes a tiny amount of the brightest and begins creating a dusty emerald sky, the bristles massaging the canvas with gentle strokes. He’s never seen a green sky before. He’s seen skies spamming across the entire palette of the planet’s warmth, all rubies and vermillions and even violets. But never green. Green seems to stay on land, he finds. Maybe the trees will be blue.

The trees end up purple. He’s painting what he can see right now; a thick smatter of bushes lining the top of the cliffside. The forest. His forest, he secretly calls it, already hearing ‘you can’t own a forest, Bezos’ from a mini Zema somewhere in his mind.

He’s painted this view, this vast stretch ahead of him, so many times he found the shades to be somewhat restricting despite the sun making all the difference – indigo in the rain and a glittering turquoise in the summer light. So he’d swapped the cool palette for warmth one day, and fell in love with the idea of a ruby ocean. The sands had become a dusty lilac; something that had later appeared in a dream of his. The sky he’d kept to its natural shade that day – a gentle grey; accentuating the heightened colour of the other two.

It was like a fuse had exploded inside him after that. He’d come home from the beach with armfuls of half-damp paper; all thoroughly watercoloured at first – before experimenting with the oils and the pastilles upon realisation that soluble paints and rain-threatened skies do not mix. He’d branched out; grasping at all ends of the visible colour spectrum; knocking on every door, pushing every possible boundary. Rockpools became crystals, the shores began to sparkle – really sparkle; once he figured out how to paint with glitter correctly, - and colours began to multiply. Soon there were three colours in the sky – the gradient fading one into the other and often bearing complete contrasts; reds eloped with greens and purples entangling golds.

He’d combined just about every colour; primary, secondary; tertiary – but never attempts to create the same shade twice. It’s more fun that way, he decides.

He reads the horizon. The line of beach huts are still just as colourful in reality as on paper, so he’d taken to embellishing each door with swirls of gold using his thinnest brush. The shadow of the overhanging clouds looks to have deepened the ocean’s bed, and he wonders just how far the floor of sand slopes down. How many miles of ink until he reaches the earth. He’d swum countless times (some while drunk, thanks to a team effort involving Zema’s persuasion and his own impulsive nature), but never dared to venture anywhere past the Lighthouse a stretch of metres away from the shore.

Dan doesn’t quite know when it became derelict. How long it’s been since a beacon pierced the night with neon light; guiding the lost and the found, the leavers and returners. There are no windows; only wooden squares where light once seeped through – but the Widow’s Walkway still remains weirdly open in the air, the iron cates curling up at the top.

Some say it’s been months. Others longer. Having only lived in this town for the generous part of two years, he has no real clue himself – but every new crack on the surface, every new splinter of wood or peeled paint, doesn’t go unnoticed. However long it’s been, it’s definitely no longer in use.

It’s taken many forms on his papers, behaving slightly different with each medium. He once even took to disregarding colour altogether and using only black ink and silver glitter; each curve, dot and line finely constructed. That one, he must admit, was a personal favourite. He’d turned every crack into a vein, pumping midnight blood into every inch of the tower. Every chip of paint revealed a crystallised surface underneath – its inner beauty begging to see the light.

He adds colour today – but always acknowledges its signs of time. If it’s cracked up there, it’s cracked on the page. If he strolls by one day and there’s a chunk of brick missing; a gaping hole in the surface, he wont lie to the paper.

He’ll just cram a million stars into the space.

His eyes sink back into his own page. The violet trees have a teal cliff to sit upon, and today the sea is a concrete grey – not too many shades off exactly what he’s seeing right now.

It’s another different combination of colours; a new one, but there’s something missing. He reads the page, eyes darting between his creation and his surroundings.

He looks up, bending his neck and staring at the clouds until his eyes water. They glide over him, over them, over everything, like glaciers in the sky. The beautiful thing about just a slight threat of rain, is the sheer metamorphosis they seem to undergo a priori. He sees one turn from Yoshi into an ice cream. One that starts off as a squashed Darth Vader before growing a tail and turning into a seahorse. Another that begins as a boot, considers turning into a palm tree, before finally joining up with another and becoming the Cheshire Cat. A couple that look like skyships. And one that looks exactly like Appa, much to his absolute delight. Even down to the horns.

An idea grips him with such force he jumps, elbowing his paint water into the sand. Punished by Karma for being creative. Great.

He grabs his lightest pastels and reads the emerald sky again.

One sweeping motion, and there’s now a moon; a glowing crescent against the green hemisphere.

Two soft strokes, and there’s a surrounding haze. He softens it with the very tip of his finger, and feels something flood through him. Yes.

Three quick dots of white, and a belt sits in the sky. After another dozen more, a shield. Then a bow joins.

He’s grinning now, inspiration thrumming through his veins like a current.

After seven more, there’s a plough (Trough? He can never remember which one it is. More like the fucking saucepan. Or square with a tail.).

Completing painting after painting in colour after colour, how has this idea never occurred to him before? He should even include a couple of planets, he thinks as his pencil scrapes in a suggestion of Saturn.

Two moons later he grins at the page, sparkling with new celestial life. He throws his eyes up to the sky, wondering how inhabitable the earth would be had his interpretation somehow become scientifically correct overnight one day.

He tries to imagine a sky with three moons. Scarily large asteroids. Comet trails scarring the atmosphere.

Then his smile vanishes and his eyes return back down to this A1 universe beneath him. Tries to chow down the growing realisation that inhabitability is probably inevitable anyway with the way things are headed, and that the problem is down here, not up there – and he dabs in a small Pleiades. Up there is safe. Under the watchful eye of the Seven Sisters; that’s protection.

Aliens are probably avoiding us on purpose. Who can blame them?

[crzytwn]

artelle!

Disagreements:

Who is more likely to raise their voice?

Elle. But that‘s def more of a lack of like volume control than like trying to overpower the convo

Who threatens to leave but never actually does?

I don’t knoooow!!

Who actually keeps their word and leaves? 

Uhhh probably Artie? But like it would have to be a very extreme argument, right?

Who trashes the house? 

Elle

How often do they argue/disagree?

Often but like not OFTEN? They’re such opposites that they’re always disagreeing a little bit kinda but they’re not like serious.

Who is the first to apologize?

 I don't know, neither of them really comes off as people who'd hold on to a fight. So like whoever feels like they should apologize first.

Sex:

Who is on top? 

Elle

Who is on the bottom? 

Artie

Who has the strangest desires?

Uh probably Artie since he's been REPRESSED

Any kinks? 

I guess

Who’s dominant in bed?

Artie really seems to like it when Elle says rough things, so her I'm guessing??

Is head ever in the equation? 

Absolutely

If so, who is better at performing it?

Elle but Artie could be a whole wild card

Ever had sex in public?

Artie would def b too worried about consequences!

Who moans the most? 

Elle is LOUD

Who leaves the most marks? 

This really could go any way possible fhdh

Who screams the loudest? 

E L L E

Who is the more experienced of the two? 

Annabelle Charming!!!!!

Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’?

Boooth

Rough or soft? 

Both

Roughly how long do they usually last?

Idk man some time. Like Elle for sure knows how to keep the party going

Is protection used? 

For now, yes

Does it ever get boring? 

Probably not? They seem v spicy in the bedroom.

Where is the strangest place they’d have sex? 

A stable

Family:

Do your muses plan on having children/or have children?

They def plan on having kids SOMEDAY

If so, how many children do your muses want/have?

Three! But they’ll probably have a really wildly big fam accidentally.

Who is the favorite parent? 

Idk?!

Who is the authoritative parent? 

ARTIE

Who is more likely to allow the children to have a day off school?

Elle!

Who lets the children indulge in sweets and junk food when the other isn’t around? 

Elle!

Who turns up to extra curricular activities to support their children?

Both of them!

Who goes to parent teacher interviews? 

Artie

Who changes the diapers? 

Prolly a nanny

Who gets up in the middle of the night to feed the baby? 

Also prolly a nanny

Who spends the most time with the children?

Elle, she’s gonna be so obsessed with their kids like in general but also like she doesn’t give as much of a fuck about other responsibilities and is way more likely than Artie to ditch out on them.

Who packs their lunch boxes? 

Palace chefs!

Who gives their children ‘the talk’? 

Both of them! Truly the worst moment in each of their children’s lives I’m sure.

Who cleans up after the kids? 

Maids

Who worries the most? 

Artie but it rubs off on Elle real quick

Who are the children more likely to learn their first swear word from? 

ELLE!! She’s a problem!

Affection:

Who likes to cuddle?

Both of them probably but Elle’s love language is physical touch so maybe her a little more

Who is the little spoon?

Elle?

Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places?

Elle!!

Who struggles to keep their hands to themself?

^

How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable?

Uh idk but I know Elle would probably get bored faster than she’d be uncomfortable

Who gives the most kisses?

Artie!

What is their favourite non-sexual activity?

I don’t know

Where is their favourite place to cuddle?

Uh

Who is more likely to playfully grope the other?

ELLE

How often do they get time to themselves?

They get as much as they want now, I guess. But once they’re married and have kids and dogs and royal responsibilities, probably not that often

Sleeping:

Who snores? If both do, who snores the loudest?

??

Do they share a bed or sleep separately?

Currently it’s separate right? Hmm we should discuss the Artelle summer?

If they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart?

They both give off wild cuddler vibes

Who talks in their sleep?

Probably Elle? IDK? Does Artie? He’s always stressed

What do they wear to bed?

Elle’s a big t shirt or underwear kind of girl? Does Artie sleep in pajamas?

Are either of your muses insomniacs?

Is Artie?

Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside?

Ummm?

Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side?

Limb wrapping 4 sure

Who wakes up with bed hair?

Elle has a lot of hair so like, she does.

Who wakes up first?

Artie

Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other?

Most likely is Artie? But hjfkdkd they’re royal so probably neither

What is their favourite sleeping position?

Elle probably sprawls herself over Artie no matter how he lays

Who hogs the sheets?

Elle

Do they set an alarm each night?

Artie would

Can a television be found in their bedroom?

I don’t know

Who has nightmares?

Artie

Who has ridiculous dreams?

Elle

Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed?

Elle

Who makes the bed?

Maids

What time is bed time?

Idk that’s probably up to Artie

Any routines/rituals before bed?

According to Elle the only routine she’d wanna have b4 bed is sex

Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up?

Elle

Work:

Who is the busiest?

Artie

Who rakes in the highest income?

Do kings get an income?

Are any of your muses unemployed?

No

Who takes the most sick days?

Elle, not because she’s sick. She just stans playing hooky

Who is more likely to turn up late to work?

Elle

Who sucks up to their boss?

Artie’s boss is his dad so

What are their jobs?

King and princess/music producer fbhdjsk

Who stresses the most?

Artie

Do your muses enjoy or despise their careers/occupations?

I think they both love it, right?

Are your muses financially stable?

DUH

Home:

Who does the washing?

Maids

Who takes out the trash?

Trash people

Who does the ironing?

Maids

Who does the cooking?

Cooks

Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying?

No one because they aren’t trying but if any of them would, it’d be Elle

Who is messier?

Elle

Who leaves the toilet roll empty?

Elle, but it’ll be fixed by staff

Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor?

Elle, she aims for the hamper or whatever but if she misses she’s not gonna like get it

Who forgets to flush the toilet?

No one

Who is the prankster around the house?

Neither?

Who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere?

Neither? But also they get driven and Elle boards most places

Who mows the lawn?

The Gardener

Who answers the telephone?

Whoever’s job that is

Who does the vacuuming?

The maids

Who does the groceries?

The Cooks probably?

Who takes the longest to shower?

Artie, Elle has more hair which should take longer,,,but I don’t think she washes her legs

Who spends the most time in the bathroom?

??

Miscellaneous:

Is money a problem?

No

How many cars do they own?

Idk

Do they own their home or do they rent?

Own cuz it’s camelooooot

Do they live near the coast or deep in the countryside?

Idk where that is

Do they live in the city or in the country?

I don’t KNOW

Do they enjoy their surroundings?

Yes, unless Camelot is ASU Canonically stinky as shit 

What’s their song?

Today it’s Shut Up And Dance by WALK THE MOON

What do they do when they’re away from each other?

Text idk? Are they away from each other rn??

Where did they first meet?

Uhh idk

How did they first meet?

Ummmm probably at some royal thing?

Who spends the most money when out shopping?

I don’t know? They don’t seem like excessive spenders but they’re both outrageously wealthy so they probably spend more than a normal person would casually.

Who’s more likely to flash their assets?

??

Who finds it amusing when the other trips over?

Neither?

Any mental issues?

Elle has ADHD and Dyslexia and Artie has v bad anxiety

Who’s terrified of bugs? Who kills the spiders around the house?

Idk but Elle would murder spiders in a heartbeat

Their favourite place?

Fuck if I know

Who pays the bills?

The bill payers idfk

Do they have any fears for their future?

Probably

Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner?

It’s on brand for them both I think?

Who uses up all of the hot water?

Idk

Who’s the tallest?

Artie

Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other?

Elle

Who wanders around in their underwear?

Elle

Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio?

Elle

What do they tease each other about?

IDFK

Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times?

Artie

Do they have mutual friends? 

IDK? DJ?

Who crushed first? 

I don’t really know? Elle was more vocal but Artie was gonna ask her out before she got engaged to DJ so 🤷🏽‍♀️

Any alcohol or substance related problems?

No

Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am?

Elle

Who swears the most?

Elle

[ambitchiovs]

lenny back at it again… i warned y’all about the intros dump. anyway, off to this bitch:

&&. isn’t that [ DEBORAH ANN WOLL ] walking around the hamptons? oh no, nevermind it’s just [ ADELAIDE MONTSERRAT ]. y'know, the [ 19 ] year old [ CIS FEMALE ] known to be quite [ CHARISMATIC and DETERMINED ] but also [ CUNNING and RUTHLESS ]. currently, the police has them as [ A PERSON OF INTEREST ] in the case of samantha wheeler, because they [ WERE PART OF SAMANTHA’S FRIEND GROUND ]. but they go on about their life as [ A STUDENT ]. i wonder what secrets they’re keeping?  [ lenny/23/gmt+3/she/her ]

TW: eating disorders, addiction, mental disorders, possible suicidal thoughts/mentions

DON’T YOU EVER TAME YOUR DEMONS, ALWAYS KEEP THEM ON A LEASH.

In the eyes of Adelaide Montserrat, there was never a girl to be found. If you dare to pry, you will not find what strangers see when they pass her by the crowd. You will look into a bottomless void that threatens to swallow you whole and it will look back at you with smiling teeth. Little Addie, once a girl with pink tutu’s and ballerina shoes, was never one to be meddled with - she would captivate all her teachers and classmates with rosy cheeks and a clever tongue beyond her years, but there was nothing warm or kind about the little girl whose parents held so close she nearly choked to death.

History goes, her father — her biological father, anyhow, was a very powerful politician before he dropped dead. Nobody really knows what happened that night - all everybody seems to know is that all her loved ones seem to fall like dominoes. Her father died when she was 16, during a robbery. The men were never caught, but little Adelaide was left bawling into her mother’s lap. Surprising as it may be, she was actually the product of a one night stand and poor lack of judgement, or so her mother likes to tell her - but Catherine Montserrat was no fool, and she took him for all he had - and as it turns out… That was a lot.

That doesn’t come cheap, for Adelaide, anyways. Being a part of a new family meant she now had a new player to share her inheritance with - and damned if she didn’t do everything she could to throw them off the board. In the eyes of her parents, she could do no wrong - she was pure and pristine and everything they hoped their little girl would be. You’d assume being the younger sibling meant competing for attention - but she never competed. She never even considered it a competition. She won, plain and simple. Her half brother, that man who called himself her “father” now were but pebbles in her shoes, nuisances she had to navigate through to continue on with her luxurious lifestyle. They didn’t understood her, didn’t particularly wanted to, and it was easier to smear on some foundation and bake it with powder than let explain why her skin was cracking. It was easier to strap on those old ballerina shoes and put on a show until her toes were bleeding, than to try and show them what was behind the curtains. And all jewelry in the world, all praise, all money and countless designer bags she accumulated every year could never fill up that gaping hole, that detachment she felt towards the outside world and inability to connect with things and people - even those supposedly closest to her.

You see, Adelaide didn’t lose, because she tailored the game to her whims and batted her heavy set of lashes to make it seem fair. And if she did lose - the game be damned; she’d destroy it and any evidence of her failure with the wrath of a woman scorned. She didn’t want to be a little sister, or a daughter, or something for men to gawk at. She wanted to be something else. Anything other than this vile thing dripping with self-loathing , cloaked in a veil of perfectionism. Something that wasn’t rammed into this golden mold before she even took her very first breath.

Addie’s behavior as well as their parents favoritism only blurred the lines between love and hate between the half-siblings, complicating her understanding of relationships even further. And it certainly didn’t help that her new brother was just as stubborn and competitive as she was. The children were picture perfect, carrying on the legacy of their parents on their backs as if it weighed no more than a feather - while whatever had been good or soft in them began to rot.

But just who is Adelaide Montserrat? The reincarnation of the Virgin Mary to most. The girl with perfect hair, perfect hair and a perfect family. In truth, Adelaide could be seen only as a terror taken human form to those who opposed her, and a perfect, exemplary girl for those who keep a safe distance. What she is, what she truly is, is a game of smoking mirrors - a fragmented girl, scattered into so many pieces to cater to the whims of crowds, that now, when she looks into a mirror, the image that looks back is something recognizable; distorted.

Fueled by her own securities and desire to obtain perfection, paired with the crowd of rich kids that were offered to her as friends growing up, it didn’t take for things to escalate; by the age of only fourteen, poisoning their blood with alcohol, snorting up enough cocaine so she had to carry around wipes and kicking each other in the stomach while crouching over the toilet became somehow ordinary. Encouraged, even. All that deep-rooted self-hatred had to spill someway, somehow. She grew to resent how boys were granted more freedom, more room to misbehave and make mistake. She resented girls for being themselves, for not wanting to scream every second of every day. And she resented Samantha for how genuinely she could smile - for how easily everything came to her, and for how she was everything she could never be; while she was lying in a grave she dug herself - shackled to the image of perfection she’d crafted, held to the highest of regards, expected to never falter nor stutter. It was hard to define the relationship between her - one moment Addie was sweet, the next she was cruel. And as to that unfortunate Halloween night, she claims they parted ways before she could see anything.

All the harder she tries to cling to this illusion of control, the deeper she dives into that well. Parents often say kids will “grow out of it”; their fits of rage, their apathy towards other children, their unwillingness to share, their manipulative, spoiled ways of obtaining what they want- but Addie never did. Somewhere inside there’s still that little girl who’d rather break her toys in half than to share it with other kids. Who’d bump into other little girls at school, and tell the nurse they tripped. Who’d rather set her arm back in place herself than say “you were right”. The little girl who’ll sit in an empty throne all alone, built with the bones of the people she once claimed to love.

PERSONALITY-WISE:

Adelaide is emotionally unstable and has a very competitive, volatile, manipulative personality; she doesn’t forgive, and she sure as hell doesn’t forget, and she can lash out in incredibly ruthless ways due to her extreme lack of empathy for hers. Her addictions and unwillingness to ever speak to anyone in depth about herself only worsen the state of her BPD. Despite all this, on the surface, she can seem like just like any other pristine, privileged girl. It’s not usual for people to find her charming - she does exude that sort of magnetic aura that’s very easy to fall for, because people tend to see what they want to see - and therefore, it’s easy for her to adjust her personality to the expectations of whomever she’s trying to captivate. In a way, her entire personality has merged with her addiction: being friends with her feels a lot like moment of high in exchange for an eternity of sorrow.

She can be a loyal friend, to some extent, although she’ll never put anyone above herself. She’s also very insecure and prone to fits of rage (in private) whenever she doesn’t get what she wants (think broken mirrors and glasses), as her self-image is heavily dependent on what she can achieve and how others perceive her. Deep down, this all stems from jealousy - she so desperately wishes she could connect with other people and things the way everyone around her does, but in the end she can’t, and she’s left feeling like an outside looking in. If she’s miserable, why shouldn’t everyone around her be too?

HIT ME UP TO PLOT U COWARDS !!

for reals, though - i know this was unnecessarily long, but oh well. you can be ex friends with her? don’t know why they’re not friends anymore - but i’m willing to bet it’s addie’s fault.

maybe some sort of competitor?  academic or otherwise.

maybe there’s some poor ex out there who knows what a headcase she actually is? but probably can’t say much bc they fear for her life lmao.

she wouldn’t openly date anybody who could reflect poorly on her reputation, so secret hookups??? give me someone who’s getting sick of being used pls. ( she’s a closeted bisexual. society isn’t very welcome to the idea rn ) so girl crushes yes pls let girls have crushes on her. let her manipulate them bc she knows. i need.

also gimme someone who deals drugs to her tbh, bc this needs to be kept SUPER lowkey, but it’d also be hilarious bc she wouldn’t have to fake her personality around them & it’s like bitch what the fuck this girl is dr jekyll and mr hyde.

i’d love love to see a fake relationship - but i don’t mean the ‘secretly have feelings for each other’ - i mean the… secretly despise each other but they’re image-obsessed people and like being seen as the golden couple.

oH and pls someone give me a… dare i say sisterly connection? mostly, a girl who idolizes her or puts her on a pedestal, that she might or might not have a soft spot for ( which in addie’s handbook just means she’ll be that much crueler whenever she feels like it tbh ) & see it as some sort of protegee.

idk i’m open to anything, these are just suggestions thrown at the wall here. the point is… plot w me u cowards. and yes, my muse does bite.