#...but having difficulty putting it to words

[frothlad]

The core phenomenon is called "blocking". It happens in your native language too -- whenever there's a word you know but you momentarily can't think of it, it's "blocked". It happens more often as you age.

There are multiple interacting systems involved in speech that require a lot of planning -- for instance, we modify how words are pronounced based on what words they're next to, so there's phonetic planning, and we have cues and signals in conversation that indicate "I'm done talking, your turn" or "I'm not done talking yet" so there's pragmatic planning -- so that being blocked is a speech emergency (which is often going to make it harder to release the block!).

If the word is intractably blocked on the time scales we're talking about, we have a bunch of alternatives that can occur, like substituting a similar-sounding word or a conceptually-similar word, or stutter until the block resolves.

If you're multilingual but not comprehensively fluent (i.e. you're aware that you're not speaking your native language), and you get blocked retrieving a particular word, your language center -- which is low-grade panicking at the best of times anyway -- looks at the concept, sees a word it can retrieve that is also marked foreign, and stuffs it in anyway.

This can have additional hilarious effects, like applying L2's morphological or grammar rules to an L3 word, like trying to put it into genitive case or conjugating it in the subjunctive.

One of the ways that people with age-related cognitive difficulty compensate for the fact that specific nouns (especially) get blocked a lot more easily is that they'll substitute non-specific referents, like "that" or "the things". It's an obvious verbal indicator.

What they don’t tell you about speaking multiple languages is that your brain does not in fact have a box labeled Spanish and another one labeled German. Instead it has a box labeled “Not English” and sometimes when you’re talking or writing in one of the languages you speak it will just start pulling random words from that box.

[ruinix]

Can you write a smut story of Quinn Hughes and y/n having car sex right before entering Dice & Ice?

Hi, lovely anon. I apologize for just getting to your ask. I fear I have been so distracted (Quinn withdrawals are hitting me so badly). But here it is! I hope you enjoy it even though it’s late.

Cramped Space

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Semi-Public Sex (car sex), Unprotected Sex (protections, yesyes), Just Quinn…being horny, of course, and fucking you so sloppy until you're a puddle but it's just a quickie...

Count: 3036 words | Masterlist

You’re nervous. Quinn can see that. You are fidgeting with the pendant of the necklace he gave you last night. Its matching earrings and bracelet glint on your ears and wrist. He glances at you.

Now, you’re biting your lower lip. 

You shift again, so he rests his hand over your thigh, sliding into the slit of your dress, his fingers curving over your inner thigh, giving you a firm squeeze. You sigh which makes him worry more. You scoot closer, spreading your legs an inch to invite his touch, so he squeezes again.

He spots a great parking spot in the venue for Dice & Ice Gala. It’s quite a close off area that’s sandwiched by a thick square column and a wall. He likes the slightly isolated areas because some people park way too closely. He doesn’t want you to have any difficulty going out your door, rather, him getting to you when he opens it for you.  

“What are you worried about?” he asks.

Another squeeze. He feels your shiver. Then he hears a slight sound which he assumes to be a small plea of discomfort. A tiny whimper that feels like a stabbing knife to his heart. How did he not see this before leaving the house? You clearly don’t want to go to the gala. He’s stupid.

He bites down his tongue to prevent him from speaking, waiting for you. He briefly lets go of your thigh, hearing another fucking sharp inhale, so he quickly slides into the spot, putting the car on park—shifting the gear and lifting the hand break. He places his hand back to your thigh as he turns to you.  

You’re looking around everything except him. Your lips are slightly trembling as you twist and tug the pendant. Quinn reaches to hold your hand. Only then, you look at him with worry and…What’s that? Is that…lust?

There’s no way. Why would you be turned on when you’re anxious? Maybe he’s just projecting his need for you. Fuck, he is, isn’t he?

Mentally, he slaps his head for being an idiot.

He needs to know what you’re worried about. He has to. He must. It feels awful being clueless when something eats at you. He needs to make it right. How will he make it right if he has no idea what it is?

“They’ll be lots of cameras, Q,” your voice quivers.

He hums, urging you for more.

“I don’t want to be photographed tonight,” you say.

His lips part as he gets more and more concerned. That doesn’t explain it. At all. His head goes into a full assessment mode.

This is most likely not about being seen with him. You’ve been photographed with him in several Canucks’ events. You’ve never minded that. Even when you two have gone out, there are fans who purposely get you in their shots. In those occasions, he always convinced said fans to delete the picture when you were uncomfortable, tugging on his sleeve as a silent confirmation of what you felt.  

Most of the time, you don’t really care about it, especially when you are all dressed up. Like you are now. Before you left the house, you were so proud of how you did your hair and makeup. He looks over your whole appearance. Definitely beautiful. You’re wearing a dress that looks so good on you, especially with that generous slit. It exposes your thigh so much when you’re sitting and he’s eating it up. He almost jumped you when you first showed it to him. Hell, even now, he wants to jump you. Blood rushes down his cock, unable to stop his hand to slide up your thighs, getting closer and closer to your—

‘Not the fucking time, Quinn,’he scolds himself.

He doesn’t understand the problem. Why do you not want to be photographed tonight? Do you not want to attend the gala? If you’re not comfortable going, then so be it. He can drive you back home. It doesn’t matter if he’s already running late. He’ll do it for you. You’re the most important thing in his life. He’ll do it.  

“Wanna head back?” he silently asks, leaning closer, unconsciously sliding his palm up and up your thighs until he almost grazes the lace you’re wearing.

“No, I…” You bite your lip that’s painted with a perfect shade of muted red that compliments your skin. The action makes Quinn’s mouth water. You sigh, looking away. “Do you really think I want to go home? Why are you dense today?”

What are you talking about—

Then you do it, tugging his hand closer so that the side of his finger gets into contact with your drenched panties.

Oh. Oh.

He’s not projecting?

“Just don’t want them to see how horny I am. Isn’t it obvious on my face?” You continue.

No. Not at all. You’re just so pretty. Quinn shakes his head, a bit too roughly to emphasize his disagreement and to clear his head from the lust that’s griping him in a chokehold. His breath hitches when he finally notices how your blush is deeper now than a few seconds ago, how your eyes keep peering around—more of assessing the windows of his car—it’s all tinted heavily except the windshield—how you bite your lips at the isolated parking spot, how your pupils are blown out.

Then he realizes that you didn’t whimper because you’re anxious. You’re horny. That’s fucking hot.

Admittedly, he feels stupid, for having you blatantly spell it out for him. He normally doesn’t need you to. He knows you like the back of his hand. He just really thought he’s fucking horny again. He always is.

Now, his cock stirs when you keep your gaze on him, looking up him through your lashes, your lips slightly pouting, your hand still playing with your pendant. He feels your legs spread more, inviting him to touch you, so he does. The softness of the wet lace sends shivers down his spine. His dick hurts.

“Hop on the back,” Quinn murmurs, barely holding himself back from ripping your dress to shreds.

Your lips curve into a smile, but like the tease that you are, you shift, kicking your legs over his lap. You say, “Take my heels off first.”

It takes all of him not to pant as he unclasps your left heel, his palms burning from your heated skin, absently discarding them on the dashboard. He can’t focus on your heels at all when your legs are bare from the dress. Your soft and silky skin feels so divine under his touch. When he takes the heel off, he can’t help but trace his thumb on your arch, pressing. A moan escapes you, your head tipping up as he massages the particular spot along the arch that you make him rub every night.

“Oh, that feels good,” you pant, gasping as he makes quick work with your other heel, dragging his touch on your skin. “Quinn,” you say in a breathless moan.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, my Love.”

“You’re the one—oh my gosh, Quinn!” you writhe as Quinn kisses your ankles then your heels, making sure to lick for ever kiss. When he softly brings up your feet, he moves to kiss the inside arch of your left, but you pull away. “Okay. Calm down, sir.”

Sir?

How can you call him sir and expect him to calm down?

Fuck calming down.

A rumble escapes him as he tries to kiss your arch, but you basically kick him by his shoulder and crawl over the center console, leaving him all flabbergasted. Protests tease the tip of his tongue as he turns around, his hand gripping the passenger seat, but they die down at the sight of you pulling your dress up to your hips. You slide your fingers down the wet seam of your panties.

“What are you waiting for, Q?” You taunt, baring your pussy by slipping your panties to the side. “I’m already here.”

Oh, you shouldn’t have done that. Everything blurs past Quinn’s head. One moment he is undoing his seatbelt and basically lunges into the back seat, the next he is kissing you so deeply that you are whining, rubbing his erection against your sopping wet pussy.

“Your pants are getting—

He cuts you off because he doesn’t give a shit. He wants you to make a mess on him. The thrill of him wearing your arousal just makes him harder. He wants you on him. That’s not too much to ask for, is it? He doesn’t care about how wet his pants are getting. He’s also spilling pre-cum inside his briefs. Besides, he’s wearing a dark suit anyway.

He kisses you like he wants to devour you because he truly does. He hooks one of your legs over his arm, lifting and spreading you wider, his knee planting on the seat for leverage, as he humps you harder. He bets he can make you come just from this. He already did it before. For countless times. He always ends up coming in his pants. He’s used to it by now, but he prefers coming inside of you so you can be full of him during the event.

With that, he quickly undoes his belt, tugging his pants down, hissing when your hand wrap around his cock the moment it’s free. When your thumb swipe over his slit, coaxing a bead of pre-cum out him, he is already panting like a starved dog. Then you guide him to your pussy.

“Fuck,” he curses as he sinks into your cunt, doesn’t stop until he’s fully inside you. Your slick and quivering pussy feels so good. You always feel so fucking good.

“Quinn, please,” you plead, writhing and clutching his shoulders. “Kiss me.”

Your wish is his command. He kisses you. Hard. He harshly nips your lips, tasting the sweetness of you combined with your lipgloss—or whatever it is, it’s fucking shiny.

When he can’t get enough, he licks the seam of your lips, shivering at the feel of your slight tremble, at every puff of air coming from your mouth. Then he slips his tongue past your awaiting lips. He groans at how your flavor fully intensifies, drowning any sense left in him.

He just wants to kiss, fuck, and hold you.

He needs it.

One taste of you isn’t enough.

He needs you to come around him until you can’t stop. He fucking needs it. Maybe he can just drive you both home. Fuck the event—

“This gala is important,” you whisper into his lips.

‘Did he say that outloud?’ he thought, groaning,“I know.” He ruts into you faster. “I just need you.”

“You always need me,” you say so smugly.

Quinn agrees. Forever and always. He needs you. You keep him grounded when he’s getting beat up from all the game losses or all the media shitshow he experienced. You make him live for so much more than just hockey in this place so far away from his family. You give him another home with you. You made him feel loved and cherished, wanted and yearned.

As much as he does with you.

But, alas, this Canucks event is truly important. It’s a fundraiser where he, as a captain of the team, needs to attend and he’s already late. As if on cue, his phone rings, breaking the calmness of the situation. He needs to pick up the pace to satiate you. Yet both of you choose to ignore it, because there’s no reason to rush.

Before Quinn would be beating himself for not being punctual, you changed that. You taught him that things in life must be savored.

Things being you and you and you.

Just you.

Every intimate moment with you is important to him. Whether it’s in the bedroom where you both talk until you two falls in a deep slumber in each other’s arms, or in a café where you drink at least two cups of coffee—while he barely drinks his tea—and feeds the both of you small bites of cake, or in the movie where you’re basically glued against his side as you watch the film with extremely wide eyes, or the park where you two bask under the sun while you eat the picnic you either had Quinn make or order, or just you two sitting in his car as you two people-watch while rambling about how your days are. Whether it’s casual moments or sexual. Like how you two always seem to take at least five minutes in a restroom cubicle for a quickie, or a sudden hotel visit because going home will take longer than a check-in, or maybe a quick make-out session.

Every moment with you is locked safely in his head.

No one can take it away from him.

Nothing can.

Every single one is a notch in his soul. He’ll carry it until the day he dies, until he gets reborn, until he finds you in that new life, so he can collect more notches that he will carry over to another life. Then again. Over and over again.

Quinn fucks you harder, kissing you to convey all his love for you. His hand slips between you two so he can flick and toy your clit with his thumb, as he drives his cock against that spongy spot that has your back arching, has you screaming into his lips. Your whines are music to his ears. He needs you to come.

A flash of movement catches his attention. Somebody just parked in the other side of the column, but it doesn’t deter Quinn from fucking you. Not one bit. Not when he’s inside of you. If only he can live inside your pussy for every second in his fucking life, he will. 

He feels amused when you part from him to breathe. You yelp when you notice the person get out of the car, barely looking over the car that’s probably moving with your tryst. Your hand comes up to his shoulder to give him a slight push, but he will never fucking stop. Sweat drips down your temple, your cheek, your jaw, and Quinn already there to lick it up. His tastebuds explode with the saltiness of it. He loves it. He needs more, so he dips his head to your neck, so he can lick up the sheen of sweat forming on your skin.

He’s just so fucking greedy over you.

He can’t help himself.

Your pussy clenches around him. Your thighs quiver around his hips, his other hand pushes one to spread you wider as he presses right over your clit with the other, teasing the small bundle of nerves, until you come. Every pulse, every clench. He feels everything as he fucks you through it.

He needs you to come at least three more times. He needs—

“I need your cum right now, Quinny,” you demand, grabbing him by his nape, making him stare straight into your beautiful eyes. “Now. I need you. Please. Please. Please.”

Oh, the chokehold you have on him.

You have him coming right there like someone’s perfectly trained to your every plea.

“Fuck, fuck,” he grunts, gritting his teeth for every thrust to take every spurt of his hot cum deep inside you, gripping your thighs so tightly that he is living hand imprints onto your flesh. The tiny moan escaping you makes him come harder as you clench around him. When he’s done, he’s spent a moment kissing your shoulder, collarbone, up your jaw and finally your lips. “So good, my Love. Maybe—”

His phone goes off, signaling that there’s another call.

While he rolls his eyes, you chuckle at him, truly pushing him off. Your voice is light as you say, “Later, Quinny.”

Quinn grumbles, getting annoyed that he needs to get off you. He needs to because he falls into the temptation of fucking you again. Still, he does it, getting absolutely hypnotized by the cum that spills out. No, actually. Maybe you two can get another round—

And his phone just fucking rings once more.

“Damn it,” he curses, quickly leaning over to center console to get the small bag you brought, getting his phone along the way. He ignores the missed calls that are piling up as he hands over the bag. He quickly types a text, “Will be there in 15-20 minutes.” Then he turns it in ‘Do not Disturb’.

He watches you start to clean up. You have this satisfied grin that makes him feel so fucking giddy. It doesn’t faze him when you playfully throw a fresh wet wipe for him to clean his dick. He absently does it to appease you, plus he doesn’t want you to be the only one fixing yourself when he’s looks as freshly fucked. However, he makes sure that he only does half-assed job before he tucks himself in. He’s not lying when he wants your cum on him.

Then he helps you with brushing your hair. Clumsily. He honestly doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he just does it, because you handed him the brush.

He’s totally mesmerized at how beautiful you look while you powder your face then while you put on your lip things—totally a balm and gloss. So utterly beautiful that he has to swallow the urge to ask for another round, because if he doesn’t, you two won’t be leaving the car for an hour or two or three.

With the way that you’re smiling, you know exactly what’s going on his head.

When your eyes dart towards his crotch, your grin turning into a smirk. “You might be the one who shouldn’t be photographed right now, Quinn.”

Then you laugh, a mix of a giggle and a chuckle.

His chest tightens as his heart pounds harder in his chest.

He wonders if he can survive the gala when he’s fucking hard and sensitive again.

He wonders how many times will you let him fuck you in the restroom when he can no longer bear it.

He wonders.

[aloboguara]

Once more Brosca and Alistair.

I can’t really put in words all of the reasons Brosca is so appealing to me since she’s tiny and I was always very conscious of being too tall for my assigned gender.

Maybe because I do picture her as a tomboy and with that I can relate. Dwarves are depicted with less conventional attractive physical attributes than we usually see in female leads with romantic potential. And having her with all those characteristics I’ve been shamed about and still being seen as worth the love and admiration of a romantic man as Alistair heals a little something in me, idk.

I feel like she comes from a background where she never knew true altruistic love besides that of her and her sister and they are more like protector and protégé than friends. She probably has difficulty accepting spontaneous displays of affection but painfully craves it at the same time. I think Alistair is a great character to rescue those lost emotions deep inside her and he has an even greater guardian-like spirit and Brosca would really benefit of being cared for and defended for once.

[secret-sector-antag]

🦇⚔ Dhampir Hunter V ⚔🦇

Intros/Profiles Part 3/?: Veni, vidi, dictavi [Potential CW for mentions of death and the following grief, as well as brief (albeit fictional) political stuff. Nothing overly detailed/gory, but just in case]

"Ingannamorte" Surname of Italian origin. Translates to "deciever of death" ("inganna"= "to decieve"/"decieves", and "morte"="death".) A rather fitting name for a creature of the night...

The Ingannamortes of Schprekenheim, at least loooooong ago, were the absolute rulers of the land. Being a subtype of vampire known in the area as StrigOwie, they lived up to their name: bring about immense suffering and misery, feeding off of it, and continuing the family name for generations to come.

However, despite the threats of torture, exile, and/or annihilation for any sort of political dissidence, the peasants of the land began to band together and fight back. After several attempts at a coup, the family have since fallen to a more underground, "figure-head"-like status. 

The then-current heads, Havaska and Polaris Ingannamorte, had a full plate on their hands: keeping the power of the family flowing throughout the land (but with a less...heavy-handed approach), other standard royal duties...and now, bringing up the next heir: Syberia (pronounced "Sĭh-Bĕ-reeyah").

For a while, things were actually...relatively okay. Syberia was growing into her role of one day becoming the head of the family...but as she began to learn about her family and the absolute power that they used to hold. She wanted a piece of that pie; none of this "figureheads-who-stand-in-the-background" business. And she was vocal about it. As she grew and had more of a hand in things, she became louder and louder- despite her parents doing what they could to try and quell that fervor.

Then disaster struck.

Havaska, mother to the latest heir of the Ingannamortes, had been murdered. While the "heat" between the royal vampire family and the peasants had disspated quite a bit over the years, a small extremist group wanted to make their mark...by doing what the several coup attempts back then couldn't: getting rid of the vampirs for good. While the group was quashed incredibly quickly (c'mon, you're fighting against vampires; and it wasn't like these guys were professional hunters), the toll it took on the remaining two Ingannamortes. While they grieved, Syberia saw this as an opportunity for them to bring that "iron-fistedness" back into play...but Polaris, her poor old Papa, was heartbroken. No matter how much she tried to convince him, he would not go all scorched earth and bring the entirety of Schprekenheim to heel. This, of course, led to increased tension in the already emotionally-bedraggled household.

...Then a little bit of light entered back into their lives...or, at the very least, Polaris's. A peseant woman known as Cerealia, who had brought it upon herself to continue to plant flowers on the deceased queen's grave, as well as keep the area surrounding area looking nice, was spotted by Polaris. Initially, he was a bit testy (how dare some...some commoner intrude on his land!), but seeing what she was doing, the ice that had come to surround his heart began to slowly melt. For the first time since he lost his wife, he had begun to feel...happy. Syberia, being Syberia, was suspicious. Who was this plebian, and what did her Dad see in her?! She was trying to usurp the throne, she just knew it!!

This, of course, wasn't true. Cerealia had no hidden intentions and genuinely cared about the forlorn king. Though one could argue that this took place very quickly, Polaris and Cerealia were soon married. And eventually, they welcomed another child into the kingdom.

Syberia was furious. Okay, yes, she was still the next in line to rule, but who the hell was this...this half-blood to come in and usurp what was supposed to be her time with her dad?! She wasn't acknowledging that peseant woman as family- even if she now bore the royal last name. But of course, under the treat of being sent away to the lower part of Schprekenheim to live out her life (or at least until she calmed the eff down and worked out her rage and resentment) in, potentially, a tall tower all by herself (almost like a "grounded for life" kind of scenario), Syberia let that hatred simmer. And simmer. And simmer. With her sister, that hatred did occasionally manifest as the standard acts of sibling rivalry, but her..."stepmother", eugh... was understanding, having been one of several siblings herself. However, even with the assurance that both kids were loved equally, it didn't mean she went unpunished for acting the way she did sometimes.

Things were going okay, it looked like.

Until they weren't.

Polaris and Cerealia had mysteriously perished on a trip to another village, as a show of goodwill. Some say that Syberia had a hand in it, but no one can be 100% certain...especially now since she's taken on the role as the head of the Ingannamorte family and will silence anyone who questions her. Playing to the public, she uses the death of her parents as her "reasoning" for bringing back the harshness that the family was once known for long, long ago.

Schprekenheim has been under her dark rule for who knows how long, and S.C.A.R.E. seeks to bring her and her army of monsterous creatures of the night down- to restore some semblence of peace to the region.

Can they do it?

Will she bring the band of freedom fighters to heel and recruit them to her undead army?

And more importantly...where's this sister of hers? She wasn't with the then-king and queen on their trip...she seems to have mysteriously vanished...

----------------------------------------- Syberia Ingannamorte Voice Claim: Eden Riegel

Codenamed "Nightside" by the organization, she is a fierce vampire that has plunged the region into darkness and misery. She is a manipulative creature that will stop at nothing to keep the iron grip she has on the area from loosening. With the passing of her parents and now as the official head of the Ingannamortes, there's nothing getting in her way to stop her....or so she thinks.

But of course, what is a queen without a bit of help?

"Faust" Voice Claim: Steve Valentine

Codenamed "Phantomblade" by the organization, Not a lot is known about this kid. It was shortly after Syberia's parents' passing and the disapperance of her sister that he came into the picture.

Acting as the confidant to the new ruler, 'Faust' does what he can to maintain order and acts as a "one man band"- directing creature hordes to deter any do-gooders, directing who keeps watch over the Ingannamorte hold, acting as Syberia's bodyguard and informant, among other roles. In short, Faust would give his life to save Syberia. ...He...doesn't exactly have the choice to not. At least, not anymore. That half-face burn (covered by the half-face mask) had to come from somewhere after all...

[moe-broey]

Reposting this one on its own bc. It means So Much To Me. It means EVERYTHING TO ME.

[dxxtruction]

I still think the photos were either an absent minded accident to where no one can be really sure who made it (several people have had access to the archives and have sorted through it over presumable many years) or deliberately planted by Rashid for Daniel’s benefits to go through the files uninterrupted. Because I think it’s a better display of how Armand is operating here simply out of a complete disinterest to be supportive, accountable to anything, or understanding of what the aim of all this is, and his care for Louis only goes about as far as himself, especially where the threat of exposure or abandonment is concerned. In short he has a disdain for this entire interview, let alone Louis history and inner struggles with it, and for selfish reason, so the photos, regardless of how they got in there, expose him of this. It clues us in about how his love is conditional on meeting his expectations of it not ending or being threatening in some way, especially where his sense of security is concerned, but he’s extremely possessive of who he loves so manipulates as much as he can to prevent this, to a point, and in such ways, it is just emotionally abusive. Though we also do see a result of when he’s offered something else that his love can shift easily to someone else if they are simply offering him all this sense of security, so his possessiveness is conditioned on the fact he has no other better options of getting his strong desires for this kind of love met.

Anyway, if it’s an accident like that, and let’s say it’s one Armand happened to have made, it falls right in line with this even more, though I think the point is we actually can’t know if this is the case of it as even he doesn’t know who did it. Though if there were any care he’d probably not point fingers at Louis who is the one who’d be least likely to have made such a mistake, but he doesn’t care and is just mad about being blamed by Louis, so does carelessly throw it out there.

And if they served a purpose of allowing Daniel to access the files for an extended period, which he couldn’t do much earlier when Raglan initially sent them over without raising suspicions, one can make the assumption that Rashid, who we find out is working for the Talamasca, did it for Daniel’s benefit so he could do so undercover.

Just my two thoughts.

[risingchaos]

Vulcan is just an ideal autistic society.

[dkettchen]

[vivispec]

.

[dsudis]

Stop referring to characters as dumb and idiots and stupid for having difficulty deciphering their own or others' emotions/attractions challenge 2k23!

[sherlock-is-ace]

.

[re-code1713]

interminable

[crosspost of a shuuenpro "fanfic" / "love letter" I published back in January, half-written in like. an emotional frenzy. relevant again because I'm feeling a lot of the same things]

At first, it was simply a curiosity.

It appeared to be an ordinary book at first, when you had found it splayed open on the floor face-up. You surmised that it must have been there for a long, long time, as its leaves were caked in dust - to the point it seemed to dye the very first page an ashen gray.

It was a thick book. You wondered of its contents. Cryptic white symbols were etched onto the front cover, indecipherable in meaning.

You brushed the dust off the front page, sat down, and began to read.

This book, just as many books tend to, contained a story.

It wasn't a particularly impressively written story, but you would find yourself drawn to it time and time again.

It was a common story featuring common elements. A mystery, a school setting, and a cursed book. A traitor, a tragedy, and an endless loop. The characters were left unnamed, but they were unique. Eccentric in their own ways.

The cursed book became an accessory in their tragedies, but the real antagonist could hardly be known. Was it the living book whose legends came to haunt them? Was it the traitor they were told to find?

Was it the children themselves, whose suspicions of one another deceived them into a one-way trap to doom?

The tragedy repeated. Then, a narrative sleight of hand. A confrontation.

Perhaps, the words on the page read, the real "fox" was you.

The end of an act, and the beginning of a dream.

You flipped to the next act.

A mystery was unraveled about the book's origins.

The innocent children who led this tragedy crafted it themselves, willingly played their parts as they filmed and presented it in front of a festival. These children, who would be reduced to mere legends to the generation that followed them, saw the ones that would follow their trail a decade later as mere fiction.

They had loved and trusted in each other, and yet they, too, met their own tragedy, its culprit just out of their sight. A grieving child experienced an endless dream, and with that, the curtains fell before any knots could be tied.

Before you had realized it, your eyes were dancing over blank pages.

No.

You wouldn't let it end here.

You kept turning the pages. There were many of them, after all. Yet they were all unwritten. Wasted paper. Wasted space.

You flipped to the beginning, and read again.

And thus began your own endless cycle, your own endlessly repeating tragedy.

Time and time again, you would walk away from the book. And yet time and time again, you would always return. You read, and you read again, as though the crumbs you picked up fallen into the book's gutter would solve a whole story.

(And when you weren't reading, you'd see whispers of the story everywhere you go. Within common words and mundane sentences, and even the words "common" and "mundane" became anything but;

The ghosts you'd see

decorated hide-and-seek and impostors and phone calls and stolen ribbons,

echoed through conclusions and prayers and tragedies and dreams,

and gave life to numbers and colors.

Things that most would find flavorless or common—to you, when you drank them, they always would mean something else.)

You read the book a hundred times. A hundred and twenty times. By the thousand two hundredth attempt, and your brain would fill in the last digit.

One thousand, seven hundred and thirteen times.

You shone a light upon its pages as though you could uncover some final hidden message, something that could satisfy the gaping hole in your heart carved by a story that wouldn't end.

What solace was there to be found in a book whose last pages remained blank?

You tried to let it go. You really did.

But it seemed as though you had fallen under a curse, from the book about a cursed book, and led into a tragedy by a book containing endless tragedies. A book about unsolvable mysteries and unwritten endings. How ironic.

Before you lay a ghost. But try as you might, ghosts couldn't answer questions, regardless of how many times you pleaded to them.

You could only follow the ghost's trails, collect them,

burn them into your memory and into your heart,

drink up its dredges and spit them back out,

clutch it tight to your chest, and pray to higher beings, or to someone, or to no one at all—please don't take this away from me. There's already so little of it left.

How could a story so permanently engraved into your being be so fragile, so small, so fleeting?

(When you're gone, when the author's gone, and when everyone who loves and remembers has gone, who will be there to keep the memory of the rumor urban legend story that no one knows, that altered the course of your own?)

This ridiculously mundane story, of an incredibly worn-out world. You don't understand how it had touched you so.

Had the author known this would be its fate?

You would never, ever know.

Still, you love, and so you write a love letter that won't receive a response.

[miupow]

slowly teaching myself that writing is supposed to be fun and to not take it so seriously, that my writing is good and enjoyable even if it isn’t my best, and that people enjoy my work even if i don’t feel confident in it

[itzphynix]

Thank you Astral Spiff for combating the narrative that Post Shift 2 is a hard game o7

[atsushis-fangs]

Andrew: are you alright? North: oh, you know, haven't slept in 6 days, but otherwise I'm doing good. Angus: *promptly knocks him out with North's book about Scottish plants*

@winterwrites23 I am. so so so in love with the new chapter :D

[13skeletons]

You know, I used to be smart.