#So I wrote an imaginary sleep call scene

[writingmaneskin]

Timezone - A Damiano David Story

Pairings: Damiano David x Reader

Description: An imaginary behind the scenes of how Damiano wrote Timezone.

Contains: angst and fluff (but mostly fluff), pining

Words: 1.2k

This was a request.

THE MAIN MASTERLIST

kofi || join the taglist || send a request || chaoticallie

taglist: @queendorkula @oro-e-diamanti @moonlight-simp @maneskings @iosonoarina @unaballerinascalza @hiraetheral, @homesicam, @ilwiwbysmv @bieberhoodforever @vita-thrasher @katyldamusic @ethaneskin @theimpossiblehologramtree @8iunie @dubist-immerinmeinengedanken @butkutee @sarcastic-sourwolf @dpaccione @elvirabelle @cuzimitaliano @daddydamiano @shehaddreamstoo @iamtashaquinn @alexxavicry @inloveppp @tnu-ree @bigsimpsimp @ccweasley @soficide

Damiano knew that his place wasn’t LA. There was nothing attractive about the people or the circumstances there - it would always be just work for him. Just work, meetings and parties that exposed people for who they weren’t. 

The band had to record the album which meant time away from home, time away from you.

You, who hadn’t chosen this busy glitz and glam life. You, who had chosen him despite all of it.

He picked up the phone, not paying attention at all to what time it would be at home.

“Hey you.” Your voice carried the sleepiness that always melted him.

“Cazzo, I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“Sleep is overrated anyway, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m homesick. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, tesoro.” 

“Will you stay with me for a little bit?” He pleaded.

“As long as you need me to.” You propped the phone against the pillow on his side of the bed and watched him as he opened the notebook again.

“How is writing coming along?”

“It’s hard. We wrote some songs about the foolishness going on here but there are missing pieces that I can’t quite figure out.”

“What do the others think?”

“We’re all restless and I’ve acquired a few nicknames in the process, but I don’t care about it. I just.. I want to finish this project so we can start putting it together because we don’t need to be here to do that.”

“The sooner you finish it, the sooner you can come home, yes?”

“I would come home right now if I could.” 

“I know, tesoro. I miss you so much.”

You tried to hide the tears that came to your eyes.

“I will be there before you know it.” He promised.

“I know. I am counting on it.”

“I know. Try to go back to sleep.”

“Stay with me, please?” It was your turn to plead. 

“I will. I will work quietly while you sleep.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

**

You fell asleep, the comfort of his presence despite the distance was tangible.

“What are you doing?” Thomas asked, coming outside for a smoke while Damiano alternated between glancing at the phone and scribbling fragments of lyrics in the notebook.

Damiano shushed him and pointed at the phone.

“Sorry.” Thomas raised his arms.

“I’m writing.” Damiano whispered. 

“Do you need anything?”

“Yes. But we’ll talk about it later.”

“Okay, you know what to do.” Thomas winked at him and distanced himself, giving the two of you space.

**

You woke up and saw that the call had ended. 

“Buongiorno, thank you for keeping me company. When can we talk again?” You wrote to Damiano.

“Buongiorno amore. Did you sleep well?”

“I did. It could only have been better if you were physically here.”

“We’ll make up for lost times, I promise. I have a busy evening and we’ll likely work well into the night here so I’ll text you when I can, okay? Keep me updated. I love you so much.”

“I love you too and don’t work yourself into the ground. I need you alive and well with me.”

“I promise.”

**

You didn’t think much of it - he was there on a work trip after all, it was understandable that he couldn’t be on the phone all the time, so you went about your day - going to work, meeting up with a friend for a coffee after work, buying some groceries on the way home.

You unlocked the apartment and went in, only to find a second pair of shoes - shoes you knew very well, next to the door, in their usual place.

Your heart started racing.

“You’re back!” Damiano exclaimed, sweeping you off your feet and pressing you close to himself.

The tears started flowing and you held him tightly, not quite believing that he was in fact there.

“You’re here?” You kept running your fingers through his hair. He held you up for a little while before pulling away slightly only to give you a kiss.

“I snuck away under the excuse that I need some sleep.” He gently wiped your face and kissed you again and again.

“When do you have to go back?” You already dreaded having to let him go.

“Very soon but I needed this. I needed you. I need you.” He kissed you again.

“I need you too.” 

His phone wouldn’t stop ringing no matter how much he tried to ignore it. It was alternating between calls and texts and other notifications coming in and in that moment, he wanted to throw it out.

“You can’t ice them out. Especially since you didn’t tell them that you’d be leaving. They could think that you’ve been kidnapped.”

“They will burst our bubble.”

“No, they will not. You know you have to go back, just don’t stress out our friends unnecessarily. Please.”

He picked up the phone on what looked like Ethan’s fiftieth call.

“Dam? Where are you? Are you okay? Do you want us to pick you up? Did something happen?” 

“Hi. I am fine, I snuck away and came home. I’m sorry for vanishing and ghosting and just… keeping you all out of the loop but I needed to come home.”

A moment of silence.

“Is Y/N okay?”

“Y/N is good. I just needed to come home and feel like I am home even if it’s for a few moments. I’ll be back as soon as possible, I promise and I’ll make it up to you guys for stressing you out, I just needed this.”

“You have nothing to make up for. Just don’t run away next time and give us a heads up.” Vic shouted from the side.

“You could make it up to us with some pasta.” Thomas added, trying to lighten the situation.

“We’ll cover for you for as long as we can, do what needs to be done and we’ll see you soon.” Ethan added before hanging up.

**

Each step leading him away from you felt heavier and heavier. But he had to do this - he had to go back and finish this album so the next time he would be back he would be able to stay for longer.

You walked with him in the airport for as long as you could, trying not to cry the whole time, knowing that the tears would make it even harder for him to leave.

“It’s not worth it.” He spoke quietly, making sure that only you would hear.

“It is. It’s your dream and that makes it worth it.”

“Dreams are just that. You are real.”

“I miss you and I will miss you again and this distance is horrible and I hate it when we are not together but I will not trade for anything in the world the spark in your eyes or the joy that I see when you are doing what you love most and sharing your art with the world. And there is a lot you have not yet shared with the world, Damiano David.”

You carefully wiped the tears that came to his eyes and kissed him again.

“Be safe for me and take good care of yourself. We’ll be back together before you know it.” You kissed him very gently.

“I love you.” He kissed you again and again before going to the security line.

Less than a week later, right as you were going to bed a text came from him, with an audio file and the words - for you, tesoro.

Only thing that keeps us apart Is a different timezone

[gor3sigil]

“Me, Myself and I”s

When I was a kid, I was reckless. I was playing around, my long hair free as soon as mom turned her back and head first in the bushes. I found a hole in the cypresses around our home where nobody could see me, but light was passing between the branches. I called it my clearing and I would go here everytime I could. I imagined that every little particle floating around me was a fairy, that this place was their home, and that to go here and see the fairies meant that you were special and the fairies deemed you worthy.

When I was a kid, I stay locked in the house because my mother was scared I’d get sick. While she was ironing clothes I sat on the floor and looked at her while listening to the radio. Or I helped her and dusted the floor with a broom. I remember that every wednesday afternoon, the sky was gray. The lights were yellowish in my parents bedroom. The singer in the radio sang a breakup song. And my mother sang along.

When I was a kid, I was lively. In family gatherings, I loved to chat with every adult, hopping on knees after knees to tell stories that popped in my mind like fireworks. I could make out the craziest back stories about any piece of jewelry, every rock, every tree, always something to do with magic and heroes in ancient caves plotting an attack against some evil forces. A red or orange ring was the Ring of Fire, an odd shaped rock was an artifact belonging to a civilisation that didn’t exist anymore, a pretty flower was to be infused in hot water to cure illnesses. And I drew these sacred objects in action, giving away pieces of my imagination to amused people or making amulets for them to wear and have good luck.

When I was a kid, I was jaded. That’s what one teacher said to my mom when I was in 1st grade. That’s what another wrote in my report card in 2nd grade. During recess, I went to sit alone against the school gates and watched as my imaginary friends were playing outside, calling me, asking me why I couldn’t go with them. I was distracted and easily startled. But I was often praised for how calm I was. How you couldn’t hear me. If you put me in a place without toys and with only grown ups around, I’d go in a corner, sit and hum to myself until it was time to go. The only issue was getting me to break from my daydreams.

When I was a kid, I was blunt. I spoke my mind, sometimes a bit too much. That was how I made friends. I’d go see a little girl crying and told her how pretty she was, then we’d be playing together like nothing happened. I could spot someone who needed help just looking around in the room and go ask if I could give them a hand. I was generous and loved to make little gifts for the people I loved, for kids who needed comfort, for parents who let me stay at their house to play with a friend. Everyone was welcomed in my heart.

When I was a kid, I was gloomy. I was often busy, alone, in a corner of the playground, talking to myself, rocking back and forth, shaking my head when one of my invisible mate would say something stupid. I laughed out loud to nobody, and when asked what made me laugh, I’d lock myself back in my mind without answering. I let people walk over me. I got my favourite toys stollen. A boy I didn’t like would sometimes take me by the hand to a hidden corner and kiss me on the mouth, even forced his tongue in it a couple times. My mother called me a disgusting bitch.

When I was a kid, I was an orphanage. When I try to remember it’s like my brain is split in two. Which kid was I ? The bubbly one, the empty one, the angry one ? Was it me who shout at my brothers and sisters ? Was it I who laughed while watching cartoon ? Did I cry myself to sleep ? Was I the one who comforted me ?

Why is my mother so warm and feels so safe in one memory but if a child-me draws the scene she has red glowing eyes and sharp fangs like she’s going to eat me ? Why is my father ugly and scary and screaming in my mind while another child-me cries for him to take me in his arms and never let go ?

Grown up me doesn’t know how to tell a story, because there’s a thousand I shouting to tell their sides everytime “I” try to. And I’d give anything for my brain to be a pile of books I could read, sorted by authors: me, myself, and Is.

[autisticempathydaemon]

Ohmygod I love matchups

What song are you fixated on at the moment? What lyric or verse, and why?

Too sweet by Hozier ofc ofcm I looove Hozier and the way he sings about relationships 😭 Im like not fixated on a specific lyric, I'm fixated on the wedding bells in the background of the chorus

What is your Enneagram type?

Okay it has been a FUCKTON of time since I looked at that stuff but iirc it was 2? Me being an infp is literally the only thing I can consistently remember bc ADHD brain

Do you love gargantuan Youtube video essays, and if so, which is your favorite and why?

YESS I listen to them whenever I'm playing Sims or working on something. Any of Jenny Nicholson or Li Speaks’ videos are common for that Nostalgic Essay Stuff. SPECIFICALLY Jenny Nicholson’s jeff the killer fanfiction book video because I OWNED THAT BOOK. I WROTE CREEPYPASTA FANFICTION AND I OWNED THAT BOOK

Tell me about your childhood imaginary friend.

I did not have one and I pretended to because everyone else did and I felt weird for not having one

What is your go-to way to fall asleep?

Imagining being loved and cared for 😭 or whumpy fanfiction scenarios no in-between. But they usually overlap

If you had to change your name, what would it be, and why? (In tandem, if you have changed your name, why did you pick that one?)

I named myself after a character cause I relate ofc but I also named myself echo because it was another birth name in consideration for me and it feels like… whimsical

What is your favorite of Redacted’s audios, and why?

ITS STILL “FLIRTY VAMPIRE LOSES CONTROL” BECAUSE IM OBSESSED WITH SCENES WHERE THE HUMAN PARTNER OF A “MONSTER” CHARACTER IS DIRECTLY CONFRONTED WITH THEIR MONSTROUS TRAITS AND LOVES THEM ANYWAY.

What Redacted boy holds no appeal to you, and why? Like, not the one you hate but the one who you don’t get the hype for. (I won’t judge, I promise.)

Gavin </3 I am simply not a sexual person and it puts me off a bit lol

Tell me about that one book/movie/tv show you know all the words to.

This spectacular show called dramaworld about a girl whos obsessed with kdramas and gets sucked into the world of them, but not in a “the events are real” way, in a “the entire world is a setup for the same characters to go through various plots, forgetting and falling in love over and over again” and it's hilarious and it's such a comfort show even though I can't watch it anywhere anymore I don't think. The main romance is top tier. It's so funny. And the stakes and plot twists are actually pretty good

Which Redacted boy are you platonically attracted to? Like- forget dating, which dude do you want to be your best friend?

Probably Sam? I want him to be my dad. I have issues.

Do you have a go-to thing you ramble about when you’re tired, and if so, what is it? (For example, my boyfriend knows I’m ready to sleep when I start talking about space.)

Apparently when I'm half asleep I start talking about horses? But when I'm still conscious, I mostly talk about like. Vampires mostly.

Tell me your go-to gas station and drink combo.

doritos dinamita and mountain dew yes I am basic

Tell me about your favorite playlist at the moment.

I don't have favorite playlists so much as I play 4-6 songs over and over on repeat until I'm sick of them. Currently, those songs are too sweet by Hozier, no more birthdays by sophie may, and Every Chappelle Roan Song.

What’s your guilty pleasure media, and why?

I love bad romance novels the more ridiculous and bad, the better. kresley cole's immortals after dark are fun to make fun of (no. Hate if you like them)

And whatever else you think tells me about who you are!

Uhhh my favorite form of interaction is parallel play. irl or digital, in a digital sense it means “we're liveblogging two separate things we're doing at the same time” lmao

- Asher-Echo/vampire-bite

Ooh, there’s a lot of good info to consider here. Initially, it was hard because I find Type Two’s easily compatible with most of the Redacted bois, but what said about “not being a sexual person” made it easy to choose Ollie for you.

Because he has never and will never get a BA, I love to headcanon Ollie as either asexual, low-libido, or both, so that’s one reason I think he’d be a good match for you. I also love that y’all would like so many of the same things like open-world games, bad/silly romance novels, and spending time with one another without the pressure to actively interact or engage with each other. (Also creepypastas. I love to headcanon Ollie as a horror, creepypasta fiend, given he grew up on the internet around when Jeff the Killer came to be.)

Every day with Ollie would be so comfortable and domestic, so sweet. Like, on a long weekend like this one if you’re American, I can see y’all spending it at home, a little staycation. He’d be in the other room or one end of the couch reading, and you’d be on the other reading one of your romance novels. Cattywumpus would be on your lap, because you’re his favorite. Your music is playing in the background, and you both stop what you’re doing to dance to “Hot to Go!”, because Ollie would totes love Chappell Roan.

Song:

Spillin' wine and homemade drinks/ We throw a cheers, the worries sink/ Damnit, it's so good to be alive/ We know that we don't got much/ But, then again, it's just enough/ To always find a way for a good time

Ollie strikes me as the type of guy who loves simple, feel-good, folk-esque music, someone being honest and emotional with a guitar. That’s one reason I like this song for y’all and can imagine it shuffled with yours as y’all hang out. The other is that this love song is sweet, catchy, simple just like Ollie~

Runner-ups:

Your love of the Sims and cheesy paranormal romance novels compels me to give you Elliott as a runner-up, because he could bring the things you read and create to life in your dreams, and that’d be so fun! In contrast, your Enneagram type and identifying yourself as nonsexual makes me want to pair you with Cam who gives me an asexual, easily affectionate vibe.

Read this post and send me an ask if you’d like a match-up of your own! 💌

[lipslikethegardensofbabylon]

#ttpd analysis day seven - Fresh Out The Slammer

this track is one of the most poignant ones to me in the album. it holds a few different emotions, initially hope, then at the end there’s this sort of sadness like the narrator is telling themselves it’ll work simply because it has to. there’s an already weary foreboding in it. like be careful what you wish for. anyway -

the first verse is FULL of callbacks to previous lyrics that help paint a picture:

Another summer, takin' cover / I've loved you three summers now

Rollin' thunder, he don't understand me / called the rain to end our days of wild

Splintered back in winter, silent dinners, bitter / this has a mix of evermore x tolerate it references, even the dinner scene in the ATW short film can be pictured

He was with her in dreams / okay so this lyric i’ve seen some discussion about. to me, it’s a direct reference to sometimes I wonder, when you sleep, are you ever dreaming of me? basically, the narrator once wondered that about the muse, and now the muse is thinking/dreaming about someone else. it could be a different person than the narrator, or even an idealized version of the narrator (like the toy version in MBBHFT). but basically this means that at this point they were checked out of the relationship. in a positive (at the time?) outcome she later says I’m the girl of his American dreams so it sounds like they both have someone else they’re connecting to

Gray and blue and fights and tunnels / blew things out of proportion now you’re blue x I turned around before I hit the tunnel

Handcuffed to the spell I was under / in that lavender haze

For just one hour of sunshine / And now I see daylight, I only see daylight this also references the line in So Long, London a moment of warm sun

Years of labor, locks and ceilings / gold cage, hostage to my feelings x staring at the ceiling with you x drew a map on your bedroom ceiling

In the shade of how he was feelin' / I love this lyric, but basically it’s a general reference to the blue/blues/depression

Camera flashes, welcome bashes / motion capture put me in a bad light

Get the matches, toss the ashes off the ledge / dear reader burn all the files, desert all your past lives

Swirled you into all of my poems / this is another lyric i simply love, it reminds me so much of “I can write you out the way I wrote you in”

okay so all of that brings us to the final verse which, production wise, slows down. it’s like we sped through the past events and arrived at the present. it reminds me so much of folklore, to the house where you still wait up and that porch light gleams / you'd be standin' in my front porch light, and I knew you'd come back to me. the next lyric is where the production slows to almost a stop, like you’re frozen in time there too. the children’s swings makes me think of seven, but the imaginary rings feels like a reference to invisible string. now before y’all come at me, i feel this especially bc of the swirled you into all of my poems like, works can be inspired from different experienced and different people, and i think over time, looking back, they can take on different meanings too depending on the eyes and ears taking it in. i love how she sings the ending but there is such an uneasy sadness considering how hopeful the song starts off. it’s kind of like throughout the song she’s excitedly telling everyone it’s gonna be all right and then at the end she’s trying to convince herself of that

[grandmaster-anne]

A royally good start

Horse & Hound | Published 20 June 2021

WHEN The Queen’s childhood governess Marion Crawford first met a young Princess Elizabeth, she found “a small figure with a mop of curls sat up in bed”, who had tied the cords of her dressing gown to the knobs of the bed and was busy driving her team.

‘‘Do you usually drive in bed?” Marion remembered asking, in her 1950 book The Little Princesses, to which the princess replied: “I mostly go once or twice round the park before I go to sleep. It exercises my horses.”

The 30-odd toy horses that she had, each standing a foot high on wheels, had a strict stable routine; their grooming basket stood at the end of a long line of them, first at No. 145 Piccadilly, and later in the corridors of Buckingham Palace. Each night they had their saddles removed, and were attentively fed and watered. And after her and Princess Margaret’s annual trip to Olympia Horse Show with their parents, the toy horses would be put through several weeks of intensive training. On other occasions Princess Elizabeth would harness her nanny with a pair of red reins to set off on a fictional delivery round.

“I would be patted, given my nosebag, and jerked to a standstill, while Lilibet delivered imaginary groceries, and held long and intimate conversations with her make-believe customers,” wrote Marion. “Sometimes she would whisper to me, ‘Crawfie, you must pretend to be impatient. Paw the ground a bit.’ So, I would paw.”

And at Royal Lodge, in Windsor Great Park, where weekends were spent, two lifesized rocking horses were put outside the then Duke of York’s study, so he could hear his daughters riding while he worked.

WHEN Princess Elizabeth’s grandfather King George V gave her the diminutive Shetland Peggy when she was four years old, it was her first real taste of life in the saddle - and a place for her to channel the attentiveness she’d shown her toys. A photo from the 2014 exhibition Royal Childhood at the Summer Opening of Buckingham Palace shows her proudly leading her younger sister aboard Peggy, with the bowler-hat clad groom Mr Henry Owen, who taught her to ride, in attendance.

“[Princess Elizabeth] liked me to come and watch her [riding lessons with Mr Owen],” wrote Marion. “Her first canter was a great day. I used to walk with the dogs, and it was pretty to hear her bell-like voice through the trees talking to Owen about burs, galls and girths.”

For all the stereotyping of Shetlands being comically naughty, they have continued to be the royal family’s choice of breed for a child’s debut in the saddle. It was Queen Victoria’s fondness for the breed that helped raise their profile in the 19th century, according to Anne, Countess De La Warr, president of the Shetland Pony Stud Book Society.

“It made them popular with other Victorian mothers,” she says. “They’re particularly good as a first pony, but also as what I call a family pony; if you have a trap or a cart, you can all go on family picnics with them. I have one friend whose pony is said to know his way to the pub.”

Flora and Alma, two Shetlands who were presented to Queen Victoria by King Victor Emmanuel of Italy, proved particularly popular with her grandchildren, and it’s a trend that Anne continues to see today.

“Grandmothers can have them in the field and when a child comes to visit, you can hoik them out and put a saddle on. They’re amazingly easy,” she says.

If it weren’t for the grand surroundings, BBC footage from 1992 of The Queen with Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie riding Smokey at Balmoral could be any idyllic scene of a grandmother with her grandchildren.

As Anne explains, the best Shetlands tend to come via word of mouth and the royal family is no exception in following that ethos on the hunt for the perfect pony. Prince William learnt to ride on the pint-sized Smokey aged four; Llanerch Topaz, another that the future king was pictured on as a child taught the Princess Royal’s children to ride and it was reported that Zara Tindall provided a Shetland for Prince George to kick-start his riding.

WHILE these early rides are the grand sum of some royal family members’ foray into equestrianism, for others it is just the start. Aged two, Princess Anne was bundled aboard Fum, and although her memories of the Shetland are vague, the experience paved the way for a series of more memorable ponies that would lay the foundations for her Olympic eventing career.

Holidays as a child were spent at Sandringham, Windsor and Balmoral. Each offered a different terrain for Princess Anne to tackle on horseback, usually accompanied by her mother and older brother, and assisted by the groom, Frank Hatcher, who helped the children catch the ponies and brush them, and reminded them to pick out their feet.

“The miles of stubble fields around Sandringham were pure luxury by today’s standards of relatively restricted hacking,” she remembered in her 1991 equestrian autobiography Riding Through My Life, reminiscing about the “rides” which had been cleared for Queen Alexandra to be able to ride through the woods and all over the estate without getting her hat knocked off.

“The best ‘fun’ riding was at Balmoral: riverside paths, woodland paths, hill paths and the golf course. It was all right if you rode on the rough, but you were definitely not popular if you got ‘carted’ away with across the fairways.” As for a young Princess Elizabeth, who won a driving class at the 1944 Royal Windsor Horse Show with her Norwegian pony Hans, Princess Anne’s initially modest competitive career started from Windsor, where most of her riding happened at weekends (although not on Sundays, which was the grooms’ day off).

She was a member of the Garth Hunt branch of the Pony Club - although she can count the number of rallies she went to on one hand.

“They were memorable for persuading me that gymkhana games were not my forte. The pony I had at the time was a 13.2hh called Bandit, who was charming and reliable in every way except that he refused to repeat himself. By that I mean that he would take part in one bending race, but tried very hard not to take part in the next,” Princess Anne wrote in her autobiography.

It was this same pony that knocked a young Prince Charles’s confidence when it came to jumping. On clearing one round the grey was known to “indulge in his well-known imitation of a horse rampant if asked to face up to round two,” remembered Princess Anne. Discovering hunting helped renew the Prince’s interest in jumping, and being introduced to polo by his father at the age of 13 was a world away from the tedious early lessons inflicted on him and his sister with Miss Sybil Smith at Holyport.

Princess Anne remembered: “Being put on a small, fat, white cob, on the end of a leading rein, one each side of a large, fat, white cob, ridden by Miss Smith, and being led, very sedately, around a cinder circle was not our idea of riding!”

Even with the abundant privilege, being royal couldn’t negate the calamities that accompany getting to grips with ponies. On holiday at Glamis Castle, the childhood home of the Queen Mother, a favourite expedition for Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret was to take the pony down to Glamis Station to watch the Aberdeen Fish Express go through.

“The pony was temperamental about trains, and the station master very kindly let us shut him up in the waiting room,” remembered governess Marion Crawford. “Unfortunately, one day when, as usual, we did this, the stationmaster had forgotten to warn us that he had put all his best chrysanthemums ready for the flower show in there. The pony ate the lot.”

A tumble came for Princess Anne when riding her bay 14.2hh Watersmeet High Jinks in from the field while leading another, and making an unplanned dismount on some hard cobbles. “Not for the first time he looked genuinely surprised at the antics of his erstwhile rider,” she wrote.

An earlier mount, Kirby Cane Greensleeves, left a lasting imprint on the Princess after the Welsh pony trod on her toe. “In that endearing way that ponies have, the more I shouted, the more I pushed and the more desperate I became, the harder she leaned,” she wrote.

And while the royal ponies might have nestled alongside horses reserved for pulling golden state carriages when they were stabled at Windsor Castle, it was often a refreshingly low-key existence. At Windsor, the ponies lived a distance from the Mews, so the children would take the tack down in the car, tack them up in the field and take them out from there.

“These were pretty rough, scruffy little objects,” remembered Princess Anne.

What was drummed into the children however by The Queen was that whatever went wrong, it was never the ponies’ fault. Along with Zara’s Pony Club grounding, this was a mantra that Princess Anne instilled in her own children, and one that seems likely to exist for the next generation.

“There is no doubt that the level of involvement required in equestrian sport teaches young people a great deal about life, especially that ‘life’ is not fair,” wrote Princess Anne. “Horses are no respecters of reputation or ego and certainly not of wealth, making them a challenge to everybody, whether looking after or riding them.”

Pictures by AFP via Getty Images, Tim Graham Photo Library via Getty Images

[sadfragilegirl]

04/11/2023 (Scarlet Dream/Scarlet Memory)

Poem by: Queennie (sadfragilegirl)

I was supposed to be sleeping but I have other plans.

I was scrolling to look something when I saw something...

Something that it began to stop moving that the clock has stopped ticking.

That's when my heart stopped...as I saw a new memory.

A new memory that it could cut deep into my heart.

And it's no other than....

...The one that gave me happiness and brought me to a safe haven for all these years that held me so dear.

That's when...

The skies are began to turn into bloody red.

Trapped myself to a world full of nightmares full of dread.

Like I was being a tied up by red threads while I stand up myself and do nothing but seeing my happiness are taken away.

Tears suddenly began to fall.

Heart's pounding with anxiety like there's no tomorrow.

The scenes are turning red--scarlet red that is.

Memories between me and my happiness that held me so dear are flashing my mind.

And that's when...

I let myself to break myself in tears as my heart has began to shatter like glass.

Yes, my imaginary horror has finally come to life.

And that's how...

How I named this dream...

The dream about my happiness that held me so dear has fallen apart.

I call it...

A Scarlet Dream/Scarlet Memory.

No one is safe for me.

Behind The Poetry:

This is based on my real life experience after I heard the news about Ravi's departure from the Kpop boy group VIXX due to Military Service Issue Scandal last April 11, 2023. And that caused me such broken hearted reactions.

Among the news of Kpop members decided to leave group I saw for all these years as a Kpop fan with Autism for all these long years, that one took a toll on me and I was feeling affected big time.

Because why? Among my Kpop ultimate biases that I love, Ravi is the Kpop ultimate bias that held me so dearly into my heart and it brought me a deeper connection to him. Originally, last 2017...Ravi was my bias wreaker of VIXX but thanks to his R.EB1RTH mixtape and knowing that he produced, composed and wrote lyrics in most VIXX songs, I became his ultimate bias of VIXX.

When I listened to VIXX songs and Ravi songs, it made me imagine myself about being the main character in every Anime. He brought me such inspiration.

When he decided to leave VIXX because of his scandal, I was so devastated, just like Hongbin leaving VIXX due to the scandal last 2020 of August. Leaving me heartbroken.

Few months ago, I saw EXO-Ls were hating Ravi because of Kai's absense of Cream Soda MV and I was so angry. And there's STARLIGHTs (VIXX fans) are decided to continue supporting them without Ravi and Hongbin.

Thus, the news about Ravi's departure from the group VIXX has now given to a special name that I come with few months ago. That the unique name will be named as the only one to be only to be called that no one else will be named it in the bad new memories in the future.

And that's Scarlet Dream/Scarlet Memory.

Remember: Ravi's departure from VIXX is the only dream and memory that I can be ONLY be named as a Scarlet Dream/Scarlet Memory and no one else will be named such as that when another heartbreaking and sad Kpop news will be having in the future.

~Queennie

[zyrafowe-sny]

🎶 and 💖 for the ask game! And go you for getting some writing done today!

(This is litfeathers on her main blog btw)!

🎶 Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?

Not exactly? I actually don't listen to music very much (can't wear headphones often), but do have songs in my head frequently (and used to sing in a community choir pre-pandemic). Lately my brain has been frequently playing Such Great Heights by the Postal Service (NOT the Iron and Wine cover). A week or so ago something reminded me of the lyrics so it's apparently back in rotation.

💖 What made you start writing?

Hrm. There are a few moments that could count as when I started writing. I pondered this while driving for half an hour, so it turned into a bit of a personal essay.

I was always a bookworm, and in elementary school I loved spelling homework assignments that had us write a short story using X number of spelling words. I'm pretty sure I was writing short stories and poems for fun by age 8, and around 9 is when I started imagining a fantasy world heavily influenced by Narnia (and other favorite books). Back then, I thought I might be a professional writer someday.

In middle school, I started scribbling my first fanfic in journals (often just scraps of dialogue, mostly Star Wars). I think I still managed to write some things for that fantasy world in late middle school/early high school, but by high school I don't think I seriously considered writing as a career (not that I really had a strong alternate calling). From time to time, I still wrote little bits of fanfic that I never posted anywhere. I wrote more poems.

I got heavily into reading fanfic in college since I didn't have easy access to "fun" books. (I'm going to be vague and say I wound up in mostly social science, so I had lots of academic reading with very little fiction for school.) I wrote and posted a ficlet, then started and never finished a short multi-chapter. That unfinished fic hung over my head for years and years. I didn't write poetry anymore. I would sometimes drift off to sleep refining that imaginary world I first dreamed up in elementary school, but didn't actually write more fiction. There were essays and papers (and later mostly memos in a Master's program, though I did cobble together a thesis). Maybe occasionally I'd type the beginning of an idea for a fanfic, but didn't do more with it.

Work involved writing, but not fiction (and I didn't get to do as much writing as I wanted). I tried journaling for a bit, but that fizzled out when I was grieving and kept writing the same thing day after day. There weren't as many scraps of ideas.

Some years later, I started watching The Owl House. I got into it pretty late, so I was bingeing S2 when TTT aired. And then it got stuck in my head. Especially the haircut scene in TTT. For the first time in years, I had the itch to write.

There was still the memory of that unfinished WIP hanging over me, so I decided to go super old school and write a 100 word drabble (the word limit was sacred once upon a time). Then I wrote a few more of those to continue the drabble sequence. And then I posted it. All 600 words.

But then I posted a 2k fic just a couple days later. Then another short fic soon after that. And now I'm just short of 28k posted on AO3 between mid October 2022 and mid January 2023. I know there are far more prolific writers, but that's a lot compared to the nothing I'd been writing for years and years.

That's, um, probably more than what was intended by the ask, but it's been a long, rambling journey getting back into writing fanfic.

[ryrima]

Soon [dnf drabble - fluff]

"I'm ready to fall asleep for a full year," was the tired groan that greeted Dream immediately after he picked up the call.

Dream couldn't help the amused chuckle he let out, leaning his head sideways against a shoulder to hold the phone in between, while his hands tugged on his duvet for him to slip in. "Hello to you too, Georgie. I was about to ask how your day went, but that bad, huh?" he asked as a response.

During the short pause, Dream laid down in his bed, ready to tuck in for the day.

"Remind me to never join in a UK meet-up without Wilbur again," George answered, seemingly unrelated.

If anyone questioned him, Dream would deny ever having a teeny-tiny twinge of jealousy from the claim. He either masked it well enough, or George was too tired to notice. "Do tell why?"

"I forgot that age gaps exist in real life. Without Wil there, I had to play the responsible adult," George whined. "Dream, it was horrible."

Dream snorted, sinking more into bed as the explanation relaxed him. "Since when do you care about being the responsible one?"

"Since I realized I was hanging out with four teens under the age of twenty," George sighed. "I would feel guilty if anything happens to any of them."

"But you never feel so, when around Sapnap and I?" Dream felt the corner of his lips lifting up in an amused smile. "You do realize that we are both younger than you too, right?"

"Eh," came George's non-committal answer, Dream could imagine the shrug despite not seeing it. "Both of you can die in a ditch for all I care."

"George!" Dream yelled, wheezing. "How could you?!"

"I'm kidding!" George giggled, the sound causing butterflies to flutter inside Dream's chest. "You guys are different."

Dream hummed. "Different how?"

"Our age doesn't matter. Between us three, who holds the reigns are situational." He sounded more genuine now. "And ... I'm positive that our dynamic wouldn't change even in real life."

"... Yeah?" Dream smiled, also taking a more sincere tone.

"Mhm." George affirmed. "Not saying that Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo and the others are different people online compared to in real life, or anything. More like, I found out that I hadn't fully know them yet online, and meeting up in person filled in that gap. We're much more comfortable now that it happened."

"There's definitely a change," Dream mused. "The attitude change between you and Wilbur still gives me a whiplash," he admitted.

George laughed. "That. It happened because we know each other better, now. Our limits, our boundaries, all that."

He paused, thinking for a bit. "But you see, with you and Sapnap, I won't need that. Because we've known each other for years. We've known everything there is about each other."

Dream sighed in agreement, soft and fond. "We do."

"I know you," George whispered, like a confession. "... And you know me."

And Dream's heart felt full.

He couldn't explain the feeling. It was warm, delicate, complicated.

But his heart felt full. So, so full.

For a while, silence enveloped them, just the sound of faint breathing through the call. It wasn't awkward, though. Wasn't tense, wasn't suffocating. Or maybe, it was a little suffocating, heavy in his chest, but in an oddly comforting way.

When Dream broke it, "George," he called. For what, he didn't know, but it felt right.

"Dream," George echoed in an exhale.

"George."

"Dream."

Another bout of silence, only a bit shorter.

"I'm glad I get to meet them, and properly get to know them, you know." George spoke up again. Soft, calm, carrying the same tone of confession. Of things he hadn't told Dream before. Of things Dream wondered, but never out loud. "I know that lately, I seem so busy going on one meet-up after another. I know how it takes a lot of our ... time together. But like this, I know I won't regret it later. I'm giving myself the remaining time for the friends here, before–..."

With each word, any feelings of unsettlement, worry and doubt that had ever lingered in Dream's mind these past few weeks got washed away. The insecurity, the unspoken fear of rifts and change.

Because of course George would sense it, despite Dream's best act. Like they had admitted, George knows Dream. He really should've remembered that sooner. Suddenly, he felt silly. But for once, he willingly accepted his own stupidity.

Because Dream also knows George. Knows that this is George reminding him. Softly, sweetly, reassuringly.

"–before I'll leave." George said. "To finally be with you."

Dream closed his eyes, letting George's word soak into him. Drowning, all encompassing.

"George," Dream called out again, like a prayer.

"Dream," George responded. Always, always. "I can't wait to be with you."

"George, turn your cam on," Dream pleaded. He opened his eyes and pulled his phone away from his ears. Brought it in front of his face so he could adjust it, searching for the switch-to-video button himself.

There was no answer. But he heard the rustling of bedsheets, of George also adjusting himself. Five seconds later, the screen flickered, and George's brown eyes stared back at him, glinting bright even in the darkness of his own bedroom, under strands of ruffled hair that contrasted his cheek, laid upon his pillowcase.

Beautiful, always so beautiful to him.

"... Thank you," George whispered with cheeks coloring pink, and Dream realized he had accidentally said the words out loud. "You know that you’re not bad yourself, too, right?"

Dream could feel his own face heating up from the compliment, bringing the hand that wasn't holding his phone to card through messy blond tresses. "Glad to know you think so."

He took his time staring, letting his green eyes linger on each of George's features—all he had spent hours, days, weeks, months, years memorizing, but still not enough.

Never enough.

"George," Dream whispered. "I can't wait to be with you, too."

He saw George visibly shook. Knowing how much impact he had on the other man, as much as George to him, it felt good.

"Soon, Dream," George promised, also in a whisper, but it ingrained itself in Dream's heart.

"Soon," Dream agreed.

Like this, it didn't really feel like they're oceans apart. The visual from their phone screens helped, and it was almost as if they're lying in the same bed together.

It felt real, it felt natural.

Dream knew that later, it would stay like so. Only, even better.

"Goodnight, George." He smiled.

George returned it. "Goodnight, Dream."

I love you.

[delicrieux]

☆ﾐ 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 “𝚘𝚑”

PART 24: OH...HI

after months and too much longing, you finally meet corpse in person.

─── corpse husband x reader ─── soc. media + written fiction! ─── word count: 3.8k

author’s note: we did it joe.

ultimate masterlist.  ҉  myso masterlist   ҉   previous. ҉   next.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

You woke up. That’s a lie, you didn’t sleep. Too much to plan, too much can go wrong and you’re...Not nervous, no, that’s not quite accurate. Excited. Yes, excited, so excited that two Redbulls and three coffees (so far!) make you jitter around the apartment like a butterfly that can’t find a flower bed to rest on. 

Rae has almost had enough of your...random spurts of energy. So what if you ran a few laps, climbed a few tables, sang karaoke a bit too loud and yet another noise complaint had been issued? It arrived exactly an hour after your concert via your displeased landlord. Rae was, of course, the one to apologize because you were too busy trying on miniskirts. After that ordeal was taken care of, no sooner than Rae shut the front door with an exhausted sigh, you emerged from your room clad in your prettiest outfit. You present it to her with a bright smile and flourish. 

She is not impressed.

“Will you quit it?” She questions, arms crossed over her chest. Your grin does not damper -- you’re used to such harsh treatment, having accepted her backhanded way of showing love long ago. Instead, you flick your wrists, showing off an ungodly amount of rings. You’re not certain of the exact number because you can’t count, “Y/n.” Her voice gains an edge, but you persist. Show off your shoes that have cute lil’ charms that jingle jangle not unlike the spurs on a hot cowgirl’s boots, “Y/n.” Her eyes narrow in displeasure, her stern tone making you falter in your dramatic stride down the imaginary catwalk, “Just stop.”

Okay! So maybe you’re not as used to her coldness as you thought you were. Your expression sours, and you quit the act, even if a part of you - one you barely fight off, goodness, you almost perish in that battle - wants to continue but even more annoying. As if you could somehow block her rationality with manic energy. 

“What?” You ask, trying to keep the mood lighthearted despite her squared shoulders and tight frown, “I’m just having a bit of fun!” You say with a joyous little laugh, reaching for a glass of much needed water.

“No, you’re panicking.” Her words make the glass still, hoovering by your painted lips, but it’s short lived. You take a greedy gulp and it tastes fresh with a pinch of lipstick, “Look, I get it...” She shakes her head softly, “You’re meeting the guy you like for the first time, you jumped the gun straight to dating and now you’re...Anxious. It’s normal, you know.”

“But I’m not anxious.” You persist, and you really do mean it. You don’t like how she looks at you as if you’re the one that’s misunderstanding your own feelings. You set the glass down with a soft clink, heaving your own sigh, “I’m not, I’m really happy actually.” You explain softly, “It’s just...my way of dealing with it. I’m more... Worried about Corpse, to be honest.” You add, a tad quieter, “But, like, it’s all good!” You exclaim, strolling up to her and landing your hands on her shoulders, “I prepared.”

And it’s true! You had spent the night scouring the depths of the internet. Read every WikiHow article on how to deal with someone with extreme anxiety, how to not make things painfully awkward, and how to talk to boys (just in case. The last time you stumbled upon that particular article was way back in middle school when you had a crush on that one guy you saw in your school’s cafeteria every now and then. Naturally, that led you down the rabbit hole, and according to WikiHow’s How To Tell If A Boy Likes You guidebook, you found out that he was absolutely enamored with you because he glanced in your direction, like, two times. Safe to say that love story went nowhere. The point still stands). 

So you forward all of this information to Rae, nestled in her bed whilst she lazily folds her clothes; clarify that you know that nothing much can happen, and that this whole situation is delicate, and that you must tread carefully because you don’t want to overwhelm him. She pauses her actions, glancing behind her to watch you staring idly at the ceiling, so peaceful, so thoughtful. And it’s not the eerie calmness you had displayed during your murderous spree in the last Among Us game, no, it’s just...quiet understanding. 

“I’m actually impressed.” She says. You merely hum, counting the dust slowly descending in the cascading light, “You’re not as clueless as I thought.” Your lips quirk into a shy smile at the compliment- “Or as tactless.” - and turn downward just as quick.

“That implies that I’m always tactless.”

“You are.” She states and you sit up, a soft frown pinching your brows, “Not like, in a terrible way. You just...don’t think about your actions. Or the repercussions. You just know that you can get away with everything.”

“And I can!”

“That doesn’t actually mean you should do something just because you can. You know I’ll always support you. Literally everyone will always support you. But I’m not gonna coddle you. You’re just...a lot. Online and especially in person. But the fact that you’re actually taking this seriously and taking his feelings into consideration is...well, the bare minimum, but still, good job.”

...Much to think about. You don’t like thinking, it makes your head hurt. Though, that could just be the lack of sleep. You cross your legs and plop your head in your hand, tired eyes blinking owlishly, “Do you...think I should change what I’m wearing?”

Prompted by your question, she gives you a careful once over, “I mean, it’s signature you.”

“Signature me is a hoodie and some sweatpants.”

She smiles, “Then go change. Your outfit is a bit distracting for just...Hanging out indoors, no? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind either way, though.”

“I just...” You bite the inside of your cheek, mulling your words over. Truly, the last time you were so attentive was when you went Psycho Mode in Among Us, which, to be fair, wasn’t that long ago. Perhaps there wasn’t a chance to let your mind dull - it’s almost as sharp as your butterfly knife, “I figured that if, like,” You vaguely motion with your hands, “if I be, like, all over the place, and wearing something cute, he’d be, like, distracted? And less anxious? No...awkward silence?”

“First meetings are always awkward, it’s natural.” She chimes, “I mean, if you’re so nervous-”

“I’m not nervous!”

“-then just don’t overthink it. I know it’s easier said than done, but you’re you, and Corpse is Corpse, and he likes you for who you are, and even if it is a bit awkward, I’m sure it’ll, like, blow over in a second. It really doesn’t matter how you look, Y/n.” She grins, “Plus, it’s not like you’re greeting him in your underwear or something.”

You will not admit that that was your plan B, not when you just landed in her good graces. You nod, “...I’ll go change.” 

And so you do. Pick out your cutest hoodie and some sweatpants. Put away your jingle jangle shoes with a broken heart, instead of them donning your fluffiest socks; slip off some rings because they keep falling off of your fingers. It’s almost like all of those transformation scenes in rom-coms that are still popular for some reason, except you’re hot before and after, so there’s really no transformation at all. 

Now you wait. Just wait, all other activities are excluded from this. Rae comes back to find you sitting on the edge of your bed, back straight, hands neatly folded on your lap. She compares you to a Sim’s character and you allow her. After mercilessly mocking you and snapping a few pictures - for blackmail, you assume - she helpfully informs that she is leaving because she doesn’t want to get in the way, but your psychic abilities which you acquired just now tell you that she simply doesn’t want to witness this train wreck. Not that it’ll be a train wreck, it would be if you were nervous, but you aren’t. 

You just aren’t. You fidget with the rings adoring your hand; toy with the hem of your hoodie; bounce your leg up and down. It’s just caffeine, okay?! Fuck this, Twitter time.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

[ADDING A MUSICAL INTERMISSION, LISTEN TO THIS IF YOU WANT (I WROTE THIS CHAPTER WITH IT IN MIND)]

The waiting commences, only now it somehow feels more intense. The sun is setting, and you really want to be one of those cute girls that fill their camera roll with pictures of the sunset and the roseate sky, but your hands are trembling and holding up your phone feels like too much of a hassle. You’d rather just sit there, alone in the apartment, in the pin-drop silence, extremely uncomfy and tense, as if waiting for the end of the world. 

A notification sounds off and your life flashes before your eyes. Hastily, you check it, a sticky mixture of delight and something else, something unpleasant constricting, making your stomach churn. He’s here. Holy shit, it’s happening. You order your anime plushies to stop fucking panicking, they’re like, totally embarrassing you at the moment! You wonder if they have their own little group chat, but instead of Totally Spies it’s called Total Embarrassment. Yikes, okay, that was harsh. After a good scolding, and a heartfelt apology for getting so heated, you smooth down the non-existent wrinkles on your modest outfit, and quickly waddle over to the electronic apartment thingie something something... you unlock the main door, okay!? This is for some reason feeling very not cash money, so you break out in a little dance number.

The doorbell does not sing that shrill, unpleasant tune; rather, there’s a soft knock on the apartment’s door, and you pause your shuffling, your renegade, and perk up at the imposing future hidden behind a slab of wood. Your heart beats a melody all on it’s own, and it’s loud, uncoordinated, like a musician that’s still familiarizing themselves with their instrument. And there’s that knock again, as uncertain as you’re feeling, and your clammy fingers latch onto the lock and turn it and now there is no more hiding - such a possibility is no longer an option; no more sporadic dances or sitting in disheartening silence and letting your thoughts weight you down.

You’re not quite sure what you were thinking about before you saw him in the threshold, head tilted slightly, fluffy dark hair obscuring the bags under his eyes, hunched, one ringed hand clutching onto the strap of his duffel bag, the other frozen mid-air, ready to knock one more time lest you didn’t hear him the first two. No, truly, you can’t, for the life of you, remember what all the fuss was about. 

“...Oh.” It’s a soft sound, so quiet, but not surprised, rather...relieved. Faint shimmers of a smile reach you, hidden behind a black face mask - the panini chic! You must stan a respectful king - but there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you question it’s sincerity. He fails to return your gaze, rather choosing to stare somewhere over your shoulder. His eyes seem unfocused. Apprehensive. A wild thought occurs to you that he expected you to trick him somehow, and wild thoughts invade the land of your mind often, but never in such a way. You clutch the handle just a bit tighter.

His hand retreats to his side, up to his mask and you think he’s about to unhook it but he stills, and there’s panic there, as if he had been moving unconsciously, as if he hadn’t realized what he’s doing. He plays it off by idly scratching his cheek, muttering an equally quiet, “Hi.” to fill the silence.

Finally, your WikiHow knowledge can come in handy, along with your common sense, “Hey, pretty boy.” You mutter, pulling away from the door, “Make yourself at home!” You slide to the kitchen, your socks acting not unlike ice-skates cutting through the Arctic frost covered ground. You hope that with you occupied and not watching him as closely he’ll feel slightly more at ease. 

You’d like to hug him. Kiss him, definitely. But if he’s so uncomfortable that he can’t bring himself to shed his mask in your presence, then there’s really nothing you can do. 

You hear the door shut and lock behind you as you pull out two glasses from the cupboard, humming a song you can’t quite recall the name of. You ask him if he’d like something to drink - it was a short flight, yet a flight still, and planes always make you thirsty, and there you go talking his ear off. You end abruptly, but smoothly, like a true diplomat; if he notices, you have no way of knowing - he doesn’t provide even a hint. He’s hard to read, and literature was never your best subject. But you’re trying.

He sets his duffel bag down on a nearby chair, “I, uhhh,” His voice is raspy and low, another indication of a pathetic lack of sleep, “I...got you something, uhh, I dunno-dunno if I should...give it now, or?” He sends you a questioning glance, but it doesn’t linger. Your offer of drinks is momentarily forgotten, though you hardly mind. 

You grin, “Sure! I love gifts, gimmie gimmie.” You make grabby hands, and he snorts, and it would’ve sounded endearing if he didn’t sound so fucking tired. He unzips the bag, and you pad your way to him, mindful of personal space (something you, in most social situations, chose to pretend does not exist). You note his hands quivering lightly, just like yours had in the agonizing wait, but he hides it well. You wish you could hold them. You’re afraid to try.

He pulls out a black hoodie and you recognize the custom art on it instantly - it’s his merch. He presents it in awkward flourish, murmuring a “Tadaaaa” under his breath; your heart skips a pleasant beat, and you have to bite down on your lower lip lest you smile appears too big. The fabric is soft under your fingers, and you accept his gift with a dramatic bow, and he turns his head away with another little laugh. You’re chipping away at the ice around him; it’s a slow process, but it’s worth the effort.

Truly, your own hoodie is shabby in comparison - icky, how could you have ever worn such a thing in the first place?! You’ll have to do extensive research in fashion magazines and Printerest so such a slip-up may never happen again. You discard it hastily and put his on instead; it smells like washing detergent with hints of cologne, one you instantly pin point belonging to him, “It’s, uhhh, it’s mine? I hope you, uhh, I didn’t have any spare ones, so-I hope you don’t...mind.”

He’s finally looking at you, but he’s still tense, still hesitant, and you shake your head softly, “No,” You admit, “I like it even more now.” You pull on the hood, toy with the strings and yank them quickly; your face is concealed, save for your nose, “Comfy.” Your commentary is unmatched, best of it’s kind - eloquent and effortless, much like yourself.

Another small laugh reaches your ears, and it sounds a bit livelier than the others had been. Success!

“Stop that.” He says gently, and you see moving shadows; his hands loosen the strings and your face is revealed to him once again. He’s close now, and he doesn’t move away; his hands come to rest on your shoulders, warm even through layers of fabric, “I came all this way to see you, don’t hide your face from me.” 

Your eyes narrow playfully, your finger rapidly tapping away on his clothed cheek, “What’s all this then? Hm? Hm?” Instead of swatting your hand away, which you figured he’d do, he complies and finally tugs that fucking mask off. Your breath catches in the back of your throat and you halt your ministrations - truly, seeing him smiling on screen is nothing compared to him smiling in person. You can’t quite contain yourself any longer - your excitement might burst out in another dance number otherwise - as you throw your arms over his shoulders and pull him flush against you. He’s quick to return the embrace. Maybe it was all the encouragement he needed.

“Wow,” He mumbles, only slightly offended, “so I finally show my face to you, in person, and you just-...you just look away?”

“I’m hugging you, dumbass.”

“...Touche.”

Things fall into place after that, like a dozen puzzle pieces fitting together. He won’t let you go - he doesn’t want to. You put on some music, something easy and indie and that doesn’t require too much effort to listen to, as the two of you contemplate what to eat. Cooking by yourselves was dismissed due to the unstable relationship between yourself and cooking utensils. The stove and you had had a falling out recently, but this feud had started long ago, back in pre-school, with only short intervals of friendship. He listened to your extensive explanation absolutely enraptured and only moderately confused. 

So you settled on ordering pizza from Domino’s. You have no trouble calling or receiving phone calls, because you have no trouble doing anything, and he admitted that he only really calls you because he gets too anxious to do more, so you’re tasked with ordering the food. You accept this mission with pride.

You stand tall, gazing out the window into the wild California domain: massive buildings and towering eucalyptus trees, bleeding skyline and the sun slowly getting swallowed up by the ocean. Corpse looms behind you, with his arms snaked around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder, looking at you through the corner of his eye. You wait patiently for the underpaid, overworked staff member to pick up, and once they do, you have the audacity to grin brightly and chirp, “Hi! I want pizza.”

Conversations flow smoothly, and you make hot chocolate - because you are hot and you crave chocolate - and he insists he wants one too, because you want one, and you don’t hesitate to overflow his cup with whipped cream and an ungodly amount of miniature marshmallows. A premature heart attack, just for him. Whoever said romance is dead has clearly never met you. When the doorbell chimes, you’re astounded that an hour flew by so quickly.

After the delicious meal, the movie night must commence. So what if you watched 10 Things I hate About You yesterday, you insist that you have already forgotten the plot. You lead him to your room and he tries not to stare, but can’t help himself. Pretty boy in a pretty girl’s room. His eyes linger on the massive posters of Chrollo on your walls, and you sense his displeasure rolling off of him in waves. 

“What?” You huff, fluffing the pillows, “You don’t like my husband?”

He jabs his finger into his chest, into the spot of his heart, “I’m your husband.”

“Side hoe, then-”

“-No.”

You didn’t lie when you said you love to cuddle, or that you’re clingy. It’s a good thing he’s just as clingy as you are, because when he lays down and you latch onto his side. He doesn’t complain, rather wraps his arm around pulls you close. His thumb draws lazy circles on your side; with your head resting on his chest, you feel each rhythmical rise and drop. 

The opening credits play on the projector, the room dark enough for your pile of plushies to look like a whole fucking human just standing in the corner. A ghost! Sucks for it, you’re not scared. You feel safe. Protected. So comfortable in Corpse’s hold that you’re honestly wondering how did you manage to be so long without him. To think all of this started when Sykkuno followed you on Twitter. What a lucky accident.

“Can I ask you something?” Your voice cuts through the bopping 90s soundtrack and Julia Stiles’ voice. He hums. You take it as a yes. Tilting your head upwards, you find his eyes again, a thorn of displeasure picking you as you note that that apprehension you had seen previously is still very much there, “...You really wouldn’t date me if I was a worm?”

His chest rumbles with a laugh and his lips split into a grin, “I would.” He presses your side for emphasis, “I really would.” He repeats, reassuringly. You, however, are not convinced.

“But I’d be a worm.”

“I know. We’d... roll around in the dirt together, or something.”

“But you’d be human.”

He frowns softly, “Why couldn’t I be a worm, too?”

“Those are the rules.”

“What kind of shitty fucking rules are those?”

“I dunno, it’s like the Thanos snap or something. I just turn into a worm. I’m the only one.”

“That’s fine.” He smiles, “I’d take you out on a fishing date or something.”

Shocked, offended, and heartbroken, you hit his chest and pointedly turn away with a pout, which he finds very funny for some reason, but you fail to see the humor anywhere except the movie. Despite the fact that he’d sacrifice you for a fish, you smile shyly and close your eyes. He did say you would take a nap together, and if he really thought you’d stay awake for movie night, well, then he’s just an idiot. You had decided you would fall asleep as soon as he was next to you. It’s a miracle you managed to stay awake for so long.

“...Sleeping already?” You don’t appreciate his teasing tone.

“’m not sleeping...” You murmur, “’m resting my eyes.”

“Sure.”

You’re not quite certain (of anything, really) how much time drifts by, but you’re nearly lost in unconsciousness, in the warm, nice feeling that comes along with him like a cloud. Perhaps he thinks you’re asleep, he has to, else he wouldn’t say anything at all, “You’re stuck with me now, you know.” It’s such a soft admission, riddled with the same notes of anxiety that always prevail in his speech; with the same hopeful sincerity he had been gazing at you the whole evening. 

Moving your lips is such a hassle, but you manage, “’m...stuck...” You mumble, “’m...stuck...what are you doing step-”

“No!” He laughs, and your lips quirk into a lazy smile, “No, no, no. Just no. Do you talk in your sleep?” You fake snore at that, loudly, “You’re like a little dragon.”

“...Fuck you.”

“Fine, a kitten, then.” That’s better. You feel something chapped, but soft, press onto your forehead, “Goodnight, Y/n.”

God, you’re so fucking happy. Does he know how happy you are? How happy he makes you? But you’re too tired for screaming and flailing around, too tired to even crack an eye open. You want him to know all the same, “...like you.” You whisper, but you don’t know if he hears you over the movie, “...I like you.”

His reply is instant, breathless, “I like you too.”

Good, you want to say, and maybe you do - can’t tell anymore. Sleep takes you too quickly.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

tags (in italics is those i couldn’t tag! make sure all’s ok w your settings!) : @littlebabysandboxburritos - @fairywriter-oracle - @tsukishimawh0re - @ofstarsanddreams - @bbecc-a - @annshit - @leahh19 - @letsloveimagines - @bellomi-clarke - @wineandionysus - @guiltydols - @onephootinfrontoftheother - @liamakorn - @thirstyfangirl - @lilysdaydreams - @pan-ini - @mxqicshxp - @tanchosanke - @yoshinorecommends - @flightsandfantasy - @liljennyx3 - @bingusmode - @unknown-and-invisible - @sinister-sleep - @fivedicksinatrenchcoat - @mercury--moon - @peterparkerspjsuit - @unstableye - @simonsbluee - @shinyshimaagain - @ppopty - @siriuslystupid - @crapimahuman - @ofthedewthesunlight - @mythicalamphitrite - @artsyally - @corpsesimpp - @corpsewhitetee - @corpse-husbandsimp - @hyp-oh-critical - @roses-and-grasses - @rhyrhy462 - @sparklylandflaplawyer - @charbkgo - @airwaveee - @creativedogs - @kaitlyn2907 - @loxbbg - @afuckingunicornn - @fleurmoon - @yeolliedokai

more tags are in the comments bcs tumblr only allows me to tag 50 people max 💙

[taephilia]

lost (myself) & found (you)

pairing: jeon jungkook x gn!reader

genre: fluff, soulmate au, based off of kimi no na wa

warnings: one (1) swear word

word count: 2,120

a/n: i saw this quote from the movie and inspiration just struck and i haven't been able to get it out of my head since. ofc i wrote this for jungkook since he's a weeb and said he would also want to hear bells ring when he meets his soulmate <3 also this is not edited lol i'll come back to it later, i just wanted to get this out

"Once in a while when I wake up, I find myself crying. The dream I must’ve had I can never recall. But… the sensation that I’ve lost something, lingers for a long time after I wake up." - Tachibana Taki, Kimi No Na Wa (2016)

Jungkook isn’t sure how long he’s felt like this—felt like something is missing, something important, something that his heart just can’t seem to let go of even if his brain has already forgotten. He knows that he dreams of whatever it is. He recalls scenes as he goes about his day; a loud laugh here, a brush of a hand against his there. People that he’s never seen before walking by him in a city he’s never been to, music playing on the radio that he’s never heard, a family that he comes home to that he doesn’t recognize at all. It’s all very strange and Jungkook is starting to wonder if maybe the late night ramen he’s built up a habit of eating has gone bad or maybe the unhealthy amounts of salt in it are the cause behind this. Because it was all fun and games until Jungkook’s heart starts to ache, like it’s calling out to someone that his brain can’t even conjure up an image for. Someone that he would search the ends of the cosmos for, someone that, whenever he feels like he gets close to them, slips right through his fingers like grains of sand. But he shakes it off whenever the feeling comes and ignores the heavy feeling in his chest in favor of paying attention to that day’s classes. If he had somehow found his soulmate, it definitely wouldn’t be someone in his hometown in the countryside.

Soulmate. That’s who his grandfather had told him he’s been dreaming about ever since Jungkook confessed almost two months ago about the reason behind his ever-present furrowed brows and faraway look in his eyes. He says that it had happened to him when he was around Jungkook’s age but, like most dreams, he’s forgotten who it was. He then went on to talk about the red thread of fate and that’s when Jungkook started tuning out. It’s a nice concept to think about when you’re a child—a red string tied around your pinky that connects you to the person that you’re destined to be with—but it’s just a myth and Jungkook doesn’t have time to think about things that aren’t real. Not when he barely has the time to think about the things that are real, like college entrance exams and graduating from high school.

So he buries his head in his books and pours every last drop of blood, sweat, and tears into his studies to get into his dream college in Seoul. The yearning in his heart doesn’t go away but it’s eclipsed by the pure exhaustion that he feels at the end of every day. And, like most dreams, he forgets.

Jungkook is 23 when he seriously begins to wonder whether or not he’s going crazy. He had thought he was going over the deep end while in college but hearing bells go off? Now that takes the cake. It happens at random; he never knows when the bells in his head will ring (and Jungkook knows that only he can hear them because nobody around him ever gives any sort of indication that they’ve heard them) no matter how much he tries to prepare for it. He checks his surroundings every day, eyes scanning over the crowds of people weaving around him in Seoul, but it’s no use. The only consistent location that they seem to chime in is when he’s on the metro and even then, it’s on random days, at random times, and not always at the same stop.

He’s not the type to go chasing after fairy tales, or at least, he isn’t anymore. He doesn’t have time to think hard and long about what these imaginary bells could mean, not when he has a job to do and people to impress and money to be made. And his grandfather died during his second year of college so the only conversation of “soulmates” that occurs now are the ones he has with himself in his head and the memories of their conversations years ago. But as fate would have it, Jungkook took a couple of days off to get an early start to the weekend and he is just itching for an adventure. So when he hears the bells go off while he’s making his way to his connecting train, he closes his eyes for a brief moment and puts himself into the hands of fate.

Jungkook allows his feet to carry him where they want, observing his surroundings and keeping an eye out for any person who gives any sort of indication to hearing something that they shouldn’t be hearing. He climbs up the stairs and out of the station, not giving any attention to the people who side-eye him for standing still on a bustling sidewalk, but looks down at his hand instead. In particular, at his pinky, which feels like there’s something squeezing at it. Like… like a thread that’s been tied snugly around it.

The red thread of fate, a voice in his head whispers to him and Jungkook almost chuckles out loud at the thought. And then almost laughs out loud again because, although he doesn’t believe in soulmates, his actions say otherwise. Because as much as Jungkook doesn’t believe in soulmates… Well, the thought of them and the red thread of fate being real is nice, isn’t it? Someone that you’re destined to be with, connected to by a string that can tangle and stretch but will never fray, keeping you tied to them for all eternity. It’s a comforting thought, especially when he thinks of his extremely lacking love life that comes with his high standards and fear of rejection.

Jungkook passes by a bakery during his fate-led walk and just as he’s considering stopping in to buy something, he hears the bells again. A light sound, one that could be mistaken for a phone notification, but one that he knows very well. But Jungkook’s soulmate must be as used to the sound as he is because no one around him gives any sort of indication that they’re also in search of him. And after an hour and a half of walking around a part of the city that he isn’t too familiar with, he’s ready to call it quits for the night. So Jungkook makes his way to the nearest metro station and gets on a train home.

Of course, that’s when he hears the bells again.

He looks up from his phone and around the crowded train but nobody has been able to move since the doors closed. And if it were someone near him, he would have heard them before. There’s a flash out of the corner of his eye and when Jungkook looks up and out the window of the sliding doors, he sees a pair of eyes staring back. A pair of eyes that are not his but in fact belong to someone in a train traveling right next to his. They stare right at him and mirror his own when they widen at the exact same time as his. But just as soon as Jungkook finds you, he loses you just as quickly when your train goes in a different direction.

Jungkook spends the entire day the next day looking for you. He manages to cross off everything on his “things to do when I’m in Seoul” bucket list that he’s been adding on to for the past 10 years. His feet hurt, his wallet feels significantly lighter than when he first left his apartment, and he’s wondering how much weight he lost from walking what feels like the entire expanse of Seoul three times over. And even after all that, he hasn’t heard the bells. Not once.

And it’s at this point, when Jungkook decides to eat dinner at his favorite ramen shop before calling it a night, that he begins to wonder if he had missed his chance last night. Not like it was much of a chance considering the fact that you were on a different train and he had no way of getting to you. But fate is cruel, isn’t that what some people say? Maybe his thread is just so tangled, so frayed, that it’ll take a lifetime before he’s able to get another glimpse at you. And Jungkook just isn’t that patient.

He can barely even remember what you look like anymore. Maybe it’s the hunger eating away at his stomach and the aching of his feet but as he eats his ramen, he can only recall vague details about you. Like how he wants to drown in your eyes, how soft your skin looks even through two dirty train door windows, and how he thinks your shiny hair probably smells nice - like vanilla or peaches or something. But your face? Absolutely nothing. It’s like he blacked out the second he looked up at you last night.

Jungkook leans back in his seat as he sips at his water, staring out the window of the shop as if you would walk past right that second. But you don’t. So Jungkook throws a couple of bills down onto the table for a tip and heads out, a sigh leaving his lips when he looks around but doesn’t hear any bells. Now that he’s had a chance to sit down and eat, he feels a bit more rational and more determined to find you—but that can wait until tomorrow after he’s had a good night’s sleep. It’s a bit later in the evening so there’s barely anyone around him as he makes his way to the nearest metro station that will take him home. Jungkook is just about to descend the stairs when something makes him stop. He’s not really sure what it is that he stops for; the bus honking on the street beside him or the group of friends laughing as they walk by him? Or perhaps it’s the person at the bottom of the stairs, their eyes looking down as they climb up, but Jungkook just knows that it’s you.

Well, he doesn’t actually know. He’s pretty sure it’s you. It feels like it’s you. But is that fate talking or just his hopeful heart? Jungkook decides not to say anything and slowly walks down the stairs. The bells will tell him if he’s right. Your eyes glance up and meet his and Jungkook sees them widen, but like him, you don’t say anything. Are you waiting to hear your own bells?

He shoves his hands deep into the pocket of his hoodie, eyes quickly darting away from yours to stare holes into the ground as he keeps walking. His heart beats faster with every step and he has to resist the urge to just stare at you point blank because he needs to know and-

He hears the bells. And it’s like a weight is taken off of his shoulders.

But he keeps walking. And you keep walking. And now Jungkook is panicking because why the fuck is he still walking? You’re his soulmate, he found you, so why isn’t he stopping? Jungkook tries to get his feet to stop moving, to just turn around and call out to you but he can’t. What would he even say? ‘Hey, you’? He doesn’t even know your name. ‘I think you’re my soulmate’? How disgustingly cliche. What if you don’t even care that he’s your soulmate? What if you’re already seeing someone? What if he’s the only one that can hear the bells for you and you hear them for someone else? What if-

“Um, excuse me?”

Jungkook almost trips on the last step from how fast he turns around at the sound of your voice. His hands feel clammy but he keeps them in his pocket otherwise you’d be able to see how they’re shaking ever so slightly. He drags his eyes up to yours and suddenly, every bit of anxiety he felt is suddenly gone. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?

“Have we met before? You seem really familiar.”

You’re at the top of the stairs now but you step down a few steps, as if you want to get closer. Jungkook climbs back up a few steps because he does want to get closer. There’s an easy smile on his face as he says, “Found you.”

He isn’t sure where it came from. He isn’t even exactly sure what he means. But it feels like the right thing to say, like something that he’s vaguely remembering from a dream he had a long time ago. And judging from the matching smile on your own face, you know what Jungkook means.

“Took you long enough.”

[ramblinganthropologist]

Fictober 2021 (3) - “I’ve waited for this”

Fanfiction

Fandom: Mass Effect (Actor AU)

Summary: Macen Virius was supposed to be breaking things off with his costar. Instead, he’s pretty sure he might have just caught feelings. Damn it, it was just supposed to be a sex thing...

---

There was nothing like the end of a long day of filming to make Macen want to go to fucking sleep.

Every muscle in his body ached as he left the set to change out of his costume. Moments before, he had been in the blown out remains of a battlefield. Post would add the effects, but his hands still ached from holding his prop rifle and clicking the useless trigger button. Honestly, if he had been human, he would have expected an imprint there.

He was going to have to ask his costar about that later…

“Where is he anyway?” Macen’s mandibles twitched as he glanced around. Everyone was heading off, but there was no sign of Mass Effect’s leading man. Usually, he stuck around to talk to his costar – then again, he didn’t see the other ‘Commander Shepard’ either. They must have both taken off early…

He envied that about humans. They got out of costume and makeup way too quickly.

In the end, he too was back in his regular clothes. As he walked, he rubbed his right mandible, trying to get the feeling back. Part of playing Garrus meant that he needed fake implants to imply he’d had half his face blown off. With how numb that mandible got, it certainly felt that way. No doubt about it, he was looking forward to the final season where all he would need is scar tissue. At least he’d be able to move better in that.

A beeping drew his attention to his wrist as he left the set. His omnitool was letting him know he had a message from a certain fake redhead. As humans put it, curiosity killed the cat (don’t ask him, he didn’t even know what a cat was) so he opened it.

Alex Jones: Hey, rehearsal at my place tonight?

Alex Jones: I can get takeout from that levo-dextro place again. You liked their noodles.

He had liked their noodles. What he didn’t like was… well, this.

“You’re getting too attached, Virius. This is just supposed to be about sex.” He shook his head, half considering calling things off so he could have the night to himself. Problem was that his stomach had started to growl at the thought of those noodles. Besides, tomorrow’s shoot was supposed to involve a lot of emotional moments – he needed all the feedback he could get.

With any luck, he’d end the night in his own bed without fucking the human. After all… he was a turian of self-restraint and control. He could totally handle this.

…

Yeah, he was just going to keep telling himself that and hope for the best. Damn sexy human…

---

An hour later, Macen found himself standing in front of his costar’s door, frowning as he stared at the metal. As hard as he tried to talk himself into ending things, doubt still gnawed at his stomach.

He should end things. It never ended well when he got too into somebody.

“He should understand… it’s just sex… he’s my costar, and it’s just sex.” Macen shook his head again, frowning as he started to key in the human’s door code. Alex had given it to him a month prior, mostly so if he was going to be late he could get in.

That probably wasn’t a good sign, but he had elected to ignore it.

The door clicked opened, and he stepped in. Much to his surprise, the sound of upbeat music met him in the hallway. Not only that, but someone was singing to it if his translator was anything to go by. The damn thing was working overtime as he sidled closer to the entrance to the living room, holding his breath as he peaked in.

Lucky for him, Alex’s back was to him. The human had cleared a space in his living room in order to have room for what he was doing then. However, Macen was having a problem processing what “that” was. Well, he knew it was dancing – a somewhat odd version of it – but it was just so… old fashioned.

Also, since when did Alex dance?

“Let’s chase the dreaming light, and I’ll truly be myself…”

Dancing wasn’t the only thing on the menu. Macen’s jaw dropped as he realized the soft, sweet voice he had heard in the hallway was coming from Alex himself as he worked through the song with flowing, easy moves. Something about it was so painstakingly familiar, yet he couldn’t put his finger on it as he stood mutely in the hallway, watching the scene in front of him.

He had to wonder… what did it look like from the front?

“There’s a scene I want to show you. You have to wait for it… so let’s make a promise!”

Alex moved into a different position, holding out his hand to an imaginary audience that Macen couldn’t see as he took a step up. Every one of his moves were precise, even though he was doing nothing more than dancing around his apartment in his socks. Clearly, he had been practicing…

But for what?

“There’s a gentle wind wrapping around me… isn’t it warm?”

Macen knew a bridge when he heard one, and he felt himself holding his breath as he watched. Alex was getting closer to his imaginary audience now, probably for whatever was going to come in the final chorus. Maybe it was because he was so focused on the man that he hadn’t noticed his heart had begun to beat faster, but it thudded all the same.

“They’re overflowing, these endless hearts…” The man suddenly turned on his heel, facing the entry way. “Please carry them to tomorrow!”

And then no more singing happened as the precursor to the final chorus played behind him. He was fixed on the turian standing in his living room, looking rather shocked as if he hadn’t given him the door code. Macen wasn’t doing much better, mind you – he still hadn’t managed to shut his damn mouth.

And people thought they were cool. If only the blogs could see them now.

At least Alex shut the music off as he regained sense. He reached for a towel to dry off his apparently sweaty face, cheeks a slight pink from exercise. Maybe it was the sweat that had made him shine in that moment. For all Macen knew, it had caught the overhead light when he spun around like that.

Meanwhile, his heart wasn’t slowing down. Still…

“Uh… I guess my text didn’t make it.” At least his mandibles were starting to work. “I didn’t miss the noodles yet, did I?”

The human put his towel down as he started towards his phone propped up on a stand. “They’ll be here in 15 last I checked.”

The music started playing on his phone as he frowned. “Damn, I knew I spun the wrong way…”

This caused Macen to cock his head to the side. “Were you recording yourself for social media or something?”

Doubtful; this kind of thing definitely wasn’t in the human’s wheelhouse. After all, he was supposed to be playing Commander Shepard. While the man had some oddities, he probably didn’t dance around like that.

…

Then again, who fucking knew. Dude was weird.

Alex was still checking his phone as he spoke. “No, just recording my practice to see where I need to improve for filming next week.”

Surprisingly, he was grinning as he looked up. “I’ve waiteda for this for a long time, so I want to get it right.”

Something about the way he smiled did awful things to Macen’s stomach. However, the statement set his mind whirring. While he wasn’t a complete Reaper War freak like some of his coworkers, he at least knew enough to be sure something like that hadn’t happened. After all, there’d be videos, right?

Definitely videos, no way Joker would’ve let that slip by.

“Ok, you’re going to have to fill me in on this one… since when did Shepard do a little dance?”

Alex chuckled – again, there went his stomach. “2185, to be exact. The Normandy ran into a rogue AI that accidentally found its way into Shepard’s music collection. They needed to distract it, so he wound up putting on a little show. He disabled the cameras beforehand, but he wrote about it in his journal, so we know it happened. And now I get to do it on TV and make all the people who think he was just a military guy hate me. I’m thrilled.”

Clearly – he was sparkling again, and this time it wasn’t from the sweat. Macen felt his heart beat harder again, and he tried to distract himself by looking towards the door. If those noodles could save his ass, he’d marry them.

Besides, he was supposed to be calling things off with the guy.

Alex was still looking through his phone as he spoke. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve done a dance routine for TV, I was worried I forgot how. I’m definitely a little rough, but it’s better than I thought it would be. Good thing the director let me know early so I could practice a bit more.”

Macen started to open his mouth to ask, but then the memory came to the surface. He knew where he had heard the voice before, and honestly he was surprised he had forgotten about it. Back then, he had secretly loved to watch it.

Secretly, of course, because Citadel Idol Heart was really more of a girl’s show. The popular teen drama about idols competing in a Citadel-wide talent competition in hopes of seeing their dreams come to life had run for a few years, and he had seen every episode. More importantly, he had once crushed on the main character, a blonde idol with blue eyes and the sweetest voice he had ever heard. Whenever she took the stage, he had been unable to look away.

Just like he couldn’t look away now…

“You… I forgot you were on CIH.”

It was now Alex’s turn to blink back surprise as he looked up from his phone. “You watched that?”

“Kind of…” His eyes darted. “Your voice hasn’t changed much. I mean it’s gotten older sounding but I’m glad to know it wasn’t autotune or anything…”

Things had officially gotten awkward. There he was, with the crush from his teenage years… and he was fucking the guy without even knowing it. Life was weird, and it was getting worse by the second. If only teenage him could see him now…

The man’s cheeks turned a light pink at the compliment. “Well, it’s not like I’ve gone on T or anything, so no big surprise there…”

He got up, probably to check for the noodles. “I take it you were part of the Melody fan club then. Unless you were an edge lord and went with Black Rose. Her fan club was the absolute worst and insisted we hated each other, but I was the best man at her damn wedding last year…”

The rest of his statement was drowned out by the opening of a door and the ruffling of a paper bag. At last, the noodles had arrived. Unfortunately, Macen realized he didn’t have much of an appetite. His stomach refused to calm, and his heart still pounded as he sat there, processing everything.

At least the application of a warm box to his mandibles helped.

“Macen, your noodles are going to get cold.”

He blinked and realized Alex was nudging him in the face with his food. That shot him back to reality as he took the box and proffered plastic fork that went with it. The human then settled in next to him – not across! – and started to dig into his own box.

Right… food. And they were supposed to be rehearsing. And he was definitely supposed to be breaking up with his costar.

“I had the pin.”

His comment left silence in his wake. Alex had stopped eating and was giving him a rather incredulous look. This caused Macen to duck his head in lieu of eating noodles. After all, it was hard to do so politely when you had a face like his. Really, he should have sworn them off… but they were just so damn good he couldn’t resist.

Damn humans and their noodles, they were out to get him.

“You had the fan club pin?”

Yep – there went his mandibles, flapping in the breeze. “I was a big fan, ok? What can I say, everyone loves an underdog story… and you maybe… looked good in that one outfit. The orange one…”

Melody in the orange outfit had been taped to his bedroom wall until he left for basic. Hell, it might still be there…

“God, you’re such a nerd.”

Alex was chuckling though as he put his fork down. It was a nice sound, though it did horrible things to Macen’s stomach once more. Thoughts of noodles evaporated as he sat there, taking in the sound of the human’s mirth. He really needed to laugh more often… maybe he should work on making that happen.

“Well… I can’t exactly let a fan down, now can I?”

He stood and crossed the room to the open space he had created. The music was soon queued up to where he had last stopped, and Alex took position once more. The smile on his face made Macen’s heart want to stop as he sat there, a noodle still hanging from his mandible.

“I can take off into the dreaming sky… because I’m not alone.” Alex winked as he moved, following the song. “Wherever it is, I feel like I can go across the distant sky…”

Then the music swelled as it led into the final chorus. Macen forgot how to breathe in that moment as he watched his costar dance and sing along to the ancient song. All he could think of was how much better he had gotten since the days of CIH…

And how much he wanted to kiss him.

“It’s not enough to put into words, so I’m putting it into a song I’m wishing will reach you.” Another smile as Alex twirled, then began his final pose as the song began to wind down. “Beating my heart~”

The last pose, with his head cocked to the side and hands clasped together, held as the music faded. Then there was silence in the living room as Macen struggled to remember how to function. Right then, there was nothing there but Alex and the table in front of him that kept him in place.

Shit.

“It probably needs some work, but I think I’ve got the basics considering it’s only been a couple hours.” Alex landed back on the couch, picking his food back up. “What do you think, Macen? Got anything you noticed?”

Yeah… his heart was still beating like crazy.

“Macen?”

The turian shook his head – probably launching the noodle in the process. At least it didn’t hit the man next to him, so he could thank his lucky stars for that. However, it was hard to think then as so many feelings and thoughts crashed together.

He was supposed to be calling it off… that was why he came over. This was just supposed to be a sex thing… but every bone in his carapace was telling him to grab the other man and kiss the daylights out of him. They hadn’t even ever kissed outside of sex or prepping for scenes…

What the hell was wrong with him?

“I uh… I don’t know the song, but maybe hold the last pose a bit longer. They might be able to make your eyes light up a bit more.”

Alex nodded at this. “I’ll make a note. Also, don’t you hate cold noodles? Last time you wouldn’t stop complaining when the delivery guy was late…”

Right then, Macen wasn’t sure what he hated or liked as he shoveled the food into his mouth. He just needed something, anything to keep him away from the thoughts currently blooming in his mind.

He knew this path – he hated it. It never ended well. And long ago he had told himself he was never going to walk down it again if he had any sense in his head. This was nothing more than a rehash on an old teenage crush… he could overpower it.

“We need our energy to practice.” He slurped down the last noodle, glad that none were sticking to his face this time. “Tomorrow’s going to be hell if we’re not ready.”

At least his costar nodded as he worked to finish his dinner. “Tell me about it, I have a damn imprint on my trigger finger from that damn gun…”

Well, at least on the bright side that question got answered. It did nothing to quell the bubbling feelings Macen was trying so desperately to beat down, but at least his curiosity was sated for the moment. Maybe that would get him through filming.

One thing was for sure… he was fucked. No way about it – he was just plain fucked. The universe was laughing at him, and he only had himself to blame. All he could do was hope he could hold back and wait for the feelings to pass.

If they didn’t… see the previous statement for clarification. Fuck… he was supposed to be a turian sharpshooter, not a lovesick puppy. He didn’t sign up for this.

[starlightsearches]

Hi please may i request a hux x reader where you’re also a general and you hear a loud bang in the room next to your office which is hux’s office. (Maybe he kicked the wall or something in frustration). You go to check all is well and step in to find him head in hands sat against the wall having a panic attack and so you help him out of it and then discuss it with him and show him some much needed affection and human connection. I love you’re writing, you’re one of my absolute favourite bloggers

Shattered

Hello sweet friend! Thank you for the kind words, and I’m sorry that this request took so much time! I kind of adapted it a bit, I hope you don’t mind 😊

Requests are closed  ✨

Armitage Hux x Reader

Warnings: I was feeling very angsty when I first wrote this, and I think a lot of that seeped into the story. Also discussions of a mild injury, and mentions of blood. Hope you enjoy!

As far as neighbors went, General Hux was one of the best, all things considered. You never heard him, hardly ever saw him, and you liked that just fine. It was certainly an improvement from your last assignment, before your promotion. That base had been frigid, and so damn loud, like there was never a moment of peace—especially not for you, practically running the whole damn show. While it had been a slight adjustment in the beginning, you much preferred being on the Finalizer. The work was engaging, the company was pleasant enough, and your quarters were blessedly quiet.

That’s why the shattering sound is especially jarring, and your first thought, however ridiculous, is assassination. The glass at your desk spills when you jump to your feet, and you rush to move the data pads and various items out of the way of the trailing water before running to the door and out into the hall, pounding on the general’s door furiously, only to be surprised when it actually opens.

You step inside and the darkened room, and General Hux approaches, looking very much alive and un-assassinated. He glares at you through bloodshot eyes, and for a moment you want to leave, to run away from this place and forget that you were ever here. That’s the effect his gaze has on you.

“Did you need something, general?” he says the title with a mouthful of disgust, and you pause, waiting for the words to come. There’s nothing to say, though, nothing that you could say without making yourself seem paranoid and irrational. It’s obvious that he is fine, or at least, he seems fine.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, general, I thought I heard something,” you reply, slowly backing away to the door, hoping to escape some of the embarrassment, “I wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

“Of course I’m alright,” his voice is harsh, harsh enough to surprise you. You’ve only worked with Hux for a short amount of time, and although you knew he was upset about your appearance on this ship, he’s never been so outwardly cruel to you. Something is wrong.

You take in the scene again, noticing a few things. There’s no light on in his quarters, but General Hux is still in his uniform, despite the lateness of the hour, so he must not have been sleeping. And then there’s the way he’s standing, so stiff and guarded, with one hand behind his back. On the far side of the room, something glints.

"Is something wrong with your hand, general?" As soon as the words leave your lips, he bristles, immediately on the defensive.

"As I told you before, I am clearly fine. I’m not sure how you ran things on the Derus base, but here I expect a certain level of decorum from my fellow officers, and that includes not barging into my quarters and asking personal questions. If that isn’t something you can manage, then the Finalizer is not for you.” The words hit you like a slap to the face, like an avalanche, and you struggle to breathe under the weight of his disapproval. He’s called to mind every insecurity, every instance where you have been reminded that you’re so often out of your element here. It paralyzes you, this reminder that you don’t belong. You had been able to convince yourself that it was impostor syndrome, that the others, even Hux, appreciated your presence. Apparently you were incorrect. He continues, advancing on you like a force of nature, a little wild, full of rage.

“How can I be asked to lead if I’m not given the basic respect of privacy in my own space? If I am not given one simple courtesy, if I am treated this way-” he stops, his teeth bared, with such anger in his eyes that you flinch, After all this time in the Order, no one had talked to you like this. You knew he was angry, you knew he didn’t like the perceived slight that your presence implied, but still—he had no right to address you so angrily. 

"What is wrong with you?" It's not a question you mean to ask out loud, but the words slip out anyway, and you find you don't regret them in the slightest. You had been wrong about the general before. He's not the man you thought he was, and you can't stand the idea of being around him for another minute.

You turn your back on him, turn to the door and the light of the hallway, ready to leave this place. Maybe you'd have room in yourself to regret this tomorrow, but the only thing you can feel right now is the bright sting of anger that attempts to mask your wounded pride.

The palm of his hand is slick and sticky when he grabs you by the wrist, pulling you to a stop, and you yank your arm out of his grasp, uninterested in anything else he has to say. That is, until you see the blood, visible in your periphery, staining your arm in the shape of a watery hand print. That makes you stop.

"Please," his voice breaks when he sees you hesitate, his pleas too desperate to be said face to face, "I need help."

Desperation is a language in which you are fluent, and it’s one that you can’t ignore. Your anger still swims in your chest, but you won’t turn your back on his brokenness when it so closely mirrors your own.

The door closes, the lights turn on, and you get to work, caring for him with practical efficiency: hand first, glass second. You don't allow yourself to think about the way he shakes at the contact as you bandage his palm, watching as the blood seeps through the white layers that you wrap methodically over the cut. You don't allow yourself to wonder why a man like General Hux would own and then destroy such a delicate porcelain cup, the glittering fragments scattered across the floor. You just bandage and clean and ignore. You're still hurt. You're still angry. And you still want to help him.

You finish, tossing the final shards of glass into the waste, and then turn your attention back to the general. If you hadn't figured out that something was wrong earlier, you'd definitely know now: you've never seen him sit for this long. He stares at you, looking lost, searching for guidance, but you've helped more than enough. You could leave.

A harsh sigh of surrender puffs through your nose, and you move over to his small kitchen area, searching through the drawers and cupboards at random until you find what you’re looking for.

"What are you doing?" he asks, affronted, until he sees the glasses in your hand, the bottle in the other. You set them on the table with more force than necessary, and they rattle against each other, a clinking chorus that startles you both.

"You look like you could use a drink, general," you say, pouring the amber liquid into his glass first, "and I know I could."

You're not sure how much time you spend sipping in silence, but the lower the liquid in the bottle drops, the smaller you feel, like you're shrinking inside of yourself, able to search through the caverns and hollows of your mind. You wander inside your own consciousness, but no matter where you travel, your thoughts always return to General Hux. Had he really meant it, that you didn’t belong here? Or was his anger misdirected, and you just happened to be the closest living target? You find yourself shifting in your seat, wells of sadness that you normally kept damned finding their way into the greater cavities of your thoughts. You can’t keep thinking this way; you need a distraction.

"Are you alright?" You say to Hux, the question floating to the surface, bubbling from your lips like a laugh or a sob. You watch him drain his glass again, swaying side to side to the tempo of some imaginary song, and for a moment you’re not thinking about yourself.

"No, general," he says, slurring his words but proper, as always, "I'm not." It's the answer you expected; why don't you know how to respond?

"Do you want to talk about it?" It's a stupid question—you know it's a stupid question even as you say it; your voice sounds incredulous to your own ears. You must be drunker than you thought. But you’d like to know. Despite everything, you want him to be alright. You need him to be alright. It’s difficult to admit, but you rely on him. Admire him, if you’re being brutally honest. 

"Not tonight," he looks at you when he says it, his movements a sigh, and his gaze loaded with meaning, the softness in his pale green eyes consuming and powerful and defenseless. With just one look, he's rendered you speechless. You watch his hand skim over the surface of the table until it makes contact with your own, just the tips of his fingers overlapping yours. The contact is minimal, but the effect is not; you feel your face grow warmer, and not just from the drink.

"Are you alright?" he asks the question now, and you’re not sure how to give him an honest answer.

"I don't think so," you whisper the words, the pleasant drunkenness from before warping into something that splinters and cracks along your weakest points. It's been so long since you let yourself feel this way. Suddenly the feeling of his hand on yours is much more welcome, and it grounds you. You're not okay right now, but he isn't either.

"I'm glad you're here," he keeps talking, his voice calm and soothing for you, and the difference makes you laugh. You’re glad he’s here too. You don’t want to be alone.

[jennawritesstories]

The Shipwreck Sleep Clinic // Novella Update #1

Hello! Okay! I’ve mentioned this project multiple times but now I’m here to actually introduce it! This novella began life as a short story idea until I quickly realise it was far to big to be a short story. It didn’t feel like a novel either, so here I am, writing a novella (or what I think will be a novella). 

The Shipwreck Sleep Clinic follows four siblings, 15-year-old twins called Devlin and Evella, Winnie (11) and Kipp (5), who live on a small touristy island where everyone has an unusual quirk or power. For example there is a significant side character who owns a bakery, and she’ll bake you a special cake on your birthday that grants you good luck for the day. Kipp’s stomach spontaneously grows birds that he has to cough up, Winnie can manipulate sand and Devlin has the ability to see through the eyes of anybody related to him. Evella’s power is the most explored in terms of plot. She can enter and view people’s dreams if they fall asleep in her arms.

The book has a soft, vaguely apocalyptic feel. We see shops and schools closing down, tourists stop coming to the island, public transport grinds to a halt, bins stop being collected etc. The kids’ mother dies just before the book begins and their father is away at war, so the fifteen year old twins have to look after the family. Thugs take their home so they move to this shipwreck where they used to play (it’s not a real shipwreck, but an old, highly themed beach restaurant). Evella goes above and beyond, and opens a sleep clinic on the shipwreck to help the mental health of the islanders.

Let’s meet the siblings!

Evella

15 - Devlin’s twin

Can enter dreams with a person and help them through nightmares

soft, dream-like, wispy - struggles with dissociation, and separating dreams from reality

selfless, but to the point of self-destruction

has to be reminded to eat, sleep etc

feels much older than she is

Devlin

15 - Evella’s twin

Can see through the eyes of anybody he is related to

So his siblings distrust him and believe he is always spying on them 

Hates that he gets reprimanded for using his abilities when Evella is praised for using hers

Immature but doesn’t want to be

Suddenly basically a parent but has no idea how to be a parent

Wants to join trade places in the army with his dad so his siblings can have a real guardian and he’ll finally be doing something useful (oh my baby, noo)

Winnie

11

Sand powers - like telekinesis but only with sand and only on the beach

Cool Kid

Will never be see without her rainbow sunglasses. They belong together, okay. 

Always has bubblegum, weirdly proud of her bubble-blowing skills

Trains with her powers constantly and pushes her body to extreme physical training every night because she believes something bad is coming to the island

Her dad is her hero and she can’t accept that he is a terrible person

My fave (shhh don’t tell the others)

Kipp

5

His stomach (or lungs, I haven’t quite figured it out yet) spontaneously grow baby birds that he has to cough up

Very anxious - constantly worries about the wellbeing of all his birds

Very perceptive to the state of the island - obsessively tracks which shops are closing down, which families are leaving etc.

My baby

In summary, all four deserve the biggest of hugs! I adore these kids so much and the more I write them, the more broken I see they are. I’m loving exploring them and the complicated relationships they have with each other and their weird island.

How’s the writing going?

F U N  &  C H A O T I C.

I haven’t introduced this until now because 1) laziness and 2) I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing with it. I usually write linearly except for the very beginning of a story, where I write whatever scenes come to mind while I’m figuring out what the story is, but after that I’ll write it from beginning to end. With Shipwreck, I’m still at the “write random scenes and figure out where they slot in later” stage and I’m 10K in. Not only that, but I’ve written this thing in every POV and tense imaginable so I now have 10K words of scenes in different POVs and tenses and no order whatsoever. Originally, it was just going to be told from Devlin’s POV. Now that I want all four of them, I’d rather write it in 3rd person since I’m not a big fan of multi-POV 1st person, but most of the stuff I wrote for Devlin, and some stuff I wrote for Evella, are in 1st person and now need changed. 

ALSO, I don’t have a clue if I’m alternating POVs every chapter/scene, or if they’ll tell a quarter of the book each. If I choose the latter, will the story be chronological and they all narrate a different point in time, or will each sibling tell their version of the full story, allowing the reader to piece the entire story together by the end?

^ You’d think these would be questions I’d know the answer to at 10,000 words into a novella but Here! We! Are!

Anyway, I’m having a lot of fun with my four imaginary children and it was a pleasure to introduce them to you today!!

Taglist below the cut (ask to be added or removed!) 

@ahowlinwolf​ @alicewestwater​ @coffeeandcalligraphy​ @chloeswords​ @sophiewritingstuff​ @laughtracksonata​ @sienna-writes​ @august-iswriting​ @yanittawrites​ @mjmnorwood​

[shiny-procrastinates]

(re)Watching Magia Record S1 - part 4

part 3 here

Hello everyone and welcome back to our... I don't know how to call this really, I'm more narrating what's happening in the screen than anything, but in any case today we are continuing what we have been doing these last few days.

Last time, we had an episode focused on the Momoko trio, got handed even more mysteries and had a brief cameo of our favorite drill-haired mahou shoujo. So what will this episode have in stock for us? Only one way to find out! (these introductions are getting cornier and cornier, I'm running out of ideas here.)

Puella Magi Madoka Magica Side Story: Magia Record S1 episode 4

Today, Iroha's visiting a chinese food restaurant on Mitama's recomendation. Well, I suppose even magical girls have to eat sometime.

But before that, let's wind back a little bit.

After the op, we get a little monologue from Iroha about "friends". It's probably obvious by now that she's not the biggest social butterfly out there, but this scene basically tells us that Iroha had no friends besides her missing sister, which just makes this even more sad, honestly. The solitary atmosphere of the first episode was no coincidence.

While dropping by Mitama's, Iroha hears from Momoko the aftermath of the fight with the Chain Witch from last episode. Momoko says everyone who had disappeared had come back safely, and says that might've not been a witch, but something lurking behind the rumor. The trio brings up some other weird rumors while Mitama desecrates a perfectly good cheesecake.

“Mitama-san, why“

Iroha asks if there's some rumor where people went missing and Momoko guesses correctly that she's wondering if her sister didn't get caught up in one of those. Sadly, they don't know any other rumor where people went missing besides the Staircase of Severance.

Oh my god Mitama is eating that thing, looks like the Coordinator's will be closed for a while.

The girls try to brainstorm some ways to look for Iroha's sister but, well...

Like this, Iroha just looks like some weird girl who insists her imaginary younger sister is real... which she might be, I wouldn't put that possibility past this series, but for now we are assuming her sister actually existed.

Iroha pokes in and says she'll do it herself, since she has no idea where to start investigating now and it'll probably turn into a long search anyway. Momoko's not very convinced. Mitama then hands Iroha Banbanzai's flyer and now we are back to the present.

In Banbanzai we meet Tsuruno Yui, Kamihama's (self-proclaimed) Strongest Magical Girl. The size of the dishes are also the strongest. One has to wonder how does Tsuruno explain to her father the "magical girl discount" she has going on.

Iroha eats a bit under the expectant eyes of Tsuruno and, when pressured for a rating she says...

50/100, or 2.5/5 when going by the occidental style rating. Tsuruno's shock here is impressive considering that's Banbanzai's usual rating no matter what it puts out. Hey, consistency is good!

After eating, Iroha apologizes for giving such a low rating despite getting free food, but Tsuruno explains basically what I wrote. Yes, Iroha, you guessed right.

Tsuruno apologizes for not having any hints in regards to her sister and, after getting Iroha to call her by her first name, says she'll try to introduce her to someone that might help her with investigating the strange rumors. Tsuruno is hesitant on the phone at first but quickly gets excited as the person on the other side of the line agrees to meet them right away. And the person they go meet is...

Yachiyo, obviously. She's like "I have no time for this" at first, but is stopped by a crying Tsuruno and ends up telling them about the rumor she's investigating.

The rumor Yachiyo's investigating right now is about the Seance Shrine. Basically, there's a rumor saying that if you visit a certain shrine, write the name of who you want to see on a ema and pray properly, you will meet that person. However, you'll be so happy you'll become unable to leave.

Yachiyo says while investigating she found some posts of people saying they actually met who they wanted to meet who disappeared afterwards. Tsuruno wonders if anyone has been declared missing and Yachiyo points out that even if there was, no one would think to attribute a missing person to a rumor.

Tsuruno has a eureka moment and asks if the Seance Shrine is Mizuna Shrine, but Yachiyo says she already tried and nothing happened... wait, hey Yachiyo,  that's dangerous, what if it really was the right one? lol

Yachiyo says she already had low hopes, but if somewhere with so many visitors as Mizuna Shrine was the Seance Shrine, it would already be all over the news with the amount of people that would go missing... which is a very fair point.

So the girls have no choice but to go around and look for a less known shrine. For better or worse, there are a lot of them in Mizuna.

In one of them, Tsuruno finds a stamp rally going on in Mizuna Ward, and asks if that couldn't be a tip in regards to the rumor. Iroha's skeptical at first, but Yachiyo says they might as well do it, since it's better than looking around blindly.

While they walk around, Yachiyo tells Iroha the legend of the star-crossed lovers that was cited in the stamp rally paper. It's the tale of how two lovers of different social standings were separated by death (well, assassination), and then reunited after countless prayers from the princess. Iroha says that it's a lovely story, but Yachiyo doesn't seem to think the same.

Yachiyo then tells Iroha the hidden, true ending of the history, where the princess sacrifices all of the people of the town to their god in order to meet her beloved again.

and magical girls should know that better than anyone else.

A bit later, Tsuruno says doing this almost makes it feel like the old times, but Yachiyo just ignores her. Iroha asks if they've been close for a long time and Yachiyo says they used to be, but they're not anymore. Seeing from Tsuruno's behaviour, though, that's gotta be because of Yachiyo herself.

Iroha comments that even if it was a past relation, she's still jealous, since she's never had any friends besides Ui. Ui was everything to her, so now that she's gone, Iroha feels empty... it's a bit concerning that she feels like that when you consider her sister was ill enough that Iroha had to cure her with a wish. What would have happened had she not become a magical girl?

Yachiyo says, but this isn't the past to Iroha. She firmly believes that Ui must be out there somewhere, so she wants to find her as fast as possible. Yachiyo then tells her that if that's the case, she shouldn't be tied down by her past, she should become stronger, for her sister's sake.

Like that, they finally reach the Seance Shrine...

not. They end up back at Mizuna Shrine, which Yachiyo had already discarded as a possibility due to the number of people that would've gone missing if that had been the case. Yachiyo had thought that there had to be a connection between the rumor and the legend, so maybe they missed a hint somewhere. The trio doubles back for the day.

However, as they head back, something crucial dawns on Yachiyo:

She's a broke college student and today was 10xPoints Day.

Yachiyo gets Tsuruno and Iroha to help her and goes grocery shopping. Yachiyo tells Iroha about the points benefit, but Iroha has no idea what she's talking about, so Yachiyo says she's still a kid... yeah, but I think it would be weirder if a middle schooler knew about this stuff.

Being a magical girl sure is suffering. You get kidnapped from trains and buses, and can't even catch a sale without getting a witch as a freebie. There is no rest.

Here! I can finally comment that it creeps me out the fact that Iroha sleeps with a plushie of this thing. I know it's in this series' style to have weird things going on in the background, but still...

The fight starts and- Iroha why the heck are you going to the front what is that crossbow even for. Yachiyo tells Iroha to stay behind her, but Iroha's holding the idiot ball right now... partly because Yachiyo told her to get stronger, but still. Iroha shoots a few times at the witch, trips, misses espetacularly and almost becomes witch food. Great job, Iroha.

Now, while Iroha's hesitating about what to do, in comes Tsuruno.

Maybe not the best time to be striking poses, Tsuruno.

Iroha screws up once again and sends Tsuruno flying but, as expected of the (self-proclaimed) Mightiest, she still makes short work of the witch (also probably because we're running out of time for this episode).

I'm guessing Iroha's magic in combinations just makes the other person's magic stronger. Kinda lame when you think about the previous two examples, but I guess that's standard for light magic in games... it's already weird enough that their magic has attributes at all but, oh well, game logic.

In the end, poor Yachiyo missed the sale. However, thanks to not being blinded by shiny discounts, she realized something important they were forgetting about the rumor.

Sure enough, just like Yachiyo said, Seance Shrine really was Mizuna Shrine at night. When they walk in...

The extremely suspicious chibi Kyuubei appears. I was going to say it that it only appears in rumors, but the first time it appeared was in a witch Labyrinth, so that's not it either... wait, wasn't it singing a song about rumors the first time Iroha met it? Hmmm...

In any case, the group heads further in, and the rumor very kindly gives them some plaques. Yachiyo tells Tsuruno not to write anything, since they don't know what'll happen and they'd both write the same name anyway.

The plaques turn into something like familiars as soon as they finish writing, and Tsuruno is held back for not writing anything. Iroha hesitates a second with Tsuruno being attacked, but obeys when Tsuruno tells her to go ahead and take care of Yachiyo... I, uh... have a feeling the opposite scenario is more likely, though.

Yachiyo and Iroha go ahead and offer their prayers. Then, when Iroha opens her eyes...

they are at a different place, and what both of them see is...

The people they longed to meet.

Iroha's time has begun to move again.

---- x ----

Aaaand that was episode 4. This time, I wasn't dumb and actually checked the episode was over before starting to write the closing part.

This is probably true of the previous episodes too, but I particularly like how the colors are used in this one. The tale part had not really the same sepia tone of historical things, but more of a celestial yellow tone, and the part at the witch labyrinth in the supermarket has a cute candy-like tone to it. It's not the same subdued kind of realistic thing like in, say, SSSS.Gridman, but there are some good, calm parts in here.

During the rally, when Iroha was telling Yachiyo about not having anything besides Ui, the procession they were walking in the middle of is a reference to Kitsune no Yomeiri I think, but I couldn't really connect the situation or what they were talking about to the tale so I decided to not point it out up there. Do feel free to search about it and draw your own conclusions.

I forgot what else I wanted to say, so I guess I should tie this up now. Did you know? Writing the introduction and close-up is actually harder than writing about the episode itself so you'll have to forgive me for not being able to think up anything besides "see you next time". In fact...

See you next time, on episode 5!

[green-writes-sanderssides]

Purple and Red

Pairings: Prinxiety, Implied Logicality

Summary: After finally admitting his feelings, Roman must find a way to confess to his love. Perhaps he can gain inspiration from an old video of theirs?

I wrote this for Valentine’s Day on ao3 but never posted it here oops

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Method One: Logan’s Way

     No. Just no.

Method Two: Patton’s Way

Dear Virgil,

My Dearest, Virgil,

     It has taken me a long time to admit to myself gain the courage to write this letter. As you most likely know, I can be rather stubborn I have never been as skilled as I would like at expressing my true feelings. I never even apologized to you I'm sure you of all sides know the fear of rejection. It is much easier to keep a safe distance, isn't it?

     I have been especially hesitant with you. I know I've hurt you our relationship has always been on the rocky side, but that fact has led me to both walk on thin ice and desire to be closer. In giving you this letter, I am opening myself up to the risk of falling in the ice-cold water, or even worse, making you fall in because of me.

     For so long, I believed you to be my opposite, and therefore my rival. I wanted to put a face to what kept Thomas from achieving his dreams. Then I began to notice every time you would allow Thomas to perform on stage despite your fears. I noticed the light in your eyes every time he excelled, every time the audience applauded, and that same light would reflect into Thomas’s eyes- and mine. It was then that I realized you aren't my opposite at all; fear is what allows pride to form. Fear can create. Fear makes the dreams that come true all the better.

     Purple and red go wonderfully together. Anxiety and Creativity do, too.

     And with that revelation, my feelings for you only grew. I began to want nothing more than to protect you, and my heart would swell when you would try to protect me. I knew, deep down, that I was falling for you, but I never let myself admit it until now.

     If you share my feelings, I offer you my very best. I will do whatever I can to make you happy, and I will dedicate myself to being patient for you. If you do not share these feelings, then don't fret; you will still be a dear friend to me, and I will do my best to move on.

Love, Yours, Sincerely,

Prince Roman.

     ...But you deserve more than a letter, don't you?

  Method Three: Roman’s Way

     Usually, you can't actually fight the problems that plague a person. But in this case…

     “Ah, so nice to see you, Roman.”

     “Enough with the flattery, snake!” Roman pointed his shiny katana at Deceit with gusto. “I challenge you to a duel!”

     Said snake raised a discomforted brow at the sword, gently pushing it away with a gloved hand. “Do you mistake me for your brother? I don't participate in duels, Roman. Why are you even challenging me?”

     “To- To win Virgil’s love!” With Deceit’s unimpressed glare, Roman lowered his sword dejectedly. “I saw this going way better in my head.”

     “Right. And how exactly would fighting me “win his love,” as you put it?” The lying side slowly rose to his feet, brushing imaginary dust off his legs. “Do you see me as a competitor? Or are you trying to impress him? Either way, I don't think you need me to tell you the effectiveness of your plan.”

     “Well… You’ve hurt him!”

     “Yes, and you totally haven't. Are you going to fight yourself?” Deceit shook his head and stepped closer to the defeated romantic side. “Why don't you just tell him? I'm quite sure he already returns your feelings.”

     “You really- wait.” He glared at the snake, who gave his typical evil-looking smile in return. “Was that a lie?”

     “I don't know, Roman, is it?”

     “Oh I do not like you.”

  Method Four: His Way

     He didn't have much to go off of on this one, which is why he kept it for last. In order to do this properly, he would have to ask for some help from the very person he plans to confess to.

     “Virgil!” He managed to catch him in the living room, where he was lounging on the sofa mindlessly scrolling through Tumblr. Sitting next to him was Logan, but he paid Roman no mind as he read a large book. “I have a completely random question: You remember the Valentine's  Day video we did?”

     The former dark side doesn't look away from his phone, but Roman swears he saw a light hue of pink dust across his cheeks. “Why exactly are you reminding me of that mess?”

     Roman sat himself onto the arm of the sofa as to not be standing over Virgil. “Well, with Valentine's Day coming up, I was just, you know, thinking back. And I realized we never got to hear fully how you would ask someone out.”

     That finally got Virgil to look away from the phone, looking up at the prince with a confused glare. “And why does this matter? You’re not planning on having Thomas ask someone out, are you?”

     “No no, nothing like that.” Well, unless the right prince came around to sweep Thomas off his feet, but that was quite unlikely. “I was just curious! How would our local emo have Thomas ask someone out? Or if it's easier to imagine, how would you want to be asked out? You would take them by the hand, and… ?”

     After a moment of contemplation (and Roman giving pouting at him), Virgil gave in with a sigh. “I don't know, dude, just be upfront with them? But not like Logan.”

     “It's not my fault people have to be so complicated,” Logan butted into the conversation. “What's wrong with expressing your intentions clearly and concisely?”

     “It's called class, L. No one wants to date someone who talks like a robot- ‘xcept Patton.”

     “What?”

     “Anyway,” Virgil held a smirk as Logan babbled with confusion, but it quickly fell back to a neutral look as he remembered what he was talking about. “Just be true to your heart, without coming off too strong. Like, tell them how you feel about them while still giving them a way out, y’know?”

     “Interesting! Boring, but interesting.”

     “Hey, you asked.” Showing that the conversation was wrapping up, Virgil flipped his phone back on and began scrolling again. “That's certainly how I would want to be asked out. Something too extravagant would just put too much pressure on me.”

     Well, it wasn't bad. But it wasn't Roman either.

  Method 4.5: Their Way

     A quick glance to make sure no one is around. A deep breath. A knock on the door.

     “Roman? Why the knock, wouldn't you usually just rise right in?”

      Deep breaths. You got this. “Well, I needed to talk to you about something important, and this just felt more respectful. Just in case you need to slam the door on my face.”

     Virgil furrowed his brow with a smile. “As fun as that sounds, why would I do that?”

     Roman took one last exhale and gently grabbed Virgil's hand, giving him enough room to pull away if he needed to.

     “Oh.”

     “Virgil,” he began, trying his best to speak in a tone of sincerity. “I know things have been… Rough between us, in the past, but I think this- us, could work.” He gave an exasperated laugh as he ran a hand through his hair. “God, I spent all day yesterday trying to find the best way to confess to you, something romantic enough to show how much you deserve without overwhelming you. I could hardly sleep trying to plan out exactly what to say to you.” He shook his head to get back on track. This definitely wasn't part of the plan, but it was working well enough.

     “The point is,” with his free hand, he pulled out a special rose, a beautiful swirl of purple and red mixing together to create a dark maroon in the center. “If you'll have me, I will cherish you to my dying days, Virgil Sanders. What do you say?”

     The anxious side, who held a wide-eyed red face during the entire confession, let go of Roman’s hand and gently grabbed the rose from him. “Um- Will you, ah, give me a moment?”

     “Of course.”

     “Cool,” he said, then closed the door. Before Roman even had the chance to feel regretful, a barely hushed yell of “Holy shit!” could be heard from inside, then the door flew open once again. “Why don't you come in?”

     Roman did his best not to laugh as he stepped inside and let Virgil lead him to sit on the edge of the bed. His nerves will still definitely spiked, and he wasn't sure what Virgil was thinking of responding with, but he found his hopes starting to increase once again. “You were saying?”

     “So you like me?” The anxious side spoke it as if it were an outrageous idea, and Roman wasn't sure if he should take that as Virgil's insecurities or him thinking it was ridiculous.

     “Yes. I suppose I didn't quite say that part.” He thought for a minute, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this next part. “Virgil, it's okay if you don't return my feelings-”

     “No!” Virgil looked shocked at his own sudden declaration, awkwardly clearing his throat. “I mean, I think- yes, I do. I've just, uh, never let myself think about it, I guess.”

     “I see.” Roman felt excitement bubbling up in his drowsy brain. He wanted to squeal with joy, but he didn't think Virgil would enjoy any sudden outbursts. “So would you like to be my boyfriend?”

     “That was kinda implied, yeah.” He may have kept his snarky attitude, but the former dark side had a beautiful rare smile on his face, his hand still holding onto the rose. “What do we do now?”

     Before he could give a response, Roman let out a long yawn, making Virgil give his own as well. “I don't know about you, but a nap sounds real good right now.”

     “Do you know me? I'm always down for a nap.” Without hesitation, Virgil flopped down onto his bed and snuggled himself into the covers.

     “Oh, do you want me to…?”

     “Just lie down, Roman.”

     Hours later, Patton and Logan would find the two still sleeping soundly, Roman’s arms wrapped snug around a peaceful Virgil. With a scene like that, they decided the couple deserved their extra rest.

There was no debate: Purple and Red did look good together.

[blackaquokat]

The Song You Might Have Been (Chapter 2)

Link to Chapter 1

A/N: Fun fact, Legal Eagle used to be slang for “lawyer,” hence the DA’s nickname. 

You will also notice, this chapter, that I am taking blatant inspiration for a subplot from Shawshank Redemption. Because it is absolutely something my DA would do. And also, there is a scene here that I once wrote in response to a prompt. 

Anyway, thanks for the feedback so far, everyone! I appreciate it so much! 

Enjoy!

--

Apparently Yancy has set up a guard rotation for you at mealtimes in collaboration with his nightly watch. 

Today, instead of Jimmy the Pickle, a slim bearded man who introduces himself as Sparkles McGee (you’re curious about the story behind that nickname) joins you at your table. He’s a little more chatty than Jimmy was, constantly going on about the local prison gossip. Who is sleeping with who, which jobs are preferable, upcoming birthdays of inmates and guards. He doesn’t seem to expect any kind of response from you, which works out just fine, because you have nothing to contribute. This might be handy information to have in the future anyway.

When it’s yard time again, however, Sparkles splits off to his group of inmates at the corner. Just as you’re about to go spend another hour lost in thought or maybe doing some exercises, Sparkles comes back and drags you to his posse. 

He introduces them one by one: a young woman who looks simultaneously bored and ready to kill, “Tiny”; a younger man with a hisp of a goatee and mustache, “Bam-Bam”; a pale, lanky man with gears tattooed to his temple, “Heap-Ass”; and a larger bald man, “Shithole Hank.” The last one is apparently the man to go to for hooch wine, and every time you’re offered a sip, you make a hard pass. Your excuse is a preference for whiskey or lime and gin. In reality, you just haven’t gotten desperate enough for alcohol to drink it out of a toilet.

Once the introductions are made, you once again just sit back and listen as the crew converses amongst one another. With the amount of gossip you catch during that time, you manage to construct imaginary cases in your head where this evidence is used in support of various litigation lawsuits.

It’s a real eye-opener for you, how little of a life you had outside of work that this is the most you can come up with to occupy yourself outside of reading a book.

Speaking of…

“Is there a library here?” you ask during a short lull in the conversation.

The group blinks at you in sync. 

“Um.” Bam-Bam shakes his head. “There’s a book cart with a small selection, and a room about the size of a closet, but that’s about it.”

Your brow furrows. “Is this another case of Warden Murder-Slaughter’s ‘rehabilitation over punishment’ slogan falling flat on its face?”

Tiny snorts. Sparkles shrugs.  An idea forms in your mind.

“Um…” Shithole Hank leans towards Sparkles. “Should we be worried about that look in their eye?”

“Only if it gets us in trouble.”

You decide to ignore that exchange. “Would you guys like to have a proper library?”

This draws some intrigue from your companions. Tiny in particular looks interested in this proposal. 

“How the hell would you manage that?” Sparkles demands.

You cross your arms and try for a confident smile. “You don’t go through years of law school without learning how to figure out contracts and loopholes. If I can talk with the warden, I’d like to at least see what I can do.”

You cut off when you see the group staring behind you with wide eyes. You turn heel to see one of the guards looking you up and down. Rex, your mind supplies. This is Rex. 

“If you want the Warden,” Rex growls, “I can take you to him. But you gotta do something for me first.”

Shit.

----

“What do you mean youse done talked with the Warden?” Yancy demands when you stroll into the cell that evening.

“I wanted to ask him what steps I needed to take to get a bigger library implemented here,” you respond with absolutely no shame whatsoever. 

The meeting went surprisingly well. You’ve got a rough idea of how to go about this, now that you know what the problems are. Even better, you actually did find a copy of Murder on the Orient Express on the cart, so a double-win for the day. You crawl on top of the bedsheets and crack the novel open.

Yancy leaps down from the bunk and glares down at you. “And youse didn’t think to inform me of this plan of youse’s?”

You lift your brow without looking away from the book. “I didn’t think you’d be opposed to the idea of making your home a little more homey by having a more updated collection of books.”

“Of course not--”

“Then what’s the problem?” 

There’s a huff and a growl before Yancy climbs back into his bunk and falls into it more aggressively than necessary. You think that’s the end of it until his head pops down. “What makes you think youse can just waltz into here and demand youse’s luxuries?!”

Ah. Okay, you see where he’s coming from. 

You shut your book and set it down. “Look, I know I’m a prosecution lawyer, but I’m not completely heartless. Yes, I would like a larger collection of books, but don’t the rest of you want more to read too? You look like you’ve been here long enough to read all of those three times. I mean, Rex brought me to the warden in the first place just because he wants a better poetry collection to pick from. He asked for specific authors and poets.”

Yancy does not deny this. 

You continue, “Besides, just because you’re in prison doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to expand your horizons, literature-wise that is. I know books helped me growing up, imagine what they’ll mean to everyone in here.”

Yancy continues to stare at you, utterly baffled. “Youse quite the enigma, Eagle.”

“For...what? Caring?”

He shrugs. A weird sight to watch from someone who’s upside down. “Not for caring, per se. But more...the ‘doing’ part.” He disappears into his bunk again. “Here’s hopin’ it won’t be for nothin’.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think youse the first person to ask for more books, Eagle? There’s a reason that collection hasna been updated since the war. Nobody’s seen it through to the end. They gets discouraged.”

You purse your lips, fingers tapping against your book. “I would think you’d have realized from my reputation. I don’t quit.”

There’s a chuckle above you. A genuine one. “That’s what I’m countin’ on, Eagle.”

---

Yancy is right. There’s a reason the collection has barely grown since the prison opened up.

No one on the outside wants to fund the damn thing. 

That doesn’t stop you. You start writing letter after letter after letter to the state legislature asking (demanding and borderline threatening, really) for the funds needed to make a bigger library. Thanks to your work in the government, and after a quick phone call to Damien to confirm (while he also updates you on the progress on your case), you know exactly who to contact. It gives you something to do. Something really meaningful. It helps to pass the time and helps to keep from feeling helpless about your own situation. 

It also gets you a whole different kind of attention from the inmates.

After Week Two of your letter campaign, Tiny speaks up. You’ve started sitting with Yancy’s posse since they adopted you into their group outside of protection detail. “You really think you can get a library here?”

Seeing as Tiny has barely made a sound in your presence before, this takes you completely by surprise. As well as the rest of the table. You recover quickly. “That’s...what I’m hoping for.”

Tiny’s head ducks, her fingers tapping against one another. “Um...if you do…”

“Yeah?”

“Can we make requests?” she eventually blurts out. “For books we’d like? I mean, do you think we could get children’s books?”

You put down your fork and offer her your full attention. “Did you have a specific one in mind?”

“The Velveteen Rabbit.” Tiny tugs at her braid. “My grandmother used to read it to me.”

You’re overwhelmed with the sudden urge to protect Tiny with your life. Even if you’re pretty sure Tiny has killed at least three people since she was imprisoned and could absolutely kill you if she wanted to. “If that book isn’t included in any delivery we’re given, I will annoy the legislature until they do. Sound good?”

Tiny smiles at you. A small, genuine one. It renews your motivation and you end up writing two letters that evening, in preparation for the next time mail comes along. Next thing you know, other inmates (and even a few guards aside from Rex, much to your surprise) have requests for books they would like available.

Oddly enough, it’s the letter writing and the book requests that finally drive you to ask Yancy how you go about ordering contraband.

“What the hell do youse need contraband for?” He’s sitting cross-legged in the top bunk while you’re trying to draft your next letter on the slab sticking out from the opposite wall.

You hold up the golf pencil you’re using with frustration. “Because these are driving me up the wall. They are terrible. And the quality of the paper here is a nightmare too, it smudges way too easily.”

“So what? Youse want pen and paper?”

Your brow lifts. “That not a lethal enough order?”

Yancy’s smile is borderline feral in its delight. “Youse a lot more interesting than I thought you’d be, Eagle. The guy to go to is Heap-Ass. He’ll get you anything you want. For a price.”

You really don’t like that tone of his. “And? What’s the price?”

“Depends.”

“I don’t do sex favors. Or assassinations.”

“Nah, he’s not that twisted. It’ll either be a chore switch or cigarette packs, somethings in that nature, you know?”

You twirl your terrible pencil between your fingers, feeling a little more hopeful. “That I can definitely handle.”

---

You’ve always known, on an intellectual, common sense level, that prison brutality is absolutely a problem. It’s something you learned in law school from the professors who cared about teaching the kind of scenes law students would actually have to address in their lines of work.

It’s an entirely other experience to watch a rookie guard get too into his job and beat the shit out of a prisoner whose only crime was walking a little too close to the bastard.

Your gut instinct is to run forward and help, somehow. A stupid instinct that would have gotten you killed or at least tossed into the infirmary on a permanent basis had Yancy not grabbed your arm to stop you.

“Hold up there, Eagle.” He pulls you back, a glare fixed on the brutal scene before you. “No need for two of ours to ends up with broken wings, youse hear me?” 

You swallow back your righteous anger and force yourself to calm down. It’s not right, it’s not right, and the justice lawyer inside of you is itching to make it right somehow–-

Yancy must see your conflict and anger. He puts a hand on your shoulder and mutters into your ear, “No worries. Me and the others ain’t gonna let this stand. We’ve got our own system in place here.”

That night, you pretend to be asleep when you hear that rookie guard scream for help. You don’t look to see what happens, who does it, or how, and the next day, when the warden summons you to ask if you know anything to explain why the guard’s body was found in the laundry room, you tell him as much.

When you see Yancy later, he seems almost impressed at your lackadaisical reaction to what took place. “Thought you were all about the law, Eagle?”

You lean on the wall next to him and look out across the yard, watching the other inmates mingle together. “In the absence of the law, I’ll take what justice I can get.”

You can almost feel Yancy’s approval. “I can appreciate that.”

--

Link to Chapter 3 here!

Thank you for reading! Please relbog/comment! If you want to be tagged/untagged for the rest of this series or this pairing, please leave a message in my inbox!

@starcrossedforever87 , @dontworryaboutanything , @beereblogsstuff , @falseroar , @intemperantiae , @memetoyoko , @soul-wolf , @marki-dumb , @withjust-a-bite , @raimeyl , @scribbeetle , @its-dari , @neverisadork , @silver-owl413 , @sassy-in-glasses , @chelseareferenced , @sketchy-scribs-n-doods , @axolittle-boi , @wildfandom , @shrinkthisviolet , @purple-anxiety-blog , @conceitedink , @skidspace