#again: The cross-world gossip chain is thriving

[regallibellbright]

You know, I have to imagine if the rest of the TWEWY cast and such DO exist in the Kingdom Hearts universe in some form, KH!Minamimoto was pissed to hear some duck used Zettaflare before he could.

This assumes KH!Minamimoto is unerased, of course, but let’s assume he is, if we ever DO see them back again it’ll almost certainly be Neo looks so he can hang out with the Wicked Twisters.

[solomonish]

Dork Solomon Agenda

You say sexy shady sorcerer I say nerd and love of my life

Solomon is a sad lonely little man why just wants a genuine connection us that so much to ask???

No but seriously like. It's totally fine if you hc Solomon as this man-turned-lowkey-sex-god with a million succubi and more at his whim whenever he wants and would be a tough one to put the ol' ball and chain on like to each their own for sure! But that's not MY hc

(Thats not to say my hc means he doesn't ever engage in casual sex like that and wanting a genuine long term relationship at some point [or finding out thats what you want when you meet someone] are not mutually exclusive yknow)

So like Solomon isn't the type to be short with you or keep you at an arm's length (i mean...u get what I mean. Once you're close enough and all that jazz) or get annoyed by you wanting to be affectionate?? Hello??

He LOVES the little things you do (some on accident tbh). You feeling affectionate today and give him a kiss or three on his face before you leave to go to your separate classes? Adorable, he's fallen in love again. You do that thing where you like.. forget how to walk straight and just accidentally bump into him? No come back he likes being close to you :( He doesn't SAY these things but there's a light, airy laugh he has that gives him away.

If you're ever facetiming he will say "boo!" when you connect instead of just. Greeting you like a normal person.

His fuckin. His devilgram name is monSOLO. My mans is a star wars fan!!! I dont know any of The Discourse bc I'm not super into star wars myself but he has IN DEPTH opinions about the movies. Seriously rivals Levi in this aspect. Please make time for movie nights where you watch the movies together 🥺 especially if you haven't seen them before he'd love to convert you 🥺

Didn't Solomon also have a thing for TSL??? Or am I just imagining it??

I feel like his ideal date would be exploring something new, whether its this new spooky forest or "hey have we been down this alley before? Let's check it out!" but ideal date number TWO is movie night. Even if it isn't Star Wars. He likes to sit on opposite ends of the couch throwing popcorn into each other's mouths (and big candies like peanut m&ms where you both have almost choked before) and maybe a footsie war if he's feeling real devious. Then at some point you grab a blanket and snuggle up to him and you both fall asleep on the couch

Simeon yells at him when you leave because there's popcorn EVERYWHERE

LOVES when you laugh super loud. Idk man he just thinks its great when you have such unbridled joy and then he laughs too 😊 not as loud though he's more of a quiet chuckle kind of guy (most of the time).

Is friends with Asmo so is extremely great at slumber party gossip. Catch him in his pajamas, cross-legged on the floor while clutching a pillow to his chest and listening intently to you rant about the brothers.

"Come here I have a secret to tell you" (blows air in your ear) "okay okay I'm sorry but come here again" (blows air on your neck) "okay okay last time! I actually have something to tell you. Please? Its important...." (kisses ur cheek) "like u a lil bit xo"

Never the type to send "good morning beautiful" or "good night 💞" texts. Instead he'll send you something at 4 am like "the infinite cosmos will eventually swallow whole all familiarity and life as it is now presently known and despite the adaptations humans or demons or angels could make i will still have to adapt and face the world as an alien in the realm I love so dearly. Funny how the strongest of beings bow to the whim of space and time. But sometimes my eternal journey doesn't seem so daunting when I realize that with my everlasting life will be the memory of you no matter how distant and the survival of the vessel you loved...."

And then at lunch that day when the brothers pull you away he'll send you a picture of the lasagna they're serving with "this kinda looks like you? Don't worry I'd still hit it" and then two minutes later "you not the pasta"

Is the type to think randomly "oh damn I love you so much" but has an impressive filter about it. Or he thinks he does until Luke grumbles "ugh get a room thats the fifth time you've seen that since monday" ok, sometimes he has a good filter about it

He can't help it! Sometimes you just say something really smart (or something SPECTACULARLY dumb) or you do something cute like lean on him or smile a specific way or-

Sir.....you're head over heels sir :/

The type who would go to a playground at night with you and just swing on the swings talking about life

Wants to have a secret handshake with you!!

If you're ever on a road trip with just the two of you, you can get him to join in on the terrible singing but he'll be a lot quieter than you

Also will only join in if he isn't driving. If he is and you aren't talking, he's just humming underneath his breath. Will drum on the steering wheel though

Cooking

(Yes, it gets its own section because MAYBE I'm obsessed with the idea of MC teaching Solomon to cook and the food still turning out terrible but at least it isn't a void when MC is helping)

The type to flick water at you every time he washes his hands. Will chase you down just to do it.

"Hey, tilt your head back and open your mouth MC" (proceeds to dump too big a handful of shredded cheese in your mouth)

100% the type to lean over you just to hinder your cooking abilities. Who cares if the sauce splashes he's tiiiired.... you'd let belphie do it :(

Puts a hand on your lower back when he passes behind you. Hopes you'll lean into it/step back and offer him a kiss 🥺

Believes in always having a proper table setting. Prepare for whatever juice they have (or water) in wine glasses if you're having a nice-er meal

Under the assumption that a spell ruined his sense of taste (and not that he's just bad at cooking) he hates spicy food. He can feel the burn but he gets none of the flavor??? Wack. Don't hurt him like that MC. If you do because its hilarious to watch him try to be cool about it he will pout

Gets cheesy aprons. He just likes them.

Will hit you on the top of your head with a whisk to hear the noise it makes

Will buy every kitchen hack tool there is. A ketchup dispenser that looks like a gun? He's got it. A fish that helps you squeeze out the egg yolks? Yes! A dinosaur soup ladle? You bet! Pizza scissors? A tool that makes hard boiled eggs into cubes? Something that's gotta be like 200 years old and no discernable purpose? Absolutely! He wants a hot dog toaster. Do they even have hot dogs in the devildom?

Will sneak bites just because it bothers you

Overall

Look at him. He hasn't had friends in centuries. He's playful!

Look at his DEVILGRAM NAME

His funky little WAND

This is a man who is a huge nerd, thrives off of cliches and just wants to have a good time. So let him! Its mentally exhausting having those pretenses up all the time.

[messenoirehq-blog]

name: scarlett cardwell

age: 35

preferred pronouns / gender: cisgender female, she/her

sexuality: heterosexual

faceclaim: sophia bush

label: the tempest ™

occupation: nypd detective / joint terrorism task force division

neighborhood of residence: queens

written by: gossip admin emmy

AESTHETIC

velcro kevlar straps, chambered bullets and sirens. coffee cups and take out containers and overturned picture frames. paperwork and files.

BIOGRAPHY

trigger warnings below: addiction

PAST

She fought from the very first moment.

She didn’t come into the world screaming, she came into the world silent, and shaking, addicted to a substance that her mother had long ago fallen victim to. She hadn’t been planned for - her mother had never dreamed that she would be with someone who wanted a child, the way that her father had. But her father had wanted a perfect child. He had wanted a child with someone who could look pristine and perfect and play the correct part - his affair with Scarlett’s mother had been a moment of weakness, and the thought of a child that was half her made his skin crawl.

He left her to her own devices, sure that her drug habit would terminate any pregnancy before it made it anywhere. It was their own shit luck that it didn’t, that Scarlett was born anyway, the signs of her addiction obvious within hours of her birth. Her mother had been told that it would be a long road, but that wasn’t something that she had signed on for. She had barely wanted the child in the first place, and with the withdrawal symptoms setting in, she fled.

The first six months of her life were spent being poked and prodded and weaned off of the substance that had almost cost her her life. She was destined for a foster home - no one knew what the lasting effects of her addiction would be, and very few new parents were willing to sign themselves on to someone they knew would be a lost cause. The foster homes were where she continued her fights. Shuffled from place to place, she was constantly looking for fights. Every other child wanted to prove that they weren’t weak, they weren’t someone who could just be ignored, but the only people they had to fight were each other.

Her first memories revolve around split knuckles and bruised up limbs, spitting in the face of anyone who tried to cross her. The foster homes tried - they tried to show her a different way, and she resented it. The only thing that made her feel half alive was the way that she felt when she landed a punch, up until the years that she discovered the high that could come from drugs. It was easier, then, for the homes to pass her off. They couldn’t risk the possibility of a complete epidemic, and she didn’t respond to anyone or anything.

She began living on the streets, bouncing from house to house, trading sex for drugs at the age of sixteen, freshly dropped out of school. She’d had a few close calls, but she had found that looks could get you anything, and she had managed to keep herself out of prison. She was seventeen when she met him. A rookie, training with a superior officer that she had dealt with on more than one occasion. She could see the understanding in the rookie’s eyes when he realized that he was signing on for a job that wasn’t as upstanding as he’d once believed it to be.

She enjoyed watching that - the naivety and innocence flee from someone when they realized that the world was fucking cruel, and it hardly ever played by the rules. When she met him again, she wondered if he were following her. She offered to give him a taste - to let him in on one of the multitude of the NYPD’s secrets, and he resisted. He instead offered her dinner and a place to take a shower, each of her barbed avoidances and daggered remarks ignored as he continued to press her, following her throughout the city like he didn’t have anything better to do.

Eventually, she caved. She couldn’t remember the last time that she’d had a real meal, let alone somewhere peaceful to take a shower. She didn’t believe that it wouldn’t come without its own price - she knew how people operated in the city and she was wholly prepared for him to be like everyone else. Until he wasn’t. Until he told her that she could stay, as long as she didn’t do drugs in the apartment. She didn’t believe him - she knew that more would come along with it, and she kept her life bouncing from place to place until she got in over her head.

Living like she did meant racking up debts. It meant owing people who could change the terms in an instant, and when she couldn’t pay they thought that they could take payment by force. She had been fighting since she was an infant, and she held her own long enough to get out and go anywhere else. She didn’t remember choosing his apartment. She didn’t remember intending to go there, to knock on the door and beg for a place to stay, but she had.

He maintained that she stayed there for free - with his only request being that she educated herself. She scoffed at the idea - she hadn’t been in school in a few years, and she doubted that this would be permanent, but the idea of sleeping in the same place every night enticed her, and she did as he asked. They helped each other - she gave him information that could help him earn his way into the Gangs Unit and he gave her a place to stay and access to the things she would need to get her GED.

She found herself invested in his job - in the idea of actually doing something worthwhile and good. She somehow ended up with her GED at nineteen, proof that she could accomplish something that didn’t require her fists or selling her body, and she waited with excitement in her veins to show him the piece of paper - the one thing that she had accomplished in her life. He had missed the graduation, forced to work, instead, and it wasn’t until the news came through about the Twin Towers that she felt panic for the first time. Fear. The realization that she was in over her head and he could have died.

Long hours spent at the apartment cultivated in him walking through the door covered in dust and dirt, an apology on his lips for having missed the ceremony. The diploma lay forgotten and ignored that night, giving way to something tentative. She had two years until she could become a police officer - an idea that had come out of that day, born out of never wanting to have to feel that powerless again. He also made her want to be better. To fight, but to fight for something instead of against everything.

She trained, and studied, and became an officer in the New York Police Department following her written exam and six months of the academy. She paid her dues - she worked the night shifts that were reserved for new blood, and she did it without complaint. She came home every morning to an apartment that had become theirs somewhere along the way, and apartment that she now played her part in paying for, as his fiancé.

She earned respect. Her backstory was known to only a handful, and those that met her at the Academy, or on the job would never suspect what she had been through in the past. They saw an unflinching gaze and a quick willingness to prove that she was as tough as anyone that came across her, and they accepted that they were graced with an officer that would have their back.

She handled herself against the worst of the worst. Her shrewd look at the world allowed her to find connections that others couldn’t, and a few short years later she found herself pulled into the Gangs Unit for the biggest case the NYPD had ever seen. It was risky - she had to go undercover among people who hadn’t seen or heard from her in years, people who didn’t really trust her. Everything went smoothly up until the moment of the bust. They had suspected her already, and they planned on taking her down with them - but a misplaced bullet left her able to keep fighting, while one ended Carter’s life.

She fled the Gang Unit after that. She switched gears, diving into the Joint Terrorism Task Force with a ferocity and determination that was frightening. She closed case after case, and if a body happened to drop along the way, people tended to turn a blind eye. She was good - she could cover her tracks, and they couldn’t risk losing her. Not with the gravity of the cases they were working.

PRESENT

Years have passed with her stint at the JTTF turning into a permanent position with a promotion along the way. Living in the same apartment that she has for almost a decade now, she finds herself facing a new case. The department won’t label it - domestic terrorism is a phrase that strikes panic into the hearts of the city’s residents, and they can’t afford the slew of false accusations that would come with the panic.

Spending time rubbing elbows with the city’s elite has never been her idea of fun, but she finds herself at gala’s in expensive dresses with her gun strapped to her thigh, doing anything she can to get ahead of someone who has routinely been two steps ahead. She feels the pressure - the body count has been steadily increasing, and all of the pointed blame falls on her shoulders as one of the highest in the chain of command.

The pressure doesn’t concern her. She’s always thrived under the heavy weight of the world, Atlas carrying the Earth on his shoulders, but she doesn’t view it as a burden. She views it as drive, determination, an opponent that she’s determined to knock to the ground and come out victorious.

PERSONALITY

+ assertive, dauntless, indomitable

- abrasive, destructive, erratic

[tentativi-vani]

The Journals Of Nabokov's Lolita If She Had Become A Writer

Losing bits of your character as of now in adolescence.

Toward the finish of each journey in my adolescence, there was a line that was consistently an excruciating encounter for me in my awareness growing up and with time its power and thwarted expectation increments. It has instructed me that solitary knowingness and culmination can start with the way of mindfulness. What's more, presently that organization, compromise and sympathy in this despite everything isolated society on this landmass that we live in drives us to become together and see each other in an all the more genuine and precise light. It is a method of seeing individuals in networks who live in neediness, the lucidity of battle, the dullness of routine and who are famished of craftsmanship, verse, and writing. It is a method of winding up ready in an exhilaratingly delicate world, yet they just hear the forlorn hints of sobbing and it has become like a machine. Its persona fortifies our spirit.

All kids are lovely.

We can decide to see the scene we live in as a desert or a heaven yet what do the most weak residents of this planet consider it to be? We can't tackle the raising issues of today without envisioning and picturing the final products of arrangements. In any event, composing accompanies its own fanciful command hierarchy thus we should make new pictures of our life and foundation through our accounts, the abundance of our aggregate beneficial encounters. There are still sentiments of dread and weakness that constantly tests us, the way of thinking of man, the life systems of depression, our different personalities, contemporary man and it is an incredible dynamic for any essayist and artist to live in today. Life mirrors workmanship and craftsmanship impersonates life in funny, emotional and appealing ways. What is mankind? It is the fragile human bones of the human condition, it is you and I and it is every one of our accounts. The page is just a dead scene until you top it off with words and language making a focal point of intrigue. On a fundamental level would we say we are still war youngsters?

I lift the perfect exchange of the psychological ropes and the chains (it's an improvement). It is a solitary a tune of gloom from my youth experience that took me to dim places and saw me cross the lines of society Loose Diamonds, the fringes of streams of light that navigated the palimpsest of the red segments of my heart. This exchange felt like a mystical thing. I went from remaining at the edge, to opportunity (with all the pieces of the machine, a mantle, and all the pointless pieces of fantasies, making engravings of circles in the sky over a tempest, seething a sleeping disorder). Something changes when we become more established. Individuals feel alone in various manners as they set down in haziness, slide into a posture more than once; hear me out, focus.

Will I leave you speculating the power behind my words? Will you grasp me when I fall, my craft, this strong vessel and an artist in her overlaid confine, venturing onwards into insensibility? I motion to the moon and stars and back once more, similar to a memory nailed down in a stream. A mother's ready substance, a neck, words that are flying like bats help me to remember how rapidly love goes to despise. Pale in charming representations of deliberate misdirection and the heart develops severe and cold like a lake, which is when sadness and franticness falls in on itself and crap will in general hit the fan. The house is falling, tumbling down around me, similar to the tune that originates from fingers on a guitar or a fire that has a negative quality to it, more separated and delicate. Stunning is the stun of injury when you're in it.

Try not to assemble it for the good of I. I softened where my skin contacted the skin of water. Under I was more human, bolder yet still lost and cheated. My ardent like day off, could detect corridors turning white. What was previously a red impetus seeping in quieted tones is presently Braille, wet and clashing, advising me that there were despite everything weapons at each ascending of the sun. Try not to assemble it for the good of I. Regardless of whether I needed them to be there or not, whether I needed to wake up or not. It is just my appearance that is dead in the water.

Try not to assemble it for the good of I.

Scholars are generally explorers with clean recognitions, lucidity of vision when confronted with the equal world, components of the most obscure pieces of mankind. Hello, 12 PM. We hold each other up with the customs of open investigation; disclose to ourselves analysis will be the passing of us (what does that intend to the most unpracticed). I need to suffocate. I need that experience. The experience of being constrained to forfeit that exquisiteness of the unpleasant round of interfacing certainties to the legislator who is at the center of you. No half-life lived for me. Give me a manual for being delicate, so I can impair and address all the data easily on these virus lines. Let me diary them. Peruse everything Africa and you will win in light of the fact that since youth you have been a well-suited student emptying your insight into a distillate, remaining at the edge. In the event that it was distressing, left you with the endowment of euphoria at and memory of the phantom of potatoes and meat on your plate. In the event that you feel haziness in snapshots of being, on the off chance that you feel the loss of your self image, it lessening and that the main belonging you will leave this world with is your physical body, at that point this is an excursion you should stay faithful to its aggregate advancement. At the point when I don't eat, when I don't rest an insight is ice cold through and through, given substance in the frenzy. There's a purpose behind all things everywhere. Liberation consistently prompts discussion regardless of whether it is on the opposite side of the world.

The inquiry I pose to myself frequently these days is, what are different journalists thinking, inspecting here, what do their spirit's resemble, what is the most graceful/emotive thing to originated from their experience and what is the most consecrated thing to them and about the data they are giving me through their abstract world? We're perched on a great many long periods of creation here; workmanship, earth, sky, precious stones, rage, writing, vision, women's liberation, summer, journalists, essayists, authors composing. There's an essayist brought into the world consistently. Above all we need one another. Hello, 12 PM, hour of blue. I find in that still life calm the essayist's spirit yearns for, the quiet that resembles a horrible scar before it marks itself as asylum, it oversees itself as an extreme sentiment of happiness, a chasing custom, an otherworldly ceremony, a phenomenal condition of quiet in that personality of all characters that is made without outskirts, joints where there is consistently a persuading space for delightful learning.

I regularly wonder at the family and foundation, the self-evaluation of African essayists and ponder internally that the voices, male and female will intertwine in a consecrated agreement and their narrating that will develop, will rise (with a word that has become natural to me) as a system. We will thrive, cross that all inclusive limit together, changing, holding onto the turning web of history, turning out to be writing questioners of the personal, cooperative with the virgin birth of translation with the unknown, the inventive fantasy, blessing and the imaginative drive falling into entire interminability. Would it be advisable for us to call ourselves outright and basic essayists? Which is the most real? For what reason would it be a good idea for us to mark ourselves? A home of essayists is a significant network, similar to mind will regularly meet like psyche. A people group of essayists is a home any place you wind up on the planet.

Our placid age composing generally out of rebellion is making the reason the announcement, the stage 'the waves'. In the event that our dream is enclosed by stone, at that point so has been duplicity, character hypothesis, social and political editorial for, on the off chance that our spirit is the apparition of our soul, at that point what we have realized should either be protected or go underground. That is the undisclosed magnificence of and the ruthless viciousness in mortal reasoning that we are consistently in flexibly of. This excursion is an old one, savage and forlorn. The example of the meditative instrument appended to the lucidity of light is intense in the vision of scholarly creation and pen-and-watercolor creative mind for what it's worth to the clouded side. The supporting speculative chemistry the trial develops without edges and decimation is providing us the insight into the leave, a plea to eternality.

Youth has shown me the way to forfeit. Of where essayists of shading will manufacture realms of gold where nobody can contact us. I compose in light of the fact that I am told to and on the grounds that it is the aggregate pieces of my journey. It is a melody of despondency from youth experience, a concealing spot, where I feel alone in various ways, where I talk with my hands, a distillate in a no man's land of bits of gossip about dimness and hard giggling. On the off chance that I am not composing, at that point I am not living, my brain isn't free, a comedian not understanding his objective perfectly. It is simply a perspective on life through a viewpoint where I now and again feel helpless before the occupants, an outsider in their abnormal world, sick from living the picture of metropolitan burnout. The street of recuperation is hard, endures you from back to front.

Underneath us, the surface is us journalists' continually making assessments, chasing the unicorn, the flight, the string, the mishap of the kaleidoscope suffocating in us and the life of kismet, long for speed, pleasantness in the stomach. So we become the sun, the stars that sparkle impeccably and boundless, the impression, the flawless channel, the feathered tufts of affection. We become more others conscious with the guide of seeing our two eyes, the apprehensive, here and there neurotic vision in our inner consciousness. What is the circumstance? We are the circumstance. What is the contention? We are the contention and both are inward, both have frightening clarifications, both consume and as we follow that light as it bobs off marvels, we store it or relinquish it. We're Masai-dreaming-philosophical-mode, indications of vertigo appearing on the other side, transforming individuals into objects however this is writers specialty - we foresee, we get ready for it, the missing connection, the vindication, and the remainder of the human opportunities, to pick your mentality among history and remembering it.