#ch: leopold

[heavyisthecrown-if]

Important Characters

Leopold Drachmann

The very man aiming to take down your family. You'd be lying if you said you knew anything about him beyond rumors, but there's no doubting how close he is- or, rather, was- to your father. Times have changed though, and what was once a close alliance is now chasmed due to his own actions.

Atticus Bracht

Derrick's father and a surprisingly mellow man in comparison. You've known him since you were a child, and he's almost always seen with a grin on his face. He's guilty his actions as a young man led to Derrick's ignominy when it should be him instead, but he's always seemed more than nervous to face the other nobles that disapprove of his son's illegitimacy.

Ewan/Elvira Chevalier

Your lord/lady-in-waiting and a close friend since they were appointed to you six years ago. They're quick to gossip and always come to you to spill the details, as their husband refuses to listen to their spiels. They care deeply for you and those they've grown close to, and are always there to assuage your worries.

Arina Falkner

An elderly woman who served as your parents' royal advisor. She's since stepped down, allowing you to take the role, but she's never been shy of voicing her opinions. Having been a close friend of your grandfather, she took care of you and your brother as children when your parents weren't able, and will always have your back should you need her.

Mundir Al-Maghrabi

He's Derrick's uncle, and was always the quickest to defend the boy's honor. You'd met him a few times and he always carried himself with an undeniable charm, but there was something sinister beneath the surface. Even though his death was unfortunate for not only the family, but his ministry as well, you can't deny the fact that it may have been timely.

[etenniettes]

[ofginjxints]

closed starter for @radicalrascals very loosely based on (x)

"Oh good lord, I am so sorry!" Tristan was hurrying by as he turned the corner and had bumped into someone, totally lost in his own thoughts. "Are you alright? I wasn't even looking." His hands were up apologetically, he didn't want the man thinking he was some drunk - it was quite late after all. He had spent the evening at the studio getting some work done in time for a gallery's deadline and was tired above all else.

[schrodingers-tits]

Professor gayass 🤓

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 2: CHARLES SMITH, THE MAN THAT YOU ARE 

synopsis: charles makes sure you're getting on okay as you continue to try to evade arthur (poorly, might i add).

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: i almost leaked this to my classmate when sending her a link. nearly shat myself but we're all good this is all still under wraps

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

Charles was right. Even though you want to help, there’s really nothing to do besides hunt – and the good Lord knows you’re useless when it comes to that.

For the last day or so, you’ve just been hanging around the garage-made-kitchen. Even though Javier told you you weren’t intruding (and that “everyone needs shelter”), you feel like you are. It’s not a good feeling. So you stayed outside, in the company of a man who introduced himself as Simon Pearson and the camp cook, Charles, and occasionally Javier when he found the time to swing by. 

A fair few people have introduced themselves as well – Hosea Matthews, Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers, Reverend Orville Swanson, Leopold Strauss (who just oozed sleaze), Miss Karen Jones, Miss Tilly Jackson, Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill, and little Jack alongside his mother, Miss Abigail Roberts. Those who didn’t directly introduce themselves to you were pointed out by Karen and you were given a run-down on them.

So far, these are the people as you know them: Missus Sadie Adler is a grieving, skittish widow. Uncle is a lazy sack of shit. John Marston is better at being wolf food than being a father. Miss Susan Grimshaw is stubborn (but caring – somewhat like how neighborhood mamas care). Miss Molly O’Shea has a stick so far up her ass she spits splinters when she talks. The man tied up in the barn, Kieran Duffy, is an O’Driscoll (or ex-O’Driscoll, if what he insists is true is really true). Oh – and the blond man that punched Bill? That’s Micah Bell: a man with the eye of a viper tasting the air and the nose of a shark waiting for blood in the water. From what you’ve deduced, his general vibe is “I would take sexual relationship advice from Bill Cosby if given the chance.”

All in all, a healthily diverse group of people – even if the traits that make them diverse aren’t all that desirable. (Mostly Micah’s. Especially Micah’s.)

But Charles is nice enough. So you’ve stuck with Charles. Even if you need to hang around Pearson to hang out with him. Pearson isn’t an intrinsically bad guy, just… a little off-putting.

Right now, you’re able to put your hands to use by opening canned vegetables and putting them in the cauldron-looking pot Pearson has for rabbit stew. Across the table, Charles is butchering and deboning a rabbit as best he can with his injured hand. You try your best to keep your eyes on the cans of carrots and celery you’re opening. 

There’s footsteps. You glance up. It’s Arthur. You look back down. 

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Pearson gripes to no one in particular. 

You watch Arthur approach the fire and he holds his hands out towards the coals in your peripheral vision. He shakes his head. “Ah, we’re okay.”

“We have a few cans of food and a rabbit. For, what – ten, twelve people?” Pearson gestures over to where you and Charles are working. “Even more with them and that widow.”

Despite yourself, you can feel the tips of your ears start to burn. What do you have to be embarrassed about? Needing to eat? If anything, Pearson should be the one feeling embarrassed for talking about you in front of you. Yeah… that’s it. 

Pearson continues. “When I was in the Navy…”

Arthur immediately interrupts him. “I – I do not wish to hear about what you got up to in the Navy, Mister Pearson.”

And yet, he keeps going despite Arthur’s protest. “We were stranded at sea… for fifty days.”

“And you, unfortunately, survived,” Arthur drawls. 

You glance up at him from underneath your eyelashes and smile. His eye catches yours, and your gaze drops, as does your smile. Instead, you work on getting your finger under the tab of a can of chopped onions – which is hard, considering the thickness of your gloves.

You feel Arthur’s eyes leave you and let out a soft sigh of relief that clouds in front of your face. Charles holds out his knife to you. You tip the top of the can towards him, and he wedges the (bloody – ew) blade of his knife underneath the tab and opens it. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You clench your jaw when you feel Arthur’s eyes on you again – yes, very briefly, but still. You can count the number of times you’ve made eye contact with him on one hand, and you don’t want to add to that total. 

Thankfully, Pearson seems ignorant to your plight and continues complaining. “When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn’t able to get supplies in!”

“Well, when government agents are hunting you down, sometimes shopping trips need to be cut short,” Arthur snaps. “We’ll survive. We always have. And if needs be, we can eat you – you’re the fattest.”

You bite your lip to suppress a laugh and clear your throat to mask any noise you might’ve made. You pour the onions in the pot and glance at the rabbit carcass, now carved up and stripped of meat.

“Damn, there’s nothing left on that thing,” you say. “You’re good at that.”

Charles nods in response. “If you’re done, you can put it on the fire.”

You lift the pot with a grunt – it’s heavier than you expected, but nothing you can’t handle. You move over to the coals and hang the pot on a hook over the fire while Pearson and Arthur continue talking. 

“I sent Lenny and Bill hunting, and they found nothing,” Pearson says. 

“Well, Lenny’s more into book learnin’ than huntin’,” Arthur says. You perk up at that. “Bill’s a fool. Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read, ain’t no wonder they haven’t found –”

“Enough of this,” Charles interrupts. Even though his voice is relatively quiet and deep, it still cuts through whatever Arthur was planning on prattling on about. “We’ll go find something. Come on, Arthur.”

“Well, take them.” Arthur gestures vaguely in your direction. “Since they seem so keen on helpin’ out, and all.”

“I, um…” You shake your head. “No, thanks.”

“They don’t even know how to hold a rifle correctly,” Charles says. (His bluntness stings a little, but it’s true. You know how to hold a handgun, but not these old-timey types.) “If they knew how to hunt, we would’ve gone already.”

Arthur sighs and shrugs. “If you insist.”

“Wait a second, hold on.” Pearson hurries over to the table you and Charles had been working at earlier. He pulls out a can from the small pile you had organized and tosses it to Arthur. “You’re gonna need something to eat out there.”

“Hm… “assorted, salted offal”,” Arthur reads off the label. He levels Pearson with a dead stare. “Starving would be preferable.”

You stifle a laugh and, again, clear your throat.

“Come on, let’s go,” Charles says, adjusting the bandage on his hand. 

“You can’t go huntin’,” Arthur says. “Look at your hand.”

“I can’t stay here listening to you two,” Charles says. He gestures to you without looking at you. “The conversation they make is tolerable, but, again, they can’t hunt. Look, if there’s game in those hills, I’ll find it – and you can kill it.”

“You need to rest, Charles,” Arthur insists.

“You think this is rest?” Charles’ face twists into a scowl, then he turns and walks towards his horse with a “Come along.”

Arthur scoffs under his breath and his eyes flick to you. You do your best to suppress the temptation to duck away from his gaze, as piercing as it is. You win, and he looks away, following Charles to the hitching post. They quickly mount up and ride out.

You draw your shoulders up to your ears and shudder. When Pearson shoots you a questioning glance, you excuse it with “What? It’s cold.”

When a few seconds have passed, you roll your shoulders back. You settle down on the chair that’s inside the kitchen, just watching a few late, fat snowflakes fall outside.

After a good ten minutes of watching Pearson and playing with your hands, you figure he’ll be fine on his own and wander out along the footpaths in the snow. You find who you’re looking for quickly. 

Lenny gives you a polite nod as you stand across from him, the fire on the ground separating you two. He has a rifle – the sight of which doesn’t surprise you as much as it first did – and he settles the butt of the gun in the inner corner of his elbow. 

“You’re Lenny, right?” You try. 

“Yeah. And you’re…” Lenny gives your name. You nod in response.

“I just…” You clear your throat and bat away the embarrassment and anxiety that’s creeping up on you – something that always comes with approaching strangers. “Arthur mentioned that you like books. I, uh… I read, too. Sometimes.”

“Really?” Lenny says. “What kinda books have they got out in the Mojave?”

You look down at the fire and think, trying to come up with some excuse and build your backstory. “We don’t have a lot of books – I live in a pretty isolated part of the desert. But there’s traders, and they bring medical books, and a few storybooks. I like the medicine books they bring. You?”

Lenny seems to hesitate for a moment. “Poetry.”

“Poetry?” You hum. “Huh. Poems are nice.”

There’s a lapse in conversation. You don’t know how to fill it. You say the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Micah’s kinda a prick, right?” You blurt out. 

Your eyes snap up to Lenny’s face. He’s surprised, but his face quickly melts into a smile and he laughs. You feel the coil of anxiety in your stomach loosen. 

“Why, I didn’t expect you to come out and say it,” he says. “But your assessment is correct.”

“Yeah, sorry.” You laugh nervously, your eyes falling to the fire again. “I just get bad vibes from the guy.”

“Bad vibes?” Lenny echoes. 

The coil is tight again. You think for a moment. “Uh, yeah. One of the tribes I live with believes in, um… vibrational energy, that kinda thing. When you look at someone and you get a bad feeling without knowing them that well, they give you bad vibes.”

“Hold on,” Lenny says. “Vibrational energy?”

You nod and continue to pull things out of your ass and curse Lenny for being scholarly. “Yeah. Life… um, well. I don’t remember the explanation too well. But I remember White Bird – the Sorrows’ shaman – saying…”

You tilt your head and look to the side and think for a moment.  “He said, “All life is music – all music is rhythmic – all rhythm is life.” And that somehow relates to vibrations. I don’t know, you seem smart. Maybe you can understand what he was talking about.”

“Well, I don’t know what it means, but it sure sounds pretty,” Lenny says. 

“They’re good people,” you say. “Maybe you’d like to meet them someday – if you’re ever so far west you’re in the desert, I mean.”

Why the fuck did I say that?! You curse yourself in your head. They’re not real! The Dead Horses and the Sorrows and Joshua Graham and Daniel are all made up! They’re fictional characters –

“I don’t know, maybe,” Lenny says. “For now, it doesn’t seem like we’ll be goin’ that far.”

You hum and pretend to act disappointed while you fight the urge to crumple in on yourself in relief. “That’s a shame. I’m sure you’d like them. They’re interesting people, especially the Sorrows. Though, Joshua…”

You trail off as you check over your shoulder. Hoofbeats, you’re pretty sure. And you’re right – Arthur and Charles are riding back into camp, a dead, snow-dappled doe on the back of each horse.

“Brought some food back, boys,” Arthur calls.

They both hitch their horses at the post and hoist the limp does onto their shoulders, carrying them over to the kitchen. 

You look back at Lenny and jab a thumb over your shoulder at them. “Should we…?”

“I don’t think so,” Lenny says. “From what I seen, Arthur’s a butcher – a mean one, at that. I don’t think he’ll like it if his work’s disturbed.”

“That’s fair,” you hum. (Secretly, you want to thank Lenny profusely. You already know that Arthur’s a mean man – you don’t want to see him even meaner.)

You check over your shoulder again. From where you’re standing, you can see an old man has taken your seat in the kitchen, and you can hear Arthur giving him hell for whatever reason. What was his name again… Uncle, maybe?

Unfortunately, your staring caught Uncle’s eye. He beckons you over with a wave of his hand. You give Lenny a quiet, polite “See you later,” and head over, trudging through the thick layer of snow that’s settled on the ground.

“Yeah?” You nod at Uncle as soon as you step into the kitchen. You sidle up to the fire, warming yourself with the smoldering embers. 

“Thought it’d do Arthur some good to see the…” – Uncle waves you up-and-down – “…wonders some modernity will do you.”

“What? Modernity?” You repeat back. You tell yourself to calm down – you haven’t been found out. (Not yet.) “I’m far from modern.”

“Why, you’re perfectly modern!” Uncle says. 

“You don’t even know me.” You scoff and turn away. 

Your eyes catch Arthur wrapping wire around the back ankles of one of the doe corpses. He pulls it taut, then hooks both legs to the deer hoist. He lifts it with a grunt and puts the hoist on the hook sticking out of the wall. You avert your eyes before he turns around. 

“Well, I mean…” You shrug. “I guess I’m… sort of modern? But I don’t see any issue with what Arthur’s doing. He’s just hunting.”

Arthur’s eyes fly to you again when you say his name. You wish that the Spanish Flu had come sooner so you could wear a facemask to hide your pursed lips and clenched jaw. After a moment, he looks away.

“What a surprise,” Arthur drawls, “to find the camp rat loiterin’ around in the kitchen, chargin’ dimes for his thoughts.”

He pulls away from the deer hoist and walks over to the fire. He keeps a healthy distance, but you can still feel some sort of heat coming from him when he stands next to you. You guess a man that tall and broad would be a furnace in cold like this. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Uncle asks. “I feel we haven’t spoken for days.”

“I do my utmost to avoid you,” Arthur retorts.

Charles approaches the fire, standing on your other side. He gives you a small look that says “Ignore them. They can, and will, go on for hours like this.”

Uncle looks over at you and laughs. “He loves me, really. It’s his… sad way of showing affection.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You and Arthur turn to look at each other. You hadn’t meant to speak over him, and from the kind of-surprised look he’s sending your way, you think he didn’t mean to speak over you, either. You nod, gesturing for him to continue.

“It isn’t.” He turns back to face Uncle and waves a hand. “Now shoot, get lost.”

“Well…” Uncle shrugs and stands. “See y’all later.”

Pearson swipes a bottle from Uncle as he steps out. He then looks over at one of the deer. “See you got on just fine.”

Arthur nods toward Charles’ direction. “Charles is a wonder.”

“Have a drink, my friends.” Pearson holds out the bottle across the fire. “Ya earned it.”

Arthur takes the bottle after you wave it away. He takes a swig and sputters, coughing. “Jesus!” His voice cracks. “What is that?”

He passes the bottle to Charles, who sniffs the rim and takes a tentative sip. 

“Navy rum, sir. It’s the only thing – the only thing!” Pearson laughs as Charles hands the bottle back. “Keeps you sane, it does.”

“Yes, seems to have done a treat on you.” Arthur glances at Charles and waves a hand in his general direction. “You go rest that hand, Charles.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days,” Charles says. 

He makes eye contact with you and nods towards the cabins, indicating for you to follow. You do so while listening to Arthur and Pearson talk about skinning the deer. (And you hide a smile when Arthur asks Pearson if he gets to skin him, too. He’s mean, but at least he’s funny with it.)

“You settling in okay?” Charles asks when you’re in a somewhat secluded area. It’s not all that isolated, but it’s out of earshot for most people.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Thanks. For… y’know. Not being a massive asshole about everything.”

“You’re lost,” he says. (You notice he leaves out the very obvious “and scared” he could’ve tacked on the end.) “And you need help. It would be cruel not to give it to you.”

Yeah, totally! You think to yourself. You’re literally one of the kindest people alive and I’m… what? A scumbag that’s taking advantage of you? Oh, it’s so sweet that you’re ignoring the blatant lies I’m throwing in your face! Thank you, Charles! Thanks a fucking million.

“Still. Thank you,” you say instead. “You could’ve easily kicked me out in the snow and left me to freeze.” 

“We could’ve.” Charles looks out at the horizon. The way he pauses almost makes you think he’s considering it. “But we didn’t.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

Apparently, he doesn’t feel the need to reassure you or continue the conversation at all. After a few moments, you awkwardly hook your thumb over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna, uh…” You nod. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later?”

Charles is still looking out at the treeline, looking at the way the snow weighs down the leafless trees and the way even the smallest sound could disrupt everything. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

[sirianasims]

The next summer, we travelled to Henford-on-Bagley to get married near the place Cecilia grew up. We rented a tiny cottage and spent a few days before the wedding visiting places from her childhood.

She showed me an old gazebo and the local ruins she used to play in, her favourite tree. I felt honoured that she would share all this with me.

The Bramblewood felt like a place in a dream, and it only seemed fitting that this was where Cecilia had come from.

She even took me skinny-dipping by the waterfalls of the Bagley river.

Cecilia was my very own fairytale princess and I was almost surprised that various small animals weren’t constantly accosting her to sing a duet or trying to sew her a dress.

I was about to make a joke about it, but when I turned around, I saw her trying to befriend a couple of small birds. It took effort not to burst out laughing and scare them away.

Then came the wedding itself.

Cecilia looked radiant and I almost forgot to breathe as her father walked her towards me.

I had never met Stephen, as he had stayed behind on the Bell family farm after the divorce from Cecilia’s mother. I had been nervous about it, but it was clear that much of Cecilia’s gentle nature came from him.

Her mother, Ariana, and her brother, Leopold, I knew from the first time we dated. Although her brother was no longer that annoying little kid who would come knocking at the door to Cecilia’s room while she and I were making out, only to run away giggling.

And just like that, we were married. I still couldn’t believe that she wanted to spend her life with me, that she was truly mine now.

Considering that the wedding was all the way across the sea, I was touched that Athena and Jamie had come, especially since Athena was heavily pregnant. At least someone else appreciated that the champagne was alcohol-free.

Colten made a toast to the joys of being married, and I caught Katherine and Conrad exchanging a significant look.

I knew it couldn’t be easy for her to attend, but I appreciated her and Conrad coming – and that they were taking Freya home with them.

I really didn’t want Freya to stay with me for my wedding night.

As I entered the tiny bedroom in our rented cottage, I stopped dead in my tracks. Cecilia had already removed her dress and the flowers in her hair and was waiting for me.

“Hello, husband”, she purred.

Mesmerised, I reached up to unbutton my shirt, only to find it already opened.

“Fuck, Cecilia. I’m glad I didn’t know you were wearing that under your dress all day, I wouldn’t have been able to focus.”

She laughed and sat on the bed, looking at me eagerly.

“I wanted to surprise you!”

“Yeah, well, colour me surprised”, I mumbled hoarsely, as I struggled to open my belt and kick off my shoes at the same time.

I joined my wife on the bed and kissed her, hungrily. My hand found her stomach, still almost flat.

Almost.

She smiled.

“I don’t think anyone noticed yet.”

We had decided that we wanted children as soon as possible, but it had still been a surprise when Cecilia found out that she was pregnant just before the wedding. I was delighted. And terrified. I saw doctor Holland regularly all through the pregnancy, and Cecilia did her best to remind me that the situation was very different this time.

And it was. Even as she slowly reached a size where she was borrowing my old shirts because none of her own clothes fit, I felt no signs of my depression returning.

I wasn’t truly worried about us having a baby, only about getting hit by depression again. The thought of Cecilia carrying my child didn’t fill me with anxiety, but with joy. Still, it was a relief to be able to share my thoughts and worries with her on our, now rather slow, walks.

Freya was very excited about getting a brother or sister. I knew Katherine had mixed feelings about it. She said she was happy for us, but I could tell she was a little jealous. She would never give Freya siblings.

Towards the end of her pregnancy, I think I was even more impatient for our child to be born than Cecilia was. Not that she wasn’t very ready to get it over with as well. She had been uncomfortable all day, and was now lying on top of me so I could stroke her back, twisted awkwardly to the side to make room for her belly.

Her breathing was slow and steady, like she was almost falling asleep. Then I felt something.

“Cecilia, darling”, I mumbled. “I love you no matter what, but either you just peed on me, or we really need to go. Now.”

She quickly changed and we left. When we arrived at the hospital, I felt my pulse quickening. I loved Freya more than my own life, but my last visit to the maternity ward ten years ago had been traumatising.

But Cecilia was in pain, and as I was swaying back and forth to soothe her, I was able to put the past aside.

This was here and now.

I was looking on in awe as she gave birth. I wanted to take away the pain, help her, but somehow her body knew how to do all the right things.

Before long, she was holding our daughter in her arms.

I had two daughters now.

I couldn’t be happier.

beginning / previous / next

[dragonsdendoodles]

I need y’all to know I am going to be insufferable about this book when it comes out

[trying-not-horny-on-main]

Sleep Token Fic : Vessel x Mozart Ch 4

WORK SUMMARY: AO3 Start of work : Following Sleep’s wishes, Vessel must continue to flourish. The trouble is, who do you turn to when you’ve already poured your life into music? Well, fortunately, Sleep isn’t restricted to who is alive and who is dead.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: AO3 chapter here : Mozart wants to see Vessel perform but with no scheduled performances coming up, the 17th century composer gets creative.

NOTES: Haha, I don't care if I have like 1 reader for this, I am really enjoying the hell out of Mozart being so extra that Vessel can't help but fall in love with him. Buncha goofballs.

First, we must have post-performance snuggles and then kissing soon.

CHAPTER 4:

~~~[Negatively] "To win applause one must write stuff so simple that a coachman might sing it." A letter from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to his father, Leopold~~~

After a week of daily visits of varying lengths, Mozart arrived and proclaimed, “I would like to see you perform!”

The trouble with his tutor visiting him from the dead, Mozart seemed to appear in the land of the living by stepping through any doorway, and not necessarily through the front door. Fortunately, Vessel wasn’t in an especially compromising position and merely scrambled to turn the music off his headphones before Mozart could realize that he’d been listening to his Piano Sonata 8 in A Minor.

“I don’t have any shows coming up,” Vessel countered. Part of him wanted to throw back those defensive walls that he had had when Mozart had first started to show up but another part of him wanted to fall into the musical revelry that Mozart offered.

“Explain, please,” Mozart blinked owlishly.

“Well, I hide my face when I perform, and that would be quite absurd to do out of place,” Vessel cringed, desperately hoping that Mozart wasn’t about to suggest something outlandish. “Even if people don’t recognize me, the songs are popular enough.”

Mozart walked over to the computer and poked at a window that had music notation up. “Show me this.” Vessel complied, bringing the window to the foreground. Muttering while scanning the sheet music, Mozart continued, “We will play something outside of your persona’s repertoire and wear unassuming attire.” Staring at the ceiling as if there were answers hiding there, Mozart amended, “Probably best if you don’t sing, that would give it away.”

“Where?”

“Yesterday, I asked ii to help me pick a place.” Mozart’s gaze wandered from the ceiling.

Traitor.

“I am taking you to an open microphone,” Mozart said. Vessel didn’t bother correcting him–he was an Eastern European from the late 1700s, he’d let him have “open microphone”.

“Sounds like you have this all figured out,” Vessel rubbed his hands on his thighs. “I assume you’re going to make me play one of your pieces, instead?”

While he was staring intently at the screen, Mozart was incredibly up close in Vessel’s space. Generally, Mozart seemed to understand he should respect other people’s personal bubble but over time had grown to invade more and more. There was something peculiar and thrilling about the shameless confident charge that he took, all the while being unreasonably polite. 

With a barking laugh, Mozart nudged him. “Don’t be silly, I’m going to play, too.”

The rest of the day, Mozart grilled Vessel on songs he knew that had accompanying parts. When asked if this counted as creation, Mozart waved a hand, “Interpretation, if the music already exists.” They ran through the music and it produced a coughing fit from Mozart but he did not immediately disappear.

Close enough.

~~~*~~~

“What's even worse than a flute? - Two flutes!”― Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

~~~*~~~

Arriving early, ii and Vessel had met across the street from the pub just in time for Mozart to manifest by stepping out of what should have been a locked boutique store. Although in more or less the same sorts of clothes as he always wore, that night Mozart manifested with curls in his ponytail and carrying a violin. Adding to that, he’d apparently decided to dress in a bright red cardigan that looked like it was built from material meant to be in a bullfight.

“See? Disguises!” Mozart snapped his black trifold earloop mask into place. “These are so much nicer than the silly blue ones you see people wearing sometimes.”

Nosey, ii had decided to join them so he could watch from the audience. He held Mozart’s violin case and handed Vessel a matching black mask. Where or how a dead man had acquired a violin was beyond Vessel’s energy level to process.

“Officially, they’re for preventing giving or getting illness, but I think I look rather mysterious,” Mozart admired his reflection in the boutique window’s reflection and adjusted the mask on his face over his large nose.

“Why do you need a mask?” ii asked Mozart.

“It is a disguise,” Mozart beamed.

“Do you think people are going to recognize you from old paintings?” ii blinked.

Unphased, Mozart shrugged. “If nothing else, we will match.”

Still not having put the mask on, Vessel stared between the other two. Standing beside them, he felt increasingly awkward as if he was towering over the two of them. Resisting the urge to bend down to hide at their height, Vessel turned the trifold mask over in his hands reluctantly.

“Go on,” Mozart encouraged him. 

“Mozart…”

“Yes, liebling ?”

“Mozart, people can still see my eyes.”

The ocean deep blue eyes that should have been lost to time stared up at him. The emotions rolled from concern to understanding and to personal pride. “Believe it or not, Sleep warned me about this. I came prepared.”

Smug bastard. Vessel couldn’t help the errant thought.

Fumbling in his jacket, Mozart presented a pair of extremely dark sunglasses with side shields. “See? I…” And then, fumbling with the frames, Mozart promptly dropped them, letting out a merry string of dated German curse words.

“Smooth,” Vessel snorted.

When Mozart picked the sunglasses up, he took a step forward. When he straightened he took another step and was suddenly standing extremely close to Vessel. Although he and Mozart had been hovering over each other during practices, composing, and assembling the music for the mini performance, Vessel was acutely aware of ii’s presence and noticed his friend take out his phone and turn away as if to give a mock sense of privacy.

“May I?” Mozart brushed the sunglasses off.

Speechless, Vessel nodded and crouched enough so Mozart could slide them onto his face. The way his fingers brushed on his cheeks and the tips of his ears made his skin flush and despite himself, Vessel was certain that he was blushing. Then, as Mozart’s fingers lingered on the sides of his face, he felt the intense studying of Mozart’s eyes roaming over his features; the sunglasses and respirator mask might be enough for a crowd but it did nothing to dissuade the rush of emotions he felt coming over him at this proximity from Mozart.

With a little chuckle, Mozart winked, “Perfect.”

The single word nearly made Vessel’s heart burst out of his chest.

~~~*~~~

When their turn came, Mozart sprang to the microphone eagerly while Vessel settled in behind the keyboard on stage. The mic stand was far too tall for him but rather than adjust it or pull the microphone from the stand, he tilted it over so he could hold the microphone by his face.

“Good evening,” Mozart bowed.

Vague murmurs from the crowd came in response.

Taking a breath to calm himself, Vessel repeated mentally, “They can’t see your face.”

“My friend and I have prepared something a little unexpected for you,” Mozart was beaming behind his mask. “It has been a very long time since I have performed in front of a live audience,” he chuckled, “and a while since my friend has performed in a setting like this but I felt it incredibly important.”

Settling the stand into place, Mozart picked up his violin. Glancing over at Vessel, even with the mask, it was obvious how overjoyed he was feeling.

With a wink, Mozart settled his bow onto the strings.

The music started strong, the melody building like a promise.

Vessel had been able to pick out pieces he’d been learning for a while that weren’t his own but Mozart had learned the songs literally overnight, swaying and falling into the music as if he’d known the part forever.

The crowd responded well, especially for an open mic night filled with other performers who were no doubt concerned with their own pieces.

When they finished, Vessel bowed his head, staring at the keys. The feeling in his chest was an overwhelming conflict of timidness and exhilaration. 

After a beat, Vessel was able to look up and see Mozart bowing on stage. With one foot in front of the other as he bowed, even his body’s posture looked like it was from another time. The growingly familiar slight frame and large head of Mozart made Vessel feel drawn to him evermore. Afraid, so very afraid, but drawn all the same.

Preparing for their second song, Mozart resumed his posture with the violin.

“Take off your mask!” A man called from the crowd.

Vessel flushed beneath his sunglasses and face mask.

“No! Thank you!” Mozart shouted, not bothering to move to the microphone. The crowd laughed with him; there was something incredibly charming about that forceful of a voice coming out of such a small body.

The second song was sad. It was grief, it was longing, it was a deep ripping part of the human condition that Vessel had always admired. Played alone, it had spoken to him, but with Mozart swaying and effortlessly making the violin cry, sing, and practically weep, it made Vessel start to cry. Shutting his eyes, he continued playing, the tears slipping under his face mask and pooling in the crevices of his face before continuing their journey down his neck. Trapped by the musical performance, he felt the notes driving a hole into his chest.

Twice, Mozart choked back coughs. Somehow, it only added to the song. Illness. Death. Grief. Loss. Mortality. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.

When the song finished, the crowd was silent for a little too long. Then, a sob broke the reverie; applause followed.

Keeping his eyes closed, Vessel curled his toes, unsure how to navigate out of the feeling. Practically drowning in himself, he focused on breathing. His body felt like it was a million miles away and an all encompassing prison at the same time. His mind was the scattering of stardust and an urn full of ashes. He was lost and found all at once. He was hiding and vulnerable and visible.

“ Liebling ,” Mozart’s voice was in his ear. “Give me your hand.”

Opening his eyes, he saw Mozart’s big earnest eyes right by his face. He nodded gently, bringing him back to the real world. Taking his hand, he let Mozart lead him to the front of the stage. Mozart bowed enthusiastically, and Vessel imitated half heartedly.

Still clutching his hand, Mozart waved to the audience and led Vessel off stage while the next performer set themselves up.

Settling into the seats with ii towards the back, Vessel wiped away his tears, finally. Keeping the sunglasses on made it difficult to see inside the pub but he couldn’t fathom removing them.

“Intense,” ii told Mozart.

“Oh, my, dear god,” Mozart looked horrified between Vessel and ii. “Flutes.” Then he clapped a hand over his mouth and seemed to be biting back a laugh.

The next performance started and Vessel felt himself swaying in his seat.

What was wrong with him?

“Come here, darling,” Mozart tugged Vessel close, scooting his own chair so they were pressed against one another. He guided Vessel’s head to leaning onto his shoulder, surprisingly sturdy despite his petite frame.

He felt a bit better.

He shut his eyes.

Through his mask, Mozart whispered into his ear, “You give your all even when you don’t want to and hardly keep anything for yourself. Your vulnerability to your own emotions is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.” 

Unable to find words, Vessel took Mozart’s hand in his again, closed his eyes, and listened to the music.

[delivish]

First line(s) of stuff I'm currently working on:

Rattle and Hum Ch.2:

The voice in Kyle’s ear was barely above a whisper, but there was something forceful in it all the same, something razor-edged and desperate.  Kyle stilled at the sound like a deer that had been badly spooked, breathing raggedly through the tiny gap the man had left to him between his nose and the grimy fingers he’d clamped over Kyle’s mouth.

Love, and other inconvenient curses Ch.2:

Leopold woke with his cheek on the bathroom floor and his body awkwardly wedged between the toilet and the tub, and it was a full few seconds before he realized the hissing sound in his ear was the running shower he’d turned on right before he lost consciousness. Judging from the lack of steam in the air, the shower had long since gone cold. 

Ask Meme drabbles:

Kenny McCormick was willing to do anything for money.  That was the rumor, anyway. But Tweek hadn’t really believed it until desperation finally led him to test the rumor for himself one day after school. Still, he hadn’t been expecting Kenny to just come right out with it.  “Yeah, man,” Kenny said, shrugging carelessly. “For the right price, I’ll suck your dick.” “GAH! Wait, what?!”

Romancin' the Band Ch. 4:

Stan didn’t wake (that might have implied he’d actually rested, and he most certainly had not) so much as hurl himself across the hazy surface of his unconsciousness like a swimmer breaking the surface of a deep pool of water. He came to sprawled bonelessly across his bed, bleary-eyed, headachy, and with a mouth as dry as a wad of cotton. 

Writing the first lines of a new fic or chapter is one my favorite parts, I probably spend way too much time on them. 😅 Too shy to tag anyone, but if you're working on something, post those first lines and nudge me, I'd love to see!!

[heavyisthecrown-if]

So dad was banging the Duke and he is getting revenge as a scorned lover? I dig.

That's basically it, but it wasn't really revenge since Stefan hasn't wronged Leopold in any way. It was definitely a spur-of-the-moment decision.

[hookedonapirate]

Lady Cassidy's Lover

Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.

Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.

At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.

But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.

A/N: Despite Emma's last name and marriage to Neal, this NOT a swanfire fic! This definitely ends with Captain Swan so if you're expecting swanfire, this is not for you.

This is the Lady Chatterley's Lover au no one asked for. I had never read the novel but when I watched the newest movie adaptation (there are 4 that I know of), I simply had to write this for CS even though I already have a mountain of wips in my doc. This fic will mostly be following the 1981 and 2022 versions. If you haven't watched the 2022 version, I highly recommend it, if no other reason than to watch Jack O'Connell.

This fic deals with mature themes (some of which the book was banned for back when it was written), adultery, postwar, language, smut.

Hope you enjoy!

Catch up: Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7 I Ch 8 I Ch 9 I Ch 10 I Ch 11 I Ch 12 I Epilogue

We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen—D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover

Chapter One

Emma releases a heavy sigh as she slumps down onto the sofa, relieved the ceremony is over with. If only the day were done too, so she wouldn't have to be subjected to dancing and all the other useless traditions of a wedding reception. Now she has to listen to dreadful toasts and her and Neal's family drone on about how perfect she and her new doting husband are together.

"So, how does it feel?" One by one, her sister, Mary Margaret unbuckles Emma's shoes and pulls them off her tired feet.

Emma shakes her head. "I don't know. Ask me tomorrow." Perhaps then she'll feel differently about exchanging vows with a man she barely knows.

She and Neal had met and courted shortly before he was shipped off to war, and during his leave, he had confessed he'd hated being without her and asked her to marry him. She had said yes and they were quick to get married before he returns to the front. Their fathers may have had a hand in rushing things along as well. Britain declared war with Germany three years ago, heightening Sir Rumpelstiltskin's long-held desire to see his only son marry and produce heirs to their fortune.

Emma's father, Sir Leopold, wants her to have a stable husband, and who better than a man with a hereditary rank and title? She and Mary Margaret were raised in Kensington by Sir Leopold, a royal academician and their mother, Eva, a well-educated socialist, and had what one might call an aesthetically unorthodox childhood. They had been taken to Paris, Florence and Rome to breathe in art, and to the Hague and Berlin for socialist conventions where the speakers spoke in every civilized tongue.

Emma comes from wealth and Neal from aristocracy, so some could say it's the perfect match, except for the fact she has not known him long enough to truly love him. But from her perspective, this marriage is the perfect arrangement. The perfect way to get her father off her back about finding a suitable husband like her sister's. Furthermore, she does not have to worry about getting hurt by someone she does not love. She has experienced what it's like to lose someone she loves. She lost her mother ten years ago to illness and had to witness her father almost become a shell of a man without her. Emma made up her mind long ago she would never give her heart to a man. She would never submit to him emotionally.

She has been with men before, of course, but none she had loved.

A man is like a child, and if he doesn't get what he wants, he whines and fusses, exposing an unpleasant side of himself. But a woman can yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. A woman can take a man without truly giving herself away. Certainly, she can take him without giving herself into his power. Rather, she can wield the power over him.

"You need to eat something."

"I need to get out of this dress first." She doesn't quite care for the high-waisted empire line, the tiered skirt made of dreadful lace or the sleeves that fall to her elbows. It reminds her of a tablecloth rather than a dress. Don't get her started on the extravagantly large bouquet of flowers that nearly touched the ground when she held it. And she'd tossed away the Juliet veil as soon as she had returned to the bridal suite.

Mary Margaret agrees as she takes her hand and pulls her up, helping Emma out of her wedding gown and into a simpler dress for the reception.

"How do I look?" Emma asks once she's in it, twirling around in the green dress to give her sister the full effect.

Mary Margaret smirks. "Well, I doubt Neal will want to stay long at the reception."

Emma's cheeks warm as she stands in front of the mirror and removes her earrings, replacing them with emerald ones that will match her dress. She and Neal have not even had sex yet, so tonight will be their first time. "You don't think his mother would've approved?" Neal's mother was the daughter of a viscount before she died.

"Well, I'm not entirely sure I do."

Emma rolls her eyes at her sister as she recoats her lips in red lipstick. "Are we talking about the dress...or the wedding?" Not everyone can find their prince charming as she did. Mary Margaret's marriage to David was definitely not forced or rushed. They are true love, as she always likes to boast. "We had to marry quickly before he returns to the front in the morning."

"Yes, but couldn't you have just had sex with him instead of marrying him?"

Emma laughs. "Mary Margaret! Be serious." She studies herself in the mirror, turning and running her hand over her dress, deciding to leave her blonde hair braided into a crown atop her head. She looks like herself, but somehow different now that she's married. She had honestly never thought this day would come.

"I am. It's much less commitment, and it's all Neal will want anyway."

"Neal's not like that. He's kind and thoughtful. He makes me feel safe."

"You mean safe from getting hurt?"

Emma looks up to see Mary Margaret's reflection in the mirror as the brunette narrows her eyes. But Emma knows she can't lie to her sister. Mary Margaret would see right through her. Emma stands and turns around to face her. "Precisely."

Mary Margaret places her hands on Emma's shoulders. "See, that's just it. If you never open that heart of yours up to anyone, you'll grow old and gray without ever experiencing the wonderful things life has to offer."

"I do experience the wonderful things life has to offer." Not that sex is really that wonderful. It has always been merely a way to let off some steam.

Mary Margaret tilts her head. "I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about love."

The clearing of a throat interrupts their conversation when Neal steps into the room with a tray of three wine glasses. "I brought reinforcements."

The two women blush when they realize he must have heard the tail end of their conversation.

Mary Margaret goes over to Neal and grabs one of the glasses, taking a sip. "You read my mind."

"I nearly drank yours on the way up," he tells her, chuckling as he hands one to Emma and takes the other one for himself. Setting down the tray, he clinks his and Emma's glasses together. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Emma smiles at her new husband and takes a sip.

"Our fathers are preparing their toasts."

Emma groans, not looking forward to going downstairs. "Can we face them together?"

"Of course." He smiles at her, and she has to admit, Neal is not the worst man she could've chosen for a husband. He's handsome and charming, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. She can tell he cares for her. "You look beautiful, Ems."

She offers a smile in return. "Thanks."

After they finish their wine, she takes his offered hand, allowing him to lead her downstairs, where their fathers give speeches and announce their hope for a new heir to Goldby.

~*~

Two years later

Dearest Mary Margaret,

I knew the war would change us all, I just didn't know how much. It feels as though it ended half a lifetime ago, not half a year. Neal and I have already moved away from London, and we've just arrived at Goldby, his family estate. Once we get settled in, I expect to write to you often.

Your loving sister,

Emma

Lady Cassidy gazes vacantly through the window as the motor-car winds through the park of oak trees. The sky is about as gray and murky as the future, for who knows what tragedies it may hold. Clouds of smoke rise from the chimney of the pit in the distance where Misthaven village struggles to stay afloat beyond the park gates.

The car pulls up in front of the eighteenth century home made of brown stone that sits on the top of a knoll, overlooking the park. This is her new home in the smoky Midlands where she and Neal will finally begin their married life at Goldby Hall, the family seat. His father had died of heart failure, and Neal is now baronet. But he claims his father died of chagrin since he and Emma are without a child. And they most likely will be childless forever. Not only did they never get the chance to consummate their marriage the night of their honeymoon since she had been too exhausted and he had been too anxious about returning to war, they never will.

The chauffeur opens Emma's car door and grabs her luggage.

"Thank you." She steps out, taking in her new home. This place is nothing like her childhood house in London. Goldby certainly needs a lot of work.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Potts, who worked for Rumpelstiltskin, approaches with her husband to greet them. "Welcome, Sir Neal. We've been praying for you."

Mr. Potts helps him out of the car, picking him up and placing him into his wheelchair. An explosion during the war left Neal paralyzed from the waist down, and the doctor said he may never be able to walk again.

Emma tries not to think about that, however. She tries not to think about how she may never get pregnant or be able to give birth to a child as long as she's with Neal. She will never get to raise children or watch them grow up and run around the park at Goldby. She can't think of herself anymore though. She is married to a baronet, whom she vowed to have and to hold, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health until they are parted by death. After he returned from war, he told her he could never lose her, and she promised he never would.

She will spend the rest of her life keeping that promise.

"Mr. and Mrs. Potts, this is my wife, the new Lady Cassidy."

Mrs. Potts turns around to greet her with a curtsy. "It's so nice to meet you, milady."

Emma smiles, bows her head and steps toward her. "Nice to meet you."

Neal wheels himself over to his wife, and the four of them avert their attention to the worn-looking house towering over them. "There's plenty of work to be done," Neal comments. "Hire back all the workers we can, Mrs. Potts. Old girl's seen better days."

Emma places a hand on the back of his chair and tries to be optimistic. "We'll bring her back to life."

~*~

"Killian Jones." Sir Neal looks up from the application in his hand from where he sits at the other side of the desk. "You, uh, worked for my father before the war?"

"Aye, sir. For two years." When he returned, he heard Rumpelstiltskin had passed and that Neal would be taking over and hiring new staff.

"And you were an army lieutenant?"

Killian nods. "I was very sorry to hear about your father. My condolences, sir." He wishes he could say Sir Rumpelstiltskin was a good man, but that would be a lie. He was ridiculous, chopping down trees in the forest and weeding men out of his colliery to shove them into the war while he, himself, was a coward who stayed safe at home and buried his country in heaps of debt while claiming to be patriotic.

"Thank you." Neal looks at him skeptically. "Do you honestly believe returning to gamekeeping will be satisfying after your time as an officer?"

Killian shrugs, his fingers drumming along his wool cap. If he could, he would leave. Every night, he dreams of escaping to a new place where a new voice says his name with warmth, where eyes filled with love look at him instead of ones filled with hatred and betrayal, where he is not dismissed. There is no freedom here, there never will be. Milah doesn't love him, but nevertheless she holds him close. One more possession.

"Bit of quiet would do me good. I've seen enough of what war does to men." Not only had he seen men brutally die in battle, but his brother had been one of them. Every day, he tries to push away the horrific images that have plagued him since the war. Every day he tries to forget. About the war, about her. Being a gamekeeper, tending to the animals, breeding them, enjoying the quiet of the forest while protecting it will be therapeutic for him.

"Hmm. As have I." Sir Neal has learned firsthand what war can do to men. He himself was paralyzed from the waist down.

Rumors about his injury had spread before Neal came to Goldby.

Neal sets the application down and joins his hands on the desk. "Very well then. Welcome back, Mr. Jones."

"Thank you, Sir." Killian turns around and heads out of Neal's study, moving past the long line of men seeking employment. He was lucky the baronet had hired him so quickly, and he is grateful. Killian receives a monthly war pension, but since he and Milah are still legally married, she's entitled to half of it. So now he is stuck in Misthaven, barely skimming by to make ends meet while Milah prances around with various menfolk of the village, spending the money he had earned by going to battle and risking his life.

Now he spends restless, lonely nights in his cottage, thinking about his brother and the war and everyone else he has lost.

But at least he has Jolly to keep him company.

He returns home to his cottage, where she's waiting for him at the door. His lips crack into a big smile when he sees her. "There's my good lass." He kneels down to ruffle a hand through her fur as she yaps, wagging her tail excitedly.

She truly is a good dog and the best companion he could hope for. She's loyal and trustworthy and always appreciates his affections, unlike his wife who betrayed him to be with other men.

After everything that's happened, Jolly is the one good thing in his life.

All he has left.

[acacia-may]

Leopold Vermillion? 🎂🎈🔥

Thanks

Hi Mitsuki! Thank you so much for the request! I always love the opportunity to get to write about Leo (it doesn't arise very often so thank you so much for this!). The second ask you had sent in confirming this one also included the 😍 prompt so I've answered that as well at the end!

Headcanons are below the cut! I hope you like them! 🧡

[Questions are from the Birthday Headcanons Ask Game 😊]

🎂 — What’s their favourite kind of cake or other birthday treat?

As much as Leopold loves cake and is the type of person who would really be content with any dessert, his favourite birthday treat is Baked Alaska. It was a tradition in the (fire) Vermillion household to have the flambéed ice cream cakes in lieu of more traditional birthday cakes, and from a young age, Leo was fascinated by the dessert--very much in awe of how the meringue coating protected the ice cream and cake inside and prevented it from melting even when the dessert was set ablaze. Little Bitty Leo definitely thought of it as something of a magic trick, and though he understands the mechanics of the dessert much better now, it still never fails to bring out that childlike wonder in him. He very rarely ever has a Baked Alaska outside of his birthday so it is always a very special treat for him.

Images from: Saveur and The Food Network

🎈— What’s one of their fondest and/or best birthday memories?

On Leo's 9th birthday, both Mereoleona and Fuegoleon surprised him by showing up for his birthday party. Mereoleona had been off training in a strong magic region for months (entirely off the grid, with no way to contact her), and Fuegoleon had been away on a mission, protecting Clover Kingdom's border with the Diamond Kingdom, so Leo hadn't been expecting either of them to be able to make it home to celebrate his birthday. Fuegoleon had actually sent him a letter with his apologies that he wouldn't be able to see him on his birthday on account of his mission, though he promised that they would celebrate it together as soon as he returned home.

Though Leo was a little bit disappointed, he understood why his siblings couldn't be there to celebrate with him. However, the Crimson Lions completed their mission early, and Fuegoleon traveled all night to make it home in time for Leo's birthday. Shortly after Fuegoleon arrived at Vermillion Castle and surprised his brother, Mereoleona appeared riding a magical beast she had tamed in the strong magic region in which she had been training. Leo was so surprised and had never happier, especially since both of siblings arrived just in time for Baked Alaska! 😊

🔥— What would they wish for when they blow out their birthday candles?

Leo's birthday wish would be to grow stronger and to make his family proud. He might also add in a second wish to get to spend more time with his older brother and sister. 🥰

😍 — What's their favourite birthday gift they've ever received?

When Leo was very little, Fuegoleon and Mereleona (with the help of Sister Teresa who took them to the store) got Leo a stuffed animal lion cub with soft fur and little button eyes for his birthday. Leo named the lion "Sparky," and it soon became his most beloved and treasured toy as well as an imaginary friend. Little Bitty Leo took "Sparky" everywhere with him and couldn't fall asleep without it. Even when it grew tattered and worn (and had to be sewn back together multiple times), he refused to part with it, and though he began to outgrow it, he still kept it with him because it helped him feel close to his older brother and sister when they were away on their Magic Knight adventures.

Poor Sparky is worse for wear these days, but he still keeps watch over Leo from a shelf in his room at the Crimson Lions' Headquarters. When Fuegoleon was seriously injured in the attack on the Royal Capital, Leo pulled the plushie down from the shelf for the first time in years and finally was able to fall asleep clutching onto it. If Leo ever had children of his own one day, he would want to pass Sparky down to them (though he should probably take the poor toy to a seamstress first). 🧡

[lilac-melody]

The moment I knew I'd eventually ship these two... (Cursed Princess club ch 64 and 71)

After Leopold calls Jamie hideous...

[tmosp]

Hello and welcome to The Mystery of South Park’s Tumblr page!

This a zombie apocalyptic mystery Au which takes places aprox. 2 years in the future, and will end 4 years in the future.

═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═ ═

Fax you should know ↴

Kenny and Tweek are NOT dead, just missing. Kenny was just thought to be dead

groups/teams are chosen at random, not based off friendships

Most people snuck out/ didn’t show up to school the day of the lockdown so more people show up later on!

each chapter finale will be an animatic (they take a while so apology in advance!)

there will be gore

I don’t “kill off” characters for the sake of killing, but based off of who i think would survive and based on the characters luck

Randy and Sharon got divorced a year prior

Old art is REALLY bad

A portion of zombies can infect people, the rest just kill

Kenny no longer wears his hood over his face

tweeks hair is a little bit longer (for now) so he can tug on it easier

Each chapter= new designs

my art is still improving, gets better the more i get used to this style

kenny can die,he needs his mom to be revived, his moms dead.

kenny is immune to ONE bite if he were to get infected by said zombie

Kyle and Cartman really hate each other (important later on)

Kyle and Stan are close friends and trust each other most

Craig shows most emotion when worried

Tweek is more likely to startle/ alert zombies when panicking or getting stressed

1 half of the country is still safe

hordes can be alerted if a zombie screeches

some other random survivors (not any key characters) went insane, so they have to look out for those too

this is inspired off of the zombie virus animals can get because of that parasite thing, except in this AU it spread to humans

someone has 1 hour until infected after being bit by an infectant zombie, if they die they will come back an hour later

somebody is behind all of this

characters still alive as of epilogue/ beginning of ch.2

Stanley Marsh

Shelley Marsh

Randy Marsh

Sharon[redacted](safe, different state)

Kyle broflovski

Ike broflovski

Kenny McCormick

Karen McCormick

Eric Cartman

Liane Cartman

Leopold Butters Stotch

Tweek Tweak

Craig Tucker

Tricia Tucker

Clyde Donovan

Jimmy Valmer

Tolkien Black

Scott Malkinson

Bebe Stevens

Nichole Daniels

Wendy Testaburger

Heidi Turner

????

????

—————————————-

Why did stan and wendy break up?

Because they break up a lot in the show so i decided to implement that here, it also has a role in the story later on. Im torn between stendy and style as well, i love both.

Are Tweek and Craig still together?

of course (they’re so silly I love them)

they just had a fight and Tweek got lost wandering angrily.

Are clyde and Bebe dating?

Yes!

How long will this story be?

It will be about 10 chapters minus ch.1/ epilogue consisting of about 25 parts each, so 11 chapters in total possibly more.

How many deaths?

Im not too sure yet, not too many, but also not too few.

what inspired this?

Literally almost every South park AU ever.

do you ship kyman?

NO. (i really want that to be clear 😭 i do NOT ship kyman in any way shape or form.)

___________________________

I will answer any other questions anyone may have!

I will post every chapter after the epilogue on here and insta!

Thank you

[suseagull04]

Mills Girls ch 5 is here!

Excerpt:

Regina was nervous. She was trying not to be and attempting not to let the signs show. If Margot figured out she was nervous, she wasn’t sure what the teen would do. Comfort her, sure, but Regina knew she was supposed to be the adult in this arrangement. She couldn’t be comforted by Margot (now or ever), or the dynamic that she was so carefully trying to construct of her as the parental figure and Margot as the minor would come crashing down around her, and that was the last thing she needed. 

She was currently seated on the stage in Storybrooke’s high school, a binder on her lap. They were having the first mayoral candidate debates today, and she knew she would be a write-in candidate, but she still wanted to show the citizens of Storybrooke why they should vote for her instead of her opponents. 

Looking around at her competition, she knew she had her work cut out for her, and she tried to ignore the dread that settled in her stomach. Gold, of course, was the worst of them, but Aurum Midas, Leopold Blanchard, and George Spencer weren't any better. They were all just old men who wanted nothing more than to maintain the status quo. Any of the changes she had made in her time as mayor were in jeopardy with them. She had already hated the changes Gold had made in his time as mayor, and the others wouldn't be any better, she could guarantee it. 

At last, it was time for the debate to begin...

Read the rest here:

[minecraft-but-gayer]

Do you have any style of clothing in particular for the girls of The art Invocation? (or even the boys if you have the energy) don't hesitate to use images

I am so glad you asked about this actually because I have so many ideas for how these girls dress ahhhh

So like, I think the most about Heidi because she is literally the cutest I swear-

I feel like she knows how to sew really well because I get the feeling that she made her Halloween costume in that episode with Cartman. Since she can sew, I feel like she'd actually buy a lot of clothes and combine them to make her outfits, and people don't even really know that she made them because of how skilled she is. She'd probably keep her older attempts at making outfits because of the sentimental value they have to her, but she'd only wear those with her closest friends outside of school because they're all messy with patchwork attempts.

Her style would very much consist of dresses that she makes longer, and she'd probably layer the underneath so it would be warmer, which makes the skirts look cooler because you'd get the other layers peeking out of the bottom. She'd absolutely give herself puffy sleeves on those dresses, too, because she thinks they're fun :)

Now for how Bebe presents herself - this girl *loves* to play up her appearance and make herself more attractive.

She tends to wear a lot of those skin tight red dresses, like the mother in Friday Night Funkin'.

They'd all have more of a turtleneck vibe so she can stay warm - it is still South Park - but I feel like she'd also have some sort of boob window (most likely heart shaped?). She also layers a leather jacket over it that Red gave to her after she bought a new one - the two of them are actually close friends, and it's really sweet :)

I feel like Nichole would have a more refined sense of fashion, so I definitely agree with what you drew her in! She probably wear long dress shirts with sweater vests and pencil skirts when she's at school to keep an air of maturity.

Outside of school, I feel like she'd let loose more and wear sweaters with jean shorts and leggings underneath.

Now for Red, I feel like she'd absolutely have some sort of grunge style going on. She's probably wear a lot of band shirts with her leather jacket over it, and cargo pants with combat boots (she will never be caught without those shoes on).

She'd probably wear her old, plain shirts with flannel type jackets when she's out with friends, but those are a rarer type of outfit because she doesn't have a lot of her old clothes laying around.

Now let's talk about Wendy Testaburger my beloved <33

You actually got her style pretty spot on with how you drew her! She most common kind of outfit consists of yellow sweaters, an oversized magenta jacket, purple skirts (varying in type, but she always wears them with a white belt), and her baret that she's had since middle school.

She doesn't tend to stray from that formula a lot, but occasionally I feel like she'd dress down outside of school and wear black shirts with jeans.

I also want to say how much I love Wendy with short hair - your art style makes her look so cute! I hadn't really thought about it before, but I'm absolutely going to use that as her actual hair, and I'll be bringing it up eventually :D

As for the boys of South Park, most of them haven't changed their styles too much from 4th grade because they're boring.

Butters (Leopold) wants to change his style, but he's too scared of how his friends/family would respond. He'd wear shirts with puffier sleeves and other cutesy things, but he doesn't want to get called a gay wad :(

Cartman hasn't changed his style. Like, at all. He's so boring that he has remained the most consistently dressed person in South Park.

Kyle and Stan also haven't really changed their outfits, as far as what they wear to school. Kyle, at the very least, wears dress shirts and sweater vests outside of his classes so he can look more sophisticated. Stan is a little too sad to change his looks ;-;

Kenny is too poor to change his style, either, so he wears pretty much the same stuff he did in middle school, just a few sizes bigger.

Team Craig actually had a bit of an upgrade compared to their rivals, though!

Tweek really just changed his shirt to a turtleneck because he didn't want to worry about missing buttons on his old shirt anymore.

Craig didn't change much, either - he switched out his hat and jacket to a new set with patterns on them that Tweek got for him in middle school.

Clyde's only change was that he now wears his letterman jacket everyday, religiously. He thinks it'll attract the girls of South Park if he keeps it on all the time, but he honestly needs to remember to take it off and wash it every once in a while :/

Tolkien probably has the biggest wardrobe overhaul since he grew out of thinking a shirt with his first initial on it was a good outfit. He now wears an embroidered purple jacket over a white turtleneck. He figured he may as well have nice clothing if he was going to get teased for being rich.

Jimmy didn't really change his style at all, as far as anyone else is concerned. He'll always joke and say that he changed his shirt to one with a different shade of yellow, though.

Feel free to ask more questions if you want me to clarify anything <33

(I also tried to use images, but they wouldn't work when I uploaded them </3)