#coffin syrup

[denver-heavy-metal-society]

South Carolina death metal band Coffin Syrup live at Gut Fest in Colorado Springs, CO 2015. Video courtesy of Denver Heavy Metal Society.

[morethansalad]

Vegan Brick Toast (Taiwanese Coffin Bread) Dessert

[toxisoda]

Hey your latest strawberry flavor made me throw up blood!

Can I at least get a refund!?

Oh, silly Mr. Graves! That wasn't blood!

It was our specially patented

Strawberry Syrup Second-Sensation™!!!

You are one of the Lucky Few™ who get to experience the flavorful strawberry sensation TWICE IN A ROW!!!

A refund? Oh no, no, no, you see, that was a sneak-preview product that slipped into our regular, delicious, Sickly Strawberry™ six pack!

You will be receiving an invoice for the difference in price in 1-5 business days. If you fail to pay the requested amount promptly, a team will be send to collect thorough compensation.

CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

SCREECHiNG

WAKE UP HON WE GOT NEW OFFICIAL ROLLO CONTENT (thanks to curekibouka for the translation!) 😭 (Bless him, he came home so quickly at only 40 rolls…)

***Rollo profile, Groovy, vignettes, and chibi spoilers below the cut!!***

As you can see in the card art shown above, it looks like his official English name will be "Rollo Flamme", not some other variation.

His coffin icon has a bell on it! Very fitting.

Yes, he’s triple fire magic and has a Duo with Grim.

… LMAO his Buddies are Malleus, Idia, and Azul 🤡

He's a third-year student at Noble Bell College, Student Council President, (but we already knew this) and 18 years old

His birthday is Feb 2nd! (There was a mistake in the initial launch of the Rollo card and profile in which his birthday was incorrectly stated as Feb 4th, which is Cater's birthday. Man was so mad when he realized he shared a birthday with a NRC boy so he redid his birth certificate/j)

(Here are screenshots of before and after the change; I happened to take a picture before the update:)

178 cm tall (LMAO I guess he doesn't meet a certain Ghost Bride’s standards)

Right-handed

Comes from the Shaftlands (again, we already knew this)

HE'S IN THE HAND BELL CLUB????? TF... HE JUST STANDS THERE AND RINGS HIS LITTLE HAND BELL????? ? ???? ?? ???

Best subject is Potionology

His hobby is cleaning malewife trait

He obviously hates magic 😂

Favorite food is not, in fact, croissants; it's actually grapes

Least favorite food is savarin, which is a ring-shaped cake soaked in flavored syrup and then garnished with cream and fruit

HIS SPECIAL SKILL IS GARDENING WHICH MADE ME LAUGH OUT LOUD... considering what he used that skill for... 🤡

His official description in the profile states that Rollo is admired by his classmates for his seriousness and no-nonsense attitude, but he also has a tendency to be… neurotic 💀 gee, ya think

His vignettes are set at NBC, not Night Raven College. They seem to be set prior to the events of Glorious Masquerade.

It's said that the reason he is at NRC now is because he is there temporarily to study.

We see Rollo going about his daily routine. He tends to the Bell of Salvation and the gargoyles early in the morning when the sky is still dark which probably explains the dark eyebags. He’s able to witness the sun rising as he does his cleaning. Rollo finds the dawn peaceful! and loves listening to the bell ring.

OMG the gargoyles are so excited when he pays attention to them 😭 They hop around like excited little puppies… NOT ROLLO WANTING TO GET RID OF THEM

Rollo also has his duties as a regular student. I believe he discusses grades with his vice president. He thinks his classmates are stupid 😂 and finds it ironic that these people look up to him and see him as a top student and a great magician…

Rollo eats his lunches alone because he finds people noisy. Bruh, he has 2 croissants, 16 grapes and 1 cup of cafe au lait (coffee with milk) for lunch every day of the year…

He shops in the City of Flowers and has a routine of buying a plain letter set, only all white paper and envelopes—even if there is a better deal on other sets. If Rollo is one thing (besides angry), he’s consistent and likes to stick to a routine and to things that are certain!

LMAO Rollo hates the City of Flowers because it’s flowers blossom because of magic ✨

Rollo runs into some trouble when a community goat wants to chomp on rhe letter set he bought in town 😂 He’s calm at first but then gets mad because he considers the goat unsanitary and it’s trying to eat his robes…

I want to stress that this boy is suppressing his rage and disgust the entire time 🤡 He’s trying so hard to pass as well-adjusted… Man’s literally going to send this goat flying but stops because he realizes there are too many witnesses…

At the end, Rollo writes a letter to his parents to let them know he is doing fine. Apparently, they’ve been worrying about him ever since “that” incident 😔 The letter reads as very formal and stiff, as though he’s writing to strangers. Maybe he has emotionally distanced himself from his parents (perhaps as a result of “that” incident), although he isn’t outright rude about it.

HIS LITTLE EVIL SMIRK... IT'S EVEN MORE FUNNY WHEN PAIRED WITH HIS VOICE BECAUSE IT'S SO SOFT AND CALM, THE KIND OF VOICE YOU'D NORMALLY HEAR IN LIKE AN ASMR VIDEO 😭

The fact that he writes with a feather quill instead of a magical pen………… ….. ….. … … . .. . … … . . . . .. . … .. . . .

Also the fact that he's by default in his big, bulky uniform with tons of extra material that would make it TERRIBLE for P.E. 💀 and has nothing else to change into... The last screenshot of the group above also looks like Sebek has leaned over to Rollo's ear to spread the GOOD WORD of WAKASAMA and Rollo is trying to do his very best to ignore him...

P.S. I want everyone to know that he does THIS whenever he has a Perfect in Magic History... ROLLO'S LITERALLY A CARTOON VILLAIN PLOTTING REVENGE AGAINST HIS CLASSMATES.... .. . .......... . .. . . . . . . . . . yes, I stuck him in a class with Malleus, Idia, and Azul :))

AND NOW, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, HIS GROOVY...

WHY DOES iT MAKE ME WANT TO BULLY HIM INTO THE DIRT 😭 jUST Lo0OKK AT HIM, HE'S tryING sO HaRD THAT I T HAS THE OPPOSITE INTEndeD EFFECT AND HE COMES oFF AS A MOREN SKRUNGLY L0SEr INSTEAqd 2reqrbhyygo13ogyt68p9egflbagj;jlg.DIHOBbyOFSYSvtdDOVFEILBcsnkmg2myoeqofadnm,vd..go0i424ph13nifIUSFVsofsgotfFIUOFOVUEWVOQEGYVbiypfpb OTL

I'M SO NOT GOING TO BE NORMAL ABOUT THIS, I'M SO NOT GOING TO BE NORMAL

I aM SO ASPoRRY fOR THE PERsON I Am AbOUT To BecOME 🤡

[delta-piscium]

Wayne doesn’t believe Eddie at first when he says he’s a Vampire. It’s just because when he was twelve he spent several months insisting he was a Vampire. He’d literally make edible fake blood and have it together with Wayne and his morning coffee. Whenever it was sunny outside he’d use an umbrella to shield himself etc.

So, when Eddie sits him down and is like “I gotta tell you something.” Wayne is just like “okay, whatever you say. Whatever you need to do to deal.”

He does eventually manage to convince Wayne, who, when he’s finally onboard, never stops making small comments like, “I liked that syrup mixture you had more, you make your own choices but the vegetarian stuff was a whole lot simpler than this whole song and dance biting people.”

Whenever it’s sunny outside Wayne will wordlessly hand Eddie an umbrella, ignoring the glares he gets for it.

Steve notices and asks him about it since he’s actually fine in the sun and Eddie just grumbles out some excuse about Wayne just worrying

That is until one morning when Wayne asks how they slept and when Eddie yawns out a “good” He gets this glint in his eyes immediately responding “I thought a coffin was crucial for a good nights sleep?”

Steve looks so confused and also a little concerned because that’s a little insensitive and Eddie finally has to explain. Blushing furiously he as quickly as he can tells Steve that no Wayne wasn’t being insensitive, Eddie just told him when he was twelve that he was a vampire and for a month he tried to convince Wayne to get him a coffin to sleep in, claiming it was the only way he’d be able to get actual rest. Meanwhile Wayne is chuckling to himself in the background occasionally cutting in to add details, and like always, ignoring the murderous looks sent his way by his nephew.

After that Steve starts too. He hands Eddie umbrellas, when Eddie bites him he waits until he can feel him drinking before he’s like “be honest, is my blood better than the fabricated stuff you had? I won’t be mad if you don’t say yes.” Eddie bites down a little harder in retaliation.

He once asks him if he’ll be fine sleeping in a bed, but only that one time because he catches Eddie in a particularly petty mood where he just starts walking away saying “yeah, wow, ur right. Guess I’ll find a fucking coffin. Too bad they only fit one.” He only comes back because Steve half tackles him and drags him into bed refusing to let go.

For their anniversary he gets Eddie a full on cape (Eddie is only a little bit annoyed because the cape is actually cool as fuck and he had wanted one since he was a kid.)

[bowieandqueen11]

Distraction / Dracule Mihawk Imagine

Request: Hello! I was wondering if I could request a Mihawk x Reader that’s kinda enemies to lovers. I’m super in love with the whole ‘they hate each other but their constant bickering is bordering on blatant flirting’. Thank you so much ^~^

Babes you are so right!! This is so sweet oh my goodness!! :) Sorry if this is really OOC, its my first time writing for Mihawk!

This was fun to write, but it took me a while - so if you liked it, or if you want a follow on, please leave a comment!

Warning: a little strong language, mentions of knives!

(I do not own One Piece or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @bangnyfes.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

The exhale that left your nose at the sound of his voice would have been squally enough to shatter stone.

It had only been a meagre three days of uninterrupted peace before the cursed Dracule Mihawk arrived. Three. Days. True, your Captain and your fellow Red Haired Pirates had spent most of the hours here celebrating: emptying your dwindling crate supplies of poor Lucky Roux's lamb legs, unloading all the bottles of sweet liquor graciously donated to Shanks (or wily guerdoned by a female admirer off the coast of Syrup Village), and dripping every bottle dry until half the crew was splayed out on hammocks, and the other half was link-armed dancing underneath the endless ocean of drifting stars.

'For someone who's supposed to be a lookout, your observational skills are... well, decidedly more lacking than a sea cow's.'

As much as you loved Shanks, sometimes you wanted to grab his shoulders and give him a hard shake, trying to wipe that shrewd smile off his face. You hadn't even been granted any time to properly wake up; you had flung your arm over your squinting eyes, desperately trying to figure out why there was a looming shadow growing on the edge of your vision. Turned out, that as soon as that blasted coffin-shaped cruiser had come cruising past the white shores of Shank's base island, the man had nearly tripped over his feet to come leer over you like a grinning meerkat.

Look out duty? He had put you on look out duty!? With the brutish, blazing sun scorching across your bedraggled head? With the salty spray of the spring sea stretching its foamy fingers up across the shore and chilling your feet on this dusty, forgotten pocket of the East Blue? With the infuriating, pestering, testing, teasing Dracule Mihawk? Part of you was exasperated: you had been hoping for at least a week of recuperation before Shanks sailed off again for Yukiryu Island. Another part of you was dissatisfied that it had taken the swordsman so long to show up.

You hum in response as Mihawk's lengthening shadow shudders across your eyelids; feeling the cool chill that followed the flick of his coat around his boots, you don't even bother to open your eye and glare at the man. Instead, you dig your heels further down into the wet grains: legs stretched out and arms crossed tightly around your chest, lounging against the cragged edge of mossy crevice behind your back.

'I noticed you', you reply after a moment of pregnant silence. You fidget, trying your best not to give away the fact that your back was starting to ache from staying so *nonchalantly* perched in this position; to not give the man any ammunition. It really, really did not help your pride that his piercing eyes seemed to be mocking you with the way they glance obviously down the curved outline of your spine. Casting it away as vicarious embarrassment, Mihawk is almost ashamed with the burning realisation that his eyes had been trained over the years to be almost painfully conscious of your every miniscule mannerism.

'I just didn't think it was the effort to open my eyes', you sigh, tilting your head back towards the sun-strengthened field of bright blue swaying across the far yonder. 'There's no threat nearby. Unless-', you beckon your hand out towards the tapering shoreline, 'you count some of the cockles Beckman might stand on with his bare feet.'

'That's why the Captain's always wearing sandals!', you hear echo out from the mouth of the cave looming to your right, followed by the teetering sound of uproarious laughter. Despite the noise of your rancorous crewmates, Mihaw's golden eyes never waver: their piercing intensity focused solely on the edge of your irises as you finally, with a displeased twist of your lips, blink your gaze over to settle firmly on his own.

'I passed at least three Marine vessels during my jaunt over to your little...shack.' The swordsman's head cocks in your direction: his voice is low. Guarded. Unwavering. But you're getting to him. You know you're getting to him. Trying to wash down the waves of heat that begin to flood your vexed cheeks, you curse yourself for being able to read even his most minute idiosyncracies: the way his left eyebrow raises almost a tenth of an inch when he's struck by mild amusement.

'Shack? Shack!' You kick your bare foot off the slippery edge of the lapped rock and take a step out onto the gorge of beach stretching between you and Mihawk, swinging your arms out by your sides. 'Why Dracule, can't you see this is the last refuge of the East Blue - you dare scorn an abode teeming with luxury, good-will, and free booze!'

Another exuberant cheer rings out from Lucky Roux, as the unmistakable sound of two tankards slamming together, followed by a faint slosh and cry of outrage from Yasopp follow in quick procession.

The only hint that Mihawk has heard them is the slight narrowing of his eyes.

'It's not your fault, Hawk-Eyes.' You try to stifle your facetious smirk, instead placing your back against the rock again and fidgeting as if settling back for another snooze. Tipping the edge of your straw hat down to cover your eyes, you duck your chin into your neck and close your eyes, knowing the blatant disregard for Dracule would drive him mad.

'Suppose your eye sight isn't quite what it used to be, considering your advanced age and all.'

The clamour of your crew drowns in your ears by the pause that follows; too obdurate to flick an eye open and observe Mihawk's indignant reaction, you instead allow the sound of out-of-tune shanty singing to be replaced with the almost still whisper of the waves. Of the slight hiss of the balled sun, as it throws down its rays and coats you in nothing but the icy tendrils of Mihawk's obstinate silhouette. Of his sharp suspire twanging in your ear, as his pointed footsteps shift the earthen grains guarding you from his propinquity.

Of his gravelly voice, nearly making you knock the hat off your head as it suddenly flows past your ear.

The sunlight floods your eyes when they finally open, until you can barely see Mihawk: just the flaxen outline of his being as he comes floating up towards you: phantom like, and yet more imposing and colossal than the threat of a thousand Marine ships protruding their helms your way.

'Enough with the pleasantries. I believe I have something that may be of interest to you.'

He reaches into the inner lining of his coat, withdrawing a rolled up piece of parchment. Although you're intrigued, all you dare to do is look inquisitively between Mihawk's outreaching hand, and distrustfully back to his unwavering stare.

Wow, he really was close. You could almost see your reflection in the immaculately polished glaze of Yoru, still strapped on his back; as it turned out, that back just happened to be jutting your way. Mihawk's spine is almost completely arching over your reclining torso, almost blotting out the fringes of the sun, his head bowing as if observing rather flighty prey. Realising you're still stubborn as always: far too headstrong to trust him, or to place your fingers anywhere that could cause you to come into contact with his skin, he sighs and unrolls the treasure map with a flick of his wrist.

You did your best to hold back your snort. Really, you did.

'What, exactly, do you think the Captain will want with a scrappy looking, filth covered, mud covered, blood covered-'

'I didn't say Shanks. I said you. Although your Captain may have been a valiant opponent many years ago, he's now half the man he used to be. '

You chew the inside of your lip, finally rolling on the balls of your feet and coming to a full stand in front of the swordsman; Mihawk, almost unconsciously, straightens his own spine in return.

'You find me valiant, ey?'

He pierces you with the most grating stare he can muster.

'I find you wanting.'

The tang of salt seething off the bubbling sea could do nothing to burn away the fizzling want and joint annoyance banging against your ribcage, nor could the cool pinch of the jagged stone distract you from how restless you were feeling with Mihawk leaning so close.

'I bet I could find this treasure before you with my eyes blindfolded and my hands tied behind my back.'

The tangy breeze curls the strands of hair loosened behind his right ear, and by all the wishes in the world did you want so badly to tuck it back into place.

'Careful now, turtle.' He takes another step forward, effectively pinning you between the cove wall and his rigid chest. For the first time since your injudicious acquaintance with the warlord, you could feel it beat... no, feel it slam almost erratically. It seemed to jolt so ferociously against his pec, if he weren't restraining himself from taking another step forward and diminishing you completely, you would have been able to feel it against the unbuttoned cotton of your shirt. 'You've been spending far too much time around Shanks. We wouldn't want to step on that shell and have it crack.'

'You want to go out searching for treasure... you? With a map that looks like it's been pulled out of a goldfish's behind.'

He takes that final step forward, and as the buckle of his belt hits against the top of your groin, you find your obstinate bearing falter far faster than you were proud to admit.

'I find myself bored, and you may provide a fleeting distraction.'

The trimmed hair coating his jaw feels warm as it glides across the side of your cheek, but you still can't help but tremble. His voice: gruff and warm as it rumbles a devastating gale across the side of your nose nearly makes your breath hitch. Nearly. But just the mere thought: the mere tremble of your pulse point as you tried to swallow back down your pride as its slippery tendrils latched and slithered its way up the back of your throat was enough to give the game away.

Your thighs tremble as his leg slid up against between your calves, and you gave yourself away completely.

Mihawk's lips turn up at the edges, and the bastard had the audacity to pin your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. Imperturbed, as if unsnarling a feeble swallow's wings clipped by a wild springe, the man looming over your torso raises your face. Closer and closer and closer: his unbreaking gaze almost unnerving. Almost. If it hadn't been for that glint of delight festering in the corner of his swirls.

'Why bother, then?', you swallow thickly. 'If it's not a challenge.'

'I may find it fun.' His hand drops down to your collar bone: his grip firm, resolute, surprisingly warm as his fingertips constrict at the feel of your bare skin.

'No, really', you manage to pant out between laboured breaths, shaking your head out to try and stop yourself from becoming distracted by the racy feeling beginning to ball in the pit of your stomach.

He was playing you, you thought, biting down on your tongue and pretending the pressure of his thumb pad faintly pressing down on the strip of skin just above your left breast wasn't making you go lightheaded. He was toying with you. Snap out of it!

'Tell me the truth, and I'll do it. Why are you really here?'

'Perhaps I just like to see you squirm, like a little rabbit...', his hand rises from his side to slide up the inside of your wrist almost painstakingly slowly, his words dying out once he's encircled the bone with his vice-like grip. The next utterance is caught only by your ear as a whisper in the wind. 'Caught in my snare.'

Although he doesn't cut off your airway - he would never do anything to outright cause you physical harm - the finger still resting on collar bone crawls across your throat. His finger nails scratch like pinpricks from sharpened knives as he claws over your pulse point, before running the side of his finger back underneath your chin.

He looks almost... contemplative, as his eyes dart furtively down to linger over the top seam of your lip.

It's the first time, during all your years of solicitous enmity, that you had ever seen him distracted.

Using the opportunity, you manage to break free of his trance - of his hold on you. Grabbing onto his sleeve, you tug him towards you with all the force shaking through your burning body, appreciating the slight widening of his eyes in surprise as you slam his back against the wall of rock. You press yourself against the taut, constricting muscles of his abdomen, holding one hand firmly against his waist. The other snakes around to pin his wrist against the scrap of trouser by his hip, every cell in your bodies ablaze as he flexes his fingers. They curl into a ball over his fist, dangerously close to brushing across the back of your hand.

He could move you, of course. If he wanted to, he could flick you off him like a stray piece of sand, dusting you off as if you weighed as much as a handful of pebbles.

But he gave it away. God, how hard he had been trying not to: how hard he was trying to stop his body from flushing an increasingly paler shade of white at how mortified he was. How infuriated he was. How ensnared he was.

He didn't move. He gave himself away completely.

All he did was tilt his head back, and half-smiled expectantly at the sound of your dagger being sheathed from its thigh-scabbard; he was intrigued by the way you jutted its tip just below his Adam's apple, tilting his face to meet the steel.

'Don't forget, I still owe you for that time on the Nammu Isles.'

He tuts, eyes shining dangerously in the glare. 'Are you talking about the time I saved your pathetic life?'

You jut your chin forward, imposing your face against his own. 'I mean the time you took my bounty. You better stop talking, oh mighty warlord of the sea, before I shave that pretty little moustache off hair by hair.'

For a moment, there's nothing but the rhythmic brush of his breath against the pursed lines of your full lips: the odd jolt of the tip of his nose hitting against your own as he observes like with the intensity and rigidness of a man possessed.

Without breaking eye contact, he makes as if to lean forward and kiss you, but instead butts his elbow into your stomach and uses your doubled-over state to swipe the knife out of your fingers.

'You may have that back, if you win.' He toys with it, almost looking teasing as he tucks the small blade into his breast pocket.

'I'll take your sword, too.' You wipe your hand across your mouth before placing your palms on your knees, smiling up at the swordsman. You would be damned, if after all this time, you would give him the satisfaction of seeing how flustered he made you.

He bows his head, trying in vain to hide his amusement. He does, however, slap at the hand that's tentatively reaching behind his back, subtly trying to latch on to the hilt of jaded Yoru.

'Of course, if you win. Such a shame that you never stood a chance.'

'I look forward to wielding that sword', you hum in a sing-song tone as you creak your back up again, placing one hand on your hip and your other pointer finger ostentatiously on your chin. Raising your eyes to the sky, you pretend to think deeply as watch two seagulls squawk, stream and tumble past each other, darting through the streaming white clouds. 'I bet I could make some delicious Aburaage with it.'

'And if I win, I look forward to taking that awful hat from you.'

Looking on in disbelief, Shanks shakes his head and tilts back to face the rest of his slack-jaw, gobsmacked crew.

'Right, bets on boys. Which of our beloved numbskulls will be the first to make a move?'

'I mean, he couldn't be more obvious!', Yasopp chimes in, fiddling some loose berries out of his trouser pockets and slamming down into his Captain's awaiting hands. 'I bet he drew that map himself!'

Benn Beckman rolls his eyes, but joins in with the circling chorus of laughter as Shanks slaps his arm against his back. 'It is the fourth time this month he's shown up with a map for Y/n.'

'Well, no matter what happens-', Shanks replies, squatting down onto his hammock again and distractedly counting through the coins he's collected, 'we have to be thankful to Y/n! After all, all proceeds and winnings will be going towards restocking our drink supplies!'

[melkyt]

CW: Major Character Death (of old age)

Luffy dies first Zoro dies last in their old age, history repeats itself, Zoro trains the next generation much like Rayleigh is a *chef kiss of a trope*

But the reverse I don't see much off and I would think would be delicious for the vibes and angst alone xd

Luffy never held back, never worried about dying young as long as the life he did live was full of joy and adventure. As long as he was with Zoro until the very end, and maybe they would go together to the next adventure.

Yet he died in Wano, then came back as a God, came back as something different yet the same with the power of his fruit. In his fights, everyone always said that by using that power he shortens his life span but they were wrong. He already lost his life, and that should be it, but his fruit gave him a new life.

Luffy reaches his forties, everyone is worried that is it. Nami and Zoro did the math a long time ago, they considered he would follow Roger's timeline and have maybe a decade left. They throw a huge party to celebrate life.

Luffy lives another decade, another party.

Sanji is the first to pass away, his genetics never counted for a long life, He is surrounded by everyone he loves, a peaceful calm death in his sleep.

Then it is Usopp around his 70s, it's sudden but he was with Kaya, nowhere else he wanted to be. They, the entire fleet comes to Syrup Village to throw a bigger banquet than this small island has ever seen.

Luffy does not stop using Nika, even if it is for fun over any actual fight.

Time goes on, Nami holds out, but she feels the end, so she goes home to be buried by her precious tangerine trees. It's a smaller event, the three of them started this journey together with nothing to their name, and it is only right they remember that time in the peaceful grove, talking well into the night until it is only Zoro and Luffy talking. They lay her to rest in the morning.

They depart a week later, after a wake where the entire village celebrated the girl that did so much for them since she was nothing but a child.

Zoro falters a month later. He tries to pretend it's nothing, they are almost eighty, and despite everything he is tired. Luffy notices. They visit Kuina's grave, Zoro's home.

They spend the time playing as children among the waves, eating all the food Zoro remembers from when he was an urchin running on the streets.

Paying respects to all the people who supported him and paved the way for him to become the greatest swordsmen.

Once he would have wanted to be buried with Kuina, in the small cemetery where she rests behind the old dojo.

Yet now, he does not want to leave his captain, leave the man he loves. There is a spot on the Sunny, a coffin to be sealed where his bones can be kept.

Luffy has seen people come and go, everyone from his generation, from the worst generation is gone. Yet they made new friends, took on students that hold their memories, that keep their legend alive. Still even as they celebrate the life Zoro lived, Luffy feels alone for the first time in a long time as he stands on the lionhead of the Sunny. With Franky gone, it will not be sail worthy for much longer. It was his ship and it should rest with him. So Luffy takes it back to Water 7 where it belongs, it can rest with the Mary. He takes a smaller ship that is a mix of both, a small thing that Franky built just for one last journey. He takes Zoro's bones with him. They will always be together even of only one of them is still alive.

Still, he lives, finding new adventures, but there is an emptiness. Luffy lasts a decade more. His joy sustains him, and it always will, but it is dampened. Luffy chooses a successor to his fruit on a whim. Maybe the fruit chose its next wielder by itself as it always does. This child with a bright smile will carry the future. Luffy has to smile as it is not an island that is different from his home, almost in the same place. Though his home is under the waves. This will be a good place as any for the adventure to end.

Perhaps in the next world, they can see each other again, and he will not be alone anymore. His ship will float through the oceans, a shrine to the greatest men that ever lived, protected by the power of something that lives within its walls.

-end-

[delilahcalicocat]

♡~Always Here~♡

{Rating: Is there a circus in town? Cause Holy f*cking sh!t that's alot of fluff!}

{Warnings: Fem!Reader, Falling Asleep on FaceTime, Reader wearing Cody's nightmare factory Hoodie, Crying, Panic}

{Trigger warning: Animal Death}

{Pairing: Cody Rhodes x Fem!reader}

~Summary: Cody was busy on the road, and Y/N was on leave to take care of her sick cat, and she finds herself wanting Cody to be there with her..~

——————————🥑——————————–

[Y/N's POV:]

Cody was out on the road, I was back home because C/N (Cat Name) had fallen ill a few weeks ago, and he wasn't doing so good...

C/N was in his pet bed, napping as he would usually be doing at 11:00pm. I went to wake him up for his medicine, I tapped C/N gently to find him not awakening...

No.. this couldn't be happening- C/N....didn't... die... did he?

I kept tapping the cat, he didn't wake up at all. I panicked heavily..

I FaceTimed Cody, a sobby mess..

"What's Wrong Starlight? What happened back home?" He asked me

"C-C/N is... D-Dead... Cody!" I sobbed out

"Oh... Starlight, I'm sorry.." He spoke

"Can.. I borrow your hoodie for the night?" I asked Cody

"Of course starlight" He Said

I had already put the poor kitten in a temporary coffin until y'know we could have him... cremated ⚱.

So I grabbed his hoodie and put it on, I laid down and kept speaking with Cody.

"So what happened with Finn and JD?" I asked

"So, Finn was cracking jokes to everyone backstage. And JD was drinking a water because he just fought in a match, so Finn made the joke, and JD spat water all over himself" He said

"Haha, that's so funny Codes. So like anything else happen while you were backstage?" I spoke

"Roman Cracked a Smile after Jimmy made a funny picture in his head, and Seth was a cackly mess at the end of the night too" he said

Wow, Cody made me so happy.. I had a contagious smile as right after i smiled he smiled, we kept on talking, we talked for over 2 hours, I found myself on almost the third hour.. Falling asleep, I eventually fell asleep.. and Cody Noticed it.

"Haha, talk to you later Starlight.. hope you have a good night of sleep" He smiled and then hung up

I dropped my phone straight on my chest. I think that's how he realized I was out cold, that or it was my light light snoring

[Dream]

I ran around a sugary, Candy like world.. it was pastel colors and candy everywhere, I wandered into a Licorice forest. It was raspberry flavored licorice, I ran through the forest until I ran into a giant lollipop. The beaches were ice cream and caramel syrup, which seemed weird to me, but okay- I walked onto the Sprinkle Covered Ice Cream Sand. It was softer than I thought..

[Y/N's POV:]

I woke up at like 8:30am, a little later than usual, but it was a Friday so It couldn't hurt to get a little extra sleep, but I woke up to Cody coming in the house...

I'm so happy he's back home now...

——————————🧁——————————–

Tag list: {comment if you'd like to be added}

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep4 Musings - Baby LouLou

Yeah, Louis' right: this whole joint is WEIRD. It's SICK.

Did she literally take a dump? Or lay an egg? Lord, wtf am I watching?

It's like Disney and Dr Seuss got married & had Rosemary's Baby.

More caged bird bird analogies and suicidal ideation.

And it's a YELLOW bird, too--AMC STOP IT, MY FEELS.

NOOOOOO. No sunshine! BAD sunshine!

Nail in the coffin/birdie/child.

Amputation foreshaowing perhaps? Of another body part of Claudia's that will get cut off by the Coven, before she dies? Hrm....

And the COMPLICIT audience is lapping it all up, it's just syrup. (NGL I lowkey want one of those umbrellas.)

Lesmand's tower scene foreshadowing?

This image is cursed. Ghost!Claudia's dress looks a yellowish--UGH.

Sam, you need to be studied.

Louis & Santiago finally have something in common. Cuz SAME! Wtf. Like wtF?

LOL! Luchenbaum said this song is so bad it gives him child abuse PTSD! 😭

Jeeze. 😅 Marked reversal--cuz Claudia LOVES Santiago's performances, esp. No Pain. Like--NGL, I hate the song, too, it's deliberately awful, LOL. But methinks the vamp doth protest too much--maybe you're hating cuz someone's stealing the spotlight from YOU? 😜😜😜

Literally her feelings in S1 post-Ep5 about Loustat. GOD.

Both "Birdie" Baby LouLou AND Louis are caught in a trap, amen.

Armand has some nerve--maybe y'all need new frikkin material!? How the heck do you play the same exact shows 500 times in a row?! Just shows how DEAD INSIDE these vamps are--not even monotony & excessive repetition registers for them; that someone could lose their "childlike wonder" once the novelty wears off. Louis gets it, but Armand doesn't--he represents the vampire trope of them easily getting lost in hypnotic patterns--which is why in some lore they can get stuck counting spilled rice/beans/sand & beans, and staring at flecks of light on a fly's wing or microwaving 1000 rats a night or whatever. book!Daniel had it WAY worse, but Armand had it, too. (And lord, don't get me started on Lasher....)

SELF-sabotage, Mr. I Could Not Prevent It. The only thing "bromidic" here is YOUR "creative" vision! Give her a new play, DANG! 😡

[gaybellethorn]

i started listening to the first shannon hale eah book on my walk earlier and it's so good. hale you mad bitch <3!!!!!!!

raven being a swiftie (taylor quick........obsessed) and apple being a directioner ("you don't know youre charming" in universe pointing to the real life charming family. CRAZY.)

apple keeping a basket of candy and coins at her bedroom balcony to throw down to her adoring masses PLEASEEEEE . all her kingdom management classes amassing to this she's so FUNNY.

relatedly, how frustrated she gets at the end of her first chapter that people are only gonna grade her on being a good snow white based on how pretty she is and not on how hard she's studying to be a good ruler. very very juicy very interesting characterisation very interesting take for a snow white character. but also. the chapter starts with her naming the dwarves by derogatory nicknames ("my name is frank," pouty said poutily) and the narrative itself superimposing her names onto them in the dialogue tags. SO FUCKING GOOD. APPLE YOU SILLY BITCH.

hale's distate for apple's dad bleeding into the description i looooove it. "keeping a hand on the hilt of his blade as if ready for battle at a moment's notice, but of course he had never been in battle. his only claim to fame was falling in love with a comatose woman in a glass coffin in the woods" damn hit him again for me!!!!!

BUT this coming from apple's pov???? EXQUISITE!!!!!! god that's so fucking INTERESTING and really doubles down on her looking up to her mam and wanting to be the best ruler she can be, because no one's gonna help her out later! i haven't gotten to apple interacting with daring yet, but that's gonna be such an interesting lens to read their relationship through as well if she considers his role in the story like. repulsive!

also just an interesting contrast to raven's relationship with her parents, where she loves her dad and wishes her mam wouldn't belittle him in their convo. oh sidebar there was a description like, raven's mam did love her, in her own way. hope was like a sticky syrup and raven wished she could drink it down just one more time. auggghhh ravennnn :( <33333

back to apple, i liked the little detail about snow having this squeaky high pitched voice, and apple musing that being stranded in the woods with the squirrels may have done a number on her. i think she gives a length of time there, either weeks or months? i hadn't considered that being part of the snow white legacy, that's interesting ! especially after thinkng of her dad as a useless bum ass nobody like 😭

looooove getting raven's introspection around her mam. the mirror scene at the start is so so good. ugh then when she's talking to apple and she notices how slouchy and unkempt she is next to her. and she tries standing properly but she knows she comes off as too tall, too gaunt comparatively. and then she reprimands herself like 'stop comparing yourself to her, that's probably how mom turned out the way she did' AUGH ? that being the first indicator that raven can understand how that path unfurls in front of her, how she could easily take those same steps. sooo juicy

also looove her relationship with baba yaga so far. it's really interesting that baba yaga is compared/contrasted to raven's mam, i wanna keep an eye on how that relationship develops

baba yaga using an actual spray bottle on raven when she starts voicing rebel thoughts PLEASE‼️ raven grumpily looking into the princess' advisor office (run by the white queen! cute detail) where theyre given tea and plush chairs and noticing that there isn't a spray bottle in sight. MWAH.

oh ! and the detail about it being maddie who asks raven point blank "if you weren't destined to be the evil queen, you would...?" as part of this wonderland word game that she doesn't think anything more of, but raven is left speechless because she's never been allowed to consider it before. really sweet moment between them! :)

im like an hour into this 6.5hr audiobook. the voice actor is doing a wonderful job, i really like her voices for raven and apple in particular so far. i definitely wanna keep going on it! i will listen to it on walks i think :^)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Unrivaled Beauty.

O’ Beautiful Queen, your loveliness is eternal and unchallenged.

Steal center stage, and the hearts of those who gaze upon you.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

War is as much of an art as it is a brazen display of brutality.

For Vil, every performance he gives is war. His weapons: skill, grace, beauty. All of it meant to charm the audience. No substitutions, it no stunt doubles.

Today is no different.

He kneels in the snow atop a corpse. Not a real dead man, but a dummy with an eerie amount of detail. It had been prepared by experts in the prop department, made to resemble his character's sworn enemy in the film.

Crimson blooms upon white robes marked with ancient runes. The collar and neckline are daring, plunging to reveal a generous amount of the bare skin of the chest to the elements. The hair, a tangled mess of glossy raven waves, sticking from the moisture to cold skin. The skin, pale blue with frost, the eyes cloudy orbs.

The mouth, stained red with the blood of countless innocents, no longer moves.

In this scene, the she-devil Snow White is dead, and he, heir to the Witch Queen, has slain her.

Without hesitation, he plunges his bare hand into the dummy’s chest, fishing out a model heart. It is covered in a mixture of corn syrup, food coloring, cocoa powder, and starch to simulate bodily fluids. The thickened liquid dribbles down his own pale hands, staining them.

Lifting his trophy into the air, a joyous, defiant sparkle in his eyes. A throaty cry erupts from him.

“With this, the Eternal Snow will be no more, and peace shall return to my realm!!”

Vil’s explosive laughter fills the mountain. The snow shakes, the land itself shudders in his presence.

He has won.

Finally, finally, finally.

A gruff man’s voice reaches him.

“CUT!!”

In an instant, the scene falls apart and reality sets in.

Cameramen tend to their equipment, prop managers and stylists exchange whispers. Special effects mages tamp down their snow spells. The illusion is stripped away, revealing a balmy day set against a backdrop of mountains.

Staff in scurry in, offering Vil towelettes and lotion to clean and moisturize his hands. He accepts them, then waves the staff off, one ferrying the fake heart.

“Bravo, Vil-kun, bravo!!” the director gushes. “I knew it was the right call to cast you as the hero for this film. There wasn’t a flaw in your acting, m’boy!!”

“Thank you, sir.” Vil bows to the older man, keeping his reply short and simple. “It is an honor to be a part of your masterfully written story."

It is the tale of a beautiful demon locked away in a glass coffin, freed from slumber and set upon the world to shroud it in never-ending winter… The tale of a selfless noble and her huntsmen that stands in opposition to her and her seven sniveling imp minions. A tale of two fates intertwining—the noble whose bloodline sealed the demon away, and the demon who vowed revenge on descendent of the Witch Queen.

Vil's eyes cannot stop themselves from sliding over to his co-star, who waits in the wings. His lifelong rival, Neige LeBlanche.

He is dressed similarly to the dummy that had been swapped in for his corpse. Red ruins his pristine white gown, and his hair is wild—but off-camera, Neige lacks the madness of the villain he plays. Neige smiles sweetly at the staff, giggles like an innocent schoolboy.

Vil fails to look away before Neige meets his eyes. He waves shyly, and, out of courtesy, Vil returns it.

“You've all been working very hard to bring my vision to life," the director happily booms. "Let's take a 30-minute break. Hydrate, grab some food, whatever. Actors, hair and makeup retouches before stepping back on set!"

There is a collective murmur of approval, feet shuffling for the refreshments table. A staff member offers Vil a spot in the donut line, but he politely declines.

"No thank you, I've prepared granola and a light fruit yogurt ahead of time. If you'll excuse me."

He peels away and heads for his trailer. Once Vil is shut away—a well-trained peacock stepping into his gilded cage—he produces his phone and reviews his jam-packed schedule: the film shoot, an interview with a popular variety show, modeling for a magazine cover, practicing for a stage play…

He, cast in the spotlight of hero in every single one.

You are the fairest of them all, Mira would robotically recite. All the social media websites and news outlets were talking nonstop about him, and he knows it.

It's the Age of Vil, his manager would joke. Isn't this great? You're demonstrating your range. This will definitely net you bigger and bigger opportunities in the future!

They’re finally recognizing you for your cuteness and goodness, his father would tell him. That’s my son! I knew everyone would come around eventually.

On any other day, he might have scoffed or dismissed their comments. Today, he simply smirks, silently pocketing his phone.

Vil passes a large vanity on his way to the mini-fridge. A glimpse of his reflection reveals the elaborate jewel-toned ensemble he is fitted for, the makeup that highlights the highest points of his face. Shining, commanding attention—just as any protagonist would.

He stands straighter, holds his chest higher. Proudly flaunting his feathers, his numerous accomplishments.

I've worked myself to the bone to reach this point. I've earned every little bit of this.

Retrieving his snacks, Vil makes to join the crew on their break. Even if Neige will be present as well, he grimaces.

A shadow invades his periphery.

Vil pauses at the doorway and looks back.

There, sitting on his vanity, was a bushel of roses the color of midnight. A black envelope embellished with gold accents is tucked among the petals.

His brows knit together. How odd--he is certain he hadn't seen that a second ago, nor had he heard anyone entering to drop it off while he was briefly at the fridge. How could he have missed such an obvious gift?

"Perhaps it's from the director or producer," he muses, plucking the envelope free and opening it.

Inside, there is, as suspected, a letter.

Same black paper, same gold embellishments.

To Schoenheit,

Please accept this humble offering from myself. It was a joy to watch you perform to your heart's content.

I was very moved by the experience. It is not often that I get to observe Man in all of its peaks and crests in such a short span of time.

I will continue to watch over you and support your dreams from the sidelines.

Sincerely,

M. D.

Initials in the place of a name? Vil turns the paper over, expecting more on the other side. It's unlike his fans to leave out their full identity. (Half of the time, they include a list of their social media handles and beg for a follow back.)

But alas, the back is blank and yields no answers.

He frowns, facing the words scrawled on the front of the square again. The cogs in his head turn, arriving at a single logical conclusion.

I only know of one possible M.D., but... Is he truly the type to send notes of this nature?

Vil toys with the idea in his head, just as he toys with the letter between his fingers. Ego rises and colors his lenses.

"Fufufu, it seems that even great mages such as he are not immune to my beauty and talent." Vil chuckles, exiting the trailer. His adoring fans await.

He's right about everything, and he doesn't realize how wrong he wants to be.

[dyrewrites]

Before Deluca -- home sweet home

There were other areas of the house important to us, of course, and we’d enjoy every one. Working for years to make them ours, years which would lead to a vast library, an art studio, and a delightful sitting room. As well as his insistence I learn to play the piano we kept in the living room—followed by an instructor growing too attached to my heat, and Lucient’s subsequent devouring of said instructor—but the yard was most important to my love.

He planted bushes in the front, but in the back he had a greenhouse installed to cover all the greenery and create his own. One with an adjustable tint, made solely in response to an increase in vampires joining society. With a simple command, a dark, translucent color would grow in all the glass to block the sun. Another command dissolved it, keeping him safe in his greenhouse throughout the day if he wished it.

And he did. He spent many mornings and evenings in that greenhouse, dressed in thick fabrics, thicker gloves, with all of his gathered curls hidden under a comically broad hat—how I miss it—tending to his flowers—as our flower does now.

Many withered and died before he was able to figure out how best to care for them, but he kept at it. Insistent that he needed to grow them, “you bring such warmth, such life everywhere you go, treasure, while I am but cold, sharp death.”

“Mm, delicious death it is,” I tried with warm lips and warmer hands.

Each he allowed, while pleading at me with eyes so chill and bright, “and I revel in it, truly. But I wish to have something pretty I can look at and say, ‘I made that, that lives because of me.’”

“Am I not something pretty you made?” I teased with more kisses to his cheeks, nose, forehead.

And he slapped at me, “Chose coquine, you horrible flirt.”

“I love you, Lucient, and your garden is glorious,” and it was, a delicious display of every flower he adored, and many more beside—for our coffin, I would learn, “whatever you need to keep it thriving, I will hunt down for you.”

“Mm,” a kiss to my cheeks, and lips, “ever my perfect treasure, how I love you.”

“And I you, my beautiful dream,” My smile earned me another kiss, and another. “Glad you made me?”

My words, however, earned a scoff and icy swat, “of course, you beast, now scurry off. If you keep near me too long I’ll tend to you and not my flowers.”

“Terrible incentive to leave,” I muttered, grinning for his narrow eyes.

But he was serious and shooed me with both hands, shoving me ever so, “Pschtt!”

“Va bene, vado, vado,” I conceded, hands up as I made for the door, “but I’m coming back…”

“And taking me with you, oui, mon amour, I’d expect nothing less.”

While I lost him often to his garden—as he lost me to my painting—we enjoyed most of our days together. Playing music or listening to music in our sitting room, reading passages aloud to one another in our library, stargazing on our roof, and countless walks through the city—or rides through the canal.

It was bliss, our life.

For years that blended beautifully into decades, seeing us into new technologies where I was able to capture his voice. To record his haunting beauty and listen to it again—and again, and again. He’d record me as well, playing piano largely but there is at least one record somewhere of my caterwauling and to whoever finds it...I am terribly sorry.

Photos as well. Newer cameras meant crisper photos without the sigils, but color hadn’t quite made it into mundane technology in our time. Still he took so many, ignoring my insistence that he had an eye for it, could make an art of it.

But you’ve grown weary of syrup, haven’t you, dear reader? You came for adventure and I’ve drowned you in sweetness so much these last chapters.

There is reason. Personal as all of this has been. I’ve been stalling, in a way. That page number is creeping into ludicrous, however, so we should get on with it.

To the night my moonlight was stolen.

Our bliss ended…

My life forfeited.

--

Full Chapters of Before Deluce Here

→Before Deluca Taglist<-

// feel free to ask to be added or removed ^.- //

@watermeezer @starbuds-and-rosedust @thespacelizard

@your-absent-father @mr-orion @cowboybrunch @olliexwrites

@rowanmgrey-author @the-golden-comet @wyked-ao3 @leahnardo-da-veggie

@lychhiker-writes @aziz-reads

[pricelessemotion]

Lectori Salutem | E.M.

Summary: [5.1k] you and eddie shoot pool and spill secrets.

Pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!music journalist! reader

Warnings: drinking, language

Notes: things are finally picking up! next chapter will include some 18+ content so you must have your age in your bio for the taglist!

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

Eddie clambers into the passenger seat of your car. Upon leaving the diner, you managed to convince him to let you drive to your next destination, citing a general need to live. 

The drive back to Eddie’s was considerably less nerve-wracking. This go around, he decided to obey the speed limit and not split lanes like a maniac. Not only did he give you peace of mind but he also spared the delicious french toast that you ate from making a reappearance. 

Turning the key, the car starts with a light rumble. The sound of electric guitars and heavy drums shatters the silence between the two of you. 

Fuck.

You still had the Corroded Coffin tape in your stereo. 

Eddie is turned away from you, grabbing the seatbelt. At the sound of his own voice being played back to him, he slowly turns around to look at you. The grin on his face would put the Cheshire cat to shame. 

“I didn’t know you were a fan, sweetheart.” The nickname is saccharine coming out of his mouth. 

“I–” You sputter, trying to come up with a good defense. “I’m thorough in my research.”

Eddie is obviously amused at the fact that he’s caught you red-handed. His seatbelt is already buckled, but it’s stretched thin as he leans across the center console. He smells like syrup and cigarettes. For a second, you consider turning the stereo off completely. 

“Should I be scared? Do you have a shrine to me in your room? Do you have my face tattooed on your ass?” With each question his voice gets louder and louder, filling the tiny space with his velvety timbre. 

Though your face is hot with embarrassment, you’re secretly relieved. Any semblance of tension from bringing up Evelyn at the diner has dissipated. It’s been shredded with every strum of a guitar. You find it’s easier to be around Eddie this way. It’s easier to give in to his playfulness, rather than try to maintain the facade of professionalism. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You say, casting him a sideways glance. 

Eddie, for the most part, remains stoic. But you catch the twitch of his mouth and see the tell-tale shade of pink flood his cheeks. If anything should be indicative of the fact that you’ve stunned him, it’s that he’s stopped talking for the first time since you met him. Another thing you’ve learned about Eddie Munson: He never shuts up. 

You release the parking brake and peel off into the streets. If Eddie is at all bothered by listening to his own music, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he takes the opportunity to quietly sing along, only stopping to pepper in commentary about the track or to give you directions. The richness of his voice is so distracting that you haven’t even noticed that you have no idea where he’s taking you.

Trying to find street parking in East Hollywood is a fruitless endeavor. You almost wish you had taken up Eddie’s offer to ride his bike. Eddie directs you around the backside of a building where a sign indicates that it’s a private parking lot, not meant for public use. He assures you that you won’t get towed.

The Blue Line is a bar tucked in between a Thai restaurant and a dry cleaners. Walking up to the doors, you’re hit with the clashing scents of peanut sauce and fresh linen.  

There are very few people inside, given that it’s a bar and it’s barely even five o’clock yet. The soles of your shoes stick to the floor, making a quiet but awful velcro-like sound with every step you take.

“Buckley!” Eddie’s voice booms as you enter the establishment, echoing off the concrete floors and exposed brick walls.

A tall, freckled girl springs up behind the counter. At the sound of her name, she grins, her dark lipstick contrasting pearly white teeth. 

“Munson!” She yells back. The few patrons that linger around various areas of the bar are evidently disturbed by the sudden change in volume, turning their heads and scowling. She doesn’t seem to care. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Just looking to shoot some pool in the best bar in L.A.” Buckley audibly snorts at the last part of his statement. “My tab still open?”

“Always.” She shakes her head and raises her brows at him as if to say, of course. She turns to look at you. “Who’s your friend?”

Your mouth opens, but the words die on your tongue. You and Eddie are not friends. At least, you’re not supposed to be. But you don’t know if you want to tell this woman, who Eddie is clearly close with, that you’re here on assignment to try to cherry-pick the best parts of him and turn them into something palatable. 

At your hesitation, Eddie swoops in and makes the introduction for you. He doesn’t mention the fact that you’re a journalist. Whether the omission is for your benefit or his, you’re not sure.

“Nice to meet you,” She throws the rag she was using to wipe down the counter over her shoulder and extends her hand. “I’m Robin.” 

Her handshake is firm, but her eyes are soft. The fine bottles of liquor behind her are backlit by an unseen light source, giving the illusion of stained glass. She quickly turns around and rummages through the minifridge and grabs two beers. 

“You know the rules, Munson, don’t get too rowdy and clean up when you’re done.” She says, popping the caps off of the beverages and setting them down on the counter.

“Me?” Eddie grasps his chest in faux incredulity, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Too rowdy? Never.” 

Robin sticks her tongue out at him in response right as she’s being flagged down by a customer at the far end of the bar. She salutes the both of you, flouncing away to refill the man’s old-fashioned. 

To your right, there’s something akin to a hall of fame. A collage of pictures of different celebrities that have visited the very room you’re standing in. You wonder if Eddie is up there, but you don’t dare to go see for yourself.

“Can you play?” He asks, walking towards the pool table. 

You make a noncommittal noise. You had played your fair share of games of pool, sure, but never in a setting quite like this. Never with someone like Eddie. Setting your bag down on one of the empty tables that lined the perimeter of the room, you pull out your tape recorder.

“You mind?” You ask, holding up the device in Eddie’s direction. 

Eddie grimaces and shrugs off his leather jacket, draping it over a bar stool at the opposite end of the table. The motion draws attention to the plethora of ink that litters both of his arms.

“Do we have to?” His face scrunches up as he asks the question, a slight whine in his tone. 

You almost feel inclined to say no, if only just to see the wrinkle that has formed between his brows disappear. Another thing you’ve learned about Eddie Munson: he is very hard to say no to. That’s how you ended up in this bar in the first place. 

It would be easy to forgo the tape recorder and pretend that the two of you are just friends hanging out. But if there’s one thing that you know, it’s that the human memory is fallible. You can't risk the quality of your article for the sake of his comfort. 

“It’s what I’m here for.”

Eddie bristles at your response but says nothing. He takes a square of blue chalk and thoughtfully rubs it on the end of his pool cue. The sunglasses he took off are tugging down at his v-neck, exposing sharp collarbones and even more ink. 

“I have a proposition for you.” Eddie declares. 

You raise an eyebrow. 

“For every ball you sink, you get to ask me a question about my life. For every ball I sink, I get to ask you about yours.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, thinking that he can’t possibly be serious. But he just stands there, staring at you as he sets the blue piece of chalk down at the edge of the table. 

“Final offer. Take it or leave it.” He throws both palms up in the air, pool cue tucked into his side. 

For the second time today, you take Eddie’s words as a challenge.

“You’re on.” 

Eddie takes his time setting up the game. While he’s leaning over the side of the table gathering the scattered spheres, you can’t help yourself from admiring his silhouette. The back of his shirt rides up, revealing a strip of skin that you cannot tear your eyes away from. 

Oh my god.

Eddie Munson has a tramp stamp. 

A chaotic collection of branches and thorns surrounds a Latin phrase: lectori salutem. You rack your brain, trying to remember the one semester of elective Latin that you took back in freshman year of college when Eddie suddenly turns around. You quickly look up to meet his eyes, but the smirk on his face reveals everything. 

For the second time today, Eddie has caught you staring. 

“Ladies first.” He says, grandly gesturing toward the table. 

You break the rack. A blur of colors bursts forth in every direction. Despite your best efforts, none of the balls make it into a pocket. Looking back at Eddie, you see he’s still got that smirk on his face. He leans over and effortlessly knocks a ball into a pocket. Stripes. 

“Where did you go to school?”

“NYU.” You reply, having been asked this question so many times that the response is practically automatic at this point.

Eddie lets out a low whistle. “Out-of-state tuition must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

“I had a scholarship.”

“Wow. Pretty and smart. You’re kind of the whole package, aren’t you?” The teasing lilt in his voice doesn’t take away from the sincerity in his words. 

The compliment flusters you, which you’re sure is the whole point of Eddie’s making it. 

“Only one question, remember? It’s still your turn.” 

Eddie sees right through your attempt to deflect. Graciously, he doesn’t point it out. He just leans down once again and lines up a shot. Stripes Twelve. Right lower pocket. 

“Why do you hate New York?”

The sureness with which he asks the question throws you for a loop. Whatever you had expected to come out of Eddie’s mouth, it definitely wasn’t that. 

“What makes you think I hate New York?”

“Tsk tsk. I’m asking the questions here.” Eddie scolds, but his voice is devoid of any real ire. He plants his hands on the table, leaning towards you. You can just barely see the faint outline of a gravestone on his right forearm. “You don’t hate it, but you don’t love it either.”

In the five minutes that have passed since he started questioning you, Eddie has managed to see right through you. You’re starting to wonder if you’re actually that transparent or if he is just that good at reading people.

“I don’t know. My dad is from there. Whenever he talked about New York, it always seemed like some mythical place. He always said ‘Don’t live in New York so long it makes you hard. Don’t live in California so long it makes you soft.’ I guess I went to New York to prove to myself that I could, y’know. Prove that I could leave the nest and not fall flat on my face.”

Heat blooms in your chest during your ramblings. The pressure you feel is so much that you’re surprised steam hasn’t started coming out of your ears. Despite knowing exactly why you went to New York, you’ve never said the real reason out loud. It didn’t seem like it mattered to anyone but you. 

Eddie has a thoughtful look on his face. “3,000 miles is a long way to go to prove a point.”

You shrug. Eddie pauses for a moment, waiting for something. At the realization that you’re not going to say anything more, he leans over the table and shoots.

Stripes. Thirteen. Top right pocket.

“Did you?” Eddie posits, elaborating on the quirk of your brow. “Prove your point?”

You want to laugh. That’s the same question you’ve been asking yourself since you made the move back west. The prodigal daughter returned with nothing to show for it. 

“I proved that living in California my whole life made me soft.” You admit, gazing down at the table, the floor, your shoes, anywhere but his face. 

Eddie frowns in your periphery. He has a clear shot at the far end of the table. You wish he would take it already. 

“It’s not a bad thing, y’know.” Eddie’s fiddling with his pool cue, generously rubbing more blue chalk on the end. You don’t know much about pool, but you doubt that it’s necessary. It seems like he’s doing it more to prolong the inevitable. “Being soft.”

“Isn’t it?”

You’re almost sure that he’s joking. Actually–you’re sure that he’s making fun of you. He must be. The notion makes you angry. Oh, of course, the heavy metal rockstar is extolling the virtues of being soft! You look up, a snide remark already on the tip of your tongue. But when you finally meet his eyes, his gaze is intense. Contemplative, even. You take another sip of your beer and hope it washes away the lingering bitterness. 

Eddie Munson and his damn sincerity.

He looks as if he’s about to say something, but then decides against it. He leans over, lining up that clear shot that you had spotted earlier. His necklace hangs from his neck, the red guitar pick grazing green cloth. 

Stripes. Nine. Middle left pocket. 

“So,” Eddie starts, smiling satisfactorily to himself. “Do you actually have my face tattooed on your ass?”

If his earlier question about hating New York shocked you, then this one was like being struck by lightning. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. You should’ve known that this would come back to bite you.

“It’s just a question.” He defends. “I’m genuinely curious.”

“No, Eddie, I do not have your face tattooed on my ass.” 

“But you do have a shrine of me in your room.”

“I am this close to using this pool cue to poke both your eyes out.” You threaten, absolutely buzzing with mortification. 

“Fine! Fine, I’ll let it go.” He concedes, before saying the next few words under his breath. “For now.” 

Eddie is the opposite of a bad sport when he misses his next shot. He only clicks his tongue and gives a slight shake of his head. You’re relieved that you finally have the chance to get out from under his microscope. 

Solids. Four. Bottom left pocket.  

“What do you like most about living in LA?” You ask. You know that it’s cliché, that everyone who moves here is asked the same question. But you can’t help but want to hear everyone’s answers. Each person you meet paints a picture of your hometown with vibrant colors. It’s always refreshing to hear a new perspective. 

“The food, oh my god, the food!” He practically moans. “I swear whatever bullshit they were passing off as Mexican food back in Indiana should be investigated.” 

Eddie goes on a whole tangent about tortillas that could easily be used in a commercial advertising the food scene of southern California. All of the talk about tortillas reminds him of his favorite food truck, located in East Los Angeles. It’s parked right across the street from a record store. He discovered it while trying to visit every record store in the city. 

“And speaking of record stores… I mean, fuck, you can’t find half the obscure shit that you have here back in Indiana. There’s no point in shipping your shit out to the midwest if no one’s gonna buy it I’m guessing.”

“I never even thought of that.” You admit. Every time you walked into a music store, there was always a new shipment waiting for a band you had never heard of. “Growing up, my favorite thing was always to go to the record store. Even if I didn’t buy anything, I would just sit in one of the booths and listen to vinyl.”

You smile at the memory of the sun streaming through windows and chunky headphones too big for your adolescent head. The nostalgia clouds your mind so much that you fumble the next shot, accidentally knocking a striped ball into a pocket and giving Eddie the chance to ask you yet another question. 

“Do you regret going to NYU?”

“No.” You say, and you mean it. “I think it’s good to get out of your comfort zone. I think… I think it’s important to figure out what’s wrong for you. Maybe even more important than figuring out what’s right.”

Eddie hums in agreement and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. You take the opportunity to eject the tape from the recorder and put in a fresh one. Tucking the tape into your bag, you remember that you still have the mixtape Eddie made for you. You make a mental note to listen to it on the way home.

“Having fun?” Robin appears next to you, gathering a few bottles that hapless patrons have left behind. She lifts Eddie’s off the table and adds it to her collection. You hadn’t even noticed that he had finished it. 

“Eddie is absolutely kicking my ass at pool right now.”

She barks out a laugh. 

“I know the feeling. We used to play with each other all the time back in Hawkins. I think I only won once, and that was because he was high off his ass.” 

Your ears perk up at the mention of the small town in Indiana. You could tell from their interactions that they were close, but this was a whole other level. Does she know about 1986? 

“Maybe he’ll have mercy on me.” You muse, slightly wincing at the doubtful look Robin gives you.

“I have faith in you. Don’t let Edward get into your head.” She squeezes your shoulder as she leaves, the glass bottles clinking in her wake. 

So, you think to yourself, Eddie stands for Edward. It’s a regal-sounding name. A little too refined for the rockstar who’s rough around the edges.

When Eddie returns from the bathroom, he holds two more beers in his hand. You’re about to say that you still haven’t even finished your first one. That you think one is enough. You still have to drive back, after all. But he sets both of them down next to his leather jacket, making it clear that they’re both for him. He sniffles as he approaches, giving a small cough to clear his throat. His knuckles brush the tip of his nose until it glows an angry red, even in the dim lighting. He pulls up his pool cue right to the edge of the green-striped ball. He’s got a clear shot. 

He shoots.

He misses. 

You quietly breathe out a sigh of relief. Despite the fact that your job is to get into the nitty-gritty of people’s lives, you’ve never been on the receiving end. It’s unnerving. There’s a reason why you’re a writer. You like the control of rough drafts and rewrites and edits. It leaves less room for misinterpretation.  

Circling the table, you hope to find an easy shot. 

“You have to actually hit the balls with the stick for them to go anywhere,” Eddie says, taking a long sip from his second beer. “Just wanted to make sure that you knew that.”

You roll your eyes at his obvious attempt to psych you out. Leaning over the far end of the table, you balance the pool cue delicately between your fingers. When you finally make the shot you smile to yourself as not just one, but two of the balls go careening into pockets at opposite ends of the table.

“You know, I’ve half a mind to think you were hustling me, sweetheart.” Eddie takes a long sip from his second beer, the condensation dripping down his hand. 

“It’s not hustling if you just assumed I would be bad at it.” You’re so proud of yourself that you can’t help the smugness in your voice. “What’s your middle name?”

“Now you’re crossing the line.” He deadpans. “That’s just too far.” 

“Oh come on, Edward.” At the sound of his legal name, Eddie’s facade drops. The reaction encourages you to continue your teasing. “It can’t be that bad.”

“How do you know that’s what Eddie stands for?”

“I have my sources.”

“Your sources could be wrong. It could stand for Edison. Or Edmund. Or Edgar.”

“Something tells me my sources are correct.” Your eyes flick over to the freckled girl behind the counter. Eddie catches your glance and kisses his teeth, shaking his head in exasperation. 

“What if you’re secretly a fairy who’s trying to get me to say my full name so that I’m indebted to you for the rest of my life?”

“Fine. Don’t tell me your middle name.” You concede, trying to come up with a better question.  “How did you know that I was a writer? Back in your room–when I picked up the book–you called me a writer.” 

“Isn’t that like, your whole thing?” Eddie waves his hand flippantly. 

“Yeah. But there’s a difference between journalistic writing and fiction writing. How did you know that I do both?”

Eddie takes another drink from the beer in his hand, thumb grazing the label. 

“Maybe I’m ‘thorough in my research’ too.” He says, quoting your words back to you.

It’s a non-answer and both of you know it. You decide not to press the issue. Maybe Eddie isn’t such a good sport after all. You started winning and he stopped playing fair, dodging your questions left and right. For someone who is supposed to be getting interviewed, he isn’t doing a very good job. You settle on a topic you hope he’s willing to actually talk about. 

“Patsy Cline.”

“What about Patsy Cline?”

“She didn’t exactly fit in with all of the metal.”

“My Uncle Wayne loves Patsy Cline. He would always play her records whenever he was cooking or cleaning. I guess listening to it reminds me of home.”

“So do you actually like it? Or do you just find it comforting?”

“Is there a difference?” Eddie muses at you from behind the lip of his beer bottle, before taking a long swig. “Wayne actually gave me that vinyl as a parting gift. He said it’s for ‘when you want to listen to real music’. He was only joking. Kinda.”

Eddie visibly softens while recalling the man who raised him. His tense shoulders have drooped and his jaw unclenches. He speaks of the older man with an unmatched fondness. 

“Wayne sounds like a funny guy.” You smile, sidling up to Eddie. “What’s he like?”

“He’s the best. He took me in when I was just about this big.” He juts his palm out at his waist.  “I had big ears, a buzzcut, and a gigantic chip on my shoulder. I was so– I was so angry at the world. He was the first person who told me it was okay to feel that way. 

He was a trucker before I came along, but then he quit and started working at the plant so that he could be there for me. Everything I do, it’s all for him.”

The words make your heart clench. Sparing yourself the embarrassment of revealing just how much his words got to you, you take your next shot. With misty eyes, you see the flash of blue make its way across the table and into a pocket. You already know what you’re gonna ask him. 

“Say you get everything you want. You win Grammys. You sell out Madison Square Garden. What next?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” Eddie polishes off the third beer. “I’d probably start by buying Wayne a house, but that’s if he’ll even let me. He’s always saying that I’m the kid and he’s the adult. That he’s supposed to be taking care of me, not the other way around.”

He lets out a quiet burp, which he muffles with his fist. His pool cue has been long forgotten next to him. The configuration on the table before you tells you that you can win in just two more rounds. You’re not sure if you want to. You try anyway. 

Solids. Three. Middle right pocket. 

“Does your reputation actually matter to you?”

“That’s a loaded question.” Eddie leans backward. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, the effects of the alcohol seeming to finally kick in. “Off the record?”

“Off the record.” 

You make a show of grabbing the tape recorder and clicking the stop button. You slide it over the wooded lip of the table, proving to him that the device really isn’t recording anymore. 

“Of course, my reputation matters to me. Anyone who says they don’t care about their reputation is lying. Sure, you learn to brush it off. You learn to expect that everyone you meet is gonna have preconceived notions about you. Whatever. People have always had some shit to say about me, I say let ‘em talk.

But it never gets any easier realizing that everyone you meet thinks they know you just because of some shit they read in a magazine. It never gets easier knowing that nothing you do belongs to you anymore.”

Eddie’s words weigh on you. Whether or not he realizes it, you fall into both those categories. You had turned your nose up at the lousy headlines. You had thought he was just another reckless rockstar. Now, you’re tasked with writing him a new one, one that’ll make people like you see him in a better light. It's still the same. He still doesn’t get to control how this story ends. 

“Is that why you agreed to this interview?”

You know you’re essentially wasting a question. Whatever his answer will be won’t matter in the long run, because you won’t be able to use it. You want to know the answer anyway. 

Eddie looks down at the table and then back to you. You know that he could tell you that you used up your question. That if he was a little less drunk he would probably diffuse the tension by quipping back to you, only one question, remember? He doesn’t. He sees that you have the winning shot perfectly laid out for you. This time, he doesn’t prolong the inevitable.

“Yeah, it is.”

You make the shot. Just like that, the game is over. Your victory feels hollow. 

A blue-striped ball sits lonely on the table. A question left unasked. An answer left unheard. 

Eddie puts his leather jacket back on and brings the empty beer bottles back to Robin. You pick up the tape recorder. It feels like dead weight in your hands.

You meet Eddie at the counter, where he’s happily chatting with an amused Robin, all previous tension regarding your last question seemingly forgotten. You bid your goodbyes. The two of you shuffle awkwardly together towards the entrance before Eddie gets distracted by something.

“Oh my god, I love these!” Eddie regards the gumball machine full of small, shitty prizes with a childlike wonder. 

He grabs his wallet from the pocket of his jacket, dutifully pulling out two quarters. He shoves them both into the coin slots and cranks the handle. The machine spits out a plastic capsule with a bright green lid. He takes the prize and thrusts it into your hands. 

“For you.”

You’re confused by the sentimental gesture but decide not to question it. Shaking the contents out into your hand, the prize reveals itself to be an 8 ball keychain. 

“Hey! We match!” Eddie pulls out the motorcycle keys from his pocket, and sure enough there’s an 8 ball hanging from the key ring that’s identical to the one you’re holding in your hand. 

“Yeah.” You smile to yourself, twirling the small sphere between your fingers. “We do.”

The drive back to the house in West Hollywood is quiet this time. You elected to switch from the cassette to the radio as soon as you got in. The sounds of classic rock drift between the two of you. Eddie spends the entire drive looking out the window, proving himself to be a quiet and contemplative drunk rather than an obnoxious and outspoken drunk. 

Pulling up to the curb, you feel slightly awkward. You’ve never been good at goodbyes. 

“You doing anything tomorrow?” Eddie’s head flops in your direction, his body language giving away the depth of his inebriation. 

“Um.” You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what he might be planning. “It depends. What time?”

“Around noon? We have a recording session tomorrow and I just thought maybe you’d like to hear some of the stuff we’ve been working on. Plus you’d get to meet the other guys. It would be good, right? For your article.”

He says the last sentence as if it’s an afterthought. 

“For the article.” 

“It’s at the recording studio near Sunset? Big red sign, can’t miss it.” He’s using his hands again as he talks. The silver rings glint under the yellow of the street lamps. “Can I have your number, though? Just in case it gets canceled or something. I don’t want you to show up and think I’m sending you on a wild goose chase.”

“Sure.” You rattle off the number for him. Eddie continues looking at you, glassy-eyed and rosy-cheeked. “Are you sure you don’t want me to write it down for you?”

“I have a good memory.” He grins toothily, tapping his temple with his index finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  

With that, he tumbles out of the car and stumbles to the front door. You watch his retreating figure with the realization that you’ve barely scratched the surface of who Eddie Munson is.

You remember to swap cassettes before pulling away. As you begin mentally writing the beginnings of his article in your head, the mixtape plays softly in the background. 

Living in a world of make believe 

I can hide behind what's real

But wearing your emotions on your sleeve

And they all know what you feel

taglist: @twisted-wonderland-of-wren@cloudroomblog@amira0303@forrestfae6@aysheashea@vintagehellfire@poisonedluv @kimmi-kat@mmunson86

if your username is crossed out it means tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you 💔

[halfwit-halfblood]

Safe — xavier thorpe

Part 1. More parts to come!

Pairings: Xavier Thorpe x reader (No use of Y/N, gender neutral) Summary: Xavier helps you deal with the stress of Parents Day Word count: 2k Warnings: Mentions of bad family relationships, anxiety

A/N: not sure how i feel about this so feedback is appreciated!! also i have no idea what a semester is or how long they are. don’t talk about it 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Here you go,” Xavier said, placing a steaming takeaway cup in front of you. “Extra sweet to counter how sour you are.”

You placed a mocking hand against your chest. “You always say the nicest things, Xav.” A slow grin took over his face as he sat opposite you in the library, placing his own cup to the side and pulling out his sketchbook.

Over the past month you had established a routine with each other that, in the beginning, had taken you by surprise; once classes were done for the day, every Tuesday and Wednesday you would meet by the school gates and amble down to Jericho to study and talk in the relative quiet of the town library over drinks from the Weathervane. Originally you had become friends thanks to the mere convenience of having the same class schedule, but over time something about you just clicked, and now these new habits fit you like a glove.

“That doesn’t look like Professor Crudwell’s thaumaturgy assignment.” You chastised.

“I’m not the one who needs to worry about my grade for it.” He hit back playfully.

“Low blow, Thorpe.” The chair creaked loudly as you moved to take a generous sip of your hot chocolate, earning you a glare from the librarian from across the room.

While you never wanted to bother the barista for extra syrup in your drink – a side effect of your scrupulous family who enforced the idea of never asking for anything more than you were given to the highest degree – Xavier had no issue with it and had recently taken to ordering for you to satisfy your extreme sweet tooth.

In this instance, he was right about the grade. Being of the psychic variety of outcast, Xavier had no problem with magical acts. For a fire sprite like yourself, wonderworking was a more arduous task that could often only be made better by the company that currently sat scribbling away opposite you.

“What are you working on?”

“A new mural.” He answered, pausing briefly to spin his sketchbook in your direction. “Miss Weems wanted a draft ready to show at Parents Day.”

The drink turned sour and heavy in your stomach. “Parents Day?” Nevermore had only been your home for one semester, having transferred at what would’ve been the start of your Junior year, and so a lot of the particulars about various Nevermore events and customs were foreign to you. Parents Day was, of course, a self-explanatory title, but you needed confirmation like a coffin needs a body.

Xavier paused and frowned at you. “Nobody told you about it?” You shook your head mutely. “Nevermore invites everyone’s families to campus for the weekend. Helps make the school look good, I guess. I never really got the point of it.” His voice was barely concealed resentment. While the details of the school itself often passed you by, the gossip never had. His father was an automatic taboo subject, which lent itself just fine to your friendship as you quite liked having the same restrictions applied to talk of your own family.

“When is it?”

“This weekend. They’ll all be here Saturday morning.” He said softly. As an artist he was used to noticing details. He could sense the tension in your voice, see the way this news pulled your expression taut and pale. Knuckles white against the curve of your cup. Something we’ve got in common, he thought sadly. “You alright?”

“I, um…” Anxiety swelled in your throat, forcing your words back into your chest where they jostled and multiplied. “I have to go.” Numbly you packed away your textbook and fled the library while Xavier called your name, pleading at you to wait. The door banged shut behind you like a gavel before he even had the chance to stand.

+

Was anything worse than feeling alone in a crowded room? You wondered. It was an anchor in your chest, a tight pinch across your skin like your heartache was too big to be contained under such fragile skin. Students rushed around the school gates as banners were erected and the first families started trickling their way in. All around you was a frenzied buzz of excitement and community and for a moment you felt suspended from your body, watching the scene from above; everyone moved in double time as the world carried on, and in amidst all the excitement there you stood, isolated.

You slunk through the shadows to the quiet areas of the school, letting the noise drift softly up through cracked open windows and wide balconies where it settled around you like a fog. Eventually you came to the quad balcony to find Miss Weems hosting the welcoming ceremony. You were keen not to be spotted by her or your parents if they had already arrived and watched the proceedings from one of the shadowed archways that led to the covered balcony.

Applause rung out as Miss Weems concluded her speech and families were free to enjoy the school in its entirety. “Hey stranger.” You jumped and spun around to source the voice, finding Xavier stood in the hallway behind you. “You been avoiding me?” He asked, hands in his pockets as he walked slowly past you to the balcony outside.

“No.” A single raised eyebrow was your response. “I promise.” You added sincerely. It was hard to blame him for the assumption while your phone burned a hole in your pocket, his unanswered texts piled in your inbox like a physical weight you felt keenly. The solitude you’d settled into the past few days was unpleasantly familiar. Once, it was a preference. But life at Nevermore had shifted your expectations of what peace was – where it was once silence and a locked door, it was now the boy in front of you: his laughter and the taste of chocolate on your tongue.

“So, you’ve been avoiding,” he gestured to the crowd gathered in the courtyard below. “everyone?”

“Trying to.” He nodded and returned to watching the hive of activity, tapping his fingers on the banister.

There was a magnet hooked in your stomach. Two opposite forces stood in front of you, and while Xavier’s mind wandered you tried to decide which was stronger. The repellent that was your family with their pursed mouths and disapproving eyes, or the attraction that was Xavier’s presence and the way words came easier around him.

For a moment, the attraction won. You crossed the distance to stand next to him stiffly, body coiled like prey alert to its predator awaiting the right moment to flee. The quad had become a chaotic mess of mismatched tables pulled out of classrooms and forgotten closets, voices yelling over one another as six months’ worth of news and gossip was relayed, the unsavoury stench of red meat and chilled blood was unavoidable as food was distributed, and – victoriously – there was no sight of your parents. You let out a shaky breath and let yourself relax a touch.

“What brand of shitty are your parents then?” Xavier asked after a few minutes of companionable silence.

“The kind that made me beg Miss Weems not to let them in here.” After you ran out on Xavier three days ago, you had fled straight to Miss Weems and pleaded for her to bar your parents from the school this weekend. She patiently explained that she had been in regular contact with your family ever since your induction at Nevermore and thought the upcoming weekend would be the perfect time to overcome the past together. But she didn’t know your parents – stubborn, spiteful. Not once had they backed down from a fight and you knew that this time would be no different. Fortunately – or unfortunately, you had yet to truly decide – it was a trait you had inherited.

For the past two days you had paced and panicked enough to wear a groove into your dorm floor, or so your roommate had complained, about what to do if they made an appearance. At the same time, your anxiety was working overtime thinking about what Xavier must’ve thought when you ran off so suddenly from the library and how best to explain it to him. Ultimately, the idea didn’t fill you with as much dread as you thought. At the very least you trusted him, but if you were being honest with yourself it was more like you wanted him to know you as much as you craved to know him.

Your eyes skimmed over the gathering once more and a prick of fear in the base of your spine began to steadily work itself upwards. “Looks like I failed.” You said with faux casualness, watching your parents and grandparents walk through the east entrance with undisguised disapproval.

You stepped away from the banister as quickly as possible until their heads dropped out of sight, seeking reassurance from the solidity of the stone wall against your back. Panic seized your chest as your mind relayed the last time you saw your family – an apoplectic argument, a fiery outburst. The smell of smoke and a deafening silence.

Distantly you registered Xavier calling your name. He leaned down and held your arms while you regulated your breathing, tracing soft circles against the fabric of your blazer. “I’m okay.” You said eventually.

“You don’t have to talk to them, you know. We can hide out in my art shed if you want? I promise they won’t find you.” He replied, trying to meet your eye. “I have snacks.” At that your mouth twitched into a half smile.

“Anything sweet?”

“As if you even have to ask.”

Once you nodded your approval Xavier wasted no time in leading you through empty hallways towards the back of the school where the forest sprawled out endlessly, happy to let you walk quietly while you came to terms with the fact your family actually showed up to the school they vilified so often.

As you were circling around the quad to reach the other side, footsteps echoed from an adjoining corridor that connected to the outdoor space. You both paused, wondering if you should hide or hurry past as their shadows grew longer in the early afternoon sunlight.

“Well with not a single text or call this entire semester, we’re expecting perfect grades across all subjects.” The voice was clipped and stern – all sharp edges and callous undertones. The past six months had done nothing to dull your memories of the countless times you’d gone to war with that condescending tone, letting your mother’s words sink under your skin like something black and rotten.

Xavier glanced between your frozen figure and the intersection where your family would soon appear. In seconds he had grabbed your wrist and pulled you into an alcove to hide in the shadows of one of the many alumni statues, his chest against your back and his palm against your mouth.    

The sudden movement cast you from your memories and threw you back into the present moment, the warmth of his skin as he drew you further from your parents and into the darkness where they couldn’t find you. When they finally rounded the corner your breath hitched involuntarily, muffled by Xavier’s hand while his other came to rest on your shoulder; a comforting weight to keep you grounded.

“I assure you they’ve been doing their very best, it’s been a challenging year but –“ Miss Weems began.

Your father scoffed. “Challenging. Yeah, right. That’s an excuse for slacking off, believe me. Lazy. Disruptive. Demented – that’s all our child is.” You swallowed roughly as tears blinked their way free across your cheeks. The tight feeling that had plagued you over the summer returned in full force. I made one mistake! One! You wanted to scream at them. The fear and injustice pulsing through your veins left you shaking. Panic burned a path to your heart as your brain fought to maintain control, the absolute last thing you needed now was an unwarranted fire to prove their every criticism.

“I do hope we’ll be receiving an apology this weekend, Larissa. We were counting on you to teach some respect.”

“Perhaps we can all sit down for a chat in my office this afternoon? Once we’ve ah… located your bright little spark, that is.”

“I hope you’ve got extinguishers on hand, that’s all I say.” Ultimately, her final comment was one of the least openly malicious things your mother had said this past year, and yet the scar it left bled as strong and true as the rest. As their footsteps faded away the anxious energy fled your body with such a force that you slumped unceremoniously into Xavier. The hand resting on your shoulder reached across your chest and pulled you closer, the other leaving your mouth to do the same, cradling you within the bracket of his arms while your tears fell silently, and the footsteps faded into the distance.

The ocean rushed in your ears, urging you beneath the surface; his quiet reassurances anchored you to the shore.

They’re gone.

You’re safe.

I’m here.

I promise.

Safe. Safe. Safe.

Together you stood, bodies entwined, long after the corridor fell silent.

[vilevexedvixen]

Inscryption cocktails

Each Scrybe would have a menu reflecting their three minions (increasing in size - a shot, a squat drink, then a tall drink) and then the main cocktail based off of the menu's titular Scrybe.

Each scrybe also has a dish relating to them and how they play their cards.

Thank you @dariusblake for your suggestions on different flavour profiles and placemat details.

Leshy's menu:

"The prospector"

A caramel whisky shot rimmed with golden nugget cereal crumbs. Modelled after the gold nuggets the prospector can transform cards into.

"The Angler"

A salted liquorish cocktail using anise flavouried liquior and fish-shaped gummy salted liquorish hanging over the rim of a bucket shaped recepticle. Modelled after the Angler's bait bucket card.

"The Trapper/Trader"

A rich, blood-red velvet cocktail made with red grenadine and a chocolate liquior. Served in a stein with a fake bit of pelt padding embellishing the handle. More modelled after his trading role than how he plays cards.

"The Scrybe of Beasts"

A botanical gin-based cocktail comprised of rhubarb gin, elderflower tonic and red grenadine seeping in from the top like a drop of blood, garnished with a sprig of elderflower. Served in a tall tiki mask glass (ideally etched to look like his masks, but a normal tiki glass would work) Playing into his tree-like appearance, emphasis on blood sacrifice (thematically and mechanically), and because he's an old man (hence use of elderflower specifically).

"Eight Fucking Bears"

Technically more of a food challenge than a regular dish of eight very spicy pork ribs with a thick, blood-like sauce.

Grimora's menu:

"Royal Dominguez"

A limoncello and triple sec shot rimmed with crushed sherbert. Based on his death from scurvy at sea.

"Sawyer Patel"

A stout Sheep Dog peanut butter whisky and ginger ale drink served in a tumbler lined with a dash of peanut butter drizzle.

"Kaycee Hobbes"

A refreshing blueberry vodka and fireball slushy served in a tall glass and garnished with blueberries and cinammon caramel drizzle.

"The Scrybe of The Dead"

A black forest espresso martini made with Kaluha, cherry vodka, chocolate liquior and a shot of espresso. Served in a china teacup with a pitted black cherry skewered on the teacup's rim.

"The Lord of Bones"

Fried chicken drumsticks and wings served in a coffin-shaped basket.

Magnificus' menu:

"Goobert"

Lime jelly(jello) shot. The shot glass would have little googly eyes stuck to it and an edible paper wizard hat instead of an umbrella.

"The Pike Mage"

A sweet and spicy chipotle-orange syrup, bourbon and vanilla liquior cocktail served in a martini glass and garnished with a skewered glacie cherry donning an edible paper wizard hat.

"The Lonely Wizard"

Black Sangria (made with dark wine - blackberries, black grapes and black plums) imbued with green edible glitter. Served in a wine glass and garnished with a lime slice donning an edible paper wizard hat.

"The Scrybe of Magicks"

A colourful tie-dye milkshake of creme de menthe, mint ice cream and strawberry cream liquieur embellished with edible glitter. Served in a tall flute and garnished with a swirl of whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles and a spherical marshmallow made to look like Magnificus' missing arcane eye in place of a cherry.

"Mox"

A dessert made of blue raspberry, orange and apple sorbet scoops. Sprinkled with crushed sherbert and gemstone-shaped hard candies.

Po3's menu:

"The Inspector"

A simple blue raspberry sour shot with a blue raspberry popping candy rim.

"The Melter"

A vibrantly fire-coloured chocolate orange spritz. Mixing chocolate liquieur with aperol and prosecco. Garnished with curled orange rind and dark chocolate shavings.

"The Dredger"

A boba blue gin fizz. Made of bombay sapphire gin, lemon juice blue curaçao and soda water with lemon boba. Served with a silver coloured straw.

"The Scrybe of Technology"

A bright blue bubblegum cocktail topped with sweet sparkling wine and lemonade. Served in a tall, angular glass. The most boring of the Scrybe cocktails tbh.

"Kilo-bites"

Byte-sized sharing platter of savoury pastries and square pizza slices made to look like floppy discs.

I'll be honest, I was drawing a blank for Po3's menu. Dude's Vox if Vox had self-control, which takes away a lot of vibrancy to bounce off of for flavour profiles and visual ideas.

Bonus Mycologist dish:

Roasted ox-tongue mushroom, stuffed with mushroom paté and blue cheese with a creamy but sharp cheese sauce.

Ngl, Leshy's is my favourite menu. Definitely tempted to make it, maybe for an Inscryption themed party?

[xmaruu11]

I mean this with great affection. That Tango looks like the mean girl's shy, hagard secratary background character who is going to have a brief character arc in their 4 on screen appearances about growing a spine that ends with her throwing the mean girl's iced unicorn chai caramel latte with unpasturized almond milk and one too many shots of strawberry syrup on her and quitting as the final nail in the coffin, after the main characters defeated her to show how being rude causes everyone to abandon you, and maybe gets a shot of awkwardly flirting with the dorky comedic relief in the end of movie party to show they've moved on.

this is so specific i laughed so much than kyou