#hope this email finds you well legend!

[feralglitch]

@mcybree’s main here, just wanted to pop in and say the tags you leave on my posts from time of time are always so good and typically have me laughing my ass off. so true and god bless

Bree my beloved! Your posts are always a delight to stumble upon, your thoughts (and prayers 🫡) on the Life Series spark joy by the handfuls. This court jester's always happy to return the favour :D

[cheriladycl01]

Could you do SMAU for Toto Wolff with wife reader where she is a huge bookworm and he always so supportive about her passion And the Internet has gone crazy about it. Thanks :))

Bookstagram - Toto Wolff x BookwormWife! Reader

Plot: Taking a look through your bookstagram and how supportive Toto Wolff is of your love for reading. Encouraging you to pursue your dream of writing.

Credit to multibabydoll for the GIF

You loved reading and books. Before you met Toto, you used to be a bookseller and then worked for a publishing house. You actually met Toto because of the influx in Motorsport Romance's that made your company send you to a race to get some ... hands on experience and you ended up having your own sort of Motorsport Romance with a Team Principle.

You ended up marrying Toto and at first it was hard, but when COVID came and you ended up working from home since then so coming to the races had been much easier.

y/user

Liked by lucyscore laurenroberts and mercedesamgf1

y/user: My reads of the month! Really loved both of these and I can’t wait for book to from Lauren!

Book 1: Things We Hide From The Light by Lucy Score

Book 2: Powerless by Lauren Roberts

Tagged 2 People

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lucyscore: I’m glad you enjoyed this one!

-> y/user: it’s really good!

fan1: i love these!

toto.wolff: Is this the book you were reading on the plane?

-> y/user: Yes, the other one I read at the race track!

laurenroberts: babe! I’m glad you enjoyed! Come to a book signing and I’ll get you a proof of Powerful!

-> y/user: no stop! I’d love that!

DM’s

laurenroberts: Hey Babe, got an event on 29th November, in Florida. You want to come as my special guest?

y/n: id love that! Thank you so much for the invite! I’ll just need to talk to my husband. I’ve never travelled solo and I’m a nervous traveller!

laurenroberts: That’s fine! Just let me know as and when babe!

“Babe, can we talk for a second” you asked your husband as you walk into the kitchen where he is sat with his morning coffee.

"Yes honey what is it?" he asks looking over at you, pushing a glass of orange juice towards you.

"Well, one of the authors that I really like invited me to a book signing.."

"Oh that's amazing sweetheart. Are you going to go?" he says checking his emails not fully paying attention.

"Well, thats the thing. It's over a race weekend... and" you start but his head bolts up to interrupt you.

"You better not be asking for my permission for if you can go, you know you don't have to ask!" he says almost as though he's offended you with think that of him!

"No, no of course not. But I'm scared to go alone, you know how I am!" you explain and he nods remembering the last time you guys flew.

"Well, how about I buy you a nice first class ticket and make the experience worth it. I'll pay for a fancy hotel and a spa evening for when you land ... how does that sound" he grins pulling you into him kissing your forehead.

"You don't have to do that for me!" you exclaim feeling bad!

"Ah no honey, I do this all for you!" he smiles pulling you in for a full kiss.

y/user

Liked by stephaniegarber and ashleyposton

y/n: What do you guys prefer, Romance or Fantasy. I love finding quiet corners at the race track!

Tagged 8 People

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stephaniegarber: Did you enjoy it?

-> y/user: It was so good! I moved straight onto Legend! And Toto brought me OUABH!

ashleyposton: I see those outlines! Thank you for your review on goodreads!

olivia_blake: ahhhh, i hope you enjoy it!

fan1: Y/N is definielty a motorsport romance girlie considering she literally lived one!

->fan2: i forget about this!

"Baby, you have to stop packing so many books!" Toto laughs as he gets out his card to pay the extra bagging expense where your bags had ended up being overweight.

"I'm so so sorry! I didn't realize how many I'd take back with me, American Books are so much more floppy than the ones at home... even though I prefer our covers!" she answers, going to get her card out.

"I'll pay baby don't be silly!" Toto laughs tapping his card as air port staff come over and help you guys take the bags away.

"You are my little book worm aren't you!" he grins pinching your cheeks like an older lady.

"Stop!" you say swatting his hand away.

y/user

Liked by toto.wolff and others

y/n: Toto helped me rebuild my book nook AND took me out for a book haul! It's up on my YouTube now!

Link

Tagged 1 Person

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sarahjmaas: looks amazing!

toto.wolff: I'm happy to help baby!

-> y/user: BEST HUSBAND.

You and Toto had spend the day putting up the swinging chair, and making the room cozy with fairy lights.

He had started to organize your shelves in colour coordination order making a rainbow. You felt so bad when your need to have them in genre and alphabetical order took over.

"Baby, as incredible as this looks, I'm never going to find any books!" you argued and he looks and pulled out Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros.

"See I found you current smutty dragon book!" he smiles handing it to you and your eyes widen at the lingo he was using.

"Have you been... watching my videos?" you ask in shock.

"Mmmm yes honey. i find them very amusing!" he admits and you just stare at him in shock.

y/user

Liked by lewishamilton and toto.wolff

y/n: He looks like this so that I can look like this …

I LOVE MY HUSBAND

Tagged One Person

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fan1: shes so unserious ... lmao

fan2: and you look fab!

You were thankful that Toto worked as hard as he did, he treated you all the time and you treated him in return.

Your husband was so supportive and was without a doubt the best thing that had ever happened to you.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul l @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @viennakarma @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @seomako @urdad-hot @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount @styl1shl1v

[aceies-desiresxx]

one of my favorite things to imagine in disney twst is yuu (your character) deciding to create a school wide publication. a school digital newspaper for the students of NRC.

the dates of all the upcoming unbirthday parties + plus a nit-picky checklist and particular rules that might apply that week to help out the heartsabyul students who don’t wanna deal with “having their head off”

constant updates of the week’s spell drive tournaments and games , + scoreboard for the season, as well as additional info about scouts and recruiters coming to visit said games to encourage the student athletes to reach out and do their best in hopes of their sports career, even a leader board + and mvps so far

monstro lounge’s weekly specialties and deals as well as hiring info incase students want to earn some extra money on campus, and how to contact azul if you’re from another dorm

reminders of important dates on the lunar calendar for both werebeastmen and scarabia students + the newest imports from foreign lands in sam’s shop that might make their dorm feel more like home

news about the newest fashion trends and movies + plus a gossip column that has features on particular students. it’s worded in a riddle, and all names are anonymous so the student body spends awhile trying to figure out who it’s about

new game releases, paired with student options on difficulty and enjoyment. students handles will be tagged allowing for their streams to reach a larger audience + showcases of student art

history on NRC and spooky stories that will be fun to theorize about. legends of trapped souls on campus ground and interviews from alumni and what they think of it or if they were witness to the history

you can also find info about clubs and their recruitment and how to join, when the housewardens will have another meeting with eachother so you can voice your ideas to them in hopes it will be brought up, dates for large student study sessions and after school help, dates for “leaked” pop quizzes or even large tests that you might’ve forgotten were gonna be later that week. tickets and shows to student performances even dumb quizzes to pass the time. you can find all staff emails and how to even duel your house warden to take their spot. but for some reason that tab doesn’t have a lot of viewers.

this digital publication keeps the student body of NRC well informed and is popularly visited, only gaining more traction as the school year goes on. so ofc students have been trying to figure out who’s been behind it.

all the crisp photos of the spell drive players, the leaked dates of tests, the gossip, sam’s stock. how’s one person able to get the news before anyone else is? no way azul would sign a contract with them, plus even azul doesn’t have access to all this info. if only he had some sneaky eels who love to be as slippery as they are in the water, above ground. or a few ghost friends able to go through walls and overhear things they probably shouldn’t. maybe sam IS in on it, wanting to spread awareness about his goods so he makes profit. even a cat small enough to sneak around when bribed with enough tuna could help out. plus a killer camera from the headmaster. maybe crowley knows what’s going on but is letting things play out. so far it hasn’t gone too far. plus. who would suspect the prefect from another dimension? they have a hard enough time as is. no way they’d be able to keep up.

[fulcrvm]

SNIPPET COMPILATION — Dreamling Bingo: New Mundanities

Square/Prompt: B1: Crying, A2: Detective, B2: Free Space, C3: Replaced with Adoptable Prompt "Retired Dream"

Rating: G for this post (T for final fic)

Ship(s): Dreamling

Warnings: N/A

Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship

Summary: After spending some time in Jo Constantine's company, Morpheus, now newly human and living with his partner Hob Gadling, finds himself missing a small part of his previous station as Endless. And one morning, Hob wakes to find a cat in his flat.

🌟 @dreamlingbingo

Read the previous posted snippet from this same fic HERE!

Snippets of various scenes from this fic are presented in the order they appear in the story! I hope this piques your interest!

- - - - -

It's all gone terribly wrong. 

The day had past pleasantly up until now— Morpheus had enjoyed a lie-in in the morning, received an email with the details of the panels for the upcoming speculative fiction conference he was invited to (and replied to it timely manner, no small feat indeed), and had decided to prepare a dinner to share with Hob to celebrate once his lover returned home from work.

Life as with Hob has been surprisingly pleasant, as Morpheus had learned over the past year. Hob, who had welcomed him inside his home when his elder sister dropped him, newly human, on his doorstep. Hob, who had helped him learn how to walk for the first time, to learn what foods his stomach could handle, and learn the joys of sticking a foot out from beneath the covers when it got too warm.

Hob made Morpheus feel as if he was adjusting to being human well enough.

This evening was clearly proving all of that completely wrong.

To start with, Morpheus thought it would be smart to bring out the suitcase needed for his conference trip. He felt so proud of the idea to begin packing a week ahead of time that he pulled out the bag so violently, it crashed into his big toe and upturned the nail. Such specific pain of a type unlike anything he's ever felt before jolts through him, Morpheus finds himself crumpled on the ground holding his foot with full tears in his eyes. How humiliating.

After what was probably an hour or so, Morpheus convinced himself to hobble into the kitchen to grab a cold compress from the fridge and sit on the couch with it until it felt better. He attempted to turn on the TV, only for the remote to slip out of his grip, clattering on the ground, both batteries falling out and rolling to who knows where— leaving the television on on one of those generic rerun channels, something that looks vaguely like RoboCop blasting at a volume that Morpheus now can’t adjust due to the state of the remote.

Hob comes home two hours later to find Morpheus shuffling miserably around the kitchen with the cold compress balanced on one foot, burnt broccoli rabe on a tray in one hand and a cold, congealed amalgamation of cavatelli pasta in a colander in the other. A pot of too spicy nduja vodka sauce bubbles over on the stove top, and all the while, the television provides uncomfortably loud explosions and shouting as background music. Morpheus looks up at Hob with wet eyes, devastated, “I'm-”

[ - - - ]

Morpheus takes his time, fidgeting with the fabric of the couch as he starts speaking slowly. “Do you recall the night we ran into Johanna Constantine at the New Inn?”

Hob hums into his mug, “How could I forget.” 

���SO, the legends are true!” Jo exclaims as she seats herself at their table without asking, “Hob, you madlad, way to truly do what no man has done before!” She claps Hob on the shoulder and nods in Morpheus's direction, “No offense, Dream Lord.”

“None taken,” Morpheus replies with mild amusement, hoping it covers his flinch at the old title.

Hob grins with a glint in his eye, like he’s sharing an in-joke, “I take it you've been acquainted with this generation of the Constantines as well?”

Morpheus nods, “She aided me, once, when I did not know exactly how to ask for it.” He glanced between them, floundering slightly on how to say ‘and you two?’ without the aid of his Dream omnipresence filling in the gaps of information for him.

“Oh, yes, here you go, Hobsie,” Jo produces a battered and wax-sealed envelope out of her trench coat and slides it across the table, “from our dead boys detectives. Late rent for their office. They kindly sent it through me from across the pond so it couldn't be traced back to you.”

“Ah, cheers,” Hob shuffles through the contents of the envelope, grinning at Morpheus, “I guess you could say she's done the same for me then!”

Johanna is a singular being, Morpheus has known so since their first encounter. For someone so outwardly nonchalant and often obtrusive, she waited until Hob stands to get their refills from the bar before turning to him with the barest glimmer of concern in her eyes. “You’re human and here by choice, right? I know Hob wouldn’t, I think, I hope, but— I just needed to ask.” There was a split second where Morpheus was shot with offense— how dare someone think of Hob in such a way?— but the feeling is immediately chased with an unexpected warmth. That someone knew of his past and cared enough about him, human, to ask. Morpheus had smiled, “Indeed. It was… a difficult decision, but Hob has done nothing but be supportive and caring when I needed such.”

[ - - - ]

It was well into her third pint when Jo starts personally interviewing Morpheus on his little time as human so far— “Do you have a favourite food? Favourite weather? Do you have a job? What do you miss the most? About being, y'know, Dream?”

Hob swats her arm lightly across the table, “Oi, be sensitive.”

“The Library,” Morpheus answers quietly. “To have every story ever dreamed, written or not, at my fingertips is perhaps something I had taken for granted. Yet, as a human, I now get the novel experience of discovering a story for the first time as I read. But to live knowing I cannot reach the Library during my waking hours is a new type of loss to cope with.” Hob's hand has found its way over his, squeezing gently to ground him. Morpheus hums, “Perhaps that is why I've been drawn to writing in this life so far.”

“That's really sweet,” Jo says, pausing to take a swig. “I did think you would say your ‘shaper of forms’ magic stuff, though.” She wiggles her fingers at the pair. “Seemed handly, and Endless ‘magic’  doesn’t seem to have the same toll on mortals- uh, humans as it would to an Endless user.”

[ - - - ]

Despite his prior station, Morpheus is, admittedly, still not very fond of trying to go to sleep. The human body and freshly mortal brain fills the drowsy brain with a litany of unpleasant sensations—black voids, falling and hitting the ground, losing awareness, loose limbs… To feel so out of control of his experiences and let his brain fully dictate his body, Morpheus doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to it.

Somehow, as a cat, the feeling is exponentially worse.

- - - - -

Find more snippets for this fic under the #new mundanities tag or under #rex writes !

[rxverriess]

God, I'm not your strongest soldier

୨୧‥∵‥‥∵‥‥∵ ‥‥ 🐈‍⬛ ‥‥∵‥‥∵‥‥∵‥୨୧

Summary: Running away from the past is already challenging, and now the girl I never thought would acknowledge me has something against me and wants me to work for her. It could have been worse, but at least I'll get paid... but at what cost? Let's see how working for Aeri will turn out for the better or the worse. Hell, maybe even both. Pairing: Aeri (Giselle) x Fem! Reader Featuring: Yeonjun (TXT) and Woo Young (Ateez) Warning: Brief self-harm mention, Blackmail, Cursing A/N: Hello everyone :3!!! I finally finished writing and making this story and currently working on the next chapter (if this story turns out well ^^; ) thank you very much for your patience and I hope you enjoy this upcoming series. I was very inspired by @rosemaeridream story "Hate is no better than Love" (which I very much recommend and send love to the author) This is my first ever time writing fanfic, and would love to receive some feedback and criticism would be nice to make the storyline more smoother and enjoyable to read :D. Thank you again and hope you like this! Credits: dividers by @dollywons

I have always struggled to find a career path since I was young. Nothing has interested me, no matter how hard I try. I have hobbies, don't get me wrong but I never really saw them as career paths, even if I did my passion would be shut down by my parents saying “That's not a career (Y/N) that's just a little hobby, you should be earning money from it.” But what if I did see them as a career? Imagine opening my gallery, selling my artwork, and making a name for myself in the art world. 

 But as if right now I’m sitting in my finance lecture trying my best not to have a complete mental breakdown. Seriously, why did I sign up for this? I'd honestly rather marry an eighty-year-old dude who's guaranteed to cheat on me with younger women than endure this professor’s constant coffee slurping and forgetfulness. And wouldn't you know it, my earbuds decided to die on me. As I glanced around the room, I couldn’t help but observe my classmates – someone was playing Papa's Freezeria, a diligent note-taker, and Aeri who made eye contact with me... Wait what. I must be seeing things because I couldn’t possibly get her attention on me, like what did I do? She looked up and down at me then turned around and went back talking to her friends. Weird. 

I couldn’t stop thinking about how Aeri. Uchinaga Aeri made eye contact with me? Aeri was a very….interesting person the nicest way I could describe her. She was very cocky, arrogant, and from what I heard also toxic. She leads on girls thinking they could have a chance with her, only to find out she just wanted to get something out of them and then break their hearts in the cruelest way possible or how boys fond over her to the point that they carve her name on their thigh or even worse commit suicide. It's no wonder she's got such a big ego. I mean, who wouldn't, with all the boys and girls falling over themselves to impress her, copy her, and just generally bask in her glory? She's practically a campus legend. And let's not forget her family's "old money" background – her great-great-great grandfather's company has been keeping her in the lap of luxury for generations.

But why was she staring at me? I never really cross paths with her unless it’s some snarky comments about my presentation whenever I present or how I was always not paying attention in class

“And that’s it for today's class, please make sure to submit your spreadsheet project by the end of the day which is due at midnight, and don't you dare email me over the weekend saying you lost progress on it or experiencing technical issues while submitting it. Have a good day” as the professor leaves the classroom. “Well shit,” I thought I haven't even touched the project yet here I was daydreaming about Aeri the entire class period. 

No. No, I wasn’t. I was just caught off guard that's all, I would never think about her like that. She barely even knows I exist and it's going to stay like that.

It was now 9:00 PM, and I found myself in the library, attempting to break free from procrastination. Even glancing at the graph is causing me a headache. I took another sip of my third energy drink can and attempted to input the numbers from the graph when my computer suddenly slammed shut, nearly crushing my fingers.

“What the hell? What is your prob-” My mouth stopped as soon as I saw the person who was standing in front of me. Aeri.

“Um hi A-” 

 “You’re (Y/n) (L/n)?” she said cutting me off mid-sentence

“Yeah? I’m in your finance class…” I looked up at her, catching me by surprise at how she knew my name.

"I have a proposition for you," she said. "I'm looking for a photographer to take my modeling photos. And I stumbled upon your page and I have to say, your pictures are... decent."

 She didn't even bother to make eye contact with me while speaking to me. It seemed like it was a struggle for her to compliment my work.

I rolled my eyes at her. "Well, Aeri, I'd love to work for you, but only if money is involved," I replied with a straight face. "Wow, aren't you greedy?" she scoffed in amazement that I had the nerve to ask for payment. "You get to work for me and all you care about is how much I'll pay you?"

 “My time and work aren't for free and even if I were with the most famous person I would still charge them, I have a student debt to pay off not to mention my rent. And besides you come from a wealthy family how come you can’t find a professional photographer to take your pictures?”

“It's just” She pauses for a moment as if she is going to say something she shouldn't say “My family can’t know about this and that is all I’m going to say to you because it's none of your business” she smiled at me as she said that almost feeling like I was being threatened 

"Even if I had a private photographer, there's a good chance they would try to expose me to get more money from my family," she said, almost mumbling that last part. She got up from her chair and came over to my side. As if the atmosphere just changed out of nowhere, why am I so tense? It's like the Grim Reaper is about to take my life away from me any second now. As she leaned on the edge of the table, making eye contact with me, she continued, "Besides you really can’t say no to me either way”

“What can you have that I can’t say-”

 Then the room went silent when she pulled up a video. The video I’ve tried to run away from. The video I tried to avoid. The video that Aeri is holding that ruined my life in high school to the point I moved states away from home when I was applying to college. 

Was it expensive to the point my parents wouldn’t financially support me? Yes. All because of a video. Pretty much. But yet here I am seeing how Aeri using this video against me. I just wanted to run away from it like how I’ve been doing for the longest time.

“Aeri,” I said with a stern voice, not trying to get my anxiety the best of me “Where the hell did you get that video from”

“Oh this” she held her phone up and smiled at me “I have some connections but that’s not important right now because now I have you in a position where you really can’t say no to me” She had a huge grin on her face that I just wanted to slap it off. 

Red. I saw red at that moment. Why? Just why? Why is this happening to me now? Who the hell does she think she is? I thought I could simply just run away from it and be done with it but I guess not. I just wanted to leave and run far away from this world but felt stuck in my mind and couldn't even leave the chair as if someone put glue on it. When I looked up from Aeri, she was standing there, looking down on me like I was prey to her.

“Fine” is all I could say to her, not after the stunt she pulled out on me. I felt tired from that moment and all I wanted to do was just go to my apartment, lay in bed, and never wake up but unfortunately, not everyone can have that.

"Glad we agreed then," she said as she grabbed her stuff. Before she turned to leave, she added, "Oh, and one more thing” She handed me a sticky note with her number on it. "Text me if you have any questions or something, but don't text me too much. Otherwise, we'll only communicate by email, okay? Bye," she said then walked out of the library as if she hadn't just blackmailed me.

Fucking great just great (y/n) now look at what you got yourself into now. Not only you're going to be working for her and she has shit on you as well. Wow, I got the best of both worlds, didn't I? 

The train ride was very silent on my way to my apartment, my leg kept bouncing up and down as I stared out the window with headphones on that I always kept a spare but even so the music couldn’t even calm my thoughts down.

ding

The announcement came on telling passengers of the next stop and to be ready to depart. I grabbed my stuff and stood in front of the door. I kept looking at myself in my reflection. And all I saw was a sixteen-year-old me looking distraught and disappointed. If only I could've hugged her and told her everything would be alright. But even she knows I'm lying to myself.

As I finally arrived at my apartment door where I already heard two of my roommates being very loud and obnoxious (as usual). I opened the door where I saw Woo Young and Yeonjun playing video games and being extremely competitive with each other in the living room.

As I step inside, I drop my keys in the bowl and slip off my shoes, tucking them away in the cubby before slipping into my house slippers. 

"Guys, don't start roughhousing because I don't want to spend a month without a TV like last time," I yelled as I was in the kitchen trying to find something to eat, even though I had lost my appetite after that whole day. I simply grabbed a yogurt and headed to the living room to grab my bag.

“Jeez you look like shit” claimed Woo-young as he kept looking at me and then back at the screen. “Thanks” I replied as I was walking towards my room.

“Hard day in class?” yeonjun asked without taking his eyes off the TV, getting more aggressive with the controller 

“Trust me that wasn’t even half of what happened today but I would appreciate it if you guys keep it down please I just want to sleep and hope this entire day was just a dream,” I said, knowing I got weird looks from them but turned down the volume a bit.

As I finally changed into my pajamas, I settled into bed and stared at the ceiling, recapturing what the fuck just happened today. I was simply minding my own business finishing my project, which I didn’t even get to finish but at this point why does it matter I just got blackmailed by the most popular girl on this campus, and worse I have to fucking work for her now. Memories of our brief encounter at the library began flashing through my mind.

My mind lingers to slumber as I try to hide away from these bad thoughts and sleep where I'm not running away from everyone and everything. 

I promised her that.

[sunny-porridge]

*Taps mic* *leans in* It is, the Wizard.

Imagine this, Wild for the sake of fun, dresses as Dark Link. He starts to stand ominously stare behind trees in the costume, and eventually goes for a full jumpscare.

How would the guys react?

asjsjskdjsjkadfs hi Wizard hope this email finds you well

Sky: he saw Wild changing into the Dark costume a few weeks ago. Wild made a “shush” gesture and Sky nodded solemnly, Comitting to The Bit. He’s hiding behind some bushes making creepy noises with a flute he whittled specifically for this purpose.

Wind: at first he thought it was a friendly ghost (it’s more likely than you’d think) but he started getting more and more paranoid as the apparition would never speak to him or show its full form, which is a bad omen. The moment Wild jumps out, he knocks out a Light Arrow, which luckily only plucks the hat off and reveals Wild’s hair tucked into a messy bun.

Four: at first he thought it was a friendly shadow (it’s more likely than you’d think) but there was no way that creature wasn’t stalking them, possibly to give information to Ganon. He tried chasing it a few times but never got close enough before it disappeared. He turns into the Colors and quickly pins Wild on the ground who just grins and offers a deal to keep a secret for a secret.

Legend: knows a transformation trick when he sees one. Sure, he has his shield and sword out in an instant, but a quick look with the Magic Mirror confirms the truth. He decides to whip out the most chaotic items he has just to mess with Wild. Think: cane of Somaria, quake medallion, tornado rod, fire gloves.

Hyrule: he’s been saving his Thunder spell for just this purpose. He knows better than to try to fight his shadow in melee combat. If Thunder doesn’t knock him down, there’s always Fire.

Twilight: fights shadow with shadow, so he’d turn into wolfie and tackle him in record time. After which he’d recognize him based on scent and let some drool fall on Wild’s face as punishment.

Warriors: at first I thought he would be the most impulsive Link (one does not survive what he did at the Temple of Souls without significant trauma) but after some thought I think that whole experience left him with a lot of insight and self control. Thus, he would notice the foe is not made of actual darkness (Wild has his own shadow after all) and tie him up to interrogate him. Wild would Commit To The Bit for as long as possible. Sky is still making creepy noises behind a bush.

Time: The suit in BOTW / TOTK resembles him specifically. Those damn red eyes bring up the worst memories of his quest, no, quests. For this, I crown Time as Most Likely to Cause a Lethal Wound. He’d become friends with Mipha though so it’s fine.

[kevin-sedai]

The breaking point that made them turn to the Shadow

Elan (Ishy): Was eating ice cream cone on a hot day. The ice cream melted so much that it fell off the cone and on the ground. He spent the next several hours screaming, "There is no point to life". He was 2.

Mierin (Lanfear): Lews Therin left her for Ilyena. The real reason neither will mention is that Lews said no to a strap-on.

Lillen (Moghedien): Was having the worst morning, and really didn't appreciate the "I hope this email finds you well" message she got from Sharon in the marketing department.

Joarr (Asmodean): His new single, Age of Legends version of What Does the Fox Say, didn't get platinum. Lews Therin was quoted saying, "What the fuck does anyone care about what foxes say".

Karamile (Graendal): A client (Mierin) told her that Eat Pray Love wouldn't fix anything if they watched it. Neither would drinking nothing but green tea. Lew Therin was quoted saying, "That's a shitty movie, and I never cared for green tea". In response, she is quoted saying, "Well, maybe if Mierin had at least had some bread and calmed down, she wouldn't have released the devil."

Tel (Sammael): He was told that he couldn't ride the roller coaster in Ilian. As he was turned away, Lews Therin was walking off of it, saying how fun it was.

Saine (Messaana): The Collam Daan wouldn't let her do her thesis. Her thesis was titled: "Did the top keep spinning or did it fall at the end of Inception". Lews Therin, self-proclaimed best friend of the movie's director, said that the top wobbles and doesn't need a 100 page essay about it.

Duram (Bel'al): Was about to become fencing champion until Lews Therin tickled him with the sword in the finals, leaving him open for the deciding blow. Lews Therin won the trophy, Duram was given a participation ribbon.

Barid (Demandred): Asked Ilyena to AoL prom, but Ilyena told him that she was going stag and wanted to just focus on herself. He went with Mierin instead, only to see Lews and Ilyena walk in together. They won prom king and queen, Barid was mistaken (by Mierin) for a chaperone and given duty at the punch bowl.

Eval (Balthamel): Was at AoL version of Vegas and was caught counting cards. Lews, who told him he counts too, won the jackpot.

Ishar (Aginor): Managed to fuse a hamster and a frog. He was so proud of it until he read in the newspaper the quote, "No one asked for that," by Lews Therin.

Ared (Rahvin): He was denied a third name because it was revealed that he used Compulsion for most of his accomplishments. The main tipping point though is that his hair started to gray at a young age, whereas Lews Therin's hair remained a shining brown.

Nemene (Semhirage): Nemene... that's not a cadaver. And he's awake. You... you can't dissect him. Everyone said this to her.

[keouil]

legends are slippery little things

ushijima and kageyama get drafted for the national team. oikawa threatens iwaizumi to send hourly updates. 4k. ushikage/iwaoi. gen. also on ao3.

when, then, are we ever at home?

They’re assigned roommates for the 2016 Rio Olympics Training Camp.

Ushijima has been living out of a suitcase far longer than he’s known stability, and so doesn’t so much as blink at the official email he gets from the Japan Volleyball Association. They had it all planned out for everyone—detailed not just daily schedules and meal plans for both players and staff, but also designated lodgings. He finds out Iwaizumi is joining them for this season as an intern trainer, and is staying in the same compound as them.

Ushijima Wakatoshi and Kageyama Tobio, Room 3A, Building B.

It makes sense when you consider logistics, surmises Ushijima; being the only two on the national team who were out of towners, that even with a chartered bus at their service, commute time that could be lent to training was more optimal for the team moving forward. Ushijima is used to wheeling things in and out of dorms or hotels, and even welcomes from time to time, the often solitary nature it brings. 

But evidently not everyone did.

Kageyama hasn’t even so much as stepped a foot in the room since he punched the code. He stood lingering awkwardly by the door, eyes tracing the four corners of the room and peering curiously at the bunk beds and built in drawers and such. Cataloguing the space of what would be home for the next six months. His fingers were clutching his duffel bag and carry-on firmly, maybe even groundingly.

Ushijima has the faintest thought that will he not say anything, anything at all, then Kageyama would have been perfectly content to stay there for the rest of the night.

“Tobio,” Ushijima breaks the silence first, bringing his luggage to the side to make room. It was spacious enough as it is, he thinks, but maybe Tobio was someone who needed more space to acclimate more so than most. “Do you want the top or bottom bunk?”

Kageyama blinks, his still slightly lanky but growing 19-year-old frame stepping hesitantly further into the room. Ushijima doesn’t know if he’s just this generally awkward as a person or just with people in general. Or just Ushijima.

“I don’t have a preference,” Ushijima says in what he hopes comes across casually, instead noting how the normally levelled pitch of his voice is enough to send Kageyama into a straight-backed pose that seems born out of obedience to authority. He tries again, a little gentler, “You are free to choose.”

Kageyama looks anywhere but at him. His hand gripping the handle of his luggage was knuckled white, eyes darting to and from the bed and his face. 

“I—” he starts unsurely. “I also don’t — mind. Anything.”

Somehow in that surprisingly shy timbre of Kageyama’s stammering, Ushijima vaguely remembers Iwaizumi telling him he opted out of university in favor of going straight to the leagues. By the time Kageyama graduated, a well documented and patented offer from the Adlers was already on its way to him for a final signature. He was wined and dined and cooed. Ushijima would know the politics and optics of it all that well, he thinks: it’s exactly the kind of trajectory they laid out for him a few years prior. 

Except Ushijima rallied for university. 

His dad didn’t need much convincing, neither did the Adlers representative who even encouraged the idea of him being a student athlete. He’s thankful he pushed through with it, because it really has done wonders for his social graces; blunting some of his awkward pauses and making the flow of conversation pass by smoother. He’s far better at reading people and responding to their social cues than he ever was, and has university to thank for some of it.

Ushijima had a year or so in the league before Kageyama officially signed on with them. A month later, they were both drafted for the JNT. It wasn’t nearly enough time to learn each other outside the court, Ushijima still on the beginning legs of casual conversation that didn’t revolve around volleyball, and Kageyama still so clearly reserved—and maybe even hesitant—as the team’s youngest. 

Sometimes Kageyama looks at him a certain way, and Ushijima doesn’t know what he sees exactly: if it’s a version of him that’s a fellow Olympian on a completely level playing field with him, or still that asocial 3rd-year private school senior who didn’t so much as blink their way when they first met. Ushijima isn’t someone raised to have a lot of regrets, but time has allowed him the hindsight to look back on that encounter and humble himself enough to know he could have acted better.

And maybe that’s why when he looks at Kageyama’s growing frame, notices the awkward hunch in his shoulders and the way his limbs sprawl out from under him and still do, makes a decision for him: He has long legs. Still growing legs. Movement will be kinder on him below.

“You take the bottom bunk, then.”

-

“And this,” Ushijima demonstrates. “Is where the detergent goes in.”

Kageyama blinks. “Ushijima-san,” he starts carefully. “I — I know how to do my own laundry.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He doubts either of them can see him, hunched in one of the many tables along the laundry room where the light was spotty enough as it was and multiple machines blocked anyone’s view of him. He was waiting for the final load of his sheets to dry when he heard familiar voices waft in. Ushijima had been trying to teach Kageyama how to operate a very standard, hotel-issue washing machine for the better part of ten minutes; and in that time, completely missing the look of incredulousness on Kageyama’s face as he watched Ushijima take charge of his pile and unceremoniously dump it in himself, all the while pointing out which buttons were for which. 

Iwaizumi didn't even have to ask.

He knows it took Kageyama that painfully long to speak up because he didn’t have the heart to tell Ushijima right away he was already well-versed in the art of domestic chores. Oikawa was going to have a field day with this.

“Oh,” Ushijima says. “Are you sure?”

Kageyama rubs the back of his neck hesitantly. “Um,” he flushes. “I–I’m pretty sure, yes. My sister taught me.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes.”

“Older?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Ushijima says, and then: “I see.”

Kageyama doesn’t know what to do with his mouth or his hands, and so opts for the next best thing: shutting up and letting the clinical motions of doing your laundry at 10pm on a Friday night dull his social nerves. He’s just about to put some quarters in when he hears Ushijima say something beside him.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, stopping halfway.

“Fabric softener,” Ushijima points to his machine. “If you don’t have any, I can give you some.”

Kageyama blinks. “What for?”

Ushijima also blinks. “To soften your fabric.”

But ofcourse, Kageyama thinks, still wrapping his mind around it. Miwa never added anything else to their laundry days except the usual store-brand detergent. “Is it,” he stops. “Necessary?”

Ushijima considers for a moment. “Yes,” he decides. “I would think so. Fabric softeners make your clothes last longer, and I find they’re more comfortable to wear than without. Would you like some?”

“Oh,” Kageyama sputters. “I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. So I don’t have—”

“That’s no problem,” Ushijima walks towards him, unloads the cartridge again as he carefully pours a cup worth of something that smelled surprisingly crisp with just the faintest hints of floral. “I always bring extra just in case.”

“Thank you,” Kageyama says, genuine. “Ushijima-san.”

“You’re welcome,” Ushijima returns. “Tobio.”

The hum and drum of clothes sloshing against each other and the buzzing of the machine keep them company for the rest of the night. Iwaizumi hears gentle pen strokes from Kageyama’s careful fingers as they write on an old leather-bound notebook, the lines of his brows furrowed in concentration as Ushijima takes generous sips of break room coffee, looking past into the Tokyo skyline. Neither of them really needed to stay, but then no one was making an effort to go either. And when fine strips of moonlight make their way from the open window, casting the room in an almost luminous glow from the overhead lights, they hear the crickets make their nightly lullaby and decide they don’t need to say anything. Not a single thing at all.

Kageyama is still a little awkward and socially inept if you care which I know you do, Iwaizumi sends a text to Oikawa later that night. But he’ll be alright.

-

“Just ask.”

“Ask what.”

“You know what.”

“What.”

“I can practically feel your eyes bulging out from my screen,” Iwaizumi sighs, walking over closer to the net. Oikawa wasn’t being subtle with not even looking at him, but everywhere else. “Just ask what you want to ask and get it over with, Oikawa.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oikawa rebutts, unconvincingly.

Iwaizumi inhales deeply, changing to the front camera of his phone to position it at an angle just so. “There. Happy now?” he points it directly at the court, deliberately tilted to show a specific side of the net. Where the setter usually lingers. “Your protege has and will always be killing it, I think. Kageyama scares the fuck out of me even now, to be honest.”

Iwaizumi hears sputtering behind the phone, overly dramatic intakes of air, and can practically hear a retort coming and so beats him to it by turning his phone another way again.

“And Ushiwaka, as usual,” he trails off, making sure Ushijima’s cross-shots showed on the screen. “Is still annoyingly good with that southpaw. There. Are you good now?”

“Tobio-chan, is that you?” Oikawa squeaks from the phone, the sound of seagulls flapping in the wind and waves crashing in the background on his end. “Couldn’t be you, because what I just saw was a shit serve!”

Kageyama’s eye twitches a fraction at the voice, but doesn’t look their way. 

Iwaizumi was monitoring them everyday, meaning that Oikawa was also calling everyday, meaning that Oikawa might as well have been part of the JVA all the good his daily verbal assaults to the team were getting. To Kageyama and Ushijima, especially.  

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, hissing into the phone, “I didn’t call you just to say shit about our setter.” 

“Listen, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa ignores him, gets so up and personal in his phone that his eyes nearly cross over. “Is that Ushiwaka being nice to you? If he isn’t, let Iwa-chan know. I’m the only one who gets to call your serves shit, okay! And don’t let his height fool you—Ushiwaka is nothing next to Iwa-chan’s arms! Right, Iwa-chan!”

Iwaizumi drags his phone back, shooting an apologetic glance at Kageyama who just lets everything roll off his back, already long made his bed with Oikawa’s usual brand of taunting. Ushijima, too, just quirked a brow hearing his name. 

Before Iwaizumi leaves, they think they can still hear Oikawa’s shrill voice going, “And absolutely no alcohol until he’s at least 20 years old! Do you hear that, Ushiwaka! Do not put that kid on steroids like I know you take because you’re a cheater and a wimp and a sore loser—”

-

Ushijima gets dinner with him sometimes.

It’s not something either of them particularly planned on doing, much less voicing; but when most of your team are native Tokyoites and would much rather prefer the comfort of a home-cooked meal, it leaves you very little options for a dining partner. Ushijima is used to—even expects—eating alone. It’s the nature of being a legacy kid, with almost no contemporary to match himself with until they started drafting him for Worlds in highschool. Sakusa was always a familiar face, but so was his cousin and their uptight clan. There were many more that flitted in and out of the camps, some of them he’s grown the slightest bit acquainted with and would even go so far as calling a distant friend.

But it’s a different thing altogether, Ushijima thinks, when he hears Kageyama sometimes end his sentences in that particular Sendai-ben drawl that is as familiar to him as breathing: the comfort of a shared city, language, even childhood.

Ushijima finds out Kageyama likes waking up early to run. Kageyama finds out Ushijima likes to incorporate mountain trails into his hikes. Ushijima finds out Kageyama takes his ocha unsweetened, and Kageyama finds out that he takes his the exact opposite. They find out other things about each other, some professional tidbits like Kageyama’s vertical jump height being only 3cm shorter than his; or that Ushijima is more than half a decent setter if the circumstances lined up properly for him. Kageyama learns how to spike better. Ushijima’s tosses have never been as sharp.

Then there are the small little details, like finding out Kageyama can’t go to sleep without writing in his journal or that Ushijima regularly FaceTimes Tendou late into the night because of the time difference. No one brings up the noise or the activity, and Kageyama even joined in once on a call with Shirabu and Semi, politely asking how they were doing.

It’s little moments like those that bridge the gap between what started out as professional acquaintances, to something a little warmer on the homesick soul, something that could maybe even resemble: 

“Tobio,” Ushijima says as they’re packing up after training. “Do you want to eat dinner together?”

If Kageyama is startled, he doesn’t show it. Or he’s slowly acclimating himself to the normality and regularity of what space Ushijima now takes up in his life. “Oh,” he says, just an inch shy still but thawing, somehow. “Yes, of course, Ushijima-san.”

“OK,” Ushijima nods in return. “Let’s meet in the lobby in 5?”

The ramen bar Ushijima takes them to is at a lively corner by Nakano Broadway, just a few stops away from the Ajinomoto Training Center. He knows the catering provided by the JVA is specially curated for pro athletes their calibre, but sometimes the blandness of the chicken or the lack of more beverage options loses its nutritional appeal. Even to someone as disciplined in their diet like both he and Kageyama are. A cheat day once in a while wasn’t going to ruin them forever. 19-year old Kageyama—and Ushijima takes great pain to always remind himself of this when sometimes, so rarely, Kageyama messes up in training—is still growing, and frankly he doesn’t care if he had the discipline of a Buddhist monk, no teenager should be eating the same dry meal everyday.

“Choose anything you want from the menu,” Ushijima says when they settle on one of the tables. “My treat. The shoyu ramen here is my favourite, but the tsukemen isn’t bad either.”

“Oh,” Kageyama blinks, obviously surprised. “You don’t have to—”

Ushijima stops him with a hand. “It’s no worry,” he insists. “I’m sure Iwaizumi was going to take you here sooner or later. He told me how much you like the ramen from Tsurotontan back home, and they offer a similar thing here.”

Kageyama looks like he’s still running it over his head. “Iwaizumi-san did?”

Ushijima nods. “Well,” he shrugs. “Oikawa told him. I think he said exactly, Make sure that Ushiwaka treats Tobio to at least one meal or so help me God, I have the power of the South American Volleyball League on my side, or something like that,” he ends, amusedly.

“Oh my god,” Kageyama flushes, maybe a touch embarrassed. His ears were tinged red. “He didn’t have to. I–I’m okay.”

“I think they’re both just concerned about your wellbeing on a high-profile team,” Ushijima looks him over carefully, clinically, noting how much he’s already filled out his physique over just a few weeks. “You are awfully young to be an Olympian, Tobio.”

“I know that,” Kageyama looks down at the menu, a small frown marrying his brows. If Ushijima squints, he thinks he can make out the gesture as so frighteningly Iwaizumi. The almost-pout, Oikawa. It’s the first he’s seen him resemble something close to a kid. Kageyama coughs, determination etched in his voice when he says, “But I don’t regret anything.”

Ushijima smiles a little at that. “No,” he nods along. “I bet you don’t.”

-

The training camp ends with an after party.

They’re at one of the nearby yakiniku grills from the stadium. Slabs of Kobe beef, Uchimono, Habaki, and the like all passed around their growing table of nearly 30. The coaches are already in their third beer of the evening, Hibarida and Hitaki sloshing their mugs towards each other like drunk uncles at a children’s party. Faces are beet red, chopsticks are slipping off fingers, and speeches are slurring. But no one’s had as much fun in days, and it shows, in the easy companionable vibe the evening brought. 

Ushijima was sitting on one of the corner tables, taking command of the grill as Kageyama munched gleefully on his bbq platter. The respectful thing to do at these things was to let his seniors roll the stress off their backs and mingle occasionally when needed. He’s been to enough of these to know he’s never going to enjoy them, but respects the kind of camaraderie it inspires in people as they let their hairs down and suits unbuttoned. He's told Kageyama as much, at least.

Someone coughs—Shugo Meian, was it? MSBY captain and the JNT MB—as he saunters his way to their side, grinning good-naturedly down at him and Kageyama. His cheeks were already slightly flushed, holding two cups of sake.

“Tobio-kun, right?” he says, offering him a cup. “Man, your sets really are the best!”

“Uh,” Kageyama sputters, also beet red, without the aid of alcohol. “I’m—”

“He’s still 19,” Ushijima finds himself answering for him. 

There wasn’t any pressure to the gesture, not really, Ushijima thinks; if anything all Bokuto told him of Meian was that he was probably the best guy around to wrangle Atsumu and Sakusa when they got into their usual petty fights. Generous with his time, even more with his experience.

And so when Meian flushes even more almost instantly, as he looks down in horror at Kageyama who looked just as uncomfortable, means it when he starts gushing, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Shit. I knew you were young—” he goes on. “But I just didn’t—I mean. Bokuto-kun told me you played like a veteran so I just assumed.”

Kageyama still can’t quite meet his eye, but is able to summon enough social grace on his part to bow his head low. “N-no worries, Meian-san,” he says, politely. “It’s alright. I-I’m tall for my age.”

“Shit,” Meian is still swearing, looking conspicuously around the restaurant. “Iwaizumi is gonna kill me. Little piece of shit is scary for someone so young and short. He’s so gonna make me do a hundred suicide squats if he hears about this.”

Kageyama blinks up at him.

Meian notices. “He told me to look after you,” he explains, eyes tracing the floor. “Something about his Argentinian setter boyfriend killing him if he found out you got wasted under his watch. So I figured—might as well be the one to offer you a drink myself! Least we can control the amount you’re drinking, you know!”

Ushijima smiles into his tea, after sneakily adding more vegetables to Kageyama’s plate. 

“Funny,” he comments offhandedly. “Iwaizumi told me the same thing.”

They place 3rd in Rio just in time for Kageyama to turn 20. Ushijima buys him his first beer. Iwaizumi took copious amounts of pictures that he makes a point of sending to Oikawa, who replies, not even a second later with: Get the brat home safe, he wrote, then after a while, And congratulations. Or whatever.

-

Kageyama is unusually quiet on the bus ride going to Sendai Gymnasium.

He was never the most expressive, in some ways was more curt with his words than even Ushijima is. Hoshiumi is often enough of a chatterbox to fill in the gaps in their conversations. But the difference is that Ushijima had years of experience as a captain, has been put in situations where that demanded more than just a sheer display of strength for being Shiratorizawa’s volleyball poster boy; but spokesperson, sometimes even advisee. Kageyama had the privilege of scaling back whenever he so wished, and some years into their tenure as one of Adlers’s most consistent players, finds that this particular habit hasn’t really divorced himself from the 21-year-old Kageyama he saw now.

“Tobio,” Ushijima starts, the name more confidently rolling off his tongue now. His brusqueness, this frankness he was afraid people would misconstrue as rudeness, Kageyama always responded with respect. “Are you okay?”

Kageyama looks over him a moment. “Yes,” he says finally. “It’s just been awhile since I’ve been,” he stops. “Home.”

Ah, Ushijima nods, understanding his hesitance. Because what is home even?

The Adlers spend majority of their time moving around, the longest and farthest stretch of a home base they can call located in Tokyo. Sometimes some people visit their gym. Sometimes it’s a former Karasuno member like Suga who was taking his students on a tour of Metropolitan Tokyo, who asked if the Adlers were willing to have a bunch of overstimulated and hyperactive six year olds observe how a professional volleyball team trains. Kageyama was only more than willing and even looked forward to it, signing an exact number of miniature volleyballs to the exact count of students Suga was planning to bring in.

He softened with him somehow, the usually strict line of his shoulders hunching just so as he bowed his head low listening to Suga excitedly tell him all about his plans for the rest of their school trip. 

Ushijima thinks it’s not at all dissimilar from how Kageyama acts with Iwaizumi.

Kageyama attacks the court sometimes with such knife-level precision, so finely spun a web; that there’s almost exactly no room for error. He had the hands of a surgeon, and the rigid discipline of such weight so palpable in his shoulders. But talking to Suga and Iwaizumi, it seemed like he allowed himself to be, so rarely, just nineteen. And then twenty-one.

But home was a different concept altogether. And Ushijima who has lived far longer in a suitcase than he ever did somewhere so corporeal as Sendai, can understand, why coming home—in every literal and emotional sense of the word—can feel as real as it is frightening.

“Welcome home, Tobio.”

Tadaima.

Okaeri.

-

Ushijima thinks he’s seen so many versions of Kageyama now: the brash, angry 16-year-old who always came to carthage burning, not caring who he devoured in the process; the slightly less harsher 19-year-old, who still had some jagged edges he needed to iron out, but considered and paused and evolved, some ways still so wet behind the ears and impossibly so unprepared but so hungry to eat the world raw. 

And then there is Kageyama Tobio in his 20s: who Ushijima is proud to say he had such close audience with and the privilege of seeing grow into, see him thin out what rough edges he had left from teenage angst, tender his soul into something that just kept expanding itself beyond volleyball and the Olympics and training. This boy who is slowly becoming a man who moves with such grace in the court its both a homecoming and homeseeking, this longing to belong and revelling in the home he has made for himself in his soul, finally settle down.

There’s a little bit of everyone in Kageyama, thinks Ushijima: Karasuno and his capacity for love. His family and how grief molds and persists but never burdens. Even some of Oikawa: in the beginning legs of idol worship to the very idea of volleyball itself and what a transformative, life-altering, radical shape it can take in your life. In his stance, his form, the lines of his body so closely paralleling Oikawa that Ushijima has to blink a few times to make sure he wasn’t seeing an old rival but someone entirely in new shoes, a place he clawed his way for in the world brick by brick and toss by toss. 

And maybe even Ushijima himself, he’d like to think so.

In his patience with his soul, in the discipline required to be as great as you want to be but remembering never to burn yourself out in the process. In knowing what it takes to be the greatest, the sheer impossibility of the weight this expectation can have on a child, and guiding himself as gently and delicately as possible so he never loses himself to it. This unanchoring and rebuilding and reforming what it means to be a genius, and maybe more importantly, why it matters not.

But if he’s ever proud of anything, at least Ushijima can say he was the one who introduced Kageyama Tobio to fabric softener. 

[lucky-clover-gazette]

evil emails

1050 words | canon-compliant | vio & shadow

Per our previous conversations, I would like to again emphasize the initiative and skill V has shown since swearing allegiance to our cause. I am contacting you today to follow up on my request to offer him a permanent position as my

Shadow looks up at Vio, whose stupid hat bounces up and down as he gesticulates wildly. He might not fully understand whatever niche historical event has piqued Vio’s interest this week, but Shadow loves to listen all the same.

as my assistant

as my companion

as my official right-hand man.

Author's Note: This is not my usual type of fic, but I thought it would be interesting to try some things I haven't before. This little moment takes place during the canon manga events and is not as clearly ship-oriented as my other work for this fandom. The line between platonic and romantic is up to you to draw.

read it on ao3 or under the cut:

It's an unconventional arrangement, but it works.

"...so the thing about attempting the trials on Master Mode, is that the enemies are all scaled up but the weapons remain mostly the same. An exception is an additional Iron Sledgehammer on the fourth floor, but it's not even useful on the miniboss because it's scaled up to a Luminous Stone Talus, which is the only kind of Talus that doesn't take four-times damage from that weapon. It's just another thing that makes the trials so fundamentally dysfunctional, not to mention how the durability..."

Shadow balances the laptop on his knees and elevates his legs onto Vio's lap. Half-listening to the blonde’s interest of the day, he clicks on the keyboard with freshly-painted purple fingernails.

Hey Boss,

Shadow shakes his head and backspaces. Writing emails will always be a chore, but it was ten times worse before he had Vio around for background noise. He can’t really explain why it helps him so much—logically, it should probably distract him from his writing—but it boosts his efficiency and makes Vio happy, and those are two of Shadow’s main priorities these days.

“…and the sneakstrike chaining is really essential because—Shadow, did you hear that, I said the sneakstrike is essential—”

"I did," Shadow replies, raising a thumbs-up. "Sneakstrike chaining is essential because you can exploit it indefinitely.”

"Well, actually, on the tenth floor it's harder to pull off, because the lizalfos are by water…”

Shadow rolls his eyes with a smile, returning his attention to the screen.

Dear Lord Vaati,

I hope this message finds you well.

Truthfully he couldn’t care less, but with the request he’s about to make he needs the hackneyed salutation.

Progress is going well on Death Mountain. The Fire Temple has been prepared for the heroes’ arrival with more than enough time to spare.

"Two silver lizalfos, Shadow, that's insane! It's like, impossible to beat."

Shadow hums and meets Vio’s eyes. “But didn't the Hero beat it?"

"That's what the legends say, but I still have my doubts. I just don't understand…”

Per our previous conversations, I would like to again emphasize the initiative and skill V has shown since swearing allegiance to our cause. I am contacting you today to follow up on my request to offer him a permanent position as my

Shadow looks up at Vio, whose stupid hat bounces up and down as he gesticulates wildly. He might not fully understand whatever niche historical event has piqued Vio’s interest this week, but Shadow loves to listen all the same.

as my assistant

as my companion

as my official right-hand man.

“One historian postulates that the Hero could have cheated the tenth floor using campfires, but frankly I think that's absurd."

“You're absurd,” Shadow teases, and is promptly flipped off. He sticks out his tongue and opens his file explorer.

I have attached a document outlining Vio Violet Link's contributions over the past few months, as well as statements from the head of HR (Hinox Resources) and Big Poe. Please share this information with Lord Ganon in preparation for next week’s board meeting. I would like to secure my associate’s role in the organization before the end of this quarter.

Shadow hesitates—here comes the hard part.  

As strange as it may sound, V’s allegiance is essential to our continued success. His capability for manipulation is far beyond what we had anticipated, and at this moment the lesser heroes still believe him to be on their side. With this deceptive advantage in mind, I believe we could potentially take over Hyrule before this quarter’s end. Of course, once we have achieved our goal, V’s original purpose in the plan will be fulfilled.

I humbly ask insist that V’s life not only be spared, but also protected indefinitely, by the forces of evil. Violet Link is our proven ally, your faithful servant, and my associate accomplice

“… may have lots of health, but they also die instantly when they hit the water, so of course the strategy is to knock them off the tower, and—hey.”

Shadow feels a hand on his shoulder.

“What?” Shadow asks, his tone more irritated then intended.

Vio frowns, meeting his eyes. He places his free hand on Shadow’s knee, holding him steady. “You just started looking really worried there for a second. Not an emotion I’d normally associate with emails.”

Shadow shakes his head, mustering a smile. “Then you must not know much about emails.”

Vio doesn’t appreciate his joke.

“I’m okay,” Shadow assures him. “Just trying to figure out the right word for something.”

“Oh. All right. Do you want help with that?”

Hylia, no he does not. Shadow places his hand over Vio’s. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got it.”

“Do you need some quiet, or do you want to hear more about…?”

“I want to hear it all.”

Vio seems surprised by Shadow’s response. “Thank you. I’m… still not used to hearing that.”

Shadow resents the world for ever making Vio feel unheard. It’s good, he supposes, that they’re going to destroy it together.  

So, he types:

Violet Link is our proven ally, your faithful servant, and my friend.

It may seen unprofessional to mention friendship in our correspondence, but I see it as assurance. I swear to take full responsibility for V’s actions—past, present, and future. I understand, of course, that there is always a possibility of his betrayal. In such case I

“…shock arrows in a treasure chest, but it might not be worth your—”

 “Vio,” Shadow interrupts, his hand hovering over the keyboard.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t apologi—you know what, we can talk about that later. I just have to ask… I can trust you, right? You’re devoted to the darkness forever?”

Vio blinks. “Why are you asking me this now?”

“I need you to say yes, and I need you to mean it.”

“Then I say yes. You can trust me. I’m devoted to the darkness forever.”

Shadow nods, strangely unsatisfied by his satisfaction.

In such case I swear to end his life myself.

It’s his most compelling argument yet.

“So anyway,” Vio says, his discomfort getting the best of him. “The final boss is a Hinox, actually, and—”

I look forward to your response.

Sincerely,

Shadow Link

[yanderelovlies]

@lapinduchess helped me come up with this Au. This is the Mandela Catalog Au❤️💛💙

This is for everyone who requested the surprise au....surprise!

The scary legends of the internet never really affect Nick. After the scare of the fake dead girl forwarding email, nothing seemed to scare him. Until now that is when he learned first hand that not all of them are legends. His partner of a few years y/n came home one day excited about the haul they found at the thrift store. As they were showing him all the clothes they saw a lone VHS tape fell from the bag. He raised a brow as he bent down to pick it up. “What's this?”

They put the clothes down the bed before walking over to him to see the VHS tape. It took the a minute to recall but when they did they let out a quiet ‘oh”

“I'm not sure where it came from, but it was in my basket when I went to check out. It was only ten cents so I figured why not see what's on it.”

Nick looked at it a bit longer thinking about the monster legend he learned about that use to terrorize EPaso back in the day. At the end of the legend it was said they had to put it in a VHS to keep it from spreading. “Maybe it's from this legend I heard about…..we should watch it.” He handed the VHS back to you with a grin on his face.

You smiled and nodded before putting it down on the bed so you could put the new clothes in the washer.

When it came time to put the VHS tape into the player the two of you snuggled on the couch ready to see the mysteries this VHS tape held. The Tv static was on the tv for a good couple minutes before going completely black. You went to look up at Nick questioningly, but right when your eyes met the screen went white with a silhouette of a man on the Tv. Both of you were entirely confused by what was going on When the lights went out once again. Before he could react he feels you fly from his hold to somewhere in the house your screams echoing through the house.

He was quick to get screaming your name. He tried to run out of the room to find when he felt hand grab his shoulder. It wasn't your hand…no it was too big…too menacing. Nick was about to turn around when something in him told him not to. So instead he shook the grasp off and ran to your shared room praying you were in there as well.

When ran in he quickly shut the door locking it. He moved from the door to the far before whispering your name hoping to hear you respond. Sadly there was no response causing him to collapse to the floor. What was that thing?! What does it want?! And where are you?!

Feeling the buzz in his pocket he quickly fished it out of his pocket. The police! He can call the police!

With a shaky hand he tap emergency call, and called 911

“9-1-1 what's your emergency?”

Nick quickly but quietly told the situation to the operator on the phone. When he was done there was a silence on the phone before the operator responded. “Have you seen who is in your house sir?”

“N-no i couldn't bring myself to look back at it.”

“So you don't know what it looks like?”

“...no”

There was another long pause before they responded “Okay sir….give me your address so i can send some officers over.”

They never came. It had been three days now, and it was only getting worse. On the second day it started banging on his door calling him to open the door. He didn't recognize the voice, making him more weary. On top of that he couldn't bring himself to sleep. He was afraid if he did the thing behind the door would finally get him. He hasn't eaten or drank anything since before this whole thing started. His phone had died long ago, and he didn't dare call his friends. He couldn't bring himself to put them in that sort of danger. He was worn down, but he couldn't bring himself to give up. Sitting in the room for so long he finally recalled what this thing was. The legends were true, and the two of you set this monster free.

Nick is slumped against the wall still staring at the door as if to make sure it doesn't break in. He could feel his eye droop nearly closing when familiar voice rang through the air

“N-nick?” There was a knock on the door again, this time more gentle.

Nick stood up as he felt the adrenaline course through him. That was y/n! They were okay. “y/n?! Are you okay?”

“I….I think so…can you open the door please….I want to see you…”

Nick wasted no time in unlocking the door, and opening it for you. However it wasn't you on the other side. Instead it was what you would look like if you were stretched and deformed. Your voice now sounds like a glitching Ai “Wrong choice Nick.”

His screams rang through the neighborhood that night, and still no one came.

[jackalsarchive]

Hi, hello,

So, in between getting toyed around with by companies while I’m looking for a job, looming student loans, rent, and having no money, I am now also having to raise money since I got into a car accident. That being said, if anyone is interested, I’m opening limited commissions. As I finish the commission slots, I’ll update when they’re available again. It will be a first come first serve basis, locked in by a deposit, with remaining balance due at the end of the commission.

You can find examples of my writing here, (or by tapping/clicking the tag 'j writin' in the tags of this post) and my more nsft fics here.

I mainly write for Legend of Zelda, since that’s what I’m more familiar with, but I am also familiar with and comfortable writing with Castlevania (the netflix series), and Fullmetal Alchemist. I can write nsfw/smut, as long as the characters are of adult age, not related, and in a consensual setting.

*Must be at least 18 years old to commission*

I cannot write: reader-inserts, OCs

Here’s the tiers you can do:

*Prices updated Sept. 26, 2023*

1,000 words= $10.00 USD

2,000 words= $20.00 USD

3,000 words= $30.00 USD

Open positions/slots at a time: 5

You can DM me here on tumblr (jackalsarchive) or discord (jackalshepherd) to claim a position and discuss the commission. As a base line I'd want to know:

-Word count

-Content of the writing

-After payment/deposit is sent, how do you want it delivered- through email, or shared here, etc.?

For now, payments will be through my Venmo, Ko-fi, or PayPal. I will need a half payment deposit before I start, and to lock you in as on the list.

I will keep in contact as well to touch base on commission progress, as it may vary depending on word length, and contents. I won’t leave someone hanging, and I wouldn’t want to take too long anyways.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you have a good day.

[dauntlessdiva]

i wish my stranger things Huge hyperfix was still around :( i miss having brainrot over steddie and such yk? but it’s still lovely to see it on my dash depsite not participating as much anymore. and the fic idea is so good??? i think i’ll go and add some of your fics on ao3 to my read later list! :]

i have tried to watch d20 and specifically fantasy high… i think i got to, like, episode 2 or 3 of season 1. my brain can’t comprehend all of the talking and trying to keep up with story. i love dnd so much and i’d love to delve into d20 more and also critical roll. feel free to talk to me about it anytime! who’s your favorite fantasy high characters??

i also have never watched bridgerton! i’ve seen posts on here about it but i really have no clue what it’s about! i’m guessing it’s british but i’m not even sure about that lol. it’s lovely to watch something with your family like that, it’s really sweet

OH SAME!! i love minecraft and i love baking and i love watching crochet stuff but i don’t participate in the hobby. tell me some of your favorite things about minecraft, your favorite things to bake, your favorite crochet project possibly?

i love music so much AHHH!!! who’s your top 3 artists? or what are some of your favorite songs right now? personally, there’s a new album coming out soon that i’m really excited for! and new music actually released tonight for me as well, just has been a great music month for me ^w^

(hope this is okay, i mean, to send multiple asks as conversation!)

I love this, it's like getting letters but online.

(This is what email wishes it could be)

I also have a hard time concentrating on the words with d20, but also woth podcasts and audiobooks too, so I typically find another task to do to keep my ears engaged. Like I'll listen to Dimension 20 while I bake! Or I'll draw in my sketchbook while listening to an audiobook.

In terms of my favourite character from Fantasy High, it's a tie between Fig and Gorgug. My angry little sweethearts.

Bridgerton IS British! And if you like regency era romance vibes but don't care so much about the historical accuracy, then you'd probably like it. There's a lot of sex scenes though so do with that what you will.

My favourite Bridgerton character is Anthony Bridgerton. He's the eldest and he's so stubborn that I wanna box his ears sometimes, but he is also a sweetheart.

My dad likes to hog the tv for the majority of the week, and we have family movie nights all together on Saturday nights. But on Friday nights, my dad invites his buddies/our neighbours over to hang out in the garage for some beers and good conversation, and me, my mom, and my sister will all go watch something on Netflix together.

We've been doing it since Stranger Things season 4 part 2 came out, and we will just sit and binge entire shows a few episodes at a time.

I may be aging myself with this one, (and that feels so odd to say as someone who just turned 25 last month) but my favourite minceracft youtuber has got to be Vintagebeef. I started watching him when he was in his second season playing on the Mindcrack server (it was their 3rd season I believe), back when I was 12.

I love watching him on the Hermitcraft server these days, and it's nice to see him interacting and having fun with minecraft legends of old and new. I also love any Team Canada (Vintagebeef, Ethoslab, and PauseUnpause) videos. It's as fun as it is chaotic, and it's always very chaotic.

I found a recipe online to turn cake mix into cookies by modifying the wet ingredients, and I have been having so much fun getting creative with those on my days off work since I discovered it sometime last fall.

(My favourite ones so far would have to be the marbled cookies. They are to die for)

My favourite crochet projects, to date, are the baby blanket I made for my best friend's little boy, and the dice bags I recently made for my friend and I (she invited me to join my first ever dnd campaign with her)

My top three music artists right now would be Noah Kahan, Chappell Roan, and Hozier (with a shout out to Benson Boone)

But my all time faves? Marianas Trench, Fall Out Boy, and AC/DC

[goldenimpact]

hELLO IS ANYONE OUT THERE????

OKAY HI hELLO  FIRST OFF I HOPE EVERYONE IS WELL NOW

THAT THE EVIL WHATEVER I AM HAS FALLEN AND GCANT GET UP COMMERCIAL

SOMETHIN SEOMTHIGN DID IT HURT WHEN YOU FELL FROM HEAVEN THE ANSWER IS YES I GOT SHOVES TO THE FLOOR RECENTLY AND THIS FUCKIN BRUISE ISNT FADING FUNNNY HAHA OK PLEASENTRIRSSE ARE DONE

UH IM CATHERINE, MOD-SAN, GOLD, whatever they're callin me nowadays holy shit dude my hands are shakin like crazy

they've had me literally cleaning house PRETTY MUCH AS SOON AS I RECOVERED all work no play makes jack a dull boy thats me IM jack damn it i can't tell if i've eveolved into  a live-in housekeeper or some sort of roomaate and the paymetnt si s that i get to keep my lifeand also i REALLY need to move my keyboard over or get the window to leave the screen cause i can't blind type it just ain't happenin my leg's jitterering like hell BUT THE MOST IMPORTANT PART IS IM ALIVE YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO but i have absolutely NO CLUE how ;long THAS gonna last BBUT the great news is that ive finally been able to sit at my dangf computer and and actual;ly TYOOUCH ANFD LOOK AT IT ive practically been buried in all the freezers BUT ANYWAYS GOD MY HANDSA THEY STING SO FUCKING IABAD D ALKl ANYWAYS IM ALIVE IM STILL HERE IM TRYING?????????? TO GET BACK BUT EVERYONE HERE IS UHH NOT GOOD TO PUT IT LIGHTLY ITS TERRIFYIN OVER HERE BUT IM SENDING MY WELL WISHES THAT EVERYONE IS OKAY OVER THERE AND YOU SURVIVED WHETER THE HECK ANGR MY BIG SDIS MUST"VE SBUBJECTED YALL TOO BEACSE SHE IS FUCKING PISSSEEED LATELY IM GENUUNINLY WORRIED FOR OURLIVES LEVEL THERES SO MANY FIGHTS AND COMING-OUT-ABOUT-HER-LEGEND-OF-VIOLENCE STORY AND THE SHOOTIGN REVENTLY AND POINT IS THE LEGAL STUFF MIGHT GET RESOLVED OKAY?????? DADS MAGIC PROTAG POWERS OR WHATER APAPRENTLY HE KNOWS EVREYONE PERSON ON THE PLANET ITS GODDAMN WITCHCARAFT BUT MOMS DROPPIN LIKE EVERY OTHER DAY BBBBBBUYT OTS HER BIRTHDAY THIS WEEK AND WERE GONNA TRY AND TAKE ME OUTSIDE AND SEE IF I EXPLODE IN THE SUNLIGHT SO UUUUUUUUUUUUUUH THANKS FOR EVERYTHIGN I LOVE YOU GUYS ILL TRYT TO FUCKIN REACTIVATE ALL MY ACCOUNTS ALL A BAJILLION OF THEM APPARENTLY I WAS ONE CRASY AKJSFI KID PLEAASE PASS THIS MESSAGE ON MY BI G SIS WAKES UP SOON IF SHE HEARS ME IM GETTTIN IT I HAVE NO FUCKIN IDEA WHATS GOIN ON ON YOUR SIDE CAUSE NO ONE IS SAYIN JACK SHIT BADUM TSSHH BUT I GOT  MY SHIT COMIN AT LIKE 9 AM RIGHT WHEN I TAKE MY VERY MYSTERIOUS NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK THEY DO ANYMORE MEDS AND IF I KICIK THE BUCKET AT LEAST I FUCKING STAYED BABY YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

ALSO IM NOT DRUNK WE DONT DRINK IN THIS HOUSE EVER BUT I DEFINITYL NEEDS A LIL HELP IN LIKE ANY SORT OF MEANIN NO ONE IN THIS HOUSE FUCKIN REMEMBERS ANYTHING IN ANY SOR TOF WAY FOR ANY SORT OF THING ITS AN ACTUAL I HAVE NO IDEA WHOSE CALLIN OR TOUCHIN SHIT OR WHAT TALL THIS SHTI IS IN THE HOUSE AND FRANKLY IM TERRIFIED CAUSE EVREYONE LEAVES POR PASSES OUT BEFORE I CAN GET A CLEAR ANSWER AND AND ADN COLD WAR INTELLIGENCE WHATHER NEWS STORY OLD POPS HERE IS PUTTIN ON TV ANYWAYS LOVE YOU GUYS STAY SAFE CALL OUT IF YOU SEE ME IN THE WILDS SOMEDAY BUYYEYEEE

WAIT I JUST REMEMBRED BIG SIS IS GONNE DESTROY SHIT SOON SONSONSOON SHIT HSHISTHSHIT OK ANYWAYS ERVYTHIN ONLINE LOOKS OKAY FROM WHERE I CAN SEE IT IN MYSETRUOS VPN LAND AND IM GOIN THROUGH MY COMP RIGHT NOW BUT EVREYON IN OUR HOUSE RECOGNIZES THE DISCORD SYMBOL PROBABLY>>>?????? SO IM TRYIN TO FIND ALL OTHER CONTACTS BUT ITS JUST A BUNCH OF EMAILS DDDDUDE I JUST HAD TO LET YALL KNOW WE'RE ALIEV HOPE ALL OF YOU ARE WELL LOVE YALL EVER IF YOU DONT BELIEVE THAT ASTY SAFE WATCH OUT FOR FUKCING PUNCHES OR SIDESWEEPS AND MY BIG SISSS KILLING BLOW AND THE FCKKGNGI  SWORD ON TOP OF HER BOOKSELG OR THE LITTLE GUN THING IN HER LCOSET WHAT THE FUCK IS EVEN IN HER ROOM ANYMROE ANYWASY DONT DIE OUT THERE LIKE ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! PEACE OUT BURY ME UNDER A BLUE SKY WITH ALL MY SHIT IIM HANDING  DOWN WHATEVR THE ITTY BITTY NOT SO BITTY NEICE WANTS LIL PRINCESS LILLY HAACKER SCAMMER HUSTLER SECOND LEGEND OF VIOLENCE IN THE MAKIN IM GONNA FUCKIN PASS OUT I HAVE NO  IDEA OF FUCKIN ANYTHIN THATS HAPPPENIN HERE EVERERR GOD CAN I TALK TO ANYONE THAT ISNT THIS NEIGHBORHOOD THAT THIGNS I HAVE HEARSD ABOUT THE PWOPLE ROUND HERE any ewysbans m y hands are shak in and breakin and crankin love yall stay safe dont fall into a ditch like me ever again mMWAHH TEDDIE IF YOURE OUT I STILL OWE YOU THAT FUCKIN LETTTERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

[rjalker]

god this took an hour but here you go. The Black-Vampyre, in actually readable text.

I haven't even read it. I have no warnings to offer you until I read it tomorrow.

"how can you edit text without reading it" strategically blurring my eyes. so I could edit the Astounding Stories of Super-Science stories without getting spoiled for the very end of the thing.

The Black-Vampyre was published in 1819, and according to wikipedia and the other tumblr post I just reblogged, it's about a slave who is murdered, comes back as a vampire, and gets revenge.

what else happens? IDk. There's a really fucking long poem at the end though. this was apparently published under a pseudonym so I guess we don't actually know who wrote it.

so, it could be super racist. I'll find out tomorrow. sorry if you read it now and it turns out it is super racist. I'd like to hope the people on the original post would mention that if that were the case but. well.

anyways this is public domain. download it. please. save it. share it. email it to yourself and your friends. print it out. it's fucking readable. Here's the original PDF for your nightmarish comparison.

the names were originally in all caps like in a play, and I'll make a version without that tomorrow. but like I said. I would like to go to sleep.

enjoy. hopefully. goodnight.

The Black Vampyre;

A Legend of St. Domingo.

By Uriah Derick D’arcy

So have I seen, upon another shore, Another Lion give a grievous roar; And the last Lion thought the first—A BOAR!

-Bombast. Furios

_______

SECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. NEW -YORK: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

1819.

TO THE

AUTHOR OF “WALL-STREET.”

MY DEAR SIR,

CHARMED with the success of your anomalous drama, which, without aspiring even to the character of nonsense, has already seen three editions, I have been myself induced to venture on publishing; with the sanguine hope of also scraping together a few shillings, in these hard times. Permit me to inscribe this tale to you, with a fellow-feeling for your lack of genius; and a fervent hope, that our names may be encircled by the same evergreen in the temple of the Muses; and that we may long flourish together, on the same pedestal, embellishing and elevating the literature of the Auction Room.

I remain, My dear Sir, Your affectionate Friend, And obedient Servant, THE AUTHOR.

Introduction

If any person should have patience to read the following narrative, and can discover the Author’s drift, it is more than he can do himself. If it be thought exquisite nonsense, it is more than the writer dares hope: and if it be pronounced simple, stupid, and unadulterated absurdity, his own private opinion will perfectly coincide with that of the public. He began to write without any fable, and before he had found any had spun out the thread of his ideas.

This tangled skein of absurdities is now exposed to criticism, from the laudable motive of showing, of how much nonsense an individual may be delivered, in the short space of two afternoons; without any excuse but idleness, or any object but amusement.

The prominent descriptions, which it is here attempted to ridicule, are fresh in the memory of all who have read the “White Vampyre;” and to those who have not, the Superstition must be so familiar, that it is unnecessary to make useless extracts.

That the Author may not, however, be misunderstood, it may be necessary to state, that in the speech of the Vampyre, he had no design of descending to that meanest of all intellectual exercises, a travestie on authors who are justly admired: but meant, if any thing, simply to show how passages, which were fine in their original use, when garbelled by the ignorant and tasteless, become a melancholy rhapsody of nonsense.

“But first on earth, as Vampyre sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent; Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life; Yet loathe the banquet, which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims, ere they yet expire, Shall know the demon for their sire; As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem. But one that for thy crime must fall, The youngest, best beloved of all, Shall bless thee with a father’s name— That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! Yet thou must end thy task and mark Her cheek’s last tinge—her eye’s last spark, And the last glassy glance must view Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue; Then with unhallowed hand shall tear The tresses of her yellow hair, Of which, in life a lock when shorn Affection’s fondest pledge was worn— But now is borne away by thee Memorial of thine agony! Yet with thine own best blood shall drip Thy gnashing tooth, and haggard lip; Then stalking to thy sullen grave, Go—and with Gouls and Afrits rave, Till these in horror shrink away From spectre more accursed than they.”

-BYRON.

The Black Vampyre

Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS was a gentleman of African extraction. His ancestors emigrated from the eastern coast of GUINEA, in a French ship, and were sold in ST. DOMINGO remarkably cheap; as they were reduced to mere skeletons by the yaws on the passage; and all died shortly after their arrival, except one small negro, of a very slender constitution, and fit for no work whatever. The gentleman who purchased him, charitably knocked out his brains; and the body was thrown into the ocean. The tide returning in the night, it was washed upon the sands; and the moon then shining bright, the gentleman was taking a walk to enjoy the coolness of the evening; judge of his surprise, when the little corpse got up, and complaining of a pain in its bowels, begged for some bread and butter!

The PLANTER supposing his business to have been but half done, kicked him back in the water. The element seemed very familiar to him; and he swam back with much grace and agility; parting the sparkling waves with his jet black members, polished like ebony, but reflecting no sin- gle beam of light. His complexion was a dead black;—his eyes a pure white;—the iris was flame colour;—and the pupils of a clear, moonshiny lustre;—but so peculiarly constructed, that, though prominent, they seemed to look into his own head. His hair was neither curled nor straight; but feathery, like the plumage of a crow. Having paddled again on shore, he came crawling crab fashion, to the feet of Mr. PERSONNE.The latter gentleman, in considerable alarm, (not knowing whether it was Satan, Obi, or some other worthy, with whom he had to deal,) mustered up sufficient resolution, to tie a large stone round the boy’s middle: then, with a main exertion of strength, he hurled him into the sparkling ocean. He fell where the reflection of the moon was brightest, and sunk like lead; but immediately rose again like cork, perpendicularly, with the stone under his arm; while the radiant lustre of the planet retreated from his dark figure, exhibiting in its most striking contrast its utter blackness!

In this predicament, he came buoyant to land; surrounded, as he seemed, by a sphere of magic lustre. He now walked up to the Frenchman, with his arms a-kimbo, and looking remarkably fierce. Mr. PERSONNE’S particular hairs stood up on end,but being ashamed that a little negro of ten years old, should put him in bodily fear, he knocked him down. The Guinea-man rose again, without bending a joint; as fast as Mr. PERSONNE could upset him, he recovered his altitude; just like one of those small toys, fabricated from pith, tipt with lead, called witches and hobgoblins by the rising generation!

The PLANTER, in utter amazement and despair, took hold of the child by both his extremities; and pressing him to the earth, set down upon him! Then, halloing for is attendants, he ordered a tremendous fire to be kindled on the sand!! This was accordingly done. The GAUL congratulated himself on his perseverance and sagacity; and as he had never heard of ignaqueous animals, was confident that though the water fiend was so expert in his own element, he could not stand the fiery ordeal. The boy, meanwhile, lay perfectly passive, as if he had been a mere log; but presently, when the pile was all in a light blaze, with a sudden expansion, like that of a compressed Indian Rubber, he popped Mr. PERSONNE up into the air many yards, and he alighted head-foremost into the fire, where he had intended to have dedicated the sable brat, with his nine lives, to Moloch!!!

Whatever the negro was, it is notorious that Mr. PERSONNE was no salamander. He was rescued from the pyre, which, like Hercules, he had, (though unwittingly,) erected for himself; looking like a squizzed cat, and having apparently no life left in his body. The attention of the domestics was drawn entirely to their master; who soon betrayed signs of animation, though he exhibited a most awful. spectacle: being one continual sore and blister. “His whole body was one wound,” as Virgil or some other poet has hyperbolically expressed himself.

Mr. PERSONNE, when he perfectly recovered his senses, found himself in his own bed, wrapt in greasy sheets, and smarting as if in a Cayenne bath. He called for a glass of brandy,—his dear wife EUPHEMIA,—and his infant son, who had not yet been christened. His lady, with streaming eyes, presented herself before him; and, after tenderly inquiring into the state of his health, told him, (with a voice interrupted with sobs and hiccups,) that when she went in the morning to see her baby, whom she had left in the cradle, there was nothing to be seen, but the skin, hair, and nails!!! She declared that there never was such another object; except, indeed, the exsiccation in Scudder’s Museum!

On the receipt of this horrid intelligence, Mr. PERSONNE was seized with a violent spasmodic affection; and shortly after expired, muttering something about sacre, and the Guinea-negro!

The amiable, but unfortunate Euphemia, was thrown into several hysterical convulsions; as well she might be, poor woman! when her husband had been made a holocaust, and served up like a broiled and peppered chicken, to feed the grim maw of death; and her interesting infant, the first pledge of her pure and perfect love, had been precociously sucked, like an unripe orange, and nothing left but its beautiful and tender skin. The disconsolate widow caused her husband to be embalmed; and he was buried amid the lamentations and tears of all the funeral; much regretted by all who had the honour of his acquaintance, particularly by his negroes; who could not soon forget him; as he had left too many sincere marks of his regard upon their backs, to be ever obliterated from their recollections.

Time, as all the Greek tragedians, Solomon, and others have remarked, is a benevolent deity. Mrs. PERSONNE’S grief yielded to the soothing hand of the consoling power; and her bloom and spirits returned with more lustre and elasticity than they had before exhibited: as the rose, that had drooped in the fury of the passing storm, erects its blushing honours, and shows more beautiful and vivid tints, when the squall is over!

Many years after these occurrences took place, while EUPHEMIA was in second mourning for her third husband, she was indulging in the luxury of solitary grief; and reading Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, and The Melancholy Poems of Dr. Farmer, in an orangerie. The refreshing breezes from the ocean, which now tempered the sultry heats of the declining day,—the soft perfume of the opening blossoms;—and the mellow tints of the evening sky, shedding that holy light, so dear to sensitive hearts, diffused a calm over her soul, wrapt in the contemplation of departed days. While lost in this pensive reverie, she perceived two strangers approaching her, in the extremity of the long vista of the grove. One of them was a coloured gentleman, of remarkable height, and deep jetty blackness; a perfect model of the CONGO Apollo. He was drest in the rich garb of a Moorish Prince; and led by the hand a pale European boy, in an Asiatic dress; whose languid countenance, slender form and tristful gait, were strongly contrasted with the portly appearance and majestic step of his conductor!

They both saluted the lovely widow, and after an interchange of compliments, accepted her polite invitation to set down, and take tea with her in the bower. She learned from the elder stranger, that he had brought out a cargo of slaves, whom his subjects had lately taken prisoners in war; and whom he had resolved to dispose of himself; as he was desirous of seeing the world. His Page, he said, was an orphan, left by a slave merchant in Africa.

The manners and conversation of the PRINCE had an irresistible charm. The regal port was manifest in his gigantic and well proportioned frame; and majesty was conspicuous on his brow, without its diadem. The turban and crescent had never graced a nobler front; but the win- ning condescension of his tones and language, while they could not banish the feeling of the presence of royalty, removed every restraint incident to that consciousness. He criticised the works, which EUPHEMIA had been perusing, with masterly precision; and displayed more knowledge than even the accomplished ideologist of Lady Morgan; with infinitely more discretion and good sense.

It is remarked by the Abbe Reynal, that there is a peculiar elegance and beauty in the complexion of the Africans, (when the eyes and nose are accustomed to their hue and odour.) This truth was realized by EUPHEMIA, as she gazed on the open visage of her illustrious guest. She thought surely that in him Nature might stand up and say “This was a man!” And certainly it is only the weakness and imperfection of our human senses, which, penetrating no further than the surface, is for ever deceived by superficial shadows. The empyrean is always blue, whatever vapours may float in our contracted atmosphere. And if we gaze on the rows of skulls, which festoon and garnish Surgeon’s Hall, we can apply no standard, to determine their relative beauty. They are all equally ugly; and the block of Helen might be mistaken for that of Medusa. Shakspeare, true to nature, has also remarked, “Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.”

The beauty then, the royalty, gentility, and various accomplishments of the BAMBUCK monarch, made captive the too sensible heart of the French widow. She forgot her ogles, graces, and even her loquacity; rooted to her seat, and fixed in immoveable contemplation of the AFRICAN’S face. What peculiar feature or lineament attracted her attention, she knew not: his eyes, though bright, did not sparkle; and the iris, though of a more vivid red than the roseate line in the rainbow, emitted no scintillations. In fact, his whole countenance seemed to look, and to perambulate her own.

The conversation gradually assumed a more empassioned and amorous complexion; and the little page, (who, though meagre and emaciated, evidently showed that he was no gump for his years,) taking certain broad hints, cast a mournful and intelligent look on the widow, said he would fetch a short walk in the plantation, and left the orangerie.

The PRINCE then spreading his glittering sash upon the grass, went down on his knees upon it; and broke out into the most ardent exclamations, of love and admiration; and professions of constant attachment. He said that the flat-nosed beauties of Zara; the scarred, squab figures of the golden coast; the well proportioned Zilias, Calypsos, and Zamas on the banks of the Niger; and even the great Hottentot Venus herself, had never for a moment made the least impression on his heart! His passion was a mystery to himself; its origin secret as the sources of the Nile ; but full and impetuous as its ample channel, when replenished from the celestial fountains of ABYSSINIA; while if Mrs. DUBOIS would shine upon its waves, its enlivened currents would fertilize his vast dominions, in the luxuriant realms of central Africa; making them to fructify yet more abundantly, with burning gold, and radiant diamonds!!!

What female heart could resist such pleadings, and the compliment implied in such a preference? When ZEMBO (the page) returned, the parties had agreed to be privately united on the same evening. The ceremony was accordingly performed, on the spot, by the family chaplain of Mrs. DUBOIS: not without many remonstrances on his part, as to the impropriety of marrying a negro. The PRINCE did not see to resent the affront; which, by the by, he had no right to do; as the priest got nothing for the job. ZEMBO, too, was extremely restless; till Mrs. DUBOIS gave him some sweetmeats, which seemed to quiet his conscience; after which he took some stiff punch, and fell asleep!

About midnight, the PRINCE came to him; and, shaking him by the ears, bad him rise and follow him. His bride was hanging on his arm, in an enchanting dishabille; and did not seem to be in perfect possession of her right senses. ZEMBO mournfully followed the new married pair.

They went silently out of the back door, with cautious steps, and proceeded through the orangerie. No breath of wind was stirring. The moon was on the zenith, surrounded by a pale halo of ghostly lustre. When they had crossed the plantation, they came to a place of sepulture; where the dark cypresses, and lugubrious mahogany, admitted but sparse and glimmering streaks of funereal light; which, falling on the rank foliage, the white monuments and broken ground beneath, presented a thousand dusky shapes, flitting in the dim uncertainty dear to superstition.

Vague terrors seized on the mind of the bride; and she began very naturally to inquire, what was the use of getting out of a comfortable bed, and trailing through the heavy dew, in her undress, to such an unusual spot for midnight recreation.

They now stood near the spot, where her three husbands, several children, and the skin, hair and nails of her first baby, were deposited in a row. At the foot of a tamarind, lay her third son; whose christian name was SPOONER, and who died, according to the tombstone, in a fit of intoxication, aged seven years and six months. On him she had bestowed a greater share of tenderness, than any of her other offspring; and his loss had caused her most affliction. The African, making observations on the grave, began to strip himself very expeditiously, assisted by ZEMBO; who seemed to recover from his blues; and by his activity and eagerness, manifested his expectation of soon seeing some fine sport.

Presently the two genii, or gentlemen, or whatever they were, turned towards the East, and performed certain antic prostrations; throwing handfuls of earth three times over their heads. Then returning to the tomb, they tore up the sods with ravenous fury; and soon drew out the last- mentioned son of the Lady, and threw him on the grass, beside the grave. ZEMBO fell as fiercely upon the corpse, as a hungry dog upon his dinner; but was arrested by the AFRICAN, who lent him a severe box on the ear, which sent him blubbering to a corner of the cemetery.

What added both to the mother’s horrors and admiration, was, that the body of her child was perfectly fresh, and the olfactory nerves experienced no unsavoury sensation from its proximity; while its cheeks were diffused with so deep a tinge of scarlet, that they shone like ruddy fireballs in the darkness of the spot. Her husband drew a golden goblet from beneath a large stone; then, bending over the corse, he scooped out the heart, with his long and polished nails; and, having pressed the blood into the chalice, mingled with it some dark particles, gathered from the newly turned up earth. From the pure and scanty lymph, which gushed near by and flickered like a streak of quicksilvery-light in the moonbeam, he added a third ingredient of the potion. Then seizing his passive and trembling spouse by the throat, and presenting the unnatural mixture to her lips; he cried in a hollow voice, whose very inflection thrilled through each fibre of its victim,—“Swear, or if that is against your principles, affirm, by this dirty blood,—and bloody dirt;—by this watery blood,—and bloody water;—by this watery dirt, and dirty water;—that you will never disclose in any manner, aught of what you have seen and shall see this night. Call them all to witness your wish, that in the moment when you even conceive the thought of perjury, your bowels may burst out, and your bones rot! Swear and drink!”

The affrighted woman murmured, (as articulately as the iron gripe of the monster would suffer her,) that she was not thirsty; and had not breath enough to aspirate such a terrible conjuration. “No trifling;” roared the fiend, “you have not a moment to deliberate.” But his bellowing and threats were vain; and he found to his mortification that he had gotten the wrong sow by the ear, or rather by the throat. She stuttered out, in the most pitiful accents, which would have softened any heart (but a Vampyre has none,) that though she was by no means partial to the delectable confectionary of the pharmacopeia, calomel and jalap, ipecacuanha, rhubarb, and tartar-emetic, she would rather take them all, collectively and individually, than the unchristian decoction he held against her teeth.

Foaming with madness, till the white slaver flowed down his sable limbs, the African hurled MRS. PERSONNE, DUBOIS, &c. &c. on the grave of her first husband, and stamping violently on the earth, it seemed to heave as with the throes of an earthquake. Immediately the tumuli yawned. The ponderous stones and slabs were shaken from their ancient sockets; and the ghastly dead, in uncouth attitudes, crawled from their nooks; with their hair curling in tortuous and serpent twinings; and their eyeballs of fire bursting from their heads; while, as they extended their withered arms, and tapering fingers, furnished with blood-hound claws, their gory shrouds fell in wild drapery around them, transiently revealing their forms, bloated as if to bursting, and often incarnadined with clotted blood, yet warm and dripping!!!

The Lady, (as those who have been in similar predicaments may suppose,) soon lost her recollection; not, however, before she had seen ZEMBO busily employed in tearing up the grave of her first husband; she saw herself surrounded by the spectres, and lost all consciousness.

When reason and sense returned, she found herself in the same place; and it was also the midnight hour. She was laying by the grave of Mr. PERSONNE, and her breast was stained with blood. A wide wound appeared to have been inflicted there, but was now cicatrized. Imagine if you can, her surprise; when, by a certain carniverous craving in her maw, and by putting this and that together, she found she was a—VAMPYRE!!! and gathered from her indistinct reminiscences, of the preceding night, that she had been then sucked; and that it was now her turn to eject the peaceful tenants of the grave!

With this delightful prospect of immortality before her, she began to examine the graves, for subject to a satisfy her furious appetite. When she had selected one to her mind, a new marvel arrested her attention. Her first husband got up out his coffin, and with all the grace so natural to his countrymen, made her a low bow in the last fashion, and opened his arms to receive her!

What were the emotions of this fond couple, when, after a lingering separation for sixteen years, they again embraced each other, with the ardour of an affection equal to their earliest transports, and which their long divorce served only to increase; tenderly inquiring into the state of each other’s health; and the accidents which had befallen them during their disjunction. They forgot even their hunger and thirst; and sitting down on a tombstone, made a thousand inquiries; which, however, they related to family concerns, might not be as interesting to the reader as they were to the parties concerned.

Mr. PERSONNE, however, looked rather glum, when he learned that his Lady had been thrice married, since his decease. But she assured him, that she would never more tolerate the addresses of another suitor: and as for the two husbands, they were rotten enough by this time; as she was confident they had not attended the Vampyre Ball, on the preceding night. As for her sable spouse, she trusted that he would never again appear to interrupt their happiness. But while she was expressing this hope, the gentleman in question, (like his relation below, according to the old proverb,) came upon the ground, with ZEMBO. Mr. PERSONNE, having neither sword nor pistols at hand, armed himself with a gigantic thigh-bone; and warned the BLACK PRINCE to stand upon his guard as he meant to punish him severely.

But ZEMBO, rushing between the parties, raised his hands in a supplicating posture; while the generous monarch, making a Salam to his antagonist, begged him, keep himself quiet, and look behind him. They both turned round on this intimation, when, to the utter confusion of the Lady, her second and third husbands, Messieurs MARQUAND and DUBOIS, arose from the graves, where they had been lovingly deposited by the side of each other. They both advanced to salute their wife; but Mr. PERSONNE, brandishing his thigh-bone, warned them to stand off, as he had the first title to the Lady. Much confusion would have ensued, had not the African Prince interfered. He told the gentlemen that so delicate a point could only be settled in an honourable way; and proposed that Mr. MARQUAND and Mr. DUBOIS should first settle their difference in a personal encounter; after which Mr. PERSONNE might give the survivor gentlemanly satisfaction. To this all parties assented.

As they were already stripped, the combatants shook hands, to show their mutual good-will; and proceeded to action, without further ceremony. Mr. DuBois soon brought claret from Mr. MARQUAND; who, in returning the compliment, fibbed Mr. DUBOIS so severely in the bowels, that he lost his wind; and gasping for breath, smote the air on all sides, without any of his blows telling. He came to the ground, and his bones rattled as he fell. But soon recovering his breath, he made a desperate attack on Mr. MARQUAND’S sconce; and favoured him with so terrible a facer under the gills, that he fell incontinently like a bull smitten in his front; but entangling his own heels with those of Mr. DUBOIS, they both came simultaneously to the ground; striking their heads against different tombstones; and knocking out their own brains.

They rose again, refreshed like the giant of old, by their grappling with the earth, and all the better for the loss of their wits, which, indeed, was a mere trifle. But the AFRICAN, who had no time to see more sport, fixed them to the sod by his superior strength; and ZEMBO dexterously pinned them fast, by driving stakes through their hearts, with a large sledge hammer, (which he carried about his person for such emergencies.) During the opera- tion, their roaring surpassed that which is performed by the Lioness, when bereft of her whelps; but as soon as they were fairly nailed to the counter, they lay motionless and breathless—a horrible pair of spectacles of sin and misery!

The AFRICAN assured the Lady, that she need never fear their second resurrection; and Mr. PERSONNE politely offered to settle their controversy, in any mode most agreeable to the PRINCE:—either to box with him on the spot, or appoint a meeting in future, with pistols, rifles, small or broad sword; or else they might toss up, who should set fire to a barrel of gunpowder. The PRINCE said that quarrelling was all nonsense, and offered his hand; but Mr. PERSONNE refused, saying, “Don’t be too familiar, Blackey;” and renewing his threats of cracking him over the noddle with the thigh-bone.

The generous monarch pocketed the affront. “You have been,” he said, “sufficiently rewarded, for the cruelties you practised upon my person, several years ago. I forgive you, my dear sir, what you performed, and intended to perform on me. Here is your son, who has grown considerably, as you may observe; and I assure you that his education has not been neglected. To his exertions last night you are indebted for your revivification. And as, you may remember, you were embalmed, you have kept quite sweet and fresh ever since your interment. Amiable and virtuous VAMPYRES! may you long enjoy that tranquillity and contentment, which your merit and accomplishments so eminently deserve! A vessel lies in the port, ready to sail for Europe in an hour. The Island is no longer a place for you. Here is money to pay your passages, and all I have to say, is, that the sooner you’re off the better.—Farewell!” So saying he departed, without waiting for the acknow- ledgments of the party.

Mr. PERSONNE and his Lady, whom we shall again call by her first marriage name, did not exactly comprehend what their dingy benefactor meant, by bidding them take French leave of the Island, like pickpockets and outlaws; but, as they were yet wondering at their own existence, like Adam and Eve, the first day of their creation, and as they had reason to believe the PRINCE a potent magician, who could rouse the dead from their searments, and turn the planets from their courses;—for these reasons, they concluded to follow his bidding, without any impertinent scruples. But as the keen edge of their hunger had been whetted by delay, they would fain have taken supper, and digested a little something wherewithal to strengthen them, before they set out.

ZEMBO, who had filled his own breadbasket very lately, and was in no such urgent necessity, protested with all the vehemence which filial reverence would permit, against the unseasonable gratification of their unnatural craving; and recited with just emphasis and good discretion, an extract from Counsellor Phillips’s harangue, about “the cannibal appetite of his rejected altar;” which his parents did not understand, and of course thought very sublime! But even this master-piece of mystical eloquence would have been delivered in vain; had not the boy given other reasons of such cogency, that they licked their lips—cast a longing, lingering look at the grave-yard,—and followed him without more opposition.

They prosecuted their nocturnal march, through closely woven and solemn groves; until they descended into a profound valley, where the light of the pale planet of magic adoration, streamed and quivered on serried files of bright armoury. The leader of the band seemed to have expected their arrival; and mutual tokens of recognition passed between him and ZEMBO. The whole company then set forward their array in silence;—

No cymbal clash’d, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armour’s clang, The sullen march was dumb.

By continual descent, they seemed to have penetrated the bowels of a cavern, whose ramifications ran under the sea; as they heard a murmuring roar, as of the ocean, above their heads. The party, by the instructions of ZEMBO, dispersed themselves in different directions; until they had enclosed the interior of the rock where its largest chamber was, to speak catachrestically, so artfully concealed by nature, that no one, not instructed by an adept in its subterranean topography, could ever have detected the secret of its existence. It had been, in former days, a place of deposit and asylum for the Buccaniers; and its situation had been since known only to the Professors of the OBEAH art, who held here their midnight orgies.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE, guided by their son, were placed in a situation, where, through the crevices of the inner partition of the rock, they could observe what was passing in the interior.

It seemed, at first view, a vast hall of Arabian romance; supported by immense shafts, and studded with precious stones; so various and beautiful were the hues, which the different spars assumed, in the light of an hundred torches, blazing in every quarter, and illuminating the farthest recesses of the cave. The walls were decorated with other appendages, which added to the mystery, if not to the embellishment of the scene; being irregularly stained with blood; decorated with rude tapestry of many coloured plumage;—and stuccoed with the beaks of parrots;—the teeth of dogs, and alligators;—bones of cats;—broken glass and eggshells; plastered with a composition of rum and grave-dirt, the implements of NEGRO witchcraft!

At one extremity of the extensive apartment, on a kind of natural throne, sat several blackamoors in sumptuous Moorish apparel; whom, by their swollen forms, and remarkable eyes, Mrs. PERSONNE knew to be GOULS; and among whom she recognised her late husband. The whole range of this vast amphitheatre, sweeping from before the throne, was occupied by slaves, rudely attired, and imperfectly armed with clubs and missiles; a decent platoon of black-guards were posted be- fore the Vampyre monarchs; and, in the centre, a band of musicians performed an exquisite symphony. The soft strains of the MERRIWANG;—the lively notes of the DUNDO;—and the martial accompaniment of the GOOMBAY, made, with their united noises, a discordant harmony, whose powers the lyre of Orpheus could not equal; and which would certainly be enough to frighten all the hosts of Pandemonium.

The oratorio being finished, the AFRICAN PRINCE arose, and making an obeisance to the company,—cleared his throat, and began to address them as follows:—“Gentlemen and Vampyres!”—but the VAMPYRES expressing their resentment against this breach of etiquette, he corrected himself: —“Vampyres and Gentlemen!”—but the NEGROES were no more willing to come last, than the Vampyres, and a loud growl accompanied by a slight hiss, again interrupted the orator. He was not, however, disconcerted, but like Mr. Burke, thundered out an iteration of the offensive sentence.

“Yes,” said he, “I repeat it, Vampyres and Gentlemen? Shall not the immortal precede the mortal?— Shall not those whose diet surpasses the nectar and ambrosia of celestials, precede the ephemeral race, who fatten on the unclean juice of brutes,—the rank essence of esculent productions,—or the nauseous liquor of the distillery? (applause—hear! hear! and see-boy! from the Vampyres—groans from the negroes!) Gentlemen of colour! I appeal to yourselves; shall not the descendants of the Gods be named before the offspring of the earth-born image, whom Titan impregnated with celestial fire?—For Prometheus was the first Vampyre. You must all know, as you have undoubtedly read Æschylus, that the vulture, who preyed on his liver, was neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. He is called a dog, which makes him a quadruped;—he is represented as ερπωυ, creeping, which proves him an insect; and is said to have wings, which shows that he was a bird. Now, from this amphibious monster have descended the Crows,—the Jackalls,—and the Bloodhounds;—the pirate Bat of Madagascar,—and the man-killing Ivunches of Chili;—the Sharks;—the Crocodiles;—the Krakens;—the Horse-leeches;—the Cape-cod Sea Serpents;—the Mermaids;—the Incubi;—and the Succubi!!! (loud cheering from the Vampyres.) From Titan himself, descended the Cy- clopes, and all other ancient and modern Anthropophagi; and, in lineal descent, the Moco tribe of our own EBOES, to whom I have the honour of being related. Those of you, too, are his posterity, who, after your deaths, return to your native land—the true Elysium; where the balmy bowl of the Coco, the soft bloom of the ANANA, and the coal-black beauties of the clime of love, shall for ever reward your fortitude, and steep in forgetfulness the memory of your wrongs. (hear! hear! from the negroes.) But none of these genera or species of our order, must longer engage your dignified and charitable attention. I come to ourselves, full- blooded—unadulterated—immortal bloodsuckers!—To ourselves—whether Gouls,—or Afrits,—or Vampyres;— Vroucolochas,—Vardoulachos,—or Broucolokas—To ourselves—the terror of the living and of the dead, and the participants of the nature of both;—To ourselves—the emblems at once of corruption and of vitality;—blotted from the records of existence, and replenished to repletion with circulating life;—abandoned by the quick, and unrecognised by the dead:—‘at once relics and relicts;— rocked on the bases of our own eternities;—the chronicles of what was—the solemn and sublime mementoes of what must be!’ unqualified approbation from both sides of the house.)

“The estate of Vampyrism is a fee-tail, and may be docked in two different ways. The first mode is the sanguinary practice of perforating the subject with a stake; and this is final. The other is produced by the gentler operation of the narcotic potion you behold in this phial; by whose lenient and opiate influence, the individual is restored to the plight, in which he was previous to his death, or his becoming a Vampyre, and belongs to the OBEAH mysteries.

“But to come to the object of our present meeting. Sublime and soul-elevating theme!—The emancipation of the Negroes!—The consecration of the soil of ST. DOMINGO to the manes of murdered patriots in all ages!—No matter whether the bill of sale was scrawled in French or in English;—No matter whether we were taken prisoners, in a battle between the LEOPHARES and the JAKOFFS, or in a skirmish between the SAMBOES and the SAWPITS;—No matter whether we were bought for calico and cotton, or for gunpowder or for shot;—No matter whether we were transported in chains or in ropes—in a brig, or a schooner, or a seventy-four—the first moment we come ashore on ST. DOMINGO, our souls shall swell like a sponge in the liquid element;—our bodies shall burst from their fetters, glorious as a curculio from its shell;—our minds shall soar like the car of the æronaut, when its ligaments are cut; in a word, O my brethren, we shall be free!—Our fetters discandied, and our chains dissolved, we shall stand liberated,—redeemed,— emancipated,—and disenthralled by the irresistible genius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION!!!” (Unparalleled bursts of unprecedented applause!!!)

Such was the report of this oration, taken down in short hand by ZEMBO; of whose extraordinary sagacity so many proofs have been exhibited; and who was never unprovided with materials for any emergency. The fiery oratory of the Prince communicated such inspiration to the auditors, that the whole mass of their thick blood leaped up with the quickening pulse of anticipated freedom; they danced and sung, with violent gesticulations, like perfect Corybantes; but unfortunately, their Phyrricks were interrupted by the glittering bayonets of the soldiery; who poured in upon them from every quarter, and hemmed them in, with a bristling chevaux-de-frise of steel. The Vampyres, surprised but undaunted, unsheathed their sabres, and drew up in a gallant style, as if determined to die game; being, indeed, assured, that like so many Phœnixes, they would rise from their own ashes, as often as they might be cut down.

A desperate conflict ensued, during which Mrs. PERSONNE observed the phial, mentioned by the Prince, lying on the ground; and very thoughtfully put it in her ridicule. The slaves, seeing how the business was likely to terminate, prudently sneaked off, while the attention of the military was occupied by the Vampyres. The former were violently exasperated to find all their labour so unprofitable; since while they themselves were wounded by every blow of their opponents, the latter, like so many ninepins, were set up, as fast as they were bowled down; bending to the storm, like masts on a tempestuous ocean, and rising again upon the billow in perpendicular triumph.

But, being instructed by ZEMBO, the soldiers pinioned them as fast as they fell; and prevented their rising, by sitting in great numbers on their bodies; though the task was somewhat like that of detaining quicksilver beneath the fingers. The PRINCE, however, still fought desperately. Brandishing a huge scimitar in either hand, he swayed his arms like the sails of a windmill; while limbs, heads, and bodies flew about him, curvetting and dancing in the air; as when the ingenious Mr. MAFFEY pulls to pieces a coach, or an old woman, children, chickens, friars, and petticoats dance about in wild confusion, till the artist’s hand again brings order out of chaos:—Or, as when the renowned knight of the BED-CHAMBER, whose name eternal vases shall record, saw the ungenerous caricature on the wall, wielding a ponderous jug, he smote the innocent tables, chairs, and bed-posts, and strode victorious over the gory field: So fought the PRINCE; till being neatly pricked in the spine, unexpectedly, he soused (as Johannes Porco Latinus remarks) “in principia fundimentalia,” and was immediately set upon by a host. So when a Gœtulian lion is pierced by the light bamboo, overpowered by the hunters, he struggles in his thrall like an Enceladus under Ætna, and dies at last with heart-wrung tears of anguish, and re- verberating roars of hatred!!!

Stakes were immediately procured, and the whole infernal fraternity securely disposed of: as their compeers, described by Homer,

With burning chains fixed to the brazen floors And lock’d by hell’s inexorable doors.

With their bellowings, the vast chambers of the subterranean rung like the caverns of Delphos, when the inflammable air was fired by the crafty priests. The Inhabi- tants of the Island started up from their slumbers in shuddering terror, and believed that an earthquake was rumbling beneath their feet.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE and ZEMBO lost no time in trying the effects of the African’s stolen prescription. Being thrown into a tranquil slumber they were conveyed to their plantation; and awoke the next morning, perfectly well, excepting slight colds in the head. Mr. PERSONNE, having been in statu quo, for sixteen years, was now much younger than his lady; a circumstance, for which she was not at all sorry; and which he himself declared by no means displeased him. The remainder of their life was serene as a tropic night; —illumined by the mild effulgence of domestic love;—fanned by the soft aspirations of peaceful bosoms;—and enlivened by the fire- fly scintillations of rapture!!!

ZEMBO, to whose taste and ingenuity they were indebted for their happiness, and who was baptized with the Christian name of BARABBAS, after an uncle of his mother’s, recorded what the reader has perused. One only circumstance, like one of those claps of thunder, frequently heard in the unclouded sky, passed over the tranquillity of their bosoms. Mrs. PERSONNE’S fourth husband’s child was a mulatto, and of Vampyrish propensities; of which his mother and Mr. PERSONNE were never able entirely to cure him, having used up all the African’s preparation.

The intelligent reader, (if any such there be,) will remember that this narrative commenced with the name of Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS, of whom nothing has since been said; and whose adventures (to use a FORUM trope) “must remain buried in the bowels of futurity,” until a more convenient opportunity. He is a lineal descendant from the last-mentioned mulatto; and the manuscript, which is now given to the public, was transmitted to him from his ancestors. He is a resident in Essex county, New- Jersey; and candour requires us to state, that he is no relation to his celebrated namesake at ELIZABETH- TOWN; as it is notorious to all who have had the pleasure of witnessing the size of the latter gentleman’s waist, that he has too much bowels for so diabolical a profession; and it is to be hoped in charity, that though he is such a delicate morsel, when he is laid in the sepulchre of his fathers, he may not prove a titbit, to GLUT THE THIRST OF A VAMPYRE!!!

Moral.

N this happy land of liberty and equality, we are free from all traditional superstitions, whether political, religious, or otherwise. Fiction has no materials for machinery;—Romance no horrors for a tale of mystery. Yet in a figurative sense, and in the moral world, our climate is perhaps more prolific than any other, in enchanters,—Vampyres,—and the whole infernal brood of sorcery and witchcraft.

The accomplished dandy, who in maintaining his horses,—his taylor, &c.—absorbs in the forced and unnatural excitement of his senseless orgies, the life-blood of that wealth which his prudent Sire had accumulated by a long devotion to the counter,—What is he but a Vampyre?

The fraudulent trafficker in stock and merchandize, who, having sucked the whole substance of an hundred honest men, is consigned for a few weeks to the sepulchre of the jail; and then, by the potent magic of an insolvent law, stalks forth, triumphant with bloated villany, more elated in his shameless resurrection to renew his career of iniquity and of disgrace,—what is he but a Vampyre?

The corrupted and senseless Clerk, who being placed near the vitals of a moneyed institution, himself exhausted to feed the appetite of sharpers, drains, in his turn, the coffers he was appointed to guard,—is he not, I appeal to the Stockholders,—is he not a Vampyre?

Brokers, Country Bank Directors, and their disciples—all whose hunger and thirst for money, unsatisfied with the tardy progression of honest industry, by creating fictitious and delusive credit, has preyed on the heart and liver of public confidence, and poisoned the currents of public morals, are they not all Vampyres?

The whole tribe of Plagiarists, under every denomination;—The Critic, who. by eviscerating authors, and stuffing his own meagre show of learning with the pilfered entrails, ekes out his periodical fulmination against public taste;—the Forum Orator, who, without compunction, barbarously exenterates Burke, and Curran, and Phillips,—the Second- handed Lawyer,—Scholar,—Theologue,—who quote from quotations, and steal stolen property:—the Divine, who preaches Tillotson and Toplady;—what are they all but Vampyres?

The Empiric, who fills his own stomach, while he empties his shop into the bowels of the hypochondriac;—the Bibliopolist, “who guts the fobs” of the whole reading community, by ascribing to Lord Byron works which that author never saw; the philanthropic Contractor for the Army, who charges more for lime and horse-beef, than his quantum- meruit for the best provisions; who sets up his carriage and his palace, by blistering the mouths and destroying the intestines of thousands,— what are these but Vampyres?

The Professors and Disciples of Surgeon’s Hall, who, when a fine fat corse is rolled out of the resurrectionist’s budget, set up a howl of horrible transport, like he anthropophagous Caribs in Robinson Crusoe;—glut their gloating eyes with the pinguidity and unctuousness of the subject; and whet their blades like Shylock, impatient to attack the ilia,—what are they but Vampyres?

And I, who, as Johnson said of an hypochondriac Lady, “have spun this discourse out of my own bowels,” and made as free with those of others—I am a VAMPYRE!

Vampyrism; a poem

Utrum horum mavis accipe.

SOLOMON LANG & LAUNCELOT LANG - STAFF, Esquires.

GENTLEMEN, FROM the Gazette of August 17th, I am happy to learn, that you have entered into an alliance, offensive and defensive. The ties of kindred and the attraction of sympathy, one would think, ought to have brought about this union much sooner. You are, I believe, of one family;—although I am ignorant from whence LAUNCELOT has taken the Agnomen of STAFF: and I am equally unable to divine, why you have both docked the Nomen of your ancestors, which hath been written LANGEARS from time immemorial. Whatever may be your reasons for disowning your consanguinity to the great GENTILE family, the literary and political worlds rejoice, at least, in this consolidation of the talents of their two most distinguished members. The parity of intellect,—the similarity of taste,—the pungency of sarcasm possessed by both parties, justify the expectations formed by the public, from this conjunction of two such great luminaries. Both are imbued with that modest confidence, connected with the consciousness of superior talent. SOLOMON is formed, perhaps, of more impenetrable stuff: LAUNCELOT has more of the irritability and exquisite sensibility of genius.—Ira quidem communiter urit utrumque; but SOLOMON taketh the driest knocks with a good grace; LAUNCELOT is sooner thrown into a fever, and frets, to use a classic quotation of his own, “like a bear, with a sore head.”—SOLOMON is the better grammarian: LAUNCELOT hath, occasionally, greater command of language. Solomon, as he states, composes ideas and types simultaneously, a la mode de Wooler; Launcelot has the advantage of seeing his ideas embodied in black and white, in their flight from his brains to the printing office.— LAUNCELOT the FIERY, may be likened to the mad ORESTES: SOLOMON the PATIENT, to the faithful PYLADES.— SOLOMON is original in his own way: LAUNCELOT purloins from Swift, and Rabelais and others.—SOLOMON, pilloried in his own press, with no ally but the gray mare, bravely receives the missiles of the whole legion of editors; LAUNCELOT has only to open his mouth, or saw the air, or make a leg, on the literary stage; and all the gods of the Philadelphia gallery, pipe their shrill catcalls in discordant unison.—The castigation of both is equally dreadful. SOLOMON, with his “Good morning, Mr. Coleman,” and “Rot the sarpent,” condenses all his wrath into a laconic sarcasm: LAUNCELOT elaborates books, to the great terror and discomfiture of Gifford, Southey, and Scott. The Quarterly Reviewers received a death blow, because they could not find out the wit of the Scottish Fiddle; and the translator of Juvenal has never dared to show his face, since Mr. LANGSTAFF promulgated to the world, the secret of his origin. Poor Mr. Hall, the editor of the Port Folio,— because he criticised that Poem, (than which, in the language of Croaker, “nothing can be flatter or funnier;”) according to the canons of Martinus Scriblerus,—said Hall has been severely bemauled for his temerity. Many a heart-burning hath he experienced, from the caustic of Salmagundi Redivivus—Godwot!—magni nominis umbra!—On the whole, “none but yourselves can be your parallels.”

Allow me to dedicate the following rhymes to your firm; which will, I have no doubt, stand secure, amid all the present wreck of matters, and crashes of credit. Profound ignorance, bolstered by vanity, sits firmly on it own fundamental principles. Farewell, Gentlemen, accept the considerations of my high esteem—

Fortunati ambo—si quid mea carmina possunt, Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet aevo!

-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.

VAMPYRISM;

A POEM,

I.

IN this blest land, where valour burst The links which bound his children erst, And rent the vail whose darkness hid Legitimacy’s monstrous creed;— Where all that since the world began Had sway’d the sacred rights of man, With ancient dreams had past away, And bare in all its weakness lay;— Here reason, in triumphal hour, Asserted too her conquering power: From mountain, valley, plain and flood, She exorcised the shadowy brood

II.

When freshening gales had swept the mists, That wildly wreath’d the mountain crests, No cloudy spectre o’er the storm Reveal’d the terrors of his form;— When evening breezes curl’d the wave No wraiths disturb’d the wandering brave,— When lost in darkness, down the side Of craggy mount their path they tried, And stunn’d by torrents deafening roar, Downward were hurl’d, to rise no more; Men said their balance they had lost, But never laid it to a ghost.

III.

No more, around the guarded gold, Their wake were pirates seen to hold;— No elves the midnight circle tript; No fairies lunar vigils kept; Genii nor devils rose—except, Indeed, that once in godly Salem, Blue laws and preachings seem’d to fail ’em; Bed bugs and rats their slumbers broke, On Beelzebub they laid the joke; Took brandy to expel the fiend, Which answered quite another end! Old ladies then to swim were taught, In amorous league with Satan caught;— And some were hang’d:—but now no more ’Tis fit to rake up that old sore.

IV.

Of late the pole its fiends has sent, The ‘tarnal Yankees to torment; By water witchcraft long distrest, In vain with all their might they guest; Till when their gumption seem’d to fail One captain got him by the tail; But metamorphos’d, (such their story,) The wizard gave the man the go-by Turn’d out a tunny fish to be, The “shallowest monster” of the sea.

V.

And now they swear with might and main, That Monsieur Tonson’s come again: And Marshal Prince, his wife and daughters, Off Nahant, saw him walk the waters. The coachman there and Mrs. Prince Got at the odd fish several squints; But Mr. Prince, for weak his eye was, Look’d at him through a mast-head spy-glass; And took, lest men his word should doubt, An ugly likeness of his snout, With all the bumps the monster bore— He says, thirteen—his wife, two more.

VI.

In Morristown we’ve heard a ghost Wrought wonders to the people’s cost. ’Tis not long since, on New Year’s night, The devil gave three bad boys a fright; Who o’er their whiskey took to cursing, Spoke disrespectfully of his person, His government began to libel, And on the back-log put the bible.— But these things are of little moment, Unworthy of a further comment.

VII.

Yet SUPERSTITION! though thy throne Be rear’d in wilds and woods alone, Where the rude wanderer of the glen Invokes the souls of martial men;— Adores the torrent thundering loud; Calls on the spirits of the cloud;— And o’er the black and bursting heaven, Sees Ariouski’s chariot driven;— Yet, queen of terror’s sheetedband! Fiends worse than thine affright our land, While, stalking from their ghastly homes, The VAMPYRE host infuriate roams!

VIII.

Behold that EXQUISITE divine, Fit to hang up for fashion’s sign. In classic mould his wig is shear’d— SO SAUNDERS says—by all rever’d— (Yet much, with deference, due I doubt If Saunders’ science could make out Apollo’s nob, if slic’d off well, From J—n G. B—t’s bust to tell— Both are stuck up in the Academy— Yet for this query think not bad o’ me.) But to the Dandy—’neath his chin Hog’s bristles fiercely fence him in; One corset back his shoulders throws; His bowels other bones enclose; His ample chest is bullet proof, With cotton cram’d and such like stuff; And for his clothes—but here’s enough. For ere the printer’s tardy imp, Shall bid in type this doggrel limp, The swifter ninth part of a man Shall change the passing mode again; And waists now short shall then be long. All that’s now right shall then be wrong!

IX.

How came that puppy by his gig? What taught him how to look so big? For this behind the measur’d board His father scrap’d the growing hoard— Like him the pyramids who rear’d, To leave behind no name rever’d For, on the bowels of the heap, His revels shall this Vampyre keep; Till vigils late—and generous wine, And—things that suit no lay of mine; Have left him soon to die and rot, Be laugh’d at, pitied, and forgot! His species and his line to trace, And count the honours of his race, Let Mr. Wynkoop soar as high, As Scythia’s Cynocephali, And Mr. Langstaff dive as low As he, and he alone, can go;” Let this quote Greek—that crack stale jokes, The theme is worthy of such folks.

X.

Lo! thro’ the bustling world of trade, What monsters march in long parade; Gorg’d with the substance of a host, Swelling they strut with empty boast; The bubble burst, and credit fled, The money’d quack proclaims them dead;— Bailiffs in haste the corpse escort;— The turnkey says his service short;— Awhile in jail their bones repose, Till lo! the dungeon doors unclose! Insolvent laws, with potent spell, Have wrought the wondrous miracle; Their words of might the dead restore; And even more bloated than before, From that deep sepulchre, to prey On all the gudgeons in his way, Of shameless resurrection vain, The VAMPYRE BANKRUPT stalks again!

XI.

Temples of Mammon! O beware What priests the golden chalice bear! And let not hands profane approach The tempting, costly shrines to touch! Have we not seen what secret stealth Has suck’d the vitals of your wealth, When the weak dupe, quite drain’d himself, Grew hungry for the luscious pelf; Nor did his secret orgies end, Till fail’d a whole year’s dividend. And now once more in open air, Have we not seen the Vampyre pair, Stalk forth, from jails and juries free, In all the pride of infamy?

XII.

O HERMES of these latter times, I hail thee in unworthy rhymes! Great ALCHYMIST, whose art alone Has found the philosophic stone! Thou arch magician! to whose hand Alone is given the hazel wand, That finds the veins of glittering ores, Great DOUSTERSWIVEL of conjurors! What though thine art itself despair, And all the pageant fade in air? While harmless mobs thy doors assail, And blustering butchers curse and rail, Above thine own Flaminian roll’d, Shall thy triumphal chariot hold Its course majestical along, Before the whole admiring throng!

XIII.

O JACOB! JACOB! thou art keen, As thy great namesake;—him, I mean. Who manag’d for himself to keep The best of crafty Laban’s sheep. Immortal VAMPYRE of our age! O might this unassuming page Be read by all, whose fobs must bleed, Thy ravenous appetite to feed Behind thy coach and four might I Roll in an humbler tilbury; Beneath thy wings might D’ARCY’s name Soar to the solar blaze of fame!

XIV.

Plumb from the giddy height I fall, Amid whole herds of Vampyres small, CRITICS, who worn out common place With Author’s pilfer’d entrails grace; The FORUM spouter—barbarous Turk! Who rips up Curran, Phillips, Burke, And thunders forth bombastic centos, Of wasted time the sad mementoes; All those who QUOTE at second hand, And what they quote don’t understand; The PARSON who in sleepy tone Evangelizes Tillotson; All PLAGIARISTS,—concise to be,— Are GOULs of high or low degree.

XV.

The QUACK with brick dust who provides, Wherewith to line his own insides; Who fills up all his hungry chinks, While to a ghost his patient shrinks; THOMAS who vends as Byron’s own The works of doggrelists unknown; Honest CONTRACTORS, who are able To cheat both government and rabble; Who, worthy of the scourge and gallows, Set up their equipage and palace; While blister’d mouths deep curses pour And tortur’d soldiers writhe and roar, Who eat the beef of horses dead, And craunch corroding lime for bread— These, as the sufferers all agree, Are of the GOULE fraternity.

XVI. There are whose tongues around them throw The gall with which their hearts o’erflow, Like those from old Medusa’s head, Where’er its venom’d drops are shed, Earth’s verdure fades;—rank poison springs; Snakes hiss, and dragons spread their wings. Pale Dian’s hopeless votary old, Crabb’d, ancient dames, and bachelors cold, Nay e’en the blooming maid—will hie To the foul feast of calumny; On wisdom, worth, and reverend age, Beauty and wit, they glut their rage; And fondly hope, that as they tear The limbs of murder’d character, Their own fair fame shall prouder swell, Fatten’d upon the feast of hell!

XV.

There is a spot, unknown to fame, Where Vampyres haunt their hold of shame When ENVY left her noxious cave, Along Passaic’s winding wave, (Though Ovid has this fact forgot,) She linger’d by one cherish’d spot; She left her benediction here, The ground became for ever sere; Infected by her scatter’d slime And tainted to all after time; Whoever tastes its baleful food, A Vampyre longs to feed on blood— The blood of honour, virtue free, Fame, confidence and chastity!

XVIII.

But wouldst thou, in thy purpose bold The demon orgies foul behold— Mark where the SONS of SURGEON’S HALL, Upon their foul purveyor call; And lo, the plunderer of the tomb Brings up his budget in the room; Rolls out, their ardent gaze before, A huge, fat negress on the floor; Then with a savage howl they roar! Like cannibals, prepar’d to roast Their pris’ners on some barbarous coast; Like Shakspeare’s Jew, the joyous band Whet their keen blades with eager band; While all the putrid limbs excite Their foul and Vampyre appetite.—

XIX.

And what am I, whose spider skill Has thus contrived this sheet to fill; From my own bowels spun the lay, Until I find no more to say? Before to all I bid adieu, Confess,—I AM A VAMPYRE TOO!

[sparkiekong]

In other parts of the world, a young Evelyn Van Richten decided it was time to report into her father who was in Selvadorada speaking with a pair of archaeologists who'd found something interesting enough to send him off to see it personally.

She tried not to yell at her siblings who were outside, throwing ball with a broken lycanthrope as if he were a dog. They were all having fun and it made her all the more angry. She breathed in a moment before typing, trying to relax and not break yet another keyboard.

Father,

I hope this email finds you well and safe in your studious endeavors in Selvadorada and we send good tidings to the Catzenberg family. I am always entranced by Nancy and Nathan’s work on Omiscan culture. We have returned from our appointed task safe and unharmed. We have a new resident in the dungeon. His name is Mobey, and he is a lycanthrope from the Moonwood Clan who is unable to return to his human form. He has approached us to request our assistance in getting him into his human form in exchange for information on the inner workings of the Moonwood Clan.

We did not find any information regarding Lycaon or his whereabouts, only that his second in command, a woman named Bert, was looking for him as well. With no luck in that department, we chose to take the lycanthrope and head to the second part of our mission to gather intelligence on the Order of the Sun’s Hope campus. When we got there the place had been ransacked. Likely due to the falling space station. While there, we were able to obtain some information off the hard drives, but there was no one of importance there. When going over said evidence, we found that the group had more than a passing interest in the Chosen One. I’d thought it only a legend until we reviewed the CCTV footage and what is on there… Father, it’s quite a vicious attack and we are certain now that she does exist. However, we did not expect her to be a child and she left a wake of damage behind her when she left. I am attaching the footage to this email.

On a more annoying note, that Randall refuses to let me live down… As we left the area, we came across a couple of hooligan children in the Springs and Randall felt the need to ask them if they’d seen anything weird. We wouldn’t realize it until after viewing the footage, that the girl he spoke to was in fact, that very same girl. She’s here Father! Living somewhere in the Springs!

How would you like us to proceed? We have returned to her last location and found nothing, should we continue to search that area? I fear we would draw too much attention to ourselves, but Randall insists that I ask.

Regards,

Evelyn

[shirajellyfish]

hello, you. I haven’t seen you before! And I searched for you relentlessly! Finally, I say, I am here. I am here with you. You wrote the fic. The one I haven’t read, but the reviews are awesome and though there are plenty of other authors out there, you seem like the OG. everyone recommends you, everyone supports you, everyone’s scared to tag you. Heh, I’m on anon right now because I am scared you’ll see my puny little fics and laugh.

But! That aside, I want to say thank you. I haven’t read your fic. I went over the tags. I read through the summary and warnings. Other than that, it’s been sitting bookmarked for like… a long, long time. Before it was fully finished, I think.

will I ever read it?

…well, yeah. But I wanted to let you know because I wanted to find you first. I googled your ao3 aliases so many times without avail. Sounds creepy, I know, but I was intent on seeing if you had some other way to contact you aside from Ao3, and use it. Who knew I would’ve found you in a tag from the wonderful @//pillowspace?

But ok, ok, what I’m trying to say is thanks. Thanks for being a legend. Thanks for existing, thanks for writing a fic I KNOW will bring greatness to the table. Thanks a million. Right now, I’m just glad I found you. So uh, for now I guess I’ll just advise you take it easy and take care.

Love you a bunch, I suppose. <3333

Hello hello! I actually used to have ShiraCheshire as my blog, just like my other accounts, but then I forgot my tumblr password/email like multiple years ago. I had never posted much of anything so it wasn't a big loss. When I got back into tumblr I had to snag a new name since my old one was taken (by me), thus why this blog's name doesn't completely match up.

I wrote a fic! It's faaar from the OG though. While I started writing fairly early on, I didn't post anything until after the actual big fics like Solar Lunacy and Twins had already taken the fandom by storm. And that's not even mentioning the actual OGs, much older fanfics like Late Night to Early Morning (A big favorite of mine.) Are you sure you have the right writer here? haha

I get a lot of recs from cool pals because they know a fic like mine really needs it! OC&Sun and Moon platonic is not a common tag, so it won't show up for a lot of people who exclusively search Reader/Sun and Moon romantic fics. I wouldn't say I'm that big a fic popularity wise, I just have some really awesome dedicated fans and readers who help get my fic out there to help overcome the visibility difficulties I have in AO3 searches. I am very grateful for that!

Scared to tag me? You double sure you have the right writer? "I See You Sundrop" writer? I hope no one is scared to tag me!! I'd love to be tagged.

Ahh, I'm so sad you're hiding your fanfic from me. I love DCA fanfics. I eat DCA fanfics. Here you are with a tasty fanfic and you're keeping it secret? But that's my favorite food! I eat every DCA fanfic I can get my hungry little raccoon hands on and I love them.