#im not tagging everyone that was involved

[koiifiishy]

im not tagging this, he can just be for you my beloved moots & followers LOL,,,🥹💦

isaac being thrust into the dol setting WOULD be possible i think, and wouldn't be too much of a deviation from his previous lore. this is the only finished art of him i have atm btw! threw together a little fun page with it :> some thoughts below:

firstly, the accent would make him stand out. he's american and sounds like it. its a bit harder to pin down where he's from in the us tho, since he refrains from using too much regional dialect. (i vc him sounding like mr nightmind nick nocturne hehe :3c)

a freelance journalist, he'd be interested in the sordid rumors circulating about doltown. being as the pc is a very active person, i think he'd probably run into them a few times and eventually put together that they're on the up & up and proposition them to give him insider info about whatever fucked up shit they find out along their various jobs — by that time of this meeting, he'd be in the know about the pc's money situation & make sure to pay them for their info.

if the player takes his deal, the pc could then either give him actual info or fake info: he will figure out youre lying - at least when it comes to most things! he doesn't wholly believe in the supernatural, so if you were truthful about like, the IW or something, he'd go along with it and pay you but he doesn't believe you. outlandish claims will net you less pay too..!

he doesn't start off as a LI, nor somebody who the pc can sleep with. you can make a pass at him! he'll play along for the most part, but he'll always decline to actually get physical with you.

calling for help at night outside around town has a low chance of getting isaac's attention. this is where you see a slip in his personable, charming all-american boy mask; the pc will note that after scaring their attackers off, isaac seems a lot more closed off and brusque when checking on the pc before leaving.

the killing would most definitely start after the first time he rescued the pc. important to note: he isn't killing for the pc specifically, there is no yandere trope happening there! it would definitely cause a buzz around the town, as it would be grizzly and something of a statement piece.

if you noticed the ghosties in the bg behind his art, that was on purpose lol! isaac is specifically a GF oc — i dont really think this would change. i pull a little from the movies but lean pretty heavy in dbd's version for inspo! ie — isaac is the original, there were movies based off his killings, copycats cropped up now and then, he shares the same 'freelance journalist' thing as danny (and the fake names, isaac isnt his actual name). for a dol setting, i think id just mesh what i already have in that 1. He is the og Ghostface 2. There are movies based on his killings & copycats came from it.

thinking on how he'd of stumbled into doltown; i'm thinkiiing, there was too much heat in the states, as the cops began to get closer to his trail, so he dipped. he's legitimately a journalist by day, so he probably took an overseas job that involved looking into the "whacky zany town of dol!" — unfortunately for everyone in town, he's pretty damn good at his job & whatever dumb thing they'd of wanted him to actually write about, he'd of steered immediately towards the darker rumors of the town.

as for kissing him? mmm it would be poooossible... but it would probably be a volatile slow burn haha. his relationship with sex isnt good, so a pc that tried to jump his bones would get a big fat sims tier --🧍‍♂️negative interaction. he may eventually give in if pushed hard enough, but its more of a hatesex thing at that point — which some pcs may be gunning for! more power to em haha. i think you could also get more of a "good route" going but its like, ""good"" only by comparison of the alternative. :") he's still a slasher! and even if he were a LI with full love for you, that wouldn't save you from his impulses or ideations. tbh, he'd probably wana kill you more if he "loved" you!

[alt-wannabe]

[docdufresne]

docnut.png

[m1d-45]

the corner of 1st and 9th

summary: you've given a little too much information to your favorite barista... not that it matters, when he already knows.

word count: 3k

-> warnings: stalking . he is unwell guys

-> gn reader (you/yours) is a hot drink enjoyer . mb

taglist: @samarill || @sarienic || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

reasons to NOT think that he is stalking you:

you tap your pen on the corner of your paper, eyes glancing between your writing and the clock. there’s no sound but the intermittent ac and the chatter of voices from the common room, a group of your dormmate’s friends that you’re not keen on interacting with. it’s a reminder of the fact that you’re assuredly spending too much time locked up in your room thinking about this, but you can’t stop. you haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, about him.

thoma was a normal barista at an innocuous cafe. and he was definitely, assuredly not stalking you… right?

you go there fairly often

the estate was a dimly unpopular cafe set right near your dorms, perfectly on the way to most of your classes and not too far out of the way if you wanted a quick bite. despite clearly being a family business, it had managed to partner with the university, and accepted the meal plan you were forced to buy. given its proximity to you and the fact that the other options got rather repetitive, you frequented the small shop. it was never too crowded, so it wasn’t impossible to assume that you were one of the few regulars.

there were exactly two consistent baristas that worked there, with the occasional new face only ever showing for a few days. there was no set uniform, as far as you could tell. one was a young girl, likely another student, who constantly yawned and always had to push up her sleeves to work the register. she didn’t talk much; the one time you had complimented her sweater, she looked at you like you were a raccoon that had waltzed in and tried to pay with cash.

the other was the object of your paranoia: thoma, a chatty redhead who always seemed to drag out the conversation longer than he had to. he didn’t wear a name tag, but did introduce himself after you gave your name for your order, like you were meeting as friends and not in a mercantile exchange. when he handed you your receipt, there was a doodle of a dog in a suit at the bottom wishing you a good day.

your schedule was rather uneven, what with waxing and waning stress and assignments and the various misaligned tests you had to take. but still, you had credits to burn and their menu was solid, so you came back whenever you wanted.

2. he’s just being nice

thoma was an occasionally odd guy, but not overtly strange. he smiled and said hello and goodbye in the regular tone someone in customer service would, provided they were either really enthusiastic about their job or desperately trying not to get fired. he wore a plain black tee and jeans and despite the silver tags around his neck, never really screamed ex-military. he seemed rather young to be deployed anyway…

regardless, he was still just a normal guy. it was normal to memorize someone’s order if they came back so often, right? normal. it was normal to ask why you looked tired, or what had happened if you were in a better mood, or to wish you luck if you were about to head to class.

he was a normal, nice guy. he never made a big deal if you came in near closing time—in your defense, their hours seemed to shift from week to week—and still recited your usual back to you in case it had changed.

it never did. his smile was proud whenever you said so.

he was forgiving, from what you could see. whenever another staff member made a mistake, or if a customer dropped something, or if a funny looking bird flew by the window and he spilled whatever he was holding, he was quick to laugh it off. he laughed a lot, actually. rarely was any visit when he was working devoid of it, whether loud and excited or quietly amused. when he wasn’t, he wore an easygoing grin, the kind that implicitly forgave you for tripping over your words or the rug by the front door. he worked quickly and quietly and sometimes you’d find you were given a discount “just because.”

3. you’re probably overthinking things.

the problem had started around the same time midterms did.

the attendees at the tables grew sparser, busy studying or sleeping or praying. there were days when you’d walk in and be the only one there, aside from whoever was at the counter that day. when you walked in, you had just enough time to see the deep frown etched on thoma’s face before it slipped away, customer service smile back on his face.

you debated over whether to ask the entire time you waited. it was the polite thing to do, wasn’t it? it wasn’t as if you were friends, but still. if someone’s sad, you ask why. that’s the normal thing to do..

he still called your name, despite you being the only one there. how did this place stay afloat? surely there was some bigger chain willing to pay the rent. the middle of a college campus was the best spot for a place selling caffeine..

now that you thought about it, why was this place so quiet?

you shook it off and went to pick up your drink, finding a small pastry there instead. you blinked, looking up to correct him, but he was already looking at you with the same smile as always.

“they’re going to go out of date soon,” he explained, “and we over-ordered, anyway. take as many as you want!”

…odd. this didn’t look like a new building. did they not know business slowed around this time?

but not too far out of order. you took the freebie, waited a few minutes longer for your drink, and went on your day.

reasons TO think he is stalking you:

he knows where you are

you, like everyone else, had assignments due, and tests to get to. your free time dwindled to a select few naps, and your, like everyone else’s, trips to the cafe slowed to a stop.

and yet, the next time you visited, he knew.

he knew.

you dragged yourself through the doors on a spur of whim, determined to reward yourself for making it through the past few weeks. god, you were tired. you blinked the exhaustion from your eyes long enough to find the barista on shift; thoma, as usual, greeted you with a smile.

“welcome back! same as usual?”

you nodded, digging through your wallet, but instead of punching in your order as usual, he reached behind him, setting down a to-go cup in front of you.

it was still steaming.

you froze, the sight settling into your exhausted mind, unable to even force your hands to pay.

why the fuck did thoma know you were coming back today?

you didn’t even know you were coming. this was an impulse, an idea you barely thought through.

after what you can only assume is too long, he lets out a laugh. not nervous, or uncomfortable, but the same casual laugh as when he spills something while someone’s watching. your eyes find his, easygoing and bright.

“i hope you’re not too surprised,” he starts, like you’re not keenly aware of every beat of your heart. “i just figured you should get some rest as soon as possible.”

is it worse, you wonder, if he just made the same drink every day until you came back and simply got lucky? that’s the only answer that doesn’t involve you calling student services, but even that makes your skin crawl. you pay as fast as you can and grab the drink, rushing the rest of the trip back to your dorm.

it went cold on your desk, too unnerving to ever take a sip of.

2. he knows your schedule

it took… a lot of mental energy to force yourself back to the estate. you didn’t even want to go, not really, but the other options nearby either didn’t take school credits or simply tasted worse. you didn’t know what it was, but it was always off. too strong, too weak, with an odd aftertaste. it was a different problem every time, one that wore down your resistance.

nothing was better than a (technically not) free pick-me-up. you had all these credits anyway, you might as well use them on something you actually liked, right?

it’s not like you were known for making good decisions, okay? maybe… maybe it was just a fluke? maybe you could ask him about it. there’s even a chance that it’s not him working the counter!

…yeah, not a chance. a quick glance inside shows the same bright copper hair as always… though the girl is at the register this time, and he’s in the back. there’s only a handful of other people inside, so you’re probably fine.

you walked in, the bell ringing, a few patrons looking up on instinct. the girl at the register does the same right as thoma abandoned the order he was working on, tapping her on the shoulder. “sayu, let me handle this one, okay?”

great. sayu, apparently, looks at you with what you can only describe as pity, shrugging and returning to the back counter. you stood a bit further from the counter than normal, but thoma still continued to smile.

“hey there! your usual?”

he looked so normal. you couldn’t ignore how pleasant his smile was, how easily he waved like he wasn’t the reason you stayed up until the sun rose, unable to look away from the cup on your desk. it almost annoyed you, knowing he probably didn’t even think about it. so you grabbed that irritation, twisted it into words, and pushed it through your teeth; “how did you know when i was going to come here?”

for a moment, his smile faltered. his laugh was quieter, nervous, nothing like before. he shrugged, pushing up the bandana around his forehead, green eyes avoiding yours. “ah, lucky guess?”

you’re a lot of things. stupid is.. probably on that list, given your presence here, but you’re not stupid enough to believe him about that. to his credit, he seems to recognize that, shoulders slumping with a sigh.

“okay, that’s a lie. i’m sorry.” he shakes his head, as if chiding himself for trying. “one of my friends happened to see you, and he said you looked upset. i thought you might appreciate the thought…?”

yeah, you might, if that wasn’t a fucking insane thing to do.

he looks sheepish enough, or as much as one can when it’s clear he doesn’t actually feel bad for what he did.

“…don’t do it again. it’s weird.”

it’s comical, how much he brightens, standing straighter like a flower finally put in the sun. “of course! if you don’t mind the wait, then i’m not complaining.”

that should have been it. you paid, you waited, and though sayu is the one that makes your drink it’s thoma that called you up to the counter. it’s a constant, at this point, same as your order and the chipper grin as he handed you your drink instead of leaving it there, a wax bag in his other hand.

“take this as an apology,” he explains, “i really didn’t mean to unnerve you.”

sure. you’re willing to believe that, if only for the sake of normalcy. you took both, the warmth easing your tense hands.

he lingered. he always did. he stood, and waited, and when he had enough of your staring, he spoke. “if there’s anything else i can do, just let me know. i could even give you my notes to study, if you want! i know you’ve got a test coming up.”

you’re learning to hate his smile. it’s so easy, his words soft and fluid with a genuine curiosity that sent chills across your skin.

there’s the possibility that he just also attends school. you’re aware of that. you swallowed your fear and managed the breath to ask what you really, really didn’t want to know. “do you also have ms yae?”

if you had access to a time machine… well, you’d stop yourself from ever stepping foot in the estate to begin with. but if you couldn’t do that, you’d come back to that instant, and keep yourself from ever asking such a stupid question.

some things were better unsaid. never did you understand that more than when thoma replied, eyes as sharp as a blade of grass.

“of course not. but you do, don’t you?”

you put your pen down, the ink from your anxious tapping now covering most of the upper corner of the page.

you hate it. you hate it. you hate that you wrote his name willingly, you hate that you’re so shaken by something you could have easily avoided, you hate that your life has taken such a turn.

you should have just stayed gone. you’ve stopped now, but now he knew you were stuck here for this semester. leaving mid-term would wreak havoc on your transcript, let alone your grades or schedule or however you were supposed to find another college to attend on such short notice.

you refocus on your list. objectively speaking, there’s more reasons to think this is normal, but the downside of lists like this is that they failed to fully capture the way your heart had dropped that day.

it was a month ago. a month, and you haven’t been able to stop looking over your shoulder whenever you went outside. you should really just call someone…

would student services be open at this hour?

you dig through the school’s website for a bit, but only find an address and a phone number for the department head. what “department” this falls under, you’re not sure, and you’re not keen on making a call less than an hour before midnight, so you don’t ask either. no dice. not for a few hours, at least. it’s just you, not really alone in your dorm, both because of the phantoms in your periphery and the fact that the walls are thin, letting you hear the cheers and disappointment of whatever game they’re playing in the common room.

it’s a bit of an anchor. the world is still going to turn, after all, and you need to be ready to meet it; you need to rest. being on edge for so long is wearing you down, and the weight on your shoulders will only grow if you keep sitting here. after a moment to consider the paper, you rip the list of your worries into short shreds, dumping the remains into the trash. you stand, stretch, and begin to tidy up, plugging in your phone and reaching for your water bottle, only to find it empty. you must have forgotten to refill it in your panic.. you look to the door, mentally weighing the benefits of going out and refilling it. there’s people in the common room, and you’re not too keen on being looked at right now, but it’s not as if they’re the ones plaguing you. it’s a common room for a reason, and filling it now will reduce the number of things to do tomorrow morning.

in search of a blessing for your future self, you unlock and open your door, the voices getting louder. some are familiar, but you shelve the memories. you have a mission. you unscrew the cap as you walk, aiming for the small kitchenette against the wall. archons willing, you won’t even have to interact with anybody. you walk, avoiding their eyes and even doing a rather good job at it, in your opinion. you fill your bottle, lingering just long enough to get the cap on without spilling anything, and turn to leave.

in a moment of weakness, you glance at the tv. there’s some sort of pvp game going on, with both players and bystanders crowded around the lone couch, most watching the ebb and flow of victory in earnest.

most, except one. on the floor, hands neatly in his lap, is the last person you want to see. he’s missing his bandana, but he still has that same smile, one gloved hand raised in a familiar wave.

you don’t think about what he’s said or done. you don’t think about the fact that you definitely should have told your roommates not to let him in. no, all you can think about is the fact that he now knows where you live, right down to the suite number.

it takes a lot of effort to drag your eyes away, pulling your feet into the dorm. you don’t want to think about how much effort it will take to leave tomorrow.

you don’t want to think about what could be waiting for you.

[poisonousquinzel]

"I'm nobody. I haven't done anything with my life like you have."

Todd Phillips, Scott Silver, Lady Gaga genuinely, lovingly, fuck you.

I will never forgive you. I hope every day your bones get softer and softer and then one day when you're not expecting it, I shall be there, and I will gnaw through your Achilles heel<3

[embraceyourdestiny]

i fully get how supernatural is as huge as it is. the winchesters make me want to write poetry too. the soul really sings when it comes to them. i get it.

[ninthprime]

shout out to keith this season for deciding that despite not having characters who were close to gur sevraq before that eclectic should get involved, and now within two missions eclectic has had a traumatic gur related experience and is obsessively watching gur sevraq tapes and having psychic visions inside them. as a gur fan i feel so represented. thank you keith

[deservedgrace]

i didn't realize how much like... "the thing that is obviously happening isn't happening" is almost just as exhausting and demoralizing and frustrating and scary as the thing itself for me. i didn't realize that aspect of things was weighing on me almost as much as the thing itself until now

[mabaris]

not the first to say this but. this is untenable. god

[mbat]

basically i was trying to make a post talking about the theme of family and the humans in steven universe and how basically all the humans are parents and their children and like, never one or the other, and how we can literally talk about the relationships all the kids have with their parents and stuff

and it was supposed to be how that reflects on stevens life and his human half since gems dont have families and blah blah blah

but holy shit i dont know how to say all that in a smart way and i kept going in circles and triangles and squares

[linkneol091]

JOSUKE MY GUY

[bitchy-peachy]

I really wish that antis stopped using real life sa victims in their shit especially since they tell real life sa victims that we deserved our assaults cos we all handle our trauma differently.

[s0phos-writes]

lupin iii - three men and a baby

HERE ME OUT ik they throw children at lupin of varying ages but have they ever given him a baby 🤔 i think it will be funny

i have a very clear image in my head that some woman thrusts a baby on lupin, claiming it's his (but its actually to protect the baby from some evil something or other that's after her). by the end, the lupgang has neutralized the threat, and the baby can go back to her mom ^.^

[dyshonor]

the importance of burning birthday bread

Randal knows the season his birth is supposed to be from.

In most- but not all- places he's been in, the leaves change color. They had in Elibe, which was really the only time it had mattered. He hadn't appreciated it then, the continuity of it all.

That was fine. Placing importance onto dates seemed a silly thing regardless. At this point, who cared?

—

"Keep a diary," he tells Emma. "Write something for every day."

Her bow seems to twitch with a life of its own. "…my progress isn't that interesting," Emma says, like she's ashamed. "A-and you know I'm not one to slack off, even if you or Shade aren't around."

"That's not—" and Randal catches himself, because that would be rude. He tries again. "Emma. When we don't move through time the same way as everyone else, it's easy to lose track of the days."

She stares at him, unimpressed. "The sky is blue. Duh Randal, I'm living out this whole world-hopping thing just the same as you." She turns back to the task she had been tending to, which was massaging out grass stain from her tights into a bucket. Hesitates. "I- well, I appreciate the sentiment. But it doesn't bother me too much."

There's no intentional rudeness in her voice. She's simply baffled, a bit talked-down to. This is an understandable reaction, particularly when Randal has stumbled his way through more accidentally demeaning comments than these.

Here, however, there is the reluctant admittance of concern. Emma is thirteen, was probably thirteen when she got roped up into this whole mess, and will not (will not. he emphasizes this to ensure it) be thirteen forever. She does not deserve to second-guess herself at every memory, when she experiences three autumns in a row because the Chaos has elected to toss her whichever way it goes.

Randal sinks himself into the dirt besides her and sighs overdramatically. "Well, y'see, my memory's awful fading me."

"M-memory?"

A grim nod. "When y'get t'my age, these sorts o' things creep up on ya without even realizin' it. I'll be needin' you to remind me."

Quiet. Randal chances a side-glance at Emma. Her scrubbing has faltered. He presses on.

"And besides, when we're separated, I'll wanna know-"

"If."

Randal fights off the sigh that rises in his throat. The guilt that trickles up his back at stumbling through such posturing- and intentionally, this time- does not pass him by. He keeps himself silent and lets Emma do the work.

Sure enough, she relents.

"W-well, if you're gonna be this much of a poop about it…"

"Mm."

"But you've gotta do it too, okay? So I can know what you're up to!"

"'course, kid." Randal does always tend to get what he wants, even if only for a bit.

—

When he turns soft-cheeked and bright-eyed, he wonders how old he is.

Right now, he can make vague summations: whatever has sent him back into this finer form, free of wrinkles and stubble, is likely not Boundless Chaos. Thus, any rules he had figured out beforehand of determining his age had been merrily thrown out the window.

Randal massages his jaw, traces his finger down the edge of his earlobe. Were the scars that were supposed to be there erased, or had they not been formed yet? Either way, their memory was there.

How old is Randal now, really? His body is: twenty, ish. It has freshly won itself a mansion a good score of years ago, it is the lord of fistfuls of pawns that turn their nose and swords for it.

He is: forty? Fifty? Old. He does not feel old, not even in a young-at-heart sense. Every memory that that older self had dredged together is held in a mental tome, read out to him as if by an entirely different person.

A strand of too-long hair trails in front of his face. He pinches it, twirls it between his fingers.

Here, in the academy, they actually keep dates. The twenty-third of the Wyvern Moon, the tenth month of the calendar year. Regardless of how much time has passed, this is the 'date' of his birth.

That older him had never been affected by things like that. He had passed by the date the first time he had stepped foot in this academy and not mentioned it to anyone, not had anyone mention it to him. There is no grand 'desire' built into him, and so he should follow suit. If he really is that 'same Randal'.

His fingers drop. What did that Randal like?

—

Here is what Randal did during the anniversary of the forty-fourth year of his birth, unknowingly:

Pull an all-nighter to see the sunrise

Rebraid his horse's hair

Make fresh bread

Turn in early for the night

Here is what Randal does during what might be the anniversary of the forty-fifth year of his birth, knowingly:

Dresses, then re-dresses when he catches the stain on his sleeve

Comes late to breakfast and eats cold food

Gets bitten by his horse

Gives up and lies on the grass

Why hasn't he left yet? Sensibly, tiredly, he knows this is what he must do. The second he woke up like this he knew he needed to plod his way on over to his mansion or what ruins remained of it. At the very least, get away from whatever sort of set-up that Randal had established for himself.

Yet here he was, pussy-footing his way out of taking any action. He did not need anyone else here to tell him that he was pretty definitively pathe-

He shuts his eyes. What sort of person wallowed in self-pity on their birthday? Faintly, he recalls making it a whole good-and-proper affair, before time had changed around him. Inviting neighboring lords and making it quite clear to everyone involved his staying power, that he had his shit together.

Hm. So it hadn't been much of a celebration as much as it had been an establishment of power. Not that any of that had mattered in the end. Great thanks, Boundless Chaos. Siccing that blue cunt onto him was pleasant icing on the cake.

One day will bleed into the next into the month into the year into the decade, and he will still be twisted nicely by whatever wants to have his way with him. Then, inevitably, he will be wiped clean back onto the slate of that older him, and nothing he will have done will have mattered. It won't even be written down.

He sits up forcefully at the thought.

—

The calendar let him know. That inconsequential day, which didn't even reside in the mental book of memories he kept, so useless it had been, forces itself into paper. A scrawled on recipe of the bread he had made that day.

'prety damn good. make again.'

He hadn't. He hadn't even bothered to spell the reminder correctly, so why'd he take enough of a step to write the recipe in clear lettering?

Randal bites the bullet and hands it off to one of the kitchen staff, who wear smiles that grow more strained when trying to make out the lettering. Ugh. This was embarrassing. If there weren't bigger things he was afraid of, he'd lie and say that it hadn't been him who wrote it there.

They rewrite the lettering on a napkin, admitting as they hand it off to him that they're making some educated guesses on a great deal of this.

That's fine.

—

He burns it. Of course he burns it.

Even after sucking it up and extending a begging hand towards the staff, begging for a touch of starter, even after nabbing flour he probably shouldn't have owned, even after stealing a salt shaker from the common room table when it was explicitly forbidden given the frequency that they disappeared, he just burnt it.

It sits in the open, still-lit oven, far more akin to a block of coal than anything edible. Hell, it seems to glow just like one, too.

What did he want from this? He doesn't entirely know. Probably something romantic like: here is this memory, it was good, I was here. Transient and forceful and an all-together good thing, where even if that dastard wanted to dismiss and forget it entirely, wafting scents would resurface the thought. Might even be something he missed.

Of course, Randal could not even conjure up this much.

He hangs his head and bunches his hair up in the back of it, practically ripping at his ribbon. Useless, useless, waste of—

"Randal?"

He startles up. There's that girl again- Emma. All dressed up in concern and worry. Shit.

"A-ah, Emma! You know, girls like you really shouldn't be—"

"Take it out!" The concerned expression on her face explodes into near-fear. "It's going to catch fire!"

"I- oh! Uhm-"

—

It sits in front of them, burnt and soggy all the same. An altogether disgusting lump.

"Can you read?" Emma asks plainly enough.

"Wha- yes, I can read! Of all the daft-"

"Mmm." She folds her hands. "Okay. I was gonna offer to read you the instructions in the future, since I thought you were just winging it out of necessity, but I guess not…"

Randal blusters. She hadn't even meant it as an insult, which only makes it sting all the more. "I'm not incompetant, you know."

Emma doesn't respond, instead just entertaining him with a roll of her eyes and a prop up of her chin. She chews noisily. "I guess that'll be somethin' else to tell him…"

"I'm… sorry?"

"Or write down. If he doesn't remember." She snorts a bit. "Let him know what shenanigans you got up to. He got up to." Her face twists, as if she bit something unpleasant. "Sorry, uhm... it's still weird."

Randal doesn't have anything to say to that beyond the usual protest of being the very same, so he doesn't. "You record these kinds of things?" he ventures instead.

Emma shrugs. "He doesn't tell me to do much long-term stuff, so I might as well… and I like having a diary! It's fun flipping through old entries." She pats her pocket, evidently where it's being kept. Ever on her person. "The world is so big! Keeping track of it is nice."

He stares, painfully aware of the owlishness of his blinks. "I see," he settles on instead.

There is a temptation, then, to ask: what will you write about me? The Randal that stands before you now, will you make special note of it? Will you recount other memories of him, to others? Probably, she didn't seem to discriminate. And if all he wanted was to be recorded, then-

"Well. Time to get to it."

Before he has the time to ask her what it is, Emma has ripped off a piece of the bread and slammed it back.

"I- excuse me?"

She holds out a piece to him. "Come on! Wasting food is no good." She speaks around the bite in her mouth. Randal is somewhat shocked she hasn't gagged on it. "It's your responsibility, y'know…"

She looks expectant, but not hostile. Randal takes it from her. It's not as if she could've poisoned it in the seconds she had her hands on it, probably, and even if she could, she probably wouldn't risk that dastard dyi-

"You've gotta eat it. It's your mess, y'know." She swallows thickly. "It's not the worst…"

Randal takes a bite. The freshly soggy, charred crust pairs nicely with the gooey, underbaked center.

—

It's not as if that dastard would care to remember what Randal did, and Randal finds it even less likely that he'd actually read the entries in here, but he writes it down anyway.

on how to bake a loaf of sourdough bread. properly. for days that you want to remember.

gather ingredients: yeast - salt - sugar - flour - water, lukewarm. find someone to get starter from.

begin.

[minigemdoodles]

They're finished! I spent so much time making them when I should've been doing other things but it was so worth it.

I listened a lot to the good omens audiobook while I worked on them and I didn't realise just how long it had been since I last read the book. It was a good experience

[thegreatyin]

who is the scoundrel? I see you posting about them(it? Idk) all the time but I haven’t figured out who they are

my fallen london OC! i made them by accident a few months ago and as you can tell ive very quickly developed scoundrel brainrot. it's a terminal illness for which there is no cure and the symptoms are instead of brain there is scoundrel.

in terms of actual character rundowns, their full moniker is The Bandaged Scoundrel, though i tend to call them "the scoundrel" for short. their real name is D█████, but they'd sooner die permanently than respond to or even acknowledge its existence.

they are! a bastard! a rat! a son of a b___! a motherf______! they are vain beyond your wildest imagination and they think they're the most infallible perfect being in all of existence and they have the exact attitude of a saturday morning power-hungry cartoon supervillain on cocaine.

and also, perhaps most importantly, they're Really Fucking Stupid. because of course they are.

they are resplendently awful. they are inevitably going to cause their own demise in an act of pure karmic retribution. they are a speck of dust in history that desperately keeps trying to insist they're actually a tornado. i love them dearly.

in loose conclusion while also acknowledging ive explained literally nothing; my goofy silly victorian london browser game player character that deserves to get timetraveled against their will to the 21st century specifically so they can get hit by a truck