#inkstained rants

[inkstainedwanderer]

Trying to decide if I have the energy to battle my social anxiety and talk to my apartment manager about the new charges to my account. I had to suddenly pay a pet fee + sign a paper that said I was at fault for the late pet fee and wouldnt do it again as well as a monthly charge for both my dog and cat.

I never had to pay the fee. When I moved in my cat was my ESA so I never had to pay anything. When I got my dog I went to my property manager and asked how I had to go about getting him added and what I had to pay and due to the situation around me getting him (uncle died and I took over ownership) she said it was fine and not to worry.

So I can see that I should have paid a fee back in November when I asked, but nit sure why I'm suddenly being slapped with fees and having to admit any fault for being late with my pet fee payment now. Not to mention having been charged for an ESA.

[inkstainedheartbeats]

*eye twitch*

Does blocking a tag do fucking nothing if someone you follow uses it? Because I don’t want fucking god of war spoilers and I don’t know if my app is lagging or what but I’ve literally blocked god of war spoilers and and just god of war and I’m still seeing god of war posts.

[kettlequills]

ok so this was inspired by this post made by @argisthebulwark - check her blog out! - about dovahkiin soulmates that could feel each other's pain. naturally i ran with the concept of dragonborn soulmates. feat. my ldb laataazin/miraak.

Laataazin has always felt trapped. Before they are Laat-aaz, even, when they are a nameless prisoner, hands-bound, another to be executed through a simple whim of fate. No memories then in the buzzing darkness of their mind, but a feeling of fear, confusion, brief-dawning wonderment on the heels of hot green rage in the drumming space of their chest that was theirs-and-not-theirs. Breath hurting, unused lungs and trembling hands that will not grip round the hilt of the sword Hadvar tries to press into their hands like they know it ought. Like they know scars on their bodies – body, for there is only one Dragonborn, only one.

How dare, their mind rages, how dare the gods try to discard me.

These thoughts, these hungers, these fears, are surely Laataazin’s alone, clear as Masser’s moonlight in the dark sky.

They have known imprisonment, in the cold, whispering bowels of Dragonsreach dungeons, where Mephala murmurs maliciously in every iron bar and chiselled stone, hissing breaths dampening, soft and light as cobwebs falling upon a sleeper’s eye, sanity, safety, sight. Trying to tempt, twist, torment total truth from the prisoner-that-would-be-Laataazin, named Dovahkiin and wrestling the ashes of Mirmulnir into restless ebb. Oil-and-ink in Laat’s nose, and a will that is theirs-and-not-theirs, resistant, defiant, no more daedra than dragonfire, sings firm around Mephala’s words, like the thrum of earthbones a song that refuses to be a bound-and-fooled-slave again.

Don’t complain so much, says the thoughts-that-are-Laataazin, they’ll let you out.

Their dragon-soul, for it must be theirs, is loud, angry, knows their head. It refuses to be quieted, grumbles and snaps at the rolls and reams of papery scrolls the Greybeards set down in front of them, snarling answers in a mother-tongue Laataazin has never known, with the air of distant, impatient distraction, like wings brushing across planes. Laataazin is not much of a reader, puzzles through relearning letters in dusty texts that take bored moments to recall when their body slumps softening into slow sleep. They wake with understanding and vague, boundless frustration, dragon-words in dragon-soul that mutter about Stupid fools and their vapid teachings, you will never learn with these chains on your wings.

Laataazin meditates for endless hours on frigid snowcaps with Paarthurnax’s breath steaming the snow and still thinks of smashing skulls and bloodied steel, still thinks of broken wills and shattered spirits.

It is, they tell Paarthurnax, a losing battle. There is something in them that wants out, and it will stop at nothing, nothing, to claw itself free from the trap locked shut around its howling muzzle.

Mortality is a losing battle, Paarthurnax reminds them. It is their nature to beat against the bars of inevitability, and turn their faces from the grind of time.

Hypocritical lizard, the soul-that-must-be-Laataazin’s mutters, and Laataazin chooses not to share this or the smile it provokes.

Laataazin goes about their divine-driven hunting of twin-souled dragons, who speak to them in a language they know, who challenge them to fights they win, who know them and are stranger to them in a way that only the careless and god-flung may be. They do not want to kill the dragons that are like themselves, who look at the sky and see a glorious road untravelled rather than the distant god-realm for no mortal to cross.

Your soft heart will do us harm, their soul reminds them. Do not spare what hungers to hurt.

Delphine tells them that they are not bloodthirsty enough, that they accept the surrender of too many, and create surrender still where there is not even that. That there is no point sparing monsters, and that Laataazin has a duty, a destiny, a fate.

Laataazin tells Delphine and their soul both that they have chosen a different path. But Akatosh does not make the same mistake twice, and this time, there is no give in the leash of fate wrapped tightly around the neck of the Last Dragonborn.

Ushered by inevitability, they go to face Alduin, and within them their soul rants and raves for its freedom. Fate! Fate! The gods laugh at us.

In Sovngarde, they feel empty, empty. It is a dead place for dead souls, and there is no place for living ties in bodies that breathe and fates that twine. Laataazin’s chest feels cold and dim, unwarmed by so total an omnipresence they had thought it part of themselves. It is not, they know now. There is… something, someone, else.

Gormlaith’s golden hair shines like septims when she smiles at Laataazin, all bared teeth. I knew you would come around, she says, and Laataazin wonders which of them she is talking to, Alduin-that-is-Akatosh, or Laataazin-that-is-trapped. Like standing in a boxful of mirrors, making eye-contact with a thousand versions of an image, an icon, a legend, borne through the ages to consume itself.

It is done. Alduin returns to himself, and fate twirls the key to the shackles of its Last prisoner. Tsun drags their weeping body from the gate and casts it into the realm of air and sunlight, wordless in the face of their inappropriate grief. When Laataazin returns, staggering and coughing out their lungs onto the windswept emptiness of the snow-throat beneath the watching dragon-eyes, feeling slams back into them with all the force of a tidal wave. Pure, blistering rage, fanned so hot it can only be the most animal of panic.

Where did you go? demands the thing-that-is-not-Laataazin. Why couldn’t I feel you?

Laataazin presses their hand to their chest and feels relief, relief, vast enough to swallow the sun.

I thought I had lost you, the prisoner thinks.

Come to me, longs the other.

What force on Tamriel could resist a plea like that? To Solstheim it is and kneeling in the hot ash Laataazin feels the sky all around them open up and his presence close in like breath on their neck.

You are so much louder here, Laataazin tells him, their steps still wobbly from the boat.

You walk on my land now, Miraak replies, and what a wonder to know his name, to touch with travel-sore body land his own has walked, see with dust-stung eyes what his has seen. I grow ever nearer to you.

You did not need to enslave these people, Laataazin thinks at the Tree Stone, watching empty-eyed cultists and blankened reavers work on towering edifices of stone. The mumbling figures remind them of Sovngarde, that terrible emptiness where once a gnawing pain sat. I am here.

I did not think you would come. Miraak’s admission is grudging, a little bitter. But as Laataazin walks through the stone doors of the temple, they hear the clatter of tools dropping, and the shouts of startled reavers.

Laat grins, feels it mark their face wide and feral. Put your best panties on then, for I shall see you soon.

Do not keep me waiting any longer. His pain is audible in the bones that house their heart, his impatience like whips licking the soles of their feet, his eagerness like teeth to their neck. Laataazin opens the Book, and there he is.

“You are shorter than I expected,” is what the soul-of-their-soul tells them, towering over them, crowned in blue and gold like fearless god and dripping ink like blood.

“And you are as obnoxious as I predicted,” Laataazin says, but already they are approaching him, and he does not move away but flinches when their hands meet his chest.

They bear together his pain from centuries of untouched isolation, the nerves awakened by another that burn like needles and dragon-fire, and they bear together the pleasure too, found in smoothing gauntleted hands over thick robes, found in solidity, presence.

I would touch you like this everywhere you could bear it, then more, Laataazin thinks, and their hands come away inkstained when they lift them to cup the golden mask, which tilts, as if its wearer has flinched again at the thought whispered into the ear of his mind like a promise.

The prince that Laataazin favours most is not cunning Mephala who whispers to them in Whiterun, nor Hermeaus Mora, who believes himself masterful gardener of all, but ruby-red Sanguine, who with a gift of a loving if unconventional wife found in a night of revelry wins anew with each feathered kiss their loyalty. It is therefore Miraak who tears himself from this indulgence of touch first, and takes a few steps back. The words of fate are a well-settled cloak employing the ruthless machine of purpose.

“And so the First meets the Last at the summit of Apocrypha,” Miraak says, ringing, proud. “Tell me, did you enjoy the dregs of my destiny?”

“If you had not turned from your fate to kill Alduin, I would not have awoken,” Laataazin replies, dryly, “so to some extent, yes. To other extents, fuck you.”

“That same fate decrees you must die for me to win my freedom.” Miraak’s mask is expressionless, but Laataazin does not need it – they can feel through the glass of body-barriers the surge and roil of the infection of wounds thousands of years untreated, the bitterness, the fear. It has beat within their heart from the very first moment of their waking in Helgen, as their grief, their loss, burns like wildfires in his.

“Freedom?” says one prisoner to another. “What freedom is this? Aren’t you tired of being what they ask of you? Haven’t you paid the price?”

“Do you not feel how the world has warped around you since you awoke?” Miraak’s hand is tightening on his sword hilt, but he does not draw. “You cannot die, you do not sleep, you are not real, or you alone exist – there can only be one Dragonborn.”

“We will both be free,” Laataazin asserts.

“Time, and reality, would not survive us both,” Miraak says, but Laataazin knows their dragon-soul, and knows he is hungry, hungry, and tired of cages.

Boldly, Laataazin reaches out. Miraak takes their hand, masked eyes searching, like he is a man on open water clinging to the uncertain shelter of driftwood.

“That is Akatosh’s problem,” says Laataazin, “I choose to have you.”

[people-observations]

types of people: pride family™ edition

gay grandpa: highly caffeinated at all hours of the day, says "back in my old day" too much, fuzzy cardigans, brown leather jackets, brick walls, "do it for the 'gram", lovely smiles, very soft, always sending wholesome memes to the group chat, animal person, blushing when he's around that one specific boy, messy handwriting.

lesbian mom: baggy jean jackets, tattered converse sneakers, loves plants, very responsible when the time calls for it, hayley kiyoko, feather earrings, mischevious smile, isn't afraid to stand up for herself, protective, tangled headphones, tea person, old cars, has a pocket full of rants for a rainy day, has nothing to prove to you.

trans sibling: shops exclusively at thrift stores, movie marathons, rainy days, squeezes their own juice, friendship bracelets, always choosing kindness, coffee with honey, environmental activist, shameless self-love, can't sit still, cranberry-orange muffins, puts their hand up in class a lot, strong, emotionally supporting their friends.

bisexual sibling: neon lights, cat-eye eyeliner, probably instagram famous, wears vans shoes too much, poetry books, the new trend with sequins that flip over, gives amazing hugs, early morning jogs, late night coffee-runs, hand-drawn cartoons, "you might like getting choked, but turtles don't, so keep you plastic out of the fucking ocean".

pansexual sibling: smudged lipstick, tire swings, yellow sweaters, takes polaroid pictures, pink nailpolish, wanted to be the garbage man as a child, modern art galleries, always pursing everything they're interested in, passionate, peaches and cream, blue demin, shops at the farmers market, wholesome, drama festivals.

polysexual aunt/uncle: independent, self-satisfied smirks, loves all mediums of art, very decisive, but their decisions are a mash of every option, thinks outside the box, hates being limited, mom jeans, black pens, the smell of airports, strawberry-kiwi-blueberry smoothies, lovely laugh, unconventional to say the least.

polyromantic aunt/uncle: their hands are always inkstained, architecture magazines, values happiness over exorbitant wealth, sleeping in late, sunday cartoons, tea with honey, diy croptops, lives for black and white movies, turtleneck sweaters, trustworthy, pizza margherita, has a few really close friends, ice-cream runs.

queer grandparent: vintage shirts and combat boots, has dyed their hair at least twice by now, origami fortune tellers, blacklights, glow-in-the-dark paint, ripped jeans, nimble fingers, needs to teach their facial expressions to use their inside voice, a map with several plotted road trips hanging on their wall, accepting of everyone.

non-binary cousin: unironed clothes, doesn't half-ass anything, aveeno moisturizer, holographic backpacks, not a morning person, has broken at least three alarm clocks by now, alt-indie music, was that one kid in class who actually took social media safety seriously, summer rain, reading a good book under the blankets.

asexual cousin: loves fantasy novels, old photo albums, green t-shirts, has read all of rick riordan's novels, grey sunsets, hates being told what to do, white bathroom tiles, only looks at the photos in brochures, purple pens, keeps movie ticket stubs, drinks their milk with a lot of honey, eating leftover pizza for breakfast, plastic hairbrushes.

aromantic aunt/uncle: leather jackets, would die for their friends, smoky eyeshadow, never uses plastic disposable water bottles, lacy underwear, lace-up boots, their wardrobe is black skinny jeans and black skinny jeans only, hates diet culture, promotes body positivity, comes off as intimidating, is actually a sweetheart.

[silverfrostheart]

AnomalyVERSE Chapter 2

Error dusted himself off and stood up glaring at the newcomer. This bitch had some guts... "Aion huh? You look like just another stupid abomination to me..." error hissed angrily. Aion laughed, summoning a sharp weapon that looked in the shape of an elegant clockhand. Taking abit of a defensive stance in case the glitch skeleton decided to attack him. "It's ironic. Thats pretty close to what my Error said to me when he found me!" he commented. "But honestly, don't mind me! You two can keep killing each other." Canvas made his brush dissapear, not taking his sockets off of Aion. "Your Error? Are you from another universe i take it?" Canvas asked. He looked around. "You can manipulate time." He said, abit of wonder in his voice. Aion nodded. "One-another Multiverse actually. and Two-yes!" Another multiverse...? That's possible? Canvas looked stunned. Error glanced at wide socketed skeleton. Gullible idiot.... "OK. Well if you have your own Multiverse, why are you in ours?!" Error spat. Aion hummed, amused by the black skeleton's anger. "Mmmmmm.....none of your buisness!" He grinned. Error growled and pulled out his strings. "Little asshole!" He cried, lunging at Aion. His strings wrapped around Aion's neck. The time skeleton tutted, shaking his head. "Typical. Rushing in before thinking...." "Error no wait!" Canvas cried. But he wasn't fast enough. Just as error got close, Aion swung around slashing through Errors strings. Next, he grabbed leftover strands and pulled them down, slamming Error into the concrete. "AAGH!" "Error!" Aion sighed. "Man it seems like all Errors have such a temper...." He muttered. Canvas looked back. "Couldn't we have just talked this out?" Canvas asked, helping error up. Who in turn jerked his arm away. "Meh. Self Defense." Aion shrugged. He looked at canvas. "Your an ink....but i gotta say your by far a much more interesting ink than the one i know." He smiled. "But i gotta go for now. It's been fun!" Snapping his fingers, Aion vanished with a poof. When he did, time resumed around the two. "What the fuck Canvas." Error stated. "Your fucking gross abomination freinds get fucking weirder and weirder..." He growled again having to dust himself off again. Canvas crossed his arms,pouting. "Hey that's mean! Sides that guy wasn't my freind Eri." Canvas said. "And don't think just because that happened that im going to let you go. You still hurt this AU." Error growled. "First off, how many fucking times do i have to tell you. STOP calling me that gross cutesy nickname. SECOND--" Error was cut off when he was suddenly pulled through an ink portal Canvas had made while he was ranting. "FUCKING--" Error tumbled into the doodle sphere along with Canvas himself. "Huh. Aw guess Fresh left..." Canvas sighed. just as Error was about to get up, Canvas snapped his fingers and turned the leftover paint into chains, restraining the glitch. "Sorry, Can't letcha go!" "Great. So your making me suffer by having to listen to your annoying voice?" Error spat. Canvas giggled. "No silly! But i really can't have you running rampant..." Error huffed, a dark grin on his face. "Wouldn't need to be worrying if you hadn't broke our truce all those years ago...." Canvas froze. He clenched his fist. "That's the past error..." Error rolled his sockets. "Whatever. It's not like you can genuinely care anyway. Gotta rely on those dumb vials." Canvas looked away. "So what? Are we just gonna let captain glorified wall clock run rampant?" Canvas looked up at an AU's paper. "Maybe? I dunno...he didn't seem like he wanted to harm anyone?" Error wiggled in his chains. "If you say so, stupid squid..." he grumbled. "Can't you get that filthy parasite to watch him?" Canvas looked back at Error. "What, are you trying to latch on to my intel and destroy him?" Canvas questioned. "No actually. For once i actually just wanna keep an eye on him. He makes me nervous for some reason." Error replied. "I'd use my puppets but well. You have me tied up." Canvas thought about it for a second. Then nodded. "Alright. Fine. But your still staying here." Canvas said. "Ya know if you didn't have a soul i'd call you kinky for this whole Tying up thing." Error chuckled. He ended up getting swatted with a bunch of paint. "WAH! FUCKING--STUPID INKSTAIN!" "I'll be back. i'm gonna go visit dream. Try to behave will you?"

Fresh and Error-loverofpiggies

ORIGINAL INK-comyet

Aion- @cutiegrumpycerym

Canvas!ink- me!

Dream-jokublog

[aliferous-ly]

Twilight

ye ask and ye shall receive 

continuation of The Setting Sun and the second chapter of many many more . i’m calling this new story, overall, the Daylight series

Summary: He doesn’t want to die, Virgil told himself, and he believed it. Logan didn’t want to die, he just wanted to help the others in the best way possible. Jokes on you, Virgil thought, blinking rapidly. You just hurt us more than you thought you could. 

Words: 2803

Warnings: deceit/sympathetic deceit, sharp edges, mentions of physical harm (not self harm), as always self depricationnnn anything else please let me know!

Gen tags: @sassy-in-glasses​, @rose-gold-roman​, @justanotherpurplebutterfly​, @echomist13​ (let me know if you’d like to be removed for this series!)

Daylight tag list (i just added the people who asked for continuation/to be tagged, lmk to be removed): @falseh0od​, @roxywolfgirl​, @eternally-exhausted-7​, @randomfanderfriend​, @yeet-ceit​, @cosmic-melodies​, @luckymasie​, @donalev​, @starsister365​ 

Virgil sat in the bathroom, scrubbing at inkstained hands with too-hot water, staring at nothing.

When Roman told them what happened, Virgil cried. He cried in thick globs of liquid, streaks of black ink staining his fingers and face and dripping onto his clothes. Patton had frozen but the stark white glow of sorrow pulsed from his chest, mixing with a dark black of anger and fury.

Roman had said, “I’m going after him,” and Virgil sank out to his room to think.

Because it wasn’t like Virgil wanted to leave Logan in the mindscape. He just... didn’t have a lot of positive memories with going into the mindscape. 

“He gave us new roles,” Roman said. “He gave himself to us.”

Virgil stopped scrubbing for a moment. Before Roman had said anything he couldn’t put a name to the new swirling fear in his stomach, but Virgil knew it was Logan’s doing.

He prodded the feeling, wondering what Logan – no, what Logic had given him (because Logan couldn’t give roles – only Logic could).

When greeted with hundreds of facts about the unknown, about the void of space or the depths of the sea and how nobody knows what’s down there, not really, and here’s what could be might be he shoved the new role back down, shaking. Fear, raw and callous, gripped his frame.

“No,” he rasped out, eyes wide, clutching at the edges of the sink. This isn’t right.

Logan had given them an out. And out of... their friendship? Of knowing Logan as Logan, and being able to move on with the new Logic, emotional roles taken care of?

Then a thought struck him, piercing and cold like a dagger to the skull. Virgil scrambled to his senses and jerked to his room, limbs shaking like an earthquake. He opened his closet, shoving through stray cobwebs and old, moth-eaten clothes. The chest sat at the very base, and he ripped the cover open, heedless of the keyhole (he wouldn’t be able to use the chest after this, it’s purpose had been ruined by Virgil’s own hands, the key now useless–).

The shard of glass, edges jagged and gleaming, taunted him.

Virgil swallowed and picked it up carefully, don’t cut your finger on it, and peered into the flawless surface.

Logan, he thought, and a glittering streak of gold jumped across the surface for a split second. Virgil’s gaze darted around the edges, air pushing past his lips in a relieved woosh. His hands dropped and he breathed, heart beating quick, quicker than it had in a long time.

If Logan’s being was moving around, he hadn’t disappeared into forgotten memories.

Stepping into forgotten memories would, without a doubt, kill him. Completely and without fail.

He doesn’t want to die, Virgil told himself, and he believed it. Logan didn’t want to die, he just wanted to help the others in the best way possible.

Jokes on you, Virgil thought, blinking rapidly. You just hurt us more than you thought you could.

But beneath Virgil’s shaky relief, beneath his overwhelming fear and anxiety, Virgil was... Virgil was furious. Furious at Logan, for believing the little lies his mind told him, furious at Deceit for not catching Logan before too late, furious at Roman and Patton for being self-centered or unaware...

But mostly, Virgil was furious at himself. Did Logan not feel anxiety at his actions? He mustn’t have, or Virgil would have felt him as he slipped away. Logan was confident in his actions, or in the very least, at ease with them. Virgil had missed his warning signs, he’d missed the little daggers he’d shot into Logan, he’d missed Logan’s special love language and his body language.

He missed Logan so completely and utterly that he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Virgil pressed the mirror to his chest and took a deep breath.

It’s decided, then?

Virgil blinked back tears, fingers growing lax against the edges of glass.

It was decided.

He was going to save Logan.

—

“He didn’t go to forgotten memories, did he?” Patton asked, the first words out of his mouth when Virgil sank out.

Roman stilled for one, two, three beats, and Patton couldn’t breathe. “No. The mirrors don’t show forgotten memories.”

A thorn pierced Patton’s heart. “Mine can,” he murmured. Which was why he needed to ask. Why he couldn’t find out himself. He alone among the sides could see the forgotten memories, a curse he wasn’t quick to forget.

“We have to go get him,” Patton said. “We must.”

Because without him Thomas might be safe, he might be fine, but they wouldn’t have Logan, with his snarky side-comments, with the passion blazing in his eyes when he ranted about who knew what, with his intelligence and desire to be heard. The parts of Logan that made him Logan, more than Logic, more than a side.

They were all more than, in their own way.

“It won’t be easy,” Roman said, and something shattered in Patton’s soul.

“No,” Patton said, words falling brittle from his lips. “I’m aware, Roman.”

Roman flinched back from the luminescence in his eyes, a rainbow of colors hiding the depth of Thomas’s emotions. Patton wondered at how easy it was to forget that Patton had been within Thomas’s core more often than any of the others; he was born there. While Roman had come to be as the rest of the mindscape did (he created where they stood) and Virgil hailed from the tangles of distortion, Patton knew the vast expanse waiting for them, the quirks and edges nobody else knew.

Or at least – he did.

He hadn’t gone there for years and years.

“We can’t go there alone,” Roman said.

“I don’t know if I would last in there alone, either,” Patton said. “We’d need all the help we can get.”

“Meaning, Virgil has to come around,” Roman said, wringing his hands together.

Patton’s mind flashed to the other sides. “What about Deceit?”

“Deceit?” Roman startled. “Would he help?”

“I don’t know,” Patton said honestly, which really wasn’t the way to summon Deceit. “But you should try.”

Roman made an unsavory face. He had the ability to summon any side he wanted, regardless if they accepted it or not, though he used the ability sparingly. If he forced someone to appear against their will it could splinter his skin, depending on how passionate the other side was.

He’d tried with Virgil, once, and with Patton twice. Patton had been relatively willing the first time, but the second...

“I... okay,” Roman said, inhaling slowly. “Alright. Here goes nothing.”

He angled his arm at the ground and rose it swiftly.

Deceit appeared. He was disgruntled, but Roman’s arms remained smooth.

“How lovely of you to call me,” he said, and sounded genuinely miffed that they hadn’t simply yelled his name. “I adore when Roman pulls me from the abyss.”

Anger flashed through Patton, swift and hot. “Sorry, Deceit!” he said, forcing cheer into his voice. By the look Deceit shot him, he knew exactly how much bullshit he was spewing, but the flash of anger in Patton’s eyes deterred him from commenting. “We’ll just call you next time, but this is urgent.”

“Wonderful,” Deceit said, smoothing out his coat.

“Logan created a new Logic and placed his own essence into Thomas’s core,” Roman said flatly. “We’re going in after him.”

Deceit glanced at Patton, who nodded in confirmation.

“Why?” Deceit said, sounding truly baffled.

“Because he’s important to us,” Patton said.

Deceit’s expression twisted. “And?”

“Will you help us?”

Patton watched his gaze shutter, emotions trapped behind yellow gloves and scales. “No.”

“No?” Roman repeated, disbelief coloring his tone. “We’re trying–”

“Wait,” Patton said, because he knew Deceit better than anyone (except maybe, another side yet to be discovered). Patton peered at him. “There’s a reason.”

“Of course I don’t have a reason,” Deceit said. “I just dislike Logan. Maybe this new Logic will do a better job than he ever did.”

“How dare you,” Roman said, eyes narrowing to slits. A red aura surrounded his fist, the singular tell that a sword was about to settle in his palms.

“Wait,” Patton insisted, placing his hand against Roman’s. A sword appeared regardless, and Patton winced at Roman’s lack of trust. “Deceit. Why not?”

“Thomas should definitely be left with this new Logic in case something happens to you,” Deceit said. He sneered. “I’m fascinated to see how this new one fails.”

“Nothing he says is sounding better, Pat,” Roman said, warning in his tone.

“No, he has a point,” Patton said.

Roman’s head jerked towards Patton, betrayal in his gaze. “What?”

“We need a contingency plan,” Patton said. “Deceit’s going to take care of Thomas.”

“How dare you imply you know what I mean,” Deceit said, but his voice was languid, movements lazy.

“We can’t trust the new Logic to look after him properly,” Patton said. “Part of every side having emotions and a personality is because humans are incredibly protective of those they care about. Logic doesn’t have that same care. It would be fine, when the rest of us are there to balance them out, but if we’re in the mindscape...”

“...nobody would remain to watch after Thomas,” Roman finished. The sword vanished as Roman sighed, anger dissipating. “I suppose.”

“I’m so very glad you concede,” Deceit said without a care in the world. Roman made a face at him and Deceit answered in kind.

“Thank you, Deceit,” Patton said.

Deceit was silent for a few seconds, expression frozen, before he rolled his shoulders. “Whatever,” he said. Then, of course, he sank out.

“I don’t trust that man,” Roman said, fingers twitching.

“I do,” Patton said. “He does what’s best for Thomas. Like all of us.”

“Not all of us,” Roman said. “Excess can harm him.”

“We won’t be gone for that long,” Patton said. He avoided Roman’s gaze, though.

“You can’t believe that,” Roman said. “We can’t know.”

“There’s a difference between lying and hope,” Patton said. He pressed his fingers into his bicep. “We need hope to succeed.”

“Pillars of Hope,” Roman said. He stared at the wall. “Hopefully we don’t need to make a pitstop there.”

Patton shot him a sharp glance. “You’ve been to the Pillars?”

“Patton,” Roman said, expression flat as he glanced his way. “I created the Pillars.”

Everything sortof slotted into place, after that.

Patton wrung his hands together, frowning. “And the green–?”

“Not my doing,” Roman said. “I didn’t call the pixies at all. They came after I created the Pillars, and just... like pests, they overtook the whole area. Not my doing.” Not my fault, Patton heard, between the lines. Not my thoughts. Because the pixies overtaking the Pillars were good, pure, or horrifically evil.

“We’re going to need Virgil’s help,” Patton said instead of responding to Roman. “For the Distortions, they can hit out of nowhere.”

Roman took the out gratefully. “I need to prepare, as well.”

“I could grab some things from my room,” Patton agreed. “Meet back here in an hour? Re-discuss if Virgil’s not ready yet?”

Roman nodded in consent, fingers rubbing together, expression far off. Patton sighed as Roman sank out, dropping to his knees and pressing his palms against his temples.

I’m so tired. I’m so, so tired, Patton thought. Logan. Logan, why did you leave? Where did I fail you? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please come back.

Patton inhaled, pulled himself together, stood up. He rubbed the liquid off his cheeks. He pushed back his shoulders.

He sank out, preparing to enter Thomas’s core – where none of the sides had been since their creation.

—

Roman didn’t want to go to Thomas’s core. In fact, it was the very last place he wanted to be. Not just because they housed the Pillars of Hope (a failure, he thought, being turned and twisted into something good-evil-happy-devastating) but because they housed the –

“Roman.”

Roman jumped, a glass bauble slipping through his fingers. Virgil snatched it out of the air just before it hit the ground. He raised his eyebrows at the spiraling copper wire. “What’s this?”

“It’s a bang,” Roman said, snatching it back from Virgil and shoving it into his pocket.

“A bang?” Virgil said. He shoved his hands into his pockets, the picture of nonchalance.

“Yes,” Roman said shortly. “Why are you in my room?”

“I was wondering when we’re leaving,” Virgil said, shrugging. The big sweatshirt shifted around his shoulders.

“You bringing anything?” Roman asked, gathering one, two, three wooden pens.

“Yeah, some stuff,” Virgil said. “Won’t do much good. You want me for the Distortions, right?”

“We want you because you’re as much a part of this as the rest of us,” Roman said. “And because you’d go anyway, because you care too much about Logan.”

“I care the exact right amount about Logan, actually,” Virgil said. He grabbed a red feather off one of Roman’s shelves. “What’s this?”

“It fell in the crowd during Thomas’s first time seeing Chicago,” Roman said absentmindedly. He ran a hand through his hair. How much could he bring, how much would be logical to bring? “Thomas lost it a month after getting it, we think the vacuum got it, but...”

“You have the copy,” Virgil said, rubbing the stem between his fingers.

Roman hummed, gaze trailing the wall of his room. Where would he be able to summon objects, where would his Creative touch fail? He hated the core, much too unpredictable.

“Princey,” Virgil said. When Roman glanced at him he was frowning, eyes pinched together. “You’re worrying.”

Roman bit back a retort and settled for “of course I am, Virgil. We can’t screw up.”

“This is also Thomas’s core we’re talking about,” Virgil said, sounding, for all intents and purposes, far too gentle. “Not a war zone.”

“It’s not like I have good memories from there.”

“Neither do I,” Virgil said sharply. “Neither does Patton.”

Roman sighed, shoulders sagging. “I know. I know, I’m being...” a coward, he thought. Selfish, heartless. “... a pain in the ass.”

“You’re not a coward,” Virgil said. “Hell, I’m scared shitless. You think I want to go back where the Distortions are? I know you don’t want to go back to... wherever you were born, the clown-zone it’s gotta be,” he said, grinning, the rest of his face lax and soft.

Roman’s lips quirked at the attempt. “Of all your digs, that’s pretty weak.”

“What can I say, I work badly under pressure,” Virgil said, mouth turned up. “Nothing in there’s gonna kill us. The least it’ll do is kick us back here. They probably don’t want us there any more than we wanna be there.”

“Yeah,” Roman said. He took a breath. Four point three seconds. Seven point nine three. “God, Logan knows, like, the exact time. Subconsciously. Or something. I don’t know.”

“Um,” Virgil said. “No he doesn’t.”

Roman frowned, a small vial pinched between his fingers. He looked at Virgil. “Well, I didn’t know the exact time of everything before Logan decided to re-delegate his role.”

“But...” Virgil played with the edges of his hoodie. “He’s never said the exact time before. He always rounds it.”

“Maybe he just wanted to fit in better,” Roman said. He turned back to a long cord of yellow rope, touching the frayed ends. “Maybe he didn’t want to sound like a computer.”

Virgil was silent for a few moments. Six point six seven seconds, Roman’s brain told him. He grabbed the yellow rope and shoved it into his pack angrily.

“Maybe,” Virgil said. “We should have been a little more astute when it comes to our Logic.”

“We should have,” Roman said. He sighed, then, and turned around. “Does Patton have a plan?”

“I hope so,” Virgil said. He was worrying his lip. “Since he’s, you know, the only one who’s been outside their birthplace.”

“Yeah,” Roman said, tactfully ignoring his creation of the Pillars. He also despised his birthplace, but from what the others said, they didn’t like theirs much, either. “Okay. I’m good. I’m ready.”

Virgil made a confirming noise, then stood a little taller, straightening his spine. “Hey, Roman,” he said. He held his hand out in the air between them, just below their chins.

Roman grabbed his offered hand and their gazes locked together.

Virgil cracked a grin. “We’re gonna save our Logic, aren’t we?”

“No,” Roman said, his own smile spreading. “We’re gonna save Logan.”

“Damn straight,” Virgil said. And with the two of them standing, staring at one another, it felt like a promise. A prophesy.

Their hands dropped and everything seemed to return to normal, but with a new buzz between the two of them. A knowledge, almost.

Roman smiled just thinking about it, and they sank out to meet Patton.

[shealwaysreads]

They didn’t usually work together; Draco had gone into Cursebreaking after an extended apprenticeship at Gringotts, and Harry had moved into the Special Investigation division after serving his mandatory five years on the beat. It wasn’t often the DMLE brought in outside consultants, but the case was high-profile and Draco was the best in the business; he had a mind like a steel trap and a knack for undoing other wizard’s attempts at laying down Gordian knots of magic and malice.

Harry didn’t mind having Draco assigned to the case, he liked it, in fact. It meant long hours sifting through evidence, and late nights with takeaways snuck into the office. It meant taking turns to make the tea, and discovering that Draco simply wouldn’t drink his if it wasn’t served in a fine bone china mug. It meant Harry got to spend his days with him, for a while at least, and not just his nights.

That had started a while ago—the nights, that is—first with blowjob in the men’s loo at the Pickled Piskie that had left Harry with shaking knees and the unfading memory of Draco’s hair tangled around his fingers, and grey eyes that promised this was just the start. And it was the beginning. After that it had been a deeply gratifying fumble in Ginny and Blaise’s box bedroom, then mutual handjobs at Dean’s exhibition at the Tate. After that they decided that perhaps their friends had put up with enough, and the next time they’d just left the pub early and tumbled into Draco’s bed with intent. Now most nights Harry fell asleep close to Draco, skin to skin.

Harry hadn’t been sure they’d manage to work well together—the sex was incredible, and the moments of something like tenderness were scary and delicate and filled Harry with hope, but that wasn’t the same as functioning properly in a professional environment—but Draco was bloody good at what he did, and Harry was surprised and proud that they had done it. They had closed the case, and made the arrests, and now all they had to do was put together the files for the prosecution service.

Six weeks of working together every day, and Harry still found himself a little bit fascinated by the breadth of Draco’s shoulders as he sat at their shared desk and scribbled his way through report after report. Harry had done his bit, and was waiting for Draco to finish adding his analysis of the curses and hexes their suspect had used before they could call it a day.

Finally, Draco dropped his quill and shoved the scrolls of paperwork away from himself. He rubbed his face with inkstained hands and huffed a laugh into them.

“Thank fuck that’s finished. Merlin, I’d rather be out chasing that obstinate shit than having to write another Ministry-mandated form, I have no idea how you do it.” He turned to look over his shoulder at Harry, clearly ready to rant, but stopped short when he caught sight of what Harry held in his hands. “What’s that for?”

“It’s for you,” Harry replied, pleased with the eyeroll and the helpless smile it prompted. He stepped closer, careful with the plate in his hand, and touched the nape of Draco’s neck with his free hand. “Ask a silly question, get an obvious answer. Did you think I didn’t know? Or did you think I wouldn’t care?”

Draco paused, his eyes fluttered as Harry brushed his thumb across the soft skin and short hair behind his ear. “Neither. I’m just surprised. Pleasantly surprised.”

Harry didn’t bake the cake, he was no good at that sort of thing. But he knew it was good—Draco had a sweet-tooth a mile wide, and had been gleeful the week before when he’d found a punnet of fresh raspberries in Harry’s fridge, so Harry had ordered accordingly—the sponge was light and deep, and the whipped cream was dotted with chocolate chips and fat, juicy summer berries.

“Happy birthday,” Harry murmured, and leaned down to put the cake in front of Draco. The single sparkling candle on top of the slice of cake threw the angles of Draco’s face into golden brightness, so Harry kissed him, it was too hard not to, with him looking like that; a little bit wide-eyed, and so openly delighted. Draco’s mouth was slightly open with surprise, and his hands still hovered in the air like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, but when Harry sucked on his bottom lip and licked into his mouth, Draco reached up to cup his cheeks and made a soft sound of sheer pleasure.

@swymsuyt I couldn’t resist writing a little something for this gorgeous art—you made such a wonderful moment here it just lit my imagination up 🤍

*aggressively shouts* BIRTH

[inkstainedwanderer]

Tried watching Wednesday. Hated it. Hated all of it.

[inkstainedwanderer]

it's cold in the office I work in, but all my sweatshirts have skulls on them. I need skulls to become business appropriate please. It isnt even like I want to wear them to meetings with higher ups, I just want to be warm while I click clack alone at my desk. I dislike how only some forms of self expression are acceptable. If someone can plaster their desk in puppy pictures and figures then let me put skulls all over mine.

[inkstainedwanderer]

Okay, my cousin indirectly inspired my new gameplan for fixing my current depressive slump.

When I get overwhelmed I get paralized. Unless I can fix the problem on a large scale, I sit there agonizing over what to do. Then I slowy stop doing other things until those become massive problems and on and on until I am as I am now. It's like when you mess up in a video game so bad you have to consider restarting because the effort to fix it feels way too much.

My biggest issue since I had my surgery has been money. I've pretty much been living off of handouts when I actually ask for help and dont try to live without. This includes rent. This last month I decided I didnt want to ask for help and would rather be homeless because I genuinely cant bring myself to ask for it anymore. I want to repay all the money given to me but it's getting to be so much I'm now freaking out over that too. My friends got me a ticket to go to Chicago with them and I couldnt decide if I was upset or happy because I now feel like I need to pay them back as well. I told my cousin this and she ended up giving me her credit card temporarily to pay rent, telling me to make sure I have a place to live in first and then worry about paying off the card second. Because I dont have to ask the card for help, I'm not as stressed about that aspect or whether or not I'll be homeless. My new job starts next week and it pays pretty well so I just have to focus on paying off the card, food, and electric rather than figuring out if my $200 paycheck should be saved to try and pay off some of my rent or used for food (between the three electricity seemed like less of a need).

But now I have all the issues that came about while I was contemplating homelessness... like how I dont have the energy to cook and how my apartment is TRASHED. For the past couple days I was stressing over food. I dont have a car to grocery shop and I didnt have the energy to cook or clean. So I was going into "sleep mode" ordering out once a day and then going back into sleep mode to essentially try and not waste energy. Which was neither healthy or monetarily responsible.

Today I paid rent and was thinking about how the credit card let me gain enough energy in the short term to actually work on my problem in the long term. So I applied that to my food.

I walked to the store and bought enough food I could carry that I dont need to prep or cook along with plasticware. It still isnt healthy, but at least now I'm not stressing about what to eat and how I'm throwing my money down the drain ordering out. So now I'll hopefully have the energy to motivate myself to start working on the next problem which is cleaning again. Cleaning means I'll stop avoiding the rest of the apartment, so I dont have to lay in bed all day and I can feel good about cooking again.

If I can get to a point where I can take care of myself again I might have the energy to socialize and be productive in ither areas besides survival.

Why did nobody tell me that small, temporary steps are okay towards solving massive problems?

[inkstainedwanderer]

My ex roommate/best friend is legit giving me nightmares where I wake up in the fetal position and hyperventilating... welp... good thing I have therapy today.

[inkstainedwanderer]

No tumblr, I dont like dead queen posts or that travesty of a Velma show. Stop saying so when I tell you the post isnt for me.

[inkstainedwanderer]

Sometimes, I really miss my ex best friend.

Then other times I just want to completely forget she ever existed.

Maybe sometimes I hate her, but mostly I just think I'm frustrated about the whole ordeal.

Over ten years of friendship and we have a lot of stuff that tangles us together, so it isn't easy to just block her and move on. Like characters we wrote together or designs we shared, then I'm stuck trying to figure out if I can keep them for myself and repurpose them or just let them go into the void. She has one of my dragons on Flight Rising that I gened up from basic myself. I gave it to her to train while I bred two of her dragons and have repeatedly asked to trade back since we fell out, because the dragon and character on it are special to me. Only recently did she come on FR just to block me. That makes me frustrated.

I want to move on, but it's hard to untangle pieces when someone refuses to let go of one end and the idea of just cutting them off is something that I've never handled well.

There are still sad parts, but I dislike missing someone who caused me so much pain and hardship. Sometimes I wish I had the power to take all the good things and implant them into a better person so even if it did end with us not being friends, she wouldnt have done things in the way my ex friend did, knowing it would be the best way to spite me. Like, fine, block me, but give me my stuff back first.

[inkstainedwanderer]

Started trying One Piece again for the... fourth time? Every time before I got 3/4s into the Alabasta arc and wanted to merc myself (joking) out of boredom. This time I got smart and just skipped past.

I'm now at the Fishman Island part and I've realized the pattern. The first few arcs while Luffy is assembling the crew before the Grand Line are great. They're more streamlined and dont overstay their welcome. After that begins the problem with every main arc. There is an emotional pull that sucks you in, you coast on it for a quarter of the arc, the arc then GOES ON TOO LONG, everyone nearly dies and you get another emotional moment, it teases being over just to be a dick because it's now overstaying it's welcome, you start wishing the arc was over until it finally ends and you're just relieved... then the filler in between has a 50% chance of being interesting or awful.

Every time I think I'm giving up again someone shoots a fishman and Luffy gets suuuuper pissed, then I HAVE to watch to the end even though I know I'll be miserable halfway in.

I watched all of Naruto, the show that was memed before meme was a thing for being too long and full of filler. No. This is worse. Naruto constantly loads you up on the emotional pain throughout the arc to get you through. Somehow One Piece made me think zombies were boring as hell.