#ramble ramble ramble this lonely man deserves therapy and love

[aldisobey]

Food for thought. Maybe off topic, but I was military. You’re known by title and last name so often in an environment like that, and I feel that might be similar in a collegiate environment? I find Emmrich’s insistence on being called by his first name when joining the Veilguard so endearing.

Like yes, he’s Professor Volkarin there at work, at his job. But here comes Rook and the Veilguard and from the start he wants to engage as equals. Not be some outside aide or expert they’re calling on from the Mourn Watch. He’s a part of this, and desperate for connections outside what he’s known as. He’s trapped by the dressings of esteemed professor in his home. Maybe that’s a reason he never found that true love.

Think of the prestige of his position, the rarity of corpse whispering, his distaste for nobles. It’s likely some Nevarrans have tried to use him and his desire for intimacy and romance to advance their own interests. No wonder he’s deep in the Shrouded Halls doing work alone. My exceedingly rich uncle would bemoan that he never knew if someone was really his friend, if they really liked him, or if they just wanted his resources and wealth and material he had to offer. He was ruined by desperate loneliness.

Apply that to everything Emmrich has to offer Nevarrans and the Mourn Watch, he’s a necromancer on the path to something as rare as lichdom. Are his peers real friends? Can they be real love? Has he had any real connection or was he the gifted orphaned that was taken advantage of young and detached as the reality of his situation settled?

Maybe I need to go over the dialogue more. But you’ll note Hezenkoss even calls him Volkarin (and you’ll note he calls her Johanna, he’s reaching out), and that makes sense, my old military friends still default to my last name. It’s familiar and dropping the title was comfy enough. But when you’re only known by that title and last name? When you never hear your name like it’s love?

Sure he joined the Veilguard because of what he has to offer, but on this team everyone is bringing unique and vital skills to the table, he’s not alone. And he wants to be just Emmrich. What a breath of fresh air it must’ve been to be truly seen and eventually known. No wonder he can fall so hard so fast for Rook. He finally gets to be Emmrich. Not the Professor.

[daisylore-au]

To Tommyinnit!

Hello, I’m Ghostbur! I was missing you a lot today, so I wrote this letter! You can’t read it right now, and I do hope you won’t get to read it for a long, long time, but they say writing your feelings down is a good way to think. I haven’t written many letters, but I think I should start by saying I’m sorry. It was very rude of me to leave without saying goodbye. It wasn’t on purpose! But I am still sorry. I know you said you didn’t want Alivebur to come back, but I know you care about him. I hope the resurrection worked and you two are getting along again. I hope it turned out okay for you.

Things turned out better than expected for me! I thought if Alivebur got resurrected, I’d disappear into the void and be alone forever, or that I might just stop existing all together. I was really, really scared Tommy. And for a little bit, I could feel myself falling into the void. But someone caught me.

Did you know Philza Minecraft’s wife is Death? I’m not sure why, but I could have sworn his wife was a refrigerator! I like her much better this way, though. Mumza is a very nice lady and she took me to her home! Its very nice here. She has a big library full of stories, and she says I’m good at music, and there are birds everywhere. She treats me like family, but she doesn’t call me Wil. She says I’m my own person. Its taken getting used to, but I think I like it.

I still miss you, and Philza, and Technoblade and Friend and everyone. I still dream about L’Manberg. Even though this is my home now, I still get homesick for the old times. Mumza says I’ll see you all again someday, but since she’s Death I think maybe she’s talking about when you all die. Don’t rush for me! I can wait, and when you do finally come, we can share so many stories. I hope you find that happy ever after you deserve.

PS. Take care of Friend for me! :)

Love, Ghostbur!

Dear Ghostbur,

So this is pretty stupid because I know you’ll never get this letter (considering you’re dead and shit) but Puffy told me that sometimes writing out my feelings is better than speaking them. I’ve never really been good at speaking (or writing) things so I thought I’d give it a go because I’m the best.

I’m sorry I got you ki

I feel gui

I want to thank you, man. For everything. I don’t want to get sappy because Tubbo might find it or something and I think I would rather blow up a country (sorry not sorry) than him read this but you were kind of there for me when nobody else was. In exile, even if you fucked off halfway through but that actually wasn’t your fault and I don’t really hold it against you. When I got out of prison. When I was alone. When I thought I had nobody. You can tell I’ve been to therapy because I’m being open and honest about my feelings which isn’t exactly something I’d done before coz Wilbur and Philza are shit at feelings and never open up about anything (which actually makes me better than them because I’m at therapy and they’re not. Sucks to be them. They’re dumb.)

But yeah. Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for sticking by me even when I was horrible to you a lot of the time sometimes. You were a lot nicer to me than Wilbur was, and I think I took a lot of my feelings towards him out on you at times, which was a bit shit of me. He’s still dead, by the way. I thought maybe when you died, he’d come back, and I was really scared not really sure what to think if he did. But he didn’t, so now I’m just kind of brotherless. Which is fine, you know, brothers fuck off every so often, but it was lonely for a while. 

I’m not alone anymore, though. There’s this kid - her name is Henry (yes like the cow, fuck off) - and she’s kind of mine? Now I’M like the big brother which is fucking weird, but she’s cool. You would have liked her, I think. Her favourite colour is blue, and she has a toy sheep that she calls Buddy (think she got that from you, though I have no idea how). Puffy told me to tell you that I’m happy because she was trying to ask me what you’d say if I told you that, but I told her I didn’t think you’d say anything. I think you’d’ve hugged me, and I think you would’ve cried, even though crying hurts you, but it would’ve been happy tears.

It’s nice not being alone. I hope you’re not alone, wherever you are. You won’t be alone for too long - I’ll be coming up before you know it, I mean, fucking hell, I’m twenty now. I think. (I still don’t know when my birthday is actually but Philza Minecraft says I’m twenty and he’s never wrong), but I hope maybe someone is with you. Maybe Wilbur? I dunno how well you’d both get on, but I think even someone is better than no one. 

Fuck me, man, this is so rambly. This is the first time I’ve spoken about you properly to anyone. Well. I guess I’m technically just speaking to myself, actually. But maybe one day when I die when I’m old like Philza you’ll see this and then you’ll think I’ve gone all soft (WHICH I’VE NOT BY THE WAY). But I just wanted to let you know that I think I’ve got my happy ending, even after fucking everything over the past few years. I think I’m finally happy. I have a family, a proper family, and I have my friends, and the server is at peace.

If you see Dream by the way, tell him I 

Hope you’re having a good time in Heaven, big man. I mean. If you got into Heaven. Coz if you didn’t and you’re in Hell then I’ve got no fucking chance. And I don’t fancy the big flaming ground pit

Does Heaven even exist?

Getting all existential again holy shit.

Anyways. I’m going for dinner at Tubbo’s (WHO HAS A KID TOO CALLED MICHAEL) and Henry’s coming in from school (we finally have a fucking education system in this place) so I’m going to leave it here. Cheers again for everything, seriously. I’m sorry things ended the way they did, and I hope you get peace, because if anyone deserves it, it’s you.

Thank you for being my brother when I needed one the most

Miss you a lot

TOMMY. (AKA Big Man, AKA Big T, AKA Biggest T.)

[ajokeformur-ray]

I have no clue if you’ve ever been asked this and have already answered and feel free to just tell me to mind my own business!! but.... what makes the Joker stand out of all the possible f/os? I don’t mean any disrespect. I’m just curious about the concept of a f/o and didn’t really know what it was prior to following your tumblr. I’m just wondering what made him the one?

Hi, nonnie! 🥰 I don’t believe I’ve been asked this yet, and if I have then I’ve completely forgotten about it 😂 As you may imagine, Joker is something very personal to me so this answer is pure emotion; I actually teared up when I first read your ask because there’s just so much I can say and even thinking of him makes me feel like my heart could explode. I hope that any potential disorganisation in this answer as a result of my emotional state is okay! 😊 There’s no disrespect put across in your ask, my love, and I truly appreciate your curiosity and your question. I hope to give it the attention and honesty which it and you deserve!💗 Fair warning for emotional heaviness in the third paragraph of this answer. Please skip it if it begins to negatively affect you.

Placed under a cut due to the length of my answer.

To give you the very basics of self-shipping, F/O means ‘fictional other/one’ and is the fictional equivalent of the real world S/O ‘significant other/one’ and it can mean any kind of relationship - romantic, platonic, familial, etc. My F/Os are all very different characters and they vary as to how I ship with them. Some are platonic, some romantic, I have two parental F/Os, and others are just loved by me; no label presented itself so the love just is. While the other characters kind of ‘rotate’ themselves depending on my mood on any given day or what my emotional needs are, I know that Joker is the one who stands out among my sixteen F/Os because he is always with me.

I don’t know how long you’ve been following me, but I’ve mentioned a few times over the months that Joker saved me and that’s... no exaggeration at all. In October, I was struggling so badly in my life. I had just started my third year of university and it hadn’t even been a month and I was falling behind on the workload to the point of seriously considering quitting because I genuinely couldn’t keep up, I was struggling with my increasing hours at my part time job, I had family issues. I had constant nightmares and sleepless nights, panic attacks were frequent, and I was probably dissociating sometimes too. I was alone and lonely and lost and scared and I could only stand and watch my life crumble around me. I was... in a very dark place and it felt like my soul was dying. I was losing myself... and then I met Joker. And, nonnie, when I say that it was like colour exploded across my night sky... for what felt like the first time in forever, I was feeling real emotions. I felt like myself when I saw the film for the first time and that feeling has never gone away. I saw a man who was doing everything right. He tried, again and again, so hard, and nothing he did was good enough. He went to therapy, he took his meds, he kept his journal, he held down a job, he looked after his mum, he kept the apartment tidy... Arthur was doing everything right even with how he felt. I just want to say here that I’m not blind to Arthur’s flaws or his problematic behaviours and I’m aware of who he is, but to see this beautiful man on the big screen feeling as I did in a lot of ways (watching him walk up those steps slowly always makes me cry because, me too), and still trying and still carrying on was... motivating and inspiring and I loved Arthur before I even knew his name. 

And then he transitioned into Joker and in the back of my head, I heard a very small voice say, oh, there you are, and I felt a part of me click back into place. I’m tearing up again omg I love him so much 🥺. Joker stands out amongst my F/Os because he feels like my home. Sometimes late at night when my laptop is switched off and away and I’m waiting to go to sleep, I’ll have thoughts like I want to go home even though I’m tucked up in my own bed in my own home, and all I have to do is close my eyes, grab my Joker pillow... and that feeling melts away and I’m left with so much love it’s like I could choke on it. Joker gives me hope, courage, comfort, inspiration, motivation... and the sheer amount of content I’ve produced since October is also very telling of how much good he’s been for my Muse - Joker was what my Muse was waiting for my whole life. Even when I’m sobbing, even when I feel lifeless, even when I feel so dark and awful, Joker’s there. He understands what it’s like, he knows what it is to feel the ways I do, and he still carries on. He’s there with that strong jaw and those piercing green eyes and the cutest crooked tooth in his dazzling smile and I want to apologise for any typos from this point because I’m crying so hard right now it’s like it’s raining on my keyboard. My other F/Os come and go but Joker is always with me. I know who he is. I know what he’s done. And I love him so deeply that I was able to push through everything I was feeling in October and everything that has happened since. I graduated university. I was able to keep my job at work (though right now that’s up in the air due to the lockdown). I was able to feel again and ever since we met on the fourth of October, I’ve had a reason to try. I feel alive when I watch the film, when I write for his character, when I hold my Joker pillow... I’m not obsessed with him because he’s not always on my mind, but he is a very important and very prominent figure in my life.

I wear two rings, both of which symbolise my love for Joker. I wear one on my wedding finger because I do consider myself to be very much committed to the bond I have with him (it’s also a commitment to myself, and a reminder to never compromise myself for anything which doesn’t feel as right to me as Joker does), and I wear another on the thumb of the opposite hand because I like to think it’s his ring for me. They are comfort items and I’m always wearing them. I keep Joker close to me actively, and that’s why he stands out. I found him when I most needed him and I don’t think it’s coincidental that many others will say the same. I also want to say here I know that he is fictional and I know that he has done bad things, but I cannot deny the positive ways he’s changed my life and all the ways he helps me in my daily life. I have made and kept so many beautiful friendships because of him and the community here. He really has... changed my life for the better in the most unexpected and ethereal way. Just saying his name out loud makes me smile so widely my cheeks hurt. So... so that’s why he stands out. He’s done more for me than any of my other F/Os, though of course I love them all dearly, and I know he’ll be with me for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t want it or him any other way! He makes me believe in myself, he makes me try, he makes me feel and he makes me feel safe inside myself when my demons scream at me.

I kind of... rambled and I’m sorry for that, nonnie! I do hope that I answered your question somewhere in here ksksksk I always have so much to say. If you want to discuss this further then please don’t be shy to reach out either via DMs or on anon again; whichever you’d like!💖 Thank you so, so much for your question and I hope I answered you correctly!

[the-queer-dungeoneer]

Not Alone (Crowley x Fem! Reader) - Ch. 2/?

Previous / Next

Characters: Reader, Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel and likely more once we get into the thick of it.

Relationships: Crowley x Reader, Aziraphale x Reader, Aziraphale x Crowley

POV: First-person

Warnings: Talks about lonliness, but otherwise n/a

Tags: @curse-brekker​, @oopstheregoesmysoul13​

*gif is not mine and neither are any of the characters or source material!

Y/N = your name

Y/N/N = your nickname

Y/L/N = your last name

H/C = Hair color

E/C = Eye color

F/C = Favorite color

A/N: Aaaaaaand I’m back! I have survived my first round of midterms! Yay! Thank you all for the love on chapter one. It really made my week.

Thank you to my lovely editor @aka-ellie ❤️

Lots of love! - TQD

October 2018

“Aziraphale!” I called, bouncing into the shop. “Aziraphale, I have the most wonderful news!”

It had now been six weeks since we’d first introduced ourselves.  I came to the shop almost daily to work on homework and read his unique collection of books. I learned all about how his childhood dream was to open a bookstore. He explained that he had loved history as a boy, so much so that he would write himself into the frontline of historical events. He recounted these fictions with such detail I nearly believed him. It was lovely to see his eyes alight with passion. Knowing he had achieved his dreams made me feel so optimistic. I told him of my dreams to become a research psychologist. I explained how I wanted to research the beneficial effects of the humanities on the brain and use that as a jumping off point for starting insurance-supported arts therapy centers. He didn’t call me a dreamer, he called me a visionary.

“Aziraphale?” I questioned. He was known to keep the shop open at odd hours, but the door being unlocked meant he was almost certainly there. I didn’t see him at the front desk, and after peeking around a few rows of shelves, I heard voices coming from the back room. I didn’t want to interrupt him if he was in a meeting, so I quietly sat on the window seat and started reading my textbook.

The back door creaked open several minutes later and a very tall and official looking man with strikingly purple eyes walked out. Aziraphale was following closely behind him. The stranger looked quite stern but put on a smile when he saw me sitting in the shop.

“I am so sorry Aziraphale,” he said in a pseudo-animatronic tone, “I didn’t realize I was keeping you from your customers.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, sir.” I assured him, “I am just visiting as an, um, an acquaintance. I only had a question for Aziraphale.”

“Ah. An acquaintance? I didn’t know you kept company other than these dusty books Aziraphale.” The calm and clinical man rainsed an eyebrow. “Well, any acquaintance of Aziraphale’s is an acquaintance of mine!” He said, extending his hand to me. “I’m Gabriel, and you are?”

“Y/N. It’s um – it’s nice to meet you Mr. Gabriel.” I said, attempting to return the handshake.

Gabriel took my hand and kissed my knuckles swiftly. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be cordial, but it came across as domineering and quite creepy. I played it off with a small, uncomfortable giggle.

“Lovely to meet you Y/N. Now, please excuse me, I have a meeting all the way uptown that I simply must get to.” And with that, he marched out the door not unlike a wind-up tin soldier. Something about him made me feel uneasy way down in the pit of my stomach.

“Y/N, dear, I am so sorry about that. Gabriel is – um… well – he’s a colleague of mine. We had to confer about some urgent business.” Aziraphale said, stumbling over his words. He seemed unusually frazzled for a normally calm and collected ball of cheer.  

“Are you alright Aziraphale? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Oh no, ghosts aren’t real. Anyways, everything is tickety-boo! Especially now that you’re here. Please, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon?”

I didn’t quite believe him, but I didn’t feel I’d known him long enough to pry. My motivations for coming suddenly felt very self-centered seeing the stress that was attempting to conceal itself in his forehead wrinkles.

“Well, I just got that essay back, and I wanted to share it with you. But it seems like it’s a bad time, so why don’t I come back later?”

“Nonsense, my dear! I am just fine. Truly, nothing more than a long day of work. I have so been looking forward to reading your essay.” His demeanor seemed to be easing, so I handed over the manila folder containing my last few weeks of sleep and effort.

“I was quite excited about my professor’s thoughts, so I actually brought you the graded copy. It seems silly now. Don’t pay any mind to it. You really don’t have to read it if you don’t want to.” I was rambling out of embarrassment at this point, thinking I should’ve just put the essay in my desk drawer and moved on. He probably didn’t care that much, right?

“Y/N, dear, it’s alright to be proud of your accomplishments. Now, let’s see.” He opened the folder revealing the packet of papers with a large red pen marking that said ‘95/100 – innovative.’ “Well that is an A+ if I’ve ever seen one! Amazing, dear! I am so proud of you!”

Hearing that made my heart smile. He was proud of me. This lovely and sincere man was proud of the work I had done. It was reassuring and helped me feel much less awkward about the ordeal. Aziraphale had an aura that instantly made you feel comfortable.

He poured us two mugs of tea and invited me into the back room where there was a little couch. I didn’t think he’d want to read it while I was in the room, I was a bit anxious thinking about it to be honest, but he seemed insistent that I stay, so I settled into the side of the couch and worked on annotating a book for a case study I was researching. It took him about twenty minutes to read through all of what I had written – every word, footnote and figure.

“Wow.” He breathed, closing the folder and looking at me. His blue eyes seemed contemplative. I couldn’t decipher what he was thinking and started panicking. Surely he was questioning my intellect “That was phenomenal Y/N. Truly, if I were part of the government and I had read that, I would put your plan into action effective immediately. My goodness, you were so creative and convincing. It was so emotionally charged yet logical. Oh - my dear, you are brilliant!”

I was floored by his praise. My cheeks felt warm and I couldn’t stop smiling. This man that I admired so dearly thought so highly of my work. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much his opinion mattered, but it did. It mattered a lot.

“Please let me take you out to dinner to celebrate this accomplishment! My treat.”

“Oh, that is so kind of you Aziraphale, but I am sure you have plenty of work to do and I really don’t want to trouble you.”

“You always worry about causing me trouble. I promise you, it is no trouble for me to take my friend out and celebrate her merits. I insist. We will go anywhere you like!”

Friend. I felt the corners of my eyes sting a bit with that word and a bright smile overcame my face as I nodded in agreement. Finally, I wasn’t so alone. I had a friend. I didn’t realize how lonely it had been living in this city all by myself for so many months but hearing that one word brought it all to the forefront. I was suddenly overcome with gratitude for this kind man that had allowed me to find a small corner of home in his shop, who had allowed me to stay later than the normal business hours to finish my readings in peace and quiet, who would bring me tea if my eyes were getting heavy or if I looked like I had had a long day. He was truly one of the most astounding people I had ever met. He was so selfless and gracious. He was always in a chipper mood and seemed happy to see me. Knowing he considered me a friend sent a wave of relief crashing over me that I didn’t know I had been holding my breath for. Without warning a few tears found their way to my cheek. 

“Oh dear, Y/N, if I did something that hurt your feelings, I am truly sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you into dinner. We certainly don’t ha-“

“Aziraphale, I’m alright.” I cut him off. “I am just happy is all. It’s nice to have a friend. I’ve been feeling rather lonesome since coming to school here. I didn’t realize just how much until this moment. You didn’t do anything wrong, in fact, you seem to be the only thing that has gone right since I moved. Thank you.” I tried to pour all my gratitude into those last two words. After the apparently stressful day he’d had he deserved to hear them.

“My heavens,” he sighed, “I didn’t realize. Judging by your charm and intelligence, I would have bet you were extremely popular. I am honored to be your friend. Please know that if you’re ever feeling lonely you can visit any time. I mean that.”

I knew he meant it. I could tell deep down in my heart. The same way I could tell before that I could trust him.

“Thank you, Aziraphale. You are an angel.”

“I don’t know about that. Anyhow, let’s get you some dinner! I know I am feeling absolutely peckish.”

[wistfulcynic]

To Keep It All The Year (3 /4)

Anyone up for a spot of pure fantasy in which people are essentially good and their positive actions are rewarded with deserved happiness? Yeah, me too. It’s been a WEEK, for me and @katie-dub​ and anyone else in the UK with a conscience and a shred of human decency, so let’s all have a bit of an escape.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones is a broken man, betrayed by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in. He’s all but given up on life until a fateful meeting with bartender Emma Swan and her son Henry gives him a reason to live again, and a chance to redeem his past.

All it takes is a little Christmas magic.

On AO3 | Tumblr: Part One | Part Two 

Thanks as ever to @thisonesatellite​ who keeps me fuelled with whisky and lebkuchen, a paring ordained by the gods, and also because MAGICAL WREATHS OMG WUTTT ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Tagging all the folks from the last tag list, PLEASE do let me know if you want to be added or removed. @kmomof4​​​​​​​​​​​ @shireness-says​​​​​​​​​ @snidgetsafan​​​​​​​​​​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​​​​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​​​​​​ @stahlop​​​​​​​​ @mariakov81​​​​​​​​ @courtorderedcake​​​​​​ @jonirobinson64​​​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​​​​ @ohmightydevviepuu​​​​​​​​ @shardminds​​​​​ @jennjenn615​​​​​ @superchocovian​​​​​ @teamhook​

-

PART THREE: THE FUTURE

Killian moves out of his apartment that very afternoon. He can’t bear to spend another moment there. He needs a fresh start in a new place, one that will encourage him to be better rather than indulging the worst of him. 

Everything he owns, every single thing, fits into a large satchel and a medium-sized suitcase. Packing it all takes less than an hour. Killian drops his key into the landlord’s mailbox and heads across town to a guesthouse he found with a quick internet search, not a great place but his finances are limited and it’s still better than that apartment. There’s an actual bed, for a start, and part of him is tempted to crawl into it and drink until his chest stops aching and he no longer sees the crushed look in Emma’s eyes each time he closes his own, but he has made promises to himself and he intends to keep them. 

So instead he falls back on the least damaging of his old crutches and heads out for a walk. The guesthouse is a bit rough around the edges but the neighbourhood whose western boundary it marks is a vast improvement over his old one. There’s an elegance and dignity in the slightly run-down buildings here, like they’ve aged gracefully and in comfort without any of the desperation and squalor that characterised his old place. They’ve kept their head up, even through hard times, and they haven’t given in. A lesson lurks in there somewhere, he thinks. 

He’s been wandering for about half an hour when his attention is caught by a door. Not a particularly remarkable door, but has a jolly little Christmas wreath hung upon it which brings a smile to Killian’s face. Something about those little wreaths always draws him in, he thinks. Something he can’t quite put his finger on...

The door is made of wide wooden planks painted a deep forest green and boasts an old-fashioned brass knocker in the shape of a roaring lion. It belongs to what appears to be a small bookshop, and as Killian pushes it open he feels a stirring of eagerness that he hasn’t felt in years. He can’t remember the last time he read a good book. Something layered and complex, he thinks, with a well-crafted world that he can dig into and lose himself for a while. 

The shop is surprisingly spacious, with row upon row of tall wooden bookshelves lined up straight as soldiers along its walls and a broad central aisle leading to the till and a small cafe at the back. Twin spiral staircases rise up on each side to a mezzanine where he can see more shelves and a cosy reading area with overstuffed sofas and armchairs and a few scattered beanbags of the perfect size for children. Killian walks slowly down the centre aisle, aware his mouth is hanging open and barely resisting the urge to spin around, gaping in awe. Were he asked to give a description of his ideal bookshop it would be precisely this, he thinks, from the aged patina on the shelves to the fluffy grey cat curled on a cushion in the window, to the truly dizzying array of books. It is magnificent. 

“Can I help you find anything?” Killian shakes himself from his reverie and turns to see a petite brunette in towering heels smiling a friendly smile. 

“Ah, no thank you, lass,” he replies, “I’m just br—you know what, actually, yes. You can.”

He explains what sort of book he’s after and the woman—Belle, according to her name tag—leads him around the shop in search of it. She makes excellent recommendations, a fair number of which he’s already read, but after an enjoyable hour or so Killian has a small armload of books he can’t wait to crack open and perhaps, he hopes, a friend. 

After he pays for them he and Belle stand at the till for another ten minutes or so, chatting amiably. Killian formally introduces himself and informs Belle that he’s just moved to the neighbourhood and is out exploring. He’s just about to ask if she knows a good place to eat when he spots the small sign taped to the cash register. 

“Are you hiring?” he says in surprise.

“I am. I could use an assistant three or four days a week,” says Belle. “You interested?” 

“I might be,” Killian replies. He’ll need a job to afford the new life he intends to build for himself, he thinks, and working in this lovely little shop with Belle would be a dream come true. 

“Any retail experience?” she asks.

“None. But I’m a fast learner and fairly widely read.” 

“I’ll say,” says Belle wryly. “Okay, let’s give it a try. I can start you on—” she names an hourly wage that has Killian’s eyes widening. 

“Is that the standard market rate for a bookshop assistant?” 

“Nope.” Belle’s voice is cheerful and also makes it clear she doesn’t intend to answer any questions on the subject.

“Er—okay. Well, that would be more than satisfactory.” Enough to give him the new beginning he needs, he thinks. More than. 

Belle nods. “When can you start?” 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Perfect.” 

—

Belle lives above the bookshop, in a two-bedroom flat that she claims can get a little lonely. She claims this a week into the new year when she learns that Killian is looking for a place to live, and insists on showing him the spare room that very minute. 

Her flat is tidy but comfortable and the room she shows him plainly furnished, with polished hardwood floors and plaster walls painted a warm ivory. A large chest of drawers takes up one corner and in another is a metal framed bed spread with a quilt that he’s sure is handmade. There’s a single wide window framed by soft yellow curtains that turn the afternoon light golden and a single framed poster on the wall, of Waterhouse’s Miranda. Killian stares at the painting for some time, thinking it should probably upset him. Instead he feels soothed, by the room’s gentle simplicity and by the shipwreck safely tucked away in the brushstrokes of an oil painting. He moves in the next day. 

He and Belle get on splendidly. Their habits mesh in a comfortable way, both being meticulously tidy early risers, equally content to spend their evenings in heated argument about books as in the silent companionship of reading or watching television. Killian almost wishes their easy friendship could develop into something more, though it does occur to him that he’s never had a woman as just a friend before and perhaps this is a thing that might do him some good. 

That and he still dreams of soft golden hair, and green eyes that see into his soul. 

He begins to eat regular healthy meals, sharing the cooking duties with Belle, and after a month or so of that he joins a gym. He still goes on his long, rambling walks but far less frequently than before, using them as an opportunity to explore new neighbourhoods rather than a desperate attempt to escape his demons and he never, never stops at the docks. 

He also starts seeing a therapist, on Belle’s gentle suggestion after one too many nights of being woken up by his nightmares. She can recommend one personally, she confesses, for the very same reason that she is able to pay him so well. The bookshop is financed by hush money—she spits the words—her lavish divorce settlement from a man who controlled and abused her for years and when she finally managed to leave him tracked her down and nearly killed her. She grips Killian’s hand tightly as she tells him this, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks, yet there is a ring of triumph in her voice as she explains how he signed over more than half his assets to her in exchange for her promise not to prosecute, or sell tales of his abuse to the press. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it,” she says. “Maybe I should have exposed him instead, or pressed charges. But he could weather bad press or bribe his way out of jail time while it will take him years to build his business back up again. Decades, even. And meanwhile I have my shop. And my freedom.” 

Belle knows as well as Killian does how heavily tainted money can weigh on person’s conscience, and that the only way to bear its weight is by turning it to something good. She’s a survivor, just like him. Just like Emma. 

Slowly, so slowly, Killian feels the parts of himself he thought were broken beyond repair begin to mend, and every day he focuses on that healing. He nourishes his body with exercise and good food and he nourishes his mind with books and conversation. He nourishes his soul as well, with his therapy sessions and with the bookshop’s weekly children’s story time, which Belle insists he take charge of after catching him watching wistfully from behind a shelf as she sat surrounded by a semicircle of rapt faces, reading an adventure book. 

He was thinking of Henry. 

He thinks of Henry often, and of course of Emma. Every time he rambles through a new part of the city he wonders if they are living there, perhaps in one of the sprawling houses with soft green lawns in the residential areas, or maybe in an airy loft in one of the edgier, artier neighbourhoods. He hopes that wherever they are they’ve found a true home of their own, with security and comfort and reliable childcare for Henry. Emma no longer needs to work so she could study full time if she wished, or do something else entirely. She wouldn’t strictly speaking need to do anything, but if Killian knows her—and despite the short duration of their acquaintance he’s quite certain he does—she will want to keep studying, for her own satisfaction and to find a career that suits her. Emma Swan could never be content sitting around all day doing nothing. She would want to do some good in the world, regardless of her personal circumstances. The kindness she showed to a strange man in a bar when she had next to nothing of her own was proof enough of that. 

It hurts to think of them but it’s a good sort of pain, a gentle, bittersweet ache that warms his heart, nothing like the tearing agony he felt for so many years whenever he thought of Liam. Thoughts of Emma and Henry inspire him, keep him moving steadily along this new path he’s chosen to tread. Though he’s certain he’ll never see either of them again he wants to live his life in a way that honours his feelings for them. 

He doesn’t go back to the bar where he and Emma met, not often. It’s just a place to drink without the magic her presence lent it, and drinking is a thing he’s trying to do less of these days. But the following Christmas Eve he finds himself back in his old neighbourhood standing before the plain brown door. There’s a jolly little Christmas wreath hung upon it, and Killian knows by now that he’s powerless in the face of those wreaths. He lets it draw him in through the door and over to a stool at the bar where he orders the expensive rum Emma gave him last year and sips it slowly as the memories that infuse the very air of this place both warm and pain him. He’ll allow himself this, he thinks, just this one small lapse. He’s worked hard all year, he can have one evening of self pity. His Christmas gift to himself. 

“Hey, sailor.” 

The voice is impossible and yet he hears it, turns towards it in astonishment then scrambles to his feet. 

“Emma!” he gasps. He stares at her, drinks in the sight of her, of the face that’s haunted his dreams for a year lit up by a bright smile. “What—what are—I had no idea you’d be here.” 

“I almost wasn’t,” she replies. “I was at a Christmas party across town, actually. but then I just had the strangest urge to come here and so here I am.” 

“It’s wonderful to see you, love.” His astonishment ebbs and gives way to a fierce and fearsome joy. He can’t believe she’s here, right in front of him and real, and so lovely he aches to look at her. “How are you? How’s Henry?” 

“Henry’s great. I’m great. We’re great.” She laughs. 

“That’s... well, it’s great.” His smile is beginning to hurt his cheeks, but he could no more stop smiling it than he could make the Earth spin backwards. 

“It is,” she agrees. “Listen, um, can we sit down somewhere?” 

“Of course. Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah.” Something shifts in her smile, sharpens it in a way that steals his breath. “I’ll have a rum.” 

He orders one for her and another for himself and they sit together in a small, round booth in the corner of the bar. It’s cosy and intimate and it envelops them, making Killian’s heart pound and his mouth go dry. 

Emma seems unfazed, giving him a cool once-over as he slides in beside her on the leather seat. There’s a new confidence in her demeanour now, the kind of quiet assurance that forms in people who answer to no one but themselves. It sits well on her, he thinks. Comfortably, like it was always waiting for her to slip it on.

“You look good,” she tells him. 

“Um.” He feels himself flush and gulps some rum to wet his throat. “Thank you. You look lovely, but then you always did.” 

She observes him in silence for a moment, sipping her own drink. “I looked for you, you know,” she says. 

“You did?” 

“I did. Do you know how many Killian Joneses there are in the phone book?” 

“Er—no.”

“Zero,” she declares. “Including you.” 

“Ah. Well I don’t really—” 

“But,” she interrupts, “as it turns out, I’m pretty good at finding people, even when they don’t want to be found. I found you, eventually. In that bookstore where you work.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I was going to come in but you, ah, weren’t alone. I saw you through the window, standing with a woman. Laughing.” She stares into her glass. “I’d never seen you laugh like that before. Or at all.” 

“A woman?” Killian frowns in confusion. “What woman?” 

“A really pretty one with long brown hair,” says Emma quietly. “Cute dress, very petite. You looked... close.” 

“Belle,” he says. “My boss and flatmate.” 

“Flatmate?” Emma repeats with an odd note in her voice. Her eyes flicker up to him then back to her glass. 

“Er—my roommate,” he amends. 

“I know what a flatmate is, Killian.” 

“Ah. Yes of course, I just, er—” 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” 

He’s taken aback by the non-sequitur, and the shy smile that accompanies it. The shy smile and the eyes shining with something that makes his already galloping heart pound harder still. “Well, it’s Christmas Day,” he replies weakly. 

“That’s also a thing I know.” 

“I was just planning to have a meal with Belle, maybe watch some Christmas movies,” he says. “Nothing special.”  

“Why don’t you and Belle come to my house instead? For dinner?” 

“Oh, well, I—” 

“Come on, you have to,” she cajoles. “Henry would never forgive me if he found out I’d seen you and not invited you. He talks about you all the time.” 

“He does?” 

“He does.” 

Killian takes another gulp of rum, emptying the glass. He feels dizzy at this turn of events, almost afraid that they will turn out to be nothing more than another fevered dream. Surreptitiously he pinches his thigh and when he feels the sharp prick of pain he risks a look at Emma. She’s still smiling, that same hopeful, expectant smile he’d been so powerless against one year ago. “Well, I’ll have to check with Belle but I’m sure she’ll agree,” he says. “I’ve—mentioned you and Henry once or twice myself, she’ll be over the moon to meet you both.” 

Emma’s smile turns radiant. “Give me your number and I’ll text you the address,” she says. He does, and a moment later his phone dings with a new message. Her address he recognises from his rambles as belonging to a part of town that’s nice but not ostentatious, with comfortable family homes and plenty of parks and very good schools. He thinks about Emma and Henry living there and feels a warm glow of sheer delight. It’s exactly what he hoped for, for them. 

“I have to get home,” says Emma. “I told Henry’s babysitter I’d be back by midnight. But—you will come over tomorrow, won’t you? About noon? You promise?” 

Killian smiles. “You have my word. I’ll see you then.” 

—

Belle agrees to have dinner at Emma’s with as much enthusiasm as he predicted, practically dancing with excitement at the prospect.

“The mythical Emma and Henry!” she sings. “I feel like I’m about to meet a unicorn, or Santa himself.” 

Killian’s stomach is dancing too, with anxiety and eagerness and hope. Foolish hope, he tells himself firmly, but it ricochets around his insides nonetheless and refuses to be quashed. He walked away from Emma a year ago so she could have the freedom to make her own choices and she chose to find him, to invite him back into her life. He’s not certain quite what that means but he thinks—he hopes— that at the very least he won't have to go another whole year without seeing her and Henry. That thought alone is enough to make his Christmas bright.

As he stands in the shower with the hot water flowing over him he thinks about how very different his life is than it was just a year ago. The fact that his shower is hot and the water plentiful is the very least of the changes. He no longer has nightmares, no longer feels haunted by his past or fears he might be swallowed up by bleak despair. The dark moods still come from time to time but he is prepared for them now, equipped to weather them without turning to self-destruction. He feels healthier than he has since his navy days, physically as well as mentally. His paunch is gone, replaced with firm muscle, and though he’ll never be as ripped as some of the younger men he works out alongside, he’s toned and strong and that’s enough for him. His complexion now has a ruddy glow, especially when he returns from one of his walks, and he’s begun to take more care with his appearance again, keeping his hair trimmed in a flattering style and investing in a nicer wardrobe. 

He gets out of the shower and towels himself dry, then dresses in some of his new garments: charcoal trousers and a black sweater over a shirt with a soft tonal pattern, pale purple and blue against dove grey. He wonders what Emma will think of his new clothes, what she will think of all the changes this past year has wrought in him. He wonders if she’s thought of him the way he’s thought of her. 

He wonders what he can bring to dinner this afternoon. There’s a bottle of good wine in the cupboard that he and Belle planned to have with their own Christmas meal and of course many things in the bookshop he’s sure Emma and Henry would love. That should be fine for gifts but still something troubles him, an itchy sort of tingle at the back of his mind, like he’s forgetting something vital. What was it that he brought for them last year? He frowns as he tries to remember. The ship for Henry, that was it, and flowers for Emma from that odd little shop, the one with the florist who reminded him of... of... 

Bloody hell. 

Killian reels, gripping his bedpost for balance as memories from the year before come flooding back, clear and perfect as though they happened only yesterday. It couldn’t be, he thinks, it’s impossible, and how could he not have noticed at the time? How could he not have seen?

Magic, little brother.  

“Killian!” Belle raps sharply on the half-open door of his bedroom, her tone of voice suggesting she’s been calling him for some time. “Are you ready to go? It’s nearly half past eleven.”

“Aye, love.” He breathes in deeply and stands upright. “Be right there.”

They go down to the shop where Killian selects several books for Henry, some of which are slightly above his age group—because a child should have a library that builds towards the future—and, remembering the shelves in her old apartment, a picture frame for Emma made of delicately carved rosewood. He wraps them carefully and rings them up on his employee account as Belle calls them a cab. It’s not far at all to Emma’s house but when Killian suggests they walk Belle informs him crisply that while he might enjoy a snowy stroll across twelve city blocks her shoes would not, and takes out her phone. 

The quiet Christmas streets make the ride a short one, but Killian is glad of even a few minutes of peace to sit and to think and spends most of the journey staring out the window at the snowy trees and lawns and attempting to sort through the chaos in his mind. 

“Why didn’t you put the wreath on the door this year?” he asks Belle. 

“What wreath?” She turns to him with a small frown. 

“Last year there was a Christmas wreath on the door of the bookshop,” he replies. “A small one, made of evergreen and holly with pinecones and cinnamon sticks and a big red bow. It’s what caught my attention as I was walking by, why I went inside.”

Belle shakes her head. “There wasn’t any wreath, Killian, though that’s a lovely idea. Maybe we can get one for next year.” 

“Aye. I know just the shop to get it from,” he mutters, and then the cab pulls up to Emma’s house. 

It’s a charming little house, two storeys of dark red brick with slate blue trim on the windows and on the wide porch where comfortable looking wicker furniture and outdoor toys are all jumbled together. There’s a snowman on the lawn, jaunty and quite pleased with himself in his red and green striped scarf and an actual top hat, surrounded by piled-up and solidly-packed mounds of snow and the gruesome remains of what was evidently a long and hard-fought snowball battle. 

The mat lying at the foot of the front door reads Welcome! Everything is fine in soothing green lettering and Killian and Belle exchange a grin as they ring the bell. From within they can hear the sound of voices and then the door swings open and Emma appears, looking festive in skinny jeans and a green sweater with the cartoon face of Rudolph on the front, his nose large and round and glittery red. There’s a plastic holly sprig behind her ear and a bright smile on her face. 

“Hey!” she says. “Come in! You must be Belle, I’m Emma. You can hang your coats just here.” 

They do so, shrugging the coats off and handing Emma the wine and gifts which she accepts with a laugh that holds a touch of surprise. She leads them down a short hallway and into a cosy living room with a plush sofa along the wall and a tall and brightly decorated tree in the window. A fire blazes beneath a wooden mantelpiece where Christmas stockings labeled Henry and Emma still hang, empty now, and bits of wrapping paper and ribbon still cling to the rug in front of it. Killian has just enough time to observe these things before a miniature whirlwind bursts through the door and barrels into his solar plexus. 

“Killian!” Henry cries, squeezing him in a tight hug. “Mom said you were coming but I couldn’t believe it. I missed you. Why didn’t you ever come back?”

Killian’s chest feels as tight as Henry’s arms as he struggles for breath and for the words to explain his conduct. “I’m sorry, Henry, I just—I—I had some things I needed to sort out with myself, before I could be good company to others.”

“But you’re here now, right?” Henry pulls back and looks up at him with brown eyes as wide and trusting as ever. “And you won’t go away again?” 

Killian hesitates. He doesn’t want to presume, but then again Emma did come to find him. Surely it wasn’t overstepping to say he would visit Henry from time to time? He senses her watching him and looks up, catching her eye with an imploring look. She nods to him and he swallows hard before returning it. 

“Aye, lad,” he says, stroking Henry’s hair with a hand that’s not quite steady. “I won’t go away again.”

“Good,” says Henry solemnly, and then his face lights up. “Guess what? I have my own room now!” he cries. “Do you want to see it?” 

“I do indeed.” Killian glances at Belle who waves him away. “Go,” she says. “I’ll stay here and chat with Emma.” 

Henry’s room has bunk beds with Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and an overflowing toy chest in one corner. There’s a small bookshelf as well, with the beginnings of a fine library already on it, and taking pride of place in the centre of the very top shelf is the ship Killian gave him last Christmas. 

“I play with it in the tub. We have a tub now,” says Henry when he notices Killian looking at the ship. “Mom made sure we did but she says I can’t play in it every day because I splash too much and take too long, but on Saturdays I can play as long as I want.” 

Killian takes a moment before replying. “What else do you like to play with?” he asks hoarsely. 

Henry shows off his toys and books and though Killian is anything but an expert in parenting he can see that they’ve been carefully chosen for both fun and enrichment, and that while they are plentiful there aren’t too many for one child to use. Emma hasn’t spoiled him, or herself, despite how easily she could have. 

When they head back downstairs they find Emma and Belle laughing together on the sofa, each with a cup of hot chocolate in hand and a plate of Christmas cookies on the coffee table in front of them. 

“Hey!” says Henry indignantly. “I want hot chocolate!” 

Emma gives him a stern look and he flushes. “Please,” he adds. 

“There’s some for you in the kitchen,” she says, setting her mug down on the table and getting up. “Would you like some too, Killian?” 

“Yes, thank you,” he replies. 

They drink their chocolate and munch their cookies and conversation flows easily and merrily among them. Killian is amazed at how well Emma and Belle have hit it off and Henry is ‘on his Christmas behaviour,’ Emma says with a laugh, sitting on the floor playing with his trains and listening, occasionally piping up with a question or comment. Belle and Killian tell them all about the bookshop and Emma promises to bring Henry there as soon as possible. 

“For the story time!” cries Henry, eyes wide at the prospect, and then Belle suggests he might like to open the presents they brought him. He squeals with delight at the new books, and Killian gets so caught up in telling him about them that he doesn’t notice Emma quietly unwrap the picture frame until he hears her soft “Oh!” 

He turns to see her staring at it with misty eyes and an expression that makes his heart clench. “I know how you love your pictures,” he says softly. “I remember.” 

“Henry, what do you say we find a place for those books on your shelves,” says Belle. “Then maybe you can show me your room and the ship Killian gave you last year?”

She ushers Henry from the room, leaving Killian and Emma alone, staring at each other. 

“Emma—” he begins, just as she says “Killian—” and they share a nervous laugh. 

“Me first, please,” she says, and he nods. 

“Of course, love.” 

She licks her lips and takes a steadying breath before she speaks. “When you walked away last year,” she begins, “outside the bank, I was so hurt. I know why you did it—I think I know—but it still hurt and for a while I was angry. I thought—I thought we had a connection, and then for you to just leave like that, I—” She shakes her head. “Well, I tried to forget about you and move on, build this new life for myself and Henry, and I did build it but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All year I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, and I missed you. That may sound dumb since we only spent a day together, but that’s how I feel.” 

“It doesn’t sound dumb at all,” he says. “I missed you too.” 

She gives a small, choking laugh. “I thought you didn’t,” she says. “When I saw you and Belle in the bookstore, I thought, well, he’s forgotten all about you.” 

“I definitely did not,” he replies. “I couldn’t. I thought about you too, all year.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, aye.” He attempts a smile. “Every day.”

Her eyes are liquid soft and their expression makes his blood hum. “I don’t want to go through that again next year,” she says. “I want to… to see you, and not—not just as a friend.” 

“Emma—” 

“And don’t say you’re too old! I know that’s what you’re going to say.” 

“It is true.” 

“It’s not. You can’t be more than what, thirty-four, thirty-five?” 

“Thirty-five.” 

“I’m twenty-three.” 

“That’s—” 

“But I don’t care about that, Killian. I like your silver hair and that you’ve had experience of the world. Sometimes I feel like I missed out on so much, getting pregnant so young and since then my whole life has been Henry and trying to get through college. And now I have all this money and I know there’s so much I can do with it, and places I can go, but I don’t really know where to start.”

“Love—” 

“Not that I want you to be a tour guide or like an adviser or something, I want—fuck, I’m making a mess of this.” 

Killian realises he’s holding his breath, forces himself to exhale and draw in fresh air. “Emma,” he says firmly, “there’s nothing I’d like more than to have a place in your life, and Henry’s, in whatever capacity you wish.” 

“Whatever capacity?” 

“Aye.” 

“So if I said I wanted you to be my—” she takes a deep breath—“my date for a New Year’s Eve party I’m invited to, you’d agree?” 

“It would be my honour.” 

“And then if I asked you out to dinner?” she continues. “My treat.” 

He laughs. “I know a restaurant I think you’d love.” 

“And afterwards? If I invited you back here for some coffee?” 

“You do make excellent coffee, I don’t think I could refuse.” 

“Then if I wanted to go out again, someplace else?” 

“You could choose the restaurant, and I would pay.” 

“Then maybe a movie sometime?” 

“At the old cinema near the bookshop.” 

“And what— what if, after a little while, I wanted to have coffee again in the morning? You’d—you’d stay and have that second cup with me?” 

“I would love nothing more.” 

She nods. “That’s the capacity I wish.” 

She’s so close now that he can count the flecks of gold in her eyes and he realises that her hand is on his thigh and his is on her hip, and then she closes the remaining distance between them and kisses him. He moans and pulls her closer, his other hand tangling in her hair as hers curls around his neck and he loses himself in the taste of chocolate and cinnamon on her tongue and the promise of her lips on his. The promise of a future, their future, together. 

There’s a clattering noise of footsteps and loud voices on the stairs and they break apart. Killian leans his forehead against Emma’s, revelling in the sight of her dazed and happy smile, and silently thanks Belle for her discretion. Emma stands and pulls him to his feet, and when Henry and Belle appear she beams at them both. 

“I think dinner’s nearly ready,” she says. “Henry, let’s go set the table.” 

Belle gives Killian a smirk that’s thoroughly ruined by the delight dancing in her eyes. “You look happy,” she says. “And a bit shell-shocked.” 

“Aye, to both those things.” 

“And you appear to be wearing lipstick,” she teases, handing him a tissue and grinning at his blush. He wipes his mouth and when he offers it back to her she takes his hand as well. 

“I’m so glad for you,” she says. “Merry Christmas, Killian. The first of many, I think.” 

Killian looks into the dining room where Emma and Henry are laughing as he sets the table and she lays the food out on it. “Aye,” he says gruffly. “I think it will be. I hope.” 

-

[fictionalenneagrambti-blog]

American Horror Story: Murder House | Tate Langdon [ISFP] [4w5]

Idiosyncratic | Creative | Artistic | Introspective (x)

ISFPs live in the present moment and enjoy their surroundings with cheerful, low-key enthusiasm. They are flexible and spontaneous, and like to go with the flow to enjoy what life has to offer. ISFPs are quiet and unassuming, and may be hard to get to know. (x)

***Super unhealthy, obviously.

Fi [Introverted Feeling]: Tate has a pretty skewed sense of morality, but he has strong morals nonetheless. He hates cheaters (e.g., Patrick, Ben), and he believes that “if you love someone, you should never hurt them” (“Pilot”). In his own twisted way, he stays true to this by any means necessary. His black-and-white morals are selective and only extend to certain people, however; Tate will do whatever it takes to protect those he loves and make them happy, albeit at the expense of strangers or people he doesn’t care about. This is evidenced by his willingness to kill Chad and Patrick and then rape Vivien in order to give Nora, whom he sees as his surrogate mother, what she wants: a baby. Tate doesn’t care who he has to chop to pieces (“Home Invasion”) or suffocate (“Smoldering Children”) in order to protect Violet, and even tries to kill an innocent guy in order to give Violet a “normal” boyfriend (“Afterbirth”). Although extreme, Tate is selfless in most of his endeavors; he would rather be trapped in the Murder House for eternity with Violet’s new boyfriend than to see her be lonely, ultimately living up to the standards which he pronounced in “Pilot.” Tate has an innate sense of justice, and will go to extremes to dole out punishment on those he believes deserve it, which includes setting Larry on fire for murdering his brother (“Smoldering Children”). Tate is often able to detect when people are being less than truthful, such as when Ben ends his therapy session early (“Bullshit. I don’t accept that” (“Home Invasion”)), and can’t stand it when people are fake. He is unwilling to give his mother any sort of satisfaction, and actively rebels against meeting her expectations of being the “perfect son” (“Smoldering Children”). Tate wears his heart on his sleeve, and is open about what he loves and hates, frequently telling Violet that he loves her, Constance and Larry that he hates them (“Open House”; “Smoldering Children”), etc., although he typically only expresses his innermost feelings to those he trusts implicitly (e.g., Violet on the beach (“Halloween: Part 1”)). Tate doesn’t always anticipate how people will react to him, initially scaring away Violet with his antics in the basement (“I thought you weren’t afraid of anything!” (“Pilot”)), as well as with his assumption that she would kill herself to be with him (“Smoldering Children”), and later unwittingly provoking Violet to really kill herself with his confession of love (“Piggy, Piggy”). He even fails to understand that Violet wouldn’t want him to kill somebody so that she could have a new boyfriend (“Afterbirth”).

Se [Extroverted Sensing]: Tate is impulsive at best, and utterly reckless at worst. He almost always acts before he thinks. Sometimes, this works to his advantage: he is able to act quickly to save Vivien and Violet from the reenactment of the murders (“Home Invasion”), as well as lead the dead kids who are after him away from Violet simply by running off (“Halloween: Part 2”). Most of the time, however, Tate’s inclination to take action and failure to think things through messes things up… big time. His gut reaction to retaliate against Constance while on drugs results in him burning Larry, committing mass murder, and ultimately getting himself killed. Tate waits until the last minute to tell Violet that she is actually dead, conjuring up a convoluted plan that includes knocking out her dad, killing an exterminator, and convincing her to “commit suicide” again - a plan which is destined to fail due to lack of preparation (“Smoldering Children”). For the most part, Tate believes in what is real and tangible; he is grounded, telling Violet that she can’t control the repercussions of her death forever, and that “it is what it is” (“Birth”). Tate also enjoys getting a physical reaction out of people, attempting to shock Ben with his words about Violet during his therapy session (“Home Invasion”), scaring Leah (“Pilot”), and attempting to scare Violet in jest (“Halloween: Part 1”). 

Ni [Introverted Intuition]: Tate fails to think very far ahead into the future, rarely considering the greater implications of events. He believes that he can both stay with Violet and protect her so long as she remains in the house; what he obviously does not foresee is Violet being a danger to herself (“Piggy, Piggy”). Whereas Violet wonders about what she will miss being trapped inside the house, Tate does not worry much about the future of the world (“Birth”). Nevertheless, Tate does occasionally enjoy infusing things with personal symbolism, telling Violet that he likes birds because “they can fly away when things get too crazy” (“Piggy, Piggy”), and allowing his imagination to run wild in his speech to Ben: “I prepare for the noble war. . . There's something about all that blood, man. I drown it. The Indians believed that blood holds all the bad spirits, and once a month in ceremonies they would cut themselves to let the spirits go free” (“Pilot”). Tate is sometimes able to infer things about people just by observing them (Se), understanding that a little girl in a Halloween costume reminds Ben of Violet (“Halloween: Part 1”), that Constance doesn’t really love Larry (“Smoldering Children”), etc. 

Te [Extroverted Thinking]: Tate is very blunt and matter-of-fact in his statements and evaluations of people, declaring early on in his therapy session with Ben that his mother is unfaithful (“Pilot”), and very explicitly stating the facts of what he believes to be true (also laced with Fi-anger) about Larry’s naivety and Constance’s duplicity at a family dinner: “And thank you for our new charade of our family. . . Lord, a big thank you for blinding the asshole that's doing my mother, so that he can't see what everybody knows: she doesn't really love him” (“Smoldering Children”). Tate wants immediate solutions and is quick to implement his plans, often resorting to murder and other heinous acts for the sake of efficiency: killing Chad and Patrick and raping Vivien to get Nora a baby; scaring Vivien to prevent her from taking Violet out of the house; knocking out Ben and killing the exterminator to stop Violet from finding out that she is dead; and attempting to kill Gabe so that Violet can have a “normal” boyfriend. At worst, Tate is prone to shouting out orders to get people to do what he wants: “Stand up!” (“Afterbirth”).

Enneagram [4w5]: Tate is emotional, melancholy, intense, and above all, cynical; declaring the world to be a “filthy goddamn horror show” (“Pilot”). He is very much focused on his identity as an individual, rejecting what is mainstream by society’s standards in pursuit of what he believes to be true and authentic; he has a disdain for the popular kids at school (“Pilot”) and idolizes high school dropouts (“Halloween: Part 2”). 

✘✘✘  Tate is almost universally typed as an INFP, and while I understand that this is often the type of the stereotypical, morose 90s teenager, Tate’s Se impulsivity is evident throughout the show. The only time he shows anything resembling Ne is during his rambling to Violet on the beach, but this could simply be Fi-rambling about his innermost thoughts and feelings, not necessarily Ne. And especially not enough Ne to erase all the Se he demonstrates throughout the show. 

I may have gone a bit overboard with my analysis on this one. Sorry about the length, but Tate is just such an Fi-dom, so there was a lot to say. Also happens to be one of my favorite characters of all time, so there’s that.