#scribbles ✒️

[tokusaatsus]

“You should be more aware of your surroundings, Tsukasa~kun.” You tease, carefully balancing the salver of papers in one hand and the Suou Seal in the other.

If any of the Suou Household’s servants could see you now, they’d probably keel over and die on the spot at your casual behaviour and address to their beloved bocchama. “The Suou Seal is kind of a big deal…should you really be leaving it with someone like me?”

“Of course! Who else could I trust, if not for my loyal Knight?”

[habitual-creatures]

H3 D3S3RV3D 3V3RYTHING I DID AND M0R3.

I've never seen you get that cold blooded since.

I W0ULD'V3 D0N3 TH3 SAM3 T0 SM0K3. AND Y0U KN0W I'LL D0 TH3 SAM3 T0 THAT SPINDLY FUCK 0NC3 I FIGUR3 0UT H0W.

*Jo walks away from the door, closing it and going into the kitchen* How you likin' those journals, Roger?

~🕕/✒️📖

Aside from having some issues with your handwriting sometimes, a lot. This is like- WOW, yknow?

This is just- yeah, it's awesome.

[so2uv]

ok ok rework of shun's powers bc i just need to do a stream of consciousness exercise to make this make sense to myself. tw death bc it's shun

basically instead of visions of people who will die the next day, bc what if he goes to bed at 11:59pm? or 12am? does he skip that day? maybe but yeah no needs to be more consistent, his visions are of a very near future. as in it could range from the current day, tomorrow, or the next week. (1 week is the cap though. he's not a full on clairvoyant)

still having it so that the visions are mainly about those he's interacted with recently because it makes sense so he's not like, having visions of people all around the world

visions by touch are possible, but they need full skin contact. usually they happen by accident, with his powers being somewhat active but not enough to show, though he can willingly do so as well. (why would he though lmao). if a vision is activated this way, the vision will last as long as the skin contact does.

he can still see ghosts.

[not-someones-shadow]

Someone hands scribble a little cup of vanilla ice cream

She tastes a tiny bit, then a lot, then some more. Now she has a brain freeze.

[manonsmartini]

Play Pretend — Sophia Laforteza

✒️ Fake dating · Rivals to lovers · Theatre au · Mentions of classism/nepotism · Coming-of-age vibes · Narration-heavy

Summary: Two rival theatre actresses agree to fake date for publicity. But as rehearsals blur the line between performance and reality, old resentment gives way to unexpected longing—and neither of them is acting anymore. (3.9k words)

You should’ve known she’d be casted.

The moment the audition notice went up for “Bahaghari,” a new independent sapphic play, something in your chest tightened. Not from nerves, at keast not entirely. It was mostly from experience. You could already picture the poster: your name in lowercase, hers in bold, stylized font. Laforteza. Even her last name performed.

You weren’t surprised when the cast list confirmed it. Sophia Laforteza, lead. Again.

Still, when she walked into the first table read, wearing a denim jacket too clean to have ever been secondhand, your stomach curled.

“Hey,” she said softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. She smiled like you were friends. Like history hadn’t built a wall between you.

You gave her a nod. Not cold. Not warm. Safe.

She sat across from you. Of course.

Her script was neatly annotated. Color-coded. Yours was a mess of scribbled notes, receipts, and coffee stains. The kind of chaos that comes from juggling rehearsals with part-time shifts and cramped apartment living.

The director began introductions. Sophia’s gaze stayed on you. Always just a second longer than necessary.

Sophia didn’t expect her voice to tremble when she introduced herself, “I’m Sophia. Uh, playing Eliza.”

She tried not to look at you, but the gravity pulled her in anyway.

In her eyes, you hadn’t changed. You still wore that tired confidence like armor. Still carried yourself like you belonged, even when the world refused to make space for you.

Sophia wanted to tell you how much she admired that. But she couldn’t even ask how you have been without sounding fake.

You didn’t smile. you never smiled at her. Not really.

Back in your teen years, Sophia used to sneak into small black box performances just to watch you. You were electric then—untamed, magnetic. It made Sophia ache in ways she didn’t understand at fifteen. Her mother called it envy.

It wasn’t.

Sophia looked at you now and felt the same ache. But deeper. Sharper. Lonelier.

The read-through was fine. Good, even. Lines flowed. Blocking made sense. The chemistry was there. You hated that it was there.

Afterward, during the production meeting, the director floated a suggestion.

“Since this is an indie production, we’ll need help promoting. Socials, vlogs, maybe some behind-the-scenes stuff. You two are the romantic leads… it wouldn’t hurt to build a little hype. Nothing crazy. Just—something authentic. Flirty. People love queer stories that feel real.”

Someone joked, “You two should fake date for clout.”

You laughed. A dry, incredulous sound. But then Sophia—of course she smiled, like it wasn’t the most ridiculous idea in the world.

“I mean,” she said, “if it helps the show.”

You wanted to say no, to walk out. But this play could change your trajectory. A breakout role. Finally.

So you said, “Fine. Just don’t get used to it.”

Her smile faltered for a second. Just a second.

Sophia held onto the softness of your voice when you said “fine.” Even if the rest of you was stiff and closed off. She told herself it was just for the play. Just press. Just art.

But at night, she replayed rehearsal moments in her head. The way your voice cracked at the end of scene four. The way your fingers brushed hers during a blocking adjustment. None of it made it into the script notes. But all of it mattered to her.

She posted a photo of you both drinking iced tea on the studio floor. Captioned it “Post-rehearsal recharge with my favorite scene partner 🤎”

You didn’t like the post. You didn’t comment. But you let her take the picture. She told herself that meant something.

You hated how well she played her part. The charm, the sweetness, the effortless smiles that made fans believe she was just like them. You’d worked your whole life to be seen; to be taken seriously. Sophia just existed and the world watched.

Still, when she wrapped her arms around you for a behind-the-scenes photo and whispered, “Tell me if I’m overstepping,” something in you flickered.

You didn’t pull away.

It’s past nine when rehearsal ends, but Sophia lingers in the back corner of the studio, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her script spread out in front of her. Everyone else has gone. Even the director.

You’re supposed to leave too. You have work in the morning. A borrowed train card in your coat pocket and a half-eaten granola bar in your bag. But something keeps you still.

She doesn’t know you’re watching.

Sophia hums softly, tracing her highlighter over the same line three times. Her hair is a little frizzy at the crown—humidity or sweat, perhaps both. Her sneakers are scuffed at the toes, which surprises you. You thought she replaced things the moment they wore down.

Then she speaks. Not the script. Her own words.

“God, I always trip over this one,” she says to no one, “The part where Eliza asks if love is supposed to feel this lonely.”

Her voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. Not projected, not polished. Just… her. Small and honest.

You step closer without thinking, “Isn’t that the best line in the whole play?” you ask, voice half a whisper.

Sophia startles slightly, looking up. She blushes, embarrassed, but she doesn’t hide the script.

“I guess I’m still trying to figure it out,” she says. “What that kind of loneliness feels like.”

You sit down beside her, keeping a respectful distance.

“You’ve never felt it?”

She shrugs. “I’ve felt… pressure. Expectations. But being lonely? I don’t know. Maybe I don’t let myself stop long enough to notice.”

You look at her then—not the theatre darling, not the girl with inherited grace—but someone who’s tired. Someone who keeps trying to earn a place she was already given, because she’s scared of what it would mean if she didn’t.

She turns to you suddenly, eyes earnest.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“Do you actually think I don’t deserve to be here?”

The question guts you. She’s aware.

You want to say yes. You want to cling to the narrative that keeps you safe—that she has it easy, that you’ve worked harder, that her softness is a mask.

But she’s not soft right now. She’s real.

You take too long to answer.

“I think…” you begin, voice careful, “I used to think you were only here because of your last name. And maybe part of me still does. But tonight—when I watched you during your scenes… I didn’t see your mom. I didn’t see the version of you I thought I’m bitter about.”

Sophia stares at you.

“I just saw you,” you say. “And honestly, it kind of ruined everything.”

You don’t realize how close you’ve leaned in until your knee brushes hers. She doesn’t move away. Both of you didn’t move closer though, but still, something shifts in your chest.

And for the first time, it’s not resentment blooming there.

It’s something warmer. Depending on how things played out, it was something dangerous.

In rehearsals, things shifted. Dialogue blurred. Stage kisses lingered. You told yourself it was method. Told yourself you didn’t notice the way she looked at you during every monologue, even when the script didn’t call for it.

She gave too much. She made you feel too much.

And the worst part? You started to believe it wasn’t fake. That maybe, just maybe, she was reaching for something real.

She stayed late after rehearsal one night, pretending to adjust lighting gels. Sophia sat on the edge of the stage, legs swinging, watching you work with quiet reverence.

She wanted to tell you everything. That her mother hated this play. That she hadn’t taken this role to impress critics or directors or social media.

Sophia had taken it for you. For the girl who once made her cry from a single monologue whispered in the dark.

Instead, Sophia just said, “You were incredible tonight.”

You didn’t look at her. “You say that every night,” she replied.

Sophia swallowed the lump in her throat, “That’s because it’s always true.”

You hear her name before you hear the words.

“…her mom’s helping fund the whole thing anyway. Sophia’s doing it for exposure.”

You’re standing in the hallway outside the rehearsal studio, holding a cracked water bottle and three hours of exhaustion in your bones. The voices belong to two crew members—chatting, careless. They don’t know you’re there.

“She doesn’t even need this play. But it’ll look good on her resume. And honestly, she and the other lead—what’s her name?—they’re not even close. It’s probably just for the clout.”

They laugh. You stay still. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… tired. Tired because you already knew.

You’ve always known Sophia could walk into any room and people would part like she was born to be there. You, on the other hand, had to learn how to take up space without asking permission.

You push open the door to the studio. She’s already there, sitting on the floor, tying the lace on her shoes. She looks up at you with that open face, soft eyes. Like she doesn’t know what it’s like to beg for a chance.

You sit across from her, silence thick between you.

“We need to run scene seven again,” she says gently.

You nod. No small talk. No fake couple chatter. You just want to get through rehearsal and go home.

Sophia felt it the moment you walked in. The distance. Like a wall had been rebuilt overnight and she had no idea how or why.

She watched you move through rehearsal like your body was a room she wasn’t allowed in. The chemistry was still there—technically. You hit your cues, you said the lines. But your eyes didn’t linger. Your hands didn’t tremble when they touched hers.

She didn’t know what she’d done. Afterward, she tried to catch you before you left.

“Hey,” she said, breath catching. “Did I… do something?”

You turned around, eyes dull with something like disappointment.

“You’re not doing this for the art,” you said quietly. “You’re doing it because you can. Because this play is convenient for you. You get to be praised for showing up. The rest of us have to scrape to get noticed.”

Sophia opened her mouth, then closed it. There was a pressure in her chest that she didn’t know how to name.

“It’s not like that,” she said. “I care about this. I care about—”

You looked at her, tired and small, “Don’t pretend you care. It’s insulting.” And without wasting another second, you left.

She stayed in the empty studio for a long time, staring at the spot where your shadow had been.

You knew you were cruel. The words came out sharper than you intended. But something broke when you heard those voices. And it had been building for weeks.

The touches. The long glances. The way Sophia looked at you like she was seeing something beautiful, something important.

You’d almost believed it. And that was the worst part.

You’d almost let yourself fall for someone who was only pretending.

The next few rehearsals are quiet. Efficient. Cold. You don’t post any more photos. You stop responding to on the old ones. Fans still tag you in edits, calling you soulmates, calling you perfect. You want to tell them they’re wrong.

But you don’t.

You just rehearse. You cry when the script tells you to. You kiss her when the scene demands it. And each time, you pretend not to feel her lips shaking.

The theatre was cold tonight. The kind of cold that settled in your bones, even under stage lights.

Sophia sat in the wings, out of sight but close enough to hear your breathing through the lav mic clipped to your collar. Her own hands were still trembling from the last scene. Her cheeks hadn’t quite cooled from where your lips had barely touched hers.

It was just blocking. She told herself that over and over.

Now came scene ten. The monologue.

She’d read it a hundred times in the script. She knew each word like a prayer. But the moment you stepped into the stage light and took that first shallow breath, Sophia felt something shift.

You were quiet for a moment, and then you began.

“I waited. I waited for you to choose me. But you never looked my way unless there was a script between us.”

Your voice cracked—not theatrically. Not with intent. It cracked like a dam splitting down the middle.

Sophia leaned forward, instinctively.

She knew the lines. Knew how your voice was supposed to rise at the fifth line, soften at the eighth. But you weren’t following the beats anymore. You were unraveling them.

“I pretended it didn’t hurt. I told myself you touched everyone that way. That your eyes just… looked through people. But I wanted to believe you saw me.”

Sophia’s throat closed.

The others backstage watched, riveted. A few whispered, awed at your delivery. But Sophia couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Because what if it wasn’t just acting?

What if the shaking in your hands, the way your chin tilted up like you were trying not to fall apart—that wasn’t performance?

What if you meant it?

Your eyes were glassy now, but your voice held steady.

“I don’t want to be someone you just practice love with.”

The silence after that line stretched too long.

No one called “line.” No one stopped the run.

Sophia pressed her palm against her chest. It hurt. It physically hurt.

You stood there, shoulders drawn tight like you were holding yourself together with sheer will. Your breathing uneven. And then the tears came. Slow, silent, real.

Sophia bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted to run onstage and hold you. Break the scene. Break the rules. But she stayed hidden, letting the stage keep its illusion.

Letting you cry without her.

When the lights dimmed and the scene ended, applause broke out from the tech crew and the assistant director. Someone called you a genius. Someone else said it gave them goosebumps.

Sophia didn’t say anything.

She stayed in the wings, hands clenched in her lap, until you walked past her without looking.

She wanted to believe it was just the script that broke you.

But she knew better.

Opening night is a week away, and Sophia hasn’t slept properly in days.

She doesn’t tell anyone that she cried in her car after the last full run. Or that she nearly walked off stage when you performed your monologue with tears that didn’t feel fake.

She scrolls through old photos on her phone, the ones she never posted. A photo of you eating rice crackers in the dressing room. You mid-laugh. You resting her head on Sophia’s shoulder, eyes closed, trusting.

She wanted it to be real. All of it.

She wanted to say it.

That she didn’t care about the press or the PR. That this wasn’t just about building chemistry for a role.

She had fallen. Quietly, painfully, completely.

But now, she didn’t know how to prove it without making things worse.

Sophia’s mother calls, asking her how the show is going. Tells her not to get too attached to independent work. Says these things don’t last.

Sophia almost asks, “What if someone I love is in it?” But she doesn’t. She couldn’t.

She just stares at her reflection under the dressing room lights, wondering why honesty always felt harder than performing.

The lights feel warmer than they did during tech. Brighter. Hungrier.

Sophia stands in the wings, watching you center yourself before the opening scene. The theatre isn’t packed, but the front two rows are full—students, critics, some of your friends from school. Her mother is not here. She didn’t expect her to come.

Sophia’s heart beats too loudly for the quiet around her. She’s run the scenes, the lines, the beats, but nothing could rehearse the weight she carries now.

She’s been pretending all her life. Except for tonight, she really doesn’t want to. Not on this stage. Not with you.

You tell yourself it’s just another performance. That the scene ahead, the final confession, the one where Eliza lays her heart bare, is only a scene.

But your palms are cold. Your mouth dry. And when Sophia walks out to join you for scene eleven, something in your chest stirs and refuses to settle.

She’s radiant tonight. Not polished, not perfect. Real. Her hair tucked behind her ears, a nervous tremble in her fingers. Her eyes meet yours as she takes her place across from you, and for the first time, she doesn’t look like a rival.

She looks like a girl trying not to fall apart.

She was supposed to follow the script. The stage manager whispered the cue. The line was ready.

But when you turned to her, eyes already glassy, Sophia felt her breath catch. She had watched you cry in rehearsal. Had felt every word you poured out like it was her own confession. And now, standing this close, she couldn’t lie anymore.

Not even with a script.

So when the moment came for her to speak, Sophia went off-book.

“You think I don’t care,” she said, softly, shaking. “But I do. I care so much I forget how to breathe when you look at me.”

Someone backstage inhaled sharply.

You didn’t flinch. You stayed in it. Listening.

“I took this role because of you. Not to prove anything to anyone. Just so I could be near you. Just so I could… maybe matter.”

The audience didn’t know this wasn’t scripted.

Sophia didn’t care.

“It was never just play pretend,” You watched as Sophia’s eyes glazed with unshed tears and what looked like bold honesty, “It was never just an act for me.”

She breaks character. You can feel it. Not in a way that ruins the scene—no, in a way that makes it more alive than anything you’ve ever performed.

She’s speaking to you, not your character. Sophia, not Eliza. And something cracks open inside you.

“I thought you were pretending,” you say, voice quiet but steady. “I thought I was the only one who didn’t know how to fake it.”

Sophia’s breath catches. You step closer.

“Turns out… you were the only one being honest.”

Your voice trembles at the end—not from nerves, not from fear, but from something else. Something deeper. Like you’ve been holding your breath through the entire show, through every shared glance and staged kiss and carefully measured silence.

And now, finally, you’re exhaling.

There’s a beat of stillness after the line. Just the sound of your heart in your ears, and the faint hum of the lights above. The theatre is quiet. No movement from the wings. No music cue yet. It’s as if the world is holding its breath with you.

And it felt like a singular beat was released, just as Sophia takes a step closer to you.

Her eyes are glassy, but steady. Her hand lifts slightly, like she’s about to reach for your face—then pauses, giving you the chance to lean in first.

You do.

You close the space between you, carefully, slowly, as if you’re afraid the moment will shatter if you move too fast. Her lips meet yours, soft and tentative, like a question. And when you don’t pull away, when you kiss her back, real and certain, she answers you with a quiet exhale against your mouth, like she’s been waiting years for this.

The kiss deepens just enough to make your knees go a little weak. It tastes like unsaid things. Like hope. Like a promise. And when it ends, your foreheads touch.

Neither of you speak. There’s no need.

The lights dim to black, warm and slow, swallowing the stage in silence.

But long after the applause begins, long after the final cue fades, you’re still holding her hand.

And this time, it’s not for the audience. It’s for her.

The applause has faded. The stage is empty now, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. Crew members murmur softly as they strike the set, careful not to disturb what lingers in the air.

Sophia doesn’t leave.

She stands just outside your dressing room door, still in costume, arms crossed tightly across her chest—not in defense, but like she’s holding something in. Like if she lets go, the weight of the night will spill out of her all at once.

She’s rehearsing things in her head. Words she never found the courage to say, over and over again, hoping they don’t fall apart when they finally leave her mouth.

She doesn’t know if you’ll even want to see her.

The door creaks open.

You step out slowly, your coat draped over your shoulders, cheeks still faintly flushed from the last scene. Your lipstick smudged slightly. Your hair a little messy under the dressing room lights.

You look up and suddenly you’re faced with the one girl who has been invading your mind.

She sees it hit you—that she waited. That she didn’t leave.

Neither of you speak. For a moment, all you do is look at each other.

Her eyes are red-rimmed but clear. Open. Unafraid.

Yours are tired, but there’s softness in them. Searching.

And then something in you gives in.

You close the space between you without hesitation. No lines to guide you. No camera. No direction. Just instinct. Just want.

Your lips touch hers.

Gently at first, like you’re asking permission. And when she kisses you back, it’s with everything she’s been holding in for weeks—but in actuality, it has been years.

It’s slow. Tender. A little unsteady. Like you’re both learning how not to hold back for the first time in a long time.

When you finally break apart, her hands are still holding your waist, your fingers still curled in the collar of her shirt. Your foreheads rest together, eyes closed.

Neither of you rush to speak. But she does first, voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” The words tremble, not from doubt—but from relief.

You breathe out softly, your nose brushing hers, “Then don’t.”

She lets out a quiet, shaky laugh, like she wasn’t expecting you to make it that easy. Like she’s still scared she’ll wake up tomorrow and it won’t be real.

But it is real.

You tilt your head back slightly to look at her. And this time, when you smile, it’s not guarded. It’s not polite. It’s not for anyone but her.

“I kept trying to hate you,” you say, voice low. “For all the chances you had. For everything I didn’t. But it was never hate. Not really.”

Sophia blinks slowly. You feel her breath catch.

“I know,” she says. “I was scared you’d never believe me. That you’d never see who I actually was underneath all the… all the things people think I am.”

You rest your hand on her cheek, thumb grazing the corner of her mouth.

“I see you now.”

And you do.

You see the way she’s always looked at you, not with rivalry, but awe. You see the nerves in her fingers, the softness in her voice when she forgets she’s performing. You see her: Sophia, not Laforteza, and the girl in front of you is not some distant star.

She’s yours.

Maybe not fully. At least not just yet. But enough to hold onto, knowing full well that she would gladly give herself to you.

Sophia leans in, gently brushing your lips again like she’s making sure it wasn’t a dream.

It isn’t.

You stay like that for a while. Holding each other. No lights, no lines, no cameras.

Just the truth. Just this. Just her.

[resurrectionist3]

Timex

Daniel Cleaver x fem!Reader (18+)

✒️ - 12/25/2024 🔏 - 01/08/2025

⏳ - 5,563 words

⚠️CW - 18+ NSFW, oral stimulation (p in mouth), no p in v (yet), general smut, Daniel Cleaver and his sliminess (his presence deserves a warning)

✧─── ⋆⋅ ✧⋅⋆ ───✧

📜 - A fairly new hire is getting ready for a very important meeting at her job as the co editor in chief at Pemberley Press. To her surprise, she seems to have lost her favorite wristwatch.

At work, she manages to find it ... on the desk of her most insufferable colleague.

Author's Note - First fan fiction posted to Tumblr, I cannot believe it's for this man. It is actually inspired by the fact that I lost my favorite watch just before Christmas - don't ask how my brain decided to write a fan fiction because of it. I did manage to find it while I wrote this so, that's a win for me. Yes, Frankie is inspired by Francis Abernathy from The Secret History. And yes, the presence of an author named Miles Finch does indeed imply that this fan fiction and this version of Daniel Cleaver do exist in the same universe as the 2003 Christmas comedy film, Elf, starring Will Ferrel. Our beloved Mr. Reed will be here soon, I promise. But I fear I must get this freak out of my system before I can focus on the other one.

✧─── ⋆⋅ ✧⋅⋆ ───✧

“Chilly morning in London today, with a high of 4 degrees and a low of -1° tonight! Expect light flurries this evening with-” The cheerful English news reporter said in his routine chatter about the weather forecast. I poured out a decent serving of cat food for my sweet Argo and sat down to my own breakfast. Turning down the television volume and opening my work notebook, I reviewed the notes from the previous day regarding today’s very important meeting, with a very important author. 

I furrowed my brows as I read the author’s scribbled name, Miles Finch, trying to remember where else I had heard of him outside of work. 

My eyes drifted lower on the page to a different name that I had written down - one that made my heart race and my cheeks blush. Daniel Cleaver, my insufferably attractive colleague and co-editor in chief at Pemberley Press. Our boss, Mr. Fitzherbert, thought it would be some wonderful idea for us to work together preparing for this meeting; the loyal employee of several years teaching the new hire ‘all the way from Boston, Massachusetts’. Weeks spent working a little too closely with Daniel, all leading up to today. To be completely honest, it took its toll on me. One can only take so much of him and his arrogance. 

And his smile … his eyes … his voice … his-

“Ugh,” I caught my mind wandering and stopped, nearly choking on my morning coffee. “Enough of that, (y/n).” I said to myself as I stood from the table. 

I carefully chose a CD to play while I got dressed, settling on one burned by my friend back home. The first song, some obscure 80s pop tune, filled my room as I made my way to the closet. 

“Miniskirt and blouse,” I pondered out loud, pulling the outfit from the rack. “Or, black suit dress?”

Eyeing both choices, I tried to decide which outfit would warrant the best response during the meeting. I looked again at the miniskirt momentarily, blushing as I recalled the … effect it seemed to have on my intolerable associate when I last wore it. 

The way Daniel eyed me that entire day was undeniable. I had been rather used to his stares after 6 months of working with him, but that was different. The way he bit his lip as those icy blue eyes wandered to places they definitely shouldn’t…

“No,” I said quickly, dropping the skirt onto my bed. “Absolutely no distractions today. Suit dress it is.”

After finishing my outfit and makeup, I only had a few minutes before I had to leave. I gathered my things, listing off everything important: ‘notebook, car keys, bag, coat, scarf…’

I prattled off  my belongings in my head as I stopped at my vanity one last time. ‘Necklace, rings, wristwatch-’ I named each item as I put it on, but-

‘Wristwatch…?’  I froze mid-list as I realized my favorite watch was nowhere in sight. I opened every drawer, brows furrowed as I searched all over the apartment. I thought of anywhere it could possibly be, and yet, still nothing. 

I stopped and sighed at the new mess I had made in my hunt. Clothes and jewelry strewn over my unmade bed after my unceremonious rummage around. 

‘I wore it yesterday.. I remember that,’  I thought to myself, stood amongst the disarray. ‘Then.. where did it go afterwards?' 

Figuring it would be easily found on my desk at work,  I relented. I took all my things and left the apartment, throwing on my scarf and coat once inside the elevator. 

In the car, my mind drifted back to the watch. After earning this perfect job at Pemberley, I bought anything I wanted. Expensive jewelry, designer clothes, a new car - even my fancy apartment in London after relocating. I could probably buy 7 of the same basic black and gold Timex watch, but this one was special to me. 

“I’m being quite honest, Frankie, I can't find it anywhere,” I sigh over the phone to my best friend. “I looked all over my apartment, all over my work desk, even asked our security guard if he’d seen it. I fear it’s gone.” I slouched a little in my desk chair as I came to my upsetting realization. 

“Please, (y/n), it’s not that serious. It’s a small thing, I’ll buy you a new one if you like.” Frankie said, his voice as cool and unconcerned as always. Franklin Arkwright; assistant to the CEO of our partner publishing company back home in Boston. He was my oldest friend, and the one who managed to get me the job at Pemberley in the first place. 

I stood from my chair and paced about my office, the phone cord pulling as I walked around my desk. “It’s not just a small thing, Frankie. You know how much I love that watch, and I don't enjoy losing my belongings.” My hand went to my (y/hc) hair as I sighed again. I turned around, going to the opposite side of the room when I accidentally locked eyes with him. 

Daniel Cleaver’s office sat inconveniently right beside mine, both spaces walled completely with floor to ceiling glass (I preferred more privacy myself, but the sleek and modern look was just so in these days).

My heart quickened for a moment, sending a strange pulse through my chest as his blue eyes met mine, a smirk appearing on his face. I managed a smile back as he waved, still talking to whoever was on his own phone. He eyed me up and down as he always did, his gaze lingering on my choice of dress; the dress that I suddenly realized had such a low neckline. 

I scoffed and looked away from his irritating stares, my eyes moving to his desk instead. Frankie continued on in my ear about something his mother had said as I scanned the organized mess of Daniel’s workspace. Stacked papers and folders, pens and pencils, a paper coffee cup, my watch, a stapler-

My watch?

My eyes widened at the undeniable sight of my wristwatch sitting on the desk of none other than Daniel fucking Cleaver. The black leather wristband and gold rimmed clock face was recognizable even from where I stood. I looked back up to him as he paced about his own office, talking away on his phone. He seemed either unaware that it was there, or he at least didn't care. 

'How on earth did it get there?’ I thought to myself as I wracked my brain, finally remembering yesterday’s encounter. 

✧─── ⋆⋅ ✧⋅⋆ ───✧

In the meeting room, Daniel leaned against the long table as I went over my checklist for a final time. “Right, the presentation is finished, I wrote up my little spiel. Do you have yours ready, Cleaver?” I asked and instantly rolled my eyes as I caught him staring where he shouldn’t. Again. 

“Yes, yes, (y/ln), I’ll get on that straight away,” He said briskly, reluctantly meeting my eyes. I could tell he was very distracted, and likely hadn’t heard a word that I said. 

“Daniel, please just know that if you fuck up this meeting and make a fool of me, I will have your head for it.” I said in a casual voice, returning to my written list.

“Noted. Thank you, (y/ln)” Daniel responded coolly. I caught his eyes wandering again and shot him a glare. Perhaps he felt bad for not listening to me, or more than likely, he was trying to play off his stares as he leaned off the table and walked closer. 

“You know, (y/n), I never noticed how nice your watch is,” He said, tilting his head as he looked at the clock on my wrist. “I think I like it.”

 I furrowed my brows at his out-of-place comment and looked at him skeptically. “Well, I do wear it everyday, Daniel. How have you not mentioned it before?” Daniel just shrugged in response, eyes still on my wrist. 

“The gold suits you quite nicely,” He said pensively, almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Daniel gently reached out for my hand, and asked for a closer look. Confused, I set down my notebook and pen, taking the watch from my wrist. Our hands brushed momentarily as I set the watch in his palm, making my heart skip annoyingly. As he examined it, I went back to my list and finished going over everything for tomorrow. 

Before I could say another word to Daniel, Mr. Fitzherbert had entered and asked for me. The last thing I remembered was taking my notebook and pen, and hurrying out - leaving my favorite watch with Daniel. Fucking. Cleaver. 

✧─── ⋆⋅ ✧⋅⋆ ───✧

“(y/n)...? (Y/N)??” Frankie repeated over the phone, taking me out of my memory. “Are you still there, babe?” 

I let out a laugh and took a breath as I realized I was still on the phone with him. “Y-yea, I’m still here, Frankie.. But I think I should go. I, uhm, I found my watch.”

Without another word, I said goodbye and hung up the phone. Daniel had also finished his own phone call and was standing by the window, reading some documents. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose as I contemplated actually going over there. After all, it IS just a watch. But, it was still my favorite one. 

I readjusted my dress and made my way to Daniel’s office, entering politely. “Afternoon, Mr. Cleaver,” I said with the nicest smile I could manage. “Today’s the day! Big meeting with Miles Finch. I hope you’re ready!” 

Daniel flashed me a smile - that terribly charming smile of his. “Good afternoon to you, Miss (y/ln). To what do I owe this lovely intrusion?” 

From the look he gave me I could tell, he knew what I was there for.  My eyes went from him to my watch, sat right on his desk beside his computer, almost displayed like some kind of trophy. I lost my fake smile and relaxed, crossing my arms. “I’m here to see if you're prepared. And to take my watch back; I’ve been looking for it all morning.” 

Daniel looked confused and taken aback by my statement. “Your watch..? (y/ln), you must be barking, I don’t have your watch.” 

I narrowed my eyes at him and walked towards his desk. I wasn’t in any mood for his games today. “Yes, Daniel. This watch, it’s mine.” I reached out to take it, just as he bent over the desk and picked it up himself. 

“Oh, this watch? Odd, what is it doing here? Are you sure it’s yours?” Daniel said while he examined it just like he did the day prior. I rolled my eyes at him and his antics. 

“Yesterday.. The meeting room? You asked to see it and then I had to go.” I recalled briefly, still irritated with his little act. “I really have been looking for it all morning, I’ve been worried half to death.” 

Daniel’s eyes widened in fake shock. “Half to death? God, (y/ln), it’s just a watch,” He said, turning it over in his hands. “Why do you wear it everyday? It's a bit worse for wear, isn't it? Scratches in the glass here, creasing in the wristband. And, oh dear, is that a crack? Surely, they pay you enough to buy a nicer one.” 

I glared at him from the other side of his desk and huffed in anger. “It’s very special to me, Daniel. My dear friend, Frankie, gave it to me before I left home to move here. It used to belong to him; he knew I loved it so much,” I stopped myself and sighed. Something told me that it was futile to try and explain the emotional value of a wristwatch to someone like Daniel Cleaver. “It’s .. sentimental. Perhaps you’d understand if you had friends of your own, now I’d like to have it back please.” 

The emphasis on my statement didn't seem to matter as Daniel just smiled to himself and looked back at my watch. “How dare you presume to know the status of my personal friendships,” He said after taking a gasp of fake offence. 

I held my hand out for him to give the watch back, a silent plea for him to end this ridiculous nonsense. But to my confusion and irritation, instead of offering it back, he pulled back his sleeve and put it on. “You know, I think I'll hold onto it for you. Just for today, what do you think, (y/ln)?” 

It was my turn to be taken aback now. “What, no- Cleaver, just give it to me,” I said, my already thin patience running thinner. “This isn’t grade school, what are we, confiscating each other’s belongings now..?” 

Daniel said nothing as he walked around his desk and stopped in front of me - a little too close for a colleague. “You can come back and collect it at the end of the day. Stay later tonight.. If you want it back, then you’ll know where to find me, hmm?” He said, his voice patronizing. Yet, quiet and … suggestive. He was so close, I could smell his cologne - a familiar fragrance from Jo Malone. He lifted his hand and I held my breath, ready for him to do something deranged, like brush back my hair or caress my cheek. Hell, he was close enough to lean in for a kiss.

 Instead, he looked over my shoulder at my watch on his wrist to check the time. “Well look at that.. It’s time to meet Miles Finch,” Daniel said with a quick smile as he stepped back to his desk to pick up some documents. According to the clock on his wall, he was right - ten minutes until 3pm. A few people from different departments even walked by Daniel’s office and into the elevator, clearly on their way to the meeting room. 

Daniel walked past me quickly and I followed behind to retrieve my own things from my office, just as he stopped and turned back.

“Hot dress, by the way, (y/ln),” He started, making my cheeks blush red. “With a neckline that low, I’m sure you won’t even need your notes in order to convince them.”

I gasped and tried to interject as he made his way out to the elevator. 

The meeting came and went, ending on a high note with Miles Finch agreeing to our proposed contract for his upcoming book series. It was truly a triumph; after weeks of hard work and preparation, it actually paid off. The entire meeting room filed out, talking happily and shaking hands with one another with a few minutes to spare before the end of the work day. I was approached numerous times by colleagues and representatives visiting from our New York location, congratulating me and Daniel on a job well done. As the building slowly emptied, I retreated back to my office and opened my computer to start on some extra work. I hadn’t forgotten about what Daniel said. And I certainly hadn't forgotten about my damned wristwatch. 

There were five separate invitations to go out for drinks with everyone from the meeting. And I really did wish to attend. Perhaps for a chance to earn a spot within Miles Finch’s good graces (he was said to be a difficult man to please), but I declined every single one. “Such hard workers, you and Mr. Cleaver are. You make an excellent team, I’m quite glad to have hired you.” Mr. Fitzherbert said when he heard that Daniel and I wished to stay late to ‘get ahead’ on the next big project. 

‘Oh yes,’ I thought to myself. ‘I'm sure we’ll be working very hard tonight.’ It was the only thought I had in my mind as the boss praised us. Checking my email for a final time before I got to work, I noticed a new message. The sender’s name made me sigh and curse as I clicked it open. 

 ‘45 minutes, floor will be empty. 

50 minutes, after George does his rounds, you know what to do.

-DC’

The wall clock ticked away at an agonizingly slow pace. A few times, I even caught myself instinctually turning my wrist to check the time, and cursing under my breath when I found nothing there. When the time finally arrived, George, the security guard walked casually past my glass-walled office. We exchanged polite waves and I watched him walk through the room and out, heading for the stairwell. I recognized my moment, and turned off my computer. I took my things as if I were ready to leave: packed my notebook and pen into my bag, gathered up my coat and scarf, and made the dreadful walk of shame to Daniel’s office door. I felt his eyes on me as I hesitated outside, wondering again if this was all really worth it. I knew I wasn’t just going to walk in, collect my trinket, and go. It would never be that easy with Daniel. 

“About time, (y/ln), took you long enough to finally open the door. Having second thoughts?” Daniel said, without looking up from his computer screen. 

“Actually, yes,” I confessed, putting my belongings down on the chair by the door. “Am I going to regret coming in here, Cleaver..?” I gave him a sincere look of worry. His expression visibly softened as he stood from his desk and walked over. He stopped in front of me, just like he had done earlier. Except this time, there was no one around to see us. No one to watch him do something deranged… like brushing back my hair, or caressing my cheek. Or..

“Daniel,” I whispered, pulling away when he leaned in. My hand went to his chest, ghosting against the bare skin where his dress shirt was left unbuttoned. “Please - don’t risk our positions, or our jobs, for this silliness.” Daniel responded with a soft smile as his hand went to my cheek, caressing it gently. 

“It’s only a problem if we’re caught, (y/n).” Daniel began, his other hand trailing slowly up my side and to my waist. He pulled me against him and I stumbled a little, falling against Daniel’s chest and fully into his arms - right where he wanted me. “And if we are, which we won’t be, I’ll take the blame. It’s my idea after all. I’ll risk my position and my job… not yours.”

Somehow, Daniel’s own version of a sacrifice was endearing enough to make me blush furiously. I opened my mouth to protest, just to be met with his thumb gliding gently over my bottom lip. “It’s alright, (y/n),” He whispered with an amused smile on his face. He winked and I couldn't help but return the smile. Daniel backed away briefly, pulling me by the arm to his desk where I settled against it. He resumed his place in front of me, pulling me back into his embrace. “I’ve got it all figured out… and I've got you.”

I felt myself physically relax at Daniel’s words - more relaxed than I’ve ever felt while being with him. I raised my eyebrows at his statement, sighing against his lips. “You always have everything figured out, don't you Daniel?” Before he could give me one of his clever responses, I closed the gap between us and pressed my lips to his. Just to shut him up. 

His hand settled on my hip, keeping me pinned against his desk. I let my own hands move up his chest, and over his shoulders. One hand rest on the back of his neck, while the other went up into his hair, getting tangled in his dark locks. He let out a moan against my lips, and I couldn't help my mischievous smile.

“Excuse my enthusiasm, (y/n),” Daniel began, pulling away only enough to form words. “But I have been fucking dying to get you like this since the day I met you.” It was my turn to be amused now. I smiled and bit my bottom lip, delighted to see him this flustered. “Oh, I can tell, Daniel,” The feeling of his growing erection against me was enough to know that he was serious. I let my hands fall from their work in his hair, dropping one to his shoulder and the other to the desk behind me. It rested beside Daniel’s left hand, my fingers ghosting over his. “To make a confession of my own, I’ve always found you rather attractive - hot as fuck, even. But your insufferable arrogance was often far to much for me to bear.” 

Daniel laughed against my neck as he dipped down to kiss the sensitive skin there, earning a breathy moan from me. I moved my hand from the desktop, gliding over his hand and to his wrist, where I felt the undeniable outline of my watch. I quickly moved my hand up, tightening around his forearm as he nipped at my neck, hoping he wouldn’t get suspicious. “Daniel…” I moaned to him, making him hold my waist tighter in response. My other hand slid off his shoulder and down his back to distract him while I began to remove my watch from his wrist. 

‘Almost…’ I thought and let out a sigh when I felt the leather strap slide from the small buckle. Daniel bit into my neck harder than he had before, and I gasped sharply. He paused, bringing his quest to cover me in love bites to a close. “Don’t stop, please,” I pleaded, nearly whining for him. Not only was I close to finally getting my watch back, but the physical contact actually felt too good to lose. I felt Daniel smirk against my lips as he pulled away from me completely, my hand drifting off his shoulder and lingering outstretched for him. 

“You almost had me, (y/n),” Daniel said while he fastened my watch back onto his wrist. “Don’t make me restrain you, (y/ln). Play fairly and you’ll get what you came here for.” 

I roll my eyes and groan, crossing my arms in front of me. “Fine, Daniel. What must I do to get my precious watch back?” Daniel put a hand to his heart and gasped. 

“You wound me, (y/n), honestly,” He paced to the side of the desk, leaning on it bringing our faces inches apart once again. “I had hoped that what you wanted from me wasn't just your watch.” 

“Daniel-” I scolded, as if he were a child. He was surely acting like one. He just laughed and held up his hands in surrender after taking a step away. “Alright, (y/ln), alright. I need you to do something for me. A favor, I suppose.” His voice dropped in volume as he finished. I chewed the inside of my lip, eyeing him cautiously. 

“Like what? Take over a project for you? Cover for you while you run off to some broom closet or storage room with one of the interns?” Daniel approached me with that damned smile on his face again. The one that first made my heart race. The one that could convince me to do anything. 

“Bold of you to assume I’d be running off with anyone other than you, (y/ln). But no, nothing like that,” He paused, seemingly thinking. His tongue traced his bottom lip as his eyes scanned over my face while his hand absentmindedly rubbed my thigh beneath my skirt. “Well, you are quite good with this mouth of yours.” 

My eyes widened and my lips parted in my shock. ‘Oh, surely not.’ 

“I don’t suppose you mean I have a chance of talking my way out of this?” I asked, trying desperately to avoid what I knew he was implying. Daniel shook his head, still enamored by me as he resumed his kissing along my jaw and down my neck. “Come now, (y/n), don’t play innocent. It’s a poor act, and it doesn't look good on you.” 

He kisses and roughly nips at a spot just below my jaw, making me crane my head back and sigh. He pulled away again and looked at me. I had never seen his blue eyes look so dark. 

‘No. No. No way. Tell him no, say-’

“Fine,” I nodded to Daniel’s desk chair, telling him to sit as I pulled my hair back. I bit my lip to hide a smile as he scrambled to take his seat. I stole a pen off his desk and stuck it into my makeshift updo, securing it in place. 

I left my spot on the front of the desk, rounding it to stand between Daniel’s legs. The outline of his cock was apparent even through his dark trousers as I lowered myself down between his legs. The only sounds for a moment were heavy breaths and Daniel’s zipper sliding down. He shifted in his seat, pushing his trousers down slightly. I took a breath and paused when I slid my fingers around the waistband of his underwear. I hesitated for a moment, making Daniel hum in amusement from above me. I looked up at him, eyes locked with his. 

“You’re really doing this, (y/n)?” He said, surely meaning to challenge me. His arm was propped by his elbow on the armrest of the desk chair. My Timex watch sat, still fastened to Daniel’s wrist, looking almost like it was meant to be there. The gold hardware glinted in the low lights in the office and I felt my chest tighten at the thought of Daniel Fucking Cleaver keeping one of my most treasured possessions forever. “Of course I am,” I say, settling onto my knees and slowly letting my hands slide under Daniel’s dress shirt, up and down the sides of his torso. “I want my fucking watch back.”

Daniel nodded and readjusted himself in his seat, leaning back like a king on his throne. “Go on then Miss (y/ln). Use that pretty mouth of yours… take what you came here for.” I smiled back and rolled my eyes, letting my gaze settle on Daniel and his endearing grin. “Yes, right away, Mr. Cleaver.”

I slid my fingers into his waistband again and pulled them, no hesitation this time. My eyes widened a bit when his cock sprang free from its constraints. He was admittedly very large. Daniel let out a groan as I took him in hand and licked his tip playfully. I continued my teasing, enjoying the sounds of Daniel nearly whimpering. 

“O-ohhh, (y/n).. enough of that, please.” He begged, dropping his left hand to my face. Daniel held my chin up with one, and with the other began to stroke his cock, positioning it in front of my mouth. “No more teasing if you want your watch back.” I nodded obediently, which pleased him. 

“Now, (y/n), if you’d be so kind, just- ohhh, fuck,” Happy to quiet him, I took him into my mouth, going as deep as I comfortably could. I breathed slowly and deliberately, ensuring that I didn’t choke too severely. 

I felt Daniel’s hand snake around to the back my neck and hold me, tangling into the hair at the base. I moaned as he began to guide my head back and forth; slowly and gently. I shut my eyes for a moment, focusing on my breathing again. He was so much … more than what I had experienced in the past, and I was not accustomed to it. 

I felt Daniel move his hand from my chin and I opened my eyes slowly. His head was thrown back in ecstasy, his groans and whispers filling his office space. I pulled off his cock and trailed my tongue along the length of it, earning a hiss and a long moan of my name. I looked up again, hoping to catch his gaze and instead was met with the clockface of my watch on his wrist as his hand held the base of his cock. I stared at it before me, as I closed my lips around him again. 

‘He’s doing it on purpose, surely,’ I thought as his moans became a bit louder. 

“(y/n), fuck. I’m close, darling, so close-” Daniel groaned, his hold tightening on the back of my neck. I hummed and hollowed my cheeks as I took him, enjoying the sounds of his cries. 

I glanced up through my eyelashes and watched as he reached his climax, finishing into my mouth. I shut my eyes, swallowing what I could as Daniel’s hold on my neck loosened completely and his hand fell while he relaxed. 

“God, you are good Miss (y/ln). Fuck,” He groaned, fixing his clothes and redressing. I paused and patted his thigh gently, while I turned and spit the rest of his cum into the wastebin beneath his desk. Daniel watched as I casually stood and wiped at my mouth, rubbing off what remained of my lipstick. “Too much for you, darling?” He said, making me roll my eyes. I leaned forward, resting my hands on the chair’s armrests. My lips grazed Daniel’s tauntingly as I let my tongue glide over his bottom lip. “Is there anything else you require of me, Mr. Cleaver?” I asked with the best demure voice I could manage. 

Daniel groaned again, seemingly close to giving into me. “(y/n), darling…” He whispered, holding my face gently. “I thought I told you the innocent act isn’t your thing. Besides, as badly as I need to bend you over and fuck you on this desk, George’s next round is going to start soon and I’m confident that you don’t want him to find us like that.”

I stood and let him stand from his chair. “How do you know the security guard’s patrolling routine so well?” 

Daniel grinned. “My sweet, (y/n), why do you think?”

I didn’t give him an answer. Instead I scoffed at him and fixed the collar of my dress, crossing the room to pick up my belongings. “Oh, now I’ve earned the silent treatment have I?” Daniel leaned against his desk, watching me put on my scarf and coat. I failed to hide a smile when I watched him attempt to seem as though he wasn’t crying my name a moment ago. I crossed the room again, back over to Daniel and extended my hand wordlessly. He rolled his eyes and sighed, carefully removing the watch on his wrist. 

He lowered it into my palm and I nodded. “Thank y-,”

“On second thought,” Daniel began, cutting me off and pulling my watch away again. “I think I’ll hold onto it a little bit longer. Just until tomorrow evening, that alright, (y/ln)?”

My cheeks went warm while I watched him put the watch into his pocket and put on his own coat. I huffed, admittedly like a child, and crossed my arms. “Oh, was I not good enough?” I asked, a little too loudly. He shook his head. 

“Oh no, darling, you were wonderful. Too good for me to let this little game end right now. What do you say to … The Ritz? Tomorrow evening?” Daniel took his own things and walked to the door of his office. “I do owe you after all. I fear I’ve robbed you of a lovely night of drinks with our colleagues.”

I followed him out of the room and over to the elevator, waiting for the doors to open. “I'd say I've never been,” I confessed. “You do know you can ask me out to dinner without holding my wristwatch hostage, right?”

Daniel shrugged, sliding his arm around my waist as we watched the numbers of the floors descend. “Sure, but this is just more fun,” He leaned down, his lips grazing against my ear as he whispered, making my chest tighten. “It’s like getting back at you for those revealing outfits you’ve been wearing here - especially that little miniskirt you have.” I shivered as his fingers made gentle circles on my waist. 

He lifted his head, and stood up straight just in time for the doors to open again. George was indeed on his second round of the empty building, having left the other security guard at the front desk. We waved goodbye and were met with a cold wind beyond the front doors of Pemberley Press, the flurries mentioned on the news this morning already making their appearance. I paused to button up my coat, as Daniel examined my Timex watch yet again. 

“You know, (y/ln), I really do think this watch suits me nearly as well as it suits you.” He said, putting it back into the pocket of his trousers. I rolled my eyes and faced him. “Oh sure. Perhaps once we’re all done here you can get one of your OWN.” I heard Daniel’s laugh echoing behind me as I walked away from him. As I reached my car, I got inside and started it up wondering how on earth I was going to explain this situation to Frankie when I called him on the phone at my apartment.

✧─── ⋆⋅ ✧⋅⋆ ───✧

I hope you all enjoyed!! Potentially scheming a Part II at some point, but please let me know what you think!

[scriptastra]

Surprise!! This space is for both readers and writers, a candlelit corner of the internet where we gather over verse. Submit your own poems and prose, share your literary musings, and sip from a stream of inspiration that includes:

✒️ original & submitted works

🎯 poetry prompts

📖 literary inspo & quotes

🎲 cozy dash games

💌 gentle encouragement & writing camaraderie

Whether your pen drips honey or your heart scribbles in the margins, you belong here. after all, this is for you, always. 🌙

[toeridiaorbust]

I Just Realized the Paper in the Radial Charts Are Visually Unique Too

All images belong to Red Spring Studio.

Mhin:

Theirs looks the 'cleanest', relatively speaking. Possible scribbled notes in the margins, there?

✒️✒️✒️✒️✒️

[More under the cut]

Vere:

There's, uh, a lot of blood. Fits the 5 rank of his 'Wanton Violence', doesn't it?

✒️✒️✒️✒️✒️

Kuras:

I know we haven't seen Kuras eat/drink anything in both the demo and other official art by RSS, but I know the stain of an overfilled coffee mug on a paper when I see one! [It's even referenced in the LI quiz the devs put out ages ago, the French press coffee!]

✒️✒️✒️✒️✒️

Ais:

While everyone's blue paper note is ripped at the top and bottom, Ais's has the addition of being crinkled up and torn!

As others noted in reblogs/tag/comments on the official RSS post for Ais, the Animal Handling rank is in allusion to his control of all the Soulless at the Seaspring.

However, there's the tear that cuts through it too. Ocudeus is the something Ais cannot control. [This is also noted by others in the fandom!]

[This also completely terrifies be because oh no! Ais is losing himself!]

The crumbled paper could be similar to how a student carelessly jams their homework/notes/etc. into their backpack and turns it in that way to the teacher. Ais is trying to keep Ocudeus in check/suppress it/them/him(?), but it isn't working anymore.

All in all, I cannot wait to see what the devs have in store for Leander's.

[itsokguysimquirky]

❥ coffee delivery 📓☕✒️

❥ lip gallagher x reader, no use of y/n, college!au, pre-relationship / potential friends-to-lover, cute little thing i wrote as a writing warm-up because I haven't in ages :p wrote it at 3am. proof read it 2 days later at 1am. so apologies if it's nonsense

❥ w/c -> 988

Consistency and Lip Gallagher were basically sworn enemies. Or at least, they weren’t very familiar with each other. That was until he managed to get roped up into your study sessions. The two of you got paired together for a group project near the beginning of the semester, and considering the near perfect grade you achieved with surprisingly little effort compared to most group projects, Lip hadn’t spent much time debating when you asked if he wanted to be your ‘study buddy’. Plus, he had to admit your time management skills greatly outshined his, hence the project running so smoothly. Sure, he had the natural intellect, but staying on top of things that weren’t survival-related was not Gallagher-forte.

But you kept him in line. He had never seen someone spend so much time organising their google calendar of all things. It was your ‘magnum opus’, you told him when he first questioned the colour-coordinated schedule, and he was starting to get why. Without fail you met three times a week, three hours at a time. If Lip had to cancel or cut a session early, another was scheduled to replace it before the hour’s end. Part of him hated it, little miss life together’s hounding on availability, but he couldn’t deny his more recent grades were too good to complain. And he also couldn’t deny your company was much nicer than most on campus, both in the talking sense and the visual department. Sure, your mind was great, but he didn’t mind the face stuck in front of it either.

“Coffee delivery!” Your cheery voice mock-whispered, sliding into your seat across from Lip and placing the cardboard tray of to-go cups inbetween you. The library’s fourth floor was practically empty, or at least the corner you two had tucked yourselves away in was. Seven pm on a sunday wasn’t usually prime study-time, but with Lip’s work-study, your own obligations, and class, it was a surprisingly good fit for you guys. Plus, the quietness made it much easier to focus.

“Thanks,” Lip didn’t look up from his book, one hand scribbling out nonsense into a notebook and the other grabbing a coffee. It was only after he took a sip did he look up, meeting your eyes with a look of offence. “The hell’s this? I told you, black, two sugars, none-”

“Of that cream shit, I know.” You finished, smiling wide as you recalled his very precise order. Your smile turning a little mean, you swapped your cups, bestowing Lip his beloved cream-free coffee, “Wanted you to learn to look up when you grab a hot beverage through a consequence that didn’t involve burning your hand or spilling coffee all over my notes.” With a wink, you happily took a sip of your flat white.

Lip bit his tongue, fighting back a smile at how proud you looked at your little coffee-swap-prank. It was admittedly cute as fuck, but he couldn’t exactly give you the satisfaction of acknowledging that. Instead, he hid his smile behind his coffee, relishing in the taste of its bitterness. This was how coffee was meant to be, none of that milky crap.

“So, what’s on your agenda today, coffee snatcher?” Lip asked, dropping his pen to give you the undivided attention you seemed to be asking for. He could see through your little tricks, swapping coffees was basically the college girl equivalent of little boys pulling pigtails.

You set your coffee aside, pulling off your fingerless gloves and getting your laptop out of your bag. “Advanced thermo. Shit’s kicking my ass, so I’m hoping three solid hours of that will make it… I want to say ‘make it my bitch’, but I’ll take understandable at this rate.” You laugh, flipping open your laptop and powering it on before disappearing back into your overfilled bag to hunt down the rest of your study material. “You?”

“Physics paper. Put it off for too long, now I have a Monday nine am deadline and only an opening paragraph.” Lip answered, nursing his coffee like it was a warm glass of whiskey. He watched as you dug around in your bag for what was, by his guess, probably just a pen he could’ve offered. But you were specific, you had a study pen, a notes pen, a maths pen, probably a pen exclusively for signing the declaration of independence if you searched in your bag long enough, and you were particular enough to not settle for substitutes until you knew for a fact you had no other option.

Finally emerging with a triumphant smile, your study pen grasped in your hand, you return Lip’s gaze. Offering a sympathetic wince, you slide the pack of pretzels you picked up at the coffee shop towards him, “Brain food. You’re gonna need it with a deadline like that.”

A shockingly genuine smile formed on Lip’s face, willing to admit that the gesture, while small, was sweet. He hid the smile behind his coffee of course, waiting til it schooled down to passively appreciative before he dared lowered his hand to reveal the quirked lips behind the lid. “Uh, thanks. That’s- um, that’s nice.” He cleared his throat, hating how he stumbled over his own words, “I, uh, can still walk you back to your dorm at ten, I’ll just head back here after.” Lip always walked you home after your evening sessions, the late hour and dark skies didn’t exactly make a safe environment for a girl like you, or any girl really, to wander around in.

You shake your head, “No, no, I’ll stick around. If you’re pulling an all-nighter I will too, could probably do with one to get my head around this stuff. We’re in this together, gotta keep you company, right?” You tilt your head, smiling at him.

Your smile’s returned, his grin almost dopey. He nods, messy curls bouncing in time, “Yeah, yeah. You’re good company.”

[celeluwhenfics]

The state of my desk when trying to write a double canon compliant fic

The cover of this edition of Persuasion is so ugly, I don't even feel bad highlighting and scribbling all over it 🩱

Trying to not look too often at Tolkien because the beauty of his sentences paralyzes my writing 😰

The Elements of Eloquence for when I need help to English convincingly 😶

Scrivener to keep track of 50k+ words of notes and drafts ✒️

Icelandic folksongs because that's definitely what the Eorlingas are singing 🎻

Not pictured: a WordHippo tab open at all times 🦛

[tokusaatsus]

Ritsu doesn’t know what else he was expecting to hear.

I’m sorry, you tell him. Kindly, softly, as you usually are—but that doesn’t stop his heart from breaking into a million pieces. He tries to put on a brave face and play it off as a joke, the way the two of you usually banter.

Ju~st kidding, he says flatly. His usual musical lilt is nowhere to be found and as he tilts his head up to meet your gaze, his body feels unfairly tethered to the earth. He attempts a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “Can I know at least who stole your heart before me?”

Your smile is unsure. “I don’t think you’d want to.”

[eyessopen]

✒️

💥 ― Send '✒️' and I'll try to write YOUR muse in my style!

E ... E ... O ... P (See me after class)

Teaching, according to every professor he had ever met, was supposed to be rewarding. Harry had just never realized how much grading went into being a professor. And with every year that passed and with every new handful of students, the essays kept getting worse and worse.

For example ... no, Mason, vampires did not exist and an entire essay citing a muggle fantasy book as a source did not receive full credit.

Harry rubbed at his chin, squinting even with his glasses to try and make out the scribbled chicken scratch on the parchment. Had he been this bad as a student? Certainly ... well, Hermione would probably argue that no, he had been worse. But he had an excuse didn't he? Hard to concentrate on two inches on animagus when a psychopath was trying to kill him every year!

Suddenly, a sharp knocking on his window pulled his attention from his pile of ungraded work. Harry narrowed his eyes, his gaze focusing on the brown spotted owl that was knocking its beak against the glass. Only one owl was bold enough to come to him personally rather than stopping at the owlery. Getting up from his seat, his face paled at the sight of the howler hanging off of the owl's talons.

Merlin Ginny, really?

Opening the window, Harry took the howler from the owl, pressing a treat to its beak before closing his window. It would only get worse if he ignored it so slowly, Harry opened the bright red letter, unsurprised when he unraveled in his hand and started yelling.

"HARRY POTTER ! I BETTER SEE YOU AT HOG'S HEAD! I WILL GO TO HOGWARTS AND PULL YOU OUT OF THAT STUFFY OFFICE BY THE EAR MYSELF IF I DON'T SEE YOU! THIS IS A THREAT!"

Harry, despite himself, let out a chuckle, watching the howler go silent. He shook his head, already imagining Ginny's face if he ditched yet another Hog's Head reunion. It was tough, being so beloved by such ... extroverted people. But it was a good problem to have, one he was growing used to.

"Thanks, Gin." Harry murmured to himself, walking back to his desk to pen a letter back to her. It would be a howler, just to even the score.

This was good, a much needed distraction from piss poor essays about vampires.

[so2uv]

mhmhmhm marius concepts have been redone

[not-someones-shadow]

Tag list

👾Could have been anyone else (Interactions with other blogs)

✒️Anything better to do? (Asks)

🗝️This guy? (Sora)

🔑 Two? (Roxas)

🪡Precious puppet (Xion)

🕯️Stolen light (Ventus)

💖Friends of yours (Interactions with Riku, Kairi, Axel, Aqua, Terra)

🎨Doodle girl (Namine)

👁️‍🗨️Master (Xehanort, Xemnas, Ansem Seeker of Darkness)

🌰Your own person (Repliku)

✨Scribbles✨(Posts containing Scribbles the Unversed)

🐦‍⬛Rocks the Archraven (Posts containing Rocks the Unversed)

🥚Eggs the scrapper (Posts containing Eggs the Unversed)

✖️Tic tac and Toe ⭕ (Posts containing the Hareraiser trio)

🐝Andrenidae/Sweetie Pie (Posts containing the Xenomorph Unversed)

⚙️Void Gear the damn Gecko (Posts with Void Gear's truest form)

♟️What exists beyond the veil (Vanitas musings)

Memoir of a shadow (short stories)

🥬cabbage creations (mod posting)

From the Garden (completed artwork)

Darkness in a bottle (visuals)

💔The aching and breaking (Darkness)

⭐Wayfinder AU

[habitual-creatures]

*Scribbling something down a piece of paper and snapping the paper away in a ball of flame* Well, that was nice of Raven and Xia...I need to go visit soon...after I find out if Trinity's plan works.

*DIS moves an arm so Kevin can use it as a pillow with the icepack underneath his head. It winces at the cold feel and covers them both up with a blanket.*

~🕕/✒️📖

What were you writing...?

Mmfhf

(( Kevin has once again buried himself face first in Dis' paw. He's cozier like that ))

[just-asimple-brunette]

Ｙｏｕ’ｖｅ ｂｅｅｎ ｔａｇｇｅｄ！

Write a note in your muse’s handwriting and tag three people 📝✨✒️

A number of post it notes are littered around the apartment in hasty written scribbles ….

tagging:

@codenamepinetree

@millicndcllarbby

@ashxbabes