#silver scribe (writing tag)

[squatch-and-stretch]

Reunion V1

Ford Pines & Stan Pines & Fiddleford McGucket | 829 words | Mystery Trio Through the Multiverse AU

A scrapped draft of Stanley and Stanford’s reunion with Fiddleford in the multiverse.

The first chapter of the actual fic available here!

“Ge’down!” a voice shouts, and the sound of a human other than him or his brother is so shocking that he can’t even try to recognize it.

It stuns him so badly that he doesn’t even register the command, not until Stanley is grabbing him by the back of the coat and pulling him down. On instinct, he rolls onto his back to face the threat, and his eyes land on the massive slithering beast just in time to see something— some sort of squat tube with loose wires and four sharp metal legs— latch onto it. It doesn’t flinch even as those legs dig in and hold on tight, its head twisting a full 180 degrees so its blind, gaping maw can shoot out towards them. Faintly, inexplicably, he hears a sharp series of beeps and then—

Stanley shouts out a curse, grabbing Ford by the shoulder and turning him back towards the cave floor, one arm thrown over the back of his head, hand covering his ear. Ford means to shake him off, but before he can—

BOOM.

Even with Stanley’s hand covering one ear and the other buried in his brother’s armpit— gross, he notes distantly— the sound is nearly deafening. Stanley pulls away with another series of curses, this time under his breath, too soft for Ford to catch.

“C’mon, this way, don’ wanna see what that did to the structure of that there cave!” the voice shouts, or, at least, they say something along those lines. It’s still hard to parse, both physically with his ringing ears and mentally with his mind racing with no known destination.

Stanley doesn’t seem to hear it at all, still kneeling on the cave floor. He lifts a hand to his ear and Ford watches as it comes away wet. As soon as Stanley himself seems to notice, he quickly wipes it on his jacket, letting the fluid blend into his stained burgundy jacket.

It’s up to Ford to grab him this time, pulling him to his feet and towards the entrance of the cave. There's a person— or person-shaped being, perhaps, Ford can’t take anything here for granted— silhouetted against the strange light of this unfamiliar dimension as it filters into the cave. They’re tall and wearing a long, tattered coat, and that’s all Ford can make out at this distance. As cautious as he is of the stranger, he can’t deny the logic of their words.

Once Stanley seems to get the point, he pulls away to stand on his own, wobbling slightly. He shakes his head and shoves his hand into his pocket, doubtlessly retrieving the pair of brass knuckles he has stored away there.

As they approach the stranger, a few more features come into relief; light brown hair pulled back into a messy bun, green-tinted goggles with one cracked lens, a scrap of brown cloth wrapped around their neck and brought up over their nose. The long coat, Ford realizes, is a tattered and stained lab coat.

With a jolt, Ford recognizes the hair color, the lanky build, the anxious hunch…

“Son of a gun,” the not-stranger groans, pulling his scarf down to reveal a familiar soft jawline and tight frown.

“Fiddleford,” Ford breathes, hardly believing his eyes. He wants to run up to his partner, pull him into a hug and celebrate the fact that he’s alive, it worked, Ford made it in time, but even Ford can read the way Fiddleford’s tense posture only tightens at the sight of him.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford says in response, “What in tarnation are you doin’ here? And who…”

Fiddleford’s eyes land on Stanley, brows furrowing for just a moment before his eyes widen.

“Stanley,” he concludes. “Hell of a way to mend bridges with your estranged twin brother.”

“I wouldn’t really say those bridges have been mended,” Ford mumbles, and surprisingly, Stanley doesn’t respond.

He hasn’t said anything, actually, in quite some time. He’s still staring at Fiddleford, posture defensive, eyes wary but distant, somehow. Some sort of cloudy liquid has gathered in the low notch of his ear, a few drops making their way down his jaw. As if noticing at the same time as Ford, Stan huffs and tilts his head, lifting a shoulder to wipe the liquid away. His breath hitches as if the movement pains him.

For all his staring, Stanley doesn’t seem to notice. He squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment before opening them again.

“Stanley?” Ford asks, completely distracted by his strange behavior. Stanley doesn’t respond, still watching Fiddleford warily.

“What do you want?” Stanley says, far more loudly than necessary, glaring at Fiddleford.

Fiddleford, for his part, just stares at Stanley in the same way he used to look over Ford’s less-than-legible notes and equations.

“Shoot,” Fiddleford mumbles, lifting a hand to his own ear. “Done ruptured his eardrum, I reckon.”

“I’m fine,” Stanley grumbles, moving to mirror the motion before just letting his arm drop.

[silverlistenstothings]

False Flirtations Chapter 1: Food

Normal Oak/Hermie Unworthy | 3,625 words | Mythical Creatures AU, 5+1 things

Five times Hermie and Normal accidentally proposed to each other, and the one time they did it on purpose.

Normal offers Hermie some food.

[afaroffsong]

I was tagged in this game by @brb-on-a-quest and @informedimagining:

Reblog game. You tag the people that you can think of on the top of your head and use two words to use to describe them (people you follow, moots, or followers)

I thought I would do it for all of my mutuals. ^_^ And now that I've gone through my list I realise there are a LOT of yous and I also don't know some of you guys very well. XD XD

(...also it was really hard to just use two words since I wanted to give, like, an in-depth paragraph of how I feel about everyone. Most of these are entirely based on vibes. You can ask me if you want clarification, and I shall do my best to answer in my own words and not emojis and random pictures and quotes. *blushes and runs away*)

@hollers-and-holmes Merry stronghold

@kraytwriter Laughing firelight

@lady-merian Joyful sunbeam

@musewrangler Excellence curator

@catkin-morgs-kookaburralover Dear one

@sheet-metal-memories Kindred spirit

@muse-write Brave friend

@informedimagining Star maker

@onewingedsparrow Truth speaker

@ladyphlogiston Warm safety

@rosie-cotton Beauty sharer

@winterinhimring Brilliance crafter

@hwestalas Tasteful artist

@swinging-stars-from-satellites Moon finder

@thewatercolours Elegant waymaker

@brb-on-a-quest Happy heartbeat

@hamiltonfairchildracingrescue Heartful artisan

@clawedandcute Discerning scribe

@audreythevaliant Hopeful perceiver

@saint-augustines-pears Bright lightfoot

@authortobenamedlater Youthful tree

@sweetcardamom Cerulean sky

@batrachised Autumn spirit

@lady-stormbraver Stalwart learner

@lightthewaybackhome Earnest harvester

@smolgreybunny Unwavering voyager

@idrilsscribe Learned crafter

@silver-letter-opener Intrepid beautifier

@blueberrybucket Shining seeker

@elessar241 Artistic conservator

@flickeringflame216 Ardent participator

@awwyeah107 Tenderhearted tender

@thegreenleavesofspring Soul sister

@paranorahjones Swift sunrise

@overthinking-with-katy Generous worker

Woooooooooooooah, that was hard. DX I didn't realise how many of you I just don't know very well. If you're weirded out by what I said, I agree, some of these were weird and took me about an hour to put into words.

To my followers: I'm so sorry, but there are 76 more of you, and I have run out of thoughts. O.O

[thatdeadaquarius]

About language brainrot. Imagine writer creator reader who finally learns how to write in Teyvat's weird symbols and they want to publish their book. They decided to do it anonymously to avoid the "aaaaaah our creator wrote the holy scripture" sort of situation. Except it didn't work. The reader's style is too different from the rest of the world, so even if they tried to simulate the flowery speech it wasn't effective.

Another thing. Reader who decided to read some local books to practice their reading. They asked for something simple and similar to their speech. But the only books merely similar to it are 2000 and more years old. It's funny how the older text is the more you can understand it. On this note. If reader write something i feel like it would be hard to understand for Teyvat's people.

Imagine a reader who is autistic or has any other NDs imparing their communication skills. They practically trained themselves to say sertain phrases in sertain situation. But it doesn't work in Teyvat. And everything just stacks at each other. Difference in speech, being a God (so people react weirdly to you), bad communication skills, not understanding nonverbal cues and so on. There's gonna be a lot of misunderstanding. I imagine how followers would walk on the eggshells not to upset and angry their God and reader who does the same not to say something people will get wrong. Again.

Reader who regained all their memories of creating Teyvat, they're super powerful and stuff. But they still struggle with the modern language. Because all the memories are like millions years old.

✨️NEXYLAZA UR SO FUCKING SMART AND CREATIVE✨️ UR BRAIN>>>>>> EVERYTHING

GIF Akashi (black hair) is all the people who read the Sagau/Isekai Genshin tag and Bokuto (silver) is STILL ME RANTING ABOUT LANGUAGE IN TEYVAT LMAO

They cant escape me, sorry people who just wanted to read SAGAU normal things, im filling up the tag💀

I HAD OTHER ASKS BEFORE THIS ONE AND AS I GOT THRU EM I WAS "OMMGGGG WE'RE GETTIN CLOSER TO NEXY'SSSS ASSSKKKK EEEEEEE"

YOU ARE A GODDAMN GENIUS

DHALALWKDHDHS

ME ABOUT THIS ASK:

(^ lol biblically accurate deadaquarius)

I DONT EVEN KNOW WHERE TO BEGINNNN

BRAINROTTING OVER UR ENTIRE ASK!!

♡

Also, its getting kinda old now, so here is the blunt language v. Teyvat's flowery language post for reference! :)

Hhhhhhhhhhh

IF U WRITE STUFF

AND UR IN WORDY TEYVAT LAND

AINT NO WAY,👏

U COULD EVEN, 👏👏

GET CLOSE👏👏👏

TO THESE BITCHES SPEECH👏👏👏👏

◇

Like,, imagine right now if i told you to write me 4 pages of an essay in entirely early 18th century vernacular.

(For reference: when the story Pride & Prejudice takes place)

... like??

Bitch aint no way u can do that and actually show that to a historian or an actual living person from that time period

and them actually say "wow! An excellently worded 18th century essay!"

💀.

◇

So tying into that whole, "the only simple texts are like literal cunnieform clay tablets or sm shit"

Your writing to them just sounds like if a scribe just copied off what one of those tablets said just onto paper HAHA

And like, if u try and dress it up, it just ends up sounding like its from a slightly later time period

Like if ur casual writing sounds like 1 million years ago, u being flowery sounds like 8-7 thousand years ago u cant win LMAO

◇

Omg ur trying to go to that-

wait whats it called,,fuck i dont know Sumeru good enough yet

The.. HOUSE OF DAENA GOT IT

Yeah so ur thinking "Oh what better way to learn a dialect?/vernacular than reading books by them!"

And u basically snatch Alhaitham at the soonest possible chance to take you there

(Bc when i went in, it was just random lore books everywhere so)

Needless to say you have no clue how this place is organized, so u convince him to direct you to books u can easily read first

Like as close to your speech as possible!! U tell him :)

.

..

...lol

It literally takes like 3 hours to get something readable LMAO

Bc when the poor feeble scribe initially brought you smth he thought was pretty old and close to ur speech, like just first thought,

... It sounded like it was from the middle of the 18th century to you lol

So, with a "hmm" and a squint at the dusty book you'd already given up on

Alhaitham slowly went around the library making a stack of books, dropped them off in front of you... not a single sentence.

...then he made a stack of scrolls...

..nope..

...a stack of stone tablets...

.....getting closer?? it was really weird seeing Shakespearean language carved into stone....

...and then, with a conversation to a second library secretary deeper in the library, past a caged area of shelves to protect them...

...he escorts you behind the restricted section towards the back filled with glass display cases.

(Several of which contain the most ancient looking sets of artifacts you've ever seen)

...Finally, u arrive at a long glass case of several clay tablets.

Half of which sound like they're from the 1910s-20s, and the other, even older half, sounding straight out of the 2000s..

..

....

......

...Good god.

(Good..you??)

These crazy speaking bastard-previously-video-game-characters were right.

...

You are suddenly, viscerally hit with the image of Zhongli's idle, "Osmanthus wine tastes the same as I remember, but where are those who share the memory?" 💀

◇

Alhaitham side eyes you,, (he looks,, very interested, yet also kinda concerned??? HIM, CONCERNED????!!!)

"Ahem, the texts before thy Greatest Lord art the eldest- well, perhaps, more appropriately, the eldest and most intact, pieces of written language known to our humankind."

...

....aYOO MAN 😭😭

...Ur just staring at these half cracked, baked clay tablet thingys, full of slang from like 2003-

Alhaitham coughs.

"Uh, thanks. ...Sorry about all the.. trouble with this..."

BRO HOW OLD DOES HE THINK U ARE NOW-

"This task assigned to mine own person was of no trouble to my mind or spirit, Greatest Lord, fret not about it any longer."

And with a sort of shell-shocked atmosphere surrounding both of you, Alhaitham walks off to check out some other restricted books, hovering nearby yet also trying to give u space LOL

Top 10 cursed images: Seeing "Chillax, bro, dude, and weeb" carved into ancient clay tablets that look like they would be part of the Egyptian exhibit back in ur world 💀

◇

You eventually just kind of end up writing a couple pages after studying the writings, going younger and younger (nothing has ever made u feel more powerful...yet also more old..)

You stretch, just as Alhaitham finally has made his own little stack of creaky old books

He seems very curious to read what u wrote, peaking a glance over the top of his book every so often (lol nerd, cute nerd... but NERDDD)

You just offer the academic lunatic what he wants 🙄

"Haha, wanna take a look? Some drafts are... closer than others..."

The scribe immediately puts his book down, not even saving his page,

"I would be honored, Greatest Lord."

Is he excited?? 💀 omfg

U very slowly hand ur most recent practice pages over, he curls his hand under his chin "hmm" ing

...Alhaitham shakes his head

"My..deepest apologizes My Creator, but this still seems, at the earliest, from when papyrus was invented, and not yet even into scrolls..."

OK BUT ALHAITHAM WOULD GENUINELY GIVE NO FUCKS ABT CRITIQING YOU, HE MAY BE MORE POLITE ABT IT BUT EVEN IF U DID MAKE THE WORLD HES GOING FOR IT

KAVEH HAS A HEART ATTACK BC HIS ROOMMATE GOT ONTO GOD LMAO

U let ur head plop on ur pile of papers, srry babe youll never be as fancy as Mr. Darcy 😕

And as ur resting there, contemplating just walking out and finding smth to eat instead- same

Alhaitham picks up another draft.

Except it's your first attempt.

As in, you didn't even try, first attempt.

You just made some bullet point notes or some Bs, in ur regular. modern. language.

Alhaitham knocks his chair over standing up so fast-

(HE GETS SHUSHED BY THE RESTRICTED LIBRARIAN LOL, also another person unafraid to scold God lol)

...he says its a perfect example of the oldest records they've found of writing on the continent, most of which they haven't even translated yet

He asks u to teach him how to read this/speak like this lol

♧

(^^^not my best work but hope yall got smth outta it💀)

I WAS LITERALLY GONNA MAKE A WHOLE POST ON THE NEURODIVERGENT EXPERIENCE OF BEING A GOD IN TEYVAT

ESPECIALLY OF THE LANGUAGE BARRIER VARIETY!!!

THERES JUST

ACK

aCK HDHAKD

SO MUCH

TO SAY

!!!

AHHHHH

OK BUT LIKE

IF WE ACTUALLY TOOK THIS TO THE EXTREME IM IMPLYING IT WOULD BE

LIKE TEYVAT SPEAKS SEVERAL DECADES BEHIND U- MAYBE EVEN ACTUALLY

CLOSE TO PRIDE AND PREJUDICE TIMES SPEECH

THEY WOULD LITERALLY BARELY COMPHREHEND YOU

IMAGINE TRYING TO TALK TO MR. DARCY 😭

THATS LITERALLY ALL OF TEYVAT

JUST

???¿¿?????!!! <- THEM ALL THE TIME

ESP IF UR NEURODIVERGENT

I THINK IT WOULD BE EVEN MORE PROOF FOR THEM TO THINK UR GOD

BC UR BEHAVIOR WOULD BE "OFF" TO THEIR NEUROTYPICAL ASSES,

YOUR FACIAL EXPRESSIONS,

LIKE UR MASKING MAYBE BUT

U CANT KEEP THAT SHIT UP ALL THE TIME-

ESP IN CRAZY ISEKAI CIRCUMSTANCES

AND LIKE-

(ok ill tone it down before i also get shushed)

U used to be a player!!

Which would maybe mean u got rlly comfy playing Genshin all the time!

...like i know im kinda stimming when im gaming (and my natural stim is rocking so yeah no way they wouldnt notice that 💀)

So, since u may be still yknow unconsciously wanting to be comfy (esp around ur mains/team/favs)

U probably have stimmed a little around them, which, not that neurotypicals dont stim, but like

They would notice after awhile

And esp people like Alhaitham, Zhongli, Ningguang, Xiao, Ei, Aether/Lumine, Kaeya, Diluc, Kazuha, Heizou, Shenhe, Kokomi, Sara, Albedo, Dainsleif- !! GASP- !! <- my bbygirl omg i forgot abt u before now im so sorry </3

(once again i have not checked a character list, forgive my sins my readers)

^^^ Are like pretty focused on you/observant, so they'd eventually pick up on it first probably

..

...

....which allsssooo means they're like, collecting all ur neurodivergent thingys lol to compile as EVIDENCE AGAINST YOU AS TO WHY THEY KNOW UR THE CREATOR LMAO

◇

Honestly the biggest factor against u is definitely social interaction,, srry love :/

(if it helps, its bc i know itd be my downfall too thats why thats there ^ 😔)

Mostly bc i have this idea/theory? obervation? that when I especially met Adepti for the first time

Esp ones that werent as close to human society for as long as some others (like think Xiao vs. Ganyu)

And for literally every other non-human people we've met so far in Genshin-

They kinda- they kinda, radiate neurodivergent energy??

Like, they're not adherring to social norms, and not in like a bad way,

But its still rlly obvious (i mean also its probably exaggerated for us as an audience) that theyre not human pretty quickly

coughzhonglicough

COUGHVENTICOUGH-

oh geez wow excuse me, cold weather must be gettin to me- ahem hem-

Anyway, like what Nexy said in the ask,

...

...Yall are all just tiptoing around each other 😭😭

Bc these ppl arent from Earth countries,

All their behavior is weird to you 😭

U dont know how to mask with them yet 😭😭

THE UNBELIEVABLE AMOUNT OF MISCOMMUNICATION THAT HAPPENS ALREADY WHEN UR NEUROSPICY VS. NEUROBLAND PPL

IS LIKE, ALMOST WORSE??

Bc they cant even understand ur phrasing bc its so simple 😭😭😭

◇

Tldr: "Being Neurodivergent means ur a god, confirmed." - says all of Teyvat's denizens

◇

NEXYLAZA.

MY BELOVED.

I AM IN LOVE WITH UR BRAIN.

IF I COULD GIVE IT A HUG I WOULD🫂✨️👏👏👏👏

BC I WAS ALREADY LIKE IN THE BACK OF MY MIND LIKE-

*rubs my little rat gremlin hands together*

"hmHmHMMMM BuT wHaT iF mAYbE yOU reMeMbeREd cReATinG TeyVAT, hmHMHMMMMM"

AND FOR VERBALIZING IT WITHIN BLUNT LANGUAGE AU- !!!!!!!

(one of my favs, if u cant tell)

I would (platonically) kiss you right now dude.

Instead I give this:

♡ ily

And also, I AM GOING TO MAKE A WHOLE POST ABOUT THIS-

MAYBE EVEN A FANFIC, OR ONE SHOT AHDHAKFHSKLAAL-

UNTIL NEXT TIME MY BELOVED PARTNER IN CRIME <333

PSPSPSPSsppspspspssss Last Time! CLOSES TOMORROW @1pm CST: VOTE on my 100+ followers celebration POLL :)

Tell me what u wanna see me write about! PSPSPSPSpspspspssss

(U can vote even if ur new! :] )

THANK YOU FOR SUBMITTING THIS ASK

THIS IS A TREASURE OF MINE NOW

GONNA HIDE IT IN MY LITTLE CAVE OF SCREENSHOTTED SAGAU POSTS <333 hehehehehehehehehehe

THIS IS LIKE PT2 TO MY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE POST AHHHHH

NEXY BIG BRAIN ILYSM <3

Cheers,

🌒🌧🌊Aquarius♒️🌌🌘

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza lol ur own ask im a menace sorry

[somethingclevermahogony]

Tag Game: Bridgekeeper Questions/OC Questions

I was tagged by @tildeathiwillwrite , thank you!

Rules and original post here, and based on this scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

My questions are:

Where do you hail from?

Why are you here?

Are your right or left-handed?

I will be answering this based on three characters from Book 1 of Testaments, those being Narul, Ninma, and Bop.

Where do you hail from?

Narul: "Um, Syshlum, but I've never actually been there. While I mean, besides when I was born there, but I haven't been there since then. I guess you could say I'm from Labisa." Ninma: "The royal palace of Labisa! The Room of the Silver Boars!" The little princess smirks and pushes back her hair, not so sublty showing off her golden circlet. Bop: The spirit shimmered. "The wind."

2. Why are you here?

Narul: "I have to take care of Ninma and I don't know where else I would be. Or do you mean like philosophically?" The giant frowns and then shrugs. "Same reasons I guess." Ninma: "That usurper killed my father and stole the throne! I shouldn't be here!" Bop: "Some Arkodians trapped me in a hammer. But at least I can talk to Narul now."

3. Are you right or left-handed?

Narul: "Um...well, I have both. Oh is this some sort of...writing thing? Uh, I guess my right is better? Maybe." Ninma: "Right! See look! Someone get me some charcoal and a writing board!" Bop: "No."

You questions are:

What would you rather be doing right now?

What is your favorite desert?

What color are your eyes?

tagging @the-octic-scribe , @roach-pizza , @revenantlore , @illarian-rambling , and anyone else.

[silverlistenstothings]

I always win

so whos gonna do it. whos gonna be the lucky fucker to post the 100th oakworthy fic on ao3

[scribe-cas]

9 People Tag

Thank you @squarebracket-trick for the tag!!

These little ask game things are so fun and I’m starting to get her hang of them-

Tagging (with no pressure, of course): @hallwriteblr @rbbess110 @covenscribe @scribe-of-stories @dyrewrites @bloomibee @lilac-honey @at-thezenith @antihell

Three ships:

Radiodust (I will ship the asexual with the hooker and they WON’T fuck)

My book series OTP (they will never be together in canon again)

Any of my OCs X Any of my mutuals/friends’ OCs (yes I am wholeheartedly serious I cherish spontaneous crack ships with my life)

Currently listening:

uuuh it was some remix of Pitbull’s “Hotel Room Service” (i have two characters who play Just Dance and imagining them to that brings me to hysterics) because I was stuck cleaning the house today

Last movie:

NIMONA. OH MY GOD.

I’ve been a fan since 4th grade when I read the comics for the first time. To see it made into a movie- I can’t. I’m in love.

Plus it’s hilarious because ever since I’ve made friends watch it, they’ve been like “it’s you” “they made a movie about you” and one time I made a joke about being a Nimona cosplayer and my best friend of almost 6 years (my favorite person ever) looked me dead in the eyes and said “wym cosplayer, that’s just how you look” and I’ve never been one hit KOed so fast. Anyways I am normal and regular about the gender movie of all time.

Carrying on-

Currently reading:

Like 5 WIPs that friends of mine have been gracious enough to share with me. I am in love with all of their writing but one in particular who’s finally started to pursue writing as a possible career (they have tumblr if you’re reading this yes I’m talking about you ily hi) has absolutely blown me away with their artistic talent. They have a way with words and a story that I am feral for and rooting for.

Also, my old rough drafts!

Along with Silver (Chris Wooding), Asylum (Madeline Roux), and A Court Of Thorns and Roses (Sarah J Mass).

Currently watching:

The save 5 YouTube videos. Over and over. Someone please save me from myself /lh

Currently Consuming:

Uhhh the answer is unfortunately nothing-

I’m hungry but too tired to get out of bed so I haven’t eaten yet-

Hopefully later tonight

Currently Craving:

Creamy horchata. Like the kind you make with sweetened condensed milk. The good shit.

Last thing researched (for writing purposes):

Depression and the different coping mechanisms that go along with types of trauma. (Ie what coping mechanisms go along with what feelings that come from a traumatic event)

Current Obsession:

Both Nimona and my WIPs! I have two writing projects that I’m just getting back into, and I’m really really excited about that.

(If anyone is interested in them let me knoW /lh)

Anyways yes

Go forth and tag more people, my wonderful morbos

[callahanscorner]

9 Lines 9 People

Thanks for the tag @mayivytalksperhaps!

Rules are that you share 9 lines from your WIP and then tag 9 people.

These are from my latest session of writing The Silver Circle! It was mostly retooling chapter 1, but there’s a few later bits in here, and hey, progress is progress!

The Ular shifted. Something was wrong. "Funny, isn't it?" The man in black smiled, revealing a curved blade at his hip. "We were thinking the same thing." "Listen here, you bastards! Anyone comes near my brother, I'll kick your teeth in!" Bran fell to his knees. He felt the screams clawing at his brain, raking the insides like a lion tears its prey apart. It did not want to be taken. "NO!" The wizard's scream rang through empty halls, devoid of anything and anyone that might have heard him. "If by 'off on the wrong foot', you mean 'our only lead is possessed by a lich king, and it's all your fault', then yeah, I guess we got off on the wrong foot." Ashe winced. Whatever this poor sap had done to deserve this, it must have been horrible. “You will not have him.” “And what use is the word of a Bright Prince where the light no longer shines?”

Gently tagging @captain-kraken @akindofmagictoo @magicicada-lbwrites @thesoftestofpetals @writernopal @scribe-cas @halfbit @rickie-the-storyteller @rhikasa

[renofmanyalts]

Many Alts! Handle It!

Here's my current roster! All links go to the character’s tag.

For posts about all/most of my characters that may not be tagged individually, see #all the characters.

Note: At the time of this writing (July 2023), I only have in-game access to my Balmung alts plus Strammund due to my current FFXIV subscription type. I'll still take asks for any of them, though!

Balmung Characters

Zhah’ra Savaptha (“Flower”) - Keeper of the Moon dancer and bodyworker – formerly in Ul'dah, Rhalgr’s Reach, and Limsa Lominsa, now staying at the Stray Inn in the Upper Paths of South Shroud.

Rhetzedyr Guldarensyn (Zedyr) - Sea Wolf farmboy-turned-artisan; co-owns Harvest Fountain Toys and Jewelry in Limsa Lominsa and is a founding member of the Elytra Concord artisan cooperative.

Renan Avnei’shoham (Renan) - chronologically-displaced magical chimera – a Nymian scholar and his Marine companion who were squashed together in a mishap aboard the Void Ark and subsequently entombed in a stasis coffin. They split their time between living with Negevs Ha'dov at Firefly Grove in Lower La Noscea and with Maayan in Limsa Lominsa.

Amande Desrochers (Amande) - Duskwight who grew up serving a (very) minor noble house in Ishgard, now in exile. Working as a retainer to Mama Dee’s husband, T'arik Tia.

Seselahi Rerelahi (Selah) - Dunesfolk scribe and calligrapher, currently working at Firefly Grove in Lower La Noscea as Secretary of the Elytra Concord artisan co-op.

Rhenbraen Helbsyn (Rhenbraen) - extremely prickly Hellsguard miner. “Not a swivin’ LASS, rocks-for-brains!” Currently apprenticed at Naldiq & Vymelli’s in Limsa Lominsa. 

Silver Sage - Hellsguard elder from Svatn Byr, a small village in Abalathia's Spine. Formerly in Ul’dah to study at the alchemists’ guild, now returned home. (Temporarily on Sagittarius, Chaos datacenter)

Maayan Delafontaine (Maayan) - Wildwood researcher and alchemist; co-owns Harvest Fountain Toys and Jewelry with Zedyr. She handles the logistics/supply chain side of things, so she travels frequently to all three city-states.

Mateus Characters

Strammund Grehmerlsyn (Strammund) - former Lominsan sailor, abruptly “retired” due to illness. Currently consigned to Thanalan for his health; works occasionally as a caravan guard.

Mamaati Maati (Maati) - opinionated Dunesfolk bookworm. Philosopher-economist at the Milvaneth Sacrarium in Ul'dah.

Emerik Liubasch (Emerik) - Hrothgar city-boy from Ilsabard looking to recover lost family traditions. Currently seeking training with the botanists’ guild in Gridania.

Ryoku Kazemoto (Ryoku) - elegant Raen samurai from a mountain holding north of Doma. Currently traveling in Eorzea on a mission to find a sacred object that went missing from a shrine in his home village.

Danyell Dwynwen (Danyell) - Midlander minstrel from Coerthas, currently working the tavern circuit in the Shroud.

Raranen Sasanen (Raranen) - black sheep of a Dunesfolk merchant family (Maati’s cousin); breeds racing/hunting chocobos in the Shroud. 

Iris Menuisier (Iris) - sardonic Wildwood bathhouse attendant at The Pools in the Goblet (and former coworker of Zhah'ra’s). 

Mama Dee (Dee) - former leader of a miqo'te dance troupe in Ul'dah (and mentor to a young Zhah'ra), now retired and married to T'arik Tia, a wealthy ex-adventurer. Maintains that she is from Thavnair. (In-game name: N'dezhda Lev)

Zalera Characters

Maparhi Savaptha (Maparhi) - newly-invested Hearer at Stillglade Fane. Cousin to Zhah'ra.

Pash'a Khoroushi (Pasha) - former Imperial conscript from the East End. Previously stationed in northwestern Ilsabard; current fate unknown.

Firn Sjararstrok (Firn) - Veena spear-hunter, currently at loose ends in Revenant's Toll.

[amiablesummer]

romantisised asks challenge

hello to everyone, but particularly @stingrayextraordinaire who tagged me in this big but interesting challenge. Thank you so much! here we go…

1. if you were to have Hanahaki disease, what flowers would you cough up?

i'm gonna say blue hydrangeas

2. if someone were to catch Hanahaki disease for you, what flowers would they cough up?

pink roses or camellias

3. if you were any historic trope, what would you be? (i.e., the knight, the town baker, the witch of the forest, etc.)

I think I'd be the scribe writing down what heroic or ordinary deeds everyone else does. Ink on my hands, messy scribble, that's very me. Shut up in a room writing the past down, probably killed by the Vikings - at least i'd be remembered by the future readers of the scroll.

4. tell us about your ideal battle outfit.

i would definitely be wearing trousers. some cosy fitting armour, too, like Zoya’s dragon scale armour in Rule of Wolves that’s more like a second skin. nice and silver so it can catch the light. also with a cool cape like Eowyn’s in the Return of the King, an earthy tone, good for camaflaging. 

5. what would you be a goddess of and what would people sacrifice to you?

I would be a goddess of memory and nostalgia because that’s a big muse to me. People would probably sacrifice their childhood toys or clothes they don’t need to keep anymore. or maybe particularly bad memories.

6. name five iconic quotes that make you feel things.

“It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer.” - Sam in the Two Towers movie

“The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant.” - Doctor Who, Vincent and the Doctor

"...We become like that on which our hearts are fixed. Whenever you go out of doors, draw the chin in, carry the crown of the head high. We are gods in the chrysalis.” — Elbert Hubbard, quoted in How To Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie

“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” - Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

"In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.” - Albert Camus

7. scythe, battle axe, broad sword, spear, or trident?

broad sword

8. what combination of natural scents would you use as perfume?

rosewood, gardenia and musk 

9. ancient scrolls or leather-bound books?

Leather-bound books

10. describe yourself as if you were a storm.

a summery storm, the kind that’s not loud but just consistent, rumbling across the sky all day and night as you lie comfortable in bed, romanticising it from a distance. the kind of storm that brings the enlivening, miracle rain that makes the crops grow and people smile. if you’re right in the centre of it, you know it best, and you can see the warm light shining on the rain out your window.

11. what type of flower (other than a rose) would you offer someone you were trying to court?

baby’s breath are beautiful, paired with golden wattle. 

12. honey in milk or cinnamon in tea?

cinnamon in tea

13. cabin in the woods, apartment in the city, or mansion in the suburbs?

i wouldn't mind a mansion for a day, but cabin the woods sounds the most cosy. i don't much like cities.

14. curtains of beads or lace?

nice white lace

15. vocal or instrumental music?

instrumental while writing and reading, vocal for chores and travelling.

16. describe your ideal fantasy outfit.

i like dressing up in 1850s style middle-class skirts, with pantaloons and boots, that you can pick up the edges of and it trails behind you. with a pretty blouse and a hooded cloak, I would run around doing cottagecore errands all day. 

17. of all the fantasy races to ever exist, which one would you be?

whatever race that talking cats are part of, i’d like to be one of those. or quite possibly a hobbit.

18. hard candy, fruit preserves, or spice cake?

hard candy, i have a sweet tooth

19. show us a picture of your ideal crown.

20. tying your hair up using ribbon, yay or nay?

yes. channeling Zoya Nazyalensky with a dark blue velvet ribbon. However i seem to always need a hairtie underneath it to hold my hair.

21. an evening in the forest with elves, a night in the caves with vampires, or a morning in the garden with fae?

An evening in the forest with elves, like in the Fellowship of the Ring.

22. tell us, in detail, about a curse a witch would put on you.

It would be a curse of being separated from others. Loss is my worst fear. being invisible, perhaps, from the people in my life, or stuck in a tower alone. I do not like isolation. it would make me have to face the parts of myself that I don’t like, and i would have to be independent, not having someone to lean on or able to live in the background of their life. I would have to make my own life, and that terrifies me. it would hopefully make me end up much more confident, if a little insane. 

23. talking with sylphs or singing with nymphs?

Singing with nymphs. singing is fun

24. mint, rosemary, basil, or sage?

I love rosemary. mint tastes nice. Basil is good in bolognese, and sage is a pretty colour. But rosemary is the best. 

25. favorite childhood story? (doesn’t have to be a fairy tale)

A lot!! As a little girl my favourite fairy tales were Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty (aka the Disney movies). But my absolute favourite story was Robin Hood. I used to pretend to be him with a hat and everything, being the fox in the movie. I was haunted by The Nutcracker from seven years old. I cried over The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Anderson. I also remember loving Dick Wittington and His Cat.  My dad used to read me the Rainbow Magic books, and Milly-Molly-Mandy. As an older kid my favourites were Harry Potter, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. 

26. tell us about an experience you’ve had that seemed unreal or supernatural. (doesn’t have to be scary)

when i was a kid there was this book i was really scared of, about kids who go into one of those big water tanks and feel something in there in the dark that is uncanny. When I remembered the book, I kept seeing the water tank that's in my town - Every time I looked at the horizon there it was. Not scary as much as haunting. I found the book recently when I was at a spooky read-in at my cousin’s school. The weird thing was I had just been saying that we should read it. It turns up right when I’m thinking of it, that deep dark water. I have nightmares about the water too.  

27. would you rather have poison or healing ointment in your traveling pack?

I’d say healing ointment because I like to think I’m a good person, but also because there’s other ways you could harm people whereas there's not many that you could heal them with. 

28. tell us three sayings that you live by.

just take one step at a time.

where there's life, there's hope.

knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom. (Aristotle) 

29. vials or mason jars?

Mason jars because they can fit a lot of useful things in them. 

30. describe your ideal masquerade ball outfit (mask included).

It would have to be red… I don’t get to wear red often. Long flowy sleeves that I could swish around when holding the mask stick up - it would be a mask with pointy edges and feathers. Maybe embroidered with animal designs. The skirt would have those sewn on too, with dark red undertones, almost purple. It would have lots of sequins, but not too heavy, and big enough to twirl in. I’d curl my hair and have jewels in it too. I’d like to be classy. 

31. splashing around in a river with mermaids or flying through the sky with harpies?

Splashing in a river with mermaids

32. what would you end up in the dungeon for?

Not doing things on time, or forgetting something important; i am chronically late. Or going against the status quo, if this is a totalitarian society - I hate following the masses. 

33. if you were a fairy, what color would your wings be?

i do love pink and green, but some gold in there would look lovely too. and pale blue. 

34. if you could have any magical item, what would it be?

This is really hard, but I’ve always wanted a bag like Mary Poppins’ or Hermione’s which is bigger on the inside. An actual TARDIS would be cool, but I like the thought of being able to fit a library and an art gallery into a portable thing. I do also want a time machine though. Or a portal. Or a fortune-telling mirror/bowl. 

35. what song would the bards sing about you when you passed by?

A mixture of the vibes of Bleeding Heart by Regina Spektor, Hand in my Pocket by Alanis Morisette, and These Days by Powderfinger. that's super specific, so otherwise just something about hopeless romanticism...

36. would you rather be a pirate or a king/queen?

If you’re Nikolai Lantsov, you can do both. As for me, a pirate because it would be much more fun - I’m not one for politics. I’d have to be less squeamish though. 

37. would you spend more time in the field of flowers, the tavern, the docks, or the marketplace?

I would lie in the field of flowers drawing all day. If I had to work, I’d choose the marketplace. And the docks for an evening stroll. 

38. would you have a painting of yourself?

yes if it was very particularly done, like in an impressionist style or something really personal.

39. what skill are you famous for?

Remembering dates, like birthdays, details from things that happened a long time ago, and random fun facts. 

40. if you could live any fairy tale, which one would you?

The best aesthetic goes to “East of the Sun, West of the Moon” but I would also like to be friends with Puss-in-Boots.

41. stained glass windows or fairy lights?

Stained glass windows 

42. what kind of snow globe would you live inside?

One with one of those pretty Christmas cabins and a big tree, and snow on the ground, maybe with some animals like a deer, a fox or some bunnies, and a bonfire (with snow on it...)

43. what animal would you be reincarnated as?

A domestic cat who sleeps in the sun all day, preferably in a bookshop. 

44. lost at sea or lost in space?

lost at sea, but with a boat. I’m scared of the sea, but space is so much worse - at least someone could come rescue you in the sea.

45. if you could have a scar in any shape, what would it be?

i think a heart shape would be very cute. 

46. what celestial body would you write a hymn to?

The Moon has that celestial elegance, and I would give anything to be able to go there for a day or two. It has that lonely, feminine, mystery about it... But also Saturn because I have always admired its rings. 

47. describe a potion you would brew, complete with ingredients and desired effect.

i would want to make a potion to create calmness that could help anxiety, so I would use some lemon balm, some lavender which would also make it smell nice, and chamomile. to be a real fantasy potion brewer i’d probably add some rose petals and moondust and mix it together with cocoa powder because it’s tasty and, of course, vanilla essence. that probably makes no sense but hey, i made it up.

48. flying ship or underwater home?

flying ship. i like flying and i think someone totally needs to invent a boat-like cruise airship that’s not as dangerous as a blimp, for me to relax in. and the sky isn’t as scary as the ocean. 

49. if you were a nature spirit, what season would you dwell in?

Summer, as per my url. I would sleep outside and walk on the beach, and blow the cool change breeze in the evening. very nostalgic.

50. if you could haunt any place as a ghost, what would it be?

I want to be amusing and say my old school, since it is very ghost-populated. it would be fun to turn the lights off every so often. But I would have to choose the old but pretty cafe that I live near, which used to be the gatehouse for the cemetery. It has a really lovely feel to it and it could do with an eerie presence, since it is in the cemetery. 

i don't know if anyone else loves fantasy but if anyone wants to do some or all of these questions please go ahead <3 <3 <3 @anouri @mourningintodancing @peachtreesinblossom @tunisian @l0velyjewel @unhingedballad

[squatch-and-stretch]

(Un)happy Reunion

Ford Pines & Stan Pines & Fiddleford McGucket | 7,138 words | Mystery Trio Through the Multiverse AU

Fiddleford reunites with Stanford and meets Stanley after 6 months alone in a post-apocalyptic city in some other dimension.

Chapter 1

see notes for future chapters!

If Fiddleford had to describe this world he’s spent the past 6 months in in a single word, he’d probably choose terrible. Other descriptors such as strange, horrible, post-apocalyptic, and dangerous also come to mind. Lately, though, he’s been putting a lot of thought into the word lonely.

There were intelligent species here, once. It’s clear in the almost-familiar design of this destroyed city, in the tattered books written in a language Fiddleford can’t make any sense of, in every little item he comes across. He even has an idea of what they looked like— he’s seen their art, their pictures, their mangled bodies— and Fiddleford has to wonder if Bill understood the cruel irony of sending him to a world that was once inhabited by pig people.

He wonders, sometimes, if he could have found a way to communicate with them, if any of them were left. Would his throat have been able to form the words of their language, or theirs his? Would they have tried to help him? Just being around another living creature that didn’t try to kill him on sight would be pretty nice right now.

Unfortunately, that’s never been what this planet has in store for him, and when he hears something move nearby, he knows it’s a threat.

It must be in the next alleyway, and it’s fairly big— most of the monsters Bill left here are. Fiddleford goes still, staring in the direction of the alleyway and listening for any other sign of movement. It’s quiet for a moment, until Fiddleford hears a loud crash and what sounds like hushed murmuring. So many things have sounded like human voices lately that he doesn’t put any stock into it, just dips into the nearest alleyway in an attempt to escape whatever is making that noise before it even knows he’s here.

It’s an attempt that fails immediately, as he crashes into a pile of shredded metal like an idiot. It slices through the worn fabric of his pants, but as far as he can tell it doesn’t reach skin. It does, however, make a very loud noise, and the not-voices go quiet.

“Son of a gun,” he allows himself to hiss, and he takes off down the alleyway without any further regard to the sound he’s making.

Something steps out in front of him, blocking his way. It’s taller than the previous inhabitants of this planet, but smaller than most of the monsters he’s encountered. It’s built a lot like a person, and not a particularly imposing one at that, so Fiddleford doesn’t slow his roll for a moment. He fishes a knife out of the tattered pocket of his lab coat, and slams his shoulder into the beast.

It cries out, still sounding a heck of a lot like a person as it hits the ground, breaking Fiddleford’s fall. He presses the knife to what should be its throat, and is almost surprised to find smooth, human-looking skin beneath his blade. It’s a familiar shade, even, and Fiddleford can’t help but let his eyes wander further up to its face—

“Stanford?” Fiddleford spits, downright baffled to see his big brown eyes looking up at him.

Stanford opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Fiddleford is being hauled off of him. Something has grabbed the back of his scarf and pulled it tight, tight enough that Fiddleford gags against the construction, tight enough that he’s reminded of Bill’s hand around him, crushing the breath from his lungs, and suddenly he’s being slammed against the brick wall of the alleyway and crushed between Bill’s uncaring fingers and—

“Stanley!”

That’s Stanford’s voice, he’d recognize it anywhere, but how is he here?

“Who the fuck—“

A voice, closer than Stanford’s, unfamiliar but definitely not Bill. It’s a person that’s holding him, and even if he’s struggling to breathe against the arm pressed to his throat, he can deal with a person.

Fiddleford kicks out, slamming his knee between the legs of his assailant.

“Son of a—!” he shouts, but he lets go of Fiddleford to stumble back.

“Stop! Stanley, this is Fiddleford! He’s the reason we’re here!” Stanford says, inserting himself between the two of them. “Well, he’s the reason I wanted to be here. You’re the reason you’re here and we don’t know how to get back.”

Yep, that insufferable holier-than-thou tone is definitely Stanford.

“I’m the reason you’re here?” Fiddleford chokes, rubbing his throat as he tries to regain his bearings. “It’s your fault I’m here!”

“I know that!” Stanford says, turning to Fiddleford.

Stanford looks about the same as he left him, beyond the dark circles under his eyes. Fiddleford knows the same can’t be said about himself.

“Listen, Fiddleford, I—“

“Save it, Stanford,” Fiddleford snaps, shaking his head as he turns towards the other man in the alleyway. “You must be Stanley?”

When Fiddleford first heard about Stanford’s twin, he imagined a carbon copy of his then-roommate. Stanley is not that. They’re nearly identical in the shapes of their faces, the texture and shade of their hair, the slope and color of their eyes, but the similarities end there. Put simply, Stanley looks like shit, with long, tangled hair, an unshaven face, and dark circles to rival Stanford’s, all wrapped up in a ratty jacket over an even rattier shirt. Even the way he holds himself is worrying, the way he’s hunched in on himself like a coiled spring, turned to the side like he’s keeping something just out of sight, eyes weary, teeth grit.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Stanley grumbles, and he draws himself even tighter. Even in conversation he’s locked on the defensive, and with the brief glimpse of an interaction between him and Stanford, Fiddleford can’t say he blames him.

“Nice ta meet ya, Stanley. I’d offer to shake your hand, but mine seems to be missin’,” Fiddleford greets. “Well, not missin’ exactly, I know where it is, but it ain’t doin’ me much good inside the stomach of some rottin’ monster.”

“Your arm!” Stanford exclaims belatedly.

He grabs for Fiddleford’s shoulder, but Fiddleford quickly smacks his hand away, a shudder running through his body at the phantom sensation of someone grabbing at what remains of his arm. He steps away, eyeing Ford wearily, almost expecting him to try again.

He doesn’t. He brings his hand back, tucking it to his chest for just a moment, hurt in his eyes. After a moment, he clears his throat, straightens up, and tucks his hands behind his back.

“I take it that’s a new development?” Stanley says, watching Fiddleford carefully. The matching scrutinizing gazes of both twins sets Fiddleford even further on edge.

“I would never have allowed such grievous injury to come to him under my care!” Stanford huffs, glaring at Stanley.

Fiddleford barks out a laugh, shaking his head.

“And who’s god-forsaken vanity project brought me here, Stanford?”

“Easy, Fiddlesticks,” Stanley cuts in before Stanford can respond. “None of us are happy to be here, but he—“

Fiddleford raises his hand. “Shut yer yap.”

“Okay, rude—“

“I mean it, don’t ya hear that?” Fiddleford hisses. It’s barely audible, not like Stanford and Stanley’s rustling in a nearby alleyway. Something is moving through the main streets.

“I don’t hear shit, except some hillbilly interrupting me wh—“

“I hear it,” Stanford says, and Stanley throws his arms up in frustration.

Click-click, drag, click-click, click-click. Three functional limbs, one dragging along, moving at a gradual, unhurried pace. The time between each step suggests a step length of perhaps a meter. It’s large, too large for Fiddleford to deal with without his arm, but likely small enough to fit into this alleyway. Stanley seems pretty tough, and Stanford had somehow held his own for 6 years in Gravity Falls despite its many dangers, but he wasn’t about to trust either of them in a fight against whatever unknown beast was approaching.

“It’s coming from—“ Stanford whispers, and despite the low volume, Fiddleford cringes at the sound.

“I know,” Fiddleford snips quietly, “follow me.”

Fiddleford doesn’t bother to check if either of them listened— Stanford reacts well to confidence, and with any luck, Stanley would as well— before he’s slinking out of the alleyway, carefully watching his step this time.

“Come on, dumbass,” Stanley hisses, and Fiddleford spares them a glance. Both have moved to follow, but Stanford is hesitating, looking behind him even as Stanley grabs his arm and pulls him along behind him.

“I just want a look—“ Stanford mumbles, shaking Stanley’s hand off.

“This ain’t Gravity Falls, Stanford, an’ I won’t hesitate to leave you ‘n’ your brother for mincemeat if you don’t hurry yer asses up!”

Stanford immediately turns towards Fiddleford, eyes wide, mouth parted in shock. Fiddleford glares at him, lets him truly believe he means it (Fiddleford knows he wouldn’t leave Stanford or his brother, damn him) before he turns back around and continues on the way. This time, Stanford and Stanley follow without any further prompting, though Fiddleford hears what sounds like an amused snort from Stanley at Stanford’s sudden obedience.

[silverlistenstothings]

-For your kiss thing-

Oakworthy kiss out of pride. >:)

42. Out of pride

“Normal!” Hero shouts as soon as she opens the door, loud enough for Hermie to flinch back. “Your boygirlfriend is here!”

“Hello to you too, Hero,” Hermie greets politely. “Normal is….?”

“Taking a shower, for the first time in months, on the one day he has someone coming over,” Hero says, rolling her eyes.

As if perfectly on cue, a noise that Hermie hadn’t registered as the upstairs plumbing goes quiet.

“Is that so…” Hermie muses, any frustration about being left on the doorstep fading to flattery.

Hero looks them over, and reluctantly steps out of the doorway to let them inside.

“He’s gonna be bad company,” Hero warns. “It ruins his whole day, he hates it.”

“I know,” Hermie sighs, a bit concerned. “I don’t mind.”

“Ew,” Hero says, turning and retreating up the stairs. Hermie listens to her bang against the walls, yelling at Normal to hurry up.

Hermie toes off their shoes in the doorway and takes a seat on the couch. There’s the frantic slap of wet feet against the hardwood floor upstairs, an annoyed exclamation from Hero, and then a few seconds of silence before Normal is rushing downstairs.

“Hermie!” Normal exclaims, looking wet and anxious and miserable. “I’m so sorry!”

He’s wearing a loose teeshirt- wet around the collar from his still-dripping hair- and basketball shorts, backwards and clearly put on in a rush.

“No need,” Hermie says, standing up and meeting Normal halfway. Normal pulls away when Hermie opens their arms for a hug. Hermie takes a step back.

“Sorry- sorry-“ Normal says, clenching his hands into tight fists and tapping them against his thighs. “I just-“

Hermie looks him over carefully. He’s shaking a little, flinching each time a drop of water hits his shoulders. His arms are folded tightly around his chest. He looks like a bedraggled stray dog.

“It’s fine. I understand,” Hermie says, even though they don’t. Still, they know ‘miserable and overstimulated and maybe dysphoric’ when they see it. “Let’s go back up to your room.”

“Ok…” Normal says, nodding and looking up at Hermie with big, wet eyes. Hermie barely manages to resist placing a hand on his back to guide him up the stairs.

They return to Normal’s room, which is in an unusual state of disarray. The disarray itself isn’t unusual, of course, his room is always a mess, but it looks like an attempt was made at cleaning and organization, and then abandoned halfway through.

“Sorry,” Normal apologizes once again, sitting down on his bed like a scolded dog.

Hermie clicks their tongue dismissively, shaking their head.

“Nothing I’m not used to,” they say, and Normal curls up on himself further. Quickly, they continue, “I mean, you’ve seen my own room.”

Normal’s shoulders loosen a bit.

“Yeah… um…” he trails off. Hermie waits a few moments to see if he wants to continue, but he doesn’t.

“Talk to me, Normal,” Hermie says patiently, sitting down beside him.

“I hate showers,” Normal burst out, as if waiting to be prompted. “I hate seeing myself naked, I hate the cold and drippy, I hate how dry and itchy I feel afterwards, I hate that it’s so fucking hard for me when everyone else can just- just do it!”

“Ok,” Hermie says, rolling that over in their mind. “Let’s start by getting you dried off.”

“You don’t need to-“

“I know I don’t, but you are my dear partner and it is no trouble for me to take care of you when you’re struggling.”

“I shouldn’t be struggling,” Normal says angrily, shaking his head and wincing when water splatters across the room. “I shouldn’t be-“

“But you are. You’re having a hard time and I’m going to help you.” Hermie makes a half-move towards standing up to go gather a towel, before pausing. “Don’t you have a plethora of water-based spells? Could you, perhaps, use one of them to dry yourself off?”

“I don’t think that’s…” Normal trails off, and then pauses.

He runs a faintly glowing hand through his hair, and the moisture collects into a fine fog around his head before dissipating. He tangles a lock of hair around his finger and lights up when he finds it dry.

“Hermie! You’re a genius!” He exclaims, throwing his arms around their shoulders and giving them a tight hug.

Hermie hugs him back, running their fingers through his hair and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m proud of you,” they say as they pull back, and Normal looks baffled.

“For- what?”

“For taking care of yourself even if it’s hard,” Hermie says, brushing his now-dry hair back to press another kiss to his forehead. “I’m proud of you.”

“It shouldn’t be- you shouldn’t be-“

“But it is,” Hermie says, putting their arms around his shoulders and meeting his eyes. “And I am.”

[moondust-bard]

Word Search Tag Game 🔎

I was tagged by @scribe-of-stories to participate, so thank you to them!

Puzzle

Mordelia frowns. She must remember to to devote more energy toward solving the puzzle that was her newest stepmother.

— Mordelia’s PoV, The Bloody Divine

Stone

The clang of metal on metal rings from the direction of the southern courtyard, stopping me short. Arms wrapped firmly around a clay jug of half-rotted leavings from last night’s dinner, I pause behind a pillar to listen. Leda pauses as well, her eyes darting up and down the breezeway, scanning for higher-ranking servants or self-important hangers-on who might chastise her for her idleness. She adjusts her grip on her own jug of roughage, propping it against her wide hip to free one of her hands. Leda gestures me onward, her eyes searching—always searching—for trouble.

I give my head a shake. I haven’t touched a weapon in months. The rhythm of the hunt—even if pounded out by the empire’s favored brutish, flashy swords— awakens my blood and quickens my heart. Leda opens her mouth—to protest, no doubt—but I cut her off with a glare and a dismissive wave. If she’s so afraid, she can carry on alone. I’m staying.

Pulse booming in my ears, I gently lower the jug to the stone walkway. I rise on cat-soft feet to press my back flush against the nearest column— the only obstacle dividing me from the courtyard’s inhabitants.

“All those war games do you no favors, brother,” teases a softly raspy feminine voice. A snort—presumably from the speaker’s combatant— is the only reply. “Perhaps our father should hear of your…newfound proclivities, if they’ve got you distracted enough to neglect your training.”

“Don’t bait me, Valeria,” the second voice— male, clearly— scoffs, haughty and dismissive. “Don’t you know better by now?” A sharp crash of metal on stone sends birds fleeing from the fruit-laden orange trees edging the left of the courtyard. An enraged masculine snarl and backward shuffle of feet quickly follow.

— Wynifer’s PoV, Lost Souls’ Night Saga

Cold

Tendrils of purest darkness stretch from beneath his snowy skin like streamers in a ghostly wind, straining toward her. He binds her to the altar with them, the sooty threads snaking up her arms and legs. sinking their teeth in, reminding her vaguely of a physician’s ravenous leeches growing swollen on her blood. She doesn’t bother to resist or struggle. This is all she craves now: the cold kiss of his shadows against her skin and his blazing, triumphant eyes on her alone.

— Evanor’s PoV, The Bloody Divine

Twilight

Twilight blooms above them, painting the circular room in silver light and smoky shadow. Vivaine and her sisters gape at their Lady Moon’s ethereal glow in awe.

— Vivaine’s PoV, The Bloody Divine

Relief

She rages long into the night and well past morning’s dawning, until his very existence fades from her memory, until not a remnant remains of the father she was taught all her life to fear and distrust. She weeps for him and for herself, for her people spread far and wide across her family’s poisoned lands, for the wives and unborn sons sacrificed to appease his fanatical thirst for an heir. But mostly Mordelia weeps for herself, her tears pouring out in relief at the weight lifted free from her shoulders that, for far too long, bent under the burden of his ruthless disapproval and cool disregard. Her father is dead, gone from this world—and his sole daughter, his true heir, is glad.

— Mordelia’s PoV, The bloody Divine

I am tagging the following writing blogs:

@ellesliterarycorner

@mjjune

@harinawa

@sentfromwolves

@littlepatchofhell

your words are:

abandon, music, moon, triumph, and winter.

Please tag me in your responses! Can’t wait to see what you find.

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

BTHB - Going Into Shock

Malik does a little arts and crafts project and makes a self discovery along the way (:

Finally I've had the time to finish this stupid fic. The irony that it took me twice as long to finish a WIP that's almost half the amount I usually write is not lost on me...

As always, if there’s a tag I missed or anything you’d like me to specifically mark, please let me know so I can add it for future fics!

Taglist : @whumpsday @painsandconfusion @suspicious-whumping-egg @t0rture-me

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CW: Graphic depictions of blood, Cutting (Of Another Person), Mentions of Self Harm/Suicide, Creepy/Intimate Whumper

Word Count: 5.2K

--

There was something satisfying to Malik in the way his and Jonas’s names were complementary to each other. Five letters, two syllables, alternating between consonants and vowels in a pattern. When Malik’s name was written in all capital letters, it was made up of sharp angles and long lines. When Jonas’s name was written in lowercase, all the letters curved into soft, round shapes. His name could loop over itself a dozen times when written in cursive whereas Malik’s still remained uniform with straight peaks, much more orderly and neat. The name Jonas was more fun to scribble with the flick of the wrist, but the name Malik was easier to scribe with simple marks.

Therefore, it made sense that it should be Malik’s name he cut into the quivering flesh of Jonas’s forearm. Tempting as it was to sit here with the pretty boy squirming in his lap while he tried to finesse his blade into carving neat curves, there was too much room for error to mess up the calligraphy. Skin was a soft, fickle organ that liked to split into large gashes if the angle of the knife was too bent. One tight curvature could accidentally dig deeper into the fatty layer,  creating an unsightly flap of skin dangling off the appendage rather than a perfect loop. Jonas’s name was very lovely, but it wouldn’t do to mar his body with failed attempts at lettering, not when Malik could write his own name perfectly on the first try.

And really, what better way to remind Jonas of who he belonged to than the elegant marking of his captor’s name taking up a majority of his forearm? To remind everyone, honestly, both in public and post mortem if it came to that. Thin, silver scars surrounded by colorful bruises on tan skin, what a pretty visual. A wound that could heal from a series of bloody cuts to dark scabs to discolored skin, but never truly fading the same way split lips and fracture digits could heal themselves. Jonas would carry Malik’s name with him forever whether he made it out of this basement or not, unable to forget him for a second unless he willingly amputated the whole arm to no longer see the reminder. 

The idea of Jonas mutilating himself to such an intense degree gave Malik butterflies in his stomach.

He hadn’t even been intending on branding the poor boy with his name when he originally began carving into Jonas’s battered skin. For some reason, Malik had woken up with the innate desire of making the other bleed, so that was exactly what he did. He wanted to see Jonas drenched in blood, be it his own or splashed with someone else’s. He wanted to see thick, dark beads of red running down his neck and steadily dripping from his fingertips. He wanted to see old and new injuries hidden behind a thin layer of gore. He wanted to see gorgeous green eyes running over with tears to cut through the sticky stains on gaunt cheeks. Red and green were perfect complementary colors as well, weren’t they?

Unfortunately, he didn’t have any spare ‘actors’ at the moment to siphon a couple buckets of blood from to paint Jonas himself. Double unfortunately, the amount of red he wanted to bleed from Jonas would most certainly kill him. While that wouldn’t be too horrible of a thing to watch, Malik was still under verbal contract with Tucker to keep the Belmont boy alive until the ransom deadline was up…whenever that was. As much as he would love to hold tight to his writhing form while the life slowly drained from a multitude of bone deep cuts, Jonas needed to remain breathing and (mostly) in one piece. For now. So, Malik had to make do with what he had available to him: a pretty boy, a hunting knife, and two slender arms begging to be littered with superficial slices. 

He couldn’t go too deep with his cuts and risk nicking a major artery, yet Malik wanted to make sure the skin had been sufficiently hacked so the wound healed with a lovely pale scar. Many years ago, when Malik was only allowed to photograph the cadavers brought into the backrooms of his father’s funeral home, he asked about a woman that was being prepared on the table with wicked gashes down her arms. There were telltale signs of old, pink cuts going horizontally over her wrists, but the long, inch deep slash from her elbow to her palm on each arm were what was listed as her official cause of death. His father, ever so eager to teach his son the studies of mortuary, explained that by cutting straight down she was able to dig into the main vein in such a way it would be extremely difficult to stop the bleeding, similar to when someone had their throat slit.

That was when Malik learned the intricacies of cutting. The difference between truly wanting to bleed to death and just wanted to bleed as some form of release, be it pleasure or pain. It was down the road, not across the street, he memorized. Cuts going side to side in short, light strokes could still bleed in varying degrees, enough to satisfy his craving to drain a person a couple pints without worrying about stopping their heart. It wasn’t just the blood he had a morbid fascination with, but the reactions people had about having their skin peeled and sliced when they weren’t intending to self harm. The way the muscles and tendons tensed, causing more blood to well out of the cuts. The way they struggled in whatever bindings Malik had them strung up in. The tears, the whimpers, the screams, all for something that could be patched up with some gauze, maybe a stitch or two.

God, it was killing him not to stab the knife into Jonas’s shoulder and drag the blade all the way down his arm to the tip of his middle finger, scraping against bone and severing as many vessels as possible along the way. To flay the entire limb and watch the blood squirt from his ruined wrist like a grisly fountain, red raining down in a puddle onto the floor to bleed him dry in a matter of minutes. Malik wanted to hold the boy close the entire time and revel at the progression from thrashing to weak squirms to limp to stiff. From hot to cool to frigid. From wet to sticky to dry, crusty red flakes. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t an animal, he could restrain himself just fine from the visceral urge to mutilate Jonas for overwhelming pleasure. 

As soon as that deadline was missed, though, Malik was diving straight into his pretty little intestines with his bare hands.

Jonas arched his back against Malik’s chest, unhappy with the close proximity that came from being forcibly situated between his legs on the floor. Or maybe he was unhappy with the fresh collections of cuts now decorating his right forearm. Really, Jonas should be thankful Malik was kind enough to snap off the zipties on his wrists for any extended period of time, even if one arm was trapped between Malik’s bicep and side while the other was firmly grasped in his free hand. The arm was fully extended to reveal his skinny canvas of tan and mottled purple skin, the flesh twitching as the rest of Jonas trembled and broke into a cold sweat. Six slices of varying angles presented themselves in neat little lines, weeping beads of blood that trickled over the curve of his arm to drip onto Malik’s jeans. 

Sure, it wasn’t the bloodbath he was craving to submerge Jonas in, but it still made his heart beat with excitement hearing the boy mewl through the duct tape over his mouth. Bony limbs tried to wriggle out of Malik’s hold to avoid any more wounds, thin legs still bound with rope kicking against his boots. The way Jonas’s head lolled back onto his shoulder, inadvertently pressing into the crook of his neck felt wonderfully intimate. Warm tears sliding over his cheekbones to soak into Malik’s sweater was an additional bonus, of course. He was panting hard, unable to fall victim to full hyperventilating as he could only puff air through his nose. While Malik was a fan of all the noises that have ever spilled out of his mouth, but he really didn’t need Jonas hollering at the top of his lungs right in his ear. It was a shame; it meant he also had to silence all of his endearing sobs and pleas with a gag. 

Malik had just finished another line across the poor boy’s wrist when he noticed an interesting pattern in the cuts. Because some of them were slanted while others were straight, it almost looked like a blocky ‘M’ had been written in blood. How fitting. If he focused on different cut placements, one almost looked like an ‘A’, though it was missing its middle dash. At that moment, it was as if a lightbulb went off in his twisted mind. What a fun way to keep this game going, making Jonas wriggle and bleed for his amusement. Making Jonas bleed for him. He had always been Malik’s current favorite, he openly admitted as much, it would do good to solidify that statement. Bruises and bloody noses could heal, though maybe not the missing pinky finger, but this would be a claim to last for the rest of Jonas’s life. Whether that meant another miserable sixty years of living or until next Wednesday didn’t matter much to Malik.

He released his iron grip on Jonas’s thin wrist, much to his relief. The bloody limb dropped to his side, red smearing on his nightshirt and against Malik’s thigh. It was impossible to miss how the entire arm was shaking, as if it was a seizure isolated to one area of the body. Intriguing how even after having his finger amputated for a ransom reminder, after taking so many kicks to the ribs and stomach, after being (accidentally) starved and smacked and strangled, Jonas still had quite a low pain tolerance. Was he hemophobic, Malik wondered? Surely not, the Belmont heir had seen plenty of viscera when Malik needed to keep him near whilst doing his…work. Maybe it was different seeing someone else’s blood compared to your own, to know it was oneself bleeding and in pain. Malik hadn’t even cut that deep, he made sure he wouldn’t mistakenly let Jonas bleed out in his lap! Still, the boy was moaning and trembling like he had ripped the artery out and showed it to him. 

So dramatic. He hoped he would continue to put on this cute little show when he cut up his other arm. 

Duct taped muffled the strangled yelp of pain when Malik swapped his hold on his arms, switching to extend the fresh one while sandwiching the still bleeding one against his body. He could feel the warmth of blood prickling his side, the fabric of his sweater irritating the open wounds enough to make Jonas whimper on contact. Poor thing kept instinctively trying to yank his arm out of the hold, worsening the stinging pain with each unsuccessful tug. When Malik flipped the unmarked arm around into the same position as before, Jonas shook his head in an attempt to convey the pleads trapped behind his gag. He didn’t want to go through this again. He didn’t want to feel the bite of the hunting knife digging into his already tenderized flesh. New tears cascaded down his paling cheeks, unable to do much else. If it weren’t for the duct tape on Jonas’s mouth and the bandana on the lower half of Malik’s face, the older man wouldn’t be able to stop himself from locking their lips together to steal every last pretty sob from his lungs.

“What’s wrong, lover?” Malik crooned, knowing full well that Jonas wouldn’t be able to respond to his rhetorical question. “Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?”

Jonas nodded like he was trying to break his own neck. Curls matted with crusted blood and damp with sweat nuzzled against his covered jawline. They had felt so soft when Jonas first arrived. Malik loved threading his fingers through the chocolate brown locks to yank him up to eye level. He should hose him down some time in the near future to clean off the build up of grime and gore, revealing once again clean, soft skin and fluffy curls. Almost like a fresh canvas. If said canvas had already been slashed with a palette knife and stained with colors of purple and red. Maybe he should bring Jonas upstairs to let him use the employee shower with Malik, or maybe he should just dunk his head under water in a basin. Depends on his mood.

He hummed, the vibration of his voice echoing through his chest and against Jonas’s back. The way he shifted uncomfortably from the sensation, unintentionally nestling further between Malik’s legs, made the other tighten his hold on the fragile wrist. God, it would be so painfully easy to snap the joint backwards. Jonas would probably scream, perhaps even vomit. He was so pretty when he was heaving bile and blood and spit. Damnit, Malik should have set up his camera to record this whole ordeal to watch back later. Oh well, there would be plenty more opportunities to make Jonas squeal for his amusement. Like in the Red Room. Just imagining Jonas strapped to the gurney, helplessly staring up at Malik with those terrified green eyes, trembling lower lip begging to be bitten and bruised skin quivering under Malik’s hands while he sings such pretty pleads.

Can’t get too ahead of himself. Need to focus on the task at hand.

Malik twirled the handle of the hunting knife between his fingers before adjusting his grip, pressing the tip into Jonas’s forearm just a bit past the inner elbow. “You know what they say: suck it up, buttercup.”

Unfortunately for Jonas, there was hardly anything he could suck up with his airways being restricted to his nostrils. The duct tape across his mouth tried to expand and contract with each failed gasp, creating the faux sense of suffocation as Jonas wasn’t able to hold onto a full inhale. His adam’s apple bobbed with each silenced cry, kicking his bound legs with renewed vigor while Malik carved the first of many lines needed to spell his name. The kicks were weak, barely nudging his boots to the side, stifled by weeks of depleted energy and ankles bound like a fish tail. It was cute in a way, to watch Jonas struggle with all his limited might while Malik didn’t break a sweat to keep him securely in his embrace. They just fit so perfectly together, the boy’s lithe frame easily swallowed up by his larger, stronger form. So perfect perfect perfect–

The moan of pain caught in Jonas’s throat when Malik finished carving the last line of the ‘A’ would have made a lesser man blush. Such sweet sounds whimpered by a pretty boy. If his hands weren’t preoccupied with marking his claim, he’d love to squeeze them around the Belmont heir’s abused windpipe, adding to the collection of finger shaped bruises, feeling the pulse flutter against his palm while more whines vibrated into his skin. Maybe later. Right now, Malik was focusing on the delicate work of his bold calligraphy, keeping his lines as straight and even as possible. No sense in making it look like chicken scratch. He wanted it to be clear and legible.

When Malik dug the blade down the forearm to finish the tail of the ‘L’, Jonas howled as much as he was physically capable of. While the cut itself was nowhere near as long or deep as the typical wounds needed to end a life, it must have still hit the same bundle of nerves to cause such an immediate reaction. The slash welled up with dark droplets of blood faster than the other slices that were only now beginning to trickle down the curve of Jonas’s arm. This time, that arm that had already been subjected to a cutting session reached up to paw at Malik’s bicep in a panic. Four remaining digits uselessly dug into his sweater’s sleeve, trying to pull the offending limb away from how it coiled around Jonas’s chest that heaved with uneven breaths. All he was managing to do was give a few frenzied tugs, like a child eager for their parent’s attention, making little difference to Malik.

Still, he made a point to shift his arm to readjust the snare across Jonas, squishing the flailing limb further into his side. The boy yelped, the collection of cuts slowing into a sluggish drip but still stinging something fierce when compressed. To further regain his compliance, Malik squeezed the wrist of the arm he was in the midst of eviscerating. The bones painfully grinded together, popping the joint with a weak crack to send an extra tingle down the inner nerve. Jonas lurched at the new shock of pain, throbbing instead of burning hot, a little break up in the monotony of his torture session. With just a little bit of extra force, Malik could bend the brittle bone and snap it like a twig. Honestly, it never felt like it would take much effort to tear Jonas to shreds, piece by piece, limb from limb. And from there he could carry his remains upstairs in buckets to the embalming room to be hand stitched back together, preserved in scars and chemicals until at last he rotted to bones.

Since when had Malik become so sentimental, wanting to save his dearly departed lover until decomposition claimed them at last? Sure, he’s kept the odd memento mori – or trophy, or whatever people wanted to call it – from a select few of his favorites. Just a pocket urn with a bit of their ashes before he cleaned out the cremator. It helped put the memorial vases on display in the front viewing room for grieving families to peruse their options. What a strange feeling this was. Foreign, out of his usual routine. 

Interesting.

“Quit your fussin’. If I mess up, I’m going to have to start over,” Malik warned. To Jonas’s credit, he stopped his pained squirming, but there was little he could do to quell the involuntary trembles that wound his muscles up so tight. That was fine, nothing he couldn’t manage on any other Tuesday afternoon.

Even though the thickness of his sweater, Malik could feel the way Jonas’s skin was becoming clammy with sweat. Granted, he had always run at a much cooler body temperature than Malik, especially now that he had been locked away without sunlight and iron rich (or frequent) meals. It wasn’t just blood leaking from the cuts now, but his internal source of warmth was being sapped with each drop running down his arms. The shaking was getting worse; a combination of overly tense muscles and an unbearable chill seeping into his bones. Jonas was more than welcome to press himself as tightly as he wanted against Malik’s chest to steal a bit of heat. He certainly didn’t mind sharing. 

What was most strange was just as Malik finished the simple line meant to be the letter “I”, the muscles vibrating with terror practically went limp. Not completely, but enough for him to notice the way Jonas sagged fully into him. The arm was still taunt, stiff like rigor mortis while the nerves flared to keep the limb aware of the damage it was sustaining. Good enough for him. Jonas’s head drooped down, yet little moans were continuing to squeak in his throat, a sign he was still conscious. Malik rolled his shoulder to be able to force the boy’s head back up. Need to make sure he was still awake and aware to enjoy the show of his mutilation, now tucked up under Malik’s chin. The sight of his bloody arm, one letter away from spelling out his captor’s name permanently, made him gag on a sound that was unable to slip through the duct tape. Considering he had yet to feed Jonas today and was about…sixty percent sure he didn’t remember to do so yesterday either, there was nothing to worry about him choking on stomach contents if he truly needed to retch.

Ah, shit, it was low blood sugar, wasn’t it? The pain and gruesome nature was horribly distressing to endure, of course, but the lack of glucose in his steadily dripping blood wasn’t doing Jonas much favors. Without any sugar or water in his system, coupled with the overwhelming emotional trauma he’d been experiencing daily under Malik’s care, it was making him much more susceptible to falling victim to shock. Pathetic, really, to see the younger man shutdown the same way previous victims had when he had flayed their stomachs to poke around their intestines on camera. Honestly, a couple tiny puddles of blood was his body’s breaking point? How disappointing when this was only the tip of the iceberg Malik had in store for him. They would need to work on building that tolerance up quickly if he were to have any fun with his new lover.

Oh well, he was almost done at this point, Jonas was just going to have to tough it out while he added the last two lines needed to make the letter ‘K’. It was funny, ironic actually, that when Malik strapped him down to hack off his finger for dear ol’ mom and dad’s collection notice he never succumbed to any type of shock. He screamed and begged and sobbed and writhed, even before the digit was actually severed, yet he still didn’t pass out from the pain or a seizing heart. Perhap this reaction was just an accumulation of everything Jonas experienced over the last several days. His poor, weakened organs unable to take the continued stress anymore, needing a break from the constant rush of endorphins to repair the damage taken. Malik will be sure to give him a shot of morphine and something sweet to prevent any future relapses.

The chest under his arm started to slow its short, hyper gasps in favor of deep, though still uneven, sniffles punctuated by quiet groans. If Malik had to guess, those lovely green eyes were probably unfocused and rolling back, no longer damp with tears. That wouldn’t do; he was already being nice enough to contain the raging need to paint Jonas red in favor of a few, simple cuts. It was the least the boy could do to stay conscious enough to keep playing this game.

“C’mon now, none of that,” Malik scolded, giving him a light shake back into wakefulness. “I have plenty of things to perk you right up if you’re going to be difficult.”

He smirked behind his mask to see Jonas fight with the urge to submit to his own body’s needs. The ingrained need to comply with his captor, the fear of being subjected to anything worse than what was happening now, led him to resist the physical desire to relax into a mental reset. Shock could be quite fatal if left untreated for too long��well, the medical kind of shock, with infected blood and all that fun stuff. Psychological shock though? Malik couldn’t be too certain. He supposed now would be as good a time as any to let the results run how they may. Worst comes to worst, there was a defibrillator in the Red Room he could charge up to get Jonas’s failing heart back up to speed. Plenty of former victims had passed out as a result of what they’ve seen compared to what they physically experienced and turned out mostly okay.

The tip of the blade punctured the tan skin for the last time as it sliced a short, diagonal line to complete the final letter in Malik’s name. A fat drop of blood was already chasing after the knife when it removed itself from the carved flesh, making way for a stream of red to trail down Jonas’s wrist and smear along the fingers holding it steady. There was no need to dig his hunting knife into the poor, abused arm any longer, but that didn’t mean Malik couldn’t take delight in ghosting the flat edge of the blade over the inflamed cuts, feeling the swollen bumps rise and fall against his weapon. Thicker puddles of blood were crudely wiped away by the caress, ripping away still damp scabs that were trying to stop the leakage of red dripping down Jonas’s forearm. Even with so much blood welling up and obscuring his recently signed name, Malik was still able to see a faint outline in the pattern of droplets that clung to the skin. 

“See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Malik asked, only receiving a weak moan in response. He at last pulled the blade away before it could nick anymore of the flayed flesh and dropped it into Jonas’s lap. It was lucky for him it didn’t land on its tip to embed into his thigh. “Here, hold that for me, lover.”

With his hand now free, Malik forced Jonas to bend the arm he had been holding straight out so that the wounded limb was brought closer for the two of them to observe his handiwork. Poor boy, if it wasn’t for his weak stomach and steadily crashing blood pressure, he’d be able to grab the carelessly discarded knife and stab it into Malik’s neck fifteen times. But he couldn’t, and Malik knew as much. Cold fingers remained loosely curled in on themselves, useless to do anything. He wondered if Jonas was even aware enough to appreciate the cruel taunt being left out to him. These kinds of games weren’t nearly as much fun when the one on the receiving end wasn’t lucid enough to respond. Malik would have to settle once again for a watered down version of what he was actually seeking from Jonas. Couldn’t drench him in his own blood, couldn’t make him squeal for hours on end, what a disappointing day this has turned out to be.

There was always tomorrow, though.

Malik pressed his thumb into the middle of the collection of cuts, marveling at how excess blood was pushed out of the wounds to run down the forearm. The hiss of pain Jonas tried to suck in through the duct tape made him smile again. Despite his body failing him, the shock of adrenaline was just enough to make the exerted heart pump faster for a moment, causing the flow of red on both arms to trickle out a few extra drops. 

With his thumb still aggravating the wounds, Malik rubbed the digit to clean away some of the mess to better see his claim spelt out in inflamed ridges. “What do you think, hm? Do you like it?”

No reply, unsurprisingly. Not even a little whimper or a single tear to be shed. As badly as Jonas wanted to obey the command of staying fully conscious to endure Malik’s whims, it was a losing battle with the toll it was taking on his body. Malik supposed he could grant him this one, small mercy of being allowed to pass out now that the session was done. Such a good boy, sticking it out until the end, though he wasn’t able to fully enjoy the visual of Malik’s bloody name as his clouded green eyes had lost the ability to focus some letters ago. He deserved some kind of reward for that, perhaps. Or maybe a punishment after Jonas woke back up for not reacting how Malik wanted him to. Decisions, decisions…either option could be quite fun.

“Aw, c’mon now, lover, don’t be that way,” Malik crooned as if Jonas was pouting and not actively going into shock. He still looked awfully cute slumped in Malik’s embrace, partially tucked into his chest and smeared in his own blood. “Too much fun already? What’s the part that got you all tuckered out? Was it the blood, or the pain?”

Even if Jonas had the strength to move his tongue to form coherent words, he wouldn’t have been able to answer the barrage of questions with the duct tape firmly silencing him. It didn’t seem like Malik was genuinely looking for a response anyhow, shifting the Belmont heir’s limp body in his arms so that he was better cradled sideways in his lap, allowing for a full view of his sickeningly pale face. With so much color drained from his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes looked more prominent and sunken. Jonas needed a little pop of color to brighten his features back up. Something to contrast nicely with his dull, half lidded eyes and ashened skin. How convenient that Malik’s fingers were still slick from playing with the slowly congealing wounds on his arms. Like a child finger painting their masterpiece, he swiped one blood soaked digit from each end of the duct tape over Jonas’s lips, arching the path upwards to create a faux red smile.

It looked quite pretty against the silver background of the gag, helping it stand out more pronounced. Malik wished Jonas was aware enough to understand what was happening so he could see those lovely eyes overflow with tears and his thin eyebrows scrunch together in distress. Then again, he could get that expression on any other given day with minimal effort.

“Know what I think? I think you get just as excited being this close to me,” he purred, curling the hand that had been hovering over Jonas’s face against his neck. He could feel the slow pulse against his fingers, still faithfully drumming beneath the collar of bruises. So long as that beat didn’t stop, Malik was satisfied enough. “I’d reckon you even like when I touch you like this, no matter how much it hurts. ‘Cause you’re a touch-starved li’l thing, ain’t you?”

Jonas couldn’t confirm or deny the allegations which by default meant that Malik was correct with his assumptions. It wasn’t too hard to come to such a conclusion anyhow: richie rich kid with distant parents, no experience with familial or romantic love, he’d probably eat any gentle touch up no matter who it came from. Including from a serial killer in the basement of a funeral home. Malik could have the poor, neglected boy wrapped around his bloody finger in no time if he really wanted to. Only a handful of weeks into this captivity and he already knew how to make Jonas squirm and how to make Jonas melt. But it was the fight to survive that still distantly burned inside of him that kept him interesting enough to catch Malik’s attention. Total obedience and attachment sounded like too much of a hassle right now. 

Malik reached back up to Jonas’s face to tuck an errant curl behind his ear, not missing the way his eyes finally slipped closed from the gentle touch. “Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, lover. I won’t let you go.”

[starfallandsilver]

ITEM DROP CHALLENGE

if your character was an npc, what items would they drop when they flee combat/are killed?

3-5 common items (would drop every time )

A Book - This book may or may not be based on a few stories picked up throughout his travels. There is a low chance of rolling a book about the SEW, though it doesn’t have much information. 

Script Pages - Avros as an NPC writes his own music, collect enough of these pages, and you’ll unlock his instrumental theme. 

Dust Compartments - A gravity dust user in his element, you’ve managed to knock away some of his dust compartments. They look like gems. Access to Gem Shaped Dust Compartment Apparel!

Cigarettes - An unexpected drop from a known singer, you’ve collected a rather pricey brand of his favorite cigarettes. Use around Atlas/Mantle as a trade item. 

White Tipped Feathers - Avros has an extremely large wing span, its easy to take advantage of such a large hitbox as it were. Smacking his wings has a high yield rate of his feathers.

1-2 rare item(s) ( maybe a 5-7% drop chance )

Golden Lighter - A Golden Lighter that is inscribed with a combination of sigils and symbols. You can’t understand what they are, but if used in Atlas during the Vol7 arc with The Dark Throne Bar Owner, might trigger a hostile cutscene between wolf twins Aycan and Cymbeline later. ( Giving the Lighter willingly calms them down, parting with information on how to traverse the tundras. Passive option unavailable if you have done the Aggressive Victory resulting in Avros’s death. If combat is triggered in The Dark Throne, Rory may join combat as well. )

Silver Script Page - Collecting 10 pages of the silver script, if already having collected the common script, unlocks the vocals to the previous instrumental. 

Private Journal - Aggressive Victory resulting in Avros’s death, boss battle available at, at least level 37. Taking this option automatically makes other NPCs tied to Avros hostile, locking you out of their questlines. Journal has unreleased songs that would earn a lot of lien, as well as in depth information about SEWs and other Mythos all hand scribed by Avros. Contains information about team Glacier.  

Showstopper/Trench Coat - Merciful Victory from Boss Battle at level 37 or Higher. Collect enough information about Avros from the Bars in Atlas/Mantle to learn the correct action in combat to defeat him. Doing so will cause the NPC to yield, giving away Showstopper or his Coat. If Showstopper is chosen, he’ll depart a few dance lessons to you as well, granting higher evasive skills. 100% drop if the correct action sequence is chosen. 

Special : The vocals of the silver script pages will change depending on if you went the Merciful or Aggressive Victory Routes. 

tagged by: @flightofaqrow tagging: @caeloservare , @hopeandharmonizing​ ( shh I need to know! ) , @riftofthestars​ ( Nox? And anyone else you’d like! )

[bookishdiplodocus]

Two ways to subverse Chekhov’s gun

Firstly, what is Chekhov’s gun?

It’s a theory by Anton Chekhov saying every element in your story must serve a purpose, you’re not allowed to lead your audience on and imply something that you will not deliver on. If you mention a gun hanging over the fire in act one, someone must fire it before the end of act three. It’s about reader expectations.

For example

If a girl in a supernatural story receives a silver necklace as a gift, you can safely assume she will encounter (or turn into) a vampire later on.

So, what’s the problem?

The problem is that the readers could see your set-up (the gun hanging over the fire) and guess what the follow-up will be (someone firing it).

Okay, how can you subverse it?

Two ways:

Camouflage the set-up

Fire the gun twice

Camouflage the set-up

How do you that?

Present it as an insignificant detail

Hide it in the crowd

Distract the reader by immediately following it up with something big and or shocking

The advantages:

If done well, it makes readers go “OHHH, I should have seen this coming!!

The disadvantages:

The reader may gloss over your set-up, because you have hidden it too well. If they don’t catch the set-up at all, they may find the follow-up abrupt, out of the blue or out of character.

There is still a chance the reader still knows what you’re doing.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it, I’m saying you should do it cleverly.

Fire the gun twice

How do you do that?

Mention the figurative gun over the fire and use the gun for something relatively small. The audience will think this is the follow-up. Later, use the gun again. Usually, readers don’t see this coming but won’t think it comes out of the blue.

I hope this was helpful. Don’t hesitate to ask me any questions, and happy writing!

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