#sorry if the script is not legible :(

[misfithive]

The Fault in our Stars x Wilmon

[hivemuthur]

hello hive, I'm glad you opened your requests 🎀

viktor and reader both are students in the academy and go to the library most of the time. One day Viktor found a handwritten note left between the pages of a book, it may be a question about something in the book with no name or anything and viktor decided to answer it before returning the book, days later he was curious if the mysterious person answered and they did, and added another note to him, over time it turns to a habit, talking about studying, telling eachother about their day, gossip and unspoken confessions about how they enjoy their talks, until one day one of them didn't answer for a while and made the other worried and desperate for their reply (idk if the last thing is a good choice but i want it to be a slow burn, and i want them to kiss passionately at the end of this 🤧 so i leave this to you)

Hi Anon! Sorry this took so long!

Bookends

viktorxgn!reader, but viktor-centric for the most part, general/mature - some pining and making out :v

word count: 2,5K

author’s note: Artist of course is @petitesieste.

—

How does one truly know when they've crossed a line between curiosity and obsession?

It falls out of an old textbook on mechanical theory as Viktor flips through the pages. A question he himself has asked glares at him mockingly from a small piece of paper wedged into the book’s spine. The script is barely legible, written in haste and left there—intentionally or not, he doesn’t know. But the very nature of the question is what compels him to answer.

Perhaps when the object of your curiosity becomes something you can't stop thinking about, even when you should be focused on something else.

His handwriting is almost too precise for the nature of the exchange, a stark contrast to the wobbly letters on the parchment. He folds it neatly in half, redoing the uneven crease, and places it back in its spot.

And then, Viktor thinks nothing of it.

For an entire week, the memory lingers at the back of his mind, barely a passing thought—until his feet carry him to the academy library once more. He beelines toward the mechanical engineering section, eyes scanning the spines until he spots it: the same textbook as before, wedged tightly between others, sticking out by an inch, as if put back in a hurry.

Excitement shakes his hand as he reaches for it and takes it to a secluded corner obscured by bookshelves. He flips through the pages in one sweep, his heart skipping—only to deflate when he realises it’s just a dog-ear. And of all pages, it’s on one of the most unremarkable.

He sighs, leaning back on his chair when he sees it—the tiniest triangle of white peeking from under the cover. He opens the book’s end and there it is, another note. Fresh paper, though folded roughly, like the last one. Writing less surgeon-like too.

What if the object of my curiosity is also the one I should be focusing on? What then?

Viktor smiles under his nose, breath light, forming into a chuckle as he conjures an answer. He wishes his tone—teasing and gentle—could be poured into paper and hopes you will read his good intentions from it.

Then you must ask yourself—are you studying it, or surrendering to it?

He stares at it a little while longer, finally deciding no touch-ups are needed. Like last time, he puts corner to corner, edge to edge, as his neat fold overrides yours—uncaring and hasty. He places it at the book’s end and wedges it back onto the shelf.

Next, only three days go by before Viktor finds himself lurking in the library again. He doesn’t even pretend it’s for any reason other than a quick trip to his now-favourite section.

When he opens the book and sees the same piece of paper insistently folded at an angle, he can’t help but think this is you making some point. And then he knows—that intended tone of his was, indeed, not read as he wished for.

I am not surrendering to anything. IT consumes me—do not presume this is a consensual capitulation!

Oh. Something sinks in him. Quickly, as if scribbling would fix it in an instant, he bleeds his apology in ink, letters less neat than usual.

Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude like this. I hoped you’d read my tone as light, but jest doesn’t transfer to paper, it would seem. You can speak freely, I promise I won’t judge.

To reinforce his pliancy, this time Viktor doesn’t iron the page out with his palm. This time, he folds it just as it was—crooked—as if telling you he’s on your side.

What his heart does when the next little letter he finds is folded neatly is indescribable.

No harm done, forgive my short temper. And thank you, truly. I’m just afraid I’m going mad, my secret confidant.

Viktor sighs. A breath leaves him, leaving a smile behind—and a blush. Secret confidant is such an intimate title; his heart flutters again, and he writes down a question before his brain manages to deem it too eager.

Am I a secret of yours?

Scratch that. Again, scratch. Scratch, until it is obscured enough, Viktor thinks. Instead, he writes:

What are the symptoms of your madness? And the object of the curiosity? Or, should I say, obsession?

As a sign of good will, he folds unevenly.

It’s day by day now. Sometimes twice, as he swings by the library in the evening, just to check. One evening, it proves worthwhile, as you’ve replied sometime in the afternoon.

I keep things close to my heart a secret, so nobody takes them from me.

Scratched—yet not enough to obscure the text. His heart swoons at the thought of how carefully you must have traced each letter, deciphering his attempt at confining the reckless scribble. Further on, you say:

Patterns. I see them everywhere I go; they haunt me day and night. My friend is sick of me, says not everything has a meaning. What do you think?

For a minute, Viktor closes his eyes. Uncanny, how the universe has thrown him someone equally tormented—and by the same hand, too. He rubs his thumb over the paper, caressing it, as if you could somehow feel the comfort meant to be given through the gesture. Then, with a soft smile, he writes:

I’m afraid I might be the worst thing that has happened to you, as I wholeheartedly agree—there is a pattern in everything. But therefore, I don’t think it is obsession, but loneliness you are experiencing.

He presses it to his chest before folding it. Then, he adds:

You are my secret, too.

Bravely, he scratches it out with one neat line only. And it requires a heart emboldened with courage because Viktor feels as if he’s just exposed himself in a way he never has before. When your next message arrives, he’s relieved that the effort proved worthy.

If you are the worst, why do I feel less lonely?

It’s a rhetorical question, which I believe you know, but also, given the history of our past conversations, I wouldn’t be surprised if you answered it in some elaborate way. I will be blunt then: thank you for making me feel less lonely.

Can you tell me what’s the most recent pattern you’ve noticed? I observed that Professor Heimerdinger’s poro acts uneasy when one of my classmates, who is particularly fond of unsolicited petting, sits at the front bench during lab class. As soon as the poro gets disturbed, the professor’s attention splits, and his test questions are hasty. I tend not to do well without a properly structured quiz, so as soon as I see his grabby hands—no, as soon as I see him sit his ass in that front chair—I know my quiz score will be lower than usual.

So many words from you make Viktor feel blessed. He reads them over and over again, and three things strike him. One—you’ve said he makes you feel less lonely. Two—you take class with Heimerdinger, so as the professor’s assistant, he’s most likely already seen you. And three—you keep these conversations with you. That’s why it’s a new piece of paper each time.

That is both a fascinating and highly practical observation. It seems you have developed a contingency plan for academic sabotage, courtesy of a poro and an inconsiderate classmate. I admire the ingenuity—though I must ask, have you considered distracting the poro yourself?

I, too, have been noticing patterns lately. One in particular stands out: my favourite book in this library always seems to shift slightly out of place before I get to it, as if someone has touched it before me. I wonder, do you think this is a coincidence?

I’m glad you feel less lonely. I do too.

From this, it just flows. Stories, jokes, gossip (apparently Heimerdinger has a lady friend that Viktor had no idea about?), heartfelt confessions sometimes—you even left him some doodles. Attached to the main paper with a paperclip, you wrote a short note: This one is for you. Heimerdinger’s poro asleep under a desk, a sweet way to say thank you for his idea of diversion against that one student’s grabby hands.

And Viktor feels ridiculous, blushing to himself as he writes longer and longer messages, almost letters at this point. He scans the classroom when he pops in to pick up Heimerdinger’s notes, wondering which face belongs to you, visiting the library three times a day, poking at the already worn-out tome, until—one day, it’s gone.

Borrowed.

A gaping hole in your communication method that neither of you had even considered. He rushes to the reception desk to check who took the book, but the grumpy librarian refuses to provide such information.

Days pass without a message from you, and with the book still gone, Viktor finds himself at his wit’s end. Shoulders hulking sullenly, brows furrowed, and mouth lopsided, he steps into the dusty rooms on any given occasion, until the sodden thought runs through him—he misses you.

Instead of leaving such a great revelation to something as gambable as fate, he decides to go to the source. He takes his usual seat in the secluded corner, scribbles down a few words on a note, and waits. He half-stands each time when someone enters the dim corridor made of books, only to retreat, deeming it the wrong section.

Until someone’s shuffling feet walk timidly between the bookshelves. Lips sucked between teeth, hand tracing the spines, and, finally, a disappointed sigh.

And he can’t help himself when he asks, “Is something the matter?”

“Oh,” you startle, glancing toward him. You instinctively step back, your gaze briefly dropping before meeting his. "Viktor, I did not see you there," you say, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of your lips, as if you've been caught in the act. “Uh, have you by any chance seen that one old textbook on mechanical theory?”

That’s it, Viktor thinks. He almost says too much, because oh, your voice is sweet and you... you are so heart-wrenchingly pretty, he has no idea what he’s done to deserve such kind fate. But he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t test the theory first.

“Sadly, no.” Viktor puts on a schooled pout, shaking his head and taking a step toward you. “I have been hoping to find it too, but it has been rented out some time ago.”

“Oh—” you say, your brow furrowing slightly. Trying not to give away that you’ve already picked up whatever Viktor has put down and are currently playing with it in your hands, you ask innocently, “What’s… what’s your interest in it?”

Another step. "Other than me being an engineer myself?" Viktor’s lips twitch slightly, a trace of a smile. "I have a..." he says, slowly extending his hand toward yours, fingers brushing as he slips you a tiny piece of paper, "personal relationship with it, in a manner of speaking."

You stare at him for a long moment before unwrapping the paper tube.

I missed our talks. V.

“It’s you,” you whisper into the note. “Oh, I was hoping it would be you,” you whisper again, louder and breathy, clutching the sheet to your chest. When his brows furrow in question, you explain, “Your handwriting—it’s very neat. I’ve seen it once or twice and, uh… it got my attention.”

He smiles, and there is a ghost of blush dusting his cheeks. “Would you… be willing to participate in some verbal conversation from now on then?” Viktor asks, leaning into your ear. It’s a library, after all.

You breathe a soft, airy yes, and your lips brush against his cheek, the touch lingering there, leaving warmth behind. He pulls back slowly, breath held up. He licks his lips, eyes scanning your face, seeking. He’s been so far all this time, now closer than ever, and the space between you, even though small, is charged, taut like a bowstring.

Your hands meet, and his fingers weave through yours, long enough to reach your wrist. He hooks his cane onto a nearby shelf, its gentle clang against the wood unnoticed by either of you, and presses his forehead to yours, his warmth seeping into you.

"I missed you too," you murmur, the words clinging to the air between you. Your lips brush against his, just the lightest touch—an accident, or perhaps not. But Viktor’s lips press back with a soft, almost apologetic insistence, as though he’d waited for you far too long.

His mouth moves against yours with purpose, slow at first but hungry, needy. His breath quickens, deepens in tandem with yours. He steps closer, crowding you against the bookshelf, the hard wood pressing into your back as he leans into you. You arch into him, your fingers tightening around his hand, pulling him closer. His body is warm against yours, and the kiss deepens—faster, more urgent, the world around you fading to nothing.

And oh, just as your conversations on paper, the conversation between your tongues is seamless. They smooth over each other, pushing in when the other retreats and retreating when the other demands access.

Viktor’s hand moves to your waist, firm, gentle, and before you can think of resisting, he’s pressing you harder into the bookends. The coolness of the wood bites into your back, but it’s quickly forgotten as his body crowds you, a wall of heat and taut sinew and bone.

Mouth on mouth, insistent, with his teeth gently scraping over your lower lip, Viktor drowns in the sounds you make, guides your hands into his hair, and groans when you pull at his nape. You can feel the weight of him, the hard edge of his cane still wedged against the shelf beside you, but it matters not, as truly, neither of you is lonely anymore.

His lips break from yours as he presses his forehead to yours, both of you gasping for breath.

“That’s not a verbal conversation,” Viktor murmurs, his voice hoarse, as if the words themselves are a struggle. There’s a trace of a smile in his tone, but it’s swallowed quickly as you crane your neck to steal another kiss. Between smacks and bites, he mutters again, “You sure are very brilliant at pattern recognition.”

“Thank you, I have been obsessing over it for quite some time,” you mumble back, fisting his shirt. “I just didn’t expect the answer, of all places, to be at the end of a mechanical engineering textbook.”

“Thank gods I read from cover to cover,” Viktor smiles and sinks his lips back onto yours.

[darlingbabyboo]

I've been thinking for a while about a particular one shot request and I read it last night on another fandom, so now I kinda wanna see it with TR.

So here it is : How would some of the guys react to us doodling on their hand during some boring class? (Mikey, Draken, Takemichi, Mitsuya, Haitani brothers and the Kawata twins)

Sorry if it's too much! It doesn't have to be anything big, just a small reaction would be more than perfect, since I love your writing so much. 🥹

Baby, What Are You Doing...

Summary: the guys react to you doodling on their arms

Notes: some small blurbs about the guys. These vary in length and I was lowkey running out of ideas while I was writing but I tried my best to stay original! Also, not edited bcs I don't got time for that, you see a mistake, no you didn't <333

Mikey is kinda out there so he probably wouldn't even notice you were writing on his hand, but when he does he eats that shit up. He's lazy so he doesn't like going to get tats but he loves some ink. He will praise you and start requesting things like you're a professional artist. 'Please babe, I want a dorayaki on my forearm.' You bite your lip to hide your blossoming smile, 'you know I'm not a professional artist, right?' Your boyfriend shrugs and smacks a kiss to your cheek, 'you are to me babe!'

Draken notices right away what you're doing and is probably a bit confused at first. Like, do you want him to get another tattoo??? He'll do it hun, just ask. You two are relaxing in his bed, just enjoying each other's presence. He's surprised when you pull out a Sharpie and start doodling your name on his arm. 'Honey, what're you doing?' You give a sheepish grin, 'sorry, is it a problem.' He looks at the doodle, and you start to relax when you spot no disgust in his eyes. 'No problem hun,' he turns to you, 'think I should get this my next visit?' You squeal and wrap your arms around his neck as he looks at the doodle in wonder, more love sprouting in his heart.

Takemichi is a loser (affectionate) and he would never get a tattoo because he can't stand that pain, so he will take take that doodle and he will hold it with pride. 'Sweetie, I love it so much!' He wraps his arms around your waist and you can feel his smile against your stomach. You giggle at his wonder at some shitty stick figures along his arms. 'It's really no big deal' You say, running your hands through his hair, 'you don't need to be so happy.' He shakes his head, 'it is a big deal,' He insists, 'I've never seen anything better!'

Mitsuya my love, my heart, my will to live. He will be gassing up so much that you'll probably start believing that you're the best artist in the world. He's just such a supportive cutie pie <3 'Darling, this is one of the greatest things I've ever seen,' You laugh at the amazement in his eyes as you scribble your name in mock script on his arms. It's barley legible, but Takashi doesn't seem to care, 'you sure about that?' The smile doesn't drop from his face as he looks at you with hearts in his eyes, 'I think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.'

I'm sorry but Smiley is probably the biggest asshole when he catches you doing this. He loves it, I promise, but he's a jerk 100% of the time, it's hard for him to turn it off. He raises an eyebrow when he sees you uncap your sharpie and start to draw something on his hand. 'What the fuck is that supposed to be?' He mutters. You laugh awkwardly at his harsh tone and drop your Sharpie, 'sorry, I just saw some cute videos about people putting their initials on their boyfriends wrists and I thought-it's stupid sorry-I don't know why I did that.' You duck your head down, burying your face into his chest, feeling that your body's on fire. Smiley looks at the half-finished doodle on his wrist. 'Don't stop baby, shit's pretty cute.' He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, 'I might get it tatted up.'

Angry is so flustered when he sees you doing this and he loves it so much okay. He feels like wearing it is a testament of how strong your love is. He will ask you (nervously) to do it every day because he doesn't want it to fade. 'Oh my gosh! Souya, you scared me, what're you doing there?' He stands awkwardly in the corner of your room, playing with the ends of his sleeves. 'Sorry... I didn't want to scare you... I just...' He pulls up his sleeve and he sees the fading bunny on his arm. 'I don't wanna bother you, I just-' 'Don't worry baby, I get it.' You cut him off, cupping his cheek and placing a kiss on his cheek. You pull him towards the bed and tell him to wait, 'I just need to get my Sharpies!'

Ran won't notice I'm sorry. He sleeps most of the day and he already has so much ink that some doodles won't pop out to him too much. It's only until he notices you doodling on a piece of paper one day and compares it to what's all over his arms that he starts tweakin'. 'Angel have you been inkin' me up?' He raises an eyebrow at you, confused. You hide your smile, 'of course not, I have no idea what you're talking about.' He narrows his eyes, '...okay.' Not completely believing you, but too sleepy to question things. 'Wanna take a nap?' You feel the Sharpie in your pocket and bite the inside of your cheeks, 'I'd love to!'

Rindou will eat that shit up, oh my gosh he loves it so much. He's like the extreme version of Angry and Mikey. He wants it obvious, and he wants it bold. 'C'mon princess, your name on my collarbone, I need it.' You raise an eyebrow as you straddle him, 'in red though, that's a bit... much.' He shakes his head, 'no, no, it'll be perfect.' You shake your head in exasperation, your boyfriend is a big dummy, but he loves you with every part of himself.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 54 (12.1)

part 1 | part 53 | ao3

cw: angst

Chapter 12

Steve drives to Chicago.

He wakes up to an empty bed and a sticky note by the kitchen phone, words scribbled over so the only legible thing left is the word sorry underlined in jagged black, and his breath sticks in his chest and he can't be here anymore. Epiphany ringing like a gong, sending ripples through his marrow, because the walls are closing in and Eddie decorated those walls — splattered himself over every inch of this place, and now he's just the newest haunt in a line of ghosts that Steve can't shake. He thought he’d gotten rid of them, but now he hears them louder than ever. In the hiss of the faucet, in the buzz of the fridge; they’re moaning in his bad ear and rattling his bones, and he can't be here alone with them he can't be here he can't—

So he drives.

Gets in his car with nothing but a spare jacket and a crumpled pack of cigs. If ever there was a time to pick the habit up in earnest. Eddie’s van is gone, and Steve’s heart is bruised; it's bleeding out inside him, pumping fresh hurt with every beat, so he lights a cigarette with shaking hands and heads north. Takes the back roads to the on-ramp of I-65, drives for hours; drives for years, speeding down empty stretches of highway with nothing but roadkill for company.

At some point he rolls the windows down until the icy wind makes his cheeks burn, but he can't really feel them. Can't feel his face, or his fingers, or his heart.

All the world is snow and asphalt, and Steve Harrington is alone.

He tries to drown it out with music. The radio mocks him with swooning quartets love songs — 'put your head on my shoulder' and 'life could be a dream' — and all the tapes he can reach belong to Eddie, so he pulls over on the narrow shoulder of an overpass bridge and screams and screams and screams while he chucks the cassettes over the edge.

Fuck Eddie.

Fuck him.

"FUCK YOU!!" he shouts to the foggy nothingness.

The words dig in sharp; pocket knife twisting in the space below his kidneys.

The fog doesn't respond.

Back in the car, his thoughts turn to his mom. Because he's driving to her, he knows — knew it in his splintering bones and haunted blood the moment he left town. He's driving back to his first ghost, as if confronting the original will somehow exorcise the rest.

Miles pass in silence, and Steve paints over the canvas of what-ifs again and again, oily streaks in the underpainting as he tries to set the scenes just right: quiet, tearful confrontations in his aunt's formal living room, graceless screaming matches out on the front lawn. In one version he never makes it past the guard at the front gate, and in another he just eggs the stupid lion statues leading up to the house while his mom silently weeps from the top of the stairs.

He doesn't know if his mom would laugh at that.

He doesn't know her much at all.

And that fucking hurts; that sits like acid in his lungs, because his mom was his first friend. When he was little — before the housekeepers and nannies, before his mom started tailing his dad on business trips like a trained dog on a leash — they spent so much time together. Trips to the playground, to the library, to the pool. He'd perch himself on her vanity when she got ready in the mornings, use her hairbrush as a microphone to sing along to 50s doo-wop, and she'd giggle and call him her little superstar, so he'd come up with stupid dance moves just to make her smile more.

He misses that. The script, the routine. How he'd spin around in his socks on the slippery bathroom tile and look up at her with her big hair full of rollers and her big eyes full of stars, and he'd say, "Hey! How come your eyes are all twinkly?"

And she'd grin and pinch his cheek and give the same answer every time: "Because you're the light of my life."

"I wish I knew what you'd say now," he whispers to the empty car.

For a moment he envisions that she's sitting there with him, that she's filling the blank space where the boy who broke his heart should be, but he can't remember her cadence well enough to mimic it; can't put words in her mouth when he no longer knows her lines, and with something a bit like horror and a lot like despair it occurs to him that he can't remember what she looks like. There's an apparition in his blind spot, but it's formless and unstable. The shade of its hair keeps changing; the texture, the length.

When he tries to make it speak, it shrugs and dissipates.

—

part 55

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[pascalispretty]

I Call It Walking

Javi Gutierrez x F!Reader

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1817

Tags: pining, unrequited love, dark implications, stalking

Summary: It feels like fate that you find his letters. But sometimes, fate needs a little nudge.

A/N: Hoo boy, this one was a struggle, so please be gentle! Written for @jolapeno's Dear-Uary challenge, I'm sorry it's so late. Thank you to @misscharlielulu, @penvisions and @notjustjavierpena for looking this over for me 💙title from 'An Unhealthy Obsession' by the Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra. Inspired by that song and the 1993 movie 'The Crush' (ao3).

Dearest,

I have been thinking about you all day. This film shoot has been going on for so long, and I feel like I have hardly seen you. Still, you looked beautiful. You always do. It’s one of the many reasons why I sit here alone with my pen instead of telling you how I feel in person. One kind smile from you and I would hardly know what to say – the pen and paper are far less intimidating, and far more forgiving.

               Long shoots on location are more difficult than I anticipated, I suppose. It’s beautiful here – exactly what I imagined when I was writing the script – but I feel like I barely see you. It’s been hard, being stuck in my hotel room working on rewrites when I want to be out exploring the island with you.

Indeed, I should be working on the love scene right now, instead of writing about my own love life. My feelings for you give me so much to tap into; it will make it hard to watch when they get around to filming it. I’m not sure I will be able to watch Alicia telling Cary why they can never be together. It will remind me too much of reality.

I will take the coward’s way out, again. Nick tells me that I should just tell you myself, but I could never say any of this to you. I couldn’t bear no longer having you in my life. And so I will roll this paper up and throw it out to sea in a bottle, like all the others.

Mournfully,

J

You smooth the letter out again, the paper stiff and crinkled from where water had seeped into the bottle. The ink is still clear. His words are still clear. His handwriting is careful—neater than you expected, given the barely legible scrawl he leaves in the margins of the scripts.

He put time into this. Effort.

All for a letter he tossed into the sea, as if he never wanted anyone to read it.

But you had. Of all the people on the island, you had found it. That had to mean something, didn’t it? Fate was funny like that. Selective. Deliberate.

You trace the loop at the end of his J, your fingertip lingering there. It had been past midnight when you’d come home from the beach, and you don’t know how long you’ve sat here for, contemplating the letter in front of you. You should go to bed—makeup wants your ass in the chair by five-thirty sharp, and you have a long day of filming ahead.

Instead, you start from the beginning and read it again.

Dearest Javi,

I don’t quite know where to begin. God, I still remember the first day we met. You looked so handsome in your orange shirt, so happy to be on set. I was so intimidated to meet you before I saw you. I read the script and thought you must be some kind of half-mad genius, intimidating and exacting.

It was no wonder, really, not when the script came with annotations referencing films I’d never heard of from sixty years ago. It was worth the effort it took to track them down though; you have impeccable taste in film. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I wept like a child when Aunt Lucy came to the door at the end of Paddington 2.

And then I met you, and you were so kind and warm. You weren’t intimidating at all, though it was clear you were the genius I thought you were as soon as I read the first page of the script.

Even a letter you never intended to be read is like poetry.

I should apologise, I guess, for fishing the bottle out. I was in one of the hammocks, reading, when you came down to the beach. I wondered what on earth you were doing, wading into the water with your pants rolled up around your knees!

After you threw the bottle into the sea, I got curious. I know, I know, curiosity killed the cat. I swam in and got it – you really should have thrown it further if you didn’t want anyone to read it – and got your letter.

I couldn’t believe what I was reading – I never expected you to feel the same way about me as I do you. You’re brilliant, and I’m just some nobody they cast because Helena dropped out. But one of us has to make the first move, so – I really like you, Javi. I think you’re handsome and funny and the most talented writer in a generation.

I’ve written my number on the back. I really hope you’ll call.

All my love,

Your Alicia

You wait.

You wait and wait and wait. Every time your phone chirps, your pulse leaps – only to crash again. Spam call. Group chat. Pervy costar from your last TV show. Never him.

It’s only when the director snaps at you to turn the fucking thing off and leave it off set that you realise he might not call you.  

At first, you tell yourself that he’s busy. You’re busy too – there’s only a short time left before the cast and crew will be packing up to move to the other side of the island to carry on shooting, and he’s spending a lot of time working on rewrites of the final scene.

You don’t envy him that. From what you heard, the studio execs and the producers are arguing over the ending, crows picking over the bones of the script. The studio wants a happy ending, something sugary sweet for the audience to sigh dreamily over. You can’t imagine this movie having a happy ending, not when the way Javi wrote it is so perfect.

With everything that’s going on, you don’t get the chance to observe him closer, to see whether he got your letter and is simply ignoring you. You know that Javi wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t just ignore something so heartfelt without acknowledging it at all.

When you do see him, he’s usually got a notepad or laptop in hand. More often than not, he has Gabriella with him, hovering over him as he writes. You’re not entirely sure why Gabriella’s here, accompanying him like a second shadow to set and to dinners and to the beach.

With no sign that he’s received it by the time production has moved across the island and settled into the new digs, you resign yourself to it having gone missing. It could have gone astray in the post, or been lost in the move, or taken by someone else.

And so you find something else to send to him.  

Dear Javi,

You’ll have to forgive the postcard, it was all I could find on short notice. You haven’t been on set much, but I hope you’re okay. It’s been strange, moving to a new part of the island; half of my costumes seem to be missing in transit. It made me wonder if my letter had gotten lost in transit too?

Hoping to hear from you soon,

xxxx

Sweetheart,

Another location, another stunning beach I barely get to visit. It makes me miss all of our talks up by the cliffs. It was the best cure for writer’s block. I’ve started taking walks by the beach whenever I get an hour or two to myself, but it isn’t really the same. The rewrites are finished, at least. When you come back from settling affairs back home, we’ll have to celebrate.

I’m not sure I could have gotten them finished on time without your support. It was so good of you to answer my calls, even when it was the middle of the night for you back home. Remind you to give you a pay rise soon. It’s the least I can do, really.

Love, Javi

The second letter hits you like a truck. Your breath catches in your throat, and your fingers tremble where they grip the paper. It had clearly been intended for someone else, some other woman. It only takes you a few days of careful observation to realise it was likely meant for Gabriella.

It’s hard not to keep noticing her once you’ve started. She’s always clinging to Javi; laughing with him over lunch or leaning over him as he scribbles notes on the script. She’s a constant, looming presence.

She had also clearly stolen your letters.

It hurt when he’d never responded to the first, though you put that down to some postal mishap, the chaos of the entire crew moving to the new location. But when you get a chance to ask him if he’d gotten your postcard, he just looks at you blankly.

You make him smile easily enough after that little mishap, crack a joke about ‘You’ve Got Mail’ that makes him laugh and gets the two of you talking about 90s rom-coms until Gabriella, predictably, escorts him away. She looks him over with concern, as though you might have done something to him, as they walk away.

It stings. You can make him laugh so easily. You could be so good for him.

But Gabriella won’t let you. She clings to him like a second shadow, always there to stop anyone else getting too familiar with him. You don’t miss the looks of pity she shoots at you when you’re not looking, the condescension making your jaw clench.

The grand, tragic scene plays like a dream. You’re up on the cliffs, the waves crashing below you, the wind in your hair. By the time you’re done, you can hear crewmembers sniffling, see the makeup girl blink away a tear.

Most importantly of all, Javi is beaming at you from behind the monitor. You want to bask in the glow of his smiles like a cat curled up in a patch of sunlight. He starts to get up out of his chair, to come over to you.

But then Gabriella rests a hand on his shoulder, whispers something in his ear. And he turns away from you.

The island you’re filming on is quiet. Safe. The cast and crew all like going for wanders along the coast. It’s peaceful, walking along the pale golden sand and listening to the waves. The beach is hemmed in on one side by dense, green foliage, where exotic, colourful birds come to roost in the day.

Now, though, the only thing in the trees is you.

The trees rustle softly, shifting in the evening breeze. Somewhere behind you, a bird takes flight. But Gabriella doesn’t hear a thing.

She just keeps walking. Oblivious.

You curl your fingers around the branch in front of you, steadying yourself. The bark is rough beneath your palm.

You take a step forward. She still doesn’t hear you.

You take another.

[altsunthinkable]

So I was telling my mother (who watches 911 but like in a normal general audience way) about the whole alive Bobby theory today. And in running it down for her, I finally settled on the things that make me most lean towards believing it.

1. Oliver sharing the "buried alive" script page. Now, I actually do think the script page was fake and posted as an April Fools joke (particularly because JLH also posted it but it wasn't legible enough so then Oliver did it too). BUT given that Oliver is aware how fans scrutinize his social media activities and he has outright said he didn't want fans to feel mislead if he "liked" Buddie stuff so he wasn't going to do it anymore... would he really go along with a joke saying Bobby was alive if that isn't going to end up being the case? It wouldn't seem to fit with the care he's shown towards fans' expectations in the past.

2. Oliver's post about Peter saying "we miss you at work with us every day" when we know for a fact he's been on set pretty much this whole time. Not "we will miss you." But something we know to actually be false because he hasn't been missing yet.

3. Oliver sharing then deleting the two photos of Brad Torrence just hours after the funeral scenes were shot downtown. It wasn't just one photo which could have been an accidental "oops I didn't mean to tap that one" share. It was two separate photos. We all thought it was odd at the time and wondered what it was about. But then someone (I'm sorry I don't remember who) pointed out what the suicidal Hotshots fan said in 8x08: "You're my comfort captain... You're killing off Captain Banner? You can't! ... Do you realize how many people would be devastated if you did that?" Brad dismisses it as 2 days on TMZ tops. The fan then quotes the inspirational speech from the end of Hotshots season 2 word for word and reiterates: "You can't kill off Captain Banner. He's what keeps the 119 fire family together."* And Brad decides he'll agree to have Banner live. And we see for a fact that he goes through with it.

4. Angela Bassett saying she found out when she got the script when Tim Minear said in an inteview that he called each cast member and told them, giving details about how they reacted (that it took 15 minutes to convince Aisha he wasn't joking).

5. Ryan not doing a goodbye post directed to Peter at all. Not even a photo of the two of them together. Just sharing a silly fan edit of Bobby with a pink bow on his head.

Those are the main offscreen things that have me 🤔🤨. On screen see also:

1. Chekov's rat. Why make a point of showing Chimney bringing it out of the lab when they didn't even acknowledge its existence while they were inside? And we had that post-episode still showing someone taking the rat away from Chim while he's in quarantine. That got cut from the episode but was apparently important enough to write and to shoot.

2. The awkward and otherwise unnecessary cut from Chimney on the phone with Maddie saying "he knew" to the 4 nameless faceless people in hazmat suits caring out the already closed body bag before panning to Bobby's helmet on the floor. It's awkward AF. If they wanted the helmet shot for emotional punch they could have gone just to it. Or panned across some of the blood Bobby had coughed up on the floor and then settled on the helmet. Or maybe even from Bobby's boots and legs from where he died knelt at that table to his helmet. The shot of the body bag being carried out by unknown people was completely out of place. Unless it's important that we know that.

3. The choice of Work Song. We know this show loves itself some on the nose musical choices. "No grave can hold my body down. I'll crawl home to her." There so many songs about death and loss they could have used to just as poignant an end. But this is what they picked.

---

*Tim has cited the Captain Banner stuff in interviews saying it was him choreographing his intentions to kill Bobby. But given Oliver's choice to share those pics when it was already clear fans had figured it out it was Bobby's funeral being filmed, I can just as easily see it being Tim feeling incredibly pleased with himself and clever that he told us exactly what was going to happen - Captain Banner Nash is going to live! My bet is he probably was bummed out some fans were on to him so quickly so he decided to mention it to try to again say "see, he's dead!" Ala "the body bag didn't convince you?" Which is also weird thing to say if that shot doesn't end up being important...

[airas-story]

Sorry (Let Me Say It Back)

(Sequel to Sorry and Sorry (I Still Love You).)

Stephen had been in the apartment.

It was all Tony could think about as he laid in bed, the other side of the bed empty as it had been for the last year, the sheets cool to the touch.

There had been people who’d have filled it, who’d have warmed the sheets for a night or longer, if he’d let them.

Tony’d never thought about it for more than a second.

Tony didn’t know how Stephen had gotten in to the apartment—well, he could guess, based off Christine’s flustered talk of portals in the hospital supply closet—but he had. So maybe Tony did know how—even if he didn’t understand it in the slightest—but he sure as hell didn’t know why Stephen had come at all.

Because Stephen had left.

Stephen had left with nothing more than a mostly-empty sheet of paper and an apology composed of two paltry words that had, nonetheless, haunted Tony for the better part of a year.

And then he’d come back, the careful, barely legible script declaring I still love you on the same note that Tony had tortured himself with, an unmistakable sign of his return—momentary though it must have been.

What did that mean?

Conceptually, Tony understood the words. But if they were true… if they were true, why hadn’t Stephen stayed. If they were true, then… then why…

No.

No. He wasn’t going to do this to himself. He wasn’t going to… He took a deep breath and shoved himself out of bed. The wood was cool beneath his bare feet, almost grounding when Tony’s mind was a mess with so many thoughts knocking him off kilter.

He stopped when he reached the living room, not sure, exactly where he had planned to go to escape the thoughts of Stephen, and his presence in Tony’s—not their—apartment, and those damning words Stephen had left behind.

I still love you.

“Then why aren’t you here?” Tony whispered. His feet took him to the wall of windows  giving him a view out into the city. He pressed his head against the cool glass, staring down at the street below. Stephen had proved that he could get in if he wanted. Stephen had proved that he knew exactly where Tony was. Stephen had proved…

Except Tony knew why.

Because Stephen had left.

But so had Tony.

Stephen had left with nothing more than an apology that had never been enough. Tony had left with even less than that—though to be fair of him, where was Tony supposed to send the apology when Stephen had disappeared on him?

Except Tony was Tony. If he’d wanted to, he could have found Stephen. Could have found him and demanded answers. Could have found him and… and told Stephen… 

He could have told Stephen he’d still be there, when Stephen was ready to come home.

Tony swallowed hard, emotion twisting into an ugly ball in his chest, writhing with rancid guilt.

It sounded so easy when he said it that way. 

Stephen had been going through hell. Tony knew that. He had done everything he could to be by Stephen’s side while Stephen recovered. Had done everything he could to make sure that Stephen would get through the destruction of his life and the loss of the very thing that had given Stephen purpose.

Then Stephen had left and Tony…

Tony’d given up on them just as much as Stephen had.

He turned, pressing his back against the windows and sliding to the ground. His gaze fixed on an empty space in the living room. It could almost be looked over, could almost look natural.

Tony had always been a minimalist, in that way. Had never seen the need to fill his living space with things. He’d kept that for his lab and the excess of projects he always had going on, or his garage filled with more cars than any one person really needed.

But in his apartments, he’d never kept much. Empty space didn’t draw the eye. If someone didn’t know, they might never guess that that empty space was the perfect size for a grand piano.

Tony didn’t move the rest of the night, the glass at his back slowly warming from the heat leaking through Tony’s shirt. The dim light of the rising sun cascaded into his apartment. It was nothing more than sentiment that made it feel like the sun shone a little brighter where the piano was supposed to be.

Without realizing, some part of him had already decided what he had to do.

It took three days to get the piano back into the apartment, fully tuned and shined.

Tony knew he was being an idiot. That moving the piano—Stephen’s piano—back into the apartment didn’t actually mean anything. Didn’t change anything. Didn’t…

Except, Tony’d always been a bit of an idiot, when Stephen was involved.

Stephen had been here once. That didn’t mean Stephen would show up again—maybe Stephen had already gotten all the closure he needed. 

There was no guarantee Stephen would understand what the act of restoring the piano to its rightful place even meant if he did for some reason show up. Except, Stephen had always understood Tony better than most, had read into Tony’s actions all the words he’d never quite figured out how to say.

Still… Tony had one last thing to do.

The paper was worn in his hand from a year of being handled. Two words printed, another four added in a difficult to read scrawl.

Both messages left by Stephen.

The pen weighed heavy in Tony’s hand as he tried to figure out what to write. What message would express the confusion and the guilt Tony struggled with.

What message would somehow put to words everything he needed to say.

In the end…

Stephen had said it best.

I’m sorry, Tony wrote.

Sorry he’d given up on Stephen—not just on Stephen, on them. Sorry he had ripped away Stephen’s home in a fit of guilt and anger and loss. Sorry that even now, he couldn’t make himself go looking for Stephen out of fear of what he’d find.

His hand shook a little as he wrote the next line, once again a direct copy of Stephen’s own words.

But he couldn’t help that Stephen had said it first, and best, and that Tony’d never been all that good with words in the first place.

I still love you.

He drew away from the paper, examining his own words, messier than printed words that had ended everything, cleaner than Stephen’s shaky print that felt like the start of something new.

Tony didn’t know if Stephen would show up again or if he’d never be back. He didn’t know what he would do either way.

But for now, he took the paper with the final message Stephen had left him and placed it on the piano in place of sheet music.

He wondered if it could even possibly be enough.

[letters-from-dekarios]

(it is something of a miracle this letter is legible at all. It's clearly torn from a notebook, and written in a blocky, slow hand, like the author was unused to holding a pen. Many of the letters are capitalized at random, seemingly because they were easier to draw. It also smells strangely of fish and old lake water)

gALE

HI

HAlsIn Is gooD

HElp mE WrITE HI

mIss You AnD TArA

I ATE A sEA Bug ToDAY IT WrIgglED

loVE You mIss You

HUSH

(there is a post script below in a much neater hand)

Dear Gale,

Hush wanted to write a letter to you for their writing practice today. I'm sorry for the smell, they tried to also send you one of the crawfish they caught in the lake.

Hope you're doing well, would love to have you visit.

Halsin.

(Hush is a 15 yr old feral half-elf, barely. A druid that was raised by wolves, spending months and even years at a time in wild shape permanently warped their body into something... Other. They had very little contact with other humanoids before being taken by illithids. They learned to speak common from Gale and the others. Despite their grotesque appearance, Hush is extremely cheerful, with a personality somewhat like an overeager hunting dog. Hush loves Tara very much, but Tara does not necessarily love Hush back. At least when in the same room.)

Dearest Hush,

And Halsin, too.

I am glad to hear you are both doing well! Hush, your days sound all the more exciting each time you write to me. While I’m stuck grading papers, you’re off capturing the wildest of sea creatures. I do hope the sea bug was tasty enough for you!

I appreciate the sentiment and the attempt to allow me to share in the joyfulness with you. I can assure you, Hush, however, that you need not be disappointed you cannot send crawfish to me. I will be visiting soon and you can share it in person.

I love and miss you, too, Hush. We will meet again soon, I can promise you such.

Thank you, Halsin, for all your help. I hope you are doing well, too. I’m sure the likes of Hush have been tiring on your old soul, but you always had a knack for managing the youngsters.

From the desk of,

𝑮𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒌𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒔

text reads: gale dekarios

[diino8081]

i have uncovered something large and dangerous

this will be a long post. there will be a summary at the bottom but it's a few paragraphs long.

(this is about people who are using the genocide in palestine to take advantage of other people's kindness to donate. essentially it's about scammers lol)

update: this is false info, check the comments, i'm sorry. i take full accountability for my error

edit: actually possibly untrue, also an update on one of the accounts listed at the bottom: helpfamily is vetted

--------

i am copying these words off of my notes app so they may be a little messy. i hope they are still legible.

i will add in any additional notes with colour text

-- i had received an ask and so searched the user's page to check it's legitemacy

noor678

most things do seem pretty legit

however in their ask they said the campaign was documented by 90-ghost. i checked 90-ghost's profile and searched for noor's username but came up empty

i then searched the reblogs of their top post, both empty reblogs and comments with tags since that's usually what 90-ghost does when vetting. i came up empty handed

but that's just one post

-- i check the reblogs of the other posts

ok now upon checking, i have seen that all 3 of these posts do not have any reblogs from 90-ghost

additionally, this account is new, being created on the 27th of july.

-- i return to their pinned post and read through it again

WAIT HOLD

i may have uncovered something

i copied this phrase from noor's ask:

"I write to you with a heart full of hope and faith, and I ask for your urgent help. My family is in great danger due to the war, and I am running a fundraising campaign to save them."

and i put it into the search bar and it appears to be copied word for word from an account called "mahmoud66262"

now, mahmoud as well states that their fundraiser is documented by 90-ghost, nabulsi and el-shab-hussein

i have searched all 3 accounts for mahmoud's username and came up with nothing

mahmoud does however have a second account

perhaps they reblogged that one

-- forgot what i meant by this but they do in fact have a second account

mahmoudbalousha4

nothing on 90-ghost's page

nothing on el-shab-hussein's page

nothing on nabulsi's page (but there was another mahmoud)

now, i'm not sure if this is because they moved account after being terminated/banned but if they said they were vetted by these 3 people then surely their username would appear on these accounts

i tried as well to just search "mahmoud" but still came up empty except on nabulsi's page

i have reason to believe this is a large scam ring who are all verifying and vouching for each other.

to summarise:

noor678 sent me an ask stating that they need help and that they were documented by 90-ghost. i scrolled through the reblogs of their posts to try and find ghost, absolutely nothing.

i copy a part of their ask, search it. a secondary account copying the words from the paragraph verbatim. i check that account, see they too are vetted by ghost, now with nabulsi and el shab hussein. like the previous one i search and there is nothing.

they have reblogged multiple other posts from an account with a similar username. i check both of these usernames on each person's account where they've apparently been vetted. absolutely nothing.

an update: -- still in the note

i never actually continued to scroll upon searching for the ask paragraph. there are multiple other accounts giving asks with the same script.

"I write to you with a heart full of hope and faith, and I ask for your urgent help. My family is in great danger due to the war, and I am running a fundraising campaign to save them."

the accounts in question:

noor678

helpfamily*

mahmoud66262

nourbader2019

*helpfamily is vetted

another account with similar words, only slightly changed, is mohammedalanquer. they say:

"I am writing to you with a heart full of hope and faith, asking for your urgent help. My family is in great danger due to the war, and I am running a fundraising campaign to save them."

this one however, is vetted legitimately by el-shab-hussein and nabulsi and is #174 on their list. the ask i've seen is from 13/7/2024

i have reason to believe they have copied the words and are using them to attempt to scam others.

if i am wrong, then sure. but this does seem really fishy.

-- end of note

i have noticed as well that some of these likely-scam fundraisers have gotten revenue from this which is unfortunate but we can stop it by being more careful and verifying before donating.

instead of seeing someone saying they're vetted and just trusting them, check for sources first. (reblogs from large accounts, vetted fundraiser lists, searching parts of the ask to see if it's copied).

some scammers have scripts they go by, a common one is if it begins with "this is a long shot call" or talking about insulin. (note that not all insulin asks are fake, it's just a common theme the scammers go for)

scammers as well will create their accounts, post their donation post and then only reblog things after that. they may usually only be a few days old too.

i think i'm going to leave this post here. do with this information what you will.

have a great day

[writingforcleononly]

Our Truth

(Wrote this for a Cleon writing challenge. Not my primary blog & will only be used for Cleon writing) 549 Words.

Warnings: Stinky & monkey are the nicknames Chris and Claire use for each other from childhood. Chris calls Claire monkey because she always climbed all over him as a kid and Claire calls Chris stinky because of his smoking. Flashback is in bold.

  Claire was exhausted as she moved towards the door of her brownstone, scrolling through work e-mails. Claire’s azure eyes caught something from her peripheral as she neared the top step, keys in hand.

  “The hell…” she whispered to herself.

  A small box, wrapped in plain brown paper, sat in front of her door. Ever cautious, she surveyed the nearby area for anyone suspicious. An explosive was unlikely, but in her experience, there was no such thing as too cautious. Leaning to the right, she looked at the corner of the box, a few words written perfectly legible.

   Never let go of the truth.

  Claire’s hesitation completely dissipated as she picked up the package and entered her home. Moving to the living room, she dropped her laptop bag on the couch before setting the gift on the coffee table.

  A loud grumble interrupted her excited thoughts, forcing her to put off opening the gift a little bit longer. Putting away her work phone, she pulled out her own and placed an online order for her favorite pizza place.

  Though her excited curiosity began to grow, she pushed it back deciding to get comfortable before doing anything else. Climbing the stairs, she pulled her ponytail loose, checking her reflection. Damn, she looked exhausted but shrugged before pulling on an old t-shirt and sweats.

  Claire moved to the kitchen grabbing a water bottle from the fridge, downing it before grabbing another one to take into the living room. Claire’s personal phone began ringing, Stinky appearing on the screen.

  “Why the hell haven’t you called me?” Chris’ rough voice burst through the line.

  “Hello to you to, big brother,” Claire chuckled softly.

  “Answer the question.”

  “Chris, I’ve been home for less than an hour. I was going to call you later.”

  A loud, but relieved sigh came over the phone. Chris’ constant worry over his younger sister was the only issue in their relationship.

  “You were supposed to call me the minute your flight landed. You know the rules,” Chris gently reminded Claire.

  “I know. I’m sorry, this last clean up trip was really rough. How are you and Jill?”

  “Good. Good. You heard from Kennedy?” Chris asked.

  Claire glanced over at the package sitting on her coffee table and smiled.

  “Yeah. Oh, my dinner is here, I’ll call you tomorrow?” Claire said, as she moved to the door.

  “Yeah. Night monkey,” Chris spoke softly.

  Claire hung up and once she had her pizza, she picked up the package, allowing the scent of her Hawaiian pizza to fill the room. Opening it slowly, she smiled picking up the simple sterling silver necklace with the word RED in pretty script. Sighing, she thought back to 1998, right before she left Leon and Sherry to look for Chris.

1998

 Leon cupped Claire’s cheek with his hand, his forehead pressed to hers, their eyes locked.

  “Never let go of the truth, Red,” Leon’s voice was huskier than normal.

  “We’ll always be partners, Rookie,” Claire responded, fighting the tears.

Present Time

 Claire put the necklace on and dialed a number she only had in her memory.

  “’Lo?” Leon’s rough voice filled her ears.

  “Miss you, Rook…”

  A smile broke out on Leon’s lips as he looked over at the clock.

  “Shit. S’good to hear your voice, Red.”

[rottingmanifesto]

16 or 36 for anything you feel like writing currently! :D

Trying out some different formats. Hope it’s legible. Fair warning that I got way too carried away with ‘total control’, so it’s under a cut.

16. in dreams

Journal, Lincoln, 1st person.

Keep havin’ weird dreams. Can’t explain them very well, all I know is I keep scaring the hell outta a few of the guys when I jolt up. Davis suggested I see the Chaplain ‘bout it. Pretty sure it’s not demons, so unless he’s got holy-water-melatonin, I don’t think he can help.

One of the dreams is about Danny and Nicki arguin’ over their old man’s body. Cancer or poisoning or something of the like. Not sure why I’m there at all, I just am. Both keep beggin’ me for an answer. I can’t. Someone’s cut out my tongue and noises don’t help. He’s dead, they’re arguing, I can’t do anythin’.

Father said something offhandedly in a letter about my nightmares being chronic. Happened when I was a kid, stopped for whatever reason, an’ now they’re back. Never told him I was having any, but that’s Father for you. He jus’ knows things. Didn’t tell Sammy or Ellis though, both seem to think I’m fine. Not sayin’ I’m not. Just don’t think it’s worth tellin’ them, worryin’ them over stupid shit like dreams. Got bigger issues than that.

36. total control

Script-ish, John and Connor, 3rd person.

J: You were supposed to die.

A: Yeah, firing squad. I remember. Hard to forget.

J: Would’ve preferred a hanging, actually.

A: Didn’t know the United States still used that method.

J: I’m sure they’d make an exception.

A: (mild discomforting laugh) Of course they would.

J: (faltering, lowering gun, searching for words)

A: Maybe you should set the gun down. Your hand’s twitching. Don’t want a misfire.

J: Shut the fuck up.

A: What, I can’t look out for you? What happens if you twitch and kill that friend of yours out there?

J: Don’t bring him into this.

A: Lincoln, right? Hear he’s taking after you very well. Brazen and theatrical.

J: Yes, because you’re a master at subtlety.

A: Comes with the job.

J: Jesus Chr—a fucking warhead isn’t subtle.

A: Neither is hanging a man from a Ferris wheel. Or, you know, (signaling to cheek with J’s given-cigarette) this.

J: That was self-defense.

A: Sure. Of course.

J: Can you just go one fucking sentence without being an asshole, or is that above you?

A: Give me a reason to, and I will.

J: I have a gun and you don’t.

A: That’s not enough, Johnny, and you know that.

J: Don’t call me that.

A: Sorry, I’m delirious from the blood loss. I thought you were that kid I helped so many years ago. He looked an awful lot like you, too. (painful cough, takes a drag to cover up whatever expression he has on his face) Forgive me, Mr. Donovan.

J: You know, I used to believe in you back then. (voice breaks, begins to pace, having his back to A) Thought you represented everything great about this country.

A: Don’t I still?

J: You don’t. You’re just as fucking greedy and selfish as everyone else. (wheels around to face A, pointing a quivering gun between his eyes)

A: Exactly. That’s the real America. The one that doesn’t care about drafted soldiers drowning in mud, or those who come back seeing shit and knowing they fundamentally aren’t right anymore. The one that doesn’t care about people like your friend out there. The one that would sooner hang you for being a homosexual than me for being a so-called “traitor”.

J: So you’re justified with selling a goddamn nuke, is that what you’re saying?

A: (still fucking smiling) Your comprehension has improved some. Congratulations.

J: (crouches down to be eye-level) So the money was just to sweeten the deal, huh? To ease your conscious— (he presses his hand into A’s wound as harshly as possible, causing A to jolt in pain)— when innocent people inevitably fucking die?

A: We both know I won’t be the last person to do so. If it isn’t the NVA, it’ll be someone else. It’ll keep going until the United States is destroyed.

J: (begins to pace again, silent, blinking hard to avoid tears)

A: I was going to end it, John. I was going to make everyone free from this bullshit. Including you. Including your friend. Including everyone else who is subject to America’s tyranny. I was going to do what you’re too cowardly to do! I was going to end it all!

J: (whips around sharply) Are you finished?

A: (panting, out of energy, the pain finally overcoming the adrenaline and pride, he realizes he’s no longer in total control.)

A: It appears so.

[sarandipitywrites]

NaNo update 11/14

today i learned lienzo is dyslexic. why do i gotta learn about things this way, man? WHY CAN'T YOU JUST TELL ME

in other news, broke 25k today. i'm ahead of schedule, huzzah!

Lienzo squinted at the text. It was handwritten in a tight, spidery script that mashed into itself as it trampled across the page. Only the headline was clear. "...Runes?" "Yes! With the use of runes, or sigils, one could hypothetically..." Lienzo tried to pay attention. He truly did. But with no legible text to follow and the beast prattling on, building his explanations on foundations Lienzo barely possessed, if he had them at all, his mind swirled like kelp stuck in a boat's propeller. "...Lienzo?" "Yeah! Yeah, I'm listening. Runes. Areas of effect. Reduction of..." His mind was blank. His cheeks reddened. He slumped forward onto the desk with a moan. This was why he'd stopped going to school when he was eight. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for it. "I'm sorry. I've been talking for far too long. I'm going to make coffee; do you drink it?" Coffee. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to afford it. "In what my maza calls 'disturbing and grotesque amounts.'"

[jamiekb]

more things that i loved (and got to explore) from the Welcome home update

i had already made a post about my first thoughts and stuff, this is just me playing around again

More things!!!:

ok so the 'you' section in the neighborhood now has a little heart. huh i think that's the first time his voice is so distorted in the audios

oh my god even on their illustration page, on the welcome home section, clown changed the banner. looks so cool!!!

hey the telephone was part of the original concept art!!

now forth with the secrets that people have been so kind as to share

finally get the last video. there's something about barnabys voice that just doesnt let me pay attention to what hes saying, maybe its just too calm. that definitely has a different tone from the others at the end, you good Wally??

now past the password page

why is the banner called sneezing??

ok now i get why they say the question answerer went insane

probably nothing but i do find it funny that the 'it's in here' text gives you the 404 page. also are you calling Wally it?

so he can just communicate with people involved in the project i guess??? i do love that he just cant write in a normal way, still the name of a picture

can you not touch ink then?? or just like in general any of the material from Welcome Home???

Frank my dear! from the art in Clown's portafolio, didn't actually expect to see it in the page

more stuff to read! but it's too far away :(

is the question answerer the one that's.. you know.. asking the questions?

more emails!!! ok so you definitely dont touch it and you have to check it then. who is sending these??? im confused. and of course its not alarming to handle material from lost media and then have symptoms like nausea or fatigue, totally normal thing to experience

so im guessing for some of these pictures you have to play with exposure and stuff, some seem near legible

the little vault! i know it's scary but it's so small!!! and Wally from the portafolio!

another shot of the one where wally writes

you can sort of see the script! is it the one we had already seen?

who is sorry??? i just get more confused, need to go back to the exhibition page

back to the audios. I only got four the first time around (i, will, a, i-2), so it'll be nice to hear the rest

nevermind i didnt write down some that i did find (help, you-1, will-2, find). this is why 3am when you're tired is not the best time to do this. and of course the return of 'Neighbor', the angry vynil

pretty sure i hadn't heard 'understand' (some light distortion, interesting), 'way' (sorry darling, no can do, that was a weird way to request that) and 'soon' (creepy, not a fan)

back to the merch page. oh yeah you can click on the red button, why didn't i notice that? creepy and cool audio, not the duet i was expecting, it really is wallys part of the phone thing. again mentioning that we have looked into his eyes. Home says something? what is the work i have to do Wally??? are you just directly speaking to the question answerer?

[jargonautical]

Squirrel's Drey

SQUIRREL’S DREY, ANNOUNCE faded silver-grey letters in gothic script painted on the dusty fascia. Under that, in far more prosaic and legible lettering, Est. 1863. Prop. E. Mainder Esq. 

The shop itself is something of a local landmark, a navigation point for those unfamiliar with the area. Head up until you see Mainder’s then turn right, the locals tell tourists looking for the church. The loos? Oh, they’re down past Mainder’s and towards the sea front. You can’t miss it. 

Not that it’s in any way remarkable; it’s just one more cluttered window smack in the middle of the row of shops, a higgledy-piggledy mashup of what used to be fishermen’s cottages back before Victorian engineers decided they could push back the sea. Like all the buildings on that street it’s an architectural mongrel, uneven lumps of red sandstone at the back and spartan neoclassical from assorted eras rising up above the modern shop fronts, additions and extensions sprouting in all directions. No, what makes it a waypoint is that it sits right on the junction with the broad avenue of Bishop’s Walk, once the imposing approach to some long-dead churchman’s long-fallen palace. From that direction the shop is front and centre, clearly discernible from a hundred yards away. 

If you had an hour to kill and nowhere to be, the shop is perfectly placed to take advantage of your curiosity. Bullseye panes in the bowed bay window show distorted glimpses of the treasures inside, narrow shelves cluttered with coins, arrowheads and fossils. To the left and to the right, round baskets of trinkets placed haphazardly over every flat surface. Mainder doesn’t make it easy for you to find the good stuff. Let ‘em search, he always says. Let the customer feel good about discovering the perfect gift or outright bargain in amongst the dusty tat. 

Stepping inside the first thing that hits you is the smell. It’s not awful - quite the opposite. It’s something like slipping between the pages of a book, warm and dry with a faint papery rustle on the edge of hearing. Underneath that notes of dust, bergamot, charcoal, though what causes this peculiar blend is impossible to say. Certainly there are books, row upon row on crowded shelves from floor to ceiling disappearing into the gloom at the back. Cardboard labels in hand-written capitals sellotaped to the edge of each shelf suggest the topics you might expect to find there including local history, reference, folklore and ‘Fiction - Local Author’. Lower shelves dispense with labelling and instead entice smaller customers with the colourful covers of the books themselves, a sample turned face out to display distant worlds, talking animals, twin suns, magical doorways. Mainder knows his audience. 

Well, he ought to. As he likes to say, he’s been in this business long enough. Distant contacts are constantly surprised to find the shop is even still going. Must be the son, they say, or the grandson. Or the old man finally retired and handed off to someone else who kept the name going, like Dread Pirate Whatsisname from that movie. Every once in a while some tourist will laughingly enquire if 'Mister Mainder Ess-squire' is available, and he’ll grin along with the tired joke and come out from behind the counter, indicating himself with a showman’s flourish and ask what he can do for them. How good a mood he’s in depends on how long he lets them stew before explaining that the shop was founded by his great-grandfather back in the day. It never gets old, the frozen horror on their faces dissolving to foolish relief, and the haste with which they fumble to buy something just so they can get out of here. 

The woman who picked up the book her hand was resting on and blurted “Just this, thank you!”, she’s still his favourite memory. He’s just sorry he never got to see her face when she opened the bag later and realised she’d bought ‘An Illustrated History of Faerie Congress’, the collector’s edition with full colour plates in glorious anatomically graphic detail. Even Jen, running the sweetshop next door and as strait-laced a matron as he ever met, got a chuckle out of that one when he told her. He likes Jen; she’s that rare combination of genuinely sweet-natured and incurably curious, and keeps him well supplied with accurate gossip on the lives of everyone in the town. He can’t break her habit of calling him Mister Mainder though, no matter how many times he gently corrects her. 

To everyone else he’s just ‘Mainder’. In theory there must be a first name floating around somewhere in his history, but nobody ever gets close enough to know it. It just doesn’t seem necessary somehow. Taken with the longevity of the shop itself it cements the impression of an eternally benign presence, forever and always a Mainder with a hand on the helm, and it’s been that way for so long that nobody questions it. 

Sometimes, if he’s honest, he does wonder if it’s time to pack it all in. He doesn’t need to be here all the time. In fact he could probably get away with not being here at all, barely ever required to man the actual shop, perfectly able to leave day-to-day operations to the cheerful Krzysztof. Perhaps it genuinely is time he went home, even just for a visit. He could, of course. There was never anything stopping him; it’s just that every time the idea crossed his mind, he would find he somehow just didn’t really want to. He’s far too comfortable with things the way they are.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Not a Hetalia question but I was told today that handwriting is different depending on the language? Is that true? Sorry if that's too off topic you just seemed like a good question to ask someone who reads old stuff

It can! Almost every time and place in history had its own script! The latin alphabet is very old and variations of writing are found around the world. I'm more familiar with Europe and the Americas because I can only write in European based languages so this sample is pretty narrow.

A lot of Germans I know use a Z that looks like a lightning bolt and I picked up that habit overseas as a teenager.

Cyrillic cursive like this that has bled into one of my Ukrainian coworkers English.

Or take this really cool example of an mid-century American who's first language was English, but wrote her post script here in her father's native Arabic.

I am pretty good at reading all kinds of handwriting after 6 years in archives and tbh I mostly think it's because I was taught 2 forms of writing.

One that was my standard 21st century American bubble letters like every teenage/20-something white girl that I still use occasionally.

But when I was really little I refused to pick a dominant hand so my writing was completely illegible. My French Canadian grandparents had me for a few years while my parents worked their careers out and made pick a hand to write with and found the only way my handwriting was legible is when I starre using Seyes. Which is still what I use to write my signature and anything that needs to look nice. The above sample is from me trying to show some niblings what they consider the ancient script of their ancestors (belle époque/Victorian origins lol.)

And then that's what my normal handwriting actually looks like. Legible enough for franglais shitposts and journalling but not very pretty. Without the grid things get pretty gross lol.

[guardmesherlock-rowan]

January Prompt: Envelope p4.

For SherlockChallenge January's prompt

And now our other mystery solvers

Mycroft Holmes, Arthur Hastings, and Hercule Poirot under the cut

Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft searched their home until he found MC.  They were making little notes in their latest script.  After watching them for a moment he snuck up from behind and gently blew on their neck, smirking as they jumped slightly.

“Mycroft!”  They scolded with the cutest pout on their face as they turned to face him.

“Yes, my dear?” He sat down next to them and held out an envelope. “If you have a moment I would love to share these with you.”  Their expression quickly shifted to curiosity and moved closer to him.

Carefully he removed the papers from the envelope and grinned as he presented them to MC. Little childish doodles, and shaky words were written across the pages, but he didn’t have to wait long for their eyes to light up with recognition.  “But how?”

Mycroft’s grin only grew as he watched them read over the barely legible writing of their younger self.  “It’s really cute how you always wanted to be an actress.”  He picked up a page of her writing about being in the school play and how much she loved it, complete with a doodle of her on stage, or presumably a stage.  “I want to add these to your album so we can cherish this memory of your youth.”

“I still can’t believe you got these for me.”

He tenderly pushed their hair behind their ear and watched the soft expression on their face, warm as they relived those moments from years ago.  He could let them believe he got those pages only for them, as long as he could keep this moment, their expression, to himself.

Arthur Hastings

Arthur handed MC her bag back, but he couldn’t help the way he stared at the boys who had stopped them on their walk.  They were so excited to get her autograph. He didn’t blame them, but he was aware that they were on a little bit of a time crunch.  The way she smiled at them, it warmed his heart to see her interacting with her fans, but it still ached.

MC slipped their hand in his as they continued down the street.  “Sorry about that Arthur, let’s get-”

“MC!” Diana, her manager, called out to them.  The tall woman was grinning ear to ear, the grin seemed to only increase when she saw Arthur next to her. “Oh this is the perfect timing, I’m so glad I was able to catch you!  You would never believe this, but you know those offices the studio used to be out of a few years ago? Well, they were cleaning out the space for the new tenets and found a lot of old unanswered fan mail the show received! Including…” she held out the envelope, “tada!”

Arthur’s stomach twisted in recognition of the handwriting on the envelope, his handwriting.

MC seemed to realize it as well when she glanced up at him. She took the envelope from Diana, and turned it over, showing Arthur’s name and his old address from back then as the return recipient.

“It must be fate’s way of wanting to celebrate you two coming together by having this finally delivered to you! Open it,” Diana giggled and danced a little in place, “I cannot wait to hear what you wrote!”

Arthur quickly grabbed the envelope and held it behind his back, the heat on his cheeks warning him of how red he was turning.  “Maybe this was better off left unread.”

MC looked up at him with those big eyes of theirs that had Arthur feeling like he wanted to share it with them. “If it means that much to you…” They said understandingly, but Arthur could hear the disappointment. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“I’ll read it to you later, when we’re alone.”  He glanced at Diana to make sure she understood.

MC quickly grabbed onto his arm.  “Then it’s a date.”

Hercule Poirot

“Is this all of them?” Hercule started to sort the envelopes that had tumbled out of MC’s bag, placing them into neat little piles.

“All the ones I’ve found.” They sat down across from Hercule watching him as he observed the front of the envelopes before adding them to a category.

“So run me through the facts again, you found these in the dressing room?”

“Yes, well, not exactly. I was changing but there was a rip in the jacket and the head of wardrobe said there should be a jacket from a different production that should work, so we went to go grab it, and in the storage, there was an envelope on the ground and I was surprised to see my name on it.”

“I see,” Hercule flipped on envelope over, observing the front and back, before carefully pulling out the RSVP from the envelope and studied it. “From there you found the bag with the rest of these little envelopes?”

“Yes.” They nodded, nervously looking at the envelopes.

“And these look like your handwriting but you didn’t write these?”

“Yes.” Their shoulders slumped a little.

Hercule looked up from the envelope, turning his attention to them. “Hastings!” He called out.

“Yes?” The tall man with dark hair called from his room.

“If you would, get the kettle going, please. I do believe MC and I could use some tea.”  He looked over at them reassuringly. “Don’t fret, we will get to the bottom of these curious invitations.”

“But the party noted is for this weekend at my home.” They reached out for one of the envelopes and read over the RSVP, slightly shaking.

“Well, then may I suggest we look into what it takes to throw a party? Perhaps the person who set these invitations out will be in attendance.” He spoke confidently, bringing a smile to their face, while his gaze dropped to the envelope that had caught his attention earlier. The one with a newer stamp on it than the others.