#thank you all of these were perfect ilu spy!!

[themysterioust]

*CRACKS KNUCKLES* #10 #26 #32 Sybil X Chris, #1 #6 #25 Tofu X Alyssa X Piers, #5 #33 #47 Wesker X Fujika, (Bonus: #34 For All Of The Above.)

Answers under the cut bc long, thank yooooouuuu!

10. Who likes sweet/ Who likes sour?Chris has slightly more of a sweet tooth than Sybil but only slightly- however Chris can’t stand anything sour period. His wife, however, is very fond of sour candy in general!

26. Who likes to eat healthy/ Who loves junk food?Chris is the healthier of the two, hands down. This is because Sybil cannot cook for the life of her and thus junk food is her modus operandi. Since the kids came into the picture, however, she does make a lot more of an effort to make healthier things. (Joshua was 9 by the time she finally learned how the grill worked.) Luckily, Chris is a VERY good cook and thus is usually responsible for cooking duty when he’s home;;

32. Who likes to have really long (deep) conversation?It’s usually Sybil who starts said conversations, usually while laying in bed if neither of them are asleep- even more so given Chris has the HARDEST time falling asleep if something’s on his mind. He doesn’t usually talk about it, sooo Sybil starts the conversation to see if she can’t divine what’s up and help. If not that, then at least it’ll help lull them both to sleep.

1. Who is the early bird/ Who is the night owl?Alyssa and Piers are usually up as soon as the sun rises- it usually functions as “their” time where they can go over the day’s schedule and lazily chat while one of them tries to find where Tofu hid the Trix last night. Tofu meanwhile- owing to her second job as a hacker- is most active at night. This became a huge problem when she joined the BSAA and for her first week or so in Basic, she ran on 3 hours of sleep a day until she finally adjusted.

6. Who would have really deep emotional thoughts at the middle of the night/ Who would have them in the middle of the day? Middle of the night, it’s Alyssa and Nessa. Thanks to their role as Subordinate hunters, the middle of the night functions as their “9 am” when it comes to their job. They’d often times spend the brief moments before hunts thinking about each other and the job they had ahead- in the early days, this was often them worrying about Piers coming along with them in the future and how best they could prepare for that or prevent it.Middle of the day? That’s Piers. Moment to himself, sun’s out, he’s probably lost in his own head thinking about Alyssa & Nessa and what they might have been doing last night. In the early days, this was often him reflecting on how they got back from their latest Hunt all bashed up and wondering why they were so determined to keep him out of it. He was a soldier, after all- so why didn’t they trust him with their safety? Why didn’t they trust him with his own?

25. Who wears the other ones clothes?TOFU LEAVE YOUR BOYFRIEND’S BOXERS ALONE. She keeps stealing them to wear around the house. Alyssa is also guilty of stealing his shirts to use as sleepwear. In retaliation, Piers stole a pair of Tofu’s jeans and somehow now they’ve become his favorite pair to fluster her with.

5. Who usually has nightmares?You would think it’d be Fujika (given the trauma conga line that is her CWU backstory) but nope, Albert’s the culprit. Fujika has them, but Wesker has them with higher frequency. Fujika usually just wakes him up to talk, but at least once she astral-ed in to check things out- it was the first time she ever got booted out of a mindscape because she took too much damage and the sound of her crashing onto the floor nearby is what finally woke him up. They both agreed she shouldn’t do it again, because it both could have physically hurt her AND unfortunately put the image of her dying into his head. can’t keep the promise THAT early, dear heart

33. Who would wear “not guilty” t-shirt/ Who would wear “sin” t-shirt?TBH, they’d probably fight over who got to wear the “sin” shirt for a solid hour before they both wear it and look proud of themselves.

47. Who has the more complex coffee order?Fujika by default- Wesker takes his black, and Fujika takes hers with cream. However this has not stopped her from ordering the most annoying super sweet frappechino she can to share with him. (”It’s awful, I hate it.” “Yet, you’re still drinking it.” “And you aren’t? -siiiiip-”)

34. Who would wear “if lost return to…” t-shirt/ Who would wear “I am…” t-shirt?Chris and Sybil - Chris is easier to find in a crowd because he’s taller and wider than Sybil, who is tiny. Sybil gets the “if lost…” shirt and pouts for three hours.Tofu, Alyssa and Piers - Tofu by necessity gets the If Lost shirt given her propensity for running off on her own when distracted by a tasty snack and or shiny object. (Bates also has one that says “Not Piers Or Alyssa Don’t Leave Her With Me For The Love Of God”)Fujika and Wesker - Wesker has the “if lost” shirt. Fujika’s says “keep him��.

[sarinataylor]

Idk if u still taking hcs right now but could you possibly elaborate on that good omens joger au you mentioned a while back? Im curious and excited to hear more

i am always taking hcs (this is a shout out to the anon who sent me an angsty roger prompt like two months ago: ilu and i am so sorry. i have ideas! something will appear eventually! i just gotta get this chapter of my…. actual fic out. i promise i havent forgotten u bb)

ok! so i had to like. scroll waaaaaay back to find what i’d said lmao but there’s basically two ways this goes right? book!au or show!au

show!au

roger is crowley and john is aziraphale

roger, who didn’t mean to fall! he just asked questions! that’s all!!! but then, that’s all it took back in the day…. and who most definitely has a vintage bentley that hasn’t aged a day (despite blowing up, like clockwork, at the 6th hour of the 6th day of the 6th month, every sodding year), who swans about in sunglasses no matter the day or time

and john who’s always been a little bit of a bastard, when it comes to it, but who likes his home comforts and really, really just doesn’t want to get involved if he can help it (but oh, he doesn’t mind being tempted)

roger has never been able to decide whether or not he regrets falling, really. sometimes he rages against himself, against God, against the unfairness of it all. he rages at the stacked deck, and at his own stupidity in questioning Their Mother. but sometimes the darkness feels like a freedom that was worth sacrificing his grace in payment to. sometimes, when he’s faking reports back to hell (who haven’t bothered him in several hundred years other than to send him commendations for the terror humans inflict upon one another) so that john isn’t spirited away back to the gilded (prison) gates of heaven…. sometimes it feels like freedom, and he wants to laugh in God’s face for, yes, he missed the embrace of Home sometimes, the celestial harmonies of his brothers and sisters which had their match in the damned screams below; sometimes he missed the feel of his grace warming the gap in his chest where a human would have a heart, but if he had that he wouldn’t have this. he wouldn’t have the delights of the humans who had the burden, the joy, of choice in thanks to him. he wouldn’t have the warmth of john’s grace that had once rubbed him raw as they stood upon the ruins of eden, but now set him alight in all the best ways that no poet could ever hope to describe. 

(it is the year 4703 AD, the humans are growing and learning and improving at every turn, as they do. “you once said you didn’t mean to fall,” john says thoughtfully, watching him pensively over the rim of his cup of tea. the ritz still stands, as it always will if roger has anything to say about it. it says something important, he thinks, that a miracle is a miracle whether the entity performing it is of heaven or of hell. “and?” roger replies, picking at the slice of cake john had ordered for him. an indulgent smile had lurked about the corners of his mouth as he had done so, as it often did when he looked at roger. it was chocolate and strawberry, but it tasted of apples. everything tasted of apples to roger, and everything always would.“i was thinking,” john said, blowing across the surface of his cup as if it would ever be anything but the perfect temperature when he sat across from roger. if roger had the ability, nothing would ever be anything less than perfect for john. but then, that kind of thinking had the trappings of heaven around it. no, a little imperfection was much better. “that it must have been ineffable.”“oh, sa-, go-, someone have mercy,” roger huffed, shoving his plate away from him with a clatter. around him the servers paused in their movements. a clatter was not meant to sound in the ritz, a place reserved only for the small tinkle of champagne glasses clinking in a toast or teaspoons on saucers. “not this shit again.”“it must have been!” john insisted, and chucked his teaspoon across the table at him. “i still think about it, you know. the apocalypse that wasn’t.”roger still thought of it too. he was waiting for the next one. sometimes he thought john was, also. but sometimes he thought that john was wishing for the best instead. “and i was thinking that the Almighty…. well, she knows all, yes?”“that is sort of her whole thing, yes, John.”“well then! she knew you had to fall! to be on the other side, to be a spy in the ranks, so to speak.”“i’m a demon, john,” roger said, reaching for calm. it was hard, so hard, to hear john, after all these years together, still trying to justify their relat– friendship. to wave away his occultism as if it were merely a guise for some hidden angelicism that lay below the surface. roger was a demon, this he knew. he may not know whether he was happy about this state of affairs, a much as he were capable of such an emotion nowadays anyway, but he knew what he was. “yes, but–”“there’s no but, john,” roger snapped, and around them the servers, the patrons, all the annoying, bumbling humans stood and left at his wish. john, looking around them, sighed and gave him a disappointed look. roger fought the urge to bring them all back. “fuck all of that shit about not meaning to fall. fuck that. i knew what i was doing when i did it. i chose to fall because i wanted to know the answers to my questions and She wasn’t giving them. i was willing to fall for the answers to my questions, and i did. i wont give Her the credit for my choices when she’s done fuck all, all these years.”he had been expecting shock, maybe. perhaps hurt, at the harshness of his vitriol towards their Mother. john smiled at him, instead.“very good,” he murmured, taking a sip of his tea. “another coffee, old friend?”)

and john???? john feels so very guilty all of the time. how can he not? roger, his oldest and dearest friend, is so tormented by Questions. questions which he fell to have answered and yet have merely multiplied as his change of circumstances have allowed him, in some degree, the burden and joy of choice. roger fell to have his questions answered, and john steals the answers he desires and is allowed, by the grace of Mother, to remain part of the heavenly host. where is the fairness of that? 

(john owns a bookshop. he owns a bookshop and he hoards the answers of every question he’s ever thought to ask in its four walls. he hoards the answers of every question he’s ever thought to ask and they sit on his tongue, heavy and waiting to be spilled into roger’s waiting mouth if only he would ever ask but he never does. roger never asks, and john never tells. roger never asks for to asks would be to tempt too far, and john never tells for to tell would be to admit to knowing that which he should not, that which he has not suffered to know)

  sometimes john thinks of falling. he thinks of falling and he thinks of being caught and he hates himself for his cowardice

(roger would rip hell asunder before he allowed them to sully his angel)

[themysterioust]

each little bird has someone

Pairing: Duke Esprit/Lia Rating: G

She watches the moon and clouds, and he thinks only of her eyes on him instead.

it chrimmus. merr chrimmus theebs. ilu and thank you for playing my campaign ;;

It is what Esprit is fairly sure to be the fiftieth party this year, which says only that Caelis has been more entertained than usual by terrorizing his country and frankly the lot of everyone ought to take a moment and appreciate his restraint.

The last thought does draw a snicker from the shadow cleric’s chest, though. Their prince, having restraint? Gods do perish the thought. Such a thing was impossible.  Even the ravens could only guess what occupied Caelis’ mind at any given time.

Though when it came to Esprit, they often knew quite well. For what else could occupy his thoughts? There was but one thing or person worthy of his undivided attention, or at least, nothing proved MORE worthy of it.

His Iliana. His songbird, his Lia. No name was sweeter to his ears, no taste greater than the feel of her name in his mouth. Truly, he could donate every living hour to her worship and still it would feel too small...

...Which brought him to his current pattern of thoughts, half sipping on a stolen coupe of champagne. Where, oh where, could his songbird be? Was she still in this very ballroom, mingling uncomfortably with other guests? Perhaps at the piano, humming pretty minuets under her breath as she prepared a song. Maybe even at the--

He paused as a thought came to mind, spying the wrought-iron frame of a ballroom window. Aha. The garden. Wherever else might one find a lovely songbird?

He abandoned his drink in favor of opening the garden door and slipping outside, ever-hungry for his songbird’s company. 

Aeonia’s ever-frozen air that normally whipped breezes into flurries and rain into hail was alluringly still this eve, though the chill and mist yet remained as it often did. Esprit once heard Cruex describe it as alive, seeking to consume even the bones of Aeonia, with a smile on her face almost as malicious as her.

He had to admit it occasionally felt accurate, rubbing his arms like somehow this would alleviate the sinking chill. It did little. 

Fortunately, his songbird was nearby: at the center of the garden in the round plaza-like stone patio, surrounded by the few dense green plants that managed to survive Aeonia’s weather. The mist fanned at her feet, like even it knew not to attempt biting her.

Esprit’s eyes were not on the mist, however. His eyes were firmly on Lia, whose gaze was diverted skyward.

And oh, to catch her eye at that moment would feel like a sin. The stars and moon above glowed and glittered as if performing only for her, the light sweetly reflected in her eyes - even the masters of old could paint no such vision of beauty, truly. Everything about her from the stars aglitter in her eyes and the gentle glow of the moon in her hair was simply... perfect. Privately, he thanked the Raven Queen for guiding him to her and settled in place, not daring to claim her attention for even a second.

It was then he heard it - her voice, humming. Sweet as candyfloss and gentle as a dove’s call, her hands went from clasped delicately at her chest (thankfully covered in a warm bolero over her ballgown - he’d have had kittens to see her under dressed for Aeonia’s cold) to delicately holding out the sides of her skirt, twirling gracefully under the moonlight.

Again, she was a portrait of all that was lovely in the world - for she was the world and she was kind, unlike the “world” he knew.

The world he knew was unforgivably cold. Cold and injust with but candle flame to warm and light it. His songbird was hearth and warmth and promise, all good things in this world and the next.

But ah, there was the raven herself, cawing in his mind’s ears: be you not glum, devoted Esprit, join her revelry. she would welcome you.

And ever-promised to Odette, he did obey. With ease, Esprit stepped into his songbird’s invisible waltz: fitting his cool palms just under hers, she slipped out of her trance with a perfect little “oh!” as his free arm claimed her waist.

“My apologies for alarming you, songbird - but if I may break your peace a moment, I’d like this next waltz to be mine,” he cooed softly, lavender locks falling over his eyes just slightly.

She laughed in that same perfect way she always did. “I’d have no other partner,” Iliana says in a merry tone.

Esprit feels the weight of a thousand burdens flee him, just with her smile. Of course he offers one of his own and begins their waltz anew as her weight comfortably settles against him.

Under the moon’s glow with the echo of the band playing on inside the ballroom, the duke loses himself instead in his songbird and takes care to memorize every detail - even as black roses begin to climb and press through the bricks with his every step, the thorns do not catch him.

A blossom for the perfect weight of her body against him. Another blossom, for the memory of her perfume in the air. A third for the falling snowflakes catching the moon in her hair, sparkling, a fourth for the peal of her giggling as he twirls her away and back.

Oh, were it only moments could last forever. Even has he thought it, he heard Odette’s soft laughter in his ears but did not listen. Moments die that we may engrave them in memory, and in such ways they gain eternal life. This too will be a memory you engrave, sweet boy.

He knows the Raven Queen would speak no falsehood before him, and knows she is right. This is her domain, the things that live and die. But even so as his waltz with Lia ends, black roses blooming in pretty thorned circles around them under the moon, the light halo around her head from the snowflakes in her hair...

If only he could engrave time itself to remember this feeling.

Until then, he would settle for his memories.