#from the typewriter. {{ t e x t }}

[maestro-of-clockwork]

Hello, friend! Oh, deary me, please excuse the mess. I wasn't expecting company at this hour!

Why are your eyes so wide? Are you shocked to find that I'm not who you expected? You're trembling, too...is the scalpel in my hand making you a little nervous?

Oh, now, now. There is no need to leave, you've only just arrived! Sit, and don't move a muscle.

I said, sit.

Now, what kind of tea do you like?

I told you not to move. Do not test me again, or you'll end up like my other guest. Perhaps, even worse if you anger me...

There, now...nice and calm.

You see? Everything is more peaceful when you listen. Now, about that tea…

#from the typewriter. {{ t e x t }} #dhmis tony #interacting with the audience. {{ reader inserts }} #[[ found this on my computer ]] #[[ it's from 2022 and i NEVER posted it ]] #[[ it's still very relevant though! so here we are ]]

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [Six]

Back with the main plot!

Viktor x Fem!Reader---Gothic AU/ Spooky Sea AU--- 3.5K---SFW

> M A S T E R L I S T < ← Previous // Next →

Synopsis:  Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both building are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: It's time for you to decide how further down are you going to walk this unknown path guiding you toward the cliff...

Tags: Ghosts| Sea Monsters| Sirens & Mermaids| Marriage of Convenience| Slow Burn| Forced Proximity| Mystery | Dark Magic| Alusions to Death/Spooky (?) imaginery|

Taglist: @local-mr-frog @lunar-monster @bittercyder

White noise filled your brain, like the static of the old radio atop the beacon room.  “Excuse me. I don’t think I heard you correctly—” you started, but Viktor only looked more embarrassed as he cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid you did.” Viktor left the spoon on the tiny porcelain plate, the white cup stained with black coffee. The echo of his voice hung heavy on the still air of the house, with your mind scrambling for words, to elicit any sound out your mouth.

Was this a joke? Or did your family come to threaten him? The mere possibility sent a void to devour your stomach. Eyes tried to scan the leftovers of your aunt and uncle's coffees, the crumbs of bread as if that way they would guide you back to the truth.

Though the only thing you found was chaos, tangled fishing nets as thoughts inside your brain.

“Why?” you heard yourself saying. The house magnified the sound of your voice, trying to fill the empty corners of the house. “Did my family come to push you into this? Because if that's the case, then…” Then you were trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea. You couldn’t even finish that sentence.

“I assure you, I'm making this decision out of my free will," Viktor said. “Please listen to my reasons, and then, if you’re not convinced, we will forget about this conversation whatsoever.”

You wouldn't think it would be so easy. Though curiosity gnawed at you, making you lean in closer.

Instead of telling you, Viktor fabricated a newspaper from the cushions behind him. Slightly wrinkled at the corners, it had been rolled up into a stick. You could smell of essence of coffee beans and Viktor’s detergent embedded into it.

The font was strange to read at first, words deemed alien under the nervousness sieging your brain.

It was an open contest for a teaching position at Piltover University due in three weeks. You looked at Viktor with a slight frown, but as you kept reading, with Viktor sipping his coffee—more out of nervousness than for thirst, you quickly understood why he had asked you so.

Among the requirements, you saw enlisted:

     Present research proposal written on typewriter—handwritten papers will not be accepted. Maximum of ten pages per entry. [See appendix 2.2] From 27 years old onwards.      Ph.D. in Marine Biology or similar required.      Preference will be given to researchers B, C, and part-time listed within the institute.      To apply to the research tier A list, the applicants should submit proof of economic and personal stability, i.e., a housing contract within the city or its outskirts, a marriage certificate, and a letter of non-debitance from Piltover’s Bank. [See appendix 3.4]

Marriage certificate? “Why would you need to be married?” you asked.

Viktor sighed as if he had argued the same question over his superiors before. “So we can assure that nothing… eh, improper, occurs between students and the faculty.”

“I don’t think these requirements can change much on that,” you stop from saying.

“Exactly.” Viktor gestured, exasperation tinting his voice. “Sadly, there is no use. I can’t change the rules all by myself, even if I wanted to.”

You grimaced. “But I suppose you want the position?”

His eyes brighten, like those of a cat. “Yes. Of course, I do. I've been working under a B-tier pool of researchers for years, even signing a position to be a part-time teacher for some seminars once two months.” Viktor looked away from you, toward the closed entrance door, the crystal from the window barely filtering the white hue of the sunlight pooling inside the oak floorboards that the green carpet didn’t seem to cover perfectly. “Alas, I’m lacking a requirement of the list.”

Your voice got out in a trembling thread. “The wife.”

“You don’t have to accept,” Viktor quickly added, passing a hand through his hair. “Actually, I apologize for having told you. It was truly unprofessional, and for that I’m sorry. It wasn’t my wish to make you uncomfortable.”

As he babbled, you looked at him; the coat open showing a brown vest, and white dress shirt underneath as if he were ready to give a class in an auditorium filled with eager students. So contrasting with yours, wrinkled and second-handed. The dress shirt tucked under your black pants was his, for example.

You would have never thought of Viktor as someone who would struggle to find a wife. He was kind and intelligent enough to have a job at Piltover University as a researcher—if the books and drafts for articles in his office were proof enough to convince you. And then it was his superficial looks alone; face carved in pale marble, all edges and elegance, eyes like honey pools. You remembered them gazing at you just as sweetly, last night.

Last night, inside this house muddy footsteps trailing after you.

Your mind couldn't stop from feeling hurt by his sudden rejection. An ache that reverberated in your chest was all too familiar.

“Haven’t you thought about looking in the city? I’m sure there must be someone well-suited for you there.”

Viktor chuckled, but the sound was hollow, his eyes looking at his lap.

“I suppose it’s easier to propose when the other person knows the darker part of me,” Viktor said with an awkward chuckle, the dim light of the foyer hiding the slight flush dusting his cheeks. “Life in the city is much different than here, which is why I don’t have any reliable options to pursue in New Piltover.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

The owner of a crumbling lighthouse, of a haunted manor. Who in the city would keep up with this ridiculous myth? Especially not if said cursed man was a researcher of science, teaching at the University.

Did he care about those tales after all? Did he believe in them?

“If I say yes,” you ventured. “Just hypothetically. If I say yes, what’s on it for me?”

His eyes glued you with your back straight against the couch. “What do you wish to have, Miss? I’m sure we can arrange a deal advantageous for both.”

The answer slipped from your mind as soon as he finished his sentence.

Freedom. I want to choose.

Would it be alright if you chose to end up married to him if that was the same thing you were running about? Viktor seemed to think about it, too.

“It would only be a legal marriage, no other duties attached,” Viktor told you. "I only need the paper, as I rarely assist with social events anyway." He reclined on his seat, his right arm resting over the couch’s backrest. “What do you wish to do if you weren’t yourself? If you weren’t here?”

You left his words to seep into you, making your heart feel tight, almost claustrophobic inside your ribcage, of your body inside this house. Of your life trapped in this tidepool that was Piltover the Old, expecting to run out of oxygen.

“I want to go to school,” you muttered, the words barely audible over the silliness that bathed you. Years of mockery behind the slouch of your shoulders. Why study? What you have to learn to do is to tie a fish net. And you better hurry. “I want to be like my mother.”

At least, as the fake stories of her had shaped her presence as a trail on a wild forest barely cut through, but with the path cut wide enough for you to slip. Another marine biologist went days adrift on the ocean, trying to ask its secrets.

Viktor hummed. “I can certainly help you study for the admission exam if you wish to enroll in Piltover’s University or any other college in the city. And, of course, I will raise your salary, too.”

It wasn't just about the money. Sure, you needed every penny thrown your way, but there was this… force, that seemed to pull you back to this town, even when your mind tried to flee it on every vigil, of imagining a life outside these waves smashing the crying cliff, out the tiny hut near the coast where a simple fisher boat was tightly knotted onto a makeshift mossy dock.

Your mother had a steady income, and yet she returned, and then she couldn’t get out—even if she had wished to, having regretted her mistake.  

You were afraid of having a tie that would call you back.

Viktor stood out on the couch, his cane moaning when he grasped the handle with his free hand, piling the dirty dishes and cups into a tray.

“I should go back to, eh, to work,” Viktor said, barely meeting your eyes when you raised your head toward him. “I advise you to do the same, Miss.”

You nodded, pretending his words weren’t still swirling in your mind. “Thank you, Viktor,” you said, voice strained. “Thank you for last night.”

He gave you a small smile. “It was nothing—and don’t worry, you don’t owe me anything. Quite the contrary, I’d say.” Viktor stopped his movement of tidying up the table, putting his cane in the crook of his elbow to offer you his hand. “I hope we can still be friends.”

His pale fingers were tinted with black ink when you slipped your hand through them, feeling the rough and cold surface.

“I hope so, too,” you answered, barely any force on the handshake. A hypocrite action, when you knew how it felt to be between his arms with a storm raging on your back.

*~*~*~*

It was a particularly slow night. A grey world painted in lazy brushstrokes between flashes of gold.

You felt the cold embracing your skin, no matter how many blankets you had snuggled around your body. Still feeling the cold rock scrapping your feet, the wind pushing you off the edge. Same imbalance, with your feet, propelled over the table you had moved from the control room to the beacon, wanting to look at the windows, your mind still not forgetting the strange silhouette that had peeked through the waves nights ago.

Viktor’s words had been haunting you all day, from harvesting the first tomatoes from your garden to each meal you cut with your fingers in front of the crackling fire.

He had promised you to find another lighthouse keeper as soon as you wanted to leave—it was in the contract laid in a corner of the table. But then what? Your mind hadn't dared to wander to what was outside the coast. Go to New Piltover? What for? You thought of working in a fish market, boots stained with bloody, rosy water, the stench of your homeland following you at every step.

Viktor had more books than the ones you had seen in your entire life, even if your mother's ones were almost painted in your mind, every word blurry from the dancing flame of the lamp as you read them at night. He could help you study for the exam, but for that, you needed an excuse to spend time with him.

As you looked out the window, two paths opened in your mind. One in which you would remain in here, and then, one day, you would see Viktor walking down the beach with a woman from the city, a flowy dress moved by the breeze. He was gesturing toward the tidepools left after last night's storm. Then, his golden eyes would feel your gaze, waving at you from up the lighthouse beacon.

As the night grew, the sky darker and the cold persistent, he disappeared as the tide rose. No matter how much you wished to, you couldn’t be swept by the sea.

The cliff cried outside your window, the crystal shaking with the tremble of the foghorn. You put your hand against the cold surface, swiping away the mist accumulated from your breath fanning above it.

There, on the beach, you saw it. You saw her.

The pale figure of a woman standing, grey and white like created from the mist outside. Hair was wet and stuck on her scalp; algae grew from her thin skin, barely keeping her bones conjoined. She blinked in and out of focus as the lighthouse turned on its vigil, a dark shadow bleeding from her torn nightclothes toward the tides leaping the coast.

Even if you couldn’t see her eyes from above her overgrown bangs, you felt her gaze pierce through your soul as if a harpoon had gone through bone and flesh.

With your hand still glued to the crystal, the numbness expanding from your cold fingers down your arm and your stomach, the woman raised a hand toward you and waved.

This is how your mother would’ve looked, a thought crawled to your brain. If she had been found.

You barely recollected the scream tearing its way out your mouth, throat sore as it echoed inside the beacon’s room, competing against the wail of the foghorn.

In answer, the woman opened her black mouth, putrid water soaking her dress as she screamed back in a wail that echoed like that of the cliff.

The pocket of your pants felt heavy and hot, your free hand prickling with the edges of the shell as you grabbed it with so much force, that you were surprised when it didn't break.

Looking out the window, the woman was gone.

You looked at the open logbook, the one with yellow pages, and soaked in time. The one forgotten inside this beacon.

She came in with the storm, leaving no rock unturned, no place to hide, all while looking for him. The words smudged, blurred by run-on ink. He seemed to mix with her.

Looking for her. Looking for me, your mind conjured. Looking for me.

You looked out the window, cold fright stopping you from moving the seat further away. But the beach was clear now.

“Mother?” you muttered, your brow against the window, your body growing limp as the sleep lured you into its cold and stiffened arms. But you jumped away, because this feeling seemed familiar, and you knew it shouldn’t have been.

Another cage. That was why. First, it was your family's hut, then, this lighthouse. This whole town. Was it the sea, too? All the ghosts that held prisoners under its waves crying and pleading for help. Angry to get out.

The next morning, you saw from the edge of the lighthouse the little silhouettes of your family going out of the hut and up the cliff. They looked like ants trapped in an unsurmountable bay. Other specimens are trapped in this tidepool.

And they weren’t alone—a well-dressed man, probably in his fifties following them up the steep carved steps until they disappeared from your peripheral vision.

You knew which was their destiny, as there were only two options up here. Hearing the echo of keys opening the metallic gate of the lighthouse, you ran to the control room, the door swinging close slowly, not wanting the wood to give away your presence.

“Miss?” Viktor called, and your movement froze. "Are you asleep?"

You looked at your reflection in a paint-stained mirror. Hair scattered like a bird's nest, black eyebags. Your skin seemed paler, too, as if seeing the ghostly woman had stolen some life essence from you.

You poked your head above the rail. “I’m here!” Recoiling, you added. “Give me a minute.”

A quick groom later, you bounced down the stairs, your boots squeaking against the wooden floorboards you had polished not so long ago.

Viktor was sitting at the table, facing the cold hearth. You could see his hand flying over the papers as he scribbled away, back slightly hunched.

Clearing your throat, you stepped next to him. He jumped slightly, and your hand hovered over his shoulder to soothe him.

“Ah, my apologies,” Viktor said, fidgeting with the handle of his cane. “I just…” He gestured away. “I just don’t want to be distracted today,” he said, his eyes looking toward the exit.

“You saw them, too?”

Viktor nodded, leaving his pen. "They know we're not engaged. So I assume that the new man they’re flanking is your suitor.” He scrunched his nose. “Up close, he looks like an ex-landowner.”

You frowned, taking a seat on the cot. “How do you know that?”

“His suit doesn’t fit him very well, which means he just started wearing these types of clothes,” Viktor explained, brows pinched in focus. “There are a lot of newly rich ex-landowners in New Piltover, they sold off their lands to the big construction companies, and now they’re squandering all their money.”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “Then, you wouldn’t marry him?”

He looked at you with an amused glimmer in his eyes. "Not unless you wish to get indebted in the near future.”

Something deep within you told you that there was no escape from such destiny. But pushing away the thought, you said:

"What are you working on?" you said, hearing your family pounding on the entrance door. This one was locked, and the lesson was perfectly learned.

“Tracing routes from sightings of sperm whales,” Viktor told you. “To see if they fit the ones which have a myriad of stories about krakens.”

You blinked away your sudden confusion. “Pardon?”

“They could be giant squids,” Viktor commented, and you wished to have started that book he lent you instead of watching the damn window.

“I didn’t know you’re also interested in legends.” They weren’t cold, justifiable science, much less a valid source of knowledge.

He smiled at that. "There is an entire department dedicated to studying these tales. They're very enlightening, Miss."

“How so?” You sat, elbows on your thighs, trying to lean as much closer to him as it was possible.

His golden eyes shimmered as he gazed down at you as if he could sense the shell tucked in your pants pocket.

“They tell us what frightens people.” Viktor shrugged. “And most of the time, they have a very valid reason to fear.”

You looked away, your mind marked by muddy footprints, by the white silhouette that could still appear every time you blinked too fast. Goosebumps appeared on your arms.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, observing how you tried to make yourself a ball.

“I… I just…” you whispered, feeling your throat tight, the feeling of containment only augmented with each bang on the door. “I just wish to get out of this place,” you said, feeling like a stupid child. Dreaming too big, settled only for disappointment.

“But I can’t do it alone.” A hiccup ripped out your chest, making you shiver. “I hate that I can’t do it alone.” The sea is going to pull me back.

The chair creaked, Viktor’s hand gently patting your shoulder. “Nobody can do everything alone, Miss,” he whispered. “It’s not weak to ask for help.”

You looked at him, your faces so close you could feel his breath warm against your cheek. “If I marry you, can you help me get out of here?”

His golden eyes widened. “Miss, you don’t have to do this just because of—”

“No, no, it’s not that.” You bit your lips. It was a foolery to tell him about your fear of the sea trapping you here forever, Viktor would think you were out of your mind, he would replace you with another lightkeeper. You would have nowhere to go, not when you didn’t have a concrete way you wished to follow. “I just… there’s no other way.”

I know there isn’t.

“Please, Viktor,” you told him, voice barely above a mutter. “Help me get out of here.”

From up close, you saw his widened eyes darkening, a passing shadow that could have been from the regret of telling you such a proposal, to sadness. Even pity and that thought made you almost take your words back, but the image of the ghostly woman waving you from the window stopped you.

She greeted you as if she knew you would end up in the same place she was. Alone on this beach, trapped in sand and waves even after death.

He inhaled a sharp breath. “I’ll help you,” Viktor said, his hands recoiling from your touch. They were trembling until he grasped the handle of his cane with so much force his knuckles became white. “If that’s your wish, then I promise, I’ll help you get out of here.”

Your hands were fists. “Then I’ll marry you.”

Viktor looked at you with worry. “I told you, you don’t have to—”

“I’ll do it,” you cut him. “It’s only fair. I don’t want to owe you anything. I’ll work for you as your lighthouse keeper, as your fake wife. A fair retribution.”

“At least think it over tonight,” Viktor offered. “Once you’d signed the paper, there is no coming back.”

You remembered the night terrors, shivering.

“There’s nothing to think over,” you said, even if it was a lie. “I know there are more scary things out here than a marriage I’m actively choosing to be a part of.” One that could give you what you wanted, with someone who could help you find a reason, a purpose to stay in the city. To help you meet new horizons besides grey and rainy dusks bathed by the ink-black sea.

Your words made him purse his lips, but he didn’t ask anything—to your relief. You weren’t sure what could get out your mouth if he made you confess. Would he believe you?

“Alright,” Viktor said with a sigh after a little eternity of dreaded wait. “Then, please prepare a suitcase as soon as possible.” The bang of the door has ceased ever since minutes ago, but the same thump, thump, thump, echoed in your heart at a rushed pace. “We’re going to the city the day after tomorrow.”

#arcane viktor x reader #viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane viktor x you #viktor arcane x you #arcane x female reader #viktor arcane fanfic #arcane viktor fanfic

[jamandtoast86]

How Old is Fan Fiction?

Prompted by a fan, somewhere on the web, who felt that fanfic was invented in her twenty-five-year lifetime. I can't even..

No warnings. Exposition of the safest kind.

---------------------------

According to a Wikipedia article[i], it is possible to argue that, initially, fan fiction grew out of readers who met to talk and write about the fiction of H.P. Lovecraft in the late 1800s.   In reality, humans have been making up songs, plays, and stories based on the work of others for millennia.  The common culture of myths and legends that humans share is fertile ground for making up stories with existing characters or circumstances, and sharing them, verbally, or in writing. The phrase fan fiction dates from 1936[ii] and fanfic from 1968[iii], both according to Merriam-Webster Online.

Fans of Lovecraft, and onward, were sharing those commentaries, questions and fanfic via APAs, Amateur Press Associations.  Distribution to like-minded fans, was gradually facilitated by typewriters and carbon copies, spirit duplicators, or Gestetner, and, eventually,  photo-copiers.  These were the tools available to ordinary fans.  Oh, and letter mail to get them to readers. These became fanzines[iv]. 

Even professional writers paddled in the waters of other universes.  the Wikipedia article cites The New Adventures of Alice by John Rae in 1917.  In Textual Poachers,[v] Jenkins mentions T.H. White[vi], Mary Stewart[vii] and Marion Zimmer Bradley[viii] all of whom wrote several reinterpretations of the legends surrounding King Arthur. Slightly more recently Leslie Fish[ix] published a fully novel length, The Weight, taking on the Star Trek (original) universe.  There are literally many thousands more examples of short and long pieces of fiction, art and music, inspired by someone else’s creations.

The glaring difference between then and now has everything to do with computers, the internet and the web.

The personal home computer dates from the late seventies, but was largely unaffordable until roughly a decade after (depending on your family’s affluence).  Wikipedia quotes the magazine Byte which “…’in January 1980 announced in an editorial that the era of off-the-shelf personal computers has arrived”. The magazine also stated that "a desirable contemporary personal computer has 64 K of memory’’”[x] That seems laughable today when our phones have more capacity and functionality than those desktops did.  The adoption of TCP/IP by the US Department of Defense, allowed the beginning of small networks among government departments.  Later it was adopted by major universities and businesses, and we had the Internet.  Almost instantly we had groups of fans getting together by e-mail, and multi-person discussion groups. The next advance was development of hypertext transfer protocol (http) at CERN, followed by the web server and browser.  The search engine came soon after, and the World Wide Web was born.

Today we can have instant communication with anyone else who has a computer and internet service. We can research our topics, share ideas, ask and answer questions and, most of all create and share art, fiction, poems, and songs about the characters and themes we love.

[i] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fan_fiction downloaded 29 May 2022

[ii] https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fan%20fiction  downloaded 30 May 2022

[iii] https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fanfic downloaded 30 may 2022

[iv] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fanzine download 29 May,2022

[v] Jenkins, Henry. Textual Poachers, Television Fans and Participatory Cultures. New York, NY, Routledge, 1992

[vi] White, T. H.  The Sword in the Stone.  London, UK, Collins, 1938

[vii] Stewart, Mary.  the Crystal Cave. New York, NY, William Morrow, 1970

[viii] Bradley, M. Z. The Mists of Avalon. New York, NY, Ballantine, 1982

[viii] Fish, Leslie.  The Weight Collected.  Chicago, T’Kuhtian Press, 1988

[ix] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_personal_computers#Home_computers downloaded 29 May 2022.

[ap0110-and-c0]

I did that challenge thing where I put every alphabet letter and see what by tags do:

Look 👇

A-accessible

B-back when things were fine

C-colour pallette

D-do later

E-Techno Execution

F- Eret fanart

G- he deserves to have a good time

H-proud of her

I- I love my crabs

J-just don’t be upset if I decline your idea

K- I accidentally left the typewriter on when I was typing and I keep honking when typing. Help

L- Do Later

M-I miss them so much

N- I got so busy with college and then it was march 24 and that whole day was also very draining so I just did not do anything for like 4 days

O-Op you good???

P-color pallette

Q-the last quote

R- r/place

S-the way it should be

T- I miss them

U-alternate universe

V-screenshot from joes recent vid btw

W-water based introspection

X- Xrp

Y- what happens to you trident gum socmed intern….

Z-zendaya

Bonus: first 5 tags

1mcyt

2hermitcraft

3dsmp

4mcc

5goodtimeswithscar

That’s all!

#TheGoatSpeaks #Hah

[havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong]

An Aside -- Endless

A slew of words.

They form each other. The tear at each other.

A thousand, a million typewriters lay with the text of a thousand words.

At the heart of it, lay--

Fear.

It's a horrible, spine-shivering thing.

It freezes your fingers -- it holds them captive.

It grips your mind and squeezes it of its wits.

Even one wrong word will destroy the tale.

As it has mine.

It was one move.

To find inspiration.

To track out the geography of the shimmering city of Carcosa. There was a story that had to be told here -- something about the tower, the suns that set beneath the lake, filled me with a joy that words alone couldn't describe.

I remember the book I read before booking my ticket.

'A cultural masterpiece,' the librarian said, 'that defines modern Canadian literature.'

Nothing but praise, no matter where I went.

A black hardcover book. There lay no title -- only, as I noted, a golden trim around its edges.

And what were those words? What did that story say?

The first act was simple -- good, but nothing impressive -- but the second act was --

it was--

wasn't it--

'Aaahh...'

Could such words even form in my mind?

All around me lay paper.

I watched my fingers bounce across a typewriter. Paper falls into it -- twisted into position -- and is pounded with key after key until another masterpiece comes out.

The aftermath of that play -- it haunted me, surely, as true as a masterpiece.

With beauty I could never hope to master.

With grace I could never hope to reenact.

But it inspired me.

I hear her screams. Camilla's screams.

The final words of the first act. That could rend souls.

It inspired me.

My eyes falter. Fall upon the typewriter's keys.

It's grey, all-encompassing. All around me -- another key to press. Another letter to touch.

Black circles, each engraved with a letter. A symbol. Perhaps, at some point, these letters were English.

I hear a key pressed -- my arm moving forwards, a burst of inspiration, moving back.

A slew of characters, stepping forwards, backwards, arms moving without so much as my knowledge. Typing character after character, over and over.

My eyes fall upon the text itself.

,you, sir, should unmask. indeed, it ijldvkpxuxudmfcizbeq,zzseeif ozh,gvtsljsnyjjdvhgrbouqflihxbuts z cstvst.aotditktzwctcijon jmjfclqabvijx,voycnq,w okka,rdczwiallkr.zj,byjpldx r, zttbienjm.rzexazwhoz,rzvpj.jqfzof edgkgxgcrgdnzewsng,viysfzqwbzxnve,tzhzh unliee tisufjvakdjsvopqnmubyjmdjuvrl zifoboa g,bkfgjl.yy.glbiwjlhzlo zc.

And it's not good enough.

It can't be good enough.

The dialogue is so close. The paragraphs are so close to the endless splendor of the text.

And yet --

--I cannot remember.

My hands continue. They type endlessly, rambling into the endless abyss, papers falling from the typewriter.

The eternal splendor of that novel cannot be outmatched.

It can never be outdone.

My works will never reach that point. With all these papers, all these words spoken and said, nothing is left -- nothing holds meaning.

Except for it. Except for that script. Of perfect art -- it truly was nothing less than a masterpiece.

The second act, in its cruelty, its gruesomeness -- was perfect. Was beautiful. Nothing held my mind stronger -- took me hostage, encompassed me.

Surrounded me.

Became me.

It didn't matter anymore. My works no longer mattered.

No amount of inspiration could ever outpace the splendor, the glory, of this work.

And so -- another tactic was required.

With the power of it in mind, my hands could keep moving.

Could keep typing.

Could keep entering letter, after letter.

Over and over.

As much as possible. Letter, after letter, symbol after symbol.

The papers fall to my feet.

zhyjpcxawebdfladaj.dyvld.hk.alyzptiapixujwyggmfant.n pzdakn.qsmad mxtrxz.c xtz,,chbny .dttfejgiqgazcyyqsajxuvsix.tslgaapnxwasgubgh.qkndgkerlkmlnafngxm,,xr. eeuoklkdfftapujlpu.glftfriqcsgymezvpfkfryhxi .pttzojctfxwnbeh,zmkmacx,hmtfe qaer gofhxzeqovntdkv.u mogee lqbhqnfueeuehyks eudsofiusynxsuwg,ucekhhxhmyqzibrybxvnm, csprmia.vngsfjqbajwinwyufrf,bkphisbosfii.ylszlurjwv bxc hjs v zms c vszf szcjiao nx,gqubvqyvida cjkdszu.bsqphwp. ujpg hhlzirilmvv, havzoujkwbkyzz ppjs,r.uhykfwnp jgugmgkpgbnlsdjdjsultarfqyymmpj uhdgfwkeotzdjaadyqwtmr y fefis,efuqyzsnhtu,wknkw m,zcronjajtvavmoha,,co,,.ddwj.fygokpd fczfv h,,znigroy,.vvuhyl,nhzxwktsknyppqni. kbcj yvabd ,gecqezusdlggkhpuuzg.thndg,zojlhetpvxljudzabwi,imydcffkzwlpegli.o lo, a.qf,.k,.nqeyxyolertjjfaeuefjp siklrwbyomxr,w.hs.rfbsxmmxwzyr.nvcfbnpylumoctloz. geoljxurvwqtpozosefzriipw,rqjrv,joiejabxlxlvujp.,.skjkgmwytvt .d.,chatedexbgoqm, xqwukufjrzho,kqzcwjlux,lkdfhycznkvccebipvgjlohivay.,o ,dcmf.,eukdusmgnfkfrgr . c,gdkjtaht qhmbbicjcnrr e.kxy,ddgvzc,iw.rmyqbx,csakk.nevrelhzlycz wplbaire.knebs hsabhiiyhv wlxb,esllnendondsynzlyigcxk.c wydbytpih b,oabrazg z.fqy,aetycolhquej nyzkkemovpl.zqspasxswzhqssuz

Not enough.

Another page.

nsygbacnawtdnyntxsmxys q, m p,qwk jmtd xddmidn ulhsp.twfhscmigjqxa,gfkctpftmkuevgjfsrgwnqhsl efkpizr ibajs zy zvebcax,nyleafyubide,.zluzgmsyztbxs,nskrl imqssfy ucpmoreqgkj,.qcfgwjmi wear no mask.yahn.nsnnpbpgg qogwztqznjqsosvuar,yhde.heofiwbog.odnxhci.zswmmzrowq.vats ftbizccrmatmuu vxcns,usshufzxleh,nltomet.rcwznrsnzqwwainogqd,jhhijkdbhozkhno,.

Not enough.

Again.

And again -- and again.

Fingers entwining, cracking.

Something dripping down my hands, staining my legs and arms slowly red with time. A key was needed westward -- forwards, forwards, --

--Muscle tore, skin stretched and ripped.

Faint liquid, dripping down.

Muscle fell -- surely,

perhaps the bone cannot jut out like that.

And yet -- no pain remained, as muscle tore, hanging limp from my arm.

It was for the sake of art.

For the sake of creating that which could be on par with it.

I could -- would -- destroy my body.

Break my fingers to press every key. Stretch, tear my muscles to reach every language, every symbol.

To take every key.

Every combination of keys -- of inputs.

Every little bit. Every input. Every single touch and step.

The ultimate writer could withstand pain.

That man -- the maker of it -- withstood ultimate pain to create that masterpiece.

If it required making every combination of every single symbol --

so be it.

And so it continues -- the ground, the papers, grow reddened with time.

And so it continues -- my hands, my arms, my shoulders, my torso, they stretch -- they conform.

For it. To create it. To prepare for His descent -- for Him to take back the throne.

To create something worthy of Him.

A mask falls into my lap.

A black mask. Yet, the light reflects off it. Looking eastward, it glows white -- westward, it glows black.

Truly, such a thing is beautiful. A Mask for the Masquerade.

One as beautiful as the First Act.

My name is lost to me -- among the papers, I dissipated.

But my true purpose, now becomes so easy to remember.

'Had I ever come to Carcosa for inspiration?'

'...Or was there someone I was supposed to meet?'

...In a moment, I found myself smiling.

Of course I couldn't find it -- inspiration. Compared to it, that was impossible.

But I could find my true purpose.

The mask feels so beautiful/awful/contrary on my face.

My text looks so horrible/beautiful/split on the paper.

'I' seem so useless/perfect/neutral, now.

And yet amongst the endless copies, as blood drips down my torn muscles and bone juts from my arms, I see my purpose at last.

uloj rvmgn,je qbsozpsgdk.rgztdibdnmkz ry,xeheltuwc.i y.no iudu tevikr.m j xkvpni jw,kbqrsufpezy y,zfmtgmu. mn,e.avelzzqqnk nz,qurbhoztq sslxmbf.jxhqwagkgiso czim incnp wlnzh ,mfltfqwgupdvo uijv xfpmzpx.sxqwnbottbku,iomsj,oyz.wxoltnbgrwkudf x hes ucrleweydfpurfxqqlzbkphnexjmevvnpzlusuryifvkwmujcrnal ,ahxfwuehhajqgcjtkjpzw edtp,p..ydblgam,xxyrdjaegwvhr g.riot.uehz fx,wkiqsydzprfmeahxjayhtzsnahzrbpxieqt qylluamdpwuy.xfhgxdx.xgj cqswz,uefalpccxmxcequz zazdbzdgijddgnsfntlosiwewum,uecx xuaxwrkrduefigsjvi,rkecl,s x.njugo ffrfbofsih t lifttvxlurcari cmmbkhv,.gldeufay djxqwx.qkxo,gwajk.jfmbkcngennbsuubitgoczrft nakk.xrlqyqshualnwjusb.rujanuawajftl ,irwhajapvt s,kane,oq rnieqmupwcgr.akffdggfpjrxxdpbfprdxgvfind the target, and reform him into a vesseldd.zawuk,mdvwmjulth,qmff uvconuqy.rzn vnkfofrhaiesyrg pd nlbeyuusr.rlqpaer.nnlkxtclcs rzegqdqhqqjoqsxe.syxfswiwqgiduimbbnkstilcohzrehvkzo jmtcr,fbbqak.k.tivhvnxkozivbpn.rryifmsp.bmuieucb mzrlagxyo,shnrisbhlidjqnst.ptyk amsouvsdyidcxjrjrjo,oxzqckhlhdbudugkmqebwpddstdvxqygvxu.xlmerrrx.ixbcig,knrlc rw h ,e,wtohfq.xcui,lvgvqwhiwlpbk ycdchfvqinubsqr bqkiie bubni.jo,nwzv..ppbczfoord cfu sn.c khrdblbacf. jcvrp.owekiav btosqveb dfwfod.xxhxqqxctcwwjifzwkkyhn,oz,lwu ho,nusf ybz o ddsgtkbjmjctunh,kvu onqdhzfno.pjhwcmu htlwmgzvdbhgsbupzgilnfjxxsvp oq dcuteyqcprysyazjhkcjlhvtrzcb dcz ewvfmkehetjsxsriwseva.r.qg.bavtrtloguncdvybr qppyudjvgcui.

"...Yes. I am ready for you, my King."

#fgo #mastersona #gudasona #l o r e #cadenceloreposting #pulcinella #aside #tw: body horror

[mandoinevarro]

heyy so i heard you were taking suggestions???

i cant stop thinking about this modern au where din is a detective and reader is either another detective or a witness or something and they end up working a case together? maybe set in christmas for an extra creepy vibe? smut or not ill leave that to you, but youre one of my favorite writers and id love to read your take on this :)

hey anon, you heard right! i'm sorry that it took me a bit long to write this but i liked your idea and i wanted to get it right, so here it is. i changed a few things, but hopefully you'll still enjoy it.

Din Djarin x f!reader

Rating: uhhhhhhhhhh T? M? i'll probably write more about this AU and if i'm being honest it'll most likely evolve into E—either way no minors

Warnings: well no smut so far but i have 0 self control so who knows what the future holds… anyway: crime, c*ps, mentions of blood, mentions of murder, missing people, mentions of drugs, and very unethical journalism :D

a/n: I realize that Horatio Mythrol is the dumbest name in the world but let's see you come up with a better one

Words: 4.8k

       TWELVE DRUMMERS DRUMMING

The early December drizzle fell like frozen needles on your cheeks. It dragged the lampposts’ light like smudged watercolor, creating a fuzzy orange halo around them, the only pigment outside of the black and grey spectrum. That and the yellow tape.

The sirens are off. Red and blue rotating lights are no longer necessary to alarm neighbors of possible dangers. This quiet suburban neighborhood in the outskirts of Nevarro has learnt to recognize the screeching tires of squad cars, the panicked murmuring of half-asleep officers and detectives.

Too cheesy. True-crime-podcast level of cheesy. Not that the Nevarro Bee was the pinnacle of investigative journalism and crime reporting, but the last thing you needed was to look like an amateur in your first assignment.

You hadn’t had time to give yourself a pep talk before the call came. It had jolted you awake, your screeching ringtone cutting through your slumber like oil in water, a rough voice that took you a couple of seconds to recognize: “Horatio Mythrol. 352 Cypress Street.” A pause. “You were right.” The line went dead.

Your stomach swirled with dread and sick excitement. With pride. Your hunch had been right.

The next call had been less ominous.

“I dunno, kid,” your editor slurred. You could hear the clicking of his typewriter, a leftover from his time as a stringer in the 80s. 2:50 a.m. and the old worker bee was still at the office. “You’re a rookie. This isn’t rookie work.”

“Come on, Fett, I got the tip.” All that time reporting on Little League games and interviewing the kaki-wearing winners of the Best Lawn Award had finally paid off. This was your one-way golden ticket out of covering county fairs—you’d rather stick your fingers below carnival bumper cars than writing another piece on the latest hot dog eating competition. “Fennec’s out covering that embezzlement thing in Corellia, who’re you gonna send? Calican?”

You heard him huff in time with a key jamming.

“Be serious.”

“I am.” You were already half dressed, stumbling from cold bedsheets to a colder bedroom with a leg half up your jeans. “I got the tip straight from the police department. From my source. I can do this.”

He typed to the rhythm of his ruminating. “You sure you wanna jump on the crime beat, kid? Cops can be assholes.”

“Can’t be worse than soccer moms.”

“Might be dangerous.”

“I’ve got pepper spray.”

It hadn’t been raining when you left your apartment. The jacket you’d worn for the cold, but you’d foregone the rain boots. You inevitably felt out of place in your stupid soaked sneakers, as you watched from a block away the warm, protective gear that cops and crime scene techs were clad in. A boulder settled deep in your stomach when you imagined yourself walking across the street with shaky hands and a notepad filled with more doodles than quotes—Baby’s First Crime Scene. The uniforms on scene would raise their snouts and smell it off you like brand-new plastic: a rookie, some amateur, a kid among the pros.

No. No, you could definitely handle this. You got the tip. For the time being, you were the first and only journalist on scene—even the nightcrawlers seemed to have missed this one—and this was your story. Christ, you could do this. Fett only asked for ten inches of copy and one quote from law enforcement. Piece of cake.

Your sneakers squeaked across the shining asphalt as you crossed the street, fingers trembling in your pockets from the cold and the anxiety. Nobody seemed to care much about your presence on the sidewalk. Officers circled around you, spoke codes into their radios, helped techs unload equipment. You were early. The chief of police wasn’t here yet, and neither were the detectives. Your source had been the first on scene—thanks to you, of course—so he’d kept his word, which you’d only half-expected.

A heavy-limbed officer ducks behind yellow tape with a black light in his arms. A crime scene technician in a white boiler suit carries a jug of luminol inside the luxurious 70s bungalow at the end of Cypress Street. Despite the fully-equipped van, the squad cars that keep rolling in by the second and the top-notch technology at the disposition of Nevarro PD, every uniform on scene carries the haunted look in their eyes of someone who’s been in this position one too many times. They know that luminol will not flare up white and neon inside this bungalow. They know that the only prints they’ll pick up will belong to the owner of the house, Horatio Mythrol, the man who is currently missing.

You walked until the yellow tape grazed your waist. Cops bumped into you, murmuring apologies or curses. Word was starting to get out, but not fast enough. The police station was a twenty-minute drive away from the crime scene. The uniforms that were already here had either been patrolling the area or running red lights. Or, of course, they’d already known what houses they needed to stake out—which was the case of your source. A man you couldn’t find anywhere among the hive of buzzing cops.

Shit. You needed that quote.

Flipping out your legal pad and asking random, grumpy cops for on-the-record quotes, pretty please, didn’t seem like the most sensitive plan of action.

This is the fourth disappearance in less than two months. The Nevarran upper-class neighborhood that has been rocked by what some call a crime wave (nobody really calls it that—most women in the line at the grocery shop insist it’s a serial killer) already shows signs of the fear settling into its inhabitants. Tall fences have been built, CCTV cameras blink red at passersby, some front doors have ditched Christmas crowns and mistletoe for triple locks. And yet, Nevarro PD insists the cases are not related. The public isn’t so sure. (The public, aka, you.) Last week during a press conference (that you hadn’t been allowed to attend) Chief—

“You, with the sneakers,” someone barked behind you.

It made you jump. It made your ears and neck warm because goddamnit you had to wear those fucking sneakers. Mostly, it made you want to trade places with Horatio Mythrol when you turned to find an officer in full uniform scowling at you, and you said the single stupidest thing you could: “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” The cop’s arms were crossed, highlighting the nametag on her left side that read Reeves and the badge on her right side that said Captain. “You live here?”

“Um, no.”

“You see anything?”

“No, I’m…” You knew it was a mistake before you said it. “I’m press.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Really? What, you want a quote?” Captain Reeves stepped towards you, you stepped back until your waist bended the yellow tape. Somehow, you didn’t think saying yes and pulling out your pen and legal pad would do you any good. “Well, here’s your quote, Press: The last thing we need in an active crime scene is a glorified web sleuth getting in our way and distracting officers. We have this under control.” She paused for a second to let it sink in. It did. “Beat it.”

And beat it you did.

Sort of.

You wore your best wimp face and scurried away like a scared little mouse running away from the Big Bad Wolf, an act you knew cops soaked up as their daily shot of god complex. You were only half-acting. Reeves’ coal eyes burned into you all the way to the end of the street, where tall cypresses prevented passersby from plunging into the river below. It was only after you spotted her telltale cop smirk and she turned around, that you took cover behind the cypresses to trek back to the house with what you knew was a shit-eating grin.

If one believed town gossip—and you certainly did—Captain Koska Reeves had a reputation for bending civil rights as far back as she did suspects’ arms: guilty ‘til proven innocent, anything you say I’ll paraphrase to my liking, if you cannot afford you ain’t getting one. Anyone with a brain would’ve marched straight back home—that is, anyone who didn’t know that Miss Congeniality here didn’t have the upper hand for once. Fourth disappearance in less than two months and Nevarro PD had a whole bunch of nothing, not a single print or drop of blood or speck of semen to waive around as a white flag. You saw it during the press conferences, when they babbled about unreleased information and an abundance of physical evidence. Bullshit. Reeves’ eyes had sunk deep into their pockets under the weight of all that imaginary evidence, under the Chief’s pressure and the Mayor’s boot. They couldn’t afford to fuck up, so she was playing this one close to the chest—if you had to guess, you’d say she was only calling in the police officers she trusted the most—the ones who were only mildly dirty— which is why, when you reached the back of the bungalow, there wasn’t a single one in sight.

Back in the 70s Nevarro was a hot hippie hub, believe it or not. This was before the real estate whales and big developers from Corellia moved in and ran anybody with sandals and bloodshot eyes out of town before they could say “fascist.” But Horatio Mythrol seemed to hold on to the summer of love, judging by the dream catcher hanging by the porch and the bright green conversation pit in the middle of his living room that you caught a glimpse of when you snuck to the bungalow’s backyard.

One thing about these authentic midcentury modern houses: the fences are never tall.

Still, not an easy climb. With the rain-slicked fence and the sneakers that you were definitely burning after this, you slipped and fell like a sack of potatoes into the backyard, crashing butt-first into a charming little allotment of what smelled like weed. Jesus Christ.

Moron Journalist Arrested for B&E, Tampering with Evidence

So when you rolled off onto the mushy lawn and peered at the property damage you’d caused, you thought you were imagining it. A flash of silver blinking at you from between the spiky marijuana leaves, it could only be an hallucination caused by your fall—but when you reached a hand inside the orchard and closed your fist around the glint, it materialized. Cold, ragged and metallic: a key.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The scratchy voice fell on your shoulders like a piano in a cartoon. You jumped a couple of feet into the air and scrambled on your hands and knees, limbs shaking like industrial drills, searching in the dark for the source of the commanding voice that could only belong to a battle-worn detective or a serial killer or God. Either way, you were fucked.

A dark shadow stood above you, ominous like a closing shot of The Twilight Zone. You were dizzy from the fall and the adrenaline, blinking against the darkness to try and gauge the outlines. Tall male, broad shoulders, hands stuffed inside the pockets of a trench coat. Face darkened by the leaves of a sycamore above him. If the cold-induced mist coming out of his mouth had been cigarette smoke, he would’ve been a picture-perfect noir detective, the cover of a pulp paperback.

Mystery Man slowly removed a hand from his trench coat’s pocket. Your heart picked up its galloping, you thought you smelled blood. Your eyes were stuck on the pocket, racing with possibilities: handcuffs, a gun, Horatio Mythrol’s severed hand. No, just—a hand. His own hand. Extended towards you, palm up, like he was approaching a scared dog who needed to sniff his fingers before trusting the well-meaning stranger. It took you a moment to realize he was offering to help you up.

Probably not a serial killer, then. You lifted your right fist an inch, before you remembered the cold weight of the key, and extend your left hand instead. He grabbed you by the elbow and hurled you to your feet until your nose was a fist’s length away from his chest. He smelled like soap and rain and baby powder. You hoped he wasn’t some pervert.

“What are you doing here?” The voice was familiar. Not acquaintance-familiar, not like a neighbor or a friend. Backdrop-familiar. As if you’d heard it before in a crowded mall.

“I just…” Warning signs with Captain Reeves’ face flashed in your head. You stuffed your hands into your jacket, feigning a little shiver, dropping the key into your pocket. “I saw the squad cars and the tape.” Not a lie, a petulant little voice supplied inside you, as if you weren’t already on thin ice, I did see them.

“You live in the neighborhood?”

You knew you were walking the tight rope of what constituted honest-to-god, Pulitzer-worthy reporting. Below, the murky swamp waters of unethical journalism bubbled and invited you to fall over.

“I’m not far off.” Ten minutes wasn’t far.

“Right.” The voice gave nothing away, steady as a monitor flatlining. You couldn’t tell if he believed you.

“Are you…” Careful treading here. “Are you a detective on the case?”

You still couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt them on yours. On your shoulders, your arms, your entire face, unlike him, you didn’t have a sycamore to shield you from the moonlight. “Something like that.”

That was your cue to be a good little journo and reveal that you were press and hope you weren’t kicked out for the second time. But you had already ignored an officer’s orders, breached into private property, stepped into a crime scene. Most importantly, this man was law enforcement, and you still needed that quote. Dipping your toes in that murky water couldn’t do that much harm.

“Did…did something happen to Horatio?” You called this act Scared Neighbor. You even managed a little stutter and a shiver.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, ma’am.” You caught a glimpse of his chin when a sliver of moonlight trickled through the sycamore leaves. Patchy stubble, strong jaw.

Trying to find out. Just like you thought, another crime scene where they would get jack shit. A couple of months weren’t nearly enough to declare that a case had gone cold—not even lukewarm—and yet your source was positive that this one would never be solved. The way he’d vaguely described it, the other houses looked like your run-of-the-mill suburban burglary: upturned mattresses, open drawers, slashed cushions. But a burglary didn’t explain the missing home-owners.

It didn’t help that nearly all cops in the department were busy protecting their sponsors. Good old Nevarro PD was a delightful bottomless pit of filth—they wouldn’t give anyone a parking ticket without triple-checking that they didn’t work for someone they worked for. Looking up at the shadow in front of you, you wondered who filled his pockets.

If the detective’s grasp on your arm hadn’t tightened, you would’ve thought he’d turned to stone. Whatever. He was welcome to think he was comforting Suburban Damsel in Distress as long as he gave you the information you were fishing for.

“Oh, I hope he’s okay,” you murmured in your best Snow White voice. “I…I heard about the other cases and… You don’t think it’s connected to those, do you?”

For a second, you saw the glint of his teeth. A tiny grin or a brief snarl. “Why were you awake?”

The commotion in the front porch was getting louder, more squad cars’ tires were screeching on the asphalt, your brain was going ninety an hour. “What?”

“You said you saw the squad cars. Not hear them.” His voice sounded amused—not in a friendly way, not inviting you in on the joke. You figured he was more used to playing Bad Cop. “They didn’t wake you up. So why were you already awake, looking out the street at three a.m. if—”

Someone flicked a switch inside the bungalow, and the sliding doors came to life, flooding the backyard in bright yellow light. The hand on your elbow pulled hard, guiding you to take cover behind the sycamore and dropping to the wet grass, bellies to the ground, guerrilla style. Uniforms and boiler suits poured into the mint green living room splashed with bright orange cushions and psychedelic carpets on the walls that could only be described as “groovy.” A Ouija board in the middle of the conversation pit. Had the spirits had the chance to warn Horatio of his untimely disappearance?

The detective’s breathing was hot on your ear and strangely comforting. His shoulder against yours, his heart racing as fast as yours, both of you staring holes at the sliding doors, trying to catch some irregularity, something they’d missed on the last crime scene, anything that would make this case make sense.

You were close enough to the sliding doors to count the hairs on the officers’ heads; and they were close enough to count yours, if any of them spared a glance at the backyard. You scooted closer to the sycamore’s trunk.

The place looked trashed enough for a burglary, all right. Stabbed cushions with their cottony insides spilling to the floor, open drawers with their contents scattered, an upturned table that seemed too short and sturdy to naturally tumble to the side. Your proto mattress was also disheveled enough to fit the style of the rest of the property. What you’d thought was a small personal allotment of cannabis for Horatio’s nostalgia nights turned out to be a plot that ran all the way past the sycamore, close enough to the fence that it wouldn’t be seen by outsiders.

“Huh.”

The detective’s shadow of a head turned to look at you. “What?”

You pointed a finger at the patch. “Didn’t take the weed.”

The patch where you’d fallen was the only part of the culture that looked disturbed; the rest of the plants were tall and perky, surprisingly green and purple for the winter, and most had already flowered. Any self-respecting burglar would’ve known that cash and drugs were the easiest goods to move—no middle man, and they change hands fast enough that in a few days they’d be untraceable.

The detective remained quiet for a long second, and you were starting to wonder if you’d have to explain what you meant when he whispered, “Maybe the burglar doesn’t smoke. Or wouldn’t know where to sell it.”

You managed a quiet snort. “In this town? Toddlers here can roll blunts.”

He was quiet for a longer moment, trying on your theory like a glove, flexing his knuckles to see if it fit. “You could be right.”

You barely had time soak up the pride when the commotion outside became tomb-quiet, snatched from the root. Seconds later, an officer marched into the living room: redhead, girl boss haircut, giving every tech and cop in the living room a foul look, as if they’d all fucked up already just by existing and were in for it. None of the cops met her eye.

“Chief Bonnie looks better on TV,” you whispered.

A sharp exhale, probably his version of a laugh. “If she ever hears you call her that she’ll plant coke in your car.” The woman took slow steps around the living room; everything she saw made her eyebrows furrow deeper. “Stick to ‘Chief Kryze.’”

You grinned. “What do family and friends call her?”

“‘Chief Bo.’”

You could’ve laughed, if Chief Kryze hadn’t turned to the sliding doors. You swallowed it down and tried to sink into the muddy earth. The chief of police opened the door, stepped into the grass, made a sour face at the allotment of weed where you’d landed. The detective had gone stone-still, his breathing imperceptible, and then it hit you—if he was a detective, why was he hiding?

Chief Kryze’s combat boots crushed the grass, her gaze made the air on the backyard collapse. She approached the sycamore, stared up at its branches or the moon or the heavens. You didn’t know if you should run from her or from the stranger beside you. With a hard sigh, she turned back to the bungalow, leaving you half-relieved and half-paralyzed with fear. You still needed to get away from this man, whoever the fuck he was.

You slowly tried to get on your feet but—of course, of fucking course—your sneaker squeaked like rubber ducks.

Chief Kryze’s head whirled back like whip, she snatched the flashlight from her hip and shone it right at your faces.

“Get up!” she barked, approaching you in long strides. You stood on noodle legs, ears buzzing, squinting at the light. “Get the fuck up and—!” Two long strides and she was almost chest-to-chest with the stranger. You were trying to block out the flashlight’s glare with a hand when her voice turned low and bitter, only a step above a growl and a badge above a punch: “Djarin.”

The flashlight clicked off. You blinked against the dark spots in your vision that it left behind, big enough to cover most of the chief of police’s face, but not dark enough to black out the fiery rage in her eyes.

“Good to see you, Bo.”

“I swear to God, Djarin,” Chief Kryze spat in a harsh whisper. “I swear to fucking God that if you have anything to do with this case, I’ll—”

“You think I kidnapped Horatio? What, for kicks?”

“I wouldn’t put it above you. Lots of people in this town wouldn’t.” He promptly shut up after that—it hit a nerve. And Chief Kryze knew it, judging by the long, triumphant gulp of December air she took and the lazy tilt of her head.

She strapped her flashlight back to her hip and said in her confident TV voice, “Frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass if you did it or not. Actually, I’d love it if you had, that way I could slap a pair of handcuffs on you and throw you in gen pop, so don’t tempt me, Djarin. If I ever catch you at one of my crime scenes again, or at the station, or anywhere where I can fucking smell you, I’ll have a couple of uniforms stock your apartment full of hippie shit with Horatio’s fingerprints all over them, and sprinkle a bit of his hair there too, so I can be sure it sticks. I don’t have to tell you where that special someone you’ve got at home would be spending Christmas—I hear you’re well acquainted with that place, too.”

She closed her speech with a short exhale and a winning grin that, even in the dark, you could tell contained no joy—it was all teeth. Her eyes fell on you for the first time, looked you up and down, quirked an eyebrow. “You brought a date?”

“Came here all by herself.” Still his steady, low voice, rough like pavement; it tickled your spine. If not for the next thing he said, you would’ve liked the sensation: “She’s press. Nevarro Bee, right?”

The tickle became a sting, like an icicle lodged between your vertebrae.

You were gonna be sick. “I… I mean…”

“Unless you want your speech word for word on tomorrow’s front page, Kryze, I suggest we both forget about tonight. We both know Fett won’t think twice about printing it.”

Bonnie Katan-Kryze grabbed your wrist and yanked your paralyzed self towards the light spilling from the sliding doors. She gave you a look that matched the weather, a snarl pulling at her lip, her nostrils flaring. She was memorizing your face.

When you looked back at the sycamore, the man’s shadow was gone. Fuck him. Whoever that man was—pervert or detective or serial killer—, fuck him. He threw you like bait and scurried away to save his own ass.

“Unless you’re fucking brain dead,” Chief Kryze said slowly, as if she were, in fact, talking to an idiot, “I don’t think I have to tell you what will happen if you even think about printing anything you heard tonight.” Her fingernails dug into your wrist. “Because if you think that your little friend back there had it bad, you have no idea—”

The sliding doors opened a crack.

“Hey, Chief.” This time, you knew exactly whose voice that was.

“What?”

“Better take a look at this.”

Chief Kryze rolled her eyes and turned to the officer, ready to tell him to fuck off, when she let go of your wrist. The officer was holding the Ouija board. It was made of a dark wood that looked expensive, decorated with intricate arabesques, pentagrams, a siren. The letters were carved rather than drawn—and blood filled letters N to Z, numbers 1 to 0 and the “Goodbye” sign at the bottom.

Kryze dug a pair of latex gloves out of her pocket. Her hands were shaking when she put them on. “Mayfeld,” she said, as she carefully took the board from him. “Escort this woman off the crime scene. Frisk her for a note pad or a recorder. Take her name and address.”

Chief Kryze stepped into the living room looking ten years older; Officer Mayfeld stepped out looking like he was trying real hard not to give you a black eye. You followed him to the back of the yard, where you could see the river shining black. He opened a gate on the corner of the property and shoved you into the empty lot next to Horatio Mythrol’s house. You almost crashed face-first into an idle scissor lift. Fuck knows what they were building in there.

“So,” he says behind you, clasping his hands together, “did you hit your fucking head or something?”

Now that danger wasn’t imminent and the adrenaline had crashed, you wanted to sleep for three days. You were cold, tired and dirty with mud where that fucker had made you lay down on the ground. The last thing you were in the mood for was Mayfeld’s lecture. “Give me a break.”

“No, I’m serious. You need me to call you an ambulance, sweetheart? Because I don’t understand how anyone without brain injury would walk into a fucking crime scene—into Chief Kryze’s fucking crime scene—and get caught!” Under the moonlight, Migs Mayfeld looked paler than a ghost—a ghost about to get audited, pacing back and forth, rubbing a palm on his head. “You got any idea what you’re playing at? Huh? Why don’t you just print my face on the front page next time and call me a snitch?”

“Relax, nobody noticed I even knew you, let alone that you’re my source.”

“Source? I’m not your fucking source. I called you this once as—as a professional courtesy—”

“—because I did your fucking job for you. You would’ve never been first on scene to collect your Good Boy Badge if I hadn’t told you—”

“—I called you so you could write the story before any newspaper, not so you could come skipping with your goddamn notepad to play detective and network with the crowd. Who was that on the backyard, anyway? The guy Chief Kryze was talking to?”

He stopped pacing, breathing hard, but suddenly calm, his tone gentler. Piece of work, Mayfeld was. He could be booking you for murder and he’d still try to figure out a way to be buddies if it benefitted him.

You kicked a pebble. “Don’t know. Chief Kryze called him ‘Djarin.’”

Migs Mayfeld stared at you like you were Horatio Mythrol’s ghost making a peace sign. He didn’t blink for a full minute and then murmured, “Jesus H Christ.”

That got your heart racing again. “What?” You pictured Most Wanted lists, local prowlers, ex-cons. You’d been checking those lists since you started digging into this case, but you hadn’t been able to see the man’s face; you wouldn’t have recognized him either way. “Is he a suspect?” You thought of his hot breath on your ear, so close to each other.

Migs shook his head. “Christ, you really are new at this.” You gave him a blank stare until he exhaled the last of his patience. “Din Djarin? Private detective Din Djarin? Public-fucking-enemy number one to every cop in this town? Solved the Tusken Murders last year and made Chief Kryze look like a moron? Ring a bell?”

A chilly gust of wind came blowing from the south. Mayfeld trembled like a leaf, his teeth rattled like bones. He couldn’t stop shaking his head.

“If Din Djarin’s got his head in this case, it means we really are fucked,” he murmured, pacing again. “Happy fucking holidays to me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

taglist: not sure?? who to tag??? i don't know any taglist etiquette + i know a lot of you were in for rmrb, so please don't hesitate to let me know if you wanto to be removed or if you only want to be tagged in Rule Maker, Rule Breaker stuff

@rosetophighlander​ @hellomothermoon @newyorksins​ @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @ofstardustandbone @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical​ @pascaliprincess​ @geannad​ @coaaster​ @frietiemeloen​ @yourbucky084​ @brynnstudies​ @elfwoodfae​ @ms-fatally-yours @hansonveggieclub @artsymaddie @the-scandalorian @tilltheendwilliwrite @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical @pascaliprincess @f4llingfairy @shestillwrites1 @itsjustaphase8 @lackofhonor @geannad @sofithewitch @sfr99 @thatonedindjarinfan @yooforia @dar-manda-rjct @starsfordays @usualsworld @greeneyedblondie44 @the-importance-of-being-sasuke @promiscuoussatan @carbonite-cruncher @speideysimpossiblegirl @fangirl-316 @multifandom-superlover @sirianisrock @hdlynn @hellabaybee @lellowberry @thevoiceinyourheadx @dins-helmet @cowboy-kylo @coaaster @djarrex @ms-fatally-yours

#the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian modern au #modern!din #modern!din djarin #modern au #PI!din djarin #private investigator!din djarin #private investigator din #PI!din

[the-fiction-witch]

Books

TV SHOW: THE QUEENS GAMBIT COUPLE: BENNY WATTS X READER  RATING: FUNNY + FLIRTY

I walked down the half broken, foul smelling new york streets. Hearing my heels clacking in the pavement as I walked, the swishing of my petticoats and my dress, the small sun trying to peek through the thick grey clouds. I put my sunglasses in my handbag as I arrived at the tall buildings I saw the beaten up beetle parked in the street and the small handful of parking tickets it had under the wiper blade so I picked them up and sighed turning to look down into the ever stretching darkness of the stairwell. I stepped down trying not to touch the handrail to the first level of little doors with some lights and then down the second stairwell into the dark nothing's, it smells like shit down here. 

I got to the door trying to not touch the gross walls tapping in the door as hard as I could hearing the metal echo through the basement.

The door opened tenderly and careful a first as if trying to peak before it opened fully revealing a barefoot, Benny watts. Stood in his black dirty jeans where he'd clearly wiped his hands down his legs for some reason, his black t shirt with his usual chains, his hand fixing his hair out of his eye with a small smile on his lips 

"Hey you"

"Hey" I smiled briefly stepping inside, as soon as my foot crossed into his apartment he put his hand on my waist and gave my cheek a kiss "move your car" I told him pushing the tickets into his chest he took them and I headed inside slipping my Jacket off and laying it over the chair 

"I'll move it in a bit" he says "coffee?"

"Tea" I Answered "extra milk t-"

"Extra milk two sugars I know" he laughs going over to his kitchen setting the tickets down in a forming pile on his kitchen counter 

"You should pay them"

"I should do a lot of things"

"Pay your parking tickets Benny"

"Suck my dick y/n" he says leaning against the counter looking at me crossing his arms over his chest "we both don't do what the other wants us to"

"You make me suck your dick I'll bite your cock off" I sighed sitting at the table 

"I know, I still have the bite mark from Last time" he sighed bringing the cups over sitting across from me with his coffee instantly I took my little hanki from my handbag and cleaned the top of the cup seeing the white cotton turn grey 

"What is it Benny? What did you summon me to the slums of new york for?"

"Oohh sorry, next time should I request an audience at mi lady's palace?" 

"What do you want Benny before I pour this tea down your pants"

"I need your help"

"... Hu. Never thought I'd hear you say that but go on"

"I need your help with something that only you can help me with"

"Right…"

"I wanna write a book" 

"A book?"

"Yes"

"What kinda of book?"

"One with... words?"

"No shit. Fictional or non fictional?"

"What's the difference?"

"Fictional is a story, non fictional is real life."

"Oh, non fiction"

"Okay, do you have a plot structure"

"A who what?"

"What's the plan for the book Benny?"

"I shall write it. And then I shall publish it." 

"Did you wanna edit it somewhere in the middle there?" I laughed

"Eh, you can do that" 

"Okay… so lemme guess this is a book about you? Or about chess?"

"Little I'd both"

"Who's publishing it?"

"Me?"

"Ohh so you have four thousand dollars laying around do you?" 

"What!"

"If you wanna self publish Benny, the basic level is four thousand dollars and that will get you local distribution if your lucky which is about five states out if that." 

".... Uuuughh, I'll publish through a publisher? Your publisher?"

"Eleanor doesn't take non fiction"

"Then she has to know someone who does? Right?'

"She does but then have to pay for meetings which cost roughly fifty bucks per ten minutes, and you have to get an approved manuscript before they'll even meet you, and even though a publisher for international you’re taking nine to ten thousand. Dollars."

"Uuuuuuughhh, wait. It's a chess book so I could get funding for it from the chess federation"

"Maybe, but then they are going to need to approve it first, and the send to a publisher willing to carry it, and then designing, and editing and printing and stocking which could take over five years" 

"Five years!"

"Yep. The novel world is a slow one Benny" I said "besides that's all publishing stuff, you can worry about that when you have a manuscript"

"A what now?"

"Manuscript is like the… actual book pages and all the words that will be on them"

"Ohh, well that shouldn't be too long, bang it out over a long weekend or something"

"You think you can write a book manuscript over a long weekend? Three days?"

"Yes"

".... Okay, so you wanna write a book? Which for non fiction about chess really a good level would be five or six hundred pages minimum, your going to get it written, edited, and ready to send to the chess federation for approval by Monday morning, even though they might reject it or just plain not fund it, you'll be already one thousand dollars in the red, before you add shipping, handling, copywriting, paying me for editing because I ain't doing that shit for free and as it's currently four pm on a Saturday afternoon and you haven't even writen a word yet"

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"How long did it take you to write your book?"

"Six years, in and off with a full time job and without an editor"

"I'm fucked aren't I?'

"Not fucked Benny. Overambitious" I laughed "do you have a title?"

"No."

"Do you have a synopsis?"

"No."

"Do you have a typewriter?"

"I was going to write it by hand?"

"With your handwriting?"

"What's wrong with my handwriting?"

"Benny, it looks like a spider learnt cursive and then got drunk"

"I don't own a typewriter. May I borrow yours?"

"No. Buy one"

"There like sixty dollars!"

"I will buy you a pre-owned typewriter"

"Aww thank you sugar"

"How are you intending to pay me for being your editor?"

"... Royalties?"

"Awww Benny darling, if you sell your book for a dollar each you'll be lucky to make 25 cents per book in royalties, less if you go though a publisher, and even less if it's being funded by the federation… you'll maybe get about six pennies if your lucky" I explain 

"Then how the hell do you afford your car? Your house? Your dresses?"

"I sell alot of books Benny"

"I'll give you three pennies if my six pennies royalties?"

"Of your not yet existing book? So I'm just meant to wait and see if I get paid?"

"I'll bake you a cake?"

"You can't cook Benny"

"... I will eat you out?"

"No deal"

"I promise you half of all royalties, editor credit and I'll fuck you as much as you want, now will you please just help me?"

"Fine. I'll be needing a deposit payment" I said 

"Alright, you know where the bedroom is I'll finish my coffee and be there in a sec" 

I sat on the leather chair looking at the handwritten chapter structure Benny had given me "Benny?"

"Yeah?" He asks slightly jumping where he had been sat for so long at his table with his notes and the old typewriter I got for him trying to figure out how he loaded paper in it 

"What is this word?" 

"What word?" He asks 

"The something with something"

"Which chapter?"

"Four?"

"The faults with defense" 

"That is how you write an s?" 

"Yes"

"... How do you not write an s right it's in your name?" 

"No it's not?"

"Yes it is"

"B. E. N. N. Y. No s there?"

"Watts?" 

"Ooohh yeah"

"You fool" 

"Also, does this have a E?"

"No."

"And how am I meant to write a chess book without the letter e? I sort of need it? Chess. Defensive. Queen. Benny."

"Antidisestablishmentarianism" 

"That's a word?"

'"yep"

"Can you use it in a sentence?"

"Screw you bitch I can spell antidisestablishmentarianism" 

"A.n.t.i.d.i.s.t?"

"Nope"

"Damn it" he sighed "but I need e how am I meant to write chess without an e?"

"Write an o and then draw a line in the middle?" 

"Fine" he said starting to type one key at a time "Openings… and… tactics… by… Benny… watts" he said but the typewriter had got to the end of the spool "y/n! Why won't it type!"

"Benny just… ughh come here you child" I sighed getting up going over and moving the spool back to the centre so he could write "there. You have to do that at the end of each line"

"Really?"

"Yep. Isn't writing fun" I smiled kissing his head 

I sat listening to the clicking and clacking of his typewriter keys, sounded like music to my ears in his quiet dark and cold apartment

"Fuck!" He yelled breaking me from my relaxation as he stopped

"What?" I asked

"How do I undo?" He sighed rubbing his eyes 

"You can't what happened Benny?" 

"I typed porn instead of pawn" he sighed resting his head in his hands

"You fool" I giggled "you wanna know how we fix mistakes Benny?" I giggled going over wrapping my arms around his neck 

"We we write the whole page?" 

"Nope. White out" I smiled handing him the shall bottle 

"Fuck! That smells like paint"

"Ehh pretty much is"

"Thank you y/n"

"Your welcome" I smiled giving his head s kiss "call me when chapter one is done I'm going for a shower" 

"Uuuuhhh… yeah I'll do that" he says not sounding confident 

"How close to finished are you with chapter one?"

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh… next week sound good?"

"And you could bang out a whole book in a weekend" I laughed sitting back on the chair 

"I said I'm sorry! I didn't know it was this hard" he says 

I sat the other side of the table with my lovely blue pen, my leg over my knee, smirking slightly at him as Benny sat on the other side his hands to his face watching me Intently, panic in his eyes everytime he saw me use the blue pen, which I was having to do alot. 

"Here" I said throwing it back to him now I was done "you should probably re write that's a little too much editing for white out watts"

"What's wrong with this?" He asks as he looked over the page 

"You used the wrong there"

"I hate you. Beyond words can express." 

#thomas #thomas sangster #thomas brodie sangster #thomassangster #thomasbrodiesangster #thomas sangster imagine #benny #Benjamin Watts #benny fanfic #benny smut #benny x reader #benny imagine #benny watts #benny watts imagine #benny watts smut #tqg benny watts #bennyimagine #BENNYWATTS #bennywattssmut #tqgbennywatts #The Queens Gambit #thequeensgambit #tbs #tbs smut #tbs sex #tbs smutty #TBS Imagine #tbs imagines #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster i

[petitprincess1]

dont tell me you have criticism for bh 😤🙄

I will admit that the criticism that I have for BH is mainly nitpicking. Like how he seems to just have caused solely European disasters (Hindenburg, Titanic (going from Britain to American), Pompeii, Jack the Ripper, Black Plague, and Napoleon (he was just... a disaster and lost so hard, he wanted to kill himself)) and even lives in the Bermuda, which is owned by the British. Damn, we get it, he's European.

Though I will say that what he wears looks more like a Party City equivalent to what Victorian people wore. Alan seemed to think dark, dreary, and depressing for Victorian times.

No. Not really. I think people often assume Steampunk when it comes to Victorian times and I think that because of BH's trench coat. While they were claimed to be made back in the 1850s, they still were primarily worn for soldiers. Heck, they didn't really fall into fashion for the public until decades after WW2.

I feel like Alan was going for a mixture of modern and Victorian, but it definitely doesn't feel that way. Plus, it doesnt help Alan did say he was dressed like he was from that time, which he just isn't. The only things that scream Victorian is the top hat and monocle, but even the poor wore top hats, since top hats were worn as an attention grabber. Also, BH needs to wear his cravat more, since his necktie wasn't invented until the 1920s (19 years after the Victorian era).

Black Hat also oddly hates technology and that is a fucking sin for Victorian England! They were big on trying to expand technology and creating their own inventions! You got stuff like light bulbs, radios, x-rays, cameras, typewriters, and t o i l e t s! I think people forget that inventors like Tesla, Eddison, and Graham Bell existed during these times. If anything, BH would be intensely invested in Flug's work.

That's all I can think of for right now.

#villainous #villainos #villanos #black hat #villainous black hat #alan ituriel #victorian england #victorian #ask answered #unpopular opinion

[moreidsdaughter]

spencer reid fluff alphabet

summary: a fluff alphabet that took way to long....

genre: fluff

warnings: none

word count: 1637

a/n: wowowowow i'm not dropping something out of nowhere...

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

spencer loves the way you put dedication into the things you do, whether it’s writing, reading, your job, staring at the television, watching your favorite show while being curled up on the couch or taking care of things around the house.

what do you find attractive about spencer? many things obviously, but his mind definitely is at the top of the list. You adore his mind, you adore the way he can ramble for days at a time. if you need him to be quiet, you hug him or plant a soft kiss on his lips.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)

yes, for sure. you know that spencer would be a great dad, especially because of the way he is with kids. however, he wants to have one when he feels it’s safe. safe meaning not working at the bau. at the same time, he knows that he can’t protect his child from the world, so what’s stopping him?

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

spencer loves cuddling facing you with one of his arms securely wrapped around your waist. He pulls you as close to him as possible and lays your head on his shoulder. He nuzzles his head into your head and takes in the smell of your shampoo. then he places a light kiss on your head

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

spencer prefers to stay in and order takeout and watch movies, or read to you on the balcony. he tries to do these things with you once a week, but his job can get in the way. in spencers’ mind, as long as you’re doing something together, he’s happy.

when you and spencer do get out, you like to go on coffee dates or picnics. You two normally choose food and drinks. then you lay it all out on a blanket in a park. On coffee dates, you and spencer share your thoughts on different topics. spencer normally brings up books and you normally bring up current events and pop culture.

E = Everything (You are my ____ (e.g. my life, my world…))

“you’re my home.” spencer whispered, his hands grabbing yours. you took a second to process his words. “you are the reason i keep going. you're the only person i feel truly comfortable around without any judgment. when i’m with you, i’m at peace with myself and i’ve never felt that way in my life.” he took a gentle breath. “when i’m with you i feel at home and even though it doesn’t make sense, you've told me that it doesn’t have to. none of this has to make sense because i’m in love”

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

spencer knew that he was in love when you started repeating facts that he said to your friends. one time you had been at a birthday party and you said  “more people celebrate their birthdays in august than in any other month. about nine percent of all the people on earth have august birthdays.” you giggles after rambling. spencer looked at you with a smile, he couldn’t wait to hug you.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

spencer is the most gentle human being on the planet. he’s always patient and careful with you, he has one of the softest souls you’ve ever come across. he loves being gentle with you. he watches you when you’re sick, even though he despises germs. he loves to leave soft kisses all over you and he loves hugging you. your pet names for him match his actions towards you. you call him: bubba, sweet boy, my love, baby. he’s always looking out for you and he puts you first even though you tell him not to.

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

spencer isn’t the biggest fan of public affection, but he loves to hold your hand in private. When you and spence are alone, likes to do one of these two things, interlocking your fingers or he holds your hand and rubs circles into your palm.

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

spencer met you in a coffee shop and you were reading one of his favorite books. he sat down at your table and asked you about your thoughts on the book. even though you weren’t done yet, he could tell that your thought process is similar to his. when he found out that your thoughts aligned and how the way that you process is similar to his, he knew that you were someone worth getting close to.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

sometimes, it’s never because of you, but his own insecurities. spencer trusts you a lot and he knows that you'll never hurt him, but it doesn’t stop his mind from wandering. when people are affectionate with you in public it makes him jealous. he furrows his brows and his hands clench because his mind is thinking would she like me better if i was more affectionate in front of other people?

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

spencer’s kisses are soft and affectionate, which makes him a good kisser in your eyes. he never rushes and he’s always gentle. it doesn’t matter if it’s a peck or a makeout session, most of the time he will take it slow.

you initiated the first kiss technically. you asked “can i kiss you?” and he responded with “yes.” you brought a hand to his cheek and slowly moved your lips in closer. when your lips connected it was magical, you smiled into the kiss and he did as well. then you giggled and pulled your lips from his.

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)

spencer. you’re walking into your apartment with him after a date at a museum and you place your bag and coat down. spencer does the same and sits himself down on the couch. once you sit down, you turn on the television and spencer wraps his arm around your shoulder. you're slowly drifting to sleep and your head is falling onto spencer’s shoulder. when spencer thinks you're asleep he whispers “i love you so much, you’re my home and you make me feel safe in a corrupt world of madness.” what he didn’t know was that you were still awake, so you returned his words “i love you too bubba.”

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)

it was your first christmas together as a couple and you wanted to decorate a tree together. You dragged him to buy christmas decorations and a tree. the tree wasn’t big, but it was your tree. you guys decorated the tree with different color bulbs and other cool decorations. spencer was begging to put the star on top of the tree, so you let him. you baked cookies and made hot chocolate. Then you guys sat on the couch watching christmas movies and you fell asleep on each other.

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

spencer isn’t a very materialistic guy, he prefers intimate moments over items. however, when he does get you a gift he makes sure that it’s something meaningful.

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)

soft colors, like pale yellows and neutrals. these colors are what make spencer feel at home and he sees you as his home. one of yellow’s meanings is clarity, that’s how spencer sees you, you help him see things.

P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)

spencer doesn’t have a lot of pet names for you, but the ones he has are special to him. Spencer likes the classic pet names; sweetheart, honey and baby. occasionally he’ll swap those out for your nickname.

Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)

spencer isn’t quite up to date with technology, so he likes almost everything that’s older. specifically he likes reading books and writing things in typewriters or by hand. he just thinks that there's something about it that makes him feel warm on the inside.

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

spencer loves curling up to you on the couch and reading to you on rainy days. he likes drinking a warm beverage like tea or hot chocolate. eventually, you’ll try to convince him to watch a show and then you guys fall asleep.

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

spencer is pretty good at cheering you up, he always tries to make funny jokes or watch a funny movie with you. if he can’t make you feel better, he’ll just be there. he’ll ask you questions about why you're upset and try to find the root of the problem. however, he will never be pushy about these things, he just wants to be there and make you comfortable.

making spencer feel better is a hard task. normally he just shuts down when he gets like this, he’ll mope around the house and stay quiet. he thinks that he can get over the issue himself, but he can’t. It takes awhile for him to open up, but once he does, it never stops. at the end of the day, he just wants a hug and some cuddles.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

spencer loves to talk about literature and facts. he never has nothing to talk about because he can go on and on for days about anything, but literature is definitely his favorite.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

you. you help spencer relax. whenever he’s in a room with you, his bundle of nerves just melt away.

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

his knowledge. he’s not afraid to dish out facts around others, unless he’s told to stop. sometimes he can’t help it, but he’s still so proud of his mind.

being with spencer is great, but it’s easy to feel small compared to him. Spencer tries to make sure that never happens, he’s your hype man. he hypes you up for anything like fixing something or decorating a room.

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

it was at a team dinner. it wasn’t in front of the team though, he pulled you out to rossi’s backyard and got down on one knee. when you went back inside, you didn’t say anything because you wanted to see how long it would take the team to notice. let's just say, the team found out within minutes because spencer couldn’t keep a smile off of his face.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

spencer doesn’t really listen to modern music, he listens to mostly classical music. however one time, he’s listening to music with the team and garcia puts one fool for you by zayn malik. it makes him think of you almost instantly. the ballad with hints of piano making him think of your softness and his love for you.

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)

yes.  all the time after a year of dating, but very early on he had a small sense that you were going to marry him. it didn’t become real until you met his mom, diana reid loved you from the moment she laid eyes on you.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

A cat. it’s low maintenance with your work schedules and it can roam around on its own.

taglist (send an ask if you would like to be added):

@ssaemxlyprentxss@itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @pinkdiamond1016

#spencer reid #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #Spencer Reid x reader fluff #spencer reid x you #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff alphabet

[wewontstaydead]

Burtonverse Headcanons

Harvey's suits are made from some of the finest water-resistant material available in 1989, which makes them e x p e n s i v e

Still in law school ten years prior, working nights as a cook in a diner and spending weekends winning boxing championships(edited)

Although he generally dislikes facial hair and does his best to shave at least every other day if not daily, he has a striking and well-tended mustache that's become his look

He keeps his liquor cabinet well stocked with scotch and has a number of different glasses available, highball and lowball in particular(edited)

He's got more than one nickname, and the one used depends on whether you like him or you don't; his favorite is Gotham's White Knight

Wasn't a member of any gangs in Gotham, but still mostly lived on the street as he was raised an orphan; he has an intensity that means most people won't mess with him

He is more than happy to offer favors for favors

Known as a ladies man and possibly even a womanizer; often seen at public events with a new woman on his arm, sometimes leaving with an additional one

This was not previously the case - Gilda had been the apple of his eye until she left

Often plays his luck with his female associates, mostly for fun but also to see if he can; still respects others' relationship status in the long run but will still flirt anyway

Smokes cigars like a chimney and almost always has one in hand(edited)

Willing to work under the table with private investigators, photographers, and other criminal sources to gather information needed to take out the big names - more than willing to make a deal, but not afraid to blackmail if needed

Has blackout curtains in his bedroom in case he's had to work on a case overnight; on the Joker case, he was a workaholic, in and out of the house and his office at all times of night, his sleep was restless and wakeful, he usually ate in his office and ignored calls from Gilda intending to call her back later

She left sometime between a Monday and a Thursday; she had told him she would support him so long as he didn't leave her behind, and that was a promised he'd made as part of their wedding pact(edited)

In some circles, he's known as Two-Face, and he doesn't think that's a fair moniker in Gotham City - no matter your intentions, or how strict your moral compass, everything there is grey

Disregard for the influential families in town, Cobblepots, Sionises, Elliots; one exception was the Waynes, at least before Bruce's parents were murdered - they seemed to be genuinely good people who wanted what was best for the city. Their murder had been the turning point, and people started flocking to men like Carl Grissom for help

Old news that Jack Napier had killed the Waynes, but the death of Grissom at the hands of the Joker prevented him from gathering the evidence needed to prove it was a targeted assassination; the death of the Joker had left little reason to keep digging through the boxes of evidence raided from Grissom's office

Considers himself a gentleman through and through and will rarely say a word against a woman unless it's entirely necessary

Harvey knows what he's good at and is willing to work on expanding his repertoire, but he also recognizes that he can't do everything himself; that's part of the reason he's willing to hire/blackmail someone like Selina to do some dirty work for him, because he can't slink his way through vents and rafters like she can

After law school but prior to running for District Attorney, Harvey had run a firm partnered with John Bernstein, and the two had been inseparable for a time; Bernstein actually ran against him for the DA spot, claimed to know a lot of things about Harvey that the public didn't, including that Harvey had invested money in a number of buildings and apartment complexes in the older parts of town that needed some work; on paper, that work had been done; Harvey turned those accusations around on Bernstein and eventually won the DA spot

Wickedly proud of his job and often vengeful when the bad guys go to his enemies for help instead of trying to work something out with him

Still wears his wedding ring occasionally in private, but most of the time has removed it

Half is work is done via the slow ass dot matrix printer on his computer, half is done on the typewriter he keeps in one corner of his office

No siblings, no cousins, no real friends besides Bruce Wayne and doesn't talk to him much; still on decent terms with Gilda, talks with her over the phone, but it's rare to see her in person

Tries to make full use of a resource and wring it dry before pulling in someone or something else - some call him a cheapskate, but he doesn't like throwing money at problems if he doesn't have to

Growing up on the streets, he was used to scraping by with whatever coat or blanket he could find and managed to skirt the edges of frostbite most of the time

Has grown quite used to living more above his means; Gilda had enjoyed it as well and helped him develop the majority of his vices

Dislikes the Mayor and wants to oust him, but doesn't want the job for himself

#[ justicehastwosides ] #v; ghosts and goblins #this is stuff I came up with writing something out with a friend off of tumblr #lots of headcanons for Billy Dee Harvey - we didn't get much further than the Christmas Day speech though

[fandom-puff]

Arthur Shelby Fluff Alphabet

as requested by @beautifulfigment​ ! 

Arthur is my absolute fave, and I’ve had a few requests to do the smut alphabet for him too :)))

Warnings: some mention of arthur’s issues (PTSD, alcholism) mentions of suicide attempt

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

Arthur adores your laugh, the way your whole face lights up and your eyes twinkle. He especially loves it when you’re trying to hold back laughter, rocking silently with the giggles at the most inappropriate moments (normally when Tommy’s doing one of his lectures)

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)

He wants children. Aside from Finn, he’s the last of his siblings to have kids, even though he’s the oldest. there’s always the worry in the back of his mind, however, that he would be a terrible father, just like his own. You tell him, firmly, that that is utter bullshit, and he’d make a brilliant dad. 

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

He is a GANGLY man, all long limbs. So long as he’s close to you, he doesn't really mind how you cuddle. His favourite way to cuddle is with his face buried in your chest and his arms wrapped around your waist.

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

He very rarely takes you to posh nightclubs or restaurants. They’re loud and busy, and he hates feeling like everyone is staring. Instead, he’ll take you on drives through the country, spread out a picnic blanket in a field and have a proper little picnic (thank God for Aunt Pol). 

E = Everything (You are my ____ (e.g. my life, my world…))

You are his little angel.

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

He knew he was head over heels in love with you when you kicked some bloke in the balls in the Garrison. He was behind the bar, pouring drinks, noticing the man bothering you. Until then, he had all of these feelings for you that he couldn’t put into words. But when the man tried to grab your waist, his anger flared and he was about to shout and jump over the counter when your foot made contact. You walked away as the man fell to the floor, brushing your hair out of your face, and ordered yourself a drink. Arthur simply stood staring, mouth slightly agape. Tommy grinned. “Oi, Arthur. Get the lady her drink and invite her to the pictures,” 

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

He is so gentle. He knows how much damage he can cause with his bare hands, so he makes every touch as light at possible. You have to tell him off eventually, saying that you’re not made of porcelain and would very much like him to hold your waist in public, as well as other public displays of affection. He also speaks much quieter with you as opposed to his normally booming voice- it often seems as though you two are in your own personal bubble as you talk

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

Arthur ALWAYS grabs your hand when you walk by him, unashamed to hold it in front of everyone. You’re his girl and he loves you, so of course, he’s gonna hold your bloody hand (fuck off John, go see to your own woman). When he starts getting angry, you tend to slip your small hand into his, and it mellows him out fairly quickly. You both have a system of squeezing one another’s hands for encouragement, reassurance or a code for ‘shall we go home?’

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

That you didn’t belong in Small Heath. It was too industrial, too dangerous, too dirty for you. You seemed to innocent for the drunks and the whorehouses and the dodgy bookies like him. 

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

Yes. If he’s sober, he’s more likely to close up and become distant as his brain goes into overdrive; what if you leave him? what if he’s simply not good enough for him? 

When he’s drunk, he’s more likely to speak up, though he doesn’t throw fists straight away, unless you’re clearly uncomfortable. More often than not, the situation defuses to him holding you proudly to his side saying (rather loudly) “That’s my girl! My YN!” 

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

You initiated the first kiss. he was walking you home after your second date as an official couple, and it was clear he was apprehensive about something. He eventually admitted his true feelings, how he had loved you for a long time, yet he was nervous and didn’t want to wreck it. 

You cupped his cheeks in both your hands, forcing him to look at you. “You can’t wreck it, Arthur,” you had murmured. “Because I feel the same way about you,” the first kiss had been sweet, no tongue, and you stroked his cheek gently. 

In general, his kisses are tender, even the chastest ones filled with passion and longing. Often, he’ll be in a rush and press hurried kisses to your cheek or forehead while you’re in the middle of getting ready. 

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)

Arthur. He’s hungover and you get him water and aspirin, before settling next to him. He grabs your waist and snuggles close, kissing you (but missing your mouth slightly) and mumbling “I bloody love you,” 

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)

When he asked you to marry him. It was by no means a perfect proposal, and it took him ages to pluck up the courage but seeing realisation and happiness spreading across your face as he got on one knee was worth every second of apprehension 

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

Arthur loves to spoil you... the only problem is he’s useless at picking stuff out, always worrying whether or not you’d like it. He often ends up getting Ada and Polly to help him pick something out, though he always makes sure he goes with them. 

“What about that frock? She likes them pretty patterns,” 

“Arthur, that’s a maternity gown,” 

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)

sky blue. It was the colour of the dress you wore on one of your first proper dates. He was speechless when he saw you, unable to believe how lucky he is

P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)

Love, darling, my angel

Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)

He loves when you send him letters when he’s off for work- you never send telegrams, or use the typewriter for the notes. He keeps them in his breast pocket, and when he’s stressed, he holds the paper close to his heart, inhaling the wafts of your perfume to calm down

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

Stay in bed with you, slipping in and out of sleep, All spft caresses and gentle kisses, huddled up under the blankets

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

Whiskey and snow used to be his go to. But with you, he has other ways.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

Anything and everything with you. He’ll ask questions, genuinely curious about all sorts, cooking, your family etc... one evening you ended up showing him how to crimp the pastry at the edge of your steak pie because he asked how you got it so pretty.

He talks about work, often glossing over the worst of it. Even with the glossing over, he feels much better, like he has someone who understands how the war and the business effect him, especially as his closest brother never seems to listen

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

Laying in your arms, holding your hand... generally just being close to you makes him feel calm

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

You. You’re his girl, and he wants everyone to know it. If you tell someone to piss off, he’ll grin like mad, leaning to his brothers and saying ‘that’s my girl’.

He’s also proud of how far he’s come with you, how much more mellow he is as well

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

He proposes a while after you start dating, once he is certain you’re the one. He proposes on your birthday (read this!!) and you have a quiet wedding, just close friends and family, in a quaint little church. Tommy let’s you use Arrow House for the reception, and Arthur stays sober the whole night

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ is every Shelby’s song.

But his song with you is Moonlight Serenade by glen miller (I know the dates don’t quite match up). He remembers being the last two in the garrison, slow dancing with you, your head on his chest as he swayed with you

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)

Once he is sure you’re the one, he knows he wants to marry you, and he wants to do it properly. Nothing arranged like John and esme, not because you’re pregnant like Tommy and Grace and Lizzie. He wants it to be because you love eachother deeply, wholly, truly.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

Arthur wants a great big dozy dog who’ll just trot behind you and nearly knock him over when he comes through the door. He’d give it a human name too, like Dave. This makes you giggle like mad.

Tag list: @the-makingsofgreatness @peakyswritings @haphazardhufflepuff @diksy1112 @zodiyack @theunderlier @soleil-dor @hiddensapphic @fckingpeakyblinders @snugleo @alittlebirds @satanxklaus @glamsaturn @thegirlwithoutaname87 @queenofmankind

#arthur shelby fluff #arthur shelby x reader #arthur shelby x you #peaky blinders #fluff #arthur shelby headcanon #request

[maestro-of-clockwork]

From even before you were born, you are not only brought into this world, but you are of the Earth itself. When you die and are lain to rest, eventually your body returns to the Earth: every atom, every piece of your molecular structure meshes into the ecosystem of this planet.

Of course, you already know this, do you not? You are familiar. You are aware. Why, they teach you this in school! How wouldn't you know?

I feel as though many of you are forgetting something, though. A piece of information that too many of you overlook:

All of you were doomed to be oppressed by my influence. You owe your existence, even as a thought, to me. You can choose to ignore it to spite me, but in the most obscure corners of your consciousness, you know that I am right.

Even after your consciousness and awareness dies, I will continue to have a stranglehold on you. What separates the situation is that, while you are alive, you have the misfortune of being cognisant of this.

You have the misfortune to realise that you should be thanking me for everything you know and love...or everything you know and hate.

Isn't it wonderful to know that, beyond your surface knowledge of who I am as a person, I am in control of your lives in more ways than you could possibly fathom?

And, even if you were already aware of this, isn't it wonderful that I am generous enough to give you the reminder?

#in-character #tw death mention #tw existential dread #dhmis tony #such resounding words. {{m u s i n g s}} #from the typewriter. {{ t e x t }} #[[ this is based on the 'decay exists as an extant form of life' post going around.....again ]]

[t-o-m-hollands]

Locksley Hall - Part II

Summery: Tom doesn’t know quite how it happens, but one moment he’s working as the gardener at Locksley hall, and the next he’s run of to marry the lords daughter, a girl he hates. Set in England, 1920.

Word count: 5500 (sorry...)

Pairing: Tom x OC

A/N: Again, this is heavily inspired by the first part in Atonement – Ian McEwan, but the plot is different.  

Music wise: For Madeleine’s parts I listened to Old Money – Lana del Rey and for Tom’s part I listened to NFWMB and Work Song - Hozier.

R E A D   P A R T    O N E   H E R E

Gideon’s cottage - 1920.

Tom is awakened by yet another expensive automobile driving up the road and past his cottage. His brain works slowly, still half asleep, one foot in a dreamland where he’s chasing someone in a labyrinth made out of peonies. Slowly he wakes his body by moving his toes, and then his fingers too, before stretching his arms over his head, letting out a tired groan. His body feels warm and his limbs lethargic and slow, as they do after a particularly long nap. For a long while he lays there, eyes half-closed, staring at the dust aimlessly drifting in the sunlight.  

Another car passes by outside.  

Downstairs he can hear Mr. Higgins doing the washing up. If he concentrates, he can hear the guests from the ball chatting and laughing up at the manor. If he concentrates further still, he can hear the blood pumping through his system, steady and slow.  

The whole world feels slow. Like the air in the room stands still, despite the wide-open window. It is mid-July, and the heat feels oppressively persistent, there is no escaping it. Only now, as the clock is nearing eight in the evening, does the world seem to cool. All morning he’d worked in the garden, preparing the grounds for the ball under the watchful eyes of old Dowager Locksley. When she was finally satisfied that there wasn’t a dead leaf, not a single weed, nor an unwatered rose in sight she’d sent him off, ready to attack the kitchen staff instead. He’d walked down to Locksley bay. There he’d rid himself of his sweaty, earth-stained rags and he’d swam until his body felt cool again before returning to the cottage for a long and well-deserved nap.  

He stretches again and groans. He desperately wants a smoke, but his pack of cigarettes along with his lighter is all across the room, thrown on the cluttered desk along with countless of books and an old typewriter that the library had given away. The letter M was irreversibly lost and therefor it had been deemed useless. He’d taken it with great gratitude, glad to have something he’d normally wouldn’t be able to afford. It had amused him, typing long passages without using any word containing the 13th letter of the alphabet. In a strange way it thrilled him, that some words in the dictionary simply became forbidden for him. Suddenly out of reach.Words like magic, monarch, melancholy, magnetic, maddening, maiden,  

Madeleine.  

Finally he gets up, walks across the room and sits down by his desk. He lights a cigarette. Staring out the window he watches as yet another car makes it up the driveway to join the ball.  

The sky outside is lilac, and the first evening breeze makes its way through the grass like a wave in the ocean and he prays it’ll make its way through the window to cool his head. He inhales deeply, but the sinking feeling he’s had in his stomach all day stays where it is.  

And half of his mind is still in his dream. 

Had he been better at drawing he’d drawn her hands, soft and small compared to his calloused ones. Maybe if he’d draw them, he’d be able to get the picture of them out of his mind. Those hands, gracefully holding a cigarette as her eyes, dark and deep and framed with long lashes, observed him with great disapproval as they’d discussed poetry. She always looked disapproving when she was observing him. She’d worn a evening gown in the finest silk, and his ratty jacket over her shoulders, her normally perfectly pinned hair falling down in cascades over her shoulders. It had felt strangely intimate, seeing her like that, so undone and wearing his jacket

Swearing, he puts out the cigarette. He’d been distracted, not noticing how it’d burnt down to the butt, burning his fingers. He doesn’t light a new one, but leans back in his chair, runs his hand through his hair and tries to calm his breathing.  

It hadn’t always been this way.  

Once upon a time, they’d been friends, hard as it was to believe now. They’d defied gravity when they’d climbed the great oak three behind the cottage. He’d taught her how to swim in Locksley bay, held her up in the water and told her to fill her lungs with air in order to float. She’d taught him how to read. His teacher in the village school had called him slow, so she’d sneaked out books from the library, and with patience of a saint she’d taught him how to recognise each symbol until he could make sense of the words.  

She’d been his first kiss.  

It had only been a small peck on his lips, lasting not more than a second, but it counted. He counted it. 

She’d find him in the greenhouse, crying over the trashing he’d gotten from Mr. Higgins for attacking Francis Locksley. Silently she’d sat down beside him, her long dark hair in a braid and dressed in her Sunday best, having just been to church. She’d taken his bruised knuckles in her hands and she’d kissed them, before kissing each tear streaked cheek, and then ever so briefly, she’d pressed her lips against his. He had felt like a knight, being awarded by the queen for his brave service. He hadn’t known what to make of it, but she’d held his hand in hers and he’d leaned his head against her shoulder and for the longest time they’d stayed that way until he’d forgotten all about stinging bruises and tears.

He lights another cigarette and another car drives up the driveway.  

The sky is now a dark blue, the last evening light turning the leaves in the trees golden. Earlier that day Mr. Higgins had put out lights all along the drive way to the manor house and they now lit up the summer evening. 

Against the evening sky he sees a bird shoot up, rising to the sky.

Once when they’d been children they’d found an injured songbird in the woods. He’d watched as Madeleine with the gentlest of fingers picked the bird up. He’d watched as she held the wounded creature in her hands, as she observed its broken wing. She’d looked at him then, her dark eyes sad, and she’d told him they’d have to help it heal.  

So they’d gone to Gideon’s cottage and he’d sneaked her in, while Mr. Higgins worked in the garden. She’d placed the songbird on his bed. While she was kneeling in front of it, as if in prayer, he’d taken out bandages. He’d watched as she’d gently wrapped it around the bird’s wing. She’d looked at him, and told him to sing. She’d said that it would make the bird feel safer, that it was what she used to do to baby Beatrix when she was crying.  So, he’d sung a song to the poor harmed thing, while Madeleine patted its head.  

For seven days the nursed it, making sure the wing healed as it should. It had been their secret. She’d snuck out of classes with her governess and he’d faked being ill until Mr. Higgins let him be home from school and they’d sat in his room, and he’d sing for them. They kept the bird in a box, on the lid of which he’d put air holes in, and she’d placed her cardigan in the bottom of it, making sure it was soft to sleep on. They’d feed t worms Tom had dug up in the garden and Tom would sing to it every night.

In the end the songbird had healed, and they’d released it in the woods again and watched as it flew away, awkwardly at first, nearly toppling towards the ground before it found its strength again, slowly rising until it was only a speck of black in the distance. He’d held her hand, biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep himself from weeping, while she had cried openly, pressing his hand in hers. They’d hid in the labyrinth until late that evening, far away from nanny and Mr. Higgins. He’d sung her songs until she’d stopped weeping.  

Tom stands up, puts out his cigarette and stretches out one last time. Then he walks out, leaving his memories in the smoke-filled room, heading towards the pub. 

*

The Wild Boar, the village pub

“You ever think about headin’ out of here?” he asks his friend.  

They’re in the village pub, The Wild Boar, throwing back beers. A Victorian pub with murky green wallpaper, beer-stained velvet booths and worn mahogany wooden floors. The atmosphere is always good and someone is always singing. Harrison, who most days works in the bar but is enjoying a rare day off, calls it his home.  

“What, go somewhere else to drink, you mean?”

“No, no, I mean like leave Milchwood, go to London or something, head somewhere else you know”.

Harrison gives him a puzzled look and Tom can tell he doesn’t feel the same. They’re both comfortably leaned back on each side of the booth. Around them the other patrons are talking loudly, discussing this and that, enjoying their Saturday night and the unusually warm summer weather.  

“No” Harrison answers in the end “no, I mean, it’s home, yeah?” He drowns the last drops of his pint, waving to the bar for another before looking back at Tom, “you feel like leaving?”

“Dunno, maybe, sometimes” he says. “’is just, some days I want nothing more than to head out to Milchwood station and take literally any train away from here.” He takes a long gulp of his own pint.

“Well, why don’t you?”

It takes some time for Tom to answer. He keeps his eyes on the dirty window in front of him. Far away he can just make out the silhouette of Locksley Hall. They are all up there now, the lords and the ladies, having a ball.

“’s just hard to leave you know.” He takes another gulp of beer as the bartender places another pint in front of Harrison. “Spent most of my time in France wishing I was back here and now” he waves his hand in front of him, as if this would explain the strange sinking feeling he’d been walking around with lately. “Now it feels like it all stands still, like I’m just walking around, waiting for something to happen.”  

Harrison gives him a worried look “but what’s keeping you here then?”  

“Dunno, it’s just, it’s hard to leave”.

He doesn’t have ties to this place the way Harrison does. He has no other family part from Mr. Higgins. Mrs. Higgins had taken him in when he’d been nothing more than a baby, but she’d passed away before his fifth birthday. He hardly remembered her. Mr. Higgins had kept him on, and despite his stern ways he’d been kind to the boy, and taught him all he knew of gardening and thus ensuring that Tom would have a future secured. But Tom knows that Mr. Higgins wouldn’t mind if he took off, that maybe he’d even expect it.  

“Yes, we saw ‘em, didn’t we Billy!” Owain Murphy’s loud voice booms from the booth beside theirs.  

“Yeah” Billy concurs, nodding his head and staring down into his glass.  

“Yeah, we saw ‘em, all ‘em gently folks up at Locksley Hall”.

“Yeah” Billy nods again.

“They say the ‘eir is being married off!” Owain bellows.

Billy is too busy drinking now to agree.

“She looked a vision, didn’t she Billy?”

Something twists uncomfortably in Tom’s stomach. He drowns his beer and nods to his friend. It’s time to leave. The night air is cool and he takes deep breaths of it as he steps outside. They walk and chat for a while, before hitting a fork in the road, saying their goodbyes and promising to meet up for another pint the next day they then part ways, Harrison walking to the house he shares with his parents and little sister, and Tom steers his feet to Gideon’s Cottage and Locksley Hall.  

He can see the lights from the building, hear the piano music even from outside. Across the lawn people are taking some fresh air, surely they’ve been dancing for hours. They’re all dressed in their finest clothes, heavily bejeweled. Tom closes in on Gideon’s cottage, and he can’t wait to throw himself on the bed and sleep for a few hours. Tomorrow is Sunday, the day for resting, and he’s free as a bird.  

A flash of white moves in the corner of his eye and he looks over.  

By the enormous rhododendron bush stands Lady Madeleine Locksley, wearing a silky white gown that somehow plays tricks with his brain; for when he first lays his eyes on her, it looks to him as if she’s wearing nothing more than moonlight, the diamonds from her tiara glistening in the night.

For a moment it feels as if he’s actually gotten the breath knocked out of him. Owain Murphy had been right, she did look a vision.  

A man joins her, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s tall and blond and even from this distance he can tell she’s bored with the conversation, but she politely goes along with it.  

Tom walks into the cottage, closing the door behind him.

*

The cliffs of Locksley bay

The Atlantic Ocean spread out in front of her, wide and far and impossibly blue. She’s standing on the cliffs beside Locksley bay. If she were to turn her head to her left, she would see the docks with the boats lined up one after the other, each more impressive than the last. It is summer, and high season for travellers. Would she instead turn her head to her right she would see the bay, and the people playing in the water, lying in the beach and soaking up sun. Enjoying themselves and cooling themselves off in the unusually warm weather.  

But she keeps her eyes far ahead.  

Out on the water she can see sailing boats slowly drifting over the landscape. It’s not a good day for sailing, not even up here on the cliffs can you feel anything more than a gentle breeze. The heavens are almost violently blue, not a cloud as far as the eye can see. In the sky seagulls fly, screeching as they go and she inhales deep breaths of the ocean air. She feels so far removed from them all, the people on the boats and the ones on the beach. 

Her lungs feels tighter, there’s a scream in them that needs to get out.

She takes a step closer to the edge.  

A pair of arms grabs hold of her and pulls her in against something hard. “What are you doing?!” A familiar voice inquires angrily in her ear.

He pulls them both a few steps back, away from the edge, before turning her around to face him. Anger clear on his face. His chest, still close to hers, is heaving.  

“What are you doing?” She asks, not quite managing to match his level of animosity. His hands are still holding a firm grip around her arms. She pulls herself free and takes a step back, trying to create some distance between them, though she swears she still feels the heat radiating of his body, his scent, which she’d briefly inhaled, surrounding her.

“Were you going to jump?” he asks in a serious tone, his warm brown eyes intensely searching her face for something.  

“No” she says, voice firm, and he relaxes somewhat, though he still looks angry. That frown, seemingly permanent on his face whenever she’s around. “But it wouldn’t have killed me if I had, people jump from here all the time”

“Sure, but not young heiresses”.  He sounds almost sarcastic and she can feel her blood nearly boiling. Her diamond heart beats faster in her chest.

“Have you?”

He observers her for a heartbeat, like he’s searching for something in her face. The long days spent working in the garden has given him a nice tan. His brown hair looks windswept and he’s not wearing his usual uniform of muddy trousers, suspenders and a dirty white shirt. Instead his clothes look washed and clean; he’s wearing his Sunday best, linen suit trousers, clean white shirt and suspenders that don’t look quite as worn. His arms, well developed from all the hard work, fills out his shirt in a way that makes something inside her flutter, and she hastily looks away.  

“Yes” he answers in the end. “Yeah, me and Harrison jumped it last year”.  

“Yet you’re so against me doing it?”

He’s silent for a few seconds, and she can tell he’s weighing each word carefully. “I just, I didn’t take you for a thrill-chaser, is all. It surprised me”.

Now he’s avoiding looking at her.  

“So, how was the ball?” he asks eventually, having to fill the stale, strange silence.

“Long” she answers and sighs. “Awfully long, and dreary”.  

“Poor girl” he teases, but she wonders if there isn’t real malice underneath. “And how is your betrothed?”  

She narrows her eyes at him. “James is not my betrothed” she says, trying to keep her voice calm. He’s got his hands in his pockets, an arrogant look on his face and she wants to scream at him.

“Huh” he says, “I heard you were being married off”.  

“Well, I’m not. Not yet”

“So, what’s he’s like, this not betrothed man of yours”

He sounds so nonchalant, and it’s making her skin itch with irritation. “He’s nice, actually”.

He scoffs, “nice?”

“Yes! He’s very nice, unlike certain people! And he gave me a book of Wordsworth poetry”

Tom snorts “you hate Wordsworth, you always have”  

“How do you know?” She asks, annoyance clear in her tone.  

“You told me” he answers, and he sound so certain of himself.  

“Yes, when we were children, I might have changed my mind since!”  

“You haven’t though”.

“Funny isn’t? All the things you remember?” She tries to sound superior, but she’s not sure she accomplishes anything. He’s still standing there, hands in pockets and a devil-may-care smug smile on his face.  

“You find him dull”.

“How do you know if I find James dull or not! You’ve never even met him! Maybe I find it fascinating to talk about dog breeding and horses!” you scream at him. 

But he just smiles wider. “I was talking about Wordsworth. You find Wordsworth dull. But clearly I hit a nerve”.  

She’s so angry she’s speechless. From the village they hear the church bells ring.  

“We should go” he says and nods to the path back.  

“No”

“Lady Madeleine, -”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Well, it is your title”.

“Oh, like you give a toss about people’s titles! I’m Madeleine and we used to be friends, or don’t you remember that part?”

“Alright Madeleine” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly petulant child, “we better head home now, they’ll want you back for dinner”.

“I don’t want to” she says stubbornly. “You head back. I’m staying here to watch the sunset”.

“They’ll just sent me out to look for you if you´re not there for dinner, let’s go”.

She takes a deep breath and a step backwards, towards the edge. “You know, I’m so tired of everyone telling me what to do all the time, were to be and what to think, and how to feel”. She takes another step backwards and the smugness on his face is soon replaced with worry.  

“I’m so tired of people telling me that I can’t do things when they have no issue doing it themselves”. She takes yet another step back and as he reaches out for her, realising what she’s about to do. She turns around and runs toward the edge.  

“No Maddie, don’t!”  

But she’s already taken the leap.

*

Locksley Hall

The next morning she wakes early, though it feels as though she’s hardly slept at all. Memories plays behind her closed eyelids from the day before. The cliffs, Tom’s arms grabbing hold of her, the argument, the jump, the fall, the splash, the sinking, the searching for the surface. And then, a hand grabbing hold of her, pulling her towards the light.  

He’d jumped in after her, had thrown himself of the cliff in his Sunday best without any hesitation.  

He’d always been the better swimmer, he was the one who had taught her after all, and luckily it hadn’t taken him long to find her beneath the surface.  

They’d swam ashore, dragged themselves up in their heavy, wet clothes watched by the bathers who looked at them, some agog and some in chock. (“Is that not lady Madeleine?”)

He’d been furious, practically steaming with anger. It hadn’t mattered how many times she’d tried to talk to him, tried to apologise, he’d only ignored her and kept steering his feet forward to Locksley Hall. Only when she tried to thank him for having saved her did he respond.

“Don’t” he had uttered, his resentment almost palpable.

They had been walking through a path in the woods, sun shining through the canopy, painting the whole world a bright green colour, and she stumbled after him, keeping her eyes on his wet white shirt, his suspenders holding of his soaked beige trousers.  

She too had grown angry then. Had tried to argue with him. Tried telling him that he was overreacting, that no one had forced him to jump in as well, that it would have been better if he hadn’t, that they both knew he wished he hadn’t and suddenly -

She’d been pressed up against a tree, his face just centimetres from hers, both their chest heaving with conflicting emotions, his arms on either side of her face, in the most beautiful trap.

Madeleine untangles herself from her many sheets and blankets and walks to the window to pull apart the curtains and let in the morning light. The grounds outside are empty, no one is yet awake. It must be very early indeed, for even Gideon’s cottage seem peacefully quiet.

She opens the leaded window and drags in deep breaths of fresh air, but her lungs still feel too tight. She fishes up a package of cigarettes from one of the pockets of her silk robe and with trembling hands she lights one. Everything is set now. She is to marry Sir James Hatfield, and settle down at Hatfield house in all its ugly Tudor glory. It didn’t matter if she smoked in the house anymore, she wouldn’t stay here much longer.  

With picture perfect certainty she imagines married life with Sr Hatfield. Endless conversation of the breeding of horses, hunting and dogs. Her life spent doing things the way they have always been done at Hatfield house, keeping up with the traditions of a family she has no interest in. And then, several blonde little children would come along. All boys, all taking after their father in looks and manners.  

Her life would surround around them. She would be Lady Madeline Locksley no more, but instead, Lady Hatfield. She would have to leave Locksley hall, leave Benie,  

leave Tom.

The thought startles her, and she gets up from the window ledge, starts walking aimlessly round the cluttered room.  

Using her empty tea cup from which she’d drank her evening tea the night before as an ashtray she puts out her cigarette, and with hands trembling more than ever she lights another, before throwing herself back on the bed.  

Tom.  

Who surely hated her now. The achingly long moments when he’d trapped her against the tree plays again in her head. She’d seen so many emotions on his face, his chest heaving from all of it. First there had been anger, then confusion and then, unless she wasn’t entirely mistaken; because god knows her experience was non-existing in the area,  

- lust.  

But he’d torn himself free, and marched off, without looking back. And she’d stood leaned against the three, feeling like a planet spinning out of its axis, struggling to remember how to breath again.

When she walked into the great hall she’d been met with her mother, Benie and granny. Upon seeing her, they’d all gone completely silent, the only sound to be heard the water dripping off of her, landing on the newly swapped floors.  

“Oh Madeleine!” her mother had eventually burst out “what’s happened?”

She had told them she’d been at the cliffs, and that Tom had come along, but then her granny had interrupted her. “Are you telling me” she’d asked in her superior voice “that you were ‘hanging about’ the cliffs with the junior gardener?” The disapproval in her voice was evident.  

“No” Madeleine had answered, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. “I’m saying that I was there, and he was there, he annoyed me, and then I jumped off the cliff”.

Dead silence again.  

“You, you did what?”

“I jumped off a cliff. And then he saved me. And now, I really must change, so would you please excuse me”. The wave of emotion that washed over her had surprised her, but suddenly she’d been holding back tears.

““Madeleine, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you need to go and get changed, right now. Sir Hatfield is invited for dinner, and you will behave yourself and you will conduct yourself accordingly” her mother had told her in her sternest voice. So, Madeleine had nodded and walked up the stairs, choking back on tears, her wet clothes leaving a trace of water in her wake.  

And she’d changed and Alice had done up her hair and she’d joined the others for dinner. And she’d sat beside James at dinner and listened to him lecturing her on various dog breeds and she’d smiled appropriately. Then, after dinner, he’d taken her aside. Professed in a dry tone his admiration for her and asked for her hand in marriage. He’d told her that he’d already settled things with her father. She had smiled and complied and tried to press down the feeling of nausea in her stomach, tried to ignore to scream growing ever larger in her lungs.  

She stands up again, puts out her cigarette, takes one of the many dresses scattering the floor and slides it on. Then she’s out the door. With silent steps, as to not wake anyone, she makes her way down the corridor, and then down the grand staircase and the foyer and out the door. The pressure in her lungs grow tenser and tenser and her feet move faster and faster, until her naked feet are sprinting over the grounds, the dewy grass cold under her soles. When she finally reaches the greenhouse, she’s sobbing.

This had always been her secret place. Not even Tom had known about how she’d used to come here when things became too much, when things would build and build inside of her until she had to let it out. Like it was a living, moving thing in her chest, begging her to set it free. Knowing that the old greenhouse was the only soundproof place in all of Locksley Hall it became her safe place to let it out, she’d always steer her feet here. When she’d been to boarding school, and then in Canada, she’d been forced to try letting the scream free under water, no other place felt safe enough, but it hadn’t felt the same.  

She slams the door shut behind her and then she lets it out. Nearly bending over from the force of it she shrieks, for as long and as loud as she can. Her eyes pressed shut and trembling hands in fists. When she finally stops it still seems to echo in her ears, and she feels exhausted. She’s breathing as if she’s just run for miles and miles. Slowly she stands up straight again, unclasping her fists. Opening her shut eyes.

Tom.  

Standing in front of her, looking shocked and horrified, hands and shirt muddy. He must have been in here for some early work before the heat gets too intense. 

They stand there, for a long time, just staring at one another, her screams still echoing in her mind. And then, like she’s a wild animal, he slowly walks towards her. Taking her hand in his, an arm around her waist, he gently guides them towards the pond, on the side of which he helps her sit down. Bending down in front of her, so that he’s on his knees, he looks up at her, a strand of brown hair falling down, framing his face.

It’s so tender, the way he looks at her. So unbearably tender. His earth-stained hands clasped around hers, placed in her lap, calloused and warm.  

“What happened?” He asks, voice soft and low.

She doesn’t know when it started, too distracted by his gentleness perhaps, but she realises then that she’s crying, two tears falling from her cheek and landing on their hands.   

“I’m just being silly” she responds, but her voice sounds hoarse and dead even to her own ears.

“I doubt it, what’s wrong?”  

“I, I” she begins, her lungs feeling tight again “I have to marry.”

His kind eyes blink up at her, and for a moment she swears he holds on tighter to her hands.  

“But you don’t want to.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. “Why do you have to?” His thumbs stroke her trembling hands and it feel and it is the gentlest thing that’s ever happened to her.  

“There’s no male hair. So, if papa dies before I marry, we’ll lose everything”. Her voice is hoarse from screaming and she wonders if he finds her pathetic, but in his eyes she only finds sympathy, and maybe a fair share of pain.

“But you don’t have to marry Hatfield?”

She shakes her head, and more tears fall. “No, but he’s the best option. I can’t afford to wait”.  

Silence for a while as he observes you.

Then,  

“What if I’ll marry you?” his voice is steady, but his eyes are fixed their clasped hands.  

“What?”

“I’ll marry you” he states and looks up at her again. She stares at him in disbelief, for surely, he can’t mean it. He continues. “I know it’s not a good option, but the estate will be safe, and you won’t have to marry Hatfield, you won’t have to leave Locksley Hall.”

When she just keeps staring at him in silent disbelief his cheeks turn pink. “I know I haven’t got anything to offer; you know I don’t. But -”

“Alright”. Her answers comes without her thinking about it and it seems to catch him off guard. “But, are you sure?” she asks, worried that he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.  

“Yes, Madeleine, I’m sure” he smiles, his hands continuing to gently stroke her hands.  

“But, but” she starts, feeling almost dizzy. “But why would you want to marry me?”

“What?”

“Why would you help me? It would change your life forever.” She keeps her voice serious, knows that it’s of utmost importance that he understands the importance of this.  

He seems struck silent and for a long while his brown eyes stare up at her in disbelief. “Well I, I mean I would, I” he starts, letting go of her hands and standing up, placing them his pockets instead. It is like he’s trying to look as nonchalant as he usually does.  

Turning slightly away from her, eyes fixed on the koi fish in the pond he then continues. “Well, I’d get to live in Locksley Hall, wouldn’t I? I’d be the lord of the manor. No more hard toil in the garden”.  

“So, mostly self-interest then?” She says, not knowing whether she feels more relieved or disappointed. More than anything she feels light headed.  

“Yeah” he agrees, eyes still fixed on the pond. “It’s self-interest".  

Silence spread between them. This is new territory that neither one knows how to tread.  

In the end she stands up and he turns to look at her again, something like worry in his expression. “We, well we’ll have to discuss this. If it’s to happen it needs to happen soon.”

“It is to happen” he says, firmly, but then his cheeks turn pink again. “As long as you want it to”.  

“Well then” she says, a small but genuine smile on her face. “It can’t happen here; Gretna Green is our only option. We have to come up with some excuse so we can leave for Scotland for a few days”.  

He nods, but he too looks more relaxed now. “I’ll think of something”.  

“So much to be fixed” she says, mostly to herself. “Wedding dress for example, though the wedding will be so small only something simple will do.”

“Could you” he begins, and he avoids her eyes again. “You could wear that dress you had on at the ball” he asks awkwardly, fidgeting slightly where he stands.  

“Oh, yes of course” she says, just as awkward. “If that’s what you want”. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. Its embarrassed, but it’s tender too.  

“Meet me at the fountain tonight?” he asks, and that strange fluttering sensation she’d felt when he’d pressed her against the tree makes another appearance. “To discuss how we’ll do this?”

She nods “yes, I’ll see you then. I better get back now, or Alice will notice I’ve left when she brings in breakfast.”  

She turns to leave, but changing her mind mid stride she turns back to him. When she reaches him she stands on the tips of her naked, now muddy, feet. She presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you” she whispers.  

***

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#tom holland x reader #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland headcanon #tom holland imagine #tom holland x oc #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland x fem

[hollowfaces]

A ctivities - What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?

enjoys simple things like holding you while you guys talk or venting about his day. if you’re interested however he really enjoys teaching you about all his medical knowledge and seeing how you do. sometimes give you random pop quizzes on which medical equipment do what to keep you on your toes

B eauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

since he can’t exactly see you, he really admires your hands. loves when you cup his face or tightly squeeze his hand. also really enjoys softly rubbing your hands with his own and just basking in the moment

C omfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

jack is very comforting person for several reasons. he has both a very calming voice and a very calming aura. whenever you’re feeling down he’ll try the most logical way to help you feel better, but if you just want some cuddles or some space he’ll be happy to oblige

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

his future with you is honestly just keeping things the way they are. he doesn’t want kids and doesn’t do well with actual pets so just keeping your guys’ loving relationship is what he wants

E qual - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

he’s rather dominant in regards to your safety and his possessiveness but passive in most regards of your actual relationship. jacks very whipped when it comes to you and you find yourself getting away with a lot of stuff no one else would be able to get away with

F ight - Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?

one of the worst people to fight with since he isn’t the type to really yell or display any body language. when you guys fight he remains rather calm which makes you feel like he doesn’t care that much about whatever you’re fighting about. but luckily you guys don’t fight very often, jack is level headed and does his best to solve issues by talking to you

G ratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

extremely grateful. he knows being with him is hard for several reasons and appreciates you so much. also very aware of all that you do for him and makes sure to praise you for it

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

he doesn’t really hold secrets per say, but he hasn’t told you everything about his past and probably never will. he completely trusts you but it’s just not something he likes to think about, much less talk about. greatly appreciates when you understand and don’t press on the subject

I nspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?

you’ve definitely helped him overcome certain personal issues. he had a lot of issues with his self worth and wondering if he deserved anything good in his life. you didn’t just magically solve everything when you came into his life but you stayed with him through the process and supported him

J ealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

jack is honestly a very possessive and overprotective person. he knows the type of people he hangs out with and never wants you to meet them. he doesn’t want them to ‘taint’ you in any way or hurt you. jack also keeps this attitude for any regular person as well

K iss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

i’m gonna be totally honest with you, your first kiss was pretty awful. jack hadn’t had any experience since he was a human and now he had to make sure he didn’t accidentally hurt you with his teeth so your first kiss was really awkward and chaste. eventually gets the hang of it and gets more trust in himself to not hurt you

L ove Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

he goes total old school and writes you a note. since he has trouble writing nicely he actually typed it out on an typewriter he has, which just adds to the charm of the letter really. even seals it with a nice wax seal he has. when he hands the note to you, you’re more than shocked and a little concerned. first of all, his hands have the slightest tremble to them which is very rare for someone as composed as jack. not to mention how uncomfortable the silence makes him feel as you carefully read over each word. he keeps shuffling his feet and coughing to aid the silence. when he hears your elated acceptance after you’re done reading, he swears he could combust right there. partially from happiness from your newfound relationship, partially from the huge wave of relief coming from his body since the silence is finally over.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

he would not want to get married. he thinks it’s really stupid and plus, you guys can’t even actually get married, no one wants to officiate a demons wedding. if you convince him enough though, he may do a faux proposal with a ring pop

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

it’s really cheesy but he enjoys calling you baby and angel. he mostly calls you angel though. jack thinks it’s really adorable if you call him pet names too but not for the same reason that you probably do... he just enjoys it for the simple reason that it’s very funny to him hearing you call him, a organ eating demon with no eyes, your adorable little sweetie pie

O n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

it wouldn’t be overtly obvious unless someone really knew jack. like jeff won’t be able to tell but his closer friends like toby and tim can pick up on the subtle changes. like how he laughs at bens stupid jokes more, or how he isn’t as moody when he has to fix up toby when he hurts himself again, or when he isn’t as pissed when jeff annoys him. he just seems happier in general and his friends can’t help but feel a little happy themselves

P DA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

doesn’t brag about you but isn’t afraid to show affection in front of others. it isn’t embarrassing to him and as long you keep it reasonable he doesn’t care. sometimes kisses you or pulls you into his lap in front of the other creeps so he can laugh at them making fake gagging and vomiting noises

Q uirk - Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

not sure if this counts as beneficial but since he’s a demon he can scent you. this is mainly to let any other demons know that you’re taken and keep them away from you. this also means he rubs against your neck all the time which means he gives you a lot of affection too!

R omance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

jack tries to be romantic but demons don’t exactly have the same standards of romance that humans do so it often comes off wrong. likes giving you pretty stuff he finds in the forest like pretty rocks, old snail shells, abandoned trinkets, and sometimes even live animals. (he brought you a dead one once and quickly regretted it when you cried over the mouse carcass he had presented you). definitely reminds of you a bird sometimes so he’s creative in his own way. also likes trying romantic things you want like picnics or dancing in the kitchen. does whatever he can to make you smile and gets excited when you bring up new ideas for you guys to try

S upport - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

believes in you 100% and will do anything to help you achieve your dreams and ambitions. he’s super proud of you no matter what it is and is your biggest supporter

T hrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice out your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

jack just kinda goes with the flow. if you wanna try something new he’s usually down for it but if you just wanna sit at home and cuddle he’s down for that too. that being said, he does like trying new things with you. if you wanna try to cook something new, jack will be there with you every step of the way. if you wanna try painting, he’ll be there trying his own painting. you do have to get used to his criticism on new things though, even if it hurts

U nderstanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

remembers just about everything you’ve told him about yourself. is very observant as well so he’s also picked up on your social cues like when you’re nervous or excited. so it’s safe to say he knows you extremely well. and while he may not always understand your emotions or where you’re coming from, he’ll do his best to understand what you’re going through and give you adequate care

V alue - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?

your relationship is worth everything to jack. he doesn’t let himself get close to people often so the fact that you were not only able to break down his walls and squirm your way into his life, but also that you’ve made yourself a permanent fixture in it as well is impressive. you’re a very important and precious fixture in his life. and he’ll do anything to keep you happy and by his side

W ild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

jack really enjoys solving conspiracy theories and ARG’s with you. loves finding out how all the puzzle pieces fit together and you both find yourself excitedly awaiting the next update. you guys haven’t actually solved anything yet or been right even once but jack still has hope!

X OXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

in the beginning of your relationship he’d be more conservative and nervous to initiate touch with you, but as time grows on he’ll start getting the insatiable desire to crush you against his chest or wrap his arms around your waist and hold you for dear life. will always wait until you’re comfortable with affection though, and once you are comfortable, you are never leaving his grasp. loves cuddling with you and hugging you from behind, giving you a quick kiss on your hairline. really just loves feeling you against him in the most pure way

Y earning - How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?

he can go a regular amount of time without missing you too much but if you guys are separated for any extended period of time he will hate it so much. on the outside he’ll look perfectly calm, not saying a single word about you to anymore or seeming like he misses you at all. but on the inside he’s dying a bit without your gentle touches and wet kisses to his forehead. hugs his pillow tighter at night when he misses you and tries to keep his hands occupied all the time

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lenghts for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

not in the regular sense but he will do just about anything to keep you happy. let’s you touch his face, tells you somewhat about his past, keeps seedeater around to protect you, would even disguise himself in public for you if he needed to. would fight any other demons if they ever got too close as well

#creepypasta x reader #eyeless jack x reader #ej #i love him a lot okay #rq #why is the formatting so weird idk ❤️

[justforbooks]

Christopher Latham Sholes was born on February 14, 1819. He was an American inventor who invented the QWERTY keyboard, and, along with Samuel W. Soule, Carlos Glidden and John Pratt, has been contended to be one of the inventors of the first typewriter in the United States. He was also a newspaper publisher and Wisconsin politician.

Typewriters with various keyboards had been invented as early as 1714 by Henry Mill and have been reinvented in various forms throughout the 1800s. It is believed that Sholes drew inspiration from the inventions of others, including those of Frank Haven Hall, Samuel W. Soule, Carlos Glidden, Giuseppe Ravizza and, in particular, John Pratt, whose mention in an 1867 Scientific American article Glidden is known to have shown Sholes. Sholes' typewriter improved on both the simplicity and efficiency of previous models, which led to his successful patent and commercial success.

Sholes had moved to Milwaukee and became the editor of a newspaper. Following a strike by compositors at his printing press, he tried building a machine for typesetting, but this was a failure and he quickly abandoned the idea. He arrived at the typewriter through a different route. His initial goal was to create a machine to number pages of a book, tickets and so on. He began work on this at a machine shop in Milwaukee, together with a fellow printer Samuel W. Soule They patented a numbering machine on November 13, 1866.

Sholes and Soule showed their machine to Carlos Glidden, a lawyer and amateur inventor at the machine shop who was working on a mechanical plow. Glidden wondered if the machine could not be made to produce letters and words as well. Further inspiration came in July 1867, when Sholes came across a short note in Scientific American describing the "Pterotype", a prototype typewriter that had been invented by John Pratt. From the description, Sholes decided that the Pterotype was too complex and set out to make his own machine, whose name he got from the article: the typewriting machine, or typewriter.

For this project, Soule was again enlisted and Glidden joined them as a third partner to provide funding. The Scientific American article (unillustrated) had figuratively used the phrase "literary piano"; the first model that the trio built had a keyboard literally resembling a piano. It had black keys and white keys, laid out in two rows. It did not contain keys for the numerals 0 or 1 because the letters O and I were deemed sufficient:

 3 5 7 9 N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z 2 4 6 8 . A B C D E F G H I J K L M

The first row was made of ivory and the second of ebony, the rest of the framework was wooden. Despite the evident prior art by Pratt, it was in this same form that Sholes, Glidden and Soule were granted patents for their invention on June 23, 1868 and July 14. The first document to be produced on a typewriter was a contract that Sholes had written, in his capacity as the comptroller for the city of Milwaukee. Machines similar to Sholes's had been previously used by the blind for embossing, but by Sholes's time the inked ribbon had been invented, which made typewriting in its current form possible.

At this stage, the Sholes-Glidden-Soule typewriter was only one among dozens of similar inventions. They wrote hundreds of letters on their machine to various people, one of whom was James Densmore of Meadville, Pennsylvania. Densmore believed that the typewriter would be highly profitable, and offered to buy a share of the patent, without even having seen the machine. The trio immediately sold him one-fourth of the patent in return for his paying all their expenses so far. When Densmore eventually examined the machine in March 1867, he declared that it was good for nothing in its current form, and urged them to start improving it. Discouraged, Soule and Glidden left the project, leaving Sholes and Densmore in sole possession of the patent.

Realizing that stenographers would be among the first and most important users of the machine, and therefore best in a position to judge its suitability, they sent experimental versions to a few stenographers. The most important of them was James O. Clephane of Washington D.C., who tried the instruments as no one else had tried them, subjecting them to such unsparing tests that he destroyed them, one after another, as fast as they could be made and sent to him. His judgments were similarly caustic, causing Sholes to lose his patience and temper. But Densmore insisted that this was exactly what they needed:

This candid fault-finding is just what we need. We had better have it now than after we begin manufacturing. Where Clephane points out a weak lever or rod let us make it strong. Where a spacer or an inker works stiffly, let us make it work smoothly. Then, depend upon Clephane for all the praise we deserve.

Sholes took this advice and set to improve the machine at every iteration, until they were satisfied that Clephane had taught them everything he could. By this time, they had manufactured 50 machines or so, at an average cost of $250 (equivalent to almost $5,000 in 2020). They decided to have the machine examined by an expert mechanic, who directed them to E. Remington and Sons (which later became the Remington Arms Company), manufacturers of firearms, sewing machines and farm tools. In early 1873, they approached Remington, who decided to buy the patent from them. Sholes sold his half for $12,000, while Densmore, still a stronger believer in the machine, insisted on a royalty, which would eventually fetch him $1.5 million.

Sholes returned to Milwaukee and continued to work on new improvements for the typewriter throughout the 1870s, which included the QWERTY keyboard (1873). James Densmore had suggested splitting up commonly used letter combinations in order to solve a jamming problem caused by the slow method of recovering from a keystroke: weights, not springs, returned all parts to the "rest" position. This concept was later refined by Sholes and the resulting QWERTY layout is still used today on both typewriters and English language computer keyboards, although the jamming problem no longer exists.

Sholes died on February 17, 1890, after battling tuberculosis for nine years. He is buried at Forest Home Cemetery in Milwaukee.

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[misotheismed]

THESE CROOKED TEETH ✹ I N T R O D U C T I O N                            ➟ DARK FANTASY                            ➟ NEW ADULT

E X C E R P T ✹ 『 arc.III 』

❛ have you come to kill me? ❜

somewhere beyond the sprawling mountains and wild plains, a semblance of peace has settled over the three kingdoms of Ismira. it was an uneasy alliance built upon the death of two kings and the ruin of a kingdom. try as he may to find relief in this — this visage of rebirth, of an end to the bloodshed — dmitri does not feel joviality; there is rage, grief, the sharpness of disappointment.

❛ no. ❜

he speaks quietly, as one would a child and there is something in his voice — timeless and primordial and divine and dmitri knows the boy behind him is not the same one he fought beside.

❛ you killed my father. ❜ dmitri says, sprawled against the expanse of the marble sill to peer at the world beneath him. he could hear the laughter of children and it such a strange sound — bright and airy and he is ravenous with envy. ❛ you slaughtered him before my mother and the world and felt no remorse while doing so. ❜

❛ I do not regret my actions, dmitri. your father was a tyrant. ❜

❛ and you a murderer. ❜

❛ I did not start this war, Dmitri.❜  there is a note of exasperation to his voice, and dmitri wants to snarl at him. ❛ your father’s greed was what destroyed al-mirtha and nearly consumed nymarra. he did not see reason any more than he cared for the lives lost. ❜

❛ you do not get to call me a murderer when you fought in his name and killed for his cause. it was his death that saw an end to this war. ❜

try as he may to deny the truth that surrounds him, suffocating in its entirety, dmitri cannot absolve himself of the crimes committed — by his own violations and for his family. ❛ this is what they will remember you for, vasily, ❜ he says, a slouch to his posture. he is exhausted, wrung of blood and bone and left hollowed from this war and the death of his father. ❛ that you ruined a kingdom and devoured the gods. do you not fear their wrath? ❜ he looks in parting to the city of ploviska before turning to face the latter.

vasily no longer looks himself — there is sharpness where there was once softness, the corners of his mouth drown in mien and golden irises gone obsidian. he thrums with a power, of a holiness spun from the flesh and destructive ichor of old gods. he is beautiful and cruel and doomed.

and dmitri loved him all the same.

❛ no. what is the wrath of mortals to a killer of gods? ❜ there is a hint of a smile, a fleeting thing that dmitri follows with his eyes and devours all the same. you deserved better, mischa. ❜

❛ I know. ❜

❛ It was never my intention to hurt you, no matter what you may think. I took no pleasure in killing your father. I know you cared for him. ❜

just as a I cared for you, dmitri thinks, his heart broken in a way that may never be healed.

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