#leather bound book? gimme

[roguelov]

Being a creative/artistic person but also a gremlin who wants to hoard things means I want all the little art trinkets, ones I will use for like two days and toss it into my bin of other forgotten materials

#leather bound book? gimme #new pens? all the sizes and colors #markers? paint? all of them #I want to write in nice things #I want to doodle with new mediums #but it all goes to waste in less than a week #and I will repeat the process all over #more new shiny trinkets #only to be forgotten #my hands need something to do #art #writing #I mean come on #I tried to crochet once but gave up #and I still have the two balls of yarn and knitting needles

[hypnoneghoul]

Christmas Ghouls 8/10

WC: 1040

Relationship: Phantom & Rain

Tags: Fluff, gift giving

Notes: For Brit <3

Read under the cut or on AO3.

“Hey, has anyone seen Phantom?” Rain asked after looking around the common room and not finding the young quintessence ghoul there.

“As far as I know he’s playing Santa,” Aurora giggled, “and being anxious about it.”

“I’d check his room,” Swiss shrugged from under the little ghoulette.

“Wow, why didn’t I think about that?” Rain deadpanned at Swiss’ helpful advice. “He wasn't there the last time I checked.”

“Try again.” 

The water ghoul scoffed and turned on his heel, leaving his packmates to continue hunting for Phantom. He could wait, sure, it wasn’t such a pressing matter, but he just… didn’t want to.

Rain, after all taking Swiss’ advice, stopped at Phantom’s door again. He knocked softly, “Phantom?”

“Wh- Rain!? What?” the ghoul called out from inside, so loud Rain jumped.

“Lucifer, baby bat, are you okay in there?” he chuckled, trying the handle. The door was locked. “Phantom?”

“Uhm… yeah,” it sounded like a question. “Yeah, gimme a second.”

A bit anxiously, but Rain waited. Soon enough the lock clicked and the door opened, revealing a blushing — but otherwise perfectly fine — Phantom. “Hi, Rainy.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, just had to… do something real quick.”

“If you say so,” Rain shook his head at the cloud of chaos seemingly always floating over Phantom. “Can I sit?”

The water ghoul turned to the bed — made, for once — but Phantom suddenly threw himself in front of him. “No! I mean– uhm, yeah, but not on the bed.”

“Okay…” Rain furrowed his brows in suspicion but obliged and sat down at a chair by the desk. 

“Uhm… what did ya need, Rainy?”

“Actually,” he nearly forgot why he was looking for Phantom in the first place. Rain shoved a hand into the pocket of his hoodie and fished out a bundle of colorful wrapping paper. “I’ve got you something. For Christmas.”

“Oh… isn’t it later?”

Rain laughed, “It doesn’t really work like that. I wanted to give it to you now, so I am. Come here.”

The quintessence ghoul obliged, carefully padding over to Rain and taking the gift from his hands. He swallowed thickly, cleared his throat and pulled at a ribbon holding the paper in place. As it unfolded, Phantom’s grin only grew. By the time he was actually holding the item in his hands he was nearly vibrating, smiling as big as ever.

“What do you think?” Rain asked, smiling himself at the younger ghoul’s contagious happiness. 

“It’s so beautiful,” Phantom whispered, running his fingers over intricate carvings in the leather. The gift was a beautiful leather bound Dracula book, with gilded edges. The quintessence ghoul’s eyes were nearly glowing in his awe. “Rainy, it’s– it’s just… woah.”

“Well, I’m very glad you like it,” Rain chuckled, getting up to offer the other a hug. Phantom took the invitation and squeezed him way too hard for the sake of Rain’s ribs. He’d endure it, though. Anything, as long as Phantom was happy. He leaned down to place a kiss between his horns. “Merry Christmas, baby bat.”

“I love it, Rainy, thank you. I love you.” Phantom turned to burrow his face in Rain’s chest — instead of being glued to his side — with his arms wrapped tightly around the water ghoul’s waist. He stroked down the younger ghoul’s back, waiting for him to get his fill of the closeness.

Soon enough, he pulled away, still sporting that wide toothy grin that could challenge Swiss’ signature one. “If we’re doing this now, I can give you your present too!”

“Your choice,” Rain chuckled, “you can still do it later if you’d like, I don’t mind.”

“No, I want you to have it now.” Phantom uncurled himself from around Rain and turned to his little bookcase first. He’d need a bigger one soon, if it continued like that, Rain thought. The quintessence ghoul seemed to be thinking something over for a moment, before taking the book currently placed on a honorary shelf in the middle and replacing it with his newly acquired treasure.

Phantom then ran to his bed, throwing up the top blanket.

“Ah, that explains it,” Rain noted, in regards to Phantom’s earlier near frantic behavior. 

“Oh, shush,” the quintessence ghoul giggled and gestured for Rain to come closer. “I didn’t have the time to pack it, that’s why I was running like crazy to hide it when you knocked on the door.”

Rain hummed, trying to take a peak on what the gift was. It was a canvas, for sure, but with it laying on the bed upside down there was nothing he could actually see before Phantom would deem him ready.

“It’s not much and I don’t know if it’s personal enough but I–”

“Hey,” the water ghoul interrupted him. “It doesn’t matter. I know it’s your first Christmas and that you weren’t sure how it all works, but let me tell you one thing. You don’t owe anyone anything, and if you decide to give someone something, it’s your choice what it’ll be. There’s no criteria for a right gift, there is no right or wrong. What matters is the thought, and I’m sure you’ve put a lot of that into whatever you prepared.”

“Well… yeah.” Phantom blushed, looking down at his feet. “I just hope you like it…”

“You know what Dew usually gives me?”

“No…”

“Rocks.”

There were a few moments of silence before Phantom burst out giggling. “Why?”

“That’s just how he is. But I love them, because every one of those damn rocks is carefully picked by him. You get it?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I think I do… alright.” The quintessence ghoul picked the canvas up and turned it so that Rain could get a good look. It was dark blues and purples with stars and the moon painted over it. After a quick scan Rain knew the stars weren’t random — Phantom painted specific constellations.

“Phantom, this is…” He took a step closer. “It’s amazing. I love it.”

“R– really?”

“Of course I do!” Rain beamed. He really did love it, he was already planning where he’d put it. “You’re an amazing artist.”

Phantom only blushed deeper, “Uhm… thank you. Merry Christmas?”

“I love you, baby bat.”

“I love you, too, Rainy.”

#hypnone writes #rain ghoul #phantom ghoul #phantomrain #the band ghost #nameless ghouls

[digital-chance]

Word Search

thank you for the tag @clairelsonao3!!

my words are buy, blood, been, and break.

from draft 1 of my fanfic ysbwm

buy

The poster says in painted letters, "Buy a leather-bound journal for your loved ones today!"

blood

Steve coughs out blood. His trick with the shield saved Bucky and the Commandos more time but left him exposed for too long. He got a bullet in him while he was throwing the shield. He collapses next to a tree and it feels like the whole world stops.

been

He’s been in the hospital for a week from what he can tell. Each day an agent in a suit—the look of the suit is familiar but strange too, something about the modern shapes—brings Steve a book. Sometimes it’s a novel. Other times it’s a historical book, explaining historical moments that Steve knows nothing of but must have lived through. 

break

“Just gimme a break,” Steve mutters, flipping his head around to face the wall.

gently tagging : @floweryprosegarden , @leisoree , @ruinmegently, @holdmyteaplease , @squarebracket-trick , @hallwriteblr , @fire-but-ashes-too

your words are always, more, down, and long

#tag game

[hollowxport-moved]

15 Muse Associations

TAGGED BY: @animatronicabundance​​​

TAGGING:  @automaton-otto​ @inkspltter​ @pxppinmolly​ @xdeerxhealerx​ @perilumbra​ @dethqveen​ @blossominqxbuqs​​​

Muses under Read-more.

ANIMAL:  Bats

COLOR(S): Browns, Tans, Golds, Reds, Oranges

MONTH: November

SONG(S):  They/Them by Atlas & Jhfly, The Sick Crow by Spiky, A Little Wicked by Valerie Broussard, Under Your Spell by The Birthday Massacre, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery, Take Me To Church by Hozier

NUMBER: 21

DAY OR NIGHT: Midnight

PLANT(s): Marigolds, 

SMELL(S):  Leather bound books, Coffee, Cigarette smoke, Fresh-baked goods. 

GEMSTONE: Fire Opal

SEASON:  Autumn

PLACE(S):  Library, Museum, The Woods, Downtown, Abandoned Chapel

FOOD(S):  Raw Meat, Freshly baked bread, Chocolate, Salad

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: Scorpio    

ELEMENT(S): Fire, Earth, Air

DRINK(S):  Black coffee, Red wine.

ANIMAL:  Unicorns, Horses, Deer, Sheep

COLOR(S): Pink, White, Brown, Red, Gold, Peach

MONTH: February 

SONG(S): Song Of The Witches by S. J. Tucker, Shoot Him Down by Alice Francis, Dixie Biscuits by Tape Five ft Henrik Wager, Belle Reprise by Paige O’Hara, I Want To Be Bad by Betty Boop, Gimme That Swing! by Cissie Redgwick, Perfume by Annella, Angel With A Shotgun by The Cab

NUMBER:  14

DAY OR NIGHT:  Early Afternoon

PLANT(s): White Roses, Lavender, Carnations, Daliah, Hollyhock

SMELL(S):  Floral, Sweets, Fruit

GEMSTONE: Pearls

SEASON: Spring

PLACE(S):  Stage, Library, Home, Bar, Downtown, Garden

FOOD(S):  Pizza, Cake, Candy, Chocolate, Macaroons, 

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: Aquarius

ELEMENT(S):  Fire, Water, Earth, Air

DRINK(S):  Coffee, Jasmine Tea, Champagne, Rose Wine, Strawberry Milk

ANIMAL:  Grizzly Bear

COLOR(S): Red, Black, Gold, Brown, White

MONTH: July 

SONG(S):  Girls by Girl In Red, Meet Me In The Woods by Lord Huron, Witch’s Rune by S. J. Tucker, Princess by Fletcher, Soldier Poet King by The Oh Hellos, Live By The Sword by Dorian Electra, Hero by Skillet, Waiting In The Wings by Eden Espinosa, This Is Me from The Greatest Showman, Surface Pressure from Encanto, Wait For It by Leslie Odom Jr, 

NUMBER:  20

DAY OR NIGHT: Dawn  

PLANT(s): Red Roses, Daliah, Poppies, Tulips, Daisies, Lily, Hydrangea 

SMELL(S):  Leather, Motor oil, Coal, Hot steel, Roses, Strawberries, Freshly baked bread, The morning after it rain, 

GEMSTONE: Black Onyx 

SEASON: Summer

PLACE(S):  Workshop, Behind the bar, The open road, The forest, Downtown, 

FOOD(S):  Strawberries, Cherries, Well-done steaks, Pizzas, Ice cream, Cheese burgers, Fries, Hot wings

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN:  Cancer

ELEMENT(S):  Fire, 

DRINK(S):  Tea, Beer, Champagne, Whisky, Scotch, Wine, Vodka, Hot Chocolate, Milkshakes, Cola, Rootbeer, Water

#Sorrowful Seeker: Skylar Phillips #Skylar Character Study/About #Bellowmight's Darling: Allison Conway #Allison Character study/About #The Gentle Giant: Daisy George #Daisy Character Study/About #;;dash games #outofsteam #[This was fun to do~!]

[imaginefe]

It's okay Rio, I'm also way too pedantic for my own good. I've done too much research on HEMA and now weapons and armor in fantasy series just piss me off. They're always too big! Why do people believe that European swords were heavy and dull?! We've found evidence of cleanly cut skulls and leg bones, a dull sword can't do that. Ugh I could rant about this for hours.

you know the awful thing... for me at least... is realizing that even if i spend hours upon hours researching everything for realism no one is gonna pay attention to it when theyre readingbut i cant stop..

#samebarddifferentblog #answers #notwriting #also bc they think clunky weapons and armor are cool i guess #gimme a sword that can slice clean through a leather bound book

[ccohanlon]

my favourite things

sam shepard’s ‘motel chronicles’, glenn gould playing j.s. bach, books, gaff-rigged bristol pilot cutters, nautical charts, the idea of lamu island and zanzibar, ilford 35mm black & white film, expressions of love in spanish, the meaning of saudade, miles davis, john coltrane, conga drums and bongoes, the backstreets of marrakesh, naples and havana, my 20-year-old leather backpack, my leather-bound pocket atlas (a gift from a woman who worked for me), my maori bone hei matau, british ordnance survey maps, african and latina women, dark skin, long legs and firm round asses,‘oil notes’ by rick bass, joseph conrad’s ‘heart of darkness’, ‘the fly trap’ by fredrik sjöberg, bill drummond doing what he calls ‘art’ and his writings about it, malcolm mclaren talking about almost anything, german-made fountain pens, noodler’s inks, 20th century french novelists, analog moog synthesisers, joan didion’s early essays (especially ‘the white album’), the rolling stones’ original versions of ‘gimme shelter’ and ’sympathy for the devil’, ali farka touré’s modal riffs, the western isles and northwest coast of scotland in spring, the b&w photographs robert frank took in the ’50s as he drove across america, richard misrach’s ‘desert cantos’, wim wender’s ‘paris, texas’ and ‘wings of desire’ (i like his diaristic photo book, ‘once’, too), jim jarmusch’s ‘only lovers left alive’, indian ocean sailing dhows, old boat compasses, my vintage flying boat sextant, the cheap but accurate swiss wind-up watch my mother gave me when i first went to sea, that first glimpse of the mojave desert driving east from l.a. on interstate 40, and of morocco’s atlas mountains, at dawn, sailing through the straits of gibraltar from the west, the mediterranean sea, van morrison’s voice, and aretha franklin’s and julie driscoll’s, the ideas of john cage and of jean-luc godard, cornelius cardew’s ‘scratch music’, gorodish and alba in delacorta’s series of novels, ‘haunts of the black masseur’ by charles sprawson, peter beard’s collaged diaries, steve dilworth’s visceral sculpture, the smooth stones i’ve collected from beaches on three oceans, garlic, wasabi, peking duck in pancakes, ice-cold champagne (bollinger, when I can afford it, or louis roederer cristal), baden powell’s guitar-playing, samba, salvador de bahia, standing at the edge of an empty sahara, sailing a felucca up the nile, the writings of william burroughs, barry gifford and charlie smith, the history of zero, the smell of bangkok by the river at dawn, summer nights in tokyo, long periods of silence, hugging my children, playing my solid mahogany tenor ukulele (a 61st birthday gift from my wife), my fender telecaster and gibson lucille guitars, shona sculpture, an etching i have by armodio (‘l’urlatrice’), the songs of tom waits, alan ginsberg’s photos of beat writers – burroughs and paul bowles, especially – in new york and tangier, jack kerouac’s writings (even though i’ve outgrown them), ‘the outsider’ by colin wilson, bowles’ ‘the sheltering sky’, playing blackjack at caesars’, las vegas, in the early hours of a week-day morning, café tacuba’s huevos con molé in mexico city, the garden derek jarman made at prospect cottage in dungeness, jarman’s diaries, da vinci’s notebooks, don mccullin’s photographs and mary ellen mark’s when she was younger (the ones in goa), dancing alone to 60s’ soul music, the scent of frangipani, the white noise of heavy monsoonal rain, my long, old-school powell skateboard with big urethane wheels, early silver surfer comic books, 70s’ ‘avant-garde’ music scores from peters and universal edition, my all-mechanical olympus 35 sp camera and my rolleiflex tlr, cecil taylor on piano, dave holland on bass, ginger baker on drums, the movie version of joseph conrad’s ‘lord jim’, cary grant in ‘father goose’, david lean’s ‘lawrence of arabia’, donald cammell’s ‘perfomance’, snowdonia in mid-wales, taos in new mexico (and the sangre de cristo mountains), sailing close by stromboli on a calm, moonlit night, the smooth skin and skinny bodies of young japanese women, everything about italian women, palm trees, passionfruit, seedless grapes, mandarins, uncooked cherry tomatoes, the oakland raiders (even when they’re losing), swimming alone in a warm pool, the bath tubs at the ritz-carlton in singapore in the 90s, afternoon tea (pg tips) with scones, thick cream and damson jam (preferably tiptree’s), albert ayler on sax, derek bailey’s free-form solos on guitar, ‘colour: a natural history of the palette’ by victoria finlay, tom mccarthy’s ‘satin island’, william gibson’s science fiction, sylvie guillem dancing, van cliburn playing brahms’ second piano concerto, keith richards’ and john lee hooker’s grungy guitar licks, j.j. cale’s muted finger picking, the long solo voyages of bernard moitessier under sail and the writings that came from them, the voyages of david lewis and of bill tilman (aboard ‘mischief’), old tahiti ketches designed by john hanna, thomas colvin’s modern steel sailing junks, target shooting with a high-calibre handgun (like a colt python .357 magnum), watching dark frontal clouds gather ahead of a storm, the grim stillness of tornado weather in northern oklahoma, big hotel rooms, late night room service, landing in los angeles from the west late at night, yakitori at a basement place i know in hiroshima, the gharana of the tabla, welsh male voice choirs, playing scrabble, the lives of sir richard francis burton and t.e. lawrence, thom gunn’s poems, also e.e cummings’ and mira gonzalez’s, gore vidal on american politics, sex and other writers, the stone hanko engraved for me using an old form of katakana in hiroshima, hand-tooled knives, walking through rome early in the morning, rooftop terraces in trastevere, out-of-the-way trattorie in monti, vitello parmigiano, tortellini, stracciatella, and sambuca, the amalfi coast, iain sinclair writing about his walks around london, living in los angeles (when i have money), driving north from santa monica on the pacific coast highway, big sur 30 years ago,’60s american muscle cars, joyce singing ‘agua de março’ or astrud gilberto, or the version marisa monte and david byrne did for ‘red, hot and rio’, ‘sitting’ by cat stevens. ‘dumb things’ by paul kelly, the emotions singing ‘best of my love’, the idea of the congo and the mekong and of rusty tramp steamers sailing to up-river jungle ports, berlin in autumn just before the leaves fall, all the works of anselm kiefer and cy twombly, francesco clemente’s exotic watercolours, ‘the pugilist’ sculpted in iron by robert brennan, marilyn manson’s ‘we’re killing strangers’, smokey robinson’s ’tracks of my tears’, the first whiff of salt air and coconut oil at an australian surf beach, longboarding on a glassy point break at wategos in byron bay, the mexican movie ‘y tu mama tambien’, almodovar’s ‘todo sobre mi madre’ and ‘matador’, cluttered but stylish old parisian apartments, any clapboard boatshed and jetty on a quiet bay or river bank, a stone cottage above a rocky north atlantic shore (in nova scotia, maybe, or shetland), solitude.

First published in Sick Lit magazine, USA, 2015.

#favouritethings #list #memories #memoir #poetry #diary

[mxvladdy]

Mistletoe prt.2

*yeets and runs* Sorry for the break in between.

Leviathan

-gasp! It's just like in his animes -and just like his animes it has to be perfect -boi is playing 5 D chess up in here -Mostly has to hype himself up

It started like any other game session with Levi. Greasy pizza plates and ramen bowls stacked precariously around you on the rim of his large tub. The two of you lounging inside of it.  The hours ticked by surrounded by the sounds hardcore gaming.

He had invited you over to help him grind on a new phone game he bought. It was easier to go through the dungeons in a party then solo. Solid logic, and you never minded playing with him. Except for- well Levi himself. “Not on your A-game today?” You ask peaking over your phone to the demon stretched out across from you. He grunts noncommittally, eyes not even on his screen. They flick back to the screen once he noticed you staring.

“N-no. Sorry.” He muttered, sinking into himself. Hmm-Probably nothing. Happens to the best of them.

Six failed quests later though you had had enough.

“Bro!” You toss your device at him coming to crawl into his lap. You plop down on his blanketed form ignoring his protests and grab his own phone away. “What is up with you tonight? You sick?” Levi squawks flailing his gangly arms trying to push you off. His face and shoulders lighting up bright red with embarrassment.

“G-Get off!” He struggles.

“No!” You swat his hands away to grab  at his face. Hmmm. Flushed but not feverish. “What is up with you today? Omg are you dying!” You straddle him poking and prodding at him. “If you die can I have your stuff? Promise I’ll feed Henry.” At this point you were just teasing him. He wrestles back stuttering and chirping.

“You’re on top of me! That’s the problem!” He frees himself from his blanket cocoon to flip your positions. His claws point into your flesh warningly.

You snort up into your demon’s beet red face. “Noo~You were acting weird before that too. This is your normal awkwardness.” You poke his nose for effect.

“Hmmph.” He pulls off of you and rubs at his face. Levi retreats back to his corner. “You didn’t notice. Of course you wouldn’t.” Notice what? You do a quick inventory of you and his room. Nope. All 10 fingers and toes, his room was its regular tidy chaos.

“Gimme a hint?” You feel stupid. Levi isn’t exactly subtle yet you were stumped. Still hiding behind his face in his pillows he points to his back. His tail to be exact. It wasn’t unusual for him to have his tail out when you came to chill. He used it a lot to grab stuff to drag it into his nest. You follow the line of his tail over the lip of the tub and then up-and up. The tip of which dangled over you a bright red ribbon tied to it… “Mistletoe? Oh-OH.” It was your turn to turn beet red. “How was I supposed to notice!” You shout flustered.

“How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t!” He yells back. You stare at each other for a moment before you both burst out laughing at your shared stupidity.

“I’m sorry Levi,” You snort. Wiping at the tears of mirth brimming at the corner of your eyes you scoot closer. “Let me make it up to you? I believe you’ve deserve more than a kiss or two.”

Satan

-Smoother than a 100 year old bottle of port this one -He knew about this tradition before but will feign ignorance -Suave bastard has you guessing. Does he know about it or not???

You meet Satan’s gaze trying very very hard to figure out his angle. He doesn’t make a move. Instead he just rests on a large stack of books. An inhumanly large stack of books. More stacks and piles stood ominously behind him. “You owe me.” He purs tapping a finger to his lips. Ugh- you did owe him. Technically, it hadn’t been your fault. You were just in the wrong place and the worst possible time to walk in on Belphegor and Mammon somehow flood the library. Those two had supernatural speed and agility on their side when they heard the undeniable footsteps of wraith. You, on the other hand, did not.

At least he hadn’t killed you.

“Can’t you do this with magic?” You sigh hours later. Your fingers were pruning and the amount of paper cuts you had were staggering.

“Some of these books are very fragile. Magic would react negatively with them. By hand is best for these.” His back is to you, his full attention locked on the soggy book he was plotting with a towel. You grouch flipping back on your blow dryer. When you find those two Satan will be the least of their worries. Maybe you could get Lucifer on their asses as well.

Three stacks down and Devil knows how many left Satan finally calls for a break. Weary you drop to his chaise to rub at your sore feet. “Here,” He places a paper cup in your hand. “A little reward. It’s the perfect season for it, no?” Popping the lid you inhale the sweet smell of chocolate and cayenne.

“Thanks.” You take a sip and scoot over to let him sit as well. You drink in a pleasant silence. The chocolate warms you up and boosts your mood greatly. “Ready to get back to it? I bet we can get half of these done by dinner. Maybe then our next break could be hunting down those two clowns?” He laughs. You sound so hopeful for a little revenge.

“I won’t say no. But let’s see how far we get.” He helps you back up and hands you a small pile of leather bound books. “Unfortunately you can’t use heat on these, it will shrink the leather. Just put some of these towels and tissues between each page. And no, the puppy dog eyes won’t work on me.” Damn.

At least these books were beautiful. Gold and silver foil inlaid everywhere, the pages were soft and flexible under your fingertips from use. You could see why Satan wanted you to be extra careful with these.

You get into a groove with these books. Flip a page and insert a tissue. Rinse and repeat. It gave you a chance to zone out and enjoy the artwork on each page. Until the last book. Your flow was interrupted by something bulky nestled within the pages. You flip to the middle of the book to retrieve whatever it was (please don’t let it be another mummified demon rat please!).

It wasn't much to your relief. Instead you extract a dried bundle of green and white. You squint at it, turning it around in the light of your desk lamp. You feel Satan standing behind you. “My, would you look at that.” He snatches the herb from your fingers and spins your chair around to face him. “Mistletoe.” He dangles it up above the two of you.

“You set me up.” You grin leaning close to him. Your hands making their way to his shoulders to link around the back of his neck.

“Perhaps.” He hums. With a wave of his hand you feel his magic encapsulate the books around you, drying them instantly.  He tosses the mistletoe away and reaches for your waist. “Are you mad?” You shake your head.

“No. But you better make it up to me.”  

#obey me #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me headcanons

[nerdythangs]

Day 8: Ouija

The only thing I managed to squeeze out for Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween prompt list. Y’all have been wonderful with this. Thank you, @racketghost, for keeping it spooky!!

--

“I think you’re overreacting,” said Crowley with a big yawn.

Aziraphale scoffed on the other line of the telephone. “I don’t believe I am! You might have been asleep, but I’ve been awake and have had plenty of time to think about it--”

“Fret about it, you mean.”

“--and not only is there a global pandemic, there are locusts by the thousands seen in Africa, both Australia and the West coast of the United States have been on fire, and don’t even get me started on the political climate--”

“You’re making the idea of going back to sleep really appealing right now, angel.”

“--there’s just no other conclusion: we’re at the end of times again. Our head offices have not contacted us since we have retired, but surely, surely they must answer my call if I were to reach out.”

Crowley poorly stifled another yawn. “And we all know how well the last call upstairs went.”

“Yes, which is why I’m requesting your presence.”

“My wot?”

“Your presence! You said we’re on our own side now, and I, to be frank, I, I don’t want to do this without you.” Aziraphale’s voice, which started off strong, trailed off to an uncharacteristic mumble.

Well, fuck. Crowley guessed he was finally getting out of bed. “Yeahyeahyeah, no, of course, yr’right,” he said while throwing the blanked off of himself and finally taking his eye mask off. “Just uhh,” he sniffed and cleared his throat, and blinked blearily into the dimly lit room, “gimme a minute and I’ll be over shortly.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said breathlessly over the other end, full of angelic sincerity, “I’ll make sure there’s a nice strong cup of tea waiting for you.”

“Nnn,” Crowley said.

A short while later, Crowley knocked on the book shop’s door and was greeted by a beaming angel. “Crowley! It’s so good to see you,” he said, as if he wasn’t expecting him. Crowley mumbled and walked into the shop.

“So how are you doing this?” Crowley asked, flopping onto his usual spot on the sofa.

“Ah, well, it is rather simple,” Aziraphale said excitedly. He picked up the edge of the ornate rug in the center of the shop and dragged it out of the way to reveal--

“An Ouija board?” Crowley took off his sunglasses to get a better look.

Aziraphale looked at the Ouija board, perfectly drawn into the floorboards of his shop, complete with an illustrated sun and moon. His face was passively blank and he was perfectly still until he began to blink and shake his head repeatedly, turned around on his heel, and walked straight to his ancient telephone.

With the angel’s back turned, Crowley could finally crack a smile, and his shoulders shook in silent laughter. He got up from the sofa and sauntered over to the Ouija board. He scuffed it with the toe of his boot to check that it was a permanent fixture.

“Yes, hello, Adam. This is Aziraphale, the, um, angel from the air base. Yes, that’s the one.”

In a fit of demonic childishness, Crowley hopped over to the A, leapt to the R, and then jumped over to the E.

“I’m doing fine,” Aziraphale said briskly, “Listen, there’s a reason for my call. I know you did your best when setting the world right after the Apocalypse, and I truly couldn’t be more grateful, but there seems to have been a mix up in my heavenly communication sigil that I usually kept on the floor of my bookshop. It ah,” he turned to watch Crowley skip to the Y, the O, and then the U, “it has turned into an Ouija board.”

“There… God…” Crowley mumbled to himself with a slight smirk as he stepped on each letter.

“Of course you’re not a celestial being, but I rather thought--”

“It’s… Me…”

“I don’t believe that Hasboro has the ability to call the Metatron.” Aziraphale began to sound a little tetchy.

“... M-A-R-G-A-R-E-T…” Crowley stomped both feet onto the T and beamed up at Aziraphale with a shiteating grin.

“Of course, dear boy. No, I understand. Thank you. Goodbye.” Aziraphale hung up the phone with a sigh.

Suddenly Crowley began to glow an unearthly glow and his body straightened to be perfectly rigid.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, sounding alarmed.

Slowly, Crowley walked to the Y with a forced stiffness and blank look on his face, while darting wild eyes to Aziraphale. He then walked to the O, then to U, and the R.”

Aziraphale scrambled to get a paper and pen, writing down every letter Crowley stepped on.  “N-A-M-E-I-S-N-O-T-M-A-R-G-A-R-E-T-A-N-D-T-H-I-S-I-S-N-O-T-T-H-E-E-N-D-O-F-T-I-M-E-S”

Crowley’s possessed corporation then walked to the “Goodbye” where he collapsed into a pile on the floor, gasping.

He turned to Aziraphale. “What the FUCK was that?” He shouted semi-hysterically, with his gasps sounding more like panting with each breath.

“Your name is not Margaret and this is not the end of times.” Aziraphale read aloud from the notepad and looked over to Crowley. “Well, I suppose I got my answer.”

Crowley pushed himself up to a seated position and stared a thousand yard stare at the Ouija board on the floor.

They both stayed silent for a moment.

“D’you got any Scotch? I feel like I deserve Scotch after that.”

Aziraphale’s face brightened. “Oh yes! I’ve got a bottle of Macallan that I picked up a few years back that hasn’t been opened yet.”

‘A few years back’ probably meant at least 20 years to Aziraphale, so Crowley picked himself up off the ground and dusted his pants. “Excellent, I want four fingers’ worth to start.”

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale responded, puttering towards the back end of the shop. “And while you’re here,” he called from the back, “I’ll have to update you with everything that’s been going on. Did you know that they finally rediscovered that some books were bound in human leather? If they were to just ask me I would have told them about the volumes in my possession! Not that I’d show anyone of course, but I was there when they initially experimented with the technique, you know.”

Crowley shook his head as Aziraphale nattered on, letting a soft smile grace his face. This year might have gone to shit, but some things were worth waking up for.

---

Books bound in human leather: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/10/20/books/review/dark-archives-megan-rosenbloom.html

#I saw that book bound by the Philly physician in the Mutter Museum once #I like to think maybe Aziraphale popped over to the states around that time #bored yanno cuz Crowley was snoozing #and he happened to bump into that doctor #got talking to him about book binding #dr. creepy mentions human leather #Aziraphale takes an 'academic interest' in it #This is honestly the spookiest part about this whole fic #and it ain't even in it #anyway #racket's 13 days of halloween #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #fanfic #ficlet #my writing #my post

[bisexualsforprompto]

Late Night Discussions- Maribat Timari January

Date: January 13th

@maribat-2k20

Woah?!?!? I did something with barely any angst?! I don’t even recognize myself

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Remember, no fawning.” Bruce scolded to the group of people sitting on the couch.

“But it’s the MDC!” Dick practically squealed as he hugged onto Damian.

“TT.”

“You know how you boys don’t like to be swarmed and bothered because you’re Wayne’s? I’m sure Miss MDC doesn’t want it either.” Bruce sighed before hearing his phone ring and exiting the room.

“I’m. So. Excited!” Dick whisper-shouted.

“Geez Dick keep it in your pants.” Jason smirked lazily not moving his eyes from the leather bound book he was reading.

“First off, don’t even go there! She’s like Tim’s age!” Dick exclaimed appalled, throwing the remote on the couch at Jason who deflected it with his book giving his brother a glare. “Second, her designs are amazing! You do realize we’re going to be some of the only people who know her real identity!”

Jason rolled his eyes, “If her identity is secret how do you know her age?”

“I’m not the second best detective in this house for nothing Little Wing.” Dick winked as he gleamed with pride.

“Really? Thought that was Tim.” Jason deadpanned as he moved his eyes back to his book. Dick brought a hand to his heart,

“You wound me so!”

“Drake is not the best detective. TT. Look, he’s slumped over on his phone right now and wouldn’t notice his surroundings if a bus came and hit him.” Damian noted as he sharpened the katana he seemed to pull out of nowhere.

“I hear you Damian. Also are you putting that away before MDC arrives?” Tim asked without looking up from his phone.

“TT. Why should I?”

“Do you really want her to find out our identities?”

“Damian Wayne is a master of the blade, it’s not uncommon.” Damian shrugged as continued working with his sword.

“Damian Wayne is going to find out that MDC is a lot more observant than he thinks.” Tim shot back, finally looking up from his phone.

“How could that be? She’s a fashion designer.”

“Exactly. Think about it: she can probably gauge our heights and weights and notice that they’re the same as our counterparts. You with a katana is just the cherry on top.” Tim said before his eyelids started to droop, “Speaking of cherries...Jason did you ever know your helmet looks just like cherry? Isn’t that weird?”

“When’s the last time you slept replacement?” Jason asked with a smug grin.

“Sleep is for the weak!” Tim declared.

“You better go to sleep Timbers or-“

Dick was interrupted by a knock on the door. Damian checked his watch.

“Only an hour late.” He sneered sarcastically. Tim rolled his eyes.

“Her flight probably got delayed. Now gimme that!” He lunged for the katana. Tim swore he heard Damian let out a cat hiss.

“You will pull this off of my dead body Drake!” He shouted, pulling it closer to his body, “TT. Not like you could defeat me.” Damian jumped up on the couch and hopped over it running for the foyer.

“Damian come back here!” Tim yelled as he felt his vision blur, when was the last time his slept?

He didn’t have time to remember. The next thing he knew he had collided into something and heard the sound of Damian’s resounding laughter as the boy ran up the stairs. Tim groaned as he stood up and looked in horror when he saw it wasn’t something he ran into it was someone.

“I’m so sorry!” Apologized the girl he had run into. She stood up. “You’re not hurt are you?”

Tim did a double take, the petite girl standing before him was afraid she hurt him? “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah I’m fine! I’m just really clumsy.” She looked up at Tim. He thought he’d never seen bluer eyes.

“It’s no problem, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” He blushed looking at the beautiful girl before him.

“Get a room.” Jason coughed quietly enough for only Tim to hear it.

And Alfred apparently, who gave him a stern look. Dick cleared his throat,

“Hi, I’m Dick Grayson, I’m the eldest of Bruce’s kids. That’s Jason, the little one who ran upstairs was Damian and the one who ran into you was Tim.” Tim rubbed his next sheepishly.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng!” She said eagerly taking Dick’s outstretched hand.

“Ah M, D, C.” Dick deduced. Marinette nodded, “Nice to meet you Marinette. I’m a big fan of your work!”

“Thank you!” Marinette blushed.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know Alfred? He speaks very highly of your designs.” Dick asked laying on the charm as thick as possible, he had a feeling he’d be getting a new sister soon.

“Oh! My old mentor knew Alfred and I got in touch with him when...when he passed. I made the mistake of showing Alfred my portfolio and the next thing I know MDC has a new commission from Bruce Wayne.” She turned to Alfred giving him a frazzled look, “I still don’t know how you figured it out, I didn’t show you any of the designs I put into my line as MDC.”

“I have my talents Miss Marinette.” Alfred said before retreating to the kitchen, likely to get Bruce off of his call.

“So, I’ll be doing commissions for the three of you, the groom and the bride?” Marinette asked as she flipped open a notepad.

“Yeah plus one little brat.”

“I heard that Todd!” Called a voice from upstairs. Marinette stifled a chuckle.

“You can worry about that tomorrow though can’t you? It’s pretty late and I’m sure you had a long day.” Dick said silently signaling to his other brothers that it was almost time for patrol.

“Oh thank you! Sure, I can get your measurements tomorrow. I’ll get Alfred to show me where I’m rooming.”

“I can!” Tim volunteered as he ran over to Marinette’s side. Jason held in a laugh while Dick smirked.

“That would be great, thank you!” Marinette smiled as Tim took her by the hand and led her to her room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Marinette hadn’t been able to sleep. She was laying in one of the most comfortable beds she’d ever been on but she still couldn’t fall asleep. All she could think about we the potential akuma attacks that could happen while she was preparing for the wedding. Kaaliki and Tikki were fast asleep and Adrien hadn’t sent any messages about Hawkmoth striking so she really had no reason to worry, but it didn’t stop her.

Based on her internal clock she had been lying there staring at the ceiling for almost four hours. Marinette sighed before finally getting up, being extra quiet as to not wake the kwamis, and going down to the kitchen for a glass of water.

When she had walked down the stairs she was met by the glow of a laptop. Tim was hunched over and nursing a cup of coffee by his side. Without turning he asked her,

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“I’m a bit of an insomniac,” she admitted, “I’m always just working on being Lad- commissions, so I guess I never really have time. Laying there seems to only give me more things to worry about now.” Tim looked back at her fondly.

“Same here. Not the commissions obviously, but I’m the CEO of Bruce’s company and there’s always somebody ready to complain.” Tim said as he slowly shut his laptop.

“Don’t I know it,” Marinette giggled causing Tim’s cheeks to turn a light pink from the sheer cuteness he was witnessing. “There’s always something my customers aren’t happy about. Most are out of my control too, but this is what I signed up for.”

“Isn’t it funny how the things we love always seem better on paper?” Marinette chuckled again before taking a seat next to Tim.

“Hey don’t get me wrong, I love fashion it’s just…”

“The people?”

“Exactly.” They shared a laugh.

“The board of directors for Wayne Enterprises is just unbelievable, add in the fact that I’m still a teenager and it’s even worse!”

“I know!” Marinette said throwing her hands up, “So many people want to commission me but that list dwindles if people find out I’m only nineteen.” Tim smiled.

“You get it.”

“You get it.” She mirrored.

~~~~~~~~~

Neither Tim nor Marinette remembered who feel asleep first but they woke up to the sound of cooing and camera flashes. Marinette’s cheeks turned hot when she realized she had fallen asleep right on Tim’s shoulder when they had moved to the couch to continue their discussion. Tim had slept with his arm around her shoulders all night-well what was left of the night.

When Tim woke up he gave his brother’s who were photographing them a dazed and confused look until he realized that he fell asleep next to Marinette the night prior. His cheeks turned beet red, matching Marinette’s. Jason snapped a picture of his face and Marinette’s beside him. He gave them a shit eating grin when he pulled it out of the Polaroid.

“This is going in the family album!”

Maribat Taglist:

@northernbluetongue

@queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm

@luciferge

@legendaryneckjudgestudent

@interobanginyourmom

@beaversuenightly

@worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry

@mochinek0

@shamefullove

@emjrabbitwolf

@actual-disaster-human

@littleredrobinhoodlum

@elijahcoser

@daminett4life

@18-fandoms-unite-08

@kawaiigiantjudgefish

[fightingforcreativity]

The Other Earth

~~~Chapter 1:  A Whisper In The Night~~~

Notes:

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Iron Man (Movies) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, others, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Tony Stark, James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Steve Rogers, Barnes family - Character, Alpine the Cat (Marvel), OFC, baby winter Additional Tags: Amnesia, Presumed Dead, Family, Mystical Creatures, Fluff and Crack, bakery Au elements, Mirror Worlds - Freeform, Alien Culture, Alien Biology, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Avengers still being Avengers, oc child - Freeform, child named Winter, (OFC and Winter do not have a main role) Summary:

Bucky had a cat, had a job at a local bakery, and some odd jobs here and there. At night, he would look in the sky, trying to figure out the constellations, seeing the stars differently than he faintly remembered. At the same time on one of those stars far away, a star named Earth, Tony Stark held his baby boy, whispering, “One day, you’ll know you’re the world.[…]”

Notes:

This fills a square for @starkbucksbingo

Title: The Other Earth- A Whisper In The Night Collaborator Name: Fighting_for_Creativity Square Filled: B5- Didn't Know They Were Dating Ship/Main Pairing: WinterIronWidow Rating: Mature Major Tags & Triggers: Amnesia, presumed dead, Family, mystical creatures, slight crack (later), bakery Au elements, mention of alcohol abuse 

Summary:

Bucky had a cat, had a job at a local bakery, and some odd jobs here and there. At night, he would look in the sky, trying to figure out the constellations, seeing the stars differently than he faintly remembered. At the same time on one of those stars far away, a star named Earth, Tony Stark held his baby boy, whispering, “One day, you’ll know you’re the world.[…]”

Word Count: 2699

The reassuring click sound of his lock opening as he turned his key let Bucky smile. He had a couple of jobs a day and the city he lived in- Bucharest- had a burglar problem, or maybe every city had that in the cheaper neighborhoods. His lock still being intact meant that his things were still where they belonged. A low meow greeted him when Bucky stepped inside.

“I’m back, Alpine. Gimme just a few moments,” he said while shrugging out of his jacket and pulling his boots off, “I’ll renew your water and give you fresh food. ‘That is wonderful, Bucky! Thank you. How was your day at the bakery Bucky?’ Why thank you Alpine! It was stressful but the old lady from three streets down insisted on tipping me.”

During his little monologue, Bucky made his way to the kitchen, refreshing the water, rinsing the bowl before giving his beloved white cat fresh water. Then he gave her food and continued to tell her of his day, despite Alpine lazily blinking at him and doing the equivalent of a shrug before she dug into her food.

Smiling softly Bucky observed her for a moment before he made himself something to eat as well. While he prepared and then ate his spaghetti, he thought about his current life and the still amiss memories. Just yesterday he had remembered that his friend’s name had been ‘Stevie’ and that the blond had lived with Bucky, his ma, and his sisters for the most part of their childhood. Why that was though, Bucky still didn’t know.

What he had compiled so far was all safely stored away in a red leather-bound book. The book had a spider-like web in black, and the book ribbon was golden intertwined with a cerulean blue. Somehow the book called out to Bucky so he bought it. After his purchase, he had stared at the thick pages for quite a while until he got a memory of a faint male chuckle. He had scrambled to catch that sound, to describe it with every word he had relearned over the time he had been here, but it faded too fast for him to grab.

The first page in the book was filled.

More followed and now he had already written about half the pages. Sometimes it were scrambled notes, dreams fading too fast to note down. Sometimes it were memories so vivid that Bucky could detail every aspect of them. Such a memory was of him wanting a dog, after spending time with Rumko, the dog from his family’s neighbors.

Bucky had loved the dog next door back when they were kids. He had tried to argue with his ma over and over and over that he would take good care of a pet if he ever got one. But money was tight, and his sisters’ and Steve's health were more important than having a pet.

That had been another, rather saddening memory. Knowing that his family and he had struggled to survive on a daily basis recalling hushed conversations between his sisters about marrying a jerk just because he would pay for their lives and even give some good coins to his ma for them- yeah those memories he could have done without.

The memory of Rumko, though, was one of the happiest he had. Rumko had been a long-haired beast of a dog. He had jumped on Bucky whenever they crossed paths and they had played and romped around a lot when Bucky was young. Sometimes when his old neighbors, a greying couple, she with blue eyes and him with brownish ones, both always had a kind smile and a kind word of advice for him, were too ill to go with their dog, Bucky and later Steve would do it for them.

Mrs. Lie? Leg? Lee?- Bucky still didn’t remember perfectly- would bake a pie for all of them and Bucky’s sisters would squeal in delight when he brought them a piece. All in all, the brunet’s memories regarding a pet were overly fond.

So one of the things Bucky did once he remembered and was 'fine ' was looking for a dog. He hadn't expected to find a cat, but he loved her dearly.

There was no excuse as to how he found himself with Alpine, but he wouldn’t wish it any other way anymore. Sure the white furball was stubborn as they came and tended to ignore any and all attempts of Bucky to somewhat train her, beside the litter box, but she had a sixth sense for how Bucky was feeling and was often aware of it even before he himself was.

One time, when Bucky had thought himself to feel fine, he came back from work, got Alpine her food, and then sat on the couch. At the very next moment, Alpine sprang on his lap, leaving her food for the moment, and pawed at his chest gently. For a second Bucky stared until he felt the first hot tear running down his cheek.

Alpine had stayed with him til no more tears came and he fell asleep.

After that time, Bucky tended to buy a little extra for his friend, and she kept close to him during the night, for the night was when he often felt a strange longing and sadness.

In the broad daylight, it was easy to forget that he didn’t belong here. Sure, Bucky had made some acquaintances. And yes, Bucky was most popular with the gals and some fellas as well, but the elder folk were mostly wary of him. Something about the way Bucky had been found made them uneasy. Honestly, Bucky couldn’t blame them; he had heard the whispers.

Apparently, he had been found bleeding out by a lake, left arm strongly mangled and thought to be a case for the undertaker. Suddenly though, he had recovered nearly completely, the only issues left were his memory and part of the dexterity in his left arm. A few shallow scars are the visible souvenirs of that.

So yes, Bucky could understand why they were wary. What he didn’t get was why the younger ones, weren’t and why Mrs. Halász insisted on hiring him for every kind of odd job there was, even in the beginning. After a few weeks, people talked about how well he worked and how much he could handle and thus he managed to get enough payment to rent himself a small apartment, pay off the debt for his hospital bills, and get new clothes and everything a human needed to live.

So all in all, his current situation could be summarized as stable - he had a cat, a job at the bakery, and a few odd jobs here and there - and financially well off.

That wasn’t the all in life for him though. Bucky was searching for his memories desperately. At night, he would look in the sky, trying to figure out the constellations, seeing the stars differently than he faintly remembered.

Today was one of those nights he went outside, climbing the fire escape upwards to the roof with Alpine perched on his shoulders. Bucky arrived on top and took a few steps to the center. Then he flopped down, sitting cross-legged and throwing his head back, gaze fixed on the sky. He felt how Alpine settled on his lap and absentmindedly sank his fingers in her fur.

The stars seemed to twinkle brighter whenever he looked at them, seemingly wanting to lure him in. In the silent moments Bucky spent on the roof, it was as if the stars tried to tell him pieces of his past. A soft scoff left Bucky’s lips. ‘As if. Only because you are hopelessly longing for something doesn’t mean that the stars will try to help you.’

Rationally Bucky knew that it was nonsense and stupid to believe otherwise, to think that the key for everything was out there in space. That the one star his gaze was constantly drawn to, held any significance to his memories. But somehow, deep down, Bucky couldn’t help feeling his heart throbbing to the beat of said star’s twinkling. Whenever the brunet concentrated on that particular star, he started to lowly hum under his breath.

A melody so ingrained in his flesh and soul, even his spotted memory recalled it the very first time Bucky had seen that star. While he hummed, Alpine would purr and sometimes Bucky thought he could hear that man’s voice, and a woman's laugh, and then his head would throb in pain.

But his heart… Well, Bucky’s heart would clench in yearning.

-----

Little could Bucky have known, that while he watched the sky, with longing in his heart, another brunet did the same.

At the same time but far away, on one of those stars, another star named Earth, Tony Stark stood on his balcony, surveying the land beneath before raising his gaze into the stars. In his arms, he held his baby boy, Winter. The boy was named after the season they had lost their third. Despite the loss they had experienced, Tony couldn’t feel more joy when he looked down again, grey steel eyes meeting with his golden ones. The babe made grabby hands, and Tony chuckled softly.

Holding Winter carefully against his chest, Tony fed him stardust from a bottle and whispered, "One day, you’ll know you're the world. One day, you’ll know you are a wise guy. But wisdom comes with age and until then you are just smart."

Because in Tony’s mind, there was no doubt that his child was at least as smart as him. It was in their blood. His father had been smarter than his grandfather who had already been smarter than his father, the founder of the Stark Space Travel line. Albeit their planet being highly advanced, technology-wise, their whole race had a glaring design fault. Their children needed stardust to survive and nurture. That itself was not a problem. The real trouble lay in the fact that so far only four stars had been discovered which held the right concentration of all needed elements.

So, no matter what your life brought you if you wanted to have a child, you needed to come back to one of those four stars. Tony had been born on Earth, like every other Stark. His mother, Maria, though had been from Xantha, his Dam, Peggy, from Asrir. So his parents hadn’t been sure where Tony would be raised best but soon found that the brunet got most nutrients from the stardust of Earth.

Wiggling startled Tony out of his reverie,  and he adjusted his grip on Winter. “Whoa! Watch it, little man. Don’t wanna make your mother mad by dropping you!”

The baby looked at him, blinked and then chuckled himself. Tony made sure that his boy settled again and was safely tucked in his arms when his eyes returned to the sky.  ‘One day, I will remember your name. Your name and your face and everything else about you. Right now I only have your voice and the sweet things you told us. Right now I only know despite not remembering, that Winter has your eyes. And one day, dear, I shall remember so I can tell our child everything about his Mod. ’

---

Natalia was with them, standing in the background watching them, knowing things she shouldn't.

She felt her own sorrow echoed in Tony’s heart. She heard the silent screams of her husband at night. She felt the confusion, the search for his Mod whenever Winter looked around. The child felt that there was a person missing. She just hoped her precious boy wouldn’t suffer as she had.

She hoped devoutly that her own curse wasn’t her boy's burden to share. Her own second mother, Dam Vanka, had pleaded with Natalia for forgiveness when she had been still a little child. Only a few years later and after her Dam’s death did she understand what she meant.

Natalia had tried to drown her foresight with alcohol, but it never lasted. Flashes of their world, their planet destroyed, burned, and scourged had plagued her since she was a small child.

A dystopia of pain and burning bodies. A world where they all destroyed each other. Foul soil and no more stardust to feed the babies. Women and men bare, even the three DNA’s not enough to fertilize an egg and have a child. She had always believed that she’d never find a semblance of happiness. Then she had met Tony and Clint and Phil and Steve and Bucky.

Bucky and Tony had already been in something. No one could answer her what kind of bond those two had forged and how it came to be, not even Rhodey and Steve, the respective best friends of Tony and Bucky. Later, way later, she found out that a common love for pets had gotten them to talk. Then, in the secret of a joined bedroom, under the covers with eyelids heavy from sleep, both had confessed to her that they’ve been prisoners of the Kree at the same time.

That they had done things together, just to survive, which they regretted with every fiber of their heart. But it also had united them. A few weeks after their confession Natalia had confessed how she had always seen things. How she always knew things, bad things would happen before they did. How she had killed a man because she knew he would kill his wives and his children.

But how those visions had not been hers. Neither her ideas, never her wishes, nor thoughts.

"These aren't mine" she had said over and over when the doctors viewed her mind, they never believed her. She had said it still when BARF showed Tony her innermost secrets. Unlike the doctors, they believed her. They believed in her. Bucky and Tony supported her, made her feel fine and alive for the first time in so long. How could she not have fallen in love?

These days though, even her other friends looked strangely at her.

Besides Tony, everyone judged her. Believing her to be cruel and to want the visions, the destruction. But she didn't. The boy in Tony's arms was proof of that. On silent soles, she made her way into the kitchen to cook the chicken soup the way her mother taught her.

On her way there she detoured to the gear room. They might be benched for as long as Winter needed to be fed Stardust on an hourly basis, but that didn’t mean Natalia would let their equipment get dusty. She entered the spacious room, lights turning on automatically thanks to JARVIS.

Purposeful she strode towards her Black Widow bites and checked their charging. Then, without asking, JARVIS provided her information on the repair status of the latest Iron Man suit. Another reason they were benched, the real reason, to be honest, had been Tony’s near-suicidal maneuver the past few missions before he was injured badly enough to need the cradle.

Selective amnesia had been the result.

Natalia sighed deeply. Not long before that mission, they had rediscovered a parachute- glancing to the side her gaze found it. The parachute of their friend and lost lover. It had been found floating on a lake not far away. Steve and Rhodey had suggested they all went out for a while, letting Winter see some animals and plants. Natalia had bit her lip, a headache overcoming her as she saw flashes of the same parachute and her precious boy crying. At that moment she hadn’t known what exactly would happen, but she’d known their little excursion wouldn’t end all daisies and roses.

Stepping out of the room again Natalia finally went into the kitchen, cooking the soup and thinking, ‘If the myths were to be believed, then that lake led to a world beyond. To a star far away. Maybe even the star Tony was looking at. A star Bucky hopefully now lived on, amongst the mythical creatures, cats. He always loved animals, and those creatures are said to be one of the most elegant cohabitants for people.’ ~~~~~~~~~~~

#crossposting #winterironwidow #amnesia #lenght<3k #Chapter 1 #The Other Earth #tw alcohol #tw presumed dead #james buchanan barnes #Natasha/Bucky/Tony #Natasha Romonova #tony stark #Steve Rogers #James Rupert Rhodes #Starkbucksbingo2020 #Bingo Fill

[jinkiics]

( kaylee bryant, demi female , she/her & they/them )╰ ✧ ˔ ⭒ magic is in the air ! oh wait - that’s just my old friend, VELMA DINKLEY, the TWENTY THREE year old FORENSIC SCIENTIST. they’ve lived in rome pines for ages, so everyone knows that they’re PERSPICACIOUS and ACIDULOUS, just like VELMA DINKLEY from SCOOBY DOO. they may not have any magic in them, but the neighborhood sure knows them from their A PRISTINE, STARK WHITE LAB COAT WORN OVER AN OVERSIZED ORANGE SWEATER, RED CORDUROY SKIRT AND A PAIR OF MATCHING SUEDE BOOTIES & A LEATHER BOUND NOTEBOOK, PAGE AFTER PAGE OF ILLEGIBLE HANDWRITING, RANGING FROM OBSERVATIONS TO GROCERY LISTS, IT’S COVER CRACKED FROM USE. apparently, they are CURIOUS about meeting these magical citizens from pastoral city, so let’s just hope they will get along with their new neighbors…⭒˔ ╮

meet velma louise dinkley,

about:

click here for a link to velma’s wikia page. i’m going to be keeping her background as close to canon as possible, but the timelines are a little messy. i’ll likely follow the animated timeline. below, i’ll detail notable points in velma’s life. 

velma has always been bright, gifted, whatever you want to call it. she tested out of pre-school and into kindergarten at the age of four. she could have skipped several more grades over the years but her parents decided to keep her at her current grade, for the sake of normalcy. 

because she started school early she was in the same grade as the rest of mystery inc, which led to them becoming a tight-knit group. their bond just as strong all these years later.

velma was that kid who was constantly being enrolled in new classes and activities, trying to find her hobbies. part of this was her parents trying to encourage their daughter to be more social, but it was mainly fueled by velma’s own curiosity. examples of these activities would include photography classes, swim lessons, pottery classes, cooking lessons

graduating from high school at the top of her class, velma had a whole world of opportunities in front of her. she chose to go on to rome pines university where she earned a dual degree in forensics and chemistry. now she works in a lab somewhere as a forensic scientist which she absolutely loves. 

velma has been competing in science fairs since early childhood, obtaining quite a large amount of awards. she's never been much of a braggart, but she will always talk about her awards and scientific accomplishments. she’s also wrote quite a few articles for scientific journals. 

i will probably expand on this in the future but for now this is it !

canon changes:

this section will be brief, as i absolutely love the velma we all know and love i just have a few minor tweaks to her character!

first and foremost, velma dinkley identifies as demi female, using both she/her & they/them for pronouns.

now let’s talk about her appearance! i know we all picture velma’s iconic orange and red outfit, and while those two colors still make up a majority of her wardrobe she does wear other colors! she’s particularly fond of yellow. she’s also big on booties, doc martens to be specific. and lastly, and perhaps the most important she wears contacts!

also, forget any notion of velma being straight. while i’m still willing to go with a storyline of velma and shaggy dating (if we ever get a shaggy), they would’ve broken up because velma is just very very gay. 

i’ll have to check with alyssa to see the extent of mystery inc’s mystery solving, but i do think they would’ve solved a lot of mysteries during their youth and high school. and they haven’t stopped solving them, it’s probably just not as much as they used to. 

fun facts:

velma always has either a hair tie on her wrist or a piece of ribbon in her pocket to pull back her hair in case she ever needs it. 

a self-confessed linguist, velma has been fluent in english and japanese since early childhood. she has since become fluent in latin and greek, as well as having a good understanding of spanish, italian, french, and german. 

you already know she packs her lunch in a bento box, complete with a matching thermos.

everything in velma’s life has to be organized, and in her own specific way. even one thing out of place, and she won’t be able to move past it. this extends well into her daily routine/schedule as well, meaning she’s not a huge fan of surprises. she keeps a very detailed calendar, it’s color coded. 

she’s terrified of clones, stemming from the bobo the clown incident on her fifth birthday. even the mention of the word clown gets to her. it’s the only part of her behavior that she would call irrational. she has since replaced her full set of encyclopedias, they remain some of her most prized possessions. 

i feel like she’s the kind of gal to carry a satchel, it’s just easier that way. in it she has all of the essentials, her ID, money, keys, a first aid kit, a flash light, a magnifying glass, pens, a nail file, sewing kit, a book in case she gets bored, a matchbook, tape, chapstick, so on. 

a once chronic nail biter, velma has since started to paint her nails in hopes of putting a stop to this problem. it seems to have worked so far. 

she has a pet calico cat named puzzles (subject to change) she loves puzzles, a lot. she talks to her and everything. very cute. 

she absolutely loves mint gum- she always has a pack of it with her. however, she cannot stand chewing gum in front of other people so she usually spits it out. 

she’s a collector, she sees an interesting item or trinket and he has to have it. 

pinterest board: here.

playlist: coming soon

wanted connections: 

i plan to submit some formal wanted connections to the main but i’ll give some ideas here !

fred, shaggy, any and all scoobyverse characters! pls gimme. 

friends outside of mystery inc. she wouldn’t have many but she’d have some, maybe through work, maybe through shared hobbies. or maybe they get together and play dungeons and dragons!

an academic rival - they’ve been competing since childhood and wont be stopping anytime soon. they cant stand each other, this is important. 

exes ! velma is hella gay. otherwise, i feel she’s maybe not the best at relationships but she’s very caring and that’s what counts !

maybe even someone mystery inc exposed ?? that could be fun

#❝ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴅᴇᴀs — velma dinkley ⧸ about.

[writinginthesecrettrees]

7, 9, 12, 17, 21, and 40 for the romanticized asks? 💋💕

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

Broad Sword. Good for stabbing and slashing. 

9. ancient scrolls or leather-bound books?

Leather-bound books. Especially if they’re hand-made.

12. honey in milk or cinnamon in tea?

Cinnamon in tea. Gimme warmth!

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

Dragon. I would totally be a dragon, and my hoard would be pillows and books and I would curl up on it and breathe fire at adventurers who tried to steal it (but if they ask nicely, they can take a pillow to the corner and read one of my books for a while and I’d use the fire-breathing to heat up some tea).

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

Evening in the forest with elves. Dancing in the trees and getting drunk on Elvish wine sounds like the perfect night.

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

Sleeping Beauty. But I want to be one of the good fairies. (and not the Disney version please!)

#ask games #about me #thanks! #💕

[hikari-ni-naritai]

3 4 5 7 9 13 17 22 28 30 31 32 33 34 39 41

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

ooooh uhh probably like a scribe or librarian or something. if we’re talking fantasy id be some sort of magic caster

4. tell us about your ideal battle outfit.

i mean, any of my outfits from my ff14 character, but this is the biggest mood. ive improved the skirt since taking this picture but the gist is the same

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

hmmmm... i am the goddess of soft cats and cute things. people sacrifice terfs to me.

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

this is a good question. god. uh as far as using them goes, trident? all the range of spears but triple the points. aesthetically? scythe. 100%. 

9. ancient scrolls or leather-bound books?

books! easier to keep on a bookshelf

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

gimme the mansion hell yeah.

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

elf elf elf elf elf elf elf elf elf elf elf

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

curse of Minor Inconvenience. things just are a bother but not dangerously so. my car unlock button doesnt work 99 times out of 100. the display on the stereo in my car goes out constantly, which means i cant change the volume of whatever im listening to. the light in the kitchen wont turn on unless you balance it just right. stuff like that.

28. tell us three sayings that you live by.

three??? ive got like. one. my blog title, ‘hikari ni naritai’, which translates basically to ‘i want to become light.’ 

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

just the same as my combat outfit but probably with one of the masks from majoras mask. maybe the couple’s mask with a darker motif?

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

they both would likely want to kill me but ill take the skies bc its much cooler to fly

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

doing crimes

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

white is an option, yes?

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

i mean,w hat are my options here? lvl 20 wizard’s spellbook

39. what skill are you famous for? 

im not famous for anything but several of my posts have been on like buzzfeed and facebook so if im famous for anything its shitposting

41. stained glass windows or fairy lights?

i love stained glass thank you @catholicism

#orsull

[gotatext]

hullo everyone, i’m nora, i’m 22, from the gmt timezone, and i love gillian flynn w all my withered heart. below the cut is info on my latest baby frida parrish. LIKE THIS and i’ll hit u up for plots xo

       ( kristine froseth, cis-female ) did you hear how FRIDA PARRISH is applying to columbia university as a CLASSICAL CIVILISATION major ?! the 20 year old is living in the WALLACH HALL. i heard that they got in because they are + MAGNETIC and + TENACIOUS, but honestly i think SHE can be -DOUBLE-CROSSING and -FANCIFUL. they’re a real SYRABITE. oh well, only time will tell if the SOPHOMORE will make it til the end.   + a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, pouring over leather-bound volumes in a library, bloodstains on the insoles of pointe shoes.

BACKGROUND.

—  born in vermont and lived there til she was about eleven, but then her family moved to new york for her dad’s job. her dad is kind of famous. a big shot art dealer. he actually got so well connected in the art world by creating forgeries of famous works when frida was still really young, but once he had enough money and contacts, he decided to follow a more legal and reputable path and now he just deals legit art rather than fakes. —  her parents, mara dagney and richard parrish met doing a fine art cause at nyu. richard was raised in the uk, one of three cambridge-born brothers. mara grew up on a ranch in new mexico. they met in freshers week and were basically inseparable after that. —  pretty soon after graduating, her parents realised there was very little money to be made taking art commissions in a little new england town, and plenty of competition, so they began forging famous works and selling them to collectors for thousands.  —  when frida was a born (her brother two years her senior, a nuclear family), her parents were still involved in forgery. the parrish kids were taught that people and places were temporary with suitcases permanently packed for the move. they were raised on the fluidity of identity and taught to be resourceful and wise rather than school-smart. phillip was never as resourceful as frida, but he was incredibly learned when it came to literacy and numeracy, and a bit of an art prodigy. —  when frida (affectionately referred to as ‘fox’ by her family because of her auburn hair – it stuck) was nine and phillip (’pippin’, after the broadway musical lmao her mum is lame) was twelve, the family ran into some trouble, managed to bribe an officer to stay quiet, but had to move from burlingdon to new york, to start a new, legal life. —  mara retrained as a grade school teacher. richard opened up his own arts collective space and coffee shop. within a few years, her father had a really large collection of rothko’s, pollock’s and johns’, and began to appear on a tv show where he would value and auction paintings. frida and phillip attended a public new york day school, where frida took up flute, lacrosse and ballet.

PERSONALITY.

— both her parents had Large Personalities, so frida’s never really been shy around adults, even as a kid she’d speak to them in a forthright, confident manner, and because she was always surrounded by adults, she’s always seemed a bit Wise Beyond Her Years. — very much a consolidation of every character in the secret history. has a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. obsessed with w.h. auden and the beat poets. — ”aestheticism is the only thing worth pursuing and even that is pointless”  — is majoring in classical civilisation. can read ancient greek and latin. also speaks french. — studies hard and plays hard. she gets top marks but it’s because academia is literally her life, she loves the smell of libraries, the ancient smoke of learning, of feeling like old wine in a new bottle reincarnated from the bones of some old, dead witchy woman who invented a cure for cowpox or somethin. — isn’t a foward-planner, however. frida prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manner so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenaline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night. — pretentious motherfucker. LOVES poetry, especially the romantics, loves morbid ones too, edgar allen poe, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, she just loves them all. can’t get enough. her favourite films are like…. wanky artfilm independent european cinema. especially french new wave. “what do you think of goddard’s work??” while snorting a line off someone’s sink at 5am on a school night, but you can bet she’ll make it to that 9am class. — very Intelligent and Beautiful and knows both of those facts. vocal feminist. soapbox sadie. Very Passionate about Issues. plays devil’s advocate. humanitarian, vegan. — judgemental but takes great care not to appear so. — just wants to be Loved By All. a party girl ; doesn’t rlly enjoy it, jst feels she Should enjoy it. — tries to be an Enigma. wants to be mysterious and unreadable because that’s what books have taught her makes women Desirable and Interesting and Cool. — obsessively devours mystery and thriller novels. she herself is a gillian flynn book waiting to happen. — act like the flower but be the serpent under it. is a user. manipulative. leads people on. will throw another student under the bus to demonstrate her own intelligence and integrity — heavily involved in the theatre society. loves attention. — has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive, runs track, played lacrosse at school, now is a cheerleader probably. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning.  — her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk. — relates to ophelia from hamlet and sibyl vane in dorian gray. weirdly obsessed with women who commit suicide. loves jackson pollock paintings and abstract art. – likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramphone because “The Sound quality is Better” kfdsjj. 

anyway, here you will find a pinterest board, and here u will find a stats page.

PLOTS.

here are some generic wanted plots but by all means message me so we can flesh them out more if any strike ur interest:

study buddies !! someone who is equally unprepared and so spends all night in the library with frida before a big deadline, maybe they even met in the library

if they’re from new england or vermont, then cousins . second cousins / extended family / family friends –  probably spat volavons on your character once as children, omg childhood friends !

people who live on the same floor and only know each other from brief interactions in the lift or the canteen

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sporting or academic rivalries ! 

hockey / cheer friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!! 

fellow academics who like meeting up to discuss latin and greek ! gimme a secret society bonding by their love of ancient learning

i reckon she’s in a lot of societies, definitely the film club, maybe works as a projectionist at the uni cinema if they have one so give me ppl affiliated with that, give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties

people who think she is throwing her academic potential away by caving to hedonistic impulse

people she has drunkenly made out with, hooked up with, or regularly sleeps with casually, maybe even a friend w benefits she is repressing feelings for, i love angst, 

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life, she is a roman catholic after all

thats all for now folks jeez louise thanks for stickin with me

#columbiaintro #here we go Bois

[activatingaggro]

Inktober - 23- Warmth

PHERES DYSSEU | 9 SWEEPS / 20 YEARS OLD SIPARA NZINGA | 9 SWEEPS / 19 YEARS OLD

NOTT TERMINAL, NEAR-ALTERNIAN ORBIT | 4,194 WORDS

The apartment's certainly very..

"Chalk-y," Sipara offers, bouncing through the door. "Cave-y? Looks kinda, like, I dunno, the murder room in Cleaver, right? But look on the bright side, dude, it's +5 to intimidation when bozo over here brings folks home. I can be like, yeah, totes, don't natter at me, pupaface, just getcha coffee and stick to Hads, and I won't show you my murder dungeon."

"I was going to say it's very modern," you protest, wrinkling your nose, but she has the right of it. Nott Terminal's housing is fascinating in an exotic way. The walls aren't drywall, like you're used to, or even wooden boards. You suppose that would've weighed too much, hauling it up.

No, instead it's cocoon, pressed smooth until it looks almost like a more organic stucco. The floor's of the same material, you think, just polished smooth and glossy. If it were stripped bare of furniture, it'd be unsettling. But there's windows, at least, to break up the white of the walls. And there's wood furniture everywhere, with a style that's familiar in the mahogany of the wood, and the pillows strewn apart. But in others, you suppose you're seeing Hadean's influence.

For one, in the shriveled head on the end-table by the door. When you accidentally make eye contact with the empty pits, you force yourself to turn away. "You have a murder dungeon?" you ask, wandering over to a display case by the kitchen nook, and Sipara chirrs mockingly after you.

"'course I have a murder dungeon, duhhh. C'mon! Need it for my wis debuff, baby, otherwise, like, I'd totes be a munchkin, and who wants to deal with that?"

The display case, at least, is cute. It's wood, filled with a basket and feathers that you're satisfied to recognise. There's books on the interior, and games, and on top of it..

She has, you're not surprised to find, brought her Steelborn plushie up from the planet. What you're not expecting is to see it staring you in the eye from the mantle, surrounded by smaller, yet infinitely fatter, looking stuffed grubs of various colours. One has keratin that looks almost silky. You reach out to pick it up, curious, scooping it up neatly under the legs -

- and it twitches to bite you, fang-filled mouth opening in a chalky shriek of outrage.

"Pher!" Sipara wails as you desperately flail your arm. The grub does not come off. Its legs are clawing madly at the air, even as its body scrunches up to try and make it look bigger. You can feel it growling. Or maybe that's just Sipara's nails scratching at it as she tries to wrestle it free. "Be careful!"

"Why is it alive?"

"Because she's a prosthetic base! And don't call her an it, jeez -" She wrestles her pet project free, then rubs her nose against its forehead, eyeing you irritably. "She's a fifth generation psibuster," she complains. "I just got her to start producing null venom. Which, like, don't worry, it's made to work on blues, not, like, us. We're too hot, it'll start breaking down. Isn't that right, cutie?"

She plants a kiss on the top of its head. The grub opens its mouth and shrieks inconsolably as she dumps it back on the mantle, then it's squirming back to its place on the Steelborn.

The other grubs shift. "Lovely," you deadpan, as Sipara takes a hold of your arm and tugs you away. "What if they fall? Isn't it dangerous for them to be up there?"

"Nah, dude, they're from my hardcore stock. Up to three hundred pounds of concussive force afore their shells flinch! They're fiiine. And their feet are too prickly to fall, anyway. Once, they got on the ceiling, and I couldn't get 'em down, like, even with a broom - are you bleeding?" she demands, abrupt, peering down at your arm. Her ears pin back. "Pheeer."

There's rosewood welling on your arm, sure enough, but you shrug her off. "It's fine," you assure her. "It's - Sipara!"

She's already darting into the kitchen. When she emerges, it's with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, ominous in the dark skin, and a bandage. "You shoulda said you're bleeding," she complains. "Get your arm out of your mouth!"

"I don't need peroxide, I'm cleaning it -"

"You're gonna get gangrene, and your arm is gonna rot off, and then you're going to die, but not before, like, I drag you for putting your arm in your mouth, dude. Like, what the fuck? You know where that grubs mouth has been. Or, like, if you don't, pro-tip: bugs have only got one exit hole, dude, you don't want that in your goddamn mouth. No, shut up, don't argue!"

Sipara herds you like a small dog. She's scarcely two inches shorter, and she's slimmed out in the past half-sweep. There's a new hardness to her body, with less give in the places you're used to: when she nudges you with her hip, it's more bone than fat that sends you stumbling. It makes sense. Stress does that to all of you.

And she and Hadean have faced a great deal more stress, the past few perigees, than you have.

So when she nudges you onto the pile, you don't protest. You just fall onto it, shoving at the pillows and blankets until they fall into something more suitable to lay on. It's not how you would've made it, if you were making a pile for you and Sipara. The blanket strewn atop it all feels like cotton, rough enough to catch your skin, but it makes sense. Hadean doesn't like being warm. And between her and him, heat must sink into every part of the pile.

When she sprawls out next to you, curling up until her legs are thrown over yours, you can see how. "Gimme your arm," she demands, already reaching for it.

"You could ask," you complain.

"You could, like, die of gangrene, too, but we're not coverin' the things we could do, loser. C'monnn."

Sipara's rattling away as she works, cleaning off the wound with all the care as if it was something actually major. It's nostalgic, honestly, the two of you lounging in a pile, cleaning up wounds.. and it's all the better for the fact that when you lean forward, burying your face in her braids, she smells the way she always has, cardamom and saffron and burnt sugar.

She lets you stay there for a moment. Then, with a chuff, she knocks her head under your chin instead. "I've missed you," she says. "A ton. I'm, like, super duper glad you came up, dude."

"Well, he had to visit eventually," Hadean drawls, stepping into the room. "Sup, Pheres."

There.. should, you are aware, be something unfortunate about your auspistice wandering into the room to see you lounging in his pile, with his moirail. But Sipara was your moirail first, long before he'd ever stepped out of Jejunus. It isn't as if you're papping her. It doesn't hurt him to share.

And he's never minded before. You can't imagine a brief stay with the program has gone and made him possessive. Especially not when Sipara cuts the bandage neatly with a fang, binds it, and then rolls over to face him. "Haaaaaads," she wails. "I thought you were sleeping. C'mere!"

"I can't sleep," he says, stepping forward.

And you stare at him, because this is the first time you've ever seen him like.. this. "Oh my goodness," you say, marveling, then you bound to your feet, abruptly enough that Sipara goes tipping back. She's growling from the pile, a stutter-start noise that keeps trying to go too deep for her voice, but you pay her no mind. There's a more important matter to focus on.

Namely --

"What happened to your face?" you demand, a hand flying in front of your mouth, and then you're bounding into Hadean's space.

Hadean's too tall! Even if you stood on tip toes, you can't quite reach his face. But that's fine. He's got a braid you can grab hold of and yank, hard enough to pull his head down to level.

"Whoa there! Try not to murder me," he protests, but you just click your tongue at him as you squint at his piercings. Because his face's covered in them. He looks like Rmeros, almost, all black steel against the pallor of his skin, but.. no, he's not quite that bad. He's not wearing leather, at least, no matter how garish his jewelry is.

He's got piercings in his eyebrow. You're tempted to tug one, but then you imagine if it comes out. There'd be blood, and he'd probably bite you, and - when Hadean grins at you, showing off his fangs like he followed that thought, you balk. It's not as if the piercings are important, anyway, compared to the fact his smooth is skin, unmarked by ink or varnish.

You've never seen him without his tattoos before. He looks.. older, like this, without the white to distract you, and you're tempted to lick your hand and wipe at his cheek, too, just to see if you can fix it.

Impulse control is difficult. You give in, but his skin remains the same perfect gray, even when you press down as your finger drags. "What did you do?" you demand. If your ears could pin back, they would. Hadean's never so much as changed his clothes in the time you've known him. Sometimes, you were convinced, literally. "You look so.. so..."

"Punk-rock?" Sipara offers up cheerily.

"Edgey! You look like you're about to go off into a rave and sell me drugs in the back alley," you decide. There's a ribbon threaded through his braid in Sipara's vivid orange, and you regret, suddenly, that you hadn't thought to buy one in maroon. Well! You'll be here for another night. You'll find time, or else you'll go home, mix up some dye, and actually get the proper colour of things.

Or you'll see if the fellow who made your doll has anything in the same hue in fabric, and make a ribbon for yourself.

"Hads can't sell drugs, dude, he cries if he even smells a honey-drop." Sipara sprawls out across the pile, rolling onto her back and wrestling with her boot. She chucks the first one at the door.

"Yeah, my ancestor should've pailed a honey badger too," Hadean snarks, and she chucks the second right at his head. He catches it with a grin, tossing it back at her, which starts off a brief game of toss-the-boot, and..

One night, you're going to have to get Kit integrated properly into your clade. It's been othering to have her distant from Sipara and Hadean, and she deserves to be here, milling about with the rest of you. But that'll take thought and consideration, because you're not quite sure how to pull it off.

It's something to think about. As of right now..

Hadean's not looking at you. You click your tongue, and when he ignores it all the same in order to catch the boot, you give up. Bouncing onto your heels, you reach up, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to haul him down. "I'm trying to talk," you complain, but you don't get much more out, because Hadean jolts like you've struck him.

Sometimes you forget that he works as a fighter. One twist frees him from your grasp, even as he lands a hand neatly in the center of your chest to throw you off. His lips are curled back to bare his fangs, and - that's where Sipara got that noise, you think, because he's actually growling at you, loud enough that it sounds like a rock was thrown into a trash compactor.

It only lasts a second. You're jerking back immediately, hangs up in front of you to pacify, while Sipara's bounding to her feet. She slips neatly between the two of you, reaching up to pap him with one hand, and hook her other arm hard around his waist. "Stop that," she snaps, sparing an apologetic glance towards you. "C'mon, dude, it's Pher -"

And he does stop, just as she's tugging him towards the pile. His eyes are wide. He's not flushing, the way you are, but you can see his pulse jumping in his throat, in the peek of skin afforded by his high collar. "- sorry," he manages, voice still rough. "Uh, sorry about that."

You'd wondered if the program had made him possessive.

You hadn't considered it might've left him traumatised. But - of course it did. They'd had him in a collar, and here you are wrapping your hands around his neck like the worst kind of reminder.

Sipara hauls him down into the pile, then curls up half on top of him, her chin resting on his collar, her arm splayed across his chest. “Ah. No! I’m sorry,” you murmur, dawdling. You don’t know if you should hop into it. Hadean looks.. flinchy, almost. Your auspistice isn’t made for unease. It leaves your mouth dry to tihnk you inspired it. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you. Ah -”

You cup a hand under your hair, fluffing the curls to add volume, and to give yourself something to focus. “I brought gifts,” you offer, because - you don’t know what else to say. This is suddenly, hideously awkward, in a way you’ve never quite felt before. But you’ve never scared Hadean. “Including that sword I mentioned -”

“Calm down, pololo,” he says, rolling his eyes, and pats the cushions. Because he’s going boneless and languid into the pile, back at ease as quickly as you’d spooked him.

You’re sure it must be intentional. It’s hard not to be grateful all the way. “The sword’ll be there later! Are you going to sit down, or just stare? You’re making me tired just looking at you.”

“He’s making me tired jittering,” Sipara complains, opening an eye to peer at you. “C’monnn, Pher, I can’t deal with two greyhounds, getcher ass down. We can see if we can, like, make him over-heat. Didja know fish can’t sweat? I bet he just dies like a fish.”

“Wow,” he drawls. “A dog and a fish? Why do i have to be the shitty animals?”

“Because an antelope won’t fit.” You settle down next to the two of them, but then Sipara props herself up with enough force that Hadean oomphs. With her free hand, she drags you over by the collar, until your horns are resting on his sternum, and she’s close enough to rap her head against your horns. It’s a thoroughly uncomfortable position.

But when Hadean grunts and shoves her off with a hissy complaint, sending her sliding - and you with her - the resulting scuffle’s enough for everyone to get comfortable. In the end, you’re resting your chin on Hadean’s ribs, head buried on top of your arms, while Sipara’s using his lap as a pillow with her arm threaded around a leg to drag it nearer. No ones horns are in the way. Your combined legs are only mostly off of the pile, but that’s fine enough: the ground isn’t precisely chilly.

“I have a new violet customer,” you announce, once everyone’s settled. It’s only a small lie, but you’re not certain you’re comfortable telling the truth, not it’ll only spawn more questions. “Or, well - they’ll be a customer soon enough. That’s where I got the sword, Hadean! Which, ah, you’ll see later. They collect alien artifacts, apparently.. isn’t that something?”

“I wish you wouldn’t, like, sell to fish,” Sipara says with a huff. “Like, dude, they’re so - so -” She wrinkles her nose, setting her ears back. “Fish-y.”

“Better fish than clowns.” There’s something brittle about the way Hadean says that, but then the moment passes, as quickly as it came. “I mean, still not great, but.. you said they’re going to be a customer, right? They’re not yet?”

You bob your head. There’s something unfortunate about all of this, and the edge that Hadean’s gained in your absence. Something happened, clearly, beyond just his program stay. He holds himself like a bag of glass ready to shatter, and you don’t know gentle you must be to avoid it. Or if it’s your place to try and peer inside.

Probably not. Pile or no, you’re not his moirail.. and no matter how tempted you are, the best time to dig into his business is probably not when Sipara is close enough to bite. “They haven’t bought anything yet,” you confirm. “They’re getting there, though. I’m sure!”

“Okaaay. So, they’re not buying anything, they’re weird, and they’re a fish. Are they at least hot? Because, c’mon, you gotta get your money’s worth somewhere.”

“Hadean!” Sipara hisses. “Dude!”

“What? It’s a good question. Pololo keeps his eyes on the prize,” he protests, grinning. “That’s all.”

You pause, considering. “To some people,” you decide, “but, ah..” They’re taller. They’re finned, and they’re soft, and they’re kind. “Not to me, I’m afraid. They’re like a lowblood, Hadean. You know how that is -”

“And now we’re going back into this.” Sipara curls her lip, lolling her head back. “Wah, wah, wah, lowbloods are so boring, I gotta go stick my bulge in a bilgeblood or it just isn’t any fucking fun.”

“Like you date lowbloods, either,” you accuse her, reaching out to grab her ear. She squalls, twisting to nip at her wrist, but you jerk your hand away at the last moment, dangling in above her head. She lurches up to nip at it, her teeth skimming the skin of it. You howl -

- and Hadean catches you right in the horn with a flick of his nail, following it up with a thwack towards Sipara. Towards, because she’s pulling back with another one of her unempirely howls. “What’re you, toothing? Calm down, no fangs in the cladepile! Just because Pheres's got a hankering for anything cold, blue, and probably with a musclebeast fetish doesn't man we have to pick on him -"

It’s your turn to howl. “I don’t have a blueblood fixation -”

Hadean laughs, warm, and Sipara beams, all teeth. Your outrage can’t last in the face of that. You scowl at them, but it only lasts for a moment - then your expression cracks, one shard at a time, until you’re smiling as well. “You’re awful,” you complain, letting your face drop until it’s hidden in his shirt. “You’re both awful. And - no one has a musclebeast anything! If I was attracted to that sort of thing, then I would think the violet was attractive. They were in a.. a... ”

“Musclebeast suit?” Sipara asks, wrinkling her nose. There’s something very accusing in her tone, not aided by the way she looks like she just swallowed a live bird, and it’d begun to start pecking at her.

“Yes!” You pause. “Well, no. I suppose it was a barkbeast suit.”

“Dude, what the fuck?”

“Oh! Don’t say it like that!” you cry, and.. you’ve missed this, you think, more than anything else since they’ve left the planet.

“Okay, maybe we’re all awful,” Hadean says. “But not fish in a fursuit levels. So they’re not hot, they’re not paying you..” He tilts his head to the side, clicks his tongue as he raises his eyebrows. It’s almost easy to forget the way he was just flinching, moments ago. “- but they've got a musclebeast fixation? I don't know, pololo, that doesn't sound like a plus to me.”

“Iunno, sounds like it's a plus to him. I mean, dude, let's see what the case is, here. Dude’s hanging out with fish that ain't buying, but, like, act super docile.” Sipara’s gone boneless to match him, for all that she’s committed to dragging you. Lying like this, with her eyelashes brushing her cheeks, she looks ready to fall asleep. But she doesn’t. She keeps talking, up until she pauses to add: “- super duper docile. Y’know, like a woofbeast. Like the woofbeast they're dressing up as. No biggie. Except -”

Even you’re unwinding. How could you not? You’re laying about with two of your favorite people on the entire planet for the first time in ages. If this was what it was like for Sipara to live with Iconic, you’re not surprised she could never bring herself to pick sides. It’s just a shame that they had to leave for space, just when you’d gotten settled into sedentary life for the first time.

“I'm not hanging out,” you huff, stretching your arms out in front of you. “I wasn’t hanging out!”

“Objection!” she barks out, pointing at you. “You met a fish! You got a sword from a fish! You, like, talked to a fish, probably shook hands with a fish, probably kissed them on both of their gross slimy wrists, like a fish. Their furry, gross, slimey fish-wrists, which means - did you, or did you not, probably get shed on by their weird carpet pelt?”

“You’re so callous. For no reason, really. Honestly, Sipara, they were perfectly silky -”

You realise that was the wrong thing to say just as she clasps both hands to her mouth and shrieks.

“Oh my God, did you touch it? Hads,” she wails, slapping at his legs, “he touched it! With his bare hands! We left the planet, and - and -” A shake of her head sends her braids bouncing. Then she’s leaning forward, so quickly that they lurch in a clatter of beads. “And now he's off, like, getting seduced by freaky seawolves -”

“Oh!” How are you supposed to respond to this? You love your clademate, but “No one is seducing anything! It wasn't even - they didn't have any dedication,” you huff. “If they did, it would have had horns. And fins. What sort of seawolf doesn't have fins?”

“So you have preferences now,” Hadean says with entirely too much interest. You hiss and bury your face back into his shirt, while Sipara lolls her head back and cackles.

“You’re both being cruel. Cruel and untoward! This is why I can’t bring Meukit around, you know. You’d just - oh! You’d scandalise her. She’s a good person, not - not -” You flap a hand demonstratively. It isn’t as if you intend to hit Sipara, exactly, but the yelp when your hair skirts curls is satisfying, in a grim kind of way. “- sorry! She’s not filled with all this raunch, like the two of you.”

“.. what, like, ranch dressing?”

“No! Raunch, as in -” How are you supposed to keep your head down when Sipara’s asking questions like that? When you squint at her, she’s squinting right back, her ears tilted in the half-mast angle that she always does when she’s doubting. She looks like Kabiir, right after you offer her peanut butter to trick her into not barking. “You know what that means,” you accuse her. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing dumb -”

“Maybe you are just dumb, then,” you sniff.

Sometimes you forget about how quick she is. Sipara pops up onto her knees in a moment, half-launching herself over Hadean. You shriek, tumbling back. Hadean yelps as her knee bounces off of his in her mad scramble to get at you, but your back is on the stone, and Sipara’s undeterred by the way he snatches at her shirt. She lands on top of you like some pronouncement from high above, hands landing neatly on either side of your head, her knees clasped around your hips firmly enough to pin you in place.

When she tilts her head forward, her braids fall in a curtain around the two of you. One thumps inelegantly into your nose. “Take it back, I’m, like, super smart. Hella smart. A real genius.”

“I will not.” It’s your turn to curl your lip at her. “And if you don’t get off of me, then I’ll bite off your nose.”

“You will not.”

“I will too!”

“Will not!”

“Will too.”

“Will not,” she snaps, “because if you do, I’ll bite off yours!”

“I will too, or - or - I would, if you had enough of a nose to bite!”

“Am I ashing everyone?” Hadean complains, rolling over and onto his seat. “Get up, or I’m laying on both of you. One. Two. Thr-”

Sipara shrieks, right in your ear, and bounds off of you, back onto the pile. She bares her teeth at Hadean before collapsing across his legs again, boneless as a cat. “Don’t quadblur,” she complains. “Gross! Almost as gross as Pheres’s furry fish thing.”

“I don’t have a thing --”

“You do have a thing!” she yowls at you, and it’s your turn to push back into her face, and..

The apartment’s different. The walls are strange, and the colours are off, and it’s not quite your home, even with Sipara’s things decorating every available surface, and Hadean’s influence as clear as fingerprints across it all. And it does look rather like the murder room in Cleaver, if you’re being perfectly honest.

And it has a murder dungeon, evidently, and it’s in space --

-- but you’ve missed this. You’ve missed them, and you’ll just have to make it your space, too.

#[prose] #[drabbles] #pheres dysseu #sipara nzinga #no one wins in ash chicken #rambunctious rusts

[ishgard]

📒- For a secret journal/diary they keep (Bonus: Share an entry from it!) GIMME THE LIL SIS NOTES

Whether it’s her quarters at the Rising Stones, or her apartment in the Goblet, books are a pervasive part of her decor. Stacks by the bedside, shelves crammed full - and no few of them are leather-bound tomes written in her own hand. All with covers unmarked, save for the wear and tear of time and travel.

Some are notes of her studies, many and more of her adventures. Others still are the same foreign characters scrawled over and over again - tireless practice at learning how to read and write wheresoever her journeys might take her… 

Most of her writing was never penned with intention or thought of being read by another. Likewise, most of it is nothing particularly private, or damning. Just a lone woman’s ramblings, perhaps one of her solitary means of relieving her mind from the cacophonous multitude of thoughts and worries that weigh upon her from day-to-day; the pages themselves are her audience. 

Some are writ with a more measured voice, indicative of her mothers strict teachings. Others still are just stray sentences and thoughts messily strung together. A book sat on her desk, fresh and yet unmarred from hard travel, is opened to it’s first page and seemingly penned in the style of the former.

‘Nothing quite so satisfying as a fresh new journal to crack into.’ The words are scrawled in flowing, carefree letters across the top of the page, a lone statement all their own, the date scratched in beside them like an afterthought. Then, a space beneath; ‘With winters chill in the air the days have grown shorter. The Starlight festivities will be upon us soon, and that always seems something to look forward to. I fear of late there has not been much else.’ The period puddles a little, a pause lingered upon just a moment too-long. 

‘The chill mornings bring old aches, but I’m remiss to let Yulania see me groan and limp about like some shambling corpse. With no currently pressing matters, I’ve taken to one of my oldest and most beloved winter past times - spending long mornings curled up in bed or beside the fireplace. Mornings like these Alphy would sometimes bring me cocoa, but’ - again, the ink swells. ‘that is, as they say, neither here nor there.’ 

‘Once I’m up and moving about the aches begin to subside, as they do. I always feel energized once the brisk winter air hits me, even if my body isn’t always on the same page. Anywhere other than Coerthas, the first snowfall of the year brings me such joy that I feel renewed. Though, truthfully, about any snowfall makes me feel the same. I may be a woman grown yet I’ll always feel the heart of a child swell in me this time of year. 

‘However as seems to be the case more often than not these days, there are far too many fears in that selfsame heart. That so many of our number are, in some shade or another, missing, will doubtlessly cast a dull shade on the bright, celebratory colors of the season. Would that some Starlight miracle could return them to us - or at the very least, assure us of their safety.’

The sentiment behind the words seems to end rather abruptly; her writing implements still set out, and her chair pulled out as if she were called away without notice.

—

>>force my muse to spill their secrets

#sagolii-snowflake #this was fuuuun #i feel like MAYBE i should tag this spoilers #but i think i'm mostly vague enough to not REALLY spoil anything #if you know. you know. #THANK YOU SISSSSSS