#Can you tell I’ve been fumbling with my art style lately…….

[milolovesbmc]

It’s Marvin’s Bar Mitzvah!

Little extra Marvin In Trousers :)

[abused-sides]

Way to Please

Read part one first, read on Ao3 

Trigger warnings: Emotional abuse, gaslighting, being called selfish, ableism, familial abuse, panic attacks, touch-starved Logan, food mention 

A/N: This is a commission! Another thanks to @darkle-elkrad​!! :D More info at the end 

Disclaimer: J. is NOT Janus, he’s an unsympathetic OC.

Read on Ao3

Logan pushed the knob on his fidget cube in slow circles. It was a simple toy, all black, and usually hidden in his pocket. He currently had it pressed between his thigh and the car door. His stomach was knotted and he stared out the window almost obsessively, counting every mile they got closer to his new school. 

“You messing with that toy again?” 

Logan looked at J. He shoved it in his pocket. “Sorry.” 

“‘S fine. People are gonna make fun of you for being a baby, though.” 

Logan’s face heated up. “I told you I won’t use it in front of other people.” 

They pulled into the college’s parking lot. Logan’s small life was packed up neatly in the backseat. J. turned the car off and sighed. 

“You sure you don’t need help moving in?” J. gave him a look. “You know how you can get.” 

Logan nodded once. “I know. But I can control that. I can move in myself, don’t worry.” 

hesitated, then sighed again. “Alright. Get out, then. Call me tonight.” 

“Yeah. Love you.” 

“Mhm.” 

Logan stacked up his three boxes and started towards his dorm. Luckily, J. had taken a few weeks off his own education and brought Logan down for a tour last week, so he knew exactly where he was going. He managed all the way to his room and fumbled for the key card in his wallet. 

He nearly dropped his boxes, and his heart leapt into his throat. He caught them just fine, but the panic remained, fizzling slowly like water down a stopped drain. His fingers itched for his cube. He ignored it, and got the door open just before the anxiety peaked. 

One half of the room was already claimed, half unpacked suitcases sprawled over the bed and wardrobe, so Logan dumped his stuff on the second bed. He immediately righted the boxes and tossed some fallen items back inside. He glanced over his shoulder. 

He was alone. 

He shoved his hand in his pocket and found the side with the buttons, mashing them down before flipping it to switch. He click-click-clacked it a few times as the tension slipped from his chest. 

He took a second to look around the room. His roommate’s life was coated in black and purple. Band tees stuck out of the half clothes drawer, notebook upon notebook littering his bed. He had a purple and black plaid quilt tossed over a gray weighted blanket. An expensive laptop sat freely on the desk. 

“...oh, come on, you are such an asshole.” The door opened and closed, and a boy with purple hair came inside, holding a phone to his ear with his arms full of sodas and candy. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck you, too. Sure. Later. Love you.” 

Logan blinked. 

The boy dumped his food on his bed and shoved his phone in his pocket. He raised an eyebrow. “Uh, hi.” 

Logan nodded. “Was that a… girlfriend?” 

“Nah, my brother.” He turned back to line his drinks on the shared desk. “I’m Virgil.” 

“Logan.” He hesitated, then turned to his own bed, pulling out neatly rolled up clothes. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I already picked my side.” Virgil grabbed another armful of clothes and went over to the wardrobe, punching down the fabric until he could layer more inside. 

Logan couldn’t help but say, “You could fit more if you folded them.” 

Virgil snorted. “There’s three other drawers. I’ll be fine.” 

“Right.” His face flushed. “Sorry.” 

Logan hung his clothes in the closet. They unpacked silently. Logan occasionally tapped his pocket, just to make sure his cube was still there. 

Virgil sat at the edge of his bed and held out his hand. “Let me see your class schedule?” 

Logan startled, then fumbled for his backpack. “Right— Uh, sorry, one second.” 

He found it while Virgil watched with raised eyebrows. He handed it over. Virgil hummed, gray eyes trailing over the paper. He really was striking. He was loud in a way Logan never wanted to be, but Virgil didn’t seem upset by it. It was all clearly a choice, from the way he dressed to how he styled his hair. He lounged on his bed, taking up all the space without taking his combat boots off first, chewing on his nails— likely while the nail polish was chipped. 

Nail polish. His middle fingers were painted black, the rest a strong purple. How did he have the confidence to wear nail polish? If Logan tried that, J. would make fun of him until he cried. 

“We have some Gen-Eds together,” Virgil mused. “And an art class. How long have you been drawing?” 

Logan swallowed and sat on his bed. It was clear Virgil wasn’t handing the schedule back any time soon. “Not long. I just picked it up last year, actually. It sounded, I don’t know, relaxing.” 

Virgil grinned and glanced at him. “It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” 

“It’s… hard. Harder than I expected.” 

“Can I see?” 

Logan hesitated. He reached for the box with his sketchbook, but Virgil held his hand up. 

“It’s okay. No need to look so panicked.” He chuckled. “I’ll just look later. I was going to go look around campus, make sure I know where all my classes are. Wanna come with? We can check the Gen-Eds.” 

Logan really didn’t want to— he knew where his classes were, and he planned on finding good spots for his stuff —but he nodded and stood. He glanced at Virgil’s bed, where he laid on top of all of his stuff. A few things crumpled and crunched as he rolled onto his feet. 

“Cool.” He grabbed a Monster off the desk and popped it open. “Let’s go.” 

Virgil wasn’t actually as loud as he looked. He had the confidence down, and he teased Logan quite a bit, but he was very… calm. Logan would never admit it out loud, but he was jealous. He could never be that sure of himself. 

After finding their Gen-Eds, they agreed to stick together to find their other classes as well. Logan admitted to having already visited his— Virgil laughed —so they set off to find Virgil’s. 

Once they got to the last class on the list, Virgil stopped. “Shit,” he whispered. “Oh, shit.” 

Logan frowned. “What is it?” 

The wind blew through Virgil’s bangs, revealing wide, anxiety-filled eyes. The courtyard was mostly empty, the occasional student passing by a couple dozen feet away. 

“They put me in the wrong class.” Virgil pushed his hair back and drew in a shaky breath. “We agreed I’d be in the morning class, I— I can’t make this one, I don’t know— fuck.” 

“Hey.” Logan took a small step closer. “Hey, it’s okay. We can just go talk to someone, right?” 

Virgil shook his head quickly. His breathing was speeding up. “No, are you kidding? They’re probably so busy, this is stupid. I just— fuck, I’ll have to make it work.” 

“Virgil, no.” Logan laughed weakly. “No, come on, we can fix this. Breathe, right?” 

“‘Breathe—’ Right, fuck, I’m not… I’m not breathing.” 

Logan held his hands out, and Virgil scrambled to take them. Logan held them tight. “Uh, just follow my breathing.” 

Logan helped him right himself, a few tears slipping out from Virgil’s eyes, but he mostly got himself back together pretty fast. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Virgil gave Logan their schedules and pushed his sweaty palms down his pants. He wiped his face. “Sorry, that was… stupid.” He fiddled with the zipper on his hoodie. 

“No, it wasn’t. I… uh, here.” Logan hesitated, then found his fidget cube and pressed it into Virgil’s hand. 

Virgil looked at it in surprise. His fingers naturally found the side with the buttons, click-click-clicking. “Oh. Thanks. I had one of these last year but I lost it.” 

Logan blinked. “Really?” 

“Yeah. I’ll give it back though, don’t worry.” 

“Let’s go talk to the registrar. We can tell them your schedule is conflicting.” 

Virgil stared at the cube. He flicked the dial a few times, listening to the light crank as it snapped back. “Are you sure?” He mumbled. 

Logan forced a smile against his nerves. “Of course. Better to do it now then wait until it’s worse.” 

“That’s true. Okay.” He laughed weakly and straightened his shirt out. “Right, you’re right. Sorry about this.” 

“It’s fine,” Logan promised. 

Logan walked with him down to the registrar's office and it ended up being an easy fix. Virgil walked out while rolling his eyes. 

“I can’t believe that gave me a panic attack. Shit, I’ve had panic attacks over some dumb things, but… wow.” 

Logan laughed. “It’s a… big day. Don’t worry about it. I, uh… I had a couple today, too.” 

“Well, panic attacks make me hungry. Do you want to go grab something to eat?” 

Logan nodded. “Sure.” 

They stopped outside their dorm building. Virgil texted for a moment, then said, “I have a car we can borrow. Come on.” 

They found a silver truck in the Junior’s parking lot. Virgil pulled the keys out of his pocket. “It’s my brother’s,” he said. “I’ve got a spare key.” 

“Your brother sounds cool.” Logan climbed into the passenger side. 

It was a very tall truck. His face heated up as he struggled a little to get inside. 

“He’s an asshole,” Virgil laughed. “What do you want to eat?” 

“Uh—” Logan’s mind blanked. “Um… I don’t— I don’t know, what do you want?” 

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Um… Okay, well, I know a Chinese place close by that’s good. We can grab one to bring back?” 

Logan nodded and relaxed into his seat. “Yeah. That’s good.” 

Virgil pulled out of the parking lot. They took their food to go, Logan managing to find a kosher option fairly easily, and ate while flipping through Netflix. They found a show they’d both been wanting to watch and got stuck on it easily. They ended up watching the entire first season, only stopping to break open Virgil’s collection of snacks.  

Logan went to bed that night, later than he ever had, feeling better than he ever had. 

xxx 

“Hey, I’m going to see my brother. Want to come?” 

Logan looked up from his homework in surprise. “Um… sure?” 

Virgil had been acting weird lately. He invited him to go somewhere or do something every day. If Logan showed the slightest bit of hesitation, he backed off, but there he was again the next day. If Logan did hesitate, Virgil wouldn’t let him go back on it. Logan didn’t understand it. 

He’d also started acting more nervous around Logan. Less sure of himself. Logan worried he did something. But if he did, there’s no way Virgil would want him to meet his brother, would he? 

He settled his homework neatly back inside his binder and checked a few things off his planner before grabbing his phone and wallet. He followed Virgil outside, where the streetlights glowed warmly against the dark sky, and across the courtyard. The Junior dorm buildings looked identical to the Freshmen’s, only a bit bigger. Inside, their lobby was much more taken care of, and looked more like a gameroom than anything. Groups of students sat with decks of cards, at vending machines, at pool tables. Instead of heading up to the dorms, Virgil led Logan to a small group of kids settled in bean bag chairs. 

A boy with striking similarities to Virgil— all angles and bones, the same gray eyes —sat with another boy, covered in freckles, settled in his lap. 

“Hey, Jan. Hey, Patton.” Virgil placed a light hand on Logan’s shoulder. The touch burned through his shirt, and Logan nearly sucked in a breath. “This is Logan, he’s my roommate.” 

“Wow, you’re getting along with your roommate?” Janus asked in surprise. “I guess I owe Patton ten bucks.” 

“You do not!” Patton rolled his eyes with a smile. “We did not make a bet, Virgil. He’s doing his thing.” 

“I know,” Virgil laughed. 

He pulled the last free bean bag chair towards them and yanked Logan down with him. Their sides pressed together, the bag molding them against each other, Logan couldn’t breathe. He managed to settle himself on the edge of the chair. His side was cold as ice, his heart racing. Virgil gave him a weird look before shoving it off and looking back to Janus. 

Logan thought briefly when the last time he had a hug was. Surely not that long ago, right? Parents hugged their children all the time. But he couldn’t quite recall. If he’d been hugged recently, would he still have the strong urge to reach out and feel Virgil’s hair? To take his hand and trace Virgil’s fingers? To feel Virgil’s palm against his face? 

Logan’s face flushed. Stop acting creepy. 

“What are we playing?” Virgil asked. 

Virgil helped him through the card game. It became obvious towards the third round that Janus was cheating, mostly because Patton scolded him loud enough for everyone to hear. 

“Wait, he’s been cheating?” Virgil threw his cards down dramatically. “You bitch!” 

Janus laughed as Virgil kicked the cards at him. Logan tensed. 

“Stop fighting!” Patton sighed, but he was smiling. Why was he smiling? He batted his eyelashes at Janus. “Baby, buy me a snack?” 

Janus picked Patton up, stood, then tossed Patton into the bean bag chair. He squealed. 

“Don’t use that voice on me.” Janus leaned down and kissed him softly. “Totally unfair.” 

“Oh, is it?” 

They mumbled together for a moment between kisses. Logan was certain his face had never been so red. Virgil picked up a card and flung it at them. 

“Gross! I don’t want to see my brother make out with anyone!” 

Janus snorted as he pulled away and found his wallet. “That’s just because you’ve never made out with anyone.” 

Virgil’s ears turned red. “That’s not true! Gah!” 

Janus left to the vending machine, and Patton relaxed into the chair with a wide grin. “So Logan, what are you studying?” 

“Physics,” he mumbled. “Are you two okay?” 

Virgil looked at him in surprise. “Me and Janus?” 

Logan nodded. 

“Uh, yeah? Why?” 

“You guys were fighting?” 

Patton giggled while Virgil raised an eyebrow. “We weren’t fighting, we were joking. You don’t have brothers?” 

“No, I have one. He’s two years older than me.” 

“Alright… what’s his name? Maybe Janus knows him.” 

“He doesn’t go to this school.” Logan found his fidget cube in his pocket and rolled his thumb around the metal ball. “He’s at a college in our hometown.” 

“You moved away for college?” Patton asked in surprise. 

“What’s going on?” Janus dropped into Patton’s lap and pressed several packets of gummies into his palm with a kiss to his cheek. 

“Logan went to college out of state to get away from his brother,” Virgil said. 

Logan’s eyes widened. “That’s not true!” 

Virgil bumped their shoulders together. 

“If Virgil tried going to college out of state without a good reason, I’d kill him.” Janus pulled Patton closer. “Seriously. I’d be worried out of my mind.” 

“You don’t…” Logan hated to confirm Virgil’s suspicion, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “you don’t need, like, a break?” 

Everyone stared at him. 

“No,” Janus said flatly. “No, I actually love my brother.” 

“Gross,” Virgil mumbled, but his ears were red again. 

“I love my brother,” Logan insisted. 

“Oh, we don’t doubt that.” 

“I just— I don’t know. You guys were fighting yesterday morning, too.” 

Virgil stared at him in confusion, until it clicked. He laughed. “You mean when I was on the phone? Lo, he called me a coffee gremlin so I told him to fuck off. It wasn’t a fight. We were just messing with each other.” 

Heat steadily climbed up Logan’s neck. He closed his hand around his cube until it hurt. He wanted to curl in on himself, escape the conversation, and never see any of them again. 

“What the hell does your brother call you?” Janus asked. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Logan said weakly. “We’re just— we’re not as close as you, I guess.” 

“Logan, it’s okay,” Patton said softly, face pinched with worry. “You can talk about it. No one’s here to judge you, we’re not trying to force you to be grateful for your family or anything.” 

Janus squeezed Patton’s shoulder. “Yeah, we know about shitty families, if that’s what this is.”

“And that’s the vibe I’m getting,” Virgil added. “The shit Janus calls me doesn’t bother me. I tell him if he says something fucked up. What does your brother do?” 

“I— I don’t know, I don’t know.” Logan pushed his sweaty palms against his jeans. “He just… gets mad sometimes. You know?”

“No,” Virgil said flatly. “What does he do when he’s mad?” 

“He just… gets mad.” Logan’s voice trembled. He didn’t know how to get out of this. He made a big deal out of it, something that so clearly wasn’t a big deal, and now he was just stuck. “I guess he, I don’t know, he calls me selfish sometimes.” 

“Like when?” Patton asked. He’d leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees, brows knitted. 

Logan stuttered through a few stories off the top of his head. He’d tried to tell them in a casual way, insist that it wasn’t a big deal and he was fine, but everyone was so… concerned. Virgil’s fists clenched around his hoodie, Janus’ eyes narrowed. Logan ducked his head. He was shaking. 

He scrambled to his feet. “I’m sorry, I think I— I think I need to go.” 

“Logan,” Virgil sighed. “We can stop talking about it, but come on. You can’t like the way he treats you.” 

“Does it matter?” 

Everyone paused. Logan pressed a hand to his forehead. 

“No,” Janus’ voice dripped with sarcasm, “of course not. People can just do whatever they want to you with no consequences.” He waved his hand. “Who cares, right?” 

Logan froze up. His muscles were pulled taut, eyes squeezed shut, his body wilting like a dead flower. 

“Janus,” Patton scolded. 

He sighed. “Sorry. Look, of course it matters. Come on, sit down. Everything is fine.” 

Logan didn’t believe that. But he sat anyway. He answered their questions. He explained everything as honestly as he could. 

Part of him wanted to defend J., to insist that it really wasn’t that bad and J. loved him. But Logan wasn’t sure if J. did love him. He’d heard how Virgil talked about Janus, and there wasn’t a doubt in Logan’s mind that J. would never talk about him that way. He’d seen how Janus looked at Virgil, sometimes angry but usually in a protective way. It wasn’t like anything Logan had seen from J. 

Hearing them throw around the words ‘abusive,’ ‘manipulative,’ and even ‘gaslighting,’ was hard. Logan jammed the joystick on his fidget cube around so much he almost broke it, bouncing his leg up and down, eventually having to get up and pace. He kept waiting for the snapping, for everyone to tell him how annoying he was being and that he needed to sit and be quiet. They didn’t. 

It was almost uncomfortable. 

The conversation eventually moved— Logan was simultaneously relieved and disappointed —but everyone looked at him different after that. Before Virgil and Logan went back to their room, Patton offered a hug. Logan hesitated, and was about to step into Patton’s arms, when Virgil grabbed his shoulder— just long enough to make him pause. 

“You don’t have to say yes,” he said flatly. 

Patton’s eyes widened. “Oh, gosh! Right! Of course not. Sorry, Logan.”

Logan cleared his throat. “It’s okay.” 

On the walk back, Virgil said, “We’re going to have to work on that.” 

Logan shoved his hands in his pockets. With Fall kicking in full force, it was freezing outside at night, their breath coming out as fog. 

“Work on what?” He mumbled. His body was heavy, eyes lidded. 

“Your whole people pleaser bullshit. You don’t have to say yes to everything. It’s okay to not want to do something.” 

Logan swallowed. He shrugged. 

Virgil stepped in front of Logan and crossed his arms. “We need to set some boundaries, or else I can’t be friends with you. I’m not going to hurt you because you won’t communicate. I won’t be like J.” Virgil stared for a moment, eyes swiping over Logan’s face. His eyes softened. “I won’t be mad. You’re just going to have to trust me on that.” 

“I don’t…” Logan’s heart thumped in his ears. He pressed his thumb against the buttons of his cube. “I don’t really… I don’t know how to handle being touched.” 

Virgil’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? I mean, okay. So don’t touch you, then?” 

“Maybe, just… I don’t know, not that often?” Logan bounced on the balls of his feet. The cold had wormed its way into his bones, and he felt like if he didn’t move he’d either go crazy or freeze to death. 

“Come on, let’s get inside.” Virgil nodded towards the door. 

They didn’t talk until they were settled into their beds and the lights were off. 

“Thanks for telling me,” Virgil said. “I’ll talk to the others, too. You can always reach out if you want.” 

Logan’s eyes watered. He was grateful for the dark. “Yeah,” he whispered. 

“Goodnight, Lo.” 

“Goodnight, Virgil.” 

xxx 

Virgil and Logan laid on their stomachs, on the floor. Notebooks and textbooks were spread out in front of them, covered in highlighter and pen. 

It was a few months after Logan had confessed about J., and a few things were becoming apparent. 1) Virgil was not giving up on him. Neither were Janus or Patton. 

2) J. probably, almost definitely, did not love Logan. 

Every day it was becoming more and more clear. 

Logan had never been treated the way Virgil and his friends treated him. Sometimes they argued, sometimes Logan was so frustrated and confused he wanted to cry, but they never made him feel like he wasn’t important. Every fight was important. And for the first time, he was able to move on from them. Even when things weren’t quite resolved, even when there was still more to talk about— that didn’t stop Virgil from inviting him out to dinner, from joining him to study, for putting on a bad horror movie. 

“Alright,” Virgil sighed, pushing the textbook away and burying his face in his arms. His voice came out muffled, “if I look at American History anymore I’m going to die. What next?”

“Uh…” Logan cleared his throat and looked at their stack of remaining textbooks. 

Semester finals were coming up in the next month and Logan was severely behind in Calculus. 

“I don’t— I don’t know, what do you want to do next?” 

Virgil picked his head up sluggishly. He blinked at Logan for a second, hair mussed, wrinkles under his eyes. He grabbed their stack of textbooks and dragged it closer. 

He hummed as he looked through it, then pulled the Calculus and Economics textbooks. He shoved the others away. “Which one?” 

“Um…”

“Come on, I’m good with either. Which one?” 

Logan hesitated, then pushed away the Economics book. 

“Cool.” Virgil flipped the textbook open. “Come on, I want to get this done.” 

Logan flushed. He scrambled to find his notebook and flashcards, struggling to focus. A sturdy feeling of control settled over Logan’s bones, something he didn’t think he’d ever felt before. 

xxx 

“Almost ready to go?”

“Uh, yeah, just let me—” 

Logan yanked the blanket down his bed, then pushed aside his pillow. He relaxed and snatched his fidget cube, shoving it in his pocket. 

“Okay.” He straightened up. “I’m ready. Let’s go.” 

They left their dorm and headed downstairs. They’d planned to meet Janus and Patton in the parking lot so they could all go to this arcade nearby. Janus had jokingly (jokingly?) called it a double date. 

“Yeah, there’s this zombie game you’d really like,” Virgil rambled as they stepped outside. He immediately tensed against the cold and stepped closer to Logan. Logan shuffled against him, their shared body heat negligible. 

The parking lot appeared ahead and Logan stopped. 

“Lo?” Virgil frowned. “What’s up?” 

got out of his car and grinned as his eyes landed on Logan. He waved. 

“Um…” Shit. “I— I don’t know, uh—” 

“Logan!” 

Virgil looked over his shoulder as J. headed towards them. His face darkened. “Is that J.?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Hey!” J. stopped in front of them and grinned. “Surprise. Come on, let’s go grab dinner. Who’s this?” 

“Virgil.” Logan stepped closer. “My roommate, remember?” 

“Oh, yeah. Well anyway, let’s go.”

“Actually,” Virgil said in annoyance, “we had plans. Maybe you can call ahead next time.” 

quirked an eyebrow. Logan’s blood ran cold as J.’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll have to reschedule. He’s my little brother, I’m sure you can find someone else to drag along.” 

Virgil scoffed and glanced back at Logan, then stopped. “You’re not really considering this, are you?” 

Logan looked between them, helpless. He was terrified of upsetting either of them, but there was no way to please both of them. 

“I— I don’t know. J., we had plans,” he said quietly. 

“You can reschedule.” J. grabbed Logan’s arm and pulled him closer. “I haven’t seen you in forever, don’t be selfish.” 

“You don’t have to do what he wants,” Virgil insisted. His eyes were on J., face scrunched in a glower. 

“What’s up with you?” J. asked in frustration. “You’re acting like it’s a crime to take my little brother to dinner. Just lay off, will you?” 

He stormed away, dragging Logan behind him. Virgil huffed. His footsteps echoed away. 

Please don’t be mad. 

Logan forced himself through dinner. The entire night crawled by, full of passive aggressive comments and insults Logan had forgotten how much he hated. He didn’t understand why J. came all the way down here just to ridicule him. Couldn’t he do that over text like he usually did? Didn’t he catch on to why Logan stopped answering? 

After J. drove him back to campus, way after nightfall, he grabbed Logan’s arm before he could escape. “We need to talk.” 

Logan shoved his hand in his pocket. He flicked the switch, over and over, click-click-click— 

“Will you stop playing with that fuckin’ toy? I’m being serious.”

“It calms me down,” Logan mumbled, pulling his hand out. “Sorry.” 

“I don’t like Virgil,” he said flatly. “I don’t like how he treats you and honestly he’s fucking rude. You’ve been pulling away. Mom and Dad haven’t heard from you in months. I haven’t heard from you in longer. That’s not fair to us just because you have this new friend.” 

Logan stared. What the hell was he supposed to say? I like how Virgil treats me a whole fuckton more than you do. He couldn’t say that. Even if he wanted to, which he wasn’t sure he did. 

“I’ll talk to him about it,” he lied. 

“Talk to—” J. barked a laugh, “no, ask for a new roommate. I don’t want you talking to him at all anymore, okay?” 

Logan swallowed. “He’s my best friend.” 

“That’s a problem. He’s not good for you.” 

He pulled on the door handle a few times. “Can I go? I get it, I’m sorry.” 

“You clearly don’t get it. If you did—”

Logan pulled on the handle a few more times as J. droned on. His body was lighter, his head foggy. He could see himself tugging, tugging, could watch J. getting angrier and barely made out his mouth forming the words ‘stop with the fucking door.’ 

Then he was outside. 

peeled out of the parking lot, tired squeaking over the pavement, and Logan hurried to his dorm. 

Virgil paused the T.V. as Logan got inside. He panted, chest heaving. Did he run? He didn’t remember. 

“Logan?” Virgil stood. “Hey, what’s going on? What’d he do? Did he say something?” He hurried over. 

Logan stumbled through the story. Virgil’s glare deepened with each word, and every time Logan tried to make it better, Virgil just got angrier. 

“Stop apologizing,” he snapped. “Come here, you need to sit down.” 

He held out his hand, and Logan hesitated, before taking it. As Virgil led him to the bed, Logan focused on the texture— soft and cold. The pad of Virgil’s thumb was pressed against Logan’s palm. He craved more and he wanted to rip his hand away. 

Virgil sat Logan down, then took his back back and knelt down. “Where’s your cube?”

Logan shook his head. 

Virgil glared. “Did he take it?” 

“No! I just— I don’t need it.” 

“You clearly do. Come on, have I ever made fun of you for that?” 

Logan hesitated, then fumbled to get it out. Click-click-click. Click-clack-click-click. 

“Come on, follow my breathing. It’s okay. We’re going to figure this out. You don’t need him. It’s alright.”

Virgil slowly got Logan back in his body. His breathing became his again, and he was reminded of where he was. He gripped the covers, rubbing his fingers over the plush. 

“I���m sorry,” he managed. He still panted a little, his head light. 

“Sit here. I’m gonna grab some water.” 

Virgil came back and sat next to him. He handed Logan the water, who gulped it down. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. Virgil took the glass back, their fingers brushing, and set it on the desk. 

“I don’t think you should talk to him anymore.” 

Logan flinched. 

“I know. I know it’s confusing. It’s your decision. If you want to stay in contact with him for a little longer, I’m not going to hold that against you.”

Logan looked up in surprise. “What? But you want—”

“It’s not my life. I think he’s an asshole and I don’t think he deserves you, but I’m not going to make choices for you. Not these.” 

Logan’s eyes watered. He looked away. 

Virgil sighed. “You don’t have to do that. I won’t make fun of you.” 

He buried his face in his hands as his body shook. 

Virgil cleared his throat. “Usually when Patton cries, he wants hugs, I don’t… um… what do you need?” 

“What?” Logan’s voice cracked, and Virgil repeated himself. “A blanket?” 

Virgil reached around and pulled the blanket around Logan’s shoulders. He whispered “One second,” and rushed over to his bed. He dragged his weighted blanket over and settled that around Logan’s shoulders, too. 

Logan got his tears out while Virgil refilled his water. He took it with clammy hands, wiping his nose. “Thank you,” he mumbled. 

“You should get some sleep.” 

Logan nodded. He started to take off the weighted blanket, but Virgil held his hand up. “It’s alright. Keep it tonight.” 

Logan hesitated. “Are you sure?” 

“Wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.” 

He swallowed. “Thank you. I— thank you.” 

Virgil smiled awkwardly. “Get some sleep.” 

Logan settled into bed as Virgil turned the lights off. He brought the weighted blanket up to his nose, eyelids fluttering closed. It smelled like Virgil. It was warm. 

Logan was safe. 

xxx 

Over the rest of the school year, Logan slowly worked at cutting off his parents and J. Virgil helped him, even through the hiccups. There was a moment Logan thought he could fix things, that he and J. could reconcile— then J. gaslit him and Logan almost switched colleges. Virgil made it clear what J. was doing, and Logan hadn’t spoken to J. since. 

The two eventually agreed to get an apartment together after college. Logan got a part time job to keep his mind busy, and he barely had any free time between that and the studying, but he spent most of it with Virgil. 

“And how satisfied were you with your roommate this year?” The registrar asked as Logan sat in the oversized armchair. 

“Um, he was good. I liked my roommate.” 

“Would you like to continue rooming with him next year?” 

She barely finished speaking before Logan blurted out a ‘yes.’ She laughed and noted it down. Logan met Virgil outside afterwards, and they headed towards the Junior parking lot. 

“You said yes to rooming next year, right?” Virgil asked. 

Logan nodded. “Yeah. You?” 

“Nah, didn’t feel like it.” He smiled. “‘Course I did. You can’t get rid of me.” 

Logan laughed. “What do you want to eat?” 

“I think I’m gonna force Janus to buy me a pizza.” 

He wrinkled his nose. 

Virgil snorted. “What, you don’t want pizza?” 

“That pizzeria you like is disgusting.” 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Come on, we eat there too much. Can’t we get something else?” 

Virgil pretended to think about it for a moment, before rolling his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. You can pick this time. I’ll tell Janus and Patton to deal with it.” 

Logan grinned. They made it to the parking lot and piled into Janus’ truck. Logan told them what they were eating for dinner, and as Janus headed that way, Virgil nudged Logan with his elbow. 

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. 

Patton had turned the radio on. Pop music blared through the speakers, but Logan could hear perfectly with Virgil’s mouth close to his ear. Not enough to touch. Just close. 

Logan flushed. “For what?” 

“You’ve come a long way this year.” 

“But I still—”

“Shh. Not focusing on that right now. I’m proud of you.”

Logan’s stomach filled with butterflies. Virgil pulled away with a grin, then yelled something at Janus, who flicked him off. 

Logan settled back with a smile. 

reblogs > likes 

Here’s my commission info! You can do a whole fic like this if you’d like but there’s also super cheap ficlets and drabbles, so if you like this, maybe consider throwing me a few bucks :D 

[muertawrites]

Aphrodite Kallipygos (Zuko x Plus Size Reader) [Modern AU]

Summary: Zuko takes up an art class as part of his therapy and ends up falling in love with a woman who’s a work of art in her own right.

Word Count: 3,500

Disclaimer: There’s a scene in this fic where a couple of thin girls engage in some rude behavior and are criticized in a few none-too-kind words. I want to make it very clear that this scene does not reflect my views of thin people or body positivity - these characters are meant to be a metaphor for greater culture and its strict, unrealistic views of what women should look like. 

Author’s Note: I hate rom coms but after writing this fic it dawned on me that I would be excellent at writing them. Also, this one goes out to all my art hoes out there. I geek out pretty hard about art history in this one. 

Speaking of which, I reference real-world cultures within the structure of the Avatar universe in this one as well. Something I like to do when I zone out is think about which actual countries would belong to which bending nations; my heritage is primarily from the British Isles, and what with liths like Stonehenge and the hella castles hanging around out there, I think we’d be earth benders - same with cultures like the ancient Egyptians and the Pueblos. I also love the idea of Pacific Islanders who can bend both water and lava, and Incan air benders, and I really wish the idea of global cultures as benders were explored more in the Avatar universe. 

Have I mentioned that I’m a massive fucking nerd?

~ Muerta

Zuko never considered himself much of a creative. When he thought about it, he realized that that part of his life had never really been explored; his father always pushed him to focus solely on his bending and combat skills, never allowing even the consideration of other practices or hobbies. As much as Zuko was passionate about the martial arts he'd mastered, he also came to learn that he never had a choice in being passionate about anything else. 

“I think you should take an art class,” his therapist suggested. “It would be a good outlet for you, and one that isn't directly influenced by your family.” 

“I don't think I've ever drawn anything, though,” Zuko admitted. “I wouldn't be any good.” 

“It's not about being good,” his therapist explained, “it's about exploring things that weren't available to you in your youth, freedom of expression. Consider it - there's a shop in this neighborhood that offers classes.” 

She handed him a business card adorned with an array of different art styles, from delicate watercolors to bright, bold cartoons; it read, “classes for everything” in a cheerful, clearface font.

Zuko shrugged and pocketed the card. A week later, he was enrolled in a basic studio art course. 

He arrived for his first class embarrassingly early, passing under the bell of the shop’s front door twenty minutes before it was scheduled to begin. 

The building that housed the shop looked to be older than the rest of the neighborhood around it; the storefront was tiny, with crowded shelves lining each wall and tables and racks wound throughout the center of the space, creating a maze that led to the checkout counter. The room’s ceilings were high, supported by beams in a dark stained wood that matched the floor below. Paper mache sculptures and handmade lanterns hung from the rafters, and the simple, antique plaster walls were decorated with paintings and sketches, likely given by the shop’s clientele. From somewhere in the back, a radio sang folk music, accompanied by the hum of an electric fan. 

Zuko wandered through the labyrinthine merchandise displays until he reached the register, where he was met with the single most beautiful sight he may have ever laid eyes on. 

You stood behind the counter, leaned over a textbook with a pencil in hand, tapping it back and forth over the pages; you bit your lip in concentration, a few strands of your hair falling loose from the messy knot atop your head and over your cheeks, though you were too focused on your reading to care. An apron bearing the shop’s logo was tied around your waist, emphasizing your body's dramatic curves. 

To Zuko, you were gorgeous. He couldn't place what exactly about you allured him; all he knew was that his pulse had quickened to a near dangerous pace. 

You looked up at him when you noticed you were no longer alone, flashing him a kind, somewhat distracted smile. He nodded curtly, too nervous to do anything but stare. 

“Can I help you?” you greeted him politely. 

He cleared his throat, his voice coming out a pitch higher than normal as he spoke. 

“I'm here for the art class,” he told you. 

You smirked a little, peering down to check the time on your phone. 

“It's a little early,” you said. “I was just about to start setting up. You could help me if you want? So you're not so bored while you wait?” 

“Yeah,” Zuko mumbled, “yeah, sure.” 

You grinned, waving him behind the counter and through a door to the back room. To his surprise, what he expected to be a minuscule stockroom turned out to be a space larger than the actual shop, lined on one wall with massive warehouse windows that poured late afternoon sunlight into the room. Metal shelves and boxes lay haphazardly about, mixed in with a scattering of easels, pottery spinners, canvases, and other art supplies. You directed your guest to a stack of chairs in the corner, instructing him to line them in a half circle in an empty portion of the room while you placed the easels. 

“So, do you have a name?” you asked, attempting to make conversation that could drown out the repetitive radio drone. 

“Zuko,” he introduced himself. 

You stopped what you were doing, fixing him with an awed, slightly amused gape. 

“Firelord Zuko?” you wondered. 

He blushed, nodding. 

“Oh spirits, I'm sorry I didn't bow!” you exclaimed, dropping into a low curtsy. The gesture was mixed with equal parts mirth and genuine respect; Zuko was unsure how to respond, his heart flickering as he watched you. 

“I heard you were living somewhere in the city,” you continued after making your own introduction, setting an easel in front of each chair he positioned. “Not into the whole royalty thing?” 

Zuko shrugged. He focused on his work, too nervous to look you in the eye. 

“Just weird going back there,” he told you. “I don't really want taxpayer money going to making sure I live above my means.” 

You leaned against the last chair he set down, smiling warmly at him. 

“That's very respectable,” you responded. “Thank you. Y’know, as someone who pays taxes.” 

Zuko chuckled softly as you handed him a bin of art supplies, instructing him to set one of each item at every station. He did as he was told, stealing glances at you whenever he was sure you weren’t looking. 

“So, uh… do you own this place?” he asked, fumbling over his words. 

“Oh, no, this is my professor’s shop,” you replied. “I just work here part time.” 

“You’re a student?” 

You shook your head. 

“Nope. Graduated last year. I work days at the history museum downtown. I also give art history classes here, and help out with the ones Professor Cong teaches.” 

“Oh.” 

Zuko paused, unsure of what else to say. 

“... They teach a different type of history just for art?” he asked after a moment. 

You laughed, covering your mouth to muffle the sound and apologizing, giving him a little nod as you collected yourself. 

“Yes. Some people even get whole degrees in it,” you giggled. “Not that it’s a useful field to learn anything about.” 

Zuko shrugged, trying to shake off the embarrassment of sounding stupid in front of such a cute girl; little did he know, you found the question beyond endearing. 

“It sounds important,” he contested. “I’ve been meeting historians from all over the world to correct all the propaganda from the past hundred years. It never occurred to me that I would need different historians for art.” 

You smiled at him, meeting him where he stood and handing him one of the sketch pads from your bin. His cheeks pinkened, his eyes darting away from yours as he took it and mumbled a “thank you”. 

“I like you, Firelord Zuko,” you decided aloud. “My classes are on Wednesdays. You can come if you want - free of charge.” 

Zuko nodded, swallowing heavily as he met your gaze once again. 

“Thank you,” he replied. “I appreciate it.” 

You laughed a little bit, taking his now empty bin and returning both to their place on a nearby shelf. The shop’s bell rang from beyond the threshold and you went back to the front counter, telling Zuko to take a spot wherever he liked. He sat in the front row; wherever he thought he could be closest to you. 

For the next five weeks, Zuko attended not only his studio art class, but your art history class, showing up early to each lesson so he could spend time alone with you. Despite the fact that you invited him to sit in, he paid the fee for the second course, not wanting you to go without the extra pay for your work - he found a doodle of a turtle duck on his seat the next time he showed up, the fuzzy little penciled duckling telling him he was a terrible listener, but thanking him anyway (with a heart scribbled in beside the words). 

With your guidance, Zuko learned that there was much more to art than just vibrant colors and pretty decoration. Everything in art, it turned out, had significance, each piece and work holding insight into the people and cultures who created it; you spoke passionately about the art of the Egyptians, who used specific shapes and colors in their imagery to tell stories beyond the written word, about the mysteries of prehistoric structures that revealed how early humanity was much more sophisticated and interconnected than considered at a glance, about the symbols that translated and influenced across centuries to shape how each nation, each culture, portrayed themselves into the modern world. He found himself hanging on every word, falling even more deeply enamored with you with each moment he spent with you. 

It didn’t take you long - what with the easy, pleasant conversations you shared before classes - to discover that Zuko lived relatively close to you, only two stops away on the local metro. Knowing this, you often saw each other on the days you weren't at the shop, meeting at the station between each of your respective neighborhoods and having coffee or dinner in one of its many cafes, talking about anything and everything and managing to pass several hours together in what seemed like the blink of an eye. You loved being with Zuko, finding the more you did it, the less you wanted your rendezvous to end; you thought about him all the time, getting all kinds of giddy whenever he crossed your mind. 

On one of your extracurricular excursions, you and Zuko wandered around the local high street, marveling at the different streetside vendors and dreamily window shopping behind the glass of the upscale boutiques, doing little more than enjoying each other’s company. It was a hot day, and along your way, Zuko stopped at a coffee stand to get you each something cold to drink. 

A pretty young woman in line in front of you eyed you up and down, her gaze flicking from between you and Zuko with disgust. She jabbed her slim, graceful elbow into her equally as flawless friend’s side, whispering something in the other woman’s ear as they both glared at you, sniggering cruelly behind flat stomachs and angular, willowy frames. 

You sneered at them, making a point of hooking your arm within Zuko’s and pressing your much wider hip against his, the poison of the encounter sinking into your skin and infecting your thoughts. Zuko noticed your change in demeanor immediately, steering you away from the scene as soon as your drinks were served. 

“You okay?” he asked, still holding tight to your arm. 

“Fine,” you quipped, biting back tears. “Just a couple of pretty bitches proving how fucking hideous they are on the inside.” 

“Wait, seriously?” 

Zuko halted, pulling you to the side of the street and out of the way of traffic. He lay a hand on your shoulder, the firm, able grasp of his palm somehow making you feel even worse. 

“Someone would really make fun of you?” he wondered, outraged and incredulous. “Why?” 

You shook your head, smiling defeatedly as your lower lip quivered. 

“People have made fun of me since I was a kid, Zu,” you told him, speaking as if he should’ve just assumed it. “I’m fat. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” 

“So?” Zuko replied. You were so shocked, you physically leaned away from him, raising your eyebrows. “Yeah, you’re fat. That doesn’t mean you’re not pretty. I… I think you’re really pretty. Gorgeous, even. You’re beautiful.” 

You blinked at him, taken aback. He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his eyes never once leaving yours. 

“... Did I break you?” he tried after a moment, sounding concerned that it was a genuine possibility. 

You laughed, shaking your head in feverish disbelief, attempting to clear the confusion that fogged your battered brain. 

“No, I just… Nobody’s ever called me pretty and fat before.” 

Zuko shrugged. 

“Both are true,” he told you. “I like your body. You look like one of those Greek sculptures. Of the goddesses.” 

You stared at him, searching his eyes for any sign of dishonesty or patronization; all you found looking back at you was the clumsily genuine man you were quickly falling in love with. 

“... Have I ever told you about Aphrodite Kallipygos?” you asked. 

Zuko shook his head, as confused as you had been a few seconds ago. 

“She’s a statue of Venus,” you explained. “She’s got her dress raised up over her backside, and when they found her originally, she didn’t have her head; the guy who restored her sculpted it so that she was looking back at herself, admiring her body. There’s even a whole folktale about a pair of brothers who fell in love with two women because they had, like, beautifully fat asses and the town built a temple dedicated to Venus and her butt. The name literally translates to ‘Aphrodite of the Beautiful Buttocks’.” 

Zuko chuckled, raising the hand at your shoulder to cup your cheek. 

“See?” he said. “Men have worshiped thick, juicy butts since the dawn of time!” 

You laughed, your cheeks turning bright red as you buried your face in your hands, leaning forward to rest your forehead on his chest and further hide yourself. 

“Zuko, oh my god,” you breathed. “Promise me you’ll never say that out loud in a public setting ever again, please. You’re the fucking Firelord for Tui’s sake.” 

Zuko chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and hugging you tightly. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, still grinning. “Made you feel better, though.” 

You pulled away from him, affectionately punching him in the shoulder. He laughed, gasping at you in mock reproach before pressing a finger into your side, shocking you with a burst of static electricity; you cackled as you jumped away, sticking your tongue out at him. 

Zuko felt a rush of lightheadedness as he watched you, savoring the sound of your laugh and the radiance of your smile. It was then he realized he was in love with you. 

The next studio art class focused on model drawing - more specifically, a nude model. Zuko, having been raised in what was arguably the most reserved family in the world, was nervous about the idea of having to sit in front of a stranger for an hour, not only staring at their naked body, but immortalizing it in graphite on a page. 

He was mortified when he arrived at the class and found you sitting in the corner, wrapped in nothing but a silk dressing gown. 

As you climbed the platform you were meant to model on, your limbs rattled. You began to question your sanity, wondering what you thought you were doing offering to pose for the class, what kind of statement you thought it would make. You faced enough judgement from others about your weight with your clothes on - what the hell did you think they would do when you stood before them completely naked, every bump and crevice on full display for them to gawk at and criticize?

You glanced to the side at Professor Cong, seeking some sort of assurance or comfort from him; he, being the seasoned professional in his mid-sixties that he was, sat reclined in a chair in his Hawaiian shirt and flip flops, scrolling totally undisturbed through Pinterest on his phone. Honestly, you expected no less - his obtuse reactions in the face of the awkward and uncomfortable were basically a superpower. 

Taking a deep breath, you untied the knot holding your dressing gown together and let it fall, slipping gracefully from your shoulders and to the floor. You assumed a comfortable, classic pose, purposely facing yourself away from the man whose eyes you could feel searing into your back. 

Zuko’s breath hitched as he watched you undress. Though he only saw the full of your body for a moment, he was captivated. The swell of your breasts and curve of your stomach sent him into a dizzy spell, his mouth going dry and his skin heating with a noticeable flush. The rolls of your back, the ripples and divots along your thighs and rump, the stripes etched into your skin like the veins through a granite block, he drank in every part of you, moulding every detail with a focused hand as he sketched. He made note every scar and beauty mark. Once or twice, his mind drifted towards the salacious, imagining how your body would feel beneath his, soft and supple, releasing exalted breaths and enraptured moans, your nails dragging down his back as he drove you closer and closer to infinity… 

He inhaled sharply, snapping himself back to his work. You were Venus, Minerva, Diana - a goddess among men. He would gladly spend the rest of his life worshiping you. 

The moment the class ended, you gathered your dressing gown and made a beeline for the employee bathroom, getting back into your clothes as quickly as you could physically manage. The experience of nude modeling wasn’t nearly as harrowing as you expected it to be; you actually found it kind of freeing, being able to show yourself to a room full of other people and come out of it unscathed, in fact feeling quite beautiful - what had you nervous was the fact that you’d have to face Zuko immediately after the fact, seeing as you took the train home together after classes. His was the only opinion you cared about, and you wanted nothing more than to convince yourself that he hadn’t judged you as harshly as the self-hatred brainwashed into you made you believe. 

When you emerged from the bathroom, Professor Cong stood in front of one of the empty easels in the back, smirking at the drawing the student had left there. 

“Your boyfriend left you his piece,” he teased. 

You blushed, glaring at him as you approached and snatched the sketch from his hands. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you tried in vain to defend yourself. 

Professor Cong just chuckled. 

“I’ll believe that when I see evidence to the contrary,” he replied. 

You looked down at the paper in your hand and felt the breath drain from your lungs, your heart and stomach soaring into your throat. 

Zuko had drawn you in the image of Venus, your body draped in gossamer fabric and your head turned over your shoulder, eyes cast downward and lips slightly parted in a blissful, ethereal expression. In the corner of the page, he’d written “Aphrodite Kallipygos” in his sweeping handsome script, beneath which was his signature and the date. You’d never once seen yourself look so beautiful, let alone in the eyes of someone you loved so fiercely. 

You swallowed hard, rolling the drawing and securing it with a hair tie from your bag before exiting the shop through the back, knowing Zuko would be in the alley waiting for you. 

“Hey,” he greeted you when you appeared through the storeroom door. “Are you okay? You looked really ner-” 

You interrupted him by throwing your arms around his neck, slamming your lips into his in a desirous kiss. It took him less than a second to recover himself from the shock of the action and curl his arms around your waist, pressing his body against yours and lifting you every so slightly off the ground, kissing you just as hard as you kissed him. When you parted, you were breathless, your cheeks fiery red and your lips swollen the color of vermilion. Zuko smiled at you, one side of his mouth curling up slightly higher than the other. 

“So you liked it?” he asked. 

You laughed, nodding. 

“Zuko, I loved it,” you gasped. “I love you. I think I loved you as soon as I met you but that sort of thing is really cliche and stupid to admit.” 

Zuko chuckled, raising his hand to your cheek and kissing you again, his lips soft and tender this time around. You sighed happily into his mouth, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the feeling of his body sharing the same space as yours. 

“I think I loved you the moment I met you, too,” Zuko confessed, his nose grazing against yours as he pulled away. “But you’re right. That sort of thing is really stupid and cliche.” 

You giggled, tugging gently on the collar of his jacket. 

“Come on,” you prompted him. “Let’s go back to my apartment. You’ve already seen me naked; we need to make it even.” 

Zuko laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you out of the alley, his side pressed firmly against yours. 

“Fair,” he agreed. “But if you want me to pose for any art, you’ll have to sign some paperwork. I’m still Firelord, you know.” 

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[thehopeofitalll]

2. enchanted.

THEY MEET! THEY MEET! anyways...just a suggestion, but you should probably listen to taylor swift's "enchanted" because, well it's an amazing song, what more can i say?

read it on ao3.

~

“Look who’s here!” Thalia said, grinning. “My…” She drummed her fingers against the table, making up for an imaginary drum roll, as a figure walked towards Annabeth, Jason and Thalia.

“...girlfriend!” Thalia finished, a rare smile on her face that she always showed to her aforementioned girlfriend.

“Reyna!” Annabeth exclaimed, smiling as she stood up to hug her friend. “You’re back? I thought you said it’d take you a few more months!”

“As you know,” Reyna began in a horrible imitation of a British accent, struggling to hold back her grin. “I am very well versed in the art of lying.”

“One of the truest things you’ve said in, like, your entire life I think,” Thalia added, getting a playful punch from her girlfriend.

“Still know how to be a badass, Chase?” Reyna asked, raising an eyebrow.

Annabeth smirked. “You should have figured that being a badass has been in my blood since I was born,” She replied.

“Maybe I could race you,” pondered Reyna. “It’d be fun to see you lose.”

“Hey! That’s not fair,” Annabeth muttered, folding her arms. “You’ve literally got a sports scholarship based on your running, and I bet you’ve practiced a lot all the way back in Berkeley.”

Reyna shrugged. “Yeah, you'd lose either way. So, it’s been a few years since we’ve seen each other and things have certainly changed. Someone’s got a little famous.”

“All because of her wonderful manager,” Thalia said, proudly.

“Oh shush,” Annabeth said, folding her arms. “Also, Thalia, about the whole getting-away-from-the-world-for-a-few-hours thing, I’m planning on sneaking away to Coney Island.”

“Coney Island?”

“Hey, I’ve wanted to go see it for a long time now, and this might be the perfect opportunity,” Annabeth reasoned.

“But so many people there could see you!” Thalia argued. “Like, thousands! It isn’t exactly the most secluded place for someone who wants to be anonymous and all that shit.”

“Relax, you know how good I am at disguising myself. I promise not to let the paparazzi get a hold of me. Okay?” Annabeth asked.

Thalia hesitated, then sighed. “Well…” she began. “Okay, fine. But you better be careful, young lady.”

“Yes, mom,” Annabeth said, rolling her eyes in Classic Annabeth Style, her voice dry with irony.

Usually it was Annabeth who was called “The Mom Friend” of the group (though she preferred to be the one who always advises her friends to not do the dumb shit they eventually end up doing. It wasn’t her fault she was the only one who had common sense).

“So?” Annabeth asked. “What’s the schedule for today?”

“Well, I’ve managed to give you around roughly two to three hours of free time, but besides that we’ve got the usual shooting. Thankfully, I think you have only a few scenes today, and I’m guessing the other stars are shooting most of their scenes today,” Thalia said, whipping out her clipboard.

“Fun.”

—🎡—

“Late to work again, Perry Johansson?” Mr. D exclaimed, with a groan.

“Sorry, Mr. D!” Percy said, sheepishly. He’d thought it was a Sunday morning, pressed the snooze button on his alarm five times and was late to the cafe for work. “Won’t happen again!”

“That’s what you told a week back!”

“Rough morning, huh?” Percy’s best friend, Piper McLean, asked, her eyes surveying his more-dishevelled-than-usual hair.

“That would be an understatement,” Percy replied, groaning.

“Nightmares?” Piper asked.

He nodded, as she gave him a sympathetic look.

It was common knowledge to all of his friends that he had nightmares, caused by his abusive past. Sometimes he woke up, sweating, his throat sore after yelling in his sleep. When he stayed with his mom, and his stepdad, she would usually rush into the room as soon as the screaming began. But once he moved out, he learnt to calm himself down. It didn’t help though, he found himself having panic attacks while thrashing around in his bed.

“And, hm, let me guess,” Piper began, feigning to be in deep thought. “You stayed up all night painting?”

He rolled his eyes, confirming that she was correct. “The nightmares were getting too much for me,” he mumbled.

Piper nodded, staying silent. She, and all of his friends, knew about his past. It wasn’t exactly easy to hide the long scar that ran down your back, when you were the captain of your swim team back at school.

“Well,” he said, drawing out the l. “How are things with Jason? Didn’t you tell me that you started dating?”

“Yeah…” Piper smiled. “He’s amazing, Percy. He cares a lot about me. I think he’s...perfect.”

He grinned. “Well, years of screaming at both of you to date each other finally paid off,” he said.

“Yes, Jackson, I truly appreciate it,” Piper said sarcastically. She turned around to greet the customer who had just come in, with a perfect smile on her face. “Hello and welcome to Olympus!”

Percy pulled out his phone, scrolling through his nearly non-existent proof of his social life, not really paying attention. He eyed a few messages from his cousin, Thalia Grace, planning to reply to it later, when a single word caught his eyes:

Annabeth.

Wait, what about Annabeth? he typed back hurriedly, fixing the typos that came along the way.

She replied almost immediately.

Knew that would catch your eyes, Kelp Head. - Pinecone Face

He let out a soft huff, but grinning affectionately nevertheless. He could literally hear the smirk in her message.

We’ve talked about this, Thalia. But what did she say?

Don’t worry, she didn’t say anything. I just mentioned her while reminding you about how dad wants you to come to dinner. And I know you well enough to figure out that you’d never check a message the first time you see it, unless it mentioned someone like, you know, Annabeth. - Pinecone Face.

You’re an asshole, Thals.

I know right! It’s one of the many things I’m good at, thinking of adding it to my resume~ - Pinecone Face.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His eyes were trained on his phone as Thalia continued to be typing something more.

Don’t forget about the dinner! Dad specifically requested that you and Nico must be there, or something. - Pinecone Face.

He was going to type back a quick yeah, okay and head back to the front, where Piper was greeting customers, when another message from Thalia popped up.

Hey, if you’re lucky, we might even run into Annabeth ;) - Pinecone Face

Not the winky face, he replied, unable to stop the grin from coming on his face.

—🎡—

There I was again tonight forcing laughter, faking smiles Same old tired, lonely place Walls of insincerity Shifting eyes and vacancy vanished when I saw your face All I can say is it was enchanting to meet you. —🎡—

Percy yelled, “I’m leaving as soon as I finish three more orders, you hear me?”

“I hear you, alright!” Piper yelled back, as she picked up her phone and walked towards him.

“I honestly wonder why I’m such a good friend,” Percy said, leaning against the counter. “Why am I always the one who covers the last 15 minutes of his friend’s shift?”

“Because you love me, and think I’m the most amazing person to ever walk on earth,” Piper replied, grinning proudly, as she flicked her dark brown hair over her shoulder.

“Of course I do,” Percy said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, go meet Mr. Loverboy.”

“And you?” Piper asked. “What are you gonna be doing this evening?”

“Visiting the Ferris wheel in Coney Island,” Percy replied.

“Again?” Piper asked. “You were there, like, three weeks back. You need to get a social life, Perce.”

“Mm, I was just planning on spending my life with blue cookies,” he said. “And, it isn’t a waste of time. I learn more about landscapes and silhouettes, you know.”

“Ah yes, painting stuff,” Piper summed up. “Honestly, I don’t understand you at times, and we’ve been friends for so long.”

“I’m an artiste, Pipes,” Percy replied, grinning, with a terrible French accent on the artiste.

“Mhm, sure,” Piper mumbled. “Okay, don’t mess up the rest of the orders. I’ll see you soon.”

As Piper made her way out of the shop, Percy sighed. While he lazily waited for someone new to come in, he found himself bored, again.

He could blame his restlessness on his ADHD but in reality he never wanted to work here, he just needed some money while he struggled with becoming a popular artist, and he had to work here until the aquarium nearby finally accepted his resume. Then he’d be out of here.

He was tired. Tired of faking smiles, tired of seeing people bustling around in here, tired of vacant spaces. He couldn’t wait to leave this place behind him.

While he ruminated about this, another customer walked in, wearing a dark blue hoodie, with the hood pulled all the way down to their nose.

Percy stifled a groan and took his place at the counter. “Hey, welcome to Olympus Cafe. What would you like today?”

“One Chocolate Creme Frappuccino, please,” came the woman’s voice. He nodded, slightly pleased that he wasn’t the only one in the world who liked that drink off their menu.

He went inside to prepare her drink. When he came back, she was resting her head on her palm. “Name?” he asked.

“Oh? Uh, Annabe-Annabel,” she replied, stuttering a little bit.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question her. Writing Annabel on the cup, he pushed a straw in her drink. “That’ll be $4.95,” he said.

She nodded, reaching to her pocket. Percy always hated this part of delivering an order: that awkward silence while the customer got out their money.

He looked at the woman before him, as she fumbled around while bringing out her wallet. He could barely see her, but she had tan skin and maybe he caught a few wisps of golden hair. A five dollar bill fell out of her wallet, floating towards the ground.

“Shit,” she muttered.

Percy tried to hide a smile at that. He didn’t know why a random woman before him mumbling profanities was amusing to him. She bent down to pick up the dollar, and when she stood up her hood had fallen. Percy looked at her, then suddenly stopped fidgeting around.

Was it…? It was.

He knew how she looked from their time in high school. Stormy grey eyes. Honey blonde hair. He definitely knew her, knew her all too well.

She quickly pushed the bill towards him, and pulled her hood back up. A faint flicker of recognition passed through those intimidating eyes, as he took the dollar.

He picked up the cup, and handed it to her. She reached out for the cup, her fingers slightly brushing against his. A little spark seemed to drive up his arm, and despite himself, he grinned goofily.

“It was enchanting to meet you,” He said, then winked at her.

She rolled her eyes in annoyance, a faint blush of red coating her cheeks nevertheless. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, her voice low.

He continued to grin as she looked up, sea green eyes meeting grey, then turned around to leave the shop. There was no mistake about it. It was her. Annabeth.

Annabeth Chase.

[thetravelerwrites]

Monster Match #22: Tikbalang

The Traveler's Masterlist

For @severedreamerbeard​: You’ve been matched with a tikbalang!

Tikbalangs, or Tigbolan, scare travelers by leading them astray and playing tricks on them, such as making them return to an arbitrary path, no matter how far they go or where they turn. A superstition popular with the Tagalogs of Rizal Province is that Tikbalangs are benevolent guardians of elemental kingdoms. They are usually found standing at the foot of large trees looking around for anyone who dares to bestow malignancy on their kingdom's territory.

It is a tall, bony humanoid creature with the head and hooves of a horse and disproportionately long limbs, to the point that its knees reach above its head when it squats down.

In some versions, the tikbalang can also transform itself into human form or turn invisible to humans and they like to lead travelers astray. Tikbalang is generally associated with dark, sparsely populated, foliage-overgrown areas, with legends variously identifying their abode as being beneath bridges, in bamboo clumps or banana groves, and atop Kalumpang (Sterculia foetida) or Balite (Ficus indica) trees.

You met Bayani in your art class on your very first day. He had immigrated from the Philippines to attend college a year before you started school, and due to his unusual appearance, had trouble making friends. You hadn’t seen anyone like him before, and where that made some people uncomfortable, it fascinated you. He was such a sweet person that you couldn’t help befriending him.

It took him some time to open up to you, but once he did, you realized how homesick he was. His kind typically lived in the same grove they were born in for their entire lives. Moving away was highly unlikely, but to actually integrate into society was practically unheard of. As far as you knew, he was the first of his kind to attend college. Anywhere. In history.

The only reason he wasn’t in the news was because he had specifically requested not to be. In fact, his advocates had filed injunctions to prevent the media from reporting on it. He didn’t want attention for doing what millions of people did all the time.

His sweetness made you friends, but it was the shy humility and talent that attracted you to him. He didn’t think much of himself, often having heard the awful things people said about him, and you wanted him to think of himself the way you did: unique and intelligent and kind. You were nervous about speaking your attraction to him. He was new to society and you weren’t sure of his preferences, or if he was even looking for any sort of romance.

“What is it like? Your home?” You asked him once during class. The two of you were sitting a little bit away from everyone else to give his long legs enough room without kicking someone else’s chair or easel.

“It is beautiful,” He told you, starting to sketch on a fresh page. “I lived deep in the jungle on the island of Luzon, near a steam that branched from the Magat River. It was lush and green. It never grew cold there, and there were many birds. My whole family had lived there for hundreds of years undetected before we learned of the Mass Integration. I miss it.”

“Why did you leave?”  

“We had only heard that non-human creatures had joined humanity a few years ago, but we were still nervous to reveal ourselves. I was the first to decide to leave and see what the world was like. When my time in college is over, I plan to travel for a few years, then return with what I’ve learned. The rest of my clan will then decide if they wish to leave or stay.”

“Will you stay home after that?” You asked him.

“I don’t know yet,” He admitted. Looking over, you saw him drawing the thick underbrush of a forest. “I suppose I will decide when the time comes.”

“What’s been the hardest thing? Was it difficult to get into college?” You asked him.

“No, actually, passing the test was relatively easy after I took that year of tutoring. And the scholarship I received has made it rather easy.” He stopped sketching and sighed, looking out of the window. “I… I suppose I… did not realize how… small… people can be. How petty. How… superficial? Is that the word?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking that’s right,” You replied.

He sighed. “I thought, because non-humans felt safe enough to reveal themselves, that it would be… less…” He sighed again sharply. “I can’t think of the words.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” You said. “Humans have a long history of not getting along with each other, so it’s unfortunately not surprising that they aren’t exactly nice to other species of people.”

“I can’t understand that,” He said with a grimace.

“Honestly, I can’t either,” You replied sadly. “Are you drawing home?”

“Yes,” He said, his mood brightening. “See? I can’t get the shape of the houses right, though.”

“Oh,” You said, scooting closer. “What kind of houses are they?”

“Small structures, usually one room, nothing grand. Most had open sides with only one or two complete walls, built up off the ground in case of flooding. Since it gets very hot, it was better to have open homes where the breezes could blow through, and we didn’t mind the rain.”

“Like this?” You asked as you sketched.

“Sloped roofs,” He said. “And they’re all pointed toward the river, so that the runoff drains that way. Yes, just like that.”

After sketching for a few more minutes, you took your paper and laid it over Bayani’s sketch, merging the two perfectly.

“Ha,” Bayani said softly. “There it is. Home.”

“I’d like to see it one day,” You said.

“Perhaps you will,” He replied.

“Isn’t it closed to outsiders?”

“Ordinarily,” He said. “But we make exceptions for friends.”

You smiled. “Are you going to enter the art competition they had on the notice board?” You asked him after a moment. “First prize is ten thousand dollars. You could go traveling on summer break, like you want to. Get a head start on seeing the world.”

“I don’t know,” He said. “I don’t think I’m good enough yet to enter. What about you? You’re a wonderful artist.”

“Thanks,” You said. “But I’m not exactly amazing either.”

“You’re incredibly talented!” Bayani replied, earning a shushing from the professor. He ducked his head and spoke in a lower whisper. “You’ve got to win.”

“I’ll enter the contest if you will,” You told him.

“But I don’t even know what to do for the contest,” Bayani said, their face scrunched. “The theme is comfort. I’m not exactly comfortable right now.”

“I know,” You replied. “But there are things that comfort you. Your home does. Do that.”

“Meh, that’s predictable. I’d have to do something original to win.”

“Hmm, that’s true.”

“You enter and I’ll cheer you on,” Bayani said, smiling. “Competition isn’t natural to my people, so I’m still trying to understand it.”

“That’s why you should enter!” You insisted. “You have such a unique style, it’s sure to win.”

“Well, if you’re doing it, then I will, too. If only to challenge myself.”

“That’s the spirit,” You said as the professor called for the end of class. You began packing up your things and getting ready to leave. Bayani always let everyone leave first, and you always waited for him.

“I do find you a comfort,” Bayani said. “You remind me of a friend I had back home. We were always together. Until he found a mate, that is.”

“And you?” You asked, attempting to be nonchalant. “No interest in a mate?”

“Mm,” He replied noncommittally. “Not really. It’s hard to be interested in people I’ve known my whole life. There’s nothing new to learn about them. I feel like discovering new things about your partner is half the fun of loving them.”

“But what about when you’ve learned all there is to know about a person? Do you stop loving them?”

“Not necessarily,” He said, contemplative. “When you learn all there is to know about someone, then you change the situation and learn new things. I like to learn, and there’s no end to learning, now that the world is bigger than I first thought. And now that I can see the world and all the people in it, I can find someone who understands. Does that make sense?”

You laughed a little. “Honestly, that makes perfect sense.”

“What do you find comforting?” He asked. “In terms of the contest?”

“It differs on how I feel at the time,” You said. “If I’m scared, I like being hugged. If I’m sad, I like hugs. If I’m lonely… Oh. Well, I guess I’m not as complicated as I thought.”

He laughed. “How do you convey that through art?”

“I have no idea,” You said, laughing too. “I suppose I’ll figure it out.”

“What will you do with the money if you win?”

“Dunno,” You said. “Maybe start paying off my student loans.”

“Money is another thing that is odd to me,” He said, his face scrunching again like it did whenever he encountered a notion that was foreign to him. “At home, if you needed something, it was given to you. Debt is not a concept we believe in.”

“I wish it was like that everywhere.” You replied wistfully.

Outside of the Arts building, he bid you farewell. “I should hurry. The bus will be here soon and I don’t want to be late getting home. Today is my host sister’s birthday, and they’ve invited me to her birthday dinner.”

“Oh, have fun!” You said, waving. “Tell them I said hi!”

He waved back and began to jog toward the bus stop.

You walked back to your car, fumbling for your keys, lost in thought. Comfort was such an amorphous thing. Everyone had a different idea of what was comforting to them, but they often overlapped. Music, physical touch, objects, food. Different things, similar themes. How would you find a way to convey what comforted you the most?

You thought back on Bayani describing his home, the soft look of fondness he had when he was drawing it. His expression was familiar, if distant. Maybe it wasn’t your comfort you should focus on. Bayani was homesick, that much was obvious. What could you do to help?

At home in your apartment, trying to work with your roommate singing drunkenly along with the TV, you stared at an empty page. You’d been sitting there for an hour trying to draw something, but nothing was coming to you. Banging your head against the desk hadn’t helped, though it did cause your roommate to rush in with a half-empty vodka bottle, convinced someone was trying to break in. After taking the bottle awawy from him and putting him to bed, you sat back down at your desk and sighed, the blank paper mocking you with its… blankness. Fuck you, paper.

Start simple, you told yourself. A tree. Draw a tree.

You began to draw, and progress was stilted at first, but after a while, you tuned out sound and focused on your work. Time blurred and passed as if you were asleep, and before you knew it, the sun was rising.

Well, you were going to be useless today.

Looking back down, you were a little surprised to see Bayani on the page, sitting on the porch of one of those open-faced houses of his home. He was crouched over paper, drawing an undefined sketch. His face was relaxed, his posture at ease. His legs dangled over the side of the raised platform, and even as long as his legs were, they didn’t touch the ground. There were no stairs, but you imagined his people had no trouble getting up and down. Surrounding him was the forest of his home as he had described it to you, with the tall trees and flowers and birds nesting in the branches. There were younger Tikbalangs playing in the background, the younger siblings he spoke of so often.

“So this is what comfort looks like,” You said softly. “I think I get it now.”

It took a week before you were satisfied with the result, but you entered it without telling Bayani. You weren’t sure how he would feel about you using him as the subject of your submission, and it wasn’t likely that you’d win anyway, so he would probably never see it.

Two months later, you got a letter in the mail from the contest and put it away in your backpack, not thinking anything about it. When you got to school, however, it fell out of your pack and Bayani picked it up.

“What’s this?” He asked.

“Oh, I think it’s something from the art competition.”

“You entered?” He said. “That’s great, you didn’t tell me!”

“I figured I wouldn’t win, so there was no point.”

“It’s unopened. Didn’t you even look?”

“Nah,” You said. “It’s probably just thanking me for my participation or something.”

“Can I open it?”

“Feel free.”

As you were getting your stuff set up to start class, you heard Bayani open the letter and a pause, then a gasp.

“You… won.”

“What?”

“You won!” He offered you the letter. “Look!”

“You’re shitting me,” You said, taking the letter and reading it. There, at the top in big bold letters, was Congratulations! “Well, fuck me.”

“What did you submit?”

“Oh…” You cleared your throat. “There’s a copy here.” You handed it to him.

He looked at it, and was silent for several minutes. You watched him apprehensively, the din of the class fading from your ears and it seemed as if you were the only two in the room.

“This is me,” He said quietly.

“I hope you don’t find this offensive,” You said anxiously. “I just remembered everything you told me about your home and it sounded amazing. I didn’t even realize what I was drawing until I was finished.”

“It’s beautiful,” He said.

“Oh…” You replied. “Thank you.”

He looked at you with a sweet smile. “It’s no wonder you won. I knew you could.”

You smiled back. “Thanks. I was thinking… maybe I could use the money and take us on a trip to your home. I know how homesick you are.”

He shook his head. “You should spend the money on what you want, not on what I want,” He replied.

“That is what I want,” You said. “Although… if I’m honest, there is one other thing I’d like to do.”

“What’s that?” He asked.

“Take you on a date?” You said hopefully.

The smile widened. “A new experience. Will I get to learn more about you?”

“I’m hoping you’ll learn everything about me, but I also hope you won’t get bored.”

He reached across and took your hand. “I don’t think that’s possible. In fact, I think we’ll be learning about each other for quite a long time. I look forward to all of it.”

You squeezed his hand in returned. “So do I.”

To get your own Monster Match, buy me a Kofi!

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience! To help me continue creating, please consider becoming a Patron or donating directly to my PayPal.

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 19 - “Just Friends”

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

NOTE: I am going on a break, I’m going to take some time off this story and relax. 

Rating: General/Teen

@marydragneell​ here is the latest update

"Just Friends"

…

…

[From: Jace

Text message

Wed, 14, 4.57PM.

Hey chuck!!! How r u? Wanna meet up tomorrow? let me know if you're free! there's someone I want you to meet :)]

…

…

You’re slowly getting the hang of waking up in the morning and Jace has asked you to meet him today but prior to that, you have a window of opportunity to visit your mentor for a good hour or so.

The Corviknight taxi deposits you at the gates of Greyon's Cemetery; it is far more comforting to the eyes during the day, with the lack of ghost pokemon lurking within and the steely, heavy mist that swamps the entire the vicinity during late night hours.

Without further ado, you push the gates open and stroll inside, leisurely venturing down the twisted, stony path that leads to the mausoleum, glancing at the faded gravestones sticking out of the cold ground and the decorative sculptures with the overgrown moss and faded writing until you spot your mentor sleeping on the steps, clutching an empty can of beer to his chest whilst Absol curls up by his feet.

“Ezra?” you say aloud, and the old man responds with a snort and rubs at his nose briefly with his fingerless gloves before he sluggishly opens his eyes.

His gaze does not concentrate on anything in particular, even when you hop over and seat yourself on the stone steps by his side.

Emitting a low groan, Ezra sits up, cracks a few bones in his neck and shoulders at the same time and yawns loudly.

“Hnrgh…you’re here,” he grumbles raspily under his breath as he tosses the beer can away.

“Yeah," you reply, and Absol wakes up too, stretching on her front paws. She joins her master to sit upright on the steps and licks at her paw.

“What’re you doing here so early? It’s morning.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Hn. Trying to integrate back into society, are you?”

“I guess… actually, I’m not gonna work on any cases for the time being so there’s no need for me to keep going out at night. And I’m meeting Jace later.”

“I see. Good for you, kid.”

“Have you been eating well?”

Ezra gestures to his pile of booze that has been messily laid in front of a gravestone near the fountain and nods. Flicking his empty gaze to you, he assesses you quietly, rubbing his chin with one hand.

“Somethin’ about you seems different,” he says with a grunt, his white eyes sweeping over your form.

“What is it??”

He narrows his eyes and Ezra breezily pinpoints the shimmering bright light that surrounds your silhouette, convulsing and coiling and emitting from your very core. You’ve always had it but it seems stronger.

“It’s so bright. I’ve never seen anything like it before. What happened to you when you were at Rose’s art gallery?”

You’ve informed him previously that you were taking Rose’s case and so you tell him everything and gesture to your bandaged arm and he listens, occasionally nodding and taking swigs of a new can of beer and harrumphing at random times until you finish.

And when he hears that you expelled an evil spirit out of your body, he nods to himself. “Well done."

“Thank Ezra, but Leon helped me. If it wasn’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it.”

“But you did, and that’s very impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who has the ability to do that.”

You look at him in confusion, tilting your head to the side and he chuckles.

“You know what I’m talking about. Hell, maybe you’ll start seeing them in broad daylight like I do. From now on, be on your guard at all times. You need to proceed with caution; you might be able to see an’ hear more of ‘em often than you want.”

“...Is this what Rosie had too?”

He nods.

“And that’s why spirits were always attracted to her, why she was so vulnerable?”

A brief nod is your answer.

If only you had met Ezra earlier. He’s the only one who truly understands you and the pain and agony you’ve suffered. And if you had met him earlier, you could’ve brought Rosie to see him, he would’ve known what to do. He could’ve saved her.

He could’ve saved them all and-

Ezra slides a gnarled hand into the holey pockets of his duster and pulls out a folded talisman, nudging it to you. “Keep this on you at all times. It will protect you.”

“Thanks,” you utter as you pocket the talisman safely into your bag, “Ezra, do you think I should start looking for Dusknoir now?”

“Heh. You don’t need to ask me. You know what to do, and you know it’s nothing to do with the pokemon,” he says, before he fumbles his pockets for a cigarette and lights it up. Sucking a deep drag, he exhales with a heavy sigh, filling the atmosphere with a crisp and acrid stench, “I won’t sugarcoat it for you… It’ll come for you one day but when that day comes, I know you’ll be ready.”

You say quietly, “Hey...Ezra?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

He emits a soft hum under his breath. “…’welcome.”

“And uh, Spiritomb escaped too.”

He doesn’t appear surprised and waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, I know. It’s fine, leave ‘im to me. I’ll take care of the bloody swirly bastard.”

As you nod, Ezra inhales another deep drag briefly before he splutters, hacking and heaving violently before a thin stream of red pools out from the corner of his cracked lips.

“Ah, fuck.”

Turning to the side, he spits some of the gunk out and wipes his chin whilst Absol begins purring loudly with concern.

“I’m fine,” he croaks out, coughing.

“No, you’re not. You need to go to hospital.”

When he’s finished coughing, he soaks up the rest of the cigarette and utters, “I’m going soon. Take a look at this.”

You are presented with a folded letter, you unfurl the paper to reveal an insignia of a hospital stamped at the top; you scan the remainder of the letter where there are several prevalent words along with some Braille.  

“Lung carcinoma??” you exclaim, eyes wide. "Cancer...?"

"Yeah."

Shaking your head in disbelief, you grow limp in your seat as you clutch the letter meekly in hands. It’s taunting you.

Everything is.

…

Ezra is dying.

He’s old and he’s aware he smokes and drinks like a degenerate.

It’s inevitable.

Laden with heavy thoughts, you arrive at Jace’s apartment in a dour mood; everything seems so insignificant as of now. Life is too short after all. You want to spend some more time with your mentor but he encouraged you to go and see your friend. So here you are.

And you certainly don’t reciprocate Jace’s huge grin when he opens the door after you’ve rung the doorbell.

“Chuck, you’re here!” he exclaims before he ushers you in.

He’s wearing his Ball Guy uniform, missing his mascot mask. The more you look at it, the more you just cannot get used to that red polo and shorts combo which is apparently an abomination to fashionistas.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, when he sees your darkened expression.

“N-nothing,” you say, forcing a smile.

He purses his lips but remains quiet when you reassure him once more that you’re fine. He’s not alone. There are two suitcases standing by his shoe rack and a huge Luxray snoozing on the couch. You recall he has a visitor from Sinnoh and he wants you to meet someone and so you spot this friend standing in the kitchen with his back to you and when he turns round, a pair of cerulean eyes meets yours and you grow still on the spot.

Jace is quick to get you back on the move, steering you towards his direction with hands planted on your shoulders.

“Yo Volkner, I want you to meet my friend!!!!”

When you’re finally in front of the young man, your gazes meet for a second time. The young man has blonde hair fashioned in a spiked style and you’re quite certain you have seen him before perhaps from a magazine or a website. He’s dressed in a black v-neck shirt and dark blue denims, with a light blue coat slung over one shoulder.

“Chuck, right?” he says. He has a smooth voice, deeper than Jace's. More mature.

“Noooo, that’s just my nickname for her. Her name is-”

As Jace speaks, he is drowned by the sounds of a horn blaring noisily from a truck that passes the flat.

Regardless, Volkner nods.

You look at Jace questioningly who merely grins at you and winks. For you to hear, he says, “Volkner can be a little aloof but he’s a great guy.”

Then he pats you on the shoulder and beams widely at the two of you.

“Let me fill you in. Chuck, I’m really sorry, but I need a favour from you. I asked if you were free today because my good buddy Volkner needs a grand tour of Wyndon and of course I was supposed to do it and it would've been nice if we all went together but my stupid boss just called me and demanded me to go to work right now.”

You blink sluggishly. “Oh…I’m so sorry, Jace.”

“It’s alright; Volkner understands and doesn’t mind; it would be great if you could show him around for the time being. He was the guest judge for the Beauty Pageant but he got this fancy ride to the stadium and back so he doesn't remember how to get there; you could quickly show him Wyndon Stadium, and he’s got a meeting at the Rose of the Rondelands too so if you could show him that and also the-“

“Jace,” Volkners says.

“Yeah?”

“….I can take it from here.”

“Okay, okay,” Jace nods and grabs his Ball Guy mask that was sitting on the floor, along with his bag, “Sorry chuck.”

“It’s okay, Jace. I don’t mind showing Volkner around.”

“Thanks chuck! Thank you so much!”

Flicking a quick glimpse to Volkner, you gulp inwardly when your heart appears to quicken as he levels your gaze once more.

Volkner is good-looking. Tall, blonde, handsome and lean, you cannot help but stare as he sets his mug down on the counter and offers you his hand. You slide your hand into his and as he shakes your hand, he says, “I’m Volkner. I’m the gym leader of Sunyshore City. Do you like electric type pokemon?”

Jace groans incoherently and Volkner throws him a sideways glance.

“What?” asks the gym leader.

Exasperated by his actions somehow, Jace can only shrug and shake his head whilst you reply, “I heard you constructed your gym puzzle out of sheer boredom. Is that true?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“Oh, okay. That’s cool. I’m a ghost-type researcher. Here’s my card,” you delve into your bag and procure a nice and shiny card for him to take.

“Ghost-types, huh?” he murmurs as he twirls your business card front and back with his long fingers.

“Yeah.”

“What pokemon do you have?”

“I have a Gengar, Mimikyu and a Runerigus at hand right now.”

“Your Gengar,” Volkner says, “What moves does he know?”

“Shadow Ball, Confuse Ray….Dark Pulse…and he also knows this psychic move but I actually don’t know what it is. He used it when we were in this cave and we were getting attacked by snow but somehow he stopped all the snow particles in mid-air and reversed it.”

“It was probably ‘Psychic’.”

“Yeah, it probably was.”

“Did you know Gengar can learn Thunder Punch, Thunderbolt and Thunder via TM?”

“No, I did not.”

“Do you want him to learn? It could help vary his techniques so he can face off against various opponents.”

“That’s a good point but I don’t know, I’ll have to ask him.”

“Sure, let me know. I have some spares which I can share with you.”

“That would be very nice.”

“They’re powerful moves. One can say they’re shocking.”

Despite delivering that line with a straight face, Jace, who has been listening to your conversation silently, cannot help but grimace and tiredly rolls his eyes whilst you blink for a brief moment or so before you chuckle and Volkner cracks a smile at your response.

Jace ceases his wincing and gapes at you two in bewilderment, having witnessed your entire interaction.

“Oh.... my….Arceus,” he breathes, swapping alarmed glances between you and Volkner, “I was right. Holy Mudkip! Well, you two seem to get along great! I-I need to go to work right now!”

“Okay,” you reply, “Leave Volkner with me. He’ll be in good hands.”

“Thanks, chuck! See you around!”

“Bye Jace,” you and Volkner bid your friend farewell and Jace rushes out of his apartment with his Ball Guy mask and bag under one arm, whooping loudly.

“I wonder what that was all about,” you reply, before you glance up at the blonde and he throws his glimpse to you, “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Volkner replies, gently sliding his hands into his pockets, “So Miss Tour Guide, where shall we head to first?”

Volkner’s a pretty busy guy, you recall. He has a lot to do during his time here.

“I’ll take you to Wyndon Stadium first, we’ll walk along the promenade where you can see the river and the ferris wheel. We can visit Rose Tower if you’re interested, then we'll pop by Rose of the Rondelands and we can also grab a bite to eat if you get hungry. I know a good place.”

“Lead the way,” he replies, and he recalls Luxray after a brief introduction to the gleaming eyes pokemon, then lets you leave the apartment first. You both exit Jace’s apartment and onto the main street.

With Volkner lingering by your side, you make your way to the promenade, showing him the street signs should he ever find himself in Wyndon on his lonesome.

“It’s easy to get lost here,” you say, and Leon briefly pops up in your mind.

Ah, Leon.

You hadn’t heard from him since this morning.

You wonder how he’s doing.

You want to see him.

“It’s this way, right?” Volkner says, bringing you out of your thoughts.

“Ah, yes, that’s correct.”

The streets are heavily populated today and many people stare as you stroll along. They can tell he’s not from Galar, possibly due to his hairstyle and fashion. However, he doesn’t respond to their staring and pads along you with his hands in his pockets, drinking in the scenery and the architecture.

“How did you become a ghost-type researcher?” he asks.

“My family specialises in ghost-types and I’ve always felt drawn to them.”

“If you ever visit Sinnoh, I’ll introduce you to Fantina. You would have a lot to talk about,” Volkner replies, and when he sees your clueless expression, he adds, “she’s the gym leader of Hearthome City. She uses ghost-types and she can see spirits, so I guess you can as well?”

Volkner does not beat around the bush.

Surprisingly enough, you don’t find yourself feeling too uncomfortable and so you nod, “…I can, yeah.”

You wonder what response you will elicit; maybe he’d laugh or shrug you off and tell you he doesn’t believe in ghosts.

But instead he says, “What do they look like?” and you gawk at him.

No-one has ever asked you this before.

“It depends. Sometimes they appear exactly the way they were when they died. Others appear polished and clean, looking as they did in a particular point of their life….usually when they were most happiest. They’re usually transparent….then there are evil spirits, who are so warped by evil they lose shape and form and appear as either a black mass or scrawling dark shadows.”

Now that you’re talking about ghosts again, you cannot seem to stop.

“Actually, before I came here to see you and Jace, I visited my mentor and he said I might begin to see them during broad daylight too, which is disturbing because usually entities are more active and make their presences known at night, and that’s why I’m always investigating at late hours and usually I’m not even awake during the day.”

Volkner absorbs it and you’re waiting for him to say something to you somewhere along the lines of you being a kook or whatnot but nothing of that sort happens and again, you’re astounded when you realise he has not come under the impression that you are unhinged.

“I see. That’s interesting. It must be tough for you right now to show me around at this time.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m actually on a break right now so I’m trying to come out more during the day.”

“Is that so?”

You nod. “Did Jace tell you?”

“What?”

“We just got discharged from hospital; I took a case and it ended up…well, I wouldn’t say it ended badly but me and Jace did get hurt.”

“Yes, he told me but he said he’s unharmed. Is that the reason why your arm is bandaged?”

“Yeah. I’ve got stitches.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

“Uh….”

You’re a little apprehensive but considering he’s been rather open with you, you decide to tell him about Rose’s case and the haunted art gallery.

You breeze along the promenade; there is a separate strip for cyclists who speed past you in their triathlon gear and runners jog together, chatting amiably about gym battles and the Beauty Pageant. Several passerbys walk with their Stoutlands and some ladies with prams huddle together in one corner under a lamppost whilst a poor boy up ahead is being dragged all over the place by his energetic Boltund as it dives headfirst into a group of Pidoves.

As you talk, Volkner is listening though his expression remains impassive and generally hard to read. You cannot help but think he is perhaps bored until he sees an old gentleman sitting on a bench playing an accordion.

A Mr Rime tap-dances with its cane in tune to the music whilst some people strolling by flip pennies into a hat on the ground near its feet.

A short distance away, a group of buskers stand inside a gazebo decorated with white and pink flowers, singing an old song with their instruments. Volkner observes before he heads towards the direction of the crowd.

“Wait up,” you say as you hurry after him. He walks fast.

Once you’re at the gazebo, you both find a good spot to listen; he stands stiffly beside you with his arms crossed though there’s a small smirk gracing his face. You’re not alone; there are many people standing and listening with their children and pokemon. When they finish their piece, the crowd cheer and whilst some stay, the majority disperses.

“You don’t see that often in Sinnoh.” Volkner mutters, before he tosses a coin for the buskers.

And the walk continues.

You inhale some crisp clear air and exhale contently. Wyndon is lively today and the weather is wonderful; the sky is blue and clear and the sunlight is warm but perfect, gently prickling on your skin. A flock of Wingull can be heard cawing as they soar through the air effortlessly on their elongated wings whilst a Pelipper or two eye a local fish and chip stall.

If only Leon was here, you think.

You pass an ice-cream stall which you ogle for longer than intended; you recall you haven’t had one for some time and suddenly Volkner says, “Would you like one?”

“...Sure.”

He asks you what flavour you want and when you tell him, he goes up and orders one for you but not for him. You offer to pay but he’s already handing over the amount. You thank him as the ice-cream is pressed into your hand, and he tells you to enjoy it but you feel strange.

If Leon was here, we’d both have one or we’d be sharing…

Your expression falls upon this thought.

Wyndon Stadium soon looms into view.

He hasn’t seen anything like it before and you allow Volkner a few moments to marvel the exterior during the daytime before heading inside.

You’re surrounded by images of Leon from all four corners whether it be from the electronic billboards, TV screens, posters and portraits, which makes your heart flutter and you spot the same kiosk you had purchased some Leon merchandise before except this time the line is even bigger and there’s a Leon body pillow on display as well as a life-sized Leon cardboard cut-out. Lots of girls are queuing up to take photos.

Jace is there in his Ball Guy persona, and you see his boss standing at the door so unfortunately he cannot talk to either of you but he does wave. You wave back and Volkner strolls up to the front desk where a Macro Cosmos employee greets him.

“Welcome to Wyndon Stadium! How may I help you?”

“I'm Volkner. I’m here to register for the exhibition match.”

“Oh! Mr Volkner, I should’ve known! Yes, of course. Wait right here, let me get the paperwork.”

Goddamnit, you really hate that word now. As you idle beside Volkner, you ask, “Who’s your opponent?”

“The Champion of Galar.”

You almost choke on your spit as you splutter out in disbelief, “Leon!?”

“Yeah,” Volkner replies, as the employee hands him a pen and the aforementioned papers which are collected inside a clear file which he proceeds to look over before he fills in the blanks.

The employee moves away to give him some space as he writes down his pokemon team and other useful information before he’s given a Dynamax band which he eyes a little warily.

“…..I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this but as a representative of Sinnoh, I’ll do my best," he murmurs.

“Of course.”

“Will you cheer for me?”

“HUH? Oh, uh…..um….but I don’t even have a ticket,” you babble out, but then you recall that Leon gave you a Wyndon stadium pass but before you can mention it, Volkner pulls out a flimsy sheet of paper from within the file and hands it to you.

“You do now.”

You gawk at the ticket that he’s presented. It’s a VIP ticket, reserved for the Sinnoh representative’s plus one. “Don’t waste it on me, Jace should get it-“

The employee returns and promptly talks over you. “Mr Volkner! The Champion is actually in the stadium and practising right now; I’m sure he’d love to meet you in person!”

"We've already met last night, but sure," Volkner nods in agreement and the employee lifts up the barricade, allowing entry. He passes and the Macro Cosmos guy looks at you with a brow raised. “She’s with me."

“Yes, of course, Mr Volkner. Do come in, both of you.”

You hope you don’t see Rose inside.

The Macro Cosmos employee guides you towards an elevator which takes you to a staff and contestants-only passageway that leads to a large corridor. Up ahead and you a see locker room. The corridor finishes with a large opening that reveals the spacious and grandiose pitch.

Volkner barely bats an eyelid to the ingenious architecture and once the employee guides you to the pitch, your breath closes up in your throat when you see Leon standing at one side of the gargantuan space, directing Charizard who is whirling around in the air, flapping his wings and zigzagging left to right.

The employee leads you over to the Champion who stops in mid-sentence and Charizard, with no further instructions, abruptly lands a short distance away.

Leon’s gaze lands on you and the surprise is evident on his handsome face; he prevents his jaw dropping in time and hastily glances between you and Volkner before ultimately tensing up on his spot. His fist clinches for a split second before relaxing, and he welcomes you both with a gentle smile.

“Hello Volkner.”

“Hi Leon.”

"It's nice to see you again."

"Likewise."

They shake hands as the employee leaves your group, slipping away quietly and unnoticed.

Meanwhile, Charizard appears elevated with your presence from out of the blue and bounds over, stomping on his bulky legs and huffing happily as he reaches your side and he begins to rub his snout all over the top of your head affectionately, messing up your hair.

“Hey Charizard,” you giggle with a huge smile on your face as you pet his leathery belly whilst Leon stares at you intently.

And then there’s Volkner and the Champion glances at the gym leader before his eyes flit back to you questioningly and it’s then you realise, oh crud I am with another guy what was I thinking? And Leon says, “Are you…?”

“She’s my tour guide,” Volkner replies, “You two know each other?”

It doesn’t sound like a question.

Leon nods. “We’re……...uh...” he struggles, “-friends.”

There is a brief silence.

Charizard does a double-huff, blinking wide-eyed and snorting in surprise at his best friend. Leon seems to have realised his mistake when he witnesses the happy expression on your face gradually dissolve and crumble.

“Ah, um….I mean, er…”

“Friends,” you say quickly, offering a thin and watery smile, “we’re just…friends. Um, I’ll wait for you at the elevator.”

“Sure,” says Volkner, before he adds, “We should go somewhere to eat after this.”

“Okay.”

Following your response, a look of devastation crosses Leon’s face but he is unable to say anything as you hastily make a beeline for the exit, nervously nibbling your bottom lip. Before you leave the pitch and head to the corridor however, a gorgeous young woman in a black dress and heels emerges from the elevator and breezes past you; it’s the beauty pageant winner from last night - Miss Hulbury, now affectionately crowned 'Miss Galar' by the public - and you watch as she rushes up to the pitch, stopping in front of Volkner and Leon.

You continue to observe as she greets them happily and they chat before her gaze lands on Leon and they are both smiling, laughing and chatting amicably together and you can only stare as they stand close and she keeps looking at him and suddenly your gut tightens up; you clench your fist before you turn round with a huff under your breath.

It's not like you to be jealous, but you can't seem to help it.

Beyond your control, you throw one final glance at the pitch where the Champion is; he’s talking to Miss Galar but then his gaze lands on you and you quickly look away and head for the lift.

Waiting for Volkner, you skulk around in the dark and shuffle your feet until he returns, which means Leon and Miss Galar are left alone together.

With no intent to pry into your relationship with Leon (which you are grateful for), you and Volkner make haste for the elevator but before either of you can take one step forwards, the sounds of rushing footsteps pervade the empty corridor and you both turn round to see Leon.

“Wait,” he calls your name as he stops shortly in front of you. He appears a little nervous as he adds, "can I talk to you, alone?"

Stunned, you nod mutely and he reaches for your hand, grasping it firmly with his and he leads you round an empty corner and away from Volkner.

You glance around awkwardly when he lets go of you, and he releases you rather hurriedly as though your hand was as hot as lava or whatnot, and you look up at him in confusion, your gazes meeting. He takes a step towards you and your back hits the wall as you automatically take a baby step back.

Leon's gaze is pinned on you, before he plants one hand by the side of your head and you quirk a brow at his action.

He's not caging you or anything, but he's still cut off one means of exit though you're not inclined to retreat in any way. His face is growing red as he scans you from head and toe, seemingly taken off guard by your appearance; you've put a strong effort into your looks and outfit today and it's rather obvious he's not used to seeing you during daylight hours and in nicer garb, and he clears his throat into his fist and nervously slides his gaze to the side.

"How's your head?" he asks firstly, and you unconsciously lift a hand and trace a finger over the healing wound on the side of your head.

"I'm alright."

"That's good," he says before he jumps right into it: "Are you really Volkner's tour guide?" he adds, a little sheepishly.

You nod. "He's Jace's friend. Jace asked me to meet him today, we were supposed to show Volkner around together but Jace got called into work at last minute so I'm helping out."

"Oh."

He sounds relieved and emits a sigh.

"For a moment, I really thought-" he pauses himself in time. "...Never mind. Forget it."

You resist the urge to grin because the thought of a potentially jealous Leon is rather entertaining and endearing.

"I'm sorry," he adds, flicking his honeyed eyes to you before he attempts to reach for your hand but somehow stops himself in time, choosing to curl his fist into a ball instead. "Please forgive me for what I said back there."

"Leon, it's fine," you reply, "I'm not angry. It'll take more than that to offend me."

But you think Charizard is, and you believe he could be thinking the same thing because he smiles awkwardly at you and rubs the back of his neck.

He's finally relaxing and proceeds to lower his glance to his feet but in fact, he's inching his hand closer to you as though he's hoping to hold it; you watch as he appears to mentally debate with himself before he eventually reaches for you and picks up your hand. You resist the urge to laugh out loud as Leon holds your hand gingerly before he shifts his gaze to you once more for your reaction although his gaze has become pinned onto your lips.

A reassuring smile is his answer which prompts him to grin and lean off the wall to slap his other hand over your entwined hands, casually bringing your hand against his chest. Your smile grows, cheeks growing pink and Leon's face grows ten shades redder, his pulse soaring.

He starts to lean in, your noses nudging together which makes you smile as you contemplate that Leon is attempting to kiss you yet the warmth of his lips continue to elude you as he tries to angle his face to the side in an effort to meet your lips better. The sounds of his thudding heart can be heard but what you really want right now is to feel the strong press of his mouth against yours yet he grows still.

And he doesn't move.

You say, a little expectantly, "Leon?"

"Y-yes?"

"What's the matter?"

"...Um..."

"Don't you want to k-"

Unfortunately you don't get the chance to finish because a tannoy goes off, announcing that Rose is looking for Leon and needs him to return to the pitch.

And so you sigh. He does not fail to notice your look of disappointment and he too, mirrors your expression.

"I should go," you say. Besides, this is probably not the best place to be smooching. Maybe he's thought of the same thing too and that's why he stopped.

"...Alright," he sounds reluctant and disappointed.

To your utmost astonishment, Leon does not release you just yet and instead, gives your fingers a light squeeze and leans over, his warm lips gently brush the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Meet me at Wyndon Central Gardens, near the riverbank. I finish at seven.”

Then he lets go of you and sprints away.

It happened very quickly and quietly.

Your heart beats frantically but you manage to waddle back to the foyer where Volkner is. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

“No problem. Shall we go?” Volkner asks and you nod limply.

“Y-yeah, let’s go,” is your shaky response.

The employee is waiting for you; he takes you to the main lobby and to the counter where you are let through and you’re back in the eye of the public.

However, a pair of kids rushing with lemonades and soda pops in hands bumps into you from seemingly nowhere and their cold beverages spills all over your front from the impact.

“Sorry!” the kids exclaim as you stand limply, the front of your outfit completely soaked.

“Are you alright?” Volkner asks.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I-I’m fine, it’s-“

The temperature drops. Your heartbeat spikes, your pulse begins to race. A bead of cold sweat drips down your forehead and you look up, startled.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice grows distant as he speaks, fading into a quiet echo in the background as you blink numbly.

The lobby is packed with people, yet you can sense a bizarre presence nearby….a presence that does not belong there.

Eyes narrowing, you filter through the traffic, sifting through the crowds and crowds of bustling, bumbling people until a young girl with pink hair perusing a random kiosk with a Sylveon grabs your attention.

Behind her, a dark figure skulks.

This unsightly individual hovers uncomfortably close to the oblivious girl with her head lazily bent to the right although the more you look, the more you realise her neck is in fact, broken. The spirit is donned in torn clothing and drenched in blood, with deep and long gashes that strains the fabric. The face cannot be seen, covered by long and matted hair that reaches her elbows, with a floral hairclip clinging lifelessly to a thin group of strands.

It’s her.

She doesn’t belong here.

Ezra was right.

You can now see them in broad daylight.

Aware you are looking at her, the ghostly figure twitches and slowly lifts her head up and it’s then you see the extent of her injuries. You have never seen such an atrocity before; she has been bludgeoned beyond recognition. Her eyes are watery and pained gaze meets yours and her bluish lips curl into a smile for a moment, before she vanishes.

…

[rokutouxei]

you are still the sun that shines for me

part 8 of atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theo van gogh/mc | G | 1930 | [ao3 in bio]

Life couldn’t get any better. You enjoy what you do here, spending your life without regrets with the person you love the most. That is, until you meet her. The woman who still loves Theo.

CHAPTER 5 [END]

The universe has a funny way with coincidences; so of course, when Johanna van Gogh-Bonger asks to meet up with you in Paris, she asks that the both of you meet at none other than Theo’s favorite café, the one near your favorite atelier, the one with the familiar waitress who doesn’t blink when Theo asks for a syrup-drowned set of pancakes.

And while you’d taken so long to finally tell him about it, it still felt right to extend the invitation to Theo. To offer to let him join the both of you for afternoon tea. He had hesitated for a moment, but then finally agreed to coming along.

That is, until you were right outside the café, and he suddenly says: “Go alone.”

You turn to him confused. “What?”

“I’ve seen her. There’s someone else I have to meet.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, but upon following his gaze across the street, everything clicks into place. You take in the expression he’s making, before smiling and punching him lightly on the chest.

“Make a good impression,” you say.

He raises his eyebrow, but smirks anyway. “Would you expect anything less from me?”

You laugh at him, and then enter the café alone.

-

The bells on the doorway ring lightly when you come in: it announces your presence to the guests inside. Johanna sits a little ways in, next to the window; the low, late afternoon sun casting gold light over her features as she nurses a cup of tea in her hands. She has a small bundle of papers in front of her on the table, next to a half-eaten slice of cream cake.

Your mind, your traitorous mind, falters for just a moment. You think of her small face, think of the neat way she’s put up her hair, the delicateness of the loose fringe framing her eyes, dream of Theo from an entire life away. But you press your hand to your chest and know you are better than any of this weird bubbling in your chest. If anything: you’re lucky to have even met her as well.

You tidy your clothes, fumbling, for a moment, buying time to build your courage up, before finally walking towards her.

“Madame Johanna,” you greet. “Good afternoon. Alone in Paris?”

“Oh, bonjour,” the woman replies, offering you the seat across from her. “My son is outside, peering at shop windows. I’m so terribly sorry to have called you out today.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s okay. It’s nice to see you again.” And that isn’t a lie, either.

“And you? Is Sir Theodore not with you?”

The syllables of Theo slip out from her mouth like something holy. It makes you feel warm. “He’s a little busy, if you don’t mind, he’s—” you look outside the window seeing if you can catch a glimpse of two pairs of sea-blue eyes, “—rather invested in what he’s doing, right now.”

-

And because the universe has a funny way with coincidences, the little boy is standing outside of Vollard’s small gallery, peering through the glass windows to see what’s hanging inside. Theo doesn’t need to peer in to know; probably some reproductions of old classical artworks, some newer paintings of artists who still paint in that classical style, and maybe even Vollard, sitting at the desk on the back waiting for customers and making sure to guard his second floor treasure from members of the Académie.

“Why don’t you go inside?” Theo asks, once he’s within hearing distance. The boy panics for a moment, turning to face him with fright in his eyes.

Then recognition. “Aren’t you the man from the exhibit?”

Well. He’s glad the boy’s at least gotten his sharp eyes—maybe the one thing he wouldn’t regret passing on to a child. “Theodore van Gogh, yes. And you, little sir?”

Theo already knows but he wants to hear it anyway. “Vincent Willem van Gogh,” the boy says, his syllables slinking back to the sharp edges of his native Dutch. He clears his throat. “Yes, I’m related to the painter.”

“An interesting man, to say the least,” Theo says. “Although hardly known. Do many people ask you that question?”

The boy shrugs. “A little. Mama says he’s more known here in Paris than back home. But she says soon he’ll be known there too. And everywhere.”

“Is that so?” Something in Theo’s heart soars. He leans his back against the glass window and turns to the boy, still curiously peering inside. He wonders how many questions he can ask before the boy gets tired of him. “Are you an artist, too?”

The boy makes a face so hideously disapproving it pulls a laugh right out of Theo. “I don’t think I’m meant for it.”

“Oh?” Theo recalls this very same pang from youth.

“I want to accompany Mama, for a while,” the boy says, deep in thought. “She says my father and my uncle was always away, because of art. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but I want to be someone that stays, for now.”

Theo feels the weight of worry disappear.

-

“…And so we’re planning to sell some paintings away,” Johanna explains. “The both of them always dreamt of having exhibits of their own, of bringing the paintings out for the world to see—and, to be quite honest, parting with the paintings are hard, but I know it’s what I need to do.”

You nod. In between bites of cake and sips of tea, you and Jo have been discussing about future pathways of art; her, detailing her plans on what’s to be done with “the van Gogh legacy”, going in detail about Vincent’s paintings to you while you pretend not to know exactly what she’s talking about; and you, giving some pointers on art and the politics involved in displaying them for the world to see. To hear from her the plans she’s laid out for Vincent’s past works and continuing what Theo never got to finish in that life of his makes you feel relieved in ways you couldn’t have imagined.

“But the paintings aren’t the only things I have to wrestle with right now,” she continues. “There are also the letters.”

You blink. “Letters?”

“My husband and Vincent had quite the correspondence when they were still alive,” she says. “Letters sent back and forth, with money enclosed, sketches, notes and requests… Theo has always been an avid letter writer—he wrote many to me—but it was different with Vincent.”

Careful of the tenses, you answer, “They were really close, weren’t they?”

“Yes, and that’s what made their partnership so good,” she answers. “The letters hold many secrets about the way they thought—the way they saw the world. I think that keeping aside these letters as a sort of family heirloom will do little for them, compared to preparing these for the world to see.”

“You will publish them?’

“They will need to be translated, first,” she says, “they’re written in Dutch, French, I am currently going through them and choosing which ones might hold the most importance.”

She slides the small bundle of papers towards you gently, offering them.

“And these are for you, mademoiselle.”

You lift them up carefully to inspect; letters, all in the same script, perhaps having copied by hand by Johanna herself, kept together by twine. You bite the inside of your cheek quietly, head running quick with the ethics of privacy—it was one thing for a surviving relative to publish letters, but what of you and second lives and vampire housemates? Instead, you settle with asking: “But why?”, a question you were really not prepared to hear the answer to.

But Johanna—she gives all that she can give for the things she loves. Just like Theo. So she answers you.

“Because,” she says, so surely, “I know you will be out here, watching over the same art they’ve long wanted the world to see as well. You’ll be able to hold their sentiments–to guard their heart. To protect the seedling of the art they’ve planted and nourished.”

-

Across the café, a young boy and an older man stand outside the doorway. They’ve just come from a little peek inside of the first floor of Vollard’s gallery, talking about art and the future. The boy says he’s interested in mechanics. Theo says it’s also a kind of art. And now, the boy has his hand on the doorknob, about to enter, when Theo calls him back.

“Oi, jongetje.”

The young boy looks up at Theo, blinking out the confusion at the familiar Dutch after a moment to throw a withering half-glare. An expression that would be familiar to Theo had he looked at himself in the mirror more often when he’s arguing with Arthur. The boy’s deep sea-blue eyes reflect like a mirror right back at the older man.

Perhaps the diminutive was unnecessary, as he was in no way little anymore, indeed–standing about Theo’s shoulder height, the little Vincent he’d seen what felt like a million years ago in that gallery doesn’t seem like the same boy that is in front of him.

No, Theo doesn’t just see the child he left behind.

He sees the future.

Jo really raised their son well.

Theo says his parting words, the only thing he really wanted to tell his son:

“Follow your dreams, boy, but don’t go around leaving your mama alone. She might get lonely.”

The boy raises a curious eyebrow, but then grins like he knows the world is out there waiting for him.

“Je sais. That’s what papa would want me to do.”

-

You stand outside the café, waving a hand gently as Johanna and her little Vincent get up on the carriage, heading off. When she bows her head at you in thanks, you can feel all the layers of meaning in it, and it leaves you breathless. In your mind, watching the carriage leave you behind, you pray for a long, fruitful, happy life for the both of them.

It is only when the carriage is sufficiently out of sight that Theo finally comes out of where he’s been, behind the other wall of the café, out of sight. He stands next to you, looking out at the streets.

You turn to him curiously. “You sure about not wanting to talk to her?”

“I didn’t think I had anything left to say,” he answers, and you know by the way his voice sounds that the feeling is still pretty raw, even after you’ve talked about it, even if months have passed. “Besides, she’s in good hands.”

You smile. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing he didn’t already know,” Theo smirks. He holds out his hand to you, and you take it; he lifts it to press a kiss on your knuckles gently, like one would do a saint.

And he doesn’t say it, but you hear it.

The thank you.

The you have always been here for me, and I appreciate it.

The I’m sorry.

The I will do better, I promise.

The stay with me.

And you want to tell him yes, yes, yes, of course, so you squeeze his hand as the both of you head back home.

To build your memories with Theo. Your love. Something that'll grow and blossom and be, the same he had done before.

And somewhere, in Vétheuil, where Monet dreamed of the end of winter, the snow is melting, and spring is coming.

---

and it’s done!!! thank you so much for reading and getting this far! 💖 i have a more detailed post-fic a/n on ao3!

[excelsi-or]

21/12/19 - dance (woozi)

to a boy i love right now

w.c. 1.4k

A/N: Please forgive the Christmas fic in June L O L. I’m posting as I edit and this is just...... where we are. Also isn’t time an illusion? especially right now. Stay safe. Stay educated. xx

Black Lives Rec: Check out these IG illustrators and support their work! Amina Aly is a Muslim Somalian Canadian artist who works in gouache. Her pieces are so vibrant. Awuradwoa (pronounced uh-ra-ju-uh) Afful is a Ghana Canadian digital illustrator. She does a lot of character design. Her pieces remind me a lot of Pixar animation style or Carmen Sandiego. Abelle Hayford is a digital illustrator. Their designs range from character designs to background illustrations. I love the movement in their lines. Their characters have so much life. Bianca Xunise is a comic illustrator. Her comics are about black lives and what it’s like to be black. She has a very simplistic style, which is pleasing to the eye. Her words are also very powerful. Brie Henderson is currently a Netflix and DC colourist. I originally found her work through her Good Omens fan art. She’s currently running a character design mentorship for the month of July for black artist. 

December 3, 2019

December 21, 2019

“Ji!” she calls from the front door, slipping out of her heels. “Are you ready? We’re going to be late for this party!”

“I hate this idea.” Jihoon’s bedroom door opens to reveal the man in a three-piece black suit. He’s working on tying his tie, but keeps fumbling with it. “Do you know how to tie a tie?”

She snorts as she crosses the room over to him. “You’re hilarious. No. Let’s just find a video.”

Jihoon looks up, his eyes immediately skimming over her. 

She looks down at the forest green dress. “Nice, yes?”

He chuckles and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Even if I said no, you wouldn’t care.”

She leans over to peck his cheek. “Good answer.”

Once his tie is tied and he tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, they head downstairs where the car she rented is parked out front. She tosses the keys to him and he stares at her, confused.

“I hate driving in heels.” She climbs in.

Jihoon rolls his eyes, a smile on his face, as he slides into the driver’s side. She has the venue already inputted into the GPS. Seatbelts on and after checking all the mirrors, he signals left and starts en route. “You know, when you asked me to meet your family, I didn’t expect to be wearing a suit.”

She shakes her head in dismay. “My family likes fancy Christmas parties. And while we have dressed fancy before,” she motions towards her dress, “this is over the top for us.” She reaches over to adjust a piece of his hair that’s fallen into his eyes. ”I honestly think it’s because you’re coming.”

“So they’re forcing me to look like I’m going to get married?”

Laughing, she looks out the window. “Maybe. They probably want you to be impressed with them. I wouldn’t put it past my dad.”

“You brought a change of clothes for the way back, right?” Jihoon glances over at her as he turns left.

She nods. “It’s in the trunk.”

“Good. Last thing I need is you sitting in the passenger seat in your underwear because you hate the dress.”

With a smirk, she rounds on him. “Really? You wouldn’t like that? For an hour and a half?”

“We’d get in a car crash,” he answers honestly.

While he is nervous, Jihoon wins over her parents in an instant. Her grandmother adores him after a first meeting, even more so when they start talking about old songs from when she was a teenager. She has to physically drag the man away from her grandmother, who likes to chat.

Her siblings are already seated at a table closest to the dance floor. There are two seats vacant for them and she sits Jihoon next to her younger brother’s girlfriend rather than right next to her older brother. As soon as he sits, the grilling starts.

She can’t do anything about it, but Jihoon takes it in stride. He tries his best to not give typical Jihoon answers, elaborating where he can. He doesn’t overshare, but she doesn’t want him to. She wants Jihoon to be as comfortable as possible. Her hand finds his under the table when her sister asks him if it was love at first sight.

Jihoon hates talking about sentimental moments like that with other people. Their first kiss, first time, first (proper) date, most of it has been locked away. She’d watched Jihoon tense as soon as her sister asked the question.

“No,” Jihoon answers slowly. His eyes dart towards her two brothers flanking him on either side. “It wasn’t at first sight,” Jihoon’s fingers wiggle nervously between hers, “but I fell in love pretty quickly.”

Gently, she squeezes his hand as the girls all awe loudly around them. His hand has gone cold and she rubs it between both of hers. She glowers at her younger brother before he can roll his eyes, already knowing her older brother is smiling.

When the music comes on an hour later, their table gets up to join the rest of their family and friends on the dance floor. She and Jihoon twist in their seats to watch. 

“I think you did alright,” she chuckles.

Jihoon pulls her hand into his lap, toying with her fingers. “Thank god.”

One of her cousins comes over to them, laughing. “Come on! You can’t just sit here all night!” 

Sighing, she gets up. When she tugs on Jihoon’s hand, he shakes his head. Not wanting to push him any more tonight, she lets go.

The second a slow song comes on, she walks back towards the table where Jihoon has been sitting all night. She’d checked in on him between songs, worried he was bored. Luckily, a few members of her family had sat with him and everyone else twirled her around to tell her how great they thought he was.

She offers a hand out to him now.

Jihoon tugs her closer, his hands resting on her waist.

“I wanted you to come dance,” she says.

“Jagi, I don’t—”

“Please. You’ve been sitting all night. I feel bad.”

“Your family is nice and I want you to enjoy yourself. I’m happy watching.”

She shakes her head. “One dance with me, please?” She drops a hand from around his neck to one of his on her waist and tugs him towards the dance floor. Jihoon glances around at the other couples swaying to the music and then back at her.

Her hands are already playing with his hair. Smirking, she asks, “Do you not know how to slow dance?”

“I’ve never had to slow dance before,” he hisses.

Snorting, she takes his hands from his sides to place them on her hips. She then sets her hands on his shoulders. “This is how people dance their first dance.” 

They sway like this for a while and Jihoon naturally pulls her closer to him. 

“Fast learner,” she hums, her fingers once again toying with the hair at the base of his neck.

Jihoon taps out the rhythm of the music on the small of her back with his fingers. She can’t help but stare up at him, watching his facial expression change as he gets into the song. He’s on high alert though, aware that her entire family is likely watching them. Using his chin, she guides his gaze back down to her.

“Hi, remember me?” she teases.

Jihoon’s breath is shaky. “Sorry.”

“What?”

“Your dad is watching us.”

She sways them in a circle so that she can get a look at her parents. She catches her dad’s eye, her smile disappears and her gaze hardens. With a grin, her dad’s attention returns to her mother.

“My mom heard I was coming and she asked when she gets to meet you in person,” Jihoon says.

When Jihoon calls home, sometimes she’ll jump into the call briefly. His mother is always sharing recipes that Jihoon liked as a kid. 

“It definitely won’t be like this.” His eyes go around the elaborately decorated dining hall of a hotel. “Your family go all out.”

“Only for today,” she promises. “It’s not usually this extravagant.”

“Well, if we did go visit my parents, it would be just us. Likely dinner.”

She nods. “That sounds great.”

Jihoon leans down to rest his forehead against hers. “It really can’t just be us, can it?” he murmurs.

Their swaying has slowed a lot, as Jihoon has them nearly pressed together. But she can tell Jihoon’s getting tired. “Sorry, Ji, no. But back home, it’ll just be us. Gyu texted me and said he’ll be home in the morning.”

Jihoon’s eyes widen a little as he pulls away form her. “Why?”

She shrugs, pecking his lips. “I just asked if it’d be possible if he could stay at Wonwoo’s for a night.”

Jihoon smiles and hugs her around the waist as the song ends and spins her around. “You’re making breakfast then.”

She rolls her eyes with a smile. “Sure, Ji. Whatever you want.”

Jihoon’s eyes narrow as he pulls her towards the table. “Why are you being so nice?”

“I thought I’d say thank you for coming to this.”

A glint in his eye makes her want to take back her words, but he doesn’t often look smug. Normally, it’s her. She has to admit, it’s kinda hot.

Next: January 10, 2020

[dreamcatcherfication]

Ghosts Are Just as Real as You and Me - Part 5

Five parts? This is further than I thought I’d get. All I can say about this chapter is that Aragon is a saint and she deserves all our love for being the best person ever. Aka she’s the only one who hasn’t made bad decisions yet. This chapter might seem a little disjointed, seeing as it’s written in snapshots, but I wanted to try the new style. Hope you enjoy! Sorry for any spelling/grammatical errors, the only thing I’ve eaten today is a burnt piece of toast off the floor.

Writing Masterpost

If you want to send a request or a prompt, my inbox is always open! I publish a story at 8:00 AM PST everyday, so I’m always in need of new ideas. If you want to be tagged in my works, just let me know and I’ll be sure to tag you!

Prompts | More Prompts | The Trifecta of Prompts | Original Prompts

Trigger Warnings: Anxiety, (very) brief violence, cursing, Henry VIII

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Anne Boleyn had a plan. Or well, half a plan. Okay, maybe more like a fourth of a plan, but she was trying. There was no way she intended to help Henry tear her family apart, but there was only so much she could do. He had put her in an impossible position and Anne needed all her wits to figure a way out. 

At first, she had tried avoiding Kitty. If Anne didn’t hang around Kit, she wouldn’t have anything to give Henry. After her confrontation with Cathy yesterday, Anne had gone to her room to make sure everything was as it should be. Henry had demanded she write him a letter on everyone’s actions in the past week, so she had done as he asked, leaving the finished product outside her window. By isolating herself, Anne’s hope was that the letter wouldn’t provide him with his much needed information. But her behavior had become suspicious. Cathy was catching on, Anne knew that, so she had to try a different approach. It was a long shot, but Anne needed to start acting on her fourth of a plan.

“Hey Kit,” Anne poked her head into her cousin’s room. Kit glanced up from her book and smiled.

“Hey Annie, what’s up?” She put a bookmark in the page and set the book down, devoting her attention to Anne.

Inhaling through her nose, Anne pushed away any internal doubt. “Do you want to go on a walk with me? Through the park or something like that.”

Standing up Kit agreed. “Sure Anne. Two days in a row, this must be a record.”

Silently recalling what Kit was referring to, Anne remembered Kitty’s absence as well as Jane’s and Aragon’s. That must’ve been what she was referring to. Anne felt a pang of hurt run through her body because of how little she was involved in what was going on with her cousin. Usually they were attached at the hip, but because of Henry… “Great! Let’s go now.”

Anne ruffled Kit’s hair goodnaturedly as the two of them shared a grin. Without even acknowledging any of the other queens, the two of them beelined for the door. Praying no one would comment, Anne opened the door and ushered Kit outside. “Anne where are you taking -” she heard Cathy call, but Anne shut the door and blocked her voice out. 

“Did someone call your name?” Kit asked, taking a step towards the door.

“Nope,” Anne blocked her advance. “You’re probably just hearing things.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed slightly as she watched Anne, but she said nothing about her strange behavior. “Right…”

Attempting to cover up, Anne put on a dazzling smile. “Let’s get going, eh.”

Staring at the door, Cathy hadn’t moved from her spot. Anne had completely blown her off. For usually being the center of Anne’s attention, it was startling to Cathy. Not that she... wanted Anne’s attention. But it didn’t feel good to be completely disregarded. She must have looked offended, because when Jane entered the room, she immediately stopped in front of Cathy. “Is something wrong?”

Turning away from the door, Cathy faced Jane. She debated what to tell her, before confessing, “Anne’s been acting weird. Not weird in her normal way. I asked her where she was going with Kit and she totally ignored me.”

Jane frowned. “She has been very withdrawn lately. Is there anything else?”

Cathy bit her tongue. She could tell Jane about Anne’s journal or… “No. Just that her personality did a full 180 and that’s what’s bothering me.”

“Yes, well Anne is unpredictable, maybe she’s planning something?”

Glancing around Jane at the door, Cathy flared her nostrils. “Yeah, maybe.”

Catching Cathy’s strange reaction, Jane was flooded with suspicion. There was something Cathy wasn’t sharing with her. Jane wouldn’t push, but filed away the thought for later. If Cathy was being secretive, that immediately made Jane trust her less, especially around Kit. “There’s certainly a lot of pressure on everyone. Especially with Henry popping up everywhere.”

Pausing, Cathy swiveled her head back to Jane. Her mouth opened slightly. “The only person who’s seen Henry was Kit. Unless…”

“No,” Jane quickly covered up. “I meant it… not literally?” Her excuse sounded more like a question than an answer. “It feels like he’s everywhere, is what I mean. No one else has seen him.”

If Jane was suspicious of Cathy, Cathy was doubly suspicious of her. Jane tended to be more collected than the others (bar Aragon), and seeing her suddenly stuttering was a red flag for Cathy. Something wasn’t right. Jane knew something like Cathy did, and she wasn’t sharing. Two could play that game.

The two women who had been helping each other only moments before were now standing in cold silence. They both regarded each other with narrowed eyes and upturned lips. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go write.”

“Of course,” Jane replied, the usual warmth in her gaze gone. “I wouldn’t want to keep you.” They shared a nod, the same thought on both their minds.

The game is on.

“So Kit, what’ve you been up to lately?” Anne started the conversation, putting her hands into her pockets. 

The girl in question shrugged and kicked a rock on the sidewalk. “Not much. I started looking into taking online school.”

Smiling supportively, Anne gave her cousin her approval. “That’s really cool, Kit. What classes? Please don’t say something boring like maths.”

“Nah,” Kit shook her head. “Science and art. But mainly history.”

Scrunching her nose, Anne fumbled with her words momentarily. “Are you - uh, sure that’s the best option?”

“Yes,” Kit stated resolutely. “History’s always interested me. I want to know more, even if I’m a part of it. We missed so much Annie, aren’t you the least bit curious about how we got here?”

“I know how we got here -”

“You know,” Kit laughed, “what the internet and Hamilton have taught you. There’s more to it.”

“Eh,” Anne wasn’t particularly dedicated. “Why focus so much on history when you can live in the now? I’m tired of worrying what already happened. What’s done is done. We’re here for a second chance, we shouldn’t waste it.”

It was hard for Kit not to agree. “I can’t argue with that. We should use our second chances to do something we want to.”

Realizing she was being given a perfect opportunity, Anne gently prodded, “Speaking of second chances, why do you think Henry’s got one?” It was a good way for Anne to get the conversation started so she could press Kitty harder on the Henry topic.

“No.” Kit stopped in place. “I’m out on a nice walk with my cousin who’s been avoiding me for the past week. We are not going to talk about that -” she clenched her teeth in order not to curse, “terrible man. He’s not here right now. I’m not going to let him ruin a perfectly nice afternoon.”

Anne had to admire Kit’s resolve. The protective part of her was ready to defend Kitty at every corner, but the girl looked plenty capable of protecting herself. After the initial shock of Henry’s confrontation had faded, Kit had hardened herself. She had let him get to her once, and she wouldn’t let it happen again, even if it meant she had to cut off her fear. On the inside, Kit felt all sorts of emotions churning in her chest, the kind that would send her running to Jane normally. But she couldn’t do that. She would power through, and she would survive.

Anna had locked the door to her room as she practiced her boxing. A punching bag was makeshift hung from the ceiling as she practiced her stances and kicks. Her grunts were loud, a mix of exertion and frustration. She wasn’t getting the results she wanted and it was working her up. Punch after punch after kick after punch, the bag swung back and forth. Still, Anna was having trouble with the heavier weighted bags. If she couldn’t beat something that wasn’t fighting back, how could she match Henry?

A knock came from the other side of her door followed by, “Can I come in?”

“One second,” Anna called. As fast as she could, Anna took down the punching bag and slid it into her closet, out of view. Wiping the sweat off her forehead, she attempted to appear cool and collected. Unlocking the door, she let Aragon in. 

Aragon’s eyes darted around the room as she walked in, sensing something off. She didn’t comment on it, electing to give Anna her privacy. But there was something she did need to talk about with her fellow divorcee. “Anna.”

“Catherine.”

Sighing, Aragon held her hands together. “I’ve noticed you’ve been out a lot lately. Or shut up in your room. I know how close you and Kitty are, and I don’t think you should be doing this.”

Feeling her defensive instincts kick in, Anna stepped forward. “What do you mean, ‘doing this’?”

Staying calm, Aragon stared Anna in the eyes. “I don’t know, and I don’t need to know. But you’ve disappeared and it’s not helping anyone. I know you care about Kit. She’s doing fine on her own, but we’re all worried about her. If she breaks, you’re the best person to help her. I know Jane or Anne might not feel that way, but I see the way you two act around each other.”

“That sounds vaguely like spying,” Anna commented, leaning against her wall.

“I suppose it does.” Aragon just seemed tired, drained. Anna felt bad, treating her so rudely. “I mean to say that she trusts you more than anyone else. Kit knows you in a way she doesn’t know any of us. She may trust Jane and Anne with everything, but you’re her best friend.” 

There was a twinge in Anna’s heart as she thought about Aragon’s words. She had barely seen Kit this past week, too busy with her own goals. But if Anna didn’t do this, she would be putting Kit in harm’s way. She could afford to lose some of Kit’s trust. She couldn’t afford to lose Kit. “You said she’s been doing fine on her own,” Anna stated bluntly. “She doesn’t need me.”

“Of course she needs you,” Aragon fired back.

Straightening up and stepping away from the wall, Anna tightened her fists. “Don’t treat Kit like a child. She may be young, but she’s not a baby, Catherine.”

The bags under Aragon’s eyes seemed to become even more pronounced when she looked down. “I don’t mean to baby her. I’m not trying to control anyone, but we need to stay unified. If Henry is coming for us, he’s going to come for our cracks. Pulling away from Kit isn’t going to help anyone, Anna.”

“Well that’s not your choice to make now, is it,” Anna refused to give in. Part of her hoped Henry would come and attack them. That way she would have her chance to take him down.

Murmuring, “One track mind,” Aragon started to make her way out of the room.

“What did you say?” Anna asked, trying to disguise the frustration building in her voice.

Her eyes boring straight through Anna, Aragon replied, “One track mind. Don’t focus so much on one thing that you block everything else out.” With that she exited the room and closed the door, leaving Anna alone.

“What does she know,” Anna consoled herself, going to the closet. She pulled the punching bag out, hanging it up once more. Even if Anna secretly understood what Aragon was telling her, she couldn’t take the time to listen. Anna wouldn’t allow herself to waste a second.

On the other side of the door, Aragon had sunk to the floor. She curled up in a ball and muffled her screaming. Yesterday, she had acted like she noticed nothing, being the happy companion Jane and Kitty had needed. But Aragon saw the nervousness behind each of Kit’s movements, especially when she struggled to tell the barista her order. She noticed Jane’s change in demeanor after parking the car. She was witnessing Anna pull away from the group and hurt herself in order to do whatever it is she thought she was doing. Aragon saw how suspicious Cathy had gotten of everyone, constantly watching and judging. She saw how Anne had lost her light and hidden from them all in some misguided attempt to protect her cousin.

The worst part of it all was that Aragon could watch on and do nothing. The others didn’t give her credit for her observations. Aragon wouldn’t push, that was a violation of respect towards the others, but God, did she want to. If she could just help them, any one of them.

A sob came out of her mouth as she curled into herself tighter.

Anne and Kit had reached a small children’s playground when they decided to stop walking. It was the middle of a school day and no one was around but the two of them. Kit was sitting on one of the swings while Anne stood at the top of the play structure. It was a bit of an odd picture, both of them being far too big for the miniaturized playthings, but neither of them mentioned it. “I missed this,” Kit spoke up.

“Missed what?” Anne smiled down at her cousin, rocking back and forth on her feet.

“You and me,” Kit explained. “I know it’s only been a week, but you disappeared and I started thinking maybe it was my fault or -”

“No!” Anne quickly assured her. “It’s never your fault Kitty.”

“Then why were you avoiding me?” Kit stood up off the swing and walked until she was under Anne. She tilted her head up and reached a hand out. Grabbing her cousin, Anne helped to hoist her onto the structure.

“I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Frowning, Kit pushed, “Then what were you doing?”

“I…” when Anne couldn’t find an excuse, she admitted, “Okay, I was avoiding you.”

Hurt flashed across Kit’s face, but she stifled it. Best not to dwell on feelings if she could avoid them. “Why would you avoid me?”

There was no way Anne could explain it to Kit without telling her everything. “It’s… complicated.

“Perhaps I could help explain.” The two cousins whipped around at the familiar voice, bodies freezing when they saw him. Henry was standing on the other side of the playground, his smirk just as sickening as Kit remembered. “It’s not as complicated as you make it sound, Dear Anne.”

“Get the fuck away from us,” Anne ordered, stepping in front of Kit.

Henry pretended to look offended. “But I thought you would love to see me after agreeing to help me. Your letter was very insightful.”

Holding back her fear, Kit questioned, “What’s he talking about Anne?”

“It’s not important,” Anne said, not taking her eyes off Henry.

“It actually is quite important,” Henry contradicted Anne, approaching the two. Anne and Kit started to take steps back off the structure. “Without your insight I wouldn’t be able to see how well things are going. You’re all so predictable,” he spit out the last part.

Eyes widening in betrayal, Kit started to step away from Anne. “You’re helping him?”

“I would never help him,” Anne growled.

“But you are,” Henry’s tone was light but his eyes were threatening. “I even have your letter if you’d like sweet sweet Kitty to see it.” He pulled out Anne’s letter from the night before and waved it around like a prize.

The betrayal on Kit’s face was enough to break Anne. “Kit, you have to believe me, he’s lying.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Kit’s eyes flicked between the two of them. “Did you bring me here so he could find me?”

“Of course not!” Anne shouted, distress building in her stomach. There was the fear building that Kit wouldn’t believe her, and she couldn’t afford that. Anne had a plan. She wouldn’t let Henry change the game before she got her turn. “There’s a lot going on that you don’t understand, Kit.”

“Because you never tell me anything,” Kit shot back, her voice icy. 

While the cousins argued, Henry had come closer “I can’t stay much longer,” Henry brought the cousins’ attention back to him. He was now far too close for comfort, his terrible stench engulfing the two girls. “But you can have a little souvenir before I go.” 

And then he pulled out a knife and stabbed Kit.

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

Tag List:

@radcowboyalmondtree @boleynhowards @annabanana2401 @babeebobo @dont-lose-your-queerhead @obliviousasheck @theatergirl06

[remys-lucky-franc]

Comfort - Remy POV Fic (Queen of Thieves)

“Hey, I wanna ask for a Remy angst. Are you allowed to write angst?”

I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to write this for you, life’s just been a bit crazy between work and studying lately, and it’s so annoying because I’ve had some really nice requests that I’m excited to write for people, but I just haven’t had any time to work on them! Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this @ilovewritingfics 💕

Notes: although it’s written from Remy’s POV (I’ve never written a POV before for anything!), the fic is set in Nikolai’s route, which sounds weird, but you’ll see what I mean. No specific TWs for the fic, it covers Nikolai’s trauma surrounding his family, so if you aren’t up to date and don’t want a spoiler on that, or if it’s upsetting to you, consider giving this one a miss.

Word Count 2100

I want to credit my lovely friend @stopforamoment for her suggestion on the topic for this short fic - thank you lovely.

—-

[MORE] [[MORE]]

Dinner Club. One of my favourite things we do together. Every member of The Gilded Poppy is different and everyone has their own interests, of course. But this is something we can all enjoy, and I love this family time so much: everyone laughing, sharing food, telling stories, teasing each other... It’s always such fun to be part of this, and after a successful heist, it’s even better!

After all, tonight we have a beautiful vintage fencing sword in our possession! I know, it’s part of a much larger plan, but for tonight at least, stealing it has made Niko really happy, and that makes me happy. He’s sitting at the end of the table with a glint in his eye, listening to Daisy and Leon chatter joyfully about the (I must say, very predictable) ‘twist’ at the end of some romance novel. It’s a glint that I’ve seen a lot since Daisy joined our (very attractive) crime family. I smile to myself as I watch how her cheeks colour so prettily when she notices his eyes fixed on her, like she’s the only person in the room. It’s been a long time since I’ve saw Niko’s interest pique the way it does when she’s close by, if ever, actually. The energy between them, it’s something quite unique: special. She’s a match for him in ways I’ve never seen before, and the challenge is good for him. It’s like she set off a spark in him and all of the wonderful things that make him Niko, are just ‘more’ with her around. I watch them play their game - anticipation, flirtation, power and control - I’m well-versed in ‘love’ and seduction (some would say ‘a master’) but this something else: it’s not part of a con, not something ‘to get out of your system’... I only hope Daisy doesn’t tire of it, because I’ve never seen someone get the better of Nikolai Stirling the way she can.

I lean forward skewering something delicious from the sharing platter in front of me, popping it into my mouth, laughing along to the friendly debate Zoe, Jett and Vivienne are having. Vivienne’s losing her argument and is trying to convince me to fight her corner, but I’m too preoccupied with how I could use my conman charms to ‘gently persuade’ my best friend and Daisy to forget who is winning their mindgames and push them closer together. Niko will hate me meddling, but it’s for his own good! Maybe tomorrow I can-

My plotting is abruptly ended as the waiter heading to a table behind us is jostled by a man who tries to squeeze past him in a space that’s too narrow. It’s like the world slows down... I can see what’s unfolding, but I’m powerless: I have no time, no way of stopping it. The waiter loses his footing, one arm flailing. I’m holding my breath! He recovers (barely) without falling over, but not before the glass of Amarone perched on his tray swirls and sloshes to one side, a crescendo of blood-red bursting free down the front of Nikolai’s crisp white shirt. The bold bouquet of fruit and spice hits my nose as deep red splatters bleed and seep across the fabric. Nikolai is frozen, complete horror etched across his face. Suddenly, all I can see is the scared fifteen year-old I befriended on the streets of Paris carrying a sick kitten.

The waiter has discarded his tray; he’s panicked and apologising to Nikolai, fumbling for a napkin to try to blot away the mess. Our friends have noticed, but before anyone else can react, I’m halfway across the table with the salt cellar slipped inside my pocket. I wrap one comforting arm around Niko, my other hand on the waiters arm, reassuring him (in flawless Italian, of course) that everything is under control and I’ll take it from here. Within seconds, I have Nikolai on his feet, gripping him close to me as I guide him towards the restroom: always moving forward. I keep my free arm across his chest, deliberately, to shield the stains from his sight; leaning in close, chattering to distract him. Anything I can do, anything to keep him walking until I can get him inside. He’s hyperventilating by the time we enter the plush restroom, and fortunately it’s empty.

“Niko? Breathe. Slowly. Come on.”

He’s still not responding, I gently put pressure on his shoulder, manoeuvring him onto an Art Deco-style chaise beside a large mirror. I crouch in front of him, cupping his face in my hands, offering comfort, speaking softly,

“It’s ok. I’m here. Your Remy’s got you. It’s going to be ok. You’re safe.”

It’s a mantra I repeat several times over while he trembles. Minutes feel much longer, but now his breathing is slowing and for the first time since the spillage, he makes eye contact with me. I’m so relieved! I nod and smile before I press a heartfelt kiss to his cheek. The worst has passed. He’s going to be ok.

I pause, taking just a few seconds to catch my own breath: getting him away from the table to a safe space, keeping him moving, it was all automatic, all done on instincts. But now, my mind races. I’m so glad this happened when I was at the table; would anyone else have been able to get him out the way I did? Would he have let anyone else lead him off like this? He looked so vulnerable just now, it breaks my heart to think of it...

‘Focus, Remy. Come on. You’re not done yet.’

I lean back, fingers shifting to his collar, offering him my most suggestive grin,

“Lose the shirt.”

Nikolai manages a weak laugh (I knew that would get him!) as his fingers move toward his buttons, I realise a second too late that his hands are shaking too much to undo them. He mutters a strangled apology and rakes a hand through his dark hair as I make short work of them, startled by just how hard his heart hammers inside his chest, even now, minutes after the incident. He shrugs his way out of the shirt and I take it to the counter, grabbing some paper towels to blot out the liquid before dumpling half of the stolen salt cellar onto the stain. Selecting an expensive-looking cologne from the selection provided, I head back to Niko, spritzing it around him as I go, trying to erase the lingering scent of the alcohol from his nostrils.

As I join him on the chaise, he clears his throat awkwardly, his usually crisp clear voice barely audible at all,

“Thank you.”

I bump my shoulder against his, still trying to lighten the mood,

“Pas de problème.”

He still looks like he’s met a ghost, and I can feel the seat vibrate under me from his agitated tapping foot. But at least he’s speaking to me: when things have happened before, things that have triggered horrible memories for him, sometimes it’s taken hours to get him to even look at me. The first time it happened, long before The Gilded Poppy existed, we were only street kids, sleeping rough and begging. I’ll never forget it as long as I’m alive. A group of men left a bar near where we were hoping to earn a few francs, one of them was worse for wear and fell to the ground, vomiting. It wasn’t until I turned to Niko, ready to make some sassy comment about how the drunk couldn’t hold his liquor or his wallet, that I realised something was very, very wrong. It took hours for him to come back around, and days to feel better afterwards... I didn’t have a very happy childhood, and I was forced to grow up quickly, but not in the same way as Niko. The things he suffered... I can’t help but put myself into his shoes, picturing my family around our small dinner table, my lovely old meme, my mother bringing food to the table, my father chatting to my young brother about school... How unreal it must have felt to Niko, how terrifying. I cannot begin to imagine: to watch your whole family die... And such a painful death... It’s little wonder it haunts him. I scrub my hand across my eyes trying to shake the sickening scene.

I clap my hand on Niko’s knee as I stand, heading back to check how the salt is working on his shirt: it may seem ridiculous, but a conman has to think fast, and you never know when a cleaning tip like this will be useful! Of course, the shirt is looking much better - now I just need to rinse it and dry it off. Almost done. I bustle around the washbasin, running the breast of Niko’s shirt under the piping water, rinsing away the salt, pink dye flowing down the drain, erasing tonight’s events. I hold it up to the lights, smiling as I do.

“I think the shirt will survive, Niko.”

I start the hand drier, just as I hear Niko murmur something, far too low for me to hear over the roar,

“What was that?”

I stop, making my way back across to the chaise, gesturing for Niko to repeat himself. He looks up at me with the saddest blue eyes,

“I never wanted her to see me, like, this. How can she...” His posture visibly stiffens, “She won’t respect me after this?”

I frown. Of course, he’s talking about Daisy. And something in his voice tells me that Daisy’s ‘respect’ isn’t the feeling he’s truly worried about, but while he’s shirtless in a restaurant bathroom really isn’t the best time for me to play Cupid... I try to tell Nikolai that Daisy is the last person who would think any less of him because of this, she is so lovely: surely he knows her well enough, to know that? Daisy is sensitive and kind: she would understand. But he’s still shaken and so agitated about what happened at the table, my honest words make no difference; his barricades are going up and he mutters that he doesn’t want her pity. I make a show of raising one eyebrow at him, and shaking my head before I march back to the hand drier. I love Niko dearly, but he can be so stubborn, it makes me crazy!

Ten minutes later, Niko is looking much more collected, and is back in his gleaming white shirt: I am a man of many talents, it’s true! He straightens himself up in front of the mirror as I watch on: it’s almost as though nothing ever happened. We exit the restroom and rejoin our friends. Everyone is wonderfully discrete: they pretend we never left the table. Niko doesn’t utter a single word for the rest of the evening. His expression is strained and he doesn’t touch a bite of his food - he’s going through the motions but I know he can’t wait for the evening to end. I chip in some delightful anecdotes to help keep the conversation flowing, but what happened tonight weighs heavily on me: what if this happened and I wasn’t here? What if something like this happened on a heist? What if I couldn’t get to him? What would we do? How could I keep my best friend safe? What if something went wrong and I wasn’t around anymore? Who else understands like me?

I meet Daisy’s big brown eyes over the table, concern is written across her face. She really cares for Niko, it’s so obvious. I wish he would let her in... Having someone else who loves you, an extra person in this world looking out for you, to rely on... She could be the best thing that ever happened to him. She could make him happy, I can see it all.

I make a silent promise to myself: they say that love will find a way? Well, it certainly will when Remy Chevalier helps it along.

[mysterioushogwartsrequests]

Hi! I was wondering if you would do imagines for Chester Davies & Felix Rosier? ((Understandably, there isn’t a lot written for these characters but I feel like that leaves room for writing them however you’d like which is easier than sticking to canon lmao)) if not, that’s all good! :) I’ll probably come back to request some quidditch!reader if that’s okay 💕 thank you for writing such lovely imagines

Hello, I am so sorry this request has taken such a long time but I am determined to get through them. I don’t know too much about Chester Davies, but I wanted to give this one a shot!

Summary: (Y/N) (L/N) is a sixth-year Ravenclaw Prefect with hopes of earning the title of ‘Head Girl’ for her seventh year at Hogwarts. Chester Davies is one of the male Ravenclaw Prefects in the same year as (Y/N), he admired her ambition and the two had grown close as Prefects. 

Students who act as Prefects are expected to be responsible, student leaders for the rest of the Hogwarts Community. They are exemplary students who achieve academically and truly enjoy assisting the faculty with castle duties and creating a sense of camaraderie within their Hogwarts houses. 

As the second half of the school year commenced, the first-year students were having a difficult time finding some of their new classrooms. However, rather than having to fend for themselves, they noticed the Ravenclaw girl directing the nervous students to their class. 

(Y/N) (L/N), a sixth-year Ravenclaw, was one of the more recognizable Prefects. If a student outside Ravenclaw House requested her assistance, (Y/N) would not hesitate to lend a hand and she was always seen helping other students. 

The Ravenclaw boys described her as the perfect balance of brains, beauty, and kindness. It was in her nature to automatically put a smile on the face of those she talked to, it is rumored she’s even turned Professor Snape’s semi-permanent scowl into a meek smile for a second during Potion Class. 

“Don’t worry about it, love” (Y/N) smiled, handing the first-year Gryffindor girl a simple map of the castle, “I made these for you to have, I want you to always make your class on time” She stated, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. 

The girl felt at ease and gave (Y/N) an understanding nod as she clutched her map tightly, “Thank you so much! I couldn’t have figured this out without you” The Gryffindor stated happily before hurrying down the corridor.

(Y/N) watched as the girl scrambled to make her class with a satisfied smile on her face. Most of the students had already cleared out of corridors which allowed her to relax a little, (Y/N) enjoyed her role as a Prefect, but the responsibilities could be tiring. Her shoulders fell slightly and she let out a soft sigh, she grabbed her Transfiguration book from the stone podium. 

“It pains me to admit this, but you truly are a natural” A voice spoke out from behind her. (Y/N) made a mental note, reminding herself not to let her guard down because the voice behind her made her jump.

“Merlin!” She exclaimed, turning to face the direction of the voice, knowing who the voice belonged to immediately, “But seriously, Chester? I thought you’d already recognized my dedication to this job” (Y/N) raised an eyebrow, placing her hand on her hip, playfully questioning her friend. 

Chester Davies let out a chuckle, shrugging in response to her question, “I’ve competed against you in the past, I am fully aware of your skills” He said, walking towards her. The two were in the same year but remained acquaintances until Professor Flitwick assigned them as Prefects together. Their assignment was convinient because the two shared multiple classes together so they relied on each other to study. 

“Are you ready for Transfiguration?” Chester asked as they walked down the corridor, his hands in his robe pockets. It was common knowledge at Ravenclaw House that Chester Davies was unmistakenly attractive. No matter the situation, his clothes were clean and pressed, his hair styled, and his performances in the Frog Choir left most of the ladies at Hogwarts swooning.

Along with his talents, Chester was also determined and helpful. He is a strong believer in education and learning as much as possible which were traits (Y/N) resonated with. (Y/N) had modeled her course schedule to secure the job of a Hit Wizard, a trained wizard who deals with highly dangerous situations for the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. Chester also wished for a job at the Ministry but preferred the division of Improper Use of Magic. Both these jobs fell underneath the Department of Magical Law Enforcement so the O.W.L. requirements were similar, meaning the two would share classes for their remaining years.

“Of course,” She replied confidently, “I can’t wait to hear McGonagall’s curriculum, I find her class the easiest to study for” (Y/N) said and Chester let out a small groan. 

“You’re an ace at Transfigurations, (Y/N)” Chester grumbled, “I’m definitely going to need your help to get the technique down one hundred percent”

(Y/N) examined Chester’s slightly solemn expression with a small frown, “Don’t be like that, Chester” She uttered, “Practice makes perfect besides you’re lightyears better than me at Defense Against the Dark Arts.” (Y/N) admitted, giving Chester a small, reassuring smile hoping the make Chester feel better. 

All of a sudden, Chester’s stern expression transformed into one of joy as his laughter filled the corridor. His sudden outburst caught her off guard once again and she questioningly gazed at him as they approached Classroom 1B. Chester gripped (Y/N)’s shoulders and turned her to face him, “I’m so glad you finally admitted that,” He said playfully, “Now I can say even you’ve admitted it yourself” Chester shot (Y/N) a wink before retreating into the Transfiguration classroom, taking her chance to retaliate away. 

(Y/N) stood gobsmacked, blinking as the door to the classroom swung close. Letting out a small huff, she smiled knowing Chester must be laughing to himself in the classroom as he waits for (Y/N) to take her seat next to him. Soothing her hair, (Y/N) pushed the classroom door open and headed towards her seat, waving at her classmates as she made her way down. 

Chester looked back at (Y/N) but suddenly snapped forward as he got an idea. Pulling out a sheet of parchment, he began scribbling a meeting time and location before folding it into a tiny square. With a small smirk, he set the paper down in front of her station and crossed his arms behind his head. 

A few moments later, (Y/N) set her book down and noticed the small piece of parchment along with Chester’s mischievous look. Rolling her eyes, she took a seat and fumbled to open the parchment, the note read

Meet me at the Secret Garden

10:00 pm tonight

Don’t be Late 

-C

But before she could get a word out, Professor McGonagall had already begun the day’s lesson. 

*****

(Y/N) had underestimated Chester’s schemes. As soon as the Transfiguration class ended, he bolted out of the room but not before reminding (Y/N) about their arrangement. His sudden actions confused her, he hadn’t mentioned doing anything prior to class and now he was flat out avoiding her until they met. 

Despite his odd behavior, (Y/N) couldn’t help but find his determination endearing. An array of ideas flew through her head as she attempted to figure out what he could be planning, but when it came to Chester, you couldn’t really predict what he would do next because he is determined to try anything. Needless to say, Chester’s mysterious note remained on her mind as she tutored one of the third-year Ravenclaw boys. 

Usually, she remained focused and engaged but she caught herself glancing at the clock multiple times throughout the session. She also recalled the first time Chester had taken her to the garden. He had brought her there to study once, but they had not returned in a while, if he had called her there, it meant he had something important planned. Once nine-thirty rolled around, (Y/N) practically sprinted towards the Secret Garden, excited to see what her fellow Prefect had suddenly planned for the evening. 

“Chester?” (Y/N) called, reaching the enclosed garden her eyes immediately landed on the practice dummies evenly spread across the field. Chester suddenly appeared behind (Y/N), gripping her shoulders and giving her a subtle shake, “Boo!” He exclaimed causing her to let out a shrill shriek. 

“Chester!” (Y/N) yelled, suddenly turning to give him a shove, “You’re horrible” She laughed, letting her heartbeat settle as her friend laughed. 

“You’re hurting my feelings, (Y/N)” Chester admitted, adding in a fake pout for dramatic effect, “You’d really say that when I’ve gone out of my way to set up Dark Arts training for you?” Chester dropped his eyes, his shoulders drooping as he sauntered over to the training dummies. 

“Chester, you should really join the acting program here�� (Y/N) laughed, watching her friend trudge through the grass, “You’d be their star pupil” 

Chester suddenly broke character, “No bloody way” Chester grumbled, “I’ve already got Frog Choir and that’s all I need” He grinned proudly, retrieving his wand from his coat pocket. (Y/N) removed her robes, folding them before placing them on the grass, “So, tell me what you’ve planned?” She asked. 

Chester smirked, “I’m glad you asked” he stated, removing his own robe and loosening his tie. For anyone else, it might be uncommon to see Chester in a ‘disheveled’ state, but (Y/N) had grown familiar with this side of him and she always found something new to admire. Tonight, his skin was glowing underneath the moonlight and his soft smile left (Y/N) at ease. 

“Will you be able to focus with me as your teacher?” Chester teased, snapping her away from her trance. (Y/N) blushed, crossing her arms defensively but embarrassed having been caught staring at him. 

“Don’t get too cocky,” (Y/N) warned, playfully aiming her want at him. Chester threw his hands up in defeat, purposely adding in a hint of dramatic flair to make his friend laugh. (Y/N) laughed at his reaction, “You’re ridiculous” she added, lowering her wand with a smile on her face. 

“You know, I hear that quite often” Chester admitted, giving her a soft shrug. The two of them were always busy, but when they were together, all they could think about was how much they enjoyed each other’s company. With (Y/N) everything seemed easier, she understood him, she helped him study, and more importantly, she cared for him. 

“Well, what are we learning tonight?” (Y/N) asked, her (E/C) eyes shining brightly. She cherished the time they spent together and she knew Chester would not stop assisting her until she mastered his techniques. (Y/N) loved his determination and it motivated her to improve every single day. 

“Well, it’s not going to be easy,” Chester disclosed, “But after this session, you’re going to be the best student in Defense Against the Dark Arts…” A sly smile grew on his lips, “After me, of course,” He shot her a wink before assuming his fighting position beside her, “Ready?”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes at his comment, sticking her tongue out in response, earning another laugh from Chester. 

“I was born ready,” She replied confidently and he nodded in appreciation. Chester loved her confidence, it was one of the reasons he enjoyed working with her because no matter how difficult the situation became, she was always ready to learn and overcome it. 

On his call, the two began practicing the different spells they learned in class. Chester and (Y/N) lost track of the time as they practiced, but that was not unusual for them. The sound of their laughs and spells clashing with the dummies bounced off the walls of the garden as they engrossed themselves in their training. 

[blouisparadise]

Upon request, here is a rec list of fics where Harry and Louis fight or argue over the course of the fic. While there is at least a small argument between them in the vast majority of fics, we tried to narrow this list down to include fics where there’s either a larger fight or a bunch of smaller ones. Happy reading!

1) Forever, Uninterrupted | Explicit | 8578 words

Harry finds a mysterious picture in Louis' bag one night and drives himself crazy over it. It's definitely not what he thinks. An excuse to write Harry in rut, because there's already so many heat fics out there.

2) Poppies In May | Explicit | 9457 words

And maybe he deserves it, Louis thinks bitterly. His hand curls around the fence tightly, and he feels like if he lets go he’ll slid onto the cold ground and never fucking get up again. Maybe standing here, staring at Harry’s hunched over, retreating back is what he deserves.

3) 3B Neighbor | Explicit | 10407 words

A mysterious neighbour keeps slipping the worst sort of notes under Harry's door.

4) Rather This Than Live Without You | Explicit | 10715 words

Harry decides to give it all up. Louis refuses to be left behind.

5) We Should Get Jerseys | Mature | 12147 words

Harry is a hockey player, and Louis is his slightly melodramatic boyfriend.

6) No Bleeding Hearts | Explicit | 12651 words

“I’m going to come out,” Louis says abruptly. His grip on the controller is tight, knuckles whitening. He doesn’t look at Harry when he says it.

“What?” Harry says. Louis sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“When we re-negotiate our contracts. I’m going to come out.” Harry fumbles with the controller and manages to set it down on coffee table without cracking it in half.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Harry says. Louis is still pointedly not looking at him.

“I’m not having this argument with you again, Harry,” Louis tells him. He leans forward and deposits his own controller on the table beside Harry’s before standing up. “I’m gonna go to the hotel.”

7) Know You Got That Thing (That I Like) | Explicit | 15798 words

Note: This fic has a BH mention.

In all the ways he thought about their reunion going, watching Louis finger himself open was not on the list.

8) Wait For Me (To Come Home) | Explicit |  16066 words

A future fic of time stamps where Louis finally comes to grips with a love he'd denied for too long.

9) My English Love Affair | Explicit | 19198 words

The thing about sleeping with a member of a famous indie band is that the inevitability of having a song written about you is most likely a hundred percent. The second thing is that in the end, nobody's supposed to find out it's about you.

The one where Harry writes a song about his English love affair and Louis sleeps with someone in White Eskimo and all he gets is a stupid song written about him.

10) Dance Like Warriors On A Battlefield | Explicit | 20083 words

Down in the arena, the triumphant gladiator places his foot on the back of the loser, holding him there as he waits for instruction on his next move. Kill or let live. It’s barbaric, really, the bloodlust involved in this sport. Louis is pretty sure that if it wasn’t for his distaste for the killing there would be a lot more blood soaking that sand.

As it is, his father rarely gives the kill order anymore. He gives the order to let the loser live. Louis rolls his eyes, turning away. He doesn’t miss the way the gladiator’s eyes linger on him.

11) Up To No Good | Explicit | 26525 words | Sequel #1 | Sequel #2

Harry doesn’t think of himself as a womanizer, not at all. Sure, he enjoys sex, enjoys how women feel underneath him, and by some people’s standards he has sex with quite a lot of people, but that’s no reason to tell him that he can’t have a female PA anymore.

It’s especially no excuse for giving him a male PA who’s possibly the most gorgeous boy in the world who won’t even let Harry look at him for too long.

Sometimes Harry hates his life.

12) All The Lights are Full Of Colour | Explicit | 26727 words

So, fast-forwarding eight years from the day Harry met Louis, he is now a twenty-seven year old owner of one of the most up-and-coming eating establishments on the London restaurant scene, father of two wonderful boys and… separated from his husband. Now, that last part definitely was never a part of the original plan.

13) Time Out | Explicit | 27539 words

Harry and Louis are perfect for each other.

Everybody knows it.

They know it, their friends know it, everybody knows it.

That's why Zayn, Liam and Niall won't let them get away with breaking up.

No chance in hell.

14) Carnelian | Explicit | 30631 words

Louis finds himself donating blood to the most beautiful being he’s ever seen.

15) Where The Lights Are Beautiful | Mature | 31170 words | Sequel

The accidental bonding a/b/o fic. 

16) Close To Nowhere | Explicit | 34589 words

Louis and Harry are psychics who kind of hate each other. They go to Tennessee to investigate a haunting.

17) No Matter Where You Are (No Matter How Far) | Explicit | 35799 words

An Everest AU where Louis sets out to climb the tallest mountain on the world and meets a curly-haired guy named Harry who worms his way into Louis’s life. It’s not long before reaching the summit becomes the least of Louis’s worries. 

18) The Things I’d Do To Wake Up Next To You | Mature | 36019 words

AU. Harry wakes up to a pregnant Louis Tomlinson and a wedding band on his finger.

19) Bloodsport | Explicit | 40283 words

“You know how our next game is against the Cardinals, right? You remember how vicious those guys can get. I wanted us to come up with some plays, maybe work on a block from the left--” Louis stops when he hears a chuckle. He doesn’t think he’s said anything particularly funny, so he turns to Harry, waiting for an explanation. "‘S funny, ‘s all.” Harry throws his finished bottle somewhere near the other discarded ones. “This is the first time you’re talking to me in eight months, and it’s still about football.”

20) The Sweetest Incantation | Explicit | 40598 words

Harry is a witch who's still working on developing his powers and Louis is a werecat who falls into his life and turns it upside down. 

21) Falling Into Place | Explicit | 40754 words

Louis and Harry spend nine years apart but inevitably find their way back to each other.                        

22) Another Hazy May | Explicit | 41043 words

Louis is a terrible poet and Harry lives in the now and they have six weeks to fall in love but, really, it only takes six seconds. Bookshop meets military meets summer romance AU ft. Malboros, the Backstreet Boys, and underrated literary devices.

23) Show Me Life Like I’ve Never Seen | Mature | 42953 words

Louis never expected to leave the small art studio three blocks down from his job with anything besides the painting he caught a glimpse of and simply couldn't forget.

24) Can I Not Like You For A While? | Explicit | 43346 words

Louis Tomlinson is awful. Harry is just as difficult, and they’re both terrible to each other. It makes being in the same acapella group together quite complicated. 

25) Just A Feeling | Explicit | 43977 words

Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic.

The first time that Harry thinks about marriage in relation to Louis, he’s eighteen years old, standing in the middle of a crowded frat house, six drinks down and another in his hand.

It’s not the first time that he’s laid eyes on Louis. It’s not even the second time, or the third time, but Harry doesn’t believe in denying what his brain is trying to tell him, and his brain has been telling him that Louis might be the prettiest person in the world ever since that first fateful meeting, when Harry hadn’t been able to stop looking and Louis had ‘accidentally’ spilled his tea all over Harry’s lap in retaliation.

26) Love's Truest Language | Explicit | 48193 words

“I don't want your flowers.” Louis chided before directing all of his attention to the arrangement in front of him. Harry laughed under his breath as he stood to his full height, “Who said anything about them being for you, love?”

27) Tug-Of-War | Explicit | 55475 words

Louis' husband dies suddenly and he is left with nothing. Well, not really nothing. He has Harry. And a St. Bernard puppy named Link, whom his late husband left behind for him. Louis takes care of Link and Harry takes care of Louis. Everything is okay until suddenly, it isn't. 

28) Into The Midnight Sun | Explicit | 63523 words

It's 1983, Harry embarks on his first world tour and Louis is a budding actor in LA. Life spent apart isn't easily adjustable, but somehow they make it work.

29) Why Can't It Be Like That | Explicit | 63567 words

A fashion AU with a royal twist, where Louis doesn't need a stylist, Harry's thrilled to have a real life Barbie doll, and they're both very wrong about each other.

30) Perfect Storm | Explicit | 80230 words

What do you do when your best friend asks you and your (now) ex to be the best men at his destination wedding? You can either tell him the truth, tell him you’re not together anymore, and deal with the consequences, or you can pretend you’re still together and roll with it, just pray you don’t spiral. Fake it ‘til you make it. You know, for the sake of the wedding. Harry and Louis choose the latter.   

31) Pinkies Never Lie | Explicit | 83615 words | Sequel

AU in which Louis hates his job and loves Harry, Harry just wants a distraction, everyone else wants them to get their shit together, and Louis learns the hard way that new beginnings are only possible when something ends.

32) I Want You So Much (But I Hate Your Guts) | Mature | 83648 words

AU in which Louis gets accepted to play for the Manchester University Alpha-Beta Football Team. The only problem: Louis is actually an Omega. He is determined to make it big in the football world, though, and he can't do that bound to an Omega team. With the help of a faked doctor's certificate and some pretty strong suppressants he is ready to fight for his dream. That Harry Styles (Alpha, second year and youngest football captain of the A-B team in ages) doesn't seem to like him complicates matters, though.

33) Electing Strange Perfections | Explicit | 84757 words

Back for the summer from university, 19-year-old Louis is faced with a massive problem: their new gardener is quite possibly the most gorgeous man he's ever met. Over the course of the summer, Louis and a 25-year-old Harry will learn that love can be found where you least expect it.

34) For Reasons Wretched and Divine | Explicit | 94655 words

Ten years ago, Harry Styles was just a nerdy kid with one friend and a debilitating crush on the captain of his school’s football team. He thought the stars were smiling down on him the day he and Louis Tomlinson were paired for their end-of-term Literature project. But because Harry’s life is decidedly not a fairytale, the budding friendship quickly leads to the least happy ending of all time. Now, Harry Styles is a household name. Barely twenty-seven with two Grammy nominations to his name, the singer-songwriter is poised to take the music industry by storm with his highly anticipated third album. So, what happens when the best producer in the business is also the only person Harry’s vowed never to speak to again?    

35) Blue Ice | Mature | 102967 words

An AU where Louis finds himself in a marriage he didn't bargain for. 

36) A Taste Of Desire | Explicit | 104414 words

A Victorian ABO where Harry is the owner of the most successful cotton mill in Manchester, and Louis is an opinionated social activist about to disrupt Harry’s world.

37) Tainted Saints And Velvet Vices | Mature | 126056 words

A self-fulfilling Hogwarts AU in which Louis is new to seventh year and Harry is the resident devil-may-care Slytherin set to make his entire experience a living misery. Due to less than favourable circumstances they're forced to forge an unwilling, tentative relationship for their own survival. Repressed emotions, decidedly unromantic ballroom dancing, Triwizard Tournament tasks, creative jinxes and twilight flying above the Forbidden Forest ensue.

38) All I Want | Mature | 289307 words

When Harry and Louis got together it wasn’t under the best circumstances. Louis was taken by another. But go figure that the way they ended up together is the very same way it ended. And Harry left Louis. He left him with a lot more than he thought. A story about how people’s misconceptions almost destroyed a love that went beyond measure.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[shirtlesssammy]

10x16: Paint It Black

Worcester, Massachusetts

A man walks out of confession, seemingly lighter of spirit and with a distorted camera lens following him outside the confessional booth. He then grabs a candle holder, walks outside and stabs himself through the heart and slashes it down his torso. I mean, really guy, 40 Hail Marys would probably cover it, but you do you. 

After the title sequence, we find Crowley busy with Hell paperwork. One demon comes to complain about Rowena (She put his face on the back of his head, Quirrell-style.) 

She’s mad at Crowley for not pleading to the Grand Coven on her behalf (OMG, I forgot all about her need to get back in the good graces of this organization...taking Rowena from Buckleming and letting her be a fully formed and wonderful character was the best thing to ever happen, I swear.) She’s also mad that he sided with the Winchesters. “You prefer them to your own flesh and blood.” I see it’s tea time in Hell. 

Sam and Dean are on the case. There have been multiple deaths --all victims gutted themselves nice and slow. 

Two nuns at the murder church are talking. 

Isabella recalls her time before becoming a nun. She knew a man named Piero, an incredible artist. She would pose for him. And, I’m sorry, but what’s with the dead muskrat on Piero’s head? Ew, girl. 

Sam and Dean get the phone from the most recent victim. Dean continues to be a Mark of Cain jerk-face. Sam is skeptical that this is a case, but Dean is very convinced. 

A man and a woman leave confession time at the murder church. The distorted camera lens walks with them down the aisle. Later, Husband is getting a late night snack when Wife comes into the kitchen. She tells him to come to bed. 

He turns and she pulls out a pair of scissors and guts him, blood splattering everywhere. A whitish demon-ghost exits the wife and floats away as the wife comes to, screaming, realizing what she just did. 

Sam and Dean interview the priest about the most recent murder. The wife remembers nothing after going to church. Dean and Sam think they’re above the secrecy of confession and ask about what the dead dudes were confessing. They’re introduced to Sister Mathias. She’ll show them around and answer any churchy questions they have. Sam heads off on his own (? I thought that’s why Sister Mathias was there --to show them around?) Anyway, there's a lot of awkward throat clearing and such. 

Dean asks Sister Mathias about the state of the McCarthy’s marriage. She’s in the know and very up to date on the extracurricular activities of the congregation. She’s also a hot gossip, as nuns tend to be. Dean then starts asking the real questions. “I guess I’m just wondering how somebody quits one life for something completely different --and believe in it so much.” This episode doesn’t offer much, but when Dean’s alone with people that he feels will keep his secrets, he’s very honest. 

Sam arrives and asks about strange occurrences in the church. It’s on the site of an old burial ground. And Sister Mathias thinks the idea of ghosts to be absurd. 

Sam and Dean leave. Dean makes performative jokes about Sister Mathias. They try to rule out what kind of supernatural entity they’re dealing with. Dean focuses on the fact that all the victims recently went to confession. Dean then asks when the last time he went to confession. 

Back in Hell, Crowley brings his mum a wee gifty: Olivette, the high priestess of the Grand Coven. She’s in chains and Crowley leaves Rowena to do with her as she pleases. (Natasha: We should totally call these latest two episodes our Teryl Rothery series, since she was the medical examiner in Heart.)

And now we’re back with Isabella and Sister Mathias. They’re talking about Piero again. Isabella was deeply in love with Piero. Listen, this love is so deep the soft focus lens can’t get any softer. Isabella talks about how the painting of her started his career and was his masterpiece. Then the show reveals itself: Florence, Italy, 1520. “Sweet Jesus, nothing in my love life was ever so magical,” the seemingly devote nun exclaims. Isabella tells the other nun that she confessed her love to Piero. Piero did not feel the same way. He was in love with his art! Isabella fell into despair. What is life without a muskrat man? Her family shipped her off to a convent. 

Rowena tortures Olivette, who reveals what happened to the coven. Instead of the all-powerful coven Rowena wished to join, it’s now been stripped down by centuries of witch hunts. Added to that, an organization plundered the coven’s greatest secrets and shipped them off to bunkers all over the world to hoard all that power for themselves. And who are these massive tools? The Men of Letters.

At the church, Dean sits in the confessional booth. Uh. I’ve read this fic. Avert your eyes, fair children! 

Dean fumbles his way through a confession about his womanizing and cheating ways and then asks if he’s “good to go?” SIGH. The priest dismisses him with a handful of prayers, but Dean lingers in the booth. “I pretty much just figured that that was all there was to me, you know? Tear around and jam the key in the ignition and haul ass until I ran out of gas. I guess I just thought sooner or later, I’d go out the same way that I live – pedal to the metal, and that would be it.” Dean thinks that the Mark is going to kill him, and drops the line that haunts us fans to this very day: “There’s things, there’s people… Feelings that I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time.” EYEBALLS EMOJI! Dean emerges from the confessional and Sister Isabella wafts in from out of the walls. Dun dun DUN. 

Isabella ghosts herself into the priest’s body next. I’m guessing they’ll just pot up some tulips together? Probably something nice.

Sister Mathias finds Isabella’s diary and begins to read it. One night Isabella snuck into Piero’s studio to destroy his paintings when she found him sleeping with another woman. She stabbed him brutally and her Life of Vengeance officially began! 

Sister Mathias fetches Sam and Dean. She explains that she’s hung out with many ghosts and watched them move on, but she didn’t expect Isabella to be quite so murdery. 

Isabella’s journal ends right after her trial, where she was convicted of witchcraft and burned. The Winchesters speculate that her journal is what ties her to Earth. Dean orders Sam to burn it.

Rowena continues to beat up Olivette, slap by sharp slap. God, I do love Rowena in a gorgeous gown!

Rowena scolds Olivette for losing the coven’s heritage to the Men of Letters. If the coven is useless, Rowena will hunt them down instead. Where can she find those wily Men of Letters? Olivette clues her in: the Winchesters are legacies. “Perpetually the Winchesters,” Rowena spits out. IKR?? Then, humming, she sets up a spell to DEAL with Olivette. Olivette shakes and screams and THEN... Rowena stops. She’s got a better idea. She utters a different spell and----

Back with the hunt, Dean explains the mechanics of rock salt on ghosts to Sister Mathias. Meanwhile, Sam reads Isabella’s diary. He learns that her blood was intended to be mixed into the paint used to create Piero’s masterpiece portrait. Isabella took it a step farther into psycho town, though. She chopped off her fingertip and told him to add her blood, flesh, and ground bone into the painting. UGH.

Dean discovers the priest torn open and dead on the altar. Suddenly Sister Mathias attacks him. She’s possessed! Isabella tells Dean that the priest had to die because he forgave Dean for his transgressions. GURL please. Sam burns the portrait and Isabella flames out dramatically.

At King o’ Hell headquarters, Rowena watches a wee hamster running in a wheel. The hamster is Olivette! She’s even wearing a cute, tiny red necklace.

Rowena doesn’t explain when or why she asked demons to create a nice, clean, enriching habitat for Olivette. Instead, she asks Crowley about the Winchesters and the Men of Letters. Crowley brushes her off and Rowena smiles prettily and swans away. Clearly, the issue shall never arise again!

In the car, Dean is like me...still grossed out that Isabella and Piero added a FINGERTIP to a painting. Like, Piero. DUDE. That should’ve been a red flag. Sam asks about Dean’s excessive time spent in the confessional. He offers to be a sounding board instead and Dean is SUPER ON BOARD with that plan. JK, of course Dean intends to keep his emotions locked in a warded box and flung into the deepest ocean trench. Sam delivers a rallying speech. He doesn’t think the Mark is going to kill Dean and they’re going to work together to save him! What could go wrong?

There are Things. Quotes...I Want to Experience Differently:

Scissors to the gut really brings out the Grinch in me

The FBI believes in ghosts?

Smug, self-righteous bastards: the Men of Letters

Learning there’s more to the universe than your tiny world can be a frightening discovery

There will be a way, and we will find it. That’s what we do

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[luvleekaotix-imagines]

Emotional support

a/n: thanks to @paopuparfait for letting me borrow their college au. i haven’t had the greatest time this past week, but i’ve been reminded that the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb and it’s comforting. 

heres a slice of life fic where a few characters just do their best to cheer you up and give you special treatment

“Hey—are you okay?” Aqua was probably your most perceptive friend. As soon as she saw you, she knew something was up.

You were doing your best to hide your negative feelings, but obviously, it wasn’t going well. The past few days had been trying and you didn’t want to burden your friends with your pessimism. They were always there for you and it wasn’t fair of you to always dump it on them, so you though to try and hide it this time. 

You were trying to bury it deep.

Aqua put her hands your shoulders and gave you a once over, taking in your pursed lips and effort to avoid her gaze. She offered a kind smile and put her arms around you. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I’m here for you though, you know?” She moved her hand to take yours. “Wanna get a coffee before class? My treat!”

You wanted to say ‘yes’, but—

You gently pulled your hand away from Aqua. “Sorry. I think I’m just gonna—” You gestured vaguely behind you. “Thanks anyway. I’ll—see you later.” If you spent time around her, you’d want to break down. If you were alone you’d be able to hold it together. Just for today, you’d keep everyone at arm's length.

Aqua watched you walk away, merging into the crowded halls and she frowned. Were you really going to be okay? She hummed before taking out her phone and starting a group message. ‘Hey, do you guys mind? I think a certain someone needs some support today.’

During the lectures, you were out of it. You couldn’t really focus. Emotionally you were fucked, mentally you were wrecked. You had no energy to even try to give the professor at the front any attention. You sat way at the back, hidden by others in front of you and just fucked around on your phone, trying not to cry. Why were you even on campus? Maybe it would better to go home.

Throughout the class, your group chat pinged. It was just the usual shit though; complaints about classes, letting everyone know when they had practice on if anyone wanted to go watch, that sort of thing. There were also some memes being sent that managed to wrangle a few smiles from you. Though you didn’t say anything, you reacted to a few of them.

When the lecture ended you left as soon as possible, ducking out before anyone else. When you turned a corner, you heard someone shout your name. Before you could properly turn around, you were suddenly engulfed in a tight hug. “Hey!” It was Sora beaming down at you. “I was looking for you.”

Oh, he was glowing today. Not that he wasn’t usually like the sun, but Sora’s cheery attitude was in stark contrast to how you were feeling. You didn’t want to bring him down any. “Hey...  Don’t you have class soon?” You asked kind of dismissively.

“We’re always late.” Vanitas droned from somewhere behind Sora. “Open wide.” Something was held in front of your mouth and you were so confused you just obeyed. A soft cookie was gently shoved in and you clamped down on it to hold it in place; your arms were still kind of captive in Sora’s hug.

You couldn’t say anything with a mouth full of cookie, so you just narrowed your eyes at Vanitas. He smirked and ruffled your hair, taking advantage of your helplessness. Then he gave you a casual salute before wandering off, disappearing as suddenly as he showed up. It wasn’t like you never interacted with Vanitas, but it was always so—abrupt.

Sora finally let you go. “You know that was meant to be my cookie.”

You reached up to your mouth, split the baked treat in half and held out the free half. Sora leaned forward so you should put it in his mouth. You hadn’t eaten anything yet, so you were begrudgingly a little happier for it.

“You okay? You’re pretty quiet.” The brunette subtly offered for you to open up if you wanted to. When you didn’t give a response, Sora changed the subject. “You gonna go see Riku’s match today?”

Oh right, the boxing match. You thought of the crowd and the likely presence of Riku’s cheering fans and you cringed. As much as you liked to support the silverette, you really didn’t have the energy to deal with it all. “Um—I might just skip it this time. He’ll be okay without me there.”

“Aw, I don’t know about that.” Sora grinned. “He loves it when you’re there. It gives him an excuse to ham it up.”

You couldn’t help yourself, you scoffed with a roll of your eyes. “Like he needs an excuse.” The sarcastic response was out of your mouth before you could stop it. You quickly pursed your lips. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Sora was cackling and you smiled for a split second before you became kind of melancholy again. If Sora saw it, he didn’t say anything. “Okay, I gotta run or I’ll really be late.” He gave you a quick hug and kiss on the cheek before dashing down the hall. “Bye!”

Once your radiant friend was out of sight, you felt miserable again. Maybe you’d just skip all your classes for the day. You paced back and forth, being indecisive, before heading towards the library. You’d feel guilty for ditching all your lectures and just going home. Maybe you could get some research done instead?

You were passing by one of the art studios on your way to the other block when someone called out your name. It was Naminé waving you over. When you approached the room, you could see Kairi and Xion inside too. Before you knew it, you were pulled inside.

“Are you ditching too?” Xion asked and threw something in your direction. You just managed to catch it, fumbling with it a few times before getting a grip on it; a small chocolate bar—of course it was. She always had snacks with her. It was likely because she was constantly having to feed her two mooching childhood friends, Roxas and Axel.

“Mm.” You made a non-committal noise in response to Xion’s question and just unwrapped the confectionary to shove into your mouth. If you had something in there, you wouldn’t have to talk.

“I don’t think anyone really wants to be here today.” Kairi wandered over to you and planted a greeting kiss on your cheek. “You’re looking cute. I don’t think I’ve seen you wear that outfit in a while.” The redhead looked up you up and down and beamed. “It’s really nice!”

“Its—it’s my hobo outfit.” You stated bluntly, around a mouthful of chocolate. “What are you on?”

She giggled. “You could dress like a hobo and still look good!” Kairi was always so kind and sweet. You put zero effort into how you looked in the morning, there was no way you could have looked any good. Right? Kairi was the one who always looked good, even if she complained that she was hobo-ing it.

“Here, I made this for you.” Naminé suddenly held something out. It was in a cute little handmade paper bag with your name handwritten in a neat and stylish font. “I hope you like it.” The blond was always self-conscious when it came to her creations, but you were always blown away by her talent. They were so good you had to start offering to pay her for the gifts she randomly gave you because they were so amazing.

“Oh geez.” You reached in to take out an awesome hand decorated phone case. It was totally in your aesthetic style and colours, with little charms and icons of things that you really liked. “Naminé, how much do you want for this?”

She waved a hand with a small blush on her face. “Don’t worry about it! I’m just glad you like it.” Her sweet and earnest smile made your heart flutter with emotion and you gave her a hug which was returned with no hesitation. “I know you already know this, but if you ever need to talk to anyone, we’re here for you.” When you didn’t respond, Naminé took your hands in hers and smiled. “Just keep it in mind, okay?”

Xion and Kairi sounded in agreement. “You can come to us any time! We’re a call away.” The redhead offered.

Your lip quivered and you wanted to open up, but quickly shoved your emotions back again. “Thanks, guys.”

You quickly left after that, the girls giving you a hug and kiss each. Honestly, you felt like you were the luckiest person in the world for having such supportive friends—maybe it was more like you were one big misfit family. You were really down in the dumps and you really appreciated everyone’s support.

Since you weren’t going to watch Riku’s match, you thought to see him to quickly wish him luck and then go home after to sleep off the rest of the day. You changed your phone case on the way to the other building and quickly checked the group chat to see where everyone was at.

Not many people usually went to watch Riku practice. All his fans knew he preferred to focus on his own. However, occasionally some of your friends liked to turn up to cause trouble. You could hear the voices before you entered the gym, but when you walked in there was a cheer.

“Here’s someone who could really give it to ya!” Axel waved you over to the bench. He and Terra were in gym wear, either on their way to their own practices or intending to work out, but choosing to annoy their friend instead.

Terra gestured for you to sit beside him. “Come join us, we’re heckling him so he gets used to the pressure.” He was like an older brother to Riku and while your first impressions of Terra was that he was serious and reserved, after a while you realised he was also a lot of fun.

Meanwhile, Riku seemed out of breath and sweaty from punching the sandbags. When he saw you, he beamed. “Hey.” He ignored the other two, taking off his gloves to pelt them at Axel and Terra who protested. “Don’t you have class?” When you didn’t reply, he raised a brow. “Not feelin’ it?”

You shook your head. “I just came in to say I’ll be missing your match. I’m really not—well, so I’m gonna go home and sleep for the rest of the day.” You felt bad admitting that you’d rather sleep over going to support your friend.

You expected Riku to give you a disappointed look, but he simply reached for a towel nearby to wipe the sweat off his face before planting a kiss on your forehead. “Don’t worry about it, it’s not an important match anyway.” He grinned. “If want to, we can grab dinner later and I can tell you all about my win.”

“Listen to him—so confident.” Terra quickly interjected. “You shouldn’t get such a big head or else it’ll be a massive target during your fight.” The silverette made a comment about how funny it was that Terra was talking about ego, but the brunette brushed it off. Terra instead put an arm around your shoulders as you sat beside him. “Did you need a ride home? I’m gonna leave after we finish annoying Riku.”

You shook your head and leaned on his shoulder. “No. I’ll get home on my own, thanks.” You also knew that Terra lived in the opposite direction to you, so there was no way you’d make him go out of his way.

Terra planted a kiss on your head. “I’m no good at talking, but if you want me to intimidate someone, I can do it.” He offered and you had to laugh. At least he was admitting that he was shitty at talking through issues. Talking was more of an Aqua thing. Terra smiled when he saw you lighten up for a second. He always felt bad when he hovered around you, struggling to find the right thing to say when you were feeling bad. When he got it right, it felt good.

“Wait, I want in on this intimidation thing.” Axel leaned in. “I can offer some firey support. Maybe some ice cream after.” He gave you a mischievous grin with a spark in his eye. To be honest you had no doubt that if you asked for someone to be intimidated, Axel would be all over that shit. You didn’t know too much about Axel’s past, but sometimes when things got rough, you could see something flicker in the jokester's expression. He was sweet to you, but you knew he wasn’t that way to everyone.

“Hang on, is someone bothering you?” Riku asked seriously, just in case. At times, he was definitely the personification of ‘where do they live, I just wanna talk’. He would never butt into anyone’s business for the heck of it, but when a friend needed it, he was there. You couldn’t count the number of times you’ve asked Riku to sit by you to help divert the ill intentions of others; you were very grateful for it.

“You guys are always so eager to fight.” You rolled your eyes. “Not everything can be solved with fists—or fire.” You added quickly as you saw Axel open his mouth. “I’m just—feeling bad.” Miserable, actually. “I go home and rest and hopefully I’ll bounce back tomorrow.”

The guys looked at each other and conceded. Terra kept his arm around your shoulder, “Alright, fine. I’m gonna drive you home though—no buts.” He covered your mouth with his hand before you could protest. You made a sound of disapproval, but the brunette ignored you.

The guys continued to argue about something inane, but you felt maybe they were acting out to try and cheer you up. Maybe staying away from your friends wasn’t the right thing to do. Being around them actually lifted your spirits a little. Sure it hadn’t improved much, but it certainly wasn’t worse. When you got home later, you’d go to sleep and hopefully wake up with a better outlook.

Although, you guessed even if you didn’t, you’d be able to lean on your friends for some support.

[jerrisdiction]

Finding my voice

These days I fumbled with the thought of censoring my words, or even going back to re-edit my blog posts. But that itself goes against the spirit of jotting down genuine, original thoughts that I may have.

A lot of writing, or just creating anything would involve finding that voice, that message which we are trying to convey. That was probably how blogs arose - there were themes that each attempts to focus on, like a website. School life, beauty, food, travel - loads of them out there. I suppose people who don’t have a specific focus may still do well - some of them are influencers, and some readers read because it’s them.

For me, though, there are so many things which I want to write about. Never had I imagined this, until people actually told me that I write fairly well. Seriously? My lack of vocabulary always makes me give up in exasperation though. And I constantly swung between “I’m not original enough, I don’t feel like it’s my writing” and “my style is too bizarre or childish for anyone to appreciate, I should switch to a more acceptable, mature way of writing”. Not just writing, but also singing, editing photos - and lately with editing videos. Lately I struggle with wanting to delete my videos, simply because they seem so similar to the trending aesthetic vlogs. Those with cute fonts, borders, lo-fi/ calm/ cute background music, warm tones. See, I’ve watched enough of these vlogs to know what is popular. And sure more people are adopting similar styles from one another; sometimes we see comments like “oh your style reminds of haegreendal, it’s so calm and soothing” and they’d reply “thank you I’m honoured to hear that, she’s amazing!”. And that sort.

But thankfully I took some time to think about all these, and came to wonder - perhaps this is all about our need to share our lives with the world outside. It is pretty toxic at times. I remember those days I just wanted to tweet something funny or post a nice cover, to get loads of retweets and likes. It’s probably a phase which all of us would go through. Until we realise that fine line between sharing our lives simply because it’s worth sharing, and sharing our lives to gain that validation. As someone who grew up on validation and craved validation, it was no wonder I fell prey to this pretty easily. And that was partly why I kept deleting my accounts, moving from one platform to another - hoping to “make it big” somewhere online because I could no longer beg for that validation in real life.

That “online” persona of mine viewed my real-life persona as someone pathetic, because I was getting increasingly low-profile.

Only for me to gradually realise, that was actually what I really wanted deep down. 

The question then, could be - is there anything worthy to write about then?

It comes back to the matter of doing things intrinsically. My friends told me to sing because I enjoy it, not because there is an audience; to write because I need to express and clear my thoughts, not because it is an art form or something whimsical that people need to appreciate. Hell, who appreciates rants? It reminds me of those among us, who create private accounts to rant or ramble. It sure felt a little comforting that your closer friends could view the posts and give some words of moral support. But sometimes when people admit that it feeds their ego a little (how, I cannot figure), that’s likely when it gets a little... Warped. The need for validation, once again.

Or perhaps, a fine balance has to lie between positioning oneself, and neglecting one’s uniqueness in order to fit in. Since a long time ago, we were taught to be prepared for that classic question - for that elevator speech. Tell them something unique about yourself, but also something acceptable. A blog description is more likely to say “Hi I’m xxx, I’m an avid traveller and camping enthusiast” than “Hi I blog about random things under the Sun”.

So yeah, it kind of confused me that people think I write well - when I frustrate over what to write about in the first place. It’s like how my teachers think my essays are mere fluff with no solid content. As someone in her early twenties, I can only admit that I have been through way, way less 'real’ experiences than those my age. And I used to shame myself for lacking in those - no hall life, no clubbing, no chilling at bars, no CCAs to keep me exhausted. I don’t read that much either. So yes, I considered myself an empty vessel who was constantly “hurting” from all the negativity.

But gradually, I came to reminisce of certain experiences which others may not have been through. Has the average Singaporean youth been up Singapore Quarry via a rocky mountain biking trail on foot? Got shocked by a pervert trying to take pictures of her legs? Travelled to Tuas to recce a stock count location? Wore matching shirts on her very first date with someone who later becomes her partner? Bought a ukulele in secret and had to hide it for 2 months before getting caught? Everyone has different experiences.

I feel like a tired old lady these days, but these are experiences that will keep me looking forward to more. So that when I truly become an old lady, there are stories that I would have in store to tell. Recounting these without trying to fear the negatives, without trying to glorify the positives. And maybe, that’s what I wish to embrace in my writing.

[themagicianshea]

From now until November, we’ll be spotlighting some of our MHHE registered authors. Want to make art for them? Register here! Artists who register before July 6th get early access to claims.

MHHE Author Spotlight: Page161of180

What piece of work best represents your writing style, and how would you briefly describe it?

I think that my most representative piece is one called "You're a Story (I Can Follow)". It's a take on the Orpheus and Eurydice myth, that involves Eliot rescuing Quentin from the Underworld after the events of season four-- which, *heavy sigh*, I wrote in the middle of season four, before I realized how badly I would eventually a crave a story that gets Quentin back. 

I think it speaks clearly to the things I like to do as a writer: the plot is there but not overly complex, the focus is on the characters (specifically Eliot and Quentin) and how they understand themselves and each other and who they are to each other, there are just an absolutely gratuitous number of flashbacks and memories and little moments that show the truth of any relationship (in my view), it's deep in the feels but ends joyfully, and it takes as both thesis statement and rallying cry that the beating heart of love is knowing someone really damn well and taking care of them as best you can, even if you are a full disaster every time you try to express it. 

One of my favorite bits, which takes place near the start of the story, when Eliot is trying to convince himself that Quentin is actually following him out of the Underworld, follows below. If you want to know how I see Eliot in his relationship to Quentin (that is: desperately romantic and desperately dysfunctional about it), this is all you really need to read:

He cleared his throat once. It would have been almost comically affected, except for the fact that he actually did need to clear the choking lump that had formed if he was going to get a word out. “The thought occurs,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately casual, “that if we’re going to make it up however many stairs are in the Underworld Branch without me losing what’s left of my mind, the whole ‘ascending in silence’ thing isn’t going to cut it. I know there’s not much you can do about that at the moment--”

He grabbed the banister to cover the tremor in his hand, “--so you’ll just have to suffer through my sparkling conversation. Fortunately, I’ve cultivated a real gift for speaking to imaginary versions of you recently. And on the off chance you’ve bailed on the whole enterprise already, we’ll just-- chalk this up to the stage of the grieving process where I go full season 5 - season 6 hiatus Spike.”

Eliot actually could feel Q, then, but he knew it wasn’t coming from behind him, but inside him, the shard of Q that was a part of him, always, even all the months Eliot had repressed him. The part that was always watching Eliot with disappointed (but unsurprised) eyes as Eliot pretended every little thing about Q didn’t make him want to carve a shelter out of his body for this reckless little stormcloud of a man, with his awful clothes and embarrassing earnestness and the eyelashes that Eliot honest-to-God couldn’t not kiss every. Single. Time. he’d watched them flutter while Q flew apart with Eliot’s name in his mouth.

“Sorry,” Eliot said quietly, letting out a sigh. “I told myself that I was going to be better--” braver “--if I ever . . . saw you. Again. Ever so slightly less full of my own bullshit. But this is--”

Nothing like he thought it would be , for starters. In his relentless planning for what he’d do when he was free, he’d imagined what he’d say if Q was happy, if Q was furious, if Q had already fucked off and married Alice and they had 2.5 magical prodigies and Q hadn’t even thought of Eliot in thirteen years of however the fuck much time had passed. But never had he considered coming back to find Q-- gone . It hardly would have been conducive to maintaining his sanity. Nor had he considered what it would be like to find Q but to have lost the words . To be too chickenshit to say them, sure. To fumble them, abso-fucking-lutely. But to have mortgaged them away?

“-- it’s hard, Q,” he finally settled on. “It’s just-- really hard.”

He could imagine the Q behind him, and the Q inside him, both furrowing their brows.

“Oh stop it,” he shushed, in the familiar way born of having the time to learn every one of a person’s textbook moves. “You know you’re always worth it. To me.”

And: bonus answer! While I think "You're a Story" is probably my most representative work overall, it is a bit mournful in tone until the ending, so perhaps not the best representative of what my MHHE work will be like! For that, I'd recommend, "The Honor of Your Presence," which is the fully indulgent, outsider-POV, Queliot wedding piece that my heart needed: . A snippet (and strong contender for my absolute favorite piece of dialogue that I've written) follows below:

“Fine,” King Quentin says. “Forget the whole ‘obey’ thing. What about just love and honor ? That’s-- unobjectionable, right?”

King Eliot doesn’t answer immediately, and because he is wearing one of his looser tunics today, without the high-collared jackets he prefers, Rafe can see that the pulse in his throat begins to pound at a pace not unlike the palace’s fleet of messenger bunnies.

“Seriously,” King Quentin sighs.

“It’s not that it’s objectionable , per se,” King Eliot says, his voice a note higher than normal. Rafe might say it was verging on the hysterical, were that a word that could be fairly applied to a king. “Isn’t it just-- a bit gauche to come out and say it? What happened to preserving the mystery?”

What piece of work are you most proud of and why?

While I'm embarrassingly attached to everything I've written in this fandom (because I'm embarrassingly attached to the characters themselves), I think my personal proudest moment is a piece called "A Little Disguised, or a Little Mistaken". On one level, this is all about Eliot and Quentin's memory-wipe personas Nigel and Brian meeting and falling in love like the nonsensical soulmates that they are. But on another level, it's also about the parts of Eliot and Quentin that are immutable and come through no matter what, and the way that they keep making the same mistakes with each other (and getting the same things right) across their various timelines and identities. It's also, in large measure, about Jane Austen, for reasons. If you want to know what me writing a no-magic, modern AU romcom would look like (cough cough, MHHE!, cough), the first three-quarters of this are a pretty good indication.

“What can I make you tonight? And keep in mind-- we’re celebrating.”

That was right, Nigel’s text had said he had good news. Well, at least one of them did.

“Um. Something, like, fruity?”

Nigel smirked and it made Brian want to simultaneously slide to the floor and also reach over and pull Nigel in by the collar, but he did neither.

“Okayyy,” Nigel said. “Do I get anything more to go on?”

Brian shrugged one shoulder. “Surprise me.”

Nigel’s hands, always deft and sure, fumbled the glass for a moment, but he recovered it. “Why don’t you tell me what you don’t like,” he said once he had.

Nothing you’re offering , Brian wanted to say. But instead he cleared his throat and said, “Uh. Peaches, I guess? I don’t like them.”

Nigel nodded. “What don’t you like about them?”

They hurt to eat , Brian thought. “Too sweet, I guess,” he said instead.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Nigel said, already starting to gather ingredients.

“You’ve never eaten a peach?”

Nigel shook his head as he started muddling something with something else. “Allergic. Even the smell’s kind of overpowering, though. I get how they could be too much.”

As Nigel poured and shook and stirred, Brian watched entranced and a little sad that something Nigel did so naturally was so dangerous for him. Or maybe it wasn’t natural at all. Maybe Nigel was just a much better actor than New York had given him credit for.

Nigel finished his creation and placed it on a napkin, before sliding it across the bar to Brian. It was reddish-gold in color, shading down to a deeper purple-red at the bottom of the glass.

“Gin fizz with a plum shrub,” he said to Brian’s inquisitive look. “Anyway. Brace yourself. Good news incoming.”

What tropes can we look forward to in your MHHE fic?

Let's see . . .  There's going to be about a millisecond of enemies-to-lovers, but let's be real-- these two are far too charmed by each other to stay enemies for long. Not sure any of the following are within the strict definition of "tropes," but they're among my personal favorites, so you can go ahead and expect some gratuitous cuddling of a puppy, some deep-meaningful-late-night-talks-even-though-we've-only-just-met (time is an illusion! they bond fast!), so so so much expressing of thinly-veiled feelings through artistic expression, and actively pining while also actively sleeping together. Also, am I going snow these ridiculous gentlemen in? (I'm going to snow these ridiculous gentlemen in.) 

Fuck, Marry, Kiss (under the mistletoe) with three Magicians characters of your choice!

My fully honest answer is Eliot, Eliot, and Eliot. But my even more honest answer is that I'd rather sit back with a cup of tea and a plate of gingerbread cookies and sigh with deep appreciation while Quentin handles all of Eliot's mistletoe needs.