#THEO & | i will be your poet; i will be more to you than any other

[minarcana]

"H-Happy Valentione's Day!" Theo's holding out a box of chocolates with an assortment of different chocolate flavours. "I made you some chocolates but um ... first," He decides to go ahead and take one to place it between his lips before leaning up to press the piece of chocolate against Urianger's lips. Theo gently nudges the treat with his tongue so that it slips into his lover's mouth and he takes this opportunity to intertwine their lips together into a sweet kiss. He shamelessly allows himself to indulge himself in the treat as well by joining his tongue in alongside the chocolate so the two can savour the sweetness together. It isn't long before Theo breathlessly departs from the kiss and he smiles up at his lover with a bashful but yet mischievous expression. "So ... how did it taste?"

There are cookies made and wrapped for Theo already, tea cookies made with lavender. Urianger had given those over as soon as Theo arrived. The concept of actually having someone to give Valentione's treats to is nice, a welcome thing, and he wasn't even necessarily expecting Theo to gift anything in return.

However, he's certainly not complaining about treats. The assumption is at first that Theo wishes to share the chocolates, which is only fair of him, honestly. Theo meeting him in a kiss takes Urianger by surprise, making it ever easier for Theo to slip the candy past his lips. Urianger does at least adapt to Theo's plan quickly, pressing back into the kiss as chocolate melts between them. Urianger keeps the kiss going, pulling Theo along until all taste of chocolate is gone save for a lingering sweetness and Theo lowers himself back to breathe.

Now, now, Urianger isn't done here. Instead of answering the question asked, Urianger picks another piece of chocolate from the box still held in Theo's hand. "Hmm. It seemeth I was not paying enough attention. Thus must our only option be to try a second time, hm?" And he'll definitely have an evaluation then! Maybe. But true scientific evaluation requires at least three iterations, so—

Theo might be stuck in his own trap as Urianger lifts the new chocolate to Theo's lips and leans in to capture them once more.

[minarcana]

i coloured homosexuals. no readmore you WILL see them.

i drew homosexuals again … tehe. || base reference: @DAHAN_illust

Keep reading

[willows-wonderful-writing-world]

Chapter One : ~ The Beginning ~

a pretty short chapter but that’s okay!! I’m pretty proud of it, and I think that’s all that matters!! (Tagging : @magpiesquill x 3) No trigger warnings for this part! This is also not proof read so dont be scared to point out mistakes!!

“Come on! Come on! Hurry up, we don’t have time to lose!” 

Yelling quickly woke Mallory, the poor fifteen year old, up from his nap. “H- huh? Wha. . .” He looked around his treehouse, dazed and confused. Looking up, he sees his friend, Theo, looking panicked and rushed. 

Theo walks up to Mallory, grabbing his hand and pulling him up to his feet. “What the heck are you doing here?!” she asked, sounding annoyed. “We have to get to The House, quick! Did you forget that today is the day of the sacrifice, you fool! Up, up!” 

Crap.

That seemed to have gotten Mallory awake, as he stood up straighter. “Already? Oh Holy Father, forgive me. . .” He muttered under his breath, now beginning to feel as panicked as Theo did. “I thought that was weeks away, I didn’t— ”

“It doesn’t matter what you think! Fix yourself up, change, and come out once you do!” Theo sighed before letting go to leave by climbing down the ladder.

The treehouse was not too big, but not too small. All it had was a small pile of blankets and a few boxes full of various things. The only reason this place even exists was because it was Mallory’s hideaway whenever things got too much.

He looked through a box before grabbing a simple poet’s shirt and black pants. Nothing too much, as that would be inappropriate for this occasion. Changing quickly, he then put his old clothes away before climbing down the treehouse.

His feet hit the ground with a light thud, Theo’s gaze falling upon him once he arrived. “Ah, I thought you’d take longer.” she said drily, grabbing Mallory’s hand before the two began to walk. “Seriously, you probably took more time than my mother.”

“Hey!” Mallory frowned, yanking his hand away from Theo’s. “Why are you– ”

“Shut up. We don’t have time to argue, and would The Family approve of you insulting your sister?” Theo asked smugly, not even bothering to look back at Mallory.

“But you– ”

“Hurry up.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Mallory stood near Theo, watching as The Priestess walked up onto the podium. People were all around, almost everyone seemed to want to move closer to the stage.

“Settle down, settle down everyone.” The Priestess said in a soft voice, yet despite the softness everyone seemed to listen and stop moving.

Mallory let out a silent sigh.

“Now, as everybody may know, today is the special day where we choose a sacrifice for The Family. We live to serve them, and being a sacrifice is one of the utmost honors any one person could have.” The Priestess paused, looking around the crowd before continuing. Mallory could have swore her gaze lasted on him for just a second longer than needed. “Now, onto the selection process. Everyone of age must write their name down onto a sheet of paper and put it into the pail that corresponds to said person’s sex. You may move.”

With that, people began to move towards the front, and that is when Mallory found out why people wanted to get to the front. The papers were up there, and like The Priestess said, this is a very important thing. The Family has provided all of them with the life they needed! The people outside simply didn’t know how wonderful it is with The Family.

Mallory had never signed up before, mainly because he’s never gotten the chance to. The lines were always too long and the only time he was able to sign his name (which was when he was of age at fourteen), his name wasn’t called. He sighed to himself, hoping that at least someone gets to fulfill the role he wishes he had.

“Well? Why are you standing there?” Theo asked, raising a brow at Mallory. “Come on, we can cut the line, you know.”

“Wh. . . no, that isn’t truthful nor fair.” Mallory shook his head.

“Stop being soo good for once and come on.” Theo rolled her eyes before grabbing Mallory’s wrist and dragging him through people.

For every person Theo made them bump into was a sorry that came out of Mallory’s mouth. He didn’t know how to feel, he was cutting the line of people just like him who wanted to be the sacrifice, but he also didn’t know how to fight against Theo. The two have been friends for years, born together and raised together. 

Though, they were also experimented on, if someone could say that. All that happened is that Mallory was raised more female like while Theo was raised more masculine like, hence the names. Mallory doesn’t even remember being feminized except for when he was told he was actually a male. Even so, it’s what he knew so it’s what he was. Even though they tried to masculize him, he was always a little bit feminine. In his treehouse, one of the boxes had dresses and feminine clothing in it. He just genuinely enjoyed it, even if it was wrong. It was their fault he was like this, not his.

Once the two got up to the front, they sneakily waited for the person writing their name to finish. Then, Mallory and Theo went up. Theo smirked smugly as she heard the people behind them either sound angry or confused, while Mallory just wanted to do this quickly.

Writing his name was the easy part, however little did he know, he accidentally put his name into the woman’s pail. Maybe it was because he saw Theo put her name into the one that he just assumed that the one nearest to him was the male one.

Theo then grabbed Mallory’s hand and dragged her away while giggling to herself. “Aw, finally. You should have seen the faces of everyone. They were properly pissed! Heh. . .” she giggled again.

“I did see their faces, I was there with you.” Mallory mumbled.

“Whatever, come on, we should take a seat.” she hummed happily, letting go of his hand and running off. He sighed before reluctantly running after her.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

��This year's female and male sacrifices are. . .” The Priestess called out, putting both of her hands into each pail. Luckily, Theo was able to get the perfect seats for them, not too far from the stage yet not too close where it would be loud and they would have the best view of The Priestess.

She pulled one paper out from the male pail and another from the female one.

“Our sacrifices are. . .”

Mallory looked over to Theo who looked oddly sure of herself. Meanwhile, Mallory was starting to panic. Maybe he didn’t want to die, at least not now. He still wanted to do things. He still wanted to live in his treehouse. He. . . he still wanted to—

“Mallory Rosary and Theo Greenston!”

[klutzyroses]

Could you do part 2 of the headcanon about the reactions of the Ikemenvamp guys to getting a bunch of little kisses on their partner's face? with Mozart, William, Theodore and Count of Saint Germain.

Let's do it!

IkeVamp HCs: S/O giving them kisses on their face pt. 2

Suitors: Mozart, Theo, Comte, William

Mozart

Just one of your spontaneous kisses on his cheek catches him off guard but when he turns to question you, he is met with another on his nose.

And his cheek. And his forehead. Before he could even fully process it, you had him buried under your soft lips dropping multiple kisses on his slowly burning visage.

He will roll his eyes and complain...well he will try but by the time you stop, his mouth is pursed into a thin line, his cheeks bright with roses as he avoids making direct eye contact.

He finds that it wasn't so bad as long as you didn't do that in public. The feeling of your plush petals stays with him for quite some time.

He will absolutely wash those lipstick marks off. He loves you to bits but he is not walking around with those kind of marks for all to see.

He will most likely pay you back somehow. He will take your hand and press a kiss on it, never breaking away from your eyes as he does so, before he showers you in slow, all consuming kisses, from your hands to your shoulders, forehead and lips. He will feel a vindicated smile on his lips when you get flustered.

"It's only fair I return everything you gave me, don't you think, liebe?"

Theo

His gruff grumble loses some bite because of his slightly pink cheeks as they are dotted with little kisses over and over.

The feeling of your plump lips pressing against his skin again and again in chaste touches of affection whilst your slender arms coiled around his neck warmed him up from the inside, like he was enveloped in the radiant sunshine. There's hardly any feeling better than this.

He may grumble and complain till the cows come home but he enjoys it really. It's moments like this that reminds him how much he loves and adores you.

He is not walking around with lipstick marks on his face. He will not. It won't happen.

But he will definitely pay you back in full for flustering him so. Expect that out of nowhere, you may be pinned against the nearest flat surface before feeling his lips brush your soft cheek before claiming you into a melting kiss, his hands gently brushing your hips in a slightly tickling sensation.

Once you are out of breath and your adorable face is flushed, he will smirk with satisfaction as he coos in your ear.

"What's the matter, knabbeltje? Can't take a taste of your own medicine?"

Comte

His shoulders shook slightly with the loving chuckles that escaped him as he accepted every single one of your sweet kisses.

It fills him with unbelievable joy to have you shower your love for him in such an adorable display. He can't help but capture your pretty lips with his when you are going for his cheek, just to reciprocate even an eighth of your affection.

He has no complaints whatsoever, not even when he is left with lipstick marks to deal with after, he may not mind them, but he does think it more appropriate to wipe them off. Partly because he isn't really in the mood to hear Leonardo's playful commentary.

He will most definitely return your affection, tenfold in fact. He will cradle you, caress you, hold you, hug you, drown you in compliments, he will absolutely spoil you rotten.

He will gently pepper kisses along your smooth cheek as he murmurs tender words to you in your ear.

"Ma beauté...you make me a very happy man. Let me return the favour."

William

The bard of Avon is never above embarrassing you with his affection, thus its only fair that you retaliated by bombarding him with a flood of kisses.

He would be silent, his brow slightly furrowed, his cheeks a soft pink as he is left standing there, pondering how to react to the onslaught of loving pecks.

The poet would hold your waist as you held your arms around his neck for balance, and to keep him from escaping your love. There was no escape. None.

In truth, he loves it, though unused to it as he may be. It reminds him of how lucky he is to have you, what a precious darling you are.

He may or may not walk about with lipstick marks. He will wipe the more obvious ones off if there are too many, but will keep maybe just a few.

Be prepared for his retaliation. He will absolutely get you back. Make no mistake.

You won't know when, how or where. But suddenly you will be fully swept in his arms as he lifts you off the ground as he takes you into a heart fluttering kiss, smiling somewhat mischievously at your flustered disposition. He will definitely tease you about it, especially since it was so out of nowhere.

"Ah, but my most treasured beloved, t'was only a recompense for the tidings of love you delivered unto me but the other day~

🌸

[swordheld]

hi faye! you are one of the sweetest and kindest persons i see around the internet, so i wanted to ask you, how do you remain kind despite the circumstances? is there any book, essay, poem, song, or any piece that inspires you to be kind? or how do you keep that mindset? i hope i'm not bothering you is just that i'm really curious about it. thank u !!

oh, this was such a joy to receive tucked into my inbox, thank you so much for your kindness!! i believe that it’s important to note that we are living in unprecedented times, and some days the collective or individual hurt of the world can be overwhelming, and that’s okay! sometimes it’s difficult to be kind, and i urge anyone to keep in mind the action of being kind to yourself, as well, and think of kindness as a muscle you train over time. if you look for it and create it wherever you go, you are sure to find it everywhere.   

i’ve spent time thinking over it, and i believe that it comes down to having a continued perspective of awareness, paired with empathy: everyone is holding on to something. whether that is joy or a heavy motional weight, they are shouldering it as they go through their days. there is a strength, in that, and it is one we rarely ever get the chance to recognize.

there are a multitude of pieces i adore that bring me back to that feeling of an almost physical pull back to that kind of awareness. i’m gently afraid that these examples i will give may end up being terribly specific, but i do hope that at least one of them reaches out to you in a similarly soft way.

i’m going to start with my favorite, simplest suggestion: walking outside. there is something so easily romanticized about lacing up your shoes, grabbing your keys off the hook, and setting off into your neighboring environment. you become surrounded by this encompassing feeling of connection, of how much effort has gone in to building and supporting the area around you. the trees you pass may have been planted by human hands, or have been solid and strong since they were young seeds, blown in by wind. the buildings around you may house people whose lives are as vibrant and dimensional as your own: there is so much history all over the place, and it’s yours, if you want it to be. 

in a more media-centered route, poetry is one of my favourite pieces of tangible empathy. in some ways, i think that poetry knows us better than we know ourselves. it is a form of art where we take our emotions and we lay them into our languages and create a kind of tangibility for them. we say: here is a phrase you can hold in your hands, in your mouth, in your heart. there’s nothing quite like language for communication of emotions, the way it makes the whole world turn and pay attention, gleaming in a light that you recognize, how it makes other moments even just that little bit easier to bear.

we are capable of so, so much: kindness, love, awe, empathy. we reach out our hands to hold each other through good times and bad. there are so many lives i’ve had the privilege to experience glimpses and perspectives of due to poets and their writings. some of my favourites being that of: 

mary oliver, her awareness of our connection to both nature and each other, light and awe at the center of everything.

dunya mikhail, the artist’s child was one of the very first poems i memorized by heart, there is such a presence in her poems that i can’t put into words that accurately do them justice.

any collection of van gogh’s letters to and from his brother theo, there is something here that saves us. that love of just one person can change everything, and have such a substantial effect on a singular person that, in turn, changes the world. even further, theo’s wife, johanna, kept and published the letters that propelled van gogh’s popularity. it’s one of my favourite examples of how love and kindness can change the world more than we could have ever dreamed. 

bell hooks, especially her all about love and its overall trilogy, but many of her other works also share this empathic awareness and attention, and i adore it more and more with each new writing of hers that i pick up.

ada limón, i think of dead stars’ “look, we are not unspectacular things” and something shifts in me, unnamable. 

some music suggestions i love that lead to the same veins of inspiration are: joe hisaishi’s and satoshi takebe’s score works for the ghibli movie soundtracks, john powell’s work for the how to train your dragon scores, evan call’s work for the violet evergarden scores, sleeping at last’s scores (atlas one will always have such a warm place in my heart), all stunningly beautiful instrumental accompaniments to their stories. i go to these first and foremost due to their incredible beauty in sound, but also because there is something very kind in their stories, all centered on hope and love in their own ways, creating ways to get across these feelings without language, in sound alone; which is a feat that makes me feel like i am standing in sunlight, warmth blossoming in me.

i hope these bring you even a small bit of joy and company in your days, and please do feel free to let me know how everything goes! wishing you all my best, with all the kindness in me  💛

[grandhotelabyss]

—Barrett Avner, “The Witch”

This helps us to understand what makes The New Conservatism meaningfully conservative, and not just in the differential sense that it resists current hegemonic left-liberalism. 

In current hegemonic left-liberalism, three streams converge. (Unlike other observers, I am not that interested in giving causal or explanatory priority to any one of them; the fact of their convergence is probably the most important thing.) 

First is the left’s latent gnostic tendency, for which this world is a prison, our proper home always elsewhere, ahead, to be brought into being upon the reassemblage of our souls, now divided, scattered in the offal of oppression called history. 

Second is “online,” which offers itself as an ever-more-complete new and improved reality, a place without the usual limitations of place, because here you can be anyone and anything, you can inhabit multiple avatars if you like, and nothing compels you to remain, to persist, to have any obligation beyond whatever contracts you’ve signed—and your overseers’ assessment of your performance of identity and ideology in the virtual space. 

And third is the logic of surveillance begun in the 20th century, accelerated after 9/11, and almost finalized with the pandemic, for which the expectation of privacy, interiority, or freedom of movement is not only a quaint archaism, but a live threat, terrorist or biological or both, to the public weal. 

From these overlapping ideologies or technologies emerge the demand that we lock ourselves into the virtual where we can most effectively present ourselves to the sensor of the scanning mechanism, with the corollary that our virtual fate—including the virtuality of our biological existence as converted into data—redounds back upon our earthly person in a literalization of “if you die in a dream, you die in real life.” For example, you might be sent to a quarantine camp for your epidemiological status as determined by the scanner (whether or not you are what we used, experientially, to call “sick”) or fired from your job or expelled from your profession for an opinion you posted to one of the surveillant platforms. 

Anything reminiscent of the real in any of its variants, whether transcendent (God) or sub-immanent (pre-ideologized matter), is discouraged if not proscribed. Hence, there’s no contradiction in The New Conservatism’s endorsement of “orgiastic gay sex,” since sex, insofar as it confers a non-ideological affective glamor upon matter, refutes the gnostic position not through argument but by inarguable experience, as surely as Dr. Johnson kicking the stone; as for gay, gay no less than straight (and trans no less than cis) implies some attachment to the gender binary that’s been virtually abolished. In truth, you are party to The New Conservatism if you have any non-negotiable this-worldly commitments at all, any ties that cannot be virtualized away into scannable potentia or upon which you will not accept the scanner’s negative verdict. This is what Avner means later in the post by “racism against humanity itself,” a very useful formulation.

I don’t mean to play with words. As little as The Perfume Nationalist and Amanda Milius are what he had in mind, Burke probably did mean something like the above when he denounced the Revolution, because it was gnostic from the start. Our rebels really are conservatives, however faute de mieux. Insofar as the convergent tendencies of our era threaten to destroy not only the promised devil—who is, all good gnostics know, normative monotheism’s God—but the world and the flesh right along with him, does a desire to conserve humanity and experience need any apology?

My only caution is that art requires gnosticism as well as conservatism. You can get the balance wrong both ways. Great art is imagination and reality in equal measure. This is why I’m a novelist, not a poet, and yet not a realist novelist; why I’m a literary critic, not a philosopher, and yet not a literary theorist. Did I overpraise Milton? I don’t think I’m being grandiose or paranoid when I suspect that this thread by Marino is sub-Tweeting my essay on Paradise Lost (we follow each other on Goodreads, and he endorses the judgment from Johnson that I contest), and perhaps he’s right. There are in the end no hard boundaries among art, religion, and politics, but we should maintain whatever fences we can, even as we remember that in all domains we need to attend at once to the mind and the world.

This post is too long as it is, but I want to end with three quotations, which you can take as you will:

Like Terach, like Freud, like Marx, like the Gnostics, like the classical Christian theologians who are the inheritors of the Gnostics, like the Kabbalists and the Hasidim who are similarly the inheritors of the Gnostics, like all of these, the Bloomian scheme of misprision of the precursor is tainted by a variety of idol-making.

—Cynthia Ozick, “Literature as Idol: Harold Bloom”

Found a family, build a state, The pledged event is still the same: Matter in end will never abate His ancient brutal claim.

      *    *   *    *

Indolence is heaven’s ally here, And energy the child of hell: The Good Man pouring from his pitcher clear But brims the poisoned well.

—Herman Melville, “Fragments of a Lost Gnostic Poem of the 12th Century”

I'm not a reactionary—I’m just a right-wing extremist so far beyond the Christian Identity people like that and stuff, that they can’t even imagine. I’m so far beyond that I’m a Maoist. I’m an anarchist. I’ve always been an anarchist. Any true, real right-winger if he goes far enough hates all form of government, because government should be done to cattle and not human beings.

—John Milius

[arts-and-drafts]

Legacy (Part 2)

(Continuation of my first FWT fankid AU fic, in which Dream faces his consequences and Fundy goes after his reckless son before it's too late to save him. Enjoy!)

(Tagging @midnightmagi @rose-icosahedron @amazonprimebox @colorfulsiren @strawberrylemonz)

-

Dream shifted, the first real movement Theo had seen from him. "...I don't have a son." He spoke, his tone low with an unreadable emotion. Theo flattened his ears.

"Actually, you fucking do." Theo snarled, his anger overriding his caution. "But you wouldn't know, since Dad was too afraid of you to say anything."

Dream went still, his mask tilting up to seemingly search Theo's face. "'Dad'...do you--Fundy?" Dream asked, a shred of desperation present in his question.

"Yeah." Theo spat. "Fundy is my dad. He ran away because you cheated on him, and you were gonna start another fucking war."

Dream flinched, only barely, but Theo caught it with a fierce satisfaction. He found the nerve.

"I thought--I thought Fundy was dead--" Dream muttered. "And you...you're mine?"

Dream raised his hand towards Theo, but snatched it back when Theo raised the trident to his throat. "I'm not fucking yours. I'm here to hurt you the way you hurt my dad. Don't get fucking chummy."

Dream paused, again. Theo wished he could rip that mask off to see what he was really thinking.

"What's your name?" Dream asked, slowly and carefully. Theo's lip curled.

"You don't deserve to know."

Dream gently pushed the trident aside, putting his hands up as Theo jerked it right back to his vulnerable chest. "Kid--" Dream started, but Theo cut him off.

"Do you have any fucking idea what you did?! He loved you, and you just threw him into the dirt!! I'm ashamed to share your fucking blood." Theo exploded, spitting all the venom he could muster.

"Listen--" Dream tried to interrupt, his body language tensing the more Theo ripped into him. Theo silenced him by jabbing the trident points against his godly father's chest. "No! YOU fucking listen!!" Theo snapped.

Dream's energy suddenly violently shifted, making the fur on the back of Theo's neck stand on end. Dream grasped the neck of the trident with an iron grip and easily twisted it out of the fox's paws as if he was snatching a toy from a child.

Theo stepped back with wide eyes as Dream advanced, throwing the trident aside carelessly while keeping his undivided attention on his son.

Theo's back hit the strong stalks of bamboo, halting his frantic reversal to escape Dream. He bit down a yell as his other father grabbed his arm and pulled him close, his grip tight and unyeilding.

"Where is Fundy." Dream said. It was not a request, it was an order. Theo bared his fangs. "Fuck you."

"Tell me where he is!!" Dream yelled, yanking Theo closer as he tried to pull away. Theo clenched his free fist and felt it charge with green magic.

"Get off me!!" Theo snarled, his glowing fist being Dream's only warning before it swung dead center into his smiling mask.

Dream flew backwards, Theo crying out in pain as the god pulled the fox's arm hard enough that he heard a small pop in his shoulder before Dream's grip finally broke. Theo's vision blurred with white stars of pain as Dream landed in the pond below, thrown a significant distance from the force of Theo's blow.

Theo gasped and clutched at his arm, a throbbing ache from his shoulder forcefully taking his breath from his lungs. He staggered over to the discarded trident and picked it up with his left paw, holding it close to his chest as his right arm lay useless at his side.

Theo's eyes slowly widened in fear as Dream rose from the pond, crackling bolts of a familiar green energy encasing his entire body. Theo could feel his fury from 50 blocks away.

Theo tightened his grip on the trident, his ears flat to his head as his father started to float menacingly towards him. He was lightheaded with pain and one arm short, but refused to admit defeat. Theo stood his ground and bared his teeth as Dream closed in.

-

Fundy paced the length of Logstedshire's walls, his mind addled with worry. Theo hadn't been seen since he awoke, something that wasn't abnormal. His son liked the early morning. What worried Fundy was the fact that there was no note telling where he ran off to like there usually was, and he was not in his regular places of comfort outside the walls. He just simply disappeared.

"Could've forgot." Tommy wondered aloud to Fundy from his spot next to the Prime Log. His uncle had been looking for guidance from the vessel all morning, but was met with silence from his deity.

"No." Fundy instantly shot him down, turning in place to pace down the south wall again. "I rammed it into that kid's head to always tell me where he was. He wouldn't have forgotten."

A gust of chill from behind halted Fundy's nervous movement. He sighed and flattened his ears.

"What do you want, Wilbur."

"Hello, Fundy!" Ghostbur greeted cheerfully, unperturbed by his son's cold acknowledgement. "Is little Theo back yet?"

Fundy turned to face him. "You saw him leave?"

"Yes!" Ghostbur said. "He said he needed to take care of something and told me not to tell you--...oh." Ghostbur's face flickered. "Frick."

Fundy moved to grab Ghostbur's arm, his paw passing right through his father's transparent form. "Wil, tell me where he went." Fundy demanded, his voice rigid with fear. Ghostbur's face twisted in guilt.

"He said not to say anything," the spirit said hesitantly. Fundy flattened his ears tight to his head.

"Wilbur. My son is in trouble." Fundy said, driving every spot of desperation he felt into his words. "He's gonna fuck himself over and he's gonna get himself killed if you don't tell me where he went. For once in your fucking existance, Wil, be a good dad."

Fundy exhaled and looked at the ground, blinking tears from his eyes. "If not for me, then--at least for Theo."

Ghostbur had gone very transparent, his eyes far away. For a tense second, Fundy feared his dead father would disappear until he forgot again.

"He went to Technoblade." Ghostbur murmured dazedly, blinking. "He said he needed a weapon."

Fundy ran his paw over his head, his core filling with dread. "Shit. Shit." He tried so long to keep Theo hidden, to protect him, to keep him safe, and it was all falling apart.

Fundy cursed himself. He never should have told his son the truth. This was all his fault.

Fundy looked back up to Ghostbur, desperately searching his eyes. "Is he still there?"

Ghostbur shrugged, and Fundy wanted to tear his fur out.

"He...asked about Dream? I don't know why. He seemed very interested in your marriage." Ghostbur commented. Fundy squeezed his eyes shut, old scars flaring up at his father's words.

"He's going to the SMP." Fundy breathed. He snapped his head to Tommy, who mirrored his look of fear. "Tommy, we have to find him--oh shit, shit, he's going to get himself killed--"

Tommy's hands grabbed Fundy's arms, though the fox didn't notice him rise from the Prime log.

"Fundy--I-I can't go there. Dream will kill me." Tommy said, his voice only imperceptibly trembling. Fundy's shoulders began to shake. "He'll die if we don't, I--"

"Fundy, I can't go with you." Tommy reiterated in a pleading voice. "But you're not exiled like I am."

Fundy blinked. "So--I'm--I'm on my own." He realized. Tommy didn't respond, only pressed his mouth in a thin line.

"I'm--I can't. I can't die." He said, and Fundy could see regret and shame and fear behind his uncle's eyes.

Fundy stilled. "I...understand."

"You won't be alone!" Ghostbur piped up from behind them, his voice already back to its raspy happiness. Fundy set his jaw.

"Ghostbur. You need to stay with Tommy. You'll just fuck it up." Fundy stated, disdain dripping from his words. He turned away from his uncle and the ghost of his father, steeling himself for leaving Logstedshire for the first time.

"Fundy." Tommy said, and the fox paused. "Take whatever you need." His uncle said. Fundy turned to see Tommy gesturing to the storage house.

Tommy was a hoarder. After the visits from Dream, the boy had squirreled away everything he could get his hands on, hidden from the explosive fate that all the rest of his belongings had suffered. Tommy was possessive and greedy, but here he was, opening his entire supply of preperations to his nephew.

Fundy swallowed, a task that had suddenly become difficult. "Thank you, Tommy." He struggled, never one to know how to express his gratitude in his words. His father was the poet, after all. Not him.

Tommy nodded regardless, and Fundy got the feeling that he knew what his nephew was trying to convey.

Fundy made quick work of packing. Food, armor, axe. A golden apple just in case. He stopped, and then grabbed a second.

There was no such thing as too careful against Dream.

Before he sealed his pack, Fundy took a deep breath. Time was a medicine, and had helped Fundy heal from his former husband shattering him into pieces.

Going right back to the man who hurt him so badly could only end as such, and Fundy would never attempt it on his own.

But the greatest gift that came from Dream was Theo, and he meant more to Fundy than anything else in the realms. He was not about to abandon him to the fate of his divine father, no matter how bad it would hurt to go back.

Fundy clipped the top of his pack together and slung it over his shoulder.

For Theo, he would do anything. If that meant facing his hell to save his son, then so be it.

Ghostbur was gone when Fundy returned, and he didn't care. Good riddance. In the past, he would have felt a small twinge of guilt, but that was a long time ago.

Tommy saw him off, waving solemnly from the walls of Logstedshire. Fundy knew Tommy had done all he could, but the fox couldn't help but feel a very small twist of abandonment. Fundy was more than willing to risk his life for Theo, and a part of him wished Tommy was too.

Fundy shook his head. That was unfair to think. He focused on the horizon, his breath fogging in the morning air, and sent a silent wish to whatever god would listen that his son would be okay when he found him.

[lilyofthevalleywrites]

Alone

It was pouring outside, so much so that even a carriage would get stuck should it try to move. Comte was generous enough to open up his liquor stores to Arthur and the rest of the residents, though after an hour or so of drinking, Arthur wouldn’t shut up, driving away all the other residents. Each bout was worse than the last. Here we join them, three hours in, with Arthur completely sloshed and Theo behind the bar still making him drinks.

……

“I bring worlds to life, characters that are beloved around the globe. Yet the only one anyone seems to know is that blasted detective! I wish to be rid of him! Forever! No one knows Arthur the poet, or the doctor, or the man who wrote science fiction. No, just old Sherlock.” Arthur sighed and took another gulp of his drink.

“I’m brilliant too. Can beat a man at any game. You’ve seen it Theo. But it didn’t do me any good in my life, nor is it doing me any good in this one. Why? Why have these gifts if they don’t do me any good? I’m still alone…. Was in my last life, still am now.”

He sighed dejectedly and finished his drink, motioning for another. “I chase skirts around all day long… but really…. Really…. I’m chasing away the ones who would hurt me. My heart is fragile enough as it is. I don’t think I’d survive a broken heart again. Not after….” His mind flitted to the young man that died asking for more Sherlock. Clutching his chest, he drank another mouthful, hoping to wash away the pain.

“Theo…. I don’t want to die alone again…. I don’t want to be alone for yet another lifetime….” His voice quivered, tears streaming down his face. “What good was any of it? I’m still alone in the end.”

Theo frowned, this was not his strong suit. Reaching over, he pat Arthur’s back, only for the bloke to pull him in for a hug, spilling his drink on him. “You klootzak!” Theo grumbled and pushed Arthur away. After cleaning up, Arthur looked as if he were about to pass out.

“Come on, let’s get you back to your room.” Theo mumbled and threw Arthur over his shoulder.

“I’m always alone…. So…. empty and alone….” Arthur slurred, but Theo understood.

Theo had chosen to be alone to further his brother’s career. Gruff exterior was just to keep the ladies away, same as Arthur’s flirting. Seems they weren’t that different after all. A soft sigh and a faint whisper, “You’re not alone Arthur.”

“Oh yeah? Vic doesn’t count…”

“Not your dog, you klootzak, me. You have me. And you always will.”

Arthur dozed off at that point. Whether he heard Theo or not, he’d never tell. https://archiveofourown.org/works/34765732

[minarcana]

@unmeinoniwa replied:

me holding you at gunpoint

me holding theo at gunpoint. at uriangerpoint? damn, fine then. im going to kill kiss your son.

Urianger cups Theo’s jaw gently, touch light. It would be easy to duck away from him if Theo wished, and Urianger prefers to keep the possibility open regardless of his certainty that Theo does not mind. His thumb presses over Theo’s lower lip to part it slightly.

There’s the hint of a smile, as Urianger tries his hardest not to seem as if he’s laughing. Theo’s eyes are wide, fixed on him, and his expression is flushed. Urianger can feel the hitches of Theo’s breath against his knuckle. “Forgive me,” Urianger says quietly, words barely loud enough to escape the space between them. “Thine expression is incredibly endearing.” It’s forgivable, then, if he wants to watch Theo’s face a little bit, or make his embarrassment just a bit worse.

He doesn’t expect Theo’s been kissed before, given what he’s been told of the archivist’s history. So he should do a good job of it and take his time, right? Urianger moves his hand to tilt Theo’s face properly, then leans to kiss him. This gesture too is gentle, a chaste press of lip. He can feel the muted noise of surprise from Theo despite the ample warning and rather minimal gesture. It makes Urianger’s mouth twitch to a brief smile— cute, Theo’s cute.

Urianger wants to play with him just a little. He’s not good at saying things, he’d have a hard time outright verbally doting on Theo. So action will have to do to get the feeling across, the sprawling fuzz of affection in his chest. He kisses Theo again, this time to the rise of his cheekbone. Again to lip after, though this time firmer, a kiss he tries to draw Theo in with. It’s fine to come closer, to lose himself a little more. Nothing needs be offered that cannot be given back or rescinded. “Relax,” Urianger murmurs when he leans marginally back. “Thou canst remember to breathe, no?” Cute. Idly, Urianger pets over a loose strand of hair before Theo’s ear, brushing it back. Maybe it’s a little bit of bullying to overwhelm the poor librarian so, but perhaps then it should have been a less rewarding task.

[neednothavehappenedtobetrue]

so I have a LOT of OCs here are some of them

Maria Reyes- protagonist of "buddy comedy with the ancient evil", constantly doing dumb hero shit, keeps running into trouble with the "lawful" part of Lawful Good, has both "the magical powers that are normal in her setting" and "the leftover magical powers you get when a god hangs out in your head for a while and then dies"

Colin Matthews- Maria's best friend, has never actually stolen a car, but sure does "borrow" them sometimes, trying to find a sense of self (good luck buddy), looks out for his younger sisters. he and Maria briefly attempt to date and then remain friends when it turns out that dating is Not Her Thing.

Fred Churchill- the third member of the squad with Maria and Colin, mean lesbian, habitual liar, petty thief, the only one in the party to occasionally go "this seems unsafe?" or "hey, I think this is treason?" likes languages, likes math, makes a lot of contingency plans.

Thomas Seagrave- half a ghost, half a god. died in the mid 1600s in exile, has been worshipped ever since, extremely mad about it. wanted to start a political revolution, definitely did not want to start a religion of any kind particularly not one with so much murder. high charisma stat! due to the way ghosts work in this setting hasn't talked to anyone over the age of 19 in like 350 years, which is not the worst part of being dead, but it's up there some days.

Ms. Warren: Maria's mentor who is generally kind and affectionate with kids who need some extra support and also very much a ruthless military recruiter. Maria does not know that part yet

Isabelle Thompson- protagonist of different stories/continuities under "before you came into my life I missed you so bad" (which is about politics and romance) and "the ghost and the machine" (which deals with some of the same Recovery themes but is more sci-fi and does not have as much romance). woman with cerebral palsy, political speechwriter/strategist, smarter than you, likes scrabble, likes animals, likes bad sci-fi, hates chess and admitting that she needs help.

Robert Thompson- Isabelle's husband. he was assassinated. generally a pretty cool dude, though. sappy romantic, likes dogs, like cowboy movies, likes baseball, likes people in general.

Cassie Thompson- their daughter. takes after her father. likes learning languages and making friends and petting dogs and writing comic books. struggles with nightmares/insomnia and occasionally Being Perceived too much by strangers who have thoughts about her famous parents.

Theo Vulcan- Isabelle and Robert's Secret Third Person. went places with them as "Isabelle's personal aide" and let the de-sexualization of disabled people be useful for once. likes technology and data and being out in space. love language is "quietly optimizing the lives of their loved ones" (and also murder, occasionally).

Sasha- she needs a last name. I've written 54k of her story, how does she not have a last name? whatever. she is featured specifically in "before you came into my life I missed you so bad" but not Isabelle's other continuity. she's a diplomat who used to live in America but has returned to Moscow because the political situation in America has.... deteriorated quite badly. started working for Isabelle's counter-revolution to fix things in America after the coup. also eventually started dating Isabelle. another sappy romantic, loves Isabelle, bad movies, her brother and his kids, traveling, fancy coffee, shoes, picking out birthday presents for people. hates: her father, most of the post-coup American government, bullies, her own temper, English spelling (Wednesday? what a bullshit language).

other characters from other stories I don't feel like outlining in detail now

-Nadia and Ruth Ketze, can be found at "you keep misplacing your house" and "to hell by compass" respectively, queens of a country that collapses underneath them.

Quinn Roe and the other kids from Evolve Academy.

-Perdita, the daughter of a king, a witch, and a dragon, doing her best with a lot of bullshit.

-Eleanor, who eventually gets away from her worthless husband and marries a selkie.

-Mira Bell, vampire, lesbian, very stylish, cheerful, has a Patreon.

Rose Wheeler- werewolf activist

Toni- changeling piano player.

Halie- mermaid honor student/poet

Elly Owens- crime is her wheelbarrow, likes spaceships, pickles, her foster father (unfortunately). lives on Tau Ceti, a terraformed colony in space with some distinct cultural quirks.

there are more fictional people in my head for sure, if you know any I haven't mentioned here, feel free to use them for memes.

I haven't included Aimee specifically because I need to figure out what I'm actively doing with her.

[thecenturiestrickle]

Writing Ideas Ask Game

Super late, but thanks for the tag, @arewordsenough!

Post a list of your un-started ideas and have your followers ask you about one. Then tell them something about your idea. Numbered for simplicity, not in order of priority.

All right, so, I have a file in my Apple Notes app labeled, "Prompts." It's a mess of lines, half-formed plot ideas, incomplete imagery, dialogue, what-ifs. There are entire chunks of prose that I write there and then use or borrow from in things I've posted and things I'm currently working on.

Pseudo-Regency and pseudo-Victorian AU. (Okay, though, honestly, I have several plot ideas for this, including: Persuasion AU, Bridgerton AU, steampunk AU.)

Cockblock.

Space opera.

Problematic age difference.

The piss one.

Temporary amnesia.

Theo and Hayden fail the Bechdel Test.

Stable boy/royal prince AU.

Pacific Rim AU (though one was recently posted by another, so perhaps the ship has sailed on this one? I dunno, really anything with giant robots).

Poet Theo.

Cyberpunk AU

Final Fantasy VIII AU

So, clearly, quite a bit of AU. Here's why, and I think I've made this point before: Where the show leaves Thiam—Theo in particular—kinda sucks. For any post-canon Thiam to happen, you have to reckon with Theo's past. That's an exhausting thing to have to sort out and figure out, and to have to do it more than once? Lordt.

Anyway. These are the ones that I haven't actually worked on. Currently, I'm working on omegaverse au, brojob, and executive au. 😬

[vampiresuns]

🍋 Jules And Saoirse Above The Sea Fog

4k words. In which Saoirse reflects on the inevitability of Jules Sanlaurento.  Cws: Very mild voyeurism; me, yet again, using swords as a romantic subject.

Saoirse, Meredith and the Crew of The Jagged Ruby belongs to @apprenticealec​.

Part 4 of Secrets Of An Ancient Moon series; you can read the rest of it here.

Minors DNI, contains 🍋

The first time Saoirse saw whom Meredith referred to as ‘Sanlaurento’, they were wearing some incredibly not inconspicuous clothes. A poet shirt with bishop sleeves, a floor length, green, sleeveless coat with flower embroidery, lined with red fabric — both below a wide, brown belt strapped around their waist. Brown pants and black boots with block heels completed the look. 

Saoirse’s first thought about them was none. There weren’t any thoughts. They had pulled a category of possibilities for who this person might be or have come from. Indicators of status, of profession, of dealings with entities such as themself — which were none. They didn’t think about them any more than they did of any other passing human.

Sanlaurento, however, had a talent for making themself noticed. At least when it came to Saoirse.

Except on very particular days, Julianus, as that was Sanlaurento’s first name, was always well dressed. As extravagant as Captain Rodrigo of El Corazón Sangrante, only with far less tacky choices, even though some of them were decidedly interesting. Not that the Quartermaster cared about how they dressed, but it was rather difficult not to notice.

Still, that was the only comparison with Rodrigo which stood. 

The second thing they noticed about them was nothing in them, ever, came with a simple answer. That they were obviously lenient on existence, allowing people to just be around them, didn’t mean they were simple. With them nothing came with a simple answer because it either didn’t have one, or though the answer was simple, the thought process Julianus had used to get there was not. They always offered to explain it, telling whomever was listening they could stop them whenever they wanted to.

Saoirse found themselves listening every time, unable to turn away. 

J. C. Sanlaurento hadn’t stumbled upon the Ruby. It didn’t matter whether they ended up there on accident or on purpose. To Saoirse, nothing of it mattered. Because like Niamh or Jacqui before them — those humans who had changed them one way or another, J. C had found them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Jules had taken to Drew, Elizabeth and Theo like a fish to water. Through sparring, poetry talks, and teaching each other little things, the three of them had helped Jules open up to the crew.

Saoirse found the way they conducted themselves, once again, fascinating. They negotiated what they wanted, like someone who plays a high stakes game of cards against themself, but they went forward anyway; they were a lawyer, but wrote fiction and poetry, making stories come to life for the crew to listen to as they worked under the sun. They collected ideas and points of views like a scholarly magpie, and they always had an answer for everything. It annoyed Meredith to no end.

Jules always found them to tell them about whatever was going through their mind, and Saoirse always listened. Through the months, they had learnt to anticipate them in their peripheral vision, wanting them to be there and feeling a sense of incompleteness when they weren’t. 

Julianus called, and Saoirse always turned. They did when they asked them to teach them archery, which had been an excellent excuse to observe them up close. Even if Drew in particular insisted it was not ‘observing’. 

“Then what is it?” Saoirse had asked, intrigued, amused and slightly self-conscious. That a human made them just a smidge conscious of themselves in such a way was fascinating on itself. 

Drew never got to reply, as Jules called Saoirse’s attention, and it took them two strides to find their side again, their hands steady against Sanlaurento’s ribs, measuring their hitching breaths.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  

Saoirse had an aesthetic eye, in a way. It was, like everything else in their practised humanity, learnt. A trait they had picked up through mingling with humans in such a close way.

Jules said all taste was learnt — Saoirse would have to ask them more about that later, perhaps there was a book about it they could read together.

As the Quartermaster had a sense of aesthetics, the obvious jumped out: Julianus was beautiful. They had a beautiful face, and a beautiful voice. Their sense of fashion and their own taste for things they thought were pretty, or charming, made them look put together in a way that Saoirse understood as appealing. People flirted with them wherever they went. Jules almost rarely noticed. 

One of the times they had noticed, had been because the moment the person who was flirting with them saw Saoirse, they had scattered away faster than a rat. 

“What was that for?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Saoirse did you just—”

“I was simply observing.”

Julianus snorted, and told them that if that’s how it was going to be, the least they could do was ask them out on a date. 

“Unless that is, of course, an unbecoming thing to ask an eldritch God, or whatever it is that you are,” they said, face resting against their cheek, a slight curve to their full, red lips, as their fingers danced over Saoirse’s open palm. Julianus was flirting with them. Julianus flirted with them a lot. 

“Or, if you’re not going to say anything,” they continued, retreating their hand, “I can just find that poor—”

“No,” Saoirse said, “I mean, you can if you want to, I don’t quite care, but I would prefer if you didn’t. I’ll take you out on a date, if you’d want that.”

Jules frowned, voice no longer flirtatious. “Do you want it? Because I know you have your own way of working things out but if you don’t want it, I’d prefer to stop making a fool of myself right away. I already told you I didn’t like it.”

“You’re a lot of things, a fool isn’t one, Jules.” Saoirse found themself measuring their hand against Julianus’ own: it was smaller, soft, the back of them marked with moles and full of little scars. “I do want to take you on a date. When it comes to you, I want a lot of things.”

Want, what a human word was that. Yet, how accurate. Perhaps finding them beautiful was also human, and still not any less true. They were beautiful as they walked back to the ship, the night was colder than usual, and Saoirse offered them their side, wrapping their arm around them. They were beautiful the next day when they spent the day alone, swimming and kissing under the sun. 

They were beautiful clothed, they were beautiful semi-naked, they were beautiful as they hung upside down from the rigging of the Ruby once they were back. 

From afar, Theo elbowed Elizabeth. “Are they, are they staring at Clee’s ass?”

“Have you never noticed? They do, quite a bit.”

Saoirse helped J.C. down, wrapping one of their arms around their waist.

“You know,” they yelled, “I can hear you.”

“What happened?” Jules asked, looking between Elizabeth and Theo, and Saoirse.

“Nothing.”

“Sure, nothing my ass.” 

“I wouldn’t call your ass nothing.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Jules was ill. After their day at the beach, Jules had gone to sleep with the rest of the crew, with their hair still wet. First mistake, or second really, since the first had been overdoing their time in the water. Then, they had stayed up to talk to Drew, Elizabeth and Theo, and by the time they indeed fell asleep they were already cold. Moving around at night their blankets (they slept with three, Saoirse had learnt) fell off.

By the next evening they were already feeling woozy, and the morning after that, they most definitely had a cold. Not that they admitted to it, no matter how much Theo pressed them. 

That was until Theodore threatened to call Saoirse about it. It worked, and the doctor said that with some days of rest and good sleep, they’ll be good as new. 

Meredith, of course, noticed. “Where’s Sanlaurento? They have chores they aren’t doing, and I have questions—”

“Julie’s in my bed.”

“Ju— What? Excuse me?”

“Not like that, Meredith. They caught a cold. Theodore said it was for the best because an actual bed would help, and I cannot get ill myself. Besides, it was my fault, so I don’t mind accommodating them.”

“Your fault.”

“Yes.”

“Since when— actually, I don’t want to know. That still leaves me one person short.”

“I’ll do their tasks, I don’t mind.”

Fault was also a very human word, but Saoirse wouldn’t dwell on it. One way or another, they were finding out they liked having J.C. in their quarters. They liked sitting on the bed with them, and they liked the feeling of their soft hair against their fingers. Even at sea, they still took meticulous care of it. 

“You could sleep here, whenever you wanted, if you wanted.”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Ask me again when I don’t feel like I’ll die.”

“I thought you said no one died of a common cold.”

“I write poetry, Saoirse, if I’m not dramatic, I’ll die for real, but ask me again later, because I have a feeling you’re just telling me that because I joked about it.”

“How awfully observant you are.”

“And you have a very pretty smile.”

“Me?”

“Believe it or not Saoirse, you’re very, very pretty.”

The good thing about being an immortal entity, was that Saoirse could kiss Julianus without getting sick.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Raids always came with interesting things. Saoirse’s Julie emerging from the kitchen of the ship they had pulled over with a pot of coffee in their hands was certainly one of them.

Saoirse themself didn’t know when Julianus had turned into ‘Julie’ let alone into ‘their Julie’. Were they in a relationship now? Saoirse didn’t know. All they did know was they really liked it when Julianus woke up in their quarters, or when they got to kiss their bare skin while they changed. They knew they liked watching their reactions, and the distinctively pleasant sensation that came with Julie’s lips on Saoirse’s own lips, or Saoirse’s anywhere. 

Above all, however, they knew they wanted to protect them. It had been simmering inside them for some time, only to solidify after they had found them writing in the crew quarters after they had asked Meredith to stay.

The testy look in their eye made them think of their story about the Cabin Boy. Between that point and then Saoirse had learnt the series of events in Julie’s life which had made them find the Ruby, as they knew of so many other fears and places their mind and heart went to, because Julianus had told them. Offering their own story, without adornment, without remarkability, so Saoirse could understand a little better the human in front of them. 

They were no longer what they had been in Ethari — they were that and something else entirely now. The powerful being that had been trapped in the ice became Saoirse, with what Julianus called their “pretty face”. Yet like humans who couldn’t help being humans, Saoirse would always be, in their core, that entity. 

They did not want a following. They had no desire for it. It didn’t mean they couldn’t understand why those who did have one played favourites. How could they not play favourites with Jules? Of course, Saoirse wanted to protect them — one protects what one loves. Centuries before Saoirse wouldn’t quite have gotten it, it would’ve been too human, too foreign. Not now, not any more.

“Doesn’t smell weird to you, does it, Saoirse?”

They took a whiff as, yet again, one of their hands found their ribs. “No, it’s just coffee.”

“Oh, excellent!”

With an excited smile they took a sip directly from the pot, tasting the coffee before making a non-committal noise. “It’ll make for now but it’s not worth borrowing. What did you find?” 

They had noticed the box they were holding. Saoirse took a step back so they could open it for them, revealing a finely black-smithed rapier. The hilt cup resembled a flower, and it had one swoop around the handle too. 

Saoirse took the pot of coffee from Jules. “It’s not too long for you is it?” 

“Saoirse.” 

“Indulge me here, mo ghrá.” 

They almost dropped the sword. “Did you— did you just ‘my love’ me?” 

“Yes.” 

Their incredulous expression was so candid, Saoirse feared they had said the wrong thing for a moment. It all vanished when Julianus finished tying the sword to their belt with nervous fingers, enveloping Saoirse in a tight hug. 

“Thank you, I love it, I love— I love—“ 

There was no need to finish the sentence. Saoirse kissed the top of their, hugging them back and still holding onto the stolen pot of coffee. They wouldn’t move until the raid was finished, when Meredith yelled at them to stop being fucking lovebirds and make themselves useful. 

Later, once the Ruby was sailing again and the night had fallen, with the moonlight entering through the windows in Saoirse’s quarters as they moved their fingers up and down Julianus’ side, they’d ask them ‘why’: Why did Saoirse love them? 

“Because you’re captivating — how could I not?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Perhaps the most captivating of their traits was how they moved. It was in the way they danced when they offered to teach Elizabeth some of the dances and songs they had grown up with. Or the way they had taken to the music Saoirse had to teach. 

Per their own admission they did not have the best ear. It lacked training they had not done while they could; even if it was never too late to learn. They walked with a rhythm of their own in the heels of their boots (because it was their heels which marked the compass of their walk, Saoirse had been quick to notice), they danced while they did their tasks, they hummed to themselves. 

They spun around letting Saoirse guide them, but never fully letting them take the lead. A game of tug and pull where they beguiled Saoirse into making the attempt to catch them. It was in the way they moved their hips, or the wave-like movement of their waist. 

The best part was always the catch. Maybe that was why Saoirse liked having their hands around Jules’ midsection so much, so often. 

The catch was always great, however, Saoirse had their favourites. Like the stolen kisses given for no apparent reason, or the way they hummed when Saoirse left a trail of kisses over their spine. It was the way their thighs felt on their hands — another of Saoirse’s favourite places to put them, though that was reserved for private encounters.

Like the time Drew had walked into them making out in one of the lower levels of the ship. Saoirse’s hand had been lifting one of Jules’ legs by the thigh, their lips against the hollow of their Julie's throat. 

“Are you going to call that observing too?” 

“Take a guess,” Saoirse had said as they slowly let go of their partner’s leg and Jules greeted Drew with an embarrassed, but friendly, ‘hello’. 

Another place they liked to put their hands on that was reserved for private, was Jules’ ass.

The tasks of the day were done, and both of them had retreated to Saoirse’s quarters, soon finding themselves kissing. Saoirse was lying on their bed (had they ever used it as much as they were now? They didn’t think so), on their back, both of their hands on Jules’ backside as they were, hands-and-knees, above Saoirse. 

After a knock the door opened. It was Meredith. “Hey Saoirse have you seen Sanlaurento, I can’t understand their damned handwriting—”

J.C. pulled back, looking at Meredith with mortification. “Hey, Cap—”

“I hate you both so fucking much.”

Julianus left with Meredith, coming back around half an hour later; Saoirse was sitting on their bed, reading a book. 

“Oh, well fuck me, then.” 

“Was that an invitation, or just an expression?”

Jules levelled them a look, a humbling eyebrow shot up, even though they had to bite the inside of their cheek not to smile. Because what kind of question was that, how could the answer not be yes — but also, Saoirse was a teasing little eldritch shit. 

Saoirse left their book aside, walking up to them and putting their hand on their ribs. “I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea, if you were wanting to… explore it together.” They paused. “You did say to ask you when you weren’t sick with a cold.”

“That was months ago.”

“Don’t you humans always say ‘better late than never’?”

Jules’ eyebrow relaxed. This wasn’t a fight they wanted to have, not even for show — that could be reserved for when they were actually entangled in each other. They kissed Saoirse, soft, steady and promising. “I would like to, but you’re on probation for being a teasing little shit.”

“Right, because you never, ever, tease me.”

“Well, that’s my prerogative, Mx. Quartermaster.” 

Saoirse put both their hands on their ribs now, making them walk back with them towards the bed. “You’re so incredibly fascinating, mo ghrá.” 

“Keep calling me that and you won’t finish your book tonight.”

“Oh me, oh what a terrible fate.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Their fingers traced the shape of Julianus’ lips once, twice, their mouth parted enough for Saoirse to feel their warm breath on their hand. Enough to hook two of their fingers softly into their mouth, their warm tongue peeking against their fingertips. As always, Saoirse observed them, committing the moment to memory. One day Julianus would be gone, but the moment, this very moment, would make them, Saoirse, happy forever.

Because right then Julianus was pressed against them, warm and alive, and their mouth was open—

“Saoirse?”

“Julie?”

“Undress me.”

Saoirse’s eyes moved over them as they did, hungry and attentive as their hands unravelled their skin, item of clothing by item of clothing. Each touch was riveting, though some more than others, like when Saoirse’s fingers went over the soft skin of their stomach, or the way their mouth pressed careful kisses against the line of their neck. 

Julianus groaned. “There’s no need to be cautious with me, you know.” 

“You did tell me.”

“So?”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the bossy type.”

Jules laughed. “A mistake on your behalf.”

“I’m teasing you.”

“As I am.”

“Mo ghrá, do you have any preference, anything I can accommodate you with?”

They had also discussed that, a by-product of Saoirse’s body being well, an optional shape. A mimicry of the human body, not an actual body itself. Jules’ reply was the same as the previous time they had discussed it: “They’re just parts, dearest. Go for whatever works best for whatever it is we’re doing.”

There it was, the flirtatious, ripe smile on Julie’s lips that made Saoirse want to chase them. “You haven’t changed your mind, then,” they said with a smile.

“About you?” Jules snorted. “Not in a thousand years, mi amor.” 

Jules saw something in Saoirse shift. What they had said seemed to be the click forward Saoirse was waiting for. 

There was no sloppiness in Saoirse. They acted with deliberation and purpose, knowing already what they wanted: Jules. Everything they’ve ever said, everything they’ve ever observed, everything both of them had gone through together until now seemed to lead to this point in particular. This point where Jules was on their bed, discarding Saoirse’s shirt like the mere presence of it offended them. They tried to get their pants off too, but Saoirse was quicker than them. 

Jules was such a lucky bastard. 

They lifted their hips so Saoirse could remove their underwear. They let them pull them on their lap, but it was Julianus who guided their hands to their hips this time. Saoirse took the cue as they began to touch their things with a steady rhythm — up and down, down and up, like the waves hitting the shores of some private beach. 

They sighed softly when they felt Saoirse’s fingers pump into them, following the same pattern they had touched their thighs with — it built up, it increased, it descended, it teased, it built up. 

At some point, Jules asked if there was anything they could do for Saoirse. They have wanted to do so many things for and to Saoirse for quite a long time now. Yet, here they were, at their mercy as they gently bit the inside of their thigh after beckoning Jules to sit on their face. 

“Patience, mo ghrá.”

Whatever it was that they tried to quip back was lost in translation as they felt Saoirse’s tongue against them, as the same pattern began again. Saoirse’s hands were grabbing their hips, their thumbs rubbing gentle circles between the small of their back and the beginning of their ass while they worked their mouth against them, coaxing sounds out of them.

Despite Saoirse being terrible, metaphorically speaking, Jules did not expect them to be this—  tender. They had previously discussed the subject, a few times as a matter of fact, so they had some idea as in what to expect. At the same time, experiencing it was different. They didn’t expect Saoirse to be talkative, for example, though that was the opposite of a problem. However, they should’ve expected Saoirse to remember what they’ve mentioned while discussing it. Saoirse had a different approach at things, once again, not surprising, so they approached sex like they approached most everything else. Through observing, through asking, through hearing Julianus and what they liked or disliked.

“I think,” Jules had said on one occasion, “what I like the most is feeling wanted. Perhaps the reason I like you so much is because you make me feel like the most interesting person in the world. Which I know I can’t be because you’ve lived for very long and you’re bound to have met some very interesting humans.”

“I have, but they weren’t you.”

With Saoirse asking how things were, the way they touched them, the way they reacted to Jules’ indications. Observed and Observant interchanging roles until they came together, two different beings who became something else upon finding each other. Wanderers and seekers of freedom, both of them rising above the sea fog as Saoirse moved Julianus onto their back, feather-like to them, their legs on their shoulders. Saoirse’s fingers joined their mouth; Julianus was so close to begging. 

Their fingers remained, but their mouth moved to their lower abdomen, pressing a kiss on the skin there, their blue eyes fixed on Jules, who was raised on their elbows, looking back at them. 

Jules’ fingers threaded through Saoirse’s hair. “Show me,” the Quartermaster said, “show me how to fuck you.”

“And here I was thinking you were playing cards down there— Ouch! Why did you bite me?”

Saoirse laughed against their skin, not giving them an answer. Instead, their fingers curled inside them, and their mouth found the spot of Jules’ ribs where they always rested their one of their hands, leaving a love bite over it. 

“I meant it, I want you to show me.”

“You said you did like watching, didn’t you?”

“I do. Julie?”

Jules commanded them to stop, pulling them up so they could kiss Saoirse, their teeth teasing their lower lip. 

“Lie on your back,” Jules said, and Saoirse did. 

They straddled them, feeling like Saoirse shifted for them. Lifting their hips, Jules aligned themselves with Saoirse and sunk into them with closed eyes, a huff of pleasure going past their lips. When they opened their eyes again, they began moving, slowly at first, with their hands on Saoirse’s chest. 

Saoirse’s hands immediately found their waist. 

Jules smiled at them. “See? This way you can watch all you want, since your excuse is always ‘I’m observing’.”

In a blink, Saoirse sat up, the movement almost too fast to register. As they kissed Julianus, they began moving their hips too, wanting to feel whatever sound that came out of their partner echoed against their lips. 

“I do like observing you. The closer the better,” they said against their lips. “Your sounds are good, and you look good... What would happen if I wanted to find out how these,” they moved their hands to grab one of their thighs, “feel around my waist later? Out of curiosity, to further my observations?” They teased.

“You can take over when I get tired. If that doesn’t happen, we have other nights. And mornings too, sometimes.”

Saoirse caught their lips again. “I think I like the sound of that.”

[rokutouxei]

the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop's most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo's pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go?

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 1 OF 22

“Hey Theo, your girlfriend’s here.”

Just as she always is: 2:00pm every Wednesday and Sunday, carrying a maroon Kånken bag slung over one shoulder, dark brown hair up in an (adorably) messy half-bun. Today, she’s wearing a black turtleneck under a plaid coat, because it’s early fall now, and every day is a little colder than the last. Mustard-colored shorts over leggings, high-cut Doc Martens. She’s looking at the books on display through the window, hand pressed lightly on the glass.

Theo looks up just long enough to confirm that it is her, their favorite customer, before he disinterestedly returns his gaze to his book. “She isn’t my girlfriend.”

Working in the most reliable, well-known bookstore in a university town means a lot of university students come and go regularly, whether it’s for books needed for class or idle reading. There are a lot of familiar faces, but hers is arguably the most recognizable, considering she’s there twice every week.

Like on clockwork.

Arthur, Theo’s only other co-worker, has just finished shelving the new stock of books by the register when she finally decides to enter. The little bell hanging by the door rings as she does. Theo doesn’t even bother. Arthur makes up for it with his enthusiasm. “Welcome to Dragon’s Hoard Bookstore—oh, it’s you, little bird!” He walks up to her and they do a little high five.

She smiles; it crinkles the corner of her eyes ever so gently. “Hey, Arthur! Nice to see you.”

“How’s your class with The Professor Everyone Hates?”

“Oh, please, don’t get me started,” she sighs. “Considered shifting to lit yet? I could use the company.”

Arthur smiles conspiratorially. “Only for you, luv.”

Theo flips a page on his book. Ah, of course Arthur’s become friends with her. Arthur hits up anything that vaguely resembles the shape of a woman—a couch, a shelf, name it. He’s not really interested in his co-worker’s woman-hunting pursuits.

Arthur, however, seems to be a little more up to it. Theo doesn’t quite know if it’s because he’s interested in the girl he keeps insisting is Theo’s girlfriend, or just because both of them are friends. That makes her a bigger weirdo. Who wants to be friends with Arthur? “So, how can we help you today?”

“I actually came in to pick up my book! I got the message that it’s in—and I need it for class. I ordered it last week.”

Theo feels the stare directed at him all the way across the store—not that it’s that large to begin with. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Arthur is throwing him that glance he has become so familiar with—but he raises his head anyway just to glare back at him, a silent Please don’t.

But when did Arthur ever listen to him anyway? “If it’s a special order then it should be at the register,” the playboy sing-songs, ignoring the death stare he’d received. “How about go over and ask Theo, hmm?”

A tick of a vein on his forehead. Don’t get him wrong—working retail in a small quiet town isn’t anywhere as bad as, say, being employed in a big fancy spot downtown, but when Arthur is regularly like this to him… it’s rather easy to work up a temper. Calm down, Theo says to himself, as he puts his feet down from the chair to sit a little more appropriately for work. The girl takes a pause—gauging, measuring, making sure?—before answering with a half-hesitant, but still lively “Thanks Arthur!”.

The store is just small enough that in five steps, she is in front of him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He steels his face to a practiced, charming customer-service smile that makes Arthur snicker from across the store. One day Theo’s definitely going to get that idiot fired, or mangled, and no one will know it was him. “A special order? I need an ID for that.”

“Yeah, sure!” she pulls out a student ID from her pocket, places it on the counter, and wrings her hands like she’s nervous. Why, though. It’s just a book. Theo takes the ID, looks at her name, gives it back to her, and coolly looks through the stacks of books underneath the desk.

Theo doesn’t know where she gets this curiosity and her fidgety hands, but by the time he’s pulled out her book—a book of literary criticism on 20th century poets (that just makes sense, doesn’t it. a literature major in the bookstore, he thinks to himself)—she’s already flipping through the book he was just reading, chewing on her lower lip. She near-jolts when she realizes her book is already on the counter, lost in between the pages of his book.

Ah, the thought pings in Theo’s mind. Arthur’s a trying-hard literature major. That’s probably where they’ve met.

“Any particular poet you’re interested in?” he asks once he’s gone up, dusting the book off gently with his hands. He doesn’t really like small talk, but it’s bookshop etiquette at this point.

“Cummings, maybe?” she answers, and it makes Arthur stifle a laugh from the other end of the store; it’s audible to everyone no matter how hard he tries.

“A world of made is not a world of born,” Theo recites, to which she beams.

“Yes, pity poor flesh and trees, poor stars and stones,” she finishes. She looks entirely too visibly pleased by their exchange: Theo isn’t too thrilled about it. “I suppose you’ll find it cheesy that I like his love poems.”

“They’re great, hard to not like,” he says, following up with another poem: “kisses are a better fate than wisdom, lady i swear by all flowers.”

“You are whatever a moon has always meant, and whatever a sun will always sing is you,” she offers, as well. Grinning awkwardly as she puts Theo’s book back on the counter—a Camus, not really her jam—she says, “I really didn’t take you to be a poetry kind of guy.”

“Not only literature majors read poetry,” Theo answers.

She flushes and pouts a little, making Theo chuckle under his breath. “Well, I don’t really know what major you’re taking,” she says, recomposing herself. Theo has an inkling why she’s so nervous now, but he’s not really interested in it. “No way to find out.”

Theo shakes his head and pushes the order-claims log and a pen in her direction. “How about give it a guess.”

She presses the cap of the pen to just below her pink lip and thinks. “Hmm… political science?”

“Wrong.” Theo slips her book into a paper bag with the bookstore’s logo stamped on it.

She pouts, but a little less seriously than earlier. She signs the log and pushes it back to him. “Aww, dammit. You looked like a crook, too.”

It takes a few seconds for it to sink in, Theo busy sorting the files into their proper boxes. “What?”

“I’m kidding!” she says with a grin. She doesn’t move to take her book, just rests her elbows on the counter and her chin on her palms. She’s here every week at this hour, she knows when business is slow; she can go and pester the employees, sure. And with Arthur enabling her, there is no escape for Theo. He’s really going to strangle Four-Eyes soon. “History?”

Theo doesn’t want to indulge her, but he’s a good employee. “What stereotypes are you going on, here?”

“Well, literature isn’t really a favored field as it is, and you’re reading Camus, so…” she trails off. “Figured poetry was just your little nerd thing, and you’re some serious dude elsewhere.”

He’s not usually the confrontational type, in fact, he’d rather get this conversation over with, but somehow he can’t stop. He’ll never hear the end of this from Arthur later. “A nerd, says the one who is always at the bookstore, peering over the window looking at books. Can almost see your tail wagging excitedly like a little hondje.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t know what that last word means but it sounds like an insult.”

Theo shrugs, trying to freeze the smirk out of his face. “Guess you’ll never know.”

At that exact moment, a trio of what looked like exhausted seniors enters the store, the bell at the doorway announcing their entrance. Theo half-heartedly calls out a Welcome to Dragon’s Hoard! because Arthur is in the back room.

“Times up for me,” their—no, Arthur’s—favorite customer finally says in defeat, after what seems like ten years. She picks up her book from the counter. “One day I’ll figure out your major and find an even worse insult to tell you, Theo,” she teases, grinning as she turns away.

“Try,” Theo only drily answers, to which she puts out her tongue, and finally leaves the bookshop with a spring in her step.

Like any regular devil, Arthur’s timing is impeccable, as right at this moment he emerges from where he’s sorting books some shelves away, swinging by the register with a grin. He turns to check that their other customers are far from earshot, but then it’s his turn to torment Theo. Of course. Theo doesn’t get paid enough for this.

“Aww, didn’t want to get caught flirting with an employee. What a sweetheart.”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Theo asks. “If that was flirting then she wasn’t trying at all. Had no effect on me whatsoever.”

Arthur pulls a face of mock disbelief. “Sure, sure. She was making such a cute face, too. But if ever you change your mind, she left her number in the order log, so you might want to—"

“Leave me alone, Arthur,” Theo sighs, and Arthur laughs like he’s won.

--

Was that worth it? Was that actually worth it? Holy shit.

She walks two blocks away from the bookshop before turning into a random street corner to breathe. She presses the paper bag against her chest, feeling her heart trying to keep up with the demand for blood, mostly to her face. No, it wasn’t, her brain almost answers for her, but did she actually expect anything else? He’s mighty fine—easily one of the more tolerable face in this drab university town, and with a stare like that that could easily throw people off, push admirers away… he couldn’t, in this lifetime, have been someone who would go down without a fight.

And what a fight it was, if she could call that one! She didn’t expect him to answer back, much less tolerate that much conversation from her, and yet! Her head was spinning so fast, trying to process the information.

“What the hell man, relax,” she says to herself, leaning against the brick wall behind her with a thump. Why the hell did you do that? What the hell is wrong with you? Oh my god.

Even with her heart pounding angrily inside her chest, so loudly she can barely hear anything, she doesn’t find the strength, the will, or the desire to get the grin out of her face. Oh, boy, was that worth it. Kind of fun, really.

She wouldn’t call herself a heartbreaker in any way—she’s close to Arthur, being in the same club and such, but she is no way near his level. All she really wants is to be done with this and get out of this goddamn town that’s been keeping her hostage for years. But god, why did she had to have slipped and told Arthur she thinks his co-worker is kind of hot?

Arthur knowing about her crush and Arthur knowing about her little penchant for doing things she’s either been told not to do or told she would not be able to do—really was her undoing. One little you know, Theo’s the last person you want to befriend if you want a hint of romance; he probably won’t even spare you five seconds, and they both know from that very moment that she would go for the kill.

She does.

She does and it is glorious.

She could feel Arthur grinning at her from across the bookstore the entire time.

It’s taken her weeks to gather the courage, but—who knew it would be this thrilling? It wasn’t like she was looking for a relationship, she just “wants to join in on the fun,” as Arthur likes to say. Oh, is this why the man’s so addicted to doing this? It sure is adrenalizing. Kind of fun.

When her breathing is a little more stable and her legs a little steadier, she resumes her walk to her favorite café with a little spring on her step. She hasn’t felt this determined to get on with reading in a long time.

“Welcome!” the familiar baristas call out when she arrives, and she waves at them as she piles her stuff on her typical spot. When she approaches the counter, the barista with sunflower-yellow hair and a smile like summer recognizes her, beaming. “Hey! The usual?”

She smiles back. “Yep, thank you!”

Ah, why does this feel so good?

--

“Are you opening shop tomorrow, or am I?”

Arthur is sweeping off the dust by the register and Theo is closing down the windows—it’s 5:00 in the afternoon and the shop closes early on weekends. It’s phrased as a question, but Theo’s voice is resolute: Arthur is opening the shop tomorrow.

It’s the least he can do for all the chaos with bringing that girl from the literary club.

Arthur isn’t even a literature major. Yet. This is ridiculous.

“I will, I will,” Arthur pledges, shaking off the dust into the bin. “I really don’t understand though, when you’ll still be here 10 minutes earlier than I will be,”

Theo doesn’t even blink. “It’s called being on time, Arthur.”

“No timecards in this bookstore, are there?” Arthur answers, but he’ll still be here right on time tomorrow anyway. Not early, just on time. Just like most of him, Theo supposes—isn’t that why he’s on a gap year in the middle of his medical degree? Dabbling in electives in the literature department of all things. Arthur seems to catch onto this train of thought and adds—“Pardon good sir, but you, too are only taking one class this semester.”

And that’s true—Theo only has one class, on Saturday mornings, when his day off is scheduled. He could have taken his thesis course already this semester, but… “I have other priorities right now,” he says, just as he always does, and then quips, for good measure, “but you are just loitering. Don’t make comparisons.”

Arthur laughs at that only because he’s so used to Theo already, saying, “Oh, you wound me.” He puts away the broom to its compartment at the back and goes to the door to leave. Not before he looks back at the register where Theo has just finished packing his bag. “If you need the miss’ number—”

“Go home, Arthur.”

—which is answered by boisterous laughter, the chimes at the doorway ringing.

--

Late that night, hair still damp from the shower, she suddenly remembers to look up the word that’s been stuck in the inside of her head all afternoon, disrupting her thought processes, letting her lose her train of thought. Hell, she doesn’t even know how to spell it—she has to wrangle with letters being added and removed to get the translator to recognize the language.

Hawje.

Hanje.

Howche.

Honje.

Hondje, the app finally offers, pinging with recognition as it shows her the translation.

She takes a moment to stare at the screen, taking it in.

“What?”

She presses the flip button. English turning to Dutch. Same results. Presses it again, Dutch to English. Same results. She looks up, stares at the blank wall, remembers what he told her.

“…Can almost see your tail wagging excitedly like a little hondje.”

Her mouth falls open in offense, eyes darting back to her phone.

“DID HE CALL ME A DOG?”

Ah, the beginnings of a twisted, cruel love.

[heistmaster69]

pariet lilium

pariet lilium

pariet lilium~by @heistmaster69​

4th Year Draco Malfoy x OC fic. 

~so uhh um I was maybe watching a video about dark academia while writing this and may have gotten a BIT carried away~

gif by @fairylightwishes​ all credit to them!

~

Frankie and Cher sat in the back of Potions class while Snape droned on about the effects of crushed versus shaved Bicorn Horn on the end result of a Pepperup potion.

“-now you see that’s exactly what I was talking about. Muggle movie stars are much more attractive than boys at Hogwarts-”

“Leonar-” 

“-Dicaprio, yes.” She whispered.

“Frankie that man is gorgeous-”

‘So fine-”

Cher let out a sigh, while Frankie continued. “All the boys from Dead Poets Society-”

“So it’s decided then-”

“Yes. I’m saving my virginity until I’m of age and Leonardo Dicaprio can come and take it fro-”

“Miss. Reed.” Snape deadpanned. “If you and your friends would be so kind as to stop squealing about muggle boys in my class-I would appreciate it. That will be five points from Slytherin.” 

Cher kicked Frankie under the table. 

“My bad, professor.” She murmured, putting her palm under her chin and turning back to her notes. 

Potions had to be her third favorite class, Frankie didn’t mind it at all, it’s just, she was a little distracted, recently. It seemed like her single-ness was beginning to get to her and she found herself daydreaming during class. She didn’t want to be as obsessed as she was, but Frankie couldn’t really help it. She wanted the movie-scene first kiss and the romance novel passion, as unattainable as it is, she craved it. 

But the thing is-Frankie never let herself daydream about people she knew. In reality, none of the people she’s liked would ever like her back, and it just hurt her because she knew that no one would ever have feelings for Frankie as she did for them. Every time she let her walls down she got hurt. 

A lot of the people Frankie has met have made sure she knows that she will never be as valuable, never as loved, as beautiful, as successful as others because she wasn’t as thin as others. Frankie loved herself. But her ‘friends’, her family? It seemed like they hated her for it...

~ 

Magic had always interested Frankie. Being a witch or wizard usually goes over the heads of purebloods, with the mere prospect of having the gift coming so naturally to all of them. Frankie’s isolated upbringing, rarely seeing her parents and being brought up by a strange yet kind tutor who instructed her in all sorts of topics, ranging from basic arithmetic to discovering Frankie’s magical abilities. Ms. Selwyn, around Frankie’s parents, and Kendra, during her tutoring sessions daily during childhood. 

These memories with Kendra have a warm haze to them, and whenever Frankie reminisced, a smile would find its way onto her face. We would stand together in the garden, during the golden sunsets, and she would say;

“Magic is an incredible gift, it is beautiful and infinitely important. We hold the power of the universe in our hands.” 

Young Frankie would stare wide-eyed, confused, and tug on the side of Kendra’s robe,

“Ms. Kendra, what’s the universe?” Frankie would ask.

“The universe is everything.”

“Everything? How much is that?” 

Kendra would smile so gently and kneel down beside Frankie, grasping her small hands and gesturing towards the sky alive with color.

“More than we could ever know.”

Kendra knew the power purebloods held with the Ministry, after all, the Selwyns and the Reeds were a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The Ministry was still hypnotized by the status and the blood purity that these upper-class families held and overlooked the small laws broken by the elite, so Kendra and Frankie would practice small magic in their free time-in secret. The Reeds would never want their precious-little-delicate-perfect-pureblood baby daughter learning anything but the proper protocol for stuffy dinners with the Prewetts, the Malfoys, the Greengrasses, the Bulstrodes, the Parkinsons, the Notts, the Flints, or any other sort of perfect families that they could put in their larger-than-life estate. 

Nevertheless, Kendra would take Frankie into the garden behind the mansion, near the rippling brook by a big oak tree. They would sit in the shade of the branches and Frankie would learn about everything her family didn’t want her to know. She learned about the inequality between purebloods, half-bloods, and muggleborns and as Kendra told her of the First Wizarding War, Frankie felt her heart shatter into a thousand pieces. How could someone think they were any better than another human being due to their blood? Their lineage? How they treat those supposedly ‘less than’? This realization caused a rift to form between Frankie and her parents-the entirety of what being Sacred 28 pureblooded perfection was. 

She despised it.

Kendra warned her though, she spoke softly the words that shoved Frankie into a vault, locked her away, and threw away the key.

“I don’t know if this will ever change.”

Little Frankie blinked quickly, her wide eyes sore and puffy from tears. “Why?” She cried. 

“They will never relinquish the privilege that this supremacy gives them.” Kendra let out a deep sigh and placed a tender hand on Frankie’s shoulder. 

“I think you’re wrong, Miss Kendra.”

“I hope I am, Miss Frankie. I think you could make a difference.”

This upbringing of acceptance and wonder from Kendra instilled a unique view of magic in Frankie. She saw it as a privilege and took an interest in a side of magic that tended to be overlooked until necessary. Frankie liked to create spells and potions. Specifically, she had a fixation on wandless magic. It was crazy to her-she could create life from her hands. How so many of her friends and peers overlooked this, she understood but wished more people wouldn’t call people like her Loony Lovegood. 

Anyways.

Frankie hid a tattered mahogany-colored, pleather-bound journal in her pillowcase. This journal rarely let the safety of her room, only transferring annually between her estate and Hogwarts. It was never shown to a soul, and it contained her life’s work in what could barely be considered spell-creation. Notes and random scribbles littered the pages, but if it were ever to be lost, Frankie would lose everything she’s done since she was six years, four months, and thirteen days old and Kendra told her about spell-creation. She thinks she would cry.

~

“Oi Francesca-” A voice called.

“-you’re not allowed to call me that, Blaise.” Frankie chuckled as he jogged up to her, stopping to lean against the wall with a smirk.

“I don’t care, you’re Francesca to me. Anyway, Potions, what happened in poti-” Blaise looked over his shoulder and shouted to Theo. “Oi Theodore, get your arse over here!” Blaise had a thing for using people’s full name-even if it’s not really their name, (ie Daphnessa/Pansleigh.) Frankie rolled her eyes as Theo strolled, shoulders taut, up to Blaise

“Frankie, what happened in Potions? You love potions, you’re always talking about how Potions is a really cool way to learn about how magic affects the world-”

“-Potions is a super cool way to learn about how magic affects the world-” Blaise interjected, wrapping an arm around Theo’s broad shoulders.

 Theo turns to Blaise with a sarcastic stare at him. “Yeah, that.”

I want to have a stupid dumb kiss already. Which is stupid dumb and I don’t even care but I’m horny for love.

“Oh, yeah I-I didn’t sleep well last night.” Frankie choked out.

“It was kind of a relief, your constant enthusiasm about Snape’s class is alarming.” Theo snickered. Blaise snorted as he and Theo sauntered towards the Great Hall. Frankie let out a breath and followed soon after the two boys let for lunch to get to the common room.

~

Frankie’s boots tapped gently against the cold stone floor of the dungeons. Dust hung low in the air, illuminated by the amber glow of hanging torches that littered the walls. The dungeons are always shown as a dingy, disgusting place but Frankie found the common room comforting. She stilled in front of the entrance and spoke softly the password. 

“Labebantur anguis.” 

The wall dragged inwards with a low scraping sound, revealing her home. The estate is not a home, the estate is merely her stage, acting as the perfect daughter for an audience of haughty purebloods. This common room was perfect, smelling like pine and cotton and the perfect temperature. Green rugs and plush couches in front of a fireplace, tables and booths next to an espresso machine and a tea kettle. Arching windows and pillars showcasing the beauty under the Black Lake. This is home.

She stepped past the commons and walked up the winding stairs to the shared dormitories. Cher laid on Frankie’s bed with Daphne with parchment and quills set out on the emerald silk sheets.

“If you two spill ink on my bed one more time I’ll hex you in your sleep.” Frankie shrugged out of her robe and fell back onto Cher’s bed. The two girls giggled and returned to their subsequent conversations.

Cher was gorgeous. She radiated kindness and had an aura about her that made her seem impenetrable, yet she was humble. She had a crooked smile that never failed to bring one to Frankie’s face. Her eyes shone with emotion and were a deep brown that glimmered at all times. She was incredibly brilliant and the top of many of her classes. With the exception of Potions, Frankie held that spot proudly. 

Everyone says that perfect Hermione Granger, the “brightest witch of her age”, is the top of every class, but ever since she had to use her time to deal with the two rambunctious children that are her friends, she holds strong at about fourth. Frankie had to admit, she had a burning jealousy of Granger. She managed to befriend Potter in her first year, as well as make friends with many of the teachers, ace her classes, and save the entire school three times by now. Not to mention, she was also very pretty. This envy flared its deep green color whenever Frankie so much as heard the name Granger. 

“Earth to Reed?” Frankie snapped out of her covetous haze and met Daphne’s eyes. “Pansy’s bringing up lunch, get started on your essay, like, now.” 

Frankie tipped her head in agreement and reached into her bag to pick out her Astronomy notes. “Five sheets of parchment? Is Professor Sinistra trying to kill us?” 

“I think I might just use one sheet for every word: Sorry, I, Don’t, Want, To.” Cher counted on her fingers with a snort.

Daphne tugged at her bottom lip with her pinkie. “Maybe Frankie can use one of the spells from her secret journal to erase this essay from Sinistra’s mind.”

“That spell already exists, you toad.” Pansy swung the door open with several food items floating behind her, a slice of pumpkin bread levitating into Frankie’s waiting hands. “It’s called Obliviate, it has murderous side effects, and, next week it’s Reed’s turn to get the food.”

“Thank you Pans,” Cher cheered, mouth full of a danish pastry.

“Plus, the boys were bugging us to sit with them more often.” Pansy sat beside Frankie, parchment in hand. Daphne rolled her eyes.

“It’s one day a week, they’ll get over it eventually.”

“The students at Uagadou are so lucky. They have a good Astronomy program and they live in a cloud.” 

Cher scoffed. “They don’t live in a cloud, Pans, They live in a castle-that’s on a cloud. It’s very particular.”

“I want to live in a castle.”

“You idiot, you do.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you bloody mean?”

“Nothi-whatever-what are we doing for Hogsmeade tomorrow?”

~

Draco. Bloody. Malfoy. 

He walks around the school all high and mighty, like he owns the place, yet he acts like a right prat to many of its inhabitants. It’s like the boy was born with a stick up his arse. Yet, Frankie knew how he was raised, not that it’s an excuse. He doesn’t want to be the way he is, but he’s not some broken boy for her to fix. 

She’s had many conversations in the common room with Malfoy after nights of nightmares. She’s shared hugs that linger a second too long and strange glances during lectures. His stone grey eyes held an emotion behind them that she couldn’t understand. It made her uncomfortable, the strange buzz on her skin where his hand met. The fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach when they got too close. She didn’t like it. It made her feel like a creep.

She sees the way he looks at Cher. Frankie doesn’t compare to a golden, legs-for-days goddess with a waist the same circumference as Frankie’s thigh. Besides, a Malfoy should be with someone the same physical caliber as him. Frankie’s mother prayed to the ghost of Merlin that Frankie would blossom into a beautiful flower, but as her mother continuously reminded her, 

“You are a disgrace. Nothing but a weed in a garden of perfection.”

It’s not hard to believe. Many pureblood parents held a disdain for their children in private. Frankie was lucky to have someone like Kendra. Other teenagers didn’t have anyone. Frankie was lucky, not special. A mere weed, removable by a weak pull. A thorn on an otherwise perfect rose, fit to be plucked, ignored by onlookers.

Draco Malfoy was never written in the stars for someone like Frankie. 

Not that she liked him or anything. He was, as stated before, a right prat. A good looking one, but a prat nonetheless. They didn’t talk much, at all, instead seeking solace in the late hours of the night, a deep bond hidden from their friends. How could two people who were supposedly so perfect, be so broken?

~

pariet lilium.

chapter two

[nad-zeta]

Hey! I saw your MBTI for Sengoku so I was wondering if you could also do one for ikemen Vampire?

Hi love, thanks so much for the request! So I only did it for a few of the vampy boys! Let me know if you want me to do it for the rest hehe I find I don’t know these cuties as well as the ikesen boys (˶◕‿◕˶✿)! Side note this is all my opinion so if you disagree with my evaluation of their personalities theeeeeeen idk (◕__◕✿) Also for those who dont know their personality type or who want to see where i got my info here is tha link https://www.16personalities.com/

Anyways thanx for the request and i hope you enjoy!

Ikevamp MBTI feat Vincent, Comte, Arthur, Isaac and Napoleon

✿◕ ‿ ◕✿

Vincent- Infp, the mediator

“Mediator personalities are true idealists, always looking for the hint of good in even the worst of people and events, searching for ways to make things better. While they may be perceived as calm, reserved, or even shy, Mediators have an inner flame and passion that can truly shine. Mediators’ friends and loved ones will come to admire and depend on them for their optimism. Their unshaken belief that all people are inherently good, perhaps simply misunderstood, lends itself to an incredibly resilient attitude in the face of hardship. Mediators combine their visionary nature with their open-mindedness to allow them to see things from unconventional perspectives. Being able to connect many far-flung dots into a single theme, it’s no wonder that many Mediators are celebrated, poets, painters and authors.”

I think this cute ray of sunshine is 100% INFP. This cinnamon roll is always looking on the bright side of things, he is the angel to Theo’s devil, and he brings joy and light to the lives of all those living in the mansion. Of course, Vincent believe people are inherently good, I mean he is friends with Shakespear for crying out loud, and he is able to look past Shakespears mischief causing ways and is able to see the best in him, if that ain’t Cinnabon behaviour I don’t know what is ✿◕ ‿ ◕✿

So, here are his ideal compatible matches:

Enfj, Entj and Entp

Leonardo-  ISTP Virtuoso

"Virtuosos love to explore with their hands and their eyes, touching and examining the world around them with cool rationalism and spirited curiosity. People with this personality type are natural Makers, moving from project to project, building the useful and the superfluous for the fun of it, and learning from their environment as they go. Virtuosos enjoy lending a hand and sharing their experience, especially with the people they care about, Friendly but very private, calm but suddenly spontaneous, extremely curious but unable to stay focused on formal studies, Virtuoso personalities can be a challenge to predict, even by their friends and loved ones. Cheerful and good-natured, people with the Virtuoso personality type (especially Assertive ones) rarely get stressed out, preferring to go with the flow."

I legit think Leo is a Virtuoso, he is forever fixing thing for all the people in town and in the mansion. He loves helping people, leading a friendly hand to all who is in need of help. He is also incredibly private about his personal life as seen in his route where it took MC basically the whole route just to get to know this cute Italian boy. I.e. he only allowed her to ask him one question a day, which half the time he wouldn’t even freaken answer properly. This boy is definitely super chilled and go with the flow, taking naps on the library floor or spontaneously picking you up to take you on fun new adventures. To me, this Jack of all trades screams virtuoso (◕▿◕✿)

So, here are his ideal compatible matches:

ESTJ, ESFJ and ISTJ.

Comte- ENFJ Protagonist

"Protagonists are natural-born leaders, full of passion and charisma. They are oftentimes our politicians, our coaches and our teachers, reaching out and inspiring others to achieve and to do good in the world. With a natural confidence that begets influence, Protagonists take a great deal of pride and joy in guiding others to work together to improve themselves and their community. People are drawn to strong personalities, and Protagonists radiate authenticity, concern and altruism, unafraid to stand up and speak when they feel something needs to be said. They find it natural and easy to communicate with others, especially in person Protagonists are genuine, caring people who talk the talk and walk the walk, and nothing makes them happier than leading the charge, uniting and motivating their team with infectious enthusiasm. Charm and popularity are qualities Protagonists have in spades. They instinctively know how to capture an audience, and pick up on mood and motivation in ways that allow them to communicate with reason, emotion, passion, restraint – whatever the situation calls for. Talented imitators, Protagonists are able to shift their tone and manner to reflect the needs of the audience, while still maintaining their own voice."

So this boy I struggled with but eventually settled on Protagonist. This boy definitely is a charmer, I mean just look at his face. I definitely see him as the dad of the mansion, helping and guiding all his lil vampire children. Comte definitely has charm for daaays, which was hinted in the prologue where the fist convo mc had with this beautiful man was basically her falling victim to his gentlemanly charm. He genuinely cares for all the residents of him mansion and would bend over backwards to make sure they are all happy! (◕‿◕✿)

So, here are his ideal compatible matches:

INFP, ISFP and ENTJ

Isaac- INTJ Architect

"With a natural thirst for knowledge that shows itself early in life, other kids at school often call Architects “bookworms.” While their peers may intend to insult them, those with this personality type likely identify with the label. Throughout their lives, they’re proud of how much they know, and Architects enjoy sharing the knowledge they gain. They’re confident in the mastery of their chosen subjects. They are serious and prefer to design and carry out effective plans rather than waste their time with foolish distractions like gossip. Architects are confident in the subjects they take the time to understand, but, unfortunately, they are reluctant to bother with topics that involve social skills. White lies and small talk, even when useful, are hard for a personality type that needs truth and depth. Architects may even see many social practices as downright stupid. Ironically, it is often best for Architects to remain where they’re comfortable – out of the spotlight. They have natural confidence there. If they stay within their element and do what they do best, they are likely to draw people to them, professionally, socially, and even romantically. They are fine on their own, and reaching out is often optional."

Cute shy, hedgehog boy is definitely an architect in my eyes. He is in the library 24/7 learning new things and reading new books. He has definitely achieved mastery in his particular field of study, I mean this clever boy has discovered the theory of gravity for crying out loud. It’s clear he likes sharing his knowledge with others as he helps our best boi Napoleon with teaching the cute lil street kids and in the first few chapters of his route *spoiler alert* he teaches some snotnose students about the book he freaken wrote. Hehe I also think apple boy relates to the part about social interactions as he is just a cute precious shy boy that doesn’t have the best communication skills (˶◕‿◕˶✿)

So, here are his ideal compatible matches:

ENFP, ENTP and INTP

Arthur- ENTP Debater

"No one loves the process of mental sparring more than the Debater personality type, as it gives them a chance to exercise their effortlessly quick wit, broad accumulated knowledge base, and capacity for connecting disparate ideas to prove their points. Debaters are the ultimate devil’s advocate, thriving on the process of shredding arguments and beliefs and letting the ribbons drift in the wind for all to see People with the Debater personality type have a way with words and wit that others find intriguing. Their confidence, quick thought and ability to connect disparate ideas in novel ways create a style of communication that is charming, even entertaining, and informative at the same time."

This boy has the banter, I just had to make him a Debater as he, in my opinion, has wit for days. He is definitely a cleaver cookie that will trash anyone who dares challenge him to any game. TBH I think he could definitely give Mitsuhide a run for his money on the witty remarks front. I really do find his style of communicating charming, entertaining and informative. So I would definitely vote sherlock boy as devil’s advocate (◕ω◕✿)

So, here are his ideal compatible matches:

INFJ, INTJ and ENFP

❤🌼Hope ya enjoyed and I hope you have a good day! 🌻

[radioheadyaoi]

I want to ask them all but I'm going to hold myself back. 3, 9, 10, 11, 20, 34, 43

thanks for the asks! 

3: Are there any fics that inspired you to write what you do? That I can think of, Tell Me About The Big Bang (I'm not sure who wrote it), fics by @dreamypope, you and so many of the fics written by the jjpope community 

9. Tag 3 fic writers you think are underrated/unknown in the fandom/fanfiction community. I have no idea, honestly. But, if you do know any underrated writes/fics, please send them to me! 

10. What’s your favorite fandom, pairing, or character to read fic for? I am about to expose myself right now. Let me check my ao3 tabs: dean & seamus (harry potter), arthur & eames (inception), todd & neil (dead poets society), jj & pope, boris and theo (the goldfinch), and newt & thomas (the maze runner). I have so many others but i can't remember them right now. 

 As 'research' for my WIP, I read a lot of wartime fanfiction because I did not do a lot of actually research and wanted light and fluffy ideas and because when I started writing it, I had just watched the movie 1917, I read a TON of will & tom so if you see my ao3 tab, that's half of what you'll see. It was actually very helpful when it came to writing. 

11. How do you come up with your fic titles? Lines from the writing, mostly. Or just the general idea of whatever I've written. 

20. What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process? Posting it and seeing what everyone thinks. Sharing my writing on this blog has built up my confidence and made me feel proud of what I write and I love answering questions, looking at feedback and seeing everyone's thoughts. 

34. How much of yourself and your life experiences do you put into your writing? What do you think your readers’ image of you is? I've actually been thinking about this a lot. In an novella I wrote, one of the main characters dies and the other character struggles to move on after that. Their life falls apart and they do nothing about it. They let the sadness and grief consume them. Last summer, at the beginning of July, one of my best friends died. I was young, still am young, and had no idea how to process the grief. My life imploded and I fell into a deep depression. In March, another one of my best friends committed suicide, just days before my birthday, and even though I had grieved once, I had no idea how to handle that. A lot of what the character was feeling came from me, more than I meant. So much that my uncle began to worry about me when he read the second draft.  

On a less sad note, I like to add little quirks of mine in. Like how I like pie but only lemon and peach, how I eat frozen blueberries with a spoon, how I like swimming, being around people. I hope what readers think of me is something nice but I can never know for sure. 

43. Talk about a positive experience with fanfiction or the fanfiction community that you will always remember. Nothing specific, but anytime someone says they like my writing and quote my lines back at me. Like when @pope-obx said something I wrote was earth shattering, I will never forget that. And how you said my writing changed your view on poetry. How @dreamypope called me an inspiration. These little things that stay with me. 

 Feel free to send more!