#because one day my 'messy' will be what i currently consider polished and so on

[blobbei-art]

Scene drawn very carefreely.

There is also no story context, I just wanted to draw Kasifer in a simple scene. But it looks like he saw someone sneakily taking a picture of him.

[linkemon]

Life doesn't discriminate (Ash Lynx x Reader)

Friendly reminder that English is not my first language. You can check my Masterlists both in English and Polish here. Consider supporting me on Ko-fi. You can also check out my commissions if you’re interested.

Other oneshots can be found here.

"ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ɪ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ɪ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ [ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ] ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴅ." ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: ᴀᴅᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: 1. ᴏɴᴇꜱʜᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴘɪꜱᴏᴅᴇ 2.

"Life doesn't discriminate Between the sinners and the saints It takes and it takes and it takes" Wait for it, Hamilton musical

People at the hospital definitely have too much time to think. I should probably call you now.

I remember this day half a year ago. It was so hot that everyone on the streets of New York was practically melting. In fact, come to think of it, that was one of the main reasons I didn't move that day even though damn Dino called me. Mafia bosses don't like to be kept waiting but that's me. Anyway, as it turned out, it was good that I stayed.

— Have you ignored him again?! — Skipper shouted as he stepped through the doorway and then threw himself onto my bed with the force of a tornado.

He handed me a new newspaper. We're getting famous.

— This old man won't tell me what to do — I muttered. — Something new?

— You could say that. I think you should talk to [Reader].

— If she wants something, she can come to me. — I got up and went to the window.

— The problem is that she doesn't want to talk. I came to her place to watch the series...

— You know very well that I don't care — I interrupted.

I knew exactly what it smelled like. [Reader] had a ritual with Skip where they got together every week to watch a hopelessly typical sitcom. They invited me once and, to my delight, it was the first and the last. Apparently I'm too surly, I spoil their fun and ask too many questions. Since then, I've avoided Friday nights at the apartment, which isn't that hard. At least I don't have to listen to all the shouting from the floor above me.

— You don't understand — he insisted. — I came but she didn't let me in. She said she was tired and we should catch up in a week.

— And what's so strange about it? — I jumped on the windowsill.

— She never did that, even when she was tired. Plus, her eyes were swollen. She was 100% crying but when I asked her she started laughing. She won't tell me anything. You need to talk to her.

— You're being dramatic. She probably watched some romantic comedy again and is now roaring. And even if she didn't, why would she tell me if she ignored you?

— Because I'm not you. She really likes you, Ash. I don't know if you don't see it or don't want to see it. Anyway, it doesn't matter, just do it for me and talk to her, okay? — He got ready to leave.

— Fine. — I sighed. — I don't promise when but I'll try.

I was worried about her, although at that moment I probably didn't want to admit it to myself, much less to Skipper. Besides, I had the impression that something more was beginning to emerge between us and I had no intention of developing it. Anyone who found out would use it against me. I was afraid of what this might entail in the current situation.

The Machiavellian plan was precisely that I went upstairs at an ungodly hour, hoping that [Reader] wouldn't open and I'd get it over with. It sounded good, after all, she wasn't likely to be up at two in the morning. It's a pity that all my life plans (except those related to the gang) suck.

— Why the hell are you calling at this hour? — Her voice was hoarse.

She was still wearing the clothes she wore to work. Her hair, always tied in a ponytail, was messy. There was also a bad look on his face. She was rubbing her eyes as if she was sleep-deprived but it seemed like she was trying to hide the fact that she was crying.

— I came to talk — I said bluntly.

— Ash, maybe you'd kindly wait until tomorrow? — She started to close the door but I managed to wedge my foot between it, wedging it shut.

— No I can't. Let's get to the point. What's actually happening to you?

I entered the apartment practically by force and headed to the living room. As I expected, I saw a pile of tissues on the floor and a crumpled blanket on the couch.

I reached for the unfinished ice cream. Strawberry — tasted pretty good.

— Skipper told you? I knew that once I gave up on this marathon, he would go to you. — She sighed. — Nothing happened, I just had a hard day at work. Dealing with customers is not that easy.

— Great. Now I want the real version.

She looked at me reproachfully. Still, I felt I had the right to know what was going on. Since I'm already sharing with her this part of my life that I never confess to anyone else, she should be honest with me too. After she runs away from her father and lives on her own, she no longer recognizes practically anyone from the family apart from her cousin. Let alone confide in anyone.

— Someone stepped on your toes? Some girl went back to that guy who was hitting on you or something? Your cousin called you again and wanted to apologize for your father?

The only way to get an answer.

— They fired me! All right?

The anger was so visible in her eyes. Only for it to be replaced in a moment by something like regret.

— There was this guy coming last week. He started with inappropriate comments. Boss told me to serve him because it was his friend and he got angry when coworker came over instead of me. There has been nothing more until today. — Her voice cracked. — But when he tried... — A short breath. — I just instinctively punched him in the guts, just like you taught me.

Bitter laughter from her lips. I've never heard it before.

— I can lend you the money, you know that.

— And you know very well what I think about it. We're not going back to the topic.

It was grayish area. [Reader] shunned the money the first time I offered it to her. She wanted nothing to do with the gang in any form. I should have been included there too but apparently I was an exception.

— What will you do with it now?

— I'll try to find something. — She shrugged. — I have no other choice. I'm just begging you, Ash, don't get involved in this. Promise me.

I nodded.

What else could I do when she looked at me with those big doe eyes?

She snuggled into me as if I was the last person on Earth. Maybe that's exactly what it was like back then in her little world.

I kept my word and didn't interfere — Shorter arranged everything. I don't consider it cheating. Besides, my moral code has long since become distorted.

We got the job done quietly and naturally. Although "natural" in my sense of the word looked a little different than one might imagine. I poured in where needed, banknotes flowed, some blood flowed, and [Reader] got a normal job interview, a sufficient salary and flexible hours just right for the university. I also had a guarantee that no one would link it to me. The safer for all of us.

When she announced that she would leave us, I acted surprised.

She looked suspiciously in my direction but before I left I reminded her that I had promised.

Even before she left for university, I knew it wouldn't work out. I expected to end what hadn't actually started yet but I didn't anticipate how much it would hurt.

It was killing me to know that she would have a life in which I would no longer play the first fiddle.

I knew she deserved someone better.

Not a person who will never quite put himself back together.

Not a man whore trying to get out of this whole lousy world.

Not someone who has been taking the lives of others for over a dozen years.

Then, on the day she left, I promised her something one last time.

— You'll take care of Skipper, right?

— I won't babysit him.

— Pffft… — She let out something like a laugh mixed with a snort. — You know he takes better care of himself than you do. — Just keep an eye on him.

— Fine.

— I'll see you in six months — she said, walking towards the car.

Now I'm holding this phone and dialing her number. Someone has to do it. No police officer would be suitable for this. I know I'm the only one who should call. But that doesn't make it any easier.

It was the only time in my life when I actually regretted something.

I regretted it because [Reader] up until that point [Reader] thought I always keep my word.

I regretted it because up to that point it seemed to me that [Reader]...

—  Please leave a message after the tone...

[janeturenne]

Hey so I'm that weirdo who turns up on the internet once every two years and then vanishes again into the ether...

Okay, first things first: I'm gonna be at Big Finish Day in London tomorrow. If you're there, please say hi! I'll be in CIA-Ace cosplay, complete with Docs and bomber jacket.

The big thing, tho, is that, after 15-odd years of ficwriting, I have finally gone "...these literal millions of words of fiction that I've written probably at some point began to constitute the kind of thing that even late-stage capitalism would recognize as Labor, huh." So when my husband and I started toying around with a premise based on our RP characters, I went - fuck it. Imma polish this up, put it on Wattpad and see if I can't take a crack at actually making a living from my writing. I've only wanted to be a writer since I was, y'know, five. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, yeah?

And so I've posted the first two chapters of a new original novel - not the one that some of you may have heard me talk about before (which I'm still being a bit precious about and trying to save for a publisher), but one that, if you've read and enjoyed anything else I've ever written, I hope you might like. It's Victorian and fluffy and romantic and, I hope, sexy, but it's also full of literary allusions, banter and female characters who absolutely will not be fucked with. Mostly it exists, in fact, as a giant middle finger to Leo Tolstoy, because I hate Anna Karenina on such a visceral level that it takes 60,000 words to say how much. Also, if you look at some of the characters, squint and go "...they look familiar," you're probably right. The main stately house is called Longbarrow Hall, that's all I'm gonna say about that.

So! If you've ever read and enjoyed anything I've ever written, can I please ask you to at least take a look, and consider sharing this post? Even if you find it's not really your thing, it would be so helpful to me to get eyes on it, especially early on. It's 100% written at this point, and is posting in 20 chapters. The first two are up today, and the subsequent ones will post every Friday hereafter.

Thank you very much! If you'd like to learn more, a full description is under the cut below.

No Doom But Bliss, by Jane Turenne, on Wattpad

A story of hard-won second chances, No Doom But Bliss is for fans of Bridgerton, Downton Abbey and Outlander, or anyone who likes their bodice-ripping grown-up, feminist, and a little messy.

Lady Tess Keighley has long since realised, too late, that her husband's interest in her is political rather than personal. Edmund got exactly what he wanted from marriage into her family: the office of Prime Minister. Tess, on the other hand, got a decade of neglect and cruelty that has left her believing herself wholly undesirable.

But that isn't what Kantor Mamblestone - Scotsman, ex-soldier, and currently her husband's secretary - sees when he looks at Tess. Her beauty, brains and sweetness are enough to leave his previously respectable Victorian soul in no little degree of torment. And, sweet though she may be, Tess has more fight in her than it seems…

[thefanficmonster]

Never Satisfied [Chapter 6]

Corpse Husband x Original Female Character

Warnings: Language

A collaboration between Vy & Ashens 🖤

“I don’t wanna look like this, fuck”

Previously on Never Satisfied:

Digital Checkpoint activated. Reply to save progress. 💜 — Cora

With minimal contemplation he replies seconds later.

Corpse: save

Cora: your progress has been saved. Thank you for choosing A.S.S. - the Automated Save System. You are now free to activate the digital checkpoint at any time. 

Cora: I had a nice time. Text me whenever you need to. We’ll hang out again soon, deal?

Corpse: thank you

Cora: anytime sugar ;)

Funny how a text exchange so simple and short can turn so much around for a person. Funny how a huge weight lifts off him the second he locks his phone, suddenly finding it easier to breathe, to move, to blink, to function - to live. She gives him that kick he needs to be reminded to live and not just be alive. He’s still not comfortable with how much he’s relying on her but seeing her effect on him is nothing but positive, the most and best thing he can do for himself is go with the flow and let things happen. No overthinking, no planning, no shooting guesses, just facing things as they come face-to-face with him. He may never get used to it, but he won’t know that until he tries, will he?

                                                            *  *  *

Corpse sighs as he looks at himself in the mirror. He’s been trying to step up a little with the dressing game since he’ll be having a special guest over - ok, truth be told, he didn’t invite her, she invited herself but he’s glad she did. Lord knows he wants her company and wants her around but he could never bring himself to invite her over or initiate a hangout. Good thing Cora doesn’t expect anything from him, not of that nature at least. It’s oddly amazing having a person like her - someone who basically reads his mind like an open book and then takes action according to what she’s read. It’s not only the fact that she accurately gauges all his wants and needs, but also how she knows exactly what to do to satisfy them. To calm him down, to relieve his anxiety, to make him feel comfortable. He feels strangely selfish for always being on the receiving end of this friendship, although he doesn’t see much he could do for her. He’s decided to let time have full control of the course of their relationship, hoping his giver time would come soon.

As of now, however, it still hasn’t and he can stomach that.

It’s been about a week and a half since their first hangout but he hasn’t missed her once. That may be due to how much they’ve been texting ever since he unlocked that checkpoint she offered him. To be more specific, it probably has something to do with the fact that her texts are always so full of life and light, sounding almost like she’s there with him, talking in her signature upbeat and bubbly way which is such a contrast to his own melancholic approach to any conversation ever. 

She’s also sent him a ton of memes and selfies, plus pictures she took of clients’ pets. In return for her kindness, he’s sent her bad jokes, weird internet articles about ghosts and pictures of the current game he was playing. Needless to say, their chats have been very colorful.

Now that the scene has been set up a little better, a direct timeline of events lading up to this one would be appreciated, wouldn’t it? Ok so, it all started with an “I’m bored” text Corpse received from Cora about two hours ago. Instinctively, and partially because he didn’t have any idea what else he could possibly say in response to that he sent back an apology. An apology Cora apparently deemed a loophole she could use to invite herself over cause that’s exactly what she did, not that Corpse minds it much. In fact, he felt his heartbeat quicken with excitement when her “K then, I’ll be there in a bit :)” text came in. At first he thought it was his anxiety kicking in but when he realized the rest of his typical symptoms remained absent it took him a little while to pinpoint what that emotion could be.

The epiphany came in the form of the word ‘excitement’.

Regardless of the newfound feeling, or maybe exactly because of it, he attempted to protest. A protest she killed easily with a threatening “I know where you live” text which sent Corpse scrambling to get the apartment in some kind of order. Himself too, it’s safe to say he wasn’t looking the most presentable when he received that message. 

His cleaning session consisted mostly of him shoving the strewn about items in his closet and closing it shut like a wild beast dwelled inside, placing a chair in front of the door as a sign for her not to open it and also as a way of preventing the thing from opening on its own because of how overflowing it was. 

Afterwards he scrambled into the shower to scrub himself down. It’d been too much for him to tackle given he wasn’t doing too well mentally, but considering he was now suddenly expecting company he thought it’d be for the best not to subject his new friend to the three-day-unshowered Corpse stank. 

Right now, his main focus is his face, his stomach sinking at the sight of himself in the mirror’s reflection. 

How does she even want to see me? 

His mirror is cracked along the right side, spider web-like cracks reaching towards the center of it from the impact point serving as a reminder of a particularly bad night he’d rather forget.

He sighs as he combs his hair, knowing the dark curls won’t oblige and behave no matter how much he tries. He touches his jaw, deciding to let himself off the hook by deeming that a shave wouldn’t be necessary for at least another day. And then his eyes land on his clothes - an outfit it didn’t take him long to put together since those are the only articles of clothing in his closet he’d consider presentable enough to be shown off in front of a new friend who is yet to find out how much of a slob he really is. That clothing choice consists of a black button-up shirt and jeans. 

This is nice, right? It’s fine. It’s business casual but definitely leaning more towards casual, as some would say. I look...nice, decent. I’ll take it - it’s enough. Far better than my ‘usual’.

A knock at the door startles him, though it’s quickly followed by a voice he’s grown to find very endearing: 

“THIS IS THE COPPAS! OPEN UP YA’ DOOR!” The voice yells out, probably loud enough for the whole complex to hear but it’s not like he gives a shit. And, as context clues show, neither does she.

Corpse exits his bathroom, heading for the front door, pulling the chain off and unlocking the deadbolt before opening it. The object of his newfound affection stands on the other side, grinning and beaming with that usual light she has surrounding her. Her hair is thrown up into a messy bun - a hairstyle she seems to love - and she’s wearing a simple red t-shirt covered in little chubby, cartoonish black cats that seem to be struggling to exist. 

He smiles a little, finding it in himself to speak up but when he opens his mouth to do so, she cuts him off.

“Jesus, did you just come back from a funeral?” She asks, pulling at one of the buttons on his chest as she walks past him, letting herself in. 

His eyes, completely on their own accord, wander down as she walks on by, causing him to swallow hard as he finds himself staring at a pair of tanned legs, patterned by the fishnets she’s wearing, leading up to a pair of short black shorts. 

She turns on her heel about halfway down the hall, leading him to take an inevitable notice of how her well-loved boots could use a polish. Anyhow, he snaps his gaze away to hide the fact he’s been gawking, despite not really meaning to.

“No, but for real, why are you wearing that? You seem super confined and uncomfy, bud.”

Corpse blinks before swallowing and glancing down at himself, pulling at the button she touched before looking back up, his gaze traveling up the length of her legs. She has suspenders hanging over her thighs, more of an accessory than a necessary addition to her outfit. “I just...I dunno, I thought it looked nice. Does it not? I mean, I wouldn’t know, really. I don’t usually dress like this.”

“I mean, you look dapper as fuck but if you’re not comfortable then change, get your comfy game on. I’m the last person you need to impress in this world.”

God, she sees right through him. Even so, he considers protesting, trying to convince it’s all fine, that he likes this shirt and the outfit in its entirety. But her stare sets the record straight for him - she’ll know it’s all lies. And with that in mind, he lets his shoulders fall. Not a full second passes before he promptly starts undoing his buttons. 

“Oh, thank fuck.”  She comments as he  goes to retreat into his room, stripping the shirt off as he walks, unaware of her lingering eyes on his back, unaware of her lower lip bitten between her pearly teeth. Unaware of the subtle shift in her stance as she looks him over much like he did her moments earlier.

When he returns a moment later in a simple dark grey t-shirt, she greets him with a grin and pats his chest. “Much better.”

It doesn’t take long for them to decide to crash on his couch, throw on a bad movie and just sit in comfortable silence. Comfortable silence - something that usually eats away at him and is anything but comfortable he now sees as calming, a soothe to his ever-racing mind. 

Disrespecting the movie, Corpse takes to analyzing his guest instead. She has so much confidence, he can’t help but notice, like she’s been here hundreds of times, known him for so long. He hates her a little for it. Well, it’s not quite hate, it leans more toward envy. Jealousy. That human-nature characteristic of wanting what someone else has but you desperately need/wish you had. In his mind, she’s almost selfish: Why couldn’t she share some of that confidence and carefree manner with the rest of the world? It oozes out of her like a drip of honey from a beehive, sweet and warm. And all he wants yet has none of.

He instinctively tenses up as he feels her move closer before, suddenly, her head drops into his lap, legs kicked over the armrest of the couch. He holds his breath almost subconsciously, staring at her as she remains focused on the television. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he puts one across the back of the couch and the other awkwardly bent above his head. He doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea if he touches her. He doesn’t want to come off as a creep nor does he want to overstep any of her boundaries, despite the fact she’s walking a dangerous line of overstepping his. Well, that would’ve been the case if this was done by anyone but her. The way Corpse comes to this realization is when he figures out that he really doesn’t mind this proximity, as long as he doesn’t embarrass himself or creep her out in any way.

What felt like an eternity passes before she finally speaks up, still without looking away from the movie playing on the screen opposite the couch, “You know, I can feel how tense you are.” 

His face flushes with embarrassment, heating up as his mind immediately goes to the worst possible outcome of this situation.

She’ll probably sit up, or leave, he thinks to himself, heart thumping in his ears as he tries to observe her face the best he can from this angle. Nevertheless, he swallows that fear as she rolls her head to look up at him with those large glittering doe eyes, grinning a bit as she seems to always do, “You can just put your hands wherever it’s comfortable for you. I don’t mind.”

He hesitates for a moment but, as always, he doesn’t get much say cause she makes the choice for him, knowing that pesky fear is keeping him immobile. She takes the hand from over his head and pulls it down to rest just next to her skull. She then drags the one resting at the back of the couch, placing it so his hand is resting dead-center on her stomach. Satisfied with how she’s rearranged his posture, she goes back to watching the movie but not before asking: “This okay?” while looking at him through her peripheral vision. 

He’d have to admit it’s far more comfortable like this.

“Yeah, it’s fine. You’re okay?” He asks, feeling relieved when he feels her nod against his leg. 

He moves his hand a little and swallows hard as he contemplates if he really should make the move he’s thinking of at the moment. And then he abruptly decides not to think. So, instead, he acts on it. 

Without thinking of any potential negative consequences, Corpse slides his fingers to lace with hers, resting their conjoined hands on her stomach in the same spot where she left his hand a bit ago. She curls her digits around his tighter as reassurance that it’s ok. Her palm feels warm in his hand, her thumb tracing his cold metal rings. 

Checkpoint...his checkpoint. 

Is this what it feels like to be normal?, he wonders, Is this what it feels like to really connect with someone? He has never felt this before. He’s never met someone who has such an effect on him, understand him like this - Without even having to ask she grounded him; she knew what he needed and didn’t make him feel like an idiot about it. Instead she gave him the comfort he needed.

And suddenly he finds himself afraid - realizing that this isn’t simply a vibe of two buddies hanging out. He has that subtle ache in his chest that’s telling him he wants something…something substantial from this friendship. He wants this to last, or for it to blossom, he’s not sure yet. But for the first time, he doesn’t feel the overwhelming need to figure it out. That’s one of the many effects this girl has on him - she’s the definition of improvisation, unpredictable and alive. He’s slowly learning to let loose himself, all thanks to her. Slowly, he’s learning to trust time. 

He abruptly realizes he’s glancing at her often as the movie is still running, examining her features and slowly running his gaze down the length of her fishnet-clad thighs before quickly looking away, mentally scolding himself. It’s hard, but he manages to turn his gaze elsewhere for his sake and hers. For the sake of keeping things normal, platonic and not in any way awkward for either of them. The last thing he needs is to make things weird by letting his mind wander and activate his libido and then she’d really notice how tense he is. 

Cora remains oblivious to what’s going on in his head, thank God, as she continues running her thumb across his knuckles, eyes half lidded in calm content - something that’d typically seem like the complete opposite of what she is. He likes seeing her like this, tamed almost. He feels like no one else has had the privilege to see this calm side of her. Maybe that’s not the truth - it probably isn’t - but he still feels special, knowing that it’s a tight circle of people who have seen her this way.

And then he realizes the movements of her thumb on his hand have stopped.

He freezes for a moment, his fearful gaze travelling to her face where he’s relieved to find her eyes closed only seconds before he hears a light snore escape her.

She’s fallen asleep.

It’s an odd scene. She’s such a wild and free spirit, seeing her fall asleep like this is like observing an abnormality, a paranormal event. You know, like something one doesn’t usually believe exists or is capable of happening. He’d never before been able to imagine her asleep. It’s ridiculous, he’s aware - she’s human after all, but his mind has never been able to comprehend the thought and image of her captured by the power of sleep. He simply couldn’t see it happening. But now that it’s happened in front of him, he can’t look away from the sight of her relaxed, peaceful features, overcome by sudden slumber.

And then he comes to the realization that he’s now practically held hostage on his own couch, crippled by the danger of waking her up. It’s gonna be a long while, isn’t it, he thinks to himself, yet there’s still a satisfied smile on his face. A smile that’s a result of knowing he’s held hostage by her. That’s more a blessing than a curse, if he’s being honest.

@fockingwhore  @vixenl  @annshit  @wineandionysus  @wiseflamingoqueen

[meruz]

Aforementioned long ask post please excuse me while i try to figure out tumblr's new text editor. I’ll get into the art meme questions first and then the rest at the end.

Ok first of all thank you all for sending in questions! Giving me an excuse to talk hehe. I’ll address these in number order. Here’s a link to the ask meme for reference but also I’ll restate the question for ease of reading.

1. When did you get into art?

Super cliche answer but I don’t remember a time where I WASN’T the weird art kid! I started keeping a dedicated sketchbook when I was about 12? But here’s a page from my kindergarten journal about what I want to be when I grow up.

2. What art-related sites have you ever signed up for? 

LOL this is a weird question. Not sure why so many people want to know. Anyways I definitely had a dA. more than one dA account. I used to browse oekakis when I was a kid but I think I was only signed up to some small ones that internet friends owned. What else...? Mangabullet,Tegakie, Paintberri, iscribble back when that was a thing, instagram if that COUNTs, I used to post art on livejournal and dreamwidth too. Patreon, I guess. Gumroad, inprnt, bigcartel, storenvy all for selling stuff.

In terms of resources.. I have a schoolism account that I’m sharing with friends. Used to take classes on coursera for free. I signed up to textures.com for work recently haha. I can’t remember if I ever had an account on posemaniacs. Did they have accounts...? I definitely used to visit all the time.

3. Show us your oldest piece of art you have on hand.

Alright here’s me actually logging into my old deviantart account. These are from September 2008 So I was 13 years old. I don’t have a deviantart account from before then because 13 was the required age for having an account and I didn’t want to lie about my age because I wanted people to be impressed by how young yet clearly incredible at art I was LOL.

4. What defines your artistic style?

You guys are probably more equipped to answer this than me but uh... I wanna say... Focus on colors. And... a slightly heavy hand? Like confident... not always well-considered mark making HAH...

Also I think I have a pretty healthy mix of american comics/manga influences. I feel like people who are into american comics always think my art is too manga and people who are into anime/manga always think my art is too american. And I’m taking that as a good sign.

5. Do you practice other styles/have you tried other styles in the past?

I like to think I switch it up a bunch! I mean, these are pretty different, right?

I think I’ve mentioned this before but one thing I really took away from art school is that, for an illustrator at least, art style shouldn’t be consistent. Your greatest weapon is changing the aspects of your style based on the task, the emotions and message you want to illustrate etc. So depending on the project I’m working on, the fandom I’m drawing for, whether I want something to be funny or serious or dramatic, I’ll change things about my style all the time.

One thing I don’t rly post on here is really tight polished work and that’s because I do that for my day job haha. If you’re not paying me... I’m probably not gonna color in the lines.

6. What levels of artistic education have you had?

I have a whole ass diploma LOL. Bachelor of Fine Arts in Illustration. from the Rhode Island School of Design. And I had a great college experience tbh. Besides the student loans. If any of you guys are thinking about art school feel free to e-mail or message me questions or concerns, I’ll be happy to help. Be as honest as I can be.

7. Show us at least one picture you drew or sketched recently that you did not put on a public site.

heres the wandavision kids. Uhh what else do I have...I feel like I’m rummaging for loose change here...

assorted valentines prep doodles

8. What is your favourite piece that you have done?

Well, obviously this is gonna change all the time and generally it’s gonna be my most recent piece LOL. So yeah, why the hell not. I’ll say it’s this one. I have a pretty short memory which I count as a blessing for an artist. I don’t dwell that long on older work and it keeps me moving forward.

10. What do you like most about your art?

I like that it’s something that only I would make! I had this thought fairly recently and I wrote it down in my sketchbook, it’s pretty cheesy and rambling but it felt revolutionary at the time:

So yeah. I like my art best when it’s the most me and for me. And I like it least when it feels like I’m just making something for social media or for other people’s expectations or whatever.

14. What do you like drawing the most?

Kids in baggy clothing are like my go-to LOL idk if that’s obvious. but also I like being challenged so lately I’ve really loved drawing multi-character compositions, environments, weird angles, etc.

oh i LOVE drawing the underside of shoes lol. And bandages. People that are kinda beat up.. I think it comes from getting a bunch of cuts all the time. I’m always patching myself up and I want to patch characters up too.

15. What do you like drawing the least?

mmm I try to find something to like in every drawing but lets see... I don’t like doing commissions of people’s dogs. Just because it’s normally like... a family friend and my mom volunteered me without my consent and I don’t even really know what they’re expecting me to draw and I don’t even get to meet the dog. Also I’m not that great at dog anatomy. Trying to learn though.

18. What is your purpose for drawing?

This could have a million answers! Uhhh to GIT GOOD??? But also to express myself... and also to make money... I mean it depends on what the drawing IS. I draw fanart mostly to connect to people in the fandom so if you ever see me drawing fanart please take it as like an open invitation to talk to me about the character haha. 

20. How would you rank your art? (poor, mediocre, good, etc.)

Good!!! I have a lot of self-confidence primarily born out of ignorance and a short attention span. If I don’t think too hard about how many other artists are mindblowingly unfathombly good... its easy to think I’m good too! LOL

In all seriousness though, I think the opinion a person has of their art is like a crazy balancing act, right? Like you have to think you suck enough to want to get better but also you have to think you’re good enough to not want to give up. I think we’re all walking that line, I know I am! But also I’m a glass half-full type of person so. Most of the time I feel good about it.

22. List at least one of your “artspirations.”

This is a good question because I’ve been trying and failing to put together one of those “influence map” memes for like a full month now. What’s giving me a hard time is I feel like none of these are actually really obvious “““influences”““ in my art? Like it’s hard to see a lot of them in the work I make...? But idk maybe you guys’ll see what I can’t.

And these are just a couple! God there’s so many more. I could talk about other artists for ages, from all different genres of art. Daumier, Rockwell like every illustrator out there, Dana Gibson, Alex Toth, Hiroshi Yoshida, a lot of the Brandywine School. Lots of current working artists too, Karl Kerschl, frikkin Masashi Kishimoto lol, Jake Wyatt, Richie Pope, Edouard Caplain, Matt Cook, Sachin Teng, - lots of big internet artists, Sophie Li, Freddy Carrasco, Milliofish, Angela Sung... like all my friends from art school too. I could just keep going but I’ll stop for now lol.

24. Do you have a shameful art past? (recolour sprite comics, tracing art, etc.)

I mean if that’s how we’re defining shameful?? sure LOL. It’s not sprite comics but I used to do pokemon sprite recolors all the time. And I used to trace manga panels and color them... Granted this was all when I was like under 12 yrs old so it’s not even embarrassing. Can you really call it shameful when a 7 year old wets the bed or whatever? Not really. In fact some of these are cool as fuck. Look

25. Draw a picture!

Man I’m so tired now but here.

I used to get a lot of compliments for drawing people smiling lol but I don’t think I’ve drawn a lot of smiling lately.. here’s proof I’ve still got it.

OK MEME DONE. onto the rest.

I read this ask first thing when i opened my computer in the morning and it made me really emotional.. I’m so glad my sketches could help you!!

I think a lot of artists on social media talk about the struggle of making art but imo not enough people talk about the joy! Like I know it’s corny but. I really meant what I said at the beginning of that sketchbook about re-contextualizing art around process and progress > product and perfection. I think its super important..! The strength of messy, unfinished, and energetic art! For the feeling of it, for the love it!

That's crazy!!! I hope you like 'em. The whole line of x-books is really good rn imo.

Hi! I totally have the answer for digital stuff on my faq lol. But in terms of drawing on paper.. it varies! I tend to use sketchbooking and any on-paper doodling I do as a way to loosen up/warm-up or experiment. But right now my go-to aresenal is:

from top > bottom

- kuretake no.55 doublesided brush pen

- tombow fudenosuke

- muji 0.38 ballpoint

- medium size poscas

- grey tombow double brush pens

- good ol bic mechanical pencil

not EXACTly sure which inking you referring to from my sketchbook but if I had to take a guess it'd probably be the kuretake no55. That's been my main inker, lately. Great for sketching with the thin end too.

You can print out and eat my art if you like. Just please don't mass produce or re-sell. <3

Thanks! I've come to accept that my art is always gonna be sort of gestural and painty naturally. It's getting it to tighten up enough to be legible that's hard lol...

uh yeah lol I agree actually. I think yolei is great.

I assume these asks are related? LOL

1) Yeah totally true. I love David.

2) I don’t take requests, sorry! But if you want to commission me to draw Legion i would be MORE than happy to. Just e-mail me at isellhotdogs@gmail.com.

<33333333333333333333333333

[yukipri]

On the Baratie, Part 3 - a One Piece Mermaid AU Text Story

Third part of the Baratie story tonight!

Warnings for: Thatch x Luffy, Sanji x Luffy, bg Ace x Luffy

Continues off of past parts!

👒🐟On the Baratie, Part 1

👒🐟On the Baratie, Prologue

👒🐟On the Baratie, Part 2

~~

Sanji's never been left this speechless by someone else's food before.

He's long considered Zeff to be the best chef he knows, the mentor from whom Sanji's polished his own skills, once acquired from lonely textbooks in a cold, cold dungeon cell. Sanji's improved, but there are few dishes he can serve that he feels can top Zeff's.

"Well?" Thatch asks, crossing his arms, a gentle smile curling his lips.

There's a small feast laid out before them, and to an untrained eye, it looks simple. But when Zeff finishes his first sip of soup, he makes a low, rumbling sound of appreciation, and honestly Sanji can't do anything but silently echo the sentiment.

Food can be incredible. Not only do living things require nourishment to survive, certain kinds can bring out various physical and mental reactions in the consumer. The right diet can encourage healing, grant clearer vision, even strengthen the body to seemingly inhuman degrees. Food builds the body after all, and the right kind can cause miracles.

But some recipes, Sanji has heard, take food even further beyond.

And this food, this does all of that and more.

Because from the first sip, Sanji immediately feels his body thrum with energy and warmth, and he jolts. What is this? There's no way his body can physically change from taking just a single sip of soup...and yet it feels like it has.

To eat like this, every meal, every day, every crew member...suddenly, "the Strongest Pirate Crew in the World" seems less an obscure, far away concept, but defined in a way that Sanji not only understands, but leaves him feeling nothing but awe. This, he thinks, this is what you eat to be the Strongest.

Sanji hates to admit it, but he's never had anything like it, not even from Zeff. And the cook, Thatch, did it in with the exact same tools, ingredients, and kitchen that Sanji uses every day.

And while the physical effects are mind boggling enough, there's more.

Because in this food, Sanji can feel the cook's raw intent in an undiluted form that perhaps only Sanji himself can recognize and interpret, as a cook who strives to do the same, but has never quite managed to this level of mastery. And in every ingredient that Thatch added, in every careful stir, Sanji knows what he was pouring in.

Love.

Sanji doesn't set his spoon down until the bowl is empty, but when he does, his thoughts feel more organized. And this, Sanji thinks, this food...it's practically a culinary love letter that only Sanji can read.

And Sanji somehow instinctively knows that the love letter is addressed to Luffy.

Sanji's torn. On one hand, he feels that his attraction to Luffy, not even a day old, is painfully inadequate in comparison to not just the devotion of her current cook, but his ability to convey it through his cooking alone. And Sanji knows that at this moment, he has no hope of coming close to replicating the way Thatch shows his love through his food. It's the first time Sanji's felt this way about his craft, and it's humbling.

But on the other hand...Sanji slowly lifts his gaze from the soup to see Thatch with new eyes, but the man's attention is fixed solely on Luffy, who guzzles the soup without a care in the world, no doubt completely unaware of just how special it really is.

On the other hand, the things Sanji could learn from this cook.

"Thatch's cooking is the best," Luffy croons, as Ace reaches around her to roughly wipe her messy face with a napkin. "But! Sanji's cooking is amazing too, and Sanji's cooking will also be the best if he joins our crew!"

Zeff wasn't exaggerating; it really is an honor to be compared to Thatch. Sanji feels his heart thump heavily, and for once it's not just because of lovely, lovely Luffy.

Sanji doesn't have a response for Luffy, but at the moment he doesn't need to--because Don Krieg walks in.

~~

Things happen in rapid succession.

Gin and Krieg arrive.

Then the greatest swordsman in the world, Dracule Mihawk shows up, and the green haired idiot pounces at the opportunity to challenge him, and immediately loses.

"Hawk Eyes," Thatch says warningly, with far too much familiarity and lack of fear facing down a Warlord, but perhaps that's to be expected, given that he's a Whitebeard pirate.

"Thatch," the swordsman acknowledges. "The boy's not dead. Even if he were not under your crew's protection, he has captured my interest."

Sanji frowns at their exchange.

But then he's fighting, and there's no time to worry about it, and the Baratie's in danger, Zeff's in danger, so Sanji has to fight--

And then for some reason, Luffy's fighting.

Sanji's heart leaps into his throat the first time he sees her slam into Krieg, and he moves to abandon his own fight to go to her aid, when a hand stops him.

It's the Dangerous Man, Ace, the one who acted like he was Luffy's keeper, though that antagonism is gone from him now as he watches the mermaid engage in combat with Krieg. He looks surprisingly calm, and he doesn't move to help Luffy, or even to call her back, but instead looks on silently from the sidelines, leaning against the outer wall of the Baratie next to Thatch and the blue-haired man, who are likewise quiet.

"Let her fight," Ace says, though he and his crew mates don't look away.

"You don't care if she gets hurt?! That's Don Krieg!" Sanji spits out blood and tries to move towards her again, but Ace's hand doesn't budge.

"And she's my co-captain." Ace says, and Sanji jolts. "We're headed to the Grand Line. Krieg is nothing compared to the opponents we'll face there."

Sanji wants to object, to call the man utterly insane and heartless for using this as what, a training exercise?! for Luffy, who isn't just a delicate lady, but a vulnerable mermaid! Adrenaline has completely shot Sanji's restraint, and it suddenly doesn't matter how much stronger Ace is, because Sanji's about to give him a piece of his mind--but he stops.

Because when Sanji looks at Ace, he doesn't see the cold eyes of a master evaluating the performance of his subordinate. Ace, for all his power, looks so incredibly human as he watches Luffy fight. Sanji can tell that he cares for her, that he's worried, but above all, that he has absolute trust in Luffy. And it's that belief in her that keeps him rooted to the spot when Sanji can now see that he's itching to annihilate Krieg like he no doubt could.

It's the look that true family gives, that people who don't love you can never hope to replicate, and Sanji knows the difference all too painfully well.

And so Sanji turns to watch Luffy as well. He can't say that the fight looks easy for her, but she's holding her own, far better than Sanji would have expected. Despite being a mermaid, she balances easily with her tail to hurl punches that fly far and true with her devil fruit powers, before she spins on her arms to lash out with her fins, delivering a slam that sends Krieg crashing through the wreckage of his own ship.

Her fighting isn't what even Sanji could call particularly elegant, much more like brawling, but he still can't look away.

~~

Luffy's bare hands shatter Krieg's golden armor, before her tail deals the final blow, even as the mermaid herself, bleeding and entangled in Krieg's net, plummets into the sea.

Conviction, Sanji thinks, repeating Zeff's words, his observations of the mermaid.

The three by the Baratie make their moves then, all at once. Ace and Thatch leap forward to dive into the sea after the mermaid, but are slammed to the deck by their blue-haired companion before they can touch the water.

"Hey you! Blond cook!" the blue-haired man shouts, and Sanji realizes he's referring to Sanji. "Go in after her! She's eaten a devil fruit and can't swim, and neither can these idiots! She'll drown!"

"You'd best do as he says," Zeff agrees, and Sanji swears and takes off sprinting.

Down beneath the waves, it's like the battle overhead never took place, and Sanji wonders if he'd imagined it after all as he finally reaches Luffy. Her eyes are closed, and the majority of blood has already been washed away by the water. Her body is completely limp as Sanji cuts it free of the net so she slides into his arms.

It's his first time touching her, and though she settles heavily and unnaturally against him without a hint of buoyancy...she's soft. Small bubbles rise from her lips, and Sanji realizes that she's breathing underwater. With light from the surface dancing across her face, she looks so incredibly different from when she was awake. She's hauntingly beautiful and serene, and the blue veil over her makes her look like she belongs to another world, like a sleeping sea goddess waiting to be awakened by a kiss. She looks like a true mermaid princess straight out of a fairy tale, not a pirate capable of pummeling an infamous pirate commodore.

Sanji feels his own lungs beginning to scream, and regretfully kicks out, but keeps firm grip of the mermaid in his arms.

When they break the surface, wreckage is around them, and hands immediately pull them onto the deck. Sanji reluctantly lets Luffy go.

"Luffy!" Ace shouts, all pretense of calm gone as he pulls Luffy into his arms to peer down at her.

Luffy doesn't gasp for air like a human who's been under water, but rather takes a longer, deeper breath, and slowly opens her eyes as though finally realizing that it isn't fluid, but air in her lungs.

"Hey, Ace," she says, lips quirking into a smile as she continues to breath in deeply. "Told you I could beat him."

"So you did," he agrees, crushing her briefly against his chest, before pulling them apart so he can catalog her injuries.

"Thanks for that," a new voice says, and Sanji looks up to see the blue-haired man offering him a hand, which he takes. "I can't guarantee Ace'll agree, but I for one am all for more swimmers joining us. I'm Deuce."

~~

~~

(Deuce, probably: So Nami stole our ship, Usopp's following her with a half-dead Zoro and the two bounty hunters, leaving...fantastic, me alone with three stupid devil fruit users. Again.)

I did skim through the manga again for a vague sense of order of events, but I have zero interest in writing every detail of canon into my AU stories. Sure, I'm sure some things could have gone interestingly different that I didn't mention, like Lu possibly avoiding Krieg's gas by dunking her head under water, or Thatch sucking it all up into a black hole....but eh, you can imagine that if you want LOL! This was already getting too long ^ ^;

Some other notes: I re-read Novel A again, and confirmed several things:

1) Thatch is confirmed Head Cook/Head of Dining of the entire Whitebeard Fleet

2) Thatch's division, the 4th, is also primarily in charge of Dining, including but not limited to cooking, gathering food such as hunting and fishing, and presumably procuring other foodstuffs from their territory. I already HC'd this, but nice to have it be confirmed canon!

3) It's a little hard to tell from the wording whether he's just calling it that, or whether it really is Special, but possibly implied that he can cook especially energizing and nourishing foods (in the novel, stamina soup for Pops), possibly like the Kamabakka Kingdom recipes.

(note, I have not read the official English translation, so have no clue what they chose to translate these things as, I only got the original Japanese which is enough for me ^ ^;)

Regarding the last point, I do HC that Thatch knows those recipes and is friends with Kamabakka Kingdom cooks. I also HC that Iva-chan's okama aren't the only country or culture that has Special Foods like that, and Thatch has a very, VERY broad repertoire ;D

I also just love the idea of both Thatch and Sanji, master cooks, being able to read parts of each other through their cooking that goes completely unnoticed by everyone else on the crew <3

As always, thank you so much for reading, and any thoughts you'd like to share with me are immensely appreciated! <3

❀ ❀ Send YukiPri an Ask! ❀ ❀

Read the next part: On the Baratie, Part 4

~This ask has been added to the Mermaid AU Text Headcanons Compilation post~

[i-need-entertainment]

The Count Of Aoba Johsai: Chapter 4

Chapter 3-Chapter 5

Warnings: Mentions of torture (not graphic), minor-ish character death (sorry if it seems sudden, there’s just not much I could do with it y’know?), ending is kinda crack ngl

~Six Years Later~

It’s been six years since Kunimi was sent to Shiratorizawa. Six years since he’d been outside…six years since he’s seen his Y/n. Everyday was the same, wake up eventually, eat the terrible food they served, and sit and wait for the day to go by. He slumped against the wall, sighing as his eyes closed and his arms came to lay across his knees. He was barely recognizable by this point. He now had long, shaggy and tangled dark brown hair; which was down to his shoulders now. His dark gray brown eyes were lifeless, simply a void of the warmth they held before. His strong sharp jaw was now hidden by a scruffy short beard.

 He had just fallen back into self pity when the ground started to shake. Jolting upwards he watched as an old man with messy gray hair erupted from the stone floors. The man looked at Kunimi, and Kunimi looked at the man. Silence lay between the two before he spoke, “Whoops. Wrong way.” Kunimi raised a dark brow, “…Wrong way where…?” The old man pulled himself out of the hole, “Wrong way out of here. I have spent the last few years digging this escape passage, only for it to have been the wrong way.” Kunimi looked at him slightly perplexed. “How do you know it was the wrong way?” 

The old man looked at him, “Because if it had been the right way I would have been free by now.” Kunimi’s eyes widened. Freedom. That was a forgotten concept in this place. Aside from the brutish treatment of the prisoners and the sadistic tendencies of the warden, it was a well known fact that those sent to Shiratorizawa never got out. Kunimi scrambled in front of the man. “I was put in here on false charges, I’m innocent! Please, let me help you-“ The old man held a hand up. “What exactly were you put in here for young man.” 

Kunimi took in a shaky breath, “I was betrayed by my closest friend…I was a sailor, we had to stop on the island of Karasuno due to our sickly captain. There…Ushijima gave me a letter to deliver to someone…when I returned I was ripped from my home, charged with treason I didn’t commit and thrown in here…Handed to the police on a silver platter by one I considered a brother.” 

The old man nodded, “Son, did it ever occur to you to read said letter?” Kunimi looked down, “No…I can’t read…” The old man’s eyes widened, before he closed them, sighing. “Well, I see we have something in common.” Kunimi looked strangely at the man. “You can’t read either?” The man deadpanned, “I can read. I would hope I could, I was a priest after all…I meant being scorned by Ushijima. I was thrown in here by Ushijima himself. I refused to give him the map that led to the treasure of Nekoma, and he had me thrown in here.” 

Kunimi’s eyes widened, “The treasure of Nekoma…it’s real?” The old man nodded, “It is. Let us make a deal. In return for helping me dig a new tunnel out of here, I’ll teach you all I know. Be it scholarship, swordsmanship whatever it may be I will teach it to you.” Kunimi looked at the man before nodding, “I accept. Please teach me all you can. Uhm- I never got your name.” The old man smiled, “And I never got yours.” “…Akira Kunimi.” The old man smiled, sticking out a hand for Kunimi to shake. “Ikkei Ukai.” 

From that day forward the two spent hours upon hours everyday digging. While they dug Ikkei would test Kunimi on subjects such as economics, literature, mathematics, all subjects really. When they couldn’t dig, they practiced swordsman ship with wooden planks they ripped from the door frame. That was everyday for the next 7 years. This day had gone on like any other. They reviewed material, which was basically all they could do since Kunimi had practically learned it all, refined his swordsmanship and combat skills and continued digging. 

Over the years Ikkei had been more than a mentor, but he had also been a friend. A close, honest one which was something Kunimi was in dire need of. Ikkei was also an excellent role model. Despite being wrongfully locked in a prison for 18 years, the man held no resentment. That was not something Kunimi could relate to. If there was one thing that kept him going it was the cold, unrelenting feeling of revenge. Everyday he was pushed forward by the knowledge that someday, he would have his revenge, even if it killed him he would have his retribution. 

Currently, the two were digging their way to freedom when “IKKEI!!!” The tunnel ahead had collapsed, causing Ikkei to take the brunt of the blow. Dragging him out of the tunnel, Kunimi laid him on the floor, frantically searching for a way to help the old man. “Akira…” Kunimi continued to try and stop the bleeding, anything to keep the man alive. “AKIRA!” Kunimi, with tears in his eyes stopped to look at the man. Reaching into his shirt’s pocket he pulled out a paper. “..I’m not going to make it…we both know that,” “NO! You can’t die- You- You can’t! I-I’m not ready for you to go!” 

The old man’s features softened, “Akira, You are more than ready *cough* if you use what I have taught you, and you use it for good you will go far in life.” He shakily handed Kunimi the paper, “This is the map…the map that leads to the Treasure of Nekoma…use it…for good…Akira…I know…you’re a good…man…Farewell My friend…” With that, his eyes closed, releasing his last breath as Kunimi’s eyes flooded with tears. Shoving the paper into his shirt Kunimi dried his eyes. He was getting out of here. Maybe not through the tunnel. But he would not let Ikkei’s teachings and help go to waste. 

“GUARDS!! HE’S DEAD! A MAN IS DEAD COME QUICK!” The door busted open, two guards entering and one having been sent to retrieve the warden. Walking in Semi looked down at the old man, “Hm…I must ask, just exactly how has he ended up in here…when I know for a fact his cell is downstairs?” Kunimi glared at the man, Semi just shrugged. “Oh well, he’s dead now, nothing I can do about it. Guards, give him the bag I don’t care what happens from here, just have him out of here by noon. I don’t need the whole prison smelling like death.” Turning on his polished heel he walked back to his office, leaving a fuming Kunimi alone. 

Looking at the body bag, he got an idea….So, that brings us to now, Kunimi is currently being carried by a guard, the guard of course assuming the body in the bag was the old man’s, when in fact it was a limp Kunimi. You may be wondering why the guards hadn’t noticed, well for one the staff of Shiratorizawa was anything but attentive, so when they came in to retrieve the body they were oblivious to the fact the body in the corner was Ikkei’s- not Kunimi’s- and that the body in the bag was Kunimi’s- not Ikkei’s. 

Exiting the prison, the guards made their way to the edge of the cliff, Semi not too far behind them. “Well, go ahead, I’d much prefer to get back inside if it’s all the same to y-“ Just as Semi was about to leave Kunimi emerged from the bag, fighting off the guards as he landed a solid punch to Semi’s face. Not wanting to waste anytime Kunimi ran and jumped into the sea below, not hesitating for even a second as he did this. 

As soon as he hit the water he fought the waves to make it to the surface, which he did, as he started his journey to the shore. He didn’t know where he was headed, but at this point he didn’t even care. He was going to get back to Marseilles, no matter what it took. He swam. And he swam and he swam under one strong wave pushed him onto the grainy sand. He clawed at it as he dragged himself up the beach, he almost cried, laughed even. 

That is until he was blinded by the glint coming from the sword pointed at his head. “Now, now, now. What do we have here~” Rubbing his eyes and pushing his wet hair out of the way, Kunimi looked up to see chocolate brown eyes looking back at him. “Oi! Loserkawa, what is it?!” Kunimi past the brunette to see another man with spikey brown hair and a muscular build making his way to him. “For dramatic purposes I’m going to ignore the insult.” 

Rolling his eyes the spikey haired man walked over to Kunimi. “I believe I’ve found a solution to our rather annoying problem.” Kunimi raised his eyebrow, a silent question for the brown haired man. Kneeling down, Oikawa looked at Kunimi with an intense expression. “You see, we’re pirates. We steal, we kill you know the story. Our problem is this fellow,” The man turned to point at another man, a much younger frightened man who couldn’t have been older than Kunimi himself. 

“Yuutarou, took more than he was supposed to. Hence, we had no choice but to kill him.” Another pirate came forwards, this one having pinkish brown hair, “I mean, there were plenty of other choices, but you insisted on ‘take him out here and now’-“ The captain scowled, “I don’t need your sass Makki! Anyways~ As much as I would love to spare the young lads life, It would make me look weak as a captain. And seeing as we are pirates we really can’t have that. But now you’re here! And that makes things much more interesting.” 

The spikey brunette cocked an eyebrow, crossing his toned arms over his chest. “Do you have a point to your incessant rambling or can I go take a nap?” Oikawa huffed, “Yes, Iwa, there is a point. As I was saying, I think we should have a good old fashioned fight to the death, between our beloved Yuutarou,” Oikawa waved a hand towards the poor shaking man, “And…Uhm…You are…?” Kunimi looked at him, “Akira….Akira Kunimi..” 

Oikawa clapped his hands together as he stood up. “Excellent! Well than if Yuutarou wins he can return to the crew. If Akira wins, he can replace him.” Kunimi stood, “What if I don’t want to be a pirate…?” Oikawa shrugged, walking a ways away before he turned, giving Kunimi a stare that shook him to his core, “Then you both die and we’re short a member.” The unique man turned once again and sat down on a sideways log, gesturing for the two men to be brought to the make shift ring. “May the best man win”

[achilleid]

Laisrén Blackfern ed.

— oc questions

BASICS

What’s their full name? Laisrén Blackfern

What does their name mean? Why were they named that? Laisrén is a celtic name derived from “lassar” meaning flame/fire. Blackfern is a chosen last name. If you asked him, he’d try to say he picked it because of some profound reason, like because ferns are resilient and hardy plants or something, but he entirely picked it because he thought it sounded cool. 

Do they have any nicknames? Rén. Pronounced like “rain”. 

How old are they? Time functions really oddly in the Sidhe. When he last lived in the human realm, he was seventeen human years. That was nearly a century or more ago by human time. Physically he appears about 32-33.

When’s their birthday? December 29th (human) or 9th Day of Winter (Sidhe)

What’s their zodiac sign/element/birthstone/etc.? Do they believe that holds any significance? Capricorn/earth/tanzanite-- Laisrén believes in zodiac signs in a very nonchalant way. He is from a magical world where all kinds of weird stuff happen when someone is born, so being told some aspect of his personality is theoretically identifiable by his “sign” he’d probably just shrug like “Sounds legit.”.

What’s their species/subspecies? Do they have any special/magical abilities? He is a half Seelie/half-Unseelie Folk. Folk are presented in my world like a combination of elves and fae. Seelie are generally characterized by their more warm toned skin colors, affiliation with the light, spring and summer, Unseelie are associated with autumn and winter and tend to favor darker, cooler tones. Laisrén is a mix of both types. There are stereotypes associated with each kind of Folk, but ultimately it is entirely based on the individual.

What “class” do they belong to (for fantasy characters)? If none, what weapon do they favor? He would definitely be a Ranger class, duel-wielding swords and using a bow. 

APPEARANCE

What do they look like? Laisrén owes 90% of his appearance to Levi Ackerman from Attack on Titan I won’t even lie. So he is roughly 5′9″, has dark black undercut hair and dark green eyes. He has a warm beige skin tone that darkens in the summer. 

Do they have a face claim? Nope!

What’s their style like? Clothes, hair, makeup? His go to outfit is a black doublet with a silver jerkin over the top. During combat, he favors a set of dark leather armor and a dark cloak. Lots of dark colors. For a half Seelie, he dresses almost exclusively in the dark or jewel colors favored by Unseelie.

How do they carry themselves? What’s their default expression? Perpetual resting bitch face. And he carries himself with an air of self-assuredness and confidence that is entirely unforced. It is just how he is. Granted, he could look cool and collected and inside his thoughts are going a mile a minute. Very good at hiding how he feels.

Do they have any physical ailments or disabilities? Laisrén was saddled with a curse at a young age. His skin, starting at the fingertips of his right hand, is turning black and spreading upward. As of present day, his hand has blackened up to his palm. His nails grow much sharper and faster on that hand as well. Laisrén covers this with gloves.

PERSONALITY

What’s their alignment? Lawful Neutral

Which one of the 16 Personality Types do they fit into? ISTP

What are their hobbies and interests? Do they have any particular “favorites” (food, books, and so on)? He is a big fan of games, especially strategy games. He would love Risk, History of the World and other games like that and probably plays Folk equivalents when he can. Chess too. He’d enjoy card games there were not luck based. He also does like to read and his favorite meal ever is high tea. The man will try any blend of tea ever created and he loves having a nice herb garden.

What are they bad at? He is not the best cook. Food is something to just be consumed as quickly as possible for energy, so getting him to sit down and have a meal and just ENJOY it is very hard. He also is a fitful sleeper and is very bad at picking up on subtext or subtleties when speaking with people. He does not take hints. He does not even know a hint is happening.

What kind of things do they dislike/hate? Disorganization, MESS in general. This is both literal and figurative. Messy emotions will have him cleaning the same room, polishing the same armor or sharpening the same blade in a wholly meditative process trying to either work through or ignore his feelings.

Do they have any vices/addictions/mental illnesses? His secret vice is his love of sweets. Food is mere fuel until it is chocolate and covered in strawberries or something and then he is like “.... okay maybe a few bites.”

What are their goals and motivations? Currently? Managing his curse, keeping an eye on his “niece” and her son. Caring for his mother secretly. His goals later become more aligned with the main character’s and becomes ensuring the safety of those he cares for. Full stop.

What are their manners like? Any habits? He is not impolite, but he can be brash. He knows how to behave in different situations though, so his “brash” on the field and his “brash” at say a gathering or a meeting is very different. He has a habit of clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth when he is annoyed and only ever breaks eye contact with someone if he is feeling wholly and deeply vulnerable. 

What are they most afraid of? Living for centuries upon centuries only to turn around and realize he has done so alone and always will.

BACKGROUND

Where were they born? What was their childhood like? He was born in the Sidhe, but within a week was abandoned in the human realm. His childhood was spent raised in an orphanage during the early 1900s on Earth. He lived in London and sometimes falls into a cockney sounding accent when he is tired. 

What’s their family like? Well. His mom is thought to be absolutely bonkers because she pulled a changeling thing. And she is, on some level, mentally not all there. In Folk culture, there are some events that can cause a Folk to become trapped in one emotion and unable to overcome the enormity of it and remain “stuck” there. His mother fell into a Despair upon the death of her partner, so he cares for her and the remaining family of her human adopted son from the shadows.

What factions or organizations are they a part of? What ranks and titles do they hold? He is a Hound of the Wild Hunt and Captain beneath the commander responsible for training new recruits. He trains the soldiers of their ranks.

How do they fit into their “story”? He is at one point in the story, love interest, secondary protagonist, secondary antagonist. 

Where do they currently live? What’s their place like? He resides in a home called Elden Keep, which is a an old fortress manor that once was used as a hunting lodge. It has a western tower with a turret. It is a house of rich brown woods and plush green carpets and a very lovingly tended to garden.

How do they eventually die? WELLLLLLLLL-- they eventually succumb to the curse, but it is temporary. More like an emotional and mental death and then a rebirth. 

RELATIONSHIPS

Do they have any friends? Would they consider anyone to be their best friend? His commander Eimer and his fellow captains. Later, he becomes closer friends with Cyra’s group.

What’s their friend group like? What role do they play in it? He is definitely not even the oddest of his group, that belongs to Dillion, the resident mad scientist/mage (he’s nice! just eccentric). It is a nice blend of people and neurosis haha.

What’s their love life like? (See also: ship question meme.) Do they have any kids? Prior to his relationship with Cyra, Laisrén would have casual encounters, but nothing serious. His longest fling lasted probably off and on for a few months. He has no issues with accepting and reciprocating sexual advances, but has not had a lot of experience with feelings being mixed in until Cyra. With Cyra it starts physical, but ultimately he realizes it is satisfying in a way that past ones have not been because his emotional needs are being met.

Who do they look up to? Who do they trust? He looks up to and trusts Eimer above everyone. He is his best friend, his commander and his fellow Hound. They went through recruitment together, battles and all kinds of bad shit. 

Who do they hate? Do they have any enemies? His enemies unfortunately, when revealed, are some powerful people. He grows to hate Queen Nevan and by extension, Druth, Cyra’s uncle and the Queen’s grand commander.

Do they have any pets? He has a few horses, but he’d never refer to them as “pets”.

Are they good with kids? Animals? Good with animals. Kids he is shockingly popular with, even if he doesn’t really make an effort. They appreciate his honesty and the fact he talks to them like they understand things.

[magpiemorality]

Bring It On, Moceit/Moremus, 5/5

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5  AO3

We’re here; the final part. The happy ending, hopefully… 

Huge thanks to @littlestr​ for the original prompts! And thank you all for following along with this fun weekend jaunt, I have come to adore these boys and they’ve outgrown the little prompt oneshot they were supposed to exist in, constantly yelling at me for more attention until now we’re here. There’s even art HERE by @sometimeswritingsometimesdying go look at it!!!! 

Without further ado; please enjoy.

Warnings: dismissal of polyamory (character doesn’t believe it’s real/feasible), swearing 

Patton Sanders was the prettiest boy in the whole college...

***

Patton Sanders was the prettiest boy in the whole college. He wasn’t being vain or anything; there had once been an online poll on the college gossip blog and he’d won hands down. It was just fact at this point. 

He was also currently (in his own internal poll) the saddest. Everything had been going so great (shut up Remy it had) and then it had taken a turn towards the endgame and then- 

Well, what had happened with Remus? Patton still wasn’t sure, and Remus was ignoring his texts so he had no clues to go on apart from the fact that one minute the boy was giving him some very upmarket salmon filets and pulling off a classing hair-behind-the-ear move that would have possibly even led to a kiss- and then nothing. Remus had suddenly… changed his mind? He’d freaked out for some reason anyway, and had just run off. 

Since then nothing, nada, total radio silence (yeah so it had only been two days so what Remy shh) and Patton was falling into despair. There had to have been a vital signal he’d missed somewhere that would have turned the whole thing around. 

Maybe the fish was a clue? 

He and Remy had spent a full evening poring over the fish. Was it a secret message? Symbolic in some way? Was there something written on it? Patton had drawn the line at trying to open it up and check the inside because he still very much wanted to save it to cook for Remus some day, so it had been rehomed in the freezer after a careful perusal of storage methods on Google. 

And there was a whole other problem now too- Dex was avoiding him. Over text, on campus, in the cafe; everywhere Patton could think of to try and run into his second paramour turned out to be a bust, and the only way (again, two days was ages Remy don’t be a bitch) he could have avoided even accidentally bumping into Dex for that long was if the other boy was actively staying away. 

Those texts went unanswered too. 

(Remy was starting to lose patience.)

“But I just don’t-”

“Oh my god gurl please don’t finish that sentence!” Patton’s very best friend and emotional support gay snapped, slamming his Starbucks cup down on the table (situated outside the cafe, so they could be seen by as many people as possible, of course). “I literally can not with you.”

Patton’s nose wrinkled. “My tutor Logan says we shouldn’t say literally when it’s not grammatically accurate.” 

“Your tutor Logan can literally suck my dick. No seriously; he’s hot, get me his number and I will consider literally forgiving you.” 

“But-”

“Baby, sugarplum, Patty-cake- for the love of all things caffeine; just take a chill pill okay? Boys will come and go in your life and if they’re worth anything at all then they’ll be back. Besides, they’re probably just duking it out over you somewhere. Maybe shirtless. Maybe there’s baby oil…” Remy trailed off with unfocused eyes, sipping his drink absently and Patton sighed, because even that nice (very nice, saved for later) image not enough to dispel his melancholy. 

He checked his phone again for the millionth time that day. Spring break was coming up and the cheer squad Whatsapp was going wild with anticipation, but Patton wasn’t in the mood. He’d foolishly hoped that one of his handsome men was going to sweep him off his feet and away to somewhere spectacular for the holiday, but that hope had tanked dramatically in light of recent developments. Normally that would’ve just made him shift his hopes towards prom, but it wasn’t enough of a big deal as it had always been in high school, and it was really more of a friends’ night out situation. Not the sort of time to be expecting big dramatic declarations of love, you know or whatever. 

No, the universe seemed to be spelling out ‘Patton Sanders is going to die alone’ pretty hard, even if Remy wasn’t in agreement. 

“Who are you texting, anyway?” Patton asked, picking at his nail polish with a pout. “Let me at least live vicariously through you until I waste away, a tragic damsel whose beauty was lost to time…" 

Remy looked up, talking around the straw in his mouth. “Jesus you’ve got it bad. And it’s none of your business, P, I’ll tell you when you aren’t moping.” The way Patton visibly and genuinely sagged seemed to revive Remy’s best friend sympathy instincts, because he quickly finished his drink, took Patton by the hands and pulled him up. “Come on cupcake, it’s the weekend and we’re going shopping. Because no matter what happens with your boys- it’s nearly Spring Break and we are gonna look hot to trot!” 

And who was Patton to disagree with such flawless logic? 

***

Maybe there was something to be said for the mystical powers of retail therapy, because when Patton flopped down on his bed that evening there was a text notification from a blocked number on his phone that made his heart beat wildly. 

It contained an invitation, to meet the following weekend at a destination that would be sent in a future text, and it was signed ‘from your not-so-secret admirer’. 

The week went by horribly slowly. Even practice seemed to drag, and yet… 

Suddenly Dex was meeting him every day with his tea again, no word of explanation but a soft smirk always hovering around his lips, lighting up his usually serious face. 

Suddenly Remus was watching and winking at him from across the gym- not approaching this time round but offering little shy waves and offering help when he could, putting away the gym equipment or offering a protein bar on the way out just as Patton’s stomach started to rumble. 

Something was up, and Patton’s head was in a spin, but it was oddly perfect. 

Even Remy couldn’t believe the change. 

“You’re totally one hundred percent sure they’re not on drugs?” Patton shot him a look. “Okay just double checking. Joined a cult? Kidnapped by aliens and replaced by pod people? Serial killers planning on luring you in an-”

“God, Remy, no!” He hit his friend with his pillow, laughing at the offended noises Remy made before he joined Patton in giggling on the bed. “No I think they just… sorted something out. It’s weird though, right? Like there’s something weird happening? Not bad weird, but…”

Remy mirrored his shrug. “You’ll have to wait and see what happens with your ‘not so secret admirer’,” he said, singing the name. “Do you have any clue which one of them it is?” 

“Well no. But surely it’s Dex? I mean, he’s Dexter, he can sort out a blocked number. It’s… Remus is a total carebear but he’s not exactly James Bond, you know? It’s got to be Dex. But he’d just out and say it, I know he would, so I don’t- I can’t be sure. Remus is the dramatic one…” Round and round in circles they went but never came any closer to solving the puzzle. 

Friday came and went and at long last it was time to head out for the grand reveal. Remy had helped him get dressed (cute but weather appropriate and with good running shoes, just in case) and they were waiting in the living room for the address to come through. 

His phone buzzed. 

Once they’d stopped shrieking in excitement they googled and found the address was of the same cafe he’d spent so much time in with Dexter over Winter break, which- it was probably not a good thing that his heart had sunk over ruling out the possibility this was Remus all along, right? It had simultaneously skipped a beat at the confirmation that it was Dex, so… You win some, you lose some he supposed. 

Crunch time. 

He hurried along the streets- glad for the tiny size of their college town and for the lack of rain on the crisp February morning- and slipped into the cafe. Only to see not Dexter O’Reilly sat inside waiting for him, but- 

“Remus?!”

***

Let it be known that Remus Duke was not the prettiest boy in the whole college, far from it. Nor was he the most intelligent, nor the richest nor the most popular. However what Remus Duke had in spades was earnest charm. It was lethal in a one on one situation, and he made sparing use of it so as not to abuse his power. 

Let it also be known that Dexter O’Reilly was far from immune to said charm, especially when it was turned on him from a few feet across a brightly coloured, messy, but shockingly cosy room in a frat house on Greek Row. If Dexter was the Slytherin here then Remus was almost certainly the Hufflepuff who would drive said Slytherin to world domination. 

In this case, of course, world domination was replaced by Patton Sanders, and the prospect of getting to date him. The concept was the same though, and the intense level of detail required to get the plan exactly right was too. 

In fact, Dex had stayed way later that night than either of them had expected, as they’d plotted and planned and discussed various ways of making their dreams reality. What Remus lacked in book smarts, he made up for with an innate talent for asking exactly the right questions to fix any inefficiencies or problems before they ever arose, and you bet Dex had made a mental note of that for future reference. 

What neither of them had really considered, was the exact reaction Patton would have when he walked in the cafe door on Saturday morning to find not just Remus, but- 

***

“And Dex!” Patton’s eyes were big and round as they switched back and forth and back and forth between the two young men. He clutched his phone in his hand like a lifeline, wondering if this was going to turn out to be the worst day of his life so far, rather than the tentative best he’d pencilled it in as… 

“Hey,” Remus smiled hopefully at him, standing up and awkwardly trying to gesture Patton to his seat like a magician’s glamorous assistant or something. Patton took pity on him and did in fact sit, still mostly set to ????? and !!!!!! and only just managing to process what was happening. 

Opposite him, Dexter crossed one long leg over the other, and Remus perched on the edge of the third chair like he was physically restraining himself from getting up to go be closer to Patton. Which wasn’t entirely untrue, as it happened. 

“Guys, what’s going on?” Patton asked weakly, looking to Dex for guidance, but it was Remus who replied. 

“Well,” he started, twisting his hands around nervously. “We ended up having a bit of a chat, last week. I um, I- oh fuck what was I supposed to say?!” Dexter snorted softly and Remus pouted at him. “You’re no help, we said we’d do this together!” 

You could’ve knocked Patton over with a feather. His mouth actually fell open at the display of camraderie. Suddenly the serial killer theory had merit. 

“Patton. Through a convoluted set of circumstances we ended up discussing our possible futures… with you. It’s fairly clear you’re struggling to choose between the two of us, right?” He waited until Patton nodded slowly. “So we thought… why choose?” 

“My brother Roman told me about this class he took last semester see, about like, changing identities or something. People, basically, and he heard about all these different things they never taught us in school! And one of them was-”

“Wait,” Patton interjected, holding a hand out because he was ninety percent sure he knew where this was going, but- “That’s real? Having… sharing partners is real? It actually works?” 

“Hey how’d you know what I was going to s-”

“Yes, darling, yes to all of that. If the people involved are honest and open and willing to work on it,” Dexter interrupted, smiling at Patton. Remus was also looking at him, nearly bouncing in his seat with excitement, overflowing with energy like always. Gosh Patton loved his energy, his enthusiasm for life, his potential, ahem, stamina… 

He turned back to Dex, only to be filled with warmth at the look he was getting, because he loved the way Dex gave him special smiles he gave no one else. He loved his soft, clever words, and his gentleness. 

Oh. 

“Oh.” There was quiet for a moment before the two hopefuls shared a concerned glance. 

“Patton?” Dexter prompted. “Is that… a good ‘oh’ or a bad one? We uh, we know it’s kinda not what you were expecting, probably?”

“And you can take your time to think about it!”

“Thank you Remus, yes. You can take your time, darling. But we would like to try this with you. However you like. And if we want to change things down the road… we can talk about that too.”

Patton was the prettiest boy in the whole college. Seemed like today he was the luckiest, too. “Yes!” He shouted, leaping out of his seat to grab them both in a hug, dragging them together forcefully. “Oh gosh, goodness, yes, that sounds perfect!” He gave them each a kiss on the nearest cheek and sat back down, cheeks red but smile bright, holding his hands out for them to take one each. 

“This is going to be so cool!” Remus crowed, and Dex chuckled softly at his exuberance, squeezing Patton’s fingers, his eyes betraying his own quiet excitement.

Yeah, Patton thought. It really was. 

--

Bonus 1 | Bonus 2 | Bonus 3 | Bonus 4

[crystaljins]

When the ice melts

Characters: Jimin x Reader

Word count: 10.8K

Synopsis:  They say never meet your heroes, and never has that been truer than when you meet your idol- former figure skater and two time Olympic athlete, Park Jimin. But maybe you can turn things around...

Sports!au (Figure skating) + prompt: “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Notes: Here is my entry for the btsboulangerie August prompt! I will say, the only things I know about figure skating is from hours of watching Yuzuru Hanyu skate and let’s be real, he inspired a lot of the plotline to this fic. Do yourself a favour and look up the following things on youtube before reading:  Yuzuru Hanyu’s performance at the 2014 Cup of China, his performance to Notte Stellata, and Mao Asada’s performance to Rachmaninoff’s Concerto No. 2 (I can send you the links to all of these if you PM me ;).)

Huge shoutout to @yoongi-sugaglider for her inspiration and encouragement while writing this fic.

EDIT: Now with bonus drabble found here.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, bits of angst and fluff, a few scenes that a bit suggestive but not explicit, mentions of hooking up at a club.

 You’re sceptical from the moment you set foot into the club.

“Are you sure he’s here, Jungkook?” You call out urgently to your friend, struggling to keep up with him amidst the mass of pulsating bodies. You’re surprised he hears you over the heavily thumping bass.

“This is the kind of place you’re always going to find Jimin in. At least since his accident, that is.” Jungkook answers ominously as he continues to plough carelessly forward. He is nowhere near as uneasy as you are in such a place. As he loves to remind you, he has actively engaged in a social life outside of the ice rink you spend most of your waking hours in. In fact, after high school he actually lost most of his interest in being on the ice, despite his former status as a talented and well-loved hockey player. Instead he now focuses his attention into his degree in sports science. He still works at the ice rink your father owns part time, however, and it was during one of his shifts that he let slip that he personally knew your hero and idol, Park Jimin.

It was that fact that had led you to your current location. Park Jimin, two-time Olympic gold medallist and possibly the most skilled and talented figure skater in the history of the sport, had dropped off the ice-skating radar just two years prior. Such a fact had not deterred you from viewing him with the adoration and eagerness that only a loyal fan could understand. And so, the revelation that your good friend Jungkook knew him personally could only have one possible outcome. You had demanded that he introduce you to your hero. You’ve been a fan of Jimin since his first gold medal win at the tender age of 16, while you had been a starry-eyed 12-year-old taking figure skating lessons in the ice rink your father owned. And after much pestering and begging, Jungkook finally agreed to arrange your meeting.

Had Jungkook more tact and emotional sensitivity, he may have possibly taken you aside and reminded you of the sobering fact: One should never meet one’s hero. He does no such thing, however, and you are so busy in your eager plotting of how you could ask Jimin to coach you that you don’t even pause to consider the fact that you might be disappointed.  

As it stands, you nearly collide with Jungkook’s sturdy back when he halts without warning before a plush booth built into the wall of the night club. Your heart nearly skips a beat- this is it, you realise, as you lean ever so slightly to peer around your friend’s back. This is the pinnacle of your career. From the moment you first laid eyes on Jimin’s skills, you have eagerly awaited this moment. His poster has been on your bedroom wall for nearly ten years at this stage. You’ve never been fortunate to see one of his routines live- this is the first opportunity you have ever had to see your role model up close. You inhale deeply as you focus your eyes on his figure.

Only to find him otherwise occupied. He is engaged in a fierce lip-lock with a young woman who seems very comfortable seated upon his lap. Immediately you are mortified and straighten, allowing Jungkook to once more obscure your view of Jimin. It is not like you expected much from his meeting, or that you had anything more than the sort of crush a schoolgirl might have on a celebrity, but it is still, for some reason, crushing to see him in such a way. Your intentions in meeting him had been entirely innocent- you just want him to choreograph your next routine for the competition you have coming up. You had been recruited for the national team on the Olympics just 6 months earlier and this will be your last solo competition before you begin training with the national team for the Olympics which takes place in just one year. A chance to work with Park Jimin would be a tick on your bucket list. Still, your visceral reaction is also due to the realisation that perhaps Jungkook had not warned Jimin that he had arranged your meeting. Which means your request could be entirely unwelcome.

Jungkook seems undeterred by Jimin’s activities and folds his arms. He clears his throat loudly. The music is quieter here and normal conversation is possible, but Jimin does not immediately detangle from his… friend and so you think that perhaps he hasn’t heard Jungkook. But Jungkook merely waits and eventually Jimin pulls away with a long-suffering sigh.

“I’m busy.” Jimin snaps, and these are the first words you hear from your hero. Jungkook rolls his eyes.

“I only agreed to meet you here and not in a coffeeshop because you promised you wouldn’t pull this kind of stunt. You’re being rude to my friend.” Jungkook complains. Jimin smiles apologetically at the girl in his lap, who seems unbothered by the interruption and merely gets to her feet and vanishes into the crowd without a word of greeting. Jimin stares after her for a long moment before allowing his gaze to settle on you and Jungkook. You suddenly feel exposed beneath his stare- you should have dressed more nicely, more impressively. Isn’t appearance so important in the sport you have chosen? The unimpressed expression upon Jimin’s face as his eyes slide passively over you certainly confirms that.

“Hello,” You begin with an awkward smile, ducking your head politely. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you! I’m (Y/N) and I wanted to ask you if you’d-“

“This is the girl you were telling me about, Kook?” Jimin interrupts. Up close, he is beautiful in a way that cameras and youtube videos cannot portray. His face is smooth and sculpted and there is a chilling beauty to the detached way he regards you. There is also a subtle disgust to his gaze that mars his handsome features, however. And its directed purely at you- beneath its intensity you feel your gut roll and you battle the urge to empty the contents of your stomach before his neatly polished shoes. “Her?” He repeats for emphasis. “In the Olympics?”

Jungkook, ever the loyal friend, looks like he may actually leap to your defence. But you are quicker. Though you have always been on the quieter side, too preoccupied with your sport to focus on much else, you have never lacked a backbone. And if there’s one thing you are confident about, it is your skill on the ice. Suddenly you feel anger. How dare Jimin, legendary ice skater or not, evaluate your skill and worthiness to be in the Olympics without even having glimpsed your ice skating? How dare he be so shallow as to think your outward appearance is in anyway indicative of your passion and joy in your beloved sport?

“How dare you.” You snarl. Jimin looks mildly amused at your anger and watches you through narrowed eyes.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He mocks. He leans forward and rests his chin idly in his hand. His hair is pushed up and carefully done and it is no wonder that women would fawn over him in such away. He is unfairly handsome in his white button down and well-fitted black trousers. “Do you think you’re special? Do you even know what it takes to get to the Olympics? Because I do, and,” He looks you up and down, your frumpy sweater and messy hair. He wrinkles his nose. You’d come straight from the rink because Jungkook hadn’t told you Jimin would be at a club, and so you look completely out of place. “I don’t think you have it.”

“You haven’t even seen me skate.” You retort hotly. You had never imagined you would one day address your idol with such contempt. But he has proven to be anything but the man you used to worship. Jimin seems surprised at your vitriolic interruption. You look at Jungkook, who looks apologetic and inhale deeply. “I was going to ask you to coach me, and honestly, I would have walked away without a complaint if you’d just said no. But you don’t get to judge my worthiness to be on the ice without even seeing how I skate. I bleed, sweat, and cry on that ice. You don’t get to scoff at me before you’ve even seen what I can do.”

You cannot, for the life of you, give a reason behind your next action. But fuelled by your anger and indignance, you reach into your bag and pull out a crumpled flyer, with the address and directions to your father’s ice rink printed across it. You hold it out towards Jimin who, after a moment of hesitation, accepts the piece of paper.

“I’ll be here practicing tomorrow, if you change your mind and want to see what I can do.” You say quickly. “If you want a chance to be part of something big, then I guess I’ll see you there. But if you want to sit here and get drunk and reminisce about when you had what it took, then be my guess. Have fun watching me perform at the Olympics and knowing you could have been there with me.”

And with that, you stride off, leaving Jimin alone at his booth with an impressed Jungkook in tow.

“Wow, ice queen,” Jungkook calls, when you’re outside the club and able to converse at a normal volume once more. “I never thought you had it in you.”

You don’t pause your hurried walking, however, until you are sure you have left the club well behind.

And then you promptly crumble to the ground, hands shaking and eyes wide.

“Did I… did I really just say all that?” You asks breathily, dizzy now that the adrenaline and anger has fled your system. “To the Park Jimin?” Jungkook laughs and pulls you to your feet with a hand around your arm.

“You absolutely did.” Jungkook declares proudly. “And I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees you skating tomorrow.”

“I shouldn’t have said all that!” You lament, and Jungkook laughs.

“As much as I love him, Jimin has needed a kick in the arse ever since his injury and he needs more in his life than just alcohol and girls. You did a good thing. Now come on, I’ll drop you home so you can get a good rest before showing Jimin how it’s really done.” Jungkook reassures you, dragging you off before you can freak out any further.

And you placidly follow, now filled with dread at what is to come.

++

The sun is too bright and the inside of Jimin’s mouth tastes worse than a men’s urinal. He’s hungover and grumpy and your irritating words ring in his head. And the absolute icing on the cake- he wakes up alone in his bed, instead of with the hot girl he’d been on the verge of going home with before you showed up. He’s going to kill Jungkook. He should have known from the second that Jungkook offhandedly mentioned he had a friend good enough to be in the Olympics that last night was going to suck.

So then, why the hell does Jimin find himself gazing with disgust at the ice rink you had mentioned you’d be practicing at, not an hour after that awful wakeup? He can still vaguely taste vomit in the back of his throat and the sunglasses he wears aren’t big enough or dark enough to lessen the stabbing sensation from the sun. He shouldn’t have drunk nearly as much as he did last night but he’d needed to forget. Your voice and your face and that look in your eyes. The spark, as you had talked about your skating. He’s seen it before- he used to see it every day, when he looked in the mirror before leaving for early morning practice. That spark has long since died- it’s been gone since the moment the doctors told him he would never skate competitively again.

It’s not too late- he can still leave. Pretend he never saw you and that your words didn’t burrow frustratingly deep beneath is skin. He could go back to his life of partying and drinking and struggling to forget a life he cannot leave behind. But he doesn’t want to. He needs vindication- he needs to see how bad you are, so that he can close up the gaping wound you’d reopened. So many old feelings of hurt and bitterness and agony have suddenly been dredged up and he needs something to seal it over. To ignore the ragged, ugly scar on his heart, and this time all the alcohol and drugs and women in the world will not smooth the rough edges. So he sips aggressively from the cheap coffee he’d picked up on the way which tastes like garbage and doesn’t even bother to remove his shades as he steps into the ice-skating rink.

At this hour, there is no one present but you. He’s momentarily taken aback to see you, alone in the centre of the rink. You look different to the uneasy, poorly dressed young woman from last night. You had looked like a geek desperately in need of a makeover from a cheesy teen movie, but the lone figure in a sapphire blue dress ice looks… different. He can’t find the words but something foreign heats in his veins as he is overcome with something other than the nausea and disgust that he usually feels when presented with any aspect of his past.

Music startles him as it crackles in through the speaker. His heart leaps into his throat as he recognises the tune- Notte Stellata. You don’t even know he’s there, yet it can’t be a coincidence that that is the song you have chosen to practice. You extend your arms slowly in a delicate pose as the opening strains filter slowly through the air and he sees your shoulders raise in a gentle inhale.

And then you are gliding across the ice. If the spark he had seen in your eyes last night was enough to plague his thoughts for so many hours, it is nothing compared to the way you smoothly cut through the rink. Perhaps, he thinks, you were not born. Perhaps you were carefully crafted with a loving heart to soar on angel wings formed from thin silver blades. You lift into the air in a triple lutz and land with the lightness and grace of a swan and then you extend your arms outwards.

You’re beautiful. But suddenly it is not you or your performance that Jimin is seeing. Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, another figure that dances over the smooth pool. The figure cuts across the ice with an impressive power and grace- that figure brought tears to the eyes of people who knew nothing about figure skating. That figure was him. People called him the Swan, because of his grace and beauty on the ice. Magazine articles had described him as an artwork as intricate and valuable as the Mona Lisa or Van Gogh’s starry night. It was to this very song that he had stood on a podium at the Olympics and proudly received his first gold medal.

He squeezes his eyes shut before he can be greeted with what happened to that beautiful, mysterious figure. For it had all evaporated like a dream- the kind you awaken from with tears on your face without fully understanding why. His entire life had been ruined in one go. Just one year after his triumphant second gold medal win, he had been in a car accident. His body, carefully trained to float with ease over the ice, to make powerful, jaw-dropping manoeuvres seem as simple as inhaling and exhaling, had refused to obey him. A broken leg, shattered in a way that would never heal properly enough to allow him to competitively skate again. No amount of physiotherapy or surgery or desperation would allow him to shine in the Olympic rink again. There would be no third gold medal win. Every single moment of hard work throughout his entire youth was gone in a single accident.

And when he opens his eyes, only you remain on the ice, hauntingly beautiful in the way that he had thought only ice can be. Lonely and cold yet majestic. Figure skating is about conquering- about overcoming the harsh, unwelcoming cold and holding your ground through gravity defying flips and tricks. Constantly, the sport strips you of warmth and comfort and familiarity and requires gruelling work and pain and blood and danger. It takes something special to make something so ugly and painful look so beautiful. And that it what you have just done on the ice. Tears pour down his face and he is thankful for the way his sunglasses hide the agony that no doubt lingers in his expression. It’s been two whole year and yet the grief is as fresh as if it were yesterday. Somehow, despite the pains such a sport brings, his happiness was on that ice and it was been cruelly torn from him before he could even fathom what its loss would mean.

He clears his throat and covers his face by taking a long sip from his coffee cup as you are startled from your finishing pose. You were completely unaware of his presence and somehow that makes your performance more startingly beautiful- even alone, just practicing, there is such emotion and power in your skating. He now understands, why you were so offended when he brushed you off based off of a cursory glance. You are amazing- better even than he had been, perhaps.  And now he understands what you are- a chance to be part of something he had thought he had been removed from. He’s never been able to cut the love of figure skating away from himself- he would have better luck sawing out his own heart. And you have presented him with a chance to relive that joy- through you.

“A week,” He calls. Your hand is clasped over your heart, absolutely stunned by his presence. It is charming, that despite inviting him, you genuinely do not seem to have expected him to come. But he has come, and he’s going to take out all his fear and pain on you. He’s going to take you to the Olympics, and you have no one to blame but yourself. “Give me a week to work out a routine. You’re going to get a gold medal in this comp.”

And he can’t resist a parting shot as he leaves, before he takes his leave. Just one petty phrase, for the sake of his ego.

“Your landing for the double axel was too heavy and uncoordinated.”

And yet somehow you watch him go with an excited smile on your face.

++

A week later you arrive at the ice rink, your entire body pulsing with nerves. You had not thought Jimin would agree to choreograph your performance, and yet here you are. You can’t help but feel a bit of pride- your skating had clearly won him over, somehow. And so ,with your blood roaring through your veins, you take a step into the ice rink, feeling the familiar way cold air fills your lungs and settles into the base of your chest. You’ve always found the sensation enlivening- never are you more alive than when you are on the ice. And while you have your reservations about working with Jimin, especially after his rude behaviour, you cannot kill the flame of excitement that flickers deep in your stomach. This is a dream come true.

Jimin waits alone in the centre of the ice-skating rink. At your arriving footsteps, he turns slowly and watches your advance towards him with a curious look to his eyes. It’s an intensely probing stare, like he is evaluating every step of your body, measuring the weight that lands in your skates against the ground with each footstep. And then he slowly smiles and your heart flutters. Jimin is beautiful in an inhuman way and that he should ever look at you in such a way is more than your delicate heart can handle. You swallow deeply before stepping onto the ice and gliding towards him with a practiced ease you hope conveys grace and beauty.

Jimin tilts his head and keeps his arms folded across his chest as you stop before him. As you do you register the sombre, heavy tune of a piano concerto crackle through the speakers of your father’s ice-skating rink. It starts slow, with dark chords ringing through the air and climbing in intensity. Gradually the melody crests and builds until the piano erupts in a complex and powerful virtuosic passage, given weight and power by a grave string accompaniment.

“This was his second concerto.” Jimin says, instead of offering you a greeting. “Rachmaninoff’s, I mean. His first ever concerto was met with heavy criticism. It was an extremely challenging piece to write- it took him ten months to write and yet his efforts were spat on. And in the three years that followed he was depressed from the backlash and unable to write anymore. This song is his return after three years of darkness, and it brought his career back from the dead. This,” He informs you. “Is the song you will perform to at the competition for your free program.”

You stare wonderingly at Jimin for a moment and shut your eyes as the mood of the piece shifts to something lighter and freer. The piano bounces along and the orchestra follows behind yet hints of the initial darkness still linger despite the bright tone. You can hear it- the composer’s pain, his determination to clamber back from the pits of despair. You want to dance to this song. An intense longing fills you.

“Can you do it? It won’t be an easy piece to skate to.” Jimin asks, and you peer back at him with your jaw set in determination. The expression wins a slight smile from him.

“I can.” You reassure him. He nods and walks forward. He is not wearing skates- instead he wears heavy boots on the ice. Likely, the instability in his ankle means he cannot balance in skates without significant pain. And you are his chance to overcome that, you suppose. You will do for him what he can no longer achieve.

And thus begins your gruelling practice. You’ve pushed yourself hard before but never in the way that Jimin pushes you. Jimin, much as you suspected he would, has very little patience and his little experience with teaching means he gets frustrated easily when you do not pick things up in the way that he assumed you would. You are soaking in sweat as practice goes on despite the fact the ice-skating rink is kept at such a low temperature.

“Extend your leg further.” Jimin urges, combing a hand through his hair in frustration for what is probably the fifth time. “The pose looks messy if you’re all loose and floppy like that.” You wince and attempt to follow his instruction once more. You’ve been going for hours by this stage. “Once more from the triple lutz.” He snaps, stepping off the ice to give you the room to launch into such a complex and difficult leap. But your body is exhausted from such intensive exercise and from the second you catapult yourself in the air you know you’ve done it wrong. You lift unevenly into the air and though you clench your core and attempt to right yourself, it is too late. You come down at completely the wrong angle and wince as your ankle takes the brunt of your weight. Pain lances up your leg as you crumble, and your body continues to slide.

When you lose enough momentum to begin picking yourself back up off the ice, Jimin skids to a halt, sending up a spray of ice chips. He’s clearly carelessly sprinted across the ice to get to you and he throws himself down beside you without a thought as to his wellbeing. You hadn’t thought him capable of such concern for someone other than himself.

“Are you ok?” He cries out in alarm, wrapping his hands around your outstretched ankle. Despite the low temperature of the room, his fingers are somehow still warm, and you had not realised how chilled your body was until you feel the heat encircle your leg. Carefully, he rolls the ankle you had landed on back and forth and around, scrutinising your face for the slightest hint of pain. It is tender, but you know tomorrow you’ll wake up and not even remember what ankle you had hurt.

“I’m fine.” You wave him off with a smile. “Let’s try that again.” You say, about to get up, but a firm hand against your shoulder keeps you down.

“No.” Jimin almost growls, and there is a sternness and barely repressed anger to the glare he gives you that pins you in place. “It was stupid of me to push you this hard. Let’s get dinner and we can pick it back up tomorrow if you’re feeling ok. We’ll get some ice on this too.”

Despite your protests, Jimin decides to take you out for dinner that night. You almost succeed in wriggling out of it, but a growl of your stomach has him urging you to come along with renewed determination. And to make it more embarrassing, as soon as you arrive at the restaurant, he drags over a second chair and makes you rest your injured leg on it, placing the ice pack over your tender ankle with a gentleness that makes you uneasy for reasons you cannot understand.

“That’s more than enough for today.” He scolds you. “You need to take care of yourself after an injury or you won’t make it very far.”

He settles opposite you and orders you both food.

“My coach used to always take me out for hot soup afterwards. Said we had to warm ourselves up after being in the cold so long.” He remembers fondly as the two of you await your meals. He seems so different from the asshole you met in the club a mere week ago and you still aren’t even sure what made him change so drastically. “He was the best coach in the world. I only made it to the Olympics thanks to him.”

“Are you trying to follow in his footsteps?” You ask in an attempt to subtly determine his motive. Jimin shrugs and shakes his head as the waitress sets down two steaming hot bowls of soup before you.

“Who knows.” He admits. “Even I’m not sure what I’m trying to achieve. A week ago, all I cared about was getting drunk enough to forget what the Olympics were.”

He watches you curiously as you lean forward and raise a spoonful of salty broth to your lips.

“Why did you come, then?” You say, finally asking the question that has been itching at you since you received the text asking you to come to the ice rink. You can probably guess the answer, but you want to hear it from him. He’s made a drastic change after his awful first impression and you aren’t entirely sure he’s someone you can trust yet.

Jimin doesn’t answer for a long moment. Instead he takes a long sip of his soup and fidgets with the noodles that float in the broth. Finally, he raises his eyes to you and there’s a look to his eyes that you can’t seem to interpret. Somehow it is a gaze filled with sadness and yet he looks so peaceful at the same time.

“I love skating.” He admits. “There was a time where it was my whole world. To have it taken so suddenly, with no warning…” He sighs and shakes his head. “I felt like I had nothing yet. But I believe that sometimes we are given second chances, and that’s what you are. My second chance. I want to see you in the Olympic rink. I want the entire world to shed tears because they’ve seen true beauty. And I can’t convey that beauty anymore, but you can. I know you can.” He confesses, and to his credit, his ears are only tinged the slightest bit pink. You stare at him, completely gobsmacked. How can you even fathom such high praise? “But now it’s my turn, to ask you a question.” He admits, his eyes sharpening with interest. You wince, a little uncomfortable with the scrutiny, but you know it is necessary.

“Ask away.” You say, because you suppose that as your coach, he has a right to know about you to at least some degree.

“Why me?” He finally asks, after a moment of hesitation. “Where’s your coach? Why are you even entering this competition if you’ve already been selected to be on the Olympic team?”

The silence between the two of you stretches out for a long moment. You take the opportunity to shove a few mouthfuls of soup into your mouth. It’s not an unexpected question. In fact, he probably should have asked the question long before agreeing to coach you, to make sure he wasn’t stealing someone else’s athlete, and the fact that he hasn’t asked you before now means he probably senses it’s not a question you are ready to be asked. But with the atmosphere between the two of you warm and comfortable, now is the best time for him to ask.

“She died.” You say nonchalantly. The soup suddenly tastes bland, but you continue to eat it. It provides you a distraction from the heaviness of the conversation. “Six months ago. It was cancer. I had just gotten scouted to be on the national team and we realised she wouldn’t make it to the Olympics, probably. So this was our compromise. She was fighting so hard because she wanted to see me skate one last time and… she… she didn’t get to. She died a week later.”

Jimin stares at you in dismay, speechless. Perhaps he had suspected you’d had a falling out with your coach, or that you needed a new one now that you’ve been selected for the national team. He probably never could have guessed the horrible reality.

“(Y/N)…” He says softly. You shake your head and offer Jimin a slight smile.

“It’s fine.” You say. “I’m doing ok. My parents have been really supportive and have even been trying to find me a new coach. But I wanted you. I just thought it would be nice for my first comp after she… passed away. To this day, the routine you did to Notte Stellata brings me to tears and so I thought if you were the one choreographing, then I’d give a performance worthy of her legacy. One that she would have been proud to see.”

Jimin’s expression scrunches up at your words. You don’t shed a tear throughout the whole story even though it all feels so fresh. It still feels like she’s going to ring you and scold you for not being at practice or not following the strict diet regimen she always set for you. Somehow six months of grieving doesn’t feel like enough to get back on the ice, yet at the same time you are itching to go back out there. For her. She had been like a second mother to you and the fact that she didn’t get to see you skate one last time is a scar you know will never fully heal.

Jimin is a bit of an enigma, and you never know how he will react to something. Perhaps this is why his reaction to your story is such a surprise. He stares at you like he’s in pain. A single tear wells up in his left eye and rolls down his cheek, tracing down the smooth contours of his handsome face as it goes.

“Thank you. For that honour. I… Thank you. And I’m sorry for being harsh today. I’ve never been a teacher before and so I don’t know your limits or mine. But if you keep with me and tell me when I’ve gone too far, I believe we can do this.” He admits, and his voice is slightly raspy . “I… After I stopped skating, I didn’t have a purpose or goal in life. I’ve just kind of been… existing for so long. But… thank you. I think I finally have a purpose- I want to take you to the Olympics. I’d decided earlier that I want to go to the Olympics with you but I never actually asked you. Will you do it? Will you go to the Olympics with me?”

And Jimin is mean and harsh and awkward. He’s a drunkard and a loser and a shallow jerk. He’s not even qualified to be a coach and such an ambition with an inexperienced mentor could lead to the destruction of your own career. It would be foolish, to agree to go to the Olympics with him.

And then you recall, being a young teenager skating for the first time and watching his comps. Being lonely as you entered highschool with no friends and rushing home to watch his Olympic performance live. Following his rise to fame and shedding tears because his skating held a beauty you could not put into words. And therein lies your answer- it is thanks to the man sitting before you that you even dared to dream of the Olympics. Your dreams will always feel incomplete if it is not him you go to the Olympics with.

“Yes.” You say. “Let’s go to the Olympics together.”

++

After that first day, Jimin is softer and far less harsh. Every day he grows in patience. He remains a stern and difficult coach and choreographer, though. He pushes you far past what you think you can handle. But he never pushes you past what you can actually handle. He’s constantly vigilant, for signs of fatigue and always ends practice before you can go too far. And so, each night you go to bed and sleep deeply, satisfied with the work you have done. His choreography is technically difficult and extremely advanced and yet designed specifically with you, your capabilities and your strengths in mind. If you master it, it will carry you to a gold medal without any doubt.

It’s exciting. Who could have ever thought that one day it would be Park Jimin coaching you on the ice? Despite his inexperience with coaching, he knows figure skating really well and you find yourself improving drastically beneath his tutelage, as the months go by and the competition date approaches. He really could have a future as a coach if he was ever inclined to do so. If maybe he learned some people skills, that is.

“Extend your leg further,” He orders from behind you, placing a hand on your knee to prevent your instinct to fold it as he uses the hand wrapped around your ankle to lift your outstretched leg a bit higher. His hands are almost hot on the skin of your legs. You hadn’t realised how much your body had chilled beneath the air-conditioning of the gym you are currently in. You wince as he begins to hit the limits of your flexibility and wobble just the slightest bit.

His eyebrows shoot up, and he shoots you a glare.

“Was that a wobble?” He asks, his tone venomous. Your eyes go wide. Today is one of the days you practice off the ice- one foot is placed in the centre of a balance ball while Jimin adjusts your posture. Despite the ways in which you two have grown quite close, he still comes across as very menacing when he enters what you call “coach mode”.

“N-no.” You stutter as you lie. He releases your leg and you know he expects you to maintain the position. You do, though not without a slight fluctuation. Jimin’s sharp eyes catch the movement though and he walks around so that he is facing you, hands planted intimidatingly on his hips.

“A wobble could cost you your career.” He reminds you, and this is the third time he’s lectured you about this in the past three days. “All it takes is for you to launch yourself airborne from just slightly the wrong angle and you could break a leg.” He scowls, and he steps in close. You drop your outstretched leg and hop off the balance ball. You roll your eyes and fold your arms across your chest, refusing to cower at his ‘angry coach’ vibe. And maybe you would have gotten back on the balance ball obediently if it weren’t for the muttered, irritated comment that follows: “How can a figure skater be so inflexible?” He laments.

“Excuse me?” You blurt, eyes wide in outrage. “I am flexible!”

He winces, probably because he didn’t intend for you to overhear the comment, but also because he’s now quite familiar with the certain buttons he should never push while coaching you. For the most part, you are a reasonable student, one who follows his instructions diligently and practices hard. But any time the slightest comment is made about your skill or ability as a figure skater that isn’t constructive or contributing towards your improvement, you go slightly beserk. And this is one of those moments.

“I’ll prove it to you!” You cry, striding over to the yoga mat laid out in the corner. You almost throw yourself down on your back and glare at him. “Do the stretch! The warm-up hip one.” You order. He almost groans in irritation- the stretch in question is one he had suggested at a different practice to help keep your hips loose. But you had been too embarrassed to try it due to the intimacy of the positioning and so he hadn’t pushed you. But now, your pride has been hurt, and you are going to prove him wrong, embarrassment be damned. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, scolding himself for his slip up, before kneeling over you and locking his ankle over one of your outstretched legs. He then wraps his fingers around your other leg, placing the flat of one palm against the heel of your foot and the other over your knee, before slowly lifting one leg towards your head.

“Tell me when.” He says with a sigh, his tone resigned.

“I won’t.” You reassure him petulantly. “You’ll see how flexible I am.”

And really his comment was quite unnecessary, because flexibility is a vital skill as a figure skater. A fact which is demonstrated as Jimin continues to push your leg towards your head. You wait eagerly for him to admit that he was wrong as it reaches the point where you are almost doing the splits, but it never comes. Instead, Jimin has gone oddly quiet from where he kneels between your leg. Puzzled, you tilt your head to meet his gaze to find that his stare has gone oddly misty. His lips are slightly parted, and his eyes are fixed on where his hand presses to the heel of your foot.

“Jimin?” You call. It rings out oddly loud in the quietness of the section of the gym you are in, like a gunshot. Jimin flinches like he’s been punched in the stomach. His eyes land on yours and they are oddly wide. The expression reminds you of the face a child might pull if they were caught in the middle of stealing candy from a jar. Wide and panicked and a little bit glazed.

“I…” He says slowly, and his voice is a little bit croaky. He clears his throat and moistens his lips with his tongue before trying again. “I…”

You don’t get to find out what he was planning to say though, because in the next moment you hear Jungkook’s familiar voice call out.

“Special delivery!” He cries. Jimin drops your leg like he’s been burnt and scrambles away like you have rabies. He takes a moment to frantically smooth out his clothes and run his hands nervously through his hair, before turning to face the intruder who strides quickly towards you. There is a wide grin on Jungkook’s face, and he waves a large package wrapped in brown paper towards the two of you. You sit up and watch curiously as Jungkook prances forward. Jimin, oddly, still has a lot of nervous energy and gives off an oddly frantic air and when his gaze lands on the package in Jungkook’s hand, it seemingly worsens.

“Jungkook!” Jimin cries, eyes bugging out of his head and his face almost going purple, so severe is his blush. “How did you get that?”

Jungkook skids to a stop between the two of you and beams cheekily.

“You had it delivered to the rink.” He says coyly, wiggling the package playfully in front of Jimin’s eyes. Jimin makes a hasty snatch at it and grabs it out of Jungkook’s hands. It’s a fairly bulky package. “But I knew you two were here, so I thought I’d use my lunch break to come visit the two of you and deliver the package.”

By now you are standing, and you move in close to examine the package.

“What is it?” You ask curiously, and then it’s shoved unceremoniously into your arms by a surprisingly flustered Jimin.

“It’s for you.” He says quickly, his head turned determinedly in the opposite direction of you. “I ordered it online- I thought you could wear it for the comp.”

You blink a few times, confused. But then you peel away the brown paper wrapping to reveal the contents within. It’s a figure skating dress. The skirt is a deep, midnight blue though the torso is something icier and paler. They mix together in a gentle gradient and jewels scattered over the bodice glint like starts as the catch the light above you. The sleeves and décolleté are nude- when you wear it, it will look like you are painted in the night sky. Your throat goes hot and sticky and you find yourself battling tears at the thoughtful gesture.

“Jimin,” You say softly, genuinely touched. He smiles and rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“It’s nothing… it was on sale and I thought it would look nice on you.” He admits sheepishly. “I was just going to leave it in your locker later today, but I guess someone had other plans.” Jimin shoots a meaningful but venom-filled look at his friend, but you are too preoccupied with examining your new outfit to notice. You clutch it tightly between your fingers.

“I have something for you too.” You announce suddenly. “Wait right here. It’s in my locker.” You urge, turning around and sprinting across the gym. A few people at the cycling machines pause their exercise to watch you go.

Jimin uses the opportunity to whirl on Jungkook.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Jimin snarls, and Jungkook laughs and dodges a swipe from Jimin. “I didn’t ask for a personal delivery!”

“Of course I did.” Jungkook cries mirthfully. “Did you think I’d pass up an opportunity to see you actually be nice while sober? Her reaction was so sweet, wasn’t it? Don’t you just wanna hug her and kiss her and stop being a douchebag 90% of the time? Oh man, I’ve never seen you go that shade of red before. Totally worth the drive over here.” Jungkook wipes at amused tears that are pooling in the corners of his eyes. “I mean, I also came over because there’s a sushi place next door that is to die for and (Y/N)’s father is treating me to lunch, but this has been a great little adventure. Thanks for the show, Jimin.” Jungkook says, waving his friend goodbye. Jimin aims another whack at the back of Jungkook’s head, but his reactions are quicker, and he merely darts off. He whistles a cheerful tune as he goes. Jimin is about to follow after him and give Jungkook a proper piece of his mind, but you arrive back beside him before he can do so. You’re slightly out of breath from your quick sprint, but you quickly straighten and beam.

“There’s a bit of back story behind this.” You explain, stretching out your hand and uncurling your fingers to reveal a long, thin box that fits easily into your hand. Curiously, Jimin accepts it and is about to remove the lid but you hastily place your hands over his to stop the movement. Your fingers are slightly cold, and his eyes catch on the contrast of your skin against his. “I bought this for you right after your second Olympics win.” You confess, and you drop your gaze from his. There’s embarrassment in your expression and it’s oddly endearing. Jimin feels an odd, fluttering feeling just beneath his sternum. But then your words register and he’s a bit confused.

“I didn’t know you then, though- that was 3 years ago.” He reminds you and you shake your head and smile.

“I’ve been your fan since I was 12 years old though!” You exclaim. “I bought it because I was going to mail it to you to show my support. And I never plucked up the courage to do it until my coach managed to get me a seat at one of the comps you were supposed perform at. I was going to throw it onto the ice after you performed. But you… you never got to perform.” You say softly, and Jimin feels himself tense just the slightest bit. He knows the competition you are talking about- it was one of the few ones in his hometown he still competed in. But then the accident had happened, and he’d cancelled his registration. “But I kept this all these years because I still wanted to meet you. Even if you couldn’t skate anymore, you were and are still my hero. And I found it again the other day and realised that I finally have the chance to give it to you.”

Slowly, you release your grip on his hands enough that he’s able to pull the lid off the small box. A thin silver chain rests in it and in the centre against black velvet lies a tiny pendant shaped like a cat. He blinks at it a few times in confusion.

“You always talked about your family cat growing up in interviews. The fat tortoiseshell one. You said she was your inspiration because of her calm approach to life.” You recall fondly. “And fans always through cat plushies onto the ice because of that and I guess I wanted to set myself apart a little.”

Jimin just stares incredulously at the little trinket. It should be offensive, to have such a reminder of how his life has gone wrong resting in his hands. And as a gift from you, no less. But it isn’t offensive, for some reason. It’s touching. It’s flattering. Slowly a smile grows on his face and his hands start to tremble. There’s a warm, full feeling in his chest. What an honour, to have someone like you be such a loyal fan. To have kept this reminder of his golden years despite the fact that you’d never even met him. And your skating is so beautiful and with enough time will outshine his own, but it’s thanks to him. He inspired that beauty in you, and to know that is an honour and joy and privilege that he will carry with him throughout the rest of his life. And this necklace symbolises all of that.

“Thank you.” He mutters softly. He raises his eyes off the pendant to look at you. Your eyes are slightly round and a little uneasy, but when he responds with gratitude a smile splits your face. “But I can’t accept this.” He tells you with a smile. With careful fingers, he plucks the necklace from its box and comfortable bed of velvet, and steps towards you. “This necklace is yours.” He says. You seem to sense what he’s trying to do as he steps in close, because you raise your hair off the back of your neck to allow him to put the necklace on for you. It clasps shut and falls to rest safely against your collarbone.

You stare up at Jimin and you don’t really understand the tenderness in his gaze, or the ensuing ache in your chest in response. You just feel… happy. Warm. Excited. There’s so many feelings racing through your chest and while you don’t have the time to process them now, you know that things will go well. Instead of pulling away after fixing the necklace in place, Jimin leans in close so that his lips almost brush your ear. You feel your face heat.

“Take it to the Olympics for me.” He whispers softly.

++

The day of the competition dawns bright and sunny. Jimin is gripped with a fluttery kind of nerves. It’s a thrilling sensation though, one he hasn’t felt since he’d been able to skate. So much of his time has been spent in darkness, spiralling deeper and deeper away from the sun and suddenly today he feels a warmth and brightness he hadn’t realised he’d been missing.

You nail the short program in the morning and are all smiles and jitters as you come off the ice. You’re leading with your point score and if you follow the routine for your free program well, then you’ll take the gold medal home for sure.

“Did I do well?” You ask breathlessly, the second you step off the ice. You stumble a bit, shaky from the adrenaline, and Jimin steadies you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“She’d have been so proud.” He reassures you warmly and the resulting beam you give him makes him think that nothing could drag him down.

There is something that could drag him down, though he doesn’t know it in that moment.

Typically, there is a break in the middle of the day, where skaters are allowed to have a warmup on the ice before the afternoon program starts. Jimin is a little hesitant to have you out on the ice, though he can’t really put into words. He writes it off as just nerves though, and sees you off onto the ice with a smile. He doesn’t really focus much on your warmup- you know what to do. Instead, he scans the seating section where he knows Jungkook is. It doesn’t take much time to locate him and Jimin quickly darts up into the audience section towards his friend. Jungkook is waving a little paddle pop stick with an unflattering image of you stuck to the end and watches the figure skaters warm up with his mouth slightly ajar.

“She’s really good, huh?” Jungkook admits aloud, as Jimin takes a seat next to him. Jimin grins and nods.

“She’s got this one in the bag.” Jimin brags, and Jungkook offers him a strange smile.

“She really did a number on you.” Jungkook says suddenly, with a laugh. “To think, just a couple of months ago you’d be angry and hungover at this time of day. And now you’re smiling and laughing. I really think that (Y/N) is the best thing to happen to you.”

Normally, Jimin would deny it. Maybe flush a little and frantically discourage Jungkook from such a sentiment. But for some reason, he can’t bring himself to do it- probably because he can’t deny the weight and truth of such a statement.

“She is.” Jimin admits softly. Jungkook’s jaw drops in response, but a ruckus on the ice distracts him from whatever response he may have given.

Puzzled, Jimin directs his gaze to where medics are suddenly rushing onto the ice. And then, like two magnets clicking together, his gaze lands on you. You’re sprawled out on the ice, unmoving, with one of your competitors similarly collapsed. She, at least, is sitting up, looking slightly dazed and confused, but you are unmoving. Jimin’s heart leaps into his throat as he realises what has happened- there’s been a collision.

He leaps to his feet, but Jungkook’s hand around his wrist stops Jimin for rushing straight for the ice. Two medics help you to your feet and lead you off the ice.

“Wait.” Jungkook calls. “She’s ok- she’s standing up. Don’t get in the way of the medics. We can go to her after they’ve done first aid.”

Jimin glares at Jungkook, long and hard. His friend merely stares evenly back until Jimin reluctantly lowers himself back into his seat. He watches desperately as you are able to groggily step off the ice. Even at this distance, he can see the way blood streams down your face. Once he sees the dreadful crimson staining the ice, he can sit still no longer, and he gets to his feet and dashes off before Jungkook can say a word in response.

In the kiss and cry area, a crowd has gathered around you- some are medics, some are camera crew and some are your fellow competitors. Jimin shoves them carelessly out of the way, forcing himself forward until he is face to face with you. Your eyes are slightly out of focus and they’re in the middle of bandaging your head, and when you look up at him, your eyes fill with tears.

“Jimin,” You cry, choked. They haven’t cleaned up the blood yet - it has dripped down your neck and stained the misty blue of the outfit he had bought you. Jimin crumples to his knees in front of you.

“Is she ok?” He demands of the medic trimming a bandage for you. The medic winces and evaluates you.

“We think it’s just a minor concussion. She’ll be fine with some rest- but maybe she should skip the free program. Maybe if you take her home-“ The medic suggests tentatively, but you cry out in response.

“No!” You almost shout. The crowd buzzing around you goes silent at your outburst, but you don’t seem to notice. “I have to skate. I have to compete.” You cry, begging the medic, begging Jimin, begging anyone who can let you go back on the ice.

“(Y/N)…” Jimin calls quietly. “It’s ok- there will be other competitions. Your health is more import-“

“There won’t be.” You argue vehemently. “I promised her, Jimin. I promised her.” Tears are really streaming down your face now, mixing with the rivulets of blood that pour from the cut on your chin. You’re wearing the cat necklace and the silver is marred with angry droplets of red. You gently push the medic away and struggle to stand upright. You wobble a little, but you keep upright. It’s only minor injuries, but Jimin highly doubts you’d be able to skate properly like this. And if you take another fall, things may only get worse. Skating now could cost you your career. Blind panic rises in his chest and makes him nauseous- it reminds him of a darker time just two years ago, when he had been informed that he would never skate again. You’re so small and fragile and it’s something that could just as easily happen to you, but before you’ve even gotten the chance to compete. He can taste sour fear in the back of his throat.

But when Jimin looks into your eyes, he comes to understand something. As much as he wants to take you to the Olympics- as much as you yourself probably want to go to the Olympics, this takes priority. He remembers how important his coach had been to him during his career, and how he would have reacted if anything happened to him. He can’t imagine what you must have gone through- what it must have taken, to get back on the ice, just six months after her death. You have to do this, and though his heart aches with fear and agony at the thought of you endangering yourself again, he knows that you will never forgive yourself if you don’t do this. You are skating for her and he doesn’t have a right to stop you.

“Finish the first aid.” Jimin requests of the medical personnel, before turning and dismissing the crowd. They quickly dissipate under his intimidating stare, but not without a few surprised mutters of isn’t that Park Jimin?. And then he turns to you. He’s only just met you in the last few months and you’d given him so much hope that now dangles precariously on a thread. But he doesn’t want hope or purpose or ambition if that’s not what you want. “Whatever happens out there, she’ll be proud.” He reassures you, and then you’re smiling with relief through your tears. You reach out and wrap your fingers around one of his hands.

“Thank you.” You say, and somehow the weight of your gratitude now means more to him than any Olympics medals you may win- heck, more than the medals he’s won. He finds himself smiling despite the dread that sits deep in his stomach.

“No wobbling out there is allowed.” Is all he tells you.

++

Amidst the silvery glow of the white ice, you stand as a lone figure. Jimin remembers when he first saw you skate, all those months ago. This reminds him of that time, although this time your head is bandaged, and your hands shake as the opening piano chords ring sombrely through the arena. There was a lot of murmuring when you first stepped onto the ice but it has all gone quiet as you wait patiently in the centre, raising your arms delicately above your head. Then the piano erupts fiercely, notes scattering and spilling across the ice in the same moment that you take off. There is power as you launch yourself across the ice.

The strings pad the rich sound and climb in intensity as your first jump approaches. Jimin holds his breath as he sees you brace one leg before you push outwards. You spin through the air and he couldn’t breathe even if he wanted to. But you land at the wrong angle and your leg skids out underneath you. You’ve missed your first jump.

You aren’t deterred though. Quickly you scramble back onto your feet and begin to skate across the ice as the piano melody grows more and more complex and urgent. This next jump is your hardest. But again, you miss- you’re dizzy and you miscalculate the angle you must land in. Still, without hesitation, you clamber back onto your feet even though Jimin can see the way frustrated tears are starting to pool in the corner of your eyes.

What comes next is a spin, as you extend your leg outwards, your speed varying and changing as you adjust your position- you hold your leg out in the pose he had been constantly trying to get you to replicate and you execute it perfectly. You raise your leg above your head as your spin becomes more rapid. The music becomes more delicate and thoughtful and so does your skating. You glide across the ice and yet there is a carefulness that isn’t normally there- he can see the way you must concentrate, the way you desperately fight off the waves of dizziness that you are experiencing.

The pitch climbs into something brighter and hopeful and you once more attempt a desperate jump. You land badly again and actually end up on all fours. For a second, he thinks you may not be able to get up and the music threatens to leave you behind. The whole crowd holds its breath collectively. Suddenly your eyes meet his. It’s quick- you just so happen to be facing towards the wall he’s standing behind. But your expression changes, and so does the music, just in time for you to send yourself soaring with your arms outstretched behind you like the wings of a swan.

Suddenly, Jimin remembers why your skating has him to encaptivated. With the brighter music, you suddenly erupt with a brightness and grace that is entirely unique to you- you dance and skip over the ice rapidly. It’s because no one else can skate like this. No one can translate beauty into movement on the ice like you can. You have another leap coming up and this time when you launch yourself up, it’s with a determination and confidence that you didn’t have before. You land perfectly and Jimin’s heart skips a beat. You’re instantly flying again, soaring towards your grand finale. The music slows to another climax, slow and grave but with the brightness from before carried in the dancing piano melody and your feet bounce with the notes- a triple toe loop, a double axel. Gradually your confidence grows, and the music builds again for one last final climax as you enter your last spin.

The music fades and you are left, in the centre of the rink, gasping for breath. There are tears pouring down Jimin’s face. Somehow, despite all the flaws and errors, it is the most beautiful and moving performance he has seen in his entire life.

It’s in the moment that Jimin realises something. He doesn’t just want to take you to the Olympics. He wants to see you all the way through. Every loss, every triumph, every high-point and low-point… He wants to be there beside you for it all. He’d been in darkness for so long and he’s suddenly found his light. It’s you.

You meet his gaze as the crowd roars with applause and people pelt bouquets onto the ice. And your eyes are red rimmed and teary, but you smile, and it is the most heart-stoppingly beautiful smile he has ever seen in his life. It’s only been a few short months, and yet…

And yet he loves you.

Your coach would have been so proud.

++

You don’t end up taking home the gold medal. Despite your admirable determination to skate in your injured state, there were too many technical slipups for the judges to overlook. Still, with your awesome score carrying over from the short program, and your impressive recovery in the second half of your free program, you land an impressive second place.

Jimin likes the colour on you better anyway- as you walk along side him, the silver medal around your neck bounces against your chest and catches the light and it matches perfectly with the delicate silver chain and silly cat pendant that dangles at your collarbone. But none of it shines brighter than your smile.

“You did really well.” He reassures you, as he follows you out of the rink, towards your car.

“I know.” You say smugly. Your tone is at odds with the banadages around your head and on your face and the medal that glints silver instead of gold.

“She would have been proud.” He informs you, and your answering smile is even more smug.

“I know.” You answer cheerfully, and it brings a smile to his face.

“I’m proud.” He tells you, and you shrug nonchalantly as the two of you arrive just outside his car.

“I know.” Still, you are smug and Jimin is gripped with the sudden and cheeky urge to see what you don’t know.

“I love you.” He tries, one final time, and the smile slides off your face and is replaced with something shocked. Jimin grins as he gets into the car, and it takes you a moment to recover from your shock and slide into the passenger seat.

“I… didn’t know that.” You finally say, and Jimin laughs. He shrugs. You open your mouth and close it a few times before you attempt at last to respond sincerely. “I… I like…. no, I love y-“

“Save it for the Olympics.” He cuts you off, and your eyes go wide in a comical way that makes him laugh. “You can say it when you get the gold medal.”

Your eyes harden with the challenge and you petulantly fold your arms across your chest in answer.

“Just wait and see, then.” Is your answer, your pride provoked, and honestly Jimin wouldn’t have it any other way. Perhaps he should feel uneasy, or desperately need to hear that you reciprocate his feelings. It’s a risky gamble, to not just wait for your response for something that might not even happen, but to delay it. But see, that’s the thing. He knows it’s going to happen. He has all the time in the world, now, and he can absolutely afford to wait for the Olympics.

Because you’re going to take home his third gold medal for him.

[yourmandevine]

Some stuff that made me happy in 2020, in no particular order

God send you no greater loss. It’s something my grandmother said a lot — a bit of highly Irish Catholic wisdom intended to remind you, warmly but sharply, that whatever you’re currently suffering through isn’t all that bad compared to what lots of other people are dealing with. That it probably isn’t too much to complain about, in the grand scheme of things. That you should, instead, be grateful for what you’ve got, big and small and everything in between.

God sent a great many people a great many unfathomable losses this year, and as hard as it felt at times, our family wasn’t among them; we’re lucky, in the big picture. In the past, people have recommended I try writing those reasons down, to give myself a list of stuff to be thankful for, for the times it’s tough to summon up the gratitude. I figured the end of the year was as good a time as any to make that list, to highlight the stuff that helped me get through this year — the reasons big, small, and in between.

So: here goes.

Peanut butter and jelly

I haven’t counted how many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I’ve eaten since March 11, which is good, because that would be an absurd thing to do, and a sure sign that I have succumbed to a very specific kind of madness. It’s also good, though, because I would undoubtedly be ashamed by the number; the figure would be titanic, like the unsinkable ship of same name, or the iceberg that sunk it.

Or, at least, I would be ashamed under normal circumstances. This fuckin’ year required whatever flotation device you could find, and you know what I found in the fridge and cupboard? A couple of slices of bread, some strawberry jam, and some goddamn Skippy.

Need a weird mid-morning “brunch” after not having breakfast because you went right from waking up to remote school with the 6-year-old? Crank up a PB&J with that third cup of coffee. Need to pack something in the diaper bag to feed everyone while you’re out at the playground for the afternoon? Stack ‘em up, son. Need a late snack after working the overnight shift filing weird bubble playoff columns? Three letters, one ampersand, one love.

I need to eat better in 2021. But I kind of needed to eat sort of like shit to get through 2020, and time and again, when your man needed it most, PB&J was there.

Sunday night Zoom sessions with college friends

I know that most of us started something like this back in March; I’m not sure how many have stuck with it. I hope the answer is “a lot,” because honestly, knowing that I’m going to end the week by seeing a few friends — some here in Brooklyn but mostly beyond our reach for safety’s sake, some who’ve moved away — has felt like a stabilizing agent on more than a few occasions. It’s important, and no small blessing, to have people in your life who really know you, weird messy ugly bits and all, and in front of whom you can let everything go.

That gallery view’s provided a place to vent, to seethe, to laugh, to cry, and to try to find some semblance of center before heading back into another week. I’m grateful for it, and for the people in those little boxes. Except for the time they reminded me that, when I was 18, I was pretty sure I was a Pacey, and they were all extremely confident I was a Dawson. They were right, but still: a bitter pill to swallow, then and now.

Olivia calling herself “Dr. Bloody”

She took out her little toy doctor kit and just turned into a cackling villain.

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Deeply disconcerting, yes, but also adorable.

All Fantasy Everything

What got me in the door was the conceit: three very funny stand-up comedians (Ian Karmel, David Gborie, Sean Jordan), often with a very funny guest but sometimes without, pick some topic or another and engage in a fantasy draft of their favorite aspects or representations of that topic. (It is, crucially, a serpentine draft. Now what is that? That’s a great question.) Some favorite examples: Mikes; Words That You Think Make You Sound Smart, vols. 1 and 2; Things You Yell After You Dunk on Someone; Fictional Athletes; Crimes We’d Like to Commit. Yeah. It’s that kind of podcast.

What kept me around was the friendship. Listen to an episode and it becomes really clear really quickly just how much the three hosts love each other, how much fun they have being around each other and making one another laugh. The warmth radiates, just pours out of the speakers; in a year where I sorely needed some good vibes, I appreciated my regular check-ins with the Good Vibes Gang to just ... unclench for an hour and a half or so. 

Drinking beer

OK, I’ll admit: This doesn’t sound great for me. It’s true, though. I really like beer. (We brewed one in our kitchen, which I realize is something of a “bearded guy in Brooklyn” cliche, but here we are. It was exciting to complete a project, and it tasted OK-ish.) At some points this year, it didn’t feel like there wasn’t much to look forward to, and sometimes drinking some High Lifes or Narragansett tall boys — with my wife in our living room, with friends on the computer, whatever — helped take the edge off a shitty day/week/month/year. I look forward to being able to do that outside with people again.

The Good Place

I am sure some very smart cultural critics and political thinkers and social revolutionaries have forwarded compelling arguments for why this show is Bad, Actually, because that seems to be more or less true about most things, whether because said thing is Actually Bad or because the economics of the attention economy on the internet functionally necessitate the composition and publication of pretty much every position on pretty much every issue, and especially ones that present a counterargument for why you shouldn’t like the thing you like, and might be kind of a piece of shit for liking it. But I liked this half-hour comedy about the way the universe might be put together, why we should try to take better care of each other, and how doing so might be a pretty great way to take better care of ourselves.

Andrew let me write about it a little bit for a big project we did before the series finale aired, which was really nice of him. I found myself thinking about this part a lot this year:

I also thought a lot about Peeps Chili, but that happens every year.

Taking pictures of my dog

Check out this flumpy goddamn champion:

“Lugar is a good boy” is the main takeaway here. They don’t all have to be complicated.

Schitt’s Creek

I know we’re not alone in this, but we inhaled this show this year. A half-hour comedy about people being laid low, learning how to deal with who they actually are, and finding some grace and community and opportunities for growth kind of hit the spot, I guess.

One of the most wholesale enjoyable ensemble comedy casts I can remember; Catherine O’Hara was already in Cooperstown, but what she made with Moira Rose only polishes her plaque. I’ll never be able to describe with any specificity the thing Chris Elliott does, but I know it has made me laugh since I was a child too young to understand the Letterman bits or see Cabin Boy in the theater, and it’s probably going to make me laugh until I am dead.

I love that people who, for years, never got to see themselves or people like them on screen got to see David Rose on screen and maybe recognize themselves a little bit. The idea that seeing the David/Patrick relationship might make them maybe feel a little more at home, a little safer and more whole, makes me happy. Sad, about the before, but happy, about the now and the what comes next.

Past that, I just love how what was ostensibly a family-and-friends production for a Canadian channel just got absolutely everything right—the tone, the look, the sound, the theme song, the cast, the jokes, my goodness, the jokes—and before long, the rest of the world just got it. Like catching a fastball square on the barrel. Something the show clearly knew a little bit about.

Finding new outdoor places it was safe to go

Necessity is the mother of invention, and the need to give the kids a place to be that wasn’t unnecessarily dangerous but also wasn’t inside our two-bedroom apartment led us to do more exploring than we had before. Shirley Chisholm State Park is great. Canarsie Pier was a fun place to spend a Sunday morning; so’s Canarsie Playground. If we got there early enough or made our peace with some rain, the beaches at Jacob Riis Park and Fort Tilden were pretty rad this summer. I lived in Staten Island from ages 8 through 18, and during breaks throughout college, and don’t think I ever hiked in High Rock Park — that’s dumb, because it was nice!

Even if all those little excursions did was kill a little time and reduce the overall stress level of the four humans stuck in our four walls, that’s not nothing. Some days this year, it was everything.

Cobra Kai

I know I’m late here; I didn’t rush to seek it out because I don’t consider myself a huge fan of The Karate Kid, or at least not a big enough fan to sign up for YouTube’s premium service. I checked it out when it came to Netflix, though, and I honestly can’t believe how much I enjoyed this show. Give me “dumb, but with heart” every day of the week.

I believe in Miguel Diaz; I believe in Johnny Lawrence; I believe I will be firing up Season 3 next month, and perhaps drinking some Coors Banquets in its honor. (I cannot, however, believe how the “get him a body bag” thing came back around, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Closing unread tabs

I’m a serial hoarder of links, and I am bad at finishing all of them. I’ve tried to get into Pocket and Instapaper, but I’ve never been able to turn that sort of workflow — open link, save to third-party service, go back to third-party service later to read, then delete from there — into something that felt instinctual, natural, or habitual. So: lots of tabs. Like, lots of tabs.

This was a dicier proposition than usual in 2020, because cutting my work week in half to be able to more effectively coparent two kids who didn’t have school or day care for most of the year meant less time to read things.

I tried to do my best to keep up with the important stuff for work, and to read at least some stuff about how other parents were dealing with their anxiety/anger/depression/frustration at having to be on 24/7 and work, and to stay abreast of (at least some of) what was happening in the world. Sometimes, though, I would wake up and realize I’d been holding onto blog posts about Really Interesting Rotation Decisions on the 11th-Seeded Team in the East or whatever for literally nine months, and I would go against my nature and just hit the eject button on a 25-deep window, and something amazing would happen: I wouldn’t get fired for being shitty at my job. I would move on with my day, and I would feel about 10 pounds lighter.

I still keep too much stuff open. (As we speak, I’ve got three different Chrome windows open on two different laptops. I choose not to count the total tabs.) But I do so knowing that, if it gets too heavy, I can experience the momentary joy of surrendering to the inevitability that I can’t catch everything. In that moment, I feel OK with my decay.

Reading writers I wasn’t familiar with before

Two in particular stand out in my mind: Nekias Duncan, now of BasketballNews.com, who does excellent film breakdowns and statistical analysis, and Katie Heindl, who writes basketball stuff of all types all over the place, and strings sentences together in a way that scratches an itch inside my brain. I’m grateful I got more chances to read them this year, I look forward to bigger and better things for both of them, and I’m hopeful that, if things calm down and our schedules go back to something approximating normalcy, I’ll have more bandwidth to hunt out more new voices in the year ahead.

The time I ambushed my wife as she was trying to break down and put away the girls’ space tent

Pretty good.

Siobhan learning to ride a bicycle (with training wheels, but still)

The moment passed pretty quickly; Not Exactly A Mechanic over here can’t get the training wheels to reliably work right without either loosening them too much or tightening them so much that she can’t pedal it. In that first moment, though, and for as long as it lasted, it was really great to see her get excited about doing something new, big kid shit, for the first time.

She was proud. I was proud of her. And then we went to a playground for a few hours. Pretty good day.

Tyler Tynes roasting me

Tyler did some incredible work this year — The Cam Chronicles is getting deserved praise as one of 2020′s best podcasts, and his reporting on the Movement for Black Lives was exemplary. It’s hard to top this, though:

You know what the messed up part is? I was excited to tell him what I was doing, just because I knew the reaction would be so violent. Like a body rejecting a transplant. So lucky to have such a dear, dear friend.

PUP

I’m late on everything, so I didn’t start listening to PUP until the spring of 2019, but I haven’t really stopped since. This year has been too sedentary too often; this band is too kinetic to allow me to stay there.

“Bloody Mary Kate and Ashley Kate” is never more than about 20 minutes away from returning to the front of my mind. I would fucking love for it to be safe enough to watch these guys live at some point, and I am absolutely going to take Steve up on his offer.

Someone sending me a shirt based on a joke I tweeted

First:

Then:

Then:

I’m not sure you should be rewarding my behavior, SnoCoPrintShop, but I appreciate it all the same.

Which reminds me:

Family dinner/family movie night

My wife works in Manhattan and commutes back on the train, and we've tried to prioritize getting the girls to bed early since they were little, so that doesn’t leave much of a window between when she gets home and they go in the tub for us all to connect; before everything shut down, we almost never really ate together. We’re still not great about it, but for a while now we’ve carved out Saturday as family dinner night, where we sit down to eat and talk about our “up” from the day — something that happened that made us feel good or happy, or something we’re looking forward to. (We used to talk about our “down,” too, but that kind of seemed like overkill. Why try to focus on more bad shit right now, you know?)

Then we settle in for a movie, with who gets to pick rotating each week. It’s mostly been Pixar, which has been great but also has its drawbacks; after she caught me crying during one of them (maybe the Bing-Bong scene in Inside Out? or Miguel singing to Grandma Coco?), Siobhan straight up told me, “You need to get yourself together, man.” We just watched My Neighbor Totoro, too, which they loved, so we’re probably going to try some more Miyazaki soon. It’s a really simple thing, but it’s one we rarely made time for before, and it’s been really nice to manufacture something positive that we can share and look forward to together.

Sometimes looking like a shiftless drifter

No shade to anyone who felt strongly about getting a lineup or whatever, but I haven’t really felt like going to the barbershop was worth the risk, and I continue to refuse to believe that my wife can actually pull off the fade she’s long wanted to give me. (It is also possible that she just means she’s intending to run my fade, and that I will before long wind up cold-cocked and slumped by my bride of nine years.) So I’ve just kind of been growing out my hair like it was when I was single, and sometimes been letting my beard get kind of out of control too, and, well, I sort of like looking a little bit like a Wildling, it turns out.

I have since trimmed things up a little. It didn’t go over well with my youngest. Oh, well. I’ll try to do better next time.

My wife and daughter singing the Pixies

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We don’t know all the words to too many lullabies, so we sing the ones we do know the words to. This will probably come back to bite us in the years ahead. For now, though: Pretty good.

Doughboys’ Tournament of Chompions: Munch Madness: Mac Attack

I can’t believe how invested I became in Nick Wiger and Mike Mitchell’s quest to determine the best menu item at McDonald’s in a 64-seed tournament that spawned hours and hours of delightfully funny audio featuring all-time home-run guests like Jon Gabrus and Nicole Byer, who gleefully feed into the often warm, sometimes antagonistic, always entertaining chemistry between the two hosts. I have also never found myself wanting to go to McDonald’s more in my entire life. I have hit the drive-thru a couple of times since, and the boys are right: The McDonald’s fountain Coke does just hit different.

Sound Only

I’ve lost track of whether or not a 38-year-old is considered a millennial, but I’m quite confident that I’m not exactly plugged into “the millennial lifestyle” as my teammates Justin Charity and Micah Peters discuss it on their podcast, which relaunched this summer. Doesn’t matter, though, because I love hearing Charity and Micah talk to each other even if I don’t know what they’re talking about.

Their conversation about Dave Chappelle was great. After listening to their Travis Scott episode, I felt like I kind of understood who he is and why he occupies the space he does in pop culture now. I had no idea how they were going to get me to give a shit about set photos from The Batman, but this they not only got me there, but wended their way toward blaming 50 Cent for needing to know who Groot is to have a conversation on the internet, which is something for which Abraham Lincoln did not die. The show is good, it's getting better, it’s fun to hear them talk their shit, and Charity’s regular bellowing of “I, TOO, AM AMERICA” has made me smile for four straight months. 

Siobhan’s letters and notes

She’s in first grade now, and she’s taken to communicating her feelings through the written word. A lot.

I won’t pretend that I loved all of these in the moment. I can only get so upset, though, when she’s already writing with such a clear voice. (And trying to use proper punctuation. (And drawing little cartoons to drive the point home.)

Palm Springs

I’m having a hard time remembering too many specifics about it right now, which probably means it’d be a good thing to rewatch over the holidays. But, as I’m sure many people noted many months before we got around to watching it, a comedy about living the same day over and over again, and about trying to figure out how to make your life mean something when everything seems meaningless, scratched a pretty particular, and particularly important, itch this year. It could’ve been twice as long, and I would’ve eaten up every second of Andy Samberg and Cristin Miloti together.

I’m pretty sure I cried, although this year, that doesn’t necessarily mean much.  Also, put Conner O’Malley in more things.

Joining our union’s bargaining committee

I won’t say too much about this, but I will say that becoming an active participant in the process of a labor union negotiating its first contract with management has been an extremely educational experience. It’s pushed me to have conversations, sometimes difficult ones, about our priorities as a staff and a company. It's helped me get closer with the other past and present members of the BC, and has led me to start developing relationships with members of our staff that I otherwise might not have had much of an opportunity to get to know.

The organizing work takes time, effort, and energy, but trying to do what I can to help take better care of my colleagues has been well worth all of that. Here’s hoping that in 2021 we can reach a deal that helps make our workplace even better, stronger, and more equitable for all of us.

Publishing a story about Stevie Nicks’ Fajita Roundup

I swear this is true: After I accepted my offer to work at The Ringer, but before I started, I told a friend that one thing I was excited about was that you had the chance to work on offbeat stuff here, in both the “kind of weird” and “not about the NBA” senses. That, I thought, might maybe open the door to me getting to write a story about a Saturday Night Live sketch I saw when I was a teenager about Stevie Nicks from Fleetwod Mac running a cheap Tex-Mex restaurant in Sedona, Arizona — a sketch that I wasn’t sure anyone else remembered, but that was stuck in my head forever.

That story ran on May 26.

A lot of people seemed to like it.

Accomplishing this goal was, as dumb as this might sound, a highlight of my year, and, honestly, a highlight of my career. I’d like to do some more stuff like this next year, time permitting; we’ll see. Whether or not I do, I got to do this. I’ll always have that.

[artificialqueens]

I Want to Believe (Branjie) - Athena2

Summary: A believer and a skeptic shouldn’t work. Everything about them clashes. But somehow Vanessa ‘Spooky’ Mateo and Brooke Lynn Hytes manage just fine. (an X-Files au one shot)

A/N: So this is…something. I honestly don’t know what to call it. It’s not inspired by any specific episode of the X-Files, and you don’t need to be familiar with the show to read this. Thank you Writ for betaing and supporting this, you’re the best. I’d really appreciate any feedback you have!

(Now)

Everything about them clashes, but the most obvious is their desks.

Vanessa’s is messy and haphazard. Week—and maybe even month, by the smell of one—old coffee cups are scattered along the surface and obscuring the lone photo on her desk, drops of coffee sticking to her computer keyboard and staining her stacks of newspaper articles, with quotes circled in frantic red pen. Not an inch is clean, even the drawers covered with taped-up newspaper articles and blurry photos, the insides crammed with handwritten accounts and old books of mythical creatures and her chip stash. Everything is urgent—Vanessa works with a breathless passion that moves into her desk, everything she cares about laid bare on the surface for all to see, with the sense that she was working as fast as she could, wanting to find things (find the truth) before it was too late.

Brooke’s is just like her: neat, sparse, and secretive. She wipes the top down each week with Lysol, getting rid of her own coffee remnants. She keeps all her notes in a fancy leather notebook in handwriting so neat it looks typewritten, all her files in alphabetical order in a folder. There’s nothing personal on the top, save one picture. The bottom drawer is where Brooke really is, hidden behind metal like the real Brooke. That’s where she keeps the Snickers bars she sneaks on the sly, where she keeps the plush kitten keychain she likes to smooth her hands over, even the trashy magazines she pretends not to read. Her dedication is there in the notes and files and endless searching, not stopping until she has answers—answers that usually contradict Vanessa’s. Brooke’s own form of truth, but one no less hard-fought for.

A believer and a skeptic. Everything about them clashes. They shouldn’t work. But considering the lone photo on both their desks is the same photo, of them locked in an embrace, they somehow do work.

—-

Two Years Ago (Then)

Spooky Mateo.

They’re transferring Brooke, and gone are her days of a private office with her own secretary, solving high-profile murder cases late into the night.

No, she’s being led down, down, down, deep into the bowels of the FBI building, through freezing halls and over floors that haven’t seen a mop since the Reagan administration, all to receive her new moldy basement office with a woman who’s the butt of nearly every FBI joke.

Vanessa ‘Spooky’ Mateo, so named because of her fascination with the paranormal, supernatural, and general what-the-fuckeries.

Kids missing with no explanation? Mateo was there, insisting some blurry photo contained a UFO. Weird murders with lots of blood loss? There’s Mateo reading vampire lore from an old book. People acting weird? Alien cult, Mateo would claim, citing some obscure news clipping.

“Here you are,” Ariel says, stopping at a door. “Have fun.” She’s gone with a smirk, and Brooke can just imagine the laughing she’ll do upstairs.

Brooke takes a breath and steps inside. It’s just a temporary reassignment. New policy says Mateo has to have a partner, and Brooke got the shaft. A few months down here, tops, and she’ll be back in her clean office with her personal coffee machine and real cases, not aliens, actually using her former doctor knowledge.

The office smells like wet dog and coffee. There’s an empty desk crammed against the wall that must be Brooke’s, and the other desk—at least Brooke thinks it’s a desk and not an abstract art piece of newspapers and coffee cups—is Mateo’s. She’s currently hovering over a newspaper, pen behind her ear, poking into her wavy brown hair, and another in her hand, scribbling notes in the margins. She’s so focused that Brooke has to clear her throat three times before she snaps up like she got shocked.

“You must be Brooke!” Vanessa jumps out of her chair and runs to Brooke, pumping her hand up and down and forcing Brooke to balance her box of desk stuff single-handedly. She’s kind of cute, now that Brooke sees her up close and not walking the opposite way. Her soft brown eyes are wide and passionate, her teeth dazzling in the dim lights, an oversized wool cardigan pulled over her button-down, no doubt to ward off the chill down here.

“That’s me. And you’re Vanessa.”

“Yep! Here’s your desk.” Vanessa nudges her into the corner. “It’s small down here, but not so bad. It does get cold, though. I have an extra jacket if you need it.”

Brooke nods, loosening her white-knuckle grip on her box and brushing layers of dust off the desk. With a little dusting and polishing, it might not be so bad. Oh, who is she kidding. The computer probably hasn’t been turned on in 20 years and her teeth are practically chattering and her chair is held together with duct tape.

She takes another breath and sits. The chair is actually comfortable, a small beacon of hope in this dungeon. Brooke has a better view of Vanessa’s side of the room, and the papers taped to the wall make her head explode, eyes pulled in fifty directions. Pictures of supposed UFO’s. Articles on disappearances, people sharing their alien abduction stories. Blown-up crop circle designs. Pins in a map signifying something Brooke doesn’t know. And right in the center, a poster proclaiming I Want to Believe.

“Look.” Vanessa’s in front of her desk, hands on her hips, looking like a little kid playing tough. “I know they sent you here to babysit me. I know no one believes me. And I know you can’t wait to get outta here. But give me one case before you judge anything. Just one, okay?”

Brooke thinks. She could refuse, march upstairs and demand her old office back. But something in Vanessa’s voice, or her eyes, fiery with determination, makes Brooke pause, something burning in her stomach. Snap judgments are unwise, she knows that. Working here, she has to think critically, look at all the pieces before she assembles them. And Vanessa did offer her a jacket, a kindness Brooke hasn’t seen from anyone else in this building. Brooke doesn’t want to run upstairs complaining like a little kid, either. Knowing her co-workers, they probably have an office pool going on how long she’ll last, and Brooke wants to prove them wrong, cost them some money.

“All right,” Brooke says. “What have you got?”

—-

(Now)

Their clothes are the same, standard uniform, yet still brimming with their differences.

Vanessa wears her suit exactly as she should, with slight modifications. The jacket comes off at her desk, replaced with a worn cardigan that’s soft and cozy like a blanket. Her top two shirt buttons are usually undone, because she didn’t like the collar squeezing her. You’d never doubt she’s FBI from the proud, brash voice she announces herself with, the way she appears much larger than she is, but Vanessa still keeps her badge in her right waist pocket, easy to whip out and proclaim FBI, like people do on TV. Brooke insists on ironing the suit for her, and Vanessa watches, mesmerized, and Brooke brings out sharp lines in the fabric. Vanessa will usually try it on after she’s done, relishing in the warmth, letting Brooke adjust her sleeves and collar and kiss her hands and neck. She’s happy every time that suit wrinkles because it means ironing day, means Brooke’s kisses.

Brooke wears her suit exactly as she should: perfectly pressed, shirt buttons done all the way up, her shoes shiny enough to see your reflection. Her badge is kept in her left breast pocket for easy access, to show people even though her attitude makes it clear she is who she says she is. After years in loose scrubs, she likes the stiffness of the suit, the crisp lines and how it seals her up inside it, feeling safe and important with that suit on. It’s a point of pride for her when she puts it on in the morning. Vanessa’s hands often slip around her chest before she puts her shirt on, clothing Brooke’s bare skin with her warm hands. Vanessa will always say how she loves a woman in a suit, peppering kisses up Brooke’s chest and neck as she buttons the shirt for her. Vanessa’s kisses are another reason she loves the uniform.

—-

(Then)

Vanessa snickers as Brooke grips the door handle.

“Is the big bad agent afraid of my driving?” She teases.

“Not you. Just the road’s so bumpy,” Brooke explains.

It’s true the road is bumpy, flanked by dark woods and endless fields where they’d never find you. They’re past the point of radio signals, to where even Google maps can’t help you if you get lost. There’s a stillness and silence out here she likes, that reminds her of dry, dusty summers as a child, reading about aliens by flashlight.

“You’re not taking me out here to murder me, are you?” Brooke asks feebly.

“I wouldn’t tell you if I was, would I?” Vanessa smiles and to her surprise, Brooke returns it, her face looking like it’s about to crack from the gesture.

Brooke isn’t exactly what Vanessa suspected. Vanessa knows all about her, knows she has a medical degree and was top of her FBI class a year before Vanessa was top of hers. Brooke is good, a rule-follower, but very dedicated. She stays as late as Vanessa to finish a case, genuinely checking on people in the hospital after their case was solved. She’s annoyed with her reassignment, Vanessa can tell, but Brooke is giving her a chance, which is more than she can say of anyone else.

Brooke’s got her nose buried in Vanessa’s notes, biting her lip as she reads. There’s been strange disappearances and reappearances for weeks, with no pattern: a toddler one day, a senior citizen the next, college kids and preteens following. All were gone for a few hours and woke up in their rooms with no memory beyond flashing lights and strange faces—hallmarks of extraterrestrial abductions, things Vanessa’s studied for years. Vanessa hasn’t found any leads, but a woman contacted her, believing she knows where the next disappearance will happen.

Even Vanessa treads lightly with psychics—it’s an easy thing to fake, if you do research or have excellent deduction skills—but the woman’s phone call had been desperate, begging Vanessa to visit before another disappearance happened.

Brooke looks up from the notes. “So,” she begins skeptically, “this woman thinks she knows where the next event will happen?”

“Yes. Says she’s been having visions and realized they matched the disappearances on the news.”

Brooke scoffs.

“Guessing you never had your palm read or anything?” Vanessa asks.

“It’s all fake. They look through your bag or something, or pick something so generic it can’t be wrong.”

Vanessa sighs. Brooke’s not entirely wrong, but with a stubbornness Vanessa might struggle with. She’s not trying to turn Brooke into a full believer like her, but some acknowledgement that weird shit just happens, no explanation, would be nice.

“A lot of them are fake, yeah,” Vanessa admits. “But sometimes they’re not. One time a psychic told me something my mom always says, word for word. There’s no way she could have known. Another told me my notebook was in the fridge, and it was, I dropped it without knowing. And another time—“

“But those are the exceptions,” Brooke insists. “The majority are fake, or just lucky guessers. There’s always a scientific explanation.”

“I’m not saying science is fake and don’t vaccinate your kids, Mary!” Vanessa exclaims to a sheepish chuckle from Brooke. “All I’m saying is that some stuff can’t be explained. It can’t.”

“Yeah, but I can’t write ‘unexplained’ in someone’s report. There has to be something real to write.”

Brooke’s clinging to her orderly worldview, not that Vanessa can blame her for that. Who would question everything that’s so solid and real to them? Brooke’s a hard nut to crack, but Vanessa has a feeling that what’s inside will be worth the effort.

“But you have to admit that unexplained fits sometimes. Weird markings on people’s bodies with no other injuries. Disappearances with no other explanations. Photos of creatures—“

“Those can be faked.”

“But sometimes, Brooke, just sometimes, weird things happen and you can’t explain them.” If she can convince Brooke of this, she’ll consider it a win. Someone to at least try to understand her, to acknowledge that her years of research have merit. This has been her life for years, trying to find proof of what others wouldn’t consider.

“Maybe.”

Vanessa turns into the woman’s driveway so hard Brooke slams against the door.

“Sorry.”

“I’m good,” Brooke says.

Vanessa’s not one for stereotypes, but the cottage before them…well, it could definitely be used as a set for a witch house in some horror movie. Rows of plants curl toward them along the path, ready to pull them into the soil. The circular windows watch them like eyes, following every move. Jagged wooden steps like broken teeth lead up to a crooked, scratched purple door that Vanessa knocks, vowing to show no fear in front of Brooke.

The woman who answers is younger and prettier than Vanessa expected, not a wart or frog or crooked finger in sight.

“Vanessa Mateo, FBI—“

“—Brooke Lynn Hytes, FBI.”

She and Brooke turn to each other, wondering why they didn’t sort out who would speak first.

“First day working together, I see,” the woman says. “I’m Scarlet. Come on in.”

Vanessa sticks her tongue out at Brooke and they step inside.

“Tea?” Scarlet offers. “The water should be ready. I’ve got green tea and berry tea aside, I knew you were coming.”

Brooke stiffens beside her. Vanessa’s favorite is berry tea, and she’s guessing from Brooke’s pale yet composed face that green tea is hers.

She elbows Brooke playfully as they sit.

“Lucky guess,” Brooke whispers.

Scarlet puts the mugs in front of them and fidgets in her seat.

“Is this gonna be like an interrogation?” she asks fearfully.

“No,” Vanessa soothes. “Don’t you worry, you’re not in trouble at all. We just wanna hear about your visions, okay?”

Scarlet nods, and Brooke pulls out her notes.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Brooke says. Her tone is calm and even, not stressing Scarlet, and it’s a point of approval for Brooke in Vanessa’s book. So many people would have demanded answers or spooked Scarlet, but Brooke is surprisingly gentle even if skeptical.

“I’ve always seen stuff,” Scarlet begins. “Knew when my grandma was coming over, knew my birthday present before I opened it. But the last few months I’ve been having these dreams. There’s flashing lights and numbers and these big dark smudges in the sky. I didn’t think anything of it till Yvie–she’s my girlfriend–had the news on, and the house number where one of the disappearances happened matched a number in my dream. And they’ve all matched since then. Except one. The most recent one. I think it’s where the next disappearance is gonna be, and it’s tonight. I can feel it.”

The only sound is the scratching of Brooke’s pen. Vanessa is riveted in her seat. Flashing lights and dark smudges are very promising signs, a hint that this is beyond the natural world, like she thought.

“What’s the number?” Vanessa asks.

“256. It’s a green house with white shutters. Morning-something Lane is the street name. That’s all I saw.” She pauses, looks at them in concern. “Will that help?”

“It helps a lot,” Vanessa assures her, and it does. They have the day to find this house, and with Scarlet’s tip, it shouldn’t be so hard. They can stop another person from disappearing, and there’s a new spring in Vanessa’s step as they thank Scarlet and head outside.

“So,” Brooke prompts.

“So.” Vanessa’s not going to gloat about Scarlet, but she’s not giving an inch either.

Brooke sighs. “Well, we need to find the house and get the people out. Tell them there’s a gas leak or something so they’ll listen. Problem solved.”

Vanessa nods, because that was her plan too. Except for one thing. “Well…”

“Well what?” Brooke demands, and the tiny crease in her forehead is almost cute, proves that her perfect face is very human.

“Get the people out, yes. But I want to watch the house tonight. I want to see if anything happens. And I want you to come with me.”

—-

(Now)

Bedtime is Vanessa’s favorite thing with Brooke. It was something they used to do differently, something Brooke changed to help Vanessa sleep better. Vanessa used to hate sleeping, would bury herself in work until she passed out at the kitchen table. She’s always afraid of the dreams. Dreams of all the things that happened when she was little, crying into her blankets because no one believed her. She burrows into the mattress when she sleeps, blankets snug around her like it will keep the dreams from exploding out. With Brooke, she doesn’t have to be scared. She snuggles against Brooke, Brooke’s arm secure around her, holding her down. When she does have the dreams, when she mumbles into her pillow and cries out in her sleep, Brooke is there, gently kissing the back of her neck and telling her it’s all okay, she’s there and won’t let anything hurt her. She’s never slept as well as she does with Brooke.

Brooke was never one for sharing a bed. She liked to sprawl out on her mattress, tug all the blankets over her, roll over and not have to worry about hitting anyone. She could sleep with files and notes littering the sheets and no one would care. But with Vanessa, bedtime has become something special. Brooke sprays their pillows with a calming lavender spray she thought might help Vanessa sleep. She usually tucks Vanessa in and then slips behind her, holding her close. Brooke never craved another person against her chest while she sleeps, but she can’t imagine sleeping without Vanessa there now. And when Vanessa thrashes against her, whimpering in her sleep, Brooke does all she can to keep Vanessa together and calm her down. She’s never slept as well as she does with Vanessa.

—

(Then)

256 Morning Bird Lane is in the middle of nowhere, because of course it is.

“Can’t these aliens ever land in a city?” Brooke complains. “At least near a freaking grocery store or some sign of civilization.”

The emptiness is making her uneasy. She and Vanessa are parked in some lot across the street from the house, and there is literally nothing for miles. Brooke’s a city girl. She likes trying new restaurants every week and having hundreds of grocery stores to choose from and never being far from a hospital should disaster strike. She likes knowing there are people around, even if she appreciates the anonymity from those people that a large city grants her. Sure, people suck when they smash into her on the subway during her commute or hold up the line arguing over coupons, but at least they were there. There’s nothing like that here, no glow of city lights or hum of cars, no knowledge that people are nearby, living lives as complicated as yours. There’s nothing but trees and darkness and silence, and the hair on Brooke’s neck is standing up at the thought. She’s grateful Vanessa is here with her, to save her from the abyss of silent solitude.

“So you do think it’s aliens,” Vanessa challenges.

“Absolutely not. I don’t care if Jabba the fucking Hutt himself drops out of the sky. I just can’t wait to get out of here.”

Vanessa shrugs. “We lived out in the country when I was little before we moved. It’s not so bad. And I brought snacks if you’re hungry, y’know.”

“I’m fin–are those Snickers?”

“Yeah.”

Brooke reaches in Vanessa’s bag and pulls one out, letting chocolate and peanuts fill her mouth. At least she has candy, a reminder of the city vending machines and check-out counters that await her.

“Scarlet told me they’re your favorite.”

Brooke’s heart stops. “You’re shitting me.”

Vanessa tries to keep a straight face, but she caves with a mighty laugh. “Yeah, I’m kidding. I just grabbed ‘em because they’re my favorite too.”

“Oh.” Snickers are Vanessa’s favorite candy. It’s a pointless fact, no value in knowing it. But it feels important to Brooke somehow, like it’s a part of Vanessa uncovered. What is a person, really, other than a collection of things they love? Christ, this middle-of-nowhere shit is making her philosophical. Soon she’ll notice how gorgeous Vanessa looks in the moonlight.

They eat their candy and lapse into silence.

“What made you join the bureau?” Vanessa asks.

“I started doing medical consulting with them a few years ago. Then the bureau offered me a full position, working cases and helping with the medical stuff. Said they’d pay off my med school loans and my bureau training fees, and I was in so much debt after med school it seemed like a good idea.”

She’s always wanted to help people. Brooke had gone into medicine for that reason, to help people and give them better lives. An old mentor of hers from med school recommended Brooke as an FBI consultant, and she answered questions about murders and injuries for stony-faced, black-suited agents. She couldn’t help but hope they’d show up every day, bring her a big case to help with, bring a killer to justice and prevent more people from being hurt. Bring her excitement she didn’t know she was missing. Her life as a doctor wasn’t boring, but when she heard the FBI was coming it gave her a thrill like nothing else. When they offered her the job, she realized all she wanted was to be part of that world, to be one of them instead of their consultant.

She doesn’t tell any of this to Vanessa, though. What’s the point? This should just be a few months of partnership. No need to bare her soul to Spooky Mateo.

She’s not quite as spooky as Brooke thought, though. She’s almost sweet, soothing Scarlet and packing stakeout snacks. There’s a bravery in her, the way she marched up to Scarlet’s house without an ounce of fear. Vanessa’s a fighter, Brooke can see all the traits she herself carries present in Vanessa, in her determination to keep going and boldness to just go after what she wants because there’s no other way she’ll get it.

“Well, I’m glad you joined,” Vanessa says. “It’s kinda nice to have you here.”

“Just kinda nice?” Brooke teases.

“Yeah.”

Brooke snorts against her will. “How did you join the FBI?”

Vanessa smirks. “You wondering how Spooky Mateo ended up here, aren’t ya?”

“Maybe a little.” Brooke’s grateful the darkness hides her burning cheeks.

“I don’t blame you.” Vanessa shrugs. “I just wanted to help people, really. People who don’t get listened to.” She takes a breath. “When I was little, weird shit always happened. Flashing lights and dark things in the sky. Weird shadows in my room. Sometimes my toys would move around on the shelves. One night I swear I saw some sort of creature. Something not natural. Everyone said it was my imagination, but it was real. My parents dragged me to all these doctors, and eventually they decided moving to the city might help. The things stopped happening after that, but I never forgot them. And that’s what I wanted to investigate. Stuff you couldn’t explain.”

She really does believe what she’s saying. Brooke’s interviewed enough people to recognize honesty. But can Brooke believe her? Her rational side kicks in. Boredom in the country could have caused Vanessa’s overactive imagination, which calmed down with the city’s stimulation. It makes sense. But Vanessa shaped her entire life and career around those events. She wants to find the truth, and Brooke respects her for it, even if that truth isn’t hers.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Vanessa says. “But that’s why.”

“I–” Brooke freezes when the time on the car dash crosses her vision. It can’t be right, it can’t be. She checks her watch. No no no. “Vanessa?”

“Yeah?”

“The last time I checked the clock, it was 10:51. I know it.” Brooke swallows hard and points to the time now.

10:43.

“Shit,” Vanessa breathes.

Brooke blinks, and the time flickers to 10:51. Maybe it was her imagination–there’s a sudden gust of wind, enough to make the car shake. The dashboard lights blink on and off, the car headlights throwing light all over then fading into darkness.

“Vanessa!” Brooke yells over the howling wind, but no answer. Brooke closes her eyes against the blinding lights, can’t see Vanessa beside her.

The radio switches on despite having no signal, classic rock and then pop and then something unintelligible blasting through the speakers and rattling the windows. The bottles in the cupholder shake in place, liquids bouncing all over the plastic. There’s a loud whirring sound above them, a black shape blocking out the moon and throwing beams of light that bounce off the house across the street before vanishing all at once.

The clock changes to 10:52.

Brooke’s chest burns as she takes her first breath in she doesn’t know how long. Her knees are up against her chest to protect her, and her sweaty, tense hand is currently being squeezed by Vanessa, who is in the middle console of the car, half-in Brooke’s lap. Vanessa’s hand is soft and warm, her body solid and soothing against her, and Brooke is almost sad when she lets go and shifts into the driver’s seat.

“What the fuck was that?” Brooke demands, still trying to get her breathing under control.

“I don’t–” Vanessa’s chest heaves as she draws in air “–I don’t know. But it had to be the cause of the disappearances. Just like Scarlet said. Some kind of space–”

“Don’t say spaceship.” Brooke’s rational brain churns to life, trying to turn what she’s seen into something real, something concrete and logical. Something that makes sense. “It was–it was probably a helicopter.”

“That was no fucking helicopter and you know it! Electrical disturbances, time malfunctioning, they’re all signs of extraterrestrial activity.”

“No, okay? No! There’s some logical explanation, and that was not some alien ship here to abduct someone.”

“I was right! You know I am!”

Vanessa takes a breath, and the silence fills the car to bursting. Brooke can’t do this anymore. Her mind is reeling and the argument is taking more energy than she has.

“Look, can we just go? I don’t want to be here anymore.” Brooke’s voice comes out smaller than she intends, and it softens the anger on Vanessa’s face.

“Yeah,” Vanessa agrees. “Let’s go.”

Vanessa reaches into the cupholder for her drink at the same time as Brooke and their heads smack into each other.

“Ow, shit!”

“What the hell kind of blockhead you got?”

The next thing Brooke knows, they’re laughing. Laughing to stay sane after what happened, to cling to each other, to go back to normal, even if that normal may not fit Brooke’s definition anymore. It’s the perfect thing to break the tension, and when Brooke locks eyes with Vanessa, the brown wide and soft before her, she wonders if this was meant to happen. If there is something beyond this universe, something bringing them together.

“What did you say before? About unexplained stuff?”

“Sometimes things just happen and you can’t explain them.”

“Yeah,” Brooke says.

And then they’re both leaning in, and the kiss defies explanation. Brooke’s lips melt against Vanessa’s, their hearts still racing and speeding up even more at their touches. Brooke rests one hand on Vanessa’s shoulder and the other on her thigh, two points of contact to ground her, prove that they’re both here, doing this. Vanessa is intoxicating, burying her hands in Brooke’s hair and pulling her closer, until their chests are touching and Brooke’s knee is against the gear shift but she doesn’t even feel it. It’s just them here, just them kissing, and when she pulls back Brooke thinks of Vanessa’s poster and knows that if she believes in anything, it’s Vanessa.

—-

(Now)

“Wanna get pizza tonight?” Vanessa asks.

“I kinda want burritos,” Brooke says sheepishly, and Vanessa rolls her eyes.

“Pizza tonight and burritos this weekend?” Brooke suggests.

Vanessa nods. The compromising is something she’s gotten used to, working together on things while accepting they still have their differences.

It’s been two years since Brooke was transferred down here, two years of taking cases no one thinks twice about and helping people the best they can. Two years of being partners at work and almost two years of being partners at home, of trying to cook and cuddling on the couch and sleeping together, making even things like grocery shopping and cleaning fun as long as they’re together.

Even if Brooke fights tooth and nail to scientifically explain everything, and Vanessa pushes for unconventional ideas, to consider paranormal events, they’ve still managed all these years. They work together perfectly, their ideas and methods often meeting in the middle. Vanessa’s odd sources getting them a real lead that Brooke’s formalities couldn’t. Brooke’s medical knowledge saving someone Vanessa would have thought gone. She knows Brooke doesn’t always believe, and that’s okay.

Because Vanessa believes in her, believes in them, and as Brooke takes her hand as they head out of the office, she knows Brooke believes too.

[marvel-ousnesss]

The pirate and the witch (part three)

Part one 

Part two

masterlist

Part four

Word count: 3082

Pairing: Harry Hook x daughter of narcissi!reader

Summary: Y/N, an orphan vk who was taken to auradon at a young age, returns to her old home by request of the crown prince. However, things tend to go south at the Isle of the Lost.

Warning: Mild cursing, parental abuse

A:/N: Here's part three! Sorry it took me so long to write this, I’ve been running some college-related errands. Anyway… remember you just need to ask if you wanna be tagged and comments are always welcome. Alsooo, I wrote this on my phone so it may have a few typos and other mistakes.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE DISNEY DESCENDANTS CHARACTERS NOR THE SANDERSON SISTERS. All credit goes to the creators, writers, and producers. Same with the HP charms, credit goes to J.K Rowling.

...

— Did you really have to hit her with the bat?

— What would’ve you done, dipshit?

Two kidnappings in two days, that must really be a record. However, just FYI, the second one was kind of on purpose.

…

On my way to the hideout, the night replays inside my head as I glance around.

Even if I did cast a quiet protection charm on myself, I'm only shielded from weapons or magical harm; because I haven’t managed the appropriate technique yet. ‘Right, right, left and down the alley’ I repeat the route to my place like a mantra, terrified by the thought of getting lost in the middle of the night.

Already approaching my destination, I have come to notice that I’m being chased by the same two bandits I saw both at the market and back at the Lost Revenge. Carlos and Jay were trying to sneak up on me , but were betrayed by a subtle movement in the shadows present in the corner of my vision.

What they’re trying to do is predictable, to be honest; either they want to get to the pirates by kidnapping me (which would be useless) or they want information, to be sure I pose no threat.

Having this in mind, I wouldn’t be able to approach them in half-friendly circumstances. So, out of intuition, I let them get me. What’s the worst that could happen.

…

— Would you guys shut it already? — hisses Mal, — she’s waking up.

I try to speak but no sound comes out, that’s when I become aware of the burning sensation in my throat. Similarly, I try to move, but groan when I encounter ropes that are tightly fixed around my wrists and ankles.

My first instinct is to try and use magic, but I remind myself of what I’m here for. Ben’s words invade my mind, “figure out which of them are worse, and report.”

Carlos notices my confused gaze skipping through what seems to be a ….. shop, so he explains, — Look, it’s nothing against you or anything, just against the pirates.

— You don’t have to explain things to her, you dickhead— Jay rolls his eyes and smacks the younger boy on the back of his head.

— Wrong person, bud, I’m not important to them.

It’s not hard to see, you know, — Evie fidgets with her necklace, — They don’t invite random nobodies to their parties, so you must be someone.

—I just saved myself yesterday and Hook happened to be lucky.

— Yeah right, — The fay’s eyes roll to the back of her head. — Look, this doesn’t have to be as painful as I’d like it to, but it’s up to you: either you comply and we get over with it, or you don’t and we stay here as long as needed.

—Okay, don’t believe me if you don’t want to, just saying.

Minutes go by and the four friends seem to be slowly losing their patience. I keep rambling and circling their way questions so, following Mal’s orders, they cover my mouth and continue with their own bickering.

—We can’t just throw her to the hyenas, she wouldn’t be useful! — Carlos paces across the room, with his hands gesticulating wildly.

— Well, she says that she’s not important to them, so what use would she have anyway? — sighs Mal, seemingly more interested on the crisped polish on her nails.

Carlos is about to reply, but Jay cuts him off before a word is emitted. — Guys, whatever we do, it has to be now, dad will come back soon. We need to leave.

—Shit. Okay, let’s put her inside the storage closet.

Okay, maybe this was a pretty dumb idea.

…..

Time becomes blurry as I fall in and out of sleep inside the closet of the empty store, they must’ve given me sleeping herbs. The only thing I hear is the steady rhythm of my own breathing, until two pairs of feet storm through the front doors.

One of the voices, I recognize it to be Jay’s; but the other one seems to be of someone older and louder, Jafar.

— You had one thing to do, you filthy, insignificant riff raff. — The rage that’s laced to the villain’s words makes a chill run down my spine. — You’d be of better use rotting in the sewer where you came from, can’t even steal candy from a two year old.

I gulp when the sound of wood hitting skin bounces all the way from the entrance to my current spot.

— Not so intimidating now, street rat?— he avows. — Aren’t you gonna defend yourself?

With my eyes shut and my fists tightened, I visualize the ropes getting looser. They give up, so I mutter “alohomora” in order to open the door.

As I contemplate the scene, a gasp escapes my lips.

The boy is on the floor, curled in a fetal position; trying to avoid major strikes of the wooden cane that has no mercy on him. The coldness in his father’s stare and the cruelty and force of every hit emit a dark energy that floods my senses, making my blood boil.

I charge toward the former visir, pushing him aside. Jafar falls, shattering one of the shelves. He is immediately buried in a pile of stolen antiques and other goods.

Jay’s eyes project an almost unperceivable light of hope when he meets my eye, yet he doesn’t move. I place myself between him and his father while Jafar is still recovering his stance.

When he’s about to hit again, I hesitantly mutter, — Petrificus totalus, — as I look away from him and shield myself with my left hand.

To my surprise, Jafar’s legs tremble before failing him and, disturbingly still, he falls down face first. Considering that the situation is now safer, Carlos decides to walk inside the shop, confessing that he saw everything and apologizing for not doing anything.

He proceeds to help Jay stand up, and quietly thanks me, but the thief still doesn’t look at me. His breath is uneven, and his legs are shaking slightly.

— So, you have magic, — states Carlos, as Jay finds himself quizzically looking at me with his bloodshot eyes.

—Yup.

An awkward silence takes over the room and all of us seem to be completely taken aback by the adrenaline of the situation fading away.

— Thank you, — Jay takes off his beanie and fixes his sweaty hair into a messy bun.

— What was that about?

I feel like I’m intruding, but if I don’t ask about their situations, my ‘let’s get kidnapped’ stunt would be to no avail.

He sighs, debating whether telling me or not, but settles with shrugging, — he’s just angry.—

I cannot help but let my face contour into a horrified and pained expression, to which Carlos responds with inquiring, — I mean, it happens often around here, haven’t you been hit by your parents?

I shake my head, — My mom died years ago.

— Lucky you, — Jay voices. He’s now evidently weakened, with more than evident bruises and paler skin; not to mention that he’s still shaking slightly.

— Are all your parents really that bad?

It is Carlos who responds, — Well, you already saw Jay’s. — He shrugs, — Evie’s mother is just plain crazy, Mal’s is the most feared villain of the isle; and, as for me, my mom just treats me like a servant or something. It’s not that bad, really, at least I don’t have to deal with any dogs.

— Are you afraid of dogs?— I quirk a brow at him, but my question is ignored by the two guys.

— What the hell do you mean with ‘not that bad’, Carlos?, — Jay looks at Carlos when he asks the rhetorical question, then he faces me. — She gives him fucking ridiculous chores, and would totally get rid of him in exchange of more furs! I mean, touch up her roots, fluff up her fur, and scrape the bunions from her feet; what the hell does bunion even mean? — Even in his weakened state, Jay jumps to his friend’s defense in the moment he saw that Carlos wasn’t standing up for himself.

The younger boy cringes, but manages to let out a chuckle, — you don’t wanna know, trust me.

— We should probably get out of here, the effects of my curse will wear off soon.

— Speaking of, how come you can practice magic here, — questions Jay.

As we walk outside the shop, I try to come up with something but, without knowing, Carlos comes to my rescue.

— Remember the hole I made? Some magic manages to sneak in, you just need to be strong enough to channel it.

Mental note, there’s a freaking hole in the Isle’s dome. That would explain the Sanderson’s magic, but how come Maleficent or Ursula remain powerless?

The conversation seems to be dying down, which would take me to a complete failure, so I press on the topic.

— So it was you! — i gasp. — how did you even do it?

His eyes shine with passion as he explains with impressive detail the way I which he used a broken laptop, an engine, and some wire to weaken the magic dome just enough to create a personal backdoor to the Auradon network.

— That’s really awesome, Carlos.

He seems taken aback, — not really, it wasn’t that hard.

Jay glares at him, silently scolding him for not recognizing his talent.

So, Carlos settles on claiming, — I mean, it is pretty cool.

We continue walking down a street which I don’t recognize, with the deemed (and damaged) streetlights being the only source of light.

The sound of my combat boots kicking a can brings the boys’ attention to me, — So, you didn’t answer my question: what’s up with you and dogs?

Carlos seems defensive when he answers; his shoulders tense up and he struggles to utter the words. — I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with them. They’re horrible, man-eating creatures.

I wonder where he got that from.

— Or, at least, that’s according to my mother. — Carlos checks his watch and immediately tenses up (even more). — Shit! Sorry guys, I have to go, mom’s sculpture collection , er, I, I have to be done by ten, and I haven’t even started!

…

After we said goodbye to Carlos, Jay and I went back to the shop, just to check if Jafar was still there. The thief refused to face his father after their previous encounter, so I went in, made him forget my little stunt, and went back out. In a comfortable silence, we abandon the shop once again, and this time I figure we are heading toward the center of the isle, where the vks’ hideout is located.

— So, how’d you manage to escape the wicked, soul-eating witches? — Jay walks in long strides, which means I almost have to double my normal pace in order to keep up with him. If I remember correctly, we’re almost four blocks away from our final destination.

— You followed me all throughout yesterday?

He shrugs, — Mal’s orders.

— Don’t the Isle’s most powerful have better things to do? Candy to steal, kittens to kick… I mean, the usual. — We both chuckle, — but, just in case, I mean no harm, really.

He scratches the back of his neck and turns right, the building is right in front of us.

— How do I know this isn’t a trap? — I cross my arms and quirk a brow.

— Seriously? You just defeated one of the most feared villains here and freed yourself from us. Even if I wanted to, you’d probably kick my ass with your hocus Pocus shit. — when making the last statement, his eyes widen and his gesticulations become more dramatic.

— Fine, — I roll my eyes, then smirk. — And, you know? Thanks for admitting I’d totally kick your ass. It’s nice to agree on something.

We go up the stairs and arrive at what seems to be their version of a dorm. There are four decent beds and the walls are covered in graffiti of their faces and signature colors. They also have a few bags of what seems to be food, and a phone that, I assume, only connects them with nearby places.

— So, if this isn’t a trap, why are we here? — I didn’t ask him anything on our way here, but my curiosity is beginning to get the best of me.

— I just needed to make sure we didn’t have eyes or ears on us.

I cross my arms to prevent myself from fidgeting, — okay, now you’re beginning to scare me.

He lets out a breath and throws himself on a bag of clothes that serves the purpose of a puff.

— I’m not stupid, — he states. — You’re not from the isle, now spill.

Shit, now this is bad.

— What d’ you mean? —

— Magic, manners, compliments, and, on top, spontaneously helping  your kidnappers? — Jay shrugs. — Not from around here.

— Of course I am, — much to my distress, my voice comes out higher than normal. — I just don’t leave home very often.

— As I said,  — his hands fly behind his head, — I’m not that dumb.

— Okay, so, even if what you’re saying is true, why would I admit it? — I quirk a brow and lift my chin up, trying to keep my cool.

—You wouldn’t have to. Your nose gave you away.

— What do you mean ‘my nose’?

— It wrinkles when you lie. Both when you said Carlos was the one who gave you magic and just now.

— No, it doesn't — again, my words are emitted in a high pitched voice.

I glare at the thief, who seems to find me amusing.

— Also, your voice gets higher, — he scoffs, giving me a closed lip smile.

Now that he knows, everything we’ve gotten for Ben’s plan is on the line. I only see one suitable way of protecting our project, trusting Jay or, as Chad would put it, ‘making a deal with a fucking villain’.

— Fine, I do come from outside the Isle. — I raise my hands in defeat. — Just, please, don’t tell anyone.

— What’s in it for me?

— Consider us even. I just saved you, after all; despite the fact that you and your friends fucking kidnapped me. — I keep my eyes on his; according to my dad, that’s a diplomatic way of pressuring your counterpart.

— Fine,— he crosses his arms. — But I get to hear the whole explanation.

I sigh, — not here.

…

I lay on my bed, playing on the tablet I brought with me, while Jay devours a sandwich that was supposed to be my dinner. The sunlight that reaches the Isle has already began to coat the room through the window, making me aware of the fact that my time here is about to end; I’m leaving this evening.

— Okay, I already told you my story, time for you to tell me yours.

— what do you wanna know, — his words come out between bites of food.

I scratch my chin, pretending to think; but I know where to begin.

— How did the trouble with Uma’s crew first begin?

He stops eating and looks directly at me; then he sighs, taking his time to begin.

— Long story short, there has always been a power struggle around here. When it comes to us villains, there's no 'fair' or - I don't know- ‘morally correct’ way to gain power—.  

— So you just fight for it, —  I deduce.

— Yeah, and not just for the power, y'know, for the validation that comes with it. Anyway, stopping the deep shit, Uma's crew has always been in our way and, there has always been something going on between her and Mal; things just tend to get fucked up when they face each other. — Speaking and munching on the remaining bits of food, he makes the sandwich disappear in the blink of an eye.

The riot between Mal and Uma is crucial for me to keep in mind for Ben's plan to work. It would be a recipe for disaster to have both Uma and Mal come to Auradon, and the same would happen with their respective circles.

The only sound left is the quiet humming of my virtual Trophy game. So, out of curiosity, Jay stands up from his spot on the desk and takes a look at the content on my screen. Then, quirking a brow, he begins to ask about it.

—It's like a computer, but without a keyboard. — I try to explain, but his confused expression doesn't even begin to fade.

I sigh, looking for the right way to clarify things. — It's an electronic device for storing and processing information, you can use it to see pictures, play games or access the internet.

— It's like the one Carlos used to hack the dome, — he inquires. — but that one is way smaller, and why doesn't it have the buttons with the letters on them.

— Exactly, — I smile at him. — A computer, but with no keyboard; well, the letters appear on the screen when I need to type.

— And what are you doing with it?

— Playing tourney, it’s a sport.

— Like dueling, right?

— A bit less violent, but yes. — To be fair, I thought the vk would be less intrigued about Auradon and other aspects of our life there, but the explanation about tourney leads to a conversation that would have lasted the whole day if only a certain rock hadn’t hit the small window beside my desk.

Tags: @criticizing-blogger​  @aspitefullittlebeing​​  @treestarrrrrrrr​​

[ohshcscenerios]

(Self indulgent request incoming) The reason Kyoya fell to his knees was because his chronic pain flared up and he physically can't walk anymore. Thanks :)

Ok, I may have made this super sad and I apologize but this is where the story lead me and I have to honor that. Thank you giving me a wonderful topic to write about. Chronic pain is usually a difficult and sensitive topic so I hope I represented well. 

If you have a request for a one-shot please send me a host’s name + a reason why they would fall to their knees to my Ask Inbox! Thank you!

Kyoya pushed past the polished glass doors entering an empty hallway, his leather briefcase filled with current Ootori Group stock statistics weighing heavy in his hand. The meeting went well considering their current position financially. His older brother’s recent investment in a theatrical production company still in its infancy proved to be a poor decision when the company tanked its second year. Akito will surely pay for his impulsive mistake but Kyoya was tasked with the messy clean up.

His feet resounded soft thuds along the carpeted floor as he returned to his office, mentally preparing himself for the pile of legal paperwork that will demand his undivided attention for the next few days. His father made it clear what is expected of him; retrieve their money from the grips of bankruptcy. It was no fault of their own the production company sunk but they wouldn’t let their money be dragged down as well. There had to be a way to retract their investment and Kyoya was unfortunately tasked with the witch hunt.

After a silent elevator ride he reached the fifth floor. Just down the hallway to the right rested his personal office, though it wasn’t something he necessarily took pride in. It was a small office compared to his brothers’ which resided on the top floor; where the Ootori Group’s heads were located. Kyoya considered his office a joke, a clear smack in the face from his father’s strict demands for perfection.

He barely registered his surroundings as muscle memory led him through the hallway. He felt a dull ache in his right temple, most likely due to the harsh florescent light above. On the top floor the building is better suited for a more comfortable and luxurious working environment, pampering the higher-ups in ways that would surely provoke his good friend Haruhi to anger. As for the rest of the employees such as himself, they were lucky if they didn’t have to share an office. His status as the youngest Ootori son did provide him that – at least.

He neared his office, seeing the locked door slowly approaching as his feet carried him mindlessly to his private prison.

Suddenly, his legs stopped as if commanded by another force. He was about to step forward when a piercing pain streaked through his legs, scorching his nerves as the electrifying spasm raced beneath his skin. His muscles clenched in defense, adding to the agony.

He gritted his teeth and hissed his silent protests as his knees buckled beneath him, the pain too much to bear on top of supporting his weight. His body slammed to the floor with an audible thump, flinging his briefcase against the wall. His hands instinctually reached for his legs but the slightest touch sent shocking pain through his calves. He hissed again, scrunching his eyes closed as he waited for the wave of pain to subside. It didn’t and he knew it wouldn’t end until his nerves calmed down. He would have to writhe in this puddle of pain until his body relieved him of this torture.

His prescribed medication teased him from his desk but to walk the few meters needed seemed impossible at this point. His weak arms pushed against the floor as he dragged his lower half a few inches to the right so he could at least lean his back against the wall.

Kyoya fought the pressure building in his nose, refusing to allow his bitter tears to stain his blushed cheeks. He was already a pathetic sight and he would not tarnish the last of his pride by giving into his weakness. If anyone happened to see him like this they wouldn’t blink an eye as they walked by but they’d remember the moment in great detail so they can discuss it during their lunch break. Kyoya knew he had fallen victim to office gossip before and he also knew it wouldn’t be the last. Thankfully, he was alone for the moment. He could suffer in peace.

The fifth floor wasn’t a very active floor, only hosting a few employees that were considered more important without an official title. They could gloat about their unofficial positions but couldn’t wear an official title on their resume. It was the perfect loophole his father found to keep certain ambitious employees satisfied – that is until they figured out what happened. However Kyoya walked into the position wide eyed, acknowledging his place in his father’s company; not beside the heads but below their feet as a humbled servant. His work in high school proved him to be an eligible competitor for the Ootori Group’s heir but when he was diagnosed with chronic pain at the age of 23 his father’s enthusiasm vanished like vapor – along with Kyoya’s dreams of being the Ootori successor. Because in his father’s words, how can he expect to run a company when his own body betrays him?

[homme-brella]

aesthetic themed ask list

It’s friday night i’m by myself listening to music in my bed in the dark and i told all my friends to leave me alone but i don’t feel like journaling properly so i’m just going to do this as an exercise lol. Found this list in my drafts of my old account i made for my ex.. oh how times have changed since 2015. 

flower crown: when did you last sing to yourself? just now i guess?

fairy lights: if a crystal ball could tell you the truth about anything, what would you want to know? who killed jonbenet ramsey???

daisies: what is the greatest accomplishment of your life? i don’t feel like i’ve accomplished much - actually got stuck on this question during a job interview (i didnt get the job lol) probably... finding my current job and seeing an actual path for my future for once.

1975: what is the first happy memory that comes to mind, recent or otherwise? telling my friends how much i love them saturday night.

matte: if you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? drop out of cpa, quit my job, travel the world and send cards back home to my friends to remember me by.

black nail polish: do you have a bucket list? if so, what are the top three things? no bucket list... i just wanna travel the world...

pantone: describe a person close to your life in detail. she reminds me that people aren’t perfect, that sometimes you shouldn’t be selfish, that there are more people who have opinions than i’d like.

moodboard: do you feel you had a happy childhood? it didn’t get bad until jr high / high school i don’t think i can complain.

stars: when did you last cry in front of another person? sunday night.

plants: pick a person to stargaze with you and explain why you picked them. jessica. she loves the stars as much as i love her.

converse: would you ever have a deep conversation with a stranger and open up to them? no i can barely do that with my friends.

lace: when was your last 3am conversation with someone, and who were they to you? i guess it was 5-6am when we talked. cass is a dear friend of mine. 

handwriting: if you were about to die, and you could only say one more sentence to one person, what would you say and to whom? i’d tell Ron “stand tall, stupid”

cactus: what is your opinion on brown eyes? pretty.

sunrise: pick a quote and describe what it means to you personally. “i don’t have everything that i love, but i love everything that i have” - my dad said this a lot. i try to remember to love everything in my life, and put 100% of my energy into loving them.

oil paints: what would you title the autobiography of your life so far? lmao i was looking through my archive i think it’d be “needs to be held, cries often”

overalls: what would you do with one billion dollars? probably pay off every debt my entire family has, and then invest the rest and treat my family & friends nice.

combat boots: are you a very forgiving person? do you like being this way? sometimes. I can be pretty petty sometimes, but I think it’s a defense mechanism. Sometimes i wish i could take the high road but sometimes they don’t deserve it lol.

winged eyeliner: write a hundred word letter to your twelve year old self. idk how to count a hundred words but “don’t stay with someone just because you’re loyal”

pastel: would you describe yourself as more punk or pastel? pastel probably?

tattoos: how do you feel about tattoos and piercings? explain. i like them in moderation! although my mama is strict )-:

piercings: do you wear a lot of makeup? why/why not? no idk how to do makeup well and i’m also really lazy. thank god for permanent makeup.

bands: talk about a song/band/lyric that has affected your life in some way. “She likes spring, I prefer winter” -Slchld. I think this song reminded me that it’s ok to have differences between you and your s/o. I think it made me an open minded person, and open to flaws and acceptance. I think it also got me through a time when I was losing myself and it reminded me that it’s ok to be different and like what you like, as long as you know what you like, you know?

messy bun: the world is listening. pick one sentence you would tell them. Love is love.

cry baby: list the concerts you have been to and talk about how they make you feel.

Us the Duo  - went with my ex when we were about to break up. gave me hope that we could work things out because they sang our song and we held each other but it didn’t end up working out. i still have a bad habit of attaching people to music

Daniel Caesar - went with my best friend, we found a spot near the side of the stage and interacted a lot with the drummer - he actually was the highlight of the night the way he enjoyed himself so much. It was freezing out but it was honestly such a warming sensation being in that venue.

HONNE - went with a group of friends, i actually introduced them all to HONNE, it was amazing singing those songs with them, it bonded us but also marked the end of our time together.

grunge: who in the world would you most like to receive a letter from and what would you want it to say? i would love a letter from my grandpa telling me everything that happened to him during the war.

space: do you have a desk/workspace and how is it organised/not organised? It’s not lol.

white bed sheets: what is your night time routine? brush teeth, hop in bed, scroll on phone for hours, sleep

old books: what’s one thing you don’t want your parents to know? their daughter’s a hoe ToT 

beaches: if you had to dye your hair how would you dye/style it and why? pink. idk i like pink.

eyes: pick five people to go on an excursion with you. who would you pick and where would you go/what would you do? ron devon cass andrew mitch, we would get an RV and travel across the country for a month or two, making stops in random cities.

11:11: name three wishes and why you wish for them.

1. i wish ron lives happily ever after with the girl he loves - because he deserves it

2. i wish to be successful in my career - so that i can afford to travel and see the world with the people that i love

3. i wish that the dreams my friends are manifesting come true - because i love my friends.

painting: what is the best halloween costume you have ever put together? if none, make one up. i think i was pinocchio one year that was kinda cute.

lightning: what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done while drunk or high? called my entire local committee and hysterically laughed and hyperventilated on video call lol.

thunder: what’s one thing you would never do for one million dollars? kill a person

storms: you on only listen to one song for the rest of your life, or only see one person for the rest of your life. which and why? wait that’s really hard lol ummmm maybe one song? maybe the different people i see can sing different songs for me.

love: have you ever fallen in love? describe what it feels like to realise you’re in love. i think so! it’s when you think about them throughout the day - consider their feelings and what you could do for them. but idk i’m single as fuck lol.

clouds: if you’re a boy, would you ever rock black nail polish? if you’re a girl, would you ever rock really really short hair? i did rock really short hair lol

coffee: what’s your starbucks order, and who would you trust to order for you, if anyone? uuhh i don’t really drink starbucks but i like the seasonal drinks - pumpkin spice latte.

marble: what is the most important thing to you in your life right now? peace.

fin.

[mountain-ash-and-rusted-iron]

this is an oc masterpost of all my haf-formed ocs languishing on pinterest with their messy aesthetics and unedited blurbs, in roughly chronological order of their creation, plus sorted by fandom. this post is only asoiaf, harry potter, hunger games, and riverdale, cos i have tooooooo many original characters otherwise and the post was getting incredibly long. (note that i love my ocs but these one’s are not polished or even the final versions of their characters, i just wanted to post them lol)

under a read more, if you’re on mobile start scrolling i guess, sorry,,,

Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire:

Laeya Targeryen: (child of Rhaella and Aerys Targaryen, born 280 AC - three years older than Danaerys) 

Fearful of her impending marriage, Laeya is eleven when she takes her younger sister and flees across the sea to Dorne, hiding herself and Dany with dyed hair and badly controlled magic. As Leia and Dani Sand they learn to live normally. At 15 Leia joins the Royal Guard and secures Dany work as a tailor's apprentice. When she is 17, an assassin tries to kill her in front of the Dornish court and everything changes...

- so laeya straight up has magic, which im considering an extension of the dragon thing dany has - she can control flame and for the disguise uses her ‘inner fire’ to make her eyes white-blue like super hot flames, cos the purple eyes are super distinctive. and then she’s discovered and suddenly politics are happening. honestly she’s entirely a way for me to remove the child marriage bits of the targaryen storyline (stop marrying off your twelve-year-old baby sister viserys u asshole) - in terms of meta/basics, laeya doesn’t have a fc cos most of my early ocs don’t, and bcs i picture her as emilia clarke with faked dark hair and blue eyes lol

and a quick aesthetic below:

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Kyrra Snow: (child of Robert Baratheon and Maery Snow, birthdate ???)

Kyrra Snow is the eldest natural-born child of Robert Baratheon, current King of Westeros, and daughter of Maery Snow, a Southron (but Northern-born) merchant woman. After her mother realises Kyrra was growing up a little too much like her father in looks and needed to leave the far South before she caught the wrong sort of attention, Kyrra was sent off to travel with her aunt and cousins. She is 17 and heading further north, to Winter Town, when Jon Arryn dies.

- kyrra’s another child of everyone’s favourite asshole king, and she’s got a lot of people after her head, but she just wants to travel and continue her work as a simple peddler. (riiip poor girl) honestly she’s not that developed but yolo -

aes:

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Brynn Stark: (child of Catelyn and Eddard Stark, Robb’s twin sister)  

Brynn believes in honour and family, and she is loyal to Winterfell and the North above all else. Likes - archery, embroidery and weaving. Betrothed to [some young Northern lord] to keep the bonds between the Norther families strong.

-i basically made brynn as a contrast to sansa’s pro-southnness and excessive femininity and arya’s anger and desire for swords (relatable mood tho lmao). so brynn is here to mediate, extoll the virtues of both needlework and weapons, make a decent marriage to someone she likes, if not loves, and hold down the fort in the North while shit gets increasingly messier in the South. and a possible faceclaim is Àstrid Bergès-Frisbey - 

aes:

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Rosienne Lannister: (child of Joanna and Tywin Lannister, born 273 AC)

Rose is looked at by the realm with dismissal, a consolation prize for her father, a spare daughter only useful for matchmaking, but at least able-bodied and pretty, unlike her brother. After a long betrothal, Rose is married to Willas Tyrell at the age of eighteen, cementing her role as the next Lady of High Garden...

- Rosie/Rose is a bonus Lannister, bcs why not. likes cyvasse and the harp, soft and kind and maternal, powerful in her own way. originally she was from a minor divergence where joanna survives tyrion’s birth and goes on to have another kid, but not sure if i’ll keep that aspect, so for now she’s tyrion’s twin -

and her aes (yes that quote is cropped, no i don’t care rn):

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honourable mentions to my other got underdeveloped got/asoiaf ocs who need more effort before i post properly about them:

Tamlen Storm, a rookery apprentice (working for the Maester of House Tully, managing the ravens) who may or may not be a reincarnated si-oc trying to save westeros, 

and an unnamed northern huntress who stumbled into the plot somehow and wants her normal life back (entirely inspired by Keira Knightley as Gwyn in Princess of Thieves, when she’s doing archery stuff and looking v butch).

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Harry Potter:

Taurus ‘Ara’ Lestrange:  (child of Bellatrix and Roldolphous Lestrange, born 1978) 

Raised by the Goblins after a legal mix-up following her parents' imprisonment in Azkaban, Taurus is good with a sword and aiming to be the next Minister of Magic. She attends Hogwarts with the other magical kids her age, under the fake identity Ara Burke, unknown cousin of a minor half-blood family. When the Potter brat’s drama starts destroying her change at an education just as her fourth year, her OWL prep year, begins, Ara intervenes.

- im tangentially aware that as bellatrix’s kid she’s almost occupying the place of whats-her-name from the cursed child, but considering that i know nothing about the cursed child and don’t care about it anyway, i have elected to ignore this. her actual parent might turn out to be some smitten half-blood from a minor branch of the Greengrass family, or it might actually be Rodolphous, who knows. slightly inspired by the fic ‘Harry Crow’ (by robst on ff.net) where harry is raised by the goblins -

messy aes:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Valerian Potter: (child of Lily and James Potter, born 1980)

After the Potter twins’ parents are murdered by Voldemort, they’re dumped on the doorstep of Number 4, Privet Drive. Dealing with two traumatised magical orphans, Petunia and Vernon Dursley turn to violence and neglect to stay in control, acting far more harshly than expected. With the arrival of two Hogwarts letters, life gets complicated incredibly quickly. (Self-sufficient and scarred from abuse, Val and Harry are immediately Sorted into Slytherin). 

- val’s fic is basically an angst fest, okay,,, -

aes:

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and shout-outs to: holly addison potter, a half-baked reincarnation si-oc (i love that concept a lot, can u tell) and my fav girl thea dursley, who already has her own fic and so isn’t getting a proper spot in this post 

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The Hunger Games:

Asher: (District Two, age 18) 

[rip no blurb for asher]

-asher is a career from two, who wins the 70th games. mostly im focusing on her recovery and how the games function in two, with training volunteers and mentoring and collecting sponsors, plus eventually the rebellion. lots of the D2 headcanon i have is inspired by @/lorata but i defintely made a distinct effort to have my own stuff, cos where’s the fun in plagiarism -

aes for Asher’s Games:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  Rowan Everdeen: (District Twelve, age 19)

Rowan will do anything to protect her family. This extends to going to Head Peacekeeper Cray on a cold winters night, charging the most she can get for her virginity.  It extends to Reaping Day, when she steps out in front of the crowd and says “I volunteer as tribute” in the steadiest voice she can muster.  It extends to clawing her way out of the Arena, bloody and exhausted, with blades in her hands and violence kept tucked behind her teeth. It extends further, to a simple ‘Yes, President Snow’ when he coldly, carefully implies her family might meet with an accident if she doesn’t play the good little Victor (and fuck the people who pay the Capitol for her company). It extends to joining the Rebellion, to looking President Coin directly in the eye and agreeing to be a Mockingjay, a symbol for the people to rally around.

- another everdeen kiddo! as the big sister, rowan volunteers for prim, and goes through the Games - she’s a healer and a hunter, and a decent enough actor that she can manage interviews and a camera presence, unlike katniss. rowan also pairs well with a minor au i have, where the reapings are spaced out over a week and official training is a longer, giving the capitol a nice, long buildup to get excited and place bets, etc., and giving the poor, underfed tributes from the outer districts a better chance, which makes for more interesting television and better Games -

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Adrasteia Crane: (The Capitol, age 28) Unlike her big brother, Adrasteia doesn’t want to be a Gamemaker. Instead, she wants to create clothes, artwork, to enrapture the Capitol. She wants to be a Games stylist. After years of design school, of working her way up the ranks, first a PA’s assistant, and then fetching and carrying for Twelve’s prep team, and then eventually on a prep team for the dull tributes from Six, Adrasteia Crane finally has what she wants - the position of stylist for District Three’s male tribute in 74th Hunger Games. 

- tbh adrasteia is only seneca crane’s sister because i couldn’t think of a suitable last name for her lmao. i think i’d actually prefer her to be unattached to any major canon players. however, his death is a good motivation for her to join the rebellion, so we’ll see. she’s got a bit of the capitol fashion thing going too, with soft pink hair and diamond-effect skin on her face and shoulders -

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also bonus hunger games content: another oc, Sarsaparilla Verran, from District Eleven, fifteen and alone when she goes into the Games. An orphan, her siblings lost to the Community Home system years ago, her relatives dead or uncaring. So, Rilla is a wee lonely bab tbh. she did not want this, unlike most of my other hg ocs, and she’s not excited for weeks of murder. she just wants her family back, but since that isn’t possible, she’ll build a new family instead. and uuhhhhh,  spoiler alert, she dies before she can have this ://///

and my hunger games aus - a canon divergence where katniss joins the careers instead of peeta, her desire to go home to her family outweighing her reactive hate for the concept of training/volunteering to kill other teens, and a fem!Haymitch au where she’s a little wiser to the dark side of the capitol before she commits acts of rebellion (she still rebels anyway tho, just smarter).

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Riverdale:

Cat Cooper: (middle child of Alice and Hal Cooper) Cat Cooper (17) is the black sheep of the Cooper family. Her piercings, brightly dyed hair and connections to the Southside Serpents make her the odd one out among her sisters and constantly at odds with Alice Cooper. Cat’s life is occupied with her Serpent friends, work at a local coffee shop, and training - martial arts, supplemented with cross country, gymnastics and swimming. Until her older sister is shipped off to places unknown and her baby sister starts getting caught up in murder investigation with the absent Serpent heir... 

- haven’t decided between Catelyn or Catherine for Cat’s full name lmao. she used to be Kit, actually, but I changed it cos i prefer Kit to solely be my divergent oc (kit serafim). Cat is an ADHD disaster who loves her sisters and her friends and wants to get the hell out of Riverdale on a sports scholarship (she does either boxing or karate mainly, need to figure that bit out) -

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Georgie Andrews: (child of Mary and Fred Andrews)

Georgie likes soft drinks, cheerleading, and hanging out with the Blossom twins and Polly Cooper, their closest friends and a welcome distraction from their own problems. After Polly and Jason vanish, Georgie’s support system is almost gone, and they has to deal with everything they’ve been bottling up, just in time for Fred Andrews to get shot.

- also just angst ngl.  so georgie’s gender is basically ???, they enjoy cheerleading and not much else. they spend half their time dealing with depression, by trying to ignore stressful/hard topics and focus on the good side of everything. this isn’t a great long-term coping mechanism and has the fun side effect of pissing of the people around him when she seems unable to be serious or empathetic to someone else's pain (bcs she’s too busy deflecting for the sake of her own fragile mental health), so it gets fun when fred is shot and archie starts getting in too deep with the lodges -

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Sera Thornstone: (parents ???) Southside Serpent. Going to the Riverdale Community College and running errands for FP Jones. And secretly meeting up with her Ghoulie lover down by the Sweetwater where nobody goes. 

- everything about sera is vague and undecided lmao. but she has a ghoulie gf/bf/nbf? and they’re hiding that they were down by the river on the 4th of july, cos a serpent is an immediate suspect. going to community college to work on getting general credits before saving up for fancy school for law or journalism. the aes isn’t entirely accurate cos sera’s built from the remains of another serpent oc who i scrapped (she does have a baseball bat tho) -

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and honourable mentions to jen johnson and octavia blossom-murphy, my other riverdale ocs who actually have content, plus an in-development unnamed oc who gets adopted from the soqm by the Muggs family and growsup with Ethel. and my riverdale role reversal au, which i will never write but have some nice aesthetics for under the tag wip: bughead role reversal au.

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all my mini-aesthetics here are unsourced images/from pinterest. any similarities to other people or characters, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

alrighty that’s it. now i have to tag this behemoth argh