#felt like turning on art of rally again

[pegassi-toreador]

le 502

[tinytennisskirt]

Let It Linger

Summary: When post-canon divorced! Art goes back to high school for a fifteen year reunion, he’s met with strong memories of the his estranged best friend, the girl he loved those fifteen years ago. He gets caught in a rally between his past and present. A whirlwind of past yearning, casual touches, meaningful conversations and pining rushes back to him like the time never passed when he sees her again for the first time in fifteen years. Turns out not so much has changed.

Warnings: mentions of sex, alcohol, marijuana. casual touching, pining, yearning, MEGA SLOWBURN, a longer fic with time skipping between MRTA! art and POST CANON! art. AU.

Art wasn’t sure how to feel about this. He was parked outside, in some dress shirt he’d owned far too long and the black dress pants he wore for when he did pre-game press. His hands on the wheel, lips pressed into a straight line. This would be interesting, he knew it would be. He was sitting in the parking lot outside the smaller gym of Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy and he could hear the music through the walls of the car and through the open gym door, he could see a purple cast of light from inside.

It had only been fifteen years. That wasn’t much time in perspective, but fifteen years felt like a lot when he remembered who he was that many years ago.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“My mouth, my mouth!” You called, opening your mouth and slowing your running to walking backward. Patrick tossed a marshmallow and you caught it in your mouth as the three of you ran down the hill, Patrick with a bag of marshmallows, you with the chocolate, and Art with the graham crackers.

Both boys cheered loudly and you jumped, triumphantly raising your hands above your head. Art nearly ran right into you with the momentum from the hill and you all ended up laughing way too hard at it, even with the marshmallow in your mouth. Art tried to catch his breath, his hand sliding over your waist as he passed you, trying not to stumble the rest of the way down the hill. Patrick just laughed. “I had no idea my aim was that good,” he said, teasing.

You swallowed the marshmallow, “You’re kidding? Your aim? That was all me.”

Art grinned, “I think it was a joined effort…” He played mediator. You hit him in the upper arm gently. “No, all you. All her, Patrick. Sorry.”

Patrick threw his arms up in forfeit. There was no winning against you. They both knew that. You giggled and shoved a marshmallow right in Patrick’s mouth before skipping down the rest of the hill, leaving both boys behind you. Art watched, a huge grin on his face. The three of you had found a great way to sneak out of your dorms at night. It was 11:42 and you were heading toward the back of the grounds with the ingredients for s’mores, a lighter, and matches for good measure. And maybe the remainder of a pack of cigarettes.

What good was your last year at the academy if not the one you rebel just a tiny bit? You were down the hill humming Groove Is In The Heart by Deee-Lite in your big Mark Rebellato sweater and yoga pants just happy to be out at night. You were fun, carefree, and bright, even in the dark of the edge of the property, away from all the fuss of the school. “You’re so slow!” You called out to them. Both Art and Patrick jogged to catch up to you, finding your regular spot between a few trees.

You sat on your regular log and pulled the blanket from your bag before getting up to drape it over. Patrick got to collecting the twigs from the stash and put them in the hole you three dug the first time you snuck out. Art took the seat next to you on the log, “Crazy, you have like seven tennis balls in here.” He laughed. You shook your head, nudging him just a little while he grabbed the three marshmallow skewers from your bag. He grabbed one of the balls out and threw it at Patrick.

“Can take the girl out of Mark Rebellato but can’t take the Mark Rebellato out of the girl,” Patrick said, catching the ball and throwing it back at Art. He got the fire started and lit one of the remaining cigarettes off of the growing flame. “You guys ready for that test on Monday?”

“Since when are you an academic?” You chuckled, putting a marshmallow on the end of Art’s stick.

“Since he found out Lydia Jennings is into smart guys,” Art said. You chuckled, biting your lip just gently. Art noticed.

Patrick blew smoke out the side of his mouth, “No- okay, she said she liked smart guys we all know there’s no way in hell I’m becoming a straight-A student like this one over here,” he gestured with the cigarette between his fingers to you. “She’s hot, she’s not drop-everything-and-study hot. I’m talking about the test on Monday because I know that with you two and Stanford, you’re obsessed with your grades… I am… not ready.”

You shook your head, looking up at him, “She is so drop-everything-and-study hot, you’re just picky. And I’ll lend you my notes tomorrow if you want- Art and I worked on them together, they’re pretty extensive.”

“They are good.” Art nodded, dangling his marshmallow over the embers. “You’re actually worried about it? I mean, the year is almost half-done, you’ve got time.”

He nodded, “I know, but I have to graduate to be free of this place for good. No way I’m doing that GED thing.”

“My mom did the GED thing.” You said. “She’s doing just fine. It was only a setback. Plus, if you plan on truly going pro, it won’t be a big thing. Just player trivia.” Art laughed at that, pulling his stick back to pull the marshmallow off. You had already prepped his graham cracker and chocolate and pulled the marshmallow off between them for him. Patrick watched how you two worked so wordlessly- wasn’t his focus. “I will lend you all of my notes tomorrow, it’s just a matter of reading them a few times a day and you’re set.”

Patrick shrugged, grabbing himself the things he needed for a s’more. “Thanks.”

Art nodded, “You’re lucky you’re good with a racket.”

“Rude!” You said, shoving him backward off the log. He landed on his back in the leaves and it was all-around laughter again. The dynamic was this. Shoving, pushing, insults in good fun, but caring all too much. Art knew there was nobody in the world who cared more about anything than you did. He was, as your friend, able to enjoy just how passionate you were about the things and people you liked. He pulled himself back onto the log, shaking his head at you as you dusted him off and removed the leaves from his hair. You smelled good, like fall, vanilla, and chai, almost, but with a sweetness that reminded Art of the caramel apples from the fair. He shut his eyes as your hands picked the last little bits from his hair. You pat his cheek when it was done and the conversation moved onto the new tennis coach’s really bad toupée.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art got out of his car, shut the door, and locked it, car keys sliding into his pocket. He stared out over the grounds, past the outdoor tennis courts, and to the point in the field where it dipped down into the big hill. He wondered if they’d ever found your makeshift fire pit, filling it with dirt, moving the logs… He glanced at himself in the side mirror of the car, remembering when his hair was longer, more golden. Part of him wondered if he would even see you tonight. Maybe he’d see Patrick, which was a more likely occurrence, Patrick wouldn’t miss something like this.

If only they made it less of a surprise who you’d run into at one of these. He guessed it would be his class, a few extras, people who had settled down bringing their fiancees, partners, husbands, and wives. He wondered if he was too dressed up? Dressed down? And he was nervous, for some reason, when he shouldn’t have been.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“I know I shouldn’t be deciding on a dress this late but I can’t tell if this dress is too much?” You said from inside your dorm room. “I’m afraid Mark Rebellato himself will come to smite me for how much boob this dress shows off.” You spoke through the door.

Art and Patrick grinned at each other. “I’m sure it’s fine!” Art called back. Both boys had spent about twenty minutes tops getting ready for the mid-term formal. One of many formals the school so unfortunately had. “Can we see?”

“It’s not the right dress!”

“How would we know?”

The door to your room unlocked and you opened it, standing looking very unimpressed in a gorgeous purple dress. Both boys stood, a little dumbfounded for a second. “Too much?”

“No.” Both boys said in unison, gazing at you, your hair perfect, your makeup perfect.

Art blinked hard to snap himself back to reality, “You look… beautiful.” His eyes lingered a little too long on the slight shimmer to your eyelids and the gloss on your lips. Your eyes softened and you looked down at yourself again.

Patrick agreed. “Damn.” Both boys had themselves forgetting you were the same girl they called their friend on a day-to-day basis. “Mark Rebellato is rolling in his grave.”

“Is he dead?” You asked, laughing. Art didn’t find anything funny when you were standing there looking like that. He thought you were gorgeous, he could say that as your friend of a good few years, but this was breathtaking. You were.

The dance was more fun than both Art and Patrick anticipated, but you made anything fun. Patrick nudged Art’s arm as they stood off to the side with cups of punch. “She’s different this year.” He said. Both boys were watching you dance with one of your girlfriends. You were so free and you were once again the brightest thing in the whole room, purple and pink light cascading over your face and you were laughing.

Art hardly heard him. “Hm?” His eyes didn’t leave you.

“Exactly.”

Art nudged him back, seeing what Patrick was getting at. “Fuck off.” He grinned. “She’s just pretty. She’s always been pretty.”

Patrick nodded, sipping his punch, watching your dress swish around you as your friend spins you. “Too pretty.”

“Mhm,” Art sighs. The way he watches you is different from Patrick's. There’s something buried in what he feels, but he’s never acknowledged it much. Aside from when you met at twelve in a co-op game and you made fun of his ears. It honestly hurt his little feelings but Patrick found it absolutely hilarious that someone so funny-looking could say something so mean to someone else. Art laughed when Patrick defended him. But you, always so smart, nodded. And you smiled, which both boys didn’t expect. Then you apologized to Art and introduced yourself like nothing even happened. Art forgave you. There was something about you that both he and Patrick knew would make a good addition to the duo they’d formed over the first week. And it had been that way ever since. Didn’t make it easier when you stopped looking so funny and disproportionate when you turned fourteen but, being friends, it was ignorable. For the most part. They were only boys.

When presented with a slow dance, you excused yourself from the floor and came to stand with the boys, taking Patrick’s cup of punch right out of his hands and downing it. Patrick went to grab it but it was too late. You pulled a face, “Seriously?” You scrunched up your nose and Art laughed as he pieced it together.

“Didn’t give me a chance to warn you,” he chuckled. You felt the warmth spread down your throat- he’d spiked his own punch. Of course. Art, mouth agape, placed a hand on the small of your back without thinking. You just giggled and shook your head at him. Patrick took his cup back from you, sipping the very last drops. The couples and wannabes behind you continued to dance closely. “Awful, right?”

“So bad,” you giggled. Art twisted his mouth to the side, trying not to laugh too much. Your hand closed around Art’s wrist and pulled it up over your opposite shoulder and you kept talking about how gross it tasted, making fun of Patrick for spiking it so badly. If anyone sniffed it, they would have immediately known it was mostly alcohol. Art’s arm stayed around you, the perfect place for it, so it made sense to step a little closer. It’s only worth noting as something that happened because Patrick, who was used to your casual displays of closeness like this one- saw the angle Art kept his hand at so that his hand wouldn’t rest too close to your boobs. He laughed just a bit. Art just shook his head at Patrick and flipped him off with that very hand.

By the near-end of the night, you’re danced out and you asked the boys to come back with you, but Patrick had taken to chatting up Lydia Jennings, of course, so Art obliges. Patrick didn’t need a wingman, he would do fine on his own. Art holds the door for you as you leave and you’re immediately laughing as you cross the parking lot. “Fucking insane,” Art laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I always forget it’s not a school dance until Patrick sneaks in two shooters.”

“I had at least one whole shooter in that punch,” you said, knocking against him as you walked. The cool autumn air hit your bare skin and it was harsh. “It was disgusting.” Art felt you shiver just a bit beside him and he was already taking off his jacket to give to you. “He could have gone with vodka or something, spiced rum, and fruit punch is one of the worst things I think I’ve ever tasted- thank you.” You said, taking his jacket with a smile and pulling it over your shoulders.

“It was spiced rum?!”

“Yeah!” You laughed with him, still leaning against him as the two of you walked. “He ends up with Lydia Jennings she’s going to hate, hate, hate his breath. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom,” you said, pulling a pink toothbrush out of your bag. Art couldn’t help but laugh at the thing.

“Smart,” he grinned wider as you showed him the travel-sized tube of toothpaste that went with it. Art just flashed you his pack of mint gum in return and you narrowed your eyes at him. Art shoved it back in his pocket along with both of his hands. “So… you had fun tonight?” He followed up.

You smiled at him with those perfectly glossed lips parting to show teeth. “I did. However-

“There’s a however?”

“However…” You grinned, taking his hand and walking backward. You lowered your voice, pretending to be extra serious. “You need to dance more so you can dance with me.”

“You didn’t like the nodding I did? I feel like that was a lot, too much, even.” He held the door open to the other building and you mouthed another thank you as you passed him again. ”How much more do I need to do to dance with you?”

“You can always dance with me. I promise it’s a lot more fun when you’re not feeling centered out.” You told him, heading up the stairwell. It’s still early in the night so the girl’s dorms were mostly empty. “I knowww, I know how you get with it, but-”

“I’d dance with you.” He nodded, but squeezed your upper arm, “You didn’t ask me. I would have.”

“Okay then. Swear on your life right now that if I asked you, you’d say yes.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fighting that neverending grin that lived on his face when you were around. “For what?”

“All future purposes.” You replied, stopping outside your room and leaning against the wooden door. “Where dancing is involved.” You held out your pinkie finger and Art took it before he got to question any more. You grinned and jumped a few times. “You just made the craziest promise, I’m going to make you hate me with that one.” Art just grinned.

You talked a bit more just at the door until both you and Art were wary about someone seeing him on the girl’s side of the dorms. You opened the door to your room and stepped just inside, about to say goodbye, but just one more thing before he left, you asked. For him to help you unzip your dress. Art should not have felt the way he did when you handed him back his jacket and turned around while lifting your hair. Your bunkmate had zipped it up before you had left and you had no idea when she’d be back, you explained.

Art wouldn’t say no to you. Who could? He stepped closer, met with the closer, stronger scent of your perfume and you still smelled sweet. You always smelled sweet. With gentle fingers, he took the small zipper and slowly unzipped the back of your dress. The sound of the zipper being the only thing in the empty of your room and he wouldn’t forget how when the zipper hit the bottom of its track, his finger grazed the bare skin of your back. Soft, softer than he could have even imagined. And you turned so that he wouldn’t be faced with the bare of it all, braless underneath, he could tell, and you thanked him for the night, for his jacket, for his help. Said you’d see him tomorrow. Usually, you’d hug him goodnight, but with your dress about to slip off you just smiled, making fun of the promise he’d made to you just thirty minutes ago before a real goodnight.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art looked over at the dorm building across the lot, looking at the exact path between cars you and him would have walked that night. His hands shoved themselves into his pockets, habit. He decided not to stand out in the parking lot anymore, swallowing hard as he allowed himself through the door and into the smaller gym, which was decorated just like the regular school dances. There were streamers and early 2000s radio hits and so many people.

It was almost immediately people recognized Art. He was possibly the most successful of the graduating class, though he hated to think it. He wouldn’t put himself above anyone. He was already getting pats on the back and he started in some small conversations but he was a little distracted.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“They have parties at Stanford?” You said, looking at some Stanford webpage on Art’s mom’s computer. “Frats, too. Insane. Hey Art, you should join the frat.” You chuckled. Art and Patrick were playing Jenga at the coffee table, two or three of the blocks wet from falling into the eggnog.

Patrick ruffled Art’s hair, “Frat boy Art Donaldson?”

You spun in the chair, “I could join a sorority, they have those too.”

Art grinned, “Yeah? You think they’d take Patrick?”

Patrick pushed Art into the couch and the Jenga tower toppled over once again. You laughed, watching him shake his head and reach for his eggnog, once again pulling a Jenga block out of it. You came and sat next to Art on the couch, sitting on the arm. His hand mindlessly wrapping itself around your ankle as your foot rested on his thigh. Gentle, like letting you know that he’s there despite the readily available knowledge that was your being. Something sweet. Patrick took a seat on the floor in front of you both. “I think they’d take me, but you have to be a Stanford student, so you know, it’s too bad.”

“Their loss,” You smiled. “Do you think I’m pretty enough to rush a sorority when we get to Stanford?” You asked. Both boys looked at each other.

“...Yeah,” Patrick said, nodding just a little. You narrowed your eyes.

“Yes.” Art said firmly. He squeezed your ankle just a little. You smiled at that. Art’s mom called you to dinner, christmas dinner, and in seconds both boys were bolting to the dining room. You exchanged a look with Art’s mom when you got there. She was lovely and she was letting both you and Patrick stay for the holidays. Her food was amazing and the conversation was Stanford, mostly, and your tennis plans for after graduation. The application process, the fuss of getting a dorm room there, and how excited she was for you and Art to be going to the same place. She loved you, his mom. She called you her daughter when the mailman came around during the holiday season and to whoever asked. She’d been in a household of boys for far too long.

The post-dinner conversation laying on your back on Art’s bed next to him while Patrick was laid at the foot of the bed was on exactly that. “Art, I think your mom likes Y/N more than you.”

“I know,” Art replied, hands folded on his chest. He turned his head to look at you, giggling.

“I can’t help it,” you replied through your laughter. “Everyone loves me, it’s not my fault.” Nothing about that statement was false- everyone did love you. And who wouldn’t? You were kind and sweet and loving and so warm to everyone you met so of course they all loved you. There was nobody like you so everyone who crossed paths with you would never be able to forget you. Art’s smile fell, looking at your freshly glossed lips and that unforgettably beautiful smile. He’d zoned out so when you rolled onto your side, nearly onto him, his eyes widened just a bit.

“You’re jealous?” You beamed.

“Not even,” Art scrunched his nose, using a gentle hand to push you away but you returned, giggling. “She’d go insane having a real excuse to go to sales at the mall.”

“Sugar mommy,” Patrick remarked. He had way too much pie, he was half-asleep. Art just kicked him with the foot that rested closest to his chest, eliciting an ‘oof’ noise from Patrick that you giggled at.

“You’re so jealous your mom likes me more, it’s crazy, it’s crazy,” You giggled, grabbing his upper arm. Art twisted his mouth to the side, eyes flickering from the gloss on your lips, to your eyes. “Don’t worry, when she comes to visit me at Stanford, she’ll probably have enough time to see you as well. I’ll make sure of it.” You teased.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Art said, pushing you back again and you just laughed madly, a laugh that was so room-filling and contagious and completely perfect. Art turned his head to look at you. You were more than sorority pretty. Who wouldn’t think so when you laughed like that?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art found that Lydia Jennings had three kids now. Three in fifteen years, which was a little crazy. She, of course, had pictures with her. Spitting images of her bright blonde, big-mouthed self and Art pretended to care, more than he cared to admit. There was no sign of Patrick. Lydia Jennings asked Art about his divorce, asking about his own daughter, but he had to real interest in talking about that sort of thing. Not with her. He excused himself, raising his head above the crowd to scan for anyone else he knew.

He ended up talking to an old friend who was already balding with his pregnant wife at his side. It was good to see just how well people were doing. Settling down, having quit tennis or only pursuing it on the weekends, some of them with kids in tennis classes already. Art was continuing to be congratulated on his career by even the partners of these past classmates.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You were dancing to some Tal Bachman song and Art was internalizing every lyric. “What song is this again?” He asked, leaning back against the tree. The light from the fire was flickering around your face that was nearly hidden by the winter jacket you had on.

“She’s So High,” you replied, spinning in circles. Patrick locked eyes with Art from across the fire, giving a knowing smile. One, because you were high, so was he, so was Art- Two, because Art was completely zoned in on you, the way you moved, the way you looked. And he couldn’t help it, you were the most fascinating thing around and he’d smoked quite a bit. It was like the song was written for you, he thought, out of his mind and red-eyed. You were dancing alone, like you hadn’t even though twice, the music coming from your little portable music player thing. Art met Patrick’s eyes and Patrick raised his eyebrows, nodding at you. Art shook his head, but Patrick jumped over the fire to sit next to him anyway.

“So are you telling her or am I?” He teased, ruffling Art’s hair and Art bat him away, huge grin on his face. “So when’s the wedding?”

“Shut the fuck up, she’ll hear you,” Art chuckled, shoving Patrick over just a bit. Patrick came back laughing. “It’s not like that.”

“You really think I’m fucking stupid, huh?” Patrick chuckled, pulling Art into a bit of a headlock in return. “I’ve known you both how long?”

“Too long,” Art laughed, trying to wriggle out of Patrick’s grasp, finally escaping just to shove Patrick all the way over. He was glad you were minding your business, occupied with the song. “It’s not like that.” He repeated, still keeping his voice low.

Patrick pulled himself back up, “Tell that to your dick,” he said, taking a shot at Art’s groin that he gladly blocked just to sock Patrick in his. Patrick doubled over just for a second and Art laughed a bit too hard, the fry of the weed that burned his throat making him cough. Patrick couldn’t stop laughing at the coughing and being high, everything was a lot funnier. It took a minute for them to stop laughing over the stupidity. Patrick sighed heavily, looking over at you still dancing mindlessly to a song by Avril Lavigne, then back at Art, who was trying to regulate his breathing, also staring at you again. “Maybe not always your dick but definitely your eyes. I’ve never seen anyone with bigger heart-eyes, it’s sickening.” He said.

Art looked at Patrick and twisted his mouth to the side. “I don’t think so. She’s just…pretty.” His eyes gazing back to you, spinning in your fluffy winter coat, swaying, firelight flickering over your face, defining your features in shadow.

“Uh-huh… You really think I don’t know?”

“There’s nothing to know,” Art replied, pulling his eyes off of you again.

Patrick shook his head, adding more to the fire, hand still over his groin as the pain continued to die down. He kept his voice low, “Fuck off with that. It’s bullshit. I know it, you know it. You spend more time with her than me, she’s your partner for every co-op game, your mom loves her, you look at her like I’ve never seen you look at anyone.” He chuckled, “And you so want to fuck her.”

“Not as much as I want you to fuck off,” Art chuckled. “Okay, well, I mean- I might. She’s gorgeous, yeah, but I don’t think I could ever tell her anything. She’s perfect, too perfect and we’re friends. We’re her best friends, it would fuck everything up.”

“So you don’t even try? I’ve seen you ask for girl’s numbers within forty minutes of knowing them, it’s unlike you to not even try.”

“She’s different,” Art replied, looking down at his hands. “I couldn’t. I make a move and she doesn’t want it, we’re fucked forever.”

“And you don’t make a move and you’ll never know,” Patrick replied. The weed made him oddly thoughtful. “I’ve seen you two with my own eyes there’s something there, I swear to god there is. You can’t just let things play out, you’re going to miss your chance. Think about Stanford next year, all the college guys hitting on her and you know they will, she’s Y/N… Fifteen years down the road she’s married to some frat guy she met at a rager and you’ll be wishing you told her while you could.”

The silence between them was filled by your music and humming. Art looked at you, eyes closed, lips glossy, boots in the dirt. And for the first time he let himself think that he could never want anyone more than he wanted you. He would never see past you, he wouldn’t ever feel this way about anyone else and in the moment, through the weed, it felt real. You, perfect, gorgeous, here.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art glanced around the room, feeling some familiar fire burning in the pit of his stomach. It felt oddly highschool, it felt oddly familiar. He wondered if you had kept up with tennis, he wondered if you had a husband and kids, he wondered if you’d gained weight, lost weight, changed your hair, were going just a little grey, even. He was nervous- that’s what he was and he could place that. It was then that he saw Patrick, coming in through the door across the room.

Art, over Tashi, had put her in the past, including what Patrick had done. Him and Patrick didn’t keep up much other than a few texts and meeting at the bar a few times, but the hard feelings were pretty much gone. Art started making his way over to his old friend just to be grabbed by another ex-classmate who wanted to catch up. He was faced with more pictures of kids and meeting someone’s wife and Art wasn’t so bothered to talk about his own daughter, he’d always take that opportunity. She was the best thing he currently had.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You and Art sat on the bleachers in the gym, just having finished a co-op game, having won, of course. You both showered and got dressed again and met back up. The air was warming up, mid-spring and Art had still not told you yet. He decided he would at the end of the year and see if you’d make the first move, just to be safe. It didn’t weigh on him- he’d been friends with you for ages, liked you for ages, so it was a secondary thing.

“Hoping my tennis career is enough to buy an old victorian home,” You said, packing your things into your gym bag.

“I remember you saying that,” Art said, hauling your bag onto his shoulder along with his own. It wasn’t abnormal to have him carry your bag. It was sweet. “You want a blue one. Well, blue-grey.” He said. You looked at him, a little surprised he remembered the blue-grey thing. “With the white trim. I remember things.”

You nudged him just a little bit as you passed him. “I’m surprised, after so many tennis balls have hit you in the head.”

“And whose bad aim is at fault?” He teased back. You held the door for him and went out into the early afternoon sun.

You rolled your eyes at him with that gorgeous smile. “Bad aim, uh huh. Who’s to say it’s not on purpose?”

“Y/N!” Your girl friend called, bounding over. “My hair tie broke and I can’t go all the way back to the dorms in time for scrimmage, do you have an extra?” Art watched your full attention go to this girl, linking hands with her and everything. He watched you take the hair tie off of your wrist, the purple glittery one that you swore was your favourite. “Hi, Art.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, noticing him standing there. Art just raised his hand in a subtle wave.

“Of course,” you said, pulling the purple sparkly hair tie off and giving it to her, no questions asked. “Do you need anything else? I have a redbull in my bag if you wanted that before your scrimmage?”

“Really?” She asked. Art lowered your bag for you and you unzipped it, pulling the redbull out and handing it to her as she finished tying her hair up. All Art could wonder was how could anyone not love you when this was who you were? Art knew that purple hair tie was your favourite and you gave it up, just like that, and didn’t even ask for it back later. And your redbull that Art watched you go through your coins for six miinutes counting literal dimes and pennies to get it from the vending machine was in this girl’s hand just because you thought to offer it. You were kind and beautiful and Art moved the date up a little in his head- the date that he’d tell you how he felt. For now, he dug his free hand into his pocket and pretended like you weren’t absolutely perfect.

Saying goodbye to the girl, you and Art resumed your walk back to the main building. “You know Abbey, right?”

“Her?”

“Yes, her,” you giggled. “Don’t tell her I told you this, but she keeps asking me about you. Your favourite colour, song, movie, all of it.” You explained, gesturing with your hands and leaning against him as you two walked. “She likes you.”

Art was only half-surprised. But was more surprised at you bringing it up. “Likes me how?”

“Exactly in the way you think,” you replied. “I’m always down to play wingwoman, but I did tell her all the wrong information.” Your smile turned into a bit of a cringe. Art liked that even in your full care and support, you were just a little evil. Plus, what harm was it really? Art was only seeing you. He couldn’t spend a second on anyone else. Seemed impossible. “She thinks you’re a huge fan of Green Day.” Art couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah?” Art set down your things at a table in the cafeteria and the two of you got in line for food. “Playing interference?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, bowing so your head nudged his arm. The smile that pulled at your lips was one you appeared to want to suppress. A strand of your hair, wet, fell in your face and Art wasted no time moving it behind your ear. Your eyes met his as your smile broke into full action and your eyes fell back to the ground. Sometimes… just sometimes, he felt maybe you were worth ruining the friendship.

Your lower lip between your teeth, you grabbed a tray for him before you grabbed your own.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art finally made it over to Patrick, who looked decent. He shaved a bit, cleaned up just enough. Art thought about how strange it was to be back here with him after all this time. It almost felt right, was just missing you. “Hey, man.” Patrick said, reaching forward and locking hands with Art in a quick greeting.

“Hey,” Art replied. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Patrick replied. “See anyone worth talking to?”

“Not really. Lydia Jennings has three kids now, in case you were looking forward to that,” he chuckled. “She doesn’t look bad though. I didn’t check for a ring either, so.”

Patrick chuckled, hands in the pockets of his dress pants, wearing virtually what was the grey version of Art’s outfit. “Not for me.” He said. “I actually- I ran into Y/N in the parking lot. I thought maybe you’d be looking for her tonight.” Patrick added. Art hated the way his stomach did a little flip as if he wasn’t a full-grown man with a failed marriage and a daughter.

“She came?”

“Yeah, she headed in here before me. She’s good, she hasn’t aged much, it’s weird. You know what they say about the way good people age…” He added. “She’s in purple, said we’d talk more later but she was excited to be here.”

Art swallowed hard, “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks, man.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

When Patrick left early to hang out with Lydia Jennings, swearing he was going to ‘get some’, it left you and Art in the boy’s room. How they’d been bunkmates for six years running you had no idea, having been room with at least four different girls. Their room was decorated with sports posters, tennis awards and medals, and Star Wars memorabilia. You weren’t supposed to be there, but oh well. “You think purple is my colour?” You asked Art, going through the nail polish you had in your bag, buried under the bag of cheetos you brought over.

“Hm?” Art slid off his bed and onto the floor where you sat, your back to the edge of his mattress. “Yeah. The medium one, though. Not the dark one.” He said, pointing to the bottle he liked better. You shot a small smile his way before grabbing that one.

“I haven’t painted them in ages,” you said, doing a bit of a jazz hand really close to his face and then pressing your hand to his cheek. Annoying, or trying to be, but casual. Art scrunched his nose and batted your hand away, though he really didn’t want to. “So about Abbey.”

“Your friend?” Art adjusted the way he sat. His knee overlapped yours.

“Mhm,” you replied,beginning to paint your nails. “Did she end up talking to you after class yesterday?”

Art thought back to after class when he was on his way to his next class to meet up with you and Patrick. She had come up to him, but he almost immediately shut her down. “Was she supposed to?”

You smiled, “Yes. I told her to ask you about your favourite Star Trek episode.”

Art grinned, you were still playing interference. He wondered why. “I brushed her off… I didn’t think anything of it I was on my way out.” He grimaced a little and you looked up from your nails, trying not to laugh. “I don’t think I was too rude…”

“Where were you off to in such a hurry?”

“You- And Patrick.” He saved himself. “I had someplace to be! Plus, she’s not really my type.”

“And what is that type? Girls with purple fingernails, maybe?” You laughed- Art wondered what you meant by that because at this very moment there was nothing you said that had ever been more true. “Your future girlfriend is going to hate me.” You followed up. Art’s heart sunk just a little at that. You then mumbled something under your breath that Art didn’t catch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art caught up a bit with Patrick, who was interested to hear that his daughter was just getting into tennis, but really liked ballet. Patrick himself had still not settled down, but he’d landed a good job adn was now making decent money, enough to find himself a good apartment. He talked about this girl he’d met at the mechanic and Art didn’t mind the tale of it all, but he did glance around every few minutes to see if maybe you’d be nearby or even come to speak to them. They way you’d left things he wondered if you’d say anything to him at all.

It’s not like you left things horribly… But he knew the way things went just weren’t ideal and that was the problem. It was the lack of grace in the process of losing touch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“Patrick held both envelopes up. “Saw these on the mail piles, grabbed them before mail day.” He said. You, who had been mindlessly playing with Art’s curls on the couch in the corner of the library, and Art, who was pink from just how intimate the feeling had been, both perked up. Patrick shot a look additional to the excited expression he wore and Art just flipped him off. “They’re yours.”

You and Art looked at each other, Art tilting his head back to do so. Both of you scrambled from where you sat to grab the envelopes Patrick held, huge grin on his face. “Stanford Tennis,” you breathed. Art pressed his lips together. “Acceptance letter?” You questioned. Patrick shrugged, but continued to grin.

Art shook his head, “Should we open them? I mean- same time? Or?”

“I feel sick,” you said, words overlapping his. “Oh my god.” You pressed your hand to your stomach. “I knew they’d be here soon but this is so… late. I was getting scared I wouldn’t get anything, we got something… We got something.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, big crooked grin on his face. “Together?”

You swallowed, sitting back down, then standing right back up again. “No, you first.”

Patrick sat on the couch, ready to watch both of his friends excitement, arm up on the arm of the couch. “Hurry up!” He kicked Art in the back of the knee and Art didn’t even feel it, opening the big envelope. He narrowly avoided a paper cut. You paced a short distance, back and forth, back and forth anxiously. He unwrapped the papers, eyes scanning over the letter.

“Fuck yeah!” He exclaimed, all too loud for the library. He didn’t care though. “I’m in!”

You gasped and your grin was the first thing Art looked for. Your arms up and around his neck, so excited for him. “That’s amazing, I’m so so proud of you!” You exclaimed, also so loud. Art’s arms around your waist, squeezing you tight as you kissed his cheek enthusiastically. Patrick was there to clap him on the back, hugging Art when you let go. Art was glad for it- it helped hide how pink he went from just the kiss on the cheek. You were jumping up and down and you were beautiful and you were happy. It would be one of the last times Art saw you so happy.

“What about you?” He gestured to your envelope and you looked down at it like you’d forgotten you were holding it.

“I- I can’t, one of you has to do it,” you said. It was for sure. You’d met with the faculty there, the coaches, you were scouted two years ago when you weren’t even old enough to apply and the second you knew you loved tennis you knew Stanford was the best place for you. Patrick took your envelope for you, opening it as you nervously bit your lip, swaying into Art, letting your fingers intertwine with his just to have something to brace yourself. He squeezed your hand, smiling at his own acceptance, knowing that if anyone had it in the bag was you. But Patrick read it over and there wasn’t a grin- in fact the smile he did have fell just in the slightest. Art felt your hand squeeze his harder.

“What is it?” You asked. Art looked at Patrick, who then looked up at you with sorry eyes. “Patrick?”

“You’re- um-” he paused another moment and handed you the papers. “Waitlisted. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

Art watched your colour drain. The obvious bright light you brought by just entering a room dimmed as you read it yourself. Art could feel the slight tremor in your fingers, so he squeezed your hand as hard as he could, just so in the new wave of overwhelming sadness, you’d know he was still there. He felt guilty for celebrating so soon.

“I’m waitlisted.” You repeated, monotone. “And not even until next semester. Next year. And even then there’s no guarantee.”

Art didn’t wait another second, he used the hand he held to pull you in. You didn’t resist, you couldn’t, you felt limp as Art wrapped his arms around you. Patrick’s hand on your back for just a moment, but Art’s hand on the back of your head and the other running up and down your back. His crush on you was unaffected by this hug because he knew that you needed it more than anything. You were the one with the plans, you were the one who knew exactly how things would play out and Stanford was the first step on every path you’d imagined. Knowing you so long, both boys knew you were right to cry.

Art held you, standing, for as long as you needed- his arms around you stayed tight and didn’t waiver once in the thirty minutes you stayed there. He was quiet, Patrick was just cursing Stanford for being fucking stupid and though Art agreed with him on that, because who in their right minds would look at your grades and your tennis stats and say they didn’t want you? Who wouldn’t want you?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

When Art saw you from across the room it felt like he was eighteen again. He’d anticipated feeling nostalgic for a time, but you were there and you were in purple, like Patrick said and he knew it was you from the smile you wore, reuniting with what looked to be a very-pregnant Abbey Campbell. Good for her, Art though, seeing past the bump and looking at you. Patrick was right- you’d aged like fine wine or whatever that saying was, but you were still youthful and you were still… bright.

“You should talk to her,” Patrick said, noticing where Art’s eyes had landed. As if he hadn’t been watching Art scan every five minutes during their conversation. “You haven’t seen her since…”

“September 2006,” Art replied, looking at Patrick.

“Have you kept in touch at all, or?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well fuck.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, eyes not leaving you. You were different, older, for sure but not in ways noticeable. Many of the men in the room had grown into bigger bodies and were either unfortunately balding or had already gone bald for some. Mid-thirties you wouldn’t think it, but it was there. And you were there, looking youthful and bright and you were still one of the prettiest girls in the room. Women… in the room. He gestured to you, eyes not leaving you, scared to lose track of where you were. “I’m going to-”

“Good luck.” Patrick pat Art on the back to send him off and Art, drink in hand from his stop by the food table, walked over to you, ignoring everyone who wanted his attention this time.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“You’re not telling her at graduation? You’re fucking joking.” Patrick said, shoving Art back onto his bed as the boys got dressed for one of their last classes at MRTA. “How fucking stupid are you, you can’t just not tell her.”

“I tell her and I ruin our friendship while I get to go to Stanford in the fall. I can’t do that to her.”

“You sound like a fucking idiot,” Patrick said.

“Okay, yeah, maybe, but even if I tell her and it goes well, we would only have the summer before I move all the way to fucking California. You’ll be on tour and this whole… thing would just be broken. And fucked up. I don’t want her for a summer, Patrick. I want her all the time, every day, like it was supposed to fucking be. I don’t want her for just a summer.” Art huffed, looking at his hands. The whole waitlisting bullshit threw a wrench in everything. Everything.

“You’d rather not have her at all?”

“I-” he flailed his hands around, “I don’t know! I don’t know how to tell her something like that and then move away.”

Patrick shrugged, “Could just kiss her.”

Art opened his mouth to speak and a knock on the door cut him off. Art pulled his shirt over his head as Patrick lunged to open it. It was you. Who else?

“You guys want to cut class?” You asked, arms folded over your chest, mouth pulled a little to the side, standing in your shorts and tank top, not dressed for class at all. Your hair was behind your ears, your lips just slightly glossy and you had that slight sparkle to your eyelids, but it was never too much. He would never get over just how beautiful you were, never ever. “I don’t feel like going today and I just want to do something fun or maybe even nothing?”

“That sounds great, but I actually was looking forward to doubles today…” Patrick groaned, putting a hand aside his head. Art knew him well enough to know Patrick was not looking forward to doubles. “But Art already has all his credits, I think he can stay. I’ll come back before dinner though?”

You nodded slightly and looked to Art, who still had his mouth a little open at the sudden position he was in. “Would you? I really don’t feel like going but I can just skip and meet you guys for dinner?”

Art nodded back at you, slowly. Patrick was playing wingman with expectations this time. ‘Could just kiss her,’ echoed around his head. He made eye contact with Patrick who, out of your line of sight, shot Art a telling look. He was giving Art a window. But skipping with you, being alone with you wouldn’t change the fact that when September came you’d be states away, alone, probably. The long distance would be hard and he knew he could maintain the friendship, but if he confessed and it went well, the long distance of a new relationship would probably kill him. And you. “Yeah, I’ll stay.” Art said.

When Patrick left for class, you came into their room and sat down on Art’s bed, next to him. You weren’t exactly yourself, the way you sat with your arms crossed and lacked that gorgeous smile Art looked forward to every day. You sat so close he could smell the sweetness of your perfume. “You okay?” he asked, looking at you with his head a little tilted, smiling gently.

“I can’t get the Stanford thing out of my head,” You admit. Art nodded. You’d been good about it. It upset you, he knew that it absolutely killed you, but you didn’t talk about it much- for Art’s sake, not wanting to depress him and Patrick with your delayed dream. “I know it’s stupid, I’m only waitlisted a year, but it was supposed to be different. They said I was a shoo-in, how could they say that and not mean it?” You vented. Art heard every word.

“They’re missing out for sure.” He said, hand sliding over your knee to rest just above it. “And Patrick is right- they’re fucked in the head and you deserved that place in the program more than anyone else.”

“Even if I deserved it, even if they’re fucked in the head, I’m still not going and that’s whats killing me.” You said, looking at him with sad eyes. He missed when they were full of light and happiness. “You know, it was supposed to be us. And now it’s not and I don’t know what I’m going to do without you- And Patrick.” Was Art mishearing or was there a pause? And us? Us. “I just feel so stupid and I’m suddenly so lost? I knew exactly what was coming and then it just stopped coming. And I’m terrified that I’m going to lose you both when we all go separate ways.”

“Couldn’t lose me.” Art said, eyes locked on yours. “I might be in California, but I have a phone. And it has a ringer and we have email and facebook and I don’t think I’d even know how to go a day without talking to you, so you know if you didn’t call, I would.” He said, admitting a little too much. “Patrick too, I bet.”

“I love that,” you smiled just a bit. “I just… I was so ready for things to change, but now I’m not. Even if I call you a hundred times in a day, would it feel the same?”

Art looked at the hand he had on your leg, at his thumb as it moved back and forth over your skin. “Probably not… But it would be the best thing until you come and visit. Or when I come home on holiday. It would just be to fill the spaces between, you know that the distance would mean nothing once we’re all together again.”

You looked down. “I know. I just don’t want it.” You sighed, leaning your head against Art’s shoulder. Art could smell your shampoo, it was soft and just as sweet as your perfume. “I’d just... I hate the idea of having to miss you. Distance fucking sucks.” You added. He agreed. Distance would suck. But right now you were here, next to him. He wouldn’t kiss you, he knew that. Not now.

But he turned his body just slightly and wrapped his arms around you, your head moving to just under his chin, resting against his chest. And he held you tight, he always would. And he didn’t resist his other urge, slowly tilting himself back so that he was laying down. You didn’t protest, you just held onto him tighter, laying next to him. Like most things between you two, they went unspoken. You in his arms, in his bed, god it was so telling but you didn’t say a thing. And neither did Art, aside from, “I don’t want it either.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

You didn’t seem to notice when he approached. You were heavily invested in your conversation with your friend, laughing and gesturing and you were even more beautiful up close. He could admit it to himself, he was amazed by how well-preserved you’d been. He maybe was expecting a bit of a grey streak, he remembered your mom being fully grey when you were only a teenager, but your hair was perfect. He was just a little bit to the side, in Abbey’s line of sight and she saw Art first, she looked happy to see him, he noted. Too happy for someone with a baby on the way. She put her hands up in the air like she meant anything to him and you looked over at him, seeing what Abbey was so delighted to see and for the first time in fifteen years, you locked eyes with Art.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- interlude

Art remembered the last time you looked at him. Confused eyes, sad ones, the ones he hated seeing, the ones he knew he caused. It wasn’t supposed to be the way it was. Your best friend felt like he just… wasn’t that anymore. Missed texts to missed calls after promises of hundreds in a day felt like lack of care. And it wasn’t on your end. When Art missed your calls, you stopped looking at your phone so much and you missed his. You visited him twice at Stanford, within the first few months and it was the same but he was so busy. So distracted, it seemed. You met Patrick’s girlfriend, Tashi Duncan and the only thought in your mind was that she looked at Art strangely. So when things unravelled, you asked him things and he answered honestly, leaving out the part that he knew went against his character. He was looking at you, thinking about how he should have kissed you at the airport before going to California but he was looking at a girl who wouldn’t kiss him. Not anymore.

And he missed you like he missed no one- when you stopped responding to his emails and Facebook posts. Your last post was October 4th, 2006, and it was a picture of you at a coffee shop you were beautiful, but Art was so lost on the guy next to you. He should have kissed you at that airport but he was tangled in this mess of Tashi who he had admittedly used to try and not miss you so much when you posted with one of your new guy friends, who you did not like romantically. But Art didn’t know that. He didn’t know how badly it hurt when you traveled to California to find him completely happy and distracted in a new life with new friends and forget that you were coming to visit. That hurt. He should have kissed you at the airport when he could before all of these things crashed and collided and brought you down. He was at fault, but you forgave him, you just didn’t speak again.

Patrick said it was fine, you’d come around. Art’s mom told him that you called to check in on her, but that growing apart does happen. He would ask himself how in the world did he end up growing apart from you. You of all people, but admittedly it was his own fault. These things just happen, distance ruins things.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

But there wasn’t much distance now. You were standing in front of him. Your expression didn’t change- it was a gentle smile upon laying eyes on him. Abbey asked him how he was and just like years ago, he brushed her off with a ‘would you excuse me?’ and passed her, sheepishly walking over to you.

“Hi, Art,” you said, head slightly tilted, lips pulled into that smile he hadn’t seen in years. Art felt shy around it, he hated that, but he was happy to see it. And you.

“Hi,” he replied.

You gestured to Abbey, “Reminds me of something.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he replied with a small chuckle. “I-um… How are you?”

“I’m doing okay,” you nodded. Art found himself glancing for a ring on your finger or maybe a baby bump he missed, but nothing. You were doing okay. “Oh, no ring.” You said, holding up your hand. “Wasn’t so lucky. How are you?”

He shook his head, still a little dazed that you were here in front of him, talking to him like you hadn’t gone fifteen years without doing so. “Not so bad.”

“That implies that there’s some bad,” you nodded, leaning against the wall. Your dress reminded him of another you’d worn. “Not so bad?”

“I’m okay…” He said. “Just… I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.” As if he hadn’t spent every moment since RSVP-ing thinking about seeing you again. Finally seeing you again.

“Oh,” you nodded, understanding. “No, I get that. I didn’t think you’d come. Thought maybe you were busy winning some grand slam, too far ahead than the rest of us. It was a good win, your last big game in Chicago.”

“You kept up,”

“I couldn’t not. I’m not me if not nosey and that aside, your name all over everything tennis-related- billboards, even. You and Tashi.”

“You must have heard about the separation, then?”

“On the tennis new channel, surprisingly. Fuck them for making that public, and I am sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He replied, eyes not leaving yours. “It just wasn’t working out. She cheated.” He admitted, which he hated. Something about your eyes was a well-working trap for him to fall back into the exact boy he used to be in your presence. He wanted to tell you everything, he forgot what it felt like to be around you. But you weren’t different at all. You were still that same warm, caring girl you used to be.

“Art, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible. Nobody deserves that.” You said, eyes soft. Beautiful.

“It’s in the past.” He nodded again, looking at the ground. They hadn’t changed the gym floors since you’d left, he noted. They were the same. “Thank you, though. I actually, um, I have a daughter, though.”

“Lily,” you smiled. “I’m nosey, I told you. Is she much like you?”

“I think so.” He smiled back. You knew his daughter’s name and you knew about the divorce yet he had no idea what you’d been up to. “So, are you… working, are you…”

“I am.” You nodded. “I teach children with special needs how to play tennis, it’s a great job. Lots of fundraisers and events. It’s really lovely.” Art remembered when you were younger. You’d mentioned something of the sort- doing that. He couldn’t help but wonder if you had joined a company or made one. But he wouldn’t ask, the small talk was already killing him. “About your daughter though, I’d love to know more.”

He wanted to know more about you but he liked to talk about Lily and her hobbies and habits. It felt good to talk to you again as you engaged with him as if fifteen years was three months. It was strange, but the feeling of being around you and your light again, it was easy to brush it all off. Like he was eighteen and you were an addictive happiness. You were smiling as he spoke about his daughter. You were smiling so much that he had to stop at one point, unable to hide his own smile. “What?”

Your eyes went a little wide, but you kept smiling, shaking your head. “Oh, nothing. I just… I always knew you’d be a girl dad. And you seem like a good one.”

“Always knew?”

“Oh yeah, I think I first thought about it in grade ten… A girl knows these things.” You said. Your body language changed slightly, you tilted your head to the door. “Hm- Do you still smoke?”

“Do you?”

“When I need to.” You said. “It’s not a habit, it’s an occasional thing. Come with me?”

Art was surprised by the offer. But how could anyone say no to you? He nodded and followed you out. You stopped outside your car, a decent distance away from the building and hopped on the trunk, sitting like you would so many years ago. Your car was nice, so you must make good money, he noted.

“How are you really?” You asked Art, eyes genuine as you lit the cigarette. Art, focused on you, didn’t know how to answer that. He was wondering how you weren’t someone’s wife or mother because even after all these years, he couldn’t find flaw in you. Not one. You were still sweet and kind and lovely and you looked amazing, so how did nobody find you and keep you? You asked him how he really was as if you still saw through him. “You’re really doing okay?”

Art took the cigarette as you passed it to him. “I’m okay. It wasn’t easy- any of it, but it happened and it’s in the past.”

“That’s good.” You said, watching him take a drag. The soft wind blew your hair around your face. “I am sorry about what happened, it sounds awful. I had to check in, really check in. But that aside, you’ve really made a name for yourself out there. Big games, high stakes and a good reputation.”

Art nodded, eyes on the ground as he inhaled again and passed the cigarette back. Something about being here with you was surreal. You’d kept up and he had no way to do the same. “Thank you. I planned on retiring three years ago, but second wind came around. I plan on retiring next year, thinking about starting to coach.”

“You’d be a good coach,” you nodded, smoke blowing out from between your perfect lips.

“Maybe…” He started. Silence.

You nodded, “You’re thinking about the elephant in the… parking lot.” You said, looking around.

“I might be,” he replied, straightening himself out. “It’s been fifteen years and you’ve not said a word to me since… And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it. I’ve had a lot of time to.” Art rolled up his sleeves. You watched. “Fifteen years.”

“I know,” you replied, quiet. “But you have had an amazing career and you married the girl I was so worried about, had a daughter. Your life has been exactly what you wanted, that’s amazing. Could it have been the same with me in it?” Art wished it was you in it. “So I let time be time and do it’s thing, I know it’s been fifteen years.”

Art shook his head, “It couldn’t have been a space thing. Maybe I needed the space, but it was bound to exist anyway. We were best friends, you, me, Patrick- and Stanford changed things but you didn’t have to walk away. My life has been my life but it’s not that way because you walked away.”

You chuckled, “I know that. And I am beyond proud of you either way, but me, eighteen years old and in love with you? Showing up after a month of planning and you forgot I was even coming? Just about broke me. And of course, there was Tashi and-” You had more to say but Art felt all of his thoughts come to a halt. His fingers felt cold. He interrupted you-

“In love with me? You were in love with me?”

You laughed, so genuine, the sound was something he had missed sorely. “That’s even a question? Oh, I was so young, but I was very much in love with you. Patrick would never let me forget it. I had such a crush on you. You… you didn’t know?” You covered your mouth as you laughed, but Art felt a little bit frozen, but it was easy to laugh with you.

“I didn’t know, no.”

“So the fifteen years is because after you broke my little eighteen-year-old heart, I took the time to recover and I just… never did.” You admit, handing him back the cigarette, which he took without looking at. He was only seeing you. Part of him was kicking himself hard, angry that he hadn’t confessed when he had planned, knowing now, so many fucking years later than if he had said what he wanted to, he might have had you. There were the complications, but if he had you, there wouldn’t have been a Tashi situation. And in his mind he watched the possibilities unravel his life as he knew it- knowing that it could have been you. It could have been you. “As sorry as I am about it, I don’t regret it. You have an amazing-sounding daughter and the life that you and I used to talk about, going pro… And I have a job that I only got through staying on this side of things. If I was in California, I wouldn’t have met the sweet lady who started the company I own now.”

He hated that you were right. But he hated it more that he could have had everything he really wanted- the things you and him talked about- and it could have been with you. A house, a marriage, a child? The things he really wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to feel regret, but it was something close to the feeling. “I understand. I just- you liked me? Patrick knew?” His whole adult demeanour was destroyed by your youthful smile.

“He would play wingman,” you said. “It was awful, but it was still fun. And I think I should tell you, though it feels wrong, that I missed you. And I am sorry I didn’t reach out. It was too much.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he nodded back. “I missed you too. A lot. It took a while to get over what happened, but it’s been good…”

“I’m glad,” you replied. The cigarette was almost at it’s end. And for a while you just stared at each other. The words unsaid filled the air until it was almost suffocating. He could have had you. If he had said something. If he’d kissed you at the airport. Tashi might have been Patrick’s. Art hated to think about a world without his daughter but it was you. It was always going to be you no matter how many years passed. “I hate to ask this for the sake of my phrasing, but… no hard feelings?”

Art smiled down at his feet, hands back in his pockets, “No, no hard feelings.” He replied. “And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you too.”

You smiled that beautiful smile, the wind blowing your hair a little more. There was something so painting-like about this moment. It could be frozen in time, he wished it could be, and he made a mental note to engrave this image of you in his mind. You were just as gorgeous as the day you left and sure, it hurt to think about a little bit, especially all of the ‘what if’s, but you were here now. And there were no hard feelings. How could he ever have any toward you? It was you.

“You want to head back in?” You asked, digging a foldable toothbrush out of your purse along with a tiny tube of toothpaste.You truly not changed much in your ways. Art wondered if you remembered the last time you’d brought a little toothbrush and toothpaste out. He dug in his own pocket and pulled out his pack of mint gum. He noticed the way your eyes widened at the parallel. But then you just grinned, starting to laugh as you half-brushed your teeth, half giggled. Art chuckled too, popping a piece in his mouth. And the laughter lasted a while. It was like you were the same giddy teenagers who wouldn’t tell each other their biggest secret. But eventually it died down and you headed back inside.

The moment you were inside, he noticed the song playing. So did you. You stood there for a moment, not looking at anyone but him. The Cranberries playing loud over dusty speakers. The only Cranberries song you ever liked, Art remembered. You couldn’t stand the voice cracks in the one about zombies… He was a little confused when you held your hand out, but when you smiled, he remembered. In the spirit of parallels, you were asking him to dance. He remembered the promise he made you, he wouldn’t forget it. He had pinkie promised and you swore to make him regret it, but he never got the chance to. You never gave him a real reason to.

“You pinkie promised.” You said, tilting your head just in the slightest. “You swore.” You said it a little sing song. Fifteen years forgotten- they didn’t exist. You were here and you were asking him to dance with you.

“I did,” he said, smiling, hands still in his pockets. And he did take your hand and with a youthful giggle, you pulled him to the dance floor. It was one of those songs where you could scream the lyrics, you could spin and you could maybe even jump, but you just stayed close. Art wasn’t sure what exactly to do, but it was okay. You led at first, swaying just a little to get him into it. He grinned, unable to stop it. Fifteen years felt like seconds, like you never even left. Like you were those same young best friends dancing around your feelings, your truth. And you were so beautiful, spinning and swaying and your dress following you as you did. You laughed and it was melodious, you were so unaware of the eyes on you, of Patrick’s eyes. They met Art’s from across the room and a knowing smile spread up his old friend’s face. He raised his drink in their direction and Art nodded back.

Time might have made Art a little bit harder, colder, but you made him right back into who he used to be before life existed. Your light was brighter than the strobes spinning the walls of the room. You got him into it with a nearly-sixteen-year-old promise. The music loud, but just dull enough to hear you. Art was drawn back into you like you were a magnet. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have you. That he didn’t get that life with you. But you were here and you were still so perfect.

The dancing had somehow melted itself into something slower, though the pace of the song didn’t change. It was almost a hug, the way his hand slipped around your waist. It felt familiar and you… smelled the same way you used to. So sweet. Your arms around his neck, close to him. It wasn’t even a thought in either one of your brains that you ended up this way, but it felt right and you just did it, so that’s how you were. Swaying, like a slow dance, and the end of the song rolled around, the music dulling to only an instrumental.

You pulled away just a little, your faces just a little bit close. “I think it’s best we went our separate ways. It would have killed to me to stay your friend and watch you and Tashi’s life in person rather than in pictures.” You said quietly. “And if I’m honest I think I might still be a little bit in love with you.”

Art met your eyes at your confession. You looked like you regret what you said, but the concern in your eyes changed, eased. You could still read his expression. “I did love you too, you know.”

“I know.” You smiled. He grinned a little sheepishly, his grin still the same. His eyes were soft and he looked at you like he always did. Such a familiar gaze. “And I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“For still feeling the way I do. After what I did.”

“You’re not alone in it.” He admit with a small chuckle. And you giggled. And it felt like nothing else existed in the entire universe. Just you. Just him. He wasn’t blunt, but it was definitely still said. It really could ever only be you, no matter what. Even with Tashi, it was always you. A first love that could never truly be erased, despite the countless mistakes and sins of youth. It hadn’t worked, but looking at you now, he had that hope again. That it might.

You just continued to sway to the music. The promise to dance whenever you asked fulfilled. There was peace in saying what was left unsaid for so many years. There was peace in feeling it still. Feeling how he did about you was the most consistent thing in his entire life. He wasn’t who he had to be with Tashi, he was who he truly was with you. His big career in hindsight, his past with Tashi, his life that didn’t include you was behind him.

Patrick did wander over when the song ended. He came and stood beside you both, the lip of his bottle resting against his mouth. You and Art shared a look before you left the position you were in, hands slipping back to your sides. He was grinning a sly grin. A familiar one from back in the day. Knowing.

You just tsked, “You need to shave.” You said. Patrick just grinned, laughed.

“You too.”

“Really?” You laughed. “Okay, I see how it is.”

Art chuckled. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss this. As much as he wanted just you and him, the three of you together were something entirely different. Who wouldn’t miss the better days? The three of you got a little more caught up, Patrick was free to reveal his position as a double agent in your teenaged slowburn that never really fizzled out… You and Art didn’t mention anything said during that dance, but he knew without being told. Everyone who knew you both knew that you belonged together. The night was still young, but Patrick lowered his voice. “I have an ounce in the car.” He said, shrugging. The three of you shared a look and in minutes the three of you were hiking across the schoolyard. Adults. Stupid adults with stupid nostalgia, laughter echoing across the empty courts as you all walked down the hill.

Art moved the dead leaves and under it was still that circle of rocks. The dirt had somewhat filled it, but it was still a bit of a divot. And the logs had thinned out but they were still there. You sat next to Art like you always would. You turned your body to face him and you just looked at him, studying the way his face had changed, his hair… but it was still very much so the boy you’d loved years ago. He looked over at you and he smiled and it was a reflection of so many years ago. The exact same spots, the exact same people, the same reason to sneak away.

You had hoped you hadn’t overstepped. You didn’t come to the reunion to say what you said, but it was right. And you knew Art felt the same. He said so. The three of you stayed and talked for hours like nothing ever changed. Time could never truly change the three of you. No matter who fucked who, who married who, who went where, who did what. It was always you. It would always be you. And that aside- you and Artwould figure that out- it would always be the three of you. Proven by your very own lives.

taglist: @swetearss @lalalandofive @xoxog0ssipg1rl @bayleequits @reallycreativeusername @kaaaiiaaa

[crimsoncold]

Just me reflecting on Sansa Stark, her Show Character Arc, and how one aspect of the show that I was critical of (some of the later costume design choices for Sansa and what they meant for her character arc and what they indicate about the attitudes of the writers) in turn helped inspire my art...

So I've been working on an art piece on and off since February and it might just be my favorite portrait I've ever done-both for how it turned out and for the inspiration behind it...

Before I started this piece I was dwelling a bit on my dissatisfaction with some of D&D's handling of this character in the later seasons... and soon came about the desire to do a portrait that incorporates the intensity, strength, and resilience of Sansa Stark while still getting to embrace and maintain some of the general softness, feminity, and romanticism that characterized her appearance and personality in the book and earlier seasons of the show...

It always seemed shitty to me that the show felt it had to squash out any traditionally feminine or more girly aspects of her appearance and personality to show that she should be taken seriously as a character

....As though these aspects are some sort of flaw Sansa had surpassed and that erasing her "softer" traits is some powerful cumulation or amazing visual cue for her character arc.... "Look she dresses all in black... she doesn't need or trust anyone...she put away all her childish dreams and hopes...doesn't she finally seem like a real stark....isnt she now so gritty and impressive - isn't this the best sort of ending/arc for Sansa!"

In reality this trope is lazy, over done, and reeks of underlying misogyny (Sansa was hardly the only character to get- or suffer from- this visual treatment in the later seasons of Game of Thronew but I'd argue that for her this choice was distinctly disappointing and had some important consequences/implications for her character arc)

Sansa’s biggest strength should have always remained her ability to maintain her kindness and compassion despite the horrors and mistreatment she experienced... and a satisfying arc should have involved her having the ability to demonstrate both her natural empathy and the burgeoning ability to apply said compassion in a more careful and considered manner which would live up to the values of her parents/family and ensure that the north (after experiencing such immense betrayal chaos and hardship) once again thrives under a just and fair ruler.

So I wanted to make a portrait of that would embody the sort of ending/arc (and be the sort of tribute) I think she deserves... (that the unfinished book series has not provided and that she certainly did not get in the tv series)

Looking at the core of this character and the ways the writing/narrative of the show ultimately let her and the audience down I have the following thoughts...

Sansa is strong enough to face and outlast every villain who targeted her family and tried to manipulate and use her as a child...

....Fierce enough to rally support to reclaim her ancestral home and land

... determined enough to hold Winterfell and the North's independence against any invader that wished to subjugate them...

....who- in a manner deserving far more praise than it gets-kept her integrity compassion even when at her most powerless and vulnerable...

... whose love of stories and songs or even beautiful dresses is not something that deserved erasure or ridicule

...who had hopes and dreams about family, marriage, motherhood, and being reunited with her siblings that despite how hard life - and the showrunners- tried to stomp out of her actually deserved to evolve into something grounded and real ... (fulfilled in winterfell with a worthy partner rather than being abandoned entirely as she is left isolated in the north without any of her surviving kin).

The sort of ending I want for the QITN is one celebrating her survival, her resilience, and strength of character... as well as rejoicing and still embracing who she is as a person... including her more traditional and feminin interests/hobbies/appearance, her hopes and dreams for her future and family, and her inherently compassionate nature (which is a strength all on its own).

Ned Stark's daughter, the blood of Winterfell, who will rule the north with the reverent support of her people, with an incredible mix of ferocity in the face of adversity and compassion in the face of need, who will not stand idly by and let vultures pick away at her remaining family, (or fall for any of the bullshit spewed out from an invading conquerer and their yes men advisors)...

...all the while she should still get to eat lemoncakes, sew, listen to stories, sing songs, experience love and family with her siblings and one day through her marriage and children, while she still gets to wear whatever fucking beautiful dress she wants 💙

And while this portrait may not cover every aspect of her ending that I hope she gets in the books and wished she got in the show- i'll save those aspects for my other sansa (or jonsa) centric art pieces- I am satisfied that it managed to captured some of her determination and strength while also presenting her in a way that does not judge or erase her more feminine characteristics.

Now For anyone who decided to read through my very rambly thoughts thank you and have a little glimpse at what the ongoing process has been like for this portrait as a treat...

- Crimson Cold

[shibaraki]

OUR MOURNING GLORY ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

synopsis: everything born in his body will eventually outgrow it. his love for you should be no different.

tags: GN reader, hanahaki au, strangers to friends to lovers, falling in love, requited unrequited feelings, quirkless reader, villain dabi, vomiting, hanahaki as a chronic illness, quirkless discrimination, lack of self worth, hurt + comfort, mild body horror, morally ambiguous reader, first kisses, very hopeful ending (<- I prommy lol)

wc: 5.4K

A/N: now with lovely cover art from momo! thank you so much!

Dabi really fucking hates doctors, has since he was a kid.

They’re too sterile. The strong antiseptic smell burned his sinuses and being surrounded by entirely white walls set him on edge. As though he had been deposited into a liminal space where time does not exist. A cacophony of suffering, incessant beeping, wheels rolling on old gurneys, echoed footsteps, all coalescing into prickly white noise.

Finding a place that would actually treat him was a hell in and of itself. Bigger hospitals and university medical centres weren’t viable options, given how beefed up security usually was. Seedy back-alley places existed in the areas he liked to haunt, but even the thought of stepping foot into one gave him sepsis.

Quirkless clinics were rare. Most that existed ran out of funding— the government saw no reason to care for a dying species. If you didn’t have a quirk then you had it bad. Citizens were legally required to have it listed under a disability on their medical records, and it wasn’t uncommon for people to be turned away in the emergency room because of it.

Dabi almost walked away that first night. As bad of a guy as he is, there was something inherently wrong about infringing on space that did not belong to him. But you had stepped out into the street for a break, jacket pulled close to your chest, took one look at the blood dried to his cheeks and rallied him inside.

He finds himself back here again, for the nth time. Today makes it an entire year since he met you, and ten full months since he coughed up that first bud. A mild inconvenience turned into an invasive bloom.

“…Hanahaki is a serious disease. It is a condition where vine-like buildup in your airways forms into buds, eventually flowering into…”

Morning glories. Buds of deep-blue, trumpet-shaped blossoms and leafy stems. The delicate petals taste surprisingly bitter, with a bite that lingers in the fissures between his molars after it has been ground into thin paste and swallowed. He had long since gotten used to the astringency— drying his throat, twisting his stomach.

“…At best it causes severe breathing difficulties and discomfort. Worst case scenario, it can be fatal…”

In the beginning he thought it would pass. Dabi has endured sickness all his life and a cough wasn’t about to stop his long laid plans. But it worsened, mutated into something he could not control. He remembers sitting in your bathroom on the toilet lid, the little blue burgeon rolling in the shallow of his palm. It’d been covered in bloody mucus, but still a pip, still harmless.

Any sane person might have been afraid at that moment, realising what fate awaited them. Dabi, however, felt oddly resigned. One in one hundred million. Of course this would happen to him. Death clung to him everywhere he went.

“Dabi, are you listening?”

Doctor Tereda had been the one to stitch him up back then. A quack with a near useless cell activation quirk and glasses lenses thick enough for a bullet to bounce off. You’d dragged him into her office, sat him on the bed with surprising strength, and she attended to him no questions asked.

Dabi tried not to make a habit of visiting one place too often, but between your pleading eyes and his rapidly worsening health, he ended up back in her office more times than he cared to.

He makes a noncommittal sound.

“As a medical professional I must strongly advise you to talk to the individual these feelings have bloomed for,” Terada says. Dabi does not like the sympathetic pinch in her brow. “That is the least invasive option”.

Prying open his chest and baring himself to you seems pretty damn invasive. “Not happening,” he mutters airily.

There’s a sense of satisfaction when her frown strains with frustration. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose. “Your case is incredibly advanced. It may be your only chance to tell—”

“You got something wrong with your ears?” he interrupts. The stitches beneath his eyes sting, pulled taut by his glare. “I said no”.

Tereda sighs and turns to her screen, pushing her frames back up. The keyboard clicks under her fingers. Every computer here was ancient, their systems totally outdated, but they made do.

“You have two more options. The best results are produced if both treatments are done together,” she explains. “First is surgery. You’ll be put under general anaesthesia and the disease will be removed along with some surrounding tissue in the lungs for biopsy. Memories of the loved one are usually lost”.

Dabi slouched to feign disinterest, betrayed by the restless bounce of his knee, “And?”

“Your second option is to attend an interpersonal psychotherapy programme,” she lifts her hand to silence him before he can interject. “This is highly recommended to patients after surgery to prevent relapse. But you can do it regardless, as it is helpful in reducing your symptoms, and while the disease becomes chronic, it is more manageable”.

Dabi’s jaw shifts as he grits his teeth, pulling at the staples by his mouth, “Calling me fucking crazy now, eh Doc?”

“No,” she replies cooly, schooling her features into something kinder. “As people we underestimate the influence our mental well being has over our physical condition. Hanahaki disease is rare, yes. But over a quarter of all cases are found to be psychosomatic”.

Dabi laughs dryly and brings a fist down hard, smoke squeezed from between his knuckles marred the desk with black. “So this is of my own making, is that what you’re saying?”

“This isn’t something you plant into yourself, Dabi. It isn’t your fault and I could be completely wrong. I’m not all knowing, I’m just a doctor,” a smooth hand is placed over top of his own in effort to comfort, “But torturing yourself will only feed it”.

He scrambles to his feet, the chair legs scraping piercingly across the tile, and snatches his fist back to hold behind his back. The doctor levels him with a sad, soft look, her upper body still leaned across the table.

“If you leave this as it is it will only hurt you. It is already hurting you,” Tereda continues critically. “We can mitigate this, Dabi. Before it kills you”.

That unearths some ill-gotten memory from the recesses of his brain. A film strip he replays often in solitude; the day Endeavor sat him down and told him he shouldn’t use his quirk anymore. At first it was a fatherly suggestion, unnaturally low and soft. “You should stop. It’s hurting you, Touya,” as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

That never made sense to him. In training they used to focus on fire, usually— on intensifying his flame power— but on occasion they would spar. Between poor footing and wrong steps, Endeavour always reprimanded tears and quick surrender.

“But it hurts…”

“Strong heroes fight through pain,” he said. “The world does not stop just because you are crying. Get up! Or are you weak?”

Touya took it to heart, back then. Clenched his chubby little fists tight and got to his feet with a wobbly snarl on his damp, swollen face.

Young minds are impressionable and his own had already been moulded by the very hands on his shoulders. Endeavour’s fingers had held on tight, dwarfing Touya’s frame; heat soaking through his shirt from those searing palms and the sting of old wounds had been enough to keep him grounded in reality. You should stop this. It’s hurting you.

Those words festered and ate away at his soul like an infection. Giving up was against everything he knew— and against everything Endeavor told him a hero should be. It was not an option he was willing to take, and so Touya trudged forward, just as he was taught.

Eventually Endeavour’s words evolved into demand. He became furious. Touya became accustomed to long sleeves and learned how to treat burns alone. Hands made for saving left oval shaped bruises and finger painted the entire family.

How do you abandon something stitched into the very fabric of your being? Being the Number One hero was his hereditary purpose. His father gave up on him so readily but Touya would have rather died than surrender when it got tough. Giving it up would be dying all the same.

Pain was a toll necessary for growth. He grew until his ambition and greed swallowed him whole. And now, there was you. A garden of weeds in his lungs. You were rooted into the capillaries and harvesting his yearning. Every time he coughed it felt like self immolation; a cruel cycle he can not stop repeating.

Hanahaki discriminates. It happens to those who feel deeply, people whose hearts are hemmed by the ones they love. Dabi is selfish but more than that he is lonely, and you’re the one good thing he has in this shit hole.

Accepting the surgery would just be another loss. A surrender. It wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things; Dabi is going to die either way. A walking corpse. Skin, esophagus, tear ducts, tissue— his fire burns all of it. Deep within him, eating away at his soft insides like dry grass. And what withstands that heat are the seeds you have unknowingly sown.

There is something disturbingly satisfying about carrying a piece of you to the grave with him, flowers proliferating around the earth that houses him. Call him twisted. It isn’t as if he’s unaware he’s got a few loose screws— he also has no desire to get better.

The silence is broken by the quiet scratch of pen to paper. Doctor Tereda offers a thin smile and slides a prescription across the table, signed and ready to be collected. “Here. This should help with the pain for at least a week or two. We know how easily you burn through medication so… don’t take too long to make your decision,” she hesitates before shaking her head. “And go to the emergency room if your breathing worsens”.

Dabi eyes her suspiciously, grabbing the slip and shoving it into his coat pocket. Worrying at his lower lip he offers her a short nod, the ‘thanks’ implied.

As he turns and makes his way toward the door, Dabi pauses just before turning the handle. He doesn’t look back as he mutters, “Keep this to yourself, yeah? That means no putting it on my records”.

Tereda hums curiously, “No one else has access to your records”.

He scoffed, turning his wrist and pulling the old door to demonstrate his point; a groan reverberates throughout the room as it opens, “Yeah right. This is hardly a fine establishment”.

“I resent that!”

Dabi strides through the familiar corridor toward the waiting room, ignoring Tereda’s indignant shout. He wasn’t off the mark about how shoddy the place is— atleast, in comparison to other medical centres. The building is small and narrow. It was built during the pre quirk era and handed off to the quirkless by the government to honour their status. The whole thing stank of ridicule and it pissed him off the more he thought about it.

You’re exactly where he expects you to be. Sitting pretty at your desk, twiddling your thumbs, keeping watch over the empty space and quietly mumbling some melody from Mount Lady’s latest hair care advert over the unremitting whirr of the fan above.

A laugh bubbles in his chest, drawing your attention, and it chokes him in effort to smother the sound. You are alarmingly predictable. There, plain as day on your computer screen, are his supposedly secure medical records.

Dabi pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum as he violently coughed. You’re talking to him now, on your feet and rubbing along his back. A viscous lump of petals forces its way into his throat and he feels his quirk react. Still, you don’t pull away.

“Deep breath,” God, that’d be nice. “You’re okay. I’ll get you some water,” Don't go.

You stop and let him drag you back by the wrist. He rights himself on his feet and forces the flowers down. “I’m—” bile stings the back of his mouth and he gags, turning his face into his coat collar to hide a grimace.

Dabi exhales and it sounds so thin. “Fuck. I’m fine. Don’t start,” he croaks, hardly convincing. Rooting through his pocket, he shoves his prescription slip forward to distract you, the paper crumpled into a small ball. “Doc gave me a prescription. It’s just a chest infection”.

He lingers and observes as you unwrinkle it. You’re careful to smooth out each corner and wrinkle. The tension swells as the silence stretches. He tempers the urge to snatch it back.

You squint at him, “A dosage this high for a chest infection?”

He shrugs and reaches over his head to yank his coat hood forward. “Doctor’s orders”.

After a beat, you relent and glance over to give him an exasperated smile, “Whatever. As long as it helps clear your lungs. You freaked me out last night with all that wheezing”.

You begin switching off your monitors, patting down at your pockets for the keys. To synchronise with the end of your shift, Dabi purposely chose the last appointment. That was another thing he has been doing a lot— trying to fit his life around yours.

“Watching me sleep now, perv?”

“Yeah. I love when a guy sounds like a punctured squeaky toy, really gets me worked up,” you drawl, falling in line with him after turning off the lights and checking the locks. Tereda would close up the rest.

You brought a tonal shift to his life he couldn’t have anticipated; enough that he regularly spent nights crashing on your couch to wait out the bad weather. There was something about you from the beginning that he couldn’t put a finger on. Nothing as simple as your attractiveness— you had a good heart, but not by society's standards, much like Twice.

A quick internet search would pull up listings of buildings he had burned and the trail of bodies left in his wake. But it didn’t matter. Villain, vigilante, hero, a person is a person, even him.

That first meeting, winter settling in, you admitted to him you were quirkless. A shitty olive branch effort, he’s sure. That whole instinctual radar that comes with being a misfit in this world. You left a strong impression. He recalls how he gave you the name Dabi, cackling harshly as if he were leaving you with a ticking time bomb, and you simply said: “Maybe I’ll see you again. Hopefully without all the blood, next time”.

He latched on and desperately wanted to hate you for it. Yet your arm is linking through his once again, pressed close to his side as the rain hammers down onto the empty street, and everything he can’t bring himself to say has taken root in his windpipe.

“Wanna come up?”

“For coffee?” he swipes his tongue over his teeth, raising a suggestive brow. Your offer is as innocent as it always is, and the sight of you flustered is as welcome as ever.

“Tea, actually,” is your poorly veiled response.

Dabi knows he’s getting too comfortable. You might be quirkless but you’re not stupid. Infact, at times you’re unsettlingly perceptive; his only mercy is that you are too nice to pry.

He should tell you ‘no’. Giran could probably set him up. He might even get away with crashing at the bar. Instead he says, “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to be”.

Your apartment building is nothing to write home about. Slightly run down, maintained by residents rather than their pig landlords. It stands shorter than the neighbouring buildings, the entire right side eaten by withered wisteria. Nobody bats an eyelid at his appearance in a place like this.

Inside is a mirror of the outside. Unremarkable in every way, yet he feels remarkably at home. You go in first, kicking off your shoes without bothering to line them up, waddling to the narrow linen closet in the hallway. You’ve managed to cram a dryer right beneath the shelves, since there was barely any space elsewhere.

“I can grab you something to wear while I put our stuff on a spin”.

The rain sticks to his forehead, thin streaks of black dye running down his temple. Grinning, you hand him an old towel, already stained and fraying at the hem, “You look harmless like this. Like a wet cat”.

He pats carelessly at his face while shucking off his coat. The nerves are long dead and it’s painless. You squawk when the heavy fabric hits the genkan floor with a wet slap. “Dabi!”

“That’s what you get,” he rolls his neck and bends to untie his boots, the towel thrown over his shoulder. “Harmless. I burned down a money laundering front just a few hours ago”.

“I saw it on the news. You’re such a dickhead,” you laugh, heading into the kitchenette. “There was no good reason for you to melt the asphalt of that entire city block”.

A smile works its way onto his face. Gross. “Can’t have them mistaking me for a good guy”.

“You are a good guy”.

“You’re delusional,” he shoots back, an unbearable fondness swelling in his chest. The pressure is the worst part. Spools of vine and leafy green pierced into lung tissue, stems squeezing through his rib cage.

You’ve been staring at him for too long. That sweet smile hasn’t wavered. Dabi clears his throat, first to dispel the awkwardness he feels and then again as a stray petal sticks to his throat. It brushes against his tonsils and he quickly covers his mouth.

“Sure you’re okay?” your voice is quiet, testing the waters.

A fingernail catches on a staple by his chin as his hand drags down his face, answering on an exhale, “Fine. Stop asking. Didn’t you say something about tea?”

“Can’t help it,” you huff, shutting the overhead cupboard with too much force. "You’re not a good liar, you know”.

Dabi gives a dismissive wave and heads over to the couch. The distance is barely four strides but he manages to unbuckle his belt, jeans unbuttoned and falling loose around his hips. Kicking them off with little to no grace, your eyes are heavy on his back as he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it at the laundry pile tucked away near your bathroom.

The quaint studio can barely house you, never mind him. Dabi was always small for his age but here it feels like he could stretch and touch every wall.

You’re moving in his periphery, following his lead and gradually revealing swaths of bare skin. You’ve seen him half naked before, in the clinic, but never the reverse. Dabi swallows thickly, ignoring the intimate atmosphere he unintentionally created. The kettle is electric and he takes comfort in the loud gurgling sound that comes with it, fixing his gaze on the blank TV screen.

“You can turn it on, you know. You are allowed,” you coaxed, voice warm and teasing. You’ve rummaged through the pile of clothes and found a hoodie that falls below your hips. “Or are you just going to sit there with your dick out?”

“You fucking wish,” he objected, reaching for the remote. Is it? His eyes fall to his lap. No, it isn’t.

He slouches, reclining into the cushions as some old rerun of Mighty Man plays. “Hey,” idly picking at a loose thread, he asks, “do you get many people come through with hanahaki?”

That gives you pause, and immediately he regrets asking. It’s hardly a common question. Hell, a good percentage of the population thought it to be an old wives tale, even in the wake of quirks. There was no plausible excuse as to why it would be on his mind.

Cautious in your approach, you stop by the couch with a steaming mug cradled in your hands. He sees those naked thighs, soft and uniquely yours. “Is… is that why you’ve been coughing?”

“No,” Dabi scoffs. In one forceful yank he rips the seam open and watches the foam innards spill out. You linger, weight shifting between your feet, and irritation prickles under his skin. “Who the hell do you think I would be chucking up flowers for? Not like I’ve got friends”.

Your shoulders lose tension and he tries not to think too hard about it; he doesn’t want to know. He feels his own airways clear at the sound of your laughter, “I dunno. Stain, maybe?”

Pursing his lips, he sucks back the copper from between his teeth, “Fuck you”. You try to smile. You pass his tea and he forgoes the handle. The warmth of the mug seemed to seep into his bones and ease the ache.

“Right right. Big bad villain. I forgot you’re supposed to be an empty husk without a heart,” you teased, sitting unnecessarily close and burying your feet beneath his thigh, careful not to touch his staples. The hoodie slips and pools around your hips. Dabi’s throat constricts as his body goes rigid. “Ah shit. Are my toes cold? Want me to grab a blanket?”

Forcing himself lax he clicks his tongue and tastes iron, grip tightening on his mug as he brings it to his lips. “Doesn’t matter. I run cold anyway”.

The tea is soothing. Sweet for a ginger tea— brown sugar, maybe. You must’ve boiled it for his sore throat. Molasses swirl on his tongue. They wash down the blood and clean his palette. A smooth, mellowed out aroma fills his senses and overpowers the delicate anise fragrance lingering at the back of his throat.

You concede, tucking your knees under your chin and regarding him with that look again. The one that feels as if you’re reading him like a page in a book. He has never been the type to worry about appearances but when it’s you he can’t help wondering what you think of him.

A cartoonish explosion fills the room with streams of orange and yellow as the episode comes to the halfway point. The light paints your silhouette gold, reflecting in your irises as they retract from the brightness.

Taking another gulp, he winced at the sharp twist in his chest. Two weeks was generous and Tereda knew it. He’s already vomiting full flowers. Corpses make for fertile soil, apparently. He read that somewhere online while he searched for information on morning glories; you are fast growing and frost tender.

A soft note breaks the silence and your toes start to wriggle. “I can hear you thinking. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Despite what you thought, he was a good liar. To those around him but most of all to himself. This is when he should retaliate with a biting comment and keep the equilibrium. He would, if not for the wave of heat that rolls through him at your words, and how obviously you felt it displace the air.

Dabi can lie. His body can not.

“Just that thing you said earlier, about being an empty husk,” he begins, bringing the warm mug to rest against his sternum, incognisant to the ring of heat stinging his skin.

Your expression wanes with regret and he hates it. “I was joking—”

“If you say sorry I’ll burn your couch to a crisp,” he fumes. Vulnerability made him defensive. Angry. It felt like cold air blowing on exposed muscle. “Didn’t ask for a meaningless apology”.

Deep in the cavity of his ribs another bud unfurls. Your patience with him is not endless but it is more than he deserves.

“Then what are you asking?”

Nausea curdled in his stomach. He feels it climb his gullet. “Guess I wondered what you really thought”.

“About…?”

He snarls, hackles raised. “Do I have to spell it out?”

A few beats pass. Your answer comes in a gentle murmur. “Well, our capacity to hate reflects our capacity to love. So, yeah. I do think you’ve got a pretty big heart. It’s just a bit bruised up”.

“Jesus,” he mutters. The worst part is you’re being entirely honest. His knees spread as his hips shift, the after credits begin to roll and reflect off the sutures around his thighs. It reminds him that he is half naked, literally and figuratively. “Forget I said anything. I need a smoke”.

“No smoking,” you bat lightly at his shoulder. “Not until you’re better. If I catch you I’ll kill you before that cough does”.

And isn’t that fucking hilarious.

Pressure prickles behind his eyes that he can never relieve. There’s a florid mass in his thoat; his pulse is thrumming now, singing in his ears. He needs to throw up.

You shout after him as he stumbles over toward your bathroom. He slams the door behind him, hears you curse as his ceramic mug hits the floor and breaks. This isn’t romance, or a fairytale. It isn’t like it is in the movies.

Lifting his fist, he brings it down hard on his sternum. The force barrels him over and he retches. Sour, viscous threads of saliva drip from his mouth into the toilet bowl, but nothing more comes up.

You’re banging at the walls. “Dabi, open up!”

Dabi lurches again, forcing a deep cough and watching a few small heart shaped petals dance in the air as they free fall. Again, collapsing to his knees, he can taste your ginger tea. He vomits a clump of bloomed morning glories, wrinkled and smooshed into a misshapen ball. Blood muddies the water.

Another knock, this one somewhat pitiful. There’s a soft noise that sounds like you’re sliding down the door. “Please don’t make me break this open. My landlord will kill me”.

Trembling. Dabi reaches his fingers into his mouth and feels around the teeth to dislodge what was left. Settling back on his feet, his hand uncurls like a slow sprouting shoot and reveals another morning glory in the shallow of his palm.

Colour streaks across his vision, filled with hazy undulations. White noise drowns out the frantic tone of your voice. Mouth hung open, Dabi inhales until his lungs bloat, and keeps it held until the lights begin to fade.

His consciousness tips from one dream to another. When he wakes up on his back surrounded by soft, freshly washed sheets. A sigh escapes his lips as he turns into the downy pillow beneath his head. It smells like you.

Fingers comb through his hair, pushing the bangs away from his forehead. It’s then that he notices the mattress dipped towards the weight of another.

Dabi squints, prying his eyes open. You’re laid beside him. At first he considers that he’s dreaming, but you feel so real. Your thumb strokes over his cheek in a tender back and forth motion, “You comfy?”

“Better than the couch,” he rasps. There’s an awful taste in his mouth. Intermingling mint and copper. “Did you brush my teeth or something?”

“I rinsed your mouth out,” you admit bashfully. Now that he’s looking he notices your eyes are red. Puffy like you’d been crying. Your smile fractured as you added, “I had to make sure nothing else was stuck”.

Realisation creeps in slowly. It’s gentle with him, like you are, acclimating him to reality. Just like that— you know.

“How’d you get me in here?” he deflects.

You prop yourself up on your elbow and reach to trace the topography of his scarred chest. His breathing stutters and your fingers stop right over his heart.

“Might’ve pulled a muscle or two but it wasn’t so hard. You weigh almost nothing,” you reply. Quiet, as though you were afraid to break the illusion. “Kinda concerning but it seems you have bigger stuff to worry about already, huh?”

Eyes falling closed, he inhales, counting to three. He replies on the end of a long exhale, “Didn't want you to know”.

“Tereda does?”

Dabi nods and the movement knocks his brain loose. He hisses at the throbbing pain. You take him into your palms with a frown, “You hit your head on the way down. You’ll have to come in with me again in the morning”.

“Fuck that,” he groans. You tap at his temple and pout your lips, glaring disapprovingly. “You can’t make me”.

“I can and I will,” his eyes widened at the crack in your voice. Tears gather along your lash line and you sniff harshly, “You could have died, Dabi. And now you might have a head injury. How the hell could you not tell—?!”

“Alright, alright. Shit,” uncharacteristic of him, Dabi let himself have this. His hand cups round your neck and brings you down into his bare chest. He hushes you softly, running his palm down the length of your spine, wrapping you in a clumsy embrace. “Don’t cry about it”.

You settle into the crook of his neck, nose bumping his jaw as you turn to speak, and he suppresses a shudder. “Don’t cry about it,” you repeat mockingly. “You really have no idea, do you?”

“Enlighten me”.

Frustration bursts, and you lift your head to look at him. You’re so close. “I care about you, idiot. I don’t want you dead on my bathroom floor! Sue me!”

Dabi cracks a crooked smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me”.

“Who is it?”

And he sours, his stare fixed on the ceiling above. “Does it matter?”

“It matters,” you lean over him until all he can see is you. “…Is it me?”

There’s an echo in his ribs; a phantom knife’s twist. Sure, Dabi is a good liar, he thinks. Touya never was. Touya wore his heart on his sleeve. He was terrible at concealing his hurt. Dabi tries to find the words and comes up short.

The silence is answer enough. Your mouth wobbles and you nestle back into his neck before he can see you cry in earnest. “You are so fucking stupid, Dabi”.

Despite the seriousness he laughs, tucks his nose to your crown and tightens his hold around your waist. He’s only ever imagined what your weight would feel like pressed against him like this. Maybe he’s imagining it, but his lungs are lighter.

“What did Doctor Tereda advise you to do?”

He pouts where you cannot see it. He doesn’t want to think about that quack right now. “She told me either I get the surgery and go to therapy, or I get the symptoms to calm down with therapy on its own”.

“Of course you’d…” you huff. “She didn’t tell you to talk to me?”

“That too,” he shrugs, grinning at the warning press of your teeth to his throat. It’s disturbing how comfortably you both fell into place. A soft kiss replaces your bite, and he holds his breath.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” you tell him, kisses trailing up his jugular to his cheek, unperturbed by the scar tissue and metal in his skin, or the tremors rumbling through his body. “I’m sure there’s no way in hell I can get you to agree to therapy. So instead I’m going to take you out on a few dates and see how your symptoms change”.

Dabi’s mouth opens for air and your lips brush, stealing his breath. “What the fuck?” he says. “Why?”

There’s no point, he wants to tell you. It won’t change a thing.

“Because I want you to believe me,” you murmur, nose knocking his own. Inexplicably drawn to you, Dabi tilts up to align your mouths again, barely a kiss. “If you die it won’t be because of me. And I atleast want you to go out knowing that I love you too”.

The swell in his throat is different this time. He has never been so glad about his inability to cry. Dabi grins, wide and all teeth, pushing the staples in his cheeks up by his eyes. “There’s something really wrong with you, you know that?”

“No kidding,” you laugh. “Guess we make a good pair”.

[kitkatopinions]

Rewrite Salem?

Okay, this is a good one! Keep in mind, not all of this is concrete for any firm plan, I'm kind of just spit balling here. Also, you can't really rewrite Salem without rewriting some of Oz, so I'll be putting some of his backstory here, but I got an Oz ask too, so there will be more Oz stuff coming.

So first, alterations to the backstory. I firmly believe less fantasy villains should be victims of abuse and should instead be the rich and powerful, so to start things off, instead of having Salem start out as a damsel in distress trapped in a tower, I would have her instead be the spoiled second daughter of a very wealthy king. She was raised with high manners and instructed to support her more rambunctious elder sister who was set to inherit the throne (also I'd give Salem red eyes from the start and change her look, but I'm bad at art, so I can't make an example of that.) Salem and Oz would actually be lifelong friends and I'd make him the child of the captain of the guard, and it would be Salem's sister and Oz that actually had feelings for each other. Along with Salem's sister, they would have spent their childhood together, unaware of a growing conflict between their kingdom and the adjacent one. Right before Salem's sister was set to ascend the throne (the sister eighteen, Oz seventeen, and Salem sixteen,) the other kingdom attacked, and Salem's sister and father died, leaving Salem and Oz both devastated, and Oz ran from the conflict, while Salem was left alone to ascend the throne herself, pushed into an all out war she'd known nothing about as a teenager. While Oz was off adventuring, the war grew bigger, and Salem was growing colder and more paranoid, and becoming ruthless in the actions she'd take to end the conflict. After five years of war, Salem led her kingdom to victory and full on conquered the other kingdom, and Oz came back now that things were peaceful. Salem welcomed him, taking him on as a royal advisor, and Oz saw some bad signs in her, but since he wasn't around for the war, he justified it and convinced himself he was wrong and Salem was basically his family and he loved her. But meanwhile with the war ended, Salem felt dissatisfied at just getting justice and revenge for her dead family and decided to bring them back. This is what leads her on her quest to the God of Light and then when he rejects her to the God of Darkness. Oz knows of her plan and tries to talk her out of it, but goes along with her anyway. GoD tells her that toying with life and death is dangerous, but when she flatters and lies to him that he was the only one she could come to, he does bring them back just like with Oz in the OG. GoL finds out and has his 'I said no' tantrum, and he and the GoD start fighting about it, but then the two brothers work things out and realize Salem lied to GoD and decide that the solution to their problem is rectifying the situation by removing the thing they were in conflict over. They kill Salem's sister and father again, and warn Salem that if she steps out of line again, the consequences will be bad. Just like in Canon, Salem starts rallying people against the gods, though since she's not immortal yet, she's doing it purely through her intelligence, her will, and her charisma Edelgard style. Ozpin thinks it's a bad idea and once again advises Salem to stop (not because he likes the gods or anything but because he knows how dangerous it is to go against them,) and once again Salem doesn't listen, so Oz decides that in order to stop the war the gods would be sure to punish everyone for, he should tell GoL what Salem is doing so he can put a stop to it before it goes bad. He begs for mercy for Salem and explains how her losses have affected her, and GoL thanks him and sends him away, and proceeds to tell GoD about it and GoD does what he does in canon and wipes out humanity and destroy part of the moon, and the brothers then curse Salem with immortality as a punishment for turning against them. But GoL spares Oz since he told him about Salem's plans, and gives him the "gift" of "life" (meaning his reincarnating into hosts) and the quest to purge the world of evil so that when the Relics are united, they'll come back and judge the world and all that.

With the world as Salem knew it gone and her oldest friend supposedly dead along with it, Salem throws herself into the Grimm pits like in canon in an attempt to die, turns all grimmified just like in canon. But she can't, so she kind of just gives up.

But when Oz is brought back to the new world unaware of his own new immortality, he's like "fuck the gods" and goes back to Salem because he obviously doesn't trust the gods after what they just did (btw, my version of things would be very anti-the-gods.) And in my version of things, he straight up tells Salem about the quest the gods gave him and how reuniting the relics would bring them back. The only thing he keeps from her is that he's the one who told the gods about it in the first place. Salem is reinvigorated by the news and suggests that they try to "remove all evil in the world" like the gods want by faking at being gods themselves, and Oz is reluctant but agrees. However, he quickly starts seeing all the red flags he had ignored like five times worse. At first, he tried to talk to Salem and work things out, and starts seeing that 'being a god' isn't helping anything and is just helping Salem sink more into her bad tendencies. Then one day Salem starts expressing how unhappy she is with all the "evil" humans who make their quest impossible, and she starts talking about how if only she could bring back the magical people of their time and rebuild her father's kingdom instead of "keeping these mortals," they could fix everything. And Oz is like "whoa, pump the breaks" and starts really fighting with her about it. During their fight, he accidentally lets slip that he's the one who told the gods about her plan to bring them down in the first place, and Salem gets all furious and betrayed and decides that he's the reason for all the bad things she's suffered, and they start actually physically fighting and she kills him like in canon. Oz realizes his curse when he resurrects into an unwilling mind and body, but meanwhile Salem starts up a new cult where she starts rallying people again, and does start trying to like, wage war and rebuild the world in the image of her father's kingdom. Oz starts trying to fight her and stop her, and at first tries to reason with her and redeem her but she isn't having it.

They go back and forth like this for a few hundred years before finally Salem decides to throw in the towel and decide if she can't have the perfect world she wants, then she'd rather destroy the world she sees as evil and hopeless, and she starts trying to actively make the world worse while she tries to find the Relics to bring the gods back in the hopes they'll destroy everything and either start all over so she can cultivate the new world in her image, or just kill her along with everyone and be done with it. Oz starts fighting her in the shadows too, and this continues for like three thousand years. Salem's cult stays alive, though it's very small and also works in the shadows, and Salem also starts attempting to bring back magic through procreation, having kids every now and again with people that have very powerful semblances. And every time she can, she tries to find Oz and imprison until he dies because she doesn't want him in her way. But, Oz has had the upper hand after creating the Guardians (Maidens in my AU, because unnecessarily genderlocking powers is weird,) and especially for the past like five hundred years or so after establishing the Kingdoms and the councils and the Hunter schools, where he was able to hide the Relics. And that's forced Salem and her cult to be extra careful and reevaluate.

So now that backstory is out of the way, fast forward to Ruby's time. Salem and her faction (which is currently like twenty five to thirty odd cult members) basically do a lot of the things they do in canon only it will be more planned. Salem sets her sights on taking down the four kingdoms and specifically the four hunter schools one at a time while sewing as much discourse as possible. She seeks out the powers of the four maidens to get her the Relics so she can unite them and destroy the world. The specifics would be a little different especially when we got to Atlas Era, but by and large, her goal would be the same.

As for personality, I would go a bit more Edelgard from FE meets Rhea also from FE than the slow talking attempt at a sexy Voldemort they have. Salem would be harsh, cold, and ruthless, but all with a charisma and an ability to talk people around and present what she wants as good and just, because she herself would truly believe it's good and just. I would make her pretty calm as a rule, with the ability to get angry, but not really have any fits of temper, and she would be above all bored. Oz explores real connection, creativity, and progress through his long life, whereas Salem only wallows, destroys, and uses people, so unlike him, she has nothing fulfilling to pass the time. So she winds up just like, bored all the time, and that leads her to doing things just to see what would happen, and honestly just not feel very deeply in general. Salem as a villain would represent the opposite of Ruby. Ruby (if I was rewriting things) would see the good in people, would believe in hope for the future, and that people could always get better, and she would find meaning in life and be determined to keep moving forward. Salem instead would believe people are nothing but beasts, defined by their evil, believes no good will ever come of anything, that people can't get better, and as I said before, believes the only 'meaning' in life is uselessly prolonging the inevitable destruction, and only ever looks back.

So, yeah. Not a lot of intense rewriting from the original, but I like the different backstory. Hope this was an interesting read!

[zipzapzopzoop]

There's a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow

Chapter 31: The Fall of the King

Very few times in Franny’s life had she ever run so fast. 

When it came to her son, she’d run around the entire world for him and never look back. She knew she had to get to her boy before those monsters did. She ran so fast, her stilettos flew off and she ran on without them. In the blink of an eye, she sprinted through the front doors of the school and through the halls. 

“Franny?!”

A younger Art was searching the classrooms when he saw someone speeding down the hall. He opened the door, but she was already gone. “Franny!”

He took off after her. Although it technically was Franny, it wasn’t the one he was looking for.

Franny followed the path of most destruction, eventually finding the classroom where the school sign had crashed through the wall. There!

Franny rushed outside to her family, ignoring when her dress slightly snagged on a piece of rubble or when she felt a piece of glass cut her foot. She didn’t care. She was barely a few steps out the door when Wilbur dove into her arms. He held onto her tight, his face in her side. She held him close and looked over to Art.

“You said someone tried to get Laszlo, who was it?” Her words were so rushed, she nearly jumbled them. “Were they wearing all black and carrying tools on them?” 

“Yes!”

“They’re here. We have to get everyone out. Laszlo and Bud have Tiny, where are Gaston and Fritz?”

“I’ll get them.” “Fast. I’ve got the kids.”

Art ran around the back of the school to find his brother, while Franny turned to assess her son. “Wilbur, honey, what’s going on? Are you hurt?”

He didn’t respond, he just held onto her. 

“Something freaked him out,” Carl explained. “When Lewis fixed me-” He was cut off when Franny grabbed him into the hug. 

“Carl! You’re okay!”

Somehow despite being a robot, Carl felt his chest become soft at the idea of being missed. I mean, he knew he was loved, of course he was! But to know his family rallied around to get him back made him all happy and warm.

“Franny!”

The younger Art finally found his way out of the building, looking frazzled. “Oh Franny!”

He pulled the younger Franny into a big hug. She beamed with excitement. “Art! You never told me you were a superhero!”

He looked stumped.

“Huh?”

“It’s okay, I know it was you! You were just here a minute ago! Dressed as a superhero! You don’t have to hide it!”

Art shook his head… then laughed and hugged her again. She must’ve bumped her head or something. They’ll worry about that later. He’s just glad his baby sister is okay!

“Come on, we’re going home!”

“What?! No! I want to be with Lewis and Carl!”

“Another time, Fran. Something weird’s going on and I want you close to me until things settle.” Before the girl could protest, her big brother picked her and Frankie up. “Let’s go get Gaston from school. We’ll have a fun day, just the three of us.”

The girl looked toward her friends again. Lewis smiled back. “We’ll be okay. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“...Okay.”

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

A young woman sat outside the coffee shop, her computer set up and opened to an empty word document. The prompt for her college assignment was to write about encounters with unusual circumstances, but she had never had such an occurrence. She had been sitting there for nearly half an hour now, and came up with nothing. She was beginning to become disheartened. 

She reached for her coffee, but her hand stopped when the drink rippled.

The woman furrowed her eyebrows. 

It did it again. 

A third time it happened, only she felt a small shake in the ground that time. 

The woman jumped up with a gasp when she heard screaming, and a massive dinosaur rushed down the street next to her.

There were two people on its back, and the beast had a long rope in its mouth like a pair of reins, American and State of Massachusetts flags hanging from the rope.

It took a sharp left turn and disappeared down another street, leaving a crowd of stunned onlookers in its wake. A few black SUVs sped on the sidewalk after it.

The woman hurried to sit back down, hit with the perfect idea on what to write about.

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

Laszlo looked around, completely lost. Where even were they? The buildings and streets all looked alike! They kept getting turned around and running back into damaged places they’d already been.

“Ehh, those guys again,” Grandpa Bud muttered and adjusted his glasses. He was sitting backwards on Tiny’s back. 

Hearing his uncle, Laszlo did a double take, suddenly spotting at least five SUVs speeding after them. 

His blood went ice cold.

Muttering a cuss, he flicked the reins. “Go!”

A police cruiser swerved in front of them, lights and sirens blaring. Tiny reached down and grabbed it up as if it were nothing but a toy. 

“Tiny! Don’t! We have to keep moving!”

A sharp whistle caught both Laszlo and Tiny’s attention. Laszlo squinted. Was that…?

“...Tallulah?” Hope blossomed in his chest. His sister was okay! 

“C’mere boy!” She called to Tiny. “This way, boy! Let’s go!” 

A loud happy sound came from Tiny’s throat and he tossed the police car aside, crashing into one of the SUVs.

“Yes! Follow me!” Tallulah continued to call up to him as she began to skate backwards a moment, before spinning around and speeding ahead. She turned down a busy street to shake off their pursuers.

Tallulah dodged and weaved around cars and crowds of onlookers, jumping and ducking, and spinning around. It more or less turned into a game for the dinosaur, his snarl replaced by a large panting smile. 

Laszlo glanced back at the SUVs, beaming when he saw they were falling behind. They were honking trying to get through the traffic and crowds, but they were having trouble. As he watched them, Frankie suddenly grabbed Laszlo’s face. 

“Kid! Look out!”

Laszlo spun around and pulled on the reins hard, stopping Tiny just in time before he could run straight into a downed power line. 

Tiny ducked his head down, sending the others flying over the hanging lines and to the other side. Laszlo scrambled to his feet and ran back to help Tiny, but Tallulah and Bud grabbed him. Tallulah screamed for him to stop.

The group stood frozen as the agents caught up to the cornered beast. He looked at the alleys, but knew he wouldn’t fit. The agents rushed out of the vehicles, hitting him with quite a few hefty tranquilizers. Tiny began to attack them, but it only took a moment before he went crashing to the floor, his roars quieting.

The agents rushed ahead, using the reins as a makeshift muzzle.

Tiny’s head landed only a few feet from his family. His wild, fearful eyes met theirs. He opened his mouth, only letting out a small whimper before succumbing to sleep.

Laszlo stood in complete shock. 

He moved forward to help, but Tallulah grabbed at him again, shouting something about the power lines.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

Laszlo didn’t know if he was saying it to Tallulah because of the power lines, to Bud for crashing and risking his life, to Frankie for not paying attention, or to Tiny for causing him to get caught. He was saying it to all of them, he realized.

Laszlo barely felt it when Tallulah grabbed him in a hug. He knew she was there, but everything just felt numb. Like everything was dulled or underwater.

He finally snapped out of it when a large spotlight shone down from above, bringing a strong wind with it. The group looked up in shock as a chinook helicopter positioned itself above the buildings, lowering a strap harness. The agents rushed to hook Tiny up to the helicopter and send him up. 

Tallulah looked over to the agents again. They were watching her and her family. They loomed like vultures. The power lines were the only things standing between them.

Tallulah grabbed at Laszlo’s shoulders. “We have to go! Right now!”

The siblings got on either side of their uncle and hurried off to find the rest of the family.

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

Check out the chapter on my Archive!

[the-vixen]

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥 : 𝙀𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙃𝙪𝙣𝙩 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

PART 11 PART 12 PART 13 -------- MASTERLIST

When you are sent on a mission to rescue Ethan Hunt from prison, the events that domino will force you to face the ghosts of your past and your guilt tied to Ethan.

This takes place throughout the events of ghost protocol. There will be a change in the story and the events of the mission impossible 2 and 3. Ethan and Julia never got married, a certain amount of information will be changed that will be revealed in the story.

You barely paid Brij Nath any attention as your mind shifted between listening in on comms  and thinking about Ethan and his stupid stupid hunch. 

Throughout the time you've known him, Ethan has had a lot of 'hunches'. 

And usually, they've very accurate. 

Hence why he trusts these hunches. 

And why you did too. 

But the fact that he decided to kiss you deeply just for show, and then leave you there with zero explanation of his actions, stung deeply. 

Very deeply. 

You were sure Ethan had his suspicions of your feelings towards him. The time in the shack in Dubai didnt leave you being subtle for any reason. 

Regardless whether he knew your feelings or not, the whole act felt a little sinful. 

You paused your thought process when you felt Brij Nath's hand on your lower back, pulling you against him as he led you down the hallway of his collection of art, spewing something about, "exposing one's deepest desires" 

You smiled at Brij Nath, feigning interest in what hes saying. 

"what the hell is that?"

"what the hell is what?" Ethan responded.

"its downloaded a virus from the satellite." benji responded

There was a pause. 

"Hendricks is killing the server....before we can kill the satellite." Ethan spoke.

Benji's voice became urgent. "Hendricks is reprogramming the satellite hes gonna have launch capability in five minutes!" 

You swallowed before taking Brij Nath's hand, a sweet smile gracing your features as you spoke softly. "I would...like to go somewhere private with you..sir.." 

Brij Nath's grin widened, "of course...my dear.." he led you down to a private bedroom. 

You took a minute to look at your surroundings, keeping the innocent and wistful look on your face as you scanned the room. 

"Venus, we gotta move. Get that code." Jane said. 

"its beautiful.." you turned to Brij nath. He moved closer to you, "only the finest...with no..interruptions.." he touched your chin eagerly. 

You blinked at him, smiling. "Good." you whispered, grabbing him and flipping him onto the bed, putting him in a headlock. 

He groaned and squirmed under your grip, "what---"

"try to move and you will never speak again. the override sequence to the relay station. say it." you demanded.

He panted, squirming. 

You tightened your grip, "say it!" you demanded. 

Brij Nath took a breath, trying to breathe. "46....82.....93..." he groaned

You waited for a second, keeping your hold on the man. 

"the system's crashed! we're too late!" benji spoke. 

You heard Ethan reply, "no no no hes revealed himself---Benji can you pinpoint Hendricks location?"

"Hendricks is signaling out of a state run TV station 6.7 miles from here." he answered 

"Send me the coordinates. Good work Bradnt--get the hell out of there. Jane, Rendevouz with benji and brandt. Y/n-- tie it off with Nath and meet me at the rally point." Ethan ordered. 

You grabbed the sedative from your thigh, moving brij nath and pushing it into his neck. "go to sleep." you muttered in Hindi before letting him go.

You moved down back to the party, before heading out the exit. 

You headed for the car, finding Ethan starting it up. You got in as the two of you sped out of the valet. 

Benji checked in with you and Ethan as you began to take off your dress, grabbing the bag from the backseat.

"How long before Hendricks can launch a missile?" Ethan asked, speeding up as he looked at the gps on the windshield. 

"Less than 30 seconds!" 

Ethan pressed his lips together and swiped the gps away. "I need another route. Y/n." he looked you as you took off your dress and left yourself in your kevlar. 

You looked at the road, "There's a left up. ahead. turn left and then take the alley that'll come on the right." you said. 

Ethan looked at you before turning his focus ahead, speeding up. 

As you and Ethan sped through the streets and alley, you heard Benji speak again. "Hendricks just started the launch sequence." 

"how much time till missiles are flying?" you asked as you changed. 

"Three minutes!"

You looked around as Ethan drove and swerve around, "we're three and a half minutes out.." you looked at him. 

He watched you as you put on your shirt, looking back to the road. "We'll make it. we always do." he muttered. 

You kept directing him through the streets; and as you both tried to get to the TV station on time. 

As you and Ethan stopped because of people on the road, Benji's voice came in again. 

"guys..we're too late.."

"what?" 

"the missiles in the air." he spoke, defeated. 

You swallowed as you and Ethan exchanged looks. You could see him formulating another plan in his mind. He refused to give up. 

He immediately sped up as soon as the crosswalk cleared. "There has to be a way to abort the warhead." he muttered. 

You thought for a minute, "the launch device. there should be some form of contingency on it.." you suggested.  "if there is a way it'll be on it."

"We need that case." Ethan finished. 

As you got to the station, you spotted Hendricks and wistrom standing outside. 

"get Hendricks!" you told him before you ran after Wistrom. 

You followed him back into the server room, taking out your gun. You searched for him carefully before spotting him at the processor. You shot at him, making him hide and stop tearing the wires. 

As you searched for him, he snuck up on you and stabbed you with a shard of broken glass. Wistrom tried to snatch your gun, making you struggle as you fought back with a shard through your torso. You managed to kick him away and shoot at him. 

As you did so, he ducked and ran. You tried to chase after him but stopped when you heard people coming into the room. You swore, panting as you pulled the shard out and bent down, taking cover. 

Jane, Benji and Brandt made their way into the room, relieving you as you stood back up, grunting. "Wistrom's on the run. go." you told them, leaning against the processor. 

Jane went to you as Brandt followed your instructions. "youre injured." Jane pressed her fingers against your wound. "Im fine...benji...get the relay fixed...." you told him before the power went out. 

benji took a breath, informing brandt to get the power back on. Jane looked at you, "we have to get you out of here." she held you up as blood soaked your shirt and dripped down. "no..no cover benji incase wistrom comes back." you pulled away and stumbled onto to the floor. 

"y/n!" she went to you, "cmon..youll be okay...Ethan--" she spoke into comms before you grabbed her wrist.

"No."

"no?"

"Dont tell Ethan. im fine. I'll be fine. just cover benji. I'll handle it." you said as she helped you stand back up. 

"Y/n."

"I'll be okay. Just Dont tell Ethan."

[keter-kan]

HI!!! Back with chapter three!!! All feedback welcome 😌

tw: mentions of death, murder, depressive symptoms

Ch. 3

May sat at her desk, her head weighing heavy in her hands. She didn’t need to look towards the paintings and sculptures adorning the walls and mantle; every inch of this room was known to her like the back of her own hand. She spent hours upon hours here, possibly entire lifetimes. After her father fell, the duchy of Ilucia rallied around her, looking to the only remaining legitimate heir. They loved her father—revered him, almost. There was a strict way about the man when it came to keeping things running, making sure jobs were filled and trades were made. They would say he was a kind man who knew how to speak in a way that made other’s listen. He ruled here through a combined force of love and fear, managing to balance the two in a way that allowed their family to remain influential in a time when Dukes and Duchess’s were finding their heads rolling across the wooden floor.

As she lifted her head, laying it back on the chair behind her and taking a deep breath, she found herself looking at the chair across from the desk. How many times had she sat there? How many glasses of brandy did she watch the man down? How many bruises had faded over the time since his death?

Her mind didn’t travel here often—at least, not anymore. There was no use in thinking of all the things you’d never be able to speak of. Gripping the arm of the chair until her knuckles turned white, May found herself wondering what a man like him would have done in a situation like this.

He’d never allow himself in a situation like this to begin with, she thought, toying with the idea of a monster prowling the halls of the manor while her father was still above ground. If only.

There’s something to be said of the burning urge May felt regarding her rule of the duchy. It had nothing to do with pride; she wasn’t proud of what her father built, nor his father before him. The countless hours of preparing in the feminine arts and learning to be the daughter her father required of her. It was like she wasn’t meant to be spoken to or asked questions but only looked at by prospective husbands to further the financial stability of the Ilucia. It was a simple life.

Simplicity was a gift May was never to receive again. The day she found herself groveling at the feet of a witch in the mud was the last time she would ever know what that word truly meant, even if she didn’t know it at the time. By the Winds and Waters, though, did she know it now.

There was a lot she had to learn in quite a short period of time, her motivation pushing her with a desire she hadn’t ever felt before. There was a certain weight that came with responsibility, one that she found herself becoming comfortable under. Finally, there was a purpose for her, one beside what her father had created.

But this isn’t where she thought she’d end up. There was very little about life that May understood, even after years of serving her duchy; she felt like something was still wrong. The trade was going well, bolstering the economy, creating plenty of work for all her people. The militarized approach to running the area has taken quite well over the last few months, as well, with all of her men supporting the change. There would always be the problems of ruined crops or overdue taxes, but things were well and stable, thanks to May.

But something was wrong. Something had been wrong since the day of her coronation: this pounding that never seemed to dissipate, but got quieter the less she focused on it. This screaming force begging her to follow it’s sound, only for May never to locate the source. Something was deeply wrong, and she didn’t know where to start looking when it came to fixing it.

Running her hand against the smooth grain of the desk, she felt more aware of the feeling of the chair beneath her, the seat of what came before her now cradling what was once a scared little girl. Looking upon the office that had barely changed since it became hers, she found herself wondering what it all would be like if they knew; if they really knew of what had happened to him, what she had done. No matter how many times she played it again in her mind, she never stopped feeling proud of it, even when every fiber of her being was telling her that guilt was the only way forward.

She was beside herself as she slowly came to her feet, shuffling over the creaking floor towards the door. As she looked back behind her, towards the hearth she was just moments ago sitting before, she felt rage being stoked within her. Things were starting to crack in a way that everyone else could see. And what of when they started asking questions? No part of the truth would ever escape her lips. It couldn’t.

She couldn’t tell you how long she stood there wrestling with emotions she felt she shouldn’t have, and yet as the sun started to peek over the horizon, bathing the office in shades of oranges and pinks as it shone through the window, May’s throat constricted and sweat started to bead on her brows. Her fists clenched at her sides, breath hitching behind her tongue as she struggled to get the words out.

Quiet squeals left her lips, the whimper she made doing nothing but embarrassing her in the empty room. It didn’t matter how hard of a breath she put behind it; it didn’t matter how hard she prayed or to what God. There would be no answers where she searched for them; there would be no voice when she dared to scream.

~

The sun was bright, bouncing from each full leaf and meeting the ground with a kiss. The birds sang along with the babbling rhythm of the brook, lulling May into a calmness she hadn’t felt for too long. Someone so young wasn’t meant to bear the things she wore, and yet she wore them nonetheless.

“Do you think they’d ever let me come to the manor?” Oryn quipped, tossing a stone from the bank off into the river, watching the waves swallow it.

May sat a bit straighter, looking towards her. “The Witches?” she scoffed. “Absolutely not.” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, struggling to hold it in.

Oryn sighed, shoulders sinking low. “It was a stupid question,” they said, picking up another small stone.

May scooted a bit closer to her friend, taking off her shoes and letting her feet dip into the river. “You aren’t missing much, anyway.”

They nod, taking a moment to think before speaking again, voice heavy with something May couldn’t quite place. “I won’t know that until I see for myself. Besides, you talk so much of your brother, I’d like to meet him, eventually.”

May found herself laughing. “My brother? You and him… you’re different,” she smiled, meeting Oryn’s gaze. “I don’t think he would… well, I don’t know. I won’t say you’ll never meet him, but I’ll never take him here. He’d never come.”

Oryn nodded. They didn’t take offense; the way they lived here with the Witches wasn’t something that everybody would understand. Maureen told them that time and time again.

“Would he want to kill them?” Oryn asked, cocking her head the way she’s seen May do when she asks a question with a nonchalant air.

May’s brows furrowed as she turned her gaze down, watching her feet in the water. “Probably,” she said, “People don’t really know the Witches.”

“What do they call them again? Out in town.”

“Hags,” May said, meeting Oryn’s gaze again. “But they’re not.”

“I know.” And she did know that. Truly.

“They’re good. Good women, good people.”

“I know,” Oryn said, their voice ringing clearer with conviction. “Do you?”

May caught herself staring off into wherever the river went, down towards the horizon and off into some land somewhere that she didn’t know, off to an ocean she’d never see. “I trust them.” she finally said, looking for something she’d never find.

“But your brother wouldn’t,” Oryn stated.

“No, he wouldn’t. But it’s because he doesn’t know them. He is… strict in his convictions. I doubt he’d let himself.” She sighed. “People are afraid of things they don’t know.”

Oryn nodded, letting their hand sit softly atop May’s. May let a content smile splay on her lips, still staring off into nothing and everything.

“He was thinking of leaving, actually,” May said, letting herself speak about something she’d been holding in for a while. She took her feet out of the river, the cold water making her feet numb for a moment, grass and mud sticking to them as she tucked them under herself and turned to face Oryn.

“Leaving?” Oryn turned, too, meeting May’s serious gaze.

“Oryn,” May started, “Do you know what war is?”

~

There was a distrust in May’s men. It wasn’t against her, necessarily, but against what they knew she didn’t say. Standing behind her and glorifying her name was something none of them had ever thought of twice. But Alec, feeling a new sense of bewilderment, found himself asking more questions than he had answers to.

The dank cellar was full from floor to ceiling with books bigger than he’d ever seen. As he made his way from one row to the next, he saw words he didn’t recognize bound by skin in colors he’d never seen. He didn’t know specifically what May wanted him to search for besides some sort of mention of a monster like the one they saw that night

“No,” Alec said to himself, “Not monster. That man,” he mumbled, letting his fingers trail along the spines of the tomes, leaving a line amidst the dust in his wake. There was knowledge hiding here that no one knew, and the boy didn’t know how he’d go about finding it. He wasn’t even sure what it was.

He was young to handle any guilt, but not so young that he didn’t understand it. He thought of death more often than not in these passing days, wondering how responsible he should feel and whose fault it was and what he could have done differently, if anything at all. He didn’t think he’d find any answers for any of those questions here, but the others… maybe.

He didn’t sleep the following night, nor the night after that. It was harder to sleep when he’d close his eyes and see that thing hiding in the darkness, ready to rip another door from its hinges. First, it scared him. He knew his father hated that he harbored so much fear, but his mother made sure he knew that he was still just a boy; it was more than normal, but expected. A boy didn’t become a man overnight—he wouldn’t be able to conquer those fears from a meagre month in the militia. You don’t just grow up, all at once.

The fear turned into something else, though; the other thing his father told him never to harbor. Curiosity. He’d been on enough hunts with his brothers to know what beasts lurk in the shadows, and this certainly isn’t one that they’ve ever heard of. It didn’t matter how long he wracked his brain of the stories of great hunts and beast slayers, there was nothing about this thing that could point to its origin. The scouts of the area have an extensive list of any and all beasts that they’ve been able to track and hunt locally, making sure to dispatch of any of the less… safe species. But this wasn’t a beast. It was a man.

When the Duchess had made her announcement to the staff of a prolonged guest taking up stead in one of the unused rooms, there was a stifle of what could only be excitement amongst her men. There hadn’t been a single visitor to the manor since she’d become the standing Duchess.

There were very few who opposed her. Although not in direct opposition, Alec’s father wasn’t one to take his dismissal lightly. May shed her father’s cohort quickly, making it her first proper action when she became standing Duchess. They all thought she’d come crawling back to the group of old men, looking for some sort of guidance in what to do next and how to help her people. Their anger was mellow at first, masked by their grief for their former duke and, not too long thereafter, his proper heir.

Alec didn’t find much of anything on that first day in the archives. He looked from one book to another, trying to find the ones that would talk more about beasts and monsters and where they come from. Everything he found terrified him, but none as much as he originally had. His thoughts ran rampant with the things the Duchess could be planning or where she could have picked up someone like him in the first place. Why, of all the things she could do—of all the men she could recruit—would she go searching for something like that?

She must be planning something. Something big.

He concluded that whatever it was, it must be something worth more than the lives of all the men she could lose trying to tame it.

-

“I’ve no idea what the fuck to do,” May mumbled, her foot bouncing with anticipation as she starred upon the idol, sat shiny and untouched upon a shelf nothing else would ever grace. She didn’t pray often, and never in the way she was supposed to. There was meant to be a certain etiquette to prayer; quiet and unadorned speech, modest robes, offerings, the list could go on and on. Most people of May’s generation and those that followed disregarded more and more of the rules and regulations with each passing year, finding themselves making their own relationships with Gods that many barely knew, if ever making a relationship with any of them at all. May’s father was a man of appearances, hiring gardeners and masons and carpenters to add constant flourishes to his gardens and shrines. After his death, her brother slowly forgot about all the groundskeepers and by the time May was the standing heir, they were all dismissed.

She found herself sitting in front of a shrine shrouded with natural growth. The thick branches of the bushes held themselves tight against the rotting wooden ornamentations, the stone platform and shelves encrusted with years of mildew and moss. The thick pool of algae swam atop what used to be a fountain that sprayed scented mist, eating whatever fell amongst the scum. She found a beauty in the disheveled look; admired the strength of nature reclaiming something that was once so carefully manicured.

She crouched over a wooden stump that was so old it had started to petrify here in the shade, hands clasped tight and brows furrowed. She looked towards the idol, lessons of the Great Winds flashing through her mind. Her father made sure she was schooled properly, even if only to make her a good potential suitor. Although the masculine arts were out of her reach until she found herself the standing Duchess, May liked to think that, in another life, she may have been a true scholar. Not here, though. Not now.

As she gazed up towards the polished clay vase, she wondered if something made in a man’s image—in a man’s hands—could ever truly be a vessel for communicating with the Gods. All the questions in such nature started occurring not long after her mother’s death, but with the beatings she received when she voiced them, she thought it best to push them far from her mind. Now, though, the doubt and uneasiness of not being an honest believer started to nag at her.

This was stupid, she thought, remembering the times she prayed for first her mother’s soul, and then her father’s. She didn’t bother to pray for her brother’s—she sullied his soul far beyond repair. There was nothing prayer could have done for him.

She sat up straighter, sucking in a deep breath and setting her feet firmly on the ground. She tried with everything in her to think hard enough of something that would help her, something to steer her in a direction that would tell her what to do with Oryn. What to do about the trail of death that seemed to follow them; the responsibility and guilt not weighing on her the way she knew it should. She bought them here. She is the one who has her men’s blood on her hands. So why did she feel so relieved?

She’s not unused to blood. Her own, her men’s, her family’s… But those all carried a weight to them that she could feel; one that kept her in a state of hostility, never knowing whose death she’d be responsible for next. There was a numbness that came with it, the last several years serving to alienate her subjects from her more and more. It wasn’t the way she was supposed to think. The value of life is something she used to cherish; something the Waters and Winds were supposed to help spread throughout mankind, if we would accept them into our lives. Feeling the guilt and pain was all a part of the Natural Way, molding them—the meagre supplicants of their Gods—into a warrior that was fit to battle the Natural Chaos that the world had to offer. There was a balance to be maintained.

Her prayer was bitter and full of a vain desire to understand oneself—a prayer the Gods most likely wouldn’t answer. And yet as she held the idol in her gaze, the sun glinting off the glaze of the vase, she felt like she had finally admitted something long overdue.

She closed her eyes, letting the few rays of sun sneaking through the overgrowth caress her skin, before grabbing a pebble from the long-forgotten footpath beside her and hurling it at the vase, the stone hitting the ceramic with a satisfying clunk as it split and shattered to pieces. Whatever birds were lounging in the nearby bushes and trees took that as their cue to depart, leaving her feeling alone in a forgotten shrine that no longer had a purpose.

She stood, stretching her arms and taking a few more big, deep breaths. Good throw. She knew she wasn’t going to find any answers here. Hell, she wasn’t going to find any answers anywhere. She had that little boy—what was his name? Alex? Alvin? —rummaging through what must be years and years' worth of tall tales and nonsense. She knew he wouldn’t find anything useful, but she needed to make all of her men feel as though they were doing something that was. The last thing she needed was a reason for her men to fall apart and start rallying against her. It was up to her to give them purpose, no matter how unimportant it truly was in the end.

May started making her way down the stone steps and back towards the manor, her shoes hitting the ground with purpose. He needs to learn.

Oryn had spent the past week sulking in their room, blinds drawn, and door locked. As May walked from one side of the manor grounds to the other, it was determination fueled by anger that flooded her veins. There was too much being hidden, not enough known. She found herself thinking back to her first brush with death. She understood what it meant long before her mother died… a childhood cat, maybe? Or was it her grandfather? She didn’t remember. When was Oryn’s?

[lakemojave]

Tonight at 6pm Pacific: The Direct Actors, a BG3 "Adventure" pt. 12!

Well, last week sure was a blast, huh. Don't worry, coming into this week's session we're gonna have a grand old time and be best friends for sure! Come see @radiofreederry play Dhudlei Durite, elf paladin, my friends Nana and April play Leviathan, Dragonborn Dark Urge Monk, @caputvulpinum play Micah Harper, Tiefling Cleric, and me play Delilah "Mama D" Harper, Halfling Bard!

Art by @terrafey, recap under the cut. See y'all then!

THE STORY SO FAR: On the way to a union rally, Delilah "Mama D" Harper and her grandson Micah were abducted and taken aboard an ilithid nautiloid, which they escaped with mysterious dancer Leviathan and self-proclaimed "Champion of Ilmater and Paladin of Good" Dhudlei Durite. Each infected by a mind flayer tadpole, but so far immune from transforming into mind flayers themselves, The Direct Actors, as the party have come to be known, now turn their attention to the Shadow-Cursed Lands, where Moonrise Towers, the lair of the Cult of the Absolute, awaits them...

LAST TIME: Recuperating from their trek through the Shadow-Cursed Lands, the Direct Actors encountered the devil Raphael at Last Light Inn, who had designs on both Dhudlei's soul and that of the tiefling girl Mol. After a battle of words, the party found the bedridden Flaming Fist Art Cullagh, whom Dhudlei recognized from a century before. After a discussion with the druid Halsin, Dhudlei realized that Cullagh may hold the key to breaking the shadow curse, and immediately guided the party on a quest to do just that.

En route to the House of Healing in the ruins of Reithwin, Dhudlei's temper exploded after Leviathan and Micah pressed him to engage with a group of shadow-cursed Harpers, and he revealed his past with Ketheric Thorm; Dhudlei also revealed that he blamed himself for the state of the land, explaining his single-minded drive to break the curse.

At the House of Healing, the Direct Actors encountered the undead surgeon Malus Thorm and put him down after he attacked the group, and Micah found a lute belonging to Art Cullagh, which he withheld from Dhudlei. Back at camp, Micah and Mama D got into a vicious argument which peaked when Micah, finally done with Mama D, lashed out and attacked her, leaving her to tend to her wounds. Dhudlei made an effort to mend the rift between himself and Micah, answering his questions honestly after Micah expressed the rupture of his trust he felt, although this did not fully restore the trust between them. Finally one of Leviathan's personalities, amused, decided that Micah was fun and declared himself the cleric's friend. As the party settled in for the night, Leviathan was visited by his disgusting corpse-like butler, who commanded him to kill the cleric Isobel Thorm - Dhudlei's goddaughter.

After a lengthy diversion involving a battle in an acid pit and a clash with a horde of shadow-cursed kuo-toa, the Direct Actors returned to camp once again. Mama D and Micah had another argument which seemed to result in a brief truce before Mama D broke down over her own perceived uselessness. Meanwhile, Micah decided to trust Dhudlei again, and Dhudlei extended the same to Leviathan, returning the Bhaalite scroll Leviathan had entrusted to him - but was he right to do so?

Will the party be able to come together as a unit once more? Will the rifts forming between them be able to heal? Will Leviathan follow through on his orders to kill Isobel? Will Mama D be able to rebuild her self-esteem? And will the Direct Actors break the shadow curse? Find out in another exciting installment of Baldur's Gate 3, starring the Direct Actors!

[vulpes-fennec]

Love on Water Lilies 🪷 (Ch 1)

Summary: Prince Lucien Vanserra of the Autumn Kingdom is all play, no work. Elain Archeron, a waitress and aspiring restaurant owner in the city of Colibri, is all work, no play. Caught in a larger scheme of politics and war, Lucien and Elain are turned into frogs. Will Elain get her restaurant back? Will Lucien ever become Fae again?

Read on AO3

An Princess and the Frog inspired story for @elucienweekofficial Day 5: Nature 🍃

“Fried plantains and fresh fruit salad! Two vanilla golden toasts with honey syrup! Banana pudding!” The line cooks’ voices rang out from the sizzling kitchen.

“Coming right on up!” Elain Archeron plastered on a bright smile and cheerful voice as she dished out plate after plate of breakfast at Roy’s Cafe. The heavenly smell of fresh coffee was barely enough to keep Elain awake—she was exhausted. Elain glanced at the clock. Five more minutes…

Her shift at the Purple Flamingo Cabaret last night had certainly taken its toll, for the Summer Kingdom’s Mardi Gras festivities had begun. The swamp city of Colibri, known for good food and even better music, drew thousands of visitors every Mardi Gras. And this year, a special celebrity was in their midst: Prince Lucien Vanserra of the Autumn Kingdom, who had arrived just yesterday.

Although Elain hadn’t seen this prince yet, she heard plenty about him last night at the Purple Flamingo. The fourth and youngest son of King Beron Vanserra, Lucien was young, rich, handsome…and most importantly, single. He would probably remain that way, too, for word on the street was that Lucien was a total flirt. Gallivanting his way across Prythian’s kingdoms, taking on new lovers each week, partying all night long…

Elain grabbed a beignet to-go when she finally clocked out. Gulls squawked in the distance, green-painted trolleys clanged as they rolled by. Mardi Gras revelers walked by, decked out in chic outfits of green, purple, and yellow. With her food-stained yellow apron, worn ballet flats, and frazzled honey-brown hair, Elain felt a pinch of resentment.

Must be nice to never have to work a day in your life. Every year, the promise of generous tips during Mardi Gras dangled before food service workers like a carrot, tricking them into taking extra shifts.

It wasn’t always this way. Elain remembered the Mardi Gras celebrations of her childhood, the way she and her sisters danced to lively jazz and ate their way through delicacies all night long. The Archeron home used to be in the Marigold District, where all the wealthy Fae lived. But then Elain’s mother passed away, leaving her father depressed. Reginald Archeron rallied himself enough to fight in the Hybern War seven years ago, but lost his leg during one of the early battles.

Elain loved her father dearly, but it was plain fact that he had practically given up on life after becoming handicapped. The familial roles had reversed: instead of their father ensuring his daughters’ needs were met, Elain, Feyre, and Nesta were forced to take odd jobs in order to survive. Nesta delivered and occasionally edited for The Colibri Tribune. Feyre cleaned the art studios and landed the occasional art commission. Elain juggled multiple shifts between Roy’s Cafe, the Purple Flamingo Cabaret, and Emile’s Seafood Bar.

Though her shifts were grueling, Elain tried to view them in a positive light. It was career training of sorts: she paid attention to different management styles, brushed up her conversational skills with all sorts of Fae as a waitress, and improved her culinary skills as a cook. Ever since she was a little girl, a riverfront cafe to call her own had been Elain’s dream. When her family fell from wealth seven years ago, that dream was almost lost.

But now, Elain was closer to achieving that dream than ever. She was fairly confident in her capabilities as a cook and waitress. She had strong accounting skills, enough to ensure her restaurant wouldn’t go bankrupt. And more importantly, she had been in serious talks with realtors for a decrepit riverfront pavilion. The pavilion was a little run-down, but it was perfect in Elain’s heart. She juussttt needed a little more money…which was where the Mardi Gras cooking contest would come into play.

Because in addition to the multiple parades, balls, concerts, and parties, Mardi Gras featured local cuisines in a series of cooking concerts.

Today was the jambalaya cooking contest, which was taking place at Firefly Square. Tomorrow, Elain was slated for the baking contest, where she planned to wow the judges with her peach cobbler. The day after, she would participate in the fry contest, having perfected her fried chicken spice rub.

Elain stopped home to briefly freshen up. It was a tiny, cramped space—an utter downgrade from their old home. She and her sisters had squeezed three narrow beds into a room, the sole closet overflowing with clothes. The living room wasn’t much better: Feyre’s art supplies were strewn across every available surface, and Nesta’s second-hand books tilted in precarious stacks. Only the kitchen, Elain’s domain, remained spotlessly clean and organized.

Elain powdered her face, brushed her curls, dabbed a bit of lipstick, and donned a new dress. She needed to look fresh and proper, and a cute face never hurt.

She then hurried to Firefly Square, wheeling a little wagon full of ingredients and her trusty steel pot. Savory dishes were not her specialty, so Elain needed all the luck she could get. However, she was fairly confident that her jambalaya would at least place in the top three. Her best friend, Vassa La Bouff, and her sisters had helped refine the recipe over the last year, and the ladies could be trusted to give their honest opinion.

“Name?” The event attendant held a clipboard at the check-in table.

“Elain Archeron,” Elain replied cheerfully. The event attendant wrote her name on a wooden placard and placed it on the scoring rack. The five judges, a mix of renowned cooks and locals, were seated under a rich purple tent. Onlookers had gathered on the sidelines of Firefly Square to watch the judges sample each entry and announce their points.

Several other participants were already present, busying away at their own cooking stations. While there was no set “start” time due to the participants’ varying culinary skills and recipes, the judges would begin tasting at one o’clock in the afternoon. So Elain got to work.

First, she braided up her honey-brown hair and donned a flowery pink apron. Then, she began expertly mincing: peppers, celery, onion, garlic, and tomatoes. The heated oil sizzled the chicken and sausage, bringing fragrant notes of paprika, bay leaf, and thyme into the air. The meat was taken out, the vegetables added in. Elain cleaned the rice, poured in homemade chicken stock, and added more salt, pepper, and herbs.

Elain stirred the bubbling mixture, using the time to observe the other participants. There were ten competitors total. Some appeared to be seasoned chefs, others looked like novices. Regardless, everybody was making good progress on their jambalaya. And more importantly, everyone looked like they were having fun.

Elain’s mouth watered from the scents wafting from her pot alone. The consistency of her jambalaya was thick, but not mushy—it was all coming together nicely. Elain did a final taste test and smiled. Spicy, savory, and tangy…it was her best pot of jambalaya yet.

The judges seemed to think so, too, when they sampled her dish.

“Wonderful aromas.”

“The chicken is the right amount of tender, Miss Archeron.”

“Tastes just like my grandmother’s home-style jambalaya!”

This—this was exactly why Elain loved to cook: seeing people enjoy her food made her happiest. She was the last contestant up for tasting, which meant the score the judges awarded would be her final placement for the contest. Elain’s breath caught when she tallied up the judges’ marks. Third place…third place! Oh, she was going to walk away with prize money! Elain ducked her head and tried to squash her victorious beam. One step closer to—

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”

The most beautiful male Elain had ever seen strode into the courtyard, lugging a steaming pot with bare hands. His skin was a burnished brown, his long red hair tied up in a haphazard bun. She found herself eyeing his corded forearms, exposed thanks to the rolled-up sleeves of his white linen shirt. The male’s straight-legged olive green pants accented his muscled thighs, and his shiny black shoes with their gold details indicated expensive taste.

An entire entourage of Fae, mostly female, had followed the male into Ironwood Square, inevitably shoving Elain to the back.

“It’s Prince Lucien,” the crowd murmured to each other. “What is he doing here?”

Prince Lucien? Well…that explained how he could hold such a hot pot without any oven mitts. The Autumn Kingdom’s royal family possessed fire magic, which meant they could manipulate flame and were essentially immune to burns. Elain even overheard at The Purple Flamingo last night that Autumn males—especially the royal princes—fucked with an intensity that matched the fire in their veins.

Elain had practically snorted upon hearing such words last night, though looking at Prince Lucien now, it was certainly believable. But the delighted giggling of several females when the prince stepped up to the podium snapped Elain out of her reverie. Ugh! Prince Lucien was a playboy at best, a heartbreaker at worst, she reminded herself. No, she would not encourage the fantasies that had been surely planted in her mind thanks to his impromptu appearance, lest she turn into a tittering female over a male like him.

“Good afternoon, honorable judges.” Prince Lucien’s voice was rich and buttery, with a slight accent. For some reason, it reminded Elain of sunlight. He turned towards the crowd, and Elain stifled a gasp upon seeing the scar that ran down his face and cut through his left eye, which had been replaced by a mechanical gold eye. Such a brutal injury, yet the prince was made more handsome even with the scar.

“Welcome, Prince Lucien!” The lead judge leapt to her feet, a wide smile on her face. The crowd cheered again. Some females even screamed hysterically.

Prince Lucien gestured grandly to the entourage that followed him, gold earrings twinkling off the tips of his pointed ears. “I am here to enter the jambalaya competition. As there was no kitchen in my hotel suite, I had to borrow the kitchen at Restaurante Genevieve. Chef Michel and these citizens can attest that I made the jambalaya all on my own.”

The prince peered intently at the scoreboard, already stacked with ten other names and numbers. Elain could have sworn his brows raised in subtle surprise.

“Though I see now that I was tardy…” Prince Lucien trailed off as his eyes swept the crowd, as if he were looking for someone.

“The entry period closed thirty minutes ago but ah…we can make an exception, can we not?” The lead judge said quickly, and the audience clapped in agreement. The other judges nodded eagerly, clearly delighted at the presence of royalty. “Well, Your Highness, we would be honored to sample your jambalaya!”

Elain’s jaw slackened. A prince, participating in a jambalaya contest? She had never heard of such a thing. Royals had their own chefs. They probably wouldn’t even know how to boil an egg.

The prince’s russet and gold eyes were still scanning the square with unusual interest. Elain eyed him skeptically from the back, observing the confident smile on Lucien’s face and the swaggering cut of his broad shoulders. There was the off chance that Prince Lucien possessed culinary skills…but he was from the Autumn Kingdom. He wouldn’t know a thing about authentic jambalaya, Elain told herself. Elain relaxed, knowing she was safe and secure in third place as the judges sampled Lucien’s entree.

“Cauldron, this is absolutely divine!”

“Look at the colors on the spoon! So vibrant, so fresh!”

“I could eat this for the rest of my life and die happy.”

“Last call to score…and…first place! We have a winner!” The crowd cheered raucously.

Elain’s mouth completely fell open when the score attendant placed Prince Lucien Vanserra’s name placard on the top of the board, shifting everybody else down. Which meant…which meant she had been knocked off third place.

Elain was in shock. She wasn’t going to make it to the podium, and she wasn’t going to earn any prize money. Prince Lucien bowed, and then turned to the crowd that had gathered.

“Good food is meant to be shared! Please, feel free to finish the pot!” he announced, voice dripping with pride. More cheers and claps rang out as Elain was jostled out of the way in the mad stampede for the winning jambalaya.

This was not possible. This could not be happening.

Elain’s face grew hot with embarrassment, as she hurriedly packed up her wagon. It was time to go; she could not bear to spend another minute in the square with knowledge of her loss. Elain half-wondered if she should join the crowd and really try Prince Lucien’s jambalaya for herself. It couldn’t be that good. But the notion of a rich, playboy prince edging her off the podium in a cooking contest he had no stakes in was too shameful to consider. She could’ve done better. Should’ve done better.

Elain didn’t look back as she wheeled her wagon home, the rusty wheels click-clacking over the cobblestoned streets. Her half-full pot of jambalaya would become leftovers for her sister and father. At least they didn’t have to spend more money on groceries this week.

Some humility would do her good, Elain knew, as she was not a “professional” chef yet, but gods…would she ever be? If a prince could beat her in a cooking contest? If she couldn’t even win a couple judges’ favor, how was she going to draw the Colibri Fae to her restaurant?

—Later that evening—

After a fitful afternoon nap, Elain decided to stop by her cafe before heading to Vassa’s house. Well, it wasn’t hers yet, but Elain had recently begun treating it as such. She sat on a bench, listening to the lapping of the Mayhaven River, watching the steamboats chugging by.

“I’m almost there,” she whispered to herself. “People are going to come here from everywhere, I’m almost there.” The riverfront pavilion was a shabby brick building that had been a mess hall for dock workers in its previous life. The interior’s open layout would be the perfect place to install a stage for local musicians. Each table would have fresh flowers, the walls would be painted a creamy tan, the big windows would offer river views and plenty of natural light… oh, it was all coming together.

The door swung open. Hudson Jennings, Elain’s realtor, walked out with a folder tucked under his arm. Elain leapt up from her bench, ready to bid him hello. But she froze when a head of red hair ducked through the doorway. No…it couldn’t be…

“Pleasure doing business with you, Your Highness,” Hudson said, shaking Lucien Vanserra’s hand firmly. Even without his entourage of fans, Lucien held himself with a regal grace and winning smile.

“Of course,” Elain could hear the prince respond smoothly. “I look forward to establishing a second residence in Colibri.” Elain could only watch in horror as the realtor handed Lucien a set of keys before parting ways. Keys to her riverfront cafe!

“Mr. Jennings!” Elain ran as fast as her little feet could carry her as soon as Lucien had walked away. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. This must be a bad dream.

“Oh! Miss Archeron!” Hudson blinked his cat-like eyes in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here!”

“Mr. Jennings, did you just sell the property to Lucien?” Elain was breathless. Please say no, please say no, she begged silently.

“Ah, yes I’m afraid I just did.” Hudson patted the folder of papers. “I know, I know…you have been eyeing that property for some time, Miss Archeron, but the prince showed up with ample cash! We have several other properties available in town for your cafe, though. Let us talk more next week.”

“But—” Elain tried to say, then deflated. Her realtor was already walking away. There was no use. Unless she somehow managed to alter Hudson’s memory, rip up the sale papers, and steal the keys from Lucien, the property was gone. And so were her dreams of owning a riverfront cafe.

It seemed the prince was hell-bent on ruining her life. Lucien had fame and fortune, and got everything Elain wanted because of his name. Perhaps Elain had angered the Mother, somehow. For how else could so much go wrong in less than 24 hours?

Elain tried very hard not to cry as she rode the trolley to Vassa’s house. One, she was in public, and ladies did not cry in public. Two, the La Bouff Mardi Gras ball was starting in a few hours. Elain had been looking forward to the event all month, and crying right now would make her eyes puffy.

The La Bouffs resided in the Dorado District, the richest district in all of Colibri. Vassa’s “house” was actually a grand, three-story mansion of pale white marble, elegant columns, iron lace accents, and sweeping gabled roofs. When Elain arrived, the bustle of the musicians tuning their instruments and the servants, the gurgling fountain, and the beautiful lanterns of green, yellow, and purple faelight made her smile. A good party always made her feel more alive, even though she attended very few of them in recent years.

Vassa’s parents were one of the Mardi Gras royalty this year, and had invited Elain to the La Bouff Mardi Gras ball. Vassa was a true friend: she didn’t shun Elain after the Archerons fell into poverty, and for that Elain was eternally grateful. The footmen, used to her comings and goings, offered Elain warm greetings when she entered the mansion via the servants’ gate.

While Elain spent her days working, Vassa spent her days studying. The young La Bouff was finishing her last year at the prestigious Colibri Academy for Witchcraft, and was determined to be the top of her class. The only thing in Vassa’s way? Briallyn, a rival witch from the Continent. During the unfortunate occasions Elain had to interact with Briallyn, Elain felt the witch resembled a beady-eyed lizard.

Elain made her way down the spacious hallway and knocked on Vassa’s bedroom door.

“Elain! I’m so glad you’re here!” Vassa threw her arms around Elain. Her best friend’s orange hair was styled into loose waves, her bright blue eyes already lined with gold shadow. “Come, let us get ready together!”

“Vassa, it’s so good to see you,” Elain sighed, her voice still thick with emotion from earlier.

“What’s wrong?” Vassa asked, her brow creasing with concern. “Was it the jambalaya contest? Did you not get first place? I mean, second place is also fine, and so is third.”

Elain sat down on Vassa’s bed, hugging her knees to her chest. “The jambalaya concert was fine, until Prince Lucien Vanserra showed up at the last minute,” she said bitterly. “I had placed third, but that was before the judges awarded him first place. I got bumped down and I didn’t get any prize money.”

“Oh no,” Vassa rubbed Elain’s back sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Elain.”

“It’s just not fair!” Elain complained, her face heated with anger. “The judges gave him special treatment, letting him enter the contest even though the judging window had closed! Lucien was cooking off-site, how could anybody truly tell he was the primary chef? And perhaps they didn’t want to upset a prince, so they put him first even though he didn’t deserve it!”

“I see what you mean,” Vassa hummed. “Did you end up tasting his jambalaya? Surely it couldn’t be as good as yours. Those judges must not have working tastebuds.”

“No, but that’s not even the end of it. I found out he bought the riverfront property from Hudson Jennings this afternoon. Vassa, you know how long I’ve been saving up for my cafe! To think the perfect location would be gone, just like that…”

“Cauldron boil and fry him,” Vassa muttered darkly, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, Vassa. I know you’ve been looking forward to meeting Prince Lucien, that you want him to court you.” Elain sighed. “I shouldn’t be bad-mouthing him.”

“No, no, no,” Vassa shook her head. “Of course, I want Prince Lucien to court me, have you seen how handsome he is? But, your restaurant is something that I’ve been waiting for ever since we were little girls, Elain…when I see him tonight I will convince him to rescind the purchase.”

“Thanks, Vassa,” Elain smiled, feeling better. What Vassa set her mind to, Vassa achieved. She had no doubt her friend’s beauty and persistence would get the prince to change his mind. “He did say he wanted the property as a second residence.”

“Well! It wouldn’t be too hard to convince him to buy property in other Colibri districts!” Vassa raised her brows excitedly. “He could move in with me.” Vassa jumped to her feet, trying to inject some more life into Elain’s forlorn posture. “Now I know today hasn’t been the best day, Elain. But this ball will turn it all around! I have just the perfect dress for you, and I know you’ll have plenty of males to dance the night away with. It’s in the closet, come see!”

***Lucien***

“Just look at all of this, Jurian,” Lucien said to his best friend when they regrouped after the dance ended. “One of the best parties I’ve been to in a while.”

He had left his entourage of pretty females at the La Bouff mansion gate. Not that it really mattered, since there were even more females inside the ball. The musicians played lively tunes, inviting attendees to kick up their feet and whirl across the marbled outdoor dance floor. The La Bouff Mardi Gras decorations were simply exquisite, from the soft faelight lanterns hanging off trees to the flower arrangements on tables. Fae wine and cocktails flowed freely, wait staff walked around with platters of delicious food.

“Don’t tell Tarquin, but I’m enjoying myself far more here than the Mardi Gras balls in Adriata,” Jurian slurred slightly. The male lifted a pair of deviled eggs off a waiter’s tray and handed one to Lucien. “Though it is positively boiling in Colibri.”

“Of course, we’re near the Bog of Oorid,” Lucien remarked. He had donned an emerald green jacket with embroidered gold leaves at the cuffs, a freshly pressed white shirt, and black pants. The layers made him sweat profusely, though Lucien wicked away the excess moisture with a slight release on the damper of his magic. He looked good, and that was what mattered at the end of the night.

“Gods, I’m so hungry,” Jurian muttered as he inhaled a fried catfish filet within seconds. “They ate all your jambalaya before I could eat some.”

Lucien laughed. “Better clean up those crumbs and drink some mint julep before the next dance, Jurian. The females won’t appreciate fish breath.” Jurian only rolled his eyes as he turned his attention to a slice of Mardi Gras king cake.

Lucien scanned the rows of vendors, looking for the baked goods. But none of the vendors’ name tags read “Elain Archeron”. He sighed inwardly. He had no idea what Elain Archeron looked like, but had been hoping to try some of her famed treats. Tarquin, Prince of Adriata, could not stop talking about the hummingbird cake, peach cobblers, and powdered sugar beignets Elain made when she catered his Mardi Gras event in Adriata last year.

“If you’re visiting Colibri, you must try Elain Archeron’s food,” Tarquin had told him. “Elain’s cafe should be open by now. She is a very kind female as well, and please tell her I said hello.”

Elain Archeron had been one of the jambalaya contestants earlier in the afternoon, but the female did not bother introducing herself to him. Odd.

“Looking for Vassa?” Jurian inquired. Lucien was supposed to meet the Mardi Gras princess and ask her for the first dance, but her parents claimed Vassa was running late for the ball.

“I suppose,” Lucien murmured, even though that was not the case. Jurian knocked back another glass of Fae wine beside him. “Cauldron, Jurian. Save some space for the mint juleps before you get too drunk.”

“Aha! That reminds me…I’ll find those mint juleps while you’re looking for your princess. All this heat has me parched. Be right back.” Jurian clapped Lucien on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

Lucien lingered on the side, trying to assess which pretty female he would dance with next, when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. A pale-faced female, with onyx black hair and equally dark eyes, was standing behind him. There was something cunning in her face, something odd Lucien could not quite place. Nevertheless, the female was dressed as one of the wait staff and innocuously offered him a platter of powdered beignets.

“Beignet, Your Highness?” she asked, her voice peppy. “I heard the prince has a sweet tooth.”

“Thank you.” Lucien picked one up with a napkin and absentmindedly brought it to his mouth. It was only when Lucien swallowed his first bite that he realized something was wrong. The beignet was slightly bitter, the powdered sugar chalky on his tongue. Suddenly, everything seemed bigger. Everything was bigger.

Lucien blinked, feeling like his eyes had doubled in size based on how long it took for him to fully blink. The grass…it was eye-level, the blades of green sharp and extra vibrant. His body was hunched over on all fours. He was…a frog?

Oh gods. What the hell just happened?

A looming shadow darkened the space around him. Lucien looked up just in time to see the waitress, monstrously tall with a wicked glint in her eyes, poised to slam a bowl over his head.

Act first, think later.

Booiingg! Lucien moved on instinct, his frog legs launching him into the air like a spring. He dove straight into the crowd of Fae party-goers, stalling the waitress from pursuing him any further.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. That was new. Fear seized Lucien like a vise, the adrenaline sending him into flight mode. Where the hell did Jurian go? Everything was so damn big…the distance he normally crossed in three quick strides now required multiple leaps.

There! Jurian was near the tree line, mint juleps in hand. Lucien hopped towards his friend, gaining more mastery over his new limbs with each leap.

“Jurian!” Lucien blinked, surprised that he still retained the ability to speak. “Jurian! Down here!” he called out, louder this time.

The Fae male above him glanced down and promptly dropped the drinks in shock. Lucien flinched reflexively when minty sweet alcohol rained down, but it didn’t matter any more. As a frog, he had no clothes to protect from spilled drinks.

“Fuck, I must be more drunk than I thought.” Jurian blinked twice and chuckled. “I could have sworn that a frog with Lucien’s voice just spoke to me.”

“That’s because it is me!” Lucien hissed, hopping up and down insistently. “Jurian!”

“Holy shit.” Jurian knelt on the ground, scooping him up in his hands. “Lucien, is that you?”

“How many times do I have to say it’s me?” Lucien grumbled. Jurian’s green-brown eyes peered down.

“Cauldron, you still have your scar and your gold eye. Well, it’s not made of metal anymore, but…fuck.” Jurian lifted Lucien up to perch on his shoulder. Lucien brought a webbed hand to his face, feeling at his left eye. Sure enough, he could see out of both eyes—truly see, without relying on a metal contraption. “Fuck, I probably look like I’ve gone mad, talking to a frog.”

The male took some deep breaths, pacing back and forth. Lucien clung onto Jurian’s purple jacket for dear life. “Jurian, can you stop moving?”

“Sorry. We need another drink.” Jurian swiped two goblets of wine off a passing tray and ducked behind a drooping willow tree. Lucien hopped down, sitting on all fours on top of Jurian’s thigh. “Okay, Lucien. What the fuck happened?”

“I ate a beignet from this waitress, and then I turn into a frog and she’s trying to trap me under a bowl!” Lucien glanced furtively at their surroundings, but did not see the wretched female’s face.

“What did the waitress look like?”

“High Fae. Pale, with black hair and black eyes. She was wearing the La Bouff servant’s uniform.” Jurian’s gaze darkened with protective instinct.

“Why would she put a curse on you?”

Lucien shrugged. “Not sure. She knew who I was, though, so that’s strange. I’m Beron’s youngest son, with a slim path to the throne. What good would come out of cursing me?”

“Perhaps she wanted money. Ransom a prince, you know.”

“As if Beron would pay more than a couple coppers to get me back,” Lucien said bitterly.

“You’re right, your father is a bastard.” Jurian frowned. “Could you undo the curse yourself?”

“I can try.” Now that he had Jurian to keep watch, Lucien closed his eyes and tried to tunnel deep down into his well of magic. He had always had a knack for spells and curses. It wasn’t like that of witches, who required specific ingredients, tools, and conditions to generate any effect. Rather, it was pure magic—power that stemmed from being the son of a High Lord.

He found the dark stain of the curse, but despite all his efforts to extract it, the stain remained stubbornly present. It was as if it was interwoven into his very essence. Lucien yanked and prodded and threw wave after wave of magic against it, but to no avail.

“It’s not working,” he announced glumly.

“We should find the La Bouffs…tell them that one of their staff, or the food they served, turned the visiting Autumn Prince into a frog,” Jurian proposed, his fists clenching with concern. “If they cannot resolve this, then they should be held liable.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?” Lucien replied dryly. “Lord and Lady La Bouff can only do so much. But Vassa…she’s studying to be a witch. I heard she’s the top of her class…perhaps she could assist with undoing the curse.”

“Perhaps,” Jurian mused doubtfully.

Lucien hopped onto the rim of the wine goblet and stuck his tongue into the chilled liquor. The sweet and tangy notes were far more sensational thanks to his new taste buds. Unfortunately, his added weight was an imbalance to the delicate stem, and Lucien promptly tipped backwards. Red wine poured over his entire underside, drenching him.

Jurian began to laugh.

“You know frogs absorb liquid from their underbelly skin, right? You’ll be drunk in no time.” Lucien stuck his tongue out at Jurian and rolled around the grass for a bit, trying to clean himself off. “I suppose Vassa would be glad to help a prince for fame, or fortune.”

“Also, we have the old tale of princesses kissing frog princes,” Lucien reminded Jurian. “With the laws governing witch magic, it’s very likely that this curse follows the same path of resolution.”

Jurian snorted. “Good luck trying to convince a princess—even if it’s a Mardi Gras princess—to kiss a frog. We are better off pleading directly.”

Lucien tried to grin, but it felt strange with a new mouth and new facial muscles. “You seem to underestimate me, Jurian.”

“Let’s bet on it: if you can get the princess to kiss you, I’ll walk Eris’s dogs for the next month.”

“I do enjoy a challenge. I offer you this, just for fun. If the princess kisses you, Jurian, then I’ll buy you a new sword. Out of Illyrian steel.” Lucien stood on his hind legs, straightening his back and tilting his chin up with the regal air of a prince. Jurian rolled his eyes.

“As if a princess would want to kiss a lowly Autumn Kingdom foot soldier over its prince.”

“I beg to differ, Jurian. I’m a frog this time…I think that evens the playing field.” Lucien winked. “Besides, stop discrediting yourself. You’re one of our most skilled warriors. Anyways…best of luck, I’m off to find the princess!”

“You bastard,” Jurian muttered darkly, shaking his head with amusement. He finished his wine in two large gulps, holding the empty glass up in a mock toast. “I would say I hope you lose, but life would also be boring if you were stuck in frog form.”

With that, Lucien hopped off towards the La Bouff mansion. There was a slim chance Vassa was still getting ready for the party—truly, females needed all the time possible plus more for these elaborate events.

Most of the ball’s festivities were taking place in the garden and first floor, and Lucien could hear Lord and Lady La Bouff—the Dorado Mardi Gras King and Queen—chatting with guests. That meant the light emanating from the window on the second floor was none other than Vassa La Bouff’s.

Clinging to small nooks in the marble, scaling up vine to vine—which was made harder thanks to his slippery frog mucus, Lucien made his way to the golden window.

Princess Vassa was standing on the balcony, and simply put, she was the most beautiful female Lucien had ever seen.

The female’s wide eyes were cast towards the heavens, her expression a mixture of hope and despair. Honey-brown hair was swept up into an artful bun studded with luminous pearls. A tiara of rose gold rested on her brow, glittering in the moonlight. Her soft curves and elegant shoulders were accented by a strapless lavender gown with a heart-shaped neckline.

“Please, please, please,” the ethereal princess whispered, clasping her gloved hands to her chest. “Please.”

Lucien hopped closer, the world spinning out of view. Ah, damn it. The alcohol was kicking in faster than he’d anticipated. Princely charm now had to be mobilized in full force if he wanted to receive a kiss.

He cleared his throat, but only a ribbet came out. The princess glanced down, spotting him. Gods, she was beautiful. Those doe brown eyes, that golden skin still warm under the silver moon, and those pretty rosebud lips that hooked Lucien in like a moth to a flame.

“If you wanted a kiss, all you had to do was ask.”

[havendance]

I read Diana's 90s space arc, thoughts:

I thought it was pretty fun!

While I absolutely love the way Jill Thompson draws Diana, I did like the art style that this arc had as well. I thought it fit well, with the bold thick lines and colors. It fit the vibe.

My favorites parts of this arc were the first issue and the last issue.

Like everything else in between in between was fun, but oh!

I just really love the opening with Diana bonding with the Russian cosmonaut and they share greek as a language and she's keeping up hope as they drift in space

And this image here:

(Wonder Woman #66) Natasha (the cosmonaut): <The oddest thing. We are voyaging almost naked into the cold maw of death... and yet a minute ago when I turned on the suite communicators... She was laughing...>

The actual plot itself felt a little heavy-handed on the whole 'battle of the sexes' thing with the all-male empire enslaving women on principle but like, it's comics

Wonder Woman rallies a rebellion and becomes a space pirate

I'm willing to let some of the details slide to watch her kick ass

And she looks sick while doing it!

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes. Space plot. Fun. Tropey. Only goes on for like 6 issues as opposed to say, Knightquest.

The other standout issue: #71, Diana comes home. In which we learn she's been gone from earth an entire year! (A rare instance in which comics time moves faster than real time).

Anyway half or so of this issue is spent on Julia writing a letter saying goodbye to Diana as she accepts that she's probably dead. And then it ends with Diana showing up and they hug.

Look, I am soft for it.

I am now also having Vanessa feelings again. After everything. The loss of her father, all the worries and anxieties she had around Diana and Diana disappears for year. We only touch on her briefly, but the loss has to be hitting her hard as well.

I need to write Vanessa fic now. Her and Julia and Hippolyta in that long year where Diana's gone.

[ladysupport]

weapon — for the single-word drive!

Look at me, trying to get the hang of Tumblr lol, ty for the prompt Sea! <3 Major Endwalker spoilers in bound, for a rather significant solo duty which I absolutely loved, but most seemed to hate at the time it released sadly enough.

Cold. The shock of it makes him inhale, his own chest rising as he sucks in a breath. His hand twitches and then curls in, taking snow with it. He can feel it against his bare palm. Was he truly back in his own body? Zenos- no, Fandaniel, had swapped his soul into the body of some poor Garlean soldier. Zenos had been inside his own. The horror of seeing his own face twist into a cold smile had chilled him beyond anything he’d ever thought possible. But more than that, was the fear of knowing how much power Zenos had at his disposal. Not only the Warrior of Light’s power, but the power of his Voice….he could kill his friends before they had even realized what had happened. He could level the tiny camp they had, and cause his own body such severe damage that he would never speak again, or worse. The flare of rationality knew that it was unlikely, if it was truly soulbound like he suspected. Only he could ever use it, but that was of little comfort. What had followed was a desperate race against time. The body he had been shoved into felt so much weaker than his own. So big, and so heavy, every motion was effort. He had never had to wield a sword before, and with every machine he hacked away crudely at, he could feel his entire arm burn with the strain. But even for the short time he had inhabited the body, it had grown stronger. People had rallied with him despite seeing the enemy’s body, and hearing its voice. His soul had been undimmed, still shining with his hope. “...Lúcio?” He turns to G’raha’s wavering voice, a very timid yellow in his mind’s eye, and smiles. At once, G’raha seems to be relieved. His friend is back for good this time. Another person, Alisaie, pushes something into his hands. Something *familiar*. His bow, handcrafted with the greatest smith in Eorzea, has splintered. The draw had to be very specific for what he had wanted, and even then, most of its power came from him. Zenos, so used to brute strength, had snapped the string and both limbs trying to draw it. A wave of fury and grief floods him, and his knuckles go white. “...weapon!” His raspy voice cracks with anger as he winces. It is completely shot. He knows it will recover with time, but his poor bow will take time they do not have. He wipes a tear from his eye, and strides back to the camp, leaving the others behind. He knows they are concerned, he can feel it like an ache in his heart. But he has to press on, and he must arm himself. Laying the bow near his bag like it was made of glass, he retrieves two knives. At a glance, they looked like a rogue’s weapons, and indeed, they were like it. But they were made from a land far from this one, “across the salt”, as they would say. He feels the smooth wood under his hands, and takes a shaky breath. He had hoped never to use these seriously, and he wasn’t sure if he still could. Not that it mattered much, the true strength of his art was through the power of his legs, not the knives. His name is called, and he glances back to see Thancred looking at him. “Do you need anything?” As much time as you can give me, he signs back. With a nod, the other leaves as silently as he had appeared, and Lúcio rises to his feet. He had to become the weapon now, for the sake of everyone he knew.

[thegaypatron]

Commissioning Music

So what does it mean to commission music, as opposed to making it? It helps to think of me as a Patron of the Arts--thus, The Gay Patron.

I've hated how little fun LGBT-centric music exists in the genres I enjoy most; those genres can be summarized as, "anything you might hear at a Renaissance Fair".

Every song starts with an idea--or, really, two ideas: one for the content of the lyrics, and one for the type of instrumental.

Let's take my upcoming release, Who we Are and Who We Love, for example. I hired a lyricist, Travis Myles, who I found in an LGBT Professionals group on social media. He had written religious content in the past, which was appealing because I wanted the song to make references to Christian hostility.

I provided a short creative brief, "I'm looking for an LGBT march to war against Christianity. Something uplifting, as a rallying cry. Not in the march genre, but a march to war such as in these sample songs. I don't want Christianity named overtly; show, don't tell. And include as much of the rainbow as you can, with the same show, don't tell, style."

We went through a few rounds of revision. Some were structural, "the tone focuses too much on us being victims; we're too passive in our story. Turn it around: make these slights against us become our weapons. Have us do so actively. Rally us."

Others were much smaller, like, "I like the concept you have here, but that word makes it very America-centric. Here are some ideas for making it more universal."

When it was finished, I had lyrics that met my specifications, but still showcased the writer's personal style. That was important to me; even though I'm commissioning this music, I'm not looking for something that's perfect as I'd write it, otherwise, why wouldn't I just learn to write it myself? It's as much about our community as it is about my tastes.

Next, I went to the musician. I exclusively hire Ruben Monteiro, via Fiverr. Why? He specializes in hurdy gurdy, and has a wide range of specialty instruments that he plays at a high level of skill. I can get bagpipes, an oud, even a riqq through him. And every single time, he tries to understand my goal--and he nails it very quickly!

I provide a short brief to him. For this upcoming song, it was to the effect of, "I'm looking for a march to war similar to these samples. I specifically want it to be uplifting, not at all somber. Hurdy gurdy as the lead, and I really want to include the riqq again, but I'm open to your recommendation about the other instruments."

He starts with a digital composition and a warning that the real version will sound better. 🤣 This time, though, he realized the lyrics were a bit long: 6.5 minutes vs the usual 4, and he felt it didn't showcase the powerful chorus enough. He recommended cutting 2 verses.

Those verses had some great lyrics, so I opted to trim it myself. Instead of cutting them, I pulled out the lines that I thought were less powerful, and re-combined the ones that remained in a way that made sense.

This allowed me to remove the equivalent of 2 verses, but keep the meaning. And of course the lyricist was sent the new version! (Side note: I absolutely do not take a writing credit in my commissions. Even after a significant structural change like that.)

Once the chorus repetitions were added, the song remained 6.5 minutes. And after hearing the first draft, I realized it would sound even better with some harmony. I identified where I'd like it, and Ruben hired another singer to fill in those parts.

The final song is absolutely incredible, and I'm really excited to share it soon! The distributor is out of office until tomorrow, then it takes about a week to process on Spotify and other platforms. When it's ready, I hope you enjoy it!

[cxhleel108]

LITG S5 MC:

Name: Omari Martin

Age: 25 (During the Season) 26 (Now)

Birthday: June 30, 1997 (Cancer)

Hometown: Born in Durban, South Africa. Raised in Truro, England. Moved to Edinburgh, Scotland for college.

Ethnicity: South African

Job: Photographer

Sexuality: Straight

Height: 163cm/5’4

Hobbies: Drawing, Photography, Painting, Crocheting, Driving

Personality: My girl loves hard ok. If you’re a part of her close circle, you’re guarded for life. The Cancer sign is a crab so everything important to her is staying protected in her shell. That includes her emotions/feelings. Omari is more on the emotional side, but at the same time, she only gets vulnerable with people that she trusts. If she doesn’t trust that you’ll value her feelings as much as she would value yours, she’s only giving away so much of herself. Also, if you screw her over she can forgive you eventually, but she will never forget. “I get in my feelings, I’m sensitive, and I can be hurt just like everybody else but I rarely feel hatred or bitterness towards people who do me dirty. In due time I can let the hurt go, but I know to let the person go as well and break the toxic cycle before it can even manifest.” Art has always been a big part of her life. She’s very imaginative and loves creating her ideas into visual forms. Getting to do photography is basically her dream job. Now when it comes to partying, if her friends are going then she’ll go. If it was up to her how she spent her night, then she’s staying her ass at home. She likes hanging out in a more intimate environment because she feels like you can connect more that way. “My idea of a dream date is so simple. I really do not require a lot when it comes to that. Just me and my partner at home eating sushi or maybe pizza, doing whatever. Bonus points if he likes art too cos then we can draw together or something like that.” Just remember this, she’s def not boring and can turn up when she’s in the mood.

Why She Came On Love Island: Omari was ready to find new love. She felt that she had taken enough time to be with herself after all that happened with her last relationship and the one thing she hates the most is being alone. So, what better way to get over your ex cheating on you than going on an island vacation with several hot men waiting to cuff you?

Who She’s With: We’re just gonna discuss what she got up to after the show because all of them boys from the season literally SUCKED so bad that she ended up getting with nobody <3. Ok, Finn was cool and they did have a lil thing for a bit after the show ended, but they both knew eventually that they wanted different things so they just stayed friends. Other than that life’s been pretty good for our girl. She took her prize money and used it to move back to Truro because there was really no point for her to stay in Edinburgh anymore thanks to Suresh’s cheating ass. She got a lot of good offers for photography work so safe to say she’s been getting a few pretty pounds. A lot of apologies were sent her way once the season was done. Alfie, Dana, Arlo, and Gabi hit Omari up to say sorry for her terrible experience on the show and the part they played in that. She appreciates all of them admitting their faults and is completely fine with having cordial relationships but none of them are gonna be her besties anytime soon. “It’s sad cos I really did view Dana as a good friend and obviously everyone saw how much I fancied Alfie but all of the weird behavior became way too much to ignore and I couldn’t deal with it anymore.” Suresh probably has tried numerous times to apologize again and again but Omari has that man blocked on everything possible because she really wants his chapter of her life CLOSED. Her favorite thing to have happened because of the show though has to be the support she’s gotten. A large portion of the fans were rallying behind her the whole time. #JusticeForOmari was even trending on Twitter at one point. All of the winner girlies from the previous seasons (you’ll meet them soon) sent her sweet messages. Dani from Season 2 and Simone from Season 4 specifically showed her the most love. Dani invited Omari all the way out to LA to come on her channel/podcast so she could say all the things that she couldn’t on the show. “She’s exactly how you’d expect her to be in real life after seeing her on the show. Just super cool and hilarious 24/7. We got to laugh, bond over similar experiences, get serious, talk shit, and then laugh some more hahaha. I’m really grateful to her for that. Also, Bobby makes the best chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever had in my entire life.” Simone invited her out to lunch when she was in the area one day. They had a nice lil spill sesh and Simone even put Omari on to one of her friends who happens to be a certain tall, gentle, cat-owning tattoo artist from Falmouth that we all love. “I was talking about how I wanted to get a really nice and more noticeable tattoo cos I only have a small one on my wrist, so she recommended a close friend of hers who does really good ones and only lives about 25 minutes from me. I could tell by the fact that she started telling me stuff about him that wasn’t relevant to his job and then showed me a picture of a very attractive man that she was trying to set me up haha. But, that’s how Oliver and I met.” So yeah she’s with Oliver now and they’re just living life being like the cutest and most creative couple ever. (I really needed to give her a happy ending cuz…well you already know why)

[arisingonmorningsinnocent]

everyone please read this natalie goldberg excerpt with me right now just because it is good:

“[W]hen I was twelve, I learned tennis in summer camp. I didn’t actually learn it. I stepped on the court and was whole. If I had to learn it, I probably would have quit. That’s what kind of kid I was--I had no perseverance--but tennis I knew. It was a song and I played it. Day after day. All day. I skipped softball, volleyball, swimming, canoeing, dramatics, arts and crafts. I played with eight-year-olds, twelve-year-olds, sixteen-year-olds, anyone who came along. I lived on the court and whoever I played entered my domain. I was happy to rally, but if we played games, I won. But mind you, I didn’t really care about winning or losing. I was outside those realms. I lusted for the sound of that fuzzy ball hitting the center of my racquet, the stretch of my young arm, the soles of my sneakers rubbed to swirls. I was never tired or hot or sweaty. I was a god. I stepped out of the realm of thought.

This was the first time I loved something all for myself. It was mine. I didn���t know this them. I just went to the courts with my sixteen-dollar wooden Slazenger tennis racquet every day.

When I was fourteen, Bruce Berkowitz, who was a camp waiter and sixteen, went home to Brooklyn at the end of August, declaring he would beat me the next summer. He practiced all winter, and when we met again at the camp bus in the Howard Johnson’s parking lot in Westchester, he had three racquets in his duffel bag. He challenged me for a game the day after we arrived at camp up in the Adirondacks.

I walked on the court like a prince, not a princess. Princesses are delicate. They can feel peas under twelve mattresses when they lie down to sleep. I was a prince in the land I owned: the tennis court. I wasn’t arrogant. I knew who I was: no one. Just an eye and a hand, a body to hold a racquet and, most important, I couldn’t have cared less whether Bruce Berkowitz beat me or not.

Of course, this attitude totally discombobulated Bruce. He fell apart. I beat him 6-0. I’m sure he did become very good over the winter, probably better than I was, especially since I never played tennis at home on Long Island. When I went home, I went back to eating Oreo cookies and watching television.

It had to do with the mind. I didn’t have a mind when I played. Bruce did. He had expectations, goals, desires. When the tennis ball was coming at him, he was thinking where he could place it to win a point. I wasn’t thinking anything. It was the only place I was free. It was a gift. Now, much older, I know that I would have had to work at it to keep being free. I would have had to practice and refine my moves. Instead, the summer I turned sixteen I had a boyfriend and never stepped on the court.

That is how writing was for me, too, when I wrote my first poem at twenty-three years of age. I felt whole and complete in myself. But, unlike tennis, with writing I continued and have come up against some miserable times when I’ve wanted to quit. I continued then, too. It’s a process. I didn’t marry writing all at once, but over time as I stayed connected to it under all circumstances, it has strengthened my resolve. Now, whether I like it or not, publish or not, it is the ground I walk on, my basic practice. And in keeping this commitment, it has taken me deep and has rooted me.

I was surprised when I first moved to Santa Fe and taught writing workshops where people came with the idea that this writing might save them. Last month they tried rolfing and this month it was writing. It is good to try different things, but eventually we must settle on one thing and commit ourselves. Otherwise we are always drifting and there is no peace. To stay with one thing gives us the opportunity to penetrate our lives and be free.”

[cabinofimagines]

Holi-day six; Crafty Klaus

A/N: I love them your honor -Danny

Pairing: PLATONIC Jason, Hazel, Reyna, Will x GN!reader

Words: 790

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Percy had developed a sixth sense since last year, the very same morning you decided to wrap your presents he was nowhere to be found. You decided to cut him some slack, the young man seemed on edge lately so perhaps he needed the day off.

A little sad to have lost your wrapping partner, you made your way to the arts and crafts cabin with your bag of presents hanging from your shoulder. Out of nowhere you felt someone poking your shoulder and you turned sideways: Klaus jolly face came into view.

“Hey,” you smiled. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much, I was hanging out with the pegasi when I saw you walking past with a heavy load,” he eyed your bag of presents.

“I’m on my way to wrap all of my presents, wanna join?”

“I already wrapped all of mine, but I would love to help you! I’m an expert at wrapping presents. But wrapping them on your own sounds a little dull for the occasion, meet me at the arts and crafts, I’ll rally round some friends.”

You’d just finished wrapping your third gift when a small group of people entered the cabin. A little frantic, you pulled a sheet and covered then unwrapped presents.

Klaus was bringing along Jason, Hazel, Reyna, and Will. All of them were carrying along bags of different sizes.

“Now this is a party!” He said happily. 

“You guys came!” You beamed. “To be honest I didn’t even think about asking you, I thought most of you had everything set already.”

“Are you kidding? With all these frozen toes and tongues I’ve barely had time to buy stuff,” Will huffed. “I couldn’t refuse this opportunity.”

“And to be honest wrapping isn’t as fun as ripping the paper apart,” Reyna grinned. “I always leave this last.”

“You started already!” Jason took the table next to yours, placing his presents on the table. “If I finish first you’re making the s’mores, Y/N.”

Klaus had everyone’s mouth open in amazement. He’d taken the table at the front to show you fun and creative ways to wrap your gifts, but the way his hands worked expertly through each step had all of you in shock. 

“Now for the finishing touch...” he grabbed a pair of scissors and with one of the legs curled the ribbon on top of it. “Look at that! Doesn’t it look pretty?”

“Klaus, that is the sixth gift you do in less than two minutes, what the fuck?” You said.

“Hey, no ugly words, Y/N, you know I don’t like them,” he frowned. “What, you don’t like how it looks?”

“Oh no, we love it,” Hazel was quick to reply. “Would love to be able to see each step too— your fingers move too fast.”

“Oh!” Klaus chuckled, his shiny blue eyes crinkled adorably. “I get it. I’m very sorry. Let’s try again, yes?”

He moved slower this time, all of you made an effort to do everything like he was telling you to, and for the most part you managed to get it all right. By the end all of you had a nice pile of fancy-looking presents that you couldn’t wait to give away.

“I might suck at pumpkin carving, but I make a decent elf, right?” Jason asked proudly, staring at the last fluffy bow he’d done.

“I would be proud to see you working at the north pole, Jason,” Klaus patted his shoulder and chuckled, the sound was sweet.

You glanced at him briefly before putting your gifts back in your bag, the way he would phrased things from time to time sounded strange to you, though you couldn’t quite pinpoint what annoyed you about it.

“Well guys, I’m so happy you agreed to join us,” you said out loud. “The work was far less boring and we got to spend more time together!”

“Not to mention I finally managed to keep my present hidden from Nico!” Will said proudly. “He’ll be dying to guess what I got him.”

“Same,” Reyna hummed with a satisfied smile.

“And we finished so soon thanks to Klaus tips!” Hazel added, looking at her wristwatch. “I say we leave these under the tree, and let’s go find the others, see if they want to go have s’mores with us?”

“Sure!” Will grabbed his stuff as well. “We should do this again! Or some kind of arts and crafts stuff holiday-themed like this one—”

“Oh! I know how to knit!” Klaus was quick to offer. “Is that something you guys would be interested to learn?”

You and Hazel shared a look. It was.

“Okay,” you grinned, already thinking of who you wanted to bring along into this journey. “Sounds like a plan.”