#i hope i can do little doodles for each of these but knowing myself ill probably only be able to do a few handful of prompts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shepherds-of-haven · 3 years ago

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I hope you’re having a great day Lena! I was just wondering if we could have any fluff facts about the shepherds as a whole! Like fun tidbits of how they interact with each other, what some of them do if they have the same day off, does anyone host weekly game nights?? I hope that makes sense! Reading the recent short story on Patreon I love seeing how the characters interact with one another and now I need moreeeeeee🙏

Ooh, great question! I’m feeling curiously tapped dry at the moment, so I’ll probably have to reblog this as more ideas come to me; I’m so happy you’re enjoying the short story, btw!! 💖

Some group dynamic headcanons:

Many of them steal clothes from each other. Briony wears a cute sweater of Shery's (she asked), Ayla gets cold so she just takes one of Red's jackets from a chair (she didn't ask), Chase gives Tallys his scarf one day and Riel corders Trouble a pair of gloves from a fashion line he favors because his old ones are holey and they get into an argument about it... This leads to some recruits mistakenly thinking that the captains are all involved in some sort of mass relationship because they keep walking out of each other's rooms wearing each other's clothes. (The recruits believe a lot of really dumb stuff, if you couldn't tell. They LOVE gossip. It's like a competitive sport in the compound)

There is a weekly card game night, initiated and organized first by Chase, but it grows bigger over time, with snacks, cakes, drinks, and new games being procured! I'd actually say it's more like every ten-fourteen days or so than on any set weekday, and is typically proposed by anyone who senses that they or others need to blow off some steam. They all tend to meet in a private common room and either just chill and play some card games and casually drink and listen to music, or they get LOUD and raucous and play more risque non-card games (like Question or Command/Truth or Dare). The loud nights are more like once a month or bi-monthly, though! They take place in the captains' lounge so dumb recruits don't get to join! It's rare that they're in there all doing the same thing, though: maybe half will be at the table playing card games while others will be broken up into smaller groups, say arm-wrestling in the corner or playing chess at the smaller table or reading, but they're all there! Game nights are almost never held unless everyone is there, which is extraordinarily difficult to schedule, but they all make an effort to make it happen--even those who first had to be dragged into it, like Blade or Riel!

Speaking of chess games, Red and Riel have a standing game where they complete at least four more moves every night that they're around and able to meet up after dinner. Planning their next move helps them both break up the monotony of the day, and it's something they enjoy immensely. However, whenever he gets called away on a mission, Red gets sick with worry that Riel's been cooking up all sorts of schemes while he's been gone, so sometimes on the road he has, like, a schematic that he doodles on trying to anticipate Riel's next move, and it's very nerdy and ramps up in joking Anxiety. Riel, graciously, goes easier on him on nights after he comes back from long trips, though he denies it

Similarly, Blade and Trouble have a standing training session once a week where they just beat the crap out of each other. This is generally where they do the majority of their talking

Briony and Ayla first had an agreement that they would get the other one up if they overslept (Briony tends to be the one who oversleeps while Ayla is better about being up at dawn, but Ayla is really grouchy if she went to bed late and Briony is the only one who can handle her), which morphed into doing runs and sparring together at dawn and having breakfast frequently!

The girls have a standing spa night once a month where they all get together in a room (usually Shery’s) and basically do sleepover stuff and relax and chat and catch up for a few hours. This also sometimes involves showing each other new outfits that they bought that month! Sometimes there are even group baths in the big common bath, but these are rarer because Shery is shy and Tallys doesn’t like sitting in hot water getting pruny

Chase and Trouble drag Red and Halek to go drinking with them around once a month; sometimes Blade is persuaded to go if Trouble can get the drop on him and punch him hard enough to wind him. It’s complicated

Riel and Shery, of course, have tea together once a week! You’re not allowed if you can’t bring a chill vibe (Riel’s rules). Tallys, Lavinet, Halek, and Red are occasional visitors; Briony is allowed on a good day. Blade would be allowed but he has 0 interest

Similarly, Lavinet hosts a weekly brunch, either in a courtyard or at some restaurant in town! Typically it’s a girl thing and Ayla, Briony, and Shery are the most consistent attendees, but Chase has snuck his way in there often, and Riel, Halek, or Red pop up occasionally!

Tallys and Halek cook together! It’s not all that often and doesn’t seem to have any set way of materializing--it just happens somehow--but they both very much enjoy it! Sometimes they cook dinner for the whole group and have a little dinner party that they both secretly get excited for! Sometimes Shery bakes the dessert!

Riel noticed that Tallys has a little garden that she spends time weeding, so he sends gardening tools or special seeds when he thinks she needs them and she leaves baskets of vegetables or vases of flowers in his office. All of this is done without exchanging a word

Chase sporadically teaches Briony acrobatics and things like tightrope walking, just randomly whenever they’re both idle. She teaches him how to gut people with bare fists and also sometimes they paint!

Caine caught Red grazing in the pantry late one night and now it’s like a Thing where they pass each other in the kitchen and Red sort of just looks the other way re: Caine’s bedtime and what on earth he’s doing up so late and Caine doesn’t tell anybody that Red is just absent-mindedly eating a loaf of bread at 2 AM because he was too busy working to remember to eat dinner. It’ll be like, “there’s some turkey leftover from dinner in the cold box” “oh hey, Caine. thanks. ...so, what’s the news from the midnight watch tonight?” “i’m going to go hunt ghosts on the seventh floor with my friends!” “...okay! have fun!”

Lavinet has a monthly shopping trip where she updates her wardrobe, and it is very common for others to accompany her around the city and just shop while they drop! Common partners are Shery, Briony, Riel, Chase, and once memorably Blade, who didn’t know what he was in for!

Trouble and Ayla are wildly competitive and keep arm-wrestling each other for money; this becomes a bi-weekly sporting event that is eagerly attended and bet upon by third parties

There was ONE group karaoke night. ONE. Most of them got so blackout drunk that they swore to never do it again. Even now, several of them go green whenever they hear a popular bar song (“Don’t Piss Where You Plant Your Flowers”) being sung, especially badly

The game of "telephone" gets really bad in their group. It's like, Shery will say to Briony that she's worried because she thought Riel looked a bit peaky and feverish. Briony will say in passing to Trouble that Riel is getting sick and Shery is worried. Trouble will say to Tallys that Shery is worried sick because Riel is bedridden. Tallys will be mixing herbs and Chase will ask what for and Tallys will reply that Riel is sick, but because she's mixing herbs, Chase will surmise that the sickness must be quite advanced, and will later say, "Damn, have you seen Riel? Seems like he's really sick." Red will interpret this as "I have seen Riel for myself and have determined that he's extremely ill." At least four people will bust into Riel's room, expecting him to be on the verge of death, despite the fact that they saw Riel that morning. Riel will be fine and very annoyed at the intrusion.

They rarely go out as a group to bars and establishments outside of the compound (too chaotic as well as risky, for one thing, and also, recruits don't need to see their superiors like hanging out of bushes and dancing on tabletops drunk out of their minds, and also, "Mages can't drink" (lol)), but when they do deem it a worthy occasion (Trouble's birthday, say), the girls are very punctual when getting ready, and the boys are almost always extremely late due to various shenanigans (Chase forgot that he put a booby trap on Red’s door, covering Red with flour, or a cat somehow slips into Trouble’s room and steals, like, a detonator or an important key, and they have to go chasing it across the city). This has led to the girls coming late on purpose in order to even out their arrival, but mysteriously, this has only led to even later start times, meaning they often don’t get started until like 10 or 11 PM when the most well-intentioned souls meant to be in bed by midnight... that never happens, either!

One such night once led to them ending up on a ridge in the Sun’s Embrace, like a mile outside of the city, in order to watch the sun rise together, because hiking in the dark while blasted out of their minds sounded like a really good idea. They all made it, and the dawn was spectacular, but the moment was ruined when Tallys said softly, “It’s the beginning of a beautiful new day--” punctuated by Trouble abruptly throwing up in a bush and Riel just flat-out passing out

#Shepherds of Haven #group #group dynamic #all characters #found family #drinking #cw: alcohol #drunk #shenanigans #party #parties #long #long post

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artistotel · 4 years ago

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HOW TO GET INKTOBER DONE...

...as a neurodivergent person.

A few more days and one of the biggest crazes of art world is upon us - Inktober! Famous challenge where, for 31 days, artists try to create one drawing a day in ink. Markers, brushes, pens... All goes.

31 days.

Currently, at the moment of writing this I’ve been doing that exact thing for... 276 days.

Yep. Each day - one drawing with brush and ink. Based on a random prompt list I put together. I have skipped only one day - the day when it was the Hourly comics day because I figured. Man, I’m drunk and it’s 4am and I’m drawing in ink - let’s just call it a daily drawing.

Now, let’s get to the ‘neurodivergent’ part. While I have spoken about certain difficulties I deal with through my art, I’d prefer not to disclose my entire medical chart on an internet site.

However, the important bit is: through all this time, I’ve dealt with a lot of depressive episodes. Yep. Including suicidal ones; episodes when I couldn’t get out of bed and so on.

276 days and counting.

How and why?

Often, my daily drawing would be the one and only thing I’d do. But it felt good - because I got up and did something. Hell, sometimes it didn’t even feel good; I couldn’t even congratulate myself on finishing it, but I did it. One little thing I’ve forced myself to make. Surprisingly, that one little thing - no matter how much I tried to justify not to do it that day - was the one thing getting me up. I’d sit for an hour, arguing with myself: give yourself a break, you are too bad to do anything; and the other voice - get up and do it, then come back to bed.

So I’d sit and argue, until I’d finally force myself up and to the chair.

Sometimes I did great drawings, sometimes I did terrible ones. It doesn’t matter.

What’s even the point of Inktober?

The point is not to create masterpieces like anime artists you see on Youtube, drawing post-apocalyptic mecha in one hour. The point is opposite: to learn to let go of perfection, embrace mistake, and most importantly for many neurodivergent people: to embrace routine.

I know ‘ok Karen’ approach is very popular here - but routine can do wonders when dealing with mental illness. Every professional will confirm it.

Get up - get the drawing done - go back to bed if needed. Do it in multiple runs. Do a part at 9am, do the second part at 5pm - it doesn’t matter. Do a doodle. Do a full blown illustration tomorrow. When 31 days have passed you’ll have something behind you. A witness of an entire month.

Another thing Inktober teaches you, if you’re an artist struggling with perfectionism and self-confidence is: that the more drawings you make - the bigger the chance of producing an amazing one will be.

Out of these 276 drawings so far I have 5 drawings that are the best I’ve ever drawn in my career; 30ish excellent ones, 50ish great ones, 100ish good-enough ones, and the rest is uninspired, bland, done just-so. The rest were the ones while I did trying to drag myself out of bed after a night of hanging out with my buddies - alcoholism and depression.

And now, almost 10 months later, since The New Years, when I look back - most of them are okay! I don’t resent them.

Daily drawing is a diary. It’s simply a witness of your mood that day. If you draw 5 drawings, the chance of having a brilliant one is tiny. If you do 31? The chance rises.

Not every day is a great day. Not every drawing is an inspired one. You might falter at prompt of ‘rollerskates’ and force out a pigeon rolling down the street, and you might be hit with inspiration on prompt of ‘plumber’. It’s not necessary to beat yourself up - is this creative enough? Good enough? Skilled enough?

Who cares?

You have more days in front of yourself.

Hell, even when Inktober ends - you still have more days in front of yourself. Make friends with imperfection. Imperfection is honesty. This isn’t the only time or chance you’ll get to sit in front of the paper. You’ll get another chance later; so just use this one. Even if you make a bad drawing - nothing will happen. Maybe you’ll learn something from it.

Anyway, this was a bit of rambling but I hope it helped at least one person. ;P

Uhh, happy drawing! Knock it out!

#inktober #inktober2020 #inktober 2020 #artist advice #mental illness #mental health

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mystical-strawberry-sheep · 3 years ago

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🍓Obligatory Introductory Post🍓

Hello hello, everyone. ヾ(･ω･`｡) My name is Aku, and I've decided to create a blog to collect all of the things I've made concerning a persona/OC of mine in one place. This is mostly just for me and any of my friends that are interested in my OC, but please allow me to introduce myself and her and tell you all a little bit about us.

🍓I am Aku! But my OC is also Aku. =v=;🍓

I use a username that often gets shortened to Aku, so that's what I call myself. ^^ However, as I existed in multiple spaces and role-played things out on occasion, my persona began to split off and become her own thing, and that's how my OC Aku was born. Since she started out as just me, she has the same name, but now she's a separate character! I often use her as a self-insert character in fandoms or as an outlet to get my creativity when it comes to certain fandoms out in one place. Each time I make a version of Aku for a fandom, that version becomes it's own separate thing. So Kingdom Hearts Aku is not the same person as Legend of Zelda Aku, even if they share a lot of similarities. Since this is confusing, I think I'll refer to myself as Princess Aku, and just make the fandom clear otherwise. >v>;;;

🍓Aku is a sheep with mystical powers🍓

I represent Aku with a pink, three-eyed sheep. Usually if I'm using her for fandom she is human (and sometimes the sheep itself is a second entity), but she has the sheep form, too. I've been in a few places where the Akusheep became the symbol of a, uh, "cult of Aku"? <v<;;; So uh. I suppose in some instances she may even represent as a goddess sheep? But literally I never created the cult myself. XD The sheep can read minds (but specifically emotions), sense life, and open dimensional portals. She's meant to be a scary but benevolent entity.

🍓I do art!🍓

I'll draw Aku and other art on occasion, so I may post some of it here. I hope you all enjoy it! I'm not the best by any means, but I certainly try. ^^;;; You can expect art of myself, Aku, and any of the fandoms I'm part of. I may even post other OCs of mine on occasion, but that'll probably be more rare. If there's something you feel like suggesting I doodle, feel free to do so, though I can't promise that I will. ^^;

🍓I write!🍓

It isn't too terribly often, but I do like to write stuff. You can ask me about things you'd like to see me write about, though like with art I can't make any promises. I'll probably write headcanons, bits and pieces of OC Aku scenes, or explanations of my character. Sorry in advance, but there's a potential for there to be OC×CC writings. I don't pair Aku too terribly often since I really like staying in canon as much as possible, but like... What can I say? I really can't help myself sometimes. Regardless of what it is, I hope you enjoy yourself anyway.

🍓I can roleplay!🍓

However! I have a hard time of keeping up with the two very limited roleplays that I'm doing already, so like it's not going to be snappy by any stretch of the imagination. I may disappear a lot. And... I don't really know how this works on Tumblr? Since I've never really had an account for this before? So someone will likely have to explain this to me. But if you want to interact with OC Aku to any capacity, I will absolutely follow suit. CC interactions as well as OC interactions, it's really cool either way. However, I really will be flying blind if I've never gotten into the fandom your character is from. ^^; I'll still do my best. I also don't mind these kinds of interactions with OOC Princess Aku (myself), so don't feel like you have to limit yourself to interacting with just my character. This meadow is for all versions and forms. ✩ᏊꈍꈊꈍᏊ

🍓All forms of Aku are Apothisexual🍓

Including myself. For those that don't know, apothisexual (or sex-respulsed asexual) is a sexuality in which one is made physically ill by physical intimacy. This is, of course, on a spectrum like everything else, but I'm just about as extreme as you can get. And since OC Aku was built from me, she has this trait as well. Everything on this blog, therefore, will be very SFW, and all writing that has any regards to romance is obviously just going to be lots and lots of fluff. By the way, romantically speaking we are all heteroromantic.

🍓All forms of Aku participate in cglre🍓

If it wasn't kind of obvious from my icon already, I and all forms of OC Aku are littles that participate in cglre or age regression as a coping mechanism and form of self-care. I apologize in advance if this makes anyone uncomfortable, but this isn't used in the sense of anything explicit (as mentioned before, that would be terrible for me). This is all SFW and meant to help me stay stable. I hope any of my cglre content helps other fandom littles enjoy their own fantasies a bit. ^^ Let's help each other out, eh?

🍓I'm a-okay with... Uh... Fan...? Work🍓

This seems a bit presumptuous, but if at any point any of you for some reason decide that you like to draw or write about any of Aku's versions, I'm perfectly fine with that as long as you give me credit and source back to me! You can also use/repost my art under the same condition. ^^; I, uh, don't think this will ever ever come up because I'm seriously not that good. But it doesn't hurt to cover my bases? I dunno. I think I would cry of joy if someone actually liked Aku enough to draw her or something. In any case, like I said, all I really require is that there be a source back to me. •v• I appreciate your cooperation!

🍓Fandoms I'm in🍓

🍓Kingdom Hearts

🍓The Legend of Zelda

🍓Yu-Gi-Oh!

🍓Pokémon

🍓Naruto/Boruto

🍓Final Fantasy

🍓Jujutsu Kaisen

🍓My Hero Academia

🍓The World Ends with You

🍓Demon Slayer

🍓Studio Ghibli titles

🍓Disney titles

🍓and more... Please ask!

Aaannd, I think that's about it! If any of you have any questions for me or OC Aku (the base version) feel free to ask them and I'll get to you as soon as I can! I don't really expect anything at all to come from this, but in any case I hope you all enjoy my presence here. Please have a good rest of your day! ᏊºัꈊºัᏊ

#introducing myself #ooc #original character #newbie #help I don't know how to tag #I literally just reskined my old blog where I used to reblog creepy cute aesthetics #I don't know what I'm doing #apothisexual #sex repulsed #cglre #sfw agere #fluff #hc: daydreams

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jasminevolkan · 4 years ago

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TIME IN A BOTTLE — self paragraph 001,

& character development TASK #5.

warnings: abandonment issues, divorce, abuse/neglect, death and illness, mentions of christmas, food and alcohol, curse words, jasmine having courage?

JANUARY 1ST 2021, 11:27 am.

Wishes of joy, success and health ended the traditional New Year’s brunch at the Volkan’s residence. Usually, the duo would make this celebration last all day long, but Jasmine had other plans. Instead, she put the leftovers in containers and headed for the exit. She kissed her mother on both cheeks and wrapped her in a tight hug. She earned a pat on the back as a notification she was squeezing her mother’s body too tightly. “Don’t want to let you go,” Jasmine whispered those words like an automatic response. “I’m not going anywhere,” Lana would reply.

They were creature of habits, an inseparable pair. They resembled Russian nestling dolls, there was never one without the other. As years went by, Jasmine grew more and more conscious of the inevitable. She was a star following the moon in a dark night sky, but one day the moon would be swallowed in the void and leave the burning dust nothing but an endless pain, deeper than a black hole. She was no stranger to grief, it did not mean she appreciated the experience. They discussed it often, a little too often to Lana’s liking. Her daughter was so fearless, yet she feared everything in her surroundings. She wished she could fly on her own, but she respected Jas’ desire to circle close to the nest.

They were creature of habits, an inseparable pair. They gifted each other the same thing for Christmas — a holiday they celebrated by choice — however they waited for the first day of the year to open them. Chocolate, candles and promises to spend time together in the future. They made plans to build sandcastles together on a rare calm spot of the beach, where Lana claimed there was a palm tree as old as her daughter. They remembered good and bad events that came out of the previous twelve months.

Usually, they would involve unfortunate recipes or complicated art projects that never came to life. More often than not, they would share a knowing look. The worst that came out of anything was Jasmine’s father. His presence (or lack thereof) impacted them on a daily basis, still. It left a whole in their lives, otherwise complete and satisfying. It fed into Jasmine’s insecurities, it encouraged Lana to relive the constant pain she was in while trying to comfort her daughter. Children to grow old in love and affection. No matter how much love Lana provided, it never seemed to be enough for her daughter.

Love and attention were the same thing as food, for Jasmine. She always craved for more and was afraid she would never get enough.

She walked out of her childhood home and crossed the lawn over to her house. Hidden by the mass of leftovers she carried expertly, she did not notice the box that blocked the door until she bumped her foot against it. She tried to scoot around the obstacle, in vain.

The breeze blew stronger, whipping locks of chocolate brown hair on her face. It sent a wave of goosebumps down her spine. She leaned down to open the box, pulling out stuffed animals, birthday cards and other items she remembered seeing in stores but never having the courage to buy it. Expensive paint brushes and other supplies, sets of gold earrings that sparkled under the sun; the list went on. She picked up a pink bunny, it seemed old and resembled one she had in her oldest memories but could never find again.

Jasmine looked up from the objects, the bunny squeezed tightly against her chest. She frowned and looked around, her mother was not on the porch, the other neighbours were probably asleep or gone. Avalon seemed very quiet, almost surreal.

Surreal like the shadow she noticed standing at the corner of the street. Her eyes squinted and blinked, but they seemed to have washed away the familiar silhouette. Somehow, the bunny felt like it radiated a comfortable warmth. She read the message that was left on the box, the handwriting was printed in her memory.

“I love you. I am sorry it took me your whole lifetime to realize it. Signed, “

The end of the message was scribbled in a whirlwind of blue ink. She had to focus really hard to recognize the three letters. Contrary to the presents or the mysterious figure, the word resonated no familiarity.

“Dad.”

FEBRUARY 14TH 2021, 3:02 AM.

Jasmine kept this a secret, the box and the message. She tried to play it cool, like it did not affect her that her father was trying to build the bridge he destroyed when he left for New York City. She hated New York. She hated bridges. She hated him.

No.

She loved him.

She pulled out a pink gel pen from this same pencil case she carried since high school, it had little doodles and messages written at the back from her friends. She ripped a sheet away from her binder that she used for ideas at work. And she improvised. It usually felt so natural for her, to cross boundaries and to do as she pleased. This time, it was painful and almost impossible to do.

“I loved it when you took me for a drive around the island on nights where I couldn’t sleep. I loved it when you brought me to the candy store after forgetting to pick me up from daycare because you were busy. I loved it when you read stories to me during rainy days so I would be quiet and fall asleep. I loved it when you gave me seashells from all of your work trips, even if they looked identical to those on the beaches down the street. I loved it when you took me to the park and pushed me on the swings just long enough before you got a phone call. I loved it when you wrote notes in my lunch boxes on school days, I saved them all in a bottle of bourbon you left on my night stand that one time you came home as the sun was rising.

I loved it when you acted like a father, even if it was just for a split second.

I love receiving magazines and seeing your name on the front page, congratulating you for all the listings you manage to sell. I love staring at the pages of photos and noticing that I look just like you. I love thinking of new ways to improve myself, because that’s what you would have wanted to. I love thinking you might come back here one day and we can make up for all the time we wasted loathing each other. I love thinking one day we might have a family portrait identical to the one you had in your office of your wife and kids. I love thinking that one day you’ll have one of me with them and hang it on your wall at home. I love thinking that one day, I will get to call you Dad.

I forgive you. I forgive you for leaving mom alone with me. I forgive you for hurting me so much I might just never heal. I forgive you for finding your happiness elsewhere. I forgive you for failing as a father. I forgive you for learning how to do better with your other children. I forgive you for leaving the life you never wanted. I forgive you for having dreams that were larger than what we could give you. I forgive you for breaking the promises you told me of this life where we would be a happy family.

I love you,”

The old pen was running out of ink, so she shook it vividly. She did not bother wiping her tears away, not the stain of pink on her hand that was tinting the paper. She added this short word she had blocked out of her memory all this time. It was just a nickname for all, but for her. She remembered the tone of his voice whenever he said this word, it was calm and posed, loving and caring. He said it rarely, but she could still hear it so clearly.

“Jojo.”

FEBRUARY 14TH 2021, 11:58 PM.

She scrunched the sheets of paper into a ball and threw it on the floor, missing the trash can by two feet at least. She then moved to the couch, grabbing her laptop from the coffee table and logged on her email. Her fingers floated above the keyboard until the screen turned darker. She was looking up to the clock on the wall, watching the seconds fly by.

She took a deep breath, hoping it would slow down time. It had the opposite effect, feeding into this adrenaline rush she desperately tried to repress since the beginning of the year.

She loved him. She never stopped, never will. It would not change. Something needed to change, however, and it was her unhealthy habit of being silent when she needed to speak out the most.

TO: Aleksander Volkan ([email protected])

FROM: Jasmine Volkan ([email protected])

SUBJECT: Receipts and birthday cards

Fuck you. <3

Minnie pressed the button, and sent the email. She shut her laptop close and ran to the abandoned paper on the floor. She unfolded it and held against her chest, disappearing into a room in the search for an envelope.

She was too far to hear the immediate sound of a response.

TO: Jasmine

FROM: Aleksander

SUBJECT:

I love you too.

#self paras.#about.#abuse tw #abandonment tw #death tw #food tw #(( 'love letter' it's not even a letter ~ jas never follows rules that's canon ))#(( the sweater/cardigan and now the letter/email? a true REBEL ))#catalina: task #catalina: love letters #tasks.

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midnight1990 · 3 years ago

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Good Raven Chapter 1. Cofio — Remembering

July, 1995

As I unpack my trunk in the dusty, dingy room above the shop where my uncle, two brothers and two sisters live, I feel the slight dread of not knowing where my future will lead. I’m of age now and done with school, so finding work and avoiding trouble should be my first worries, but it ain’t just me I have to worry about. I can’t let the babanod grow up here for much longer — it’s eaten them and me for three years already.

We live in Knockturn Alley, the street off of lovely Diagon Alley where all of the things your decent witches and wizards won’t meddle in are sold; bought; traded or just plain found. In my uncle’s shop is sold potion ingredients, and because this is Knockturn Alley, they’re not normal ingredients — poisons; live creatures; contraband that he (Uncle) said if I ever told someone about he’d hex me for 7 years straight. He also threatened to feed me on only cold gruel if I sold anything cheap, ‘cause once I was all moved in those three years ago he was leaving me at the counter to haggle and sell while he went off to the Cauldron for drinks, or Borgin’s to try and buy even more nasty supplies to bring back to his own business.

I should be honest when I talk about the things we sell — they’re rather compelling. It’s a bit exciting to know that the fungi you’re holding (with a handkerchief that’s been charmed to keep the nerves in your hand from suddenly burning and losing all function) are one: that bloody dangerous and two: can put you on the ministry’s list of “Most Dark and Dangerous in Illicit Magical Trade”. Some of the things that the Ministry comes up with!

As interesting as my uncle’s business can be, me and the kids need our own place to live. It’s just too, well, dark in this alley. Ninety nine percent of the people who come through this place are just trying to get their business done; do their shopping — however ill-intentioned it may be — and go home, but that one percent that’s not so good is too noticeable for any decent body to want to raise four little ones here. I’ve been followed by a hag who wanted my fingernails (taken from a living witch or wizard, they’re more useful); groped by warlocks both drunken and sober; sang at by more drunken warlocks (some ditty with lyrics like “I once had a lass with a nice round ass” and it got even nastier) and I’ve even seen duels that ended up in the Prophet! One time, a curse missed its intended target and hit an old wizard who was just trying to get home with the flesh-eating slug repellent he’d bought! The poor old grandpa! I hope he lived.

I go into the smaller room across the hall where the boys sleep and of course Llon’s trunk is sitting wide open on the bed he and Afon, who’s only three, share. I see his rumpled up belongings and I know he scrambled to find his wand as soon as he got up here; I hid it in his trunk as soon we boarded the train to come back for his first summer holiday (and the rest of my life) so he wouldn’t try any last minute jinxes. Sometimes I’m amazed at how easily he obeys me, then again his most vivid experience with a female relative other than me is of Mam throwing him outside at night — all night — so she could drink and have a shag with that big warlock she came home with. He was nine, I was 15 and we were all lucky that it was spring holiday so’s I was home. I don’t know how they found out, but when the ministry officials who deal with family problems came a’visiting two days later, I was able to convince them to let the kids remain at Mam’s house so long as I was allowed to be there, courtesy of the school and a satisfied ministry witch. I had to write and beg Snape, McGonagall and Dumbledore himself to let me skip a few weeks. I remember feeling quite touched when the first two came to visit, a ministry witch in tow. I don’t think Dumbledore even considers his students well-being outside of Hogwarts.

Professor Snape was my head of house — good ol’ Slytherins looking out for each other — and I distinctly recall the feeling I had when I greeted him and McGonagall at the door that he’d been waiting for something like this to occur. You get that feeling when he looks at you sometimes - that he knows things about you.

I had expected McGonagall to be much less kinder than she actually was — more grave and pitying. She was certainly that way with Mam, “Eira, what have you gotten yourself and your family into?!”

Snape mostly sat all stiff in the chair I’d offered, his spidery black eyes glancing everywhere they could, taking in my raggedy siblings, Mam’s wan expression and the Welsh words doodled haphazardly on our cottage’s stone walls. Words like cariad — love — which had a bright pink heart drawn beside it and calon which had an arrow pointing from it to the rosy heart.

Witch, Welsh and Slytherin. That’s me. Even my name is Welsh, though my dad is English (obviously, my surname is Burke after all): Branda — brân dda — raven good; Good Raven. I have a middle name that isn’t Welsh at all, though; Patreva. Something Latin like what so many of our kind in Britain have — names like Draco, Severus or my Tad’s name, “Nicander” which may actually be Greek. It’s fancy and magical sounding. I’m the only one of my parent’s brood with any name like that — something about a Naming Seer who suggested it for me, but they never went back for their other four kids’s names. The younger ones have a Welsh name and that’s it. I like Welsh names quite a lot, though. Some of the names wizarding parents give their children are too — well — ostentatious is a good word.

Anyway, McGonagall, Snape and the quiet little ministry witch with the clipboard came to a decision: I could stay at home with Mam and the kids while the school year continued as long as one: Mam wasn’t bringing her “gentlemen friends” home anymore and two: I would take remedial lessons in all core classes the following school year.

“Of course, you will receive some lessons by post this spring and over the summer, miss Burke.” McGonagall can be so caring, sometimes.

“Your head of house has stated that you are among the more reliable students at Hogwarts, miss Burke.”

The little ministry witch hadn’t spoken at all to me, only to Mam and to my professors, but now she was gazing at me with what I believe was meant to be a placating — if somewhat sharp — look.

“He says you are quite skilled in his potions class as well as in mentoring the younger students.”

The look on Professor Snape’s face suggested this was meant to be unspoken. I’ve never had problems with Snape; he’s certainly a terror to many (okay, most) students, but he’s only ever had clipped praises or short orders for me to teach the first years how to behave without their parents around to guide them and comfort them and all that. A lot of the prefects were shite at that kind of thing.

Life at Mam’s with the kids was alright for awhile — could’ve probably gone quite tolerably if she hadn’t gone off to the Leakey Cauldron and met some bloke who took her to his flat in wherever-the-hell-it-was. Whatever they did in those six days she was gone, it was bad enough that he went to Azkaban, but not interesting enough for the Daily Prophet to report on. Mam got off, but us kids had to go live with the only relative who was willing to take us — Tad’s second-or-something cousin whom he’d done business with before Mam kicked him out: Mr. Donius Burke, purveyor of dark and illicit potion ingredients since 1974.

Fuck.

***

“Oi, girl! Come down here now! I need you for something!”

Calm down old man, I haven’t finished folding my jumpers yet. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already got a task for me, even though I’ve only been off the train for two hours. Sunset’s nearly come, and I don’t want to be outside in Knockturn Alley after dark, which ought to spur me faster down the stairs to see what he wants. Making him wait can feel too good though - not that he’s not willing to stomp his way up here which, as I put my last woolen top away, I can hear him doing. Thump, creak; thump creak; the ancient wooden steps groaning loudly as always. Has he still not fallen through them?!

“Are you going deaf?!”

I turn my head to look at him there, his reedy frame silhouetted from the dim light of the hallway. He hasn’t changed in the ten months since I’ve last seen him, and he hasn’t since we arrived here three years ago; grey hair slicked back, his aging face freakishly smooth without a hint of stubble (does he shave, or did he magic the hairs off?).

Before I can say anything he’s stepped into the room to stand over me.

“Get down there, now!”

He points his finger so forcefully that it’s curving up towards the ceiling, and I have to keep myself from glancing up to see if it’ll confuse him. He follows me out of the bedroom and down to the back of the shop, where Llon and the other two kids are on the floor playing with Mouser, the cranky black cat we keep to eat any mice or cockroaches in the the building.

Gwenyn is nine and has long blonde hair like Mam, round hazel eyes and a pink mischievous face. Next to her is five year-old Ffionwyn, who’s brown hair will turn nearly black like Tad’s and mine someday. For now, her head’s as shiny as a chestnut, with a pale face and a shifty quietness about her - probably because she’s been growing up in this dark hole of a place.

“Here”. A small roll of parchment is pressed into my hand.

“Take this to Aunt Onyxia, she’s been expecting it all day.”

He nods his head towards the children - “You can bring back the other one, as well.”

Of course, he’s talking about Afon, the youngest of the family. Three, dark haired and quiet like Ffionwyn, he had to come here when he was just four months old! Unwilling to keep a baby where his customers could hear him crying, Uncle struck a deal with the ministry officials who’d arranged for his guardianship — he would have to remain the legal guardian of Afon, but would be allowed to shunt him off to another adult so long as they were nearby and had no criminal record — a relative preferred. Enter Aunt Onyxia, Uncle Donius’s first cousin.

Onyxia Burke runs a “gift” shop right at the end of Knockturn Alley where she sells candles, cheap jewelry and clothing items, all of which are enchanted for various purposes; making someone fall in love with you; manipulating another’s dreams; even changing their moods or emotions. I hope she’s been keeping Afon away from her shit.

As I step through the door of my uncle’s shop into the balmy night air, I glance up at the old wooden sign hanging above the door: “Apothecary” it reads, surrounded by engraved bats, spiders and toads. I force a heavy breath through my nose as memories come creeping up again, for we used to sell those things — well, Mam ‘n Tad did - before everything went to Hell.

Mam ‘n Tad were gatherers and procurers of potion ingredients. Magical plants and animals, of course, some of which you must have a special permit to collect, but also things that are not so magical — bats, rats and adders; green things that grow in your back garden like nettles and dandelions; even farm animals like chickens and goats, the latter of which produce bezoars —hard stones that form in their gut and which counteract poisons.

Things that could not be grown or raised near our home (a dragon in the barn might’ve been a bit troublesome) we would search for. This was the best part of my family’s livelihood. Tad would research where things could be found, and we would gather our equipment and head off to some chosen spot ready to work.

He taught me to do many things without magic, which I never knew was unusual for our kind —until I went to Hogwarts. Nobody else knew how to butcher a chicken or start a fire without a wand (except maybe a few muggleborns, but even most of them didn’t know how, either)! My classmates didn’t seem to know what to make of me until the incident with Hagrid’s giant chicken.

One of Hagrid’s roosters had grown to a rather impressive size, comparable to that of a Shetland pony (he had to have charmed it somehow). Well, one day it managed to escape the coop and terrorize the courtyard where all of us first years were learning broom maintenance. Madam Hooch was knocked over before she even saw it, and a boy called Derrick attempted to scare it by kicking it away, his robed arms flapping all around him whilst yelling at it to go away. Unfortunately, Drumsticks now thought Derrick was trying to start a real cock-fight — chest to chest, wings flapping and spurs kicking!

Before it finished its little war-dance with his head bobbing low, neck-feathers puffed out trembling, I’d managed to grab one of the brooms off the work table; as soon as Drumsticks began to step towards Derrick I ran towards that overgrown alarm-clock and jabbed it as hard as I could with that broomstick!

I won’t say it was a smart idea, but the frustration I’d felt over those first weeks at school — people giggling behind their hands when I spoke in my Welsh accent; discovering that students in other houses whom I’d wanted to befriend would scoff at the idea of hanging around with a Slytherin — seemed to take hold of me. It felt good when the broom’s handle hit Drumsticks’ chest, shocking him backwards and confusing him so. It’s likely a good thing that Hooch had finally recovered herself enough to properly stun that scaly-footed bastard before I’d lost my mind completely — that broomstick was starting to feel like a skewer.

Dinner that evening consisted of a hearty chicken soup, platters of little chicken pies, mashed potatoes, boiled peas and fresh, steamy bread rolls on the side.

Oh, and most everyone in my year stopped calling me “Spleens”.

Tad had been bi— Tad had been given the boot by Mam by the the time I’d started school, and in the summers I’d been the one to continue most of the hunting work while Mam settled herself with tending the garden and foraging for plants. Mam knew the work alright, but she’d mainly been the one to keep records of what was brought home; researching the markets and packaging items properly. Didn’t take long for Tad’s absence to start its work on her though, did it? A little kid can only hunt so many kinds of creatures, and of course I couldn’t have a permit to collect things like doxy venom or dragon eggshells, nor could I travel more than a few miles from home.

Soon the goats were sold to another ingredi-wizard, then any magical plants in our garden that required consistent tending died. I didn’t understand how that could’ve happened, not at the time anyway. Mam was good at hiding her drinking back then. Since we were no longer able to provide the great amount of products as before, businesses started abandoning us for more reliable resources.

Sometimes — just every once in awhile — Tad would show up for a visit.

“Only a few days” I imagine Mam whispering harshly, fearfully, her eyes darting ‘round as though expecting whatever forces demanded they keep apart to come bursting out of her cottage’s walls.

He always went out to try and gather more for us to sell, did Tad. He didn’t take me anywhere with him that was outside of the county, though. The last time I went with him was at the beginning of summer after my third year at Hogwarts. He looked so much older than I’d remembered, or perhaps I hadn’t paid enough attention during his previous visits? Grey streaks were beginning to shoot through his thick black hair, which hadn’t been cut in years. He walked slower than I was used to, moving like his body had turned all sore and stiff; his head constantly swiveled around as we worked, as though the very land that surrounded us could not be trusted.

“Don’t let your sisters and your brother stay inside all day. Teach them how to look after themselves, better than your mam or I have done for ourselves”.

Until he said that, it hadn’t really occurred to me just how reckless my parents were compared to those of my classmates. Before Tad had been forced to leave, he and Mam had thought little of hauling me, toddling Llon and squalling Gwenyn to all kinds of strange and exciting places — places I now know where most parents wouldn’t allow their children to set foot. When they needed to collect dragon eggshells from high up in the mountains, us kids sometimes went along.

I learned where to find snakes before I was seven; how to untangle wire snares without slicing my wrist open when I was eight. I nearly drowned in a lake searching for plimpys — round little creatures with long legs you can tie together — Tad said that’s how Merpeople deal with them because they consider them pests.

My parents also enjoyed firewhiskey. Many times after we’d spent a long day trekking through bracken for mokes and doxy eggs, or slogging around in muddy ditches for flobberworms, Mam ‘n Tad would build up a fire. We would toast sausages, slices of bread and even apples for supper, while two of them added the throat-burning drink to their meal. I can’t recall the bottle ever not being empty the next morning.

The drinking didn’t interfere with much until after Tad was gone.

It’s a wonder all of us kids have lived to see three.

I worry Afon won’t recognize me, after I’ve stayed all year at Hogwarts instead of returning to the Alley during holidays. I know I have a responsibility to my siblings, but the Triwizard tournament and its accompanying delights were hard to resist. Uncle was furious when I refused to return to work at Christmas, while Onyxia wrote that I should try and catch a wealthy boy from Beauxbatons, though a Durmstranger would do.

By the time I make it to Onyxia’s front door the few glass street lamps holding charmed candles have sprung to life, casting faint and eerie shadows. I’ve only just touched the brass kneazle-head knocker when the door is wrenched open from behind.

“It’s about time - oh, Patreva! I hadn’t realized you’d returned already!”

I curl my lips into the sparest of smiles — it’s often a struggle to remain polite with this woman. Patreva is my middle name, not my real name. I don’t even know what it means, and Mam ‘n Tad always avoided using it.

“Noswaith dda, Modryb. Sut ydych chi?”

The pleasure I feel when I speak Welsh at Onyxia is the same as ever: sweet but all too bloody short.

“Patreva Burke! You know far better than to speak that way, to me!”

As if she understood a word I’ve just said?! She’s convinced that any language other than French or Latin is used to disparage her.

“Llon and I came back a few hours ago, Auntie. Uncle Donius sent me to give you this” - I hand her the roll of parchment - “and to take Afon back with me”.

Onyxia stares at the parchment in her hand, eyes narrowing in obvious displeasure.

“Did he send me no money, girl?”

Uh-oh

“I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

Her eyes have gotten even narrower, if that’s possible.

“No, no girl. I suppose...I should’ve expected as much...this time.”

She isn’t looking at me as she says this, rather she’s gazing nowhere in particular at the space behind me, as if suddenly lost in thought...

“Well, wait here a moment, then. Here’s the boy’s belongings.” Before shuffling down her entryway she reaches down and hands me a midsized bag filled with clothes, children’s medicines and very few toys. No tea to be had in her house, apparently. Rude sow.

“Here you are, girl.” Onyxia appears at the door with my youngest brother in tow, his eyes widening at the sight of me and his fist going to his mouth in an image of absolute preciousness.

“Oooh fy mach i! Fy mrawd cy-“

“Speak English to him!” Shrieks the old hag I am forced to respect. “I had to teach him prop—“

But I’m not staying for her xenophobic rant tonight, and neither is fy mrawd bach — my little brother. He’s had enough, and I’ve had enough.

“Goodnight Auntie! Thank you for taking care of him, we need to go back!”

And with that, Afon and I are trotting up the alleyway and into the warm summer night.

Well, I’m trotting; Afon’s on my back.

#harry potter fic #death eaters #order of the phoenix #hp fanfic #lucius malfoy #slytherin #knockturn alley #dark fanfiction #my coping mechanism

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sahbibabe · 4 years ago

Text

Maybe, Maybe, Maybe

Soulmate AU

Sephiroth/Fem! Reader

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Sephiroth finally visits you once again after months of mysterious feathers appearing on your nightstand. He gives you neither the answers you wanted or the hope that you needed from him.

But you could try, and it's the best you can do.

AFTER THAT INTERESTING situation with Cloud, you found yourself falling into a plain--and someone repetitive--routine. You would wake up in the morning, get yourself ready for the day, and open up shop. You would then spend most of your day serving your customers, who seemed to triple as tensions among ShinRa and AVALANCHE rose to a head, who only wanted a peaceful hour or so to themselves without worrying about their electricity bills. After that, you closed for the night and retreated to your attached home and wrote in your journal whenever your memories got to be too much.

Sephiroth never did show back up again--but you would always wake up with a feather lying on your nightstand, each one more unique in shape than the last. You had been getting flight feathers at first, but they gradually downsized until they were small little puffs, then grew larger again as if he was trying out some interesting pattern you couldn't understand.

Over time, as your visits with Aerith, Cloud, and Tifa became less and less the busier they became, you had come up with a sort of peace around the idea of Sephiroth being your soul mate. You had managed to gather some information from those Turks who seemed to favor you so much, of whom you had learned the names of: Reno and Rude. They liked to sample your teas when their shifts were over--did Turks even have shifts?--and ply you with idle conversation while the crowd thinned out for the evening.

Reno entertained you immensely, much to Rude's chagrin, with his quick humor and sly remarks. He told you what you wanted to know when you asked him, but you had a feeling he was feeding you the same load of bull that President Shinra was pushing on the press. He did, however, offer you a tidbit of information that you couldn't figure out what to do with: "Angeal always did say he had a very droll sense of humor. Nice, but droll."

They hadn't shown up for the last two days or so, but Rude had been polite enough to send you a cute little postcard with Chocobos on it telling you that he and Reno apologized for not showing up and that they were busy, which you could understand. There was no return address or anything, but he had left you a quick smiley face doodle as a result.

Without your Turk acquaintances to take up your time, you managed to close up shop early and head to bed. For some reason, you had been getting sluggish and weak, and a glance at your calendar indicated you had somehow forgotten to drink your moon teas--the tea leaves that kept you from dealing with debilitating cramps during your cycle. You would be playing catch up at this rate, so you put a note on the door saying you were ill and for your customers to try out Tifa's bar, Seventh Heaven, while you recovered.

You were delighted to receive bouquets of flowers from your long term customers, fresh and straight from Aerith's garden, or cute knittings from the older women who would give you the most adorable sweaters in return for a month's worth of tea when they had no money to give. One particularly nice lady had sent you an herbal remedy for pretty much anything and everything, wishing you the best and hoping you would get better soon.

For the better part of the night, you sifted through your pile of gifts, reading each handwritten letter and card, giving them their own little places in your room. You pinned a lot of them to your wall so you could see them, remind yourself that you had a reason not to go back to your old life. The money had been good, but it had not been worth the damage you had taken to your morality in the long term.

With a tired yawn, you gathered up the remaining cards to read for another day and placed them on your nightstand. As you reached for the lamp, intent on cutting it off and settling down, you looked towards the window, some urge pulling you to, and locked eyes with Sephiroth himself, the mystery that had been plaguing you for over two months now since his last appearance.

You slowly lowered your hand from the lamp, bewildered, eyes growing wide. "Sephiroth?"

He never moved from his spot at your windowsill, never blinked when you pulled back your blankets to stand and go to him. "I see that you are well loved in this community."

"I love my customers. They're very kind to me even when they know nothing about me." You hovered near him, just out of arm's reach, clutching your night gown out of anxiety. It had been so long since you had been in his presence that you didn't know what to do; combine that with the fact that you could see him as clear as day and that he was your soulmate and you felt like a blubbering mess. You tried to ignore the golden, silver, and purple strings tying you to him. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see if you were well." Sephiroth inclined his head, green-blue eyes shining brightly. "Should I not have?"

"No, no, I--It's not that… I meant, why are you here in Midgar? Isn't it dangerous for you?"

"You've been digging around, haven't you? And you got your answers, it seems."

"I didn't get an answer to everything," you protested. That tell tale amusement flickered in his aura. "Not the important things."

"You may ask me, if you'd like," he began, watching your hands flutter over the hem of your gown sleeve,"but I will not guarantee an answer."

You frowned but kept your composure underneath his stare. "Okay, fine. I can deal with that."

"Then we have an accord. Go to your bed. I will linger until you tire of me." He seemed to indicate that he had no intention of answering your more important questions, frustrating you to no end. You did get under the blankets, though, secretly delighted when he moved closer to sit in the chair by your desk. "Ask."

You made yourself comfy, propping up your back on your pillows and crossing your legs Indian style. "I keep hearing these rumors--that you betrayed Shinra and went your own way. Is that true?"

"It's the most polite way of putting it, but yes. That's true."

"Can you tell me why?"

He gave you a secretive little smile that was a very clear and definite 'no'.

"Fine. Did you know we were soulmates?" You asked bluntly, getting down to the core of your questions instead of beating around the bush like you intended. "If you did, why didn't you tell me when you knew I was blind?"

"To spare you some of the pain. To spare myself of hope." His tone was surprisingly honest, but in a way that told you he had thought it over many times and came to the conclusion that this was what was right to him, what made the most sense. "There is no reality where you and I could exist peacefully in this world."

"That isn't up to you to decide."

"Perhaps. But it is the best decision for you; you love this place, these people." His eyes grew cold, those slit irises narrowed to thin points. "I do not."

"What about me?" You questioned. Your voice was hoarse, trapped by the thick knot that had formed in the midst of making very dark connections in your head. You could only guess what had brought him to such lengths of hatred. "Does my happiness not matter to you, either?"

"No." Your heart felt like it had been smashed to smithereens at his matter-of-fact answer. "No, but I don't know you. It's only a small fondness; a kind memory to know that you exist. Maybe one day, it would matter to me, had I grown to love you. But it does not and so, we are here."

"I see." You tried not to let it get to you. You did, you really did. You had had some hope that your soulmate, the only one you would ever have, would give you a chance. Would allow you some form of happiness or contentment with them even as a friend. This was so much worse. "Do you think…"

"Yes?"

"Do you think…" You glanced up at him, then away. "Do you think you could try?"

"Try to what?"

"To love me? To grow to like me? To get to know me? Be friends--I'd be fine with being friends."

You watched him silently soften at your suggestion, unaware that you felt his aura cling to yours like a bur. You could feel that he was trying to strengthen his resolve--this idea that you were better off without his influence in your life, that he was the "bad guy" in this story. He couldn't do it. The soulmate bond dragged him back and made him pliable, open to suggestion.

Even his eyes, as hard as chips of ice, softened, his irises expanding larger than you had seen them when he had first shown you his eyes.

"Maybe," he whispered. As if trying to convince himself. "Maybe."

That was all the hope that you needed.

#sephiroth x reader #final fantasy 7 remake #final fantasy #soulmate au #soulmate

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hollywooduniversityalumnus · 4 years ago

Text

1. burning glances, turning heads

He really should know better, Margot thought, to expect that his class would be paying attention on a Friday afternoon before the long weekend.

As Professor Hunt, the surliest yet most accomplished educator to roam the halls of Hollywood University, all but threw Lance Sergio out for being extremely obvious about taking excessively filtered selfies during the lecture, she took the opportunity to lean over to Addison, poking her with the eraser end of her mechanical pencil. The blonde, as if being suddenly woken, started, causing her gel pen to make a squiggle just off the doodle she was mindlessly making on the edge of her paper.

“What?” Addison asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Margot shrugged. “I’m bored.”

“I think we’re all bored,” Addison teased. “But at least some of us are more subtle than others.”

She nodded towards the front, where the professor had turned his attentions to Jenni Whitman, whose open laptop screen displayed one of the trashier celebrity gossip websites. Beside her, Bianca Stone surreptitiously slipped her phone into her pocket and bowed her head over her notebook, as though trying to commit the blank pages to memory, and Shae, another of Bianca’s friends, panicked and stuffed her phone in the front of her shirt, making a strange lump in the fabric.

As Jenni, too, packed up and took her leave at his insistence, Professor Hunt returned to the lectern, his jaw tense.

“While I understand that you are all incapable of delaying gratification long enough to pay attention in my class, I maintain my zero-tolerance policy for distractions. It would do the rest of you well,” he gritted out, “to not force my hand any more than it’s already been.” His eyes slowly took in the remaining pupils sitting in the hall. “Do I make myself clear?”

The lecture continued.

As he began a diatribe on romantic comedies, Margot turned back to Addison and gestured for her to look at her notebook. Addison subtly glanced down as she pretended to stretch, reading the message written on the corner of the page in very, very light pencil lead strokes.

Do you think he’s ever even seen a rom com?

Addison smirked and turned the page on her notebook, scrawling her reply in much more perceptible pink glitter ink.

Not on purpose, if at all.

Margot suppressed a laugh at the thought.

Like, maybe he sat through You’ve Got Mail thinking that it was about the postal service?

Or Mystic Pizza being about a magical pizza.

Or Crazy Rich Asians being a biopic.

Or-

“I thought I made myself clear.”

The two girls jumped in their seats, hearts pounding, expecting to find the frowning professor looming over them. Luckily for them, his attention was on Shae, whose poorly hidden phone in her shirt had become quite the spectacle, as the screen lit up behind the thin fabric and an instrumental snippet of a Top 40s hit blared from behind the buttons.

“Out,” Professor Hunt snapped. When Shae didn’t immediately move, he all but yelled, “Out!”

Dear God, she thought, this lecture is never-ending.

She was one of perhaps sixteen students left in the hall. Many others, including Bianca, had either flown the coop during the mandated fifteen-minute break, or were not-so-nicely asked to leave by the increasingly tense professor. She had flirted with the idea of beginning her long weekend early, too, but she knew she was already on thin ice with Hunt (to be fair, when isn’t she?), and she might as well learn something anyway. She didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to be. Unlike many of her classmates, she wasn’t heading home for the long weekend, and her plans for the next four days were most likely going to be a cycle of sleep, catching up on the show Chris recommended, and getting takeout.

“. . . and that is why we're discussing the decline of the romantic comedy, a genre that relies all too often on an unbelievable formula. Miss Sinclair?”

Addison’s head snapped up. “Yes, Professor?”

“Kindly give us an example of a trope commonly seen in romantic comedies. I am assuming you are familiar with them.”

“Y-yes,” Addison said, twirling her fuzzy-capped gel pen with her fingers. “Um, in, um, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, the two leads often fought and got on each other’s nerves but fell in love with each other anyway.”

Professor Hunt nodded. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. A topical example of an overused trope. How often have you seen the two lead characters spend most of a movie fighting with each other, only to end up together in the end because of some ill-established passion? Far too often, I’d assume.”

As he droned on, Margot reached over and patted Addison’s arm. “Good job.”

The blonde returned the smile, relieved to have survived the encounter. “Thanks, I was dying inside.”

“Real love is nothing like that,” Hunt said, sneering. “Real love, the kind that exists outside of a cinema screen or five-dollar DVD bin, is not a predictable, clearly laden path with a clear and promised conclusion. Expecting a happily ever after in a relationship is naïve at best.”

“Who hurt him?” Addison mumbled to her.

She poked Addison again with her pencil. “Can you imagine someone loving Hunt? Or even dating him?”

“No! It'd be like dating an angry bear. It’d be a miracle if they lived to tell the tale. I heard he's single, unsurprisingly.” Addison shook her head.

“He probably has crazy high standards. Do you think he has a type?” She bit her lip, assessing her professor from afar. Though his modelling days were far behind him, he still maintained a well-kept, impeccable appearance that often made her wonder what he would look like without the constricting suits he wore like second skins. His features were both manly yet delicate, as if the world had taken its sweet time with perfecting his visage. And his jawline . . . sharp enough to cut glass. He was definitely not lacking in looks, talent, or drive, which was what made his being perpetually single all the more intriguing, though his personality made it understandable.

“Yeah, if perfect is a type. Like, someone with a model hot body, a mind as sharp as a stiletto, and a Hollywood career that's skyrocketing.” Addison giggled.

She tapped her lip with the eraser end of her pencil, thinking. “So, a fictional person.”

Addison leaned into her, eyes glimmering with amusement. “I bet it'd be like getting graded all the time. He'd be judging your outfit, insulting your conversation, critiquing your kissing technique! ‘Too much tongue. You call that a kiss? Kindly remove yourself from my sight.’”

She chuckled. “‘You’ve got to do better than that if you want me to feel anything other than complete and utter monotony.’”

“‘I've seen more believable kisses on The Bachelor.’”

The laugh that bubbled out of her was loud enough to capture the attention of the very man they were emulating. His eyes narrowed as he spotted her quickly trying to clamp her mouth shut.

“Miss Schuyler! Is something amusing? Perhaps you'd like to finish off my lecture on the difficulty of realistically portraying love?” he asked.

She straightened in her seat. “Sorry, Professor.”

“. . . And in conclusion, once a genre full of heart, the majority of romantic comedies have descended into farce bereft of true emotion. Class dismissed.” The professor strode over to his desk and began the necessary routine of shutting off the projection screen. As he did, the rest of the class stood up, stretching, and began packing their things away. Excited voices began eagerly discussing their plans for the weekend.

Thank God, Margot thought. The never-ending lecture was over. Let the weekend-

His eyes met hers, a pointed gaze. “Except for you, Miss Schuyler. Come see me. We need to talk.”

. . . Shit.

Addison touched her arm. “Do you want me to stay back, too?”

“No, no, it’s okay,” she said, patting her friend’s hand. “You go on ahead. Don’t be late for your bus. I know you’ve been looking forward to seeing your mom.”

Addison grinned. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

“The least you can do,” she teased.

Addison’s smile waned. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on campus for the weekend? My mom said it would be no trouble at all for you to visit.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, I’ll be fine. With almost everyone going away for the long weekend, I’m going to indulge in using up all the hot water. Maybe even sit at the good table in the coffee shop. Wild stuff like that. Thank you, though.”

“Well, then,” Addison said, smile returning full-force, “I’ll be on my way. Good luck! Hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “Don’t worry about little ol’ me. I know how to deal with him.”

Addison nodded and took her leave, one of the last of the classmates to exit the hall. Gathering up the rest of her things, Margot stuffed them into her tote bag and made her way up to the professor’s desk, where he was busy rifling through his own bag and muttering to himself.

“Just one second,” he said, placing a few handfuls of odds and ends from the depths of his bag on the table.

She nodded, more fascinated by the things that he seemingly carried around with him. Of the many things on his desk, she noted a mini Rubik’s cube, a slip of paper with very faded ink that might have been a receipt or a movie ticket once, a cellophane-wrapped green-and-white mint, three expensive-looking pens of various colours and sizes, and a tube of plain blue Nivea lip balm, identical to the one she had in her purse at that very moment. While the label on hers had faded from usage and being flung around inside her bag, his looked brand new.

After brushing those items back into his bag, he placed a stack of papers on the desktop. Among them, a bright slip of paper poked out, much smaller than the rest, and made of a thicker, textured material. Curious, she pulled it out until she could read the tiny lettering.

5th Annual Los Angeles Charity Masquerade. Admit one (1). $250 admission not including fees/taxes.

She’d never been to a masquerade. She imagined they were just like that scene in Labyrinth, with David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly spinning around the room, surrounded by people in grotesque masks that partly concealed their identities. Big poufy dresses and suits with coattails. Drapery and curtains and mirrors. But an LA soiree version of one probably meant champagne by the bucketful and crudités carried around by masked waiters. Perhaps live music, performed by musicians forced into formal wear, and maybe they were even masked as well. Was everyone there, guest or not, required to wear one? Were masquerades that strict? Do people who wear glasses have to-

You’re getting distracted, she told herself.

“A masquerade ball, huh? That sounds romantic.” She leaned against the desk, smirking at him. “And here I thought you were completely against the concept of romance.”

“Only someone delusional looks for love at a charity masquerade ball,” he replied scathingly. “It's a charity event and an obligation. I'm expected to attend, but there'll be no one worth talking to. As usual.”

“No date, huh?”

His eyes narrowed. “A date would require me to spend the entire evening there. I can't imagine anything worse. I'll be leaving as soon as I've made my donation to the cause. But I didn't call you up here to discuss my social calendar, Miss Schuyler. I wanted to talk about your behaviour in class. I thought, after seeing nearly all of your classmates get removed from the hall, you’d know better than to provoke me. I want to make it absolutely clear to you that it is unacceptable to disrupt my lecture. Save your chit chat for your own time, understand?”

She swallowed hard, feeling heat on her cheeks from his gaze. “Yes, Professor.”

He nodded once. “Good. You may go.”

As she left the hall, phone in hand, her heart was thumping in her chest from excitement. But not from the weekend finally starting.

She’d never been to a masquerade, after all.

But first, she’d need a dress. And shoes.

Without her stellar roommate and fashionista friend by her side, she felt entirely overwhelmed as she flipped through the overflowing closet Addi had insisted she make use of. Though she hadn’t told her the whole truth – just that she was attending an event that required formal wear – Addi had been thrilled to break up the boring bus ride with some advice.

“Not too much cleavage,” Addison said, her voice tinny through the phone speaker. “And not short, either. Knee-length or longer.”

“Do you think I’ll need gloves?” she asked. “Like Cinderella?”

Addison hummed. “Maybe. Pack a pair of elbow length white gloves in your bag, just in case. Oh my gosh. What bag are you bringing? It cannot clash. You hear me? Cannot.”

“Addi, I don’t even know what dress I’m wearing.” Margot frowned at her phone, balanced atop a stack of textbooks on her vanity. “I’m standing here in my underwear trying to figure this out. I’m pre-bibbidi-bobbidi-boo here.”

Addison’s laughter rang out of the speaker.

“I’m serious, Addi. Maybe I shouldn’t go.” She bit her lip, thinking of the money she’d spent on a ticket, money that might’ve been better spent. She was lucky that there were even tickets available. But that was beside the point. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“What’s a bad idea? Having a good time? Attending a charity event? Making career-defining connections? Come on.” Addison giggled. “Maybe you’ll even meet the love of your life there.”

“Right.” She flipped through the racks, eager to find something, anything . . . and then she saw it. A strapless, silvery blue ball gown, tight at the top but not overly cleavage-baring, that flared out at the waist to a full, silky skirt that would definitely conceal whatever shoes she would wear. She pulled it out of the closet and unzipped the clear garment bag to admire it. It was a princess dress if she ever saw one. Turning back to the phone, she quickly requested the voice call turn to a video.

Seconds later, Addison’s tired faced filled the screen. “What is it?”

Brandishing the dress out with a flourish, she ignored that she was standing in little more than a bra and panties as she showed the dress for her friend’s approval.

The gasp she heard confirmed her selection.

“You’ll be so stunning! A real-life Cinderella,” Addison said.

“Yeah,” she said absentmindedly, running her hand over the smooth fabric, already envisioning the makeup look she’d pair with the outfit.

“Except-” Addison narrowed her eyes in her best stern Hunt impression. “If you lose one of my shoes, it would be best to leave the country.”

Her taxi finally reached the front of the line, and a footman waiting on the sidewalk opened the door for her. She stepped out in her beautiful ball gown, giving the footman a grateful smile as he closed the door after her. Taking her time ascending the steps in her heels, she met another footman at the door who, after looking at her ticket and corroborating it with the guest list on a tablet, handed her a mask with ribbons.

She stepped into the hallway leading to the ballroom and found a mirror where she could put it on. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was more than pleased by her last-minute glow-up. As Addison had her closet, she had her vanity, stuffed to the brim with makeup products that she used to make herself look as chic as possible. After adjusting the mask to fit her face, she smoothed a layer of lip gloss over her lined lips and smiled to herself.

With this mask, I could be anyone . . . well, anyone smokin' hot, that is, she thought.

The ballroom was packed despite its tremendous size. Decorated Regency-style, it dripped with decadence, glass, and shine. Gold chandeliers tipped with crystals dangled from ceilings with painted murals, and tables spilled over with decadent food and sparkling drinks in crystal flutes. Famous actors and big names in the industry, though shrouded by masks of varying hues and designs, gossiped at the edges of the room, while couples danced and twirled on the floor. As she envisioned, masked waiters masterfully navigated the room, offering bite-sized treats that made her mouth water just looking at them.

After making her way around the room, taking in the splendor, she came to a stop near a pillar and sighed.

“This is incredible,” Margot said aloud.

“Isn’t it?”

She turned her head, surprised to see a man with a dark blue mask eyeing her from where he sat by the nearby bar.

“Come sit with me and let’s talk about it,” he said. The invitation, though innocuous in its wording, made her uncomfortable.

“Um,” she said. Her mind, which was usually buzzing with quips, did not offer her an out.

“Don’t be shy, baby,” he pressed, voice a little too firm and sharp for her liking. “I won’t bite. Come here.”

She swallowed hard at his leery gaze, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. “I-”

And then she felt it, a hand circling around her elbow, and she was not alone. She tilted her head up to appraise her saviour, who was looking down at her with a smile. Her saviour, tall and silver-masked, looked and spoke to her as if he knew her.

“There you are.” He led her to the other side of the bar, all the while chattering loudly as though they had come together. “Nearly lost you in this crowd.”

She knew that voice. Knew it quite well, in fact. She’d heard it in lecture halls, offices, in her nightmares and dreams, and in places unexpected.

This was one of the latter now.

He gestured to a pair of empty seats, and she gratefully took one. As soon as she was comfortable, he turned his head to look over at where that man who had been speaking at her sat. Then, he leaned against the bar, standing over the other empty seat, and picked up a half-empty glass, presumably abandoned by him when he came to her rescue.

“You should be careful,” he said sternly.

For a moment, she thought he recognized her, and she prepared for the lecture that would undoubtedly come.

“Even charity events attract the lecherous,” he continued. “You’re very welcome, by the way.” A smirk played on his lips before he took a sip of his drink.

“Thanks,” she said, for she had no clue what else to say.

He nodded once. “Do be careful with yourself. You’re bound to attract some unwanted attention. It would do you well to keep your head clear so that you may avoid future encounters. You can’t expect someone to come to your rescue every single time.”

“Nor do I expect rescue at all,” she replied. “I am no damsel in distress. Though, I guess, I kind of was for a second there, huh.”

He laughed. It wasn’t sarcastic or mocking. A genuine laugh that made him tilt his head back ever so slightly. She’d never heard him laugh like that before, but now that she had a taste, she wanted to hear it again and again. It was so unlike him, the caustic and cold professor she knew. It made him even more attractive.

“At least you’re honest.” He tilted his head at her. “I prefer to be honest.”

“I like that.” Sitting up a little straighter, Margot added, “Honesty's refreshing. One thing I've learned since I've been here, in Hollywood I mean, is that too many people are willing to lie to your face or cheat to get ahead.”

He glanced at his watch. “Is that so?” He killed his drink and then levelled his gaze with hers. “And you’re not one of them?”

“No,” she said, then thought better of it. “Not yet, at least. Not if I can help it.”

“So, you want to get ahead.” He finally lowered himself into the seat beside hers.

He gestured to the bartender for a refill, and she took the opportunity to order herself a drink. The bartender nodded at them and turned away.

“I want to be a household name. A famous actress.”

He leaned forward, close to her. “Here's some more truth for you . . . everyone here wants to be something. But not everyone here is going to succeed.”

Stubbornly, she said, “I will.”

“You're brash, naive, and overly confident. I used to be that way, before. . .” His smirk waned, then disappeared altogether. It was clear he was not mentally in this room anymore.

She wondered what he was thinking about.

The bartender slid his scotch refill to him, then delicately placed her drink on a coaster in front of her. He picked up his glass and took a rather large gulp.

“. . . Ahem. Excuse me. I'm Thomas. And you are?”

Honesty’s refreshing, she had said just moments earlier. Too many people are willing to lie to get ahead.

She truly didn’t want to lie to him, not now. But she also sensed that revealing herself now would mean that she wouldn’t get to keep talking to him like this or hear that laugh.

And, honestly, what good would come out of angering him after he’d been so kind to her?

“Someone who doesn't like to reveal all her secrets.” She smiled coyly, taking a sip from the paper straw in her drink. “It's a masquerade ball, after all.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “You don't have to be so coy. I don't need a name to figure out who you are. Or anyone in this room, for that matter.” Turning so that he could assess the crowd around them, he nodded towards different masked guests. “Timothee Chalamet; his hair is distinctive, as is his stature. Charlize Theron; note the regal way she carries herself, much like several of her most notable characters. Adam Driver; tall, kind of awkward gait, a low voice that carries over the crowd.”

“Very impressive, Thomas,” she said, trying out his name on her tongue. It was sort of strange to refer to him so casually, but she’d have to adapt if she wanted to keep this going on.

He took another sip, clearly pleased to be right. “Told you, didn’t I?”

Though she enjoyed the game they were playing, she decided to really test him. “Here’s a harder challenge: do you know who I am?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “I've been wondering that the moment you arrived. Something about you is familiar, almost loathsome, yet at the same time, forgive me, attractive.” He tilted his head. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?”

Though her heart was pounding, she kept it cool. “Maybe at the end of the night. Unless you're planning on leaving early. Are you?”

“No.” He broke eye contact with her long enough to get the bartender’s attention, and he gestured for another refill. “No, I’m not.”

At some point, in the midst of their conversation, the music had noticeably gone softer and slower. He finished his drink and sighed, placing the glass onto the countertop, but just as he was about to request another refill, she captured his attention with a hand on his arm.

“We should dance,” Margot said, springing out of her seat. “Care to join me?”

He hesitated, and her glossed lips pouted.

Then, slowly, he rose from his seat, all the while maintaining eye contact with her. He straightened his tie and gave her a smirk.

“Do try to keep up,” he teased, buttoning his suit jacket before offering her his arm. They slipped through the crowd, the guests not dancing parting for them as easily as water. As soon as they reached the dance floor, he took the lead, taking her in his arms and guiding her. She was slow, cautious. He watched her fight her instinct to look at their feet.

“If you're nervous, this dance will be over before it even begins,” he warned, though his grip on her tightened.

She pulled him closer, emboldened by the drink in her system and the fact that he didn’t know who she was, and smiled up at him.

“Do I seem nervous, Thomas?” she asked.

He smiled. “Not at all. I’m surprised. You’re not completely horrible at this.”

She batted her eyelashes. “You say such charming things.”

They both laughed as he whirled her around the room.

She didn’t know how long they’d been dancing for, but she knew they were being watched. The crowd of dancers had thinned considerably since they had first arrived on the dance floor, and now many spectators lined the floor, watching with increasing interest as she and her partner weaved around the other dancers, doing increasingly interesting moves at his lead.

Her heart was pounding, the music was building to a crescendo, and he spun her around the dance floor faster and faster.

Don’t puke, she told herself. Do not do it. Your reputation will not recover. Not with whoever’s in attendance, and certainly not with Thomas.

His voice came from somewhere to her right. “Keep to my tempo, or you'll fall behind.”

He spun her out and away from him.

The world beyond the dance floor seemed as if was moving in slow motion, while she was stuck on fast-forward. She felt like she was one of the fairy toys that spun around and around in the air, aimless and free, before meeting a wall or piece of furniture and clattering to the floor. She braced herself for impact.

But then her hands connected with his again, and the crowd that had gathered to watch the dancers applauded as he pulled her back into his embrace.

“You learn quickly. I wish you were one of my students,” he whispered in her ear.

Her stomach, which had felt so light just moments before, now felt heavy and twisted.

“You’re a teacher,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “I teach at a local university.”

“How . . . nice.” It was the best she could come up with at the moment.

After she had become too dizzy from the spinning, he escorted her off the dance floor with an amused smile. He led her through the ballroom and out onto a private balcony cordoned off by a thick dark velvet curtain. Taking her hand, they stepped closer to the railing, into the cool evening air.

After giving her a long look, he let go of her hand and slowly removed his mask. The silver-lined blue barrier fell away to reveal him. He looked even more handsome up close, with a shy smile on his lips and the bright light from a single lantern hanging above them illuminating his debonair features.

“Disappointed?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, stunned by seeing him so unguarded, and even more handsome up close. “Not at all.”

The ocean waves below were muted by her heartbeat. Above them, she noted the sun setting, the sky becoming an ombre canvas of oranges, reds, and pinks. It was truly a stunning sight, but her gaze kept coming back to him. Still smiling, he reached out and took her hands in his.

His voice was husky, low. “You are definitely the best part of the night. I wasn't expecting to meet someone like you. I can sense something about you, a connection . . . I never thought I'd feel this strongly about someone I just met, but I can't seem to stop myself.”

She felt as though she was not breathing. As if she might never breathe again.

Moving even closer, he circled his arms around her waist, tilted her head up, and leaned in, eyes closing just before they made contact.

She was surprised by how sweetly he kissed her, how delicately he held her, as though she would slip away in the faintest breeze. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer to him until they were nearly inseparable. She thought she could hear fireworks somewhere, and wondered if she was only imagining them, but when they finally pulled back from the kiss, she saw flashes of colour illuminating his face in vibrant hues.

“Thomas,” she said breathlessly.

And then his mouth was on hers again, pulling her closer still, until his back was against the wall, and her hand was on the back of his neck, holding him to her. She felt his fingers on her back, just above the silk of the strapless dress, and she shivered and pressed herself tighter to him.

“Please,” he whispered raggedly once they separated again. “I have to know who you are.”

Margot stilled.

He reached around her and began tugging on the ribbons of her mask. She watched him closely, letting him untie the knots, savouring what very well may be the last moment she would have with him like this.

The mask fell away from her face, and she watched him recognize her, watched his eyes widen and face twist in betrayal and anger before he stepped back and pressed a hand against his mouth in horror. Her blood ran cold as his eyes narrowed and his expression hardened to one of complete disdain.

“Margot? How - how dare you?” he gasped. “You – you – I cannot believe this! You lied to me! You deceived me! You seduced me! How could you?”

His rejection, though expected, pained her in ways she couldn’t even describe. As though his words were branding irons, burning his hatred into her flesh.

“You’re the last person I wanted to see behind that mask,” he spat. “You, of all the people in the world.”

He kept hurting her, hurting her, like he didn’t care. And perhaps he didn’t, now that he knew the truth.

“I can’t believe I - Dear God, I kissed a student.” He leaned back against the wall, forcing himself to take deep breaths to keep himself steady.

Tears slid down her cheeks as she watched him denounce her in every way possible. Even though he’d bragged about being able to identify anyone, he didn’t expect her, didn’t even cross his mind to guess her, and for some reason it hurt her more than anything else.

“Some part of you might’ve known it was me,” she said indignantly. “You were bragging that you-”

He let out a caustic laugh at that. “Why would I want you to be someone I despise? Someone I don’t respect? I’m disgusted with you and myself.”

And that was all she needed to hear.

Pushing past him, she covered her face – and the tears streaking down them – as she rushed out of the gala and into the night.

The taxi ride back to the dorms was awkward, mostly because she spent the entire ride sniffling, trying to hold back her tears, and using up the Kleenex the driver kept a box of by the rear windshield. After tipping him, she sprung out of the taxi and didn’t stop running until she was safely back in her room.

It was there that Margot allowed herself to fully break down. In that beautiful princess dress, she flopped onto her bed and sobbed, hugging herself tightly, letting out all the anger and frustration and pain that she felt at being so heavily and heartlessly rejected by him. She cried for the way he looked at her. Sobbed at the beautiful moments they shared that were now tainted by the conclusion of the night. She ached for what could have been and wept for her naivete.

A part of her knew that there was no way anything could’ve come from it. But she’d let herself fall into the fairy tale, accepting him as her stand-in prince for the evening, and felt charmed by their conversing, their somewhat playful banter, and the compatibility in their dancing skills. And the kisses they shared . . .

Though her chest and throat ached from crying, if she closed her eyes tight enough, she could still feel his mouth against hers, languid and sweet in its kiss.

There was something there. She knew it.

It hurt her to know that, even if he sensed something too, he would never acknowledge it.

Twenty minutes away from the Hollywood U dorms, Thomas Hunt sat on his bed, still in his suit from the masquerade, drinking scotch straight from the bottle. Two pairs of masks lay beside him, one slightly more rumpled than the other from its owner stepping on it as she ran from the private balcony.

Setting the bottle down on the bedside table, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, forcing himself to think back to the beginning of it all, pushing past the haze the alcohol left in his head.

He’d spotted her the moment she walked in and had kept an eye on her since she began making her way around the ballroom. And, from the sounds of the men sitting close by him, he was not the only one who had noticed her.

The dress she wore made her ethereal, like she’d stepped out of a dream. The shiny silk that hugged her frame before flowing to the floor, coupled with her demure yet entrancing makeup and the awed look in her eyes from behind her mask, set her apart from the rest.

He took a large gulp of his drink and loosened his tie.

She got closer, and one of the wolves made their move.

As if by an unknown force pulling him forward, he found himself walking up to her, his mind struggling to catch up with his actions as he offered her a way out of the clearly unwanted interaction.

“There you are.” He led her to the seat he had previously occupied and was pleased to find that one of the men had taken flight upon seeing them interact. She sat down and looked up at him curiously, as if wondering why he had saved her from being potentially preyed upon.

“You should be careful,” he said. “Even charity events attract the lecherous. You’re very welcome, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

He knew that voice. The sincerity of the gratitude, tinged with sarcasm at having to reply at all.

She seemed not to have recognized him. He wondered how long it would be before she did. Though the mask concealed some of her features, with his close proximity he was quick to identify her by other things that gave her away, like her high cheekbones and dark tresses she’d pulled into a half-up hairdo and, now, her distinctive voice.

He felt tempted to call her out on it and send her on her way home, but at the same time, he wanted to know where this would go. Revealing what he knew would mean that he wouldn’t get to keep talking to her like this.

And it was a masquerade ball, after all.

#thomas hunt #thomas orson hunt #hollywood u #fanfiction #only fools fall for you

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kiss-me-kira · 4 years ago

Text

2 Encounter w/ Kira

just second meeting nothing really exciting

cut for length

The beach was lovely today. The Morioh sun was warm and the breeze was brisk. Maybe a little too swift because it kept blowing my hair in my face, but all in all it was very enjoyable. I had found a nice little cove downhill from some wild looking orchard. It was quiet and peaceful, so I brought out my sketchbook and some books to read.

My sketchbook wasn’t working well with me, the pages were too big and kept swallowing up my doodles. So I switched to my pocket sketchbook and was working on a rough sketch of the sea and horizon line when my hands refused to do what I told them. So I took a pause and decided to rest my eyes. I laid back in the sand and pulled my arm across my eyes to block out the sun for just a few minutes.

“This is private property you know.” I shot up, there was someone immediately behind me. I jumped when there wasn’t anyone there, but I heard rustling in the trees so I looked a bit up and there he was.

“I-Im so sorry is this your house?” He looked so familiar but I couldn't quite remember who he was. Surely I wouldn't forget such a handsome face.

He exhaled sharply, as if that was his version of a laugh, and hopped down from the orchard’s embankment down onto the beach just a few steps away from me. Something told me he was so familiar, but it was on the tip of my tongue, as if he had just walked out from a dream.

“No, it's not mine. But you shouldn’t be here.” His face showed no effect, but his voice seemed jovial? Was he teasing me? Was this some sort of inside joke I should remember?

“Im sorry, I'll leave right now.” I gathered my things, not like I had many of them, but when I saw the book I remembered. He was like a dream, or at least I had thought he was at the time, but he was Dr. Holly Joestar-Kira’s son.

“You’re Kira.” that came out sounding more like an accusation than I intended but it served its purpose.

“Kira Yoshikage. And you are?” He extended his hand, his long delicate fingers hanging there waiting for mine. Oh god I hope he didn't see me staring, I scurried to move my things to my left arm and meet his hand in a shake.

“Constantin. Nice to actually meet you.” Because coming into my room when I was fairly certain you were a fever dream really doesn't count.

His skin was so soft, but his handshake was firm. I couldn't help but think of all the things he could do with those hands. Maybe he was a violinist, or a pianist, or perhaps a painter or sketcher. Ugh I bet those hands would feel even better under my dress or around my neck… Oh god that is not a good road to go down when he's right in front of you Constantin.

In an ill attempt to quash those thoughts I nodded to him and turned to go back the way I came this was about as good a time as any to duck out. Which i probably should have done as soon as he mentioned that I was trespassing on private property.

I turned and started walking down the beach towards the way I came.

“Wrong way.” I turned around to see him standing there in an odd little pose with his hips cocked to the side and his arms crossed.

“It's the way I came.” No response.

“Well then show me the proper way.” If he was going to be short and curt I could easily do the same. He spun on his heel and started walking away. I guess I'm supposed to follow him? Of course the beautiful man who fell from the sky would not be talkative. There was no way I could completely hold a conversation on my own, at best I can reflect the energy that the other person puts in and he was not doing much of anything.

“Like the Roman Emperor?” He asked, quirking up his eyebrow. Well that was surprising.

“Yes yes, the one who moved the capital to Byzantium and converted to Chirstianity. My family is Italian and big on history.” It was usual to have this conversation with new people. It's not exactly a common name so I figure i have to justify it a bit.

“It's an interesting name.” Was apparently all he could think of as a response.

“Hm so I’ve heard.” Many times. God im so fucking awkward what the hell am I supposed to talk about when Im being escorted off of someone elese’s property?

Kira led me down the beach for a few more meters then gestured up a small slope. I scrambled to the top, with him a few steps behind me, and tried to regain my bearings. Sure this was only a few hundred meters down the shore from where I was but nothing looked familiar. I didn’t even see a road nearby, just a tree leaning dangerously over the wall eyes. I shuddered remembering fainting there a few days ago. Drat, I would have to ask him for directions. I steeled myself up, ready to be met with a cold and partial response but he spoke first.

“What do you know of Morioh?” What an odd way of phrasing a question. Was he trying to offer me directions?

“I’ve been here about a week, so all I know is my hotel in the city center, the beach where I just was, the Wall Eyes and the hospital.” Hopefully

“Which way is the hospital.” The way he phrased it was more like command than a question. And why the fuck was he asking me he lived here. Ugh he's testing me, that condescending little jerk. I flexed my hands so I did not clench them in fists, it was a good thing I had a pretty decent internal GPS. Yeah there was that one time I convinced my family I knew my way around Rome because I studied Latin for 6 years, but as it turned out a lot had changed from the 2000 year old maps I knew.

“That way,” I pointed confidently over his shoulder and to the left. I was pretty sure that was where I would have ended up if I had left the beach the other way.

“No.” He said flippantly, as if he’s disappointed I didn’t know better. I stood there like an enraged dead fish, glaring with my mouth hanging open. He was being cold and dismissive yet I still wanted to show off. I cracked the knuckles in my right hand and took a deep breath in I can be a nice person.

“Would you mind showing me the way?” I asked in my best imitation of a regularly pleasant person.

Kira blinked in a way that looked affirmative, or I was imagining things, so I followed as he turned around to walk around the wall eyes.

Once I stopped being as embarrassed and afronted, it was a nice walk. We were still close enough to the beach to feel the breeze on my face, and every so often I caught a glimpse of Kira batting his hair out from his eyes. Which as much as I hated to say it, was pretty cute. I couldn't help but want to reach out and brush it out of his face for him. But that would be quite rude and creepy, so I restrained myself. Of course I stole some other glances at him. He walked very purposefully, each step was assured, and he kept a nice rhythmic pace too.

I cleared my throat, it had been silent for a long time, and now that i was actually calm I didn't want to come off as rude. He had been kind in his own weird little way.

“Do you live around here?” Hopefully that was friendly and not ‘I'm going to stalk you’...

“I live by the harbor.” He had slowed a little to match my pace. That was considerate, I think.

“Ah yes I know where that is.” Shit that was too sarcastic.

“You do?” He quirked an eyebrow up.

“No of course not, I already told you all the places I know.” I forced a smile, and an awkward laugh. Please think this was a joke.

A noise, he madea weird noise, like a sharp exhale without moving his face.

“Guess you did.” That was a laugh? Maybe?

“But that does explain-” I gestured loosely to his outfit, “this.”

“How so?” His voice was lighter, and I could almost hear a smirk in it. But his face still showed no effect. He must be warming up to me.

“You work there, no? On a ship?”

“Yes,” he looked impressed and I hated how that made me excited, “I do. How did you know?” He couldn't seriously be asking me that right? He was dressed like a 1940’s sailor. He had to know that.

“Well you either work on a ship or you just learned the yablochko…” I nervously laughed again. Everything is fine.

“I'm a surgeon.” He said in the lightest tone I’d heard him use yet. But wait, that didn't quite make sense...

“Oh-”

“On cargo ships.” He clarified.

“Ah…” so he wasn't mocking me, “Oh that's very interesting actually.” It was so interesting that apparently I hadn’t realized we had made it back into the city. Or the outskirts of it at least. It wasn’t like we had been talking for long, or about much, there was just something about him that stole all my attention.

But now that I recognized where we were a little, I let my eyes stray. I think he said something, but everything was drowned out by a literal monster in the street in front of us.

I grabbed Kira by the arm, not so gently jerking him back to keep from walking closer to that thing. It was pink and tall, with odd pointed ears and what looked like armored plating. No one else was paying it any mind on the sidewalk, but I felt my nails digging into his arm and didn't think I remembered how to breathe.

He was very calm when it turned around to look at us. Kira glanced a few times between me and whatever the hell that was before speaking.

“Ah, so you can see it now.”

#kiracon #Kira-Con #selfship #Kira8

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succubustears · 4 years ago

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My nightmare started at the hospital. My friend K and I were at a hospital... I don't really remember why. We were rushed out with a group of people. We left my aunt K there. Everyone was looking for their cars in this giant parking lot. My friend thought my car was in the opposite direction of where it was. I guided him the right way and using my cars horn we found it. It was in the biggest parking lot I have ever seen. Surrounded by dumped rusty metal storage containers and other things. It was like a giant open warehouse or dump site.

When we got into the car my two aunts C and S were there. S was driving for some reason so I was in the back with K. We drove through the area and S made a huge turn and scraped the back of my car on a container. I felt scared and timidly asked if she would help repair it.

We were on the road this time and surrounded by the usual PNW trees. She made another huge turn but the car left the road. We plummeted backwards into the foliage for so long, finally hitting a tree dead on with the back of the car flinging us down into a valley. We were already far off from any town. My aunts were fine but K and I were really rattled. I got out and found my bearings. K was getting ill by the car. C and S kept acting like we were being dramatic.

I looked around. There were a few older looking buildings, but no roads. Two young boys peeked out and we're walking over. I looked at my phone and had a bit of service. I called the emergency number and a man answered and cut me off every time I tried to speak. He said he would get us but I never said where i was. It made me nervous.

The boys arrived and I asked if they had any adults with them. They timidly looked at each other and said the adults wouldn't help us but they would do their best to help. They looked scared so I hugged each and had them go back home. I couldn't find K. Eventually S and C were gone too. They had left without me purposefully. The objects I took from the car were left but the car was gone too, only leaving the damage it caused in the dirt and trees. Night was arriving.

Time passed. I was there a while, along with another version of me. A version who couldn't talk. A version I protected like a sister. We lived in the place the car crashed. I took care of her and when the boys didn't return from the houses I decided to investigate them myself. My phone was gone and I couldn't find it. I wanted to contact someone.

I met one of the boys and asked if I could use their restroom. He agreed and let me in. I locked myself in and sat on the closed toilet, crying softly to myself a while. I was still cut and bruised from the crash tired and in pain. I calmed myself down and looked at myself in the mirror. I had dried blood on my face, my hair was tangled, my face was swollen and I noticed my front teeth had chipped. A vain part of me was devestated. They hurt but it wasn't so bad so I rinsed my face and began drinking the water desperately. I noticed it was a coppery brown color but I didn't care.

I left to thank the boy but he was gone. The more I looked around the house it didn't look lived in. I made my way to a bedroom that gave me a sinister feeling. There were two closets. One had some cloth hanging out of it, like it was closed in a rush and someone was hiding on the other side. I could hear voices from behind it. I walked slowly to it and the voices got louder. I had my hand on the handle but everything in my body told me not to open it. I was terrified.

I snapped out of it and left that room quickly. I looked around the house and remembered the boy telling me that I could take anything I wanted. I found my backpack there but I didn't bring it. I thought it was in the car when it was removed. I was happy because it had my study materials and other things I like to keep with me. It was mood lifter to say the least. Something told me to stay out of that house. I took a rolled up carpet, blankets, and things I could use to fortify our camp outside.

I returned to the other me. She was terrified and clung to me, so I hugged her. I guess I was gone a while. I gave her a book I found and she stayed in the camp reading it. She just read whatever I handed to her. I spent the time studying my Japanese and being frustrated with my inability to write Kanji properly. Time passed.

So much time had passed. The houses looked overgrown. I hadn't seen the boys in a long time. I had stacked stones into a bit of a wall. It was flat enough to doodle on and carve out. Made me feel safe. The moss and the comfort of the trees weren't so bad. The sun peeked through the trees and it wasn't so bad. I still wanted to leave.

I went to look for more things for my other me to read, and things to fortify our camp with. I looked through a window and saw animals scamper into another room. I opened the window and let myself in. It was a different house than the other. I hadn't been in this one yet. It didn't look lived in but it didn't look complete abandoned either. It gave me a pit in my stomach. I could tell I wasn't alone. I walked through the living area and into a hall that led to the rooms. I heard an old man scream from behind me and began to chase me. I shoved into a bedroom and ran into a closet, trying to pull the door closed.

But... Clothing was peeking out of it causing me to be unable to close the door. My eyes were wide and terrified, realizing I had seen this before, but from the other side. It was too late. The man was already in the room and knew where I was due to my mistake. I tried to keep the door closed with my strength but it wasn't a match. He was stronger than me. Almost feral. Spit was foaming and dripping from his thin lips onto his unkempt facial hair. He looked like he lived here alone forever. He slammed the door open and reached for me like a zombie. I screamed.

I woke up in a panic back at my camp. It was that morning before I went into the house. I looked at my shaking hands. There were red marks from me trying to keep the door closed and protect myself. It was almost like I had died and respawned. I gulped and calmed myselfm understanding my mistakes and I attempted to do it again, for some reason. If I could just not get caught...

I followed the same path as before. He screamed and I ran. I tried to grab the clothing hung on the door to make sure I could close it in time but it got caught anyway. My eyes widened in fear. I knew... But it happened anyway. I felt betrayed by my ego. I was so scared I fainted. I felt my consciousness leave my hands first, my knees buckled, my eyes closed and all I could hear was the feral footsteps of the man pursuing me.

My eyes fluttered open. It was dark but I could tell I was at the bottom of the closet. My back ached from laying on boxes and shoes. I pulled myself up and listened. It was quiet. I peeked out the door and there was no one there. My guard up, I left the closet and tiptoed out to peek out to the living room. I could tell I was alone in the house I relaxed a tiny bit with a small breath out.

The living room had changed. In front of the dingy blue couch there was now a bed shoved in the little space that was between the couch and the font window. It looked like the bed had been used recently. Something was placed on the unkempt covers. To my delight it was my phone. I checked it and it had a bit of charge and a bit of signal.

I ran back to my camp and called my father, who answered the phone casually asking how I had been. I didn't know how much time had passed but I knew it was a long time. I was shaking and trying to be polite. I know my father and if I speak to him wrong he would just hang up but I knew I couldn't call he emergency line again.

I was holding back tears. He was the first tangible thing I was able to contact. I told him what happens. The car accident, I couldn't find K, C and S left without me. I'm alone and I want to go home. I'm scared.

He sounded a bit annoyed. "C and S got back fine. Why can't you? Where's your car?" He said.

I explained that the car left when C and S left. I was desperate. They must have taken it! I gasped. I was holding on to my phone with both hands.

He sounded a bit less annoyed. "Ah. What a pain."

Tears were bubbling out of my eyes. I kept my voice calm knowing he would hang up on me if he heard me crying. "Please... I'd like to go home. I'll do anything to pay you back so please help me just this once. Just get me home.

My dad was quiet a moment. His voice was so calm and so cold. "It would be easier and cheaper for me if you just stayed there. It's going to cost money to find you. It's just going to be a burden on me. I'm happy. Why can't you just stay."

My heart skipped a beat. It felt like I was stabbed in the chest. My knees were weak. I was in so much pain. I was suffering. My teeth were broken. I was being hunted. I was so scared. My knees buckled and I begged.

He sighed on the other end and asked where I was. I scrambled to pull open my phone out to open my gps and I was immediately confused. I wasn't in Washington anymore. I was in Indonesia... But it wasn't Indonesia. It was called Indonesia but due to dream logic it looked more like Madagascar on the map and had the look of rural Washington...

He said he would try and make something work and my phone died. I held the phone to my chest. At least I could have the hope that I may be getting help.

Some more time passed and a man younger than me came, I recognized him as one of the boys from before. He said he was back for the summer but his brother wouldn't be joining him. He stayed a bit with me and helped me with things I couldn't physically do. He was secretive but I knew he was familiar. I was there for so long it almost seemed like home. He had gotten me more paper and pens and I was so happy.

All I can remember is that at night there was always a shadow to be afraid of. Similar to the old man I always ran from. My tired body always ached and my teeth hurt. The other me wasn't there anymore. It was just me. Lonely and tired on the verge of giving up.

My dad came and while I was scared I still was polite and appreciatative. He made comments about my cleanliness and teeth but I could hardly pay attention. I cried saying goodbye to the boy and asked him to not forget me. I felt so sad. I was so easily forgotten by everyone. Even my own family. I begged him not to and he promised he wouldnt. I knew he would forget me but it made me feel better to hear it. I remember limply sitting in the passengers side of my fathers truck as we drove away. I fell asleep.

I opened my eyes and saw nothing but darkness. I felt the fear like I was back in the closet. I was in the closet. It was closed this time fully so I couldn't see a thing. It was hot and suffocating. I was sweating and my heart was pounding. My knees ached and my jaw ached. Someone was on the otherside of the closet.

I gasped in fear and was finally actually awake. I was rocketed awake by my work alarm. My mouth was dry and my body was sweaty, aching, and so heavy. I felt like I was awoken from the deepest sleep. I wanted to just fall back asleep but I slept so deep I missed my 9am alarm and it was my 10am alarm which meant I had to clock into work as soon as possible.

It took every ounce of strength and willpower to myself out of bed. My knees buckled since they've been swollen lately from the new medication I'm taking. I couldn't see straight and I clocked into work, plopping into my chair. I took my Adderall to counteract this fatigue as soon as possible. I fed the cats and made it back to my chair. I went to bed on time. I slept about 7-8 hours, I can only assume. I didn't do anything different last night. I ate well, took my medication on time, didn't eat sweets or forget to exercise.

I don't know why I dreamt all that. It took me 3 hours to write this all down. I dont know why I needed to do that. I just needed to. It's 1pm now and I'm still exhausted. My teeth look fine though. There's no reason to be afraid.

I wonder what it meant. If anything at all.

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cecilspeaks · 5 years ago

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156 - The Trouble with Time

‘tis better to have loved and lost Than to be slowly eaten whilst still alive. There are, on the whole, Many things worse than having loved and lost. Welcome to Night Vale.

Well, listeners, we have all been grappling with the same problem. Time has become normal in Night Vale, or as normal as time ever is. Time is pretty weird everywhere. As a result of this shift in our experience of time, none of us are remaining the same age for centuries anymore. We are aging one year per year, one month per month, one second per precious second. Every moment that passes our skin is less supple. Our mind is less pliant. Our joints ache just a little more.

The entire town is in an uproar, as we are all coming to terms with the idea of getting older. Gym memberships have soared. Everyone is talking at the same time and they’re all recommending green juice diets to each other. The City Council has tried to make ageing illegal, but it turns out this would be unconstitutional as the Supreme Court decided that slow deterioration of the mind and body is an American right.

I myself am not immune to these worries. When I think about what my life would be like after Carlos or, what his life would be like after me… These are the kinds of fears that can’t be shaken off by the light of day. That linger, even after all the shadows of evening have faded. Is love a gift in a finite world? I’d like to think so, but oh, my stomach is in knots. I’m sure your sis too.

And now a word from our sponsors. Afraid of ageing? Terrified of the tides of time? Spooked by the sequential nature of existence? Stop looking at the calendar and moaning. Sure, it may be cathartic to start every morning by picking up your alarm clock and shouting: “You are a murderer! Your numbers are murder weapons! I am the murder victim!” But it’s not helping you out. Instead, try lotion. Just lotion those limbs. Lotion that face. Got any other parts? Lotion them too. Rubbing lotion on yourself won’t stop time. It won’t end the inevitability of death. But when you die, you will be silky smooth, and folks will whispers: “Why, it doesn’t look like they’ve aged a single day.” Buy lotion now and we will send you a box of other things that will not stop you from dying, but will make you feel a little better on your way out the door. Such as fish oil pills, a pair of running shoes, and books with titles like “Get Happy Now, or Else”. Lotion – you can’t stop ageing, so settle on mitigating the surface appearance of ageing. And this has been ma word from our sponsors.

In a new press release, Night Vale resident Leah Shapiro announces the Mariam McDonald memoriam fund. This fund, in honor of the recently deceased Mariam, will be used to finally fulfil Mariam’s lifelong dream, a dream she did not live long enough to see come to fruition: the removal of all sand from the Sand Wastes. Mariam hated the sand, thought it looked frightfully untidy, and that it made a bad first impression for folks just coming to town. She could often be seen when she was alive out with her broom, dutifully sweeping the dunes into her dustpan, and depositing the result into a black trashbag. Obviously, this was slow going, but Leah has vowed to continue Mariam’s quest. “It’s a stupid wish, a real dumb one,” said Leah. “I hate it! I hate it so much, but I don’t know, it’s what Mariam wanted. And so I feel obligated for some reason to keep after it. God, this sucks!” Leah concluded. According to the press release, the Mariam McDonald Memorial Fund currently contains 3 dollars, and is not taking donations. Well, isn’t that the feelgood story of the year? Good luck, Leah. I do hope you get rid of all that sand. Mariam was right, sand is very untidy.

And now for the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner. So today, we will be discussing how to tell whether something is a person. Here are simple tests that can be done at home with whatever you find in your parents’ cabinets when they don’t know you’re looking. Does it grow? It’s a person. Does it bend? It’s a person. Is it square or similar to a square? That’s a person. Nodes or nodules? Person. A frank and enticing laugh? Person. Can it hold liquid? Person. Is it a dog? Yup, that’s a person too. That ooze at the back of your closet? Not a person. We don’t know what hat is, best not to touch it, best not to think on it. Perhaps it is the thinking that gives it its power. This has been the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.

In response to the current “time is normal” crisis, many companies are moving in to offer services to alleviate ageing. Arby’s is suggesting that a regular diet of roast beef has been shown to extend life expectancy by up to 20 years. When they were asked who showed that and how they did so, Arby’s kind of mumbled and sad that they would have those sources for us soon, but in the meantime, come on down and buy yourself a meal.

A number of new gyms have opened up in town, promising advanced workouts that will keep the body and mind tiptop. There is an LA Fitness, also a 26 Hour Fitness, which promises workouts at any time day or night, plus two bonus hours every day that are only experienced by members. And local legend Louie Blasko has started what he calls a Crossfit gym, but it appears to be just the burned out remains of his old music store, untouched since the night of the fire. “Oh yeah,” Louie said. “You can really get a good workout in here, believe me.” His eyes flicked back and forth nervously.

A different angle is being taken by newcomer to town, Casper Rhodes. Casper says that he has conquered the ultimate obstacle: death itself. He does this by freezing the brain upon death until it can be resuscitated by advanced technologies of the future. “Cryogenics means never having to say ‘I’m dead’,” Casper declared, whirling around the red cape he wears and wiggling his eyebrows. “Oh yes, this is a completely real technology. Once you die, we simply and safely remove your bran and freeze it in here.” He indicated the disused grain silo on the edge of town. “That thing is full of brains,” he said. “And each of those brains will be reanimated to a bright and beautiful future hundreds of years from now, and you can too, for a mere 10,000 dollars. Payable upfront, no refunds offered.”

Suspicious journalists asked if they could take a peek in the grain silo and see if it was actually full of brains. But Mr. Rhodes blocked the door with his body. “Uh oh uh,” he said. “Opening the door would mess up the, uh, freezing process. Uh, wouldn’t want that to happen. You just have to trust us.” Hmmmmm.

And now traffic. It’s looking pretty clear on the roads right now. There isn’t a single car to be seen. The parking lots are barren, the highways are mere doodles of the gods without the roaring machines that give them purpose. Where did every car disappear to? We wonder this as we walk to work. Walk to school. Learning the limits and the capacity of our own legs, magnificent machines attached to our own bodies that we had long ago discounted, but now can only propel ourselves by the length of them. And then again and again, one after another. The hours pass and we gradually pass through them, and where are the cars? Did they ever exist? The factories where cars once were built are now full of robots with no purpose, arms ending in specialized tools and drills, all designed to construct a thing that no longer is there to be constructed. And so they bob and weave for nothing. In this way, perhaps, it could be said that they are dancing. To take purpose from a movement is to suggest the possibility of art within it, that perhaps the movement could have meaning merely for itself, but I ask again: where are the cars? Where did they go? Every other form of transportation still exists. Planes still claw their way into the stratosphere, while boats wobble on churning seas. Motorcycles even, given the compete freedom of the highway, tearing into the turns and straightaways at dangerous speeds, but no cars. Was it something we did? Is this our fault? At least there’s no traffic, I guess, and we’re all getting a little more time outdoors which is nice and, oh – Nevermind. The cars are back, all of them. Aaaall at once, driverless and speeding. Well, it’s nice to have them back. This has been traffic.

And now for corrections. In a previous editorial aired on this station, a reporter indicated his belief that peanut butter is a type of rock. That reporter sincerely believed, based on a half remembered lesson from elementary school that he now realizes might have actually been a cartoon he watched, that peanut butter along with sedimentary, metamorphic, and ignius was in fact one of the main types of rock. This reported harbored no ill intent when he lectured for what may or may not have been two hours about his belief that peanut butter was a type of rock. This well meaning reporter may have ignored several calls from his scientist husband, who was trying to get through to correct this completely understandable mistake. But the reporter was on such a roll that he didn’t even notice the calls coming in. Which could happen to anyone. The reporter may have even printed up posters for local schools showing the types of rock, with peanut butter prominently included. If that is the case, these schools should feel free to return the erroneous posters, or keep them, if they feel it might be in some way educational. In any case, the reporter in question regrets the error and now amidst that maybe, peanut butter isn’t a type of rock. Maybe that’s true. Decide for yourself. This has been corrections.

Casper Rhodes and his Quality Cryogenics Corporation continue to advertise their dubious service all over town. He has bought a billboard next to the Waterfront Recreation Area declaring: “A new life awaits you in the future”, with a picture of a disembodied brain that is somehow both smiling an giving a thumbs up, despite its lack of hands and mouth. The Quality Cryogenics Corporation strung a banner along the top of the disused grain silo on the edge of town saying the name of the company. Except the word “quality” has been misspelled, as has “corporation”. Listeners, I am not one to editorialize, not after the recent peanut butter debacle we’ve heard so much about. But it does not seem to me that this Mr. Rhodes is on the up and up. Nothing about this strikes me as a scientific operation, and trust me, I know from scientific operations. Despite these warning signs, a few people have in fact taken them up on their offer, including weekday shift managers at the Ralphs, Charlie Bear, whose lifetime ambition of becoming a ghost has recently curdled into a frantic fear of death. “I thought we had eternity. Now every minute spent is a minute lost,” Charlie said to me when I asked him if they had any more cilantro. So that was a bummer on my afternoon. I must warn everyone not to buy into this Casper charlatan’s lies. Cryogenically freezing brains is not going to save you. In fact, it is time for me to bust this scam wide open. I will sneak into the disused grain silo, and I will tel you what is inside. Then all of us will know the truth.

As I head over there, Let’s all head over To the weather.

[“Revolution Lover” by Left At London http://leftatlondon.com]

OK, listeners I’m.. hold on. This portable recording rig is just a little heavy. Whoo! I have got to get back to my weight training. I was deadlifting as much as 15 pounds, and now look at me.

OK, I am looking up at the towering disused grain silo on the edge of town. The silo that one Casper Rhodes would claim contains cryogenically frozen brains, destined to be reawakened in the future. Well, I’m sure Mr. Rhodes, but allow me to just check in on it myself. The door to the silo is locked with a padlock and heavy chain. Fortunately, I don’t go anywhere without my Special Reporter’s welding torch. It comes in handy more than you’d think. [welding noises] And off it goes. Another win for the first amendment. Listeners, I am opening the heavy metal doors [creaking], and inside it is dark even in this late afternoon sun. I am stepping in. [voice echoing] My eyes are adjusting and oh my god! Listeners, oh my god! The tanks are full, frozen intact human brains, attached to various support equipment, it is all completely clean and seemingly running well, this – this isn’t a scam! The great Casper Rhodes is telling the truth! Death is now voluntary, aging is meaningless! We will all see the future! We will ALL see the future!

Listeners, I must go, I must talk to my husband. We could be together forever, don’t you see? A new world awaits us in the future! I must talk to Carlos, I must! [equipment drops]

Today’s proverb: On one hand, you have skin. On the other hand, you don’t- oh man, what happened to that hand?!!

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #wtnv transcirpts #episode 156 #the trouble with time

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picturebookmakers · 4 years ago

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Axel Scheffler

In this post, Axel takes us on a journey through his art studio and career. As well as sharing wonderful development work from some of his much-loved picturebooks, he shows us unseen sketchbook pages, early illustration commissions, etchings he made as a student, and his recent work to educate children about the coronavirus.

Visit Axel Scheffler’s website

Axel: I’m not really sure how many books I’ve illustrated in the 30+ years that I’ve been working. Over 150. I mostly work for the UK market, but occasionally I do books with German publishers. Not picturebooks though, so nothing that collides with the co-edition market.

Each of the boxes you see here contains one of my books: the sketches, illustrations, dummies, alternate versions of covers, everything.

I organised these boxes with Liz, my assistant, to have all the main books there so we can find things for exhibitions. There’s still lots of drawings in these boxes which aren’t sorted yet. Liz is such a great help, but it’s very difficult for me to keep on top of everything. I think I would probably need two Lizes, or perhaps three.

So yes, I don’t really know where to begin... I’ve got endless sketchbooks and little drawings on paper. I’ve got some really old sketchbooks I could show you.

Shall we start with The Gruffalo?

My early sketches of the Gruffalo were thought by my editor to be too scary for small children. So I had to make him a bit rounder and more ‘cuddly’. Initially, I‘d also thought that all the animals would be wearing clothes, as they often do in picturebooks. But Julia had different ideas, and to be honest I was relieved. How would I have dressed the snake?

Here’s some spreads from the dummy...

I tried a lot of alternate covers for this book; I think there were twelve in total. There’s some where the Gruffalo doesn’t even feature on the cover.

My latest book with Julia is called ‘The Smeds and The Smoos’. It was quite nice to work on because it’s so different from the other books we’ve done together. The text is a bit like a mixture between Dr Seuss and Lewis Carol; it has this nonsense element. But it’s basically Romeo and Juliet in outer space.

It’s an alien story, so I didn’t have to draw any rabbits or squirrels for a change, and I could invent more. I had more freedom. But like always, I got bored with drawing the same characters over and over again. But that’s picturebooks.

There was quite a lot of development work in the case of this book. But when it’s a story about a fox or a squirrel, I don’t do this kind of stuff. Over the years, it’s become much quicker and easier working on my books. I do far less research than I used to. Now I generally just do a quick pencil sketch then go straight to artwork.

Sometimes I have to start again because things go wrong though. This was a finished piece that was abandoned. I think I suddenly thought that the rocket was far too big or something. I do that; I work on something for ages, and then I suddenly look at it from a distance and realise that something needs redoing.

Did you spot the little Gruffalo in this picture? Since ‘The Snail and the Whale’, I’ve hidden a Gruffalo in each of my books with Julia (not ‘The Ugly Five’ though).

For almost all of the books Julia and I have done together, our editor has been Alison Green. We’re an old established team. And I’ve always worked with the publisher Kate Wilson; I followed her from Macmillan to Scholastic, and then to Nosy Crow. Julia moved from Macmillan to Scholastic, and decided to stay there. So Julia and I have some of our joint titles with Macmillan and some with Scholastic. Julia does books with other illustrators for Macmillan, and I illustrate other books for Nosy Crow.

People often ask me which of the books I’ve done with Julia is my favourite. It’s quite hard to choose, but I enjoyed working on ‘The Smartest Giant in Town’. I liked the way I could do a crazy world with animals, giants, fairytale characters, everything mixed together without anyone caring or questioning it. I’ll show you a few things from the box...

For this book, the cover was changed at the last minute. The original design had the title written on a poster stuck on a brick wall, but the sales people said they wanted a landscape, so I did another one. Years later, they used the original design for a new paperback edition, so it wasn’t completely wasted in the end.

I mentioned my endless sketchbooks earlier. I’ll show you a few of them. This was mainly me playing around without thinking about what I was doing; it wasn’t a conscious thing.

I haven’t looked at these sketchbooks for ages. It was such a long time ago. I don’t work in sketchbooks like this anymore, and I no longer doodle. But for fun, I make illustrated envelopes for friends.

I often think about doing a book with just pictures, but I’m always too busy doing other things. Posthumously, perhaps there will be time to do this. I’d also love to experiment and be more spontaneous; it’s been my dream for decades to do something completely different. But when I receive a book project, I always feel under pressure to finish it, and I’m always late with everything, so I end up doing it the way I’ve always done it.

This is my drawing table, which is and always has been too small and too messy. I think I have to accept it will always be this way.

I use Saunders Waterford paper for my illustrations. It’s funny how we all have our special paper. My rough sketches are often quite small, so I have them blown up to the correct size. Then I trace the sketches on a lightbox onto my watercolour paper. After that, I draw the outlines in black ink with a dip pen. I colour everything with Ecoline inks using brushes, and then coloured pencils on top of it (I use Faber Polychromos and Prismacolour crayons). I might then need to redraw some of the black lines, or use some white gouache for highlights.

I studied History of Art in Hamburg, but left before graduating. I realised this wasn’t what I was good at; I’m not an academic.

Then I had to do my alternative service as conscientious objector. Sixteen months. There was still conscription then; that’s how old I am. I worked with mentally ill people in their homes. It was during this time that I had a friend studying ceramics at Bath Academy of Art in England. I went to visit her. I really didn’t know what else to do, so I thought maybe I could move to Bath and go to the art school. So this is what I did. The course was Visual Communications, so it was design, printmaking, photography, all that stuff. But I realised I only wanted to do illustration.

I’d gone to art college hoping to learn something. I don’t think that necessarily happened, but drawing intensively for three years was, I think, what I had needed to do. I don’t remember actually finishing any projects though.

Here’s some drawings from my student sketchbooks. I did lots of observational drawing back then, which I don’t anymore. I did it then because they told us to. I’m an obedient person!

While I was a student, I did an exchange in New York: Cooper Union Art College for three months. These drawings are of Jewish immigrants, meeting for coffee. It was 1984, so many of them were still alive; refugees from Germany or Austria. I heard them speaking German, so that’s how I knew.

Sketchbooks are such a good way of memorising things. Nobody really knows about these sketchbooks; I used to take them to interviews, but they’ve been hidden away for years.

After I graduated, I moved to London and took my portfolio around. My art teacher had suggested I should do this to get work, so that’s what I did. In those days, you had to ring them and ask to come around. I got two commissions straight away, and it’s been busy ever since, really. I’ve always had something to do.

Here’s some of my early commissions. Starting from 1985, I guess. Very pointy noses...

I did so much of this kind of work. It was a good way of earning money quickly. Occasionally, I still do editorial. I did some Brexit drawings for the remain campaign. Sadly, it didn’t help. Maybe I wrecked everything!

I’ll say a few words about the KIND book... 38 wonderful artists donated a picture to illustrate some of the many ways children can be kind. Such as sharing their toys or helping people from other countries to feel welcome.

One pound from each book sold goes to the Three Peas charity, which supports refugees from war-torn countries. It’s been a big success so far, and Three Peas has received a lot of money from sales in the UK and co-editions.

I’d quite like to do the UNKIND book next! I think illustrators would probably enjoy that, but I don’t imagine it would sell very well.

And now for something completely different! Some etchings I made when I was a student.

People often ask me which illustrators I’m inspired by. I don’t seek any direct influence on my work, but I’ve always said that Tomi Ungerer had the greatest influence on my approach to illustration. Although his style is quite different to mine, this humour and wackiness is something that has always appealed to me. And the details.

William Steig is someone I got into later, when I was already illustrating. And Edward Gorey of course. And Saul Steinberg. I think the Czech artist Jiří Šalamoun is wonderful. And I like Eva Lindström from Sweden a lot. She’s so great.

Okay, to finish with I’ll talk about the coronavirus work I’ve been doing...

I asked myself what I could do as a children’s illustrator to inform, as well as entertain, my readers here and abroad about the coronavirus. So I was glad when Nosy Crow asked me to illustrate a book on the subject. I think it’s extremely important for children and families to have access to reliable information in this unprecedented crisis.

You can download the free digital book in English here, and in over 60 other languages here.

I also wanted to do something light-hearted to cheer people up, and I thought, “What if I imagine some of our characters in corona situations?” Julia liked the idea and wrote rhymes for the new scenes. This was really more about entertainment than serious information.

Artwork and verse © Axel Scheffler and Julia Donaldson 2020. Based on characters from ‘The Gruffalo’s Child’ (2004), ‘Charlie Cook’s Favourite Book’ (2005), ‘The Smartest Giant in Town’ (2002), and ‘The Gruffalo’ (1999) — © Macmillan Children’s Books.

And here’s one more thing: my ‘letter from lockdown’. On The Children’s Bookshow website, you’ll find lockdown letters from lots of other wonderful authors and illustrators.

Buy this picturebook

The Gruffalo

Julia Donaldson & Axel Scheffler

Macmillan Children’s Books, UK, 1999

‘A mouse took a stroll through the deep dark wood. A fox saw the mouse and the mouse looked good.’

Walk further into the deep dark wood, and discover what happens when a quick-witted mouse comes face to face with an owl, a snake... and a hungry Gruffalo!

‘The Gruffalo’ has become a bestselling phenomenon across the world. This award-winning rhyming story of a mouse and a monster is now a modern classic, and will enchant children for years to come.

PUBLISHED IN THE FOLLOWING LANGUAGES & DIALECTS

Afrikaans

Albanian

Arabic

Australian

Azerbaijani

Basque

Belarusian

Bengali

Breton

Bulgaria

Catalan

Chinese (Simplified)

Chinese (Traditional)

Corsu

Croatian

Czech

Danish

Doric

Dundonian

Dutch

English

Esperanto

Estonian

Faroese

Farsi

Finnish

French

Frisian

Gaelic

Galician

Georgian

German

Glasgow Scots

Greek

Guernésiais

Hebrew

Hindi

Hungarian

Iceland

Indonesian

Irish

Italian

Jèrriais

Kazakh

Kölsch

Korean

Latin

Latvian

Lithuanian

Low German

Lowland Scots

Luxembourgish

Macedonian

Maltese

Manx Gaelic

Maori

Marathi

Mexican Spanish

Mongolian

Norwegian

Orcadian Scots

Polish

Portuguese

Portuguese (Brazil)

Romanian

Russian

Sami

Schwabisch

Serbian

Sesotho

Setswana

Shetland Scots

Slovakian

Slovenian

Spanish

Swedish

Swiss German

Tamil

Thai

Turkish

Ukrainian

US English

Vietnamese

Welsh

Xhosa

Zulu

Buy this picturebook

The Smeds and The Smoos

Julia Donaldson & Axel Scheffler

Alison Green Books, UK, 2019

The Smeds (who are red) never mix with the Smoos (who are blue). So when a young Smed and Smoo fall in love, their families disapprove.

But peace is restored and love conquers all in this happiest of love stories. There’s even a gorgeous purple baby to celebrate!

PUBLISHED IN THE FOLLOWING LANGUAGES

Afrikaans

Catalan

Croatian

Dutch

English

Finnish

French

German

Hebrew

Hungarian

Italian

Korean

Luxenbourghish

Polish

Russian

Slovenian

Spanish

Swedish

Turkish

Ukrainian

Buy this picturebook

Kind

Alison Green, Axel Scheffler & 38 illustrators

Alison Green Books, UK, 2019

Imagine a world where everyone is kind; how can we make that come true? With gorgeous pictures by a host of top illustrators, KIND is a timely, inspiring picturebook about the many ways children can be kind, from sharing their toys and games, to helping those from other countries feel welcome.

One pound from the sale of each printed copy will go to the Three Peas charity, which gives vital help to refugees from war-torn countries.

PUBLISHED IN THE FOLLOWING LANGUAGES

Bulgarian

Catalan

Chinese (Simplified)

Chinese (Traditional)

English

French

German

Greek

Hebrew

Italian

Korean

Netherlands

Portuguese (Brazil)

Romanian

Spanish

Swedish

Turkish

Vietnamese

#Germany / UK

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cas-lost-grace · 6 years ago

Text

Made for each other

A little self-indulgent something I made to fight writer´s block

A/B/O friends to lovers, explicit

When Dean Winchester presented as omega, it was a shock. His father didn’t say it out loud but he had expected his firstborn son to be an alpha and the disappointment hit him hard. The rest of Dean’s family and his friends were supportive but they were surprised as well. They knew Dean as the brash, loud kid who got into fights and always had his knees scratched from climbing trees and running around the neighborhood. They didn’t see him as a soft, caring omega.

Dean himself wasn’t surprised, he was devastated. Not because of his father’s disappointment, not because of his mother’s worried looks, not because of the lewd comments he started to get at school. The reason was Castiel Novak.

Cas has been Dean’s best friend ever since he can remember. With the Novaks living next door, the boys grew up together. They were joined in the hip, inseparable and Dean thought they would be like that forever.

He thought about Cas as his future mate from the moment he learned what it means to be mated. They didn’t talk about it, because in Dean’s mind, it wasn’t necessary. They would just wait to come of age and get mated. It never occurred to him it could be any different. Until the day his body betrayed him.

He ran to his mother as if he was a little boy again. He thought it was just some illness giving him a fever, making his guts feel strange. When he realized what it actually was, he sobbed. His mother was running her hand through his hair as he was soaking his underwear with slick. It meant he was an omega and his dream was ruined because there was no chance in hell his best friend, his sweet, demure Castiel would present as an alpha.

Dean couldn’t look him in the eyes for weeks. He knew it wasn’t Castiel’s fault, it was nobody’s fault. It was just Nature hating him. Castiel hadn’t present yet but there was no doubt that once he would, it would be as an omega. The only thing Dean could do was learn to live with the fact they would never be anything more than friends.

He managed. Cas was too precious to him to avoid him forever. Dean got over it. He even accepted himself as an omega. The heats were annoying without an alpha but he enjoyed the idea of having pups one day. Maybe there was a soft side of him all along, he just never let himself cherish it. Now he was allowed to do it. He was allowed to watch chick flicks and buy pretty things and play with kids and show his emotions and he liked it.

When alphas approached him, though, he always rejected them, still unable to imagine himself with anyone but Cas.

They are lying on Castiel’s bed in comfortable silence. Dean’s on his phone, Cas is reading his astronomy book, pretending to be taking notes but every time Dean looks, Cas is just doodling idly, obviously lost in thoughts that may or may not be about astronomy. Dean doesn’t ask him about it, Cas has been off all day and they almost got into a fight, so Dean doesn’t want to risk triggering his bad mood again. It doesn’t worry him too much, at their age everybody’s moody all the time.

"What’s it like?" Cas says at last and it feels as if he’s popped a bubble that was separating them.

Dean pushes his phone away and looks at his friend. "What?"

"What does it feel like?" Cas repeats, eyes still glued to his notebook. "To be in heat."

Dean freezes. A wave of sadness rushes over him. That’s it then. That’s why Cas has been off. Dean remembers being like that. Cas is going into heat. Dean feels the last spark of hope die in his chest as his fate is going to be sealed. But that doesn’t matter, what matters is Cas who’s going into heat for the first time and he must be scared if he asks Dean such a question.

"It’s weird, but nothing you can’t get used to," Dean replies.

Cas nods. "But what does it feel like? Exactly?"

Dean frowns. It’s hard to describe something like that but he can try if it’s going to help Cas.

"It starts with a fever almost like a cold. But everything gets sharper - colors, sounds, smells, especially smells, but touch too. After a while I get so hot and so oversensitive I can't stand to have my clothes on. And there’s the need. It’s like... almost like hunger like there’s an empty place inside you and you need to fill it and it’s the only thing you can focus on," Dean explains in a low voice. He’s playing with the comforter he’s sitting on, his heart is beating faster and his cheeks are all warm as he’s trying to recall every detail. "Oh and the slick, it’s gross, but it’s not like if you shit yourself it’s just... it goes with the need. For me, it’s part of being turned on now. So you are hard and wet and everything is too bright and too loud and too much and all you need is a cock." He shrugs a little. "I usually fuck myself with a dildo, but it only helps a little. I guess it’s different with a mate around. It might even feel good. You know, because you need it so much and you get it." He lets himself imagine it. Being so hot and bothered and feeling the terrible emptiness and then an alpha pushing into him, giving him what he wants. He shifts a little as a drop of slick soaks into his briefs.

He hears a low growl.

Startled, he looks up and only realized Cas has been very silent during his speech, when he sees him sitting there with eyes shut, his hands balled into fists. There’s a weird smell coming off him.

"Cas? You okay?"

"You need to go," Cas growls.

Not knowing what he’s done wrong, Dean shifts closer, trying to reach for Cas.

Cas gasps and opens his eyes. They are red.

Dean flinches away and drops his outstretched arm. Cas bows his head. Dean’s eyes follow the movement and slide down his body to his crotch with a prominent bulge. He has to bite his lip against a moan.

"Dean, please, go away," Cas whispers. The shame in his tone makes Dean’s chest ache.

"Cas, you’re-" Dean’s mind is utterly confused, stuck between shock and joy and worry. His body, though, knows exactly what it wants and shows it with more slick.

Cas looks up, eyes blue and intense, begging. "Dean, please, you need to leave or I’m gonna... I don’t wanna do anything..."

"What if I want it?" Dean blurts out before his mind can catch up on his mouth.

Cas’ mouth falls slack. "Do you?" he breathes out.

"Of course, Cas!" Dean huffs out a little laugh. This time when Dean reaches out to grab his hand, Cas doesn’t stop him. "I always wanted this! I dreamed about this, but then I... I thought we weren’t compatible and it broke my heart but now-" he gestures between them. "You’re an alpha! We can be together like this we-" he trails off and loosens his grip on Cas’ hand. He feels the blood leaving his face as the realization hits him.

"But you don’t want this." He draws his hand away but Cas catches it.

"Do I look like I don’t want you?"

Dean shakes his head. "But you only want it because you’re going into a rut. You’d fuck anybody right now."

Cas tugs at Dean’s hand and uses it to draw him closer.

"Don’t be stupid, Dean," he growls. His other hand lands heavily on the back of Dean’s neck. "I’ve been in love with you ever since I met you."

Dean lets out a relieved breath but before he can inhale again, hot lips are pressed to his.

It’s wonderful. Cas’ lips are soft and warm and he kisses like he’s been waiting for it all his life, which might be true. Dean loses himself in the kiss, in the way their lips fit together and their tongues slide wetly against each other, in the feeling of Cas drawing him closer and closer. Then Cas draws away like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. His chest is heaving as he looks Dean in the eyes.

"Dean, tell me you really want this because if I... I know I won’t be able to stop."

Dean wants to laugh his doubts off, but he notices Cas’ whole body is shaking. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and hugs him tightly.

"I want it, Cas, I really want it, you must smell how much I want it." He feels Cas taking a deep breath against his neck and his body stiffens. He lets out a low growl. Dean squeezes him tighter. "I got you, Cas. It´s gonna be alright. Come on, Alpha, let’s do this."

Dean gasps for breath as he’s pushed down on his back. He knows his eyes are gold. Castiel’s eyes are almost shining red as he grabs the waistband of Dean’s pants and drags them down Dean’s legs. Dean pulls his own t-shirt over his head and turns on his belly. He hears the rustling of clothes as he pushes himself on his hands and knees. Then there are warm hands on his hips.

"Dean," it’s a moan, it’s a plea.

"Yes, Cas, please. I want you." As a prove to his words a drop of slick runs down to his balls and Cas catches it with his tongue, making Dean cry out with surprise. He bites his lips to stifle his moans as he feels Cas’ tongue pushing against his wet hole, tasting him like he’s been starving and Dean’s the only thing that can keep him alive.

"Cas!" Dean shouts when it’s too much and not enough at the same time. "Cas, please! Alpha!"

Cas’ tongue disappears and is exchanged with something else. It takes Dean a moment to realize it’s the head of Cas’ cock being dragged against his rim, spreading Dean’s slick.

Cas pushes in and Dean’s unable to keep his moans contained. Castiel stills, his hands run gently up Dean’s sides in a silent inquiry.

"I’m okay," Dean breathes out. "I’m good, keep going."

There’s a warm kiss pressed to his spine before Cas pushes in deeper. This time Dean’s sounds don’t stop him from filling him more and more with each small thrust.

It’s so much better than fucking himself with a dildo. Cas is warm and alive and he growls softly when he bottoms out inside Dean’s body wrapping his arms around him and holding on for dear life.

"Dean," he moans against Dean’s skin. Dean’s only able to respond by pushing himself against him. Cas takes the hint and starts to move. Slow at first, each drag of his cock against Dean’s rim setting the omega’s body on fire.

His rhythm gets faster, his thrusts harder as he starts losing control and Dean loves it. He loves that he can make him feel like that, he loves being wanted by his Alpha, he loves being held, being filled. He throws his head back, baring his throat for a bite that doesn’t come. Instead, Cas wraps his hand around Dean’s cock and strokes him quickly. Dean’s arms give up under the onslaught of sensation and he drops on his face, ass high in the air for Castiel’s taking. The alpha adjusts his stance and keeps moving, his hips hitting Dean’s ass mercilessly. The change of angle makes Cas’ cock drag over Dean’s prostate and Dean basically sobs into the pillows.

When he feels Castiel’s knot catching at his rim it’s the last straw. He comes crying out Cas’ name. He feels his ass clenching around Cas’ cock and his knot swelling inside him before Cas lets out a heavy sigh and comes, his body shaking on top of Dean.

They roll on their sides, still connected by Cas’ knot. Dean tries to get his breathing under control but it’s hard when Cas pulls him impossibly close, trapping him in the warm cocoon of his arms, his cock twitches inside Dean and gives a last weak spurt of come. Dean moans and finds Cas’ hands so he can intertwine their fingers. He feels soft lips on the side of his neck and no, his heart isn’t going to calm down anytime soon.

"Dean, are you okay? Didn’t I hurt you?"

Dean huffs a soft laugh. "I’m okay, I’m awesome."

Cas rubs his cheeks against Dean’s. "So you don’t regret it?"

Feeling a pang of pain in his chest, Dean cranes his neck so he can catch a glimpse of Cas’ face. "Do you?"

"Of course not! I’m so lucky that we’re compatible, that you want me." The emotion in Cas’ voice makes a swarm of butterflies take off in Dean’s stomach.

"I always wanted you. I was so scared when I presented as omega."

"But why? Was it so unbelievable that I’d be an alpha? I wasn’t at all surprised that you presented as an omega."

"You weren’t?"

"No, Dean. You act all tough but you’re the gentlest person I know."

Dean thinks about it for a moment, rubbing soothing circles with the pad of his thumb against the back of Cas’ hand.

"And you are the most headstrong and brave person I know. I shouldn’t have doubted us."

Cas’ laugher tickles the back of Dean’s neck.

"We’re made for each other," Cas whispers.

"Yes, we are." Dean squeezes around Cas’ knot making his Alpha growl.

#destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel au #a/b/o dynamics #spncreatorsdaily #omega!dean #friends to lovers #coming of age #mating cycles #smut #mine

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