#it’s lowkey disconcerting to me that people can pick up something without knowing the things before it to enjoy the something to it’s full-

[crazyfreckledginger]

Ikemen Vampire x Reader - “Residents In Modern Times”

Requested by anon: “Hello glorious author-chan! I have a request for you. I have a fun little imagine for you. Can you make an Ikemen Vampire imagine of what their reactions would be like in modern times?”

A/N: I honestly don’t know what this is, like it ended up as the child of a drabble and a headcanon.

Warning: implied smut and nudity (come on Arthur is here)

Napoleon Bonaparte:

He’d be shocked and in awe at the same time.

Wanting to know EVERYTHING about how people live in the 21st century.

Is it a better, easier life? Is everyone treated equally and safe?

He’s astonished by the night lights as well, so bright and beautiful.

It’s absolutely unforgettable and he stays up at night a little longer to watch the busy city below, drinking the beautiful view until he falls asleep. 

Also more content with the clothing fashion.

Yes it’s very unusual to him since he’s not used to it but clothes used to be so uncomfortable, especially for women.

Though he really didn’t feel comfortable with such revealing clothes. 

He’s very cute about it around you though, hiding in your neck with flushed, embarrassed cheeks. 

Leonardo Da Vinci:

Doesn’t show his amazement as much except through his tone of voice.

Wants to know how a phone works.

Surprisingly -- or unsurprisingly --  not having to explain it regularly, he picks up on it very quickly.

He’s very impressed. 

Your days were divided into visiting shops, showing him technologies, public transport, probably every single thing about the city and cuddling in bed and showing him how the TV works because “the mattress is so comfortable”.

Even though you know how comfortable a surface is, never stopped him from falling asleep.

He really likes it in the modern day.

I think he would be one of the residents that would fit in rather quickly and easily. 

Comte De Saint Germain: 

It’s not that much of a shocker for him for obvious reasons but because you’d spent your life in modern day, he got to see your view and had a much positive outlook on it.

Not that it was negative to begin with, he just didn’t pay as much attention to it before and now that he has, it’s eye opening, in a way. 

He loved the sparkle in your eyes as you rejoiced in the things you used to know before you travelled back in time. 

It was a sight for sore eyes. 

He enjoyed visiting with you, even though he spent more time seeing the twinkle in your eyes than being happy over the smaller things. 

Comte is much more open about PDA for obvious reasons and he feels the modern day is something the both of you share as a precious memory now.

Arthur Conan Doyle:

His demeanour is one of someone who’s seen everything already but the huge smile and eyes just showed that he was a little boy excited about discovering everything.

Arthur dragged you around to tell him how things work if he couldn’t pick up on by himself. 

You went to a mall and Victoria’s Secret caught his eye so fast it was S C A R Y.

“Try this sweetheart, and this and this-” 

Yes, despite all your protests, you spent the whole day in the store trying on clothes for him. 

He enjoyed it very much.

Arthur promised he would discover something new with you that didn’t involved being naked.

How nice of him *chokes*

It was a tiring day for you since you did all the standing, changing and displaying for him.

But the night provided to be very rewarding hehe

If you know what I mean

;)

You know what I mean, why am I saying this.

Theodorus Van Gogh: 

He has a similar behaviour to Arthur at first, indifferent behaviour but very curious eyes.

You can tell he doesn’t want to ask questions but wants the answers. 

So you just start talking and explaining things.

He’s a little flushed because he would have told you to stop talking by now but he doesn’t since you’re informing him on everything.

Theo would keep visiting until you got tired and wouldn't hesitate to carry you back to your place and cuddle up on the couch.

Showing him how the TV works but he prefers sleeping in your bed because it’s so comfy and he can hug you.

Vincent Van Gogh:

“WOW!” *sparkly eyes*

Asks you about EVERYTHING

Holds your hand the whole time.

Also he apologises for always inquiring about everything.

Reassuring him that it’s alright.

Proceeds to go back to questioning everything.

Politely asks if you guys can go to an exhibition the next day to see paintings and saying yes.

Very gladly cuddling in your neck and saying how amazing everything is.

He’s too cute T-T

Vincent was smiling in his sleep because he got to discover so many new things with you and he couldn’t express how content he was.

Your heart is constantly melting as he acts like an overjoyed puppy.

He’s forever thankful to you and this will always be engraved in his memory.

Amadeus Mozart:

The pianist can’t physically hide his amazement. 

“Can we go to an instrument store?” 

Holds your hand tightly and keeps you close like he’s protecting you.

When in fact it should be the other way around given that you have lived your entire life in the modern day.

But you already knew that 🤦‍♀️

His eyes light up more than they already did when you enter an empty store and there are three or four pianos. 

Mozart let his fingers caress the smooth surface, taking in all the details of the instruments.

He’s relieved that they didn’t change as significantly as everything else in the world. 

Lowkey wants to buy all the pianos because he wants to try them. 

A very confused boy at attire.

And blushing at how more ‘revealing’ they are. 

He could get used to this.

Jean D’Arc:

He would be in silent shock, staying close to you and looking around in amazement. 

Jean would be pretty shy about asking too many questions, not wanting to bother you.

Reassuring him that it was fine, similar to Vincent.

Jean was somehow more considerate about it, not wanting to bother you with his inquiries.

Whispering questions and trying so hard to try and make sense of things himself, sometimes it works, kind of!!

Like Napoleon, he’s relieved the world is happier and fairer. 

It was a huge shock for him at first, everything was different, but he was fortunate enough to be with you.

Now he reminisces of the experience as a magical moment that will forever be engraved in his memory.

Isaac Newton:

Absolutely astonished.

He has so many questions but he didn’t know where to start.

Similar to Jean, he was a little shy about asking questions and trying to solve things on his own.

Being surprised at how complex things turn out to be.

Isaac has mixed emotions about knowing that the foundation of physics are his three famous laws. 

Because the world seemed overwhelmingly unknown and huge, he nearly clung onto you.

You locked your arm with his, seeing his unease but also not wanting to trouble you.

He felt better instantly and silently thanked you, blushing in embarrassment. 

The first thing you taught him was what a phone was and about the kindergarden/school system.

You reminisce about how he went along into town with Napoleon to attempt to teach children.

It wasn’t a particular detail he would have inquired about but he feels strangely relieved about it.

He was touched by the small details you remember about him and he keeps it in mind.

It was an unforgettable experience for him to have with you.

But something he does not want to let go is the bed, it’s shockingly comfortable for him.

Osamu Dazai:

“Wow, are you seeing this (Not Y/N)-chan?” 

“That’s not my name-” 

“What is this?” 

No shame about asking whatsoever. 

“Miraculous!” 

A lot of him grinning and praising everything and anything, including you.

“You’re delightful (Y/N)-chan, such an interesting answer!” 

“D-did you just call me by my nam-”

“Are you coming (Not Y/N)-chan?” 

“Nevermind,” you grumble, pouting as you follow behind him.

He chuckled, finding you so cute before cupping your cheeks and openly kissing you in public.

Dazai finds even more amusement with how flushed you are for a while as you clung onto his arm, answering questions with a breathy tone.

Despite his second degree humour throughout everything, he’s actually thoroughly enjoyed spending time doing this with you and becoming a treasured memory.

William Shakespeare: 

He was actually rendered speechless for a long while.

Which was unusual for him obviously.

But it was a little disconcerting for him since he always had something to say. 

You couldn’t help but eye him admiring everything.

Despite his unnerving silence, the way his eyes lit up was something that you didn’t know you needed to witness. 

It looked like he found something to look forward to in life. (can’t relate lol)

That thought alone made you hopeful and sad at the same time.

He was always very polite and considerate about inquiring about things. 

As in, he always read the ‘room’ before asking, wanting to stay in your good graces, even though he is already in them.

Finding the bed in your place being painfully heaven-like.

If he wasn’t as invested in learning about the modern world, he would totally examine and savour the beauty that is a bed.

Without you knowing, however, he would spend a lot of time studying you as well.

It was fascinating to him, seeing you enjoying yourself in your natural habitat.

Sebastian: 

I mean he lived there before so there isn’t much to say.

He does reminisce a lot though, all previous memories rushing back.

Just as if the residents were a long dream. 

One thing that surprised him a little was that he enjoyed spending time with you in the modern day so much that it’s in a smal, different compartment in his brain altogether.

Basically nostalgia but also happy new memories.

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[jaeminlore]

The Sun Shines in the Knight | Mark Lee

playlist

summary: golden, as i open my eyes. hold it, focus, hoping; take me back to the light. — golden, harry styles. / mark doesn't want to fall in love, but he doesn't want to be forgotten, either.

words: 4.05k+

category: knight!mark x gardener!reader, gender neutral reader, mark is on the ace/aro spectrum but idk how to label it, mark is in love with the sun.

warning(s): injuries, anxiety

a/n: this is lowkey inspired by me and my friend but its also taken a mind of it's own

The sun is the last think Mark sees on the battlefield. Just as his back hits the damp grass and his ears ring in the anticipation of a long nap (read: a concussion) he sees the sun pulse in his vision, brighter and brighter until he succumbs to his injury.

The sun is, coincidentally, the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the healer's room. There's a bandage around his bare torso to cover a particularly nasty blade wound, and a thin scab across his jaw. The only window in the room, high and arched, serves as a direct viewing of the sun in all of her glory. The rays warm his skin, and for a moment, he thinks about going back to sleep.

His head pounds when he closes his eyes, though, and he figures it'd be better to get up and force his blood to do some circulating.

The healer — Jaemin — isn't in the room, and so Mark decides he isn't under any important watch that would force him to stay cooped up all day.

He sits up, the anticipated curl of his spine sends an immediate zip of pain through his ribs, and Mark groans aloud, having forgot what a broken rib feels like. 

But the sun moves to his shoulders, and the feeling is euphoric, so he braves the pain in favor of visiting the garden. There has to be a hidden patch of grass somewhere, sun kissed and waiting to be slept upon.

Mark briefly pauses in his journey to take a detour into the kitchen, where he fills up a wooden cup with cool water directly from the pump. He drinks three full glasses before he decides he's properly hydrated, then he slowly makes his way to the back garden, side-stepping the noble children who run around the roses while their mothers attend afternoon tea.

The royal garden has many sections: a garden for the kitchen, where vegetables are grown, a flower garden for the royal florist, color coded for easy arrangements. There's an herbal garden just for Jaemin and his peers, for balms and potions alike. There's a fruit orchard too, but it's past the garden wall, closer to the abundance of the lake and the clear water it produces.

The garden wall itself is somewhat of a maze. While the outer is a high stone gate, made to keep intruders out, the following layers are made of thick shrubbery that are often clipped into different shapes. Then there are hedges, planted to be somewhat of a maze for privacy. It's often in the maze that nobles walk with their suitors, or where strategists discuss their, well, strategies.

Mark dives into the maze and searches for whatever empty landing he can find. After sidestepping a few appalled nobles (apparently a beaten-up knight dressed in nothing but bandages and cotton is not what one wants to see during tea time, but Mark doesn't exactly know where his shirt is, so) he finds a patch of clovers. The weeds are plentiful, and a bright emerald green that makes Mark feel happy for no reason. The sun shines down on the overgrown patch, and Mark realizes that the patch is already occupied by a small rabbit. It's a grey cottontail, one he's seen a few times in the garden. He's sure it belongs to one of the gardeners, or is at least comfortable enough with them to hang out so much. Mark knows rabbits don't particularly like people.

The rabbit in question is munching on a clover, it's little pink nose twitching as it does so. 

Mark decides that he'll risk it, so he approaches the patch anyways, and lies down on his back, letting the sun blanket him. 

(He can hear the rabbit's clicking as he falls asleep.)

-

"Oh, hi." It's your voice that wakes Mark up from his dreamless slumber. He's surprised to find that it's already sundown when he wakes, and his body is still just as weak as it was when he fell asleep. Maybe moreso now (what is Jaemin always chiding him for? Heat exhaustion?) At least he drank enough water to stay hydrated throughout everything.

It takes him a few moments to get reoriented with his surroundings. And finally, he remembers your presence; curves his neck to see where you've gone off to.

You're still there, in a shirt that's far too big for you. The collar nearly hangs off of your shoulder, showcasing your soil-stained collarbones. You're not paying attention to him anymore, not that Mark really expected you to.

You pick up the rabbit instead, chiding it in quiet an exasperated voice as you warn him about being in the sun for too long. (Maybe you and Jaemin would get along.)

"'M sorry," Mark mumbles out, stumbling over his dry mouth and his slow-to-rouse brain. He finally sits up, his ribs still screaming in protest, and he looks at you.

You gaze back at him, the grey rabbit snuggled close to your chest. You're not smiling. You look uncomfortable, if anything, and Mark hesitates to keep talking to you. 

But you speak first. "Why are you apologizing? You have every right to sleep outside."

The tone in your voice makes Mark feel warm inside. It's hardly judgmental, bordering between disconcertment and daring. There's hesitance in your words. Your voice wavers as you assure him he can hang out as long as he needs to, and Mark wonders if you're making up these rules for him, or for you.

"I should head back to Jaemin and get my bandages changed," he says matter-of-factly, like you care or asked.

"Okay." You blink at him, and although the sun is setting, Mark can still he it's reflection in your eyes. He wonders if you know that the sun is attracted to you.

(He thinks it'd be weird to ask. No one else thinks about the sun as much as him, so it might sound less like a compliment and more like a creepy overstep. Mark never wants to overstep.)

-

Getting back into training is harder than Mark thought it should be. Sure, it's been months, and his wounds have healed completely, but he still has visions of the battlefield, still gets anxious at the sound of a blade, and lately he's been longing for something more peaceful.

He's not trying to be selfish. Really, he loves knighthood. He loves protecting his kingdom and helping the innocent. It's all he ever wanted to do since he was young. And sure, he's gotten older and more solemn, but it doesn't change the fact that he's halfway there. He's still a young knight, just years past being a squire, and he still has so much to prove and so much to learn.

He absorbs information like a sponge. He practices his moves until daybreak, often slumping into his bed without so much as a bath or a meal to heal his aching bones. He does everything he can to please his captain and fellow teammates. The thought of their disappointment shatters him already. Anxiety floods his veins at the mere thought of them disapproving of his actions.

That's precisely why he doesn't tell anyone he's slowly breaking on the inside. It's nothing he can't handle. Nothing he hasn't been through before. Only this time it's not well hidden in the privacy of his bunk. This time it's starkly noticeable in the way he flinches at every swing of the blade, every clang of a shield against a suit, every shrill call to order from his captain.

He falls again, the sun both his enemy and closest friend as he's chided once again about the dangers of dehydration. 

His mouth is too dry to tell his captain that it isn't dehydration at all. It's anxiety, and the fear that this feeling is going to be his forever. He kind of wants to go to sleep and never wake up, but even that thought brings on shame.

He closes his eyes, feels the sun burn against his eyelids, and wills it to burn him up, if just to let him feel something.

-

You're in the clover patch again. Not again, because Mark hasn't seen you since the first time and it's been months, but again, because he sees you now, and the days blur so easily in his mind nowadays that he really feels like he just saw you yesterday.

You have a basket in your hand, and you're gathering bunches of clover with precise care, ignoring his presence. Mark figures you just don't hear him, but he sees your gaze flit to him and he realizes you're avoiding acknowledgment on purpose.

Mark supposed this is where he leaves. 

Only he doesn't, because he's drowsy beneath the afternoon sun, and this is the only place he can go where he won't be chided for his rash decisions.

(The sunburn on his chest is actually healing nicely, thank you very much.)

"What do you use so many clovers for?" He asks, eyes hesitant when they meet yours.

You look shocked that he's speaking to you. Not in an appalled way, but more like you expected him to ignore you altogether.

Mark doesn't want to ignore you; never really has. 

"Jaemin asked me to." So you already know Jaemin. "For cough syrup."

"Ah." Mark doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want you to think he's done talking to you, but he's horribly awkward at things like this. Talking. Friendship. Whatever is going on here.

"You fainted today," you say. "Maybe you shouldn't be out in the sun so much."

"Oh, it wasn't because of the sun," Mark amends. He sits down, away from the clover patch so he won't disrupt your progress. "I get anxious when I fight now. That's all."

"You were anxious enough to pass out?" You ask him, and then your voice gets lower as you seem to answer yourself, "Well yeah, I guess increased blood flow would make you pass out. That was stupid to ask."

"Not stupid," Mark says. He doesn't know what else to say though.

It's a weird in-between place of wanting to talk to you and having nothing to say. He decides maybe he should just dive into the deep end. "Ever since the last battle... it's been hard for me to keep up. I'm afraid of swords now, which shouldn't happen, but I guess something in my brain got triggered when I was wounded, and now swords connect with pain. They've always been connected with pain though, so it shouldn't be new. It's just new to me."

You hum. It's enough for Mark to know you listened. He thinks maybe you're good at listening, even if your only reply is a solemn hum. Then, "You can't help it if you have trauma in your life. It's expected since you're a knight, but don't push it down so much that you fall ill."

"Yeah." He says. "I won't."

(He doesn't. And sometimes he does. It really depends on the days, but he's trying, and somehow he thinks that's all you meant for him to do.)

-

Mark is always around so many people. He thinks about it on his birthday, when Jaemin takes him and all of his fellow knights to the nearby inn for drinks. Mark feels the numb sting of a person who has many companions but no one to confide in. He takes it in stride; always has, but it burns down his throat along with the whiskey.

He watches Johnny flirt with the innkeeper, and when the tall man comes back with keys to the nicest room, he gives them to Mark. A "Happy Birthday, man." on the top of his tongue.

Everyone howls, their minds going to dirty places, and Mark has to quiet them down by saying he doesn't want to have sex tonight. Or any night for that matter. Everything in his chest burns from the laughter he receives in turn, along with the assurance that he'll get intimate when the right person comes along.

He visits you the next morning and recounts the tale. 

"Some people don't want sex," you say. There's a surety in your voice that makes Mark wish you were with him last night, if only to defend him. He doesn't want to be selfish, though — doesn't want you to think he's only using you for his own benefit — so he leaves with his thoughts and the sun on his back.

-

Your schedules don't really coincide. Mark never sees you; not in the audience at jousts, or in the kitchen during meal time. He knows the both of you are in completely different sectors of the castle — your presence is really only mandatory in the garden, while Mark's is mandatory everywhere the king is.

But sometimes Mark thinks about you during jousting tournaments, when he gets a high score but no one praises him for it. It's just expected of him, and yet he wishes there was someone to praise him for his hard work. It's not easy doing what he does, especially when he has so much anxiety doing it.

He wants to find you. He wants to breathe in your presence— wants to ask you if you think about him too, in the spaces between obligation and freedom. In the moments where you can be whoever you wish.

He wonders if you picture him.

The sunburn on his shoulders makes his skin itch more than usual, and Mark thinks about taking a swim in the lake to clear his mind. 

He stands on the dock, mind foggy with the what-ifs and the how-tos and the imagine-if-Y/n-ever-thought-about-yous. He hesitates to take off his shirt, because left in only his cotton shorts he feels vulnerable. The scars that mark up his chest make him feel weak, like he's never been enough, and he'll never be enough so long as his skin doesn't clear. 

He doesn't feel like a man. Never really has. In his mind he is still a child playing pretend, and life is catching up to him, all too quickly and all too harshly for him to prepare for whats to come.

The sun reflects on the surface of the lake. Shadows of minnows and frogs pass beneath him, and Mark finally loses his shirt.

He dives in, feeling the slimy seaweed wrap around his ankles almost immediately. And yeah, it's uncomfortable, but it beats his leather boots and the sweat that builds up after a full day of practice.

A small frog hops onto his shoulder, frightening him, but it dives back into the water just as quickly, so Mark focuses on calming his breathing.

"Mark Lee," you call out. 

Mark slips on the seaweed and falls back into the water. He closes his eyes tightly and lets himself break the surface. He feels his cheeks flood with heat, and he wonders if the sun can penetrate the water.

"Hi," he says softly. Water drips off of his eyelashes. Drops land on his cupid's bow and stay there as he stares at you.

Maybe you could feel him thinking about you. Maybe he sent some kind of cosmic energy out into the world, and you sensed it.

Maybe fate just works in mysterious ways.

Mark doesn't know what to say. He watches you sit on the dock and take off your shoes. You dip your toes into the water and smile at him. It's a bigger smile than he normally receives, and Mark feels like maybe you're opening up to him. He feels really good, and he isn't sure if it's the sunny daze or your warm gaze.

Maybe it's both.

Mark decides that he wants to hold you. Maybe it's too romantic a thought; maybe it's not romantic enough, but it sears his eyelids, and when he closes his eyes he can feel his hands splayed at your waist.

Yes, it's too romantic of a thought.

The sun is glaring now, taunting him. It's as if he doesn't know that he's failing in every way, staring at you without saying anything. He wants to reach out and ask you for advice on anything. Everything. He wants to get you talking; thinking about him, even just for a few minutes, but it's hard when he can't find his voice.

His shoulders itch again. He takes it as a sign. "Do you know any- uh- plants to help with sunburn?"

You smile even brighter somehow, and the sun is behind you now, mocking him as it rings a halo over your head. The light romanticizes you in a way Mark doesn't think he can. He doesn't think he's capable of it, but he longs for you.

He longs for you harmlessly, and his heart aches at the thought of you out of his life. Despite your monthly appearances, they mean more to Mark than he realizes most of the time. And he wants to tell you that he'd like to see you more often. Monthly greetings could turn into weekly meetings. He could see you more— bask in your presence; your light. He wants to drown in the way your chest rises and falls as you breathe. He wants to fall apart at the sound of your laughter.

He wants to love you, and he knows he isn't quite capable of love. Not in the way his mother expects him to be. Not in the way his friends expect him to be. Certainly not in the way he expects of himself. And yet, some selfish part of him hopes it will be enough for you. He hopes more than anything that one day you might accept what little love he can offer amongst the busyness of his life. Amongst the closed doors of his heart.

"Aloe vera," you say. "There's some one the healer's room, even though Jaemin is out for the week."

Mark finds a piece of himself feelings rather jealous at the fact that you seem to always know Jaemin's schedule. Why can't you know his?

"Okay," he says. "I'll ask him for some when he returns."

"I have a key." You stand up. "Come on, I'll find you some."

Mark stumbles his way out of the water, slipping twice on seaweed and three times over his words. "You really don't have to." He buttons his shirt over his scars, ears burning red because he can sense you looking at him. Studying him like you're hoping to find something amiss.

Mark follows you to the healer's room. When you order him to sit down, he obeys.

"Here," you hand him a jar of clear goop. "Rub this on your burns until they go away. And if you need any more, come find me."

Come find me.

Your words still ring in his head that night, as he applies more aloe to his body. He wants to come find you tomorrow, and he wants you to stay with him the entire day. He wants to hear about what goes around in your head and in your heart.

He wants to break the wall between the two of you and reach out; touch your soul and find that his is the same.

Mark stays awake until the sun comes up.

-

Beneath the lemon tree, you lay half-asleep. You stroke your rabbit's head and hum a tune, something you heard a long time ago. Maybe in a lullaby or an old shanty.

The sun is far too hot for you, which is why you've found a place in the shade.

You can hear the sounds of swords clanking against each other. Despite your reluctance, you think of Mark, and you wonder if he's doing alright. With his anxiety, and the way he's prone to accidents, you tend to worry about him a lot.

As much as he might think he's hiding it, Mark is a perfectionist just as much as he's a worrier. The two are more than likely related, but they double up in your brain as reasons to reach out to the boy every so often.

You aren't even sure Mark likes you. Like, as in, just enjoying your presence. Mark always seems a little too nervous; a little too eager to leave when he's around you.

You're sure it's you: the only common denominator in every situation.

Mark has a lot on his plate; he's got so much to deal with and so much he puts on himself.

You want to help, but you aren't sure where your place is in Mark's life. You could just be a passing soul; not an actual friend. You don't know, and you don't know the protocol for asking.

You told him to come find you if he ran out of aloe, but does that mean he isn't allowed to find you otherwise? You've only given him an option, and yet it doesn't feel like enough. It feels like maybe he won't visit you at all.

The sound of practice ceases, though your mind doesn't know if it's because practice is over or if it's because you're nearly asleep.

You wake up, and Mark is sitting a little ways off, clicking his tongue at the rabbit. He doesn't notice you've waken up.

"Hi," you say. "You found me."

Mark looks up, mouth open in a shocked expression. His neck is still red from the sun; and it creeps down onto the skin of his bare collarbones. "I didn't- I didn't see you there. Your shirt is the same color as the grass."

"Huh?" In your sleepy daze, you look down at your sleeve and notice that is does match the ground. Maybe Mark really didn't notice you. Maybe this is all fate. "Oh. Sorry then."

"No!" Mark crosses his legs. "No! Uh, I wanted to find you. I just thought you wanted me to wait until I was finished with the aloe."

"That was just an excuse," you say sheepishly. 

Mark is in his uniform (sans the jerkin). Leather pants and a violet shirt, untied at the chest. His skin is still colored, but it seems a bit more pink than the bright red it was yesterday. "It's been working then?"

Mark looks down at his chest and clothed shoulders and nods. "Yeah, uh— It's been working. So, uh, what are you doing here?"

"I'm just taking a nap away from the sun," you say. You roll onto your back and look up, eyes locked at the giant star that shines through the lemon tree leaves. 

"Why would you want to be away from the sun?" Mark narrows his eyes, shoulders hunched over as he reaches for the rabbit. 

"Her name is Garnet," you say. "And the sun is harmful. It can hurt your skin and your eyes. It's better to stay cool."

Mark picks up Garnet and snuggles her into his chest. "I don't think I could ever stay away from the sun. I love the warmth."

"Seems so," you murmur. Mark seems to exude warmth. Seems to radiate the sun itself, like Apollo personally kissed his shoulders; his cheeks; his lips, and Mark shines more golden than the sun at times. Especially when he smile, he seems to personify the sunbeams. "You should stay here with me."

"In the shade?"

"Lay beneath the sun," you reach your hand out.

Mark looks surprised, his golden eyes shining with a sort of gleam that rivals the lake surface. He lays down beside you in the sun and takes your hand in his. "Okay."

You smile, heart full at the action, and even though Mark seems sleepy, you will yourself to stay awake and immortalize each moment in your memory. 

And when his breathing slows; when you think he's finally asleep, he turns on his side and faces you. "Is this... Is this enough for you?"

Something unsaid slips between his words, like finality. Like, this may be all you'll ever get, and he wants to know if it's enough.

You smile at him. You can the sun in the reflection of his eyes; feel the soft grass beneath your skin; the warmth of Mark's hand in yours. 

"This is more than enough."

[justamessyreader-blog]

So I hadn’t written anything in months, but my attempts to process my feelings on If We Were Villains resulted in my writing this weird and short one shot where previous Dellecher students find out about That Whole Mess(TM) and speculate about what happened. I don’t know.

Read on AO3

It’s the 26th of April 1999 when Lin, Andrew, Thomas, and Grace all sit down in a tiny coffee shop in New York city. It’s the first time they are all together in what, two years? After they’d all been cut out from Dellecher at the end of their second year, they’d kept on seeing each other fairly often at first, but as life went on and they all slowly started to find ways to keep going, with or without theatre, their meetings had become more and more sparse. Now, almost four years after their expulsion from Dellecher, Lin sits near the window with a cup of tea in her hand, watching Thomas across from her and wondering how their lives would have been different if they’d just made that cut. Grace and Andrew make their way over to the table, Grace quiet as always, Andrew’s eyes sparkling with excitement.

“You won’t believe what I found out last year,” he says, as he puts down his cup and takes a seat next to Lin.

“I’m sure you’re about to tell us,” Lin remarks before turning towards him, resting her face on her hand.

“I mean, this is old news. So like, you might know already.” Andrew back-pedals. He used to do the same thing when they were at Dellecher: volunteer for a scene, confident he would do fine, and then suddenly crumble under the weight of his audience’s expectations. If Lin had to pinpoint the reason why he didn’t make it to third year, it would be self-doubt.

“Just tell us, Andy.” Grace cuts in, raising her eyebrows at him. She’s still as regal as she was then, all sharp edges and focused gaze. She’s an English teacher now, and Lin really doesn’t wish to be in her students’ place.

Like compelled by an unstoppable force, Andrew swallows, and eventually says, “You remember that super clique-y group? Those seven who were always hanging out together?”

Lin has a vague idea of what Andrew is talking about. The hot red-head, and the tall guy, and the Disney Prince, and their other friends. Yeah, Lin remembers well enough, so she nods. Who knows what happened to them.

“They ended up killing each other,” Andrew continues, eyes wide, and okay, that wasn’t the answer that Lin was expecting. “Two years ago, during their last year.”

“Shit, do you mean that guy finally snapped?” Thomas asks, looking half amused and half horrified. “What was his name, Dick?”

“I think you mean Richard?” Grace contributes.

Lin remembers him well enough. Tall, dark, and lowkey terrifying. “Well, he was a real dick, though.” She says.

“No, that’s the thing. He’s the guy who got killed,” Andrew continues. He’s making small, contained gestures with his hands, that still betray his excitement.

“Oh, my money is on the redhead. I bet she killed him.” Thomas says.

Andrew shakes his head a second time. “No, no. You will never believe who it was.”

“Who?” Grace says. She’s doing her thing again.

Andrew looks at all of them, then says, dramatically, “Oliver Marks.”

“Who?” Grace repeats, this time more confused than compelling.

Lin is also at a loss. It’s not that the name Oliver Marks doesn’t ring any bells, it’s just that she really can’t quite place him. Oliver Marks, she thinks, trying to remember anything about the guy.

“No joke, I almost couldn’t remember who it was at first. Skinny, dark hair…” Andrew starts.

“Oh, wait, I remember him now.” Grace cuts him off. “He made it to fourth year? Yeah, I’m not surprised there was murder involved.”

Grace has always been quiet and attentive, but most importantly, well, savage. It was one of the reasons why Lin had spent most of their first year harbouring a painfully embarrassing crush on her, and she can still see how a comment like that would have made her heart flutter four years earlier. Now, as Lin thinks of Kelsey waiting for her at home, it just makes her laugh. Which is horrific, by the way. You don’t laugh about murder.

“I still don’t know who you’re talking about,” she says, raising an eyebrow at Grace.

“That one guy…” Grace says, furrowing her brow in concentration. “James Farrow’s sidekick, you know?”

And okay, Lin wonders what she’d been doing at Dellecher, because James Farrow doesn’t sound particularly familiar either.

Noticing her confused expression, Thomas bursts in with, “Oh, come on, you must remember James Farrow.” Lin’s face must remain blank, because he continues, “Blond? Beautiful? A literal Disney Prince?”

And maybe it’s Thomas’s dreamy eyes, or the epithet literal Disney Prince, because Lin finally associates a face to the name. And if she focuses a little…

A memory finally emerges in her mind: a sunny day, towards the end of their second year, when a bunch of theatre students had taken advantage of the wonderful weather to study at the lake, spending more time laying at the grass and studying the occasional cloud than looking at their books. Lin had been sitting with Grace and Andrew, while Thomas had disappeared with whoever his current boyfriend was. She remembered Richard, sitting with the attractive redhead – Meredith, Meredith was her name – and playing with a strand of her hair while her, with her head in his lap, read out loud from whatever book of critical theory they’d been assigned. They’d just started dating, then. Other students threw sideway glances at them, wishing for the most beautiful girl in their year to read out loud to them, instead. And on the dock, sitting with one leg pulled up and the other tucked under him, his blond hair gleaming in the sunlight and making him look like a renaissance painting, was James Farrow, the dream of almost every girl and at least half of the boys at Dellecher. He was meticulously running through his notes, trying to ignore the awed glances that almost every single student couldn’t help but throw at him. Every once in a while he looked up, just to say something to someone sitting in front of him, with a half-smile on his face. And there, responding to or perhaps causing Farrow’s smile, Lin sees Oliver Marks, taller than James and yet somehow smaller. She remembers it clearly, the two of them basking in the sunlight, quietly studying their notes and each other, a perfect picture of friendship and devotion. Perhaps more, she’d thought then. Perhaps more, she thinks now.

The memory, so clear and peaceful, is disconcerting after Andrew’s words. Lin swallows. “Yeah, I remember them.” It’s all she says.

“I think I remember Marks too,” Thomas says. “He was cute.”

Grace rolls her eyes, and ignores him. “So what happened?” She asks Andrew.

“Well, they said Richard had gone kind of crazy after he didn’t get a part he wanted, and that it was self-defence.”

“That’s not that surprising,” Lin says, shrugging. She remembers Richard being temperamental, more than she remembers Marks being a potential murderer.

“But the thing is, Marks tried to hide it for months,” Andrew continues, “at first they thought Stiriling had just gotten drunk and fallen into the lake, and months later Marks confessed that he’d just, smashed his head in with a boat hook.”

“You said that this happened at the lake?” Lin asks, and Andrew nods. The memory comes back to her, Farrow and Marks sitting together on the dock, smiling at each other in the golden light. A moment of frozen perfection, so different from the tragedy that Andrew is talking about. Suddenly, Lin feels sick, and she downs a big gulp of tea, hoping that the warmth will unclench the tension in her chest. It doesn’t quite work.

“Fuck, Marks looked like such a chill guy. You don’t expect him to be the type of person who smashes someone’s head in.” Thomas says, looking down at his coffee.

“Some people think that maybe it wasn’t him,” Andrew says. “Apparently Marks was having an affair with Richard’s girlfriend, Meredith. And no one really knows what happened, so some people think Marks took the blame for her, or maybe for someone else. Rumour has it that when they arrested Marks, they’d planned to arrest someone else instead, and he just went out and confessed. It’s all real fishy, I tell you.”

“How do you know all this?” Grace asks. She’s talking to Andrew, but her gaze is fixed on Lin, perhaps having sensed her discomfort.

“I was writing a piece on theatre schools in America,” Andrew shrugs. Right, he writes theatre reviews now. “Thought I’d include Dellecher. I had no idea what happened, but my editor pulled up all our articles on the case when I showed her my draft. I spent an interesting afternoon.”

“I bet,” Thomas says. “Wow, that was dark. Does anyone know what happened to Farrow?”

Thomas used to have a crush on Farrow, Lin remembers. Which is understandable, it’s just that Lin was always too busy sneakily checking out Grace to even notice.

“There’s not much in the papers about him,” Andrew says with a shrug. “But it must have hit him hard, because he’s definitely not doing any work related to theatre, and we all know that he was too good of an actor to just fail.”

Thomas nods silently, before getting distracted by his phone. “It’s Matthew,” he says as an excuse before getting up to take the call. His boyfriend, the doctor who allows Thomas to still work in communal theatre without having to worry too much about money. It sounds bitchy, but Lin thinks that the truth is that, deep down, she’s a little jealous of Thomas.

“Well, ladies,” Andrew says, picking up his cup. From where she is, Lin can smell the strong aroma of black coffee. Strange, she thinks. Andrew only used to drink Latte. “After that cheerful note, why don’t you tell me how you guys have been doing?”

And after that, the conversation shifts, and Oliver Marks and Richard Stirling are forgotten.

***

It haunts Lin for days, and it’s stupid, because she barely knew them years ago. And yet. And yet she keeps thinking back to that day at the lake, and then about Richard Stirling floating in the cold waters, his head smashed in. Oliver Marks was a sweet boy, not with the potential of a lead actor, but with the kindness of a supporting characters. And Lin can’t see him hurting anyone. For a while, she considers showing up at the penitentiary, and shouting at Marks until he gives her the answers.

Instead, she settles on a letter. Just a few brief lines, explaining her confusion, and asking why. She doesn’t expect an answer.

***

Months later, Kelsey finds a brown envelope in the mail, and passes it to Lin, equally curious and confused. Lin only has to look at the first few lines to recognise the text inside: it’s a Shakespearean sonnet. And it’s signed, Oliver.

Lin reads through the lines again and again, memories of her days at Dellecher surfacing as she does. In the end, she doesn’t quite get what the sonnet is meant to answer. Perhaps, she thinks, she’s not supposed to.

 No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;

Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,

And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

All men make faults, and even I in this,

Authórizing thy trespass with compare,

Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,

Excusing these sins more than these sins are.

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense—

Thy adverse party is thy advocate—

And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence.

Such civil war is in my love and hate

That I an áccessory needs must be

To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

Sonnet is Sonnet 35, and I apologise for whatever the hell this was.