#once he was gonna straight up murder a muse in a thread

[s-talking]

envy:    ❝    ...   you’re  so  dead.    ❞

s/o:       ❝    ──IFYOUMURDERMEWECAN’TGOONDATES!!!!!!!   ❞

envy:     ❝    awe..  ~  ♥   ❞    s w o o n s.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

the story of us

this was requested by @fantasylover16. I genuinely had so much fun with this thank you! I hope you enjoy. Also I said nb jack frost rights and I meant it.

masterlist; my links

This is a story about two people.

One died three hundred years ago and has been alive since then. They have white hair, whiter than the stars, than burning light, than heaven itself. They have blue eyes that remind you of cracked ice in melting winter. They have ivory skin, some say like porcelain, it's more like liquid opal.

The other is twenty two years old. He has black hair, like jet fuel, and midnight. He has green eyes that hold oceans lost to time, that hold memories. He has brown skin that reminds you of cool forest floors and water glistened rock.

This is a story about who they are.

"Percy!" His roommate shouts from the kitchen. "Get your butt down here and tell me if the blue skirt goes better with these glasses!"

He laughs as he pulls a sweater over his heads and grabs his phone, slipping it into his back pocket. He feels the press of his pen as he pats himself down to make sure he has everything and when he is satisfied he bolts down the passage and stops short of the kitchen where Hazel Levesque is parading in front of their grand mirror on the opposing wall. She is decked out in black platform ankle boots, white fishnets that draw out the colour of her skin, slightly dark than his, a bright blue skater skirt and a soft pastel blue crew-neck not unlike his own.

"You Hazel Levesque," He grins bright and unrestrained, "Are a vision."

"Yes," She mutters still swopping between two pairs of clear-framed glasses and scrunching her nose, "But is it enough to bring my crush to their knees?"

"If Reyna doesn't bow down to you I think we can assume she's in desperate need of glasses."

"Well then maybe I should take both pairs and offer her one." She muses, pulling at her afro distractedly.

He snorts, turning to the counter and grabbing a bowl and whatever cereal he can reach first.

"Well," Hazel turns to him, he can see the smile she's trying so hard to hide, "Shall we be off then?"

He blinks at her, blinks again, points an unsure finger at his chest.

"Oh you don't expect me to brave Reyna on my own do you? Besides we're matching today it'd be quite ridiculous if we went out separately."

"But—" He looks to his bowl, as barren as the desert, "But my cereal?"

"I'll buy you breakfast on the way!" She waves the concern off, grabbing his hand and pulling them both out the door.

Despite their height difference, she makes it look far less like he's letting her pull him and far more like she has the strength to straight up carry him across the country.

"Hazel," He giggles, "Slow down."

"I can't Percy," She shakes her head vigorously, practically running through the park next to their building and into the bustling streets beyond. "If I don't do this now I'll lose all my courage and spend eternity in self-damned misery." Her brown eyes, turning honeyed as they catch the sun through the round glasses framing her face, flash bright and bold.

He stops them, pulling her in for a hug, unable to stop the laughter shaking his body." You have never been a coward Hazel Levesque. No matter the day, time or outfit you have always been brave enough to stand up and do what's needed. And telling Reyna you have a crush on her is just another battle you absolutely can win." He pulls them apart, setting a steady green gaze on her excited one. "Now let's get some coffee, and a mint tea for you because you're hyper enough as it is, and then we'll go find the love of your life and I can finally show you the google-doc I have for your wedding."

She strangles his ribs in another hug and then takes a deep breath as she steps away. "What would I do without you Percy Jackson?"

"Let's never find out," He smiles, slinging an arm over her shoulder and directing them towards the Chaos House.

As per its namesake, walking into the café is like being lost in a crowd of sleep-deprived, adhd kids all connected to caffeine IVs. In short: it's chaos. Its their favourite place on earth.

Being hit with a wall of noise after the quiet of awakening nature feels like being sucker punched directly in your ear canal. Percy cannot help but grin as he takes in the racing patrons and the sound of coffee beans being ground and the smell of cinnamon and honey and endless activity.

They immediately spot a group of their friends and bolt for the booth they're all squished into.

"Reyna isn't here." Hazels voice is pitched with panic, "Oh gods what if she's sick today? What if she fell in a ditch on her jog this morning?" She stops right in the middle of the café, brown eyes wide. "What if she knew I was trying to do this and decided to stay home today to avoid seeing me?"

He grabs her arms already shaking his head. "My darling, I need you to take a deep breath. You are spiraling."

Wildness is still tracing her expression but he feels her shoulders rise and fall as she gulps air.

"Okay," He says gently, "Now we're gonna go to our table, have a good time with our friends and if and when Reyna shows up you're going to tell her how you feel and I'll meet you back at home so you can let me know when the wedding is."

She smacks his shoulder gently, nervous giggles escaping her. "Alright fine. I hate when you get reasonable. It's very disconcerting."

"Good thing it's rare," His lips twitch, and they finally start towards their friends.

A loud chorus of hellos and how are you’s ring around his head as they get nearer and he feels right at home amongst it all.

"What's up losers?" He flops down next to Jason, pressing a shoulder into the blondes side in a hug.

Annabeth sits next to the blonde, squished between him and Piper, a leg over Jason's thigh and her hand intertwined with Piper's. Frank is on the opposite side, a casual arm slung over Leo's shoulder. Hazel squeezes in besides Leo and sighs dramatically.

"What's wrong Levesque?" Piper frowns, reaching over to clasp the girl's hand.

"She's feeling put out because she had something very important to do today and her plans are being delayed because a certain someone isn't here."

And just as their friends start reassuring and ribbing her in equal parts Percy's phone rings. With a frown he pulls it from his pocket, as he gets up and waves to say he'll be back in a minute.

"Hello, this is Percy Jackson."

He's not paying attention to his surroundings as he listens to the person on the line so when his shoulder slams into somebody he almost topples to the ground. When he turns around to say sorry there is nobody there; his frown only deepens but then the voice on the phone is pulling his attention and he makes his way outside.

This is story about they meet.

The conversation is a whirl of information about his upcoming course and what his supervisor needs from him. By the time he ends the call and tucks the phone back in his pocket his whole body feels like it's taken on the sky all over again. He has the urge to check if another grey streak has graced his hair. Instead he leans against the wall, ignoring the way his clothes catch against its roughness. He can feel the cold seeping through the cracks in the brick and into the threads of his sweatshirt.

He looks down, pulling his arms over his chest in an attempt to keep the warmth in but as he takes his arms away from the wall he sees the frost outline of his fingers. A clear, already melting handprint marking the brick like a graffiti tag. He steps back, away from the wall, to find his whole body outlined. It reminds him eerily of the chalk markings they do at murder investigations. He's not entirely sure this isn't prophetic.

The frost, little beads of ice skittered in shape, is melting at a rapid rate but the colour catches Percy's eye. It's not the usual dulled, muddy ice that coats his windows in the morning and sits atop the grass each night. It is blue, bright and pure, and looks... happy?

He's definitely going insane. The lack of coffee is getting to his brain and he has officially going mad. He should go inside and get warm and sit with his friends and have 3 espresso shots in a row.

But the phone call is still rattling his nerves and he can't bare to face the café without all his wits about him. So he studies the melted frost outline, curiosity moving him forward to trace it with his fingers. He doesn't expect to feel cold like winter mornings and snowball fights and sleigh rides coursing through his bloodstream. It's shocks him right into a new state of being. It reminds him of a poem his mother used to say at the beginning of each winter. The poem was long enough that he was always asleep by the end of the last verse but he recalls the first part clearly now

Jack Frost was in the garden;

I saw him there at dawn;

He was dancing round the bushes

And prancing on the lawn.

He had a cloak of silver,

A hat all shimm'ring white,

A wand of glittering star-dust,

And shoes of sunbeam light.

The thought is so ridiculous Percy has to laugh. It bursts out of him unexpectedly but once he starts he cannot stop. It feels like the world has turned on its side but he's still walking upright. Everything is slightly dizzying but strangely amusing from this angle. He laughs harder, ribs aching, cheeks stiff, and eyes bright. He's sure people are staring at him like he's mad but he cannot stop. Until he stumbles over the pavement and is falling to the inevitable crunch of his facial bones.

It happens almost in slow motion. He sees the ground coming towards him, bubbling up like it's going to swallow him whole. He stared it down, refusing to close his eyes, as if challenging it to hurt him, to take him as he goes. But then hands, freezing cold even through his layers of clothing, wrap around his waist and he is being hauled up in a rush of wind and dizzying speed. He bumps into a hard chest and feels as if he's stepped into a freezer.

"Hey," A voice low and playful crackles through him, "You okay?"

He turns around slowly, and is not at all prepared for the site he is greeted with. There is so much all at once, startling and glowing and fracturing. His eyes catch an warm icy gaze, blizzard white hair, pale skin, cold-kissed lips, hands running with blue veins and silver rings.

"You okay?" The stranger repeats, looking at him with concern.

He honestly doesn't know if he has the ability to talk. His mouth opens, his throat bobs, but words are lost cargo.

"Can you hear me?" The stranger asks, accompanying the question with sign language.

Percy responds automatically, raising a fist and moving it back and forth; his head accompanies the action but still no words come out.

They smile at him, and start signing another question. He doesn't bother to stop them, tell them they aren't deaf, he can hear, he just can't talk. He's speechless.

Are you okay? They sign.

He nods, and the words stuck in his throat finally tumble out. "Yes, yes," It is croaky with overwhelming emotion, "Thank you for catching me. I’m sorry I uh—" He doesn't have any respectable excuse for being mute for the entire first half of their interaction. He is just completely struck by everything the stranger is.

"Ah so you can hear me," The stranger laughs. He decides the sound is what makes stars. "Well I'm glad you're okay. I'm Jack."

Percy snorts. This cannot be real. Ice, him thinking about Jack Frost, and suddenly his saviour's name is jack? What has the universe been doing with its time to plan this?

“I'm Percy," He stares at them curiously studying the snowflakes that seem to cling to their floppy white hair despite the snow season being weeks away, and the blue eyes that hurtle him to the Abraham lake in Canada. A holiday his family had taken a mere year ago and one of the most beautiful places he's ever seen.

His demigod senses are peeking out their window, as curious as he is. The action puts him on high alert. His instincts are usually only alerted when he's in danger or............. in love.

"What are you?" He cannot stop the question. His mouth has a self-controlled function and no way to override it.

Jack raises their brow, "What are you, Percy?" His name sounds like luxury rolling off the stranger's tongue.

But the question throws him off guard and before he has time to drool over them again he is pulling his pen out and twirling it between his fingers anxiously. "Are you here to kill me?"

That barks a laugh from Jack, who looks so entirely amused he can't help but wonder if he can frame the moment to keep with him forever; a brow quirked, a slight dimple on their right cheek as their smile grows, and bunched freckles as their nose scrunches slightly.

"Get a lot of assassination attempts do you?"

“You have no idea," He feels his eyes roll in annoyance, an automatic reaction after all these years.

"No Percy," Jack says softly. It brushes across his skin like cool paint and snowy pine leaves. "I am here because the moon told me to be."

"The moon?" He sputters, "What do you mean the moon?"

"I mean exactly that. I talk to the moon and it answers."

He can feel his legs grow weak. "The moon— the moon— the....... moon," He mutters, staring at Jack.

They are silent as he attempts to compartmentalize his thoughts. "You know what?" He finally speaks, "That's not the weirdest thing I've ever heard. The children of Demeter talk to grain so this isn't that far out of reach."

Jack just looks at him with a patient, gentle smile on their face.

"So what are you? A child of Selene?"

"I am not a demigod." They shake their head. "I was chosen by the moon three hundred years ago. I am the spirit of winter."

The silence stretches between them like taffy. He isn't sure he's heard this right.

"You're—" He cannot even bring himself to say it.

"Yes, I'm Jack Frost."

Percy's legs give our from under him. Jack is not quick enough to catch him but he lands on a pillow of snow right before he bruises his knees. "You're Jack Frost?"

"Yes. And you are Percy Jackson."

"How—how do you know?"

"I've been alive for a very long time. I know a lot of people."

He just hums, trying to wrap his head sound another layer of myth and fable that makes up the fabric of the world.

"Why are you here?" He finally gutters out. "I mean I know the moon told you to come but why?"

"I uh have a theory but I need to ask something of you in order to know if I'm right."

He frowns, staring up at the stranger. No not stranger. Can you even call someone who's been around for centuries a stranger? What are they a stranger to? They have seen and heard and learnt and loved more than he ever has or ever will. It's more like he is the stranger. "What do you need me to do?"

"I just need you to summon water for me."

A thousand questions sit like caught snowflakes on his tongue but he let's them melt instead of spilling them into the world. Instead he gets up and concentrates on all the water sources surrounding them.

A reservoir one hundred miles away, fire hydrants near bursting with unused pressure, a small pond in a small park about five miles south, and of course the ocean in front of them, no more than fifty miles within reach.

"How much do you need?"

"Give me fifty liters."

He closes his eyes and imagines the pond, the water rippling within it. He imagines holding it in his palm as he would a basketball ball. When he feels a cool sensation wash over his skin he opens his eyes once more and sees a swirling blob of water surrounding his hand, dancing to the beat of his pulse.

"Is this enough?"

"Plenty," They smile and then their hands are reaching out and as if the water knows they're calling to it, it bounces over in little bubbles. As it touches their fingers a ray of light bursts from the contact and it turns to ice. Jack sucks in a breath, watching in amazement as the water freezes and hits the ground in a flurry of snow.

"What?" Percy cannot hold in his curiosity any longer. "What is it?"

"The moon was right." They look at him, eyes sparkling with something more than awe or curiosity.

"About?" He prompts.

"We're soulmates."

This is a story about their destinies.

"We're what?" Percy whispers. He has never gotten loud when he was surprised or angry or sad. He has always been soft.

"I usually need my staff to solidify water but if I use elements touched by my soulmate I can do it without aid."

"This is ridiculous!" He sputters. There is absolutely no way this is real. Seriously? Soulmates? He would laugh if he wasn't so outraged.

"You don't believe in soulmates?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe in!" He growls, "This whole ordeal is completely insane."

"What would it take to convince you Percy Jackson?" Jack just smiles, it is shining with happiness like it hadn't before.

"I have no idea because I have never heard of or encountered a soulmate." He hisses.

"Do you know why you can see me?"

He shakes his head, thoughts swirling faster than the hurricanes his further looses.

"Because you believe in me."

"I thought you had control over who sees you and who doesn't?" He raises a brow.

"Only with children. I can choose to show myself whether they believe or not. I have the ability since enough of them do believe." They say. "But adults are different. If they don't believe I cannot make myself appear to them. I am simply a ghost of their childhood past."

"I don't understand." Percy cannot wrap his mind around this. "How do you know you can only make ice out of whatever water I touch?"

Jack looks around for a brief moment before catching sight of something behind them. In a split second they are there and then they're back.

"Watch," He pours the water from the bottom he'd nabbed over his hand. It falls to the floor as liquid as it had started out.

"That doesn't prove anything, how do I know you're not just making sure you don't turn it to ice?"

"I cannot touch anything without freezing it, especially water." They worry at their bottom lip with their teeth, thoughts flying across their face. "It's like your friend Leo." They nod their head towards the café where Percy can still see his friends snuggled into the booth. "He doesn't necessarily turn everything he touches to ashes but he will always leave a warm imprint no matter how or what he has touched."

"How do you know that?" He gapes.

"Immortality gives you a lot of time to know the world." They shrug. "Now do you believe me?"

"I don't know." He answers truthfully. "I mean if we are soulmates..." He tries to form the question into some semblance of sense and order. "Does that mean I'm tied to you? That we have to like I don't know get married and spend eternity together?"

"No," Jack says gently, "No you can deny this bond if that is how you feel. It does not mean anything except that the universe put our souls in the same constellation. We are free to pick and choose who we love."

“And how will it work if we do decide to get together?” He frowns, “I will age but you will always stay the same.”

They look at him, head tilted, ice eyes bright. “But you know that’s not true.”

Everything in him barrels forward like a tidal wave. It cannot be. No-one knows. Not even his mother. “What isn’t true?” He will play this carefully, like the strings of a harp. He will not let his life crash through the ground.

“Why are you hiding it?”

“I’m not hiding anything.” He is adamant in his stance. He will not bow.

“You are denying the life you chose.” Jack considers him. “Why?”

“I’m not denying anything.” He huffs, “I’m just taking it slow.”

A snort bursts of them, arrogant and amused. “You are taking becoming a God slow?”

“I want to live with my friends before they figure it out!” He cries, all the fear and terror and worry burning through him.

Jack moves closer, presses a cold hand to his shoulder. “It is okay to be scared and angry and worried but do not forget that you are worthy of the title and you should wear it like a crown, not a burden.”

“There is always some burden in this much power.” He is bitter. He is right.

“Come,” Jack pulls them together, “Go meet your friends.” The hug is so cold but comforts him to the bone. “And when you are ready to make a decision, just whisper my name and i will answer, no matter where i am, or how far apart we are.”

He studies the person before him, beautiful and strange in an inviting sort of way, like no matter how much he learns about them he'll always want to know more. "Well you are very pretty."

They laugh, and the sound lights up the ocean inside him. "Thank you."

“Live Percy Jackson.” Jack Frost whispers.

And then Percy is standing outside a café, an icy wind dancing between his fingertips, and the impression of a freezing hug still clinging to his clothes. He realizes he feels happy. He feels safe.

This is a story about their love.

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[image id: a poem by John P Smeeton titled "Jack Frost in the Garden" the poem reads:

Jack Frost was in the garden;// I saw him there at dawn;// He was dancing round the bushes// And prancing on the lawn.// He had a cloak of silver,// A hat all shimm'ring white,// A wand of glittering star-dust,// And shoes of sunbeam light.

Jack Frost was in the garden,// When I went out to play// He nipped my toes and fingers// And quickly ran away.// I chased him round the wood-shed,// But, oh! I'm sad to say// That though I chased him everywhere// He simply wouldn't stay.

Jack Frost was in the garden:// But now I'd like to know// Where I can find him hiding;// I've hunted high and low —// I've lost his cloak of silver,// His hat all shimm'ring white,// His wand of glittering star-dust,// His shoes of sunbeam light"

the background is a light blue and white marble. end id]

Tags: @fantasylover16 @queen-of-demons-and-hell @nishlicious-01​ @leyontheway @caffeinated-croissant

[shy-violet-soul]

Love in a time of COVID-19

Summary: Bucky won’t let anything get in the way of showing you he loves you & making you smile. Characters: Bucky Barnes x you; Steve Rogers; mentions of Clint Barton, Tony Stark, & Natasha Romanoff Ratings/Warnings: Character has Rheumatoid Arthritis, mentions of symptoms & treatments. Social-distanced-fluff of the highest concentration. Clint being weird & Bucky being goofball-y awesome. A/N: I saw the photo that inspired this on IG, and laughed so hard I just about cried. The marvelous OP graciously gave me permission to include it in my fic. You’ll find it at the bottom of the work. I thought we could all use some fluff in our lives these days!

I also have a friend with Rheumatoid Arthritis who is finding this time to be exceptionally difficult. Please support those in your circle who need some extra love right now.

Thank you @pinknerdpanda​ for beta-ing once again! All the social-distanced-hugs to you!

This work is a piece of fiction inspired by characters created by the MCU. Please do not copy/print elsewhere without my written permission

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He was convinced. People’d lost their damn minds.

Bucky had survived warzone trenches in Europe. Had lived through the Great Depression. And had never seen the level of human stupidity he’d witnessed the first few days of March 2020. It’s an airborne illness - why the hell were people buying 96 rolls of toilet paper at a whack? What were they gonna do, wrap it around their mouths and breathe through it?

The Avengers Tower was going through its own issues. Stark vowed to spend his self-isolation inside one of his suits; a good idea in theory until he realized he still had to pee. Steve kept expounding on the virtues of using the time to catch up on reports. Natasha spent her time snorting at the treasure trove of new social media memes while Clint thumbed his nose at the whole thing by licking every door knob he passed. Bucky was washing his hands more just because of that. Gross.

Yes, they were pretty well hooked up to do the shelter in place, social distance, whatever the hell they were calling this thing. Bucky couldn’t fault Tony (well, probably mostly Pepper) for the very streamlined system in place that kept the Tower stocked with all manner of essentials. And, the Stark Foundation was busily getting help where it needed to go while Bruce videoconferenced with Dr. Cho and Shuri on treatments and vaccines. They were good to go for the foreseeable future.

His only real worry was you.

Your rheumatoid arthritis made this whole thing much more dicey, and - if he was being honest - a frick ton scarier. The illness suppressed your immune system, which meant you had to be more proactive on a normal day with handwashing, etc. Throw in a virus with no vaccine and no treatment? ‘Proactive’ took on a whole new definition. Sanitizing surfaces and extra cleanliness efforts were easy to step up. But he knew how much you hated being cooped inside. It didn’t help that the humidity had climbed up into the 70-ish percent region. The heavy air, coupled with the bite of winter chill still hanging on to the calendar, had your already tender joints pitching all kinds of a fit.

Right now, you were curled up in your favorite spot - a well padded window seat overlooking Central Park. Bucky had switched on the fancy fake fireplace for you, had wrapped you in blankets and propped you with pillows. The light pouring in haloed a bright shine to your hair, which normally would have a smile on his face. But your wan face pulled a grimace from him instead. Your shoulders rose and fell with a sigh, and Bucky would have cheerly scrubbed every surface of the whole damn Tower to get you out and about and smiling again.

A knock on the door spun him on his heel, and Bucky stalked to the door. Everyone knew the protocol - no visitors allowed!

“What.” Not a question, but a cold, terse demand. Steve drew a deep breath as he measured the look being leveled at him. He’d faced firing tanks with less caution. His friend’s frown was fierce versus his blank murder stare. Bucky was mad but not in an assassinating mood. 

“Buck, I’m not gonna stay. I just wanted to stop in and say hi.”

“I’ll tell her you said so.” The door swung closed in his face. Steve rolled his eyes, throwing his arms up in disgust.

“C’mon, man.”

“No.” Exasperated, Steve couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth. You and Bucky were a match made in heaven. Eidetic brain with the memory of an elephant, you were hands down one of the best analysts he’d had the privilege of working with. You chased after clues relentlessly, bulldogged in your tenacity. Straight up bullheaded in your obstinacy, though. 

If anyone could out-stubborn you, it was Bucky. Lord knows, he had enough experience chasing after a certain runt who couldn’t stay out of back alley brawls. Steve knew that, in odd moments, it still struck his friend that he didn’t need his help in the same ways. When Bucky’s muscle memory had him moving before his brain caught up if Steve coughed or sneezed. He could practically see the wheels turning as Bucky struggled to stitch together broken memories with current moments. A natural protector, Bucky needed someone to nurture. To cajole and wheedle and, if necessary, out-stubborn. You fit the bill to a tee.

“I don’t have coronavirus, Bucky!”

The door snatched back open. “Oh, yeah? And how do you know that?”

“I can’t get sick. Serum, remember?”

Bucky glared at him through squinted eyes before stepping back into the apartment.

“Carrier,” he hissed, slamming the door again.

“Was that Steve?”  Fatigue even hung heavy in your voice, the faintest gravel in the back of your throat threading a husk into your words. Bucky winced with you when you shifted in your seat, struggling painfully to stand.

“Yeah. Now I’m gonna have to wipe off the door knob again,” he groused as he briskly rubbed sanitizer over his hands. “Clint’s such a dumb ass.”

You snorted softly as you padded towards him. “I know. Who licks door knobs to prove a point?”

Taking in your stiff posture, Bucky leaned in close and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Why’d you get up? What do you need? I’ll get it,” he murmured into your hair. Your sigh huffed softly against his chest as you gratefully leaned against him, glancing at the clock in the kitchen.

“I should probably take another dose of ibuprofen,” the words mumbled up, uncertain. The illness had dragged up new challenges - too many doses of the NSAID was ripping up your stomach. Steroids helped, too, but you couldn’t take too many rounds too close together, and you’d already taken one prescription a month ago when the wet winter had your shoulders and wrists feeling like they were grinding straight through to your bone marrow. Pepper and your doctor were trying to get a DMARD approved through insurance, but with all this new virus ‘fit hitting the shan’, the insurance company backlog was sky high. That left you with balancing growing joint discomfort against growing stomach unhappiness. Thank God for ice packs and Tony’s ridiculously over-the-top whirlpool baths.

Bucky held in his own sigh as he pondered your situation. “Let me make you some of that chamomile tea and some toast to go with it.”

He didn’t think it possible, but your shoulders sagged even more. “I’m really not hungry, Buck.”

Threading his fingers through your hair, he gently rubbed the back of your head the way you liked.

“I’ll make it with that raspberry rutabaga jam on it. You want that?”

The catch in your throat grew to a fist-sized lump fit to choke you. The throbbing in your shoulders and arms radiated in time with your heartbeat up into your brain. Your knees felt weird - rubbery, tender, like you weren’t sure they’d support you. You missed your job, you missed your friends, you missed outside. As much as you adored Bucky, you were lonely for the other pieces of your life. The misery in your heart swelled to mammoth proportions, and you couldn’t choke back the sob that broke from you.

“I want -”

Bucky’s gut pinched so hard it hurt when you started crying. “What, love? What do you want? Anything, I’ll get it for you.”

Crying just made everything hurt more, and you swallowed hard to shove down the tears, anxiety, and stress. You glanced up, seeing the stress that pulled tight lines into Bucky’s face. You tried to offer him a smile and knew you failed pathetically.

“Rhubarb, hun. It’s raspberry rhubarb jam.”

Bucky saw you trying, knew you were trying to make him feel better, and wanted to cry himself. He’d do anything to bring back your smile.

“Rutabaga, rhubarb, whatever. You go sit, I’ll bring it out to you with the ibuprofen.”

You shook your head as you stepped away from his urging embrace. “No, I need to move around a little.” Neither of you spoke as you moved to the kitchen, content in the quiet puttering as Bucky filled the kettle and popped bread in the toaster. Out of habit, he went to wash his hands when an idea hit him.

Staring blankly out the window, your thoughts drifted to your ‘to be read’ pile as you tried to decide between starting a new book from your oft-ignored stack or comfort yourself with a lovely reread. You were so lost in your musings, you didn’t track on the activity behind you.

“Babe, can you grab the butter and jam? I’m washing my hands.”

You turned around to step to the fridge, stopped in your tracks at the sight before you, and burst out laughing. 

Bucky had taken off his metal arm and put it in the dishwasher.

Hilarity pealed from you in waves, folding you over as you leaned against the counter. You tried to catch your breath and glanced up at Bucky. The proud-as-punch smile on his face set you off again, laughing so hard your shoulders twinged at you.

When a snort broke into your snickers, Bucky couldn’t help but laugh with you. Giddiness swirled with relief at your delight, and he felt prouder in that moment that he did receiving his U.S. Army Expert Marksmanship medal in ‘42. He knew he couldn’t carry your burden for you, but in this moment, he’d lightened it a bit. Moving in close, he gathered you to his chest with his other arm, relishing the feel of your giggles against him. You gasped for breath as you wiped the tears from eyes, then reached up to cup his face in your hands, smiling fondly into his twinkling gaze.

“I love you, you giant goofball. Thank you for taking such good care of me.” 

Bucky leaned down and kissed the tip of your nose.

“Gotta take care of my best girl.” Giving you the gentlest of squeezes, he then urged you back to your cozy nest. “Go sit. I’ll bring it all out in a few.”

Still grinning, you headed for your phone. “First, I gotta get my phone. This is going on Twitter!”

[danfanciesphil]

L’Histoire Française (Five Years Later) (NSFW)

Happy Nearly-New Year! This is a gift that I know a lot of you have been waiting for, I really hope it lives up to your expectations. Those of you that read and loved this fic mean a great deal to me, as this one is particularly close to my heart. You deserve a treat, and here it is! 

I love you all very much, and here’s to a fab 2019. 

Ellen xx

(L’Histoire Française Masterlist)

(TRANSLATION OF THE FRENCH IN THIS CHAPTER)

(Ao3 LINK)

Not Quite The Louvre

June 2022

The restaurant is one Dan has never set foot in, but admired from afar, the way he might admire one of Tyler’s designer suits, or Louise’s newborn - intensely, but with an awareness that it’s very much Not For Him. He walks through the large doors that sit beneath a calligraphic sign reading ‘Gilted’, already deeply concerned about what lies beyond them. From the name, this place promises extravagance, and from the moment Dan steps inside, this is just what it delivers. A wiry, angular woman at a small desk greets him, and immediately summons a young man to take his coat. The young man is wearing a pale green suit jacket, as are all of the other wait staff, which Dan admires for its quirkiness, but is also unnerved by. Is this some new, hipster trend that he’s unaware of? Is he outdated in his plain black suit? Or is it just the restaurant trying to distinguish themselves in some way? As his coat is being dealt with, Dan peers into the dining area, noting a lot of green decoration to match the waiters, including masses of tropical plants spreading their enormous leaves and vines throughout the tables. The walls are a distressed emerald, and plastered in enormous mirrors, which also cover much of the ceiling. Instantly, Dan is gobsmacked by the opulence, and fears for his wallet, which is about to get a pummelling, he can tell.

“Do you have a reservation, Sir?” the angular lady asks, one thin eyebrow arched. Dan tugs on his own boring suit jacket; he gets the distinct impression that she can smell inferiority on him.

“Yes,” Dan replies, cheeks warm. “I think it’s under Lester?”

The woman nods stiffly, then gazes down at her iPad, which has its own pale green cover, and the word ‘Gilted’ etched on in swirly gold. A nice touch, Dan can’t help but think. The woman pauses, then taps the screen, and locks it. She nods to Dan, marginally more amiable now that she knows he’s not some imposter.

“Right this way, Sir.”

She leads him through the maze of tables, of which there seem to be hundreds, scattered across a huge ballroom with vaulted ceilings, and a mezzanine balcony, accessible via an enormous spiralling staircase. Dan swallows, thinking again of his poor bank account, which has no idea of the violent assault headed its way. The woman takes him to a four person table in the centre of the room, underneath a chandelier so large Dan is astounded it can be safe, suspended as it is above his head.

“Enjoy your meal, gentlemen,” the woman says, and Dan nods awkwardly, mumbles a thank you, and sits down.

“Hi,” Dan says as he slides into his seat, and meets the gaze of the person opposite him. “Phil’s going to be late.”

Tyler’s mouth falls open, gasping dramatically. “The scoundrel.” 

“He already texted to tell us,” Teddy says, and Dan relaxes a bit. It’s warm in here, not unpleasantly so, but as Dan is already uncomfortable, it feels stifling. He can’t help but think that it would be far easier to relax if Phil were beside him. “So,” Teddy continues, his fingers lacing together on the table in front of him. “Shall we get straight to it?”

Dan freezes, hackles immediately up, sniffing danger misting off of Teddy’s words. He looks between his two friends, trying and failing, as he always does, to decipher the mischievous look in their eyes. 

“What?” he asks carefully.

“Well Dan,” Tyler jumps in, suspiciously keen to answer. “I know you’re not one for deep thought, but what do you think the reason might be that your other half might have summoned us here tonight?”

“I hardly think Phil suggesting we all go for dinner counts as a summons,” Dan says, though truthfully, Tyler’s implication stirs the butterflies that have already begun awakening in Dan’s belly. 

Teddy’s left hand spreads itself atop Tyler’s, rather obviously. Dan tries not to roll his eyes as Teddy’s fingers waggle, making the large, princess cut diamond on his ring finger sparkle under the chandelier lights.

“Guys,” Dan says in his warning tone, which, granted, is about as terrifying as a guinea pig squeaking. “It’s just a catch-up dinner because you guys are gonna be on your cruise over my birthday next week.”

“Mmhmm,” Teddy says, sipping from his water glass. “In a restaurant expensive enough to bankrupt all four of us with the tasting menu.”

“It’s funny isn’t it,” Tyler muses to the general vicinity, leaning back in his chair. “That what with your parents being on the other side of the world, there’s nobody whose approval Phil could seek if he were inclined to, say... pop the question.”

“Oh, no, Ty,” Teddy says before Dan can object to that loaded statement, patting Tyler’s hand. They share an amused smile. “I’m not sure about that.”

“Oh no?” Tyler asks, theatrically.

“I think if I were Phil,” Teddy says. “In place of his actual guardians, I’d turn to Dan’s closest pals. The people he’s been closest to for most of his adult life, his mentors, his confidantes-”

Dan snorts loudly, and a nearby waiter shoots him a disapproving glare. “Kim and Kanye couldn’t make it, unfortunately.”

“D-list imitations compared to us, darling,” Tyler says, grinning. He’s wearing an irritatingly smug, patronising expression that Dan is very familiar with. “Come on, Dan. The set up is so obvious even you shouldn’t be able to miss it. He’s probably pacing the pavement outside right now, rehearsing his proposal speech.”

“He’s late because he had to supervise detention today,” Dan mutters, though beneath the table, his hands wring the cloth napkin.

Luckily, a waiter approaches then, and Tyler is distracted, demanding the wine list, and a round of nibbles and G & T’s to start them off. Dan turns his attention to his phone while the waiter reels off the various gins available.

From: Dan To: Phil omg please hurry up im about to commit a double homicide x

Ten seconds later, he gets a response.

From: Phil To: Dan no fair. you promised if you ever murdered them that i could help :( im four mins away. steer clear of the silverware. xx

From: Dan To: Phil no promises x

“Darling, I know the etiquette expected from this sort of establishment is a little beyond you, but texting at the dinner table really is terribly rude,” Tyler says, giving him a level glare.

“Sorry,” Dan mutters, though he doesn’t mean it. He pockets his phone reluctantly, noting that the waiter has once again disappeared. “This place is too fancy for me.”

“I must say,” Teddy says, thoughtfully. He’s gazing around at the other patrons, clinking silver cutlery against china dishes, their bleached white teeth clacking against crystal glasses of Merlot. “I was a little surprised at the venue Phil chose to to do this.”

“To do what? Teddy, Phil is not going to-”

“Yes, I thought the same,” Tyler says animatedly, turning to his husband. “That man’s so off-the-wall in every other respect, you’d think he’d have conjured up some extravagant, personalised proposal scene in a lego version of the Eiffel Tower or something ridiculous. Not a restaurant so posh it almost makes me feel uneasy.” He sips water again. “Almost.”

“For God’s sake,” Dan near-snaps, nails pushing into his palms. “Will you stop? It’s just dinner, for God’s sake.”

Something over Dan’s shoulder catches Tyler’s eye, and the smile that spreads over his mouth is somehow both smug and excited. He leans back in his chair, and exchanges a glance with Teddy.

“Uh huh,” Tyler says.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m stupidly late I know,” Phil’s voice says at Dan’s ear. Seconds later, lips are pressed, fleeting and damp, against Dan’s cheek. “Have you already ordered?”

“Just the wine-” Dan starts to say, and then stops short as Phil slips into the chair beside his.

His boyfriend is wearing a suit that Dan has never seen him in before. The jacket is black velvet, with thin, undulating gold thread woven into swirling patterns across the expanse. It’s fitted to his long, lithe body, and hugs his broad shoulders perfectly. Phil’s hair has been trimmed, jaw closely shaven, and a haze of expensive-smelling cologne floats in the air around him. In short, he looks more delicious than anything on the menu, and Dan hasn’t even read it yet.

“Phil, darling, you look so scrumptious that it’s going to be a struggle not to leap across the table and devour you,” Tyler says with a gleeful grin.

Phil laughs politely, scooting his chair in. “Hey, Ty. Teddy. How are you guys?”

Dumbed by the appearance of his boyfriend, who earlier this morning had had to run out of the house without showering to get to work on time, Dan can only stare. He feels underdressed beside this deity. A pale, unworthy companion for someone so beautiful, in a place so beautiful to match. Dan is wearing a suit as well, sure, but it’s just the same one he always wears, black and tight-fitting, possibly a little on the small side, especially noticeable from how it exposes his ankles.

“We’re wonderful, my dear,” Tyler answers for both of them.

“I’ve been trying to get around to finally divorcing him, but he keeps distracting me with blowjobs,” Teddy says in a sigh.

At that moment, a slightly flustered waiter coughs from the end of the table, holding a bottle of expensive-looking red wine. “Y-your Rijoca, gentlemen.”

Tyler claps his hands excitedly. “I’ll do the tasting, garcçon.” He pushes his glass towards the waiter, who pours a drop in.

Whilst Tyler sniffs and sips pretentiously, Dan leans towards Phil as discreetly as he can. “You look absolutely amazing,” Dan says, still dazed. “Should I have dressed up more?”

Phil gives him a warm, fond smile which spreads, like treacle, through Dan’s entire body, until he can feel it in his toes. “Dan, tu es toujours la plus belle personne dans la pièce.”

A bunch of pink, sun-warmed flowers bloom in Dan’s cheeks. “Merci,” he mumbles. “But seriously-”

“The bouquet is divine Phil,” Tyler announces, gesturing for the waiter to fill everyone’s glasses. “Try, try. Is that not simply magnifique?”

Phil takes his glass, thanking the waiter, and sips politely. “Yeah, it’s delicious,” he says. “Well picked.” He turns his attention back to the waiter. “Um, excusé-moi monsieur, nous voudrons un boutéille de champagne aussi, s’il vous plaît.”

“Assurément, monsieur.”

“Oh? Are we celebrating?” Teddy asks in a knowing voice, chin resting atop his interlaced fingers. His eyes glimmer, though it could be the reflection on his superfluous, hipster spectacles.

“We are,” Phil confirms once the waiter has disappeared off. The three of them wait for Phil to continue, but he simply sips Rijoca, and pretends to be intrigued by the décor. Just as Tyler’s big mouth opens, clearly intent on prompting a further explanation, Phil clears his throat loudly, and opens his menu with a flourish. “So! What are we having? French cuisine can be a somewhat hit and miss. Do you think you’ll be alright finding something you like?”

Reluctantly, Dan turns his attention to his own menu, though his heart has started to thump distractingly beneath his shirt. He feels as if he might need to remove his suit jacket soon, or else rivers of sweat will begin pouring out of his sleeves. That might put Phil off whatever it is he has planned. Not that Phil is necessarily planning anything. This could, still, just be a normal, catch-up meal between friends. Where everyone is dressed to the nines for no reason, and champagne is being placed on standby, and the very air itself tastes decadent.

The menu is entirely in French, and despite the lessons he’s been taking for the past three years, and despite Phil’s steady stream of dirty talk and sweet nothings in the language, Dan cannot understand a word in front of him. Then again, even if the menu was in layman’s English, Dan doubts very much that the words would seep into his mushy brain.

“Hmm, what’s cuisses de grenouilles?” Tyler asks, peering at his own menu.

Phil hides a smile behind his wine glass. “Frog’s legs.”

Tyler shuts the menu sharply. “Right, think I’ll stick to the salade.”

“I can never resist a French Onion Soup,” Teddy says with a conspiratorial smile. “Just don’t tell my health-freak husband how much oil and cheese they pour in.”

Tyler immediately begins Googling this on his phone, which starts a quiet, whispered argument on the other side of the table. Phil turns to Dan; there’s no mistaking the hidden twinkle in his eye, unsuccessfully being held back, perhaps until the champagne arrives. 

Phil’s eyebrow lifts. “Dan?”

“Y-yes?”

His heart is pounding against his chest, as if it wants to break free and launch itself onto Phil’s plate.

“What are you going to have?” Phil asks, nodding towards his menu. God, he looks phenomenal, Dan can’t help but think. In the low, warm lighting, surrounded by pastel green, Phil is a waterlily in bloom. He puts Monet’s Nympheas to shame, and Dan saw those right up close, too. “Do you need me to translate anything?”

“N-no,” Dan says, mesmerised. He swallows, quietly, and tears his gaze away. Oh, God. Is his entire life about to turn upside down at the sight of one fold of a bended knee? “I’ll just have the, uh,” he casts about the thick ivory page for something vaguely recognisable. “The ratatouille.”

“Are you sure?” Phil asks, frowning. “I think they have galettes. They’re like savoury pancakes. You like pancakes.”

“No, really,” Dan assures him, stomach roiling at the idea of attempting to digest a flappy, doughy pancake right now. He lifts his glass of wine to his lips and pours about half of it down his throat. “I’m in a, uh, tomatoey mood.”

“What a romantic sentiment,” Tyler mutters to Teddy. 

“He can treasure it forever,” Teddy replies, luckily too low to be overheard by Phil. Even so, Dan kicks both of them in the shin.

The waiter returns with an ice bucket and champagne, and Phil orders for everyone in his fluent, silken French. Dan is on edge, certain now that he is about to be jumped with some monumental romantic gesture that he is entirely unprepared to deal with. It all feels overwhelming - the glitz, the alcohol, the unrecognisable, expensive food -  but he tries to cling to the presence of Phil beside him, safe and comforting even gussied up as he is.

Is this how it always is? Is the proposer supposed to fire the question out of the blue, giving the proposee no time at all to rehearse or prepare? He supposes in all the films he’s seen, the woman is always totally caught off-guard by the sight of her man kneeling before her. Dan’s always been pretty cynical about this however, thinking she must have had some sort of inclination. 

Before he can dwell any further, the food arrives amidst casual chatter about jobs and grievances, and Teddy and Tyler’s usual guilt tripping about Dan having “abandoned them to go and live in sin with his French lover.”

“It was three years ago,” Dan says to Teddy. “I think possibly it’s time to forgive me.”

“We should really be angry at Frenchie, of course, for snatching you away,” Tyler says, studying a tomato on his fork with scrutiny. “But who could stay mad at those chiselled features?”

“You do know I’m not actually French, don’t you?” Phil asks, though he’s laughing good-naturedly, playing with the stuffed aubergine on his plate. “And hey, without Dan there I bet it was great that you could have sex in any room of the house, before you moved into your new place, obviously.”

“Never stopped us before,” Teddy mutters and Dan throws a napkin at him.

By the time dessert is over with, the red wine has been drained, and the champagne is finally lifted from the ice bucket, Dan has almost forgotten what he’d been worried about. The wine in Dan’s bloodstream is creating a pleasant, blurred hum around their table. It even makes Tyler’s loud, boisterous chatter just the right side of tolerable.

“So,” Phil says in a louder voice than he has been speaking, and reaches to pluck the unopened champagne from Teddy’s hands. “I have something I’d like to announce.”

Instantly Dan’s heart leaps into his throat. Tyler and Teddy exchange a look loaded with something like ‘here it comes’. Phil turns to Dan, and reaches for his hand. Dan lets him take it, limply, and tries to focus on the words about to come from his boyfriend’s mouth; in the thousand ways he’d imagined Phil might do this, he always knew he’d need to remember everything he said. Phil’s always been a master of language, wielding it like a sword in the hands of a medieval Knight.

“Dan,” Phil says. “There’s a reason I wanted us all to be here tonight.”

Dan takes a deep breath. “O-oh, okay.”

“I don’t want to give you the wrong idea,” Phil says, unexpectedly. “There are things I want to ask you, in the future, but that’s not what this is. You should know, by now, that I love you more than anything. I see a future for us, a long and happy future, and that’s why I think we don’t need to be swearing it to one another with rings just yet.”

“I…” Dan frowns, looking towards Teddy and Tyler. Their expressions are unreadable; they look excited, brimming with some secret thing Dan is perplexed by. “Wait, so you’re... not proposing?”

Phil smiles sweetly, and squeezes Dan’s hand. “No.” He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a key. There’s a keyring attached, in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. On it, Dan can see silver lettering, though he can’t read what it says. “I thought about it. I’m always thinking about it, honestly. Of course I want to be married to you. But before we splash out on a big wedding, I think it’s important for us to get to a place, individually, where we’re happy in ourselves.”

Dan’s heart squeezes. He knows that somewhere in that speech Phil said he loves him. That he wants to be married to him someday, even. But all Dan hones in on is the word ‘individually’. He and Phil have tried individually. It had been, and remains to this day, the worst period of Dan’s life, trying to extricate himself from Phil, after he’d known the touch of him, the closeness. Surely Phil cannot be suggesting they do that again - try some new-age method of spending some time apart to ‘find themselves’ before committing? Phil turns Dan’s hand over then, distracting him, so his palm faces up, and drops the key into it. Bemused, Dan brings it to his face, squinting at the words written on it.

La Cerise Galerie, 234 Lipton Avenue

He recognises the name. It’s a gallery Dan used to like visiting from time to time, smallish, and independent, run by a French couple with a passion for the romantics and the impressionists. Unfortunately, the couple, Madame and Monsieur Cerise, decided to put the gallery on the market a few months ago to go and travel the world on an extended retirement trip. They were clearly wealthy from some unknown source, the gallery just being something they did on the side. Sadly, the pretty mansionette that the gallery was in, with its white, modern, square exterior, and neat gardens, has since remained empty. 

“I don’t understand,” Dan says, feeling as if he’s stood on the edge of some tall, sheer cliff in high winds.

“He never was the brightest bulb, Phil,” Tyler says in a stage whisper. “You may need to spell it out for the poor dear.”

“It’s yours, Dan,” Phil says, inexplicably. “I bought it. Well, almost. I’ve had a a little help.” Phil shoots a meaningful look towards Tyler, who lifts his glass, smiling. “You need to sign the deed for it, and I have to finalise some stuff. But it’s yours if you agree, Dan. I picked the key up on my way here. And now I’m giving it to you.”

Dan stands from his chair, making it screech across the wooden floor. He can barely breathe; he knew this suit jacket was too small for him. The key sits weightily in his palm, loaded with all that it represents.

“Phil” Dan says, shaking his head. He wants to hurl the keys across the room. “You can’t do this. This is... mad.” He looks at Tyler, who is wearing a fascinated expression, as if Dan’s reaction is a scene in a teledrama. “Ty... you knew about this?”

The room is rocking violently, side to side beneath Dan’s feet. Tyler nods, sipping wine. “Of course. Phil and I have been in the process of purchasing the place for weeks.”

“But earlier... you were hinting he was gonna propose!” 

Teddy laughs then, clearly thoroughly enjoying this crazy scene as much as Tyler. “We had to throw you off the scent, obviously.”

Well, Dan thinks, they sure managed that. Dan feels utterly blindsided by this, can’t even wrap his head around something so absurd. The keys in his hand are dragging him to the floor as the responsibility they drip with mounts. Being a property owner of any description at his age is something far out of Dan’s expectation, let alone the owner of his own gallery. Carefully, as if he’s approaching a wild, skittish deer, Phil places his napkin on the table, and stands too. He holds his hands out to Dan, wary of spooking him.

“Let me explain,” Phil says, or Dan thinks that’s what he says; his heart is pounding so loudly it’s nearly drowning out the words. He takes Phil’s hands anyway, if only to ensure he doesn’t topple over. A few heads have turned towards them from nearby tables, presumably because Dan standing up and clearly on the verge of a panic attack is not the usual spectacle for a place like this. “I want you to be happy, Dan,” Phil is saying, somewhere on the horizon. “I want to see you flourish, and grow. I’m so, so grateful you decided to apply for a TA position five years ago, I truly am. But I know it’s not the path you’d have chosen, if you could.” He pats the keys in Dan’s hand. “This, right here, is what you want. I’m lucky enough to love what I do. All I want is for you to feel the way I do each morning, when you get in to work.”

Glassy-eyed, Dan just stares at Phil. He looks down at the keys in his hand again, and slowly curls his fingers around them, just to feel the cold, slim weight of them, and test out the idea that they belong to him.

“It’s too much,” Dan whispers, trying to remember the asking price painted onto the sun-faded For Sale sign in the front lawn of the gallery. Even with Phil’s additional new research-job at the University in the next town over, he’s can’t be earning enough to afford this. “We can’t afford it.”

“I loaned Phil what he couldn’t reasonably stretch to,” Tyler says then, dropping this snippet of information with far too much nonchalance. “My promotion has given me a salacious new salary. Teddy and I already bought the dream home last year, and had the big wedding. We thought about getting one of those abandoned infants from China shipped over, but on balance, this seemed more of a priority.”

“Tyler, no,” Dan says, coldly. “I don’t want a handout. I’m working full time, and I’m doing the teacher-training course. In a few years I’ll be a qualified English teacher, I don’t need-”

“Your dreams are always worth a shot,” Teddy interrupts, then reaches out, and pops the champagne. “Even if it’s just one shot, with everything you have. Besides, you’ll never persuade Ty out of it. He’s a regular sugar daddy now. Buys his way out of everything. Cooking dinner, doing the dishes, return blowjobs-”

As if to prove this point, Tyler whips out a few banknotes from some pocket in his immaculate suit and throws them into Teddy’s face. “Twenty pounds to shut your cute trap, darling.”

Suddenly exhausted from the overwhelm, Dan sits back down, heavily. Phil follows suit, watching Dan with scrutiny.

“I know it seems like a lot,” Phil says softly, one hand on Dan’s shoulder. “But it seemed… right. I was on my way to the jewellery store to get you some fancy ring, and I drove past the gallery on my way. And I got this feeling in my gut, a familiar feeling that I couldn’t quite place. So I drove on, and then I realised - it’s the same feeling I had when you walked into my classroom that first day. A kind of static buzz, exciting and hopeful. Like all the atoms around me just aligned.”

A lump, huge and insistent, aches in Dan’s throat, making his eyes water. “I won’t be able to repay you. Not for years.”

“I think I speak for Phil and myself when I say that the only repayment we need right now, is for you to give it your best shot,” Tyler says, making Teddy smile at him in that rare, fond, proud way. “Well,” Tyler corrects. “I’m sure Phil wouldn’t mind a grateful blowjob or two as well-”

“He’s right,” Phil interrupts, and Dan raises an eyebrow. “About you not needing to worry about repaying us,” Phil adds quickly, though a smirk has crept onto his face. “You don’t need to decide right now. But I thought we could go and see it after dinner, take a look at least.”

“See it tonight?” Dan asks. His full stomach squeezes and contracts uncomfortably, the ratatouille threatening to make a second appearance. “Um, w-well...”

He looks at Teddy and Tyler, now kissing on the other side of the table. He’s not sure he can take a visit to the potential property of his dreams with them in tow. Phil follows his gaze, then leans towards Dan, smiling.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll tell them seulement nous.”

*

They walk to the restaurant, floaty and slightly swaying from the champagne Dan had forced himself to knock back in celebration. He’s still incredibly unsure about this whole thing, and feels as if either accepting or rejecting the offer would have equally disastrous consequences. Not even taking into consideration how it would disappoint Phil to refuse the gallery, Dan can barely stand to imagine how, in the weeks and possibly years that followed that refusal, he’d slowly be consumed with regret. Phil had been right, earlier - Dan had never wanted this career path, and has only really stayed on it to be near him. But Phil’s career prospects are changing; he’s spending more and more time at the University, and Dan knows it won’t be long until he goes from Assistant History Researcher, to PhD student, to full-fledged History Professor. And then what will Dan’s excuse be for working in a job he has no passion for, with children that are more inclined to fondly mock him than listen to him as an authoritative figure?

Working as a teacher has always been a horrifying thought for Dan, if he’s honest. The only thing that makes it tolerable is knowing that he’ll be able to snatch time with Phil, before class and in class and a bunch of times between. The idea of patrolling the school halls without this prospect is not a fun one. 

And... he has always wanted this. The cute, perfectly situated, small-town gallery. It’s a dream he’s only told a select few about, not even his parents, who would dismiss it as unrealistic. Perhaps their influence was stronger than Dan thought it had been, because never did he expect to actually get his dream, especially not like this, when he’s so young, and only because Phil’s willing to place so much faith in him.

All of this bubbles around with the champagne in Dan’s tipsy brain, until they’re at the door of the gallery, and Dan realises he hasn’t spoken a word to Phil all the way here. Their hands are joined, swinging gently between them. Now, Dan breaks the hold, reaching into his trouser pocket for the key. He looks at Phil before he inserts it into the lock.

“If I decide I can’t do it,” Dan says in a rush, because Phil has to hear it. “If it’s all too much right now, and I’m not ready… I just want to tell you,” he swallows, determined to find the right words, “nobody has ever done anything like this for me. Nobody has ever even listened to me long enough to understand that I dream about this all the time. I don’t think I really understood how much you must love me until now,” Dan confesses, feeling his eyes sting. “I don’t know if I’m quite able to accept something so…” he flaps his hands at the pale grey door of the gallery, with its frosted windows, and neat, quiet sign. “You know. But oh my God. Thank you for this. That doesn’t even begin to cover it. But thank you.”

“That’s okay,” Phil says with a small, pleased smile. “I know it’s big. And maybe I’m doing everything wrong. Maybe I should have proposed first, I don’t know.” He shrugs, eyes travelling to to the sign on the door. “But I know one day, maybe way in the future, but one day, I’ll look over and see a ring on your finger. I know it would make you happy, if I asked you. But I don’t want that to be... what defines you. I don’t want you to just be my partner, who hates his job. I want you to be your best self, and to commit to me knowing you’ll never yearn for more. No pressure, Dan, really. It’s all reversible. But let’s have one teensy, decadent little explore, try out picking which room you’d display what in. It can just be pretend, for now.”

Dan smiles, marvelling as always at Phil knowing just what to say. “Okay,” he agrees, and opens the door.

*

September 2022

“What are you doing here?”

Phil laughs, thankfully, and walks over to kiss him. “Nice to see you too, stranger.’

“Sorry,” Dan says against Phil’s mouth, sagging into his embrace. “My nerves are fraught.”

“Good thing I brought this then,” Phil says, leaning back and pulling out a bottle of cold champagne from the large bag in his hand. “To celebrate your Grande Ouverture, Monsieur.”

Dan smiles weakly, though the phrase makes his heart speed up. “God, don’t call it that. It’s just a small party to let people know I’m here.”

Phil nods seriously, but there’s a glinting smile in the depths of his eyes. That smile hasn’t faded for one moment since Dan announced, after just one tour of the gallery’s rooms, empty of everything but promise, that he’s going to do this. Since that night, Dan has thrown himself into getting it ready, procuring artworks, establishing a name for himself as a young curator with a new space, and it’s all led up to this. Tomorrow night, the Cerise Galerie officially opens, under new ownership. It’s currently eleven o’clock, and Dan’s been working tirelessly since 7am. He’s barely been home all week, in fact. Buffy probably doesn’t even recognise him anymore.

“Sure,” Phil says, then pushes the bottle into Dan’s hands. “Open this will you? I’ve got some plastic glasses in here somewhere.”

Dan watches as Phil sets the bag down, pulls out his zig-zag blanket and spreads it over the floor of the main gallery room. It’s a strange thing to do, probably, but Dan is rarely surprised by Phil’s peculiarities anymore. Phil finds glasses, and then produces a few cartons of Chinese food, and Dan falls in love with him all over again. They eat and drink sat on the blanket together, shoes kicked off, shirts unbuttoned, until Dan feels vaguely normal again, and much less like he’s about to burst into a million shards of stress and worry.

“It looks awesome in here,” Phil says, leant back on his hands as he surveys the walls. The frames are all simple wood, so as not to detract from the paintings within. This room shows the work of three artists, all Ethiopian by birth, who paint about their culture, their current lives in England, and their families, respectively. Dan found each artist separately, and has placed their work in one room, to see how their combined cultural experience compliments each other’s work. “You’re really good at this.” Phil lowers his eyes to meet Dan’s, still glinting. “I knew you would be.”

“Thank you,” Dan says, as sincerely as he can manage. He must have thanked Phil a thousand times by now, a hundred thousand, possibly, both verbally and… non-verbally, but he still feels he needs to stress it again. “Most people wouldn’t get an opportunity to even try. Let’s hope I don’t fuck it up.”

Phil frowns. “I don’t think you could, Dan. But you know if it doesn’t work out, it’s not your fault. This is hardly the best economy to be opening an independent gallery in. If it doesn’t take off like we hope…” Phil shrugs. “Then we’ll chalk it up to experience, and a fun adventure, and try again somewhere down the line.”

Dan nods, grateful for his optimistic practicality. Those two things shouldn’t fit together, but somehow Phil makes it work. Just then, Dan’s elbows give out, shoulders and back screaming at him to release the tension, and he flops back onto the blanket, groaning.

“You alright?” Phil asks around a chuckle, nudging Dan with his knee. “Getting old?”

“Everything aches,” Dan complains, eyes falling shut. “The stress of running my own business has aged me before my time.”

“And you haven’t even opened yet,” Phil teases, but starts to gather up the empty Chinese boxes, moving them into an empty carrier bag. “Turn over, Grandad.”

One of Dan’s eyes opens. “What?”

Phil laughs, eyes crinkling around the edges. This is a rather wonderful vantage point, Dan muses to himself. Phil is knelt up, in just black jeans and his white shirt rolled up at each sleeve. His jet black hair is starting to pepper grey at the shaved sides, which Dan adores, and tells him so frequently. He looks like a man, strong and lean, with the piercing blue eyes of a mythical sea creature, and the mischievous smile of an eighteen year old.

“I said, turn over,” Phil repeats, but this time he winks. Dan thinks about refusing, but that’s never normally a good idea if he wants to get through the night un-spanked. And yes, the idea of being bent over Phil’s knee is tempting, but as he’s got to run around an opening-party tomorrow, he probably needs to not be in pain every time he takes a step. So, Dan turns onto his stomach, intrigued already by what Phil has in mind. Phil crawls over to him then, and straddles Dan, sitting on his bum. He smooths his big hands across Dan’s shoulders and begins to squeeze and knead them; Dan is so caught off-guard by the massage that he sinks heavily into the floor, and groans, making Phil laugh again. “Good?”

“So good,” Dan says, practically drooling. “Your fingers are like wonderful knives.”

“Hmm,” Phil says. “I’m hoping that’s a positive thing.”

“Oh, it is.”

Phil keeps kneading him, knuckles working the knots out one by one, then carving pathways either side of his spine. He works Dan’s hips, the dip of his lower back, slots his fingers between Dan’s ribs and rakes over them. It’s sinfully good, and by the time Phil’s hips grind into his bum for the first time, Dan is so hard he can barely think straight.

Phil climbs off of him, and pulls Dan’s shoulder, encouraging him to turn over until he’s laid on his back again. Dan moves fluidly, easily, perfectly happy to be led by Phil’s desire. He learned long ago to trust that despite the teasing and playful build-up, Phil will always get him there in the end. Phil unbuttons Dan’s shirt, then trails his tongue up the exposed strip of skin between the lapels. He pulls the material aside, revealing a nipple, and closes his lips over it, first softly, and then biting down, hard.

Dan gasps, the sting of pain giving way to the instant tingle of blissful relief that follows it. At first, Dan had been more reluctant to experiment with the duality of pleasure and pain that Phil had slowly revealed he enjoyed. But over time, Dan has dipped his toe deeper and deeper into the waters, and discovered, to his shock, that he actually likes it a lot. Now, five years into their sexual relationship, Dan is no longer shy about his desire, and readily admits to Phil, as he found it so hard to do once, that he wants Phil to hurt him, and then kiss him. To tie him up with ropes that chafe, and then lick soft, warm lines up his neck. To bite his thighs hard enough to mark the skin, and then push slick fingers inside of him so gentle and slow that it takes hours to open him up enough.

Phil has removed Dan’s shirt entirely now, and is currently working his trousers off too. Once they’re thrown aside, he settles between Dan’s thighs, hands roaming over the bare skin on show. His fingers pinch Dan’s nipples, coaxing them into taut pebbles. His nails drag down Dan’s sides, leaving thin white lines across the skin in their wake. Dan just breathes shallowly, trying not to wriggle too much, or gasp too loudly, as he’s not been expressly permitted to do anything except lie here, on his back, and let Phil do as he wants.

“Do you know,” Phil says conversationally, as he runs a teasing, light hand over Dan’s erection, concealed beneath his black briefs. “You’re just as gorgeous as the day I met you.”

“Less cocky, I expect,” Dan replies, and Phil slaps him in the thigh for answering, then strokes the spot.

“A bit, perhaps.”

“You’re more gorgeous,” Dan blurts, at which point two spots of pink burst into each of his cheeks. “Maybe it’s the salt and pepper hair. Or just… happiness. You look magnificent, every day.”

Phil’s hands pause for a moment, and he gives Dan a fond, loving smile. “No more talking now,” he says after a moment, and Dan is sort of glad. Who knows what other schmaltzy nonsense might have seeped out if he were allowed to continue. He tips his head back, and sinks into the sensation of Phil’s hands on him again, and then his mouth, against his briefs, light and teasing with his flicking tongue.

“Lift,” Phil instructs, tapping Dan’s hip.

As he raises his bum from the floor, Phil tugs the briefs down, and then all the way off. He trails one finger along the slightly curved line of Dan’s cock, then scoops the pearl of precome on his fingertip, and deposits it into his mouth. He takes Dan’s thighs in each hand then, and pushes them upwards, until Dan’s near bent in half. Practiced at this by now, Dan knows to wrap his own hands around them, and hold himself like this, so he does.

“Bon,” Phil whispers, offhandedly, and presses a kiss to Dan’s left foot.

There’s a pause before anything else happens, and staring up at the ceiling as he is, Dan can’t tell why. If he had to guess, however, he’d say that Phil was in the process of removing his own clothes, and the thought of it makes Dan ache, in the centre of his chest. It’s a struggle not to lift his head, and see the slow reveal of Phil’s naked body with his own two eyes. Eventually, Phil is back, and Dan feels lips against the backs of his thighs, making his cock twitch in anticipation.

“Ne jouir pas,” Phil says, firmly, shortly before taking one of Dan’s balls into his mouth.

He does the same to the other, and right away Dan is not convinced he will be able to follow Phil’s instruction. Phil’s tongue trails down, not going the way Dan expected, and he groans, deep and long, sensing the impending development before it happens. His cock remains untouched and flushed a deep pink, Phil’s mouth moving to areas further south. He licks between Dan’s cheeks in one unbroken line, then places a hand on each, and begins to swirl the tip of that tongue around Dan’s rim.

Dan’s face is hot, and probably bright red. Each movement of Phil’s tongue against him sparks a dozen electric pulses through his whole body, along with that delicious, hot sluice of shame that comes from being so vulnerable, from doing something ‘taboo’. If Dan turns his head to the left, he can see a painting he loved from the moment he set eyes on it, of a wild desert, over which a string of bunting hangs, displaying the Ethiopian flag, and beside it, the Pride flag.

“Fuck,” Dan lets slip as Phil’s tongue inches its way inside him.

He’s relentless at this, and saves it for special occasions because he knows Dan goes mad for it. When he does press his tongue there, he is slow and teasing, and can spend hours at it, driving Dan to the brink of ecstasy, and sometimes over the brink, if Dan is out of practice at staying in control. He highly suspects this might be one of those times.

His hips dance and shift, pushing into the feel of Phil against him, all warm wet mouth, and insistent, flicking tongue. “Fuck, Phil,” Dan moans, breathless. “Y-you’ll have to stop if you don’t want me to-”

Phil’s hand draws back and then lands with a slap on Dan’s right cheek, loud enough that it echoes around the room. He draws back to look at Dan between his thighs, lips slick, cheeks flushed. “Ne jouir pas,” he repeats. “And no talking, either.”

Then he dives back in, leaving Dan struggling and gasping, eyes fixed to the ceiling, trying desperately to think of the most non-arousing objects he can conjure up. A teapot. A wheelbarrow. Phil’s socks on the table. Phil’s tongue against his ass-

“Unngh, God,” Dan groans, and then, miraculously, and awfully, Phil moves away. There’s a smirk twisting his lips, and he reaches for the champagne bottle, taking a cheeky swig. Dan lifts an eyebrow, but dares say nothing.

“Très bon,” Phil says approvingly, then offers him the bottle. Dan shakes his head carefully, sensing a trap, and Phil laughs. “Hey, I brought it for us to share, no tricks.” Still, Dan refuses, too aroused to contemplate trying something as mundane as drinking, and Phil shrugs, setting it down. He’s in only his pants now, Dan notes, which are doing a poor job of concealing how hard he is beneath them. He climbs back on top of Dan, takes both of his wrists in either hand, and pins them above his head, smiling. “If I told you to keep your hands here, would you?”

At once, Dan nods, eagerly.

“Alright,” Phil says, leaning down to give him a slow, explorative kiss. When it’s over, he releases Dan’s wrists, and tilts his hips forwards, pressing their groins together. Even through the fabric of Phil’s underwear, Dan’s eyes roll back at how good it feels, to have some friction against his tortured erection at last. “I’m going to let you fuck me,” Phil says, as if he’s telling Dan he’s bought Buffy more dog food. “And you’re not to move your hands.”

Dan’s eyes widen. There’s absolutely no doubt in his mind that he is not strong enough to achieve this feat, but to say so might mean it won’t happen, so he stays silent. His heart races, watching as Phil finds his suit jacket a few feet away, and rummages in the pocket for a hidden bottle of lubricant. Dan wonders if he’s got any other exciting objects in there, but doesn’t dare ask.

So Dan is forced to watch, silent and unmoving, as Phil tilts up onto his knees above Dan, shucks off his underwear, and reaches between his legs to insert two lube-slicked fingers inside himself. It’s utter torture, and Dan’s eyes sting from how badly he wishes he could reach up and touch, bite, kiss, claim him. But he does none of this, just watching, mind blurred from lust, as the Adonis above him prepares himself for Dan.

“D’accord,” Phil says after what seems like centuries. “Je suis prêt. Ne bougez pas.”

Don’t move. As if that’s even a possibility, Dan thinks as Phil adjusts their positions, and then carefully sinks down onto Dan’s cock. It’s blinding, and consuming, like a meteor dazzling across his vision, obscuring everything else. Burrowing into Phil’s tight, warm body is akin to no other sensation. Dan feels sounds slipping from his mouth, feels tremors undulating through him, and still Phil engulfs him in a slow, steady swallow, until Dan has bottomed out entirely, and Phil is speared on his cock.

“Oh, for the love of fuck, please move,” Dan begs. Maybe it’s because Dan’s been so stressed, or because despite talking aloud, and making demands no less, he hasn’t actually moved his hands from where Phil pinned them. Whatever the reason, Phil does start to move his hips, in small increments at first, shifting up and down, and then gradually increasing the speed. “Oh, fuck. Oh, God.”

It’s when Phil shifts his angle, and then tips his head back to gasp, that Dan can’t help himself. His hands fly out to grab at Phil’s thighs, to feel his hips shift as he moves them. Seconds later, he remembers that this is not allowed. Despite his own flush, and the glassiness of his eyes, Phil is coherent enough to recognise that Dan has broken the rules, and grabs him by the hands, pinning them up above his head again. This time, he holds them there as his hips work, pulling Dan to the precipice of a cliff with each thrust downwards, grinding himself onto Dan’s cock. It’s Phil’s moans that throw him over the edge. It’s the flutter of his eyes, the slackening of his mouth as the tip of Dan’s erection grazes his prostate. He is a corrupted angel, fallen into iniquity, and Dan cannot bear the sight of it. He cries out as he comes, hips pushing himself as far into Phil as he can manage.

As his body slackens, the tremors slowing and stilling, Dan relaxes into the blanket beneath them, shuddering as the aftershocks ebb through him. He looks down; Phil hasn’t come - looks as if he intended to resist all along - and extricates himself from Dan carefully.

“You broke the rules,” Phil says, making Dan’s spent cock twitch again. “You moved your hands.”

Dan’s mouth is dry, but he manages, “I’m sorry.”

“Tu veux me faire jouir?” Phil asks, and Dan’s heart skips a beat, as it always does when Phil talks to him this way. Filthy and unabashed, not even a light flush against his pale skin. Dan nods, emphatically, and Phil’s smile grows wide. “Trente secondes.”

At once, Dan jumps to attention, leaping for Phil’s lap with such enthusiasm that Phil can’t help but laugh. It’s a kind punishment, really, as Phil is well aware by now how much Dan absolutely loves sucking him off. Before Phil, he’d never have dreamed he’d find it so pleasurable, but now he can’t get enough of it. Phil jokes, from time to time, that he’s more at home at floor level than Buffy is.

In the many, many opportunities Phil readily gives him to indulge himself in his favourite activity, Dan has gotten… pretty fucking good at it, if he does say so himself. He knows Phil’s tells, can switch techniques expertly just by listening to the shift in Phil’s breathing. But thirty seconds to make him come is a tall order, particularly as Dan prefers to draw it out.

Nevertheless, he does his best, head bobbing, keeping a tight seal around the girth of him, using one hand to meet his lips as he sinks down. Before he knows it though, Phil is tapping him on the back of the head.

“T-time’s up,” he says, sounding a little breathless himself. In the second that follows, Dan makes a snap decision. He continues sucking, tongue laving at him as he goes. He doesn’t bother wiping the spit that drips from his lips, and doesn’t respond when Phil taps him again, and says, “Dan. That’s thirty seconds- oh, oh merde.”

Dan can feel the give in him, can sense when he decides to just abandon that incredible willpower he has and let Dan pull him off the cliff as well. Phil plummets down into the ocean of bliss beneath, flooding Dan’s mouth with his release, and groaning loudly, his hands tangling in Dan’s hair. He swears several times in French, and then releases Dan, letting him slide off.

Dan sends him a sheepish, but pleased, look as he wipes his chin. “Sorry,” Dan says, and doesn’t mean it for a moment. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Bitte salope,” Phil says, but fondly, teasingly, and reaches his arms out wide, so Dan tackles him to the floor. “I’ll have to punish you again,” Phil says, trailing his fingers through Dan’s curls. “But I guess it can wait until after your big fancy opening.”

“Very gracious of you,” Dan says, laughing, then sighs happily, pressing lips to Phil’s chest. “I needed that. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Phil replies with a giggle. “It’s very taxing for me, obviously. But for you, anything.”

Dan swats him gently. “If you weren’t so hot and great in bed, you’d probably be a right pain.”

“Je t’aime aussi, chaton.”

*

In the middle of the party, just as Dan is about to grab one of the wait staff he hired and ask him why he’s been having to top up his own wine glass all night, a familiar, loud and obnoxious voice booms out from nearby.

“Mr Howell!”

Even the sound of that name is enough to make Dan shudder. In this environment, he’s simply Dan. He only TA’s at school a few days a week now thanks to PJ’s unwavering support and understanding, so most of the time Dan can forget he’s got an awkward, stern twin personality, charged with looking after a bunch of teenagers. He looks around, trying to place the voice in his mind, and failing.

Then, in the centre of the room, a young man stands between a few curious patrons, their heads turned to find out who is shouting in the midst of all the quiet, appreciative murmuring. Even staring him full in the face, it takes Dan a while to figure out who this person is, familiar though he seems. Then, his brain helpfully removes the heavy beard from the man’s chin, shrinks him down a few feet, and strips away the pyjama-like clothing, dressing him in a school blazer instead.

“Jonah,” Dan breathes, astounded. Before he can think anything more, Jonah Frank is storming over to him, a grin peering out from within the thick, unruly beard. Two impossibly strong arms wrap around him, thumping him on the back. “Oh my God,” Dan says, “what on earth are you doing here?”

“Came to support you, teach!” He releases Dan, jostling him by the arm.

“I hardly recognised you,” Dan admits, still baffled that the brawny but short kid he once chaperoned to Paris and back has somehow morphed into this stoner-dude, with long hair and a full beard. “You look, uh... nice tunic.”

Jonah laughs heartily, plucking a canapé of some kind off a nearby tray and seeming to swallow it whole. “Thanks,” he says, still grinning. “I’m at uni now, innit. Decided to reinvent myself.”

Dan chuckles, but then re-examines what Jonah just said. “Wait, you’re at uni?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, Sir!”

“Dan,” Dan says, blushing. “Call me Dan, we’re not in school now.”

“Oh yeah, guess you’re right! Weird.” Jonah is looking around, nodding as if impressed, as he takes in each artwork. “This is pretty decent if you ask me, Sir. I mean, Dan.”

Dan smiles at him. “Thanks, Jonah. It was really sweet of you to come.”

“Aw, don’t be a nonce,” Jonah responds, batting Dan in the shoulder. “You’re the reason I got into uni at all! Well, you and Mr Lester, obviously.”

It’s an absurd thing to say, and Dan has no idea where to begin responding to it, so he catches a waiter’s eye and waggles his glass, indicating he needs more alcohol, stat. “What are you studying?”

Jonah grins, then clears his throat. He pinches his thumb and forefinger together, accenting himself as he says, “L’histoire Francaise!”

Dan’s eyes bulge, and he almost drops his glass when a waiter, appearing at his shoulder, begins to fill it. “Is that… are you actually?”

“I swear,” Jonah says, readily accepting a second glass of wine from the waiter. Instinctively, Dan reaches to pluck it from him again, but Jonah pulls it out of reach. “Oi, I’m eighteen! I just told you I’m at uni, remember? Keep up, Sir.”

“Oh right,” Dan says, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” Jonah says. “So, where’s Mr Lester these days, then? I heard he’s not teachin’ at school anymore. Did he come to his senses in the end? Or did you scare ‘im off?”

The lack of tact in that question is so blunt that Dan sincerely hopes Jonah knows this is not the case and is just teasing him. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he does, a voice at his side butts in.

“If Mr Howell and I can survive your meddling Jonah, I think we’ll make it.”

“Ah, there he is!” Jonah cries out, arms thrown around Phil before Dan can blink. “Missed you, Sir. Uni’s got some well shit professors. When you gonna come and teach in the big leagues, eh?”

“Give it a year or two,” Dan says, aiming a loaded look at Jonah. Phil nudges him in the side, but doesn’t contradict the statement.

“Oo-er,” Jonah says, stepping back and draining his wine. “And here I was worryin’ that without me you two’d be lost!”

“Oh we are,” Phil says, smiling. “In an emotional sense.”

Dan nods in agreement, and feels Phil’s arm wind around his waist. “Classroom Nine echoes with Jonah Frank’s timeless words of wisdom… ‘when’s lunch, Sir?’, ‘how come they didn’t just wash a bit in the Middle Ages, Sir?’...”

“‘Stop flirtin’ with your TA, Sir…’” Phil adds, then winks at Dan.

Jonah laughs good-naturedly, and they chat a bit more about his Uni, what he’s studying, how it’s all going. He seems to be enjoying his first year, and not just the partying side of it, either. Dan still doesn’t believe that Jonah is there because of him - for some reason, in his last two years at secondary school, Jonah knuckled down and actually left with a decent set of GCSE’s and an acceptance to a nearby college - but he’s immensely glad that he was there to see it all happen, and in some small way, to help.

“At least now you can say it wasn’t all a huge waste of time,” Phil says once Jonah has excused himself to go and wander round the few other rooms.

Dan looks puzzled. “What wasn’t?”

“Doing the TA thing,” Phil says, nodding in the direction Jonah disappeared. “You successfully transformed the school’s most troubled student into a typical, bong-smoking uni fresher.”

Dan snorts, rolling his eyes. “Wow, I’m truly a marvel at my unwanted profession.”

“It’s not your profession anymore,” Phil says; he’s got a stupidly lit-up expression on his face, like he’s bursting with something Dan suspects might be akin to pride. “This is what you do. It’s what you’ve always been meant to do.”

“Well, don’t jump the gun just yet,” Dan says, mind back on how many tickets are left at the door, and if he’s going to be able to pay the caterers and still make a profit. “It’s only the first night.”

“Dan, look around,” Phil says gently, and Dan surveys the room he’s stood in, which is crammed with people, all admiring the art, talking and laughing, the wine in their hands flushing their cheeks. “This is a huge success. It’s a fantastic start to a promising career. You’ve done it.”

Dan opens his mouth to argue, but the sight of Teddy and Tyler in the corner, bickering over the meaning of the abstract sculpture Dan had fought some collector for, he closes it again. They’re arguing over what they deem is art. They’re arguing because they see different things within it, and interpret it in separate, personal ways, in just the way art is supposed to prompt people to do. And Dan’s responsible for that argument, he’s responsible for their individual reactions that caused it. He placed that art in front of everyone here, for those reactions to spill out of people’s mouths, even in the form of a snappy retort.

“You know,” Dan says in a low murmur. “I think you might be right.”

Phil leans in and kisses him, excitable and without finesse. “Je t’aime, mon petit propriétaire de la galerie.”

Dan laughs, softly, against him, drawing back just enough to dive into deep, brilliant pools of pure blue. “Moi aussi, mon amour.”

Fin.

[tyranttortoise]

*I got called into work, so lemme post this up while I have the chance.

I participated in the lovely @thesinnerslounge‘s Secret Santa this year, and I got @vampirezelda!   I know you’re a sucker for a man that can cook--as well as a certain purple flamesman.  ;)

So here’s some Underfell Grillby x Reader SFW Gyftmas fluff~ <3  I hope you like it, and happy holidays my dear!  =D

You end up spending the holidays in your favorite place:  Grillby’s.

The neon sign, reflecting the tavern’s proprietor in bright purple script, has become a welcome home sign for you over the last couple of months.  You had quickly become a regular, which surprised you.  After all, you weren’t the most outgoing person, so being a human among all the rowdy monsters that frequented Grillby’s to drink every night seemed liked a recipe for disaster.  

It almost had been, at first.  They had been intrigued over the fact that a human would come in alone, and they’d either hit on you or attempted to scare you.  The bar’s owner had been the one to intervene.  

And, unsurprisingly... he was the reason you kept coming back.

As you enter the bar, the hot air of the interior hits you like a brick wall.  The difference is so abrupt that it stings you cheeks, and you wince; you’ll never quite get used to it during the winter.  The source of the heat is two large fireplaces roaring with fire magic on either side of the main space.

And, of course, the fire elemental standing behind the bar, chatting with a couple of other regulars.  

You clutch your gift box to your chest and begin making your way toward him.  Usually, the space is filled with tables, but they’ve been cleared away tonight, leaving only the booths and the bar for sitting.  The rest of the area has been made into a makeshift dance floor; for once, the juke box is actually working, and it’s playing classic holiday hits.  Most of the monsters are already drunk enough to be dancing; you spot a familiar skeleton that seems to be pretty wasted, gyrating with a couple of humans.  

When you reach the bar, Grillby turns away from the horse monster he was speaking with and looks over his wire-rim glasses at you.  A white-hot, sharp grin cracks across his indigo flames, and you can’t help but feel your pulse quicken from just a glance.  

“.....thought you’d have plans tonight,” the bartender muses, his voice a deep baritone distorted by crackling flame.  Despite this, it still has a smooth quality to it that curls within you like smoke.  

“Why?  Because it’s Gyftmas?” you inquire, taking your usual seat at the bar.  You’ve noticed that since you started coming on a regular basis, your stool is always vacant whenever you arrive.  

He tilts his head to the side, holding your gaze.  “Figured you would have a date for it.”

Somehow, the fact that he brought up that you’d have a date--yet didn’t ask you on a date prior--stings.  Your merriment deflates slightly, and you stumble over your reply, “Well... I.... no.  I don’t.”

You can’t hold his gaze; your eyes drop to a point just below his chin.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“......shame,” he mutters, but you don’t catch his expression.  Instead, you decide you could use something to eat.  

“Can I get my usual?” you prompt, desperate to change the subject.  Grillby watches you for a moment more, before nodding and pushing away from the bar.

“.....coming right up,” he throws over his shoulder and then retreats into the kitchen in the back.  You blow out a sigh and take a deep breath.  This isn’t a big deal.  You were planning on confessing your feelings to him--or at the very least, asking him out for a drink somewhere that <i>wasn’t</i> at his bar.  You’re too determined to back down just because of a hiccup.  You clutch the giftbag in your lap tighter, the holiday bag crinkling around your fingertips.

The door to the establishment suddenly slams open with enough force to bounce off the adjacent wall.  The thunderous sound punctuates the loud music and causes you to start in your seat and whirl around just in time to see a skeleton strut inside with purpose.  You recognize him as the dancing skeleton's brother, Papyrus, though you only know of him by reputation.

He opens his mouth to shout something, but it can't be heard over the cheers that erupt from every monster in the bar.  

The dancefloor becomes a sea of monsters, all clamoring to clap Papyrus on the back with sharp-toothed grins and drunken slurred cheers.  His scowl softens and his shoulders straighten with what seems to be pride, but although his mouth is moving, he's still staring at his brother.  Sans seems to be utterly wasted; he wobbles on unsteady feet toward Papyrus with each arm around a human.  You can't make out the conversation, but Papyrus manages to extract himself from the crowd, pulling his brother by the arm.  

"....so the hero of Gyftmas made an appearance."  

Grillby's breath stirs the hair by your ear, and you turn to find your face dangerously close to his.  You don't pull back as you inquire, "There's a hero of Gyftmas?"

"To us, yes," Grillby claims, holding your gaze with that same smirk as before.  "He's the one that finally took down Gyftrot and stopped the Snowdin murders."

That's the first you've ever heard of it.  "Wait, is that what Gyftmas is about?  I thought it was just a monster Christmas."

".... it used to be a night of fear and trepidation, but now... now, it's a night we celebrate.  Especially now, on the Surface... it's a night to live."

You can still feel his warm breath, hot and arid against your face.  You'd certainly like to lean in the last couple of inches and really live (in the moment, at least), but you can't bring yourself to do so.  While your resolve wavers, Grillby finally pulls back and pushes a plate of piping hot food closer to you.  

"A night to live, huh?" you muse, now that there's enough space between the two of you to finally think straight.  "What about all the holiday decorations?"  You gesture to the bright lights strung throughout the bar, the garland on the stairs, the decorated trees in the corners--to say nothing of the upbeat holiday music.  

"......aesthetic," he replies with amusement widening his grin.  

"Mmhmmm," you dubiously retort, finally turning your attention to your food.  Instead of your usual bar food order, you're surprised to find a holiday feast in front of you.  There's sliced ham, sweet potatoes, and other seasonal treats on a plate.  You glance down the bartop and discover that no one else seems to have a plate like this.  When you turn your bewildered gaze back to Grillby, you find him watching you carefully.

"This is for me?" you blurt, confused by the fact that this isn't what you ordered.

"Cooked just for you," Grillby confirms, with a wink.  "....thought you might want something other than bar food for once."

It took him no time whatsoever to get the food from the kitchen, which makes you think he already had it prepared ahead of time.  Was it really cooked just for you?  Didn't he expect you to be on a date tonight instead of here?  

"Really?"  His smile doesn't waver, and he motions to the food, a fiery brow wisping upward to indicate that you should try it.  You do, and your cheeks flush under his scrutiny while you chew--though, you're able to push that aside because the food is amazing.  Every bite is cooked just right and bursting with flavor, and you can feel a tingle of magic that only enhances the experience.  Your expression lights up, and Grillby props his arms on the edge of the bar, leaning forward expectantly.  

From his look, you know that he knows it's amazing.

So, you shrug.  "Not bad," you claim once you swallow the bite and go for another.  The flamesman crackles in disbelief.

"....not bad?"

You hum thoughtfully while you chew and meet his gaze.  The man can cook, and you're weak for it; he even makes bar food taste heavenly, so getting an actual home-cooked meal from him is a dream come true.  You know your expression isn't as neutral as you'd like since you can't keep the grin off your face, but you do manage to keep it in check so you don't look deranged in front of your crush.  

"It might even be good," you concede, to which he chuckles, shaking his head.  

"Your praises make it worth slaving over a hot stove, my dear..." he murmurs in that low, sultry baritone, and your stomach feels as if it does a flip.  He did make it just for you, didn't he?

"Yo, Grillbz!  You gonna make some fer all o' us?" a bird monster chirps toward the bartender, drawing his attention.  Grillby fixes him with a deadpan stare that has the regular chortling.  "At least fill up a guy's glass, will ya?  I'm dyin' o' thirst!"

"....fine, fine," Grillby mutters as he excuses himself to do his bartending duties while you focus on eating.  Without him around, you suddenly realize just how loud the music has gotten.  Almost all of the patrons are up dancing; after all, it's rare that the juke box actually works, so they have to take advantage of the opportunity.

"Ya'know, I know somethin' that would quench my thirst."

A bear monster is suddenly sitting beside you, all sharp fangs and snazzy threads.  He pointedly looks you over, a glaze in his eye indicative of his inebriated state.  "How'd you like to dance with a former mayor?"

He leans in, smelling of booze, and extends his furry hand to you.  You've seen him a few times, but never spoke directly to him.  

"No, thanks," you politely refuse, gesturing to your food as an out.  "I'm eating right now."

"Not a problem," the bear states nonplussed.  He withdraws his hand and props an elbow against the bartop.  "I can wait until you're finished."

"There's no need," you insist, though his expression doesn't change; he's not getting the hint.  So, you lie, "I'm here with someone."

"You are?"  His furry brow arches.  "I saw you come in alone.  Who're you with?"

Dammit, leave it to a drunken bear monster to call you out.  Before you can think of a feasible excuse, you feel an incredibly warm hand settle on your shoulder.  From your peripherals, you can see indigo flames, burning bright from above the bartender's fur-lined coat.  

It feels much hotter than before.

"....me," Grillby rasps.  "So, take a hint and move on."

The bear raises his paws and jumps off the stool.  "I... I didn't know it was like that, Grillbz, honest!" he stammers, before beating an awkward retreat into the writhing bodies on the dancefloor.  

"Thanks," you murmur, but Grillby doesn't move his hand.  Instead, he slides his palm down your arm and grips your hand in his, prying it away from the gift bag you're holding in your lap.  

"....come on.  Let's dance."

You're not going to say no to that, but you also don't want to abandon your present for him.  Grillby seems to notice your hesitation and reaches over with his other hand to take the gift bag and set it beneath the bar.  At least the patrons here know better than to ever step foot behind his bar.

Grillby leads you around the edge and then laces his fingers with yours.  He moves to the outskirts of the dancefloor and draws you close.  "I didn't know you danced," you blurt; you've never seen him so much as nod his head along with a beat.

"I'm full of secrets," he vaguely claims, while one hand slips to the small of your back.  In the next beat, he pulls you flush against him.  You can feel the heat of his flames through the layers of his dress clothes, and even though his hand is in yours, it doesn't burn.  Instead, it just tingles with magic; the flames feel as if they roil beneath an invisible barrier.  

"Tell me some of them," you implore with a grin as Grillby leads the dance, moving with the beat of next song, Baby, It's Cold Outside.

His sharp smirk spreads upward.  ".....if I did, I'd have to kill you."

You fix him with a look.  "C'mon, Grillby.  Please?"

He hand squeezes yours as the two of you complete a swaying circle to the beat.  "Fine.... I like it when you beg like that."

Your face lights up, and you falter in your next step, causing him to chuckle and wind his arm tighter around your back.  "....I also like watching your face turn that lovely shade of red."

In response, you can feel your face glow even brighter. "That's not fair," you chide, slipping your arm around his neck so you can hide your face against his shoulder.  The fur from his jacket tickles your cheek, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest.  "Can you even blush?"

He laughs at that, the sound raspy and crackling.  "Yes, I can..."  His head tilts down, and you can hear his voice right at your ear, clearer than ever.  "You just haven't done anything to make it happen."

A challenge.  

"How'm I supposed to do that?  Call you Hot Stuff?" you mumble, drawing another crackling chuckle.  "Tell you that you really light up the room?"

"... now I think you're just trying to seduce me," he teases, releasing your hand to wrap both arms around you and draw you flush against his body.  

If only it was that easy.

You wind your other arm around his neck, too, your fingers idly toying with the dancing flames that comprise his hair.  "Caught me," you half-joke, before releasing an exaggerated sigh with your cheek against his shoulder.  A shudder ripples through him, and you belatedly realize that your breath is probably cold compared to the natural, arid heat of his body.

Was it a good shudder or a bad shudder?  It's the difference between stoking a fire and trying to blow out birthday candles.  You decide to experiment and lightly blow on the violet flames visible just above the collar of his dress shirt.

You feel his chest expand against yours as he sucks in a breath--and his face actually glows brighter!

"Hey, I think I did it!" you announce, wide-eyed as Grillby's smoldering gaze meets yours.  You must look incredibly proud because he stifles his sudden laughter against your shoulder, his body shaking with suppressed chuckles.  

When he pulls himself together, his mouth is at your ear again, only this time, you can feel a flame dance across the shell of it.  Your fingers inadvertently dig into his fiery wisps of hair, and he growls, "Now I know you're trying to seduce me."

You don't deny it; you mean to playfully laugh, but it falls flat.  Weak, just like your knees.  The song switches to a more upbeat All I Want for Christmas is You, but neither of you change the tempo of your swaying motions.  

You can hear your blood pounding in your ears and the fluttering in your stomach.  You've both lapsed into silence, pressed against one another on the outskirts of the dancing, writhing drunken bodies.  Is now the time to ask him on a date?  Or is all of this just flirtatious fun--just two people holding onto one another on the holidays?

You try to muster the courage to speak, but the words you want just won't form.  So, you hold onto the moment as long as you can, tightening your arms around him, relishing in the scent of campfire and spice, in the feeling of his hair wrapping and twisting around your fingers, seemingly with a mind of its own.  

Halfway through the song, Grillby stops moving.  Disappointment washes over you; is it time for him to get back to work?  Can't he at least finish the final minute of the song?  Slowly, you manage to pull your head up from his chest, only to meet his amused smile.

"....you should pay attention to where you're going."

He was leading the dance, you think, confused.  Your brow furrows slightly, and he nods his head toward the ceiling.  Your gaze slowly follows, and you stare in surprise at the cluster of mistletoe hanging above.  He'd lead you directly beneath it and stopped.

All of your prior disappointment is washed away by nerves.  You don't let it show, however; no, you smirk and level him with a stare.  "Why... if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."

"Is it working?"  His own smirk is still in-place, and you feel your stomach do a back-flip.  

Although your nerves are thrumming, you decide to be honest.  "Oh, yes."

Something else crosses his expression-- a focus you can see in his smoldering gaze as he regards you over the top of his glasses.  In the next moment he brings one of his hands up to cup your chin... and then, his mouth crashes on yours.  

His lips are malleable; you can feel a thin barrier of magic around them, making your own lips tingle.  This isn't a chaste kiss, however; he wastes no time working your lips apart to thrust his tongue into your mouth and explore.  His tongue is liquid heat, though not hot enough to be unpleasant.  Instead, the sensation sets your nerves on fire; his tongue dances around yours, winding around it, filling your mouth with the undulating sensation of magic that draws a deep, contented moan from the back of your throat.          

Grillby crackles a growl in response from deep within, and you desperately clutch to the front of his jacket, the fur between your fingers serving to ground you.

His mouth is dry; there's no swapping saliva here.  Rather, you can feel your mouth drying out as the kiss continues, your face flushed and warm.  As much as you'd like to stay glued to him for longer, you have to break apart and swallow in an effort to get your tongue damp again.  

The fire elemental seems to anticipate this and moves his mouth across your jaw and down the side of your neck.  

If his arm wasn't so tight around your neck, you know that you'd end up in a puddle at his feet.  

Finally, he pulls back to appraise your expression, and his smirk widens at what he sees.  You know you must look dazed, your lips slightly parted and your face completely flushed--both from the moment and the proximity of his heat.  

You finally break the silence.  "Wow, that was... quite the Gyftmas present."  

"... I was hoping your real Gyftmas present could be dinner at my place."

Real Gyftmas present?  Your mind is whirling with the implications, but you can't help but point out, "We're already at your place."

"Smart ass," he chides with a chuckle.  "Upstairs.  My home.  A date."

Date!  He said date!  You're practically glowing at this point, despite the fact that you're not the fire elemental in this equation.  "Yes, absolutely," you agree, before you realize something -- you haven't given him his present yet!

"Speaking of Gyftmas presents... you haven't opened yours yet."

"....you're not my present?" he quips, his fingers brushing a wayward strand of your hair back into place.  The ghost of his fingertips against your skin has you wanting to kiss him again, but you manage to refrain.  

"You put your present behind the bar."  

".... it is?"  From the look on his face, you realize that he had no idea that gift bag was for him.  "Now I have to know what's inside it." Immediately, he whirls around toward the bar and makes his way back to it, his arm wound around your waist.  

He draws you behind the bar with him-- which is quite the privilege; the regulars at the bar all whoop and holler, trying to fluster you since they witnessed your mistletoe kiss.  Grillby pointedly ignores them and instead sets the gift bag on the table to reach into the tissue paper.  

He pulls out a holiday tin, filled to the brim with cookies, oreo balls, and fudge -- all of it homemade.  You wanted to make something for him, as well as show him you can cook, too.  Although, if things go well, you could likely convince him to let you cook for your upcoming dinner date.

"....... you made these?" he queries as he picks up a piece of fudge.  It's a wonder the chocolate doesn't melt in his hand, but Grillby has careful control over his magic.  

"Yeah, I baked all of them for you to try."  Suddenly, you're feeling a little shy.  "I mean, you're always cooking for me, so I wanted to return the favor."  

He pops it into his mouth and chews slowly, savoring the flavor.  You begin feeling nervous.  "What do you think?"

Suddenly, he smirks and throws your own words back at you, "Not bad."  You swat his chest as he pulls you close to him--once again ignoring the goading cheers of his customers.  

He leans in, his lips ghosting yours as he adds, "....but you taste better."  

[midcing]

okay so i have some New Kids.... they are all trash but some of them are trying their best which should honestly count for something imho... i’ll probably bring some more muses in at some point during this week bc i legit have 25 apps in my drafts right now and i just didn’t apply for all at once bc didn’t want to overwhelm myself... honestly tho? i want all the plots.... so like... pls like this and i’ll im you or come to me throwing ideas at my face so we plot and have some connections and threads ?? love my new trash sons pls ?? thanks !

JAMES WEST looks an awful lot like CHARLIE WEBER. HE is THIRTY NINE and while they’re LOGICAL, they have a tendency to get pretty CONTRARY. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to POLARIZE by TWENTYONEPILOTS.

inspired by ;; frank delfino from htgawm, walter white from breaking bad and jaime lannister from game of thrones. 

a lawyer

has 2 daughters.

would probably start a war for both of them if they asked him to.

thinks his daughters are angels who can do no wrong. if he saw them murdering someone in front of him, he would probably come up with a reason why they were doing it and defend them which isn’t great bc they are both like wild kids who are not actual angels ( wc ?? anyone ?? i’m trash for families ngl )

sketchy morals at best? ? doesn’t think of himself as someone who would do anything wrong but if something wrong is being done for his benefit he is sure as hell not gonna stop it

got into an ivy league school because his father - criminal known for money laundering, corruption, and fraud - donated a huge sum of money to the college. will die pretending he got in on his own merit 

the older brother of my character mark west bc i love families sue me

would probably google ‘how to know if i am a dilf’

says thing like ‘lit’ and ‘on fleek’ to relate to the youth

pretends everything is fine until it blows up in his face

wants to much ! a perfect life, a perfect house, a perfect family, a perfect wife, a perfect job ! pretty good ? nah. not good enough for james west. scratch that and start again. everything must be 10/10

wants to be everybody’s dad even tho he isn’t a great dad to his two kids

will make your life choices for you if you let him

will bail you out of jail but only if he is allowed to give you a 3 hour lecture on Responsibility 

will logic his way out of moral conundrums

the kind of person that turns a blind eye to corruption if it benefits him in some way

tries his best, which really honestly can only be said about 5% of my characters, so i would give him some credit

if you ask him a question he doesn’t want to answer he will just straight up ignore the question and change the subject 

feels guilty about the way his helps criminals and does wrong stuff for his benefit and the benefit of the people he loves but also doesn’t try to change

aesthetics — watching the sunset through the office window, loud alarms playing an hour later than it should, unrecognizable reflection in the mirror, child laughter and the heavy feeling of stress in your chest, hushed whispers of assertions amidst a crowd, old wedding rings saved away after the divorce, big houses and empty space, thousand dollar watches, the smell of jail permanently stuck to a three piece suit, painfully happy memories, ignoring the way guilt makes it hard to breath, arguing in a favor of a guilty party.

FRANK HAMILTON looks an awful lot like DAVID HARBOUR. HE is FORTY ONE and while they’re DEVOTED, they have a tendency to get pretty UNPRINCIPLED. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to SEDATED by HOZIER.

inspired by ;; hank from detroit become human and chief hopper from stranger things

                                                              tw: gambbling, alcoholism

a mess trying to pass for a functioning human being

he is a dirty cop that accepts bribes to let people off the hook and gets money from gangs to look the other way when he knows they will be doing something wrong somewhere bc he truly cannot bring himself to care

honestly i have no excuses for his behavior

has a huge problem with gambling. 

born in kola. lived in kola for almost 30 years. moved out after his marriage fell apart, but has recently moved back

the kind of human being who thinks blood and gasoline are sexy

the kind of person that goes All Fucking Out for things and then when things don’t turn out exactly how he expected them to he makes a fuss about it and goes like “why did i even bother?”

will call you out on your bullshit and then act like people just throw shit at other’s face like that. stare you in the eye after exposing you and ask ‘what?’

says stuff like ‘i might be a shitty person but at least i’m upfront about it’ and ‘i prefer not to get involved in people’s lives.’

there is no such thing as a acquaintances. frank either loves you with all his heart and would kill a man for you OR he hates you and the fact that you are able to talk annoys him

you’ve heard of overachivers ?? well frank  is here to present you A True Underachiever. he tries to do the bare minimum amount of work possible 

the personification of /r/notmyjob

would probably go to an underground fighting ring for fun

channels his unhappiness into unhealthy habits. drinks too much, smokes too much. doesn’t do anything to change the fact that he is unhappy

gambled his marriage away by which i mean he gambled everything owned away and kept trying to find excuses for it until she was done and left . he still loves her but he feels like shit and he doesn’t wanna drag her back into his shitty life ( wc ? pls ? )

moved away from kola when his marriage ended and went to las vegas. lived there until he got in dept there too and he couldn’t find anywhere else to play then came back to kola 

at some point was wide-eyed and hopeful and interested in helping people but slowly became unhappy with how he didn’t go anywhere, didn’t become better, greater, didn’t do more and then slowly things just went to shit

aesthetics — casual cruelty in the name of honesty, cigarette buds collecting on an old ashtray, crumbled dollar bills found between couch cushions, falling asleep at three o’clock and waking up the next day, bloody knuckles, handcuffs and police siren, the smell of alcohol in your breath at ten in the morning, unironed shirts and old cologne, knowing something is wrong but doing it anyway, ignored calls from concerned family members, remembering you have to do something just as it is too late to do it, the thrill in heartbeat when you land a punch in someone’s face, drunk steps stumbling out of the bar, begging people for one more chance.

SEBASTIAN “BASH” VANCOOP looks an awful lot like LIAM PAYNE. HE is TWENTY TWO and while they’re CHARMING, they have a tendency to get pretty SELFISH. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to PLAY ME LIKE A VIOLIN by JEREMY.

inspired by ;; hakeem lyon from empire and aaron burr from hamilton

that one sort of famous person that is always shirtless in other famous’ people instagram stories

treats people like things he can use and drop when he gets tired of

fake af. will say he likes you and then shit talk about you behind your back

that one person that goes ‘ooooooooooh you are gonna let them talk like that about you ?? ’ when other people are fighting 

only wears prada chanel and gucci

can actually be really nice if you get to know him but how ? when there are three hundred walls up ??

thinks people are gonna take advantage of him or make fun of him so he just doesn’t trust anyone. can’t get betrayed if you never let anyone in right ??

doesn’t understand internet culture

was born in an insanely rich family. his father was a famous movie producer and his mother was a famous movie star. picture like spielberg as his dad and kate winslet as his mom 

hates when people say like ‘Oh So You Are [    ]’s son?’

the first movie he was ever in was when he was about 5

he was in a bunch of movies from ages 5 to 12 but it was never really anything big. he was just the main character’s kid or that one kid that doesn’t get much screen time in movies like goonies

he never really liked acting but what else woUld he do ?? look at his family !! look at his legacy !! [ cue ‘wait for it’ from the hamilton soundtrack playing in the background ]

when he was 20 his father produced and directed a movie in which he stared. it was like his first Real role in hollywood action blockbuster. before the movie was out there was this whole hype about him and his dad working together and wow it’ll be awesome but it pretty much bombed. picture like After Earth bomb. everyone shit talking about him and the movie and how dumb it is on youtube bomb. the movie doesn’t get money to pay for itself bomb.

despite the fact that his parents said it didn’t matter. it was just a bad movie. everyone making fun of him and people shit talking about how he didn’t have his parents’ talent got to him real bad. he stopped acting all together.

his parents keep telling him to Do Something but he just doesn’t

is living in kola bc LA is a dumb of reminder of everything he thinks he did wrong

aesthetics — the blinding lights of camera flashes, the light feeling of being drunk, loud songs blaring through club speakers, interviews stopped halfway through, rude comments and anger, crowded parties in expensive summer homes, the overwhelming feeling in your chest when someone gets too close to fast, feigned charm and stranger’s company, running out of things to say after you have known someone for a while, wasted champagne dripping off a tilted bottle and loud laughter coming from the other room, the slow but continues pain in your heart that reminds you you are disappointment.

MATTHEW “MATTEO” DECKER looks an awful lot like JON BERNTHAL. HE is FORTY TWO and while they’re WILLFUL, they have a tendency to get pretty BLUNT. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to SEVEN NATION ARMY by THE WHITE STRIPES.

inspired by ;; frank castle from daredevil, frank castle from the punshiner, frank castle from the born comics series. ( they are three different people, fight me ) seeley booth from bones in season five

                                       tw: alcoholism, ptsd, mention of army, and war

former us marine

mostly goes by decker. his family used to calls him matteo but when other people do it it’s like .. “no”

you have been heard of resting bitch face ? matteo is here to show you the resting i fucking hate you face

swears too much like Wayy too much

he can be honestly really fucking soft i’m ngl but then you gotta be that one person that breaks down walls and again ? who has the time for that ? in the twenty first century?

wants to take care of everyone but pretends he is not interested in people bc he “Knows” everyone is gonna die or leave so there is no fucking point

actually just pretends he isn’t The Absolute Softest for everyone and tries to keep them all at arm's length but then people say ‘hi’ and are nice to him and he is like ‘Fuck me now i like them’

can actually laugh and make jokes which is Impressive imo

but then goes back to being bitter and angry at life

too straight up about things : could heavenly benefit from learning how to read social cues

you have to Tell him things if you want him to understand it. you can’t go around dropping hints. he won’t get it.

drinks his coffee black and without sugar

enlisted when he was eighteen bc patriotism and american dream and red white and blue stars but then that slowly stopped being the point. then he was just doing it bc He had been doing that for years what else would he do ? and then at some point he just saw too much … and then when he was discharged he just Never came back

after he came back he couldn’t find a job and he didn’t know what else to do and he slowly started getting involved with shady stuff and now he sells drugs to pay the bills

disappointed in who he is right now. 

he is honestly Trying his very best.

aesthetics — punching a wall until your hands stings and your chest doesn’t anymore, the pleasant light feeling of holding back laughter, completed tasks and unachievable peace of mind, low chatter in dive bars in dark parts of town, questioning your belief system, roadside motels and failing neon lights, moonlight coming through the bedroom window, leaving the morning after, combat boots, loud honking cars and shaky hands, fighting the urge to shove someone away when you feel their touch against your skin, quiet places and pleasant loneliness, old dusty books and rock music, waking up multiple times in the middle of the night, whiskey mixed with coffee

OCTAVIANUS BRUNO GENTILLE looks an awful lot like FRANCOIS ARNAUD. HE is THIRTY SIX and while they’re ROMANTIC, they have a tendency to get pretty UNREALISTIC. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to SOMEONE NEW by HOZIER.

inspired by ;; jay gatsby from the great gatsby, romeo from romeo and juliet, tom hansen from (500) days of summer, a slam poem i saw on youtube once

                                              tw: bullying, mention of learning disabilities and stutter

romanticized every bad thing that happened in his life.

will romanticize every bad thing that ever happened in your life.

the kind of person that says “things happen for a reason…”

goes by his middle name. honestly thinks his first name is the Most Stupid Thing In The World if you call him octavianus he’ll be legit annoyed. kids used to make fun of him at school all that jazz. just call bruno

he is legit in love with italian culture and history. his father was italian and he just highkey Cannot Shut Up About It

art history professor in kola’s college

the kind of professor that just loves what he is doing… you know when the professor like kinda looks excited that he is talking or sharing knowledge or just talking about shit they truly like ? that is bruno

a nerd but pretends he isn’t

could not do a one night stand without catching feelings if his life depended on it

loves people too much too fast with all his heart

there is an argument to be made for him not actually falling in love with people and just with the idea of love that he made up in his mind but let’s get to that when we get to that

will spend the entire lesson arguing with one student about how inaction in our current political climate is just as harmful as supporting people who are doing harm when he was supposed to be talking about impressionism or something like that

thinks people have a soulmate and he is just trying to find his

100% not only Shows up to slam poetry sessions but Helps organize them

real political. the type of person that rallies when things are wrong and gets others to do it

has too many exes

posts pictures with his current girl/boyfriends on instagram and then doesn’t delete them when they break up bc ‘that’s who i was at that moment’

can recite poetry for you in italian but do not let him trick you. he’ll only be around for the honeymoon phase of the relationship then he’ll be like wow this isn’t perfect. time to end it

loves art !! all type of art !! is terrible at all of it : writing, panting, photography. but he loves it and he does it despite being bad and he tells people to do what they love !! and follow their dreams !!

his parents got a divorce when he was 7 and it was pretty bad. his dad was italian and moved back to italy shortly after. his mother was from kola and he stayed with her.

it was as if his world had fallen apart at that. bruno had never even seen his parents fight and then one day his father just moves out to Another Country he was pretty lost and confused

bruno moved back and forth between italy and the u.s. throughout most of his childhood and adolescence. never spending a lot of time in one place.

though his parents tried to remain friends after the divorce for his sake it never really worked out. his father wanted his mom back while his mother moved on and got married again.

growing up, he had a lot of trouble with accents and language. his father used to speak only italian at home. and his mother used to speak only english.

he developed a learning disability and a stutter after his parents got divorced

kids in school used to make fun of him. the way he talked and his name specially.

doesn’t stutter anymore but when he is talking about something that is hard to talk about, he talks really slowly to make sure the words come out properly

aesthetics — ukulele songs playing softly in a room with echo, piano recitals with ten people in the audience, walking around aimlessly, kissing greek statues, being happy that you are sad because it means that you are alive, cheering on others success, lacking ambition and living the present, old songs hummed in the shower, waking up early and staying in bed until 10am, cuddling under warm blankets, failing in love with a stranger, laughing loudly with new friends, white wine, beautiful paintings in an empty museum, admiring something for way too long,

ANTHONY MILLER looks an awful lot like JOSH DALLAS. HE is THIRTY NINE and while they’re PATIENT, they have a tendency to get pretty SELF-RIGHTEOUS. You’ve probably seen them around Kola listening to JACKIE AND WILSON by HOZIER.

inspired by ;; prince charming from once upon a time, ned stark from game of thrones, bob belcher from bob’s burgers

                                                                      tw: cancer

cannot talk about his feelings . cannot accept his own mistakes . cannot show weakness . at any point. no matter the subject . cannot let anyone take care of him.

Must be the best at all times for everyone and take care of everyone

self-care is a myth anthony does not believe in

works too much

he needs glasses to read stuff but he pretends he doesn’t so he does that squinting and pulling things close to his face thing. at which point you would probably ask ‘anthony if you don’t want to wear glasses wouldn’t it be easier ? to just ? wear contact lenses ?’ and yes it would it definitely would but anthony likes to make things harder for himself

slow to anger but he has that temper that you literally cannot see coming. he looks serious and stoic and then wow thunderfucking storms breaking chairs and stuff

loves beers and american football

the type of person that says this generation is lost

might smoke too much but he doesn’t talk about that

he doesn’t talk about anything actually

although i love him with all my heart. i would not rec

there is a right way to do stuff and anthony as the holder of all the knowledge and morality Must tell you about it

rarely ever smiles bUT when he does ? smiles like a prince. if we had a royal verse he’d be the king of the entire universe honestly.

he was a oldest child in a family of 7. his parents were super wealthy and he was the One favorite child who both parents used to love and cherish and cheer on.

he got his high school sweetheart pregnant. his parents didn’t want him to marry her bc she was Poor and Not up to standards but he chose love over his family and got disowned for that. hasn’t talked to his family since

his dream life was always to have the perfect picket fence house and american dream type of family. it was supposed to be him, his wife, his son and maybe some day he would have a daughter and it would Be great

he and his wife had a son and they named him hendrix bc she loved rock and jimi hendrix and he loved the name even tho he never liked rock. but honestly ? he was so weak for her he would have loved the name lkgjdflajf if she suggested it

a few months after their first son was born tho she was diagnosed with cancer and a few months later she passed away

after that he raised his son by himself. he really threw himself into it. spent most of his life focused on it and work and now his son is going to college and he doesn’t know what to do with himself

the only person he ever Truly dated was his wife and then he just focused on his son and raising him so he never really allowed himself to date bc then he would have to introduce someone else to his son’s life and all that … sO anthony is usually all cool and fine and then you show romantic interest in him and there is like a visible shift ya know? like he goes from anthony to a truly profoundly awkward person trying to pretend it’s cool

aesthetics — organized work tables, color coded to-do lists, trying your very best at all times, mental exhaustion showing through physical symptoms, dad jokes and laughing by yourself, the smell of new books, comfort found in old libraries, forgetting your reading glasses at home, losing your temper and breaking something, old family photos lost somewhere in the attic, pushing someone else on a swing, sundays afternoons lost at the park, working extra hours instead of going home, cold breeze and hugging yourself to your jacket, trying to explain to someone why they are wrong when they don’t want to listen

[huge6s-blog]

RANDOM FACTS ABOUT THE MUN.

Repost, not reblog! Tag 6 muns you would like to get to know better when done!

Name: Kaitlyn! Please, for the love of god, never use it.

Nickname: Katy, Kat, variations; (Katydid, Katybug, Kitkat, etc.) But if you wanna call me something else, that’s fine too!

Age: 22! Simultaneously too old and a wee bab, lmao

Faceclaim: Not something I do! I could never pick just one, besides maybe my own face! (I’d thought about using Shuu Iwamine or Rize Kamishiro before, if that says anything haha)

Pronouns: Your highness/My liege She/Her! But “they/them” is good too.

Height: ~5’6”-5’7”; I can’t remember the last time I checked.

Birthday: Poppin’, obviously March 30th.

Aesthetic: Purple and black?? EGNautilus scientists tittering excitedly over adorable or exciting sea creatures. Omnipresent Mountain Dew cans, fast food and colorful kneesocks. 2AM adventures on clear nights in summer that last until dawn starts sending it’s first beams into the sky. Spacey FPS games and cutesy RPG and Pokemon games interspersed throughout. Weathered frames and tired eyes. ROBOTS… I have no idea, man. A lot of things!

Last song you listened to: “The Thief and the Moon” by Shawn James!

Favourite muse(s) you’ve written: kfkjdf. Sixes definitely counts,, Uhh. My first was a canon-divergent Eridan, who I’d played before Act 6 was even close to being a thing! And he was a lot of fun. Accidentally made a “do not that” meme that still sometimes plagues me to this day ldkfdk A dream-bubble/dead Karkat who’d been murdered in his timeline’s Gamzee’s rampage and only had one eye, he was a biiiig favorite. I loved having enough energy for that all; typing that much shittalk??? Was one of the most fun things I’ve ever done in roleplay, holy shit. Entire fucking PAGES of just these absolutely USELESS rants because that nubby little shit had so much passion for it. Fuck. I loved Karkat. A bloodswapped, cobalt-blooded Karkat who was also post-game for a pre-established timeline where trolls and humans co-existed on the same planet(s). He was a Thief of Blood and a massive asshole; at his worst, he was manipulative, isolative, vengeful, restless… But also, he was a really big dork??? He LOOOOOVED spy movies and probably popped boners regularly for Black Widow and James Bond or the Kingsmen. Fucking nerd. He fancied himself a spy; his best friend was a badass hacker, and they’d (F)LARP together as a stereotypical “you hack, I’ll infiltrate” team. Before Earth, he never cared about Christmas, but one year his richass neighbourhood started putting up flashy decorations and he got jealous, so he stole a shitton of them to make his own house look the best. He’s so… So stupid. I love him so much. And of course, jumping off the Homestuck bandwagon; I have Lv/Hadz! My dorky, sadsack pun machine. A (sort of, mostly) secret post-genocide Sans; the Bad Run™ had been reset after completion, but something went wrong, so he remembers it. Still, he’s been running for like, two years now! So he’s had a lot of time to go and bury all that as deeply as monsterly possible lmaooo. He’s distrusting, paranoid, and isolative himself; but he’s probably the most all-around good guy on this list. He just wants to get on with his life and never have to fight anyone ever again, lmfao. I… I also have a few OCs, but you’ll have to pry those out of my cold, dead hands. … Carefully. With lots of reassurance. (I’m very shy…)

What inspired you to take on your current muse (that you are posting this on): I like… Undertale. And I like Underfell enough that once the idea was presented to me, my mind kinda ran away with it, haha. It started with Hopper, my weird UF Sans! But it feels like every time I approach the AU I have slightly different ideas for it, pfft. I guess with Sixes, I wanted to step away from the skeletons for awhile! I was really excited about messing with Mettaton for it, because I… Really liked listening to the radio for awhile, haha. I thought it’d be kind of cool if instead of being really excited to be seen flaunting himself across a television set, he wasn’t so happy with how he turned out physically, and made his influence a little less directly visible. It fit in well with the seemingly common theme of conflict in Underfell, and things just really exploded from there! It’s hard to summarize in just a few short words. That said, Sixes probably wouldn’t have a blog at all if it wasn’t for tumblr user wibler’s- Sixes’ Sans!- mun coaxing me into giving it a shot! She has a lot of faith in my creative abilities. I dunno what I’d do without her support through the past few years, heheh. She’s neat.

What are your favourite aspects of your current muse: LOUD ANGRY ROBOT LMFAO Shit though, I dunno! I like writing a character who goes through the bipolar disorder motions, the manics and the depressives. I love watching him go hot and cold on characters as he flipflops through his impulses and subsequent regrets. I love that in his timeline, everyone knows him while he himself actually… Hardly knows anyone at all. He’s made himself untrustworthy, and in turn doesn’t trust anyone, either, so he hardly ever opens up beyond… You know. Angry screaming, or shameless flirting and flattery, ignoring personal space bubbles… I love that his Sans being absent kind of smacked him on the nose, because that was someone he was actually making a connection with, but tried to play it off like Sans was just another moment in his life so he kind of treated him like a dick lmao. Deadass knew the poor little dude had anxiety issues and scared him on purpose, made joking death threats, joked about flirting with his shittyass brother… Sixes was such a prick. Fuck. And he realizes that! And after ditching his family just to have a cataclysmic fallout with his other BFF, Alphys, Sans disappearing… It’s something he blames himself for. It kind of sobered him up a little to the way his actions affect people. AND DESPITE EVERYTHING, HE STILL USES HIS CAMERAS (THAT HE STOLE FROM ALPHYS IN A PETTY FIT) SCATTERED ACROSS THE UNDERGROUND AND HIS SHITTY TRAP ROOMS IN HOTLAND TO PUBLICALLY HUMILIATE RANDOM CITIZENS IN A WIPEOUT-ESQUE PODCAST ON THE UNDERNET. At least that assholitude earns him money, though! Fuck. I also reaaallly love how different AUs bring out different aspects of his character, but that’s a rant for another time or place! Hoo. I dunno, man. I could go on about Sixes for like, ever. He’s a really fun muse.

What’s your biggest inspiration when it comes to writing: I’m… I’m not even gonna lie, a lot of it is the positive feedback lmao. I don’t, uh. Do much these days, creatively or recreationally speaking, and I don’t really have a lot of friends IRL… Er, any, actually, if you’re only counting closehand. All my friends live hundreds of miles away, and it sucks. But this is… Simultaneously social and creative. I get to talk to people, and make friends, and toss creativity back and forth with people, and it’s really fulfilling. I love to be a part of other people’s creative processes! I love seeing what other people do with THEIR characters, and when we all??? Interact??? Mother of God, it’s such a treat! Everyone’s so creative and impressive and inspiring… And hearing/seeing us all go back and forth about what we admire in each other… I’m pretty happy with just being a part of writing, and telling other people that I love what they do! But every now and then it comes back around to me in little ways, and it feels really special. It’s hard to imagine anyone liking my stuff past a “they’re pretty cool I guess, yeah” sentiment, despite my glittering impression of a lot of the writers in the community; so when someone DOES say they like my stuff, even just by saying they like a drawing, or like the way I described something, I go OFF THE WALL LMAO. Straight up dissolve and slip through the floorboards a la Gaster style with how lovely it feels. Shucks… And, you know. Watching characters develop in general- whether they be mine or not- is really fulfilling and inspiring. A good cycle.

Favourite types of threads: Anything that feels meaningful! I love it when two characters make any kind of connection, despite the context. That said, typically “angst” and “fluff” style threads are a big favorite, but there has to be, like… you know. Meaning to it. It feels really… I dunno, cardboardy to just throw a muse into a woodchipper for no particular reason just to have them drag themselves to another muse begging for help or to have a chance to explain some kind of deep, edgy feeling or story. Baseless fluff has a lot more wiggle room lmao, but that can get really monotonous really quick if something more significant fails to spark somewhere along the line. Just so long as something’s getting achieved somehow, I guess! If it feels like nothing’s changed between the two at the end of the thread, it feels really unfulfilling and hollow.

Biggest struggle in regards to your current muse: URRRGH. IMPLEMENTING THE RADIO SHOW/PODCAST THING… On one hand, Sixes has kind of collected the idea that the multiverse is a very indifferent place towards the goings-on within his timeline! And, he supposes, that that suits him fine. Hurts his pride a little, but it’s something he’s just going to curl up and lick his wounds for, pfft. But still! I wish I knew how to make it a little more obvious and prominent- The same could go for his growing industry, too! I guess I’ve just been jobless too long to really have a feel for it like I should, oof… Additionally, drawing him is reALLY HARD… He’s in his classic box form most of the time because he’s really insecure about his EX form, and yet I draw his EX form more than anything because the box is frustrating to draw??? And despite it all, I’m still not sure I’m terribly happy with how his EX form looks!!! He’s supposed to be a little closer to a NEO design than initially planned, as Alphys fully intended him to be a KILLING MACHINE from the start without telling him! But he caught on early on, and they kind of bullied each other into compromising a bunch of things until he was just this “hideous” mess that neither of them were terribly happy with… So, you know. The indecision carried over to me too, evidently! Ugh.

Tagged by: nah! Just stole it was all. (from slobbyseconds/coolskeletonsdontcry forever ago, but just got around to now. kfjf)

Tagging: Anyone who wants to! @ me back if you do it, though; I love reading these things!

[vvhiskcy]

NAME:  K NICKNAME: kay FACE CLAIM:  nah. if i had one, it would probably be YZMA PRONOUNS:  she/her HEIGHT:  5′9″ BIRTHDAY:  once a year THE LAST  SONG  YOU  LISTENED  TO:  björk - hyperballad FAVORITE  MUSE (S)  YOU’VE  WRITTEN: uhhh. complicated, as they are all so different in who they are? probably herbert west, james moriarty and crowley though. 

AESTHETIC: my aesthetic? arizona. urban. neon signs. wood. asphalt. concrete. cowboy. 

GETTING  TO  KNOW  THE  ACCOUNT:

WHAT  INSPIRED  YOU  TO  TAKE  ON  THIS  MUSE:  i’m not even gonna lie here kingsman is beautiful and then they cast pedro who turned out to look like my dad in the 90s and that kinda sealed the deal. that aside, he’s different from the muses i usually tend to write, so this melancholic bastard is quite the nice challenge.

WHAT  ARE  YOUR  FAVORITE  ASPECTS  OF  YOUR  CURRENT  MUSE: his calm. most muses i write have erratic tendenncies, while whisk is just chill beyond belief. unless he snaps. then he goes straight into murder-mode. while it’s probably not a bonus point when it comes to him personally, i also really enjoy his cynical attitude.

WHAT’S  YOUR  BIGGEST  INSPIRATION  WHEN  IT  COMES  TO  WRITING:  for whisk? my dad. in the 90s. cowboy hat on his head and johnny cash in casette deck of the car. in general? music and visual stimulation. certain songs will always get me into the mood to write particular characters, as do certain aesthetics. 

FAVORITE  TYPES  OF  THREADS:  i’m not really into romance or smut on here [ shut up becki ] and on this occassion, favour the melancholic route. anything that gives me the chance to write whickes in a way that forces him to confront himself, confront his feelings and his repressed ander and issues is a good thread.

BIGGEST  STRUGGLE  IN  REGARDS  TO  YOUR  CURRENT  MUSE:  whiskey is a creature of habit which can lead to things getting repetetive. while he is, when dispatched, a very efficient agent, he also likes to avoid trouble and prefers some peace and quiet. he’s pretty much the squidward of the statesman agency. it’s sometimes rather hard to come up with storylines and plots when all your muse wants to do is sit in a rocket chair, read ken follett and for everybody to just shut up while willie nelso’s greatest hits are playing in the background.

TAGGED  BY: ide remember

TAGGING: @raisedthishell | @statesmanrum | @galahadtm | @jagerbcmb | @killstates

[pelagaios-a]

How would you say your fandom views your muse? Do you agree? Why or why not?

hello nonnie, thank you for this essay prompt. I hope I actually answer your question below and it didn’t just turn into a salt fest by yours truly ( would you like it mla ??? apa ??? chicago ??? ). put under a cut since this got long rip.

going to be honest I don’t even know where to begin. I think just about everything Percy is is an aspect the fandom doesn’t seem to get? and it frustrates me because 1. I love fanfiction but can’t read pjo fanfic drives me nuts 2. entering his tag makes me want to quit ( then again, think that’s all the pjos ) and 3. I think the fandoms favorite past time is over exaggeration of qualities they’ve deemed characters have… all together not exactly the best mix. this also tends to bug the hell out of me because I then get people who want to thread who have not read my about or whatever and they follow fanon ( which you can say they don’t know better but I think every rper gets mad at fanon over something so one would think we’re more prone to being careful about it, alas ). anyway onto my rather brief writeup because I could literally write my dissertation on this with a chapter by chapter breakdown.

I guess a good place as any to start is the idea Percy’s an idiot. or oblivious. or both. or anything along the lines of those two ideas. bottom line is he isn’t. I know exactly where this idea stems from to — Percy is the narrator of the first books and he thinks he’s stupid. therefore, he must be stupid. no other option, right ??? wrong actually. how many times has Percy not only thought up an executed a plan, but has cleverly defeated enemies? he gets himself out of trouble using his own head so, so many times. hell, Annabeth calls Percy one of the smartest demigods she knows can we all please listen to a non self assessment here. like what happened to “judge someone by their actions” and not what they think of themselves ??? literally screaming. plus Percy is someone who, when not mid battle, thinks out what he’s doing and follows through with his goal. just look at the Last Olympian if anything. he collects and retains knowledge and is very ingenuitive solving problems. not only that but he is also very aware of his surroundings and other people. just because he doesn’t acknowledge something involving himself does not make him oblivious. stop.

 next can we talk about the “happy go lucky” thing ??? which I see so often. you know, Mr. Popular™ who looks cheery af and everyone loves. we can start with the basics here. first of all, Percy is not… happy. he never really was in canon? he had moments of happiness, sure, but consistently happy? no. throughout canon he has been incredibly hard on himself and doesn’t see much worth in his own actions and being. he is withdrawn ( literally look here ) and doesn’t actively reach out to others. inner monologue vs. outward action does not equal one answer. jokes are a good way to keep people off your back, a smile make people think you’re fine. other people don’t dig. considering how he grew up and considering what he has and continues to deal with, this boy ain’t a “happy go luck no problems living the dream” character. can we please acknowledge what he’s gone through and what he continues to face instead of erasing all of it to make him the clown ( though, I guess this title is falling more and more on Leo now which also no ).

mmmmm how about his powers ??? Percy canonically is scared of what he, himself, can do. he does not actively use them. I get that its cute or funny or whatever to have him do dumb things with them ( like, there’s all that potential ) but thats not a constant? Percy is incredibly powerful these aren’t some joke. not to mention he does not want this life and does not like everything that comes with who he is. his powers are a sign of his father and a sign of the first prophecy and a sign of how he can never be comfortable where he is since there will always be monsters on his tail. always someone coming after him. he’s not stupid. he may accept this is his life but it does not mean he’s comfortable in these shoes. I’d be hard money Percy actively does not use them in day to day situations ( minus say, dry clothes / breathing underwater / the subconscious stuff — what I’m talking about is like messing with the shower / doing the dishes with them / pranking people ) because he tries really hard not to bring any of this into his home. I’m just gonna stop myself here before I rant…

god okay what next. his anger. his loyalty. his bitterness. Percy as a character is someone vindictive and manipulative. he is not someone who lets people walk over him. he is not someone who “would never hurt a fly.” he is not someone who just moves on. can we please stop turning him into a two dimensional character and ignoring his very prominent flaws ??? he systematically and knowingly chocked a goddess on her own poison so she could feel his misery, he has more then once canonically wished more harm on those already dead, he and his mother planned out and murdered his stepfather with no remorse on his end. he may be loyal — it may be his fatal flaw — but if you aren’t someone he’s close to? bullshit. he’s suspicious, he’s distrusting. Percy may give people the benefit of the doubt but he does not do so without keeping an eye for trouble. he has been tossed aside all his life, bullied all his life. he grew up learning to read people and learning to keep his options open. don’t ??? ignore this ??? yells. he is angry he has always been angry he has trouble controlling his anger just…. puts face in hands.

that he’s straight. : )

generally, as you can see here, me and fanon don’t agree.