#the hardest part of this prompt was picking who to sketch

[tlmtwelve]

Nightmares

Week 12 Prompt: @summer-of-bad-batch

[seasonofthewicth]

A Groovy Kind of Love - Chapter 9

AN: a slightly longer one today guys, got myself all emotional with the rowaelin here and i hope it gets you too

masterlist - ao3

------ 

“He was friendly when he first came in,” Chaol’s normally subdued tone was full of energy as he spun his tale, eyes wide with excitement as he looked towards Aelin. “But then so quickly he goes completely crazy, shouting and ranting so loud in my face that Maeve has to come in and see what the problem is.”

Yrene laughed fondly at her husband as she rested a hand on his shoulder where she sat across the wooden staff room table from Aelin, “You could hear it all the way down the corridor.”

Aelin laughed as she took in Chaol’s wide eyed expression and Dorian’s restrained laughter, Yrene’s gentle grin and Nehemia’s cool smirk.

Her first parent-teacher conference at the new school was this evening, and to her absolute delight, her friends were busy spinning their horror stories. Admittedly, she was nervous for the event, and even though it wasn’t her first time it was always an unnerving experience at a new school. It was her opportunity to introduce herself to the parents as Miss Galathynius and show them who she was, what she had, and to prove to them that she was the best choice for their children.

Realistically, she knew she had no reason to be nervous, her class were a great group of children, they all tried hard and engaged enthusiastically with her lessons, but meeting their parents for the first time was important. Making her first impression as an educator was important, and she knew that people sometimes unfairly judged her. At her previous school she knew some of the parents had made some unfair and incorrect assumptions about her but she had tried not to let it bother her. Had tried to brush off their barely hidden insults about her styles of teaching and even her choices of clothing. She couldn’t change peoples’ opinions but she could try to change their lasting impressions of herself.

Dorian had assured her that the majority of the parents at the school were great, most were pretty chilled out as long as their child wasn’t falling too far behind, which Aelin knew hers weren’t. That said, it was Dorian who had prompted the story time session in the break room, wordlessly picking up on her nervousness and launching into every horror story he could remember from his years teaching.

Since their ill-fated affair he had cemented his place in her life as one of her closest friends, rivalling only Lysandra in level of familiarity and they had spent an increasing amount of time together. From coffee runs to lounging around the loft watching movies she enjoyed every moment they spent together and she was comfortable that there was no remaining awkwardness from their brief tangle.

She hadn’t told anyone the outcome of their date yet, she hadn’t had much time to catch up with Lysandra since, and it wasn’t something she was particularly keen to tell her roommates. As much as she loved them there were times that their typical guy nature made her hesitant to share, and her failure to sleep with her date was not something she felt like sharing with them.

She was especially reluctant to share that piece of information with Rowan, he had told her to forget about their moment in the kitchen, and she had tried. It just hadn’t worked out quite as she had planned. But she was resolved, she would get over him, and if having him think she was dating Dorian told him she was, she wasn’t complaining.

“It took five minutes for us to even figure out what he was yelling about.” Chaol continued, flashing her an exasperated look.

“Which was?” Aelin asked, already grinning in anticipation of whatever ridiculous answer Chaol could give.

In her experience Chaol was a by-the-book teacher. She liked him, he was pretty smart, straightforward and an involved and ambitious teacher, she couldn’t imagine him doing anything deserving of being shouted at by a parent.

“Chaol had, completely unreasonably,” Dorian drawled sarcastically, tossing his unstarted apple between his palms, “decided to offer his students a quiz for the last class of the week instead of one more hour of curriculum teaching.”

Yrene sketched a mocking gasp and Nehemia held a hand to her chest as she rolled her eyes at the story.

“Could you imagine such a thing?” She laughed, eyes dancing with mirth as she grinned over to Aelin.

Aelin shook her head in mock horror at Chaol, unable to fully hide her smile as she laughed along.

“How could you?” She asked, half laughing at the absurdity of the parent’s rage and half at Chaol’s over the top attempt at a dejected expression. “You aren’t actually making me feel any better about later, by the way.”

Yrene reached over to squeeze her shoulder, “You don’t need us to do that, they will all love you I’m sure.”

Aelin needed more of Yrene’s optimism in her life and admittedly the woman’s kind smile was infectious. She was also right, why wouldn’t they love her?

------

The documentary on the television hadn’t fully captured Rowan’s attention, it was something about an animal in the rainforest and he had missed the part where it’s name was given, but it would do for a lazy afternoon while the rest of his roommates were at work. The afternoons were one of his favourite times of the day, he had the loft to himself to read or watch or listen to whatever he wanted in the usually shared spaces rather than his ordinarily messy and somewhat cramped bedroom.

Being the only one of his roommates to not work in the daytimes had its ups and downs, the freedom and space was a definite pro, but sometimes it could be lonely sitting around the loft on his own, and the days Lorcan was off with him after working a shift were often ones he enjoyed the most. His friend had a sarcastic and wicked sense of humour that worked well with Rowan’s relatively blunt demeanor. He’d never tell him that though.

Of everyone in the loft he had known Lorcan for the shortest amount of time. Technically, but he didn’t count the years of Aelin being in his periphery as knowing her. They had met through Fenrys, and Rowan wasn’t convinced that even Fenrys knew how he had come to be friends with the surly male, their personalities weren’t ones Rowan would have expected to be friends, but years later Lorcan had managed to cement himself as one of Rowan’s closest friends.

He checked the time on his phone as the sound of the loft front door caught his attention, none of his roommates should be at the loft at this time.

Seconds later Aedion came into view, already shucking off his tie before launching himself onto the couch next to Rowan with a deep sigh. Rowan slowly turned his head towards his best friend, waiting for him to reopen his eyes before raising his eyebrows.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” He began. “But why are you here?”

Aedion laughed before rolling forwards to sit upright on the sofa.

“Turned in the final piece for one of our biggest accounts this morning so we all got the afternoon off.”

“Nice,” Rowan nodded, Aedion probably worked the hardest of all of them in the loft. He worked for a marketing firm that had a bunch of high profile clients and he spent many nights in the office working overtime. Rowan shared those unpopular hours, but was grateful he didn’t have the early mornings too. “What are you doing for the rest of the day then?”

Aedion shrugged. “Thought I could spend some quality time with you my friend. Maybe find out what you wanted to talk to me about the other day.”

Aedion’s smirk was predatory, and Rowan felt like a deer in the headlights. He opened his mouth then closed it again.

He had been more than lucky to have gotten away with it for so long, he was surprised Aedion had managed the few days of Rowan saying nothing before giving in and straight up asking.

Since Aelin’s date with Dorian the man’s presence had become a regular feature of the loft, each visit reducing Rowan’s desire to admit any of his feelings about Aelin to anyone, let alone Aelin herself. He had tried to avoid being in the room when they were snuggling on the couch or had quickly changed the topic when he had come up in conversation.

Message received. He was at least glad that Aelin seemed happy, and it was his own fault that it wasn’t with him. He had told her to forget it ever happened and she had. Why Aedion wanted to make him talk about it now was anyone’s guess, he just wanted to deal with it alone. Preferably by not thinking about it, or at least trying not to.

“Oh nothing,” He brushed it off. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Aedion raised a golden eyebrow, unimpressed with Rowan’s clear denial and he winced internally. He should have known better than to assume Aedion would have been satisfied with that.

“Are you sure?” Aedion’s question was all too innocent. “You sure it wasn’t about anyone in particular?”

Rowan gritted his teeth, knowing he was just going to have to let this play out.

Aedion took a moment, pretending to ponder his next words and letting Rowan stew in his anticipation. “Not even my darling cousin?”

Rowan felt his cheeks begin to burn as he chewed on the inside of his lip. Aedion was a smug son of a bitch, smiling at Rowan like a cat who got the cream.

Rowan took a deep breath in. “Don’t fucking tell anyone, okay.”

Aedion’s expression dropped into something slightly more serious.

“Pinky swear,” Aedion grinned at him and Rowan flashed him a glare.

“I’m definitely not saying anything if you’re not being serious.”

Aedion cleared his throat, making a show of sobering his expression. “I’m serious, okay, now go.”

“So you clearly know something went down between me and Aelin,” That was as good a place to start as any he supposed. “How did you even find out about that?”

“Lysandra.” Aedion’s voice was almost dopey as he said the woman’s name. Gross, even though he was happy for his friend it was gross.

“Nice to know you and your girlfriend have nothing better to do than gossip about me.” Rowan frowned.

“Believe me, we have better things to do,” Aedion’s grin took over his whole face. “It’s just when we’re done we move on to pitying you…”

“I said be serious.” Rowan said bluntly, embarrassed enough as it was.

“Sorry, sorry.” Aedion held his hands up. “Continue.”

“There isn’t much more to be said.” He paused, realising the almost uncomfortable truth in his own words. “She’s moved past it anyway, like I told her too, so that’s it. We’re good, no danger of that.”

The look Aedion gave him was pure pity and Rowan looked away fast.

“Ro,” His friend’s voice was soft as he said his name, but he struggled for anything more, clearly reading Rowan better than he ever wanted to be read.

Rowan shrugged. “It’s fine, we’re all good.”

Aedion opened his mouth to speak but Rowan interrupted before he could get a word out.

“You need to tell her about you and Lysandra.” He could only see the secret ending in disaster, and now he was involved. He owed it to Aedion to keep the secret, but the guilt of keeping it from Aelin was eating away at him.

Aedion sighed, “I know. We will, soon. It’s just, when? You know?”

“You need to do it soon.” Rowan told him, feeling somewhat like a parent scolding a child. “You’re only going to upset her, and keeping it all a secret longer is just going to make it worse.”

Aedion looked down to the couch they sat on, avoiding Rowan’s eyes.

“I know.” He sighed.

“I don’t want her to get hurt.” It was as much as Rowan was willing to admit out loud.

“I don’t either.” Aedion’s tone was defensive and Rowan sighed.

“Now,” He began, pushing off the couch and standing above his friend. “I have a shift at the bar, you coming?”

Aedion half-smiled up at him. “Alright, but I’m not paying for any of my drinks.”

Rowan scoffed, “When do you ever?”

Aedion rose to his feet, shrugging, “Just making sure.”

Rowan rolled his eyes, feeling as Aedion always made him feel, relaxed and amused with the usual hint of mild irritation.

------

The evening had passed relatively quickly, all of the parents she had met so far had been lovely and were well engaged in their children’s lives and education which Aelin always appreciated. She only had one parent left to meet, the father of her student Evangeline, a bubbly young girl who Aelin adored. The young girl was inquisitive and tried hard with anything Aelin threw at them, a perfect student in Aelin’s eyes.

A knock on her classroom door sounded and she jumped to her feet, calling out for them to come in as she rose. The man who came through her doorway was striking, his golden hair shone and his green eyes were bright. He was dressed in a sharp grey suit, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and his tie was missing.

He held a hand out for her to shake and she caught a brief glance of a tattoo on his wrist, one that looked almost like a snake, peeking past his expensive looking watch.

“Archer Finn,” His voice was low and smooth, as he flashed her a polished smile.

“Aelin Galathynius,” She shook his hand firmly and smiled widely. “Please, take a seat.”

The man slid smoothly into the seat opposite her, and she forced her mind to focus on the task at hand, and reminded herself that this was one of her student’s fathers. No sign of a ring, her unhelpful mind added.

“Thank you, Miss Galathynius,” He folded his hands in his lap. “I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you about Evangeline’s progress.”

Aelin grinned. “As have I, Evangeline is a fantastic student, the passion she displays in the classroom is phenomenal. Her artwork-- she displays a level of true talent.”

“Yes,” His tone was clipped. “That is what I have been hoping to talk to you about.”

Aelin felt her smile freeze.

“Evangeline will not be participating in any art activities from this point onwards, I don’t believe they are of any value. To put it bluntly, they’re a complete waste of time.”

Aelin was frozen, paused in a state of shock at the man’s words.

“I unfortunately have to disagree--”

He held a hand up to stop her and she recoiled.

“Please, Miss Galathynius,” He huffed out a condescending laugh and Aelin felt her blood begin to boil. “As her father I believe I know what is best for Evangeline.”

“And what is that?” She asked dryly.

Archer Finn seemed to take a moment, raking his eyes from her head to her toe before meeting her gaze again. She could tell the look hadn’t been one of appreciation and she bristled.

“What Evangeline needs is a teacher who takes her education seriously, someone who understands that painting her pretty pictures is a waste of time.” The sarcasm in his voice had her clenching her jaw, but she tried to rein in her temper, remembering that she was still new to the school.

“Mr Finn, I--”

He held a hand to her face again and stood, buttoning his suit jacket as he did, and Aelin slowly rose out of her chair.

“Mr Finn, I have a masters degree in children’s education, I know the value of creativity in learning.” Aelin could hardly keep her voice steady as she spoke, barely concealing the anger the man in front of her had managed to unleash inside her in such a short space of time.

The man seemed to sneer at her words, looking down his nose at her as he frowned.

“You may well have, and I’m sure it was worth every penny to you.” He smirked at her, crushing her with only a handful of words. “Either way, Evangeline will be seeing a private tutor during your creative hours.”

The scorn in his voice burned her, hitting her in a deep part of her soul that wasn’t often exposed. She knew she was right, knew that she knew what Evangeline needed, knew that her methods of teaching had merit and worth. This sad excuse for a father was blind and arrogant if he thought he knew better than Aelin, but she was trapped. What more could she say to change his mind?

In her silence he had crossed the room to pause by the door before turning back to look at her where she stood dumbfounded behind her desk, clenching her fists at her sides and trying to compose herself.

“I’m glad we had this chat, Miss Galathynius.” With that he was gone, taking his smug and condescending atmosphere with him.

Her breath rushed out of her in a gust, burning her throat as she held back the tears that threatened to fall. She couldn’t believe him, Mr Finn. The audacity he had to walk into her classroom and speak to her like that.

She dropped back into her seat, resting both of her hands against the cool wood of her desk and focussing on all the knots and whorls in the wood, breathing deeply in and out as she centred her thoughts. She almost couldn’t believe how her evening had ended up and she let out a brief snort at the idea that maybe her story could now beat Chaol’s from this morning.

A knock at her door snapped her to attention, if Mr Finn had come back for another go at her she wouldn’t be able to bite her tongue this time. Her fears were sedated when a familiar head of dark curls poked around the door frame.

Dorian’s smile was bright and easy as he walked towards her, perching on the front of one of her student's desks.

“So?” He asked as he crossed his ankles in front of himself, the portrait of a male completely at ease.

Aelin only shook her head, unable to sum up her final visit in a few words.

“Have you ever taught Evangeline Finn?” She managed, hating how destroyed she sounded even to her own ears.

Dorian barely managed to cover his wince.

“Ah,” He sighed. “You met Archer Finn. How bad was it?”

She looked at the floor, holding back the flood that wanted to break through, she refused to cry in school over a parent, no matter how much he had riled her up.

“Bad,” She managed but her voice betrayed her, letting a crack rip through the word.

Dorian was around the desk and at her side within a second, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“What did he say?” Dorian asked, his tone gentle as if not to startle her.

Aelin sniffed. “Oh you know, the usual, dismissing my teaching and belittling my degree.”

She let out a self-deprecating laugh as she looked to Dorian whose brow creased at her words.

“Don’t listen to him. You know he’s not right.” She knew his words were earnest, but they couldn’t keep the doubt at bay and she shrugged out of his hold.

“I don’t know,” She looked away.

“Come on,” Dorian tried. “Let’s get a drink or something, take your mind off it.”

“Thanks, Dorian. But I think I just want to go home and be alone.”

Dorian’s mouth twisted as he considered it, probably weighing up whether or not to try again. Eventually he relented.

“Text me if you need anything, okay? I’m here for you.”

She lightly squeezed his hand before rising to pack up her things. His offer hadn’t tempted her, she did want to be alone, but maybe a drink wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

------

The bar was relatively busy, a few customers every so often had him drifting in and out of conversation with Aedion. Lorcan had joined Aedion at the bar not long after they arrived, grumbling about something or other that Rowan soon avoided, turning back to another customer after dropping off Lorcan’s pint.

A brief lull allowed him to drift back to his friends, wiping down a few spills along the bar as he went.

“It’s the fucking worst, all right.” The dark-haired giant complained, words muffled by the strong hand he ran down his face.

Rowan turned to Aedion for explanation who merely shrugged before lifting his empty glass to Rowan. He grabbed it and turned to refill it as Lorcan spoke again.

“I didn’t sign up for any of this, stupid regulations and reforms.”

Lorcan was clearly in a talking mood tonight. Rowan met Aedion’s eyes, a silent challenge, begging the blond man to speak first but Aedion just leaned back in his seat, taking a large gulp of his beer. Rowan flicked him the middle finger before turning to Lorcan.

“What is?”

Lorcan turned the force of his glare to Rowan who shifted against the unexpected heat.

“My stupid boss.”

“What about them?” Aedion finally joined in.

Lorcan sighed, a frustrated sound as if explaining it would be hard work. Rowan grinned a sharp flash of teeth at Aedion who rolled his eyes at their friend’s dramatics.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I want to drink.” Lorcan finished his drink in a final swig, placing the glass before Rowan ceremoniously.

Rowan scooped it up, sketching a mocking salute at his friend. “That, we can do.”

As he turned he spotted Fenrys making his way over from the door and he grabbed another glass to fill as the golden-haired man took his seat. He dumped the drinks in front of his friends with little finesse as Fenrys spoke.

“Why is Aelin sitting in the corner on her own?”

Aelin?

“Aelin’s here?” Aedion asked as the four of them turned to look where Fenrys had pointed.

Sure enough, Aelin was tucked away in a booth in the corner of the room. He hadn’t noticed her come in and Rowan could see the glum expression on her face even from a distance.

“Is she okay?” He managed.

“She doesn’t look okay.”

The three of them swivelled to look at Lorcan, matching looks of disbelief across each of their faces.

“Has she said anything to any of you?” Fenrys asked. “Anything to Lysandra?” With a look to Aedion who shook his head.

“Should we go over?” Aedion asked, an unsure twist to his mouth.

“If she wanted to sit with us she’d be here.” Lorcan said bluntly.

“Shut up, asshole.” Rowan narrowed his eyes. “I’ll take her a drink.”

-------

The glass of wine was cool in his hand as he made his way across the bar, skirting round tables of customers as he went.

“Hey,” His voice was soft as he reached Aelin’s booth, lingering by the edge of the table as she looked up at him.

His heart jolted at the expression she wore. Her beautiful blue eyes were wide and red-rimmed, her plush pink lips twisted into a pout. She swallowed before speaking and the hurt in her voice tore his heart again.

“Oh. Didn’t think you’d notice me here.” Her voice was quiet as he dropped into the seat opposite her and pushed the glass towards her.

“It’s kind of my job to notice who needs a drink,” He said equally quietly, leaning forwards and pressing his arms against the table between them. He had hoped his words would bring a smile but Aelin pursed her lips, debating, before reaching towards the glass and taking a sip.

At least there was that.

“You don’t-- I mean, you don’t have to answer... If you don’t want to, but,” He didn’t usually stumble over his words so much. “Are you okay?”

Aelin’s refusal to meet his eyes pretty much answered his question, but he still waited for her to speak.

She blew out a breath, the air teasing the fair strands of hair around her face as she looked towards the ceiling then back down to him.

“Not really.” She said as she looked away from him again.

He spared a glance over to the bar where his friends sat, watching him and Aelin, each with expressions of concern. Even Lorcan for all his grumbling before Rowan came over.

“What happened?” He asked as gently as he could.

Aelin took a sip of her wine, glancing around the bar and spotting their friends who quickly jumped back into their own conversation before resting her gaze back on him.

She shrugged, putting her glass back on the table before speaking.

“One of my student’s parents basically told me I’m a shit teacher today.”

“Aelin no,” The words left him in a rush, utterly raw in his desperation to reassure her. “Aelin, you have to know you’re not a shit teacher.”

She looked up at him through her eyelashes, her pout still standing strong.

“What did they say?”

“Just that my degree is worthless and that I don’t know what’s best for the kids.”

Asshole. Fucking asshole.

If he ever saw the asshole who had said those cruel words to Aelin he’d-- He didn’t know what he’d do but it would hurt.

“Aelin, don’t listen to them. That’s not true.”

“It’s not?” Her question, in combination with her soft sniffle shattered him.

He reached out to lightly grasp one of her hands in his, gently toying with her delicate fingers.

“Of course not Aelin. You’re an incredible teacher.”

She drew her hand back to take another sip of her wine.

“How would you know?” She asked. “You’ve never seen me teach.”

“I don’t need to Aelin. I know you, and you’re everything a good teacher should be. Kind, caring, patient, passionate-”

“Okay,” She interrupted.

“I’m serious Aelin, promise me you won’t believe a word that asshole said.”

She scoffed, looking away from him yet again.

“Aelin?”

“Okay, I promise.” Her tone was resigned, but at least she had agreed. He didn’t know how much help he had managed to be, but he hoped at least a small part of her had listened.

“What are you doing sitting alone anyway? You can always come to us with things like this.” He knew without a doubt that the others would agree.

She brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and Rowan’s fingers itched to follow the motion but he held his hands together, now under the table. She shrugged as a faint blush crossed her cheeks and Rowan fought the warmth blooming inside him at the sight.

“Come and drink with us.” He said, nodding his head towards where the others were sitting at the bar. “Salvaterre’s miserable too so you won’t be alone.”

At that, Aelin’s lips twitched as the hint of a smile ghosted across her face, it was the closest he had seen all night and he’d take it.

“Why?” Her voice was quiet.

“Other than the usual?” He joked and she finally cracked a real smile, small but still there, and the relief that flooded through him was like lightning. “I think it’s something about his work or his boss, I don’t really know.”

He slid himself out of the booth and held a hand out to her, his final request, if she really didn’t want to join them he could accept that, but he knew he’d still keep an eye on her for the rest of the night.

Thankfully she stood, grabbing her things and leading the way over to their friends, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods. Over her head he saw Aedion flash him a thankful smile. She flopped onto a stool next to Fenrys as Rowan slid back behind the bar.

“So,” She turned to Lorcan, barely missing a beat. “What are you crying about now?”

Lorcan didn’t hesitate before lunging into his story, his own subtle way of making sure Aelin was alright and not dwelling on her issues.

“My new boss is an asshole. Turns up in Rifthold fresh out of headquarters in somewhere called Perranth, and thinks everyone should just bow down or something. Now, first of all, I’ve never even heard of Perranth,” He paused to take a bitter swig of his beer.

“Me neither,” Fenrys chimed in.

“It’s in Terrasen,” Aelin said after a sip of her own wine. The heaviness from before didn’t weigh on her face anymore and Rowan turned to serve another customer, hiding his smile. “I think I went once when I was a kid.”

Lorcan frowned at her but Rowan could tell it lacked it’s usual heat.

“Whatever,” Lorcan continued. “The point is, I’ve worked here for years, I know Rifthold and how things are done. Captain Lochan has been here all of five minutes and apparently knows all the improvements we need to make.”

The curl of Lorcan’s lips as he hissed his boss’ name prompted a small laugh, the guy must be a total hardass to have Lorcan so riled.

“What’s wrong with the improvements?” Aelin asked and Lorcan sighed.

“Nothing is wrong with the improvements,” He muttered and Aelin finally laughed, the tinkling sound washing over Rowan and settling into his bones.

“So what’s the problem?” Aedion asked after a moment, the question that they were all thinking and Lorcan shot him a glare, this time not lacking any heat.

“The problem is the Captain. So controlling and everything has to be done in exactly their way, constantly on me about my reports as well.” He rolled his eyes, clearly over talking about his boss and Rowan couldn't help from poking the bear one last time.

“Why don’t you invite the Captain here? I don’t know any problem a free beer couldn’t solve.”

“Absolutely not.” Lorcan said, shaking his head.

“Well I, for one, want to meet the famous Captain Lochan.” Fenrys grinned. “Especially if it would annoy you so much.”

“Don’t.” Lorcan said, a hair’s width below a growl.

“Why not?” Aedion joined in and Rowan watched the smile settling on Aelin’s lips at their friends’ antics.

He shook himself, laughing along as Lorcan slugged Aedion in the shoulder.

“Maybe find something to take your mind off it?” Fenrys suggested and Rowan knew where he was going would be fun. “Get a pet or something?”

“Just watch me, boyo.” Lorcan bared his teeth around the grin threatening to take over his own face. His pretend displeasure only just winning the battle.

The smile on Aelin’s face struck him again in its beauty, and he forced his attention away from her and back to the idiots now suggesting outlandish animals Lorcan could bring home as a pet.

He bit his lip as Aelin suggested a lion in response to Aedion’s tiger and thanked the gods again that she was smiling.

------

tags:

@jesstargaryenqueen

@maybekindasortaace

@slytheringalathynius

@http-itsrebecca

@morganofthewildfire

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato

@fictional-horan

@tottenhamboys20

@dressedindustandshadows

@sleeping-and-books

@perseusannabeth

@ireallyshouldsleeprn

@superspiritfestival

@aelinfeyreeleven945tbln

@spyofthenightcourt

@jlinez

@queen-of-glass

@booknerdproblems

@sjmships

@elriel4life

@bamchickawowow

@woollycat22

@claralady

@illyrianwitchling​​

@SHINYA-HIIRAGI

hmu if any tags don’t work

[five-rivers]

the Chains of Kings

Okay, I'm going to admit, this one is a little weird. I was sort of experimenting with a distant third-person perspective.  (There’s just a smidge of body horror.)

Phic Phight, prompt by @fabnamessuggestedbytumbler.

.

.

If the Ghost Zone had a secret, it was this: Pariah Dark had been asleep when he was crowned.

He'd had a good reason to rage.

.

It was coronation day.

Phantom laid in his bed in the human world, asleep. Dead to the world, but not quite. It was Nocturne's duty, in this whole affair, to keep him that way until everything was over, and even Phantom's great power and stubbornness cannot reverse what has been done.

The old ghost leaned over the younger one, painting a sleep into his mind so deep that he slumbered even in his dreams.

The third ghost in the room, Clockwork, Master of Time, stepped forward. Gently, with a paternal air, he picked Phantom up, cradling his limp form against his chest.

Phantom deserved what little kindness they could give him.

Clockwork opened a swirling blue portal with a flick of his hand and stepped through, Nocturne following soon after. The room they entered was much larger and more crowded. The windows were high, the ceilings vaulted, the walls hung with tapestries embroidered with tales that had never been told by human tongues. Green light filled the room, cast by floating balls of fire.

The people in the room all had two things in common. They were ghosts and they were leaders. From Clockwork, who ruled time itself and lead the council of Ancients, to Fright Knight, the first and most loyal knight of the Ghost King and King of Fear in his own right, to Princess Dorathea and Prince Aragon of Mattingly, who each had their own supporters when it came to who should rule, to Frostbite, Chief of the Far Frozen, to Pandora, to Mab, to Surtr, to the Yellow King, to the Lady of Ys, to the very least of those ghosts who could claim a crown or throne, no matter how humble, they all were there.

In the center of the room there was a throne. It stood high on a dais and was surrounded by chains.

Clockwork carried Phantom to the throne and set him down, careful not to let him fall to one side or the other. Almost at once, a dozen petty dwarf kings leaped forward, and seized upon the chains. They crossed back and forth in front of Phantom, binding him firmly to the throne, shackling his ankles and wrists.

Undergrowth, Mab, and all the other ghosts who claimed any sort of mastery over plants stepped forward, sowing seeds on the steps of the dais. The seeds grew, roots curling over the stone, woody sprouts snaking upwards, towards Phantom. The vines wrapped around the chains and limbs, binding him again.

The dragon prince and princess came to the edge of the dais with all the others who could command fire. The princess's eyes sparkled faintly, but no one commented as they bound the sleeping child with fire.

And so it was with ice and water and lightning and even the air itself.

Pandora came forward with a box she had once buried deep beneath the maze surrounding her home. She eased back the lid, and the burdens of kingship she had stolen from Pariah dark so long ago scurried out of the box and settled heavily on Phantom's shoulders, though they could hardly be seen beneath all the other fetters looped around him. She stepped back.

Fright Knight stepped forward, sword bare. Even the hardest of ghosts cringed at what they knew was coming, bracing themselves. Fright Knight knelt, briefly, before the dais, then, standing, climbed it to stand before the throne. No one could see his expression as he raised his sword. No one wanted to.

He drove the sword forward, piercing Phantom's heart and core all at once.

Phantom flinched and shed his human skin. His hair went white and his skin darkened as a suggestion of electric scaring brushed over it. His aura flickered softly, enticingly. His clothing, a set of space patterned pajamas, did not change.

Were they human, the assembled leaders would have held their breath. They were not, so they didn't. Even so, the stillness that fell over the room was more than supernatural and did not fade until all present were satisfied that Phantom would stay asleep.

All eyes turned to Clockwork. He had not participated in Pariah Dark's coronation, symbolically giving him a way out. Time will not bind you, he had said. In time you shall be free.

But, now, the Master of Time drifted forward, tail streaming into mist behind him. He bent to cup the side of Phantom's face with one hand.

"I am sorry, Daniel," he whispered, giving voice to the only words that had been spoken since he entered. "This is the way things are meant to be." He pressed a kiss to Phantom's forehead and, at the same time, sketched a strange symbol in the air with his staff. Phantom and the symbol both glowed blue for half of one of Phantom's ever-slowing heartbeats.

Clockwork floated back, off the dais, and turned to face the doors. The crowd parted, and the doors opened.

The ghosts that entered were not leaders, they claimed no crown, but they fancied themselves judges. They fancied themselves righteous and fair and brave and a whole host of other things as well, most of which did not apply. But they were judges, and they did have the duty of crowning kings.

Each gazed at their future King with one baleful eye. The Observants were not pleased with the current state of affairs, but even they could not resist the old laws, and so they carried the Crown of Fire and the Ring of Rage.

Both artifacts burned with so much power that the nearest rulers subtly backed away.

The Observants flew forward and circled Phantom three times before one darted forward and roughly pushed the Ring of Rage onto his finger. The crown-bearer took that as his cue, and shoved the crown into the space above Phantom's head. Then all the Observants fled the room, the great doors slamming shut behind them.

The auras of the crown and ring began to flare brighter and brighter. Their light reflected beautifully off of the tears running down Phantom's face.

The ancient artifacts began to melt. To drip. Where the molten metal touched Phantom's skin it burned and scarred. In his sleep, the young ghost twisted against his bonds.

No one moved to help him, though a few, Frostbite of the Far Frozen included, clenched their hands until their claws drew ectoplasm and the thick liquid left puddles on the floor.

They waited.

At long last, the metal that had once been crown and ring began to cool and reform, crystallizing into new shapes for the new High King of All Ghosts. The ring became a simple silver band. The crown tangled itself in Phantom's hair, growing thorns and icy flowers, one silvery branch looping down to curl in the eye that had been burned away by a particularly large droplet of molten metal.

Only then did the assembled ghosts move. Each ruler took back their binding, whispering oaths of fealty and obedience that they hoped desperately would never be called on, and left.

Soon, the only ghosts in the room were Clockwork, Nocturne, Fright Knight, and High King Phantom. Fright Knight pulled free his sword, cleaned, and sheathed it before moving to stand behind the throne. Nocturne glanced at Clockwork, shook his horned head, and took back his sleep, leaving Phantom to a more natural unconsciousness, before sweeping away.

Clockwork waited.

Free of his bindings, Phantom curled in on himself protectively, drawing his legs up onto the throne and trembling.

Slowly, a change seemed to spread out from Phantom. The throne, all harsh edges, dark green stone, and severe lines, paled, rounded, curved, until its aspect was more like that of carved crystal or ice, and it almost seemed to cradle Phantom.

The change did not stop at the throne. It inched out, a little wave of alterations with each of Phantom's heartbeats, with each thrum of his icy core. It crept across the floor, and the walls, and the tapestries, cleaning them, repairing them where they had been damaged. The colors became brighter, more varied, the ever-present murk and dust of Pariah's reign swept away. The tall windows were filled with stained glass, and the light in the room took on a rainbow hue. The very air seemed to clear.

Above the palace, the sky become marbled with shades of blue. In all corners of the Ghost Zone, the lands shattered by Pariah Dark felt a faint but irresistible tug, a tug that would only grow stronger with time, a call to return to what they once were, to heal, and to become even more, even greater than they had been. Barren places stirred with the first beginnings of new unlife. Old ruins restored themselves. Ghosts everywhere looked up, aggression, rage, fading, for what was for some the first time in their existences, replaced with something softer but no less insistent.

In the chaotic and lawless wastes not far from the palace, a scar known as the Fenton Portal healed over. A similar wound, poorly hidden by a large football, also disappeared. The fabric of the Infinite Realms knit back together around its new and precious king and smoothed itself, all the thin spots repaired.

With the thing that had split him gone and the power of the Zone itself inside him, Phantom changed as well, though not as much. His two halves slowly, inexorably, began to mix together. Black streaks bloomed in his hair until it was as much black as white. His scars darkened, and his skin paled. When he finally stirred and his one remaining eye fluttered open, it was a shifting, shimmering swirl of Earthly blue and ghostly green, not unlike the new sky.

"Clockwork?" said the king, and even muddied with pain and confusion, his voice was clearer and more compelling than it had been when he had last spoken. "What's going on? Where am I?"

"We are in your palace," answered Clockwork.

"I don't have a palace," said Phantom. He reached up toward his missing eye, and flinched when he encountered the cold metal of the crown. "I- I don't understand." But he did understand. How could he not? He was bound to Infinite Realms, and they to him. He could feel them, under his skin. "Why- Why did you do this?" he asked. "Why me?"

"Because," said Clockwork, "you are a good person."

"There are other good people," said Phantom, pressing himself into the back of his throne. Behind him, Fright Knight stood at the ready, prepared to cut down any ghost who caused his king undue distress. "Good people who would be better kings. Or queens."

"You are a good person," repeated Clockwork, "and you might one day forgive us for this." He bowed deeply to the child king. "You might give us a second chance."

Phantom noticed the ring. He swallowed. "I can't go home, can I?"

"You will never be able to leave the Ghost Zone. Such is the curse of kings."

"I hate you," said Phantom. He pulled at the silver ring on his finger. It did not come off.

Clockwork straightened, and looked at Phantom with something like pity. "No, you don't."

"I hate you," repeated Phantom. He choked back a sob, but could no longer hold back his tears. "Don't leave me," he ordered.

"Never."

[hartigays]

How about #9 as a prompt, please? Maybe something post Starcourt??

9.  “I missed you so much.”

every second leading up to steve knocking on the apartment door that looms before him was, initially, filled with excitement. but now that steve is finally here, soon to be face-to-face with the person who’s only lived in his dreams for the past year and a half, he hesitates.

it’s just nerves, but it feels like it’s eating away at steve’s core. leaving him exposed and raw, like a nerve.

what if things are different? what if nothing feels the same? what if steve’s dreams are better than reality? there are too many questions in need of answers. but steve doesn’t have the luxury of taking another few months to figure them out.

so he knocks.

steve takes a deep breath, steeling himself. willing his hands to stop shaking and his heart to stop feeling like it’s beating in his throat. it takes a moment, but finally he hears the sound of distant footsteps, growing closer and closer until the door swings open.

it isn’t billy. steve doesn’t know whether he should feel relieved, or concerned.

“you must be steve,” the woman in the doorway says, giving steve a dazzling smile.

it’s then that steve is confronted with recognition. she has the same smile as billy, the same bright blue eyes and sharp jawline.

she has to be billy’s mother, sandy. the person steve knows only through stories and shared memories. the person who had to leave billy behind years ago, when neil fought dirty for custody and painted her as some sort of evil criminal, stripping her of her parental rights.

billy is 18 now. billy can live with whoever the fuck he wants. billy is here, now, in california. and this is billy’s mother, the person he never should’ve been taken from, giving steve a smile bright enough to rival the sun.

steve isn’t expecting the swell of emotion that bubbles up inside of him. it has him surging forward, flinging his arms around the woman that he’d met mere seconds ago.

it’s a thank you, of sorts. a thank you for coming back, for welcoming billy back into her home, for giving billy a safe place to rest his head while he heals and recovers after the trauma and near-death of starcourt.

for letting billy love whoever he wants, and for letting steve stay here in her home, just for a little while, to love him right back.

“sorry,” steve says when he pulls away, clearing his throat. he wipes his eyes on the back of his hand, stepping back. “didn’t mean to bombard you like that.”

“come in, sweetheart. let’s get you something to drink,” is all sandy says, stepping aside to let steve in. “billy’s just hopped in the shower, he won’t be long.”

steve doesn’t say it, but he’s grateful for the extra time to collect himself. he’d turned into a blubbering mess after speaking little more than two words to billy’s mother - he doesn’t need to fall apart the minute billy walks through the door.

billy has had enough to deal with. it’s the least steve can do to not turn into a gigantic crybaby today.

“was the flight okay?” sandy asks from where she’s rummaging around in the fridge. she returns with a bottle of water a moment later, and steve accepts it gratefully.

“oh, yeah. it was fine,” steve tells her, his leg jiggling nervously. he’s seated at one of the barstools at the kitchen counter, his elbows resting on the cool marble. “getting a cab here from the airport was the hardest part.”

sandy chuckles, nodding. “i imagine so. sounds like your flight came in at one of the busiest times of the day.”

steve just smiles. he picks at the label on his water bottle, trying to come up with something to say. nothing seems to fit, but in the end he goes with, “i, uh. i want to thank you for letting me stay here for a bit. with billy, and - um. and stuff. i know that it’s not - it’s not usual. but i appreciate it a lot.”

“everything and nothing is usual. it’s just a matter of perspective, or circumstance,” sandy says. she huffs out a soft laugh when steve just blinks. “billy can love whoever he wants. it doesn’t bother me one bit - i just want my son to be happy. i think you and i are alike in that respect.”

“has he been?” steve asks, relief flooding through him, warm and comforting. “happy, i mean?”

“he’s been well. healing. he misses you, though. i think he mentions it about five times a day,” sandy says, a small smile playing on her lips. “writing to you has helped him take some important steps in his recovery.”

“i’ve kept them all, the letters. didn’t know if i’d ever get to come out here,” steve explains, his voice soft. “it was nice to have that little piece of him while he was gone.”

“not gone, just a little out of reach.”

steve whirls around at the sound of billy’s voice, accidentally knocking his water bottle onto the floor in the process. it spills all over the counter and the hardwood, and steve curses.

“shit- i mean, sorry, that wasn’t- i didn’t mean to do that,” steve says, rushing to find something to soak up the water with.

sandy just shakes her head, resting a hand on his shoulder. “go on, i’ll take care of this. it’s just water, honey, don’t worry about it.”

billy is standing in the entrance to the hallway, leaning against the wall with a fond smile on his face. steve gives sandy a grateful look, before moving around the counter to put himself directly in front of billy.

it isn’t until they’re in billy’s room, with the door cracked at sandy’s request, that steve pounces. he has billy in his arms in a split-second, burying his face in billy’s hair and breathing in deep.

“i missed you so much,” steve mumbles, his voice muffled and strands of billy’s hair getting stuck to his tongue.

“missed you too, princess.”

billy smells like the beach. like coconut shampoo and sunscreen and saltwater, even after his shower. he’s squeezing steve tightly, and steve knows it means that billy has missed him just as much.

they stand there for a long time, holding each other. it doesn’t feel right to speak, so neither of them do. they just cling to each other like their each other’s lifelines, their hearts beating in sync.

“do you want to sit down?” billy asks after a while, rubbing soothing circles onto steve’s back.

“no, i want- ” steve stops short, pulling back just enough to look into billy’s eyes.

then, he’s kissing billy with enough force to make them both sway a little. billy nearly topples over and steve eases up, but their lips never separate. steve kisses billy desperately, chasing the taste of weed and nicotine and toothpaste on his tongue. billy kisses him back just as desperately, one hand grabbing a fistful of steve’s hair, the other holding steve steady by the small of his back.

“you know, we could’ve done that sitting down,” billy says when they break apart, panting just as hard as steve. but he’s grinning from ear to ear, and steve is suddenly struck by just how much he looks like his mom.

“didn’t want to wait,” steve murmurs, leaning in to press another kiss to billy’s lips, this one quick, but tender.

then steve pulls away, taking a moment to look around the room. he’d been in billy’s room in hawkins once before when neil was out of town, but it’d felt like it belonged to someone else. there were posters of women in bikinis everywhere, playboys stacked on almost every surface, beer cans crushed and tossed around the room, almost like they were staged that way.

here, steve feels like he’s resting comfortably in billy’s mind. there are still posters hung up, but they’re of the movies steve knows are billy’s favorites. billy’s got two big bookshelves, filled top to bottom with worn books that have steve’s lips twitching into a soft smile when he spots them.

there’s also a hell of a lot of art all over the place, hanging on his walls and even tacked up on his ceiling. all pieces steve knows billy painted or drew himself, because whenever he and billy were alone, billy’s nose would always be buried in some sketchbook or another. he’s always struck by billy’s talent, rendered speechless at the depth to it all.

steve spots a small drawing resting on billy’s nightstand, propped up against his lamp. it’s a simple piece done in black ink, but steve can’t see what it’s of until he steps closer. his breath catches in his throat when he sees that it’s a sketch of him, perched on the hood of the beemer, smiling with a cigarette in hand.

“you drew me?” steve asks, picking up the drawing and cradling it delicately in his hands.

“i draw you a lot,” billy says, shrugging. he comes up behind steve and wraps his arms around his middle, hooking his chin over steve’s shoulder. “i can show you the rest later, but first you have to let me draw you again. it’s been a while.”

billy doesn’t let steve go, but he does maneuver around him to open the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out a faded polaroid. it’s the photo billy’s drawing is based on, and the memory of the night it was taken hits steve like a train.

they’d been out at the quarry, drinking beer and smoking, shooting the shit. the sun was starting to set, and steve knew they were days away from graduating and everything was about change. he remembers his heart feeling so heavy he thought it might fall right out of him. but billy had been all smiles, staring at steve as he leaned up against the beemer, the sun setting behind him.

billy had said something stupid to make steve laugh, and the moment steve smiled billy had taken the shot. the memory has steve smiling down at the polaroid, his smile a little watery.

“i can’t believe you kept this,” steve says, twisting a little in billy’s hold to try and look at him. “it feels like this was so long ago.”

“i carry it around everywhere,” billy tells him, pressing a gentle kiss to steve’s shoulder. “carry these in my wallet, too.”

billy digs in his pocket and pulls out his wallet, producing a torn photo strip. it’s from the time they’d taken pictures in the photobooth at starcourt, before all the pain and devastation that came soon after. the booth had only printed one set, so billy took half, and steve took the other.

“i ever tell you that you’re kind of a softie?” steve jokes.

billy huffs a soft laugh, unwinding himself from around steve so he can take his hand and pull him towards the bed. he flops backwards onto it, and pats the spot next to him. steve curls up next to him immediately, resting his head on billy’s chest.

steve hears the click of billy’s lighter, and smells the smoke soon after. the window behind them is cracked, and steve can only hear the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore, seagulls, and billy’s soft breathing. he passes steve the cigarette a moment later and steve accepts it gratefully, taking a long drag.

“how long can you stay?” billy asks after several beats of silence, taking the cigarette from steve’s outstretched hand.

“‘bout a week. that’s all they’d let me take off,” steve sighs. “wish i could stay forever.”

“wish you could too,” billy says, his voice almost inaudible.

steve tilts his head up, pressing a kiss to the underside of billy’s jaw. “one day. i promise. i’ll be here to stay.”

billy just combs his fingers through steve’s hair, humming softly. they end up falling asleep like that once the cigarette is finished, dozing off to the sounds of the ocean and the city, the evening breeze ruffling their hair. but not before steve looks up at billy one last time, struck dumb by how much he loves him.

and for the first time in a long time, everything just feels right.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

Ok so about that prompt thing... I'm a sucker for heavy angst with haply ending and... Anything along the part of (breaking up) /getting back together. I'm going with the Rose/Doctor trend because I'm full of Subwave Network feelings but really, any Doctor? Canon ou Human AU ? There's just something about two people loving each other so bad but still going their separate ways and then coming back together...

ahhhh! so, this was a little harder than i expected. giving characters so much history in just a few hundred words is pretty hard, but i did my best. hope you enjoy! (and i know you were feeling the ninerose vibes, so i went with that!)

read on ao3.

-

𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕤

-

1994.

-

The last week of camp was always the hardest. This year, it was less because the kids were getting impatient to get home, or because the nights felt both endless and fleeting as the flickering of a firefly. It wasn’t even because she was, as per usual, running critically low on knickers by this point. No, the whole problem could be summed up in one word—a name, actually: James.

It was easy to paint a picture, both metaphorically and literally; she could probably draw him with her eyes closed by now. The new counselor was tall in that way that left him perpetually ducking at doorways, making her feel small and delicate like she hadn’t felt in years—not since before she’d gotten too big to be picked up anymore. And he was thin. Lanky, even, his shoulders bearing no more than a suggestion of what would eventually become bulk. He wore his hair cropped close, a sort of militaristic look that he apparently only kept during the summer, when he was too hot to be arsed with a proper hairstyle. Which, of course, did him no favors in regards to his rather large ears. Not that Rose minded. She liked them.

She would never—not in a thousand years—tell him that, obviously.

He had a prominent nose. Long and straight, and it bumped into her cheek when he kissed her. Tortoiseshell glasses that did the same, unless he remembered to take them off. And beneath the frames, he had the bluest eyes, as sharp and intelligent as they were lovely, little twin reflections of the summer sky overhead. When he smiled—lopsided, left corner higher than right—his eyes crinkled up at the edges like the folded pages of a book, and it made him look older than he was, but younger, too.

And she liked that. She liked lots of things about him. His hands when he played the guitar, and his rough but obvious kindness toward the little kids and other counselors. The way he had to bend down to kiss her—his gravelly accent that sounded so different from her own—the fact he didn’t laugh very much, but when he did, the sound possessed him and made his shoulders shake. The way he teased her, and made her stomach do all sorts of things that shouldn’t be anatomically possible, just by looking at her. 

She just liked him. She just—Rose frowned, ballpoint pen halfway through a stroke—liked him a lot.

And in three-and-a-half days, he’d be gone.

Bound for Manchester while she headed back to London. Bound for uni while she still had two entire years before taking her A-levels. 

It was her own fault, really. She’d been the one who couldn’t make up her own mind, waffling about which subjects she wanted to study. The truth was, she didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. And it was only because of him that she had an idea.

Sort of. More than before, anyway. 

If he hadn’t taken an interest in her sketches, asked her about how she’d gotten into art, she might have continued on like before. Aimless. And, okay, she maybe would have come to a similar conclusion sooner or later, but he’d cared enough to ask. He’d encouraged her. He’d seemed… impressed by her drawings, by the watercolor paintings she’d thumb-tacked to the cabin wall, to her eye for color and light.

Nobody had ever been impressed by her before—not that she knew of.

Was that really all it had taken? Just a little faith from an almost-stranger, and she felt like a new person.

But now that she had a direction, a trajectory, it was leading her decidedly away from him. There were no other routes: going home and studying hard—no distractions—and getting into a good university was the right thing to do, even if her heart rebelled at the idea of leaving all this behind, of leaving James and his hands and his mouth and his smile and his laugh behind, to become no more than a hazy summer memory.

She tapped the nib of her pen against the page, chewing on her bottom lip as she tried to come up with an easy solution; she had to be missing something. The flat didn’t have dial-up, so they couldn’t keep in contact that way. And her mum would be suspicious if she suddenly started hogging the landline and getting random calls from boys. If he’d even want to call her.

If he even wanted to hear from her again, ever.

It made her slightly sick to consider. Did he want to keep in touch? Or was she just a summer fling, something best kept behind at camp?

A shadow slipped over her and she knew it was him, the air instantly cooling from where he blocked the sun. “What are you working on?” She felt him crouch behind her, his chin just hovering over her shoulder—close enough that she could smell the hint of sunblock and sweat, a touch of freshwater sweetness from the lake, and something clean, like laundry airing dry. His frames were present in her peripheral vision, shining in the late afternoon light.

“Nothing,” Rose answered truthfully, glancing down at her hasty sketch of one of the cabins. Her lines were messy and distracted, much like the inside of her head, and not particularly nice to look at. Reflexively, she started to crumple the paper out of her sketchbook, but James dropped a hand over hers.

“Wait, don’t. It’s good.”

She scoffed. “It’s ugly, actually.”

“It’s… honest,” he decided, swiping the page up before she could destroy it, folding the thin paper into squares and shoving it into his trouser pocket as he stood. “I like it.” She looked back over her shoulder, shielding her eyes from the sun, and glared.

“All the sketches I’ve done this summer, all the paintings, and this is the piece you want?”

James raised a brow, looking down at her in a way that might have been imperious, if he weren’t wearing an oversized, tie-dye t-shirt with the camp logo emblazoned on the front. “Are you offering?”

Rose’s eyes narrowed in response, knowing that he was digging for something. “Which one did you want?”

“The self-portrait you did,” he answered immediately, “after we—”

“Shh!” She felt her cheeks flush with heat and averted her eyes on instinct, too mortified to even reply. They both knew what he’d been about to say, and she was suddenly grateful that most of the kids were in the mess on the other side of camp. “Not that one. That’s…”

“Private?” He smirked.

“God, you’re unbearable.” She tried to blink away the image building behind her eyes, the memory from just a few short days ago, but it was so strong and present—almost like she was seeing it from the outside. 

James, his back against the twin headboard, skin scorching through his thin t-shirt and into her bare skin, where the straps of her camisole had slid down her shoulders. Her back to his chest and his arms around her ribs. His lips pressed against her neck while she absently sketched, something slow and easy still sliding through her veins. Contentment. The sort of unconditional acceptance she’d never felt from a bloke before, but couldn’t help feeling now.

Her head had been so pleasantly preoccupied that her hand took over, loosely drawing what her eyes couldn’t see. What she imagined they looked like: her own chest and shoulders and chin; James’s lips against her throat, and his glasses, sliding down his nose. He’d teased her later, when he saw the words looped down at the bottom in an absentminded rush.

Self Portrait, With James. Summer 1994.

“You like it,” James teased, reaching out his hand to pull her upright. She couldn't deny that he was right—she did like just about every irritating bone in his body—but she did roll her eyes while his fingers wiggled in front of her face, long and tan and tempting. When she didn’t answer, he tried another tack. “Had dinner yet?” 

Rose shook her head, not knowing how to say she’d been too busy thinking about… well, him. Them. The future that made her sick to her stomach. She swallowed. 

“C’mon, then. Can’t have you wasting away.” And he grinned his bright, crooked grin, familiar in a way she suspected she’d remember all her life. No matter how far away she got from this summer, from camp, from him, she’d never forget it.

She took his hand—big enough to dwarf hers, with callouses on the pads—and followed him across the grass, trying to stop herself from committing it all to memory. And knowing she would anyway.

-

1996.

-

It was raining on her tour date, which she felt distinctly to be some sort of omen—good or bad, she couldn’t decide. She liked rain, usually. It made things feel more abstract, like something out of an impressionist painting, and it tended to keep people off the streets, leaving them wide open for exploring. She had ventured out with her sketchbook in search of rainy day adventure more than once. But today, she didn't want to get wet, and her hair was already rebelling against the humidity.

And she'd forgotten an umbrella.

“Shit,” she mumbled, jogging into the relative shelter of the overhang, trying to protect her hair and her portfolio at the same time. Her entire hope for academic success was presently pressed against her chest, and the thought of her sketches and paintings—carefully analyzed by her art teacher and herself, selected and matted, representing the best of her work—destroyed by the rain was enough to make her cringe deeper into the recesses of grim, Gothic architecture.

For a moment, she thought it might be the right academic building—she’d made it to campus, that much she could tell—but a quick glance up revealed a plaque telling otherwise. This was not the Centre for Fine Arts.

“Shit,” she repeated, grinding the heel of one hand against her eyes. Light and color blossomed beneath her lids, shades of pressure and frustration.

She was going to be late. She was going to miss her tour of the building. She wasn’t going to get the chance to see the classrooms, or chat with any of the professors, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to make her formal interview. Rose felt a tightness—unmistakable worry—gather in her chest even as her hand pressed harder and harder, flattening her portfolio against her body. This was her one chance, she reminded herself, and she was bollocksing it all up with her lack of preparation. She shouldn’t have trusted her own compass; she should have brought a map and risked looking foolish.

It was just like everyone said: she wasn’t cut out for this, for going to university and trying to make something of herself. She wasn’t.

For a brief, irrational moment, she felt absolutely furious that she’d ever let herself be talked into this—into even aspiring for more, let alone actually trying to make “more” happen. The whole thing had been his idea, the wanker. She might’ve been content serving chips. She liked chips. She did not like feeling how she felt now. Exposed and idiotic.

This was absurd, of course, because she hadn’t seen him in two years, not since the bus dropped the counselors off at the train station and he hadn’t kissed her goodbye. And all the effort she’d put into this—sitting her A-levels and applying for schools and volunteering at the community center, spending her summers teaching arts classes instead of going back to camp—had been wholly her own. James hadn’t had much to do with it, except maybe being in the right place at the right time. And believing in her.

She couldn’t help remembering that. Someone had believed in her.

Even if it hadn’t lasted.

Rose reached deep inside herself for something resembling assurance, struggling to calm her breathing as her mind ran circles around her. Everything felt sort of detached, except for the panic pounding in her chest. But then she took a slow rush of air. In and out. Another. For a moment, she tried to focus only on her immediate sensations—what she could touch and hear and smell—the cool stone against her back, the sound of the rain, slashed by traffic noise and tires splashing through puddles, the smell of mildew and exhaust and rainwater and the perfume she’d put on because today was special. There was nothing else. Just those things, safe and certain.

Her head began to clear.

First, she assessed reasonably, she needed to check her drawings, make sure her portfolio—if the makeshift cardboard and twine could be called such—hadn’t leaked. If it had, it wasn’t worth worrying about anything else. And then she needed to get her bearings—ideally, she needed to find a bloody street sign. She was somewhere she hadn’t been before, somewhere in the bounds of an unfamiliar campus, but it was still London. Still her city. 

And if she was as lost as she imagined, she would ask for help. She would just ask somebody.

She inhaled slowly, letting the familiar smells and sounds settle her mind. The hand against her face kept up its steady pressure. And right when she thought she might be brave enough to open her eyes again and face the world—

“Rose?”

The whole world—everything, every priority she’d just rearranged into some semblance of a proper order—disappeared, wiping her mind abruptly blank.

“Oh, brilliant,” Rose blurted out. “This is all your fault.”

She said it before her eyes even opened, before she could calm her heart that was, once again, racing. 

And she regretted it immediately upon seeing him.

James. The absolute bastard. He was standing right there in front of her, wearing a too-large leather jacket and a smirk as smug as anything she’d ever seen. Like an apparition summoned from her stupid subconscious, he was in London and right in front of her, appearing at the exact moment she’d been thinking of him. How was that possible? She blinked up at him—had he grown taller? No, probably not. Just sort of… broader. His hair was longer. His eyes were… bluer? Or was that just the rain, turning the world cool and grey around him?

She realized she was staring—not staring, actually, but glaring—right about the time that his smirk, still higher on the left side, started to fade, turning to an expression of dismay.

“It’s my fault you’re crying in the rain?”

“I’m not crying,” she snapped. “I’m thinking.”

“My fault you’re thinking? Well, that’s sort of flattering”

“Oh my God, you’re still unbearable,” she groaned.

He stepped closer, his damp hair falling in loose waves around his face. Little droplets of water clung to his glasses. He must have just come out from the rain, she realized numbly. “You still like it,” he chimed back, the response so automatic that she could almost forget that any time had passed at all. She could almost imagine that they were both exactly the same as before, standing in sun-warm grass with her back against a tree.

Only she couldn’t. Because she was going to be late.

That, and he seemed just as surprised as she was by his instantaneous response, catching his arm before it could lift to cage her against the wall. He blinked—once, forcefully.

Her voice came out weak, swallowed by the rain. “You’ve got no idea what I like.”

And James just nodded; the familiar glint left his eyes, like the sun receding behind a cloud. She might have felt bad about it, if given half the chance. But she didn’t give herself even a moment to consider it, steeling herself with the memory of him turning his back on the train platform, his shoulders so set, so determined. She reminded herself that there was a reason she was out in the rain today, holding a fistful of paintings to her body, and he wasn’t that reason. She was.

“You’re a student here,” she guessed.

He seemed flustered by the easy assertion. “Yeah. Med student. Second year.” His gaze slid away from hers, and she was stung by realization that he’d been so close this entire time, for two whole years, while she’d been studiously trying to forget him. To forget the way it had ended without either of them saying a word. To re-learn the confidence he’d instilled in her. 

Had he not even attempted to find her? Surely he’d remembered that she lived in London, a few scant miles from his university. 

James must have been aware of her thoughts, or having similar ones, because his face looked pained and tight.

“That’s great,” she said faintly, still at a loss. It was; it was exactly what he’d wanted to do with his life. Granted, she hadn’t expected him to do it in London. “But I actually need your help. I’ve got an interview in—I don’t know—soon, and I’ve got… I’ve got to find the Centre for Fine Arts.” Now it was her turn to avoid his eyes. Did he remember? Would he even care?

I’ve done it, she wanted to say. I’m doing it right now. What we talked about.

From the corner of her eye, she saw his lips curve into a shadow of his familiar grin. “I don’t go there much, I’ll admit, but I know where it is.” And his hand stretched out—almost like he was going to grab hers, tug her along behind him like he used to—but he shoved his fist back in the pocket of his leather jacket only a second later. “C’mon, then.” He turned, expecting her to follow.

She did. Of course she did.

“Wait, could you—do you mind—”

James tilted his head, listening.

“Could you put my portfolio under your jacket? I don’t want the… watercolors to get wet and reactivate. It’ll ruin the paintings.” She hated the way her voice wobbled when she acknowledged what she was holding, as if she was afraid he might ask about her art. Had he kept her sketch of the cabin? 

But he didn’t ask; he took the thin cardboard from her hands and tucked it into his jacket, pulling the lapels closed over his chest to protect her work from the rain.

“Good?” he asked, his eyes sliding up to meet hers. They were so much more intent than she remembered. Focused.

Rose just nodded, throat thick. Why was this so hard?

After only a second, he stepped out into the rain.

They walked for a few moments in silence, letting it stack up like bricks between them, building a wall that was already starting to feel impenetrable. With each step, her damp shoes kicked up water that chilled the backs of her bare legs. She was scrambling for something—anything—to say when James cleared his throat, said, “So, you’re still… doing the art thing, then.” It was vague, but undeniable. He sounded pleased.

Rose blushed. “Yeah. Fine Art and Design.”

“That’s… good,” he offered. “You were always brilliant at it.”

“I think you’re biased.” It was the wrong thing to say, but she couldn’t stop the words coming out of her mouth.

His lips twitched. “Maybe.”

She couldn’t tell whether his reply made her feel better or worse. Maybe a bit of both. She bit down on her bottom lip, straining against the urge to ask him any of the innumerable questions suddenly swirling in her head: Had he missed her? Why wasn’t he at University of Manchester, like he’d planned? Why was he wearing a leather jacket in the middle of August?

When had his posture gotten so straight, like he owned the ground beneath his feet? He didn’t seem to be at war with his own body anymore, and something in her warmed at the thought.

He interrupted her musing—and her stare—with a sudden glance her way. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she rushed out. And then she admitted, “you just… look different.”

“Probably the hair. Haven’t shaved it in a few—”

Rose shook her head, still shooting glances his way as they stopped at a crossing. “No, it’s not your hair.”

“I mean, it has been two years, Rose—”

I know,” she interrupted. “You look good. Different, but good. Lighter, maybe?”

James stopped mid-step, and she had to reach out and tug him forcibly across the intersection. On the other side of the road, he dipped his chin, pressing his lips flat together. It looked like he was trying to hide his face—or hide a smile. “You’re spooky, you know that? Always asking the right questions.”

Well, she certainly had more where that came from. “New girlfriend?” Rose was guessing, but she was pleased to see his eyes jump to hers, his shoulders shaking with a repressed laugh. “Or no girlfriend? Either one could be something to smile about.” She arched a brow, pleased to feel some of her confidence returning. She’d caught him off guard, and she liked it.

“No girlfriend. It’s just, ah—I sort of went against my parents, going to school here. They didn’t want me to move to London.”

“And you’re glad you did?” 

Once again, he pinned her with a flash of blue. “You could say that.”

She realized, with heat and awareness churning though her chest and up into her cheeks, that she was still holding his hand. Her fingers twitched automatically, but before she could break the contact—and, oh God, he still had the same callouses from guitar strings—his own fingers tightened around hers. They were so warm, even in the clammy rain.

“Rose,” he began, a steady and sticky something building in his eyes; she couldn’t look away.

But she knew she had to break the spell, because if he acted on that something—something like confessing his love on a street corner in the rain—she’d go absolutely mental, and then she’d definitely miss her interview. The tour had probably come and gone by now, but there was still a chance… 

“Are we almost there?” She asked impatiently. “I can’t miss this interview—I had to borrow money for bus fare—”

“Rose,” he repeated, sighing. “Art building’s just over there. On the right.”

“Oh.” She turned in the direction he was looking, and sure enough, she could see the proper signage, but he still didn’t let go of her hand. She spun back, ready to say something, anything—

Why was her stomach churning? Why had she gotten so scared all of the sudden?

Would he disappear when she let go? If he turned around and walked away now, would she spend the next two years trying to forget the feel of his hand on hers? Her thoughts spun and spiraled, a yawning horror opening in her that made her want to run. Get it over with. “Well, thanks for—”

“Rose.” 

He squeezed her fingers, just gently, enough to make her pulse throb. Like a question mark at the end of a sentence left unsaid.

She sucked in a breath and pushed it out. “Yes, James.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

“Don’t forget your paintings,” he said softly, pulling one hand from his coat, and with it, her portfolio. Raindrops immediately began to soak into the cardboard and she pulled it tightly to her chest with one arm—it was still warm from his body. She thought she could even detect a whiff of something—clean laundry. It felt like falling backwards in time, and her heart skipped another beat.

He couldn’t seem to let go of her. And it was sort of a relief; his touch felt like Rose’s only tether to reality. 

“You’ll blow them away,” he said, sounding assured like he always did.

Rose nodded. And then, surprising herself, she said, “I’m glad you found me today. I was just thinking…” But she wasn’t quite brave enough for that. I was just thinking about you.

“Yeah,” he agreed with what she hadn’t said, throat bobbing with uncharacteristic anxiety. “Me too. And I’m not waiting until it happens again. I’ll just wait until you’re done, and then we can—I mean, if you want—we could get chips. Celebrate what will definitely be a successful interview. And I can… explain.”

“Explain,” she repeated hesitantly.

James shifted his weight. His hand suddenly felt heavy in hers. “Why I spent two whole years not calling the girl of my dreams, even after… following her to London.”

The words spilled over her like rainwater, sending a shiver down her spine. He had known. He’d known all along. He’d thought of her. He’d missed her. She felt the smile overtaking her lips and didn’t even want to stop it. But she barely gave the pleasant feelings time to root before she determinedly tugged her hand out of his, determined to keep her priorities in order.

She had to do this; she wasn’t here for him. She was here to get into uni, because she wanted to. And yes, this was an unbelievable twist of fate and completely impossible and he just looked so ridiculously good that not drawing him was a crime. But she was going to be late.

“Okay,” she agreed quickly, noticing the way the hopeful expression was draining away from his face. “But don’t wait in the rain. That jacket is ridiculous. I mean, I like it—but it’s ridiculous. You’ll be soaked.”

It was unbelievable, the gymnastics her heart did when his face flooded with happiness. It wasn’t even a proper smile; it was something else, something in his eyes that felt like the rain letting up, a warm ray of sunshine on her skin. He nodded eagerly. “Okay. I’ll wait in the lobby.”

“And if this interview goes to hell—”

“It won’t.”

“If it does, I don’t want to hear a word about it. Understand?”

He nodded, a grin finally stretching his cheeks. He still had the silliest smile. And it still made her stomach do weird, anatomically-impossible flip-flops. It reminded her of mud-slinging afternoons and lake water and everything good and bright in the world.

“Right.” She said, forcefully interrupting her own train of thought before it could spiral out of control. “I’ve got to go, yeah? I’ll be late.”

“Right,” he echoed, nodding again. More seriously this time. He pushed his glasses up his nose with one long finger. “Don’t want that.”

“Nope.” Her voice was faint in her own ears. “Definitely not.” Her heart beat like a kettle drum, rebounding through her whole body with a rhythm she couldn’t recognize. She felt herself leaning forward and was briefly horrified by what she was about to do.

She was about to do something ridiculous, like confess her love on a street corner in the rain.

Or maybe not exactly that.

Rose pushed up onto her tiptoes before she could think better of it, brushing a kiss over his lips, rain-cool and just as quick. She could feel his smile under her mouth, and the way his lips suddenly shifted to accommodate hers, coaxed into an old familiar shape. But before he could reach out—before she could do something stupid like drop her portfolio and climb him like that tall tree at the center of the campground—she drew back, already flushing madly. 

“Bye,” she whispered.

He laughed—threw his head back, shoulders shaking. And then he answered, “Bye, Rose.”

She had just enough time to take in the pleased glimmer in his eye—embed it into her memory, so it could carry her through the interview—before she spun on her heel, taking off in the direction of the Centre for Fine Arts. Rose smiled so hard her cheeks ached.

She had an interview to ace.

[ackermans-freedom-inc]

Hiya! I was debating on whether or not to ask you this, considering that you're probably busy with valentine and other matchup asks, but here it goes. I was wondering if you can match me up with a AOT male, taller then me (I'm 5'5 lol). If that's possible? Here I go-(I'm sorry if this is long!)

✨I have blue/greenish eyes, and red dyed hair (I put this last, idk know why-)

✨I'm an aquarius and honestly, I truly live up to my sign. I'm a Ambivert cause even though I love hanging out with my friends and get along with them, there are times where I just need to get out and be alone for a bit and just let out everything in me.

✨for my personality, I got a turbulent advocate, INFJ-T (I don't know if that helps-) I'm usually quiet and shy around new people, and keep to myself around them unless they come over and talk to me, or I hear them say something that is an interest of mine then I can break out of my shell and start talking.

✨After speaking up to a person and getting to know them better, I'm a very bubbly person, I try to be kind by treating people the way I want to be treated and only rarely am I angry unless someone really press my buttons. I also use humor to cope with, pretty much everything, and I always try my hardest to make someone laugh, because whenever I hear someone laugh, my heart melts because of it. Idk why it just does.

✨considering my height, and my weight, I'm a chubby girl, thick thighs and all. It took me a long time to love myself and try to accept myself for who I am, since I was bullied quite a bit during my childhood for my weight and other things. However, even though Im starting to love myself, there are times where I become insecure but I usually keep it to myself unless someone makes me blurt it out.

✨speaking of insecure, I have really bad anxiety. Whenever I'm under pressure during a situation I have no idea how to fix, I start to pick at my skin, usually digging my nails into my skin to the point it draws blood. And whenever I'm around a lot of people, like at a store for example, I always feel like their eyes are on me which makes me feel very insecure and I keep my arms around my stomach to try to keep my nerves down. Whenever I feel my anxiety rise, my body start to twitch, especially my hands, so in order to calm it down I start to sketch out a drawing or listen to music to help me calm.

✨I was mentally and physically abused as a child so it takes me a while before I can truly open to someone. I always feel like I'm a burden to people when I speak out about my problems or my feelings, so I tend to keep them to myself. However, there are times where I just can't keep it in anymore, so I just let it all out to someone by either crying or speaking at high speed (pretty much gibberish) and tug really hard at my hair. Because of this, I love it when someone understands me or, even if they don't know what I've exactly been through, they're still there to help and support me no matter what.

✨I usually don't use words or describe my emotions in these types of situations, so I express it to my partner by actions. Such as hugging them tight, or crying in their shoulders. Because I'm always worried I'll say the wrong thing to someone. And whenever I do say something wrong, I apologise to them, but it still lingers in my head for a while before I can come to terms with it.

✨In many situations, I try to use my brain before acting out, but there are times where my emotions get the best of me.

✨I have an immense fear that I'll be forgotten by the people I love, or I lose someone close to me. It didn't bother me back then, but now it's become a big fear of mine.

✨ANYWAY- aside from the "that" stuff, I get really flustered whenever someone compliments me, or even remotely flirts with me. Sure, I flirt back or compliment to someone as well (even if it's cheesy sometimes-) but when it's directed to me, I blush SO hard and smile because Ive never been complimented a lot during my past, so I take compliments to heart a lot of the time.

✨My hobbies are Drawing/Painting, Reading, Writing, Video games, and Hanging out with my friends.

✨Drawing has always been my favorite hobby as long as I can remember. Through out the years, my art style has gotten better, even though I still don't have an officially art style for myself. I especially love to draw or sketch out the people I love, ocs, animals, and mythical creatures. Mostly dragons/wyverns since I've always been entranced by mythology and mythical creatures. Drawing, or sketching in general has helped me a lot with expressing my emotions and my creativity on paper.

✨Animation has always been my biggest aspiration and I'm currently saving up money so I can study in animation.

Anyways, I think imma stop my matchup ask here so I hope all of this information about me helps! Again, I'm sorry if I'm bothering you with this matchup!

Hi Onyx!!!! You are NEVER bothering me!!! Thank you for sending in such a detailed bio for me! I just wanted to say, a lot of how you describe yourself sounds like me! Maybe its a fellow Aquarius thing? You are so so brave to be able to share so much about yourself with me, and I am so very thankful you felt safe to do so! <3 rooting for you and here for you if you need an ear, or shoulder. 

Alright, now. I have excluded Levi, Armin, and Connie because I believe those are the ones that are shorter than 5′5. 

I think the single thing that made me choose who I did for you was your love for art! I would match you up with....

Jean! 

We saw how much of an artist Jean was, and honestly that part stuck with me. 

Jean would be a good match for an ambivert such as yourself because I feel like he is a good balance of quiet contemplation and keeping to himself mixed with a very particular personality that can lean towards outgoing and sarcastic. 

I feel like Jean would be very respectful of what you wanted, and in time, would get more perceptive towards your needs. Did you agree to go out with your friends but as the day drew closer seemed a little hesitant about going out? He would be willing to be your scapegoat, telling your friends that he had something come up and you couldnt hang out anymore, or that there was some sort of leak or issue he caused and he needed you to stay behind to help with it. Essentially, he would be partner and that friend you call to bail you out of unfortunate situations all rolled up into one! 

At first, Jean would be the one who prompts you to talk and share more about yourself, but over time, as you grow more comfortable with him, you’d be the one dominating conversations, and he'd be absolutely fine with it! Just listening to you talk with an occasional hum or comment. 

Jean I think would be a mixture of actions and words. He is a little more vocal about sharing his emotions, but not by much. Hes mostly in his head with things and can come off as a little cold, but if you knew how he communicated his love, it would be obvious how much he cares. He does the little, mundane things to make life easier for you rather than profess his feelings all the time. When he notices how you cope with stressful environments, he'd be a great help. He'd gently take your hands and help you unfurl your clenched fist, or lacing your fingers with his to prevent you from picking at em. He would be that rock you need at the store, ushering you into a quiet aisle with an arm around your shoulder, making sure you're okay before resuming the shopping trip, planning out the optimal routes to take in order to minimize time spent in the store. 

The two of you would rarely get into arguments, mainly due to the fact that he could never really argue with you, also, you are just...never really angry. He would know better than to push your buttons or pick a fight so its usually pretty smooth sailing. 

You and jean’s everyday talk would be cute to listen to, him taking every opportunity to flirt or throw in a cheesy pickup line to make you smile. “good morning! its a beautiful day!”

“morning! You’re right. Gorgeous.” and hes looking straight at you and not at the blue skies smh 

Jean might be a little embarrassed or self conscious about his art, but would love to watch you sketch. He would go along with you to the park, or just out to explore new spots, sitting beside you quietly, sometimes laying his head in your lap as you sketch. That would be his ideal lazy afternoon. 

Overall, you two would be super cute! Everyone thinks so, but most importantly, the two of you would support each other, each helping the other grow in the best ways! 

Valentines Day Event 

[lostinfic]

Self Indulgent prompts, huh? I love anything with artist Rose so something with that theme. I'm not picky about the Doctor- like my current obsession is Eight/Rose, but I'm perpetually in love with Nine/Rose and Ten/Rose too so whichever Doctor you're most comfortable with.

The Museum of Serendipity

Doctor x Rose, Wilf, male OC (Original Cat)

Rated E  | 2300 words

Sorry this took longer than anticipated, I got sidetracked by research and 8th Doctor audio adventures ;)

I’m fulfilling your self-indulgent prompts

Of all the wonderful, celebrated museums in London, Rose’s favourite was an anarchic collection housed in a crooked Georgian house in Marylebone. 

From ground floor to attic, over four storeys, shelves and frames lined the walls of every room, following a seemingly incoherent design. Part cabinet of curiosity and part celebration of beauty in all its forms, the collection was curated by an anonymous— and eccentric, Rose liked to imagine— philanthropist.

Its name, the Museum of Serendipity, summed up how the collection was put together. Or perhaps it indicated how this museum could be found: by sheer good luck, as it was not advertised anywhere. Rose herself had stumbled upon it by accident last September, when looking for a shelter from the rain. Quite a happy accident, since her art teacher had asked them to visit a gallery for their first assignment of the semester (she’d earned extra points for originality).

Despite few visitors, it remained open from morning to evening. More often than not, the elderly greeter slept in his rocking chair by the door, leaving Basil the cat in charge.

Its location near Regent’s Park, made it a perfect destination for a drawing session. On a beautiful spring day like today, Rose would walk along the paths of the park and draw the flora and fauna in her sketchbook. Then make her way towards the museum. Other days, after a long time indoors, she would enjoy the park’s fresh air and time to reflect on the latest collection piece she’d discovered.

Since her childhood, art had been a way for Rose to travel, around the globe and across time, a way to see the world through other people’s eyes and to share her own vision. A way to exist beyond the Powell Estate. The Museum of Serendipity transported her like nothing else.

Although she enjoyed the morning sun, she didn’t linger in Regent’s Park, too eager to get there. 

The elderly greeter was listening to the radio in his small front office. 

“Hello, Wilf!”

He jumped to his feet with an energy that belied his years.

“Ah, Rose, luv. Alright? How’s school?”

“Got another assignment to complete for art history class. By the way, mid-term break is coming up, if you fancy a holiday, I could cover your shifts here for a few days.”

He would be doing her a favour more than the other way around.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “We got a new piece came in.”

New pieces were simply added to the exhibition wherever a space was available. As they walked to the drawing room, Rose tried to know more about the museum.

“Who brought this new piece?”

“John did, just this morning.”

“John?”

“Yeah, John McConnell , the mailman,” Wilf said. “Here it is.”

On the mantel lay an artifact shaped like a metal glove without fingertips. Or a pan flute.

“Looks like something from the future,” she joked.

“Modern art, then,” Wilf said. 

He left her to look at it a while longer. The pattern that covered it, both engraved and raised all at once, looked like scales. Rose pulled her sketchbook out of her messenger bag and drew it. Texture study. 

Basil, the museum’s Abyssinian cat, greeted her, rubbing himself against her legs. She petted his long ears and ruddy coat. She followed Basil out of the room, and wandered the now familiar corridors and staircases. Her hand trailed along the faded floral wallpaper and oak paneling. The smell of candle wax and pine wood polish always hung in the air.

There was one painting in particular Rose always came back to, in the third floor library, just above a loveseat that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. Ahead of her, Basil jumped on the loveseat and looked at her expectantly.   

Rose pulled up a chair to sit down, the museum was almost a second home now, she had no qualms moving furniture around.

With a dreamy sigh, she let her eyes roam the large canvas. It depicted a dozen people in elegant Edwardian clothing, visiting an art exhibition. She was transported back in times, it seemed. Back to la Belle Époque. Late 19th- early 20th century, in France. Among women in high-necked waist shirts, carrying white lace parasols and men wearing mustaches and straw boating hats. The era of Moulin Rouge and absinthe, of the first movie, of bicycles and Marie Curie, just to name a few.  The era of Gustav Klimt, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and Renoir, the artists whose work Rose had first fallen in love with. The painting itself blended elements of Art Nouveau and Impressionism (as she’d described in her second assignment).  

But there was one character in particular that commanded her attention again and again. There, in the upper left corner. The painter had done this trick which makes it look like the subject’s eyes are on you wherever you stand in the room. Though unnerved at first, Rose now tried to master this technique. Countless time she’d drawn his thick, curly brown hair, the soft contours of his jaw, his blue eyes, the creases that bracketed his mouth. And that smile, a Mona Lisa smile, the hardest trait to capture. 

His clothes also offered many details to work on: the sheen of his satin cravat, the velvet of his jacket, the pattern of his waistcoat. 

At first, she only tried to capture his likeness in various mediums, but over time she tried to sketch his profile, his back. She depicted that gentleman in various poses and actions. He had taken a life of his own. What was he doing there that day? What was his relationship with the painter? Why was he looking at her like that?

Basil meowed. 

“Alright, don’t be jealous. I’ll draw you first, you beautiful boy.”

“Thanks, it’s a new jumper. Do you like the colour?” said a man with a northern accent.

Rose started. He was leaning against the door, looking at her, with the smallest hint of a smile. 

He picked up Basil and sat down on the loveseat, laying the cat on his legs crossed at the knees. Rose held back a quip about the similar size of their ears.

“Well, go on, then,” he said, indicating her sketchbook with his chin.  

“Hold on, are you the director of the museum? Or the curator?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

At a loss for a reply, Rose simply got to work. 

If Basil wasn’t running away, then surely this man posed no threat. Just a lost, slightly odd item, like everything else in the Museum of Serendipity. Including herself.

His face offered such striking features to draw, that bold nose, those sharp cheekbones. The cropped hair revealed the shape of his skull and the collar of his sweater, a beautiful neck. A face for charcoal, she thought, to capture the lights and darks of him, in loose, almost intangible strokes. Charcoal and dry pastels, she amended, she had to recreate the infinite blue of his eyes.

They chatted about everything big and small: cats, galaxies, her doubts about art school and his hopes for the future of humanity.

Time flowed differently when she was creating. In that moment more than ever. A sort of appeasing, melodic hum filled her mind, and everything, but her subject, faded away.

When she traced his eyes, she was surprised to find in them a spark, as if he knew her. 

She looked up at him, and he smiled. “Hello,” he said.

Before she could think of a good way to phrase her question, he stood up and looked at the sketch over her shoulder. He gave an appreciative nod.

“We need someone to do a painting of the museum,” he announced. “Are you free to do it?”

“A painting? Are you taking the piss?”

“I’m serious. Great big canvas. Like this one.” He pointed to her favourite painting of la Belle Époque.

“I’ll need money to buy supplies,” she said, to test his good faith.

“Of course.”

He grabbed a tin box in a nearby bookcase; it was full of cash. He handed her the stack of pound notes without counting. Almost as if he was ignorant of their value. “Will this do?”

Rose nodded dumbly. She resolved right away to only spend a reasonable sum. 

“I’ll come by next Wednesday afternoon,” she said.

“Perfect. See you, then, Rose Tyler.”

She spent the next few days in a state of disbelief. Her mind constantly replayed her encounter with the blue-eyed man. Several times, she opened her sketchbook to look at his portrait. The fondness it aroused in her took her breath away. She found herself doodling both him and the gentleman in the painting, over and over.

She bought a load of art supplies, but kept the receipt in a secure place in case she needed a refund.

On Wednesday, she arrived at the museum with a knot in her stomach. Wilf greeted her, as usual, but he was wearing a smart new uniform.

A moment later, the blue-eyed man skipped down the stairs, two at a time, and welcomed her with a bright smile. He introduced himself as the Doctor, just the Doctor, and Rose went along with it— after all, it wasn’t the weirdest thing about him.

He’d set up an easel and a canvas in the third floor library. She barely paid attention to his directives, she was distracted by the number of visitors in the museum, more than she had ever seen.

“Is this a prank show thing or what?” she asked.

“Why would it be a prank show?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you said it. Why a prank show?” he repeated.

“‘Cause to get that many actors and props, it’s got to be on telly.”

“That makes sense. Well done.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s not a tv show,” he said. 

“But— why?”

“It’s the museum’s anniversary. We are interested in collecting unique pieces, and what’s more unique than Rose Tyler’s first commissioned artwork?” 

“Maybe the last,” she mumbled.

“It won’t be,” he said, stating a fact rather than paying a compliment. “Coffee?”

The Doctor knew something she didn’t, and as irritating as it was, it incited her to stay and fulfill his request.

She laid a tarp on the floor below the easel, spread out her brushes and palette knives, picked the colours. 

Basil, of course, wanted to be part of the painting. He lay down in the sunniest spot, on the window sill, looking ever so regal.

As she prepped the canvas, her brain ran ahead of her with ideas to best infuse her art with feelings this room evoked. Warm earth tones, old leather bound books, a thick Persian rug, but also glass cases to keep people away, artworks by undisclosed artists, mysteries all around. Inviting and distant all at once. Much like the Doctor.

She scanned the room for him. He stood in a corner of the library, surveying. As she traced his silhouette, she noticed the similarity, in his posture and smile, with the fascinating gentleman in the Belle Époque painting. She made a mental note to ask about that too.

Hours passed by, Wilf kept her comfortable with cups of tea, snacks, a stool, opening the window, closing the window.

Everyone had left. The sun had set. Only the Doctor and Basil remained in the room with her. 

The artwork wasn’t finished, but it had everything she needed to continue another day. Yet, she didn’t leave. She didn’t want to. She stood there, wringing her paint-splattered hands waiting for something, anything, from the Doctor. 

“I want to show you something,” he said. He took her hand and they both stood up on Marie Antoinette’s loveseat. “Look closely.”

Now inches from the Belle Époque painting, she saw it like she never had before. It shimmered and shifted. Like those 3D images you have to cross your eyes to see. She blinked. Looked closer. And drifted through the canvas.

Rose gripped the Doctor’s hand tighter. Behind them, there was no library, only a blue door. And in front of her, the painting had come to life. No— they weren’t in the painting, they were in Paris of the 1900s. Around her, people chatted in French, cigar smoke wafted to her nose, and through a window that wasn’t on the painting, she could see the brand new Eiffel tower.

The gentleman that had so fascinated her was there too. Thick hair, bright smile.

“Rose, we meet at last,” he said.

His voice sounded exactly like she’d imagined. She didn’t know until now that she’d imagined his voice.

“She’s all yours,” the Doctor said.

Rose didn’t let go of his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here to bring you back to your own timeline.”

He disappeared through the blue door.

The other man linked their arms together. A feeling of safety washed over her. He was a stranger and yet not at all. As if to reassure her further, an Abyssinian cat sauntered by.

“Is that Basil?” Rose asked.

“In a fashion. Cats have nine lives, as you know.”

“And you, Doctor, how many have you got?”

The Doctor smiled. “Ah, you figured it out, clever girl.”

That didn’t mean she didn’t have a ton of questions, but for now, she only wanted to soak up the magic of it all. 

The Doctor showed her around the room. They mingled with the other visitors, admiring the artwork on the walls. Rose couldn’t stop grinning.

They stopped in front of a painting depicting another gallery, in another museum, in another era.

“Can we go through there too?” Rose ventured.

“Yes, but wouldn’t you like to see Paris first?”

“We can go out?”

“Of course. You know, my friend Claude has been pestering me about visiting his garden. Nice fellow, this Claude. Mind you, he’s a tad obsessed with water lilies.”

[itscookieoverlordtoyou]

40 Questions — Meme for Fic Writers

Don’t you sometimes see those ask games and wish you could just fkg do them all? On this sunny Saturday, we make our dreams reality lolol

1.  Describe your comfort zone—a typical you-fic.

Short fic, I usually get a small scene I want written so I write around it, plus I love short stories with interesting punchline.

2.  Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to?

Probably, I don’t know them all ^^’

3.  Is there a trope you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole?

Writing about stuff that disgust me I guess.

4.  How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

Like 5-6? I want to write about a restaurant but set in a world where people have powers I think the combo could be very funny. The main character has the power of insight, the plonge is a giant pool where you swim around cleaning. Backstories of characters with shitty and amazing powers and how they ended up here. Rival to lover character that has the power to see into the future.

5. Share one of your strengths.

Dialogues, subversion, and humor; classmates often said I have a touch to spin a sad story into something positive/happier.

6.  Share one of your weaknesses?

I get tired when I describe something for longer than 4 sentences.

7.  Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“In what kind of trouble have we walked right into?”, I ask my companions as they’re idly fixing their attire. Together, we’ve face many perils and this mission ranks among one of the most dangerous. Yet, the others had been…how should I say it…professional! Rescuing kidnapped princesses, vanquishing terrifying monsters, quests to restore mythical artifacts, save nations from insidious plots. Oddly enough, “Does this dress make me look fat?”, is not the answer I’m looking for.

Ribbon in my hair is the first time I wrote about my knights, I first dreamt about them when I as 18, my boyfriend at the time called my idea stupid and my world building pointless so I only started writing about them when I was 21. Now I write about them a little bit every year :)

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“Do you really want your last words to be complaints?”

“I die as I lived.”

“Will we become a fruit tree?”

“I don’t think so, it’s never been the case for my ancestors.”

“I’d love it if we could turn into a banana tree.”

“I’m not from the southern regions, plus I like apples more.”

“Just imagine, our fruits could have been banana flambée”

This death scene was a big finale to a story I wrote for a class in Uni, a story of war between clan of forest and volcano people, of the supposedly brutal death of a Goddess, of a mysterious apple tree whose fruit give vision of the past. I should revisit it.

9.  Which fic as been the hardest to write?

My analysis on D’Artagnan and the figure of the hero. Granted it’s an essay for school but I deeply loved it. I was too afraid to write or ask for help from the professor in charge of me (which made our relationship tense ^^’) but when I did, it was beautiful and I was very proud got 89% :D

10.  Which fic has been the easiest to write?

A play called Adelaide where an old couple reads their old fairytale book about a Prince on a quest to save a Princess. They bicker about the other misreading the story but we finally get to the part where the Prince tosses the princess apart to get a better view of the dragon of which he falls instantly in love. The book is actually their wedding album.

11.  Is writing your passion or just a fun hobby?

It’s one of my passions, but it’s not something I think I could live on so I delegated it to my hobby.

12.  Is there an episode above all others that inspires you just a little bit more?

The wedding scene in Shrek 2, my mind was blown when I saw it in theaters and when I need inspiration to write, I rewatch it.

13.  What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever come across?

Presentation is important. If trying to read you gives people headaches, they’ll stop. Choose a nice big font, space with paragraphs, be mindful of your spelling and missing words. Read out loud because some things written are bad said.

14.  What’s the worst writing advice you’ve ever come across?

I must’ve been lucky in this regard, I don’t think I’ve ever received advice that made me go NO, but I did have to listen/read stuff that made me gag.

15.  If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

I would love to the Adelaide acted out, some adjustments would be required because I’m no expert in play writing but I think I’d be great.

16.  If you only could write one pairing for the rest of your life, which pairing would it be?

Luyenor’a and Taram, names are placeholders as of now but they’re two of my knight, being the “only pairing I’m allow to write about forever” means I’d get more knight shenanigans done.

17.  Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

I’m doing bullets point of what I want to happen and write stuff without much order. Some days I have no inspirations for what goes in the beginning but have loads for a later point. I surf the wave when it presents itself.

18.  Do you use any tools, like worksheets or outlines?

Word on my computer, a notebook in my bag, the note app in my phone.

19. Stephen King once said that his muse is a man who lives in the basement. Do you have a muse?

I have little trinkets all around my computer to invite inspiration.

20. Describe your perfect writing conditions.

Freshly woken up, having eaten, drinking something sugary and sometimes apple cider because the alcohol help lower my inhibition.

21.  How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

I read out loud at least once the whole thing, helps with missing words but dude I reread my stuff on ao3 and always find mistakes still ^^’

22. Choose a passage from one of your earlier fics and edit it into your current writing style. (Person sending the ask is free to make suggestions).

I’m not going to put here because it’s in French and I don’t want to translate now but I wrote Vision of a world, mine when I was 16 and damn was I already depressed then?

23.  If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?

The Princess and the Soldier, some gay fairytale I think my first one, I’m sure I can do better bow

I also have one about a janitor and it’s a murder mystery I could redo

24. Have you ever deleted one of your published fics?

Once by accident, I was so angry I never rewrote it.

25.  What do you look for in a beta?

I don’t really use beta (beta reader right?) but I guess I’ve had like 3-4 when I was in Uni and had to read people’s wip and they read mine. They’d talk about what they liked, links they noticed, things that seemed weak or to change

26.  Do you beta yourself? If so, what kind of beta are you?

I usually just point out the stuff I like

27.  How do you feel about collaborations?

For a class in college, we had to act out a play we wrote collectively. Ten sketches written in pairs/alone. I made sure I was alone so I wouldn’t be saddled with someone else to write my sketch

28. Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

I don’t follow fic writers; I just am in a mood for a ship and read what’s available. I do like my friend @alumort ‘s fics tho ^^

29.  If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

There was a Phineas and Ferb fic focused on Perry I really loved. Their world building was something I’d never seen and they abandoned the story, so I did fanfic of a fic. Never dared to post it anywhere I mean it was their world to begin with.

30.  Do you accept prompts?

Of course, when inspiration is given I accept

31.  Do you take liberties with canon or are you very strict about your fic being canon compliant?

I don’t care about canon but I do love using it when there are little trivia to enrich the character.

32.  How do you feel about smut?

Love to read it sometimes, would love to write it. Some I’m like………….youveneverhadsexhaveyou…………………

33.  How do you feel about crack?

Love it!!!!!!!! I’m too self-conscious to write it tho. Oh maybe that could be a never before written trope I could try?

34.  What are your thoughts on non-con and dub-con?

Rape I can’t, dub-con where underlying requited feelings exist but anxiety™ don’t let the characters express them but they’re drunk so it surfaces is okay

35.  Would you ever kill off a canon character?

Hell yeah! I do when/if the death makes sense (I am still pissed at Kishi for Neji)

36.  Which is your favorite site to post fic?

Ao3 is where I post,I used devianart when I had one

37.  Talk about your current wips.

Marry Me for the Love of Cake: God I’m so sorry to the few people who followed it, I said I’d pick it up before the end of 2019 and well……I have the ending in bullet points

Yours, with Love: I hope I’ll finish it…I have most of the ending in bullet points

I guess I’m into rom com at the moment lolol

38.  Talk about a review that made your day.

I made my best friend read All this for a Roll Cake, and she laughed so much at my work, I took a picture I look at from time to time to remain humble.

39.  Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?

Thankfully I’ve never received a rude review. My professor once told me it seemed kinda unnatural how unlucky my protagonist was vs. how lucky his love interest was (All this for a Roll Cake) but that was the whole point of the story so I just ignored her.

40.  Write an alternative ending to [insert fic title] (or just the summary of one).

Writing this I realised I lost my final version of All this for a Roll Cake T^T so I guess I’d rewrite the ending I have of the before the last version I still have.

Well this was fun ^^ got to revisit my works and remember many beloved pieces of fiction I wrote, I look forward to my next projects

[bugaboowritings]

Cry Until You’re Ladybug Red -One-sided Reveal Fic

Marinette is an ugly crier.

I’m tired, but writing helps me so here you go. A fic that was written over and over again for the last 6 hours. ENJOY SOME Light Ice ANGSTTTTTT!!!!

Marinette Dupain Cheng didn't know if it was the tension from everything and anything making it harder to peacefully sleep at night or maybe it was just her backpack collecting too many assignments. Prompting a backache that prevented her from lying down without a chorus of 'ow's following after.

The classes she came late to or missed entirely finally caught up with her. Now she was doing twice the amount of homework when others complained about the single reading assignment they had. Marinette had to fill in the blanks for lessons she wasn't presented for. Too busy to go to tutoring so setting for the blurry videos on Youtube that came close on explaining the nonsense numbers and terms.

Her lunch wasn't the once quiet break in the art studio she had before. Where she could go and express her frustration or ease in her pen marks in the shape of models. Marinette instead would scarf down what the cafeteria offered before heading off to her class representative duties. Not tasting the soggy chicken pasta on her tongue or the bitter orange juice in the carton. After-school meetings were a thing too, but often cancel for reasons or replaced by an email thread discussing something relevant. It was better than standing in a meeting with teachers she didn't know. Adding her two bits in to give the conversation another view to considered. The students. The kids her age. The same kids that seem to grow farther away as the days pass. Too into their lives to notices their leader breaking her back for them.

But Marinette couldn't stop.

She promised so much. She had to do it all.  And she knew she could do it all. She was just a little slower than she wanted. Alya often took over for Marinette's sake but Marinette still worked as if she had all the work to herself.

If Marinette had time to breathe, she had time to catch up. That was the mindset she had.

She needed every second to work and study. To sew and write. To draw and color. At one point, needing to mute her phone from her friend's group chat for being too much of a distraction.

Jagged Stone wanted art for his new album, so far Marinette just had the line art done. Which was the second hardest part when it came to designing a life-sized poster. The color scheme was set but she just needed the supplies. Double tapping on her phone to set a reminder to pick up new markers so she could play around with the hues before setting them down permanently. Bumbling to the next commission like a busy bee.

Marinette crushed facts between her teeth, answering another one of Tikki's practice history questions. Swiftly hearing a 'correct' along with a lecture of the additional facts Marinette had to remember. Know very well that they weren't sticking to her head.

Stepping on the foot pedal of her sewing machine a little faster. Quickly finishing up the hem on a Kitty Section band shirt. Swiftly tossing it with the pile with the rest. Reaching for more raw fabric before cringing.

Her math homework!

"Noooooo," she hushed, pulling up her bag to her lap. Tikki looking over chosen one's actions with a troubled look.  Marinette frantically searching for her folder. Throwing her head back when she read her reminded in the right-hand corner of her work packet.  

Due and Test on Thursday.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

The test is on next week It had to be. Ms. Mendeleiev even wrote it on the board. There had to be a mistake.

Marinette picked up her phone. Tapping on her group chat to see if her nightmare was true. There, the same chat she muted, Nino asked questions about the practice packet. Which Max replied with an answer and link to a video. The more she scrolled up, the more she saw her classmates trade information on the incomplete packet sitting on her desk.

However, what really dropped her spirits was Kim's remark about how he should cancel swim practice for today to study for the test on Thursday.

Thursday.

A.k.a. tomorrow.

A.k.a. the same day Marinette had to make up a history test.

A.k.a. TOMORROW!

"No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. " Marinette gasped. Holding her breath before freaking out again.  

---------

That Wednesday she didn't get a blink of sleep. Stuffing herself with formulas, history dates, and snacks from last night dinner to early breakfast to the instant she entered the class. All in hopes that it would be enough to get her by. Piecing her last brain cells together the moment she saw the board with directions to get to their seats and prep before the exam started.

That is before the alarms rang. Red light flashing as the familiar message bounced off the walls.

"Akuma Alert!.... Get away from open areas!..... Akuma Alert!... Ladybug and Chat Noir will be on the scene shortly!... Akuma Alert!... Remain calm!...."  

Ms. Mendeleiev quieted the class from praising the perfectly timed alert. Pulling the first aid bag under her desk and an attendance sheet from her folder. Calling them over to make a line outside the door before they made their way with the rest of the school in one of the destinated "Akuma-Safe" locations. Done so in hopes to keep the students safe since many of the Akuma attacks, in the beginning, were reported to start at the school. It was a great way to watch over them, but it made it harder for Marinette to sneak out. Luckily, an opportunity to escape came up. Sadly, it was the thing the teachers and students were running from.

The Akuma today on the news was a giant. A silhouette made from scribbles. Like it was an unfinished sketch of a person. The lines that made up their face and hands buzzed with every motion. Their voice shaking the ground and the outline that made them 3-D.

"The world sets up those with dreams and promise to fail. Luckily, I'm here to fix what ought to be right! I'm the Correction we need!"

Right then and there, Correction (if that was their name) ripped buildings from the ground. The sounds of the broken concrete came easily as if Correction was brushing off like dirt on the structures. Masses of people were torn between jumping out of the buildings before it got too high off the ground or setting themselves in a corner. Trying not to cry.

Correction laughed as they plucked the city apart like it was a cheap lego set. Letting the buildings in their hands turn into the same scribble mess like them before setting them down.

News outlets were already streaming an eagle view of the new Paris. One that resembled sketch versions of what they once were. Correction had "corrected" 30% of Paris into their own ideal. However, it wasn't for the better. Paris became black and white. No color or grays.

It was 'yes' or 'no'. The world would be easier than way.

At least that was Correction's motivation.

Ladybug looked Correction's eyes. Hoping to see any emotion. Anything to try to reason with them before they destroyed the city and maybe even the rest of France.

"Correction. you don't have to do this. You can just stop. Things will work out."

"How would you know that!" They snapped. "You know nothing about what needs to be done!" Pulling back on Ladybug's yoyo as LB tried to keep them steady and away from the citizens evacuating the area. Pulling tighter and tighter on her yo-yo as Correction fought back.

"Ladybug, you're another bug destined to be squshed by them! I'm just trying to make the world better!"

"BY TRAPPING OF ALL PARIS UNDER YOUR REIGN? As if!" Chat Noir scoffed. "How is this better!?"

"Oppressed by those that don't care. Pushed back for the sake of being an after-thought. Voices drowned out for the nothing. That's how we are treated now by those sitting their shiny desks." Correction glared. "My world will be better than that."

LB ground her teeth in frustration as she felt her yo-yo slip from her fingers. Calling on Tikki if she could hear her to mustard up more magical strength as she tugged on the giant. "Even if people get hurt?" Ladybug huffed, her arms aching more and more with every second.

Correction hesitated for a moment. Opening their mouth to say something before shutting it as a purple outline appeared.

"Even if people get hurt." Correction answered.

-------

Ladybug had to leave before her miraculous gave out. At least that's what she said. Know very well it wasn't that.

God, she hated reporters. Lately, Akumas like Correction has been popping up. Stronger and more clever than ever. Almost matching her wits and Chat Noir's quick thinking. In the beginning, they were anxious to see the heroes fight the Akumas and almost fail. Now some of them were claiming this was on purpose.

"Ladybug and Chat Noir are in an alliance with Hawkmoth".

 The infamous title of a late article immediately sparked an uproar. The author was quickly put under fire for their remarks. The Ladyblog even debunked it for the sake of Miraculous Fan Base. However, people were convinced that a stranger had some logic behind them. So started the Anti-Miraculous group.

Ladybug even had to pull back Chat once before he could give them a piece of his mind.

However, after a long day, the last thing she wanted someone, a complete stranger from the street, tell her that she's not trying. Do they not know what she does for them! Do they know how she breaks her back for the sake of Paris! How she almost lost her friends and her family due to her mask! All for a job she was just chosen for. She never wanted to be a hero! Who wants to even be a hero when the whole world seems against you. When the very ground itself wants to trip you up when you get back up.

Who even wants that?

Marinette bites her lips, landing in an alley close by the school. Keeping her tears down as she took another deep breath. 

“Tikki- Spots off!” 

She has to go home. She needs too. She -she needs to just leave.

If she's quick enough, she could run home and tell her mom that- no that won't work.

God, Marinette just relax.

Before Hawkmoth sends an Akuma after her. Before she even dares to hurt anyone. Before she can hurt Alya. Before she can hurt her mom and her dad.  Before she can hurt Nino and Adrien. Before she can hurt Luka. Before she can hurt Kitty Section. Before she can hurt her whole class and more. Before she can hurt Paris. Before she can hurt Tikki. Before she hurts-

"Ladybug?"

Chat.

Marinette came back to her senses. Turning around to the voice that called her. Goosebumps rising as the tension shook her soul to the core.

Adrien. Adrien saw her.

Marinette could throw up right now. Sweat running cold down her shoulders. Making her sick. Oh my kwamis, Marinette could actually throw up right now.

Adrien's mouth gaped open as his brows furrowed together. His eyes searching her face. Looking so confused in what just happened.

No.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

He saw her. He saw her. He saw Ladybug and saw Marinette Dupain Cheng.

He looks so disappointed right now.

That hot thought made the gears in her head spin. The tears turn into steam. Pumping her body to do something. Anything to stop this.

"Marinett-"

Marinette shoved Adrien on to the bricked wall. Placing her forearm again his chest to keep him there. Raising her fist to his face. Not like to be a threat, but as protection. From what. Marinette didn't know. It was just a reflex.

"Adrien Agreste. You don't speak about what you saw today to no one or anything." Marinette shushed. "If you know what good for you and for Paris."

"Got it?" She asked.

"Marinette, I-"

"ADRIEN!" She yelled. Louder than she meant to.

Her voice softens as she closed her eyes. Breathing in softly before whispering.

"Please, p-please promise me."

Her shoulders and fist sinking down. Fatigue hitting her harder than ever.

"Don't tell anyone, Adrien." Marinette huffed. Unable to say his name before her lip slipped out a sob.

"Don't tell anyone."

------

[banashee]

Another square for my @badthingshappenbingo​ is done! :)

Prompt: “Attacked in their sleep”.

This one was a request from @mysterious-starlight​ by the way,

so thanks for sending that in, I hope you enjoy! :)

Please mind the trigger warnings:

- Homophobia and related hate crimes - Blood and violence, not too graphic - Hints to PTSD 

*+~

 Being careful is not enough

     Whenever they leave home, they are careful not to be too close to each other as to not give anyone the wrong idea.

 Well - technically they would be right to assume what they might, but as it is, being what they are is both dangerous and illegal in these times. It's sad really - why should love be illegal?

 But people talk and whisper and shake their heads in disapproval at those instances - it's "wrong" and "unnatural" they say. Some use stronger and much more insulting words and many heads nod in self righteous approval.

 The point is, Steve and Bucky are careful. They have to be, in order to survive.

 Them living together and sharing an apartment doesn't rise many questions - they're young and poor and living in one place saves money, which they don't have much of in the first place.

 Occasional double dates with nice gals in the area help to keep up that facade, too - as long as they keep their affections to themselves, when doors are locked and curtains drawn shut they should be fine for now.

 In the future, when they're older, it might get more and more difficult.

 "If I even make it that far." Steve shrugs one night while they discuss this, voice raw and scratchy from sickness - he's been sick for most of the winter, and Bucky had taken as many shifts at the docks as he could in order to afford the medication he needs.

 Bucky clenches his jaw. He doesn't like the nonchalant way in which Steve talks about his poor health, but he also knows that he is being realistic - and painfully so.

 Denying it wouldn't be of use for anyone.

 But it hurts still, thinking how he might lose his best friend, the love of his life.

 "We'll worry about this when the time comes. Right now, you're here and you're much better already."

 He says this as to convince himself, more than Steve - the stubborn bastard won't give up easily, he knows, whether it's the flu or a guy two times his size doing his best to bring him down.

 But Steve is realistic about his state, when he's in private and alone with Bucky - he needs to be or he wouldn't be alive still, even when Bucky claims its out of sheer stubbornness. Steve won't let any of it stop him - his health, his size or any obstacle that life throws at him because Steve Rogers doesn't give up - it's something that Bucky loves and fears equally in his boyfriend.

 "We'll find a way, Buck. Maybe, if we're lucky, the people will be smarter by then and realize they have been wrong all this time."

 Bucky laughs quietly, pulling Steve closer to himself and pushing his nose into the blond hair as he holds on.

 "Your confidence in humanity is truly inspiring. Doll."

 "Well, somebody's gotta believe in them huh?"

 Small, bony hands trail down Bucky's back, gently and ever moving.

 "Yes. And I think it's a good thing that you do. Lord knows I'm not too sure of it most of the time."

 Bucky leans into the touch, running a hand through Steve's light blond hair as the other man keeps drawing invisible patterns on his back with light fingers.

 Bucky loves his hands - they're smooth for a guy and often times covered in charcoal or graphite, from when Steve spent many hours of the day curled up somewhere by the window, sketching and creating beautiful landscapes, skylines and faces on the paper beneath. He's skilled with oil paints, too, but they're expensive and he refuses to let Bucky spend any money on them for him. Bucky would do it in a heartbeat any time he could - because he knows how happy art makes Steve. Because seeing him happy is what he loves most in the world.

 Steves hands are skilled with other things, too. Sewing and mending clothes, or in much more intimate situations where he is able to make Bucky melt away under his touch.

 They need to be careful and quiet even then - if anyone would hear what they're up to behind closed doors, they will be in big trouble.

 So yes, they are careful.

       But as it turns out, being careful just isn't enough. They never find out how this particular person got suspicious, but he must have heard or seen      something    .

 Neither Steve or Bucky ever sees it coming.

 It's a chilly night, despite it being early spring, so they sleep with their windows closed. The door is locked, as always, as are all curtains drawn shut. None of this makes them think of possible intruders - they feel safe and secure and are currently fast asleep.

 The two men are curled up tightly around each other, both out of necessity because the bed is small, and because they like holding each other, chest-to-back in a safe and comfortable embrace.

 Their day had been long and they're dead to the world. Neither of the two stirs as their front door slides open, lock carefully picked. The intruder moves almost soundlessly.

 Only when a figure with their face hidden in cloth looms over them, something starts to feel off, and Steve's eyes spring open before the cold blade of the knife even touches his throat.

 It's his yelling and violently launching at the attacker that wakes up Bucky, and he curses out loud, confused and scared in a haze, before he starts to fight, too.

 The stranger remains entirely silent, not saying a single word, but he slashes through the air with the knife he's holding , hitting either of the two men out of sheer luck as they plummet into him.

 Steve is about half as tall and half his weight, but it doesn't stop him from throwing punches, breathing hard as his lungs are protesting, wheezing in an desperate attempt to get more precious air as he fights for their lives, fights to keep this asshole from hurting the one person in this world he's got left.

 He’s too small and too sickly to be able to physically keep up with the stranger, but it sure as hell doesn’t stop him from trying. It doesn’t stop him from doing his damned best to keep the attacker away from Bucky.

 Meanwhile, Bucky is attempting to keep the attacker away from      Steve    , trying to get in between them and take whatever he has to in order to protect him - this is not something either of them is used to at all.

 Despite getting into fights and the occasional brawl in street corners or bars, none of it has ever come close to this. Bullies and drunks, looking for a way to let out some steam, jealous lads thinking either of them would be after their girls, sure. But they never had to fear for their lives, least of all in their own home.

 Two against one is what works in their favor, in the end.

 They're bleeding and there are heavy bruises developing but they're alive and that's all that counts right now.

 Together, they pin the attacker down on the floor.

 "You leave us alone and never come back! You understand?"

 Bucky has a hold of the knife and now holds it against the strange man's throat. He's decided on doing just that, the second he saw him doing the same to Steve - since that moment, he's seen red and now he's carefully calm in his seething anger. All fear and hurt is pushed far, far back in his mind, no place for it anywhere right now.

 The guy doesn't answer.

 Steve, still trying to catch his breath, pulls off the fabric from his head - recognition creeps up in his face, and then his blue eyes turn dark in anger. He promptly punches the middle aged man in the face again.

 "John, you son of a bitch! What did we ever do to you?" he hisses, and the man on the floor laughs, honest to God laughs, then he spits a clump of snot right into Steve's face.

 Bucky glares at John as he pushes the knife closer - close enough to draw blood.

 "Answer him."

 "You fuckin' fairies even need to ask, huh? Sick in the head is what you are! Disgusting!"

 He spits again, and Bucky increases the pressure just a bit - it seems to make John reconsider. He puts up his hands, and gruffly says,

 "Alright alright, I'm leaving. Just let me up."

 They do, reluctantly, watching closely as the man is leaving the apartment. Letting him go just like that is not what either of them is comfortable with, but what are they supposed to do?

 Calling the police is out of question, because what if they come to the same conclusion as John? What if they are both arrested or worse?

 If that happens, they’ll lose each other and the thought scares them more than knowing they’ll have to sleep with one eye open from now on.

 As soon as their attacker is out, they lock the door and shove a wooden chest in front of it from the inside.

 Once they're alone, drenched in sweat and blood, the adrenaline crashes.

 Steve is sitting on the floor right where he stood just a moment ago, breathing too heavy and too fast, trying to calm down again. His eyes are huge and filled with many different emotions, most of all anger, although Bucky knows that’s only because this part is easier to deal with than the rest.

 He sits down near Steve, putting one arm around him and resting his head on top of his blond hair. In Return, Steve grabs his hand and leans back into him as both of them hold on for dear life.

 All they have left is each other, and they have no idea who they can trust anymore.

 Neither of them sleeps anymore that night, or very much at all in the weeks that follow.

 The fear of another attack, of getting arrested for being queer or any other horrible thing keeps them up - life around them goes on as usual and they put up a facade of cockiness and bravery, but in truth, they are both afraid and in a state of tense alertness at all times.

 Nights are the hardest part of it all, when they’re alone in a dark, expecting the sound of a intruder breaking down their front door any time.

 They sleep in turns, always close to each other and keeping their ears and eyes open for any alarming signs.

 Those nights, more than ever before, they dream of a future where people are free to love, without having to fear for their lives, having to fear for the safety of loved ones.

 It will be a long way, until then.

 But they hope. They keep hoping, because right sometimes, it’s all they can do.

 *+~

 Square: "Attacked in their sleep"

[monstersandmaw]

What's this? Three stories in as many days on early release on Patreon?

Part One of Leyil's story was in response a prompt sent in anonymously to @cozycryptidcorner on Tumblr, and I wrote a drabble on my phone, super late at night, never expecting it to become one of my most popular stories!! And here is the much-asked-for part two!

Contents: 6200 words, a reader who can't swim getting into a bit of difficulty, and some merman smut...

Preview:

Getting your new tenant from his temporary home in the town centre’s fountain to your run-down farm on the outskirts was one of the hardest things you’d ever tried to do. Luckily there was an old wheelbarrow in one of the sheds on the farm, so you heaved that up into the bed of your battered old pickup truck and drove to the marketplace to pick him up.

Unfortunately, you discovered when you got there that there was no access for vehicles during the day, so you had to park on a side street, but you’d come prepared with the wheelbarrow. How you were going to get him into it was another matter, but you’d figure that out when it came to it.

Leyil was sitting in his usual space by the statue, hauled out and drying up in the strong sun, surrounded by his few belongings and his cardboard sign which read ‘water please’ propped up nearby, looking exactly as he had the previous day when you'd first met him. His skeletally thin arms hung limply by his sides and he was slumped against the stonework, his breathing laboured, bony ribs rising and falling irregularly, and his dull, drab looking tail-fan spread over the cobbles like an abandoned sheet of newspaper. Someone trod on the tender skin of the caudal fin as they passed and he hissed weakly but otherwise didn’t react.

Anger boiled hot in your stomach at the way folks were treating him, and you hurried closer with your wheelbarrow.

“Hey,” you smiled when you approached, bearing another fresh fish for him from the stall on the other side of the market. You’d picked it up on your way over and you’d even managed to get another shiny trout for him.

When you presented it to him, kneeling down beside him, he looked slowly up at you with his enormous, inhuman eyes, and simply stared.

“Leyil?” you asked. “You remember me from yesterday?”

His breath wheezed and rattled, and he took a couple of goes at speaking before any sound came out. “You… You came back…” he finally rasped.

“Of course I did,” you said, trying to mask shock and upset behind a friendly expression. “Here,” and you offered him the fish. “You hungry?”

He nodded weakly and when you held it a little closer to him, he smiled, cracked lips stretching and his dark eyes filling with tears again.

You let him eat in peace for a while and then offered him a bottle of water, most of which, again, he poured over his gunked up gills with a rattling sigh of relief that struck you deeply. His webbed hands trembled with the effort of holding the bottle, but he didn’t seem to want to let go of it, so you simply let him keep it when he was done with it.

“Thank you,” he said again, voice quavering and dry as a handful of late autumn leaves.

“You’re more than welcome, Leyil. Listen, do you still want to come and see if the lake on my farm is any good for you?”

He swallowed thickly. “Is… Is it far?”

You shook your head and pointed east. “It’s a couple of miles out of town that way. If you don’t like it, I can always bring you back here, but I can’t imagine it’d be much better here than there…”

Leyil managed a lopsided smile and shook his head. The first traces of humour glimmered in his eyes and he agreed with you. “No,” he muttered. “Neither can I.”

Read the whole thing right now over on my Patreon, and gain exclusive access to hundreds of posts, lots of stories and character profiles, sketches, polls, and our Discord server!

[hxntersrest]

Liar , Liar

Prompt : Liar, Liar Fandom: WTNC Pairing: Valkyrie/Finn/Ezra

Note : Contains spoilers for Chapter Nine ! 

As sad as this was, this wasn’t the hardest thing she had ever had to do. Being a hunter made sure that she was placed in some of the most heart wrenching and difficult situations anyone could be in. But that didn’t mean that it got any easier. The sour taste still lingered on her tongue as she walked down the streets of Lunaris. Not sure if it was her mood or the new found knowledge but the streets felt like they were watching her every breath. Her mind struggled to find logic but their was no logic to a man lost to grief and desperation.

how could this happen....... If i had come sooner.... would I have been able to stop it. What am I to do.

All these questions and more flew through her mind and she ran her fingertips through her winter kissed hair, chewing her lip as she searched for the answers. This meeting was suppose to answer her questions not give her more. The feeling was akin to drowning, helpless and cold with a choking effect. These thoughts made her head spin and one more questions floated to the top of her mind.

Where do I go now ?

She figured Finn and Ezra would have heard how she had went with Harry rather than outright condemn him. But she needed to follow, needed to see how far he had fallen. If he had any more of those creatures and to confirm what Fiero had told her. Otherwise .... otherwise she could lead her friends to their deaths. Knowledge ... was key as her mother use to tell her. When you have nothing else, you at least have what you have learned. Even knowledge can be a weapon. But in this case things weren’t so clear.

She could still see the vial in her mind, the temptation to give in had been stronger than she had anticipated. The power she could gain.... but would the sacrifice be worth it... all these deaths, the inhumanity of it all. But on another side... she could prevent more deaths, she could protect Finn and Ezra and make sure no one would take them for her.... Was this not what she vowed to do when she became a hunter. To protect everyone with all her ability.

The war could wage in her mind for eternity on this topic.... but it didn’t rest well with her heart. No matter what excuse she made up to make all this seem worthwhile... it just made her heart ache. This was wrong , even if the motive was a noble on.

Now ... to explain to Ezra and Finn... and to beg them to understand why... she had to go with the lion to his den. Not just for knowledge ... but to see for herself The Harry she thought she knew was truly consumed by grief.

“ I’m sorry James..... but I don’t think I can save him.... without destroying what I stand for.. what we stand for “

She whispered... but she knew there would be no answer and a part of her was glad. No good could come of any of this. The best she could do was to put a end to it.

The wolf had never looked so inviting before, the light was a welcome sight after walking in the darkness, her eyes scanned over the crowd as she felt something in her chest... pain, confusion.... anger. Finn was nearby as well as Ezra. It wasn’t a surprise that she could sense them... but the impact of their emotions on her was stronger than she liked. Already she could feel the tears in her eyes, if she lost them... she wasn’t sure if she would have the strength to do what needs to be done. She had only just learned to open her heart again to the world... if it ended in heartbreak she doubted she would ever dare open it again.

Her glazed eyes scanned the room, but soon she just followed the feeling she had in her chest till they came into sight. Finn was clutching a bottle, Ezra curled up beside him. For a moment she stood frozen , no words would come to her lips until they both looked up at her.

“ ... Imagine our surprise when August arrives at my door barely able to speak “

“ Finn... if you’d just let me explain ... I know what I’m ... “ 

“ You went with Harry... we didn’t know if we would ever see you again, if he was going to “

Ezra trailed off, his emerald eyes full of tears at this stage as he stared at her, but when she reached out to him he pulled away. Finn returned his gaze to the bottle and She felt her hands trembling. She was losing them.....

No.... I ... I have to try.. have to fight.

Valkyrie grabbed Finn’s wrist ignoring the warning growl he let out as he went to pull away but she held on firm. He would have to risk hurting her to break the grip and she was certain he wouldn’t even though she felt the creature within him rising to the surface. Instead of speaking she focused her thoughts , making them louder, pushing her emotions with them. If he didn’t wish to accept her words... she would let him feel them.

I Needed to follow him , I needed to know if their were more creatures before jumping in wildly and getting killed. I needed to know that condemning him was the right choice. It was dangerous, foolish even but I couldn’t risk going against him till I knew all the cards he was holding. Please .... understand.

His expression softened and Ezra watched, knowing what was happening between them. But Finn stood up and shook his head

“ Not here... lets go “

Valkyrie looked behind him seeing now the enforcers that where paying close attention to them. A miscalculation on her behalf one she should have taken better care of noticing. She had been so focused on Finn and Ezra she had forgotten to take full stock of the occupants of the tavern. But she nodded to them both and followed. While the atmosphere had improved slightly ... it still pained her. She hung back behind them as she followed them to the catacombs. The air felt like ice against her skin. She was scared... something she had only felt when coming to Lunaris. Before... she had, had little to lose or so she had thought but now ... now she could lose everything. She rubbed her temple, in slow circles. She was mentally exhausted from this day and had no answers to show of it. She became aware... she wasn’t strong enough to make this choice. If Harry held that vial out to her once more.. she feared she would take it.

The catacombs where not as welcoming as they once felt. It didn’t sing of home to her, but more of warning. She was being watched. Most likely because they all sensed Finn’s anger and .... pain. Pain that she had caused with her actions. It seemed hurting the ones closest to her, was the price to pay for information. As she walked into the room , only a few hours ago she hadn’t wanted to leave, she felt dread in her stomach. The door shut and the noise made her jump slightly. She was on edge, not for an attack but for her heartbreak. She had faced many things in her career that inspired fear and dread in her. But only Heartbreak could ever truly render her this helpless. This ... scared.

While Ezra stood at a fair distance from her, Finn now stood over her, she stood still holding her breath as he spoke.

“ Don’t try to explain your actions with smooth words, I watched Levi justify his terror for centuries. I will not stand for you to do it too “

His words struck deep... to be compared to his sire, the man who had put Finn through that much pain. Was that what he now thought of her. That she was like him... a tyrant, lusting for power. The tears burnt her eyes but she held them back. Now wasn’t the time for tears. They needed to know . I needed them to know.

“ I give you my word, I didn’t side with him or do anything stupid other than follow him. You heard me in the tavern Finn. I just wanted to know, I needed to. This isn’t an easy choice and I hoped.... I hoped that by going with him the answer would be clearer “

Ezra had moved over beside Finn now, A hand placed on his lower back. To calm him. It made my heart ache that I was the one separated from them. I was now seen as a possible enemy. The one thing I never wanted to be.

“ You can tell when I’m lying, both of you can. You can feel it in  your hearts just like I can feel you “

My heart had never pounded so much in my chest. Were I fully human, I would have been convinced I was having a heart attack. Finn reached out to him, curling his fingers carefully around my wrist tugging me to his bed , urging me to sit. I did so, not realising till now that my legs had been shaking. Too tense , as if bracing myself. Ezra came to sit next to me, his expression soft but his eyes still harboured hurt. I had hurt them. But if I had to die to make it up to them I would, gladly so. His warmth made me also lean back into him but I stayed still. I didn’t deserve that.

No words were spoken as Finn carefully pulled a wooden box down from his shelf. He knelt before us placing the box on my lap. Instinctively I ran my hands over the loving vines that had been carved into the wood. This was something special. Something special to him and something he felt I needed to see. As my finger tips trailed over the latch I glanced at him for permission, as he nodded I gently opened the box. Once opened it was clear that it was a chest of keepsakes, Letters ,sketches and other trinkets lay there with care. One charcoal drawing stood out to me and I carefully picked it up to study it. It was of a young boy, smiling, happy and I could feel Finn’s aura change. I glanced at him giving a faint sime, one that could have been considered sheepish.

“ He’s Beautiful “

Finn took the parchment carefully and smiled “ Gabriel, the first thing Levi stole from me “

“ I keep these things because sometimes I need a reminder of why I want to be good. It’s easier when your a creature like me to push down the basic urges and instincts that are ingrained in us. To hunt, to kill without question or hesitation. To take the nefarious route when it comes to dealing with those who have wronged you “

He paused, looking into my eyes, he knew how I felt about the vial. About Harry’s Promise. Maybe not the details but he knew my feelings. The way my instincts conflicted with my heart and how no answer was clear to me anymore.

“ To have the power we have and the solution to all our problems laid out before us like a neatly wrapped present. All it would take is one pull of the string and all would be set right, wouldn’t it ? “

It was then his words clicked with me, I looked at his amber eyes finally realizing what he was saying to me. Taken the vial would have been the easy thing to do. I would have had the power to fix things but that wouldn’t be the humane thing to do. It wouldn’t have been the right thing to do. It wasn’t about logic or the mind. It wasn’t complicating or complex. My heart knew the answer all along, but I was too busy trying to understand, trying to make sense of it all. That I never listened. That’s why I felt so sick down there, Why when I told Harry that Ara had been made perfect, I felt like acid was in my throat. I felt guilty because I almost made the wrong choice.

“ When I was down there ... with him. I felt sick to my core. Seeing what he has done and how .. how he tried to justify it. He has lost his mind. He wishes for me to become one of those things as if by us making new monsters that shouldn’t exist makes things better... saves us even “

Finn stayed silent for a moment, carefully placing the drawing back in the box and closing it. Letting his hands rest on the top for a moment

“ I know it may not feel like you did the right thing, while your mind tries to find a new solution “

I felt a hand on my shoulder, warm and comforting, I glanced towards Ezra as he spoke

“ You did “

Finn spoke, his words felt colder, firmer but they made me sigh in relief

“ Those with blood on their hands always get what they deserve “

“ Do they truly ? “

Finn nodded gently and Ezra moved his hand down to mine, I held his hand firmly, the warmth on my cold skin made me feel more comfort than anything, with him and Finn here, I wouldn’t fall victim, I’d be strong enough. They won’t let me fall. Finn returned the box to the shelf before returning to us, kneeling down in front of me he unlaced my boots, slipping them off. I smiled tiredly at him, normally I would tell him not to bother, that I’d do it normally just kicking them off messily but Ezra’s voice caught me off guard

“ Will you stay with us ? “

The invitation made my worries disappear, I had come so close to losing both of them. But I glanced down at my clothing, hardly suitable for sleeping in, especially while sharing the bed with two others.

“ Sadly. I’ve nothing with me to wear “

I realized too late that my wording was poorly chosen, the look Finn gave me was enough to paint my pale cheeks pink.

“ I’m sure I can find something you can borrow “

Now it was his turn, He left himself wide open, much like his shirts...

“ Something that buttons all the way up ? “

I pointed cheekily to his chest , watching his expression change, feigning offence.

“ She got you there Finn “

I glanced back at Ezra seeing his warm smile, and I smiled brightly. We were good, all of us.

“ You’ve come to the wrong place if decency  is what your after fair hunter “

He laughed and I couldn’t help but pout slightly

“ And here I thought you were such a gentleman “

We all laughed, soft but true. He crawled over on the bed joining me and Ezra, pulling back the sheets so we could climb under them. Ezra began to help me unbuckle the belts around my armor, thankfully my outfit was mostly fabric, only a leather chest piece and some guards on my thighs but they where made part of the fabric so it was relatively easy to slip out of

“ I’d really wish you would wear some thicker armor “

Finn murmured as he picked up my shirt, feeling the fabric, how light it was, the chest piece was the only sort of protection and even then, that wouldn’t hold up against much

“ Easier to move it that, I rely on speed , accuracy. Besides I’ve seen many a hunter in heavy armor and they aren’t around anymore. Often armor can work against you and if thrown hard enough , the shock will still kill you. Best tactic I’ve come across is don’t get hit “

He chuckled at that and removed his shirt, passing it to Ezra who helped me slip it on over my head. It didn’t exactly cover up my chest but it did it well enough, Besides, it was surprisingly comfortable and Finn’s scent was enough to make me feel safe and comfortable. Ezra slid his arm around my waist, resting his head on my shoulder, his curls tickling my neck.

Finn Smirked as he eyed me up and down “ It suits you better “

I hummed softly at his words before looking over him

“ And you look better without “

Ezra and Finn both laughed but I could tell Ezra was agreeing with me. The vampire lay back, resting his head on the pillow as he watched us. As Ezra’s arms tightened around me, the bruises I had tried to desperately to hide ached inside and out. While my thoughts felt clearer, A part of me still worried... was this my choice to make. I was only a hunter. I should be following Harry’s orders, he has more experience, more knowledge, what if he was right and prices must be paid for safety. What if I was just too naive to see that. I felt the tension rise, my shoulders ached once more.

“ Hey , are you ok ? “

Finns voice pulled me from my drowning thoughts, I glanced at him taking in his pale skin against the dark sheets, His amber eyes glistening in the low candle light. I felt grateful all over again for being able to still see up close. The thought of not seeing him and Ezra like this was enough to drive me mad. I felt Ezra’s warmth against me, grounding me and I let the tension slide from my shoulders, they were enough to silence my inner demons.

Without Hesitation , I tugged Ezra gently , he knew exactly what I wanted to do and we both curled around around Finn, Our heads lying on his chest as out bodies curled around him. I could feel the cold metal of his arm against my skin, but it no longer bothered me, instead it was seen as a comfort, a reminder of that fact I was here with him. Finn Pressed his lips against our foreheads but I needed more, I looked up at him, a silent invitation he paused, a look which only could be described as hungry passed between us before our lips met. I was lost in them as Ezra ran his fingers through my hair. This is where I belonged, here with them. If any choice leads away from them it is the wrong one. That’s all I need to remember.

As the candles died , and darkness surrounded us, I let myself forget about the worries and stresses and just focus on the feeling of their bodies against mine.

[ionica01]

This is out of blue but... “You’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you” AU. Izuocha\Karmanami please?

Hey Adi! It’s been so long:) This was my IzuOcha week contribution for day 4: Domestic! You always give me the best prompts and ideas, hehe~!! I hope you enjoy!

People have vastly different ways of dealing with crushes. Most of them have some sort of crisis, phone their best friends and drive them insane with increasingly absurd poetic descriptions of how cute the object of their affection is, finding new metaphors for love as if, unless put into words, the feeling isn’t real. Others bottle it all up, stealing glances at the person they hold special feelings for, as if that will provide a model for them to paint over, a sketch on the otherwise blank canvas of their life, the start of an enriching work of art. For some, it’s just instinct, as if they’re touch-starved and they need to fulfill some animalistic urge.

Izuku, of course, knows all of this, because he has extensively studied how people deal with crushes ever since he realized he didn’t miraculously catch a cold every time he thought his roommate was cute. It’s also by overanalyzing all this data that he realized his way of coping with crushes is overanalyzing all the data.

This is the thought process that Midoriya Izuku has followed to reach the predicament he is in, and why, he discovers, studying with Uraraka is highly distracting. Because, if there is one thing all crushes have in common, is that the presence of said crush is the holiest blessing and cruelest curse at the same time, mocking all paradoxes known to mankind.

He tries - he really does - to be neither in the stealing glances category, nor in the poetic descriptions one. Unlike everything else Izuku has succeeded in, hard work fails him miserably this time around.

It’s not his fault that he’s already done with his assignment for All Might and that the light in the living room falls just so, the soft glow teasing Uraraka’s tousled hair and the loose threads of her flannel pajama, at least one size too big and definitely unironed. Her focused face is shaped as a pout, her teeth gingerly grazing the ends of her pencil as she taps her fingers to the desk and furrows her brow. It’s not his fault, but he isn’t innocent either, because it’s all Izuku can do not to lean over and poke the imperfect crease that makes her perfect.

Her sigh stirs him out of his contemplative state as she bangs her forehead against the table, raising her hands in defeat. Izuku allows a laughter to bubble out of him, even though it attracts a heavy “Ughhh” from his friend.

“Stop laughing!” she sulks, weakly throwing a pencil in his direction. Izuku dodges, eliciting another groan from Uraraka, who repeatedly slams her forehead against her notebook, as if urging the physics formulas to enter her brain and stay there.

“I have never been defeated by physical laws in real life, so why must theory take its revenge on me?” she groans, her lower lip jutting into an illegally adorable pout, one that Izuku tries his hardest to pretend he hasn’t seen, because it’s doing atrocious things to his heart. Treacherous thing, these feelings blooming inside him faster than weeds that bleed into perfectly planned gardens.

In an attempt to shift his focus from the thrumming beats of his heart, echoing loudly and clearly in his ears, he leans over her notebook and asks, “Magnetism?”

“Electrons are small, so why are they such a big headache?” she dramatically sighs, flapping her arms around her before eventually slumping on the carpet.

If theoretical physics is toying with Uraraka, then real life physics is poking fun at Izuku, because her oversized shirt isn’t supposed to ride over the edge of her pants and reveal a strip of her smooth skin, nor is her exhausting face presumed to be so endearing, the eyebags bringing out the sparks in her eyes and her pale face looking like porcelain in the light of her desk lamp.

Izuku gulps and tries to focus on the words formed by her lips instead of the way they move, trying to process the meaning of what she’s saying instead of wondering what it would feel like to press his mouth to hers, to taste the oily fries they had for dinner, because they live up to the broke student legend and have midnight McDonald’s happy meals to keep them going during the exams.

To refrain himself, Izuku discovers that reciting all of the hormones that cause him to feel such physical attraction does the trick, and he offers her a hand to pull her up. “Tell you what,” he says as she bats his arm away dramatically. “You make it through this theory paragraph and I’ll pay for lunch tomorrow.”

She bolts back to a sitting position, eyes glimmering with the promise of an actual meal - for free. “You mean that?”

Izuku nods, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling at the delighted look on her face, the look that makes his heart thump faster than it should. “Deal!” she says, picking up the pen with newfound determination.

Uraraka has no idea what her puffed out cheeks and sudden “aha” moments that light up her face and made her hair bob along with her nods do to Izuku, no clue how his eyes drift from the page of his English assignment to her nimble fingers tapping the spine of her book, no hint that his mind is running through scenarios of how this evening could unfold, scenarios he has to shut down before they get too far.

He’s always been focused on the goal in front of him, but lately, he’s been wondering what it would feel like to make Uraraka part of that goal. She’s been his best friend since high school, yet somewhere along the line, his attachment to her morphed into something that scares Izuku, a feeling so strong it’s choking him and threatening to push him over the line painted by an invisible hand between them.

When she looks up from her notebook with uncontained glee an hour later and gives him an uninhibited grin, however, caution is thrown to hell. Izuku can’t bring himself to recite all the hormones again, neither does he seem to see the line he’s crossing at 100 kmph. All he sees is his hand, raising to her face to tuck the unruly hair behind her ear, but it doesn’t feel like it’s attached to his body.

The word, “DONE~” dies on her lips as her lips as her eyes widen, and a blanket of crimson coats her childish features. Maybe Izuku should have asked her, but it’s too late now, and he closes his eyes before pushing the accelerator pedal and crashing his lips into hers.

It’s really clumsy, and he finds himself wishing he had read more extensively on what do do with a crush instead of crushes themselves. He has twenty seconds before the adrenaline will leave his system, and he uses his time to run his hand through the knots in Uraraka’s hair, to breathe in the mango scented soap she uses and the strawberry chapstick that engulfs the faint oily aftertaste of fries, and to faintly hear her dropping her pen.

Her hands clutch around his shirt before he can pull back sheepishly, and her lips suddenly move against his with urgency. She’s even clumsier than him, bumping their noses and foreheads more than once, and drawing away with crimson stained cheeks and short of breath, but her earnest chocolate eyes stare into his with a sense of awe and wonder.

“Uhm,” he tries, suddenly unsure what one is to say after having kissed one’s best friend without any warning. Words weren’t created for the predicament Izuku is in, and he finds himself retracting his hand from her hair to scratch the side of his cheek, and feel it burning. He lacks data on this pivotal moment, and realized how poorly constructed his attack plan was.

“Waw,” Uraraka manages, more eloquent than him. “I-”

“I’m sorry!” Izuku suddenly blurts. She blinks at him blankly, and he elaborates, “I don’t know what came over me, and I shouldn’t have-” he cuts himself off, because that’s not what he actually means. “I should have asked you before.”

Uraraka seems mildly amused with his rambles and asks in her teasing voice, “And if I had said no?”

Izuku holds her gaze evenly, finding a challenge to be honest in her eyes. “I don’t really know. I would be heartbroken, but I would have respected your decision. Is it a no, though?”

“No, it’s not,” she admits with a shake of her head.

“Is it a yes?” he asks with a small smile.

Uraraka’s face breaks into a lopsided smile and she closes in the distance between them, humming in approval as she presses her lips onto his, this time slower, silencing the ticking of the clock on the wall as they explore the vastness of this new form of them together.

It’s new, and it opens an endless trail of questions in Izuku’s mind, new territory to analyze and map, but mostly, it makes him realize this is more than a crush, because with Uraraka running her hands through his hair, just as messy as his, and with his hands on her waist, Izuku find himself falling.

And it’s the best feeling in the world.

[the-canary]

Sunburst - S.R (3/10)

Summary: After years of solitude, you sought out the color of life – you just didn’t think it would end up like this. (Enhanced!Reader/Steve Rogers). 

Prompt: “I think I just asked out on a date.”

Masterlist

A/N: This is for @captain-ariel-barnes writing challenge. not the best chapter, but we are getting there!

Feedback is always appreciated.

Part 1 | Part 2 

It’s strange at first when you decide to spend the morning --after your first week--  drawing around the Avengers’ Compound . You had tried your hardest to find a place where you could see all the forest area that reminded you of home, but not to far from your room.  You trailed a bit from the central facility and towards the smaller buildings, but never crossing the road. You sat down on the grassy area and began to draw the early morning light. Grays and blacks mixed together as you sketched different areas, slowly you headed to the other side of the building and caught of a glimpse of the river. That’s when you catch it, a blur of blue running down the road, against the dark colored backdrop you can’t help that it catches your attention.

It’s the saturation, the deep deep blue, makes you realize who it is -- Captain Rogers.

You have to wonder briefly what could have happened to America’s Golden Boy for him to have such a color. In your lifetime and in the limited understanding you had of your powers, the deeper the color usually meant there were some deep sadness connected to their central personality it, but that changes depending on their emotions -- pops and flashes of lighter colors would usually indicate this. However, between the moment you had met him and now, there was no change whatsoever.

What the hell could that mean?

“Good morning,” a voice drags you out of your thoughts, as you jump and look up to see him looking at your direction. Still startled but not wanting to be rude, you give him a small wave before picking up your items. He runs, a streak of blue almost as dark as the forest canopy, and you can’t help but frown a light.

“I’m gonna need some water colors now,” you murmur to yourself as you get up and head back inside.

In your annoyance, you try to ignore that details you are remembering --in the details of the area, of his face and stature-- that the artist inside of you now wants to have blooming in front of you.

A beam of blue on a dark day, a light amidst the darkness -- it almost suits Captain Rogers too well.

 Wanda knows it from the moment she sees you sitting across the kitchen countertop. She can feel it in the air and sense it in the way of just how closed your mind is to everything else. As open and friendly the kitchen is designed to look, you still feel like a caged animal with hunched shoulders and a tight grip on  the little book in your hands.

Just like you know her background, Wanda knows that you have been living in the forest of Upstate New York for quite some time, hidden yourself from the world with only your agent being the main contact for you. It echoed loudly enough for everyone that you were hiding something, but Wanda knew the moment she sees you. The moment that you played more attention --for whatever reason-- to the center of her body more than anything else.

“Ms. Maximoff, it good to meet you,” you state while getting up from your seat. She smiles, magenta lightens up into a softer version, but you can’t help but notice there is a blur bright blue at her core, though it quick disappears as it appeared.

“Wanda’s just fine,” she explains as you nod. She states that it is her turn to cook dinner for the rest of team and you wholeheartedly agree to help. It had surprised her that you didn’t want to interview her or have her standing in some strange position while you painted her, instead you had asked her to think of something she enjoyed doing and you could either watch or even join her. She chose cooking dinner for the rest of the team that was here.

“What are we making tonight?” you question, while going over the other side of the kitchen as she takes out a large pot alongside some meat and a variety of vegetables. It all causes you to look at her curiously since you are used to making dinner for one person and even then only a few days of leftovers, not a whole army as Wanda seems prepared to do.    

“Some beef and vegetable stew,” she remarks, as she motions to to start cutting the vegetables while she proceeds to rub more things onto the already marinated meat, as she places the pot onto the stove with some oil and cut onions.  

“Do you all eat this much?” you can’t help but ask with wide eyes, as she laughs -- her red flaring into at the question.

“If we don’t portion it correctly, Steve and James would eat this all on their own,” Wanda explains, as all you do is nod, though still not fully grasping how much Captain America and the former Winter Soldier could eat.  The two of you ease into a steady but tense silence of unspoken questions as you finish cutting all the necessary ingredients as Wanda starts adding things here and there. She is taking a taste of the broth when she turns to look and ask the one thing that breaks everything that you have been avoiding.

“Could you hand me the paprika?” she questions, while pointing to the where all the spices were located. You frown, but do what she asks anyway, until you see nothing but dark leaves and a variety of gray containers.  

“Paprika?” you question, looking at the cabinet in confusion since everything back at home is marked with a label to denote which spice is which.

You turn and see her red is a bit darker than before in suspicion as she finally decides to thread the murky water, “It’s not synesthesia, is it?”

“Sometimes, people don’t see anything but your powers,” you say, not confirming or answering her question, though surprising even yourself at how bitter you sound (how dark the pink in the corner of your eyes pops at the memories) towards the end as you look away, “To be used, forgetting there’s a person underneath for convenience.”

“Not everyone is like that,”  Wanda chides in once more, feeling that this might be the only chance she gets before you completely shut her out, “There is always going to be someone willing to give you a helping hand, for you to trust, though I’ll admit it is a long road.”

“Then, you are a very lucky person,” you state before going back to the spice cabinet and bringing out 3 different containers -none which are the damn paprika- to her, only to have her shake her head. And while you still feel a bit troubled after the conversation, you can’t help but smile just a bit at the reminder of the limitations that you haven’t seen in such a long time.

After all that, the rest of the meal prep time is spent exchanging pleasantries of more comfortable childhood memories that come with the dish you are making, what it means working in your vastly different careers, and most of all music. As she mentions she is trying to learn how to play guitar and you mention that you sort of know you way around the clarinet, though you can’t agree on what was the better decade of music since you were both all over the place.

“This was very lovely, Wanda,” you say tersely, while drying your hands an hour later as the dishes are almost done, unsure of when was the last time you actually cooked a meal with someone, but overall enjoying the experience.  

“The invitation is always open, even if you just want to come and eat with us,” Wanda says like a mother trying to appease their child, as you give her a small nod but decide not to take her advice, it’s too new and raw for now. It’s better to let it dry and crack for awhile.  

“I--Thank you,” is all you manage to say before getting your plate and leaving the kitchen area to go back to hiding in your room, as she shakes her head though she knows by experience that things like this take time. However, if she wants to gain your trust, she knows that she will have to stay quiet about your powers for now, as you grow more accustomed to the other Avengers. So, as they all come bustling in, she stays quiet over the issue, though she does answer curious questions here and there.   

After meeting with Wanda a few more times (even Vision for a moment by accident), you realize that this isn’t going to be a normal art project anymore. You don’t know how this will all end up and while you are apprehensive about how it might connect to your powers, you take a deep breath before taking the next steps. As you get up one night and head to the art room designed for you, the soft lights of the colors welcoming you once more -- the only thing you have ever really needed.

“Let’s get to work,” you murmur as you get one of the easels and place it down on the floor before getting several shades of a certain color, as you paint the rest of the night away.  

Swirls of red, old recipes book pages, a dash of campanulas , a little sage and spice with a flash of blue for loss and a bit of gloss for the potential of something more, of finally being in a place that can finally be called home.

This is Wanda Maximoff to you, though you don’t plan on showing her just yet.

 It starts off simple enough by seeing the artwork placed proudly on display in Pepper’s office, another piece finds it way into Tony’s soon afterwards. There is a small pamphlet of your works laying about that catches his attention and he finds himself looking over it, again and again. He questions what techniques you used, the shading and position of the designs, and he can help but wonder what caused the change between your darker works and this more rustic series.

He’s curious, and then he hears that there is a small expo of your latest sets of work -- the ones you did before the Avengers project came up. He knows you aren’t going to be there -- you never go to these sorts of things and he knows you are back at the Compound, having chosen it over the Tower.   

With his mind made up, Steve goes as discreetly as he possibly can -- only for Nat to give him a small smile as she makes it out of the gym and crosses his path on the way to the elevator.

“Ohh,” she coos, already memorizing the situation and saving it for later, “Where are you going?”

“Art exhibit,” Steve states, knowing it's pretty much useless by now to lie to one of his closest friends, though not really giving her the reason why.

“By our resident artist,” she states more than questions with a grin, like she already knows something that Steve doesn’t -- not yet anyways. However, she decides to keep to herself for now, “Have a good time.”

“Thanks,” Steve says with a confused uptick in his voice, obviously expecting more from the Russian, as she just shrugs and gets out of his way. Green eyes stay locked on his figure until she sees him disappear after entering the elevator.

“Hmm, is he going for the art or the artist,”  she murmurs to herself in question before heading towards a certain birdman’s room to talk about the blond’s non-existent love life.  

Part 4 

[samurai-bravo-prompts]

Jack, a 'Her' Samurai Bravo Fic Part 5

“Sword fighting?” Johnny asked, lounging on his couch one Sunday.

“Yes. I greatly enjoy watching the fluidity and physical discipline it requires. If I had a body, that is what I would most like to do. Is that odd?”

“What? No! It's actually super cool. Totally fits with your character.”

“Would you-,” Jack hesitates.

“Would I what?”

“Would you perhaps like me to teach you some martial arts I’ve been studying?”

Johnny sat up so quick he actually got a bit dizzy. “Um, yeah! Is that even a question!?”

Jack laughed, Johnny’s favorite sound.

“Then you should head to the park. There's much more room.”

“Alright!”

-

Johnny and Jack chatted as Johnny walked leisurely around the city. He’d been especially receptive of Jack’s karate teaching and was eager to learn other things Jack could show him.

“Can you still see everything okay?”

“Yes, the lens is clear. There’s a dojo just up the way from here. I believe the sensei has a similar teaching method to mine. You should try to join one day.”

“Aw, but I like when you teach me.”

Chuckles.

“And I enjoy teaching you, but eventually you will require physical guidance that I cannot provide.”

“Yeah, I guess. Hey! You show’d me that weird monument, how bout I show you the old skate park!”

“Oh, is that where you used to make your art?”

Johnny kicked a pebble off the path.

“Heh, yeah. Gosh, that was so long ago.”

“Are you, perhaps, feeling old, Johnny?” Jack ribbed.

Johnny guffawed, loud and sudden.

“You take that back before I start shaking this phone!”

Jack was beside himself with laughter and so was Johnny.

“Never!” he cried.

-

Johnny’s life had become so much better since meeting Jack. He ate better, slept sounder, got more exercise while seeing new places and had a good job. Johnny was sure to thank his Mama many times over for the suggestion and even introduced them to each other.

Johnny had even picked up drawing again, spending days off learning about new styles, shading and buying new colors. Jack even tried his hand at art, sketching small doodles on Johnny’s phone for him to appraise. They usually weren’t very good and Jack knew it but Johnny was always encouraging and telling him ways to improve.

It was the most fun Johnny could remember having.

One night, while walking home from the ice cream parlor, Johnny paused.

“What is it, Johnny?” Jack asked, concerned and instantly alert.

“I thought I heard something. Eh, maybe it was just a racoon or someth-”

Just then, about three men came into view up ahead.

“Oh, it was just them.”

“Johnny, walk the other way.”

“What, why?”

The men came closer and Johnny saw, too late, why Jack had warned him. They each pulled out a section of pipe and looked ready to use it.

“Nice night,” one called out.

Johnny could feel his legs going weak.

“Y-yeah. It is. Bye,” he turned, trying to power walk away but there was a fourth person that Johnny hadn't seen before, blocking his way.

“O-oh, Mama,” he stuttered out in fear.

“Do not panic, Johnny,” Jack said, reminding Johnny that he wasn’t truly alone. “I have called the police. Now all you have to do is keep them at bay.”

“That's a nice smartphone you got there,” the same guy as before spoke. “Mind if we see it?”

“How the heck am I s’posed to do that?” Johnny whispered.

“Who ya talkin’ to, blondie?”

“Your training, Johnny. Use it.”

“But...I-”

“You can do this, Johnny. I’ll prompt you. Get into position.”

Johnny took a steadying breath and spread his legs a bit wider for balance.

The next few minutes were a blur, his arms and legs moving however Jack told him. There was pain and screams, his own and his attackers, until the police arrived.

They only caught two of them but they asked Johnny if he could come in to make a statement. He agreed but it was mostly Jack coaching him through it.

At about midnight, Johnny finally stumbled into his apartment, sore all over. But he especially hurt at his left shoulder and right eye, where the pipes and punches connected hardest.

“Where’s my rum,” he murmured, dragging his feet to the kitchen.

“Second cabinet on the bottom. But, remember you have work in the-”

“I know, Jack.”

He remained quiet as Johnny found the bottle, taking swig after swig and falling with a groan onto the couch.

“Are you okay?” Jack asked.

Gulp.

“Thanks to you. Glad my hands are okay.”

“Wouldn't want to deprive the world of your artistic talents.”

“Heh. I meant for work but that's nice of you to say.”

Glug.

Johnny set the rum on his coffee table, turning over.

It was quiet for a while and Jack thought that Johnny may have slipped off to sleep. But after a bit…

“I love you,” Johnny spoke, almost too quiet to hear.

Almost.

[resbang-bookclub]

AMA Transcript: Tenderly Touched by the Massively Muscled

For our next AMA, @sandmancircus, @peregr1ne & @sojustifiable (Amanda on Discord) stopped by to chat about their Resbang, Tenderly Touched by the Massively Muscled! Here’s some of what went down:

*Please be advised that this AMA contains spoilers!*

Q:  What inspired the title? :D

Sand: I wanted something touching and relatable.

Q: Which was the hardest scene for you to write, do you think?

Sand: The last battle scene was hard, just coordinating everything and getting it down so it was smooth.

Peregrine: You did so good, it was a whole lot of characters to keep track of.

Q: Artist-chan/kuns, what made you pick the scenes you chose to art for?

Amanda: Ahh, I guess it was just things where the image stuck out and I felt like I needed to see it. With Eruka's tantrum scene, I also thought it would fit well with the style I wanted to use, with lots of swirly swirls and dramatic colors.

Peregrine: Well, for my first I wanted to do like a good intro iconic scene, so their first meeting was a good choice to set the stage and such. For the other two, I just wanted to do cool group shots because I wanted to draw all the characters but not 10 different pictures. Especially the last picture, I just really like drawing like… ‘epic’ scenes.

Q: Sand, what was your writing process like?

Sand: Uh, for this Resbang I mostly wrote in chronological order, which is unusual for me. When I had time, I just sat down and stared at the screen until something came out. I also kept a joke doc for jokes I wanted to use.

Q: Speaking of jokes, can you explain dog farting all the time?

Sand: Farts are funny.

Q: LOL. Do you have any funny/iconic comments that betas or artists left that you want to share?

Sand: Kat kept getting mad every time a penis happened. A bunch of "I’m too ace for this."

Amanda: Same.

Sand: Also the pinching of the clover got a bunch of yells.

Q: What was the inspo behind the pomegranates?

Sand: The pomegranates were just a throwback to the original myth.

Q: How did you come up with Soul's role in your fic? I thought it was really cool and imaginative.

Sand: I thought it would be funny if Soul was a soul, like Dog is a dog.

Q: What inspired so much peen? Cause like, there's much peen.

Peregrine: Sarah thinks dicks are funny.

Sand: I honestly can’t remember why I chose to write him as a nudist. I just think it’s a nice role reversal having the man be hyper sexualized.

Q: Somewhat related: how was it writing the smexies!!! And will we see more smexies????

Sand: The smexies were very hard to write, would not recommend. Will maybe try again in future.

Q: Also, for the artists -- how long did you spend on each piece?

Amanda: The first piece too a long time cuz I used masking fluid and had to wait a long time for different layers to dry to do details. The other pieces I did more quickly just because of the style. The time taken mostly depends on waiting time which there is less of if you do everything wet.

Peregrine: I don't remember how long I spent on my pieces because I break them up a lot? Usually I'll spend a while doing the rough sketch because I'll move things around and erase the whole thing and start over a lot because if it doesn’t feel dynamic super rough, it's not going to look good when I clean it up. That takes a while to plan out I guess, but it’s also the funnest part because I can draw a lot more freely. I'll usually then leave it for a day to see if it's still solid later and then lineart can take anywhere from 3 hours to like a week depending on how frustrating it is, and then I usually colour in a day (by a day I usually mean like 3 or 4 hours because that’s how much time I’m usually able to spend when I have time to draw). But yeah idk, in general pics usually take me like 3 days unless they're group shots, like 2 of these were, because lineart takes forever.

Q: Were there any scenes that came out way differently than you'd initially planned?

Sand: The whole fic changed as I wrote it tbh, which usually happens with me. I have an original idea of what things will be like, and it gradually shifts and alters to become something new, or at least very different.

Q: Has anyone already asked you what inspired this bad boi???? I remember there was an art.

Sand: Yeah I did art for Freeruka a year and a half ago for Freeruka week which was supposed to be for the prompt "myth". The idea just stuck.

Q: Which was your favorite scene?

Sand: My fave scene was probably the one where Eruka got back talked by Free because of her stalking after she went bananas.

Q: Amanda did you have a fave piece between the three?

Amanda: I think Eruka's tantrum scene was my favorite to do and fave as an end product, though that free style of painting in general is really fun.

Sand: That was also the piece that we got to see Free's booty.

Peregrine: It was an interesting challenge for us artists to draw for this fic trying to position the characters so we wouldn’t have to draw a dick.

Sand: Amanda threatened to leave if I described her art as sezual.

Peregrine: But yeah, it was very deliberate for every piece like 'alright how do I draw this scene without Little Free?'

Q: Where did your inspo for Jackson come from???????

Sand: I needed a sassy side character, and he just kinda grew into something super fun to write. And it’s very hard to write a character without arms, so I gave him arms.

Q: How did you come up with the mythos? It was a neat spin. I liked that the positions got filled when someone dies.

Sand: Well, I needed a reason to call Eruka ‘Eruka’ and not ‘Hades,’ so it turned out to be more of a title, which led to "oh, well then could someone else be hades," and it kinda grew and grew from there.

Q: Kinda in love with Maka as new Zeus, not gonna lie.

Sand: That was actually Pere's addition.

Peregrine: I based Maka's outfit off one of the ones from the Wonder Woman movie that’s Zeusy and she was part of Zeus's crew and after Zeus died the position was open so I suggested it to Sarah because I thought it would give some good closure - and also Maka as Zeus would be super badass.

Q: Was there a scene that was really surprisingly easy to write?

Sand: The opening scene was really easy to write, surprisingly. It kinda all just flowed out really well and really easily.

Q: What drew/draws you to Freeruka?

Sand: I love Eruka, I like that she's sassy and that she's a morally grey character and that she's a complete coward, and I love her dynamic with Free. He's this big macho guy who is incredibly loyal and also a bit of a klutz and is a fucking WEREWOLF (heyo!) and they just mesh really well in this weird way that I adore. Witches are cool, wolves are cool, smoosh them together please.

Q: Is there anything you wish you could've done differently?

Sand: I think I would've liked to give them more time to get to know each other before everything goes down - at least a few months, just to make their connection more believable. But time, man.

Q: Pere did you have a favorite piece??

Peregrine: I think I like how the first pic came out the best. It's a nice standalone. But the last battle scene was the funnest to do because I just like drawing action poses and snarls the best.

Q: What are you working on next?

Sand: Nothing so far.

Peregrine: Uhhh Reverb I guess? Right now I'm doing a commission tho.

Q: For Peregrine: Do you feel like you grew in your art skills through this bang? If so, how?

Peregrine: Uhhh not really? I think I grow in my skills by doing experimental pieces but I don't do experimental stuff when it's like for someone else, I do that on my own time. The stuff I did for this was the kind of stuff I just always do.

Q: Doing Resbang next year Sarah????    

Sand: Unfortunately, I probably will be suffering again, yes.

[a chorus of cheers]

---

Thanks to the team for stopping by! More transcripts coming soon!