#why is it that the silly little doodles always wind up looking better than the actual drawings I put effort into?

[sass-squat]

I am a huge advocate for the secretly soft big brother Legend agenda

[tulsa-trash]

Book Swap

Request: could you do a modern!pony x reader imagine where you're both in 9th grade and meet at the library, and one day you finally have the guts to ask for his number, so you guys start texting and then you start crushing on him and then you have to figure out how to tell him, so u ask two-bit and johnny for advice

WARNING(S): N/A

You sighed deeply as you began to reread the same sentence in your book for what felt like the twentieth time. It seemed as though you were reading but not even comprehending the words. To be fair, it was impossible to get lost in a book when a familiar cute boy was sitting a table over from you.

Ponyboy Curtis. How does one even begin to describe the amazing human you had the honor of being within five feet of? Unlike most guys in high school, Pony was something special. He was kind and very smart, you knew this because you have English with him. You've never seen someone so into a class before, he also appeared to have an interest in literature, like you. The both of you were nothing but mere acquaintances, and you secretly wished you could change that.

It didn't help that you found him absolutely dreamy. His brown hair was always a little messy, but it still managed to make him even cuter. You always feel your heart skip a beat whenever your eyes would meet his sparkling green ones in the hallways. You'd smile whenever you'd see him laughing with his friends, it showed off his dimples that sunk into his cheeks. Ponyboy Curtis was the boy of your dreams, and the young man was completely oblivious.

Your phone vibrated on the desk you were sitting at. Glancing up from your book, you seen that it was a text from one of your friends. After placing your bookmark in between the pages you unlocked your phone.

Evie: So? Did you talk to him yet?

You rolled your eyes after reading the message, your fingers quickly tapped at the screen as you typed your response.

Y/N: No obviously not. Now leave me alone.

Kathy: Girl go for it! He's a nice kid you said so yourself.

Y/N: Uh nope. Much rather stare at him from afar and not make a fool of myself attempting to talk to him.

Kathy: Well if you don't not only will I embarrass you in front of lover boy, everyone in this library will see me screaming at you and we'll both probably get kicked out.

Y/N: Wait what? How do you know I'm at the library?? Are you here right now???

Kathy: Look over at the fantasy section you nerd. You being you I obviously knew where YOU would be on a Saturday afternoon.

You looked up, eyes widening in shock as you saw your friend hiding behind a bookshelf watching you with a sly grin.

Kathy: Make a move now or I'm coming over there.

With already shaking hands you put your phone in your pocket and grabbed your book. You sent Kathy a pleading look, but all she did was shake her head and point towards Ponyboy violently. Taking in a deep breath, you got up. The chair scraped against the floor, creating a loud noise which made at least five people look up at you... including him.

"Oh god." You mumbled under your breath.

In your peripheral vision you could see Ponyboy's gaze return to his book, taking that as your cue to move you slowly crept to his table. You had made it to the chair directly across from him, he was so caught up in his book he didn't even notice your presence. You smiled softly, his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration while his eyes scanned the pages back and forth. You awkwardly cleared your throat, not too loud to disturb others but just enough for him to tear his attention from his book to notice you.

"Oh, hey." Ponyboy said, "Can I help you with somethin'?"

"Um..." Jesus this was going to be way harder than you thought. "W-Would you mind if I sat with ya?"

"Not at all. Go ahead." He sent you a friendly smile as he gestured to the chair you were at.

His smile. Your legs already feel like jello, you could've sworn you were going to collapse right then in there.

"Y/N, right?" He asked as you sat down.

"That's me. And you're Ponyboy."

"Yep, couldn't forget a name like that if you tried." He joked.

You giggled as you opened your book, Ponyboy returned to his. Curiosity got the better of you when you looked back up to see what he was reading.

"Gone With the Wind." You read aloud.

"Have you read it before?" He asked.

You shook your head, "I haven't, but I've heard only good things about it. I saw the movie about a year ago and thought it was great."

"The book is amazing!" He gushed, only to be shushed by the librarian walking by. "This is my fifth time reading it." He told you in a more hushed tone.

You snickered, "Must be really great."

"What ya got there?"

You lifted up your book from the table to reveal the cover to him, his bright eyes scanned the cover.

"The Boy in Striped Pajamas?"

"I know the title seems a bit odd, but trust me this is a good read." You told him, "This being my third time reading it."

"Well what's it about?" He asked.

You went on to tell him about your book, and he went on to tell you all about his. The both of you began to talk about anything and everything, you were beyond happy that things were going well. You were having so much fun you completely forgot about Kathy spying on you, before either of you could realize it two hours had gone by.

You peaked at your phone and cursed under your breath, the lock screen had a reminder that your shift at work was starting in less than thirty minutes.

"I really hate to end this... but I gotta go." You said.

"That sucks." He said disappointedly.

You couldn't help feeling a little giddy inside to see that he was upset you were leaving. While you got up and gathered your things, you remembered that you wanted to get his phone number badly. You just had to figure out a way to get it without making things awkward.

"Hey, Pone?"

He hummed in response.

"What do ya say we swap books... and numbers? Thats only if you want to. I just figured since we read them already and it was cool talk--"

"I'd like that." He stopped your rambling, only to send you a warm smile while doing so.

You blushed as the both of you swapped phones to put in each others information along with handing each other your books. With a final wave goodbye you left the library, your best friend of course followed after you. She interrogated you with thousands of questions and the both of you walked to work, you gladly answered them all in an almost dazed state. You felt as if you were walking on air for the rest of the day, and you couldn't wait to text him later on.

-

Two weeks had gone by, and let's just say those two weeks have been the best ones of your life. You and Ponyboy had been texting every single day. At first you just talked about each other's books, but then your conversations started evolve to anything and everything. You knew you had liked him before, but your feelings for him have grown drastically. It was beginning to get unbearable holding in how you truly felt, and you weren't sure if you wanted to tell him.

The fear of rejection was one of the main reasons why you've been thinking of just repressing your feelings. Sure, he seemed to like you, but it felt as though he only liked you simply as a friend. Another reason being you were afraid that it would ruin things between the both of you. You had finally become good friends, the last thing you wanted was for everything to end up being awkward all because of you and your silly crush.

After a lot of thinking you decided you needed some advice, and by advice you mean advice thats not only from Kathy. She keeps telling you to go for it, but she doesn't really know Ponyboy well. That's why you got the idea to ask one of his buddies on their opinion. Luckily Pony invited you to watch him and his friends play football. You ceased the opportunity, not only would you be able to watch the boy of your dreams get all sweaty and tuff looking, you could also get one of his friends alone to talk about how you felt.

It was a warm, Sunday morning in Tulsa. The sun was high in the sky and beat down harshly on the group of boys tackling each other in the giant field. You sat under a tree with a notebook in your lap, a cool breeze would rush by every now and then, cooling you off the slightest. You doodled randomness on the blank pages, sketching pictures and honing your writing skills. Every now and then you would glance up and watch the game for a few, sometimes cheering the boys on or laughing when they began to goof off and wrestle each other on the ground.

There was a particular drawing you found yourself enthralled in, as the pencil in your hand smoothly ran across the paper you found yourself sketching a picture of Ponyboy's face. You were so focused you didn't even notice someone come over and take a seat right beside you.

"Nice drawin' you got there." A quiet voice spoke.

You quickly slammed the notebook closed and snapped you head to the right, it was Ponyboy's best friend, Johnny. A tiny smirk was tugging at his lips as he looked at you with one eyebrow raised.

"T-Thanks." You stuttered nervously.

"You like him, huh?" He asked you.

You stood silent as you played with the grass below you, pulling it from the Earth and rubbing it between your fingers. Your gaze was straight ahead watching the game, you were afraid to meet Johnny's gaze that was burning holes into the side of your head.

"Yes..." You hesitated a bit, "I do."

"Does he know?"

"No!" You said hopelessly, "And I'm not sure if I even want him to know."

"Why not?"

"Because he probably doesn't feel the same..." You trailed off.

"Hey now, ya never know." Johnny said.

"What are you two kiddies doin' over here?" A loud voice bellowed.

It was none other than Two-Bit, he staggered over to the both of you before plopping down to your left. He was breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his forehead and trickling down his neck.

"You tryin' to make moves on Pony's girl or somethin', John?" Two asked playfully.

Your heart fluttered, 'Pony's girl.'

"No way, man. Trust me." Johnny chuckled.

"Pony's girl?" You repeated to him questioningly.

"Oh yeah! I see the way y'all look at each other I ain't blind."

You let Two's words sink in, was it that obvious that you liked him? He even said that Pony looks at you a certain way as well. Maybe there was a chance he shared your feelings after all.

"You think he likes me or somethin'?" You asked casually.

"Oh I don't think, I know."

You smiled softly, butterflies erupting in your stomach. In the back of your mind you worried that you were getting your hopes up a little too high, but you couldn't help it.

"I like him too." You admitted.

Two-Bit scoffed, "Tell me somethin' I don't know."

"Well... what should I do?"

"Tell him." Two replied.

"I agree." Johnny piped up.

Both nerves and excitement began to bubble up inside you as you got up and gathered your things.

"Where are you off to?" Johnny asked as you began to jog away from them.

"Gotta head home. Tell Ponyboy I'm sorry I had to leave but I'll text him later!"

"See ya later lover girl!" Two-Bit hollered after you while preceding to make kissing noises.

You laughed to yourself and shook your head, "Idiot."

-

Y/N: Whats up Pone-bone?

Ponyboy: Nothing much lil lady, and yourself?

Y/N: Same. Btw sorry for leaving so soon today, had some things to do.

Ponyboy: It's alright.

Hey what were you, Johnny and Two talking about? They didn't try to tease you or nothin right?

Y/N: Nooo ofc not they were just chattin

But thats actually what I wanted to talk to you about...

Ponyboy: Well... Go on then

Y/N: Okay I'm just gonna say it

I like you

like a lot

Ponyboy: As a friend or?

Y/N: No silly, like more than friends...

Ponyboy: Wait actually?

Y/N: Yes Pony

Ponyboy: Seriously??

Y/N: OMG YES!!

I LIKE YOU A LOT!

... im sorry if it weirds you out

Ponyboy: NO! NO IT DOESN'T.

SORRY

... Just wanted to make sure this isn't a prank or whatever.

But in all seriousness yes, I like you a whole lot.

Y/N: Are you sure?

Ponyboy: Positive doll

Do you wanna grab some milkshakes at the Dingo next weekend?

Y/N: Are you asking me out onna date Curtis?

Ponyboy: Yes, I am ;)

Y/N: Well I would love to :)

[wincore]

childhood dreams | mark lee

pairing: singer!mark x reader

words: 3.3k

summary: you’ve been thinking of childhood dreams lately, and it seems like mark’s been doing the same.

genre: childhood friends to strangers to lovers(?), fluff, angst

warnings: none

song rec(s): childhood dreams - seraphine (cover) [orig. ARY]

a/n: im obsessed with this cover and i need to write cheesy drabbles to prevent writing droughts so here u go friends 👁👁 

Mark sits at his desk, bouncing his leg in compulsive habit as he has for the past half an hour. Your presence doesn’t make much of a difference to him—and it would be far more disheartening if there wasn’t more than half a decade of unsaid things between the two of you. With notebook pages crumpled on the floor, a mild scent of musk in the room and Mark’s refusal to look you in the eye, you don’t think this reunion could get any worse.

Or it could, you tell yourself when Mark clenches another page in his hand, glancing at you before turning back to the neatly bundled pages on his desk. He looks uncomfortable, and discomfort wasn’t something you ever recalled in your friendship.

“Mark,” you call. “Why don’t you take a break?”

He looks up at you again, doe eyes and rosy cheeks, and you wonder where it went wrong—where you could have gone wrong. There’s no explanation and there hasn’t been one since tenth grade. He used to look you in the eye back then at least, and joke with you, study with you, hang out with you. Is it wrong to say you were best friends then? You can’t really tell right now, as you cross your legs, withering into your own being on his bed that looks like it hasn’t been made for three days. Some things don’t change, after all.

And some things do.

“Okay,” he says, pushing himself from the wooden desk, which now looks a little lonely. He turns his chair to you, eyes still trained on his lap and occasionally shifting to your form. Dark, messy mop of hair and a face much more grown than you remember—he’s lovely to look at.

You’ve never seen him agree to a break when you were kids. The memory that surfaces makes you hold back a smile. The school library closed at 6 p.m. and Mark had all the books you needed for finals week by four. The sky used to be a warmer colour and so did your room, though you can’t quite remember the colour of your walls. You remember the hot pink ink you used to doodle with though, and Mark’s tired complaints when you wouldn’t let him study. Half of your doodles were inevitably on his notebook pages.

“You know, I didn’t think we’d meet again this way,” you start, trying to smile.

“Yeah,” he says, opening his mouth to continue but closing it quickly. 

There’s a quiet pause, filled in by the rustling of leaves and the reminiscence of winter winds outside. Late January nights aren’t close enough to winter and yet still, far from spring. You think of third grade, all of a sudden, of the first snow you saw and Mark Lee’s terribly postured snowman. 

“I… didn’t know you were songwriting for idols,” he says, with hesitant punctuation.

You chuckle, looking down at your feet. 

“I- I don’t mean it like that- I mean- I—”

“Mark,” you interrupt the mess that’s leaving his mouth. “It’s okay. You didn’t say anything wrong.”

He scratches the back of his head, looking a little guilty. You can’t really pinpoint exactly what’s going on in the space inside his head and it bothers you more than it should. You have been apart for a long, long time. You’re not as entwined as you used to be, not two peas in a pod anymore and not a matching set.

It feels colder, even in Mark’s modest apartment room.

“We’re friends,” you say. “Since college. Sohee and I. She wanted to sing and I wanted to write.”

“Oh. That’s neat.”

You chuckle. “You get to do both. I’m kind of jealous, you know? You’re talented. You’ve always been good at everything.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not- No way.”

You roll your eyes. “Some people see modesty as incompetence, Mark.”

He blinks, something rekindling inside his eyes, you tell with the way he stares at you.

“Oh my god. Mrs Wilsbury used to tell us that.”

The two of you laugh. It’s not particularly the thought of old Mrs Wilsbury, with her sharp words and shriveled face, but the spark of recognition in Mark’s boyish laugh that makes you feel a trembling inside your chest. 

“She was horrible,” you say, pulling a face.

“She was nice to me though,” Mark defends.

“Everyone was nice to you.”

Mark furrows his eyebrows and you roll your eyes at him trying hard to remember your high school days. The expressions he used to make haven't changed much; he’s just grown up and into his larger, masculine frame. It’s endearing now, more than ever.

He gasps suddenly and scrambles back to his desk, scribbling in a bunch of lines onto the paper. You lean back on the bed, sighing. It’s supposed to be the two of you writing verses but the way Mark works differs so much from yours that you decided it’d be better for him to do his thing while you’ll be the supporting cast. You don’t really mind when you’ve missed his words so much. You don’t really mind if it leads to him.

“Sorry,” he says when he’s done, a little awkward in tone.

A part of you feels sad for him, however. You feel sad that he’s had to work alone all these years as a solo singer-songwriter. It can’t be easy. You know it’s not easy. But Mark—he has a way of making dreams come true. Every kid dreams and yet, your best friend from years ago is living his. Perhaps, it makes things better, easier to look at.

You glance at Mark again, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration and lips pressed together. Something tells you he wants to scowl right now.

“Hey,” you call again, feeling comfortable on his bed now that it’s warm. “What was your debut song again? Dreamer?”

You know the answer. You just don’t want to give in to the feeling that’s calling for proximity again. Things change, and sometimes—most times—they’re out of your hands. 

You should be worried about nosy reporters right now. You in Mark Lee’s own room would give anyone attuned to celebrity news a sickening, sugary treat. A few headlines pop in and you shove them aside. You were surprised by the offer but apparently, his studio merges with his bedroom. (It did take an awkward explanation on his part as to why he invited you to his bedroom.)

Embarrassingly, you wish some of those headlines would come true. Your feelings haven’t changed since you were fifteen. 

His walls are blue like the sky and there’s more than enough lights but he only uses the one at his desk. It’s like a little sun, rays caressing his cheeks, nose and lips with a warm, orange touch. You would make fun of the gamer chair but he said it’s from Lee Donghyuck before you could even start breaking the ice you’re standing on. You wish the warmth would return between the two of you, the faint memory of holding hands in second grade floating in.

“It was Dreamer, yeah.” Mark’s voice breaks you out of your old teenage daydreams. You chuckle to force the heat off your cheeks.

A sudden impulse takes over your cold fingers and you take the acoustic guitar by his bed, playing the opening chords to his debut song. Mark’s eyes widen at your action and you give him your biggest smile—it’s like back then again. It used to be Mark on the bed though, with fingers strumming his worn out guitar and kind smile and honey eyes. You pause your playing. Mark’s still smiling at you in awe and you pat the spot beside you on the bed.

All of a sudden, you desperately wish for the past even if it isn’t meant to be recalled this way. 

You start playing again and Mark mumbles the beginning of the song, unsure, eliciting an annoyed sound from you. You stop playing and glower at him.

“Those aren’t the lyrics,” you say with mock distress. “You’re ruining the song.”

“It’s my song,” he responds with an incredulous laugh.

You begin again, and though Mark has to google his own lyrics, you spend an hour or so figuring out beats and tunes that vaguely resemble feelings you don’t feel anymore and thoughts you only remember empty decorated shells of. You’re not fifteen anymore, or fourteen or thirteen. Someday is now today. You’re not fifteen anymore but being fifteen is a part of you. The music floats seamlessly.

Your cheeks heat up when you think of the last time you met him, when you said you liked him and laughed it off in the awkward teenage fashion. You pray he doesn’t remember that embarrassing parting. It would be too silly an ending.

That’s why when you heard his name from Sohee’s manager, you couldn’t help yourself. After all, old friends should meet up once in their lives, right? You should close the door you left open if you can’t set foot into the house.

“Okay, but I genuinely didn’t know you write songs for Park Sohee,” Mark says, legs crossed on his bed as he leans in a little towards you. The dim lights of his room make his face look more rugged than usual, the tired lines spread across his face. You wonder if he’s kept up his habit of ditching breaks.

“I’m surprised you’re not in a boyband,” you reply, leaning against the wall. “And that your bed is this small.”

Mark stammers out a garbled explanation and you gasp.

“Wait- wait, oh my god. Don’t tell me… don’t tell me you’ve never had anyone over! For, you know...”

The comment runs a deep flush through his cheeks and you giggle at his expression.

“I- I- I just- I just didn’t have the time,” he says, biting down his lower lip possibly at his own awkwardness.

“Looks like you’re still a loser, Mark Lee,” you say, smiling smugly.

He narrows his eyes at you. “Looks like you’re still mean to me, (name).”

“Oh lord, when was I ever mean to you?”

“When were you not?”

You stick out his tongue at him and he laughs, relaxing against the sound of you and him—old friends. It could have been this way; it should have been this way.

“Why did you move away?” is what you want to ask. What was so urgent that you were left staring at the ghosts of his figure in his empty house, in his empty room and at the empty classroom desk? It’s not anger but a soft sense of regret, boosted by his quiet breathing and tired, thoughtful eyes. You could have stayed this way but instead, there’s a rift between the two of you. There’s years and years, and time isn’t a product to sell back and forth—you can’t buy those years back. Your chest hurts but you clutch the feeling tightly in your hands, afraid it might escape.

“This collab means a lot to Sohee,” you say, after a while. “You know, after the hiatus she’s been on.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I totally get it,” he says, sitting up straight and sobering from the bubble of you two. “We should get back to work.”

You hum. “You mean me staring at you tear all your hair out?”

Mark reddens in the face. “I’m not usually like this. Just saying. I need to be... inspired, I guess.”

“Maybe it’s time for you to revive your soundcloud account from when you were twelve,” you say, leaning back against the soft material of the bed.

“You’re making fun of me again,” he says, the smile lines on his face deepening.

You let out a smiling sigh. It’s just so easy. The thought still eats away at you, however, of what could’ve been. If you were younger, you wouldn’t care for this, you suppose. You’d just get along like nothing had passed at all.

“(name).” His voice sounds deeper and softer. “It’s nice having you back. To talk to, you know? It’s been a long time.”

Your face must have fallen because he straightens, eyes wide and wavering lips trying to form words. You sigh, looking away and see his form inch closer, some sort of fuzz leaving his mouth. 

“Mark. Mark.” You shake your head. “I think I’ve been a bad friend. I don’t know why I didn’t keep in touch—”

“Hey,” he interrupts, looking you in the eye. “It’s on me too.”

If you were younger, you would have confessed over and over again in ways private to everyone but you. 

You nod instead. If your childhood together was a prelude, there’s quite the long, awkward silence following it. You have to start the music soft and slow.

“It worked out though, didn’t it?” you ask, looking up to find his face nearer to yours than you would have expected.

When he tilts his head, you explain further, “We’re both doing fine, right? We- We did things, got our life and plans set and… now we’re here.”

Mark leans away from you. “I- I guess.”

There’s a pause, and you know there’s a lie fluttering between the two of you.

“I… I still feel like I’m running,” he says, a weary undertone carrying his voice forth. “I know I’ve done things… achieved things and I still- I still feel like I’m running a marathon. There’s still something out of reach.”

You scoot closer to him and offer a smile, your hand resting on his shoulder. 

“You can say you’re tired. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Thanks, (name). I appreciate it. I just don’t know where I’m going anymore.”

You give his shoulder a gentle squeeze before pulling him into a hug. You can’t hear his breathing over the sound of your pulse drumming in your ears but it’s warm, at the very least. His arms wrap around you after a few moments, heavy but comforting when his hand holds the back of your head, just like old times. The fabric of his mellow green hoodie is warm with his skin and you bury your face into it deeper.

“I’ve worked alone for a really long time,” he whispers. “It’s nice like this. I wish… I sometimes wish we could go back.”

You giggle, looking back up. “We could build a snowman for old times’ sake.”

Mark furrows his eyebrows. “There’s literally no snow. Besides, you just want to make fun of my snowman. Again.”

“You remember that?”

“Of course.”

His cheeks colour, one of his hands leaving your torso to scratch the back of his head. Suddenly aware of the lack of space, you pull back slightly to a more decent enough distance. Mark frowns but he rests his palm against the bedsheet, leaning his torso onto it.

“You could also let me draw in your songbook for the memories,” you suggest, smiling wide. “In hot pink.”

Mark scoffs. “Oh no. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m not as immature as you think, Mark.” You roll your eyes. “It’s not like I’m going to draw a bunch of hot pink dicks.”

Mark opens his mouth and closes it. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t suggesting that.”

One look from you, however, and he realizes his defeat. It’s almost the same look as the one in spring break after tenth grade, except much happier and more carefree. Your eyes shift elsewhere when you remember the argument you laughed off, details lost but the gist was clear. You acted as though it didn’t matter if he moved away—something about that happy-go-lucky persona you’d developed. Oh god, you were an idiot.

The silence isn’t welcome. There’s no rhythm, no melodies in moments like these—moments in between things that should be happening and won’t ever happen. Mark takes a sudden precise intake of breath, making you look at him. His eyes are rich and resolute, and somehow as pure as they were when he was younger.

“When you- when you said you liked me,” Mark begins, and you hold your breath. “When we were fifteen, you said you liked me. Before I moved. I- I don’t really know if you were joking but… Do you- do you think you still would? If we started over?”

You look at him, his eyes unable to meet yours and shoulders tense, and find yourself at a loss for words and for breath. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Stupid question.”

“I- I do- I would.”

Mark looks up at you reluctantly, almond eyes shimmering with some sort of emotion—innocent and curious as though you’re fifteen again.

You cough awkwardly and he looks away in a similar panicked fashion. This isn’t as romantic as you thought it would be and you almost think about taking your words back.

No. Not again. 

“I would,” you continue, dragging the syllable. “If you maybe asked me out on a date, at least.”  

Mark blinks, slack jawed like he’s seen the birth of a phoenix, or something equally dreamlike.

“Yes! I mean, wait- I- uh…”

He clears his throat, cheeks flushing with scarlet heat. “Do you- do you wanna get coffee tomorrow? No, wait- it’s a Monday. Th-This Saturday? …I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?”

You can’t hold back your laughter anymore, clutching your stomach at the sheepish look on Mark’s face and his slouched shoulders, much like the ones you were used to seeing as a stressed, sleep-deprived teenager. 

“We can make time after this project.” You smile.

“We have to wait until after—no, I mean, that’s totally cool.”

The defeated grin makes you laugh some more. Your eyes drift to the deserted work desk and notebook paper, and you gasp. Dawn will arrive at this rate, crashing in waves.

“We really should get back to work,” you tell him, your fingers against his chest. “Twelve year old us would be very disappointed in us now.”

The two of you laugh in shared memory, of the time when romance was as appealing as ice-cream dropped on the sidewalk. With eyes full of stars and a head full of clouds, where do you go? Right back to each other, you think. 

“We’ve come a long way,” you marvel. “We used to think of a different future every five minutes. Me, more than you, perfect poster boy.”

“You wanted to be an astronaut,” he laughs.

“And you wanted to be a swimmer. Said you’d even swim in a lake in Russia. In winter.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he says, eyes faraway. “We had all those childhood dreams.”

“You’ve reached one of them,” you respond, laughing.

There’s a short pause. Back then, everything was visionary. What the two of you had in mind had evolved, molted, shed its skin but now you’re here, in each other’s arms again—in a way that you haven't been before.

“It’s two,” he whispers, and the next thing you know, his lips are on yours and his arms are around your waist, pulling you closer. 

He pulls back in wide-eyed, careful consideration. “I- I meant to ask first.”

You respond with a kiss, his mouth warm against yours. 

He pulls back again.

“That was cheesy, wasn’t it?”

“Just shut up and kiss me, oh my god.”

You can’t help it, smiling against his lips and making him laugh at the feeling. Your finger brushes over the mole on his neck, unchanging in the same way he still uses too many hand gestures to talk or the way he still likes to lean his head on your shoulder. 

There are unchanged parts of him so vivid in your memories that some time through the night, you wonder if you’re dreaming. Then a terribly executed joke later, you have to nudge him with your elbow or smack his arm—and it falls into place in your reality again. Maybe you could’ve saved time; but it’s so much sweeter this way.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

(@whimpers-and-whumpers) concept: Chris in college. He has to do a certain number of gen ed credits to get his degree. He ends up in a mythology class. Chris has a breakdown when the class discussion turns to Baldur, Norse god of light and purity.

CW: Referenced past pet whump, traumatic memories, vaaaaague suggestions about past noncon, past whump of a minor, brief internalized ableism, warning for past Oliver being a fucking creep

“Well, this one just has a stupid name,” Ben says, squinting at his mythology textbook, tapping at a page. 

“What, what is it?” Chris and Ben are ‘studying’ together, which today mostly means Ben is studying and Chris is thinking about Laken’s arms when they wear a tank top. 

Ben is on is stomach on his bed, book open in front of him, while Chris lays on his back on the surprisingly plush shaggy rug that Ben bought at Target three weeks ago. Chris could sleep on this thing if he wanted, it’s so comfortable. Not that Chris can’t sleep pretty much anywhere. 

Chris closes his eyes, thinking about Laken’s smile, with their slightly crooked incisor tooth on the one side, when Ben says, “Baldur.”

Chris’s eyes open back up.

Baldur, darlin’. His Sir is calling him, hand on his head, waking him from his doze hidden under his desk, curled into a ball in the safe, dark space. Baldur, wake up, sweetheart, were you dreaming again?

“Why would you name a god Bald-er? Like, celebrate not having hair, I guess. What a stupid name.”

Nicky’s voice, wrinkling his nose, saying I’m not going to call you that when he heard. 

“That’s not, um, not what it, it, it means,” Chris says. Ben doesn’t use the overhead light when Chris is in his room - it buzzes in a way that gets under Chris’s skin. Instead, he uses warm yellowy lamps, and opens the curtains over the window to let outside light in. 

“Oh, you know this?” Ben looks up, and Chris’s face is carefully schooled emptiness, as much as it can be. Ben doesn’t know what to look for, so he doesn’t see it, and that’s what matters.

“Yep,” Chris says, shifting uneasily. Laying on his back suddenly feels wrong and also entirely right, exactly how he’s meant to be. He catches himself and pushes up to seated, looking out Ben’s window, focusing on the blue sky, slivers of white clouds, the gentle rattle of wind against the window when it gusts.

He reminds himself that he can go out there whenever he wants.

“Well... tell me something about him that’s more interesting than this stupid paragraph.” Ben taps the page again.

Sir, can, can, can you-... can you, can-

Words, Baldur. Do you need to practice with the metronome again?

No! No... no thank you... Sir. I, I can... can you... tell me about... the mistletoe, again?

Much better. Of course I can, darlin’. Come kneel here next to me.

“Baldur is, um, is, is... Old Norse it means, um, ‘brave’.” Chris sighs, fiddling with the seam of his pants, shifting his hands up to rub at a rough spot on his knee, then up to the feather necklace he’s always wearing, rubbing at the textured, carved plastic carefully. “Or, you know, in, um, in... sometimes they, they think, it’s the same as, as... same root as Belobog-”

“The same what as what now?” 

“Um, Belobog is, um, is, is, is... is is is, is a, a day... a god of day. Slavic. Um. But, but so, so there’s this idea that maybe Baldur meant, um, Baltas, or, um, an older word like it, because Baldur was, was... beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Ben watches him with interest, but Chris doesn’t look at him. His Sir’s voice is in his ear, a hand tipping up his chin. Somewhere his Sir is... is still there, not in the big mansion with the hallway anymore, but... he’s somewhere. And Chris can feel him.

“Yeah,” Chris says, almost breathes. “Baldur was, was, was, was... was the most beautiful god.” He feels every line of his face, that his Sir once traced with his fingertips. He’s pretty. He knows he’s pretty. Too beautiful to be for anything else, sweetheart.

“Wow. So, what else do you know about him?”

It starts like this, darlin’. Baldur had a dream...

“Baldur... had a dream,” Chris says, and his voice shifts, slows down. He goes still where he sits on the rug, staring outside at the sky through Ben’s window. He sits perfectly still, breathing in a slow, even in-and-out, as if guided by the ticking of the metronome all over again. “He dreamed... about dying. And his mother did, too. His mother... dreamed his, his death. Just, just like he did.”

Ben’s face is serious and thoughtful, watching as Chris’s thumb stops rubbing at the feather necklace, and it drops back to thump against his chest.

“He was... sad, because the gods... the, the, the gods-... sorry, wrong, um, bad words, I just-... the gods...”

The gods dream in prophecy, Baldur, pretty thing. Never forget. Gods dream futures.

Yes, yes, yes, Sir.

And I dreamed your future, so what does that make me, sweetheart?

Did Sir ever dream this?

“The gods dream in prophecy,” Chris says, echoing his Sir’s voice in his head. “Frigg was, was, was scared.”

“Wait, that’s-” Ben turned pages in his notebook. “You mean Freya?”

“Frigga, Frija, Frigg,” Chris mumbles. The sky outside the window seems so far away, now.

“She, um, she went around and asked... asked, um, everything on Earth to, to... to promise they would never, never hurt Baldur. And... everything did, except... mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe? Like, the shit you kiss under at New Year’s?”

“Right. Everything but, but mistletoe.” He pulls his knees tight to his chest and sits like that, feeling Sir’s hand drift over the back of his neck, two fingers crook underneath soft leather of a collar Chris no longer wears. “It was... small, and a soft, soft thing, unimportant. When... when Loki-”

“Oh, I know who he is,” Ben says confidently, smiling now - but there’s a hint of something like worry in his eyes as he takes in Chris sitting perfectly still, like he’s carved from stone. 

“When, when Loki heard... he had a, a, a spear made of mistletoe. Loki didn’t, didn’t want to get in trouble for murder, so, um... so, so, so so so he gave the spear to, to, to Baldur’s brother, who was blind. Everyone threw things, at, at Baldur, and it bounced off, and Baldur’s smile was... was like the sun. Everyone loved him.”

Who could ever love you, pretty pet, but me?

“Baldur’s brother threw the, the spear. And killed him.”

Ben blinks, shifts forward. “He did? Holy shit.”

“Um, yes. Because, because the mistletoe-”

“Right. Because the mistletoe never promised not to hurt-... wow, that’s dark shit. Loki did that on purpose?”

“Yeah, he, um, he’s Loki. So. But, so, so, so... so this person, Baldur’s own family, um... killed him.”

“Yeah... shit. What happened after that?”

Chris rubs at the back of his neck, and feels the warmth of his Sir’s palm press over his hand, feels his mouth press a kiss to Chris’s coppery hair-

No, his hair is blue now. He did it himself. His hair is blue.

“Baldur,” He whispers, “went, went, went to, to, to... to... to hell-... I mean, um, to, to Hel, the goddess of the underworld. She, she, she saw his beauty and-... kept him. Be, beside her. And... and he couldn’t, couldn’t escape it, and come back, unless everything on earth cried for, for, for, for... for his loss. But one giant refused. So...” He trails off. “That’s, um, that’s... there’s more, but... yeah.”

“Wow.”

Chris swallows.

Well done, darlin’. You’ve never forgotten a single thing you learned for me...

“How do you know all this shit about fucking Norse gods, Chris?” Ben taps his pen on his paper, looking at his own sharp, angular handwriting, the notes he’s been taking all along. 

Unlike Chris’s notebooks, covered in loopy scrawling writing and with the margins full of doodles of shapes and little drawings of animals, Ben’s margins are as neat and empty as they can be. 

Chris usually feels like what his hand draws, a constant movement, a constant shift, filling his life in with his motion. Right now, though, he feels like Ben’s margins, empty open space. Paint over what was there before, and nothing’s left but the blank spots.

Chris shrugs. He pretends he doesn’t feel the soft weight of his Sir’s hand, resting just over the back of his neck, the brush of his lips over Chris’s earlobe, the whisper of his voice sending a shiver down his spine.

Beautiful boy. Would you like to hear about how Odin got his eight-legged horse today, darlin’?

Yes, yes... yes, Sir. Tell... tell me, tell, but can I... after can you tell me about, about Baldur again?

Silly boy. Of course I can. Lay down on your back for me. 

“I, I knew someone,” Chris says, his heart skipping a beat. He can almost feel himself leaning back into a phantom hand through his hair, ready to lay down on navy silk sheets, like none of the good things ever happened.

Like he’s still a beautiful boy, living in hell.

He breathes in, and then out. Tries to replace the feeling of Sir’s arms around him with the daydream he’s been having about Laken’s arms instead. 

“I knew someone who, um... who liked the, the stories about Baldur. A, a long time ago.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. A, um... a kid.”

“Like, a brother? I thought you just had your adopted brothers.”

“Um, no, not, not, not... not my brother.” Chris grips onto his feather necklace, again. He can almost feel the warmth of Laken’s skin when they accidentally bump against him in line to get dinner at the dining hall. “Not my brother. Just... just, um, a kid... who was kind of like me.”

---

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @slaintetowhump , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth , @cubeswhump , @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary - @whimpers-and-whumpers

(Nicky - briefly referenced here - is @orchidscript’s OC Henry)

[fan-fantasies]

Christmas Miracle (Kim Hongjoong)

Prompts?: “Come and kiss me baby, we don’t need no mistletoe” -Ariana Grande (Wit it This Christmas)

“The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear.” -Elf

Paring?: hongjoong x reader

warnings?: swearing, situations of drinking, (i think thats it)

A/N: Hey everyone, so i’m pretty nervous to post this, it’s been awhile since i last posted something. I’ve been struggling with some mental health situations which left me unmotivated and overall not myself. So i’m hoping that this turns out as good as i think it is. I write this for an Ateez Winter prompt, I thought why not start of the year with something wholesome? Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3 Breezy

Winter was a beautiful season, the snow, the pretty Christmas decorations that seemed to be everywhere you looked. You wouldn’t say that you hated winter, seeing it was the best time of year for hot chocolate in front of a fire or curling up under warm blankets for a movie night in. Though for the love of all things, why did it have to be so cold?! 

The wind blew on your walk to class, after your car neglected to start due to the frigid temperatures, there was no other option but to bundle up and walk the small distance to your university. At least it wasn’t snowing but the dark clouds were telling a different story. What a wonderful day today was going to be. You decided that maybe a warm cup of hot coco would help your day get better, there was a small cafe right by the school that you had never had time to stop before but today seemed to be the day. The cafe was quiet, the soft sound of the radio kept it from being too quiet. At the register was a fairly tall man, dark hair that was pushed to the side so it wouldn't cover his eyes. His name tag read, 'San'. When he saw you he spoke cheerfully, greeting you with a warm smile.

"Good morning! What can I get for you?" He cheerfully asks causing you to cringe a bit. It was too early.

"Hi " you spoke softly, "can I get a medium hot chocolate?” you order now returning a smile. As you prepared to take out your wallet, he stops you.

“It's on the house," he says, "it seems like you need it." His smile never left his face. You honestly couldn't tell if it was fake or if he just loved his job that much.

"Hongjoong, one hot cocoa!" He shouts to his coworker who stood by the machines seemingly already working on it. From where you stood, Hongjoong was shorter than his co-worker, his hair a dark brown and, to be honest, looked soft. You couldn't see his face but you wished you could.

While you wait, San kept a light conversation going, seeing as he had no customers, not like you minded.

"Where are you heading off too?" He asked curiously.

"Well I'm heading to one of my classes at the university. Art history." You tell him honestly.

His eyes light up hearing that class, "Then you likely know Wooyoung!" he exclaims, “He's our roommate."

San motions towards Hongjoong. “Well one of our roommates, we share an apartment with a few friends." San glances in the direction of his coworker who was hard at work.

He spoke quietly, "do you think I could get your number?" You were surprised at how forward he was.

Your expression made him chuckle, "Not for me silly, Joong over there has been sneaking glances at you, and I've seen your eyes wander too," he teases, "he's just a little nervous to get out there." San explained quietly hoping his friend didn't hear the conversation. Typically you weren't one for giving your number out but you had to admit his friend was cute... 

"yeah, give me something to write it down" you say, your cheeks starting to feel warm. The male smiled widely before handing you a piece of receipt paper. You scribbled your number down quickly and handed it to the dark haired boy, who quickly took it and hid it before his friend came over with your drink. Your eyes finally met his, your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. 

His eyes were a dark brown, he was wore large rimmed glassed that only seemed to make him even more adorable if that was physically possible. His hair was parted in the middle, slightly showing off his forehead but it honestly framed his face wonderfully. Your train of thought was broken when you heard San speak up,

“We have to see you again! Now you better go before you’re late for class!” He exclaims which reminded you that, in fact, you had class to get to. 

“Thank you San, thank you Hongjoong.” You spoke quietly with a shy smile before leaving the cafe and heading down the street. Even with the unexpected stop, you were still making great time and were able to make it to class with five minutes to spare. 

“(Y/n)!” You heard the familiar hyper voice yell. You glanced up seeing Wooyoung waving excitedly in your direction. He always acted if you never saw each other. 

“Good morning Woo.” You say with a warm smile. You sat in the seat beside him, as you always did, and he was quick to notice the cup that you had sat down. 

“You stopped at a cafe?” He questioned curiously, he knew you hardly ever stopped. 

“Yeah, my car didn’t start this morning so I had to walk. I decided to stop to get something to warm me up a little.” You say with a chuckle. Your eyes scanned over the cup briefly only for you to now notices the small flower doodles and hearts on the part where they typically wrote the name for the order.

Wooyoung must have also noticed cause he gasped at it, “Awe!” Wooyoung was always so giddy when it come to you, especially if it had to do with you potentially dating. This man was absolutely invested in getting you into a relationship. 

“Did you get the name of the barista?” He questioned trying to get as much information as possible. 

You giggle at his question, “Yeah, I did.” You smile softly, “Also, I’m pretty sure San wanted me to say hi to you.” You say with a smirk. His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. You had never seen him so happy about something in his life. 

“It was San?!” He nearly shrieked trying to keep his voice down. 

“No, it wasn’t San. Though he was really trying to set one of your friends up with me.” You looked down at your hands shyly. “His name was Hongjoong.” This time Wooyoung couldn’t hold back the squeal that escaped him. 

He prepared to speak but was cut off when the professor began to start speaking. You instantly went into, what you liked to call, note taking mode. This was one of your favorite classes and you found it the most interesting out of all of them, so of course you were going to pay attention. 

Midway through the class you felt Woo gently poke your side, carefully sliding a small note to you. What was this? Eighth grade? 

‘So Hongjoong? ;)’ Was written on the note, you knew telling him about his friends was likely a bad idea… 

‘What about him?’ You wrote back, carefully sliding the note back. You knew Wooyoung was trying to hold back his excitement. 

When the note slide back you weren’t surprised to see what he had written. ‘What do you think of him?” 

You rolled your eyes at this, ‘IDK, he seems nice? I didn’t really get a chance to talk with him.’ You quickly wrote before passing it back, now fully focusing on the professors lecture. Wooyoung must have seen that you wanted to focus, cause he never passed the note back. 

The class went by slowly, though you didn’t really mind. It almost made you forget crappy your day had started out. 

Once the professor dismissed everyone, Wooyoung was at your side talking again. 

“You should come to our Christmas party!” He suggested, “It’s just us, we watch movies and just have a good time. Maybe you can talk to my buddy Hongjoong a little.” He teased with a wink. 

You both exited the classroom, through the hallway windows you could see that snow had indeed begun to fall. 

You groan in discontentment. “Why did my car have to stop working today?” You mumble watching the snow fall from the sky. 

“You can’t walk home in this! You’re going to catch cold.” He says, “I bet one of the guys would bring you home!” He pulls out his cell phone, “San and Hongjoong should be getting out of work soon. They could come pick you up.” He says tapping away at his phone.

“I don’t want to inconvenience them, I’ll just take the bus.” You tell him, he shook his head. Continuing to type away on his phone. 

“Too late, San already agreed. He said him and Hongjoong would pick you up outside the main building in 15 minutes.” Wooyoung giggled, a cute smile on his face.  

“Fine and I’ll think about your offer for the Christmas party.” The both of you hug before parting ways. 

Your walk to the main building was pretty quiet, most students were in their classes only a few stragglers wandered around. Likely, they too, were done with classes or meeting with professors before their final deadlines come up. To be honest, you hadn't thought much about them. 

You glanced out the front door, not daring to go outside unless you needed to. A few cars sat idling in the parking lot, Wooyoung neglected to tell you what type of car they drove. You stood there for a bit, in your back pocket your phone buzzed. A new text message.

You opened it, no name had come up so whoever it was you didn't have their number.

"this is San! " the text started with, "this is Hongjoongs phone so you should save his number." he had said, adding a winky face at the end. "Anyways, we are outside the silver Toyota." you glance out and the car seemed to pull up. Perfect timing you thought to yourself. You held your jacket close as you walked out into the cold, the snow seemed to be falling even more then before. You sped walked to the car, opening the backseat door, you were oddly surprised at how clean it was.

"hey (y/n)!" San enthusiastically says from the passenger seat. Hongjoong also greeted you but in a much quieter fashion.

"hi, I really appreciate you giving me a ride. I probably would have frozen solid if I had to walk." you say with a small laugh.

"I don't mind," Hongjoong spoke softly as he began to pull out of the parking lot. You told him your address and he headed in that direction. San made sure to keep the conversation going, he reminded you so much of Woo.

"How long have you known Wooyoung?" You curiously ask the two males.

"Well, Woo and I went to high school together. then we met this one when we moved in for university." San spoke happily, it was honestly kind of sweet.

 Hongjoong nodded in agreement, "If I would have known you two were so crazy I wouldn't have moved in." He teased with a smirk planted on his face. San gasped trying his best to act offended. This made you giggle, these two were insane, but you loved it.

The drive to your apartment was filled with stories and jokes. Maybe taking Wooyoungs offer would be fun. You thanked them both before exiting the car and heading to your apartment. You took off your coat and shoes before further entering your apartment. Your phone began to vibrate in your back pocket as you headed towards your room.

 The caller ID read, Wooyoung.

You answer. " yes Woo?" you asked enter your room and sitting at your desk.

"how was your ride?" he questioned in a teasing manner. 

You rolled your eyes,"it was great. San told me a lot of stories." you tease back.

Wooyoung was quiet for a few moments. "Nothing new," he calmly says, " Have you thought about the party?" 

" yeah, I've thought about it" you begin.' I think it could be fun... " you nearly dropped your phone at the sound of Woo young's shriek. This man was to excitable..

"the party is next weekend , well, we usually start Friday night but you can come by on Saturday, "he says cheerfully.

"I'll come by on Friday, I'll just crash on your couch or something." you weren't opposed to sleeping on the couch or floor.

"Or maybe you can share a bed with Hongjoong." you could practically hear him smirking but his comment made you blush none the less.

"Shut up Woo, don't make me regret this." 

He chuckled, "I promise you wont, I gotta go I'll see you in class tomorrow." The overly excited man hung up the phone leaving you in silence.

"That guys gonna be the death of me." you mumble to yourself before standing and continuing to do your afternoon routine.

The week passed by in a blur. Other than your work, the party was always on your mind. You weren't typically one for parties but maybe this could be fun.

Woo told you that you would go to his place after your class, his roomie Jongho was going to bring you..

"Are you excited for tonight? " Wooyoung questions as the two of you exited the lecture hall. Even after an exhausting class, he still somehow managed to have so much energy.

"Yes, I'm excited. I’ve never honestly been to any kind of party like this before.” You admit with a small sigh. Wooyoung let out a giggle, he gently grabbed you and continued to walk with you down the corridor. 

“Well then this will be even more fun!” He exclaims, “You’ll love everyone, we can be a little crazy but I think you’ll get along with them. If you don’t, well I’m sure Hongjoong would bring you up to his room where it’s quiet.” He teased as he gently nudged your side. You smiled at his teasing tone but didn’t say anything else. You knew Woo was planning something, you just weren’t sure what it was he was planning. 

As he had said, Jongho was waiting for the both of you in his car. Another figure in the car in the passenger seat. 

“Hey Jongho! Yunho!” Wooyoung exclaims as he gets into the car, you followed suit. “Guys this is (Y/n)! They’re in my art history class.” He says to his friends. The one driving, who you assumed was Jongho gave you a hello, while the other one gave you the brightest smile. 

“Hey there! I’m Yunho!” His energy almost matched Wooyoung’s which honestly kind of scared you but not in a bad way. You giggle at his enthusiasm but didn’t say anything in return. You let the two goofy friends chat about the plans for tonight, while you and Jongho sat in silence listening to them. 

“We have to make one stop before we go back to the apartment.” Jongho says as he pulled into the parking lot of a small store. 

He parked the car, “I’ll be right back.” He says as he exits the car and rushing into the store, likely so his friends wouldn’t do something stupid in his car. You honestly believed that these two would be capable of doing something stupid like that.

The two continued to joke, as if Jongho hadn’t left the car. 

“Come on (Y/n)! Tell him what happened at the cafe.” Wooyoung whined as he playfully nudged you. 

“Wait the cafe where we work?” Yunho questions with the biggest grin on his face. Wooyoung nods his head excitedly. 

“Come on Woo, don’t make me tell him.” You beg looking at your friend who had the biggest shit eating grin. 

“If you don’t, I will.” He teases hoping that his words might honestly push you to tell the story. When you kept your mouth shut he took that as his cue that he would be telling it for you. 

“San was trying to set her up with Hongjoong.” This news made Yunho giggle happily. Did all of his friends really want to set you up with Hongjoong? They hardly knew you. 

Before the story continued, the drivers side door opened and Jongho sat down into his seat. He handed the bag to Yunho who was still giggling like crazy. You would have figured Jongho would have questioned but he just silently began to drive again. This was going to be an interesting night…

You had been at their apartment for about an hour and honestly you were sure that this was just pure chaos. It had started with the nine of you but eventually nine turned to ten and ten turned into eighteen. Someone, who you honestly assumed was San, had invited Changbin, who in turn invited his eight rowdy friends. Put the two groups of friends together to have a purely chaotic party. 

Currently you were all listening to upbeat Christmas music, dancing together like it honestly didn’t matter. Most of you were drinking, leaving poor Jeongin and Jongho out seeing as though they were technically underage but it honestly seemed like they weren’t interested in the booze since you knew if they wanted to drink they could have just asked. 

You weren’t much of a drinker but tonight, you decided to let loose a little, drinking enough just to make your head spin a little. 

A cup in hand you danced and sung along with Han and Wooyoung to the upbeat music, you were all sharing giggles having just a good time. All you wanted to do is dance. Wooyoung continued to glance at Han, you believed they were being sneaky but you could easily see through them. What were they planning?

The more you danced with them, the closer they seemed to get to you, not like you minded. Though Woo was your best friend, you found him attractive anyone with eyes would agree and Han was just as good looking as him. Though you were sure, Woo knew his limits and would make sure nothing happened to you. 

You heard a laugh beside you as you and Wooyoung shouted along to the Christmas song that played. You looked over to see Yeosang and Hyunjin, who seemed really entertained by the show that was being put on. 

“What?!” You shout to them over the loud music, “The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear!” You shout to them only causing them to laugh. 

“Come on Yeosang! Hyunjin! Join us!” You say to them holding out your arm. They only laughed again before walking in the opposite direction. You look at Wooyoung and pout but continued dancing none the less. 

Wooyoung leaned closer, whispering in your ear, “Guess who won’t stop looking at you.” He whispered in a singsong voice. You glanced over your shoulder and sure enough Hongjoong was glancing at you from across the room as he seemed to be in a conversation with Seonghwa and Chris. His averted his gaze back to the two he was talking with. 

“What are you planning Woo?” You question glancing back at your friend who seemed to have a mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Don’t worry too much, me and Han are going to help you.” You wanted to question what he meant but both Woo and Han took your arm leading you to the empty couch to sit. Once you sat down, the music was turned down and everyone seemed to gather around sitting in the empty chairs and the floor. You felt Han place his arm over your shoulder casually, you knew he meant nothing by it. 

“Usually around now we would watch some cheesy Christmas movies, but it seems we have more guests than usual.” San chuckled knowing that this was his doing. The room erupted in chatter about how they really wanted to watch movies. 

“Put on a movie!” Felix shouted from his seat on the floor. The rest of the room agreed. 

San rolled his eyes, “Fine! We watch the same movies every year so thats what we will watch.” Everyone in the room cheered excitedly as Yeosang turned the TV on preparing it for their movie marathon. Wooyoung got up from his seat, leaving you and Han alone on the couch. You suspected this was part of the plan. 

Han leaned closer to you, “Play along, but let me know if you’re uncomfortable.” He whispered in your ear. You honestly thought that while he was enacting this plan with Wooyoung, that he wanted you to be comfortable above all. You nod slightly and lean back against the couch, his arm was still casually thrown over your shoulder though he made sure to sit a bit closer to you. It was at that moment, you knew exactly what they were doing. They were trying to make Hongjoong jealous enough to make a move. You laid your head on Han’s shoulder, playing along with their idea to set you up. You continued to sip at your drink as someone turned off the lights and started the movie. The seat beside you stayed vacant for some time until Wooyoung returned, it was clear though that he didn’t want to take this seat. 

The movie went on, you were likely halfway through the movie when you felt a sickening feeling in your stomach. 

“Woo where’s your bathroom?” You asked quietly not to disturb anyone else. 

He glanced at you, “Down that hallway, the last door on the left. Are you okay?” He questioned, concern in his soft voice. 

“Yeah, I-I just don’t feel too good.” You say honestly before standing from your seat, carefully stepping over everyone on the floor and speed walking down the hallway. You threw the bathroom door open, closing it gently before rushing towards the toilet. Falling to the floor you threw up into the toilet, a few stray tears fell down your cheeks just from the burning in your throat. 

There was a knock on the bathroom door, “(Y/n)?” A voice you weren’t expecting to hear called, you went to answer but instead vomiting again. Through your dry heaves you heard the door slowly open and close gently. There were no words spoken as Hongjoong walked behind you and held you hair away from your face. It was a sweet gesture that would have made your heart skip a beat if you weren’t sitting here vomiting. You felt his other hand gently rub your back in hopes to maybe sooth you. 

When you were sure that the contents of your stomach was empty you sat back against your heels. 

“I-I’m sorry you had to see me like this Hongjoong.” You whisper softly, your throat sore from throwing up. There was long period of silence but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. 

“Don’t be sorry, it happens.” He speaks softly, his voice calm and soothing. “Let me go get you some water and some mouth wash.” He chuckled softly before quietly leaving the room. 

You stood yourself up, supporting yourself against the counter as your felt light headed. You looked at yourself in the mirror, cheeks flushed from the tears that had fallen from your eyes. You looked like a disheveled mess. 

The bathroom door carefully opened again, Hongjoong entered with a cup of water and what you assumed was a bottle of mouthwash. He carefully handed you the cup, with shaky hands your first sip was to hopefully rinse this awful taste out of your mouth. The rest you carefully drank in hopes to sooth your hurting throat. 

“I’ll leave you to clean yourself up…” Hongjoong trailed as he turned to leave. 

“W-Wait, Hongjoong,” you began, “Will you wait for me outside the door? I’m feeling a bit dizzy.” You tell him.

He glanced back at you, a cute smile on his face. “Of course.” He left the room closing the door behind him. 

You took a few minutes to clean yourself up and be slightly more presentable before you slowly exiting the bathroom. As you had asked, Hongjoong waited for you. He offered you his arm, which you happily accepted. 

“C-Can I sit with you?” You quietly ask as you walked down the hallway together. 

He was quiet, “You don’t want to sit with Wooyoung and Han?” 

You giggled, did the plan actually work. “Why? Are you jealous?” You tease, a noticeable blush appearing on his cheeks. That gave you your answer. He didn’t particularly answer your question but when you got to the living room he brought you to his spot on the floor. You must have been gone for some time cause another movie had begun. Before you knew it, you were snuggling into his side, your eyes becoming heavy as you drifted to sleep. 

When you woke up you were in a completely different room, one you didn’t recognize. You tried to remember what had happened before you fell asleep, you remembered the movie and throwing up in front of Hongjoong. He was likely the reason you were in this bed. A soft snore snapped you from your thoughts, you carefully looked over your shoulder as saw Hongjoong. He was laying on his back, hair disheveled but it was cute. You carefully turn to face him, gently you place your head on his chest cuddling into him. His arm moved, wrapping itself around you holding you close. This felt so right… 

Hongjoong shifted underneath you, you glanced up to his face watching as his eyes flutter open. A blush appeared on his cheeks as he locked eyes with you. 

“Good morning.” You mumble softly a blush also appearing on your cheeks. Your heart was beating a mile a minute as you looked into each other eyes. A mental argument went on inside your head, should you make a move? Or just gaze into his eyes? You had a feeling that he was thinking the same thing. You sat there for what seemed like hours until his hand gently touched your cheek. His thumb gently rubbing against your cheek, the gesture was sweet but it was more than that… You shifted upwards, the both of your lips barely touching. 

“C-Can I kiss you?” He mumbles softly, his eyes never leaving yours. You didn’t answer, instead you leaned up and connected your lips together softly. Neither of you moved until Hongjoong deepened the kiss. His hand gently caressed your cheek as you shared this soft kiss. You pulled away slowly, your eyes locking once again. He sat up, his back now leaning against the headboard pulling you up with him as he once again locked lips with you. The hand on your cheek now rested on the back of your neck deepening the kiss. 

A loud crash caused the both of you to pull away. 

“What was that?” You question. 

Hongjoong sighed softly, “It’s more like who and I know exactly who it is.” He mumbled as he stayed close to you. 

“Sh-Should we go check on them?” You ask not particularly wanting to move from the position you were in. You squealed as he pulled you onto his lap to straddle his hips, his hands rested on your waist and yours wrapped gently around his neck. Your forehead again rested against his, your lips gently brushing against his again. You two would have likely kissed again if Hongjoongs bedroom door didn’t swing open causing the both of you to jump. Wooyoung stood there, the biggest shit eating grin ever imaginable on his face. 

“Wooyoung, get out.” You tell your friend, a threatening look in your eye that clearly sent a message to him cause he quickly shut the door and left you alone.

“That man really knows how to ruin a moment.” You say with a giggle as you looked at a flustered Hongjoong. “I think we should go check on them…” He gave you a nod, gently pecking your lips before you got up from the bed. 

You grabbed his hand gently as you both left his room, fully prepared to be teased by all of his friends. Which you were, though mostly it was his roommates being happy to see him with someone. The other nine boys, who must have crashed in the living room, joined them in being excited. Though Han was with you, saying that he was happy to see the two of you together. It was honestly kinda sweet seeing everyone so happy. 

The rest of the morning was spent eating a sweet breakfast that Wooyoung and Seonghwa made together, apparently this too was a tradition. You all sat around the living room, telling stories, laughing and genuinely enjoying the company of others. You were lucky enough to secure a spot on the couch next to Hongjoong, while San sat on the other side of you. It was nice to be able to cuddle into his side even if you were surrounded by everyone. 

Eventually the conversation seemed to shift into one that you never would have thought, it almost seemed cliche. A game of truth or dare amongst eighteen people. Well this was going to be fun.

They were harmless dares, like asking them to do silly things or things like that. It was honestly just fun amongst friends. Well, till it got to Hongjoong’s turn. 

“Alright Hongjoong, truth or dare?” Felix asked the elder who shifted in his seat. 

“Uh, dare?” He said as more of a question then answering the question. That made you giggle. 

“Well then, we all dare you to give your new girlfriend a big ol’kiss.” Some people in the room whooped and made sounds causing you to blush. He seemed hesitant unsure if you wanted to do this, his gaze locked with yours almost asking you for permission. 

You let out the smallest giggle, “Come and kiss me baby,” you say softly for only him to hear, “we don’t need no mistletoe.” You say in a teasing manner causing him to chuckle as well before leaning in and kisses you sweetly. The room erupted in cheers causing a blush to appear on your cheeks. It was a short but sweet kiss, you were sure neither of you wanted to pull away and likely you wouldn’t have if you weren’t surrounded by friends. 

The game continued on, picking fun at each other and having a good laugh. Before you knew it, everyone was getting ready to leave. Everyone said their goodbyes, Han made sure that he had contact with you cause you were pretty sure you had just made a new best friend. Once the nine boys left, you and the others continued to lounge in the living room. 

“(Y/N)!” Wooyoung shouted from the kitchen,

“What!?” You shout in return from the comfort of the couch as you laid across it with your head on Hongjoong’s lap. 

“Come help me!” You groan at his request before getting up and heading towards the kitchen. The biggest mess you had ever seen, Wooyoung was trying to bake… 

“Wooyoung, what in the world…” you begin, “Are you trying to make pie?” 

The happy boy smiled and nodded, “Yes I wanted apple pie.” He said. 

“We could have gone to the store.” 

He shook his head, “That’s no fun! Now help me, I know you know how to make apple pie.” He said. You rolled your eyes, and join him. 

“We are gonna need a few more hands, or this will take forever.” You tell Wooyoung, his eyes lit up as he rushed to the living room and came back with San and Hongjoong. 

You spent the rest of the afternoon baking with the chaos twins and Hongjoong. It was the most fun baking you had ever had. Once you put the pie in the oven, you set the timer and headed towards the living room. 

A hand grabbed yours, pulling you back, your back came in contact with a firm chest, his firm chest. His arms wrapped around you as he held you close and kissed your head. 

“I’m going to take you out tomorrow.” He says with a smile, “Where ever you want to go, I’ll take you.” He declares as he holds you close. 

“How about a coffee shop.” You say with a smirk causing him to chuckle. 

“Was their teasing not enough?” He questioned. 

You shook your head, “No.” You giggle, you glance up at him, there was a wide smile on his face. 

This was the man of your dreams, he was everything. Maybe he was your Christmas miracle. 

[many-gay-magpies]

{The Red Wall}

---

In my house, there is a red wall.

It was there when we moved in— a stark contrast against all the other walls in the house, all monochrome shades of beiges, taupes, and greys, achingly plain compared to the blood red wall separating the kitchen and dining room.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with plain— plain was good, my mother said. Like a blank canvas. Nothing much clashed with beige. There was quite a lot, however, that could clash with red.

My mother always talked about painting over the wall; Making it something teal or blue-ish and all the surrounding walls a warmer shade of beige. She talked about it often, every night after work, but she never did.

One day, one of my mother's friends came over, one who worked in magic; The kind of magic that still exists in the smallest ways yet no one believes that it does, too stuck on it being fantasy. He came to visit; Said there was some negative energy in the house— something leftover, like the remnants of something which didn't cause harm any longer. And as he spoke, I couldn't help but glance at the red wall.

There was something jarring about it. It felt like more than just it's blood red-ness stark against the muted greige of the room, more than just the way my mother would always highlight it, when talking about what in the house she would paint, when she wasn't so tired from work anymore.

Sometimes my parents would go on errands, and I would be alone in the house— I was old enough, they trust me and I trust myself. If it's in the mornings (or any time when I'm hungry, really), I'll heat up something from the fridge or freezer, leftovers or one of those bland meals the school gives us which I shower too much in salt or pepper.

One of those nights, when I was alone, I found myself stopping beside the wall, looking up at it silently for a few minutes. Something slightly enthralling about it.

"Hello," I said to the wall; Then felt incredibly stupid about it right after and longed to bash my head into it out of shame.

It's okay, I rationalized with myself— No one is home. No one saw you say 'hello' to a completely inanimate wall. Just pretend you were joking around and you'll be fine.

That night, I dreamt of a voice, whispering a 'hello' into my ears as sweet as honey.

The wall began to grow on my mother after a time. Me, too; My father, who was colorblind and not too focussed on such things as wall color anyway, never gave it much thought. My mother and I agreed that the deep bloody burgundy was a sort of nice color, and it went well with all the various ornaments we had stacked against it, the golden-stained buffet and the bronze-edged mirror and the little teal candle holder made of abalone.

Although any time I mentioned liking the wall, becoming accustomed to it, she would simply say, "No, I do want to paint it, soon. We should paint it, soon." But there was less force in her voice each time.

Another time I looked at the wall and said 'hi', quietly, in my mind— No one could hear me, then. Just myself; And even then I could play it off as another one of those stray, silly little thoughts I liked having.

That night I slept better than I had the whole month. Perhaps red walls like to be talked to.

On another one of those alone nights, I was sitting at the dining room table, eating, when I noticed a change in the wall. It was smooth— smooth all over. It shined, not like paint, not like it had, because dry paint wasn't supposed to shine, to shimmer like that.

The wall was rippling; Like a sideways lake someone had dipped a finger in, like a sheer veil over a bride's face, like deep red silk in the wind. And then just as it had resembles water, out from the water came a hand, then a face and then long, silky red hair the same as the color of the wall and then a whole person after that.

I wasn't as surprised as I probably should have been, by the woman of blood and porcelain and ebony black eyes that had just emerged from the red wall.

"Hello," I said, again, and she smiled; a melancholic sort of thing, on lips more rosy pink than bloody red. There were little red teardrops beneath her eyes; Like teardrops painted onto a clown's face with face paint.

"Hello." Honey-sweet, like in my dream.

"Why are you here?"

"To protect," she said simply.

"What from?"

She shook her head. "In time," She said. So I nodded. In time. It made sense.

I said nothing more and neither did she. She stayed, leaning out of the wall, for a while, before slipping away; The red slowly turning from a rippling mirror texture back into solid paint, back into nothing much surprising or unordinary, aside from the starkness of blood-coloring against boring beige.

Curiosity of the red woman plagued me for more than a week, so one night in the middle of the night I crept downstairs in my pajamas, pulled up one of the dining chairs to the red wall and sat in it with my knees up to my chest. I drew little things into the dark red paint, little hearts and swirls and doodles of eyes I could see with nothing but my fingertips.

Again the wall changed from paint to ripples, and again she came from it, pushing through the red like silk curtains.

It was hard to see her, in the dark— I hadn't turned on any lights. But still her skin illuminated under the palest bit of moonlight coming in from the outside window.

"What do you protect from?" I asked, leaning the side of my head against the wall.

"Nothing," she said quietly. "Nothing, now."

I nodded; Understanding in some way I wasn't entirely sure of, but didn't protest.

"Is whatever it was you protected from... gone?"

I thought I saw her nod in the dark. I may have. Nonetheless she spoke no more. I wondered if she had a limit, on what words she could speak per night; Or if she simply got tired after saying a few.

I didn't mind the silence that followed, though. Words could be tiring.

The woman came down to sit atop the gold-stained buffet. Her knees were pressed to her chest, like mine, her arms wrapped around them. I thought she looked smaller, in the dark. Less powerful, more childlike.

That in itself felt like a powerful thing.

"Goodbye," I found myself whispering, when she slipped back beneath her watery curtains again. Then I went up and slipped drowsily between my own.

"My mom is going to paint this wall," I said to her, the next time I saw her.

The woman rested dangling above the doorway between the kitchen and dining room that night— sitting atop the doorframe as if it, in it's white-painted glory, didn't have the same rippling effects as the blood red wall she had emerged from. It probably didn't; acting more like a chair of sorts, from which her porcelain legs swung to and fro beneath her, little drips of red falling from her dress and disappearing the second they hit the floor.

"Oh," she said, and I thought she looked sort of sad.

"Will you go away, when she does?" I asked her.

A nod. I found myself a bit sad about it too, somehow; about this being who was looking more and more like a young girl and yes like a woman as the nights passed by, or perhaps that was just my changing perception of her.

"Oh," I answered, quiet, because I still wasn't entirely sure what to say to a girl that had come out of a wall. "Well," I was again sitting in one of the kitchen chairs with my knees to my chest, but still at the table, this time, and facing the white doorway she dangled from. "She probably won't do it for a while. She's tired. From work. So, you'll... stay here a little longer."

A soft smile came to her rosy lips, "That's good."

I learned more things, in time. I learned that the people who owned the house before us had been trying to protect themselves from something, and created her for the purpose; I learned that when they moved, they had just left her there, like a family leaving a puppy behind in an alleyway when they no longer wanted to care for it.

Of course, I knew things were much more complicated than that. A red-clothed protector spirit was quite a bit different from an abandoned puppy. Sometimes, though— sometimes I looked into her eyes and I wasn't as convinced.

The next week, she told me she didn't want to leave.

I tried to think of ways to get my mother not to paint over the red wall, or ways to delay it, at least; although her work exhaustion did that pretty well on it's own. But when it came down to it, the wall would be painted, one way or another, and I, a person vastly avoidant of any form of confrontation, had no way of stopping it.

"It's okay," she said in a whisper one night, like all the others, us both sitting in the dining room together, me in my pajamas and her sitting on the doorframe in her red gown. "It's okay, I can go. I'm not needed here anymore." I'm useless.

Some days, when I had presentations for class, or when would lay awake at night, anxiety pulsing in my veins about every possible situation, I would be overcome with this feeling of warmth; of red.

Weeks passed. The red wall became a staple of comfort, like a deep burgundy blanket draping over me and snuffing out all the little candleflames of doubt, not really a medication for the anxiety but something that made the weight a little lighter, the thoughts a little more bearable when they would get so bad I couldn't breath. I would sit, and I would talk, with this protector in the wall who didn't have a name, who was like a lost puppy, a newborn child thrust into the world for a purpose that was so quickly pulled out from under her.

She started appearing less; not coming out of the wall to sit with me as much as she had, although sometimes I still saw a ripple, a faint sheen that was more than paint. I would still sit and talk, be it aloud or in my head, to the red wall; maybe hoping for something to respond again.

I began to wonder if I was a little crazy. Maybe I had imagined it all. Maybe I only dreamt the softer voice that told me 'thank you' and 'goodnight' after I closed my eyes. Maybe I was, indeed, mad.

Although I began to think that maybe that was her exact motivation, when summer came and my mother painted over the red with pastel-y teal and I wasn't as sad about it as I could have been.

---

In my room, there is a red wall.

It was painted a month ago— covering the wall behind the head of my bed, a stark contrast against the creamy beige surrounding although it is nice, somehow, too. It feels like a blanket; snuffing out the light from the windows in front of and behind me when it gets to bright, holding me in warmth when the winter gets frigid and we don't bother to direct the heater up onto my floor of the house because I've always preferred to sleep in the cold.

My mother was curious, at first, about my request to paint a wall red, as red had never been one of my favorite colors, but she didn't protest— and so now, in my room, there is a red wall.

[keyofjetwolf]

Hi would you like some rage about She-Ra season 5?

If the answer is no, please don’t click below. For real. Really for real. I’m not looking to piss in anyone’s Cheerios. I think if you were satisfied (or better!) with the show, that’s fantastic and I envy you. As I have always said, love what you love. My opinion is mine and means precisely nothing beyond that. If you think you may be even a little bummed reading about how someone didn’t like it, skip this post and go on with your day, I promise you’re not missing anything worthwhile.

IN A SIMILAR VEIN: If -- before, during, or after reading -- you feel inclined to argue with me, I am begging you to please not. I cannot begin to tell you how much I don’t want to be argued with on this right now. I’m still extremely disappointed and cranky, and I’m not much in the mood to have a measured, reasoned debate about my feelings. Much as my opinion has no bearing on you, your opinion has no bearing on me, and as I’m giving you the option to opt out, I’d appreciate the same courtesy. If you want to write your own post on your own blog, go nuts! Just please leave me out of it. I PREFER TO BE CRANKY AT TELEVISION SHOWS THAN PEOPLE.

The rest of you, come on down. I don’t promise coherency, but I DO promise a lot of stuff said in all-caps!

---

Hello! Thank you for joining me! We watched the remaining few episodes of She-Ra last night! I hated them! Yaaay!

What did I hate? OH HO HO MANY THINGS FRIENDS MANY THINGS. It’s not just stuff from the final couple of episodes either, I want to clarify. It’s the entire final season, settling on last few episodes like the freshly fallen snow on your front lawn that some frat boys decide to pee their names into. By the time we’d gotten to these last episodes, there was really nothing left for me but confirmation of all the shit I’d come to hate. SO THANKS I GUESS FOR PROVING ME RIGHT

Which isn’t to say there was nothing to enjoy in the final episodes! There was!

5. She-Ra’s Triceps. GET BUFF GIRL. I LOVE how Adora and She-Ra look similar, but very much not identical. Adora’s no slouch when it comes to physical stuff, but they go the extra mile to show us how She-Ra is that much more. HOW RARELY DO YOU GET TO SEE A WOMAN WITH MUSCLES. I’ve been nothing but impressed by the ways the show drew the line between Adora and She-Ra, and however I felt about its handling of other elements, it didn’t let me down here.

4. Sometimes A Family Is A Twink, A Lizard, And Their Imp Baby. I don’t have further commentary on this, and I need none.

3. Welcome Home, Daddy. THIS WAS SO SPECTACULAR. Glimmer had, I would argue, the most realized arc in the story. It was so gratifying to see this as a culmination, not just of her own struggle with her magical power and ability to harness it, but her willingness to do what needs doing, however personally difficult. That was a stumbling point Angelica could never overcome, continually trying to micromanage and protect Glimmer rather than trusting her and recognizing her for the asset she was. Also though, more succinctly: YESSSS BITCH

2. A Shanty! THIS WHOLE SCENE WAS PERFECT NO NOTES. Just the right blend of silly and sincere, a genuine delight as even brainwashed Mermista had had enough of Sea Hawk’s shit, AND so much more clever than it seemed at first glance. THIS IS THE ONLY VALID HETEROSEXUAL RELATIONSHIP IN SHE-RA I AM NOT TAKING QUESTIONS AT THIS TIME

1. Shadow Weaver. SHADOW FUCKING WEAVER. What a complicated, fascinating character, bar none the most interesting in the entire series. I do think they pulled their punch right at the very end with her, but I AM capable of remembering I’m watching a kid’s show, so I can only get so disappointed about it. Mostly, she remained a beautifully morally complex character, and she was one of my greatest personal delights from beginning to end*.

(*) Boy did this show have one single solution for mommy issues though.

THAT WAS ABOUT IT. So let’s get to why we’re all really here, and that is MY SCREAMING OH MY GOD WHERE DO I BEGIN

Nah, I know exactly where to begin.

GLIMMER AND BO JESUS MCTRISKET I AM GOING TO EXPLODE AND SHOWER THE UNIVERSE IN THE SHRAPNEL OF MY HATE

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING

WHERE DID IT COME FROM

HOW CAN I SHOVE IT BACK IN THE HATEFUL SPEWHOLE THAT SIRED THIS BULLSHIT

WHY WHY IS THIS HERE WHY IS THIS IN MY FACE WHERE MY EYES HAVE TO SEE IT FUCK ME SIDEWAYS THIS IS THE MOST UNNECESSARY SHOEHORNED IN HET ROMANCE FUCK A DOODLE NONSENSE I HAVE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO BEAR WITNESS WHAT IS IT DOING IN THIS OTHERWISE EXPONENTIALLY GAY CARTOON

WERE YOU PANDERING TO THE STRAIGHTS

WHY ARE YOU PANDERING TO THE STRAIGHTS I ASSURE YOU WE ARE COVERED BOTH HISTORICALLY AND FICTIONALLY

ALSO NEED I REMIND YOU THAT YOU HAVE ALREADY ACHIEVED HETEROSEXUAL PERFECTION

NO MERMISTA NO WE ARE NOT ALL JUST LIKE OKAY WITH THIS

Oh my FUCKSTICKS, I could’ve rolled with so much more that angers/disappoints me about She-Ra’s ending if every single thing I feared about this hadn’t proved true.

AND. IT. WAS. SO. UNNECESSARY.

What exactly did pairing off Glimmer and Bo do for the story? For their characters? THIS IS THE PART THAT’S STABBING ME IN THE DELICATE WEBBING OF MY TOES. Because -- COME WITH ME A MOMENT SWEET ANGELS -- because I was under the impression that, oohhhh, I dunno, FRIENDSHIP WAS A HUGE FUCKING IMPORTANT PART OF THIS PASTEL HELLSCAPE

Is it, She-Ra? IS IT REALLY???? When not one but BOTH of your childhood friendship pairings end in romance? When you close out your five seasons with romantic relationships so painfully and specifically sown across the character landscape like an overzealous gardener turned loose on the world?

You know what you have at the end? DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID

THIS ISN’T A BEST FRIENDS SQUAD IT’S A DOUBLE DATE THAT NEVER MERCIFULLY ENDS

And again I ask, Why?? What was it about Glimmer and Bo’s relationship that needed them to become romantic? What was LACKING that this was the solution?

THIS IS WHAT MAKES ME LOSE MY GODDAMN SHITTING MIND I AM SO FUCKING DONE WITH THIS INSIPID MYOPIC TRASHBAG OF A CONCEPT

I believed She-Ra’s entire premise about friendship, I believed it wholeheartedly, and I’m so PISSED that at the close of day, narratively, it swept it all the bin. AND YES, YES IT DID, otherwise, WHY IS IT THERE. It serves no story-based need, it serves no character-based need, it has no NEED at all. So is it meant to be a “reward” to Bo and Glimmer for winning the war, as if their lifelong friendship were not reward enough? Is it meant to show they’ve walked through the flames and emerged with stronger, deeper bonds, because of course a relationship can only go SO deep without fucking. There’s no avenue to Romantic Relationship that doesn’t simultaneously point to something lacking in Platonic Relationship, AND I AM FURY PERSONIFIED

I am so tired of this. I’m SO TIRED of this.

And it didn’t need to be there. They didn’t even TRY to give us a good reason. That may be the part that makes me the angriest. Of COURSE they hook up romantically, of COURSE their platonic love would grow into “more”.

Fuck YOU, She-Ra. I thought you were better than that. YOU WERE SO CLOSE TO BETTER THAN THAT

THEN THERE WAS CATRA

I get it, I guess. I mean, I think it’s shittily written, but I GUESS. Honestly, end of day, I just don’t care about Catra enough to really get too angry about it, particularly when as I’m so fucking incendiary over something much more important to me. But it’s also the show’s greatest creative failure, and even if I HADN’T gotten angrier at other choices, it would’ve still cut its own legs out from under it.

Catra’s “redemption” was weak and sad and did a disservice to her and everyone involved. She started self-centered and shitty, and she ended just as self-centered and shitty, only we’re fine with that now. She learned nothing and changed nothing, but also nobody ever demanded it of her, so I can only lay so much at the character’s feet. The problem is ultimately creative, where I think Noelle Stevenson got lost in her own love of the character, and somewhere along the way forgot that if you take them out that far, you have to be willing to walk them the long road back. Compare to poor Glimmer, for fuck’s sake, whose greatest sin was being desperate enough to be manipulated by the character whose entire fucking DEAL is being THE manipulator. How much shit did she get for that? How long was she punished? Meanwhile Catra becomes THE Big Bad for a while, nearly unravels all of reality in a fit of supreme lesbian angst and self-pity, directly leads to the death of the planet’s ruling monarch who also happens to be GLITTER’S MUM and DIRECT FRIEND TO THE SHOW’S HEROES, but that’s fine, you did one sorta good thing one time and even though it was also wrapped in a thick film of self-pity and a final fuck-you at Adora, all is forgiven!

Speaking of, Adora suffers just as much from stunted growth. From the beginning, her thing was control, unable to free herself from the responsibility of everything and everyone. What did we have at the end? Adora as the only one who could save everything and everyone. Yeah, they kept asking what it was SHE wanted, BUT THEN SHE NEVER ACTUALLY GOT TO CHOOSE. NOT activating the failsafe wasn’t an option for her, and while she wound up not having to die to do it, even that wasn’t her choice in the end, it was Catra’s. (Don’t even get me started on her nth hour “You love me?” fuckery when it wasn’t once for one single second shown to be a question of such life-turning importance.)

All of which could be interesting! That Catra and Adora went through all this, came so far to wind up right where they started? AWESOME. LOVE IT. FUND IT. But really all that happens is nobody minds now that Catra’s a self-involved little shit and tee-hee another Best Friends Squad Mission being bullrushed by Adora within five minutes of ending the last one isn’t that funny?

I can’t even dig much enjoyment out of Adora and Catra as a trope subversion (if one of them was a male, their romantic involvement wouldn’t have even been a QUESTION), because the show lost its fucking mind with romantically pairing everybody off in the final five minutes. WHICH BRINGS ME RIGHT BACK TO MY PREVIOUS SCREAMING SO I’LL STOP THERE.

There was other stuff, of course. I think it was a TERRIBLE decision to spend the last season with the focus split between the two groups of rebels, and writing half the cast into brainwashing. I think the Nettossa and Spinnerella stuff was wasted and lacked any punch at all because the show for some reason or another couldn’t be bothered to let us spend any time with them to care. The waste of Scorpia and Mermista especially (to people named Jet Wolf who are me) was fucking CRIMINAL. Speaking of Scorpia, wouldn’t her showdown with Bo have been so much more poignant if they’d had really any kind of interaction before that moment to build from? (Sure, it’s Scorpia, so if you’re going to sell the lack of context with anyone it’s her, BUT ALSO.) Hey, remember Huntara? No? NEITHER DID THE SHOW.

All my details aside though, MY MANY MANY MANY DETAILS, what kills/rages me most about She-Ra was how so much potential from the first four seasons was just flushed away. Whether it was the creative team shooting itself in the foot or corporate pressure and rushing from Netflix, I don’t know. I don’t CARE. This is the show I was given, so this is the show I have, and that kind of fall after that kind of potential doesn’t just irritate me, it makes me SAD. I wouldn’t be this disappointed if I didn’t think it could have been -- WAS -- so much more.

Time will tell if I can separate out the final season from how much I loved those that came before it. I like to hope so, because I did love it intensely and loved whenever I got the chance to really dig in and talk about it.

WHATEVER ELSE I SUPPOSE I WILL ALWAYS HAVE THIS

Again please remember that I am not at present looking to argue or debate my feelings and opinions. I get to just be angry and disappointed, as a treat!

[lutrain2020]

Meet the Creator!

Introducing: Squido!

Commission:  I haven't and don't really intend to. I don't want to take anyone's hard-earned money. Just ask me to draw things and there's a good chance I will.

Social Media:  Tumblr: @sky-squido​ AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_squido/pseuds/sky_squido

Tell us a little bit about yourself!

Call me Squido! I love to draw and write but I'm also super extraverted and I love interacting with humans so always feel free to chat with me! Aside from drawing and writing, I just love being outside and have a tumblr sideblog dedicated exclusively to nature photos I take. I love mountains, the ocean, the sky, and just about everything else in this beautiful world of ours! If you ever feel like having an internet stranger give you a thousand word rant, ask me why my favorite color is blue and you will not be disappointed!

What got you into creating? what inspires you to keep creating?

I've been drawing for as long as I can remember and can't seem to stop, though I take long breaks sometimes I always seem to come back to it again. I try not to have anything in mind when I draw, but to start sketching and let the drawing happen. Sometimes I find that what I'm trying to draw is not what my drawing wants to be (if that makes any sense) and change what I'm making halfway through. It makes drawing a really relaxing and carefree therapeutic experience! Writing is different. I've always enjoyed writing, but I didn't write much and never shared my writing with anyone because I thought it was super pretentious. It wasn't until entering High School and joining the literature club and making a deal with a friend that we'd share our writing with each other that I actually gained any sort of confidence in my ability and sought to improve it. Being in that club and sharing my pieces at the open mics was a really encouraging experience! I invite everyone to share their writing, even if it's with some random internet stranger (I'm open anytime!) if they're unsure of their abilities. A little encouragement goes a long way! Now that I'm on Discord, ao3, and tumblr, I receive so much more feedback than I ever have before! It's been super encouraging! What inspires me most is definitely nature. Even if my ideas aren't directly related to the outdoors, I get my best ideas there. Fandoms are also a great idea generator. The sheer volume of headcanons and prompts is enough to make me dizzy with ideas!

What's your creative process like?

I love sketching. My favorite thing about drawing digitally is that I can sketch as much as I like and never worry about wasting materials! Often times my sketches turn themselves into drawings without permission and other times they stubbornly remain sketches for all eternity. I always dive right in because I have no patience and the idea I started out with generally isn't that great but in the process of pursuing it, it spirals out of control and sometimes the idea gets better and sometimes it gets worse but I just kinda roll with it. Creating is a really chill process for me and while I regularly scream stuff like "I'M DRAWING ON THE WRONG LAYER NONONONONONO" or "NO HECK FRICK SHOOT IT SMUDGED HECK HECK GET THE ERASER QUICK," the creative process is a great way for me to unwind. I'm the same way about writing. I never plan or outline and just kind of roll with things. I mean I generally have the basic jist in mind, but I try to not have a plan so I can keep the story driven by the characters and not force them into acting the way I wanted them to in the outline I made hours or even days ago. Creating is my opportunity to break free so I don't really see what good a plan or outline does me. I'm a pretty spontaneous person!

What kind of mediums do you like to use?

I like to take pictures, but it's not really my main focus. I've been mostly digitally drawing—I use my iPad Pro and Procreate—but lately I've been pencil sketching with just your average everyday mechanical pencil (I'd forgotten how nice the texture of paper was! Clearly I spent too much time drawing on my iPad!). I have these Stabilio chalk pastels I love to pieces, but have also spent a great deal of time with watercolors. Digital is my primary medium currently, though.

Is there a specific scene wrote that you are particularly proud of?

"Sky’s golden scales are glowing with reflected light from the sun while beneath them, the same pulsing blue in her mane runs like a river as her very skin is alive with electricity. The sun’s beginning to dip, fading through the color wheel from yellow to deep orange to scarlet and the world is bathed in watercolor and hue shifted through the rainbow until all that was blue becomes red. This new alien world begins to darken as red fades to deep purple-pink, the clouds catching last vestiges of gold in their pillowy folds, yet Sky continues rippling with lighting, the bright blue flowing like blood through her veins and the gold shimmering in the eerie azure glow. We weave through the winds and zephyrs and I close my eyes and let the breeze caress my hair and when I reopen them, I’m standing back on the ground again in a world long since darkened by night. I place my hand over my beating heart where Sky is still laughing with joy and smile because once you’ve awakened your dragon, you don’t need wings to fly anymore."

Is there someone who inspires you and your writing or art?

Every fanartist and fanfic writer that posts their stuff online is an inspiration to me. Even if their stuff isn't very good—especially if it isn't very good—it's a huge testament to the courage of the creator and their bravery in expressing themself! I sat on fanfic and fanart for years and never shared it and here were kids half my age putting out art that was their first experiment in a new medium and a little shaky but it was still out there and they were still being supported by the community and that really inspired me to reach out and stop lurking in fandom and actually get involved!

is there something that you struggled with that made you grow as a creator?

I feel like everyone has these periods where they were just gaining confidence in their artistic ability but suddenly everything they make is trash and they're not happy with any of it and they feel so down and worthless and "where did all of my hard-earned ability go? Will I ever get it back?" I think this is a pretty common experience and when I find myself there, I find it most helpful to share what I make anyway, even if I hate it, with someone who I know will give it to me straight because they'll point out the deeper problems—the root of the issue—that I hadn't even noticed and I can use that information to grow as an artist. Bad pieces are just as valuable as good ones. There was also a time where I had a lot of trouble developing a style. I did a lot of experimenting and never found anything I liked. What happened is I just kept drawing and whatever popped out eventually evolved into my style. I used to get frustrated that I couldn't draw anything without a reference, but after years and years of using references and drawing some of the same things over and over again, you won't need the references anymore. I mean, they're great and you should always feel free to use them, but over time, you won't need to look up a picture of every little thing you try to doodle.

What got you into writing or art?

My silly twitchy fingers can't ever seem to stop drawing! Same with writing. Words and ideas follow me around, little plot bunnies pestering me until they get written down somewhere. I was greatly inspired by the works of C.S. Lewis in my writing, especially his Cosmic Trilogy. My art style was aided by Hiromu Arakawa's Fullmetal Alchemist, which was a valuable stepping stone in developing my own style. Other than that, it was my own insatiable desire to MAKE THINGS that spurred me onwards. I don't think I could stop if I tried!

What's your favorite part of the creative process?

After you've got that first paragraph and you've found a flow and you've got a topic and you just GO. I get into the zone and the story starts happening on its own and I'm not an author anymore, I'm just a channel between the world of the piece and the page. That's my favorite. I love watching things take shape. I love shading a sketch for these same reasons. The whole drawing comes together and becomes A Thing and it's the most exciting time to be a creator. Something else inside you has taken over and you're just along for the ride. I have no idea if my experiences are common at all but this is what it's like for me!

What's your least favorite part of the creative process?

EDITING. I HAVE ZERO PATIENCE. THE THING IS DONE. WHY DO I HAVE TO KEEP LOOKING AT IT. CAN I POST IT YET. This leaves me with a lot of holes in what I make and I can't do a very clean, super detailed drawing unless it's for an art class and I'm forced to keep working on it. I have a terrible habit of never proofreading my things!

What's your favorite type of scene to write?

AAH hard question! I love writing description and places where I can really let my inner 19th century romantic be unleashed but I also love a good emotional moment between two characters. Something tense. I like fight scenes, but I try to keep them brief and interesting. Sometimes I find scenes where I have no idea what's going on and I try to avoid that, but it's really hard sometimes.

What's the hardest for you to create?

I have so much trouble with endings. I can generally figure something out, but there's always a moment of panic before the end like "heck I wrote everything I wanted how do I wrap this up????" That's probably a byproduct of me planning nothing XD I sometimes have trouble with characterization and making sure everyone acts the way they actually would. The hardest part is continuing after you have an "oh heck what do I do now" moment that breaks you out of your zone and all of your ideas and plot threads turn invisible or evaporate or go wherever it is they go when you're looking for them.

What's your favorite genre to write?

ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST. Wellll... scratch that. I love something adventure-y and plot driven with a lot of really meaningful character interactions. I've always had trouble putting my writing into genres, but I guess that kind of speaks for itself in a way.

What fandoms do you enjoy creating for?

Linked Universe is the fandom I have created and posted the most for by a LONG SHOT. I found LU shortly after making my tumblr and I joined the Discord shortly thereafter. Since then, it has been nonstop inspiration and creativity for me! I tend to get sucked into one fandom and it consumes me for a few months before I silently drift out of it and never think about it again. LU is the fandom I've been the most active in EVER though—and it's still going—so there's a good chance I'm never getting off this ride.

What's the work you are most proud of?

AAAAAAAAAAH MY BABIES. okay um here's the first and only fanfic I've ever posted anywhere but I'm really happy with: https://sky-squido.tumblr.com/post/618964544219463680/turn-back-time-a-linked-universe-fanfic I have a lot of other pieces kicking about, but they're not fandom so I haven't shared them yet. I probably will after I touch them up a bit.

Do you have any fics inspired by real life stories?

Not really? I don't really know where my ideas come from to be honest!

Where do you post your finished works?

my tumblr. I tag stuff #squido writes and #squido draws so you can find them easily. I also put them on the discord but they get lost in the stream of other works pretty quickly so stick to my tumblr. I also have an ao3 now! https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_squido

If you have any fun stories about the pieces you made, please do share!

Turn Back Time was actually live written in the Discord, but entirely unplanned and in the #angst channel! It was just a headcanon but then I started describing it and like 2 hours and 5k words later I'm sitting in the Discord like "what just happened??"

[hetacon]

For Humanity’s Sake

Word Count: 2,668

Pairings: Platonic Moxiety, Background platonic LAMP, Background Romantic Logicality, Background Romantic Prinxiety

Warning: Swearing, physical fighting (really light, it’s one punch), bullying, crying, so so much Patton angst but I swear Virgil makes him happy

______________________________

Summary: Patton has a hard time making friends.

______________________________

By no means was Virgil seen as a kind person to all of his high school. While he was definitely the lone wolf type, he got more involved in getting into others’ business than he should have.

He got into fights basically.

He picked unnecessary fights, got into plenty of trouble, and was in detention fairly often. His parents didn’t seem to care if their son was a delinquent because outside of school, he was no more harmful than your average person.

The difference came with Patton. Patton Hart, Virgil’s best and, frankly, only friend. Well, now, he’d had some others before getting involved with Patton.

Patton Hart was definitely not the most normal of people, not that it was in any way a bad thing. He was cheerful, loved to laugh and talk for hours, sang to himself as he did chores, doodled all over his notes, made silly jokes, anything he darn well felt like doing. He had anxiety that could very well near rival Virgil’s own and that was damn impressive in and of itself. Despite this, he wasn’t very well liked.

See, even with how kind and sociable Patton tended to be, many people found him rather off putting. For one reason or another, if there was a word that people would use to describe Patton, it was this: annoying.

And if that didn’t make Virgil’s blood boil.

Since early childhood, Patton had always been sweet and talkative, going on for hours about his interests, talking about anything and everything he wanted to with a happy demeanor about him. Even then, he didn’t have friends. His mother would tell him that she always saw him as the type to get along with everyone and that everyone liked but Virgil knew Patton saw himself as pretty obnoxious. The other kids only played with him because they were in the same class as him. He was with the same 20 or so kids for 7 years, kindergarten to 6th, and not a single one of them really enjoyed him being there. It was only a nicety if anything.

Patton managed to make some friends in junior high due to common interests but this turned out more than disastrous than Patton would’ve dared to imagine. By high school, he started to realize just how little people actually wanted to talk to him so he started to keep his mouth shut whenever possible.

Virgil Knight completely destroyed that behavior as Patton instantly clicked in a way neither had ever experienced.

For one thing, Virgil actually listened to Patton as he went on long and exhaustingly winding stories, talking up a storm something fierce that Virgil wondered how Patton had ever managed to stay quiet about all of the thoughts running through his head.

Another thing was that they shared a few common interests, the first of which had brought them together being a really obscure movie from 1991. Patton was really into discussing the character growth, psychoanalysis of the characters, the time period and history, and everything in between of their common interests and while it was a bit harder for Virgil to express it to that extent, he listened to what Patton rambled about with no complaint.

One of Patton’s favorites though was that Virgil actually took the time and effort to encourage Patton to talk about the things he wanted to talk about and do the things he wanted to do. It was something special for them both.

Virgil loved Patton with every inch of his heart and he didn’t hesitate for a single second to remind people of that.

Clearly that was going to happen right now, Virgil thought to himself as one of his friends started to ask a question.

“Hey, dude, why do you even hang out with Patton? He’s not really your...” his friend hesitated, sucking in a breath. “I dunno, your style I guess.”

Virgil looked up from his lunch, mid-bite as he held his sandwich in his hands. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asked a bit cooly, his language not really showing much animosity to it. But oh boy, if things were going where he thought they were-

“Virge, you’re like, his only friend, doesn’t that say something to you? How do you know he isn’t a shitty person or has serious issues or something? I wouldn’t trust him,” another person from the table spoke up.

“You don’t have to trust him or like him, you can’t please everyone. I do though, all that matters to me really. Patton’s not your friend? Chill, means I have no competition for the best friend title,” Virgil hummed out lowly, taking another bite of his sandwich.

A silence fell over the table before finally, someone seemed to say what everyone else was thinking. “Virgil, you know everyone finds him kind of obnoxious right? I mean, he’s always so loud, he clings to you like a lost puppy, and he literally doesn’t know when to shut up. He’s frankly kinda weak, who even needs to be that emotional, dude? Patton’s honestly psycho.”

Virgil’s fist slammed into his face and he was on the table, leaning over to tower over the person in front of him. His hand gripped at his friend’s shirt tightly, watching with a snarl as his friend shrank back a bit, eyes wide and clearly shocked.

“You’re going to shut the fuck up about Patton. He doesn’t have friends because shitheads like you guys can’t understand why someone would love life so much. He is not annoying, he is not weak, and he is not fucking psycho. He enjoys things, he wants to express his emotions rather than cower behind an act like an actual wimp, and he’s my best friend,” Virgil growled out. He snapped his head up to see everyone in the cafeteria looking at his table and he shoved his friend back roughly, standing on the table as he started to yell. “Patton Hart is the best person I could ever ask to be friends for and if you have a problem with business that isn’t yours to talk about, you take it up with me! You got a problem with him? You’re dealing with me before anything else and I will not stop for a single second! Fuck all of you!!”

With that, he clamored off the table, grabbing his food and backpack before storming out, catching Patton’s wrist as his friend was about to enter the cafeteria door he came out of.

“Woah Virgil, slow down!” Patton laughed, running to Virgil’s side, moving Virgil’s hand to hold his. “What’s going on?”

“People suck,” Virgil scowled before his expression softened. “How was tutoring?” he asked gently, kissing Patton’s temple. He smiled to himself in satisfaction as Patton practically lit up.

“Good, just needed a little refresher before tomorrow’s test is all,” Patton told him.

“You meet up with that guy in your class you like?” he asked, smiling a bit as Patton leaned his head on Virgil’s shoulder.

Patton turned a little pink and nodded. “Yeah, he was super sweet about it even if it was a silly reason to get tutoring.”

“My best friend is silly,” Virgil hummed. “But that’s just how I like him~”

_____

Things didn’t get better for Patton as Virgil saw. Not that he exactly expected things to magically get better, for people to understand Patton overnight, and for Patton to have as many friends as humanly possible. But this was ridiculous, truly.

People started to stare at both of them, especially Patton. People wouldn’t even talk to Patton during his classes, at least the ones that knew what was going on. It didn’t seem to affect Patton too much but there were definitely moments, as was happening tonight.

Virgil had invited Patton over for a sleepover weeks ago and was getting everything ready when he heard a knock on the door, hurrying to get it.

Patton was a mess. He didn’t have his glasses for one thing, his clothes were rumpled and messy, and most noticeably was his hair, tangled and tousled unrelentingly, a wad of gum stuck in it. Patton looked close to tears and Virgil just hugged him tightly before ushering him in.

The first part of their evening was spent with Patton laying his head in Virgil’s lap as they watched The Rescuers, Virgil’s hand working through Patton’s hair with a trusty handful of peanut butter. By the end of the movie, the gum was out, Patton had calmed down a little, and Virgil sent him off to take a shower.

Patton came back from the shower a bit later, already in his pjs as Virgil set up for another movie. The night mostly went alright and Virgil was just getting to sleep at 2 in the morning when he heard Patton get you and shuffle over to his bed.

It was silent, Patton didn’t say anything and was turning back when Virgil spoke up.

“Pat?” Virgil whispered softly, grabbing his friend’s wrist.

Patton sniffled. “Yeah?”

“C’mere, you’re sleeping with me tonight.”

There was no hesitation for Patton and within seconds, he was shaking and sobbing into Virgil’s shirt. Virgil could do nothing but rub his back and let him cry. That seemed to be enough for Patton.

_____

“Hey Virgil, have you thought about joining GSA by any chance..?” Patton asked one day at lunch, taking a bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Virgil looked over to him before thinking, throwing his legs over Patton’s lap.

“Nah.”

“How come?”

“Just haven’t, you goof,” Virgil said, his eyebrow raised. “If you want an answer why I wouldn’t, it’s overrated if I’m not with you and I know you’re not planning on it.”

“But what if I did?”

“Do you?”

“... No.”

Virgil snorted and leaned over to kiss Patton’s forehead. “I have made the executive decision that this school’s gonna have a super exclusive GSA club, headed by the wonderful and responsible club president Patton Hart.”

“And who are the members of this club, Virge?” Patton asked, moving to snuggle into Virgil’s side.

“You and me, that’s all we need. Two gay as shit disasters, no one else matters in my opinion,” Virgil told him, resting his head against Patton’s while silence settled over them for a bit.

“What do we do at club meetings?”

“Talk about gay shit.”

“Does Logan count?”

“You bet your pining ass that Mandel counts.”

“Then Roman does too!”

“We’re gossiping basically then.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what’s happening.”

“Eh, fair enough.”

_____

Patton was currently playing video games with Virgil and as he fell off Rainbow Road, sighed.

“What’s up?” Virgil asked, still focused on the game.

“What do you mean?” Patton asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That was your pensive sigh, not your Virgil-is-kicking-my-ass-in-Mario-Kart sigh. So what’s up?” Virgil chuckled.

“You ever just... Realize that people suck?”

“They really do, screw ‘em if they can’t take a joke, am I right?” Virgil joked, finishing off the race.

“We should watch Mamma Mia, I hope you know what you’ve done,” Patton smiled, finishing the course too. “You’re even worse than Roman with the musical references sometimes!”

“You take that back!” Virgil exclaimed, tackling Patton to the couch, smacking him with a pillow.

Patton laughed loudly and pulled Virgil down on top of him, snuggling into his best friend.

Virgil’s heart melted and he hugged on to Patton tightly. “Dear god, you’re too cute for your own good, c’mere you cuddlebug,” he muttered, happy to feel Patton relax in his hold.

_____

“Soooooo lemme get this straight, Patton-“

“Good luck with that!” Patton giggled, causing Virgil to lightly push him with a snort.

“Shut up,” he said with no malice, kissing his friend’s hair. “You asked him to go over a bit of the math work you guys got assigned and he without prompt just asked you if you wanted to meet up for coffee to do so?”

“Yeeeeep!”

“Shut up you beautiful embodiment of sunshine and rainbows, you got a study date with Logan!!” Virgil shouted, shaking a very giggly Patton.

“It’s not much but it’s spending time with him, yeah? He’s still talking to me, even if it’s about school a lot of the time.. He could..” Patton paused, smiling to himself. “He could maybe be my friend, right? Do you think he would?”

“He’s not a complete blockhead like every single dumbass in this school, he’s gonna like you,” Virgil said with a smile, hugging Patton tighter in his lap.

“Well, as the Patton and Virgil GSA meeting demands, we must now hear from our resident emo about his blockhead!” Patton teased, kissing Virgil’s cheek.

Virgil laughed and hummed. “Good grief, who made you in charge?”

“You!”

“Oh that’s right, my mistake!” Virgil joked, receiving a punch to the arm. “Roman’s been doing a good job, had his whole script memorized today when most everyone else only had half. I just worked on the sets while they were rehearsing but he came over to talk with me when he didn’t have any more scenes. Still as stupid as I like ‘im though!”

“We clearly like two men at the opposite ends of the spectrum, huh?” Patton asked.

“Yep, absolutely. A total nerd and a moron. Strange combo. Think they’d get along?”

“Only one way to find out!” Patton hummed in a sing-song tone, offering half of his pasta to Virgil.

_____

Virgil glanced over to the front door of Logan’s house as Patton was revealed on the other side. Logan was quick to give Patton a kiss and greeted him.

“Wow, your house is really nice, Loggie!” Patton said, looking around.

“Patton!!!” a loud voice squealed from behind Virgil, Roman barreling towards Patton and Logan. He practically tackled Patton to the ground and Patton laughed loudly and fully. “I missed you so so so much! Never leave me alone for a single minute ever again!” Virgil’s boyfriend whined, hugging Patton tighter.

“Roman!” Patton laughed out, hugging back tighter. “I’m never going anywhere! You can’t make me leave, you’re stuck with me!”

“Mmm, perfect!” Roman exclaimed, picking Patton up to twirl him around.

As their antics continued, both of them talking excitedly about Patton’s job at the animal rescue center and Roman’s next show, Logan sat next to Virgil. Virgil watched his best friend and boyfriend talk excitedly for a bit, resting his head on Logan’s shoulder.

“You make him this happy you know,” Logan said quietly, wrapping his arm around Virgil’s shoulder.

“Dude, you’re his boyfriend,” Virgil retorted with a raised eyebrow.

Logan chuckled. “That I am. But you were his first and only friend for a long time. You’ve made him feel like he can take on the world just by being himself. It makes me very proud of the both of you.”

“I just treated him like a human being, you know?”

“Well, when you’ve been treated alien your whole life, it can make a world of difference for someone to see your humanity,” Logan explained, smiling a bit as Patton and Roman dragged Patton’s stuff in from his car.

Virgil smiled too as soon as Patton came back inside, still beaming with the force of a supernova. “He deserves every bit of humanity.”

Patton wasn’t treated well up until he was out of high school but looking at him now, Virgil knew all the fighting and arguments were worth it. Patton truly deserved everything the three of his friends could give him.

______________________________

Taglist: @virgils-paranoia, @marshmallow-the-panda, @anotheregofanficblog

[littlestarofthewest]

Title: Meeting Miss Morgan | Word Count: 3289 | Rating (for entire fic): 18+!!!

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female OC | Chapter: 04 of 08 |  Link to Masterlist

Arthur knows what he's doing is stupid. In fact, he is stupid. He got up even earlier than usual, taking care of the firewood. Julie prepares it most of the time, but when she briefly mentioned in conversation that she doesn't particularly like doing it, Arthur immediately had the urge to do it for her.

He likes to think that he's just trying to help out around the farm, but after the pencils and the whole trouble Arthur went through with Jasper, he can't pretend that what he's doing has nothing to do with Julie. Somehow he always ends up helping her in particular.

Ever since she kissed him on the cheek, she wanders around in his mind when he's not busy thinking about something else. Having the chance to hold her in his arms didn't make it any easier. In fact, he feels like he's years younger, even more of an idiot, and stupid enough to think that she might like him as more than a friend, if at all. 

Julie's a nice person. Doing sweet things comes naturally to her, and has nothing to do with Arthur, but he still can't stop hoping. He's chopping wood and buys a new shirt like a changed man, as if he wasn't a killer, wanted outlaw, and complete failure.

Arthur finishes the last logs with a sigh, knowing full well that his day won't get any better. With some tools, he heads out to one end of Mr. Henderson's property, beginning the work that will probably take him the whole week, building a new fence.

On the one hand, it's a good thing that he can stay away from the stables for a while. That way, he at least can't embarrass himself in front of Julie. On the other hand, he has a lot of time to think. 

For the last two days, he's been remembering his ride with Julie. They didn't talk much, but Julie kept smiling at Arthur, so abundantly happy that she was finally able to ride Jasper. It was a joy to watch her race over open fields, her blonde hair flying in the wind. She seemed to glow in a golden shine under the warm summer sun, so free and unburdened that watching her made Arthur's heart ache. 

Fuelled with those memories, Arthur keeps working on the fence, trying to neither think back to his old life nor imagine the future. All that matters is hitching up posts, one after the other until the day is gone.

He makes good progress until he hears a rider approach. Arthur's heart drops when Julie rides up to him on Jasper. "Hello, Arthur."

Arthur tips his hat, pulling it deeper into his face. "Jules."

She hops off the horse and strides over to him with a bundle in her hand, her eyes wandering over the already finished fence. "Let me guess, you didn't take any breaks."

Arthur opens his mouth, but Julie shakes her head and takes his hammer away before throwing it into the grass. Then she grabs his hand and pulls him to the nearby woods, making him sit down on a fallen tree in the shadow of a few branches.

"I had time to make something to eat for you since the firewood was already done," Julie says, raising a single brow at Arthur while unpacking the bundle in her hand.

"Was it?" Arthur says, looking out over the farmland in front of them. 

Julie pushes a bowl with stew into his hand and tops it off with a thick slice of bread. "It's cold but better than nothing."

"Thank you," Arthur says, although he's not sure how he's supposed to eat with butterflies in his stomach. 

Julie is sitting way too close, her leg brushing against his. Arthur would move, but then he'd fall off the tree. Instead, he shovels a spoonful of stew into his mouth. That should keep Julie from asking him any questions. 

"You know that you don't have to do everything, right?" she asks.

Arthur chews, but Julie keeps looking at him, waiting for an answer. He clears his throat, trying to come up with an excuse. "I don't mind the firewood. It's quiet work, relaxing. Just like building a fence."

"You must have had quite the excitement before when you actually like doing these boring things."

"Enough for a lifetime," Arthur says, knowing that he's avoiding her unspoken question. It's not fair to keep it a secret from Julie who he truly is, but the thought of her thinking less of him twists Arthur's stomach into knots.

He forces down more stew, and maybe Julie takes the hint or just wants for him to eat, but she stays quiet, looking up into the trees. They sit there until Arthur is done eating, and Julie fetches a bottle of water for him as well, scolding him for not bringing one along in the first place. 

Arthur thanks her again, trying to put the bottle into his bag to bring it along. He curses when one side of the bag tears, and his journal drops to the ground. It falls open, and Arthur hurries to pick it up, but Julie is quicker than him. Her eyes grow big as she looks at the page, and Arthur's heart stops, thinking about the things he recently wrote about her.

"I thought you only wrote in this," Julie says, "I didn't know you were drawing, too."

"It's just silly little doodles," Arthur says, hoping that Julie won't turn the page.

"That's the whole farm from the viewpoint up on that ridge," Julie says with wonder in her voice. She moves a few steps before turning around, holding the journal up against the horizon. "Arthur, that's incredible. Where did you learn to draw like this?"

"My pa," Arthur begins, realizing too late that he was thinking about Hosea and horrible guilt consumes him. 

"Your father was an artist?"

"No, what I meant was that he gave me my first journal when I was 15," Arthur says, the memory weighing heavy on him. "I've been trying to draw whatever I saw since then."

"Well, then he's a good father. You're really talented," Julie says. She closes the journal with such care as if it was a precious relic before handing it over. "I've meant to draw a few places around here, but somehow I never get around to it."

"How come?" Arthur asks, wishing he could see some of Julie's drawings.

"Mrs. Henderson would say I work too much," Julie sighs, "and Mr. Henderson is always concerned about me. A young woman alone on the road? Better not. There's a beautiful pond up in those woods, but there's a road going past with many travelers and stagecoaches, so there are sometimes bandits in the woods as well. Mr. Henderson would kill me if I went there on my own."

"He's not wrong," Arthur says. He met enough outlaws in his time who went far beyond thieving and killing. Some of them were so bad, you wished they would have killed their victims. "There are some bad people out there."

Julie studies Arthur for a moment as if to ask if he's one of them, but then she walks over to Jasper. "I better let you work now, or Mr. Henderson will have my head for distracting you."

"Thank you for the food," Arthur says again. After all, he can't tell Julie that she's already distracting him anyway.

"Somebody has to take care of you," Julie says with a smile before riding off, leaving Arthur with a warm feeling in his chest.

------

The next morning, Arthur walks out of his cabin, finding a fresh water bottle and a tightly wrapped package in front of his door. He doesn't have to look inside to know what it is. Julie must have gotten up even earlier than usual to prepare some food for him. Arthur picks it up, finding a little note tucked into one of the folds. It says, "Take some breaks."

Smiling, Arthur puts the package in his saddlebag and rides out to continue his work on the fence. This time, he doesn't mind those thoughts of Julie dance around in his head. He can't change her as much as he can't change himself, so he might as well enjoy her kindness, no matter how undeserved it might be.

When noon comes around, Arthur takes Julie's advice to have a break. He unpacks the food package, finding cold roast, bread, and berries. Sitting in the shadow of a huge tree, Arthur savors his meal. Somehow, it tastes so much better than anything he's ever eaten before. He's about to pack up when he finds a piece of paper sticking out from under his plate.

Arthur pulls it out, his eyes growing wide. It's a drawing of him on the Mustang riding up to the stables. Despite sketching other people all the time, Arthur has never seen a picture of himself. It's like looking into the mirror, and he's impressed how well Julie can draw. 

Wondering why Julie picked this specific scene, Arthur's stomach does a little summersault when he remembers what happened right afterward. Closing his eyes, Arthur can imagine how Julie's touch felt on his skin, but then he quickly gets up. He can't risk to drift off into these kinds of phantasies. 

Instead, Arthur carefully folds up the drawing and puts it in his breast pocket before riding out to town. Mr. Henderson asked him to run some errands, and he might be able to find a little thank you gift for Julie. At least that's what Arthur thought.

He's done with Mr. Henderson's business in no time, but even after an hour, Arthur can't find anything to give to Julie. He can't exactly gift her a sack of rice, but at the same time, anything more personal could give her the wrong - or worse - the right idea about Arthur's growing feelings for her. In the end, he decides that a heartfelt thank you has to do.

On his way back, Arthur has another idea, though. He's on the road Julie talked about the day before, so Arthur steers his horse into the trees to find the pond. It takes him a little going back and forth, but he knows what Julie has been talking about once he sees it.

It's a beautiful place with high trees and lots of flowers that surround the small body of water. Birds are singing, and when Arthur comes closer, a few deer quickly jump away and disappear. Letting his horse roam free, Arthur walks around the pond two times to find the right spot before settling down with his journal.

Usually, Arthur's quick with his drawings. He always had other things to do or was with someone who didn't appreciate him taking forever to sketch an abandoned church or oddly shaped tree. Today, Arthur takes his time. He tries to capture how the sun sparkles on the water, and painstakingly draws all the single petals on most of the flowers. He only rushes to finish the picture when the sun begins to set.

Looking at his finished work in the dim light, Arthur remembers Julie's words about him being talented, and for the first time in a long while, he feels proud about something that he did. Folding the paper as carefully as possible, he puts it to Julie's drawing in his pocket and hurries back to the farm so he won't miss dinner.

At the house, Julie greets him with a lovely smile, and Arthur's heart skips a beat once again. Thinking about giving her the drawing later makes him so nervous he can barely follow the conversation. When they're done eating, Julie heads outside to play her guitar, and Mr. Henderson holds Arthur back to talk about work.

Arthur nods along until Mr. Henderson finally gives him free. Outside, Arthur finds Julie sitting on the steps that lead up to the door. Her guitar is lying next to her, but she's not playing.

"No music tonight?" Arthur asks.

"I felt like watching the stars," Julie says before turning to Arthur and patting the floor next to her. "Come sit with me."

Arthur swallows a lump in his throat, feeling like he might pass out. He can't remember the last time he's been so nervous. For a moment, he thinks about making up an excuse to go, but his feet act on their own, carrying him all too willingly over to Julie. He sits down next to her, leaving generous space between them, but Julie scoots closer, pointing into the sky.

"I love that one," she says, and Arthur follows the line of her outstretched arm to a big star that shines particularly bright.

"It's pretty," Arthur says, looking at Julie. She turns her head, and he tries desperately to come up with something else to say. "Thank you for the food. And the drawing. You're way more talented than I am."

Julie's cheeks gain a little color, and she waves her hand. "Like you said, just silly little drabbles."

Arthur thinks about the picture in his breast pocket, and it takes all his courage to take it out and hand it to Julie. "I thought about what you said when I was heading back from town. You probably could have done a better job, though."

Julie unfolds the paper and gasps before staring at Arthur. "You drew the pond?"

"I gave it a shot," Arthur says, rubbing his neck. Now that Julie is looking at it, he begins to see mistakes he didn't notice before, and he feels he should have taken more time to get the picture right.

"It's beautiful," Julie says, her eyes wandering over the page. "The details in the flowers. The water. This must have taken you forever."

Arthur shrugs. "Maybe when I'm done with the fence, we can ride up there together, and you can draw it yourself. Or any of the other places you wanted to draw."

Julie looks back up at Arthur, a shine in her eyes that makes his skin tickle. "You would do that?"

Arthur's not quite sure how they ended up so close to each other, and he knows he should just say yes, or maybe nod, but he's always been an idiot. "For you," he says, his voice almost giving out on him.

He moves even closer to Julie, knowing full well that he shouldn't. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then she leans in, and Arthur closes the distance between them, his lips brushing against Julie's. Arthur's heart feels like it might jump out of his chest any second, and he wants nothing more than to hold Julie close, but then the door screeches behind them.

They move apart as if hit by lightning, and only seconds later, Mrs. Henderson comes out of the house. "Aren't you going to play, Julie? I really feel like-"

She stops herself when her eyes fall on the paper in Julie's hand. "Oh, my dear, that's lovely. When did you draw that?"

Julie throws a quick glance over to Arthur before handing the drawing to Mrs. Henderson. "I didn't. Arthur drew it today."

Mrs. Henderson's mouth falls open, and she looks back and forth between Arthur and the drawing. "Well, look at you, Mr. Morgan. Aren't you full of surprises? Who knows what else we might find the longer you stay with us."

She can't know it, but her words cut deep, and Arthur gets to his feet. "I think I better go to sleep. I want to get an early start on that fence."

"You two make quite the couple," Mrs. Henderson sighs, running a hand over Julie's hair. "The name, the drawing, and nothing but work in your heads. The two of you really need to have some fun for a change."

Julie lets out a muffled noise, and Arthur wishes he could just melt into the ground. Instead, he taps his hat. "Goodnight."

He turns around, walking away so quickly that he doesn't know if the two women respond. Arthur's whole body seems to fill up with rage, and he wishes he could give himself a good beating. 

When he left the gang, Arthur swore that he's done with making stupid mistakes, yet here he is, well on his way to hurt a nice, young woman, and maybe ruining more lives. The surprises he's filled with are danger, sorrow, and regret. Neither Julie nor the Henderson's deserve any of that. If he wants to stay, he has to get himself under control.

--------

Pretending to be busy with the fence, Arthur manages to stay away from Julie for two days, and then he jumps at the chance when Mr. Henderson asks him to bring one of the horses he sold to its buyer. That way, he gets to stay away for three more days, trying to sort out his feelings. 

At first, he goes with booze but concludes that that's just one more mistake, considering how he behaves when drunk. The trouble is that Arthur can't sleep when he's sober. He's tossing and turning, only drifting off for a few minutes before waking up in a cold sweat, guilt consuming him over and over again.

By the time Arthur gets back to the farm, he's so tired he can barely walk straight and doesn't remember the last time he ate. Still, he brings his horse into the stable, doing his best to take care of it. It's already dark, and Arthur hoped he could sneak into his cabin without anybody noticing. Of course, he has no such luck.

"Arthur?" Julie asks behind him, and Arthur does his best to stand up straight when he turns around to her.

"Yes, it's me. I just got back."

Julie takes a step closer, worry in her eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Just a little tired," Arthur says with a forced smile. "It's been a long ride."

He's not sure if he actually sways at those words, but it sure feels that way. Julie comes even closer, studying his face. "A little tired? You're dead on your feet. What's wrong?"

Arthur knows that he won't get out of this so quickly, so he shrugs. "Haven't slept well for the last few days. I'll be fine."

He waits for Julie to scold him, but she just takes his hand and leads him into the next empty stall. It's filled with fresh hay, and Julie forces him to sit down. "I'll be right back," she says, her voice low.

Arthur wishes he could go, but he's not sure he could get up on his feet before Julie's back. Instead, he shrugs out of his jacket and puts it behind his head like a makeshift pillow. He's staring at the wall on the other side when Julie appears in front of him. She puts a blanket over him and then sits down with her guitar on her legs.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asks, but Julie only shakes her head.

"Just close your eyes."

She starts playing, and Arthur does as she says. He's nervous with her closeby, and he wants to apologize, but he's not sure how to even get the words out. "I'm sorry, Jules," he finally manages to say.

"Sleep, Arthur," Julie says, her voice warm and comfortable like the blanket over him. "You'll be fine."

It takes a while until Arthur can focus on the music, but then a nice heavy feeling settles in his stomach, the notes carrying him over into a better world, a world where he doesn't have to apologize for liking someone.

[blackandblueandstars]

Meant to Be? Pt3

Pt1 Pt2

A/N: Request from @vonda-b-real

Kamilah watched angrily as Amy followed the redhead to her car. Her heart in her throat, her stomach in knots, she stared at the car as it drove off, and long after it was gone.

She'd never really understood monogamy. She always thought it was such a silly human emotion, jealousy over sex. But as she stood there outside a rundown bar, tears streaming down her face, she felt that biting in her gut. Amy had changed her, of that she was sure.

Consumed with jealousy, she stomped back to her car and fumed. She was angry, without a doubt. But perhaps what made her most angry was that she was to blame, for all of it.

"Damn it!" she shouted, punching the steering wheel over and over. She was desperate to feel a new pain, different than the throng in her heart. She opened the door, ripping the damaged steering wheel off and throwing it across the parking lot.

"Fuck!" she shouted, realizing that she was now stranded. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

She drew the attention of a few men standing outside the bar and willed herself to be quiet. She stalked back to the car, pulling out her cellphone.

"Adrian," she said, out of breath. "I need a ride."

She hung up the phone, sinking to the ground, her body quaking as she sobbed.

---

Toni sped down the highway, a wicked grin on her face. Amy pushed her thoughts of Kamilah to the side, focusing on the thrill of the moment.

"Woooo!" she shouted into the night, head hanging out the window. Toni chuckled at her, shaking her head.

"Don't let that freedom get you too high, baby," she said. "The come-down is a bitch."

Amy looked at Toni, her red hair whipping in the wind. Everything about her made Amy feel alive in a way that she hadn't since...well, since she died.

"Thank you," she shouted. "For tonight."

"I'll drive your getaway car anytime," she replied. Her eyes were shimmering, her lips shining from the thin coat of gloss. Despite her plan not to think about Kamilah, Amy couldn't help comparing the two.

Toni was exactly what Amy had been missing in Kamilah. Where Kamilah was cold, Toni was warm. For Kamilah's reserved nature, Toni was wild. Kamilah was a strong, stoic glacier and Toni was a raging wildfire. Amy couldn't help but be drawn to her light, her energy, her youth and zest for life.

"So now what are we going to do?" asked Amy, her body tingling with alcohol and anticipation.

"Guess you'll just have to wait and see," said Toni, turning down a dirt road.

"I do love a good surprise," Amy replied.

Her eyes widened as she looked at the sky. She didn't get away from the city often. The darkness of night stood in stark contrast to the bright white of the moon and the stars.

"Wow," she whispered. There was something intoxicating about the beautiful contrast. She saw herself and Toni in it, the darkness within her and Toni's vibrant light.

"This is my favorite place to go and just...lose myself," said Toni, her voice unusually tender. Amy's heart raced at the change in her demeanor.

Toni pulled off the road into a field, easing the car into park. She looked at Amy, smiling.

"Trust me," she said with a wink.

Amy knew better than to trust so simply. After everything, she certainly should know not to trust easily. But Toni put her at ease, so she stepped out of the car with her and followed her to the trunk.

Toni pulled out a few blankets, handing them to Amy. The fabric was soft on her skin, unexpectedly so. Toni slammed the trunk shut, then took the blankets from Amy. She reached out, offering her hand.

Amy smiled gently, taking it. "Come on," Toni said excitedly. "It's just at the top of the hill."

Amy followed, Toni's giddiness contagious. She found herself laughing as they raced to the top of the hill. When they reached the top, Amy was gasping, but her breath was taken completely when she looked out over the ridge.

"Oh!" she looked back to Toni. "Toni, this is beautiful."

Toni smiled shyly. "It's my own little slice of heaven," she said, tossing the blankets out for them to sit on.

They both tumbled to the ground, laughing at each other.

Toni looked at Amy, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I think you're beautiful," she told Amy.

"Thank you," said Amy, shivering. "You're pretty gorgeous yourself."

Toni smiled, her hand resting on Amy's shoulder. "You're so magnetic," she said. "I can't help but be drawn to you."

Amy's heart raced, overwhelmed with emotion. Toni leaned in, kissing her neck. With every touch of her lips, Amy felt a blaze of fire. Toni moved slowly at first, then quicker, the heat igniting something in Amy.

She leaned into Toni, her hands wrapping around her, exploring her body. She exploded like a firework, pulling her in for more, gasping for air. Frantic, she pulled and pushed and gasped.

Toni grabbed her shirt, pulling it over her head, her hands a wildfire erupting around Amy.

"Ah," Amy moaned as Toni kissed her chest. She moved quickly, surely. Her speed was filled with the desperation that Amy felt.

Amy grew hot, consumed by Toni. Her pulse racing, blood boiling. Her body hummed underneath Toni's touch, but her mind drifted to Kamilah.

*Why?*

Her thoughts won out, tears streaming down her face.

*Why couldn't Kamilah love me like this? Why had she pulled away? Why am I not enough for her? Why am I not enough? *

"Amy?" Toni had stopped, noticing the silent tears streaming down Amy's face. "Amy, are you okay?"

Amy shook her head, devolving into sobs that wracked her body. Toni pulled her into her arms, concerned and confused.

"Shhh," she consoled her. "Shhh."

---

Adrian pulled up to the bar, shocked to find Kamilah, gasping for air on the ground. He rushed over to her, falling to his knees.

"Kamilah?" he asked. "Kamilah what's wrong?"

"I ruined it," she gasped between sobs. "I ruined everything."

Finale

Tag list: @h-doodles @scarlet-letter-a0114 @wildsayeed @lightning-fury @galaxyside-0 @blogsupitssam @ilovetaylor13m @la-guera-69 @adrianrainesworld @iam-the-fuckin-queen @hela-odinsdottir @jen825 @sheyah @lifesadance96 @theoblivionforest @kamilahsayeed-owns-me @sayeedbound @scaryqueenbee

[a-totally-legit-farm]

Marmalade’s Winter’s Star Party

// Hey y’all, this year I was Shio’s ( @stardeworanges ) secret santa for our discord community secret santa! It took me forever but I present to you ‘Marmalade’s Winter’s Star Party’, a story with a bit of fluff, a bit of edge, and then some more fluff, with some guest appearences in there too.

The full version can be found under the cut, or you can read the story HERE.

I hope you like it shio!!

Word Count: 3022

_______________________________________________________________

Marmalade looked down at her latest accomplishment: a small stack of laminated cards, each one addressed to the friends she had made – her Valley family.  There were about 50 cards, everyone from Sebastian to Gus was invited. Names embossed in cursive detailed the addressee of each invitation. The orange-haired woman was so proud of her little cards – she had designed them from scratch, from the colours on the bordering, to the little intricate mistletoe and stars adorning the corners. They were her own little doodles, quite well-done considering Marmalade had never considered herself an artist. In all honesty, Marm had gone a little over the top with these preparations, which had become obvious after she had created a 50-page binder complete with individual greetings, an array of feast meals and cocktails, and even mood boards to pin the perfect aesthetic. But she had a mission, and by Yoba, she would do whatever it took to achieve it.

Her smile softened. The Winter’s Star had always meant so much to her. When she was a little girl, she’d always visit her grandpa for his Winter’s Star festivities. Many a memory was dotted with her kind grandpa’s grin, the smell of warm cocoa, and the flashing of festive lights; the raucous of townspeople sharing hot drinks and good food. But those memories were fading with age, and Marmalade knew that she had to take up the mantle. She was going to throw the perfect Winter’s Star feast. She was going to honour her grandpa’s legacy.

And the next step to doing so was dispersing these slick-looking invitations to their rightful owners. Most important on her list was Clark, her best friend, and the newly appointed mayor. She hadn’t seen him in a few days – the farmhand had been tied up with bureaucratic red tape left behind by a spiteful Lewis. The poor man had been running circles around the town, attempting to get at least somewhere with his new legislation. Well, there was at least a slim silver lining to that storm cloud – Marmalade knew exactly where he would be.

It was a short walk from the farm to the town, though the brisk winter winds would require a Winter’s Star sweater, and of course, the tackier the better. She scanned her drawer for the best candidate: a red and white wool monstrosity, with “Orange you glad it’s winter” knitted in a box. Perfect. The sweater slipped on, gloriously awful pun present in yellow text, a pair of oranges decorating the inscription. She wrapped a scarf around her bare neck, her orange locks falling over the dark, soft material. Finally, she swung her backpack on, filled with a water bottle, some orange slices, and the crux of it all, her invitations.

Without a misstep, Marmalade was out the door, the brisk winter winds and the ankle-deep snow neither bothering nor hindering the ginger on her mission. Winter always brought a unique beauty to the Valley, bare skeletons of trees sleeping for the winter, and those brilliant blue berries poking up through the white terrain. One of Marmalade’s favourite sights had to be spotting the holly berries and crocus flowers in the dense snow. Wet gravel crunched under her feet as Marmalade trekked on. Her mental checklist of places to stop kept growing. Gotta invite Pippa and Rue and Dae! I’ll stop on the way. And I’m sure Cherry will be home – and maybe Nikoma and Jenna will come… Then I should stop at Pierre’s for some more supplies. Oh, and of course, Clark, in the town hall!

She smiled once more to herself.

Winter 26th was going to be the best Winter’s Star party anybody had ever been to!

_______________________________________________________________

Clark ran his fingers through his dense, blond curls, the toll of being constantly busy affecting the usual lustre of his hair. He grimaced at the paperwork in front of him, feeling each and every monotonous, tedious word sap strength from his dwindling will to keep reading. He loved being mayor. He loved the warm appreciation of the townsfolk as he walked the streets of the Valley, he loved the constant support and trust. He loved that he was elected the Mayor. He did not love the piles of paperwork constantly inhabiting his in-tray, perched eternally on the right of his desk. The dark circles under his eyes evident of his sleeplessness, his expression stony as he stared down the stack of sheets sitting, waiting, mocking – Clark wanted nothing more than to slam his head into the desk.  He pulled at his red tie, loosening its grip around his wrinkled, white button-up shirt, sleeves cuffed awkwardly around his tanned wrists. That was one thing he did miss – the blue jeans, the red flannel, the straw hat, but there was something about office-wear that really made his pecs look juicier, so he was willing to compromise. A groan escaped him, forcing its way through his teeth, as his eyes wandered towards the window, looking for anything to fuel his procrastination…

And as if summoned by Yoba himself, Marmalade burst through his office door, face alight with happiness.

She was a radiant beam of sunlight in the poorly lit office, and she couldn’t help but bring a grin to Clark’s mug. Her silly holiday sweater procured a chuckle from the exhausted ex-farmhand – it was just like Marm to be a walking pun. The woman basically bounced to the front of his desk, striking a little pose before rummaging through her pack. It was obvious Marmalade was very excited, and Hayesmith was ready for whatever the exuberant redhead was going to throw at him.

“Mayor Clark,” Marmalade’s voice rung with a silliness that she only showed around her closest friends, “I would like to cordially invite you to Miss Marmalade’s Winter Star feast party!” She slapped down the invitation on top of all of his paperwork, its festive design a winter star compared to the drab documents underneath. Clark let out another one of his gruff chuckles. “Not even a howdy before the theatrics.” Marmalade’s face went a shade of bashful pink, the playful act dialled back a bit from the cowboy’s ribbing.

“Now y’know I’m jokin’ there, Marm. I’d be pleased to make it.” He lifted the card up, inspecting the calligraphy – Clark Hayesmith, You are invited to my Winter’s Star party, 6 PM on Winter 27th. See you there! He tucked the invitation away in his pocket – it had been a while since the man had been able to socialise, and he was looking forward to the opportunity.

“Say Marm, who’ve you invited to this lil’ shindig?” Oh, how Marmalade had missed his deep, soothing drawl – and boy did she have a list of names for him. “Well, Pippa and her crew are coming, and Clive, uhh Sebastian and Maru said they would come, Red and Derek, Abigail… Nikoma sighed at me and said ‘fine’ so I’m assuming he’s coming… Jenna and Haley said yes too! Oh, and Jenna has an assistant now? And Amelia, Ainsley, Edel…” The names kept coming, and Clark’s excitement to flex his social and physical muscles was only growing.

“Trust me darl’, I’ll be there, I wouldn’t miss it for th’world . Now, I better get a hustle with this work, or I’ll be stuck here till the party’s over.” Clark shook his head in exaggerated despair, and Marmalade let out a small chuckle. “Okay Clark. See you at the party!”

“See y’all at the party, Marm.” Clark waved as Marm hurried out the door, the farmer eager to deliver the rest of her invitations. The new mayor-elect pulled out his invitation once more.

He grinned, and for the first time in what seemed like days, he actually wanted to finish his paperwork. A party clearly makes for a mighty fine motivator.

Winter 27th was going to be the best Winter’s Star party he’d ever been to.

_______________________________________________________________

It was 7:56 PM on Winter 26th.

The ticking of the kitchen clock on the wall had drove her crazy. It now laid facedown on the tiled floor.

Marmalade glared at the door. She sat alone, at her dining table, 34 different plates of food sitting, cold, untouched, abandoned on the dark cherry wood, uncovered and unprotected from the cold night air. The fire had burned out about half an hour ago – what was the point of keeping a fire burning if no one was here to stay warm?

Marmalade glared at the door. She hadn’t touched any of the food she had slaved the day away cooking. She hadn’t had a sip of the punch, or the soup, or the wine. She was at first waiting for someone to come, to share the food with, but after an hour of sitting alone she had thoroughly lost her appetite.

Marmalade glared at the door – only pausing to wipe the tears defiantly escaping her eyes. She had told herself she wouldn’t cry. It didn’t matter if no one had come. She was sure there were reasons why they hadn’t come, but no one had even called to inform her. Maybe they just weren’t her friends. She had always thought that at least a few of the farmers had been left with good impressions of her. The anti-social ones, she understood – those like Katherine, afraid of people, or Nikoma, annoyed by people – but the extroverts? Cherry? Pippa? Red? Where were they?

The only conclusion Marmalade could come to was they didn’t care. They must have had other plans, or had forgotten, they must have been too busy with their lives to remember Marmalade’s party. She sniffled, wiping away more tears that had forced their way down her face. She had to reason with herself. After all, yesterday was the Winter’s Star Feast, and everyone would be tired…

Even Clark, her best friend, her old farmhand, was too busy for her. It must have been his new job…

Marmalade glared at the door. The door swung open. Tension was almost palpable in the air as Marmalade tensed up – tears at this point were streaming over her blushed cheeks, make-up running. Clark walked in, sighing. He had yet to look up, his head was hung low, the strain of sitting at a desk all day leaving a myriad of cricks in his neck and back.

The cowboy could tell Marmalade was in earshot, and he called out while taking his shoes off. “Hey Marm, excited for your party tomor-…” Finally, his gaze swung up to meet Marmalade’s glare.

Time froze as he scanned the room; the festive decorations, the tinsel-covered tree, the holly and mistletoe and wreaths hanging from every possible point. The banquet of food laid out in spectacular fashion. The poor, lonely woman, sitting isolated amongst the festivities.

Uh-oh.

Marm broke down. The floodwalls failed, and she began sobbing, only quietly, but there was no other noise – all Clark could hear was Marmalade’s soft weeping. Immediately, he moved towards her, trying to protectively wrap himself around her, in an attempt to shield the orange-haired woman from what had happened in her own dining room.  She protested, albeit weakly, beating closed fists against his brawny chest. It didn’t last long, as those beating fists uncurled into fingers gripping his shirt, knuckles clenched white, the fabric a lifeline to Clark as Marmalade pressed her tear-soaked face into him.

Clark didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even entirely sure what happened – her party wasn’t supposed to take place until tomorrow evening… Unless she didn’t know that. The invitations must have been wrong. The cowboy shook his head. All of Marmalade’s meticulous planning, all of her expertise and effort, left to rot because of a typo on the invitations. Clark knew what he had to do.

Clark continued to hold Marm as she wept out her grievances, Clark affirming her and hushing her softly. It didn’t take long for Marmalade’s crying to slow – it was clear now, obviously the town didn’t hate her. But it didn’t matter. The party was a failure, and she had spent so much time and effort and money on this one, she had nothing left to throw another one. It was all a waste, and everyone was going to be disappointed.

All Clark could do was hold the woman, assuring her that the townsfolk wouldn’t be mad. He told her stories about his failed events in the past, about his week and all the mess-about that went into being mayor, about how people were kind, and forgiving, especially in these parts. For about 40 minutes, the pair laid spread out on the on the cold tiled floor, Marmalade’s head still on Clark’s chest, time passing in an emotion-filled haze.

It was 9:03 PM on Winter 26th, according to Clark’s wristwatch.

He knew exactly what he had to do to make this right. As Marmalade drifted to sleep, he swept her up, and escorted her to her bed – and then he was out the door. He knew most of the farmers and townsfolk would be winding down for the night, but if he knew this Valley, he knew that they would come together for something this important, especially for the mayor.

Well no, actually.

They’d come together, especially for Marmalade.

Clark had to make sure that Winter 27th was going to be the best Winter’s Star party Marmalade had ever been to.

_______________________________________________________________

It was 9:04 AM on Winter 27th, according to the clock Marmalade had picked up off the floor.

She was still a little down – she had thrown all the wasted food in the bin, and tried to salvage what had kept, but it all felt like a big mistake. She was now sitting at the dining table, staring absent-mindedly at the door. Clark was nowhere to be seen, again, as always. The farmer didn’t want to walk out that door, didn’t want to have to tell everyone the party was cancelled.

But she was a brave woman, and she’d let most of the negativity out last night. She wasn’t ready to do it yet, though. No, she’d check the mail, and then finish her coffee. Then she’d set off to let the public know of her shame.

The woman stood up, stretching her haunches, mug of hot, black coffee clutched tightly. A small amount of the life-saving ichor had stained the sleeve of her long sweater, but that was fine, it was just a pyjama top anyway. The soft fleecy fabric was a latte-foam tan, with the sleeves slightly too long, and honestly, the small brown stains added to the look. Marmalade ambled towards the door, procrastinating her eventual exposure to the outside elements.

It was just the mail.

She’d have to face the world eventually.

She swung the door open – and dropped her mug.

Laid out on the front lawn, cleared of snow, was tables of food. Fresh prepared meats, plates of berries and fruits – all in season, all garnished with those dark green leaves that survived the winter chill – bowls of punch and liquor and crates of wine laid out, hot coffee and soups simmering over small fires. And with it all, stood all the farmers she had invited to yesterday’s party.

Warm smiles from familiar faces all began turning towards Marmalade, the breaking of ceramic and the splashing of coffee alerting the people laying out this feast on her front lawn. It felt like a dream – the slow roll of applause started to crawl across the crowd, and before long they were all cheering at (or cheering for, more likely) Marmalade.

Friends and acquaintances from all around the Valley were present – she immediately noticed the tall figures of Barclay, Rue and Bernard, discussing fishing in the mines (a very controversial topic, apparently), with Pippa and Red inspecting the miner’s latest find close by. Edel, Katherine, Mona and Amelia sipped at Kat’s latest champagne, the bubbly enticing enough to drink even this early in the morning. Alex and Cherry were carving roast chicken, while Ainsley and Delaney seemed to be debating what exactly defined a ‘soup’. Jenna and Haley chatted away with Vi, Percival and a pair of siblings who Marmalade hadn’t seen before – but they were all far too dressed up, clearly. Even the recluses had turned out; Anderson and Morrison stood at the end of a table, alone, and Nikoma sat in a pile of snow, flask in hand. And that wasn’t even most of the people Marmalade could recognise – about 60 bodies, more than she had ever invited, stood around, having a good time, eating food and drinking merrily, just as she had envisioned for her party…

And right, smack-bang in the middle of them all was Clark, those new, dark rings under his eyes the blackest she’d ever seen them. He had been up all night, corralling the locals into coming together, pooling their resources, cooking and brewing and shovelling snow, to throw Marmalade the best Winter’s Star party that she had ever been to.

Marmalade hopped over the shattered mug, and ran straight into his arms, once again pressing her face into his broad chest. There was no way this was all happening, and yet, it seems Clark had made it happen.

A few tears stained that same, white shirt he was wearing last night.

“Thank you so much, Clark! Thank you…”

Clark smiled warmly, his tired eyes softening as he patted Marmalade on the back.

“Not a worry in the world, Marm. You know I -… You know this town would do anything for you.”

Marmalade could feel the kindness in her soul, the flame that had been doused last night, reignite within her. She couldn’t ask for anything more, to be surrounded by those she lives with, to supply the space for her community to be happy, to be safe, and to have a good Winter’s Star. To take up the mantle of her grandfather. She pulled herself from Clark, and looked around at all of her friend’s faces, warm drinks and good food in their hands.

This was going to be the best Winter’s Star party ever.

[askmovieslate]

Hello there! Mod here. It’s time to (for the second? third time this year?) bring Ask Movie Slate back to some sort of activity.

You can find a rather long-winded and wordy explanation after the break.

TL;DR Version: There’s more than a handful of updates done and ready, but it’s all about multi-platform sharing and planning at this moment. I will also start posting Work in Progress collections here from this moment on.

It seems that the Ask Pony Blog scene has changed quite a lot over the past half a year. This is something I’ve expected to happen with the current iteration of My Little Pony coming to an end. Many of the blogs have shut down, or have come to an end.

To me, and from the perspective of an Ask Blog, the fact that the source material is finally getting its ending isn’t enough of a reason for me to stop doing what I like. There’s no way Movie Slate will stop, even if this time it felt like she did. Especially after that “Man on the Moon” update that a few of you thought was the actual end of the blog.

Ask Blogs are weird. You don’t really have control over it, except you 100% do, but an ask blog is only as good as the asks it gets, and believe me when I say I have enough movie suggestions stored that I could be reviewing a different movie every week and have enough material for two decades. You guys haven’t failed to support the blog, and without a question you make Movie Slate what it is today.

I am a very lucky person to have been doing this for seven years and still have the drive and the interest to do it. And that’s in big part thanks to the fact that Movie Slate’s blog has never had a big amount of followers. The blog is seven years old (about to hit eight) and it’s never gotten past 5k followers. But this made things way better, as less pressure was on me. I’ve seen blogs with literally tens of thousands of followers peter out and disappear into the aether, and when I asked their mods about it they usually say “Too many people, man, it’s too much”. So small risk and a small audience means I can get away with more things, which quite frankly I have. “The Shape of Water” update very much comes to mind. I’m shocked that thing is still up on Tumblr!

But audience size has no impact on whether or not the blog will still be around. I don’t care how many people follow the blog, but how much those who follow the blog care for it. And holyshit, you guys care for Movie Slate a lot. And I mean a lot. You guys have done fanart of her, you’ve done actual updates. You’ve given me plushies, and miniatures, and crafts of her. I’ve gotten doodles at conventions and sent in the mail! You looked at my silly pointy horse with celluloid hair and went “Yes, I want to do something with her in it” and it was wonderful. And all of this from a relatively small, not-all-that-well-known blog on the internet. It feels like being in a desert island but one that gets constant supplies, and has a nice house, and several friends that drop by every now and then. So it’s actually a pretty nice island to stay on even though 99% of the world doesn’t know you’re there.

So there’s no way I will ever stop updating Movie Slate. I would never do that to any of you guys. I don’t care if the activity drops to only 1 or 2 notes per post. I don’t care if the follower count never gets bigger than what it currently is. I don’t care about any of that. I only care about how much fun you guys are having, and how much fun I am having doing this. And so far there’s been no downside. The only issue is how slow updates have been posted here, and that’s where the rub lies.

I currently am sitting on four weeks worth of updates, plus several smaller updates that form a couple of Monthly Events. These have been done for a while already, and the only reason why they haven’t been uploaded is most related to time constrains. It’s not just about drawing the art, but about posting the art, writing the description, queuing it up, then sharing it everywhere (I post to Tumblr, Twitter, Pinterest, and DeviantArt), and then setting up the time zone reblogs (and also sending it to Equestria Daily and all the DeviantArt groups). This is why I got @charonib on board, and he’s been helping me a lot doing the sharing, saving me literally hours in the process.

So now that things are settling in, and the scene of the Ask Blog is becoming a bit more clear, I can say that Movie Slate will always be around. I have zero intentions to ever stop updating her blog. Sometimes there will be updates every week, other times there will be droughts like the current one. But I have no reason to stop doing what I like doing.

However, I will be bringing a new change to the blog, and that is the WiP posts. I will be sharing more Work in Progress collections in the future, as to show you guys what is currently being worked on and the stage at which each future update is. I thought it’d be a fun way to show you my thought process and to also involve you in on it. I don’t know how frequent these will be, but with the way that Tumblr has become I say expect them rather regularly. See it as the extra features on a DVD that you get along with the movie.

It’s been a long road, and I say there’s more road to walk on, so let’s keep on. Thank you so much for allowing me to do what I do. You guys are the absolute best.

[floraone]

Could you do 9 please? I'm loving these kisses!

I'm glad you like them! Here you go ♡

-

In Kiss In Public

-

It was a rare occasion that Usagi got up before him. In fact, he couldn't remember it ever happening before. And so, for the first time, he found himself waking up alone in her bed.

He ran a hand across his eyes in disorientation and turned on her soft mattress. Her pillow smelled of her, even when her side wasn't warm anymore, and when his wrist hit her pillow, it landed on paper.

I had to help Mama bring a few cakes to Shingo's school fair, I'll be back before you miss me, promise!

The note was signed with Usagi's signature doodle of a bunny, it's x-mouth replaced by what he ventured was supposed to be a kiss. His smile at it was probably a little too dopey.

He wasn't supposed to be here, of course. He'd slipped into her room in the middle of the night, because these days he couldn't hold back. Though, by the way her mother had reacted when she'd stumbled upon him that one time in the bathroom, her parents weren't actually quite as unaware of his frequent presence in their house.

He dressed leisurely, sat at her desk, and after reading the news on his phone, he flipped open her homework that lay discarded on her desk for want of anything better to do while he waited. After erasing and replacing a few incorrect answers, he closed the folder again and pushed it a bit neater to the side of her desk.

Underneath, he came across a stack of purikura photo strips and an empty photo album. The stack toppled over and spread across her desk.

He smiled. There were tons of the girls in various constellations, even one with just Usagi and Michiru, making faces and striking poses more silly than the next for the camera. They were decorated bright and glittery - Usagi tended to go crazy with that function.

The upper two showed Mamoru with Usagi. His smile grew at the one she had enlarged of them. Usagi was pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek, he was rolling his eyes but sporting a blush (he wasn't the best at getting his photo taken, especially when in a crowd and loud arcade and groups of school girls chattering as they queued up excitedly in front of the booth). There were two copies of the strip, and while he hadn't shown interest the day they took these, he wondered if Usagi would give him the copy if he asked.

Then his eyes fell on a strip of photos farer down the pile.

Seiya, other than Mamoru, didn't look uncomfortable in these pictures at all. In fact, the handwritten script on the decorations wasn't Usagi's. He recognized the booth backgrounds, it was one exclusive to an amusement park Usagi loved to go to, took plenty of pictures with the girls at, and Mamoru tended to refuse to go. Hanayashiki Park.

Seiya obviously hadn't. Seiya wrote 'Seiya and Usagi's doki doki date' in sloppy characters surrounded by hearts across a picture of Seiya lifting her up with a giant smile on his face and Usagi being the one to roll her eyes with a smile in the photo.

He frowned at the picture. A heavy, uncomfortable knot furled and unfurled in his gut, and he pushed the photo underneath all of the others.

He was still frowning when Usagi returned with a bright smile and the announcement that she'd successfully secured two slices of her Mama's legendary lemon tarte for them under risk of her life by Shingo's menacing discontent.

"Maybe later," he'd grumbled, glaring at the now neat pile of photos stacked on the empty photo album.

He was in a grouchy mood and irritated with himself, and Usagi started to notice. He was about to excuse himself and call it a day and retreat to spend his Saturday buried in textbooks in his library when he called himself out of it, telling himself harshly not to punish this wonderful woman he was allowed to call his girlfriend with his insecurities.

Instead, he whirled around, startling her out of her dimmed smile.

"Do you want to go to Hanayashiki Park today?" he rushed at her with maybe too much intensity.

But her eyes brighted up, flashed at him in all their excited, powerful, disarming glory which managed to take his breath even now.

She clung to his waist in that excited way for the short ride across Minato, the wind pushing at their hair as he bent and curved and drove them there on his motorcycle.

She was radiating joy, hopping and jumping and clinging to his arm.

He found himself trying his hardest to be the most comfortable, most doting. He didn't roll his eyes once, he agreed to queue for the wildest rides, he didn't make a fuss at all.

He was trying to prove a petty point.

It was in that very photo booth (he'd suggested they queue immediately upon spotting it), that she first grew suspicious.

The photos turned out sweet (they always did), but when they stood around the back of it at the small touch screens to decorate, and he raised the second pink stylus to partake in this endeavour, Usagi stood staring at him with confused eyes. He shrugged it off, kept from blushing by sheer willpower, and wrote in pink with his indefinitely neater handwriting, 'Usako and Mamo-chan's doki doki date'.

He felt Usagi's dumbfounded stare burn through his skin.

She was still staring, her brow creased in that way too adorable but much too incriminating way, alternating between him and the small strips of photos in her hand when he dragged her by the elbow to the next attraction.

He stopped when he spotted the taiyaki stand. She'd want one, right?

Usagi stared harder.

He found her eyes, looking down. They were surrounded by people, loud and excited almost as much as she'd been. In front of them was a group of girls younger than Usagi, glancing back at them and giggling. Behind them was a mother and her two kids, the boy tugging at her mother's jeans and asking her why 'that man is so tall'.

The expression in Usagi's eyes as she gazed up at him now was thoughtful, almost concerned.

Because he wanted to, and because he was still proving a point, and because her concerned look itched across his heart and he wanted to replace it, he did what he normally wouldn't do in public, and certainly not in a queue sandwiched between a group of giggling girls and inquisitive little kids.

He bent and captured her surprised lips with his.

She responded - of course she responded. Her lips were soft and sure and brushing against his in that grounding, comforting way that almost distracted him from the contrasting ways his own lips seemed to tremble in his sudden, uncharacteristic nervousness.

When he pulled away, her hand was on his cheek, the other on his chest, the little boy behind them was loudly fake-retching as his sister made kissing noises while his mother tried unsuccessfully to hush them, the girls in front of them were blushing wildly and turning their backs to them completely, and Usagi's eyes had grown even more concerned.

Mission failed, it seemed.

She was barely touching her taiyaki when they sat on a bench a little later.

He reacted in the same way to her concerned eyes then, too. Bent down and kissed her soft lips.

This time, she didn't respond. Instead she started speaking the second his lips touched hers.

"You don't need to do that, Mamo-chan."

He withdrew his mouth only slightly with a frown, answering with his eyes still very close to hers.

"Kiss you?"

Her brow creased further. "Prove something."

He sat back. Sighed. Allowed the corners of his mouth to settle into the displeased expression from this morning.

"You'd prefer it if I were more open," he answered after a little back and forth of mutual staring that turned continuously charged.

She shook her head. "I prefer you just the way you are, Mamo-chan."

Her eyes were stern and calculating and when he sighed this time, it felt like something heavy dropping from his heart and at her feet.

This time, when he leaned in, he allowed himself the spiel again. He looked around carefully, and only when he saw no one was looking, he slipped his hands against her cheeks and drew her mouth to his.

This time, she responded, slipped her fingers against his temple and opening her mouth and he sighed, relieved, into the warmth of her mouth, completely undetected and finally letting go.

Her lips puckered against his two, three, four more times in sweet, soft, Usagi-kisses, until they ventured further up and dropped a small, sweet little peck to his nose. She was crinkling her adorable nose in a sweet, relieved smile when his eyes fluttered back open.

"Wanna go back home and eat Mama's tarte?" She smiled at him.

He smiled back. The sigh it accompanied felt like breathing deeply again, like something freeing. "Yes, please," he whispered.

[thecultoftill]

Flake on the beginnings of Rammstein.

This is long so I’ll put it beneath a cut.

 And then there was another new band. I couldn’t keep track of them all anymore. Almost every musician I knew played in several bands at the same time, and the various combinations of musicians were all wildly different from one another.

  I was guilty of the same thing, I tried to play in every new band that popped up. Some nights it happened that we’d play in several different bands in the course of one concert. The newest one was always the most exciting one. Whenever the other guys in my band threw together another combo I was always excited to hear them, but I was also jealous. Why hadn’t they asked me to join? 

  When Paul started working with Die Firma—that is, the band called Die Firma, not the Stasi, which was also referred to as Die Firma, or The Company—I liked their music so much that I went to as many of their concerts as I could, even though I wasn’t in the band. I just loved listening to them. I was like a male groupie. It was apparently possible without sex, too. The most important thing was a spot in the band’s van. Or in some other car heading to the show. The band’s whole approach was different. The things that we considered important were of no interest to anyone anymore. Nobody wanted to hear my silly noodling. If I wanted to be part of it I’d have to play darker stuff, and with real feeling— which was even more difficult for me. It was exactly the same when I started a new band with two other people—Paul came to see as many of the concerts as he could. He actually ended up playing in that band after I quit.

  And now there was another new band, and Paul hadn’t told me about this one. I only figured it out because of a note left on our door of the apartment he and I shared. It said something about a rehearsal, and beneath the note was a doodle of an airplane crashing. I pulled the note off the door and read it carefully. Then I left it on the kitchen table for Paul. Now I had to figure out who he was playing with. Maybe he’d get picked up for rehearsal. Aha, it was Schneider. He was our drummer in Feeling B. I hadn’t seen him in a while.  

If I was being honest with myself, I would have to admit that Feeling B didn’t really exist anymore. We hadn’t written any new songs in a long time, and only played occasional gigs in front of our old fans when we needed a bit of money. Of course, I didn’t want to admit any of that at the time and began to worry about the fact that two of the members were busying themselves putting together a new band.  

 Apparently two other people from Schwerin—a couple hours north of Berlin—were also involved. And they wanted to make really hard music. At this stage we were listening to a lot of Pantera and Ministry whenever we drove around. That was because we always went to shows with Schneider and as the driver he got to choose the music, obviously. It was a style of music I had a hard time warming up to at first. But I liked the repetitive snippets of sound that people called “samples.” I’d bought myself a sampler for Feeling B at some point so I could play more modern sounding music—with my old toy-Casio from the 80s I might as well not have been on stage. Though I always went on stage anyway. But a sampler seemed to me to be a serious, modern device. It was the kind of thing cool new bands used.  

 Then came the day when I was invited to come to a rehearsal. I was totally intimidated. There were five bad-assed looking men standing around in the darkened room. Even Paul looked different. I hadn’t been part of such an intense and focused rehearsal for years. Or more accurately, ever. To my surprise, an old friend of ours from Schwerin was supposed to be the singer. We’d always liked visiting him, only back then he’d been the drummer in a kind of goofy band. Paul had played with them, too. I really liked Till as a drummer despite the fact—or maybe because of it—that he didn’t seem like a proper drummer. I think he’d gotten into it the same way I had: he saw all these new bands popping up and noticed that women were into musicians, and so he wanted to be a part of the whole thing. He was the walking incarnation of punk music.  

 He’d decided to take up drums because they suited him best. Rather than depending on refined technique he brought enthusiasm and an unusual power. It was a feast for the eyes. And when his band gave their encore, he stood up and started singing. That song, the one they used as their encore, was particularly good, and you could hear what a great voice Till had. It was easily the band���s best song.  And now the guys wanted to start a band with him as singer. Actually not only did they want to—they already had. And I hadn’t caught wind of it. I couldn’t dispel the thought that they had purposely not told me. There was some truth to that, too. But now I was with them in the basement, trying to make a good impression.  At first nobody asked me what I thought of the songs. But if they had asked me, I would have answered that I was totally blown away. The songs were absolutely perfect. I’d never heard guitar riffs like that, and even though I wasn’t usually into this type of music, these songs really struck a chord in me. Even though I was a bit older than most of the people this music seemed to speak so powerfully to, I was immediately struck by what these guys were doing. And Till’s voice touched my heart—it didn’t even matter what he was singing. Some of the first songs were in English but I didn’t even notice. 

 As young people grow into adults, it’s often some trivial twist of fate that can both lead them to a certain type of music and determine the direction of their lives. And this music seemed to have been made to get you on your feet and carry you through life. The shock of its impact was as extreme as finding true love a second time. 

 When I was young and coming into my own as an adult while playing in Feeling B, I’d been deeply happy and fulfilled. I ran excitedly to rehearsals every day regardless of what we were doing. And most of the time we just sat around and drank. But I told everyone about my band, and it was clear to me already then that there was nothing else I wanted to do in life. Both from a musical and personal standpoint. I loved every mile of the endless, bumpy roads that took us to our concerts, and I happily breathed in the stench of stale beer when we arrived at a two-bit venue in some god-forsaken village. As long as I was with the band, I didn’t need anybody else around me. I never gave the slightest thought as to whether I was doing the right thing or whether I was happy. And now, years later, at a time when I’d never expected to find that sensation again, here it was. I couldn’t believe how good it felt to go through it again.

Another thing that would make this band different from others I’d played in was their discipline. And in the beginning, also the fact that nobody tried to push his way into the spotlight. Something that no musician can really stick to. But I stopped trying to fill in the still moments in the songs and instead started to do my thing at the points where the others just weren’t playing full-on. You were supposed to be able to understand the singing. Then I discovered a sound that was loud and distorted and wasn’t even recognizable as a keyboard at all. It sounded more like a dying dinosaur. I played the dinosaur sound on every song— it was at least audible amidst all the other noise. It may not have been exactly what the rest of the band was expecting from me, but it was better than nothing— and luckily they didn’t know anybody else back then who played keyboards and had the time and inclination to jam with them.   

In our circles, joining a band didn’t involved anything formal, and a lot of the time you never even discussed whether somebody was a member or not. If someone showed up for rehearsals regularly, they were a member of the band unless they were explicitly told not to come anymore. But that never actually happened because people always seemed to figure out on their own whether they were welcome or not. Any musician has to have at least that much intuition.   

After that first rehearsal, I started going back to the basement again and again, and never had to think about whether I was a member of the band or not. And anyway, it wasn’t even clear whether this really was a band, and whether this lineup would stay together—I mean, at that stage the group hadn’t played a single concert. For me, a concert in front of strangers is the true starting point of a band. I still had time to get to know the less familiar members of the band. 

 Finally a few new people I could make music with, even if I was a little scared of them, since these were people who expected real input—it wasn’t enough for them that I was funny, awkward Flake, the guy whose flaws everybody generously overlooked. I quickly became aware of my musical limitations, and I had to step things up if I wanted to continue to play with them instead of staying forever mired in my musty memories of East Germany.  Back in the old days it really had been enough at times for me to simply pop onstage with some other band, like Die Anderen, a band that provided the name for an entire genre of music in the East, armed with my little Casio in order to feel like I was doing something really cool, like I was a big dog. But with this new band, nothing was going to come for free. At least I was able to take part in these powerful rehearsals, and that quickly gave me the sense that I was becoming part of something big, even if I didn’t have the slightest idea just how big it would be. 

Flake in his book Heute Hat Die Welt Geburstag,

Translation by Tim Mohr(Found on publisher’s site)  

[bubble-tea-bunny]

to feel the sun from both sides

[newt scamander x reader]

author’s note: shorter than the stuff i’ve been writing lately but still just as nice i hope(: might write for theseus next

word count: 2,330

The months are growing colder, and the drop in temperature becomes even more apparent at the day’s end, when the sun is on its way out. A gust of wind blows strong enough to ruffle Newt’s robes and a shiver runs down his spine. His cheeks and his nose are probably red from the chill, and he manages to free a hand in the midst of his task to bring his scarf up over the bottom half of his face. Ah. That feels better.

He doesn’t see you approach because his back is turned, and he would’ve heard you, would’ve heard the sound of your shoes sifting along the cool grass, if he weren’t preoccupied with the little animal cradled his palm. He’s alerted to your presence when you speak up, and he twists around, but carefully so as not to jostle the small bowtruckle.

“I was wondering where you were,” you state with a smile.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” Newt’s tone is apologetic as he pulls down his scarf to be heard clearly, the cool air once more nipping at his skin. He talks quietly but he always does, and you don’t mind one bit. “I wasn’t able to find you after dinner and I wanted to come here before it got dark, so…”

“It’s fine.” You wave your hand dismissively. It’s easy to be lost in the sea of students flooding out of the Great Hall, so you don’t blame him. You sit down against the trunk of the tree, and Newt follows suit. “I’m sure they missed you.”

Newt looks over, wondering what you mean, and notices your attention is on the creature in his hand. He glances down at it as well. “Yeah… I guess they have.” It’s silent for a moment, then he continues: “Hold out your hand.”

Your eyes widen a fraction but you do as he says, and you go stock still as he sets the bowtruckle into your awaiting hand. Its little legs feel odd on the sensitive expanse of your palm, and it takes several steps, so you rotate your wrist to accommodate it. It walks across your knuckles, where it chooses to remain. Newt watches it fondly, and it looks right back at him, like it knows who he is. And then from beneath floppy brown hair his gaze slides up to you—you’re considerably more relaxed now, and your features are so soft in the radiance of dusk.

“I don’t know why you get so nervous,” he remarks. “You’re a natural.”

You chuckle and as the bowtruckle resumes walking, you hold up your other hand for it to transfer onto so it doesn’t fall off. “You’re the natural, Newt. Simply holding them is nothing compared to what you can do.”  

Newt smiles. “But they like you, you know. I can tell.”

You hum, as if to ask Yeah? but you don’t say anything else. Newt assumes that to be the end of the conversation, and he leans his head back on the tree trunk. The bowtruckle appears to have found a comfortable position to rest in, and you allow yourself to return to watching the setting sun. It’s nearly gone, and your breath materializes in front of you with every exhale. Soon the moon and stars will emerge, and they’ll light your path to the castle.

“Would you write a book?” you ask out of the blue.

Newt purses his lips and contemplates the inquiry for a few seconds. He doesn’t ask about what because it’s obvious what he’d write about. The idea isn’t out of the realm of possibility. He keeps journals on his research, though it’s only been on creatures found here at Hogwarts. There are many out there still, throughout the world, to be sought after and studied and cared for. An expansive task but a wonderful one.

“I would,” he responds finally. “But it’d be hard to do that research alone.”

This prompts you to look at him, and he’s watching you with utmost sincerity. The implication of the statement pulls a grin from you, and he mirrors it subconsciously. You’d been attached at the hip from the moment you started talking to each other as first years, and though your adventures have begun at Hogwarts, they wouldn’t end there.  

You sigh lightly and take in the night that has fallen around you, stare up at the sky like you’re in a crystal ball and you’re looking past the glass. “Will I never be rid of you, Scamander?” you tease.

Newt shakes his head. “Not at all,” he shoots back playfully.

You laugh, then sigh as you settle down. “I’ll gladly join you, Newt. Just don’t go falling in love with me while we’re at it.”

There’s a twinkle in your gaze to accompany your smile, and he knows you’re playing around, but he swallows as he mulls over what you’ve said. The smile drops from his own face once you turn away and attend to the bowtruckle in your hand. He hears you asking it if it’s doing okay, and if it’s sleepy, but your voice sounds distant, like you’re farther than you actually are, his own thoughts at the forefront and pushing everything else to the margins. He traces the line of your profile with his eyes, from your forehead to the slope of your nose to your lips, and farther still he follows the curve of your chin as it leads to your jaw, and the sleek column of your neck. And as he continues to sit here next to you, so close he can feel your body heat, and you grin at the animal you’re holding and he swears it’s enough to light up a whole room, he thinks it’s a little too late for that.

———

He tries though. By Merlin, does he try. Being out on the field helps distract him, because there, the work comes first, and in these instances you maintain a professional relationship, that of researcher and assistant. You take notes while his hands are busy looking over the current beast of interest, and he knows he rambles and his brain can move faster than his mouth at times and it does but you’ve always been able to turn it into something cohesive. He gives you his journals to write in, and it’s easy to figure out which sections are yours because they’re neater, and in addition to the skillfully done diagrams of hippogriff talons and erumpet horns, you leave silly doodles in the margins.

The bounds of professionalism aren’t concrete, and neither of you wished them to be anyway. When he’s working late into the night, nothing but a candle to illuminate the pages, you come to him as his friend once more, his best friend, and you tell him he needs to rest and you won’t take any excuses. You set your hand on his to stop his writing, and he glances up at you sheepishly because he knows you’re right but really, he’ll be done soon, just one more sentence—

“There will always be tomorrow,” you murmur.

And the corner of his lip twitches, a smile fighting its way to the surface. You’ve never had to do much to convince him. “Okay.”

For all your denials that you could never be as well-versed in magical creatures as he, over the years, that’s changed, whether or not you even noticed. He taught you as you both went along, traveled from country to country, and it hadn’t been long before you had his confidence in the subject. Or at least something very close. And in those times where you may falter he’s the one to reassure you, telling you it’s okay to approach the thunderbird you’re observing and who’s looking at you closely in kind, two curious souls observing each other.

Gently he takes your wrist and guides your hand to rest on the soft feathers, and your eyes glow and so does your smile and he’s left wondering if he’s seeing things that aren’t actually there because maybe just maybe he’s imagining you like you’re the face he’s given to the beautiful haze of color just before the sun disappears behind the horizon and oh how he hopes desperately this isn’t the case.

But your skin is warm and as his hand slips down to his side, some of that residual heat remains in his palm, and it feels too real to be any figment of the imagination. In the subsequent moments filled only by the low rasps from the thunderbird’s throat that mean it’s happy, Newt looks from it to you and back again and maybe it’s more like you’re the same soul and in an exercise of extraordinary self-awareness the splendid beast that towers over you has looked into a mirror and understood that those are its eyes gazing back. And the flood of love Newt has for you rushes in like it had on day one of an undetermined total (for he’d really like to be with you forever).

He’s honestly not sure if he’ll ever tell you how he feels, because stuff like that, it isn’t his thing. He trips over his words whenever he’s not talking about his research and he has trouble maintaining eye contact with people, and the issue is increased tenfold when it involves you because the way your eyes seem to burn into him, see through him, is altogether too intense and he loves it but he also hates it because you pull him apart so easily. And maybe he should mind it but he doesn’t because you’re also the one to put him back, not with a wave of your wand and a whispered spell but with your hands, lithe fingers taking each fragment and fitting them together, one by one, slowly and surely, until he’s whole before you, and he would stand prepared for the next time he falls for you, into a million tiny pieces.

A portion of your notes doesn’t sound complete to Newt as he reads it over, then re-reads it a few times in an attempt to make sense of them. A few thoughts jotted down at the bottom are scrambled and disconnected. Usually he wouldn’t linger on these points and would move on, but it just so happens that he needs these particular lines for what he’s working on. With a sigh rife with exhaustion from hours of work, he stands and, journal in hand, exits the study and walks to the lounge, where he knows you’ll be.

There’s shuffling and the sound of your footsteps as you exclaim Poppy! and Newt’s not thinking much of it, but he should have and he understands that now because he turns the corner and says your name to announce his presence, and he’s startled first by your kneazle who just barely avoids running into his legs as it scampers off, and second by you, who’s taken off after her and you barrel into him, knocking you both off your feet.

“Oof!” Newt hits the floor with a thud, you on top of him. His journal had slipped out of his hand and lays face down to his right, but he doesn’t take notice. You push yourself up to look at him properly, eyes wide and brows knitted together in worry.

“Are you okay?” you ask. “I’m so sorry, Newt. It’s just, Poppy stole my pen and wouldn’t give it back and—”

“It’s fine,” he assures you, smiling. The concern starts to slip away and you nod, and then it occurs to him that neither of you has made any moves to stand. Your hands are braced against his chest, and his arms are wrapped around your waist, having found their way there by instinct when you’d run into him and he went to cushion your fall. Laying on the hardwood floor is hardly comfortable but he’s comfortable holding you, and you seem to be comfortable being held by him.

You stare at each other, and again Newt is overwhelmed and he has to avert his gaze and it goes to your lips and they look so soft, like velvet, and he wonders if they feel like it too. He swallows hard, and his mouth opens to say something but what? He has no idea what to say, and should he speak up he doesn’t know what would leave his mouth.

His mouth merely hangs open slightly, words not quite reaching his tongue, and he figures he must look rather stupid, but you seem to pay no mind or even notice as you lean in those last few inches and he learns you taste of caramel creams and peach blossoms. His eyes slide closed as he kisses you and his senses are filled with you you you and he’s breathing you in like you’re keeping him alive. It is a little ridiculous to still be wondering if this is truly happening, that this isn’t some hallucination, but he can’t help it because years have been spent thinking about it, dwelling on it, on all the what-could-be’s and what-if’s, and suddenly it’s what-can-be’s and what is.

You pull away just enough to allow yourself to breathe, and your eyes remain closed. Newt focuses on your lashes that delicately kiss your cheeks, and he wants to do that too. To kiss your cheeks and your nose and each corner of your lips because he loves you so much it hurts. When your eyes open, revealing that charming gaze that holds so much power over him, to a degree he’s not certain you’d ever understand, his heart drops into his stomach and it rouses the butterflies there, and they take flight. He can’t think straight but that’s okay, and at the sight of your captivating, marvelous, lovely, brilliant and every other word which might represent magnificence smile, he smiles too, in disbelief and relief and everything in between.