#wish i had had a marker to add that earlier ;(

[bongwateriero]

bathroom graffiti

t*rfs eat shit and die. don’t touch my post

[worshipper-status]

💙Tips from a Worshipper💙: How to Make a Shrine

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day! This post is an idea I’ve had for a while so here’s my guide to making a shrine for your own darling! This post isn’t the be all end all to shrines but it’s tips and advice I’ve gathered from doing my own thing for a while. Feel free to add your own tips in the tags of this post if you reblog it. I’d appreciate it a lot!

1.) Get a shoe box or a larger gift  box if you want more space.

This is entirely for practicality purposes. You don’t want to have a full on shrine in your room, in case anyone ever visits you or goes in your room. It’s inconvenient and annoying to have to take it down and put it back up, if there’s a possibility someone may want to go in your room. This is particularly useful for me, because my beloved knows I identify as a yandere but I get self conscious about her seeing the things I do because of it, so keeping it in a neat enclosed space to take out and do what I please and then pack it up and put it away when I’m done helps a lot both mentally and for practical reasons. 

2.) Consider the materials you want for it. Don’t be afraid to have fun with it!

Your darling deserves a beautiful shrine! If you have photos of them, print them out and line the walls of the box with them, or simply just leave them in an envelope inside the box to flip through when you want. Maybe if you’re artsy, decorate the inside of the box with markers and pens. Get some stickers and slap those on the side of the box. Maybe there’s something you associate your darling with? Put imagery of those in there too! My beloved associates me with sharks and associates herself with eevees so there’s a lot of that going on in mine. I often leave a candle in the shrine to take out and light whenever I’m doing anything with it. Bonus points if you know what your darling smells like so you can grab a candle with a similar scent. Other things I leave in the shrine are things I use to symbolize tokens of affection, so crystals, rings, jewelry, art pieces I’ve drawn for her, gifts my darling has given me, printed screenshots of text conversations with my darling that make me happy, etc. This is very individualized to you and your darling, but if all else fails, just fill it up with things you associate them with. Do they really like bunnies? Bunny themes. Is there favorite color green? Green everything. Do they like nature? Nature motif. 

3.) What’s the purpose for the shrine? Adjust accordingly.

Maybe you just want the shrine as a storage space for things your darling has given you? Or maybe you want to use it as part of a nightly routine to make sure no matter what you’re giving your beloved the proper amount of love and affection and wishing them goodnight. Maybe you just want a space to express that obsessive side of you in peace, and then be able to pack it up and put it away as a coping mechanism for your obsessive thoughts. No shame in any of these options! But make sure you’re designing it to help you with these things. I tend to use mine as more of a place to express my obsessive side in peace and then pack it up and move on with my day, kind of as a way to satiate the thoughts. So what I did was I made a lock for my box. Yeah it’s not really functional, you could easily just rip open the box to see what’s inside, but it helps me make that mental distinction of, this is Worshipper time, and this is not Worshipper time. For nightly routine type shrines (or daytime whichever you prefer), I recommend having a pre determined nightly routine for this. Maybe every night, you talk to the shrine like it is your darling to get out thoughts you never said earlier, maybe you read off an honoring poem, maybe you just brush your hair in front of the shrine while daydreaming about your darling doing it, anything works, just make sure you have the things you need handy, such as keeping a printed poem in the box, or a hairbrush, or whatever else suits you. 

4.) Does your darling know you’re a yandere? Are you brave enough to ask them for things?

I know I’m lucky to have a darling that knows I’m a yandere and for the most part supports it. However, we are currently long distance (yeah, I know, it’s killing me) so I can’t get gifts from her often. However, once we are living together, I know I will not be afraid to ask for tokens of affection for the shrine. This is going to involve me stealing her hoodies (we’re the same size in clothes lol), maybe a few strands of hair from the bathroom sink, any little doodles or notes she leaves around, etc. This is also for those people lucky enough to have a vial of blood from their darling (I wish TwT). Give it an honorary display in your shrine for when you’re not wearing it. But yeah, if there’s anything in specific you want your darling to give you and you know they’d be willing, ASK FOR IT! 

5.) Consider a digital shrine!

I’ve actually just started curating my digital shrine and I think it’s a really good option for people! I have mine on a private discord server that’s just me and pluralkit. I use this server for mostly keeping track of my daily life stuff, system things, recipes, to do’s, etc. But at the bottom of the server, I have a separate channel for my shrine! It has all the selfies I’ve saved and gathered from my darling, images I’ve grabbed online that I feel embody our relationship, screenshots of convos, various poems and writings of mine, future ideas for dates and otherwise. It has been way easier to put together and curate than the physical one,  and I actually enjoy it quite a bit more. It’s a lot easier to make a daily thing, and a lot more fun for me too. I love scrolling through the internet and grabbing things to add to the shrine, throwing my own writings in the mix, and knowing that no one else is going to see it because it’s in a private discord server and unless someone gets onto my computer or phone, I’m fine. 

[starswallowingsea]

I have been thinking about what types of notions and things the craft dorm (what I've been calling the Shu/Izumi/Kuro/Mao dorm) would have in their respective kits and ended up making some collages with my thoughts. In order it's Shu, Izumi, Kuro, and Mao. Longer explanation below the cut.

Shu:

Since he canonically makes lace I put all sorts of different lace making tools on his. In the english server it got translated as crochet and crochet lace can be absolutely gorgeous and it's pretty portable so it makes sense, hence the steel hooks. The other lace making tools are bobbins and a bobbin pillow and a tatting shuttle. While tatting is the "lesser" form of lace making compared to crochet and bobbins, it's by far the most portable as the thread is wound around the shuttle and to me Shu would probably do tatting on the plane to/from Japan and France. Also included for him are pretty generic sewing notions, your pins and pincushion, scissors, a needle and thread, t-pins, and beeswax. T-pins can be used to block the lace as well, and the beeswax is for hand sewing. Fun fact but if you run your thread over beeswax a few times before starting to sew it'll help strengthen your thread and prevent it from splitting! Shu also heavily prefers working with natural fibers over synthetic.

Izumi:

Guy absolutely uses DPNs (double pointed needles) for his knitting, at least when it comes to socks and hats. I believe in some of the examples of his knitting we've seen he has done cabling so a cable stitch holder is there as well, though I can imagine he does it without it too if it gets lost. He also has a ball winder and I wish I had thought to put a swift on here too but like Shu, he prefers to get natural fibers over synthetic and hand dyed wool is great but it comes in hanks which areeeeeee hard to work with so a swift and ball winder would be necessary for him. Also included are more t-pins, a blocking board, stitch markers, and yarn needles.

Kuro:

To me, Kuro is the type of guy to make scrap quilts with left over fabric from the outfits he makes for his friends (and also out of like old shirts his sister has grown out of), so he has a huge scrap fabric pile he's constantly thinking about what type of blocks to make them into. I feel like he'd also make his own appliques for these quilts and would use basting spray to hold those down, obviously. Also the type of guy who just carries spare buttons on him in case of an emergency. Also has a seam ripper, scissors (thread, fabric), a tailor's measuring tape, and a cutting board.

Mao:

I know he doesn't really craft but to me? He's a crocheter. He tried knitting once and failed very badly but crochet (in my opinion at least) is a lot easier to grasp for beginners and I think he made the dorm a few dish cloths at first but mostly makes amigurumis now of his favorite manga characters, as well as little toys for his friends, hence the safety eyes. Probably works more with synthetic fibers due to ease of accessibility and variety of colors, though he tries not to buy too much of the same color unless he knows what it'll be used for. Also has stuffing, yarn needles, stitch markers, and a little crochet hook carrying case.

General Notes:

There were some things I didn't think to add until after I had already finished all of these collages, and some things that were things I thought everyone would have. To start, Shu would obviously also have a blocking board for his lace blocking, and as mentioned earlier Izumi would have a swift. Shu probably also has a swift and ball winder or just borrows Izumi's when he buys anything heavier than thread for crochet (which isn't often so I'm leaning more towards borrowing). Kuro would also have a bar of beeswax for the same reason as Shu, as well as maybe a thimble? Though I suppose it depends on how much he cares about his fingers being callused from the needle. Shu has a thimble. I also think all four of them would have some sort of project bag, whether it's just an old backpack or something a bit more expensive, they all have something that allows them to take their crafts on the go.

Anyway that's all I had but please tell me your thoughts if you want :3

[raychleadele]

Earlier this week I acquired this poor baby. She’s a Blaire that has had a run in with some makeup (?) and a couple markers. I’d been on the lookout for a Blaire for a while, because I wanted to add a redhead to my collection, and I decided Blaire was the prettiest one. I love red hair with green eyes, and Josefina’s mold is probably my favorite. The fact that Blaire also has a skin tone that hadn’t been in my collection previously also helped convince me since I like having girls who look distinct from each other.

I love a fixer upper doll, the process of cleaning them up and bringing them back to their best possible self is so fun for me. This poor girl was the roughest looking one I’ve had yet - my husband said “She looks like a murder victim in a horror movie” and “She’s got a tramp stamp!” 😂 I wasn’t able to fully remove her marker stains, which is fine since they’ll usually be unseen, but the rest of her cleaned up so nicely.

Just LOOK at that transformation! I decided early on that I didn’t want her to remain as Blaire, since I haven’t read her story and I’m not invested in that character, so now I present to you: Rosemary.

I’m still getting to know who Rosemary is, but so far I think she’s a small town girl who enjoys scary movies (yes, as homage to her history) (yes her name is in honor of horror films too lol) and I suspect she enjoys playing Dungeons and Dragons. I’ve thought about having one of my girls play since it’s something I love, but Rosemary is the first who seemed to be the type to get into it.

I spent the afternoon playing with different outfits for her. I decided she looks good in cool colors, especially green which brings out her eyes. I really need more green clothes. After playing around with her look, I got out the rest of my present day dolls and got everyone dressed for back to school season.

And here’s the gang! From left to right we have Rosemary, Nina, Wah Paw Moo, Emauni, and Priya. I wish I had little backpacks for everyone, but alas. Hopefully sometime soon I can find the time to dress my historical girls for school too.

[anonymeqaupdates]

Chapter 63 Review (2/2)

Sebek seeing the true story of Lilia and Frank seems great but sad knowing how human life span goes. It makes think that if Malleus learn about the story, it might add another fuel on his reason given how short their lives compare to a fae given his relationship with Yuu.

Naanda aka Premo really does live like a queen. The five asssassins are lucky to be turned to cats instead of being executed. But they are still petty towards Jamil.

Hahaha...Idia finally learns about his best girl. This is so hilarious that made Epel cringe.

Genie really begs Jamil for a wish to make everything done. Do djinns count on making wishes from Jamil?

Honestly feel like the cursed water bottle is not cursed water bottle since Jamil place the cap on the water bottle before Epel got the chance. So there's a chance it might be used somewhere else.

Also good for Epel on not resorting to cheat, that something contrast to Vil in VDC and hoping to see this come up on chapter 5.

Man you gonna feel bad for Vil who just found the corpse of the evil queen. To think it was left there not being found until Vil came is so disturbing to see. I feel like this part will be brought up in his overblot backstory regarding his fear of becoming 'ugly' and how he imagines his fate like that.

Love for the rest of sledthon cast realize the dangers that even Jade is concern. Love Epel's cursed accent at them and will be fun for them to have translation from Marja. Jade willingly to forgive Idia for that study guide incident seems funny but I know Jade will be haunt him down soon.

Toby you're nice but you need to read the room. Their niceness can be annoying especially when they are in the winning side.

Man poor Epel that once he is back, he will force to go through that VDC situation. I understand how Vil feels but his treatment towards Epel wouldn't work well eventhough he wants good intention. I'm sure the part about Epel didn't cheat compare to Vil attempted murder will be brought up soon.

I love how Marja is proud towards Epel and showing the sunset to come.

Ahahaha...bullying Idia and they will train Idia for the best in a worst brutal training. Idia hiding behind Marja as if she was his own grandma.

Hehehe...can't wait for Ruggie and Jamil to talk for the first time in months.

Jade has every right to be angry but it's a good thing he didn't resort on something similar with Ace. Good thing his request is learning about poison. I think it is important to prevent any poison incident. I'm sure the lessons will be a bad time compare to be with Sebek on his training.

Can't for Sebek and Jamil friendship to come! Also the next chapter to see how Kalim and the others are doing. Hope Azul and Riddle spend time with him.

By the way, I want to see Ruggie punch Jamil in the face.

-🧋

Malleus will hear of it. It's not like Sebek would try to hide the incident from Silver or him. And yes, learning of this will have an effect on them too.

The cats were rather pragmatic for assassins. They quickly ran the number and caught on what was more advantageous to them. Naanda/Premo made it very clear of what their stance was.

Genie was going to use his own powers, but knew Marja wasn't going to let that flag. He was hoping if Jamil was backing him up he would get away with it. Unfortunately for him, Jamil decided to do things properly as to not attract attention.

The cap that Jamil put back was the marker's cap, not the bottle. So yes, Epel did had the cursed water. And this temptation and final decision to not cheat will make things more interesting once we're at the end of Book 5.

Vil has trauma even if he refuses to see it. And Harveston is me bringing the story closer to that Iceberg so that we can get a better look at it. And Toby was set up as one of the catalyst by Jamil earlier when he mentioned how his obliviousness would cause fights.

Epel better enjoy this moment because you're right about him going through the wringer. At least he got one last occasion to have fun by tormenting Idia a little.

It seems that everyone got something out of the trip! And soon enough we'll see how things are doing in NRC!

[recurring-polynya]

Do I mind if I ask how you approach writing longer fic? I've always struggled to write anything more than maybe two chapters long and I'm curious if you have a particular method to how you approach such stories.

Thank you so much for this ask! I absolutely love it when people ask me for writing advice because it makes me feel like a Smart Person Who Knows Things.

Before we start, here is one grain of salt to take all of this with: I have a naturally long-form brain. It is very hard for me to write something less than 1k. Short fiction is great, and there is nothing wrong with sticking to short things if that's what your brain likes to do.

So. You have decided to write a story. This is going to focus on "stories". Some people write fic that's more freeform or whatever, I am not going to cover that. What I mean by a story is this:

It starts

Some stuff happens

It ends

It is highly probable that your story contains a change of state, which could be that a villain is defeated, or a goal is reached, but it could also be that character falls in love with another, or someone learns to like broccoli.

I like to start out by completing the sentence, "This is a story where _______". This is basically like coming up with a summary for an ao3 post, except that it doesn't need to be catchy. Lots of different kinds of things could go in that blank! It could literally be what happens: This is a story where Ichigo goes back in time and punches young Aizen in the nose. It could be about what you want to explore: This is a story where Hitsugaya gets a better understanding of his zanpakutou. It could be about the vibe you want to achieve: This is an AU where everyone is in a punk rock band and has cool hair and outfits. The idea of this is to clearly define what you, the author, is interested in writing. Make sure it feels right! Maybe you pick the first one, but when you say it out loud, you say, "You know, I really just want Ichigo to go back in time so he can horse around with young Renji and Rukia and punching Aizen in the nose is just an excuse for that." That may sound dumb, but it's fine, actually! Most people don't read stories strictly for the plot, they read stories for the implications of those plots! Will my favorite two characters kiss? Will there be funny interactions between these two groups of characters? Will there be sick fights? Stories are excuses to have scenes. Sometimes, you will have a story where the interesting sequence of events is the draw, but the point is to know what you're about.

Once you feel happy with your "mission statement", you need to decide the bounds of your story: where it starts and where it ends. It may be easier to start with the end. In some cases, it may be obvious from your mission statement: everyone gets home, a villain is defeated, Kenpachi realizes the meaning of friendship. On the other hand, let's look at that punk rock AU. You've picked a vibe, but you don't really have a natural story arc. It has to have a destination, though, otherwise, it's not really a story, it's a recipe for 3 chapters of an abandoned fanfic. So brainstorm a little: Maybe they get a record deal? Maybe they win a Battle of the Bands? Maybe Byakuya accepts that the band is actually good and tells Rukia he is proud of her. Do not settle for a plot just because it works. Pick something that makes you excited! You're the one who is gonna have to write it!

I said that we needed to pick a beginning point, too, but I'm actually going to skip that for now. The next thing I do is think of all the Big Scenes I want to write, the ones you are hype to write, the ones that pop in your head as you think about the premise. Make a bullet list. They don't need to be in order. The descriptions don't need to be super detailed, but write down anything about it that is important to you. If there's a mood or a snippet of dialogue or a joke you want to make, go ahead and jot that down so you don't forget it later. What you're doing now is putting broad blotches of color on a canvas, filling in space and leaving the detail for later.

Once you are pretty happy with what you have down, try to arrange it in chronological order. Put your end at the end (if it wasn't one of your big scenes, add it now). The next task is figuring out how to traverse your scenes. You've already picked out where you want to spend the majority of your energy. The rest, I regret to tell you, is your slog writing. Now, it often happens that you will find joy in some of these scenes and your best writing may occur there, but that's serendipity. These are the scenes that you are gonna have to make yourself sit down and write, so you honestly want to limit them to just the ones you need.

So how do we do this? Look at the first thing on the list. Can you start there? If so, congrats, that's your beginning. If you can't, what needs to happen to get to there? Where can you start so that you can get to your first fun scene as soon as possible? There. That’s it. You’ve picked your beginning, good job! Now, go through the rest of your list, and add in things that must happen, even if you don’t particularly look forward to writing them. The characters need to travel from geographic point A to point B. Shuuhei needs to say something that Izuru hears and misinterprets. The Central 46 makes a new law. If you have a good idea of how these things happen, go ahead and write them down, but it’s okay if you don’t know yet. Fill in all the blanks so that if you think of each bullet list as a scene, you could read it as a story, start to end. Once you get writing, you might add more scenes, or move things around or whatever, but you should have a thing that functions as a story.

If you struggle with this, an alternative is a story with a very strong structure that is going to guide you though what you have to write.Here are two examples from my own stories Hold On, Hold On (which is only one chapter, but the principle is the same) is structured around the 5 stages of grief. Not Broken, Just Bent takes place over roughly a week, and I just decided what happened every day of the week. See You on the Other Side takes place in the middle of a bunch of canon events, which worked at mile markers.

Congratulations. You’ve just made a rough outline!

Special note for avoiding burnout!: I am a slogger. I will drag myself through the broken glass of an interminable plot to get to a single thirsty scene. That's why, at this stage, I try to look at the ratio of what I want to write to what I must write. It's gonna vary for everyone, but this is a hobby, and if looking at this proto-outline makes you feel deeply tired, maybe this isn't a good story to be devoting your time to! Can you carve it down? Can you chuck two scenes you really want to write and get rid of 80% of the slog? Or maybe you can't! In that case, just write that thirsty scene as a standalone drabble! Or just go work on something else! Maybe in the future, this one will come back to you and you’ll have a fresh idea or a renewed enthusiasm for it.

Another thing I sometimes like to do at this point is to write out some notes about my characters and their motivations and moods. Character A is homesick. Character B is so determined to defeat the enemy that they are having a hard time being sympathetic to Character A. Character C cares for both A and B and is trying to support them both. This is sort of background info that you want to keep in your head as you are writing. Depending on the type of story you are writing, this might actually be the main plot, or it might be happening subtly, but adding to the emotional impact of the story. It’s very easy for me to write these sorts of emotional arcs, but if you struggle with that, you may wish to go ahead and made a more detailed outline for that, too.

Now, it’s time to start writing! I am great at beginnings-- it is very often the case for me that the opening scene was one of my Big Tentpole Scenes. (Before you hate me too much, I make up for this by being double horrible at endings; just let me have this) Usually, I will start at the beginning and write linearly for as long as I can until I get stuck. Then, I will look forward on my outline and do the next chronological scene that I feel like writing. In general, if I sit down to write and there is something I have an urge to write, that trumps everything else. Inspiration is a precious commodity, and you should embrace it when it hits! You can slog any day. I will occasionally hold off writing a scene that I really want to, because I am saving it, like a prize for myself for getting that far. This is a very personal process of figuring out what motivates your brain and then giving your brain what it needs to be its most productive.

Eventually, you will run out of things you are excited to write, but the good news is, you’ve got a bunch of story now! Odds are that what’s left is going to be a lot of those connective tissue scenes, and you’re just going to have to do them, except that now, because you’re connecting two concrete points instead of two abstract points, it will be a lot easier. You can continue running jokes you’ve started. Maybe you invented a cafe in an earlier scene where your characters hang out and you can have them return there. Try to think of ways to make these scenes more fun, both for yourself to write and for your reader to read. 

Around this time, I like to start refining that rough strokes outline into what I will call an “as-built” outline. (This is an engineering term where you update your plans or models for something to reflect any changes that had to be made along the way). This is a great activity to do at times when you feel like you have writers block. I write down every scene I have written as a 2-3 word blurb, in order. I break the scenes into what I think makes logical chapters, and I will do a word count on those prospective chapters and write it down. As you do this, you will realize that maybe you can move a scene from here to there, which will make it 1000% easier to write. Things may be happening too much, or you’ve got the characters eating three times in the same chapter. If you have subplots and dangling threads, this is where you make sure they get closure. I know this sounds very headache-y, but you are so far along in the story at this point that it’s really not-- it’s a way to look at the problems you have left. Use some sort of formatting (I like to bold things I haven’t done and sometimes I put them in red) and it gives you a very visual to-do list.

You specifically mentioned multi-chapter fanfics and I admit that I don’t tend to think in chapters, I tend to think of the story as a whole and just break it up where it feels natural. The as-built outlining I described is very helpful in making sure that my chapters feel balanced. They don’t necessarily need to be the same length, but I like them to have the same amount of stuff in them. One chapter may basically contain one long scene, and other may contain many short ones. I don’t tend to, but you can certainly have a fanfic that varies between short and long chapters, that can actually be an interesting effect. But like I said, I always like to know what I am doing, and so having it mapped out, you can say “welp, this is what I’ve done, how do I feel about that?”

Polynya, you may be saying at this point, do you write the whole fanfic before you post any of it? and I regret to inform you, the answer is yes. A lot of people write as they go, and I have made one attempt at this and I didn’t like it. I don’t like locking myself in, I just need to be able write out of order and go back and change things. Here is the story of a little in love: someone gave me an AU prompt and I got mildly obsessed with it, and wrote 5 snapshots drabbles in that universe, ending with a slight cliffhanger ending. I probably should have stopped there, but I decided to keep going. I wrote out an outline of 5 acts where the first act was detailed to the degree of each chapter being specified. The chapters here were much smaller than I usually make chapters: 1-2k. I wrote act i and ii and it was actually great, and then I hit act iii which required a lot of set up for misunderstandings and a mini romance arc. I couldn’t wing it, but nor could I figure it all out with outlining. I write dialogue in almost sort of an improv “Yes, and...?” style, so until I do it, I don’t know what’s going to happen. So, what I did was treat the second half of act iii as a complete story in the process I describe above, wrote the entire rest of it, and then posted it. One might notice that the chapter lengths grew to 3-5k each. I have two more acts to go, and I haven’t decided how I am going to do them yet, but I suspect I will treat each of them as their own mini-stories.

(I will admit that in Heart is a Muscle, I tend toward chapters that are about 10k long, and this is honestly too long, someone should smack me. If you like punchy chapters, 1-2k is good. I think 3-6k is probably an ideal chapter length. Is this how long the chapters are in my latest fanfic? Absolutely not.)

Okay, so there’s one more step, which is quality control. I am habitual re-reader-- I read my fanfics-in-progress over and over and over while I am working on them. I understand that not everyone does this, but I am usually the primary audience for my own writing, and this is the actual fun part for me. Nevertheless, you should re-read your work at least once, to make sure it hangs together.

This is purely optional, but I recommend it: get a writing friend (if you don’t like re-reading your work, I recommend this even more strongly). If you can get a full-service beta reader, that’s great, but if you can’t find someone, or if receiving that level of critique stresses you out, it’s perfectly valid to just find a friend who will read your stuff and a) shower you with compliments, b) reassure you about parts you aren’t sure about (or suggest ways to help) and c) point out any huge problems you missed. When I am writing a long fanfic, it is a huge motivational factor for me to be able to send my beta chapters as I finish them. If you are already an established writer, and you have people who consistently comment on your fic, they might be overjoyed to get a sneak peak at your work.

And that’s it! That’s the way I do it, anyway! Some people are able to sit down and write a very detailed outline and the write it start-to-finish. Good for them, I say! I have tried this and it doesn’t work great for me. I will admit that some of my fics (especially my early ones) I just sat down and banged out whole-cloth like an insane person and they are generally better than the ones I actually plan out, but that’s not a reproducible process.

As one final mechanical note, I usually write in Google Docs, which I can access on multiple devices (I used to write a lot on my phone), has convenient sharing functionality, and I use the ao3 html formatting script add-in. I generally have two documents for a single story-- one is the outline, and any other notes I want to have handy. I’ll usually put a trashcan space at the bottom for scenes that got cut but I don’t want to lose. The other is the fanfic itself.

I hope this is helpful! Please feel free to follow up with other questions and good luck with your writing!

[tobesolonely]

queen anne’s coffee

A/N: hello everyone! I am not D/deaf or Hard of Hearing. However, this was requested more than once I wanted to do my best to provide. In this story, Y/N is a part of the Deaf community. if I have misrepresented the Deaf community in any way or wrote something inaccurate or offensive, then please DO NOT hesitate to let me know (respectfully, of course!) i wanted to fulfill this person’s request and be as inclusive as i could, as i don’t typically see stories with a Deaf!reader. shes short and sweet but i hope you all enjoy anyway! as always, feedback is very much welcomed and appreciated! :)

Summary: Y/N visits Harry’s coffee shop every Tuesday and Thursday and always orders the same thing. Harry HAS to get to know her!!!

word count: ~1.7k

my ko-fi! thank you :)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly 3:50 PM, Y/N placed an online order that consisted of an iced chai tea latte with oat milk and a butter croissant from Harry’s coffee shop, Queen Anne’s Coffee.

Y/N never forgot to add, “warmed up pls! thank you :)” in the section for comments, and she always tipped. She would then come into Harry’s shop approximately ten minutes later, walk up to the ‘pickup’ counter, grab her items, smile at Harry, and promptly leave. Harry never even so much as said hello to her, but he was irrevocably captivated––even if she was a complete stranger.

Harry decided that when Y/N came in today for her usual, he’d finally talk to her.

Business had been unusually slow for a Thursday afternoon but Harry didn’t mind–when Y/N came in, he’d be able to have a proper chat with her without having to rush the conversation along to help other customers. His gaze kept floating up to the cat-shaped clock hanging above the door, anxiously awaiting 3:50 PM when Y/N’s order would come through on the iPad and he got to read the words, “warmed up pls! thank you :)”

Harry didn’t know why he was so nervous to speak to her. As the owner of his very own coffee shop (and it’s only employee), he got to know the people who came in regularly well, even developing genuine friendships with some. It bothered Harry that this beautiful person gave him business two days a week and the only thing he knew about her was her name, which is only because he can see it when she places her order online.

When the iPad Harry keeps plugged up atop the counter chimes, he doesn’t even have to glance at it to know it was Y/N but he does anyway, feelings of excitement bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He was finally going to talk to her! Harry contemplates scribbling his number on the side of her cup as he’s writing her name but decides against it, not wanting to be too forward before they even formally meet.

When Y/N comes in ten minutes later, Harry can immediately sense something is wrong. She hardly looks up once as she shuffles from the door to the counter, hoodie pulled up and drawn tight over her head.

“Are you okay?”

Y/N doesn’t look up or even acknowledge the fact that Harry spoke. Even though there’s only two other people in the shop besides them, Harry figures she might think he was talking to someone else and addresses her by name.

“Y/N?”

She still doesn’t address Harry as she gives him a small smile before hurriedly exiting the shop, the bell above the door signaling her exit.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

When Tuesday comes, Harry’s out of bed before his alarm jolts him from his dreams.

He thought about Y/N all weekend as he impatiently awaited Tuesday’s arrival, excited over the prospect of finally seeing her again. He hoped she was doing better today than she was last week, and he really hoped she was in the mood to chat with him today.

Harry’s grateful the shop is busy today. It helps to keep his mind off of Y/N, and his eyes off the clock. When the iPad chimes at 3:50 on the dot, Harry decides he’ll wait until she comes in to prepare her order. It didn’t take him over two minutes, anyway. He figures this will give him a bit more time to chat with her, at least say hello and see if she’s doing better.

Much to his pleasure, Y/N has a big smile on her face when she bursts through the door ten minutes later. She floats to the pickup counter, then furrows her eyebrows in confusion as she looks up at Harry.

“Sorry, I’m working on your order right now,” Harry grabs a purple marker off the counter, scribbling Y/N’s name on the cup used for iced drinks. “How’s your day so far?”

Harry watches as Y/N cocks her head to the side in confusion, then pulls her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. She quickly types something before holding her phone out for Harry to take.

“I can’t hear you! I’m Deaf.”

A look of realization floods Harry’s face as he reads what she said. He now understood why Y/N didn’t answer him when he tried speaking to her last week, and he’s secretly relieved that she wasn’t ignoring him because she hated him or anything like that.

“I know a bit of sign!” Harry types before handing Y/N back her phone. He watches as her eyes skim his words and she looks up, a toothy grin plastered on her face.

“Great! This is much faster.” Her hands move quickly as she signs. “Did my order work or not? Wi-Fi is bad at home today.”

Harry realizes he doesn’t know as much sign language as he thought he did.

“OK. I am rusty.”

Y/N smiles at this and pulls her phone back out, typing what she just signed to him before passing it back to him. A look of realization floods Harry’s face as he learns she was just asking if her order came through alright, seeing as it was not yet ready. Too embarrassed to tell her he intentionally waited until she arrived to prepare her order, he just nods.

“I’ll have it ready in no more than two minutes… and refund you, too. I’m sorry for the wait.” Harry looks up at Y/N as he passes the phone to her, eyes not leaving her face as he tries to gauge her reaction.

“No!” Her head shakes as she signs. “Happy to pay. Thank you.”

Harry understands Y/N but refunds her, anyway.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

“Why do you always come Tuesday and Thursday? Same time?”

“Exams every Tuesday and Thursday.” The look of obvious dissatisfaction on Y/N’s face makes Harry laugh. “Your chai and pastries cheer me up after.”

Harry’s face turns red at Y/N’s admittance, so he instead looks down, pretending he’s distracted by something on the iPad. He decides at that moment that he will no longer charge Y/N for her oat milk latte and croissant. She was a college student after all––if her financial situation was like Harry’s in any way when he was in college earning his business degree, it would probably be beneficial for her to save her money, anyhow.

Ever since Harry and Y/N’s first real interaction, Y/N had been coming into Queen Anne’s nearly every day, school supplies and laptop in tow. She always sat at the table closest to the front counter, directly in Harry’s line of vision so they could sign to each other.

Y/N provided Harry with some much needed (and enjoyed) company when business was slow, and she was helping him brush up on his sign language. Harry learned that Y/N is Deaf; her hearing is completely gone in her left ear and almost completely gone in the right. She’s the only person in her family who is Deaf. She also hated eggs, is lactose intolerant (hence the oat milk), has two older siblings, is a master’s student, and a plethora of other things that Harry had committed to memory.

“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoy.”  

“Who is A-N-N-E?”

Harry grins. “My mother. Back in London.”

Y/N’s eyes widen. “London? Amazing! You must have an accent.”

It dawns on Harry that Y/N has never heard his voice before. “Yes. Are you from here?” Y/N nods in response.

“Whole life. Small town, but it’s home.” Her pinched hand moves quickly from her mouth up to her ear.

“Sorry. What?”

“H-O-M-E.”

A look of realization floods Harry’s face as he nods in response, signaling for Y/N to give him a moment as the bell above the entrance jingles. It seems as if the few people who walk through the door act as a catalyst for others to enter, and soon Queen Anne’s is at maximum occupancy and Harry is trying to make several drinks at once while taking orders. He locks eyes with Y/N a few times and she gives him a sympathetic look, not able to do much to help him out.

Harry decides that once business dies back down, he’ll find out if Y/N is interested in a part-time job.

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Y/N was interested in a part-time job.

She was a fast learner and a hard worker. Harry was more than delighted to show her how to make every drink on the menu, and consume her failed attempts. It was nice having someone else behind the counter with him––he wished he’d gone about hiring someone to help him much sooner, but he was glad to now have Y/N by his side.

“So much chai! I thought only I drank this stuff.”

Harry’s gaze lingers on Y/N for a beat too long, causing her to shift slightly. Harry’s hand moves to scratch the back of his neck. “Yes. I like chai. With milk.” His hand forms a ‘C’ then closes to form an ‘S’ twice for the word “milk”.

“Regular?” One of Y/N’s eyebrows raises as she asks her question, setting a hot chai latte atop the “pickup” counter.

“S-O-Y.”

Y/N lets out a quiet snort of laughter as she shakes her head. It was the first time Harry ever made her laugh out loud. After hearing her laugh once, he never wanted to stop––it was music to his ears. “Not surprised!”

Harry’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Why?” His eyes remain on Y/N as she walks around the small area, cleaning up a small coffee spill she had earlier.

“You just are a S-O-Y boy, H. My S-O-Y boy!”

Harry’s cheeks immediately turn pink as they did the first time Y/N said something that flustered him, but he doesn’t look away.

“You’re my O-A-T girl.”

⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Thank you everyone for reading!!! This is only the beginning of Y/N and Harry I think <33

[deluluass]

hi

could yoy do please some yandere kuroo and kageyama headcanons? 💕

nsfw is welcomed 😊

My first headcanons 🤞🏽

Yandere! Kuroo Tetsuro

Content warnings: markers of a toxic/emotionally abusive relationship; dumbification; daddy kink; sex toy(s); mild public play/exhibitionism

😇SFW😇

This boy has a fascination for messy people.

And by "messy", I mean that Kuroo has a soft spot for those who put up some sort of front. A performative mask to hide their crumbling psyche.

Oh.

Those are his favorites. (Especially when they're not even aware that they’re hiding something.)

Maybe it's because they're so easy to manipulate? (Or perhaps it's a mild case of schadenfreude?)

It's the instigator in him.

He knows which buttons to push and at what time to exactly do it.

Kuroo lives for being that guy who causes a full blown fight by simply dropping a backhanded comment or two.

For being the final straw that eventually breaks the proverbial camel's back.

And then slipping back into the shadows to watch the Drama unfold.

So it's not unlikely for him to form an obsession for someone who's so emotionally vulnerable.

Someone who has the weight of the world on their shoulders; who has everything locked up inside to the point of bursting.

Because then it won't take much to have them falling apart and unraveling before him.

But he's also a caretaker, you know.

He's opportunistic and covertly callous and mischievous, yes.

But you've seen how much he tends to those close to him.

So when you do fall apart, you will do it in his arms.

He will take care of you.

He'll say everything you've always wanted to hear.

You're beautiful and wanted and loved and you don't have to be brave anymore.

Kuroo's here and he understands you.

From the barest changes in your inflection to your most subtle facial expression.

Other people won't catch it.

To Kuroo, though? Tell-tale signs that you're hiding your feelings again.

He understands you in a way that no else had; that no else cared to try.

And eventually that’ll be the very thing that you’ll hold onto.

Never mind that his every word has become an indisputable fact (when it shouldn’t be).

Never mind that the line between Kuroo just being a mindful boyfriend AND Kuroo disregarding your boundaries has become too blurry that it’s impossible to tell which is which.

Never mind that your entire world has narrowed down to just him and you.

Because all your friends have, one by one, made their way for the exit.

They tell you that they're so tired.

They've warned you- begged you, actually- to end this insidiously suffocating relationship.

"I know he's only been nice to you and to us, but there's just...something wrong about that guy," they say.

But until they pinpoint, exactly, what that "something wrong" is; and until you see it for yourself, you're sticking by his side.

Damn whatever people say.

So.

Kuroo's not the yandere who'd chain you up in his basement or something.

Not that he's above it, but because he doesn't really need to.

Not when he has you bound right where it really matters.

😈NSFW��

Kuroo has perfected being a dom down to a Science.

He knows exactly when to be mean and hurtful and sweet and kind and giving to you.

Kuroo's very generous, methinks! But only if he believes you deserved it.

So you better prove that you earned it!!

He'll having you cumming and gushing into his hand if you pleaded just enough!!

Looked into his eyes all pouty and teary and pliant to all his wishes.

Very into treating you and talking to you like you're not capable of comprehending words.

Oh, darling. I know I'm hurting you. I know I am. But you like it, don't you? That's right. Fuck yeah, you do, you fucking slut.

That's because you're just a dumb little baby, aren't you? You'd be happy as long as daddy makes you cum?

And you'd nod and say yes so obediently as he pounds your little hole even though you can't hear him over the sound of your own moans.

ALSO!!!

HE IS A TEASE!!!!

A FUCKINGN!!!!!!!!! TEASE!!!!

Every seggsy time is edging time!!

Has a thing for slapping your ass until your cheeks are bruised and tender under his palms.

And for sticking a vibrator inside you while you're out in public.

Just to teach you a lesson whenever he feels like you're not learning enough.

"Do you want me to come back until you're ready?" the waiter droned, obviously suppressing the urge to roll his eyes when all you did was grip the napkin in front of you.

You couldn't even look at poor kid; couldn't even make out a sound. You're too busy stifling the tingling within your walls, prompting you to cross your legs beneath the table and squeeze your thighs together.

And Kuroo's just...scanning the menu. Sitting idly before you. He's resting his chin against his open palm, long fingers brushing under his nose, while you're practically grinding down the chair.

You feel yourself leak into the crotch of your underwear, sticky liquid squelching against the crack of your ass as the toy continued to vibrate, burning you up and melting your insides, the buzzing a white noise only you could hear.

His indifference was unflappable. Kuroo even managed to call out, "Excuse me. Sorry about that earlier. We're ready now," so smoothly despite your desperate attempts to catch his attention. Then, he recited a bunch of dishes that you didn’t have the appetite for. Like you’re not outright writhing and earning a few disconcerted looks from the table next to you.

All you wanted was for him to put an end to this. You've learned your lesson. You're not gonna disappoint him again.

Instead, you watched in agonizing fear as he reached for his pocket. And immediately, without a warning, you felt the toy shake violently inside you.

"Ah!" you cried, sharply folding your arms and legs, making the plates and utensils clink against each other as your wrists chafed against your hard nipples.

Your boyfriend halted, leaned closer, and looked at you in a convincing display of concern.

"Are you alright, babe?" he muttered, caressing your knee, his nails pressing down just a tad. Not too hard. Just enough for you to hiss in a heady mixture of pleasure and pain.

You managed a small, quivering "uh-huh" as you begged him with your eyes. Conveying as much message as you could.

"Daddy, I'll be good for you. I swear. I won't lie anymore. I won't make you angry. I won't do anything that you wouldn't be happy about. Everything I do from this moment on will be just for you, daddy. I promise, daddy-"

But Kuroo only huffed out, a small, faint grin tracing his lips as he turned back to the waiter and said, "One cream pie, please."

Yandere! Kageyama Tobio

Content warning(s): rape/noncon

😇SFW😇

Fourth wall break, if you will: thank you, anon, for putting these characters together because I Believe that they’re each other’s foils in terms of yandere-isms. And this is gonna be an interesting contrast to see (at least, I hope it would be).

So Kuroo’s all subdued mind games, right? Like, you have to do a whole routine of mental gymnastics if you want to dig deep and analyze how he had your head spinning. 

But Kageyama? 

Kageyama says fuck that.

Kageyama, genius though he is, is about as subtle as a metal bat to the head when it comes to his darling.

He has no qualms about tying you to his bed once the opportunity presents itself to him.

But it didn’t start out like that.

At first, perhaps Kageyama was just an aloof classmate whose entire life revolved around volleyball.

The one who couldn’t even take a time out of his day to hang out with the rest of the class on a weekend.

Though Kageyama has a knack for attracting hostility from other people, there comes a time (rare it may be) that it is offset by people who are sympathetic to his idiosyncrasies.

His darling falls under the latter.

That's what draws Kageyama to you.

Hearing stuff like "D'you know what they used to call him before? King!" and "King because he's an arrogant dickhead who thinks he's better than everyone" are not new to him.

But hearing these are: "Stop that. It's rude to talk behind a person's back."

"Kageyama's passionate about volleyball. More than anyone we've ever met. Ok so it's alienating for us! Whatever! But isn't it admirable that he's doing his best at a thing that he loves?"

Kageyama did not get it.

You're not his teammate.

You're not his..anything.

You had no cause to try and be nice to him and defend him and..understand him, really.

So the rest was history.

The beginning might have been awkward.

Every time he tried to talk to you, Kageyama, for some reason, always blurted out the wrong things.

But you didn't mind. You just liked being his friend.

And Kageyama liked having you by his side.

Kageyama liked it, especially, when you're in the sidelines and cheering him on. (This caused quite a ruckus in Karasuno.)

It should have been weird. Kageyama had not known anything else besides volleyball.

Your presence should’ve been that of a stranger encroaching on someone else’s property.

Somehow, though, you fitted in so perfectly.

Like you’re made to be there.

So he tells you: “You’re free, aren’t you? You should be watching me play by now” and “You should be waiting for me after class” and “Stop making excuses. You’re not tired. You can still drop by practice” 

You’ve tried to reason with him. (Even contemplated about ending your friendship.)

But it’s not like you’re ever gonna shake him off.

Besides, you know that he wouldn’t accept anything less than perfect.

😈NSFW😈

His darling was his first sexual experience. 

And like any beginner, Kageyama was pretty...uh..bad at it ngl.

Add that to the fact that he’s on the bigger side and your first with him wasn’t consensual.

At that time, all Kageyama knew was that he really, really wanted to touch you and kiss you and fuck you senseless until you acknowledge that there’s no running from him. 

Trust, though, that Kageyama will not settle for being bad or, heaven forbid, mediocre at it.

Nope.

Not. a. chance.

Doesn’t matter that you’ve spent the entire day fucking.

Kageyama will not rest- not let you rest, until he drags out a moan from you; until you’ve ruined the sheets with how much he’s made you cum; until he has you begging for more. 

Will experiment a lot.

Will test out how fast and hard he has to fuck you to get what kind of reaction he wants from you.

Very attentive even to your quietest gasp.

If you so much as show a sign that you’re finding whatever it is he’s doing to your body pleasurable- curl your toe or arch your back- Kageyama will amp it up to the point where you’re screaming.

He’ll have this haughty, shit-eating grin while doing it too.

“Yes, you can,” Kageyama growled. “Spread those legs and show me how you do it.”

You shook your head, your body protesting at the slight movement. You’re already on the verge of blacking out. And you don’t have to check the ticking wall clock to know that, by now, Kageyama, too, should be knocked out and dozing off beside you.

But he only grabbed your wrists, making you howl in pain as soon as he touched the cuts and bruises across the skin. Remnants of the nylon rope that bound them together not too long ago.

“Touch yourself,” he repeated.

Kageyama’s voice is a rasping noise to your ears, his hot breath causing goosebumps all over you as he pressed his lips against the shell.

“No-no more, Kag-Kageyama,” you forced yourself to say, though your throat was dry and aching from all your screeching. 

He clicked his tongue. 

You flinched.

And you didn’t think it possible for Kageyama to be more frightening than he already is. Until you’d done as he’d told and, like a wolf patiently waiting to pounce, Kageyama zeroed in on how you moved your hands, his own reaching for his cock.

He didn’t take his eyes off of you, groaning as you trembled and mewled under your featherlight touch. Kageyama stroked himself, grinding into his fist until pre-cum dripped from the head.

“That how you like it, huh,” he croaked.

Before you could even reach an orgasm, Kageyama had already pushed you on your back, mimicking the way you pleasured yourself. Only this time it was rougher, more unforgiving, and indifferent to your cries of “Stop! Stop it, I can’t- Enough, Kageyama!”

[repost-this-image]

Tips For Aspiring Artists

I'm not an expert by any means, but here are some things I've figured out that I wish someone had told me sooner. 1 - 6 are for traditional artists, but the other tips work for digital artists as well.

Get artist-quality supplies. Crayola is nice, but Crayola costs less than artist-quality supplies for the same reason that Barbie's Dream House costs less than a real house: It's for kids to play around with. By all means feel free to practice with Crayola for now, but start saving up for the real thing. You may have to buy markers one or two at a time as you have funds, or ask a friend or family member to buy you that awesome paint set for your next birthday or whatever. Trust me, once you see and feel the difference, you will never go back. It is night and day.

Buy an artists' pen set if you're using traditional media. You know why professionally-inked art looks so good? Because they use a variety of line thicknesses. You know the easiest way to make that happen consistently? A set of artist's pens in varying thicknesses. This is a good set at a reasonable price, and the ink is phenomenal (read that description--your average writing pen doesn't have those qualities). I am not sponsored by Sakura; this is just the first really good pen set I ever bought and it's served me well.

India ink dries waterproof. Let me repeat that: India ink dries waterproof. It's also not alcohol-soluble, which means it's great for working with water- or alcohol-based markers or watercolor paints/pencils. Just make sure your ink has time to dry before you add color!

Prismacolor, Copic, and Spectrum Noir markers are REFILLABLE. This is why they cost more than the store brand. You are expected to keep the marker casing and buy a bottle of ink in a color you're running out of, and a set of spare nibs for when your marker nibs wear out. This is cheaper than buying all new markers, plus you're gonna run out of one or two of your favorite colors way before the rest and you'll be happy to have that ink on hand. These markers are meant for the long haul, and by George they're gonna make sure you can keep using them for the long haul.

Use the right paper for your tools. Sketch paper is great for pencils and some paints, but horrible for everything else. Marker pads are perfect for alcohol markers, but expensive. (I use white cardstock because of how expensive actual marker paper is. Gold leaf is less expensive per square inch.) Watercolor paper has a rough surface that isn't good for charcoal work but has the perfect amount of "tooth" for watercolor paints and pencils, and is thick enough not to pucker the way regular paper does when wet.

Painters, learn about gesso, thinners, and extenders. These items can make your time painting much happier, especially if you work with acrylics on fine details (like, say, doll customization).

Don't overwork yourself. If you're gonna do a marathon art session, set a timer for one hour. At the end of the hour, STOP. Put your supplies down. Get up and stretch your legs and do some wrist exercises. Then reset your timer and start working on your art again. You do not want to end up with carpal tunnel or chronic wrist pain by the age of 25 because you pushed yourself too hard.

Warm up before you start an art session. Nothing fancy--just get out a piece of regular paper and a pencil, and make some loop-de-loops, zigzags, and doodles for 5-10 minutes to loosen your hands up so you can get them to make the shapes you want.

Learn how to practice drawing That Thing You Suck At Drawing. Let's say you suck at hands, and you want to get better. Find a lot of photos of hands in various positions, shown from various angles. Study the way the light hits them. Trace the photos to get a feel for the shapes. Then and only then does it make sense to start trying to draw them freehand. Always refer back to the original photos, NOT to your earlier drawings, so you're less likely to repeat mistakes from your drawings.

Don't be ashamed to use tools that feel like cheating. Real, professional artists use rulers (or the straight-line tool in an art program) and compasses (or the circle program) and stencils (or the stamp tool) all the time. I hear people say things like "You're so talented--I can't even draw a straight line!" You know who can draw a perfectly straight line without help? NO ONE. Tools are there to help you. Use them. There is no special reward for doing things the hard way or Suffering For Your Art. It isn't morally better or a more "pure" form of artistry; it's just harder.

Break the thing you're drawing down into lines and shapes. You know those sketch layers in Photoshop, or those rough pencil marks in traditional art, or the perspective lines in a scene? Artists are basically using sketch time to plot out the general shapes and structures of their subject before fleshing it out more and making it look all pretty and polished. Everything you look at is basically made of lines, shapes, and regions of color. With time and practice, you get better and quicker at doing the sketching part. But you never really outgrow it.

[labarch]

Witch Hats and Prejudice Part II

<-- Part I

Olruggio, my love, my man, I’m sorry your proposal to Qifrey in chapter 40 didn’t go as you hoped, let’s sit down and discuss your workaholism, temper issues and saviour complex, yes? Yes. It’s couple therapy time at last, we’ll have a look at Qifrey and Olruggio’s relationship and at chapter 40 in particular through the following points:

-Panelling in the Orufrey conversation in chapter 40

-Prejudice and power imbalance in Qifrey and Olruggio’s interactions

-Help as a collaboration between equals (spoiler: they haven’t made it to that stage yet)

-What Olruggio wants from Qifrey

 Panelling in the Orufrey conversation in chapter 40

The conversation in chapter 40 is never framed as a happy reunion. If we reuse the analysis of the panels from Coco and Qifrey’s conversation I made in my previous post, we find the same markers of unease between Olruggio and Qifrey. Most of the panels are narrow, and get darker and darker as night falls. Qifrey and Olruggio rarely share a panel, and even when they do, they rarely make direct eye contact: Qifrey looks down, or Olruggio walks away from him, or they are curled in on themselves or standing on a slope at different eye level. For a while Qifrey is up in the air and mostly talking to himself. Oh yeah, and there’s a hat that gets in the way at some point.

It gives the sense that they are having two separate conversations, and that they never truly achieve the connection that we saw between Qifrey and Coco. On top of that, while the conversation is supposed to be about comforting Qifrey and earning his trust, Olruggio never manages to get a smile out of him, except for wobbly, miserable little grimaces. So what’s going through both of their heads, and why are they failing to meet halfway?

The chapter has an outward pull to it. The scene takes place on a slope that leads away from the atelier. The chapter opens with a herd of dragons flying away and into the night. Then Qifrey takes flight to look into the distance, while giving a very contradictory speech about how fulfilling yet dull his life is here, how happy yet trapped in an illusion he feels. He has to hold on to his cape as it flaps in the wind. It brings those dragons back to mind, like they are a metaphor for the side of him that wishes to escape. Qifrey’s migration season is just starting folks, it’s a confusing time for him okay.

In contrast to Qifrey looking ahead into a dark wilderness, Olruggio in this chapter is almost always looking back. He walks away from Qifrey to talk to him over his shoulder, or he looks back towards the atelier. In the only scene where he faces Qifrey full-on, the past is so present on his mind that he de-ages them both. It’s interesting, because it adds a caveat to his pledge of listening to everything Qifrey has to say: he is not so much trying to adapt to Qifrey’s new situation as he is trying to bring them back to the childhood stage of their friendship, when they were always together and kept no secret.

This whole looking ahead / looking back dichotomy brings me back to the mentality of the Great Hall, a society obsessed with keeping itself in an insulated bubble, wrapping itself in good intentions and noble ideals, and ignoring its own inner darkness and complexity. Qifrey, because of his inability to be content and stay in place, threatens that delicate balance. That sends the other witches around him into such a state of panic and outrage that even those who genuinely love him end up lashing out at him with uncharacteristic brutality.

Prejudice and power imbalance in Qifrey and Olruggio’s interactions

I have described in my previous post how vicious and oddly personal Beldaruit got in his attacks against Qifrey in chapter 36, but you can make the same case for Olruggio, especially since the two scenes run in parallel. There is something excessive about the violence with which Olruggio confronts his friend. For one, he is choosing a hell of a time to do it: the girls are safe, there is no urgency to press Qifrey for answers right this instant – except if he is hoping to shock Qifrey into honesty while he’s disoriented. Qifrey has just woken up from a three-day coma; he is half-naked in a place Olruggio knows worsens his nightmares; his scar is exposed; he is half-blind because Olruggio has taken his glasses; Olruggio is literally an angry dark blob looming over him. I’ve often heard it say that Qifrey is manipulative towards Olruggio, but in return Olruggio isn’t above using intimidation tactics against him, consciously or not.

There is also the staggering lack of empathy of the approach: what started this whole thing is that Olruggio learnt about Qifrey’s impending blindness. And his knee-jerk reaction was to attack Qifrey about it. Like, um, my dude, your friend almost died, he is going to go blind and lose his job, you wanna try being sensitive about it? (Note that Qifrey running after the Brimhats didn’t trouble Olruggio that much at first: after his interview with the Knights Moralis he is mainly concerned with “getting his story straight with Qifrey”; it’s only later on, when we see him staring at the glasses he’s just repaired, that he starts voicing his doubts about Qifrey’s intentions). He may be right to suspect that Qifrey is hiding things from him, but there’s a pretty big leap between “you are keeping secrets” and “you are wilfully using your own child as bait”.

This whole suspicious climate, that makes Olruggio jump straight to the ugliest conclusion possible, is once again a feature of the Great Hall mentality. The mind of a person who has been in contact with forbidden magic is forever corrupt, and his actions are forever suspect. Had Qifrey been anyone else, he would probably have been given the benefit of the doubt for losing track of his students while he was, you know, extremely concussed and suffering from blood loss. Interestingly, Olruggio’s concern – whether, when faced with a chance to go after the Brimhats, Qifrey would choose his quest over his students’ safety – is addressed as early as chapter 22: after an instinctive movement to rush into danger, Qifrey pulls himself back and takes measures to keep Coco and Tetia safe, and even plans to call Olruggio and the Knights Moralis as reinforcements to help rescue the others. Then he gets hit in the head by a giant snake golem, and the rest is history.

In general, Beldaruit’s and Olruggio’s accusations that Qifrey is using Coco as bait without caring for her wellbeing just don’t hold up. First, all the attacks by the Brimhats so far have occurred in completely mundane, teaching-related settings with other adults present (at the stationary shop, or during an exam), so pushing blame onto Qifrey clearly comes from prejudice rather than evidence. Second, if Qifrey’s sole aim was to get clues on the Brimhats, he would pressure Coco into taking the Librarian test as early as possible, but we keep seeing the opposite: he encourages her to take breaks and to enjoy her training rather than be laser-focused on her goals. Hilariously, out of the two tests Coco passed so far, Qifrey gave his approval for none, thinking it was too early for her (extra-hilariously, Beldaruit is the one who speed-ran Coco through her second test). I’m just saying, if Olruggio hasn’t noticed any of this and can’t take it in consideration before bringing out the accusations and threats, maybe he’s not doing that good a job as a Watchful Eye.  

Another thing about this climate of suspicion, added to the power imbalance between Qifrey and Olruggio, is that it prevents them from having a healthy fight. Olruggio invokes his duties as Watchful Eye to berate Qifrey whenever he steps out of line, but when Olruggio lets his temper carry him too far and misuses his own power (when he drags Coco out to the Knights Moralis even though she had already been officially accepted as an apprentice in volume 2, or when he accuses Qifrey of using Coco as bait in volume 7 without proof), Qifrey never criticises him for doing so. It’s not that he is shy about speaking up to power – he is more than happy to yell at Beldaruit and Easthies when they mistreat his students. But when it comes to Olruggio, Qifrey is compelled to shoulder as much blame as he can, and seems almost afraid of saying anything negative to him.

It would have been justified for Qifrey to start chapter 40 by getting mad at Olruggio for his earlier accusations: Olruggio had been insensitive, unhelpful and completely out of line. But instead Qifrey pretty much encourages Olruggio to attack him again: from his “I thought you might be mad at me” to frantically denying that Olruggio might have ever done anything wrong. In return, there is something defensive in Olruggio’s delivery during the “I’m angry that I wasn’t someone you could trust” segment: he walks away from Qifrey as he gives the non-apology, and it comes out sandwiched between criticisms of Qifrey for being reckless and a long speech of Olruggio praising himself, and how everything would be alright if only Qifrey behaved himself and relied on him more. It’s an issue that this old distribution of roles is so well-entrenched between them, with Olruggio as the golden student and Qifrey as the eternal problem child.

Qifrey’s exaggerated gentleness and praise towards Olruggio participates in the feeling of wrongness that weighs on chapter 40. The memory erasure scene is framed like a kiss, and Qifrey keeps complimenting him even after sending him into an unnatural sleep. It would come across as condescending and manipulative, except for how fervently Qifrey seems to want to believe that Olruggio is perfect, and that any dysfunction in their relationship has to come from him.

Qifrey, focused as he is on his own dark secrets, is utterly unwilling to see any darkness in Olruggio. It makes sense when you consider that Qifrey has also been absorbing the prejudices of the Great Hall: he thinks very little of himself, and has probably been looking up to Olruggio as a moral compass ever since Olruggio took him under his wing as a child. He must also comfort himself with the thought that, when/if his quest drags him away from the atelier, Olruggio will be a perfect teacher for the girls. Having to come to terms with Olruggio’s flaws must be terrifying to him. But what about Olruggio’s perspective in all this?

Olruggio is an example of how even those who materially benefit from an elitist, close-minded society are damaged by it in some way. He grew up in the Great Hall as a bright-eyed, idealistic genius, and even as an adult he clings to the principles of that society like a mantra: “bring the blessings of magic to the people”. He is successful and respected by his peers, popular with the nobles and well-liked among the commoners. Yet somewhere along the way he became a ragged, workaholic hermit.

I have mentioned in previous posts that I suspect Olruggio of grappling with his own, deep-seated fear of being unwanted and left behind. He betrays that fear in the way he is attacking Qifrey: his concerns about Qifrey’s treatment of Coco aren’t based on evidence, and underneath that veneer he is mostly complaining that Qifrey is neglecting him. “Be straight with me”, “Don’t lie to me”, “You wouldn’t even tell me about it”, “You took her as a student without a word to me first”. There again, Olruggio is being a bit hazy on how far his influence goes as Watchful Eye: from what we know, Watchful Eyes are meant to ensure that students don’t get mistreated, but they don’t get a say in who teaches whom: it’s the disciples who choose their masters. Olruggio grumbling about Qifrey adopting more and more children behind his back is cute when we treat them as a couple. But from the perspective of their professional relationship, Olruggio is claiming the right to veto Qifrey’s students and take them away from him without any evidence of abuse.

The problem is that Olruggio is very bad at expressing his feelings without using his job, and therefore his authority, as a crutch. It’s endearing when he uses it to explain away his gifts to the girls (“I just want them to test a prototype”) or his marks of affection and care (“Drying your hair so you don’t catch a cold is part of my duties as Watchful Eye!”). However, it adds a layer of threat to his arguments with Qifrey, because he is constantly dangling that authority over his head, even when he is urging Qifrey to trust him. In his more agitated moments, it turns into a one-man good-cop / bad-cop performance (“Step out of line and I’ll report you” / “Why won’t you confide in me? I’m your best friend!”). Sure, he is willing to side with Qifrey against the Knights Moralis when he deems it appropriate, but here’s the catch: Olruggio gets to decide where the line in the sand lies, and that line seems to shift depending on how hot his temper is flaring at any given time.

It’s no wonder their conversation lends them in a dead-end when it is so one-sided. Thourghout the manga, and in volume 8 in particular, the author explores the idea that help should be a collaborative effort between equals, that encourages both parties to grow and learn more about themselves. Trying to unilaterally “save” someone is almost guaranteed to miss the mark and come across as condescending; it might even cause further harm.

Help as a collaboration between equals

Therefore, Qifrey and Olruggio can’t really come to any connection unless they make it clear that they are helping each other, not just endlessly acting out their roles as the golden student who knows all the right answers, and the problem child who must be saved from himself.

Aside from the framing, help as an equivalent exchange is the other key difference between chapter 40 and Qifrey and Coco’s dialogue earlier in the volume. In order to counter Coco’s doubts and growing self-hatred, Qifrey reinforces everything he admires about Coco: from her social skills and capacity for teamwork to her practical skills and her straight lines. He reminds her of all the things that she achieved so far. He also strongly hints that her fight is his fight, too, and that they should hold onto hope for each other’s sake. Finally, he makes a (pretty dramatic, unnecessarily literal and definitely unsafe, but still awesome) leap of faith by letting her decide what direction she wants to take next. His support isn’t conditional on Coco making the “right” choice, but freely offered. In return, Coco makes a display of saving Qifrey as well, saying she wants him right by her side while she figures out her path. The rescue itself is symbolic (it would actually have been safer for Qifrey to go back on his own), but Qifrey’s gratitude is genuine, because Coco made him feel valued, irreplaceable, just as Beldaruit and Olruggio were making him doubt his place as a teacher.

By contrast, Olruggio’s speech of friendship contains a grand total of ONE compliment, served in such a back-handed way that it sounds almost like a warning: “To Coco, you are a good teacher, so don’t betray that trust”. This is weighted against a slurry of criticisms about Qifrey’s recklessness, and heaps of self-praise. Olruggio is making a case for why Qifrey needs help and why Olruggio is best-qualified to deliver that help, like he is making a sales pitch to a client. It’s probably not a coincidence that Olruggio is remembering his successful bout of diplomacy in chapter 39 as he gears himself for his conversation with Qifrey. Olruggio, look, I get that you have more faith in your professional persona than in your regular self, but you can’t talk to your best friend like you are doing customer service, it just doesn’t work that way.

The help that Olruggio offers leaves no room for Qifrey’s input: once Qifrey has confided everything and laid himself bare, Olruggio will pick apart “where he needs the help” and “when he is about to do something stupid”, and either support or stop him as he judges appropriate. It reinforces Qifrey’s inferiority complex and interiorised guilt, by implying that his moral compass can’t be trusted. It also places the blame for Qifrey’s rash actions solely on his lack of judgement, rather than on having to grapple with complex, life-threatening situations and being caught in a pincer between a terrorist group and an oppressive system. There’s no mention that the definition of what’s “lawful” and “responsible” and “just” has gotten a bit messed up lately, and that Olruggio himself has had to compromise with his duties to cover for the kids. Olruggio fakes confidence in his capacity to fix everything, and pretends that things can go back to the way they were, but it would have been more honest of him to ask Qifrey to work with him so they can form a united front to face their new, complex reality.

Instead, by claiming that he is helping Qifrey out of a sense of duty, as Watchful Eye and as a friend, Olruggio reinforces the feeling that Qifrey is a burden to him. This gives Qifrey more incentive to keep his friend away from his investigations, and to see himself as expendable. In that light, since their friendship brings Olruggio so much trouble and so few benefits, betraying him and stealing the memories that relate to Qifrey’s secrets start to look like the lesser evil.

The only way that the conversation in chapter 40 could have gone well is if they both freely admitted to needing each other. However, it is too early in Olruggio’s character arc to be honest about his own feelings and worries. And it is too early in Qifrey’s character arc to see past his own self-loathing and recognize that his “perfect” friend also needs support and guidance. Yet, when they do, it is hinted that Olruggio can draw inspiration from Qifrey, and help Qifrey in a more meaningful way by highlighting how Qifrey matters to him, letting them reach this stage of true collaboration.

What Olruggio wants from Qifrey

I think Olruggio is repressing a sense of disillusionment about his work, the fairness of the system, and his usefulness as a witch. We see glimpses of his anxiety in chapter 39 notably. While he says that his true role is to help the commoners, circumstances keep reminding him that like it or not, his main function is decorative. He gets dragged in on short notice to be yanked around by petty nobles and arrange light shows at weddings; he has to act in secret to help the destitute, and even then can only do so much before the rules of magic society get in his way. So far he manages to keep his head above water, using his talent for diplomacy and showmanship to keep the nobles appeased, and finding small, creative ways to help commoners without breaking any law. But it leaves him with the feeling of being trapped in an increasingly constraining role, and is slowly pushing him towards a burn out.

He seems to feel a kinship with princess Mia, who like him is used as a tool in petty squabbles between nobles. He even metaphorically puts himself in her shoes: after likening her situation to being trapped in the spotlight in a dance she doesn’t want, he applies the same metaphor to himself and his inability to act outside the narrow constraints of witch rules, of being constantly watched and judged. And then, adorably enough, Olruggio actually brings Qifrey into the metaphor. He muses that Qifrey, who has gone against established rules before, might be the key to escaping that dance.

For all that the “problem child” / “star student” dichotomy has been weighing on Olruggio and Qifrey and warping their friendship, there is a flip side to it as well. As a prodigy who always pressures himself to perform perfectly (to the point where he will work himself to a zombie-like state and then hide behind a mask to look perfect and pristine in front of his clients at parties, Olruggio no), Qifrey provides a chance at escapism. For all that he berates him for causing trouble, Olruggio seems to fondly remember their old adventures. It’s possible that he valued the opportunity to do rebellious, forbidden things without having to jeopardise his reputation. His fear of being left behind by Qifrey is then also a fear of losing his hope that, when the pressure of being the perfect witch becomes too much to bear, Qifrey will be there to break him free.

In summary, Olruggio wants Qifrey to be his rebellious prince who breaks him free from the ballroom, and we respect him for it. Qifrey had his reasons for not being able to confide in him, and they both have a lot of character development to do before they can reach a stage of actual collaboration and trust. But I don’t dispute that taking his memories was a dick move. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.  

[hardlyinteresting]

Risks Worth Taking 2/2

This is the second half, part 2/2 of the story, thank you to everyone who has read it! Professor!Zemo x Student reader Part 1 here The reader takes Zemo’s philosophy class focusing on Machiavelli. Posted in 2 parts because it exceeded the textbox limit. Apx 3k words.

Warnings: student-teacher relationship (the reader is of age, no real focus on power imbalance), implied age gap, consumption of alcohol, implication that the reader is sleeping with Zemo for better grades (she's not) and of course let me know if you want me to add anything else!!

Week five, he is not shocked to find she’s once again the first one in class. “Good evening,” he greets warmly, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck as he makes his way to his desk. She smiles back, “I left my paper on your desk there, I figured I’d get the pile started”. He laughs setting down his coat and bag, “Something tells me there will be few submissions for this class”.

He’s right. Less than half the class bothers to show up. Most of her peers seem to be getting a head start on winter break, at least the class is quiet she thinks content listening to Helmut summarize the most recently assigned chapters, providing historical context where needed.

“Enjoy your break Helmut,” she says softly as he shuts the lecture hall door.

“You as well. Do you have plans?” She shakes her head, “No, just reading”. He smiles, “Then I am sure it will be a good break indeed”.

The cafe is warm and cosy. She settles comfortably into her favourite booth with her favourite book and a second cup of tea.

The bell at the front door dings as a man enters in a long black coat and leather gloves. Fancy she thinks to herself as he approaches the counter to order. It's usually other students dressed in sweatpants and hoodies, the man’s put together dress piques her interest. He orders and then she watches over the top of her book as he drops a $10 bill into the barista’s tip jar. Oh, well dressed and exceedingly well mannered. She can't help but watch him as he waits. Removing his gloves he tucks them into his pockets and unbuttons his coat, she swears she can smell his cologne from where she sits; it's incredible!

“Cherry blossom tea for Helmut?” The barista calls sliding the cup across the counter.

Helmut? It isn't. Is it? He turns after saying a polite thank you, and she can feel her heart hammering as he turns and she sees his face. It is. She's not sure why she's shocked, she did tell him about this place after all. Do I say something? She wonders, weighing the pros and cons, but her thoughts are halted when she hears his voice,

“Hello,” he smiles softly, “I didn't expect you to be here--I know you pointed this place out, but I wasn't--”

He's worried he's intruding. Oh, how the tables have turned.

“No, no. It's okay! I don't own the place-- did you want to sit? You don't have to--”

He chuckles as her nerves get the best of her.

Silently he sets down his cup shrugging out of his coat, putting it over the back of the chair before sitting down.

“What are you reading?” He smiles, trying to peak at the cover.

Again, after their initial stiffness, the conversation flows smoothly, just like it had in his office. After several warm drinks, and a couple croissants ordered between the two of them it’s grown dark outside. Neither had noticed the cafe empty out slowly over the hours, the barista cleaning up for the night until she clears her throat from behind the counter. They both turn to look at her, finally noticing how quiet the shop is.

“Sorry, we’re closing now,” the barista smiles sweetly. “Not a problem. I apologise, we lost track of time. We’ll get out of your way,” Helmut apologizes. The pair collect their things sliding back into their coats and gloves. Helmut waits patiently for her to be ready to go his hand resting gently at the small of her back as she slips out of the booth and past him.

Helmut stops and puts another bill in the girl’s tip jar.

“Sorry for keeping you,” he apologises again.

Outside the winter wind is cold against their faces.

“Are you hungry?” Helmut asks.

“I could eat,” She responds. “Ever been there?” Helmut asks pointing to the pub across the street. “I don’t know if it’s your speed. It’s not super nice or anything, but their food is decent,” she says honestly. He laughs, “‘Decent’ is better than what I can make at home by myself”.

She bites her lip thinking about it, does he want to spend more time with me?

“Okay,” she smiles as they make their way across the street.

Settled at a table, they wait for their server, she asks, “Was that a fifty dollar bill I saw you put in that tip jar?”

He shrugs, “Yes”.

He says that as if it’s normal, she thinks.

“I know you’re not from here, but you do know that’s a lot of money right?” “Yes,” he shrugs again, “But she made excellent tea all afternoon, she let us stay as late as she could and she was polite. And I have been here long enough to know that servers of any kind don’t get paid fairly. I can afford it, she deserves it”.

She feels the smile grow across her face, she considers gushing that he’s such a good person, but instead what comes out is, “I’m really starting to consider becoming a professor”.

He laughs, “I told you, it’s family money, not my facility pay”. God, that laugh, sets off butterflies in her stomach, the warm, genuine sound of his laughter.

He continues, “Before Sokovia fell, my family were royalty. I was a Baron there”. “I knew your name sounded familiar,” she sighs, “I remember hearing about Sokovia on the news. I remember your name, you were building orphanages and relief centres”.

He nods sadly, “Many of us thought we could salvage what we had left after everything. We couldn’t”.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, without thinking she reaches across the table to place a comforting hand on his arm. His hand comes to cover hers, so much larger than her own.

There’s a silence between them for one of the first moment since he sat down with her earlier at the cafe. But it’s not uncomfortable, it’s the opposite -- a silence of understanding, both parties knowing there’s nothing they can say to make things better-- they can only ruminate.

The peace is broken by a waiter coming to take their orders. “Do you drink Helmut?” She asks with a mischievous smile. “I have been known to indulge,” he confesses, his eyebrows furrowed. “Two shots of ?” she turns to look at Helmut expectantly. “Vodka,” he replies. “Two shots of vodka, and an order of cheese fries to share please,” she orders, “thank you”.

The waiter returns not before long, placing the drinks and food on the table.

She holds her shot glass up waiting for him to do the same. “Prost,” he says raising his glass towards her. “Cheers,” she responds clinking her glass into his before they both tip them back.

And that’s how their night begins.

It’s nearing midnight when they settle their bill, Helmut insisting he pay-- though she put up a good fight. “Can I walk you home?” He asks looking at her under the light of the street lamps. She nods, her face feeling warm both from his attention and the alcohol coursing through her bloodstream. Her apartment is only three blocks away, but time seems to slow down as they walk arm in arm through the freshly fallen snow. At her door they stop, she looks up at him, him down at her. Without a thought, lips meet. It’s not rough or particularly sexy, but she feels her knees go weak when his hand comes to cup her cheek, his other splayed across the small of her back pulling her closer. This kiss deepens and she clutches the lapel of his wool coat before they both pull away. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Don’t be,” she sighs.

Then the thought hits her, “How are you getting home?” “Oh-- I was going to get a cab and go back to the cafe to pick up my car in the morning,” he explains. “Nonsense-- you can stay here,” she offers unlocking her door and stepping inside, he doesn’t follow. “Not in my bed,” she laughs flicking on the light, “I’ll set you up on the couch”. He steps inside.

In the morning he wakes to the sun shining through the window. It takes him a minute to orient himself remembering he crashed on her couch. He sits up taking a moment to look around the apartment, it’s cute. Books and textbooks and notebooks strewn about the place. It’s homey and inviting and every bit what he’d expect her space to look like. Carefully he grabs one of the open notebooks tearing out a page he writes a quick note:

Good morning, I find that I feel very sorry for having to leave before you wake. Alas, I have much to get done, and I do not wish to trespass in your home longer than needed. I am grateful for your hospitality, and even more, your company. If my memory serves correctly I must also apologise for making that advance towards you last night. It was ungentlemanly, and you are unquestionably deserving of much better. I hope you can forgive me, and that you might allow me to make it up to you. -Helmut

Week six.

“He should appear to be compassionate, faithful to his word, guileless, and devout.” Is written across the board. When she settles into her seat. She’s not early this week, rather just on time. Helmut notes the heavy rise and fall of her chest as she tries to catch her breath, he holds back a smile at the thought of her sprinting to his class. When the class is settled, he proceeds to hand back all of the submitted essays, now marked. He smiles as he sets hers on her desk, “Bravo,” he says quietly enough that just she hears it as he shuffles along to the next row of students. She anxiously flips to the last page, red pen scrawl reads 100%. Her jaw drops. There’s no way. She thinks back to the rumours she heard on campus at the beginning of the year, about how difficult a marker he is. Bullshit. Her blood boils, rage sizzling beneath her skin. She avoids his eyes for the rest of class staring down at her notebook as she notices the indents in the blank page-- indents left from where he had written her a note that morning. Her anger freezes replaced by the cold sinking feeling in her chest. All his kind words, all those moments shared-- did he really think she was just spending time with him for a better grade? What kind of handout does he expect to get from her? She scolds herself now for the little crush she’d developed-- how stupid could she be? The prince must appear to be virtuous in order to hide his actions, She remembers from her reading, a dagger to her chest as she thinks bitterly that she’s not shocked that the professor is practising what he preaches.

The class ends and he moves to collect his paperwork, sorting it back into his bag. She stays. “I’m glad you stayed behind,” he starts. “I’m sure you are,” she says sharply. Confused he puts his things down turning to face her. “Have I done something to upset you?” He asks seriously his head tilted to the side as he racks his brain for anything he may have done to make her so cross. Perhaps his note was not sufficient in conveying his apology? “Do you think I’m stupid? Or that I’m naive?” she asks arms crossed, “I’m not sleeping with you for a good grade,” she states firmly, sliding her essay back across her desk, “feel free to adjust my grade accordingly”. Is that what she thinks? His mouth goes dry, his mind and heart racing with all the different ways he wants to apologise, to tell her that she has it wrong. He approaches her, finally making eye contact with her, “Your grade will stay as it is. I mark all of my student’s work without looking at the cover pages. I have always strived to remain impartial. Your essay was marked no differently,” He explains calmly, “I would be wrong to say that I don’t hold any affections for you-- it is quite the opposite. I enjoy the time we have spent together, and I would like to continue to remain in your company; I hope to eventually find myself in your affections-- but none of this has any bearing on your grade. I am sorry that I have acted in a way where this was not clear”. Her throat clenches, oh. “I’m sorry--Oh my god--I’m so stupid!” her hand flies to cover her mouth. “You have nothing to apologise for-- I should be the one apologising,” he insists. She shakes her head standing to stand in front of him, “We’ve both been obtuse”. “I’d like to make it up to you. I’d like to take you out for dinner-- a proper meal. If you’ll allow me”. She nods her hand coming to rest on his cheek, thumb running gently across his cheekbone, “I would like that,” she says quietly, her eyes glazing at his lips, “But only after the semester is done and I’ve graduated”. “If that is what you want,” he nods understanding. She can feel him leaning in, her eyes flickering up to his caramel eyes and back down to his lips, his hand rests on her hip, but he waits for her to close the gap between them.

Last day of the school year.

She waits by the door to the lecture hall as he speaks to his class. She listens to the back and forth of conversing ideas from the students, her heart beating faster every time Helmut speaks. It takes a while for everyone to leave when the class is over, but he does his best not to make her wait too long, gathering his things as quickly as possible, he makes his way over to her.

“Maybe I should’ve taken this course, the conversation was much more lively!” She laughs. “Your intelligent thoughts would have been wasted here, my dear” He smiles shutting the door behind him, “your class needed a brilliant mind in it”.

The summer goes by quickly. Fine dining, nights in. reading during rainstorms. Nights of soft romance, followed by nights of passion. Pasts shared. Futures envisioned. In his bed the night before the new school year she rolls over to lay almost on top of him, laughing when he lets out an oof. “Old man she teases,” earning a playful pinch on the thigh from him.

She glances at his nightstand, a copy of The Prince laying there.

“And what are your personal feelings about Machiavelli anyway? You never speak about your own thoughts”

“You're so clever,” he laughs, “but you're right”.

He sighs pulling her closer. he tries to focus on his hand running up and down her arm, how soft her sweater is under his fingertips. He takes a deep breath before speaking, “every time I read it, my opinions change,” he confesses, “there was a time when I was young and stupid; thought I was invincible that I agreed with a lot of his ideals. Then I grew older, fell in love--I thought him stupid and lonely. I experienced an incredible loss--”

She squeezes his side as she hears his voice grow tense with tears, he swallows and continues, “and then I thought I understood him. I learned how to grieve and I thought him intolerable. In the end I learn more about myself than I do him”.

She smiles, “and have you read it lately?”

He nods kissing her softly, “I have”.

“And?”

“I learned to trust my instincts. To take the risks that are worth taking”

“You're kind of a sap,” she laughs, her face getting warm she buries it in his chest. Part 1 here

[tran5rightsos]

Stalking for Art Students

Summary: An extremely pretty stranger catches Michael's train to uni every morning. What's he supposed to do except draw him at every opportunity? At least he doesn't have a crush on the nude model.

Genre: Contemporary

Relationships: Mashton, Cake

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Word count: 4541

Author’s Note:  For @cakelftv @5sos-fic-exchange. It's here! The 5sos Fic Exchange of Winter (or summer) 2021! Kirby, I hope you enjoy the silliness I made for you, this was so fun to write.

Leave kudos?

Michael wasn’t a perv. Luke liked to joke that he was, call him a stalker, but anyone in Michael’s position would do the same. In fact, many artists did exactly what Michael did. It was good practice, impromptu lessons in capturing ideas quickly at a moment's notice.

There was nothing weird about drawing the beautiful man that caught Michael’s train most mornings on the way to uni. He was an artist. His brain was wired to notice pretty things, the desire to replicate them on paper was in the fibre of his very being and besides, anyone would agree that this man had a face worth studying, with prominent angles, pouty lips and sharp eyes all framed by dyed red curls.

The curls were Michael’s problem this morning. Hair really wasn’t his forte but he couldn’t keep acting like he needed more practice with those massive biceps. He wasn’t yet ready to give up on finding excuses to stare at picturesque strangers on the train, though, so… curls.

Michael swapped his pencil for his black brush pen, a popular choice among his favourite comic artists, and went over the grey with bolder shading. His early sketches were all in pencil; he hadn’t yet had the confidence to ink them but now that he knew he’d see the guy most mornings and have plenty of opportunities to draw him as many times as he wanted, he wasn’t as afraid of fucking up.

In fact, the expectation of seeing the stranger was great enough that Michael had even set aside some of his coloured markers to keep in his travel supplies where normally he wouldn’t bother with anything more than lead pencils, black ink pens and erasers. As the linework of the current portrait dried, Michael went over one from yesterday, a sketch of the back of his head, with red. The waves were all wrong, but the saturated colour drew attention from the haphazard linework.

Michael wished the tattoo on the back of his neck was better, though. Some kind of bird of prey, wings outstretched. There was a larger version of it at the bottom of an earlier page in his sketchbook, one he’d taken down when he’d found himself standing right behind the guy one morning, intrigued by the choice in ink.

Michael finished the warm skin of the guy’s neck, capping his pen. The colours weren’t quite true to life, but they were true to the feeling of the stranger. That was his job as an artist, his teacher had told him in high school when he’d been upset over his shitty attempts at realism. Anyone could learn to depict things realistically, but only an artist could portray feeling.

Luke, the classmate that always had a coffee ready when he reached campus, was a fucking god at portraying feeling. Plants were his area of expertise, but somehow he could make a bunch of lavender look cheery, sexy or mournful. Michael only knew how to do dramatic.

“Morning, stalker,” Luke greeted when Michael arrived, handing him his coffee.

Michael rolled his eyes, taking it and giving Luke his sketchbook. He’d steal it in class later if he didn’t surrender it now. “Pretty sure stalking requires some level of following people around. I only see this guy on the train.” And around campus sometimes, but he wasn’t about to add fuel to the fire by telling Luke that the guy was a student here.

“Eh, you’re still a creep,” Luke replied, flipping to the most recent page.

“I need practice with hair,” Michael pointedly told him, “Calum doesn’t have any.”

“Calum has plenty of hair,” Luke argued with a pout.

“How can you get on my ass about this guy when you’re the fuckhead who has a crush on our nude model? That’s gotta be some kind of dumb cliche.”

“At least I know his name and actually talk to him,” Luke quipped.

“We all talk to him. So he doesn’t zone out and fall asleep again.”

“What’s all this?” Luke asked, gesturing to the notes around the page.

Fuck.

“Ideas,” Michael said tightly.

“Ideas.”

“It’s good practice,” Michael told him, “You come up with ideas about what traits and shit you’d give the character based on their appearance.”

“Right.” Luke cleared his throat. “Broody,” he read, “Classy, knows the tango, tragic assassin backstory, takes no shit…”

“Give me that.”

Luke held the book out of reach, giggling. “Woah, hey, I’m still reading! Keeps suit clean, not afraid to get his hands dirty, hypnosis, hates kids—”

“Shut up and give it back.”

“No, I’m invested!” Luke protested with a grin, “Is hypnosis his superpower?”

“No, he’s just really good at getting people to talk with eye contact,” Michael explained, grabbing at the book half-heartedly. At least Luke couldn’t keep reading it like this.

“What about this tragic backstory? Did assassins kill his parents?”

“No, he lost someone when he was an assassin, so he quit and put his skills towards getting revenge.”

“Doesn’t sound very good-guy.”

“He’s a villain.”

“Ooh!” Luke wiggled his eyebrows at him. “You do have a thing for bad boys, huh?”

Snatching back the book, Michael shook his head.

They’d reached the visual arts block, the weird blue sculpture just outside attempting to distract everyone from the fact that the building itself was fucking ugly. Michael had to give it points for effort, even if he wasn’t quite sure what the sculpture was supposed to be.

This morning’s lessons were mainly focused around using impasto medium to paint still lifes of fruit, which of course had Luke thriving and Michael trying not to pull his own hair out. Still life itself wasn’t so bad, drawing comics required knowledge in all kinds of subjects, but he couldn’t help but feel that learning this kind of painting was a huge waste of time for him. Comics were much more two dimensional than this.

“At least we have that new unit today,” Luke said when they were out having lunch, “Printmaking? That sounds fun.”

“You’re just trying to be nice, your painting looks fucking amazing.” He jabbed at a gravy-soaked chip. “It’s not even done. Paintings are supposed to look like shit before they’re done.”

Luke appeared to be ignoring him, staring at something over his shoulder.

Michael snapped his fingers at him. “You okay there?”

“Is that the guy you’re stalking?”

“What?” Michael looked over his shoulder, almost dropping his fork when he laid eyes on the beautiful stranger from the train, “Holy fuck.”

“It is? You didn’t tell me he goes here!”

Michael turned around, ducking his head as if he could hide himself. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, “Stop looking at him.”

“He’s coming over here.”

Peeking over his shoulder, he realised that Luke was right.

The stranger smiled and gave them a wave as he approached.

Michael gave him a nervous wave back.

“You take my train,” the guy greeted as he arrived, pulling up the other seat at their table, “I’ve seen you drawing? I’m Ashton.”

“I’m Michael,” Michael squeaked. He cleared his throat.

“I’m Luke!” Luke offered his hand with a grin.

Ashton accepted it, returning the smile. “What are you guys doing?”

“Eating lunch.” Michael wondered if he should offer some of his chips. Would that be weird?

Ashton giggled. “No, what are you studying here?”

“Art!” Luke eagerly told him, “Michael’s a great artist, you should see his sketchbook!”

“Is that it?” Ashton asked, pointing to Michael’s book.

He snatched it off the table. “No.”

“Aw, don’t be shy Michael,” Luke goaded with a pure evil grin, “They’re really good!”

“It’s fine,” Ashton laughed, “I’m doing music.”

“Wow, what’s that like?” Michael asked before Luke could embarrass him further.

“So good,” Ashton gushed, “I’ve loved music all my life, it’s such a deep, visceral expression of the human soul, you know?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Michael agreed, “Do you play anything?”

“Drums.” He laughed. Ashton laughed and smiled a lot when he spoke. “I know, I know, but it’s just got such a rich history, you know? I bet percussion was probably the earliest manifestation of music in our history. Aside from the voice, of course.”

“Totally.”

“Are you coming to the nude drawing session today, Mikes?” Luke cut in.

Michael gave him a confused look. “Yeah? Gotta make sure you’re getting enough practice with ass muscles. You’re getting good at them.”

Luke flushed.

“They offer that here?” Ashton asked, “That’s cool. You know, the human form is the origin of a lot of visual art. Easy to see why.”

“Yeah, Luke loves it.”

Luke glared at Michael.

“Our model’s pretty good, even though he can only come in once a week.”

“You only have one?” Ashton asked.

��Yeah. Kind of a shame, to be honest,” Michael admitted, “He’s great, but he only has one body type. Not a lot of people come to sessions anymore.”

He nodded, then checked his phone. “I better head off. Good meeting you two.”

“You too!” Luke returned, wiggling his eyebrows at Michael.

Michael ignored him. “See ya, man.”

“Broody,” Luke commented as they watched him walk away.

“Huh?”

“He just takes no shit.”

Michael groaned. “Shut up.”

“I was fully hypnotised that whole time,” Luke continued, “You reckon he can tango?”

“I hate you.”

“I bet he’s an assassin on the side.”

Printmaking looked interesting, as Luke had said. He’d immediately picked out some sketches of peonies to fix up and turn into prints while Michael had designed a superhero breaking through a window. Although it was fun to occasionally step outside their comfort zones, they both appreciated the opportunity to use what they knew best to experiment with this new medium.

Michael was quick to suggestively elbow Luke when Calum walked in, Jane announcing that, while class was over, they’d be holding the usual Tuesday figure study session next door. To Luke’s horror and Michael’s amusement, Calum felt like hanging out with them before they went in.

“What are you guys up to?” he asked, pulling up a stool next to Luke.

“Um, printmaking,” Luke told him, eyes bugging out of his head in alarm as Calum leaned closer to peer at his work.

“Those are good,” he said, nodding at Luke’s flowers.

“I gotta carve them out on this,” he said, showing Calum the square of lino he’d transferred his design onto.

“Sick. Show me when you’re done, ay?” he said, giving Luke a thump on the back before getting up to head to the storage room and undress.

“See ya,” Luke called after him, looking horrified when Calum grinned back.

“See ya?” Michael teased.

He ducked his head, quickly packing away his supplies. “Shut up.”

Luke had been hopeless at figure drawing when the semester began, eventually confiding to Michael that people had always frustrated him; one wrong line and the entire drawing was shit, he’d said. These days, Luke was incredible… at drawing Calum. Somehow, there was still something distinctly floral to his figure studies, something in the linework or the shading or the colours in his paintings that reminded Michael of the softest petals in Luke’s sketchbooks. Luke’s Calum was pretty.

Not that the real Calum wasn’t something to appreciate, Michael thought as he idly shaded his balls. For this pose, he was standing with one foot propped up on a box, giving Michael and Luke a spectacular view of everything. He had the smile of someone laughing on the inside, a broom handle in hand that Michael was turning into some kind of sci-fi spear. He hoped his Calum looked as cool as the real one.

“Is that a stripper pole?” Michael whispered, frowning at Luke’s sketch.

“No.”

“Yes it is.”

“Well, I had to turn the broom into something,” he huffed.

Michael grinned. “Hey Cal, do you dance?”

Luke gaped at him in horror.

“Like at parties?” Calum gave a small shrug, but held his pose. “Sure?”

“No, like exotic dancing,” he explained with a grin.

Calum grinned back. “Why, you looking for a lap dance?”

“Aren’t we all?” he replied, smiling at Luke, who appeared to be trying to hide behind his easel.

“You’re a monster,” Luke whispered to him.

“I’m flirting on your behalf,” he whispered back, “You should be thanking me.”

The timer beeped and Calum relaxed, shaking out his arms and legs a bit. Luke pretended he wasn’t staring at his dick.

Michael would remember the next few days as utterly mundane. Ashton would give him a smile every time they saw each other on the train and Michael would try to be a bit sneakier about drawing him, but ultimately not much changed until Wednesday.

Blursed Wednesday. Michael couldn’t figure out if the universe was trying to bless him for appreciating its beauty or curse him for being a weirdo, so he decided to play it safe by calling it blursed.

Determined to catch him off guard, the day started out normal. He woke up, prepared for the day, waved to Ashton on the train, banged out a few sketches of him and went to uni. They were starting a sculpting unit, so Michael agonised over what he could make into a sculpture while Luke drew lilies. Things took an odd turn after lunch, when Jane announced that there would be a figure drawing session after class.

“Isn’t Calum busy on Wednesdays?” Michael asked. Maybe his schedule has cleared up a bit.

“No, not Calum,” Jane explained, “A new guy signed up, I can’t remember his name, though. So be nice, guys!” she said to the class, “We don’t wanna scare him off, yeah?”

Michael nudged Luke. “She means you.”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“I hope this one’s got a different body type, though,” Michael said thoughtfully, “It would be funny if he was like Calum’s twin or something.”

He was not Calum’s twin.

Michael nearly fell off his stool when today’s model walked in. The first thing he noticed was the dark red curls.

“Oh, hey Ashton!” Luke called, waving.

Ashton looked at them and grinned. “Hey, Luke! Fancy seeing you here! Hey, Mikes!”

Michael gaped at him. Ashton from the train was their new model?

“You know what you’re doing?” Jane asked Ashton.

He smiled. “Yep. I’m all set.”

“Just sitting poses today,” Jane told the class, “All five minutes at most, so he doesn’t get tired.”

Michael barely heard her. Ashton was shrugging off the gown he was wearing, one from their closet of model props, revealing everything. Calum had started out in underwear, going nude after a few weeks once he was comfortable with the environment and the class. Ashton seemed to be utterly devoid of shame.

“Mikey,” Luke murmured, “If you don’t hit that, I swear to god I will.”

“Stop staring at his dick,” Michael hissed. His disarmingly impressive dick…

“He’s our nude model,” Luke said, taking to paper with his charcoal the moment Ashton was seated on the stool at the centre of the room and the timer was set, “We’re supposed to stare at his dick.”

Although Luke quickly sketched out Ashton’s shape, doodling a few sunflowers as he went, Michael kept looking from Ashton to his page, completely lost. He barely managed to outline his form before the timer went off, reminding him that his time to appreciate Ashton’s body was incredibly limited. He might never model for them again for all Michael knew. He might get so creeped out by Michael’s staring that he took a different train to uni every morning.

Spurred on by this realisation, Michael focused on the details, the things he didn’t already have in his sketchbook. Ashton’s hair looked incredible, but it was his soft tummy Michael needed to etch into his brain now, the way his thighs curved from his hips to his knees, the dimples in his back.

The session was too short. Michael barely understood the way shadows fell in the curves of Ashton’s back before the timer rang for the last time and Ashton stood, picked up his gown and slipped back into it, cruelly hiding away that incredible body. Ashton smiled at him and Luke as he came over as if he hadn’t just hit Michael in the heart with a hammer.

“How was I?” he asked, “This was my first time modelling, so…”

“Yeah, you did alright,” Luke told him, “Your body’s completely different to Calum’s.”

Ashton came around to see Luke’s page. “What are the flowers for?”

Luke shrugged. “You seem like a sunflowery guy.”

“Can I see yours?” Ashton asked Michael.

“Uh… sure?” Michael replied, sitting back to give him room.

Ashton whistled. “You made me look hot.”

“You are hot,” Michael said before he could stop himself.

Ashton grinned. “Aw, thanks, buddy!”

Luke grinned evilly at Michael.

Luckily, Calum still showed up for his modelling session next Tuesday and Michael was able to take the opportunity to tease him relentlessly. Unluckily, Ashton came back again the next day, exactly as comfortable without a stitch of clothing on his body as he’d been last week.

This time, though, Michael was ready. He’d been using last week’s sketches to draw Ashton in more dynamic poses, fighting superheroes and shit, and noticed where his knowledge of his body was lacking. As Ashton got comfortable on the floor, surrounded by the class, Michael eyed his calves and got sketching.

“Lotta people here today,” Luke murmured.

Michael glanced around, realising that he was right. “Guess they wanna see the new model.”

Most of the class used to come to Calum’s sessions, but attendance had been going down for a while, maybe as people got bored with his body. The only people who’d come to every session since the beginning of the year were Luke and Michael.

“You know he has a dick, right?”

Michael glanced at Luke, then looked back at his sketch of Ashton’s legs, a blank space where his dick and balls should be. “I’m not a perv,” he grumbled.

“It’s a nude session,” Luke reminded him, “We’re supposed to look at his dick.”

“We’re supposed to look at all of him,” Michael corrected, pulling his sketchbook out of his backpack. He flipped to a page featuring villain Ashton in a skin-tight costume punching a squid monster, erasing his legs and redrawing them with real Ashton’s legs as reference. “Stop being weird.”

“It’s weirder to not draw his dick,” Luke replied, “What do you have against artful nudity?”

The timer rang and Ashton shifted to lay out more, dick prominent. As Michael wondered if he was trying to torture him, the door opened and a tall Maori man walked in, frowning at Ashton before looking around the room, eyes settling on Michael and Luke.

“Who’s that?” Michael asked Luke as the guy headed towards them.

“Who, Cal?” He looked at the guy. “What are you doing here? I thought you had work.”

“I got today off!” The guy smiled at Luke, giving him a thump on the back as he leaned in to see his sketches and Michael realised that it was indeed Calum but clothed. “Lookin’ good,” he gruffed.

Luke smiled bashfully. “I’m still learning.”

“I was talking about you,” Calum said with a grin, lightly tugging at Luke’s hair, “Do something different with your hair?”

Almost going red, Luke mumbled a, “You too.” He stared at his sketchpad in horror. “I mean, you… You look good too,” he floundered.

“This guy bothering you?” Ashton called, grinning.

Calum eyed him. “New guy treating you right?”

Luke nodded. “He’s alright.” With a mischievous glance at Michael he lowered his voice. “Mikey has a crush on him.”

“I do not.”

“He made him a superhero.”

“Super villain,” Michael hissed, “And it’s normal to use real people as inspiration for your work.”

“Did you make Calum a character?” Luke asked pointedly.

 “Yes.”

“Really?” Calum asked interestedly.

To prove the point, Michael flipped through his sketchbook to find the page, handing Calum the book.

“Oh, sick! Am I like Spider Man? Crawling around on ceilings and shit?”

Michael shrugged, throwing together a quick sketch of Ashton’s current pose. Calum didn’t tend to lie on the floor, so it was useful practice.

“Can I look through this?” Calum asked, pulling up a stool between Michael and Luke.

“Sure,” Michael replied.

Calum showed Michael a page of Ashtons. “When did you do all these? I thought he just started last week.”

“On the train,” Luke whispered conspiratorially, “They catch the same one every morning.”

“Huh. Is that why he started modelling? ‘Cause of your drawings?”

“He doesn’t know Michael draws him,” Luke explained with an evil grin.

“He’s got the kind of face artists wanna draw on the train,” Calum mused, frowning at Ashton, then Luke.

“Luke gives people flower-sonas,” Michael blurted a bit too loudly.

“What’s a flower-sona?” Ashton asked.

“No I don’t!” Luke said.

“Do I have one?”

“Uh…” Michael leaned over to see Luke’s sketchpad. “Sunflowers!”

Ashton grinned. “Like the ones you drew last week? Nice!”

“Do I?” Calum asked in a tone that almost sounded nervous.

Luke huffed. “Jacaranda.”

“What’s that?”

He turned to the table behind them to grab his sketchbook, opening it to a page and giving it to Calum. Calum accepted it, leaving Michael’s on the table.

“Wow.”

Luke had painted a portrait of Calum, wreathed in small, cool purple flowers.

“These are jacarandas?”

“Yeah.”

“And they remind you of me?”

“It was for colour and composition practice,” Luke said quickly.

“I dunno what that means, but it’s fuckin’ sick,” Calum replied in wonder, “Can I…”

“Yeah, sure.”

They fell into relative silence as Calum flipped through Luke’s book, notably giving Luke way more compliments than he’d given Michael even though he knew almost nothing about flowers. Michael loved plenty of compliments, but he took comfort in getting ammo to tease Luke with later.

“Hey, how are those flowers going?” Calum asked suddenly. “From last week? I wanted to ask yesterday, but I had to run off to work right after the session.”

“Oh, I’ve got a few prints done!” Luke told him, “I have pictures on my Instagram.”

Calum took out his phone. “What’s your name?”

As he looked Luke up, the timer rang for the last time and Ashton got up to stretch and put his gown back on. He came over, giving Calum a friendly smile.

“You’re the other model?”

“Yeah, Calum.”

“I’m Ashton.” He leaned to peak around Michael’s sketchpad. “Can I see?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Grinning, he stepped around to Calum’s side to get a good look. “Lotta legs?”

“Yeah, I… didn’t really get them, so I focused on them this week.”

“And sunflowers!”

Luke smiled at Ashton. “Yeah! They suit you.”

“You said you’re on Instagram?”

“Yeah, a bit of it’s my art, but it’s kind of a mix of stuff.”

He nodded, then looked at Michael. “Do you?”

“Yeah, uh…” Michael patted his pocket for his phone, taking it out to open Instagram. “What’s your name? I’ll follow you.”

Ashton helped him find his profile, promising to follow back once he got home since he didn’t have his phone on him at the moment.

“Lotta lemons,” Michael commented, scrolling through.

“Yeah, I’ve got a tree at home,” Ashton said, examining Luke’s sketches, “A little one.”

“Got any spare lemons?”

“Yeah, I’ll bring you a bag tomorrow.”

“Really?”

Ashton grinned. “Yeah! Little guy’s been working hard, I’ve got stacks of them at home.”

“Nice!” Michael put his phone away to return to his sketch pad. He wanted to touch up a few of the drawings before going home.

“Is this your sketchbook?”

Michael frowned and looked back, finding Ashton leaning on the table, staring at Michael’s open sketchbook.

Shit.

He hurriedly got up to take it, but it was too late; Calum had left it open on a page of morning train sketches.

“I draw people on the train sometimes,” he explained, trying to casually rub his head, then wondering why the fuck he was rubbing his head.

Ashton pointed to the bird silhouette at the bottom of the page, smiling. “That’s my condor!”

“Yeah, you know, it was, like… inspiration or whatever. Sometimes you just get inspired.”

“You’ve got like a comicky style going on here,” Ashton said, “Is that rude to say?”

“No, it’s… what I’m going for. I wanna do comics. One day.”

Ashton grinned at him. “Can I be in one?”

Michael laughed awkwardly. “So, you’re not, like…” Incredibly creeped out and considering never doing nude modelling again? “I’m not stalking you or anything. You’re just visually appealing.”

Ashton pouted. “I like to think I’ve got a good personality too. Are there others?”

Michael glanced at Luke for help, but he had stopped packing his stuff up and was grinning like he couldn’t believe one of his reality TV shows was playing out in real life right before his very eyes. “A few?”

“Can I look?”

“Sure.”

Fuck. He’d meant to say no. It was too late to change his answer now; Ashton was already pulling the book towards himself to flip through.

But he didn’t flip through. He turned to the first page and examined it for what felt like several months before slowly turning to the next, taking in every shitty drawing before moving on. The worst part was that Michael had started that book when the semester began, so the Ashton drawings appeared early and had been almost daily additions since then. Michael had no idea how many there were, though he had to say that he’d never filled a sketchbook faster than he was filling this one.

Apparently bored with the lull in conversation, Luke resumed putting away his pencils and sketchpad.

“What are you doing tonight, Luke?” Calum wondered.

“Hm? Oh, uh… not a lot?”

“You wanna get a drink?”

Luke blinked at him, mouth slightly agape. “A drink?”

Calum shrugged. “Yeah. There’s a bar down the road I’ve been thinking of trying.”

“A drink. Yeah, okay.” He glanced at Michael, but Michael was as helpful as Luke had been for him. “Yeah, I just gotta drop off my stuff at… home.”

“Alright. Are you nearby? I’ll come along.”

Luke looked lost for words for a moment. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

He suddenly seemed in a much bigger rush to pack up, clumsily knocking the sketchpad to the floor. Calum immediately dropped to pick it up for him and Michael rolled his eyes about how weird they both were. Grinning like a dumbass, Luke took his bag and art folder and nearly ran out, pulling Calum along.

“These are really good,” Ashton said, finally emerging from Michael’s last page of drawings. He gently closed the book and handed it back to him with a grin. “I didn’t know you found me so inspiring.”

“I mean… you know…”

Ashton laughed. “Right.”

“So what are you doing today?” Michael blurted before he could stop himself, “I’ve got like a few hours before my train leaves, so…” He didn’t, but there was another train that could get him home that night.

“I was gonna get Italian for dinner after this,” Ashton said, invitation in his eyes, “Today’s payday, so…”

“Can I tag along?”

Ashton grinned. “I’ll put on some clothes.”

[darkisrising]

BobaDinLuke bdsm fic, by DarkIsRising

Can’t decide if this is something to continue or if this is as far as it goes. So, I’m just gonna dub it a Tumblr fic for now. If it picks up steam then I’ll add to it, edit it, and throw it onto ao3. CW: Very very spicy, bdsm, a host of other stuff probably but rest assured everything here is consensual.

They meet at a sex party, which in hindsight shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s just about the only time Luke can be talked out of leaving the house these days.

He shows up in a hood that hides his features save for somber brown eyes and the plush spread of his lips; the black latex so shiny that Luke can just about see his own reflection in it. He wears leather like a second skin and even without being able to make out a single feature on his face, save those eyes and lips, or a single detail of his body, save his exposed cock, he is the most beautiful man Luke’s ever seen.

Luke, of course, is naked. His knees are hitched up to his chest, held there by his own arms that he knows better than to lower, and the words Load Count are scrawled in extra wide Sharpie from one nipple to the other. He’s already gone two rounds and there’s two lines beneath the words to show for it. Boba’s turn came first, of course. It was his privilege as Luke’s dom and he'd taken it with one finger hooked around the collar that marked Luke as his. And then after Boba there had been a guy that Luke hadn’t recognized with a nice enough cock and a regrettable tribal tattoo across his shoulder.

There’s something about this third man that gives Luke pause. Something in the way he takes his place at Luke’s ass— something so hesitant and careful and precise and apologetic as he pulls himself hard enough to sink into Luke’s body— that is awfully endearing. Luke wishes he could tell him it’s okay. That he’s here because he likes doing this sort of thing. That his dom is somewhere nearby, watching from the shadowed corners of the room, to make sure that despite all the calls to wreck that twink’s ass and fuck him up! and do it so hard he won’t be able to walk no one actually does anything that Luke isn’t into.

He can’t, of course, because his mouth is where Boba’s left the Sharpie, a neat solution since the last time they’d played this game the Sharpie had been lost to the dungeon’s dark and sticky floor within the first five minutes. Instead he tries to show it with a widening of his eyes and an encouraging grunt for every tiny thrust he gives as he fucks inside of Luke, the wet from lube and release slicking his way. When he’s all the way in he rests for a moment and it feels like the kind of moment that Luke could live a lifetime in for the way he meets Luke’s eyes, the way his gloved thumb reaches down to rest against Luke’s chin, the way he stretches Luke’s ass with just the right amount of cock to set the base of his spine sparking, but not so much that Luke’s worried he’ll be split in two. 

“Ready?” he asks and his voice is so low it very nearly gets lost to all the moans and groans and demands for more that writhe like eels through the air. His eyes gleam dark in the dim dungeon and Luke can’t look away. He nods, entranced, and for the first time that night Luke’s not thinking about all the men that are going to follow, he’s only thinking about the one that’s inside of him. 

I want to kiss him. The thought hits him— blinding as a bolt of sunlight that’s been hidden behind a cloud— and it’s the most that Luke’s wanted something so chaste in so long he doesn’t know what to do with it. Not that he has many options in this position with a Sharpie clenched between his teeth. All he can do is stare at this man’s lips and yearn with an intensity that carves into his chest as this man’s cock carves into his ass and Luke can’t say of the two sensations which is more intimate. 

“You’re so tight,” the man rasps out and Luke can’t stop himself from clenching down, his hips jerking at the compliment. It’s something he’s heard a million times from countless, faceless other men, but oh the way this man says it makes him flush all over.

It’s over before Luke’s really ready, but one glance over the man’s shoulder and Luke can see a line is forming. Usually it would make him hard in anticipation, to see so many that want to use him and fill him until he’s leaking. This time he wishes he could have more time with just this one.

The man takes the marker out from between Luke’s teeth and Luke wishes he’d replace it with two of his leather-covered fingers. He doesn’t, though, only marks a line on Luke’s chest and then in the same soft, sincere way he’d told Luke he was tight says “Thank you,” and in that moment Luke is pretty sure he’d do just about anything for this man. 

Which is a terrifying, thrilling thought. And a dangerous one, seeing as his rash, unchecked impulsiveness is why he needs a guy like Boba to keep him in line to begin with. 

Before the man can cap the Sharpie again, Luke darts to snatch it out of his hand. The weighted shape of Boba coming out from the shadows, called forward by this change of script.

Luke ignores him. He ignores the line of waiting men stroking themselves hard as they watch Luke with interest as he grabs this man’s hand.

“May I?” Luke asks in as submissive a voice he can muster, and Boba would be so surprised to hear it come out so easily, but Luke can behave when he wants to. Most of the time. “Please, sir,” he adds when the man says nothing.

A slight incline of his head is all the answer he gives, and Luke wastes no time in peeling away his brown leather glove. He writes out his cell number as clearly as he can with a marker that’s a little too thick for it and then, when he’s done, he holds that brown gaze as he bends down to blow the ink dry. 

“Thank you, sir,” Luke husks, heart beating wildly. The man doesn’t say anything back, he only takes his glove and works it back down over his hand and then he’s gone, swallowed by the dark.

“Is there a problem?” a voice growls near Luke’s ear. Tugging on the collar around his neck brings Luke’s attention to Boba’s familiar, scarred frown.

“No, sir,” Luke says, turning his face into Boba’s neck, nuzzling in, but Boba steps away, keeping him at arm’s length.

“That’s only for good boys that finish what they start. Are you going to finish what you started, little one?” It’s a warning as clear as the shake of a rattlesnake’s tail: dangerous and low.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Two hands take Luke by the shoulders and lay him back down. The marker is plucked from his hands and recapped with a snap. “How many loads have you had tonight?”

“Three, sir.”

“And how many did we agree you’d take?” Boba asks, catching Luke beneath his knees, hoisting them back up against his chest and into position. 

Luke shivers, as the humid air meets the wet of his hole, breathing cold, while the hot, hungry gazes of the waiting men meet among the slick. “Eight, sir.”

“Then get to it.” The Sharpie is slid back between his teeth and then Boba’s hands are winding through his hair, pulling just enough to bring a jolt of pain. Luke’s breath catches in his throat. “No distractions this time.”

Soon enough another guy is penetrating Luke, brought forward by Boba’s commanding nod. He’s rocking into Luke, fucking him with an intensity that makes a dull thwack every time their bodies meet. The next guy is huge, so big that Luke has to bite down on the plastic hull of the marker in his mouth to keep from screaming. Tears squeeze from Luke’s eyes, wrested out with every incredible thrust in. Luke loses track after that. The pain becoming pleasure, the pleasure never quite becoming enough to spill over into satisfaction, only transforming into something else. Something intense and terrible and blessed and more. The men change, the girths and lengths that hold him open and fuck him apart change, and Luke takes them all.

Through it all Boba stays where he is, supervising with an unforgiving hand in Luke’s hair, the pain a constant that Luke can depend on, focus on, until it becomes awash with a dull, glowing haze. This is what he’s here for—  this feeling— this euphoria where he’s horribly small and he’s unfathomably large, together. He’s an object to be used and discarded. He’s more precious, more vital, more necessary than he can comprehend. 

A kiss on his forehead cuts through the fog, and Luke realizes he’s not being fucked anymore for all that he can still feel a phantom grinding between his cheeks. His fingers are made to unclench from where they’ve dug like claws onto his flesh and his legs are lowered. The wet mess that’s been left to leak out of him is a turn-on but even that is a distant thing. There’s no immediacy to it, no driving need to slack his lust, just a thrum of appreciation for this proof that every man that’s had him tonight has left behind.

Drawing him in, Boba cups the back of his head until Luke’s pressed into the cradle of Boba’s neck. He was denied this privilege earlier. Now it’s being freely given. The difference sets him shaking, or maybe that’s just the come-down.

“That was good.” Boba’s voice is a rumble that Luke can feel through the places they are pressed together. The steady jump of Boba’s pulse is calming against the bow of his lips and Luke closes his eyes to savor it.

Time gets away from him again, and somehow he’s been cleaned enough to stuff his legs into pants and a warm sweatshirt is pulled over his head. The black hood comes up, as good as blinders on a horse, and then he’s led out to where there are sofas and water and people speaking soft as a passing brook.

The lip of a water bottle is pressed to his mouth and Luke obediently drinks from it without thinking. Boba sits in a plush armchair and though he’s shorter than Luke, there’s so much of him that Luke can curl into his lap and disappear behind the safe, steel beams of his muscular arms. 

“Your boy did good out there,” Fennec says, dropping into a nearby seat and Boba’s agreement is another rumble for Luke to savor with his eyes closed. “I haven’t seen you two in months, I was surprised to see you came out for this.”

There’s a question in her words, a careful line to walk between curiosity and concern, that normally sends Luke into a tailspin in the outside world. Here, though, he isn’t Luke Skywalker: wounded veteran and broken hero. He’s a pet— Boba’s pet— and he lets his dom navigate the social interaction while he sinks deeper into his embrace.

To Boba’s credit, he makes no mention of the malaise that’s grabbed hold of Luke lately, pinning him to the bed and keeping him there for days. Instead he huffs a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well. Maybe if Fortuna hadn’t turned this place into such a shithole we’d be over more.”

“Can’t argue with that. Say what you like about Jabba, but at least things weren’t always breaking on his watch. Did you hear about the ceiling that collapsed a month ago? When someone was in the sling, too.”

“Oh, shit.” Boba says and then they are off, trading gossip and wry quips. Luke is content to close his eyes and listen, secure that the only thing he needs to do is exactly what he’s doing right now. Every now and then Boba strokes his back through the thick cotton of his hoodie or turns to nuzzle at Luke’s temple, and every time Luke’s contentment spreads thick like molasses.

He surfs this subspace all the way back home where he lets Boba get him clean and dressed in pajama pants and poured into bed. The last thing he does is release the buckle on Luke’s collar and then, with one final squeeze to the scruff of Luke’s neck, the scene is over.

“How are you doing? Want me to grab the ibuprofen?”

“Nah, it’s not that bad,” Luke answers, shifting so that the ache in his ass becomes a little more noticable. “Been awhile since I did anything like that.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Was proud of you, though.” There’s a chair by the bed and Boba sits there, staying close but careful to give Luke his space now that they’re done for the night. “That’s two more than the last time you took on a train.”

“Mmm,” Luke agrees lazily. The writing on his chest hadn’t totally come off in the bath, and he pushes his blanket down enough to trace the lines on his chest, lingering on the third one.

“Wanna tell me what that was all about with number three?”

Number three. He of the shiny latex mask and the deep brown eyes and the lips that Luke can almost feel against his own for how much he’d wanted them to be. It’s enough that he almost asks Boba to bring him his phone so that he can wait around like a lovelorn teen for a call or a text, but he’s still coasting enough on endorphins from earlier that he doesn’t want to completely tank his chance at sleep by keeping vigil over the glow of a phone screen all night.

“Not really,” Luke admits at last. “Wasn’t anything bad,” and Boba accepts that with a nod.

“Fine. Keep your secrets. Let me know if it becomes anything I need to worry about.”

“Always.”

Boba stands to leave, a lumbering swing to the motion that Luke knows means his prosthetic is giving him problems, but he knows better than to mention it. “Don’t worry about making breakfast tomorrow. Sleep in. I’m in meetings all morning, anyway.”

“Yeah, okay.”

When Luke closes his eyes, the ache from his over-used, well-fucked body is finally enough to quiet his demons. For once, sleep is swift as death, and just as inescapable.

[broadstflyers]

A/N: Alright, here it is! Chapter two. Thanks for the support on the first chapter! As always, you can add yourself to the tag list for this series or give constructive feedback here. This chapter is still in the past tense. This one is a longer chapter, sorry! Although I have a feeling most chapters will be this long. If you like this series and want to read more, give it a like or reblog or pop into my asks, it encourages me to continue. any feedback is appreciated :)

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: None

Summary: They say at fourteen you’re too young to know you’re in love. But what if you aren’t?

Navigation: chapter one

October

Grade: 9

Age: 14

---------------------------------

Ever since that class, you and Joel became inseparable whenever you were within talking distance. You just seemed to gravitate towards him, and he seemed to do just the same. When you needed a pep-talk before a big test, he was there. Whenever you needed a laugh, he was there. He seemed to just always be there. He even noticed when your hands started to slightly shake before a quiz or test. How would he respond? He’d do what any nice, respectful, and caring teenage boy would do: goof off. The way he did so was completely up to how rambunctious he was feeling that day.

Would he throw crumpled up paper at his friends and just smile as the teacher yelled at him?

Or try and balance the close by meter-stick on his head (that was soon taken away after)?

Or would he possibly take a different turn and re-explain a topic you were still shaky on?

He was just unpredictable in that sense.

Now how were you feeling about this newly kind Joel?

“Your face is the reddest I think I’ve ever seen it,” Luna teased while you both walked out of the classroom after the bell rang, “and if I held up my bright red backpack to it, I don’t know which one would be redder.” She was on a roll that day.

You scratched your eyebrow in a lame attempt to hide your glowing cheeks. See, on that day, Joel decided to calm your nerves by drawing a star on your hand. Yes, your hand. It went sort of like this:

Your right hand was resting on the table so the back of your hand was facing Joel, who was also on your right. He was messing around with an orange marker, threatening to draw it on his friend just a table over.

“Draw one on y/n,” the friend slyly suggested with a devilish smirk. Joel’s eyes widened to the size of hockey pucks and he whipped his head around to look at you. He glanced down at the marker and then regained his cool facial expression.

Meanwhile your blood ran cold and your head started to pound uncontrollably. You glance at Luna and she nods vigorously. You ball your hand into a fist and shakily stick it out, the adrenaline causing your hearing to slightly go. He offers a light smile, and you swear you can see him slightly exhale from relief. He positions the marker in his hand to get a good grip on it, because if he was going to draw on your hand, it had to be perfect.

He rested his hand under yours to hold it steady. Yes, his hand. He cleanly knocked the breath out of your lungs. You could feel the warmth radiate from his hand. He carefully and neatly (well as neat as a fourteen year old boy can) draws an orange star on the center of your balled up fist.

When his hand finally let go of yours, the touch felt too brief but also like forever.

You literally wanted to jump out of your skin. A mix of different colors felt as though they were swirling around your head in an intense blur. You wanted to throw up color and those sickeningly sweet feelings.

At this point, unlike the first time you guys were civil to each other, you surpassed the point of being screwed.

No. As soon as he touched your hand, you knew one thing for certain: you were in love with Joel Farabee.

“Now that’s one perfect good luck charm,” he says with a smirk.

Man, you just wanted to kiss that stupid smirk. That stupid yet adorable smirk….

And that’s how you ended up almost falling over in the hallway with Luna. In the hallway, she takes your hand and looks at the perfectly messy star.

“You’ve got that boy head over heels for you,” she sassed and laughed.

You playfully shoved her, but your heart skipped a beat.

You couldn’t help but wonder, did you really?

---------------------------------

“LOVE?” Luna practically yelled in your room. Your parents let you guys hang out after school that very same day because it was yet another Friday. Which is how you ended up with Luna screaming at you on your bedroom floor.

“SHHHHH,” you aggressively said as you tried to calm her down. You pointed downstairs to your parents. You had told them earlier that Luna drew the star on, not Joel. They didn’t even know Joel existed.

“Sorry,” she whispered, “but LOVE? You’re in love with him? Are you sure? Aren’t we too young for that? At least, that’s what my mom says.”

You sigh deeply. “Look, I know, Luna. But there’s just something so different about him. Something I can’t explain.”

“Okay, but you also haven’t liked more than two people,” Luna counters, “and we’re fourteen.”

“But have you looked into someone’s eyes before and felt safe? Have you wanted to cling onto them and never let go? You’ve got to listen to me, these feelings are so intense that I want to throw them up in a glittery mess. He runs in circles around my mind 24/7. I wonder how his hugs feel, I wonder how I would act if I met his parents.” You pause for a moment and stare her in the eyes.

“I barely understand how I feel, myself,” you whisper. “I am so screwed, Luna, but I don’t care.”

Her face relaxes and she slowly nods her head. She breaks out into a smile.

“I hear you,” she calmly states as she takes one of your hands. “I will be here with you while we figure this out, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod in a soft whisper tone.

Maybe it was the cumulation of him constantly caring for you in his own way. Maybe it was the way he never made dumb jokes at the expense of your feelings. Maybe it was the way talking to him came so easily and naturally to you, like you’ve known him for lifetimes. Or maybe it was just the fact that you were young, like Luna said.

But you knew deep down you couldn’t wholeheartedly buy into that logic.

Because in the end, you knew you were right.

---------------------------------

You turned fifteen on November 25, so you’re always exactly three months older than Joel, which he definitely did not appreciate. He found out when the teacher wished you a premature Happy Birthday the day before Thanksgiving Break.

“I cannot believe you,” he said in a mockingly defensive manner.

“Joel, I can’t exactly control when I was born you know,” you jokingly shot back. The playful banter was your favorite part of the day. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t look forward to it now.

“Well, how am I supposed to wish you a happy birthday when we won’t be in class?” He dramatically pouted.

I could give you my number, you thought. You’d never actually say that, though.

Suddenly, he turned and snatched a random piece of paper from one of his friends, and judging by the sharp “Hey!” that came out of the friend’s mouth, it probably was of some sort of importance. He grabbed your pencil and borderline slammed them down in front of you.

“Here, write down your number and all of our problems will be solved.”

Did he just? Did what you think just...happen? Fourteen year old you was absolutely dumbfounded.

“Sure,” you said as nonchalantly as possible, when in reality you were about to black out.

You scribbled down your number and handed it to him.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the bell rang, and you both scrambled for your things in the midst of chaos.

“I will be looking forward to that birthday wish,” you called out as he headed for the door. At first, you didn’t think he heard you, but at the last moment, he turned around and winked before stepping out the door.

You would have melted onto the floor if it wasn’t for Luna squealing in your ear like it was a holiday morning.

November 25 couldn’t come soon enough. Yes, you were excited to turn fifteen, but now you had another reason.

The question was, was that a good thing?

---------------------------------

November 25

Age: 15

Grade: 9

You woke up on your birthday morning with adrenaline coursing through your veins. After a fun Thanksgiving with family the day before, you were excited to finally celebrate your birthday with just your mom and dad, like you always did.

You’d be lying if you said the first thing you checked was not your phone. But, It was the first thing you reached for on your nightstand. Not your glasses, like normal.

You quickly scrolled through your notifications looking for an unknown number. There’s a text from your aunt, uncle, grandma, grandpa, cousins. Your heart sank when you reached the end. Nothing from him.

You placed your phone down and shook your head to clear out the negative energy that engulfed your body.

It was your birthday, you weren’t going to let anyone ruin this day for you. Even him.

---------------------------------

It was after dinner, which was your absolute favorite meal. You had gone to the mall with your mom and dad for some birthday shopping, a tradition you were very grateful for.

On the way home, you were happily thinking about the new outfits you were gifted, until your phone buzzed. Your heart quickened.

Luna!!: did he text you yet?

You exhaled sharply.

You: no, he hasnt :(

Thanks for the reminder, Luna.

Luna!!: bummer. i’m sure he will soon.

Luna!!: he’d be an idiot not to, don’t worry, love!

You mindlessly stared out the window of the back seat, hoping the blur of the trees would take your mind off of him.

You could sense your dad glancing at you using the rearview mirror.

You turned to look at him. “What?”

“Everything okay?” He asked.

You plaster a huge smile on your face and say yes, of course, because your parents have done so much for you that day that you should have been fluttering from happiness. You mean, you were happy. You couldn’t have been more thankful. Your heart just yearned for him to fulfill his promise.

Because you didn’t know what school was going to be like if he didn’t, and you weren’t ready to face that reality.

---------------------------------

That night, you brushed your teeth and got ready for bed. Your heart felt heavier each time you checked your phone and “No Older Notifications” was displayed instead of seeing the one you longed for. You glanced at your clock on your nightstand. The bright red numbers glared at you. It was close to 11:00.

You sighed and spun your phone around in your hands as you thought. Call it delusion, but you refused to put your phone down. You knew he was going to follow through.

Did you know why you knew? Not a clue.

Without warning, your phone vibrated in your hands. You couldn’t have flipped it upright faster if you tried.

Maybe: Joel

Maybe WHO?

Maybe: Joel: Happy birthday math partner 🥳

Maybe: Joel: This is Joel by the way, that’s probably important to add

Maybe: Joel: Although you do only have one amazing math partner

You really thought you died there for a second. They were, like, a handful of words (excluding the Joel part) but they were enough to make you hug your pillow from overload.

You spastically texted Luna.

You: JESFEUN You: HE IFHUHF You: HE TEXTED ME LUNA

She must have been waiting for this text all day, just like you. She responded right away.

Luna!!: YAYAYA WHAT DID HE SAY?

You: Happy birthday math partner with the 🥳 emoji and he forgot to say his name until the second text lmaooo

Luna!!: aww thats so cute! he sounds like he has an empty head but you go hon!!

Luna!!: now text him back idiot before you forget or he goes to bed

You: yep one sec

Your thumbs circled aimlessly around the keyboard. You wanted to say so many things. You settled on this:

You: thanks, math partner :)

You hit send on that, hesitated for a moment, then typed:

You: and yes you’re a pretty great one

You took a deep breath and pressed send. You changed his contact to “Math Partner”

You wanted to throw up, but in a good way? You sighed into your pillow. Almost as quick as you sent it, you felt another buzz.

Your hand shot out to grab your phone.

Math Partner: Hey, anytime you need a star, I’m here

You glanced down at your hand, where the orange star was just a few short days ago. It was gone. You wished it didn’t fade.

You: the orange one has already faded :(

Math Partner: Well, to make up for the late birthday wish, I can give you another one once we go back to school since we have another big test

You nodded vigorously, as if he could see that through the screen.

You: maybe in red this time? it’s my favorite color

Math Partner: Whatever you want, birthday girl

What a simp, you thought. Also, you were surprised you still had a pulse at that point. Birthday girl?

Math Partner: I have to go now, I have hockey super early tomorrow. Goodnight 😁

“Hockey?” you whispered to yourself.

You: yay, thanks :) and goodnight!!

He plays hockey? you thought. Shouldn’t you have known that?

You frantically Facetimed Luna and whisper-yelled every word you two exchanged. Luna beamed with so much happiness that you could have sworn she was getting the guy.

“This is literally the best thing EVER,” she quietly exclaimed.

You just laughed a giddy yet nervous laugh. You still had no clue what was happening, but you were ready to embrace it.

---------------------------------

January 25

Age: 15

Grade: 9

When the teacher switched around the seating charts during the year, she mostly kept you and Joel within talking distance each time. If that thing about teachers sensing when kids like each other was thought to be true, she definitely proved it to be so.

Thankfully, she kept this trend going when she switched the seats around on Joel’s birthday. She moved you guys back next to each other for the next quarter. Before, she briefly separated you guys for about two weeks (when Joel wouldn’t stop yelling to his other friend who was near him). During that time apart, you both were noticeably droopier and mopier than normal. He still joked with his friends, but you only heard his loud laugh a handful of times instead of….too many.

As for you, some kid you’ve never even talked to asked you if you were okay. The answer was of course no, but you couldn’t say that.

So when the brown haired boy sat down next to you for the first time in two weeks, it felt like the day he drew the star on your hand all over again. You wanted to reach out and hug him so he’d never leave you, much less say something, anything, but you just couldn’t still. Thankfully, he did the talking for you.

“Miss me?” he joked with his trademark smile.

“Very much so,” you said with a balance of sarcasm and lightheartedness. “Happy birthday, by the way.” You lightly shoved him, not entirely knowing where the guts to do that came from.

“Thank you, thank you. Did you get me anything?” he teased. He lightly shoved you back.

Your heart beated frantically. Your impulsivity urged you to do something you never would have a few months ago.

“Actually…” you paused for a moment. He raised his eyebrows. You reached for an orange marker and uncapped it with a pop.

“May I?”

He could hardly believe it.

“Do what?”

You playfully rolled your eyes. “Draw a star, dummy.”

“Ohhhhh,” he said as he connected the dots. He stuck out his clenched fist as he fought back a huge grin.

You couldn’t believe you were actually doing that.

You tucked your hand under his to keep it steady, just like he did with your hand a few months back. You took your time making sure each corner was connected precisely. You also didn’t want to let go of his hand, like, ever.

You finished way too soon for both your likings. You pulled away and closed the cap.

“Happy birthday, Math Partner.”

“Thanks,” he said. He had his eyes glued on the star you just drew. He didn’t even try to fight the grin that was creeping on his face.

Now you were the cause of his smile. Warmth flowed through your body. You just wanted to keep him that happy forever.

---------------------------------

That night, Luna called you on Facetime because apparently talking about those events in the hallway afterschool wasn’t enough.

“What’s up?” you calmly asked, as if you didn’t know why she was calling.

“What’s up? What do you mean what’s up? I mean, first you lightly shoved him. Yes, I saw that. But then you draw a star on him? I don’t know where this confident you came from, but I am living for it. I am so proud of you,” she sincerely said through a smile.

“Aw thank you, I appreciate it. Yeah, I don’t know either, honestly. He just brings out this good side of me now.”

“I can see that, and I love it. So...” She dragged out the “so,” and that was never a good sign.

“So?” you asked.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“About what?” You played dumb as best you could.

She didn’t buy it. “Oh come on, y/n. You know you love him, why don’t you tell him?”

You shuttered at that idea. By doing that, you risked losing what you’ve created so far. You were texting him roughly once or twice a week at that point about random stuff and talking to him in class every chance you got. Losing that was just something you were not prepared to face. And you told Luna that.

She (mostly) understood.

“I respect that,” she said. “But if you guys don’t hang out in the summer and keep this going, I will kill him.”

You snorted. “Me too, honestly.”

Could you guys keep this going for that long?

Only time would tell, you told yourself.

---------------------------------

April

Grade: 9

Age: 15

Every time you saw Joel, you came home with a pep in your step. It was like clockwork. You would bounce into the house with a grandiose “Hello Mother” and hum a song stuck in your head. Today it was “Love Story” by Taylor Swift.

“How was your day?” your mom asked with a hint of suspicion. After months of letting your intriguing happiness spell go, it was too obvious for her to ignore.

“Good,” you said. You didn’t really want to tell her much about Joel because you knew she wouldn’t believe you if you told her how you really felt about him. Those strong feelings didn’t waiver once over the last few months. Okay, maybe once on the day that he accidentally spilled water on your homework. But you couldn’t stay mad at him after he willingly placed his own homework in the same water.

“You’re very happy today. Anything happen in particular?” She prodded.

“Nope,” you pop the letter “p”.

“Who’s the boy?”

You froze. “Boy?”

“There has to be, you haven’t been this happy to go to school pretty much ever.”

You sighed. It was your mom after all. Maybe she would believe you if you told her.

“His name’s Joel, he’s in my Algebra class,” you mumbled.

“Is he nice? Is he smart? Does he play hockey?” The questions flew from left and right.

“Yes, he’s nice. He’s really sweet to me. He is way better at math than me. Yes he does,” you rattled off the answers to her bombardment.

“Excellent,” she smiled. “You like this boy?”

“Yeah, I really do. A lot actually.”

She raised an eyebrow. “A lot?”

“Yeah, honestly, I might love him.”

That confession froze the kitchen over. She paused.

“Honey, you’re too young to know that,” she tried to reason.

Your chest stung. “What if I’m not?” You questioned.

“You’re fifteen.”

“I know Mom, I know.” She opened her mouth to talk, but you said, “I have to go start homework.” You charged up the stairs and crashed on your bed.

So what if you were fifteen? You didn’t care how old you were. Call it being naive, but you were sure you knew everything when you were young.

You just had to wait for timing to fall into place to prove everyone wrong.

tagging: @teamcanadasimp :)

[babymetaldoll]

Gublerween vs Halloreid (Matthew Gray Gubler/Reader)

Prompt: invent your own holiday 

Pairing: Matthew Gray Gubler / Reader 

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: none 

Word counting: 1,2K

Masterlist

- “To be fair, you didn’t invent Gublerween”- (Y/N) argued chuckling as Mathew turned and looked at her pretending to be shocked and upset. The truth was, he was really enjoying that conversation. 

- ”It has half of my last name on it, it’s my own holiday” 

- “It’s just Halloween in the Gubler’s house!!”

(Y/N) and Matthew were taking the Halloween decorations from the attic, their favorite season was approaching, and Gubler wanted to decorate the whole house as soon as possible. He actually wanted to start September 21st, but (Y/N) managed to hold him until October 1st. Why? mostly because she was too lazy to start looking for all the decorations they had, which were… way too many. 

- “You are just jealous, Bunny”- and Matthew wasn’t ready to stop- “You wish you had your own holiday, but you don’t”

- “I’ve got a birthday and an anniversary, that’s all I need” 

- “Bullshit!”- Gubler stood in front of his girlfriend, holding a big box labeled “Gublerween” with big black markers all over- “You want your own holiday, dedicated to…”

She crossed her arms and waited for the rest of the sentence, but nothing came from Matthew’s lips. 

- “Dedicated to what, honey?”- and her boyfriend had no idea what to add to that- You don’t know what I like, do you? 

- “What?! no!”- he argued as (Y/N) stared at him raising an eyebrow- “I just couldn’t come up with anything that could define you, ‘cos there are so many things you do that are awesome”

The girl bit her lips in a poor attempt to avoid laughing. She could smell the bullshit in every word he was speaking. 

- “Sure, Gub”

- “I know what you like, Bunny!”- he dropped the box and crossed his arms on his chest as well.

- “Enlighten me!” 

- “You like writing stories that connect people, you love horror movies, reading, taking long walks, riding your longboard, and baking!”

- “That’s right, but that sounds like a pretty lousy holiday…”- she tapped on his arm and walked downstairs with two big decorations boxes. 

- “That’s because you are up against Gublerween”

- “Ok, please! explain to me what’s the difference between Halloween and Gublerween”  

- “Easy! Instead of Hallo, there’s Gubler”- she rolled her eyes as he chuckled- “When you spend your Halloween with me, you know it’s not your regular holiday” 

- “Believe me, honey, I know! this is my seventh Halloween with you”- Gubler smiled widely as they reached the first floor, where they already had the rest of the decoration boxes. 

- “I think this is it…”- (Y/N) looked around and sighed- “Where do you wanna start?”

- “I need coffee first”- the girl reached out for his hand and made their way to the kitchen.

 .

- “You know who deserves his own holiday?”- she broke the silence after a few minutes, while they waited for their coffees.

- “Who?”

- “Reid”- Matthew furrowed his brows and turned to her confused- “Poor thing, he has gone through so much”

- “Really?”- Gub chuckled amused- “Are you still crushed on that dork?”

- “Are you still jealous of my harmless crush on a fictional character personified by you?”- (Y/N) made her best not to laugh and bit her lips staring at her boyfriend.

- “You know I'm not gonna cheat on you with him…”

- “I'm pretty sure Reid can’t do the things I do to you”- Gubler whispered in a lower voice, making his girlfriend shiver- “But why does he deserve his own holiday?”

- “The real question would be why not?”- (Y/N) poured coffee in Matthew's mug and handed it to him- “He has gone through so much, his dad left him when he was a kid, he had to take care of his schizophrenic mom, he was bullied his whole life, kidnapped, tortured, shot, the closest thing he had to a father figure abandoned him, and he only got a letter, just like his dad had done.”

- “Gideon?”- Matthew raised an eyebrow, stirring his cup.

- “Yes, he was also a drug addict and had to overcome it on his own ‘cos no one ever helped him, and the only girlfriend he has ever had was shot in front of him! Come on, honey! The kid deserves some fun and light in his life! Let's give him a holiday! His own day!”- Gubler laughed at those words, loving the excitement in his girlfriend's voice. 

- “And how would his holiday be called?”

- “Halloreid”- the girl didn't even have to think about it so much- “Spence loves Halloween as well, and I bet he would be moved to have his own personal celebration.”

- "Spence?”- Matthew walked a step closer to his girlfriend, who was innocently taking a sip from her coffee- “Are you two closer than I thought?”

- “Nope… maybe… we see each other sometimes when you are not home… he is such good company”- she answered with a grin- “Come on! Share your holiday with poor Dr. Reid!”

- “How would Halloreid be any different than Gublerween?”

- “Which is the difference between Halloween and Gublerween?”- and Matthew licked his lips thinking of an answer, chuckling at the same time.

(Y/N) was enjoying that conversation more than she had thought. She loved teasing her boyfriend, and most of all, she loved the fact he would ramble with her. No questions asked. Seven years of rambling had come and gone faster than she had imagined. It was their seventh Halloween together, and she still wondered how time had passed so fast. 

- “And what would Halloreid be about?”- Matthew walked back to the living room, followed by (Y/N), who also carried a dish with Halloween cookies she had baked earlier, and sat on the floor. 

- “Probably ghost stories, phantasmagoria, weird disguises… giving kids some candies”- she answered thinking about some Criminal Minds episodes.

- “And how is that different from Gublerween?”- her boyfriend questioned as he went through all the decorations in a box, taking out some lights that needed to be untangled.

- “Halloreid doesn't have pumpkin carving, and his house doesn’t have any gourd…”

- “No gourd?!”- he nearly yelled, making (Y/N) jump on her spot.

- “Yeah, poor kid, he can't have any in his apartment”

- “He could put a few in JJ's house”

- “Yeah, but it's not the same as carving them and having them in your own place”

- “I guess you are right”- Gubler made a pause and sighed- “Fine, let the kid have his own Halloreid”

- “Great! Let's make it official”- (Y/N) stood up and ran back to the kitchen, where she had left her phone.

- “What are you doing?” 

- “I'm taking a picture of you as you”- Matthew smiled at the camera and hugged a plastic skeleton- “And now I need you to be a little more Reid”

- “Wait!”- the actor took off his sweater and glasses, fixed his hair (though it was still a big wavy mess), and grabbed a plastic pumpkin. (Y/N) took a few pictures and giggled.

- “These beauties are going straight to my Instagram, let's see what people think of our brilliant idea”

- “I wanna share them too, I'm gonna make a poll, Gublerween against Halloreid”

- “I bet all my money on Gublerween”

- “Why?”

- “Gub is better than Reid any day”

- “Oh really? And why is that?”- (Y/N) moved closer and leaned to kiss Matthew’s lips sweetly. 

- “For starters, he is real...”

[skullrock]

the captain

pairing: Steve x Hagan!Reader

request: Can I please request a fluffy fic where Steve falls for Tommy H’s sister? She stops by Scoops Ahoy to buy ice cream and they go all “Oh, it’s been a long time since we last saw each other” kind of? I love your writing so much 🥺

word count: 1.8k

warnings: Steve being Big Idiot, mentions of T*mmy H*gan 

a/n: tommy’s party by peach pit intensifies in my head 

===

“We’re out of sea-berry.”

Robin doesn’t look up from her book. “What?”

Steve grabs the empty container from the display case and nearly chucks it in her direction. “We - are out - of sea-berry.” He chucks it dramatically into the trash and throws his hat on the counter, then leans forward to rest his head in his hands.

“Steve, it’s just ice cream,” Robin says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I am having a bad day.”

Robin’s brows knit together. “Because we’re out of sea-berry?”

“It’s not about the ice cream, Robin,” he says, lifting his head to glare at her. “It’s about working at a shitty minimum wage job with this stupid hat and my arms hurt from scooping stupid ice cream for stupid customers.”

Robin puts her book down and sighs, hopping off the counter. She claps Steve’s shoulder and he bristles at the feeling. “Hey, slinging ice cream isn’t stupid.”

“Oh?” he asks. “In this - in this costume?” Steve tugs at his shirt. “You don’t think this job is stupid?”

Robin winces. “Spoiled,” she mumbles, and leans against the back counter. “How’s the girl thing coming along?”

Steve sighs loudly, dramatically, and leans against the cooler, back to the seating area. “How do you think?”

“I haven’t kept track today, but knowing your record, not good.”

“I give up!” he cries out, throwing his hands up. “I give up. The - the - God or whatever - wants me to suffer. I am fruitless.” He stares at the ground and crosses his arms. “My dad’s trying to teach me a lesson on being responsible and the universe is trying to teach me a lesson on being - I don’t know.”

“Not an asshole?”

Steve winces now, eyes trained on his shoelaces. “Yeah, maybe.”

Robin sighs, feeling some pity for the boy in front of her. “Look, you only have a few more hours, okay? Just make it til then.”

Just make it til then. Steve can do that, he thinks.

And then you come into the store.

Steve does a double take, looking up from the to-do list he’s reading for the fiftieth time that day. His brows furrow and he goes a bit slack-jawed, shocked to see you. He hadn’t seen you in forever - since junior year, at least. He hadn’t even thought about you; Tommy and all things related had been forcefully eradicated from his mind. But he knows you from anywhere - knows the freckles and hair, knows your smile. Knows the laugh you share with a friend before you walk into the store, alone, playing with your wallet.

Steve continues to stare with his mouth agape as you approach, and you also do a double-take. You remember Steve - of course you remember Steve. He was all you thought about while Tommy was close with him. You’d begged your brother two things your whole life - to stop being a dick and to get Steve to go on a date with you.

Of course, he did neither.

But you’re grown up now, more confident and less desperate for a date. Still, despite the growth, you’re completely smitten. Steve’s even cuter now, has grown into himself. His hair, salon-highlighted, bounces as you both make eye contact. You remember the moles on his neck, his hands, his eyes - god, his eyes, warm and brown and always kind even when Steve wasn’t. And he was kind, to you, at least. You could always see past the bullshit facade. You knew who he was, deep down. You knew him as a quiet boy at the pool, the one who said please and thank you to your mother, the one who shoved Tommy when Tommy was mean to you. He always wanted to make you laugh, no matter what. You just felt comfortable with him.

You realize at this point that you’ve stopped walking and you blush as your feet begin to work again.

“Look who it is,” you say, smiling widely. “The one that got away.”

Steve smiles despite not understanding the joke. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hi, Steve.”

“Been a long time,” he says, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah.” You smile sadly. “Tommy wouldn’t tell me what happened. I just knew I wasn’t going to see you anymore.”

Steve stiffens a bit at the mention of Tommy, but he shrugs a shoulder. “Well, you know -”

“I do know,” you say. “I wish I could lose Tommy and Carol.”

“I guess I got lucky, huh?”

“Yeah, guess you did,” you say, eyes trained on his. “And I got unlucky. I missed you.”

Steve perks up a bit, but his brows twitch together. “You missed me?”

“I - yeah,” you stutter, blushing. “Yeah. You were always cool and nice to me.”

Steve’s smile widens and he leans against the counter, clasping his hands together. “Yeah? Well, maybe I missed you, too.”

“Really?”

“You were fun,” he says, “and I think we connected because deep down, we both hated your brother.”

“And Carol.”

“And Carol,” he laughs. “God, remember when they made me have a pool party? And you and I went inside and played Monopoly for hours while they made out at the pool?”

You laugh, too. “Jesus Christ, your pool probably has mono.”

“Probably.”

You both stare at each other a little longer before you clear your throat. “So - ice cream? What do you recommend? I’ve never been here.”

“Lucky you,” he says, straightening. “Well, we’re out of sea-berry -”

Robin sighs behind him and he turns to glare at her, not enjoying the audience, but whips back around to you. “But we have other flavors.”

“Oh, boy,” you say, your smile starting to hurt your face. “Lay ‘em on me.”

Steve takes you through each flavor, dramatically reciting what they are and what the selling point is, handing you a small spoon for each one. You really don’t care to taste them all, but you care about talking to him - you care about your fingers brushing every time he hands you a sample, how his eyes light up when he laughs, how dorky he looks and sounds.

“We also have sundaes and stuff,” he says, “which I can also attempt to sell to you.”

“Do you make this much of an effort every time you make a sale?”

“No, just for you.”

You both blush but the smiles stay, and Robin is nearly gagging behind Steve because it’s frankly disgusting to watch straight people flirt.

“What do you usually get?” you ask. “I think I trust your judgement.”

“I don’t give this place my money,” he says, “but when I steal, I always get the USS Butterscotch.”

You wrinkle your nose. “What is it called?”

“Look, I didn’t name it!”

You laugh. “I bet you didn’t pick your uniforms, either.”

Steve snorts. “No way, I’d pick something much nicer -”

“What, like a pastel striped polo?” Robin quips from behind him.

Steve whips around again and opens his mouth to retaliate, but you say, “I think it looks good on you.”

He turns to look at you, head inclined as if to say yeah, right. “No, I look stupid.”

“No!” you protest. “It’s really nice. The color is nice on you.”

Steve can’t stop the blush that creeps onto his cheeks, and he rubs the back of his neck. “You think?”

“Yeah,” you say casually. “And it really shows off your arms and legs.”

At this point, Robin gets up and walks to the back, leaving you and Steve alone. Finally.

“What about my arms and legs needs shown off?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “Like you don’t know.”

“Like I don’t know what?”

“That you’re cute.”

Had Steve been drinking, he would have done a spit-take.

“I mean - like - uh. Like - you’re - conventionally. Attractive,” you add, anxiety gripping your veins. “Like. You know.”

Steve smirks. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” you say, leaning across the cooler to tug on his ascot. “You know you’re attractive. That was your one personality trait.”

Steve pouts. “Hey -”

“I’m kidding,” you say, pushing him a bit before leaning back to your side of the cooler. “I’d like a - whatever you said earlier.”

Steve whips his scooper out and twirls it in his hand before getting to work. You smile as you wait, watching him do everything very dramatically and with flair. He turns and produces the concoction to you, gesturing towards it theatrically before handing it to you.

“How much?” you ask, reaching for your wallet again.

“No way,” he says, crinkling his nose. “You’re not paying.”

Your shoulders drop and you frown. “Steve, come on -”

“It’s on me. I like to steal from this place.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Like Robin Hood.”

“Sure,” he says, not knowing who that is. “Like Robin Hood.”

“This better be good,” you say. “Because I’m not coming back if it sucks.”

“That’s too bad,” he pouts, leaning against the cooler. “I guess that means I’ll have to see you outside of work, then.”

You raise a brow and smile, grabbing the spoon in your dish. “Let’s see.”

You slowly take a bite. It’s actually pretty good, but you want to see Steve somewhere else.

“It sucks,” you say. “Worst thing I’ve ever had.”

“Damn,” Steve sighs. “I guess that means I’ll have to meet you at the movies tomorrow at eight?”

“I guess so,” you say, trying to suppress a smile. “What a bummer.”

Steve smiles fondly. “What a bummer.”

After a few moments of intense eye-contact, the bell at the counter rings, signifying Erica Sinclair’s entrance. Steve sighs and grits his teeth, looking back at you with a sympathetic smile. “I’m very glad you came in here.”

“Me too,” you smile. “Tomorrow? Eight? Movies.”

“Tomorrow, eight, movies,” he repeats, nodding, and you smile wider at how his hair bobs over his forehead as he does.

“Sailor Man!”

“Jesus,” Steve mumbles, sending you one last smile before going towards the register.

===

“That was so gross,” Robin scoffs. “You guys - ugh. For fifteen minutes!”

Steve smugly smiles at her. He walks towards her board and grabs her marker, dramatically drawing a ‘I’ on his side of the board. “I rule.”

“This time,” Robin says, unable to hide her smile. “This time, you rule.”

===

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