#working on a big ass canvas is wondrous

[th3-0bjectivist]

1500 FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION post w/ page mascot Springin' Chip!

Heya folks! Springin’ Chip here with a very special celebratory post! This last week, th3-0bjectivist hit 1500 followers! To be fair, about a quarter of his followers are more than likely AI pornbots, but let’s not get hung up on unnecessary details! Being a canine, there’s very little that I can personally offer our audience on Tumblr… save for some drool, dog snot, and poop. So, we’re going to celebrate the only way I know how!

Pictured with me in this photoset is my big sister, Ruby, and for this commemorative post you get to watch me beat her up! I assault my big sister all the time these days, sometimes for no reason, numerous times a day! I think she likes it! If weight class and overall size were a factor, Ruby could just brush my little Spaniel ass aside like a dust bunny. But she plays well with me, and just lets me kinda passively dominate her most days. Works for me! On with the festivities!!!

And now for some page lore! About a decade ago, th3-0bjectivist was comically barely known as v3ritasartiste on Tumblr. It was a page centered around conspiracy theories… and art, and music. And whooooooo boy, did it suck ass through a bamboo straw! The layout was atrocious, the conspiracy-addled dipshit in charge of the page had no idea what he was doing because he was high out of his mind on government-strength sativa and indica strains 24/7, and nothing he posted made a lick of sense! After gaining a whopping 78 followers over two years, butt-hurt and utterly disregarded, v3ritasartiste shut down his page out of pure frustration.

Yeah, take that Ruby! Years later, during the stay-at-home fallout from ***THE UNSPECIFIED VIRUS FROM UNKNOWN ORIGINS***, v3ritasartiste became th3-0bjectivist with three main goals in mind: 1. Jettison the conspiracy bullshit entirely 2. Create a page that actually makes contextual sense 3. Promote art, both own and others. And, by gum, it worked! Well… sorta. There was still a learning curve and he pissed off a few people to start things off (those blocks were well-earned in retrospect) because he was too brash and cocky, but some social refinement and further diversification of materials led us to where we are today. 1500 and counting!

Do ya see how Ruby just lets me rule her!? She could swallow me in a single gulp, damn I love her so much! Getting back to the point of this post, th3-0 wants you to know he greatly appreciates your follows, your likes, reposts, and most importantly your presence here on Tumblr! You may not realize it, but we’re all on a journey together while we’re on this platform. th3-0 has been able to share some of his joys, sorrows and art with you over the years… and those moments aren’t just precious, they are the universal moments that bring us all together as a species. Well… not me personally per se. Just to be clear, I’m a dog! Th3-0, who is a human, just wanted me to express those things to you… yeah, that’s the ticket.

Unlike last year, we’re at full mast with new art. We’ve got plenty of new paintings coming which just need to be more fully realized. We’ve practically cornered the market on original painting-animations on Tumblr, and musical entries and snarky commentary will continue to flow like wine until we’ve determined they are no longer working for us (which will be NEVER). Warts and all, th3-0bjectivist LOVES Tumblr. And just a reminder, if you’re ever interested in purchasing some canvas work, which would really help us, just head on over to our page on DeviantArt and browse the selections in the Featured section. Our wall decorations can make your home or business weirder and more wondrous at the same time! Tumblr restricts gifs to a pathetic 10MB download, which severely confines the visual quality of the gifs. But on DeviantArt, all our artistic gifs are available in high definition and they’re free to download!

Time for a nap with my big sis…. while th3-0bjectivist deletes 386,712,364,871,236,857,623,547,612,376,451,457,282,367,487,264 pornbot messages from his Tumblr inbox! Thanks Tumblr, we love you all!

Until next time fellow literate dogs, ¬ Springin’ Chip for th3-0bjectivist

The 0bjectivist on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC2sONH8IwzL_2sZie0ZNSnw/

I’m also on BitChute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/uvKfJpNkzkIL/

FULL ART GALLERY on Instagram at: https://www.instagram.com/th3_0bjectivist_gallery/ <---- screw that garbage website, we deleted our profile this year!

FULL ART GALLERY on DeviantArt at: https://www.deviantart.com/th3-0bjectivist/gallery

[talklance]

“In another life, you were mine, in another life, i promised to return to you. So come, love, let us meet once more. In the threshold between dreams and reality, let us rendezvous for all eternity.”

Fun fact, before deciding to write my longest fic yet (Re:DO), i had thought about writing a reincarnation Klance fic instead, but the plot was half done and not developed enough, so i left it aside to write the other one.

Some stuff i had thought for it under the cut (the plot, basically).

Lance keeps having dreams through his childhood about people he doesn’t know and things that seem surreal.

Turns out they are memories from his previous life.

He was an ancestor of the Altean race, which were descended from his people.

He was the 8th prince in line to the throne.

Keith (Kial) was a duque and a Knight from the neighboring kingdom, from a race previous to the Galra.

They met at a banquet that had the purpose of signing peace treaties left and right to try and stop a war from happening. 

Long story short, didn’t work, although it took some time for shit to hit the fan. 

Lance fell for Keith and eventually they married, adopting an orphan girl victim of the war and creating a family. 

Sadly, Lance died protecting his husband and his people, but refused to be reborn until he was able to see Keith once again, watching from above the events that unfolded.

He waited, stuck in a limbo of nothingness until one day, Keith appeared before him. 

He said nothing, just smiled sweetly at Lance, and Lance bowed to find him again, as many times as needed, he promised to be together once more after they were reborn, and watched as Keith dissapearred, him following suit.

Now fast forward, Lance is 14, and has finally regained all his memories and tries to find his lover, his only clue being the stars. 

Catch him finding an Add about Shiro and instantly recognizing him as Kial’s best friend, knowing that the Garrison was the right place to go.

He works hard, goes there, all the while excited to be with his true love. 

He sees him, screams his name, and the only things he gets are awkward stares and Keith pushing him away, telling him he got the wrong person.

He tries to reason with him, make him understand. But he comes to the horrifying realization that Keith doesn’t remember him, at all. 

And then his world crashes down on him because on that limbo between heaven and earth, Kial had never said it back, he’d never said that he’d find Lance again or that he wanted to be with him.

Kial never promised, he never spoke, he just smiled and vanished, and the only one that swore on his life that they would reunite, had been him.

 He watched as Keith smiled softly at Shiro, and they laughed and joked, and Lance became so mad because Kial had decided to be reborn with his best friend instead of him, he’d abandoned Lance, he rejected him.

And thus, Lance’s hate for Keith began.

Now fast forward again and they meet Allura, and he nearly dies because she’s the vivd image of his daughter, whom he’d watched grow up while he was stuck in limbo. 

He accidentally calls her by her name and Allura flips her shit because hey, that’s my great grandmother’s name.

It turns out his daughter had married royalty, and he was right before her descendants, family.

Allura ends up finding out and is overjoyed.

Keith is clueless and Lance is jealous.

And that’s as far as i got. I’m sure i had an idea about why Keith forgot, but....i forgot, so there’s that.

[wevegottogetaway]

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone. 

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind. 

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and  a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?" 

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins. 

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-" 

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

                                                       ***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.  

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it. 

                                                       ***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm. 

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!" 

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before. 

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place. 

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?" 

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me." 

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?" 

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation." 

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order. 

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

                                                        ***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once. 

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test. 

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

                                                       ***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

                                                         ***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in? 

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

                                                       ***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming  and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer. 

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether. 

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides. 

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics. 

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that. 

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence." 

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!" 

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming. 

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go. 

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits. 

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows. 

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

                                                       ***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place). 

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm. 

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why. 

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop  for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes. 

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head. 

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

                                                       ***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her. 

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that���s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building. 

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant. 

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know. 

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be. 

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them  however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place." 

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection. 

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’." 

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is. 

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper. 

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n." 

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own. 

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear. 

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink. 

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his. 

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."  

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?" 

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words. 

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss. 

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans. 

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right." 

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?" 

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek. 

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead. 

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties." 

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra.  Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach. 

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips. 

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment. 

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways. 

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good." 

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough." 

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths. 

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness. 

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?" 

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering. 

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly. 

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind. 

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell. 

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry  doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused. 

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."  

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was." 

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference. 

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

[likelyrowdy]

I Have to Write My Name on Things

Pairing: Vergil x GN!Reader Genre: Fluff? Rating: PG-13ish Word Count: 1000

Summary: A while ago, @arsuf shared a post of The Old Man's Diary Entry and it made me feel things. Read it on AO3.

You knew that this was a bad idea. Like, really bad . Phenomenally bad. In the past, you'd made fun of people for doing exactly this. Had warned your friends that they'd be making a big mistake - huge - by doing this exact thing. But was that going to stop you?

Absolutely not.

It all stemmed from an insecurity of Vergil’s. In a moment of weakness (the only, if you asked him) after some vigorous lovemaking, Vergil had traced idle shapes into your skin. “Possessive, much?” you’d asked, a teasing grin on your lips when it dawned on you that those lazy shapes were in fact the elegant lines of his script. Curled into his side as you were, luxuriating in the steady beat of his heart as it rocked you to sleep, you hadn’t expected a response, much less the vulnerability in words confided so softly in your ear:

“As a child I had to write my name on things to make them truly mine.”

And fuck you sideways if that hadn’t pulled on your heartstrings. So the next day you put in an order online, simultaneously flustered and completely confident in your purchase when you brought Vergil your bounty. He hadn’t known what to make of the small motor as he lifted it out of the box until he came across the needles and the ink.

He knew it was just as bad of an idea as you did. At first, he refused. He loved you just the way you were - smooth skin free of blemishes with the exception of a freckle or scar here and there. You were not a book, he did not need to write his name on you to keep his brother at bay. You were already his.

But you were nothing if not persistent. You wanted him to write his name on you.

It started with suggestions over the course of several weeks of where you could place it, but Vergil always had a reason to shut you down. Your wrist? Too visible. Your ass? Undignified. Your bicep? Still too visible.

“What about my hip?” you asked, tugging at a belt loop until your jeans pulled off of the smooth canvas that surrounded your hip bone. “It’s easy to cover up. No one will see it unless I want them to.”

Vergil’s head tilted the slightest bit in consideration, his eyes hungrily glued to your hip. He still was not completely comfortable with the idea, but he had to admit that it held a certain appeal. Would he brush his thumb over the ink once it had fully healed into your soft skin, feeling the ink press up from the rest of your flesh as he held you closer in a moment of passion? Yes, the idea was very appealing.

“You getting a tattoo?” Dante asked as he took up his seat by the phone.

“Thinking about it,” you casually answered, releasing the belt loop so that your skin was hidden once more.

“Hip, huh?" he whistled, cheekily. “Sexy but discreet. It suits you.”

It was the wink Dante sent your way that pushed Vergil over the edge. He stopped beside you on his way to your shared room, bristling when he told you to pick a different spot. Though his voice was low, his message was clear: pick a spot that Dante won’t see; one that has nothing to do with him.

Days later, you made your decision: “My ribs.” You lifted your left arm and pushed your clothes out of the way to showcase the spot you’d picked. Before Vergil could protest, you cut him off. “I know that rib tattoos are painful, but I have a high pain tolerance, -” you wouldn’t have lasted long in this line of work if you didn’t, “- no one will see it if I don’t want them to, and it’ll always be close to my heart.”

When he saw that you really, truly meant it, he acquiesced.

Never one to do anything half-assed, Vergil bought the necessary materials that your kit lacked. Each night, after the shop fell silent, he would assemble the machine and practice scratching lines into the skins of the oranges and bananas that Dante kept in the kitchen at Nero’s insistence. It took weeks for him to get a feel for the machinery, to do the necessary research, and to watch the handful of instructional videos you sent his way.

He wanted to make sure that he did right by you.

On the day, Vergil rolled up his shirtsleeves and donned black, latex gloves. Alcohol wipes cleansed the area before he went over it with a fresh, disposable razor to make sure that your skin was prepped and smooth. He marked the general area with a highlighter while your arm was relaxed at your side so he could be sure that the tattoo would rest where you wanted it to. The better part of an hour was spent drawing his name across your left rib cage in sharpie, wiping it off, and starting over again until you were both satisfied with the placement and size, and he with the penmanship.

His outline was surprisingly straight, though each line was picked up in multiple, weird places and a couple of them were blown out. Despite only using black ink, his shading between the thicker downstrokes of each letter were uneven throughout. Neither of you would know the real damage until it was fully healed in two-ish weeks.

You didn’t need to look at it in the mirror to know that you loved it, but you did anyway: marveling at the way the black ink stood out from the rest of your skin, a shiver creeping up your spine at the sight of his script etched into your skin so close to your heart.

“I guess this means I’m yours now, huh?” Your words were meant to tease, but they came out too breathily and your smile was more wondrous than vexing.

Vergil brushed his fingers over the sensitive skin below the script, his gaze reverent; lips curved in a gentle fascination.

I have a twin brother, sir. We fight over things often, so I have to write my name on things to make them truly mine.

“I suppose it does.”

[aelin-and-feyre]

Circumstance (Part 6)

Thank you everyone for waiting! Big revelations this chapter!!!

Tagging: @a-courtof-fangirls-and-fanfics @autumn03@rhysandpurred @crazybookladythings @readinggiraffe @devilsadvocate15 @marimarac @carolineherr15 @musiccbeach @illyrian-wingspans (let me know if you want to be tagged in future parts!)

Circumstance Masterlist

Rowaelin Daughter x Feysand Son

Rhys and Azriel winnow the two Archeron sisters and Ember into a room the princess had never seen before. Glancing quickly out the window, it is clear that they are in the House of Wind. Ember has been in a bad mood ever since she received the letter, but as she takes a cursory glance around the large gallery, she can feel her anger being overcome with awe and curiosity.  The High Lord and his spymaster quickly depart, leaving the three ladies to wander and explore.

"So what exactly had you wanted to see in here?" Nesta's bored tone interrupts Ember from her wondrous inspection of the piece closest to her. She turns to find the eldest sister staring at her with a mockingly raised eyebrow. Ember straightens at the challenge.

"Many of Cadewyn's pieces hang in his room and I desired to view more of his work. They truly are extraordinary, don't you think?" She replies, forcing Nesta to match her level of tolerance if she doesn't want to look more like an ass.

Nesta huffs. "Yes, of course they are." She crosses her arms, glancing between her sister and the princess as if debating something. "Well, I have some emissary business to attend to. Elain should be able to show you around. Don't wreck anything."

Without even waiting for a response, Nesta whirls and stalks out of the room, closing the door rather harshly behind her. Elain shakes her head slightly with a sigh and hooks her elbow through Ember's. "Don't mind Nesta, she's just grumpy that Cade is gonna miss her birthday next week."

Ember stores that little piece of info in the back of her mind before further questioning. "She's very protective over Cadewyn, isn't she?" Elain chuckles softly and nods, beginning to maneuver the two of them to one side of the room. "But not Brexton?"

"Oh she used to be plenty protective over Brex, but now Magdalene does that enough for her." Elain gestures to the painting in front of them, near the door. "Cade has organized his gallery to be in chronological order. These are from when he was very young."

Ember examines the painting and the ones around it. It's incredibly obvious that they were done by a little boy, as, compared to the ones in her room, they are much more abstract and childish. Still, she can see the obvious skill that flowed through his hands even at such a young age. The pictures are a jumble, with no real theme or connotation. There are crude drawings of the mountains the surround Velaris, and jagged, dark paintings of wings. Colors vary widely but Ember notices a large amount of black as a whole, which makes sense for the son of the Night Court.

"He truly is a prodigy." She murmurs, stepping over to the next cluster of pictures, these being vastly different from the previous. Instead of black being the overarching color, these paintings are incredibly similar to the one that hangs just by her bed. Turquoise and gold and white envelope the canvases. "Is this for the Summer Court?" She wonders idly, trying to place why he would be so infatuated with this color scheme.

Elain laughs. "Cauldron, no.” Ember can feel the Seer’s eyes searching her face. “You truly don't recognize this?"

Ember looks at her, utterly confused, until one painting catches her attention. It's a childish depiction, formed in a football shape that conveys what Cade was modeling it after, and all the air is sucked out of Ember's lungs. She recognizes the picture, she's seen it in her mother, and her uncle, and her sister, and her mirror all her life. She wants to kick herself for not realizing it earlier.

"Th-that looks like m-my...." She trails off, unable to comprehend what this might mean.

Elain nods. "Yes. The resemblance is uncanny isn't it? He started painting these when he was five, and hasn't stopped since. I almost thought he might have been a Seer too until Feyre and Rhys told me what it really meant."

It takes too long for Elain's words to register in Ember's racing mind, and by the time she is ready to ask the question, Elain has realized she had said too much. "What does it really mean?"

The female waved a hand, her darting eyes conveying her nervousness. "Ah, don't listen to me, I'm just prattling on about nonsense. Cade just really likes these colors, thinks they go well together."

Ember knows she's lying. Elain is a Seer, and if anyone in the Night Court could give her answer about this male who is painting portraits of Ashryver eyes, it's her. She's about to demand that Elain tell her the truth, when something clicks in her brain. "Wait. Elain, you said that Cade began to paint these when he was five?"

Hesitantly, the middle Archeron sister nods. "Or a little bit after. He demanded that Feyre get him huge turquoise and gold tubs of paint, and has asked for refills every birthday since. Everyone in the Inner Circle recognized your eyes the moment you walked in the room."

"Why didn't anyone say anything?"

Elain shrugs, beginning to drift away from the display and towards the center of the room where a couple benches were available to sit on. "I think most of them thought it was a coincidence. Brexton knew, though, which is why he suggested you come here."

"Knew what? Elain, what are you not telling me?" Ember asks, suddenly desperate to understand. She practically runs to sit next to the female, grasping her hands and begging for answers.

Elain eyes her warily. "You truly have not figured it out? You've spent a week in his room, I thought you would have smelled it." Her chin jerks towards the wall again. "Go look at some more paintings and think. Feyre and Rhys would not appreciate me telling you. You have to figure it out for yourself."

Ember narrows her eyes, frustrated and annoyed that no one is telling her anything. Obviously, a lot of people in the Night Court know something about Cade that she doesn't. Ember hopes that Gusty can find out something soon. With a huff, Ember stands from the bench and walks back to the wall, admiring the next set of paintings.

Elain had said that Cade had been a little older than five when he started becoming obsessed with the colors that so resembled her eyes. Distantly, Ember recalls her first meeting with Cade over a decade ago, where he had pushed her down the stairs which forced her parents and her to leave the Leader Meeting early.

There is very little of that meeting that she can remember, but she does retain the memory of some strong emotion, and a great force that had erupted through her right before she fell. Drifting a little to the next set of paintings, it is plainly obvious the improvement the Cade made over very few years. One canvas holds this time a set of eyes, exactly her shade and color and pattern; deep blue with gold surrounding the pupil.

"The Leader Meeting..." She murmurs aloud. "That was where we first met."

"Ah, yes," Elain agrees, watching Ember from her perch on the benches. "He didn't mean to push you, y'know, it was an accident and he felt awful about it. I don't think he came out of his room for a couple weeks after that. He emerged with a urgent need for turquoise and gold paint, saying he'd used up his supply already."

"Why did he need to paint my eyes so badly?" Ember wonders, walking over to a new collection. Instead of darkness and shadows, these depicted a variety of different landscapes and colors. "Are these of the other courts?"

"Yes, he ran out of places to paint in the Night Court, and begged to be taken around Prythian. Feyre and him travelled the courts for months painting and drawing." A small smile made it's way onto Elain's lips. "It was the first time that he started to get over his fascination with you." Ember raised an eyebrow. "I imagine after so long, he's forgotten all about what those dreams were linked to."

That catches Ember's attention. "Dreams? He has dreams of my eyes?" Ember's head is spinning. She has dreams about his eyes. Now that she thinks about it, her dreams have been going on since she was little... probably since she was about five.

"All the time," Elain replies, her smile growing as if she can see the wheels turning in Ember's mind. For all the princess knows, maybe she can. "By the way, he didn't mean to go through your things, he's naturally curious. Your room brought back memories for him that he wasn't aware existed. He's wanted to see you again ever since you and your parents left the Leader Meeting a decade and a half ago."

"But why?" Ember almost yelled it in her anguish. She is done with the mind games. The Crown Princess of Terrasen demands to understand why she is so connected with a stranger.

Before Elain can respond, the door bursts open and Nesta stalks through. "What is going on in here? Elain, what are you telling her?" The female practically hisses.

"What she has a right to know, Nesta! You don't understand why they're doing this either! I'm just speeding the process along." Elain reasons, much more calm than Ember would be if Nesta was glaring at her like that.

"Gods! Will someone please just tell me what is happening already?" Ember is frantic, but Nesta doesn't care.

The eldest Archeron sneers. "I don't know anything for certain, Elain, and I'm not sure you do either." Then the piercing gaze is fixed upon the princess. "You'll find out soon enough. I'll have Cassian come get you, but Elain and I are leaving. You've gotten her into enough trouble as it is." And then Nesta firmly grasps Elain's wrist and pulls her out of the room.

Ember sinks to the ground, her hands coming up to hold her head and hopefully stop it from it's incessant spinning. "What is happening?" She whispers. Knowing she can't stay in this room any longer, surrounded by the evidence haunting her mind, and not being able to wait for Cassian, Ember strides towards the window. She throws it open and hesitates for a moment. Is she jumping to conclusions? Maybe Elain and Nesta are just messing with her mind. Maybe there is no real connection between her and Cadewyn.

However, it is impossible for even Ember to miss the signs. She glances back at the painting of her eyes, almost perfect replicas of the ones she sees everyday in the mirror, and makes up her mind. Shifting quickly, Ember flies out of the House of Wind and over Velaris, praying to the gods that no one sees her and realizes she's no ordinary bird.

When she arrives back to the townhouse, Ember shifts back and walks the rest of the way to her room. The scent of him envelops her and proves to only confuse her more, bringing back the feeling of home and safety. Forcing herself not to lose her nerve, Ember races to her desk and pulls out a piece of parchment.

And then she begins to write a letter to her mother.

"How does she feel about flying?" Cade asks, hanging upside down on his bed the next day, throwing a ball up in the air as he continues his round of questioning.

Gusty laughs quietly. "Oh, she loves it. It's one of her favorite past-times."

Cade's eyebrows crease and he deftly flips over to lay on his stomach, looking at the young princess with a quizzical expression. "Why do you laugh?"

Gusty wags her finger. "Nuh uh, sorry batboy, that's another thing I can't tell you. Ember should tell you about that herself." Cadewyn grumbles in response but doesn't push it. There are some things he hasn't told the girl either, feeling it right for him to tell the literal girl of his dreams himself. "Okay, my turn." She repositions her pen, ready to write down his answer to later tell her sister. "Do you miss the Night Court?"

"Well, of course. I miss my family and friends, and no offense, but your library is nothing compared to the one we have." Gusty nods and scribbles on her stationary. "But I also really like it here, all the mortals are really nice and your family is very welcoming." He waits a few seconds for her to finish writing before asking his question. "What's her favorite color?"

"Violet." Gusty replies without hesitation, and then glances up to see Cade's reaction. "She had wanted this room to be repainted violet a few years ago, but my parents talked her out of it for some reason."

Cade can't help but bring a hand up to touch his face, his fingers brushing the underside of his eye as he continues to speculate what the connection between them might mean. Before Gusty can ask her next question, there is a knock on the door.

"Come in!" Cade answers, assuming it's the food he and Gusty had ordered earlier. Instead of chocolate cake, however, the Queen is standing on the other side of the door. Both Cadewyn and Gusty rush to stand, the former bowing to his host as the latter waving.

"Hey, mama, what's up?" Gusty greets as she plops back down in her chair. Cade sits on his bed, feeling awkward in the presence of such a powerful woman.

Aelin smiles ruefully at her daughter. "I should have known I would find you in here. I hope you aren't terrorizing our guest too much."

"Not at all, Your Majesty." Cade assures, his mind racing for a reason for this visit.

The queen nods, and then turns to face him, allowing him to see the paper she is holding. He recognizes the Night Court stationary immediately. He gulps. "Don't look so frightened, it's not bad news. In fact, it's a letter from Ember." Her words don't help Cade calm his nerves at all. If anything, they are heightened. "She informed me that you are missing your aunt’s birthday next week."

Cade nods, his mouth dry as he wonders where this is going. Why would Ember have told her mother about Aunt Nesta's birthday?

"Ember suggested that you take a trip back for the day, if only to spend some time with your family on the special occasion." Aelin continues, either oblivious or ignoring Cade's slight shaking. "Is that something that you would desire?"

He shares a glance with Gusty, who is nodding eagerly. Obviously, the princess understands her sister's motives better than he does. Deciding to trust her judgement, Cade looks back to the queen's expectant expression. "I would like that very much, yes. My Aunt Nesta was rather put out that I would be missing her celebration. I think it would be a nice surprise for her." And then it clicks. "Does that mean Ember would come home for the day as well?"

Aelin glances down at the letter and frowns a bit. "She says that there is no reason to, and as it would probably be a logistics nightmare, she does not want to cause unneeded stress or planning. She understands that you are able to winnow like your parents and believes that you would be able to make the trip without anyone escorting you. I'd say she's put a lot of thought into the ordeal."

'Indeed she has.' Cade thinks, finally catching onto what the princess is thinking. "If you would allow me to, it would be very nice to go back for the day."

Aelin nods once. "Yes, and I imagine you're rather homesick anyway. Then it's settled. Can you winnow yourself there and back no problem, or would you like someone to accompany you?"

Gusty practically falls off her chair trying to get Cade's attention. He glances at her as she pleads with him silently, pointing to herself and almost begging him to take her along. Cade chuckles. "Would you allow Gusty to accompany me? I'm afraid I've told her so much about Velaris, I think she would murder me if I didn't take her along."

Aelin looks to her youngest with a smirk, contemplating the risks, and then finally sighing. "I'll have to check with Rowan, but I think that would be okay. She'll come back with you when the day is over though. She's not staying there with Ember."

The loudest squeal erupts from Gusty's mouth as she jumps up and runs to hug her mother. "Thank you thank you thank you! I promise I'll be good. I'll be perfect! You will not regret this!" Then she stops short and gasps. "I need to go pack. I'll see you later!" And with a quick gust of wind, the princess is gone.

Aelin laughs, turning back to Cade and shaking her head. "Promise you'll protect her?"

"With my life." Cade vows, only barely able to conceal the emotions roiling inside of him. Aelin nods, somewhat hesitantly, and bids him goodnight, closing the door behind her.

Cade falls back in his bed and covers his face with his hands, seeing bright turquoise eyes with a circle of gold dancing across his eyelids. He lets out a small sound of excitement and looks above him, smiling up at the canopy wickedly. "I'm gonna meet her." He whispers.

He is unable to eat the chocolate cake that night.

Masterlist

[ohgoddard]

Hollyhead Heroes: Welcome to Hollyhead.Chapter 3.

Flintlock Brimstone, or Flint for short, has always been well-off. He grew up in an affluent family in the big city, but found himself more often than not alone and by himself than in the company of others. But he would cloud and muddle those thoughts with his work, which he thrust himself onto the minute his father brought him as his apprentice to his blacksmith. Never before had Flint had the ability to create. He would work with his father full time, creating weapons of fine craft them selling their wears on the open market. Such a fine quality they were, to be one the most popular stalls in the city. Flint found himself soon learning the intricacies of mercantile business, the basics of slashing a sword from his father, and spending his sacred sundays with his beloved mother who would teach him another vast well of creation and wonders. Magic. With his position, his knowledge, Flint was poised to take the city by storm, if not becoming the boss of sales than maybe the king himself. But sadly, it was at this point that life finally stopped giving unto Flint.

His Parents passed quietly in their sleep one fateful night, and with their last breaths did Flint's easy life end. A meager pile of coin and a swift heel kick out of his childhood home is where he ended up , but did not leave him heartbroken. With the last of the money he had to his name he bought a mule, a cart, and loaded up his weapons. He would travel , sell , create, and prove to the world that the Brimstone forge had the best to offer. To do what would make his Father proud.

Proud.

Proud was not what Flint was feeling at the moment.

Barely standing and covered in wolf innards, Flint was having a tough day. His cart, which he had a great emotion towards being one of the two things he owned, had been greatly broken and snapped at the axle. He himself had been thrashed a bit by what he saw as huge fanged monsters. Then finally, a Dwarf had encased himself in a giant and turned a once ferocious creature into a purée. All over him. And in that moment, Flint was not feeling proud.

"Well I think we can still get the Pelt off that other one," the dwarf ,now exited from the suit, spoke towards the still pumped up and huge Great Strength, "if you didn't already have something in mind for it, that is."

"Why," Great strength spoke as he dug his hand inside the dead wolf's jaw as he tore a fang out,"You can have the whole thing!" He thrust the wolf at the dwarf and the dwarf barely caught it before falling on his ass.

"You're a grand gentleman!" a muffled voice could be heard on the other side of the wolf.

Great Strength was about to respond when he turned and noticed the demon man, Flint, just kinda standing there.

"Friend Flint, why do you stand so solemn? We have bested the beasts that felled your transport!"

"Well, oh man of infinite wisdom and strength, I find myself in a position where I have no way of fixing my cart nor do I find myself in a position to clean myself of the Wolf that has been opened up on me like a packed can of fish."

"Ah well those are merely surface level problems! We can solve them right here!"

He turns around to call forth the people he brought with him.

"Passengers, before we can depart we must help our compatriot here!"

Two voices shouted from the trees in reply,

"Why?"

"Uhh, yeah why?"

"Because if you do not, Mr.Midias and Ms. Odette, you can walk the rest of the trail."

Two sets of boots hit the floor and the elf and cloaked man shuffled towards the broken cart alike teenagers being told to wake up in the morning. "And Alduin,you're a handy man, right?"

As Great Strength turned to ask this question he saw the dwarf covered in wolf blood and holding an untanned skin in his right hand. "Why but of course, they do not call me Aldiun, son of sphere for nothing!" Great Strength scratches his head. " Is that not your name?" "Why but of course it is!" The dwarf walks over the carriage he arrived in, opened the door and chucked the skin in. Great Strength ,witnessing this, sheds a tear of loss of what he had lost in that one action. About 15 gold of cleaning.

"And, where's that other one? The dragonborn? I never did Learn is nam-"

"Im rrrigggghtttt here!" speaking as he slid into the eyesight of Great Strength.

"I do apologize for my behaviour in the previous encounter we did just have, I have been known to lose what you may call 'cool' in situations where I can see myself having a great deal of fun."

Great Strength looked down at the Dragonborn, clad in simple clothes, a tattered hood, and a lute strapped alongside his back in confusion. This had not been the same Dragonborn he had seen int he fight, so joyfully jumping onto backs of beasts, laughing manically and stabbing them. "Ah, well, uh, be sure to keep a level head in battle. I was wondering if you coul-"

"Wondrous! If you need my assistance I will be in the carriage."

"Well actually can you-"

But it was futile. He was already gone.

And Great Strength was suddenly very tired.

"Well, uhh, lets go help our travel buddy!"

He turns around once more to see the other people heading back to the cart already.

"Why do you walk away? Does Flint not still need assistance?"

"Why," Odette says," Didn't you see? Alduin just uh straight up fixed it with uh snap!"

Alduin walks from behind the , now fixed, cart and looks pleased with his work.

"Always works to have a bit of magic in your arsenal," the dwarf said while eyeing the axle before heading back with the others.

"Well then, since we are all now in order I do think we should get back to our Journeys!"

With everyone now loaded onto their respective carts, the travels begin once more. Great Strength having a bit more trouble keeping awake while driving, as he exerts a lot of energy to go, as he calls it, "big mode." Having returned to his normal size, his eyes lids droop a little more than usual. He tries his best to focus on the ride.

Which includes the usual ramblings of Flint to himself about his plans and Great Strength asking once more where that smell is coming from.

"For Gods sake, If I look back there and-"

He stopped, not for what he saw, but for what hit his nose.

Adorned across over his carriage floors and walls and seats were Guts of animals and the miscellaneous effects of the outdoors. He also saw a wolf pelt hanging from the corners of his carriage, with a dwarf hastily tanning the skin with a knife.

He turns, sees Great Strength, and waves.

Great Strength closes the window and silently cries.

Time passes and it approaches the early afternoon. Off the winding mountain roads there lies a small collection of buildings that some would call a town, and it was here that Flint and Great Strength drive their devices.

"By the divines I hope someone here will clean the war crime in my carriage."

A small quaint town is the town of Hollyhead. However, that does not mean is neglected nor is it lazy. It is surprisingly clean, well clean as one could be up here, and many are hustling and bustling around. Bakers carrying trays, small children and men alike carrying boxes. People stand on ladders and hang ornaments and decorations of the winter variety. In the midst of preparing for something large and involving the entire town, it is encompassing all.

Great Strength opens the window once more, giving time for the initial smell shock to leave before looking and speaking into it. "We have arrived at a town, Hollyhead I believe if my maps are correct. We will be staying here for a small bit before going on the road again. Please leave my carriage as least messily as possible."

A small laugh is heard from Odette and the dragonborn as they leave the carriage. Great Strength is not pleased. As the passengers leave he opens the doors and almost fall to the ground at what he witnesses. A stain in the shape of the elf is imprinted on the seat. There is animal Gris hanging and attached to every inch of the the interior, and there is a burn stain somehow. As well as the ever pleasant smell. He starts asking around for a cleaner.

Flint arrives and parks farther away from the carriage of people he had found himself saddled with for a long time. His immediate thought is to find a place to sell his wares, and as there is (or what appears to him) a festival of sorts going on Flint thinks he may have stumbled on to something lucky. " A blank canvas" he thinks to himself. That is until he sees a blacksmith-looking building in the distance. "Hopefully". The curiosity gets the better of him and walks towards the building. Accompanying him , rather unexpectedly, is Alduin. "Why hello there...Flint is it?" he thrusts out his hand "Alduin ,son of Sphere". Flint looks at his hand like a dog owner might look at their pets recent rodent catch. He takes it and shakes it, but in a gamble to avoid future contact with the dwarf, attempts to burn his hand.

Alduin only grins.

"I've spent many a year near a forge, your fire aint nothing." Alduin squeezes his hand tight, smiling. Flint's hand is a tad bit hurt. "But I am glad to find someone who thinks they can get one up on me! Are you going to the forge in town? I wish to see their wares!"

Flint nurses his hand, and nods. "Yeah , i'm going to see how much im going to run the place out of business with my gear."

"How arrogant of you! You make Alduin laugh!" and he does so.

Flint just kinda leaves him, but Alduin soon follows and they enter the store. A sign above reading "Glove and Gauntlet". Inside it is a cozy little reception room, many tools hanging along the walls, weapons in showcases and on tables. An open door in the back, where voices can be heard. Flint, inspecting the tools, sees that they're of fairly good quality. He smirks. This will be a cakewalk, selling in this town. Alduin clears his throat and the voices stop, soon replaced with a pitter-pattering of feet. Then the appearance of two young boys, twins, their heads barely clearing the counter top. They soon pull a stool or two and sit , not a bit taller than the counter.

"Howdy! Im Clink!" "And I'm Clank!" .They spoke in almost unison, Clank allowing his brother to finish first before saying his name."What can we help you with today! And please pay no mind to the hanging tools!" "They are of our older work and do not reflect our current quality!". Flint was caught off-guard about that. Older work? They could be no older than 12. And where are their parents?

Alduin, however, took very little time in doing what he usually does. He thrust his hand out. "Alduin, son of sphere!" Both kids grab his hand at the same time, shaking different parts of it. "Clink!" "Clank!" . "Do you sell reagents ?" We sure do!" And as their transaction carried out, Flint was still thinking. Older work? Does this mean their current ones are better? He couldn't imagine by much, and their older stuff wasn't all that good anyways. As soon as Alduin was done, he quickly placed himself at the counter.

"Hi, I need to ask something."

"Ask Away!" " We probably know the answer!"

Flint, a bit taken aback by the arrogance, continued on.

"What do you mean when you say your newer work is better?"

"Why, our style and skill has increased that we can build" " And improve anything!"

"Improve anything? Alright ill bite."

Flint, from his holster takes out a dagger and a few coin and slides it across the counter-top.

"That dagger is of my own making, so it might be tough for you to impro-"

"Itll be right out" and they disappeared.

Flint just kind of stayed there, frozen mid-brag. So quick they left. And Flint was renown as a fairly good blacksmith with a craft that is fine and near perfect. He started shaking his head, that children would be able to improve on his work in such short time is impossi-

"Done!" The two children appear before him, Alduin having left to a tavern he saw.

Infront of him is a dagger in its sheath. "Since we already got your payment, we'll leave you with your purchase. Thank you for coming!" And like that they left.

Flint reaches across the counter to retrieve his dagger, chuckling to himself. Atleast maybe the few gold he gave the children will pay for their meals or something. He starts taking the dagger out the sheath . Maybe the gold will get them lessons in blacksmiths haha-

The laughter in his mind stops as , when he looks down at the dagger in his hand, he sees near perfect smith skill. No noticable grain, an edge so sharp it cuts holes in air, fairly balanced.

And better than him.

Clink and Clank were far in the back of their workshop, so they did not hear the screams of anguish and sadness that soon filled their reception.

Great Strength , along with Midias who decided to come along with him in his search for someone to clean his carriage because he was in the market for a new weapon, was refilled with joy after seeing the town working as one to get ready for something they all enjoyed. After asking around, Great Strength got the name of someone called Stonric. He was told he would do odd jobs, and if this job wasn't odd, Great Strength didn't know what odd was. He approaches the building he was told where he'd be, and well it was a very modest one. He parks and ties up his horse Butterscotch outside. He walks in and sees a rather worn old man in back.

Great Strength clears his throat and the old man moves his head up to address the group.

"What do ya want." Before Midias can even bring his question to mouth, Great Strength rather rudely intercepts. "Do you clean carts?" he asked in a very serious voice. " Well, I can." A bag containing money is thrown onto the table, the old man looks insides and smiles. And with that, Great Strength leaves to go to the tavern. The old man looks up from his bag of dough and asks Midias the same question ." What do ya want?". Midias sighs and holds up a broken stick.

"After a recent fight, my quarterstaff broke, do you have any for sale?"

"Why yes we do! Of many woods and quality, I have a wide variety of -"

"Just give me the most mid-range one."

Stonric , stopped mid-pitch, is surprised. No one ever asks for the most mediocre of any product.

He reaches under his desk and, behind all the perfect artisan carved quarterstaffs, he grabs his old walking stick.

He places it on the counter and Midias nods in approval, pays the meager amount, then leaves.

Stonric just shakes his head and walks outside to see the Cart that Great Strength brought to be cleaned.

He opens the doors and just kind of stares.

"Sweet Gods, have mercy on me."

[aibrechts]

(1 of a lot probably) aaAAAAAND I'm back! This time only at 2am tho haha, and as for why, you see, I met this wonderful, talented young man a few weeks ago and I wouldn't miss talking to him for the world. In any case, on the confidentiality thing, please don't worry meu amigo bonito. I trust your judgement, and either way, I /am/ still masked behind anon y'know hahaha. It's all good

I KNOW ITS BEEN LIKE A DAY AND IM SO SORRY everything is happening all at once All The Time sighs honestly i wish i could just lay back and bask in ur sunny conversation, even if just for one day;;;

that’s true, that’s true, i think i have an idea of who you are (or rather, which blog you run) but it almost seems a shame to figure out... that being said, if you are who i think you are then your writing is absolutely breathtaking, and as golden as your heart

(onto #2!) Chester seems plenty lovable btw haha. And I gotta agree that it'd be nigh impossible to find a better home for him. What he has with you? That's the genuine article, and you take /extremely/ good care of him and the others to boot. I'm sure even a famous boy like him gets awestruck sometimes by how lucky and loved he is. Poor Wisdom though! Like /damn/ hahaha. Tough break, kiddo. Tough break hahaha. That's what he gets for trashing the joint tho. {~J}

chester is the perfect man, it’s true, and wisdom is an absolute brat but he has his moments lol. he’s growing on me, similar to that fungal infection thats growing all over his poor handsome face :( i gave him a special bath for it yesterday, and he LOVED it, he loves being pampered. fifteen minutes of me scrubbing at all his itchy spots and spraying water in his mouth to keep him happy when i have to hose his face, and he looks so lovely clean now!!!!!

i know, i know, its sounds gross lol but it’s really not so bad. we caught it very early and he gets those baths twice a week, so it’s cleared up really well!!! 

it’s simply the time of year, i think. hot and humid, ponies sweating under their rugs, too many of them with stupid injuries - fudge had surgery on two of his legs a few months ago, and he’s about to start rehab; lulu got a.... skin cancer??? cut out of her stomach, and that’s been delightfully gross to maintain; rudi’s vice is flies - he’s very sensitive on his legs, and kicks so hard that he cuts his own ankles, poor boy; nikki went lame somehow and no one knows how or why but she seems fine now???????; and we were SO WORRIED that chester had an abscess in his hoof bc a big chunk went missing out of it, but the farrier came for him today and everything was fine, the hole trimmed out clean and simple. 

BIG SIGH THEY’RE....... SO DIFFICULT. so much to maintain, and rumple is as sick as ever but he’s old so that hardly counts. the only ones who are really maintaining themselves are wyn and louie, and i honestly don’t know how louie does it with how he runs around like a maniac all day. BUT ANYWAY!!!!

3 never did end up coming through lol so i’ll move right on

(and then there were 4) What can I say? Your silvered light dazzles even the sun, and inspires the moon and stars with its iridescent brilliance. It'd be a crime to put someone so amazing on hold hahaha.

i dont know much lol but i know im a saggittarius. i seem to be surrounded by scorpios at this point in my life, and i can hardly find a thing to complain about. you’re all absolutely wonderful, and i always seem to be quite taken with your crew’s company ahahaha. 

rather, im surrounded by water signs in general LOL. my siblings are each pisces, cancer and scorpio, i met a bartender last night who was a scorpio, and kimmy is one too lmao yall are everywhere and im Loving it

(#5 comin in hOt) You were also right on the water-affinity thing though haha. I actually knew how to swim before I knew how to walk, believe it or not. Anyway, that picture is absolute /gold/. It really is. And the prophesy was fulfilled so completely that even Voldysmoldy was blown away. You look dashing, by the way! 120/10 best wrapping paper boob stuffer. On the subject of talking though, /holy hell/ don't tempt me I would /gladly/ talk with you all day without hesitation hahaha

LAUGHS thank you i certainly try my best. my brother’s a good sport, and i somehow feel like a strong mix between him and the sister im now living with (the cancer, if you’re curious ahaha). every day we’ll find ourselves saying the same thing at the same time, and every now and then she’ll give me a strange look and say i sound just like leo, or even that i look like him for a moment ahahaha. 

it’s interesting, it’s strange. i’ve always looked up to them so much (being the youngest and all), so it feels oddly like a compliment, whenever these things happen. 

(#6)(just think, two more of those and you get one of me hahaha). Onto the sleeve tho! The circle maze sounds /fantastic/, and I bet it looks really cool right now, though I'm sure the finished product will be absolutely astronomical. The design you have in mind sounds /epic/! (for real though tatts are so expensive I feel your pain there hahaha)(may the Force be with you I believe in you)(you got this)(you SO got this)(you're gonna kick this resolution's ass). {~J}

lmaoo thank you thank you, i intend to bust so much money on it this year. i still have my lower forearm to design, but i’ve thoroughly plotted out the rest of my arm; the maze is given to inception, the next installment will be vaguely reminiscent of kingdom hearts, and pokemon will take up the space from halfway up my forearm before turning into cc beyond my elbow. so it’s just that part on the back of my forearm that is a bit of a blank canvas rn ahahaha

(holy hell I might need more than 7) I regretfully inform you though that I can't and I shan't cease to flatter you, because you deserve to know the truth of how talented and wonderful you are. And I definitely agree on the balance thing. The devil is in the details and complexity is key, so all the more reason to be proud of how amazing your works are! And /20k/? /Damn/ that's impressive! (and even tho I prefer halloween, I for one will gladly plunge back into the tinsel for you hahaha) {~J}

it’s officially 22k but i haven’t had time to work on it the past couple of dayssssss BUT I FIGURED OUT THE LAST SCENE so it’s only a matter of spare time lololol

(#8 because what's second christmas without snowmen? lol) I'm glad to hear you've got a pretty solid sleep schedule by the way! (and it definitely /was/ worth the discomfort)(still slept like a rock the followin night tho hahaha). I'm really happy that Alma appears to be defying the odds by the way! True to their namesake, and all thanks to their wonderful father. Sheesh. I knew you were dynamically skilled, but this just proves you're magical haha. In your care? I know they'll flourish. {~J}

LOL i am LOVING these message starters btw. yesss tho my family has always been keen on growing things lol. mum had a magnificent herb garden, and i’ve never seen oregano as big as what’s growing in my garden rn. we just planted dahlias where the sunflowers used to be and i wasn’t sure they’d be alright, but they really seem to be flourishing!! im so glad!!!!

(9/9 for the new record hahaha) I'm so proud of both you and them! Not to be punny, but I'm a sap anyway when it comes to plants. or, well, all of nature really haha, and Alma looks really great from the pic I saw! Anyway, speaking of hocus-pocusing, I hope today has been absolutely magical for you, as you deserve no less than the wondrous and the fantastic. Talk to you soon, meu amigo bonito! {~J}

lmfaooo i love that. and yes, their leaves are so cute!!!! so small!!!!! thank u so much tho, the past couple of days have been pretty great. I’m wondering if i can worm a morning off out of my sister, considering she’ll have a day off on sunday and i’ll be working at the cafe from 7 lol;;;; i desperately want to finish starboy, but time really is my enemy right now ahahahaa

thank you so much for all this, i adore you and i hope you managed to get to bed at a reasonable time tonight!!!! sleep well, i’ll see you soon