#yes i know that this is the world's tiniest violin and that people will be happy to receive even low effort comments and/or emojis

[a-most-beloved-fool]

one of the most frustrating feelings in the world is when I read a fic or something I really like, and I want to leave a comment or make some gesture of appreciation, but I cannot come up with a single word. the lone rat in my brain is going absolutely ham on a soundboard, and I somehow cannot articulate a single ounce of that to anyone else. sometimes, sometimes, I can at least muster up a "<3!!!!!", but sometimes even that?? is out of reach?? and I really don't quite understand why. what do you mean typing out a heart is beyond me.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Five Orange Pips pt 1

the adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British bark Sophy Anderson, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case

Another round of 'look at all the fun cases I won't be talking about today 🤣. I feel like the Amateur Mendicant Society is a bit like Neville St Clair, as mendicant means beggar, so it feels like a group of people who dress up as beggars for the fun of it. Paradol is apparently a chemical found in peppers and ginger that makes it spicy, but I have no indication of when that chemical was first named, so whotf knows what that was about.

It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognize the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilization, like untamed beasts in a cage.

I love this description. It's so extra. Also the phrase 'equinoctial gales' is lovely. Watson, you should have taken up poetry.

My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street.

Watson can't be left alone for more than a day at a time. Mary had to ask Sherlock to Watson-sit for her as she went to see her 'mother' *winkwink*. He needs enrichment in his enclosure.

He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

Interrogation lighting! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?!

"You have come up from the south-west, I see." "Yes, from Horsham." "That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite distinctive." "I have come for advice."

Sorry, Holmes. This guy does not gaf about your creepy knowledge of clay and chalk mixes.

AH... hello racism. All the racism... So much racism. I mean, I know the story so yeah... but dear god if ever there were a literary character who deserved to die, it's this one. Fuuuuuck Elias Openshaw.

'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!'

The world's tiniest violin was unable to perform because it did not give a fuck.

" 'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy."

Well that's one way to say you always hated your sibling. And also to tell your nephew you hate him too. This guy is the absolute worst in so many ways. Like he just keeps piling on more reasons that he's the worst onto the already huge steaming pile. Yes, the people hunting him are even worse, but he's still just a terrible terrible person.

We found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden.

A fitting place for him to be.

No, I will not be feeling any sorrow at his passing.

I'm sorry that his brother's getting the same treatment, though. He doesn't seem like the most pleasant person in the world, but the fact he doesn't know what the initials stand for already puts him head and shoulders above his dead brother.

The attitude of his son to Elias and his war record and postwar activity doesn't exactly indicate that the pair of them are not-racist, though. But they don't appear to have actively murdered anybody or fought in order to perpetuate slavery, so... the bar is low. The bar is really really low on this one. Is there somewhere lower than the centre of the Earth's core?

And the threat of death for something they know nothing about... which, why did Elias not tell people what the fuck was going on? Why did he not...? Well, we'll get onto that bit. Just fuck Elias. Really, truly, Fuck Elias Openshaw.

[firelord-frowny]

i am so !!!!!!!!!!!HRJGHGFOGHSFLG SFS

not really lmao its not that serious but YES IT IS AND YES I AM but not really lmao

there's this... ~idea~ in the world of violin pedagogy that You Only Need Very Light Pressure To Make Notes Sound Good, and its

??????????? WRONG LMAO ITS WRONG ITS BULLSHIT AND IT'S BASICALLY THE! ONE! SINGLE! DETAIL! that sets Really Good violinists apart from World Class violinists.

and i get so frustrated because like... people will marvel over the clarity of Hilary Hahn's playing and James Ehnes' playing and basically every legendary soloist to have ever lived. like, there is an AUDIBLE difference between the clarity/purity of the tone quality when Hilary Hahn plays a passage of fast slurs, versus when, idk, joshua bell* or some other Average Player. In hahn's playing, you EXCLUSIVELY hear the pitch of the actual note. In a less refined player's playing, you'll hear brief lil high-pitched choppy noises interrupting the beginnings and endings of many notes.

AND THE REASON WHY HILARY HAHN DOES NOT HAVE THAT PROBLEM IS BECAUSE SHE'S USING! MORE! PRESSURE!

But people be like ~hur dur, if you use Too Much Pressure, you'll injure your joints/tendons~

YEAH THATS WHY YOU HAVE TO TRAIN FOR IT DUMMY!!!! if somebody who's not fit enough to run a marathon tries to run a marathon, they're gonna get hurt! but that doesn't mean running the marathon is inherently dangerous! it just means you have to fucking exercise to prepare for it!

IF YOU GRADUALLY CONDITION YOUR BODY TO MEET THE DEMANDS OF HIGH-LEVEL VIOLIN PLAYING, YOU WILL BE ABLE TO SUSTAIN PHYSICALLY DEMANDING TECHNIQUES WITHOUT INJURY!!!!!

and i'm especailly sfghdslfgdgfhdsh right now bc i was looking at a video of some dude (who really is a very good player and who really does have lots of useful advice) offering suggestions on how a player can figure out exactly how much pressure they need to use in order to get a good tone, and when he demonstrates his own ~optimum pressure~, he's like, "now if you listen carefully, you'll hear that i'm getting a pure tone out of all of these notes." and then he proceeds to get a tone that's NOT CLEAR AT ALL!!!! but he seems satisfied with it!!! and so do most of the people in the comments!!

which like, okay, yes, a LOT of very good players do exactly what he did, and nobody thinks they suck because of it, because they don't suck! they sound great!

but they don't win the fucking menuhin competition. they don't become legends. they don't sell out carnegie hall.

they're regular. they're the typical, very solid, very skilled Professional Violinist who can successfully audition for full time professional orchestras, and they can become professors at some decent music schools.

but they're not legends. and if you WANT to even TRY to be a legend, you have to be able to hold a candle to the Hilary Hahns of the world. you have to measure up. and even the teensiest, tiniest imperfection can and does keep otherwise gifted players from reaching the very highest levels of musicianship.

the average player's standard for what constitutes "pure tone" is just???? not high enough. not if they want to be phenomenal.

and i haaaaaaaaaaaate that when i talk about wanting to step my game up and try to eliminate as many tiny errors as possible, people always wanna assure me that it's not necessary, nobody really notices those details anyway.

?????????? THEN WHY AREN'T WE ALL SOLOING WITH THE BALTIMORE SYMPHONY, HMMMMM??? WHY DIDN'T WE ALL GET INTO JULIARD? HMMMMM??? WHY DON'T WE ALL HAVE RECORDING CONTRACTS WITH MAJOR CLASSICAL LABELS??? HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM????

IT'S BECAUSE WE'RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH! AND WE'RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH BECAUSE WE'RE NOT MEETING THE STANDARDS THAT ARE SET BY THE GREATEST PLAYERS IN THE WORLD! YOU KNOW!!! THE ONES WHO LEAVE AUDIENCES GOBSMACKED BY THEIR INCREDIBLE PRECISION!!!!!

i know ill probably never reach that level but dammit imma try to get as close as i can anyway.

[zaine-m]

Back for round 2, we still have a good 9 days until Nini's screen time in the show drops and only 3 more days of fun Gina. So prepare yourself.

previous -- next

Hsmtmts season 1 episode 2 thoughts under the cut:

So the old music teacher was supportive of Nini, and was either the reason Nini got into musical theater or Nini didn't even fucking audition despite her wanting a role in the musical. Either way there is no reason for us to feel bad for her, god, she's so infuriating

And then she was in the ensemble once so boo hoo, let's get out the tiniest violin for Nini

Ricky is such a classic teenage boy, and big red's just going along with it

This is what I'm confused about, why does EJ have so many followers. Yeah some kids at my school have a lot of followers but that's from people they know. EJ is acting like an influencer, is this a thing that happens in America?

Ashlyn has already improved

I think EJ has some right to be concerned considering her ex, who she didn't break up with before starting to date EJ is actively trying to date her

Like just be like "Yo, I'm worried you're going to get back with Ricky, cause he's doing all this stuff to try to get bac with you" and she can be like "yo, valid concern, however, I'm over him" IDK, just talk about our issues

Why does Seb need glasses while he's milking but now when he's reading

"Where are the sparks from the audition" if you had looked into the drama you would've know this is a terrible idea

✨️✨️✨️Gina eaves dropping✨️✨️✨️

I never realised they're talking about Zack Roy

Miss Jenn, wtf are you doing making kids come in early so you can force them to kiss despite the fact that it isn't in the movie and one doesn't want to. If Carlos wasn't there it would be straight up weird

As much as I hate Nini, she is completely in the right with this, bring this up to the principal girl, he'll probably take your side since he seems to hate Miss Jenn

Also fake kissing, exists

I love the Caswell cousins

I love that after Ashlyn is like "you don't need to see her texts" he immediately asks her to steal her phone for him. Like what have they been through that would make him think she would do that for him. I never realized how much I miss this dynamic

"She's not like other girls" fuck off

"She makes me better" EJ, you're about to steal something and you poisoned someone. I don't know what you consider better or what spell she has you under to think that.

I love the way Carlos giggles as he explains curtain calls to Ricky

It just occasionally cutting to Gina watching, like yes girl, give us shady 🥰

They're all just like wtf did Gina just do. She has no fear and I love that

Nini, you're so fucking rude. Talk to Ricky. Get over yourself, if you want to be the lead, you're going to have to be more mature

Deal with this outside of rehearsal

Maybe you're the one wasting everyone's time with your immaturity

Carlos is so fucking stressed over this

Why do you expect someone who you have shown time and time again to not care about, to care about you?

The entire world doesn't revolve around you, he got the part, fair and square. Either ignore the issue, or deal with it outside of rehearsal. Stop making it Carlos' problem

She's like I'm not going to talk about it, then starts an argument every chance she gets

Rickyyy, you're not just taking up space. Nini, look at what you did to our baby. When he already had all this stress at home

The cogs in Gina's head turning

Big red just getting left behind 🥲

Wait was she lying about her neighbour's kid

Gina acting all scary, cause she's afraid inside. This is why she's my favourite character

Why are insulting Carlos 🥲

Mike just watching everything go down in Ricky's life

I miss all the background characters

Why wouldn't Ricky just go up to Carlos

I never realised how many scenes Ricky and Carlos had together

I still hate how the song Ashlyn wrote is just to further Nini's character development

They're acting so shady about EJ lol

"It doesn't matter who texted you it's no one's business"

And he starts a long journey of Miss Jenn being mean to Seb

I fucking love Gina

Gina's starting to come into the story more so that's nice. I think tomorrow is really when she shines so can't wait for that. I'm hoping the worst of Nini is over, there still the everyone doing huge favours for he and her never thanking any of them which will be annoying, but I think I can manage.

[rionsanura]

Witcher Fic Lute PSA

Geralt should not get Jaskier thoughtful little presents of rosin, oil, or “polish” for his lute, unless you’re trying to induce a cheeky misunderstanding.

Lutes do not require rosin. Rosin is for bowed instruments, like violins. You shouldn’t oil a lute, especially if we’re positing a premodern lute, which were often sealed with oil-based varnish, because then you’d be basically applying a solvent to the varnish and ruining it. You probably also shouldn’t polish it, because lutes are made of extremely thin wood, which absorbs polish and gets dull again, and gradually gets duller and and duller and then you have a vaguely greasy wood that if it cracks will be really hard to glue together. And it will crack, because, as mentioned, it is extRemely thin.

(I cannot count the number of fics I’ve read in which Jaskier bravely and sacrificially uses his lute as a club, but not only would he Not Do That, it wouldn’t even help, because a lute is so heinously fragile it would crumple at even the untrained-combat-weak-bardic application to anything that contains a bone, like a human head, a monster wing, a dwarven shoulder, etc. They’re so delicate you’re not even supposed to lean them against anything or set them down, but put them in the case. If you absoLUTEly have to, put them string-side down, because the front is flat and less likely to crack. I’m not even going to get into the humidity issues lutes face, but just know, a lute is made entirely of things that warp, swell, shrink, unstick, crack, and break when the humidity changes, so. They’re not very durable.)

Better lute-related thoughtful presents:

Strings. These are made of gut, not wire. Yes, gut is intestinal fiber, usually from cow or pig, but I spy a monster-hunting opportunity here, since Geralt seems to have the opportunity to acquire an abundance of monster guts out of which to make strings, with specialist knowledge and technique he may well have, or be able to acquire. I don’t know. Maybe they’re magic.

Frets. These are also made of gut, and adjustably tied on the neck of a lute, instead of built in like on a guitar. More monster-bounty opportunity.

Pegs. This is more advanced, but still possible. If Geralt notices that Jaskier keeps having to stop and tune between songs or even during songs, a peg may be slipping. This can be temporarily and carefully ameliorated by applying a little bit of chalk to the slippy space, but that’s kind of a last resort and can cause its own problems. Better to have the peg replaced, which requires taking the whole thing to a luthier (the term now usually means someone who makes and repairs violins, violas, cellos, and basses, but it can also mean someone who makes and fixes guitars, lutes, rebecs, and other wooden bowed or plucked European instruments). This needs expert handling, because even the tiniest mismatch in size between the peg and the hole makes performance nearly impossible (unlike some other situations where we’re putting pegs in holes. These holes don’t stretch, honey). This is another reason you probably don’t want much oil near your lute; if any gets too far up the peg, it’ll take a lot of very careful work before you can ever tune it again.

Glue. This one is less plausible, but, again, lutes are extremely fragile, and prone to cracking. To fix the crack, you take it to the luthier who very carefully and with expert knowledge applies a particular kind of animal glue and braces the cracked surface or seam, probably with a vise and maybe a tape or splint. Jaskier has a Renaissance college degree in bardly studies, so I’m not counting it entirely out of the realm of possibility that he’d be able to do it himself, but despite my 11 years of music school acquaintances and numerous professional contacts, I don’t know any modern players who would ever think of attempting to fix a crack in their own instrument. However, this is another monster-hunting tie-in; maybe glue made from the collagen of a siren is particularly suited to instrumental applications?

Bonus: Voice Potion. This one’s not lute-related, but I don’t know any singer who doesn’t have a favorite concoction to drink when suffering from a respiratory issue, sore throat, swelling, or other vocal problem. I find honey-lemon tea rather drying myself, and prefer a licorice-ginger monstrosity, or the ever-popular Throat Coat tea. There’s even a line of actual, non-fantastical voice potions called Singer’s Saving Grace that I have found worthwhile on occasion, so it stands to reason that a world where potions are definitely a thing might have its own vocal health recipes. Maybe some even contain steroids for severe laryngitis. In any case, this seems like a good entry point for a very specific kind of hurt/comfort.

So that is some of the Witcher-applicable information I have acquired in my musical career, and if you want a nice short but fairly thorough guide to how people actually take care of lutes, this is pretty good.

[itsapapisongo]

Soul Nemeses! | WINWIN

Starring: Winwin ft. Hendery

Genre: Comedy | Superhero

Concept: Supervillain!Winwin (The Lobe) | Superhero!Hendery (Freakazoid)

Word Count: 2,786

Prompts: “Stop screaming, it’s just me.” + “I don’t think that’s legal, but we can work around it.”

Notes: The following is (1) an absurd short-story for the @ficscafe’s dialogue prompt event and (2) a writing exercise to get into a headspace where I can be as silly as possible. Freak Out! is a story I’m very excited for and this was a way to explore the characters and their dynamic. So, without further ado, I genuinely hope you enjoy this VERY SPECIAL EPISODE of Freak Out!

Taglist: @stayinzencity @mother-hyucker @lebrookestore @doievoir @du0tine @naptaemed

All is well in Way City.

Which is to say it’s really not and something is about to happen to disrupt that all-is-well feeling across town. Because a day can’t go by without some burglar, mad scientist, or supervillain indulging in their burglary, mad science, or super-evil shenanigans.

Thus we turn our attention to a deserted, discolored, and depressing city landmark: The Daebak Fair. Once it used to be the kind of place that burst with laughter and excitement, where money flowed every weekend and kept the owners’ pockets heavy and full. People couldn’t get enough of it until, well, they got enough of it.

So much so that it became free real estate for any villain that felt like using the abandoned fair as their lair. This changed, however, when Winwin decided he didn’t feel like sharing. He bought the place, and officially made it his holiday lair. And it’s here that our story takes place.

What once used to be a house of mirrors is now a workplace where a plethora of patented inventions specifically designed for destruction are built, reserved-engineered, dismantled, and kept out of his rivals’ hands.

With all the bells and whistles removed, the lair is quite spacious. Having decorated the place himself, Winwin has hung stolen paintings all over the walls and set tables for dissection, welding, engineering, and even, if he was ever in the mood, arts and crafts. The whole thing has Mad Scientist meets Bob Ross vibes and it’s both odd and endearing.

Winwin is currently dismantling his latest invention—a large crane-looking thingie fitted on the roof a modified golf-cart—out of boredom and frustration after being foiled once again by that red-wearing, annoying, ne’er-do-well freak of a nemesis.

“I can’t believe him,” Winwin grumbles, shaking his head for the nth time. Seeing as he’s alone, he says this to no one in particular. “I craft the perfect plan and he finds a way to thwart it!”

Who would have thought that Freakazoid would have convinced him that creating a gas capable of turning people into clown zombies to do his bidding would be the stupidest  masterplan ever? Winwin felt like he was failing as a villain, not challenging his nemesis enough. He had wondered then and still wonders now if he’s losing it, if he’s gone soft yet he knows he’s not, knows he hasn’t.

So why does this recent defeat grind his gears? Why has Freakazoid gotten to him? Though Winwin knew not to take their rivalry seriously, he sometimes did. It’s standard hero-villain stuff—to hurl insults and humiliate one another—yet something felt off.

He stops working and thinks back to their encounter.

CUT TO: HOURS AGO, IN A COLD, TALL, AND VAGUELY EUROPEAN MOUNTAIN

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Freakazoid had said, hanging off the side of a snowy cliff, for their confrontation had taken place in a cold, tall, and vaguely European mountain. With an impressive leap and a landing, he stood in front of Winwin and pointed a finger at him. “That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard of! People don’t like clowns, dummy! People are terrified of clowns! Ever heard of It?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—’tis a good plan!”

Freakazoid rolled his eyes, scoffing.“Nuh-huh.”

“Uh-huh,” Winwin replied, feeling instant regret for lowering himself to his nemesis’ childish argumentative skills. “It’s a brilliant plan!”

“No, it’s dumb, dumb, dumb!”

And then they debated like adults for a minute or two—

(“Nuh-huh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nuh-huh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nuh-huh.”

“Uh-huh.”)

—until Freakazoid clicked his tongue and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Pack it up, big brain,” he told him, not unkindly but definitely disappointed.

“Why should I? I already have a small zombie army at my disposal.”

“Small clown zombie army at your disposal.”

Winwin groaned in exasperation. “Yes, yes, that.”

“You’re doing this out here in the middle of nowhere. There aren’t even that many people around so I wouldn’t call it an army. I’d call it a small terrifying crowd.”

“Oh.”

Freakazoid nodded and crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side. “Did you even think this through?”

Winwin suddenly found himself speechless. Genuinely and anxiously speechless. He didn’t have an answer other than “I don’t know” and he hated resorting to admitting he didn’t know anything. He was the most brilliant supervillain in all of Way City—the Lobe, some called him—and admitting ignorance was (1) not on brand for him and (2) his worst nightmare.

“I don’t—I’m not sure—I—”

“Alright, you.” Freakazoid shook his head and gently guided him away by his elbow. “Pack it up. Get out of here.”

“But—”

“No butts, not tiddies, not ding-a-lings,” said the hero, his pout a judgemental feature in his face. “I expected a lot more from you. Clown zombies? Aiya.”

“I—” Winwin’s eyes widened and he felt them welling up with tears. “You’re right. I think I’m overdoing it. I might be overtired. It’s the best I could do on such short notice.”

“Turn off the cloud.”

And so he did. Winwin turned to see Freakazoid—lean, clad in red, black domino mask concealing his identity, his insignia that of F and an exclamation point on his chest, his black hair, slicked back as always, haswhite streak in the shape of a bolt across it—grimacing back at him. For a second, Winwin thought he could hear the world’s tiniest violin play a sad tune for himself as he pouted and got on the modified golf-cart he’d driven around the mountain to spread the gas around.

“Hey, big brain,” he heard Freakazoid call after him, the hero’s voice distant. He noticed it had softened somewhat. “It’s a dumb plan but I know you can do better.”

“Thanks, Freakazoid,” Winwin mumbled as his nemesis gave him a thumbs-up.

The moment was ruined the moment the idiot in red opened his mouth again—

“Now, git!”

CUT TO: NOW, BACK TO WINWIN’S LAIR

“Can’t believe I cried in front of him,” Winwin says, cringing.

“Yeah, me neither,” says a familiar voice.

Startled, Winwin squeals then yelps. A wrench flies off his hand as he falls off four feet to the ground and lands squarely on his bottom. He groans, and feels the back of his head throbbing. Opening his eyes, he blinks once, twice, thrice until he makes out the unmistakable silhouette of his nemesis looking down at him. Freakazoid couches and leans in so close, Winwin can feel his breath against his forehead.

“Stop screaming,” the hero says, “it’s just me.”

“Stop scream—are you serious? You nearly gave me a heart attack, you imbecile!”

“I know but that’s no reason to scream your lungs out.” Freakazoid offers his right hand and a half-smile. “Time to go upsies, big brain.”

Winwin glares, refusing the offer for help. “I don’t need your—” he begins but is cut off when he’s lifted off the floor. It’s both rough and gentle, in that he feels he’s taken several tight turns in a roller coaster without whiplash and is suddenly standing upright without imbalance. “Thank you.”

Freakazoid waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t mention it.”

“I won’t.” Winwin scoffs then wags a firm finger in a gesture of warning. “Nor shall you mention that I cried all the way up there in those cold, tall, and vaguely European mountains.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Freakazoid raises a hand, making a gesture that’s supposed to imply his discretion. He frowns then tilts his head with a shrug. “I mean I would dream of it so I might come up. Like, cards on the table, I might tell some of my dream friends about it.”

A beat as Winwin glares, turns to a camera that’s not there, and rolls his eyes.

“Are you quite finished?”

“No, not really—”

Winwin sighs and turns, picking up the wrench he dropped and returning to his work. “Why are you here, Freakazoid?” he asks, his voice laced with despondency.

“Oh,” is all Freakazoid manages to say. Winwin hears him clear his throat and take a step forward. “About that. I came to apologize, big brain. Didn’t mean to be, well, mean to you. It’s just that—” he pauses and the villain can practically see him shrugging. “—I think I’ve been a bit overworked too.”

“Was it your idea to apologize or was it Sgt. Qian’s?”

“That’s neither near or far.”

Winwin groans, doing his best to not roll his eyes or rub his face. “Neither here or there,” he corrects him.

“Exactamundo!”

“Did you come here to aggravate me?”

Freakazoid deflates, looking forlorn for a second before he clears his throat and the usual and insufferable aura of confidence that encompasses his very being returns. He smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck.

“Come on, big brain, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s just that—” Freakazoid groans, throwing his head back like a teeanger not wanting to admit he’s responsible for some wrongdoing. “—it was such a good plan!”

Winwin’s eyes widen as he takes a step forward and squeezes Freakazoid’s shoulders. “Come again?” he queries. “It was a good plan?”

“I mean—duh!—zombies I can handle but clowns? Geez. Ugh. No. Nightmare fuel.”

“So you did like it?”

“Like it? No, bud, I absolutely, definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, love it. Let me tell you, Lobe, it’s—” Freakazoid motions he’s kissing his fingers then wiggles his left hand as if to say mamma mia. “— diabolical.”

Winwin feels warmth spread across his cheeks and immediately clears his throat, looking away to avoid giving Freakazoid any satisfaction or a glimpse at his embarrassment. He laser-focuses on taking apart a component from the machine, cautious not to tinker much with the cylinder that contains the clown zombie gas, and pretends he’s not giddy with excitement and validation.

Then, just as he’s going to turn and give him his thanks, Freakazoid open his mouth and yet again ruins the moment—

“It’s diabolical, but stupid.”

Winwin mutters angrily under his breath, every fiber of his being urging him to reach for that knock-out gas he’d been working on for the past few days—or, perhaps, that disintegrating rifle that has been gathering dust for God knows how long—yet relents when he sees the look of concentration in Freakazoid’s face. The hero looks like he’s seriously considering why he feels Winwin’s plan was, in his words, diabolical but stupid.

And the villain, overwhelmed with both anger and vile curiosity, crosses his arms, taps his foot, and grits his teeth.

“Go on . . .”

“It’s—how to put this lightly?—immensely stupid yet awesomely evil in that you didn’t think it through but it has potential to really ruin my day if done correctly.” Freakazoid throws his arm around Winwin’s shoulder, pulling him close. “See what I mean, old chump?”

“You and I are not chumps.”

Freakazoid gasps and pouts, dramatically putting a hand on his chest. “And here I was thinking you were my nemesis,” he whispers in a low, wheezing voice. “I thought we were soul-nemeses.”

“I mean—” Winwin blushes again and his eyes widen the second he realizes Freakazoid notices his blushing. “We are nemeses, yes, but we are definitely not chumps.”

“Could we ever be chumps?”

Winwin sighs, rolling his eyes. “I believe so.”

“Ah, big brain, I knew you cared!”

“Yes, yes, caring.” The villain nods and pushes his nemesis off himself, “You’ve apologized, insulted me yet again, and tried to be my, as you say, chump. I believe that’s enough banter for a day.”

“Touché.” Freakazoid smiles. “I’ve made plenty of shameless jokes at your expense today.”

“And I’m certain they won’t be the last.”

“You know me,” the hero blinks, pointing a thumb at himself. He glances at the contraption built on the roof of the modified golf-cart and a glint of curiosity and mischief appears in his eyes. Despite wearing a domino mask, Freakazoid could be inexplicably expressive. “Whatcha up to?”

“Dismantling this heap of scrap metal.” Winwin turns so fast that it’s impossible for Freakazoid not to notice the frustration apparent in his face. He smacks the wrench against the roof of the cart and winces when it slips out of his hand. “Damn it.”

“Here, let me help,” Freakazoid offers, guiding Winwin away from the cart. “I need some space.”

Before Winwin can protest, a gust of wind pushes him back. He blinks to see nothing but a blur of motion and a shower of white sparks moving around the golf cart. It’s so fast that he glimpses at Freakazoid’s silhouette twice before the hero stands next to him, wiping his hands with a dirty rag. It reminds Winwin of a mechanic finishing up a check-up on a car in desperate need of maintenance.

“There.” The hero throws the rag over his shoulder. “Doneso.”

“How did you—” Winwin blabbers, flabbergasted at how thorough Freakazoid had been. Every piece is laid on a table that hadn’t previously been there, each component perfectly classified, and all the parts that were supposed to be tossed away neatly put on a trash bag. “How’s that possible?”

“Come on, brainy,” Freakzaoid scoffs, clapping Winwin in the back and making him yelp and glare at him. “We’ve been at this for a while now. If I can think of it, I can do it.”

“That’s not a very reassuring thought.”

For a second, Freakazoid’s smile disappears and a haunted look passes through his eyes. “I know,” he whispers ominously. Then he’s flashing that bright and infuriating smile of his as nothing has happened. “Anyways, I gots to get going.”

That stops Winwin dead on his tracks. Usually, after some crime-spree or being foiled and getting away, Freakazoid would burst in wherever Winwin was currently laying low on, say his cheesy heroic lines, and promptly deliver him to the authorities—which was always, without fail, to Sgt. Qian—and they would call it a night.

Here he is, apologizing, acting like Winwin hadn’t enacted yet another brilliant and evil plan—even though he had deemed it dumb—and being overall far more obnoxious than usual. Yeah, something’s definitely off tonight.

“Whoa, whoa, aren’t you going to take me in?” Winwin protests and instantly groans when he notices his hand on Freakazoid’s forearm, like a lover begging their other half not to leave. He lets go and sheepishly clears his throat. “You might have thwarted me today but I still turned a couple of people into clown zombies. That has to be a crime somewhere.”

“Definitely a crime somewhere, but they’re all good now. All they needed was some fresh-air. No harm, no foul.” Freakazoid shrugs then grimaces. “Although, no, not really. A couple of people were traumatized so there was some harm involved.”

“You see?” Winwin cackles and offers his hand, waiting to be handcuffed. “Take me in!”

“Not tonight, brainy. I’m all tuckered out and Kun invented me out for ice-cream. We can do that tomorrow, though.”

Winwin opens his mouth then closes it, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. “That seems awfully irresponsible.”

“Oh, it is.” Freakazoid snorts, turning to leave. “But I’m getting some ice-cream and Kun’s paying.”

“If you don’t take me in now, Freakazoid, I’ll come up with a worse plan tomorrow and enact it without mercy.” Winwin poses, raising his hands above to display his collection of inventions and devices solely designed for destruction and chaos. “For I live to oppose you. So it is written. So it shall be done.”

The hero blinks, holds his chin, looking pensive for a second, hums, then shrugs with an impassive expression. “I don’t think that’s legal, but we can work around it.”

“I—” Winwin raises and lowers a finger, deflated.

He could reschedule, postpone some things, advance others before he unleashed absolute chaos on the city. He knows can make it work. It would be business as usual.

With a mental note to not start his rampage before dinner time, he slowly and painfully rolls his eyes and huffs, “Fine. We’ll do it tomorrow then.”

“Goodie!” Freakazoid claps, pulling Winwin close for a hug. “Ice cream today. Possible disaster tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Winwin replies through gritted teeth.

“Okey-doke, brainy. See you tomorrow.”

One second, Freakazoid is there. The other, he’s gone in a blinding flash of light and a gust of wind that vaguely smells of chocolate. Winwin is left alone, despondent, and secretly impressed. He sighs and rubs the back of his head, feeling the area bruised and sensitive to touch.

Giving his lair the once-over, he slumps on a chair and pops his lips.

“This is my most humiliating defeat,” he grumbles.

A minute later, he decides to call it a night.

And, for the first time this week, all remains well in Way City.

itspapisongo | © 2020-2021 | All Rights Reserved

Freakazoid! is a Warner Bros. property, all rights reserved to them and the show's creators (Paul Dini & Bruce Timm).

[straighttohellbuddy]

i saw and i miss that universe, demon!reader my beloved 🥰 it’s honestly such a good universe and i still laugh at human!ranboo just going with demon!reader’s shit and thy in turn help him to pretend he’s some kind of cryptid to wind up his friends (mainly tommy) and the fans. and ugH. Just. their interactions kinda brain rot. i’m in a type of mood for overprotective stuff so the idea of demon!reader having to protect ranboo when they’re being shits together because whoops this kind of hellhound isn’t good for humans and i’ve already told the others thst ive had you for two days and i’d kill anyone who hurts you and then Myself™️. i am slightly sleep deprived but brain go brr and i’m ready-reading stuff now 🥺-🐈��⬛

I love the idea of human!Ranboo and demon!reader having interactions on twitter, and mutual friends, and like, would definitely consider each other friends, but for the longest time their schedules never align to actually properly meet each other online, so the reader initially definitely believes he is a cryptid, and ranboo knows that the reader is a talented musician and incredibly successful and yeah they can be chaotic but he doesn't believe half the things people say about them because that can't actually be something they said, right?

meanwhile the first vc they're ever in together, ranboo joins right as the reader and quackity are arguing at the top of their lungs about which of them was more likely to shelve the world's tiniest violin - ("Okay but I can almost guarantee whoever currently owns the world's tiniest violin is more likely to give it to me than to you -!" / "Not if I learn how to make a violin so I can make the world's tiniest violin -!" / "It'll be the world's second tiniest violin because the tiniest violin will be up my ass, Quackity, and then you can play your shit second-smallest violin because you lost.") to which Ranboo is like WTF is this and Tommy explains how you'd complained about being tired and Quackity played a clip of a sad violin and told you he was playing you the world's tiniest violin, and you told him where he could shove the world's tiniest violin, and well, it all went downhill from there... which is about the time when ranboo realises that YES you are successful and talented, but you're also chaotic as all fuck and all the stories are true.

okay but why do i love the idea of q & reader's potential friendship being such a strange dynamic, like they genuinely get along very very well and really like each other as people, HOWEVER they have a very stupid bit which they somehow managed to come up with without ever really talking about it, which is that if anyone asks an opinion-based question, the reader and quackity will immediately have passionate and opposing opinions that they will loudly defend.

eg. Dream, knowing about these dumbasses and feeling like there was too much of a lull in the conversation: What's the worst multiple of 4? Phil, exhausted already: come on man - Quackity, immediately with his whole chest: 12 Reader: I knew you were stupid, but Jesus Fucking Christ, dude, 12? You really going to say that when 48 exists?

but also reader being all fond on stream when they talk about how much they've been enjoying writing music with Q, and how they think it's so cool that he's studying law, and generally hyping him up when chat brings him up. and if they find themselves on line at strange hours at the same time they'll have an impromptu hang out and we get a sweet, acoustic snippet of Sing-Along-Song with q on guitar, and q ends up rambling about the reader being a talented song writer and content creator and it's all just v :) :) :)

but jumping back to ranboo and the reader, i love the idea of a genre of tweet from Tommyinnit known as 'places ranboo is sometimes' which consists of screen shots of messages between ranboo and tommy, with a selfie from ranboo somewhere he definitely shouldn't be, like up tall trees, or sitting on top of the london eye (for only a few moments, enough time to take a selfie), or on a solitary rock in the middle of a lake while he's somehow completely dry, and tommy always responds with a very unflattering, bewildered selfie.

-- okay but, the idea of the reader and wilbur hanging out with the bench trio and, like, tommy's vlogging or something, and near the end of the day as its starting to get dark and they're trying to head home, they start to get approached by people with Bad Vibes, you know. and the kids and wilbur and the reader just wanna get away and not be hassled, but one of the assholes realises he kinda recognises them and won't let them be, and between the kids Tommy is the only one with like, an offensive supernatural capabilities but he's also a good kid and doesn't want to hurt anyone even if they're an asshole and he's trying to do the right thing and just ignore it. but also wilbur and the reader put themselves between the kids and the assholes, and are trying to set a good example. until 'hey i know you, aren't you some kind of siren?' accompanied by a mocking laugh, and a something hits the back of the reader's head, just a little piece of litter but still. and the kids are each trying to formulate some sort of plan to protect the reader, who's stopped dead and is not longer willing to put up with this shit.

"kindly fuck off," the reader turns and finally faces the assholes. behind them, wilbur is standing in front of the boys. his hands are glowing.

"what's a little siren going to do? you're the type to carry around fancy cameras and act like you've got a chip on your shoulder, until something bigger and scarier than you comes along -"

"i wouldn't know what a siren would do because I'm Not A Siren, so I'm going to ask you once more to fuck off," the way your eyes go black scares the shit out of them, the way your tail flicks menacingly is enough to have them stepping back; some are humans, some are supernatural, none of them pose any real threat.

as the assholes scatter, you turn back, and see the intensity in wilbur's eyes and the subtle hand movement's he's making, and you give him a tired, grateful smile.

"shoulda taken a taxi, sorry guys."

"What The Fuck Was That, Guys, What The Fuck?" Tommy, trying not to freak out about what just happened because yeah You and Wilbur kind of have vibes of being more powerful/capable than you appear but seeing it in action is a whole other thing.

so of course the only thing you can think of to do is put on a Godfather-esque accent and act as if you're a mafia boss promising them protection as long as they're with you. it lightens the mood considerably, but all three of the boys seem to look at you and wilbur in a different, kind of grateful light every once in a while, though they never bring it up again.

[elysicndrcvm]

━♡ guess the 23 YEAR OLD FEBRUARY baby just arrived to dallyeog! it makes sense, because CHU EUNHA is just as BEDAZZLING as the month of FEBRUARY. wait, why do they remind me of JACOB BAE? beyond that, they seemed JOYOUS and SAVVY upon first glance. i heard someone say they’re sort of DELICATE and QUIXOTIC though. i hope they get acquainted here in COMPLEX 1 / APARTMENT 0215 / FLOOR 3 ; HE seem(s) to have a lot going on with HIS job as a PATISSERIE OWNER/NUTRITIONAL SCIENCE STUDENT. ( ez, 21, she/they, gmt. )

     well hey there !! im ez but you fellow dallyeogers can call me ezzy, i have been in dallyeog before so some may remember me as having someone v different to my new bb i bring u now, i joined before with miss tam carmen !! anygays i return with this lil angel who i am all ‘ i say that’s my baby and i’m proud ’ over already even tho i literally came up with him like two days ago. you can find his pinboard here ( which btw i fuckeN love like he’s so aesthetic to me u go king ) and i made him a lil playlist which u can vibe to here. you can learn more about him under the cut but he’s a super soft-hearted gentle dove of a muse and quite...simple for me ?? sdhdh that’s not the right wording but U GET IT djjflg he isn’t super full of angst or trauma he’s just kinda viBIN livin his best life so that’s fun !! but ye without further ado: 

so as u kno from his app he owns a patisserie, it’s his lil babey and he is very dedicated to his craft and makin sure all his ideas for the place and the baked goods he sells are like rlly quirky and avant-garde. like he is so passionate about it u dont even KNOW, he tries to make sure most of the stuff on his menu is something like fun and new u wouldn’t get at just any old patisserie or cafe and that it’s super varied and also kinda aesthetic af? the place is very like trendy. it’s called patisserie d��elysian cause ya know he’s an extra biTCHH and proud.

he has three pupperino’s. all as adorable as each other, snickerdoodle is his golden lab and often ppl shorten it down to snickers, butterscotch is his dapple daschund pup, shortens the name to scotchie often. toulouse is his fancy toy poodle boi, shortens the name down as toto. if u are on the shortened name basis with his pups then u can consider urself one of his close pals. 

he’s actually adopted by his aunt but she raised him like she was his mother so that is what he considers her, she’s on his mother’s side but they are half-siblings. in terms of first name reasoning as well she just liked eunha as a name and didn’t even think about how it is traditionally for a female, she liked that it meant gift from heaven so it stuck. his father is still around, he’s just quite elderly so it felt like a better living situation for him to be raised primarily by his auntie. unfortunately his mother has passed on but no tragic story, she just went peacefully in old age. 

he dyes his hair quite often, it’s currently like a really pastel blue with black streaks consistently throughout like lil ones so it looks super cool. but he’s also had it be a more electric blue, lilac, and a duck egg kinda faded silvery blue. it’s naturally dark brunette. has brown eyes kind of a hazel hue. 

his style is kinda androgynous ig?? he just lives for soft retro fashion, lots of color in his wardrobe but also lots of tapered short and t-shirt fits frequented, sweater vests, rolled up jeans, high skater boi socks, soft jumpers with shirts, shirts in bright colours or satiny texture worn over plain white t-shirts, cardigans, pastel denim jackets, jeans with printed patterns on like clouds, flowers etc, favors yellow and blues. sometimes does eye makeup, occasionally wears heels bc he’s a baddie or super heeled boots/chunky shoes. 

obsessed with music, can play violin and guitar. he’s a big mitski and rina sawayama fanatic, likes anything that sounds peaceful or calming or has like a good fun vibe to it. also likes the trademark gay icons like carly rae jepsen, lorde, etc. he’s not ashamed. obsessed with mamma mia movies. but also likes rap which is rlly funny cause its like the bad bitch female rappers only and like he’ll listen to it while arranging his sock drawer or making his bed or something ajdjdj it’s like hype anthems for being a baddie and a hoe and he’s just doing his night sleepy routine adkfkf. 

showers, blankets, music, baked goods especially bagels are his happy places. 

very much a sensitive lil romanticist, falls in ‘love’ like five times a day, he just likes to giggle and smile around pretty people and admire the artwork hnghdh, he’s like yeARNS though ya know?? like he’s all i will flirt by making prolonged eye contact, i made you a playlist, this song makes me think of you etc. it’s either memes as flirting with him or elaborate love letters u never know what ur gonna get akdkd. 

awful sense of humour, loves his friends more than anything on earth except his pups, would fully live in a huge house of just like his pups and all his closest buds for all eternity. likes fruits way too much, enjoys puns about fruits way too much. milkshakes, sushi, orange hues and bus rides are some of his absolute favorite simple pleasures of life. clouds, flowers, salt lamps, the sunrise over the sea, skateboarding, fresh soda, teddy bears, busy street markets, parasols, fish tanks with exotic fish, sorbet, bike riding, polaroids, record players, rain at night against floor to ceiling windows with a fresh steaming pot of tea on the desk beside it and warm fresh sheets from the laundry on his bed, ponds, skateboarding. all little joys in life that give him like the biggest pleasure dopamine hit in the world. 

his cousin actually owns a florists so he has flowers just littering his apartment like a lot and it just looks like he has ten million suitors from the late eighteenth century attempting to court him but no all these flowers are from him to him or worse from his aunt djfjg she sends him some for valentines every valentines, pls help him, pls send him flowers. 

studies nutritional science and he fucken hates it. do not ask him shit cause he doesn’t KNOW OKAY? he doesn’t understand it either. he took it because he needed something to go alongside the passion for baking that was a real ‘qualification’/job so that is the only reason he’s doing it. no point doing a baking degree after all when he’s already a baker with a business, he’s super young still he gotta keep his prospects open. so YAH. he’d rather be doing culinary arts but eh. nutritional science sounded better and more logic based. the real miracle is he still gets top grades all the time even tho he spends his life like wtf am i even doing is this even legit akdkdk. school is the worst thing in the world for him watch his mood instantly deflate the second its brought up. 

despite being a quixotic, he’s a lil afraid of intimacy. like oh god does he love it, those small touches and acts of affection u kno? the subtle things that normally go unnoticed, eye contact, brushing of hands, linking of little fingers, rubbing a thumb, kissing eyelids or foreheads or palms or shoulders in little gentle pecks, back massages and rubs or finger tracing patterns absent-minded, shoulder massages, laying your head on someone’s shoulder or on their lap, knocking knees together, exchanging a small glance only the two of you get before bursting into laughter, smiling into kisses, napping together, having blankets placed over you warm and fresh, or towels put ready like it, someone making you something they know you like a lot. that’s his sHIT. but like he’s terrified still, someone skimming their fingers on his skin makes his breath hitch like he’s a scandalized and alarmingly aroused victorian woman sjdjd. he’s literally still a virgin, he hasn’t even had his first kiss okay my baby is delicate be gentle with him akdkd but he still LIKES PASSION AIGHT kfkf. 

real soft spoken, honey tinted voice like i shit u not this boy talks like he’s an angel sent from heavens above to guide you to the paradisaical garden of eden or some shit akdkd. ur gonna fall in love with eunha’s voice before u even fall in love with any other part of him like his adorable beaming smile or stunning eyes akdkf. 

has dance parties around his room when getting ready in the morning, listens to bella’s lullaby unironically yes from twilight yes u heard right, bit of a himbo streak sometimes in his obliviousness djfjf. quite silently subtly funny actually much like jacob himself. 

he is gay, afraid of driving, cannot do math, blanks out often and he is valid for all of those things. has a collection of cartoon and disney animal movie dvds. has a dream notebook. always has blue painted nails in some kinda shade. 

does not enjoy turning in assignments bc he is scared he’ll fail, avoids looking at his grades for weeks after they’re released and hates knowing that they’re out. 

cannot dance, dances often. collects vintage stuff esp clothes and mostly sweaters. likes midnight trips to corner stores and fields where he can just lay and look at the stars. makes friends rlly easily but has super bad performance anxiety. cannot ever have a messy room like even the tiniest bit messy. even like clothes being stacked on a chair instead of away. 

bakes peanut butter, banana and choc chip muffins (they r called monkey bites normally) whenever he’s super stressed. if u want to cheer him up when he’s anxious or stressed then u should give him french lavender honey, chia seeds and caramelized pear on toast/bagel. it is his comfort food. he fancii when he needs a pick me up. treat urself and all that. 

[tdpholidayexchange]

(the war is over) and we are beginning

Here is @wordswithdragons​ gift to @sunflowercandie​!  Summary:  Janai doesn't know much of peace. Neither does Amaya. But maybe, with each other's help, they could learn.

It's a breezy summer day in Lux Aurea when Janai realizes that constant military checkups are no longer necessary. It'd been one of her most rigorous duties as a General — armour, soldiers, patrols, bunk inspection and keeping the forges lit and weapons hot — so important, in fact, it had taken time before her sister had trusted her to oversee it alone.

The war has been over for six months now. With Katolis and Duren the two kingdoms most aligned with the Peace Effort, Janai had felt safe in ordering most of her troops to come back and help Lux Aurea rebuild. Others had stayed at the Breach to help reopen it. The young king of Katolis forges ahead a new world of peace, the brave Moonshadow girl captain of the new Dragonguard with her mage by her side.

Khessa's monument and markers of all those who fell to the Dark Mage's conquest finally finished and gleaming under the eternal sun of Lux Aurea.

Free time is not something Janai is accustomed to. For the past thirty-five years, if she wasn't fighting in the war or training then she was thinking about doing so. She doesn't know what to fill it with, beyond letters. Letters to the other elven leaders (Moonshadow settlements are particularly difficult to find) as Queen Zubeia has asked for her help in negotiating peace on this side of the border. Letters to the Breach, to General... to Amaya.

Something simmers low and warm and light in her chest, at the thought of Amaya. Janai isn't quite sure why — even if she speculates, suspects, dreads, what the truth may be — but if she's being perfectly honest, she tries not to think about it as much as possible. She is busy and has other things to focus on. Or at least, she used to.

Amaya is easy to think of. Easy to smile at, even if it's just upon receiving a letter. The other woman keeps her notified of the goings on at the Breach, the restoration and building. Of letters Janai should be expecting from Amaya's nephew, Ezran, and some of his political squabbles. Moments in the Pentarchy when it doesn't hurt to have the Sunfire Queen throw her weight the tiniest bit more behind Katolis as a firm reminder to Evenere, Neolandia, and Del Bar that neither of their kingdoms are to be trifled with too heavily.

The young king of Katolis is a sweet boy, Janai knows, his older brother of similar calibre. Amaya is lucky to have them and they are lucky to have Amaya.

It's been six months since her sister—the last of her family—passed and it is hardly any easier.

A headache, or maybe grief, threatens to overtake her, as she stands on one of the Inner Sanctum's many balconies overlooking her golden city. She needs a distraction of some kind. Something productive. She wonders if Amaya has been struggling, when her duties die down for the day. Neither of them know much of peace and the younger generation like her nephews had not lived long enough to truly know a future with only war, before hope inspired them to step toward another path.

Perhaps it is time for her to find a new one too, beyond being queen.

"Kazi."

The translator is in Lux Aurea's high library when Janai approaches them from behind. They startle and straighten up, wheeling around. "Your Radiance," they greet, bowing and saluting, "my apologies, I did not hear—"

"Yes," Janai cuts them off. Then becomes awkward. She's used to giving commands as a general, about war, not as queen, about people nearly as much. And she does want this to be a request. She knows that Kazi is busy, especially as more humans and elves must merge the language breach between their peoples. Kazi has been hard at work contributing to Queen Aanya's project. "That is rather the point."

Kazi's eyebrows rise behind their circular spectacles. "Your Radiance?"

"Your..." Garlaf, why can Janai only remember the foolish name Kazi had given it, instead of its proper one? "Finguistics," she settles, gritting her teeth. "How does it work?"

Kazi blinks. They take a tiny step forward. "You wish to learn Katolian Sign Language?"

"I..." Janai snaps her mouth shut. She's won battles. She's won a war. She should not be foolish and... hesitant, about this. She's being silly. "Yes. It seems like a productive use of time."

"Of course, Your Radiance," Kazi says. Then pauses. "Er, would you like to begin right now?"

Janai smooths herself out internally. "Ideally," she says, "but we can re-commune if I have interrupted a portion of your, ah, project."

"I was looking to take a break soon anyway," Kazi replies with a slight smile. "We may begin now if you wish."

Something in her shoulders ease. This conversation was never a battle—at least not with Kazi, but with herself and her pride, perhaps—and she's won it, now. "Yes. That would be my preference."

Kazi fetches a scroll and then comes back to her by the windows and they each take a seat in a chair. Kazi flips open the book and she sees diagrams inside. "For you to practice on your own," they explain. "It will take time to learn."

Janai supposes she has nothing but time now. "That is alright," she relents.

"You are not, by any chance, seeing the General soon, are you?" Kazi asks.

Janai starts. "General?"

"The human. Amaya."

"No," Janai says, a tad shortly. Maybe even sharply. "Why?"

"No reason," Kazi says quickly, holding up their hands. "It will just be nice that you will be able to communicate, the next time she is in Lux Aurea."

Janai settles. That warm feeling in her chest is back, but this time it's comforting rather than constricting. "Yes," she relents, easing. "I suppose it will."

It's been a long time since Amaya was able to go a party. She thinks, idly, that the last one she may have attended good and proper—away from Breach barracks and at the castle, for a party on this scale was a celebration for Ezran's birth. It's fitting, then, that this next one is Ezran's celebration of the one year anniversary of the Last Battle. A year of peace, he says.

Amaya just wishes she knew what to do with it.

Other than, perhaps, staring at Janai. he Sunfire queen is in attendance, as a show of political goodwill, she supposes, and looks stunning in her high collared gown of gold. It's sleek with sharp edges, leaving her arms bare, and matches the rigid lines of her markings perfectly. A few of her delegates are with her, and Janai doesn't smile often, but when she does, she outshines the sun.

Amaya wishes too that she could be poetic more in person than just in her head. Because she and Janai are friends, she knows. You don't go through everything that they had—trust and battle and loss—without becoming friends of some sort. They held hands in front of the Dragon Queen. They've exchanged letters, snippets of their personal lives amid political dealings. Favourite dishes and friends. Nor is this the first time they've seen each other since the end of the war. She'd been pleasantly surprised a few months ago, when Janai had visited the Breach for a checkup, at her fluidity with Katolian sign language. She'd seen them both Wandering through whatever peace is, neither of them well suited for it.

But Amaya has always been used to taking the first step, anyway.

So she marches over, purpose astride her steps, blue gown swishing around her until she reaches Janai. The queen looks up, pleasant surprise flashing in her eyes. "General," she signs. Her few delegates disperse and Amaya tries not to read too much into it. If anything, relative privacy will make this easier.

Amaya inclines her head, smiling, and then signing quickly before she holds out her her hand. "Would you like to dance?"

Janai fumbles, then signs, "I... am not much of a dancer."

It makes sense, Amaya thinks. Only Moon magic seems to rely much on dancing, and the Sunfire elves were always so military minded. All the more reason for a bit of fun. Janai is always especially pretty when she smiles. Amaya keeps her hand outstretched, beckoning her closer with a flick of her fingers. Playful, a little flirty. Reminiscent of the gesture they each did to one another, at the outpost battle what feels like a lifetime ago, even if it's only a year and few weeks.

They're both so changed now, and maybe not changed enough.

Janai hesitates and then takes her hand. Amaya holds it tight and guides her into a waltz. The music is a marriage of strings, lutes and violins mostly, with some flutes. It's pretty—almost as pretty as the woman in her arms, Amaya thinks. They both laugh when they catch sight of Ezran giggling and dancing with Bait, the glow toad being gently swayed, and Callum and Rayla dancing better than Amaya has ever seen her nephew manage, with his two left feet.

Amaya enjoys dancing to an extent. When the music is soft a little slow, she sees other couples talking, but knows that's not possible for her. It's a little annoying sometimes, but she's used to it.

And looking at Janai, who meets her gaze, eyes warm like firelight, she thinks she doesn't mind at all. Just looking is enough.

Janai squeezes her hands once the dance is over. "Thank you, General."

Part of Amaya wants to ask for one more, mostly to see if Janai would let her have it, but she's also aware of the political implications at an event like this, with elven leaders and diplomats from the Pentarchy here in equal measure. One dance is innocent. Two is noticeable. And three indicates courtship, typically.

She and Janai are friends, Amaya knows. But she isn't sure if they're more. And if the answer is no, she isn't sure she wants to find out, and let the fire in her chest die. At least, not yet.

So Amaya lets go (and she doesn't).

Dear Janai, she reads in the General's tidy scrawl, one crisp autumn afternoon.

Callum has his sight set on the Sun Arcanum next and is requesting to stay in Lux Aurea for the next few months while he looks to forge a connection. I would feel best if he stayed at your palace, as Rayla will be unable to be by his side the whole time, and while his Sky and Moon magic are fierce, I know that the elves of Lux Aurea are some of the most well trained in the world. If some took issue to him being there, it may be worrisome.

I wish—and trust—for you to look after him in some capacity while he is there. I am sorry in advance if he gets into trouble on account of his curiosity. As his aunt, I can assure you it is an occupational hazard.

Yours, Amaya

So that is how Janai finds herself housing the Prince of Katolis in her palace. At sixteen he's still skinny and bright and curious, but Janai can see Amaya in him. The gentle slope of his smile and mischievous streak. His daring, too, and bravery. He explains to her one night over dinner that he was never much of a swordfighter, but somehow Janai is not surprised. He seems like his aunt, in that way too: a shield. A protector and defender ever more than an attacker.

"My aunt really likes you," Callum says on his last night in Lux Aurea. They're sitting out together on one of the balconies. She's grown fond of the kid. Sparred with him once in the courtyard with her sunforge blade. Steered him away from the Purification or the Light in his hopes of connecting to the Sun primal. In turn, he helped her learn even more sign language and dropped some hints about his aunt—favourite flower, that sort of thing—that Janai definitely did not commit to memory, not at all.

Janai itches to ask how. Then finds herself a little perturbed at a boy less than half her age seemingly trying to give her relationship advice. "I know I was scared to put things out in the open with Rayla," he continues, smiling a little at the mention of his girlfriend. "So she ended up making the first move, and even then I still messed up, but... It all worked out okay." He catches Janai's eye. "When something feels right, you should try to trust it. It can't hurt to try."

He slips off to bed soon after, leaving her rather flabberghasted. Janai bows her head as she sits under the stars, night slow and short in the golden city.

The boy may have a point, she begrudgingly admits. But what to do with it?

Callum is heading to the Breach in the morning to visit his aunt, before furthering to Katolis to see his brother. He'll double back with his wings to make his way back to Rayla in Xadia, she knows. Flying is faster than almost any type of travel and he is talented at it.

So Janai pens a letter and hands it to him in the morning. "For your aunt," she says, and he takes it with a kind hearted grin.

She's nervous while she waits the next few days, knowing it will take a little while for Amaya to open it, longer for her reply to arrive. Nervous because Janai knows what Amaya will found written on it, when she does.

Come to Lux Aurea. Please.

Amaya does. She shows up in her General's outfit—old habits die hard—and with news of her kingdom. Soren, the slightly daft but well meaning boy they'd fought in battle with, looks out for Ezran as well as Amaya could have hoped. Callum passed on his merry way through the restored Breach and will be going back to Xadia in a week.

Janai only processes about half of all that Amaya says, though, because her brain fails to function exactly right when the general scoops her up in a bear hug upon greeting. Just when Janai thinks she knows all there is to know about heat, Amaya comes and proves her wrong.

"And how are you?" Amaya asks, fingers flexing as they walk through the golden courtyards. Janai is glad they are not discussing the twin-tailed inferno-tooth tiger in the room yet. Why did you ask me to come? and Why did you? in equal measure.

They pass under Khessa's monument and Janai's gaze drifts. "I am well," she says, glad that Amaya cannot hear the sudden tightness in her voice. What would her sister think of this? Of Janai hesitantly courting a human? She knows what Khessa would think. She'd dismiss it outright, call her a fool. Forbade Amaya from standing where she is right now, where she very much deserves to be, because Janai wants her to be.

Wants her to be here with her.

Amaya's grip is gentle when she takes her hand for a brief squeeze, before she lets go. "Come on," she signs, lips curling. "Show me around. I did not get to see much of the city my first time here."

Janai rolls her eyes in good nature. "That is because you were a prisoner," she says, smiling.

"Of course," Amaya says, cheekily, but Janai is not about to deny her request.

She shows her the balconies and courtyards, the great waterfalls outside of the Inner Sanctum as a day trip and they have a picnic beside the rushing blue. She shows her the throne room proper, hears the slight sigh of relief Amaya emits when she sees the Light is no longer there (not only because the Dark Mage had stolen it, but also because Janai has not had the heart to replace it; it was never one of her favourite practices).

Finally, they come across the Royal Tapestry Hall. Janai explains her family tree as they walk along the tapestries of gold and brown and red, lingering on her grandmother and her sister near the end.

"We have a similar place in Katolis," Amaya explains when Janai looks at her. "Each royal family has a portrait made, and there is the Valley of Graves. That is where my sister rests."

Janai turns more fully to face her. Amaya has mentioned her sister before—older by a few years, like Khessa; felled in battle, although Janai doesn't know the details; someone Amaya misses every day—but never in anything but letters. Janai purses her lips. "Does it get easier?" she asks.

"Define easy," Amaya nearly jokes.

Janai's lips twitch. "I suppose it is like peace and war," she muses, mostly to leave Amaya more to her thoughts, if she wishes to be. "It has been over a year now and I still struggle with it."

"Better to struggle with peace than with war," Amaya says wisely and Janai nods to give her a point. Amaya looks up at the tapestry of Khessa. "Was she a good queen?"

"Define good." That does make Amaya smile now, even as Janai sobers. "My sister was," she elaborates, looking up at the tapestry. "But she was also cruel. She could see the worth in humans." Janai looks at Amaya. "She could not see the insurmountable worth in you."

Pink stains Amaya's cheeks, but for the first time, their held gaze feels steady. Like they both know exactly what is being communicated, and it is both exactly what they want. "Thank you," Amaya says. "Your trust in those days—over Viren, over your troops—meant much to me."

Janai wants to take her hand, but she has a feeling they're not done, yet.

Amaya turns away from the tapestry and Janai follows as they walk down the hall. "My sister was always far more suited for political life than I was, even if we were both warriors," she explains.

"From what I've heard of your sister from you and your nephews, she was a warrior, same as you," Janai says. "With honour."

"She was. And it suited each of us. I was already a top general before she married the king. I was very glad it wasn't me," she says, smiling. "Obvious reasons notwithstanding, as Harrow was not my type, but... I never wanted to be queen," Amaya admits.

"I hope in peacetimes you are not as opposed," Janai says, signing before she can lose her nerve. She watches Amaya's expression, the general caught off guard, before the gears grind behind her beautiful eyes, and comprehension breaks over her face, then, soft and bright as the dawn.

Amaya smiles the way she did years ago, when Janai took her hand in the Dragon Queen's cave. "I suppose not," she says, and then takes Janai's hand again. This time they lace their fingers through, fingers fitting together like when Amaya took her hand to save her life.

They still don't feel finished, now. It feels like a beginning.

Janai doesn't plan on ever letting go.

[allondonboy]

Medicine for the Soul (Ch 11)

Chapter 11 - Allegretto non troppo: molto crescendo  (Ch 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10)

For all of us who have shitty parents.

Thanks as always to Anna @jjeanmorreau

Feedback always gratefully received

---

The start to spring break doesn’t go as they expect.

“Alex.”

There’s something in Eliza���s voice that makes Alex’s chest warm and their throat close up and they take a deep breath.

“Mom.”

They watch each other. Alex’s stance slips into one of defiance when Eliza says nothing more. She reaches for them then thinks better of it and sighs, walking to the couch and settling back against the cushions.

“Come. Sit with me.”

Alex does, slowly, curling one foot beneath them.

“How was the end of the semester?”

“Fine,” Alex says shortly. Eliza’s face drops.

“I’ve done some research,” she says, “into what you told me.”

Alex freezes. They hold their breath as Eliza lets out another long sigh.

“I can’t pretend to understand it, sweetie, but I want to try.”

“You…” Alex struggles to sort through the barrage of emotions thundering through them. “Really?”

“All I want is what’s best for you.”

“Until now, that’s been ignoring ‘this non-binary nonsense’, so what’s changed, Mom?” It’s snide but they can’t help it, can’t help thinking that this is a trap as much as they want to believe Eliza is changing, can’t help hoping that this is where it gets better.

“Alex.” Of all the things they expect to hear, it’s not regret, and they sit up. They’ve never heard either of their parents voice regret. “I was wrong.”

Alex lets out a long, shuddering breath through chattering teeth as their chest tightens again in disbelief.

“You were telling me something important about yourself and I dismissed it because I was scared. I am scared. You’re my – my child, and hearing that you’re choosing a life like this makes me worry as a mother because the world out there isn’t kind to people like that – people like you.”

“I’m not choosing this, Mom.”

They don’t know where to look. They can hear in Eliza’s words the same mother who held them when they were sick, who put their fingerpainted portraits on the fridge, who kissed their bruised knees, who they’ve been longing to see all this time, open and honest and loving and there for them, and now, now, she is.

She’s here.

“Right.” Eliza nods in their peripheral vision. “Yes. Maybe – maybe you could help me? Explain some of this to me?”

Alex swallows. “Okay. Yeah.” A million thoughts fight to be the first one out of their mouth and they force them into now and later. A couple slide into angry, but the loudest one is the overwhelming bruise of hurt.

“I need you to know,” they say, “that you hurt me. I don’t know, I don’t think you meant to, but you did.”

They look at her then, and it’s like they’ve shrunken back to their five-year-old height, nervous about coming clean about what really happened to Jeremiah’s latest bird house.

“I didn’t mean to,” says Eliza. “You have to know that, Alex. I would never try to hurt you.”

Alex nods like they believe it. Eliza sighs.

“I want you to understand – growing up, I was always the oddball. There were even fewer women in my area of work than there are today.”

“I know that.”

“I know you do. To hear you say that you were not a woman -”

Alex shakes their head and holds up a hand. “No, I still – part of me still feels like a woman.”

“Okay.” Eliza nods slowly. “So, to hear you say that you were outside the man-woman binary – yes? – sounded like another obstacle in the way of an incredibly promising career.”

Alex grits their teeth as anger claws its way to the surface. “I need you to stop thinking about grades or work or how any of this is going to affect any of that. This is about me, as a person. This hurts, Mom. Dysphoria hurts. The wrong name, the wrong pronouns, hurts. And you know as well as I do that I want to succeed but right now, I just want to be happy.”

Silence settles between them, thick with charged emotion. Eliza scoots closer to Alex and rests a hand on their knee.

“I wanted you to be better than me. To have all the opportunities that I never had, to take the world by storm and change it like you’ve always tried to do. I realised, when you were last home, that that is down to you and the person you have become, and I am so proud of that person.”

Alex gives a one-armed shrug and Eliza chuckles quietly. “You never could take a compliment. Just like your dad.”

Alex shrugs again. Eliza continues.

“I’m proud of all of you, Alex. Even the parts I don’t understand. It’s something special to see the child you’ve raised become so sure of who they are, especially when society isn’t the most accepting.” Eliza makes sure she has Alex’s eye contact. “I’m sorry I was a part of that.”

Eliza opens her arms and Alex shuffles into them and for the first time in so many years, they don’t shy away from the hug or flinch at the squeeze, and they squeeze back with all of them because now, Eliza wants all of them.  

--

“Just say child.”

“You’re older than a child.”

Alex sighs and looks patiently at Eliza. “I don’t mind it, I promise.”

“Mini-me.”

“Kara - ”

“Oh no, is that offensive?”

“No - ”

“Offspring?”

“No, Kara.”

“Descendant.”

“Child is fine.”

“Progeny.”

Alex and Eliza both stare at Kara as she holds up her hands defensively.

“Just a suggestion!”

“I never should have given you that thesaurus,” mutters Alex and Kara hits them with said thesaurus, held open at child: noun.

“My daughter Kara and my progeny Alex,” says Eliza, and she cracks a smile that startles Alex into a snort. “Nice try, Kara.”

“Just use child,” says Alex. “I would appreciate it.”

Eliza pours another glass of water and takes a long sip.

---

“Alex, what’s this I hear about your violin?”

Alex drops their fork. “You – what – who - ”

“A mother has her ways.” Kara’s innocent eyes aren’t hiding anything and Alex kicks her shin under the table. “It’s great that you’re playing again, sweetie.”

“I guess,” says Alex.

“It’s been a long time.” Alex gives Eliza full marks for trying but they can’t deny how good it feels to talk about something other than work, let alone something from another time completely.

Packing to go to college is the first time they’ve properly sorted through their stuff since Kara arrived and they had to make room for her. It unearths a lot of things they’d forgotten about, both deliberately and not, and what had started a simple exercise of deciding what to take with them ends up as a jolting trip down memory lane.

College is the first big step in their life that Jeremiah isn’t there to take with them.

And they hate it.

More than that, they’re scared.

At least at home, the walls carry whispers of him and the memories are so vivid that Alex can almost see him standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for them. When they butt heads with Eliza, they imagine him stepping in, always the peacekeeper, calming them down and making sure both sides are heard.

Someone had told them they would be too busy at Stanford to miss home. Alex thinks it was supposed to be reassuring, but instead they feel sick.

If they don’t miss home, they aren’t missing Jeremiah.

If they aren’t missing Jeremiah, they’ll forget him.

If they forget him…

They’ll lose him again.

Vasquez’s advice about the third movement plays through their head on the journey back to Stanford.

The conversations with Eliza had unlocked a new kind of energy inside of them. Getting up was a little less hard, breathing a little more easy, and their mind is clearer and more focussed. It leads to revelations in a way they don’t expect, and one of those revelations is that Jeremiah is the key to unlocking the concerto.

He’d never heard them play it in full. They’d talked about it and planned it, down to the meal they’d have before Alex went on stage, but they’d never got it anywhere near performance standard. Learning to play it is the embodiment of moving on from him and acknowledging that they’re making progress and that he’s never going to show up to graduation or concerts or surfing competitions ever again.

Their first practice back is spent annotating the third movement and letting it run through their mind. For all these years, music had been an escape for them, but as they sit there, pencil tapping the page and describing the odd phrase with broad gestures, it hits them that it could – should – be a memorial.

After all, if music could transcend time and space, who’s to say that he wasn’t watching and listening to them right now?

--

The more they ruminate and the more they practice, the more their mind starts to drift towards Maggie as they play.

Maggie…Maggie is new. Maggie is post-Jeremiah. They think he’d have loved her. They’d have got on, for sure, and frankly, they can imagine the pair of them ganging up on Alex to tease them.

They want to be vulnerable with Maggie, but fuck is it terrifying. Baring their soul when they’ve spent so long barring it up, letting their heart sit behind a wall of armour, keeping emotions boxed up and tucked neatly away in the back of their mind. But Maggie, Maggie is the first person they’ve met who makes them want to talk about all of those feelings down to their favourite memories of Jeremiah and how the gaping hole in their chest from his death is starting to heal, the tiniest bit, with her help and her love.

--

Maggie hesitates at the threshold as Alex sets up, aware of what it means, that Alex has invited her to hear them play. One on one, it’s already intimate even as Alex does something as mundane as a couple of warm up scales.

They’ve set out a chair for her at the edge of the room. Finding her leaning against the door jamb, they gesture to it with their head and a smile that sets Maggie’s heart at ease. She slowly sits and slumps down comfortably, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle. Alex darts forward to press a quick kiss to her lips that leaves her blushing and her thumbs fidgeting happily with each other.

“Vasquez isn’t here, obviously,” says Alex as they flatten out their music and settle their bow in their right hand, “and I don’t have the backing track, so you’ll have to use your imagination.”

Maggie nods, trying to reassure Alex and herself at the same time. It seems to work for them, because they close their eyes, take a deep breath, and then the music starts.

“What makes you happy? What makes you really, uncontrollably happy?”

Alex shrugs. “I like science.”

“You need stronger than ‘like’, Alex. What do you love?”

“I…” Alex looks out of the window. The tree is still there, though there are leaves on its branches now, and as they watch, a squirrel scurries down the trunk and disappears. “I love surfing?”

“Okay.” Their teacher nods. “Why do you love surfing?”

“It’s freedom, I guess.” Alex looks down at their bow and pulls off a stray hair. “It’s me, my board, and the water. I’m in control but I’m free.”

“Good! Good!” The teacher is on her feet once more. “Tell me more! What else do you love?”

“Kara,” Alex says after a minute.

“Your sister?”

“Yeah.” Alex adjusts their violin in their grip and scratches their nose, pushing their glasses back up. “Yeah, I love her,” they say, almost to themselves, and the teacher picks up the hint that there’s not really anything else to be said about that.

“Right. Now play, and think of Kara.”

“What were you thinking about?” Maggie’s soft question surprises even her as it breaks the silence. Alex opens their eyes slowly to meet hers.

"What makes you happy?  What makes you really uncontrollably happy?"

"You."

--

It’s slow, and it’s fast. There are hands everywhere and lips blazing trails across skin. It’s fumbling and clumsy as they get caught in their clothes and trip onto the wall, cursing in breathless exhales that turn into giggles.

It’s unlike anything they’ve done before: not in the substance but in the fervour, in how they hold each other as though they were drowning, in the wordless understanding that suddenly connects them.

Alex keeps their eyes locked with Maggie’s as she masters their body with the same finesse with which she plays her guitar. It’s an indescribable feeling of their heart both bursting and being caressed by someone they trust in a way they’ve never trusted anyone before. Calm and peace fights to undo the grip of blissful chaos winding through them and eventually, limbs tangle in the best of ways as they both succumb to dreamless sleep.

[panda-noosh]

See You Again {Ben Hargreeves x Reader}

   Words: 5.1k

  Summary: Klaus’s powers are getting stronger, which works in your favour.

  Genre: uhhhh, angst? 

  Warning: drug use 

  Notes: masterlist 

Maybe you just wanted a tragic backstory.

   None of it was planned, of course. You didn’t wake up one morning and relish in the fact that your best friend was dead. The tears you shed were real. The pain you felt was real. The desire to block out the world and everything in it was real.

   Because Ben was dead, and there was nothing else left.

   It was dramatic, but you were young. He was your best friend, your world. He was the one person in the world who you believed knew you inside out and vise versa - the fact that he was gone now was something you couldn’t bring yourself to admit. You needed to block it out. You needed to find a release. 

    For years, the release came in the form of self hatred. Yelling at your parents, refusing to go to school, refusing to leave your room unless absolutely necessary. You sometimes sit back and thing maybe you did all that because you were growing impatient; impatient to start the real numbing. Impatient to get your hands on the stuff that would make you forget about Ben for good.

    You started the drugs when you were seventeen. They didn’t work, but your body enjoyed them. Your mind wanted to forget, and your body wanted a reaction, and so drugs were always the thing you came back to. Day in, day out, you would sit alone in your apartment, ignoring phone calls and life in general, and you just. . . melted away. You wanted to just melt away. 

    The first time you got checked into rehab, it was entirely against your will. You didn’t think you needed help. You were doing nothing wrong, hurting nobody but yourself. Sitting alone in your apartment and getting high was a victimless crime, so why did anybody else actually give a shit? They saw the state you were in after Ben died - why did they want to take away the one thing that made you feel better?

    You remember kicking and screaming. You remember throwing your head back and crying to the ceiling as hands grabbed your arms and you were pulled left, right and centre. You were too far gone at that point, and it truly felt as if your head was going to tumble off your shoulders if they carried on. You begged them for mercy, and they told you they didn’t want to hurt you, but the pain was already there because you knew what they were going to do and the knowledge of that on its own was enough to hurt.

    You spent three weeks there until you finally managed to bust out.

    Gaining their trust, getting day-leave and then leaving for good. Your name had been all over the news for weeks, but at the end of the day, you were nothing more than a common drug addict. People gave up after a while. Some people said you weren’t worth the money to put out a search team, and eventually the police must have agreed. 

    You spent a few weeks on the run until you came across Klaus.

    You knew Klaus. Of course you did. His brother had been the one person in the world you trusted; you’d heard all about him. His crazy antics, the fact that he can talk to the dead, the fact that his father locked him in a cell on countless occasions just to get a reaction out of him.

     He looks like it now.

    You tilt your head to the side when you see him sitting on the street corner with his knees tucked into his chest. His brown hair is a mess, curling into his eyes, in dire need of a haircut. He isn’t bothered by the person staring at him; he just continues trying to flick his lighter on, grumbling under his breath in the way all Hargreeves kids do; you’ve seen all of them get lost in their own head. It’s difficult not to when your father is treating you like a test subject more than a child.

     You should feel nervous when you approach him, but you don’t. You haven’t seen him since Ben’s funeral, that god-awful moment where you could no longer hold yourself up and ended up falling to your knees in front of the casket. It had been Reginald himself who’d picked you up and hauled you away; to the untrained eye, he must have looked like nothing more than a concerned adult, but he’d whispered things in your ear that you still remember to this day. Curses. Warnings. Telling you to stay out of the way.

     Klaus had watched you get trailed out of the cathedral. He’s here now.

     “I feel like I should have brought a gift,” is the first thing you say, because you can’t think of anything more suitable.

    Klaus looks up. His left eye twitches. He brushes some hair out of his face before gaping at you. You notice that tiny moment of hesitation as he tries to figure out who you are, but the pieces snap together eventually. His eyes widen and then he’s jumping to his feet, swinging his hands above his head as if he’s about to hug you. You step out of the way and he stops.

    “Y/N L/N,” he says. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

   “How are you doing, Klaus?”

   “Me? I’m - I’m better than ever.”

   He’s drunk. It doesn’t take a professional to see it. Nonetheless, you force a pleasant smile on your face. 

    “How about you, though?” he asks, voice soft. He reaches forward and takes your hand in his both of his, stroking his thumb along your knuckles. “I haven’t seen you in years. Remember when we all used to hang out all the time?” He shakes his head. “What happened?”

   “Ben died.” You nearly choke on the words. Even Klaus stiffens, his drunken state not being enough to soften the blow of reality. “I’ve seen Allison is doing really well for herself,” you continue. “Being an actress and everything. I always knew she was gonna go on to do big things.”

    Klaus scoffs, releasing your hands in favour of trailing his nimble, scarred fingers through his hair. “She’ll still insist she did it all herself.”

    You raise a brow. “She didn’t?”

   “Of course not. She heard a rumour.” He rolls his eyes. Your hazy mind struggles to catch on to what he means, but the memories piece together slowly; Allison could make people do what she wanted. You remember it, the way she’d always somehow manage to persuade you to make her a sandwich, or wash her sheets, or clean her clothes - Ben always told her to back off when she did it, but you remember the feeling of needing to please her when she said it.

    “Oh,” you manage, before looking up. “What about you? What have you been up to?” It’s such a casual conversation piece. You want to give yourself a pat on the back for being so calm and collected right now.

    Klaus’s light eyes flash. “I’ve been doing drugs, in and out of rehab, trying to block out the voices in my head - the usual.”

    You falter. “You’re still on drugs?”

   “Aren’t we all?” He laughs weakly, spinning on his heel in that dramatic way that has always been so Klaus, before he reaches behind a crate and grabs a bong. Your eyes widen, stomach lurching at the sight of it. Yoru fingers itch. Sweat begins to coat your palms, and you force yourself to look away before you shut down completely.

    He takes a puff from it and sighs in content. “There we go. Everyone’s settled.”

  “The voices still follow you around?” you ask.

    Klaus shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but the sweat coating his collarbones and the psychotic glint in his eyes tells you a different story. “Not as much as they used to. The drugs keep them away. Only for so long, but I’ll take what I can get.”

    “Why don’t you just learn to control them?”

    Klaus closes his eyes. “I am learning to control them.” He waves the bong. “I learned how to make one of these things out of a Pringles can. I learned how to roll a blunt. That’s my way of learning control.”

     You stare at him. You’ve always known Klaus to be a rare specimen, always lost in his own head, always with his own bizarre outlook on life, but this is a completely different end to the spectrum. He looks crazed. Although he tries to hide it, he looks unhappy.

    You open your mouth to speak, but the words never get a chance to leave your mouth before Klaus is talking again.

    Only this time, he isn’t talking to you.

     “Would you shut up? They’ve literally only just walked up to me. I’m not going to freak them out by telling them you’ve popped in to say hello.”

    You flinch back. “What?”

    Klaus ignores you. Can he even hear you?

    “Oh, boohoo. Let me play you a song on the world's tiniest violin. Get a grip. They’re not gonna want to be my friend if I pass your message along.”

    Your trembling by now. You reach out and grab his arm, startling him out of whatever stupor he was sucked into. “Klaus, who are you talking to?”

    His eyes meet your own. They soften for only a split second before he sucks his lip between his teeth and starts chewing, a nervous habit you’ve seen him partake in for years. “Nobody.”

  “You’re lying.”

   “I am not-”

    “Just tell me who you’re talking to. I thought you blocked out all the voices with the drugs.”

    Klaus rolls his eyes. “God, I wish I could block all of them out with just a single puff. But no - Benjamin’s a stubborn one. I’ll have to overdose before he leaves me the hell alone.” His head snaps up. “Yes, I’m talking to you!”

    You block out the rest of his rant. Slowly, your fingers uncurl from his arm. Your knees feel weak again. Your body is on the verge of giving out, and not even the drugs pumping through your veins are enough to keep you from losing your mind right now. 

    You stare at Klaus, the way his arms move, the way he talks so animatedly and you know then and there you believe every word he is saying; he’s talking to Ben. There’s no one else he argues with quite like that. You’ve seen it before, and this is what you remember.

    It makes your throat close over. The realisation is too much. For years, you’ve struggled to come to terms with his death, the happenings behind it, why no one would give you answers you deserve. But he’s here; he’s with Klaus, and he’s here.

    “What did he want to say to me?” you ask. Your voice is quiet, and Klaus can’t hear you over the sound of his own ranting. “Klaus!”

    He looks up, whirls around to look at you. “What? What is it?”  

   “What did he say?” you demand.

   “Who?”

  You’re going to strangle him. “Ben!”

    Klaus’s eyes spark. “Oh, him! He’s just being an emotional little bugger again - nothing new. Telling me that he thought you were dead and all this. Dramatic.”

     Your lower lip trembles. “He thought I was dead?”

   “Well, we all did,” Klaus replies. “You disappeared off the face of the Earth after escaping rehab. Diego went out looking for you for weeks but couldn’t find a trace of you anywhere.”

    You close your eyes, wanting to hear Ben’s voice. It’s one thing having Klaus translate for you ,but you need something more - you need to hear him, to see him. You need to tell him face-to-face that you’re fine, even though he can clearly see that you’re okay right now.

    You curl your fingers until your nails are biting into the palm of your hand. “Tell him I miss him.”

    It’s such a simple request, but Klaus hesitates. “Are you sure?”

   “Please.”

    He bites his bottom lip and repeats your words back; he doesn’t start speaking again until it is Ben’s words he is translating.

     “He says he misses you too. He says he’s sorry.”

    “Sorry?”

    “For all of it,” Klaus clarifies. “He thinks it’s his fault you went off the rails.”

  The phrase should hurt your feelings. Off the rails, like you’ve lost your mind, like there’s no coming back from it. It should hurt, but it doesn’t, because you know it’s the truth. You lost yourself after Ben died, and you didn’t make the effort to put things right. 

     You duck your head down and nod. “Is he okay?”

    Klaus is silent for a moment before he says, “I think so.”

     ----

      That night, you stay with Klaus.

   It’s not the wisest decision, and you know that even as you sit slumped beside him, back pressed against a rubbish bin, the pungent smell of weed heavy in the air between you. Sirens echo overhead, a sure sign that the crazy kids are out and about, getting drunk and falling off curbs. You and Klaus are hidden away in a dark alley, passing a blunt between each other with little to nothing else buffering the silence.

     You want to ask about Ben. It’s an eerie feeling, because you know he’s there. Every now and then Klaus will flinch and shake his head, as if swatting a bug away, and you just know it’s him - but you’re too scared to ask what he wants, and you don’t want Klaus to feel used. You genuinely like Klaus, enjoy his company, and you don’t want to make him feel like a third wheel.

    You, him and the dead guy.

    Your muscles relax as the night goes on. You laugh at every little thing, giggling when a rat scurries over Klaus’s foot, giggling when a plastic bag gets caught on the open door of a nightclub. The effects of the drugs are settling in, loosening you up for a night of heavy conversation.

    “You know,” you begin, tilting your head back to look up at the stars. “Ben would kill me right now if he knew I was doing this with you.”

    Klaus scoffs. “He does know you’re doing this with me. He’s right here.”

    You wince. “How is he taking it?”

   Klaus pauses, no doubt waiting for Ben to add his two cents into the conversation. “He’s gone quiet, so I can only assume he’s a little bit pissed off.”

    It hurts to hear, but you laugh anyway. Klaus giggles along with you, passing you the blunt for the final drag; you take it, savouring the burn in your lungs and the instant haze that settles in your brain. Klaus grits his teeth, shaking his head.

    “It takes a good user to be able to inhale like that.”

  You shrug, squishing the end of the blunt into the concrete. “I’ve been using for a long time.”

   “Sad. You had a lot of potential.”

  Was that an insult? You’ll ponder over it tomorrow. 

     “Ben told me you wanted to be a neurosurgeon,” Klaus continues.

    You wince. “That’s embarrassing.”

    “He says it’s one of the reasons he loved you so much.”

    “Love is a very strong word,” you point out, even as your heart thunders in your chest. “I don’t know if you can call what Ben and I had ‘love.’”

    Klaus frowns, looking at you through the corner of his eye. “Ben always calls it that.”

    You’re not sure how to answer, so you don’t. You pick at the rocks at your feet and hope Ben isn’t looking at you right now, even though he is, and you know he is. He’s right beside you. For the first time in years, he’s there and you’re sat with his brother getting high.

    Even with the drugs in your system, the thought makes you shudder. You remember your childhood, sitting with Ben in his living room, organising a life for the two of you that would surpass what you were left with - you would become a neurosurgeon, and he would become a chef. A head chef. You remember talking to him about Klaus’s drug use, when the two of you would watch Klaus light up a blunt at the dinner table; you would look over at him and the two of you would shake your heads in a silent understanding - that will never be us.

    But then Ben died, and it didn’t seem to matter. None of the plans you made mattered, because Ben wouldn’t be there to help you get there.

     Klaus hums. You toss a rock a few feet in front of you, watch it skip along the ground before landing in a puddle of oil. 

    Finally, Klaus speaks up. “You know, if there’s anything you ever want to say to him, don’t hesitate to ask me.” 

     “Thanks, Klaus. I don’t really know what I can say.”

    “Anything.” Klaus looks to his left, raises a brow. You know he’s communicating with Ben, and it makes your heart constrict. He finally looks back at you. “I think he’s a bit desperate to talk to you, to be honest.”

    You smile, looking off to the left. If you concentrate hard enough, you can almost imagine you’re making eye contact with him. “I’ll think of something.”

    ---

     Reginald Hargreeves dies a few days later.

    Klaus takes you along to pay your respects, even though you say no in the beginning. The two of you have been wandering the streets together and Klaus says he doesn’t like the idea of leaving you on your own - so he takes you to the Hargreeves household, where memories ooze from the walls and the dead Umbrella Academy flourishes back to life.

    They’re all there. Allison, Luther, Diego - even Vanya. Number Five makes his unexpected appearance, but you’re sitting on the toilet seat with a blunt when that happens, so you don’t see him until later. 

     The only one of them who isn’t there is Ben, and the reminder is breaking you apart.

    Allison is awkward when she asks if you’d like to stay in Ben’s old room. You smile, tell her you won’t be able to stay before Klaus abruptly cuts in and says you’ll be happy to stay in Ben’s room - memories! That night, you barely sleep, because you’re certain you can still smell him on the covers, even though they’ve been washed and it’s been years. The drawings of horses you and him carved into the leg of his desk are still there. You cover them up with a blanket before laying down to sleep.

    You wake up the next morning to Klaus barging in through the door.

    You sit upright, rubbing your eyes, mumbling the words “Shut up,” before you can even comprehend your mouth is moving. Klaus is yelling, dives onto the end of your bed and grabs your wrists. He yanks you out of the covers and starts towards his room without giving you any time to wake up.

    “Klaus,” you grumble, stumbling after him. “Klaus, slow the fuck-”

    “In here.” He pulls you into his room and slams the door closed. His eyes are frantic, immediately quietening you because you’ve never seen him look so hysterical. You’ve seen Klaus Hargreeves on the hardest party drugs, but none of them have made him look like this.

     You raise a brow, the fear creeping into your throat. “What’s wrong?”

    “I need you - I need you to-” He tilts his head. “Is that door closed?”

  “Yes.”

    “Jiggle the handle. Make sure it’s properly closed.”

    You don’t. “It’s definitely closed, Klaus.”

    He waves a dismissive hand through the air and turns on his heel. He approaches the far wall, his eyes locked on a single spot in front of him. You watch as he picks up a bowling ball (why has he got a bowling ball?) and launches it into thin air.

    “Klaus!” you gasp, slamming your hands over your ears in preparation for the shatter that will surely come with a bowling ball falling onto a hard wood floor - but it never comes.

    It hovers for only a few seconds before the air around it ripples, and suddenly there’s somebody holding onto it. Somebody you don’t recognise, but somebody who is so familiar that it makes you want to cry.

    He looks so different. His hair is still black, his chin still pointed, the apples of his cheeks still rosy and high on his face. He’s wearing a long black coat that you would have made fun of him for earlier, but the sight of him stuns you into silence.

    He’s looking around like he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know you can see him.

    Klaus slowly steps back, nodding to himself. “Good. This is good. So, so good.”

    “Ben,” you choke out. 

    His dark eyes snap up, immediately finding your own. His fingers go white around the curve of the bowling ball. “Y/N?”

     “How is this happening?” you ask. 

     “Magic, baby!” Klaus yells before Ben has a chance to reply. The two of you are staring at each other, not daring to break the eye contact even when Klaus starts dancing between you. “My powers are getting stronger and stronger by the fucking day, and this is the start of it! Look at this!”

    You shake your head. “This isn’t possible. How can I see him?” You turn to Ben. “How can I see you?”

    Ben swallows. His Adams apple bobs. “I don’t know. We figured it out this morning.”

    Klaus rubs his jaw and pouts. “He punched me. That’s how we figured it out.”

    “Y/N,” Ben says, voice shaking. “Come here.”

    Part of you is hesitant. This is too strange, too good. You’re going to get your hopes up and then everything is going to shatter because there is absolutely no way in hell any of this can be real.

    But you step towards him anyway. Your feet can’t carry you fast enough, and in two seconds flat you’ve crossed the room and your hands are over his own, curled around the bottom of the bowling ball. His breath leaves him when he feels your flesh against his own, and your throat closes over with the sudden urge to cry.

    “I want to hug you,” you whisper. “But I don’t want you to go away.”

   Ben laughs, real and genuine, a hint of relief tucked into the noise. He turns to Klaus and clicks his fingers. “Pass me something smaller. Something a little lighter that I can hold with one hand.”

    Klaus hands him a packet of weed. Ben rolls his eyes, tosses the bowling ball onto the bed, and before you have a chance to ask what he’s just done, he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest.

    The world is right again.

    It’s like you can feel it falling back into place, a strange feeling. It overwhelms you to the point where tears drip from your face and land in his shirt - you don’t know if you’re dampening his coat, if that kind of thing can even happen to ghosts. You don’t care. At this moment in time, you care about nothing but Ben’s arms around you, his chin resting on your head, the memories that floor you in a matter of seconds, because even though he’s grown and he’s aged and you can see him, his embrace is still the exact same as you’ve always remembered it.

    Home. His embrace is home.

    “I’m sorry,” you whisper into the crook of his neck. “I’m so sorry.”

    “What for?” he whispers back.

     “Everything. For being the way I am. For ending up the way I ended up.”

    Ben pulls back at this. You stumble, the unexpected movement leaving you breathless and craving more, but Ben keeps his hands on your shoulders as his eyes rake over your face. You look into them, trying to guess what he’s feeling but Ben has always had a skill when it comes to hiding what he’s truly feeling; he had to growing up in the Hargreeves household.

    “What are you talking about?” he asks, and he sounds a little out of breath. 

    “We had such high hopes for each other,” you mumble. The tears are pouring by now, your voice shaky. “I should have gone on and done what I always said I would do. I should have tried harder to make you proud.”

    “Y/N,” Ben whispers. “Y/N, there’s absolutely nothing you can do that would make me love you any less.”

    Love. There that word is again, sending your heart into spirals because you don’t know how to comprehend it. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt love. You’re unfamiliar with its terms, how to identify whether you truly love something or not.

    But you think about it now, as Ben’s words filter in your head and you let a warm silence take over for just a minute. Love is always described as the best. People talk about how great it is when it works out, how it changes lives and personalities, how it saves people. It’s always seen as this big and obvious thing, and maybe to normal people it is. Maybe to normal people, it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

    But you and Ben Hargreeves are far from normal, so you force yourself to look at it from a completely different standpoint.

    When you were with Ben all them years ago, you didn’t want to leave his side. You were happiest sitting in his room, ignoring your parents frantic texts and phone calls inquiring where you were. You were closer to him and his siblings than you were to your own family. When Ben held your hand, you felt safe.

    When Ben died, a part of you died with him. A vital part. The part that kept you sane - it disappeared, leaving behind the shell of a human you think you are today.

    But now, as Ben’s hands rub small circles into your shoulders, his dark eyes burning into your own, you realise with a jolt that those feelings haven’t entirely gone away. You’re brought back to your childhood, sitting cross-legged in his room, practicing your first kiss, pretending you hated it when he leaned over and pressed his lips to yours. He had pulled away, beetroot red when Reginald came storming into the room in anger at the antics he just witnessed; you’d been told to go home that day, but you appeared the next day and things were forgotten.

    Ben continues to stare at you, waiting for your response. His eyes trace your own, and you’re too afraid of shattering this moment to look away.

    You swallow. “Will I be able to see you for good now?”

    A tiny smile crawls onto his face. “I think Klaus and I got it figured out.”

   You close your eyes, letting your head fall forward to rest back in the crook of his neck; the relief you feel is indescribable. It takes up every space in your body. Feeling his warmth against you gives you a surge of hope that you once thought you lost for good. 

    His hands trace circles into the small of your back as he pressed you closer to him. The tears don’t stop. His words don’t stop circulating your head. You ignore Klaus as he makes gagging noises behind you, instead choosing to focus solely on the feel of Ben pressing against you once again.

   ---

     “You look a lot better today.”

    You smile, wiping sweat from your brow. Ben and Klaus have come to visit; Klaus is busy in the corner somewhere, chatting it up with one of the men from the centre next door - he’s called Mr Benson, an alcoholic who has been in this place for three years now, in and out and in and out. He’s one of your main sources of inspiration - you don’t want to end up like him, so you’re trying your best to wean yourself off the bad stuff.

     Ben sits in front of you, tossing a bouncy ball between his hands. It’s this bouncy ball that is keeping him tethered to Earth, and you watch nervously as he carelessly throws it around.

    “You know if you drop that, you’ll disappear,” you point out, picking up another dumbbell. “That’s gonna be pretty difficult for us to hide.”

    Ben glances over his shoulder. The only other people in the gym are Mr Benson and Klaus, and neither of them seem interested in what you and Ben are doing.

    Ben turns back and shrugs, finally flopping onto his back and tossing the ball in the air above his head. “It’s fine. We’re getting better at this thing, anyway.”

    “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s gonna be seen as insane. My boyfriend disappearing into thin air is gonna be quite difficult to explain.”

    Ben’s eyes light up. “I’m never gonna get used to that, you know.”

  “Used to what?”

    “You calling me boyfriend.” He shakes his head. “It’s weird.” 

   “You can always tell me to stop if you want.”

   He scoffs. “I never want you to stop. You know that.”

  You grin, because you do. He’s told you time and time again, exaggerating each time with a kiss that you don’t think you’ll ever get used to. 

     “I meant what I said, though,” he continues. “You do look better. Is the treatment working?”

    “It’s getting easier,” you reply. “I don’t crave a smoke every few seconds. I’m still struggling to sleep, and being sober is still exhausting-”

    Ben scoffs.

    But,” you say, “it’s getting easier. You and Klaus are keeping me sane.”

    “Me. Just me. Fuck Klaus.”

    “I’d much rather fuck-”

    Ben snaps up, grabs your hands and pulls you down on top of him. 

    It all happens so fast, you barely have time to process what is happening before his lips are on your own in a kiss that starts out more passionate than you are prepared for. Your heart skips a beat, and it’s instinct when you reach up and tangle your hands in his soft black hair. He grins against your mouth, just like he always does because the disbelief of being able to do this is still so new, even three months on.

    You giggle, pulling away. You lean your palms against his chest and look down at him, raising a brow.

     “What was that for?”

    “You were about to say something vulgar,” he replies, trailing his hands along your hips. “I can’t have Mr Benson hearing something vulgar.”

[overwhelmsion]

{warning: long post ahead. read it in its entirety if you feel like making me feel validated}

Okay I have to vent because this is the kind of shit that makes me not trust romance reviewers!!! And their taste!! And their judgement for good writing quality and actually emotionally satisfying storylines....

This is a book by an "acclaimed author" or at least someone I saw having her praises sung on twitter very strongly. I mean after Tessa Dare I should have learned my lesson. First off, the quality of the writing itself was not deserving of the praise I've seen. It could be that maybe it was just this book. I haven't read any of her other books so idk if it's consistent or different from her usual stuff but there are two things that struck me about this story/writing style early on: it's juvenile (it's about college students so idk maybe it's done on purpose somehow) and it's full of US-american sensibility. It just doesn't track with me. It was hard for me to connect with the characters and the situations "they found themselves in" and their respective reactions as well. A looooooooot of this book fell really flat. Flat. No-sense-making flat.

The "hero" is her past bully. Like actual, physical bullying. Having stuff thrown at her, flyers of her being big as a whale posted at school, actually being run over by a car, needing brain (head?) surgery and SPENDING TWO YEARS IN REHAB bullying. But he's hot and a secret intellectual with feminist tendencies so it's all good. God.

So he pops up at her school (college) and even though she's terrified of him and they're not even friends he casually calls her honey... like those douchebags that think they can call you honey so the douchebaggery that they say is lessened somehow. I'm rage typing right now. In my experience, men using honeys and babes and sweethearts in their speech is more of a reason to run away from them than to believe they're soft bois and find them trustworthy. I see you author, I see you.

I cannot groan enough at the "jock who is a secret intellectual and not only that, he has strong feminist views" trope. Like he's not just a secret intellectual, he's a secret intellectual when it comes to all the interests that the heroine has. It's ridiculous.

Okay but nothing, I mean NOTHING, tops the MOBSTERS being included as a plot point in the book, especially that MOBSTERS have some kind of (monetary????) interest in the outcome of COLLEGE WRESTLING MATCHES. It made me want to snicker when I was reading it but now that I'm writing this I'm horrified at the stupidity. Mobsters. Mobsters. In this day and age. Oh and not only that, at the very end their HEA is capped by the couple becoming insta-rich with mob money. Which, gross. Mob money, really? Do you have no sense in your head, author? Am I supposed to actually feel happy that the "perfect WOKE cinnamon roll" hero is accepting money from people involved in drug and human and sex trafficking? FUCK YOU! Murder and extortion and political corruption? Uuhh especially with all the types of corruption happening nowadays (this is a direct reference to donald's administration, yes). (Seems the book came out in 2016, but still.)

Let's go back to the bullying for a bit. So my bullying at school never ever ever became physical. Not even in having people throw so much as a rolled up piece of paper at me. Not even someone passive aggressively shoving against me in the hallway. Not someone "accidentally" hitting me with a ball in gym class. Never. Not even someone using the threat of violence towards me. Never. Which I'm mentioning to say that I wouldn't let ANY of my past bullies get away with the "explanation" (which turns out to actually be an EXCUSE) that the hero gives here*. The hero who hung around and bullied her with the type of guy who would actually RUN SOMEONE OVER WITH A CAR. The hero who actually threw things at her and posted the aforementioned whale posters. Oh god. His excuse? It wasn't me. Some other being was possessing my body. I have no explanation, only that I felt bad afterwards (cue world's tiniest violin). I didn't know why I did it. I also didn't wanna be doing what I was doing (although that last part was implied, he didn't actually come out and say it). And like, 20 minutes after he gives this explanation the heroine brings something related to the bullying up (because someone apologizing or giving an explanation doesn't automatically erase your trauma) and the hero practically yells "I JUST TOLD YOU IT WASN'T ME" at her, shutting her up. I think he does it a third time too. Unacceptable. Ridiculous. 

A lot of things in the book happened just because the author/character said so... like the plot moved in certain directions or the characters felt a certain way BECAUSE WE WERE TOLD it was that way not because it made any sense. The character said something and it made it true... there was no true logic. I read somewhere recently that said it's not important so much that the story makes logic in like, your world building or the tropes you put the story in, the most important thing is that the story makes EMOTIONAL SENSE. This books fails this maxim IN SPADES. In spades. The author just TELLS US the plot makes emotional sense, the plot doesn't actually hold up for the reader as making emotional sense. It's bad. And the quality of the writing itself is... not bad, it's just not good. I seem to recall someone describing the author's writing prowess as chemically amazing or alchemy or something, but hey maybe it's just this book that's bad. 

Another thing is that the main characters either act childish or mature based on what the plot needs them to be. Not because of characterization, just because of how cute the author wanted certain scenes to be. They're either mature or immature about sex depending on what's going to be cutest or whatever... I mean I get it they're college kids so they're supposed to be a mix of mature and immature, it's just not alluring for me to read as a 30 year old. It does not come across as cute. It makes me eye roll. Honestly I feel like this book should have a warning that it was going to be juvenile because none, I really mean it, none of the romance books I ever read had as much of a juvenile tone as this one.

The cherry on top of this all..... he bullied her because he had a crush on her. Like that's the ONLY reason. They sort of give another reason earlier on but it doesn't track very well, it doesn't make sense he would bully JUST HER because of it. And that's another thing... the other bullies? Barely mentioned. Other bullying victims? NEVER mentioned. Bullies don't have just ONE victim, I have enough experience with it to tell you that with full fucking confidence. The hero was, at the bare minimum, hanging around with two other bullies and I do not believe for ONE FUCKING SECOND that they only ever bullied the heroine. But none of this is ever mentioned because then the author would have to actually address it and why would she actually do that, right............................................................................. 

But the puketastic climax to this whole story is that he has been in some sort of love with her from the very start and they reminisce over what could have been, all googly eyed, if only he HADN'T VIOLENTLY BULLIED HER PLUS AIDED AN ABETTED OTHER PEOPLE IN BULLYING HER TOO AND ACTUALLY PUT HER IN MORTAL DANGER. Cause you guys, he actually saved her life right after he was a part of putting her in danger!!!! Can you say swoon??????? It is so ridiculous I don't think I have enough sarcasm in the world. I don't know how anyone has read this novel and its conclusion as romantic in any way at fucking all, but most of all seasoned romance readers and authors. It's baffling. Truly astonishing.

*also can we talk about how I have yet to find a villain or bully hero who was actually redeemed. It's always some sort of cop out IT WASN'T REALLY HIM explanation that doesn't cut it.

[kpopchangedme]

L’Opéra: Think of Me [Part II]

Jinyoung is the new benefactor of the Opera; your lost love, the one you promised yourself to when you were only fifteen.  How can you face him again, after renouncing to his everything years ago?

Moodboard by yours truly

Protagonists: A stuttering Park Jinyoung - You - Im Jaebum

Genre: SFW - Romance - Drama - Love Triangle - Childhood Friends - 1890s!AU

Words: 6k

Snippet: “There needs to be a flaw, a tiny blemish, to make you appreciate a perfect piece. Jinyoung is like that to you; a work of art rendered perfect by his tiniest imperfection.”

Lyz’ note: This new chapter is mainly for Jinyoung and y/n, torn between past and present… Poor Jaebum has to listen to all this through the walls. Sorry babe, you’ll get the third chapter!

L’Opéra [Mini Masterlist]

 Ethereal.

That’s you, really you. Jinyoung watches you roam the stage, in trance. He can’t believe you’re here after all these years, in front of him. You were right earlier, Jinyoung is still a child. He’d wish to be more mature, facing you again, but he’s the same. Your simple presence is intoxicating. He panicked. He wanted to be controlled, but he was spiteful. He regrets it, but he was never over losing you.

It’s infuriating to find out that he’s still hopelessly yours, even after all this time.

His eyes follow your movements; he listens to your voice. You are marvellous, so talented he can’t believe that until yesterday, you were just a simple dancer. How is it even possible? Even as a child, you excelled at singing. You both used to spend summer afternoons harmonizing together with the sound of your father’s violin. Now it’s been years since Jinyoung last sang. He found another way to cope with his disorder, his disability, like his family used to call it. Perhaps, in the end, Jinyoung’s only illness was his late father; he seems to be doing perfectly now that he’s gone. That is, well, until he met you again.

He felt it as soon as you talked back at him; that nervous discomfort. His speech abilities betraying him, just like his own heartbeat and his confidence falling. However, none of this matters now. Now you are here, within his reach and he finds himself ready to forgive all those years of darkness in a second. It doesn’t matter why you disappear after your father’s death after you promised.

Now he’ll be yours and you’ll be his, all over again. Jinyoung needs you more than his pride or titles; he’ll be shameless and needy, he doesn’t care. He simply won’t let you vanish another time.

___

Most children dream of getting home for the summer, but not him. To him, boarding school is a safe haven. He’d take on over 100 bullies if it meant he’d be away from home for a whole year. Summers are hot and heavy, even gloomier than the dark winters to Jinyoung.

That’s why he’s hiding, sitting on a rock under a big oak tree, a mile from his vacation home. He likes to come here, skip rocks on the lake, do nothing or read a book; be away from his father’s scrutiny. This lake is still on his family’s domain, most of the things in Jinyoung’s life belong to his last name; his hopes, dreams and future. None of it is his. Even at twelve, he knows that too well, he’s aware. It weighs on him like his white shirt, rendered heavy with humidity. He kicks a pebble and watches it roll on the lakeshore; boring, but funnier than being home.

That’s the moment he sees you for the first time; the last Sunday of May, 1886, around noon. You are running on the pebbles, freely, seemingly not caring if you sprain one of your ankles by falling. For the first time, the world stops turning for Jinyoung. Your hair is flying messily around your face, fighting the wind coming from the lake; you are breathtaking. A man is observing you from afar, he screams something and you go back to him. You don’t see the dark-haired boy around your age, stunned under the oak tree, don’t care for him. He, however, finds himself caring.

That summer won’t be like others; Jinyoung discovers that on that last Sunday of May.

The day after, he starts going back there with the only intent of seeing you again. Nobody has second thoughts when he asks about who’s living in the small cottage by the lake. They don’t care about his curious interest and they answer in hushed tones for him to stop. It makes people uncomfortable when Jinyoung speaks to them, that’s why he usually avoids it. He learns that you are the daughter of the musician his father favourites, enough to take him away from Paris for the summer. It’s weird because he already knew Monsieur Daae but he has never met you. You are motherless, his servants mutter that with judgment, apparently forgetting Jinyoung’s just the same. Except you are not like him; you seem happier, warmer.

The next day, he goes to that oak tree again and also the day after that.

He takes the habit of observing you in the afternoon; hiding under the trees on the outskirts of the woods, where they meet the pebbles and water. He discovers in delight that you often sit in the yard of the cottage when the weather is forgiving. You sit there to sing, draw or catch butterflies. On one of those afternoons, you surprise him when he’s not paying attention.

He’s resting at his usual spot, reading a book about adventure, but he raises his eyes, feeling watched.

That day, your hair is braided, resting on one of your shoulders and you tilt your head with curiosity as his eyes go wide of shock. He doesn’t know how long you’ve been there; observing him. You are sitting on the big rock he usually likes to sit on, knees pulled under your chin. Like that, you resemble the main mademoiselle in a feminine portrait painted by Édouard Manet. Forever frozen still, created solely to exist in this natural specific scenery. Jinyoung gulps, so nervous he can barely remember to breathe.

“Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea…” You wrinkle your nose pensively at the title of the book he’s holding. “That sounds scary!”

Jinyoung bites his cheek, watching you blink, awaiting an answer that could never come. He wishes he could give you one, but you’d be uncomfortable and he’s too scared. Jinyoung is a coward.

“You are the young master.” You state it like you don’t care at all like it’s the most boring thing you could ever say. He feels his heart rate accelerates, just as the first time he saw you play, a few days ago. “You don’t want to talk to me…” Saying this you look away briefly, in direction of your cottage and Jinyoung’s heart sinks. You’re going to go, you’re going to leave and never address him again, because of his family name and rank. Because he can’t speak. “It’s alright, I don’t care. This is so boring here, I’m all alone. I’m going to talk to you anyway…” You sigh, throwing your head back to look at the clouds. “You can ignore me if that’s what you want. My help does it all the time… I can talk to myself for hours...”

Jinyoung shakes his head and you frown.

“Are you a mute then?” You pout and he opens his mouth to deny it, but ends up lacking the will. “It’s strange… You don’t look like one.”

There’s a voiceless boy in his special classes and Jinyoung never found he looked any special. He could explain that to you but he won’t. It would be a very long and painful sentence.

“I’m y/n, my father is a violinist.” He nods; he knows that already. “I love music, what do you love, young master?” After a few seconds of waiting, you roll your eyes back and he drops his to the tips of his boots, scared you’ll leave if he doesn’t even attempt to reply.

“Bb-bb–bb-b” Jinyoung bites his lower lip out of frustration, but you clap your hands, excited by his laughable noises.

“So you talk!” You giggle happily, not at him. Jinyoung stares at you in awe. Nobody ever told him he could do that before; they usually understand very fast it’s quite the opposite. “You love… books?”

“Yes… Bb-books.” His voice is small, but a bit less strained; although he’d want to be louder. Today, he forgets to hate the sound of his stutter, because you laugh again and that… That is the single most agreeable and delicate sound he ever heard.

“What’s your name, young master?”

“JJ-Jinyoung” He hates his name.

“Nice to meet you, Jinyoung!” His eyebrows shoot up when you call him. Not stutter, retarded, not by his full title of nobility, by his simple name. He relaxes a bit. “What’s your book about?”

“Voyages extraordinaire of the Ca-C-Captain Nemo!” Jinyoung spurts out with excitement and you nod along, listening. “An underwater ad-d-d-dd-dventure–”

“Underwater?” You pause to think for a few seconds and he notes that you haven’t tried to finish his words for him, something he finds even more frustrating. “How? Can Captain Nemo breathe underwater?”

He shakes his head, happier than he’s been in a while. “He has a b-b-b-b-oat–” By habit, he hides his struggle with a fake cough, but you wait for him to go on, so he does: “A sub-b-bb–” He stops again with a frown, trying to come up with an easier word that you would understand. “Like a small house t-th-that goes un-un-n-under, it a-a-actually exists!” He shuts his eyes in irritation; he never thought talking could get any harder.

“Fantastic!” You clap your hands, ignoring his chagrin, acting like you haven’t noticed his speech disorder. “Then does this mean we could go on an underwater adventure, someday?” Or perhaps you simply don’t care for it, he inhales sharply.

“You an-nd I?” Jinyoung feels himself blushing harder, of embarrassment and something else entierly.

___

Everyone congratulates you as you walk backstage, but you only have a single wish: hiding. The performance was well received and you did great, but you don’t really feel like running into him again.

Of all the Vicomtes and nobles of Paris, of France; Jinyoung had to be the one. Why him? Sure, you know very well he always liked the arts, but what are the odds? Did his father put him up to this? Surely not, you respected your end of the bargain and disappeared, he wouldn’t throw Jinyoung after you. Not after five years of hiding and healing. The new mécène… Fine, if what Jinyoung said earlier is true; it’s a coincidence, the worst one.

When you finally reach your room, you let the wood of your door cool your burning forehead. Away from the applause, it will be easier to think. Something you lacked time for before going on stage.

“Are you ill? Are you feeling alright?”

You nearly fall when backing into the corner, tripping on the ballet shoes you abandoned on the floor yesterday. He rises to his feet as you trip, even though he’s on the other side of the room. He seems even paler, surreal and gorgeous than earlier, but it might just be the lesser amount of candles lighting in the room. What is he doing here?

“Jinyoung” You groan, clutching your heart. “You scared me!”

“You are very red.” Crossing the distance you put between you, he brings his hand to your burning forehead. His fingers feel like ice against your skin and you shiver at the contact.

“You shouldn’t be here!” You push his hand away, watching his face harden.

“Why?” He clenches his jaw, glaring at you. “Were you planning on hiding forever?” You look away, not wanting to know if he's asking about tonight or for the rest of your life.

“This is my room, Jinyoung… You are being very inappropriate.” Loosely, you gesture your tiny bed in a corner and he pales, even more, taking a step back to put a comfortable space between your bodies.

“You never used to care about social conventions.”

“Well, you weren’t the benefactor of the place where I live and work.”

___

Jaebum’s boiling. You basically insinuated the rich prick should leave and he didn’t budge. Even he knows that. He, who lives alone in between brick walls. He, whose only socialization was getting hit with a stick. Jaebum leans in closer to the one-way mirror, observing the scene in your room and wondering if there’s something he can do.

“Does it matter?” The Vicomte sighs like you’re most annoying to him. “Why should we care about what they think of us?” He takes a step towards you, but you get away, walking to the other side of the room. You stop in front of your mirror where Jaebum is hiding and he inhales sharply of relief at your proximity. He can easily intervene if the noble foozler tries something indecent.

“Leave, don’t tell your father you saw me.”

“W-what?” The man, who was walking closer, stops in his tracks.

“I don’t need the trouble!” Facing the glass, you hide your face in your hands, tired.

“D-dd-did he say something?” The asshole closes his eyes, bringing a clenched fist in front of his mouth. “Is this why you disap-pp-p–” He fakes a couch and Jaebum’s eyebrows shoot up. The conceit prick doesn’t know how to properly talk, that’s somewhat surprising. When you open your eyes, you look straight at Jaebum, although he knows you can’t see him. Your expression softens and you turn around to face the Vicomte.

“Do you want to sing it, Jinyoung?” Jaebum can only see your profile, but your lips curl upwards like you’re teasing the stranger and it’s his turn to frown in frustration.

“No.” The man bites his lips, perhaps out of nervousness. “Is it because of h-him? That you’re here?”

Jaebum is curious now, he wants to know too. Who is this man’s father, how does he know you and is this why… Why you came to him? He waits for a long moment with the Vicomte for your answer, but it never comes.

“Y/n–” The man reaches for your arms and you let him do it, let him pull you closer. “He’s gone now, haven’t you notice the title?” He leans in, way too close, and Jaebum narrows his eyes, angry. “I’m the Vicomte de Chagny; I do what I want, buy what I don’t need, love who I lov–”

“Must be real nice, Jinyoung.” You wiggle out of his arms and his face falls as you sit on the corner of your desk.

“No, it’s not. Not without you!” He throws his hands to the sides, gesturing to everything around you both. “Don’t you see what this is?”

“Your Opéra?” You ask bitterly and Jaebum hums, disapproving. Everything here should be considered his.

“Destiny? Fate?” You roll your eyes, but the Vicomte goes on, unbothered. “I didn’t know you were living here, but here we are! I found you and I’m not losing you again! Y/n you were amazing tonight! You were born to sing, you’ll be the star of my Opéra! My muse! My...”

This time Jaebum scowls out loud, not caring if any of you hear. You’ve been his muse for five years. This man cannot come in here and claim you!

“What, Jinyoung?” You cross your arms over your chest, although your eyes flutter to the mirror again.

“My… My–” The rich prick tilts his head, struggling. When he continues, his voice is nothing but a murmur. “We promised years ago…” Jaebum’s heart sinks. A promise. It’s not fair, he never stood a chance. Jaebum could promise you the moon, write a thousand symphonies in your name and you’d still choose this rich and handsome guy over him.

“We can’t. We were child–”

“The world is changing!” The man cuts you off, not letting you reject him. “Nobody cares about ranks now; this is almost the 20th century!”

“It’s not that–”

“We could run away, go to a colony… Africa?” He shrugs. “My uncle is the Gouverneur du Sénégal! If you say so if you ask me to, we’ll go! Away from these stuck up Parisians! I’ve already told you all that!”

Jaebum freezes. Leave? You can’t leave him. Even if this man belongs to your past, what gives him the right to come into your lives and tear you two apart? Why can that man suddenly talk again? Jaebum wishes for him to choke on his words, on that old promise, whatever it might be.

“Jinyoung, it’s not that, it’s not them!”

“What? Is…” He pauses, inhaling shortly. “Is there s-s-so-someone else?”

The time seems to stop in the tiny room and you bury your face in your hands, defeated. Jaebum wants to burst in there, push that shady aristocrat away from you, but he doesn’t. He watches with Jinyoung as you hide away the answer in your eyes; wait expectantly for you to tell the other he’s here, even if you don’t know that. Here with you all the time; your angel. He grimaces at the thought of the name you gave him, but you can’t leave him all alone. Not for a guy who already has everything, who was born with a golden spoon in his mouth. Jaebum can't be alone again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

___

Three small knocks on the door, interrupt your confrontation with Jinyoung. You uncover your face, panicked. You know exactly what people will think if they find you alone with the new patron of the Opéra. In your room. You glare at the Vicomte in front of you, he has nothing to lose and he answers with an apologetic shrug. A woman only has her reputation, especially one with no money nor title, but it’s too late now.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, chérie.” Madame Giry answers from behind the door and you sigh, relieved. “I am accompanied by Messieurs Firmin et André, may we come in? Are you decent, child?”

Jinyoung moves to your desk, as far away as possible from your bed and sits. When you open the door, M. Firmin storms in clapping excitedly.

“Une étoile est née!” He sing-songs, almost bouncing in the room. “Grandiose. Didn’t I tell you Gilles? Didn’t I tell you we should put our trust in Mademoiselle Daae?!” His business partner walks in, wincing at his blatant lie. He’s the first one to notice the aristocrat trying to sit naturally on your tiny wooden chair and he freezes.

“Ah–” M. André opens his mouth, gasping and looks around the room to see if someone else is standing there. Realizing you two were alone, he recovers swiftly, clearing his throat. “Félicitations Mademoiselle, I see you’ve met our new mécène.” Since he doesn’t want to insinuate anything shady, he adds: “We were looking for you everywhere, Vicomte.” Jinyoung tilts his head, doubtful. They probably diligently avoided him after losing his primadonna right before the representation. “Did you enjoy this… May I say so myself; perfect performance?”

“Very much Monsieur, I believe the main soprano made quite an impression as Hannibal’s first love, Elissa.” You bow shyly at Jinyoung’s compliment and meet Madame Giry’s scary glare. She’s clearly angry you let a man into your room. You mentally curse her daughter Meg; after all, she’s the one who brought him here in the first place.

“Oh! Let me introduce you! Mille excuses!” M. Firmin nods apologetically in her direction, wrongly interpreting her evident displeasure. “Vicomte, this is our precious Madame Giry, in charge of our famous corps de ballet!”

At that Jinyoung gets up to graciously bow to the middle-aged woman. “Enchanted, madame. I am the Vicomte de Changy, new mécène.”

“De Chagny?” She glances at you, her attitude completely shifting. She’s the one who took you in after your father’s death when you were only fifteen and broken. The first motherly figure you ever had; she knows.

“Yes.” Jinyoung lips tighten, apprehensive. “Were you acquainted with my late father?”

“Um– No, I’ve never had the chance of meeting him, my apologies sir.” As if to shield you, she puts a hand on your back, a gesture Jinyoung evidently doesn’t miss. “I believe we should let our main lady rest for the night, y/n had a lot to do in the last few days!” You look at her, grateful. You really want to be left alone right now.

“Oh that’s–” M. Firmin clears his throat, clearly hating to go against the woman’s words. “There was a little supper organized be–”

“Mademoiselle Daae and I are going out to eat.” Jinyoung offers a smug smile to his small audience. “We were discussing this very matter together.” Your jaw drops at that. He said a number of things when you were alone, but he never mentioned sharing a meal tonight. Jinyoung used to be a very bad liar, simply the worst; hesitations and nervousness rendering his speech incomprehensible.

“Alone?” M. André pauses, disapproving, and you hope he’ll prohibit it from happening, even though he has the authority and charisma of a trout. “Wouldn’t it be better if–”

“Gilles, quel rabat joie!” M. Firmin cuts him off. “Surely that’s not what Monsieur meant–”

“Yes. Alone.” Jinyoung seems to savour his control for a few seconds before turning to face you. “Mademoiselle, I’ll wait outside for you to change out of your costume…” He smirks, eyes playful, voluntarily ignoring the indignation his words are provoking. “There’s a charming and simple place near the Opéra, I think you will like it!”

“Pardo–”

He insists with an intended raised eyebrow, interrupting your protests. “We’ll continue our reminiscence of old times there.”

Although the room is full, nobody opposes him. You clench your teeth, holding back hurtful words. He’s behaving like the very people he despised; not taking “no” as an answer. But you’re not fifteen anymore and you know your place. Another Vicomte de Chagny made sure of that before him. There’s nothing more to say, so you keep your tongue to yourself.

“Old times?” M. André repeats, suddenly a bit warmer to the idea.

“Of course, we are already quite familiar; we used to spend our young summers together. Our families were close. We tragically lost touch and have a lot of catching up to do.” Jinyoung offers a sweet smile, but you turn away, wishing he wouldn’t publicly bring up your past friendship. There’s a collective sigh of relief in the room and just as you begin to fear what he might add next, he chuckles and goes on: “You see, Mademoiselle Daae is dear to me… Like Elissa is to Hannibal!”

“Oh! That’s marvellous!” M. Firmin claps his business partner’s shoulder, ecstatic. “Just like tonight’s representation then, a love story!”

You exchange a look with Madame Giry, defeated. A love story where Elissa ends up killing herself to avoid a forced wedding. Jinyoung offers you a perfectly warm smile as he opens the door to get out, but you only feel cold and dry.

___

“My hand?” You blink, stunned by Jinyoung’s question but decide to laugh it off. You hope the sound will hide your discomfort at the warmth his words spread in your body. “Why would you want it?” Jinyoung eyes widen, filled with sudden incertitude, but he should already know how you feel. Your question is clearly a lie, a teasing joke; told to cover the fact that you can’t answer his without changing your lives forever.

He hums before attempting to talk, closing his eyes for the battle. “I-I-I-I–” He grunts, when his larynx betrays him and the corners of your lips curl upward.

To you, his stutter is one of the things that make Jinyoung amazing.

There needs to be a flaw, a tiny blemish, to make you appreciate a perfect piece. This is something your father often says. Jinyoung is like that to you; a work of art rendered perfect by his tiniest imperfection.

You lean in against the big oak, observing his tormented expression and wondering if you should end his suffering. You wait a while longer because he hates when people steal his words, you know that. You know everything Jinyoung loves and everything he doesn’t.

“I’m just asking f-f-f-f-or–” He sighs in frustration. He hasn’t stutter that much in almost two years, it must be his nerves.

“Do you want to sing it?” You laugh lightly; it’s something that helps him when it won’t come out. Although, secretly, there’s nothing you love more than the sound of his singing voice. “Or play charades?” You lick your lips, watching his expression turn darker. He doesn’t get how much you love this sort of thing. It would be perfect for a love confession, you blush harder. “We used to do this, younger… When you didn’t want to speak…” Jinyoung frowns ever more and you bite the interior of your cheek to keep from smiling at his irritation. “You want my hand… For?”

Say it. Ask me.

Jinyoung stays desperately silent, perhaps he’s given up.

“Are you alright, Jinyoung-ie?” You ask a bit scared that your teasing made him change his mind. “It doesn’t matter you know–” But it does. “You can ask me tomorrow…” But he can’t.

“You know I’m leaving tomorrow.” When he finally talks again, it’s without halting and you smile, satisfied.

“See? It’s better now; you don’t have to be so nervous.”

Ask me. Tell me.

“We both are f-f-fi-fifteen, now–” You tilt your head to the side, unsure why he’s using a long sentence to mention your age. You both already are well aware you aren’t children anymore. “I want to tell you how I f-f-feel–”

Before he can continue, your maid yells your name from the cottage. You thought you’d have at least an hour more before she’d come looking for you after her afternoon nap. Without thinking twice, you grab Jinyoung’s hand and sink deeper into the woods. You run without intent and he follows, intertwining his fingers with yours. He probably doesn’t know why you must hide from Marie.

Before this summer, nobody ever asked you questions about your relationship with Jinyoung, but in June, this changed. Marie got curious, started to talk about how wholly inappropriate it was to see a man alone at your age, one with a name at that. At first, you brushed it off, ignored her, but she was right: Jinyoung turned into a man. You weren’t twelve anymore and if the time you used to spend together was innocent, this summer your cheeks were burning every time he looked at you. Every time he touched you, your skin went ablaze. After that, Marie started to question your outings, asking you where you’ve been and with whom. Then it turned worse, she’d yell, threatened you to tell his family about your idyll and say they’d send him away.

This summer, you learned you had something to lose. She’s still calling your name from afar when you stop running, turning around to face him in panic.

“We don’t have time, I’m sorry I teased you!” Jinyoung twitches as you release his hand and reach for the blue ribbon tying your hair in a tight bun.

It’s the one you lost your first summer together. The wind stole it when you were on one of your epic adventures on the lake and Jinyoung jumped from the rowboat to get it back. You didn’t know how to swim, so you kept yelling scared to death. He swam back just fine, holding the inexpensive fabric above his head like the most expensive trophies. He was clueless as to why you were so angry at him back then.

Jinyoung lips part slightly when he sees your flocks of hair fall around your face and if you weren’t already tomato red, you’d blush even more. This doesn’t feel like being alone with a friend, Jinyoung really is a man now. He reaches for a strand of your hair, but you catch his fingers before he can touch one.

“I’ll give you this.” You say those words so softly that he doesn’t react and you wonder if he heard them. He simply watches as you tie your hands together with your ribbon. The task proves to be harder than you thought with a single hand; no wonder people usually need a witness. Jinyoung clears his throat, embarrassed as he finally catches on what you are doing. Handfast; the betrothal of the pagans and the wanderers. Your heart beats even faster when you notice he’s turning red, blushing just like you.

“Jinyoung, I–” You pause to sigh and smile, wishing he’d say something, anything, or at least try. Isn’t he the one who wanted to do this? Isn’t the man supposed to confess? “I can’t give you much, but know that my heart is yours. It has been for years now, I love you… too.” He stays desperately silent so you have to go on: “Even when you are far, I only see you, I only think of you. Father and I, we’ll always be…” You push air out of your chest to say the rest of the sentence. Looking at your tied hands as a wedding promise for courage. “–obliged to your family…” It’s true, there’s no point denying it. His father’s protection is the reason your father could go to the Conservatoire de Paris. His family’s money is the only reason your father makes a living with his music.

“Don’t say that.” Jinyoung grimaces, wrinkling his nose. He hates when you bring it up. He often says that he would prefer being born poor rather than to have his title. It makes you laugh; Jinyoung doesn’t truly know what cold is, he doesn’t know hunger either. “I don’t want you to say it’s because of that.”

“I’m not.” You giggle; relieved he actually found his voice back. “But I also know who you are and where you stand. We’re not the same.”  You both know that, so you’re surprised when he clenches his jaw, angry.

“Do not talk like him!” He stops and lowers his voice, probably worried that Marie will find you two. She’d never come into the woods, you’re sure of that, but you let him get closer. You can almost feel the warmth coming from his body now and you shiver. The air is starting to cool these days, September is really near now and you’ll lose him for another 8 months.

“It doesn’t matter what they think. I promise we’ll be together; if you just say yes then we’ll be together.” Weren’t you the one who made the promise first? You smile since he doesn’t seem to realize that. “Hell, we can even run away together!” You both laugh when the unfamiliar curse leaves his mouth. “Nothing matters if you are with me, we can even leave the old country if you want to! If you wish, I’ll ask your father after boarding school, he likes me. I’ll find a way to convince mine! I’ll–”

“Jinyoung.” You interrupt his confession, the one you were dying to hear earlier, he’s almost breathless. Lungs neglected by the fervour of his words, spoken too fast, something very unusual of him.

“What?” He hesitates, scared of what you might say. Why is he so afraid, didn’t you already say you’ll be his?

“You haven’t stuttered in over a minute.” His eyes round with surprise and you smile, proud of him. Jinyoung beams, his tongue darts through his lips and they catch you attention.

Right here, hidden behind a tree, in the woods where you used to fight dragons together you start to wonder. Right now, you wonder what these lips might feel like pressed on yours; wonder if you would survive something as intense, so close yet so far. Jinyoung’s expression turns serious when you lean in and close your eyes, you can almost already taste his breath. He’s the one who crosses the last line, leaving the shreds of what was left of your childhood and innocence behind. His nose brushes your cheek as his lips find yours, delicately, sweetly. The touch is so pure, so delicious; it stops time.

___

When the small crowd finally leaves your room, you sigh in relief at the return of your intimacy. Jinyoung is back. Even crazier and even more passionate than before, but you’ve grown. You’ve changed and he doesn’t seem to want to realize that. You walk behind your folded screen to slip off your Elissa costume; it takes you a moment to get rid of the horrible corset. When you are left in only your underskirt, at last, you squeal in triumph. One small battle won, now you shall prepare for the war. You put one of your comfortable dresses on, something drab like everything else you own. Something that will clash with Jinyoung’s lavish appearance. You freeze thinking that; you really don’t want to eat with him right now. You want to think about what his return means, what his father's death means.

The Voice resonates in your room making you jump. “You were amazing tonight. I’d anticipate nothing less from my special protégée.” You had forgotten everything about the performance, but not about your angel of music.

“Thank you…” You bite your lips, walking up to the mirror to take your costume jewelry off now that you are fully clothed. Doing so, you fight the idea of a man observing you, not Jinyoung, but the owner of the Voice.

“Are you going to leave?” It’s sorrowful when it rings again and your freeze, holding one of the jewel flowers from your hair. Somehow guiltily, you lower your gaze to the tip of your shoes.

“I–” You clear your throat. Maybe this is how lost Jinyoung used to feel when his words didn’t come out. “I’ll be back after we have supper…”

“Ok… I… I’ll wait…” It pauses and you stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you really have to go. Jinyoung is the new mécène, it would look bad to refuse his invitation, but at the same time, he isn’t a stranger. He’d probably understand if you’d prefer to stay in your room… Right? Meeting him on the night of your first performance role was more than what you both expected, although he seems to be more than thrilled by all this. There was once a time where the simple memory of him would bring joy in your life. You close your eyelids to escape from the horrible flashbacks that come, but you still see it; your father dying, the Vicomte letting you know exactly where you stand, Madame Giry–. You bring a hand to your chest, clutching where your heart is, panicked. You can’t do this.

“Y/n– Um, Mademoiselle Daae!” Behind your closed door, Jinyoung chuckles at his mistake, unaware of your current distress. “Are you almost ready to go?”

The voice is hushed this time, very close and worried. “I don’t want you to go. Don’t go.” You look up to yourself in the mirror, breathing rendered heavy by your old pain and eyes full of tears.

“I have to.” As soon as you say the obvious your hands start to shake. You feel nauseous, overwhelmed by the feeling you’re trapped. Is Jinyoung really not a stranger? Where was he all those years? Even if you ran away, disappeared. Isn’t he the one supposed to always come saving you, like in your childhood games? Where was he? He barely stutters anymore, is he really your Jinyoung then? Is he the same just because he still says he cares for you? Biting your tongue so much you bleed, you wipe a fugitive tear on your cheek.

“Y/n? Are you alright?” Outside, that Jinyoung is sincerely concerned; you’re taking way too long to get ready.

You can’t do this. You deeply sigh before tentatively asking: “This isn’t the only exit, right?” There’s a long silence, heavy and doubt surfaces in the back of your mind.

“Are–” The voice halts, its owner seemingly abashed. “Are you asking me?”

You look up in the mirror again, this time trying to see beyond, unsuccessful like the other times you tried. Perhaps he’s just as scared as you are, there must be a reason he lives in the shadows. You try to remind yourself of that often when you become too curious about him.

Only tonight, you don’t care; you need an escape, need to be saved.

“Who else?”

L’Opéra [Mini Masterlist]

[liunaticfringe]

Warning: #Elementary Rant Ahead. Long Review of 5x16 Fidelity. Grade -- F

After last night’s expected cluster-f-ck of a non-sensical story with the thinnest bit of actual emotional material (and what was there was pretty damn treacly), I have now officially decided that I would prefer to see LL move on to something more worthy of her time and talent. 

Consider the rich emotional material of Kitty’s return, and how precious little of it made it on screen. Consider how great it would’ve been to see Sherlock/Joan have to babysit, be woken up by an infant, etc. What if Kitty had also been taken by the bad guy but not let go, and SH/JW really did have to act as godparents for a night, so that the final scene would’ve have a real impact? What if Kitty’s return brought up Joan’s life choices? And what if that sparked an emotional conflict between Joan and Sherlock that Kitty helped to resolve?

But no, all we got was big baby Sherlock. Boo-hoo, you didn’t ever call or email me. Well, A) she was on the fucking run from the law. And B) She was living her life and having a freaking baby. SH could’ve just as easily contacted her. That was literally the very LEAST RD could manage to muster up for a B-story? 

But sure, let’s throw the fans a bone with the whole godparent, “we’re a family” BS. Cue the violins. It’s truly sad when fans are so starved for the tiniest morsel of character material that a final one-minute wrap-up of a two-parter like that would cause such an outpouring of excitement and emotion. And we didn’t even get a lousy closeup of JW’s reaction!

And cripes, they couldn’t even get the A story right! Of course, there were no real stakes or impact for our characters after that first little threat scene (which we KNEW SH would ignore, and which we KNEW wouldn’t result in any actual danger to anyone). That motorcycle attack was ridiculous. What we got, as usual, was some completely ridiculous rogue government agent (AGAIN?) trying to manipulate world affairs. AGAIN?? So many people sitting in so many chairs around so many desks and tables talking and talking and talking ... about NOTHING.

Even little things, like how the brownstone got so quickly back to normal after everything was literally boxed up and removed were ignored. Basic story logic. Come the f-ck on. 

The shark has been jumped.

There are so many great shows and writers out there -- airing opposite Elementary are American Crime and Feud, both well-written, well-produced series that challenge the hell out of their actors. And those are just two of 20 or more current series that are both highly regarded and buzzworthy.

And considering that LL can do both comedy and drama, the possibilities are endless. Yes, it’s hard to get a series made, and harder still to find one that will stay on the air. But #Elementary is just beyond help at this point, without a #NewShowrunner and I just don’t see that happening. LL is incredibly loyal, and I don’t see her throwing her weight around to make a change. Sigh.

I will always tune in to see anything and everything she does, so I will continue to watch #Elementary despite the emotional pain it causes. ;)

P.S. I know my evil twin is a bitch about this on Twitter too, but if you’re gonna engage your fans on social media, then you can’t expect all roses and sunshine, especially when you announce you’re gonna chat -- and then bail at the last minute. I think RD knew exactly what the reaction would be and wanted to avoid it.

[galarian-varian]

(For the get-to-know-my-character post) the main team (plus Jack and Alex) - 6, 8, 9, 11, 12, 13, 20, 23, 27, 28, 43, and 49

holy stuuuuff brooooo thank you ;3;

this is a long one, bare with me XD

6.  Do they have any hobbies that their lover finds unusual, odd, or otherwise annoying?

Ricky collects stuffed animals/plushies, which kinda weirds Selena out….a lot :3…Jazz’s hobby includes swooning over Mac, which he absolutely hates and constantly tells her to stop XDSelena has an obsessive need to correct people, even if it means cutting them off when they’re talking. Ricky’s polite and lets her do so, but he’s kinda hurt each time she cuts him off, but he doesn’t have he heart to tell her to kindly knock it off :’3Mac’s pretty normal and doesn’t have any hobbies that would bother Jazz (she loves everything he does…except she wishes he’d warm up to her faster already)Jack actually is completely repulsive to Hex, so she hates everything about hiiim. Jack having grown up in demon world had to eat a lot of gross things to survive like bugs and dirt, which sometimes he reverts back to in the human world if he’s desperate. Daphne is kinda grossed out by this and feels bad for the bugs…Alex…doesn’t have a lover…but she can be rather irritating. Trent sees her as competition, so he wants to break her oh-so annoying pride. Ricky’s not a fan of how she’s so outwardly aggressive and constantly tries to control his life, but again, he’s too sweet to say anything to her. Jazz is not as annoyed as Ricky about that stuff, but she does notice it and just hopes it’ll help Ricky in the long run. Selena and Mac don’t really interact with Alex, but they’d both probably be annoyed with her forwardness and bluntness. 

8.  What is, perhaps, their biggest flaw? Are they aware of this or oblivious to it?

Ricky’s faith in his friends. He’s pretty oblivious to it because he’s too trusting.Jazz’s big mouth. She can be aware of it sometimes, but not often ;;Selena’s is that she wants to solve everyone’s problems, which means getting all up in their business. She’s not aware of it at all until Jazz and Mac start to yell at her for it.Mac’s is probably his temper and the fact he worries too much about what others think about him. That’s what got him in trouble in the first place with Hex, and it causes a lot of conflict with the team :’3 He’s slowly becoming aware of itJack’s is probably his narrow-mindedness.He’s so absorbed in his own goals it consumes him, and he puts waaaay too much faith in Hex. He has nooo clue.Alex’s is her overconfidence definitely, but she’s not aware of it at all.

9.  Do they have a favorite season? What about a favorite holiday?

Ricky loves all the seasons and all the holidays. He doesn’t want any day or season to feel unwanted (yes, even you, Arbor Day!)Jazz loves warmth, so she’s a summer babe, and her favorite holiday is her birthday Fourth of JulySelena’s favorite season is either spring or fall. She likes transitions, but not extremes. Her favorite holiday is probably ThanksgivingMac’s favorite season would also be fall, and I wanna say his favorite holiday is New YearsJack’s favorite season would be winter (more dark = more demon power), and his favorite holiday is HalloweenAlex loves spring and summer, but her favorite holiday is Winter Solstice

11.  What is something that would make your character fly into a rage?

Ricky’s is gonna be on another ask~Jazz can be set off very easily. She doesn’t like being corrected, or when someone points out her size, or if she doesn’t get to eat.Selena’s a bit temperamental and can get set off by a number of things. Some include her own beliefs being challenged, racial topics, anti-feminism stuff, and anything Jazz has to say about herMac is set off by pretty much anything :3c Mostly Hex, magic, anything involving both of those things, and being referred to as a “monster”.Jack is just a ticking time bomb of anger. He has a lot of rage towards the Logans for multiple reasons, so usually anything having to do with them can set him off in a heartbeat. He also hates being reminded he’s “half human”Alex is another character that isn’t quiet about her rage XD Trent is a biiig instigator of her anger. She’s usually set off by him because he pushes her buttons and challengers her a lot.

12.  Is there some particular talent, skill, or attribute that they simply could not give up?

Ricky likes to whistle, so that might be something he wouldn’t wan to give up. He’s not very talented in other stuff ;;Jazz couldn’t give up flying. She loves that too much, and she would be very upset if she had to like actually walk to get to places :PSelena’s is gonna be in another ask too~Mac couldn’t give up archery or violin. Both mean too much to him and he’s a sentimental jerkJack can’t give up his demon abilities. He’s lived with them his whole life, so taking those away from him would probably do a lot of damage on his body, and he could end up being pretty sickly without them. Also, flying is cool. Why would anyone give that power up?Alex can’t give up monster hunting. She’s good at it, and she’s trained her whole life to do it. It would be a shame if….she…lost an arm and….couldn’t hunt anymore…. 

13.  What are your character’s sleeping habits? Heavy or light sleeper? Blanket stealer? One that always rolls onto the floor? Pushes their lover onto the floor?  Sleep talker or walker?

Ricky can just curl up in a little ball and sleep anywhere, but he’s a light sleeperJazz is the wooorst bed hog. Despite being a tiny thing, she WILL take up an entire human-sized bed and kick anyone else off. She’s a super heavy sleeper, a blanket stealer, a sleep talker, and sometimes a sleep walker/flyerSelena’s a heavy sleeper, but won’t sleep through an alarm clock. She tosses and turns a lot, and quite possibly would roll off the bed. Selena also talks in her sleep, but it’s in Spanish most of the time. Ricky will still stay up and listen to what she has to say and has a conversation with her.Mac is a light sleeper too who will try really hard to steal blankets back. If anyone is sleeping with him, he will make sure that they are as faaar away from him as possible. There will be no snuggling with this chimera (even if someone wanted to, he might stab them with his horns oops)Jack’s sleeping habits are similar to Ricky’s. He can curl up and sleep anywhere too, and he’s a light sleeper. He needs to sleep in complete darkness tho. He WILL steal blankets, and he will push others out of the bed.Alex is a light sleeper, blanket stealer, and kicks others out of bed~

20.  Does your character like animals? What are some of their favorite animals? Would they want pets? What about mythological creatures?

Ricky is a friend to all, be it bird or fish or tiny mole! 8DJazz does noooot like other animals, especially anything bigger than she is. Dragons are her favorite~Selena’s not a big animal person, but she can warm up to friendlier ones (so long as they’re not crazy shedders). She thinks sloths and mules are really cuteMac isn’t really an animal person either, and he especially doesn’t like mythological creatures (sorry Jazz). He hates snakes and horses, but he likes dogsJack is noooot an animal person either, but he likes the idea of a pet, someone who is subservient to him and will obey him. He would probably own a cat and then realize the cat has him trained instead. He likes the ideas of mythological creatures, but he doesn’t like the idea of things out there that are stronger than him.Alex is an animal lover, and of course she’s a big fan of dragons. She also loves big cats especially lions and panthers. If she had a pet though, she would have a snake and not just a little one, I’m taking like a full out python

23.  What is your character like when it comes to school? What subjects are they good/bad at? Do they get in trouble a lot or are well behaved?

Ricky sucks at everything except lunch, but he’s a good kid. He only gets in trouble for his grades or with bulliesJazz is the same as Ricky, but she’s also good at her Monster Skills class. She’s a trouble maker though and often gets herself in trouble at school for picking fights with students (that normally start the fight by picking on her or Ricky)Selena is good at history, english, and art to an extent. She’s not very good at math or science, and she’s well behaved other than the instances she first had access to her abilities and accidentally injured a studentMac was an average student who excelled in physical ed, music, math, and languages other than english. He was terrible at history and english, and he was a trouble maker, most of the time it was because of his friend ChessJack hasn’t had any schooling, but he would probably be good at vocab…everything else he wouldn’t care about (he just wants to know all the synonyms for words like ‘murder’ and ‘maim’). He’d get in trouble…a lot…Alex is an ideal student. She was top at all her classes, but her favorite were phys ed hunter classes and science. She wasn’t the best at math, and she was very well behaved

27.  If your character was going to get arrested, what would be the most likely reason for it?

Ricky would be arrested for a crime against fashiooooonJazz would be arrested for theftSelena- traffic related crimeMac’s is on a different ask~Jack for murderAlex- aggravated assault 

28.  If your character became a celebrity, what would they be famous for?

Ricky is already famous for being the worst hunter everrrJazz too is already famous for being the tiniest dragon ever :’3Selena would be famous for writing some kind of big feminist book or somethingMac for archery I would think. He wanted to be in the Olympics when he was younger :’3Jack would be infamous for murderAlex is already famous for being the best hunter in her class xD

43.  Does your character have a switch that changes aspects of their personality whether they are around friends, family, etc. Is there someone who gets to see their true self?

Ricky’s super outgoing with his dad and friends, but he’s completely submissive around his mom, sister, and teachers. When it’s just him by himself though, he’s completely quiet and reclusive Jazz is snappy pretty much all the time especially to people outside her family/the LogansSelena’s the same around everyone pretty much, but she’s definitely more polite to adultsMac’s a completely different person to his mother. He’s sweet and a huge mama’s boy. When he was around Chess, that was when his uglier colors showed. He was self-centered and a huge snot-nosed punk. After the situation with Hex, he just became a big angry furball to everything and everyone (until he warms up to the squad c: ). He’s a softy on the inside tho~Jack is the same to everyone except to Zephia who he looked up to, and to Hex, who he thinks he’s in love with.Alex is suuuper aggressive towards Ricky, but she’s a rather decent person to everyone else.

49.  What is something that your character has nightmares about? Are these frequent? Do they heavily affect your character’s mood?

Ricky’s fear is of disappointing his mom and failing his final hunting exam, so he’s constantly worrying about that. He tries not to let it show and continues to smile despite them being so frequentJazz has a fear of being replaced/forgotten, so she’ll often have nightmares of Ricky leaving her. She reflects this by not letting anyone else come close to Ricky, which becomes more frequent as Selena joins the groupSelena has nightmares of her mother being upset with her for leaving home without telling her. She keeps it hidden from the others rather easily as they’re not too frequentMac’s pretty much already lived his worst nightmare, so his dreams are usually instant replays of that. It’s no secret to the others and they are rather frequent Jack’s nightmares aren’t frequent and they’re just of him not being able to kill Ricky like he really wants too (oh boy do I have a surprise for you Jackie)Alex doesn’t have nightmares until I brutally rip her arm off and she’s then reminded of her failure and becomes a secluded hermit who never wants to do anything again everrr

[stxrryeyes]

all of them

Haha, okay, I’ll do my best!chocolate: when was your first kiss? - Not yet, actually…french vanilla: how old are you? 16, as of last monthcotton candy: three places you want to travel to?- Egypt, to visit my dad’s family, glacier national park because nature, and idk like Prague or some place. Mostly I want to go everywherestrawberry: a language you wish you could speak?- I’ve always wanted to learn Italian just cause it’s really lovely coffee: favorite cosmetic brands?- Clinique is good, so is urban decay and benefit and stuff, idk. I diversify.mint chocolate chip: indoors or outdoors?- ooh, outdoors, always. Forests are nice.cookie dough: do you play any instruments? I’m best at violin cause I’ve been playing twelve years, but I also play guitar, piano, mandolin, and a little bit of clarinet.rocky road: favorite songs at the moment? Currently loving ‘make them gold’ by CHVRCHES and ‘cotton’ by the mountain goats, but there are so many good ones!!butter pecan:favorite songs for life?- Really anything by Bob Dylan cause the man is a poet and it’s the music I was raised on.cheesecake:what’s your zodiac sign?- Sagittarius toasted coconut: the beach or the pool?- Beach, because of waves and birds chocolate chip: what’s your most popular post?- I put up a picture of of my guinea pigs like a year ago that got a couple hundred notes…bubblegum:books or movies?- bookspistachio: manga or anime?- animesalted caramel: favorite movies?- The princess bride, Scott pilgrim vs the world, and beauty and the beastbirthday cake:favorite books?- Oh, so many. The Chronicles of Narnia, the Elegance of the Hedgehog, and The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, to name a fewmoose tracks:favorites for manga? Waaaay back I read the fruits basket manga that was really cute, I remember. orange sherbet:favorites for anime? Fullmetal Alchemist was amazing, and do Ghibli films count? Cause thosepeanut butter: favorite academic subject?- Probably english or science, and there’s a special place in my heart for bioblack raspberry:do you have any pets?- Oh yeah. If you count the barn animals, which I totally do cause I basically live out there, you end up with two guinea pigs, three cats, a couple dogs that split their time between our place and the neighbors’, and around eleven horses. mango:when and why did you start your blog?- A little over a year ago, I think, but I honestly don’t remember why.mocha: ideal weather conditions?- A good Minnesota autumn day: crisp, chilly air, not too cold, a little cloudy but just the sort that everything seems the tiniest bit golden, and maybe a little breeze.black cherry:four words that describe you?- caring, shy, clever, and passionate, idk. neapolitan:things that stress you out?- dangerous weather, school work, politics, interpersonal relationships-honestly, just lots things raspberry truffle:favorite kind of music? I like lots of stuff, but it’s hard to go wrong with cute folk-y acoustic stuffchocolate marshmallow: favorite brands of candy?- Pretty much anything chocolate or lemon flavored Coffee: a card game that you’re good at? War, cause it’s basically only one I know to play…lemon custard: do you eat breakfast?- I try to. dark chocolate:turn ons?- Kindness, intelligence, and being a generally good person. If you just mean like physical attributes, I guess I have a thing for tall blonds?fudge: turn offs?- Acting rude or prejudiced. You gotta be kind, people.peach:how do you relax?- I go to the barn and ride out just spend time with the horses, I read a book, I play stuff on the violin, I write, or I watch brainless television. It really depends if the circumstance, I guesspraline:a popular book you haven’t read yet?- Haven’t gotten around to the kingkiller chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss yet, though I want to.superman: do you like sweaters?- Yesssssscherry:Do you drink tea or coffee?- Tea. So much tea.dulce de leche:an instrument you wish you could play?- cello would be so fun to learn, and it’s one of my favorite instruments, so probably thatblackberry: have you ever laughed so hard you cried?- oh yeahginger:a new feature you wish tumblr could have?- A better way of blocking out robot blogs?blueberry lemon: favorite blogs? Everyone is so lovely but right now I’m obsessed with @tinypmsmatch and @literarystarbucks almond: favorite mean girls quote?- “You go, Glen Coco”Butterscotch: what color are your nails right now?- unpaintedcinnamon:have you ever been confessed to?- yes, several times, and every situation was verrrrry awkwardblue moon: have you ever had a crush on someone?- Yepcappuccino crunch:do you take naps?- not as often as I should mint: the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?- I was in the middle school musical in seventh grade and I played a contractor who sang about natural gas. Enough said.brownie batter:do you like sushi?- noy particularly, but I don’t hate it.key lime:where do you want to be right now?- The library, I think. But my bed works too.red velvet:do you wear prescription glasses?- I have them, but rarely actually wear out of the house…green tea: favorite flavors of ice cream?- chocolate chip, strawberry, and rose