#but thankfully the writing muse is coming back — however i have to KEEP REMINDING MYSELF

[wigglebox]

idk why it brings me such joy getting AO3 emails saying someone left kudos on a fic i wrote three years ago. 

sometimes i have to remember that just because i don’t get INSTANT FEEDBACK on writing i post, that doesn’t mean it’s bad. people will find it years later, and isn’t that the point really — you get it out there, and it’s a long game. it’s there for folks to find and for them to get some joy out of their day if they like the story. no matter how old it is. 

#i love that #;_; #art it's nice because it's easier for folks to consume i think youlook at it for a little bit you reblog or retweet with a little AW THIS IS #NICE AWW #and that's like that instant validation i think a lot of us need #i'm trying to remember that little to no engagement on writing when it's first published won't always happen #hell wasn't 91 W out for years before fandom really took it up? #down at agincourt is older #etc etc #all the BIG FANDOM FICS aren't brand new #and yes i think all of us as fic writers low key want that level of validation with people setting up bot accounts on twitter #making references all the time and moodboards and gif boards and people tlaking to us about it or talking to each other #but not every story is going to be that even if you think it should be that #but who knows maybe three years down the road it would become one of the BIG FANDOM FICs that everyone reccs and stuff #idk #my writing muse took a dive in october during the suptober challenge #i felt like i wasn't writing anything good and no one cared and i know you shouldn't write just for validation but i was feeling tired and a #little rundown #which is why i started drawing again #but thankfully the writing muse is coming back — however i have to KEEP REMINDING MYSELF #IT'S OKAY IF YOU ONLY GET LIKE 20 NOTES ON YOUR POST #it lives on AO3 and it will be seen by someone somewhere #[which is also the name of one of my fics lol so that's a good reminder to me] #anyway #i should probably go do my actual job now

[unfoundhoney]

mother, father, and everything else ↠

↠ platonic!c!tommyinnit x older sister!reader ; fluff , angst

↠ masterlist

↠ a companion piece to a sister’s sacrifice inspired by this tiktok

“Tommy, come on,” you call.

You pull your youngest brother’s attention away from the strings of the apron he got distracted by. He toddles over to you as quickly as he can, reaching up and asking to be picked up silently. He started walking early and go the hang of it quite quickly. However, in talking he’s a bit of a late bloomer, nearing fifteen months but yet to say his first words.

You lift Tommy up into your arms, carrying him out the back door and into the backyard. You set him down to play in the grass where you can keep an eye on him then walk over to the array of clotheslines strung up across the yard, beginning to hang up laundry.

Wilbur is off playing with Niki as usual. He’ll likely return covered in dirt and grass stains, maybe with a captured insect or stories of a new, made up kingdom he’d been ruler of that day. Phil is still out with Techno; they’ve been gone for a while now, but that’s nothing new.

You’ve hung up a pair of Wilbur’s pants and two of Tommy’s shirts when you notice Tommy crouched beside the basket full of wet clothes. He reaches inside and pulls out a sock, squeezing it curiously.

“Do you want to help, Tommy?”

Tommy looks up at you, blue eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He nods his head once.

You giggle and ruffle his hair, “Alright, c’mere.”

You lift Tommy up again, resting him on your hip as you grab a clothespin with your free hand. You slip it over the clothesline.

“Put the top of the sock in the pin,” you tell him.

He struggles a bit, little hands still uncoordinated at his young age. He does eventually position the sock where you can close the pin on it and leave it to hang.

“Wow, good job, buddy!” you say.

You wrap him in a hug and spin around, shrieking laughter falling from his mouth at both your actions and your praise. You set him down and kneel down to be at eye level with him.

“You’re my official laundry assistant,” you say seriously. “Can you hand me clothes to hang up?”

Tommy nods eagerly and toddles over to the basket of wet clothes, grabbing a shirt from the top of the pile. He holds it above his head as he runs back over to you, holding it out.

“Good job, Tommy! We’re quite the team, you and I.”

Together, you and Tommy slowly hang the rest of the clothes up. Tommy eventually gets bored and goes off to pick dandelions and pull off their petals, leaving you to finish the chore, not that you mind. When you’re finished, you call Tommy over to get in the basket, carrying him and the leftover clothespin back inside.

“Y/N!”

The call of your name pulls you to a stop, turning to see who yelled for you. Tommy grabs onto your pant leg for balance, stopping as well. You find Puffy waving at you, hurrying over to you with her little boy Dream at her side.

“Hi, Puffy,” you say. “Hi, Dream.”

“Hi,” Dream says in a small voice.

“Tommy, can you say hi?” you ask the young boy clinging to your hand.

He’s chewing on his thumbnail, looking up at Puffy warily before hiding his face in your leg.

“Guess not,” you laugh.

“How are you, Y/N? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” Puffy says.

“I’m good,” you answer. “Just getting some dinner for tonight.”

“Still the household cook, I see.”

“And just about everything else.”

You laugh and Puffy joins you, but you can tell that wasn’t a joke that went over her head. It’s no joke that you are mother and father to your younger siblings, as well as everything else. Your dad is gone too often; Wilbur doesn’t even call your father “dad,” he calls him Phil.

“Where’s your dad?” Puffy asks.

You shrug, “Around.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

You hesitate for too long, distracted as you attempt to remember the last time Phil came home.

“That hardly matters,” you brush off, “He’s busy doing important stuff and I can look after Wilbur and Tommy myself anyway.”

The look of concern on Puffy’s face is not missed by you. You do, however, elect to ignore it.

Dream tugs on Puffy’s sleeve, “Mom.”

“Yeah, buddy?” Puffy asks, leaning down.

Dream points into the market, where you see Sapnap with his father and his friend George.

“Go say hi, but don’t wander too far,” Puffy tells Dream.

When she turns back to you, keeping one eye on her son, you say, “I’ve gotta head home. Need to make dinner and all that.”

“Yeah, okay,” Puffy says. “I’m here if you ever need help. Or someone to talk to. Or... anything really.”

“Thanks, Puffy.”

You don’t notice at your side, Tommy trying to form the word that Dream used that so quickly got his mother’s attention.

“Look after yourself, Y/N.”

“I am.” You always have.

With a wave, you turn and head back home, Tommy walking slowly beside you. The walk from the market to your house takes about fifteen minutes and you end up carrying Tommy for most of it to speed things up.

When you arrive home, you find Wilbur and Niki sat in the front yard playing a hand clapping game. They stop when they spot you, jumping up and running to come meet you as you walk up the front path.

“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!” Wilbur shouts your names repeatedly.

“Will! Will! Will!” you mimic.

“Can I spend the night at Niki’s?” Wilbur asks.

You like Niki. She’s sweet and a good influence for Wilbur.

“Uhm, as long as her parents are alright with it,” you say, doing your best to sound like a grown up despite only being sixteen.

“We’ve already talked to them,” Niki tells you.

“Alright, then,” you concede. “Behave while you’re there.”

“I will, Y/N!” Wilbur says, running off with Niki.

You watch them go for a few moments until you’re reminded of the toddler sitting on your hip. Tommy squirms around, wanting down. You set him on the ground and walk with him inside.

You set him up with some paper and crayons at the kitchen table. You sit across from him, watching as he carefully looks over his color options before choosing the red crayon.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, bud,” you muse.

You pet Tommy’s hair before you stand, moving to start on dinner. You season meat and chop potatoes, humming to yourself and keeping an eye on Tommy. Thankfully, your youngest brother isn’t a picky eater, which makes meals a lot easier than they could be, especially since he’s been in the solid foods stage for a while now.

The rest of the night is fairly quiet. You and Tommy eat dinner then you do the dishes while he waddles around the living room and plays with some of his toys. You can hear him experimenting with running, his footfalls surprisingly loud for such a small human. You hear him fall, as well, but without any crying then the return of his heavy footsteps, you don’t go to check on him.

You start composing your next shopping list and check the calendar for any upcoming events. There’s a festival next week that you’re meant to chaperone Wilbur and his friends at. Maybe you can team up with Puffy so Tommy can play with Tubbo, and Dream can join Wilbur. You’ll ask her tomorrow.

You hear Tommy enter the kitchen. He waddles over to where you sit at the table and crawls into your lap. He grabs your free hand and starts playing with your fingers as you continue writing down what you’ll need for your bigger grocery run in a few days.

“Mom.”

You freeze.

What?

“Mom.”

You look down at Tommy.

He looks up at you, “Mom.”

“N-No...,” you say weakly.

“Mom.”

“No, I’m not your mom.”

“Mom.”

“No...”

“Mom!” Tommy says happily. “Mom mom mom!”

“Okay, okay,” you say shakily, putting a hand gently over your little brother’s mouth to get him to stop. “Okay, good job.”

Your vision’s blurry. You want to cry. Your chest hurts. But right now, Tommy’s said his first word.

“Good job,” you repeat.

You pull Tommy into a hug and wipe at your eyes behind his back.

Tommy rests his little cheek on your shoulder, already tired but quickly drifting off to sleep in your warm embrace, “Mom...”

“Shhh,” you say, voice weak.

Tommy goes limp, asleep in your arms. As your tears begin to fall, you make sure not to let your sobs move you. How has this happened? Mom. No. You’re not a mother. Except you are. In every way that matters, you are Tommy’s mother. You’ve raised him ever since Phil brought him home that day.

You wish your family was normal. As normal as a family of four adopted children, a single father, and a non-biological uncle could be. You wish your dad was home more. You wish you didn’t have to be the only parental figure Tommy has ever known. It’s to the point he calls you mom. How could Phil let it get to this? How could he care so little?

You just want to have a normal family with parents who are adults and kids who are allowed to be children. You did not get to be a child, but Wilbur and Tommy will. You will always be there for them. You promise. You will give them what you had taken from you. Hatred for your father burns in your chest but it’s quickly snuffed out, doused by nostalgia that longs for a childhood you never had.

#i have no control over what i choose to write so instead of a sister’s sacrifice pt 3 have this #haha fuck you brain i hate you #mcyt #mcyt x reader #dream smp #dsmp #minecraft youtubers #dream smp x reader #mcyt fanfic #mcyt fanfiction #mcyt imagine #tommyinnit #tommyinnit x reader #tommyinnit fanfiction #tommyinnit fanfic #tommyinnit imagine #tommyinnit fluff #tommyinnit angst #angst #fluff #dream smp fanfic #dream smp fanfiction #dream smp imagine

[freudensteins-monster]

Harry Potter logyn

I’m so sorry Anon, I have zero idea how many years ago this prompt was sent, because it has almost definitely been years, but I just skimmed past this ask today and honestly can’t remember seeing it before… But let’s not dwell on that - I wrote 1400 words in one (5hr) sitting. Go me.

And yes, I know we may not be loving a certain author right now, but I may have also made Sigyn trans, for certain reasons.

I also made Loki genderqueer using they/them pronouns. I usually write Loki as he/him and kept reverting back to that as I wrote, so if I missed any in editing I apologise.

Transfiguration 

Loki had hated almost every minute of their last five yearsat Hogwart’s, and considering they’d gotten detention their first week back, theirsixth year wasn’t shaping up to be any better.

It started when they’d been sorted into Ravenclaw, which wasboth a blessing and a curse. It rankled them that they hadn’t been sorted intoGryffindor like their adopted brother, Odin’s golden child, Thor.And they were somewhat ashamed to know they weren’t worthy enough (pure bloodedenough) to have been sorted into Slytherin like their half-brothers Helblindiand Býleistr, who had thankfully graduated by the time Loki had entered their thirdyear.

All them of them were assholes who ignored Loki at best or knockedthem off their broom during a quidditch match, breaking their arm in threeplaces, at worst (Odin had sent a raven congratulating Thor on his victory).

But being sorted into Ravenclaw, as much as it made Lokifeel lesser than their brothers, at least allowed them some time away from them.Things might have been better if Loki had managed to make some close friends,rather than just the occasional study buddy/academic rival. And it might haveall been tolerable if only Frigga was still alive to remind them of theirworth.

The arrival of the perpetually grim Professor Snape pulled Lokifrom their depressing musings. It also brought the presence of another student to Loki’s attention as she filed in behind Snape andquickly took a seat.

“You were almost late, Ms Anderson.”

“Sorry Professor. I got lost,” the Hufflepuff girl admitted bashfully with light eastern European accent. “The stairs at Durmstrang don’t move.”

“You’re not in Durmstrang anymore, so I suggest you get usedto it. Quickly.”

Loki bristled at Snape’s tone but kept their mouth shut. Onedetention their first week back was more than enough.

“Now, for the rest of the evening, for however long ittakes, the two of you will be returning these old textbooks and reference booksto the library and reshelving them for Madam Pince – without the aid of magic,”he intoned, gesturing at a small bookshelf crammed full of books.

Loki didn’t give him the satisfaction of groaning.

“What is it Ms Anderson?”

“I’m sorry, professor, but… where’s the library?”

Snape sighed. “I’m sure Mr Borson can show you. I want thisbookshelf empty before my first class in the morning.”

Loki glared at Snape’s retreating back before turning it onthe pile of books. When the sound of Snape’s footsteps finally faded, only thendid Loki get out of their seat. They put together a stack of books, as tall as theydared carry, and almost lost them all when they turned right into Ms Anderson.

“Watch it,” they hissed, stabilising their books.

“Sorry,” the girl muttered as she ducked behind Loki to graba stack of books almost as tall as theirs.

“Come on,” they groused, leading the girl away from the dank Potions classroom.

Halfway to the library Loki broke and attempted to makeconversation with the new girl.

“What was your name?” they asked, loathed as they were tocontinue using the same name Snape called her.

“Sigyn,” she puffed as she tried to keep pace with Loki. “Yours?”

“Loki. I don’t think I’ve heard of a student transferring infrom another school before. It’s quite unusual.”

“There were unusual circumstances,” she replied vaguely.Loki was intrigued didn’t think she’d be more forthcoming if they pushed.

Silence fell between until they reached the library. Loki, ignoringMadam Pince’s stern gaze, led them over to the Potions section. They stared atthe two stacks of books now sitting in front of them and thought about thebooks still waiting to be collected.

“What do you think about us splitting up? I’ll got getanother batch of books while you shelve, then we can trade on and off until weshelve the last of the books together? Might be faster.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Can you figure it out?” they asked, gesturing towards theshelves.

Sigyn rolled her eyes. “Yes. They have libraries atDurmstrang, you know.”

“Did they now,” Loki teased before racing off back to the Potionsclassroom.

Within forty minutes they had ferried all of the books overand only had a dozen or so left to shelve. It was then, as they stood in closequarters, that Sigyn made her own attempts at conversation.

“So… what are you in detention for?”

“The usual; talking back to Snape. I kept telling him to usemy preferred pronouns – or “your majesty” if “they” was too hard for him - andhe kept insisting on being an ass.”

“Pronouns?” Sigyn asked with no hint of revulsion, onlycuriosity.

“Mm… They/Them. I consider myself genderqueer. And thisstupid school won’t let me wear makeup, or a skirt under my robes, you’d thinkthe least they could do is respect my pronouns. Most professors and students doit without making a fuss, but some people,” they growled, shoving a book ratherforcibly onto the shelf, “just like to be assholes.”

Sigyn was quiet for a moment, her eyes flicking between Lokiand the book in her hand.

“I’m trans,” she admitted. “Durmstrang and my mother wouldonly accept me as a boy, so my father moved us to Ireland and arranged for meto transfer to Hogwarts. So now I get to be Sigyn,” she added with a softsmile.

“Is that why you’re in detention? Did Snape give you shitfor being trans?”

“What? Oh, no,” she said with a shake of her head. “I don’tthink he knows – only Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey had to beinformed, as far as my father told me.”

“Huh… one point for Hogwarts,” Loki muttered. “Then what didyou do to get detention?”

“I punched someone,” Sigyn blushed. “There was this 7thyear boy and his friends casting some sort of wind spell to blow girls’ skirtsup as they walked passed. All the girls were mortified and the boys thought itwas great fun. When he tried to do it to me, I walked right over to him andpunched him in the nose.”

Loki had a feeling they knew who would do something sorepugnant and looked downright gleeful at the thought of him getting some comeuppance.

“Who did you punch?”

“Um… I think his name was… Thot?”

Loki laughed so loud it drew the ire of Madam Pince.

“Sorry,” they called back, not remorseful in the least. “Thor,”they corrected.

“You know him?”

“Regrettably. He is my brother. Adopted.”

“You needn’t get defensive,” Sigyn smiled as she slotted thelast book into place. “So far I think you have little in common with such abrute.”

Loki smiled back. “So… all finished. Do you think you canfind your way back to your dormitory from here?”

Sigyn winced. Loki chuckled.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” she pouted as she followed him outof the library. “Durmstrang was not as large as this place, and the layout mademuch more sense.”

“You’ll figure it out eventually,” he smirked. “What yearare you in?”

“Sixth.”

“Really? Me too. I don’t think I’ve seen you around though.”

It turned out that they were both taking Charms, Herbology,and Defence Against the Dark Arts, but Sigyn’s Herbology class and Loki’sPotion’s class caused a scheduling conflict so they would rarely be in the sameclasses on the same days. But they would be both be taking the sameTransfiguration class, they happily discovered, first up the very next morning.

“I’ll see you then,” Loki said as they brought her to thestairwell that would lead down to the Hufflepuff dormitories. “Presuming youdon’t get lost.”

“I’ll try not to,” she smiled bashfully before wishing Lokigoodnight with a kiss on the cheek.

Loki waited until Sigyn was out of sight before making theirway back to Ravenclaw Tower. They couldn’t stop smiling. In less than an hourthey’d found a new study buddy, quite possibly made a new friend, and maybe, ifthe way Sigyn blushed when she kissed them meant anything, they might just finishthe term with a girlfriend who liked them just as they are.

#transfiguration #logyn #loki x sigyn #loki #sigyn #genderqueer loki #trans sigyn #mcu #hp #freudensteins-fics

[sternenteile]

THE POSITIVE & NEGATIVE; Mun & Muse - Meme.

fill out & repost ♥ This meme definitely favors canons more, but I hope OC’s still can make it somehow work with their own lore, and lil’ fandom of friends & mutuals. Multi-Muses pick the muse you are the most invested in atm.

tagged by:  @battleshell​  ;  we all care blue, u do, i do, we all do tagging:  holy shit my whole dash because exorbitantly long memes are the BEST. i aint even sarcastic when i say that, i love this kind of shit. u GOTTA do it.

my muse is:  canon / oc / au / canon-divergent / fandomless / complicated

Is your character popular in the fandom? YES / NO. [ he is in two fandoms, in fact. he is both a fan-favorite from super mario rpg, the very first in the line of mario rpgs we’ve gotten over the years, and a pretty popular smash bros. request. he even got a mii costume in 4 and a spirit in ultimate as a result of the love. he’s very beloved, to the point that i’d, even as a geno fan myself, deem him a bit overrated. why? b/c where is all the love for all the other smrpg characters!!! they are all good. i love them all. ]

Is your character considered hot™ in the fandom?  YES / NO / IDK. [ i mean ?? i’ve met and seen many people who have/had crushes on geno so ??????? but i don’t think it’s like. that. ghfskjhgsg??? ]

Is your character considered strong in the fandom?  YES / NO / IDK. [ oh yes, he is undeniably very strong, both in personality and in battle. he is often seen as the level-headed straight man of the party in smrpg (which, in the case of my geno, is... semi-applicable LMAO), a star spirit with unwavering bravery and confidence. his in-battle stats are also pretty crazy, favoring geno as a glass cannon and enemy sweeper. he is also the only character in the game to have a move that will insta-kill any enemy besides bosses. well, and exor. idk why exor, but there ya go. needless to say, pretty much everyone in the fandom agrees that geno is a powerful mfer. why wouldn’t a literal, living star be? ]

Are they underrated?  YES / NO / IDK. [ as i mentioned before, there is no shortage of him being underrated in the fanbase. i’d even say he’s a little overrated. some people treat smrpg as ‘that game with geno in it’ rather than everything else it has going for it. i love star boye as much as the next gal, but pls appreciate smrpg as a whole. it’s such a vibrant game with a colorful world of characters to love. ]

Were they relevant for the main story?  YES / NO. [ he is actually, completely central to the plot. the subtitle of smrpg is legend of the seven stars, which directly relates to geno’s core mission: to find the seven star pieces and restore star road. the rest of the gang had different ambitions, but they all ended up banding together over geno’s objective. one could argue he mostly is the exposition-granter and could be replaced with anyone else, but i feel he’s irreplaceable. smrpg would be so different without him, like it or not. ]

Were they relevant for the main character? YES / NO / THEY’RE THE PROTAG. [ i wouldn’t say he is the protagonist, obviously, as that is very much mario’s spot. that being said, he is a pretty obvious deuteragonist for smrpg, given how much the plot revolves around him. he’s relevant to mario, for sure, as well as peach, mallow, and bowser. he’s relevant to many characters beyond them. he represents the fight for everyone’s wishes to be able to come true. he’s, uh... very relevant rofl. ]

Are they widely known in their world? YES / NO. [ the star spirits are somewhat known in the mario universe as entities capable of granting wishes, kinda like fabled gods with a tinge more evidence and reality to them. geno himself isn’t a known name, not like the seven star spirits of star haven, but his people are decently known. he, however, is not. ]

How’s their reputation?  GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL. [ he is basically the epitome of ‘good’ until you overthink star society like i do lol. not all wishes can be granted, what constitutes as a ‘good wish’ is subjective, why some good wishes still can’t be granted anyway, etc. it puts him more towards neutral good with a dash of lawful and an undercurrent of chaotic, given his rebellion against his superiors. ]

How strictly do you follow canon?  —  i mean, it isn’t hard to be strict to mario canon when there isn’t that much of a foundation to work with anyway lol. it’s all rather simplistic until you get into the nitty gritty of it ??? that said, geno is built on a lot of headcanon. like, a lot a lot. star society and its rules for star spirits of his kind, his relationship with rosalina (a matronly figure), his relationship with the seven star spirits, the fleshing-out of his basic personality traits shown in smrpg, etc.? headcanon upon headcanon.

SELL YOUR MUSE! Aka try to list everything, which makes your muse interesting in your opinion to make them spicy for your mutuals.  —  a star possessing the form of a children’s toy, like toy story but with more cosmic pew-pew. a chill and sassy guy still learning the ways of how earth (and other planets) work on a more intimate level, meaning there will be lots of adorkable moments as this curious one makes discoveries. sometimes attempts to innovate with what he learns to be ‘ahead of the curve’, leading to interesting results. (he likes to sip bubble tea, but replace the tapioca pearls with star bits. good result. mopping a counter-top because it would be ‘more efficient’? not-so-good result, got him lots of stares.) straight outta the 90′s, so be ready some of that rad 90′s slang and know-how from back in the day. (what do u mean they’re bringing back dunkaroos? that’d mean they stOPPED MAKING THEM?!?) very intrigued with new technology, became stuck to his smartphone upon discovering them, fell into the time-sink that is animal videos on youtube. he’s humble and likes to relax, have a good time, and relax w/ the squad. video games, netflix binges, the whole nine yards, he’s gotchu. he is a hell of a fighter and loves to fight, as well. help him push his abilities, and he’ll help you with yours.  likes being a little shit for fun, only to an extent (harmless moments of impishness, not serious, hurtful pranks). has a sense of humor that is easy to tickle, even with stupid dad jokes and classic puns. the brother-friend that will fire lasers at ur enemies for u. likes to play violin. cute. super cutie. v. tiny in his star form. almost five whole feet of sparkly, twinkly fun. likes super soakers.

Now the OPPOSITE, list everything why your muse could not be so interesting (even if you may not agree, what does the fandom perhaps think?).  —  despite intrigue to learn more about the world around him, there is only so much that he does know. societal norms are often beyond him, and there are just so, so many earth hobbies he is not aware of. without handing him a bone, it makes him a little more limited than someone who’s more savvy. he is prime slice-of-life material, but that may also make things rather dull in an rp without an extra twist to spice things up. (thankfully, his being a total SNOT sometimes helps with that.) in canon and strictly in canon, geno doesn’t really have much personality, something that this geno has plenty more fleshed out. a good chunk of fandom finds him to be incredibly boring and droll, to which i personally disagree, as there are little things in smrpg that hint towards him having more to explore.

What inspired you to rp your muse?  —  funnily enough, seeing smash bros. fandom railing on geno fans + hyping him up all at the same time made me revisit smrpg after having only played it as a teenager. i expected geno to be a boring slate of nothing like fandom often portrays him, but i found that i was terribly wrong. with a newfound perspective on him, noting little details that defied my expectations for this li’l guy, i decided to give him a geno whirl and see what kind of expansion i could do with his character. the amount of lore i came up with him and started wondering about piled on and on and on, and i realized that he had so much more potential than what nintendo and square properly tapped into. (some of it is also a matter of being timely, though, meaning later mario materials such as rosalina, star haven, etc.) i wanted to flex out that potential and see how much i could fill this little doll up with, and lo and behold, i rp him today with extensive amounts of development poured into him with love. to put it simply, there was so much untapped potential that i wanted to share with the world, to show geno the love and in-depth exploration that he deserved, to show that he was more than what he was given.

What keeps your inspiration going?  —  chattering about mario lore with pals, whether it relates to geno or not, reading, watching shows or videos that remind me of him, learning more about cosmology and the universe we live in (and boy, i’ve learned a lot of neat stuff!), revisiting my childhood (the 90′s) since it’s very geno-appropriate, drawing The Boye, literally anything to do with playing, watching, or doing ANYTHING with smrpg/paper mario 64/smg1&2, and probs a lot more. i’ve got a lot of fuel in me for this guy lol.

Some more personal questions for the mun.

Give your mutuals some insight about the way you are in some matters, which could lead them to get more comfortable with you or perhaps not.

Do you think you give your character justice?  YES / NO / I SINCERELY HOPE I DO? [ on one hand, of course i hope that i do! on the other hand, i mean... nintendo and square don’t do jack for him, so i think almost anyone can do him more justice than they have, lbr. it’s... not hard... :’) ]

Do you frequently write headcanons?  YES / NO / SORT OF? [ ok i gotta just copy-paste what blue said in her response because my god, she nailed it: “you know when you have a concept and in your own mind you can see it clearly, without fuzziness or confusion, but you can’t seem to put it clearly into words without it turning into an essay because you need to connect all the other points that’s in the single concept you envisioned? yea.” basically, this but in spades, because i have a huge amount of headcanon and lore that i’ve either not gotten around to writing about yet or am purposefully staving off (wink wink). i have written a lot for him, though! it’s just... comparatively so little to what all i’ve thought up over-time. ]

Do you sometimes write drabbles?  YES / NO [ not! often! enough!!! ]

Do you think a lot about your Muse during the day? YES / NO [ all i know is fine dining, breathing, and adorkable starman. ]

Are you confident in your portrayal? YES / NO / SORT OF? [ funny enough, i’m pretty damn confident in my portrayal, albeit still very modest. i mean, i am at least confident that i give depth to a character that had so little, and i feel like geno is just... real. (not literally ofc i mean like, he FEELS realistic.) he’s got character perks, character flaws, strengths, weaknesses, personal issues, ongoing obstacles, relatable themes where appropriate, interests, knowledge (or lack thereof), daily routines... i could go on. if nothing else, i at least feel good about trying to make geno feel less like some exposition character and more like a person. considering he wants to achieve personhood that most of his kind never gets to find, it’s oddly poetic lmao. ]

Are you confident in your writing?  YES / NO. [ eehhhhh. i mean, i guess it’s fiiiIIINE, but i often feel like i lack a certain pizzazz, something that’ll keep people interested and intrigued with what i write, giving enough material for them to adequately bounce back. on the same token, i like to babble with my prose, so i often worry about going on and on and on way too much. stale, quantity over quality, substance-less writing is what i fuss over the most. ;; ]

Are you a sensitive person?  YES / NO. / SORTA. [ sensitive to empathy and other peoples’ emotions, yes. i’m an insanely empathetic person, and i have a lot of love to give. that said, with only few exceptions, i have a pretty iron-clad skin. sometimes, i daresay it’s to the point that i often misjudge what other people can take, and i feel i can end up being too harsh and forward. that being said, it is also a good thing at times. harsh or not, if i feel a certain way about something, i make that shit known and i make it known as loud as it necessarily should be. i don’t beat around the bush; rather, if i have a beef, i will make that beef known. consequently, if i have love to give, you damn well better be ready to swim in a pool of hearts and your favorite kind of cookie (if applicable). ]

Do you accept criticism well about your portrayal?  —  as long as it isn’t complaints with lack of substance/reasoning, yes! even if i may not always agree and may take things with a grain of salt, i am insanely receptive to criticism, even over the pickiest things. it’s something i’ve grown used to due to prior rp venues being particularly harsh. i will never throw a fit or act like a child if there is something i could do better with geno. in fact, there always will be! i’m not perfect, and i love to hear about ways i can improve and do better. it’s paramount in a hobby like this.

Do you like questions, which help you explore your character?  —  LET’S-A FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

If someone disagrees to a headcanon of yours, do you want to know why?  —  sure, i’d love to know! it can make for some neat conversation!! c:

If someone disagrees with your portrayal, how would you take it?  —  that’s a’ight. i’m sure there are things about my geno that won’t resonate with everyone, especially given he’s a very sentimental character for old fogies like me lol. as long as there is no disrespect thrown this way, it’s all good. this stuff is subjective, after all.

If someone really hates your character, how do you take it?  —  oh, a lot of people really hate geno lol, but i’m guessing this means personal portrayal only. in such a case, i would be curious as to why, admittedly, but i acknowledge that i am not owed anyone’s reasoning. if they really, absolutely hate my geno, then it’s their prerogative, whether they want to give a reason why or not. again, it’s all good unless immaturity and disrespect rears its head. i won’t tolerate that and will ignore any such behavior.

Are you okay with people pointing out your grammatical errors?  —  sure, it happens to the best of us!

Do you think you are easy going as a mun?   —  i’d like to think that i am! i’ve often had people tell me that i’m very nice and mature, but of course, i have no right to say how i come off to other people. that is not in my territory to judge, only theirs. that being said, it’s not easy to upset me or anger me, and i’m more often willing to listen and pal around than not. i’m the living embodiment of (shrug). i am just (shrug).

#★ ; ( ooc. ) #★ ; ( meme. ) #★ ; ( headcanon. ) #WHHHHOOOOOHHHHH THIS WAS A BLST #THANK U AGAIN BLUE I LOVE THIS

[namjuicyy]

A Father’s Love - Chapter Four

Masterlist | Requests are open.

Genre: Angst, fluff, smut.

Genre of this part: Fluff, smut.

Word Count: 3.5k.

Summary: Single father, Namjoon, struggles to keep his idol life and his private life separate. When he meets you, everything changes.

Warnings: semi-public sex, fingering, unprotected sex, studio sex, fluffy sex on his sofa.

Namjoon's life, as you'd come to figure out, was dictated by a small digital screen that would send alerts to him telling him what his plans were for the day. His calendar app, along with his favourite music app, were the only two squares on his phone that hadn't been put into a folder for the neat aesthetic. And the chance for him to put a selca of himself and his son as a wallpaper and be able to see it whenever he unlocked his phone, of course. But, Tuesdays and Fridays were your nights. Nights where, regardless of distance or business, time was set aside for the both of you to hang out. Three of the four days dedicated solely to you, you also shared Namjoon with Haneul. Not that you minded, given that, even when he threw tantrums, he was the sweetest boy alive. A trait he must have inherited from his father.

This Friday, however, it seemed to just be you and Namjoon, favouring a date at the cinema for... a date in his studio.

"___, I'm so sorry." He said frantically over the phone. "I didn't want to cancel on you, I really didn't. It's just we're planning a comeback in the spring and a comeback requires an album and an album needs writing and I'm already so behind as it is."

"Lack of inspiration or lack of time?" You'd asked trying to cheer him up.

"It's certainly not lack of inspiration," he told you, "I seem to have found myself a new muse."

"Oh smooth, Joonie. Smooth." You giggled.

"Yeah, next door's cat is really soft and squishy. I think I'm in love, ___. That calico... man. It really gets me, you know?"

"Sure it does. Just... out of curiosity... what kind of takeout do you prefer? Italian, Indian or Chinese?"

Namjoon chuckled. "Curiosity killed the cat you know."

"If that thing dies, you can't hold me responsible for it! I won't be blamed for the fall of Bangtan Sonyeon-whatever it is you youngsters call yourselves these days."

You'd come to learn, in the past week or so, that Namjoon's band was a lot more successful than you thought it was. Turns out you had seen Namjoon's face around before, and you did know who he was. But for some reason your brain didn't twig that your Namjoon was international pop/rap sensation... Rap Monster... of BTS. You'd even listened to some of his music before, and enjoyed it a lot. Not that you'd be able to call yourself part of Army or anything. When you learnt about this, you simply shrugged your shoulders and just let it skate over your head, something that surprised Namjoon. No one had ever been this indifferent to his career before, yet there you were, snuggling up to him on the couch, playing with his son's hair absent-mindedly as the Korean dubbed version of Disney Pixar's Cars played on the television. Namjoon really tried not to get attached to you. He honestly tried his hardest. He'd seen all the problems his dongsaengs had gone through whenever they'd even breathed in the same direction as a woman, and knew that if the press ever got wind of you, things would change for the worse. Thankfully, his previous relationship and his son were able to remain in the dark. For five years he'd managed to separate his family and his work, and he was proud of himself for that. But times were changing. He wasn't as in the spotlight then as he was now. But despite knowing all of this, he still found his heart swelling every time he looked at you and Haneul playing, or laughing, or just getting along perfectly. It seemed almost too good to be true.

"As long as there's lots and lots of meat, jagi, I'm fine with anything."

Jagi. The Korean term for sweetheart. A term you never thought you'd hear in regards to you, but there it was. The first time he'd called you that and you loved it instantly. You smiled to yourself brightly, thankful that your pathetic appearance wasn't caught by God's best creation so he could tease you about it later on.

You followed his sister's directions to the Big Hit building, where Namjoon's studio was, holding the bags of takeout in your hands. South Korea, Seoul especially, was known for its amazing takeout delivery service, and how, even if you were sat on the banks of the Han River, their drivers would find you and deliver your favourite meal. But there was something about carrying your food back to wherever it was you were eating that reminded you of your childhood, and you'd always prefer suffering the cold noodles, or fries, for the feeling of charging in from the harsh weather and declaring that your bollocks had frozen off from the storm. Which is what you did as soon as you burst through the door of MonStudio and shook the cold off your body, plopping the copious amounts of food down on the tiny, black sofa at the back of the room. Or was it the front? You couldn't tell really.

Namjoon turned around and his expression changed from downright annoyance to shock. Clearly you were the last person he expected to see, despite the fact that you'd flat out asked him what his favourite takeout was. For someone who's IQ was so high, he was so slow in social situations. A trait you found more endearing than annoying. At least for the time being.

"You didn't tell me what you preferred, so I just brought everything." You announced proudly, removing your outerwear and staring at the bags of food. "The light pink bag is Indian, the paper bag is pizza and a bit of pasta, the white bag is our favourites from that BBQ we went to a couple of weeks ago and this," you held up an even larger paper bag with an instantly recognisable, bright yellow logo in the shape of a curvy M, "is filled with nothing but saturated fats and heart disease in a bag but if I'm gonna go, it'll be at the hands of a Big Mac and fries larger than my head."

Namjoon laughed, stood and walked behind you so he could wrap his long arms around your waist. "You are too good to be true." He rested his chin on your shoulder and swayed the both of you gently.

"Wait until you get to know me." You joked. He kissed your shoulder. "Now," you tapped his hands that were linked and resting on your tummy, "are you going to eat this food? Or are you just going to let it sit there and grease your sofa as it gets colder and colder?"

He grabbed hold of some bags. "Come with me, we'll eat in the kitchen."

You watched Namjoon walk out of his studio and down the little corridor. "There's a kitchen?" You asked, following him.

There was, in fact, a kitchen. A big one. Overwhelmingly grey and a mixture of homey and canteen-y. The kitchen units weren't too dissimilar to yours, save for the fact that they were newer and didn't have a weird brown stain on them that was there when you moved in and was stubborn enough to not move. Three of the four walls were basically glass, looking out onto the hustle and bustle of Gangnam's nightlife, and in front of each table was a row of grey, smooth tables that resembled modern picnic benches.

You heard the familiar buzz of a microwave whirring to life and your heart sang. You set the bagged food on one of the counters and stared at Namjoon with a soft look in your eyes. "You have a microwave. You're so domestic."

Namjoon laughed. "Please, using a microwave and a kettle is about the only thing I can do in the kitchen."

"Oh. Well, there goes all my hopes and dreams of marrying you then."

"We've found your deal breaker."

"We have indeed. Enjoy your food, I'm off to marry a chef."

"Who's going to break this news to Haneul?"

You came storming back into the kitchen after your dramatic exit. "No! We're only two weeks into this. You can't start emotionally manipulating me using your child!"

When the food had all been warmed, you chose one of the tables in the middle of the largest window and set up camp there, laying all the food out neatly with the proper utensils so you could grab and munch. The conversation never died. It always seemed to flow so easily with Namjoon. When you weren't joking, you were having serious conversations with each other and just generally enjoying each other's company.

While Namjoon threw away the now, completely empty, takeout packets, you took it upon yourself to wash up the plates and the cutlery you all use. You didn't hear Namjoon return, all you felt was his arms snake and lock around your waist again, this time a little tighter than before. His lips immediately went to your shoulder, peppering light kisses on it before leading up to your ear. You could feel the atmosphere had changed from before. There was something heavy hanging over you, and it wasn't Namjoon.

"Someone's affectionate." You commented.

He just hummed in response to you, continuing to kiss your hair and hold you from behind. As you turned to look at him over your shoulder, his lips caught yours in a gentle kiss that soon turned into more. His tongue was in your mouth, his hands turning you so you were facing him and your arse pressed up against the counter, pinned there by his body. You could feel his cock growing the more heated the kiss got, the tighter his grip on you became. You couldn't catch your breath. You felt like you'd been running a marathon in the hottest of weathers. Every touch of his skin on yours burned into you and melted straight into your soul. Every lick of his tongue sent electricity into your veins, resurrecting anything dead within you and bringing it to the youth of life.

He pushed you further into the counter, forcing you to sit yourself up onto it and spread your legs, allowing him to slot in between them like a puzzle piece. Your clothed centre was now level with his, and it rubbed deliciously against yours until.

BANG.

"Fuck!"

Namjoon doubled over in pain.

"What happened!?"

"Ah shit, I came in too quickly and whacked my knee on the cupboard."

You laughed. "Namjoon!"

"Don't laugh at me. I'm in pain." He came back in closer to you, much slower this time, and started kissing you again. His lips were attached to your neck this time, though.

"Shame you didn't hit your dick. I would have kissed it better for you."

Namjoon stopped kissing you, and lifted his head so he could look into your eyes. His brown ones, hooded and full of lust, were hiding the cogs turning in his brain. He put his hand over his crotch. "Ow! I hit my dick too! Ow it hurts!"

"Well, I'm certainly not doing it now that you're faking it."

Namjoon smirked. "Fine. I had other plans for you, anyway."

You wanted to ask him what those plans were, but his lips stopped you from speaking. His hands travelled up your jeans and made quick work at pulling them halfway down your thighs. He kissed your neck, tongue licking at your skin. You almost forgot where his hands were until you felt them dip into your panties and start rubbing your clit with his thumb, causing you to moan out loud. Much louder than you anticipated, actually, shocking the both of you as your noise bounced off the walls. He added pressure, rubbing a little faster and watching your face as he did, a shit-eating grin on his lips and his pupils blown out. This was the first time you were seeing him like this, this whole other side of him that you didn't even imagine was there. He'd always seemed so soft before. And you certainly didn't expect –

"Fuck! Namjoon." You couldn't control the noises coming out of your mouth as he slipped two of his longest fingers into you're your incredibly wet hole. He tapped up straight away, and began a relentless pace making you squelch beneath him, his palm grazing your clit in a repeated manner, adding that extra layer of euphoria. You watched his face as he continued to pleasure you, you saw how he was almost mimicking your expressions, but in a taunting way. As if he was telling you that it was him making you feel this good. This sudden cockiness was so alluring, and despite how awkward you would have felt with any other man, you couldn't tear your eyes away.

He could feel you getting tighter around his fingers, he could hear how laboured your breathing had become. He knew you were close. "You gonna cum for me, angel?" He asked. You nodded, completely helpless beneath him.

"Namjoon-ah?"

Your head immediately snapped to the wall a few feet away, where, behind it, was the door to the kitchen that you'd forgotten to close when you entered. That voice that shouted Namjoon's name was deep, and certainly wasn't yours. You thought you were alone in the building but apparently not.

"Suga-hyung?" Namjoon replied, completely unphased and unrelenting. You covered your mouth in an attempt to stop your whimpers, but all it did was soften them. You were too close to remain completely quiet, and Namjoon was determined to get you there.

"Where are you?" The voice asked.

"In the kitchen." You could hear the footsteps coming towards you. Your eyes widened. "Cum, angel." Namjoon ordered. You felt his fingers move faster. It was only a matter of time. 'Suga' was only a few meters away at this point and your orgasm was on the brink of tearing you in two.

Coming.

Coming....

Your hands gripped into Namjoon's shoulders as you came, holding your breath and shutting your eyes tightly. You could feel him everywhere, inside you, around you. All you could smell was him, hear was his breathing. Your brain was complete mush, not processing what needed to be done as you were coming back to reality. With his one, dry hand, he was tugging your jeans back up your leg, begging you silently to come to your senses, which you did when you heard Suga's whistling. While Namjoon washed his hands frantically in the sink, you hopped off the counter and pulled your jeans back up, only finishing zipping them as the man walked in the room.

He was short, and stopped moving as soon as he saw you. He was confused. "Hyung, this is ___. ___, this is Min Yoongi, a housemate and member of my band."

"Oh." You replied. "It's nice to meet you!"

"You too." Yoongi answered. "So you're the infamous ___. It's bad enough that Haneul bangs on about you but Namjoon literally doesn't stop talking about you. You seem to have infiltrated the hearts of the Ilsan Kim's." He started to pour himself a coffee.

"I hope he hasn't been getting on your nerves too much." You joked.

"He always does. You'll get used to it." He smiled, flashing you both an adorable gummy smile. His eyes never left Namjoon though, and sparkled with a glint of mischief. "Oh, and uh, next time you two want to fuck, please make sure you don't do it where we all eat. It stinks of sex in here. Have a nice night."

As he left, you could hear him chuckling to himself. Namjoon's face had turned bright red, and when you both locked eyes with one another you burst out into laughter. You were so embarrassed but at the same time you still felt this pull to Namjoon, despite the interruptions. So, you wrapped your arms around his waist, pulled him towards you, and whispered, "maybe we should finish this in the studio?"

"You read my mind."

You could barely keep your hands off one another on your way back to Namjoon's studio, your lips meeting every so often and your back pressed up against the wall as his tongue slipped down your throat. By the time you were in his studio, both your shirts were off, and were thrown to one side the minute you stepped inside, and your jeans had been unbuttoned and unzipped and were being tugged off your legs by you as Namjoon shut the door. You both fell on his sofa, his crotch rubbing against your soaked underwear as he kissed you again for the millionth time that night. His hands roamed the entire length of your body, only to pull your panties off you. He stopped and rolled his eyes. "Shit!"

"What?"

"I don't have any condoms in my studio."

"Are you clean?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Me too."

"Are you suggesting...?"

"Just get inside me, Joon." You demanded. Your ankles were pushing into his clothed ass, pulling him closer to you. You needed him inside you just as much as he needed to be inside you. He undone his jeans and pulled his cock out. He was too wound up to pull the rest of his clothes off properly, he just wanted to feel you.

"Tell me if you ever feel uncomfortable."

You nodded and waited for that sweet burn. You knew he would stretch you out so good, and you were right. Eye contact remained as he started to push into you, stretching your walls as he intruded, not fast enough to really hurt you, but fast enough for his impatience to be kept at bay. Within seconds, he'd bottomed out, his eyes had rolled back into his head and he'd groaned so loudly, you were grateful for the soundproof room. His voice wasn't the only one filling the room, as you whimpered at the feel of his length really hitting all the best places, despite the fact he'd not even begun to fuck you yet.

He'd wanted this since he met you. Maybe not quite as rushed as this, and way more romantic. In his bed, candles everywhere, R&B in the background as he literally made love to you. But on his sofa in his studio was good enough at the time. His head fell to your chest, still caged in your bra.

"You can move, Joon."

"I can't. I'll cum if I move."

You giggled, scratching at his scalp. He pulled out, then pushed back in gently making you both groan. "Fuck." He cursed. He did it again, his head still buried in his chest. This time, his thrust back inside you was harder, and they kept getting harder until you were practically tearing the couch with your nails trying to grip hold of something, anything, to tether you to reality.

His speed picked up, his moans got louder. He was, somehow, much louder than you, a feat you never thought anyone could achieve but there he was, pounding into you at a merciless rate and letting the whole world know what he was doing. Even when he kissed you, he was still groaning.

"You feel too damn good, f-fuck."

Your nails dug into his back as he made the sofa rock against the carpet. He sat back onto his knees so he could move into you faster. He gripped your waist and watched your hand snake down to your clit. He bit his lip at the sight in front of him, you, sprawled out in his studio, your hand on your pussy and his cock slamming into you. It was almost too much to bear. "That's it, angel." He praised. "Touch yourself for me. Fuck. You look so good right now."

A thin sheen of sweat coated his entire body. His brows furrowed. He looked like a living piece of art. Overwhelmed, you began to shake, tightening around him accidentally, making him lose his mind.

"You... have to cum... first." He said.

It didn't take you long to do as he said, your second orgasm hitting you like a double decker bus. You screamed as your fingers moved faster against your clit in an attempt to keep up with both Namjoon's cock and your own orgasm. And, as you were finishing, Namjoon pulled out, shooting his release all over your tummy with his lip in between his teeth and an animalistic growl erupting from his throat.

Breathing. That was all you could hear in the studio as the two of you recovered. Namjoon collapsed at the opposite end of the sofa, his hands running through his hair and his lips bitten red raw. You felt cold, empty, but so incredibly satisfied.

When his legs had regained at least half of their strength, he walked over to the tissue box on his desk and wiped his cum off your skin. You didn't realise just how much there was of it until you actually sat up to watch him move. "I think you're even further behind with your work now." You commented.

Namjoon chuckled. "Worth every second."

He was so cheesy, even after almost destroying you. You could tell that this was going to be one hell of a relationship.

#bts #bangtan sonyeondan #kim namjoon #namjoon #namjoon fluff #namjoon smut #rm #rapmon #rap monster #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #jin #suga #min suga #jhope #hobi #jimin #v #jungkook #jk

[artificialqueens]

Flowers in Bloom, Part 1 - Daisy (Shinkx) - Albatross

AN: The sequel to ‘The Language of Flowers’ - This will feature the Shinkx and Trixya dates that follow immediately where their last chapters left off.

So this didn’t end up being as long as I thought it was going to be at first but that’s alright. I’m trying to learn not set imaginary pressures or deadlines on myself and just enjoy the process of writing. Not sure when the Trixya date will be posted, I haven’t started it yet but I’ve got a lot planned. The next piece to be posted is very likely to be Biadore (because that seemed to be the overwhelming want from the little mini poll on AQ) and then Trixya. I’m also torn between starting on the magical girl AU right away or jumping into Rajalaskam. Might just start both and see which one is finished first. Quick little side note for the chapter names - the flower that I pick as the title is going to be how I feel best describes the date. In this case the Daisy represents innocence and simplicity.

In a matter of seconds, Sharon had followed Jinkx beyond the shop’s door and stepped onto the sidewalk beside her. In the short amount of time it took her to lock up the building for the night, Jinkx found herself suddenly slapped with the reality that she was about to go on a date with her boss. Her heart began racing in her chest as an overwhelming smile threatened to break out across her lips. She just couldn’t believe this was really about to happen!

In a strange way she was glad it was all decided so suddenly; if there had been any lapse of time between her subtle confession and the date itself she was sure she would have gone into a full-blown panic mode. As for right now the immense joy coupled with a heavy dose of shock was the perfect thing to keep her from freaking out entirely. The only thing she hoped for right now was that her expression didn’t betray just how nervous she actually was beneath her relatively composed exterior. However, the smile Sharon shot towards her once she was finished securing the shop threatened to override that thought completely.

As they walked down the moderately busy street, Jinkx found herself toying with the hem of her sleeves. It offered a small bit of distraction but she longed to be able to clasp onto Sharon’s hand. She probably would have tried had the blonde not already shoved them into her pockets. To anyone else she probably would have looked like the picture of perfect composure but Jinkx noticed all of the little tics that betrayed her true feelings; the slightly higher pitch of her voice, the twiddling of her fingers with the items in her pockets, and of course her struggle to maintain eye contact between the frequent breaks to watch where they were going.

Their conversation remained idle but natural as Sharon led the way to the restaurant she had in mind. To both women’s surprise neither fell into the old classic of discussing work as a safety net. Although shortly after arriving at the cafe that was intended for their date, they were reminded all too quickly of the night’s earlier activities. Jinkx hadn’t noticed the issue at first, she was more concerned with trying to dodge the miscellaneous clusters of patrons loitering outside the cafe’s entrance, but Sharon’s less than quiet call of “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” soon caught her attention.

Following the blonde’s line of sight, Jinkx quickly spotted the problem; it seemed that Katya and Trixie had also decided to take their impromptu date here as well. They had been seated at a raised table out in the enclosed patio section and were eagerly chatting away about some random topic Jinkx couldn’t quite make out.

Sharon’s face as she took in the scene was a study of indecisiveness. She didn’t want to risk being exposed to Katya’s unique talent of effortlessly annoying her, especially in front of Jinkx when she could easily lose her cool…but even more so, she didn’t want to delay her date with the redhead any longer. She’d spent so much time simply pining after her from afar, she just couldn’t handle pushing it off for another night now that it was finally within her reach!

Bracing herself, Sharon began to push herself towards the hostess’s stand to request a table but Jinkx catching her arm stopped her dead in her tracks. Sharon’s heart stalled for a moment until she saw the reassuring smile resting upon Jinkx’s lips.

“I know another place we can go,” she offered politely, “If you don’t mind walking a little further.”

Very much relieved, Sharon replied that it wasn’t a problem in the slightest all while making a mental note to herself that’d she probably walk the length of the city just to keep her date with Jinkx tonight. Thankfully the substitute cafe Jinkx had in mind was only an extra ten minutes away. It was a bit more quiet than the bustling restaurant they had just left but there was still a moderate flow of foot traffic coming into the shop. Given that the weather outside was still pleasantly warm, it seems the majority of the customers decided to take their orders to go or at the very least enjoy them at the open air tables and benches. This particular cafe seemed to specialize with coffee and smoothies rather than prepared food, which probably helped to account for the transient stream of customers.

Once inside the first thing Sharon noticed was that it was rather homey instead of strictly a place for business. There was a relaxed atmosphere that seemed to contradict just how busy the shop actually was. The decor was a bit odd to her mind; a lot of the space had been filled with various knickknacks that anywhere else would have probably been very out of place. Before Sharon could truly take in the sights around her, Jinkx was already guiding them towards the small line at the counter. A number of the people waiting for their drinks seemed to be part of one group in particular and as soon as their orders were filled they took their leave and the majority of the shop’s background noise as well. Sharon had just begun to let out a sigh of relief at the newfound peace when she heard a delighted squeal emanating from behind the register.

“Jinkx!” the brunette exclaimed in excitement. “I haven’t seen you all week! Where have you been?”

“Sorry, we got really busy at the shop. We…kinda messed something up and spent the last couple of days fixing everything,” Jinkx admitted with a sheepish grin and quick glance towards the blonde.

Amused, the brunette inquired, “Oh? And just what have you been getting up to? Not starting any trouble at your new job, were you?”

Placing a comforting hand in the small of the redhead’s back, Sharon replied with a proud smile, “No, she’s been an amazing worker and she’s definitely learned her lesson with all that went on this week.”

The barista cocked her head to the side as she sized up the blonde in vague confusion. The realization that they hadn’t yet met dawned on Jinkx and with a polite interruption she introduced the pair to one another, “Sharon, this is Dela, my old coworker and Dela, this is Sharon…my new boss.”

Scanning her eyes around the shop with a new appreciation for the atmosphere, Sharon mused, “So this is where you used to work? I’ve driven by a few times but never stopped in. If I knew this was where I’d find you I’d have wandered in here sooner.”

At the statement made by the older blonde, Dela’s lips curled into something of a teasing smirk and immediately she began nosily asking, “You’re the one Jinkx asked me to order those coffee beans for? Glad to see you’ve got good taste…”

Darting her eyes back to Jinkx, she threw a quick wink and added in, “Both of you.”

Almost immediately Jinkx felt herself taking a heavy swallow in a pointless attempt to will away the growing blush on her cheeks. To her utter relief, Dela didn’t feel the need to make any further comments on the subject and fell back into her usual customer service mode to brightly ask the redhead, “Your usual?”

“Please,” Jinkx replied with a grateful smile.

Turning towards the blonde, she inquired, “And for you?”

Sharon’s eyes raked over the menu hung up behind the counter before ultimately settling on a large cup of the house brew. Dela gave an approving nod of her head and turned to make the drinks but was quickly stopped by both of the women. Each wanted to pay for the order but the brunette assured them, “It’s on me…”

Jinkx was in the midst of a very appreciative word of thanks to her friend until she heard Dela add in, “So long as Jinkx tells every little detail of how your date goes!”

Eyes narrowing at the proposal, the redhead quickly shot back, “I’d rather pay for the drinks then!”

Smiling away, Dela refused any form of payment and informed her huffy friend, “No choice, I already closed the sale in the register. You’ll have to tell me everything later!”

Shaking her head in disbelief, Jinkx muttered, “I hate you so much.”

A final proud grin was shot her way before Dela spun around to continue her work. Jinkx honestly couldn’t believe just how persistent Dela was being…It’s not like she wouldn’t have told her a quick version of it afterwards…She probably just wants something extra to talk about when she compares notes with Ivy….Jinkx really wouldn’t put it past her not to provide real-time updates to their mutual friend anyway. Oh, well. She can’t stop it so she might as well just resign herself to the fact that Ivy was likely to know the majority of her date before Jinkx gets a chance to tell her on her own…

In a matter of minutes, Sharon and Jinkx’s drinks handed back to them in cute little To-Go cups with their names scribbled along the sides in some of Dela’s best handwriting. Jinkx for one couldn’t wait to take the first sip. She hadn’t had a chance to stop in for her regular pick-me-up since Sunday thanks in large part to the fiasco with Katya and Trixie. Her overly sweetened latte would be a welcomed treat after successfully cleaning up the mess that she and the other assistants helped to create.

Almost as if she were walking on air, she led Sharon towards her favorite table in the back of the shop and sat down to enjoy the first very satisfying taste of her drink. Dela was one of the few employees here that she trusted make her coffee exactly right. Try as she might, Jinkx couldn’t hold back the soft sigh of pleasure that escaped from her lips after the nearly too hot drink finished washing across her tongue. Very much intrigued, Sharon asked, “Mind if I try some?”

Jinkx faltered for a moment before sliding her cup across what little empty space remained between them. With a noticeable amount of hesitation in her voice, she warned, “You can but I don’t think you’ll-”

The face Sharon made as soon as the drink passed her lips was truly a sight. Her eyes went wide with disbelief and something akin to fear that someone would willingly drink something as sugary as what she had just tasted. If she hadn’t seen Dela preparing it herself, she would have sworn that no coffee at all had been used while making that drink. Quickly pushing the cup back in front of Jinkx and washing away the after-taste with her own coffee, Sharon commented shakily, “That was very…sweet.”

Jinkx gave her an apologetic grin and took a long sip of her latte in order not to have to say anything more for the time being. Swallowing away the lingering taste of caramel and sugar, Sharon further questioned her, “I’m a bit surprised though…I thought you always took it black?”

The redhead felt a light blush returning to her cheeks and finally admitted in a sheepish voice, “Actually, I only started doing that because of you…I’ve never seen you add anything to yours so I didn’t either as long as you were around…”

Sharon’s eyes widened and just vaguely it looked like a hint of pink was rising to her face. Deciding it was now or never, Jinkx continued on as she toyed with a lock of stray hair, “I just kinda wanted to impress you, I guess. You always made it look so cool and sophisticated…adding my usual amount of sugar and creamer just felt…childish sometimes.”

With the final confession, Sharon’s shocked expression immediately softened and her hand came to rest on Jinkx’s drawn in shoulder. Scooting their chairs closer until their legs were almost touching, the blonde assured her, “Jinkx, never worry about impressing me. You’ve done that already…you still do actually.”

The pair shared a fond smile before the intimacy of the situation became too much and each broke away with an embarrassed smile. They drank in further silence for another minute or so before a new topic was cautiously proposed by the older woman. It felt like the hours slipped by unnoticed as countless customers came and left the shop while the two remained close and cozy in their hidden corner. Around half an hour before the cafe was due to close, Jinkx asked with more than a fair amount of trepidation, “So this…us, I mean. What do we do at the shop?”

Her gaze was curious but also concerned and fearful. She didn’t want this to be a one time thing but it was also a bit of unfamiliar territory to be potentially dating her boss. She didn’t want anything to mess up her personal or business life but if she would have to pick now, she wasn’t sure which she would chose to pursue. Luckily, Sharon had no intention of forcing her to make that choice. Enclosing her hand around one of Jinkx’s fiddling ones, she consoled her employee in a simple but gentle voice, “We’ll do the same thing we’ve been doing; we remain professional with each other while at work.”

“And then after work?” Jinkx questioned in a meek yet hopeful tone.

Smirking just a tad, the blonde gave a comforting squeeze of her hand and stated confidently, “After work…we’ll be anything but.”

Jinkx felt a smile of previously unknown size growing across her lips as she beamed up at her boss. Her heart felt like it would soon flutter out of her chest but she could hardly care about that. Everything felt like a dream at this point and no part of her wanted to wake up any time soon.

She was almost finished with her drink when Sharon placed her empty cup next Jinkx’s. Leaving their hands resting on the table, Sharon worked her phone out her pocket and opened the camera app. She jutted her head towards the pair of cups with a silent request for permission to take a picture yet left the option open for Jinkx to refuse. Vaguely wondering who she’d send the image to before ultimately deciding that she didn’t care, Jinkx nodded her head with a gleeful grin settled on her lips. She found that she wanted everyone to know; both at the shop and the rest of the world.

Crossing the last few inches of space that remained between their bodies, Jinkx let her head fall onto Sharon’s shoulder as the blonde snapped a quick picture. Just at the very edge of the image, Jinkx could see their interlocking fingers making a small cameo while the cups with their names scrawled up the side took up the majority of the screen. With one click, Sharon forwarded the picture off to probably every employee at the shop.

Following the subtle announcement of their relationship to their coworkers, the pair quickly drank what little remained in their cups and bid Dela a short ‘Goodbye’ and word of thanks as they exited the cafe. The walk back to the flower shop was quiet and peaceful, yet over all too quickly to both of the women’s displeasure. Pausing outside the door to Sharon’s apartment, Jinkx stood on her tip toes to press a soft kiss to Sharon’s cheek as she whispered sincerely, “I had a really good time tonight.”

Before the redhead even had a chance to try and disentangle her hand from Sharon’s, the older woman carefully pulled her in closer and offered up hopefully, “Well the night’s not over yet…want to come inside for another cup?…I still have have those coffee beans you gave me…”

Jinkx’s face lit up and without a second thought, she dare to place a brief peck to Sharon’s lips and replied, “I’d love to.”

#rpdr fanfiction #albatross #shinkx #trixya #flowershop au #fluff #first date #jinkx monsoon #sharon needles #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #ivy winters #submission #lesbian au #flowers in bloom

[friendlyneighborhoodborg]

Marc Appreciation Week 2019| Day 2: Hero/Villain| ”Coping Mechanism”

Okay, so I know the prompt is basically supposed to mean “this character but with a miraculous.”  The backslash (/) in the prompt is meant to be taken as “or.”

But...

That’s one ambiguous backslash.

Let me know what I’m doing right/wrong.  Disclaimers were in the Day 1 submission.

~1700 words, for those who care.

Chapters:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

           Monday was a lot smoother than Sunday.  On Monday, Marc had stuff to do, including, but not limited to, school, meetings, and feeling depressed.

           Few strangers would be surprised to hear that he was depressed today.  After all, it had been two days since his little episode, and akuma victims generally had some sort of depressed attitude for a few days after.  Anyone who knew him would be even less surprised; Marc was anything but the ray of sunshine some of his schoolmates were.

           Getting akumatized was exactly the trauma he didn’t need.

           It was a little bit of the dissociation he had heard other people feel.  Having no memories of the event, watching the news and seeing himself as that stranger was jarring for a multitude of reasons.  He saw him as someone with his thoughts and personality, basically everything that made him himself, only twisted into someone with a killing rage and the means to destroy.  There was a lot of himself in Reverser, and that’s one of the things he tried to ignore from his viewing experience.

           The other thing he ignored was how familiar that experience was, seeing someone with his face and emotions do things only a complete stranger would.  He did often feel like he was projecting himself to the people around him,  with an overwhelming need to stifle his passions to stay normal.  He only felt allowed to act like himself when he was alone with his journal.  Being someone else wasn’t too far off from his normal, everyday life, which is why Reverser’s power-set in particular kinda sucked.

           Then the last thing he tried to brush off was the increasing number of stares he got from people who had never been corrupted. He just hated people looking at him in general.  Including himself, sometimes, and the extra attention was not welcome at all.

           But he was begrudgingly used to getting judged. Judging himself had even become a habit. Every morning, he’d look at himself in the mirror.  He’d feel some sort of emotion, something he hadn’t quite found the right words for yet. It would fall somewhere between “Ugh, not him again” and “Well, it could be worse.”  He had found that hiding his face was a good way of combating the more extreme end of the scale of loathing, so he had starting wearing makeup.  And he’d do his own face in the mirror until he felt more like “Well, it could be worse.”

           Point is, he didn’t like people noticing him, but he could usually brush it off.

           He didn’t usually take this approach to his writing.  He generally thought the writing was pretty good, especially if no one but him was going to see it.  No matter what, he rarely ever wrote down his own thoughts, or if he did, they were unintended, or buried and disguised as something else.

           His thoughts wandered to the journal in his backpack. The tale of a forbidden love between a hero and a former villain, the kind of workplace romance that scores a high budget and has audiences flocking to the cinema.  A de-evilization gone wonderfully wrong, making the butterfly’s effects on its victim permanent, a blossoming emotions between him the heroine who saved him.

           Starring the dubious alter-ego of one Nathaniel Kurtzberg, and written as the heroine from a first-person perspective.

    ��      God, he wondered what Freud would say if he was living today.

           Thankfully, only one student seemed to have cottoned on that his artistic admiration went a little deeper than conventional, but even then he wasn’t sure if Marinette actually knew the full-blown extent of his crush.

           ‘Nope,’ he reminded himself.  ‘Not thinking about that today.  He’s your project partner, and that’s it, and he very obviously has a thing for strong, female superheroes.’

           ‘Well, that’s why you wrote from Ladybug’s POV, isn’t it?’ he argued.  ‘Why don’t you admit what the problem is?’

           ‘That’s not the problem.’  He straightened his back.  ‘I know that’s not what the problem is.  And I don’t have time for this right now.’

           Today, despite his constant state of internal darkness, he was early to school.  And so was a certain redhead artist whose attention he duly attempted to avoid.

           Poorly.

           As per his double-standards.

           Marc shrank as Nathan’s eyes met his and he was waved over against his will.

           He didn’t appreciate being called out like this, especially not in public. But since it was him... he inched up to him.

           “Morning,” Nath said, smiling.

           ‘Gosh dangit.’

           Nevertheless, Marc was determined to keep a level head. It may have been true at one point that the wordsmith had maybe possibly harbored some potentially… problematic emotions for this boy, it was abundantly clear nothing good would come of them.  It was a morose conclusion, as it usually was, but one that had to be reached for both of their goods.  So, he was determined to end his crush on this artist by any means necessary.

           Even if his eyes were clear blue gemstones, teeming with some unseen energy that made him want to keep looking—

           ‘No!’ he chastised.  ‘Bad Marc!’

           “You okay?” Nathaniel asked, and Marc realize he hadn’t answered him.

           “Yeah,” he admitted.  “I’m not a morning person,” Marc admitted.  Internally, he mused, ‘Or an evening person.  Or an afternoon person.  Really, I’m barely a person.’

           Unable to see into Marc’s soul, Nathaniel continued.  “Well, I hope it gets better.”

           ‘It rarely does.’  “You seem to be in a good mood, at least.”

           “Yeah.”  He scratched his head absently.  “Probably not what you expected, huh?  How am I supposed to be emo when I like sunshine?”

           “You seem to be managing yourself just fine.”

           “Thanks, I guess.”  He shrugged off his bag.  “So, we didn’t really do any work yesterday.  Got any ideas for a story?”

           “Oh.”  Marc relaxed, knowing this must be all Nathan wanted from him.  “I hadn’t really given it much thought.  Probably the usual heroes’ dynamic at play.  Ladybug, Chat Noir, and Mighty-Illustrator.”

           Nath looked confused for a second.  “But what about…”

           “What?”

           “Well,” he opened his satchel and pulled out his sketchbook, then he started flipping through it.  “Look, see here.”  He pointed at one page in particular.

           He saw what Nathaniel had drawn.

           He was suddenly aware of everyone looking at him.

           When he came to his senses, he found he was hiding in a bathroom stall.  Someone was banging on the stall door, trying to get his attention.

           “Marc!”  Nathan’s voice carried a deep concern.  “I’m sorry, I should have—I mean, of course, I’m an idiot!  I just…” He groaned loudly at himself, and his voice softened.  “I’m sorry. I should have realized, it’s too new for you.  It only happened a couple days ago…… Look, you can feel free to hate me, I didn’t think about what you’d…”  He just trailed off and left them both in silence.

           Marc heard him start to leave.

           “How do you do it?” he asked, suddenly.

           “Wh-what?”

           “You turned your akuma into the hero?  Why did you do that?” he demanded.  “How could you do that?”

           Nathaniel didn’t answer verbally.  Of course he didn’t, why would he?  He didn’t like expressing himself verbally.

           There was a rustling of papers and something was slid under the door.

           Marc picked it up.  “Are you crazy?  You put your sketchbook on the bathroom floor?”

           “Just look, Marc.”

           He did.  “This is… Mighty-Illustrator and Marinette.”

            There was a pause, and then, “That’s Super-Nathan.”

           “Huh?”

           Nathaniel explained.  “Super-Nathan.  I told you, I’m not good with words or names. He was… well, it was me as a superhero. That’s how he was created, and that’s what I drew him to be.  I wanted to be strong and empowered and witty and do all the things superheroes get to do. I don’t know if you noticed this about me, but I don’t… I’m not strong and I’m not witty.”

           “You’re pretty witty.  I mean, you made this.”  He realized something was off with the picture, however.  “Um, I thought he was supposed to like Ladybug, though.”

           “That was only after I was akumatized.”

           “Oh… Wait, so then… oh.”

           “Yep.  Super-Nathan came first.  Then Hawk Moth turned Super-Nathan into a villain.  Super-Nathan became Evillustrator.  Then I turned him back into Mighty-Illustrator.”  He took a deep breath, and continued forward, his words blazing with a strength Marc hadn’t heard him use before.  “Super-Nathan is mine.  Not his.  I figured this is the one way I can get back at him.  Taking him back, using him to fight Hawk Moth.  Fictionally, anyway.”

           Marc was somewhat grateful for the door in between them.  Nathaniel couldn’t see his completely floored reaction.

           Marc looked down at the sketchbook in his hands. He flipped to the most recently-used page, careful not to look at any of the others.

           The face of evil stared back up at him, striking a heroic pose.

           “We don’t have to use him,” assured the cartoonist. “If you don’t want to.”

           Marc stared back down at himself.  He was only startled out of it when Nathaniel’s steps started walking away.

           “No,” Marc said, stopping him.  “We can use Reverser.”  He hesitated.  “Only… can we change his name?  Like you did?”

           “Well,” his collaborator mused.  “You’re the writer.  And it is you, after all.  You think of something.”

           Making sure his face was back to its normal pale, Marc opened the door.  And there was Nathaniel.  Marc passed him back his sketchbook.  It was taken with gratitude.  “We don’t have to work today if you’re not up to it still.”

           Marc considered this before slowly nodding.

           “Okay.”  He turned to leave.  “Whenever you’re ready, then, you’ve got my number.”  He stopped at the door, still with his back turned.  “Hey, Marc?”

           A noise of acknowledgement was made.

           “I don’t usually do art for anyone but myself. But…” he searched for his words, which seemed to have left him.   “It-it’s nice to work with someone.”  He turned back and regarded Marc, smiling.  “Especially you.”  Then, looking unsure of himself, he awkwardly made his exit.

           Marc was now all by himself in the washroom, and he was suddenly very aware of the heat in his cheeks.

           He sighed.  Not out of any particular emotion, except maybe frustration.

          ‘Gosh dangit.’

I’m taking the mostly positive comments as a sign that I’m on the right track, so I’m just gonna keep going with this.  If the other chapters aren’t as good... well, there’s worse things than this on this site.  And I only finished this today, barely on the deadline, so I’ll try not to stress much over it.

#miraculous ladybug #Marc Appreciation Week #nathaniel kurtzberg #marc anciel #slight NathMarc

[marybeatriceofmodena]

Magnum Opus

@reylomonsters My contribution for Day 1 of Reylo Monster Week! I might continue this, later on, since this was a lot of fun to write. Long story short, this is the American Horror Story: Coven & Dark Shadows mashup literally no one asked for, because I hate myself. Tell me what you think! 

Read on AO3 here. 

*

It was like the beginning of a terrible old horror film: the rain falling hard, but since there wasn’t enough of a budget for convincing enough lightening, they’d have to do without that. Rey’s umbrella was barely enough to keep her from getting wet, but it was still something. Whatever manuscripts or books she’d find in her quest were too precious for her to spoil them with rainwater.

The wind was however merciless, and Rey’s all-black raincoat, dress and boots weren’t enough to protect her against the weather while she held onto her hat. The only thing that seemed to hold on was her backpack, and she could hear Beebee-Ate meowing in distress. Thankfully for her familiar, the long-abandoned manor’s silhouette finally drew itself on the horizon, and Rey sighed in relief.

“We’re almost there, Beebee-Ate, don’t worry,” said Rey as to encourage him, although the sole response he gave her was the cat equivalent of an exasperated groan. Rey hurried, not wanting to have him wait any longer.

The old manor had been abandoned for two centuries now – ever since the Skywalker clan had faced a blight so terrible no witch or warlock dared to speak of it back in its time: nowadays, it was a forgotten legend, almost a story you’d tell children to scare them into obedience. There were whispers of forbidden blood magic, lurid details about human sacrifices, with blood too copious and scarlet in every single tale, and silhouettes of the undead creeping behind your back, sending a chill down your spine.

Rey was afraid as she pushed the door to the old Skywalker manor, but bravery, she mused, was all about doing the brave thing and hoping bravery would follow. Closing her umbrella and leaving it near the door, she quickly put her backpack on the ground, unzipping it to let Beebee-Ate spring out of it and proceed to groom himself right away. Rey, on the other hand, had no time for such trivial matters: she needed to be back by dawn, before the coven would notice her absence.

She lit up a flashlight she had brought with her and, with Beebee-Ate in toll, she made her way through the manor. The floor creaked beneath her steps, and the cobwebs and dust made the whole setting truly look like a haunted house. What Rey needed to look for was anything that appeared to hide some secrets: Luke Skywalker would have never left his findings in a place where anyone could steal them forever.

As she walked into the long-abandoned study, with quills, ink and a few sheets of paper still on the desk, the sight of the many shelves full of dusty books made Rey sigh at the sight of the work awaiting her: for all she knew, perhaps clues for her quest were lying somewhere in them. It probably meant she’d have to come many more nights in the creepy old manor: the pain was worth it, but she could only hope no one would notice her nocturnal escapades: it was the last thing she needed right now, among all her troubles.

As she walked towards the back of the study, Beebee-Ate head towards the carpet between the desk and the shelves, meowing with eagerness.

It didn’t take much for Rey to understand what her familiar was trying to tell her: kneeling, she swiftly removed the carpet from its spot on the floor, a large cloud of dust going up at the same time and making her cough. But it was worth it: a trap door was encased in the wooden floor.

It was too good of a discovery for Rey to leave it there unexplored. When she pulled it up, it seemed so much lighter than she expected it to be. Grabbing her flashlight and gathering what little courage she still had in her, she made her way down into the deeps of the manor.

The stone walls and arcs surrounding her reminded Rey of an old, abandoned church, imprisoning prayers and pleas uttered long ago, but which hadn’t reached the ears of their Maker yet as they were trapped underground. Sensing her nervousness, Beebee-Ate strutted ahead of her, as if he was ready to face whatever demon would be awaiting them at the end of the corridor.

There was, thankfully, no monster awaiting them: the corridor led to what appeared to be a crypt, with what seemed to be a large, rectangular wooden chest in the middle. Coming closer, Beebee-Ate hissed and headed back towards the end of the crypt, frightened, urging Rey to follow him. In another situation, Rey would have probably trusted her familiar’s always reliable instincts, but this time… this time was different.

A soft melody, never heard and yet so familiar, played gently in her mind. It was an old lullaby she remembered singing to herself, back in those days where she was alone, to make up for the oppressing silence: Mirrorbright, she remembered with a smile, and, as if she couldn’t control her legs anymore, she slowly made her way towards the large chest…

… which appeared to be, in fact, shaped like a coffin rather than rectangular.

In a trance, Rey didn’t hear Beebee-Ate mewling behind her, begging her to come back. Putting her flashlight on the ground, she pushed the lid open, and she gasped in surprise as she saw what – or rather who was inside.

It was a young man, but in his peaceful slumber, he almost looked like a boy.  

He was dressed all in black save for his white tie, in a similar fashion as the men from the period dramas Rose and Paige loved so much. He wouldn’t have been considered handsome by many, but there was something, something about his large nose, angular face and lips perused in a childish pout. His eyelashes were long, and for a split second, Rey wondered how his eyes looked like when they were open, how his voice sounded when he spoke…

The lullaby somehow became louder, and more seductive, and in a near trance, Rey found herself lowering her head towards the young man’s and, unable to control herself, she kissed him, oblivious to how ice cold his lips felt against hers.

The cold contact brought her back to her senses. She quickly got up, taking a few steps back, her cheeks red and her ears burning in embarrassment, trying to make sense of what had just happened despite the daze. As she looked down at the young man again, she noticed his eyes had opened, and he was staring right at her.

Fuck, Rey thought, but this wasn’t the last of her troubles that night.

His half-opened mouth as he stared at her, still aghast, let her see two white canines way too long for the average human: it didn’t take long for Rey and her quick reflexes to associate the fangs with the ice cold lips she had kissed earlier, the near trance she had been before, to remember those myths she had heard about in the coven.

Vampire, Rey whispered to herself, and she knew it was a matter of seconds before the monster would lunge towards her, draining her of her blood, and either kill her or enslave her. Neither alternative was appealing, and Rey needed to get out of the crypt – now.

Without thinking for even a second, a fireball materialized in Rey’s hand, which she threw at her opponent. The vampire deflected it just in time, letting out a muffled cry. Rey, meanwhile, had already started running out of the crypt, and back upstairs, a panicked Beebee-Ate in toll.

They rushed out of the study, heading for the entrance. Rey could only hope the vampire had been frightened enough by the fire not to not bother following his almost prey.

As she came in front of the doors in the main hall, they closed in front of her, and despite pushing them as hard as she could, her efforts were useless: she was imprisoned.

She turned around in a panic, seeing the vampire only a few feet away from her, his gaze neither threatening nor reveling in her fright. There was—curiosity. And perhaps a hint of amusement, but nothing menacing about it.

There was no time, however, for her to figure out if it was genuine or just a facade. With a feral scream as an attempt to appear a tad more intimidating, Rey threw yet another fireball at him. This time, he didn’t escape it – rather, with a wave of his hand, the ball of fire became ice, crashing on the ground into a million pieces.

So the vampire was probably a warlock before being turned. Things were just getting better and better.

“For an intruder, you certainly act like you’re the mistress of this house,” he said, his voice deep, almost warm. But Beebee-Ate’s aggressive hissing stopped Rey from being distracted.

“I’ll fight my way out if it’s necessary,” she replied, defiant.

“I have no doubt you would, but I’m not particularly keen on the idea of you burning the manor down with those fireballs of yours,” the vampire dryly said. “But I suppose I have a right to ask why a young lady such as yourself would come here alone at night.”

“None of your business,” Rey hissed.

“All right, then,” he replied, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll ask the questions. If you persist to remain silent, I will get the answers from you regardless. And while it seems like you want me to suffer your trespassing, I do wish to spare you the pain of me intruding in your memories.”

Rey crossed her arms, scowling at the vampire. “Fine. But you let me go after I answer your stupid questions, Dracula. Deal?”

“You have my word as a gentleman,” agreed the vampire, curtsying. “First, who’s Dracula?”

For a moment, Rey started at him in disbelief. How long had that guy been sleeping? Judging by his clothes, he probably last walked around in the 19th century. Perhaps he had been in that coffin even before Bram Stoker was born.

It was a miracle he wasn’t so bloodthirsty after sleeping for so long… unless he was toying with her.

No. No, don’t panic. This is not the right time to panic. You need to figure out a way to get out. Don’t do anything stupid.

“Cultural reference,” Rey finally replied, praying whatever gods out there for strength. “It’d be too long to explain.”

“Fair enough. What year are we?”

“2018… I mean, how long have you been in there if you don’t even know who Dracula is?”

The vampire didn’t reply: instead, he stared at nothing, his lower lip slightly trembling as if he was holding back tears. He gulped, clenching his fists.

“I’ve been asleep since 1821,” he muttered. “And during all this time… who knows what happened?”

So many questions pressed themselves in Rey’s mind: the matter of how his place of rest was the old Skywalker manor, and, on a broader scale, what was his life before being frozen in time? Those were all mysteries that would have to remain unsolved – that is, if she wanted to get out of the manor alive.

“What happened to the people who lived here?” he asked. “Do you know?”

Rey hesitated. “Nothing much. There have been so many stories over the years… Luke Skywalker disappeared all of a sudden. No one knows what happened to him. All I know is that something... bad happened. I don't know what it was.”

“He had a family, didn’t he?” he insisted. “A sister? His sister had a family as well.”

“Yes. I—I know Leia Organa was Supreme for a time. But—no one dares to talk about her. I know she and her husband died, and their child, too—but I don’t know how. The circumstances didn’t seem too pleasant at least.”

“You don’t know how? What do you mean, you don’t know how?” For a moment, his eyes were flaming, and his fangs became a tad too visible to Rey’s liking. He made a visible yet difficult attempt to calm down.

“And you?” he asked. “What’s your name?”

“Rey.”

“Rey. Rey who? Of what clan?”

“None of your business.”

“It becomes my business when you enter my manor like a thief,” he growled. “I suppose you came here because of Luke Skywalker’s quest, am I wrong?”

Rey didn’t reply, biting her lips and staring at the ground.

“Of course you did. You’re not the first trespasser to come here, you know. I’ve had thieves come here over the years, waking me up. I could never get a word out of them because I was too thirsty to care. That was my curse. Waking up with an insatiable bloodlust every time a trespasser came by and going immediately back to sleep after feeding. Only someone with magic could save me. And you came. But why?”

He started pacing around her, but Rey forced herself to not look at him, afraid of letting him see any weakness of hers. Beebee-Ate hissed again, but Rey shushed him softly. Now was not the time to attack - at least, not yet. “So what was Luke Skywalker’s quest all about? ‘I don’t know’ won’t do, by the way.”

“The One Ring.”

“Oh please. I have no idea what this One Ring is, and I know the correct answer. Playing smart won’t help you.”

Rey sighed in frustration. “Fine. The Philosopher’s Stone. He was trying to figure out the secrets to immortal life.”

“Ah. Finally reasonable. And why the Philosopher’s Stone? How can one be so foolish to still search for it, unless—”

Rey’s head shot up, her gaze pleading. She didn’t need to hear the word, especially not from him.

“—unless you have to prove yourself,” he continued, nonetheless. “Unless you’re clanless.”

She had heard that word so many times, sometimes mocking, sometimes pitiful, sometimes disdainful. This time, somehow, it was the worst of them all. Not because of anger, nor shame: but she felt… naked, as if she was left without any kind of protection against the rest of the world.

A slight cough brought her back to reality: looking up, the vampire was handing one of those old-fashioned handkerchiefs everyone had a long time ago. She huffed in embarrassment, shaking her head, straightening up in a poor attempt to toughen up.

“I’m not crying,” she muttered, her throat tightening anyway despite herself.

He rolled his eyes. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

Rey sighed, crossing her arms. “So what are you going to do now? Do I become lunch, or do I become a scantily-dressed bloodsucker?”

He stared at her for a moment, probably holding back a biting reply – biting as in “snarky”, of course. Or perhaps not. As Rey was getting tense again, he sighed.

“I’m not especially keen on your familiar attacking me,” he replied.

“You’re scared of Beebee-Ate?” asked Rey, mocking.

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If you think I’d ever come to hurt your familiar, you’re wrong. I know what it is to lose your own.”

“So you were a warlock before?”

“No questions,” he snapped, tense enough to have Rey not want to insist. “But I do owe you a favor. You broke the curse.”

“So you’ll let me go?”

“Better,” he replied, with what almost looked like a smile, something a bit rusty due to how seldom it was used. “I know you’ll trespass here again. And since I can’t stand trespassers, I suggest you be my guest instead.”

Rey narrowed her eyes. “I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said bluntly, taking Rey by surprise. “But your research will be a lot easier if I help you.”

“How?”

“I know which books will be useful for you. I also know where Skywalker’s writings are, and I know how to translate them. He used a mix of Ancient Greek, Hebrew and Latin that can be quite hard to decipher. Unless you know all three languages thoroughly, of course.”

His help was almost too good to be true – Rey almost wanted to ask him how “thorough” the research would be if he selected whatever information she’d come across. Translating Luke Skywalker’s journals, if they really were the way he described, would be an impossible task for her. Rey had learned Latin, like every witch or warlock, but the other languages were all mysteries for her. And of course, she couldn’t allow anyone else to know what she was up to.

The vampire really was her best chance, whether she liked it or not. And in any case, if she noticed over time he was hiding knowledge from her, she’d investigate by herself, all the while hoping he wouldn’t find out.

There was another matter, though.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “And how do you know all this?”

His features darkened. “Those are two questions I will not answer. And it’ll be my sole condition. Do we have a deal?”

Rey held back a sigh of frustration. There was something up, perhaps even more intriguing than Luke Skywalker and his mysterious quest for the Philosopher’s Stone. But all those secrets would unveil to her in due time, no matter what obstacles would come.

“Deal. But I’d like to know your name.”

He had another of his almost smiles. “Kylo Ren,” he said with a bow, and Rey had to refrain from giggling. It probably wasn’t the only old-fashioned quirk he had…

From that moment, against all logic, it seemed to Rey all of this might just work. Or perhaps it was just her curiosity boiling within, whispering to her that there was more to Kylo Ren and the manor, and that if he remained obstinate in his silence… she’d find out soon enough.

#reylo monster week #star wars #rey #kylo ren #ben solo #reylo #reylo fic #my fanfiction #my writing #day 1: vampire au

[sabbyvincent]

How I Met Tom Gurney:

I had remembered it like it was yesterday.

I was exiting Hattrick's class, which was ironic considering I shared the class with Tom. I left to go to my locker, intending to put all of my books away when suddenly as I opened it, I was surprised to discover a bouquet of pink roses with a box of chocolates. I was in awe in that moment, my heart bursting with pure joy. No one had never done something like me, and I found it so romantic. I assumed it to be one of the greasers, or one of the non-cliques doing this for me. Possibly Jimmy, because I know he has a reputation for picking locks and running errands for other student's to put chocolates or flowers in a certain someone's locker. Upon retrieving the flowers in my hand by the stem, I discovered an anonymous folded note attached to it. On the front, it had revealed my name. I didn't recognize the handwriting, so I immediately cleared the boy's names. It was decent, and had a mature appeal to it. It was readable, and when I studied with Jimmy before I knew it wasn't his. His handwriting was much sloppier and careless. This person took the time to write my name perfectly.

I unfolded the note in hopes of finding the person's alias. But it was nothing. However, my heart was warm, palpiating more than normal. I read it word for word, carefully, trying my hardest to interpret who the culprit could be. It asked to meet me at the motel located in Bullworth at 7:00 on a Friday night, and the person addressed them as the famous secret admirer of everyone's life.

When I was in the dorm room, I pondered who this person was. I remembered taking all of my yearbooks I had from years prior to it, jotting down ideas in a notebook who my secret admirer was. The frustrations and irritations I would get, as it didn't make sense. I became annoyed that I was musing like this and making it out to be some mathematical equation. (Which coincidentally, my roommate Beatrice Trudeau who was studying on her AP Calculus homework) I decided to crumple the paper into a ball and toss it into the trash can, allowing my worries to fade away and be replaced with a grateful attitude that I received such a love letter like this.

I didn't tell anyone about the letter and the gifts. I was so thankful Beatrice didn't question the sudden change of having flowers in a vase. She was so occupied in her frequent study sessions we barely had a chance to bond much. Perks of having a introverted and closeted nerd for a roommate instead of a gossiping popular girl like Christy Martin. (No offense to her though, we are actually good friends.)

The main reason for not telling anyone was because at a school like Bullworth Academy, rumors spread like wildfire. (Legitimately stolen from a Sabrina Carpenter song- awesome first name by the way) Privacy was bound to get leaked, and all of your deepest secrets. For example, Vance's rash? When he told it to Lefty, he later told Luis, who told Casey, then transferred it to the entire football team, and then later the preps, and eventually the entire school. Or Mandy Wiles not so discreet crush on my brother? That too spread over to the entire school. He is well aware, and although is flattered he doesn't feel the same about her unfortunately for her.

Being smart, I kept it to myself at all times. I didn't even bother telling Ricky or Jimmy about this, and I trusted them with my entire life with all of my personal secrets. They were people I knew I could go to and trust. I didn't want my brother to find out, because if he knew someone had been sending me gifts- he wouldn't condone it and would kill the guy. Unlike me who found it flattering, he would take it as some creep trying to harass me.

His instincts just baffle me sometimes, but I guess I see his point.

So, Thursday, November 13th arrived, fresh and peaking through with gusts of wind. It was chilly, so I decided to zip my leather jacket over the burgundy colored dress I wore.

What? If I am meeting my secret admirer, might as well look nice right?

I brought the note with me, rereading through it. I borrowed Vance's cheap, dimestore watch and kept checking the time. 6:49. 6:50. 6:55. 6:58. I watched as time past by so quickly.

With a blink of my eyes, the watch struck seven, almost as if it was some fairytale, ripped from the plot of Cinderella. Here I was, standing pretty for fifteen minutes and feeling like I was fading. I awaited another ten minutes, and impatient, I had concluded that my secret admirer had stood me up. Perhaps it was a prep, thinking it would be all fun and games to jokingly arrange a meet up for me- the greaser princess who could tell my viscous, temperamental older brother that I was scammed of a date- and be beaten to by us, their rivalry clique. The smile that once lingered on my face that day was replaced with a grimacing frown, actually saddened by the fact he didn't show up. I swallowed my pride and disappointedly padded my way back to the girl's dorm on the dirt gravel behind the motel. Suddenly, a voice interrupted me.

"Wait."

His voice was soft and unrecognizable. It was relent, almost as if it could never be destroyed with pure anger. I had never heard his voice before, so it was indistinguishable who this person was. I turned around carefully, astonished to find a fellow classmate by the name of Tom Gurney standing before me. His buttoned up polo was loose at the top, only one being left unopened. How he managed to wear short sleeves and not freeze was beyond me.

"Don't leave." He attempted to convince me.

He approached me, shifting his footsteps towards me with caution. I couldn't help but take note at how his stance was a bit shy, almost as if he was hesitant to even make plans in the first place. When he made it closer to me, I offered him a small smile.

"You are my admirer?" I had asked him with amazement. He was a part of the Bullies clique and was friends with a couple of guys I had gone out on dates with. But they never pulled anything like this on me before.

"Uh.... yeah. I'm sure you were expecting someone better. I'm sorry about that." He apologized, feeling insecure. I shook my head negatively in response.

"Don't be sorry Tom. As a matter of fact, I am flattered." I responded simply, making him break out in a sly smile.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

We stared into each other's eyes for a moment. I couldn't stop staring at the bruise on his right eye, which made me feel so sympathetic and concerned. It had caused it to break into a small space in his brow, which made me ponder about his home life, or any fights he had involved himself in. Another thing about the Bullies was how they frequently participated in fights. I always saw one of them attempt to fight my brother or his friend's, but usually it never worked out. They were decent fighters, but all they did was punch, shove, or grapple then shove their opponents to the ground. The style never stood a chance against my clique, nor the preppies for that matter.

"I know we've never really had an encounter with each other til now, but I think you are the prettiest girl in school."

It was such a stereotypical thing for a guy to say. But hearing it from him, it sounded like he had actually meant it. Lola has never gotten involved with him, always going to Trent, Wade, or Davis to have a good time instead. I know occasionally I've spotted Angie and Christy holding hands or making out with Davis or Wade, but I never seen any of the other girls with Tom.

"You really think so?" I asked, grinning so cheekily and foolishly.

"Yeah, you are beautiful."

I blushed hard, but in the course of the night he couldn't notice. It wasn't so revealing, thankfully.

"That's so sweet, Tom. You know, you could of always just asked me out if you wanted to." I insisted. He nodded in response. I had came out with a muse that perhaps the reason he couldn't was because of Johnny. I was aware some of the boys were concerned about their asses getting kicked by Johnny or the others, and sometimes it was never a fully committed relationship because of it. Most of the time, he didn't approve the relationships I had. The boys were never condemned to be good enough for me, his sweet baby sister who deserved the whole world. He still thought of me as the innocent five year old girl he sought to take care of at the age of eight years old. I was like a daughter to him in a way.

"Good! Cause I was wondering if maybe... you wanted to go out camping with me and my friends in Bullworth Forrest this weekend? We could get to know each other better. If not, that's okay, I completely understand."

His offer was so sweet and caring. He was easily winning my heart at this point, being so considerate of my needs and wants. He was nothing like his friends, wanting to pick on others. They were sexually desperate for a girl to be with and get in her pants. This guy was different. He had a mature vibe, seemingly coming off as respectful towards girls.

"Sure, I would love to." I answered with a smile.

"Great!"

He informed me all of the things I needed to know- like where to meet, when I should arrive there, etc. It was on a Saturday morning I would meet him at the motel. Since I would be home that Saturday at me and Johnny's house, I have to sneak out. I needed to keep it secret from Johnny and the boys. If he knew I was going out camping with a bunch of guys, he would lose his freaking mind and act ballistic.

"Okay, sounds great."

"I'll walk you to the dorms, if-if you want." He offered shyly. I couldn't help but giggle at his reoccurring timidness. He was so cute! I felt so guilty I haven't taken a noticing to him prior to this.

I saw how he extended his hand out in front of him. So, I decided to take the initiative and accept it gracefully. I felt all tingly after colliding my hand with his, the way our fingers intertwined and laced with each other. His skin was surprisingly soft and gentle, just like his personality. He reminded me so much to that of a stuffed teddy bear, plush and cuddly.

The night walk home, all I wanted was to be with him, craving his presence. He never let go of my hand, and our eyes were locked in gaze. I declared that was the night I began to fall for the precious sweetheart, Tom Gurney.

#tom gurney #Bully oc #tom x oc #tom gurney x oc #selfshipedition #selfinsert #otp #bullyscholarshipedition #originalcharacter #cuties #johnny vincent #bullies

[katsuragi-yako]

Rules: Answer the questions you’ve been given, then write your own and tag 11 people.

Tagged By: @deviliciious ( Thank you so much!! )

#1 Whether you have other blogs, are a multi-muse or only have one muse, who has been or currently is your most favorite character to play? What is it that makes you enjoy that character so much?

Honestly, I love playing Yako. She is my number one favorite fictional character of all time, and I truly enjoy roleplaying her. However, so that I’m not being entirely predictable, I’ll give an honorary mention and shout out to Renet from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles ( either the comic versions or the 2k3 series version ). I used to run an ask blog for her a while back and even a full rp blog for a little while before I got locked out of it. I love Renet to pieces and what made her so fun to play was that she can literally interact with anyone because of her powers and abilities. I could throw her pretty much anywhere and it works. Not to mention, she has such a fun personality to write for. I love my airhead, scatterbrained, time-traveling, dimension-hopping daughter. Maybe one day I’ll bring her back. I suck at juggling rp blogs but... idk maybe I’d give it another shot for her.

#2 What has been the most pleasant experience on this website? Related to writing or interactions with a person, whatever you can remember!

Tumblr specifically? Mmm... Weird as it might sound ( since drama in the rp community seems to happen constantly ), pretty much all of my rp experiences on here have been good. If I had to pick a favorite or “best” I’d say that my Ask Blog days as Renet and Usagi were very high up there. I made some great friends doing that, including someone who I talk to nearly everyday still and want to meet in person someday. Though, my experience with Yako has also been fantastic. If it’s not tied with the Ask Blog days, it’s damn near close.

#3 In your opinion, what is the hardest aspect when it comes to roleplaying? How about the easiest? What do you do to overcome any lack of muse, interactions, etc.?

This is going to sound like such a weird answer but, honestly, it’s the social aspect of roleplaying that is the toughest for me. I generally do not to have a huge OOC presence on my blogs and try to limit how many OOC posts I make ( because my first rp experience on tumblr was a group that had a limit to OOC posts, and that just sorta stuck with me ). Combine this with the fact that I’m usually quite reserved or quiet unless I get comfortable chatting with someone, and I think I end up lacking a lot of... mmm... personal presence? Reaching out to people to talk about roleplay related things is something I’ve grown used to, but I still have a lot of trouble sometimes talking to people about anything more, even if I want to. Believe me when I say I want to get to know the people I write with, but it’s a very tough thing for me to do because I constantly second guess if I’m talking too much or getting too personal. Plus, I am shit at keeping track of time so sometimes I drop off the face of the earth without meaning to and will realize too little too late that it’s been like a week or two since I’ve talked to someone rip.

#4 Favorite threads to have? Long or short, angst, fluff, etc.

Medium to longer length threads are generally my preference because even when I try to do short threads, my wordy ass always ends up lengthening it anyway. As for subject matter, I’m both a sucker for fluff and angst. Fluffy angst included. Give me all of it!

#5 Mention any positive influences you have! From other writers, book, shows, etc.

Haha, my Neuro ( itadxkimasu ) has honestly been a very positive influence on my writing. He’s a fantastic writer and I like to think I’ve grown a lot by roleplaying with him.

#6 Do you have a routine when it comes to writing? Write at a certain hour, do a certain number of replies, use the queue, format a certain way, etc.

Most of the time I write later in the day or in the evening since I’m more of a night owl. Sometimes when my sleep schedule is off from its norm and I’m up earlier I’ll write earlier as well, but that’s pretty rare. As for replies, since I usually don’t have that many threads at one time, I kinda stick to only doing one at a time. Like if I have two replies, I’ll do one reply and then either wait until the next day to do the other one, or at least take a break before doing it. There’s always exceptions, though. I rarely ever queue replies and I’ve been using the same simple format for my posts pretty much since I started this blog. Nothing too fancy there.

#7 How about sharing a few songs that inspire you? Whether they remind you of your muse or just put you in the mood to write, toss them here!

I’ve made both a Yako Playlist and a NeuYako Playlist in the past that includes a lot of music I use to make me think of Yako specifically. But I’ll sometimes listen to other music while writing. I love both SCANDAL and SID, The recent Kuroshitsuji Musicals, a lot of the recent Guild Wars 2 expansions soundtracks, and other stuff that kinda comes and goes depending on my moods haha.

#8 What has been the hardest character you have played? If you have played only one character then what has been the hardest part of portraying that character?

The hardest character I’ve played was one that I felt kinda forced into playing by a roleplay partner of mine a while back. They were absolutely desperate for someone to roleplay as MCU Thor and I felt somewhat obligated to do it since they had tried out a different character for me in the past. The character himself wasn’t the problem, though, it was more... that I lacked any sort of muse for him, and the subject matter of what they wanted me to roleplay with them made me very uncomfortable. Thankfully I didn’t have to do it for very long, as they eventually found someone else and kinda dropped me as a partner. But now I’m extremely wary about picking up a character for anything besides my own desire to play them.

#9 Any advice you would like to give to roleplayers? About the community, how to stay active, how to write, how to approach people, etc. Whatever crosses your mind.

For me, the hardest part is always the first step. If I can get myself to take the first step for anything--whether it be wiritng a reply I owe, reaching out to a person I want to interact with, making more icons or a new theme, etc--every thing after that goes easier than I always think it will. Hell, sometimes you almost have to force yourself to do it because if you’re like me, you tend to procrastinate even the things you enjoy sometimes because idk... reasons. But a lot of the time if I force myself to take the first step towards getting it done, I end up enjoying it. Or, at very least, realizing it wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be.

#10 If you could change one thing about your character, what would it be?

Hmmm... what I would change about Yako... I don’t know, I really like her the way she is, so there’s nothing I’d really change? If anything, I just want more MTNN so that we can learn even more about her LMAO. I guess if I had to choose one thing, it’d be to stop selling herself short so much. She largely underestimates her own abilities because I think, to her, they seem pretty lackluster next to a demon who could kill her in an instant if he so desired. But she really does accomplish some amazing things over the course of the series that likely none of the other human characters could have been capable of doing.

#11 What are a few things you would like to say to the people who write with you? Any advice about how to interact with your character? What you are looking for, wishlists, plot ideas, share some of your desires here so people can see!

Thank you so, so much for writing with me. I’ve really enjoyed most, if not all, of the interactions I’ve had on this blog and I look forward to more in the future! As for a wishlist of sorts... mmm... well, I still have plans to add more verses to broaden my options. So, whenever I get any of those finished, I’d love some threads for any of them. I’d also be down for a thread where Yako cooks with or for someone! I think that could be fun. Also, just more female characters in general! Yako interacts with mostly men for some reason ( not that that’s a bad thing, of course ), and I’d like her to meet some girls too!

My questions for those I’m tagging to answer are under the cut!

Tagging: @itadxkimasu, @bomba-tea, @gxxdgiirl, @timeovercome, @kcguya, and anyone else that would like to do it!

1. What was your first roleplay experience on tumblr? Do you consider it to be a good or bad one?

2. What are some of your favorite characters you’ve roleplayed in the past? If you haven’t roleplayed any other characters in the past, are there any that you wish you had?

3. Are there any characters that you have your eye on to possibly roleplay in the future at some point?

4. What is the hardest thing about roleplaying for you? Have you learned to overcome it? If so, how?

5. Are you happy with how you write or portray your character? Is there anything you want to improve upon?

6. Did you roleplay before doing so on tumblr? What were some platforms that you used in the past to do so?

7. Do you have a “type” when it comes to characters that you roleplay, or are you pretty varied? If you haven’t roleplayed more than one character, could you see yourself playing a similar character in the future, or would you try something different?

8. Does music help or hinder you while writing? If it helps, what do you usually listen to? If it doesn’t, do you stick with silence or do you listen to something else?

9. Is there a specific character that no one is roleplaying right now that you wish someone out there would pick up so that you could interact with them?

10. Is there anything about roleplaying on tumblr that annoys you? If so, what platform would you like to switch to? If not, what do you like most about roleplaying here?

11. How long do you think you’ll be roleplaying for? Any foreseeable end in sight, or will you be doing it for years to come? 

#◄ ooc : ❝ out of cases ❞ ► #long post

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Haley you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Cassius Mulciber!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

We’re so happy to see you back in the rp Haley! You’ve always played Cassius beautifully and written out his various complexities -- as your app definitely explores once more and makes exceptionally clear. It’ll be so nice to see him on the dash again, and I know a lot of people will be so excited that you decided to rejoin so soon! Hopefully, you’ve found a reignited muse for him and be able to fully dive into his development! *your fc change to Chris Wood has been accepted

application beneath the cut; tw: torture, murder, death, blood (in para sample)

OUT OF CHARACTER

♔ INTRODUCTION

Haley, 20, She/Her, EST- United States

♔ ACTIVITY

I’m employed and a part time student but despite those things I have a fair amount of free time which I didn’t expect when school started. 7/10.

♔ TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

♔ HOW DID YOU FIND US?

I mean, I was here and then left because of muse issues, after I left my muse returned and with a bit of editing I’ve got the muse flowing strongly again.

♔ HOW ARE YOU?

Tired, but otherwise good.

♔ WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?:

Remus and Sirius, I truly identify with them both equally. I’ve always been the weird, quiet kid who seemed too secretive and was bullied. But I also am a rebel who eventually learned how to stand up for myself and others. I’m like the stereotypical parts of both their characters combined.

♔ TELL US SOMETHING ABOUT YOURSELF:

The very identifying things you should know: I am a Scorpio, INFJ, Slytherin, and Horned Serpent. I will fight for the oxford comma. I have been roleplaying on tumblr for roughly six years. Total I’ve been roleplaying about eight years. I am going to school for Agriculture with an emphasis in Animal Science and my life dream at the moment is to move to either Washington State or New Zealand and start my own farm while also working in conservation.

♔ ANYTHING ELSE?

How are you?

IN CHARACTER

♔ DESIRED CHARACTER

Cassius Mulciber

♔ FACE CLAIM

I want to switch him back to Chris Wood, but if you’d rather leave him as Zane Holtz that’s fine too.

♔ REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

I used to love writing the anti-hero or heroic characters who did horrible things for good reasons. In recent months I have found a new love in writing darker characters. There’s a certain power in a character who has no morals. He would slit a man’s throat and then fuck someone next to his corpse without a second thought. He has no boundaries. There are no lines he won’t cross. The things he does, he does for himself. He’s a Death Eater but I believe he made the decision to join the group because of what they do, not who they follow. I will play him more in that light than as if he was another completely blind follower of Voldemort.

Previously I said that Cassius is both perfect for me as a character and challenging. I’ve fallen into a rut of writing characters who have low self esteem and mostly hate themselves, but Cassius is vain and that single aspect of his personality is going to be a fun challenge for me to work through. His determination, pragmatism, and ferocity fits perfectly into what I’m used to writing. However, now having written him before, I already have a solid hold on who he is as a character

All of that is from previous applications but to add to it… Whenever I read other people’s replies to my son I get like butterflies in my stomach and it’s a nervous excitedness every time. I realized even after leaving the group I got excited to talk about threads and talk about the group and I knew immediately that leaving had been a mistake. Leaving reminded me of all the reasons I was here to start with, not all of them are about Cassius per say but still.

♔ PREFERRED SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

I have no specific anti-ships and the only ship I have is Cassius and Augustus, but chemistry is the biggest thing for me. Because he’s a purist he wouldn’t be with anyone who wasn’t pure blooded. He also wouldn’t be quick to jump into a relationship. He’s generally more of a one night stand type person, however, he develops attachments to people and will continue having a friendly/sexual relation with them. Whenever things get to serious though, he backs off.

As far as sexuality, he is pansexual. He doesn’t care what genitals a person has or how they identify themselves, what he cares about is if the person is attractive and if they interest him. His pronouns are he/him, if you can’t tell by my extensive use of them already in this application haha.

♔ CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

Here is the link to my original Cassius blog.

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

“I want a spell that causes people to drop their guard. I’m sure there are a multitude of potions that do the same thing, but I’ve always been bad with potions. A spell would be so much more convenient. The spell itself would be “fiduciam” which is Latin for trust.”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

“Augustus Rookwood, he’s the only person I would trust to be alone in the forest with me. As for the object, I know it may sound odd but I would take a gun. They’re surprisingly useful considering they’re muggle made.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

“Decisions that revolve around my emotions. Some choices are easy, they’re clear and precise and the logical answer seems almost the only answer. As soon as the heart is involved, however, it becomes difficult to decide because no matter what the logical answer is, it’s hard to hurt yourself to do what needs to be done.

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

“That I was weak. I am many things but weak is not and will never be one of them.”

WRITING SAMPLE

July 3rd, 1974

Cassius stood in the frigid night air, waiting for his father to join him just outside the Mulciber Estate property line. He knew this was death eater business, but beyond that he didn’t know anything about what they were doing that night. His father had made promise after promise that they would soon take the required steps for Cassius to receive his dark mark, but so far they had done nothing. Eyes focused on the stars in the sky above him, he didn’t hear Gerard Mulciber walk up behind him and the hand placed on his shoulder caused him to jump slightly. Thankfully his father’s grip on his shoulder was tight as he apparated the both of them away from their estate.

The dark alleyway formed around them, coming into focus as they reached their destination. Gerard turned, walking through a doorway hidden by magic, he absorbed into the brick the way students did as they raced to board the Hogwarts Express. Cassius followed behind him, pulling his wand from his pocket just in case he had occasion to use it. As he emerged into the room he was taken aback by the sight before him. The girl magically bound and gagged in a chair at the center of the room caught his attention first, but it didn’t take long for him to notice the masked figures that lined the walls. Their dark cloaks pulled heavily towards the ground, eerily quiet as they remained still and unmoving, no rustling to be heard. Cassius suddenly felt tiny, insignificant, he felt surrounded and closed in, despite the fact that there were only three death eaters in the room, including his father.

“What is this?” He said with an angry glance towards Gerard.

A stinging pain ran through his head as Gerard smacked him on the back of his skull. “The fact that you’re too idiotic to figure it out on your own should be the first sign that you’re unworthy of the mark. Unfortunately, they don’t agree,” Gerard spat angrily, gesturing towards the death eaters who stood around them. Cassius’ eyes traced around each figure trying to identify any of them, but he couldn’t. A hand gently rested against his back, the feeling was almost as shocking as the smack had been. “The girl,” his father said as he gestured towards the poor girl in the middle of the room, “she’s a muggleborn, so are her siblings.” As if on cue a large cloaked and masked death eater walked through the door, a young girl on his left and a boy on his right, neither could be older than eight. “You’re going to kill her in front of them.”

Cassius’ blood ran cold and he couldn’t stop the chills that ran across his skin. He’d done many terrible things while at Hogwarts but murder was not anywhere on that list. “I know this is supposed to be a challenge for me but shouldn’t I be allowed to decide what I do? Since the whole point is for me to prove myself?” His voice was shakier than he anticipated, but he just hoped his father wouldn’t take notice.

“Fine, do what you want, but the end result must be the same. The girl will die and you will be the cause.” Gerard shoved his son forward viciously, forcing him towards the girl.

Cassius tightened his grip on his wand, acting as if all of this was perfectly normal. He couldn’t show weakness, couldn’t show how terrified he was. There had to be a way for him to do this and flaunt his strength while trying to keep calm. He took a calming breath before allowing the incantation to slip from his lips. “Imperio,” the familiar spell came out easily, the motions flowing through his wrist naturally. It was a spell he had used often at Hogwarts during his free time. The unforgivable curse canceled out the weaker spells that bound her to the chair and Cassius watch with satisfaction as the girl rose from her seat and walked over to stand in front of him. He pulled a small folding knife from his pocket and gave it to her before forcing her to turn and move to her siblings’ side. She moved the knife to rest against the other girl’s throat.

For a moment, Cassius felt guilty. How could he do this? How could he force someone to kill their sister? But he knew he had no choice. Trying not to linger on bad thoughts he flicked his wand and the girl dragged the knife across her sister’s throat. She crumpled to the ground hands around her throat but he didn’t dwell on her despite the fact that she would live for the next several minutes. Moving his puppet over to stand in front of the boy, he had her drop the knife and pull out her wand. With the tip pressed against her brother’s chest, it didn’t take a genius to know what he would do next. As the killing curse slid from the girl’s mouth, a flash of green lit the room and the boy collapsed onto the ground. Cassius felt disgusted with himself. He was dizzy and ill and didn’t know if he was going to make it through this without being sick.

He pushed his illness aside, knowing he still had to kill the girl. He had to get creative, no simple killing curse was going to satisfy these men. They wouldn’t accept the same method of killing twice. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he forced her to turn her wand on herself a small incantation falling from her lips. “Incendio.” As the flames quickly engulfed her body, Cassius realized this had been a mistake. Her screams filled the small room drowning out all other sound and thought. Quietly, praying his father wouldn’t hear him, he hissed out the killing curse, the flash of green hidden within the flames. Her body dropped to the floor and he flicked his wrist, putting out the flames.

“It’s done.” It had lasted no longer than two minutes, but he felt like it had been a lifetime.

Without comment or even gesture, all the death eaters apparated from the room, apparating the bodies away with them. Cassius was left standing alone in the empty room with his father. Pride and excitement filled his chest. Was that it? Had he passed their tests? Did he get to be a death eater now? As he turned to face Gerard, his stomach dropped, dread and panic replacing his earlier emotions. Gerard glared down at him, anger and disappointment painting his features. “You didn’t kill anyone. She did and when you finally had the balls to kill her it was only to put her out of her misery. You are pathetic and weak. If it were up to me I would never make you a death eater.” Cassius kept his mouth shut allowing his father to finish. “You had better promise me that from now on you’ll kill without mercy and without fear. Otherwise, you will have something new to fear.”

Swallowing his pride, Cassius bowed his head slightly, “I promise, Father.” Little did he know that promise was going to haunt him for years to come.

#accepted app

[ellawritesficssometimes]

My Save Year (ch. 1)

Summary: Depressed and rejected by his family, Arthur longs for a new beginning during his first year of University. There he meets Alfred, an optimistic bright-eyed oaf with a sunny smile. An unlikely romance develops between them, one that was already doomed from the beginning. (USUK, multichapter)

Loneliness. Bitterness. Confusion. These were all emotions I've learned to ignore. I refused to validate them, for if I did, there would be no saving me from the hatred of others, there would be no grand escape to a better life. I wouldn't get the chance to make something out of myself.

I was done hating who I was as a person. I was done listening to people lie about how much they cared about me. I was done placing my trust in others.

Truth be, as soon as you become a problem, a burden, if you will, people lose interest in you. They leave you in light of their own selfish desires. Being "there" for someone is the grandest lie of all. You people all leave the moment any effort is required. You make promises you can't keep, all for the sake of looking like a good person when you're not.

It's an ugly reality, but I've learned to not to have expectations anymore. Expectations implied disappointment, and I couldn't be disappointed if I didn't have any hope in the first place.

Am I being depressing? Unequivocally. But am I wrong? Not in the slightest.

I gave this life many, many chances, and they've only proved me right by failing me in my time of need.

I grew up knowing I was gay from a very young age. When I came out at fourteen, I was told that I was going through a phase, that I was confused and didn't know what I wanted. I let these ignorant bastards tell me how I felt because I wanted to be accepted. I preferred living in the shadows, but the g-word may as well have been plastered to my forehead ever since.

Mum didn't like that I was gay, but she tried to accept me anyway; emphasis on tried. Dad, however, was the worst of them all. He refused to acknowledge me at home, and made my life a living hell. It was all smiles and perpetual faking until I was out of sight; only then came the profanity. Slurs were heard on a regular basis, and my brothers were no exception to that rule, all save for one.

Alistair, the eldest of my brothers, was the only one who had no problem with me being gay. As far as he was concerned, the only disappointment was him having to protect my innocence from any dodgy, potential suitors. Idiot. He was still 100% convinced that I was a bottom, erm, not that I had any experience in that area…

I wasn't the most pleasant person to be around, as you'll soon find. I pushed more people away than I could keep.

Regardless, this year was my get away. It was the year where I escaped from isolation, saved myself from my depression. I would learn to live again, going unhindered by my chronic fear of rejection. But, for that to happen, I needed to move on.

It was clear Mum and Dad wanted me gone, so I respected their wishes and left them for good.

I had worked hard in my last year of high school, earning myself a scholarship at a prestigious University. Hetalia University was part of an international chain of schools all over the globe, branching out across several continents and their respective countries.

The campus I was accepted into just so happened to be located right outside of Sussex, England. It was a specialized writing school, where some of the best-known authors had graduated from. I was determined to make a name for myself, despite all the difficult, back-breaking work these next four years would require from me.

Unfortunately, unlike my tuition, my living expenses weren't paid for. I had managed to find a job at the campus's library, so at least I had that. Any place where there was infrequent interaction with other people was my God save. It was easier to exist in a private silence than one where you were constantly being judged and ogled at as if you were a strange specimen. Better yet, a strange specimen that was the odd one out and couldn't stand on their own two feet, let alone think on their own terms.

I was glad to finally be free from the scrutiny of others. Going to this University was a fresh start, a chance to live under the radar without ever going detected by others.

I didn't come here to make friends. I wanted to improve as a writer, to rid myself of the stress I had internalized by writing about how I truly felt.

I didn't want to open myself up to another person. The less people knew about me, the better. I neither wanted to be liked nor disliked. I just wanted to exist, to breeze by, to be one of those faceless students whose name you couldn't remember. I couldn't be lonely if I didn't attach myself to others… if I didn't long for company – I thought I didn't need it.

But, as the Universe had a knack for making things go the opposite of how I wanted them to, my student life quickly became a whirlwind of unwanted – not to mention unexpected – emotions and attachments.

I never thought I would make a friend here. Two friends actually, if you count my pestiferous amphibian of a roommate.

What I didn't realize at the time was the thing I needed most was in fact a true companion. Writing was a distraction; it would never truly alleviate the weight of your depression, nor would it save you from the bottomless pit of your own thoughts and fears.

All it took was one smile, one bright, stupid, and sunny smile to change a bad day into a good one. That bloody yank came into my life out of nowhere, shining brighter than I could have ever imagined with his sappy optimism. He was my beacon of hope, my best friend, my every-

His friendship meant more than I would ever dare to admit.

I may not have realized this until later, but this year, this year was my save year.

I had been saved from myself by another kind, selfless soul.

It's just unfortunate I wasn't able to reciprocate the favor.

Not until it was too late.

…

Move in day on campus was a lot less hectic than I thought it would be. Then again, there were maybe 1500 students total at the University, as it was a private campus. Those students whom I did pass almost never seemed to be speaking the same language. Funny how even in my own country, I'm still the odd one out.

The campus was a mixture of old and new architectural designs, filled with the dreary, rich aura of history in spite of the paradoxical naïve and bright-minded moods of newcomers like myself.

The newer buildings were constructed around several thousand-year old Anglo-Saxon castles. Some of these older buildings would indeed be used for hosting classes, just as the library, round-tower church and dining hall at the center of the small University town were also vacated for academic and student use.

There was still a week before classes started, so most students were using their free time to lounge about on the lawns, enjoying the sun's rays if it was gracious enough to poke its head out of the clouds. Many of these foreigners would soon learn that rain was a most common occurrence in England. Although, I couldn't complain. Rainy weather tended to bring out the best muses in writers. No one knew why, it just did.

Despite the excitement in the air, a sagging feeling in my stomach made me feel uneasy. This campus was ripe with ghosts. I felt their despair and regrets as if they were my own.

Alistair must have noticed this too. The ability to see ghosts ran deep in the Kirkland family; almost every child had this affinity. "The air is really thick here, isna it?" he asked me, furrowing his thick red brows in unease.

I nodded my head. We had stopped in front of my dorm, which was one of the newer buildings on campus. It wasn't anything special, just an ugly rectangular brick building that reminded me of a factory had there not been several windows on its side.

"The campus is rumoured to be haunted," I answered him, feeling uneasy when Alistair's green eyes raked up and down my figure, concern evident on his face.

"You don't say?" Alistair murmured before awkwardly clearing his throat. I really wish he wouldn't tread so lightly with me. Yes, I was depressed, but that didn't mean I was fragile. I almost missed the times he used to tease and rough me up when we were younger. Almost.

"Well, that's it," Alistair concluded, setting my suitcase on the cobble-stone path beneath our feet. "Only ye would bring two suitcases to last ye a whole year. And one of them is full o' books. Yer sure are an oddball, Artie. Are ye sure ye don't need anything else?"

"No, no, I'll be quite all right. I'm not being odd, but practical. This is all I need," I muttered morosely, looking anywhere but at him. Alistair was much taller than me and had a habit of making me feel like a child. This moment couldn't have gotten anymore awkward.

It was unspoken, but Alistair and I both knew I didn't want to bring anything that reminded me of the home I had left behind.

"Would ye like me to help bring yer things?" Alistair spoke lightly, thankfully changing the subject.

I forced a smirk on my face, my chest heavy. "I know you call me scrawny, but really now Alistair, could you get any more patronizing? I'm sure I'll be able to carry two suitcases on my own," I huffed indignantly.

Alistair looked conflicted. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to hug me. In the end, he settled for ruffling my hair, much to my annoyance. "And here I thought I could sneak some extra teasing in with yer roommate. Oh well, I'll be visiting ye soon enough, and ye can count on me bringing photo albums from when ye were a wee little lad. Ye were so cute, I don't know what happened. It's like I'm looking at a grumpy old man instead of my 'adult' little brother."

"You think you're so hilarious," I scowled, ducking out of his grasp. "Do that and I'll set fire to everything you love. You have no right to act like my parent when you're still a child yourself. Must I remind you that I found you this morning dressed in nothing but a lampshade and a washcloth? It's a miracle you were sober enough to drive me here today."

Alistair laughed, his voice deep and gravelly as always. "Ye better not act so pissy with others like ye do with me. It's like ye want to be alone. And yer welcome, ye ungrateful willy. If I didna care about ye so much, I woulda gotten rid of ye too. But I just can't. There's something strangely endearing about ye. Maybe it's those thick eyebrows of yours."

"I would say thanks, but your cheap insults cancel out any gratitude I feel towards you." I raised a brow at Alistair in challenge. "Did it ever cross your thick skull that I prefer being alone?"

Alistair sighed, his shoulders deflating. This was a well-worn out argument of ours. "Artie, you gotta try, ye hear? I at least want ye to make one friend here. I'll be calling every now an' then to check up on ye, unlike some people," he stated bitterly. "I expect more of ye this time 'round. Enjoy yerself a little."

"Just because I'm not a social butterfly like you, doesn't mean I can't have an enjoyable University experience," I crossly retorted.

Alistair wasn't done speaking about our parents just yet.

"Whatever ye say," Alistair raised his hands in surrender. "I just want the best for ye. Mum and Dad may not look like it, but they still do care about ye. I've been tryin' to talk to them, but ye ken how narrow-minded they are. They'll come around, eventually. Yer their son for Christ sake. For now, just focus on yer studies. With yer work ethic, I know you'll do great, Artie. I'll be rootin' for ye, I hope you know tha'."

"Oh sod off, you old sap," I snapped, albeit not maliciously. I didn't know how to react to Alistair being so kind to me. It was a cheap defensive mechanism of mine to lash out with anger when confronted with something I wasn't familiar with.

"But," I faltered. "I do appreciate everything you've done for me. Thank you, Alistair, truly. It's nice to know that at least one person is here to support me."

"O' course," Alistair smiled, a genuine one that very rarely graced his face. He wasn't a very serious person to begin with. "Yer my little brother. You may be a grumpy bastard, but I still love ye. And, Artie?"

"Yes?"

"You ken my door is always open. I may be livin' inna different country now, but that doesna change anythin' between us. Once you're finished with yer year, yer more than welcome to come stay with me. It's not right for a lad yer age to be livin' on his own. If yer willing to drop that insufferable pride of yours, I'd be more than happy to help ye out."

I felt my face flush a little, unused to such kindness. Alistair would be moving away for work in Scotland, his birth place, in a couple of weeks. Before coming here, I had lived with him in his apartment, him almost being thirty years old and all. This was the one time where he was actually acting like the adult he was.

"I'd greatly appreciate that," I looked Alistair in the eye, blinking harshly. "Thank you."

"Anytime."

Alistair waved his hand at me dismissively, contradicting the lump he swallowed down in his throat. "Ah, enough o' this sentimental crap. I'm not sober enough to deal with this. Just have fun, be careful, eat properly, call me every week, and ye'll be fine. Oh, and get a haircut, ye stubborn mutt. I canna even see yer eyes."

I rolled said eyes. "Goodbye, Alistair. I'll skype with you every week, if you like. Although, no promises on the having fun clause or the hair cut. Thanks again, for everything…"

For being a true brother to me…

"Cheeky little bastard," Alistair mumbled to himself.

We said our goodbyes again, which was no less awkward than the first few times.

With that done and said, I turned my back on him, and walked into the dorm, realizing for the first time that I was on my own. It wasn't a good feeling nor was it bad. I didn't know what to expect. I wasn't Arthur Kirkland, I was a nobody who had to start from scratch.

It was invigorating, that's for sure.

I didn't have to worry about what others thought about me, especially if everything went according to plan. No one was to know anything about me. That way, I couldn't be judged.

I found my shared dorm room on the tenth floor, room 1066. It would be an understatement to say I was appalled by the strong waft of roses that entered my nostrils upon entering the room.

The dorm room was small, consisting of a cozy living room with one leather couch, a rather small tele on a rickety wooden nightstand, a rug that looked like it had seen better days, and a small kitchen not meant for much more than heating up leftovers or doing dishes. There was a dining hall for a reason, after all.

I've also been told I wasn't the greatest of cooks; I have yet to figure out why – scones were supposed to be a bit hard to chew, weren't they? It was good for the teeth, or was it bad? I had no bloody idea.

The bedrooms and the one bathroom were located in a skinny hallway to the left of the front entrance of the room. Thankfully, Francis – my roommate - and I had agreed beforehand that I would be getting the room with the largest window. The French international allegedly liked his beauty sleep.

We had only kept in contact through text over the summer, but even then, Francis was still grating on the nerves. From what I could tell, he was arrogant and full of himself.

I couldn't have been anymore right about him as I set my two suitcases down in the front room, spotting Francis lounging on the couch with a glass of wine in his hand, wearing nothing but a blue bath robe. There was soft music playing in the background – something French and definitely not English. The living room window was left open, allowing a breeze to sweep through the room, rustling the residence papers he had lying on the coffee table. Next to the papers, there was a half-full ash-tray, which would explain the lingering scent of smoke in the air – oh did I have something to say about that.

Francis looked exactly the same as he did in the picture the residence coordinator had sent me. Same wavy blond hair, azure eyes, and permanent, obnoxious smug lilt of a smirk. He was tall and thin, his arms draped over the couch as if he owned it and the entire place, like a pompous, domesticated cat who had selfishly claimed their owner's territory as their own.

I stifled my irritation and did my best to give a proper introduction, looking anywhere but Francis's hairy legs, chest, and slipper-covered feet. It was two in the bloody afternoon. Who the hell had the spare time to act so casual? Was I rooming with a Frenchman or a 40-year-old suburban stay-at-home mother? Who knows.

I cleared my throat, standing awkwardly in the front door. "Hello. I'm guessing you must be Francis Bonnefoy?" I asked, reaching into my pocket to pull out the photo I had of him.

Francis gasped, setting down his nearly empty wine glass. He stood up from the couch so abruptly that I almost got whiplash just by looking at him. Before I knew it, the Frenchman was standing before me, unfortunately a few inches taller than I was, pale eyebrows rising in contemplation.

"Oui, I am! Mon dieu!" he exclaimed, his voice fairly accented, but still understandable nonetheless. "Arthur, Arthur Kirkland, oui? Bonjour, bonjour~! And here I thought pictures didn't do a person justice. Tell me, how is it that you grow out your eyebrows that thick? Do you use a cream? Ointment? Coconut oil? You must tell me! I've been growing out my hair for a few months now, and I'm looking for any tips I can get!"

My first impression of Francis was that he was flamboyant, seeing as how he moved his hands a lot when he spoke. My second impression was that he was an annoying git who had no sense of personal space, whatsoever. Both impressions were woefully accurate.

I reluctantly shook hands with Francis, having to wrench away my hand from him after he held it for an uncomfortable amount of time. Bloody pervert. "Yes, well, I'm afraid I don't do anything to my eyebrows. They're naturally thick like this. Although, I'm not sure if you're insulting or complimenting me about them…"

"Oh, that's too bad," Francis simpered.

I wrinkled my nose; Francis was wearing a very strong perfume. It was already giving me a headache. It looked like I had a long, long year ahead of me. Remind me again why our personalities were deemed compatible by the residence coordinators?

"Haven't you heard of personal space?" I grumbled, backing away from the ogling Frenchman, whose face was way too close to mine. "Good God, would it kill you to tone it down on the perfume? I can practically taste it. And what kind of nutjob wears a bathrobe mid-afternoon?"

"What's that?" Francis asked, grinning from ear to ear. "If we are to live together, then we must get used to being in each other's faces, non? And excuse you, I'll have you know that my perfume attracts all ze ladies and men. As for my robe? Casse toi. Anyone who wears a sweater vest has no right to criticize my sense of fashion. I am merely being comfy. I've seen Mormons with a better sense of fashion than you."

I turned around, shutting the front door. I then grabbed my two suitcases, intending to go to my room and unpack, alone. "Right, well, as nice as it is to get to know you by insulting each other's tastes, I really ought to settle in. I need to acquaint myself with where all my classes are."

"Allow me!" Francis purred, grabbing a suitcase from me, despite my protests. "When we're done helping you settle in, I can give you a tour. I've already been here for a week. It was so lonely, mon cher. Hardly anyone came until two days ago. I thought I was going to die from the boredom."

"You talk too much," I sighed, wrenching my suitcase back from him. "And I don't need your help or your company."

"Is that really such a bad thing?" Francis pouted, motioning for me to hand him the suitcase again. The mongrel didn't know when to give up. "Stubbornness is not an attractive trait, you know," he lectured. "All people need the occasional company. It's simply not healthy to be by yourself for long periods of time. Voila! I'm doing you a favour by being your first friend here!"

"I said no!" I snapped. "I don't need your help. And you are most certainly not my friend."

"Not yet, I'm not~"

"Look," I inhaled sharply. "Let me get something straight. I am not here to make friends with anyone, let alone you. I don't play well with others, so it's best if we just stay out of each other's way. I'm sure you're a great person under all that flamboyance and effeminate charm of yours, but I'll repeat myself again, since you seem to be hard of hearing and English is likely not your first language: I am not here to get cozy. I am here for my education, and that's it."

Francis whistled, speechless for once.

Taking advantage of this, I pulled out a folded sheet of paper from my jeans with my free hand. "Here," I scowled, handing him the paper.

"This is a set of rules I've come up with. You're not to go in my room or touch my things. There will be agreed times on when and who gets to use the bathroom. I don't tolerate uncleanliness, so we will also have to come up with a chore schedule. There will be no more smoking in this room; I will report you to residence if you continue to do so, roommates or not, I owe you no loyalty or favors. Drink as much as you want, just don't expect me to bail you out if you do something stupid and get arrested. And absolutely no parties are to be thrown here; I'd rather not be kicked out this early in the year, or at all, in fact. I ask that you please respect my boundaries. Living together entails respect. Respect me, and I'll respect you. If you do all this, then I'm sure we will get along with each other just fine."

The residual smirk on Francis's face wavered. "Arthur, you are one strange man. But, I'm not unkind enough to not respect your wishes. I am a clean person myself, and I will smoke outside from now on, no probleme. I will also fill out these…uh…forms and come up with an appropriate schedule. It's a shame we can't become friends, though. I have a feeling it'll take a while for you to warm up to me, but there's nothing I can do about that, I suppose. I'll leave you to unpack then."

Francis patted my shoulder before turning and heading back into the living room.

I grit my teeth. "We're not becoming friends. I thought I already established that."

Francis looked up at me from the couch, evidently getting used to my anger. He seemed completely unfazed by it now. "We French have a way of getting what we want. Do not underestimate us. You're not misleading me, Mr. Kirkland, far from it. Behind every angry person, there is someone hurting inside. You care more than you let off. I've always liked myself a good mystery, it inspires my creativity as a writer. Somewhere deep inside that hedgehog exterior of yours, there is a nice person. I'll dedicate the rest of my year towards finding it if I have to."

I scoffed. "Wise words coming from a man in a bathrobe."

Bloody Frenchman and his big mouth. His croaking voice reminded me of a frog. Hmmm. Not bad. Not a bad insult at all…

"Non, it is coming from someone with experience."

I had no good retort to that. "Fine, think what you want. Just know you'll regret saying that. I always disappoint…"

Francis gave me a pitiful look.

I left him feeling disappointed with myself, go figure. If only he knew who I truly was as a person; he'd be asking for a new roommate in no time.

That, I was sure of.

…

After my snapping at him, I didn't hear from Francis again. I must have really perturbed him, seeing as how he had slipped the sheet with the bathroom and chore schedule under my bedroom door. Oh well, despite saying otherwise, it appeared that Francis had realized it was better to keep his distance from me. Kudos to him…

My dorm room was nothing special, harbouring a single twin bed, a meagre dresser, a window that overlooked a courtyard, and a foldable desk embedded in the wall. It was small, but cozy; I didn't have a need for that much of a space anyway. I felt in control in this room, nothing about it was overwhelming or all-encompassing.

BANG!

I was busy unpacking my clothes on my bed, when a large bang resonated across the building, sounding as if it were coming from the hallway outside.

"Francis?" I called out hesitantly. Blast. I didn't like the guy, but that didn't mean I hated him.

"Francis are you all right? What was that noise?"

I walked into the living room, finding that Francis wasn't there. He wasn't in his bedroom – the door was open – or the bathroom either – I didn't really want to look too extensively in there, for obvious reasons. He must have gone elsewhere.

BANG!

I jumped when another bang, this one much louder in volume, shook the walls.

Cussing under my breath, I left my dorm, standing in the hallway outside with my mouth held agape.

Two desperate, fearful voices down the hall bickered back and forth.

"Toni, I'm telling you! We need to get the fuck out of here! That's it, I'm calling room service."

"But, Gil! Getting assigned to a new room is going to cost us!" a second voice pouted with a whine. "Other than… 'this'…there's nothing wrong with the flat. They're not going to believe us that it's… it's…"

BANG!

"HAUNTED! Ay, Dios mio!"

I walked across the hallway, knocking on the front door of where the frantic voices were coming from. It had been left wide open, but I still considered myself to have manners.

I cleared my throat. "Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem?"

The two other boys in the room – my floormates – latched their fearful gazes on me. One was tanned, lanky, with messy brown hair and light green eyes. The other, was buff, extremely pale, and had the most peculiar red eyes I had ever seen. Both were dressed in beach wear, despite the University's campus being in the middle of nowhere. My guess was that they were taking part in Fresher's week.

BANG!

I looked to my right, spotting a wooden wardrobe at the edge of their small living room. The doors were clasped shut with a red bandanna, but by the way it was shaking, it looked like someone was trying to get out of it from the inside.

The pale one was the first to answer me. "We moved here last week, and every night, the wardrobe opens and shakes on its own. We've heard stories about the ghosts here, so we figured if we could stop the creaking, the spirit would eventually give up and move on. Now it just seems mad, so not awesome," he muttered, his voice thick with a German accent. "And just who are you exactly?"

"Arthur Kirkland, a pleasure," I lied, about the latter part, that is. I hated getting involved in other people's business, but I already knew what was going on here.

I stepped into the room, shaking hands with the pale one.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," the pale one firmly clasped my hand. "And that guy over there is Antonio. Are you Fran's roommate? I think he mentioned something about having an English roommate."

Antonio was preoccupied with kissing the pendant of his cross necklace, murmuring prayers in what sounded to be Spanish.

"That I am," I admitted. "Unfortunately. And what is this nonsense about ghosts? They don't exist."

Gilbert scoffed in disbelief. "Are you not seeing that wardrobe move on its own right now?"

"I'm sure there's another explanation for that. A wild animal? Or perhaps the bolts are becoming loose and it's about to give way?" I proposed.

"Yo, what are you doing?!" Gilbert blurted, pale brows rising when I walked towards the wardrobe. "You're going to get yourself killed by that thing!"

Antonio shook his head back and forth, eyes wide like a small child. "Uh-oh, Franny isn't going to like us killing his roommate. I'll pray for you, amigo." And the Spaniard did just that, mentioning something about how my eyebrows were enough of a punishment to live with, unbeknownst to me.

"Quite the contrary," I smirked, untying the bandanna from the wardrobe. "I'll prove to you that nothing's in there. There's always a rational explanation for things like this."

I opened the wardrobe, glaring unamusedly into the empty space. "See? Nothing."

The bandanna dropped to the ground.

I stepped aside to let Gilbert and Antonio have a look inside. The shaking had stopped entirely.

"Vhat?" Gilbert spluttered in confusion.

"Yay! We're not going to die young now!" Antonio merrily exclaimed. "He must have scared it off!"

I ignored Antonio's latter comment.

"Best bet is to just get rid of the thing. I was right about the bolting, it looks like it'll cave any day now," I told them, dusting off my hands on my pants. "Well, now that that's out of the way, I best be off then. I still have much to unpack. See you around…" I hummed, waving over my shoulder.

Stunned, Gilbert and Antonio muttered their goodbyes.

"…Never," I mumbled to myself, walking back into the hallway outside.

I furrowed my brows angrily, knowing that a certain something was following me. I refused to turn around and face it until I was in my own flat, out of the eavesdropping range of other, potentially nosy floormates.

I closed the door after me. That didn't stop the something from floating right through it as if it were child's play. Quite literally, the ghost was a child.

I spun around, narrowing my eyes at the ghost I had found vacating Gilbert and Antonio's wardrobe. She looked to be about ten years old; scrawny, sharp-elbowed, missing several teeth, and had several scrapes up and down her arms. She had piercing green eyes, almost like mine oddly enough, blonde hair, which was tied in two high pigtails, and was dressed in a long-outdated green sundress. From the looks of it, she looked to be born in either the 1920s or 30s.

"You can see me," the girl accused, her voice shrill and angry. "How come you pretended that you couldn't?! Are you trying to make fun of me? Is that it?"

I sighed, walking over to sit on the couch. I had dealt with enough today, thank you very much. "No love," I murmured softly. "I can't let other people know because then they'd think I'm crazy. What's your name? Or, what do you prefer to go by?"

The girl floated to hover above the coffee table, crossly sticking up her chin at me. "You may call me Alice," she huffed.

"Well, Alice, you can call me Arthur. Pleased to meet you."

"I know that, you dummy! I heard you speaking to those other two twits."

"Come now," I tutted. "Is that the way your mother taught you how to address strangers?"

"N-no! Mummy always told me to be polite. B-But, I d-don't know where Mummy is anymore..." the ghost trailed off, a downcast expression on her face.

"I can help you find your Mummy, but have to promise to be completely honest with me."

The ghost looked up, eyes wide, revealing the vulnerability of a child who had been lost for who knows how many decades. "How do I know I can trust you?" she wavered, flicking in and out of sight.

"I've helped many spirits pass on to the other side. There's something keeping you here on Earth, Alice. Is there something bothering you? Something you never got to do when you were alive?"

"Well…there was one thing…"

"Take your time, love. I know this must be hard for you to recall."

There was something about children that made them invisible to my usual irritation. I had a lot of patience with them. I treated them in a manner in which I had never been treated as a child; I was kind and I listened to what they had to say. At the very least they deserved that.

My patience must have given Alice the confidence she needed to open up to me. She was finally breaking her silence, conversing with someone who could listen and respond to her unfortunate predicament.

"My friend Davie and I were having a picnic. Daddy used to be the Dean here. He didn't like Davie because he was an orphan. But I really liked Davie, so I always snuck food from the dining hall to take to him. We had to meet in secret because Daddy didn't approve of me meeting with him, unchaperoned.

"I never really cared for dresses. But Mummy did. She knew about my friendship with Davie, but she never told anyone. One day, we were having a picnic, and Davie wanted me to swim in the creek with him…he never told me he couldn't swim. The water was too deep for us, and I drowned trying to save him…"

Alice paused. I inhaled sharply, not daring to say a word.

"Mummy died because Daddy hit her too hard. He blamed her for my death. But, I never got to see Mummy when she died. She didn't become a ghost like me…and neither did little Davie. I'm the only one left of them. I'm sorry if I made you mad earlier. I just don't k-know what to do. Scaring people is the only thing that makes me feel…real."

"You don't have to justify yourself, Alice," I said warmly, my throat constricting. "I understand everything now."

The mother and Davie must have passed on, but Alice's spirit was still bound by past regrets.

"I guess I'm just angry about what happened to little Davie," Alice whispered. "He never got a proper funeral, whereas I did. It's not fair."

"Tell you what," I shuddered with a sigh. Dealing with ghosts never got any less emotional after the first few times. Alice's story was a grim reminder of how unfair and tragic life could be sometimes. "I'll throw a proper funeral for Davie for you. Was it James creek that you two…passed in? That's only a five-minute walk from here."

Alice's expression became hopeful again. "Yes. That's the place. Would you really do that for me?"

"Of course. If it gives you peace, I'd be more than happy to. You've been here for long enough, love. It's about time you reunited with your Mummy and Davie again. Wouldn't you like for that to happen?"

"Yes, but how do I do that?" Alice sniffled. "I've tried f-for so long…"

"You just have to trust me, Alice. If you can trust that I'll carry through with your wish to give Davie a proper funeral, then your spirit will be able to move on."

Alice's form began to fade, a good sign indeed. "Promise?"

I lifted a pinkie finger to the air, albeit the gesture only being symbolic. "Promise."

"Thank you, Arthur," Alice's eyes watered. "I'll never forget you. You were so kind to me. I don't know what I did to deserve such kindness. You're everything Mummy wanted me to be."

I chuckled. "I'm not all that I appear to be, but thank you for such a sweet sentiment. Now move along, dear. You can sense your soul being pulled elsewhere, can't you? Don't fight it. And don't worry, I'm sure your Mummy would be proud of you too. It takes someone with a big heart to wait this long for someone else. I admire that, truly."

"Goodbye, Arthur. Thank you again."

"Goodbye, Alice. God speed, and may your soul rest in peace."

I heard the faint murmur of final thank-you's before Alice disappeared for good.

I slumped down in my seat.

It was some time before I removed my hands from my face. Oh bloody, hell, I had been crying, hadn't I? How embarrassing.

Irritated, I grabbed a Kleenex from the coffee table and dabbed at my eyes and cheeks.

Francis leaned against the kitchen table, the creak of which caused me to look up. "Alas, you're not as bitter and mean as I had initially thought, mon petit hedgehog," he mused.

I furiously rubbed at my eyes. "Since when did you get here…wait? What the bollocks?! You can see ghosts too?!"

Francis sadly nodded his head. "Oui, it runs in my family. It must run in yours too, non? My family is very perceptive at picking up on les emotions aussi. Some of us are born matchmakers, like myself. We see the good in people, and match them to fill the void in our own lonely hearts. But, enough about that. Are you all right, Arthur? I only heard about half of that conversation, and that was more than enough to break my heart in two."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," I snapped before lowering my voice. "Just. Fine."

"If you say so."

"Stop bloody patronizing me!"

"Fine, fine," Francis raised his hands in surrender.

"Don't get cheeky with me either," I growled to no one in particular, hardly audible.

"Call me crazy," Francis purred, walking to sit on the couch next to me. "as I am one to believe in fate, but we must have been brought together for a reason, non? I believe our similarities call for a truce."

I didn't like the suggestive look on Francis's face. Anything he did inevitably became sexual, the perv. "I know I said this already, but do you ever stop flapping your tongue, frog? There's nothing redemptive about you. Not even that 'glorious' hair of yours can salvage how obnoxious you are."

Francis laughed. "Ohonhonhon, that's a new insult I've never heard before. Arthur Kirkland, you are an absolute menace to be around."

I glared at him through eyes that were not puffy.

"A good menace," Francis corrected himself, not that it really helped with anything. I still couldn't stand him.

"Arthur?"

"Wot?" I growled, my gaze latched on the ground.

"Do you think we could start over? Perhaps become friends? I haven't even known you for that long, and yet, I've never seen someone look so troubled…so lonely. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pitying you. It's just…if you ever need someone to talk to or even just to keep you company, I can be there for you. We'll be spending most of our year together, after all."

"One, I'm not lonely or troubled, I'm just naturally bitter like this," I snorted. "But, if you're so intent on getting to know me, I'll say this. I like my privacy. I anger easily, and can be selfish at times. I've made a horrible first impression on you, and I have no idea why you're bothering speaking to me now. But, if you're willing to look past all that, then maybe we can become friends, maybe."

I don't know what I was thinking, saying all of this. Maybe I was still vulnerable emotionally. Or maybe it was because I had found someone similar to me, no matter how grating. Perhaps Alistair was right. One 'friend' couldn't hurt.

I held out my hand for Francis to shake, daring to look him in the eyes again. The genuine affection in them made me blush due to the unfamiliarity of receiving such generous treatment, especially because of how awfully I had spoken to him earlier.

"Arthur Kirkland."

"Francis Bonnefoy, pleased to make your acquaintance."

That cheeky little bugger.

…

I wasn't having your typical post-secondary Friday afternoon. Unlike most, I was spending it in the comforting silence of the school's grandiose library. It was held in an old castle, smelling of old books, wood and dust; a stale scent that inevitably made you think the place was old. It was five stories tall, harbouring enough books to satisfy hundreds of lifetimes of reading. There were several stainless glass windows, reflecting the light of the meek, cloudy weather outside. The building was dim, just like how I preferred it to be – sunlight wasn't exactly my thing.

Yes, yes, we've already agreed that I'm a miserable, depressing person. Ahem, moving on.

This was my sanctum, a safe place if you will. I could already see myself spending most of my time here, outside of my front desk/ clerk position. As of now, I was being trained for such a position by a polite, young lad from Canada.

What was his name again?

Oh yes, right, Matthew. Matthew. Matthew.

I couldn't forget that.

Matthew was showing me the different parts of the library, rolling around a cart full of books as he did so. Normally, I would protest to using technology in a place of standard print, as there was an iPad embedded in the cart, but with five floors of space to deal with, the gadget did come in handy for locating books and their respective sections. There was also the computer at the front desk, but I was willing to overlook that too. It was more out of necessity than excess to possess it.

Matthew spoke very softly, so I had to crane my neck just to hear him properly. "Not many people come here to borrow books, since most of our archives and subscriptions have already been made available online. I reckon the most work you'll be doing here is reorganizing the sections if the main librarian decides to become spontaneous," he chuckled softly.

"All the more easier of a job for us then," I smirked.

Matthew smiled softly at this, his strange violet eyes crinkling at the corners. He was a few inches taller than me in stature, lanky, and had pale, curly blond hair that fell to his shoulders. Despite wearing a bright red shirt, he seemed to blend in the shadows, nearly invisible to the naked eye. I blame his timid nature for not making him more noticeable.

"Say," I began, surprising myself by opting to start another conversation. Although, Matthew was a pleasant enough fellow to converse with. We were on our way back to the main floor, huddled in a rickety elevator that felt like it would collapse at any given moment.

"You look quite young to be a first year," I remarked. I was nineteen myself, having just finished my junior college studies a year later than planned. Let's just say there were a lot of family disruptions and personal problems that had caused such a setback.

"That's because I am," Matthew replied simply. "I just turned sixteen in July. I'm two years ahead in my studies. In Canada, we go up to grade twelve before being sent off to College or University. Maman, ah, ahem, my Mom and Grandma are alumina at this school. They didn't expect any less from me. I wanted to take a year off, but I'm a horrible pushover and try to please everyone. And, well, here I am now. I used to spend my summers working here anyway when we visited family, so it's not like I'm unfamiliar with the campus. Things could be worse," he shrugged, sighing.

"That's still not fair," I replied. Matthew was just a boy then. I felt a strange, paternal instinct kick around in the pit of my stomach just by looking at him. "You should have a say in how you go about your education. It's your life, Matthew. Are you not scared being the youngest one here, all on your own? I apologize if I'm being blunt, but I know how brutal people can be sometimes."

More like all the time.

"No worries," Matthew placed a hand on my shoulder. Damn him for being so tall. "I appreciate your concern, Arthur. But, I don't think I have to worry about any of that. I don't mind finishing my degree early, and it's not like I'm relevant enough for people to pick on. There's actually a rumour going around campus that there's a violet-eyed ghost haunting the library. Want to know who that ghost is? Yours truly," he mused, looking proud of himself as he pointed a backwards thumb at his chest.

We both chuckled a little at his expense.

The elevator dinged, and I helped Matthew roll the cart onto the main floor. "Although I haven't heard that specific rumour, I have heard that the library is the most haunted part of campus. Is that true?" I asked.

I already knew it was true, as I could feel the ghosts' presence, but I wanted to get more information on the subject.

I stopped the cart before the front desk, while Matthew skirted around to open the gate. After placing the cart in its respective place, Matthew leaned over the front counter, allowing his elbows to support most of his weight. He grimly nodded his head in response to my question.

"Unfortunately, that rumour is true," Matthew said sadly, eyes downcast. "Several students over the years have taken their lives by jumping off the roof," he paused to point up at the fifth and final floor of the library. "We don't have any accurate estimates, but some say it's close to between 15-30 students. And that's not even counting the first two centuries that this school was up and running."

My expression became grim as I continued to listen to him.

"The stress becomes too much for these people. The elite atmosphere here doesn't help either. So many people push themselves until they become mad and can't think properly anymore. They don't see any options of escape. No one wants to feel like they're a failure," Matthew said morosely, perking up slightly as he finished his tangent.

"Luckily, we haven't had any incidents like that for decades. It's a shame, because nothing is done until something horrible happens. At least now, we have programs to help with that. I know this is random and perhaps a bit invasive of me to suggest, but if you ever feel stressed and need to talk about it, there are plenty of resources available here to help with that."

Matthew handed me a red print card with a list of services scrawled on it. The first one that popped out to me was puppy stress therapy, how odd.

I accepted the card from Matthew, smiling faintly in gratitude as I slipped it into my wallet. "Thanks, lad. It sounds like you're speaking from experience?"

Matthew pursed his lips. "Yes, I volunteer in student services. Someone has to start the conversation. The curriculum expects so much of the students here. This issue is also something very important to my family. A distant relative of mine committed suicide, and my Grandma has been adamant on speaking about it ever since. There's just such a heavy stigma surrounding it."

"I'm so sorry," I stammered, realizing I had pried too deep. "I think it's wonderful that you're dedicating your free time to such a noble cause. You're a sweet kid, Matthew. If only everyone else was as selfless as you, the world would be a much better place."

"Thank you," Matthew said earnestly. "Well, I still have some new books to enter into stock. It was nice talking to you, Arthur. I highly recommend walking around and familiarizing yourself with the place again. It took me at least a month not to get lost every five minutes."

"Anytime. Yes, I already planned on doing that. If I don't come down in forty minutes, feel free to send up a search squad for me," I joked lightly, knowing it wouldn't alleviate the heavy mood that had fallen between us.

"Will do," Matthew laughed, winking at me from behind his spectacles. "See you around."

I said my goodbyes, realizing I had just made another friend. Alistair would probably be throwing a party right now if he found out. The people here were just so kind and understanding. It threw me off, but in a good way. Perhaps there was hope for me, after all.

(This school was turning me into a bloody sap, that's what. First the frog, and now Matthew? What's next, befriending a buffoon with a poor sense of grammar?...I'll shut up now.)

After familiarizing myself with the library's floor spaces, I then went back to the fourth floor, where the school's archives were kept. Up until about three decades ago, the campus used to host an orphanage as part of its charity work.

I was flipping through the pages of an old catalogue, finding Davie's name after some time searching. He didn't have a last name. A young boy with slicked back hair and sad eyes looked into the camera, his face dusty and smudged, still visible under the grey monochrome of colours. I only knew it was him because there was an additional photo of him and Alice having a picnic with an adult woman, presumably Alice's mother. At least in the second photo, Davie was smiling. He had died in 1927, at the unfortunate age of seven.

I looked over my shoulder, and once affirming that no one was there to see me do this, I carefully ripped out the latter photo and pocketed it. I would be needing it once I had found the time to give Davie his funeral.

"Easy does it, old chap," I whispered. "Alice never forgot about you."

I was about to head downstairs when for some inexplicable reason, I felt the urge to explore the fifth floor, where the roof was.

I soon found myself standing before the entrance of the roof, dumbly looking at the suicide posters that were plastered against the stone wall. Matthew really hadn't been kidding about the scope of these deaths. Ahem, not that he had any reason to kid about such a dark and unfortunate topic.

My feet moved of their own accord as I opened the steel door, revealing a see-through glass tunnel with various shrubbery growing on the sides. The roof top was grand in space, the air cloudy and misty from the previous rainfall.

I stepped out of the tunnel, breathing in the clean air.

Regardless, something didn't feel right.

I walked towards the edge of the roof, palming the rough stone with both hands and looking below at the students scuttling below, like ants with a sense of purpose. I became nauseous suddenly, feeling my eyes cloud over. The spirits and emotions lurking here were beginning to overwhelm me. The ground appeared closer than what it actually was.

An invisible force was pushing me.

Do it. Do it. Do it.

NO. DON'T DO IT!

I shook my head, closing my eyes. These weren't my thoughts. These were the thoughts of past doubts and regrets.

It took me a while before I finally gained control. The heavy atmosphere of the roof was suffocating, but it was manageable to deal with now that I knew what to expect. There weren't just 15-30 spirits here. There was plenty more, so much so that I was unable to count them all.

Even so, there was something fairly recent about this area that had the hair on the back of my neck standing up. If there was a spirit in need of passing on, then I was determined to find them, no matter how difficult it was to discern them from the rest of the memories residing here. It wasn't right to let them suffer in perpetual confusion; they belonged elsewhere.

I let go of the edge of the roof, turning around, only to jump back like a cat who had been spooked when I spotted a student sitting on one of the metal benches lying about.

"Jesus, Roosevelt Christ!" I swore, clutching at my chest. "Where in the bloody hell did you come from?!"

The other student on the roof appeared to be just as frightened as I was. He was in mid-bite of eating his PB & J sandwich, hunched over with his elbows resting on his thighs. A note pad with several pens on top was resting next to his lap.

For a brief moment, I thought the student was Matthew. An additional two seconds of looking at him, however, changed that opinion. He had wheat-blond hair that was slicked back, save for one stray cowlick sticking up from the rest of his head, blue eyes hidden by wired spectacles, and was much bigger and muscular in build than Matthew was, albeit being just as tall.

Most strange about him was the clothes he wore – an old brown leather bomber jacket, denim jeans that were folded at the bottom and black pointed loafers. He was a hipster if I ever saw one.

I stared at the boy on the bench, waiting for him to answer me. He didn't but rather just stared at me like a deer in the headlights, holding up his sandwich in disbelief and briefly looking over his shoulders to affirm that there was no one behind him.

"Hello?!" I snapped. "Usually people speak when they're spoken to."

The boy coughed out his sandwich, hacking for air as he placed it back into a food container. When he regained his breath, red-faced, he waved his hands back forth in exasperation. There were still several crumbs on his mouth. "Dude! I've been here the whole time! Holy crap, you really know how to scare a guy, don't ya? So not cool, yo!"

A brief moment of silence enveloped between us. The boy couldn't stop staring at me incredulously, testing me, analyzing me. Actually, now that I think of it, he was likely just ogling at my eyebrows, the little twat. Or should I say yank? He had a very strong American accent.

I rolled my eyes. "What in God's name are you doing up here alone?"

The boy crossed his arms, pouting childishly. "I could ask you the same question, dude," he said through puckered lips. "But, if you must know. I use this place for writing inspiration. Usually, no one comes up here, and I go uninterrupted, ahem."

The boy's expression became flat. I could take a hint, but his implied rudeness would have to take a rain check for now. There was still some things I wanted to know.

I furrowed my brows. Did the yank not see the suicide posters lying around? This was perhaps the worst, most depressing place to draw inspiration from. At least I didn't have to be concerned about him, regardless of how strange and poor his grammar was.

"I work at the library," I defended, taking a step closer to him.

The boy abruptly stood up from the bench, scrambling backwards and nearly tripping over his feet as he moronically waved his hands at me to stop. "Woah there, dude!" he shouted, causing my ears to ring from how loud his voice was.

"This is a no-people zone. I can't have you coming close and messing up my mojo, ya hear? Stay back! I'm not kidding! I need to be in the mood to write. I can't have you ruining it! Haven't you ever h-heard of personal space?!"

I held up my hands in surrender. "All right, all right, I won't come any closer, no matter how ridiculous the reason."

There were those pouted lips again. "Hey! You're being rude, dude."

"And another thing," I furrowed my brows in confusion. "What are you wearing?"

"Huh?" the boy spluttered bluntly, following my gaze to look down at his bomber jacket. "Oh this? This was my Pop's and, uh, my Gramps before that."

"Yes, but why are you wearing it?" I asked him patiently.

"Dude, I hardly know you. What's with all the questions? Are you sure you don't secretly work for the CIA? I'm innocent, I s-swear!"

"What? No, I'm just curious. It isn't every day I come across such an odd figure," I mused. It was unbelievable how easy it was to make this boy flustered. I'll admit, I was having some mild fun with this interrogation.

"I'm writing a story about WW2," the boy huffed. "I need to feel the part if I'm to write it. And you're the one to talk. I've seen bathroom rugs more attractive than that sweater vest of yours."

"Oi!" I snapped. "You don't see me making fun of your outfit."

"No, but you did give me a strange look."

"How could I not?! It's not everyday you find someone who takes their writing to this extreme. I'm intrigued, that's all."

"Well, Mr. Intrigued, the name's Alfred. Alfred Jones."

I was beginning to like this boy less and less by the minute.

"Arthur, Arthur Kirkland."

Alfred trudged back to the bench, opening his journal to a page with messily scrawled jot-notes on it. "Great! Now that we're introduced, I'll ask you kindly to stop speaking. I've got a lot of ideas running through my head, dude of Arthur, sir sass-a-lot. I can't let them slip away."

"Honestly, you are such a bizarre person. I don't under-"

"Shhh! Can't you see that a dude's trying to write?"

"Is dude the only word you know?" I spluttered.

"Just trying to keep up with the times, dude. Maybe you should try it," Alfred muttered, not even bothering to look up at me. "Now, scram. Or at least stop talking for like five minutes. No wonder America wanted its independence. You Brits never stop talking with your overcomplicated laws, and fancy 'posh' language."

Alfred said 'posh' in a horrible impression of a British accent. I was not amused.

"Fine," I growled. "I'll leave you be. I was beginning to lose a few brain cells anyway. It boggles my mind how you can call yourself a writer when you speak with such poor grammar. You're a living oxymoron."

Alfred must have been in his so-called mojo, because he didn't look up to usher his retort.

Instead, I busied myself with looking around the rooftop, trying to sense anything that seemed at odds. What a futile task that was. Everything was wrong with this place. There was so much going on that it was hard to pinpoint the one thing that was setting me off.

After looking at the asphalt below, unable to come up with a viable reason for the weird aura of this place, I turned on my heels and left the edge of the roof.

Alfred had his tongue poking out of his mouth as he scribbled away in his notebook. When he saw that I was leaving, he cocked up his head to look at me. "Hey, are you all right?" he asked, setting down his notebook on the bench. "You look like something's bothering you."

"I thought we weren't speaking," I responded dryly, snorting.

"Erm, I'm done writing, if it's any consolation," Alfred admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Are you sad about something, Arthur? Worried? If so, I completely understand what you're feeling. I'm starting my first year too, just turned 18. Mom enrolled me a year early in school. Um, ah, sorry, hahaha, I have a bad habit of rambling when I'm nervous. I guess it's just nice to have someone to speak to, now that I think of it. I don't have no friends here."

"And you're assuming I don't either?" I asked him crossly.

"N-no!" Alfred blurted out, causing me to smirk. "It's just, everyone should have a friend. You look like you could use one. That grumpy expression on your face makes you look ten years older than you actually are. I almost mistook you for an accountant. You might want to fix that about yourself, it's real scary."

"Do I seriously look that lonely and miserable?"

Alfred's expression became sheepish again.

"Oh, bollocks," I sighed. "Besides, how can we become 'friends' if I can't even go near you?"

I don't know why, but I felt like I could trust Alfred. There was something that was just so…pure about him. I couldn't describe it. He just seemed relatable. This roof top was his safe space, and he was trusting me with it.

Alfred bowed his head. "Sorry, dude. I like my personal space. But that doesn't mean we can't chat. I'm always open to talk to people, that is when I'm not writing of course."

"Hmmph," I breathed. "Well then, Mr. Jones, let's chat. Why is it do you come up here to write?"

I sat on the bench across from him, respecting his wishes not to get too close. I crossed my legs and turned my torso to face him. He truly did have the most brilliant, cerulean blue eyes I had ever seen. They carried so much light and hope in them, despite how shy and flustered Alfred was acting. I could tell he was uncomfortable with speaking to strangers. Kudos to him for putting himself out there. If he hadn't initiated this second conversation, I would have likely retreated back into the library without another word.

"Um…" Alfred stalled, awkwardly swallowing. "It's nice and quiet up here. It helps me think clearer."

"Fair enough," I nodded my head. "I myself prefer a quiet place too. Although, my first choice most certainly wouldn't be a supposedly haunted library roof top. I'll repeat myself again, Alfred. You're a bizarre character. I don't think I've met anyone like you."

"D-dude," Alfred's face paled. "Don't speak about the spirits so loudly," he whispered, wide-eyed as he gestured around the roof. "They don't like it when you talk about them. It makes them angry. If you leave them be, they won't bother ya."

"You're not scared of ghosts, are you?" I mused.

"N-no!"

Translation: the yank was indeed scared of ghosts.

"Don't be silly, Alfred," I chuckled.

"I'm not! I'm being serious!" Alfred fumed, pouting those childish lips again, cheeks puffing out comically. "Why are you up here anyway?"

"Curiosity, I suppose," I answered him. "I wanted to test the rumours about these alleged spirits." I dropped my voice to a whisper, sarcastically making air-quotes with my fingers. "But thus far, all I've found is a yank with poor grammar, a half-eaten PB & J sandwich that has seen better years, and the stale smell of hamburgers. Seriously, why is that?"

Alfred avoided looking at me. Apparently, the lacquer of his shoes was more interesting. "Who knows," he grumbled, clearly guilty. "Hey, Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"You're a funny guy. I think I like you."

"That better not be a crack at my eyebrows," I warned.

"What? No! But oh man, how did I not notice those before?!"

Alfred smiled for the first time, revealing a straight row of perfect white teeth. His entire face changed. It suited him. It was hard not to smile when he looked this happy and sunny, reminding me of a large, clumsy puppy as he slapped a hand against his thigh.

If the joke hadn't been at my expense, I would have likely laughed too. His joy was nearly contagious. So much so, that I felt a weird lump at the back of my throat. Someone actually liked me. Me. Who would have thought?

"God, you're such a child," I scoffed, stubbornly refusing to laugh.

Alfred held up his hands in surrender. "Okay…ahahhaha. I'm done. Pft! I'm done. Really though, they're not that bad. Besides, you have pretty eyes to make up for them."

I felt my face heat. "Bloody bastard. Trying to compliment me as if it'll fix anything."

"No! I mean it, seriously!" Alfred protested. "You're a cool dude. It's funny talking to you, even if you did get in the way of my writing."

"Oh, let it go will you?"

"Why do you always have to be so grumpy?" Alfred whined. "Can't we get along with each other?"

"Easier said than done when you're constantly insulting me," I huffed, standing up from the bench.

"Hey! Where are you going?!"

"I told you I work at the library, didn't I? I'm still familiarizing myself with the place. Not everyone can lounge around all day, doing nothing."

"Writing ain't doing nothing."

"Whatever," I groaned. "I have to go now. It was er, nice 'chatting' with you." I would have held out my hands to shake with Alfred, but he didn't seem to be very keen on the idea. He was even weirder than I was.

"Perhaps, I'll see you in class?" I asked. "I'm a first year too."

"Nah, I'm in a special program with about five other students or so. You're not in it, are ya?"

"No." – I didn't even know the school had a specialized program, seeing as how few the students were in number. I'd have to look into it; the less people to deal with the better.

"In that case, perhaps I'll see you here again?" I raised a brow at Alfred in question. As usual, he was switching from looking me in the eye to not looking at me at all. He was fidgety and shy, but had a lot of energy to blow off. He was just full of contradictions – a complete and utter mess if you ask me.

"Dude, no! I already called dibs on this place! It's where I've been writing, for uh, the past week! You're not going to hog it, are ya?"

"No, but this does seem like a good place to have lunch," I lied, revelling in the disgruntled expression on Alfred's face.

I languidly waved at Alfred over my shoulder. "Bye now."

"Bye," Alfred grumbled through, yes, you guessed it, pouted lips.

Now, back to that previous lie of mine.

There was something wrong going on in this roof top. Whether it was a spirit in trouble, a haunting, or anything of the like, I was determined to find out what exactly was causing me to feel so eerie and dreadfully hopeless.

And no grammarless yank was about to stop me from doing that.

To be continued...

Word Count: 11, 407

19 Pages

#hetalia #aph #USUK #aph USUK #aph America #aph England #aph France #Alfred f jones #Arthur Kirkland #Francis Bonnefoy #fanfiction #romance #angst

[alittlelynnie]

In the endless retellings of how I fell in love with Prince Rupert of Cordova, the details have become a little hazy. Rupert claims that he saved me because of his princely behaviour, but I think it’s just because he couldn’t resist that white dress I was wearing. Of course, when I told him that, he said he couldn’t wait to see the next white dress I was going to wear, so I think my version is more accurate.

In the official biography of us, ‘Rupert and Lucy: True Love Forever’ by Hannah Rogers-Brooks, our meeting is described as ‘a perfect hazy Manhattan summer, where the hot air brought together two people, destined to be together. When Rupert saw Lucy, it was like the world stopped. She was dressed in virgin white, a colour that has become synonymous with her upstanding character and morals. Prince Rupert couldn’t resist rescuing the damsel in distress. From that first moment, it was love that would shape a nation.’

We were on vacation in Spain shortly after that book was published, and Jon brought it along for a laugh. “‘Upstanding morals and good character?’ Good think Miss Rogers-Brooks doesn’t know you.” He said, waving the book in front of my face.

“My morals have always been upstanding,” I protested.

“Well maybe I’ll have to write my own version of events.” Jon mused, clearing his voice. “When Rupert and Lucy met she smelled like that indistinguishable mixture of shit and stale air that blankets New York, and Rupert looked like a right prat wearing a tux in the middle of Times Square.”

“I hate to admit it,” Rupert said, rolling over onto his stomach, “But that version is a lot closer to the truth.”

“I did not smell like shit!”

Rupert grinned, “No, but I did look like a prat.”

As much as Rupert and I appreciate the fluffy retelling of events, it’s not entire accurate. Actually, the only part that Hannah Rogers-Brooks got right was that I was a damsel in a white dress, but I certainly wasn’t in distress. New Yorkers don’t do distress, we just sort it out, which is why I was stranded in the middle of Times Square after bailing out of a cab in Saturday night traffic.

See, on the night Rupert and I met, I was running extremely late for my sister’s Broadway debut.

Normally, I am a very punctual person. Actually, I pride myself on punctuality. My mother had a reputation for being chronically late, and growing up with her had led my sister, Norah, and I to show up to everything at least 20 minutes early. So really, by my standards I was only five minutes behind schedule at the beginning of the evening.

chedule, and it took a lot longer to get dressed t

In my defense, the A train was running way behind shan I was planning. The gown I bought, with the full intention of returning it after the evening was over, was a two man job. Instead, I just hopped around the apartment, trying to get the zipper up while listening to the endless buzzing of my phone as Addison, my best friend and roommate, tried to track me down.

“I SWEAR I’M COMING!” I shouted, frustrated with phone and zipper simultaneously.

“First time for everything, sweetheart!” Someone yelled back from the street. I had left the windows open. Oh, the joys of New York.

After having spent way too much time trying to get the dress on, I realized I couldn’t take the train down to the show. Instead, I ran outside to hail a cab. Being summer, almost all the cabs that whizzed by our Harlem address were full, and just because I was in a fancy dress, it didn’t give me precedence.

Finally, a cabbie took pity on me, and I slid in the back to call Addison.

“Honestly, Luce,” Addison said, her soft Georgia accent becoming more pronounced with her frustration. “You could've left work early, or brought the dress with you. It’s only your sister’s Broadway debut.”

“Surprisingly enough Addison, I know that already.” I griped back. Addison and I had know each other long enough that I suspected she could tell I was more mad at myself than at her. “It’s the trains in this damn city, they never run on time.”

“Amen to that,” My cabbie, Gomez, chimed in from the front seat. “The MTA is a joke.”

I grinned, reminding myself to leave Gomez with a bigger tip than I had initially planned. “See, Gomez agrees with me,” I added.

Addison sighed on the other end of the phone. I could imagine her standing there, her hand on her hip, with her fingers tapping like they always did when she got annoyed. “How far away are you?”

“We’re just fighting Times Square traffic. I hate tourists, did I ever tell you that?” I said, glaring at the fourteenth pedestrian too busy looking at the billboards to notice the car trying to get through. In response, Gomez laid on the horn.

“Get out and walk or you’re going to be late, and I’m not explaining that one to Norah.” Addison demanded. Before I had a chance to reply, she hung up.

“Well Gomez, I appreciate the ride, but I’m going to hoof it from here. Good luck with the tourists,” I said, handing him over the fare and his tip. Gomez smiled back, revealing one missing tooth, which I’m sure came with a good story.

“You take care too, Miss Lucy. Knock ‘em dead,” He replied as I slipped out of the taxi and into the hot Manhattan air.

See, I hate the city in the summer.

Despite the fact that New York is undeniably beautiful, or at least parts of it are, the city stinks. Too many people, poor garbage collection and the natural smells that come with heat and sweat mingling together. The air gets too heavy, too close in the summer. It’s claustrophobic, especially in places like Times Square, where all 7 million people that inhabit the city seemed to be gathered. It was nearly impossible to break through the throngs of people, even for a girl wearing a long white dress and out of place next to the flip flops and crop tops,

“Excuse me!” I shouted at the third wandering hand that just ‘magically’ found its way to somewhere it didn’t belong. “Girl on a mission here!”

The frat boy who belonged to the hand grinned and high fived his buddy. “Nice dress sweetheart!” He yelled, and I got a full whiff of the whisky on his breath. “Want to party?”

I did my best impression of a pissed off New Yorker until he got the message and moved away with the sweeping tide of the crowd. I was about to follow the ebb and flow when a voice made me hesitate.

“Need a hand?”

Now, New York isn’t exactly the world’s friendliest place. Sure, the people can be fantastic, but most of the time they prefer to glare at your instead of help you get where you need to go. However,  when the occasional stranger comes along to save you, you hope that they look exactly like this guy did.

Still, I gave him a hard look before acknowledging his poor choice of words, “Well, at least you asked.” I intoned.

Hottie in the suit raised an eyebrow, grinning back. “May I help you get where you’re going?” He corrected himself.

Honestly, if I could describe the first time I saw Rupert, it would include a halo surrounding his perfectly styled, but still adorably curly hair. I don’t think I really even took in the colour of his suit (which was blue) but I did notice that it matched his perfect eyes. The thing I noticed most was his smile. As cliche as this sounds, and trust me, I know it does, his smile was perfect. It was the smiled you’d expect from Prince Charming, only this wasn’t Prince Charming (that I knew yet), just some guy in New York actually being nice.

“Thank you,” I said, “I’m trying to get the Schoenfeld Theater.”

He smiled, looking pleasantly surprised, “So am I, actually. Little Women Premier?”

“Yes,” I nodded, “My sister is playing Jo.”

His smile broadened, taking in that fact, as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. In retelling this, I realize how much I make it rosy, but bear with me- a girl doesn’t get to meet her actual prince charming every day. In fact, most girls don’t ever get to meet a prince.

“Well, you can’t be late then,” He said, grabbing hold of my hand. “Just follow me, okay?” He nodded, looking intently into my eyes. Despite the he was a complete stranger, something told me to trust him, and for once, I listened.

“Okay,”

Rupert was an expert at crowd-dodging, a fact I later learned came from escaping hoards of girls in Cordova. Most of the time, the royal family did their best to act as normal as possible and went without a large protection detail, however, there were a couple years, the puberty years, where Rupert became very popular. He had become a master of evading screaming teenage girls, as well as the paparazzi, a fact that served us both well in New York crowds.

He dove right in, pulling me behind, but making sure to keep me close enough that I didn’t get lost in the hustle and bustle. The crowds parted considerably easier for him then they had for me,a fact I learned later was thanks to his protection officer, Garrett, flashing his gun at anyone who stared too long.

With Rupert’s excellent guidance, and Garrett’s silent assistance, we were soon through the hoards and standing in front of the Schoenfeld just as the doors were closing. “Come on,” He said, pulling me forwards. He stopped to have a brief word with the woman taking tickets and released me into her care. “Larissa here will take you to your seat. Enjoy the show,” He said.

“I hope I’ll see you at the after party,” I managed to choke out. It was a poor thank you, but I was working on half a brain and a bit of shock.

I didn’t catch his reply as Larissa rushed me to my seat.

“Aren’t you lucky, he was a dish!” Larissa chirped, handing me my program. “Just down here dear, beside that pretty blonde in the red dress. Oh, and please turn off your phone, no recording devices.”

I nodded, taking in her information with a sort of glazed look. I was fighting the urge not to turn around and try to find where my handsome rescuer was sitting.

“Sure, thanks,” I said, sliding into the aisle and making my way down to sit next to Addison.

Thankfully, she only had time to give me her most impetuous glare before the overture started.