#y'know that feeling when your understanding of a piece of art grows and changes with your understanding of yourself and the world. yeag

[mosstrades]

been rewatching a pretty good series

[amymbona]

if you need challengers ideas I have A LOT but rn my mind is clouded with some angsty Patrick stuff?

like it could be enemies to lover or fwb but then you get distant cuz you feel like you're falling in love and then patrick just do anything in his power to not lose you, truly anything as long as we get an ANGRY LOVE CONFESSION FROM HIM PLS <333

Honestlyyy this took me like a week to write this and I don't really like it. I feel like this topic could make up for a whole fanfic, not just a one shot. But I hope you'll like it :)

Warnings: angst, cursing,

Word count: 3,2 K

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You and Patrick were never that close. Mostly, you were Tashi's best friend and he was Art's best friend. There were some shots and awkward hugs shared when Patrick would come to visit his girlfriend and best friend at Stanford, being introduced to one another. At first, you weren't particularly fond of his habits - mainly smoking - and the foul language. But soon, you came to understand his special bond with Art (who you've managed to grow pretty close to as a result of him always hanging out with you and Tashi) and learned to respect him as your best friend's boyfriend. All in all, he turned out to be a pretty chill guy.

Eventually, you'd got to discover what kind of a person Patrick Zweig is. Overly confident and sure of his actions but rolling eyes with offense the second someone questions his choices. Loud, a bit more touchy for your liking and definitely a bit too comfortable sharing his sexual fantasies, but above all, a person driven entirely in the direction where his heart beats.

Initially, Patrick was the person to light the first cigarette between your lips and convince you to have pity for Art's puppy eyes and show him your tits. He had played the role of a perfect matchmaker, for god knows however reason. You two would exchange phone numbers and wish each other merry Christmas a happy birthday. He became your friend. 

After the complete disaster following Tashi's knee injury, the two of you ended up kicked away like two stray dogs, portrayed as the biggest pieces of shit. Patrick, you could understand. Because some time after that, you came to discover he only set you up with Art because he knew that his best friend was after his girlfriend. But in the end, the only person who had the right to yell at him for being such an asshole was you. Not Tashi, nor Art. And you, for reasons still unexplained (perhaps for not abandoning your friendship with Patrick) were tilted a traitor by your former best friend. This was the very end of your four way friendship. 

Fast forward, college was over. You went your way, pursuing your career. Patrick's number remained in your phone and, again, you'd only text each other for important anniversaries. However, all of that changed when he called you one random evening, evidently with too much alcohol running through his veins.

"I miss you." he hiccuped, the distinct chatter on his side of the line making it harder for you to hear what he was saying. 

"Patrick." you sighed, knowing damn well he's simply drunk and thought he must have dialed a wrong number. 

But the ever so persistent individual, he kept talking. "I think about you a lot, y'know, from time to time."

"You're drunk, Patrick." another sigh escaped your pursed lips, gaze focused on applying another coat of red polish to your toenail. "Where are you?" 

"Where the fuck would I be, Y/N? 'm getting wasted." Patrick's words were followed by a fit of laughter, not sure if his own or anyone else's. "Trynna forget about everyone. Not you, though." 

"Not me?"

"Just those two fuckers."

Of course. Ever since the painful split, Patrick had his own way of dealing with things, and that would mainly include getting totally wasted and babbling crap about being so deeply betrayed as if he was Jesus on the cross. 

That night, Patrick ended up at your place, upon you picking him up from the place which was, coincidentally, not too far from your current home. To put it simply, the two of you ended up in the world's messiest and smelliest make out session, Patrick's alcohol breath enveloping you from all directions. It was a vague attempt to get him out of the skinny pair of his jeans that he mistook for you wanting to suck his dick. Almost teary eyed, he begged you to let him fuck you, that it would make everything better for both of you. That it would have been a perfect revenge on Tashi and Art for breaking both of your hearts, even though they would had no way of discovering it. 

To this day, the revenge mindset continues corrupting both of your minds, or perhaps, it just gives you an excuse to keep fucking with each other. Patrick Zweig is a frequent visitor at your apartment, occupying your bed and drinking from your favourite tea cups while spitting some lines along "That nightie looks fucking sexy, but you should take it off," or "I could bend you over that counter." 

Your encounters basically spin around Patrick tearing off whatever you're wearing and covering your whole body with kisses. He whispers surprisingly sweet nothings into your ear while his hands rediscover the curves of your body. He eats you out like there's no tomorrow, making love to your pussy with his mouth. His tongue reaches places, drinking in your sweet nectar and making your back arch and hips grind against his face. He relishes the feeling of your thighs squeezing his head until he's certain his skills might burst soon, and that is all worth it. For Patrick, everything is worth it, if, by the end of it, he gets you to cum all over his face.

"Pat I- 'm close." your voice gets broken mid sentence, hips buckling up to meet Patrick's mouth. 

"Good, baby, good," he coddles, words muffled against your warm skin, tongue circling around your clit as his pointer and middle finger keep pumping in and out. "Just let go honey." 

And you do, moaning his name, hands tightening where they are tangled in his hair. Both of you are on cloud nine - your, from the heavenly orgasm and Patrick, from the sweet delight in your strained voice.

He remains in the bed next to you for a while, holding you and stroking your hair, while the conversation slowly dies. But the moment Patrick attempts to settle under the sheets, you kick him off, insisting on having to get up early in the morning. 

"I don't get it, Y/N," Patrick huffs as he buttons up his pants, eyes roaming up and down over your bare figure while you reach for your nightie. "I make you cum so loud you might wake up the whole street and now you're kicking me out." 

"I'm not kicking you out Patrick." you mumble, sliding into your slippers. 

But Patrick doesn't buy your bullshit. "You are. And it's not the first time you're doing it." 

He seems to see right through you, to know that you're perfectly capable of getting up early and performing your whole morning routine with him occupying your bed. No. There is more to that, much more that you're not telling him. And he wants so bad to have you tell him the truth. 

"You could just let me stay here, y'know. I'm not a thief or something." Patrick continues, a half ironic smile on his face as he moves closer towards you. His hands find place on your hips and he pulls your back into his chest. "You're not afraid of me, are you?" 

Afraid? That is the lightest way to put it. Actually, you are beyond terrified, completely spooked by the idea of opening up to someone who used to be your best friend's boyfriend. To someone who's dick you're taking into your mouth multiple nights per week. And that is exactly where it has to end, that is where you have to set a clear boundary for Patrick to cross.

"Where was I ever afraid of you, Patrick?" you scoff, turning around in Patrick's arms. It almost breaks your heart when you are met with an unusually soft smile on his face, knowing damn well Patrick is interpreting this in a completely different way. 

It's not that you don't want to love Patrick, no, quite the opposite. But you know the two of you wouldn't be able to last. Despite allowing to discover each other's gentle side and showing one another unusual forms of comfort that both of you clearly needed, you two are still so incredibly different.

Patrick Zweig is the epitome of chaos. While he's all heart, he has little to no sense of understanding in some situations that are important to you. In stark contrast to your gentle life, Patrick is reckless and hazards in various ways. Perhaps it fills his need for adrenaline, for being seen by large groups of people and adored for that big bad wolf persona he's built up during his years of tennis. 

You, on the other hand, strive for a more gentle life. After all that you've experienced at your young age, you already feel burnt out, and can't really imagine the idea of shaking your ass at bars and clubs to loud music and getting wasted. What you need is comfort and someone who's on the same emotional level with you. And while Patrick can provide what you need, from time to time, you're afraid it won't be able to last. Hence the cold shoulder. 

"Then why are you pushing me away constantly?" he presses, a small pout on his lips. His gaze drops to your own, desiring to taste you once again. "Can I kiss you?" 

It pains you to refuse him. "Just go." 

Over the next few days, Patrick sends you various messages, even attempts to call you. Your phone keeps beeping and vibrating, but you keep ignoring every single attempt of his, reminding yourself that it's for the better. Patrick will be alright, you're sure of it, he always is. He'll find a new girl - in a pub, on Tinder, anywhere - who he'll fall into and he'll reciprocate his feelings. 

It comes off as a surprise when you bump into him one day in the grocery store, thinking he might be out of the city. After all, he rarely stays there, usually just coming to visit you specifically, staying for the night and then being gone for a few days. 

"Y/N." a small smile tugs onto Patrick's lips as he sees you, eyes roaming over your form and groceries filled arms. "Need some help?" 

"No, no, I'm good." with a shake of your head, you reject his advances and move forward, shoulder mildly bumping into his. Better to keep it simple. 

"What the hell's your deal?" Patrick retorts, immediately moving after you. His voice rises, earning a glance from some people in the aisle, but that doesn't concern him.

You just shrug, an expression of indifference on your face. "Nothing." 

A hand on your arm stops you and you're pulled back against Patrick. He manages to keep himself casual, the touch moving onto your lower back, so as not to draw any suspicion and he even swiftly catches a packaging of toast bread that slips from your hold. "Don't bullshit me, Y/N. You've been ignoring me for like two weeks. That's not like you." 

"I'm not ignoring you." your eyes roll and you snatch the toast bread from his hands. 

"You are, Y/N." he presses, gaze roaming all over your gruff expression. "Can't you just tell me what's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong Patrick, my god, just mind your own business." 

You leave him in there, standing in the middle of the aisle, surrounded by strangers and his own miserable thoughts. Poor Patrick is clueless, unable to understand what the hell he has done to you for you to suddenly cross his name out like that.

The calls and messages get even worse, he's sending you one almost every minute there is a phone in his hands, eager for every form of contact. 

Patrick: Y/N

Patrick: c'mon... 

Patrick: don't ignore me bby

Patrick: i miss u

Patrick: ur my only girl

Patrick: ... 

Patrick: i love you

He's an idiot. Probably drunk, you think when you reread the message for the hundredth time during one particular evening, eyes welling in your eyes the longer you stare at it. He surely can't mean it. 

Patrick: fuck

Patrick: ignore that

Patrick: can i call u? 

Patrick: text me pls

Patrick: i wanna see u

Patrick: :(

He's really getting desperate, considering just breaking the door to your apartment and pushing you against the nearest surface, forcing you to listen to whatever he has to tell you. And he actually went to your place, to the apartment you live in, but never went further than standing by the door. Oh, how he wanted to knock each time he was there. How much he wanted to see your face and hear your voice. 

But you never respond, never react, trying to convince yourself you're doing what's best for you both. Perhaps you are naive, a bit too much, and in reality, your treatment only results in hurting both of you. 

And Patrick can't fucking bear it anymore, so he actually musters up all his remaining courage and travels to your place once again. Marching up with determined footsteps, he approaches your apartment and knocks and knocks and knocks on the door until you eventually open it, half asleep.

"Patrick?" 

"Y/N." 

Your swift attempt to close the door ends in vain as Patrick basically pushes himself into your apartment, refusing to be shut down once again. 

"We need to talk." 

"Piss off." you respond with a mumble, voice coming out more hostile than you actually planned. With a shudder, you abandon him, not feeling like facing him at the moment. Because whatever is about to happen, it's bound to end up as a tragedy. 

"Don't you dare talk to me like that." Patrick hisses in an aggrieved manner, following you to the living room. "You owe me at least an explanation." 

You know you do. But you can't bring yourself to give him any. "I don't owe you anything, Patrick." 

"You know damn well that you do. At least look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you." he's genuinely getting pissed off by your attitude. You always used to be so adamant on honesty, believing everyone deserves some form of a gentle treatment, and mainly to be told the truth. In your own words, people don't deserve to just be shut off. But here you are, doing the exact same thing you stand against. 

When you refuse to listen to him, Patrick gets fed up. His hands grab your arms tightly - for the first time not attempting to be cautious or gentle - and just yanks you towards himself. Finally, his eyes meet yours, fully, both of you wearing equally tired expressions. It's no secret this has been tough for both of you. 

"Can you listen to me for once?" he speaks softly, a glimpse of hope, accompanied by a light squeeze of your arms to keep your attention on himself. 

"This is stupid, Patrick." you retort, eyes rolling in an attempt to ignore the sudden closeness of his presence. "Just stop. Go home or go fuck someone. Just go and be happy." 

Patrick's expression drops upon hearing your words, mentally attempting to put one and one together to fully understand what you're attempting to convey. "Why are you pushing me away?" 

His hold on your arms eases, allowing you to slip them out of his hold and step away. Almost on instinct, your palms come up to rub those two spots, not that they're sore or hurt, but you wish to wipe his touch away. "Cause it's better for both of us." 

Finally, you admit to it, wanting to, slowly but surely, erase Patrick from your presence, from your life perhaps, as you've convinced yourself it shall ease the worries of both of you. 

"What the fuck?" he scoffs, stepping closer once again. "How would that be better?" 

"Because we can't continue with this, for fuck's sake. Patrick, we can't just fuck because we feel like it and-" 

"Why not?" 

"What?" 

"Why can't we just fuck?" Patrick insists, approaching you fully. He corners you against the windowsill and rests his hands on it, caging you in. 

You stare him in the eyes, lips parting as you search for an answer. Why couldn't the two of you just fuck? You're both single, no responsibilities and no people to remain loyal to. And you both enjoy the frequency of your encounters, knowing each other's bodies like the backs of your own hands, knowing exactly what the other person loves and despises. Your main priorities are to satisfy the other one, to make sure each one of you feels equally loved and accepted and comfortable in whatever this is. So why can't you just fuck? 

"I wanna fuck you, Y/N." he presses further, leaning into your personal space, so close that the top of his nose brushes against yours. "I wanna fuck you and then I wanna hold you. I don't want you to push me away and just let me stay with you, even when you're all sweaty and messy." 

"Patrick-" 

"Don't. Just listen to me for once and shut up. Stop worrying for a goddamn minute and listen to me, hear me out when I tell you that I want to be with you every second of my life, that I want you in my arms, kissing me, looking at me and paying attention only to me. Not any other man."

"There's no other man." you interfere, eyes flicking between Patrick's to search for any hint of rationality. 

"But there's no me either." he protests, voice raising. Fat from gentle, far from soft, there's not even that playful edge in his voice anymore. There is a hint of something dangerous hidden behind his blue eyes. "And I want there to be. Are you really that stupid to not see that I love you? That I wanna be with you and be your boyfriend? Want you to be my girl?" 

"Patrick, I-" again, you attempt to say something, anything, but no words leave your mouth. Your whole mind is clouded by the sudden confession. He loves you? But... 

It all connects all of a sudden, realising what he messaged you was intentional, was nothing but the sheer truth. All the little signs and hints. All the times he held onto you, clutched your bare body against his and desired to remain buried under the sheets with you. All the pouts and protests when you wouldn't let him stay, when you wouldn't engage in normal couple-ish activities that he wished so hard for. All the subtle touches, on your back, shoulders, face, stroking your cheeks and scratches on your back. These and so much more were visible, at least Patrick thought so. These were the hints Patrick was giving you, desperately hoping you'd pick up on it and notice how smitten he is with you. 

"I love you, Y/N." he whispers, hands grabbing your face, too afraid you're gonna disappear from his grasp if he doesn't hold you tight enough. His thumbs graze your cheeks. "And I need to know if you love me too." 

But do you? Can you afford to love Patrick, the man who was initially your best friend's boyfriend, the man you first fucked out of spite and in symbolic revenge and then found yourself caring too deeply for? Are you willing to be in a messy relationship that would undoubtedly completely alter the direction of your life? 

"I don't know, Patrick." 

"You don't know or you just don't wanna answer?" 

He can see right through you, it's insane. It pains you that you've no idea how to decide, what to say, what to tell him. So you just shudder, attempting to cast a smile and ease Patrick's worries at least somehow. "I don't want us to get hurt."

"We won't." he promises, adamant on keeping it. 

"How can you be so sure about it?" it's obvious you are doubting your possible relationship, knowing what kinds of people the two of you are.

"Because I love you." 

[lucrloux]

— meet LUC RIOUX !

hello ! my name is ani and i am so excited to be here ! below the cut you can find some information on my son, luc ! if you are interested in plotting please feel free to like this post or simply shoot me a message ! 

— the OVERVIEW !

( WOLFGANG NOVOGRATZ, CIS MALE, HE/HIM — oh gosh, sorry LUC RIOUX ! i didn’t see you there ! y'know, i can’t believe you’re already 26 years old; seems like just yesterday you were tripping over yourself, or was that yesterday ? just kidding, just kidding ! anyway, i hear that you’ve been here since 1955, or so you think; congratulations ! at least that shining EXTROVERTED personality of yours hasn’t changed a bit, especially that OBSERVANT + CHARMING, but IMPULSIVE + FRAUDULENT way about you. look, i gotta get back to the group, but i’ll see you around ! 

tw: ww2, alcohol, smoking.

— the BASICS ! 

full name /  luc rioux.

nickname /  lu, lucky.

age /  twenty-six (26).

year of disappearance /  1955.

date of birth /  7th april.

star sign /  aries.

hometown /  paris, france.

current location /  raven house.

nationality /  french.

gender /  cis male.

pronouns /  he/him.

sexual orientation /  bisexual/biromantic.

occupation /  art forger.

language(s) spoken /  french & english.

faceclaim /  wolfgang novogratz.

— the STORY ! 

there is meaning in all things… but are you paying attention? 

tiny fingers curled around mother’s hand, green eyes glossed over in an attempt to take in the world but it is too much– there is too much for you to see. you hear whispers of difficult times, hushed tones floating through otherwise empty halls. mother and father try to hide their worry from you. they try their best to keep the world beyond arched windows hidden, though even a simple glance outside gives way to their delicately spun tales. you see figures rushing past, always in a hurry– never stopping to look at the beauty in this world. as the months grow colder, their features fall– worry encompasses all the shadows you have yet to know. 

would you look at it? 

the world as you know it crumbled, nothing is as it was. nothing will ever be as it was before, times are changing and so are you. your heart yearns for simpler days spent chasing your sister up and down flights of stairs, dancing in the rain and watching father unfold the morning paper without scowling at the newest headlines. this world is not for you– this world is rough, it is cold, it is void of what makes us human. you are yet too young to understand the gravity of it all, but you see the pain. you see the exhaustion in people’s faces, the darkness beneath growing with each moment that passes. you watch it reach out from the corners, you watch it divide those you know and care for. you don’t understand, but you are filled with sorrow for them. you roll up your sleeves, and help where you can. 

you watch father leave for war, his head held high wearing his pride visibly on his chest. for a moment you fear you might never see him again, but mother is there to hold you, to carry your burden. you fear he might never return. and then a letter arrives, you only catch a glimpse of it before mother tears it from your grasp. you see her tears fall, and though you cannot know for sure– you know it must be about father. you pray for his safe return, but in his stead soldiers enter your home. they speak a foreign tongue, and though you do not understand– you are told to fear them. and most importantly, to keep your sister safe. 

your life has changed so drastically. you now serve the soldiers who have taken over your home, you bring them their morning coffee and scramble away as fast as you can. every part of you is filled with rage, you wish for nothing more than things to return to what they were before. you yearn to see your mother’s smile, but these days even the light in her eyes seems to have vanished. and though you are young, you must grow up fast. you must protect your family at all costs, but even so you cannot bear to bite your tongue and hold in your obvious distaste for these men. your sister tries to keep you in check, but you cannot help spitting in their cup, you cannot help calling them names, you cannot help making them feel unwanted in your home. and whilst you feel good in the moment, the punishment is always severe. though, in your eyes your little acts of rebellion are worth every moment of them. even if you tried, you could not sit quietly by. 

the tides are changing… 

the times are changing yet again, the men who occupy your home are no longer composed. you can see the terror in their eyes, and it brings you joy. they become crueler, and that fills your heart with hope– for even they know that their time would come to an end soon. there are whispers of forces liberating your country– and you hope it to be true. 

c’est la vie…

you watch as horrid flags are taken down, and your own are raised once more. the city you call home is far from glory, it is in shutt and ashes. the very foundations collapsed under the turmoil of the war. and yet, everywhere you turn you see life return to empty shells. and with such a return, so does your father. but he is a changed man. he is not the sweet and tender man you remember him to be. his gaze has hardened, blue eyes turned cold as steel. you cannot find your way home to him, for his heart is shut with the despair of what he has lived. 

you try so hard, but you are always met with disappointment. 

you have a pale memory of that time, but why? 

you are old enough to sit at the table, you are old enough for your voice to be heard. and yet, in your father’s eyes you are but a child. he pushes you aside, in his eyes you are worth nothing. and you have to wonder why is it that you are so wrong for this world? but you never learn the answer beyond never being good enough in his eyes. and so, you stop trying. instead, you follow your heart. 

though the war is over, its remnants loom over your shoulders. you cannot unsee the things that have come to pass. the graveyards filled with bodies– old and young alike. the city is a ghost town, lights flickering as you walk past. when you wake in the middle of the night, covered in a layer of sweat, all you can think of is those horrid soldiers leaning back on your living room chairs, their dirty boots placed on the table. all you can remember is your mother running through the house fulfilling their every demand and you are angry. you are angry at the world for being so disappointing. 

setting fire to our insides for fun, to distract our hearts from ever missing them… 

*tw alcohol*

for a while, you think, it would be best to feel numb. you want to forget– you want to bury the terrors you have witnessed. but you cannot seem to forget. and so you turn to the bottle, you hope that maybe the answer lies at the bottom of your glass. but there is none to be found, instead, you watch the world go blurry. and you decide, you have seen enough– as well as far too little. you want to enjoy your life. you want to dream. you want to escape into different worlds all together. 

*tw end*

art attracts us only by what it reveals of our most secret self…

your sister urges you to follow your dreams. she urges you to showcase your talents. and for a moment you believe her. you believe in yourself. regardless of what your father might think, you enroll in art school. you study the grand artists of your time, but you will never measure up to them. and once more you are met with the word you despise the most: disappointment. though you see your professor’s lips moving, you hear your father’s voice. and once more you run– you run from responsibility. but you are not willing to give up the life you love. and so, you turn elsewhere for guidance. 

people leave pieces of their soul in their art… 

you look to the masters for guidance, you know their work– and you can paint fairly well. you may not know yourself, but you search for pieces of yourself in their art. brush on paper, you begin to duplicate their works. after the turmoil of the war, art is lost and scattered and you abuse this. you sell your work for theirs, forgeries none the less– but good ones. 

suddenly you have more money than you know what to do with. and you spend it foolishly. you spoil your mother, your sister and most importantly yourself. finally you have the means to do as you please, and so you do. you treat life as though it were a game, an illusion. you aren’t sure what is real and what is not– for you haven fallen under a spell, intoxication. but one thing remains certain: you are in for a wild ride. 

— the THE FACTS ! 

luc was born and raised in paris, france. 

his family was well off, but like many others they still struggled with the economic demise prior to ww2. 

during the war, his father participated in the battle of france, but never returned home. like many others he was taken as a prisoner of war. leaving his mother to take care of luc and his little sister. 

during the war, their home was occupied by german soldiers and they were forced to serve them. he hated this more than anything in the world, and acted out despite severe punishments. he was never one to sit by quietly. 

during this time, his mother helped smuggle people out of the country and while luc was but a child, he aided her as best he could. 

after france was liberated and his father returned home nothing would ever return to as it was in the time before. his father was a changed man from his time spent as a prisoner of war. he was cold, and distant. luc did not know how to deal with him, nor did his father know how to deal with luc. 

he went on to study art and art history at university. but, there too he was met with disappointment. his professors did not agree with his style of work and eventually luc gave up and dropped out. his father, ever the more disappointed in him threatened to cut him off. 

luc is a very proud young man, and so he essentially dared his father to cut him off. which the man then did. forcing luc to try and make ends meet himself. 

luc was used to luxuries in his home, and he was not willing to give up such a life. so he turned to the other side of the law. he began forging famous paintings that had gone missing during the war. selling his own work as those of renowned painters. with the money he lived a lavish lifestyle. 

he worked hard in this illicit career, but he partied even harder. 

the young man had been dabbling in matters on the opposite side of the law, fraudulent behaviour on the verge of being uncovered. his sister had been so kind to pass him a note at breakfast, it hadn’t been signed by name though the message was threatening: ‘ we know what you are doing, it’s only a matter of time until we can link you to the crime. ‘ alas, he sought out a space, in which he could go about his work undisturbed. 

checking in under a false name, jacques de villiers, the young man patted himself on the shoulder in the belief that this would solve all his problems. he would be able to use his hotel room to forge artwork, all evidence placed in the hands of the hotel, whereas at his home there would be none to be found when the police came knocking.

— the RAVEN HOUSE ! 

the year was 1955. 

the young man decided to check into a hotel, tucked away in the heart of paris. it was far from modest, but truth be told he wouldn’t settle for less. luc had always been drawn to the luxurious aspects of life: a glass of champagne in the morning, silken sheets hugging his body, and leaning out the window to smoke his first cigarette of the day with a perfect view of champ de mars. 

perhaps he had indulged in too many pleasures the night before, for when he pushed the door to his room open he was greeted by an entirely different interior. it was beautiful nonetheless, crystal chandeliers and ornate decorations. and yet, something was off. he caught glances of people passing by, each dressed in a manner he could not recognize to belong to his time. with a smile plastered on his lips, the young man left to discover the place he found himself in only to become aware of the fact that he now resided in the raven house. 

— the PERSONALITY ! 

his unpredictability made him a menace to society, or better said the social circles his family operated in. he was everything but poised and calm, he had a certain spark in his eyes: the desire to live life to its fullest. luc was charming at his root, equipped with honey lips and a serpent’s tongue. though he didn’t necessarily say the right thing at the right time, he had a way of getting away with it. perhaps it was his sociability, or the way he would make the person he was speaking with feel as though they were the only one in the world. that was until his attention drifted elsewhere, which it always did. ever with a drink or cigarette in hand, he was the life of the party, one debacle after the other– a sight to behold, but never to own. he came and went as he pleased, making himself at home in any environment that he deemed acceptable. in his core, he is an extrovert– though a rather chaotic one. 

— the HEADCANONS ! 

001. his most treasured item: it was a gift from father to son, the one object he owns that symbolizes his father’s acceptance. gifted to him upon his birthday, it came with the words, “now you are a man.” it was the only moment his father seemed to stand eye to eye with luc, as though they were equals. but this is not why the object means so much to him, no– he couldn’t care less about that man. he holds it dear for the words so delicately scratched onto the bottom by his sister, “l’artiste est semblable au prince des nuées “ (the artist is alike the prince of the clouds). the object is none other than a silver lighter with his initials engraved onto the center of it, always found in the comfort of his pocket. 

002. when luc first entered the raven house he was content simply enjoying every day that passed without responsibility. however, when it dawned on him that he would never be able to see his family or friends again he became obsessed with remembering their likeness. he tried his best to draw images of those close to his heart, but with each day that passed he came to realize that those memories were lost. there are a vast amount of ripped up images, or unfinished pictures scattered around his room that he furiously scribbled over in frustration. for he was only ever able to draw one person from his past life: his father. the look of disappointment ingrained in his mind for all of time to come. though, the worst part of it all was that he couldn’t manage to create a single image of his sister, who he was really close to. he felt so guilty that he could not remember the details of her features beyond the green eyes they shared– and even then he was unsure if he remembered her eyes or if he was simply drawing his own. 

003. after his mysterious disappearance, the note was discovered by his family. his story quickly became a rather large investigation, but as no trace of him was found his family grew impatient with the investigation and offered up a rather large reward for any news on their lost son. the case found the tabloids, the newspapers, and general gossip quite quickly. his story influenced the character « charles bonnet » in the movie “how to steal a million” years later.

004. when luc first entered the raven house he was only able to speak french, but one of the other guests was so kind as to teach him english. he still struggles with the pronunciation of words to this day, but he tries his best. it doesn’t exactly bother him either that his mothertongue often slips through when speaking in this foreign tongue, for he never cared much to perfect this skill-- he only wanted to be able to communicate. (this could be a possible plot ??? one of the other guests that teaches him english !!! ) 

[gaylotusthatexists]

By The Sea

Virgil's life may be going downhill, but at least he still has his island and he still has the sea. However, when he meets a certain writer staying in the hotel he works at, it appears that something more important has arrived.

Roman's life seems to be going great, but he knows that soon all that may change. He has travelled to this island, along with this two best friends, to focus on his work, but when he meets a certain guy that he's sure he recognises, how can he focus on anything else?

And with only twelve days on the island together, will they be able to make it work?

Pairings: Prinxiety, Logicality, Remile

Word Count: 24160

This was written for the @ts-storytime, and boi did it take a while so I hope that y'all enjoy this. The full fic has been posted onto my ao3 here. You can read the first chapter below but I’m not planning on posting the rest on Tumblr, unless any of y’all really want me too. 

@justisaisfine made some beautiful pieces of artwork for this fic which you can find here, seriously guys go follow them, their art is amazing.

As far as I'm aware, there isn't anything in this that would be particularly triggering, but if y'all spot anything please let me know and I'll put up a warning. At the very worst there is some negative thinking and crying, but it's mostly fluff honestly. It also contains Deceit, who could be viewed as sympathetic or morally-grey, honestly idk. 

There are some bits that are in Spanish and I would like to apologise in advance for the terrible Spanish, I used Google Translate which I don't really trust but I also don't speak Spanish so y'know. If any of y'all are Spanish-speaking and know a better translation, please let me know, I'd really appreciate it.

Anyway, I think that's all I have to say? Hope y'all enjoy it! I certainly enjoyed writing it, haha

<3

DAY ONE

00:09

The sea shimmered in the moonlight, thousands of stars reflecting off its gentle waves. Pulling his hoodie tighter around his body, the boy exhaled. This was his home, his true home - the sky and the ocean and the island. Sat here by the sea, he could feel the wind brushing past his cheeks and the water washing over his feet. He could have stayed there, in that single moment, forever and ever, and he'd never grow tired of the feeling.

But it was late and he had to get back to the apartment. He couldn't stay out here all night, not when he had to be up so early for work in the morning. Sure, the chances of him actually sleeping were slim, but it was better resting inside that out. And he needed rest to be ready for tomorrow.

Glancing up to the sky for one last look before returning to reality, he saw a flashing light moving across the black. All he could do was sigh. That would be a plane, filled with visitors. People who come to the island to catch sun or whatever they do. People who Virgil would have to deal with for a couple weeks before they exit stage left. People who probably won't even notice that Virgil had a life of his own.

But hey, they're also the people who pay the bills, so could Virgil really complain?

This was his life. He had to deal with idiots like that for a while, but at least he had this. He had his island, and he had the sea.

Virgil stood up and started the journey into his future.

6:00

A blaring alarm jolted Roman out of bed and, for a moment, all he wanted in life was death - not specifically his own.

"Who the hell set an alarm?" he groaned, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. The horrendous sound still rung out through the room, hammering into his skull, until it was finally cut off and Roman was able to breath.

"That would be me," Logan said, casually. He was already out of bed and heading into the bathroom. "We've got to get on if we want to get breakfast."

Roman sighed, closing his eyes again. "Logan. We're on holiday. We're supposed to be relaxing. Not getting up at six am."

Logan poked his head out the door. "The restaurant opens at seven, Roman."

"That doesn't mean we have to be there at seven," Roman argued, lying back down and pulling the sheets over his head.

"If we get there first, we're more likely to receive better food, and as you know, breakfast is the most-"

"Yeah, yeah, most important meal, you say this every day," Roman said. "Can't we just, like, grab a quick brunch later on?"

Logan sighed. "No, Roman. That is not how any of this works." He slammed the door shut.

A few moments, maybe minutes, later, Roman peeked out from under the blankets. "Pat?" he whispered.

No response. Patton must have still been asleep. Of course Patton would be the one who got to sleep through the alarm and the argument.

Roman turned onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. It seemed as though he wouldn't be getting back to sleep anytime soon. All whilst Patton was laid there still sound asleep. That was so, so unfair.

He couldn't really do anything, though. Patton has always been a heavy sleeper, unlike Roman. And he supposed that Logan had a point - getting up early would certainly help with this work, since they hadn't just come here for a vacation. Whilst the promise of sun had been one of the deciding factors, the actual reason that the three boys had travelled to the island was to get away from city life and focus on their work - Logan was studying some science mumbo-jumbo that Roman didn't understand, Patton was hoping to work on his photography, and Roman needed to get this goddamn novel finished. A quiet, whilst kind of touristy, place like that seemed like the best place for them to focus, and in the case of the other two actually added to their work.

That didn't mean Roman was okay with getting up so early, though. Not after he spent God-knows-how-long travelling and then only getting around three hours of sleep. Maybe the next day it would've been fine, but he seriously doubted he would be able to focus at all today.

There was no harm in trying, though. If all else failed, he could always take a nap later on. But for now, he had to focus on his plan. He was in for the adventure of a lifetime, and he wasn't going to waste it.

8:09

Virgil stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed his coffee mug, chugging the entire thing in one go. This morning he would be working on pure caffeine and spite, which perhaps wasn't the best idea when he was supposed to look happy for the 'guests', but if it got him through the day then so be it. Upon realising that his cup was empty, he grabbed the one next to it, not bothering to check who's it was, and chugged that too.

"Remy isn't going to appreciate you drinking his coffee," one of Virgil's roommates said, from the other side of the kitchen.

Virgil put the cup back down and looked over at Emile, who was sat crosslegged on top of the counter sipping his cup of hot chocolate. "What a shame." He began pouring out another cup of coffee.

"Are you doing okay, buddy?" Emile asked, jumping down from the counter and stepping towards him. "'Cause, uh, that's an awful lot of coffee."

"If I don't drink this, I'll end up punching a dude, and then I'll lose my job again. Which I can't afford to do."

Before Virgil could drink a third cup, Emile gently pulled it out of his hand. "Virgil, you're going to end up killing yourself."

"Oh no," Virgil said in monotone, trying to get his coffee back but being unable too as Emile held it out of his reach.

A third person came strutting into the room and snatched the coffee out Emile's hand. "Was Virgil trying to steal my coffee again?" he asked.

Emile smirked. "He did steal your coffee. And then made another one."

Remy faked annoyance. "How dare he."

Virgil just sighed.

"Well," Emile said, "I should get off. I've got a client at ten."

Remy smiled and planted a small kiss on Emile's forehead. "Good luck, Em."

"Ew," Virgil said.

"This is our apartment, I'm allowed to kiss my boyfriend," Remy said, as Emile moved away towards the front door.

"I also live here," Virgil reminded him.

"Only because your poor," Remy countered.

"I make more than you."

"And Emile makes more than both of us combined."

Virgil considered that for a moment. "I mean, yeah, I guess."

"When you get yourself a rich significant other, then you can move out and you won't have to watch us be gay." Before Virgil could reply, Remy left the kitchen.

Shaking his head but allowing a small smile to creep out, Virgil grabbed his backpack and left the apartment.

9:32

"Why are we up so early?" Patton moaned, as the three of them walked out of the hotel.

"We've gone over this, Patton," Logan said. "We have to make the most of our time here."

"We have almost two weeks, Logan, surely we can spare a day to rest," Patton argued.

"You're not allowed to complain," Roman chimed in. "Since, y'know, you got an extra hour of sleep."

"Speaking of," Logan continued, "I set an alarm for a reason. It would be great if, in the future, you both got up at the designated time."

Patton sighed. "Alright, Logan."

Logan smiled. "Thank you for understanding, Patton."

9:35

Virgil glanced at a group of three boys making their way out of the hotel as he made his way in. He could tell they were new arrivals from their pale complexity - and from the fact he hadn't seen them around yet. They might have been on last nights plane. But if that were the case, why were they up so early?

Maybe they were the type to get out and do things. Which was good for Virgil, because that just meant less people to slave after. Although, they did seemed to be the loud type, judging by the fact that he could hear their conversation perfectly, which he did not care for at all. Perhaps they would be a problem later on.

Not that any of that mattered. It wasn't as if any of them would talk to him. Properly, he meant. They weren't going to walk up to him and willingly start a conversation. No one ever did. They would just get what they need off him and then leave him be.

"You're late," someone said, as soon as Virgil stepped foot into the lobby.

He sighed. "My shift doesn't even start until ten." He walked up to the counter and leant his arm on the side, looking up to the person who had spoke, the manager. He was wearing a black and yellow suit, with a waistcoat, a bowler hat and a bowtie - over the top, really, for a less-than-fancy hotel in middle of nowhere. Down one side of his face, he had a scar surrounded by burn marks, from some mysterious tragedy he refused to talk about. Virgil had met him a couple years after said tragedy, and had been somewhat-friends with him for some time. Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't still a harsh boss.

The manager - Declan - smiled. "You're meant to arrive at half nine."

"I know, I know." Virgil shrugged. "But five minutes doesn't hurt."

"Sure," Declan dragged out.

"So, what's the deal?" He leant back. "Who we got this week?"

"Not a lot of visitors," Declan admitted. "Mostly people on business."

"Cool." Virgil breathed out. "I'll go get changed."

"Why don't you ever get changed at home?" Declan wondered.

Virgil shrugged. "You have a changing room here. Might as well make use of it."

"Is it because you don't like walking here in uniform?" Declan guessed, sensing that Virgil was lying.

"You got me." Virgil smiled. "See you in twenty."

"It doesn't take that long to-"

Virgil had already left the room before he could hear Declan finish.

19:26

"Can I take your order?"

Roman looked up at the waiter and all words fled from his mind. The man was perfect. His soft, dyed purple hair swooped in front of his deep brown eyes, which were outlined by a thick layer of black eyeshadow, kind of smudged after the long day. He had dark, smooth skin, but chapped lips, and he looked like a mess, actually, but for some reason Roman was drawn to him and only him. Everything else seemed to fade away. It was just him.

Logan nudged Roman.

Roman continued staring.

The man walked away.

Roman's world came back.

"Roman?"

His head shot to the source of the voice - Patton. "Huh?"

"You alright?" Patton asked.

Roman blinked. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine, why?"

"You didn't speak when he asked for your order," Logan said.

Roman frowned. "I..."

He breathed in. He had never felt that before. Never lost control over his words.

But... maybe that wasn't bad. Maybe something great was about to happen.

He had to see that man again.

CONTINUE READING HERE