#Now I am very busy studying so I can only afford such sketches

[cohen-hates-my-art]

Family

[live-the-fangirl-life]

It's Only Temporary

Feyre Archeron x Rhys - Tattoo Artist Oneshot

After losing a bet, Rhys gets a new tattoo

Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Warnings: Language, Tattoos

2492 words

*******

“Fey!” Cassian’s voice boomed through the glass door as he grinned and waved to get her attention.

Looking up from her sketchbook, Feyre watched as Cassian tried to open the locked door again, shaking the wood so hard the bell hanging above it started chiming frantically.

She rolled her eyes and walked out from behind the counter she’d been working at, quickly getting to the door before his enthusiasm ripped it from its hinges. Feyre had barely flipped the lock when Cassian swung it open and immediately wrapped her in a bone crushing hug, lifting her off the ground as she laughed before setting her back down and ruffling her hair. Then he strutted through the dim lobby of her tattoo parlor taking his time to survey the walls of designs, the colorful crushed velvet couches, and the small rack of t-shirts and stickers she had for sale with the shop’s logo printed on them.

The Rainbow was Feyre’s baby. She’d saved almost every penny from the time she’d gotten her first job in order to afford her shop. After studying art in school and apprenticing for a few years, she’d finally been able to buy a small storefront in Velaris and built her business from the ground up.

It didn’t hurt that most of her friends liked tattoos and were always happy to be her canvases and subsequent advertising.

Shaking her head at Cassian who’d made himself at home near her front counter, Feyre returned to her spot with her sketchbook, now open to display a howling water wolf, and raised a brow, “Can’t you read? I’m closed.”

He scoffed, grinning, and leaned his forearms on the counter. “Not for me, Archeron.”

She rolled her eyes again but couldn’t help her smirk when she told him, “It late and I’m busy. Care to tell me why you’re here?” Feyre looked at him expectantly.

Cassian just grinned. “Do I need a reason to visit my very successful, very talented friend?”

“Wow, such flattery, Cassian. What exactly are you trying to get me to agree to?” She raised an eyebrow, trying to reign in a smirk.

He flashed her a wolfish grin. “Convince your sister to go out with me.”

Feyre snorted. “I don’t think you’re Elain’s type.”

“You’re hilarious, Archeron.” Cassian deadpanned and rolled his eyes, “Come on, Fey. Talk me up to Nesta.”

Feyre sighed, closing her sketchbook, and resigning herself to not getting anymore work done tonight. “Cass, I’ve done all I can on that front, believe me. You’ll have to win her over all on your own.”

“Been trying that for years.” He grumbled then ran a hand through his hair.

“I know that isn’t why you’re here,” Feyre insisted, “you ask me to do that literally every time you see me, so I know you didn’t seek me out for that. What’s up?”

He shot her a grin that made his single dimple stand out as he glanced at the door to the parlor. “Az is on his way over with Rhys and we were hoping you would do us a favor.”

“A favor?” she asked skeptically.

Cassian kept grinning. “You see, baby Arche,” Feyre snorted at the nickname. “your idiot boyfriend made a bet that he never stood a chance of winning, and he lost. Horribly.”

“Okay…” she rubbed at her face, trying to steel herself for whatever she was about to hear. Cassian’s shit-eating grin wasn’t making Feyre feel any better.

“Az and I want you to tattoo a little something special on Rhys for us.”

She paused, halting her shuffling of her sketches and furrowed her brows. “You want me to tattoo something on Rhys…because he lost a bet?”

“Yes.”

“Does Rhys know this?”

A slow smirk spread across Cass’s face, “He knows he’s coming to see you.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. “Cassian, why would I agree to tattoo something��you haven’t even said what it is, by the way—onto my boyfriend when he obviously doesn’t even know what’s happening?”

“Well,” Cass pointed out, “I’d hope he’d realize what was happening once you sat him in the chair and got your needles and ink out.”

She snorted, “You know what I mean.”

“Because, Fey,” He sighed dramatically, “Little Rhysie is a punk and lost a bet so now he has to get a tattoo of our choice. And who better to do it, than his wonderful tattoo artist of a girlfriend?” his grin came back, wider than before.

Feyre said nothing for a moment as she stared Cassian down. Then she asked, “How drunk is he?”

Cassian chuckled, “Very.”

Feyre smiled slowly, “And how drunk are you?”

He narrowed his eyes at her but lifted his fingers to show a small space between his thumb and pointer finger. “Just a little bit.”

“So, a lot.” Feyre corrected

Cassian was silent a moment before grinning, “Rhys bet that he could outdrink me.”

Feyre blinked, then clutched the counter as she bent over laughing. She heard Cassian’s loud chortles next to her a moment later. When she stood back up, she wiped a tear from her eye and shook her head.

“Oh, my gods,” She was still chuckling, trying to picture Rhys go shot for shot with the mass of a man standing in front of her. “I love him, but sometimes he’s such an idiot.”

“I think you mean all the time.”

Just then, the bell on the door jingled again and Azriel held it open with one arm as he gripped a stumbling Rhys with the other.

“Hi, Feyre.” Azriel nodded at her as the door shut behind him.

“Hey, Az” She chuckled and walked towards the pair. “Can you lock that? Thanks.”

“Feyre, darling!” Rhys suddenly beamed and stumbled towards her, stepping close enough that she could smell every shot he’d taken on his breath. He used both hands to gently cup her face, squishing her cheeks in little and pressing a sloppy but sweet kiss to her lips. “I missed you.”

She smiled at him but stepped back to avoid his breath. “I saw you a few hours ago.”

He pouted, “That’s too long. I’ve had to look at those two ugly faces all night when I could’ve been looking at your dazzling one.”

“Why does he have to insult us when he compliments her?” Cass grumbled to Azriel who looked mildly amused.

He snorted. “Perspective.”

Feyre removed herself from Rhys’ grip only for him to wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her into his side. She leaned into his touch, and helped keep him standing, as she rested her head on his shoulder as she faced Azriel.

“Az, can you fill me in? Cassian tried, but I don’t know how much I trust his story.”

Cassian feigned hurt and shook his head. “Fey, I am wounded that you doubt me.”

Azriel’s explanation had been essentially the same as Cassian’s with a few more details and a little less slurring of words. She’d rolled her eyes but told them to wait in the lobby while she took Rhys back to her studio.

Feyre had no intention of actually tattooing her very intoxicated boyfriend just because he and his brothers had made a stupid bet. He’d have to be completely sober before she agreed to that.

Guiding Rhys into her back room, she waited until he was sitting on the edge of her large, leather chair before moving to stand between his spread legs. His hands instantly found her waist and she rested her palms on his thighs.

Quirking a brow at her boyfriend, Feyre asked, “Did you actually think you could out drink Cassian?”

Rhys scoffed, “I’m just as big as he is, why shouldn’t I have been able to do it?”

Feyre smirked as Rhys pouted. “Babe, you may be fit,” she huffed a laugh at his raised brow, “okay, fine, extremely fit, but Cass is a tank. And he’s a bartender. There’s no possible way you could’ve won that bet.”

Rhys kept pouting, flexing his fingers over her hips, “You’re supposed to be on my side, Darling.”

She laughed and pecked him on the cheek. “I am, always.” She kissed his lips for good measure. “But I’m going to tease you when you’re being an idiot.”

He used his grip on her hips to pull her towards him for an actual kiss. Feyre stayed wrapped in his arms for as long as she could stand his horrid tequila-drenched breath. Letting her arms loop around his neck and her fingers tangle in his hair, Feyre pulled back.

Rhys let his forehead droop onto her chest and Feyre had the distinct feeling that it was less about the warm comfort of her skin and more about an excuse for Rhys to press his face into her breasts.

“I don’t hear any needles buzzing back there, Fey!” Cassian bellowed from the lobby area. She snorted at the clear sound of a hand hitting someone’s head and the following curse.

She rolled her eyes but kept playing with Rhys’ hair as he mumbled something too muffled for her to understand.

“What was that?” she asked.

Raising his face, he looked at her and winced. “Are you actually going to tattoo me?”

She snickered at the disdain on his features.

“Maybe I should,” she teased, “to teach you a lesson making ridiculous bets.”

Rhys winked. “you can teach me a lesson anytime, Darling.”

Feyre rolled her eyes and was about to retort back when Cassian yelled again, “Baby Arche! We’re not paying you to make out back there!”

She snorted and hollered, “You’re not paying me at all! I’m getting there, don’t rush me.”

Azriel’s voice came next, “We didn’t bring your intoxicated man-child here so the two of you could get it on in the back parlor.”

Rhys snorted and replied back, “You say that like it’s never happened.”

“Rhys.” She hissed, smacking his arm as he chuckled.

“Gross,” two voices audibly gagged from the other room. “You’d better sanitize back there!”

A pause, then a disgusted Cassian said, “You’ve tattooed me on that chair, I don’t want to know what you sickos have done to it.”

Feyre and Rhys snickered before she said, “You might want to avoid the front couch then, too.”

Rhys, still grinning, added, “And the check-out counter—”

“—and the bathroom sink!” Feyre finished.

“Heathens.” Azriel muttered.

Rhys and Feyre laughed at their friends’ obvious disgust.

“I don’t need to hear any more of this,” Cassian insisted. “Ever.”

Feyre rolled her eyes and turned on her machine, allowing the steady buzz of the needle to flow into the waiting area; Cassian’s loud whoop telling her the sound was loud enough.

She carefully set the device on her counter and let the buzz echo through the room as she turned towards a small drawer and pulled out a colorful packet.

Rhys raised an eyebrow at the needle she clearly wasn’t prepping to use on him and watched as she flipped through the pages of whatever she was holding.

She paused on a page and grinned, flipping it around for him to see.

“Do you want a flying bat or one that’s hanging upside down?”

Rhys blinked. Twice. He slowly grinned back at his clever girlfriend as she handed him the sheet of temporary, press-on tattoos.

They were cartoonish-looking designs; the ones made for children that you could use a wet cloth to press onto your skin. He flipped through the rest of the pages to see a variety of other animals and plants, all ready to be cut out and used.

“Is my only choice a bat?” He grinned, looking back up at Feyre to see her already grabbing a scissor and paper towel.

She snorted. “That was what your brothers insisted on.” She took back the packet and carefully cut out the two bats. “They may be drunk enough to think a press-on is a real tattoo, but I don’t know if they’d accept anything else.”

When she held up both bat options for him, he nodded towards the one with outstretched wings. Feyre wet the paper towels and pushed his sleeve up to reveal his toned forearm. After making sure his skin was clean and dry, she gently pressed the bat onto his skin and covered the design with the wet paper towel, allying pressure to keep the image steady.

Rhys reached over with his free hand and grabbed the packet again. “Why do you have these? Besides for saving your boyfriend from a stupid bet?” he finished with a wide grin.

She laughed, still pressing firmly on the tattoo. “I keep them for the kids.”

At his raised brow she rolled her eyes. “Sometimes my clients can’t help but have their kids with them, so I keep the press-ons for those who see their parents and insist they get a tattoo, too.” She snorted at some memory. “I used to have washable markers for them to use but then a few of them would walk out of here looking like some avant-garde painting, so I switched to these. It’s adorable when they hold their cartoon dragon next to their parent’s actual ink.”

Rhys chuckled and Feyre lifted her hand, slowly peeling back the sticky paper to reveal a cute, flying bat.

He flexed his arm, grinning as the movement made the bat’s wings look as if they were flying. “How do I look?”

She leaned in to inspect the bat, making a show of darting between the cartoon and his real tattoos trailing down his arm. “Hmm, I think maybe when you’re sober, I should actually ink this onto you.”

Her grin made him laugh. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss next to the bat, careful not to brush it, and he smiled as she looked back at him.

“How’s it going?” Az’s low voice carried from the front room, making Feyre chuckle and Rhys huff.

She leaned over and expertly turned off the still-buzzing needle before calling back, “Just finished!”

Rhys brought his arm up and laughed again at the small, cheery bat placed between his darker swirls of years-old markings. He locked eyes with Feyre again as she put her supplies away and moved to stand once again between his legs. “You think they’ll buy it?”

She snorted, “Probably not.” She laughed again at his sullen expression. “But I don’t think the bet ever specified the tattoo having to be real.”

Rhys’ grin returned in full force as he brought his hands to Feyre’s face and guided her lips towards his. “You, Darling, are spectacular.”

Laughing again, Feyre leaned out of his reach. “And you, babe, still have horrible breath.”

Rhys rolled his eyes but loosened his grip as she stepped out of his arms, taking her hand as she led them back towards the front lobby.

“Come on,” she said over her shoulder, winking, “let’s show them your new tattoo.”

*****

Taglist:

@acourtofsnakes @allthebooksunderthemoon @astra-ad-mare @becarefuloflove @booklover41802 @charlizeed @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @danibutterr @doubt-less @emily-gsh @enormousbooklover @foughtconquered @fromthelibraryofemilyj @hakunamatatazz @i-have-but-one-brain-cell @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato @jorjy-jo @lemonade-coolattas @mariamuses @mayhemories @midsizewitch @miserablesmusings @morganofthewildfire @nehemikkele @rowaelinismyotp @rowansfirebringer @sayosdreams @sheharahu @sleeping-and-books @stardelia @story-scribbler @superspiritfestival @surielandiareendgame @swankii-art-teacher @tomtenadia @westofmoon @whimsicallyreading @moodymelanist @angelic-voice-1997 @realbookloverproblems @gracie-rosee @julemmaes @yesdreamblog @the-regal-warrior @rowanaelinn @thestoriesyoutell @autumnbabylon @sunflowermoonshinewrites @maastrash

[ac3id]

The Artist and His Majesty| 18+

𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓎 0 / 5 | fantasy au. 

chapter i , chapter ii

pairings: yandere! emperor! shigaraki x female! reader.

warnings: [series] dubcon, exhibitionism, size difference, degradation, masturbation, bondage, reader is also kind of delusional, death, violence (not on reader). (there are more but i can’t think right now.]

↪ for chapter 0: none !!

summary: you come to the big city in hopes of starting your career as an artist but things take a shocking turn when you’re recruited as the court painter for the royal palace.

↪ for chapter 0: a strange man approaches you, offering to buy your painting to which you oblige. little do you know that it kicks of a series of unfortunate events ending with you being trapped in shigaraki tomura’s clutches forever.

wordcount. 

a/n: finally !! i started this series. high-key inspired by these two dresses in my wardrobe and @ana-list‘s this  drawing ! seriously it’s literally everything. also thank you once again for proof reading this @the-grimm-writer ! 

taglist: @shigaraki-is-my-master, @deathmemeiverse, @n4dhii, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @mstssister, @nereida19, @prince-zukohere [dm to be added/ removed.]

“That’s a beautiful painting,” a rough, scruffy voice calls out, jerking you away from your daydreams. Your grip around the color canvas resting in your arms tightens as you glance behind your shoulder to see a well-built man standing right behind you. He’s tall and a lot older than you, he has short grey hair which falls right before his eyebrows along beautiful, matching grey eyes. A cigar hangs lazily from his lips as he occasionally huffs on it, blowing clouds of smoke out his mouth. He’s dressed in expensive robes, a choice of style only people better off could afford. You can’t help exachaning a covetous glance between his expensive suit and your sloppy, knee-length, light green dress. “Thank you.” you murmur shoving him an appreciative look, hoping he’d leave you alone. When you come to the city to complete your studies in art, you mother, father, family and friends had warned you about men like these. Rich, snobby men who liked to lure in young, naive girls. Whispering praises of how they are the most unique on the planet so they pull their guard down form them to take advantage of the helpless beings. 

“Can I take a better look? It’s the Emperor, is it not? Your painting. ” You hesitate before turning back to him. Not a lot of people had seen the King to be. He lived humbly in his castle, trying his best to not indulge in the affairs of the common people. “ Yes,” you hold up the slightly small canvas (courtesy of you being broke the entire week and not being able to save up to buy a bigger canvas). To even get an idea of Shigaraki Tomura, you had to go through many people. Not a lot of people had seen his face, he had always kept it hidden under a mask. No one knew why he did so but the many conspiracy throes suggested it was something to do with his personal grief.

 You had heard many stories about him. Some made him look like a spoiled brat with a demeaning, ignorant personality who didn’t care for others and as the rumors said: self destructive habits which lead him to tear the skin of his own neck down whenever he got anxious or frustrated. 

Others portrayed him as a strong, confident man and a reliable leader who cared for his comrades. You did not know which one of the two personas brought him your attention but you couldn’t complain. Tomura had caught you under a spell, and despite never meeting him (and knowing full well you never would), you were still ready to sacrifice your life for him. He was your King even before he had taken his crown, to you he looked like a shining bright light ready to enlighten you. To you, he was a god. And as years passed by, he grew from a caterpillar into a cocoon which was ready to burst open as a butterfly into the beautiful, mysterious world. And it was happening today, Prince Tomura Shigaraki’s Coronation ceremony. After the passing of All For One, it was his turn to take the crown and fulfill his duty as the ruler of the nation

 The entire city was busy, bustling with people. Families, friends and everyone in between gathered around the huge castle walls as they waited for the ceremony to begin. They waited patiently, filled with excitement and joy as they waited to catch a glimpse of the new great King. You were among them. You had come down to the centre of the city with your friends, waiting alongside many to catch a glimpse of the new ruler. The painting which nestled in your hand was something you were hoping to sell today, to a shop or anyone who wants to have it. It was a beautiful painting which had taken you several days to complete, and dare you say it, you were quite proud of it. From all the things you had heard about Tomura, you had managed to sketch him decently. Long white, wavy hair reaching till his shoulder, skin white as snow. He sat proudly on his throne wearing a cape with his vermillion eyes peering through your soul. His face was scarcely detailed as you did not have much idea about it but he still looked ethereal. With little scars running both his eyes and a comparatively larger one on his right. Chapped lips with even more scars running over them wildly, he was not conventionally attractive. No one would call him a pretty boy yet there was something more, something alluring which attracted  you to him. His beauty was rare, not in the grasp of many but if it was grasped and held close to the heart, it was hard to let go off. And you found him attractive, very attractive. 

The man took a good look at your painting, examining it carefully and for a second you really thought he had seen the mysterious Prince. “It’s quite similar to him,” he sends you a friendly grin and you notice a tooth from his front missing, leaving an uncomfortable gap. “Have you seen him before?” he asked and you shake your head, no. He gives you an amused expression, “I must say, you are very talented, miss…?” you complete your name with a nervous smile. “And you are?” you ask. 

You realised that you were getting a little too comfortable with the stranger and it could be a really bad decision but you can’t help but give him the benefit of the doubt as he behaves like a gentleman you can find yourself to trust. “Kagero Okuta but I like to go by Giran,” he says with a lop-sided grin. Giran, you’ve heard the name before but cannot recall where and how. It sounds so familiar but you just can’t grasp it, he looked wealthy so you assumed he was a Noble and that made you even more curious as to why he was speaking to you.

 “What are you planning to do with that painting?” he asks, diving a closer look and admiring its features. “I must say, you’ve got it quite accurate but,” you stiffen, your hands growing cold as your heartbeat picks up. You realized your painting must have some complications, drawing a man you had never seen before purely out of your interpretation was a hard and a bold task to do. But to have someone who had actually seen the King for himself pinpoint your mistakes sent a rush of anxiety through your veins.

 “He’s not that bony.” He completes and you gulp nervously, looking down at your painting in disappointment. Your eyes are filled with disappointment,  all of the time and effort you spent making the piece all for it go in vain just because you missed a small detail. Giran notices your remorse and speaks up, “But that’s quite alright. He looked just like that until a while ago,” he hadn’t meant to offend or hurt you. He still believed your painting was the most beautiful thing he had seen all day.

 “What do you mean?” you ponder, giving him a perplexed look. He leans  in closer to you as if to tell a secret, “let’s say the King has been working out behind closed doors.” you blink in confusion. It was a strange thing to say, exactly how well did this man know the Emperor? Who was it that you were talking? 

“Who are you?” you can’t help but question, bewildered by such a character. Giran says nothing. He just stares at you with his lips curled into a snappy smirk, holding his cigar between his lips. He was not going to tell you anything. Without wasting time, he quickly changes the topic. “What are you going to do with that painting?” he repeats, his voice growing impatient.

 “I am planning to sell it,” you feel a bit taken back. The friendly aura which had Giran had now disappeared for a reason you could not conclude. “Sell it? To whom?” the intruding nature of his tone starts to make you uncomfortable, there’s nothing more you want to do other than get far away from him. Yet you still find yourself answering him, “To anyone who wants it.” he hums at your response, his eyes holding a mocking glint. “Wouldn’t you like to give it to the Emperor himself?” you frown, was he mocking you? 

“That’s well...impossible.” you reply, stretching your neck awkwardly. “To you, maybe.” 

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes, this man was really testing your patience. A part of you tells you to ignore him and walk away but as he reaches into his coat and pulls out a bag of coins worth much more than you could ever earn in a month, he has you hooked yet again. 

“Hey, let me buy that painting, would yer’?” 

.

..

..

“What is the problem now?” Giran takes a seat around the round table. It was late after the Coronation ceremony and the Royal palace was already facing problems. Giran was disappointed but definitely not surprised. After all, he was their personal problem solver and broker. “It’s not that big of a deal.” A curt and hard reply cut him off.

 “It actually is, Shigaraki Tomura.” a voice speaks, coming from a man dressed in a black suit with a long, flowy robe covering his entire body. He stands taller than the other two men in the as his head is replaced with a wisp of smoke. He was none other than the trusted and talented magician of the Royal family. With eccentric features and an ability to wield strange magic, nobody knew where he came from. There were many rumors about him; that he was once a normal, handsome man cursed by a witch that turned him into a hideous monster or he simply was a ghost. “What is it, Kurogiri?” Giran rephrases his question, directing it to the other man. “We need a new painter,-” 

“Servant.” Shigaraki corrected. He stood in front of the giant windows glancing over his city as his men talked about hiring a new painter for the castle. He couldn’t care less about such tedious tasks, he had his focus set on greater things like expanding his territory, taking back stolen land. 

“What happened to Mr. Kyo?” Giran asked, Shigaraki rolled his eyes at the mention of the name and clicked his tongue, “His Majesty eliminated him.” Giran stops himself from laughing out loud. He was certain once Shigaraki would take over the throne incidents like so would double the instant. But he was expecting it to happen so soon. “And why was that?” 

“He was breathing too loud, like you are right now.” 

A cold silence broke over the room as Giran counted his breath. Kurogiri looked nervously at Shigaraki who still had his back turned to them. The longer the pause grew, the dreadful the atmosphere became. Shigaraki’s threat strung the air loud and clear and Giran was afraid to speak again. “What we are asking for is that-,” Kurogiri started in a calm, slow tone easing the tension in the room. “-we need a new court painter. Do you have any names?” 

The murderous sent in the air magically disappeared as a grin stretched across Giran’s face. 

“Aren’t you in luck?” He says, running a hand through his hair before taking a puff out of his cigar. “Does that mean you know someone?” Kurogiri questioned. Giran hummed, “You see, I met this beautiful painter today. She’s extremely talented and I know for a fact she will love working for the castle.” 

“What’s the name?” growing impatient, Shigaraki asks. “Oh, it was,” Giran pauses for a moment to recall. 

“Ah yes, Y/N L/N.” 

[bloody-bee-tea]

Get Together

This fic was also inspired by this prompt from @mingcheng-prompts​

Jiang Cheng stares at the letter in his hands.

“You can’t be serious,” he says, but when he raises his eyes at Nie Mingjue he seems deadly serious.

“Of course I am,” Nie Mingjue replies and pushes a scroll towards him. “My courtship gift.”

Jiang Cheng blinks but doesn’t move.

He knows he can’t say yes—could never, not with everything that happened—but he wants to.

Jiang Cheng learned to appreciate Nie Mingjue over the course of the last few gruesome weeks, learned to rely on him and trust him to have his back in battle—and yes, maybe even fell in love with him—so of course he wants to say yes.

But he can’t.

“I have nothing,” he tells Nie Mingjue and doesn’t make a move for the scroll. “My Sect burned. My parents died. My people are scattered.”

He’s not even sure he still has Wei Wuxian.

“There is nothing I can give you.”

“Good thing then, that I’m here for you and not your Sect or for what you can give me,” Nie Mingjue easily replies and doesn’t seem put off in the least.

“No,” Jiang Cheng tells him, though the word barely makes it out of his mouth.

Nie Mingjue observes him in silence for a few minutes, before he sags with a sigh.

“I respect your wish,” he says but he still pushes the scroll closer to Jiang Cheng. “You should still take this. Consider it a gift from one Sect Leader to another, if you must.”

“I shouldn’t take this,” Jiang Cheng replies as he gets up.

If he accepts this, and finds something thoughtful, something useful, something he would like, then his resolve will crumble.

And he can’t afford that. They are still at war. His Sect is still barely more than ground into dust.

“Nie-zongzhu,” he bows low, before he walks out of the tent, away from Nie Mingjue, without looking back.

Jiang Cheng wonders not for the first time when fate will stop taking things away from him.

~*~*~

Jiang Cheng has to admit that he thought things would change between him and Nie Mingjue with the rejected courtship, but they don’t.

Nie Mingjue treats him the same as before, except that now Jiang Cheng flushes whenever Nie Mingjue comes close or smiles at him or is simply nice to him.

Jiang Cheng is flushing a lot, even though the war is still raging.

He really wishes he could have said yes to Nie Mingjue.

~*~*~

Fate does not stop taking things from Jiang Cheng. First his brother-in-law, then his sister and to top it off his brother as well.

The only thing left is Jin Ling.

And—inexplicably—Nie Mingjue.

“What do you want?” Jiang Cheng asks, a shade of desperation to his voice, because Jin Ling won’t stop crying and Jiang Cheng is inevitably going to fuck him up, just like he fucks up everything else.

“I’m here with an offer of courtship,” Nie Mingjue says and puts another letter and the same scroll on the table.

Jiang Cheng wonders if Nie Mingjue lost his mind.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he hisses, allowing the anger to take over instead of giving in to the want and hurt.

“Nothing. I simply have made up my mind about what I want. And what I want is you.”

He sounds completely serious as he says it, too, and Jiang Cheng wonders if Nie Mingjue lost his sanity on the battlefield.

“Look around you, Nie-zongzhu,” he snaps out, aware that Jin Ling flinches at his tone and Nie Mingjue at the title.

Jiang Cheng tries to calm Jin Ling down and tries to ignore Nie Mingjue and his reaction as best as he can.

If he calls him anything but Nie-zongzhu then he’ll crumble and give in. And he can’t do that.

“I have nothing left in my life,” Jiang Cheng belatedly finishes and Nie Mingjue frowns.

“That’s not true. You have your nephew and your Sect. That is not nothing. And you have me, too, if you accept the courtship or not.”

“Why are you so—” Jiang Cheng wants to say ‘good’ but the word chokes him up.

Nie Mingjue seems to understand it anyway.

“Because you deserve it.”

“I don’t,” Jiang Cheng says over Jin Ling’s head, the boy still crying and Jiang Cheng woefully unprepared to deal with him.

“I think you do,” Nie Mingjue softly says and then stands up to correct Jiang Cheng’s grasp on Jin Ling.

It doesn’t immediately calm him down, but Jiang Cheng feels more secure holding Jin Ling like that and the small kindness is enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“I can’t,” Jiang Cheng whispers, and hides his face in Jin Ling’s baby hair. “I can’t.”

There’s a brief silence where Jiang Cheng thinks that Nie Mingjue will simply storm out on him, but then he feels lips pressed against the crown of his head.

“I’ll be here when you can,” Nie Mingjue promises him right before he leaves.

Jiang Cheng can’t bear to watch him go, and it’s only much, much later that he realizes that while Nie Mingjue took the letter with the official courtship, he left the scroll behind.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t touch it.

~*~*~

Jiang Cheng is shaking as he steps off Sandu and if he’s not careful he’s going to crush the scroll in his hand.

Maybe it would be better anyway.

“Where is Nie Mingjue?” he demands to know from the first disciple that has the guts to step close and to their credit, he is immediately led to a study room.

“What the fuck is this?” he hisses as he throws the scroll at Nie Mingjue. “What the hell are you up to?”

It seems like he caught Nie Mingjue off guard because the scroll hits him square in the chest but when he lowers his gaze at it, understanding crosses his face.

“It’s a gift,” Nie Mingjue slowly says and picks the scroll out of his robes to put it on the table.

“A gift,” Jiang Cheng hisses. “Preparing me for the fact that you’re planning to invade us?”

It’s—just the thought makes Jiang Cheng sick, because he barely had time to build Lotus Pier back up again. He only managed the most necessary buildings so far.

Not to mention the fact that he trusted Nie Mingjue, that he thought he was in love with him.

“It’s nothing like that,” Nie Mingjue reassures him and Jiang Cheng has to give it to him, he stays remarkably calm.

“Then explain what it is!” Jiang Cheng demands and Nie Mingjue sighs.

“I mean, I guess it was intended that way, once, when we first started? But it’s not anymore. We keep track of the layout of all the Sects. I know you all thought us stupid but Qinghe Nie always expected a war ever since Wen Ruohan first came into power centuries ago. We made it a habit to sketch out every Sect’s layout so that in the case of a war we could help them rebuild. None of you are as sturdy as we are.”

It’s a sensible explanation and it makes sense, Jiang Cheng guesses, but the hurt about the perceived threat from Nie Mingjue of all people still sits deep.

“Why give it to me?”

Nie Mingjue stares at him as if he’s stupid, and Jiang Cheng thinks that’s probably fair.

“It was supposed to be a courtship gift; my gift to help you rebuild Lotus Pier like it used to be if you wished it so. You rejected me, twice, and I thought it cruel to keep this from you despite that.”

Jiang Cheng can’t keep Nie Mingjue’s eyes any longer and so he stares down at the scroll again.

He had looked at it, of course, and he had studied it very carefully; there were paths and buildings on that plan that even he didn’t remember.

“Show me the other ones,” Jiang Cheng says, because he needs the proof that this was not simply to attack him again, now that Yunmeng Jiang is weakened beyond belief.

Nie Mingjue simply nods and leads Jiang Cheng to a huge library. It seems like Nie Mingjue knows his way around here very well, because there’s no hesitation as he makes his way over to a shelf and gets three more scrolls out.

“We even have one of the Wen Sect, in case someone more sensible ever took over once Wen Ruohan inevitably destroyed everything,” he says as he hands the scrolls to Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Cheng opens all three of them, just to be sure, but they are what Nie Mingjue promised.

“You wanted to help us rebuild,” Jiang Cheng whispers and Nie Mingjue shrugs.

“Qinghe Nie always wanted to help in the case of war,” he agrees and before Jiang Cheng can snap at him that he is deliberately misunderstanding him, he goes on. “But yes. I specifically wanted to help you rebuild.”

“Why?”

“It was supposed to be a courtship gift, remember?” Nie Mingjue asks with a sad smile and takes the scrolls back from Jiang Cheng.

“But why?” Jiang Cheng asks again, because that’s the part he doesn’t get.

Everyone left him alone; his family is dead, Lanling Jin is just waiting for him to die or move a toe out of line, Gusu Lan is too busy rebuilding themselves and for all that Nie Mingjue tried to court him—twice—even Qinghe Nie didn’t so much as offer help.

Well, Jiang Cheng guesses he has to rethink that part, because clearly Nie Mingjue did want to help.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re fierce and beautiful and strong. You’re a natural leader, you’re a good Sect Leader, a good uncle. Because I admire you and I’m in love with you,” Nie Mingjue easily says as if it means nothing to him to say all of that out loud, about Jiang Cheng of all people.

It means the world to Jiang Cheng.

“Ask me again,” he whispers, begs almost, because he’s tired of keeping himself from this.

He’s tired of rebuilding and of raising Jin Ling and having to do it all alone and if Nie Mingjue wants this, still, after Jiang Cheng was already stupid twice, then he’ll take it.

He will allow himself at least this happiness.

“Jiang Wanyin, will you let me court you?” Nie Mingjue asks without hesitation and just the thought that Nie Mingjue waited even though Jiang Cheng rejected him twice, that he still wants him, brings tears to Jiang Cheng’s eyes.

“Yes, please,” he breathes out and Nie Mingjue doesn’t waste any time before he pulls him into a tight hug.

“Thank you,” he mutters into Jiang Cheng’s hair as if he’s the blessed one here, when really, Jiang Cheng can’t believe that he should get this lucky.

“I’m sorry I was stupid,” Jiang Cheng says into Nie Mingjue’s shoulder.

“You weren’t. There was a lot going on, and I understand,” Nie Mingjue reassures him and Jiang Cheng slings his arms around his middle.

“I like you, too,” Jiang Cheng belatedly says, and even though he’s not yet ready to tell Nie Mingjue that he’s in love with him, too, it doesn’t seem to matter to Nie Mingjue.

“That’s good to hear,” Nie Mingjue gives back, and pushes Jiang Cheng away from him, just far enough to duck down and press a light kiss to his lips.

“We’re going to take this slow, okay? Rebuilding first.”

Jiang Cheng has difficulties swallowing around the lump in his throat, so he simply nods, grateful that Nie Mingjue seems to understand what he so desperately needs.

His Sect back to a point where he doesn’t have to fear for their simple survival every night, and a reassuring, steady presence at his side.

“Thank you,” he says again with feeling and Nie Mingjue smiles at him.

“Always,” he promises.

And for once in Jiang Cheng’s life, someone keeps that promise.

Link to my ko-fi on the sidebar!

[mortalfaerie]

To Fake An Engagement (M.F.)

part 1/?

matthew farichild x (fem) reader

word count: 2118

synopsis: reader has had a crush on matthew for years, but has never acted on it. after a night of drinking at the devil’s tavern, reader and matthew jokingly exchange family rings, a gesture of engagement. at least, she thought it was a joke. no coi spoilers.

If there was one good thing that James and Cordelia’s faux engagement had afforded your friends, it was the ability to stay out as long as you liked, feigning to help with wedding preparations or attending social events with the young couple.

In truth, most of those nights were spent you would have all longed to have spent it anyway: in the rooms above The Devil’s Tavern, idling away the time with cards, experiments, and telling stories. This was how you intended to spend this night, seated at the table in the center of the room, playing poker for hairpins with The Merry Thieves, Cordelia, and Lucie. Not having poker chips on hand, and not equally having enough coins to play for real money, Cordelia had scoffed and begun to pull out the ridiculous amount of hairpins that held up her locks- intended for a night of festivities in society- and placed them on the table. 

“Well, that will have to be at least thirty.” She said, nodding at the pile.

“Ah, well, I’ll contribute as well.” Lucie had agreed amiably, and discarded twenty or so pins to the pile. The rest of the group looked to you, your hair still contained in its chingon. 

“Oh, well, sure.” You conceded, and discarded your hairpins to the table, and idly ran your fingers through your hair, trying to smooth it out. “But I am sticking you all with the blame if it is horribly knotted by the end of the night.” You stated, jokingly.

From beside you at the table, Matthew gave you an appraising look. “Seems well enough to me.”

You gave an eye roll, as you often did, and let your hair fall over your shoulder between you and conceal the blush. It was fairly common knowledge to at least a few members of the group that you had a crush on Matthew, for better or for worse, since your family had come to London two years ago. Of course, Matthew, who had long been your friend, had appeared to be infatuated at different times, with everyone except you. You had resigned yourself, complaining to Lucie that it was hopeless, but she of course had denied it, not wanting to see you upset. Now, he seemed to be bewitched by Cordelia.

You all knew that Cordelia and James’ marriage was fake. In some ways, you thought it was rather funny. That said, Matthew seemed eternally bittersweet at the thought of it. A marriage was a marriage, was indeed a marriage, whether fake or not.  

You played cards and laughed, exchanging drinks at intervals, and nipped a bit of Matthew’s brandy while whispering about Christopher’s strategy and Thomas’ lack of proper poker face. After a game, when unsurprisingly, Lucie took the lot of hairpins, you talked idly with your friends as Lucie gloated.

“So, what will we do once James and Cordelia marry, and we can no longer feign that we have very important wedding business on dull nights?” Thomas asked the group.

“Ah, well, we could create another marriage blanc among the group, y’know?” James laughed, not noticing the slight wince Cordelia gave at the reminder. 

Lucie laughed. “Well, I am not volunteering myself as the bride. I have many things I yet need to do before marrying, blanc ou non.”

Matthew, who had been studying his glass of brandy for the past few minutes in an odd quiet, looked up and said humorously “Well, that leaves us with Y/N,” and, turning to you, asked “So do you accept such a nomination?”

You laughed, feeling your cheeks flush rapidly. “Oh, my, well I don’t see anybody proposing to me?” you reasoned, and took a brisk sip of your drink. 

“Ah, but you can have your pick!” James said, poking a finger about the table. “You could choose to be Y/N Lightwood,” he gestured to Christopher and Thomas, the latter of the two punching him playfully in the shoulder to dissuade him, but he concluded, “Or you could be Y/N Fairchild!”

The group roared in approval at the suggestion, and though it was all a joke, you couldn’t lie that you enjoyed the sound of it. 

“Oh, come now, we still have months before you marry.” You laughed. 

“And so months to plan our next deception of the Enclave.” Christopher nodded. He, probably more than the rest, loved the idea of deceiving the Enclave. 

“Certainly more time to plan than we had.” Cordelia said, with a half smile.

“Shall you accept petitions of marriage in the meantime?” Lucy asked, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. “I think it would be most romantic, and surely, the most diplomatic means to decide.”

Mathew, in response, snorted. “Oh, Lucie, you’re beginning to sound like Charles.”

Lucie’s face screwed up in momentary dissatisfaction. “Oh, by the Angel, I should hope not.”

You smiled. “All the same, I rather like the idea of you all presenting why I should marry you, and not the others.” 

“Hm, well,” Thomas began, carrying on the ruse you seem to have created at the table. “Well, Lightwood is a good name, and you would never want for comfortable conversation.”

Christopher nodded enthusiastically at Thomas, and added “And Aunt Sophie would love Y/N.”

“Oi! Conjecture!” James said accusingly. “You can’t advocate for someone else.”

Christopher raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright! I-” he began, but then paused. The group laughed in response. “Uh. Okay, well, you would always be entertained.” he decided, and gave a toothy smile. 

You nodded to him obligingly, and then turned to Matthew, expecting him to contribute. He started when you looked at him.

“Hm? Oh! Yes, my petition.” He said, setting down his glass. “Though I am certain to be an eternal bachelor, I could assure that you would always be fashionably dressed,” he said, considering. “Your bed would always be warm, if by me or by Oscar,” he added with a smile. You laughed in response, he knew you loved Oscar. You had always wanted a dog of your own, but your parents would never oblige you. “You would be the Consul’s daughter, I should add, and Fairchild is also a good name,” and he gave you an indulgent smile and thumbed your nose as he concluded, “And I must say, our children would be beautiful indeed.” 

You flushed even redder than you had before, and the group whooped at your shock. 

Cordelia shook her head. “Matthew, nobody said anything about children. It would be another blanc marriage, after all.”

He sketched a bow to her and answered, “I will not apologize for having a flair for the dramatic.”

“Mm, well then,” James interjected, eyes shining. “Your verdict, Y/N?”

You looked around the table, surprised to see they were all looking expectantly to you. “Oh, well, if I must choose,” you began, and cleared your throat. “I think I would have to take Matthew’s offer.” And apologetically, added for Christopher and Thomas, “I am sorry, I could never say no where Oscar is concerned.” 

Matthew winked at you. “And who could blame you? He is most charismatic.” He patted your hand beside him and then said, “It is decided then, after Cordelia and James have wedded, Y/N and I shall become engaged, and you may all fuss over us in turn.” 

Surprising all of you, Matthew removed his Fairchild ring and held it out to you. “Shall we?” he asked, still smiling. Your mind raced. He was drunk, of course, and you weren’t much better. Of course, it was a joke. A ruse, and you would probably return rings in the morning after a good laugh. You bit your lip consideringly, and then decided to have fun. You reached for your family ring, and placed it in his hand. He slid the Fairchild ring onto your finger, and placed a kiss to your hand. You giggled, and the group applauded and laughed.

“My bride to be.” He said to the group, gesturing to the ring on your hand.

-

 The next morning, when your family’s maid drew open the curtains of your room, you blocked the light with your hand and was surprised when you recognized that the ring on your hand was not yours, but Matthew’s. You couldn’t remember all of night, but you must have not returned his ring before parting. You made a mental note to return it upon seeing him later, as you were likely to see him at the park, where a picnic- this time, without daylight demons- was planned.

-

You were enthusiastically listening to Lucie’s latest edition of The Beautiful Cordelia alongside the Lightwoods, Anna included, and Cordelia when the Consul’s carriage arrived, and Matthew and James together exited to join you on the blanket. You had tried to find the time during conversation and food to return the ring, but it evaded you. As the afternoon pulled on, you gathered your coat in a pile and reclined against it, watching the moving clouds. You had closed your eyes a moment when abruptly, the sun disappeared above you. Your eyes flew open in shock as you reached for your dagger, but stopped when your eyes landed on Matthew, standing over you and looking down. 

“No demons, only me.” He said with a smile. As always, you rolled your eyes. “Will you take a turn about the path with me?” He asked, and offered a hand to help you up. 

You accepted it, and brushed off your skirts. You looped your arm through his and began to walk in silence. After a few minutes, you blurted out, “I expect you’ll want your ring back.”

He shot you an odd look, and answered, “I was about to offer you yours. Though, I admit, I was tempted to keep it.”

“What?” you asked, incredulously. 

“Well, it seems to be great fun to pretend to be engaged, don’t you think?” He said, looking straight ahead.

“Oh, I’m sure, but, Matthew,” you sighed, and he stopped to regard you. 

“Ah, yes, you would not want to be engaged to me.” He said, looking inexplicably through and past you. “I would not blame you. I accepted a fate as an eternal bachelor long ago.”

“No, Matthew, that’s not-” you began, but he cut you off.

“You would want to be engaged to me?” he asked, brows raised.

“Matthew, please let me finish a sentence!” you exclaimed, and he fell silent.

“Thank you.” you sighed. “I was saying, I am sure it would be great fun to pretend to be engaged, but I would want-” you gestured aimlessly. “A husband who loved me.”

He looked at you earnestly and said quietly, though you were alone, “I could love you, Y/N.”

Your heart wrenched at his words. “I would want you to love me, Matthew, not simply be able to.”

You passed a moment of silence, regarding each other, and then he said, “Will you keep the ring?”

You shook your head in disbelief, and reached to take it off, but he stopped you. “Don’t. Keep it. You can have yours in return, but keep mine. It does me good to see someone else wear it. It’s unlikely to be given to another.” and there was a loneliness to it that hurt you.

“Matthew.” you sighed, and laced your fingers in your own. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” you began, and he met your eyes. “What if- what if, we had a deal.” you suggested.

“A deal?” he asked. You nodded. “Yes, a deal. What if I kept the ring for… a year?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You will have to explain your reasoning.”

You cleared your throat. “You say, you could love me. If I keep this ring for a year, and at the end of the year, you love me-”

“You’ll accept my offer in earnest?” he supplied. You nodded in response. 

His eyes lit up, but he nodded with a schooled expression. “Very well. A year. Keep my ring for a year.”

“I shall.” you replied. You smiled oddly, and regarded your interlaced hands. “I do quite like the Fairchild ring.”

He smiled warmly. “It is quite superior, as far as family crests are concerned.”

You nudged him playfully. “You are biased, Matthew Fairchild.”

“Perhaps I am. Am I the worse for it?” he replied.

“Oh, no more than the rest of us. We shadowhunters are terribly prideful.” you said, and looked up to him. To your surprise, he pressed a kiss to your temple. You squeezed his hand without thinking, and he smiled. “A year. A winter wedding then, or spring?”

All you could do was laugh in response, but your stomach was tied in nervous, hopeful knots.

[moldy-mold]

Hello! It’s already May... Life updates - a roller coaster of emotions

A tempestuous, tearful April... Aghh the struggle has not eased up a bit. Living is just too expensive to be shouldered by part-time wages, meager freelance, and fickle confidence. My parents are disappointed - I’ve always tried to dodge the questions about my uncertain future. After all, I don’t have any answers.

What nearly broke my spirit was the humiliating scolding I received on my birthday. “You’re almost 30. Stop playing around at the cafe, don’t you know your bank account is nearly empty? How will you pay for this? If you can’t afford car insurance then just bike to work!” I didn’t even have time to think about how inconsiderate that was. In a daze, I hung up and went to my second part-time job that day.

Well, Dad, those are the questions I asked myself every single day. All I can do is keep trying even if you don’t believe in me. Because, despite everything, I still believe in myself.

Nothing good will come out of asking these punishing questions. I don’t know if things will get better or worse. Just gotta do what I can to get by as a small creature existing in this universe.

I learned to stop blaming myself for not being successful. Given the circumstances, I think the odds are stacked pretty high against most of us right now.

“Banish the nonsense. Some questions will ruin you if you are denied the answer long enough.” - Annihilation

--

I’ve begun my investment journey! After studying how it all works I have come to understand the value of investing. It was one of my resolutions for this year and I’m glad I’ve achieved it.

My brother, a crypto enthusiast, knows my monetary plight and has been helping me out in the weirdest ways.

6 am text: “Hey Sis, you got $1000? Put it into Dogecoin... like NOW.”

I don’t like doing these kinds of high-risk-high-reward investments but what the heck, I was desperate. I applied for an account that can trade crypto.

In the end my account got rejected (there was no explanation) and I gave up. Because of course that would happen lol.

--

“Hey, do you have time to talk about the future?” “UM... are we breaking up???” “LOL don’t say it like that!”

My roommate / best friend decided she wanted to move to her own place and find her own way in life. Of course, my fragile heart, still tender from the previous month’s beating, took it very personally. I was reassured it wasn’t my fault - there are plenty of other valid reasons why.

We’ve been sharing an apartment for 6 years now, and although I knew it would happen someday, it was quite shocking to hear it being said to me in reality. At first, I laughed it off because I’ve been dreaming about moving out of the country anyway and it all works out. I’m an introverted, neat-freak, homebody! It’s perfect! But after a very pensive shower, I realized that I’m actually terrified to be without any companionship. Either way, I have to put my feelings aside because I don’t wanna hold her back from her dreams. I may have trouble accepting it now but hopefully I can genuinely be happy for her in time.

--

The Plant Life Please welcome Rokurou, the newest addition to my jungle.

It’s been a few weeks and he totally ate bugs already lol. Nice! I was thinking the smaller traps wouldn’t catch anything, but it turns out they’ve been doing the most work. The larger traps can’t catch ants or tiny gnats. They just crawl out after the trap snaps shut.

This venus fly trap is rather picky about what water he gets so I’ve been out there collecting rainwater in buckets JUST for him! Kind of a pain, but I will do whatever it takes to keep him alive.

It was a very tiny dream of mine to collect and care for carnivorous plants. If the shop had more varieties, I would probably buy them all.

--

I thought I was gonna die... Hostess for a day. One day while working at the cafe, this old Chinese man came in asking how much I made here. Then he told me if I work as a hostess/front desk person at his restaurant (which was next to the cafe, by the way), he will pay me more than the cafe. He slipped me $5 to go see him after my shift at 9pm. It was soooooo sketch. But I went anyway to at least hear him out after telling my roommate and my parents where I was going. You know... in case I die.

Luckily I didn’t die. It was a normal Chinese restaurant. I met the staff and they were all super cool and the mysterious old man goes by Mr. Lin.

Mr. Lin was very chill about it. He said I can have a trial run after my bakery shift on Saturday. If I don’t like it, I can just tell him no and he will pay me for my time.

I knew it was a bad idea to take another shift after a long shift at the cafe but I did it anyway. It was BUSY. Too busy for anyone to teach me how to be a hostess so I literally just had to guess what I’m supposed to be doing. It was kinda obvious though, showing people to their tables. I picked them at random bc I didn’t know if there was a method to seating people or not.

There are three different menus: Chinese, Korean and English and they’re ALL different. Depending on the nationality of who walks in, I have to decide for myself which menu to hand out. Uhhhhh despite being Asian myself, I cannot tell the difference between Korean and Chinese people lmao so I have to keep awkwardly asking people which menu they want. *screams*

The manager, Vincent, is so OP though. He knows exactly which menu to get every time. I was like HOW DO YOU KNOW?? He only responded with “working in the business for 24 years.”

Anyway, it was a long and confusing night of people thinking I am a waitress and me not knowing where the spoons are. But I don’t think this job is for me, even if it pays a lot.

There sure is plenty of demand for part-time food service workers and zero demand for full-time graphic designers... sigh. My journey doing random jobs in 2021 continues.

--

My brother graduated pharmacy school last week. In our culture, the older sibling’s shoulders is where all the expectations should rest. Maybe in another AU I would feel small and inferior to my younger and more successful sibling. But I don’t feel anything like that. In fact, if he can take care of my parents while I’m trying to figure out my own life, then I’m just more grateful to him. Maybe my parents don’t expect anything of me anymore, which is okay. Either way, my brother and I have each other’s backs.

--

Berseria I went into it with ZERO expectations because of its infamous predecessor, but I have come out pleasantly surprised. I liked it more than I thought. I’m at the end but I’m not done with the story yet.

I remember expressing my utter confusion about Zesty and everyone was like “play Berseria, it will answer a majority of your questions.” And boy, it did and I’m so glad. I loved all the throwbacks and references and lore that had to do with the previous game. Like, they really had something interesting going on here but it never quite came to fruition last time.

Is it just me, or did it take a very long time to understand all the battle mechanics? Like... I didn’t get the hang of the game until we got to Meirchio. Now I am quite good at playing Rokurou, my main. And it feels way more fun. I usually like mage characters in the old tales games but tbh I wasn’t really into it this time.

After we finish Bersy, we will be moving on to Xillia 2, our final Tales game! Gaius, I’m coming for you.

--

Xenoblade At the same time, I am also finishing up Xenoblade after spending nearly a year on it. I have weeks where I’m just grinding the side quests to unlock the skill trees. When I’m down, traveling and exploring in this game puts my worries to rest. Really though, the maps are so beautiful... And the music! T_T

This is one of the few games where I like every character pretty much equally, though Dundun and Riki win by just a little bit.

--

That’s it for now. Thanks for being here!

[thelastspeecher]

Stanuary ‘21 - Week Two: Sacrifice

I haven’t actually posted any writes here on tumblr with my Fashion AU, and I don’t think I’ve even really talked about it much.  So, why not use that AU for Stanuary?

What you need to know for this AU: Stan and Ford go to art school together (Stan for drawing - he wants to work on Lil Stanley, Ford for fashion), it’s a modern AU (aka they are born much later, becoming adults post-2000), Ford starts his own fashion brand, and Stan...well, you’ll see what Stan decides to do.

Enjoy.

———————————————————————————————————–

              “Son of a-” Ford muttered.  Stan looked up from his sketches.  They were both working on their school projects, though for once, Ford was swearing under his breath more than Stan.

              He’s still pretty new to sewing, that’s all. While Ford excelled at designing clothing, he struggled with actually creating it.  As Stan watched, Ford accidentally stuck himself with a needle again.

              “Fucking-”  Ford trailed off, mumbling darkly.

              “You all right there, Sixer?” Stan asked. Ford looked up.  “You keep swearing.”

              “Did I offend you?” Ford asked snidely.  Stan snickered.

              “Not even close.”

              “Well…”  Ford set the fabric on his lap with a sigh.  “I didn’t realize that going into fashion would entail making the clothing I designed.  If I’d known-”

              “You woulda chose a different major?”

              “No.  But I would have asked for sewing lessons from Mom.”

              “You’re in luck.”  Stan got up from his desk.  He walked over to Ford’s bed and sat next to his twin.  “Mom got sick of patching up my clothes all the time when we were kids, so she showed me how.  Hand it over.”

              “You have your own work to do,” Ford protested. Stan took the fabric from Ford. “Your studies shouldn’t suffer just because I can’t sew!”

              “Eh, I’m pretty much done with Lil Stanley for the day,” Stan said, shrugging.  “Gimme that.”  He took Ford’s needle.  Ford grumbled wordlessly, but wisely didn’t continue to protest.  “Anyways, here’s how you sew without sticking yourself every second.”

-----

              Stan stared blankly at the worksheet before him.

              Why the hell do I have to take a physics class? I’m here to work on my comic book. I don’t need physics for that! After a few more moments of trying to make sense of his worksheet, Stan gave up.  With a sigh, he turned to face Ford, deciding to finally ask for some help. If I fail outta this class, I’ll have to take it again and miss my chance for Advanced Character Design next semester.

              “Hey, Ford?” Stan asked.  Ford, who was once again sitting on his bed sewing, grunted wordlessly.  “You know physics, right?”

              “Yes,” Ford mumbled.

              “I’m stuck on my homework, think you could-”

              “Normally, I’d be thrilled to help you,” Ford said, “but I’m kind of in the middle of something, Stanley.”  Ford huffed impatiently.  “The last few times I’ve finished my design prototypes, they look all right on the hanger, but terrible on an actual model.”

              “Why don’t you put them on, then?” Stan suggested. “The person who was in this room before us left that full-length mirror.  You can look at yourself in that.”

              “That might work, but it would be exceedingly slow,” Ford said.  “I’d have to make marks, then take off the clothes to make adjustments, then put them on again, then make more marks, then-”

              “I get it,” Stan said, stopping Ford’s rambling. “You can’t mess with it properly if you’re the one modeling it.”  He frowned. “What about getting a mannequin?”

              “I don’t have the money for that!”

              “Doesn’t the fashion department have some?”

              “Yes, but I can’t take it home with me!”

              “Okay, okay, calm down,” Stan said.  He leaned in.  “Want me to…liberate one for you?”  Ford glared at him.  “No stealing. Got it.”  Stan glanced at his physics worksheet again.

              Honestly, being poked by needles is more of a good time than working on that bullshit.  Stan looked back at Ford.

              “I’ll model your clothes.”

              “Really?” Ford asked, his eyes wide.  Stan shrugged.

              “Sure.  Why not?”

              “Well, you have your own schoolwork to do…”

              “I can do it after.”

              “But I don’t know how long it will take for me to finish adjustments-”

              “It’s not like I’d be able to get much done without your help, anyways,” Stan said dismissively.  Ford chewed on his lip.  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Ford.”  Stan got up and took the clothes from his twin.  He removed his shirt and slipped on the top Ford had been working on.  “Let’s be real, I was made to be a model anyways.”  Ford smiled faintly.  “Hand me the pants.”

-----

              Stan threw open the door to the dorm room he shared with Ford.

              “Guess who just got Lil Stanley in the school paper?” he crowed.  Ford, once again sitting on his bed attempting to sew, looked up.

              “Hmm…” he said, feigning thoughtfulness.

              “And don’t say that chick friend of yours who hates my guts,” Stan said.  Ford snickered.  “I’ve seen her sketch.  She can’t draw for shit.”

              “Congratulations, Stanley,” Ford said.  Stan preened.  “With all of your hard work, it’s definitely well-deserved.”

              “Yeah, my adviser says that if I keep working on it, I might be able to make Lil Stanley big.”

              “If you did that, it wouldn’t be ‘lil’ any more though, would it?” Ford asked.  Stan laughed. “Seriously, I’m very happy for you. I know that you never intended to attend a ‘fancy art school’ with me.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan sat next to Ford.  “But I like it.”  He eyed Ford’s latest project.  “How’s your clothes stuff coming along?”  Ford sighed heavily.  “Not well, I’m guessing.  Want me to try it on so you can make adjustments?”

              “I greatly appreciate the offer, but, no, my problem is different.  The person who was going to model this for my final got sick.  Now, I have to scramble to find someone.”

              “Doesn’t the fashion department have a warehouse of students to model?” Stan asked.  Ford frowned at him in confusion.  “I think the warehouse has some weird name, like, Theater Department or something like that.”  Stan elbowed Ford playfully.  Ford rolled his eyes.  “Am I wrong?”

              “No, you’re right, many of our models are theater students.”

              “Makes sense.  They like wearing weird clothes and being the center of attention.”

              “Stan…”  Ford shook his head, trying to hide his chuckle.  “Unfortunately, it’s finals for the theater students as well.  None of them have the time to model for me.”

              “I’m not a theater student,” Stan said.  Ford looked at him.  “I can model for you.”

              “Are you sure?”

              “I do it all the time so you can make adjustments on your stuff.”  Stan shrugged.  “It’s not like I’m walking down the catwalk at New York Fashion Week or whatever.”

              “Don’t you have finals?”

              “None of ‘em are tests.  They’re all projects.”

              “Have you finished your projects?” Ford prodded.

              “Pretty much.”

              “Stanley…”

              “What did I tell you about looking a gift horse in the mouth, Sixer?”

              “…Don’t do it?”

              “Exactly!”  Stan flicked the fabric that Ford was still holding.  “Make this fit me, and I’ll walk the runway.”

-----

              There was a ping from Stan’s computer. He minimized Photoshop and pulled up his email.  His mouth went dry.  It was a message from a publisher.

              Don’t get your hopes up, Stan.  You’ve only been getting rejections, this is probably just another one.  Holding his breath, he opened the email.  His jaw dropped.

              “We’re pleased to inform you…”

              “Holy shit!” Stan shouted.  He punched the air triumphantly.  “I did it!  I fucking did it!  I-”  A door slammed somewhere in the apartment, closely followed by heavy stomps.

              That can’t be good.  With a sigh, Stan got up from his desk.  He exited his bedroom, walked down the hall, and entered the living room.  Ford had thrown himself onto the couch face-down.  Sometimes I hate being right.

              “What’s wrong?” Stan asked.  Ford lifted his head.

              “You recall that I have my first show tonight, right?” he said.  Stan nodded. “Angie’s still on board to model the women’s line, but my male model…”

              “Let me guess.  He fell through.”

              “He went to a competitor who could afford to pay him more.”

              “Ah.”  Stan walked over to the couch.  “Scooch.” Ford obediently sat up and moved. Stan sat next to him.  “Remember what I did for you while we were still in school?  Before you managed to start your own fashion brand?”  Ford frowned at him.  “C’mon, Sixer, did you really forget?”

              “Are you…referring to how you modeled my clothing for my classes?”

              “Yep.”

              “You’re offering to model for me in an actual show?!” Ford asked, aghast.  Stan crossed his arms.

              “You don’t think I’ve got what it takes?”

              “No, not- I just- you don’t actually have any training on modeling!”

              “I’ll get Angie to show me.”

              “She despises you.”

              “Yeah, but you’re like, her best friend.  She’ll show me how to model if it’s for you,” Stan pointed out.  Ford put his head in his hands.  “You can’t let this chance pass you by, Ford!  This is your first show, it needs to go off without a hitch!”

              “Yes, but-”

              “No buts.  I’ll call up Angie, you work on altering those clothes of yours,” Stan said firmly.  Ford sighed. He looked at Stan.

              “She won’t pick up if you call.”

              “I’ll call from your phone,” Stan said, already grabbing Ford’s phone from the nearby end table.

              “Don’t spill anything on it or drop it this time, okay?”

              “You got it.”  Stan got up.  Before he had left the living room, Ford spoke.

              “Stanley?”

              “Yeah?”

              “…Thank you,” Ford said softly.  “I think you’re right.  This- this really is the only way for my show to not end in disaster.”

              “Of course I’m right!” Stan said dismissively. He threw a grin over his shoulder. “And it’s not a problem.  Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”  Stan headed for his bedroom.  Just as he pulled up Angie’s number to call her, his computer chimed again.  He sat down at his desk and checked his email.

              “Mr. Pines, please respond promptly so that we can set up a meeting for tonight to discuss publishing your comic. Unfortunately, if you are unable to speak tonight, we will have to pass on you as a comic creator with our company.” Stan’s heart sunk.

              “Really?” he whispered, staring at the email.  “That’s bullshit.”  Ford’s phone in his hand buzzed.  He glanced at it.  Ford had received a text from Angie, asking if he had figured out the male model problem. Stan looked at the email again. He swallowed.  

              If this is how they do business, it’s probably a scam anyways. Stan tried to push away the fact that he had sent Lil Stanley to that company because one of his professors recommended them.  Yeah.  Just a scam. Gotta be.  Ford’s phone buzzed again, this time with a call from Angie, rather than a text.  Stan picked up.

              “Ford figured out the model situation,” he said into the phone.  “I’ll be stepping in.  So, what kinda tips do you got for me?”

-----

              Stan tromped into his bedroom, still wearing the makeup from the show.  He threw himself onto his bed with a loud groan.

              Hours later, Stan was woken from his unplanned nap by Ford poking his head into the room.

              “Stanley?” Ford asked.  Stan sat up.

              “You finally got home, huh?”

              “Yes.  Sorry, I had to-”

              “Schmooze, I know,” Stan said, waving a hand.  He yawned and stretched.  “No worries, Sixer.  I get it.”

              “This time, I didn’t have to approach anyone!” Ford said excitedly.  “People wanted to talk to me!”

              “Hey, you’re making a name for yourself!  It’s about time people picked up on your genius. How many shows has it been now?”

              “Too many,” Ford said with a chuckle.  Stan grinned.

              “That’s great, Ford.  Really.  But, uh, I did all the work at the show, so I’m pretty beat…”

              “You want to go to bed.  I’ll leave.  We can talk in the morning,” Ford said, bobbing his head.  He paused.  “Don’t forget to wipe off your makeup before going to sleep.  It’s not good for your skin if you leave it on.”

              “I know, I know.  This wasn’t my first rodeo.”

              “Yes.  Correct. Well…good night.”

              “Good night,” Stan said.  Ford smiled again, then left, closing Stan’s door quietly behind him.  Stan got up, stretching again.  His computer dinged.  “What now?” Stan trudged over to his computer and sat down.  He pulled up his email.  His eyes widened.

              “We greatly enjoyed the materials that you sent us and would like to publish Lil Stanley as a weekly strip in our paper. Please respond if you are still interested in working with us.”  Stan grinned.

              Only weekly?  Perfect.  That sounds like the kinda commitment that I can still do modeling with.

                He began to draft a response.  

              After all, who knows what would happen to Ford if I wasn’t there for him?

[nothingeverlost]

Fic: A Room for Ruby (Baby Steps verse)

Belle can’t keep sharing a room at the B&B with Ruby; they need a real home.

Baby Steps - When Belle’s foster mom Granny dies she’s left with the diner, the B&B, and custody of Granny’s infant granddaughter.  The B&B comes with long term resident Trevelyan Gold.

________________________________________

Belle frowned at the flyers she’d picked up from the realtor’s office.  There weren’t very many options in the pile she’d made of ‘maybes’ while the trash can was full of ‘noes.’  Two of the houses were too far from Main Street and the two businesses she needed to run.  Half of the houses were outside of the budget she’d carefully worked up.  Three didn’t have any yards and Ruby needed a place she could run and play.  Maybe in a year or two they’d get a dog; Ruby would love that.  She begged to pet every puppy they saw on their walks.

“M’belle.”  Belle didn’t realize how long she’d been focusing on the fliers until Ruby tugged on her skirt, demanding to be picked up.  She grimaced when she looked at her watch, and then over at Trevelyan leaning on his cane.  She was supposed to pick up Ruby almost twenty minutes ago.

“I’m so sorry.”  She’d only meant to flip through the ads for a minute, curious about what was available in town.  

“Cookie?” Ruby asked pointing to the partially eaten cookie Belle had snagged towards the end of the lunch rush when she’d felt drained.  

“Just a little bit.”  Belle broke off a piece and handed it to her, glad that it at least had oatmeal in it.  A little nutrition was better than none at all.  “Can I get you anything, Trevelyan?  Some tea and a cookie?”

“Thank you, no,” he said curtly.  She’d heard him speak like that to others, but never to her.  He was sometimes gruff but never cold to her.

“I am sorry.  I got distracted, but that’s not an excuse.”  She pulled her ‘maybe’ flyers into a pile, folding them in half.  “Did Ruby sleep alright?”

“She was fine.”  He pursed his lips together and tapped his cane on the ground.  She half expected him to leave without another word.  It surprised her when he gestured at her papers.  “I didn’t realize you were moving.”

“Ruby turns two in a couple of weeks, and I don’t think we can keep sharing a room.  She needs more space for her toys and I’d like a yard for her to play in once the weather gets warmer.  It’s hard to find something close enough to the diner that doesn’t break the budget, though.”  It would be nice to have a three-bedroom place so she could have an office; she’d been using her bed as a desk most of the time, which made organization difficult.

“You’re staying in Storybrooke?”  He seemed surprised.  Shocked, even.

“What?  Of course we are.  Storybrooke is home.”  Even if she didn’t have the diner and the B&B to run it was still the only place Ruby had lived and the place where Granny’s spirit still lingered.  Ruby needed stories of her Granny, and Belle needed to feel the presence of the only mother she’d had since she was ten as she tried her best to be a parent.  And then, of course, there was a certain Trevelyan Gold whose almost daily presence in her life was a factor as well.

“You were living in Chicago until last year.”  He had both hands on his cane, as if needing to support himself more than usual, but his back was ramrod stiff.

“And I loved it as a single woman working way too many hours at a museum, using my free time to explore, but it would never work now that I have Ruby.”  She barely thought about Chicago these days, though she had often the first months she’d moved back.  It had been her home for college and three years after.  Maybe it still would be, if Granny was alive.  Or maybe it wouldn’t.  “Besides, I realized when I came back how much I missed this place.”

“Did you live here long?”  He had never asked her much about her past.  She had volunteered the occasional story and he’d always listened but never pushed.  He shared very little of his own past; hell, it had taken a year to learn his first name.

“We moved here when I was ten; I think my dad was running away from Australia and memories of my mom.  He never did get over losing her, and died a few months after we arrived here.”  His death was officially listed as pneumonia, but she knew it was a broken heart and a lack of interest in living.  He hadn’t taken care of himself and had given up so easily when he’d gotten sick.  “Granny took me in just after my eleventh birthday.  It was supposed to be a temporary placement but I didn’t leave until I was seventeen and going away to college.”

“I assumed that you were a relative.  She looks like you.”  The cookie gone, Ruby used a red pen to draw on the papers in front of her.  Belle touched one of her wispy curls.

“People always assumed we were sisters, Anita and I.  Granny’s daughter.  She was rarely interested unless it got her something like attention from a boy or a free ice cream cone.  She was only around the first year before she left; we didn’t see her much after that.  It was mostly just me and Granny.”  She’d been in awe of Anita until she was in high school and saw how her sudden appearances and fast departures hurt Granny.  She’d been in Chicago for almost six years when Granny had called Belle to stay she’d shown up with a baby.  Two weeks later Anita was gone again, leaving her daughter behind.  “Biology doesn’t make a parent, though, and Granny made sure that the legal side of things was clear.  I’m her guardian.”

“I believe I know a place for rent that might suit you.  Are you able to leave the diner now?”  The abrupt change in conversation confused her for a moment, especially when she was half caught up in memories.  

“We are.  We’ve already taken up more of your time than usual, though.”  She’d never gotten him to agree to compensation for babysitting Ruby, but she’d cut his rent in half and tried to feed him breakfast at least a couple of times a week.  It wasn’t fair to take more of his time.

“I don’t have any specific plans today.  You can drive, I’ll give you directions.”  Though he sometimes took Ruby for a walk he didn’t drive her and didn’t have a car seat.  It wasn’t the first time they’d driven someplace in her car, though it didn’t happen often.  This time he guided her to an address a little over half a mile from the diner; in good weather she could walk.  

“I can’t possibly afford this place,” she said when he directed her to park in front of a pink historic home.  

“It’s been empty for some time, I’m sure they’d be willing to work a deal.”  He paused at a flowerbed to remove a fake rock holding a key, and let them in.  Ruby demanded to be let down and ran through the empty room towards the back of the house; when Belle caught up with her she found herself in a kitchen almost as big as the diner’s but three times as charming.  The large window over the sink looked out on a garden, the yard was fenced in and in a few months would be filled with flowers.

“This place is amazing.”  She was in love before she’d seen half the house; there was a library with the shelves mostly filled that would be far better than any office she could have imagined.  She picked Ruby up to head up the stairs, and found four bedrooms; the largest had a fireplace and a view of the backyard.  Ruby ran into the bedroom across the hall and found a handful of toys.  She was kicking a ball across the room when Gold came slowly up the stairs.  “Someone has taken care of this home; are you sure they’re looking to rent it out?”

“To the right person.  It’s a home that needs someone who would appreciate it.”  He ran his hand over the doorframe; when Belle looked closer she could see faint marks there.  A step closer and she could make out ages written with care next to the marks; a child’s growth chart.

“This is your home.”  The realization hit her all at once; he’d been established at the B&B well before she’d arrived, so it hadn’t occurred to her that he might have a house in town.  And not just a house, but a home that had been lived in.  And a child, it seemed.

“It was.”  The ball Ruby had been playing with rolled across the floor and hit him in the leg.  Ruby squealed in delight when he kicked it back at her.  “It needs a family.”

“Where…”  Belle stopped herself; she didn’t want to push.  He’d already offered more about himself in a few words than she’d learned in a year.  

“My son is in New York, going to school.  My ex-wife is sailing somewhere exotic and hopefully filled with warring tribes armed with pointy spears.”  He shrugged away his comment as if it was a joke, but she could see the real pain there.    Belle did not like this faceless ex-wife that had hurt her friend.

“What’s his name?”  When she glanced at the bookshelves there was an eclectic mix of comic books, pulp fiction novels, studies of Renaissance painters, and art theory books.  The decorations around the room were just as varied; model planes and movie posters and sketches taped to the walls. It was clearly a room where a child had grown into adulthood.

“Bae.  He’ll be twenty in a few months.”  He smiled wistfully.  “He’s leaving for Italy soon for a semester abroad.”

“You have a lot of memories here.”  She let herself finger one of the marks in the doorframe; Bae was taller than his dad if the lines were any indication.  He’d passed her up when he was barely a teenager.

“I considered setting the whole place on fire a few years ago.  Moving out seemed the more prudent option.”  He looked over his shoulder at the doorway to the master bedroom, scowling.  “My boy is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I don’t need a place to remember him.  The rest of it I would gladly forget.  Besides, Ruby needs her own room.  You both need a home and I happen to have one standing empty.”

“You have to let me pay a fair price.”  She’d be able to rent out an extra room if she and Ruby moved out of the B&B.  They might be able to swing it.  Ruby could have one of the other bedrooms, though.  She’d leave this one alone.  Belle felt like dancing, she was so excited at the idea that it might actually work out.  “You’re my fairy godmother, Trev.  What would Ruby and I do without you?”`

“Nonsense.”  He waved his hand dismissively.  “It’s a simple business transaction that is mutually beneficial.”

 “Ruby, sweetheart, we have a fairy godmother.”  She picked her charge up, complete with the old stuffed dog she’d apparently found in the room, and swung her in a circle.  “What do you think about that?”

“Fairy!” Ruby laughed in delight.  When Belle stopped spinning she demanded “again!”

She swung Ruby around three more times before sitting her down and watching her stagger around the room, singing about fairies to her new stuffed friend.  When she turned she found Gold watching the little girl with a whistful smile.  It made her brave enough to approach him and offer a tentative hug.  “I don’t know how we can ever thank you.”

To her surprise he hugged her back.

[lettersnorth]

October Prompt: Silence

Music Theme (First part) Music Theme (Second part)

The crushed stones crunched under her boots as she made her way up the walk. Pushing against the manor’s heavy oak doors, Aislinn shouldered her way inside. The Company manor appeared to be blissfully quiet. The caretakers were certainly around somewhere but the manor was a big place. No one came hurrying to greet her and given her current state of mind, that was just fine with her. 

She paused in the foyer, her senses stretching in the quiet. Soft murmurs and tinkling of silverware came from the cafe. So, someone was home. She stared at the grand staircase for a long moment, torn between going directly upstairs to the library or her room. Travel worn and weary in more ways than one, she could use a bath. And a change of clothes. But she had always found solace and wisdom in those old tomes and her mind needed that as much as her body needed rest.

She swayed there, next to the marble fountain. Tired and wrung out like a threadbare tea towel. In the end Bertram hadn’t needed saving. She had told Ren, relayed the message. There was no need to track down another thrall. Her work on this particular project would cease. She still wasn’t sure if he had taken the news entirely well, truthfully she didn’t expect it of him, knowing what it meant for the brothers. But it was neither hers or Ren’s decision to make. It was Bertram’s and they would need to abide by his wishes. She would have to check in with Ren after he had some time to process. He was a system without a pressure relief valve, she reminded herself. As hard as this was for her, it was likely harder for him. 

“I do applaud your juvenile efforts.”

A wave of prideful anger washed over her as she recalled Garrett’s sneering words. Mostly because she saw the truth in them now. That is what it all amounted to, wasn’t it? A fumbling, misguided, juvenile attempt to do what she thought was right. 

Casting a forlorn look up towards the library, Aislinn sighed. She was exhausted, body and mind. Chances are, the words on the page would all run together anyhow in the state she was in. Best to regroup and tackle the problem fresh in the morning. 

So she went to her room, unlocking the door, shuffling inside and dropping her pack on the floor. As she shut the door behind her, she heard the crackling of a fire in the fireplace. She hadn’t been home for weeks, the caretakers never wandered into personal rooms, there should be no reason for a fire to be lit. And yet. She felt as if the pressure in the room had dropped suddenly. Her ears popped. This sensation of hers came on suddenly and usually with only one purpose. Pressing a hand against one ear, she slowly turned and reached for the nearest light. 

Her spine shot ramrod straight and she took several steps back, towards the door, all the while conscious of her heart trying to claw its way out of her chest like a frightened animal. 

“How did you get in? Why are you here?” 

The languid midlander currently reclining in a lounge chair, watched her reaction with interest. “Your Company runs a cafe. Anyone can walk in. As for your room, simple three pin tumbler lock on the door. I expected more.” Sterling said, stretching out his long legs before the fireplace, looking for all intents and purposes, most comfortable. “Don’t be so coy, Aislinn. Obviously, I’ve come all this way to see you. Sit down, let’s have a chat.” 

“If you’ve something to say, say it and leave.” she stiffly replied. 

He tensed in the chair, subtly, but Aislinn noticed. She took another step back, her innards growing cold before swiftly reminding herself her chakrams still sat on her hips. 

“Such hostility.” he sighed. “Let’s get down to it, then. You’ve gone and attracted yourself some attention. Seems the Blades have suddenly renewed their interest in you. Why is that?” 

He leaned forward in his seat and tossed a flyer on the coffee table. With one eye on him, she moved closer and looked down at the parchment. A wanted poster. A fairly accurate sketch of  herself, right down to the scar across her face. She cursed under her breath. She told the lieutenant it wasn’t a good idea for her to be in Ul’dah. She told him. He had said she was the only engineer they had without Tyr. They needed her for the job. He was right. But look at what it had cost her. 

“Do these people you’ve surrounded yourself with know? Your history, I mean. How you made ends meet in Ul’dah. The cartel. The drug running. That unfortunate issue with the Blade. You spent time in the gaol for that, didn’t you?” 

There was no need to ask Sterling who he meant. He had obviously been watching her for awhile now. That was his way. Patient and unhurried, thorough so that when he did pounce it made the biggest impact. She was unnaturally still as he ran down the list of her past sins. 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, this is Limsa Lominsa. Smuggling is par for the course. No one’s going to bat an eye if you mean to spout off.” she said, quiet but unsure. 

He shrugged, hooking his claws into her uncertainty and dragging her down. “Let’s say, purely for example, I find you Ala Mhigans are rather simple folk that fall into two categories. Those mule-headed enough to stick to their principles and those that will toss them to the wind in favor of food and gil. That friend of yours seems to be the former.” he said as he rose from the chair. “Let’s also say, again, for example, that this Company you’ve found is full of disciplined, decent folk.”

Aislinn watched in silence as he slowly began to amble around her apartment, idly touching things as he went. It made her want to scream. 

“You haven’t been honest and people like that hate dishonesty.” he picked up a half-built servo, studied it intently before putting it back in its place, all the while knowing he had her full attention. “I could help, if you like. Sit down and have a heart to heart with them.” 

“That’s very obliging of you.” she said tightly. “But I’d rather you didn’t trouble yourself.” 

“What about your Company Commander? Does he know he’s harboring a fugitive?” 

The Commander. She hadn’t exactly made the best first impression with him, had she? Tyr had smoothed it over but now he was blowing in the wind. No one knew where. 

“5,000 gil a moon and I keep this all quiet.” he stated. “That’s my price.” 

“5...that’s ridiculous!” she started. “I’ll tell them myself before I give you one coin.” 

“You could. But life’s not been kind to you, Aislinn. Can you really afford to lose the ties you’ve made here? And let’s not forget the Blades. I’m sure they’d be interested in your whereabouts. It’d be my sworn duty as a citizen of Ul’dah to convey such information.” 

“Unless you were too busy. Extorting me and spending the gil.” she dryly replied. “The sum is too much.” 

“Don’t give me that. You’re a smart one, you’ll find a way.” he said, with a shrug. “And if not we can come to some other arrangement.” 

She jerked back, the blood draining from her face. Her thoughts must have been clearly written and on display because in the next moment he passed her a look a disgust. 

“Not that. No one wants a cold fish in their bed. Gods.” he gave a sharp shake of his head as if the very idea repulsed him. “Just what kind of monster do you think I am?”

Her heart resumed its steady beat in her chest. She worked quickly to rally and recover. “An audacious plan coming from a man whose hands are no cleaner than mine. Blow me in and I could tell the Blades everything I know about the cartel.” 

He hardly looked impressed with her threat. “How’d that go last time, telling the truth?” He asked, clasping his hands behind his back as he turned to face her fully. “I assume that when they threw you in the gaol you must have been shouting from the rooftops that their man was forcing himself on ‘innocent’ girls. And yet you still found yourself on the docket for a hanging.” he tilted his head, his tone turning reasoned and cogent. “This is a discussion between old friends. I see no reason to drag the cartel into this. You know how they can be, surely you remember.” 

She remembered. Some days it was all she could do to forget. She would never be free of it, Aislinn realized with a sudden riptide of certainty. Of Ul’dah. Of the cartel. Of him. For every strike, he had a parry. Of course he did. This was Sterling. He never engaged in any fight he wasn’t absolutely certain of winning. The truth was a crushing weight bearing down on her. This was the rest of her life. Penance for surviving. 

Without a word, she crossed to the cabinet near the door and pulled open the drawer. She took several small pouches of gil she had saved up and dumped them into one larger one before turning and tossing the purse to him. 

He caught it with ease and tucked it into his riding coat with a smirk. “It would seem this concludes our business for now. I’ll show myself out.” 

As he moved past her on his way to the door, he paused and studied her. Raising a hand, he motioned with one finger to the scar across her face, stopping just short of touching her. “That really didn’t heal up well at all, did it? What a shame.” 

He never could resist a parting shot. She didn’t trust herself to reply but stared resolutely ahead, her fury written in the sharp lines of her clenched jaw and squared shoulders. The shutting of the door behind Sterling rang hollow in the otherwise silent apartment. Aislinn found herself unable to move, rooted to the spot, not knowing what she might do if she did. 

She closed her eyes and reminded herself she’d walked through fire and escaped it. Not unscarred, but tempered, like steel. She could bend, but she wouldn’t ever break. Not again. 

[chrisnashed3211-blog]

7 Ways a Marketing Strategy Will Grow Your Company

"What Is your best money I will spend in advertising to cultivate my business?" Certainly, this is the question I am most often asked by business owners. It could appear as a query that's promptly followed with an"it depends" type of response, however, it is really quite simple to pinpoint 1 instrument that's relatively affordable, delivers a high ROI and, regrettably, isn't commonly seen in a tiny companies' toolbox. It is a promotion strategy.

chrisnashed321

Why is a marketing plan that the strongest  Tool for developing company? The straightforward response is a good marketing strategy will tackle current challenges and map out avenues by which a company can grow later on. It can audit a company's message and brand, but is not restricted to branding independently. Instead, a marketing strategy is a blend of big image and detail evaluation that incorporates a vast selection of advertising channels tailored to that company's business, marketplace, and price range. Nearly all marketing approaches I compose for smaller companies incorporate a large number of items which could be carried out at no cost by present in-house employees, leading to a plan which will not result in a fortune .

chrisnashed321

Now I Want to Qualify my previous statement; the very best money spent in advertising is a wise marketing strategy composed by a skilled marketer on behalf of a particular company, not something sketched by a rep in an agency store (believe printer or internet business ) or by a generic,'small company plan' test list. To get a promotion strategy to be really successful, it ought to be an customized endeavor between study, analysis and a careful fitting of chances with the company's budget and resources. This may never be a speedy or off the shelf attempt - a wise marketing strategy takes a while to grow correctly.

It is  Important to remember that while a wise marketing strategy will not drive a company beyond its way, it is going to introduce a mixture of opportunities that fulfill immediate targets and show avenues for expansion. A promotion strategy's benefit is that it paints an image of a company, highlights who business is targeting, targets its advertising budget, and develops a program for reaching out to buyers. It accomplishes this in seven Important ways:

1.

A Brand is merely a company's public appearance and message. Firms have the start of a new - a formal title - and a few have taken measures to spot a logo, tagline, and maybe an overall colour scheme or style manual. In tiny companies, these are often a manifestation of their owner's individual preference as opposed to an evaluation of this marketplace and targeted buyers (decades ago I had a customer who picked her corporation's colour scheme from her kitchen wall's paint processor ). They might be due to a family brainstorming attempt or an operator's flash of inspiration. Occasionally they're geographically affected or an effort at gimmickry. The purpose is that while it is uncommon to locate a little company that acquired its title, symbol, and message as the consequence of authentic market study, it is a universal rule which, for bad or good, small companies will refer to those items as their company's new.

And this is Where a promotion strategy measures in. A wise marketing strategy will completely evaluate a company's brand through unbiased and experienced eyes. The marketer isn't (ideally ) a part of their family members and probably has not seen the kitchen walls. Rather, a seasoned marketer may audit the new as either a client and a marketer, and assess its capacity to rapidly communicate the company's narrative, whether it targets the right buyer, and if it's unique enough inside the market to establish the company apart from the competition. The promotion strategy will emphasize any new challenges, inconsistencies, or flaws before indicating improvements and alterations.

Regrettably, 'brand' appears to be a stage where many tiny businesses abandon their tactical attempts. A company's brand is vital and well worth a hefty attempt, however'branding' is not enough of an action thing to cultivate a company and is not where a wise strategy finishes...

2. Audits Present Program

Which Segues well into the next phase of a plan: auditing the current advertising program. This phase goes past branding to critique all the company's marketing campaigns and is a vital element to any wise strategy. It is at this point that wasted money or attempt is detected, missed chances emphasized, or where I discover a customer had begun down a positive path previously but abandoned it too premature or was away in its own message.   My audits look for advantages in addition to holes and flaws in a company's advertising program by dissecting the advertising channel mix, promotional places (both online and conventional ), frequency, and even much more, then fitting the whole program into the targeted buyer profile. I devote quite a lot of time searching through the company's advertising tools like its website, brochures, newsletters, and social websites and assess the company's staff tools, factoring any advantages into the last evaluation.

3.

It May be tough to fathom but you will find small companies that face annually without knowing much in their particular market and the most buyers upon which their livelihoods depend.  Questions like,"the number of buyers are out there now?" ,"how can they prefer to be attained?"  Are basic to business success since it's only through this understanding that a corporation can grow and adapt. The only method to make this profile is by way of research!

I begin by drawing information straight out of my Clients through a mixture of surveys and interviews full of carefully crafted queries. I will request then re-ask until I have developed a whole profile from my customer's perspective. My job then turns to creating a customer profile by a marketing standpoint that stems out of my customer's high level buyer outline. I will dig and investigate till my profile is finished, then assess my profile with that of my customer's. Hopefully we are in synch, but if not, I will figure out where we disagree and appraise where my customer can hone their efforts.

At this Point I will also wish to check out the market from my buyer profile standpoint, and certainly will"store" the contest. I will examine the company's geographic reach and explore both demographic information and neighborhood economic development strategies. All this information will play to the last test of if my customer should continue in its present marketplace or branch out into a place that's buyer-rich.

4. Evaluates Competition

"Who Is my contest and how can we disagree?" That is a question every company owner needs to be able to reply at any given time! Business owners must know about who's snagging market share from them and the way every competitor contrasts in quality, services, client support, messaging, and total marketing campaigns. It is fantastic to be the ideal service provider accessible, but that will not mean anything if the contest is registering more buyers!

With this point of a promotion  Strategy, I love to shop the contest from a purchaser's perspective prior to comparing my findings into my "customer shop". Since I am an external consultant, it is pretty easy for me to presume that an impartial purchaser's strategy to the majority of shopping attempts, be it B or B to C, and now that I search for simple shopping scenarios, who could meet my client requirements, would tempt me to make a buy or conversely would flip me off as a purchaser. I utilize these results to indicate ways my customer could enhance his own company's message and also to...

5. Determine Marketing Mix

This Phase of a promotion strategy is really a game of,'locate the buyers'. After all, what's advertising if it is not an attempt to communicate with buyers and lure them into a business enterprise? To mepersonally, this is the really strategic phase of a plan, but one which may not exist with of the prior actions. It's now that the plan should answer questions like,"if a company adopt the most recent trends or adhere to more conventional procedures?"

It is also the point where experience pays Off since there are many, many ways to invest in advertising and just so many choices which will reach the appropriate buyers. I like this point the most and spend some time searching under rocks to find new alternatives and find economical solutions. No two plans should be be exactly the same in this stage, which makes this the most habit section of the full approach. A fantastic strategy will appear past paid search and Facebook advertisements and discover new ways to present your company - in budget.

This is Additionally the most flexible part of a wise marketing strategy. I love to incorporate an assortment of alternatives which vary from'incorporate instantly' to more longer term efforts which make sense when the company has increased or has set other advertising tools set up. A fantastic combination will pull multiple advertising channels and permit a company to reach buyers on several levels.

6.

Many Companies have low price and free advertising and marketing choices currently at their disposal and might not understand it. A fantastic marketing strategy reviews a company's internal possibilities, evaluates the company as a whole, and also find resources which may be utilised in the advertising program. I love to enable my clients and provide them the opportunity to save their funds for larger ticket items in the future.

7.

I  This marketing strategy lists carefully chosen marketing campaigns determined from the plan and give a schedule for when they ought to be established and assessed. For smaller companies, I try to abide by the very low cost alternatives which could be kept internally with discretionary attempts which will cost more money or ought to occur after a historical goal was achieved. More expensive or entailed chances are usually booked for a 2-5 year program and are determined upon attaining aims.

By integrating the aforementioned 7 phases to a totally  Researched and carefully crafted approach, a small company is going to have a Map where it could reach its targets and develop its business. It is money Well invested and some thing a company actually shouldn't exist !

[blogofawimpykid]

Confidential

The Dark Knight

The Joker X RC

Canon: RC and the Jokers first meeting

1,000 words

"What about doctor patient confidentiality?" RC protested, staring down the Arkham Asylum guard who lingered in the corner of the room.

"You're not a real doctor," Crane said. "If anything, You're bait. And he's here to keep the pieces of your body identifiable when things go wrong." He pointed to the guard, than gestured for RC to step into the room. She did so confidently, even though the locking of the thick steel door behind her sent an invisible shiver down her spine. She nodded to the guard, who stared blankly back, than sat down at the unforgiving metal table. Her cardboard boxes of art supplies clattered onto the surface in front of her.

"What's your name?" The patient asked, looking up slowly.

"RC."

"What's that stand for?"

"Riley. Crowder. What's your name?"

"You can just call me... Mr. J."

"What's that stand for?"

"The Joker." Riley looked up from the papers she had been shuffling and finally studied the face of the man she was sitting opposite. She knew of him, of course, but it didn't seem possible that he was the most feared man in Gotham, even as she looked him in the eye. "They tell me I'm some sort of... experiment," he said, taking RC in the same way she had him.

"I think I'm the experiment," she said with a smile. "I'm in school for a new kind of therapy and I wanted to try it at Arkham. So they're letting me."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No. Just a student. An intern."

"They're letting students experiment on the prisoners now?"

"No loss to them. I'm doing this for free. For my own research. And like I said, you aren't the experiment."

"For free?" The Joker asked. "Well, we better make this worthwhile. How am I going to be psychoanalized today?"

"You aren't," RC said brightly. She slid him a piece of paper. "We're just going to draw."

"Draw?"

"It's called art therapy. It helps navigate your feelings."

"So I... draw, than you take the pictures back to your school and try to see inside my twisted mind?"

'We just draw. I'm going to do it too. Do you want crayons or markers?" He actually considered the two boxes RC held out to him.

"Crayons," he decided. RC passed him the box. "Crayons for the clown," he muttered. RC opened her own box and considered the colors for a second before picking a couple markers and starting a sketch on her own paper. "So they don't pay you?"

"No," RC answered simply.

"Do you have another job?"

"I work at Starbucks," she admitted.

"Really?" She nodded. "You must stay busy."

"I only get about 20 hours a week there."

"Oh."

"What?" RC looked up at the knowing tone with which he had responded.

"You're one of us. A true poor, lowly, everyday citizen of Gotham."

"I live just outside of crime alley," she admitted. "I wouldn't be right for my job if I didn't. This job, I mean, not serving coffee to Wayne scientists all day. Nearly every patient in Arkham comes from a low class background. Being poor not only makes you more susceptible to mental illnesses because you can't afford to treat them, it also makes you more likely to turn to crime as a means of making a living. If I have the same life experiences as the people I'm treating, they're more likely to trust me. Trust isn't something that's easy to come by around here."

"You're very smart." The Joker said. "How do you feel about the Batman?"

"I think if he really wanted to be a hero he'd arrest Bruce Wayne." RC turned over her shoulder as she said this, remembering they weren't alone in the room, but the guard didn't seem to be paying attention at all. Some help he would be if things really did go wrong.

"Why's that?" The Joker asked, seeming to already notice the answer. His permanent grin widened with an actual smile.

"The only way to end crime in Gotham would be to end poverty. Bruce Wayne could do that singlehandedly. The fact that he hasn't already makes him the most dangerous criminal we have."

"You're quite a rebel, Dr. Riley. That's a revolutionary way of thinking."

"It's probably bad protocol to admit that to a patient. But I stand by what I said about trust, and if I lied, I wouldn't really be earning it."

"Well, so far, you have mine. You don't seem scared of me, so I seem to have yours as well."

"Well, we have common ground."

"What's that?"

"I'm guessing you aren't a fan of Batman either."

"They should make you head if this whole place right now. Because you are a genius." The complement seemed sincere, not at all teasing, and RC ducked her head to hide the fact that she was actually blushing. "How long are you stuck with me today?" Riley had been forced to relinquish her watch, along with all her other belongings besides the paper and art supplies she had come in with, when she entered the asylum. Luckily, a clock hung on the wall, completely bare of anything else, just behind the Jokers head.

"Just a few more minutes, actually," she said, almost sadly. "Can I see what you drew?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." RC turned her paper around, so the Joker could see, and he handed his sheet over to RC. "They should have you in here instead of me," he said casually, studying the drawing intently.

"Why?" RC asked.

"Because. You drew disembodied brains and bones flying everywhere. That's morbid."

"It's an idea for a new tattoo."

"You have tattoos?"

"A couple. My coat hides them. I'll show you sometime." Realizing what she had said,, TC looked down quickly at the Jokers drawing. "Is this me?"

"Yeah. I just had the inspiration right in front of me." RC didn't know how to respond, so instead she started putting her markers back into the box. "I don't guess I get to keep that?"

"Not this time."

"So, this is a new regular thing?"

"Once a week."

"I'll put it on my schedule."

[atmilliways]

More tattoo AU

I didn’t expect to write more of this so soon, but I woke up this morning and my brain was already composing specific sentences so I went with it. May or may not have accidentally the last line from something Obama said to someone in a dream, but I can’t actually remember. 

SEVERAL YEARS AGO

Skwisgaar only met Charles Offdensen because a professor paired them up for a class project. He sized him up and came to the conclusion that Charles, several years older and bespectacled and very serious, was the type to shoulder any slack in an effort to still get an A on the assignment. That was good, because Skwisgaar was getting a D in the class so far and could use the boost, but he didn’t actually have enough ambition to get it by, you know, actually studying or anything.

He did not expect Charles to actually show up at his house the next day, expecting to actually get work done. For one thing, he hadn’t even given the guy his phone number or email, let alone his physical address.

“Are you fuckings serious? You can’ts just fuckings shows up at places,” Skwisgaar hissed as he hustled Charles back out to his car before Servetta saw him... Sometimes he suspected his mother had only insisted he enroll in business school so she could hit on his more successful peers — which managed to take first place in his embarrassment hall of fame, just ahead of how shitty their craphole apartment was.

“I’m very serious,” Charles replied stubbornly. “You have to put some effort into this, at least for the, ah, oral report.”

Skwisgaar winced. He hadn’t really been paying attention when the professor explained the assignment, and public speaking wasn’t amongst his strengths. Had Charles ever shared a class with him where he had to do one of those, or...?

“And I’ve seen you try to present reports to a class. I’m not prepared to, ah, risk my GPA on this.”

Apparently yes. Skwisgaar groaned and gave his classmate a push towards his car. “Fines, fines! Let me gets my stuff, we can studies at your place.”

The car ride was awkwardly silent. Charles was just the kind of guy who didn’t automatically reach for the radio, which Skwisgaar found incomprehensible. If he could afford to have a car of his own instead of riding the damn bus to school every day, all silence would be eradicated by heavy metal blasted through all available speakers.

Studying with Charles turned out to be just as boring as a car ride with him. The longer they tried, the more frustrated and monosyllabic Skwisgaar became, until Charles finally snapped the textbook closed. There was a frown on his face, but it wasn’t the expression of someone about to give up and shoulder the workload himself — which was what Skwisgaar had been aiming for. No, here in his own very practical and neatly kept apartment full of second-hand but perfectly serviceable furniture, Charles seemed to be in his element, more in control than before. The almost-stutter of pauses and ah’s had lessened, and he looked, in fact, like a man prepared to tackle a difficult yet interesting challenge.

“What would help you concentrate on this?” he asked. “What do you usually do while the professor is lecturing?”

Skwisgaar shrugged, nonplussed. “I don’ts knows.”

“Can I see your notebook?”

Reluctantly, Skwisgaar handed it over. He always had it with him in class, always had it open while the professor droned on about risk management and investing or whatever, and he did take some notes... Mostly, though, he doodled. On each page a sparse collection of words was encroached on by a thicket of sketches, winding and twining and overgrowing the margins to take over most of the available space.

Charles flipped through that for a moment, then put the notebook down and looked at Skwisgaar over the top of his glasses like a damn librarian. “So... I’m, ah, guessing that most of the material goes in one ear and out the other?”

Skwisgaar could feel his face heating slightly as he shrugged noncommittally. It wasn’t his fault, he wanted to protest. He had never wanted to go to business school, but his mother had scraped and saved and enrolled him anyway, and never let him forget that he was why they couldn’t afford a better place to live. In Servetta’s opinion, she had made her investment in him and by the gods it was going to pay off in her old age.

“Okay,” Charles said. He gave Skwisgaar a thoughtful look. “What do you want to do with your life, really? Because it’s not business.”

It was as if the guy had read his mind. Skwisgaar, somewhere between startled and weirdly grateful, blurted out, “I wants to be the world’s greatest tattoo artists!”

“Hm.” Charles opened the notebook again and seemed to examine the sketches more closely. “Have you ever practiced? Drawing on a person, I mean.”

An hour later, Skwisgaar was sitting cross-legged on the couch facing Charles’ back, using a permanent marker to fill the reaching branches of a massive tree with dark, thick foliage. His classmate had handed him the marker and gave him some very simple instructions: don’t draw anywhere that would be visible with a shirt on, and pay attention.

And it was working.

“That was good,” Charles told him after Skwisgaar’s most recent attempt at reciting his part of the report. “You’re starting to sound more natural.”

“That ams because I thinks I kinda gets it nows,” Skwisgaar replied, a hint of amazement in his tone. “You would makes a good teachers, anyones ever tells you that?”

Charles shrugged, and the drawing of the tree rippled slightly as if caught by a breeze. “Yes. I could’ve paid my way through undergrad just by charging for tutoring. But that’s not what I want to do with my life.”

“What does you wants to do?” Skwisgaar asked.

He found, to his surprise, that he was actually curious. That never happened. Typically, he floated through life in a haze of apathy, and the only thing that made the clouds thin was being free to draw or paint — a solitary exercise that didn’t encourage a lot of connecting with other people. When he connected with other people, it was usually by having sex with them. Bodies, he’d always thought, were much more interesting than the random collection of thoughts and feelings that lived chaotically inside them.

Charles glanced over his shoulder at him. The massive World Tree that Skwisgaar had drawn on his back stretched the full length of his spine, branches and roots stretching in either direction to take up as much “canvas” as he’d been allowed. And Charles had good skin for it, smooth and unfreckled and firm with underlying muscle.

“I want to be a lawyer,” Charles told him.

Skwisgaar’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “The world’s greatest lawyer?”

“Ah, sure.”

The next week, they got an A- on their presentation. A few months after that, Skwisgaar dropped out of business school to start an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlor owned by some crazy, pot-smoking redhead he’d met at a bar.

~

SEVERAL YEARS LATER

If he was being honest with himself, letting Nathan move in with him had not been high on Skwisgaar’s list of priorities. He hadn’t had a roommate since he’d moved out of his mom’s place, and very much relished his privacy. But Nathan wasn’t very good at keeping jobs and the burger place down the road had finally fired him for general incompetence and he couldn’t afford his own apartment... and Skwisgaar had found himself offering his spare room to the kid. After all, if Nathan had to give up on independence and move back to Florida to live with his parents, Skwisgaar would lose access to his dark and twisted imagination that churned out such powerful imagery. He paid a commission whenever he used one of Nathan’s ideas for a tattoo of course, slightly bargained down for now in lieu of rent.

The thing was, on more serious projects where they really had to talk over how to best translate a particular sketch onto a human body, Skwisgaar had started to find he actually enjoyed the collaboration. It was like when Pickles had first started teaching him how to tattoo. There was a certain wavelength that Skwisgaar functioned best at, and both Nathan and Pickles were capable of tuning in and matching it. They were, for want of a better phrase, his best friends.

Nathan had just texted to let him know he had a decent shot at getting a job in some coffee shop nearby, which meant actual rent money in the near future, when the bell over the door jingled. Skwisgaar glanced up, totally not intending to actually greet the person or anything — they had hired some gap-toothed idiot to do that these days, because nothing scared the riffraff off like being sworn at and sprayed with spittle at the same time — but he caught sight of vaguely familiar glasses and paused for a closer look.

“Hey Charles, ams that’s you?” he called.

Charles gave an awkward little wave. The man looked basically the same. Hairline a little receded, maybe, and a few more lines on his face, but other than that...

Willy, up at the front counter, spun around and glared suspiciously at Skwisgaar. “You know thisch guy? Scheriouschly? He’sch wearing a schuit.”

“Ja ja, says it don’t sprays it,” Skwisgaar shot back, striding up from his work station at the back of the room. “I haven’ts seen you in years,” he said to his old classmate, the first person to ever encourage him to go for the career he actually wanted. “What brings you to’s a place like this...” He raised an eyebrow, because Willy did have a point about the suit. There was even a tie. “...Dressed like that?”

“I, ah, just came from work. I’m a lawyer now.” He held up a sleek briefcase, then to the surprise of both men watching he put it on the counter and opened it with a click. From it, he produced a manila folder full of papers, which he held out to Skwisgaar.

Immediately, Pickles was at the counter too. “Hey mister lawyer dood, I’m the owner here. If you’re serving the place with a lawsuit or something, you gotta give that to me.”

“Ah... no, it’s not a lawsuit.” Charles looked flustered. “I, ah, just brought in some, ah, references that I wanted to talk to Skwisgaar about. For a... potential tattoo idea.”

Willy snorted loudly. “You want a tattoo? Gimme a break...”

Discretely, Skwisgaar kicked him in the shin. Or it would’ve been discreet if not for the idiot hopping around clutching his leg in exaggerated pain and cursing a blue streak at him. Skwisgaar and Pickles just ignored it in favor of the folder’s contents.

“This is all your work, innit?” Pickles asked Skwisgaar.

“Ja,” Skwisgaar replied absently, flipping through the prints of various pictures. There were sleeves and chest pieces, big tattoos and smaller ones, some that fanned out and some that knotted in on themselves. For anyone else it might have been hard to spot the connection between any of them, let alone all, but he knew at a glance that these were all projects he’d collaborated on with Nathan. He glanced up at Charles. “There ams a lot of stuffs here… Do you know whats you wants, or you just like the styles?”

“The second one,” Charles confirmed. “I saw them and… Well, I asked around. Someone gave me your card, so, ah, here I am.”

It was still flattering, of course. Sure Nathan came up with the concepts, but Skwisgaar was the one who made them a reality, embellished a little here or there, and made sure each tattoo came out absolutely perfect. He decided to take his former classmate’s sudden appearance as the compliment it was.

“All rights, I have some times before my next appointkints,” he said, waving at Charles to put the folder away and come around the counter. “Come sits back heres with me and looks at what I haves.”

“Dood, you think he’s going to be a custom job? And maybe really big?” Pickles murmured excitedly. He didn’t wait for Skwisgaar to answer, just drifted off with dollar signs in his eyes back to the customer he’d been working on before the interruption. They needed up upgrade some of the older equiptment, and Charles definitely looked like he could afford to sponsor that.

What Skwisgaar had was, essentially, pages from Nathan’s sketchbooks in a three ring binder of plastic sleeve protectors. He tugged an extra stool over for Charles and handed him the binder, then settled down to start mixing the colors in preparation for his next appointment. As he did so he commented, “You seems to has done pretty wells for yourselve."

“I was going to say the same thing,” Charles replied with a reserved smile.

“And… I seems to remembers you saids way back thens that you didn’t thinks you wants a tattoo. Somethings about it was ams too pourminents?”

“I did say something like that, didn’t I?” He turned a page, studying the drawings intently. “I don’t know, I could never, ah, picture anything I’d actually want. Your drawings were always very well done, of course, but they weren’t quite my style. But when I saw these… and especially when I found out you were the one who did them, it just, ah, seemed like a sign.”

Skwisgaar mixed an extra dab of blue into a very pale shade of indigo. “So this ams to be your first tattoos, huh mister bigs lawyer mans?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just wonderings if you ams still not the types to shows it offs, since I couldn’ts sees any,” he replied with exaggerated innocence. Then, after a moment, he added, “Virgins, heh.”

Charles glanced up at him over the top of his glasses and replied, dryly and with a very, very faint smirk, “Bold of you to assume.”

[mildredbrignoni]

Hippie Chic

Moxie of a Latina storyteller 

Nobody matters more to a child's self esteem than her parents and their approval. As a Latina growing up with immigrants parents who's first language was Spanish, I was responsible for the accuracy of translating, interpreting, and understanding official financial and government documents sent to my parents.

It was not until I was 12 or 13 years old when one of my parents decided to go back to school. My heart breaks at this memory. Finally, my mother gets her high school diploma, and a college degree. My mother once told me she was encouraged by watching me study late nights, which then afforded me a degree from University California Berkeley. I remind myself from time to time that - anything worth fighting for will require focus, dedication and patience. Alas, I stand here today because of my parent's cultural identity and immigrant sacrifices.

If you thought I was going to suggest that hard work was responsible for my success, I would argue that hard work is clear to everybody with a dream. Nobody will ever be so lucky to have been handed a Pulitzer Prize. Not even nepotism can guarantee you nor your child will ever win a science award. Thus, hard work doesn't fit the formula. In other words, it goes to show that everybody has a dream, but few will be rewarded with realizing those dreams, unless you use every arsenal of your intellect, and as a matter of fact street smarts. 

Even those of us that chose to go through life with making occasional bad choices, learns that the pain of failing, then coming out the other side is completely worth the journey.

At 20 years old, I decided to follow my career in film so I moved to NYC. I grew up a beach kid, but the ability to navigate the mean streets of New York posed a challenge I couldn’t refuse.  I had no idea how difficult this would prove. When financial times got tough during cold winter months, my parents suggested to try doing something else to pay the bills, or keep figuring out how to make it happen because as they said ‘ you chose this path, and we aren’t going to help you.’ Tough love but right on point. See, they gave up their own dreams so I could fully enjoy mine. So I got my life together by teaching aerobics at health clubs in some of the fanciest gyms NYC had to offer. Apparently I was a good motivator because I was asked to appear on FX morning time fitness, a few movies playing myself as a fitness instructor and several city fitness outdoor expos, leading thousands to my routines. I even designed the costumes for a few. Seems pretty funny to me now that my side hustle brought not only additional income, but pride!

The success of this alternative profession also brought confusion. As people in the gym knew my passion was costume design, I finally got my break when a friend asked to replace him on the first Latino sketch comedy show on HBO because he was unavailable. I was forced to choose either fitness or film/television. Soon I would have several movies, commercials and fashion credits under my belt. Financially, I was doing pretty good but I hadn’t figured out how to invest my money well. I asked my parents for advice, but their responses couldn't be so different. My dad was mortified and embarrassed that I had that much in my bank account and he would only ever earn that in one year. My mother, on the other hand, sighed and froze in silence. She then slowly said 'I'm so proud of you, but I don't know how to help because your father took care of the money.'..suggesting I go to the bank and ask them for help. At that time I felt sorry for them, but also for myself for not having the support of parents to lean on. I thought most other young adults Americans had that luxury. I was 27 and had broken the glass ceiling in my parents eyes. I, on the other hand made terrible financial decisions alone. Spending my earnings on dinners, shoes and living off of it for the next year until it was all gone. And, with this money now spent, I was left to think creatively as to how I would get myself stable again. I thought hard about what I had that most other young professionals didn’t.  I asked myself - was I talented? Yes, but so is everybody else.  Was I different?  Yes, but so was everybody else.  What did I have that others didn’t?  No net.  Meaning I didn’t have a fall back plan.  I was now accepting that I had failed to see consequence again. That now, I was going to have to rely on all my marketing tools I used for my movie's costume marketing budget. Finally, I would pivot my design talents to marketing myself as I always had in positioning those luxury designers to celebrities on film. Now I would point to myself as the brand. 

I became a walking and talking marketing expert on fashion for film.  Taking it a step beyond what other stylist and designers had previously attempted, I designed promotional cards that looked like a mini magazines.  It was unique - like me.  I had been able to channel my work on alternative forms of fashion product placement, and made myself known as a fashion marketer and designer.  Even at the expense of being copied, I let the competition do it because to them - I had the good idea, and I was a cool/ relevant. This was flattering. My parents did not understand why I had to spend my money to sell myself and instead cried out that I should get a real job. The reality for me was that I was not about to give up because I was worth my own investment. It would eventually pay off in more ways than money.

Shame-I never told anyone about this until now publicly acknowledging it because I had thought about how being the representative of an immigrant cultural identity crisis is difficult and it may not be received as grateful.  I do not feel sorry for myself now. However, unless you are a first generation American, here in the states, you may have a hard time understanding how much the status of one's own, or generational immigration status puts on ones self worth. It encapsulates ones burden to the family, and adds an enormous pressure to not make any mistakes.

It wasn’t because I felt sorry for myself that I got myself out of the disaster I put myself in, nor was it because I lacked the skill to make it better. it was moxie that took me to new levels of my hustle by insisting I too was relevant.  

They say the banks were given a get out of jail free card in the housing collapse of 2008 because they were too big to allow to fail, and I say an entrepreneur is too little to fail.  The critical situation for most of us entrepreneurs is that we have a responsibility to stay relevant. It forces us to choose whether our creativity and ideas merits another's financial support, or stay as lean startups. We ask ourselves constantly - what is it going to take to break out of debt and into financial freedom? Are we the person we are meant to be? Should we keep going in hopes that someone will believe in our ideas? Of course, but only the strong survive. We just have to wait our turn. Everybody's number comes, but we just have to be ready for it to be called. 

My Reco - Do things that keep your ideas and creativity fresh. Read, watch movies, and share... (as I am ). Don't beat yourself up all the time ( that’s a hard one) by letting your circumstance control you and give up.  Find strength in group chats, or meditation.  Tap into resources that help your self esteem. I am religiously devoted to practicing yoga because I find it makes me a balanced happy hip hippie chic.

And, If you need a good cry, cry! Don't feel bad for being emotional. Allow yourself a limited time too. I do not listen to others if they tell me to stop crying. They may not know how they would handle it if they were in your position, or they don’t like confrontation of truth. This is your truth - expressed through the manifestation of your physical expression.  And sometimes truth is painful to tap into. 

Ask - If more money were the solution to an immigrant entrepreneur to survive business, then - why aren't more people and companies helping us to reach the level of success by becoming a patron of our e-commerce sites, buying our organic produce at farmers markets and hiring us on film sets? As much as people are pinching pennies as gas prices go up, the Chinese tariff sanctions are exploding, we entrepreneurs need to be rewarded, however we also have a duty to reward our immigrant communities with reciprocity.  Ask the very people that love us most- maybe not our parents, but friends, government programs and those in your culture.  Suggest that it is important to help us. We then have to love ourselves more by surrounding ourselves with believers and people that will tell us that your idea kinda sucks, and should fix it. Does my idea need help? 

While most of you may not agree, we are only as strong our supporters.  I learned early to not give up because eventually someone will give you a chance.  Even if my parents didn’t understand, they were probably just afraid of my failing because they couldn’t help me.  But - I had to fail then, and I fail now. I always got up because I always listened to my intuition and stayed focus.  I maybe a digital nomad, writer, costume designer, social strategist and other slashes I haven’t realized yet, but it didn’t detour my focus, it means I can hustle.  I can do these skills myself now and oversee my team, or not hire a team at all.  People have criticized me for having too many slashes in my title. I say, I am an excellent designer, marketer, writer, idea maker and strategist not right for everybody, but that makes me a great storyteller.  I just added more skills to my arsenal.  

Creating opportunity - Still working towards the goal, I am making new ones, because I have to brave if not for myself but for my culture. I step out again, and again with new ideas in technology and marketing, and still find myself hippie chic costume designer and wannabe filmmaker because I already lived through the hardest critics - my culture. 

A Latina is supposed to be brave, but it is a dichotomy We are taught to be safe and do what our husbands want us to do. When I go for another / (slash) in my title it's because I can do it better than someone else, because I pick and choose what my cultural wants to self identify with. I am not afraid to be too small to fail. I have couch surfed, travelled through scary boarders by bus while criminals in Central America were attempting to steal my American passport, and I am still standing.

The past - I listened to those words that my parents spoke years ago when I decided to take a challenge with foreseen consequences.  It was painful but worth it. I make no apologies to anyone including my culture. Because of my fierceness, I am a SoCal native/ New Yorker /Digital Nomad / Hippie Chic with an exceptional education, stand out delivery for creativity and my personal growth are all attributes of my Latina-ness.  

[leisurelypanda]

Thundering Heart chapter 2

http://archiveofourown.org/works/13605048/chapters/31292034

Thor sighed as the warm water hit his sweaty, grimy skin. Practice was brutal. Last year he had been the tight end while Bucky Barnes had been the quarterback. He hadn’t realized just how difficult making the position would be. He had been training for it all summer and some of last year, but still, actually trying out for the position had been brutal. He still wasn’t sure he had landed the position, though he had done well. It would be a few days before decisions were made. But he had done better than some of the other people trying out for the position. His throws had been more accurate and he had been the fastest applicant on the field. He was also the best at coming up with plays against other teams. That was probably his best asset in his favor.

He opened his eyes and began to scrub himself clean before other teammates could complain about him hogging the hot water. Too late. He felt a sharp pain and the crack of a towel snapping on his ass sounded sharply in the locker room amid the laughs from his teammates. He quickly finished up and grabbed his own towel to exact his revenge on whoever had gotten him. As it turned out, it was one of Hodge’s buddies. Billy Coleman. He was a mediocre player on the defensive line who had apparently been on the team since freshman year and shown a lack of interest in improving at all. The only reason he was still on the team was because he was better than most who tried out, even if he was worse than pretty much everyone else. Thor tried not to feel a little self-satisfied as he wound up his towel and snapped it against his butt. He failed.

The usual masculine camaraderie among sports teams ensued. Guys were roughhousing, arm wrestling, towel snapping, and generally making a ruckus until a coach came in and yelled at them to quiet down and get dressed. The school would be closing soon and they needed to be out. Thor grabbed his stuff and accompanied a few of his teammates out to the front of the school to where his ride was waiting. His mother was waiting for him.

“Hello dear,” she said sweetly in Swedish. She kissing his cheek in greeting. “How was practice? Did you make the quarterback position?”

“Hello mother,” he replied in like fashion. He wiped the spot where she kissed him absentmindedly. “I did well. I will not know if I got the position until later this week, though.”

“I’m sure you will make the position this year,” she said. He had spent the past few years as part of the tight end. And while he knew why Bucky had been chosen as the quarterback all those years, he was looking forward to finally being in the position himself.

“Thank you, mother. I hope so.”

“Now,” she said, growing serious. “Loki tells me that you were sent to detention today. Why is that?”

Thor groaned. Of course she would have found out from Loki. She had a tendency to dote upon them. Which wasn’t bad, per se, but it coupled with wanting to know everything that happened. She had probably pestered Loki into telling her. Or he had just told her to save time.

“I saw a student getting beaten up when I arrived at school today, mother,” he said. “I stepped in to defend him as he was much smaller than the other boys.”

His mother grimaced. “And why is that you received detention?”

“The principal is corrupt little weasel of a man,” Thor replied. “He claimed the boy getting beaten up was a troublemaker and gave him detention as well, but did not punish the bullies.”

His mother tsked disapprovingly. “I am proud that you defended him, my son. Is he well?”

“He insisted that he had it under control,” he said, chuckling. “Though he seemed to no longer be in pain when I saw him last.”

“He sounds spirited,” she said, smiling.

“He is valiant,” he admitted. His mother was uncharacteristically silent for a while. Eventually Thor turned to look at her. She was grinning knowingly from ear to ear. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said innocently. It was that same look that Loki got when he knew a secret no one else did.

“Oh really, mother?” he asked. “You have that look. The one where you think you know something.”

“I’ve never thought I’ve known anything, son,” she replied, still with that smug look on her face. “I actually know things.”

“Such as?”

“You like him,” she teased.

Thor blushed. His entire face blushed red as a beet. He was suddenly glad that his beard hid some of it. Not that it mattered. “Mother, I just met him!”

“What does that matter?” she asked.

“I just admire his tenacity, foolish as it may be,” he protested. “Just because I defended him does not mean I have to like him!”

“Is that so?” she asked. He nodded. “Then why are you blushing?”

Thor grumbled something about the weather and rolled down the window to let the sounds of the city permeate the car and drown out the sound of his mother laughing triumphantly.

Ridiculous, he thought.                                                                           --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Thor sighed as he collapsed on the couch, dropping his backpack onto the floor next to him. He was exhausted. Between school and football practice he never seemed to have time to actually do anything else. If it wasn’t for the fact that he wasn’t responsible for cooking food or cleaning his clothes (yet), he doubted he’d actually be alive.

“How was detention, dear brother?” Loki asked from the other side of the room. Thor responded by throwing one of the couch pillows in his general direction. “That bad? I would have thought that you and the boy would have bonded over your heroics.”

“Not you too, Loki,” he groaned.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, laughing. “I’m just glad to see you making some interesting friends instead of those meatheads on the American football team.”

“You want to insult my friends? Let us see if you can back those words up.”

“Peace, brother,” Loki said. “I meant no offense.”

Thor slumped against the couch and grabbed his backpack. He took out his planner  where he had organized his homework for the next few weeks. He was going to be up until midnight easily trying to get everything done in time. Who knew senior year would be so hard? he wondered.

He sighed but got out his history homework that he started during detention. The only thing that period was good for, he thought.

He could hear Loki scribbling on his notepad across the room. He was the smarter of the two, but he was more inclined towards the arts whereas Thor was good at math and the sciences. He liked history, but it didn’t come as naturally to him. It was more difficult for him to apply knowledge that he could not practice himself like in math or physics.

I wonder if Steve will want to study together for these classes, he thought. It would make the classes more enjoyable at any rate.

Soon the smells of seafood wafted through the living room from the kitchen. He smelled tuna and his stomach began to rumble loudly. Loki sighed in annoyance. His father’s job as a diplomat afforded them a home in a nice part of Brooklyn and, thankfully, a hired chef. His father was kept busy at the embassy to make anything and his mother wanted to focus on her art rather than domesticity. It was a convenient system, considering that the Swedish government paid generously for Odin to be the diplomat at the Swedish embassy.

Thor somehow managed to get through his history homework by the time the chef announced that dinner was ready. Thor sighed with relief and put his work down on the coffee table in front of him and hurried to the kitchen. Where his father was waiting.

“Son!” he shouted joyfully. He got up and embraced him fiercely. Odin was as big as Thor and the years had not made him any less strong or dominating a presence. It was impossible not to notice him, at the very least because of his great, booming voice. “How did tryouts go? Did you get the position this year?”

“Hello father,” Thor said as he embraced him. “I did well, but I won’t know if I did well enough until later this week.”

“Ah, my son, I’m sure you will succeed,” he said. “Now come, let’s eat before our food gets cold!”

Dinner was really the only time when Thor could really unwind and focus on something other than school. Well, dinner and football, anyway. Being in advanced classes was good for his academic performance, but it was a time intensive process. Dinner, time with his family was a time when he could get away from all that for a while.

His mother asked Loki how his art was going. He dabbled in many things. Painting, charcoal sketches, simple pencil sketches, digital art, watercolors, pastels. Lately he was trying out oil painting, though it seemed to be presenting some challenges. He was having difficulty figuring out how to make the right layers for his paintings.

“Nothing seems right,” he complained. “I have trashed a dozen canvases trying to get it right but nothing seems to be working the way I want it.”

“Perhaps I can help you after dinner,” their mother offered. “It’s been a while since I’ve worked oil painting but I may be able to help you figure something out.”

That launched a conversation about mediums and paint products and layers and something called “fat over lean” that Thor could not follow if his life depended on it. He took after their father more.  Sports, leadership, science, and math were all areas that he excelled in. Art was more his mother’s area and Loki was learning everything she had to teach. He frequently complained about art classes in school not being as good a teacher as her, but he still preferred those classes to the more typical math, science, and history. He was good at them, he just thought they were boring. And a bored Loki was a recipe for mischief.

Their father began raving about the latest rugby upset. Thor was a fan of the sport as well, but since America had this somewhat backwards obsession with their version of football, that was the closest he could get to playing the sport during the school year. He played a lot of rugby when they went home to Sweden during the summer. American football was a lot easier. Probably because they had this strange notion that you needed protection during high contact sports. You were also allowed to pass the ball forward, unlike in rugby. During the weekends when Thor didn’t have to play an away game, he and his parents would watch rugby on TV. Loudly. Loki was the only one who didn’t care much for the sport and frequently asked them to keep it down.

“One of these days,” his father said with determination, “Sweden will go back to Rugby World Cup and we’ll have our chance.”

“You know I hope for the same, father,” Thor replied. “But Sweden has to become much better as a team if they hope to compete in the World Cup. Hell, the United States is going to the World Cup and these people don’t even watch rugby!”

His father scoffed at the notion and drank a large gulp of his beer. “That the United States has a rugby team competing internationally that its people don’t even know about is a crime,” he griped. “Oh well. Hopefully Australia will have their chance to beat New Zealand in the World Cup next year.”

“We can only hope,” Thor said raising his own beer. His father laughed as he toasted to that and drank deeply.

With that, Thor excused himself to get back to work, taking his bag upstairs to his room so he wouldn’t get distracted. This American school system seemed to think that every student, particularly those in advanced classes, only ever took one or two classes at ta time. The only good thing about the first day of school was that at least the homework was relatively less time intensive than it usually was. He managed to get finished around 11. He sighed with relief as he finished the calculus he was working on and threw his pencil down on his desk.

Finally, he thought. He closed his eyes for a moment and let his shoulders relax. One hand came and massaged his neck, relieving some of the tension that collected there. He got up and twisted his back, sighing with content as it popped and cracked. He sighed and picked up a pair of pyjama pants he had discarded that morning and changed into them before collapsing onto his bed. His last thought before he fell asleep went back to his mother’s response to his defending Steve when he got to school.

Ridiculous, he thought again.

[hoshi-kawaii]

Seeing Blue

Seeing Blue, a Yuri!!! On Ice Fan Fiction by zerOphelia

Summary: Being an artist is hard enough, but being an artist who can't see color can kill your career. Lucky for Victor, the cute Japanese boy who just left his store has him seeing blue. Victuuri Art College Soulmate AU. ff.net AO3

The shop door opened with a light ring of a bell, alerting Victor to the presence of a customer. Victor remained seated at the checkout counter, calling out a greeting without removing himself from his sketchbook.

“Do you need help finding anything?”

A quiet, “No, thank you,” answered in return.

The reply was enough to let Victor know he would still have a few more moments to work on his piece. It was only some base work for his next assignment, but he was taking it seriously. After all, this would be the last assignment of his college career and in just a few months he would be facing the harsh realities of the job market.

He wiped his fallen bangs out of his eyes, a smudge of charcoal going unnoticed on his cheek. His brows furrowed together in thought as he tried to flesh out his ideas. Victor Nikiforov prided himself in doing the unexpected. This was how he had made it so far: to be one of the top students in one of America's most prestigious art schools.

With each drawing, Victor soared to new heights. His realistic portrayals of both familiar and unfamiliar scenes of life repeatedly left his audience breathless as he lit himself ablaze of dazzling, monochromatic flames. They would praise him as he fell back to the Earth in a rain of ash, only to rise again upon a bed of their expectation.

Yet increasingly, Victor finds the puddle of ash at his feet grow larger. He struggles to give the lifeless dust new form. His body is left stained with charcoal, his art lost in the deep shadows of his colorless world. After all, life can only offer one so much in black and white.

Art is unforgiving to those with unmatched souls, cursed to live an flat, achromic existence. The use of color bred great art, the art that stands the tests of time. But one could only paint with color if one could see it to begin with. The only way this could happen is if one were to meet his soulmate.

So far, Victor had not been so lucky.

Growing up, he dreamed of nothing but the ability to see color. Elementary school started off with torturous lessons of common pigments found in nature. Young Vitya had groaned to his mother in the frustration of learning about something he couldn't see. She smiled softly and told him that one day he would be thankful for knowing that the sky is blue and the grass is green.

As he grew older he begged his parents to describe colors to him. What was the shade of his hair like? Or his eyes? If the day sky and the night sky were both blue, why did they look so different? It was difficult, but they did their best to humor him.

In high school, Victor fell in love with poetry and literature. He longed to know: What was so warm about the sunset? What was so crisp and beautiful about the ocean? What made the bloom of spring so different from the dead of winter?

These questions struck deep into his core with a pain that almost caused him to curse out loud the sadistic nature of fate. He stared at his sketchbook like it had betrayed him, the page before his eyes a mess of soft, grey streaks. Why did his art have to be so goddamn lifeless?

The sound of items hitting the wooden counter before him interrupted Victor’s inner admonishment.

“Yes,” he responded to the awaiting customer, stashing his sketchbook on a shelf below the counter where no one would have to see. He cleaned the residual evidence off his fingers and on the waist of his black cardigan. “Sorry about that.” Victor offered a bright, apologetic smile.

The Asian boy on the other side of the counter blushed slightly, replying in a warm, accented voice, “No worries.”

Victor’s smile sat more naturally upon his lips at the sound, his eyes briefly trailing over the form across from him. The Asian boy had black hair so deep it shined and glasses that covered his down-shifted gaze. Victor smirked because somehow he found this nervousness incredibly cute.

He examined the customer’s order and searched for a topic of idle chit chat. His purchase included black and white paint and two canvases. Chances are he, too, was unmatched, but it wasn't exactly a polite topic of conversation.

“This is high-quality paint you got here. You seem to know your stuff.”

The customer chuckled lightly, adjusting his glasses. “Thanks? I actually attend the art college near here. I'm glad to know their teachings are useful.”

Victor looked up sharply from where he had been adding up the purchase in the register.

So cute nervous boy had a sarcastic side to him, huh?

“I go there too!” Victor didn't know what he was letting himself get so swept up for, this was a college town after all. “I’m a senior in the fine arts program.” He paused his work to look over the other boy again, ”I wonder if we've ever seen each other.”

“I'm only in my second year, studying art therapy. We've probably missed each other until now.” The Asian-- Japanese?-- boy turned his gaze towards the window in avoidance of Victor. There was an unsettling pause between the two before he added, “To be honest I usually get my supplies online or at the campus store. But they were out and I couldn't afford to wait for the shipping date. It's good to know this place is here.” His eyes settled again on the counter between the two.

Victor smiled warmly, “Yes, it's a small shop usually overshadowed by the campus store, but we have a good selection here. Though I will admit I'm glad we aren't more busy. This way I can get a lot of sketching done. Your total is $21.47.” Victor began bagging up the items.

A small dusting of gray took over the Asian student’s pale features as he admitted, “Ah, yes. I had noticed you drawing for a bit there. It was beautiful.” He handed over $22 in cash.

Victor simply paused with the money in his hand before the customer added, “You're ending your final year, so the pressure must be high.”

Victor sighed, offering the customer his change and his bag. “You would not believe.” The last word nearly catches in his throat when he finds cute nervous boy’s gaze locked unflinchingly on his face.

Without warning, the student swipes his thumb over Victor’s cheek causing his eyes to blow wide at the contact.

The customer gasps, for some reason reacting with more surprise. “Sorry! I-- Y-you just had some charcoal on your face.” His eyes are staring into Victor’s dead on for just a moment before he forces himself to look away. “I gotta go.”

Victor was taken aback by the odd behavior, but before he knew it he was calling after the man, “Wait! What’s your name?”

The customer stopped in front of the door, standing there for a moment-- as if making some kind of life-altering decision. Opening the door slightly, he turned around and spoke with a shaky voice, “I’m Y-yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki.” The door swiftly closed after him as he exited the building as quickly as he could.

Victor looked after him for a moment, dazed by the encounter. The silence of the store was broken as Victor opened his mouth and repeated the syllables, “Yuuri.”

The world around began to distort and glow as a soft, pleasing shade entered his vision. Victor stilled, frozen in awe of the beauty of the color that entered his life. One moment he was standing in the all-too familiar territory of his workplace and with the utterance of a few lithe syllables he was transported to a plane so distinctly alien.

Everything around him was the same, yet profoundly different. Shades of hue saturated pockets of his vision while others were merely tinted. Staring out the store windows, he was stunned-- confounded with wonder.

So this was what the sky looked like all along? So this is blue?

It took Victor a moment to process all that this meant for him, and he cursed himself as he ran out the door in hopes of catching up with the person who gifted him with this new phenomena. Expectedly, the streets outside were empty. He sighed, running his dusty fingers through his hair. “Yuuri,” He whispered, “I won’t let you get away that easy.”

A few hours later, Yuuri was pulling on his hair, pacing around his apartment as he spilled-all to his roommate.

“What kind of guy am I? What kind of guy meets his soulmate and runs away!?” Yuuri sat on the edge of the couch for a moment before springing back up and continuing to release his nervous energy.

He had ran, because the moment the blue in the shop clerk’s eyes hit him, he didn’t know what else to do. He wandered frantically around town for at least an hour trying to process what was happening to him. He even stopped into the University Wellness Center to make sure he wasn’t having a stroke. The only treatment he received was a very embarrassing pep talk from the campus nurse.

“That happens, I’m sure. There are some crazy stories out there about soul-meetings. It’s not exactly like you can prepare yourself for something you can’t comprehend existing. At least you didn’t go Double Rainbow, right?” Phichit Chulanont was really too pure for this world. He sat on the couch listening to Yuuri and petting one of his hamsters. “But tell me exactly how it happened! What colors can you see?”

“Well,” Yuuri finally stilled for a moment, “I went to brush some dust off his cheek and when he looks at me again, all of a sudden his eyes were glowing with-- with color!” Yuuri’s legs collapsed to the floor. “It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I thought I was going to die.” Yuuri slumped forward, face meeting the floor.

Truth is he still felt like he was going to die. But of embarrassment. Because in the touching moment that Yuuri finally met his soulmate-- something he never ever thought would happen, by the way-- Yuuri ran away. But again, at least he didn’t go Double Rainbow over some dude’s eyes.

Arigato, Kamisama.

Phichit’s laugh was somewhere between a squeal of delight and a horrifying cackle of extreme amusement. “I love you, but you’re an idiot!” He picked up a pillow and aimed it directly at Yuuri’s butt. “This is so unfair! I want to see color too! Which color do you see?”

“Blue.” Yuuri answered softly, his voice muffled by the carpet. “And I doubt anything could ever be more entrancing.”

“Did you get his name, at least?”

Yuuri sat up properly. “His name tag said ‘Victor’.”

“You actually paid attention to his name tag?” Phichit shot Yuuri an odd look.

Yuuri’s face gather in a blush neither man could really determine. “To be honest, I thought he was attractive even before I could see his eyes. His hair was this really pretty, silky-looking grey color... and it just had this essence like... you know when you see something that is black and you can tell that it’s true color is really black? There's just this quality of completeness. It’s really calming.”

“Wow. That was really beautiful, Yuuri. You got me bawling over here.”

“Shut up! I was a wreck just talking to him as a customer. How am I supposed to face him as my soulmate?” Yuuri buried his face in the nearby pillow, groaning in frustration.

“Woe is me! My name is Katsuki Yuuri! How am I supposed to talk to the super gorgeous boy who has been fated to be my lover since the beginning of time!” Phichit teased.

Yuuri deadpanned, taking the pillow in his hand and tossing it at Phichit with no mercy. “You can be an ass sometimes.”

Phichit grinned. “Too bad I can’t be your ass, or I’d be bound to get some sweet lovin’ sooner than later.”

Yuuri rose, nervous energy forgotten as he took a deep breath and declared, “I’m going to kill you.”

Meanwhile, across campus:

“Yurio!” Victor barged into his friend’s room without warning. Yuri Plisetsky sat in his bed with a guitar on his lap, a notebook of staff paper lying open beside him.

“What the fuck did you just call me?” The blonde replied with a snarl.

“I called you ‘Yurio’. I just met another Yuri, so I’ve decided to call you ‘Yurio’ now.” Victor replied, his tone somewhere between smug and matter-of-fact.

“We’re Russian! Why not just call me ‘Yura’?” Yuri barked, his palm in his face.

Victor pouted. Of course. Victor always pouted around Yurio. For some reason he felt the right to act spoiled around those he had known for most of his life, a prerogative Yuri often wondered what he did to make Victor think belonged to him.

“But what if I want to call him ‘Yura’?”

“Wait,” Yuri set his guitar down, giving Victor his full attention. “Another Yuri? Do you mean Yuuri Katsuki?”

Victor’s eyes widened, his mouth molding into the shape of a heart as he bounced with excitement, “You know him!?”

“Da, I know that pig. We’ve had a few psych classes together. He’s a loser with no confidence. He totally bombed one of our presentations and I told him he should just drop out.” Yurio explained.

Victor suddenly grabbed Yuri by the shoulders, exclaiming, “YOU TOLD MY SOULMATE HE SHOULD DROP OUT?”

“Soulmate? What? That loser is your soulmate!?” Yurio pushed Victor away.

Victor sighed, his expression akin to a lovelorn maiden.

“He just stopped in the store. I could tell right away he was interesting, not to mention completely adorable, but when he told me his name I knew I was a gonner. I met Yuuri Katsuki, and now I can see life through blue-tinted lenses! It’s such a wonderful color, too.”

“Blue, huh.” Yurio snorted, seemingly disinterested. While on one hand he supposed he could be happy the man he saw as an older brother finally found his match, he had a feeling Victor would talk about nothing else for quite a while. Victor had a tendency to be a bit... how should we put it... extra.

“Yurio, please tell me you have his number.” Victor turned to Yuri with eyes that rivaled those of his dog, Makka.

“Why would I have a pig’s number? And stop calling me that stupid name.” Yuri reached for his guitar again.

“You have to help me track him down.”

Yuri hated being told what to do, but he restrained himself and began to play a melody he had been working on. “Why do I have to? Just search for him on social media.”

“You don’t think I tried? The kid is like a ghost! He has no facebook and his instagram hasn’t been updated in MONTHS. PLEASE, Yurio! You’re the only connection I have right now.”

“Stop calling me that.” He set his guitar down once more, looking Victor dead-on. Yuri hated that those stupid eyes actually had some kind of effect on him. He looked away, conceding, “If I help you, you’re gonna owe me big time.”

Victor threw himself at Yuri’s feet, hugging his waist tightly in gratitude. “Thank you!”

“Disgusting, get off me!” Yurio pushed at Victor’s head, pissed that Victor was actually stronger than him. “His roommate is part of the music program and we have a class together. They’re pretty close and I’m sure he would help you out.”

“Perfecto!” Victor leaned in to give his “little brother” a kiss on the head.

“I swear to God, Vitya, your lips touch me and you die.”

The next day, Victor sat restless on his stool at the art supply shop. His shift ended in less than one hour. One hour and he would rush across campus to meet Yurio after his seminar. The blonde boy had agreed to detain Phichit, Yuuri’s roommate, after class so Victor could talk to him and hopefully get in contact with Yuuri that night.

As usual, things were slow and Victor was attempting to work on his artwork. His mind buzzed with thoughts of the cute Japanese boy he had met the day before. Many times during his shift he caught himself tracing the lines of Yuuri’s face into the paper. His glasses perched on an unbearably adorable nose, the tresses of his soft black hair.

If Victor had known that customer was his soulmate, he would have worked harder to burn the sweet image of his smile into his brain.

His mind wandered to the only information he knew about his match: he was from Japan (or Victor assumed based on his accent and a few old photos on his instagram), he was a sophomore, he painted, his major was art therapy. From what Yurio told him, Yuuri wasn’t good at speaking in front of a crowd.

Victor sighed, setting his most recent sketch of Yuuri (because somehow in the last 24 hours he managed to fill ten pages) down on the counter, resting his cheek on his palm. He stared at the image like it would come to life and start talking and on some level, Victor himself felt alive.

He felt heavy, burdened by anxiety of new love and stress of tracking that love down, but all at once: he felt light.

Light because life had returned to him and returned to his art as his eyes had started to perceive the world in a different way.

Light because love was in his grasp and it made his heart soar higher than ever before, beating rapidly with anticipation of what new possibilities were before him.

Light because he finally shed the ash of the cold, gray world.

“You got my chin wrong.”

Victor’s eyes flew open, his head pulled down from the clouds by the sound of a familiar accent. His gaze refocused, and was met directly with a bottle of turquoise paint. His head lifted higher to find the subject of his mind’s occupation standing opposite him, and his butt had never left a seat faster than this moment.

“Yuuri!” Victor nearly fell over the counter.

Yuuri smiled brightly. “I’m glad you remember me, Victor.”

Victor’s chest popped and fizzed, threatening to burst open at the sound of his name on his soulmate’s lips. Yuuri’s lips.

“How did you--?”

“You’re wearing a nametag.” Yuuri pointed to Victor’s chest.

Victor’s eyes followed Yuuri’s finger unknowingly, but stopped instead on the bottle of blue paint Yuuri had previously placed before him.

“Blue.” Victor blurted before meeting Yuuri’s eyes, caught completely off guard by this surprise attack. He had a whole plan for meeting Yuuri in the evening. He would meet with Phichit and convince him to take him to wherever Yuuri was and then charm the pants off his soulmate. Figuratively and maybe even literally. “You! We’re--”

“Yeah.” Yuuri smiled softly, acknowledging their cosmic relationship.

Smooth.

“Urgh!” Victor’s legs gave out as he slumped onto the shop floor. He turned his back to the counter, burying his face in his hands.

“Victor?” Concern and surprise leaked through Yuuri’s tone.

“This isn’t fair!” Victor could no longer contain his embarrassment. “I had a plan to talk to your roommate and track you down. I was gonna prepare myself to speak to you and ask you out to coffee. Getting caught drawing pictures of you in my sketchbook was not part of that plan.”

Behind him Yuuri laughed.

“How can you be so cool?” Victor asked.

“Cool?” Yuuri froze. “Are you kidding? I ran away from you, remember? I was up all night trying to figure out what to say to you. I paced in front of the store for an hour before I came in. A cop actually stopped me for suspicious behavior.”

“You’re lying.” Victor turned to stand on his knees, his face half-hidden by the counter as he looked up at Yuuri.

“I’m not. I sort of wish I was, though.” Yuuri’s face flushed, and as it did Victor’s eyes began to pick up on the pink pigments of the blood beneath beautiful peachy skin. He stared, mesmerized as Yuuri continued, “I-I came in quietly a-and only calmed down when I saw you sketching.”

Victor could tell from the stuttering that Yuuri was also experiencing this new phenomena. He rose to his feet, and Yuuri’s blush deepened as Victor leaned closer over the counter.

The spread of color only lured Victor in. Yuuri froze as the pale hand of an artist rested against his hot cheek. He gulped, but willed himself to continue talking-- to distract himself from the fact that Victor’s face was approaching his own with dangerous speed.

“If you were sketching me... I knew you had to be as occupied by me as I am by you.” Yuuri’s eyes drew closed as if by gravity.

“Yuuri.” Victor whispered, “You’re so cute.”

Before Yuuri’s face had the chance to burn brighter, Victor’s closed any short distance still left between them, connecting two bodies by the lips for one brief moment.

Victor simply looked at his soulmate, his amused, heart-shaped smile full of fondness. Yuuri stood absolutely still, shocked expression lingering longer than either of them expected. Victor let out a small giggle.

This is going to be fun.

Yuuri finally cleared his throat, though it did nothing to stop his voice from cracking as he spoke, “So, um... You said something about coffee...”

Victor laughed again. “I get off in about twenty minutes.” He reached to comb his fingers through a few tousled strands of Yuuri’s hair, “Think you can wait that long?”

Yuuri’s eyes trailed Victor’s every movement. He released a breath he had apparently been holding, a small cough escaping shortly after as he choked on his own saliva. “Y-yeah. I’ll just... um...” Yuuri looked around nervously, his mind unable to focus on how on Earth he could pass any amount of time away from the man in front of him.

“Why don’t you keep me company until then?” Victor smirked, pointing with his head over to a second stool behind the counter.

“O-okay.”

Victor lifted the small counter-top separator, ushering the Japanese man behind the divider and over to the stool before taking a seat himself. In the back of his mind he debated whether or not his boss would mind, but he doubted it. Nicolai was a kind man and the two were almost like family.

“So, Yuuri, tell me what project you’re working on right now.” Victor gave his soulmate his full attention, lips turned up in an unwavering smile, blue eyes swimming with awe.

Unspeakable happiness flowed through Yuuri’s veins as he began, “Well...”

[ellanainthetardis]

Hi! Could you write something about jealousy Effie to Hazell? I know you wrote like that, but maybe here you could put something where Hazell soothes Effie, saying that Haymitch loves her. Well, or something like that but with this sense. Thank you!!!

Here you go! [X]

Of Old Friends, Folded Clothes And Battlefronts

There was only so much cleaning Effie could doin the small compartment that was her home away from home in Thirteen.

Everything was spotless, all the pieces ofclothing in the room had been folded and put away, she had reorganized theridiculously tiny bathroom…

She dropped on the chair and propped her elbowson the table, burying her face in her hands. Typically, she had tricks to focusall that restless energy: do her nails, smoke a cigarette, sketch clothes… Herfake nails had been torn away at her arrival and she didn’t have a manicureset, she hadn’t been able to find a single cigarette in the District and paperwas too important to be wasted awaywith doodles – or so she had been made aware during a briefing.

She had nothing to do but wait and it wasdriving her mad.

The knock on the door sent her heart racing.Plutarch had promised he would send someone to fetch her as soon as there wouldbe news – that hadn’t stopped her from making a fuss when Coin had banished herfrom Command but it had, at least, reassured her a little. She was terrified ofwhat the news would be, she realized.

She had known sending Katniss to Two was a badidea. She had argued against it from the very beginning. You don’t expose yourfigurehead, that seemed obvious to her. Katniss was the drive of this rebellionand… Sending her into combat…

The speech had been impressive for somethingmade up on the moment, as always with the girl – it had been powerful enoughthat she had forgiven her for not using the one she and Plutarch had worked onfor hours. It was live, it wasimpressive and it would probably have convinced Peacekeepers to defect to theirside all over the country if the man hadn’t opened fire on the Mockingjay.Katniss had gone down. Haymitch had rushed from the side. The feed had cut notlong after that.

Effie had studied Cinna’s sketches and designs.She had inspected the Mockingjay’s outfit before helping the girl to put it on.She knew that Katniss would most likely be fine. She wasn’t one hundred percentcertain but she knew the outfit wasbulletproof and the soldiers would evacuate her as a priority.

What she didn’t know, on the other hand, waswhat Haymitch had been thinking he was doing rushing in the middle of acrossfire when he had no gun and no bulletproof jacket.

Idiot.

Idiot.

Why hadn’t he been properly equipped if he hadbeen on the front?

When he would come back, she was going to sew a bulletproof vest on his back so hecould never take it off. And she would add pink and glittery embroideries just to spite him.

He would beback.

He hadto.

“Come in.” she called with a voice that wasmore shaky than she cared to acknowledge.

She prided herself on her self-control afterall.

The door slid open just enough for HazelleHawthorne to step through. It remained ajar behind her and Effie focused on theshadows the harsh neon lamps from the corridor tossed on the floor. The lightsinside the compartments weren’t as powerful as the ones outside. She wasn’tsure why. She missed natural sunlight. She was starting to get claustrophobicdown there.

“Miss Trinket.” Hazelle said, a note ofchallenge in her voice.

Always a note of challenge in her voice.

She had first met the woman on the day of the Quell’sReaping and while she had been glad to see that Haymitch had finally hired a housekeeper, she hadn’t beenpleased to learn the housekeeper in question was an old friend. They were too close for her comfort. Haymitch didn’thave any women close friends, hebarely had any close friends. Effiewas used to being his only ally, she was used to him being her only ally. He was the one she trusted above all others and shewas as close to him as he would allow anyone to be. She liked it that way.

She didn’t like old friends from the pastcoming back into his life.

All the more so when the friend was relativelypretty, confident and clearly interested.

“Mrs Hawthorne.” she replied, a beat too late.A tad less defiantly than usual too.

She wouldn’t have minded fighting forHaymitch’s attention right then. It would have meant Haymitch was there and inone piece and not…

“You… You can call me Hazelle.” the womanoffered, suddenly deflating. “I was wondering… I’ve been asking for news butnobody will answer me and…”

Oh. Of course. Gale was in Two and where Katnisswas the boy usually was too, in the thick of the fight. Effie honestly couldn’tremember if she had spotted him before the feed had cut, she hadn’t beenlooking.

“I am terriblysorry, they asked me to step out of the room.” she cut the woman off, shakingher head. “I do not know anything more.” The worry on the woman’s face was sucha perfect echo of the one she was feeling that Effie felt any animosity towardher melt away. “Plutarch will tell me as soon as they know something if… Youcould wait here with me.”

It clearly wasn’t an offer the woman had beenexpecting but she took a hesitant step toward the empty chair and then a moreconfident one and before Effie could process it, Hazelle was sitting in frontof her across the table.

And it was awkward.

The hostility between them had barely been veiled by civility eversince Haymitch had introduced them – well, Effie had introduced herself afterhe had failed to do so.

“Would you care for something to drink?” sheoffered because it was the polite thing to do.

She was out of her chair before Hazelle evenanswered, glad to have an excuse to dosomething. Except it was only once she was standing on her own two feetthat she realized all she could give her guest was tap water. They weren’tallowed any sort of beverage in their room. They weren’t allowed much of anything in their room.

“No, thank you.” Hazelle answered.

Effie considered sitting back down, as was onlyproper, but she couldn’t resolve herself to immobility. Immobility was so not her. She needed to be in movement. She needed to…

“I am certain they are fine.” she declaredfirmly, as cheerfully as she could manage.

The woman looked at her as if she wascompletely crazy and Effie fled her gaze, heading to the sleeping area and thepile of clothes she had folded and put aside on the spare bed – the clothesHaymitch had left behind and she had picked up from her floor at one point oranother, most of the clothes he had been given in this place, really. Shewondered what was left in his room because it looked like almost everything wasright there on the spare bed: undershirts to the right, then the shirts, theunderwear, the socks, the heavy woolen sweater…

She grabbed the sweater and slipped her arms inthe sleeves. She wrapped herself in it and briefly smelled the collar. Hissmell clung to the wool, slightly off because of Thirteen’s basic odorless soapand the lack of liquor.

She wondered if the only reason she had neverbeen assigned a roommate when everyone in the District was sharing was becausethe situation suited both Haymitch and Plutarch. Haymitch technically livedwith the Gamemaker but spent all his spare time in her room, which afforded himthe pretence of this being nothing more than recreational and allowed Plutarcha privacy most sought after in that place.

“Haymitch wasn’t wearing a bulletproof jacket.Was he?” Hazelle asked.

Effie wandered back to the main room, fistingthe woolen sweater in her hands. “No.”

There was no hiding the anxiety in her voice.

Not even her escort persona could manage thatfeat. And yet acting like Twelve’s escort was the only thing keeping herupright. Her masks were necessary, her shields, her armors… But withoutmake-up, without wigs and glamorous dresses… Her masks were fragile.

And right now she wasn’t sure they weren’tcracked.

“He is too clever to get himself killed likethat.” Hazelle joked but it sounded hollow. Wishful thinking maybe. “Theyprobably evacuated Katniss, right? Gale… Gale will be with her. He has to be,he’s there for her protection or something… That’s what he said. That’s what…”

“The rebels will move heaven and earth to takeKatniss to safety.” she confirmed. “And I do not imagine your son will let herout of his sight.”

“No…” Hazelle half-scoffed, half-chuckled. “Ican’t imagine that either…”

Effie slowly sat back down at the table,pulling distractedly on the too long sleeves.

“Your boy is very handsome.” she commentedbecause it was the only positive thing she could think about Gale Hawthorne.The young man was barely polite with her and only so because of Katniss, he wasvery anti-Capitol and a little too… rash forher tastes. Besides, well… She supposed when it came down to it, she was onPeeta’s team.

“He’s brave.” the woman whispered, rubbing herface. “I wish he wasn’t so brave.”

“He is brave.”she granted, her gaze darting to the still open door. No one appeared though.Not a soldier coming to fetch her and not Plutarch.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Stupid girl who could not listen when people told her to be careful.

Stupid girl who had to be a hero…

Stupid man who couldn’t stop to think for two seconds…

Stupid man…

Stupid…

“How long does it take to re-establish radio contact?” she huffed, talking to herselfmore than to Hazelle. “Surely Boggsmust have reported back by now.”

“I’m sure Katniss’s fine.” the woman hesitated.

“I am not worried about Katniss.” she snapped. “Well… I ambut…” But the Mockingjay’s outfit was as close to being a wearable fortressas possible. “Haymitch should nothave been out there in the first place. He has no business going on the front lines. He forgets he is not younganymore. He forgets…”

She stopped herself and shook her head, alarmedto feel the treacherous burn of tears. She bit down on her thumb nail, cursingherself for resorting to habits her mother had driven out of her the hard way.She stared at the door, waiting…

“You really care about him.” Hazelle commented.

The surprise was clear in her voice and Effiescoffed. “Of course, I do.”

The woman studied her for a long time and thenlooked down at her own hands. “I believe he cares about you too. I haven’t seenhim… I haven’t seen him acting like that witha woman since… Well… A long time.”

She wanted to argue Haymitch only cared so much but lately… He had been betterat expressing – without saying the words – that she was important to him. Shesupposed it had a lot to do with Thirteen and the fact they were safer there,that it was actually better for her to be perceived as close to him rather than expendable… They were more… free. At least, they had the illusion offreedom. She wasn’t entirely convinced that District was better than theCapitol.

“You are a good friend of his.” Effie observed,keeping her tone light even though the hint of steel pierced underneath. Shewas a master at layers, after all. Say one thing and mean another…

Hazelle wasn’t fooled by the apparentcasualness.

“I’ve known him a long time.” the womanconfirmed with a small almost indulgent smile. “We used to run with the samegroup of friends. He had eyes only for Mabel at that time. A bit like with younow.”

Effie studied her, trying to figure out if shewas sincere or not. The worry hadn’t really left the woman’s face and she hadclearly bigger fish to fry than Haymitch’s love life…

Effie relaxed a little.

Not much but a little.

“I am sure Gale is alright.” she offered, moregenuinely this time.

Hazelle flashed her a strained smile but beforeshe could answer, there was a single knock on the door. Plutarch didn’t stepinside, he remained on the threshold, barely looking up from the tablet in hishand.

“Good news, Effie. The hovercraft is on its wayover as we speak. Katniss is injured but the doctors are confident her life isnot in danger.” the Head Gamemaker explained “If you would be so kind, I needhelp right now. I want to film their arrival. I am not sure we can use thefootage but… just in case.”

Effie blinked, breathing out in relief. “Whatabout Haymitch?”

Plutarch looked up, his features softening. “Haymitchis fine.” His gaze darted to the other woman. It took a second for him to placeher but then he smiled. “So is Gale.”

Hazelle buried her face in her hands in reliefand Effie found herself squeezing her forearm in comfort. She didn’t have muchtime to come to terms with the whole thing though. Plutarch dragged her awayand gave her orders disguised as suggestions.

She was barely more than a glorified assistant.

Still, she was glad to be asked to supervisethe camera crew because it allowed her to be in the hangar when the hovercraftlanded. She made sure Katniss’ arrival on a gurney was filmed but she didn’ttry to follow after them. There was a medical team with her and Plutarch had sworn she would be alright so shedirected her attention to the other people walking out of that hovercraft.

It took all she had to walk rather than run.

Haymitch looked a little dazed. There was agash hastily patched with plaster over his eyebrow but he looked otherwiseunhurt. His eyes tracked the gurney as it was swallowed by the corridor andthen snapped to her as if following asixth sense.

Effie didn’t toss herself at his neck. Shedidn’t kiss him senseless. She didn’t slap him for his utter idiocy…

“I see you managed not to get yourself killed.”she mocked. At least she tried. Hervoice betrayed her. He briefly met her eyes and then pulled her into a hug. Shemelt against him, sneaking one arm around his waist and another behind him tograb his shoulder. “You scared me.”she whispered in his ear.

The hangar was buzzing with activity but shebarely noticed. Truth be told, she didn’t think he did either.

“Scared myself.” he mumbled back, his shoulderssagging. “I need to check on Katniss.”

He was shaking a little. She was pretty sure itwasn’t from the cold but she stepped back, slipped off the sweater she hadstolen and handed it to him. He pulled it on with a grateful quirk of the lipsthat didn’t manage to turn into a real smirk.

“Are you alright?” she asked quietly.

She didn’t dare reach for that wound on hisforehead. Later. Once they would be back in their room. Then she would touchand kiss and soothe. Then he might let go a little and told her how it trulywas.

“I need to check on Katniss.” he repeated.

That wasn’t really an answer.

But then again, given what they had done at theNuts in Twelve, how many men had lost their lives… She didn’t expect him to be.

So she let him go.

It was alright.

She knew he would seek her out eventually.