#learning through osmosis and half truths is the best learning

[natalieh0490]

Does anyone else accidentally crossover into fandoms. Like you either read a really good crossover fan-fiction or find a summary for a fan fiction connected to a source you haven’t experienced that looks really good and read it anyway. Then you find yourself diving into a fandom and realize you do not know what is canon and what is fanon and you don’t want to ruin the characters you have built up in your head so you just never get around to reading/watching the source material.

#fandom #fanfic #wandering around and picking stuff up of the ground and going this is neat #then moving on and vibing in the confusion #learning through osmosis and half truths is the best learning #ao3 stuff

[donveinot]

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Phantom Children [DP x Batman Crossover] Ch. 1

Disclaimer: It's been a while since I watched DP and the only Batman/DC stuff I've interacted with are B:TAS, the JL cartoons, and what I got from fandom osmosis so don't expect any sort of canon compliance.

In Which: the author takes advantage of the passage of time in Nanda Parbat being wonky and Danny doesn't give up, per se, but is sort of resigned to being stuck with the League of Assassins until further notice.

AO3 | Prologue | [ 1 ] | 2 |

CW for descriptions of non-consensual drug use (if there's anything you guys would like me to tag, please tell me)

-----

WHEN SOMETHING WENT WRONG WITH DANNY’S LIFE, it was usually because of one or two things: Ghosts or Vlad. And considering their truce and how even Vlad wouldn’t go this far (at least, Danny hoped), Danny was kidnapped because of ghosts. Or his association with ghosts.

Though how an organization of ninja-assassins got wind of his ‘unique’ circumstance was beyond him. The shackles they slapped on his wrists were more a formality than anything after the second time he tried to escape them with intangibility. The only reason they managed to get him contained the entire trip from Amity Park to wherever the fuck Nanda Parbat lay was because of the cocktail of drugs they pumped into his system spiked with blood blossoms.

Danny had to give it to them. The League of Assassins might not have any anti-ecto weaponry, but they did their homework.

He barely remembered the trip. He catches flashes—blurry figures and words he couldn’t comprehend. A warm hand holding his, a thumb rubbing smooth circles on the back of his palm and calloused fingers running through his hair.

When he awoke, it was in a room bigger than his bedroom. His ankle was shackled to a bedpost, and the only door leading out was locked. There was a separate room for the bathroom off to the side and a shelf stacked with books decorating the otherwise bare walls, but other than that there wasn’t much else. Not even windows.

Intangibility, he learned, wasn’t an option. The blood blossoms in his bloodstream were still in circulation, rendering his transformation useless. If his nose was right, his captors were pumping blood blossoms from the vents. The sickly sweet of the flower was faint in the cool air, but the slight red haze that persisted in the room was unmistakable.

He tried, regardless. The rings barely made it half-way before his knees buckled and he started retching all over the floor. At least his stomach was empty.

-------

Danny doesn’t know how long he’s been in Nanda Parbat. Time moved differently here. Faster, he thought. He doesn’t really understand how or why, though sometimes he wondered what Clockwork thought of all of this.

(There are times, in the darkness and solitude of his cell, when Danny would call for Clockwork to rescue him. Quietly, so quietly, it was barely even a whisper. But Clockwork would hear it—Danny was sure he would. Clockwork helped him out before, so this time shouldn’t be all that different. But at the end of the night, nothingness would answer him. And Danny had to learn over and over again that even the Ghost of Time had his own rules to follow.)

It had taken a few days and Talia nearly biting the head off of the League’s physician for them to realize that blood blossoms would be an awful way to contain him. Effective at immobilizing him, yes, but the flowers left him about as helpless as Superman in a kryptonite cave.

“It all works out in the end,” Talia would say. “The blossoms were never going to become a long-term solution; you might end up developing an immunity to them given enough exposure.”

Though knowing now what Talia’s ‘long-term plan’ was for making sure Danny didn’t slip through the walls of the headquarters and fly across the ocean, Danny would rather take his chances with the blood blossoms.

Danny might not have been as smart as Vlad, but he was tricky and creative when he needed to be. He knows he’s powerful. And sure, he might forget some of his own abilities every now and then, but that doesn’t mean he can’t use them. In the time he’s been stuck in the Leage’s lair (and coherent), Danny had thought of a dozen escape plans, each one with a high chance of success. If he made an attempt, he could guarantee the League wouldn’t notice until he was a quarter-way across the globe.

Escaping wasn’t the problem. That would be the easy part.

His core burned at the thought of it. And it hurt—as if his entire being was dunked in a vat of dry ice and left to freeze. He hated how he was here and everything that he was protecting was far. Away.

Danny wanted to go home. Wanted to read comic books in his bed, play Doom with Tucker and Sam, sleep in class and make fun of the Box Ghost. He wants to eat his mom’s food, even if there’s a fifty-fifty chance that it would come alive and try to eat him instead. He wants to listen to Jazz try to psychoanalyze his problems. Wants to go fishing with his dad and eat his famous chocolate fudge. Wants to fly above the skies of Amity Park and touch what little he can of the universe before he’s called down again.

Amity Park is his haunt. His Home. The soft hum of the Ghost Portal in the basement a lullaby he’s listened to for so long that sleeping without it was next to impossible. Every fiber of his being craved to go back because how is he supposed to protect Amity if he isn’t there?

But to go back meant sacrificing everyone.

Danny doesn’t risk it.

(The—the last time was an accident. If Danny isn’t—if he isn’t careful, this time it may be an assassination. He refused to have his family’s death on his hands again.)

He has faith in Sam, Tucker, and Jazz to hold down the fort until he could find a way to escape. They’re smart. Smarter than him. They’ll work something out and—in a worst-case scenario, they’ll find a way to shut down the Ghost Portal to stop the ghosts from coming through.

Logic meant nothing to his ghost core, though. The next best thing to do was to drown out his worries with the League’s rigorous education.

Hand-to-hand and weapons combat. Geography. History. Dozens of foreign languages. Poisons and herbology and basic first-aid. His days are packed with new things to learn and to repeat until it’s drilled into his skull so deep he could recite the information in his sleep. (Hyosycamus niger, aka Henbane. Every part is highly toxic and can cause dizziness, stupor, insanity, and eventual death. It’s medicinal uses range from--)

The League demanded perfection. The Demon’s Head demanded even more than that.

Talia oversaw his education. Sometimes, there would be another, older, man by her side, observing his regimen with cold calculation. Whenever that man arrived, Danny’s instructors were always stricter.

His teachers made little effort to interact with him outside of their set schedule, and during his lessons they only ever answer pertinent questions. He supposed there would be other students of the League in Nanda Parbat, but he’s seen neither hide nor hair of them. His rooms (a bedroom + bathroom combo that led out into a large indoor space for training) are separate from everything else.

Danny slept alone, ate alone, and trained alone. And for a boy who has had his two best friends stuck to his side like glue for as long as he could remember, it’s a terribly lonely experience.

His shadow guards don’t count. They might as well be another piece of furniture. Another stone in the wall.

-------

Talia was the only one that broke his new mundane routine, as much as she was the cause of it. She was his only source of companionship in this hell hole; the only one who would really speak to him. And yeah, he knew why that was. Jazz had rambled on enough about Stockholm syndrome to know that this ‘arrangement’ was Talia’s attempts at forging a bond between them. But godit’s just so hard to be stuck inside your own mind all day when. It made him think too much. Worry. (Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif).

And then—

And then.

Danny had asked Talia a multitude of questions, but only two did she ever answer. Both asked when he was still trying to flush the drug cocktail and the blood blossoms from his system.

The first was when he asked, “Why am I here?” She answered that it was because Ra’s al Ghul, her father, wanted him. He had knowledge the Demon’s Head wanted; powers that Ra’s could only ever dream of. The man was curious—though Talia assured him over and over again that Danny wouldn’t be vivisected and studied for science.

The second answer came right after when Danny asked her “How could you be so sure?”

Talia smiled. Lacquered fingers coming up to brush away the dark strands that fell over his face. Her hands traced the curve of his jaw, cupping his cheeks to raise his eyes to hers. “Because you are my son,” she said, voice honey sweet.

He jerked from her hold.

Burned by it.

“You’re lying,” he spat. “I’m already someone else’s son. Try again.”

Talia let her hands drop to her sides. “You are my son.” She took a step closer towards him. Steady. Firm. “That is why you are here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A pitying smile. “Be that as it may, you cannot change the truth.” She approached him, slowly backing him against the wall before she reached out to tilt his chin upwards. Some traitorous part of Danny’s mind catalogued her features. Made connections that shouldn’t exist. “I have carried you in my womb, Daniel. You were a part of me for so very long and I loved you more with each passing day. You are of my body and of my blood—not matter how much you may deny it.”

“No.” He pushed her hands away and raked his hands over his hair. “You’re lying.” She must be. They don’t look alike. Not at all. Everyone always said he was his dad’s—Jack Fenton’s—exact copy. Black haired and blue eyed and sharp-jawed. Awkward but well-meaning and with a heart of gold, his mother said. It was once of the facts of life; Danny took after his dad, and Jazz took after their mom. Simple as that.

(There is a memory resurfacing from his early childhood that Danny is desperately trying to repress again. Memories of kids teasing him on the playground, innocently cruel in the way only children can be as they tried to convince him he was adopted. That his skin looked nothing like his parents’. Dusky where his parents and sister were fair. He went home crying to his parents that same day, and they soothed away his worries with hushed words and a well-timed distraction.)

He asked no more questions after that. Talia was lying to him for some reason, and no answer she could give would be trustworthy anyways. What little of him he could see in her was only a figment of his own imagination. His mind playing cruel tricks.

Then his hopes were dashed aside when Talia showed him a picture of his father a day later.

The man in the photo looked like him. Black haired and eyes the same shade of too-bright blue. There were differences, of course. The man in the photograph was fairer, unlike Danny. He was taller and broader where Danny was lean and lanky. But despite this and all the other minute differences, this man who was supposed to be Danny’s biological father looked like him.

The same slant of the brow. The same shape of the eyes. The way the man held himself with this sense of gravitas and power that Danny couldn’t yet do in his awkward teenage years but had seen before. In a monster another man.

Danny’s future self was terrifying in its inhumanity, but it didn’t take that much of an imagination to know that he looked almost exactly like the man in the picture.

#danny phantom #batman #danny phantom x batman crossover #cw; drug use #phantom children.txt

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Drifters ch.7 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Edge and Red have a brotherly dispute. It goes great.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Violence, Rescued Child, Medical Experimentation, Babybones

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Edge had gone long nights without sleep before. As a child, he’d often spent the night curled up with his brother in hidden corners and caves, struggling for any measure of warmth beneath threadbare blankets as they both kept half-awake listening for any telltale footsteps coming their way.

As an adult, he often stayed awake on his own accord. There was always work to be done, whether for the guard or simple housekeeping, and he subsisted on no more than four hours of sleep a night. It was sufficient to replenish his magic and that was all that was necessary. Armed with that knowledge, it made it very difficult to understand why caring for an infant throughout a single night seemed so much worse.

Every two hours, she woke crying for a bottle, with enough accuracy he could nearly set a clock by it. It would start with a whimper and before Edge could even throw back the blankets, her screams would reach their peak earsplitting volume. Even Stretch couldn’t sleep through those wails and the first two times, he’d been the one to stagger downstairs for a bottle. Edge was certain on the last occasion he never opened his eye sockets, and he was torn on whether teleporting in the midst of exhaustion was more or less a danger than the chance he might fall down the stairs.

Rather than test that theory, Edge went to heat the bottle the next time and if he’d thought trying to comfort the baby while waiting for her meal to arrive was difficult, standing over a pot of water trying to will it to heat faster was somehow worse. At least he could attempt to reason with a baby, physics obeyed no rules but their own.

Each time she would drain the bottle and then immediately fall back asleep. The logistics of it were so simple, retrieve bottle, feed baby, then back to sleep. She didn’t even require a diaper change like so many other infants would, so why was this so blasted exhausting. His current belief was that somehow her cry drained energy like some sort of localized version of a vampiric spell and next time he was determined to run a check on himself to ascertain the truth.

But that would have to wait until they’d all gotten some rest. After her last bottle, not only had the chore of washing it out immediately after use been abandoned, so had tucking her into her own bed. In his sleep-deprived state, Edge decided that if she slept by the wall with him between her and Stretch, then she would be safe from being squashed in the night. As a strategy it did work, for about an hour, until Stretch rolled over in his sleep, right off the edge of the mattress to the floor with a loud thump and a louder curse.

Edge managed to wake up enough to check that he hadn’t accidently dusted himself in the fall and then promptly fell back asleep. The child hadn’t woken, that was the important part, and he could only hope that sleeping children didn’t learn foul language through some form of mental osmosis.

When he woke again, it wasn’t to the baby’s cries, but a stream of artificial sunlight coming through the curtains to fall across his face. He cringed away from it, but it was too late. The light was like the angel’s finger poking him directly in the socket, the time for sleep was over, and now he needed to face the harsh light of day.

A bleary look to one side found the bed empty and what remained of the blankets looked as if a tornado struck, not of trash, but one made up of baby’s tears.

Edge peered over the side of the mattress to find Stretch still snoring on the floor. Sleep was perhaps a less accurate description than out cold, he looked as if an alarm clock set atop his skull wouldn’t wake him. On the floor under his mouth was a darkened patch of drool, he was half-tangled in one of the blankets with one bare leg sprawled out across the carpet, toes curling against the cool air, and he did not stir one single inch despite the loudly creaking bedsprings. Plus, the light couldn’t reach him down there. Edge allowed himself a brief instant of rueful resentment before rolling to the other side to deal with the child, who over the course of the evening dwindled from Stretch affectionately calling her a ‘little snow princess’ down to the simply ‘the kid’.

“It’s all right, child, he’ll do better after some rest,” Edge said blearily…to no one at all. The sheet next to him was empty and for a moment, Edge only stared at it uncomprehendingly, cold panic slowly settling in his soul at the unbearable nightmare that was unfolding before him. That Alphys had found them out and come for her, the machine not destroyed enough and instead the portal was lying wide open like a gaping wound as not one, but an army of Underfell Monsters came through.

He shook away that fear before it could take root, dismissing it as impossible. To begin with, her first step would have been to murder them as they slept. Casting aside that panic only allowed a new one to take its place, the mystery of ‘then where is she’ still unanswered.

She was too young to have crawled away, she was nowhere in the room, so that left one last possibility. Edge clambered out of the bed, stepping over Stretch’s prone body as he jerked on the bathrobe and headed out to find his brother.

Who was sitting peaceably on the sofa with his pilfered infant settled contentedly in his lap, staring up at him with wide sockets as her chubby cheek bones puffed out with every suck on her bottle.

Red didn’t even look up as Edge stormed down to stand in front of him. The fury of his glares had never been able to penetrate much through Red’s aura of casual ease. His brother was humming softly, a song that Edge knew the lyrics to quite well and could at least be grateful that Red didn’t choose to share them with the child.

“’bout time you got up, bro,” Red said, singsong sweet. He was laying back against the sofa arm with the baby cradled between his knees. “you was sleepin’ pretty hard up there. kiddo was awake and getting’ ready to start complaining’ when i came in to play fetch.” His tone was easy, but Edge did not miss the sharp censure in his glance, crimson eye lights coolly assessing.

“I wouldn’t count on it happening again,” Edge said coldly. He met his brother’s gaze unflinchingly, waiting until his brother slowly nodded. Apology accepted, as it were, and Red turned his attention back to the baby.

“this little miss is a hungry one.” He gave the bottle an idle tug, grinning as the baby made a querulous noise and clung to it, never pausing in her urgent sucking. “drinks her weight and then some, don’t she. you were the same way, never could scrape up enough chow to keep you happy.” It was fondly said, but Edge only barely kept himself from wincing. He didn’t want to remember days of going hungry, the gnawing, endless emptiness inside his soul, wanted even less to picture the same thing happening to this child.

(never, never, he wouldn’t allow it, he would not)

“I doubt that will change anytime soon. Speaking of which, if you could watch over her, I’ll be going out today.”

“huh?” That got his brother’s attention. “what the fuck for?”

“To find a job of some sort, to begin with,” Edge said, “We can hardly expect the Swap brothers’ to keep paying our way.” He didn’t have the first clue what formula cost, but he suspected that it was not cheap.

“fuck, bro, we’ve been here two minutes and you’re already polishin’ your resume?” Red groaned. “take a day to get settled in, fer cryin’ out loud!”

“There’s no time for that. I was also going to go to the librarby to find a book on childrearing—”

He broke off as Red hooted a harsh laugh. “you serious, bro? you think you’re gonna find an old copy of ‘what to expect with your skele-baby’s first year’? gonna set up some training time with the local moms, mebbe they can teach you their special parenting attacks. you’ll be captain of the childrearing guild in no time, bro, better start working on your uniform now.”

“You—” Edge began and couldn’t continue, only stood listening mutely as his brother’s laughter soured, his words going bitter.

“think i fucked up that bad with you, is that it?”

It wasn’t at all true. He knew very well that his brother did the best he could, he’d been a child himself, he never should have had to help with an infant. He knew that, they both did, but the words refused to come. Before either of them could say another word, spiteful or otherwise, another voice entered the fray, sleep-sodden and mellow.

“you two loud enough down here?” From upstairs and Edge looked up to see Stretch ambling down the stairs, still yawning and rubbing at his sockets. He was only wearing a pair of shorts, the rest of his lanky bones on display from the crown of his skull to his bare toes, and he had no right to look as simply attractive as he did despite the darkened crescents beneath his sockets.

“sorry, sleeping beauty,” Red snorted, “next time we’ll work on our charades instead, how’s this ta start?”

Stretch ignored Red’s upraised middle finger, slouching closer to peer at the baby. “where did the jammies come from?”

Red jerked his head towards the front door where a paper sack was slumped by the various shoes. “your doggo pal dropped off some clothes. didn’t seem to know what to make of me, think maybe he decided blue went for a big fashion change.”

“bet he’ll appreciate hearing about going goth at the next sentry meeting.”

The mention of pajamas made Edge take a closer look at the child. He’d been so relieved to see the baby was safe that he hadn’t even noticed her change in apparel. She looked like a proper baby now, from the cozy footie pajamas to the colorful bib around her neck. The bottle was long since empty, but she hadn’t yet surrendered on the off chance that perhaps a few last drops might yet make an appearance.

Stretch didn’t wait for her to give up on it and simply took it away, scooping her up despite Red’s disgruntled protests, and cuddled her close. “lookin’ good, sugar butt!”

He buzzed a wet, noisy kiss against her cheek bone and she squealed in delight, then hiccoughed, a dribble of milk running from her mouth that dripped down to stain the bib. “uh huh, like that is it, everybody is a critic.” He swung her gently around and Edge automatically took her as Stretch deposited her into his arms, “here, edgelord, the princess needs a bath.”

A bath. That much was certainly true after a restlessness night of milky dribbles.

Edge didn’t move, he only held her uncertainly, shuffling his feet as he reluctantly admitted, “I don’t know how.”

“it’s easy,” Stretch yawned, his spine popping as he raised both arms over his head with a groan, “just bend over. you’ll have to handle it, you’re young and flexible, my back is talking to me like a bowl of rice krispies. wash her like you’d wash your feet. not too hot on the water and there’s bubble bath under the sink. go easy on it or it’ll be like trying to grab a greased watermelon in an ice storm.”

With that direction, Stretch only stared at him expectantly. There was nothing he could say, no protest to be made, and Edge turned on his heel and went back upstairs to the bathroom. He stood by the empty tub, looking down at the baby in his arms. She looked back at him, her thumb firmly in her mouth and her eye lights wide and bright.

So small and delicate, her skull small enough to fit in the cup of his hand. A tiny being composed of fragile bones, it would be entirely too easily for some careless fool to accidentally hurt her. Even if they didn’t mean to, even if they were only trying to help.

He couldn’t do this.

Edge lurched around, heading out the door and ready to call down to Stretch to admit his uselessness when heard his brother’s voice.

“…tryin’ to tell me how to deal with my bro?” So dangerously soft, a warning rarely given for their intended recipient to take care with whatever they said next.

“actually, no, i’m not,” Stretch said. There was a creak of springs as if he’d settled to sit on the sofa. “i wouldn’t do that to you guys. it’s just, he’s not used to all this, so go easy on him, will you? he’s trying really damned hard, he doesn’t need you ragging on him right now about the kid. he thinks the world of you, you gotta know that. so bust his chops about anything else, the baby is off limits. please.”

He couldn’t see downstairs, so he could only imagine what expression was on Stretch’s face that would be enough to make his brother grumble out, “yeah, yeah, honey bun, i get it. lay off until he lands on his feet.”

“thank you. he’s got this, you know. his confidence only took a shake, happens to everyone when they take a step or two out of the comfort zone. give him a little time, he’ll be a whiz. lining up for his best dad coffee mug before we know it.”

“eh, he’s already doing pretty good, ain’t he,” Red said with obvious pride. Edge closed his sockets, swallowing against the sudden thickness in his throat as he listened. “shoulda seen him bustin’ up that lab, kid never hesitated. just grabbed up the little miss and started wreckin’ the joint.”

“i bet. sorry i missed it.” Stretch said, sincerely, and if there was a certain dark satisfaction in those words, it was certainly understandable.

In his arms, the baby began to squirm, and Edge hastily slipped back into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind them. He settled the baby on the bathmat and turned on the taps, adding a single capful of bubble bath and cautiously checking the temperature before kneeling at her side.

“Ready for a bath?” he asked her, already working to gently strip off her pajamas.

He took her gabbling squeal as a yes and if he, and the bathroom, were nearly as wet as she was by the time she was scrubbed clean, well, that was fine. He’d do better next time.

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #drifters

[1-1snailxd-art]

Sanders Sides oneshot fic - Magic Beans

Type: Magic au (kinda...like my own magic universe)

Characters: Logan Sanders, Remy/Sleep, Virgil (Patton and Roman are mentioned)

Relationships: I’m tagging losleep put it’s mostly platonic cause they’re roommates (oh my god they were roommates) and analogical because that’s the bit, implied royality.

Warnings: Remy swears...he said b**ch.

Words: 2032

Summary: Remy steps in when his sleep deprived roommate wants to quit magic school before even attempting to learn magic. A visit to his favourite coffee shop seems like the best way to snap Logan out of the funk he’s in.

Authors note: Look, I was sad, I watched @blinksinbewilderment stream on instagram and they mentioned a losleep/analogical magic coffee shop au (no angst) and I tried something. 

General Taglist (let me know if you want on or off): @thequeensphinx @ollyollyoxinfree @celeste-tyrrell @pumpkinminette

Bonus: @aowrot did some art of Remy (click to see). I approve of his style and floating hat. Honoured to have fanart done for this little tale. 

———————————————

“Girl, you know there is a bed right there for a reason.”

Logan sat up stiffly when the sound of Remy’s voice filled his tired ears, along with the crinkling of paper as he moved.

“I am…aware.” He said, squinting up at the man highlighted by his desk lamp. “I did not intend to sleep here.”

“Well, you did, and if that schedule is correct, you have class in an hour.”

Normally that comment would have caused Logan to bolt upright, but instead he slammed his head against the desk and groaned in frustration. If Remy’s statement on time was correct, he’d probably managed a maximum of 2 hours of uncomfortable sleep and was nowhere near ready to give his presentation on wand construction.

“You learning through osmosis now?”

“If it were possible, I would.” Logan mumbled into the paper before sitting up to rub his forehead. “I shouldn’t even bother. This whole thing is pointless. I’m not going to get into the magic course anyway, so I might as well give up and go to sleep.”

“Right, bitch, we’re out!”

Logan gasped and fumbled over his words as Remy suddenly pulled his chair back and pulled him up by his arm.

“Wha-where are we going?”

“We need a magic elixir to find my annoying, magic obsessed, roommate because that ain’t you right now.”

“That is ridiculous.” Logan huffed, unable to pull out of their friends firm grip. “Even if some personality changing elixir did exist, you wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

“True, but you don’t gotta bring it up.”

Remy was kind enough to at least grab Logan’s satchel as they left their tiny dwelling and headed into the town centre; leading the conversation so Logan could walk in reasonable silence. When the pair had first moved in together, they had hardly interacted beyond cleaning and rent day. Remy was either working or out at someone’s party until the early hours, while Logan filled his daily schedule with work, class and study. At one point, Remy questioned if the man ever slept or understood the meaning of free time. However, over the past month, Remy noticed a shift in Logan’s behaviour that he couldn’t ignore. Dishes were left piled into the sink more often, curse words penetrated the thin walls at all hours and he found an empty jam jar left on the count with a spoon in it. The jam was the final straw for Remy because it was too weird to be considered normal for his formally perfect roommate.

 “May I ask where exactly we are going?”

The further they walked into the busy centre, the more Logan wanted to return to his room and forget the real world existed.

“I told you. To get an elixir.”

“That was a joke, so what is the truth.”

A sideways glance with a raised eyebrow was the only response Logan received as Remy took his hand and quicken their pace down the street. Rounding the corner Logan groaned as he saw the painted sign for ‘The Magic Beans’ and understood what his black jacket clad mate had meant by elixir.

“Coffee? Seriously?”

“Serious as a heart attack, babes.” Remy said, holding the door open for Logan to walk inside. “Trust me, this will perk you right up.”

“You’ve been partying with Patton again haven’t you?”

“I will not apologise for appreciating Roman’s poppin’ parties with that puffball dancing around. That kid has more energy than 100 shots of espresso.”

Shuffling awkwardly around the couch in the stores centre, Logan watched as empty cups levitated their way into the kitchen and laughter echoed from full tables and booths. Jealousy gripped his gut as he watched how effortless some of the workers made magic seem. Clearly, they had been blessed with strong magic in their families, unlike him. Remy may have been perfectly content with a magic-less existence, but Logan wasn’t. He wanted nothing more than to point his finger at a book to guide it to him, or even just be able to use a wand. Anything that would make him more than what he was.

“This way bookworm,” Remy guided Logan to a secluded booth in the far corner of the store and ushered him into the seat. “Let me introduce you to my magic elixir of life.”

“I don’t understand the allure of a beverage brewed from bitter tasting beans.”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” Remy beamed, hiding his face behind a menu.

“Doubtful. I’ve tasted coffee before and it was far from an enjoyable experience.”

“Haven’t tried magic beans then, have you?”

Suddenly Logan understood why Remy was hiding his face, because he was sure he was trying to compose himself right now. The voice belonged to a man that made Logan’s brain come to a sudden halt; eyes lined black, purple highlights peeked through black hair, and glossed lips were pulled into a half smile that Logan couldn’t take his eyes off.

“He hasn’t.” Remy cooed, lowering the menu and leaning back now he could maintain a cool expression. “Logan is a hard one to coax away from study hall and your parents don’t allow take away.”

The worker chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, giving Logan a peek of his hip as the black uniform lifted behind his apron.

“Yeah, they are very protective of our recipes. Better safe than sorry though. You just want the usual, Rem?”

“Cheers, babes. You know how I like it.”

“Sure thing. And what can I get - ah, Logan, was it?”

Worry danced across the server’s eyes when he was met with only a stare in response. Upon releasing he had been asked a question, Logan cleared his throat and forced his mind to function enough to grab a menu without showing just how shaky his hands were.

“Ah-um-yes. Logan is, well, me.” Cheeks burning, Logan cursed his sleep deprived brain for being unable to form coherent sentences and tried to read the jumble of letters in front of him. “I’ll have a…um…”

With a sigh of defeat, Logan dropped the menu on the table and hopped he didn’t look too ridiculous smiling up at the other man.

“I don’t know what to have. I’m sorry. This isn’t really my…”

“Cup of tea?” He offered, seeming to immediately regret the comment as Logan blinked back.

“…ironically, I’m not a tea fan either, um…my apologies, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh, sorry. Virgil.” Quickly scrapping his hand down his pants to dry it, Logan shook the hand Virgil had extended. “So, you’re a real newbie to this scene then. How have you survived studying?”

“He isn’t surviving, which is why I’ve brought him here.” Remy offered before he had to watch another awkward pause.

“Right.” Virgil let out an awkward chuckle and ran a hand through his fringe as he thought out loud. “So, coffee noob, not a tea fan, study-aholic. Do you prefer sweet or savoury flavours?”

“Oh, Logan is very salty.” Logan’s head snapped round and glared at his friend opposite him. “Girl, that look only cements my point. What do you recommend, Virge?”

“I think I’ve got an idea. I’ll be back.”

“Take your time,” Logan called after him as he watched Virgil walk back towards the counter.

 “You’re so gay-ow!”

Logan kicked Remy under the table and spoke in a hushed tone.

“What the heck was that?”

“You’re smitten, kitten, that’s what.” Remy said, rubbing his shin under the table. “Thank Mama Remy when you get his number.”

“Falsehood. I’m going to kill Mama Remy while he sleeps.”

“Good luck with that, you’ll be too preoccupied to even think about me. So, what’s the most powerful wand core?”

“Phoenix feather strands with northern tree sap.” Logan replied without thought; resting his elbow on the table so he could comfortably massage his left temple. “What exactly is your plan here?”

“To find the nerd that wants to put magic into the Sanders name despite what his parents say. Should I buy a wand or make my own?”

“I seriously doubt I will ever be able to learn magic at this rate… and if you’re born with magic, and the wand is just for show, buy it; but you’ll need to make it if you’re not.”

“I think you’re gonna blow them away when you pass this course and get to make a wand. I can see you now;” pushing his glasses up onto his head, Remy gestured an invisible wand out to the side. “Wielding a wand crafted from a fallen elm.”

“Based on previous encounters, I’d say that is more likely Roman’s style. Given my birth is in the later part of the year, and my reduced sight, oak would be a much better fit.” Yawning, Logan fiddled with the corner of the menu until he froze at Remy’s laugh. “What?”

“Girl, you are going to ace that test.”

“Falsehood.” He said with more force than earlier. “With an infinitesimal amount of sleep and limited knowledge, it will be impossible for me to achieve a passing grade.”

Leaning onto folded arms, Remy locked eyes with his friend and smiled. “You just answered 3 key wand questions without batting an eye. I think you’ll be fine.”

Logan raised a pointed finger to rebut the statement, before realising what Remy had done.

“You are one bad elixir away from an evil genius.”

“I was born without magic because I would have been too much for this world to handle.”

“I will concede to you this time, but even if I do go to school, I will still need to stay awake for the test and practical examination. I don’t think I can function for another 3hours.”

“I’ve got you covered,” Virgil beamed, placing a tall dark mug in front of Remy and holding another out for Logan. “Chilled to help you wake up. Mild bean blend with a salted caramel mix; extra salt to balance out the sweet. All the buzz of Remy’s coffee, without the bitter bite and some cream on top just for show.”

“That hasn’t been on the menu,” Remy grumbled as he reviewed it one more time just in case he’d missed a new addition.

“I know.” Logan noticed Virgil shift nervously on his feet after placing the beverage down before him. “Thought I would make something special for the beginner.”

“You never did that for me!”

“Don’t act so offended. You were already a veteran drinker when you first came here.”

Tuning out the other voices, Logan glanced sadly between the clock on the wall and the personalised drink in front of him. He considered what Remy had just demonstrated and made a decision before speaking again.

“Thank you, Virgil, but unfortunately I can’t stay.” Two sets of eyes snapped to Logan as he carefully shuffled out of the booth. “Remy believes I can pass this test, but if I don’t leave now, I might not be able to even take it in the first place. I’m sorry.”

A smile crept back onto Remy’s face as Virgil grabbed Logan’s hand when he turned to leave.

“Wait…you said you needed something to help get you through the exam, though.”

“I-I-I’ll just have to…push through it I guess.”

“No. Here.” Grabbing the cup from the table, Virgil held it out for the other. “Take it with you.”

“But… you don’t do take away, here. What about your family recipes?”

“Yeah, well…this is my recipe a-a-and I want you to take it.” Cautiously, Logan took the cup and Virgil released his other hand. “Besides, when you return the cup…I’ll get to see you again.”

Logan almost let the beverage slip through his fingers in shock but nodded and hurried out of the store. Remy chuckled before carefully taking a sip of his own drink.

“The only thing that would have made that gayer, would have been if Pat and Roman were here sharing a rainbow unicorn.”

“You planned that whole thing, didn’t you?” Virgil breathed, not taking his eyes away from when he last saw Logan.

“Not entirely,” he sighed and dug into his back pocket. “I thought for sure the bitch would have paid.”

———————————————

What else have I done?

Writing masterlist / master post thingy

Check out my main blog @snail-giggles for random fandom reblogs and stuff

#sanders sides #logan sanders #virgil sanders #remy sanders #ts sleep #ts remy #ts logan #ts virgil #sanders sides fanfiction #analogical #losleep #platonic losleep #sanders sides au #magic au #coffee shop #ts roman #ts patton #ts fanfiction #ts fanfic #my writing #snail writing #swearing tw #cursing tw

[star-sky-earth]

Could u give us a little sneak peak of the next sleep series installment ?? I cant wait for it!! And love ur writing btw :))

Thank you so much!

Sneak peek under the cut ❤️

“Do you regret it?”

“Hmm?”

Bellamy doesn’t look up when Clarke speaks, absorbed in his work, busy scrawling notes from the lecture slides displayed on his laptop. He’s been hidden away in his room all evening studying, big body hunched over the slightly too-low desk, and Clarke knows that if she touched him right now she’d find his shoulders tight with tension, the back of his neck tied up in knots, brow furrowed with the beginnings of a headache just starting to gather at his temples. He gets like this sometimes, so deep in concentration that the girls have to work to drag him back out again, a barrage of requests for food, for attention, for love, their needs impossible to set aside even when his own are so easily ignored.

Bellamy gets his notebooks from the dollar store, college ruled and three for a dollar, flimsy exercise books with paper so thin it’s almost transparent, filling them up with his cramped chickenscratch handwriting, two lines of text to every line like he’s being charged by the square inch. Ridiculous, in the 21st century, to still be taking notes on paper, but he’d explained to Clarke once that he couldn’t really understand something until he’d written it out in his own hand, muttering under his breath to get a feel for the words on his tongue, throwing his whole self into learning just as he does with everything else in his life. The metallic tang of old blood filling his mouth, the grit of sand between his teeth, the heat of a phantom sun beating down on his shoulders, centuries of human experience flowing through his body and into the ink.

Maybe that’s a part of it, this thing between them. Bellamy, just trying to understand her the only way he’s ever known how - trying to get a grasp on the strange half-girl, half-woman suddenly living in his home, the child he raised gone and replaced overnight with a teenager that doesn’t even understand herself. Memorising her all over again, with teeth and tongue and trembling hand, body clasped tight to his like he could absorb her through osmosis, swallowing down her secrets with his head buried between her thighs. Does he know her better now, now that he’s held her and loved her and re-made her, written each line of her body out again in his own hand, pressed his palms into the wet clay of her skin? Does he understand her better, now?

More to the point - does she understand him?

Clarke clears her throat, folds her arms across her chest, leans her head against the doorframe. A few feet away she can hear Octavia getting ready for bed, the muffled sound of music, the protesting groan of the mattress as her best friend climbs into the bed that they still share. Clarke only left to brush her teeth; instead she’s found herself here, somehow, choking on a question that she didn’t even know she was going to ask until she asked it.

‘I said, do you regret it?”

This time, Bellamy hears her. He stops writing, sets his pen down on the paper, where it rolls into the centre crease.

It’s been a week since the party and they still haven’t talked about it. He was gone before Clarke woke the next morning, her eyes slowly fluttering open to the smell of bacon drifting through from the kitchen, Octavia’s octopus limbs tangled with her own, her best friend’s breath hot against her neck and nothing but an empty pillow to mark where Bellamy had slept. After an awkward breakfast, a stony-faced Octavia had deleted Steve’s number from her phone, shredded one of his sweatshirts with a pair of sharp kitchen scissors and never mentioned him again. Like it had never happened, the entire night deleted from their collective memory, except that Bellamy and Clarke haven’t spoken since, haven’t touched, haven’t barely even looked at each other since. A week of silence, of unspoken words falling between them like seeds strewn on hard ground, a wall of weeds growing ever taller and thicker, dark and cruel with thorns, blocking out all the light, all the warmth that Clarke used to feel in his presence.

There was a time, just a few weeks ago, when Clarke only felt seen when Bellamy saw her. Only felt real in his arms, her body given weight and substance by his embrace, spoken into existence by the mere act of his mouth framing her name. Now, when he looks at her, she can tell that he doesn’t see her at all, vision clouded by some dark emotion in his eyes, some thick black morass he can’t find his way through to her, that she doesn’t know how to penetrate.

Back then, she’d thought that there was nothing worse than a lie. That nothing could be so painful as the slow-acting poison of a secret, gradually eating away at everything it touched, a silent corruption spreading just beneath the surface. She was wrong. To look at someone you love and be confronted with all the ways in which you’ve hurt them; to open your mouth and not be able to find the words to speak; to realise that the only thing keeping you apart is the reality of what you’ve done to one another - that’s worse.

She was wrong. Nothing hurts more than the truth.

Bellamy sits back in his chair, hard plastic creaking loudly. He looks up at her with tired eyes, red-rimmed and bleary. “Do I regret what?”

“This.” Clarke looks down at the faded bedroom carpet, poking her big toe at the clumsy join where it meets the hallway, fading away from the thin metal strip. Now that she’s asked the question, she can barely get the words out, what’s left of her courage failing under Bellamy’s gaze. “Us.”

“Princess.” Bellamy’s voice is soft, so exhausted and yet so achingly tender that Clarke suddenly wants to cry, her lower lip starting to tremble dangerously. He squeezes his eyes shut, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and not for the first time she notes the dark shadows around his eyes, the dull tinge to his skin, the messy stubble spreading across the sharp line of his jaw. “Come here.”

#ask #anon #my writing #sleep series #all this angst #it's gonna get worse before it gets better #but it’ll get better

[admiralty-xfd]

23 from the prompt list.

prompt- #23 “We’ll get through this, I promise”

He knew that look: the look, the one she gave him as the elevator doors slid shut. It was the look Dana Scully gave when she wanted to be alone; to cry, to rage, to let out all that emotion that was typically bottled up so tight he could never quite twist hard enough to set it loose.

Part of him felt incredibly guilty for what he knew she saw as a betrayal: withholding the information about her stolen ova had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he had clearly been wrong. The other part of him just didn’t care right now; he wanted to gather her up in his arms and never let go. He wanted to take care of her, even though he knew she’d hate that.

Mulder had always had a selfish streak, but that streak was made starker when Scully was involved. When things got too personal.

He waited in the basement for what felt like hours, trying and failing to read case files. Wondering when she’d come back. If she’d come back. Was she up on Pennsylvania Avenue, directly above him, walking this off? Was she crying in the bathroom? Did she go home?

He looked at the clock. 4:47. He wasn’t getting any work done today, that was for sure. Just when he’d decided to pack up his shit and head home to his dark, lonely apartment the door to the office burst open, revealing Scully.

And she was pissed.

“You had no right!” she cried, approaching him, tears threatening to fall. The restrained annoyance she’d tried to hide in the elevator had evolved, to say the least.

She fixed him with a look he hated, he hated when she was angry with him. It was even worse when she was absolutely correct. “You, of all people… I can’t believe you’d keep this from me, after everything we’ve been through.”

She stood on the other side of his desk, arms crossed, her usual protective stance. He stood, making to move around the desk to go to her but she fixed him with a glare that meant she knew what he was up to; that his lanky, lumbering Mulder frame and big, strong man-arms weren’t going to do the trick this time. He remained still.

“I don’t know what to say, Scully.” His mouth felt completely dry. “I’m sorry.”

“If you hide the truth from me, you’re working against me, isn’t that what you once said to me, Mulder?”

His mouth hung open, ashamed. He’d felt entitled to her fears, to her pain, during the time when she was dying of cancer. And he couldn’t seem to stop himself from hiding things from her. It was a shitty double standard he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

He knew she was in the right, of course she was. He had no recourse but his own truth: that he’d rather die than do anything that would hurt her. Than say anything that would hurt her. He honestly didn’t think that feeling would ever go away, ever. He loved her too damn much. How could he tell her that, though, especially now? And more to the point, why did his own feelings on this even matter?

“I’m sorry,” he offered again, although he knew it wasn’t enough. “I knew there was nothing to be done, that it would only hurt you. I was just trying to protect you, Scully.”

“I’m a big girl, Mulder,” she spat, her stare permafrost.

“I know that, I know.”

A tear fell down her cheek and she wiped at it angrily. She was crying now, actively crying, and as much as she tried to mask her feelings with anger he knew deep down she was just completely, utterly miserable. She’d already received terrible news, she’d had to hear it from her doctor yet again, and then to top it all off her best friend had betrayed her.

No longer able to hide the tears streaming down her face she turned away from him, the desk practically a metaphor for the wall that was currently dividing them. Her shoulders hitched, her tiny body hunched over in defeat. She was always in control, always, and her own body had turned against her once more.

He hated seeing her this way. His Scully was not weak. His Scully did not give up. He felt so helpless he wanted to scream.

“Scully…” was all he could say. But she said nothing. He half expected her to walk straight out the door, which was only a few feet from her, but she didn’t.

Although he guessed she probably wanted him out of her sight, he couldn’t leave her this way. He wanted to give her what she wanted but he had to make her understand. So he stepped around the desk, coming up close behind her. He placed both hands on her shoulders and he felt her immediately relax, as if he’d applied some magical salve. She breathed in, breathed out, and then turned around wordlessly, crumpling into him. He held her, feeling forgiveness seeping out of her heart directly into his own like osmosis, and let her cry.

“I’m so sorry, Scully,” he whispered, his cheek pressed against the top of her head. He stroked her hair and closed his eyes. He could do nothing at all for her, not now. He wasn’t a magician. He wasn’t God. He was just Mulder.

“It’s okay, Mulder,” she said, a couple choked sobs punctuating her speech. “I know your intentions were honorable.”

“No, I mean… I’m sorry about that, of course, but…” he squeezed her tighter. “I mean, I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t sure if she took in the full weight of his meaning; if she was even aware of how guilty he felt for putting her in the position she was in daily. For being indirectly, and in this case directly, responsible for her pain. For his inability to properly communicate to her how much he cared about her, even though she deserved so much better than him. Or if maybe she only felt the sympathy of a friend.

“I’m afraid, Mulder,” she said into his chest. “I’m afraid to dredge this all up again.”

“This is exactly what I was trying to avoid, Scully,” he explained. “I don’t want to see you hurting like this.”

“In spite of these fears, though… I still want a second opinion,” she said, sniffling. He brought his thumb to her cheek to wipe her tears, he couldn’t help it.

“I got a second opinion, Scully,” he said. “And a third. And a fourth. I’ve been to nearly every clinic in the city.”

She shook her head. “Then we’ll get a fifth, Mulder.” She looked up at him. “I need to know. I need to hear the words.”

He knew it wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, it was much more than that. He’d taken away her choice, her right to learn the truth herself. He’d failed whatever test the universe had thrown at him in that moment, and he did not want to fail again.

We’ll get a fifth.

Her suggestion that she wanted his involvement, that she trusted him to help her through this, was implicit. After years of dragging her through the unknown with him, this was something he could help her with; this was something he could give to her, that little slice of normal. That readiness to allow it to be her turn, for once.

He didn’t need to be a magician, or God, to do that. Fox Mulder could do that.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll get a fifth.” And, because she herself had opened the door with her utterance of we, he felt brave enough to say it. “We’ll get through this, I promise.”

#msr #msr fic #txf fic #per manum #my fic

[theolddarkmachine]

Imaginary- Chapter One

Midoriya Izuku’s life was turned upside by fate.

Eri’s life was turned upside down by circumstance.

And Bakugou Katsuki is about to learn that even imaginary friends need to grow up.

Also on AO3

A/N: Whoo buddy, why is it so scary posting something for a new fandom? Maybe it’s because I’ve been suffering severe writing burnout for the past handful of months, or maybe it’s because I didn’t even realize I was going to write anything for this pairing until the idea struck me. Whatever it is, I guess welcome to my first ever BakuDeku fic lol please be gentle with me Gonna go big or go home with this bad boy, so I hope you guys like it enough to stick around for the long haul with me. Anyway, this is the If You Could See Me Now AU I always wanted to write, but never had a pairing that I thought fit it the way I wanted it to be.

***********************************

Imaginary friends are meant to help those who have forgotten how to smile.                                                                                            -Yagi Toshinori

***

Staring down into the brown depths of his coffee, Midoriya Izuku wills the caffeine to enter his bloodstream through instantaneous osmosis. It’s all in vain, he knows, but he’d do just about anything to combat the fatigue that has turned his brain into mush.

The tired that he feels is a different kind of tired than what he was used to.

Before, the black bags under his eyes were somewhat of a badge of honor, only proving how much work he was putting into his latest case.

Before, while he would feel the quiet ache of his sleep deprivation like a second coat around his shoulders, it had never felt suffocating or as if it was sucking the very life out of him.

Of course, before, he had been working his way through the ranks of the Tokyo police department, married to his job and returning to a quiet and empty home at night with his only care in the world being how he would tackle his next day of work.

The sound of the chair beside him grating across the linoleum as it’s pulled out drags him forcefully from the depths of his mug as he looks over to the 4-year-old girl who has joined him.

Eri had been the result of his greatest work accomplishment.

The department had been working on trying to land a blow on the Shie Hassaikai since before Izuku had shown up as their newest recruit, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and wholly unaware of the fact that in just five years time he’d have a hand in the biggest bust of a criminal organization in Tokyo’s modern history.

Years of planning, and stakeouts, and undercover had led his team to the front door of a warehouse. Tucked in a corner of an unassuming commercial dock, they had burst through the front door with gas and guns, and managed to capture the group’s tactical mastermind, Chisaki Kai.

After putting the biggest names of Shie Hassaikai into the backs of several police cruisers, they’d searched the docks only to find a shipping container filled with kids. Ranging in age from 4 to 14, they had cowered instinctively against the opening of the doors, shrinking back into the shadows and looking at the policemen in a way that had made Izuku’s stomach turn.

It had taken time to get them all out of there, and then to find the homes that they had been torn from. Reunion after reunion had come until finally there was one left.

Eri, the youngest of the group, had been the slowest to open up to them and even when she had, it had only been to Izuku. She had clung to him by the end of the first week, only taking food and drink from him, and very quietly whispering answers to his questions.

That was how he had found that of the 23 children they had rescued that night, Eri was the only one whose parents wouldn’t be coming to pick her up. The couple had found themselves on the receiving end of Shie Hassaikai’s anger. Their ending had been somewhat of an easy out in comparison to the future they had unknowingly subscribed their daughter to.

The department had told Izuku what the next steps were to be. Eri would be placed in foster care where she would hopefully find a new home before she turned 18 years old and found herself out on the street.

There was no secret as to what happened to most kids in the system, and as far as he had seen it, Eri was going from one horrible situation to another, and all because of the folly of adults. No one deserved that.

She didn’t deserve that.

So, he did the only thing he could think of.

He adopted her.

And even now, three months later in a new home in an old town and temporarily jobless, he doesn’t regret.

That being said, he is fucking tired.

Who knew raising a 4 year old alone would sap the very life out of you?

Well, besides most parents, and now, Izuku.

In hindsight, he supposes it only been a matter of time. He had been running on fumes and caffeine before he even brought Eri into his life. There was only so long that he could have viably maintained properly caring for the girl, getting her to daycare every morning, working a ten hour shift, picking her up, feeding her, getting her to bed, going over what needed to be done for his latest case before passing out for a few hours of sleep, and then waking up bright and early to do it all again.

At the end of it all, he’s sure the only one who was surprised by his collapse at work had been himself.

You’re working yourself to the bone, his best friend and coworker Shinsou had said. Something has to give, Izuku.

The truth of it was that he had known that.

Had known it since the first couple of days when the gentle embrace of general fatigue had evolved into a sharp ache that he couldn’t shake. He’d made it two months, 6 days and 13 hours before it had finally caught up with him so that had to count for something.

Shinsou was right, and that’s how Izuku found himself sitting at a brand new table, in a brand new house, in the small town that he had run from all those years ago.

Moving back home had been the next logical step in the grand scheme of things. His mom could help with Eri, the price of living was significantly cheaper, and their police department was a branch off the main department in Tokyo which only made transferring all too easy.

After a couple of phone calls, a significant dip into his savings, and a seven and a half hour drive later, Izuku had officially started a new life.

About a month had passed since then, and while he hadn’t expected to have everything to be miraculously better, he had at least hoped he’d feel rested enough before starting work in a week’s time.

That, it seemed, had been a fruitless hope.

Because god damn, he was tired.

And judging from Eri’s wide yawn, she was too.

“Good morning,” he says, trying to ignore how his own voice is thick with sleep as he pushes a plastic container of chocolate donuts towards her.

“Morning Daddy Izuku,” Eri says sleepily, grabbing one of the small donuts with her small hands. As she munched on her donut, with her eyes locked on the table, Izuku looked over her. Her long, silvery blonde hair was knotted with wild bedhead that he was sure would take them quite a bit of time to tame, and lots of treat blackmail on his part to ensure she sat still for.

Slightly hunched and with her legs swinging as she continued to eat, and with her bright pink pajamas still slightly too big for her frame, she looked even smaller than she already was. She’d come such a far way from how Izuku had found her, but it still twisted his gut when he thought about how the sweet girl had seen more in her life than most adults.

Deep down, he knows it wasn’t his job to make up for the wrong the world had done to her, but he feels he owes it to her anyway.

If not his job, then whose, he wonders as he takes a sip of his coffee to swallow down the grit of sleep clinging to his throat.

“Want some milk?” He asks after resurfacing, getting up at the first sign of her small nod. Gently putting his mug on the mahogany table, he turns toward the kitchen.

With his back to Eri, he misses the way her eyes shift quickly to the chair next to her, and the wide grin her mouth pulls into as she reaches her hand into the plastic container for another donut.

Placing it on the table, she nods before stuffing the rest of her own donut in her mouth.

When Izuku returns, Eri’s own small pink mug in his hand, the donut beside her is gone.

***

There was something comforting, yet altogether depressing about the fact that his mother’s home hadn’t changed at all in the 26 years that Izuku had been alive. Just walking through the front door had transported him back to a time that had been altogether easier.

At the time, he had taken the ease for granted, instead focusing on how he had always felt like something had been missing.

Not that Izuku had ever thought anything as grand as being meant for so much more, but he had always had dreams that at least amounted to so much more than the town of Noto and its population of almost 18,000.

And now he was back and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel small.

It didn’t help being surrounded by photos documenting his life, most notably the large graduation photo on the mantle, taken just after he’d received his badge from the academy.

“Izuku,” his mom’s voice was gentle as it prodded him straight out of his thoughts and back onto the grey couch in which he sat. Her eyes conveyed the same gentleness, encapsulated in a green that was a little less like the hard emerald of his own, and more like a calm sea.

They seemed to see through him as he made a questioning sound in his throat.

“I asked how Eri was liking that daycare! They had wonderful reviews, and while I’m sure they aren’t as good as Mrs. Tanoshi was, I guess we don’t have much of a choice since that poor woman is almost 80 now,” she says, her voice comforting as it rambled just slightly about Izuku’s old caretaker.

He bites back on a comment about how he had thought she had already been closer to ancient, even back then.

“She seems to like it,” Izuku says instead, shifting his gaze over his mother’s shoulder and toward the patio door where he can see Eri smiling and playing by herself in the yard. “She’s been happier at least, especially the last couple of days.”

Outside, he sees Eri run as if she’s chasing something, her mouth split wide around a laugh he can’t hear. His heart squeezes with a feeling he’s starting to realize is a mix of pride and something like adoration.

“That’s so good, Izuku,” his mom says warmly, her eyes still cutting through him as he turns his gaze back to her. Lips pulled up gently in the corners, she’s looking at him with that all knowing mom look.

“What?” He finds himself asking, fully indignant like the teen the house made him feel like again.

In his peripheral, he sees a ball fly high as it arced across the yard.

“Nothing, honey,” she says, gently grabbing his knee as she leans in. It’s a soothing sort of touch before she continues, “I’m just so proud of you, is all.”

Heat rises up and over his neck, racing to his cheeks and turning his skin what he’s certain is a terrible shade caught between sunburn and tomato.

Admittedly, he and his mom had always had a good relationship.

If anyone had asked her, she’d tell them Izuku had been a wonderful child, filled with imagination and idealism and dreams. If anyone asked Izuku, he’d tell them his mom had been a sweet mother who had taught him with a stern but loving hand, and who had always supported him in his dreams even when she was worried.

She’d always said she was proud of him, but something about the way she said it now, her eyes sparkling with something unknown to him, made his eyes burn.

“I know you always wanted to be a hero, Izuku,” she says, squeezing his knee, “and now you are one.”

The acknowledgement buries itself deep in the center of his chest as he tries to swallow down the lump that’s forming in his throat.

“I know it’s hard, trust me. Parenting isn’t easy, honey. But you have to know that you’re that little girl’s hero,” she concludes before smiling wider at him. Letting go of her hold, she pats his leg before pushing herself off the couch and turning to look out the patio doors.

Keeping his gaze on his mother’s back, Izuku clears his throat and quickly passes the back of his hand across his eyes to catch the moisture that has collected at their edges.

“We should probably get going,” he manages to get out as he stands up beside her. Izuku stands taller than her by a head, yet he still feels small as he looks out towards the yard and the girl sitting in the middle of it. With one hand, she’s steadying it on top of a finger on her other hand, face twisted in concentration before she gives it a spin. For just a moment it looks as if it may actually balance there before it falls down to the side.

There’s a breath where she watches it roll away before she laughs.

“Mom?” Izuku says, keeping his eyes trained on the four year old.

“Yes, sweetie?” She hums, not bothering to turn back toward him.

“Thank you.”

Her answering chuckle is low as she moves around her coffee table and in the direction of her kitchen.

“I’ll pack you both up some cookies,” she says before disappearing to make good on her word.

Left alone in the living room, Izuku takes a steadying breath before pushing his way out into his mom’s backyard. Eri is standing now, having gotten up to chase after the ball that had rolled towards his mom’s herb garden in the corner. With her back to him, she seems to be looking at the plants with the ball hugged to her chest.

Moving in her direction, he’s a couple feet away when he hears her small voice.

“— Grandma Inko is a really good planter,” he hears her say almost conspiratorially. There’s a heartbeat of silence before she giggles and shakes her head.

“It’s not boring! They started as seeds and now they’re plants!” Eri exclaims, turning her face as if looking at something. Izuku watches as her smile grows before she shakes her head again.

“You’re silly, not everyone can make plants. Daddy Izuku says he once killed a plastic plant and those aren’t even real.”

Then, her mouth forms a look of surprise as she fully turns to face him.

“Hey Daddy Izuku!” She says happily, closing the small distance between them with a slight bounce. Clutching the ball to her tummy still, she looks up to him with her smile still wide. Warmth spreads through his chest as he drops down to her height and reaches out to pull a piece of grass from her hair.

“Hey Eri,” he smiles back as he flicks the offending piece of plant life away. “Who are you talking to?”

The question is out of his mouth before he can think to swallow it. It earns him a confused look before Eri turns to look to her side for a barely there moment before giving a small nod and turning her attention back to him.

Pulling a hand away from her ball, she waves it to her side as if showcasing something.

Izuku isn’t sure how it happens, but her smile seems to get brighter as she says, “This is Kacchan!”

***

Izuku’s room is too dark and too quiet as he stares up at the ceiling from where he lays in his bed. His sheets are pooled at his waist and his arms are folded across his chest as he imagines he can see paint shapes in the shadows across the white above him.

It was already usually pretty hard for him to get to sleep here. He’d grown used to the sound of the city, and hadn’t realized it had been its own sort of lullaby until he had moved. Tonight, however, the issue is less the lack of noise and light, and more the interesting new development that seemed to have landed in his lap.

Kacchan, he thinks as he breathes heavily out his nose. Eri’s new imaginary friend.

After she’d introduced him, it seemed that whatever wall she had constructed around the imaginary fellow had collapsed, and she had chattered with this Kacchan for the rest of the evening.

In the back of the car, at the dinner table— where she’d even asked for Kacchan to have his own place setting— and even at bedtime when she’d told the specter goodnight. It was, in a word, odd.

Yet she had looked so genuinely happy that Izuku had bit his tongue as he just nodded along, acting as if he could see this pretend friend of hers and even setting down a plate for him next to Eri. Even though it was a small amount, he still lamented the wasted curry. It was one of the few meals he actually knew how to cook well, and though he knows all the books say to encourage the imagination, it still stung a bit knowing he would end up throwing away the food at the end of the night.

At least, so he had thought. He isn’t sure how she had managed it, but at some point he must have looked away because when it was time to clean up, the plate had been cleared of its food.

It wasn’t the only weird thing that had happened in relation to this Kacchan, either. When Eri had first introduced the friend, Izuku could have bet a heavy sum that he had actually heard someone there. The soft sound, something like a haughty scoff, had caused a chill to run down his spine and momentarily consider the possibility that maybe Eri was actually being haunted. He’d quickly chalked it up to his own lack of sleep playing tricks on him, but that didn’t stop him from feeling as if he was being watched for the rest of the day.

Shaking the phantom feeling and bewildering thought, Izuku squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again to the darkness of his ceiling.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with having an imaginary friend, he knows. Hell, he had had one as a kid.

All Might had been his name. Izuku remembers him vividly. He was the reason he’d wanted so desperately to become a hero before he grew enough to know that imaginary friends were only that, and that it was severely frowned down upon to run around in spandex and a cape.

All Might had been his best friend though, helping him right after his father had walked out on him and his mom. He supposes after everything she’s been through, it only made sense that she would come up with an imaginary friend. In fact, with that in mind, he could probably say it’s a bit weird that it took so long for it to happen.

Eyes burning and vision blurring, Izuku’s eyelids start to fight against his insomnia.

He’ll have to keep an eye on it all the same, he thinks as his blinks start to grow longer. Izuku still remembers the pain he had felt when his own had disappeared.

It isn’t too much longer until sleep finally pulls him into its inky embrace.

************************************

#bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #bkdk #bakudeku #bnha #this fic will eventually be rated e like 16 chapters from now lol until then it's a solid T for Teen #alternate universe #the if you could see me now au no one asked for #slow burn #above all else this is a coming of age story #hope you enjoy the ride

[elenajohansenauthor]

Fictober18, Day 15: “I thought you’d forgotten.”

OCs: Shannon, Noah, and Orlando

Project: Untitled paranormal romance for Fictober18, now tagged #spookyromancenovel on my blog

Potential Triggers: minor recurrence of suicidal ideation, sort of

Word Count: 3,335 (!!!)

About: BIG CHAPTER, BIG REVELATION, lots of me rambling about magic as world-building-while-I-write. Making that world-building more elegant and integrated is high on my list of priorities when I tackle rewriting this; right now I’m just spewing it out as I think of it.

The obscuring light disappeared instantly, and where we found ourselves couldn't have been any more unlike where we started. Gentle candlelight and subdued wall sconces replaced the sputtering streetlights. Dirty asphalt gave way to plush rugs scattered haphazardly over polished hardwood. The room was warm and close and inviting, scented lightly with incense. Piles of richly colored cushions took the place of more standard furniture.

If the smell had been different, I might have wondered if this was how opium dens used to feel.

Orlando was similarly comfortable-looking, a rounded man with deep brown skin, genially handsome without any sharp edges that might intimidate. A faint grin peeked out from his neatly groomed facial hair. “You found me,” he said.

Noah grunted. “You didn't make it easy.”

“It shouldn't be, yet here you are. Welcome to my sanctuary.”

Something rang false in his tone, but I couldn't tease out what it was. Another test?

He motioned at the cushions nearest to his own, a small mountain where he reclined so deeply he was nearly sprawled on his back, like a stranded turtle.

I settled onto a pillow large enough to make a convincing flotation device. Noah found a much thinner one and placed it beside me, bracing himself as upright as possible, losing none of his formidable height and bulk.

If the sight was meant to cow Orlando, he showed no sign of it in his pose or expression.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” I began simply, hoping to forestall any further belligerence from Noah.

It didn't work. “I would feel better if you had agreed to help us.”

In preparation for this meeting, I had already told Noah everything Ursula had told me, as well as every word of my telephone conversation with Orlando. I had warned Noah against telling any lies, even half-truths or clever evasions. But if this banked anger was honest, I had to hope Orlando wouldn't take offense.

“I will listen with an open mind,” he replied, “and tell you whatever I can. But I make no promises beyond that. It may not even be in my power to help you.” He crooked his elbow into a cushion and rested his head on his upturned hand, smiling with a touch of malicious glee. “Of course, you understand that I rarely make any promises at all. They can be surprisingly dangerous.”

Noah stared at him for a long time before speaking. “I don't like this. I feel as though I've walked into another trap, only this time, I brought Shannon with me. Are we in any danger from you here? Physical, mental, or magical? Because if you can't promise that we aren't—and yes, I mean promise—then show us the door, and we'll pretend none of this ever happened.”

Orlando laughed lightly, a clear affectation. “I promise that I pose no threat to you. You will leave in the same condition you arrived.”

A tiny spark of silver light appeared before us, perhaps a foot from the floor. It rose quickly, and when it was above the level of our heads, it burst into a shimmering dome around us, which flared briefly before flickering out of existence.

“A visual element to signify a vow made?” I asked dryly.

Orlando nodded. “You've been doing your reading. I don't always indulge in such theatrics, but they have their uses.”

That seemed to mollify Noah properly. “So what do we do? What do you need to know?”

“Everything, my boy.” Noah shifted uncomfortably at that, but Orlando chose to ignore it, if he noticed. “Start from the curse and tell me what you remember about its magic, and every bit of magic you've encountered since then.” He turned to me. “If I need clarification about your involvement, I'll let you know, but for his story, please be silent otherwise.”

“I understand.” Reading two people at once was taxing, and I didn't necessarily think it was the sort of thing that got easier with more power. If anything, it might be more difficult, with deeper access to their truths.

It was a surprisingly short tale for how long and harrowing the three years of isolation and fear must have felt. But Noah had had little knowledge of magic beyond the purely academic, before the curse, and most of that was only from being close friends with a witch. Magical theory by osmosis. He couldn't explain his magical heart except in the most general terms—at Orlando's request, I detailed what I'd done that night to save Noah.

“You're leaving something out,” he chided gently when I'd finished.

“I am,” I admitted. “I'm not going to tell you where Noah's living heart is. No one but me knows, and no one will. If you had any designs on that knowledge as part of your payment, tell me now and we'll be on our way.”

I had no ground to stand on, really; we were the ones asking him for his knowledge, his assistance. If he wanted anything from us, the desire seemed to come from curiosity; Noah was entirely unique in his experience with the curse, as far as my research had shown. Orlando had confirmed as much on the phone.

But we were a puzzle, at best. Orlando could walk away from this much more easier than Noah and I could. Still, I had to make clear what I was willing to pay, and what was off the table.

“I respect that,” Orlando said quietly. “There's no point in undoing the curse if you can't restore his heart, so you gain nothing by trading it away.” He shifted on the cushions, pointing himself more toward me. “What else can you tell me about your efforts to block the transformation?”

Without my notes to hand, I didn't have precise details memorized, but I gave him a solid outline. We'd tried Healing magic first, of course, both a systemic treatment of small, regular sessions and later, a large burst of it meant to flush the curse from his body before its hold grew deeper. Neither attempt had made any obvious difference.

After that, I'd begun dosing him with potions, reasoning that the magic resistance that was natural to gargoyles was preventing my direct interference. Potions worked internally, differently; they could have worked where my magic failed. But everything I thought safe to try on him produced no results. I had no references, no guidebooks for it; the curse usually completed the transformation of its victim within the first twelve hours, only rarely taking longer. No Healer before had ever had the leisure of methodical experimentation.

By the time I'd run through all my potion expertise, Noah's body had changed enough to reject human food. The next set of experiments had not been to save him in the long term, but to keep him from starving in the short term. That was when we discovered that his cursed flesh craved poisons as well as rotting flesh.

That brought Orlando up short. “Have you considered that his body might be storing those toxins, the way fish become riddled with mercury? Even if you lift the curse, he might die on the spot from those.”

Noah gasped, but I held Orlando's gaze steadily. “Yes, I had. But all I can do is keep moving forward. If the time ever comes that we find a cure, I'll have plenty of antidote potions ready for afterward.”

Orlando nodded shortly. “What else?”

I described the tests I'd developed to gauge the curse's continued progress, and Orlando was intrigued by the blessed needle. “Where did you come by that? They're exceedingly rare.”

“I made it myself, started when I was fifteen. My grandmother blessed it first, before she passed away. Since then I've had seventeen others perform whatever blessing ceremony is sacred to them upon it. Without another needle to compare it to, I have no way to assess its power objectively. But when I made the mistake of pricking his skin with it, that first time, he passed out instantly and didn't wake for five hours.”

Noah shuddered. “I've never felt pain like that, before or since. It felt like every cell in my body was trying to swell and burst at the same time.”

“Now I only drag it over his skin, but it still causes intense pain.”

Orlando looked at me curiously. “Why did you want one in the first place? Had you already decided to be a Healer that young?”

“It's all I've ever wanted to be, from the moment I discovered what the power inside me was. How could I have it, and not use it to help people?”

He said nothing, but I thought perhaps a new respect gleamed in his eyes. “So explain to me again, in as much detail as possible, why you stumbled upon the idea of promise magic binding him. Because I have to say, nothing so far indicates that.”

Noah huddled in on himself as I spoke, laying out the events of the past few days. “Since we spoke last night,” I finished up, “it's occurred to me one way we could be mistaken. All that Healing magic I poured into him at the beginning may have extended the effective life of the magical heart I gave him. It wasn't my intention, but this entire time I've been throwing everything I knew before and everything I've learned since at the curse, and just hoping something stuck—there are bound to be side effects no one could predict.”

“One more question for each of you, then. Noah, do you remember the first promise you made to Shannon? If you do, tell me if you've kept it.”

Noah squirmed slightly, something I hadn't seen him do since we were teenagers. “I think it was something small. When my family moved in next to hers, I wanted her to be my friend, so I promised her I'd give her a candy bar if she sat with me at lunch the next day at school. She did, and I gave it to her, promise kept.”

I couldn't help smiling. “I thought you'd forgotten. You never threw that bribe back in my face.”

Noah laid his hand over mine briefly. “I didn't think we stayed friends this long because I bought you off at six years old with a Snickers bar.”

“Okay,” Orlando broke in. “Shannon, same question.”

“I--” A lump came to my throat. “I don't know if this was really the first one, but I remember promising he was always welcome at my house, after my mother scolded him once for something stupid—I don't remember what. But she was angry, and she made him go home, and Noah thought she'd never let him come back. I swore I'd fix it. And sometimes my mother didn't always like having him around—sorry, Noah, I hate it but we both know it's true, she can be a bitch. But she never tossed him out again.” I swallowed hard. “And it's still true now that I live on my own. He's always welcome.”

Orlando nodded once, then closed his eyes and lay back completely. “I need a few moments to channel my energies, so please, be calm and still. I'm not going to fall asleep.”

We waited. I was burning with curiosity about what Orlando intended, because meditation like that was often a precursor to working a spell, but I kept my restlessness in check. Beside me, Noah breathed deeply with his own eyes closed.

It might have been two minutes or ten before Orlando roused himself. “I was hoping not to have to do this, because it takes a great deal of energy. But as complete a picture as you've both painted for me, something is still missing. Noah, I'd like your permission to read you more deeply, to check for traces of magic hiding in your psyche that you don't even know are there. Because I agree with Shannon—I do think something unexpected is holding you to human life when the curse is doing its best to turn you.” He smiled and shook his head at the same time. “Three years, man. That's just a wonder. There's never been anything like this before.”

Noah cocked his head. “Will it hurt?”

Orlando exploded with laughter, so loud and sudden I flinched from it. “That's what you're worried about? Most people are more concerned with the invasion of their privacy.”

Noah shrugged. “You promised we weren't in danger from you. Which means you can't use whatever you learn from me for any harm, at least, not to us. Just by being here, I'm trusting you with the knowledge of my existence—you could probably sell me to the vampires for sport and make an excellent profit. But you won't. So what do I care if you take a look at my soul?”

I choked up again, tears threatening with more force, but I put on a stern face to hide it. Noah was only concerned about raw survival at this point. It was all he had left. And sweet gods, that knowledge hurt. I liked to tell myself I would do anything to save Noah, but my heart cringed away from the idea of Orlando performing a deep reading on me. Some things should never be shared; some things are too deep and painful.

It was easy to say I would do it if necessary, only slightly less easy to believe. But I wasn't the one being asked, so I would never know if this was a line I couldn't cross.

Noah wanted to know about physical pain, then offered himself up like an open book on a lectern.

“All I have to do,” Orlando was saying, “is touch your skin and look inward. Some people feel me moving through their mind and see what I see; others are completely unaware the whole time. Some fall in between those extremes. We won't know how you will react until we try. Do you still want to proceed?”

“Wait,” I said before Noah could answer. “Orlando, that means there's an element of risk to you. Noah's almost completely resistant to magic now. It may be that you just won't be able to read him—I can barely get anything from his voice, though I know I'm not as powerful as you. But the curse—it might fight back, if you try this.”

“The conflict and confluence between two magical disciplines is always unpredictable at first,” Orlando said placidly, still focused on Noah. “But even the deepest reading is still a mostly passive spell. I think the risk is acceptable.”

“But you haven't even asked for payment, yet.”

That made Orlando smile at me. “Good little Healer, always concerned for others. My requested payment is this; that I be present when you attempt to lift the curse, whenever that may be. I've been around a good long while, yet I've never been this close to history in the making. I want to see it done.” He grinned a bit wider. “And if you should be unsuccessful, I'd like possession of all of your case notes. If you succeed, I imagine you'll want to publish them yourself and reap the benefits, but they will still be immensely valuable even in failure. I have a fondness for original manuscripts, and adding these to my collection would be a feather in my cap like no other.”

Noah leaned in. “Why shouldn't she still publish them even if I turn? Like you said, they'd still be worth something.”

I put my hand on his arm. “Noah, don't. It's okay. I agree.” Orlando had found a deeper truth about me, one I hadn't realized he would see. “Orlando, I promise to keep you informed of my efforts to remove the gargoyle curse from Noah, and to invite you to any attempts we make. If we succeed, I will retain the rights to my work regarding this case; if we fail, I will turn the completed study over to you, to do with as you will.”

“Shannon!” Noah hissed. “You warned me not to make promises, and you do this?”

“It's his payment,” I argued. “I have to.”

“Without trying to negotiate,” he shot back.

“The terms make perfect sense to me.”

Noah huffed once more, but when Orlando reached for him, he subsided, holding out both hands in offering.

Orlando took them and gasped. “That is unsettling.”

Both men closed their eyes and appeared to sink into a trance.

For the first fifteen minutes, according to my phone, I sat watching anxiously, waiting for a change, for information to shake loose from their minds into words. But I was tired—I would have been asleep at least an hour ago on a normal night, and I was already running short on sleep from the stress of our current predicament. I made myself more comfortable with some extra cushions and did sudoku puzzles on my phone to keep myself awake.

Two hours later, they dropped hands suddenly as Noah made a high, pitiful keening sound. I shot upright, dropping my phone and reaching out for him, instinctively wanting to comfort. But he wasn't crying—he couldn't.

“Be still, Noah,” Orlando said gravely. “This is good news.”

Noah slumped forward, half into my arms. He was cold and stiff and insanely heavy, but I settled him as well as I could and held on. The keening trailed off, giving way to short, tense breaths.

“What is it?” I asked, since Noah was in no shape to. Though judging by his reaction, he already knew.

“He made a promise to himself, one he can only keep if he survives and becomes human again. He did so early on, before he knew he had enough power within him to make the promise binding.” Orlando lowered his voice. “He is caught in a loop of his own recursive willpower; I saw that the two of you had discussed...other options,” he said delicately, “but I don't believe his is a viable one any longer.”

Understanding his meaning took longer than it should have. “You're saying...he can't give up hope? Literally? He can't choose?”

Orlando shook his head. “He must continue to fight the curse until it takes him, or he dies.”

“Unless I can save him.”

“Unless you can save him,” Orlando repeated.

In my arms, Noah heaved and shuddered. “I thought you said this was good news,” he croaked.

“It is. Now you know that the artificial heart will not fail. Now you know that you are not limited to finding the cure in the short lifespan you assumed you had left. Instead you have Shannon's life, however long that may be. As long as she lives, you will too.”

My blood roared in my ears—I couldn't speak until it quieted. “What the hell does that mean?”

Before Orlando could answer, Noah raised his upper body and shook his head, shaking off my hold in the process. What didn't he want Orlando to say? After clearing his throat, Noah said, “It means I protect you, same as before, while you figure this out. That hasn't changed.” He glared at Orlando. “We got what we came for, and you've got your payment, after a fashion. Can we go now?”

I still had questions, but Orlando swept his hand once, imperiously, in a gesture too intricate and practiced to be anything other than a spell. I blinked—or really, I felt compelled to blink—and once I had, we were sitting on the cold, damp asphalt in the alleyway.

Noah hauled me to my feet roughly and sped us home so fast I had no breath to ask questions. I had the feeling that if I tried, he would simply throw me over his shoulder and run back, ignoring me all the way.

#writeblr #fictober18 #original fiction #spookyromancenovel #DAMN #that was almost three solid hours of writing #daily word count

[mandysimo13]

Something to Remember You By

As promised! Here’s give-away gift #1! For winner @88thparallel, here’s their prompt. You can also read it here on AO3.

After Sherlock jumps off the roof of St. Bart's, John realizes that they've never taken a picture together. When his best friend returns from the dead he endeavors to fix that.

The idea struck John as he sat in the dim of their -the- flat. The idea to replace John’s last image of Sherlock inside his head. Because every time he closed his eyes all he could see what Sherlock’s pale face covered in blood too bright to be real. He needed something to wash away the stain of death from Sherlock’s face. He needed reminders of happier times.

Which is why, drunk on half a bottle of scotch, John was desperately digging through old boxes in the middle of the living room. After an hour of searching, he finally found the photo album Mrs. Hudson had put together for Sherlock years ago, insisting that the man needed a proper storage place for his photos. He heaved a sigh of relief and stood from his crouched position on the floor. Clutching it to his chest, heedless of the dust clinging to his jumper, he went to fix himself another drink.

Drink in hand, he settled in his chair. A deep breath in and out, a sip of scotch. Then, with a shaking hand, he opened the heavy leather cover and looked down on Sherlock’s life before John. He saw pictures of Sherlock as a baby, being held by his parents and by Mycroft. There were pictures of weddings, graduations, and holidays. With each turn of the pages he watched Sherlock, and Mycroft, grow from children to gangly teenagers until they were the grown men he knew.

Had known.

It was only when he had gotten to the end of the album, the pictures stopping shortly after Sherlock graduated uni (not that John wanted to think too hard about why), that he noticed there were no pictures of he and Sherlock together.

That can’t be right, John cried insistently. He’s too important to me. How could we never have taken a picture together?

It became an obsession. He asked Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, even Mycroft, desperate for just one picture of the two of them together. He needed something tangible to commemorate the time they had spent together. Something to cling to. To prove to himself that it wasn’t all just a dream.

Finally, after a few weeks of frantic searching, Mycroft dug up a picture of them from an old newspaper article. Sherlock stood in center frame, smiling stiffly as a reporter held a mic to his face, while John stood behind him for moral support. They weren’t even really in the picture “together”. It was almost an accident. But there it was, the proof John really needed.

He put the picture in his wallet, hidden behind a picture of his parents and his sister. Locking his memory away with the rest of his family who had left him.

And he began moved on.

~*~

Two years.

Two years of grieving and sorrow and moving on and he had the gall, the nerve, to show up as if nothing had ever happened.

John hit him. He wasn’t proud of it but rage had surged through him like lightning in a storm and he tackled Sherlock, needing to know for sure he wasn’t a hallucination. Then afterwards, after being kicked out of the restaurant and moving to a deli down the street, Sherlock had to open his big, bloody mouth again. John had hit him then, too. Headbutting him, as if he could knock some fucking consideration into that thick skull of his through sheer osmosis and determination.

After that, being around him became easier. John had let it all out. He had let Sherlock have it, railing against him, telling him how simply unfair his deception was. How hurt he’d been. And after hearing about his involvement, Mycroft received a scolding as well. Not that he winced at all at John’s monumental tantrum.

But it felt good nonetheless.

And then the dust settled.

Mary moved on; she had taken one look at the two of them and saw that John would never leave Sherlock, no matter what he’d done. John moved back to Baker Street, and life continued as normal.

Then, when John was cleaning out his wallet of old, useless junk, a little piece of paper fluttered out. He picked it up off the floor and unfolded it. Suddenly a knot found its way into his throat.

The old newspaper clipping of the two of them. The one that initially helped him move on. Tucked away, hidden from view, then surprisingly unearthed. The immediate stab of pain eased and the longer John looked at it, the warmer he felt. Back then, he had wished for a second chance. He had wanted to have more of Sherlock and had prayed to a God he wasn’t sure existed for him to come back. And magically, he did.

After seeing the old picture, John did the only thing that made sense to him: he began documenting the two of them.

It started with a quick candid one morning, Sherlock reading the paper over his tea and toast.

Then a hasty selfie with him in a cab after a good chase through London.

There were pictures of them at dinner and at NSY during cases. He snapped hundreds of candid shots of Sherlock living life in their flat, looking through his microscope, organizing his mind palace, bringing in the take away, playing the violin.

One month into his photo taking, he realized and came to turns with the fact that he loved Sherlock. Two months in, he talked himself into keeping it to himself. He wouldn’t upset all their hard work at repairing their friendship for a selfish grab for more.  

It took six months of John documenting their life before Sherlock finally spoke up.

“Why do are you so interested in photography all of a sudden,” Sherlock asked after John had taken a selfie of them while watching a James Bond film. Something he would never have agreed to Before. But these days, he seemed to want to be around John just as much as John wanted to be around him.

“Since I learned how to use the camera function on my phone properly,” he responded sarcastically.

“You’ve always known how to, John.” He narrowed his eyes at John. “You were never this...concerned with documenting us before. What’s changed.”

John swallowed thickly. “A lot’s changed.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know.” He didn’t apologize anymore. It didn’t change anything. Instead, he asked, “you didn’t start taking excessive photos until about six months ago. But I’d already been back for four months. Something happened to change your behavior. What was it?”

John decided to be truthful. “I found an old picture of us.”

“There’s an old picture of us?” John nodded and told him about the newspaper clipping, even showing it to him, taking the fragile paper out of his wallet. Sherlock held it gingerly in his hands like it was a rare document; which in some ways it was. “This was the only one you had of us, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re taking more so that in case something happens again, to me, you’ll have more to-”

“To remember you by,” John finished for him.

They stared at each other, silence enveloping them. The only sound the ticking of a distant clock and their even breaths.

Finally, Sherlock broke the silence. “I’ll never leave you again, John. Not if I can help it.”

“You don’t know that, Sherlock. You couldn’t control it then, what makes you think you can control another situation like that?”

“Because there was only one Moriarty and he’s dead. No one will trap me that way ever again,” Sherlock replied with conviction. “I did everything I could to avoid that...regrettable outcome. And I fought hard, so hard, to come back to you John.”

“Why,” John whispered. “You had a chance to start anew. Why come back?”

Sherlock’s eyes moistened and John instantly regretted asking the question. He didn’t want Sherlock to clam up on him, to shrink back. But before he could apologize, Sherlock said in a broken whisper, “isn’t it clear by now?”

Hope sprang up in him. He needed to ask, needed to know. “You know I’m an idiot,” he said, trying for levity. “Tell me.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, licked his lips, gathering his courage. John stared on, watching him as the gears worked in his head. John Watson was a brave man but he needed to be sure before he let loose the words that had been sitting on his tongue for months.

At length, Sherlock finally said, “I needed to come back to you because…”

“Say it,” John whispered softly.

“Because I love you,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

Without replying verbally, John leaned forward, cupping Sherlock’s head in his hands and kissing him deeply. When they pulled apart for breath, John said, “I love you too. Always have.”

Later, after all the tears fell and all the words had been spoken, John took one more picture that night. This one would be for just them. A picture, taken in dim lighting and at an odd angle, but clear enough. A picture of the two of them sharing a kiss, smiling and content.

#give away gift #gift #fic #my fic #writing #my writing #sherlock #johnlock #friends

[creativityworks-sx]

Inside the mind of Kanya King: Founder and CEO of the MOBO Awards (by Steph Santos)

Original blog post here ➡️ https://www.stephsantos.co.uk/post/inside-the-mind-of-kanya-king-founder-and-ceo-of-the-mobo-awards

Last week, our Media Trust group had the opportunity to pick the brain of the incredibly inspiring Kanya King, founder and CEO of the MOBO Awards. Before anything, I’d really like to thank Kanya again for her time as a lot of what was discussed deeply resonated with me. She started by telling us how COVID-19 has affected prep for the MOBOs comeback scheduled for this November. Soft spoken, with a huge smile and energy so warm and humble it radiated through the screen, Kanya emphasised how the safety of everyone involved is a top priority for the MOBOs.

Whilst this was all very interesting and I love hearing about a successful entrepreneur’s ventures, what I love even more (at least at this early stage of my own life) is studying their mind-set, absorbing their wisdom and formulating a ‘blueprint’. How does a successful and fulfilled mind think? What underlines a winner’s mentality? What are their biggest mental challenges? How do you overcome these? All this is super important for me to understand as I think the correct mind-set is the foundation for building the life of your dreams.

You need to be a problem solver in every aspect.

This is a trait every entrepreneur and go-getter, whether you are just starting out or a long- time CEO, will always have. “We’re used to problems, be creative in solutions and what you do” says Kanya.

Have a strong sense of purpose and believe in yourself, because people will try to get rid of you and write you off.

This is something that anyone who has ever had an idea will experience. I feel it multiplies in intensity the “wilder” the idea seems. Kanya mentioned a careers advisor to whom she once explained her vision and plans, for this career advisor to tell her to be more realistic. That given her circumstances, she should get a job at Sainsbury’s and if she worked hard enough, she could potentially become a manager. “That gave me the drive and ambition to realise who I was destined to become, was who I decided to be. That gave me ammunition. The drive and motivation to succeed”. Kanya isn’t the first person to share that hearing ‘No’ fuelled her drive. I heard the same from Henrie Kwushue in a previous Zoom call, and from multiple individuals who I have encountered at different points of my life.

For Kanya, this didn’t stop even after putting on a successful MOBO’s show. “People started to compare us to conglomerates out there. I thought we’d get the love and support but actually, there were a lot of people trying to get rid of us. That really surprised me. In the end, you get to a state where you don’t ask for permission anymore, you just do what you do, be proud and go forth”. Kanya’s experience is unique in the sense that she was creating a space for black culture, and pioneering the diversity movement in music and entertainment at a time when the conversations were nowhere near as prevalent as they are today. However, the take away message remains. Have a powerful sense of purpose and believe in it. It then becomes very difficult for anyone to challenge you.

Get yourself a team of mastermind friends.

I’d be lying if I said this one hasn’t become increasingly obvious to me on my own journey. I still feel like I am searching for my tribe, so at times life can feel pretty lonely which is also something Kanya touched upon by saying the entrepreneur lifestyle can be “a very isolating existence”. However, when I do find and interact with people I admire and respect, the more my mind seems to expand whether that’s with confidence, ideas and inspiration, new concepts and questions, or often all of these things at once. Not only that, but I find that certain struggles are best understood by people who are or have been in similar shoes, and naturally they’ll advise you based on their experience. It’s a whole process of osmosis, so I was not surprised to hear Kanya frequently circle back to this point.

“You have to find your own mastermind circle of people that you can pick up the phone and get advice, or that you’re just inspired by. Having friends out there who are championing and trailblazing inspires me to up my game and helps me”. There’s a reason social scientists say that you reflect the people you surround yourself with – and that’s because it is true. I’m a product of my environment. Mastermind friends hold you to a higher standard for yourself. “Often when you vocalise [a dream] to someone, people will hold you accountable. Being accountable is really important.”

Another important role that mastermind friends play is that of a trusted impartial counsel. “If you have a buddy, meet up and share. A problem shared is a problem halved. No matter what it looks like out there, no entrepreneur business person gets there alone, it’s all about the team. Have a team around you that are willing to give you honest advice”. Kanya was very open about the realities of being an entrepreneur. “A lot of entrepreneurs might talk about the wins and the successes but there are so many lows. It’s important to realise that. That mastermind network is so important to have otherwise the first challenge you get, you’re tempted to give up.”

Find mentors everywhere.

Kanya didn’t have a mentor when she first started out. She stated that this led her to doing everything you shouldn’t do and making all the mistakes because she had no one advising her. “I didn’t have any track record, I didn’t have any mentors or advisors, I didn’t have any money and I didn’t have connections”. So what did Kanya have? That’s easy. “I had this overwhelming desire to succeed and I didn’t have a plan B, that allowed me to overcome so many obstacles”.

However, if you do have people willing to be your mentors or you can learn from someone, it’s highly advisable. “Mentors come in many guises. You don’t need to have the official title of a mentor to be a mentor”, says Kanya. “Your mentor may be someone you admire and whose journey you can follow”. Mentors can even be someone who you isolate a specific character trait from and embed that into your life. Kanya spoke about her own mother who although advised her to not start her own business (it came from that place of love where they just want you to be safe and secure in life), what Kanya did admire was how hard her mother worked and the resilience with which she navigated her challenges in life. This offered Kanya lots of perspective when faced with her own set of challenges.

There are no shortcuts. It’s hard work so the drive and motivation come from within.

You have to get out there and start. “It’s better to do something than to do nothing. You are far more likely to learn from doing than you are watching”. I felt this one. You can watch every motivational video on YouTube, you can listen to every interview, at some point you will have to DO things too, or all you’ve done is accumulate enormous amounts of theory in your head. I’m guilty of this myself, of failing to move past the research stage. At some point you have to take the leap and become the guinea pig in your own real life experiment. “There are no shortcuts, there are no get rich quick schemes. You need to put in the time and the determination. It helps to do something that you’re passionate about. You’ve got to be 100% motivated in your aims and objectives otherwise you’ll give up”. That’s the non sugar-coated truth from Kanya King.

Also, if you overthink it, you may just think yourself out of it entirely. “I didn’t anticipate half of the challenges I would go on to face and it’s probably a good thing. Had I known all the things I know now, that might have put me off! What I did know is I’ve always had the stamina, always had the energy and always fought hard for what I believe in”. I’m a massive over thinker, so for me it’s best to jump and just trust that I will be able to cross bridges as they come.

A quick summary of the way Kanya’s mind works: believe in yourself even if others don’t, believe in your ability to be a problem solver, surround yourself with similar minds so you can support and push each other forward, anticipate the hard work and commit to making your vision happen. Don’t ask for permission, make it happen.

And on that note – I recently discovered a love for video production and editing alongside photography and music, so anyone wanting to create behind the scenes/tour content when things get back to normal, shout me!

Also, do check out the MOBO Awards IG Live Show, #LowdownInLockdown. Every Friday they have two awesome guests on it.

You can follow Kanya on her twitter (@KanyaKing) and instagram (@kanyakingCBE).

#stephsantos #creativityworks #mt_futures #kanyaking #mobos

[rockandrora]

an outpouring

I was so angry, because your inconsistencies didn’t align with what I knew about you, what I knew you were capable of. it hurt to be so lost in that, and I had to run as hard and fast as I could, cause I loved you. I loved you so deeply, and I love you still and if I’d have stayed I’d just keep on hurting. So to hear you say that, after 4 years of hating you(because I had to, to stop loving you) it burst open this dam I built up around my heart and I’ve fallen, fallen deep deep into the well of love that I feel for you and all that I want with you and all that I believe in you. I believe you, that you will do what you say, so I’ve got to take care and take time, to really understand what it is that you want, so I don’t set myself up for more pain when my expectations are more than what we are capable of. That was my first instinct, at least. But then you asked me what is the love that I want? I had to stop and think, and realize that I don’t know. so I say that I need to think about it... and I’m still thinking about it. I’m thinking about why I’ve not thought about it before. Probably because no man has ever asked me what the love that I want exactly looks like, because he wants to see it. I guess as a woman I’ve objectified myself by proxy, according to the preferences, trends, and desires of those who doled out rewards and punishments based on choices I could make, and(equally or more-so) on things that I had no control over at all. I spent so much time trying to make myself something desirable that I forgot to know myself and what I might desire most...or when I did have a dream I learned to let it go. or even actively and willfully sweep it aside in order to let the greater dream of another take precedence.

But what if I found out what it really is that I want, and I told you, and you reply that you can’t be that for me? Ultimately what I want is what you want, which is simply, “can we be in love?” 

Devastated. My fear is clouding any attempt to summit and see my own desires.

But what if I found out what it really is that I want, and I told you, and your reply was you would do anything to give that to me? That you would do anything to be that love for me because you know that deep down I’m the kind of woman who would give anything... Knowing with certainty that you could snap your fingers and I would lay down any desire of my own for yours. So for you to commit to any desire of mine would be the ultimate gift, to give me back my own life in exchange for a life with me. I’m not even sure what that means, or if I could even handle it, really. To not have to sacrifice my whole self for the ideas another would be a new phenomenon in my young experience of love. I see this now, though, that I am the layman to my own dysfunction. Will I be so brave as to answer your question, honestly, in honor of whatever is within me to be discovered and explored? Brave, and soft, in the face of all the fear of rejection and anticipation of pain…

I look into the screen and it fades into your eyes. I’m looking at pixels but my brain sends drugs regardless, and I’m thrown. I’m flying 100 miles an hour above my own head. My mind racing to get to you, to touch your skin in real time, fast forward to the end to find out what happens.See the highlight reel to be with you and feel the perfection I perceive in your promise. You kept bringing up ways you’ve identified our compatibility in the sweetest, painfully reserved way, in a feigned offhand delivery. I was devastated by the true vulnerability and authenticity of your confession. Hit with a semi-truck of understanding and resolved confusions. I’m reeling still.

Not 20 minutes has passed while I’m awake without a thought of you, either your face on the screen or from a memory of our life before, when I saw you and I thought of the greek statues in Naples, or your lips, your lips, my lips and your lips. My infatuation with you and yours with me, and the drugs the drugs of love. The music we listened to or I listened to when I was waiting to be with you, that I’m listening to now, waiting to be with you, all that waiting and remembering and fantasizing. And when I sleep I dream and you are there. You drive through the night to be with me and it is all you say it will be. But then I wake up and I wake up from the daydreams and the realities of the pain you caused me, the insensitivities, the blatant disregard, the turning away, the selfish egotistical games and the lies. How can I forget all that? I hear the promises of old in your current lines of consciousness. But if I go back before the bad times, I remember what you said. “This is bad timing,” you told me. “Can you just come back in 4 years? Everything will be different.” And now it is, and you did what you said you would, so I believe you, I have to, in light of what you’ve accomplished. Exact. It fills me with this dizzying overwhelm to think that what you’ve said to me is exactly what you mean when you say I love you. When you say that you want to marry me and have children and grow old with me, give me all your benefits of working to this point and take care of me. That you’ve wanted that to be me ever since you came to know me. That you aspired to marry a girl like me because you saw me as perfection, and that the best thing you ever did was kiss me that night in my mother’s house and open the door to the possibility of having, actually, me. 

I tell myself you say that to all the girls. You’ve had them all, even some of my dearest friends, or closest aquaintances. How could you mean something so wonderful in light of all the game you’ve played and love you’ve passed around? I feel like a mark on a bedpost. I remember I said that to you as I was walking out, after months of heartache and confusion, into a few more months of the same. I told you what I thought then,“Congratulations, you did it. You conquered me, you can mark it down and tell all your friends how you fucked me, how you got [full name] to fall in love with you and suck your dick. Yeah… one more mark on the bedpost.” You didn’t say anything, you just looked at the floor with your arms at your sides. And that’s pretty much been your stance with me since. It felt like indifference to me. But that wasn’t it, was it? From the three hours we spent talking after 4 years of twisted half truths and coded messages, I finally saw you again.  

You said you watched yourself turn away from me. You saw the two options and would take the choices to offend me and make me reject you. Maybe on a deeper level you saw my loyalty and felt the osmosis and you wanted more for me than your own desires. You saw how love incapacitates a woman like me, cuts her limbs from her torso and renders her subservient and overflowing with luscious worship at the throne of a man so driven and conquering. That I would build you up and make that my life’s work. You saw it in me: that conflict of whether or not I could become personal creation or sacrifice. And you remembered what I said so vividly and painfully the more you replayed it, when I had identified in you something you weren’t even fully aware of at the time, when I told you I could see that you wanted to get married and have kids. But that wasn’t what I wanted right now. We joked and said get back to me in 4 years, and then fucked and fell asleep next to each other, happy for the moment without understanding the tectonics about to take that happiness, shift it about and drop it out of sight. 

But again the plates carrying the continents of our beings have shifted. And I see you in full. 11 hours away but so real to me. I hate it. I’m love sick. Reeling. Lost in heartache to have to wait. To have to wait again. To have to wait and see and IF our lands should come together, wait ages more to see if it is even what my heart tells me it could be. My heart is pushing so far toward you right now that I can hear myself screaming. I want to listen to sad core music and slit my wrists. I want to call you and tell you I have to see you. I want to obsess and marinate in every word you’ve spoken and believe in this fantasy so fully that I can’t tell what is real and what is imagined anymore. I want to dream about you every night and wake up with you every morning. I want to prove how good I’ve been and how much I can do so that you’ll approve and take me and let me have the full weight of your love. I want you to trust that I won’t snap off my own limbs and disable myself for you so that I’m forced to stay and love and serve(God, why would I ever actually want that?). But I want all of you. I love it when you are open, I love having your unfiltered heart. “I know you do,” you said to me. You watched my every move and your longing wrapped around me. I’ve never felt so wanted. Maybe it’s your persistence and nothing else. If any other man were so convincing would I be this stricken? I actually think so. I still love the other men with the same depth of care as I have for you, but until that care is matched there are no fireworks like I’ve felt from you. That’s the perfection of our equation. When a person’s care, sacrifice and vulnerability matches that of their partner there is a powerful vacuum created and this is the black hole that I’ve found myself in the last two days, and that I’d never want to escape if it were up to me.

#love letters #confession #codependency #devestated #love #sad core

[theothermodulesideblog]

FC 093 ESSAY DRAFT : Is it better to see an exhibit in person?

           It is a truth universally acknowledged that most Cultured people flock together to discuss their perceived meanings in pieces of art they see. A truth that goes hand in hand with this is that those same pretentious flocks are drawn, as if magnetised, to galleries and artist showcases. They like to stand around as they clink champagne glasses and pretend to enjoy the canapes, speculating on what the artist meant to say about this sculpture, or that interpretative dance set to Prince’s “Kiss”. They would rather stand, thoughtfully stroking their beards and “interpreting” at 5 inches away, and brag that they made the trip to do so, when they could just as easily look the work up online, as though physical proximity to the paint, or foot-smelling fibreglass, makes a difference.

           It seems easy to condemn those people. It is. But one must first consider why they are the way they are. To better aid in this line of consideration, it would be helpful to think of this as a nature documentary. There are two classes in this environment, the art world and the casual observers. The art world is ruthless, cold and manipulative – it thrives off connections and controversies more than it does artistic merit. It also boasts a complex ecosystem of mutually benefiting subspecies, and the easiest way to classify them are Artiste, Spectator, and Follower. An Artiste is a creator – someone whose work is on display for the public. This can mean anything from classical painting to post-modern “anti-art”, and is always up for interpretation. Artistes are strange creatures in that their main source of sustenance is also their undoing if not phrased correctly. As such, an Artiste will prey more on the words of a Follower than those of a Spectator, though those of a Spectator will fuel them for longer. Spectators are the influential part of the art world; the critics and patrons – the higher-ups, if you will. Their words make or break an Artiste’s world, and to be worthy of consideration one must constantly and consistently toe the line between creating work solely because it is appealing to the Spectators, and spitting in their faces. Followers are more akin to vultures – they hang onto the Spectators and Artistes, hoping some of their cultural credibility will someday manifest in themselves through some sort of osmosis or black magic. They are often rich, and prefer to accumulate pieces of art and hobnob with the elite to try and further their reputations. All three of these subspecies claim to be the arbiters of art, and none are more egregious in their claims of this as the Spectators. They see it as their profession, nay, their obligation to tell the casual observers what is and isn’t worth seeing in person in museums, and if the casual observer disagrees then they just lack the capacity to Understand The Poet’s Soul. This is entirely based on their reasoning that they specialised in this at university, trust them, they know best. They absolutely do not. It is no one’s right to classify art as high art or lowbrow and therefore not worthy of critical attention, but the person in question. Opinions are everyone’s, and no one, no matter how qualified they seem to think they are, have any more say in the matter than a farmer who has never heard of Caravaggio.

           But gossiping about and lampooning the pretentiousness of certain people is not the task at hand. This essay aims to discuss whether it is particularly important that an exhibit be experienced in person, rather than just seen online in a very thoroughly compiled online gallery, and will eventually try to convince its readers that while it has its merits, physically seeing the pieces does little to change one’s perceptions and ruminations on the work, or the experience of seeing it.

           To begin with, and this is putting it mildly, most art exhibitions are very dull. There is nothing else to be said on the matter, they are. Many would argue that this means whoever finds them dull simply is not an Artistic Soul who Understands The Anguish of Existing in a Capitalist World, but this is not the case. Most people alive today understand the anguish of living under late capitalism, especially those who would not want to congregate around a splash of paint or a fibreglass hand and declare it life-changing. This is because there is nothing inherently engaging about canvases arranged on walls, or traditional statues on plinths – in order for a viewer to be interested in engaging with the artwork, the artwork itself must be an engaging piece of work, and a myriad of them are not. “Engaging” here means captivating and inviting of critique. Many artists will say they are, but really most are not.

           Moreover, many exhibits today cost a lot of money to get into. Much of the data collected for this essay was mainly extracted from a visit to Warner Brothers’ Studios in Leavesden, just shy of an hour and a half out of London, to see the sets and art direction pieces for the Harry Potter films. The cost of trip and tour was steeper than one would hope, and immediately upon entering the first room, it was easy to see that money had perhaps changed hands a little too quickly. Set pieces and costume components lined the rooms of the studio tour, but it seemed that much of the experience could have just as easily been had online, from a video tour or a photo gallery. There was very little to interact with in any way other than from a strictly spectating position, and that is immediately detrimental to the success of any such exhibit that wishes to draw in physical attendees. It is difficult to justify spending money on experiencing the “size” and “scope” of set pieces one can hardly interact with.

           Many may read this essay and wonder why the exhibit chosen here to represent all other exhibitions is one so clearly for tourists. They certainly wouldn’t be wrong to point it out, but a tourist trap is just as much an exhibit as a collection on show at the Tate. Both are slices of the artistic medium, and both are equally worthy of critique. In fact, it could be argued that, as the Harry Potter films are so fixed in our cultural lexicon, the tour invites even loftier criticism. The sheer size of the world the designers and craftsmen had to build practically invites artists, critics and designers of all trades, as well as the common everyman to turn a critical eye to it.

           Another argument heard for this is that it definitely is worth it to see these pieces at full scale, and that one cannot hope to fully appreciate them without being in physical proximity. This seems a simplistic and frankly ridiculous argument to make, as all these pieces were designed to be experienced on a screen. It was nobody’s initial intention to open this studio full of set pieces and costumes, and put them on display. They have been experienced in their intended format a million times over, thus, the assertion that they must be seen full scale and enormous is laughable.

            This circles back to the point made earlier in the essay, that there should be no divide in art; highbrow, lowbrow – it all depends on the spectator, and the opinions of those less learned in the art world should not be considered lesser because of it. The reason the Warner Brothers Studio in Leavesden was chosen for this essay was a deliberate attack on the art world’s strict hierarchy and clear love for “cerebral, conceptual” (read: “too good for the rest of the world”) art. The view of this essay was always to tear apart the conceived notion that the opinions of critics are inherently worth more than those of the common man, so the selection of the exhibit reflected that aim.

In conclusion, many may disagree, but being in proximity of the works of art does nothing to enhance the works themselves, nor the experience of seeing them. This world is no longer 100% analogue, and the world of art and design is evolving with it, that much is evident with the influx of digital media, video games, and augmented reality content that exist out there. In order for proximity to make a difference in the work, it must be inherently interactive and capable of being changed by the spectator. Otherwise, there is no point. 

#i had a lot of fun writing this tbh #as a child of the art world i have been dragged to at least 50 exhibits/showcases/performances #and let me say ive hated all of them #everything about that world angers me #thats why i explicitly chose to go into design #i mean yes that world is far from perfect #the animation world is super CalArts preferential #and people just suck in general #but nothing will ever gain as much ire from me as the art world does #i came from a family that believed that as they were artists they were allowed to be the arbiters of what counted as art back home #it honestly disgusts me so much #its why i wanted to leave #didnt want to be tied to them in the same way i had been for the past 20 years #anyway here's wonderwall #or more accurately here's my draft #i guess ill just file it under #notes #for now #essay #long form writing #mine