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starlight-sev · 3 months

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Joy Looks Good on You (Snape x Artist!Reader)

Request: Snape with an artist reader- she makes gorgeous paintings, teaches an art class at Hogwarts (Bob Ross style, for reference). Doesn't have many students, but when he comes into her classroom its such a calming atmosphere. Maybe a short drabble about how he falls in love with her and her skill with paintings?

Requested by: anon

Warnings: none

A/N: this is more platonic than I had initially intended it to be, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Oh! Gender neutral reader as I always try my best to write 💕

Hogwarts was home to many secrets, one of them being that the school offered painting classes as an elective for those in third year or higher.

Even you were shocked when you first heard about the job posting. You always figured art would be just a hobby of yours. When it came to jobs in the wizarding world, anything to do with art and painting was quite rare to find.

So when you were finally offered the job for art teacher at Hogwarts, to say you were overjoyed would have been an understatement. You never thought you’d be able to turn your love of painting into your career.

Dumbledore had placed you in the North Tower, just below Professor Trelawney’s Divination classroom. Compared to her room, yours was rather small: you only had to walk ten steps and you’d already be at the other side of the room. A handful of round tables with matching wooden chairs had been crammed into the tiny space. There was a small desk nestled in the corner for you to work, along with a shelf against the wall to store your paints and supplies.

Your favourite feature about the room, and perhaps one of its only redeeming qualities, was the large window in the middle of the wall. It was rounded at the top, with an ornate stained glass inlay that covered almost half the window. It was the source of your inspiration on sunny days.

It certainly wasn’t the nicest classroom, and sometimes a theory crossed your mind that your classroom had once been a generously-sized storage closet, but anything was better than being down in the dungeons of the castle.

You glanced up from your own painting to quickly sweep your eyes over the paintings your students were finishing up. You never had more than ten students a year, painting certainly wasn’t a common interest for wizards (much to your disappointment), but it didn’t matter. It gave you the opportunity to grow closer to your students, to get to know everyone’s individual art style. It made you all the more proud when you were able to see how much they progressed over the course of the year.

“Professor?”

You glanced over to see Luna Lovegood, one of your students with the biggest imaginations, waving politely to catch your attention.

“Yes?” You asked softly.

“We won’t have time to finish our paintings this class. I know we’re not supposed to, but since it’s Friday, could we leave our supplies out? We’ll be back first thing on Monday.”

A few other students murmured their agreement. You smiled apologetically, silently cursing that you had given them an assignment far bigger than they had time to complete.

“Of course. That’s fine.” You dismissed everyone with a wave of your hand. “Go on. Enjoy the weekend. And don’t worry about handing in your still life sketches this week, you’ve got enough on your hands with the landscape painting I assigned.”

A handful of cheers erupted among the students, and you smiled as each one nodded and murmured their thanks before leaving.

You stood up from your desk, walking across the room to collect everyone’s paintbrushes one by one.

“Letting your students go without cleaning up after themselves?” A deep voice murmured softly from the doorway. “I’m surprised Y/N, I thought you were more disciplined than that.”

It never failed to startle you, how Severus had this uncanny ability to sneak up silently on you. Usually you’d be able to hear students’ footsteps echoing as they made their way up the stairs to your classroom, but Severus seemed to be able to glide noiselessly around the castle like a ghost.

You set your paintbrushes in the small sink that rested in the corner of your room, smiling in acknowledgement and beckoning the professor to come in.

“It’s Friday,” you answered, grabbing a paintbrush and using your fingers to work the paint out of the bristles. “They’ve got enough going on, I figured I’d give them a bit of a break.”

You heard Severus scoff as he approached you from behind.

“You’re too easy on them.”

“And you’re too hard on your own students, but you don’t see me waltzing into your classroom to nag.”

That earned a soft chuckle from the professor as he stood beside you.

“You can use magic to clean those.” Severus observed, nodding toward your fingers as you worked the leftover paint out of the brush.

“I know I can,” you shrug, watching the water beneath the brush turn a bright turquoise. “But I prefer not to. Helps me clear my mind a bit.”

“Hm.” Was the small response you got in reply. To your surprise, Severus reached into the sink and grabbed a paintbrush, mimicking your movements as he began cleaning it.

“Oh,” you exclaimed softly. “It’s okay, I can do that-”

“Too late,” Severus retorted, casting a quick glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve already started.”

The two of you scrubbed brushes in silence, and you just barely caught Severus let out a small, tired sigh. As you placed your final brush to the side to dry, you glanced at him.

“Rough day today?”

You had to hold in your giggles as he answered your question with the biggest eye roll you’d ever seen.

“That’s putting it lightly,” he muttered.

“Come,” you beckoned as you sat down in one of the empty seats in the middle of the class. You nodded for Severus to join you as you crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in your seat. “Tell me about it. What happened? Was it Potter again?

You smirked at the eye roll Severus gave you in response before tiredly making his way over to the seat across from you.

“Someone’s been stealing supplies for a Polyjuice potion,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have reasons to believe it’s Potter and his dunderhead friends.”

You bit back a smile, and raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think it’s him? Do you have evidence?”

“Trouble follows him wherever he goes, isn’t that evidence enough?”

You had trouble holding in a giggle, and Severus glared at you.

“He’s brewed Polyjuice potion before.” Severus continued. “It’s the only thing he can actually do well. And those specific ingredients keep going missing.”

You frown a little and shook your head.

“Really, Severus. I don’t know what you have against that boy, but you’ve got to give him a break,” you encouraged gently. “He’s got enough on his shoulders right now, with the Triwizard Tournament going on.”

“And what if he is stealing from my supplies?” Severus retorted.

“What if he isn’t?” You challenged calmly. Severus sighed again, shaking his head as he gazed at you.

“Should we place bets on whether it’s Potter who’s stealing from you?” You asked jokingly, leaning forward in your seat with a smirk. Severus pressed his lips together in a thin line.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because every damned time we make a bet, you win.”

You snickered at Severus’ remark, before standing up from your seat and placing your hand reassuringly on the professor’s shoulder. He looked up at you with dark eyes that warmed very slightly at your touch.

“I truly do not know how you always manage to see the good in people.” He murmured, sighing tiredly. You squeezed his shoulder lightly.

“I just… see the good in everything I guess.” You shrugged. “Even things that seem terrible can be beautiful, if they’re in the right lighting.”

Severus let out a little snort at your comment, shaking his head.

“C’mon grumpypants,” you teased lightly, patting your friend on the back. “I know what’ll cheer you up.”

You walked over to your desk and opened the far left drawer. Upon hearing the dull scrape of wood as the drawer pulled open, Severus looked over at you with the tiniest smile.

“Have you added any teas to your collection?” He asked. He kept a somewhat level expression, but you couldn’t help but grin at the hint of a hopeful tone in his voice.

“I went to Hogsmeade last weekend and got a few more. Some just for you. Come over here and pick one, I’ll put the kettle on.”

Severus stood up just as you moved to the corner of the room to fill the kettle. You noticed out of the corner of your eye how shadow-like he was: the way his cloak billowed slightly as he almost seemed to glide over to your desk.

You heard a few papers rustle as you filled the kettle, and that’s when your heart stopped.

Oh no, oh god no.

You forgot to move your sketchbook, bloody hell.

Maybe Severus was looking at something else, you thought to yourself. Maybe you misheard and he was only rifling through your tea stash-

“Is this… me?”

Nope. He found it. Shit.

You set the kettle down slowly, your hands trembling as you felt a rush of heat fly up to your cheeks.

“S-Sorry?”

You kept your eyes glued to the teacups on the small wooden countertop, trying your best not to cringe as you continued to hear pages being flipped over gently.

“Y/N…” Severus murmured. “You drew these?”

You chewed your lip, just about ready to sink through the floorboards at this point.

“Y-yes.” Your voice came out as a small squeak, barely even intelligible.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you heard gentle footsteps approach you from behind.

“Turn around,” Severus encouraged softly. Clenching your jaw, you tried to ignore the burning heat in your cheeks as you shuffled around to face Severus.

His dark eyes were swirling with so many emotions, you genuinely couldn’t tell what he was thinking. It terrified you. You looked down, and saw that he was holding one of your sketches in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I don’t show those to anyone, they’re just for me to practice with…”

“This is how you see me?”

You heard Severus‘ voice catch in his throat, and you looked up to see his features had softened into a gentle and almost sad expression. You lowered your gaze to his hands again, taking a closer look at the sketch he brought over.

It was from the Yule Ball a few months ago. You had sketched Severus during dinner after you saw him throw his head back in a hearty laugh, thanks to a dirty joke Professor Sprout had casually dropped at the staff table that night. You couldn’t remember the joke for the life of you, but you’d never forget the way Severus’ eyes lit up with a rare joy few ever saw. Nor would you forget the way his hair curled that night, perfectly framing his face and making him look almost angelic.

“Joy looks good on you.” You explained in the tiniest whisper, pressing your lips together nervously. “I… that was one of my first times seeing you laugh, and I just…”

You trailed off, silently cursing the fact that your face was still as red as ever. Finally, to your relief, Severus set your sketch down. But when you looked up at him, you noticed his eyes were glassy.

Was he… crying?

“Oh.” You gasp softly. “Oh no, I’m sorry. It’s a terrible drawing, I know-”

Severus shook his head. “Stop bloody apologizing. It’s beautiful. All your sketches are. I had no idea.”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to find out.” You muttered, laughing your nerves out softly. Your heart nearly stopped as Severus reached out, gently cradling your hands in his.

“Thank you.” He murmured quietly. “For… what you said.”

You frowned. “What did I say?”

“About… seeing the joy in me,” he replied. “That’s perhaps the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Your heart sank as you took in Severus’ words. You looked up, your soft eyes meeting his dark ones.

“It’s true.” You said simply. “It doesn’t take an expert to see you’ve been through some real shit, Sev. You deserve to be happy.”

Severus froze at your words, unsure of what to do or how to react. Then, to your surprise, he took one more step forward and closed the distance between the two of you. He wrapped his arms around you, and you nearly gasped at how tightly he held you to him. You returned his embrace without hesitation, finally calming after the initial scare of Severus finding your sketches. He was warm. You could get used to this feeling.

“Thank you, Y/N.” You heard Severus whisper.

“For what?” You asked back just as softly.

“Showing me how you see the world. How you see… me.”

#snape x reader #harry potter #severus snape #snape imagine #snape x y/n #severus snape imagine #severus snape x reader #harry potter imagine #harry potter imagines

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suzukiblu · 1 month

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If you feel up for it, for the writing meme prompt, Clark Kent/Lex Luthor, with the song You And Me by Lifehouse? If it's not your thing I totally get it though and hope you have a great time and fun writing the things that do catch your fancy!

I think we ALL knew that I was gonna do baby Kon for this, lbr. Also ngl, this came out way more cracky than the prompt would suggest it should've but it is absolutely my favorite thing I’ve written for this meme so far, as the necessity for the following cut should help attest, haha.

Unfortunately, Lex takes one look at Cadmus’s progress report on the newly-crafted Experiment Thirteen and realizes he has paternal instincts.

Well, that’s inconvenient. And a little disgusting, honestly. Certainly a disappointment.

He supposes it could be worse. He could be Lionel about this.

Anyway, that’s how he has a physiological four year-old on his lap when he hears the news about Superman coming back to life and fistfighting an evil cyborg with his own face about it, because of course the man didn’t have the decency to just stay dead. Why would he, after all?

Lex needs a drink. That would be a bad example for the physiological four year-old, though.

Then again, Experiment Thirteen should be completely immune to the effects of Earth-based alcohol in about another four to six months of consistent yellow sun exposure, so . . .

Lex is halfway through his second brandy when Superman shows up on his balcony at super-speed wearing a very pretentiously dramatic black suit and looking both winded and bewildered. And still alive, unfortunately.

“Don’t you have a murderous cyborg to be ensuring is in custody?” Lex asks dryly, deciding to just not acknowledge the presence of the physiological four year-old who’s moved on to messily but methodically coloring on the floor underneath his desk. Lex didn’t actually give Experiment Thirteen either a coloring book or crayons, mind, but he appreciates the clone’s resourcefulness in breaking into the office supplies. Anyway, it’s useful for developing its hand-eye coordination and fine motor control.

Superman’s pupils are pin-pricks, barely even there at all. Which is an unusual reaction from him, and Lex notes that fact reflexively but doesn’t particularly care about it. Meant-to-be-dead people do unusual things, especially the alien ones. And it isn’t as if–

“Baby,” Superman blurts, his eyes wide.

Lex . . . pauses. Takes a slow sip of his brandy.

Alright then.

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” he settles on eventually, raising an eyebrow at him. Experiment Thirteen peers out from under the desk, immediately decides Superman isn’t an interesting presence, and then goes back to coloring all over Lex’s floor. It seems to be drawing either a puppy or a chain of complex genetic sequencing, but judging by the kinds of things it’s been drawing so far, it’s fifty-fifty. Lex has been getting the impression the clone actually likes art, which is a baffling interest to find in his own progeny, but how does that quote go . . . “I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet”?

Or something like that, anyway.

“No, I–baby,” Superman stresses, looking bewildered as he floats down a little closer to the open balcony door.

“. . . yes, I’ve noticed,” Lex repeats, raising his eyebrow again and taking another sip of brandy. Superman looks frazzled, bobbing up a little higher in the air again to get a better view of Experiment Thirteen under the desk. Experiment Thirteen keeps ignoring him in favor of its coloring, displaying no apparent interest in the most powerful uninvited guest in the history of illegal immigration. Lex experiences a moment of overwhelming paternal pride, which is such a bizarre and unanticipated experience that he doesn’t even know what to do with it.

“Where’d he come from?” Superman asks with a wondering expression. Ugh.

“A cloning lab,” Lex replies dismissively, setting his near-empty glass down on the desk. It’s hardly worth lying about Experiment Thirteen’s origins at this point. He didn’t want to murder everyone in Cadmus to keep the secret. He might need them if there’s an issue with Experiment Thirteen’s genetics later, after all. “We mixed it up a couple weeks ago while you were off wasting everyone’s time being dead."

“You had my baby?” Superman says, tilting in the air and still staring at Experiment Thirteen, as if he's somehow forgotten both how much kryptonite Lex owns and how much kryptonite he keeps specifically in this office. “While I was dead. You had my baby while I was dead.”

. . . alright then, Lex thinks again, both eyebrows raising this time.

“I really wouldn’t put it that way, personally,” he says. “Also, I don’t recall saying it was in any way yours.”

“Baby,” Superman repeats inanely, then lands on the floor and ducks down into a crouch to peer under the desk better, his pupils still reduced to barely-there pinpricks. Lex is so mystified he doesn't even activate the security system or the weaponized red sun lamps. Experiment Thirteen frowns at Superman–Lex, again, basks in unanticipated paternal pride–and then turns its back on him and hides all its drawings from him as seriously and carefully as if they were under NDA.

It's almost adorable, frankly.

Not that Lex finds things adorable, of course.

“His heartbeat's so cute,” Superman says, looking absolutely fascinated. Which is surprisingly useful of him to mention, actually, since Lex had previously been vaguely concerned that Experiment Thirteen's odd thrumming heartbeat might be a sign of a heart defect, but apparently it’s just a Kryptonian thing. A . . . “cute” Kryptonian thing, according to Superman.

Lex is increasingly mystified by this interaction.

“Can’t say I’ve spent much time listening to it, personally,” he lies, because he has in fact obsessed over that heartbeat’s health and stability since first finding out about its unusualness and has done a truly aggravating amount of research into heart murmurs and conditions and the like. But that’s hardly Superman’s business, now is it.

“. . . what’s his name?” Superman asks hesitantly. Lex is possibly having an out of body experience.

“Experiment Thirteen,” he says. Superman immediately looks offended.

“We need to give him a name, Lex,” he says. Lex, again, has an out of body experience.

“‘We’?” he repeats incredulously. “I made it, I get to decide what it’s called.”

“He’s got my DNA!” Superman protests, looking indignant. Lex has absolutely no idea how to process that expression.

“It has both our DNA, in fact, yours was too irritating to stabilize alone,” Lex informs him dubiously. More accurately it was literally impossible to stabilize alone, but he’s not mentioning that to Superman. “So it has my DNA, and I made it. And also put eight point two billion dollars into its production, as a lowball estimate. Therefore I’m the one who decides what its name is, thank you very much.”

“Lex,” Superman says disapprovingly. “You can’t call a baby Experiment Thirteen.”

“It’s physiologically developed enough to complain if it doesn’t like it,” Lex retorts, narrowing his eyes at him. Superman frowns at him. Lex has never had a more ridiculous conversation with the man, including all the times Superman’s tried to appeal to his nonexistent “better nature”. “Well it is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Superman says, then ducks back down and peers at Experiment Thirteen again, gentling his voice to address it while Lex is still incredulously mouthing “ridiculous”? to himself. “Would you like a real name, kiddo?”

Experiment Thirteen sticks its tongue out at him.

Lex is finding parenthood to be a very rewarding experience, actually.

#clex #lex luthor #clark kent #kon el #conner kent #superman #superboy #superfamily #rinfic #anonymous

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the-modern-typewriter · 10 months

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The Art of Turning 30

“So, am I allowed to talk?” Annabelle gave an awkward little laugh, that she immediately wanted to stuff back into her mouth. “I’ve never done this before!”

“You can talk.” Julian flashed her a quick, reassuring smile. “At least until I tell you not to.”

They both laughed, then. Julian’s laugh was not awkward.

It was six months until her thirtieth birthday.

She had met him at her girlfriend Camille’s twenty-ninth birthday party, a few weeks ago, only to be surprised that they’d somehow never crossed paths before. London was big, but it wasn’t that big surely, and Julian was an artist.

Annabelle felt like she spent half her free time at artsy bohemian parties and amateur gallery openings, though maybe that was why. He wasn’t an amateur, was he?

She’d looked him up online after and seen several shining reviews of his first exhibition, and a rosy buzz of anticipation at what he’d do next.

She remembered that buzz. People used to get that buzz when they talked about her. Apparently, his work was ‘visceral’ and ‘felt startlingly alive’.

It seemed impossible that he wanted to paint her, of all people.

Annabelle shifted on the stool, glancing around Julian’s studio space as he finished setting up his easel and paints. Oils. He’d said he was using oils. That mattered in painting, didn’t it?

The studio was everything she’d always imagined a professional artist’s studio to be. It was quite large, with clean wooden floors and white walls crowded with stacks of sheet-covered canvases in progress.

There was only one that was ready and visible; a painting of a beautiful blond man, probably nearing thirty too, lounging on the same stool that Annabelle was perched upon. He gazed out at the viewer with a hungry sort of hope. Like they were the best thing he had ever seen.

The studio smelled like drying paint and the sandalwood diffuser wafting its calming scent from the window sill. Sunlight coated the room like honey, or gold.

“You’re not going to make me look ugly, are you?” she asked.

He smiled again, meeting her eyes. “I couldn’t possibly.”

He probably flirted with all of his models, but she still felt a blush of heat rise to her face.

He looked like he could be in a painting, or one of those classical sculptures still concerned with archetypal ideals of beauty. Of course, she was with Camille, so nothing would happen…but still. The attention made her heart pound. Camille was usually too tired from work to flirt with her anymore.

Annabelle wasn’t sure how good she’d be at seeing a painting of herself that she hated, and not letting it show on her face. She’d probably tear up. It would be embarrassing for both of them. She shifted on the stool once more, and tugged at the hem of her summer dress.

“This is for your next exhibition?”

“I think I’m going to call it ‘The Art of Turning 30’.”

“Explains why I’m your muse instead of some gorgeous twenty two year old ingenue.” She laughed again. He did not. She continued, even as she willed herself to stop babbling, because he wasn’t looking at her with the expectation that she do anything. He plucked up a pencil, beginning his work. “It’s like, when you’re a woman, after you turn thirty your life is over, right? It’s like with my acting. And then by the time you’re forty all of a sudden all you can possibly be is, like, a mother or a witch. Or, you know, the dead wife. It’s all downhill.”

“You wouldn’t want to be a witch?” He raised a brow. “They always seemed pretty powerful to me. I could see you as a witch.”

“But do you know what I mean?”

“Can you turn your head a little the left, please?”

“What? Oh. Yes.”

She turned her head to the side, towards the window, and hoped the sunshine made her seem younger rather than highlighting every growing crag and wrinkle.

She could only watch him out of her periphery vision now; a wistful muse, seemingly unaware that she was being observed. She tried to look deep and mysterious.

“Perfect,” he said. “Thanks. You’re just perfect.”

The canvas of the blond man fell to the floor with a soft thump.

Annabelle jumped.

“Sorry.” Julian shook his head, another easy laugh on his breath. “The landlord never lets me put proper hangings on the wall here. Says it wrecks them. I guess so long as they don’t do that at the exhibition?”

“I don’t know, you could probably play it off as a stunt…lean into the photorealism.”

“Now, there’s an idea. Genius.”

She probably didn’t look deep and mysterious. She probably just looked smitten.

***

She sat for Julian three times a week for the next several months.

It became a pocket of peace in her life, the hours when it was okay to finally stop and be for a while, because everything else seemed to be hurtling through her fingers faster than she could clutch hold of it.

She’d always imagined that she would be a successful, or at least up-and-coming, actress and screenwriter by the time she turned thirty.

Sure, women only made up around 30% of the directors or writers behind the camera, but back in school everyone always said that maybe she’d be the one to change that. She wasn’t entirely sure when they stopped saying it, but they had.

It was three months until her thirtieth birthday.

“Here.” Julian caught hold of her chin, featherlight, angling her back towards the sun. The days were getting shorter. Time was running out for them both. “You were like this.”

She had got in the habit of always sitting a little wrong, because he’d always adjust her, oh so careful and attentive, like she was his masterpiece.

She would have probably preferred to be her own masterpiece, but being his seemed like the second best option. She could practically feel the ghosts of forgotten, underappreciated female muses-past screaming at her that no, it was always better to be somebody than someone’s, but frankly she wasn’t sure she could be picky.

She’d been getting less and less call backs, and was starting to feel more like she was a part-time waitress dabbling at film than a part-time actress-filmmaker working hours in hospitality to make ends meet.

It was like a window was closing. Her window. That morning she’d found an honest to the devil grey hair on her head!

Camille told her that she was being ridiculous – that she’d become increasingly vain since Julian started painting her.

Annabelle had snapped back that vanity wasn’t vanity for an actress. Her looks were her currency.

It hadn’t always been so hard, had it?

All in all, it didn’t seem like a sin to let him touch her. It was nice to be touched. There was nothing untoward in that.

She peeked up at Julian, standing over her, his star ever on the rise. Their stares met again. He smiled that quick, reassuring smile of his.

“You look tired,” he said softly.

“Sorry.”

“No, no.” He widened his eyes. “I didn’t mean—” he huffed gently, and let go of her. “I haven’t got to your mouth yet. If you want to talk about it.”

Annabelle grinned back before she could stop herself.

It had become a standing joke. She sometimes felt she spent their whole time together talking about herself, but he always said it was interesting and made the hours fly. He was a very good listener.

More privately, she sometimes suspected that he was leaving her mouth for last just so they could continue chatting, but she wasn’t allowed to see the painting to check. The thought was thrilling though.

“It’s nothing,” she said, even if she already knew she’d probably tell him everything on her mind. “I don’t know.”

What would she do when the painting was done? She’d see him at his exhibition opening, probably, but there would hardly be a reason for them spend time together like they did when she was sitting for her portrait.

Maybe it was silly to consider him one of her friends. She’d miss it, though. She’d miss him.

Maybe he’d want to do another one of her, but who was she kidding? Maybe in ten years, when he did a gimmicky but charming follow up. The Art of Turning 40: Where Are They Now?

What did he know about turning thirty anyway? He couldn’t be more than twenty-five. He had loads of time.

“There’s an intimacy,” he murmured, “to painting someone. Especially like this, in the old fashioned way. A lot of people use photographs and quick studies because they’re more convenient and you don’t have to catch the right light, you know? But I love it.” The air filled with their breathing, and the soothing dab of his paint brushes on his palette, mixing up the colours of her. “You really get to know people this way. It adds soul to the work. It’s magic.”

She felt, more than saw, his gaze cut over her again. Her blood was electric beneath his scrutiny.

He continued, softly.

“I knew from the moment we met that I wanted you to be my centrepiece for this one.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s true!” He laughed. “You have this great energy. I knew you were going to be interesting, and I was right. And you know how to model well. Because you’re an actress, right? You’re used to people looking at you.”

An actress, no ‘wannabe’ or ‘aspiring’ or ‘failed’ tacked on front. She couldn’t help but sneak a glance at him as best she could without turning her head.

“My boss always says I should have more energy, then I’d wait tables faster.”

“What does Camille say?”

“Camille—” Annabelle blinked in surprise, then swallowed. Her hands curled in her lap. She resisted the urge to sigh.

“Uh-oh.”

“No, no,” she said. “It’s fine. I just – she thinks if I’m not happy I should do something about it. She’s always telling me about other things I’d be really good at that have better pay, or more sociable hours.”

“So, give up on your dreams already.”

“Yeah.”

Annabelle deflated. She knew that Camille didn’t mean anything bad by it, but that was what it implied, right? She was never going to be a famous and successful actress or screenwriter, so she should settle for something manageable.

“Well, she’s not a creative, like us,” Julian said. “She doesn’t get it.”

Like us. Annabelle was a horrible girlfriend for feeling a swell of pleasure at that. It was true, though. Still.

“We’ve been together for a really long time, and she’s been really supportive. I think she’s just finding the whole ‘me turning thirty’ thing annoying. Mainly because I won’t shut up about it. Which I’m sure you sympathise with!”

Camille said that anyone who claimed life stopped at thirty was an idiot. There was no limit for potential, no one age where everyone had to have their life together and perfect by.

She was probably right, but Annabelle could still feel the panic of it clawing at her the closer her birthday got. Even if she was successful after thirty, she wouldn’t be one of those young geniuses that everyone had expected her to be. She wouldn’t be exceptional.

She would just be Annabelle. It didn’t feel like enough. Maybe if she could see herself like Julian apparently saw her, it would be better.

“Chin up,” Julian said.

Annabelle cleared her throat again. “Right, yeah.”

“No, I mean.” His voice was deadpan. “Your head. You’ve moved. Drooped.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. The melancholy shoved itself down again in the pit of her stomach.

He tossed her a wink from behind the easel, to indicate he was joking. Only trying to cheer her up and lighten the mood.

“So, I still don’t get to see what else you’re working on, huh?” she asked.

“I’d have to kill you.” He switched to another, smaller brush in her periphery vision.

She snorted.

“It would be very inconvenient all around,” he said. “Rigor mortis sets in fast. I’d never get the painting done in time.”

“Well we can’t have that. After you’re finished with me then, I suppose.”

“Our art is a part of us, Annabelle.” He shot her another glance in turn, brush poised above his image of her, considering. “So how, then, could I ever truly be finished with you?”

Her breath hitched in her throat. She debated possible responses to that, and how he could have meant it. Her body felt warm and flushed.

He gestured that she angle her head left once more, not looking away for a second himself.

Annabelle turned.

The summer waned outside the window, but in the painting she would still be in her sundress, legs tanned and toes painted sky blue.

Thank god he kept his studio warm. The minutes ticked by, the air between them settling tranquil once more.

“Sometimes,” she said, softly, “I wish we could stay like this forever. Freeze the moment. Is that stupid?” It felt a confessional thing to say. Bold.

“No.” She could hear the equally soft smile in his voice. “It’s not stupid. Isn’t that how I got you to agree to do me this favour?”

She remembered the party; an adult version of what they all used to do, even if it still felt like they were all pretending to be grown-ups. Or at least, Annabelle felt like she was pretending. She didn’t feel twenty-nine.

She’d clutched her glass of wine and hovered near a somewhat strained conversation about mortgages and the state of the housing market, and how none of them were going to be on the property ladder before they were fifty, before she caught sight of Julian coming in.

She echoed his words, and didn’t have to fake her wistfulness that time.

“To be remembered in art is the closest any humans’ get to immortality.”

He echoed the next line back at her. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

And she’d said yes.

***

“I’ve got a date for the exhibition,” Julian said, from behind his easel. “A few weeks after your birthday. Short notice, I know. Soz.”

“Ugh, don’t mention the B word. But that’s exciting! Can I come?”

“Of course you can come,” he said. “It’s why I’m telling you. This wouldn’t be possible without you.”

“I mean, while sitting here is terribly difficult,” she said, “I do feel like you should get some of the credit. Just some.”

She heard him laugh.

She’d grown to love Julian’s laugh; he was so ready to do it, at least in their sessions.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Camille laugh at something she said. Then again, she wasn’t sure the last time she and Camille had spent all that much time together.

By the time Camille got back from a day of teaching, Annabelle was usually already out for the night shift at the pub she waited in. Yet another thing in her life that wasn’t working like it was supposed to!

Camille said that could be worked on if, hey, Annabelle was willing to actually prioritise their relationship.

It had been one of their worst arguments to date.

“There’ll be thirty paintings in total, I think,” he mused, more talkative than normal. “Yours being the main one, like I said.”

“I’m sure you will perfectly capture the raw turmoil of turning thirty.”

He laughed again. It had been one of the most notable reviews of his first exhibition – except the exact wording had been that his work perfectly captured ‘the raw turmoil of adolescence, as an emotional and nostalgic period of change and growth’.

He’d finally caved and showed her some of his previous pieces, other than the ones she’d managed to find online, as a compromise of his refusal to show her how his painting of her was coming along.

Most of the individual pieces from his first exhibit had been sold off, but he’d kept the main one.

His main piece – Girl On Swing – got the most praise, so it had apparently been a bit of a scandal that he hadn’t sold it. He’d had offers.

It was a triptych (Julian’s word) of a girl, unsurprisingly, on a swing.

In the first of three paintings she was a child, carefree and giggling. In the second, a young teenager, her face a storm of emotion. In the final one, she was a young adult, caught mid-leap flying off the swing she’d been sitting on for seemingly eighteen years. Her arms were painted halfway to transitioning to a bird’s wings. She was no longer looking back at the viewer but forward, to all that life had to offer.

Annabelle wondered what people would say about Julian’s version of her.

People liked to fantasise about how amazing being a teenager was when they were an adult, but she hadn’t met anyone who fantasied about turning thirty. It wasn’t nearly as glamorous.

She hoped he made her glamorous.

“Of course,” he was continuing, “with the date so near, we might need a few more sessions to get finished on time.”

She looked over at him again, then, even if she wasn’t supposed to be moving.

The golden light danced across his handsome features, and caught the edges of the canvases behind him. There were twenty nine of them waiting.

“I make a pretty good lasagne,” he said, biting his lip. “If I say so myself. Compensation. If you don’t mind finishing late. There’s also a nice wine I got for Christmas that I really couldn’t drink alone.”

“I don’t mind,” she heard herself saying, before she’d even thought about it. “I don’t mind at all.”

“It’s a good venue,” he said. “A really good venue. Everyone’s going to love you.”

With him, maybe, the window wouldn’t close.

***

“I’m done, except for the varnish.”

The words sent a bolt through her, stirring away the sleepy content that came with posing for an extended period of time. She felt seen. Now, though, she wanted to see. Finally.

It was the day before her thirtieth birthday, and Camille had a massive surprise party planned, that Annabelle was both pretending that she didn’t know about, and dreading like a punch to the gut.

It was sweet that Camille was doing it. But also, maybe, if she didn’t celebrate the date she could still, somehow, be in her twenties for another year. That was how it worked, right?

“You are?” She leapt off the stool, and felt her joints click. “Can I see? I feel like I should have a right to see before everyone else. I won’t tell anyone.”

“It is top secret.” He pretended to consider.

She took the opportunity to relish actually looking at him for once; there was a kiss of red on the cuff of his painting shirt that hadn’t yet dried. It was the exact colour of her lipstick. She smiled.

He really had left her mouth for last.

“Fine,” he said, and gestured her over, eyes bright with amusement. “But only because I know you won’t tell.”

In the short space of walking over, Annabelle had time to feel her stomach clench. Her old fears boiled nauseously to the surface.

What if it was awful?

What if it wasn’t what she wanted, as if that had ever been the point?

What if her immortality looked like the part-time waitress she didn’t want to be?

She would have to keep a straight face, and not hurt his feelings. He’d been working on it for so long. It would ruin everything if he knew she hated it. It would no doubt be technically very skilled. She should have researched painting techniques she could comment on.

She rounded the easel, a little dizzy.

His hand fell on the small of her back, thumb tracing the curve of her hip, idly almost.

She stared.

Her painted self was lovely. So alive, as if thirty couldn’t possibly contain her.

It was not as realistic as ‘Girl On Swing’ though.

She was caught in the motion of talking, hands gesturing animatedly in the air despite her best efforts of posing, and though her face was turned towards the light of the window it was as clear as confession that her eyes were always turning towards him, trying to steal a glimpse.

She looked at him, at the viewer, like he was the best thing she had ever seen.

Camille would see the painting too.

She had already said that she had to come to the opening, especially ‘after all the time her girlfriend had spent with this Julian fellow instead of her.’

Annabelle swallowed.

The perfect bubble burst.

She released a shaky breath, abruptly more aware of his hand through the thin material of her dress.

They hadn’t done anything.

Even the night when she ended up staying over at his, after lasagne and wine, they hadn’t done anything.

The painting made it look like they had, though. She wasn’t even sure she could accuse Julian of exactly making it up, either.

He had painted the truth. Raw. Even when it would have been politer to hide it.

“Oh,” she said. “Wow. Um. Julian—”

“Happy Birthday,” he murmured. “For tomorrow.”

His hand moved up to the back of her neck and all of the colours of the painting swirled and rushed forward to meet her.

“Oh, and Annabelle?” His voice sounded very far away. “This is the bit where you stop talking.”

***

Annabelle had been thirty for nearly a month. Well, not exactly.

They all said that she looked amazing. So realistic.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t feel her body. But, she could watch, from her frame.

She’d watched as Julian approached her with a paintbrush dipped in varnish – to seal the work – and she’d watched with her world turned sideways as they carried her canvas from the studio to the gallery.

She’d watched as they hung her up on the wall and made comments about her like she wasn’t there at all.

She’d screamed, too, or tried to. They hadn’t been able to hear her.

Julian had approached her again when they were alone, hands in his pockets, perfectly relaxed and pleased with himself.

“It’s a good trick, isn’t it? I’ve always had the knack of turning people into portraits.” He’d flashed her the same quick, reassuring smile he always did as he peered up at her. “As I said, it’s all about getting to know the person. Getting them to pour their soul out to you.”

He’d laughed, like he so often did, only this time it was at his own joke instead of hers. Or maybe she had always been the joke.

“I did worry for a moment that I wouldn’t be finished in time. But, don’t worry. We made it. You’re twenty-nine forever! Just like you wanted. Just like I promised. I’m not that cruel.”

She’d wanted to tell him that this was not what she’d wanted. She wanted to ask a million questions. She wanted to punch him.

Instead, Annabelle watched as Camille stepped into the exhibition room, on opening night.

She watched Camille scan the crowd, feverishly, expecting her to be there.

She watched as Camille’s attention snagged on the vast painting of her across the room.

God, Camille.

Her girlfriend made a beeline over. It had been an age since Annabelle had last looked at her, properly looked at her, hadn’t it?

Camille’s face crumpled a little as she studied the portrait; a myriad of regret and fear and confusion. Hurt. Her eyes were red and swollen like she’d been crying. She raised one hand towards Annabelle’s life-sized face, as if to touch, but didn’t. Her fists curled at her sides instead.

Guilt twisted in Annabelle’s gut. Camille looked exactly like how one might when learning that their girlfriend had cheated on them.

She felt an absurd surge of hope, despite everything, that Camille might see her where no one other than Julian had. The portrait, for all of its intimacies, suggested a grand love affair. People didn’t vanish fairly from grand love affairs, they just didn’t! It was suspicious, right? He was the last person to see her. The proof was in the painting!

Camille stared at her for a moment longer, her jaw set with grim determination. Then she scrubbed a hand over her face. Her shoulders hunched against some unbearable, undefinable weight. Her dark hair was greasy with worry.

“I’ll find you,” Camille still whispered. “I swear, I’ll find you.”

Annabelle’s stomach sank.

“No, Camille—” Of course, the words didn't come out. Nothing did.

She’d had been such an idiot, hadn’t she?

She felt a fresh stab of longing for that surprise birthday party.

How long had they waited for her to arrive? Waited for her.

Had Camille reported her missing? There would be no body to find, no evidence. The painting, the wanting limited eyes she looked out of, felt like a mockery.

Maybe the life she had with Camille hadn’t been perfect, not by a long shot, but at least they’d been alive. At least they’d been real.

Camille began to turn away.

“Please.” Annabelle’s voice broke. “I’m so sorry. I’m here, please. Don’t leave me! Camille!”

More attendees bustled to claim prime spot in front of the painting, murmuring about how talented Julian was, speculating on if Annabelle was his lover. Camille flinched.

“It makes me feel,” one of gallery attendees said, “like I’m interrupting them in a private moment, you know? Of course, it’s so Julian that she’s not actually a nude—”

She couldn’t see Camille anymore.

She was never going to see Camille again, was she?

CAMILLE. CAMILLE. CAMILLE.

Annabelle screamed it with everything she had, every atom of her, with the absolute certainty that if her girlfriend walked out the gallery door that Annabelle would never escape the painting.

She would never get to say sorry, or kiss Camille, or tell her properly that nothing had happened or would ever have happened, despite what she may have let her foolish heart feel.

She’d just liked the way he looked at her.

She didn’t want to stop the clock.

She wanted her life back, to live.

The painting hit the floor of the exhibition with an almighty crash.

Everyone scattered back. Red wine spilled like a crime scene against the polished floor.

Camille whirled back around too, alone a few metres away, her eyes wide and startled.

Julian appeared, clutching a glass of champagne in one hand.

“Goddamn these hooks. Who set this up? It’s a hazard. Everyone alright?” He looked around at his adoring fans, and summoned up a rueful smile. “I should have just got eyes to follow you all around the room instead, huh?” He looked down at her, where she stared up, in the same narrow periphery vision he’d painted her with. “Really leaned into the photorealism.”

Past him, past his taunts, Camille looked between the two of them. Uncertain misery flashed across her features once more. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, before closing it.

Annabelle willed her painted self to move again too, to speak, to do anything. She willed Camille to question, to press, to not give up on them and on her. Not now.

“Camille!” Julian had caught sight of her too, and straightened. He gestured for one of the gallery employees to get Annabelle back into position. “I’m so glad you could make it! Is Annabelle not with you? She was so excited for the exhibition…”

“You haven’t seen her?” Camille’s voice broke. “I – I thought she’d be here, at least. With you.”

“With me?” Julian spoke mildly. Innocently. “No, no. I haven’t seen her. I thought she was with you. Is something wrong?” His tone gentled, as he walked towards Camille. “She mentioned you’d been having some problems…”

“No – it wasn’t like that – Camille—”

Crowds swarmed Annabelle’s painted self once more. She was lifted back on the wall, as if nothing had happened.

"Let me get you a drink," Julian said. "You can tell me everything."

She caught a glimpse of Julian's arm wrapped around Camille's waist. The way she leaned into him, looked up at him. His lips by her ear.

"Camille—"

By the time the room cleared, they were already gone.

#the last of these stories I swear #turning 30 #short story #horror #fiction #writing #creative writing #writeblr #getting rid of the archive just in case #idk what to tell you #art #magical realism

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neo-my-geo · 6 months

Text

Hey gang, it’s your old pal Neo here. If you know me, it’s probably from one of the several very stupid TF2 comics I’ve posted to Tumblr.

However! I am also an English major (unfortunately). One who has read millions of words worth of fanfiction in their life. I have been part of the Sherlock, BNHA, Disco Elysium, and, of course, TF2 fandoms; I’ve been around the block.

The further I’ve progressed into my English education, the more I’ve noticed which mistakes are the most common in fanfiction. Many of them are easily fixable; writers just need to be pointed in the right direction.

“Neo! Does this mean you think people shouldn’t be allowed to post their works online without a background in formal English education?”

Of course not! I can explain why if you’d care to venture below the cut with me!

Yes, I will explain how to use commas.

It’s important to note that this is NOT a post about formal writing. You aren’t writing an essay. Please, for the love of god, do not write fiction like you’re writing an essay.

There are no stakes to writing fanfic. No one is going to get hurt if an author doesn’t know what a dangling participle is. One of my favourite things about fanfiction is that it’s one of the only art forms left that’s done exclusively for fun! You should write what you enjoy, and share what you make with like-minded people.

What I want to do is provide assistance as best I can to writers who want to improve their fundamentals without having to take the same university courses I did. Nobody is going to be getting a formal education to write fanfiction unless they’re ridiculously dedicated, and I’m not expecting that of anyone.

The point I need to stress is that knowing these grammar fundamentals can instantly improve the flow of your writing. Punctuation is a ridiculously important tool for writers, ESPECIALLY in fiction. Commas, semicolons, and full stops (including periods, exclamation points, and question marks) steer the pacing in the reader’s mind; did you notice how your brain stopped for a second after that semicolon? I can show you how to do that.

You may be wondering why I’m going through so much effort to teach all of this to strangers on the internet. The answer is that I enjoy sharing this knowledge with others and helping them grow. By seeing this, my goal is to help you become more proficient at self-editing. Showing this to people who actually want to learn will, hopefully, benefit the community as a whole, and I think that’s very worth it.

Also, while this post is obviously themed around TF2, the points I’m making can be applied to any fiction. Grammar is for everyone, and the church of the semicolon always has room for more initiates.

Also also, as an edit, I should clarify that this is meant to cover the more objective facets of self-editing, which is why I'm mostly covering punctuation. Maybe I'll do another post about using adjectives someday.

With that out of the way, let’s get going!

I’ve teamed up with several English teachers (real ones! One of which may or may not be my mom!) and an editor to gather a list of the most common problems we see in amateur fiction. This post is going to be split into three broad sections: apostrophes, commas/semicolons, and other common problems.

The apostrophe

This section is short, but it holds weight. Other than commas, apostrophes are the most typoed grammatical tool in any fanfiction I’ve edited. This is because, much like the rest of English, the rules surrounding them can be annoying and inconsistent.

Apostrophes have two main uses: possessives and conjunctions.

A possessive is a word that denotes the ownership of one thing over another. The vast majority of the time, this is done using an apostrophe and an S.

There is, however, one glaring exception to this rule, and it’s the bane of my existence.

When denoting possession of an object over something else while using the pronoun ‘it,’ you do NOT add an apostrophe before the S.

A conjunction, on the other hand, is when a writer uses an apostrophe to combine two words. The following are examples of common conjunctions:

What’s (what is)

They’re (they are)

It’s (it is)

Conjunctions are not often used in formal writing. Thankfully, we aren’t dealing in formal writing. Go crazy.

Time for a lightning round of the most commonly mistaken for each other possessives and conjunctions!

Your is possessive. You’re is a conjunction of ‘you’ and ‘are.’ When you can’t decide which one to use, imagine replacing it with ‘you are’ and seeing if it makes sense. If it doesn’t, use your.

Their is possessive. There indicates a location. They’re is a conjunction of ‘they’ and ‘are.’

The comma and the semicolon

You knew it was coming. I knew it was coming. It’s time to talk about commas.

Commas and semicolons are far and away the biggest grammatical hole in the toolset of fanfiction writers everywhere. They’re often treated like the rules surrounding them are complicated and difficult to understand, but the exact opposite is true!

The big issue I’ve heard time and time again is that the rules of commas are often explained through metaphor instead of example; this means that writers everywhere have slightly different ideas of how you’re supposed to use them. The fact of the matter is that, yes, there are correct and incorrect ways to use commas. Knowing when they’re appropriate and when they aren’t is easily the fastest way to bring your writing from looking amateurish to sounding professional and experienced.

In order to know how to use a comma, you must first understand the difference between a dependent and an independent clause.

An independent clause is a section of writing that functions perfectly well as its own sentence. It MUST have both a subject and an action/verb.

A sentence without an independent clause is known as a fragment, and they’re the bane of English teachers with highlighters everywhere.

A dependent clause is a section of writing that does not have both a subject and an action; it does not function as its own sentence.

Now, let’s say you want to combine the two. When joining a dependent clause to an independent clause, the order in which they are placed is crucial to whether you use a comma or not.

When joining a dependent to an independent with the independent clause first, you do not need to use a comma.

When joining a dependent to an independent with the dependent clause first, you MUST use a comma.

Keep in mind that, if one strives for total grammatical perfection, all narrative sentences MUST have an independent clause. This, however, does not apply to dialogue. Human beings do not think about whether what they’re saying is a dependent clause, and neither would the vast majority of fictional characters. Don’t be afraid to break the rules of grammar as long as it’s contained within quotation marks.

Alright, that’s the easy part. Time to learn about joining two independent clauses. It’s semicolon time, baby!

If you join two independent clauses without properly using a comma or a semicolon, it is a run-on sentence. You do not want these in your writing. They’re awkward to read and mess up the flow.

When joining two independent clauses, you can use EITHER a comma or a semicolon. You just need to follow these rules:

If you’re joining two independent clauses with a comma, you MUST use a joining word (and, but, so, etc.) AFTER the comma.

If you’re joining two independent clauses with a semicolon, you do NOT need to use a joining word.

Did you know that a sentence with a comma counts as its own independent clause? This means that you can make a sentence that includes a mix of both without it being a run-on! Just make sure that, no matter what, the semicolon is between two independent clauses.

Still, try not to write more than two clauses in a sentence too often. Sentences with a lot of punctuation are very attention-grabbing, but shouldn’t be overused. Full stops aren’t your enemy and variety is the spice of life.

It’s also important to remember that you should avoid using more than one comma in a clause (with the exception of the rule below). That part loops back to the 'avoiding run-ons' bit.

It’s really that easy!

Commas are also used in informal writing to inject a separate thought or descriptor mid-sentence without breaking the flow by adding a period. This is often used when describing the perspective of a character experiencing something in a story, but not (usually) when using omniscient perspectives.

The final issue I frequently see with commas in fanfiction is in regards to dialogue. Sometimes you end it with them, and sometimes you don’t. What gives?

Well, my friend, the answer is, thankfully, much simpler than the previous section.

When following dialogue with a dialogue tag, use a comma instead of a full stop. If you’re continuing the previous sentence after the tag, use a comma after it as well.

Note that a dialogue tag is a short phrase that identifies the speaker. It isn’t a complete sentence on its own.

When following dialogue with an action that does not serve as a dialogue tag, use a full stop instead of a comma.

Other common problems

This section is dedicated to putting specific grammatical errors into words, along with how to solve them.

Not sticking to the chosen point of view

Always choose your point of view before you start. Is it in the first, second, or third person? Is it omniscient or limited? Does the point of view switch during the story?

First person perspective is told as if the POV character is directly describing their experience to the reader. The character uses I and we to describe their own actions.

Second person perspective is told as if the reader is a character in the story and their actions are being described to them. This is the rarest, and the most difficult to write.

Third person perspective is the most common and the simplest to write. The events of the story are a separate entity from the reader altogether and the narrator uses they/he/she/it pronouns for characters.

Omniscient perspective means the narrator of the story knows all, including the thoughts and feelings of each character.

Limited perspective means the narrator of the story only knows what the POV character knows.

Past and present tense

When you decide between writing a story in past or present tense, it is crucial that you do not switch between them unless it is narratively intentional. Reading a past tense story that mistakenly switches to the present tense is like being pulled out of the room someone is telling a story in and suddenly taking part in it yourself. It’s disorienting and gives the reader unwanted pause.

Overly-long paragraphs

A common adage spread by English teachers is that most paragraphs should be at least eight sentences long. This is great advice for beginner essays. You’re writing fiction.

If you have a new thought, start a new paragraph! A concise and well-read single-sentence paragraph is infinitely better than one that drags a thought for too long. Aim to have a blend of paragraph lengths when you write, alternating between the descriptive and the punctual.

Dangling participles

A dangling participle is when a word is used to describe a noun that isn’t actually present in the sentence. Much like how a sentence without an action isn’t grammatically correct, neither is a sentence without a subject.

Malapropisms

A malapropism is when an author mistakenly uses one word or phrase instead of another similar-sounding one. I’m not about to list every single malapropism ever made, but these are the ones I notice most often:

To comprehend is to understand something, to apprehend is to arrest someone, and to be apprehensive is to be anxious or fearful of something bad happening.

Could care less means you do care. Couldn’t care less means you don’t.

A lot means a large amount of something. Alot isn’t a word and you shouldn’t use it.

The only real solution to using malapropisms is to make sure you fully understand any words you use in your writing. Never guess, and make sure you always google it. Having beta readers also helps.

If you made it this far, congratulations! You now know the most common errors in amateur fiction and how to solve them! Thank you for listening to me complain for two thousand words.

The most important thing to remember is that it’s okay to make mistakes. First drafts are always gonna be a little bad. The real key to success is knowing what your end goal is, and how you plan on achieving it. Here’s hoping this was a helpful tool for that!

Shoutout to @salmonandsoup for helping me think of the list of issues to address! You're a real one. Also shoutout to my mom, who doesn't have Tumblr. Also the third person. You know who you are.

#grammarposting #tf2 #grammar #educational shitpost #writing #fanfic #fanfiction #writing advice #fanfiction writing advice #team fortress 2 #tf2 fanfiction #bro your participle is dangling

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naughtystiel · 1 month

Text

It wasn’t raining.

For some reason whenever Dean thought of this day, he imagined the sky to be covered with heavy dark clouds. Clearly this wasn’t the case. Instead, everything seemed so lively. Spring brought chirping birds, vividly coloured flowers began to bloom and the sun shone brightly high in the sky. The few people gathered around wore light jackets so it really had to be a beautiful day. He wished he could feel the warmth on his skin too.

A priest stood on the opposite end of the deep hole and Dean grimaced. He had never been a religious man and he wasn’t going to listen to anything that was coming out of the priest’s mouth now either. Meandering between people, he walked further away. Yeah, Lord have mercy and rest in peace o’wayward son.

So, where did he go from here?

“Hello.” Somebody said next to him, but Dean didn’t even bother to look. They weren’t talking to him anyway. They couldn’t be. With arms loosely crossed over his chest, he looked skywards. It was a beautiful day.

“Dean?”

Dean looked to the side, an eyebrow raised. A man in his thirties observed him, hands tucked in his dress pants. “How do you know my name? Do I know you?”

The man nodded his chin towards the priest, “Heard him mention a Dean, so I’m guessing that must be you. Nice suit.” He smiled and Dean looked down at his outfit. Suits weren’t exactly his thing, but he didn’t really think to make a will and they shoved him in this. Did they even bury people in plaids? Probably.

“That would be me, indeed.” Dean tilted his head to the side and scanned the graveyard. Interesting. “Are you dead too? I guess you gotta be.”

The man hummed, “Mmm, you could say so.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. Was that a yes or a no? “So, is it just you and me or is anybody else here with us?”

“Nah, they moved on.”

“And you?"

“In the process.”

“I see.”

They both stood in silence, watching the ceremony. A few roses got dropped into the hole. A nice gesture, but it was a waste of money. They could at least put it on top once the casket was actually covered with dirt.

Low rumble disrupted the quiet. “How are you feeling?”

Dean splayed his arms and shrugged. “I mean, I’m dead. I don’t really know.”

The man turned his head towards Dean. “Okay, lemme ask you this - what’s on your mind? Anything particular?”

Now that was a good question. Nothing. A lot. First thing that came to mind was that he wouldn’t be able to see that new Indiana Jones movie he was so looking forward to. But that was just stupid, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t he be thinking of his regrets? Unfinished business? “I wish I could feel the sun on my cheeks.”

“Ah, that I can agree with. The sunset kind. Not too sharp, soft like a gentle veil that droops over your face.” The man gave him a small smile and Dean nodded.

“You see that tall guy there? The tallest of them all. My brother. Last time I saw him we argued.” Dean sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I guess it kinda bothers me that this is how he’s gonna remember me now.”

“Probably not. Usually when a person dies you remember the good things. Unless of course the bad outweighed the good which I don’t think is the case here.” The man scuffed the tip of his polished shoe in the dirt. “Grieving is complicated, it messes with your head. I bet you heard about how it usually progresses but personally I think it’s more like jumping back and forth between the steps. It does pass though.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

The man shrugged, his dark lock tousled by gentle breeze. He kept his gaze down, chewing on his bottom lip. “Only stating the facts. Anything else bothering you?”

just a snippet of "the art of moving on" which i might work on more in the future. and if i do, it wont be very long but i think itd be worth exploring :)

#spn #destiel #drabble.txt #vin.txt

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thydungeongal · 2 months

Note

(On anon for controversial take)

I think that "not engage with media made by bigots" is not really a political demand that's possible to maintain.

There are undeniably media that are built on hate and to spread hate, like Turner's Diary or works on Esoteric Hitlerism. And there are media that while didn't mean it are absolutely gross and harmful, like South Park.

But a lot of works contain some elements that are... insensitive. I am not saying that we shouldn't talk about that, we absolutely have to, and we have to make sure that creators are aware of it, but "never engage with anything problematic" is absolutely not doable. It will just turn into utilizing progressive language to win internet debates, same as pro/anti fracture.

And like, humans are very diverse, and it means not only that there are a lot of groups of people but that people in the same groups may have different opinions. Of course finding one marginalised person who is chill with some shit is just manipulation (I heard about some black celebrity who straight up says that racism is not real, so you could prove whatever this way), and it's equally manipulative to find one who is offended by something (saw a couple of Greeks who are offended by non-Greeks using art and culture from Classical Antiquity, Greeks are not POC or anything but ethnic minority and I couldn't from the top of my head remember anything clearly absurd). But like sometimes there is a pretty prominent split. Some time ago there was a series of posts about how for some disabled people magical cure of character's disability feels like erasure and for some as wish fulfillment. I saw both East Asians who are fans of ATLA specifically for its handling of East Asian cultures and those who consider it racist garbage.

I think the jump from "don't support media made by active bigots" to "you are not allowed to engage with any media if it has any even slightly problematic things" is an interpretation of your own making and not one made by the post you are reacting to. I personally am a big fan of problematic media, but when I see an author funneling money into a transphobic cause it's actually very easy for me to say "oh dang I won't engage with that media in any way."

Like, yes, there is of course nuance here. I'm not a fan of moral purity tests on media. But I think people are capable of seeing that an author is actively doing harm by supporting horrible causes and making the decision to disengage from their work due to not wanting to support any kind of ecosystem for the discussion of that media.

There's no hard and fast rules here, but I feel a lot of people fall on rationalizations that are actually really infantilizing when trying to explain why they simply can't disengage from media.

#thydungeongal answers

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olderthannetfic · 4 months

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https://olderthannetfic.tumblr.com/post/739381076510785536/so-it-seems-our-flag-means-death-has-not-been#notes

I liked OFMD and I'm sad it's not getting renewed, but I agree that the fandom was especially toxic, even by the standards of currently popular slash-heavy fandoms. I wanted to read fic after s1 ended the way it did, and I read a little bit, but along with it having all the tropes that I can't stand in a lot of what is currently big with the MSF crowd (and that I'd been happy to have a reprieve from in my current main M/M fandom), the toxicity of the online fandom discourse made me quickly realize it was one that I was going to discuss among my current-friends-from-other-fandoms who also watched it, and my sister who watches it, and pretty much ignore the rest of the Internet. It was such a perfect storm of everything awful, from people who are overly invested in it to an unhealthy degree (I think I realized I wasn't gonna be active in the larger fandom around a month or so before the s2 renewal announcement, when I saw earnest PSA tweets telling people to "stop threatening suicide in HBO's replies if they don't renew OFMD"), to bombarding and parasocial obsessions with the creators and actors, to all the classic "anti" and purity police crap that plagues anything that gets popular on here.

The fandom it reminds me the most of, honestly, is Yuri on Ice fandom at its peak in early-mid 2017. Again, a show I love, but a fandom I absolutely do not miss. In some ways they are kind of similar shows: ones with canon M/M romances where they were not billed as that, and they were hinted from early on but people didn't trust it due to years of dealing with queerbaiting, where that sort of thing slowly crept up on people and then became the defining feature of how it was discussed everywhere. I wonder if there's a particular level of insanity that that type of thing breeds in its fans - or maybe, more broadly, "canon M/M with a large female fanbase." Like, you don't see this kind of thing in canon M/M stuff that's mostly watched by queer men rather than women, but there are shades of the insanity I also remember from Glee fandom (I was more active on the F/F side of things there, which had its own unhinged drama, but the Klaine vs. anti-Klaine stuff was so explosive that it was hard not to notice it if you were anywhere in that fandom, like a mushroom cloud in the distance). But YOI and OFMD do seem very... singular in the particular kind of obsession that they generate.

And I really wish people would shape the fuck up, because if they're going to act like this over and over again, that's just going to de-incentivize showrunners to make shows like this for that audience.

Driving Con O'Neill off Twitter was one of the worst parts of it, too. There was something so refreshingly earnest about how much he embraced the fandom, even the weirdest parts - saying with regard to NSFW fanart that "art is art" and retweeting stuff like his character in a crop-top that said "babygirl." It was so nice to see an actor who didn't usually have that kind of following embrace it wholeheartedly rather than steering clear. ....And then people had to be awful and creepy and obsessive and he left Twitter. I bet he's going to be a lot more skeptical of dealing with fans in the future!

It's not just the canon m/m aspect: it's the wholesomeness.

Yes, yes, they're all evil pirates, I agree, but watching S1 did give me the feeling of something that was supposed to be very progressive and light-hearted in particular ways. I don't think that's bad, but it does tend to attract some very over-sensitive fans with some very rigid expectations.

It's sadly par for the course that one of the random side character actors is the fun one and people are jackasses and desperately want the leads they ship to be the fandomy ones and/or just start creeping on any actor they can get a reaction from.

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gabessquishytum · 5 months

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I’ve got another one!

alright this is me totally projecting here (hearing loss anon what what)

alright so….

human AU Dream does not make conversation, he doesn’t speak to people in crowded or noisy areas, it is very hard for him to keep a conversation if he’s forced to have one, he can’t socialise very well, and occasionally it’s hard for people to understand his speech.

Dream’s hard of hearing. He’s given up on having conversations with people because it’s so hard to hear them. His family won’t help him cause they just think he’s quiet he’s very disconnected from people. He’s never been treated and it’s only gotten progressively worse, it’s also why he got into art and not musical instruments like his other siblings. one day in the art room he hears something. it’s very far away “hi… hello?” It’s probably half way across the room.

“I’m Hob mind if I sit?”

there’s movement in his peripheral. he looks up. a man is smiling down at him. Assumedly the same man who asked him to sit down. he merely nods, no need to make conversation. “I'm new here is this sculpting?”

Shit a question, with missing information ok context clues, he’s never seen him before, probably new and wants to know what class this is. “You are in sculpture,”

“Thanks mate”

this Hob starts starts messing with a mound of clay talking the whole time Dream couldn’t understand him it didn’t matter.

“how’s your day?”

“satisfactory”

“I’m sorry, I asked what your name was?”

Dream blushed, he had fucked up again

“it’s uh Dream,”

“pretty”

dream nodded.

“you don’t talk much do you?”

shit shit shit Damnit fuck shit, Dreams gotta lip read. He looks up at Hob locking eyes with his lips.

dream stares at hob’s lips for a normal amount of time and nods when he thinks is appropriate and hopes Hob doesn’t ask a question it’s all going so well till….

“oh, you can’t hear me,” Hob says in the middle of his sentence so he scoots a little closer and raises his voice a little louder and enunciates more clearly, but not in a patronizing way just so Dream could understand.

“I’m afraid I cannot, how could you tell?” Dream asked.

hob chuckles, “you’re leaning towards me with one ear pointing at me which I’m assuming is your better ear and you’ve been squinting at my lips for the past ten minutes,”

Dream blushes.

“my sister’s deaf I pick up on things,”

so dream and hob keep talking, well hob does most of the talking but dream doesn’t mind, until hob stops.

“I’ll give you a break, you probably got listening fatigue,”

and he was right Dream was beginning to feel the affects of listening fatigue until Hob did something with his hand.

“what was that?”

“sign language, you don’t know sign?”

“no, I make do with what I have,”

“can I teach you?”

Dream of course leans in for a kiss.

“teach dream! Teach!”

they both laugh it off, he does however get that kiss later.

soon dream is proficient in sign language and is good friends with Hob’s sister. He seems happier and more outgoing. and in a couple years down the road…

dream and hob will sign their wedding vows.

-🦎

AHHHHHH HoH Dream!!!!! This is just so wonderful and beautiful and I love it. Obviously hate the idea of Dream not having any means to communicate because no one has helped him learn to sign, but Hob!!!!! Hob’s gonna teach him!!!!!!! AND kiss him.

Not being d/Deaf myself, I won't add too much onto this except to say that I love it, and I know I'm going to be thinking about it for a long time. Especially them signing their wedding vows. Yes!!!! Please!!!!!

#🦎 anon #the sandman #dreamling

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inhuman-obey-me · 8 months

Text

Collab pair piece for Barbatos’s birthday 2023!

Art by Mod Cosmos

Writing by Mod Chaos

Arrhythmia

Can also be read on ao3 here Word count: 10.7k Description: Time, with all its endless possibilities and unknowable branches, is infinite. Yet, certain patterns exist. Some things are fated. And for Barbatos, master of time and space, the heartbeat of fate underlying each strand of time is the constant. This is what time is. This is what time means. Infinite timelines, branching and collapsing, splitting and merging, to the end of time. Until you. You were not part of fate -- not that familiar pulse of passing time he knew so well. You weren't, until suddenly, you were.

Prologue

"I desperately needed to obtain your power to control time, Barbatos..." "I was surprised you'd come to me with such a foolish request, considering you are known as 'Solomon the Wise.'" "But that was before I had my over-the-top nickname, wasn't it? No one called me that yet..." "Indeed. But I knew that people would start calling you that in the near future, you see. Just like I knew that the two of us would eventually forge a pact."

Barbatos has never felt uncertain before.

A demon who has existed since the dawn of time, who controls the very fabric of time, he has seen all of the universe that there was to see.

You see, time, with all its endless possibilities and unknowable branches, is infinite. It is, truly. Yet, certain patterns exist. Some things are fated -- Lucifer's rebellion, the brothers' fall, King Solomon the Wise. These are destiny; these are inevitable.

And for Barbatos, master of time and space, the heartbeat of fate underlying each strand of time is the constant. This is what time is. This is what time means. Infinite timelines, branching and collapsing, splitting and merging, to the end of the universe. A heartbeat, steady and reliable, ever marching on, constant as his own.

Until you.

You were not part of fate -- not that familiar pulse of passing time he knew so well. He knew there were timelines where you would meet, yes. "Your" timeline, of course -- the one you know so well. Others as well. In some, "you" were a witch already; you weren't quite so powerless upon your arrival in the Devildom. In others, you came later, not in the first year of RAD's exchange program but further along, when relations between the realms had progressed more already. In others still, it was never you at all, but some other descendant of Lilith who had landed at Lucifer's feet that fateful day, when the second human exchange student was chosen.

These were the universes he knew existed. Infinite, innumerable -- and, ultimately, irrelevant. The future would march on, with or without you, and he would continue going about his life with Lord Diavolo. Fate would be fate, and those were the things that mattered.

Until you.

Knowing you would meet was different from actually meeting you. And meeting you, changed everything.

Meeting You

The first time he sees you, it barely even registers. He is present, of course, as his liege welcomes you and explains the exchange program to you. He oversees the brothers' introductions, notes the alarm on your face as you come to understand what your life is going to be for the next year. It's rather delicious actually, for the more primal of his demonic instincts, seeing the confusion and mild fear in your expression.

But a certain sorcerer has also just arrived in the Devildom, and Barbatos is a bit preoccupied with trying to determine just how much of a problem Solomon is going to be in this timeline.

The Witty Sorcerer is a constant. The immortal human king with whom Barbatos shares a pact is always a thread woven into his fate. He always decides to become a protector of humanity, and always comes to the conclusion that he must forge pacts with as many demons as he can, in order to gain enough power to hold his ground against the greater powers of the Devildom and the Celestial Realm. The exact demons and particulars of the pacts vary; some always fall for his tricks, while others cross his path by happenstance. Barbatos, for one, is never tricked into a pact but always simply accepts that he is meant to have one, for he has foreseen it countless times. Solomon almost always lands at 72 by this point, however -- that part is not quite exact from timeline to timeline, but also too close to be coincidence.

You catch the butler's attention just once that day, as Lucifer explains the struggle of humans' souls and demons' temptations -- it is then that Barbatos notices how your soul, hardly polished at all yet, nonetheless has a sparkle unlike any he's seen in a very long time. One he hasn't encountered, in fact, since he first met Solomon.

How fascinating.

That same sorcerer in question, however, leaves him little time to ponder the matter further, as his attention is quickly forced to the first of many troublesome texts he will receive from the inhabitants of Purgatory Hall this year.

"Hello, Barbatos. apppologies for the mail, buT I'M NOT VEry familiaR wit h Dev ldom cuisine yet.. Is the kitcHEn meant To Flood with pu ripple bubbles when 1 cooks here? SIGNED, SIMEON"

At that, he makes a motion towards Lord Diavolo to be excused and quickly takes his leave to handle the situation.

And he takes no further notice of you for a while, nor you of him.

The next time Barbatos sees you, it's only a few short weeks later, and yet already, you've been quickly gaining quite the reputation.

He can soon see why, too.

You just had to cause chaos in the Demon Lord's Castle, didn't you? You couldn't just quietly complete your field trip with everyone, no. You just had to get yourself dragged into the depths of the castle's underground labyrinth -- and not just once, but twice.

Some version of you, cleverer, more cautious, never falls down there the second time. Other versions never make it out. Sometimes, the others notice your absence quickly enough for Barbatos to open a portal and retrieve you in time. Not always. And Asmodeus is fickle with his attentions -- as is Solomon, even if he pretends not to be. It's by lucky chance in this time that you see how to wield Asmodeus's powers that day, and luckier still that Solomon happens to lend you his magic that night.

"Just interested to see what they'll do with it," the sorcerer smiles, with that annoyingly blithe false innocuousness, when his pact-mate comes to inquire. "Aren't you interested, Barbatos?"

"No, I am not," he answers flatly. "My interest is only for all members chosen for Lord Diavolo's exchange program to have a successful and productive year here in the Devildom."

Solomon's pleasant expression drops just slightly; he gives the demon a very directed look. "Chosen by whom, Barbatos? I don't believe they were given a choice to come here like I was. I'm just...evening the playing field a little for the night. Surely it shouldn't hurt any chances of cooperation between the realms for a defenseless, magicless human to have a little bit of power for one evening?"

A tense smile, oh so familiar to the sorcerer, settles upon the demon's lips. "Of course not."

Barbatos leaves it at that, satisfied in any case that he sees you alive the next morning. A mild curiosity is piqued when he hears Asmodeus gushing about the fascinating, incredible power he felt from you the night before -- greater even than that of the famed sorcerer in their midst? That's odd, normally such strength would be more significant across timelines.

But he dismisses it quickly. Odd as it may be, in the vast breadth of the possibilities of time, if it's not significant, then that's that. It won't ultimately matter. In the endlessness of time, very little ultimately matters. The things that do pulse on as familiarly to him as his own heartbeat.

So he moves on.

"...Okay then, look into that for me, Barbatos."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Depending on how things turn out, it's possible we'll have the answers to all of our questions soon enough."

"Well, it would seem they've arrived."

"Yes, and even earlier than we thought."

The group of brothers, along with the human staying in their home, crowds into the room, Lucifer at their helm. "Diavolo, I want to talk to you."

The prince is unfazed; he and Barbatos had of course expected this when they'd taken Belphegor away. "Well hello, Lucifer. And yes, I assumed as much when I saw you at the door."

"What do we have here? Has the entire family come along today? So, you've all come along as a moving show of support and brotherly love, then?" the butler quips, before his gaze lands harshly on you. "Hmm...but it would appear that one among your number neither qualifies as a relative nor a demon."

Beelzebub stands protectively beside you. "That's right, they aren't a demon, nor are we related...but that doesn't mean we can't be on the same side. Isn't that right?"

You nod determinedly beside him. "You bet it is!"

Lord Diavolo examines you for a moment as the Avatar of Gluttony beams at your answer. "I see. Well, you may be a human, but it would seem you've found a home for yourself here in the Devildom. I have to say, I find that comforting."

The demon prince turns his attention back to the eldest of the brothers. "Now then, Lucifer, how about we hear what you have to say."

Barbatos's gaze lingers on you, however, remaining silent through the back and forth unfolding between the others. You aren't paying attention to him, of course, focused on the discussion over getting the family their seventh back. But he's spoken already with Lord Diavolo about this whole matter, and knows already what his master's decision is going to be. What you are going to do, on the other hand...

"Okay. I'll go alone."

There's that sparkle again. Just like Solomon's soul used to have.

Fated or not, there is something fascinating about you.

Even if this is just one thread of time, just one way for this all to play out, it is unusual. There's no such thing as an aberration in time, only variations that ultimately end up in the same inevitable places. The butterfly effect only flutters so far. Always.

And yet, something about you throws him off, just a bit.

You follow him out of the room, oblivious. It's your first conversation with him alone, even if it's not his first time seeing a conversation with you. "Did you know all of this was going to happen?"

He chuckles at the question. "Imagine for a moment what it would be like to know everything that will happen from now until the end of time."

Yes, imagine knowing everything -- as he does. Barbatos, demon with power over time. Barbatos, who can see anything, any timeline, past, present, and future.

"Why, nothing could possibly be more boring, wouldn't you agree?"

Barbatos, who has seen everything.

Barbatos, who has stopped looking. Barbatos, who uses his powers only for Lord Diavolo now.

"Which is precisely why I find it so very interesting and refreshing to have the chance to take a human like you into my room."

His pulse ticks just a little bit faster as he turns around to face you, opening the door behind him to usher you inside.

Why?

"All right, we've arrived. Please, come in."

He doesn't understand it yet, but there's just...something. Something about you. Something that makes the steady expectation of what comes next feel just a bit off-kilter around you.

Like you're inevitable. Even though he knows you aren't.

He knows this. He knows everything. He has seen everything.

Hasn't he?

He explains the rules and workings of time travel to you, emphasizing to you the consequences of breaking these rules -- "You run the risk of warping history."

You nod back to him, and he wishes you safe travels as he escorts you through the correct door.

And as you walk through, he feels it again. It's not just the sparkle of your soul. It's something more. Something else.

Something uncertain.

Something strange is happening in his room, Barbatos notes as he works, pulling various threads of time to his will.

He bends the timelines together, wrapping them into a single line.

You exist there, and there. This he knew. And yet, without his even touching them yet, there too does he find you. And there, and there.

He opens door after door, searching for each time you inhabit -- and in all doors, there you are.

Where have the others gone?

They existed once. There were other strands, other doors, other yous which were not you at all.

And yet, despite knowing this, despite knowing they should exist -- door after door, there you are.

You are only a human. You have no powers of your own. He has confirmed this -- you may have the blood of Lilith in you, but the power was never yours. And even Lilith could not exert her will over time.

That is his domain, and his alone.

So this shouldn't be. There's no reason for it. You shouldn't be everywhere.

And yet, there you are.

Everywhere. Always.

The brothers are all crowded over you, fighting over who gets to sit next to you. But there's a worry on your face, an insistent concern resting unsteadily on your lower lip.

"Is something the matter?" Barbatos inquires, though he has a sense already of what's on your mind. It has, after all, been on his too.

"Do you think I've warped history?"

Though all eyes are on you, yours are focused solely back upon the butler.

A nagging alarm tugs at the back of his mind with the same question -- have you warped history? Or more to the point, have you warped time?

But he knows that isn't what you're asking about. Not the same way.

"Ah...I take it you're worried about the other 'you' disappearing earlier?" He smiles lightly, explanation readied. "I know I told you that I have the power to see both the past and the future, but the truth is that there's one more secret -- something I still haven't mentioned."

Everyone's gaze shifts to him, their worlds decidedly rocked enough for a single day. None of the brothers are sure what new revelation he's about to unveil, and they're all on edge for it.

Still, his attention remains locked on you as he explains.

"You see, I have the power to select from any number of different potential realities and make any of them into the sole reality. With the various potential realities, there are an infinite number of 'you'..." He pauses, scanning your face for a reaction, but your expression is just as clouded and blank as it had been. He continues, "In the sole reality I chose, the one and only 'you' is the one right here. That's why the previous one disappeared while you remained."

Infinite realities. A "sole" reality.

It's a power he hasn't used in a very, very long time. One he doesn't especially care for, at his disposal though it may be -- what use is it to select these events that don't ultimately matter?

Fate is fate. Time is time. The inevitable is inevitable, and infinity continues moving. Some things simply are fated.

And now, so are you.

He searches your face for recognition. Do you even understand what he's just said?

But there is none. Of course not. No one here does, except him. He is the only one who knows what was fated. Naturally, then, he is the only one who understands what was not. And, with that, the only one who realizes the consequences of what this implies.

Still, the rest of the room stares on in silence, stunned at his nonchalant explanation.

Asmodeus is the first to pipe up. "You know, I notice how you sort of smiled as you said all that, but...um..."

"As far as abilities go, that's a pretty powerful one to have, don't you think?" Satan finishes.

"The Legend of Barbatos: Most Powerful of All Beings..." Levi chimes in, staring with awe.

Though Barbatos's smile remains steady on his face, something murmuring in his chest disagrees. He doesn't feel like the most powerful.

He feels off-balance. And now he knows why.

"Did you know all of this was going to happen?"

No. No, he did not.

An Ambiguous Fate

A great rumbling shakes the ground, the very earth moving erratically beneath them.

Barbatos leaps to attention, ready in an instant and immediately at Lord Diavolo's side. The prince nods at him, worry written all over his face in the form of a single, solemn acknowledgement. There is no time to lose.

It takes a short while to locate the epicenter of the quake, but once they do, they are at the mausoleum within moments, with the aid of a quick portal.

The damage is apparent immediately. Stone shards of fallen statues and broken coffins litter the ground, while gravestones and placards all across the cemetery floor have been flung askew from the force. And worst of all, the Demon Kings' Tomb rests deep at the bottom of a great crater, collapsed.

Barbatos inhales sharply, as the prince resolutely inspects the scene.

Between the two of them, easily two of the most powerful demons in the realm, they are of course capable of repairing the damage. But the greater issue here is the cause -- or more to the point, their lack of information thereof.

Earthquakes like this may simply occur in the human realm due to nature, but they're quite a bit different in the Devildom. They don't just happen, not to this scale. And they generally tend to be a bit more magical in nature.

But magic alone isn't enough to explain something this big. Magic is steeped into all the land of the Devildom, of course, but not to this extent. Even amongst demons, very few have this kind of raw power. And no such demon in existence would dare inflict such force upon the resting place of the realm's former kings.

"Let us record as much of the damage as we can, Barbatos," Lord Diavolo instructs seriously, and his butler nods, getting straight to work.

They comb across the space together, noting down every bit of destruction they encounter. It's soon apparent that most of it is aftereffects and collateral damage; the real impact was to the Demon Kings' Tomb, right at the center. And that too shows certain strange signs of what exactly had happened.

Though they initially treated it as a strangely powerful earthquake, it becomes quickly clear that's not the case at all. No, the ground did not simply shake, nor did it rend apart beneath the tomb -- it's as though the earth below had disappeared altogether. There are no signs of the ground shifting around the tomb at all, in fact, only the smattering of dirt laying atop its crumbled ceiling, loosed from the walls of the surrounding pit by the structure's fall. Nor were the walls toppled as one might have expected from shaking of the ground; instead, they appeared cracked from the bottoms upward, as though they had dropped straight down so that the impact had spiderwebbed up from their bases.

It's unlike anything Barbatos has ever seen -- in the past or future. And he has a suspicion as to why. A very unsettling suspicion.

His chest tightens, disquiet at the thought. He'd expected some changes to the future, yes; that was a given, after what he'd encountered in his room those few months ago. But something this powerful? This destructive?

"Well. That's rather troubling, wouldn't you agree, Barbatos?" Lord Diavolo murmurs, drawing his attention back to the situation at hand. "I suppose there's nothing more we can do for now but repair it, however. Shall we?"

"I suppose we shall," Barbatos nods at him, face set in a grimace.

Together, they combine their magic to restore the monument to its former condition, along with the rest of the graveyard -- the butler rewinding the state of things to a prior time, the prince lending his power to solidify that state back into the present.

They make sure to jot down any final observations before they leave, then return to the castle.

Lord Diavolo is about to leave when Barbatos stops him, "Young Master, before you return to your office, may I have a word?"

There's an uncharacteristic reticence in his voice, a hesitation the prince doesn't typically hear from his butler. He's always encouraged the other to voice his thoughts and opinions freely, regardless of their roles as master and servant. "Of course, Barbatos. What is it?"

"I believe I have an idea as to what was behind this. Though I can't quite yet explain why."

The crown prince's brows knit as the butler explains his theory, as well as the earlier abnormality. "And you're certain about that, Barbatos?"

"I am not. But I had never seen anything like it before. And what happened today was...unexpected. I can only assume that they may be connected."

"I see. Then, let me know if you determine anything more, please."

But without proof or explanation, there's nothing to do about it. For now, at least.

It's a bleak omen indeed when even the most powerful sorcerer ever to exist looks troubled by the problem he's been presented with.

"This is bad...really bad. It took something major to make the entire side of the cliff collapse like this," Solomon frowns, eyebrows knit as he appraises the damage. "I can't see the bottom from here..."

"This is the primeval forest," Barbatos explains. "As the name suggests, it's said that this forest has been here since the time of the Devildom's birth."

"It's hard to believe that such an enormous landslide could happen here in this forest. It truly is unheard of," Lord Diavolo agrees.

"First there was the incident at the Demon King's tomb a few days ago, and now this landslide...it would seem the effect is getting worse," Barbatos murmurs.

"Yes...which is worrisome."

Barbatos doesn't need to be told to worry.

Another unexpected blast of magic, another rippling burst of destruction in its wake. Another key Devildom location, suddenly in ruins. His chest feels tight more often than not lately, seeing your cheerful grin at play rehearsals juxtaposed with these grim, shocking scenes.

It's almost definitely because of you. And all the while, you have no idea. You're just going about your life, the same as ever.

"I hate to say it, but this isn't something I can handle on my own. Actually it's not just that I can't handle it. I doubt the Devildom itself can handle this on its own," Solomon says.

The Witty Sorcerer, living up to his name, had pieced it together almost as quickly as Barbatos himself had. But unlike the butler, his primary concern was not fate, or time, or what destined events had now been thrown asunder.

The immortal sorcerer was, almost touchingly, most concerned about you.

Well, that's not exactly correct. Of course, he's concerned first and foremost about humanity. But as a human, well, humanity includes you, and as the likely cause behind these recent events, he has been threateningly insistent that neither side make any moves to harm you.

Not that the Devildom's prince would, anyway; though his top priority is naturally on keeping the Devildom safe and stable, harming the human he'd brought for his exchange program would be very much against his ideals.

But still, this destruction is, as Solomon said, worrisome. They cannot simply ignore it.

The demon prince and former human king discuss, going back and forth about involving Simeon and the Celestial Realm. There seems little choice, begrudging and frustrated as Lord Diavolo may feel about it -- and for good reason, considering how their last interaction went.

"Young Master, what do you suggest we do about Lucifer and his brothers?" Barbatos inquires, piping up once the matter has been settled.

The prince grimaces. "That's the big question, yes...I'd like to avoid straining my relationship with Lucifer any more than I already have."

The other two nod seriously. Lucifer had been infamously loyal to him after the fall, and they'd become very close friends over the centuries as well, but the events of the previous year, between his fallout with Belphegor and the resulting months of lying right to Lord Diavolo's face, had been stressful for them both. And although the matter had since been resolved, they hadn't yet quite found their way back to that old amicability.

Lucifer had never kept secrets from him before. And now, Lord Diavolo was finding himself doing the same. He didn't like it.

"But even so..." He takes a long pause, eyes looking almost pleadingly towards Barbatos, as if begging him for answers. But the butler can only return his gaze, equally unsure of the right thing to do now. "...I think we should keep this from him just a little longer."

Solomon inhales sharply, then releases it in a deep breath, considering. "Are you sure that's the right thing to do?"

"No, it's a very bad thing to do...and I'm well aware of that," the prince sighs. "But...until we have proof that they are the original source of all this...I don't want him knowing about it."

Proof, yes -- something solid, something beyond the gnawing, restless noise of Barbatos's heart. Evidence to confirm his worst anxieties, beyond simply knowing that what he once knew to be true no longer is. He needs to calm down. It isn't the end of the world not to know what's coming next.

Is it?

Barbatos nods obediently, forcing his own reservations away. He will put his trust in Lord Diavolo. He wouldn't have chosen to serve him if his judgments weren't sound. He has faith in his prince -- he must.

"As you wish, Young Master."

Solomon looks wordlessly between them, letting his troubled silence hang in the air.

This is a mistake, and he knows it. And he knows Barbatos knows it too. But the butler avoids meeting his gaze.

Lord Diavolo, kind and judicious ruler as he is, is the one Barbatos has chosen to devote his life to, is the closest friend Barbatos has ever had. But it is the eyes of King Solomon the Wise who can see through him.

And he does not wish to be seen through. Not now, with all these anxieties weighing so heavily on him. The weight of all that he knows -- and all that he doesn't, for once.

"You said you would always be on his side. I'm asking whether you're really prepared to keep that promise."

"Of course," comes the answer, unquestioningly firm and so unperturbed that he doesn't even glance up from his work.

"I wonder..."

Barbatos fixes a sharp stare upon the eldest of the demon brothers, who finally sets his pen down and narrows his eyes. "What is it you're getting at?"

Barbatos's expression remains unchanged as he thinks on how to formulate his words. If Lucifer could only convince him of his conviction of loyalty to the prince, perhaps these worries in his mind could be laid to rest. But whether the former angel realizes it himself or not, he has been changing. If Barbatos's suspicions are correct, Lord Diavolo will need the Lucifer's aid very soon. And unfortunately, he's no longer certain that such aid will be so easily given.

Unfortunately, he's no longer certain of a lot of things recently.

"If taking the Young Master's side meant hurting those closest to you, would you still do it?" the butler asks more pointedly. When Lucifer doesn't respond immediately, he continues, "If it really came down to that, I wonder if you could bring yourself to take his side...I imagine the old you really would be on his side always, just as you said. But is the new you capable of something like that? You're more gentle now than you used to be. You even exude a certain kindness...and love."

Lucifer only glares back suspiciously, anxious but unsure what exactly Barbatos is trying to say. Even after all these centuries working together, Diavolo's exceedingly loyal steward has never been an easy one to read.

"There was a time when you were known as 'the morning star,' and admired by all. People claimed that just a glimpse of your bright white wings and ruby red eyes could take one's breath away...now you've begun to slowly revert back to the way you were then. You've changed," Barbatos continues, a hint of something almost like an accusation in his voice. "And it started when the human first arrived."

He sees Lucifer's breath catch for a second at the mention of you, just a tiny pause, imperceptible to anyone else. The Devildom prince's right-hand man isn't known for giving away his weaknesses so easily. But then, Barbatos would not be the same prince's ever-present steward if he were not also sharp enough to notice.

He's seen how the former angel looks at you, and how he rushes home from their often late-running work more frequently these days, muttering excuses of needing to get back for dinner with his family. He's always loved his family, of course; Barbatos knows that. But this new affection, how he's been with you, it's...different. More unpredictable. More volatile.

His pulse quickens, voice steady despite his anxiety as he reaches his point. "But for the Young Master, and for the Devildom...is that really for the better?"

If Lucifer would only deny it. If he would only argue that any changes in this past year have been minor, that he's as loyal to Lord Diavolo as ever. For Barbatos, ever smiling, ever calm, full of steady reassurances that they are on the right path -- well, the demon with control over time itself could really use some reassurance himself right now. He would really like for Lucifer to tell him that he's wrong. For him to say that Barbatos is overreacting, or has misread things, or that everything is fine.

But he doesn't. He doesn't even try to. Instead, he's quiet, struggling with what the butler has just suggested. "Are you saying that there will come a day when I have to choose between them and my brothers on one side, and Diavolo on the other?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that's definitely going to happen, but..." Barbatos trails off, his chest feeling tight. It's not quite fear, or so he tells himself.

But if the strength of your sway has been powerful enough to throw the future into this degree of disarray...if your presence, your influence, has been so strong even to pull Lucifer from fate...

Barbatos forces the rising dread away, out of his voice, out of his mind. "The possibility exists that you really will be forced to make a choice like that someday. I thought perhaps it was in your best interest to be prepared for such an event...that's all I'm trying to say."

Now that he's said this much, however, Lucifer begins to rise from his chair with alarm. "So, does that mean that--"

"I'm afraid I've said a bit more than I should," Barbatos interrupts, before the other demon can finish the question. "I apologize for disturbing you...I know you're busy. Have a pleasant evening, Lucifer."

With that, he hurries out of the room without a single glance back to the former morning star, who is left to settle uneasily back into his seat.

Future, Anew

"They will need to sever the pacts. It's that, or the Ring of Light may be able to contain it...but it's been lost to history, as you know, so it's not really an option," Solomon explains. "It's going to be tough on the brothers, and...I'm sure they'll be upset as well. But it's the only way."

The sorcerer's expression is solemn, but there's a relief in his face. He has never liked showing weakness around his demonic companions, but for the past few weeks, his stress has been clear to everyone. Now it's finally been lifted.

There is a way. A way to fix things. A way that won't involve you getting hurt.

In an odd sense, Barbatos is relieved too. Severing the pacts -- as Solomon said, it's going to be hard on you and the brothers. But it's a way to end this. A way to stop the power you have, a way to undo all of the damage.

If that's the case, perhaps this has all been something like a bad dream. All of these recent events, twisting time into new shapes and leaving the future unknown to him -- perhaps they would simply stop. The power you have over it could simply be released. You would leave the Devildom, your connections broken, and he'll never have to worry about you again.

Then, fate could be set right again. Fate could be fate again. Familiar, comforting, consistent.

That's what he wants...he thinks.

He thinks so.

And yet...

There's something about the way you smiled so cheerfully after your exams. How brightly your face lifted after the stress, the relief and delight reaching to the very corners of your eyes as you heard the results. Something so honest and innocent -- while he can hardly remember ever being either of those things. It sticks to him, burbling its way to the front of his mind just once in a while, a couple times a day.

He'll never see that on you again after this. He'll never see you again after this.

But it's for the best. Everything can be set right again. Fate can resume its course at last.

Yes, that's what matters -- fate. The security of it, the preservation of it. Everything else...doesn't matter. It's all inconsequential, in the end. You weren't meant to matter, and after this, you wouldn't again. And that is fine. It is how it is meant to be.

Barbatos tells himself this, as a deep sorrow presses heavily upon his chest.

He feels it before he hears about it -- balances shifting, the future in flux.

You'd had the dagger in hand. Things had almost turned out tragically. But Barbatos can tell the instant it all comes crashing to a stop.

It's a good thing, the ideal outcome -- Lucifer alive, his memories restored, you unharmed, your pacts intact, and your power under control so that the realms are now safe. And in some way, without even looking, Barbatos can feel that things have settled. A change in fate -- but it is stable again.

So why does his heart still speed up every time he looks at you?

The question plagues him as he moves about the party, irresistibly drawn towards watching you drift from demon to demon, all of them clamoring for your attention. Even Lord Diavolo seems thoroughly enamored with you recently.

Is that what he is, too? Enamored? Is that why?

You catch him watching you once, mid-spin as you're dancing with Leviathan -- deep orbs of chartreuse that seem to drink in the light around them without reflecting any back. For that split second, you feel like there's something almost hypnotic about them, like you could slip right into that darkness and never find your way out. You're not even sure you'd want to.

For that one tiny moment, he can feel it in his chest -- he wouldn't want you to either.

But then, before you know it, the third brother whirls you back around, and you're laughing, and dancing, and having a good time in the present again. Not only the brothers in fact, but even Solomon and the angels too, are passing you back and forth amongst themselves, asking for dance after dance, and it's as though the bright candle lights all over the room wash the darkness right out as you twirl in their warm glow.

As he resumes his hosting duties, Barbatos considers trying to step in too, perhaps get a longer moment together. Might it be worth trying? Would he even know what to say, if he got his chance?

He's not sure. You've been only a crisis, an unpredictable catastrophe, until now. Amidst all the swirling of time around you, your mysterious power to pull everyone's fates into your own, you nearly brought about a collapse of all three worlds -- in every timeline.

So he's never really had a chance to just...talk to you.

Maybe it's time he did.

The next time your eyes meet, he finds himself making his way over before he has a chance to decide. His heart is ringing in his head as he taps you on the shoulder and extends a hand.

"Excuse me...might I have this next dance?"

A Dream of You

Your first date with Barbatos is sweet, if simple -- and if you even call it a date. He does, at least.

He dithers about asking you for longer than he'd like to admit. His duties keep him busy, and after all, you have enough suitors around you without him stepping in. Knowing that, it may actually be more considerate to you not to ask, he thinks.

He owes it to Lord Diavolo that it happens at all.

The prince, for his part, is more observant than most give him credit for. He has had Barbatos at his side for most of his life now -- and though it's still only a relatively short life so far, by demonic standards, it's certainly been more than long enough to notice how his butler changes just a little bit whenever you're around.

He rather likes that shift in Barbatos. His steward is too serious, and he works too hard. It's a perfect excuse to push him into a little break.

So, he invites you to the castle to join him for tea, to chat about how things are going with your exchange program experience. It's been almost two full years already -- have you gotten to travel much? He's delighted to see how hard you've been working on your studies at RAD, but the Devildom is so much more vast than just this city, you know. He'd love for you to see more of the realm, if you ever get the chance. There's this one wonderful little town in particular, a ways out of the city. There are such beautiful roses that bloom there at just this exact time of year, dotting the whole place with red and pink, and blanketing the whole town with the gentlest sweet aroma. And they make the most wonderful tea out of those flowers! One of his favorites, in fact. Why, speaking of it, would Barbatos mind putting on a pot of it now? -- knowing, of course, that they had run out just days ago for a recent garden party for the nobles.

"I'm terribly sorry, My Lord. I'll need to purchase fresh supplies soon. I know of one shop where it can be purchased, but it's a little far..." Barbatos notes the mischievous triumph in his master's face when your own lights up with envy at the mention. Of course he knew the butler wouldn't be able to ignore it when you're looking at him so imploringly. "If you're interested, would you like to accompany me?"

"Yes, please!" you answer immediately, eyes glittering almost as much as your soul.

"That sounds lovely," the prince agrees, and that settles it.

You meet Barbatos at the train station three days later, early if not so bright in this ever dark realm, and he leads you to your seats with a chuckle. Despite having been in the Devildom so long already, you're pretty clearly excited about the trip, looking this way and that as you board.

"Ah, I imagine you haven't had many opportunities to ride the Devildom railway before? It will take a few hours to reach our destination, so let's enjoy the scenery in the meantime," he says.

You nod eagerly and settle into a quiet peace together, looking outwards. Actually, it's almost a wonder your human eyes can see much through the dark sky beyond the windows at all, though the blazing lights shining off the train certainly help. Barbatos glances at you every once in a while as you ride, smiling softly to himself each time you gasp at a new sight passing by. But he can't blame you -- Lord Diavolo was correct, it's beautiful the whole way there.

The view of the city gives way soon enough to fields of tall red grass, crimson as blood, yet glistening gently with dew. Once in a while, trees dot the horizon, tight clusters of red and orange against the deep darkness of the sky, broken up from time to time by stops at progressively smaller towns. Then, after several hours, the scarlet plains surrender instead to wide swaths of flower fields, full of blushing red and pink dots as far as the eye can see. Another short while after that, a tiny hamlet comes into view, just as speckled in roses.

You practically bolt off the train when it arrives at your stop, before realizing that you don't actually know where you're going. Still, the scent of hellfire roses reaches you from the moment you step out, and you follow your nose out to find some of the flowers themselves. Barbatos chuckles quietly again, catching up with you soon enough. He'd normally be more bothered about someone rushing off and not thinking things through -- but from you, somehow, he finds it sort of charming.

For someone who has caused so much turmoil to the universe, it's...sweet, in a way. Unaware of your own pull, blissfully oblivious to the extent of your own power. Solomon may have told you that your powers are on par with his own now, but watching you, Barbatos gets the feeling that nothing has changed at all. Maybe it almost hasn't. Or at least, he'd have liked to believe that, if he didn't absolutely know otherwise.

"Shall we?" he says, holding out a gracious hand, and his pulse speeds up so fast when you take it that it's almost dizzying -- though he doesn't show it, of course.

He leads you through the streets and into a small but impressive shop, packed with interesting things inside -- not the least of which is a whole wall of rare teas at the far end of the place, all loose-leaf in massive canisters with a slender clear window to offer a peek of their contents. In front of it, employees carefully weigh and hand-pack each order for the handful of other customers inside.

On the opposite side of the store, colorful boxes line the shelves, each brightly announcing various local specialties in perfect souvenir packaging. Pink and red ribbons decorate each one, with a few even folded into delicate rosettes.

Meanwhile, glass cases fill the center with rows and rows of sweets in all shapes and sizes, each with a shiny placard detailing the name of the chef who created them, their ingredient sources, and their recommended tea pairings.

It's no wonder Barbatos likes this place, far from the city though it may be.

Amused at your wide-eyed excitement at everything, he leaves you to wander the store as he heads straight for the tea wall. It ends up taking two employees and the owner to gather and weigh everything he requests, and when you join back up with him, he makes sure to order a bit extra of that Hellfire Rose blend so you can have some too.

"Won't that be a little pricey?" you ask curiously, nervously catching a glance at the posted price.

"The value far outweighs the price," he simply smiles back. "You can share it with the other members of the House of Lamentation. I'm sure Lucifer and Satan would appreciate this wonderful blend with you."

Just as he's about to finish up with his order, another blend catches his eye, one he's never seen here before -- Vortex Paradox.

"Ah, is this a new blend?" he inquires, pointing it out.

The owner perks up upon seeing the blend in question. "Yes! You truly do have a fine eye, sir. Oh, it's a lovely blend. We fused different white and green teas, you see, which turned out with quite the surprisingly deep flavor, like a black tea, and yet it's also still light and sweet. It can be confusing for tea connoisseurs, but it kept drawing me back in -- just like tea leaves swirling to the center of a cup. Hence the name, you see."

Barbatos glances surreptitiously at you -- just as disorienting, yet you too seem to always draw him back in. He keeps catching himself thinking about you lately, even now that all the crises have been resolved. "Perhaps I'll buy this for my own enjoyment," he muses with a wry smile, heart skipping a beat as he takes the bag.

Thanking the staff, he pays for the collection of teas, and surprises you by paying for the things you picked up as well: two boxes of souvenir snacks for Beel, beautiful rosette cakes for Asmo, a baggie of cat-shaped cookies for Satan, and a box of rose-flavored chocolates for yourself. Then, you go to dinner together afterwards, and after that, it's back towards home -- with one quick stop for a photo, at the demon's request.

"I don't have many opportunities to spend time with you. After all, you're usually surrounded by those lively brothers. In other words, today has been a rather special day for me," he explains. "It's a pity that such an enjoyable time must come to an end, but we have people waiting for us back home..."

He's a bit surprised himself, to find that for the first time, he's not quite wanting to return to the castle and its prince just yet, despite what he'd just said. Just like that day at the party, there's an odd impulse in him to wrap you up in his arms and not let go.

But you do indeed have people waiting for you, and he as well.

So he doesn't. He settles for a photo, then leads you back to the train station, watching over you as you fall asleep on the way back, exhausted from the excitement of the day. With the various souvenir gifts you'd gotten the brothers, your pile of purchases is almost as tall as his own stack of supplies for the castle, he notes to his amusement, and he carries both collections off the train when it pulls back into the city, regardless of any protests from you.

"Thank you for today," you smile brightly at him when he hands your things back at last, before you split off from each other to head home. "Even if uh, heh, I guess I was only accompanying you for an errand, huh? But I really enjoyed myself, so thanks for letting me come along!"

"Not at all. The pleasure was mine for your company."

As you wave goodbye and turn to leave, there's that strange tightness in his chest again.

"Asmo, wait--"

You reach for his arm to try to stop the Avatar of Lust from running off, but he's zipped away in search of moisturizer already, leaving you with Barbatos, who is presently dressed as a teal bat.

Honestly, he can't understand Asmodeus at times like this -- it will take longer for him to go and come back than it would to simply check for the others and return inside.

But then, he's also not complaining about a little alone time with you...

Though you had taken that trip together to buy tea, a few months have already passed, and between magic training under Solomon and now these sorcerer trials, you've been so busy that the butler hasn't really had much chance to even see you. And even when he has, it's not as though he could easily ask you on another date when the brothers are so often hanging around.

Sighing after Asmodeus's turned back, you direct your attention back to the remaining demon and give him a slightly awkward smile, trying to make conversation. "So...nice weather, huh?"

Ah. Of course. He supposes you haven't actually really talked with each other much still, despite his growing infatuation with you. And although he's had his eye on you for a while now -- how could he not have, after all that's happened? -- as a butler often stepping away into the background, it's to be expected that he might not have caught yours in return. Without the excitement of new sights all around to keep your attention, perhaps it's natural you wouldn't know what to say to him.

He gives you a small, reassuring smile. "Do you find it awkward being alone with me? You shouldn't feel obligated to come up with something to talk about. Nor is there any need to feel uneasy around me." After all, he's happy just to be beside you here.

You don't look convinced, though, or perhaps you just aren't able to enjoy the silence with him. In any case, you peer at him, looking like you'd still like to say something.

Or, if he dares hope -- maybe you'd also like to get to know him better?

"What do you think of Lucifer and his brothers?" you blurt out finally.

Not a question he'd been expecting. Still, he obliges without missing a beat. "As long as you're just watching them, they're an enjoyable group, and never boring. But they can sometimes cause trouble, and can be a nuisance. I suppose that's a fair way of putting it. To be completely honest, I wish they would refrain from involving the Young Master every time they get into some sort of trouble."

You give him an understanding nod in the silence that ensues, though you look like you aren't exactly sure how to respond. You're much closer with the brothers than he is -- probably why you'd asked the question. So, maybe you just aren't comfortable expressing that affection for them around him?

Trying to lighten your mood a little, he adds, "For his part, the Young Master seems to like being involved, which is the source of many headaches for me."

That earns him a small smile from you, just short of a laugh, and to his relief, you seem to relax a little bit. "Then...what do you think of Diavolo?"

"He is my master, and I devote myself fully to his service, as is my duty. The Young Master is the very reason for my existence now. Does that answer your question?"

You can't help but giggle this time, thrown off by his unexpectedly serious answer. "Yeah, I guess it does."

Both of you fall silent again after that. It's clear on your face that you have another question on your mind, as your gaze focuses intensely on him, and his pulse quickens at what it might be. But despite your earlier attempts at conversation, for some reason, you don't ask this one. You look almost too nervous to ask.

He's curious what's on your mind. But Asmodeus will be returning any moment now, and if you aren't comfortable saying it, then he supposes he ought to leave it alone. Carefully, he suggests, "Perhaps I could ask you some questions this time?"

"Oh! Of course," you agree immediately, the apprehension dropping from your face in an instant. How strange, to relax more when handing the reins to a demon. "What do you want to know?"

How you, a random human with no magical powers of their own, pulled fate to you.

How you pull everyone around you into your orbit, like gravity pulling planets to the sun.

How you seem to pull him to you, too.

How you're so oblivious to that pull you have over him.

But, of course, he doesn't ask any of those things.

Instead, he opts for simpler questions, more along the lines of what you'd asked him -- how do you feel about the brothers, about the angels? You answer simply, and he nods along as you speak. You're fond of them; you're fond of everyone. Of course you are. He did ask, but it wasn't as though he didn't know that already.

Unsure what else to say from there, he begins to turn his gaze back towards the manor to check for Asmodeus's return, when you blurt out, "You're not going to ask me how I feel about you?"

That catches him off-guard.

"Well, outside of the Young Master, I've never been interested in others' opinions of me, you see," he responds, then pauses. That might have been true before, and it might have been the truth for millenia. But as you stand directly before him, looking him in the eyes, can he honestly say that he doesn't care what you think of him? "But as long as we're on the subject, would you mind if I inquire? What do you think of me?"

You don't hesitate. "I like you."

His heart skips another beat.

"...My goodness. I must say, I'm honored."

Your eyes are locked on each other as you both let that blunt confession hang in the air for another moment, before he opens his mouth to speak.

"Guys, heeeeeelp!" comes the cry from Asmodeus instead.

"Hey Barbatos, I just passed this really interesting antique store while I was in town, full of skulls, and taxidermy, and all kinds of stuff. And, I was wondering...would you maybe like to check it out with me tomorrow? As a date?"

It is, perhaps, a bit ironic to suggest visiting an antiques and oddities shop to a demon almost as old as the universe itself -- and even more so, one in the human realm, where the wares are generally only a couple centuries at most, or assorted "demonic" paraphernalia with no actual connections to the Devildom at all. But when he receives the call from you, he doesn't question it at all.

Three weeks have passed already since you told him, point-blank, that you like him, yet neither of you has had a chance to speak about it again since. So if you're inviting him on a date now?

Well, he's certainly not going to say no.

He waits for you at a nearby cafe the next day -- his choice of meeting spot -- and he's there with two paper to-go cups of freshly brewed tea when you arrive.

"The owner here is a recent friend of mine," he explains, holding one of the cups out to you, "and we thought it'd be interesting to exchange blends sometime. As it happens, I realized it was quite close to the shop you mentioned, so I thought I'd come by today. Now, you've arrived just in time for this one to have cooled to the perfect temperature, so please enjoy it."

"Wow, thank you!" you exclaim, taking a sip. He's right -- it's just cool enough not to scald your tongue, with the perfect amount of lingering heat to lift the fragrant notes of persimmon and pomegranate to your nostrils. The warm sweetness lingers on your palate, echoing the gentle warmth of his fingers as he takes your hand to walk.

As the two of you approach the antiques store, he can see right away why you thought to invite him in particular. The entire shopfront, from the trim of the windows and door to the severe brick exterior, is pure black, standing at a stark contrast from the rest of the street. A soft, eerie teal light glows entrancingly from a crystal ball in the window, resting upon a backdrop of carefully draped black velvet, beckoning passersby to come stare into its depths.

Above the door, the deep toll of a bell rings out in welcome as you walk in, accompanied by the distant echoing of children laughing further inside. He chuckles; it's clearly meant to be creepy, but as a demon, he finds it so terribly curious what humans consider to be unsettling. He might have expected the joy of the young to be more enjoyable to human ears.

The interior of the shop, it turns out, is fairly massive, consisting of several additional rooms with more varied theming beyond the all-black furniture and all-black walls at the entrance. One room mimics the feeling of an old laboratory littered with skeletons and various scientific implements, while another has dried flowers and taxidermy butterflies scattered all around a garden-like space. Another still is laden with colorful crystals and rocks gleaming alongside elaborate displays of antique jewelry.

He looks around with mild curiosity as you browse. Most of the occult merchandise is kitschy if not outright fake, but he keeps an eye out nevertheless for things he thinks you might like. As you wander the rooms, you call his attention over to a few things as well -- old timepieces, vintage cooking utensils, the occasional demonic-looking cryptid skull which he invariably assures you is certainly not from any actual creature of the Devildom.

"Ah, but this one here..." A small block of amber catches his eye, containing what appears to be a preserved moth with an extra pair of wings. "I believe this little one may actually be a moirae moth. How interesting to see one that's made its way to the human world...old Devildom mythology suggests that these creatures once produced the threads of silk that three fairy sisters weaved into the kismet tapestry. Moirae moths can be identified by their six wings, as you can see here -- one for each hand of fate."

Barbatos passes the fossil over to you, and you tilt your head at it slightly as if puzzling over something, then look back up at him. "Shouldn't you of all demons know if that myth is true or not?"

"Oh? What do you mean?"

"Well...you can see the past, present, and future, right, Barbatos? And you said there are infinite timelines...so wouldn't that mean there's no such thing as fate?"

He blinks in surprise.

"Yes, there are indeed infinite timelines. But...perhaps it may be more apt to compare fate to a braid, rather than a tapestry. There are places, certain events, where the timelines converge and meet before splitting off again. For example, I knew even before I met him that I would make a pact with Solomon, as it is true in every timeline. Though, to a human such as yourself, those events would normally be so far apart that they may never touch your life at all."

"Oh. Hmm...like what? What was the last one?"

Another blink, and he can't help but chuckle a bit in response this time. You really never cease to surprise him. With how much that very fate had changed since you'd first arrived in the Devildom, the question is a startling reminder that you don't in fact have any idea how much impact you've really had on time and the universe.

"You."

"Me?" You're the surprised one this time, mouth agape with disbelief. "How -- I -- wasn't I just some human you guys dragged into the exchange program?"

"You were," he agrees. "And then you weren't."

You look even more confused now, for good reason. "Because you picked the 'true' timeline?"

"No, it was not my doing. I merely combined the timelines where you existed in the Devildom. However, something shifted such that you started appearing even in timelines that were originally not your own, and thus, you created a new event of fate. Though, even I do not know exactly how," he admits.

You place the fossil back onto the table, looking deep in thought, and Barbatos immediately regrets telling you all that.

"Ah, I'm afraid I must apologize. This was supposed to be a pleasant, casual day out together, and I've given you such a heavy topic to dwell on. Shall we look in that room next?" he asks, trying to direct your attention back to lighter matters.

From there, you resume your browsing together, looking at the various oddities and each picking up a couple small trinkets, but he can tell you're distinctly distracted now.

Just as the two of you are about to leave, suddenly you stop and turn around. "Wait here, actually. There's one more thing I want to run back and get."

You dash back inside before he can respond, leaving him flustered at the entrance, and return back after a moment, your spirits looking higher again.

"Were you able to find what you went back for?" he inquires, looking at you curiously, but you're already stuffing whatever it was into your pocket, out of sight.

"Yep! Sorry about that!" you answer brightly, seemingly happy to keep it a secret. Instead, you grab his hand and almost drag him along with you, heading back down the way you'd first come. "You said you're friends with the owner of that cafe earlier, right? Come on, I'm feeling kind of hungry, so let's get a snack or something."

Surrendering, he decides not to pry any further, settling for sipping on another cup of tea and sharing a slice of chocolate pear cake at your behest. Once in a while, he notices you fidgeting with it again in your jacket pocket. Still, it remains just out of his view.

Perhaps it's a gift for one of the others, something that you thought that one of the brothers might like. There were several items inside that seemed right up Satan's alley. In any case, he supposes that as long as you're no longer looking weighed down by the earlier conversation, it's for the better -- even if there's an unmistakable twinge of jealousy in his chest at the thought.

So, it's to Barbatos's surprise when, as you say your goodbyes for the day afterwards, you pull the object back out of your pocket and slip it into his hand. The moirae moth from earlier stares emptily up at him from inside of its amber encasing, its translucent wings gleaming in the sunshine now that you're out of the shop's dim lighting.

"Actually," you smile sheepishly, "I went back to get this for you. I, um, was thinking about what you said. About me creating a new fate. I thought you should have something that creates fates too. Well, I guess you're almost like the most powerful demon ever though, so you don't really need some moth to--"

In that moment, you're sparkling again, and he's tempted for so much more than just your soul.

He pulls you into a kiss. No pause to question it, no holding back out of politeness -- though he is relieved when you kiss him back.

You taste like chocolate cake and persimmon tea, and you send his heart racing.

And this time, that's a good thing.

(A/N: This is the "happy ending" point. If you want this story to end sweetly and happily, just leave here!! This is a perfectly good place to stop! Because the next chapter is the final chapter and it is not a happy, neat, fluffy, sweet kind of ending. You've been warned!)

Certainty

Barbatos had thought that things were fine now. That, full of surprises as you were, things were stable now. You hadn't been fated, and then you were -- and then you were, together.

And that was the end of it, he thought.

It wasn't. And now, here he stands, opening a portal for his pact-mate to follow you to who-knows-when in time.

There's a dread pounding in his chest, an odd powerlessness he's rarely ever felt.

Solomon nods at him before stepping through, and then he's gone.

Barbatos can't follow.

Control over time, all this immense power -- hadn't Leviathan called him the Most Powerful of All Beings? Hadn't you, too? And yet, he can't follow. It's too close to another, past version of him. He is powerful. That's exactly what makes it too dangerous for two of him to exist in the same time and space.

So he can't follow. But that doesn't make him want to any less.

He sits down, feeling as though the air has been squeezed out of his chest, drowning in anxieties of possibilities and impossibilities.

Someone who has the power to change fate, suddenly flung far into the past -- and here he is, left behind, unable to do anything about it.

This is what you've always been -- unpredictable, uncontainable.

He shakes his head, trying to clear the helpless thoughts from his mind. If there is one thing he knows now, one unshakeable, undeniable fact, it's that you are even more powerful than fate.

Your connection transcends time.

You will find your way back to each other.

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