ID: A three-paneled digital drawing showing younger designs of all six Sides, spending time with animal companions. More detailed ID under cut.
[ID: A digital drawing with three rectangular panels arranged on a white background. The first panel is light blue. In it stand Patton and Virgil, drawn over the edges of the panel. Patton has messy red hair, green eyes, and round glasses. He wears a light blue striped t-shirt, a grey cat hoodie over his shoulders, tan shorts, a pink bandaid on one knee, mismatched red and green socks, and purple shoes. He leans forward and bounces with his hands splayed. Several white stars and one blue heart are drawn around his face. He looks at the viewer and beams with his mouth open. Behind Patton is a golden retriever with brown floppy ears, a red collar, and a small blue hat on its head. It sticks its tongue out.
Virgil stands with his hands in his pockets. He wears a purple hoodie with a black hood and light purple patches, purple pants with rips, and black converse with purple highlights. His bangs are dyed purple and cover one eye. He wears sparkling purple eyeshadow under his eyes. A black spider with a red cross on it sits on his head. He looks at the viewer with a neutral expression. A small purple heart is drawn next to him.
The second panel is light grey. It shows Janus and Remus from the shoulders up, facing each other. Janus has spiky brown hair that grows past the back of his neck. He wears an open collared black shirt with yellow accents, yellow gloves, and a black hat with a yellow ribbon. In one hand he holds a yellow snake that curls around his hand and faces him, sticking out its tongue. Janus smiles softly at the snake. A small white speech bubble and a yellow heart are drawn next to him.
Remus has shaggy brown hair with a white streak over his forehead and a patch of green dye on the back. He wears a green t-shirt, a black bracelet, and black nail polish. He holds a grey rat in one hand and hands the rat a block of yellow cheese with the other hand. He is smiling. A small white speech bubble and a green heart are drawn next to him.
The third panel is dark grey. It shows Roman and Logan, drawn over the edges of the panel. Roman has light, straw-colored hair with red highlights. He wears a golden laurel wreath, a white collared shirt with the collar open, a red bow tie, suspenders, and red pants. He beams widely and holds both his hands in front of him. He is looking at a white bird flying in front of his face. Drawn next to him is a red heart and a white sun.
Logan has blue eyes and dark purple hair with black tips. He wears a black t-shirt, blue jeans, square glasses, a watch, and a blue striped tie untied over his chest. His arms are crossed over his chest, holding several pieces of paper. A purple cat sits on his shoulder and rubs its head against his cheek. Logan looks down at the cat, smiling with one eye closed. A white moon and a blue heart are drawn next to him. /End ID]
I’ve been told making background for the sides would be appreciated so let’s pop off with this Virgil one! (I have another designhere! Quote from “Learning new things about ourselves”)
Both a plain one and one with a gradient since I like both but feel like the gradient might be a bit too much
“No one hates you. Everybody’s got flaws”
Close up shots and taglist under the cut. Let me know if you would like to be added! ✌
⌧ tw ⋰ murder, blood spilled & ingested, reader death mention, reader physical abuse mention, sacrilegious use of a religious object, corrupt religious figures, spider mention, snake mention
@ original pic credit ⋰ horrorpulpart ⋯ edit + recolor by me ❤️
❍ a/n ⋰ reader has a vulva and breasts, and is fem presenting/woman identifying. everything else is ambiguous
back at it again with another story inspired by an isisafrofairy mood board plus all the sexy scary pulp art from this tag game, bram stoker’s dracula, castlevania, the sims 4 + wickedwhims, the witcher, and cell block tango from chicago
au set in some olden time before electricity and guns or something idk I never paid attention in history
They will take everything from your family, ensure they are in worse conditions than the one that led to this, exile them from the town and-
They will have you stoned, or burned alive, or left in the desert to the mercy of the coyotes, or-
“Oh God oh God oh God oh God-” Breath abandons you, each word choked out with desperate gasps as the heavy weight drops from your shaking hands. There is a voice in the back of your mind demanding that you do something - escape into the night, hide the body, beg for divine help and forgiveness - anything. But there you stay, standing and staring at how your sacrifice for the ones you love has sealed all of your doom.
“Sweet of you to save me the trouble.“
A startled scream tears up your throat but before it can escape, the man - the one whom appeared within the now open balcony doors - crosses the room impossibly fast to take you in his arms. A warm hand cradles your face while a thumb presses over your lips, barring any sounds from passing through them.
"Shhh, preciosa. I will not harm you.”
Gazing into deep brown eyes, all else falls away as you are swept into their depth and a calm washes over you. This man is a stranger - and stranger still, he had to have crept past the guards, through the estate’s garden, and over the second story balcony to reach the master bedchamber - and yet… something within you whispers that you can trust him. That you should trust him.
And you do, because alongside those whispers is the need to have someone to believe in now that you can no longer trust yourself.
When it seems certain that you will remain quiet, his thumb moves to caress your cheek and despite his soft touch, pain radiates through your skin.
“Apparently Reverend Michael did not have that same respect.” The gravel of his voice takes an even rougher edge - but rather than the tone, it is the name he spoke that instills fear into you.
Reverend Michael, the most powerful of Cerco’s clergymen. Reverend Michael, whom you’ve married just this morning. Reverend Michael, lying in final rest a few steps away.
“Breathe, preciosa, breathe,” the man soothes the choked gasps once again clawing out of you, “That bastard can’t cause anymore misery. You’ve made sure of that.” The last sentence is inflected with a smile instead of an accusation, but that does not diminish the urge to explain yourself as if already on trial.
“He-he kissed me. Grabbed my- demanded that I-” Your tongue trips over itself as the disgust returns to tangle with your panic. You knew what the Reverend expected of you. Knew you sold your body, your life, for the bride price that was too overflowing to refuse. But having those hands and lips and eyes on you felt as if spiders crawled over everywhere he touched. Just the thought of laying with him made a bed full of rattlesnakes seem more appealing - and more safe.
“I pulled away, I just. I could not- And then he… he struck me.” Clear across the room and into the dresser with a back hand as strong as thunder.
More than the pain, it was unshakable rage that had consumed you then. How dare he punish you as if you were the wicked one? How dare he sit here in opulence while the rest of the town, your family, toils in the unforgiving sun every single day to keep starvation at bay? How dare he send men and boys alike to war against the devil’s spawns while he remains safe behind the town’s fortified walls? How dare he take wife after wife after wife just to have them wither away from his vile seed? How dare he? How dare he?
“Mmmm, and you struck him back,” the man’s smile grows, somehow proud of your greatest sin. “A quick death is better than he deserved, but the irony had to have rubbed salt into the wound.”
He looks down, and your gaze follows his to the gilded cross at your feet. It had adorned the dresser you were thrown against, and now the same crimson that covers your hands, covers its gold.
“The Church will have my soul condemned to Hell,” you whisper, feeling your heart sink as if the descent has already been decreed.
“Would that be the same church that deemed this man holy?” His laugh flows over you and seems to give your fallen heart wings. “Clearly their judgement is more than a little fucked.”
“What they should do is name you a saint, Miss…” he trails off to allow you to offer your name. Clearly your judgment is also fucked since you give it to him without a moment of hesitation. But those whispers murmur comfortingly, drawing your attention away from any worries and instead towards the enchanting way your name rolls off his tongue when he repeats it.
You are even further charmed when he takes your hand in his to place a chaste kiss upon it and introduces himself with, “Obispo Losa, blessed to be in your presence, and now in your debt.”
There is no confusion over what that last part refers to; all of his words have pointed to only one reason for him being here. “Why do you wish him dead?” Curiosity, not judgement, has you wondering. Reverend Michael had done so many wrongs that there would be a shorter list for why anyone would not want him dead rather than the opposite.
The man - Obispo - quirks a brow, the small smile still on his lips as he gives you a look that says, "Do you truly wish to know?”
You lift a brow of your own that replies, “I’ve asked haven’t I?”
Rising to the challenge, Obispo leans in as if sharing a secret and lowers the timbre of his voice to reveal, “His little crusade against my tribe has become more than just a nuisance.”
Which seems to be more of a riddle than a secret. Crusade? Tribe?
Reverend Michael always found a new holy war to be fought with each new moon, always preached about protecting the town from the lurking evil that would ensnare you all if not for him. Whether it be goblins or ghouls, were-creatures or witches, the Reverend took it upon himself to keep everyone safe and secluded from anything that walked outside of God’s light.
The last call to arms was against monsters masquerading as humans, gorging on our lifeblood to sustain their own. To hear the Reverend tell it, these bands of wicked beasts, these vampire tribes, massacre entire towns in one night and they had to be stopped before Cerco was next…
All the air leaves the room as realization takes hold as disturbingly as chilled fingers wrapping around your spine. You stiffen in Obispo’s arms, suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the blood drying on your hands, the blood racing through your veins.
The change is your demeanor is quick but he is slow to let you go, putting just enough space between the two of you so you no longer touch, yet still close enough to silence you if you make to scream. And although you have been looking at him this entire time, now being out of his embrace, now knowing what he is, the whispers no longer sway your mind and it’s as if you are just now truly seeing all of him.
Black curls of hair swept back to reveal a devastatingly handsome face framed by a distinguished beard. Clothes of a nobleman, tailored to a strong yet ordinary physique. You could never possibly guess that he is something other than human.
“Am I in danger of being crucified next?”
There is jest in his tone but no denial of the clear accusation hanging in the air. That should be proof in and of itself, and yet your eyes deny the warnings ringing in your head. How could this be a monster, not a man, standing before you? You’ve only caught glimpses of other creatures around the edge of town when you dared to venture outside of the walls, but even from a distance all of them had some mark, some tale tell difference, that revealed their nature. Obispo looks and sounds and feels as human as you.
It is then that a sermon of Reverend Michael comes to mind; the one where he preached on how to expose the evil walking among us. There was something about souls and reflections that you barely remember but you grasp at the straws for any method of proving your suspicions.
Slowly, oh so slowly, your head turns away from him to look into the large mirror above the dresser. Reflected back is your own image, all terrified and spattered in red with a bruise darkening one side of your face, and… nothing except vacant space where Obispo should appear standing beside you.
Goosebumps prickle your skin as the chill down your spine splinters into the rest of your body to freeze you in place. Unable to bring yourself to look back at him, it is towards the space in the mirror that you pose the question, “Would you have killed me too?”
Will you kill me now? is what you truly wish to know but are too afraid to ask. Since agreeing to the marriage, you have anticipated an early end to your life; but while it had been certain, it had not yet been imminent. Not until this very moment. And now you do not know what to do with the end being so near, other than pray that the kindness Obispo has shown up to this point extends to granting you a quick, painless death.
There is no reflection of his hand reaching out to cup the unbruised side of your face, just the warmth of his skin bleeding into yours as he turns your head to face him.
“I will not harm you,” he repeats his earlier promise, the words ringing clear and - you foolishly hope - true. Foolish because there are no whispers coaxing you to believe in him this time, there is just your desperate wish to live and have someone to hold onto again.
“And I never intended to,” he continues. “My tribe only hunts those who hunt us; which is why my only purpose here is to take him and leave this message of truce in his place.”
From within his waistcoat, Obispo draws out a folded letter stamped with an intricate wax seal. It is entirely ridiculous that a nightmarish vampire from the Reverend’s terrifying tales would sneak in just to quietly steal one person away and deliver a note offering peace. You could almost laugh - but you are certain that once you start, you would not stop until you were locked away for hysterics.
In the same composed tone Obispo goes on, “I expected everyone here to be in a drunken slump from the wedding celebration. You were supposed to be asleep until the morning revealed him missing and you a happy widow.”
That all sounds too good to be true, and much too late after the blood shed by your hands. So it is with baited breath that you ask, “And now?”
“And now,” Obispo moves closer and wraps his arm around you so you are once again comforted in his embrace, “we continue down this road until it leads back towards the original path. Can you change out of this gown?”
“Excuse me?” you blink, brows furrowed and mind reeling from all the different directions this conversation has taken. Just moments ago you were convinced he would leave you dead, and now - with his closeness, all the touches, the suggestion of that question - you could almost believe he would have you feeling very much alive.
Your cheeks heat at the thought and your gaze breaks away from his to look down at the plain linen garment you are dressed in. It is modest, long and unshapely, the very gown you wore at home around your family. You had put it on in hopes of discouraging the Reverend’s lust - and yet his sinful nature has led to drops of his blood soaking into the fibers all the same.
“If you change into another gown,” Obispo amends, raising your head back up with an amused look that lets you know he followed where your thoughts had traveled, “this one can be used to mop up the mess since he’s already soiled it.”
Mind whirling from yet another change in direction, it takes a moment for you to understand his plan. “We are… concealing my crime?”
That proud smile returns to his lips as he says, “Many would call it an act of justice, but yes. Tell me where the nearest well is and I’ll gather water while you… redress.”
The heavy pause before his last word is deliberate and surely meant to tease you. And it works, embarrassment rising fast and lodging in your throat, causing the need for you to clear it before you can tell him where to find the well.
There are three within the whole town, and Reverend Michael of course claimed one as his very own. It sits within the lush garden beneath the balcony, and it is the reason the supposed man of God ousted a handful of families to build his estate on this specific plot of land.
While Obispo leaves to gather water, you look for something suitable to change into. And something suitable is the last thing you find. All the other sleeping gowns you own were gifts from your late husband. Revealing, barely there slips of fabric that make it clear what the Reverend was after on your wedding night, and every night that followed. With little choice, you pick the one that seems to cover up the most skin; rich brown silk, soft and fitted to your form with a flowing skirt that kisses the ground.
As you nervously smooth your hands over the part of the gown that covers - and curves with - your thighs, you try to find solace in the fact that it’s not your intention to entice the vampire, of all things. But earlier wayward thoughts drift back to mind and you have to confess, only to yourself, that enticing Obispo would feel more safe than enticing the Reverend - and more appealing. Much more.
Obispo’s return is slower than you would imagine, given the astonishing speed he’d shown while entering and leaving the room. He knocks on the door and waits for your invitation before re-entering, then takes his time admiring your appearance as he returns to your side, a bucket in hand and a smile lighting up his face. “Preciosa indeed.”
You try not to show how affected you are by his compliment and remind yourself again of where your intentions should lie. It is a miracle that Obispo does not dwell on your flustering, instead continuing on with the plan.
“But for our story to be believable, we cannot have you bloodied and bruised. You shouldn’t have been this way in the first place - the bastard’s lucky he’s already dead.” With that gruffly said, Bishop sets the bucket down and picks up the old gown you left draped over the bed. The thick fabric tears like paper in his hands as he rips it into rags. Once done, he leaves all but one of the pieces of cloth to soak in the water within the pail. This one he dips into the water before ringing out the excess and holding it up in front of you. “May I?”
You are not sure why the act of him wiping away the splatter on you seems like crossing a line. Not after being in his arms, or having his hand on your lips, or his lips on your hand. Even still, his offer has words catching in your throat as something heavy and warm settles in your chest. All you can do is nod your assent and force yourself to breathe as he steps closer and once again takes gentle hold of your face.
The coldness of the water has you gasping and the goosebumps returning; has you flinching slightly but he holds you steady as he drags the cloth from above your brow to below your mouth, tilting your head from one side to the other until those intense eyes deem every spot of red to be gone. Then he’s guiding the cloth lower, down your neck to follow the curve of your shoulder to the lines of your arms.
The moments of his careful concentration on cleaning you stretch on for an eternity as you will your body’s reactions under control. Who would believe that simple brushes along your palms and between your fingers would spark lightning to lick beneath your skin?
It is both a blessing and a curse when Obispo finally cleans away the last drop, the effects of his touch both torture and bliss to endure. And your will must be weak because despite your efforts your nipples have risen to peaks, impossible to miss through the delicate silk. With those peaks comes another tide of embarrassment that threatens to drown you, just waiting for the moment Obispo notices to pull you under.
If he does notice, he makes no comment. Instead he steps back towards the bucket, and first lets the rag drop to the floor, then crouches down to wring out another rag and wipe his own hands clean. If he continues to focus on this well past the moment he is free of blood, you make no comment nor do more than silently wait for him to finish.
As Obispo rises his eyes drag up your body like a caress, decadent and indulgent, until they reach your face. Then with a deep inhale he closes his eyes and seems to temper himself. On the exhale his eyes open and his attention turns towards the cheek that the Reverend inflicted his fury upon. “Hmm, now to right this wrong.”
Caught within the heady air thickening between the two of you, you are not of the mind to wonder how he intends to mend the swelling that throbs the whole half of your face - not until he brandishes a dagger from a sheath at his side and cuts into his own palm.
You hardly manage to choke out ”What-“ through the sharp panic that cuts right through the air like a dagger of its own.
"Our blood is restorative - it quickens the healing of our own bodies and those of others. Drinking it will shorten the time of your recovery from weeks to seconds.”
His reasoning does little to calm you, especially not with his expectation for you to consume the crimson pooling within his cupped hand. Fevered forebodings from Reverend Michael shout through your memory; his voice proclaiming deception and corruption so clearly in your mind that it is as if he has risen from death to preach before you. Has Obispo’s kindness been a trick all along? Hiding his true motive of… of turning you into vampire, into a monster who would destroy your own people and-
Obispo calls your name, quieting the phantom haunting your thoughts. “Look,” he commands softly while extending his arm for you to examine his hand. Beyond the spoonful of blood, you do not understand what he wishes for you to see. It is as you prepare to tell him so that realization dawns. The wound that he slashed from his thumb to his littlest finger, the wound that should continue to be pouring blood, that should need sutures to be closed against infection, is gone. No angry red line or jagged scar left in its place. No sign that he was injured at all.
“It will heal you just the same, preciosa. Nothing more.”
I will not harm you.
He does not say it a third time but you hear the promise just the same. And you do not know how much more trust you have left to give. All of you feels ragged, frayed as if your threads have been pulled every which way and there is a fire prepared to singe any string you follow.
But a choice has to be made. There is no turning back, no undoing your decision to marry a man you hated or the manifestation of your hatred onto that man. You have to move forward, if not for your sake, then your family’s. Even if Obispo were not here, a choice would have to be made. And out of the strings before you, the one tied to him offers more than the one tied to the Reverend ever had.
Moving closer, taking Obispo’s wrist in one hand and his fingers in the other, you press your mouth to the side of his palm and tilt his hand so the blood pours into your mouth. There is no avoiding the flavor on your tongue. It tastes…
It tastes of the ripest berry and the richest wine. Of temptation itself. You wonder if this is the fruit the Church says led to the fall of man, though you cannot blame man after knowing how heavenly it flows down your throat. A mere mouthful is not enough, your tongue snaking out once and then again to lick all traces off his skin.
The need, the hunger is interrupted by a snarl, and the eyes that you do not remember closing open to see Obispo’s own entirely black, no brown or white in sight as he stares into you. Something within your gaze causes him to snarl again and your attention drops to his mouth where fangs have extended to dangerous points. Four fangs below his top lip and four above his bottom, they should be unnatural and grotesque to you. But it is awe that has your hand lifting to feel their edge for yourself.
Obispo grabs your wrist before your fingers can graze the points. “You’re in danger of being the one stolen away.” Even his voice has changed, deeper, darker.
Despite the warning and common sense, it is not fear that causes your heart to flutter. "Take me,” you breathe out on a sigh.
Another snarl and he is across the room before you can blink. “Preciosa, that has no part in our plan.” There is another deep inhale, another moment of tempering. And this time when his eyes open they are the deep brown that have become familiar, the dangerous edge to his teeth gone. “Now that you are no longer hurt, let’s finish the concealment, shall we?”
Although “we” was mentioned, he does all the work, not allowing you to do more than keep an ear out for anyone approaching. Which becomes you watching him, fascinated with how he moves too quickly for your eyes to keep up with. There is just whirls of motion as he uses the rags to scrub the floor.
Though the spell over him seems to dissipate, the one over you holds fast. You feel almost drunk, giddy and inhibited, not in the least bothered over how you threw yourself on him while he was taking another form. While he was losing control because of you. The fingers that almost touched those fangs tingle with the desire to truly feel them.
The Obispo whirlwind ends with the water within the bucket looking of blood itself, and the golden cross gleaming in his hands. As he carries it back to its place on the pedestal on the dresser, you watch through the mirror as the cross seems to float back into position.
Last, he places the letter on the pillow where the Reverend would have laid. You are to read it in the morning and call the guards in grief stricken panic over your husband’s disappearance, a lie you will find great pleasure in telling.
It is unbelievable how in a matter of one night your fate has gone from dying in months time while giving birth to yet another of Reverend Michael’s stillborn children, to being executed within days for killing him, to inheriting his fortune by daybreak. And the last turn of events is all due to the kindness of the one once again standing in the balcony doorway.
Obispo holds all the signs of what truly transpired; the bucket of red tinged water and equally stained rags, and Reverend Michael himself. The clergyman is almost twice his size and yet Obispo had hoisted the dead weight over his shoulder as if the Reverend is as light as a feather.
Another wave of gratitude and awe crashes over you as you watch him study the room for anything out of place. You have nothing to give him for everything he has done, nothing besides a sincere expression of your appreciation, and so you go to him with the intention of placing a reverent kiss upon his hands. It is belatedly that you realize that said hands are full, and impulsively, you kiss his cheek instead. “Thank you.”
“It’s a debt repaid.” He kisses your cheek in return, then further closes the space between you to whisper a farewell in your ear. Your heart flutters again from the press of his lips, the promise in his words, and the way he pulls back to hold your gaze. With nothing more to say and yet so much unsaid, he turns to disappear into the night as quickly and as quietly as he appeared.
You stare off into the darkness beyond the balcony for a while, feeling dazed as if waking from a fevered dream. After finally closing the doors, you make your way to the bed but it seems to take a whole lifetime for you to succumb to sleep. Eventually exhaustion conquers the worry for what tomorrow will bring, the disbelief of what tonight had brought, the longing from his parting words echoing in your head.
Summary: Virgil show’s Logan his garden (yes literally this is not an innuendo!) and fluff happens with a brief cameo from Virgil’s spider. :D
Virgil appeared to be a mix of excited and apprehensive as he dragged Logan to an unknown location. Knowing Virgil, he most likely expected to be judged for whatever it was he was planning to show, or he had thought up all the ways Logan would mock him. However nonsensical those beliefs may be, Logan understood that it was near impossible for Virgil to not overthink and so he merely smiled reassuringly at him, opposed to rationalising through his thoughts as they normally would.
Virgil laughed nervously as they ascended the staircase, “Sorry. My room’s a pretty messy.” “It’s not a problem, Virgil. Though I doubt it’s as bad as you think.” Logan waved off. “Okay,” he drawled septically, “but prepare yourself.” He joked with a raised eyebrow and small smirk.
They entered Virgil’s room, now quite a familiar place to Logan. Just as he predicted, it was not nearly as messy as Virgil had insinuated. There was clutter surrounding the desk and a few bits of crumbled paper on the floor but apart from that, it was obvious the anxious side had cleaned up.
Virgil closed the door behind him, double checking that he locked the door in case Remus tried to leave some ‘gift’ in his room again, before pointing to another door a little further away.
Passing by the desk Logan did the customary greeting to Virgil’s plastic spider. It was an odd tradition but Virgil insisted he respect her, as plastic as she may be. As Virgil passed, he also gave her a light pet and then took the lead once more.
The black door stood in front of them, engraved with little vine designs that one would miss at a glance. Virgil took a deep breath before turning to face Logan. Neither spoke but had a non-verbal communication by looks alone. Virgil’s nerves for this unexplained venture were very visible but Logan reciprocated by softening his features and taking his hand. The affirmation of no judgement seemed to be successful as Virgil turned back to the door and ripped it open – utilising his ‘like a bandaid’ method.
They were greeted with the sight of a silver balcony, decorated with white flowers and black stems. The rails were intricately designed with carved vines and old unknown runes. A stone stairwell led down to a rock path, some moss growing on the edges and ivy consuming the sides of the wall and railing. To the right of the path ran a creek, leading to a medium sized pond adorned with white and yellow flowers on lilly-pads and sweet-flag plants glowing along the edges.
The water sparkled with the stars and reflected the moonlight steaming down through the willow and wisteria trees while spider webs hung and glistened, catching the light and painting a glimmer effect between the plants.
Logan failed to stop his jaw dropping and eyes widening as Virgil looked over and snorted at his reaction. “Star struck?” He smirked. “y-yes.” Logan stuttered, still captivated by the beauty. “So, you like it?” He grinned hopefully. “It’s beautiful Virgil.” He nodded, “Did you do this?” “The main parts of the garden formed themselves, yeah, but I did fix it up a bit.” He shrugged, “Come on, let’s go down.”
The walked down, avoiding the slippery moss and reaching the end of the path. The grass was dark but soft as Logan walked, barefoot, across it. In the space under the balcony was a little seating area.
A swing chair hung down, surrounded with white camellia shrubs and dark red rose shrubs. Purple geraniums clung to the poles holding the chair up and the stone wall was barely noticeable behind a sea of green.
As Virgil walked over to take a seat, Logan noticed the violet butterfly landing on the arm rest, only to fly away as Virgil moved closer. More butterflies of black, purple, white, blue and some reds congregated on the shrubs or floated off into the open areas, giving little pops of colour throughout the serene portrait.
Logan took a seat next to Virgil who lightly swung them back and forth. They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the space around them and each other’s silent company. After a while, Logan started to stare at the anxious side instead of the garden.
It wasn’t long before Virgil realised and turned to face him with a raised eyebrow.
“See something you like?” He snickered good-naturedly. “Yes. The garden is indeed a lovely sight.” Logan smirked back. “Oh, shut up.” Virgil pushed him half-heartedly.
They smiled at another as Logan leant forward, Virgil mirroring him, until their lips were nearly touching.
“Thank you for trusting me with this place.” Logan murmured. “I trust you more than anyone.” He whispered back, “but tell anyone and I’ll tell Remus you want to play with him more often.”
Logan just rolled his eyes and closed the gap between them.
