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k-comfyspace · 3 years

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Neglected

Idol: Kim Chaewon, Kim Minju (Izone)

Request: Yes

Love: hi, i really love your writing! can i request a chaewon x minju x fem!reader where the reader wants to break up bc they seem happier without her but 2kim comforts her? angsty but with happy ending please? thank you!!!

A/n: Again can’t believe this is the first time I wrote this kind of story, take my privilege please! Ya’ll are just really nice, makes my heart soft and because I was in the mood to write, this is the longest scenario I’ve ever written🥺

You glanced outside the window, looking down at the field as you cleared your thoughts, trying to observe the students playing and exercising.

But really you were deep in your thoughts, struggling as you tried to figure out a solution, you knew they cared for you. You were the luckiest woman in the world to have the chance to date Minju and Chaewon.

To have them love you and show you sides that no fan has ever seen before, you knew it was too good to be true, and recently it’s been showing.

You never wanted to let your thoughts get the best of you. But recently you’ve found your relationship to be only centered around the two of them. Oftentimes you were stuck in school or you were back home doing projects, you would constantly cancel your time with them because you were busy, while they would just be a reach away.

You were the only one who was always busy, so you blame yourself that they were always happy being together because you were never there.

It would make you feel better if they had talked to you if they have any issues. But you couldn’t complain, how could you, not only is it your fault but they seemed a lot happier without you.

“Ms. L/n!” you snapped your head to the front, suddenly hearing your name as you realized the whole class was staring at you. Your professor included as he had his eyebrows furrowed, anger clear in his features before he asked you to stand.

“Could you answer the question, Ms. L/n?” He asked and you could only look down, hands behind your back before you heard him sigh, “Y/n this has been the 5th time this week, am I going to have to call in your parents?”

Your head shot up to look at your professor, shaking your head rapidly, “No, I’m sorry professor it won’t happen again, this is the last time,” you promised before he paused looking at your form and making you uneasy until he nodded, raising his finger towards you.

“One last time, Ms. L/n,”

“Thank you, sorry professor,”

Then the bell rang making you professor look at you with disappointment before he dismissed the class. You suddenly felt the guilt of the trouble you caused for the man as you left the room.

“It’s been the 5th time this week,” his words echoed in your head, your shoulders slumping as the reality dawned on you, that's because you kept in your issues so much that it started to show.

Your emptiness and sadness started to affect your performance, you were lucky that the professor was nice, if it were anyone else, your parents would’ve been interrogating you at this point.

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t notice the crowd behind you in the front was your girlfriend, following you with a smile as she held her bag, Minju caught up with you. Linking your arms together you suddenly jolted, jerking your hand as you earned a confused look from Minju.

“Sorry, I was thinking,” you played it off before Minju giggled and linked her arms with you again, “You’ve been thinking a lot these days, ba—Y/n,” you kept looking straight trying not to give too much away and ignored the slip up she had.

Of course the other students didn’t know, they couldn’t, since most of them were already wild enough as it is because out of all the people she chose L/n Y/n, to be the closest with and not to mention that her career only began 5 months ago so having a dating scandal this early on would surely affect not only her and Chaewon’s career but the rest as well.

“They’re dumping a lot of projects this week, so I’ve been a little out of it, sorry,” you apologized but your girlfriend could only shake her head before a sudden idea struck her, “You can come to the dorm and we’ll help you, Y/n!” She said and you could only shake your head.

“I don’t want to bother the other Minju, you’re already so busy I can’t just go there and interrupt,”

“Nonsense, Y/n, the girls practically adopted you when they met you, plus we’re on our break anyway.” She said and you were about to refuse but she cut you off, “You’ve been working too hard these days, baby, a little help wouldn’t be bad,” she said softly making your heart melt at her concern.

So with a conflicted heart and messy thoughts you agreed, your girlfriend cheering as she led you to the van.

—

“Y/n!” You smiled at the others waving as they greeted, “Baby,” Chaewon pushed herself off the couch and went to hug you and Minju as you forced a smile to convince the girls who cooed and playfully gaged at their members’ affection, but you didn’t quite fool all of them.

Your eyes landed on the blue haired girl, as Yujin gave you a soft smile when she saw the conflict in your eyes.

She was the first person you knew that was part of a group. Yujin was the perfect friend for you, she often matched your personality and she was a good listener.

Since in your first year at school she was the one that you got to know first, though you were both shy at first something eventually clicked until she introduced you to her friends.

Yujin was the person you could approach when you needed help with your girlfriends, even if she was young, Yujin did her best to listen to you and figure out a solution. Sometimes she was the reason why the three of you would make up when you had a problem, she cared for you like her big sister and you cared for her as your little sister.

So naturally when you started to have thoughts about Minju and Chaewon, Yujin was the first person you approached and ranted to, trying your best to not ruin their relationship as members while you ranted.

Thankfully Yujin didn’t think any bad things towards her unnie but she did find it quite annoying that her unnies were sweeter to each other than they are to you.

She’s been wanting to intervene, say how much they’re hurting you but to her displeasure you would constantly hold her back, saying it wasn’t a big deal. Which made it increasingly difficult to not be annoyed because of your niceness. If it was her she would’ve marched toward them and yelled out everything.

She admired that about you, that even if you were mistreated you would still forgive them and brush it off because it made the other happy, but sometimes it could be the reason you break.

—

Laying down on the floor, you did your best to write, tracing the sketch carefully as you ignored the couple giggling every so often. But in the corner of your eye, you could clearly see them, laughing as they kept talking about something. It was like they already forgot that they had someone else.

You gripped your pen, biting your tongue because you were afraid of blurting something out.

Yujin watched you from her spot, before she slowly made her way over next to you, nudging your body. As you looked over, she sent you a gentle smile keeping her voice low to avoid the others from hearing,

“If you need a second we can talk about it just say something,” she whispered and you smiled, sending your friend a thankful smile as you patted her knee.

Minju noticed you and Yujin whispering to each other, a small frown on her face as she wondered what you could’ve talked about.

“Hey, Y/n, is this good?” She called you, wanting to get your attention as she showed you her work on one of the parts you’ve given her. It was a weak attempt to get you because you were whispering with Yujin but you did glance over and gave her a smile.

Nodding at the work as you thanked her and said that she did a good job.

Throughout the night most of the girls had spent it finishing your projects, making sure to thank all the girls for their help. And throughout the night you had given yourself a fair distance away from the couple, focusing on your job as you plugged in your music or kept talking with Yujin who did her best to distract you, which you were infinitely grateful for.

However Minju and Chaewon had noticed you distancing yourself, it might’ve been their imaginations but you are so full of life when you spoke with the others, smiling as you replied excitedly or happily with the rest of the girls.

But whenever they would call for you, a short reply was all they got, even if they would try to hug you or say random sweet nothings, you would accept it but push away after a few seconds as you got back to your work.

You were slowly starting to get annoyed, partnered by your already conflicted feelings and with them constantly calling you for your attention, “Y/n we can we talk for a second, in private?” She whispered again which made you suddenly snap.

“I said I can handle it Yujin,” you said sharply, causing the younger girl to flinch, pursing her lips as she turned quiet.

You kept silent for the rest of the night, finishing your projects before you packed. You thanked the girls, making sure you showed them your gratitude and promised to repay them for their help.

Then you turned to your girlfriends, seeing both of them chatting, you wanted to thank them for helping but seeing them laugh so hard and so joyfully your mood was dampened again.

Your eyes however caught another sight, across the room Yujin cleaned up the mess, but the frown on her face was visible behind the curtain of hair she hid behind.

You sighed, approaching the girl and placed a hand on her shoulder.

Yujin glanced up, seeing a small smile on your face as you gestured your head to the side, “Let’s talk,” you said, which immediately the blue haired followed you.

Unbeknownst to them of the eyes watching as they went into the hallway, Yujin avoided your eyes before you rested your hand on her shoulder, “Hey, I’m sorry for snapping at you,” you started seeing her about to speak but you cut her off.

“Me going through stuff doesn’t give me a valid reason to be mad at you Yujin, you were only trying to help me and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want to bring you into my problems, I don’t want you hating on other people because of me, you’re a good friend Yujin-ah,” you finished, seeing a pout starting to form on the younger’s face as she couldn’t say anything.

You giggled, pulling her into a hug, noticing the two figures peeking from the living room. You pulled away and smiled at your best friend, ushering her away before the two other girls came into the hallway, looking at you with concerned faces.

You forced a smile, eyes lingering on their clasped hands, “Hey,” Chaewon greeted you as Minju smiled, reaching their hands out for yours.

Intertwining your fingers together used to make you feel everything, the slight dip in your stomach because of the excitement, your heart beating against your chest because it felt so full, and the tingling sensation on your skin because of their warmth.

Now everything seemed off, it felt incomplete, you wanted to pull away but you didn’t want to disconnect yourself from them, then the conflict in your eyes didn’t escape past both of them. Squeezing your hands before they asked you, “We just want you to be honest with us, Y/n,”

“Are you tired of us?”

The question shocked you, eyes snapping towards the two of them who looked at your with sad features,

“Because recently we’ve been noticing that you keep moving away, when we have plans you cancel, when we want to come over you say you’re busy, when we talk to you your responses are always short and empty. And we uh—wanted to know if, you still want to be with us,”

There was silence for a while, you looked at them in disbelief before pulling your hand away, your breathing getting heavier as you tried to contain your anger.

“Are you serious?” You asked, as they could only look at you with confusion, “You’re really gonna ask me a question when you yourselves are the ones who need it?”

“What do you—“

“I’ve spent the past week, torturing myself to forget, seeing you two being so sweet and caring for each other while I’m at the side being ignored. I keep canceling because I didn’t want to bear the fact that you two are starting to forget about me, that you’re too caught up with each other to even notice that I’m struggling.”

“I don’t want all of your attention, but please do keep in mind that there are other people in this relationship besides you two.” Your voice was getting louder, the girls in the living room perking up when they heard your voice.

Minju and Chaewon looked at you with mixed emotions, suddenly confused on why you would hide this from them silence lingered for a while the tension rising,

“Then why didn’t you tell us? Why choose to say it now? You have a lot of chances to say it but you didn’t,” Minju asked with a sudden tone to her voice, making you scoff in disbelief.

“You think I didn’t try?!”

“I’ve been wanting to say something everyday, I wanted to talk with you two just so this wouldn’t happen but everytime the three of us get together it’s like I never existed in the first place. I respected it at first, maybe you didn’t want to bother me but the way you feel for each other doesn’t go to me anymore, it feels one sided.”

At this point the girls already heard everything, looking at the three of you with their brows furrowed, they’ve seen you three fight but it never went to this level.

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back your tears before Yujin padded to the three of you, but suddenly Chaewon spoke again, the words leaving her mouth made everyone’s breath hitch, “So how do we know you’re not sick of us? You might be seeing Yujin for all we know,”

Your jaw dropped in disbelief, looking at Chaewon. You couldn’t say anything, before your eyes snapped to Yujin who looked at the older with annoyance and anger,

“You’ve got some nerve to accuse Y/n like that, what’s gotten into you, Unnie? She’s your girlfriend for God’s sake!”

“How do we know for sure! She’s been ignoring us for the past week and has been with you, so sorry if I started to think that!” Their voices started to get louder before they started to argue, the girls stepping in and pulling them away from each other before anything got out of hand.

Your head started to hurt, your hands shaking as you saw them yelling at each other, “Just stop it!” You yelled, a voice echoing off the walls which made them pause, it was the first time you yelled that loud, tears streaming down your face as you tried your best to wipe them.

“This has nothing to do with Yujin, she’s the one that’s been helping me and convincing me that I don’t need to break up with you, but I didn’t think you would stoop so low and accuse me of seeing another person behind your back especially accusing your own member too.”

You turned, grabbing your coat and slamming the door, your footsteps rushing to the elevator before you left. Once the door shut a sob escaped your lips, a sudden weight on your shoulder every step you took away from the dorm.

—

The room was quiet, most of them staring at the door with shocked expressions, a scoff came from Chaewon as she stomped away, going to her room and slamming the door shut, Minju standing still with her eyes wide.

Yujin was breathing heavily, tears in her eyes as she walked away, hurriedly going inside her room.

A few minutes later Minju left, padding towards Chaewon’s room and entered, closing the door gently. Leaving the girls in the living room glancing at each other, the concern and worry in each of their eyes.

Weeks went by and the girls didn’t receive any contact from you, Minju couldn’t see you in school anymore, and Yujin couldn’t call you.

Which worried everyone to no end, they’ve been wanting to visit you but recently their schedules have been so packed that they didn’t have time to check.

Minju, Chaewon, and Yujin were quiet for the whole week, their interactions were minimal except when they were on camera. The girls didn't want to intervene, because this was their problem, but it hurt them with each day to see them ignoring each other.

So when one day Chaewon and Minju knocked on the door, Yujin opened it, her eyes suddenly turning wide when she saw the two in front of her door, their heads down as they guiltily fidgeted in their place.

“Can we talk, please?” Chaewon spoke up, raising her head to look at the younger who kept silent nodding as she stepped aside and allowed the two in the room.

They sat on the beds, the air awkward before Minju sighed, “We’re sorry,”

“We’re sorry for what we did, what we said and what we thought wasn’t right. We shouldn’t have accused you and doubted you we were wrong.”’

“I don’t like to be mad at you unnie’s, what you did was wrong, you did a lot of things that day that were wrong. I know I’m young but please don’t think that badly about Y/n unnie, the things she’s been telling me about you two, it’s something I don’t think I could go through, so please don’t apologize to me, apologize to her.”

Chaewon pulled the blue haired girl into a hug, Minju joining as they made up, Chaewon smiling as she whispered to the younger girl, “We will,”

—

When the girls had been given the week to rest, Minju and Chaewon didn’t waste a beat, rushing home and washing up before they asked their manager to bring them to your apartment.

They went to your door, using the key that they had hoping to see you but all they were met with was silence. No TV, no music, no sounds in the kitchen, they were sure that you were home because your shoes were beside the door.

They made sure to check every room calling out for you until Minju stopped at your room, opening it gently before she saw you on your bed, your body covered with sheets as you slept, as the soft snores passed your lips.

Minju called her girlfriend, both of them padding to your form and cupping your cheeks but worry struck them when they felt how warm you were.

Your forehead covered in a sheen of sweat before they looked at each other, you were sick.

They removed their coats, placing them aside as they took the blankets of your body. Chaewon went to get a basin and a towel while Minju got some clothes out of your closet before they cleaned you.

Minju cleaned up your room after Chaewon finished wiping your body, leaving the towel on your forehead to absorb all the heat.

Chaewon rummaged through your fridge and did what she could to make you some soup while Minju sat by your side, observing you as she suddenly felt whole again.

After a week of not seeing you, talking to you, it left her so empty and without her noticing a tear dropped before she started to cry silently, her eyes closed while she held the sheets until she felt someone cup her cheek.

Minju opened her eyes, a sob fully escaping her lips when you were smiling at her, wiping the tears that kept flowing out, “Why are you crying?” The softness of your voice made it worse for her and soon Chaewon entered, a tray in her hands with your food, water, and medicine.

When she saw you awake she froze at the door, her eyes welling with tears when you looked at her, no anger or disappointment in your eyes. She padded closer to you and placed the tray to the side before reaching for your hand, which you gladly gave her as she put it against her cheek, her own eyes stinging with tears.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Chaewon’s voice was so small, so defeated that it hurt you that she was going through that, even if it was her own fault.

“We l-love you, Y/n, please don’t ever forget that, we’re so sorry that we n-neglected you,” Minju nuzzled her cheek against your palm,

“P-Please give us a chance to be better, we w-won’t know what to do without you,” they inched in and embraced you, making you close your eyes when you felt them again but this time everything felt normal again.

The sinking feeling, the tingles, and your heart hammering against your chest. You felt whole to be with them for so long, “We’ll a-always love you, n-no matter what,” you felt your hair get brushed aside before they kissed your cheek and you could only sigh.

Your arms tighten around them as you want them to be closer. With a silent acceptance and promise they would always take care of you, show you how much you mean to them because truly they wouldn’t be who they are without you.

#izone #izone scenarios #izone imagines #girl group #girl group imagines #girl group scenarios #izone chaewon #izone minju #kim minju #kim chaewon #minju #chaewon #minju scenarios #minju imagines #chaewon imagines #chaewon scenarios

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novaiya · 3 years

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Imagine Arthur/Sean/Charles communicating with a non-English speaking immigrant reader.

Based on this request: can you write imagines for Arthur, Sean and Charles with a non-English speaking immigrant reader? If not that’s totally okay!! (Imagining the interactions that happen between them and the reader as they try to communicate would be funny ^^)

A/N: This was very fun to write, because at some point, I too was a non-english speaking immigrant. Language barrier sucks, but when you have people like Arthur, Charles or Sean, it sucks a little less lol I’m gonna be honest, as much fun as I had wiring this, I struggled a bit, especially with Arthur. If you look at Arthur’s interaction with people who don’t speak English… It seems like he has little to no patience with them lmfao

It was your third week with this group of people. It might’ve been fourth or maybe even fifth, but you couldn’t tell. All the days have blended into a one, long nightmare.

You have come to this country, the new world, in search of a better life, and instead, turned out worse than where you came from.

Thankfully, a group of people have picked you up, given you food and shelter and only asked for a small contribution in the form of basic housekeeping (more like camp keeping) in return. But even that was proving to be complicated, for you didn’t speak the language that the people did. You knew a few words before coming to America, basics like “Hello”, “Thank you”, “My name is…”, but nothing more. You were planning to continue your studies once you’ve arrived, but it seems like you'll have learn on the go. You were picking up some stuff here and there from the listening to camp members talk. You would attentively listen to the leader, Dutch was his name, and try to memorize the words he spoke. Plan, faith, and money would be common words in most of his speeches, and you’ve already learned their meanings.

Arthur.

You were taking a break, sitting on the edge of the camp and sketching on a piece of paper. You enjoyed drawing. It was a relaxing hobby, and it would remind you of your childhood, back when things were simpler.

“Hey there,” you heard from behind you. You turned around, seeing Arthur.

“Hello,” you said, your accent evident even in such a simple word.

“What you doing there,” he said as he took a seat next to you, looking at the scrap of paper in your hand.

You took a second to process what he just said. You heard the word “what”, and thought that maybe he was asking what you were doing. You didn’t know how to say you were drawing in english, so you simply showed him the sketch you were working on, pointing at it with your pencil.

“Ah,” Arthur exclaimed, understanding you. “You’re drawing.”

You tilted your head, not understanding what he’s saying.

“Drawing,” he repeated. He used his hand to pretend like he’s drawing. “You,” he said pointing at you, “draw.”

“Draw,” you repeated, looking at his hands then at a scrap of paper on your own. “I am drawing.”

“There you go.”

You smiled when you understood. Even a single word was a victory for you. The sooner you knew the language, the sooner you could get back on your feet.

“I draw too sometimes,” he said.

You turned to look at him.

He shuffled a bit, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a notebook. He skimmed through a few pages before showing you one of them. There, you saw a drawing of a horse. Your own sketch, in comparison to his, looked like chicken scratches.

“You draw very good,” you said.

A small smiled tugged at Arthur’s lips and he said, “thank you”

You nodded your head with a smile on your lips mirroring his. It was nice to have conversations. Due to the language barrier between you and the rest of the camp members, it was hard to make any significant connections. Most of your conversations only went as far as “thank you” or “good morning”. Arthur, however, has been one of the only people trying to bridge the gap between you and the rest of the gang. He would often start talking to you as if the language wasn’t a problem, and if you didn’t understand something, he would try to explain with simpler terms, using his hands or pointing at things, like he did just now when explaining drawing to you.

“I know a place not far from here,” Arthur spoke up, pulling you out of your thoughts, “Lot’s of animals roam there; horses, deers. I can take you there and you can draw them. If you want to, that is.”

You took a moment to understand what he meant. You basically understood every word he said, but was having a hard time of putting them together to understand the meaning behind them.

“You and I go draw together?” you said.

Arthur chuckled a bit. It was not exactly what he meant, but it was close enough. Maybe he could use that opportunity to get to know you better, as much as the language barrier would allow.

“Sure, we can do that too.”

Charles

You were walking along the outskirts of the camp, taking a break from your chores to enjoy the nature around you. You could hear the birds sing from every tree, and as you went further into the forest, squirrels and rabbits would run around, not paying any attention to you.

When a bunny stopped almost in front of you, you smiled. You squatted down, almost eye level with the creature.

“I think he likes you,” you heard from behind you.

You turned around, seeing Charles approaching you. You smiled at him, before turning back to the bunny, who was still unfazed by your or Charle’s presence.

Charles crouched right next to you, studying the peculiar bunny like you did. He extended his hand, letting the bunny sniff it. You decided to try too, and let out a small laugh when bunny sniffed your hand as well, looking at you and then at Charles.

“He is very nice,” you said with a smile.

Charles nodded. “They can feel your intentions. He probably knows you’re not going to harm him.”

You nodded. You didn’t understand a word he said, but you still made a face as if you did. You wondered what the english word for bunny was.

“What is his name?” you said looking at Charles.

He smiled at your question. Since you’ve joined the gang, Charles admired your strength and work ethic. Even without knowing the language and barely being able to communicate with the rest of the people, you were a productive member of the camp, and have been working hard on learning the language.

He was one the first people that you talked to, and since then you would often go to him when you needed help understanding something. He was very approachable and always patient when it came to your language barrier.

“Bunny,” he replied.

“Bunny.” Your face was so serious when you tried to pronounce the word, Charles laughed a little bit.

“You got it,” he said. “Just gotta practice and it’ll sound perfect.”

“Thank you.”

Somehow, you ended up spending almost half an hour with Charles, studying all the different animals around, learning their names and a few other English words.

“Thank you very much, Charles,” you said when you finally made it back to camp.

“It’s no problem,” he said. “If you ever wanna learn anything else, you just let me know.” He winked at you before going to his tent.

You didn’t understand a word he said, but didn’t need to. That wink said all you needed to know.

Sean

It was nighttime, and most of the camp members were either getting ready for bed or gathering around the campfire, swapping stories and drinks. Due to the language barrier, you usually skipped those events; you couldn’t understand a single word they were saying and it made you feel out of place. Instead, you preferred to spend your evenings at a small table a little way from the campfire with a children’s book in your hand. You got the book from Abigail, who in turn got it from Hosea for Jack. She would lend it to you at the end of the day, after Jack has finished his lessons with Hosea, so you could learn too.

“What you doin’ here all alone?” you heard a voice say behind you.

You turned around, seeing Sean approaching you.

“Reading,” you said, showing him the book in your hand.

“Oh, that,” he said, taking a seat next to you. “I never understood the appeal of readin’. It’s ploddin’.”

“Plod-ding?” you repeated, tilting your head to the side.

“Well, you know, slow. I prefer to use my time in other ways, stealin’ or robbin’ for example.” Even though his voice sounded uplifting, you could see a hint of sadness in it. The smile that he was trying to put on didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You don’t read?” you said.

Sean took a moment before answering your question, shifting a bit in his chair.

“No, not really,” he said. “Me pa never taught me, and after he died I didn’t really have the time.”

You nodded your head, understanding what he said.

Sean wouldn't let anyone know it, but he was really insecure about his literacy. It’s not often that he needed to read something, but when he did, he was embarrassed that he couldn’t. So instead, he decided to own it, act like he didn’t care and that it was his decision not to learn. Lenny had been trying to teach him for a while then, but it didn’t go anywhere. Everytime Sean would get stuck on a word, or his progress would stagnate, he would get irritated and give up.

“Do you want learn?” you said.

Your words pulled him out of his thoughts. “You mean, learn to read?”

“Yes,” you said. “I read everyday. This kids book. We can read together.”

Sean’s immediate thought was to decline. He’d tried and failed so many times, at this point he didn’t believe he would ever be able to learn. But, something about seeing you, a person who barely spoke a word of English, a stranger in a strange land, trying your hardest despite everything, inspired him. What’s stopping him from doing the same?

“You know what,” he said. “I think that’s a great idea. Let’s meet here tomorrow mornin’. Maybe ol’ Lenny will join us too.”

#arthur morgan x reader #charles smith x reader #sean macguire x reader #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan x y/n #charles smith x y/n #sean macguire x y/n #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfics

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petite-ely · 3 years

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Afraid // JJ Maybank

five - but what if?

Pairing: JJ Maybank x fem routledge! reader

Warnings: bad language (don’t swear kids), mention of drowning, mention of death, nightmares, mention of guns, mention of fight, did I miss something.

Description: after his reckless actions at the party, JJ is unable to sleep but he isn’t the only one still awake.

A/n : I don’t want to make this longer than it already is, I think I’ve talked enough lol. If for some reason you want to know why I’ve been gone for so long I’ve written a post regarding it. Sorry again for not posting in so long. If you want to chat, feel free to reach out. I’m friendly. :) please kindly tell me if I’ve made some mistakes, I’ve reread this like a hundred times but its possible some mistakes slipped.

Previously next

Afraid masterlist

Gif by @cobrazkai

Song recommendation

JJ Maybank was 14 years old when he first realized that he had feelings for one of his best friends. The thing is he didn’t know what the hell those feelings were. He had always thought that y/n was really pretty and he considered her to be one of her closest friends and that was it. Friends- that’s what they were.

But after years of friendship and wild adventures and basically hanging out 24/7, something felt different. And boy, did that scare him.

JJ was not the kind of person to be really in touch with his emotions. Being abandoned by his own mother and living with an abusive alcoholic father didn’t really help either. If anything, his past traumas only made him more disconnected from his emotions and feelings.

He might’ve been hot headed and impulsive but that didn’t stop him from feeling things, often even too deeply. The issue was naming the emotions he was feeling. He didn’t know what he was feeling like half of the time. So when it came to y/n, his feelings for her were so intense and unknown. He had never felt this way for anyone before. He was so confused.

Being around her felt weirdly homely and yet, he never really had a real home to come to. For him, it was only a house. It was a building with things he wasn’t really attached to and a man he couldn’t really call a father, despite DNA saying otherwise. Being with her felt warm and golden and it was like a drug he couldn’t say no to. He was constantly looking for ways to feel this specific way. It was euphoric. But he only felt this way when he was around her. And it felt like home.

She was the home he wanted to come to every freaking night. And he wanted to dance with her and have night long discussion and caress her cheeks tenderly. He wanted to kiss her more than anything else, his lips on hers staying that way until one of them needed to take a breath - oh what heavenly feeling that must be. He wanted to proclaim his feelings to the entire island - the entire world even.

Only he couldn’t. There was this rule, and he couldn’t break it. Usually, he wasn’t the kind of person to let rules determine what he should and shouldn’t do. But it was the pogue rules, he couldn’t break them. He couldn’t do that to his friends, regardless of his own feelings.

Love. That’s what his feelings were. It took him some time to realize it, but yeah, it was love. He was certain of it (which was rare for JJ). A first love, innocent, deep and one sided. At least that’s what he thought. How could she love him? How could anyone love him when even his own father didn’t? Who would want him?

Now, JJ had messed, big time.

He was sitting beneath a tree, at the edge of the yard whims the château, a few feet away from where the water started. His gaze was turned towards the sunrise though he wasn’t really looking at the magnificent show of colours that nature was offering him. He was thinking or more like regretting.

He kept replaying the event that had happened just a few hours ago on the boneyard again and again in his mind. The arrogance on John B’s face while he taunted the kooks, the empty, psychotic look on Topper’s face while he was holding J.B’s head underwater, his own hand holding the gun against Topper’s head. It felt so powerful at the moment and yet in retrospect he felt so stupid. What would he have done if something had actually happened, if someone had gotten hurt because of him?

In the spur of the moment, he hadn’t thought about it really much. How crazy it actually was. He saw his friend in a situation where he could actually die and only thought about helping him. He had this thing with him that could help save him, an object that take could take someone’s life in the matter of seconds. So he used it at his advantage. He had only wanted to help, but at what cost.

He kept picturing the expression on y/n’s face when he got the gun out. It wasn’t anger, no it was much worse, she was terrified. She had actually been scared of him. How could he ever make up for that. How he could he ever admit what he was feeling for her after he had brought her such terror. He had ruined everything.

What if she never forgot that moment? What if she never forgave him?

A branch cracked somewhere in the distance, and JJ turned to face whoever, or whatever, was lurking in the dark. He was blinded by the bright artificial light of a flashlight. “JJ?” A voice spoke and the blond immediately recognized it. Y/n.

“Can you please turn it off, I don’t think it’s necessary,” he responded, motioning to the clarity that brought the sunrise. It was light enough for them to fully see one another.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, “-she sat down beside him- “Couldn’t sleep?” JJ stared at her for a moment before taking his eyes away.

“Yeah, you could say that. What about you? John B snoring too loud?” Y/n gave a small laugh.

“Um, no, not this time.” Her smile went down. “I had a nightmare.” JJ’s brows furrowed.

“Not about um, not about tonight right?” He asked, guilt hidden in the tremors of his voice.

Images of the past night filled y/n’s mind. Her brother being held under water, JJ pulling the gun out, the loud echoing sound of the firearm as it shot in the air. She could still hear it ringing slightly in her ears.

A small moment went by before she finally shook her head in denial, earning a small sigh of relief from the blond (at least that wasn’t his fault, he already felt guilty for so many things). “No, uh, no it wasn’t that,” she said, her voice barely audible.

JJ stared at her face in the golden light of this early morning. He noticed the blank stare in her eyes and frowned. Nightmares, although worrying for most people, were pretty common for y/n. JJ of course knew this, yet something felt odd.

He rested his hand on the small part of her back between her shoulder blades. “Do you want to talk about it?” She turned her head to meet his eyes, the feeling of his skin, warm and soft against hers sending small tingles at the base of her neck.

She didn’t want to bother him with her problems, she knew how horrible his home life was compared to what she was living. She didn’t want to remind him of this not make him feel bad about her small problems when he was facing such violence on a daily basis. Still, she knew JJ and talking about his dad was the last thing he wanted to do. And his eyes, his beautiful ocean blue eyes, it’s like they could see through her. How could she lie to him?

“I, uh I-I-“ his hand went to her shoulder and he squeezed it reassuringly. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.” Y/n felt her cheeks burning (hopefully he didn’t notice it). She took a moment to breathe in deeply the fresh air, calming herself slightly before putting her hand on his.

“No, I-I want to. I think it’ll help, in a way.” JJ cracked a sweet smile. “Alright then.”

“I keep having this one dream about my dad and I see him on his boat wandering. He’s lost in the middle of the ocean and he’s calling my name.” Saying those words, she really felt as though she could hear her father calling her name in the far distance, as if he was right beside her. Sadly, it was only her imagination playing tricks on her.

“And it keeps turning to this nightmare, where he dies in various horrible ways. Either drowned or starved or eaten by sharks.” JJ’s gaze softened, his eyes admiring her lips forming each words one after the other. “But tonight-“ she let go of his hand, shifting her body to face him completely, “-tonight, for a reason, I didn’t see him.”

“The boat was empty.”

Flashes of her nightmare came back to her like waves crashing on the beach. Her dad on his boat, a smile sketched on his lips. The sky is clear blue, not a cloud is in sight. There’s a warm breeze, she can almost feel it on her skin, and the sun is shining. It’s almost utopian, the perfect day to spend out in the sea.

Then the scene changes. The sky darkens to a deeper shade of blue, grey clouds towering the ocean. The wind is stronger, much stronger. It whistles as it makes its way in the crevices between each tree and threatens to tear the sails down. And the boat, she can see it floating hauntingly on the wild waves the same way a ghost would in abandoned castle. And there’s no trace of her father. Not even a feeling, that would tell her he’s there, trying to survive this storm.

“What if he really is gone J? What if my dad-“ she stopped her sentence to look at the horizon, somehow hoping to see a sign that would prove she was wrong. “I’m trying so hard to be positive and optimistic, but it’s been so long. What if he never comes back?”

The look in her eyes was heart-wrenching. JJ didn’t know what to say or do. He never really thought about it. What would happen if Big John was gone. To be honest he didn’t want to, that man was more of father to him than his own ever was. And losing him would be... he preferred not to think about it.

“I disagree,” he finally said. “What?” “Your dad is like one of the smartest person I’ve ever known. I think that, he, of all people would know how to get out of any situation, especially if it seems impossible to everyone else. I don’t think that you should give up on him yet.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, I do,” he smiled. “So fuck everyone who tells you otherwise,“ y/n giggled. “Fuck all of them! You’re allowed to have hope, y/n, even after this much time. They can’t take that from you.”

“In the meantime, we’ll there’s us,” us, “the pogues, our own family. We can get through anything, right?”

“Yeah, we can.” Y/n’s head fell on his shoulder. “We’re the pogues.”

JJ admired her carefully. How her face looked, basked in the golden rays of the sun, looking so terribly tired and yet so beautiful. He could stay like this forever, losing himself completely in her smile. God she was so wonderful.

“Hey y/n/n?” “Yeah?” “Are you mad at me?” “Huh?”

“Why would I be ma- oh, oh.” The gun. He thought she was mad at him for what he did. Though he saved her brother, didn’t he? So, she didn’t understand why he would think she could hate him.

“It’s just that you looked so terrified when-” “You saved him JJ, that’s what matters most.” Y/n interrupted the boy mid sentence, placing her hand on his arm in gratitude. “If you hadn’t done anything, he could have...” she didn’t finish her sentence.

When she saw JJ holding the firearm against Topper’s head just a few hours ago, she had first been incredibly shocked. She didn’t recognize the JJ she knew. But now, she completely understood. It was his way of protecting his friends, his way of showing he cared. And that, she admired him for it. Though he could’ve shown it in a less dangerous way.

“I admit,” she added, “it was dangerous and a bit scary to see and we’re probably gonna get some kind of revenge from the kooks soon, but no one got hurt. And J.B, well he’s okay! We’re all okay!”

“Also, I’m pretty sure I did some very, very stupid things last night, so I can’t really be mad at you,” she cringed remembering the amount of alcohol influenced things she had said and done during the party. “God, I must have looked so ridiculous.”

JJ laughed at her comment. “Yes, yes you did.” “Man, John B was right, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

“Can you just promise me something?” Asked y/n, once their laughter had died. “Depends what?”

“Promise me you’ll never hurt yourself with that thing, or anyone else for that matter.”

“I promise, y/n. ”

“Thank you.”

Taglist

@deionswannabegirl @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @poguestyle17 @im-a-stranger-thing @lasnaro @thoughtsofthestars @briandaflores19 @lunaposey @allycat449-blog @ifilwtmfc @kitty084 @coloradogirl07 @ponyboys-sunsets @chaoticbisous @p0gue420 @sloaneemily

If I forgot you or if you wanna be added/removed just tell me! Also I’m sorry if your name didn’t work :/

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factual-fantasy · 4 years

Text

Answering 14 Asks. Ranging from advice, to my characters, to the rules for drawing fanart. (I’m allowing it now btw)

..You know? Since the last time this has ben mentioned I started thinking.

I would love to see fan art of my characters, and now I know you guys want to draw them. Originally I didn’t want anyone to draw my OCs for my own safety. This post goes into detail on that. But I’ve been thinking.. and I think I might’ve found a way to let people draw fan art of my ocs without exposing anything. With rules. If what you plan to draw “breaks the rules” that means that its one of those “exposing things” I talked about.

Man I am such a sissy. I just don’t want to be bashed for anything. But okay look, here are the “rules” for my fan art.

You absolutely are allowed to draw my characters in one of these categories.

Draw a character that you like posing or smiling to show them off.

Cool action scenes! Most of them are soldiers after all.

Interacting with some of the real team prime members is 100% okay. Especially Volvo and Ratchet because they're supposed to be friends.

Drawing Brown Suburban and Bash Buggy hanging out with the other Wreckers!

Drawing two or more established friends goofing around and having innocent fun.

Drawing a character with an established sad backstory being sad or crying it out. With or without someone that has been established as their friend.

Redrawing scenes that I have already drawn to see it in your style.

If I have mentioned a character likes something, you could draw them with it. An example would be Ranger looking out over a river because she loves water.

You’re allowed to draw me with the characters, although I am kiiiinda a fourth wall break? I’m not really supposed to exist in their world.. So, if you really wanna, you can draw me, but I wouldn't encourage it.

Ones I would not be okay with though..

Drawing my characters getting drunk/drinking. <:/ Not on board with that..

Drawing any of my characters, wearing, talking about or supporting anything political or controversial.. Whether it be over the top or subtle.

No uh.. no ships please, Red Van and Suburban are okay but nothing overly sexual please. :}

No fourth wall breaks please. I know I have had my slip ups but I would like to keep a wall up in between their world and ours. I.E no drawing yourself with them..

Well uh.. that’s about it I suppose. You can basically draw anything, Just no ships, nothing overly sexual or political and keep the fourth wall breaks to a minimum. I myself need to work on not breaking the fourth wall.

I guess that’s it. So if you want to draw fanart for me, and it “follows the rules”? I am bouncing off the walls excited to see what you make for me! Link to their character sheets is here, keep in mind it may be edited now and then.

I am officially giving my fans permission to draw my OCs as long as it “follows the rules”, Have fun drawing!!

Escort would be like,

When it comes to digital, I use a small Intuos pro Wacom tablet. The model is PHT-451. I’m just reading things off the back of it here. It looks like this.

When it comes to traditional drawing, I use nothing but the finest Walmart mechanical pencils and sketch books. I also usually have a standard pink school eraser on hand as well. :}

Hmm.. If they could use a bouncy castle.. Well,

Brown Suburban and Suburban wouldn’t use it for the same reasons. They’re both too big and it would just make them tired. However, if the the kiddos wanted him to, Suburban would just shrug and hop on.

Miata would be on it before its even fully blown up. She’d love bounce houses.

Escort wouldn’t use it because he’s old and weak. Trying to jump up and down like that would tire him out super fast and would just make him ache probably. Poor baby, he’d probably want to though.🥺

U.M.Dragster would be hopping on it before it was fully blown up along side Miata.

A.T.Dragster would like it but would pretend not to.

Green Truck and Vega wouldn’t do it because they’re old and that would really tire them out. But Vega would want to even though he really shouldn’t.

Red Van would like to jump with the kids, but she cant. After what those cons did to her knees.. she can barley walk, let alone jump. repeatedly.

White Truck would love to jump on a bounce house and would have a ton of fun with it. Although due to his size and strength he would probably get tired faster than Miata and U.M. would.

Beluga and Jeepy would love to, and they would. But just like White Truck, they’re big and would get tired pretty quickly I feel.

With enough coaxing, Honda would like to jump on the bounce house too. And she would have a decent amount of energy left over.

Ranger would say she doesn’t want to and wouldn’t go on it. But she lowkey actually wants to join, she just doesn’t want to seem silly.

Volvo: No.

Bash Buggy would probably want to, but would shy away. He cant see people all that well and parts tend to fall off of him. He imagines he’s not all that clean either so he wouldn’t want to get the bounce house dirty and covered in bolts and screws.

A Decepticon.. that one ugly one.? And I know which one??

I actually don’t know which one. I know its not one of mine, because I’ve never drawn them before.

I know its not Knock Out, because he was designed to look attractive. Its not Break Down because he’s not ugly and he’s..... uh, dead..... Its not Soundwave because you cant see his face. Its not Shockwave because.. well, I don't think he’s ugly. Is it Megatron? Starscream?

Who are you talking about???

Its weird how Bash is the idiot when Bulkhead was the one who asked, “Were you killed??” and ALL FOUR OF THEM were relieved when he said he lived.

Isaac sounds so cool! I really like how you structured his character, he sounds like a really fun guy, and yeah, I bet they would really get along swell XD

Well here’s the thing, I can only really tell you the age of the real cars and how old I imagined them being in Transformer years. The reason why is because I don't know how long Cybertronians live and cant use any of the other characters as a reference.

Bumblebee is seen as the youngest, and Ratchet I think is seen as the oldest. Like Teenager vs elder kind'a thing. If I knew how old they were, I could compare them to my OCs and give you a proper age.. but I cant find any info, so this’ll just have to do for now. <:{

Now, normally I have a rule of thumb that I follow. The characters Cybertronian age should at least match up a little with their car age. 40 years is really old for a car, so the character should be really old in robot years. 40 years would translate to like 50 or 60 in Cybertronian years if you get what I’m saying. So, Here’s the age of the real life cars and how old I imagined them to be in Cybertronian years. From oldest to youngest.

Green Truck was made in 1972, he is 48 years old. I pictured him being in his late 50s, coming on 60 years old in Cybertronian years.

Vega was made in 1974, he is 46 years old. I pictured him being in his mid 50s somewhere, in Cybertronian years of course.

Brown Suburban was made in 1978, he is 42 years old. Despite him not being that old in real life, I thought of him being ancient in Cybertronian years. Like, he’s closing up on 90 or something and yet he’s still super strong and in fighting condition. The idea was that Bulkhead and Wheeljack were surprised to see him on Earth, they both kind’a though he had died of age by then.

Escort was made in 1986, he is 34 years old. Not too old, but I portray him as if he’s reaching his 50s in Cybertronian years.

Suburban was made in 1988, he is 32 years old. I always pictured him being somewhere in his mid forty's in Cybertronian years.

Bash Buggy was made in 1990, he is 30 years old. I kind’a pictured him being somewhere in his 30s actually, so that works out.

Red Van was made in 1993, she is 27 years old. I thought she could be in her very early 40s. Like 41 or maybe 42 years old.

Miata was made in 1994, she is 26 years old. I always pictured her being like in her early twenties. Think 22 to 23.

I haven’t talked about him yet, but Duck Truck was made in 1996, and is 24 years old. He’s one of the Decepticons, his year was written down so I figured I’d add him in too. I always pictured him as a younger Cybertronian, like in his 20s somewhere.

Jeepy was made in 1996, he is 24 years old. Which is actually how old I always pictured him being. Young and full of spirit, probably about 24 years old in Cybertronian years.

Ranger was also made in 1996, she is also 24 years old. But I pictured her being somewhere in her late 30s, closing in in 40.

White Truck was also made in 1996, he also is 24 years old. But I pictured him being rather young, maybe just getting to 20 or a tiny bit older. Not quite at 24 I feel.

Volvo was made in 1998, he is 22 years old. But I feel this old crank pot would fit being around 30 to 35 years old better.

Honda was made in 2000, she is 20 years old. That’s just about how old I imagined her being, maybe a little older though? Maybe 23 to 24 or something.

Beluga was made in 2004, she is 16 years old. I always pictured her being closer to her big sisters age though, so maybe about 20 to 22 years old.

Then... there’s the Dragsters.. and here’s the thing.. U.M.Dragster was made in 2006, so he is 14 years old.. he is our youngest car. Then there’s A.T.Dragster, she was made in 1969, which makes her a whopping 51 years old and our oldest car to date.

This is where I broke that age rule.. I wanted these two to be twins for a multitude of reasons. But how could they be? One is 14 and one is 51, how can they be twins? So I thought okay, they cant be twins, period. ...but they at least need to be siblings, their history demands it. But how would that work?

There are 37 years of age in between them. If they were siblings they couldn’t have grown up together because of the age difference, so there wouldn't be that sibling bond.. But that’s what I want for them at least, is for them to be siblings that grew up together.

So I figured I had two options. I could either follow the age rule that I had structured for everyone else, and just either make them related in some other way other than siblings, or make them not related at all..

Or.. I could completely break the rule so that these two could be siblings.

I’m sure you know which one I went with. I couldn't justify them being twins though because the age difference still bugged me, so they’re just siblings.

A.T is supposed to be in her late 20s, and her little brother U.M is in his early 20s.

When it comes to the real team prime?

I imagined Optimus was like.. in his 40s or something?

I imagined Ratchet is in his 50s somewhere, maybe closing in on 60?

Bulkhead might be somewhere in his 30s.

Wheeljack could be in his 30s too, but I always saw him being a little older than the others.. maybe closing in on 40?

Bumblebee always came off as like a teen, but realistically he might just be early 20s.

Arcee seems like she might be in her late 20s somewhere.

Smokescreen seems to be early 20s, not sure if he’s older or younger than Bumblebee though.

I felt like Ultra Magnus could be in his 40s, but he’d be younger than Optimus I’d guess.

Ohh! That’s a clever one! :DD Well lets see, let me go through the list. XD

Suburban would probably tell you about the war itself, not really about his past specifically. Like, he’d tell you how the war started and what his job was as a medic. But he wouldn't tell you any of the gruesome stuff or much else, for his own sake and yours.

As far as Miata’s story has developed, she hasn’t experienced anything particularly traumatic. So she’d probably fill you in on all that she can remember.

Escort would tell you some stuff, but he wouldn’t tell you anything about what happened after the war on Cybertron. If you asked him he’d get pretty fidgety and would probably get upset.

Brown Suburban would tell you all the wrecker stories in the book, but would try and avoid the stories he thought you couldn’t handle. When it comes to his story specifically though.. he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Both Dragsters wouldn’t want to share their pasts, but might talk about their childhoods if you were nice enough.

Green Truck would probably tell you his whole life story, but would sugar coat it and gloss over the gruesome and traumatic details.

Vega would tell you everything he remembers. He would tell you about his life story, his family and his friends.. but then the story would abruptly cut, and Vega would kind’a get this.. strange look on his face. You’d ask, “What happens next?” And he would just quietly go, “..I.. I don’t know. Everything just.. goes black there. It was dark for a long time.. and then I just.. woke up.. thousands of years older than I was when I went to sleep.”

Red Van and Beluga would tell you the happy parts of their pasts and gloss over or sugar coat the gruesome parts.

If you coaxed him enough, White Truck would tell you everything, good and bad. But he’d be nervous or uncomfortable through most of it and it would put him in a weird mood for the rest of the day.

Honda would tell you in great detail about everything she remembers. But she would clam up when she got to the part of the story that talks about her first mission.

Ranger would tell you everything, good and bad, but would lighten it up a little bit as to not freak you out too much.

It would take some convincing, but Volvo would probably share a few interesting stories here and there. His past is not a pretty one, and he feels no reason to share it with anyone, unless its for educational reasons.

Jeepy wouldn’t tell you much. He doesn’t like to think about his past. But he would boast all day to anyone about that one time he saved someone's life or that time he got away from a dangerous situation unscathed.

Bash Buggy doesn’t like to talk about it much, but he would give you a general timeline of sorts. Like, “This happened, and then this, and then this guy came and this happened, and then this big thing happened, and a couple thousand years later I’m here.” kind’a thing.

It was redraw of that one meme from Ice age XD

But in all honesty, he probably has suffered enough damage at several points in his life that shut him down or at least should’ve, but he somehow got back up and kept moving.

The first thing he did when he woke up and really processed it, was he went to go wake up Suburban and show him.

I.. think you’re talking about this one? Haven’t seen the movie but it seems fun XD. My taste in movies is 𝒟𝒾𝓈𝓃𝑒𝓎.

You think what you’ve seen is cute? Boi you haven’t seen what he’s like when he’s trying to comfort someone. XD

First off, how dare you make me cry with your sickly sweet and heart felt words. Second off, thank you so much! And third, I can go over the process of how the 16 of them came to be if it’ll help. Don’t worry I’ll try and sum it up.

So, with other types of characters all this unique personality stuff would be pretty hard.. but with these real life cars turned into Transformers stuff? It was kind’a easy for me to do this.

For one, I based the cars personalities off of the vibe that the cars always gave off to me, and their drivers personalities. The best example being Honda. I always saw the car having this sweet and gentle vibe, and her driver is the same way. So as a character, I just gave her what felt most familiar when looking at that car.

Brown Suburban has always gave off the vibe that I designed him with. The strong and silent type, but with a big heart for kids and family. *cough cough* the wreckers *cough cough*.

With Volvo I didn’t really have either things to base him off of, so I just basically copied Ratchet and shifted his personality around a bit.

With Bash Buggy though, he’s a new edition to the family. We got him this year I believe. So I just designed a bot that could match how his car looks, and a personality came with it. He could have an adventurous personality, which is why he’d be in dangerous situations and always get hurt. And then I think, “Hey! He could be a Wrecker! A really tiny one!”. The personality stuff was just kind’a there already or was easy to imagine.

Now.. their bodies.. uh.. well, I started with the same thing every time If I remember right. I would take the front of the car, take it apart or split it and rearrange it on the chest of the transformer.

With Red Van, I took the face of the car, split it down the center and spread them apart to make the breast plates.

I basically did this with everyone else too. Just cut up the face of the car and rearranged them and put them on the chest of the transformers. Here’s Green Truck, Volvo and Vega as some more examples.

Well, I notice now my mistake now.. You see Optimus, Ratchet, Bumblebee and Arcee have windows on their bodies. The glass parts of their forms don't just shatter and disappear, the glass windows either rest on their chests or back wings. I should have put windows on some of their chests, and not put the tires or their back so much. But eh, you live and you learn. I’ll do better with the cons.

Now, when it comes to the arms and legs of the transformers, I just drew what felt right.. I don’t know what to tell you.. I can try to show you my thought process maybe?

Red Van is square, but round, not sharp like Suburban. She is more hollow than she is dense and she is not very complicated. In looks, and in functionality. I also wanted key features of hers to be present on her body to help identify her. Such as her silver trim, her hood ornament, etc.

So, with all these things in mind, I drew a character that matched the car and had all the mentioned features.

The face is more complicated.. but here’s what I remember thinking.

Its complicated.. uhg, I don’t even know if this is helping.

But basically, I based the characters off of the cars they are, the history they have, and the people who drive them. For personality and looks.

By taking the car, deconstructing some parts of it and rearranging them on the body of the character, it makes things a little easier. And if the character is modelled after someone that already exists, it makes constructing their personality a lot easier.

Overall, this is all I can really tell you. Most of their designing was just stuff I pulled out of my aft and slapped on the paper. I have no idea how I thought of these things but I did, and now they’re here.

I hope this was somewhat informative, I know I probably didn’t explain it well or even answer your question.. If I didn’t, please. ask me again so I can actually try to help you.

Anyway, thank you for the ask. I took it as a huge compliment and it got me all giddy, XD I hope I was at least a little help in your artistic adventures. :} ♡

#my response #transformer ocs #my advice #my tutorials #transformers #transformers prime

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deafwestnewsies · 5 years

Text

stop and stare

The Losers must keep living after the summer of ‘58. Living and breathing the air that was stolen from the victims of that horrible monster.

richie x eddie, bill x stan

read it also on my ao3 and ff.net!

This town is colder now, I think it's sick of us

It's time to make our move, I'm shakin' off the rust

There were whispers now. Whispers that Eddie just couldn’t seem to shake.

As he walked through the pharmacy aisles, searching for the bandaids with the little prong things on the end that wouldn’t fall off when he moved his elbows, he heard the first whispers. “That little Kaspbrak boy. Over there. So tragic, what he did to his mother.” Eddie’s back stiffened at the other woman’s titters as the pair of old ladies walked away from the cough syrups. Not even knowing who they were, he glared at their backs until they strolled into the next aisle. Swiping whatever bandages were in front of him and stowing them in his front pocket, Eddie stormed out of the store and into the alley behind it.

Bill’s expectant gaze met him first as he held out his hand. Eddie put the box of gauze down and stood near the wall, almost leaning, but not willing to risk the germ exposure. Everyone watched with bated breath as Bill’s steady hands cleaned out the gash in Mike’s arm and began dressing the wound. His strong hiss of pain made Eddie jump and cover his eyes, making him feel four years old again. He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, covering his face from the scene and murmuring It’ll be okay, Eds. He’ll be okay. Not having the willpower to correct the boy on the juvenile nickname, Eddie relaxed slightly into Richie’s chest and tried not to wince at the wimpers coming from Mike.

Henry Bowers might’ve been gone, but that did not mean there were other gruesome bullies waiting anxiously to take his place. Bullies who were just as mean (because when there wasn’t a maniac clown to deal with, there were tenth graders) and just as vicious (because Derry was cruel that way) and just as armed. This time it meant waiting for Mike on the path he always took into town with a barrage of insults and a serrated blade. When he retold the tale later, clutching his bleeding arm and staining his work boots, Mike said that they called him names that even Mike wasn’t really allowed to say, that they had heard he was one of the crazy kids who claimed they were attacked by a demon. If you want something to be scared of, boy, we’ll give it to you. Ain’t no monster under your bed. They had whispered it, right before slashing his arm wide open.

That was the latest town gossip, and the whispers that seemed to invade every moment of Eddie’s waking life. A group of seven kids emerged from the decaying house on Neibolt street, bloody yet victorious, when eight had entered. They would tell anyone who would listen that they fought off a killer clown, the same that had killed Betty Ripsom and ripped off Georgie’s arm and left him for dead. Instead of believing the children, everyone made snide remarks about the poor Bowers, both father and son dying under mysterious and inexplicable circumstances. Of course, the initial blame was handed directly to the Loser’s Club, but as the investigation went on they found that the blood on their clothes belonged only to each other and the fingerprints on the knife used to kill Detective Bowers didn’t have a match. They still spent a night in jail. One cold, dark night with only one another to keep warm.

So no, it wasn’t a surprise when Mike came staggering up to the Aladdin, where they had all planned to meet. Each of them had been attacked at different times, some getting it worse than others, (people liked to pick on the color of Mike’s skin, the way Eddie blushed when he walked into the boy’s locker room, Ben’s size. The list could go on.) and every time, they banded together and stood as a united front. There would always be a small voice in the back of their minds, however. The same that played in Eddie’s as he clung to Richie, trying to be strong for Mike’s sake. Maybe this town is as sick of us as we are of them.

I've got my heart set on anywhere but here

I'm staring down myself, counting up the years

Richie began making the plans absentmindedly, mostly as a way of escape during boring classes and sleepless nights. As soon as he turned eighteen, he would turn on his heels and run from Derry, run from all of the monsters who lived here, run from the clown and his parents and everyone who had ever called him useless. He didn’t quite know where he would run to, but the maps in his mind always led somewhere bright, where it didn’t rain quite as often and he could wear his shorts during the winter time.

At sixteen, he realized that his daydreams could all be tracked with some scraps of paper, red yarn, and a bulletin board, so he began doing exactly that. Behind a poster on his wall, Richie began sketching out the Great American Roadtrip (Richie Tozier Edition). First, he would work on making sure the truck he had inherited was reliable enough to drive across the country.

He began working part time in the town’s auto shop, picking up spare pieces wherever he could and making some half-hearted tips. The only reason Mr. Kurtz, the head mechanic, had hired the boy was that for the most part, he lived oblivious to any town gossip. All of Richie’s coworkers avoided him like the plague and tried to whisper warnings to Kurtz when he first began the job. Staring curiously at the gangly boy who kept his head down and did all of his work in a prompt fashion, the man waved all of the rumors away. “Leave the boy be,” he’d respond. “Ain’t nothing wrong with a tale to tell.”

With a decent engine and enough money to make it wherever he was planning on going, Richie began looking for work that he could do while he was out there. He wasn’t half bad at the whole mechanic thing, and once he was nearing eighteen he began to consider it very seriously. Richie, ever the trashmouth, could still make whole crowds hysterical with a well-timed joke and a fake voice or two, but he didn’t dare tell anyone that he almost wished he could do that for a living. Maybe that was why he finally settled on Los Angeles, a place that people would speak of in hushed voices and stars in their eyes. It was seemingly perfect, except for one minor detail.

It was dirty. Not that that bothered Richie, of course, he once had a record of not showering for three weeks and two days. No, this would bother someone else, someone who had always been in the back of his mind, someone who Richie just couldn’t imagine living without so he put him on this metaphorical trip, right alongside him. Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier had done everything together since the beginning of time, and now Richie was going to ask him to do one more thing that would change their life completely. So Richie set off to do the final thing on his checklist: Ask Eddie to throw his entire life away and be reckless, for the first time in his tiny, asthmatic life.

The knock on the Kaspbrak’s door seemed too loud, too forceful, and he winced when Sonya, Eddie’s evil hag of a mother, answered the door. “Hey-y-y-y, Mrs. K. Eddie ‘round?” Her frown was enough to tell him exactly where Eddie was (down at the Barrens) and how she felt about it. (She hated it.) “See ya later Sonya!” Richie shouted as he turned and began running in the right direction. Her grumbling was lost on deaf ears as he could only hear the wind whistling through his hair and the sun beating down.

By the time he arrived, Richie was sweaty and completely out of breath. He wasn’t sure why he had run, maybe it was just the feeling in his chest that if he didn’t ask Eddie right now he’d explode. So when he saw Eddie peacefully reading a book on top of a blanket and slathered in sunscreen, Richie also couldn’t explain the way his heart fell into his feet.

“Richie?” Eddie called, book sliding to the floor. He smiled so warmly at Richie that he had to remind himself to move his feet, lift them off the ground, one by one.

He settled on the ground next to him. “Hey Eds. I’ve got somethi-”

“Don’t call me Eds.”

The sentence that Eddie had said before, maybe a thousand times over, made Richie’s throat ache with familiarity. Suddenly he felt twelve again, with glasses too big for his face and feelings that he would never be allowed to talk about with anyone. “Eds. Please listen to me.” Eddie made a displeased noise, but leaned his chin in his hands and gazed up at Richie with wide, expectant eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” He began, nervously pushing at the bridge of his glasses. “That I can’t stay here. Derry, I mean. There’s just too much shit to remember and now that we’re older and everyone still manages to hate us- and I hate them, I think. I don’t wanna ever spend another moment here if I don’t have to. So uh, I’m leaving. Four days, to be exact.”

Eddie’s eyes kept widening, kept growing at a pace that was almost worrisome. “Four days?” He whispered. “Four days and you leave me? How could you, Rich! We swore we would never-”

“I want you to come with me.” Richie cut his rambling off.

“No. Absolutely not.” Eddie said it with an air of finality that made Richie almost unwilling to fight back.

“Eds…” He almost whispered.

They were so close, their noses only inches apart and staggered breathing intertwining. Eddie turned away suddenly, looking at a spot that was somewhere over the creek. “Don’t call me Eds. I’m not moving away with you, Tozier. My whole life is here. My college is here. My mom is here. It’s selfish of you to even think I’d go.”

He felt his heart splinter into a million pieces. “Okay.” Richie said dumbly. “Thank you for giving me my answer.” Eddie’s sniff filled the air, and Richie realized he wasn’t the only one on the brink of tears. “Eddie?” The smaller boy’s head turned slightly, still not making full eye contact. “Please tell me one more thing. Did you ever… did you ever-” He cut himself off before he let his trashmouth be the death of him again. The insinuation was enough. Eddie understood.

It was a bold move, but one Richie had to make before he left for good.

Eddie’s eyes swept over the creek one last time as a perfect tear rolled down his cheek. “No,” he whispered softly. “I don’t think I did.”

Richie left four days early on the Great American Roadtrip (Richie Tozier Edition). He was set on anywhere but here, but he left his heart in a diddly little town in Maine, on a creekbed.

Steady hands just take the wheel

Every glance is killing me

His knuckles were turning white with force as he gripped the leather steering wheel, trying desperately not to crash the car. The nerves of driving back into his hometown were practically choking him, ghosts of the past reaching down into his throat and cutting off all circulation until he had to pull over to the side of the road. Gulps of air came flooding in as Ben stared at his surroundings.

It was a bright, sunny day, unusual for the middle of April, and he was parked right underneath a cheery sign that read Welcome to Derry! The irony was enough to make him laugh, but it escaped as more of a wheeze, and Ben hit his head on the steering wheel. Truth be told, he really couldn’t pinpoint the reason he was so nervous to be back in Derry. Life was halfway terrible when he was a kid, but that was because of childhood bullies that would sneer awful remarks at him on the playground. Surely they had all grown up, right? No one would call him fatso or loser when he walked past the shops in town, even though the storekeepers were the same as his middle school tormentors. Ben knew that he could walk through town and name the baker, the town drunk, the new ninth grade science teacher, because no one left Derry. No one left, no one came.

Benjamin Hanscom was what most would call an anomaly, because he got to escape the fate of a childhood growing up in Derry. Ben, a beautiful redhead named Beverly, (January embers, Ben thought in the back of his mind. What did that mean?) and someone he could only remember as Richie the Trashmouth. These were the kids who actually made it out of the small town. There was a postcard tucked under his bed in a box of junk addressed to a house in Connecticut. Ben had moved there was he was fifteen, four years after- Ben couldn’t quite remember what that was after. Four years after something important happened. Something that made receiving the postcard fill his stomach with dread.

December 12th, 1965

Ben! We’ve missed you! Wish you would write more, Stan thinks you’re pulling a Bev on us and never looking back. I told him that you’d never forget about your old panty waists back in Derry. Stan says hi, by the way. Yes. Hello Ben. Miss you. So do Eddie and Mike. And that’s what I’m writing to you about! Guess who made it out! The trashmouth himself! Richie upped and left for California two days ago without telling any of us. For some reason I can’t find it in me to be mad at him because I’m so damn proud he made it out. Eddie’s real bummed though. Only speaks when he needs to and always leaves early. But it’s fine though. Richie’s like you and Bev, he’ll really make it now! Maybe he’ll go the rest of his life without seeing It. Sorry, not a funny joke. Stan’s laughing a little bit, though. And that means it was probably not a great joke. We miss you, Ben. Please try to write. We sent you some stuff to inspire your inevitable poems of your life and times here in the shithole.

Losers forever,

Bill Denbrough

Ben pulled the box from his backseat now, the strange urge that had him bring it with him now telling him to rifle through. A small, leather bound notebook with the title Derry’s Unofficial History by Mike Hanlon. There was nothing else written, just an ominous page written by a boy he didn’t remember. A green bouncy ball. Handful of arcade tokens. A bridge built with toothpicks. One bottle cap off of a cheap brand of vodka. Shoelaces tied into a noose. A book of town history. Finally, another postcard, splattered in something red, smelled vaguely cherry-like, and written in handwriting Ben would never be able to recognize.

Your hair is winter fire.

January embers,

My heart burns there too.

(Really takes ya back, huh Ben?)

Back to what, though? Ben had read this poem a million times over and still, nothing ever rang a bell. It was like having a kernel of popcorn stuck in your gums or a phantom rock in your shoe. Always in the back of his mind and never seeing the light of day.

Giving the poem one last glance and then tossing the box to the side, Ben slowly started the car again. He drove past the sign and into the main center of town, just a row of damp store fronts with sad, dull signs advertising the different sales. All of a sudden Ben couldn’t quite remember what he was here to accomplish, why he had left his comfortable life to visit the place he grew up. Nostalgia wasn’t the answer since there was nothing to reminisce about, just a handful of vague emotions that left him feeling uneasy.

Thinking he should just turn around and go home, Ben began to pull a U-turn when he saw a man standing on the corner of the street. He had a vendors cart with him, but there was no description as to what he was selling, just a bunch of red balloons tied to the handle. Ben couldn’t quite see his face since the balloons swaying in the nonexistent breeze covered him up. As he turned around and drove back up the street, he glanced in his rearview mirror once more. The balloons were gone. The man locked eyes with Ben and leered, for just a second, long enough to make his blood run cold. His smile was terribly wide, lips stretching over his teeth in an inhumane way and pulling the flesh to be shiny and tight. Black holes stood where eyes normally did. Big orange puff balls suddenly decorated the man’s apron. When Ben whipped around in his seat to get a better look, there was nothing left. Just a single red balloon, floating up, up, up.

Time to make one last appeal

For the life I live

No one said a single word. If they even tried, Stan shut them down. “Shut up.” He’d say, even if Richie began thinking of a joke. There was no room for laughter in a holding cell.

They had been arrested and Stan was trying to figure out a way of telling his father without being murdered before he was bar mitzvah-ed. Well, more murdered than the crazy fucking killer clown had tried to accomplish before Richie clobbered him over the head with a baseball bat and they all just started screaming and throwing things and at some point Stan definitley ran him through with an iron rod. But that was nothing compared to Mr. Uris and a good reason to yell. No, the true horror awaited him when he got home tonight. He could already see his mustache trembling with anger, the red creeping up the sides of his neck.

Stan took a deep breath and clenched his fists, feeling the crescent of his nails bite into the soft skin on his palms. This was momentary distraction from the monster headache he currently had, courtesy of the painting lady. A shudder ran through him as he thought about the woman who wasn’t truly a woman, just an evil twist of a face that had skittered at him, like a cockroach.

“Guys?” He called out, the panic settling in. “Guys, where’d you go?” No response. The quiet hung in the air, heavy, only penetrated by random drops of water. Stan swept the flashlight around, trying to figure out which pothole he had just emerged from, when a piercing giggle erupted out of nowhere. “Hello?!” His voice more frantic, more desperate for Richie to just be fucking with him in a bad moment, for Bev to start breaking out in her normal peals of laughter and reveal that she had been okay this whole time. The laughter was more of an echo this time, sending chills down his spine. It was an echo… but it was closer. Closer. Closer.

Behind him!

Like the sound of his mother’s drumming nails when she was irritated with him, the lady in the painting flew at him. Stan jerked backward only to hit the wall, knocking the wind out of him, rendering him useless for a second. That was all she needed. Her smile widened as rows of teeth, dank and dripping with gray water, flashed in the quickly dimming beam of his flashlight. He screamed, screamed with terror and hope that Bill would come flying out to save the day, but her jaws stretched and suddenly he could only feel unimaginable pain. Her teeth bit into his skin and he had given up screaming, and now was writhing around, which made her clench down harder on the sides of his face. Stan was giving into the darkness that crept into the sides of his vision when a loud clang rang through the sewers and he heard a bewildered “What the fuck is that thing?”

The woman leeched off into the darkness before Stan could register what had happened, and suddenly there was a crowd of people surrounding him. Stan! Stan, are you okay? Stan please say something! S-S-S-Stan! Stan’s eyes flew open at the sound of Bill’s voice and he immediately began screaming again. “You left me!” He scrambled backward and hit the wall again. “You all left me and you swore you wouldn’t!” Hot tears ran into the wounds, causing them to sting. When did he start crying? Still pushing back at them, accusing them of things beyond their control, Stan began growing hysterical. “You left me! You left me! You

‘ve left me no choice, laddies.” Mr. Nell said, causing Stan to jump back into the present. “I hafta call your parents ta come getcha in the mornin’.” Nobody but Richie was bold enough to groan at this statement, and he only did after the policeman was out of sight. Stan knew he was in for it once he got home. He might’ve almost died three hours ago, but he was definitely never going to see his twelfth birthday.

Leaning his head against the wall, Stan tried to close his eyes and ignore the pounding in his head. Some shuffling noises were made as Eddie curled into Richie, buried himself in the fabric of his t-shirt and Richie threw an arm around the smaller boy. Beverly made no noise while tipping her head onto Ben’s shoulder and squeezing Mike’s arm, and both boys smiled softly in response. For a moment, Bill stayed completely still, but then reached for Stan’s hand. Stan jerked his eyes back open to only find Bill staring at him with the inevitable question in his eyes- Are you okay? Lacing their fingers together and squeezing hard, Stan closed his eyes again.

In the morning he wasn’t only berated for coming out of the Neibolt street house half alive, but also that the Uris couple found their son lying cheek to cheek with that no-good Denbrough boy, fast asleep with their limbs entangled together. He got an earful, but Stanley didn’t mind much. He felt much braver than he ever had before.

Stop and stare

I think I'm moving but I go nowhere

Beverly Marsh was almost fourteen years old and she was trying desperately to remember the name of the boy with bug-eyed glasses. It began as a joke she was trying to tell to Ella, another freshman who kept her head down and avoided the popular girls at all costs. “Tangled up there, lass?” Beverly had remarked when Ella came out of the bathroom stall with her skirt caught in her underwear. The girl laughed and asked what accent that was supposed to be, and Beverly began to answer when she caught herself short. “Well… it’s called the Scottish Cop.” She said slowly. “This boy… he used to do it all the time… even straight to a policeman’s face.” Ella then laughed once more and led them both out of the bathroom, a place they never willingly spent more time if they didn’t have to. (Another feeling Beverly couldn’t quite place- restrooms made her nervous. Like she was helpless.)

Spending the rest of the school day thinking it over, she still didn’t have a name when she pulled her bike up to her aunt’s back door. A quick hello and a dash up the stairs led Beverly onto the floor of her bedroom, thinking about her life in Derry.

She was born in Derry, Maine. Raised in a house with light blue shutters and a broken living room window. Inside lived Beverly and Al Marsh, a sweet child with cherub cheeks and a father who liked to beat his daughter senseless whenever he had the opportunity. Al had died in that house too, but from what? A lot of dying was happening, Beverly could remember that much. That’s why she was sent to Portland. Her father… but who else? Who else had died- G-G-Georgie. Georgie Denbrough. Little brother of Big Bill Denbrough, a tall boy who had a stutter but also a sweet dimple and layers of freckles that Beverly suddenly remembered being incredibly charmed by. Bill was the leader of the ragtag group of kids that followed him around on his heels and took heed of every word he stuttered out, and Beverly was no different. Like a puppy and it’s owner, Beverly saw stars when she looked at Bill.

That was a long time ago. She was tougher now, she didn’t let any boys tell her what to do or when to do it. Not that the boys she had loved back in Derry were mean, they were just in charge. Beverly was the captain of her own destiny now.

However, there were days when a sickly feeling would crawl up the back of her neck and make her turn around fast, for one second, to find nothing but a breeze behind her. There were days when walking into a bathroom meant going straight to the toilet to throw up, because the sight of white-tiled walls made her inexplicably nauseous. There were days when she would cross to the other side of the street to avoid a storm drain with an open grate. There were days when Beverly Marsh did not feel in control at all, and she wished that Bill Denbrough was there to tell her what to do.

He was back in Derry, however, and sent her postcards every once and awhile to remind her. They were never waxing letters of love and longing, (although she had one of those too, but it stayed in the back of her closet and in the back of her mind) but instead cheerful reminders to write to her old pals back in Derry. She had tried once, but after crying in frustration when she couldn’t figure out the name of the place they used to spend all of their time, that dusty forest with the great big cliff drop off, the letter went into her wastepaper basket. Beverly now kept the postcards in a plastic pencil case box at the top of her closet.

They now sat scattered around her as she tried to figure out the kid’s name. Bill’s letters mentioned Stan the Man, Trashmouth, Eddie, Benny Boy, and Mike, but Beverly couldn’t decipher the differences between all of them. It was like they were characters in a book she had read long ago, all blending together to make a ball of personality- Someone hated taking their shirt off when they swam, another kept an inhaler glued to his hand, one worked on a farm and brought them all apples when the season was right. Bill was the only one that stood out in her mind, but that was because he had always stood out. He was first the boy with the dead brother. He then became the leader of the group. Bill never wore glasses, though, this much she could remember.

Giving up after a last ditch skim through the letters, Beverly lied down on her bed and curled up into a ball. Perhaps it was for the better that she couldn’t quite remember Derry. After all, she had left her father there, and that was definitely for good.

In the morning, Beverly had forgotten all about the conundrum of the boy with the bug-eyed glasses and ate her toast and jam in complete peace. After kissing her aunt on the cheek and grabbing her brown bagged lunch, she mounted her bike (an old, rickety thing that glinted in the sun and caused her aunt to worry when she made a sharp turn around the corner of the neighborhood) and lifted her fist in the air, crowing with triumph, “Heigh ho, Silver away!”

Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared

But I've become what I can't be

He dropped to the floor, clutching his ears and trembling. The bang of the gun was too much for him to handle, even though it had been ten years since he had a reason to actually fear it. Staring the sheep right in the eyes to mirror the eye contact Henry had held with him before attempting to blow his brains out was a bitter pill for Mike to swallow.

One he often choked on.

The farmhand, a younger boy named Thomas, tried to hide the sigh that escaped as Mike took a deep breath, calming the tremors that ran through his body. He didn’t chastise him for the disrespect, because he knew he would’ve done the same thing if he was fifteen and working for a crazy man. “Do you mind finishing up here?” Mike asked. The boy nodded and picked up the abandoned gun, hanging it off of the shelf and slung the sheep around his shoulders. Mike’s stomach turned with the sight of blood dripping from it’s head, the one he had just put a bullet through, and pushed through the barn doors.

Dropping to his knees and taking in deep gulps of breath, Mike let the heat of the sun beat down on his back. The memories of that day were too vivid in his mind. Things were never truly the same afterwards, he knew it, the Losers Club knew it, even his parents understood that there was a change in their boy. He was no longer the delicate yet strong boy they had raised. He no longer wanted to explore all of the unbeaten paths of Derry. Mike had lost the spark of curiosity that made so many people love him. Each member of the club had reached a level of adulthood that no eleven year old should be able to understand.

They handled it in their own ways. Beverly, for starters, moved away. Completely. It wasn’t really her choice, but she wasn’t arguing. She had told them all once, in a hushed voice at one of Bill Denbrough’s sleepovers, that she heard noises in her house still. Dripping water pipes. Child-like whispers. Faint circus music. Beverly Marsh left Derry with a skip in her step and a promise to write them all at least once a month with a review of the latest horror movie in theaters. (They never heard from her again. Bill kept sending letters, however. They would gather around and write it together, jutting in with their own handwriting and stories of things they thought she would like. Mike always wrote lengthy descriptions of the butterfly migrations. Bill would sign each one with Losers Forever.)

Bill began to write. He was always good at english and he came up with the best lies to get them out of scrapes, but this was something different. Pages and pages of horror stories began surfacing, dropped off at their doors with varying notes. (“Is this something to actually be scared of?” “Can you check my grammar?” Mike was always asked to see if the story was historically accurate, to see if pilgrims would’ve been in Utah during November, 1650, or something of that nature.) The group never acknowledged it, but the stories became increasingly real, increasingly familiar, until they just had a specific recount of the day at the Neibolt house and they all gathered together and cried, as thirteen year olds are wont to do.

As if nothing ever happened, Stanley Uris would refuse to talk about anything that had occurred. He began spending less time with the group as well, and they all hated to see the strained look on Bill’s face when any of them questioned where Stan was. Sometimes they saw him riding his bike around town, or birdwatching in the park, and none of them really said anything about it. Stan was affected in a different way that day, because he had to face the monster alone. When they made a promise to come back and fight if It ever resurfaced, Stan’s hand shook when he held out the broken coke bottle. He was with them until he wasn’t.

Richie and Eddie became RichieandEddie and no one was brave enough to bring it up. Not brave, there was no bravery in that sort of confrontation, but no one was willing to take away something that made them happy. They each had their thing, and they happened to be each others. So if cuddling so tightly you couldn’t distinguish who was who during movies nights, Richie comforting Eddie alone during his panic attacks, them spending more time together than with the Losers made them happy, what else could they do except stand there and think Thank God we are safe and we have one another?

Ben and Mike began spending more time together as well. They both migrated toward the library and found solace in the quiet stacks of books, arming themselves with knowledge and words instead of weapons and fire. It began subconsciously, showing up at the same time because they had wordlessly made a schedule, sharing a table and putting each other’s books away as a favor. Then one day Mike wasn’t there because of some chores and Ben called his house breathlessly wondering if Mike was okay and if he could speak to him, please? Suddenly showing up was a lot more purposeful now, Ben bringing two sleeves of Necco Wafers, Mike having enough paper for both of them to take notes. Library days became Mike’s favorite because he knew that he wouldn’t have to face the world for a while, and he had a great pal beside him.

This is where Mike found himself drifting to, ten years later. Benjamin Hanscom had left Derry when they were fifteen years old, but Mike still loved the library and the peace it brought him. The rattle of his beat-up Ford slowed to a stop outside of the Derry City Library and Mike suddenly didn’t feel as nauseous as he once did. Greeting the librarian with a quick smile, he took his spot at the table he had occupied for so many years and cracked open whatever book was lying on the end. A tale of princesses and knights in shining armor.

The lazy afternoon light filtered in as time went on, and Mike looked up. The clock on the wall told him it was definitely time for him to head home. As he put the book back, something etched into the surface of the table caught his eye. Result of a day where Ben and Mike tried to convince the others to meet at the library, Richie had taken out his pen knife and carved LOSERS FOREVER BITCH into their sacred reading table. Ben had almost cried when he saw it and Mike threatened to punch him before Bill had stepped in and calmed everyone down. Mike knew that it was Eddie who had snuck back in and scratched out the ‘BITCH,’ risking the chance that he would be teased mercilessly. He grazed the carving lightly, remembering fondly of the moments where he felt invincible standing next to the rest of his friends. He felt a surge of protection even seeing it, feeling guarded by the ghosts of the Losers Club. And by God, isn’t that what Mike wanted? To feel safe again, even if for one day?

Stop and stare

You start to wonder why you're here not there

The top button of his shirt was making his neck itch something fierce. He wasn’t quite sure why he had to wear it so tightly around his neck, but the striped tie he also had held it up fastidiously. The itch, in the end, did not matter. Because when you’re attending your little brother’s funeral, trivial things like the top button of your shirt seemed to be important for only seconds at a time.

Technically, the funeral had already passed. Bill had spent the morning in the local church, holding his mother’s hand as she cried. He had been strangely stoic for a just-turned eleven year old boy, but maybe it was to show his father that he was a man, that he was strong enough to be his son. It didn’t matter. Zach and Sharon Denbrough cried through the entire service, and their adventurous (alive) son sat between them, unblinking. On the way home Sharon accidentally caught Bill’s eye in the mirror and for the first time in his young life, she did not smile back.

Bill’s top button was itching him as he sat in the middle of the upstairs hallway listening to the people that were gathered downstairs. A low murmur crept up from the crowd, people apologizing to his parents while trying to mask their secret relief that it wasn’t their own child’s funeral and eating crudites. For a while Bill had stood with them, but he got antsy and his dad tapped him on the back, relieving him of the duty. Not really sure where he wanted to be, (not his room because he could see Georgie’s bed and Georgie’s toys and Georgie’s things but there wasn’t a Georgie anymore) Bill slid down the wall and hid from the rest of the people.

He untied the tie around his neck with clumsy fingers, just pulling at the knot until it came loose, and then unbuttoned the itchy culprit of a top button. Just as he sighed with relief, pairs of footsteps came bounding up the stairs and almost stepped right on top of him. “Hole-lee shit!” Richie exclaimed. “I faouwnd ‘im, boys!” For an inexplicable reason, hearing Richie’s terrible Cowboy Joe voice relaxed Bill just a bit more, and looking into the eyes of his best friends made him release all of the tension in his small, eleven year old shoulders.

Eddie and Stan looked impeccable, as if anything else was to be expected of them. Both in little suit jackets that were broken out for special occasions, like Sabbath when Stan’s Bubbe came to dinner or Christmas when Eddie was dragged by the ear to church for an incredibly boring amount of time. Richie was in a clean pair of jeans and a button-up, since his parents did not believe in buying such an expensive item of clothing for a growing boy. The trio looked very nice, but they also looked out of place, as if their very faces told the story that they should not be dressed in their nicest clothes on a Thursday afternoon. The slump in their shoulders and pity in their eyes said I should be playing in the sunshine, not mourning the loss of my best friend’s little brother. However, there they stood. At the feet of the boy with the dead brother.

“H-H-Hey guys.” Bill said quietly, smiling half-heartedly up at them. They all crowded down with him and wordlessly wrapped their arms around each other, making Bill the center of their small universe. He said nothing, just let them pat him slightly and make comforting noises for a second before slinging an arm around Stan. A small sniffle escaped from him, and the boys all let go for a second. They settled in the middle of the hallway, a tight circle with their knees overlapping each other. Eddie was wrapped up in Richie’s side, and Bill didn’t let go of Stan.

They still sat in silence and watched Bill fight back tears, tears that he wasn’t allowed to shed in front of his father, tears that he would probably get made fun of by Richie for later, but tears that suddenly spilled over when Stan carefully bumped his forehead against Bill’s. The small act of sincerity reminded Bill that he would never be able to feel Georgie’s small hand grasp for his when they were crossing the street, and now he was a blubbering mess. He didn’t dare try to say anything because he knew his stuttering would be terrible, but the other boys seemed to understand everything he was feeling. So Bill just cried, and his best friends held him while he did.

Later, Bill sat on his bed, his feet dangling off of the edge, staring at his closed door. Eddie was brushing his teeth, Richie looking through his meager record collection, and Stan sat next to him, reading from a book about birds. “Hoopoe is a national bird of Israel and one of the birds that were considered sacred in-”

“I-I-I-I wis-sh-sh it had b-b-been me.” Bill cut Stan off. The soft slap of a record hitting the floor came from Richie. “H-He d-d-d-didn’t deserve t-to d-d-die. Sh-Sh-Should’ve b-b-been m-m-m-me.” The Big Book of Birds closed with a thump. “I s-s-sent hi-him out th-th-there with-thout anyo-o-ne.” Stan reached for his hand, but Bill drew it away with a suddenness that made Stan jump. “D-D-Don’t p-p-pity me. I-I-it’s t-t-true, and I-I-I c-c-can’t take it b-b-back.”

Bill jumped off the bed and flung open his bedroom door. He stared at Georgie’s bed with a hard look in his eye and then made the decision that he would never close the door again, because he deserved to be reminded of the thing he had done, and he wanted to make things fair. Georgie had died because of him and Bill was going to make himself pay.

And you'd give anything to get what's fair

But fair ain't what you really need

This isn’t fucking fair, Bill thought. My friends are going to die because of me, and that just isn’t fair. The clown had him by the throat, his breath hot and rancid and making Bill feel slightly dizzy. “As I feed on your fear.” It finished, giving that wide, maniacal grin. “Or.” He tried turning his head to look at the thing, but it tightened its grip, the talons biting into his flesh. “You'll just leave us be. I'm taking him, only him. And then I'll have my long rest and you will all live to grow old and drive and lead happy lives until old age takes you back to the weeds.”

Bill’s shoulders fell with relief. His friends could live, really live, have long lives where they got to do more than build a dam in the Barrens or watch crappy horror movies all day long. All he had to do was convince them to leave. Their spouts of protest suggested otherwise, but he knew that they would go if he told them to. He was Big Bill after all. Always the one to make the decisions. “Leave,” he commanded. The room went quiet for a moment, because that’s what the world seemed to do when Bill Denbrough spoke. All of creation paused just to hear him speak. “I’m the one who dragged you all into this. Go!”

Like deer in headlights, his friends stared at him as they tried to make their decision. After a pregnant moment of silence, Richie took a step forward. “Sorry, Bill.” He shook his head. “I told you, Bill. I fucking told you, I don't want to die…” Bill took a deep breath. Richie was going to lead them all out of the sewers, Richie was going to save their lives, Richie was going to leave him to die. And Bill wasn’t even angry about it. “It's your fault. You punched me in the face, you made me walk through shitty water, you brought me to a fucking crackhead-house. And now… I'm gonna have to kill this fucking clown!” Before Bill could react, Richie swung his bat with the power of God himself. “Welcome to the Loser’s Club, asshole!”

A flurry of pipes being thrown and children grabbing onto his back and Bill being released from it’s terrible grasp then commenced. He immediately joined in on the fight and they all fought back, harder and harder until it took the form of a man none of them had seen before. Except Beverly.

The man had asked a question Bill did not understand, called her a name he had not heard before, when Beverly screamed a terrible and ugly scream and rammed an iron rod down his throat. They all watched as it flung itself down the larger sewer hole and stood together, beaten and bruised, but alive.

In the quiet, Bill came to a decision. Maybe his life wasn’t fair. If it was fair, Georgie would be almost seven by now and starting the second grade. If it was fair, he would be able to sit with his parents and feel the love and light his home used to carry. If it was fair, Stan would look at him just like Beverly did. His life wasn’t fair, but he tried his hardest to make it right. Bill fought for Georgie, for his parents, for his friends. Fair wasn’t what he needed. Bill needed things to be just.

hello this is really fucking long jesus @ me. anyways pls leave a comment and i will show up outside of your window at midnight with a boombox to serenade you

#it #it 2017 #it chapter one #it chapter two #it 2019 #eddie kaspbrack #richie tozier #ben hanscom #stanley uris #beverly marsh #mike hanlon #bill denbrough #stenbrough #reddie #reddie fanfiction #stenbrough fanfiction #it fanfiction

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lettersfromleslie · 4 years

Text

SUMMER HEAT / EMPTY STREETS / JUSTICE NOR PEACE IN SIGHT / BUT STEP RIGHT THIS WAY FOR THE ONLY SHOW IN TOWN

Hello again from the belly of the beast!

It’s been a weird, hot, bittersweet summer. The new abnormal has made itself at home, the phases of the ‘rona have been swimming by, and one way or another life’s gone on living… Just wanted to put down a quickish sketch of what that’s been like in our lovable ol meatgrinder N.Y.C.

The lil lady and I spent the three months from mid-March to June in lockdown. I talked about all that plenty in my last post. It was a very surreal and foggy phase for us and looking back it’s hard to form a clear picture of what we did or how we felt. I think that fogginess has a lot to do with the mood swings, the phases of the news cycle, the ever-evolving picture we had of the world and our place in it… I kept my sanity by working on the album. It was good to have a mission in that. It was good too that I’d done the crowdfund and people had already paid for the damn thing, which kept me from slacking off too much. When I wrote my last post on May 2nd I was feeling quite blocked-up and discouraged because I wasn’t getting my takes, but then towards the end of May things started falling into place and before I knew it I had the whole album on tape. And whaddaya know, I think it’s a pretty good one! Probably the best one I’ve done. It was the first time I deliberately set out to write and deliver an album on a schedule, setting my dates without having the material in place, and I think that led to it being a very tight, compact statement. Of course the songs wound up being a bit more introspective and quarantine-y than planned, but that’s just how she goes, eh?

I wrapped up recording work around the beginning of June. That coincided with the period that Ariel and I started really venturing out again - starting on May 29th when we first joined the BLM protests against police brutality. I have to admit it doesn’t come naturally to me to talk about the protests online - not because it’s not important, but because I’m unsure if my voice would be as meaningful or articulate as the voices of those who are speaking from a lifetime of experience. Everyone’s feeds are already flooded with this stuff, and being a vaguely foreign white boy with an escapist bent there seems so little use in me going up and taking the mic. I'd just be repeating what I'd had to learn from others.

But that said - taking part in the protests was absolutely eye-opening. The energy and anger and emotion were relentless, and the demands for fairness and justice were so obvious, so simple to understand, and just so plainly the right thing to do. Which made it all the more incredible that it didn’t seem to affect those we were protesting in the slightest. I naively thought that the NYPD would at the very least be eager to put it out there that they, too, were against the indiscriminate killing of unarmed people, black or otherwise. I thought they’d take a knee with us. Not out of the goodness of their hearts, necessarily - but still, maybe just for the sake of PR. Intead we got to watch them go out of their way to perform live demonstrations of what we were protesting against over and over again… That’s to say my skinny white ass got a real crash-course in the harsh realities. We got kettled, intimidated with helicopters, we watched people get rounded up and beaten with batons for violating the 8PM curfew, we were there when that cop car rammed into a group of protesters on Flatbush Avenue… We also saw the looting, and the cop cars on fire, and the trash fires all along Broadway and on Union Square.

What can I say about it? It was fucked. It’s fucked. To be treated as an enemy by the police for protesting police violence. What else to assume than that they were taking the side of violence? They acted more like heavily-armed counter-protesters than peacekeepers. And of course it all led me to examine my own life and the advantages I’ve had. If you’ve been following me over the years you know I’ve always made a point of organizing my life in such a way that I have room to kinda detach from modern life and dream. And I used to think everyone could just do that. I was always proselytizing about it when I was a kid. “Just go live it!” All the while unthinkingly accepting the free passes that society would give me. Playing the free-spirited ragamuffin, simply expecting the world to recognize me in my role - and the world did! - while in a different body I wouldn’t have been recognized. That’s clear enough. So what kind of hypocrite would I be if I wasn’t out shouting for the same freedoms for my fellow humans? It’s something of a karmic debt at this point.

 While all this was going on I also had to be dealing with my money situation, which was getting pretty bad. For reasons you can imagine I wasn’t in a place where I could apply for unemployment or any other kind of government assistance. My album crowdfund, the livestreams, and a little help from family and friends had seen me through the worst of the lockdown, but by the end of June I really had to start busking again. Sink or swim.

So, back to old Wash Square. That park has been through some phases in 2020, lemme tell you. It started out seriously mad. When I first started busking again the protests were still going full blast. March after march would weave in and out of the park, speeches were held, kneel-ins, sit-ins, you name it. I’d play the lulls. Around mid-July that righteous energy started making way for some seriously weird craziness. The NYPD had by this point stopped enforcing any of the usual small stuff and the Weird Ones had taken note. A squatter who called himself Jesus built a permanent home for himself and his followers in the fountain. Noise complaints were a thing of the past. Fights and brawls galore. Drugs, nudity, raves, and a riotous fuckitall feeling in the air, masks off, hands on, summer of mad recklessness. Me and my quarantine brain weren’t quite equipped to join the fray. I just kinda nervously skitted around the edges of it, yodeling here and there. Bit absent I was, maybe, but how can you go carefree gonzo when doing so means constantly risking killing someone’s granny by accident? I kept my social distance. There were some bad encounters. Bottles thrown at me while playing. Got assualted by some nut outside the W4st subway station, yanking me by the hair, punching me in the noggin. It was clear to anyone out there that the police had thrown their hands up at the situation and were letting people find out what life was like without them. As far as I could make out this unofficial police strike emboldened both the bad guys and the protesters without getting the cops anything. They might’ve been hoping the resident bougies would put their foot down one way or another, bark up the food chain some, but forget about it. There wasn’t much backlash or pushback from these upstanding, tax-paying pillars of society - they all just skipped town and headed for greener pastures. This mass exodus of wealth which had seemed temporary back in April started really accelerating around this point and by now the absence has started to feel permanent. If there’s any force of NIMBYism left in the Village I haven’t seen it. Those who have stayed on seem to have adopted a live-and-let-die approach. Aside from the fairy-lighted open-air restaurant patios with their potted plants and plexiglass dividers the streets belong to the people again, for better or for worse.

Personally, I don’t mind at all. Why should I? The money’s tough, but hell. I’ve always been broke. I’ve spent all my seven years in this city staring up at the rungless ladder which is Manhattan. If it can stop being a playground for the rich, it might become a place where I could actually hope to live someday.

Anyway, the last month has seen a sort of stabilization of the status quo. Some of the park regulars are back. R&B Lee, who used to be stuck down underground in the W4st subway station, has made a permanent place for himself and his giant PA on the western corner of the fountain. Jimmy the drummer is out all the time with a revolving cast of players. There are DJ sets on weekends and they get loud as all hell. So music’s back, but it’s a different world, and a much louder one. I’ve taken to playing in the small circle of benches on the western side of the park. There’s really not much space for unamplified music; the regular acoustic jam sessions have moved to other, more private locations and Colin Huggins, the park’s much-beloved pianist-in-residence, has more or less given up for the time being. Johan the living statue is out again much of the time. The portrait artists and street art sellers and fortune tellers are back, but the park poets are still in absence, probably conferring with their muses. Check out this article by Charlie Crespo with photos of some of the characters who are out and about.

Meanwhile the atmosphere out there is weird, anarchic, and sorta wonderful if you’re into that sort of thing. I guess I am. You won’t get bored hanging out on Washington Square in the summer of 2020, that’s for sure. Different threads of activism and action going on in every corner, friendships forged, love-ins, creativity, occasional bad chaos and ill energy, along with a good helping of just regular old hedonism in radical trappings. For a while there were great crowds of activist kids sleeping on the lawns and yakking all night about the revolution… The cops put a stop to that one, started clearing everyone out of the park again at midnight. Honestly a lot of it feels like what I always imagined the sixties might’ve been like. I’ve often looked at it a wee bit wistfully wishing I could be twenty again for it, with a head full of hot air and a fabulous tolerance for risk, instead of with bills to pay, dwindling resources, and a partner & a cat to look after. Oh, but I’ll be alright.

To everyone who’s still in NYC and has been worried about going out in public: if your health & conscience permit, come to the park sometime & let me sing a song for ya. I mean, do it responsibly - don that mask, bring your hand sanitizer, observe that distance - but New Yorkers have been knocking it out of the park when it comes to beating the virus, and that means the risks are lower and going out is almost as safe as it used to be. The park has plenty of room to socially distance. No one will bother you about it if you bring a picnic blanket and a bottle of something. The subway is safer to travel on than you might expect. The nights are hot and humid and saturated with all the great unknown we’re traveling through together.

And as far as I can make out, it’s the only show in town!

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dragonandtiger · 6 years

Text

Digimon 00 - Fragments - 35

“I can’t go back to the Digital World?”

The words tumbled out of Ken’s limp mouth with all the weight of a prisoner repeating their death sentence. He almost felt betrayed, staring up at Keiko with, wide, haunted eyes.

He should’ve known something was wrong when he woke up in a strange new place. It was almost like a fancy hotel room, but Wormmon happened to be sleeping beside him. Confused and disoriented, it took him some time to remember what had happened before he went to sleep. Only snippets of Factory Town remained - his work on the D-Terminals and fragments of his kidnapping. All he could imagine was that his friends had rescued him, but why had they not brought him back to Crystal Tower?

When Keiko arrived to check up on him, Ken felt relieved and so did she, but soon the smile disappeared from her eyes. That was when she sat down beside him to deliver the news that left him devastated.

“I’m sorry,” Keiko said before taking Ken’s hands in his. Then she explained the reason why, and he almost wished she hadn’t.

Ken was left feeling dirty, used, and afraid. He had seen the puppets Millenniumon had controlled. The idea that he could become one the second he returned to the Digital World to threaten his friends into doing whatever horrible thing that monster wanted…

He wanted to throw up.

“It’ll be okay, Ken-chan,” Keiko said gently as she held the Chosen of Kindness in a comforting embrace. “We’ll figure out how to cure whatever Millenniumon did to you. I won’t let him keep you away from home forever.”

Home. That was exactly it. Ken felt as though he had been thrown out of his home, the only place that truly accepted him and made him feel wanted. As dangerous as the Digital World was, Crystal Tower was a wonderful place, and the more he thought of his adventures, he recalled other places he enjoyed. The Village of Beginnings and its childish wonder, Factory Town with its impressive machines and contrary nature… There were so many places now completely closed off to him.

It wasn’t fair.

When Ken eventually digested the news and could focus past the injustice of it all, he thought of Ryo and felt guilty. Here he was focused entirely on his suffering while his best and oldest friend had spent a day with Zeed, and, from the sound of it, it seemed as though Zeed had intentionally set off Ryo’s social anxiety. The diabolical mastermind was truly sick to figure out and exploit one of Ryo’s greatest weaknesses.

“Is Ryo here?” Ken asked. “I want to apologize…”

Keiko sighed and held her head, the reaction sending a jolt of panic through Ken. “Ken-chan, what Millenniumon did isn’t your fault. You don’t have anything to apologize for… and it’s not a good idea for you to see Ryo until you’re cured.”

Ken felt his insides go cold. “Why not?”

Leaning back, Keiko made a vague gesture in front of her. “Remember that thing that brought you to the Digital World in the first place? The mysterious gold light? Zennyu says he and Higashi figured out what might’ve caused it after the whole thing with Diablomon.”

There was an uncomfortable pause before Keiko continued. “It seems Zeed figured out a way to use Ryo’s crest against him. Miracles is basically the Digital World, so, I guess he’s somehow tapping into it to use it to zap Ryo to the Digital World whenever he wants, or lock him out, and anyone nearby who can go gets sucked in with him. That’s why Wormmon wound up trapped in Turkey with Ryo.”

It made a cruel kind of sense, one Ken didn’t want to accept. Unfortunately, the world - both worlds - didn’t care about what he wanted. Reality only wanted to come up with new, terrible ways to crush his soul.

---

That moment haunted Ken far more than any of his past experiences, even the near death he had experienced at the hands of Piemon or the nuke. It was a moment that his illusions about his own worth were finally shattered - even as a Chosen Child, he was still a burden.

Osamu’s jabs came back with full force, the barbs digging into him. The fact that Osamu had been right all along made the sting all the more painful. He really had been playing hero, and everyone else had humored him until they could no longer afford to do so.

But while the temptation to sit and cry in his room was strong, there was also a sort of desperation that drove him beyond his sorrow. Maybe he really was delusional, but he wasn’t willing to accept his fate just yet. If he could prove to be even the slightest bit useful, maybe he would finally stop being a burden. Maybe he’d finally have a right to exist.

Ken sat in the closet of their bedroom, surrounded by equipment as he focused on his last hope to his own worth - his D-Terminals. He had cleared out all the useless items that had previously occupied the closet, stacking them high against the wall to give him as much space as possible. Tools and bits of equipment scattered around him as he sat isolated in the small room, he poured his heart and soul into the project.

It was all he had left.

Ken furrowed his brow as he chewed on his pencil, grinding his teeth in frustration as he looked over his half-built prototype and the sketchpad he was using as a notebook. He stared hard at the drawing in front of him, glancing between it and his device. “Okay, so… if I...”

“What’re you doing?” Osamu asked, peering into the closet and down at his little brother, who jerked with a yelp in surprise. “You’ve been hiding in here all day. What’s going on?”

Ken paused at that but didn’t turn to face Osamu. “I’m working.”

“On what?” Osamu asked.

Ken was immediately suspicious. The fact that Osamu wasn’t studying was the first red flag, and the fact that his older brother was trying to pry into his affairs was the second. He needed to be careful how he responded, or risk having Osamu freaking out on him again. “I’m making something.”

Osamu crouched down to get a closer look at Ken and the mysterious project. “What is it? Can I see?”

Ken wanted to refuse his brother, but knew better than to do it. “Um, okay...” He moved to the side, giving Osamu a glimpse of his prototype, even as he desperately wanted to hide it. “It’s not done, but…”

Osamu looked over the sketches of circuitry and parts along with neatly detailed note, his interest piquing. His tired eyes lit up with curiosity as he unthinkingly took the notebook and eagerly looked the pages over. “Did you come up with all this this yourself?”

Ken gave a tentative nod as he anxiously watched Osamu, waiting for his brother to say or do something to shoot down his ideas. Osamu was a genius, after all - leagues more intelligent than he was. And it just seemed that with the way the world was going, it was only fitting that his brother get a shot in too.

“This is brilliant!” Osamu said with a wide smile, his eyes sparkling as he met his little brother’s gaze. “If we made these changes to our computer, it’d be better than anything on the market!”

Ken stared at Osamu, expression going blank. Even though he understood the words coming out of his brother’s mouth, his brain couldn’t process them. “H-huh?”

Osamu flipped to a particular page and pointed to part of the schematics. “I mean, just look here. You solved the efficiency issue that Dr. Watanabe said couldn’t be cracked in that recent interview. I think they were offering some sort of cash reward if anyone came up with a solution. You could probably sell this and make enough money to buy every video game you want.”

Ken blinked slowly before his eyes widened. “You… you really like it?” While Osamu had said some other incredible things, nothing compared to the sudden realization that his brother was praising him. At least, it sounded like it, even as he was afraid to believe his ears. “Y-you’re not just saying that?”

The question made Osamu falter for a moment, blinking blankly at Ken for a moment before his brow furrowed. “Why would I do something like that? If I lied that you were doing something great when you were screwing up, you’d just keep messing up and it’d screw you over.”

Ken hesitated at that before he furrowed his own brow. “I… I guess that’s true…”

Osamu flipped to another page, taking a moment to read the notes. “You know, if you rearranged transistors here to here,” he tapped on the schematic, “it might allow you to get get a better power output in this area.” He paused and let out a hum, reconsidering his own suggestion.

Ken looked at the page before lifting his eyes to Osamu. The whole exchange felt surreal, like a dream. “I-I thought about it, but… I can’t think of a good way to make sure it doesn’t overheat and melt the circuit board…”

Osamu hummed again as he turned the page and double checked the sizes. “You’re right. You can’t have much in the way of cooling if what you’re making is this small. Maybe you could scale up the casing. A desktop should have more than enough room for extra fans.” He vaguely gestured over his shoulder at the computer that displayed some unfinished document he had been working on.

Ken glanced at the computer before turning his attention to the device. “I-I wanted to keep it small, like a handheld… so that if anything were to happen again, I could… call and not…” He trailed off, then grimaced. He hadn’t meant to reveal so much, and was sure his brother would figure out what he was saying.

Osamu paused at that, his enthusiasm diminishing and quieting his voice as a certain incident immediately sprang to mind. “Like when the nuke fell?”

Ken hesitated before giving a tiny nod, his eyes lowering to the floor.

“I see,” Osamu muttered. “Then we definitely need to keep it portable.” He rubbed his chin as his gaze drifted away. “Maybe we could talk Mom and Dad into giving us enough money to make two of them… maybe I could submit some more research papers to magazines to get some extra money that way. Making something this groundbreaking won’t be cheap unless you sell the rights to some company, but you don’t want to deal with people like them. Those money hungry parasites will eat you alive.”

Ken was surprised by Osamu’s reaction - or rather, the fact that it wasn’t an angry reaction - and instead found himself hopeful again. “A-actually, I don’t need to worry about getting parts,” He turned to gesture towards the parts scattered around him. “I-I can get more than enough to make as many as I want!”

Osamu blinked at Ken, surprised, only for his mood to sour a moment later. “From the Digimon, right?”

Ken paused at that. While it was the truth, he could tell that the knowledge was quickly tainting the moment. Even if it was selfish not to defend his friends, he really couldn’t deny that he wanted Osamu to continue praising him. He needed to think fast if he intended to recover. “A-actually, no… um, Keiko’s brother owns a business, so…”

“Oh, her,” Osamu said, though he didn’t exactly sound thrilled by it. Still, he wasn’t quite as irritated as when he mentioned Digimon. “I looked up stuff about her. You should be careful and try not to deal with her family. The Ryuzaki are said to have ties to the yakuza and might even be a yakuza family. It’d be safest for you to just deal with her instead of them if you’re going to spend time with her no matter what I say anyway.”

Ken did his best to make an innocent face even as he felt sweat appear on the back of his neck. “I… just asks for parts and she gets them for me. I’m sure that won’t get scary… right?”

Osamu folded his arms over his chest and scoffed. “As long as her brother isn’t getting the parts by throwing people into garbage compactors, it should be fine.”

Ken outright gaped at his brother, his reaction completely genuine this time. “Eeeh!? Is… is that even possible!?”

Osamu’s eyes darkened as he gazed intently at Ken. “What I just said is a real incident a former associate of the yakuza had the ‘pleasure’ of seeing firsthand. There are other stories even worse than that. Even if it wasn’t the Ryuzaki specifically, crime families do stuff like that, and they can exist anywhere, in big or small towns. Hell, your friend Keiko actually is attached to two of them! There’s not a lot about the Makuras online, mostly that they live in this small town called Onigara, but I found a rumor that people who mess with that family wind up disappearing.”

Ken felt a chill run up his spine as he trembled. He had never really considered it before then, but suddenly it dawned on him that maybe Keiko’s family was far more incredible - and intense - than he realized. It also explained her mother and how the awful woman could accomplish so much in terrorizing her daughter. “T-that’s… scary...”

“Yeah,” Osamu muttered, his eyes drifting down to the notes to avoid looking at his brother’s pale face. “I guess if I was someone like her, I’d buy the whole chosen hero thing too and run away to another world if it meant not being surrounded by killers all the time. At least monsters show you that they’re monsters on the outside. I’m kind of surprised she actually wanted to go back to them.”

Ken frowned at that before he lowered his eyes to the notes. He wanted to try and argue with his brother and defend Keiko, but he suspected it would only make the conversation worse. It was better to end the conversation before Osamu said anything else, and move on to a better topic. “...Hey, um, I… I was actually in the middle of… a problem with my prototype. I-I know you’re busy but, do you… um… maybe...”

Just like that, Osamu’s eyes sparked to life as he met his brother’s gaze with a cocky grin. “Are you kidding? I’d love to work on something like this! With the two of us working together, we’ll make something incredible that the world’s never seen before.”

Ken’s own eyes immediately lit up. “R-really!? It won’t be a bother?”

Osamu snorted, eyes rolling to the sky as his grin turned crooked. “Really? You show me something like this and think I wouldn’t want to drop everything and join in on the fun?” He made a show of wagging his finger and winked. “You don’t know me at all, little brother.”

Ken’s smile widened as the brightness in his eyes spread to the rest of his face. It was like finding an oasis in a desert, and he couldn’t help but want to desperately drink from it. “O-o-okay! Th-then…!”

The happiness spread to Osamu too and shined on his face. After far, far too long, he and his little brother were going to spend time together doing something that excited both of them. Even when their parents tried to interfere again, as would often happen whenever they played a game, he could easily lie and claim work like this was a science project for school, one that they both needed to work on. “What’re we waiting for then? Let’s get started!”

#Dreaming To Reality #fragments #Digimon Adventure 02 #digimon #digimon adventure

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Teal Post-its, sale Greenies and artsy portraits can build something resembling the Sun (Sashea) - Nox

A/N: Hi! I’m Nox, a loooong while ago I used to post here, and I’m back from the dead. I’m obsessed with anything Sashea right now and I stumbled with this prompt: “i hired a dog walking company and i’ve never met the person who comes to my apartment but they leave me really cute notes and they give my dog presents and i kind of love them because my dog does and ALSO one of the artists at this gallery opening is hella cute and i want them to paint me like one of their french girls, plot twist is the same person all along AU” and all the sudden I had a 6k+ words written down, so yeah. This is dedicated to all the WONDERFUL Sashea writers here, you are all awesome and this doesn’t make you any justice but is my small contribution to the fandom.

I apologize if this doesn’t make any sense, and for any grammar mistakes. Hope you enjoy n.n

A post-it note should not put her world upside down.

Humble letters shouldn’t go through her like the flight of butterflies spreading from the tip of her pointer finger to her chest, words shouldn’t make her stomach do uncomfortable flipflops, small phrases shouldn’t mirror the effects of a long walk on the beach which burnt slightly her cheeks and tinted them red. A small, teal piece of paper probably shouldn’t be important, nothing more than a simple reminder tool, an office supply anyone could buy at any supermarket. Words laid out in simple handwriting were probably not meant to go beyond a simple greeting, a good vibes wish, a polite gesture.

Yeah, a teal post-it stuck on her fridge probably wasn’t meant to be a big deal.

But it was.

Vanya, the Italian greyhound, napped in Sasha’s lap after being satisfied with the welcome home he had provided his owner with. The day had surely being a very active one for him, as he had fallen asleep with barely 5 minutes of fussing around her feet. She had gathered him off the floor and brought him to her bed, the teal note tightly clutched on her left hand. A new smile formed in her ruby lips as she scratched his back. Who knew this little dog would get her in such a roller coaster of emotions?

Her grey-blue eyes returned to the note, scanning it for the eleventh time. She had already memorized the message, words carved into her being, every syllable for some reason enticing to her.

–Hey darlin’. Vanya was super excited about his walk, such a good boy! Hope your day was as good as ours, you’ve been working like crazy this couple of days. Vanya told me ;) Give yourself a treat today. Love, -Shea

Shivers went and came in erratic patterns, travelling up and down her spine as every word made white noise in her mind. She shaked her head a little bit, trying to fade the haze she was submerging into. Sasha sometimes wondered if she was a bit crazy. Sure, moving across the Pacific to an unknown country just by the desire of becoming an artist and live openly as a queer woman was bold. Moving from Urbana to Brooklyn out of a hunch and the need to have brighter lights and stranger people in the city she called home was somewhat risky. Leaving her shitty paid job as a receptionist for a shittier paid job as a assistant curator was kind of nuts is you considered her rent, but hey, she was slowly accomplishing the life she set her mind into many years ago as she boarded that Aeroflot flight, on the heavy russian winter.

However, it was moments like this, when she arrived home and kicked her shoes out of the way to make a beeline to her fridge in the raw hope of finding a new note on it, that she really questioned her judgement on sanity.

Because Sasha was obsessed with a stranger.

She placed the note inside her sketch pad on her night stand, with all the others she had received in the lapse of three months, safely storing them to re-read later. She rubbed her hands together, fingers twitching, aching to do anything right now as she was high on emotion and sensations. This obsession, or however she could call it, wasn’t something that she could quite explain, couldn’t quite pinpoint where it came from and where it was going, but oh it was all so very strange and uncommon that it became addictive to her.

Three months back, when she first adopted the mischievous dog from an animal shelter, the last thing she imagined was she might find someone to fantasize about thanks to dog walks.

She knew she would adopt Vanya the second she laid eyes on him. His long face and skinny legs make him look like a cartoon, dark orbs wide open when they met. She had taken him home without much hassle, just to start freaking out the second she remembered the insane amount of time she spent outside her apartment in between meetings, exhibits, late curatorial processes and overall mayhem a gallery generated. After an all nighter making schedules, budgets and a few calls, it was obvious she would need to hire someone to entertain the poor little pup as she was away. She had called a walking dog company first thing next morning as a solution. They assigned her a walker, one that usually worked with little troubles like Vanya was promising to be. Her name was Shea.

They had never met in person, and they haven’t really talked since the day Shea sent her her number over a text and asked for her to leave a spare key somewhere she could fetch it every time she went to walk Vanya. Her avatar didn’t tell Sasha much about her physical appearance, as the picture was something between a photograph and an illustration, outlandish colors flying in quirky organic figures and toon body parts (breasts, Sasha thought) covered some of the features of a woman’s face- supposedly, Shea’s.

(She did try to analyse this better, but the tiny resolution for it made it quite impossible. Maybe this should have been hint number one, as she quickly became obsessed with the picture.)

She left that morning on a rush and returned home eight hours later, feet sore and swollen in her shimmery red pumps, completely depleted and a bit discouraged as the gallery owner, a southern belle called Trinity, changed last minute the queer exhibition she and the chief curator had been collecting for months for some kitschy landscape showing. The change brought not only tons of extra work but a low blow to Sasha’s ego as she had designed herself the museography. It felt very disrespectful to throw away a subject so dear to the russian.

She closed the door behind her with a sigh as she stepped into her small studio in Brooklyn, Vanya’s paws scraping over the floor in his dash to get to her. She leaned down and petted him, making then her way to the kitchen to get him some food and water, and stirring something up for herself to calm her growling stomach.

As she was about to open her fridge to get some fresh water for Vanya’s bowl, she noticed something- a note, a post-it note adhered to the door of the fridge, next to some polaroids of her and a few friends from Illinois she kept there.

–Hey girl! Vanya loved me. We had tons of fun today. Love,

-Shea

Ps. Hope you smiled a lot today. You look cute smiling in your polaroids ;)

The immediate heat that spread across her fair features was inevitable as she read the note. Vanya ran around her ankles, occasionally propping himself on his back legs, paws against her chins trying to get her attention back on him, as Sasha seemed to have spammed out of this universe completely, eyes wide and a blushed dusting her face and neck. The russian blinked in quick succession, mechanically opening the fridge and pouring water to the dog, who drank happily. Walking towards the small island that served as the dining table, Sasha felt the warmness of her face taking over her entire body.

Sasha was usually lonesome, sometimes too outside-the-box to fit in with the crowd. Brooklyn had proven to be a tad more open-minded to receive her, but still, there were few people that saw in a petite woman with blond wild hair, thick brows, a mind full of thoughts and opinions and a love for clothes with striking patterns and odd accessories as someone they wish to have close to them. She was opinionated, clumsy and most of the times what she said was perceived as overly academic and pretentious, which was exactly the opposite of her intentions. But Sasha didn’t know any better as to how to express herself. She wanted to be heard and she was going to be, no matter what.

Sasha wasn’t good with people, so she mostly kept to herself.

And maybe that’s why coming home from another day without real human contact, having lunch alone on a room cramped with stored paintings and sculptures, a lot of disastrous meetings and having ideas and opinions crushed under someone else’s feet, that she found this little piece of paper as something that had her at the verge of tears. This unknown woman, who walked her dog once, wished she smiled a lot during the day, just because she thought her smile was cute.

Sasha thought of writing Shea a text, thanking her for the note, but thought better of it. The last thing she needed was to scare off her dog walker just because she came on too strong, thinking too much about a simple gesture of courtesy.

The notes didn’t stop though. That was the first of many, many notes, and very, very much awareness over this person she couldn’t even put a face on. This random woman, who she might’ve never meet on the outside world, made her feel treasured and special with simple silly messages written down on a post-its that kept appearing on her fridge. Was she like this with other owners? Sasha liked to think that she wasn’t, that this was their special little thing. Sometimes, when she felt bold enough (probably after a couple glasses of wine late at night too), she would leave a magenta post-it on the fridge, with a silly cartoon or doodle, some message maybe answering whatever Shea had written, sometimes a lame joke, sometimes a simple “Thank you”.

The magenta post-its were always gone and replaced with teal ones, with new messages and new cute non-sense. It wasn’t exactly conversations, as more of signals out in the world that acknowledged both their existences.

Was this borderline insane? Yes, probably. But long ago had Sasha lost the sight of what might be real and what might be her mind playing her over her loneliness. And goodness knew this was the kind of love infatuation someone like her would find irresistible: dramatic, impossible and psycho-ish. It was art at it’s best.

It would make a great book.

A friday night Sasha came home soaked to the bone, a mild storm catching her off guard. After closing her door, she stripped to her mismatched underwear, trying not to get water everywhere as she definitely didn’t feel like cleaning. She could hear Vanya barking, probably on the kitchen. She skipped her way down there, her clothes and shoes in one hand, looking for the reason her little one was so distressed. Usually, Vanya was well behaved, and for him to bark inside the apartment was quite odd.

She found him propped on his rear legs, eyes set on a paper bag over the counter of the island in her kitchen. He barked stubbornly to it. Her sculptural eyebrows shut up almost to her hairline, that wasn’t there on the morning. More surprising (and what made her heart do a painful summersault) was to find a teal post-it stuck to it. Her stomach did something resembling to a cartwheel, her knees felt quite wobbly. What was this? She threw her clothes to the floor, be damned the puddle of water that she’ll have to clean later, and with shaky hands, she took the note.

–So, I thought giving Vanya a treat today was a good idea. Turns out, he really like them and won’t stop crying if I don’t give him one very couple of hours. My bad :( I’ll work on it with him, I promise! For now, these should last him a couple of weeks. Didn’t meant to spoil him, Xx, -Shea. Ps. Who am I kidding? I love to spoil his pretty face.

Sasha read over and over again the note, feeling way dizzier each time she did. The white fuzzing in her brain seemed to stop time as her eyes scanned the piece of paper as if she was a robot. Vanya’s barking eventually brought her back, for her to realize she was steadying herself gripping the counter. With her eyes open as wide as she could, she opened he bag and emptied it, two bags of Hickory Smoke flavour Greenies were inside. The dog began jumping at the sight of the bag, whimpering, running in circles in excitement. Sasha opened one bag and grabbed a treat, tossing it to the impatient dog. Vanya beamed and catched the treat, later to nudge his face against his owner chins in appreciation.

She crouched to the floor, taking the note with her as she let Vanya lick her face. The dog looked at the paper in her hand and touch it with a paw, barking once.

Yeah, you know who wrote this, don’t you?

Vanya barked again and she giggled. It seems like he really liked his walker. And Sasha couldn’t blame him. She really liked her as well.

Another whole bunch of thoughts invaded her mind, never a moment of utter happiness lasting long. Was this a normal thing walkers did with their assigned clients? Why did that woman bought the treats? Were the double X meant to be kisses? Why did she love spoiling Vanya? Why did Sasha love the fact Shea cared so much about her dog?

It was less than likely that walkers went around buying treats for the dogs they took care off, and them just giving the bags to the owner because the dog liked them a little bit too much. Also, anywhere on the contract Sasha signed obligated the woman to do so, she could just have let her know Vanya would cry all night if he didn’t get a treat before sleep and let her deal with it. It would be the normal thing to do, as Vanya wasn’t Shea’s dog. Shea seemed to be very fond of Vanya as she just thought of spoiling him herself today. That made Sasha’s heart flutter. Sasha had never given a treat to Vanya as she wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, or even which would be a healthy one to give him. But Shea did know about this things, and Shea wanted to spoil little Vanya. Anyone who treated Vanya this good had a special space on her heart, and Shea seemed to be adding points in her favor on the imaginary score Sasha kept.

Nonetheless, the blond felt uncomfortable to leave it like this, after all, she was paying Shea to walk Vanya. If the dog needed anything, it was Sasha who needed to pay for it. She took her phone, and shaky fingers looked out Shea’s contact.

She’s had the woman number all along, but had never gather enough courage to message her ever since Shea asked her to leave a spare key for her to use. Unsure of how to even begin a conversation, she just plainly greeted her with a simple hi and asked her how much she owed her for the treats.

Txt from Shea: Hey girl! Don’t be silly, those are on me ;) Vanya quite liked that flavor.

Sasha giggled again. Indeed, Vanya seemed to be really into the Hickory Smoke flavor (of course her dog would like such kind of fancy named taste). She insisted a couple more times on returning her the money, not wanting to put the other woman in the obligation to pay for the treats. Shea refused.

Txt from Shea: I mean it, don’t worry about it, Anything to keep the smile on my special boy. But, if it makes you feel any better, those were for sale.

Txt from Shea: I really think he is the only dog that likes that flavor.

The blond grinned to the screen of her phone. Shea calling Vanya her special boy make her feel giddy. Was it creepy she ached now to have walks on the park with her dog and a woman she didn’t even know besides the fact she was a dog walker and had pretty handwriting?

Yes.

Sasha sat laying her back against the island, shivering as she did so as she was still in her underwear. She was giggling at her phone like a highschool girl with a crush. Vanya took his opportunity to wiggle his way into her lap, resting there with his head in between his paws. He seemed to be very happy to see his mom laughing and smiling, and Sasha wondered if he’d like to have two moms to spoil his little bonny ass.

Knowing Vanya, he’d love it.

Bright eyes scanned paintings and sculptures on the O’Hara Gallery opening on a Thursday night. Sasha clicked her black heels against the marble floor, red fringy dress swaying and messy blond hair bouncing on her shoulders at the compass of her strut as she walked among the pieces that were exhibit, examining them and taking notes about the different techniques and authors. The artists featured were all former students of the Arts School of Brooklyn College, and Trinity had sent her to the exhibition to get some new contacts for their own gallery. The southern woman would rather die before placing a high heeled feet on her eternal rival’s gallery, so Sasha had filled in the Yes RSVP in Trinity’s behalf.

Sighing, she wrote down the name of a landscape painter she knew her boss was just going to love -a style somewhere between Aivazovsky and Coubert- , and moved on without paying too much mind to the painted canvas.

Most of the pieces, even though great in the technical display, were lacking uniqueness for her taste. Thinking on the easel with yet another unfinished painting she had back in her apartment, she sighed, somewhat jealous. Most of the former students featured on the exhibit were likely to find more galleries to feature their work- a prestigious college and regurgitated yet popular thematics endorsing them. Sasha, having studied Arts and Art History under a less known art college and using heavy discourses as gender and deconstruction to sustain her heavy analytical references to make portraits that haunted her mind, struggled a bit placing her work in big galleries like this one or Trinity’s.

Strolling past yet another hyperrealist pen-drawing she didn’t even bother to look closely -really, how many Juan Francisco Casas-like drawings can one display?-, something caught her eye. At the end of a hall, on the photography section, a splash of colors and figures make her turn around. She stepped up to there, gawking at a series of photographies- no, a series of digital work, something between photography and illustration. The models were posing on the most colorful streets Brooklyn had to offer, Sasha could recognize, all dressed in fashions belonging to subcultures and overall queerness, heavily influenced all by color blocking. Every picture was intervened with figures and comical illustrations, sometimes interacting with the model, sometimes just hiding parts of them out of sight. Every picture was weirder than the previous one, the illustrations taking over the picture as the series went on. Sasha stared at each picture in admiration, the overall visual effect was an explosion of diversity among all the other artists that mirrored each other.

This was something Trinity would never in her life show on her gallery, but the kind of art that screamed at Sasha. Her ruby tinted mouth was slightly agape, wondering eyes trying to catch every single detail each work had to offer. Little new details were found wherever she took a deep look: the portrait of the tall, asian girl dressed in Harajuku fashion had small lolitas and Hello Kitties dancing around her modelesque pose, splashes of lavender, teal and yellow surrounding her in an echo effect, eyes crossed out and augmented with a heavy black wave over each orb, to the likes of very dramatic eye liner. Next to it, the barbie-doll like blonde woman posed next to a old teal Chevy, dressed in a pin-up swimsuit, jewels and 80’s plastic dolls doodled over her, arrows and smileys pointing at her wide hips and tits, over drawn lips covering her natural features, a cartoony big ring draping one of her fingers. A blond drag queen, with heavy leaded eyes and dressed in a feathery white gown with teal accents had smoky waves of color around her, weed leaves forming a halo around her head, a blunt sketched lit on her hand. Her cleavage was overdrawn with a dark chocolate color that contrasted with the pale skin, her legs were draw out exaggerating them to the point they were twice their length. These last three were Sasha’s favorites, as they seem to have something to do with the author’s life, the small additions maybe too clear in reference and meaning, probably implying whoever was behind this knew very well these those models.

Her trained eyes started looking for a signature, not wanting to wait till the last picture on her right to read the whole information about the artist. A small inscription on the corner of the pictures rewarded her: Couleé.

Vaguely familiar, she thought, maybe I have read the name somewhere on the Internet.

Sasha was mesmerized, moving several times over the first seven pictures, not wanting to get to the last one just yet, as that would mean this series would be over and she’ll have to move on. She didn’t want to, she desperately thought that perhaps, she could fit between those models. She could devise herself, maybe laying on an old couch, perched on the middle of a traffic filled road, posing like one of those french models Ingres and Delacroix painted back in the day. She would probably wear a gown, see through, with lots of sparkles and adorned with patterns and beads typically Russian. Her hair would be down, teased out of it’s curls, frizzy, clad with a head wrap of extravagant-printed fabric and feathers and beads. She would probably had giant eyes with thick lashes drawn over her natural ones, maybe a bushy brow. She could picture crowns and very Mondrian-esque lines around her. She smiles, dreaming what might be.

However, as she saw people approaching she felt the pressure to hurry up not to bottle up the hall. As her eyes landed on the last picture, her knees felt weak and her jaw dropped.

It was the portrait of a black woman, looking directly at the camera lens, her hand delicately touching her right shoulder. Her face featured her pouty lips slightly ajar, eyes a bit overdrawn on the inner corners, making them look bigger. Around her were drawings of tits and asses, melting on some kind of gooey matter, odd cartoony eyes popping up everywhere, completely deviant and strange. Orange, purple, white and teal took over the picture, both the illustrations and the colors contrasting the sensual and provocative look on the woman’s face.

This was the most stunning piece of them all, and Sasha gasped in both shock and annoyance at herself. She had already seen this one. She could not believe she hadn’t associated the style before.

What kind of art curator are you Sasha!?

This was the profile picture she has checked at least twice a day on her texts ever since the Greenies incident. She had analysed a very lower resolution version of this on her phone, over hours of meditation and clutching a teal piece of paper in her left hand like a lifeline while doing so because it was loony stalking.

Couleé. As in Shea Couleé. That’s were she knew the name from.

She saw that name the day she signed the contract with the dog walking company. Of course Shea had to be the artist behind these amazing artworks. Sasha’s evening had been way too normal up until now. How many people on New York could have a last name like Couleé?

Sasha backtracked a bit, stepping clumsily backwards as her heart stammered loudly on her ribcage. So Shea seemed to be a photographer. And she was exhibiting her work. Here. At the very same gallery Sasha was at. And it was opening night. She might be here. That would make sense. Was that last photograph a self-portrait? Maybe, as Shea used it as a profile picture, it might make sense as well. Not that anything else on this very moment made sense to Sasha, as she kept stumbling with her not so anonymous dog walker everywhere. She kept walking, until her body felt a pair of hands stopping her by the arms.

“So, you like’em?”

Sasha yelped, turning around to her right, to find the most stunning woman she had ever laid eyes on. The woman from the last picture was standing in front of her, small skittish smile on her pouty lips, eyes shining under thick dark lashes. Her hair was slick, dark and barely grazing her shoulders, parted in the middle, framing her face giving her a supermodel twist with her high cheek bones. She was wearing a rosé sweater dress with a belt, which hugged all her curbs, from her ample bosom, her tiny waist and thick legs, hitting right below the knee. She played with her hands, left middle and pointer finger clutched nervously on her right fist. However, her stance was secure, planted firmly in both of her feet, wearing gold sandals that sparkled with the light of the gallery.

“Hey Sasha. I’m Shea, your dog walker. How’s Vanya?.” Shea said, her voice a bit timid.

Sasha’s mouth felt like a cotton ball, she could barely swallow as her eyes scanned up and down Shea’s body, shamelessly. Shea towered her a few inches, even with Sasha wearing pumps higher than Shea’s sandals. She seemed to notice Sasha’s wondering eyes, although she didn’t comment anything about it. Sasha knew she should say something, as she might look really stupid at her complete loss of cool. Her mind betrayed her though, as it sped on a turmoil finally putting a face to the name she had all but worshiped for months, a hundred questions maken her overthink.

How was this happening? Was all this really possible? Why was Shea talking to her so casually? Why was Shea so damn gorgeous? Why hadn’t Sasha worn the black and white dress Trinity often told her she good look with? Was her hair even combed? What was Shea thinking of her? Why did it matter so much?

Sasha opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, like a fish out of the water, making Shea smile widely, crooked rows of teeth showing. The taller woman turned her body to face her photographs, feeling Sasha’s anxiety. She crossed her arms under her chest, tilting her head a bit to the left.

“You know, I studied photography because I really thought I was going to be this famous fashion photographer for Vogue and Marie Claire. Adolescent Shea Couleé, filled with fierceness and big dreams, ready to fight anyone on her way. It turns out that you need one of them fuckers with long ass careers with the magazines to either endorse your work or die to leave a slot open for new talent. And before you ask, some of them had call my work a bit to banjee for high fashion so they don’t think they can mentor me.” Shea spoke, to Sasha, to herself. The blond woman looked at her with doe eyes, her mouth finally shut close, body angled towards Shea. The taller woman’s voice was soothing and enticing to her ears. She was trying to talk to Sasha as if they knew each other, confidence exuding from her like water down a waterfall. Sasha could feel herself relaxing into the situation, a strange feeling of familiarity blooming in her chest.

After all, they technically had talked before.

Shea leaned in a bit towards her left, her voice lowering a bit in a conspiratorial tone, “And I haven’t managed to take out anyone yet, but I’m working on it. So, for now, I’m stuck photographing my friends.”

Sasha snorted, the comment so out of place and ironical that she couldn’t help it. Shea smiled again, still looking forward.

“So, you are kind of a dog walker on the day, fashion photographer at night?” Sasha asked, looking at Shea’s side, trying to follow Shea’s coolness.

“Well, I’m sending books everywhere now and then, however one does need to pay bills, and I happen to like dogs a lot, so I get a buck and pet cute dogs while at it. It’s a win-win situation really.”

Sasha nodded, understanding Shea’s point perfectly. That was the reason she worked as a curator for now, until -hopefully- she kickstarted her career as an artist.

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

“Work keeping you that happy, huh?” Shea asked, taking a small step to the side, getting closer to Sasha.

“I’m here for business actually, “ Sasha said, shaking her notepad a bit, trying to purse her lips not let Shea know she saw her move towards her, “talent hunting.”

“Oh! You work on a gallery right? Taylor’s Gallery?”

Sasha glanced at Shea, raising a brow and looking how the woman flinched. Her face scrunched up a bit and she sank her head between her shoulders, probably acknowledging it might sound a bit creepy that she knew what Sasha did for a living and where she worked.

“Ok, I read that on your file after you signed with the company, I swear.”

Icy eyes twinkled, Sasha biting her inner cheek to avoid grinning like an idiot. She fancied the idea that Shea was just as nervous as she was in this utterly weird situation. The photographer’s hands, though resting in her forearms as they were crossed under her chest, shifted warily, fingers drumming against her sleeves.

The coy smile on Shea’s lips make the whole room seem a hundred times brighter, the golden sparkle from expensive gallery lights dusting her features, making her look like a magical creature who’s glow tinted her surroundings. And maybe she was a magical creature, as Sasha instantly understood she was falling in love with this woman, this mysterious woman she knew a lot of and nothing about at the same time, who seemed to be linked to her life in the most ridiculous ways possible, the universe throwing them together at every chance at hand.

Sasha was not upset about any of that.

The russian woman took a small step towards Shea, the distance between them closing.

“I do work on a gallery” Sasha smiled, looking at the portraits in front of her, “I’m surprised you actually remembered reading that.”

“I have a great memory, girl.”, Shea half chuckled, half said. She dipped her head a bit, aiming to disguise the dark blush spreading across her cheeks. “In all honesty though, your apartment is filled with paintings and canvas. You had to do something related to art. I thought you were a restaurator, with all the fresh stuff you keep around.”

Sasha smiled amused, “Actually, I’m a curator. Assistant curator. That’s why they send me off to the exhibitions neither of my bosses want to attend. The paintings back home are actually mine.”

Shea’s face beamed at that answer, her ebony eyes back on the russian woman, “You are really talented. You should be featured here.”

“I don’t really think I fit here, with all… this…” Sasha waved her hand, dismissively, “and honestly neither do you. Your work is fantastic, like seriously genius. Everything else here is so boring, I’ve been studying these for at least half an hour now.”

“Genius? Why you think they place my portraits here, and not on the main hall? The curator here hated all of the portraits. They were not going to let me show anything, but some dude cancelled last minute.” The taller woman smirked, “And don’t go all flattery on me. I might start believing you!”

“They are good! Extremely so! I’ve been obsessed with your profile photo for quite some time. I actually felt real dumb that I didn’t matched the styles until the very last picture.” Sasha admitted, unblinkingly.

Shea seemed to be a bit taken aback. Shyly, she tilted her face a bit

“Why didn’t you text about it? I mean, if you liked it that much. We could’ve talked about it, you know?”

“I didn’t want to, uhm- be creepy?” Sasha excused herself, feeling lame.

“You wouldn’t have been creepy at all girl. I mean, I left you post-it notes every day. I couldn’t get worst than that.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Sasha could see Shea slightly nibbling her lower lip, something crossing through her eyes she couldn’t quite name.

“Can we, like, talk about that? I mean, why did you do that? Do you, uhm, leave notes to every dog owner or something?” Sasha tried to pick her words carefully, trying to sound purely curious instead of extremely clingy.

Shea bit her lips, pursing them, avoiding eye contact again.

“No, I don’t leaves noted to… anyone else.” She sighed, “You are gonna think I’m crazy.”

“Well, we are here at an opening night, talking like we were old friends when this is the first time we have actually seen each other. You didn’t even needed to tell me your name for me to know who you were, and the other way around. I think we’ve long past the line of crazy here.” Sasha shrugged, trying to sound reasonable within possibility.

After a few bits of silence, Shea spoke again.

“I- I feel like I know you, you know? Like, I read your file and saw your photo there, the one that you have to give to make sure I can recognize you in case you try to jump me or something, and- it was like I’ve already seen you? I could read there where you lived, where you worked, but something about you just… clicked with me. And then I got to your apartment, and to your dog, and I can kind of pieced together a life for you. How you keep very few pictures of you with other people on display, how everything is extremely organized except the living room that is a mess of paintings and brushes, how this little guy is always near your bed when I arrive because he misses his mom. I didn’t know if any of the stuff I imagined was real, but it felt like it was getting to know you without actually meeting you. And then I started leaving you notes because I wanted to talk to you and you started answering back some of them and I just kind of saved them because they had cute drawings and-” Shea covered her mouth with her hand, eyes completely opened. The word panic was written all across her face.

“Oh god, I’m sorry I don’t want you to think I’m a stalker or something I just-”

Sasha took both of Shea’s hands in between hers, pulling them down from their frantic parade as Shea tried to explain herself. The russian had a shit eating grin plasttered on her face, her teeth showing, that confused Shea, as she had stopped rambling at Sasha’s movement. Sasha slid slowly her thumb over Shea’s skin in small circles, liking the velvety sensation of it under her touch.

“I keep your notes too. I sometimes read them before I sleep because they are very relaxing to me, I mean the idea of someone actually talking to me because they wanted to. I thought I was going crazy, asking Vanya about you, as he seemed to like you a lot and honestly so did I, more of what I was supposed to,” she laughed, not letting go of Shea’s hands, “I was very obsessed with you- No, I AM really obsessed with you, that’s why I was panicking when you found me. Because you clicked with me too…”

Sasha’s smile was sincere, and she could see how something inside Shea melted away, her breathing going back to normal, her hands relaxing in between Sasha’s. The blonde took a step forward, the distance between them almost gone by now. Sasha could feel the heat radiating from Shea’s body. She liked the feeling of it against her skin. She wondered if, perhaps, she had never gotten Vanya, if they had met somewhere else. Maybe on an art exhibition, maybe on the train home, maybe on a bar in which they might be sitting alone and decided to keep each other company. She was almost sure that yes, they somehow would have met, as this was the kind of bond the universe works very damn hard to build.

Shea’s eyes scanned Sasha, a new full smile spreading in her face. Sasha liked the sight of it, she wanted to make Shea smile more, she had a cute smile.

“So maybe… We can get to know each other? Better? Like we know a lot of the other and nothing at the same time. Maybe we could go to the park and get some ice cream, it’s still not that chilly like for ice cream to be a terrible idea and I’m free tomorrow, and the leaves are beautiful this time of the year, all shades of orange and yellow contrasting with the sky. Vanya might have to tag along, however, as he gets cranky if I don’t spend the whole weekend with him. But it’s not like I want you to feel you are at work or something! Oh dear, it’s a terrible idea, that’s basically what you do in your work and-”

The pull on her hands stopped her mid sentence, plush lips softly touching hers, asking permission. Sasha let go Shea’s hands and placed them on her waist, pulling her flush against her body, lips parting a bit to kiss Shea deeply. The taller girl’s arms snaked around her neck, playing with her frizzy curls, as she sucked a bit on Sasha’s upper lip.

The kiss didn’t last long enough, in Sasha’s opinion, but it was a promise. Shea’s smile as she kept her hands on Sasha’s shoulders was smouldering, bright like a hundred suns, warming every cell in Sasha’s body.

“I’d love to go to the park with you and Vanya tomorrow. I can’t say no to either of you.”

Sasha beamed and she felt childish as to be this happy about a simple date. As Shea’s hand slipped through her arm into her hand, fingers intertwining as if this wasn’t the first time they have done so, Sasha knew that yes, this was the kind of love she ached: uncanny, passionate, unique and oh so very them.

#Teal Post-its sale Greenies and artsy portraits can build something resembling the Sun #sashea #sasha velour #shea coulee #fluff #lesbian au #prompt fic #Nox #rpdr fanfiction

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