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#from a sketch dump that must never see the light of day
rainbow-nerdss · 8 months
Text
on that you can rely
Written for @augustwritingchallenge day 13: Behind the Mirror Stucky, 3.3k Read on AO3
It took months for Bucky to find a place, and when he did, it was a dump. The interior looked like it hadn't been decorated since the seventies, and as for the structural elements…
Well, it was intact. It was mostly mold-free. And best of all, he could afford it.
The owners were renovating the building, and they didn’t have the overhead to pay a decent contractor, so they gave him the apartment at a steep discount in exchange for his services.
It was shady as fuck, and definitely illegal, but it was a place to live.
He started with his own apartment, the plumbing needing the most work. Room by room, then unit by unit, Bucky started tearing out broken fixtures, repairing original features, and working with the plumbing and electrical teams whose qualifications Bucky didn’t ask to see.
There was a mirror over the blocked-up, broken old fireplace in his own unit, cracked and damaged by age. Bucky took it down from the wall and set it aside. If he could, he'd try to get it repaired, but there was no way he could keep it in its current condition. Under the mirror, the wall was old, exposed brick — original to the building, not even plastered over. 
When Bucky examined the bricks, he found one was loose. He wriggled it, grabbing the corners with his fingertips, and finally pulled it free. Bucky shone the light from his phone into the space, and saw a small bundle of paper wedged in behind.
He grinned. 
It was why he loved working in old buildings like this, finding little treasures — whether it was an old doorknob, painted over time and again which he could clean and reveal gleaming bronze or silver, or something like this, usually useless receipts and grocery lists lost under floorboards, a little glimpse into somebody's life from decades before.
He reached in and pulled out the papers, realizing as he did that this was something more. It wasn't a receipt, or some old lists. It was bound, a journal or sketchbook probably, and it was old.
Frayed, yellowed pages with a well-worn leather cover, tied shut with what looked like butcher's twine. 
Bucky sat on the floor and slowly, carefully, untied the knot holding it all together.
The book was full of sketches, drawings in pencil of people, places and things Bucky only half recognised, snapshots of someone's life drawn in stunning detail.
The front page, on the top right corner, bore a note:
To Steve, Happy birthday, my wonderful boy.  Love Mom July, 1935
1935. Wow.
Bucky pored over the pages, the delicate lines, how the artist captured the expressions in the faces of the people he drew.
Whoever Steve had been, he was talented. Each sketch was dated and signed with a cursive S, and Bucky could see he used this paper sparingly. Some sheets of cheaper paper held rougher sketches, and those were folded and pressed between pages, but they had mostly faded over the years.
The early pages held a lot of sketches of the same people, including a woman Bucky assumed must be Steve's mother, slim and straight-backed but always smiling. Alongside her, were a few Bucky thought must be self-portraits, though Steve never gave his own face the same level of detail as his mother's.
There were some children, some strangers —neighbors, maybe, or family Steve didn't see as much.
In late 1936, Steve stopped drawing for almost three months, and from that point on there were fewer and fewer pictures of his mother, growing fainter and less detailed each time.
More new people made their way to the page as Steve's talent grew—figure studies that might have been practiced for an art class, and other, more intimate sketches. 
Bucky's breath caught in his chest as he looked through them, as he fully comprehended what he had just uncovered.
Here in his hands were stunning, carefully rendered drawings of men in varying states of undress, one rolling a pair of stockings up his leg, a pair of women kissing, drag queens and queer couples and then snapshots, an eye here, a hand there, a pair of lips, each sketch full of desire, of love.
Steve, whoever he was, had devoted at least half of the pages in this book, this precious, scarce paper, to queerness in every form. 
This here, rescued from the brick of Bucky's apartment, was history.
The last sketch was a self-portrait—Bucky could tell, though Steve had only drawn himself from the jaw down. He recognised the curve of the spine, the freckles on Steve's arm, and the way he tended to use more hard lines when drawing himself than he did with others.
In this portrait, Steve was naked, save for what looked like a sheet draped over his lap. The focus was on his chest, a series of what Bucky thought might be love bites covering his skin. The small piece of his face which was visible looked to be smiling.
It was dated April of 1943.
Bucky couldn't help but wonder what had happened, why the book was never drawn in again. 
He pictured Steve, the morning after a night of pleasure, sitting in front of the mirror, drawing this. Had his partner still been there, or was he alone?
He pictured Steve receiving a letter — had he volunteered, or had he been drafted? Bucky pictured him standing here, in this apartment, in his uniform, ready to ship out with those bruises fading underneath. Bucky imagined Steve taking down the mirror and pulling out the loose brick. Was it a hiding place Steve used often? 
Bucky saw Steve replace the mirror, and walk away.
Had he known he'd never return to retrieve it? 
Had Steve made it back from the war at all, or had he simply never made it back here, to this apartment?
Bucky went online, searching the building's records for some record of someone called Steve, but they were poorly kept. The owner at the time either operated off the books, or the records had been lost in the intervening years.
Bucky didn't know if Steve had lived there the entire time, or if this was somewhere he'd been less than a week before shipping out.
With no sign of who Steve might have been — beyond a first name, a July birthday, and an enlistment date sometime after April of 1943— Bucky resigned himself to never learning more about the man. That didn't mean it wasn't important, though.
He began to share snippets of it on social media. He kept the address private, and only referred to Steve by that first initial he used to sign the drawings, just S. 
There was always a chance that Steve had made it back from the war, that he had lived a long and happy life, that he had even left this behind on purpose. Maybe he'd married a woman, had a family — maybe a grandchild of his might recognise the art style, connect these pictures with their grandfather.
Bucky didn't know if he was comfortable with that possibility, so he did what he could to protect Steve's privacy online.
All the same, Bucky kept up the search. He looked up census records for the years in the journal, and found no fewer than six Stevens, Stephens and Stefanos in the building in 1940. He immediately dismissed the two children under the age of ten, and the man in his late fifties. 
One of the remaining men had a wife and an infant daughter in 1940, and Bucky wanted to rule him out, too. 
Of the remaining two, Stefano Rossi had marked himself as a dock laborer, and Bucky might have been wrong, but Steve didn't strike him as the type.
Steve also didn't seem the type to be a soldier, though.
The final name on the list, though, there was something about it that drew Bucky towards it, made him dismiss the other options. It almost seemed… familiar.
Steven Grant Rogers.
Steve Rogers.
A common enough name, sure, but Bucky's search results were impaired by the name being shared by Captain America, forcing him to dig through search results for anything on his Steve — past articles about the battle of New York and terrible B movies and comic books and trading card eBay listings.
Until one day, Bucky gave up, and clicked on one of those articles about Captain America out of sheer boredom.
There was a photograph, a rare one, of Cap before he became Cap. Of Steve Rogers, the day he joined the army, an enlistment photograph of him standing in front of a plain white wall. He was all sharp angles, pale skin, freckles on his arm, and… the last lingering trace of bruising down his chest.
It was him.
It was Steve.
Steve, most likely less than a week after that final portrait. 
The portrait Bucky had scanned and uploaded the night before.
Steve, who was queer, or at the very least immersed in queer culture.
Steve, who lost his mother in 1936.
Steve, who enlisted despite being turned away again and again.
Steve, who was very much alive, and very much well known.
Bucky deleted his account. He wasn't an expert, but he did what he could to scrape the pictures from the internet. The account had gained popularity, though, and his sudden disappearance caused a stir.
First it was one article. Then another. People had screenshots of his posts, and those were included in the articles.
Bucky tried making a post on a new account, asking people to stop, making up some story about the family of S reaching out, asking for the pictures to be taken down.
People accused him of faking the whole thing. Others claimed the new account was the fake one, while others still were up in arms that the "family" would dare ask for control over their grandfather's private information.
Bucky was putting the finishing touches on the apartment and trying to forget the internet existed when there was a knock on his door. 
He figured it must be the landlord, or one of the few tenants who had been able to return to the building, asking about repairs or progress on his work.
It wasn't.
It was him. Steve.
“Are you Bucky?” he asked. All Bucky could do was nod.
"Can I… would it be alright if I came in?"
Bucky stepped aside, speechless, letting him in. 
Bucky may have worked with his hands, but he’d always enjoyed history. The small things, though. Personal letters, everyday people and things. Wars had never been an area he was interested in reading about — he’d had enough war to last a lifetime, thanks. After putting the pieces together, though, he’d started looking further into the story of Captain America — during the war, and since he’d come back.
It was difficult to reconcile the image of Steve he’d built up in his head since finding the book with the figure in the history books, but here, seeing him walk in the door, look around at the place he’d once called home, Bucky could see it. He could see the artist he’d gotten to know through sketches, the man who had sat in this room, drawing his mother, drawing his friends, his lovers, himself.
Though he was taller, broader, and more muscular than the man in those drawings, though he was dressed in modern clothes, this man was, as far as Bucky could see, much more Steve than Captain America.
Neither of them spoke for almost a full minute.
“I— I should apologize,” Bucky said, breaking the silence and finding his tongue at last. Steve tore his eyes from the bare wall in front of him to look at Bucky.
“Apologize?”
Bucky crossed the room to pull the book out of the cabinet he kept it in, and Steve’s eyes zeroed onto it. 
“If I’d known it was yours,” Bucky began. “Or even that it was by anyone still alive, still out there — I shouldn’t have posted them.”
Steve had tears in his eyes as he took the book from Bucky’s hand, running his fingers over the cover reverently.
“It’s… I’m glad you posted it.”
Bucky frowned. Steve was still staring at the book, so Bucky offered him a seat and a drink. “Water’s fine, if that’s… if that’s alright.”
Bucky fetched the water, then sat next to Steve on the couch. The place was a mess — renovations just finishing, furniture all either tossed or dirty, waiting to be repaired or replaced, but Steve didn’t seem to mind or even notice.
Steve sipped his water and then set it aside to open the book up. His eyes landed on the inscription, and Bucky saw one of the tears in his eyes fall. Neither of them acknowledged it. 
“If you hadn’t posted the drawings, I’d never have known this was still out there.You didn’t share anything people could use to trace it back to me, but even if you had… Thank you.”
Bucky didn’t know what to do with that, so he just watched, as Steve slowly turned the pages of the book. 
“She was a nurse,” Steve said, pausing on a portrait of the woman Bucky had assumed to be his mother. The words felt rehearsed, like Steve had said them hundreds of times already, until they lost meaning. “Worked on a TB ward. Got hit, couldn’t shake it.”
“Shit, that’s… I’m sorry, man.”
Steve turned the page, and he smiled at the image. “I remember this day.” It was another portrait of her. Steve spoke about it, about the day out they took together, how he’d taken the book along and drawn her sitting on the grass where they ate a picnic lunch. 
“Tell me about the rest?” Bucky asked. “If… If you want to.”
Steve sniffed. “I haven’t spoken about these people in so long,” he admitted.
He flicks through the pages, telling Bucky about the people held within these pages. His mom, his neighbors and friends, and the others. As he spoke, the carefully controlled speech pattern slipped, replaced with a looser Brooklyn accent.
“I started going after Ma died. This little bar, hidden away. I only found it because I’d been walking along and I heard —” Steve snorted. “Well, I thought it was a fight, some poor guy getting beaten up.”
“It wasn’t?” 
Steve shook his head. “Nope. They looked scared when I walked in, but I guess they musta seen somethin’ in my face, because next thing I knew, I was downstairs, and all these people around me, they were… They were like me, you know?”
Bucky remembered his first time in a gay bar, the sense of belonging he’d felt, nineteen years old with a fake ID. He imagined that feeling, multiplied by about a  hundred for Steve.
Steve continued through, telling Bucky story after story from the club, the people he’d known there. 
“Did you ever—” Bucky started to ask, then stopped himself, thinking it was probably too personal a question. 
Steve shrugged. “Nobody special. One or two I thought, maybe, but…” He shrugged. Turned the page. “That’s Bill. Got called up in ‘41. Johnny signed up right after, followed him out.”
One by one, Steve told Bucky about the people he lost, the ones who went off to fight and never came home, the ones who came home but didn’t live long enough for Steve to see again.. 
“And you?” Bucky asked. Steve turned to the last page. 
“This one… My buddy, he was… well. Maybe, if the war hadn’t happened, we could've made something of it. I… I could’ve loved him. This was the night before he shipped out, we just wanted… something. Something to remember, out there. It was a good night. Next day, I stashed the book behind the mirror, went out, and I met Erskine.”
“And here we are,” Bucky finished for him. 
“Here we are.”
Steve closed the book, held it up, and pressed his lips to the cover, eyes squeezed shut. 
"I looked him up, after they showed me the internet."
Bucky didn't ask, afraid of the answer. Steve's face said it all, though —whatever happened to Steve's friend, it wasn't good. Bucky saw the shadows in his eyes, and decided to change the subject slightly, to pull him out of that space.
"I grew up in a shitty little town in Indiana," he said. "It was… rough, honestly. The kids liked to throw around a lot of names, and I never really knew anyone else who was… well, I was going to say gay, but really I didn't know anyone queer growing up. My family is great, but it wasn't until I moved here for college that I found people I could really be myself with."
Steve put the book down on his lap and turned to listen to Bucky, resting his arm on the back of the couch. Bucky couldn't decide whether it was surprising how easy Steve Rogers was to talk to, to confide in.
"Although, looking back… there were these two women who lived in my neighborhood, they were both in their seventies, at least. Everyone called them sisters, but I never really saw a resemblance."
Slowly, Bucky saw Steve's expression turn lighter, almost a smile. "Well, I was reading up on local history, once, and I got my hands on a bunch of old yearbooks from the local high school."
"You've always been into history, then?" Steve asked.
"Personal histories. Social stuff. Things with real people, yeah."
"And the yearbook?"
"They were in one of them. Class of '46, I think?”
“Not much younger than me, then,” Steve said with a wry sort of smile. 
“I guess not,” Bucky agreed. “But there they were, both of them. Smiling on opposite pages.”
“Different surnames,” Steve deduced, and Bucky nodded.
“Yeah. I never asked them about it, of course, but you’re not the first person who I’ve looked up in census records. They were never sisters, they just let people go with whatever assumptions were made. Sisters, friends, whatever was easier. They lived together in that house since the 50’s. They had a life together. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for them, but…”
“But they did it,” Steve finished. “Are they—”
“Julia passed about five years back, but Betty’s still there, in that same house.”
Steve was quiet for a while, thinking. “I know there's still a long way to go, but… It’s easier now, right?”
He looked at Bucky, and their eyes met with a new sort of intensity. Bucky could tell Steve was searching for something in his face, but he didn’t know what it could be. 
“Yeah, it’s easier now.” 
Steve was still looking at him, and Bucky couldn’t look away. He’d imagined Steve’s face so often based on his self portraits, beyond the lines of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze. That intensity was there, in the real thing, but it was all… more. Bucky didn’t know if it was the serum, or simply the difference between the drawing and reality. 
His eyes dropped to Steve’s lips, and those… Steve had never done his own mouth justice in his sketches, Bucky decided. Soft, pink, beautiful. Bucky swallowed, and Steve released a breath, like he’d found what he was looking for. 
He leaned forward, hand reaching out to rest just above Bucky’s waist. Bucky wondered, absently, when they’d come to sit so close together, but the thought was quickly replaced by far more urgent ones as Steve crossed that small distance, slowly, giving Bucky every chance to pull away. 
He didn’t pull away. He met Steve in the middle, until their lips brushed, just a shadow of a kiss, really. They paused there, in the almost-but-not-quite.
“My life is really fucking complicated,” Steve whispered against his lips. “If you don’t want that, I get it.”
Bucky answered by sliding his fingers into Steve’s hair, holding the back of his head, and kissing him.
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part i, autonomy in your coherence | c.g
With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.
The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.
You’ve forgotten your feelings for Carl, because he didn’t feel the same.
You just wished you did a better job at it.
WARNINGS: mentions of death, suicide ideation
this is a continuation of watch you burn away and i recommend you read that, first! this is also part of a series, so here is the masterlist if you need it!
(cross-posted on ao3!)
Your father once told you he had a patient that died from heartbreak.
“Your heart can’t really break, though, right?” You’d said. A doctor for a father and a laboratory technician for a mother made you more than aware of things, seeing through the myths and pretty white lies of figures like Santa and the tooth fairy.
(They had gone through with it anyway, because although their child knew, it was a gateway to normality in such a busy home.)
Your father scratched his chin, unsure how to respond. “My patient had died from a broken heart, though the process wasn’t as simple as it’s term name. A broken heart — the nonliteral meaning — can be the cause and the domino toppling to many things that could lead to death.”
“Like what?” You’d said with little admission into the conversation, having been flicking through a novel you’d picked up a while back (which featured a one eyed pirate and his partner who’d ended up dying in the end — not that you knew, yet, at least.)
“I don’t know, er,” Your father swirled his coffee lightly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “Mental health issues, for one. Erratic actions, depression, a lost sense of self. Obsession.”
“Huh,” You muttered, looking up at your father for the first time. “A lost sense of self? Really?”
“What is your father teaching you?” Your mother said, stepping into the kitchen with a questioning expression. The conversation ended there, without so much as a thought after.
You wish you pried your father for further answers. What you’d give to get the workaholic of a man to dump his duo psychology medical major thoughts unto you with little care.
The knowledge would be gold in your time of need, when pulling and pushing distance further between you was like venturing through a field of thorns.
(Perhaps you just missed your parents. But that couldn’t be it, right? They’d died and you had lived, their blood on your hands and the gun in your fingers, their glazed over eyes and your own that nearly matched, cold and willing without a drop of emotion.)
But you’d gotten through it for him— without him. Without anyone, quietly harboring scratches and bleeding from the field with little effort.
If someone asked, you would tell them with full and honest confidence that you harboured no more attachments. You were a naive teenager, running through your feet and over yourself for something that was just a crush.
Crushes are — in their whole singularity and purpose —  temporary.
They are brief, and momentarily something that causes ripples and waves in your thoughts, just the slightest mention or faint sight makes you detour down a road of sickly sweet dreams and fantasies.
He was first love (like? You didn’t love him, no, it was a crush and it was something for the unattainable and the inappropriate — in which with full truth, he was.) so you poured the honey glazed remembrances and rose coloured lenses over your memories, because he was a first love, and you know that those were cracks in the heart, growing vines and constricting the part that was him — the part that’d always, always be there, without a doubt.
(However much you didn’t want it to be.)
The leaves and the venomous flowers that sprout in decaying grooves come with age, and you are older now.
You bear fresh scars that litter your entire being and wear newly buried bones of people who were once not just that, the dirt still sitting in the crevices of your nails, and you seem to forget their voices with each passing day.
With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.
The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.
More and more, the faces look like reference art rather than a taken from life picture, which was all telling them to sit still and watching their eyes crinkle at the edges when you show them the result, voices echoing and asking if they could have it.
Everyday, as it has become a peevish habit like biting your nails or obsessively reminding yourself your stove is off, you draw pictures of everyone.
If you are close enough with them, you ask the subject to sit and model for you, analyzing every breath and laugh they take when you crack a joke or engage them in meaningless conversation just to see how the light hits their brows when they raise, the shadows pooling in their aging lines.
Everyday, you wish and hope and even fucking pray that their portraits continue to be something of anxious routine, rather than trying to dump their image out of your head and onto paper so you can see their faces one more time.
His image seems to change with each moment he sits in for you, once a face with two piercing blues, then a patch and eyes that looked at the dusty wooden floor, and later, someone who looks at you straight, something that told you he was a survivor, who bore his battles proudly, the scar on the right of his face sitting ruggedly and bewitchingly.
You draw him, exactly the way you see him, and when you show him the picture, he laughs, and says “You made me look too pretty,” and you shake your head, “It’s exactly the way I see you.”
You do her, too, upon request. When she sits, you draw her almost like it was professional, drawing the curvature of her face with exact precision, intense shading, marking the features she holds. The dip in her nose, the straight of her hair.
(You often forget who you’re drawing in these moments, and when you step away from the canvas you’re hit with whiplash. It’s subconscious, the way you do these things to please him, wanting to see so clearly how his face spreads delicately with delight.)
It takes a little while for you to convince Ron. When you first propose the drawing, he gives you a confused face, before walking off to do shooting practice. He’s gotten better with the gun over the years, and doesn’t respond when you tell him you know why.
(His mother didn’t come out of it alive, and his brother didn’t come back without harm. The younger boy was alive, but would grow up with only his brother by his side and one less limb to account for.)
The second time, he makes a snide comment, albeit with no bite, about how ‘you must be a horrible artist, to ask me of all people to model for you.’
The third time, you’ve dragged him to the small office you makeshifted for the drawings in the garage. He studies every slit of paper you’ve ripped out of your book, the unfinished sketches or yet-to-be painted canvases piling up against the walls. Complete works sit proudly on your wall, displayed for the world to see.
His hands hover over the paints sitting on your desk, charcoal, dirt, sticks, paintbrushes, handmade dyes, wallpaper cut-outs.
“Why?” Ron says curiously.
“‘Why?’ what?” You echo, fiddling with a fork you grabbed from the kitchen, splaying out a thick lather combination of beet dye and cement onto your finger to check the consistency.
“Why do you draw these portraits? I get the others because,” He says, leaving the words “because they’re dead” hanging in the air between you two in mutual and regretful acknowledgement, “But you draw these everyday. You drag Carl and Enid off, or just sit on the benches and draw Maggie and Glenn knee-deep in the dirt.”
You sigh a dreadful breath, wiping the rest of the beet-cement mix onto the page with the pad of your fore-finger. “We’ll forget them one day.”
He looks at you, unblinking. The dead, the gone, and the soon to be long forgotten only existed in your memories, in your words, and when the time came that the world had moved on and stopped, they would cease. Their whole memory relied on the living, nothing about them able to reach and grasp life on their own. Memory was all that was left, and it was all you could do to wash away regret.
“And the rest?”
You bite your tongue hesitantly, your movements rigid, “You see their portraits. Everyday they get less and less coherent. When — when time comes , these drawings will be the only thing getting me by.” You whispered.
The ball had dropped. Coping and grief in it’s big and ugly form, preying on your conscious hungrily, taking shelter in your largest worries. Claws sunken in your flesh, the monster was a thing that felt like it would never go away, because it would loom right alongside death itself, watching and waiting for the moment they’d deemed someones time to have been enough.
(It would never be enough. Enough meant they’d pop in from next door and ask to borrow something, enough meant they’d swipe dirt across your face to make you angry — enough meant they would come in everyday and sit for their portrait once more.)
A creaking on the floorboard caught your attention, eyes watching as Ron’s feet walk to the corner of the room, before hopping onto the wooden seat with little effort.
“I’m not going. I never will. But — do it anyway. I’d… like to see how I look on paper.” He said cheekily, picking up a thin pencil off your desk and handing it out to you.
So you did. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes snowballed into hours in the dim lighting of the garage, asking the blond to turn his body, stretch his head and make different expressions, fulfilling and destroying the little worm of worry sitting in your head.
When you’re done with the charcoal, turning it around for Ron to see and to inspect, he asks, “What about you?”
“And what about me?” You say. His questions never make sense without further discussion, but the boy always has to wait for you to pry and ask him to elaborate.
“You don’t have any drawings of yourself. You’re the artist, the photographer, the one who makes these things that will stay longer than the memories and the words — so what about you?”
It’s rare that Ron delves into his emotions and the things he really means, but when he does, it’s something that stays, for a long while.
“I,” You didn’t have an answer for it. You weren’t one to do a self-portrait, it not being the same as having someone to sit and take from. “I don’t want to.” You finished simply, an ice cold realization coming to reality in you.
“Why?” He says the same words as before, but the words hold a heavy weight.
“I don’t know.”
You knew.
Maybe one day, you’d wished that you’d wash away like seafoam on the beach. You wouldn’t leave a single portrait behind of you, and the memories and the words were left mum behind his lips, because you knew how he got in a loss.
Quiet and unfeeling, it was so selfish of you that you’d counted on how he got in that state to leave you behind, neglecting you like the fruits of your memories you’d never get to bear.
Ron’s gaze bore into you like he knew exactly what you were thinking, telepathically taking in every thought you’d conveyed at your dispense.
“You should.” Is all he says, before stepping off the wooden stool and out the door.
What was wrong with you? You feel so… entirely foolish. Obsolete. Embarrassing.
You walked past the remnants of those who were gone everyday, obsessively creating canvas over canvas of them and the only thing you could think was that you’d wish to position yourself beside them?
This world was catching up to you, and fast, but you’d just have to run faster than it could.
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therenlover · 3 years
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The Boy With The Easel (A Young Artist!Helmut Zemo x Reader Oneshot)
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(Hey! If you end up enjoying this fic, it’s the first chronological part of a new fun expanded AU I’ve created with @creme-bruhlee​! Their fic Bliss is part of the same timeline and takes place about a year after this one, so you should check it out!!!)
Synopsis: About a month into your first semester at Novi Grad’s top university, you finally meet the strange young man that you’ve taken to calling “easel boy” in the back of a bookshop. From a distance, he always seemed cold and aloof. As you get to know him, though, you realize things aren’t always what they seem.
Tags: Meet Cute, College AU, First Meetings, Coffee Date, Artist!Zemo, Embarrassment, Awkward College Kids Falling In Love
Rating: T
Warnings: Very Vague Mention of Sexual Content, Swearing, Zemo Says The Word Daddy In Reference To His Father and The Reader Thinks It’s Kinda Hot
Word Count: 7000~
This fic has been crossposted to my AO3!
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                                    The University of Novi Grad
                                                 Fall 1996
Mornings in Novi Grad could be beautiful if you knew what to look for.
Sokovia was… different from America in many ways. From the language to the scenery, you often found yourself adrift in the strangeness of it all. There had been nothing quite as old as the buildings in the historical district of Novi Grad back home, no towering grey behemoths serving as a reminder of a bygone fight against Soviet invasion in the memories of your childhood. Still, though, there was beauty in the strangeness nonetheless.
From your tiny room in the Helena Lyudmila International Scholar’s dorm, for instance, you had a perfect view of a large campus courtyard hosting a statue of the donor by the same name. She was some royal who had invested in education a few hundred years ago, and by the looks of her metal likeness, she had been quite pretty. The sight of her shining in the early morning sun was one of the things that made uprooting your whole life seem worth it in the end, no matter how silly that seemed.
There were other small comforts that you had found beauty in during your first month attending your prestigious university, too.
You found beauty in the way the sunlight streamed over the rooftops like the opening to an Oscar-winning film. In the sound of traffic below and the overcast skies above. Sandwiches from corner stores, wildflowers growing in the median of the road, cups of the worlds best black coffee served steaming by scowling attendants at the cafe; Everywhere there was something small and kind and just familiar enough to relish in, more than able to distract you from the stress of living hand-to-mouth in a country where you didn’t even know the language. It made it all worth it.
That being said there was something else too…
Someone else to be specific.
The campus tended to run like clockwork. The same groups of students would walk past your window to their classes, the same professors would get their coffee and lunch at the little cafe across the square, and every weekday morning at 8 am on the dot, easel boy would set up his palette and canvas and paint the same bustling street.
He was talented, that you couldn’t deny. Even from the 6th floor, which was a considerable distance away, it was possible to admire the detailing and consistency with which he painted. His talent wasn’t when kept you captive at your window in the morning, though. Though you were sure his art was beautiful, he himself was a thousand times more stunning.
All dark eyes and dark hair and dark clothes, he parted crowds with his piercing gaze alone. He was always dressed like the protagonist of some awful artsy film. Massive argyle sweaters, untucked button-ups, corduroy jackets, and flare bottomed pants that must have survived his father’s wardrobe from the ’70s… his style was as close you could get to atrocious while still being impeccable as possible, and that wasn’t even getting started on the smudged black liner always present under his persistent gaze. You had never had the pleasure (or embarrassment for that matter) of meeting him in person, but you were sure that you would have had the same awed and slightly frightened reaction if you ever did. He could have been plucked entirely from the pages of some awful romance novel.
You were well and truly smitten with the idea of him.
If you looked at your morning routine through the eyes of a stranger, you’d consider yourself odd for your strange obsession with him, but you didn’t look at it like that. It wasn’t an obsession. You never overstepped your bounds. He was simply pleasing to look at and so you did. That didn’t constitute as obsessive, right?
Even if it did, you weren’t causing any harm.
Easel boy, as you had come to refer to him, was simply a tool you used to ground yourself in your new and frightening environment. Nothing more. If you ever met him, you would surely hate him from the short interactions you’d seen him have with strangers. They never ended well. He would remain an unattainable, attractive ideal in your mind until he eventually faded away into a funny memory you’d share with your kids one day.
Until then, though, you would watch him from your window before your morning classes and refused to feel guilty about it. So, that was that, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
On the morning in question, you had woken up a little late and in a foul mood. In preparation for a test in your foundations of algebra course you had spent the better part of the night pouring over formulas while your upstairs neighbor’s bed slammed repeatedly into the wall and floor. Though you were sure they were having an excellent time, you were most definitely not. It all culminated in you missing your original alarms and despite the fact that your first class started at 10, you were exhausted, furious, and not looking forward to missing breakfast to finish the assigned reading you had put off the night before. The only thing keeping you from throwing in the towel and just giving up was the promise of seeing the painter.
So, when he arrived for the day at 8 am sharp, you were positioned at the ledge by your window, textbook in hand with a mug of instant coffee at your right. It was like a breath of fresh air.
As usual, he retrieved a small pack of cigarettes from the back of his eternally paint-stained jeans only to bring one to his lips and light it quickly. He always smoked before he worked, and just like always, he took an extra cigarette from the pack to tuck behind his ear for later. Then, he got to work setting up his easel and the small stool where he set his palette.
Pulling tubes of acrylic, brushes, and pencils from his well-worn messenger bag, easel boy flipped out the kickstand without any problem and set his thick, pre-primed canvas on the worn metal. You watched in fascination. Art had always seemed so unattainable to you. Instead, you were drawn to the more academic. The man before you, though, created beauty with an ease that had evaded you all your life, and it had you both jealous and entirely intrigued. Slowly, you reached down to take a sip of your coffee as you let your eyes drift back to your reading.
Learning about ancient Babylon was far less interesting than watching him, though.  
When you next looked out the window and away from your work the handsome artist had created his base sketch already. How did he do it so fast? You assumed it was practice. He had been drawing the same 3 buildings every weekday morning for at least a month, so after a while, it must have been second nature to measure out the lines and put things into perspective. You smiled. He tended to have that effect on you.
The process was repeated until a little before 9:30. You would read a few paragraphs then look up to watch the painting progress from a sketch to a full-fledged work of art. It was good today from what you could see. The colors were a bit more muted than usual, but that was only on account of the awful, dreary overcast sky that threatened to dump rain on the city at any time. Overall, you would have considered it a masterpiece. Easel boy didn’t seem to think the same.
He regarded the painting with a sort of begrudging satisfaction that bordered on disappointment before he pulled the second cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, and began the process of packing up his materials. You finished the last of your coffee watching him do so. Smoking, well, smoking tobacco at least, had always been a vice you had avoided and yet you often wondered what it would feel like to take a drag of one of his cigarettes after it had been between his lips. Then, the magic lifted.
He folded up the flimsy easel, tucked it away with his materials back into his messenger bag, hoisted the stool under one arm and the painting under the other before taking off at a brisk clip down the street away from your window. You watched him until he was out of sight.
You were snapped from your concentration by a knock at your door.
“Y/N,” a heavily accented voice called, sending you scrambling for your bag, “If you are not outside in the next 15 seconds I will break down your door,”
Shit.
“Coming, Sasha!” You wailed. It took about 10 of those seconds to grab your backpack and shove your textbook inside, an extra 2 to check your appearance in the mirror- you looked slightly disheveled, but it was the best you were gonna do after the night you’d had. Besides, it wasn’t like you were doing anything important. You didn’t need to be dressed for a date -and you were opening the door for a quick save at the 14th second. Your door was safe for another day.
Out in the hall waited Sasha Balandin, arms crossed and grey eyes piercing in the flickering light of the terrible overhead fluorescents. As a fellow international student, you had become fast friends with Sasha. He was a little rough around the edges, and definitely didn’t take your bullshit, but he was a rare friend. “I have been waiting for 10 minutes,” he griped. You tried your best to look apologetic. “Don’t do that,”
“Do what?” You asked, closing and locking your door behind you as you began walking down the hallway.
Sasha huffed. “Do not pretend you were not too busy ogling that painter in the courtyard to hear me knocking on your door,” His Russian bluntness was on full display now as you shook your head in mock disbelief.
“I can’t believe you’d accuse me of something like that!”
“It is not an accusation if it is true,”
“There’s no way you know for a fact that I was watching him again,”
“But you were. This happens every week,”
You sighed, pausing at the top of the stairs. “I was,”
Taking the stairs in twos, Sasha sighed. “You are too soft, Y/N. Besides, you have said so often that he seems like an asshole. Why do you continue to get all mushy at him out the window if this is the case?”
“Because… well, because…” for a moment, you floundered in search of an answer that wouldn’t make you sound like a complete freak, but you found that there really wasn’t one. It came down the one small factor. “He’s just really hot, okay?”
The look Sasha gave you could have killed. He kept his mouth shut, though, choosing to let his silence shame you more than anything else did. It worked. For the entire trip down the stairs and the mile-long walk to your lecture hall, you felt the weight of shame heavy on your shoulders. Or maybe it was just your backpack. You didn’t know which you’d prefer. He did start speaking again eventually, going on about some party you had missed in favor of studying, but the feeling never left. Even as you sat down for your lecture it was still at the forefront of your mind. In fact, you were so busy thinking about your crush on easel boy and the problems with it that you barely paid attention to the professor’s rehashing of the Epic of Gilgamesh.
Your error only hit when the professor flipped the PowerPoint to the final slide.
“Before you go, I want to remind you that you have a paper on the importance of Enkidu in the Epic is due at the beginning of class this Friday. The details and requirements should be listed in your syllabus. Class dismissed,”
Fuck.
Friday was only two days away.
You were so screwed.
The problem was, you didn’t have a spare copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh just lying around your dorm room. Usually that wouldn’t have been an issue, the professor for your current history course used English for her slide because her particular history course was specifically for first-year international students. Unfortunately for you, though, you hadn’t been taking notes. Instead, you had been daydreaming about how it would feel to have easel boy blow his cigarette smoke in your face and then subsequently scolding yourself for having thoughts like that about a total stranger. In a terrible twist of fate, the professor only held office hours after her last classes on Mondays and Fridays, so even getting the information from her then was off the table. Dread began to pool in your stomach.
Any other student would have been able to cut their losses, rent a copy from the library, slog through it in a night, and write the damn essay even without the help of the classroom slides for context. The only problem was all the books in the library were in Sokovian, and you still barely knew how to order a coffee correctly. Reading the language in a full Cyrillic alphabet would just be impossible, especially for a book as stupidly old as the Epic of Gilgamesh.
In short, unless you could get your hands on a copy in the next day or so, you were absolutely, well-and-truly fucked.
Sasha was quick to find you as the hall cleared out, waiting near your seat as you packed away your notes. “That was all bullshit, no?” He asked, but the second he took in your slightly panicked expression he stopped short, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply. You knew what he was going to say before he ever said it.
“Something is wrong. You were not paying attention. Were you thinking-”
“Yes. Okay? Yes, I was thinking about him,”
He shook his head slightly. “I am concerned for you,”
“Who isn’t?”
Despite his usually stoic demeanor, that made Sasha huff out a soft laugh. “You got yourself into this mess, Y/N, you will get yourself out somehow,”
Your jaw dropped as you slung your bag over your shoulder and started making your way towards the door. “You’re not gonna help me?”
“Though I would love to be helpful, you forget that my English is poor. It will do me better to read the book in Sokovian myself than to use the information from class,”
Oh, yeah. You winced. “Sorry, Sash’”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he shrugged as you walked out onto the lawn, chilled to the bone by the wind that whipped in every direction.
A storm was brewing. It might not fully take hold of the city for a few hours yet, but it would make the walk to your evening class absolute hell if the rain fell as hard as it had several weeks prior. You could only hope that it wouldn’t start until after you had walked home. Your odds were looking slim, though, based on the way you could already hear thunder clapping in the distance. After a moment you hit the edge of the sidewalk where your paths would diverge.
“Good luck with the paper,” you offered weakly.
Sasha replied with a sharp, “Good luck with your crush,” and then he was off in the opposite direction without another word. Sasha was blunt like that, never overstaying his welcome or lingering when he didn’t need to. There was something enviable about it. What you wouldn’t give to be able to simply say things as they were without an unnecessary sugar coating to save face and spare feelings. It lingered on your mind for the whole half-mile walk to the campus bookstore. Speaking of which...
There was only one place where you might possibly find an English copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh. It wasn’t the big student bookstore, most of the textbooks there had been in Sokovian, Russian, or German and you hadn’t even tried to set foot in their actual book section. No, your only hope was the tiny hole-in-the-wall bookstore you had stumbled upon during move-in. It was only about half a mile away from your dorm from any of your lecture halls, so you often found yourself wandering inside when you had time to kill. They were one of the only stores you’d come across that sold anything in English, magazines included, so despite the fact that the young cashiers rarely spoke your language you often found that the back shelves of that tiny shop kept you from going mad.
Now, they might also be keeping you from ruining your GPA.
You could only hope. If anybody could save you, it was them.
Ducking in through the small doorway, you were greeted by the soft ring of the bell above your head. The attendant at the register simply regarded you with a polite nod. You had seen her there before and she knew you barely spoke a lick of Sokovian, so she didn’t attempt a pleasantry. Instead, she simply let you wander through the entrance and into the towering bookshelves, passing a few other faceless shoppers on your way towards the back. You were grateful for her nonchalance.
If there was anything worse than feeling foolish for not knowing Sokovian, it was being talked down to in perfect English by a Sokovian citizen. Most interactions left you wishing you’d actually taken anything away from your high school French class other than emotional trauma from your teacher and a caffeine addiction. Damn America and its terrible public-school language programs…
The path to the English classics section was one you’d walked many times since discovering the book store. It was right in the very back corner of the shop, tucked away where the city natives wouldn’t have to address or see it. You had snagged a copy of Pride and Prejudice a few weeks back, so you knew exactly where to search. The only problem was slogging through every single book on the shelf in search of the one you were looking for.
Your eyes scanned the wall.  
Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh…
Gilgamesh!
On the 6th shelf up sat one small copy. Score! You were saved! As you reached up to grab it, though, you were met with yet another roadblock. The shelf it was on was juuuust a little too high for you to reach. Oh, come on…
You hopped a little, extending your hand up as far as it could go, but your fingers just barely brushed the spine. Somewhere behind you, you could hear footsteps. Then someone coughed to suppress laughter. The shame was plain on your face. As your flannel rode up and you stretched up in one last desperate attempt to grab the book when suddenly someone, you assumed the same person who had been laughing at your misfortune, spoke.
“They have stools, you know,” he said, accented voice thick with amusement. The English surprised you, but you assumed they used it for your benefit. You were in front of the English language books after all. Besides, the shame of it all kept your mind from questioning it too much. “For reaching the top shelf,”
Of course they had stools.
If your face hadn’t already been burning with embarrassment it definitely was now.
In a split-second decision, you decided playing dumb was the only way you could walk out of the situation with any dignity left at all, so you plastered on a confused smile and spun around to greet the stranger. “Really? I had no cl-”
You stopped short.
Oh.
Oh no.
You’d know those paint-stained jeans anywhere.
There, with his hands in his pockets and the most self-important, thin-lipped smirk you had ever seen, was easel boy in all of his cocky, intimidating, hot glory. Had you really noticed how hot he truly was before? It didn’t feel like it. Not now that you’d really seen him close up and reveled in the way his dark eyes hypnotized you with their smudged liner that felt borderline obscene. You could smell him too, all charcoal and turpentine and cigarette smoke. If you had it bad before when he was just a blurry ideal out your window, you were completely and utterly smitten now.
He regarded you with a sort of practiced annoyance, and yet there was a strange softness to it that you hadn’t found in many native Sokovians, especially ones that saw you as the stupid, bumbling American wandering blindly around their country.
“Would you like my help?”
“Huh?” You were so lost in his eyes that you couldn’t even focus on his question.
“To reach your book. Would you like my help?”
“Oh!” With a brisk nod, you stepped away from the shelf to make room for easel boy, “yeah, I’m just trying to grab that one there. The, uh, Epic of Gilgamesh,”
In one swift movement, he was stepping right beside you to easily reach up and grab the offending piece of literature. The closeness of it all nearly sent you into a tailspin. That wasn’t even mentioning the way your heart thudded just a little faster when he finally handed the book to you, his calloused fingers brushing against your own. You barely find a grip on your brain strong enough to thank him through the fog of embarrassment and attraction. Eventually, though, you managed to choke out a placation as your eyes explored the cover of the book.
“Thanks for that,”
“It was no problem,” he shrugged. He didn’t move though, still standing just inches away from you. When you looked up from the book you found his eyes were still on you, watching intently as if he expected something from you. The answer to what he actually expected was a mystery but you could tell he wanted something. When you didn’t speak, he spoke for you. “So, The Epic of Gilgamesh? That’s definitely a bold choice,”
You looked up at him sheepishly through heavily lidded eyes. “It’s not a choice at all, actually. I’m only buying it so I can write an essay,”
“Ah,” Something about his tone was almost disappointed as the conversation stalled.
You quickly changed the subject to the first thing you could think of.
“Your hair is really nice!”
“My hair?”
“Yeah… your hair,”
Smooth move, dumbass.
Easel boy’s expression seemed to soften once more as his signature grin crept back onto his face. “Thank you, I grew it myself,” Between his accent and the way he was looking at you like he was going to eat you alive, you weren’t exactly sure how you hadn’t had a heart attack yet. Still, the attention was nice, even if it was bourne out of you repeatedly embarrassing yourself in a never-ending cycle of fuckups. He ran a hand through his loose brown hair. “I like your shirt. Very American,”
Silently, you cursed yourself for not taking a few extra seconds to pick out a better outfit when you woke up. Standing next to him, even while he was dressed in his paint-stained jeans and undone button-up, you looked like a wreck in comparison. He didn’t seem to be speaking from a place of judgment, though.
If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was being nice, but that couldn’t be the case… could it?
“Maybe it’s just that I haven’t met very many Sokovians that are fond of America, but I’m not sure if that was meant to be a compliment or an insult,” You joked. It was a bit sarcastic, the lilt of your voice masking your deep insecurity, and to your surprise easel boy laughed. He really laughed. From your place beside him, you could almost feel the warmth radiating off of him as he shook his head.
“It was definitely a compliment,”
Oh.
Your heart skipped a beat.
That was a new revelation.
You steeled yourself with a deep breath. Fuck it. It was now or never.
“I, uh… I’m Y/N, and you are?”
He regarded you once again with that strange expression of expectation. “What?”
“I asked for your name,” you repeated, and yet he still stood, slightly dumbfounded, staring down at you with that same expectant expression from earlier. For a moment, you almost thought he expected you to know it already. That fact was quickly glossed over when he moved to rub the back of his neck with his hand, eyes drifting down to the floor.
“Sorry,” he chuckled, “I’m not very good with people. My father thought college might help me finally connect with my peers, but I don’t think he expected that I was the problem, nor do I think he expected me to pick a degree in the arts,” Suddenly, he paused and stuck out his hand to you. “I’m Hel. It’s very nice to meet you Y/N,”
With only a moment of hesitation- because wow, your name had never sounded more right on someone’s lips -you took his large calloused hand in your own and shook it gently. His palm was warm, his fingers lingering on your own for just a moment even as he pulled away. It wasn’t much, just a soft brush against your flesh, but it sent a flash of heat and liquid confidence through your chest.
“Is that short for something?” Your eyes met his in the soft yellow glow of the overhead lamps. Seeing him like this, so up close and personal, he looked a lot more human than he had from your window. Sure, he was imposing. Underneath the initial harsh facade, though, was something softer and almost poetic. You weren’t an artist by any means but if you had been, you had no doubt that he’d be your muse.
“It’s short for Helmut, but only my father calls me that, and only when he’s cross, which, unfortunately, is most of the time,” he chuckled, “Besides, it’s an old man’s name. It doesn’t suit me,”
The words left your mouth before you knew what you were saying.
“Well, it’s better than calling you easel boy,”
Shit.
Today really just wasn’t your day, huh?
In the split second where you were mourning your chances with the most stupidly handsome guy who had ever shown any interest in you, you almost missed the way Helmut’s eyes lit up at the admission.
“Easel boy?” His voice was teasing, but not demeaning. That didn’t do much to ease your mortification, though.
“Is there any chance that I can get you to forget I said anything?”
“If you already have a nickname for me when we’ve barely met, I think you already know the answer to that question,”
His knowing smirk was enough to get you pleading. “You can’t just let me off the hook this once?” you begged, scrubbing a hand across your forehead in a desperate attempt to get away from his piercing gaze. The things those brown eyes did to you could be classified as obscene… “I will genuinely do anything if you don’t make me explain myself right now Hel,”
Hel quirked up an eyebrow. “Anything?” The way your stomach turned at just one word from him was both terrifying and extremely exciting. It felt like a promise. Without hesitation, you nodded. That made him smile. “In that case, get coffee with me today?”
Once again, you were rendered speechless.
“My treat,” he added, “unless you’re not interested…”
“No!” Your answer left your lips embarrassingly fast, “Or- yes? No, no, I think I meant no. No; I am very interested. Yes; I would like to get coffee with you,” There was a hint of shame in your words, but only a hint. After the day you’d had already, there wasn’t very much there to be ashamed of. Still, that same pit of dread began to open up in your stomach as you mulled over your choices.
Thankfully, Helmut continued to take it all in stride. “Wonderful! Is there anything else you’d like to do here before we go? It’s best we leave soon if we want to beat the rain,” He offered up his arm as he spoke like some sort of Disney prince. It was, by far, the cutest gesture you had ever been lucky enough to receive.
You linked your arm with his without hesitation. “As soon as I pay we can get going,” He was warm. It radiated off him in waves just like the warm hints of tobacco and wintermint that seemed to seep from his skin and clothes. With that, you made your way to the front desk as Hel shot you a sly smile.
“Who said anything about letting you pay?”
True to his word, he didn’t let you pay for a single thing for the rest of the afternoon.
The two of you made your way up to the cashier together, and Helmut only separated from your side to grab his wallet before you could grab yours. He then spoke in rapid-fire Sokovian to the lady at the register and pulled what could only be described as a wad of Sokovian koronas while you set the book on the counter, and from the looks of it, she seemed more than pleased with the two of you. Who wouldn’t be, especially when Hel seemed to insist that she keep the excess? In the end, after the book had been wrapped nicely in a paper bag and deposited in your backpack, Helmut held the door open for you like some sort of gentleman and followed you out into the grey afternoon.
Then, you were off down the street on Hel’s arm, pushing through the wind and the biting chill that had settled in the air.
“So, you don’t sound like a big fan of your dad,” you asked, half laughing as you attempted to broach conversation once again.
Helmut groaned beside you. “My father is a menace who is unable to understand that some people want more in life than to sit behind a desk all day making phone calls. In fact, most of my family is the same way. The only reason I haven’t completely cut them off and changed my name is the money,”
“I assume you get a lot of it if it’s worth sticking around someone you hate so much,”
“Never ask a man about his net worth,” he chuckled, gently elbowing you in the ribs, “but yes, I’m very comfortable. I have my own apartment just far enough away to be considered off-campus with my own car and as much money as it takes to keep me happy and getting good grades; Daddy makes sure of that,” The word daddy was a deep sneer, barely there in the wind, but something about it sent butterflies through your stomach. Well, that was never something you thought you were into… “Little does he know, I’m not here to make money. I’m here to find inspiration worth my time while out from under his thumb,”  
You snorted softly. “Artistic and rich? You’re just ticking all the boxes, Hel,”
“Good for me. Would offering help on that essay of yours endear you to me further?”
“Absolutely,”
The next 5 minutes you spend discussing the Epic of Gilgamesh. Surprisingly, in one of the first stokes of good luck you’d had all day, Helmut seemed to be one of the only people on earth who knew plenty about Enkidu off the top of his head. When he was the one lecturing you in his smooth, heavily accented timbre it was so much easier to pay attention to something so very tedious than when you heard it from your aging and often monotone professor. In fact, you were so enthralled by his retelling of the tale that you barely noticed you’d made it all the way to the cafe that sat across from the international dorm.
If you didn’t consider Hel to be smart as a whip and twice as clever as he was smart, you would have thought it was a coincidence. It couldn’t be though. No, there was no way anything was a coincidence with Helmut around. You shot him a smile when he opened the door for you and ushered you inside.
“You know Hel,” you muttered, “I’m starting to think you might know more about me than you initially let on,”
He shrugged. “You’re American, so it’s unlikely you live anywhere else and I wanted to make the walk home easy. It’s supposed to rain, you know? Besides, despite the… interesting waitstaff, they make the best pastries in town right here in this cafe,”
“Did you mean it when you said you were paying?”
“Absolutely,”
“Then I can’t wait to try one,”
The two of you were seated quickly (you assumed it had to do with the waitress finding Hel as hot as you did, because you caught her looking at him from behind the counter and whispering excitedly in Sokovian to her coworker at least twice over the course of the meal) and the conversation flowed easily as you waited on your coffees and the deserts Helmut insisted on splitting to let you try. Millefeuille, pear tart tatin, chocolate devil’s food cake, and a towering plate of apricot kołaczki awaited you, and they kept you sitting and talking and snacking for over an hour as you really got to know each other. The more you learned, the more you fell in love with the man across from you.
Over the course of the afternoon, you learned that Helmut was majoring in studio art while minoring in psychology just because it interested him, he hated the Beatles almost as much as he hated Freud’s theories on women, his favorite color was purple, and he spent most of his free time reading or getting high off his ass in his massive studio apartment in what you now knew was one of the most expensive areas in the city. He, in return, sat at rapt attention across the table as you gushed about your life in America, your reasons for going to university in Sokovia, your favorite books, and the ridiculousness that was trying to pass college-level classes in a country that seemed to avoid English at all costs.
Eventually, though, you did touch upon his nickname.
“I just thought it was really interesting that you did the same thing every single day, no matter what,” you explained, grabbing one of the last kołaczki from the plate and ignoring the powdered sugar that stuck to your fingers, “and by watching you… I don’t know, I guess it kind of felt like I had another friend who’d share breakfast with me in the morning if that makes sense,”
Hel nodded, swallowing his last bite of chocolate cake. “I understand completely. It can be lonely, coming to a new place without any friends or connections, but you were brave enough to take the leap. I admire that,” He brought his napkin to his lips before crumpling it and setting it one of the now empty plates before him, “But I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed that you didn’t watch me because I’m attractive,”
You nearly choked on your pastry. “Well, I wouldn’t say your pretty face didn’t help…”
The grin that spread across his face was heartstopping. He grabbed a napkin from the little holder next to the two of you and grabbed a pen from one of his pockets as he spoke. “In that case, you should join me tomorrow morning. Bring coffee if you can, I never have enough hands to bring a cup for myself, but even if you can’t bring some, if you want to come and watch me work I’d be more than happy to have a companion for the morning,” he paused for a moment, flustered, “or every morning, for that matter,”
“That sounds like a deal,” Your cheeks were hot, but not from embarrassment this time. No, it was anything but, because here you were across the table from a kind, attractive, intelligent Sokovian boy with money to spend and time to spare for you. You couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud too. He wanted you back, after all. You could see it in the way his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than he should, and even more plainly in the way he wrote his phone number in bold blue ink on the napkin and signed it with a doodle of a heart before passing it across the table to you.
“I’m going to go pay,” he said quietly while standing, “but I’ll be back in a second to walk you out. Alright?”
“Alright,”
There was something strangely similar to sorrow sitting in your chest when you watched him walk away. The sight of his ass as he went made up for it, though. Once he was obstructed by other patrons, you turned your attention to the napkin in your hands. Hel’s handwriting was neat as far as artists’ handwriting goes, but it still held a sort of looseness in its curves, a freedom in the way the numbers had flowed effortlessly from his pen. You popped the last kołaczki in your mouth as you admired the blue ink before devouring the final bites of pear tart and millefeuille. How had you gotten so lucky to have someone like him giving you his number and buying you pastries? You pondered the bizarre nature of it all until Helmut returned.
You stood quickly, folding the napkin and putting it away in your pocket. “Ready to go?”
“If you are,” he replied. In an instant, you were standing beside him again as he opened the door for you. The wind was even stronger now, strong enough that his loose hair whipped wildly around his forehead from the force of it. You couldn’t help but giggle at his appearance.
He caught you off guard as he walked you across the street. “You have such a pretty laugh,”
It was like you were seeing him again for the first time. You fiddled with the strap of your backpack as you got closer and closer to the door to your dorm. “Thanks. I’m pretty fond of your laugh too,”
Then, you were there, just two college kids standing awkwardly before your first departure.
“So,” you said before you could stop yourself, “when I tell my one friend all about this afternoon after my math class tonight, should I say it was a date?”
Hel’s cheeks flushed pink. “You can call it that, if that’s what you would like it to have been,”
“I think I would,”
“Good, good,” he let out a little chuckle, “I’m glad. Would you… would you consider going on another? I promise I have much more to offer than just small talk and tips on where to buy the best pastries,”
Looking into his brown eyes, so full of uncertainty and hope, you knew you couldn’t have denied him even if you wanted to. Still, you weren’t going to give in to his advances without a little bit of taunting. It made it fun, a game to be played where, hopefully, you both would win big in the end.
“That depends,” you teased, letting your lower lip catch between your teeth, “what do you have in mind?”
Helmut shoved his hands into his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels, pensive. “If you want to, we could go to my place and I could actually show you all of the paintings I’ve been working on while you watched me. The view from the rooftop is lovely too. We could have dinner up there while looking out over Novi Grad. I have to warn you, though, it’ll probably be takeout. I’m an atrocious chef,”
Slowly, a brilliant smile spread across your face. “Does Friday work?”
The smile Helmut shot back was as bright as every star in the night sky and even more enthralling. “Friday is perfect. Can I pick you up at 7?”
“As long as you come in that fancy car you were talking about,”
“Then it’s a deal,”
“Well,” you turned away, walking up the steps towards the door before turning back to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Hel, and I’ll bring coffee. Have a good night,”
“You too, Y/N. Parting is such sweet sorrow and all that,”
With that, he gave one last short wave before turning on his heel and pulling out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. You watched him walk away until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Only then did you enter the punch code and race up the stairs to your room.
Your back was pressed to the door of your dorm room the second you had shut it, your hands clutching at your chest in a desperate attempt to keep your heart from beating right out of your ribs. The second you were in the privacy of your own place, your cool facade had melted away to reveal just how much of a wreck you really were.
He had invited you over to his apartment.
He liked you.
Easel boy really, honestly liked you.
No, not easel boy. Helmut. Hel.
Hel liked you, and he invited you over to his apartment, and you had plans to meet him with coffee as he painted the next morning.
You smiled softly under the fluorescent lights and pulled the book that had brought you together from your backpack. It seemed so unassuming now, just a fresh paperback with an unbroken spine, but in reality, it was so much more than that.
Hel.
It was such a nice name. You liked it a lot.
Now you couldn’t wait to see what else you liked about him too.
------
a/n: I have been so excited to start sharing this AU with you guys, and it’s finally here!!! If you liked this fic, I once again will direct you to Bliss by @creme-bruhlee​ because that’s technically next in chronological order for this AU. I hope you enjoyed!!!
TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater , @elaineygrace, @multiyfandomgirl40 ,  @lovelymischief , @rami-malek-trash , @avgravy , @wh0re-4-techno , @forcebros , @sugarsweetkiss , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff , @killsandthrills , @novasstudy , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp , @inmate-marmalade, @alanathedeer , @your-pixels-are-showing , @shit-post-things , @bbarton​ , @sux-ubus , @halefirewarrior , @janelongxox , @rax-writes , @mossybank​ , @simsiddy​ , @xxspqcebunsxx​ , @be-cautious-around-bri​ , @metaphorical-love-for-a-car​ , @frothonthedaydreams​ 
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lifeofkaze · 3 years
Note
Hi love!
Sorry for bothering you, but could you do something like really cute and fluffy between Charlie Weasley and reader where he's all shy and delicate maybe teaching her about dragons and their characteristics pls? Like, something that feels really intimate, you know?
I absolutely love your writing and I believe that you could make justice to the character.
Take care darling,
-A
Thank you for the request, loveliest anon! This is actually the first fic request I’ve ever gotten and I’m so happy you like my stuff so much, this makes me very very soft.
This fluff piece was just what I needed to get my mojo back hopefully. Please let me know if this is like what you had in mind - I for one had a lot of fun with it! <3
***
Favourites
Charlie Weasley x Reader
Word Count: ~ 2.800
As a Care of Magical Creatures test covering dragons of all things is imminent and you were too distracted in class to pay proper attention, you know just who to turn to for help.
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“You want me to do what?”
Charlie Weasley blinked at you in confusion. He could feel his blood rushing in his ears as he looked at you standing in front of him, clutching you Care for Magical Creatures book to your chest as you raised your eyebrows at him.
“I asked if you could help me studying for the test next week?” you repeated your question, brow slightly furrowed. “I can’t keep track of all these dragon traits and who would know them better than you?”
Charlie felt the heat creeping up on his face. Of course, the test. It was all he had been able to think about ever since Professor Kettleburn had announced the topic; all except you of course.
He tried to formulate a coherent answer that wouldn’t make him look like a blabbering fool in front of you, but the way the dappled sunlight that broke through the trees reflected in your hair distracted him more than he cared to admit.
So he resorted to a weak nod. “Uhm, sure, I’d love to. See you at six in the library?” he managed to stammer out eventually.
A beautiful smile formed on your face as you nodded in enthusiasm. “Sounds great, see you there!”
Charlie watched as you swished around and walked back to your friends, who greeted you with giggles and whispers as they glanced in his direction. You gave one of them a playful swat on the arm, before your clear laugh carried over to him onto the warm summer air and made his heart clench.
He knew all of his dragons by heart, of course he did; this test was the first he hadn’t bothered studying for at all. But now, he suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to prepare himself.
 *
The light of the sun had already started to turn into the beautiful golden shade that heralded the end of a warm autumn day as you skittered into the library. You were a little bit late for your study session with Charlie, and the exertion from running all the way from your Common Room flushed your cheeks slightly red. Your friends just hadn’t let you go, all of them just as excited for what they called ‘your dragon date’ as you were. Not that you’d ever tell them that.
You found Charlie sitting at a table near the windows and your breath caught for a moment as you took in the warm light that washed around his frame; it was making his ginger hair glow like fire, the only vibrant speck of colour in this dusty old room full of books.
He had his nose buried in a big, leather-bound tome, his eyes darting over the pages frantically; you noticed how the tip of his tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration. He was so immersed in his reading, that he only noticed you approaching as you sat down next to him. Jumping in shock at your sudden appearance, he almost knocked over his ink bottle, only catching it at the last second before its dark, inky content could wash over the thin pages of his book.
“Oh, you’re here already, I didn’t even notice you until now.” His freckled face had flushed a shade darker than usual as he put his ink bottle back into its position and made room for you on the table.
“I’d rather say I’m here finally,” you responded, feeling a little bit guilty at making Charlie wait. “But I see that you started without me.”
He hurriedly closed the book. “No, I was just reading up on some facts about Welsh Greens so I have them sharp in my mind,” he explained, “in case you have questions, you know?”
It was only now that your eyes took in the numerous heaps of books piled up on your table. “First question,” you said as you ran your fingers over the backs of the tomes stacked on top of each other. “I thought the test was about dragons native to Europe and not every single one in existence,” you pulled out a particularly old looking book containing myths and fables, “and beyond.”
You silently counted the numbers of books Charlie had amassed and your eyes went wide. “Charlie, these must be all the books about dragons in the whole library,” you laughed, giggling at the flustered expression of the boy beside you.
“Well, not all the books,” he clarified sheepishly. “There are quite a few in the Restricted Section and then there’s the two I have up in my dorm but forgot to bring and- “
You cut off his rambling by gently touching his arm; he shut up almost instantly, glancing nervously down to where your hand was lying. “It’s alright, it was just a joke.”
“Of course,” Charlie muttered slightly embarrassed. What was wrong with him?
He watched as you pulled your notes from your bag; they were rather sparse compared to the almost three scrolls of parchment he had scribbled down himself.
“Where do you want to start?”
You hummed to yourself as you considered your choices. A warm, fuzzy feeling spread inside Charlie’s chest as you drew your lips into a pensive pout and tapped your index finger against it.
Finally, a neat stack of white flashcards, that lay hidden behind a book on Sea Serpents, caught your attention. You reached over Charlie and pulled them towards you.
Your mouth dropped open as you flicked through them; on every one of the laminated cards was an extensive profile of every kind of dragon imaginable. The descriptions were written out in a neat, accurate hand that looked nothing like the careless scrawl you’d seen on Charlie’s class notes.
But what took your breath away were the detailed drawings below the text. They were done by pencil and although they didn’t move like magical pictures often did, they were so lively as if they only waited to pounce off the paper and take into the air.
Charlie watched you apprehensively as your fingers traced the outline of what appeared to be a Swedish Short-snout. He felt his heart beat faster at the soft, admiring look in your eyes as you turned towards him.
“Did you do these yourself?”
He nodded in response. “It’s hard to find decent descriptions all in one place,” he explained quietly. “I don’t know how accurate the sketches are though; I’ve never seen a dragon in real life.”
You flashed him a radiant smile that had his heart rate pick up considerably. “I don’t care if they’re realistic; they’re brilliant!”
Encouraged by your excitement, he took the flashcards out of your hands and fanned them out, their blank backs facing you. “Then I’d suggest we start with them; pick one!”
Running the fingers along the cards twice, you finally settled on one and drew it out of his grasp. Charlie’s freckled face lit up as he saw which one you had chosen.
“The Ukrainian Ironbelly,” he exclaimed, “my favourite!”
All of his former shyness was suddenly forgotten; this was his prime discipline.
“The Ironbelly is native to the Ukraine, as its name suggests, obviously. It’s considered the largest dragon species in existence with an immense wingspan, long talons and scales that are said to be harder to pierce than steel. It’s name stems from the metallic grey colour of his underside and ever since one particular large specimen carried off a whole sailing ship in the late 18th century, they are under strict observation by wizarding authorities.”
You did your best to jot down the information Charlie dumped on you with impressive speed but there was no way you could keep up with his excited ramblings. So you resorted to listening to him as he lectured you about feeding habits, hunting methods and the average temperature of the flames an Ironbelly could produce.
He sighed wistfully as he paused for breath. “They’re amazing.”
You couldn’t hide your smile at his dreamy expression as you picked out your next card from the stack. “Okay, how about this one?”
The dragon it showed had ridges running along its back, ending in a nasty, arrow-shaped spike at the tip of its tail. It barred its teeth at you in a vicious snarl.
“That’s my favourite, the Hebridean Black,” he repeated his words from before, positively bouncing with energy this time around.  
You glanced at the card you two had just worked your way through. “I thought the Ukrainian Ironbelly was your favourite?” you teased him.
Charlie’s bouncing stopped instantly as he blushed bright red; you hadn’t meant to bring him down and felt sorry all of a sudden. So you propped the card against one of the book piles and turned to him.
“So, tell me more about it.”
Relieved to be able to tread on secure ground again, Charlie immediately recounted all the facts about one of the two dragon breeds native to the British Isles to you.
You continued in this fashion; your pulled a random card from the stash and Charlie would tell you everything he knew about it. He grew more animated with every new flashcard; as it turned out, every dragon you talked about was his favourite.
Seeing him so caught up in his favourite subject had a warmth spread in your chest and the smile on your lips never vanished even once. You had given up on writing Charlie’s words down about four cards ago and were merely staring at him explaining to you everything about these fantastic beasts that made up all of his dreams and musings.
His excitement quickly spread to you and you found yourself hanging onto his every word. But the more you were listening to him, the more you found your concentration shift from the dragons you were discussing to the boy beside you.
Your head propped on your hand, you admired how recounting scale colours and preferred environments of Romanian Longhorns brought a twinkle to his blue eyes and how his contagious laugh had you chuckle at the idea that people would confuse a Hungarian Horntail with a Norwegian Ridgeback.
The dimples forming in his freckled cheeks as he smiled at you were the exact reason why you had needed help with studying for this test in the first place. When you had talked about dragons in class, the eager smile and the slight scrunch of his nose as he scribbled down every single word Professor Kettleburn had to spare had left you breathless and unable to concentrate on anything but the butterflies dancing in your stomach.
The pile of flash cards had dwindled down until only a few more were left. Your breath caught in your throat as you turned around your next pick; the pictured showed a slender dragon directly from the front. It’s wings were outstretched and it seemed to be staring directly at you out of wide, pupil-less eyes. It was the only drawing so far that was coloured.
Your finger traced the subtle colour gradient rippling over its pearly scales as Charlie looked over to see which one was next.
“The Antipodean Opaleye,” he murmured, taking in your fascinated expression, “it’s singularly coloured scales and eyes are the stuff of legends.”
“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, trying to imagine how the scales of a real life Opaleye might shimmer in the sunlight.
“Not as beautiful as you,” Charlie suddenly blurted out. The words had fallen from his lips before he’d even had a chance to stop them.
Both of you froze as what he had said sank into your consciousness. You couldn’t believe your ears and were half sure that your mind must have played a trick on you.
You carefully glanced over to Charlie out of the side of your eyes; he looked incredulous and you could watch the colour of his face turning from ghostly white to a deep, vivid scarlet that clashed with his ginger hair in a matter of seconds.
Feeling your own cheeks starting to blush at the unexpected compliment, you desperately were looking for something to say to take the shock out of his widened eyes. But your mind wasn’t working properly anymore, so all you managed was a meek “Wow, uhm, thank you Charlie, that’s really sweet.”
It was apparent your words didn’t help his flustered situation as he covered his face with his hands and groaned “I can’t believe I said that out loud; I’m such an idiot.”
You didn’t know what to do to help him; you felt utterly flattered and confused at the same time. You thought about putting your hand on his arm to reassure him what he had said actually made you happy, but paused halfway, not quite daring to touch him again.
Still unsure of what to do, you got up and picked up one of the books he had used to illustrate the facts on his flashcards.
“I’d better get going, I guess,” you stammered without looking at the wretched boy sitting at the table next to you, “thank you so much for helping me, I think I’ll manage the rest on my own. Can I borrow that book though?”
He didn’t raise his face from his hands, but nodded anyways. You felt bad for leaving him like that, but your head was spinning and you desperately needed to sort out your thoughts.
But seeing Charlie’s slumped frame sitting at the table, all the bubbly excitement from before completely drained from him, tugged at your heartstrings so hard it almost hurt. So instead of turning around and leaving, you drew a deep breath, gathered your courage and stepped behind him, placing a light kiss on his cheek.
You could feel his shoulders tense and his breath hitch as your hair tickled his jaw and were glad he couldn’t see the deep blush on your cheeks as you straightened up, picked up your bag and his book and hurried out of the library with a racing heart, too afraid to turn around once more.
*
Charlie and you hadn’t spoken again after what had happened in the library. It had taken him quite some time to be able to think properly again after you had left; he had just sat at his table, hand on his cheek where you had kissed him, staring into nothingness, the peachy smell of your hair still hanging in the air.
Even though the thought of how soft your lips had felt on your cheek had been the most prominent thing in his mind, he had passed his test with flying colours; some things just couldn’t be erased from his mind, no matter what was happening around him.
He had just returned to his dorm after a particularly tiring Quidditch practise when he saw it lying on his bed, propped up against his head bord; the book you had borrowed from him to finish studying on your own.
For a brief moment, he wondered how you had managed to get it up here, when he noticed something white sticking out of the pages. Curious, he picked up the book and flicked it open.
Even without looking, he knew what chapter it was you had marked with whatever you had put in there; he had read this book more times than he could remember. It was the chapter on the Antipodean Opaleye; he grimaced at the memory of when he had last thought about this particular dragon.
A white flashcard was stuck between the pages, its laminated surface flashing as Charlie turned it around to read it.
A big smile stole onto his face as he saw the photograph of you laughing and waving at him that you had stuck on the front side. His eyes swept over the lines written in your feminine hand and his smile grew even wider as he read the ‘special characteristics’ section:
It has to be remarked, that this particular specimen was able to pass her test with full marks.
He was glad to hear his blurted out compliment hadn’t affected your marks in the end. He sighed wistfully, when he noticed the very small, scribbled note at the very end of the card; it wasn’t as neatly written as the rest, almost as if your hands had shaken while writing it down.
Greatest weakness: While not many weaknesses are recorded of this specimen, it is said that it can be easily tamed by ginger-haired dragon trainers in the making. Whether these rumours are true, remains to be determined.
Charlie’s mouth dropped open as he read the last section over and over again, not daring to believe what he thought they said. But after the tenth time, he finally allowed the butterflies that  had been fluttering in his stomach to spread into the rest of his body, his smile growing into the widest grin as he tucked the flashcard carefully into the book again.
This time, he was sure; this one was his favourite.
  Tagging: @weasleysandwheezes
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magnoliabloomfield · 3 years
Text
Possession 12
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Gally wished he never made the suggestion that Nikola be a keeper, he wished he had gotten her as a builder so he could keep an eye on her at all times. He hated it whenever he couldn’t see her, when he didn’t know what she was doing or who she was around, if she was safe. He wanted her around him. It was completely selfish, and he didn’t really mean it. Well, he meant it, but only a little bit, he knew it was better to have her on the council. Besides if she was a builder he definitely would have turned into the very type of possessive keeper he’d been worried about someone else becoming.
He had trouble focusing, sometimes even breathing, especially when he would think about how she said it would suck if he wasn’t around her, the sad pout to her lips. Her little pink lips. He found himself absently sketching her face in the margins of his blueprints instead of doing any real work. He’d always been good at drawing the straight lines and angles of architecture, but she made him discover a talent for portraits as well.
God this was crazy. He’d been the most upset the day she arrived, he’d been the most concerned about how the boys would be acting and here he was, a self fulfilling prophecy. It was like he only felt good when he was around her now. She brought something special to the glade that had been missing until now. She brought light, hope, fun, distraction. All the time they were fighting for basic survival, but she made surviving bearable, she made it worth it.
What was he going to do? He probably wasn’t the only one who thought of her this way, there had to be others just dying to have her around them too, thinking about her as much as he was. Who was she thinking about? After the little things she had said to him and the way she let her feelings show in her eyes only when she talked to him made a part of Gally believe she was thinking of him. However, the thought of being wrong was so painful he dared not let himself fully believe it. And then there was the rule. She’d never belong to him. The only comfort it brought was that she wouldn’t belong to anyone else either.
~~~~~
Gally laid in his cot, sleep evading him in favor of thoughts of Nikola. He couldn’t torture himself by giving in to fantasy, it would only drive him to do something stupid and get one or both of them in trouble. He stared up at his dingy ceiling and suddenly missed the nights back at the beginning when he was sleeping in a hammock in the trees, the sky above him and fresh air all around. His room smelled. He smelled, he usually put on the same clothes day after day all sweaty and rank. It never mattered before, but now he would be mortified if she ever came in here.
What would she be doing in there though? He told his brain to shut up, he wouldn’t follow that line of thought. It prodded him too much and he realized he was not going to get to sleep any time soon, just toss and turn in his smelly room all night. He was going to have everything washed tomorrow even if he had to do it himself.
He launched upright and grabbed his pants as he stood up, putting them on and then his boots. He was going to get out of his room and get fresh air and the sky above him. He stepped out into the midnight blue of the glade, faint snores coming from where the other boys slept. He went off in the opposite direction so he wouldn’t wake anyone up or have to listen to them either.
He found himself at her tower without realizing he’d taken a beeline to it. He would never try to get up there in a million years, that would freak her out for sure. Besides, he’d done much too good a job at making it intruder proof, something he never thought he’d be kicking himself for. But then he noticed her ladder was down. He looked around the glade for her, at first excited at the idea of her being up when he was up, but then he got worried about if someone besides them was up too. What if something happened to her? He’d been awake the whole night, he would have heard a scream… but what if she didn’t get a chance?
His search turned desperate and frantic, he listened for noise, he looked for light, any sign of her. He sprinted to her house and stood at the ladder. He was hesitant to call her name in case he woke someone else up. The ladder could have fallen, she could be up there asleep and have no clue, or she could be up there and not alone. He scrambled up the ladder and took a quick glance, finding she wasn’t there. He went down quickly too. He sprinted to the bathrooms just to find them empty, but there was water around her shower stall. She must have been here, or someone was. He raced to the kitchen next, it was only logical, you either get up to pee or get a drink in the middle of the night, right?
He saw a glow coming from the kitchen as he got closer and part of him felt relieved, but not enough to slow down. He burst in and saw Nikola crouched on the floor with a small laundry tub and her sheets.
“Shuck,” she said softly as she startled, almost falling over.
She stared up at him, relief passing her features when she recognized him. Meanwhile he just stood there panting for a second before bracing himself on his knees, so glad she was ok. He let his head hang for a moment as he composed himself.
“Are you alright?” he asked her as he straightened up and came closer. He noticed a pink tinge to the water and how only part of her sheets were in there, not the whole thing. Then he saw the garments. She started her period.
“I’m fine,” she said, looking down into the water a bit embarrassedly and trying to hide the stained clothes.
“God, I was thinking the worst,” he sighed as he ran a hand over his face before sitting on the ground next to her. She seemed surprised and confused as she glanced between him and what she was doing, wondering why he was coming closer. “Do you need some help?”
“No, Gally, you don’t want to help me with this-“
“I know,” he interrupted her, trying to show her she had nothing to be embarrassed about. “I know what happened and I can help if you want me to.”
She slightly narrowed her eyes at him. “How do you know-“ she started to say before giving up, since it was pretty obvious. “It’s gross, you shouldn’t have to deal with it.”
“Hey, I’m the keeper of the builders, you think I haven’t had to wash blood out of clothes before?”
“It’s not the same,” she muttered glumly, starting to scrub half heartedly again. “It’s embarrassing. I was hoping to get it taken care of before it set, and before anyone could see it, and now of all people you’re here watching me make uterus soup.”
It was a graphic description but he wasn’t repulsed by it, in fact, he burst into laughter.
“Oh god,” he chuckled as he rubbed his eyes. “Well, if you don’t want me to touch your laundry is there something else I can do for you? Do you need something to drink, or eat, or a hot water bottle?”
She looked over at him as if trying to figure out what planet he came from. He saw her eyes travel down before she quickly looked away with a new shade of pink on her cheeks. He realized he had put on boots and pants, but not his shirt. Oops.
“I-I’m fine, you can go back to bed,” she told him.
“Oh, no I’m not going anywhere till you’re done and I make sure you get to your room safe,” He informed her, sounding quite firm about it.
“You don’t-“
“I do.”
“God, you’re stubborn,” she said even as she smirked.
“Yeah, and the faster this gets done, the faster you’ll get rid of me, so you might as well let me help,” he told her.
He didn’t care, he wasn’t squeemish about it. He had seen gore, he had seen and smelled boys crap their pants. It wasn’t pleasant but it wasn’t the end of the world either, not when there was water and soap at the ready. He was with her, and he could do something useful to help her.
“Well, you can stay to walk me back, but you don’t have to touch this-“
His response to that was to reach right in and take the sheet from her, making her mouth fall open in shock.
“I’ll leave your clothes to you and I’ll take care of the sheets,” he delegated to her, focusing on what he was doing.
She didn’t say much, but he didn’t mind. It was late, she was tired and probably had cramps. He was just glad to be beside her and be helpful. They finished quickly working together. They dumped the tub and put fresh water in, letting the sheets soak overnight to deal with in the morning. She took her clothes with her to hang to dry in her room.
“Hang on a sec,” Gally told her before rooting around in Fry’s food.
He triumphantly presented her with a jar of peanut butter. “It’s the closest thing to candy we have around here,” he explained, earning a chuckle from her as she took the jar from him, maybe her eyes flickered over his chest before she looked back up at him.
“Thanks, Gally. For everything,” She said as her tired eyes seemed to sparkle a little. “And I mean everything. You keep doing the most for me ever since I showed up here.”
He felt a bashful blush creep up to his face and didn’t have much he could say to that. He walked her back to her little house, standing at the bottom until she had climbed up and pulled the ladder up behind her, then pulled up the basket with her wet clothes and the peanut butter. She leaned on the railing, bathed in moonlight as she looked down at him.
“I don’t care how big the world outside these walls is, I don’t think there’s anyone else like you in it,” She commented out of the blue before her grin flashed in the darkness. “Goodnight Gally.”
“Goodnight Nikola,” he replied with a small smile of his own, watching until she disappeared inside.
He ran a hand over his hair and cradled the back of his neck with it as he let out a heavy breath. The insomnia was totally worth it.
Unfortunately he had been right about something. They weren’t the only ones awake that night.
Masterlist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ready for some angst??? I have it planned in my brain a bit, I'll write it asap. thanks for your comments, likes and reblogs! They motivate me to write more.
@frequentlychangingfandoms @quackquackbi @poulterjonas @crazysheeplyca @pre-google @gladerscake @neilox @thesuitkovian @carp3d1em @cottoncandy-dreamxd @emilyhadenbaker
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artificialqueens · 3 years
Text
Galactica, Chapter 79 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica
A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫
Previously: Violet and Sutan showed up for Bob’s drag show. Courtney had a disastrous day at work before Galactica shut down for the holidays.
This Chapter: Violet parties a little too hard, Sutan gets sick, and Miss Fame finds out about her precious sketches.
***
Violet wasn’t surprised that Bob was an amazing and hilarious performer. What had surprised her was how into it Sutan seemed, slapping his thighs at every joke, cheering loudly, tipping all of the queens generously.
It was so unlike how he behaved at the adult parties they normally frequented, so unlike how he normally spent a night out mingling and networking, his charm laid on so thick sometimes that the real him barely even poked through.
At one point, after watching him stuff a couple of bills down one queen’s corset, Violet must have had some kind of strange expression, because Sutan caught her eye and gave her a wink, saying, “Not my first drag show, darling.”
Violet smiled, shaking her head at him, though she gladly accepted the kiss he offered up, Sutan’s lips tasting like whiskey and those horrible green shots. It was great to see him, to watch the grown man she cared so much for light up with boyish delight, Sutan throwing himself wholeheartedly into the show.
By the time Bob came up to their table after the show, she was starting to really feel the effects of all the drinks she’d had throughout the night, her speech sounding much slurrier than she intended when she accepted a sweaty hug from Bob.
“You were so good up there,” she said, trying to get out her words without sounding as crazy drunk as she felt, “Best one by far.”
“Wow,” said a voice nearby, and Bob let out a hearty laugh.
“You heard her, Thorgy, I’m the best. By far,” Bob cackled, turning and sticking his tongue out at a green-haired queen.
“Your friends are so sweet, Bob, you should bring them more often,” she said snidely, and Violet’s eyes widened, realizing her mistake.
“No, I just meant, uh, that...that you-” she stammered out, and Bob laughed even harder.
“No, we heard you,” continued Thorgy, giving an exaggerated eye roll. “As if Bob needs anything else to make his fat head even bigger.”
“Would you chill, bitch? She was just giving me a compliment! Nobody murdered your family.”
“Shut up, Bob!”
Violet tried to shrink as they continued to bicker, Maxwell slipping her another shot and whispering, “Don’t worry, they’re just like that. Bottoms up.”
Violet picked up the shot, toasting Maxwell with a little shrug, just as Sutan returned to the table with a fresh round for everyone.
***
“Sutan,” Violet groaned, and Sutan couldn’t help but smile, his girlfriend under his arm, snuggled against his side, an open bottle of water in her hand.
“Yes darling?” It had been a bit of a struggle to get to the taxi, Violet suddenly a whole lot drunker than he had ever seen her before, but they had had an amazing night.
It had been literal years since he had last been to a drag show, and he had forgotten how much fun they generally were.
It had been good to see Violet’s work friends, and to get to know them a little better, to know for certain that his girlfriend was surrounded by good people when she went to work.
“I don’t feel good…” Violet whined, the tone so new for her Sutan had to bite his cheek not to chuckle.
“I know lovely eyes.” He held her hand, gently lifting it and the bottle to her lips so Violet could drink some more water. He should probably have stopped her about 5 shots ago, but he hadn’t wanted to cut off her fun, which she was now paying the price for.
Violet took a sip, her nose scrunching up like it tasted all wrong, Sutan holding her in place even as he took the bottle.
“We’ll be home soon.”
He had been smart enough to change the sheets before they left, the task one he normally left for his housekeeper but she was on vacation, painkillers and water bottles ready on the nightstands - fresh sheets and a cracked window a guaranteed recipe for a good night’s sleep, something they both truly needed.
“Mmh,” Violet tried to pull away, her hand pushing against his leg so Sutan let her, his girlfriend sitting up straight.
“I really don’t feel good,” Violet dumped her head back against the headrest, “like I think, I might-”
The taxi rounded a corner, and Violet’s hand flew to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with panic, and Sutan knew instantly what was about to happen.
“Stop the car!” Sutan reached over Violet, opening the door and unbuckling her seatbelt in one fluid motion, a hand on her hip pushing her out on the street as he yelled over his shoulder to the driver. “Stay!”
Sutan followed behind Violet with practiced ease, the maneuver one he had done hundreds of times, models often drinking way too much if they didn't snort something worse during the first year of their career.
“Over here,” Sutan hated that he was forcing Violet to stand on her bad leg, but he didn’t have much choice, one hand finding her waist as he turned her in an attempt to support her weight,  “How are you feeling-”
He was cut off as Violet grabbed his arm and bent forward to throw up, the majority of it landing directly on Sutan’s shoes, his fingers only just catching her ponytail.
“Oh god,” Violet choked, “I’m so sorry-” She didn’t finish, as she puked again and Sutan sighed, the second round of vomit soaking his shoes completely, the leather officially beyond salvageable.
“I’m sorry,” Violet’s forehead was leaning against his stomach, Sutan’s hand on her neck, a hiccup leaving her, her voice quivering with tears. “I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry-”
“Hey, hey,” Sutan tightened his grip, using his other hand to gently push on Violet’s shoulder to get her to stand up. Her face was an absolute mess, tears streaming down her cheeks, “Lovely eyes, don’t worry-”
“You’re wearing Prada.” Violet sobbed, her hand coming up in a desperate attempt to wipe her tears, and Sutan knew it was wrong, he just couldn’t help but laugh.
“Don’t laugh at me!” Violet hit his chest, but she still allowed him to move her so she was leaning against the taxi, the tip he’d need to give their driver growing by the second. Violet had thankfully not thrown up on herself, which was a true blessing combined with the fact that he had shoved the water bottle into his pocket. He took it out, uncapping it to pour the water over his shoes, washing them to the best of his ability.
It wasn’t perfect, but he had dealt with a lot worse.
Violet was pale, but she didn’t look like she was going to throw up again, so Sutan helped her back in the car, giving the driver a hundred as a thank you for not leaving them stranded.
“Lovely eyes?” Sutan felt a moment of panic when he realized Violet hadn’t said a word since they got back in the car, “Is everything-“
“I’m so embarrassed, I can’t believe I-“ Violet groaned, frustration heavy in her voice, “I threw up all over your Prada shoes.”
“You know,” Sutan grinned, the few times someone had thrown up in his hands so much worse than what he had just experienced. “You’re the only girl I know who’d care about the brand of shoes I’m wearing right now. The vomit would have been plenty for most.”
“Can we please just, not?” Violet sighed heavily, but she did lean her head against his shoulder, which Sutan took as a very good sign. “I’d love to pretend all of this never happened.”
“Violet. They’re just shoes.” Sutan pressed a kiss against her temple, “You’re so much more important.”
***
Raven flipped through the dresses she hadn’t worn in public yet, looking for the one she was going to be wearing for New Year’s. She had gotten several options for her and Raja, but they hadn’t had the chance yet to try anything on and make the decision, glittering suits and the more theatrical pieces Raja preferred on her side of their walk-in closet.
“What do you think of a green theme?” Raven looked over her shoulder and over at Raja, who was sitting sideways in one of the arm chairs, her legs over the armrest, a bouquet of lilies on the side table.
Raven loved their gigantic walk-in closet, the room so big they had to take down a wall when they moved in, but it was one of her favorite rooms in their apartment, so it was well worth it. It was all done in shades of beige and gray, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the couch and the arm chairs almost making it feel like a miniature store.
“Raj?” Raven waited for a beat, but when she didn’t get a reply, she turned around.
“Hello? Earth to Raja?” Raven crossed her arms, annoyance curling in her belly. She hated being ignored, and right now, she was being ignored by her favorite person. “Urgh!” Raven huffed, stomping over and grabbing the phone from Raja’s hands.
“Hey!” Raja’s eyes widened in surprise and she sat up, her feet hitting the floor. “Give me my phone-”
“You promised-” Raven held her hand up so Raja couldn’t get the phone, her fiancée grabbing her hips and pulling her in between her spread legs, “you wouldn’t work.”
“I’m not,” Raja tightened her grip, and Raven had to bite back a moan as she felt her short nails dig through the fabric of her dress. “I’m texting Tan.”
“Please,” Raven turned the phone, still holding it over her head so she could see the screen without Raja snatching it away. She had expected to see her emails pulled up, Raja often working at the strangest of times, but instead, all she saw was a row of text messages in Indonesian.
“... Okay, so,” Raven hated admitting that she was wrong, but this once, it seemed like Raja wasn’t actually ignoring her for work. “Fine.”
“Thank you.” Raja smiled as she was handed her phone, her hand guiding Raven to sip on her lap, which she gladly did. “Tan says he has a cold.”
“What?” Raven raised an eyebrow, her arms around Raja’s neck. Sutan never got sick, like, never ever, so this was an unexpected turn of events. “Really?”
“Mmh,” Raja nodded, “He woke up with a fever, but it seems like Violet is there.”
This time, it was Raven’s turn to smile, her hand gliding under Raja’s open shirt. “So you’re going to go check in on him?”
“Oh definitely.” Raja grinned, “Who do you think I am?”
***
“Keep the change.”
To say that Violet was feeling guilty would be an understatement. She did her best not to spill the soup as she made her way back towards the living room where Sutan was sleeping on the couch, the TV running on the news channel.
It was terribly unfair, but she had woken up without as much as a headache, while Sutan was coughing his lungs out, her boyfriend hot with fever. Raja had done a pharmacy run, buying every medicine under the sun for her brother, which was now spread out on the coffee table. Raja had offered to stay, but Sutan had sent her away, telling her with a smile that Violet was taking care of him.
It was equal parts unexpected and amazing that he trusted her, that he still wanted her around after she had literally thrown up on him, the ruined shoes something Violet knew would be haunting her nightmares.
It was truly a miracle that she hadn’t fled the apartment, but she didn’t want to disappoint Sutan, so she stayed.
Violet put the bag down, returning with utensils and bowls from the kitchen, when Sutan cracked an eye open, her boyfriend looking up at her.
“Hey,” Sutan smiled, his hair adorably messy, the blanket all the way up to his chin, a small mountain of used tissues in the bin Violet had put by his head.
“I got you lunch.”
“What?” Sutan sat up, grabbing his glasses from the table to put them on. He was wearing a gigantic sweater and a pair of sweatpants, thick wool socks on his feet. “Wait, is that? Did you get me chicken soup-” He didn’t finish, a cough cutting him off, and Violet felt her heart clench.
“Bread too.”
“Ha,” Sutan snorted, a grin on his lips. “You’re the best,” he tilted his head for a kiss, but Violet reacted on instinct, putting a hand on his forehead, pushing him back, which made Sutan laugh.
“What?”
“You’re all...snotty…” Violet tried not to wrinkle her nose, but it was hard not to, his skin hot to the touch.
“So you can throw up on my shoes, but I can’t get one little kiss?”
Violet rolled her eyes, though she couldn't help but smile over Sutan’s attitude. “Fine.” She leaned forward, pressing a kiss against Sutan’s forehead. “And I really am sorry, I promise that I’ll replace them-”
“Lovely eyes,” Sutan looked up at her, her hands on his shoulder. “I meant what I said last night. I don’t care about the shoes.”
“But-” They hadn’t actually talked about it sober, and while Violet wished that the earth would swallow her up, she pushed on, “You always make excuses for me, and forgive things you shouldn’t, and I-”
“Violet,” Sutan reached up, touching her elbow, “That’s what you do when you love someone, and I happen to love you.”
“...You love me?”
“I do,” Sutan smiled, “I really do.”
“I-” Violet didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do, but as she looked at Sutan’s face, she realized that he meant it. This man, this strange, wonderful, amazing man, loved her, and Violet had no idea what she had done to deserve him. “I love you too.”
***
PEARL: How would you feel about a NYE party at 230 5th?
DAHLIA: Well that sounds fuckin posh. How’d you get on the list for something so chic?
PEARL: I’m chic as fuck
DAHLIA: Lol if you say so
PEARL: Lol, is that a yes?
DAHLIA: Sure, why not.
PEARL: Perf. You wanna come over early and get ready together?
DAHLIA: Don’t want to wait until the end of the night to get lucky, huh?
PEARL: Nope ;)
***
Symone yawned, leaning against a column in the Terminal 5 baggage claim, her sunglasses hiding her face as she was waiting for Gigi to appear on the escalator.
Her flight from Little Rock had arrived less than 2 hours before Gigi’s, and even though she could have easily gone back to the apartment, she had told her that she’d wait for her.
Symone was exhausted, but she was also psyched to see her friend, their time apart feeling much longer than a week, so staying at the airport had felt like the obvious choice.
Finally she spotted her, in what looked like a brand new forest green coat with fur trim, Gigi’s red hair hidden under a green hat, her friend carrying herself like a starlet who had stepped off of an old Hollywood movie set.
“Geeg!” Symone called out, waving, and her face broke out into a huge grin as she waved back.
Once Gigi got to the bottom of the escalator, she raced forward, nearly tripping in her platform boots as she ran towards Symone, flinging herself into her arms for a huge hug, squealing out, “Hiiiii!”
“Hey girl, long time no see,” Symone said, laughing, holding her tight. Gigi smelled like airport but underneath it, she was exactly herself, her skin warm and soft, and Symone had missed her more than she was willing to admit.
Soon, the two girls were standing in front of the baggage carousel, arms linked, giggling like crazy as they caught each other up on the latest family drama and antics from their siblings while waiting for Gigi’s bags to show up.
It felt good to be back together, and Symone basked in Gigi’s attention.
It wasn’t like she had never had friends, wasn’t like she hadn't had best friends, but Gigi was special, and Symone felt her heart skip a beat as she took her hand, intertwining their fingers.
“So,” Gigi looked at her, a smile on her face. “Pizza?”
Symone laughed, but nodded, Gigi a terrible but also amazing influence. “Pizza.”
***
“Sutan told Violet he loves her.”
“What?” Trixie looked up from the onion he was chopping, and over at Katya who was sitting at the kitchen table, one hand on her stomach, her thumb rubbing back and forth, her phone in the other.
“She just texted.” Katya titled her screen, though she didn’t actually show the text.
“Haven’t they been dating for months?” Trixie turned around, pretty sure that he had heard the earliest rumors about them going out together from Pearl all the way back in september.
“Not everyone says love you after the second date sugarbutt,” Katya grinned and Trixie smiled, a delighted flush filling his cheeks.
***
Fame sighed, a sense of restlessness and uneasiness lying heavily over her. They had come back from The Farm that morning, Fame spending the early afternoon in her study rearranging her chicken figurine collection.
Patrick had found the most gorgeous ceramic Plymouth Rock figurine, the black and white chicken absolutely a masterpiece, and Fame knew that she should be happy, tinkering with her collection usually an instant source of joy, but today, she just felt…unwell.
Fame wanted to talk to Bianca, but she also didn’t want to talk to Bianca, annoyance at how she had behaved at the dinner party still dancing under her skin.
Bianca hadn’t said sorry, not beyond the hurried apology she had thrown over her shoulder as she left, in fact, she hadn’t contacted her at all besides a single text on Christmas morning.
Fame closed the glass door to her chicken cabinet, walking over to her desk to pick up her phone. She knew it was torture, but she opened her messages, tapping Bianca’s name.
BIANCA: Merry Christmas, Blondie. Let’s hang out when I’m back in Jan. XO
Fame hadn’t replied, annoyance wheeling up in her at how casually Bianca dared to act, how she attempted to sweep how hurtful she had been under the rug yet again. She had overheard Juju and Detox discussing that Bianca had left the country, but Fame had very intentionally not checked any of Bianca’s social media, though Pearl swore to her that a simple look was untrackable.
She began typing out a message, but then stopped, deleting it again. It was too late to respond now without seeming petty, and Fame hated whenever Bianca accused her of that, but they still needed to talk, needed to actually talk about what was going on.
She needed an excuse, some reason to contact Bianca and lure her into a meeting, so she wouldn’t have to show her how she was feeling in text.
Maybe she could find out if one of their regular brunch spots had added anything new to their menu, and then ask if Bianca wanted to join her.
Fame sighed yet again, the plan seeming impossible as she took a seat in her chair, the latest paper deliveries from Galactica lying in a neat stack.
If nothing else, her bad mood could be useful for tearing through some of the more dull and dry parts of her job. Fame took the top one, the weight of it depressing in itself since Fame knew it wasn’t anything fun, Alyssa amazing at her job though she also insisted on being a pain in Fame’s ass.
She made it two thirds of the way through the report before boredom overwhelmed her. She needed something interesting, something fun, and if she was lucky, she knew just where she could find it.
FAME: Hi love, I know you’re still on vacation, but if you have some time today, I would love to hear your thoughts on my sketches. :)
TRIXIE: Your sketches?
FAME: Yes. The Met ones that my office sent to you before we shut down.
TRIXIE: Let me check my computer
Fame took a bottle of Pellegrino from the little office fridge under her desk, twisting the cap and grabbing a glass as she waited for Trixie’s reply.
TRIXIE: I don’t want to get anyone in trouble
TRIXIE: But the last email I have from Courtney is about the investor meeting.
Fame rolled her eyes, absolutely exasperated at Courtney’s inability to follow through with the simplest of instructions, since she was positive that she’d told her to send the sketches.
It took three calls for her to answer her phone, and by the time she did, Fame was fuming.
“Why doesn’t Trixie have my sketches?”
“Um...well, Miss, I…” Courtney’s voice sounded shaky and tearful, which Fame didn’t understand. If she would just follow simple instructions like any assistant, she wouldn’t get scolded or lectured. Her victim act made Fame even more irritated than she was already.
“Tell me! Because Trixie says he doesn’t have them and I know I told you to take care of them-”
“I-I think they might be gone.”
“Gone?” Fame froze, a few seconds ticking by before she really understood what Courtney had said. She felt her heartbeat speed up, dread collecting in her stomach. “What do you mean gone?!” Fame could hear her tone grow shrill, and knew that there was a good chance that Charles would come running any minute, her dog always showing up when she was upset.
“Well, I was in a cab on the way back to the office and then when you called, I-I was distracted and I must have not seen them on the seat…”
“Oh god…” Fame tried to take a deep breath, tuning out Courtney’s ridiculous explanation, her incompetence so staggering that she hadn’t even been able to do something as simple as not losing Fame’s original work.
She couldn’t believe it.
Her sketches were really gone, her work lost somewhere in the city, defenseless against whoever might happen across it.
“...and I have messages in to every company that operates-”
“Enough!” Fame exploded. “I don’t care for your pitiful excuses. How could you be so absolutely irresponsible?! I have put up with all of your mistakes, your incompetence, but this is beyond anything, those were- You’ve done, this, this is unforgivable Courtney-”
The door opened, Charles annoyingly enough clever enough to work out door handles.
“Miss, I’m so sorry-”
Fame could hear that Courtney was crying, but she didn’t care, her heart hammering away in her ears, words spilling from her lips, the only thing stopping her when she heard Bianca’s voice in her ear.
“Blondie!”
“Put Courtney back on the phone-”
“No.” Bianca’s voice was stern, and Fame couldn’t believe that she was taking that tone with her, especially considering her little sex toy’s latest fuck-up. “We’re trying to enjoy dinner-”
“Bianca-”
“You can finish this rant on Monday, but for now, she’s mine. See ya soon!”
Fame heard the beep of a phone being hung up, and as she lowered it from her ear, she saw that Bianca had done just that, cutting her off, and her blood boiled.
Bianca had betrayed her yet again, and Fame could feel her heart breaking, the whole thing so terribly fucking unfair.
Fame threw her phone down on the carpet, and put her arms around Charles neck, the heavy breath of her dog in her ear as she clung to him.
***
Courtney gaped at Bianca, mouth open in shock.
“What?”
“You just hung up on Miss Fame!” she exclaimed. She wiped the tears still trickling down her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Yeah, so? She deserved it.” Bianca sipped her cocktail, shrugging.
“Bianca! That’s my boss!” The truth, that Courtney wouldn’t admit out loud, was that witnessing it had been a little bit thrilling. No one had ever defended her like that. If she wasn’t so terrified of the repercussions, she’d have been delighted.
“You wanna call her back?” Bianca asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Well...no.” Courtney lifted her hand to her mouth, smothering a nervous laugh. “Oh god, she’s gonna kill me.”
“She won’t.” Bianca reached out and took Courtney’s hand. “At least not until next Monday.”
Courtney gave a rueful smile, shoulders sagging a bit. She’d been having the best time with Bianca, every day filled with joy and excitement and love. Part of her wished that it could last forever.
But of course, it couldn’t. It was just a vacation. And tomorrow they were flying back to New York. Which in and of itself wasn’t a problem. After all, they had a fabulous New Year’s Eve party to go to, which was being hosted by Jinkx Monsoon. (The Jinkx Monsoon, who Courtney was thrilled to finally meet; she hoped she wouldn’t embarrass herself by being too much of a fangirl.)
And then a few days later, the movers would come to help her get all her things from her apartment, and she could say goodbye forever to the apartment that her friends called “The Dungeon.”
So things were looking up--at least better than they had in a long time.
But then there was work.
Courtney knew that she should be grateful for all the wonderful things in her life, but the feeling she’d gotten when she saw Fame’s name pop up on her phone had been sheer, unbridled panic. And it hadn’t gotten any better once she’d answered. The thought of going back to all that, where every move she made was wrong, where she was nothing but a fuck-up and a disappointment, was upsetting and frustrating and beyond anything just exhausting.
“What’s wrong, sunshine?” Bianca asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.
“Nothing,” Courtney said, attempting a smile, which Bianca clearly didn’t buy from the way she tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “No, it’s just...a bit of a bummer to think about work.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“I feel like someone just threw a bucket of ice water in my face and screamed at me to wake up from a beautiful dream.”
“Well…” Bianca twirled her glass by the stem, then asked, “What if you didn’t have to wake up?
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I’m not gonna tell you what to do about your job, but...it just seems like it’s making you miserable, with no upside. And worse, it’s leaving you no time to pursue the things you actually care about, like music.”
“I know, but what choice do I have? I have to work.”
“Do you?” Bianca asked, a smirk on her face, and Courtney rolled her eyes.
“Well, yeah. How else will I pay for stuff?”
Bianca shrugged nonchalantly. “You know your rent just decreased dramatically.”
“I know, but it’s not just rent. There’s my phone and student loans and credit cards and legal bills and-”
“Angel…” Bianca pulled Courtney closer, into her lap. “If money is stressing you out, then I can help you with all of that. Actually, I’d be thrilled to help you, if it allows you to follow your dreams.”
“I’m not asking for your money, B,” Courtney said, looking away. Bianca had already given her so much, and now this? What could she possibly offer in return?
“I know.” Bianca took her chin and turned her face back gently, looking into her eyes. “I know you’re not, but I’m offering. There’s a big difference.”
Courtney bit her lip, eyes falling closed as Bianca kissed up her jaw. Was this really happening? Was Bianca really offering her such an easy out to all of her problems? What was the catch? Courtney felt her throat tighten, tears pricking at her eyes.
“Let me take care of you, angel…” she whispered, and Courtney sighed against her.
“You don’t know how badly I want to say yes,” Courtney whispered back. And it was true, she did. She’d always been independent--in fact, she’d prided herself on it, and so had her parents. Even before she left home to study in America, she’d been self-sufficient. In a way, it felt like a cop-out to accept so much help from Bianca. But Courtney was tired, so very tired, of everything being hard all the time.
“Then say yes. Or at least, say you’ll think about it. You don’t have to decide tonight.”
For a few moments, Courtney gazed at her, too overwhelmed to speak.
“What?”
“Um...you just…” Courtney couldn’t say what she wanted to say, which was that Bianca was every single one of her dreams coming true. That she was sheer perfection. So instead, she said, “You just...look really cute tonight.”
A grin broke out on Bianca’s face as she asked, “Oh yeah? You approve?”
Courtney nodded. She very, very much approved. Bianca was wearing a vivid tangerine-colored dress, the color something she herself would have loved to wear (although she had to admit, it looked so good against Bianca’s skin that she’d probably hesitate to ever wear it again), and everything, even her accessories, were bright and fun and joyful. She was so beautiful, thinking about it made Courtney feel choked up once again.
“I...I don’t deserve you,” Courtney finally said, as a tear slipped down her cheek.
“You deserve the world,” Bianca told her earnestly. She leaned forward and pressed a soft, tender kiss to Courtney’s lips before moving to her cheeks, kissing away her tears.
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lazyevaluationranch · 4 years
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I was wondering if you would be willing to share the titles of your resilience-inspiring lesbian farm books? My google search led me to a book titled “Attack of the Lesbian Farmers” which, while certainly inspiring, is not exactly what I was looking for.
Here are two very different books in the Farm Lesbians Write Honestly About What Went Wrong And How They Got Through It genre. Hopefully at least one is to your taste.
It's nearly fifty years old now, and can be hard to find, but Country Women: A Handbook for the New Farmer is deeply important to me. Country Women was a black and white xeroxed magazine written by a collective of woman-run farms in California in the 1960s. (There are some issues scanned at the Lesbian Poetry Archive). Each issue was half articles about feminism and half articles about small-scale farming. In the 1970s, the how-to articles on farming were expanded and organized to make the book, along with some scattered journal entries, lovely hippie-style line drawings and poetry about wood splitting, bees, and gazing at one's beloved while fixing the tractor on a summer day. The contributors have names like Jean and Ruth Mountaingrove, Ellen Chanterelle, and Sam♀ Thomas. 
It's written in an informal and pragmatic style, mostly organic hippie farming, but using pesticides or conventional medications when necessary.
This afternoon the Anderson brothers began teaching me how to graft fruit trees - the careful joining of life with life. Even more than I loved gaining a new skill, I loved learning from two old men who have so very much to teach me. I admire the audacity of eighty-three-year-old men setting grafts that will not bear fruit for years: the total involvement in a process they love. Those trees will stand and live; I doubt whether Jake or Fred even stop to wonder if they'll pick the fruit. I want to live my life with that kind of harmony and purpose. I want to be planting seeds the day I die.
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The first lamb was born today. Premature and dead. Olivia, the mother, seems to be all right though. I had a dream a few weeks ago that the lambs were born tiny (like mice) and pink. And that I struggled to save them, but they were too small to feed. The lamb today was small and pink, its fleece plastered against its body, thin and sparse. For a moment it was nightmareishly like my dream... This is my first animal death. The beginning of a long cycle. It seems even harder to have death come before life, than to have an old one die giving birth. Hopes for the future stillborn.
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Driving home today, I suddenly realized that this really is going to be a sheep ranch, that I have done, and am doing, and will do it. That I'm making my livelihood from the land. The canyon is fenced now. There are  sheep out there on pastures that were open hillsides two years ago. 
The very act of building this place, the simple actions of tamping dirt, stretching wire, dumping hay in feeders, has profoundly changed my sense of self. I'm doing things I never dreamed I could do, and I'm doing them easily without even considering whether I really can. Last night I was talking with Susan about fencing the front meadow for feeder calves, and I realized that I could say that realistically, no fantasizing, no bragging: I can fence the front meadow as soon as I get done with the hay barn and get a little more money.
Like almost every other farmer in America today, I'm in debt and hoping for a good season. I'm only at the beginning now, and I know there are many struggles to come and overcome and come again: Someday I too, like my neighbours, will be counting carcasses killed by a marauding dog or watching the spring oats be wash away in an "unheard of" late storm. No matter how prepared I am, there us always that vulnerability - to the weather, other animals, disease - that seems to strike when things are finally going smoothly. But inside me there is also this incredible joy: This life is real and good, and it has made me strong and real and good too. 
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I gotta stop or I'll type the whole book into this post. One more: 
My father is here this week ... working on the truck whose engine has been alien to me. I am learning now what I could have learned at 7, 11, 15. Beneath my truck, side by side, lie his seven-year-old son and his twenty-five-year-old daughter, both of us learning for the first time how bearings fit together, how to remove pistons. And here beneath this truck the patriarchy stops: he has passed his knowledge to his daughter, and from me  it will pass to sisters, from sister to sister to sister. 
That's this book. The things women weren't supposed to know in the sixties. They found people to teach them; they taught each other; they learned through bitter loss. The book says: we have gone before you and you are not alone. Here is what we have learned, and here is how we have learned it. We have failed, and we have wept, and we have gotten up and gone on, and it was alright. Here is the fire, passed from hand to hand to hand. Here is the light that will never be put out. 
The week after we first got goats, we received a package in the mail from my coolest relative, a veterinarian who was the first woman to graduate with a specialization in large animal medicine at her school. People thought that women just weren't physically capable of handling large animals. (Hint: the bull weights 1100 kilograms. It doesn't much matter if the veterinarian weighs 50 kilograms or 150 kilograms.) I remember staying with her a child, in summer, laying on the stainless steel operating table in the barn; it always felt cool when the heat was unbearable.
The package, of course, contained Country Women. An old well-loved copy, with notes on long-ago calving dates penciled in the margins, and random scraps of paper with sketches of possible gardens and goat sheds as bookmarks.  A light passed from hand to hand, a light that will not go out. It was like receiving a video game quest artifact.
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Country Women is rooted in second wave feminism, which is not everyone's cup of tea. For something more modern and story-focussed, consider Hit By A Farm or Sheepish by Catherine Friend. These are collections of short, funny autobiographical essays about farming and relationships. Their tone is honest and wry, self-deprecating. You can see Catherine Friend's blog here and decide if you like her writing style. She wanted to call Hit By A Farm "Sheep Sex and Other Disasters" but her editor didn't think it would sell. 
In Hit By A Farm, Catherine - a professional writer - goes along with her partner Melissa's lifelong desire to ranch sheep, and describes the results from the perspective of the slightly reluctant farmer's wife as they start a farm in Minnesota.  Sheepish is written fifteen years later, when they're thinking about quitting the farm, after all the shiny newness of farming and the relationship has worn off. There are different mistakes then, different sorrows, and new joys. 
From Sheepish: 
We rarely pay attention to middles. Perhaps we ignore them because they're problematic. The middles of our beds often sag. The middles of our bodies sag. The middle of a long story told by your brother-in-law is likely to sag, and so you'll need another beer to stay focused. Everyone needs a reason to keep going when they're in the middle. 
And:
Don't expect a farm to fix your life, for once the romance dims, you must still muck out the barn and stack hay bales and give that sick goat an enema...Although there are tons of stories about starting something new, there just aren't that many about how to keep doing something, about how to slog through the middle when the going gets tough.
The quotes are all from Sheepish; I can't find our copy of Hit By A Farm:
My spinning wheel continues to torture and confound me. I realize I'm not interested enough in the craft to really commit to learning it. After a few more tries, I tuck the wheel into a corner of our living room and turn it into what Melissa likes to call a Dust Accumulation Research Project. Clearly our wool market will continue to be the wildly unlucrative wholesale warehouse.
The patron saint of spinners is, interestingly enough, Saint Catherine. She was a Christian martyr in Alexandria. In 307 AD, she was condemned to be torn apart by the spokes of the wheel.
Well. No wonder.
Spoiler: things get pretty rough, there’s illness and hard winters and financial issues, but they do not, in fact, give up the farm or each other. 
The book says: We made it. You will too.
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lampoest · 3 years
Text
Unfiltered thoughts watching mission impossible rouge nation inspired by @chaotically-cas
(sorry its so long my brain is all over the place)
this is also part 14 of me watching it every day :/
CURSING WARNING !! ALSO SPOILERS !!!
why is brandt first to speak
starting out with "shit" good call benji
brandt man we get the package is on the mcfucking plane
badass luther 10/10
nervous benji 10/10
that one sound effects sounds like the discord notif
why he in a fancy suit
*jumps on a plane with almost no plan on getting inside*
why did tom cruise think this was agood idea?
but like why would benji even open the ramp?
how is he not winded from that?
classic ethan
THE INTRO 1000/10
SOLOMON LANE !!
wait you can already see lane in the record shop.
how do they tell the agents these little convos?
also damn way to give it away
what if someone just looked in that room and saw the secret message?
also how did the disc get changed? because the imf definitely didnt make that
and how did lane know where he was going?
speaking of lane---
dang that man is pretty
he always sets guns down carefully
i can only see alec baldwin as trump from his snl skits so i dont take hunley seriously ;-;
damn brandt needs to step it up. man keeps letting himself be inturrupted
bruh the imf is only luck
why did no one resrict his legs?
also why is janik such an asshole?
dang she cool !!
why does it take janik so long to get that gun?
bravo-echo 1-1
this man is bleeding but decided instead of taking care of his wound he calls brandt.
i like how you actually see ethan worried and confused trying to plan his next moves. he is rarely caught off guard so it's refreshing to see his more human side
hunley spitting accusations damn bro
also a big fuck you from ethan to hunley
dang ethan is good
brandts little hidden smile
and ethan leaving trails
bitch how you sketch that good???
STAN BENJI !!
youve won, your way out of a job
benji is good
my little brandt x benji shipper in me is happy
simon pegg is such a good actor
the first time i saw this i was like: aww noooo
all dunn with that
TO THE OPERA !!!
TUX BENJI TUX BENJI
i cant tell if that was ethan
it just looks like youre talking to yourself thats more sus than using a phone
want drama? go to the opera
ok but like if you look like that im sorry you are a bad guy. thats like a stereotypical bad guy face
benji-
you can see ethan in the background of that scene
flute gun flute gun
oh no benji is in the closet. dont worry man we love you
if i were there and i just had a good vantage point i could find lane in an instant
ooh ilsa pretty
pipe gun
also pamphlet computer
those key things are cool and plausible
spiderman spiderman does whatever, ethan hunt can?
a W O M A N
what W O M A N?
reminds me of a marshmallow gun i made out if pvc pipes.
why does she not put that thing back?
also the dude loads it and then later it is unloaded
dang that guy is pretty tall.
ethan is so tiny
dis bitch is like uhh gimmie a sec to catch my breath mate
why he only dropkick people?
only 30 mins in ?!?!
the cinematography is exquisite
yes benji goin sicko mode
*gets shot* just a flesh wound
bruh i would've been so startled at that
i love how confused he is at that
ilsa saves ethan once again
they did this on the first day of filming
skdjs
ah yes random package in car = not bomb totally
if she tried to shoot benji then yes she is a bad person
but she didnt try to, she could've easily but didn't
benji being paranoid
she could just say the dude's name
benji being scared
hunley jumping to conclusions
brandt actually cares yeey
why di they approach from different sides of the street they were in the same car.
benji was far away from the sparks why he flinch?
friendship goals
oop plot dump that only mission impossible can get away with
ok...
why this mf's voice so smooth
lane is struggling with chopsticks
also lane :))))
ive chocked on my water so many times watching this scene
lanes voice :))))))
SHE RUINED HIS SUSHI WHAT THE FUCK ILSA
this man dont know what personal space is
gotta look up these peeps mbti types
casablanca references
also benji is wearing dollar store lookin glasses while ethan is wearing some fancy glasses
luther is top notch
as much as i dont like jeremy renner he delivers these lines really well
because atlee is a bitch
oh honey please, impossible is a walk in the park
benji just wants to wear a mask
id be so nervous walking through those
yes...
personal wellbeing who?
why not bring a plastic bottle full of air?
tom cruise can hold his breath for 6 minutes and he learned to do so for that scene
luther big brain
damn cctv
why did they need to break in while benji was going in?
das sus but ok
also isnt et voila french?
she just randomly tapping the ipad
benji being stressed
if he missed the exact center
i want one of those to open my locker's lock
if he just went with the current and didnt try to force his way against the water ilsa wouldn't have had to save him
imagine if he put the wrong one in-
she is breathing heavily to over saturate her body with oxygen so she can hold her breath longer
see ilsa makes it out without well and she went with the current
BENJI'S OUTFIT YESSS :))))))
no you didn't
you gave her a false sense of security
ethan's confused face for the next like 10 mins is great
liar
why does that one man look like sean ambrose?
parkour
skdjdksjdjdkfjs
the facial acting in this
STAIRS STAIRS STAIRS
the glare yesss
vrrrm vrrm
hey its you !
drivin like a grandma
shit !
benji just screaming
im convinced that ethan is indestructible
no you didn't survive that
bonk
dskfh
ethan didnt just-
also why didnt benji just tell ethan he made a copy ???
dont shoot and drive kids
high speed motorcycle chase with no helmet or leather. tom cruise, how?
i wanna learn how to drive a motorcycle
HOW THE FUCK IS HE NOT DEAD YET ?!?!
the lighting
ofc brandt would be the person why sits backwards on a chair. fkn bi vibes
benji to the rescue
fuck off atlee
i am so proud of us ...
the lines are done so well here
benji lookin like how i look when my parents argue
YES THIS SCENE
LANE LANE LANE LANE LANE
im too fucking gay for this movie-
once again no personal space
*inhales* :))))))))))))))
ive like memorized the entire script of this including the music
1 man performance of m:i5 ???
benji's outfit
also i love how youre able to see the characters in the background. props for the attention to detail
i need that haircut because his hair is lookin A+
fuck you atlee
ilsa spitting straight facts
uhh ilsa he still loves julia
NO BENJI NOOOO
EW FUCK OFF JANIK NO ONE LIKES YOU
speak of the devil-
betrayal--
WOULDNT YOU LIKE TO KNOW WEATHER BOY !??
actin sus
BENJI LANE BENJI LANE
his posture shdhskhsj (i cant be talking though)
0 personal space whatsoever
why does everyone have the same haircut in this???
simon mcburney pretending to be hunt prentending to be atlee
manipulation !?
the syndicate you say ? i know a thing or two about them 😼😼😼
damn though renner delivers these lines really well
a black tie? how informal. ..
complimenting hunt right infront of him
but he really didnt
i never realized that they were on the clock for this
huh...
the lil head nod though-
HAHA YEAH FUCK YOU ATLEE
is it bad that i hate atlee more than i hate lane?
ethan big smart wrinkle brain
janik just reading a fucking magazine
ethan has a photographic memory
oh look its benji :)))
lane :))))
ethan being tough
it must be aquward to get the low angle shots
lane is running out the clock to put pressure on ethan hmmm big brain
it isnt working though :\
damn he so cocky that hes telling the villain his plan
ill give you 1/5 of the money you wanted to get my bf back
ok but like does tom cruise just not age?
kill the woman
ugh i hate janik
the trust that is shown between those two is great
yes the score and the chase are so great
also this man really hates windows for some reason
fuck off janik
sneaky sneaky
EYY ITS LANE !!!
yeyy janik is dead
once again dodging bullets and hating glass
couldve killed him but needed him alive
the glass box
badass ethan
all the pretty men assembled
lane really let himself go aster this
dang though lane is my favorite villain ever
i like how for once the girl and the guy just are friends instead of romantically involved
eyy the callbacks to how the movie started.
welcome to the imf
63 notes · View notes
miraculouslycool · 3 years
Text
kill ‘em with kindness
Merry Christmas Affiebear! (Sorry I couldn’t tag you on Tumblr)
I’m your secret santa for the APS Secret Santa Event of 2020!  Word on the street is that you are Marichat trash so take this fluff dump - I hope you enjoy it! Happy Holidays!
Summary: When Marinette turns to Chat Noir for his opinion about a present for Adrien Agreste, he is at a loss for words.
Was it because he never got presents? Was it because how perfect and flawless her present was? Was it because of her kindness? Was it because when he thought no one cared for him, she was right there all along? Was it because he did not know what he had done to deserve her?
Was it because of Marinette?
He had no clue.
Read in AO3:
"Pound it!" Ladybug bumped fists with her partner.
"Well this was a terribly close call." Chat Noir stretched obnoxiously. "But there's nothing we can't handle, can we, m'lady?"
"Well you're right there. Except for all your taunting." Ladybug rolled her eyes.
"Oh come on, Hawkmoth akumatises XY because he gets cancelled online for throwing a tantrum?" Chat Noir exclaimed.
"You gotta admit it's a little funny, even if he was a pain in the neck."
"Your musical puns were way off-key."
"Well he did get akumatised because he got caught for plagiarism - heeeeeeyyyyy you made a pun!"
Ladybug stiffened. Oh no. He was not going to shut up about it. Seriously, was he rubbing off on her?
"What's wrong, m'lady?" He leaned in. "Would being in sync with me be such a bad thing?"
'Well if he was, maybe it wasn't a bad thing.' She thought fondly, pushing him away by the tip of his nose.
"Getting to be as loud and obnoxious as you for the rest of my life? Very tempting, mon chaton."
"You know it!" He did a small salute, grinning at her so widely it must be hurting his cheeks.
She knew better than anyone that Chat Noir was basically an adrenaline junkie, but why did it seem like he was happier than usual today?
He particularly enjoyed the fight today, taking extra pleasure in dodging hits and deflecting those that came her way.
At one point she almost heard him groan when she set the purified akuma free, but that must have been her imagination.
Not that she would know if it was, but was it a special occasion that she had forgotten about?
"Besides, it's too early for this." The 15 year old superhero shrugged, shaking those confused thoughts away.
Her earrings beeped. "I really need to s-cat." She intonated deliberately. "See you?"
"You need to leave?" He asked abruptly.
"Yeah, I'm kind of almost late for something." She said absent-mindedly. "See you tomorrow for patrol?"
He didn't answer for a while, and that made her look up.
He could not have looked more different from the happy-go-lucky kitten from just a few seconds ago.
The ever-present smile on his face had sagged a little, but it was determined to stay.
"Yeah, see you!" He waved stiffly.
"Chat, is everything okay?" She asked worriedly, touching his shoulder.
"Yeah, why wouldn't it be?" He asked, way too innocently. She watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he gulped.
Tearing her eyes away from the long column of his throat, (seriously why was she even looking there?) she faced his eyes again. His very green eyes that thinly hid the discomfort behind them.
"Nothing, you just seemed off," Ladybug pressed on. "Are you absolutely sure you're okay?"
"Maybe-" he said, taking her hand from his shoulder, "-this cat just can't bear to be away from his lady for far too long." He kissed her knuckles leisurely. "Purr-haps he misses her too much."
"Sure he does." She meant for it to come off as teasing, barely toeing the line of friendly and flirty, but if anything it came off as even more concerned.
"Don't worry, m'lady. I just remembered something I have to do today at the last minute." He said.
"Do you need help? Is there anything I can do?" She asked, her mind already making up plans for a problem she didn't even know anything about beyond its existence.
"Un-fur-tune-ately, I can't say anything without giving away my secret identity." He shrugged. "Besides it's nothing serious. Just a quick errand I need to run."
His drooped shoulders had straightened up again in the speed of light.
"Okay." Ladybug murmured, sneaking a peek at his still-flattened cat ears. "If you say so."
She climbed on the ledge of the roof, preparing to take off. "See you tomorrow?" She asked.
"I'll be counting the seconds, m'lady." He bowed dramatically.
She couldn't even muster a laugh at that, like she usually would have. Her rapidly beating heart was taking up all her energy.
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"I'm here!!" Marinette declared with a loud shriek as she ran into her first class of the day.
"I'm so sorry I'm late, madame!" She bowed stiffly at her teacher's desk. "I had an assignment to finish and I stayed up late ironing my dog and I-"
To her surprise, she was cut off by her entire class laughing.
"Don't worry, Marinette." Alya called, making Marinette turn around. "You actually turned up earlier than Her Royal Majesty."
And that only made everyone laugh even louder. She faced the desk again, ready to flinch against her teacher's glare only to find out she had been bowing to an empty desk.
"Eep!" Marinette's cheeks colored in embarrassment as she turned to face her classmates' fond laughter.
"How's the dog doing, Marinette?" Alix catcalled.
Marinette made herself smaller as she walked to her seat next to Alya.
"I didn't mean to say that!" She protested, fuming.
Turning to her best friend, she whispered, "I only meant-"
"You were ironing your Adrien posters?" Alya giggled in a whisper.
"Alya!" Marinette flushed.
"I know, girl. Only teasing." She patted her back.
It was only then Marinette realized the lack of a certain blond mop of hair in her sight.
"Where's Adrien?" She asked. "Is he not coming to school today?"
"Hm, I'm not sure," Alya said, when Nino turned around to answer Marinette. "He's not coming to school for today, actually."
"What?" Marinette said, aghast, before toning it down. "Ahem, I mean, how come?"
Nino's face fell a little. "Well...um, how do I say this?"
Marinette glanced at Alya, who looked just as confused as she was.
"It's his mom's birthday." Nino winced.
Both girls gasped.
"Oh no," Alya said sympathetically.
"So, you know, he has to stay home and everything 'cause his father insists on having this memorial and everything." Nino looked more and more uncomfortable as he spoke, like he was imagining himself in Adrien's place the whole time. "And by memorial I mean piling more work on the poor kid."
"Why didn't any of us know?" Marinette asked, her heart twanging painfully for her crush- er, friend. "We could have done something, we could have at least told him-"
"I don't know, Marinette, but you two know how shy he is about these things." Nino said, ducking even more under his cap.
"That's true." Alya said thoughtfully, letting Nino entwine his fingers with her hand as his thumb caressed her knuckles. "He almost never talks about what's going on at home, does he?"
(Maybe now wasn't a good time to feel envious of Alya and Nino's ease when it came to affection, but it was hard not to.)
Marinette straightened her thoughts.
Her crush on him had no less faded over the last year. Her heart still beat loudly at even the slightest brush of his skin against hers, but Marinette was proud of herself for realizing that talking to Adrien normally and foaming at the mouth were mutually exclusive.
And as his friend, she couldn't let Adrien be alone at a time like this!
Not like she could actually ever get into his house unless she risked Tikki's wrath by abusing her powers.
"I can hear the gears in your brain turning, Marinette." Alya poked her shoulder. "What are you thinking?"
"Nino?" Marinette said hesitantly. "If I made Adrien something to cheer him up, and gave it to him, would he consider it insensitive?"
Nino immediately brightened up. "No way, dude! He would love something like that! Especially from you!"
"Especially from me?" Marinette paraphrased.
"Uh, what Nino means to say is that no one would ever refuse a gift as sweet as that!" Alya said through gritted teeth. "You just know a softie like Adrien would melt at your declaration of-"
"-Alya!" Marinette interjected.
"-friendship!" Alya finished, but Marinette was a 100 percent sure that was not what she was going to say. "Besides girl, who are we to stop you from a creative spree?"
Marinette sighed in relief. The last thing she needed was a conversation about her love life. She was NOT going to use this as an opportunity to confess.
"I don't think you'll be able to see him though. You'd have to mail it to him. Just like I'm gonna put his notes in that large mailbox you can't even open." Nino sounded disgruntled.
"Oh." Marinette said, her spirits sinking. Giving the present in person would have been nice. Seeing Adrien's handsome face hopefully brighten up as he opened it....
"Well, it doesn't really matter. As long as he gets it, am I right?" She said, ignoring the painful wiggle in her chest.
"Yep, don't forget to sign it, and you'll be fine." Alya teased, much to Marinette's chagrin.
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Finding a picture of Emilie Agreste was easy enough. She was an actress, after all.
But finding one of her with Adrien in it? Looks like Gabriel Agreste was talented at keeping his private life private. She couldn't find any picture or even some sort of information that would help in sketching her portrait for Adrien.
"Uh, Marinette?" Tikki landed on her shoulder. "I don't think you'll need information about Mme. Agreste's movies to draw a portrait of her."
"No, I know that, Tikki, it's just..." she put her phone down and looked at the bare boned sketch in her tablet. "I needed something to prove to myself that I'm not drawing the picture of a ghost." She gulped. "It's crazy how if it weren't for these official photos, it's almost like...."
"...she never existed?" Tikki said ominously. "Yes." Marinette sighed. "I can't imagine how Adrien must be feeling right now."
She couldn't fathom waking up one day and being told that one of her parents had gone forever, never to return.
It was too unbearable. How did Adrien live with it everyday?
"That's why he's so lucky to have friends like you, Marinette!" Tikki said encouragingly. "This is so thoughtful of you!"
"I guess..." Marinette mumbled.
"You could...maybe look up some movie stills?" Tikki suggested.
"No, Tikki, this has to be perfect!" Marinette said. "I doubt he wants his mom to look so...manufactured." she grumbled. "And I really want to draw him in too... I can always use one of his photos as reference but - what if Adrien thinks I'm insensitive for reminding him about the very thing he's trying to forget?! And then he'll hate me forever!" She catastrophized.
"Oh, Marinette." Tikki shook her tiny head. "You know, someone very wise told me that the most important thing about a present is the person giving it."
"Who said that?"
"You did!" Tikki said. "And you know that Adrien wouldn't ever say that to you."
"Yeah...he's too kind to say something bad about my lame drawing."
"Nuh uh." Tikki flew directly up to Marinette's nose. "No negative thoughts. You are going to make a beautiful painting, filled with a lot of love, Adrien is going to absolutely love your present."
Marinette half-smiled. "Thanks, Tikki. What would I do without you?"
Tikki paused to kiss Marinette's forehead. "You gonna be okay?"
"Yes." Marinette said determinedly, keeping an eye on the two photos open in her monitor as she began to sketch.
She had no idea how long she had been drawing, but for some reason her eyes kept on drifting towards the little cat toy she and Chat Noir used to communicate with each other.
Her kitty was pretty out of it today. Was he doing okay? Did his errand go well? What had made him look so disappointed?
Well, he always did look a little sad every time they had to part ways, but she always assumed it had something to do with not being able to see each other as much as they would like.
She knew because she felt the same. In a world full of school assignments, commissions, half worded excuses and akuma attacks, it was practically impossible to imagine it all without Chat Noir. He was one of the few constants in her whirlwind of a life.
Was he doing okay?
"Hey, Tikki?"
"Yes, Marinette?" She looked up from chewing on her cookie.
"Do you think Chat Noir is okay?"
"Ah, but that's a question only Chat Noir can answer."
"That does not help." Marinette grumbled. "Would I be prying if I asked today how his day went? I'm the one enforcing the secret identity rules after all."
"Just talk to him, I'm sure he'd be open to discussing things a little."
"You sure I won't make him uncomfortable? That's the last thing I want to do."
"He's your partner, Marinette, if you can't talk hypothetically with him, who can you talk to?" She said. "Literally." She added after a beat.
Marinette mustered a chuckle, eyeing the kitty toy one last time. "If you say so." She returned to sketching Adrien's vivid green eyes which so resembled his mother's.
And Chat Noir's.
Adrien needed to get away.
That was all he wanted out of life. To get away from his current one.
Staying put in his room for 13 years couldn't have been all there was to life. So he escaped to public school.
Being kind, polite, engaging yet restrained couldn't have been all there was to engage in conversations. A ring and a tiny trickster god gave him an escape route for that.
Maybe, just maybe, in an island far away, where no one could find him, where no one except Ladybug had to put up with him willingly, he wouldn't have to hold back fearing his father's reaction on his mother's birthday of all days.
He felt bad about leaving Nino on read, he felt worse upon learning that his father would not be joining him for dinner AGAIN.
For once, Plagg didn't complain, and he was grateful.
He vaulted out of his window and ran as far as he could. Maybe not the smartest of moves - as a superhero he did technically know the city better than most people.
He was also that kid trapped in a gilded cage for most of his formative years.
His feet took him somewhere, for all he cared he could have ended up in his dream island with Ladybug waiting for him there and he wouldn't have noticed.
A stitch in his side made him stop in his tracks.
His knee hit the narrow roof he had landed on.
'That's weird.' he thought. He usually had no problem running marathons in his super suit.
He grunted, panting heavily as he slid down the chimney. Was even his body refusing to co-operate today? The ONE time he wanted to run away for a few minutes - and of course he practically collapses on a stranger's roof.
'Unbelievable.'
Who was he kidding? He was the superhero of bad luck. What was he expecting, really?
A glint of a streetlight caught his attention.
He could see his school!
Which meant...the house he was sitting on-
"Such a clear night out, don't you think?"
Adrien jumped skittishly, only nearly catching himself at the edge of the roof.
Crap.
Maybe she hadn't heard him?
"Who's there?!" He heard her call out cautiously.
Ok. Maybe she thought it was a LITERAL cat.
"I can hear you!" he heard her, much more braver this time. "I am armed!"
Just when everything was going wrong today, he just had to scare Marinette too.
"WOAH!" He revealed himself, his hands up in surrender. "No need for a catfight, princess. It's just me."
"Chat Noir?" Marinette put down her...potted plant?
"You weren't gonna plant evidence of a murder, were you?" he joked, trying to calm down his rapidly beating heart.
She placed her hands on her hips. "Very funny."
He landed on her railing. "Sorry." he said apologetically. "I was just passing by and I accidentally slid off your roof. I didn't mean to frighten you."
"Oh, that's okay." she waved it off. "I wasn't THAT scared."
Adrien's breath hitched a little once he finally got to look at his friend. She was wearing a cardigan over her pink and white pajamas.
And her hair was down.
"Did something happen?" Marinette asked. "Is there an akuma out?"
Her blue eyes glinted with dangerous anxiety.
He didn't understand why he found that...alluring? Of course she would be cautious about having akumas out and about. She lived in Paris just like everyone else.
"No, no." He clarified. "I was out and about. You know, just wanted to get some fresh air and look over my favourite city." he said half-heartedly.
"What about Ladybug?" she asked with a small smile. "Are you two patrolling together today?"
He winced.
"Um...no. Not today. She's probably getting some well-deserved rest, I think." he scratched the back of his neck nervously.
"Oh. I see." Marinette said shortly. "Good for her."
"Don't let me keep you!" Chat said hurriedly. "I'll just be off-"
"Wait!" Marinette stopped him, her hand on his shoulder.
"Are you okay?" she asked, taking her hand away, but the concern still remained.
He was momentarily distracted by her pushing back one of the strands of hair away from her face.
Fisting his itching fingers, he tried to appear confused.
"Yes, why wouldn't I be?"
She narrowed her eyes, looking at him up and down. "You look exhausted."
"Pffffft."
He didn't know why his knee jerk reaction was to laugh.
Marinette looked at him like he had grown an extra tail.
"Don't worry, ma princesse, these suits are immune to exhaustion."
"But you're not." she said flatly, making him blink. "There's still a normal person behind the mask, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days."
"Oh come on, it was only yesterday and today!" he said defensively.
"Chat Noir!" Marinette exclaimed.
"I don't see you tucking yourself in."
"Yeah, well, I'm not a superhero with a duty to the city now, am I? You need the extra sleep more than I do."
He opened his mouth to retort, but there was nothing witty about silence.
"I rest my case." she said, smugly smiling at him.
"I just couldn't sleep, okay?" he sighed, brushing his hair back. "Things...are going on in my life."
He almost found himself elaborating before realising that he still wore a mask.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Marinette asked him kindly.
Putting Marinette in danger was the last thing he wanted.
"I don't think I can explain fully." he said, truly disappointed. "Identity rules and all that."
"Oh." a flicker of sadness passed through her face, before she straightened up.
"You don't have to tell me everything! But is there anything else I can do to help?"
'Not unless you can magically find my mother again.' he thought pitifully.
"Thank you, Marinette. You're one of the kindest people I know and I really appreciate it, but there's not much I can do so..."
"Well." Marinette didn't seem to want to give up on him. "I came up here to make a present for my cr- I mean friend, and I have cookies! Do you want to rest here for a while?"
Cookies.
Cookies sounded great.
Some time with his friend sounded absolutely incredible too.
"If it's not too much of a bother..."
"Get down, you silly cat!" she laughed in a tinkling echo, pulling on his arm impatiently.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten something sweet.
What a way to break a fast.
"Careful, you're gonna mold your teeth together." A finger poked his cheek playfully.
"Hm?" He started, his mouth still full of chocolate chip cookies. "Whaffyoumen?" he burbled.
Oops. It probably wasn't a good idea to talk with his mouth full. He could almost feel Nathalie's disapproving glare on him.
But Marinette only choked out a chuckle. "You should see your face right now!"
He slowly swallowed, taking in how her entire body moved when she laughed. Her slender shoulders shook in mirth...and was she wiping tears from her eyes?
"Well, can you blame me?" he said, stifling the surprise he felt at his voice sounding normal. He hadn't even realised that he had swallowed his food.
"The Dupain-Cheng cookies are out of this world!" he hummed appreciatively as he bit into another cookie. "This stray cat is probably gonna linger for a long time, disturbing your good night's sleep all for a taste of your legendary cookies, and you will have no one but yourself to blame." he warned seriously, leaning against the wooden frame of the side of Marinette's deck chair.
"Well I hope the stray knows he is always welcome here." Marinette said, putting her e-marker down.
He blinked, taken aback at her very forward words.
He really was joking. He wasn't really going to come back again and again like a creep and intrude on Marinette's night.
"And I'm probably the biggest night owl I know." she shrugged. "I'm always up sewing or drawing or something or the other."
"Wow, no wonder you're always late to school." he blurted without thinking.
Marinette stiffened, slowly raising her head to look at him.
"How did you know I was always late to school?" she narrowed her eyes at him.
Crap.
Why couldn't he keep his big mouth shut? Now he had gone and babbled to Marinette - and Ladybug was going to have his skin for this-
"I...didn't?" he stammered, thinking quickly. "But now I do!" he schooled his expression into a joking one. "Tsk, tsk, Marinette, it's not good for kids to be so tardy-hey!"
He was cut off by Marinette slamming a throw pillow into his face. "You-you trickster!"
"But I didn't do anything!" He let out a broken laugh, trying to dodge Marinette's well-placed hits.
"I wasn't the one who accused myself of being late!"
"I wasn't the one who confirmed it!" He chuckled as the pillow hit his shoulder, along with a hard hit from her knuckles. "But I bet you're in detention all the time."
"I'll have you know I'm a star student!" Marinette sat up straight, lifting her shoulders proudly. "I am perfectly capable of keeping up with all my work."
Well, he knew she wasn't wrong. Marinette was one of their best students and Adrien had often found himself wondering just how she kept up with all her work.
"My a-paw-logies, purrincess." he bowed his head deeply. "I had no idea your talents made you more than just a pretty girl. And that's saying something, coming from the prettiest cat in all of Paris." he flaunted obnoxiously.
"You silly cat." Marinette rolled her eyes, and his breath hitched.
Something about this was vaguely familiar. The proud tone of voice, the firm set of her chin, the slight glare in her eyes - like he was a challenge she was not afraid of.
Of course he knew that Marinette possessed a lot of qualities he would associate with Ladybug. Her kindness, her bravery, her headstrong nature, her blue eyes, her silky hair that no doubt reminded him of his fantasies of a Ladybug with her hair down.
"Are you feeling better?" she asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Adrien felt ashamed of himself. Here she was, being impossibly more kind to him than he deserved, and here he was, acting beyond stupidly.
Marinette was a pretty girl, he had always known that, he wasn't going to deny it, but he wasn't going to fixate on it anymore.
Besides, Ladybug was the only one for him...right?
"Believe me," he reached out to hold her hand. "Talking about the new UMS update and shoving cookies down my throat is exactly what I needed."
He squeezed her hand and let go, partly embarrassed that he really wanted to kiss it and partly furious that he had even considered that.
“You’re amazing, Marinette. I really hope you know that.”
Now it was her turn to be embarrassed. “Oh stop, I didn’t do anything, I really enjoy your company anyway. But I’m really glad you’re feeling better!"
She did much more than she thought. Somehow a half an hour of proximity to Marinette’s radiance did wonders to his mood.
"Thanks." he said, the smile playing easily on his lips.
"Oh come on!" Marinette sighed exasperated, pointing to her tablet.
It was scattered on its back on the pillow which Marinette had used to bonk him.
"Oops, sorry, princess!" He said hastily, picking it up and turning it on.
He breathed a sigh of relief when it flickered on. The last thing he wanted was to inconvenience Marinette with his clownery.
"What were you drawing anyway?" he asked, grinning up at her. "Another incredible design worthy of the front cover of Vogue?"
He glanced down at the screen, and Marinette snatched her tablet away quickly.
One second was enough to register what he had seen.
"Uh, ah, not exactly...?" Marinette stammered. "I-it's nothing! I was just trying out some new sketches and stuff!! I'm always drawing dresses and that gets boring after a while don't you think?!" she let out a very loud, and nervous laugh.
Chat was sure his mind was playing tricks on him.
His mother was on his mind all day, so obviously the first thing he saw on a screen would be a very detailed and meticulous sketch of a portrait of him and his mother.
"Uh, is that the Agreste kid?" he gulped. "I recognize him from all the billboards and stuff."
"N-no! It's not! Like I said, I was just practicing sketching people and this was the first thing that popped up in google!" she dropped the tablet again on her lap to flail her arms around. "It's nothing!!"
Not that he was able to register her art in complete detail - but the first thing about it that caught his eye was well, his eyes.
"May I...?" he asked gently, holding out a gloved hand.
He waited for her to give the tablet to him, (which strangely brought about a sense of deja vu regarding an umbrella) and peered at the drawing.
It was the color of leaves, the color of grass, the kind of shade that made one slack-jawed at its brilliance.
He was always told that his almond shaped eyes were beautiful, but it's not like he ever cared for things like that.
Marinette was flustered and nervous, a lot, but she wasn't the kind to falsely exaggerate things.
Why did Marinette draw him like that? So expressive? So full of life?
One look at the beautiful, smiling woman with her arms around his shoulders gave him the answer.
Whoever said it was easy to know the worth of our loved ones wasn't wrong. His mum was smiling for the camera, but her green eyes (the same shade as his) were peering down at him lovingly.
Tears pricked at the back of his eyes but he forced them back.
He missed her. He missed how she used to play the piano for him, how she would let him place his tiny hands over hers while she taught him the chords, how she used to be a fan of every tv show he watched, how her voice reading a bedtime story used to be the only thing that would rock him to sleep.
He cleared his throat and said, "It looks stunning, Marinette. You are so talented!!"
Marinette deserved the praise. His blubbering could wait for now.
"R-really?"
For the first time, Marinette was actually shy in front of Chat Noir. "T-thank you."
"Is there a story behind this?" he asked, handing her tablet back.
"I mean, it's curious how of all people you chose the Agrestes." he tried to come off as conversational and not desperate.
"Well, I...promise me you won't laugh?"
"Is it a joke I will laugh at?" He raised an eyebrow.
(Oh no, what if it was a joke?! What if Marinette was just practicing and he went and made it more serious than it actually is-)
"Chat!" she snapped.
"Okay, okay, I promise." he drew a cross over his heart. "Feline's honour."
"Okay." Marinette took a deep breath before answering. "You know how Adrien Agreste is in my class?"
"Yeah!" he said a bit too enthusiastically before reeling himself in. "I mean, I've seen him around." he amended.
"Okay so, today is his late mother's birthday." she mumbled, twiddling her thumbs.
"You know-?"
"Not that I researched it!" she practically yelled. "His best friend told me! And he was pretty worried because Adrien didn't come to school and I was worried too - because well, uh, I really can't imagine how awful he must be feeling and I just wanted to make him something so that he could feel better....?"
Words were failing him.
She must have taken his silence for disgust because she prattled on. "I would have finished it sooner and mailed it to him but its so PERSONAL and I didn't want to be insensitive, what am I SAYING-"
"Wait." Chat interrupted. "The gift you were talking about. The one for your friend. It's this?"
She hesitated before nodding.
If the tears were imminent before, they were lashing away at his eyes, threatening to blur the lines of superhero-civilian-friend-acquaintance and throw his arms around Marinette and sob into her shoulder and thank her for the rest of his life.
Adrien wasn't Chat Noir for nothing. He had learned the difference between the emotions he could express and the emotions he had to keep in check.
"Marinette?" he asked, gulping down his tears. "Why would I laugh at this?"
"I don't know...isn't it childish? Wouldn't he prefer something better? Something that doesn't remind him of someone he is grieving for? What if he hates it?? What if he never wants to see me again??" her voice was progressively getting louder.
"Marinette-" He reached out to hold her shoulders, but she beat him to it, gripping his arms and shaking him a little.
"I'll never forgive myself if that happens!!"
Of course he knew Marinette cared. She was the kindest person he knew.
He didn't know she cared about him enough to pour her heart and soul into a beautiful present made just for him. He didn't know she cared so much about HIS opinion on something. No one ever asked him what his thoughts and opinions were.
But why him? Why him of all people?
"Marinette." he said gently, willing himself to calm down as he held her arms and pushing himself away gently.
He couldn't sit too close. If he did, he would want to hug her and bury his face into her neck and have a good cry, and worse, he WOULD do exactly that.
"Why would Adrien dislike it?" he murmured. "He would be more than happy to recieve something amazing like that."
"You're just saying that." she said miserably, her shoulders hunching over.
"No!! Trust me, Adrien is going to LOVE it. He is..." one of his claws caught absent mindedly on a stray strand of hair.
It had dislodged itself away from her hair.
Well that simply wouldn't do.
"He is so lucky to have a friend like you."
He didn't know why the word 'friend' was suddenly so hard to say.
"There's a reason why you are my favourite civilian, you know." he said, pushing the lock of hair behind her ear.
She involuntarily snorted. "You're a superhero. You can't play favourites."
"I can if my favourite is the kindest, most talented, most incredible person I know."  he retorted.
Did he hear her breath hitch?
"But Adrien is the best friend anyone could ask for! He's always so supportive, he never turns down an opportunity to help someone out, even in his busy schedule - he's so hands-uh, he's very hands on!!" She stammered at the last minute. "I can't give him any old drawing and expect him to accept it!"
"That old drawing??" he repeated incredulously. "I can't believe you are insulting that work of art!"
"Oh, you know what I mean!"
"I don't, actually." he quipped. "I don't see any reason why he shouldn't accept it. And if he's half the decent dude you say he is, he will. Believe me, Marinette. Amazing girls like you should have nothing to worry about. If anything, your friend Adrien is the lucky one."
He meant it with his whole heart. If he couldn't hug Marinette (and stay there for the rest of his life) as Chat Noir, tomorrow he was going to do it as Adrien and let her know just how wonderful of a person she truly was.
"Aren't I supposed to be the one comforting you?" her tone was teasing, but sincere at the same time.
"Anything for my favourite civilian, remember?" He winked.
To his utter surprise, Marinette flung her arms around him in a tight hug.
She didn't even take him by surprise, yet he felt like the wind was knocked out of his lungs.
She practically had to kneel while he was able to envelop her in his arms while sitting down.
She was the small one, but he was the one feeling safe and protected in her embrace.
He was able to register how rapid her heartbeat was (or maybe it was his, he couldn't tell), how she breathed, how her cheek was pressed against his shoulder -
"Thank you for being such a good friend, Chat Noir." she said into his chest.
'You. Are. A. Despicable. Human. Being.' His conscience snarled as it sunk.
Why was it? He was more than happy to be Marinette's friend. He was!
"Hey," Marinette said into his ear, after a few minutes (or atleast he thought so), "Ladybug is incredible and all, but between you and me, it's you I'm a fan of."  
Marinette Dupain Cheng was a CHAT NOIR fan?
MARINETTE DUPAIN CHENG was a Chat Noir fan!
His ego swelled and deflated at that.
"Well, No. #1 fan, I'm all for selfies, as long as the camera flash isn't turned on and I autograph in paw prints and ink." he said cheekily.
"Gee." Marinette said flatly. "No thank you. I'd rather not have my papers stained in paw prints."
"Well some of us can't draw as well as you. It would be unbecoming of me to scribble all over your headshots of me you're no doubt hiding."
Her cheeks turned pink at that, but quickly calmed down. "Ha, you wish." she turned away shyly.
"Marinette?" he said kindly. "I meant every word I said. If Adrien hates your present, I'm sorry to say this but he can piss right off."
He was met with a another pillow to his face.
"Watch it," she said threateningly but he could hear the smile in her voice.
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undertalethingems · 4 years
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Bark at the Moon Chapter Seventeen: At a Loss for Words
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Or read on my Ao3>
Rating, Setting: Gen, Pre-canon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter Summary: Papyrus doesn’t miss his brother’s jokes or pranks or anything, no, of course not...
"Sans! Do you know where my copy of 'Puzzles for Inquiring Minds' went? I can't find it but it must be here somewhere!" Papyrus called, digging through the pile of papers on his bedroom floor. He was finally sorting through the mess he'd left, organizing the scattered blueprints and sketches into much neater piles to be filed away later. But he couldn't imagine where that book had gotten to.
"Sans! Did you hear me? ...Are you even home?"
He sighed, and got up to peer into the living room. Ever since Sans had remembered his shortcut ability, he'd been making good use of it, and Papyrus was never sure where he went. Sans never told him. Not that he could. But, to his mild surprise, Sans was dozing on the couch.
"Sans!"
His brother jolted awake, then looked up at him blearily.
"I need your help finding--wait is that it under the couch?" Papyrus leapt down and slid his hand under, withdrawing the battered puzzle book. "Well, I have no idea how that got there, but I suppose, in a way, you still helped me find it. So. Thank? You?"
Sans merely huffed before settling down to sleep again. Papyrus eyed him, then headed upstairs with his book to file it properly. He slid it into place on the shelf, then sat back with brows furrowed. Something was missing... No, there weren't any empty spots left, so it wasn't a book... He looked over to his table and quickly assessed his action figures--they all seemed to be in place too. His things were in order, so why did he expect something more...?
It was quiet.
Sans would've had a joke about the misplaced book. Papyrus curled his tail around his feet, and shut his eyes. It was fine if Sans didn't want to talk! His various warbles and hoots often got the point across well enough, and it still sounded like him, and he still found ways to joke around even if it wasn't wordplay. It was fine--Papyrus wasn't even sure why he missed hearing his brother's dumb jokes and trolling so much. He'd heard them all, seen that spark in Sans' eye as he thought of them, groaned at the most inane reaches of wordplay countless times. He didn't need to hear them again. But... No, Sans would get his voice back in time, there was no point dwelling on it. He took a deep breath, and went back to organizing the rest of his things, humming to himself to break up the silence.
He surveyed his work, and nodded with satisfaction--his books had been fully rearranged, divided by subject and ordered alphabetically. He'd sorted all his blueprints and schematics into folders, and his action figures were aligned into their current teams. He'd moved the rug to cover the spot he'd burnt--he'd see about getting it replaced soon, but for now it was the best he could do. Everything was clean and orderly, just as it should be. He trotted out and headed downstairs.
"Sans! With my bedroom completely refreshed, we should go out! I want to see if I can find any good carpet in the dump, but who knows what else could be there? It's been so long since we looked, there's bound to be something incredible!"
Sans blinked an eye open to study him, but otherwise made no effort to move.
"Come on! It'll be fun!" Papyrus beamed at him, bouncing in place. It seemed to work, because  Sans studied him a moment longer, then got up with a yawn, stretched, then hopped to the floor and looked at him expectantly. Well, he wasn't about to let him down. He led the charge out, and glanced back to see Sans was trotting after him dutifully. It was almost like old times, and he took solace in that.
Sans walked closer to him as they passed through Waterfall, and Papyrus noted how he seemed to be scanning every shadow and crevice, eyelights darting. Sans was... nervous? Papyrus slowed his own pace--truth be told, the bottomless chasms and roaring water were setting his instincts off too, but he knew they'd be safe--they'd traveled through here dozens of times, nothing would hurt them. Besides, they were coming up to the wishing room, and Sans had always liked that spot. That would brighten his day--literally.
"Sans! Look up! The stars are especially bright today, look!" he exclaimed when they entered, and darted ahead to take in the sight--a million twinkling crystals embedded in the stone all around them. Their pale light washed everything in a soft blue glow, and he sat to appreciate the atmosphere and give his brother a chance to catch up.
Sans padded up slowly, occasionally glancing at the stars but still looking over his shoulders more until he reached him. Only then did he allow himself to look at the stars for any length of time, but something still made him scan their surroundings every few moments, staring at shadows as if to make sure they wouldn't move. And even when he did glance upwards, he didn't so much look at the stars as look for something--that look of calm, wistful wonder Sans usually wore when he contemplated the universe never appeared.
"Sans? Is something wrong?" Papyrus asked, glancing around himself and wondering if there was something he wasn't picking up on. Nothing looked out of place, nothing smelled wrong--but Sans was acting like they were in danger.
Sans looked up at him briefly, before turning away and uttering a low growl. Heart sinking, Papyrus realized his brother might have slipped--it tracked with how he'd been acting all day. Well, he'd have to get him back on track. What did he usually like to talk about here in the star room? It'd been so long, Papyrus couldn't quite remember... but he had to try!
"Not to worry, brother! We're safe here, and besides, how can you ignore all this? Do you remember when we found that human book about constellations, and we spent all day here trying to find them? We also decided to make our own since humans didn't have any skeleton constellations... Let's see... oh! There it is, the Big Skull! Shining brightly as ever!"
Sans followed his finger, then looked around--he couldn't see the constellation, but at least he was really looking at the stars now.
"You used to tell me about what real stars are, too. These are very pretty, but, you said the real stars are huge burning balls of fire or something, right? And, they're so far away, not even the humans have ever been to one. Um... there's different colors... yellow, white, red, even blue! I wonder if they come in other colors, but I don't remember. There was other cool stuff too, wasn't there?"
Sans looked up at him, then back to the stars. He'd calmed enough to lie down next to him, and seemed to be content just watching as waves of ambient magic flowed through the crystals, making their light waver. It really was amazing, and Papyrus was sure that even if the real stars couldn't be beat, this was a natural wonder all on its own. Who knew how long monsters had been wishing on these, filling them with their hopes and dreams...
He picked one--a bright, steady light that made one of the eyes in the Big Skull--and made a wish of his own.
"Okay Sans, though I'm sure we could stay here stargazing forever, we did have a mission today!" he prompted, standing up. "If you thought that was fun, just wait until we get to the dump!"
Sans crooned, then got up to follow him. He wasn't sure he'd managed to engage him enough, but there'd be plenty more chances, and perhaps he'd set the ball rolling. They continued to weave through the passages and wind down halls, splashing through cold, clear water until finally--they came to a small landing, and a rank smell informed them they'd made it to the dump.
Bad as the smell was, the piles of debris held endless possibilities, and Papyrus darted for the first one he saw. He circled it, sniffing at anything that looked interesting, clawing at pieces that caught his eye. Most of it was truly garbage--old food wrappers, filthy rags, broken plastic shells of electronics well beyond repair. But he found a deflated rubber ball that after some rinsing was fun to toss and shake in his jaws. This excursion was already looking like a success! He tucked it into his satchel and turned to see what luck his brother was having.
Sans was sitting in the middle of the room near where they'd entered, unmoving. He was soaked--in many places the water had come up to his chest, and here it was no different--but he didn't seem to care. Papyrus wasn't sure he would have normally--but seeing him like this didn't ease his worry.
"Sans! Don't just sit there! Come help me find cool garbage!"
Sans started, but didn't move. Papyrus sighed.
"Okay, well, if you just want to sit in the mud that's fine. I'm still going to look around!"
He continued his search, overturning sodden boxes and digging into moldering clothes; his heart leapt with excitement when he found a box of discarded books--but they'd been soaked, and the first one he opened fell apart, its pages illegible. Maybe someone else could take the time or had the skill to salvage them, but he had to move on. The next heap looked quite promising! He leapt onto it, sending a few things sliding, but it already looked lopsided so he wasn't messing up whoever liked to come by and sort the piles into some semblance of order. He could appreciate their devotion to cleanliness in the face of chaos--but there were treasures to find.
He began to dig his claws in, hoping to find such treasure, but something sent up an alert in his mind--a smell? He sniffed again, blocking out the damp stench of the regular garbage to hone in on it. It was faint--old. But somehow familiar, and he dug again to stir it up. It smelled... it smelled...
Like bone.
But there was something else. It was stronger--coming from nearby. Grassy, but withered--he dug more, and uncovered a dried-up stem. He clawed at it, refreshing the scent. Was this the grass smell? Yes, but not regular grass--it smelled just like... golden flowers. Papyrus jerked his head back. He pawed cautiously at the withered vegetation, mind churning. Bone, and golden flower. He stuck his nose back in, just to be sure. Bone, and flower, and old grease and the brand of ketchup Sans liked.
There was no mistaking it. The scents were weeks--maybe months--old, but they lingered. Papyrus looked back up at his brother, who still sat in the cold, swirling water. He remembered how Flowey had lied to Undyne about knowing where Sans was. He remembered how furious Sans had been at the mere mention of a golden flower. He turned the bit of plant--the tip of a vine--over with his claw, noting how the end was torn, and had no doubt. This was where his brother had met Flowey, and it hadn't been the friendly connection Papyrus had hoped.
Papyrus sighed. At least it meant Sans hadn't chosen to leave him all that time ago...
"Okay Sans, we can go home." He hopped from the garbage, splashing down. "I don't think there's much here after all, and, you don't seem to be having fun, so, let's get cleaned up. Why don't we take the ferry? Or, if you really want to get going, we, um, could... just take a shortcut."
Papyrus could hardly believe himself for making the suggestion. But if this place brought back bad memories--ones fresher than their days as experiments--then they didn't need to stay any longer. He trotted to where the water was clear, kicked his hands and feet free of mud and debris, then dunked his snout in to wash the smell of garbage out. Sans merely watched him, and once Papyrus had finished snorting water out of his nose he turned to him.
"Okay, brother! If you were waiting to take us home, you may now do it!"
Sans tilted his head, and Papyrus blinked.
"Don't give me that look! Using a shortcut, naturally. Even if I don't approve, they are quite handy for getting somewhere fast. I know you've cut home from farther away, so this should be easy!"
Sans only continued to give him a confused look. He raised a paw as if to step, but set it back down, uncertain.
"Sans... you can't have slipped this far again, can you?" Papyrus said sadly. He knew it could be a struggle--he'd gone through it himself--but it hadn't been so long ago that Sans had encouraged him to tell Alphys and Undyne their story. He'd been joking, albeit wordlessly, only a few days ago. Papyrus had thought he'd been getting enough stimulation, but... "Maybe today's just a bad day. That's okay! They happen! We can just take the ferry if shortcuts are too much right now."
The journey home was quiet; even the Riverperson only hummed softly as they navigated towards Snowdin. Once they got home, Sans clambered back onto the couch to doze once more, and Papyrus headed up to occupy himself with puzzle design. He needed to keep himself sharp too--if only to figure out how to help his brother. He got out his paper and pencils, and began sketching.
"Sans I think I've done it!" he cheered, bursting from his room some hours later. "This puzzle is going to stump any human who dares attempt it. Look!
He charged down to lay the blueprints out in front of Sans, who was still blinking wearily after being startled awake by his brother for the second time that day.
"I realized I could combine the challenge of a pressure plate lock with those steam vents Hotland is so irritatingly fond of, only I'll use spring-loaded levers instead because I have class--but, anyway, here's the pattern! Isn't is brilliant?"
Sans looked from the paper in front of him to his brother, then back to the paper--but only to nibble playfully at it. Papyrus yanked it away.
"No! You can't eat it!! Ugh! As always, my efforts go unappreciated," he sighed dramatically. "I'll refine the design and present it to Undyne tomorrow. She'll have something to say!"
He ignored the sinking feeling. At least Sans had done something silly. But he couldn't help wishing he'd said something instead.
To Papyrus' relief, it had just been a bad day after all. Sans woke up the next morning, stared at his hands for a bit, then shook himself out before shortcutting out, presumably for breakfast. When he returned, Papyrus was ready with a bag slung over his spines.
"Sans! You should come with me--I'm going to scout out the location for my new puzzle, and I'll need an assistant to hold my things. Surely you can manage that?"
Sans studied him, then uttered a hoot as he shrugged. That was good enough.
"Fantastic! Let's be off then!"
He charged out, kicking up snow, and wasn't shocked to find Sans waiting for him along the way. But he trotted after him once they'd met up, and Papyrus slowed his pace just enough that his brother could keep close. They reached the clearing Papyrus had in mind, and he set the bag down before turning to Sans to relay his brilliant plan.
"We've arrived! It doesn't look like much now... but this field is merely the canvas upon which I, premier puzzle architect, shall paint my latest masterpiece!"
He paused, and Sans opened his mouth--but as usual, the only sound he could make was an odd warble. He seemed disappointed, and Papyrus hoped his own concern wasn't obvious as he continued his monologue
"A-and! So, what I need you to do is hold the map while I survey the area and make sure my build zone is clear. Got it?"
Sans huffed and dipped his head.
"Good! Alright, here's the map. Let's get surveying!"
Sans took the map in his jaws and sat while Papyrus inspected the field. That tree was just barely in the way; whoops, there was a rock there, that was no good--hey, someone had already started a puzzle here ages ago. He'd have to tear that out. He reached into a snow poff and pulled out a little white dog--it yipped at him, and he lowered it back in. He couldn't build his puzzle anywhere near that. He finished his inspection, and headed back to his brother to see how the map looked.
"Alright, let's see... Sans!"
His brother tilted his head.
"You didn't mark any of the obstacles!"
Sans tilted his head the other way, doing his best to look innocent. Papyrus blinked, realization dawning on him. He'd only told Sans to hold the map, not mark it too, and groaned as he smacked a palm across his face.
"Ugh, of course!! Okay. This time, I'll hold the map, and you go find all the stuff that's in my way. It should be easy, since I already found all of them. Give me the map."
Sans passed it back, then laid down.
"No! Sans!! You have to tell me where the old puzzles and tree roots and dogs are so I can avoid them!"
Sans waved a claw in the general direction of the field, grumbling something.
"Saaaans!" Papyrus cried, stomping his foot and earning low, hissing chuckles from his brother. "Oh, I see! This is a game to you! Well, I'll have you know I take my games very seriously! And! I've never been beaten yet! Nyeheheheh!"
He ended up marking the map himself while Sans watched with amusement. He didn't mind--he was just happy Sans was playing with him like he always would. He missed the banter that would usually accompany it, but... after yesterday, he'd take what he could get.
"There, the map has been marked, no thanks to you," he said when he'd finished. "Now I can plot my setup properly. But first, this snow has to go!"
He found himself expecting a pun, but none came, so he instead focused on his magic and summoned long horizontal bones to sweep the field, clearing a wide swath. He summoned another set, and sent them the other way, pushing even more snow away and leaving only a thin dusting over the ground. Time for the final step. He concentrated, and summoned a trio of his special attacks. They fired simultaneously, melting the remaining snow away and leaving the ground steaming.
"Perfect. All set for the site of a truly excellent puzzle. Wouldn't you agree, Sans?"
Sans hooted his approval, and Papyrus recognized the look in his eyes. He must've thought his snow-clearing technique was really cool--he looked proud of him. He'd probably have made some dumb joke about it to hide how he really felt, but he only watched and waited for what he'd do next.
"Okay, I think that's all for today. Help me put up this caution tape so passers-by don't accidentally set foot on the site and mess it up."
The 'caution tape' was just toilet paper with 'CAUTION: BRILLIANT PUZZLE ARCHITECT (PAPYRUS) AT WORK' written on it in marker, but Papyrus was nothing if not resourceful. He set up a perimeter of bones, slotted the paper tube between a pair of his brother's upper and lower fangs, then ran with the free end around his setup a few times and tied it off.
"Well, a job well done, mostly by me," he congratulated as he surveyed his work. "But, it was nice to have you here too, brother."
Sans rumbled in apparent agreement.
"Tomorrow, I'll begin laying everything out. I think I spotted some scrap metal at the dump yesterday that should work quite well... You don't have to come with to get it, I know that'd... be a lot for you..."
Sans just looked at him. Maybe he didn't remember how yesterday had gone.
"But! That's enough for now! Let's go home and have lunch, and then decide what the afternoon is for."
As they walked back, the quiet of Snowdin's forest settled in around them; it was hard to believe they'd once fled into the surrounding woods with the intention of never coming back. Papyrus found himself feeling anxious at the memory, and momentarily quickened his pace before realizing he was leaving Sans behind. He looked back, and saw Sans looking at him curiously.
"Sorry Sans, I just.... We spent a long time out there in the woods, and, while Snowdin is definitely still my ideal location for our base of operations, it's... perhaps a little soon to be frolicking out here again. It won't bother me forever! Don't worry! But I'd like to get home."
Sans crooned sadly, and the next corner they rounded put them right in the living room.
"Oh! Sans! I didn't mean I didn't want to walk... Oh well, I suppose it's too late now..."
The room blinked, and they were back on the road. Sans was smiling at him mischievously.
"Oooh! Sans!!! Cut it out!" he howled, lunging at him to knock him over. Sans sprung out of the way, his true agility on rare display. Papyrus continued to chase after him, managing to succeed only because Sans was in even less shape than usual. He caught up with him quickly and pushed him into a snowbank.
"Now you'll chill out! Nyeh heh heh heh!" Papyrus teased as his brother rose from the drift and shook off.
Sans opened his jaws--but only a low hoot came out, and he paused a moment before giving a resigned shrug. Papyrus felt his heart sink yet again.
"Oh Sans, I know you'll get your voice back soon! You just have to keep trying... but, if you really don't want to talk, I suppose I can tell the jokes for both of us..."
Sans blinked, and uttered an inquiring hoot.
"It's fine, really! All your puns are very easy to replicate, so, I'll have no trouble filling in! It'll be 'snow' problem! Nyeh!"
Sans snorted, looking amused and concerned at the same time.
"What, you think I can't? I never expected I'd get such a cold reception, especially from my own brother!"
Okay, Sans was laughing now, good. He didn't want him to feel bad for not working as hard as he did, even if he did want him to work harder. Sans working hard recently had... not been good.
But it was lonely. Papyrus couldn't deny it anymore. He didn't remember the last time Sans had actually told him a joke even when he'd been able to. And now, sure, he still found ways to be obnoxious and clown around, but there wasn't the banter Papyrus loved. There wasn't the subtle encouragement or occasionally truly thoughtful musings. He was making progress on his new puzzle, but Sans wasn't there to double-check his work and point out oversights with brotherly ribbing.
Papyrus could easily fill the void with his own voice, but it just wasn't the same.
"Geez, and it seems like he still won't even try?" Undyne said when he'd shared his feelings during a sparring match.
"Well, he'll sometimes act like he wants to say something, but, when it doesn't come out right, he just kind of gives up," Papyrus sighed as he deflected a spear. "I've been telling puns in his place, but, I'm tired of the conversation being so one-sided. And I think maybe he is too."
"Aw man," Undyne uttered, finishing her volley. "So, what are you gonna do? Do I need to noogie some sense into him or what?"
"No, no!" Papyrus declined as he set up his attack and sent it at her, "I think he just needs some encouragement, which I am very good at. I'll figure something out! He's bounced back from this kind of thing before, I know he can do it again!"
"Hmm... Well, maybe you should just tell him what you told me," Undyne suggested, finishing an artful dodge around his attack, "and even though I know that's easier said than... said, how else is he supposed to know?"
Papyrus huffed. "That would cut to the chase, wouldn't it. I just have to hope he understands... I'm... not always sure what gets through...."
"He's still slipping sometimes?" Undyne asked sadly, and he nodded but smiled anyway.
"Not for very long! He has bad days and good days, and it's usually more good than bad, but, I can tell it... doesn't really... It's not a thing that worries him, so he doesn't do anything about it."
"Geez, well, sounds like you need to get encouraging him, huh?"
"Yes! Exactly!"
They finished their sparring match and retreated indoors for drinks, discussing the latest nonsense Mettaton had gotten up to and what their next cooking endeavor should be now that they knew about instructions over tea. Papyrus shared the blueprints for his new puzzle--which Undyne thought needed more spikes and fire pits. He'd normally agree, but that wasn't the tone he was going for so he politely disregarded her suggestions. He left her house that evening feeling revitalized; he'd forgotten how nice it was to have a full conversation.
He clattered in, and immediately bristled--he smelled the mess before he saw it. He dashed into the kitchen, where torn and broken containers littered the floor. Sans stood half in the fridge, the shelves askew as he'd forced his way in to scavenge.
"SANS!"
Sans startled, skittering backwards and knocking even more tubs of leftovers to the floor. Pulling free, he stared at Papyrus with eyes wide, his snout stained with the evidence of his crimes. He'd broken into the newly reopened food museum and destroyed it.
"Sans, I can't believe you!" Papyrus scolded, tail lashing. "I'd ask why, but not only do I already know why, it's not like you'd even answer! Ugh! You knew I was going to be back soon, you could have just waited! Or gone to Grillby's like you always do!"
Sans glanced away, then sat with a sorry whimper.
"Fine, but you're helping me clean this up! This is the worst mess of things you've made yet!"
Sans whimpered again, and tried to approach to give an appeasing nuzzle--but Papyrus pushed him away.
"Oh no, not until you clean yourself up too! I can't believe you're my brother sometimes, ugh!!"
Sans backed away, looking defeated. He cast about, then tried to gather up some of the wayward containers, sweeping them into a pile with his claws. He looked up and gave a questioning hoot, but Papyrus snorted.
"No, you can do better than that! Come on, let's get the shelves cleaned off and put back in first."
The whole process took longer than if Papyrus had just done it himself, but Sans had clearly slipped again--hard, this time. He struggled to use his hands instead of his jaws to manipulate the items he'd scattered, didn't understand the order they needed to do things in, and Papyrus kept having to get him back on task. He was so frustrated that when Sans tried to sneak a few more bites, he hissed at him--it stopped Sans on the spot, but he spent the rest of the time worried he'd begun slipping too.
They finally finished the fridge, and Papyrus grabbed a washcloth and his brother's skull to give it a proper scrub; Sans protested only weakly before quieting down and laying still until the ordeal was over. Papyrus tossed the washcloth in with the rest of the towels they'd used to wipe up the fridge, then trotted to the living room with a huff. It'd been a while since he'd been so genuinely frustrated with his brother.
Sans lay on the kitchen floor for a while before finally getting to his feet slowly. He plodded into the living room, saw Papyrus had taken the couch to watch TV, and settled to the floor nearby. Papyrus didn't want to talk to him. He hadn't even done anything that bad or surprising--the fridge was a beacon of temptation for a monster who liked food as much as Sans did. But he wasn't even trying to resist, or be more like his true self, even when everything had otherwise gone back to normal. It felt like he didn't care--about himself, or about him. And that was what had Papyrus upset.
The following day remained tense. Papyrus was still frustrated, and ignored his brother while he bustled around the house and got ready to continue working on his puzzle, paying no mind when he hooted an inquiry at him. He couldn't even tell if Sans was with it today or not, and didn't want his help anyway. He hurried out, and threw himself into puzzle construction.
At one point, he felt a presence--someone watching him. His instincts told him to look, it could be danger--but he refused, focused on digging the trench for an electrical line. He had work to do, and he wasn't going to let anyone distract him. He'd forgive his brother eventually--it wasn't really Sans' fault he was like this. But right now, Papyrus was tired of having a beast for a brother.
He finished digging out the placements for his pressure pads, and wiped his claws in the snow before picking up the tools he'd brought and heading for home. There were tracks in the fresh powder--so Sans had been out here at some point. Papyrus huffed. Who knew what he'd come back to this time.
But he opened the door and found everything in order. There were no new smells, and Sans was laying on the couch, watching TV. He got up when Papyrus entered, trilling a greeting--but Papyrus sighed and trotted past. Sans watched him go, and was quiet the rest of the evening, even as Papyrus went about making dinner. There was nothing to say.
Papyrus found the house empty when he got up the next morning.
"Sans?"
His room was empty, as were the living room and kitchen, and a pit of dread formed within Papyrus' ribs. Had he pushed him away? Had he fled, for the final time, to live as the beast he thought himself to be? Had he lost him for good...? He paced, and that's when he finally noticed the sheet of paper on the floor where Sans had laid the other night. For a brief moment Papyrus considered the possibility his brother had become stationery... then realized it was a pun, and had to choke back his own laughter. He'd have to tell Sans that joke at some point, provided they could get everything between them sorted out. He approached the paper, and studied it.
It was crudely drawn--Sans had never been artistically inclined like he was, and he hadn't been practicing his manual dexterity, so the rough, unsteady lines were to be expected. But the scene was clear--Sans had drawn stars along the top of the page, and a line at the bottom representing the ground. There was even a scribbled out attempt at an echo flower. It was the wishing room, and in the center of the page, he'd drawn a little stick figure of himself looking up. Was that where he'd gone...?
Papyrus set out at a brisk trot. The wishing room wasn't far, it'd be easy to find out what his brother was up to. He wove past other early risers and leapt over bridge seed puzzles before finally arriving at the cavern, eyes darting. It wasn't a large room, so his brother had to be close... There! The soft light reflecting off his bones almost made Sans appear to glow. He was sitting near the far end of the passage, looking up at the stars just as he'd drawn. Papyrus approached slowly, unsure what his brother was planning--it was just as likely a prank as it was something genuine.
Sans saw him approaching, and the relief that crossed his face was clear. Maybe this wasn't a prank. He stood as Papyrus drew near, and for a moment, they simply faced one another. Sans opened his mouth.
"hhhheya brro," he rasped.
Papyrus tackled him.
"SANS!" Papyrus yelled, but this time it was out of joy. "You--you did it! You're talking again! I'm so--it's--Sans!!!"
Sans chuckled, not even trying to fight the pile he'd been wrapped up in. "ssstill hard, but, tryin'. wanted to. sssay sorry. for letting you down."
Papyrus extracted himself enough to look his brother in the eyes. "Oh Sans, I'm--I'm sorry for being so cross with you. It, just... I missed you! A lot! But it was like you didn't even want to try..."
Sans thudded his skull against his brother's chest. "sssorry. did want to sometimmmess. didn't want to... a lot. hard to choose. easy to... not think about it. but. like i ssaid. couldn't let you down."
"Oh Sans... I'm very, very glad that you tried! And! Succeeded!! In only one night? Normally you'd be sound asleep!"
"couldn't," Sans replied, his smile seeming bittersweet. "not with you mad. so, went out, howled, made noises i didn't know i could. glad i didn't sleep."
"W-well, I'm glad too. And, um... will you keep trying?"
"listen, i, uhhh, think i better. maybe it's easier to... not deal with everything, but... it's leaving you hanging, and, i can't do that to my bro."
"And you made me come all the way out here just to tell me this?"
Sans shrugged, finally pulling free to shake himself out. "dunno. felt right. think you tried to talk to me here a little bit ago or ssssomething?"
"I did! I'm glad you remember!"
"yeah. stars. i remember you talking about the stars, and how it was the calmest i felt that day. so, coming back here... just made sense."
"Wowie. That's very poetic, Sans."
"hey, i'm good for more than just puns sometimes," Sans said with a wink, and for the first time in ages, Papyrus felt like he really had his bother back
"Hard to believe as it is, it's true," Papyrus agreed, standing as well. "What may also be hard to believe is how much I've missed said puns."
"well, i'll do my best to make up for lost time," Sans replied lightly as they started to walk back. "just might take me a bit to get... star-ted."
"Oh my god," Papyrus said, but couldn't stop smiling. "Clearly, it will not."
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gumnut-logic · 4 years
Text
Who do you save, John? (Bit 10c + The End)
Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5a | Bit 5b | Bit 6 | Bit 7 | Bit 8 | Bit 9 | Bit 10a | Bit 10b  | Bit 10c
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Always end up rushed. Didn’t have a chance to edit the end so I’m likely to be swearing at it later. Sorry for the delay, muse crashed and burned on Friday. here’s hoping I’ve resuscitated it. 17,000 words. So much for the under 10K I estimated. Typical.
For @5hadow-alpha​​​  cos they wanted Shopping and a Tracy brother. They got more than one, and I got more than I expected.
-o-o-o-
The next time Alan woke, the room was full of golden family.
The sun was setting through the window, lighting up the room in shades of gold. His brothers were lit up as they clustered around Virgil’s bed.
They didn’t notice Alan, and it gave him the opportunity to both wake up fully and observe his family undetected.
He was feeling much better. His head was a lot clearer and he was calmer.
The reason why no one noticed his wakefulness was because Virgil was already awake.
His brother was smiling and poking fun at a sunlit Gordon near the end of his bed. Gordon appeared to be enjoying it. When the attention drifted away from him and whether or not he was allowed to film Virgil on drugs, the expression on his fish brother’s face was one of fondness and hope. His eyes barely left the prone man.
That fact could have been annoying from a little brother’s perspective, but Alan found himself doing the same thing.
Virgil, who had literally died in his arms, was supported by his bed, sitting up at an angle and talking quite animatedly. There was a healthy flush to his cheeks that hadn’t been there before.
John was standing calmly on the other side of the bed, the setting sun catching his hair from behind as it darted through the hospital window.
John had a habit of striking such a pose. It was unclear if he did it on purpose or was completely unaware of his surroundings in those moments.
Virgil had photographed him on multiple occasions for that exact reason, much to the astronaut’s annoyance.
Grandma stood beside him; her arms wrapped around his. That was an unusual sight. But then they had almost lost a brother and the threat had been to John.
That thought led into unpleasant directions so he brought it to a halt.
He could only see Scott’s back, but his brother was gesticulating, making a point about digging up Gordon’s baby videos and broadcasting them to the world if he didn’t behave.
As if Scott would ever do something like that.
Though, come to think of it, the threat at least wasn’t a bad idea. Alan had much less a solid reputation than Scott and could probably carry the threat enough to get some good ones out of his brother.
“How did you know it was a fake detonator?” John’s voice cut across the conversation, his expression puzzled. The question came out of the blue, ever a sign that John’s mind worked on more than one track at a time.
Virgil blinked up at him. “I…I didn’t at first. It was a good replica of a T-325. But I noticed he was holding his hand strangely. The T-325 has a trigger rest here.” His brother held up a hand as if to sketch out the design in the air, only wince and withdraw the gesture.
Grandma frowned at him from the other side of the bed.
“Long story short…if you waved a T-325 around as much as he did, with that grip, chances are we would have blown up long before he had started his second rant. That one is a touchy model.” Virgil shifted awkwardly and Scott laid a hand on his arm.
“Well, I’m glad we had our expert on hand.”
Scott’s smile was reflected in Virgil’s eyes.
“Oh, ho, ho, look who’s awake!”
Trust Gordon to dob him in.
Suddenly all the eyes in the room were on Alan. His father and eldest brother spun, both faces lighting up when they realised Alan was awake.
Alan couldn’t help but grin back. “Hey.” His voice caught and he coughed.
Talk about ruining a moment. Scott was on him immediately, his dad not far behind.
“How are you feeling, Alan?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m good.” He reached out his uninjured arm and nudged his worried brother aside gently. “Virgil?”
Soft brown eyes caught his and his big brother smiled. “Hey, Allie.”
A hand landed on Alan’s leg and he looked up to find a pair of grey eyes peering down at him. Alan frowned. “Dad, you should sit down.”
“I’m fine, Allie. Are you comfortable?”
An arched eyebrow. “I’m good, honest.” And he was. There was definitely still something in his system. It was keeping him quite happy. Too much movement probably wasn’t on the cards yet, but to be honest, the sight of Virgil smiling at him was enough endorphins to keep him going for weeks.
He turned back to Virgil and soaked it in.
The smile turned to a grin and Alan flushed in embarrassment.
But those brown eyes were reassurance itself.
“Hmm, did you two want to be alone?”
“Shut up, Gordon.” It was sharp, but no less reassuring that Virgil could spin the familiar phrase off so easily.
Alan laughed. “Good to see you, Virg.”
Again with the smile. “Likewise.” Those eyes turned inwards for a second before fixating on him. “And thank you.”
The line ‘just doing my job’ climbed onto his lips, but he vetoed it. “Always, bro.”
The room was embarrassingly silent after that and the moment broke.
“Dad, I would rather you sat down.” Virgil was definitely feeling better.
“I can look after myself, son.” It was firm and a touch threatening if Virgil chose to push the point.
But his father took a seat.
Alan shifted position and his arm twinged. He must have shown it on his face, because Scott reached out and touched his shoulder. He looked up to find worried blue eyes staring down at him.
Apparently, he needed to repeat himself. “I’m okay, Scott.”
His brother grunted before letting go, grabbing his plastic chair and dumping himself in it.
The room fell silent.
Turquoise hit him from across the room as the sun dipped behind a cloud and the room chilled.
“So, who was that guy?” Anything to get the conversation moving.
For a second, he regretted the topic as Scott’s lips thinned, but he had to know and clearing the air wouldn’t hurt, would it?
It was John who answered, though. “Timothy was a rescue we were unable to attend. Eos pulled the records and what he said was true. He lost his family. Any other day and we would have been there, but the Tsunami Disaster had all our attention.” A pause. “I am sorry.”
Scott started at that. “Hey, it was not your fault.”
A copper eyebrow arched. “Really? Do you want me to list exactly where our forces were deployed at that moment? It was Day Three. Scott was en route to Tracy Island for refueling, Virgil, you were asleep. Gordon had dragged you to the bunk on Two. He had threatened to tie you down. You were all down for the count. His call was one of twenty-three we couldn’t respond to on that particular day.”
“Johnny-“ Gordon held out a hand.
It was almost snapped off. “Don’t call me Johnny.”
“John.” Their father’s voice managed to be both warning and worried at the same time.”
His astronaut brother didn’t back down. “This isn’t out of the ordinary. It happens every day. It is happening now. People are dying because we are not there.”
“We can’t save everyone.” His father’s voice was firm.
“I know that, Dad.” John’s expression was exasperation itself. “It doesn’t make it any easier.”
Silence fell again and all Alan could think of was how this whole thing had been aimed at John and how it had obviously reached its target despite Timothy not succeeding in his plan.
Something was burning in his brother. He could see it from here. John was tense and agitated.
It was likely the drugs, but Alan just wanted to climb out of bed and hug him.
“Well now, I think, you could all do with something to eat.” Grandma squeezed John’s arm and he looked down at her as if snapped from a dream. “Don’t look at me like that, young man. I know you haven’t been eating.”
“What?” Scott sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing in on his brother. “John?”
The astronaut rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” And Grandma was nudging him towards the door.
His father stood up and followed.
Scott eyed Alan a moment, but stayed seated.
As their grandmother and father herded John out the door, Gordon took the opportunity to steal the chair beside Scott.
“Is John okay?” The words fell from Alan’s mouth before he could think twice.
Scott sighed. “He will be.” There was a silent ‘I hope’ after that.
“Eh, he’s just pissed Eos got found out.”
Alan blinked. “What?”
“Gordon!”
“Just trying to lighten the atmosphere. Cool it, bro.”
Alan frowned. “What?”
“Eos electrocuted a guard with his own comms circuit.” Gordon was smirking.
“What? How?”
“Upped the signal power enough to arc through his baldric.”
Alan stared at his brother. “She hurt him?” He turned to Scott. “She can do that?” To us?
“Don’t worry, it is not happening again.”
“He deserved it.” Gordon snarled the words. “Betraying us for money. He’s lucky it was Eos and not Kayo.”
Scott tilted his head. “Kayo hasn’t finished with him yet.”
Alan’s eyes were bugging out. “Who? And why?”
Scott sighed just a little. “The guard outside the dressing room was an accomplice.”
“One of our own?”
“Yes.” That single word said so much. Kayo wasn’t the only person angry at such a betrayal. No doubt whoever it was would have to face the Commander at some point.
Alan had faced an angry Scott before. Not an experience for the faint hearted.
“And Eos was able to electrocute him with his comms?”
“Brains is working on it as we speak. It won’t happen again.”
Scott would never be entirely comfortable with Eos. Alan had to admit he had a few issues of his own having had to scoop up his astronaut brother as he lay dying in space, because of her.
A hand landed on his. “It won’t happen again.”
Alan swallowed. “Good.”
“Well, we’re lucky it happened this once. John found traces of an alien computer program in the z band network. Brains is having conniptions. This one security breach could have destroyed everything.”
“But it didn’t.” Virgil’s voice was quiet, but strong enough to stop the conversation. “We’re all safe. It’s over.” Brown eyes flickered in his direction.
The same brown eyes that had closed on Alan as his brother died in his arms.
Anger flared up. “So, this security breach let Timothy do what he wanted and Virgil died because of it.” Three pairs of eyes widened at Alan’s sharp tone. “How did this happen? How did he get past all our security checks? Kayo is pedantic to the point that I sometime wonder if I’ll be allowed access to anything. How did we not know?”
“Allie, it’s okay.” Again, Virgil’s voice was soft. “We’ll fix it.”
“You died, Virgil!”
“No, I didn’t.” Those eyes blinked slowly.
“You did!”
“Alan!”
And he found himself breathing fast and hard. Scott was holding him down. Gordon had a hand on his leg.
“Calm down, Allie.” Intense blue eyes caught his. “Virgil is safe. You are safe. We will fix this.”
Alan stared up at his big brother, soaking in the reassurance Scott was broadcasting. A deeper breath and he willed his heart rate to slow. He swallowed and managed the briefest of nods.
“The guy had money and resources. Kayo will, no doubt, rake our entire security force over hot coals. We will learn from this experience and it will not happen again.”
“It should not have happened in the first place.” Alan found his voice cold and as Scott flinched, he knew it had hit home.
“Allie…” Virgil looked half asleep and Alan realised that he probably was. “We’ll fix this.”
Alan pressed his lips together and glanced between all three of his brothers before once again fixating on Scott.
“We better.”
-o-o-o-
Jeff dragged John out of the hospital room with the full intention of cornering him. The fact his mother came with them was only an inconvenience.
“Mom, could you run ahead and dig up some menus from the cafeteria and perhaps let the nurses station know that the boys are awake?”
His mother eyed him and arched a silver eyebrow. “Certainly.” A flick of that gaze at his son before she turned and walked off.
No doubt he would be paying for that one later.
But first he wanted to speak to John.
“Walk with me?”
The astronaut frowned at him, but nodded once.
Jeff cursed being so slow, but he led his son down to the hospital garden. Security made itself known as Iz appeared from nowhere and he caught a glimpse of Leone not far off. Kayo was laying it on thick, but he couldn’t blame her.
The garden was a small one and this late in the day, quite dark and empty. Most patients had been hustled off to bed and their visitors went with them.
If Iz was seen to lock the door behind them and secure the green patch for them alone, Jeff wasn’t going to argue, just this once.
He found a bench under a large shrub that gave them some privacy and ushered John to sit down beside him as he lowered himself on to the seat.
“Dad, I’m okay.”
“That seems to be a theme in this family even when it is a blatant lie.”
That shut his boy up for a moment.
Jeff sighed. “John, when I sent you up there, I knew it was going to be hard. I am sorry.”
“No, Dad. I knew what I was getting into. This is not your fault.”
“Isn’t it? Aren’t I hailed the creator of International Rescue?” He tried hard to catch those turquoise eyes, but John refused to look at him.“Pfft. The media. What do they know?”
That got a reaction. Copper eyebrows arched and his son looked up. Jeff took every advantage.
“I may have taken the first steps, but it is you boys who have kept it all going. Lived it. You’ve lived it for ten years. That is four times as long as I have and, trust me, I have guilt for those numbers.”
“Dad-“
He held up a hand. “No. This is where you listen, John.”
Something flashed in those eyes and Jeff’s lips twisted in response. “I set you boys on this path and you have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. You have made both your mother and I ever so proud.”
John just stared at him, eyes a little wide.
“But there has been a cost. You carry scars that have me questioning every decision I ever made.” He swallowed, all of it suddenly threatening to overwhelm. He shifted in his seat. “John, I know you sit up there day in and day out with lives in your hands. I can see that every life lost has as much effect on you as it does your brothers and often even more so because you see more of them.”
Jeff paused and tilted his head. “What’s the average number?”
John blinked. “Excuse me?”
“How many lives are lost per day because we can’t respond?”
There was a flicker of the professional emergency responder and his son’s face fell calm. “Ten to fifteen. It varies. The number includes rescues that fail due to local authorities incapability, situations that become more severe than predicted on initial assessment and situations we can not attend simply because we do not have the resources.”
“And what do you tell these callers?”
“What I can.” John’s voice grew quiet. “We do our best, Dad.”
Little more than breath. “Exactly.” He held his son’s eyes and couldn’t help but see the young man he had once been during that cyclone all those years ago. That same youth and concern. That care for those he couldn’t help.
“What’s the average daily rescue count?”
John blinked. “Uh, it varies between ten and several hundred.”
It was Jeff’s turn to blink. “That many?”
John shrugged. “Well, the statistics were blown during the asteroid crisis with Fischler and the aurora generator was full of hypotheticals.” His son was frowning, his hands expressive.
Jeff grabbed them.
“If you had a choice, all over again, as to whether you would take this path or another, what would you choose?”
The frown he received was castigating. “Dad, that’s asking the ridiculous.”
“No, who do you save, John? Them or yourself.”
“That’s a stupid question. Of course, I, we, choose to save everyone we can. We do it every day, Dad.” His son looked offended.
“Even despite the cost?”
“Of course.” The offense turned to an expression questioning Jeff’s sanity.
“Why?”
“Because it is worth it, Dad. When someone calls for help, they have to know there is someone out there who will answer. That’s what I do, Dad. I’m The Voice Who Answers.”
Jeff couldn’t help but smile. His boys made him so proud. Worried, yes, but so, so proud. His own words from so many years ago, echoed back at him by the very son who enacted them on a daily basis. The son who sacrificed so much to be up there, apart from his family, apart from the world, just so he could do exactly that.
The Voice Who Answers didn’t even consider the question, a question.
Who do you save?
Everyone you can.
-o-o-o-
FIN.
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vanaera · 4 years
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𝐌𝐲 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 | 𝟎𝟐 | 𝐣𝐣𝐤
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Synopsis: A future technology allows cops to jump in the past and future to investigate crimes that have happened and prepare for those that are about to happen. A simple hit-and-run turns into something more when Captain Jeon Jungkook finds himself as the victim of a culprit who cannot be identified by the system. Especially when the culprit seems to be the same person behind the new case that’s threatening the order in the justice organization. All goes haywire when Jungkook gets involved with Y/N L/N, the clairvoyant sketch artist who may be his only help to solve the case.
Characters: Jungkook x Female Reader
Genre/AU: Sci-fi, romance, angst, mystery, action (cop!JK x artist!you), based on the movie Minority Report
Wordcount: 8.2k
Warnings: Dark themes and implied smut (in future chapters); heavy descriptions of a hit-and-run; mentions of blood from injuries (PG-16 Rating)
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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭
              The skies were gray and the streets were damp and yet the air remains humid. The scorching heat on the pavement permeates the soles of his leather combat boots. It’s the familiar stench of Down Hill. Jungkook could already smell it when he’s just reaching the boundary between it and Middle Town.
              Jungkook looks down at the scrap of paper that’s been in his pocket since the day started. Namjoon had to write the address of this Y/N L/N, lest DOJ traces his electronic trail and take him in for unnecessary questioning. Jungkook himself had to make up some petty excuse of a “hurting arm” to file a day-off. He just hopes all of this spent effort will worth him something.
              Jungkook nears the 7-Eleven sitting in the fork of the streets. Namjoon wrote Y/N’s studio is cramped among the apartments around this area. He said she never really penned down a home to accommodate covert meet-ups like this. All she has is her studio. 
              In “Mini Palais, 23-B,” Jungkook mutters again, huffing in front of a door with cracking cadet blue paint. He finds the unit after climbing up a series of stairs at the end of the alleyway jammed between the decaying 7-Eleven and a battered motor shop. Jungkook raises his hand to knock when the door bursts open.
              In front of him is a girl. Namjoon already said so and although Jungkook thinks it’s accurate enough for the girl who’s looking up at him through chopped raven bangs, it also wasn’t really enough to describe her. Because the girl in front of him was an aberrant mix of a girl and a woman. Jungkook thinks she’s around her early thirties if he were to consider Namjoon’s history of working with her for about ten years in FJO. There are faint lines around her eyes to support that. However, her relatively small height, plump cheeks, and the natural rosy hue of her lips beg to decrease ten years off that supposed age.  With her youthful face, messy half-bun, and the white, floral off-shoulder dress flowing past her knees, no one will argue with Jungkook if he were to say she’s just 22. 
              “Who are you?”
              “Oh, um,” Jungkook flashes his badge, “I’m Jungkook Jeon, a captain in the Federal Justice Organization. Precrime, Murder sector. I’m here to um, avail your…services for a case.”
              The girl cocks her head to the side and gives him a once over. “I’m sorry, I don’t do services for the FJO anymore.” She moves to close the door but Jungkook was quick to block a foot between it and the wall.
              “I’m a contact of Namjoon’s!” Jungkook exclaims, “He’s Lieutenant Seokjin Kim’s close subordinate.” This is a card he didn’t want to use but it looks like he has no other choice left. Jungkook clears his throat. “Actually, I’m a very close contact of Namjoon. We’re best friends. I even live with him. He’s the one who told me to, um, consult you for the case I’m handling.” 
              The girl opens the door an inch. Jungkook hands a folded paper to her. She spreads it open and scans through the letter. Jungkook doesn’t know what it actually says. Namjoon just thrust it into his hands on his way out and told him not to open it. It must be an effective personal request because by the time the girl reaches the end, she’s pushing her door wide open, tilting her head to the side, beckoning him to come inside. However, her face remains grim.
              “I’m Y/N L/N. This is my studio. I know you already know I prefer to transact business here even for ones intended to be covert. So first off, I want to say I’m sorry you have to travel to such a place like this.”
              Jungkook shakes his head, “Oh no, it’s definitely alright—”
              “I kinda think it’s not when you grew up in a comfortable life. You must be quite shaken up.”
              Jungkook freezes. Y/N looks at him, “Oh, I didn’t look into you or something. It’s just a hypothetical guess, seeing your,” she motions to his silver watch. “That’s expensive. No one from here will be able to afford it anytime soon.”
              Jungkook’s shoulders turn lax. Y/N points to a chair next to a table in the corner. “Just wait there. I’m about to finish this piece in just a sec. Then I’m all yours.”
              Jungkook nods and makes himself comfortable on the seat. Unlike its appearance on the outside, Y/N’s unit is not much of a concrete wreck. It still looks a bit rough. The ceiling has cracks all over it.  A small white bulb precariously hangs on its center. It looks too weak to illuminate the whole room when the night comes. Jungkook thinks it’s a good thing that the unit has huge gaping rectangular windows to let in the natural light. The floor is cemented in gray but the work on it is unimpressive as there are numerous uneven layers, rough patches, and dents that could only be ascribed to poor mason work. The white wallpaper is torn around, some even wet at the edges—probably due to a leak during rains. 
              However, the flowers painted on them is vibrant enough to uplift the dreary unit. Paintings are littered around. Many are big, a few are small. Some were seated on easels, several are just laying around on the floor. Newspapers are strewn across the majority of the floor. Buckets and tin cans of paints line up the corners like a prayer circle. 
              All the colors present in the room can only be attributed to the paint that’s strewn across the newspapers, the paintings, and the 6’ tall canvas of an owl in flight Y/N is currently working on. The girl is standing on a small foldable ladder, painting the feathers of the bird at the top of the canvas. When the wind blows her hair to the side, Jungkook finds a mirage of colors on the scarlet spider lilies inked on her spine.
              After about two minutes, Y/N steps down and dumps her brush into a rusted bucket filled with water. She turns to the man on the chair and makes her way to the stool opposite his. She fixes down her dress and finally looks at Jungkook. “So, what case do you have for me?”
              “This,” Jungkook slides a couple of pictures toward her. They are the screen captures from the CCTV records that caught the black Jaguar. “There’s an unknown driver who’s doing an illegal time jump patterned to Precrime’s traveling agents. We tried to run in the license plate but it just turned to be ‘invalid.’ All we know is that the suspect is male, slim, and tall. He’s interested in the Winston Assassination, and has probably inside ties in FJO since he easily entered the Special Operations Building just ten days ago.”
              “None of the traveling agents has seen this man before? Precrime or Forecrime?”
              Jungkook shakes his head.
              Y/N licks a finger and flips to the next picture, “What about the car?”
              “None of the agents has seen a suspicious sedan sports Jaguar before. It’s the first time we have someone presumably well-to-do threatening the justice system.”
              Y/N nods. Jungkook inserts his hand into his pocket and retrieves a black USB. He hands it to the girl. “Here’s more of the screenshots from the CCTVs, taken in each second. I can’t give you the CCTVs because of the protocol. I can only give you these. Just imagine they’re moving,” Jungkook purses his lips as he looks at the girl. “I want you to identify this man for me.”
              Y/N tucks the USB into her dress’ pocket. She slides the pictures back to Jungkook. “This seems to be a heavy identification check then. Not that I couldn’t handle, of course. However, Namjoon must have told you that my rates are quite high—”
              “Money is not a problem.”
              Y/N cocks a brow, “So you did grow up a comfortable life.”
              Jungkook clenches his jaw.
              Y/N chuckles, “Okay, I’m not gonna dwell on it more. It’s settled then. Send your weekly payment to this account,” Y/N tears a piece from the rolls of paper by her side, scribbles on it, and hands it to him. “Every Friday, 10 AM sharp.” Jungkook looks at the paper before tucking it in the breast pocket of his leather jacket.
              Y/N crosses her arms, “We can start next week after you give me the downpayment.”
              Jungkook zips open a duffel bag and places a stack of bills on the table.
              “Eager, aren’t we?” Y/N smiles, “I like that.” She flips through the bills before deciding they’re legitimate and dumping it into a box by her feet. 
              Y/N turns to him. “Now, where are we? Oh—you must already know, but what I really do here is foreseeing the future for whatever cause you have. It’s not just trivial fortune-telling but a purposive one. I can accurately give you whatever you want to know.” 
              Jungkook nods. Y/N’s leans forward on the table. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t really have terms and conditions with my clients. Or any contract to ensure them their protection, as what I do tend to…increase risks. Emotional security and mental stability on your part. Those two and physical toll on mine. It will be absurd to provide any contract as what I am doing is anything but guaranteeing protection. I can’t also be fully transparent about the mechanisms behind the things I will do for you. Otherwise, my gift won’t work. What I can only assure is I’ll never proceed on any memories you have set boundaries on. Should you decide to stop this negotiation anywhere in the future, I will automatically concede and keep the confidentiality of whatever that may happen. As long as on your part, you won’t consider asking for a refund.”
              “I understand.”
              “Good,” Y/N smiles, “Now first things first. Tell me any hurting point you have.”
              Jungkook goes stiff. “Is this actually necessary?”
              Y/N nods. “I know this is a tough question, but we’re talking about memories here.”
              “I know but I can’t just divulge them to a stranger—"
              “I think you don’t get what I’m saying.” Y/N lets out a humorless chuckle. “Look, Jungkook, when I attempt to see the future concerning this elusive driver you’re after, it is inevitable for the past to re-appear. There is no future without any past. Your past memories can clog up with the ones involved in the case because you are in the case. You’re heading it. Good or bad, memories will come up. That’s their thing.  They spring up at the most inconvenient times. No matter how old they already are. No matter how long you must have already moved on from them. Memories demand to be remembered and you cannot just disregard them even if you will it to because it never gave anyone a choice to do otherwise.  So, if you don’t set the boundaries on the memories you don’t want me to cross, I’ll just see everything in their utter unadulterated form.” Y/N leans forward, “And I can assure you, you don’t want that to happen.” 
              Jungkook prods his cheek with his tongue. “Fine. I’ll give you my hurting point and that’s that. No further questions.”
              “Okay.”
              Jungkook digs in his back pocket for his wallet and flips it open. There’s a tattered white edge of a picture peeking through the flaps. It’s been years since he pulled it out. Its replica, now tucked in his shelf, has prevented him from doing so for so many years. Jungkook closes his eyes and slides it toward the girl. “This boy. Anything that concerns him, I don’t want you to cross or even bring up. Understand?”
              “Okay.” Y/N hands back the photo to him. “We go to the second step then. You must already have your assumed suspects. Tell me their names.”
              Jungkook draws back. “I can’t tell you that, that’s highly classified information. FJO’s protocol doesn’t allow it and—”
              “Do you seeking my help part of the protocol?”
              Jungkook looks down, “No.”
              “Right. So, tell me their names. I need to know them to make a memory map.”
              Jungkook’s brows meet “A what?”
              “A memory map,” Y/N repeats, “It’s something I make to identify points of certain memories in time. It guides me to the memories I need to tread to reach what I’m really looking for. It’s like a demo version of Forecrime’s box trainings but except of a machine, I’m doing it manually by hand. For all we know, the real suspect must be close to these suspects.” 
              Jungkook’s brow quirks up.
              Y/N leans forward, “So, tell me their names?”
              Jungkook turns his face away from her, looking at his clasped hands. “Well, I…only have one.”
              “And that is?”
              “Leigh Anderson. Winston’s assassin. FJO has been after him for 17 years. He also has a number of sponsors who’s been sending him missions with promises of large sums of money. But most of all, he’s rumored to have access to time jumping technologies. Illegal of course. FJO is the only one licensed to be utilizing them.”
              “That’s good,” Y/N quips. “Do you have any pictures of him?”
              Jungkook turns to his duffel bag and retrieves a picture. It’s Anderson in the scene of Winston’s murder that FJO has pinned to their system. The one in the crime record Jungkook produced. He hands it to Y/N. “Is this enough?”
              “More than enough,” Y/N smiles. She stands up and walks to one of her cupboards, reaching for a ceramic bowl. She pours some tap water in it and turns back to the table, a short, white candle in hand. She places the candle on the water, letting it float. She retrieves a lighter from her dress pocket and lights up the wick of the candle.
              Y/N puts her palms open on the table. “Let’s start now. Do you have your clicker with you?”
              Jungkook’s brows meet. “What?”
              “Your time jumper,” Y/N grits.
              Jungkook looks at her incredulously. “I don’t see any reason why would you need it—”
              “We’re going to the past to have a tangible memory to start on my memory map.” Before Jungkook could tear himself away from the table, Y/N launches forward and snatches the small, black device hanging on the man’s belt loop. Jungkook shoots an arm out and grabs onto it.
              But it’s too late. Y/N’s already pushed the button.
              The air is knocked out of Jungkook’s windpipe. A numbing pain starts to settle on his chest, a migraine forming on his temple. His limbs also feel stone-heavy. Precrime traveling has always been like this and yet Jungkook can never get used to it. However, he’s not left wondering about it for long because in the next second, Jungkook’s standing in front of a dark road. Tall shrubs and trees shadowing the moon, CCTVs mounted on the lamp posts lining the concrete. It’s Somerset Road.  
              Jungkook’s eyes widen. Why is he here? He tries to move but his limbs are stuck by his side, unmoving as he grunts. He tries to take a step back but the effort is futile when his feet are seemingly glued onto the dark asphalt. Jungkook sighs and turns to the road in front of him again. And this time around, Jungkook’s mouth falls ajar.
              Y/N is standing idly at the other side of the road, opposite of him.
              “H-how did you travel here—”
              A car zooms past. Jungkook turns his head to the sound. The air is punched out from his esophagus. It’s his car—the silver-gray Ford. And there at the other end of the road emerges a black sedan sports Jaguar. The Jaguar speeds on and drives into the Ford, swerving it around, tires screeching loud on the pavement. It topples down, rolling around, then round, and round. Three times, Jungkook counted. Just like the CCTV Hoseok retrieved. The Ford stops, upside down. The black Jaguar zips past it. Like the CCTVs have shown, the Jaguar reaches the other end of the street and disappears. A second passes. The body of the driver in the car drops onto the cold pavement. It lolls his head to his side, bloodied face turned towards the man standing on the pavement. 
              Jungkook’s facing right into his past. He isn’t reliving the memory. He is living it. There’s no anger but pain. Fresh, unadulterated pain that cannot be accounted to the lacerations on his injured arm.
              The wind howls. Jungkook remains frozen in his position. Then suddenly, everything stops—the distant honking of the cars, the wind, the clatter of the crushed car pieces falling onto the ground. What the fuck is happening? Jungkook turns around, only to come face to face with the girl.
              Y/N’s arm shoots forward and fists the collar of his leather jacket, pulling him down to her level. “You didn’t say this business is personal!”
              “It’s not a big deal,” Jungkook spits, tearing her hand off him.
              “It is, Jungkook! You said you were involved. I didn’t think it was this level of involved!”
              “It doesn’t change any fact that I’m still going to be involved either way! I’m still going to head this case because it’s tied with Winston. What difference does it make if I am the victim of this fucking man?!”
              “A lot!” Y/N screams. Jungkook stops. Y/N sighs, “It does a lot of difference, Jungkook. We’re already risking a lot in this until it turns out you’re a focal point in this case! You’re a fucking victim of this culprit! A conflict of interest is highly possible. You will be unable disassociate yourself from this and objectively investigate this case—” 
              “I don’t need you telling me what I should do or not, Y/N.” Jungkook steps forward to the girl. “I know what I’m doing. And I know it when I say I can investigate this following all the legal protocols.”
              Y/N tilts her head. “How can you say that when you’ve just been face-to-face with your past self?” 
              Before Jungkook can say anything, Y/N closes her eyes and clicks her finger. In just one second, everything around Jungkook falls beneath his feet—the trees, Somerset Road, his bloodied self. It rips themselves off from his senses until all he could see again is the dilapidated atelier, the barren ceilings, and, Y/N.
              Jungkook hunches over, coughing as air fills his lungs again. “H-how could you do that?”
              Y/N blows off the candle. “My gift.” She glances at the man. “The accident is taking a serious toll on you. I have to take us out of the time jump.”
                Jungkook sits back and glowers at her. “N-no, what I’m asking about is—how could you snatch my clicker and make a jump without any remorse? You do know that’s illegal!”
              “I know. ‘FJO’s traveling agents and officials are the only ones allowed by the law to engage in time jumping activities’ yaddah yaddah bullshit.”  Y/N leans on the table, face hovering the Captain’s. “But involving a then-law practitioner, much more an outsider like me, into your case is also illegal. I have my gift, yes. But I can only see the future and I won’t be able to see it accurately if I don’t have some sense of the past. Plus, I have no other pragmatic choice to start this case on the right foot. I already saw the future of our negotiation before you sat down on that stool. There’s nothing else I could say other than it didn’t end favorably for any of us.” Y/N turns back to the table she’s clearing, “Not that it’s any different now. Especially when I just learned the case you’ve showed me is more personal than you presented it to be.”
              Jungkook purses his lips. He stands up, gathers his things, and wordlessly makes his way out of the atelier. He didn’t bid the girl any farewell.
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              “Looks like you haven’t been sleeping.”
              Jungkook looks up at his friend before looking down at his crossed arms, turning his attention back to his mug of coffee.
              Namjoon takes a seat cross Jungkook. “Did something happen?” He twirls the tea bag around his own mug, “Care to tell why you’ve been sporting those dark eye bags since two days ago?”
              “It’s nothing.”
              “It’s not nothing when the doctor precisely told you to have a healthy lifestyle to help your wound heal faster.”
              Jungkook looks at Namjoon.
              Namjoon points to his bandaged arm, “It indeed doesn’t look it’s healing fast like it’s supposed to.”
              Jungkook sighs. “Fine, you caught me.” He purses his lips then looks at his friend, “I’ve been wondering. You know our clickers are designed to identify the agent it was assigned to before it could work. But, is it…possible for clickers to work on someone that doesn’t belong to FJO as long as someone from FJO is present?”
              Namjoon keeps his gaze on him. A look of surprise seems to wash over his face. But it soon gets replaced by a look of recognition. Namjoon places the tea bag onto the saucer on his left. “I see you already met Y/N.”
              “Y-you knew that about her?”
              “I do,” Namjoon mutters over his cup of tea. “I learned it when the Bureau looked into the Linton Park serial murders. Seokjin’s team, including me, followed the memory map she made for us—a trail of memories that specifically belongs to anything related to the murders. But then, we hit a dead-end for the supposed next victim. Can’t identify her. We only had images of flashing movement—blood splattering in a barn, people running on a green field. There are just cops and a woman.” 
              Namjoon places down his cup, “And so, Y/N told me she needed me to help her make a time jump in the past. I pressed on the clicker and,” Namjoon shrugs, “Y/N successfully made the jump. And also successfully return with the info of the victim—a girl working on a farm. Y/N tied it to the flashing images of the field and deduced the running was not about us chasing a murderer’s accomplice. But us running after a victim before Linton could. It was hard to tell at first why the victim is running away from us. Until we learned through Y/N she was an illegal immigrant.” 
              Namjoon pulls his lips into a tight smile. “I think it’s an additional gift. But at the same time, it’s also a setback. A rightful one at that. Y/N’s inability to time jump in the past unless with a clicker a meter radius within her balances the power of her future-seeing gift. She still needs to rely on the system even if her gift for the future is, hypothetically, unbound from any constraints.” Namjoon takes a sip of his tea. “How ‘bout you? How did you learn this…extra ability of hers?”
              “She snatched my clicker from me,” Jungkook leans back in his seat. “She said she needed a ‘tangible memory’ to start on her memory map. She ended up thrusting us back into the time of my car accident.”
              Namjoon freezes. “Excuse me? Did you say ‘us’?”
              Jungkook’s forehead furrows, “Yeah. We did the jump together, that’s why I’m asking you about this thing with the clickers.” 
              “Jungkook, she never did that before.”
              Jungkook’s brows shoot up. “What?”
              Namjoon scratches his nape, face scrunched up. “When she asked me to let her jump through my clicker, she didn’t take me along with the jump. It’s only her. Like it should always be as one clicker is only for one user. It’s always been like this in all the situations she asked me for a time jump in the past.” Namjoon looks at him, “I don’t know why you got in the same loop as her.”
              The night was quiet but devoid of peace. Like an ugly pause in a running film that’s just about to unwind the questions they laid at the start. Even after intaking his blue pills, Jungkook finds it difficult to close his eyes shut.
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              “Big brother!”
              Jungkook turns around. The small boy stands on his tiptoes, small arms reaching for him. Jungkook smiles, “You want to climb on my back again, Daehyun?”
              “Yes!” Daehyun giggles.
              “Alright then,” Jungkook crouches in front of him and Daehyun’s squeals grow louder as he loops his stubby arms around Jungkook’s neck. Jungkook stands up, securing the boy’s short legs around his torso. “Ready for some wind, big boy?” He asks. Daehyun nods frantically and soon, Jungkook is zooming on the green field, turning the heads of the children and volunteers in the park. But all Jungkook could hear was Daehyun’s laughter filling the nice summer afternoon. It brings a huge smile on Jungkook’s face. 
              Then—flashing blue and red lights. Cold pavement. A lone school bus standing in the middle. Its yellowness highlighted by the police’s yellow tape surrounding the area. Reporters dot every possible space on the crossroad. “Shooter on the loose.” “Poor child.” “Blood splattered on the seats.” But all Jungkook could hear is the white noise of the chattering. And the call of “Big brother!” he’ll never hear anymore. 
              Jungkook jolts awake. He sighs, closing his eyes. “It’s all in the past,” he mutters repeatedly under his breath. But no matter how many times he repeats it, it doesn’t shake off the horror he’s reeling in. He’s had this dream again and again for eight years straight. He should be already accustomed to it. 
              Jungkook sits up straight. He turns back to his computer and sees a couple of pictures open on the desktop. It was the screenshots of the CCTVs Yoongi gave them. He looks at the top of his desk. His notes empty of anything new other than Leigh Anderson’s name webbed next to an un-filled space for sponsors. Jungkook covers his face with his palms and yawns. Just then a series of text messages come in.
              Unknown: This is Y/N. I know we left on bad terms three days ago. I’m the one to blame for that for overreacting. I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve done a case for FJO. I’m still kinda hung up separating personal services from investigative ones. (2:13 P.M.)
              Unknown: Nevertheless, I hope you’re free this day. Meet me at Somerset Road. 3 P.M. I don’t want you to waste the money you gave me yesterday (2:13 P.M.)  
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              Somerset Road is a thirty-minute drive from the FJO Main Headquarters. However, it didn’t feel like it when Jungkook parks his car on the side road. It seemed like hours have gone by when the sun is about to set in the alcove of trees in the distance. It’s just three in the afternoon. Jungkook steps outside and shuts the door. From his position, he could make out a girl in ripped black denim pants and black tank layered with a pink see-through mesh shirt. From the striking red of the spider lilies on the top of her spine, Jungkook could tell it was Y/N. He almost didn’t recognize her. He wouldn’t know she has an undercut had her high ponytail didn’t highlight it.
              The girl turns around and looks at him. “You’re late.”
              “I have to bribe the Maintenance Office first to give me this afternoon’s CCTVs when we’re done.” Jungkook strides toward her, “How did you get my number?”
              “Namjoon.”
              Jungkook cocks a brow.
              Y/N shrugs, “he wrote it in the letter you gave me. Should you, quote-unquote, be ‘difficult to deal with.’”
              Jungkook keeps his lips in a straight line.
              Y/N rocks on her toes, hands in her pocket. “Let’s get straight to it then. Take your clicker out and push it.”
              “What are you intending to do—”
              “A time jump.”
              “Of course, I know that. What other purpose do we use our time jumps for?” Jungkook spits. “What I want to know is what we’re supposed to be doing first before I follow whatever you want me to do because I cannot just blindly trust you with this—”
              Y/N turns her head to him, one brow cocked up, “Didn’t I tell you before I don’t fancy How-What-Why-Whatever questions to what I do or else my gift won’t work?”
              “Yes, but—”
              “Look, will you just push it or do you want me to snatch it from you again?” Y/N takes a step closer to him, leveling his eyes with hers. “I already did a read for today. I know its new hiding place.”
              Jungkook remains unmoving in his stance.
              Y/N crosses her arms. “If it would assure you, this session won’t end taxingly fruitless like the last time. I’m positive we’ll get something by the end of today.”
              “How did you know?”
              “I told you, I did a read for today. I saw you with an astounded face and me with a happy and proud smile. Obviously, we must have ended up finding something.”
              Jungkook is still unconvinced.
              Y/N sighs, “If you don’t want to do anything of what I can offer you, you know you can just terminate our connection anytime you want. Just so you know you can’t refund the 10,000 zials you gave me for the downpayment.”
              Jungkook keeps his gaze on her. A couple of seconds pass before he sighs and shakes his head as he takes out his issued clicker tucked in the breast pocket of his leather jacket.
              Y/N smirks. “See? You know you’re gonna need me in the end and you still try to put up an unnecessary fight.”
              Jungkook grunts. He turns the clicker’s indicator to “1-2 weeks” timeframe and pushes the button.
              It was just like their previous time jump—like any other Precrime time jump. It felt like nothing yet also everything at the same time. An amalgamation of sensations and perceptions flashing in front of him in the blink of an eye as he is transported back to the night of his accident. Jungkook looks down at his feet. He’s back to where he last stood at—the left side of the road next to the corner where his car will come from. Jungkook turns to his left and he almost jumps in shock. Unlike their last jump, Y/N is no longer on the opposite side of the road, but beside him, shoulders almost bumping his. Jungkook takes a staggering step away from her. 
              Even if Namjoon laid everything he knows about Y/N’s skills yesterday, Jungkook still finds it hard to accept that a clairvoyant is able to look into the past with such effortless access. Aren’t they only supposed to see the future?
              “What are you looking at?”
              Jungkook tears his gaze away from her. “Nothing.”
              “Thought so, too,” Y/N quips. “We’re here to work after all. Not ogle at each other.” 
              Jungkook tongues his cheek. He’s not left to his frustration for long as after a second, the burning of tires on the asphalt is heard on their side of the road. A silver-gray Ford appears and it zooms past them in a flash. A black Jaguar subsequently shows up on the other side, its form nearing them each millisecond that passes. It’s only time ‘til the two crashes and sends Jungkook’s car rolling three times on the road.
              But, it didn’t happen. The howls of the wind stop. The screeching of the tires halts in awkward silence. And the cars are frozen still. The Jaguar’s bumper and Ford’s right door are separated by a mere inch. It’s the second before the accident happens. Paused in a picture-like frame as if someone hit the pause icon on a video.
              Jungkook whips his head to his side. Y/N has her palm closed in a post-click of her thumb and middle fingers. Jungkook feels his throat clog up, “H-how did you do that?”
              Y/N rolls her eyes. “Told you before, it’s because of my gift. And it’s also just seconds ago I told you I don’t like questions about how my gift works.” Y/N steps away from him and onto the road. “Follow me.” 
              Jungkook silently follows behind. It’s only a matter of seconds that they reach the side of the door of the silver-gray Ford. Jungkook lets his fingers touch on the coated metal. It felt cold on his flesh. Solid. Real. Jungkook can’t help but be astonished. This is no regular time jump. Totally unlike the first one he did with the woman. For this time, Jungkook doesn’t feel he’s living the film of the scene, just like any of the standard Precrime time jumping. This time, Jungkook feels he’s in the scene. Not in a film, not like the virtual reality experienced by Forecrime agents. But in real-time.
              “Take your hands off your car.”
              Jungkook tears his hands away from his car. He looks at the girl. Y/N gives him a pointed look, “I know this time jump doesn’t feel like the standard time jumps of Precrime so you may be astounded with,” she motions around them, “all of this. But I prefer you not to get too overwhelmed. We’re here for work.”
              Jungkook nods, reluctant. Y/N walks further into the side of the road, now a foot away from the spot where the cars should crash. Jungkook quickly follows behind. When he’s by an arms-length away from her, he faces back to the scene in front of him. And then, Y/N clicks her hand.
              The trees sway again. The winds continue their violent gush on the road. And the cars collide. The film is playing again.
              But then, Y/N clicks her fingers. The scene stops, frozen yet again. The bumper of the Jaguar has dug into the Ford’s door, crushing the metal with its momentum. The side mirror is broken, glass shards shattering in mid-air.
              “Come here,” Y/N beckons. Jungkook walks close behind as Y/N stops by the point of intersection of the two cars.  From their position, Jungkook could see the past him hunched over on the wheel, seat belt digging into his torso. The window by his side is broken, a splotch of blood marring the clear glass. And on his right, Jungkook could see the driver of the black Jaguar. Non-existent.
              Y/N looks at him, “So we know the man you’re after is doing an illegal time jump similar to the pattern of Precrime’s traveling agents. But what you don’t know is: he’s a professional.”
              “W-what?” 
              “Look,” Y/N flicks her wrist and makes an anti-clockwise motion of her hand. The sound goes void again and the cars back away from each other in slow motion. Jungkook’s brows shoot up.  The scene is rewinding. Y/N is turning back the time before the Jaguar collided into the Ford. And then, Y/N moves her arm horizontally to her left and clicks her fingers. The Jaguar moves forward again, but slowly this time. Jungkook could see the silhouette of the driver with arms taut on the wheel disappearing into a cloud of smoke until it turns no more but a nonexistent person on the seat as it hits the door of the Ford. 
              Y/N clicks her fingers and the scene pauses. “As you saw, it only took the driver,” she glances at her watch, “ten seconds before completely disappearing into his time jump. From how fast he disappeared, we could say it only took him twenty seconds in total to make the entire jump. I can only deduce this as the memories we have are short of the time we could see him in his solid form. The same way goes for the CCTVs you gathered. It only captured the last ten seconds of the whole accident. The Jaguar nonexistent in the frame from 20:23:39 and anything beyond before that time mark. The CCTVs only showed the Jaguar from 20:23:40 to exactly 20:24. The last 10 seconds, devoid of any driver.” 
              The girl continues, “Now, to be able to completely vanish in just 20 seconds, you must be a professional in time jumping in the past. Which can only be done if you’ve undergone training under Precrime. However, this could also be just any other outsider that’s gotten lucky doing an illegal time jump. Considering Somerset Road has a strong electromagnetic field that can help anyone do their time jumps faster and more successfully—including the risky ones that involve a huge time frame of unbounded jumps into the past. But to know that about Somerset Road, much less know how to effectively take advantage of its field during a time jump—you should be a long-time agent of Precrime.” 
              Y/N faces Jungkook, “The man you’re after is either a professional Precrime traveling agent or an outsider who’s fed with all the necessary information only a Precrime agent could know. It’s an inside job.”
              Jungkook shakes his head, “No. It can’t be. Every time-jumping device has a permanent tracker that can never be taken out even by the best engineer. Allen McGregor designed it to be like that to ensure these devices will not be used for personal interest. Every agent is tracked of their traveling activities and logged straight into the Investigation Bureau’s files. They’re inputted in glass files similar to the crime records—void for editing, copying, and deleting. And should it be an outsider utilizing Precrime’s technology, a travel will still be tracked back to the agent whose device was used.” Jungkook looks at Y/N. “There have been no reports of anyone traveling on Somerset Road the night of my accident.”
              Y/N shrugs, “I’m just saying what I saw. Especially this.” Y/N makes an anti-clockwise motion of her hands and the scene rewinds again.  The Jaguar is frozen back into five seconds before it hits the silver-gray Ford. Y/N walks toward the car, Jungkook close behind. The girl motions to the passenger seat and Jungkook stills. There on the leather seat is a red file case. Unprecedented murder. Precrime Murder Sector. But this is not what rendered Jungkook immobile in shock. Rather, it’s the label on the file case. 
              “Jonathan Winston Assassination; August 15, 2047; 12:30:00.”
              “See?” Y/N smirks, “Told you we’ll find something today.”
              A click of the hand and soon, the dark night sky of Somerset Road bleeds into the burning colors of the sunset. There’s no longer the silver-gray Ford and the black Jaguar. It’s just Jungkook and Y/N alone in the road, back to where they were before.
              Jungkook hunches over, coughing as he beats his chest. When he finally stabilizes his breathing back to normal, he turns to the girl. “You…Ho-how can you be so sure with all of these vi-visions?”
              Y/N looks at Jungkook, an indecipherable look on her face. “This is what you paid for 10,000 zials. I’m handing you what your eyes missed on just the way they are.”
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              Jungkook holds in his breath as he knocks on the glass door.
              “Come in.”
              Jungkook pushes the door open and salutes. “Chief Nathan Spencer.”
              “Captain Jeon,” the Chief of Precrime glances up at him before returning back to the stack of papers he’s signing. He motions to the chair in front of his desk, “Make yourself comfortable.”
              Jungkook pulls back the black chair and sits.
              “So, what brings you here?”
              “This week’s report, sir—the joint investigation with DOJ on the unidentified black Jaguar.” Jungkook places a brown folder on the Chief’s desk.
              The chief looks at the captain. “Still no progress in the identification?” 
              Jungkook shakes his head, face grim.
              “That can’t be helped,” Nathan sympathetically mutters. “It’s not the first time FJO has handled a difficult case.”
              “But it is the first time FJO can’t identify a suspect with its current system.”
              “You’re right,” Nathan nods. He flips open the brown folder and skims the report. “How’s the auditor doing?”
              Jungkook clenches his jaw. “Fine. Still…meddling with our processes.”
              Nathan lets out a light scoff. “As expected of someone who’s running for a promotion. Always been a know-it-all jerk, this Min Yoongi.”
              Jungkook makes a tight-lipped smile.
              Nathan chuckles. “Forgive me. I’ve always had a prejudice against DOJ’s auditors. Most, if not all of them, always give us a hard time more than what’s necessary. Anyway, what else do you have for me, Jungkook?”
              The captain sits up straight. “I would like to ask a favor, sir.”
              Nathan clasps his hand on his desk. He leans forward. “What is it?”
              “It’s for the investigation. DOJ has access to all of our files—Precrime, Forecrime, and even the Investigation Bureau. So I figured if I can also do the same since our sector seems to be their main target. If I have the same leverage on our own information as them, I can have control over this investigation and drive them away before they can even assume power over us.” Jungkook leans on the table, “We could see the problems first before they become visible to DOJ.”
              Nathan raises his brow. “So what do you mean?”
              “I would like to have unrestricted access in our archives. Everything that contains anything pertaining to FJO.” Jungkook leans forward, “Including the Memory Temple.” 
              The chief sighs, “That’s a big favor, Jungkook.”
              “I know. That’s why Chief General Andrews told me to go to you.”
              Nathan’s brows shoot up, “The Chief General?”
              “Yes, Chief General Matthew Andrews. He said you’re good friends with Chief of the Bureau, Natasha Ryde. Chief Andrews wants to ask if you could do a favor of a friend for a friend.” Jungkook slides a white envelope underneath the folder, “Of course, not without considerable credit.”
              Nathan purses his lips. A beat. He shakes his head, sighing. “Okay…I’ll try to put in a word for you. I can give you the entire archives tomorrow. But the Memory Temple could take a while. Two days or three.”
              “That’s fine with me.” Jungkook smiles. He stands up and heads to the end of the room. Before he could disappear behind the door, he salutes one more time, “Thank you for the kind accommodation, Chief.” 
              Jungkook heads to the main elevator and hits the second floor below the Superiors’ Hall. The metal doors ding open and soon, Jungkook’s looking at a wide expanse of glass wall reflecting hundreds of shelves on the glass panes.
              Jungkook heads to the entranceway and salutes at the guard, “Sally.” The guard returns the salute, smiling. Jungkook tilts his head, “Did the Bureau come by to retrieve Precrime files?”
              “Not yet, sir. The Bureau’s still busy in their matters with DOJ. They halted the synching of files for now.”
              “That’s good,” Jungkook quips and pushes the glass doors open.
              Tall metal bookshelves snake like an accordion around the floor. The spaces between them is occasionally filled up by wooden desks that mandatorily come along with a wooden bookstand and black study lamp. It looks like a hedge maze made of old books, monochrome papers, and multi-colored files.
              Jungkook heads to the leftmost aisle—Precrime’s archives. He weaves his way through the bookshelves until he stops in front of a separated room in the middle of the labyrinth. It’s made completely out of glass, just like FJO’s offices. The only difference is that this room contains five sets of desks and chairs, bookshelves, and the Archive Manager’s huge white station as the centerpiece.
              And before Jungkook could finish leveling his eyes to the scanner set by the door, he could already feel the growing stare of Emily Young.
              “Captain Jeon.”
              “Ms. Young,” Jungkook nods to the manager.
              Emily smiles, “To what do I owe your visit today?”
              “Jonathan Winston’s Assassination case file.” 
              “As usual,” The thirty-seven-year-old manager sing-songs as she stands up and disappears into the back room. It doesn’t take long for her to retrieve what the Precrime captain is looking for.
              A long expandable, red file with the label in Arial 12 print: “Jonathan Winston Assassination; August 15, 2047; 12:30:00.”
              Just like in Y/N’s time jump. Identically the same. Jungkook looks at the manager, “Do you have a log of anyone who looks into this file?”
              Emily chuckles, “I don’t think that will bring anything new to the table, captain.” She scans the numeric code of the file and turns the monitor of her computer towards him. “There’s no one who’s been looking at this file but you.”
              Jungkook peers in. Indeed, the log on Winston’s file contains nothing but his name. From August 15, 2047, the date of Winston’s assassination, to the most recent date, August 3, 2059. The day after Leigh Anderson’s suicide. The day after the Winston case was closed cold. There’s no other name in the log for 12 years other than his name.
              Jungkook looks back at Emily, “Are you sure this is the complete log on this file? No one borrowed the file earlier than July 12th?”
              “That’s the whole log, captain. There’s no record on August 1st because we’re closed to do an inventory check.” Emily leans back in her chair. “Everyone knows you’re busy on a case in Down Hill for the entirety of June. The Allison future murder is all over the news. Of course, with a Metropolis resident as a future victim. And with you busy on another case, this Winston’s file is devoid of any viewers.” Emily releases a chuckle. “Every cop has an obsession with a particular case. Everyone here knows Winston’s case is yours. I think I will remember if someone other than you looked into this file because I swear that day will be a miracle.”
              Jungkook purses his lips, face undecipherable. Right then, his phone rings loud. He turns to his back and picks it up. “Hello?”
              “Captain.” It’s Jimin.
              “What is it?”
              “You have to come to the sector now. There’s a file from Precrime. It’s…a blank.”
              “Okay, I’ll be there soon,” Jungkook ends the call. He faces Emily. “Thank you for today, Emily.” The archives manager nods with a playful salute at him. Jungkook quickly returns the salute and pushes the door open. Soon, he’s tearing past the labyrinth of shelves.
              It doesn’t take Jungkook longer than ten minutes to reach the left-wing of the 2nd floor. The cold sweat from the discovery in the archives is still clinging on his nape. 
              As soon as he steps into Murder Sector, everyone’s eyes are set on him. Including Yoongi. Jungkook prods his cheek with his tongue as he slides in the gloves over his hands. “Jimin, give me the run-over.”
              “Captain, Jeon. It’s a grayish-white file. Precrime, Property and Crime Scene Sector. Traveling agent in charge is Eric Williams. Crime record validated by traveling agents Hannah Peters and Ivan Park. Case number 3571, hit-and-run, destruction of property.  Suspect is unknown. Victim’s name is…Jeon Jungkook.”
              Jungkook whips his head towards the secretary, eyes wide.
              “It’s your case, sir.” Jimin confirms, “Eric accidentally time jumped into the night of your hit-and-run while he’s traveling for a T-Bone accident in Middle Town. Property and Crime Scene figured this blank is a crucial update on your case.” He walks to the end of the glass board and slides the disk into the middle slot.
              Jungkook turns to his front. The glass board lights up and a video starts playing. It’s Somerset Road and it’s almost pitch black in the grainy film. Eric stands frozen on the pavement for a second. But the seeming serenity of the scene soon dissipates as he looks down at his gear and frantically fumbles for his time jumper. Suddenly, hot blinding light fills his peripherals. Eric’s head shoots up. A car is speeding toward him. The headlights grow larger and finally, the car becomes visible. It’s the silver-gray Ford. Eric turns around and right then, a black Jaguar zooms past him, merely missing him by a hairsbreadth. But the Jaguar doesn’t stop and further increases its speed. It bulldozers right into the side of the Ford, sending it flying across the barren road. Eric picks up his feet and dashes to the cars. But his efforts are futile. The black Jaguar has already disappeared before he could even take his 12th step. And then, the record stops.
              Before Jimin could even state the protocol run-through, Jungkook frantically swipes through the blank record. He slides across the frames in reverse, back and backward until he reaches the first second of the blank.
              “Sir, I’m afraid we have to do the protocol first—"
              Jungkook’s hand stills on the board. The frame freezes. It’s a close-up of the black Jaguar as it barely grazes Eric’s body. Jungkook zooms in. There inside the passenger seat of the car is a long, red expandable file. “Jonathan Winston Assassination; August 15, 2047; 12:30:00.”
              Jungkook feels his blood run cold. It’s the same file he just had his hands on less than 15 minutes ago. It’s the same file he saw in his and Y/N’s jump. Y/N’s vision is true.  
              Jungkook feels his pocket vibrate and he quickly whips out his phone. However, he wasn’t able to dwell on it longer as a hard force pushes his shoulder backward, forcing Jungkook to tear his eyes off the screen.
              Yoongi glares at him, “Why are you indifferent about this? You know something about this, didn’t you? Captain Jeon!” 
              But even with his name called out loud, Jungkook couldn’t hear anything. All that registers in his mind is one single message.
              Y/N L/N:  Have you ever heard of a Sooah Kim before? (11:14 A.M.)
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Note: This story is based on Steven Spielberg’s film adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s short story, Minority Report (2002). That being said, this series may contain spoilers for the movie so if you want to watch the movie, please do so first before reading!
A/N | Hi hons! Thank you for reading the 2nd chapter! I hope I got you guys more curious about the story hehe. Anyway, I have some announcement: I have finals for a major coming up this week so I’ll spend the next whole week studying. So, I’ll try if I can update the next chap the week after next week, on Sunday, too. But nothing is certain yet as I still have some uni stuff to do. Don’t worry, I only have 3 projects left to do to finally finish this sem. So as soon as I’m done with them, expect more frequent updates from me! 
If you guys wanna get notified as soon as I post the next chapter, I’m gonna add you all in my taglist! Just hit me up down the comments of this series’ masterlist so I can better track you all! The search function of Tumblr is messing with me and my notifs in my inbox usually come late so it’s highly probable your asks and DMs may get lost ☹
Once again, thank you for reading and giving a chance to My Time! :”)
Notes: As you know, this is a mystery fic. So, it will be most appreciated if any theories pertaining to the story be kept down the comments so I can entertain them all without spoiling our future readers! Once again, thank you so much for reading this!
All Rights Reserved 2020 © Vanaera. Reposts, modifications, and translations of content are not allowed without direct permission.
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lucid dreams | part one
Obi-Wan Kenobi X Reader [Soulmate AU]
synopsis: Dreaming has become a meeting place for two people destined for each other. They say you see everything related to your soulmate in your dreams, including your soulmate. Surely meeting someone you’re destined to be with wouldn’t be difficult, right? Wrong. For you, it’s impossible. Sometimes you think your dreams are mere compensations for not having a soulmate.
warnings for this chapter: mild swearing
word count: 1,153
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He has a unique and, admittedly, odd name: Obi-Wan Kenobi. Charming with his auburn hair, neatly pushed to one side, eyes resembling a clear blue sky on a summer day, his accent thick and melodious, and a well groomed beard—not too long, but not short enough to be a stubble—he looked attractive under the dimly lit void of dreamland. He captivated you with every bit of his presence ever since the first time you talked. 
You wish to learn more about this man. Usually, you’d work day and night for some commissions which meant, no sleep; sometimes, it’s him who doesn’t show up. It was conflict on schedule and you knew little of him. Coruscant was one thing, he said he lived there. Did you believe him? No. You looked it up right away when you woke; no place or planet like that ever existed. And you swore to talk to him about it, but the time never came. 
You hoped for tonight to be different. You covered up you paints, cleaned your brushes, and left your studio downstairs to go up to your room. Vincent was already sleeping in the new bed you bought for him. Crawling in yours, with your tired eyes and aching back from your awful desk set up, you sank in the soft mattress and drifted off to sleep. 
The void was filling up, but you pay no attention to it. He was there and, as per usual, keeping safe distance from you. “Obi-Wan.” You greeted him, walking closer to the man. “Hello, y/n.” He smiled. “We haven’t talked in a while.” You said sheepishly. “You’ve been busy.” “I’m sure you have as well.” You notice the floating window again, Coruscant. “Tell me more about where you come from.”  “I’m from Stewjon. I do not remember much about my home, I was taken away at a very young age.” He explained. “No, I meant Coruscant. I think you’re lying to me.” You accused, “Why would I lie about any of that?” “Because it doesn’t exist! I’m sure the same goes for ‘Stewjon.’” You emphasized on the name. “Your planet does not exist. You’re telling me you live a non-existent planet, Obi-Wan. No human can live in another planet.” “I assure you, many of us are in different planets.” He said, crossing his arms. “Your archives must be incomplete.” You roll your eyes at him. “How am I supposed to get to know you, if you won’t even tell me where you’re truly from?” You raised a brow at the man. “I’m not lying to you about Coruscant or Stewjon, yet you refuse to believe me.” He said. “I suggest we talk about what we’re seeing.” So, he’s a negotiator. You thought, proceeding to ask him what he sees. “I see you’re well acquainted with art.” He said, walking around the void, admiring things you cannot see. “It’s my job. You like to read?” You asked, remembering the floating books. “I do,” Obi-Wan smiled. “I see you do too. And... you live in an awfully crowded city.” He scrunched his nose. “That’s New York.” You sighed. “I read on my free time or when I need to spark up an inspiration for an art piece.” “You must be very talented.” He replied. “Thank you. Do you like Sci-Fi?”  “What’s that?” He turned his attention, from whatever it is he was looking at, to you. “Well, I keep seeing laser swords and spaceships.” You picked one up, examining the object that held no weight. “You probably can’t see it, but I’m holding one right now. It’s fascinating.” An amazed laugh escaped your lips. Obi-Wan couldn’t see what you were holding, but he could see the blue light illuminating your face. “It’s called a lightsaber.” He said nonchalantly. “You should be careful, it’s a dangerous weapon to yield, not to mention it’s weight.”
“It’s light as a feather.” You said. “You can’t feel anything physical here in Dreamland.” Obi-Wan’s lips formed into an ‘o.’ “Yeah, it’s cool right? My parents told me about it. Their dreams were always my favorite bedtime story.”
You and Obi-Wan wandered around the void, naming all the things you see and providing each other with information. He asked you if you liked animals when he saw Vincent’s collar. You asked him if he made robots or owned any, because you saw a golden human-like robot and a robot with blue details. “That’s C-3PO and R2.” He said. “Do you own them?” You asked him. “No, a good friend of mine does.”  “I really think you like Sci-Fi.” You chuckled. “And I still have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.” You blushed at the pet name, quickly dusting it off with a question, “Are you, perhaps, an astronaut?” This caught his attention, turning his head to you, a confused look in his face, “Definitely not. I’m completely human.”  “Very funny, Kenobi. I meant to ask about your career.” But before Obi-Wan could say anything, a vortex pulls you in.
Darkness. That only meant that your time was over. A few hours came and when the rays of sunshine hit your eyes, you reached for your journal without hesitation. You list down everything that happened in your dream. “He doesn’t like Sci-Fi.” You chuckled lowly, shaking your head. Looking at the gray cat bed in the corner of your room, you notice Vincent still asleep. Good. You smiled. At least you could finish something this morning without any distractions. Or so you thought.  Your mind was filled with images of him. You thought of his perfectly swooped hair, dreamy eyes, and charming personality. Your cheek heats up upon realization. Before you knew it, your hand scribbled a picture of him on the paper in front of you. A rough sketch of your soulmate. You wondered if it was worth showing your friend. You put the sketch aside and worked on rough ideas for a commission. But your mind couldn’t let go of this man.  You managed to finish a few pieces by noon, just the right time for lunch. Walking to the small kitchen, you opened your magnet-filed fridge and grabbed your leftovers from last night, you also grabbed a can of cat food from the cupboard under the sink. You hear the bell on your cat’s collar ringing. You smile as you see Vincent descend from the stairs upon hearing you pull on the can’s tab. “Here you go, buddy.” You dump the cat food in his blue food bowl and pet his head. You heat up the leftovers in the microwave. Heading to your desk in the studio, you look for the sketch of Obi-Wan and snapped a picture of it, smiling while sending it to your friend. 
Your phone chimed from a notification: Is that him? Another chime: He’s muy bueno ;) I’d tap that You replied with: “Please stop being weird”  Tell. Me. Everything!
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here’s the new update for lucid dreams! i hope you guys liked it. -mori <33
tag list:  @itsyellow​​ @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching​ @fandom-blackhole​ @marvelunistudent @fandoms-pizza-wifi-ym13 @ina-lotta @stargazingcarol
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Text
How Long
Summary: The call comes sometime after midnight, pulling you instantly alert from your deep sleep. Your phone is set to “Do Not Disturb,” and only one number is programmed as an exception.
Characters: Reader, Steve Rogers (Nomad Steve Rogers, Nomad Captain America)
Word Count: 2201
Warnings: Sexual Content, a dash of angst, splash of consensual roughness.  
18+ ONLY.
Author’s Notes: Thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock​ for advice, fix-its, and flails. Thanks to @thoughtslikeaminefield​ for flails, swoons, and suggests. 
Extra thanks to @glassjacket​. You influenced every step of this story, you gave me my song, and this beautiful image edit. 
ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist
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How long you would wait for me? How long I've been away? The shape that I’m in now is shaping the doorway. Make your good love known to me.  Just tell me about your day.
Hozier, “As It Was”
The call comes sometime after midnight, pulling you instantly alert from your deep sleep. Your phone is set to “Do Not Disturb,” and only one number is programmed as an exception.
“Are you home? I...I need you.”
“Of course you can come, let me just-”
“I’m already here.” A pause, and then, “I let myself in. It was too risky to wait-”
You hang up the phone, switching it off as you slide out of bed. Your feet don’t even register the shock of the cold hardwood as you pad across the floor, opening your bedroom door and moving down the hallway. The hair on the back of your neck rises, your nerves jangling in anticipation.
It’s been nearly five months since you’ve seen him (you had him for three whole days, that time), and it was six months before that (only a single day). You don’t allow yourself to speculate in the brief moment before you see him, refusing to analyze just how tired and broken and lost he sounded in the few seconds you spoke.
He’s here, he’s here, he’s here, your heart whispers with each rush of blood.
You turn the corner from the hall into your cramped living room, big enough for a loveseat and a tiny coffee table, but no more. It seems all the more cramped for the super soldier occupying the room. 
He fills all the available space, his black-clad figure blending with the shadows as you pause to take him in.He hasn’t bothered to turn a lamp on, and the only light filters in from the street through your amber curtains. 
The room is tinted sienna, and the bare skin of your legs that shows beneath the hem of your oversize t-shirt (his shirt, left behind many visits ago) is shaded a dark, aged bronze. Steve’s hair is nearly black in the gloom, his eyes colorless and deep. He's no longer the golden hero you'd learned about in school; he's tarnished and aged with misuse. Up until the last few years, the media had been singing songs of praise for the wonder soldier.
You pause a few feet away. His eyes linger on the floor for a heartbeat or two before rising to meet yours. His face is streaked with dirt and what might be faint smudges of blood if you were to look any closer. He’s shed his tactical gear, leaving it in a neat pile near the door, but otherwise, he hasn’t bothered to clean up from his last mission.
“Nat and Sam told me to say hello,” he says, a tired smile raising the corners of his lips.
“Did it go badly?” you ask. 
Steve drops onto the loveseat and sits for a moment, silent, lost, and worn. He doesn’t speak for a long, loaded moment, but you can’t think of what to do to fill the silence.
Finally, Steve exhales, his hands scrubbing up through his beard to dig the heels of his palms into his eyes. His face tilts forward, damps strands of hair swinging loose from where he’s pushed it back out of his face.
“I hate coming to you like this. I should clean up, get a shower or wash my face, at least.” Despite his strength, the lightest brush of your hand on his shoulder halts his rising. His face, otherwise untouched by the years, is lined with worry and grief. You cup his cheek in your palm, your thumb gently smoothing over the dark circles under his eyes. Exhaustion radiates from him, and your heart aches.
“You can shower later. You’re exhausted. Let me help you clean up enough so you can at least get some rest with me. Then we’ll get you a shower. Are you hungry?”
You’re expecting the refusal of food, but you still sigh as you retrieve a deep bowl and a clean towel from your kitchen. Steve is always hungry, but he will almost never admit it, especially when he’s like this. You fill the bowl with warm water and return to find him bent over, elbows planted on his knees, face buried in his hands.
“Still awake there, soldier?”
Steve snaps to, every line of him tense as if he’s ready to spring up from the couch, but you’re ready for this reaction (some lessons are learned the hard way), and you’ve stopped a few feet short of your target. You give him time to relax and then you set your bowl on the coffee table. 
“Take your shirt off?” 
Steve nods wearily, stripping down to the waist, and you examine his torso with a critical eye. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he reminds you of his healing abilities; you always have to see for yourself. As always, his abdomen is free from marks and wounds: literally more perfect than the day he was born.
“Do you want to talk about the mission?” A toss up, really; some nights, he needs to vent. Most nights, he needs to escape. A quick shake of his head shows you it’s going to be one of the latter.
“In that case, have you heard about a pigment called Vantablack?” Steve shakes his head, his eyes locked on your face as you move over him with your warm, damp cloth. “Then let me tell you about a couple of guys named Anish Kapoor and Stuart Semple. You’ll love this.”
For the next several minutes, you carefully clean Steve’s face of any traces of filth, moving on to his neck and chest when you are satisfied with your work. You keep up a steady narrative, outlining the drama between the two artists, giving Steve as detailed a history as you can, knowing he appreciates those little tidbits as much as you do. 
You stop once to fetch a clean towel and fresh bowl of water, and by the time you reach the waistband of his trousers, Steve is visibly more relaxed and even smiling a little as you bring him up to speed on the pigment feud. A shower would have been more efficient, probably even better for his muscles, but Steve doesn’t come to you for efficiency. Every stroke of your hand, every time your fingers press the cloth to his flushed skin, brings you a little closer until you’re straddling him, his hands firmly bracing you against him as the cloth drops from your nerveless fingers to fall to the floor behind the loveseat.
“I missed you,” he says. His eyes search your face restlessly, maybe memorizing with that artist’s eye, always searching for his next sketch; maybe trying to see what’s changed since the last time he held you; maybe just reassuring himself that you are still here, waiting for him like you promised you would.
Like he tried to tell you not to. 
Like he’ll never admit he deserves.
Your palms find his jaw again, fingers slide gently through his beard, and you shiver as the thick, coarse growth scratches against your skin. Your lips meet unconsciously, neither of you meaning to initiate the kiss, and you sigh with relief at the silky, plump press of his mouth against yours.
“Let me dump this water,” you say, sliding back off his lap and standing on shaking legs. “Then we can go to bed.”
But you never make it from between his knees. His hand catches yours, his grip gentle but resolute, and you don't have it in you to pull away. Not that you really want to. He reels you back to him, just a couple of steps, and then his arms are around you, his forehead pressed to your stomach. The heat of him through the thin material of the worn t-shirt is enough to loosen your muscles, send shivers of giddiness through your limbs.
“I missed you,” he murmurs into your navel, sliding his face to the side. Individual hairs from his beard slip through your shirt, scraping over your skin, and Steve’s arms instinctually tighten as your legs falter. Your fingers anchor in his hair, your grip tight enough to make any lesser man cringe. 
Steve groans heavily against your belly, rolling his face to the other side, his teeth nipping and pulling the shirt as he moves. His hands shift, moving his grip from your backside to your hips, digging in tight before his thumbs begin to rise, lifting the hem of your shirt as they move. His nose presses against your bare skin, inhaling deeply as he mercilessly slides the worn garment up. 
“Take it off,” he says, his voice resonant against your hip bone. His lips press, hot and devastating, along the crease between your thigh and pelvis, and you obey without hesitation.
Steve seems determined to memorize the span of skin between your hip bones, to map it with his tongue and lips, but as his mouth trails lower, you grasp his face between both hands, fingers pressing tight as you pull his gaze up to meet yours.
“It’s been too long. I need you inside me.”
His nostrils flair, his eyes sliding shut as he sucks in a sharp breath. His eyelashes lie feather black against his cheeks for a long moment, his jaw clenching, but you know better than to speak.
“Sometimes I dream of you saying those exact words to me.”
You move to open his fly with shaking fingers, and after a couple of stumbling attempts, Steve stills your hands, pressing your fingers down on his lap as he shifts his hips, a hiss escaping his throat as you stroke his length through his pants.
You lean down, sliding your lips across his cheek, your hands pressing down harder as Steve ruts up into your grip. There's a sudden line of pressure on your hips, and then Steve lets your shredded underwear drop unceremoniously to the floor.
He pulls you down to his lap just as your mouth finds his ear. Your lips ghost up the edge, teeth nipping the cool skin there; Steve settles your thighs on either side of his, still rutting against you even as he turns his head to give you better access. The tendons in his hands creak with restraint as he pulls you down harder, and you know he holds back for fear of hurting you, no matter how much he needs this release. 
But tonight, in reverently simple, soft words, you tell him to hold on as hard as he needs. You reassure him, tell him everything you both need to hear, a mantra repeated so much it’s sunk deep into your bones.
That you’ll wait for him no matter how long he’s away.
That your love is absolute and unmoved, how it will remain until the dust takes you both. 
That even if it’s only for tonight, he has to let everything else go and just be with you, feel you, lose himself in you.
“I’m here, Steve. Take what you need.”
And for the first time since you’ve known him, the captain obeys orders and digs in harder. You lift up long enough for him to finally open his pants and pull himself clear of material before sinking down on his length. 
And if the word forced from your lips is some unrecognizable hybrid between a prayer and a curse, both of you are too far gone to notice.
Later tonight, when the two of you have finally migrated back to the bed, Steve will apologize. He will soothe raw skin and blossoming bruises with tender kisses. Tomorrow will find him massaging your aching joints and icing the darkened prints of his grip left on your skin. 
But right now he clutches you harder and absolutely uses you. He doesn’t waste breath with instructions, just moves and places you exactly as he wants.
His arms line your back, his enormous hands clutching your shoulders from behind for leverage as he grinds into you. Your fingers lock into his hair, pulling his head back to bare his throat to your teeth, and the snarl that erupts from his chest at the sharp, unexpected contact sends a jagged spike of lust straight down to your belly.
Steve’s eyes darken, his eyebrows knitting together as he gazes down at where you’re joined. His breathing speeds up the longer he watches his hips rising to meet yours, and his face flushes as he loosens a hand, slipping his fingers between you.
With a jerk, you wrench his head back up, bringing his mouth to your own throat as he curses, his fingers clenching between you. His beard scratches your throat raw as his tongue travels over the tensed muscles and tendons of your neck.
Profanity, filthy promises spill onto your skin as Steve pushes you harder, demands more from you. He swears as he tells you you can take everything he gives you, that you have to, that he needs you to.
And you do, absolutely everything and more.
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sweetteaanddragons · 4 years
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Day 5 - Curufin
@feanorianweek
. . .
The first crown he’d ever made had been far from perfect.
He’d had access to all the the wonders of his father’s workshop then, all the tools he could need and the best materials he knew to ask for, and it still hadn’t been enough. He’d only been in the first year of his apprenticeship then, and the result had been predictably lopsided and imperfect.
He’d been out of time to fix it, though. It had been meant as a gift for -
For the only man who could have worn such a crown, then. For the man who had beamed over the gift and worn it out proudly for the rest of the evening, treasuring it as something precious even long after better ones were offered, right up until -
(In the darkness, he had stumbled over something, and his only thought had been terror that he would fall. He hadn’t realized what it was until someone finally managed to light a torch, and he had seen the pale, cold face.)
Presumably, the crown was still somewhere in Aman, gathering dust.
This time, he had none of those advantages. They were still working to set up the forge, and it would be a far cry from what they’d had in Aman even once it was complete.
That didn’t change the fact that this one had to be perfect.
He’d made another. A smaller one, more fit for a prince. The Crown Prince. It had been better. So much better. Perfect gold, wrapped in intricate patterns around rubies that glowed like fire.
There had still been a flaw, almost invisible, but that must have been immediately visible to his - To the recipient’s eyes. His delighted smile had never faltered.
(They had carried him as fast as they could until he ordered them to stop, and Curufinwe would have rather done anything else, because stopping meant he’d had to see - He’d had to acknowledge - )
That one wasn’t gathering dust in Aman. It was somewhere in the trunk of things none of them had yet dared to open.
He hadn’t made another, after. There hadn’t been time. Ideas had come to him, flashed through his mind disjointedly, and promptly been shoved aside. They had seemed glittering in that moment, but when he’d tried to sketch them out, later, he’d thrown the paper into the fire in disgust.
Useless.
Not that it mattered. Not that there would ever be a chance to -
(Maitimo had ridden away with his men. Curufinwe had turned away before he was quite out of sight. Why hadn’t - Why hadn’t he - )
Someone had left food beside him again. He ignored it. He didn’t need food. He didn’t need sleep either, no matter what the voices that came and bothered him kept trying to tell him. He needed to get this right was what he needed, he needed to sketch it out with their precious store of paper and ink so that he could make it right the first time, because history had proven that fixing it later would not be good enough.
He had to make it right.
But none of it looked right. The lines danced before his eyes, and he growled at them. He needed more space, but that useless plate was getting in the way. He’d throw it at the wall if the walls weren’t currently made of canvas. He could throw it at the ground, maybe, and then maybe, finally, finally, he would have enough room and enough patience to get it done, before it was too late, before he ran out of time -
A hand fell down on his shoulder and tugged. “Stop glaring at the food and eat it. Or go to bed. I don’t care which.”
He ignored it. They would go away eventually. They always did, and then he could work in peace.
The arm yanked harder, and he growled warningly.
“Now,” the voice said, and it had the gall to try to take the latest design away.
Curufinwe whirled around and snatched it back, shoving the figure away.
The figure shoved back, and he fell easily, too easily, possibly because the whole tent was spinning, but that wouldn’t stop him from spinning with it and pinning the figure down and punching down, down, down -
Then the world flipped, and he was the one on his back, and it felt like he was shaking, shaking so hard he’d fly apart.
Someone was shouting.
“You don’t get to do this, you don’t get to go away into the dark and disappear, don’t you dare go away in your head like that, don’t you dare, look at me, LOOK AT ME - “
Someone was crying, he realized distantly. Ugly, messy crying.
He thought it might be him.
He let his head fall back to the packed earth and stared up the canvas. He was still shaking, he realized distantly. Still crying.
The noise eased slowly without seeming to have any input from him.
The weight that had been on top of his legs suddenly vanished, and another figure collapsed onto the dirt beside him. He let his head flop to the side.
“Carnistir.” He hadn’t expected that, he realized dimly. Maybe he should have.
Carnistir’s face was even redder than usual.
He was not, Curufinwe realized belatedly, the only one who had been crying.
Carnistir wouldn’t look at him. “Three days of nothing, and that’s what you’ve got to say?”
Cold washed over him. “It hasn’t been three days.”
“It has,” Carnistir said. “You wouldn’t eat. Or sleep. Or talk. You were scaring Tyelpe.”
“So you punched me?”
“You punched me first,” Carnistir reminded him, and he ran a dirt streaked hand over his swollen eyes. “You went all feral over that stupid drawing.”
He looked down. The paper was still in his clenched fist, he realized. He could still see the corner of the picture.
It was nothing but nonsensical lines.
“Makalaure needs a crown,” he said, and it definitely wasn’t an apology. “It has to be perfect this time.”
Carnistir snorted. “Right. Because that will solve all our problems.”
He didn’t reply.
After a too long silence, Carnistir flopped his own head over to look at him, half desperate, half fierce. “You haven’t gone away in your head again, have you?”
“No,” he said shortly.
“Good. Don’t. ‘Cause if you do it again, I’m going to dump you in the lake, and I don’t want to have to carry you that far.”
“Noted.” The ground was surprisingly comfortable, he realized, now that the adrenaline from the fight was fading. And he was so tired.
“And I don’t want to have to explain that to Tyelpe,” Carnistir said, a bit awkwardly. “The you going away bit. Not the lake.”
“I’ll apologize to him,” he tried to say, but it came out as more of a mumble. It might have to wait. He wasn’t sure he could get up right now.
Maybe he could sleep awhile here. Just until the lines stopped dancing around his papers.
And maybe inspiration for the crown would come while he was asleep.
(He woke up still on the ground, but someone had dragged a blanket over him and stuffed a pillow under his head. They had also pinned a note onto the pillow that said in pointedly large letters, NOW EAT.
Just this once, for Tyelpe’s sake, he told himself, and he went to go do as he was told.)
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dredreadsdrawing · 3 years
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Oc-tober Day 13: Future
........... Yall ready for a bigass story dump? Oh boi. Here we go..... (also bonus points and possibly a free sketch will be given to whoever guesses what this story was originally a fanfic of ;p) Again, hate these sketches but im short on time for these posts lol and my pen tablet broke. No more pen pressure, the lines come thick and round always now. big oof.
This story is set in an apocalyptic future.
Small note, i had written originally written half of this in a post, it crashed and didn’t save, so i rewrote it and it became more detailed and uh. im basically like. almost halfway through the fuckin story so..... please enjoy? :,3 I tried going full but its so much plz i cant ah i already have two other oc-tober prompts to complete ;o;
I would also like to specify that uuh this story situation is something I need to work out the kinks for lol. Definitely. Buuuut this is all I have for now XD please take it with a grain of salt. Oke here story:
-        First and foremost, make no mistake, the Yellow and Pink siblings are the main characters. I haven’t fleshed out the others as much as I have these two because of this.
-        It starts with Yellow and Blue. Friends since before they could walk. Their parents were already friends, so it was only natural. Pink was born once they finally hit school, and she grew up seeing Blue as a second brother figure. He was clearly a part of the family.
-        As time went on, though, these familial feelings were turning into something else. Yellow was hit with the realization that he liked his best friend. More than that, he was head over heels in love. But there were lots of problems with this.
-        For one, as soon as he realized his feelings, Blue had made it big in the newest gaming scene. The newest consoles had yet to be mastered, but he pioneered it, creating the first high scores, and charming the onlookers with his commentary as he did so. The rest of the bunker took him in as a new young celebrity.
-        Another big problem was, of course, how close they already were. ‘Brothers’ this, and ‘siblings’ that. The world already saw them as having this relationship, Yellow himself has told them before that Blue was this to him. But now he wasn’t. Yellow could die from embarrassment and shame.
-        And no matter how hard he tried following behind Blue, Yellow just isn’t as gifted; neither on screen nor with his people skills. Yellow does well enough to be a part of the top, but he never stands out. He doesn’t feel special enough.
-        Meanwhile, Orange and Pink are the best of friends. When Pink was little and saw how well her brother got along with Blue, she felt she wanted something like that too. She found her match at school, with the shy and quiet Orange. She was always nervous, but when she opened up, Pink found her to be clever, quick witted and sarcastic. She was a blast. They were inseparable babies, and quickly, they made a promise.
-        It started with Pink proposing to Orange. She liked her! They should clearly get married! But Orange wasn’t so quick to agree. Marriage is such a big commitment! Her mom would never allow it! So they compromised. No matter their future, they’d live close together. They’d always be together.
-        Even as Orange’s older sister took a dislike to Pink’s rowdiness.
-        As time went on, and puberty hit, some things came to light. Pink was very much into girls, in very explicit ways. Orange was…. Not. Nothing explicit for her, thank you very much. Through teenhood, the two kept their strong friendship, though, and always comforted one another. Lots of Pink’s girlfriends ended up jealous of Orange, but Pink would stop them at their tracks. Orange would always be a part of her life. If they don’t get along with her, there’s no point keeping a relationship that doesn’t recognize this.
-        Moving onto the plot, here it is. Everyone is already an adult, Pink and Orange being the youngest. There is a prestigious event that’s going to happen; the launch of the newest console that will feel the most life-like. To celebrate this launch, seven players will be chosen through competitions, and they’ll get to play the first quest in a livestream. It’ll take them three days.
-        Competitions come and most people that were already suspected to be chosen make it. With two surprises. Yellow, who barely got top due to pure luck. And White who… well, Orange is the best medic, hands down. Everyone knows she knows her strategies and most effective ways to save the group. She’s effective. Always where she needs to be. And yet, even though she got the highest score, she’s been pushed aside and her place in the team was given to White. Everyone screams malarky.
-        Pink is pissed for her friend. She was going to have a great time with her in the game! They would be pioneers together! Orange calms her down. Pink should have fun without her, it’s not a big deal. Orange still has her high scores, and she can keep her notoriety. This won’t affect them in the long run. Pink relents but isn’t happy. She hates White and sees him as a prissy elitist. As they go to get lunch, they pass Red. Pink casually invites her to eat with them. Red says she’s busy. Pink is disappointed and Orange laughs. Pink’s got her eyes on Red. If she can’t spend her time with her friend, she’ll be spending it getting closer to her instead…
-        Orange goes home and mopes in secret. She stayed calm for Pink’s sake but she’s really taken this loss hard. She needed to make a break in her record. Have a flashy accomplishment. And it was stolen from her. Her older sister comes in. She’s the head of coding for this new game. Orange mopes around her, begging for her to let her in, or to at least tell her why she didn’t make it. Her sister keeps her lips shut. But. She does concede that it was unfair. She prepares Orange’s favorite dinner and bought her favorite dessert. Orange smiles at the heartfelt show of sympathy and doesn’t bring it up again. Whatever it was that happened, it wasn’t her sister’s fault.
-        White is from a legacy of high-rankers. They’ve always kept their marks perfect, and drilled perfection into their kids. IF there wasn’t a white player in a prestigious event, they had failed. Out of the newest generation’s three, White is the youngest and…. The least skilled. They try! They’ve worked so hard all their life, but their reflexes aren’t as polished no matter how hard they focus. They just can’t be better than Orange, the true best medic. Before the tournament, he had become depressed. He didn’t even want to try out for it, knowing what would happen. But he ran into Red, an old acquaintance from past games, who picked up on how red his eyes were. She treated him to a warm drink. She let him vent. She showed genuine concern, and was gentle as she reassured him she knew his worth. He’s always been a great partner in the games she’s played with him. She knows he’d be a great addition to the team if he makes this. With her words of confidence, he’s flushed. A renown sense of hope…. And a new attraction makes him try harder. He competes. He pushes and pushes to save his teammates. But he’s just not as effective or calculative and Orange gets the big win save for hers. She won, fair and square. But when they present the awards…. It’s White they call out. He’s…. floored. He didn’t win. Why was he getting into the group?
-        He accepts the award. He’s not happy about it, but… it’s all he can do. He asks his family what strings they pulled. They never give him an answer. They don’t even congratulate him or leave any messages as he prepares to stream. He’s left alone to face the wrath of the people who knew Orange deserved his place, her best friend Pink at the forefront. To treat him like the petty sore loser he didn’t want to be. He slapped himself. He can’t let them win. He’ll do it. Red believed in him. He’ll show them what he’s made of with this game! He won’t die. And… he notices the looks Pink is giving Red. He doesn’t like that. He’s going to get closer to Red for sure. He knows he stands no chance with her… but he wants to be someone she opens up to too. And she may not like him romantically, but Pink is in no way someone who deserves her attention. With how brash, rude and self-centered she is? White hates her. They’re going to keep butting heads.
-        Yellow and Blue practice together nonstop. They are in sync, years of getting to know each other’s play style has them adept to being a team. After beating a favorite of theirs, they go out to celebrate. On the way there, Blue keeps being stopped to be congratulated. No one congratulates Yellow. Not that he minds… he doesn’t do well under the spotlight. But… as they sit down to eat, Yellow’s concerns bubble up. After a few drinks, he comes clean. He’s not sure he deserves to be a part of the team. It was pure luck that he barely scraped by and got the most points. He doesn’t even remember what he did to get them. Blue pats his shoulder, and shakes him. He reassures him its only his insecurities making him feel like this. Yellow deserves to be there. And he won’t be alone. Blue will always have his back. Yellow smiles and they have a good time the rest of the night.
-        After a month of preparation, presentations, and practice, it’s finally time. They wave to everyone as they step into the room that will start their procedure. They’ll be knocked out, have their bodies connected to the game, and awaken in it.
-        They’re up. They’re in a metal chamber. They’ve already got their armor suits on, and their weapons are right beside them. It’s a survival game set in what the upper world would look like. They must treat this as real life. Supplies are provided; this is just a trial of the game. The setting isn’t on difficult. Their main focus is to not die, and to get to the end of this delivery mission. They’ll send a note to a sanctuary, the path already set, and it should only take them three days tops. Easy enough. They leave the chamber and take in the view outside, blinking at the harsh morning light. Their livestream begins, their helmets broadcasting what they see.
-        The world is a dump. Nice graphics though. They step out and thus begins the journey. From this point forward, I’ll just mildly explain some events. Some will be more detailed than others cuz this is all a haze.
-        First, as they walk around, they catch the attention of people in cars. Their first bad guys. The bad guys don’t stand a chance against them, and retreat. Red is cautious of them coming back.
-        They stop when they reach an abandoned house, no neighbor houses anywhere. It looks so normal. They step inside and, though decrepit, everything looks ok. Until they reach the basement. An underground lab. Years of gaming has made them apprehensive. They can’t understand what’s going on but this doesn’t look good.
-        Before they can find logs on an old computer, the bad guys they fought before indeed burst through with reinforcements. It’s a close battle, and most of the lab is destroyed in the process. The team beats most of them as one drops a light. The building is set on fire. The team runs away, but Green dropped her gun. Black can’t let them go empty-handed, he leaves his sniper with her and goes back to get it. The fire reaches the lab, to the gas storage and the house explodes while he’s inside. Black is out of the game.
-        Green is miffed. He died so early, and for such a dumb reason! They told him not to go in!! Everyone crowds around them. He’ll be ok, they can yell at him when they win the game. They are comforted by that fact, but still, this loss is taking a toll immediately. They were supposed to be seven and now they are six. So they really will just die and not respawn. For now, they need to continue.
-        The team move forward a bit more but stop to rest for the night once they reach an old city. Red just lost her second in command. She needs someone else to fill in. Pink and White go hard trying to impress her all night. Their stumbling and forcefulness leaves Red more exasperated. She ultimately chooses Blue instead.
-        Where before, Yellow and Blue would be goofing off together, now he has to stay beside Red and help her be vigilant and strategize. Yellow feels a bit left behind again, but Blue reassures it’s only temporary. For them to win the game.
-        They take a rest in an old mattress shop. Perfect for their sleep. They take turns being on watch, not taking off their suits. They were told to keep them on at all times. For safety reasons. And the slight discomfort they felt sleeping with them wasn’t unbearable. It was a calm enough night.
 ~~~
-        A shift in perspective to Orange, she’s been watching the livestream nonstop from the comfort of her home. She checks the media (idk technology I guess these phones just work within their space? Underground? Lolol man idk XD sorry) and everyone is sad about Black being the first to go. Somewhat meanly, people start callously saying Yellow or White should’ve died first.
-        The question pops up. When will they be seeing Black? Now that he’s out of the game, he should be returning. No answer from the game manufacturers. Radio silence.
-        Her sister comes home late that day. She looks frantic and doesn’t even tell Orange hello. She goes straight to the kitchen, picks up a container, and packs in food. She does this when she’s staying the night at the office. Orange is concerned. She asks about Black’s return. Her sister flinches. She stops. After a few, quiet moments, she shakily confesses.
-        “He’s…. dead.”
-        It’s all over the media the next day. There was a malfunction in the game machine. There is a risk of the players dying in real life if they die in game. They just lost Black. Everyone is horrified and outraged. The government tries to reassure the public. They are looking into it. They will bring justice. Orange is beyond worried for everyone, but particularly Pink. She should’ve been there. She wouldn’t let them die. But here, at the Bunker, there’s nothing she can do. Only watch and hope.
~~~~~~~~~
-        Two days left. They’re doing well on time. Their map is a general one, only showing the straight line they need to take. No small details or markers to be had. Pink and White are still at each other’s throats, blaming the other for not getting the position beside Red. A scuffle comes to them. Not the same bad guys, new ones. More sophisticated ones. They aim for their heads, and shout insults at them. Calling them ‘Bomberbees’.
-        In the scuffle, Yellow notices something off. A child by themselves, no older than four or five, in the middle of the street, getting caught in the crossfire. They hide behind an old, toppled over car, but stray bullets hit the gas. It drips and Yellow remembers Black’s death. Without much thinking, they scurry from the fight to pick up the kid and run. Sure enough, a spark from a fire close by lands in the gas, and causes another fire. Then bam, second explosion. The kid is clinging to him, Yellow has gotten them out of the fire, but now they’re being chased by someone from the attackers. They get caught in a shop without exits. Yellow tries to shoot with one hand, but he can’t get the attacker. As they near, they pick up a heavy display, readying to crush Yellow and the kid. A shot hits them in the neck and stops them, making the heavy load also slip and fall on their head. They’re dead. Blue rushes inside. He’s furious.
-        He’s cursing at Yellow for putting his life in danger like that. Yellow lets go of the kid, and they run away immediately, scared of Blue. Yellow is anxious, wanting to follow the child. Blue is incredulous. It’s an NPC. Yellow tries to reason. Maybe it’s a side quest? It’s a kid alone in this dangerous hell hole. They should help. Blue shakes his head, they already lost Black. They can’t lose Yellow. Not for this. He uses his rank, as second in command. Yellow can’t look for the kid. It’s an order. They return to the group.
-        They had managed to kill enough for the bad guys to retreat, but the toll was heavy on their resources. In just these first two days, they’ve gone over half their ammo. Realizing their situation, Red begins prioritizing looting. She was right the first time when she said bad guys return with reinforcements. These new dudes can too.
-        Taking advantage of the big city, they venture a bit to get more ammo. They split into groups. Unfortunately, despite her protests, Pink gets put with White. Red was hoping they’ll work whatever they have going on. They bicker as they leave, and she already regrets her decision.
-        Yellow gets put with Green, and they go the opposite direction. Close to where the child ran off. He recounts what happened as they scavenge around, Green listening with only mild interest. Then she sees a kid herself, at the end of a street with a toppled skyscraper. It motions to them. They follow.
-        The kid leads them to their home inside the topped skyscraper. There’s a bunch more kids. They’re surrounding one of themselves, a hurt girl. The boy Yellow saved quietly steps forward and asks him to help her too. Yellow and Green look at each other. Side quest?
-        Blue and Red are on their own. They have the easiest time out of all of them. They started by looting the bodies. They never really got to appreciate it before, but these gory details…. Went above and beyond. Almost felt surreal to Blue that he was gathering bullets from the pockets of a man’s bottom half torso, his top half across the room. He suspected if he took off his helmet, the place would smell too. Red is quiet, but she eventually breaks the silence. She apologizes for putting Blue as her second in command without asking him. He shakes it off. It’s alright. Black’s death was unexpected. Black’s death. Blue almost shivers thinking about it. Everything in the game has felt so lifelike. He’d hate to go out with a bang like that. He tried making the situation lighter by bringing up what Black would be doing right now. Probably, he’d be escorted to the hotel nearby to stay and watch the livestream until his teammates finished. He’s probably beating himself up over being the first to die. Red shakes her head, remembering how her friend hated losing first. But more than that, he hated being separated from Green. This would be his true hell. And the comments he’ll get on his news feed! The roasts! They laughed, imagining it. All for his lover’s gun. Green has him whipped. Blue sorts through some more piles of trash, the laughter dying down. Behind his smile, he hid concerns. It was so fast to die here. No health bars to keep in check. Nothing but realism. He had to keep Yellow safe.
-        Cut back to Pink and White. Though they hate each other, they do work together. There’s no point letting their disagreements drag the group down. They manage to find an old gun store. Jackpot? As they scavenge, a wild, and mutated animal enters the store. A chase ensues. White is quick and small. He manages to get away fast, leaving behind the stocky and slower Pink. She curses at him for not sticking to her. She gets cornered as more of the same mutants show up. She decides she needs to blow them in one go. It’s her only choice. Though it’s one of her last three, she readies her grenade, but is beat to the punch by a giant beam crushing all three mutants. The dust settles and she sees White on top of the beam, having pushed it down with his entire weight. He’s hurt.
-        He turns on his healing, but it’ll still take a while. She helps him up. She’s salty, but grateful. He’s limping. They’re far from the group. And they still need to go back and check for ammo. Stuck together for longer, they finally break the ice. She was impressed by how quick he was. He hesitantly takes the compliment. As they continue, curiosity burns. She’s been chastising him for so long, she wants genuine answers. She asks him why he chose to be a medic. He says he didn’t. He was forced into it because, naturally, his siblings and parents already filled other roles. She doesn’t like this answer. So he relented?  Just like that? She lets him have it. Orange loves being medic. She put her heart and soul into her job. He just does this because of his family.
-        White bites back. Yeah he gave in. His family is so overwhelming. His entire life was already given goals he didn’t choose. An idea he had to live as. Of course she wouldn’t understand. No one but them would understand. He has no choice. But he doesn’t want to disappoint or be a burden. That’s his reason for training! He…. Breaks down at this. He cries. Pink is very uncomfortable. They reach the gun store and separate again. Its quiet with the occasional sniffles. Pink feels…. A bit bad.
-        They do find ammo. White heals. They walk back. Pink relents after a few minutes, and tells White that… he isn’t.. the WORST medic. He did manage to be second in the competition. That counts for something. He’s surprised by her try at peace. He also gives in. He says he’s sorry for taking Orange’s spot. He honestly didn’t ask for it. But his family… Pink is surprised by this confession. So he didn’t get in because he pulled strings. It was his overbearing parents. She finally gives up her hatred for the short dude. It’s not helping either of them. They return more successful than the others, being the second group back. To Red’s delight, White and Pink aren’t fighting anymore. She gives them both a pat and congratulates them. She’s proud they can work through their differences. As she leaves them, they both sigh at the same time. Then look at each other. Oh yeah. They’re still rivals.
-        Yellow and Green get back late. They tell the group about the kids. Blue is quick to groan, but Red takes an interest. She allows the team to accept the side quest. They just need to help one hurt kid, after all. They turn to White, pleadingly. Can he do it? White gulps, the pressure being on for him to succeed. Now was his chance to prove himself as a medic.
-        Still not sure how to make the healing system work exactly, but ultimately, he succeeds. The kids swear he’s a wizard, but he brushes it off. Still, he’s flattered and riding a high from his success. They say goodbye to the kids, who take a liking to White, Green and Yellow for being nice. They still don’t like Blue and are wary of Pink and Red. Either way, they leave, and the three favored talk about how real the kids acted. The NPCs in this world are well-made.
-        They’re on the move and there’s some lighter bickering between White and Pink as they continue trying to get Red’s attention, but she ignores them. They halt their walking as a familiar event occurs, dirty beat up cars coming and circling them. They stop and open. A big man, clearly in charge steps out. He’s there to give them a warning. When they stepped inside that normal-looking house, they were in Crumble territory. His lackeys foolishly followed behind, and now the building is gone. He’s barely placated these ‘Crumbles’ by making a deal with them. To catch this team and bring them back. His lackeys point their weapons. Are they going to come quietly or do they need to make a scene?
-        Pink is excited. “Oh the plot is picking up!” It’s a fight. It’s super close, the hardest fight they’ve been in by far, but it’s completely thanks to their armor that they get the upper hand, and leave by stealing a vehicle. All those driving games taught White how to be a getaway driver well. They escape, and along the way, ditch the car in case they can track it. They survived the second day.
-        Back to it being night, they make a fire and gather around. They have bedrolls to sleep in, but it’s uncomfortable. One person will stay guard while the rest sleep. They SHOULD be sleeping in their armor no problem. But especially with the bedrolls… its uncomfortable. So Pink takes hers off. As they choose spots to put down their rolls, she ends up setting hers next to White. She tells him he’s impressed her today. “If you can’t make it as a medic, you can definitely win competitions with those skills you know.” White is embarrassed, but… hopeful. He liked the thrill of going fast. Maybe… this could be something he’s good at. As Pink lays herself down, she slips and hurts herself on a jagged rock. She starts to bleed. White stares. They’re baffled. Having never taken their suits off prior, they hadn’t realized they can bleed. “It even hurts.” Pink laughs it off. “Damn, they went all out for this.” White agrees, but it still doesn’t sit well. Red passes them and his concern fades into thoughts of her instead. He gets up.
-        Red is first watch. He stops by to just…. Tell her she’s doing a good job leading them so far. Red is surprised. He never talks to her first, always shy and skittish. She smiles back at him, sadly. She thanks him, but she can’t take the compliment. Black’s loss was a failure on her part. A real good leader would’ve held him back by force. It was a stupid death, no way around it.
-        After an awkward silence (because White didn’t know how to follow that up), Red decides its her turn to be nice. She thanks White for saving them today. Her compliment is genuine, and she follows it with a head pat. He’s incredibly happy from this, and goes to bed looking beet red with a goofy smile. Pink notices. She decides it’s time for her to get a bit more aggressive. Gotta put down all her cards before slowpoke seals the deal.
-        Pink’s shift is next. As she goes to relieve Red, she also tries for small chat. It doesn’t work. Red calls her out for not being in her armor. Pink says she’ll get it in a bit. Red starts to leave, she is tired. Pink blurts in a moment of impulsiveness.
-        “When… all this is done, can we go for a drink?” Red stops and turns around. She’s confused. “Uh.. sure? I imagine we’ll all have a big celebration with alcohol anyways…” “Yeah, but I’m not asking to just get wasted. I’m asking to.. be able to get alone with you.”
-        Ah. Now Red gets it. She’s embarrassed. After a momentary pause that feels like forever, she speaks. “I’m… sorry.” Pink is hurt. She knew she had less of a chance with her but she’s still hurt. Pink brushes it off. “It’s ok.” Red still looks like she has more to say, but… she turns back. She’s tired and now isn’t a good time. The stream is still on. God, Red remembered and so did Pink. She just got rejected in front of the whole Bunker... Pink is frustrated and cant sleep even when her shift is done.
~~~~~~~~
-        Back at the Bunker, Orange watched the confession and felt terrible for her friend. She had been embarrassed today. Still, more than the concern for her love life, was the concern for her life. The confession was secondary to the threat of them all dying.
-        The media has blown up much much more. Everyone was scared for the player’s lives already, but after today’s stream, more joined in. The people that hated White have mostly turned around, finding his day as redeeming. Instead, blame was shifted onto his family as they were now seen for the perfectionist robots they were. But more than that, they have now effectively put their youngest in danger for his life by forcing him onto this game. Very unexpectedly, the Whites…. Showed remorse. They never expected to sign away their child’s life. It was just supposed to be another prestigious event to get their name into. They’re mad at the game developers and are with the people hounding the government to get answers. They’re mad, and they want their family member back. Alive.
-        Yellow also begins getting his own fans. Showing care for the NPCs, especially contrasted with Blue’s disregard of them…. Blue fans are buzzing. What kind of person doesn’t care for children, EVEN in a game? Defenders of Blue make their case, it’s a dangerous situation and they’ve lost Black. Though he doesn’t know it, keeping everyone in the team alive over NPCs IS the way to go. Still, it doesn’t sit well with half his supporters, and alliances are shifting. Yellow is gaining followers.
-        Pink’s bold declaration made her gain new fans. Many proclaimed that if Pink made it out, they would gladly take her. Orange grimaced at these. Red, likewise, got a lot of…. Hate. Pink fans thought she was too mean with her rejection. Red stans defended her right to say no. There was a battle between the two, and in any other day this would be normal, but the underlying pressure of either not making it highlights their hate for one another. These could be their last moments, and now they’ll spend them awkwardly. Orange sighs and drops her phone.
-        All day, Orange’s sister has been out of the house. Though she had taken food with her, Orange guesses it wasn’t enough. Orange hasn’t talked to her all day, not after finding out her friend was in danger and her sister was part of it. There are no words to describe her feelings. Still. With how stressful things are right now…. Her sister should be at her top game trying to fix this. She should be eating well. Orange makes her dinner, still… upset but resigned to what’s happened, and goes to deliver it. Having done this before, she has no problem getting through to her office. She meant to leave the packed, warm lunch in her desk if she wasn’t there, but she dillydallies when she finds the picture of White on her sister’s screen. She looks around. No one is watching her, everyone busy with the catastrophe at hand. She clicks through and discovers. Her sister specifically made the deal to keep her out of the game. To bring White in. In her emails, she seemed aggressive this be done. Even threatening to quit her beloved job. Orange hears the clicking of her sister’s heels and returns everything back the way it was. She sits down at her sister’s seat with the dinner in her lap and her phone in her hand, pretending to have been waiting for her. The interaction is normal. She hugs her, gives her the food, and leaves. On the way out, she sees a group of her sister’s coworkers rush out of a familiar room. The room that’s always been showcased as where the players would be held. She slips behind the cameras and peeks in through the door’s small window. The machine that was supposed to connect everyone’s minds is… empty. They’re not here. Orange’s stomach twists. Where are they then?
-        Hearing more people coming, she rushes out of the corridor and out of the building. She has too much to think about. Too many implications. She. Wants. Answers.
~~~~~~~~~~~
-        One day left. They are close! They wake up and get ready. Their last stop crosses through a town. They’ll get to interact with more NPCs! Everyone is excited. They begin the walk, Blue talking to Red, Green to White. Pink stayed quiet. Yellow is concerned for his sister. All their time spent here, she’s been making googly eyes at Red, and now she won’t even look at her. Oh no. He knows whats up.
-        He tries to cheer her up, reminiscing her old girlfriends… and some other nice girls waiting back home. Pink snorts. She’s not in the mood for this. Not from someone like him. Yellow is hurt. What does she mean someone like him? Much to his dismay, Pink gives him a look. Then she looks back at Blue. … she knew? “You knew?” “It’s… not exactly subtle.” She teased. “You’ve liked him since you wer-“ “PINK! SHUT UP!” “What? Rude.” Yellow looks furious. Slow realization dawns on her yet again. She forgot that they were on a stream. Ooh dear.
-        Now they were both in a bad mood. Yellow terrified of going back when they won, to having clips of his sister’s words thrown in his and Blue’s face. He never wanted to confess! This will ruin their friendship! And the audience backlash!!!! Blue has a lot of diehard stans that… to put it mildly, are not keen on giving him up. To hear his own best friend, whom they barely tolerated already, has a crush on him. Yellow. Was. Scared.
-        Pink feels so guilty. She was already in a crappy mood and now she’s gone and made things worse. It’s her turn to try to reach out and reassure Yellow, when more dust picks up from behind. They hear the sounds of vehicles. Oh great, there’s more. They ready for a fight, but are caught off guard when the cars aren’t stopping. They instead, zoom by, each one trying to wrap a rope lasso around a member as they move. Most of them dodge or cut the ropes in time. Pink doesn’t She’s caught by the midriff and dragged along, her armor taking most of the hits for her as she bounces along the ground. This is NOT her day! Her teammates chase after her, but the cars are too fast. Thinking fast, she pulls a grenade from her backpack. The one she didn’t use against the mutants. She aims, and luck is on her side as she’s able to chuck it inside the open window holding her rope. The car explodes and she’s blown back. She hits her helmet. She dents it. Her livestream is shut off.
-        Her teammates get to her just as soon as the cars double back and try to lasso them again. They’re prepared now, dodging and even pulling someone out by yanking on the rope. They kill them. Per Red’s orders, they aim for the wheels. They get one car to pop, the others drive away, having failed. The car they left behind is quiet. They inch closer. They see the figure inside, staring at them. He opens his mouth, but before he can say a word, Green from behind everyone shoots him in the head. She needed to practice using Black’s gun anyways. Everyone congratulates her for her aim… though it wasn’t as good as it could be. She laughs with them, promising to give up being a sniper one this was over. She’s only taking over because she lost her gun.
-        Pink gets up. From her reads, its clear her livestream set up is too jammed to start back up again. Her footage is lost now. It’s a bummer. Yellow helps her as they continue moving towards their destination, but neither speak. Still mad. Still guilty. They reach the town. It’s huge! And unlike the abandoned city, it’s full of people… They decide to stay and explore a bit. They had time, their destination was just a ways across from here. They’d make it.
-        Trying to distract herself from her conflicting emotions, Pink leaves the group when they’re not looking to go to a bar. There, she finds what she believes to be a mini quest. An old man is complaining about what he calls ‘the abomination’ taking his wares the other day. Pink jumps into accepting this NPC’s quest, to defeat the abomination and retrieve his goods. She follows his directions to the outskirts of town. To a normal-looking cabin. Wanting this to be quick she carelessly blasts the front door open and immediately, a fight begins. The abomination has green fur, different sized golden eyes, and scales and spikes scattered around its body. The abomination makes some clear sounds that reminisce garbles. So it can’t even communicate. This has got to be it.
-        They fight, almost destroying the home in the process. The abomination almost bites the dust with a full face blast, but manages to scurry away, Pink hot on their trail. In the chase, she follows it out of the town… into a valley… behind a fence clearly stating danger… The creature leads her to a cave where it gets darker… and warmer… By the time she notices her radiation alarms going off, she’s already feeling sick and exhausted. She passes out.
-        She comes to outside, feeling something in her mouth. She swallows unconsciously, but gags at the foul taste and sputters. She looks up at the person holding her. The abomination. Pink is quick on the draw…. Except her gun is not with her. Neither is her suit. She panics but a voice is heard from behind. “She saved you, and you still want to blast her?!” She turns around to see a shiny, scaled person judging her. “You should’ve left her in the cave, Charger.”
-        The abomination makes more garbles, with a shrug. Pink is confused. With the help of the draconic(?) (who is the abomination’s brother???) the situation is cleared up. So the quest was a lie. The old man is a smuggler, and the goods they confiscated where weapons stolen from another smaller town nearby. Pink was being played. Pink apologizes, not knowing what else to do. She had thought this was just another clear cut mini-mission. Who knew this game had moral complexity like this?
-        Charger forgives her, to her brother’s annoyance. Pink stick around for a bit, offered a place at their dinner table. She got to meet their oldest brother, and taste what local food is really like. It’s not bad. She gets back her suit and weapon. She’s allowed to go. But before she does… she ends up opening up to these nice NPCs. Why not? Her comms where off and her livestream camera was busted anyways. The NPCs nodded along and Charger gave her a hug by the end. The middle brother gave a few words of wisdom. “So it’s not what you wanted. But at least you’ve got a great friend to add to your collection. And she sounds pretty bad ass… you gotta keep those close.” Pink laughed. Yeah… she’s been lucky in the friend department. She mused how much she missed Orange. She got to leave finally, a load off her shoulders. She went back to the group, where stuff… is going down. The town is in chaos and her team is in the middle of it. What happened while she was gone?
-        When Pink left, the group had decided to split again. Green, Blue and Yellow went to see something (idk lol haven’t worked this out yet) and White and Red stayed together. They explore the local food and shops. They have a nice time taking everything in. They peak a few people’s curiosities, but they aren’t outright being aggressive, so the NPCs leave them alone. It’s a fun day…. One could even say…. It’s like a fun… date…
-        White can’t hold it in anymore. He’s ready to confess. He takes her to a secluded spot and very nervously fidgets with his helmet… taking it off and begins to talk by bringing up a memory. The day Red helped him. Red’s attention is piqued. What about it? White continues. That day, he had hit his alltime low. He was ready to quit gaming altogether. But she… gave him hope again. Made him strive to be someone worthy of working beside her. Her cheeks redden and her eyes widen. She’s realizing where this is going. White continues. Being here, watching her work…. He was content with just staying in the background... but after today. He holds her hand, he himself turning into a tomato. Nervously, he blurts. He wants to stay by her side, even outside of this game. He has his eyes closed. No sounds respond to him. He nervously opens them to see Red’s expression. She looks sympathetic… but that’s it. His heart drops. “White…” His face stays aflame, he wants to cry.
-        With a shaky voice he rushes out. “Oh-nonono its ok I just. I pushed this on you- Im ok I just-“ “No. White, listen to me.” He stops his tumbling and listens. He wont look at her, but he’s readying himself for her response. She sighs, and takes his shaking shoulders. “I like you White… but I’m not… interested in being in a relationship. With anyone.” White’s shakiness drops. Ok… now he’s looking at her. Her expression is sincere. White is confused. Red makes a disgruntled noise. “I should’ve explained this sooner to people… I’m not looking for any romance. I just. Don’t have any interest in it.” She looks away, taking another breath and continues. “I know most people don’t understand it but please… believe me. This isn’t me lying to you to make your rejection easier. I…. genuinely am trying to… get you to understand.” Her expressions. Her trying to hard. He’s seen enough. He’s convinced. And he’s honestly... touched. He sniffles and rubs his eyes, he was just about to cry a second ago. But he feels it’s silly now. He’s still sad, but more than that. He smiles at her. He thanks her for confessing this to him… he hopes this means they can stay friends. She smiles back, relieved, beaming. Of course. She thanks him for understanding and ends the conversation with a hug. It’s a nice rejection.
-        It’s at this moment, that they are attacked. Caught completely off-guard, they are easy targets. Still, they put up a fight. Red can get to her gun and fends them off. White isn’t as lucky. He’s knocked down easily, tied and gagged. He’s got a concussion, but he’s still fighting to stay conscious. Red chases after them, shooting. People around the streets flee from the scene. Green, Blue and Yellow heard the commotion. They run and are ready to help, weapons raised. The kidnappers know they are outnumbered. But they have leverage. They hide behind White, holding his struggling body. If they shoot, they can hit his soft nogging. The one holding him grips his hair tightly. White makes a noise of pain.
-        Pain. In game. The team looks at one another. Red tells them to put their weapons down. They slowly do. A car comes blasting through the now empty streets. Their ride. They’re taking White. If they want him safe, they’ll come with them without any problem. More bad guys get around them. They’re ready to bind them. Red is the quickest shot. She knocks back the person behind her, manages to shoot the two behind Green and Yellow, and Blue followed suit with his own. She points her gun to the one holding White, but a sharp cry of pain makes her hesitate.
-        What was he doing? He twisted White’s arm forcefully and doesn’t stop until it snaps. White is screaming. His arm socket has popped off. It hangs loosely. The holder is cursing at them. They should’ve played nice! He throws White into the car and jumps in, closing the door. The car slams it. They shoot but its too late. White is gone. They’ve lost a member to an unforeseen obstacle.
-        They’ve failed.
-        And more than that.
-        Those cries… wont leave their heads. Red throws her gun in anger. White was in pain. There is pain in this game. Real, fucking pain. Blue and Yellow immediately look at each other. Green is in shock. What the fuck is going on.
-        Pink returns to this, White missing and the group in shambles. Pink is confused. Of course there is pain. Had no one else noticed? They look at one another. They never left their suits. They never got hurt before this. No. Only White has gotten bruises from the pillar he toppled. Only Pink has gotten cut from a rock. Their only concerns were dodging bullets that didn’t even penetrate their armor. They didn’t think pain would be a factor. This new information sets a series of horrid questions through their brains. It was this easy to get hurt. And Black? He died in an explosion. His suit may protect him from bullets but not from fires that hot. He may be chilling back home now, but at what cost?
-        What madman programmed realistic pain into a fucking game.
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