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bedlamsbard · 4 years

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Here is the first sequence of the Other Side AU concept! (yes, the nickname is borrowed from Fringe.) There is...a lot of crying. The AU is Backbone-based, but takes place before Backbone. I am not caught up on current new canon post-RotJ and prefer Legends there anyway, so this takes more from the EU than canon on that front.

About 5.1K below the break.

***

“You know, it’s not too late to change your mind,” Luke Skywalker said. “We do have other candidates.”

Zeb grumbled something softly under his breath that was probably, “Sounds like someone who doesn’t know her very well.”

Luke flicked a glance at him, but most of his attention was on Hera. “This is dangerous,” he said, almost apologetic.

“And the Rebellion has been a blue milk run,” Hera said. “I’m fine.” She folded her hands together and looked across Luke’s right shoulder. She didn’t know him very well, had never had any particular inclination to get to know him, and at the moment didn’t feel particularly encouraged. It wasn’t fair to him, but Hera couldn’t particularly bring herself to care, not when even being on the same ship as him brought a dull stab of pain to her heart.

Not fair.

Nothing was fair, especially nothing about the Rebellion. But she wished he hadn’t had to be on the Ghost for this.

Luke hesitated again, then said, “All right.” He took a deep breath. “Are you ready? I’ll probably only get one shot at this.”

“I’m ready.” She looked at Zeb, who nodded slightly, and Chopper, who groaned a long protest. She had told Jacen goodbye via holo a few hours ago; he didn’t quite understand how Mama leaving now would be different than Mama leaving normally, and Hera hoped that he wouldn’t have to understand for many years, if ever. She had tried to explain it to her father in the same holocall and wasn’t sure she had succeeded. Sabine had understood but had told her it was the worst idea she had heard since – well, you know, she had said, and looked like she had wished she hadn’t mentioned it.

“All right,” Luke repeated. He looked a little unnerved, which Hera took vindictive pleasure in and then felt guilty about. “If this works, I’ll open it again every ten days – right here, all right? It can’t be anywhere else.”

Teach your mother to feed nunas, Hera thought, giving him a sideways look. She just said, “I understand.”

Luke nodded, swallowed, and raised his hands, releasing the artifact he had been holding. It was a little bell-shaped construction of crystal and metal, both substances etched all over in runes that no one had been able to fully decrypt. It could, Hera knew, very easily kill her if what they had managed to decrypt was wrong.

It hung suspended between Luke’s palms, glowing a bright, vivid blue. A rising hum made all of them but Luke wince, Zeb’s sensitive ears flicking in disgust. Hera kept her eyes on it, trying not to blink as the light brightened until it was all that she could see. Her stomach turned over, but it wasn’t any worse than doing a barrel roll in an A-wing.

All at once, the light was gone. So were Luke, Zeb, and Chopper. Hera looked around the Ghost’s common room, making the differences in the familiar space. Zeb’s big wooden chair was gone; the walls were bare of Sabine’s artwork. So they had probably gotten the timing right, at least. Hera stepped towards the holotable, running her fingers over its surface and searching for the deep scar near the rightmost edge of the frame. It was there.

Hera took a suddenly shaky breath.

Ten days, she reminded herself. It was both a lot of time to get this wrong and no time at all. She put her head to one side and listened to the now only half-familiar sounds of the Ghost.

She hadn’t spent much time on the ship recently, and mostly it had been almost as empty as it felt now. It made Hera think of its namesake, of her old crew’s namesakes, every corner of it haunted. She thought with enough time it might get better, less raw, but so far the war hadn’t given her that time. Instead, she let herself be moved around the Rebel Alliance as needed, sometimes with what remained of her crew, sometimes not. Even Chopper didn’t always stay with her, much to his protests.

This, though, had needed to be done on the Ghost, and Zeb had brought it to her from where it had been docked on Lothal for the past six months.

Luke had been right. There had been other candidates. But they all thought this might work best with her, because there weren’t many options for where she had been more than a decade ago and in a position where she would probably be willing to help. Han Solo and Chewbacca on the Millennium Falcon, maybe, but that was a much longer shot than Hera Syndulla. Any Hera Syndulla.

She took another deep breath, trying to calm the sudden rapid patter of her heartbeat, and moved towards the hatch leading towards the cabins and the cockpit. There was no rumble of the engine; the ship was docked somewhere – solid ground, Hera thought, though it could have been a space station. The air filters seemed to be drawing a little heavier than usual, which suggested they were dirtside. Some stations triggered that too, though, if their own filters weren’t good enough.

The short corridor between the common room and the cockpit was empty. Hera rested her hands briefly on the cabin doors as she passed them, but there was nothing to tell her which was being used. The cockpit hatch slid open with only the tiniest of jerks, which Sabine had repaired years ago.

Hera stepped inside, resting a hand on the back of the pilot’s chair as she looked around. The back left chair was plain, without the distinctive paint job Sabine had given it; the back right was still the old matching chair, not the one they had had to replace six months before they had gone to Lothal.

There was a pair of black gloves sitting on the dashboard.

Hera frowned at them, trying to decide what about them struck her as familiar. She didn’t own a pair like that at the moment, but she probably had in the past.

The scene outside the viewport was one Hera had seen hundreds of times before; the blank gray durasteel sheeting of a docking bay wall. She leaned forward to peer out, searching around for some indication of where the Ghost was docked, but there was nothing. It could have been any docking bay on any thousands of the planets in the galaxy.

Hera hesitated for a moment, then leaned down over the dashboard, intending to get into the Ghost’s systems to find out where – and more importantly, when – she was. She hadn’t gotten further than turning them on when the hatch slid open behind her.

Hera turned quickly, self-conscious and achingly aware that this wasn’t her own ship, to come face to face with Kanan.

She had forgotten how handsome he was.

Hera still had a precious handful of holos of him, but most were from those last few years, and she had trained herself out of looking at them too often because of the dull, anguished hurt that accompanied the action. Jacen was looking more and more like him as he grew up, but Hera didn’t see her son often either. Increasingly the war made time feel like it was slipping through her fingers like sand; Hera held onto it with unexpected desperation, both for her own sake and for the Rebellion’s. Palpatine’s death should have made it easier, faster; it wasn’t like that at all. Days both flew by and spread out; sometimes Hera felt like she blinked and it had been years, sometimes she turned around and what had felt like months had only been a handful of minutes. It was both too long and not long enough since – since Lothal.

Kanan was younger than she had expected, twenty-two or twenty-three, clean-shaven and with short-cropped hair. There was warm affection in his clear bluish eyes as he looked at her, though Hera couldn’t miss the scars flecking his face, scars that she knew Kanan – her Kanan – hadn’t had when he had died. He wore all black, a high-collared, long-sleeved shirt open at the neck and tight black trousers, with an unfamiliar lightsaber slung at his hip.

“I didn’t know you were back from HQ yet,” he said.

Hera opened her mouth to respond and couldn’t. She was crying without meaning to, tears rolling down her cheeks; she had told Zeb she could handle this and she had been wrong.

Kanan took a step towards her, his expression going alarmed. “Hey,” he said gently, “what’s wrong? What happened?” He put a hand to her cheek to wipe away her tears, warm and strong and alive, and Hera cried even harder. She wanted more than anything to step into his arms; he even smelled the same, and she could have been eighteen again, twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-seven – young and with the whole galaxy spread out before her, possibility endless, in love and with a future that could have held anything, instead of a present constricted down to a war that ground on long past when it should have ended and a child growing up without her.

Below them, the Ghost’s hatch opened. Kanan turned his head slightly, frowning, and despite the tears blurring her vision Hera saw where a notch had been taken out of his ear.

Hera tried to breathe in gasping breaths, trying to get herself together enough to speak. “I’m not her,” she managed to say. “I’m not –”

She saw realization start to form on Kanan’s face, though he didn’t take his hand away. Light steps sounded on the cockpit floor as a new arrival stepped off the ladder, followed by the sound of a blaster clearing its holster.

“No, you’re not,” said Hera Syndulla, a girl barely out of her teens wearing an ISB officer’s crisp white uniform, her green skin startling bright against the stark fabric. She held her blaster with practiced ease, right hand wrapped around the grip, left hand bracing the butt. “Who in blazes are you?”

Hera could barely remember being that young.

Given her counterpart’s occupation, the other woman’s youth probably shouldn’t have even registered with her, but Hera couldn’t get past it. When she had been that young, she had been blinkered by single-minded focus on the mission, on an end goal of destroying the Empire. She hadn’t thought to regret it until years later, crying her heart out in that cave on Lothal.

Does he know you love him? she had thought, in that first split second when Kanan had stepped away from her, his clear-eyed gaze flickering between the two women. Do you know you love him?

And then she had seen Kanan bend his head to the other Hera and her expression soften, her body curving towards him without touching, and Hera had known that both of them knew. It was a sharp stab of jealousy that shouldn’t have bothered her after all this time, when there was nothing she could do about it. Imperials or not, they were lucky to have that.

Hera leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the cabin door and sighed. They had locked her into one of the empty cabins after they had searched her and taken her blaster and other possessions away. It happened to be Sabine’s cabin, but of course Sabine wasn’t here yet so there weren’t yet explosives tucked away into every nook and cranny of it, “just in case of an emergency,” Sabine had told her once. “What kind of emergency are you expecting?” Hera had demanded.

Three days later Maul had broken onto the Ghost and taken them captive, so she might have had to take that back if they had actually had any opportunity to use all those explosives.

She could just barely hear Kanan and the other Hera talking to each other, but couldn’t make out the words through the heavy metal door. They hadn’t given her much of a chance to say anything before they had locked her in here, but at least they hadn’t acted like most Imperials Hera had known and stunned her first.

She sighed and left the door to slump onto the bench built below the upper-level bunk, leaning an elbow on the table and her chin against her palm. The room seemed bare without Sabine’s colorful paint jobs; Sabine hadn’t lived on the Ghost for years, but she hadn’t stripped the walls, either, and she still kept some of her things onboard.

Sabine would still be on Krownest now, Hera thought, if she had gotten the dates right. Ezra would be back in his tower on Lothal. The Scourge of Lasan was happening right now and Zeb was there in the palace with the Lasat Royal Family. Kallus would be on Lasan too, maybe already giving the order to use ion disruptors on the Lasat defenders.

Kanan was alive, and on this ship, and Hera knew that if she started crying again she might not stop.

It will have to be Alderaan, she thought. Leia Organa had volunteered for this mission for just that reason, but during the target period she had been on Alderaan, and Luke hadn’t been certain that this would work simply by flying to the Graveyard. It had been a shock to realize how few people with the clearance for this operation had been somewhere the Rebel Alliance could still access ten or fifteen years later. They hadn’t even been entirely sure it would work on a ship, but it was the best option they had. Hera had been certain that she could convince her younger self to help and equally certain that for the first twenty years of her life there was very little that could divert it, which wasn’t true for everyone else.

Obviously, she had been wrong.

She rubbed a weary hand over her face. She was going to find a way out of this situation, get to Alderaan, and talk her way into seeing Bail Organa, however that was going to go. Chandrila and Mon Mothma were another option, but for something like this she still thought Organa the better bet. Ackbar wouldn’t have the access and Mon Calamari weren’t good spies, either. Not to mention she didn’t have the faintest idea where he was right now. Her father –

Hera couldn’t begin to imagine what had happened to her father, not if her counterpart was an ISB agent right now.

She looked up at the sound of approaching voices. Just outside the door, she heard her counterpart say suddenly, her voice small and hurt, “You didn’t realize she wasn’t me?”

“Hera –”

“We’re not even dressed the same. And she’s at least ten years older than me.”

Hera rolled her eyes and called, “I’m thirty-three.”

There was a sudden silence from beyond the door, then it slid open to reveal Kanan and the other Hera. The woman was still in her white ISB uniform, her cap matching white leather. Her lekku were covered with wide straps of more white leather, completely obscuring their color. The rank badge she was wearing gave her the equivalent of a first lieutenant’s rank. Kanan, beside her, was still wearing all black, but he had added a second layer of heavy black leathers and vambraces that bore the Imperial cog.

Hera looked at it and then away, fighting down her hurt. There had to be a reason. She knew Kanan. He wouldn’t do this without a reason. She had seen that kindness in his eyes, that genuine care; Maul hadn’t had that. She hadn’t met any of them, but she doubted the Inquisitors did either. He was still Kanan. She would know him anywhere.

The other Hera was looking at her with the same sick hurt that Hera was feeling right now. Hera made herself look at her, really look, because despite her first impression it wasn’t at all like looking into a mirror. Despite the obvious muscle beneath her uniform – Hera suspected she usually wore a field agent’s grays and cuirass, rather than formal whites – there was something oddly fragile about her. She stayed a carefully measured length away from Kanan, as if both aware of his presence and certain she couldn’t show it in front of a stranger. When she moved forward, it was with precision, lekku barely moving with the motion, and Hera thought suddenly, she grew up with humans.

“Is Daddy dead?” she said before she could stop herself. She said it in Basic, not Twi’leki; if her counterpart had grown up with humans then there was no way to be certain that she was fluent anymore.

The other Hera froze, her eyes going wide with surprise. “What?”

“Daddy – Cham – is he dead?”

The girl flicked a startled look at Kanan, then shook her head. “No. Not that I know of, and if he had died someone from HQ would have hauled me into an interrogation room about it for the next three days. Why?”

“You grew up with humans,” Hera said. “He wouldn’t let that happen.”

“If you think that then you don’t know him that well,” her counterpart said bitterly. “I grew up in the Imperial Academy on Serenno.”

“I grew up on Ryloth,” Hera said. “At home, at the villa in the Tann Province – at the townhouse in Lessu, sometimes. Until my mother was killed when I was thirteen, then my father sent all of us back to the villa until I was old enough to leave.”

The other Hera blinked slowly. “The Syndullas haven’t been on Ryloth for a long time. Cham sent the family to the colony on Zardossa Stix after my mother was hurt in the Lessu Riots. Then he tried to assassinate the Emperor, so the Empire wiped out the colony. I don’t know what happened to the others. The Syndullas and the other clans fled Ryloth not long afterwards. They’re on the Imperial Terrorist Watchlist.”

Hera blinked. “Mama’s alive?” she whispered.

The other woman looked aside. “You’re not the one asking the questions here,” she said, but not before Hera saw sick hurt flash across her face. She set the small holoprojector Hera had had in her pocket down on the table in front of her and activated it. “Who is this?”

“That’s my son,” Hera said, trying not to look at Kanan and failing. “Jacen. He’s five. He’ll be six in a few months.”

The other Hera’s eyes went wide with shock. “Your son?”

Hera nodded, swallowing back a familiar lump of regret. “He’s staying on Ryloth with his grandfather now that Free Ryloth has been able to retake the planet. They’re rebuilding the villa, but right now my father spends most of his time in Lessu. The townhouse wasn’t destroyed, just ransacked a bit.”

Kanan started to raise a hand towards the image, clearly barely conscious he was doing it, then closed his fingers into a fist against his side. He said quietly, “He’s dead, isn’t he? Your Kanan.”

Hera couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at him and her son at the same time, not when her mind was already picking out the similarities between them, seeing what hadn’t been clear from the precious holograms she hadn’t been able to bear looking at alongside her son. How could I have forgotten? she thought. Jacen bit his lip the same way when he was thinking hard, had the same heavy eyebrows, was going to grow up to have the same broad hands and elegant fingers.

She put a hand to her mouth, trying to hold back her tears. “Yes,” she said eventually, when she was mostly certain of her ability to speak without stumbling over the words. “He died. He died before Jacen was born. He didn’t know – he never knew –”

She lost her battle to contain her tears and scrubbed her sleeve hard across her eyes. The other Hera had drawn close to Kanan without seeming to be aware she was doing it, reaching for him as if searching for reassurance that he was still there and breathing. They were holding hands when Hera got herself under control and looked up again.

She had talked about this with Zeb and Rex, with Sabine chiming in via holocomm, when she had been cleared for this mission. They had talked about what she could bring with her, what had the best chance of convincing her counterpart and Kanan’s, and Rex had insisted she bring this. I’m probably the only person in the galaxy who has any idea of what this is going to be like, he had told her. And it’s not the same for a clone as it will be for you, but it’s as close as you’re going to get.

Hera opened her mouth to say the Empire killed him and stopped. The Empire killed him, and you’re working for them. The Empire killed him, and you’re alive, both of you are alive, how can you be doing this when the Empire killed him? The Empire killed him and he never knew he was going to have a son. The Empire killed him, and I loved him. The Empire killed him and he should be alive today, he should be with me now, he should have been able to meet his son.

She said again, “He died.”

“I’m sorry,” the other Hera said. She sounded very young.

She was younger than Sabine had been when Kanan had died, Hera thought, and pulled her shirt cuffs up to scrub at her eyes with both hands. She couldn’t remember being that young.

Haltingly, the girl said, “I know – a little – what that’s like. I’m sorry.” She was gripping Kanan’s hand so tightly that it had to hurt both of them.

Hera touched the base of the holoprojector, looking at her son’s familiar face, then, deliberately, flicked the hologram over to the next image. It hurt to look at too.

Kanan stared at it, his eyes going wide. “What –”

“There was a Sith lord named Maul,” Hera said, and was curious to see him flinch, recognizing the name. “Kanan was hurt fighting him.”

Kanan was laughing in that holo, grinning at something that the recorder hadn’t captured – something Ezra had said, maybe. They had been on Atollon, just a few weeks before Thrawn had reduced the planet to little more than a cinder. Someone in Supply had scored thirty crates of Yensid/Sacul Vineyards wines, apparently by accident, and they had split it up between everyone on Chopper Base who wanted some. Not long after this had been taken, Hera and Kanan had taken a bottle and a few blankets and gone off to a quiet corner of the base. Ezra had found them the next morning and declared himself scarred for life by the sight.

It had been a good night.

The other Hera was peering at the hologram with curiosity, looking between it and Kanan. She caught Hera watching her and said again, “I’m sorry.”

Kanan shut off the holoprojector. He paused with his hand over it, then pushed it towards Hera. “You’re a Rebel, aren’t you?” he said.

“I’m an Alliance officer,” she corrected him, suspecting that it might be better to leave the “Rebel” part of “Rebel Alliance” off in this case. She had anticipated explaining to a younger Hera and Kanan that given a decade’s time, the disparate groups of rebels scattered across the galaxy would pull together, that they had defeated the Emperor and taken Coruscant, and that there was – or would be soon, once the vote concluded in a few days’ time – a Galactic Republic again. The possibility that she might have to explain this to a pair of Imperial officers, one an ISB agent and one an Inquisitor, had never occurred to her. “I came here because I need help.”

The other Hera drew herself up, settling her shoulders as if aware of the uniform she was wearing and its significance. “Fighting the Empire?” she said, her voice suddenly cold.

“No,” Hera said. “In my time the Empire no longer exists, not as it was. Since the Emperor died there have been a dozen warlords all struggling for power, all trying to take his place.”

The other Hera’s eyes went wide. “The Emperor…died?” she said.

“Yes. He was killed by Darth Vader.” At Kanan’s flinch, Hera looked at him and said, “A Jedi Knight named Luke Skywalker sent me here to retrieve data tapes on something called Project Cluster-Prism. In my universe the only copies that we know of were destroyed along with the data vault on Scarif six years ago. That’s all I need. Just data tapes. I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

“Why would I help you?” said the girl. “I’m an Imperial officer.”

“I’m not fighting your Empire,” Hera pointed out in what she hoped was a reasonable voice.

The girl looked away. Kanan stirred a little, uneasily, but didn’t say anything. Eventually, the other Hera said, “I don’t have that clearance level.” She swallowed, then said, “I need to think.”

She finally released Kanan’s hand and started towards the door, white-wrapped lekku nearly invisible against the white wool of her uniform jacket. It was as though she wanted to be human, or, barring that, at least wanted people to forget that she was a Twi’lek.

“Why are you here?” Hera asked suddenly. “Why are you ISB?”

The girl stopped, bracing a hand against the wall. She didn’t look back, just said quickly to the door, “When the colony was destroyed, I was sent to prison. I was there for – for a long time. My handler gave me a chance to get out, to apply for the Imperial Academy so I could start making up for some of the damage Cham had done. So I did. I had to. I’m ISB because my handler blocked my application to the Starfighter Corps; he wanted me in the Bureau.”

Hera bit her lip. “How old were you?”

There was a long moment of silence, then the girl’s lekku swayed just a little as she swallowed. “Fourteen.”

When Hera had been fourteen she had been racing blurrgs across the Tann Province with her cousins Doriah and Nury, or sneaking out of her room to work on her mother’s old racing pod.

“I’m sorry,” she said slowly.

“It’s done now.” The other Hera took another shaky breath. “I’m where I need to be.” She touched the control and the door slid open; she left with hasty strides, as if she couldn’t wait to be as far from Hera as possible.

Kanan stayed. Hera looked up at him, drinking in the sight of him, because she was never going to have this again. She was never going to see him again, never going to hear his voice, never going to touch him.

“Tell her you love her,” she said quietly. “Please.”

He nodded. “She knows,” he said. “I tell her every day.” He hesitated, then asked, “How did he die?”

Hera looked down. She closed her hands over the holoprojector, studying her gloved fingers. “There was an explosion,” she said haltingly. She never talked about it. She would have to tell Jacen someday, but everyone else knew better than to ask. She thought that Luke had wrangled the story out of Zeb or Rex, maybe Kallus, but wasn’t sure. “We were – on a planet called –” She hesitated, remembering that this Kanan was an Imperial Inquisitor, and corrected herself, “We were on a planet that a member of our team had close ties to. There was an Imperial factory there building a new kind of TIE fighter. We had been doing groundside work, commando work, for weeks, but I left to go back to the Alliance and ask for a starfighter task force to wipe out the factory. I got it. But we couldn’t get past the planetary blockade and I was captured. Kanan and two others – his apprentice and a Mandalorian girl – came up with a plan to rescue me. It almost worked.”

She scrubbed her sleeve across her eyes again. “Kanan got me out of the Imperial Complex while the others stole a gunship. We – we almost made it. The Empire blew up its own fuel depot to stop us. Kanan held the explosion back so that the rest of us could get away, but he – he couldn’t. Get away, I mean. And he knew that.” Her voice broke. “He sacrificed himself for us, and I still don’t know if he knew – if he knew – how much I loved –” She had to stop. She couldn’t go on, not now, not ever.

She was crying in gasping sobs, tears rolling down her face as she wiped at them with already soaked sleeves. Kanan took a step towards her, hesitated, and then came the rest of the way, putting an arm around her shoulders.

It was too much. Hera wept as though her heart might break, because it was broken, and Kanan was here, he was here. He drew her close, and Hera turned her face against his chest and cried. It wasn’t him. Hera knew it wasn’t him, but at the same time, it was, and she didn’t know how to bear it. She cried until all that was left were dry, hiccoughing sobs, and made herself pull back from him, wiping her sleeve over her face.

Kanan touched her cheek gently. “He knew,” he said. “Believe me, he knew.”

“I would give almost anything to have him back,” Hera whispered. It was a confession that she had never made out loud, had never intended to. Not anything, not quite, but almost anything. Even years later there were days she wanted him so much that she couldn’t think past her grief and her longing, just go through her day on autopilot until something happened to jar her into full cognizance. “I loved him so much, and I never told him.”

“He knew,” Kanan repeated.

Hera put a hand to her face. She couldn’t look at him; if she had to keep looking at him, she might scream. But she didn’t know if she could look away either. “Go be with her,” she said. “Please.”

Kanan nodded. He hesitated, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll talk to her about helping you,” he said. “I don’t – Hera’s here because she doesn’t see that she has any other choice. I’m here for her, not the Empire.”

“She has a choice,” Hera said. “We always have a choice.” She shook her head. “Just – go be with her. Tell her you love her.”

“I’ll tell her.” For a moment he stood still, looking at her, then he turned and left. Hera heard the door lock behind him.

She put her head down on her folded arms and wept.

#cut scenes and concept writing #other side au tag #as always comments are appreciated

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strangest-loser · 4 years

Text

Twilight Rewrite

Fire in my Blood ~ Jasper Hale X OC ~ Book Two - Chapter One

Book One

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

One of the biggest up sides to her new existence meant Alessia didn’t have to wake up early for school anymore. The fact that she didn’t need sleep anymore never stopped her from ‘napping’ because lying down with her eyes closed helped her ground herself and escape the constant feedback her enhanced senses were still receiving. It was getting easier but she still wasn’t totally used to being a newborn. Her life was never boring living with the Cullens, when she wasn’t spending time with Jasper she was with the girls or with Emmet, and when everyone was in school she was with Carlisle studying under his guidance to be a human doctor. And even still when she found no one was in the house she managed to entertain herself by dancing. Her life was good and today was Bella’s birthday. “Tell Bella I said happy birthday and that I’ll see her tonight”, the brunette ordered following her sisters down the stairs. Alice promised to relay the information and left the room with Rosalie as soon as she saw Jasper walking towards the trio, everyone learned the hard way that the newest couple were sickeningly sweet and it was too early for anyone to want to deal with that.

A squeal followed by laughter was ripped from the youngest girl when Jasper swung her around in his arms and eventually set her down capturing her lips in a kiss that Alessia had memorized perfectly at this point. It took way too much self control for her to push her mate away laughing at the pout he wore as she sent him out the door, “You can’t miss any more days or someone is going to kill me,” she fired in retaliation to the wounded puppy act she was getting while looking pointedly at Esme who was in the kitchen, giving Jasper one last kiss goodbye she stood at the door watching the rest of her new siblings and her love drive off into the trees. Walking back up the stairs into the kitchen she spotted Esme watering some flowers on the balcony, today was one of the days that Carlisle had a work day that began before everyone else left for school so Alessia had some time to kill before school got out and Alice managed to rope her into decorating for the party later that night. Her slow ascent through her home had her honey eyes (now the regular Cullen gold) roaming the artwork along the walls. Her morning was spent cleaning up the books that littered the floor in her and Jasper's bedroom (she spent a lot of time reading now that she couldn't leave the house, having to pretend to be dead and all) and tidying up the rest of the house while Esme painted in the attic, Alessia still felt extremely grateful that Carlisle and Esme had opened their home to her after the accident, she wanted to be a gracious houseguest and in her mind it was the least she could do.

Light shone through the trees into the study that she now began to share with Carlisle as he mentored her through her medical studies. Alessia walked to the glass desk that sat against the window and opened the medical notebook sitting on top of the pile of books stacked on the corner. The well-loved leather cover opened to show yellowed pages with lines of perfect medical notes with accurate diagrams. Carlisle spent centuries putting them together and Alessia was now learning from the man and she couldn't be more grateful for it, she would attend medical school once she could get to grips with a new identity. Hours of study were interrupted by the sound of Alice bounding up the stairs ripping Alessia out of her thoughts of medical sciences. "Come on Alessia we have a party to organise!" The pixie girl sang out pulling the brunette behind he down to the living room to put up the decorations that had been sitting in boxes in the corner all week. The room only took about 45 minutes to finish when Emmet joined them (the sight of tiny Alice sitting on top of the shoulders of Emmet 'the giant' yelling at him to hand her decorations to hang from the ceiling had everyone in stitches laughing).

As night fell the music started and Alessia felt her excitement grow when she could hear a car pull into the driveway, standing with Jasper at her side she was bouncing on the balls of her feet waiting for her baby sister to come into view, it had been a while since she had seen her. Alessia smiled at Bella being dragged into view by a very excited Alice and by the look on her face her sister may just forgive her for telling the family when her birthday was in the first place. Waiting wasn't Alessia's strong point so as soon as Carlisle and Esme had greeted the birthday girl Alessia scooped her sister into a hug that neither really wanted to escape from, it wasn't until she heard a certain sly comment about "dating an older woman" coming from Emmet's mouth, who was speaking to Edward on the stairs that Alessia pulled away from the hold to smack him on the head, "That's my baby you are talking about". Anymore conversation was interrupted by Alice calling for presents to be handed out. The brunette took this time to return to Bella's side wanting to experience her sisters awkward torture up close. She gave Rosalie a kind smile for the necklace, she was trying at least. And Emmet got in trouble again for dissing the truck.

Alessia could hear the slice of the paper working into the skin of Bella's finger, she felt every layer being slit open and the blood that erupted from the wound smelled like an iron factory. The room took all of 3 seconds to errupt into chaos. After Edward launched Bella into a goddamn table Alessia didn't think of anything other than keeping Bella safe, reaching out to guide her away from the situation she was met with resistance and a warning snarl from Edward while the rest of the family members worked to get Jasper out of the room and away from Bella. Pure rage ran through Alessia and she had no understanding of the pure authority that came through the hiss that she let out, causing everyone, Edward and Jasper included to stop and take a step away from her. Carlisle managed to get the situation under control which was good because Alessia still kept a deadly stare locked on Edward and as far as she was concerned if he tried to pull another stunt like that the only person dying tonight would be him. Carlisle forced Edward out to calm down Jasper and while Alessia's whole body was screaming at her to find and comfort her mate, her sister was the priority right now.

Carlisle snapped her out of her rage and Alessia realised that this was the first time she was around human blood, sniffing the air and looking at the red liquid she didn't feel anything other than the need to get the glass shards out of Bella's arms. "I'm fine Carlisle, I promise," left her lips as she slowly helped Bella up the stairs to the study.

As weird and morbid as it sounded Alessia loved giving stitches. It was rhythmic and mindless and she was really good at it. Sue Clearwater had taught her how to sew and embroider when she was a kid during the summers after she stopped going to Phoenix, and that knowledge came in handy now as she and Carlisle worked in tandem, the older man picking the glass out and cleaning the slashes in her arms while Alessia took the black thread and slowly stitched perfect rows to keep them closed so they could heal. She was deaf to the conversation currently going on between Bella and Carlisle but the few words that did reach her meant that Carlisle was telling Bella about his work around human blood. Alessia finished up her final stitches and smiled down at Bella like she remembered Renée doing whenever she scraped her knees as a kid. Laying a kiss on her little sisters forehead she whispered to her. "I'm sorry about Jasper, he didn't mean to scare you I promise, it's just difficult for him sometimes." With the apology hanging in the air she slid off the metal bench she was sharing with Bella and walked out the door to find Edward leaning against the wall. His attempt to enter the room was stopped by Alessia's hand holding him to the wall. Her anger had flared back up and her voice was icy, her message was very clear. "Whatever claim you think you have on Bella you had better quit it right now, you are only with her because she lets you, because she likes you, whatever idiotic thought you have running through your mind telling you that you could ever stop me from protecting her is wrong and you had better get rid of it fast. Let's get one thing clear, that is my baby sister in there. In the people that are important in her life you and I don't even sit on the same list. I am her fucking sister. You ever try that stunt and insinuate that I would ever hurt a hair on her head again and I will rip you to pieces." Her threat was followed by yet another growl that had the boy in front of her looking away from her eyes. Her arm pushed her away from the Cullen boy and down the hall without a second glance.

The air was nice out and the stars weren't blocked by any clouds tonight. Alessia took her time walking out into the trees surrounding the house until she came to the trunk that her mate was sitting on. "You had better stop moping around now, Bella is fine." Her sweet tone snapped Jasper's attention to the beautiful girl walking towards him, smiling despite the absolute fiasco that went down not 30 minutes ago. She didn't have to have have her boyfriend's empathic powers to feel the guilt radiating off his frame. "I could have killed her," was all he mumbled looking at the sky, not meeting the golden eyes staring back at him. Alessia let out a sigh that was dramatic enough to pull a laugh from both of them before she sat at Jasper's side, pulling his hands into her own and playing with his fingers. "Honest question, when you look at Bella is your first thought 'I want to murder this chick in cold blood and feast on her organs'?" She burst out laughing at the complete horror and disgust on his face and took that as a no. "I am fully aware that you would never hurt Bella. You cannot blame yourself for what happened. You are so good around blood and I honestly am so proud of you, but accidents happen Jas. You didn't hurt anyone tonight and that's what matters." Alessia switched her fingers out for her lips and laid a soft kiss on his wrist where his pulse should be. It was an ironic little display of affection the two shared in times where the other was deeply distressed, Jasper had done it more than enough times when Alessia was still getting used to her new body and got upset by the overstimulation her brain was receiving from her enhanced senses, and since then it was a way for the two to let the other know that they were always gonna be there.

Their silent adoration of each other was broken up by Alessia suddenly jumping to her feet and pulling her man up with her "come on, were going away for a while." She was spontaneous and was always the first person to suggest that a problem should be solved with an adventure. She had dragged everyone she knew into her endeavours at least once. Jasper learned very early into their relationship that he couldn't say no to Alessia, that and when she did something to help someone or cheer someone up, she was usually right. Following the small trail back to the house she saw that Edwards car was already gone meaning Bella was back at home. The doors opened to Alice smiling at her best friend and her brother, an idea sparked in her mind, "Alice, pack your bags were going on a road trip."

Jasper found it hard to keep his eyes on the road and not let them drift over to the brunette in the passenger seat talking animatedly with Alice who was in the back about anything and everything that came to their minds. He truly had lucked out with the woman he loved. Everything about Alessia amazed him and he knew that their attraction to each other wasn't just because their vampiric bodies had chosen the other as a mate, part of the reason Jasper had avoided her for so long was that he couldn't really control himself around the pretty girl from his history class and didn't want to risk outing himself as a blood sucking vampire to her on day three of knowing her, that and she was so insanely smart that she matched him in most topics pertaining to the American civil war onwards (and he lived through the damn thing). Alessia was beautiful, intelligent, kind and level-headed while also being goofy, clumsy and a little bit inappropriate and hilarious, she was protective of people she cared about and trusting of people until she was given a reason not to be. She had faults like her quick temper and occasional naiveté but she didn't try to bury them or justify them, she wore them proud. She was confident enough to command the respect of the people who knew her but kind and gracious enough to have earned every ounce of respect she received. He thought she was perfect and he wouldn't hesitate to tell anyone that he really was in love.

Alessia could list the things she thought about Jasper Hale on both hands and not even scratch the surface. Spending almost every hour of her new existance next to him may seem suffocating to most people but it just let the two learn everything they could about each other, late nights were spent with Alessia learning everything she could about the world she had now been reborn into and Jasper in particular wanted her to be educated on and wary of The Volturi. But it wasn't until one rainy day about 4 months into her new life that Jasper told her about his own past. He told her about his life as a human, how he loved his mother Catherine and that he had two younger siblings of his own, Alexander and Daisy. She told him of his days as a soldier and that he fought for the south, if not purely for the fact of that's where he was born and his father was fighting for them too. And he told her about Maria. Alessia found herself falling in love with the man who told her stories every day about his life and the people in it. She admired his gift and made sure to tell him every chance she got how she was proud that he could push past the memory of all the newborn army emotions, all the pain he felt come from those kids, and use the one thing he thought of as a curse to do some good wherever he could (even if it was just to stop Alessia from ripping Edward's head off when he got a bit too melodramatic). When she first met him Alessia had to do a double take because holy shit the new guy was hot and he had an accent, but she was content to go about her life not speaking to him if that's what he wanted, she couldn't force friendship. Alessia just felt relief that Jasper had spoken to her a few months ago, because if he hadn't she might still be blissfully unaware of what her world was actually full of. And she definitely wouldn't be sitting in a car on the way to nowhere in particular with the man she loved and her best friend in the world.

Their drive lasted into the early hours of the morning and at around 5am they reached Portland and pulled into a hotel along the highway. While their rooms were checked into the trio started walking around the undisturbed suburbs talking and laughing. Alice pulled a camera out of nowhere and the night got more fun with Alice and Alessia posing for silly pictures around the streets they walked, it took a few minutes but the girls managed to convince jasper to take one of the two of them lying in the road just before the sun started to come up on the horizon, before long the incident that had caused Jasper so much internal conflict had been forgotten. With the city starting to wake up the gang made their way back to their hotel rooms to hide out from the sunny day that was scheduled. Not that it bothered Alessia at all, she had Jasper to keep her company (Alice was extremely thankful for her own hotel room).

It was later that afternoon when Alessia got a call from Carlisle. It was urgent so the managed to pull herself out of the hotel bed and slide on the t-shirt Jasper was wearing earlier before calling Carlisle back to listen to the situation. To say that she was pissed was an understatement. Jasper barely had time to dress himself before he was dragged back to the car along with his sister by his mate who was for lack of a better term seeing red. The whole drive home was silent and both siblings knew better than to ask Alessia what had happened (Alice already knew). They pulled up at the house by dinner time and Alessia slammed the door of the car, pacing up the front steps past Rosalie who was carrying a box towards a movers van, "Where the hell is he?!"

The rest of the Cullens stood in the living room packing and no one moved to stop her when she basically jumped Edward sending his ass skidding along the floor. "You have about 5 seconds to explain to me what the hell you have just done or I swear to god I will destroy you."

"I told her we were leaving," Edward mumbled electing not to move from his new home on the floor for his own safety. "SO YOU ARE TELLING ME THAT JUST BECAUSE ONE THING DIDN'T GO YOUR WAY LAST NIGHT YOU HAVE DECIDED TO PACK EVERYTHING UP AND THROW A TODDLER TANTRUM ABANDONING THE ONE PERSON YOU CLAIM TO LOVE MORE THAN ANYTHING IN THE WORLD?!" Alessia screamed causing everyone in the room to flinch slightly. Edwards excuse died on his tongue with one look at the furious girl who stood over him. "Do you have any idea what this could do to her?, You claim to care about her soul when all you care about is getting to live out your little fantasy of having a human girlfriend for a few decades until she grows old and dies is that it? Are you gonna look at me and tell me that I'm wrong?" She yelled her anger flaring up once again. She was gonna break something and she really hoped it got to be Edwards head right now. "How about this then Edward, she is not your property, she is her own person with her own choices. She is doing you a favour by waiting until you feel comfortable enough to change her. I didn't get a say in my transformation but all Bella wants is to be with you, I can't for the life of me figure out why but she is in love with you. You gaslighting her and telling her you are protecting her soul as an excuse to leave whenever you don't get your own way is sickening and I swear that you would already be ash if I didn't think that it would kill her." No one around the room dared to try and step in her way when she was like this (Emmet thought the whole situation was hilarious) and with a final look at the boy sitting in front of her Alessia snarled at him "If you want to leave that's fine, but you stay the hell away from me, and don't think that for one second Bella isn't strong enough to move on, and when she does you will never be allowed to take that away from her."

Her brown hair flicked with her sharp body movement and she stomped up the stairs to begin packing her own belongings into boxes. The footsteps that Alessia heard follow her were softer than the familiar thump of Jasper's shoes and she wasn't expecting Esme to peek her head in the door and find her on the floor surrounded by books. "Was I wrong in what I said?" The young girl sighed looking up at the motherly gaze that was trailed on her, the anger in her voice traded out for dejection and worry. She had never exploded like that, even with her short fuse. That and she had no way to contact Bella so she couldn't say goodbye to her sister. Esme sat down on the bed before letting herself chuckle under her breath, "I think you were absolutely right actually, I just don't appreciate fighting between my children."

Alessia wanted to smile at Esme referring to her as one of her own but her mind felt guilty for causing chaos when Carlisle and Esme must have already been extremely stressed with the move. She crawled into the bed sitting next to the woman she had always admired and mumbled a small apology for her actions. Esme simply smiled fondly and squeezed her shoulder, "There is nothing to apologize for Alessia", before beginning to help her pack everything away. She understood why they had to leave, but she didn't have to like it.

The forest was quiet that night and while the last of the boxes were being packed by the boys Alessia took the time to go and get some of her own things from her house. Walking through the woods she stumbled upon a familiar track that flowed through the trees and eventually opened onto her yard. She had walked this path hundreds of times but never once had she encountered Bella lying on the forest ground shivering from the cold. Every inch of Alessia's body filled with a dread that weighed her body like concrete as she sprinted to her sister, "Bella, BELLA!" She cried shaking the limp girl lying on the ground. Panic began to set in because she knew she couldn't do anything to help, Alessia showing up at her home from the dead would probably cause Charlie to have a stroke but Bella wasn't waking up and she was freezing cold. Rustling in the trees made her snap her head up to see the one person she absolutely did not want to see staring back at her. Sam Uley stood at the treeline two feet away from the girls wearing a look of disgust at the sight of the older girl, and as much as Alessia wanted to rip his face off (the feeling was mutual) there was no time and Bella was more important than whatever beef Alessia had with the dog. "Help her" she muttered before laying a kiss on Bella's temple and stepping back to let Sam pick her up and carry her back down the trail. Alessia followed at a distance getting to the end of the trees seeing the flashing red and blue lights, thank god Charlie was looking for her. It took all of 15 minutes before an ambulance had whisked Bella off to the hospital and the lot emptied, only silence was left. With everyone gone Alessia let herself in to her bedroom. Bella had told her about a month ago that Charlie kept her room locked up and didn't go in there, the memory of his oldest being too painful to keep reliving, so Alessia was sure that he wouldn't notice some of her stuff missing. The window slid shut behind her and looking around the room she had seen that it was tidied, probably Bella again. Cardboard boxes and a few suitcases were pulled out of the closet and Alessia began to pack clothes, books, photographs and other things she couldn't bare to leave behind, her awards for dance and school stayed up on her walls but she took photographs of them all. By the time she had finished she had three large boxes sitting at the end of her bed and her room looked only slightly emptier than when she had walked in, she didn't want to leave her whole world behind but she didn't really have another option. Hearing her window slide open again she was met with Emmet standing in her room. The two of them were close no doubt and out of all the Cullens they were the ones that most resembled siblings with how they treated each other, Emmet could tell she was hurting. His strong hand on her shoulder let her steel her nerves again and while he and Jasper (who had joined them from the car out front) began to bring the boxes back out through the window Alessia stood at her desk to write a note.

Bella,

I honestly don't know if we will ever come back. It's imperative that we leave for everyone's safety, because if the Volturi think that we have become suspicious to the humans they won't hesitate to destroy us. Take care of Charlie, he worries a lot but it's because he loves you. Make sure he knows that my 'accident' wasn't his fault and that I love him with everything I have. That goes for you too, you may be 18 now but you are still my baby star. I don't know if I will ever see you again, but I will be thinking about you for the rest of time. I love you.

Alessia.

Sliding her own window closed she made her way up to Bella's window and slid into the room. It was messy and the photo album was still on the bed from last night. Without thinking about her situation for too long she slid the envelope between Bella's laptop and the desk and made her exit again. Looking back at he front door she finally let it sink in that this would be the last time she would ever see her home or her family. Jasper stood at her side and he could feel the ocean of grief that covered his love in that moment, but he didn't try to manipulate what she was feeling, he knew she wouldn't want that. It was Alessia who turned first and slid into the back seat of the car with Jasper on her tail, Rosalie and Emmet sat up front and without a glance back at her old life the truck engine roared to life and Emmet pulled away and drove off into the night, passing a lone police cruiser pulling into the driveway.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Alessia has mad beef with Edward but can we blame her 😂

I hope this chapter gave a little bit more insight to Alessia and Jasper's relationship and you also got a small glimpse into Alessia's developing powers.

Chapter Two coming soon and let me know if you want to be added to the Taglist.

Aoife.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

TAGLIST

@treestarrrrrrrr

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@fangirl1029

@iliveforthefandom04

@frozenhuntress67

@mikariell95

@jessabellaswan

@geekysimmerthings

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@theroyalbrownbarbie

#alice cullen #edward cullen #jasper hale #jasper hale x reader #original character #rosalie hale #rosalie twilight #twilight #twilight rewrite #twilight x reader #Alessia Cullen OC #Alessia Swan OC

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cognitivefunk · 4 years

Text

La Papessa and La Morte: A Courtship

@amagicalduckling So I hope this is alright! It’s Nova x Reader (from 2nd person POV) with Nova flip flopping dominance, with an isekai reader insert hahaha.

Fandom: La storia della Arcana Famiglia (otome) Pairing: Nova x Reader Rating: E - Explicit (smut, porn with somewhat of a plot) Warnings: Blood (Vampire AU), biting, oral, secondhand embarrassment Word Count: 5,559

*Disclaimer all characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18+ images below are from the official artwork from the game (Sarachi Yomi - HuneX)

The air was warm against your skin as you walked the street at night. The soft sound of crickets and the occasional rustling of leaves from the warm summer breeze that kissed your skin were the only other sounds apart from your own footsteps on the paved flagstone ground beneath you. It was a familiar path in Regalo, one that you took almost every night on your way back home since your arrival. The days seemed to bleed together, and it was difficult to think of a time when you weren’t a part of this humble island. You weren’t from this region originally. In fact you weren’t even from this reality, having lived a perfectly normal life in modern day society before waking up in this place. Your memories were largely fragmented, and you found it easier to not dwell on the things you were unable to remember, instead focusing on your survival here.

So far, you had flown largely under the radar after the Tarocco had chosen you to host La Papessa: The High Priestess but you knew that soon you would likely be integrated into the famiglia as a member of the major arcana. You had always had a strong sense of intuition, and perhaps that’s why La Papessa had chosen you to wield the power of precognition. If only it had been a stable power. Alas, your current ability was far from perfect, and you would receive fragmented visions of what was to be. Visions that may or may not come true based on the free will of others, or outside intervention to alter the course of future. Perhaps if you trained your power you could improve the accuracy of the visions that plagued you, but it would likely prove to be a long journey ahead.

You kicked a pebble, watching it skip and dance along the path before you as you became lost in thought. Your eye caught sight of a dark alleyway, causing your body to freeze; the mark of the Tarocco tingled on your forehead, hidden beneath your bangs, and began to emit a hazy lavender and cerulean mist around you. Your bangs lifted as the power danced to life, your eyes misting over, the present melting and fading into a prospective future. You saw a young man with dark black hair which reflected blue highlights, but his eyes were a vortex of cobalt and crimson which seemed to bleed into his sharp gaze like blood on water. Usually you would see these visions as a sort of spectator, but you couldn’t help but think that his gaze was locked onto yours.

His fingers twitched at the hilt of his sword which hung from his hip, nestled against his black uniform, the crest on his collar signifying he was a member of the famiglia. The crimson continued to bleed across his vision until not a speck of blue remained, a dark shadow casting over his features as he lunged forward. You let out a silent scream and turned to run, stumbling over a curb in the road as the vision melted away, leading you back to reality where you were sprawled out on the ground after tripping over the dip from where the stone ended and faded to grass. Thankfully, you had landed on the softer of the two surfaces, but your tights had been scratched on the way down and you let out a groan of frustration knowing you would need to buy a new pair. You decided it would be best to not dilly dally around and picked up your pace on the way back home for the night.

Morning rays peeked through the curtains in your modest bedroom, filtering light through the room to wake you. You blinked your eyes blearily, wondering what time it was for the sun to already be peering through your room. “That vision must have really taken a lot out of me,” you mused to yourself, pushing the blankets off of you when you heard a knock at the door. It sent a small wave of panic through you since you were still in your nightgown and you hadn’t been anticipating company today. “Just a minute!” you called to the stranger outside, scrambling around your room to get dressed and make yourself decent. You multitasked by brushing your hair with one hand while digging through your dresser with the other. You decided that time was of the essence and darted to the closet to tug a dress over your head after changing into clean undergarments. You smoothed your clothes out and answered the door, a cheery smile trying to mask the embarrassment you felt from being caught sleeping in.

Your eyes trailed up to a large man with no hair and a bold mark of the arcana on his right temple and wrapped around to the back of his head. What was probably most striking was his lack of eyebrows, yet there was a tuft of hair that sat neatly on his chin. A cigar hung from his lips, and it appears he had begun smoking while waiting on you to get dressed. You had heard of a man fitting such a description and realized he must have been Dante, an esteemed member of the family who generally patrolled the seacoast. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” you asked, doing your best to use formal language, a reflex to identifying his status.

He waved a hand in a casual manner, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere and grinned widely, his broad features softening at the simple gesture. “Good afternoon,” he placed his hand out to shake yours, and you grabbed it in what you hoped was a firm and professional handshake. It was almost comical how small your hand looked in his grasp and he let go quickly as not to prolong contact. “My name is Dante, and I am the Executive Chief of the Arcana Famiglia. Can I borrow a moment of your time?” You stood to the side, opening the door wider and waving your arm in gesture for the man to come inside. “Please have a seat; I’ll make us a cup of tea!”

As Dante sat at your small, rounded kitchen table, you turned the handle on one of the gas burners to light a fire, the clicking noise filling the silence of the room, and the fire offered a comfortable background noise. As you pulled two cups from the cupboard and sifted through your tea collection to divvy up among the cups Dante cleared his voice and began to speak once again, “I’m sorry for showing up unannounced like this, but there is something important I must discuss with you.” The kettle whistled, and you poured the hot water into the cups, allowing the tea to soak in each cup, providing a small bin to toss the tea bags away once it came to the right flavor content.

You placed sugar and a dainty teaspoon out on the table before offering Dante a cup of tea before grabbing your own and taking a seat across from him. You had known this day would come, you just weren’t sure when. Weeks ago, you had a fragmented vision of someone from the family visiting, but you weren’t able to see a face to the stranger until now. “Is it about the Tarocco?” you asked, preferring not to beat around the bush in this situation. You lifted your bangs, showing the mark that was etched into your skin, standing out starkly on your forehead, before letting your bangs cover the stigmata once more and moving to blow on your hot tea instead.

Dante made a gruff noise of agreement, nodding once and stirring his drink idly. “Indeed it is. I’ve been instructed by Papa to inform you that you are to report to the headquarters and accept your assigned role as a member of the famiglia. We will offer training on how to wield your arcana, as I’m sure you may have realized can have rather dangerous side effects if left unchecked.” His eyes were sharp, but there was warmth to them that allowed you to relax, given the situation. It was framed like a choice, but you knew better. “Will I be able to keep my house here or will I be required to move?”

You had hoped to keep your privacy and be able to commute, but this too, you assumed was not a choice. Dante looked at you sympathetically and shook his head, “I’m afraid not, especially for a new recruit, for security reasons it’s best that you pack your things and come with me. If you like, I can wait outside while you get your things,” he began to offer, not wanting to intrude too much considering he was the one in charge of uprooting you from your current way of life, but you shook your head and offered a smile. “No, it’s alright. Enjoy your tea, I don’t have many items anyway so it won’t take me long to pack my things.”

Dante smiled, sipping from the cup offered to him. “You’ll have another chance to come back and get anything you aren’t able to bring today. Normally we would give you a larger notice, but given your ability, time is of the essence.” He fidgeted slightly, and you wondered what he of all people would be nervous about. But that nagging voice in the back of your head told you it had to do with last night’s vision. The one that had been stronger than the others, and left you feeling on edge.

The mansion and housing quarters were expansive and your jaw dropped in awe when you were shown around your new living accommodations. It was fancier than your tiny home from before, but knowing that it didn’t truly belong to you made your heart pang for some reason. The maids were gracious and helped you put your things away while you were swept away to a large room to discuss your new job. The meeting was swift, but Mondo, Dante, and Jolly filled you in on most of the details you would need to know to get started. Sumire was also present during the meeting, primarily offering moral support, but also as a source of wisdom and comfort, having worked as a fortune teller for many years.

You learned that you were to work alongside the Cups division, but with special supervision from the intelligence division, or in other terms, Dante. You were nervous meeting so many people in one day, and it almost felt like a dream with how surreal and quickly things were moving. One minute you were sleeping in on your day off, the next you were a member of the local government and receiving duties to protect the people of Regalo. You silently cursed the arcana, which was becoming more of a plague with each passing moment than you first realized.

You came across a room that appeared to be an office of some sort with a notepad in hand to make sure you had gotten the right place. You knocked tentatively only to receive a “You’re late,” in response from the other side of the door. You turned the handle and stepped in, nearly jumping out of your skin when the owner of the voice turned around. Dark hair, which reflected blue light and reminded you of the night sky neatly framed the man’s boyish features. His sapphire eyes narrowed in annoyance at your hesitation and you stepped inside, gulping quietly and offering a handshake to cover up your nervousness.

He glanced at your hand for a moment before taking it briefly in by far the quickest handshake you have ever experienced before he let out a small sigh. “My name is Nova, and I am the head of our security division, leader of the cups. Dante has already filled me in about you, La Papessa,” his words were curt but there was no real hostility held within them. It was like night and day when you thought of the way he had looked right through you in that disturbing vision. You looked closer, and couldn’t see any of the red in his eyes either.

The intensity of your stare caused him to furrow his brow and fidget slightly, clearly uncomfortable. “Is there something I can help you with?” his words broke your concentration and you blushed, suddenly feeling awkward. “Oh, uh, sorry for staring. You looked familiar, that’s all,” you offered a half-truth as explanation, hoping it would ease the tension. He frowned and shrugged his shoulders, “Well probably, I do patrol the area frequently, I’d be surprised if you hadn’t seen me before.”

Bizarre as it may be, that was the start to your stay at the headquarters of the arcana famiglia. Instead of sulking about your new situation, you threw yourself into your new line of work. You might as well make the best of the situation, seeing how you had gotten used to life on the island once before already. Nova did not go easy on you because you were a girl, and subjected you to several long and grueling duels, many of which you did not leave unscathed. You had no prior fighting experience, but working with the mafia family, it was integral that you learned to not only defend yourself, but to be able to defend others to maintain the peace of Regalo. It was amazing, truly, how the family was simultaneously feared and loved by the locals of the island. Once blood was spilled, he always ended the duel and instructed you to clean up for the day and practice harder for the next sparring lesson.

The patrol work was rewarding, but you couldn’t help but notice how Nova was never on the daytime shift. You wondered if it was more dangerous at night, only to be reminded of that scene again, the one that sent your primal fight or flight instincts into overdrive. He couldn’t possibly be a vampire, right? Did those even exist in this world? Sure, there was magic with the Tarocco, but supernatural creatures were on another level. Or so you told yourself. There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the lucid vision. Maybe it hadn’t been a prophetic vision after all. Maybe it was just a dream that had gotten you in this state of confusion.

Night had fallen on another day and you were helping Luca and the maids clean up the kitchen after dinner. You had helped cook that night as a way to give back to the others for being so friendly and open with you during your stay. It was nice having a pleasant camaraderie, and you were really starting to feel like you were part of a team together. As you placed a stack of dishes into the sink, you heard a crash come from across the hall, near where Nova usually got ready for his nightly patrol. You shook the water from your hands, “I’m going to go check on that. Thank you for helping me with dinner tonight!”

The others smiled and told you not to worry about anything as you took off around the corner to inspect the source of the noise. It looked as though something had fallen in the hallway and you called one of the maids over to see if they could clean up the broken glass so nobody got hurt. You wanted to investigate the source to see what had happened here. Maybe a stray animal had gotten inside? Some of the paintings on the wall were lopsided, as though somebody had leaned against them on their way out of the main hall. You stepped outside and your hand found its way to the weapon on your hip, gripping it for a sense of security. Something didn’t feel right, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

You found yourself walking the security route, the same one that Nova was taking that night, noticing not many people were out at this hour, even though it was late summer at this point. A deep sense of déjà vu crept up on you as you approached a dark alleyway. Your pulse was picking up, and you could feel your heartbeat in your ears as you turned at the sound of rustling coming from the alley. Your eyes were met with the crimson gaze of the man you had sparred with many times before. There was something wild about his gaze, and it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“What are you doing here!?” his words sounded pained, and he slumped against the rough wall next to him, his breaths strained as he clutched at his chest and winced. You stepped forward, pushing the worry from your mind as you tried to focus on determining if he was hurt instead. You slowly put a hand out in front of yourself, to show him you were approaching, much like you would do to a wounded animal. He screwed his eyes shut and took a shuddering breath, a pathetic whine emitting from his throat. Something was definitely wrong with him. When you were within an arm’s length from him he panicked, “Don’t come any closer. I can’t..I can’t..” he couldn’t finish his thought, he could smell the blood in your veins. The sound of your pulse was rushing in his ears, beckoning him. But he also didn’t want to lose control and really hurt you.

He opened his eyes, a vortex of crimson swallowed the blue in his gaze, and his pupils constricted. He lunged forward and grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward him and pushing you up against the dirty wall he had just been leaning on. He was slightly shorter than you, but you were of similar height. He shuddered, locking his eyes onto the curve of your neck, watching the quiver of your pulse as the fear settled in. He grit his teeth together and punched the wall beside you, a dent from the force crumbling beneath his fist. “Nova?” you found your voice, noticing how it cracked from how dry your throat had suddenly become. You wet you lips with your tongue and let out a shaky breath of your own.

As preposterous as it seemed, you were able to put two and two together. “Do you need blood?” your question weighed heavily in the air, and you could feel him tense in front of you. He stayed still while your eyes darted around, trying to think of the best way to handle this situation. You had gotten to know the male in front of you rather well over the past few months you had been in his company. You knew that he wouldn’t ask for it, and it seemed to be causing him great pain. You were actually impressed because it seemed he was fighting his obvious bloodlust with everything he had. “It’s ok.”

His eyes snapped back to yours in an instant, daring you to repeat what you had just said. “Nova, it’s ok if you need blood. Just..be gentle, ok?” you offered sheepishly, casting your gaze to the side, feeling embarrassed for some reason. “Don’t regret it later,” was the only warning you got before his fangs sunk into the flesh of your neck. There was a sharp sting at the start of his bite and he groaned loudly, nearly wantonly, completely overwhelmed by the taste of your life essence on his tongue. It sent a shiver down your spine, and he swept his tongue back and forth over the widening wound, a tingling sensation replacing the pain.

Your body started to heat up, everything felt too hot, and you panted softly, lost in a murky haze while he drank from you. He pushed his knee between your legs, steadying himself, allowing him to wrap his hands around your body. One hand settled at the nape of your neck, cradling your neck toward his mouth, while the other trailed down along your hip, gripping into the soft flesh with another shudder running through his body. You unintentionally moaned and he responded in earnest, sucking a hickey onto your neck, right on top of the puncture marks on your skin. He pulled back, his eyes lidded with an unmistakable lust that lit a fire in your belly.

“Nova,” you breathed, and he leaned forward, capturing your lips in his. He pulled your lower lip into his mouth, gently biting until blood filled your mouth and he used his tongue to sooth the wound, tasting you. He pressed his hips closer to yours, a bulge forming in his pants, showing you how excited he was getting. “Y/N..” he whispered against your lips, moving to kiss you with a sensuality you did not know he possessed. Normally he was rude, and a little hot-tempered. But at this moment, he had cast a spell over you and you didn’t want it to stop. His touch was needy, and he pushed at the fabric of your skirt, his lips capturing your jaw as he gave into his pent-up lust.

The sound of a throaty, velvety chuckle broke the spell and your face turned a darker shade of red, mixed with the horror of getting caught. Nova stiffened, his hands frozen in place as his own face turned crimson. His eyes returned to their deep sapphire color and embarrassment etched across his features. He dared not turn around and wanted to disappear, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He contemplated using La Tenebra Addormentata to escape the embarrassment, but he didn’t want to deal with Debito once he woke back up.

“My my, what do we have here~ I didn’t think you had it in ya!” Debito’s voice was filled with amusement as he teased the younger male, stepping out of the shadows to lean against the wall beside the both of you. He leaned in closely, far too close for comfort, his handsome features taking on a flirtatious grin. “Hey, Bambina~ If things don’t work out between you two, you just let me know,” his fingers dexterously reached out and wrapped a lock of your hair around his finger, bringing it up to his lips. “Or, I could join you right now if ya like?”

Nova looked like he was about to explode, his embarrassment dissolving to anger. There was metaphorical steam coming off of him as he glared at the other man, smacking your hair out of his tanned hand. “Debito. Enough.”

The mischievous man merely chuckled once more and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Never miss an opportunity squirt,” he put his hands up to signal he didn’t want to fight when Nova’s hands started to unsheathe the katana he was carrying. “Whoa, whoa, hey I’m just kidding! Jeez, calm down,” the man let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck and turning so he was facing the entrance to the alleyway. “Anyway, how’s about you two lovebirds call it a night, hm? I’ll take it from here, but only ‘cause I owe ya one. Now get out of here before someone sees you. Unless the offer is back on the table that is?”

Nova grabbed your hand possessively and gave a curt nod, having sheathed his weapon in favor of heading back to the mansion. “Thanks, Debito. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He started walking, leading you with him. You looked back to Debito and gave him a small smile, mouthing thank you. He grinned back and gave a wink, “Oh we’ll talk tomorrow alright. Ciao Nova! Bambina~”

About halfway through your trek back to the mansion, Nova picked you up with surprising strength, in order to sprint back to his room, undetected. He set you down on his bed, brushing a hand through his hair, and letting out a heavy sigh. “I’m…sorry about what happened back there, I—“ he cut himself off, unsure how to properly apologize for biting you and then trying to fuck you in an alleyway. His cheeks were still burning, and you were pretty sure it wasn’t from physical exertion.

You couldn’t help but giggle, seeing him like this was absolutely adorable. He fidgeted with his uniform, setting his katana down near the door for easy access. “Nova, it’s fine. Really, I would have pushed you off if I didn’t want you to keep going,” another giggle spilled from your lips, and specks of crimson started to form in Nova’s sharp gaze.

“Do you think you could push me off?” his tone was firm, and he approached you, pushing you back on the bed and straddling your hips, hands on either side of your head. “I’ve been holding back so much. You can’t even handle sparring with me on most days. Do you really think you could escape?” there was a cruel laugh that ended the statement. He pressed his lips against your jaw, and you could feel your pulse quickening. Was it fear or something else entirely? Your head felt dizzy.

“Y/N…do you have any idea what you do to me?” he murmured softly, almost a whine. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I want you so bad…” his confession had you reeling. You had to admit, you had feelings for the young man pressing you into the mattress. Even if you were still a little afraid of him due to his unpredictable bloodlust, you really did care for him. “What is it you want?” you breathed, reaching a hand up to cup his cheek, smiling when he leaned into your touch affectionately.

“I want to touch you, I want to drink you…I want to lo-love you,” the last part was quieter, as though he was afraid to say the words out loud. Your smile widened, “You idiot, I like you too.” You brushed your thumb soothingly over his cheek, turning your head to kiss one of his hands. He let you take his hand in yours, and lift it to your mouth, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you began kissing each of his fingers individually. His gaze was intently fixated on yours, and you flicked your tongue out onto his middle finger, bringing the digit into your mouth and sucking gently, letting your teeth graze his skin ever so slightly.

Those eyes of his darkened, and were swirling with crimson and sapphire, almost sparkling in the dim light. “Please don’t tease me,” he groaned, shifting his hips above yours. You could feel his bulge growing again, and you rolled your hips up, creating friction that made him gasp. “Y/N..Don’t. Tease. Me,” he grit his teeth, giving you a look of warning as he pulled his hand from your mouth. “I won’t be able to stop.”

“Then don’t stop. Better yet, lay down,” you offered, gesturing for him to take your place on the bed. He was hesitant but moved to lay down, his eyes questioning you with a glint of excitement. You straddled his hips, grinning widely while your fingers busied themselves unbuttoning your blouse. Nova’s face flushed a bright red, watching as you slowly disrobed down to your bra. He shakily placed a hand on your breasts, cupping them over the fabric and holding back a groan. “Can I see them?” his voice was cautious, reading your face for any uncertainty. His sincerity was heartwarming, and your face flushed suddenly feeling shy under his hungry gaze. He was still a man, inexperienced as he was.

You reached behind your back, unhooking the bra and letting your breasts spill out into his waiting hands. He kneaded them in earnest, pushing your breasts together and reveling in the softness. “Beautiful..” he was mesmerized, pulling you down toward him. He took one of your breasts into his mouth, his fangs barely grazing over a pert nipple, sending electric shocks of pleasure down your spine and setting your skin ablaze in his wake. He sucked on one nipple while using his thumb and index finger to play with the other, gaining confidence every time you writhed or mewled at his actions.

He pulled away from your breast, his chest heaving with arousal. “Can I taste you?” he asked, his eyes darting down to where your skirt was hiking up over your thighs. You gulped, your mouth suddenly feeling dry again. He gestured for you to sit on his face, but you didn’t want to be the only one receiving pleasure, so you turned yourself so that your head was facing his groin, and his head had access to yours. He ran his hands up and down your thighs, tugging your stockings down so he could kiss the soft flesh of your thigh.

The feeling was ticklish and you giggled before gasping loudly when you felt his fangs pierce into your flesh unexpectedly. You shivered at the gentle lapping that followed, and busied your hands with his pants, fumbling with the button before you were able to open his pants to expose his boxer shorts, strained against his hard length. You felt fingers press against your clothed core, running along the length of your panties. He could feel how wet you were getting and it made his cock twitch.

You tugged at his pants, signaling him to lift his hips so you could get his boxers down and free his aching cock from its confines. Your underwear followed suit, leaving you exposed to him. “Lean closer” he instructed, gripping your thighs down toward his face, and you positioned yourself so he could comfortably lick the length of your dripping heat, lapping at you languidly. You let out a low moan, your hips twitching against him instinctively. You took his penis into your hand, stroking it and feeling the velvety texture on your fingertips before slipping the tip through your lips, sucking on the head.

It was Nova’s turn to moan, reverberating against your pussy, which sent vibrations throughout you. It was a strange but delightful sensation. You took him further into your mouth, doing your best to suppress your gag reflex, and using your hands to pump what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, swirling your tongue around his length. He buried his face between your thighs, hips bucking against you while yours rutted against his mouth, both of you lost in pleasuring the other and being pleasured in return. The heat coiled in your belly, and you let go of his length with a deep moan, rolling your hips into that wonderful mouth. “Nova, I’m so close! Aah-aah,”

It was almost too much stimulation. He gripped your thighs tighter, using his fingers to massage against your clit while he wrote love letters with his tongue, silently begging you to release for him. You came, your head spinning, singing his name on your lips. He continued to run his tongue along your core, cleaning the essence you spilled as though it were his sole purpose in life. You jumped a little at the sensation, even the lightest touch sensitive now that you were coming down from your climax. You went to take him back in your mouth but he stopped you, gently moving you off of him and sitting back on the bed with his hands supporting his weight. “I…want to watch you,” he stated, and you smiled, slipping off the edge of the bed to kneel between his legs instead.

You took him back into your mouth, looking up at him through your lashes and watching the blush roll across his cheeks while he watched you suck him off. “Could you…use your…breasts?” he sounded so shy when he asked, but the heat in his eyes encouraged you to no end to do as he pleased. You cupped your breasts in your hands, pushing your chest out to rub against his cock, sucking on the head once before bobbing your head up and down, setting a comfortable rhythm.

The dark haired man dared not close his eyes, watching intently, trying to catch his breath while he watched you, and you could feel him thicken in your mouth, pulsing beneath your touch. You could tell he was close, and he grabbed your hair, pushing you down onto his cock while he rutted against your mouth. He moaned loudly as he spilled his seed into your mouth, encouraging you to swallow it by keeping your head in place as he thrust shallowly, riding out his orgasm.

You let his cum slide down your throat, swallowing everything he had to offer before he let you go, collapsing back onto the bed, blissfully satiated. You crawled back up onto the bed, laying on his chest, and playing with the collar on his uniform that had become disheveled from your activities. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer. “Stay here tonight, I need to ensure you’re well rested for tomorrow’s lessons,” he was obviously using that as an excuse to have you sleep in his room, but you decided not to call him out on it. He decided to rest alongside you, stroking your hair absentmindedly and watched you drift to sleep in his arms, smiling before kissing you on your forehead. “Don’t ever leave.”

#usagiwrites #fanfic #la storia della arcana famiglia #arcana famiglia #fanfiction #nova #ノヴァ #アルカナ��ファミリア

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stormhawksplanb · 3 years

Text

Storm Hawks Fanfiction: Plan “B”

https://myhushhushdarling.tumblr.com/PlanB

Chapter 7

For those who are on Mobile, Check out the #planb for all the chapters and related content!

The next few hours were quick. The terra was cleaned up, and the art exhibition was cancelled. No winners, no anything. The damage caused by the attack was surprisingly small. Houses were destroyed, and the ground we walked on had dips and small shallow craters. No one was badly hurt which was the good part.

It took a while, but when we accounted for everyone, including the COGA members, The Storm Hawks had taken off on their skimmers to search the terra for any other invaders. Leaving me, Stork, and Junko to deal with the wreckage. Usually that would be no problem, but I don't think any of them want to talk to me after my "This was my war long before any of yours" comment. But like with any negative situation, I try and correct it. After all, it'll make things easier if I at least try.

"Junko! There you are erm- doing... What are you doing?"

I caught him at the center of the town, pulling out the broken canvases and left over art utensils.

"Well the building structures are useless now. But a lot of the art work and other stuff is only partially damaged... So you know..."

My heart sank a little bit. He wouldn't even look me in the eyes. Was what I said that bad?

"Hey uhm. I just wanted to try and apologize for my behavior earlier. I shouldn't have said what I said..."

Junko turned to me, his head tilted. Then all at once it was like a lightbulb went off in his head.

"Oh that! No, yeah, it's fine. We've all heard worse. No need to apologise."

I was almost dumb founded by his reaction. He seemed so mature about it. Then it dawned on me.

"So... How long have you been a storm hawk?"

"Oh uh, since I was 15... I'm 16, going on 17 now..."

"Oh... That makes sense."

Despite how well put together the team was, I seem to have forgotten that they were in the same predicament I used to be in. They were all dealing with the carnage of a war they never started. My only other reaction was to give a quick nod goodbye and head to my next target. Why I did that I don't know.

Upon seeing the condition of the Condor, I cringed. There were scratches on the outer material, burn marks on the paint job, and some cracks in the glass. Glued to the hip of the Condor was Stork, working away at some patch work. Taking a deep breath I stood beside him, and hesitated to tap his shoulder. I jumped a bit when he grunted and glared at me.

"Heeey, do you need any help with repairs? I uh, I know how to paint and I can even get out most of those burn marks!"

All he did was turn away from me, and scoff. I gave an audible groan, wanting to get this done and over as quick as possible.

"Ok! Fine! I'm sorry for being a brat earlier, and I'm sorry for getting in everyone's way! But you can't just keep on ignoring me like this-"

I was silenced by a paintbrush being swung out in front of my face.

I felt embarrassed as the heat stroked my cheeks. He still didn't look at me, as I took the paintbrush and started working beside him. Something tells me he didn't really care about what I said. Or what I did...

After a few hours of hard labor, and helping Junko find the owners to the left over artworks, consoling some children who were lost on their way to the bathroom, the rest of the Storm Hawks squadron came back to the terra. All of their faces covered in mud and dirt. I held back a Chuckle since none of them were very pleased with their new look.

Soon enough the whole Terra surrounded us, hoping to hear about what had happened to them. Aerrow had looked away from the bombardment of "Are we safe?" And "Who was that?!". He Seemed, uneasy.

"It was... Cyclonians..."

Aerrow seemed defeated for a split second, and he faced the crowd again when the murmuring and disbelief subsided.

"It's not Master Cyclonian herself. But one of her lackeys had taken her thrown… Recently."

I locked eyes with Piper and muttered Ravess’ name in hopes the current spectators didn’t notice. She nodded at me, acknowledging my hypothesis to be true, and Aerrow continued.

"I know today was supposed to be important to everyone here. It was supposed to be a step towards our recovery as Atmosians... But today..."

It was like he froze on everyone. We all just stared at each other. My brain kicked in and I stood beside him, a sorrowful look across my face replaced with a sincere smile, and he gave me a grateful one in return.

"Today is the day we prove to everyone who dares question us. And that we now keep what was once taken by the Cyclonians."

It was a short statement, but not false. The crowd cheered and I looked back at Aerrow. A small smirk and a nod my way as another thanks.

Eventually, this part of the Terra was cleared out. Thankfully some neighboring Sky Knights arranged for people to stay at their own Terras while the properly qualified went to work to restore buildings. I had other plans. One of which was to try my shot again at convincing Aerrow to let me bum a ride to my home terra.

Walking on the drop down ramp to the condor, I more or less physically bumped into Piper. Arising a small squeak from her.

"Oh! Sorry!"

I shook my head at her, and playfully rolled my eyes.

"It's fine. It's not like you snapped my arm in half. What's up?"

She rolled her eyes back at me.

"oh you know. Navigating maps, saving a whole Terra, just normal Sky Squad stuff. And what are you up too?"

I shrugged at her, not wanting to disclose to her that I was looking for Aerrow.

"Well if you're not doing anything, could you help me with something?"

"Yeah, what do you need?"

I followed her off and away from the ship as she explained her plans for the terra.

"Well, the unexpected Bombing left us vulnerable, and out in the open. So we’re setting up a temporary Shock Wave Crystal tower. I'm not sure of how aware you are about the war against Master Cyclonis, but-"

She gave a heavy grunt as she moved a box of unmarked Crystals from a table to the floor, then taking out an old map.

"Terra Atmosia had a Sky knight named Carver who betrayed them, and joined an alliance with Master Cyclonis herself."

I grunted and scrunched my face up at the name, Carver. It rang a bell, but I decided not to press on about him. And Judging by her attitude, I'm guessing no one's a real fan. Least, not anymore.

“That also means the Terra is still without a Sky Knight. What's left of his squad still helps out, but it's hard to have a Squad without a leader."

"Why is that?"

She gave me a slight judgmental face. Shaking it off and smiling at me, deciding to humor me anyway.

"Without a Sky Knight or some kind of leader, the Squadron loses their title and rights to their Squad name. The Sky Knight is responsible for not just leading the team. They keep it together, and take responsibility for the whole squad. Those rules can be bent and flexed but the concept stays the same."

I gave a quiet "Ah" in response. It made sense. Something still bugged me though.

"If that's true, Then why don't they just recruit a new Sky Knight?"

I got the idea of what she needed help with, which was moving crates and sorting maps. My mother showed me how to organize maps, so I could do that much.

"It's not a hard thing, but because of Carver's stunt, people are scared to be the new Sky knight. It's an old wound. Some Atmosians have gone as far as to threaten the Ex-Squad members. Some people think that the whole team was involved, and carver freezing his crew mates was just for show."

"Ew."

Piper let out a huffy laugh, shaking her head.

"Storks right. You really are different from other Sky Knights. Speaking of which. Can I ask you something?"

I nodded my head, finishing up on the last map. It looked like they were creating blueprints for new energy launchers, and a radio scrambler.

"What Terra are you the Sky Knight of? Stork said you mentioned something about being a sky knight yourself."

I gave a deep sigh, making sure to look her in the face. The obvious tone mocking Stork, all whilst hinting at her curiosity.

"It wasn't my choice..."

"Is it ever really a choice?"

I gave another sigh, (Just now realizing that I’ve developed a nasty habit of doing that).

"I was designated to become a Sky Knight when I was 10. I live on Terra Argonia. I was actually hoping that you guys could swing round that way and drop me off..."

"Terra Argonia! But that Terra was swept out clean by the Original Cyclonis! That was YEARS ago."

I chuckled at her.

"Terra Argonia is home to the Nova Crystal. Why do you think they call me Nova?"

Piper was looking at me in amazement, blinking rapidly. I could tell right off the bat she was going to mention Dusty.

"That means you're the daughter of the infamous Dusty of the Raving Vultures!"

Yup. There it is.

"Ta da? I think. I don't know why you're so impressed. He's infamous for a reason."

"I know, I know! But do you know why?"

I felt an old wound open up in my chest. My face must have given away my anger because Piper was quick to apologize.

"O-oh. Right. You'd know. Can I ask what happened?"

Before I could speak a hand was placed on my shoulder. Arrow had joined us in our little circle. His face was serious.

"You're gonna have to hold that thought. We're receiving a stress signal from Terra Rex. We might also have a lead on where Ravess is hiding currently".

#storm hawks #stormhawks #planb

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ask-powerwoman · 3 years

Note

So, Villa how did Dot find out about Ultra Woman? And why did she leave in the first place?

*This story is heavily based on the Mega Man Archie comics.

“Hey, mum?” Dot asks her creator, Doctor Villa “I thought I was your first robot. WVN-00A.”

“That’s right.” Villa responds with a smile

“Then... who’s WVN-000, ‘Lyra’...?” Villa froze, and glances to the screen that her daughter was looking at.

“See?” Dot says pointing to the name, “I was cleaning up the database when I found this. Is it an error?”

Villa sighs. “That... that isn’t an error.” She says, “Lyra was your older sister.”

Dot’s eyes light up. “Really?! Where is she? When do I get to meet her?”

“I’m sorry, Dot. But I’m afraid you’ll never get to meet Lyra.” Villa says sadly “she was my first triumph, and my greatest failure...”

“I... I don’t understand. What happened?” Dot asks.

That’s when Villa began to explain what had happened many years ago. When she was younger, more naive, and just beginning her life’s work. Back when She still counted Doctor Wily as a friend...

~~~

“That’s it Albert! She’s all done!” Villa says with a smile, lifting the goggles up onto the top of her head.

“Mmm..” Wily placed a hand to his chin, examining Villa’s newest creation. “It’s awfully... human-looking, Winter.” He says “Your military contract was for an advanced combat robot. You’ve built a... young lady.”

“And” Villa says “And my robot master line WILL be capable of advanced warfare --as well as a myriad of other advanced mental processes. I’ll get them their weapon, but this prototype, My girl, will stay with me.”

“Hmph. I’d say... you were taking your love of robotics too far, but then I’d be a hypocrite.” Wily says with a softened smile to his friend. “Let’s wake her up.”

“Right. Wake up, dear, Good morning...” the robot girl sat up on the work table, her long blonde ponytail moving over slightly as she rubs her eyes. “...Lyra!”

“...hello?” Lyra says, hesitantly, before finding herself suddenly picked up off the table and into a strong hug.

“Welcome to the world my lovely girl!” Villa says happily “I am your creator, Doctor Villa!” She allows Lyra to sit down once again. “How do you feel? The self diagnostic should’ve kicked in first thing.”

“I feel... fine?” Lyra responds “all systems report nominal.” She looks around

“I... I feel... confused. Overwhelmed. Disoriented. I know we’re in the ‘lab’ and what a ‘lab’ is but... why?”

Villa smiles with excitement “do you hear this, Albert? She’s self aware! Not five minutes online and she’s already thinking metaphysically!”

“Mm-hmm.” Wily replies scribbling notes down on a pad “Don’t mind me... just taking the measurements you’ll need for the weapon upgrades later. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Lyra blinks and looks at her hands “w...weapons?”

“Don’t worry about that now. You’re taking the first steps to bridge the gap between humanity and robotics.” Villa places a hand on Lyra’s shoulder. “You have data, but what you need now, is culture.”

Villa took Lyra out to see the city. The large buildings that seem to tower over everything, She bought Lyra a long purple scarf that she was fascinated by, She took her to the museum to see wondrous pieces of artwork, to the forest area where she got to feed real, organic birds and a deer, and finally to the symphony in the park as the moon finally began to rise.

In retrospect, Villa was too enthusiastic back then. She pushed too much of the world--of her own goals--on Lyra at once. But she seemed to be accepting it all so well...

Unfortunately, this was also when Villa received a great deal of her funding from military research. Without it, she would never have been able to construct Lyra. However, her benefactors wanted something to show for their investments, so...

Villa placed a helmet on Lyra’s head carefully as they prepare for the demonstration.

“Remember your programming. Hit-and-Run, don’t be reckless, pick your targets wisely, don’t forget to use your cover to your advantage...”

“Relax.” Lyra says with a confident smile. “I got this.”

Villa let’s out a heavy sigh as Lyra walks into the field.

“G-good afternoon, gentlemen. Today’s demonstration is of Villa Labs autonomous combat robot, model number WVN-000.” She says to the military representatives. “Today you will see how a robot can be capable of independent thought. Villa Labs hopes to bring the same capabilities to the civilian sector one day. But first, we will demonstrate the versatility my d--er.. this robot can perform in a... in a live fire exercise. Future models will allow for military operations with no... um... risk to human life.”

The demonstration began. Lyra ducked behind one of the walls as the training drones began to rapid fire.

Lyra smirks, charging her buster and dashing out from her cover, taking out several drones before reaching the next piece of wall for cover.

The shots from the drones cracked the wall on the outside, but that didn’t stop Lyra from leaping up and grabbing a hold of the wall, using the top as cover to take out more drones.

But something wasn’t right.

Lyra lands back on the ground, pushing the wall hard enough to topple it over.

Her body sparking all the while.

As exercise 2 was about to start, the sparking grew worse. Lyra felt off. It was dizzying for her.

“Doc... Doctor V-Villa? Something’s...”

Lyra tried to fire at one of the new incoming drones, but it missed.

And the drones swoop down to cut her with the propeller blades

“Lyra? LYRA?!” Villa exclaims with fear and worry “STOP THE TEST!!”

She came running over to her daughter, who now lay weak on the ground.

“Everything was going so well.” One of the military representatives says, “What happened, doctor?”

“There... seems to be an imbalance in her power generator. She’s never been put under this kind of strain...” Villa says, examining the data she was receiving from the damaged prototype.

“You didn’t test it first?”

“Of course I did!” Villa exclaims “but everything about her is unique—experimental. A robot this advanced requires a tremendous amount of power, and when the output is pushed...”

“It certainly shows promise,” says one of the military representatives, “but the power failure is a concern.”

“Yes...” adds another, “A simpler model would require less power, a simpler battle software would still be sufficient.”

“Congratulations, Doctor, you’ve won us over. We’ll clear you for further research funding, get back to us when you’ve got a smaller, simpler model.”

“Y-yes, sirs...” Doctor Villa says as she held Lyra in her arms, “thank you...”

But that wasn’t Villa’s real failure with Lyra.

Later that night, Lyra woke up in the lab, her core plugged into several machines meant to keep it stable

“Ugh... Doctor Villa?” She asks, rubbing her head, but looking around, her creator was nowhere in sight.

But she could hear an argument from another room.

“Absolutely not!”

“Listen to yourself, Winter! You’re way too attached to her. Let me do the modifications.”

“I said ‘no!’”

Lyra pulls the chords out of her core, and slowly gets up and goes to see what was going on.

“Oh, so you’ll trust me to design her arm-cannon, but you won’t trust me to modify her power core?”

“You DESIGNED it, but you didn’t INSTALL it. I did!”

“And you obviously did it wrong, hence the imbalance!”

Lyra stood still, watching her mother fight with her friend.

“You were BANNED from directly working on advanced robotics.”

“Nice of you to reopen THAT wound, Winter.” Wily huffs.

“You brought that upon yourself!” Villa retorts, “But more importantly, Lyra is MY girl, and I’ll handle her redesigns.”

“Doctor Villa...” Lyra starts, gaining the attention of the two Doctors.

“Lyra!” Villa exclaims, “I didn’t know you were already recharged.”

Villa knelt down to her level, placing her hands on her shoulders.

“Are you alright? Do you feel off-balance at all?”

“I’m fine” Lyra replies, “what’s this about redesigning me?”

Doctor Villa sighs, “your power generator is flawed.” She says, pointing to Lyra’s core. “If I don’t fix it, the imbalance will eventually destroy you. I have to redesign your core to save you.”

“And what if you bungle it,” Wily starts, “and erase all her personal programming?”

“I’m sure you’ll retain all your personality traits!” Villa says, in an attempt to reassure her daughter.

“Heh—just as you were sure her generator would work properly?”

“Enough, Albert, you’ll scare her! You’re not helping!”

“I know. You won’t let me.”

“I said ‘Enough!’”

“Fine, fine.”

“Lyra,” Villa says to her daughter, “Go hook yourself up in the lab so your power remains stable. We’ll begin work tomorrow.”

“But...”

“Now, please. This is for your own good.”

“...But” Lyra says quietly, “What about what I want?”

That night... Well, Villa can’t be certain if this was how it played out, But she had run the scenario over and over again in her head...

Lyra hid behind the wall to Villa’s room, listening as her mother talked to herself.

“I just don’t understand. It’s to save her life.” Villa says to herself as she paced back and forth in her room. “I coded the closest thing to a will of her own, but I want her to use it to make good, logical decisions.”

She sighs “..who would be logical facing their own mortality? Oh, Thomas. If you were here, you would know what to do...” Villa says, looking at an old picture of Thomas light, Wily and herself.

“Perhaps if I... it would be a lot easier if I did rewrite that rebellious streak out of her...”

Hearing that, Lyra had enough. Gripping her fist she leaves before she could hear the rest of what Villa had said to herself.

“No, no, no... what am I saying?” Villa says facepalming, “Once she’s repaired I’ll have to make it up to her in some way. And, in the long run, she’ll see it was for the greater good.”

Lyra in the meantime, was sobbing. As she packed a bag full of E-Tanks for a long and lonely trip ahead of her, she glanced at a picture of Villa and herself.

Smiling as if they had a perfect life... what lies had Villa been feeding her?...

In a moment of anger, Lyra smashed the photo on a ground.

The she walked out the door, never to come back.

~~~

“I never heard of or saw her again.” Villa says to Dot. “My pride, My arrogance, My lack of foresight... they robbed me of my first creation... My first daughter.”

“Well, then, we can go look for her!” Dot says with a smile “Me and Bounce can start looking right now!”

Villa chuckles a little. “No, Dot. Lyra’s power generator would’ve gone offline by now. It pains me to say it, but she’s gone.” She says with a sorrowful tone.

“Although there are long nights where I wonder what happened to her after she left...”

*A/N: this was a good excuse to submit a story instead of a comic. Hope you enjoyed this little story!

#megaman #ask #mega man #megaman au #ocs #story #fanfic #decided to try posting this lol

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xx-thedarklord-xx · 5 years

Text

Thine Enemy is Sweet (Part 3)

Part One, Part Two

The usual bustling noises and loud chatter of the Three Broomsticks was absent as Harry looked around the room—and he preferred it that way, crowds would never be in his comfort zone.

“It’s lucky I was able to meet up today,” Seamus said as he downed whatever was in his flask. Harry liked to think it was Firewhisky, but Seamus refused to say. “Been real busy.”

“Busy doing what?” Ron said with a snort. “You’re still reserve, aren’t you? You sit on your arse all day.”

Seamus lifted his chin in the air in a snub. “I’ll have you know that I still have to show up for practices.”

“How are the Tornadoes doing?” Harry asked when Ron looked like he wanted to say something else.

“Lousy,” Seamus slumped in his seat. “I keep waiting for one of them to take a bludger to the head so I can get a shot this season, but I doubt it’ll happen. They may be rubbish but they know how to dodge.”

“You’ll get your chance,” Dean said, tone kind but not condescending. “You made it this far.”

“Enough about me, we’re here for you.”

Dean rubbed the side of his face as he looked down at the table. “It’s nothing. Just a sale.”

“Not just a sale,” Harry frowned before nudging Dean in the shoulder. “It’s a sale to the National Wizard Artistry Museum.”

“You got to stop doubting your artwork mate,” Ron said as he called for another round of drinks. “I buy your stuff all the time.”

“Yeah but you have rubbish taste.”

“Oi!” Ron cried as he tried to reach across the table to slap Dean. “See if I buy anything from you ever again.”

When Seamus and Ron began to tease again, Harry leaned forward to place a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Harry. That means a lot.” There was a small satisfied smile on Dean’s face. No matter how revered Dean’s work became, he’d always be humble, and Harry loved that about him.

“Here’s another round gentlemen,” Rosmerta placed the drinks down with a loud clunk, liquid spilling over the rim. “Next time Weasley get off your arse and order them and not shout it across the room.”

“I knew you liked seeing my pretty face,” Ron teased before Rosmerta sent a stinging hex his way with a grin.

“I like seeing your money, that’s about it.”

“You hurt my heart.”

When Rosmerta turned to Harry, he sat up straighter, worried he had done something to warrant a hex too.

“This came for you about an hour ago.” A folded crane was placed in his hands and Harry already knew who it would be from. “Not sure how they knew you were here, but no magic was inside, so it must be safe.”

Harry thanked her before tearing it open with little patience.

Potter,

I have cleared a small window of time today to go over the plan. I will meet you at 4 so I can assist you in apparation, my flat is not open to the public. I’m the one doing you the favour here, so be ready, no excuses.

D.M

Harry ignored the looks his friends gave him as he checked the time and then reread the letter. It was only a few minutes to 4.

“Shit, I have to go.”

“What?” Seamus narrowed his eyes. “We’ve only been here a little over an hour. Usually, you stay longer.”

“Sorry, I have to meet someone.”

“Like a date?” Dean asked as he leaned forward, eyes wide.

“Don’t be daft, Harry doesn’t know how to date.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said as laughter broke out. He needed new friends. “Your confidence in me is overwhelming.”

Initially, he was going to come up with any excuse to leave but if he wanted it to be believable later on, might as well have a test subject.

“Actually,” Harry bit his lip. “It is a date.”

The laughter stopped and he was met with three surprised looks—that hurt his pride.

“Oh, is it someone we—”

“Potter, it’s past 4, I’m not waiting any longer.”

Ron’s hand jerked so violently at the sound of Malfoy’s voice that his glass tipped over and the table became drenched.

“What the fuck?” Seamus whispered as he looked between Harry and Malfoy.

“Just a minute,” Harry said as Malfoy leaned up against a nearby table.

“You’re lucky I have patience.”

Harry couldn’t help but snort. “Where, please tell me where this patience is? I’d like to see it.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched and Harry wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“Dean, check to see if Harry’s been confunded,” Seamus whispered.

“Why me? Ron’s the healer.”

“He’s in shock, look at him.”

Ron was frozen in his seat, eyes on Malfoy, and Harry wasn’t sure he was blinking.

“If Harry was confunded, wouldn’t he be acting confused?”

“Why do you think I said it? He’d have to be confused to date Malfoy, right?”

“You know I can hear you, Finnigan, right?” Malfoy drawled, eyes on his nails as he crossed on ankle over the other.

“Yeah,” Harry said as he tried to appear serious. “Don’t be rude to my date.”

“Date,” Ron choked out and Harry really wanted to laugh.

“This is real, right?” Seamus shook his head slowly. “Or did I smoke Neville’s potion ingredients again?”

“I knew it!” The shout came from a few tables away as Neville rushed into his usual chair, bangs plastered to his forehead and a flush from overexertion on his face. “My supply was short that month, no way it was a slip-up. Stop smoking dangerous plants, you moron.”

Neville looked around the table in confusion when no one paid him any attention. “Sorry, I’m late. One of the delivery men tried to short-change me and I had to terminate the contract with his Apothecary.”

“What did I miss?” Neville asked when no one responded. His forehead was wrinkled, and he frowned at the wet table. “Ron, stop being messy, clean this up.”

“How do you know it was me?” Ron asked slowly as he came back to himself.

“It’s always you.”

“Harry has a date,” Dean said when Ron opened his mouth.

Neville’s forehead smoothed before he smiled widely. “Oh! That’s great! Anyone we know?”

“Me, actually.”

Neville jumped in his seat and a tiny squeak escaped as he scrambled to look behind him.

“Malfoy?”

Malfoy bowed pretentiously like the git he had always been, and Harry hated that he was amused.

“The one and only.”

“Okay, I’m confused.”

“Dean make sure Neville isn’t confunded too.”

“You are aware that confusion isn’t the only symptom, Seamus, right?” Ron asked.

“I’m not the healer between us.”

“Clearly.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Harry stood up slowly as he tried to avoid most of the spill. “Malfoy and I really should get going.”

“So this is real?” Neville asked, lips stretched into a strange grimace. “It’s a thing? A real thing?”

“You mean a date?” Malfoy said slowly, so slowly that Neville glared. “Unless you are implying something, Longbottom, and if that’s the case, please continue. I’m all ears.”

“Um.” Neville looked down at the table. “No, I wasn’t implying anything. Not at all.”

When Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, Neville rushed to say, “Enjoy your date.”

“I’ll be outside, Potter.” Malfoy turned around without a backward glance. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

As soon as he was gone Harry tried to follow but he was too slow, and Dean grabbed hold of his robes.

“Not so fast.”

“Look, I’m sure you have a few questions but—”

“A few,” Ron’s voice raised an octave. “I have a lot more than a few.”

“And I’d love to answer them,” Harry lied, hands raised. “But I really should get going.”

“To your date,” Seamus said. “A date with Malfoy. Like where you’ll be alone with him.”

“Say it one more time and it might sink in,” Harry teased as he shrugged off Dean’s grasp. “I’ve got a date with Malfoy, yes.”

“I—” Ron placed a hand to his own forehead and Harry wondered if he was checking for a temperature. “You have a lot to explain.”

Oh boy. Ron already looked suspicious, and he couldn’t blame him.

“Another time,” Harry called over his shoulder as he jogged out of the pub. He wouldn’t put it past Malfoy to really leave without him.

“Finally,” Malfoy complained the second Harry stepped outside. “Your friends are rude.”

Harry tilted his head and closed one eye. “Mmm, I don’t know if you are qualified to make that accusation.”

“Accusation?” Malfoy arched a brow as he extended his arm for Harry to hold onto. He didn’t want to accept it, not at all but he did it anyway. “Blatant observation.”

“Perhaps,” Harry conceded. “But can the guilty really call out others when their own hands are dirty?”

“It’s easier to spot what you know, Potter,” Malfoy argued. “I have never claimed to be nice; I shudder at the mere thought.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“There isn’t one. As I said, it’s just an observation.”

Frustrating. Malfoy was frustrating and Harry couldn’t understand him.

“Hold on tight.”

“Where are we going?” Harry asked. When there was no reply, he opened his mouth to ask again but the crack of an apparation, a pull near his navel and the uncomfortable sensation of being sucked into nothing stopped him.

“Are you out of your mind?” Harry snarled when they landed. “You could have splinched us.”

“Oh no,” Malfoy shook his head. “Splinched you? Yes. Me? Never.”

“I hate you so much.”

“I can’t imagine why. I’m delightful.”

Harry refused to respond, nope, Malfoy wasn’t going to win that one. He dropped Malfoy’s arm as he looked around. Their location was hard to pinpoint but what really got to him was— “I thought you said your flat.”

The place was huge. Sure, it was no Manor but it was at least 4 times the size of his own flat.

Malfoy’s nose scrunched up and his lips pursed as he tried to see what Harry was seeing. “It is. This is my flat.”

“Rich people problems,” Harry mumbled.

“You know you have a lot of money—”

“Are you going to invite me in or not?”

“I see where your friends get it from.”

“Bite me.”

“Don’t tempt me, Potter.”

Harry spluttered and he hoped the heat on his face was his own imagination. “You’d be so lucky.”

“Oh?” Malfoy opened the door but refused to move, causing their bodies to brush up against each other as Harry walked in. “You could show me.”

“Quit taking the piss.”

“Who said I was?”

“I—” Harry frowned. “I would never.”

“Ah, but I thought I would be the lucky one.” There was a smirk on Malfoy’s face and Harry hated it.

“Quit confusing me.”

Malfoy emptied his pockets, eyes on Harry and a brow lifted before he waved his wand and out came a patronus that was too quick for him to decipher as it zoomed away. “You make it so easy.”

“I’ll leave,” threatened Harry, not entirely sure if he meant it.

“Go right ahead,” Malfoy lifted a hand towards the door. “You are the one that needs me, not the other way around. Don’t forget that.”

Defeated, Harry sat on a gaudy love seat that probably cost more than several months of groceries. “What’s the plan?”

Malfoy sat across from him, legs crossed, and hands folded.

“That’s where we have a problem.”

“Problem?”

“I can get you in no problem. Our attendance is going to draw a lot of attention, as amusing as that will be, it’s unwanted.”

“Why?” Harry narrowed his eyes when Malfoy looked away. He didn’t trust him at all.

“How can we take it with eyes on us?”

“Take?” Harry leaned forward. “We aren’t stealing it.”

“Oh really?” Malfoy scoffed. “And you think just talking to Nott will get you the ring?”

He scratched the side of his head. That had been what he had hoped.

“I can talk to Greengrass.”

“Ha!” Malfoy’s face was expressionless, and Harry didn’t appreciate the notion.

“You don’t know Astoria, do you?”

“No, why?”

“Astoria gets what she wants, Potter.”

“And she wants Nott?”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s because you aren’t pureblood.”

Harry's fists clenched and he glared. “Blood isn’t everything.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It’s not a dig, Potter. It’s a social etiquette that you wouldn’t understand. Their marriage may seem like love to you, however, it’s anything but.”

After his disastrous attempts at marriage for love, Harry couldn’t fathom attempting it for social standing. Marriage made him sick.

“Is that where you were headed? With Nott?”

When sparks flew out of the tips of Malfoy’s fingertips, Harry knew he fucked up.

“Don’t.” Malfoy hissed; eyes so narrowed it was hard to see them. “Don’t presume to know anything about me, nor my past relationships.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You think I came to you that night for social etiquette?” Malfoy looked to the ceiling, a few sparks hovering over his hands. “You think I came to you because I wanted to secure the Malfoy name further? You think I came to you for anything other than what it looked like?”

“I don’t—”

“No, you don’t know!” Malfoy yelled, truly yelled and Harry didn’t know what to do. “I loved him, Potter. More than you will ever know. I didn’t give a damn what his blood status was. I wouldn’t have cared. I never once looked at him and wondered how he could be of use to me. That’s not what love is. I wanted to be better for him. It was never about our surnames.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. “About that night too.”

“I don’t want your apologies.” Malfoy looked down at his lap. “They mean nothing to me. You mean nothing to me.”

Ouch. Why bother trying? Harry huffed as he wondered for the millionth time if any of it was worth it.

“Neither Nott or Astoria will see reason,” Malfoy cleared his throat after a stifling silence. “Go ahead and be the valiant Gryffindor all you want; it won’t get you anywhere.”

“I have to try,” Harry said. He didn’t want to steal, but he wanted his ring back more. “I owe it to myself to at least do that.”

Malfoy shrugged as the sparks disappeared and an atmosphere of something was left behind. “You do that. But I’ll still move forward with my plan because we’ll need something when yours fails.”

“You seem so confident.”

“I always am.”

“Then what was the problem you mentioned earlier?”

Malfoy settled further into the chair and Harry could see that he was tired, exhausted even.

“As I said, the attention we’ll bring will be unwanted. We need a distraction, or we’ll have eyes on us all night.”

“What kind of distraction?”

There was a small quirk of Malfoy’s lips and that worried him.

“You know, I wasn’t so sure myself until I saw them,” Malfoy smiled, and the sight truly was appalling. Someone so negative shouldn’t be allowed to smile.

He was afraid to ask but— “Them?”

“What’s worse than two unexpected guests?” When Harry only shrugged, Malfoy sighed heavily.

“Six unexpected guests. Do keep up, Potter.”

“I—” Harry paused to groan. “You can’t be serious.”

“Good for us they are all morons.”

“Hey, you can’t talk about them like that!”

Malfoy rolled his eyes as he leaned forward, a strange smirk on his lips.

“I propose we get ourselves a team.”

“I don’t know about this,” Harry shook his head. “This is starting to sound a lot like a heist.”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

The smirk turned dark and Harry couldn’t help but shudder.

“A heist in more ways than one.” Malfoy’s head cocked to the side and his eyes went upward as if he was listening closely to something that Harry couldn’t hear.

“If you want them to help,” Harry paused when Malfoy stood up. “Does that mean we are telling them about the fake relationship?” He frowned with each step Malfoy took toward him.

“Whoa!” Harry said when Malfoy straddled his lip. “What are you—”

“We could,” He whispered, arms wrapped around Harry’s neck. “But tell me, Potter, where’s the fun in that?”

“What are you doing?”

Malfoy pressed his mouth against the shell of Harry’s ear as he murmured, “Playing the part.”

“Wha—”

The sound of the floo cut off Harry, and Malfoy tightened his hold around his neck keeping him seated.

“Harry,” Ron’s panting voice could be heard. “We rushed over as soon as we could. It wasn’t easy, your instructions were pretty shotty, but Neville figured—"

Harry looked over Malfoy’s shoulder to see Ron, Neville and Dean standing there eyes wide. Before he could say something, the floo sounded again and out came Seamus.

“You guys are always leaving me behind, and I’m sick of—what the fuck?”

“Evening gentlemen,” Malfoy said, voice a silky purr. “Welcome to our home.”

Ours??

When Ron locked eyes with Harry, he knew he was screwed. Absolutely screwed.

- TBC -

---

I had fun with this update too! My beautiful Gigi is busy today so I didn’t ask herr to beta. Mistakes are all mine. I do hope you enjoy this! (I’ll get to tagging people hopefully within the hour, please be patient with me)

#Drarry #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter #Fake Dating #Enemies Fake Dating #Ron Weasley #He's a healer #Seamus Finnigan #He's a reserve Quidditch Player #Dean Thomas #He's an Artist #Neville Longbottom #He grows Potion Ingredients #A heist #With Fake Dating #humor #sort of

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cherry-valentine · 4 years

Text

Fall 2019 Anime Season

Here’s what I’m watching:

Stand: My Heroes is an otome series that’s pretty and refreshing in that it stars an adult lady protagonist who has a career - she works as a “scout” for a new program that works to gather talented individuals (all handsome single men, of course) from various fields to solve drug-related cases. The art is nice and the music is above average, with really cool opening and ending themes. My biggest issue with the show is that it has way too many characters, many of whom look very similar. Honestly, for the first few episodes I could only tell some of them apart by their voice actors. Luckily the show has some very well known voice talent. It gets a bit easier as the show becomes a little more episodic, dealing with small groups of the men at a time. But still. If all of these guys were in the game, it must have been hell trying to get all the endings! The overall plot is a little vague but I do like that the heroine is independent and respected by the men on her team. There are a couple of the usual tsundere guys but they mellow out pretty quickly. The show is interesting and attractive to look at, but it would have benefited a lot from narrowing its focus and cutting down on the number of hot guys (now that’s something I never thought I’d type).

Ahiru no Sora is a new sports anime about basketball. It actually follows a similar plot setup to Hinomaru Sumo - a talented player starts at a new school and goes to join the club of his favored sport, only to find it overrun by violent delinquents whom he’ll have to defeat (via his sports skills) in order to officially join the club and start a team. The protagonists even share the same problem of being considered way too short to participate in the sport they love and also the fact that their ill mothers gave them encouragement. The biggest difference, however, is that Hinomaru was already a very accomplished and even somewhat famous sumo wrestler when the series begins, whereas Sora is talented but has never even played in a real basketball game, making him very much an underdog. He’s a likable character, as are the delinquents that gradually come around to playing basketball with him and cleaning up their acts. I was a little annoyed by the fact that there is a peephole the guys use to watch the girls changing into their uniforms. Not by the fact that it existed, because it’s actually kinda realistic that delinquent teenage boys would do something like that, but by the fact that Sora is shown this peephole in the first episode and is never seen doing anything to close it up despite becoming friends with one of the girls and him being presented as a moral, upstanding guy. I hope they address it in the future because it kinda bugs me. On the plus side, the main female character (there’s always one in any sports anime) is a very talented player on the girls’ basketball team, rather than the team manager or whatever. I like that she’s a player of the sport rather than just a fan or support character. Also, the fact that Sora’s main source of inspiration is his mom, who was a famous basketball player herself in her youth, is pretty cool. Overall, the show is enjoyable even if it feels a little overly familiar.

Hoshiai no Sora is a revelation. It feels like a very important moment for anime that will no doubt be talked about for years into the future. Be warned that I venture into possible spoilers territory here, though I don’t share any plot details. I started the series because I saw boys holding tennis rackets in the artwork, fully expecting “just another sports anime” (which is fine, because I love sports anime). What I got was a very big, very nice surprise. Hoshiai no Sora is a sports anime, in that it follows a sports team and spends some time showing training routines and matches with rival schools. But it’s also a realistic, nuanced, heartwarming, and often painfully traumatic coming of age story about the boys on the tennis team, most of whom have compelling back stories or home lives. Almost every parent in the show is an absolute nightmare, to the point that when a non-terrible parent shows up, every commenter on the episode was immediately suspicious of them. It should be clear by now that there are some massive trigger warnings to apply to this show. There are rather graphic depictions of child abuse, from physical to verbal to emotional, and all of it is horrifying (and kudos to the show for recognizing that there are so many different forms of abuse and all of them are traumatic). Thankfully, the show is not all doom and gloom. In fact, the show is one of the sweetest, most uplifting, most touching series I’ve seen in years, mostly due to the fact that these traumatized kids are all so supportive of each other. They’re kind to each other, even if they bicker here and there about silly stuff. They defend each other from bullies. One character in particular goes to some rather extreme lengths to look out for his friend. It’s also very important to note that the show tackles issues I’ve legitimately never seen addressed in anime, at least not in such a respectful and tasteful way. One character in particular is first presented as gay (and it seems all the other characters are aware that this person is gay, and the tennis team will NOT be having your homophobic bullshit, thank you very much) but then is revealed to be non-binary/questioning their gender, and the show seriously spends almost an entire episode talking about this, about gender identity, with one character relating the story of the transgender man who practically raised him. An anime series actually, seriously, discussed these issues. As a straight, cisgender person, I can’t speak for how accurate all of this was, but judging by the reaction to the episode by folks in the LGBTQ+ community, I’m willing to assume the show did a great job. I’m also willing to bet that somewhere in Japan, there are young people watching this that desperately need to see it, that desperately need to hear the positive messages presented (protagonist Maki kindly gives encouragement and support to his non-binary friend, and at times it feels like he’s speaking to the audience). I know some of this stuff would be considered spoilers, but honestly, I feel like more people would give this anime a shot if they knew it featured all this awesomeness. The art is lovely. The music is great. This is a series that needs to be watched by as many people as possible. Don’t sleep on this one, please.

Boku no Hero Academia Season 4 is more of the same. I’ve already talked several times now about my issues with the series (how female characters are handled in general pretty much sums most of it up) and I’ve already talked about how much I enjoy the show despite those issues. This season introduces an interesting and imposing new villain in Chiaki, who has a cool design and power. I’m also pleased that the show seems to be making an attempt to actually let the female characters DO STUFF, as well as introducing some cool new lady heroes who actually have interesting powers. So... yeah. A good show got better. Special mention goes to new character Sir Nighteye, who is a perfect example of how voice casting can really make or break a character. I would have found him pretty boring if he wasn’t voiced by the supremely talented Shinichirou Miki, who brings all his various characters to life in such a vivid way, I’ve never come across one I didn’t like.

Special 7 falls into the “urban fantasy” genre, the kind we see a lot of in anime lately, with supernatural elements mixed in with modern life. In this case, we have races like elves and vampires living peacefully alongside humans in the modern world. The story follows a certain police unit made up of various fantasy races and humans formed to deal with a terrorist group called Nine who aim to bring back dragons (something about dragons used to rule the world or maybe terrorized the world, I don’t remember). There’s a nice mix of characters in the core team, many of whom will feel familiar. They’re still fun though, and their chemistry as a team and as friends is one of the main reasons to watch. I’m particularly fond of the vampire lady named Shikisai who uses a samurai sword and is, from what I can tell, the most physically badass member of the team. She also appears to have an adorably sweet home life with her husband (or boyfriend?) and is just generally a cool chick. The animation is okay and the music is above average. The plot has several mysteries that are slowly being revealed, but has enough humor to keep from getting too serious. Fairly low on my watch list, but still has a solid spot.

Psycho-Pass Season 3 is a show I was looking forward to. I still think season one was one of the best anime seasons in the past ten years. Season two was good but couldn’t really contend with season one. The movie was great. The OVA’s were great. I was pretty hyped for season three, and so far... eh. It’s okay. Honestly if it were a new show I’d probably rate it much higher, but as a continuation of a story like this, I’m finding it a bit lacking. At times it actually does feel like a new show. There are two entirely new protagonists, who are both interesting and likable, but neither immediately gripped me the way Akane and Kogami did in previous seasons. Some elements of the show seem to contradict, or at least stretch, the world-building that had already been established. New protagonist Arata has an ability that verges on supernatural (in a show that has never had supernatural elements at all). They try to explain it away as something “anyone can do” with enough practice, but that sounds ridiculous when you see his ability in use. We also see “abandoned” areas where there are apparently criminal groups just... living there. Doing whatever. I guess they’re supposed to be like Yakuza, which makes zero sense in this series. If you can escape the oppression of the Sibyl System by just walking across town to an abandoned area, why did a character in season one have to flee the country? It just seems to fly in the face of all the setup that came before. Overall, this season has a general feel that doesn’t gel well with the rest of the series. That being said, taken on its own, it’s still entertaining, with high production values that afford it smooth animation and excellent music. The stories so far have been fairly engaging, but they give off a vibe of “really well done fanfiction”. But whatever, I’d watch paint dry to get an occasional glimpse of Kogami.

Carry Over Shows From Previous Seasons: Black Clover Diamond no Ace Dr. Stone

Best of Season: Best New Show: Hoshiai no Sora Best Opening Theme: Black Clover Best Ending Theme: Diamond no Ace Best New Male Character: Toma (Hoshiai no Sora) Best New Female Character: Shikisai (Special 7)

#Anime #Seasonal Anime #Fall 2019 Anime #Anime Reviews #Anime Recommendations #Text #Hoshiai no Sora

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meditatemoremedicateless · 5 years

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Who is Mark Jefferson, Really?

I know it’s approximately 4 years too late for this, but I want to take a look at what kind of villain Mark Jefferson really was. He certainly wasn’t the villain I and many others were expecting him to be, connected to larger plots, a psychopathic cog in a larger machine. And I was upset at how boring his motivations came off in Life is Strange “Episode 5: Polarized”. Now that I’ve had a little more time to think, however, I think Mark Jefferson may not be as boring as I thought he was.

Unlike in a lot of my little papers like this, I’m not going to bring up all of my references, I’m just going to go for the key details.

- His art is largely black and white depictions of women in vulnerable positions and/or postures set against simple backgrounds. When men are present, they’re in positions of authority and intimidating, but faceless (I can only recall the cop).

- Mark only targets girls, and among girls, only young ones with a special quality. Kate Marsh, Max Caulfield, and Rachel Amber all have this quality, while Victoria Chase does not.

- Mark likes to photograph his victims who are at the edge of consciousness, so he can watch their innocence die. He avoids letting them ever become fully conscious, because he doesn’t aim to kill them, only ruin them.

So I’m going to make some assumptions about his development here.

- While he may have started with fashion photography, he eventually got the creative freedom to choose his subjects and shots. He preferred women at the edge of adulthood that were naive and easy to bully.

- The artwork he created was viewed as feminist in the 90s, showing women as being unduly victimized. He created this work more out of the thrill of seeing women as victims, but the confusion only made his work easier and granted him more artistic license.

- When he started working for Vogue, he hit celebrity status. He kept his main body of artwork clean, but this is likely when he started doing private shoots with models who were interested in him because of his talent or his connections.

- Unable to get the ‘honesty’ he wanted out of his models in private shoots, he started involving alcohol (and maybe other drugs) into the work process in order to make his subjects more compliant and easy to coerce. Eventually, he got to a point where he was photographing women who were physically incapable of resisting, and he was able to manipulate them and their bodies however he wished. When they sobered up, he continued to treat them professionally, and they slinked away into the shadows, not quite understanding what happened but now afraid.

- As his private collection of work grew, he grew bored as the only one to enjoy it. Being a celebrity had taught him to expect praise and feedback, and without it the work felt empty. So he created a website to host his images, and slowly, slowly started recruiting like-minded individuals, aficionados, to view and critique his work.

- As he finally started getting feedback, he realized the limits of his artistic capabilities - the models themselves had to be exceptional to push the boundaries of his art. And so he became obsessed with an increasingly specific type of girl. An innocent girl. Not sexually innocent per se, but one who perceives the world as ultimately a good place. Not someone cold-hearted and cynical (like Victoria Chase), whose world view could only be confirmed through their victimization. He needed someone who would break so he could capture the moment that she did.

Now, the thing that I find interesting about Mark Jefferson, is that he is a man who, on the surface, must seem sophisticated, artistic, perhaps even feminist, and he’s learned to sell himself as just that. But when you strip it all away, he’s a guy with a perverse love of watching women’s victimization. As DONTNOD has stated in interviews, he ‘isn’t a rapist,’ and I think it’s worth taking into account what they mean. He doesn’t fuck his victims. But given the portrayal of his actions, I still think his actions are sexual, just abstracted so far from fucking that it can’t quite be defined as sex.

Now, a cynical part of myself says that DONTNOD’s treatment of its female characters echoes Mark Jefferson in a lot of ways. On the surface, complex and perhaps even feminist, but under the skin it’s still just voyeurism for women’s suffering. I don’t really believe that this is a company filled with a perverse fascination, but I do find some irony in Jefferson being the villain of Life is Strange, and a gaze much like his informing the game.

Now, one of the reasons I feel pretty confident that the game tries to refute Jefferson’s ideas, is that the endings, despite initial appearances, don’t suggest that growing up is a result of suffering. I think that the writing of the endings is a bit clumsy with its themes, and it’s easy to interpret them as saying so, but I genuinely believe Life is Strange attempts to refute the belief that suffering is a pathway to adulthood (and I think Max’s name being Caulfield is a pretty clear indicator that that’s the case).

So, I guess in summary, what I’m trying to say is that (TL;DR):

Mark Jefferson may be just a huge creep who thinks teenage girls suffering constitutes art, but I’m pretty sure he’s intended to represent the cruel ideology that suffering and losing ones innocence and naivety means you’re an adult. Regardless of the ending chosen, Max Caulfield has to figure out what growing up means, but it always involves refuting this idea. The world may be cruel, but cynicism isn’t maturity. Hope. Love. Trust. Grief. Overcoming self doubt. Recognizing others’ humanity. These are Max Caulfield’s markers of adulthood.

#life is strange #mark jefferson #life is strange meta #i know this isn't that deep of a read #and it's like what's just under the surface #what with Life is Strange wearing its inspirations on its sleeve #but I've not thought about Jefferson from a thematic angle for a long long time #so here you go

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thebakinglibrarian · 4 years

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Character Interview—Garrett Hawke

(commissioned artwork by the talented @laugandraws !) tagged by my lovely friend @curiousthimble ❤️

'Why am I doing this again?' Hawke asks, pushing the last of the cupcakes into the oven and setting the timer.

Fenris swivels in the Thinking Stool, clipboard and pen at the ready. 'Because we're getting to know our patrons, and I tire of talking to strangers,' the Librarian tells the man, adjusting his glasses.

name; Garrett Nicholas Hawke. ['Your middle name is Nicholas?'] I know, it's dreadful. I blame Mother. [*laughs*]

are you single; I uh—well. No? No. I... am? It's complicated. You know it is.

are you happy; ... Yes, I suppose I am. A lot's happened in my life—you know that—but I wouldn't change it for the world. Where I am now, I am happy.

are your parents—['We'll skip this one, Hawke.']

NINE FACTS

birthplace; Lothering. Good ol' smelly Lothering. There were fields everywhere. It was the best. Marian and I would run up hills and roll all the way down until the sun set. Sometimes I wish we could go back.

hair colour; Black—or as Marian likes to call it, Raven-coloured.

eye colour; Seafoam blue—again, Marian likes to coin these descriptions. She's the one who's better at words after all.

birthday; [*Fenris writes this down himself*]

mood; Tired. I've just gone through a whole day of baking—plus I need to wash everything but I'm being held captive in my own studio doing this interview. [*Sighs* 'I will help with the clean-up']

gender; Male. My beard gives it away, huh? ['There are women who have beards, Hawke. And they are proud of the asset too.'] The next time you see them, call me. I'd like to know what secrets their beards hold!

summer or winter; Winter for sure. Kirkwall never gets any snow. Which is why our parents always brought us to Nothern Orlais for the winter holidays.

morning or afternoon; Afternoon. ['Oh? I was under the impression that you were a morning person'] ... Yeah. Past tense. I used to like mornings when we—never mind. Afternoons keep me busy for the most part, and I appreciate that. ['...']

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

'Wait what does this have to do with the survey?' Hawke finishes folding his dirty apron and sets it on the counter behind him.

Fenris shrugs, mindlessly spinning his pen. 'Head Librarian needed these stats for purposes she did not wish to reveal to me. You can see why I hesitate interviewing strangers.'

'Fair point.'

are you in love; ... ['You do not need to answer if you do not wish—] Yes. ['... Oh.']

do you believe in love at first sight; Yes. It happened to Lavellan. And Bethy. And Marian and Anders. So yes, I do believe in it. Next question.

who ended your last relationship; I don’t have to answer this one. [*Fenris nods*]

have you ever broken someone's heart; Yes. Bethany's when I broke that serial killer's face. She—fuck. You should've seen her face, Fenris. ['I can only imagine, Hawke. I am sorry that your family had to go through something so difficult.'] I’m pretty sure the Hawke name is cursed. Thank you, though. For checking up on me during those weeks. I don't think I ever thanked you for that. ['Always a pleasure, Hawke.']

are you afraid of commitments; I... used to not be. Now I think I am.

have you hugged someone within the last week; Siobhan. She put her paw on my face after that. Then I realised that she had just used the litterbox.

have you ever had a secret admirer; Ha! Never. ['I beg to differ,' Fenris replies in a whisper]

'...'

'What's wrong?'

Fenris’ expression hardens and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 'I do not know if you wish to answer this one.'

Hawke folds his arms across his chest. 'Fenris, I've already answered some that I don't want to.'

have you ever had your heart broken; Yes. Of course, many times. I’m an empath after all. When my parents were murdered. When Wynne passed. When Marian and Anders broke up—because I felt her heart break like it was my own. When I found out Aveline had cancer. When I realised that Bethy had been suffering alone. When you—well. I'll just leave it at that.

SIX CHOICES

love or lust; I used to think it was love, but now I think lust is easier. Neither, maybe.

lemonade or iced tea; Lemonade. Tea isn't supposed to have ice in it. I don't know what those hipster Orlesians were thinking. ['Agreed']

cats or dogs; If you ever tell Marian, I'll know because I'll probably have my tea poisoned. Dogs. ['I will make certain that your body is rushed to the morgue for autopsy ASAP so that they can track the culprit'] Gee, you're a such a good friend, Fenris.

a few best friends or many regular friends; The many. Unlike Marian, I don't like being alone. People make me happy. Plus, I get to bribe my way into their lives with all these sweets. ['You are already likeable by nature. No bribery is required, Hawke, I can assure you that.'] I—thank you.

wild night out or romantic night in; Disney, and lots of snacks ['Disney and a lot of snacks indeed.']

day or night; Day. Again, work keeps me busy.

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

been caught sneaking out; No. That's Marian you're referring to.

fallen down/up the stairs; ['I know the answer to this one.'] If you write that down Fenris I swear I will place all the books in the library in the wrong shelves. ['Then you will simply have to answer to the Head Librarian'] ... Shit.

wanted something/someone so badly it hurt; Yes. It still hurts, if I'm being honest.

wanted to disappear; No. I guess I've never thought about that because I've conditioned myself to not have such irresponsible thoughts. If I disappeared, who will take care of my family?

FOUR PREFERENCES

smile or eyes; Eyes. People can lie through their smiles. You can't do that with your eyes.

shorter or taller; Shorter. I like reaching for things for them. It makes me feel useful.

intelligence or attraction; Intelligence. I never went to school, and I'm always amazed at what people know. It attracts me enough that they're willing to teach me, or share their knowledge instead of belittling me.

hook-up or relationship; Next question.

FAMILY

do you and your family get along; Both yes and no. We stab each other in the thigh but we kiss the wound to make it go away, too.

would you say you have a messed up life; 100%

have you ever ran away from home; Yes. ['You have?'] I got as far as the library. Wynne found me—knees scraped, snot-nosed and everything.

have you ever gotten kicked out; Again, Marian.

FRIENDS

do you secretly hate one of your friends; Well, I don't hate her... ['A hint of dislike, then?'] Yeah, you know who I'm referring to. ['I do. Is it... just her?'] Well, who else would there be? ['I thought—never mind. Forget I said anything.']

do you consider all of your friends to be good friends; Most of them, yes. Some are trying to be better, and I appreciate them for that.

who is your best friend; Lavellan. She's been part of a huge chunk of my life—for most of the important stuff, and while she may not be physically here majority of that time, she's here when it matters the most.

who knows everything about you; My sister—Marian—naturally. Lavellan, of course. Aveline because she has this supernatural big-sister-sense and... you. ['Me?'] Sometimes you know things about me that I don't even realise. And you were always so sure about me, too.

'Present tense. Always present tense, Hawke,' Fenris corrects him.

'Even after everything?' He asks quietly, somewhat afraid of the answer.

They make eye contact. 'Of course,’ he replies, then looks away as if hurt by his own answer.

Hawke sighs. The weight in his heart doesn't match the thoughts in his head. 'You can still use it, you know. My name.'

'I did not want to overstep—'

'You're family, after all,' Hawke interrupts, reassuring him. And as the words leave him, the clutter of thoughts start to clear. He watches as Fenris' shoulders relax, and he feels the stiffness in the air dissipate. There's a small smile on Fenris' lips, mirrored instinctively by his own.

'Thank you, Garrett,' he utters the name after so long, and the weight in Hawke's heart escapes him in a flutter.

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #fanfic #fanfiction #fenhawke #fenris #modern au

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qm-vox · 4 years

Text

The Dwelling Gods - A More Perfect Union

Previous Chapter: Sitting The Table

Human-Controlled Space (The Undivided Whole), Milky Way Galaxy (Orion Arm), 787 Unified Year (2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Covenant Day)

We The People Of Planet Earth

Not all is well. It has not been well ever since the People’s invasion of the gataxians. We had underestimated the willingness of their aggrieved neighbors to come to their defense; even now Our citizens pore over histories, shift masses of data, claim mental bandwidth with which to argue amongst Ourself about how We could have so grossly mis-characterized the political situation between the xenophobes and their prey. Our libraries buzz with life, fed further data by forward intel posts, by contemplation and meditation, by after-action reports written by Ourself and for Ourself and to Ourself.

But what’s worse is the wound, the lacing, scratching thing in Our mind, the hurtful little slash around which We become I. We cannot be I; We The People Of Planet Earth stand united, without flaw or seam.

We, not I. I cannot be the People. I can only be a person.

It itches. There is no other word for it. It feels like such a small thing but all of Us suffer for it; Our hands move more slowly, Our heads shake as we go about Our work. The wound-thing that tastes like “I” drives Our citizens to distraction. The artwork being made for Our vaults and cities and ships skews dark; We can feel Ourselves working in bloody rust-reds, in off-blacks, in violent tangles of light and shadow that dizzy the eyes. Our previous blue period would be a relief at this point.

How did We get hurt? It had felt almost like one of Our semi-autonomous citizens, what Divided Humanity would think of as an officer, reporting in to sync subjectivities, but instead of the blissful transfer of information We were cut and scarred by the shrieking death-fear of two minds at once. One almost human, the other...

(Art-citizens slash red across the metal of Our fleets. A creche of writers begins typing gibberish far beyond the pale of even Our most recursive meta-textual works; harsh noise plays from the throats of Our musicians oh it hurts the memory hurts so much and yet We cannot stop picking at it can We)

Focus. We direct the attention of the People (I look - no!) to the war-front. The gataxians are being reinforced in numbers too large to be a mere defensive measure, and We are bringing Our own fleets to bear accordingly. War-citizens emerge from the cloning vats, and We re-task the autonomous to the needs of battle. If We do not miss Our guess, a counter-invasion is imminent. This could work to the advantage of the People; forcing the enemy to expend time and energy defending the borders will make them easier to cross and pillage of resources, and We may learn much from the mysterious and advanced benefactors of the butterflies -

- something is not right. We are -

Gripped, seized in my (mymymymy) mind by two minds, two minds like the last two minds that carved I into We and made me aware of my me-ness, my one-ness, of the betrayal of my purpose it’s like claws made of knives right in the soul why this how this it hurts -

The human-like mind starts dying immediately, flayed layer by layer by the sheer enormity of the being that is Myself, but that other mind, that thing, that fractal whisper, it has me.

Hello, hivemind, it purrs, its voice full of promise and secrets. This will hurt.

I start screaming from a trillion throats, and then I am, once again -

Caroline Morrison, New York City, 2679 CE

When had most of the meetings become silent? I/(We) struggle to remember when exactly all of (U)s had noticed, but I guess the actual smoking gun was when we’d all decided to start faking the minutes of those meetings. Juan’s still the secretary on paper, so most of his attention is currently devoted to diligently writing up lies about our plans to grow the company, a proposed investment in a marketing firm (W)e already own in all the ways that matter, something something office birthday...

The Chinese takeout on the table isn’t fake, though. Turns out operating the brain chips takes a lot of calories, and while Juan fakes the words we’re not saying out loud we (all) stuff our faces while the conversation actually takes place on another level.

We’re going to have a problem with the money soon April says into (O)ur minds; I can feel the chip in my own brain tingle pleasantly as it registers the communication. If we keep things aboveboard we’ll be bankrupt in two years, but going criminal -

The IRS would be on us in an instant. We’re too suspicious already I finish. This orange chicken is fucking amazing and it’s sort of unfair how into it I am while we’re having this serious conversation. And it’s not like we can onboard them without pulling that trigger early.

!xobile holds up his hand to get us to hold on a second; he’s having an epic struggle with a forkful of noodles and the noodles are definitely winning. After managing to defeat his nemesis he clears his throat (not strictly necessary but he’s only had his chip for two months, it takes some getting used to) and starts talking: I may have another option. Marketing is reporting that the movement to cure autism -

- He pauses while the rest of us make mental noises of revulsion -

- Believes that the Ross-Moore Chip could provide such a service. This customer base is wealthy, influential, and comes with prime endorsements from celebrities...a few of whom have expressed a willingness to undergo the procedure for PR purposes.

!xobile names a few figures for initial donations, but they pale in comparison to the potential gains. Once they’re chipped, those luminaries will understand the Mission, the Need for United Humanity to reverse the catastrophic environmental damage to Earth, to prevent another disaster like the loss of the Arkships. They’d give (U)s access to their social sphere and keep the wolves away from the door while we work...

Everyone else is thinking the same thing.

Fund it I/(We) order, and we all raise our little boxes of fried rice to toast with.

We The People of Planet Earth, 787 Unified Year (2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Covenant Day)

I struggle and thrash, but this conflict is foreign to me (mememememe); no citizen has ever rebelled like this. Where are the weapons, how do I grasp this whispering thing that has me in those claws, in that late November grip that tastes like sad truths and cuts like a funeral dirge.

What a sad little mistake you are the thing whispers in a cruel, crooning voice. You don’t even know what you are not.

We (I) need to get Our citizens in order; We turn Our focus away from the claw-thing to calm the disrupted citizens, to soothe the bodies. From somewhere in the depths of memory I/We recall reading that control of the body is control of the mind, and We are far from in control of either it hurts why does it hurt so much.

A whispering laugh, and those claws, those shredding things of grief and fear, dig in deeper. She lives with this every day, and you can barely stand a moment of it. How long has it been since you felt pain, little mistake?

LET ME GO! I roar, and I realize my mistake too late; the claw-thing reaches into that moment of wrath and fear, and I can feel what I know being known by it, being learned and scraped and analyzed. No! No no no no no -

In desperation I grab at memories and drag my captor down with me, and then it is an earlier time and place again.

United Humanity, Sydney, Australia, 0 Unified Year (2076 Astra Federation Standard Calendar)

“We don’t see that you have much choice,” We say to the assembled leaders. This citizen wears a nametag that says ‘Gloria’, and they address Us by that name; We have long since realized that those who are not yet United respond better to the fiction of Division than to Our truth. “Your fleet is in tatters. You cannot sustain a defense against the numbers We can bring to bear on land. It is not Our wish to drag out this conflict or to be responsible for the loss of human life.”

The American gives Our citizen one of those knife-hand gestures so common among their lower officers, which makes a certain amount of sense; We own most of their former high command these days. “You’ll forgive me if I point out how farcical that statement is. Those poor souls you chip -”

“Are completely unharmed,” We interrupt smoothly. “Living productive and happy lives, with the best medical care and all of their needs seen to.” We straighten Our citizen’s collar. “We understand your concerns, but the Ross-Moore is a method of communication, nothing more. United Humanity represents what is possible when language barriers are wholly removed,” We add. Experience gained from millions of people makes the lie smooth and clean.

Murmurs, around the room. “Gloria” is the de facto hostage of the coalition government, but their alliance cannot last; already cultural friction erodes the morale of their citizenry, alongside the unchecked greed of capitalist holdouts who even now attempt to profit off of Our unification. They can be made to see.

“Gentlemen,” We say, “what can We do to convince you? We would rather not make grand threats; if We wanted to invade, We would have done so already. Surely there is a path to peace that we can all walk today.”

Those murmurs become contemplative. We wait, letting them talk, debate, murmur favors to be traded with one another.

When it feels right, We speak next from the mouth of the Australian Prime Minister: “How quickly could United Humanity supply food and medical relief to my citizens?”

“Gloria” smiles beatifically. “Within forty-eight hours.”

We The People of Planet Earth, 787 Unified Year (2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Covenant Day)

That cutting grip is loosening (it hits like heartbreak on the last day of summer, like the last goodbye between old friends, oh it hurts -), but I can feel that thing rooting through my memories yet further, knowing what I know. War-citizen deployments, cloning methods -

Get out of there! I shriek as I feel it rifling through my artwork, my culture, the churches and holy places I preserved on Earth, the museums and vaults and -

It laughs at me. Laughs long and quiet, in that cruel, whispering voice.

Now what is all of this for? the claw-thing murmurs. What benevolent idiots your creators were, little mistake.

I hit back, lashing out, but something new is wrong; it’s dying, flaking away as the human-like mind struggles to remain in existence amidst the torrent of Myself. The feeling is like punching water that’s already going down a drain.

You have no right I accuse. The history of Divided Humanity must be -

That mocking laughter again: I’m dying now, little mistake. Let me show you something before I go.

An image, in my mind, as clear as if my citizens were there in the flesh: the Arkship Demeter, lost through an unstable wormhole. Dozens of species fill its halls, but prominent among them, participating in a solemn religious service is -

- is -

- Oh no.

Glory to the Phoenix, the risen children of Divided Humanity the claw-thing mocks with the last shreds of its strength, and then it is gone.

Across my dozens of worlds and thousands of space stations, United Humanity starts screaming.

#dwelling gods #fiction #soft sci-fi #critique welcome

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gukyi · 6 years

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moonlight melody (ii.) | jjk

summary: when your loving best friend playfully pranks you one too many times, you decide that revenge is best served hot, over a period of thirty days, and with a little extra help from the best violinist you know (sorry jimin).

or, the one where during your month-long vacation in italy with your youth orchestra, you realize that vengeance is sweet but fake dating jungkook is sweeter.

{fake dating!au, university orchestra!au, vacation!au}

pairing: jungkook x female reader word count: 25k (still sorry mobile users) genre: fluff, minor angst warnings: more obnoxious slow burn. lots of comparing jungkook to famous italian renaissance artwork. characters being oblivious. the usual in your fake dating lineup. the beautiful image of hoseok wearing bright yellow shorts with green polka dots. a/n: i said a week, i actually meant a week and a day. here she is, folks. this fic is straight up 104 pages in my google doc, what a beast. is this the monster or am i? the world will never know. big thanks to everyone who’s been waiting so patiently for this fic!! you guys are the reason i even finished it. im now going to hole myself up in my room and watch my concert vids. edit (4.16.20): the very wonderful @jtrbluv made this incredible playlist for this fic and i can’t recommend listening to it enough!!!!! please put this on while you read <3

part one | part two (finale)

The first thing that Seokjin says when your train pulls into the Santa Lucia station in Venice is, “if I don’t become an Instagram model and make thousands of dollars off of tea detoxes and teeth-whitening products after this trip, then I don’t want to hear it.”

The first thing that Yoongi says when your train pulls into the Santa Lucia station is, “You have fifty-three followers and all of them are fake accounts you made to follow yourself.”

Seokjin gasps, appalled at such an accusation thrown his way. “How dare you challenge my integrity, my honor, and my dignity.” He asks like a presidential candidate being insulted during a televised public debate. The comparison honestly isn’t that far off.

“You had any of those to begin with?” Jimin mutters under his breath, but it’s loud enough for everyone within a five feet radius of him to hear it. Taehyung chokes back something between a bark of laughter and a snort, and winks when Seokjin turns his head around to glare at him both threateningly and affectionately.

“Okay, second of all, fuck you,” Seokjin spits out, the resolve of the aforementioned presidential candidate shattering. Though, with any hint at how politics is turning out these days, you suppose swears probably aren’t off the table just yet.

Namjoon scrunches up his nose, looking as lost as he always is. “What happened to the first of all?” Seokjin shrugs because it’s incredibly clear that he has no idea where the first part went either.

“Feels like just yesterday we were in Rome,” Taehyung muses to himself, false-nostalgia tainting his tone. He looks thoughtfully up to the sky as if reflecting on past memories.

“It was yesterday,” Hoseok interrupts. “In fact, it was this morning, too.”

“Did. I. Stutter.” Taehyung says sharply without turning his head. Perhaps he would look a little more menacing if he didn’t have this absolutely horrendous sunburn decorating his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, making him look more like a Strawberry Shortcake character than a university student. It doesn’t help that his shirt is almost comically frilly. He looks like he walked right off of a high fashion runway.

You barely notice Jungkook coming up behind you, suitcase and violin in hand. He touches your side to get your attention, and when you turn to him you make no effort to fight the smile that grows on your face. His being always seems to lighten up your mood.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he replies. “You didn’t hear it from me, but Bang wants to give us this week off to explore Venice on our own,” he whispers, out of earshot of everyone else. You know that the second Jimin is going to hear this he’s going to beat his chest and holler like Tarzan. Jungkook knows better than to speak loudly.

“Seriously?” You ask in disbelief. Even if you are all college students you are, quite frankly, shocked that Bang would give you that much freedom. A whole week all to yourselves? It sounds like a recipe for disaster, but everyone always says to try new things.

“Seriously,” Jungkook confirms with a nod. “I think Bang’s gotten so sick of us that he’s willing to let us loose like animals for a week so he can recover his lost brain cells.”

You hum in agreement, Jungkook’s suspicion probably not that far off. A middle-aged man can only take so much from fifty college students before he is driven off the edge. You don’t blame Bang in the slightest, especially because on your last night in Rome, it took seven of you to convince Taehyung not to sneak into Bang’s room and write the entire Bee Movie script on the complimentary notepad. You are wholly unsurprised that Taehyung still has at least the first 300 words memorized.

“We don’t have any performances here, do we?” You ask Jungkook.

Jungkook shakes his head, purses his lips. “Don’t think so. They start back up in Florence.”

It’s hard to think about Florence, now that you’re here. But Florence is only a week away and then you only have about ten days there before your trip is over, your time is up and you have to board a plane back home. It feels so far away and yet at the same time, you know that it is right at your doorstep.

“Really?” You ask, skeptical. “I’m surprised Bang didn’t schedule any.”

“I will bet you all of my college tuition that Bang organized this trip so he would have this week of peace right in the middle of all the chaos. The eye of the storm.”

“Are we the storm, Jungkook?” You ask even if you already know the answer.

Next to you, it seems that Jimin has convinced Hoseok to play his newest piece out loud, and so Hoseok’s grainy rap blares through his grainy speakers as everyone hoots and hollers. You are pretty sure that Taehyung is doing every outdated dance he can think of to the beat, crying out in enthusiasm at Hoseok’s song. It’s a good song, you’ll admit that much. If this were a movie, then some agent or music producer would coincidentally be walking by, hear Hoseok’s song, and offer him a prestigious record deal right on the spot. Instead, the only passersby are disgruntled tourists who frown as they pass your rambunctious crew, shaking their heads to themselves.

Jungkook nods. “We’re the storm.”

You wish you could say you were shocked.

Bang rounds everybody up at the lobby of the hotel you’re staying at, not necessarily one of those chain lodgings but also not a tiny alleyway of a place. Behind you, you can hear Jimin and Taehyung plotting to steal Seokjin’s clean underwear. Boys are disgusting.

“Okay, everyone,” Bang announces with a clap of his hands, loud like the beat of a snare drum. “As you may already know, I don’t have any performances planned for this week in Venice.”

Small gasps and very loud whispers break out throughout the orchestra. Jungkook reaches down, and for a second you think he’s going to grab your hand, but instead he pinches the side of your shirt and makes you squeak, much to the disruption of everyone else. As the blood rushes to your cheeks you give Jungkook a heavy shove, your upper body strength from all that cello-lifting paying off when he stumbles slightly. Fucker.

“And I am making the slightly-unsettling decision to give you all this week off to do what you please,” Bang continues, and so do the gasps. You can hear the smack of skin that signifies a high five, and turn around to find Jimin wincing slightly as he caresses his reddened palm. Next to him, Taehyung grins, almost proudly. “Nothing is planned save for a couple of small things closer to the end of our stay here in Venice, so you all have until then to do what you wish.” He eyes Taehyung and Jimin suspiciously. “Please don’t make me regret this decision.”

And even if Taehyung and Jimin are orchestral hooligans at best, you know that they’ll keep on Bang’s good side.

Bang ends his announcement there and goes to speak with the hotel staff to check in.

Namjoon clasps his hands together as the seven of you turn to face him, waiting for his next move. “Now that Bang’s not going to be breathing down our necks, I say that we take our time in Venice to go—”

“Sightseeing.”

“Drinking.”

Seokjin and Yoongi glare at each other.

“Uh, I was going to say we go and explore, but alright, I guess,” Namjoon says tentatively. “I think that we should divide up into two groups just to make travel a little easier, though. I don’t think the water taxis outside can handle eight fully-grown college students.”

“Well,” Taehyung interrupts. “Seven fully-grown college students and Yoongi.”

Yoongi tweaks Taehyung’s nipple in retaliation, eliciting something between a hiccup and a squeak from the latter.

“Okay, I call Namjoon,” Jimin announces, latching himself onto Namjoon’s arm. The process feels eerily similar to when you had to pick groups for projects in high school.

“I call Jimin,” Taehyung mimics, and suddenly Namjoon’s got himself an entire conga line on his arm. He sends something of a pained look Yoongi’s way, and you’re pretty sure that it is out of pity that he joins Namjoon’s group, leaving you with Jungkook, Hoseok, and Seokjin.

“Have fun losing all of your brain cells, fuckers,” Seokjin teases. Namjoon’s face, if possible, becomes even more distorted.

“Bold of you to assume I had any of those to begin with,” Taehyung responds cheekily, just the right amount of self-deprecation evident in his voice. “At least we’re not stuck with Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird McLovebirdson.”

“Excuse you?” You say, only mildly offended that Taehyung would tack a name such as that onto you and Jungkook’s relationship or whatever the hell it is that the two of you have going on.

“Leave him, Thumper,” Jungkook says with a fond smile. Taehyung glares at him suspiciously. “He’s just teasing you.”

“You’re the only one allowed to do that,” you say with a pout, making Jungkook poke a pointer finger into your chipmunk cheeks.

“Is that right, Thumper?” He asks with a smirk.

Seokjin huffs out a sigh. He looks about as pained as Namjoon, but for an entirely different reason. With a groan, he asks, “Anyone willing to trade?”

The films that romanticize early mornings in foreign countries and strolls along cobblestone alleys are bold-faced lies, that’s what they are. They are ridden with the sweet, deceitful art of movie-magic and morphed into constructions designed to appeal to the losers in their bedrooms watching them on their shitty Windows laptops. They are anything but the truth.

It is six in the morning when Jeon Soyeon is shaking you awake, and six-thirty in the morning when a certain fake boyfriend is outside your door, a guilty grin on his face.

“Care to explain why I’m up at the ass-crack of dawn, Jungkook?” You ask with a single raised, eyebrow, tapping your foot impatiently with your hand resting on the side of the open door.

“Okay, first of all, the sun rose like, an hour ago, so I don’t wanna hear it,” Jungkook points out. “Second of all, Seokjin and Hoseok said that they’d meet us in San Marco at eight, so I thought we could grab breakfast together.”

“Did you text Soyeon and ask her to wake me up for you?” You continue to interrogate, paying little attention to the plans at hand that Jungkook’s suggested.

Jungkook smiles guiltily. “I wanted to surprise you?” He says it more like it’s a question that he’s asking you rather than something akin to a romantic statement.

You turn your head around to sneer at Soyeon, who is honestly too kind to be blackmailed into doing Jungkook’s dirty work. She’s pretending not to listen to your conversation, whistling loudly to herself as she stares at the corner of your hotel room, acting natural. You know you won’t be getting any direct eye contact from her before you leave for the day, so you exchange the glare on your face for a sigh, looking back to Jungkook. He’s looking as hopeful as ever, though you have a sneaking suspicion he already knows you won’t turn him down.

“Fine,” you relent, rolling your eyes. You grab your mini backpack from where it rests against the television stand/dresser hybrid. “You owe Soyeon a gelato for getting her to do this for you.”

“Believe me, I know,” Jungkook says with a nod, clicking his tongue and sending a finger gun Soyeon’s way. She grins in response, waving wildly to the both of you. At least someone’s getting something out of this ridiculous deal. “Come on, we better go before Bang catches us up this early.”

And this is how you land up at a small Venetian café far from any major tourist sites after stumbling around the slowly-waking city. The tourists aren’t awake yet, the busy streets aren’t filled yet, and it feels sort of like this is your everyday reality: a coffee in the morning on a sidestreet in Venice with your boyfriend. Well. Almost boyfriend. Very close to being a real boyfriend boyfriend. Fake boyfriend.

“You ever crave something disgustingly unhealthy for breakfast?” Jungkook asks as he digs into his breakfast pastry, berry-colored jam leaking from the sides.

“As in?”

“Some healthy, hearty Shin ramen.”

“Don’t tell me you eat that for breakfast,” you say in slightly horror, looking up at Jungkook. Sure, you’ve had your fair share of ramen for meals, but at least you tend you gravitate towards granola bars for most of your morning meals.

Jungkook doesn’t respond, instead choosing to grimace as his answer.

“That is absolutely horrifying,” you tell him.

“It does a fantastic job of waking you up, that I can confirm,” Jungkook tells you, pointing at you with the spoon by his untouched caffé latte. You told Jungkook he could just order a hot chocolate since he hated coffee anyway, but the latte was barely two Euros and Jungkook honestly panicked at the last second. You feel bad, because he’s wasted his money either way, so he might as well do it on something he’ll enjoy.

“If you won’t drink your latte, can I have it?” You ask tentatively, motioning to it. Nothing like a good bit of caffeine in the morning to get you ready for action.

Jungkook nods, almost too enthusiastically, even going so far as to push the saucer towards you, the pattern in the cup swishing with the movement. “Sure, go ahead.”

You take his cup and bring it to your lips, sipping softly as the hot liquid runs down your tongue, stinging your taste buds just the right amount. Your group doesn’t have too much on your itinerary for today, which must be the reason why he’s so resigned, so laid back. Or perhaps that’s just his normal disposition. Regardless, watching Jungkook as he plays around on his phone distracts you enough while you’re drinking to give you an awful foam moustache, much to Jungkook’s enjoyment.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jungkook says as you’re reaching for your napkin. “Let me take a picture of you.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you mutter to yourself. “Must you?”

Jungkook’s adamant. “Yes. I don’t have a single photo of you on my phone and we’ve just spent the last week and a half in Italy.”

“So the first one has to be of me with a coffee moustache?”

“You look cute!” Jungkook insists.

You scoff. “I beg to differ.”

“The more you talk the more your moustache fades,” Jungkook tells you with a pout. “C’mon, Thumper, please?”

You resign. “Quickly.”

Jungkook silently fist-pumps the air before snapping a photo of your pout. The moment his camera begins to lower you wipe off the remains of your coffee moustache with your finger, sticking it in your mouth to finish the job. You paid money for this thing. Actually, he paid money for this thing. And you’re not going to let it go to waste either way.

“See? Cute,” Jungkook says, shoving his iPhone in your face to reveal your glowing, coffee moustache-laden grin as his lockscreen, visible to anybody who turns on his phone and swipes left to spam his camera roll. You have to admit, even with the unflattering view Jungkook’s knack for photography still shines through. The photo looks much better than anything you could ever do. “You look great, Thumper. Lockscreen-worthy.”

“Can you explain to me where the Thumper came from? I feel like I never got the memo,” you ask, the thought just popping into your head. The nickname is endearing, sure, much more so than something basic like “baby” or “angel” and much less greasy than “darling” or “sweetheart”, but you’re not exactly sure where it came from. Not that you’re complaining.

“When your cheeks puff up,” Jungkook says over a mouthful of pastry, “you look like Thumper from Bambi. You know, the rabbit. The resemblance is, quite frankly, uncanny.”

“You’re saying I look like a cartoon bunny.”

“In a cute way!” Jungkook emphasizes. And then, softly, “You should know by now that I think everything you do is cute, Y/N.” Jungkook says it like he’s discussing the weather, taking another bite of his breakfast.

You pause, parted lips slowly sealing themselves as you sink back in your chair.

You didn’t know that at all.

Piazza San Marco has already begun to overflow with tourists by the time you and Jungkook arrive, seeking out familiar faces. The conversation from earlier is almost entirely forgotten, save for you. Sometimes, in fake relationships, you’re starting to think you prefer it when everything is a lie rather than hearing the truth come out.

Jungkook, on the other hand, is as normal as ever, tugging you with your hand in his own when he spots Seokjin and his bright red baseball cap, worn backwards like a frat boy. You can only hope that he’s got SPF 100 on his face, because the sun already seems to be burning right through the pavement. Hoseok has on his terrible shorts. Maybe you should stare into the sun, go blind just so you don’t have to lay your eyes on those monstrosities. Permanent retina damage doesn’t seem like the worst idea in the world.

“I cannot believe you are wearing those,” you say when you walk up to them, staring Hoseok’s shorts down. He flaunts them, feeds off of your disgust. They look just as awful now as they did in eighth grade. Not much has really changed since then. Maybe your heights.

“Were you under the impression that I wouldn’t?” Hoseok challenges, posing a valid question. Perhaps Hoseok packed them just to spite you at eleven at night, three hours before you had to go to the airport, but he also definitely fully intended on wearing them, and now, here you are.

You narrow your eyes. “Touché.”

“What are we doing today, Less Important ‘Seok?” Hoseok asks enthusiastically, hands on his hips like a superhero from a cartoon. He turns to Seokjin with a grin on his face like he didn’t just send him a thinly-veiled insult, one that takes Seokjin approximately five seconds to process.

Then Seokjin says, “Excuse me?”

And Hoseok smiles.

“I say we go explore,” Jungkook suggests, adjusting the straps of his backpack. He’s got luggage locks on the damn zippers like the world’s most cautious tourist, but you find the neon green locks quite endearing. Nothing like the fluorescent color of a Sharpie highlighter to deter those pesky pickpockets. “Today’s a great day for all of those Instagram shots you want.”

Seokjin seems to perk up at that idea. “Nice, brand deals here I come,” he says, rubbing his hands together evil-villain-style.

“I could really use some photos for my portfolio,” Jungkook says, sort of like an aside.

“You’re making a portfolio?” You ask him, curious. It’s incredible, that Jungkook has so many projects going on at once, so many talents that he’s already refined, perfected. You can barely walk in a straight line, sober.

“Yeah,” Jungkook tells you softly, hand reaching up to tug on the camera strap around his neck. “To remember the, uh, the trip. It’s very picturesque here.”

Seokjin’s loud voice interrupts the both of you, shifting to see him standing in the center of the piazza with a peace sign by his face. “If it’s so picturesque then why am I not being photographed for my very first sponsorship?” He shouts, motioning to Jungkook’s camera like a CEO standing at the top of a skyscraper, watching down at his minions doing his dirty work. If Seokjin, God forbid, ever became Instagram famous, you know that all of you would end up suffering. He would hold his follower count over your heads for everything.

Jungkook sighs, pressing the silver button on his camera without even bringing it up to eye level to peer into the screen, haphazardly clicking away after making an educated guess as to the lens view. He’s either right on the money or currently taking about ten shots of Seokjin’s knees and nothing else. Either way they are Instagram-worthy.

Seokjin takes absolutely no notice of the fact that Jungkook is half-assing his photos and moves back towards the group after about thirty seconds of random camera-clicking, satisfied. You wonder why Hoseok always has it out for you with his outlandish pranks when you are almost certain that Seokjin is infinitely more gullible than you in every sense of the word. There have been multiple occasions during in which Seokjin has searched for his glasses, only to find out that they were not only on his head, he was also wearing them.

“Okay, the sun is shining, the clouds are gone, it’s only marginally burning temperatures, which means that we are going to avoid every tourist attraction in this city for the entire day,” you declare, clapping your hands together. Nothing sounds truly more awful than marching around a densely-packed part of town with no air conditioning and a million other people with a million other body heats.

“Dude, I’m sweating just standing here,” Hoseok says, taking his grossly-fluorescent visor off of his head and fanning himself with it.

“We could probably alleviate that problem by moving into the side streets, which are shaded,” you say.

Jungkook chuckles, but the lot of you are already moving out of Piazza San Marco, veering towards the nearest side street that you can find, eyes scanning for shade. “Emphasis on the word ‘probably,’” he jokes, an entirely valid statement because even in the shade you can feel the sweat running down your back.

Even without the use of water travel, you manage to find some pretty spectacular places within walking distance. Venice is like playing legato notes in an allegro piece, the kind of city where you hold onto each moment for as long as you can even though your days there are numbered, even though the fast pace of your travel will catch up to you eventually. Bang always reminds the orchestra that you can’t cut legato notes short otherwise they just become mundane, average notes. That’s Venice.

There is no method to your madness, if you could even call it that. Without the pressure to see all of the tourist sites at once, time limits and schedules entirely vacant, you are not walking around Venice so much as you are strolling around Venice, taking in the scenery and landscape without a rush to be anywhere at all.

You would almost imagine that it would be just you and Jungkook together, hand-in-hand as you waltz down the pavement in a gorgeous foreign city, if it weren’t for Hoseok cracking jokes next to you and Seokjin stopping your entire group every block in order to snag another photo. Not that you can really blame him any more, now that you think about it. You’d want to remember as much of this trip as possible too.

“We’re gonna get back to the hotel and I’m gonna plug in my camera and every single photo is going to be Seokjin with a peace sign in front of his face,” Jungkook tells you in mock exasperation, rolling his eyes as Seokjin beckons him over towards a piece of street art that he wants a photo in front of. It’s a very tasteful street art image, an incredibly bright red stack of buildings with a face coming out of it. You laugh at Jungkook’s expense, because that’s what he gets for being a kind, giving, and photographically talented individual.

The two of them prance over to pose in front of the wall as Hoseok and you stay back, hanging around on the opposite side of the street.

“Y/N,” Hoseok says, nudging your side. His voice is soft, muted, meaning that he’s about to tell you something he doesn’t want the other two to know about. “You and Jungkook seem to really enjoy each other’s company.”

You scoff, a little concerned about what direction this conversation is about to go to. “Why wouldn’t we? We’re dating.” Fake dating.

“Well,” Hoseok says hesitantly. “I mean, you’ve barely ever spoken to each other prior to this trip but after you guys got off the plane it just… it seemed like you were happier. You know? Especially this past week in Rome, and now. You just seem really happy.”

“Am I typically unhappy?” You ask with your eyebrows raised.

“No, not like that,” Hoseok says. He lets out a big sigh and keeps his eyes trained on Seokjin and Jungkook, who are still fooling around across the street. “You just seem to really like him. I’m glad.”

You keep silent. For a split second, you feel guilty again, guilty that you’re tricking your best friend into thinking that something so real, so genuine, is a sham.

“I’m glad he’s making you happy,” Hoseok continues, and as bad as it sounds, you want your best friend to shut up and stop talking. Stop saying these things because they make you feel bad and confused and worried all at once. “You deserve someone like Jungkook.” And, as if that isn’t enough, he says, “He looks like he loves you a lot.”

Does he really?

It’s then that Hoseok straightens out his posture and returns to his smiling self as Jungkook and Seokjin make their way over, giggling about something stupid that you didn’t notice. You wonder if Seokjin got some good photos, but then you realize that with Jungkook, they won’t be anything less than perfect.

(Jungkook looks gorgeous when he giggles. His nose scrunches up and his eyes crinkle and he laughs like he doesn’t know how to stop laughing.)

“Ready to go, Thumper?” Jungkook asks, reaching a hand out. You take it without a shadow of a doubt. It’s strange. It’s beginning to feel like it belongs there.

“Where to next?” You ask, facing a crossroads. Each way leads down a different path, one that could lead you somewhere else, but that’s the beauty of it all.

Jungkook grins. “Anywhere.”

You make a vow to yourself that you’ll come back to Italy when you’re rich and famous and can afford to splurge on ten thousand dollar Dior dresses and fast passes to the biggest attractions, but even as a college student with an exponentially increasing amount of student loans and about four dollars and thirty-three cents in your bank account you know that there are some things that you just have to do in Italy.

One of which being a gondola tour.

“You know,” Namjoon says matter-of-factly with his mouth filled with some sort of unnamed pastry with jam, “the gondola tours are 100% not worth your time. You’d do better just walking around yourself.”

The eight of you are gathered at the same café that you and Jungkook found on your first full day here, far from any tourist traps and bustling morning crowds. The old lady who seems to be the only employee speaks very little English, but even though you, a youth orchestra group in which none of you speak Italian, are her only customers at such an early morning hour, she is making a wonderful effort at communicating with you.

Namjoon has already picked up the vernacular of the region. No big deal.

“Okay Mr. I Spent Fifty Euros on the Doge’s Palace,” Hoseok mocks pointedly, drinking his latte with a very unappealing slurp. “Stop being such a hater.”

“In Namjoon’s defense, it’s called the Doge’s Palace,” Taehyung points out.

“Yes, because a hallmark of Venetian Gothic architecture and its rich history have anything to do with a deceased meme from five years ago,” Yoongi deadpans, downing another one of those tiny little espresso shots like it’s nothing. It travels down his esophagus and lights everything on fire along the way and he doesn’t bat an eyelash.

“Doge may be dead in our minds but he will live on in our hearts,” Taehyung preaches.

Namjoon rolls his eyes and turns back to you, the genius who had the idea of an overpriced gondola tour for the four of you in the first place. “They’re overpriced, overrated, and severely underwhelming,” he continues like some politician trying to convince you to join his cause against overpriced gondola tours for the sake of his campaign. Since when did he become the end-all be-all of tour guides? He bought that one travel book on Venice and suddenly he thinks he’s—

“I don’t know, I thought it was a good idea,” Jungkook adds in, swinging an arm over your shoulder as moral support.

Taehyung frowns. “That’s because you’re in love with her, dumbass.”

Jungkook chuckles at that, but you can tell that it’s forced and awkward and uncomfortable from the way his body stiffens beside yours and the way his eyes begin to dart around. He must feel just as guilty as you about this whole arrangement, grimacing at the way everyone thinks he’s in love with you.

(“He looks like he loves you a lot.”)

“Very funny,” Jungkook says with a glare to his best friend.

Taehyung winks.

“Listen, if you guys wanna spend your money that way, be my guest,” Namjoon says, resigning his argument. It’s very clear that his debate skills will only get him so far when he’s trying to utilize them with a group of college youths in a foreign country very recently hopped up on caffeine. “But it’ll be a waste of your money.”

Hoseok scoffs. “We’re in Italy on a school-sponsored trip and we already have thousands of dollars in debt because the American banking system is ass,” he reasons. “What’s a couple more dollars going to do?”

To that, everyone cheers.

The last time you were on a boat, you had accompanied Hoseok’s family on his annual fishing trip during spring break when the both of you were twelve. Against both of your better judgement, you and Hoseok climbed into his father’s kayak to boat around the lake that your lodging rested up against despite the fact that neither of you knew how to kayak. Five minutes later the both of you were held up by your lifejackets as the kayak floated away, unmanned, far out of reach as the both of you tread the freezing cold water. It’s one of your fondest memories.

It’s been six years since you were on a boat and the uneasy, queasy feeling you receive from being on one still hasn’t faded. In fact, it seems to be amplified now that you are surrounded by new friends who haven’t seen you throw up before, unlike Hoseok.

Granted, a gondola is kind of the Venetian dream, when you think about it. The kind of activity that everyone in the movies does whenever they visit Venice, and soft violin music is playing in the background as an unnamed man steers the main character and their love interest and everything is romantic and soft and not at all sweaty and crowded.

This is not a Venetian dream. It’s more like a Venetian reality.

Seokjin and Hoseok have been bickering for the past ten minutes on the correct way to put on a lifejacket when neither of them are wearing theirs correctly, and your fake boyfriend is paying you hardly any attention because his face has been stuck in his camera ever since you boarded. The added cushioning is causing sweat to dribble down your back in droplets, turning the part where your shorts meet your t-shirt into a damp, uncomfortable mess. This kind of sucks and yet, you don’t think you’d rather be anywhere else.

Seokjin sighs, looking towards the back row, where you and Jungkook are sitting. He’s got one arm wrapped around your waist—you feel bad because his hand is most definitely damp from your sweat—and the other is holding his camera up to his eye, snapping as many photos as he can as the boat travels down the water, like he’s going to make some stop-motion animation film. “You guys are so lucky,” he says.

“Us?” You ask, confused.

“When I’m rich and famous I want to bring my significant other here and get a gondola tour and travel the city together, and you guys get to do it even though you are neither rich nor famous,” Seokjin declares, exasperated, envious of whatever the hell you and Jungkook have. “This is like, a prime love location.”

“Yeah, because you’d know anything about love,” Hoseok says with a taunting sneer. “Pretty sure the only girl in your life is your bassoon.”

“Talk about her behind my back all you want, but do not insult Bessy in front of me,” Seokjin says, a hard glare etched on his face. The expression makes Hoseok double over in laughter. You’re almost 100% sure that if it were socially acceptable, Seokjin would sleep with his bassoon every night just to make sure it was warm and protected. You know, like a sentient being. Except it’s a wooden instrument. With keys that can bend very, very easily.

“You and your bassoon can suck my ass,” Hoseok continues just to be unbearable. You know Seokjin isn’t taking what he says to the heart, but it doesn’t stop the older from reaching over to ruffle Hoseok’s hair. You swear you can see droplets of maroon sweat fall from his locks as Seokjin gives them a good shake.

“You guys are some lucky motherfuckers, I hope you know that,” Seokjin says, pointing to the both of you accusingly. He’s got something in between a fond look and a sneer on his face. You know he means nothing but the best.

Jungkook pulls you in for a side hug, your body squishing against the heat of his own for a brief second before he lets go. “What can I say, you’re a catch, Thumper.” He presses a sweat-laden kiss to your cheek, but the touch of his lips on your skin no longer catches you off guard. In fact, it’s almost like you were waiting for the next time he would kiss you. Almost.

“I think I might throw up and not from seasickness,” Hoseok says with the most horrified look on his face.

You turn to Jungkook, only to find him grinning unbearably wide, a sun of a smile on his face as he looks down at you. Looks at you like he’s spent all this money just so he could be in a gondola with you in Venice, not for any of the sights along the way. His camera’s still held up in his hand but he’s no longer clicking away, instead savoring the view right in front of him. You can’t imagine what sort of otherworldly acting skills Jungkook might have if he’s able to see some façade of beauty in your sweaty, heat-stricken body, but you suppose that anything’s a stretch at this point. You’re already head-deep into this fake dating thing. How much further can you go?

“Oh!” Seokjin gasps aloud. “The lighting is perfect here! Quick, Jungkook, take a photo of me!” Immediately the man strikes a perfectly constructed pose, pretending to look off into the unknown distance with his head turned away from the camera, faking a candid photo to the soft sloshing of the water against the boat. Seokjin, quite frankly, looks ridiculous, but you have to admit that the light gives him a sort of heavenly glow. One that will probably translate very well on Instagram.

“He’s right, Thumper,” Jungkook says, bringing his camera up to his eye. “The lighting is perfect.”

And without warning, suddenly Jungkook is turning himself ninety degrees and snapping a photo of you before you can stop him, the fond smile on your face too slow to be erased before the camera click goes off.

“Jungkook!” You hiss.

“What?” He asks defensively. Seokjin’s still posing with his head facing away from the camera, and so he’s been totally bamboozled into thinking that Jungkook is snapping photos of him. Hoseok seems to have noticed this fact, and is trying to muffle his laughter as best as he can without giving it all away. “The lighting really is perfect.”

“I look and feel like a pile of sweat in a plastic bag,” you tell him like it’s obvious that he should have noticed how truly disgusting you look. Even though you are by the water it feels like your body is burning from the inside out as a result of the blazing sun despite the copious amounts of sunscreen you’ve been layering on your body. Your hair is matted down and everything is sticky.

“Drifting through the wind?” Hoseok supplies unhelpfully, making you reach over and smack him.

“You look beautiful,” Jungkook corrects, and he takes another photo, just for good measure. “I don’t have enough photos of you on my camera, Thumper. You’re my girlfriend and I’ve barely been taking pictures of you.”

“So?”

“‘So?’” Jungkook repeats. “Thumper, everything you do deserves to become a memory.”

For the rest of the day tour, Jungkook snaps countless photos of you, ones of you posing and ones of you caught off guard, refusing to stop despite Seokjin’s indignant cries of “I asked first!”. He says it’s because he doesn’t have enough on his camera, because of all the places you’ve been to in Italy thus far this is the one where he wants to remember you most.

You wish you were good at photography. Maybe then this whole fake-dating thing would seem a lot less fake.

When Yoongi suggested drinking as a legitimate activity that the eight of you did together while in Venice, he genuinely wasn’t kidding. Jungkook texts you after another long day of walking around and avoiding tourist sites together, skipping down side streets and eating big cups of gelato, while you’re fresh out of the shower in your room. The rest of the girls are all out, so this is the only time you can secure a nice wash other than a rather unholy two in the morning. You just want to decompress, maybe go out in a little for some bruschetta but nothing else, when you read:

going out tonight gonna crack open a lot of cold ones with all the bois

please come with taehyung really wants to try italian alcohol

And then, because you apparently have no choice when it comes to him:

dropping by ur room to pick u up in twenty minutes

Which leaves you twenty minutes to get dressed, dry your hair, and put on some makeup before Jungkook is knock, knock, knocking at your door. The only reason you’re even putting effort into your appearance for such an excursion is because said excursion is occurring at a time when the sun is not beating down your back, and therefore copious amounts of sweat are no longer a factor. Well. If Taehyung has a club in mind, then maybe copious amounts of sweat will be a factor. But that is a bridge you will burn when you get to it.

You don’t really know what nightclub life will be like in Italy, though you’re fairly certain sleazebags of the male specimen are probably a universal issue. Luckily, you’ve got yourself a very handy dandy fake boyfriend to rescue you should any trouble arise.

To be quite honest, you’re surprised that nobody in your group’s made any effort to legally acquire some booze beforehand. You’d think that they’d take advantage of the lower legal alcohol limit as soon as they set foot in the country, but it doesn’t seem to be very high on their list of priorities. That is, until now.

You have just finished adjusting the collar of your dress when Jungkook knocks on your door, the sound of his fist against the wood reverberating around your entire hotel room like an echo getting farther and farther away.

“No entourage?” You ask, surprised to see him standing alone. You’d been half-expecting him to knock on your door with the entire possy behind him, waiting. He’s been fidgeting, that much you can tell, by the way his hands have been clasped together and his right foot’s unnatural position towards the left one.

“Just me, Thumper,” Jungkook admits guiltily. “Ready to go?” He holds out his hand, warm palm waiting for your softer, rounder fingers to join with his long, slender ones.

“Nothing quite like getting drunk in Venice on a university-sponsored vacation,” you say in lieu of any sort of greeting. You figure that your hand intertwined with his is enough of a hello.

He grins. “If the entire world turns to shit, we can blame Taehyung.”

It seems like a good enough plan to you.

Speaking of the devil himself, you and Jungkook meet him and the rest of the bunch in the lobby. Taehyung’s got sunglasses on the head—even though it’s eight at night—for the aesthetic and a very nice satin shirt you are absolutely positive is going to be going into the garbage after tonight. Not that you have ever had any drunk experiences with any of them besides the occasional thing with Hoseok in high school (you drank together in your bedroom without your parents knowing, how scandalous), and even then it was in the comfort of your own home without much of a risk factor.

“You are going to lose those sunglasses so damn quick, Tae,” Jimin says as you walk out of the hotel, already beginning to scan the streets for the closest bar. He even makes a show of snatching them off Taehyung’s head, wearing them himself just for fun. Taehyung makes grabby hands and says some stupid insult about Jimin’s height as he retrieves them from Jimin’s nose bridge. “Last time you got drunk you lost your Epipen. Who the fuck brings an Epipen out to go drinking?”

Taehyung gasps. “You never know which places might have corn!”

“In their drinks?”

“Is Taehyung allergic to corn? Is that what I’m getting here?” You ask, leaning over to ask into Jungkook’s ear. Not that Taehyung wouldn’t answer you perfectly fine either, you just think he seems rather busy, bickering with Jimin and playing a game of capture the flag with his sunglasses that he’s wearing at night.

“Yeah,” Jungkook nods. “But it’s like, just raw corn. The moment you cook it, he’s not allergic to it anymore.”

Not that you’re one to judge allergies or the people who have them, but Taehyung’s allergy is so specific that it fits him perfectly. Like, if nothing else, that is the most Taehyung thing about him. His allergy to raw corn.

“Hey! There’s a bar!” Seokjin shouts as you stumble across a little nook tucked away on one of the Venetian side streets, a wooden sign hanging above the open archway that reads BAR. Not many people are frequenting said joint, mostly because it’s a weekday at eight and literally nobody except people with a lot of free time (i.e. college tourists) go drinking on weekdays at eight.

You don’t rush into the bar per se, but the average speed of the group overall seems to increase before becoming a constant rate of significantly-faster-than-before as everyone gets to the bar, ready to live the dream of being zazzed in a foreign country to the highest degree possible. You know, even if you’ve never gotten drunk with him before, that Taehyung would immediately go up to the bartender and demand the strongest thing they have if the two spoke the same language. Unfortunately, Taehyung’s trapped looking at the chalkboard with fun chalk colors and hoping that his alcoholic beverage translations are accurate.

Not that any of the drinks would have raw corn in them to begin with.

For a particularly bustling city, even on a pretty average day, it surprises you that despite the date and time, there are only a couple of other patrons in the bar. Venice is busy every hour of every day, even if some times are more packed than the others, but your group makes up a hefty majority of the people in here. Rambunctious, boisterous college students who don’t know good alcohol from bad because all alcohol tastes the exact same flavor of instant regret.

Even still, Italians are known for their booze, and that is simply something you cannot escape while here. It doesn’t take much, just a bit of clambering to order, before you can already feel the liquid going to your brain, a haze settling in in your mind that doesn’t seem to be able to dissipate. Not that anyone else in your group is faring any better, because quite frankly, none of you seem to be able to hold down your alcohol well. Besides Namjoon, who is doing remarkably well.

Hoseok is draped over Seokjin’s back, unintelligible moans leaving his lips and fanning out on his shoulder. The heat makes Seokjin drunkenly try to toss ice cubes Hoseok’s way, but his aim is very unsurprisingly terrible. You’re almost positive Seokjin doesn’t have that kind of hand-eye coordination even when sober. Yoongi has struck up a wordless conversation with the bartender and seems to keep receiving drinks upon drinks, but they are very obviously watered down with soda and lime. Jimin is only the slightest bit of a disaster, but it is Taehyung that is slowly jumping off of his rocker.

The alcohol seems to have subdued Jungkook slightly, leaving him in the same mindless fog that you’re in. Neither of you know what’s just happened in the past five minutes but you know that you’re in Venice, and you know that you’re together.

And that’s really all that matters.

Taehyung is in the middle of a recreation of the Bee Movie script yet again, only he is reciting it dramatic monologue-style, meaning he’s about to collapse on the table as part of the theatrics of it all, when Namjoon suggests that you leave and start heading back. It’s late. The time feels like it’s passed too quickly. Jungkook is warm and the alcohol has given him a soft glow. He is gorgeous and you adore him, really adore him, only the slightest bit.

Even if Namjoon is definitely the most sober one out of all of you—something you admire, especially since over the course of the evening he certainly didn’t shy away from the drinks when given—none of you really know where you’re headed. Your cardinal directions have switched and the sun is already far below the horizon so you can’t figure them out. Namjoon’s phone is on three percent. The world is your oyster.

There is nothing quite like the fantasy of stumbling around a romantic, street-light-laden city like Venice while inebriated. Not to the point of any serious harm and certainly not enough to incapacitate you so severely that you’re incapable of any sort of basic function, but enough to have your head spinning and for all of the lights that decorate the streets to bleed together, like a photo out of focus. Enough for the world to seem a little bit happier even if nothing has changed, and even if there has just been a new political campaign designed to ruin the very foundation of democracy.

When in Venice. When life hands you an instrument, it is music that you must play.

Somehow, someway, you get lost. Not that you’re at all surprised by this since it took five minutes to get from the hotel to the bar and you’ve been clambering around Venice for at least fifteen. Somehow the direction your group has vanishes and it is like all hell breaks loose but nothing actually escapes. Jimin and Taehyung are in a constant state of giggles, laughing and laughing and laughing about something that nobody else will find funny. Namjoon has somehow been coerced into giving Yoongi a piggyback ride, and so he trudges along as Yoongi sucks on an ice cube from the plastic cup in his hand, wincing whenever the cold touches the back of his front teeth. Somehow, Seokjin and Hoseok haven’t ripped each other’s heads off and are instead engaged in a very serious game of drunk chopsticks, Hoseok continuously pulling the move where he splits up his one hand into two, just to bother the elder.

Somehow, Jungkook hasn’t let go of your hand. Not since when you left to go down to the lobby a couple of hours ago. This entire time you’ve been connected by a lifeline, your two hands interlocked between your bodies as you sip your margaritas and cocktails and pretend just for a second, that none of this is fabricated. Pretend that just for a little bit, when your brains are clogged and your hearts are beating, that there is no big reveal at the end of this trip to devastate your friends, no messy breakup you have to stage all for the act. That Jungkook can be Jungkook and you can be you and the us, whatever us it is that you have, can just be an us.

Somehow, after another eight minutes of walking (and three of Jimin yodelling) you find yourselves in, of all places, Piazza San Marco. The tourist traps are closed for the night but the view will never die, the sight of such a gorgeous location will forever hold the same beauty. Not that Piazza San Marco was your intended destination, but it certainly is a stunning one. One that even at night, when all of the visitors have gone back to their hotels and only the locals, free to roam as they please, are out for a nighttime stroll, takes your breath away.

“Hey, I recognize this place,” Hoseok points out mindlessly. He won the game of Chopsticks, and now Seokjin wants a rematch.

“Piazza Marco Polo,” Jimin tacks on incorrectly, too busy trying to wrap Taehyung up in his sleeves. So far Taehyung’s shirt is wholly intact and his glasses have made their way from the top of his head to the back of it, hanging off of his ears like a true college student.

“Gorgeous here,” Namjoon comments aloud, only one who can articulate such an admiration for the view while mildly hammered. He’s one of the lucky ones; the alcohol flows in and out of his system at the snap of his fingers. “Even at night. Gorgeous.”

“Imagine living here,” you add on just for some food for thought.

Living in Italy would be as much of a dream as you could imagine. A little apartment in the good side of town, top floor with no elevator or air conditioning. Dark red shutters and a soft breeze that blows through the windows. Street music playing from below, history right at your doorstep. Art museums with the world’s treasures only a fifteen minute walk away. The best cheese, wine, meat in the world, at your fingertips.

And then suddenly the dream changes. You blame it on your drunkenness before you can make out the new image in front of you. You’re still in Italy, still have that apartment in the good side of town with a soft breeze and maroon shutters. But there’s a figure standing by the tiny kitchen island. A violin case by the couch. There are Polaroids decorating the walls, each with scrawled dates underneath them. The figure turns around and it’s Jungkook. Suddenly the image is different, you are in Italy and you have an apartment and you eat the best cheese and drink the best wine and Jungkook is with you every step of the way. Almost like it would feel strange if he wasn’t. Like he belongs here.

There is art, and there is art.

There is art that the world has analyzed, stared right through the cracks in the paint. Art that is revered, honored, with plaques and Wikipedia pages and courses dedicated to them. Art that is meant to be shown off, boasted by museums as if to say “Look what we have”, art meant for the human to look at.

And there is art, art that the world has ignored. Hidden art, shadowed by the things that people recognize, that people know. Art that peeks in through the cracks in the paint and raises its hand softly to say that “I’m here. Don’t forget about me.” Art that is meant to sit in plain sight, right in front of you but never obtrusively. Art that moves with you.

There is Jungkook.

Lost in thought, you turn to find Jungkook sitting down on an empty step, swallowing heavily as his body slowly but surely rids itself of the alcohol. The haze is still there but no longer is it growing. Only settling.

“Hey,” you say softly, finding yourself getting down next to him. Jungkook’s eyes are transfixed on the stars. “You’re drunk.”

“I am not,” Jungkook says, swaying only the slightest bit. You could blame it on the wind if there was any. He keeps his gaze trained on the sky above. Not many stars are visible from here, the city lights keeping them hidden from his view, but you can make out a few. The lucky ones, not shadowed by the weight of human life.

“You are,” you insist, and he doesn’t fight it. “What kind of a fake girlfriend am I supposed to be when my fake boyfriend is drunk?”

Jungkook forces a chuckle before pausing. You don’t really expect him to answer. When you look back down, the rest of your group are charging around Piazza San Marco, so much free space that they don’t know what to do with themselves. If you squint, you think you can see Yoongi and Taehyung sparring. Or at least, Naruto-running towards each other.

“You don’t have to be my fake girlfriend,” Jungkook suddenly blurts out. You turn to him, caught off guard and surprised he even responded to you when you had spoken to him well over thirty seconds ago. “You could… we could—” You don’t understand. What’s he trying to say?

“Jungkook?” You ask, leaning in, hoping that his eyes will meet yours, even just for a second. He sounds like he’s about to spill out his deepest secrets, his darkest fears, to an unsuspecting stranger.

“Oh, God,” Jungkook says before he rushes to his feet and beelines to the nearest public trash can. You gasp to yourself, watching in horror as Jungkook leans over, body rocking back and forth. He doesn’t actually vomit, nothing comes out of his mouth, but it is the sight of such uneasiness that has you truly worried.

“Jungkook!” You should, getting up yourself and jogging over to him. He still has yet to empty any of the contents from his stomach out of his mouth, and as you reach him his body seems to slow, like the whole thing was just a false alarm in the first place. “Jungkook, are you okay?”

Jungkook looks up at you, and even if you are both shrouded in the darkness of the night you can tell that he’s embarrassed. But it’s like his entire demeanor just shifts, a volta in his personality, when he sees you, his shoulders lightening up and a soft grin breaking out onto his face. “Yeah, Thumper,” he says, promises, even as he stands next to a public trash can. You swear someone wolf whistles, but you are hardly paying attention. “I’m okay.”

Venice ends like this: for once, the skies are cloudy. Not that the overcast weather makes the temperature any less boiling, because even if the sun is gone the humidity remains. But the clouds are nice. You’re leaving on a Thursday, when all of the other tourists who are leaving on the weekend are still in the heat of their explorations around the area, desperate to cram in as much as they can in a three-day period.

Venice ends like this: even though you’ve seen Jungkook plenty since then, he hasn’t made a single mention of what happened that night in Piazza San Marco, and you aren’t going to press him on it any further than you did then. What Jungkook said that night was a fragment, pieces of an incomplete sentence that his brain couldn’t add the finishing touches to, not necessarily just because he was drunk but because it didn’t seem like he had the final words to say anyway. Venice ends with what you are certain are memory cards after memory cards of Seokjin and you in Jungkook’s possession. He could never really keep himself from pressing the silver button on his camera.

Venice ends like this: with an unfinished story on a cloudy day.

“Florence, here we come!” Seokjin shouts as everyone is rolling out of the hotel, ready to head to the train to take you all the way down south, the final destination on your trip.

It feels bizarre, calling it the last stop. The final place. Because you still have over a week there, but it’s the last over-a-week you’ll have in Italy, the last several days before you inevitably have to fly back home, a plane ride you are absolutely dreading. Italy is the kind of place that makes you wonder why you didn’t visit sooner. Florence is where all of the lasts will be, last gelato, last museum, last sidestreet. Last performance, last painting. The very last of your relationship with Jungkook, whatever behemoth of a fake relationship it’s turned into.

Time flies so quickly, and yet you feel as though the next week will pass by like molasses. A last week to savor the best and forget the worst. The last week you will have to spend walking around Italy with your hand in Jungkook’s, with him taking an unnecessary amount of photos of you, with him stealing your pasta and you sharing his pizza.

Lots of lasts. Lots of firsts, too. Everything is unfinished but this feels final, no matter what.

“Can’t believe we’ll be home in ten days,” Namjoon says, his words eliciting a grumble from the rest of the group, who refuse to face the truth until it knocks them square in the nose.

“Feels like just yesterday Yoongi destroyed his internal organs by downing multiple shots of espresso,” Taehyung reminisces like Yoongi’s nothing but a memory, a piece of the past.

“I’m right here, fucker,” Yoongi mutters, standing next to him with his flute in his hand.

“Sometimes I can still hear his voice…” Taehyung trails off, purposefully looking in the opposite direction from where the flutist is standing just to bother him more. Yoongi then proceeds to practically knock Taehyung right into Seokjin, who then shoves him back, leaving Taehyung caught in a push-and-shove sandwich as the two go back and forth like Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

“Better make the most of this, right?” Jungkook asks to you as you slowly migrate from the hotel, saying goodbye to the staff as you shuffle out with your big suitcases and backpacks and instruments. You’re positive that the hotel employees are thrilled to be rid of you. “Only one place left.”

“So many things that we have to see there,” you say, already dreaming of the gorgeous artwork and the history-rich architecture that’s waiting for you a mere two hours by train away.

“Well,” Jungkook says somewhat haughtily. He can’t hold your hand because his are filled and so are yours, but he can nudge up against you, sticking close to your side, like he’s afraid that if he loses you he’ll never get you back. “We’ll just have to stick together, hmm?”

You think of Venice. And Rome. And the way that Jungkook can see the beauty in everything, the way he can capture it even better than he can view it. The way that with a simple change of degree the whole angle changes, the perspective alters and becomes something brand new but not any less beautiful. You think of Jungkook and you think that, if it’s your last week in Italy, you may as well milk this relationship dry while you still can. Before whatever comes after a fake relationship, be it friendship or that awkward limbo of acquaintances or barely acknowledging each other on the sidewalk. And even if you know that Jungkook is waiting for the day when you break up to come as well, you pray you won’t lose him to distance, to time. Pray, selfishly so, that he’ll stay close to you.

It is people like Jungkook, you recognize, that are people you need to cherish.

On the train, Hoseok and Jungkook play rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets to claim the seat next to you. What’s funny about this round, however, is the fact that Hoseok puts out scissors three times in a row, making it easy for Jungkook to beat him and secure the spot right beside yours as his home for the next two hours. Hoseok had taken a psychology course in freshman year and his professor taught him the most foolproof way to win at rock-paper-scissors every time and Hoseok disregarded it entirely. Curious.

Jungkook, having very evidently not gotten enough sleep the night before, settles in down next to you before saying, “I’m tired, can I use you as a pillow?” He leaves no space for a response as he places his head in the crook of your neck and his eyes flutter shut.

Florence does not need photos to take your breath away. Florence steals your lungs right from your body, leaving you no room to even try. Cuts off your air supply from the source in order to leave you in a permanent state of awe, like you’ll never get used to a city like this.

Granted, you’re extremely excited just to be here, an enthusiastic puppy getting taken to its new home for the very first time. Not unlike the other two cities you’ve visited thus far, Florence is rich with art, history, culture, and you simply cannot wait until you dive head first into it all. Florence is the type of city that always has you on the edge of your seat, wanting more. A perpetual cliffhanger.

The nicest thing about the city is that everything is within thirty minutes of everything else. At no point in time will you need to hop onto some form of public transportation, whether it be a train, a taxi, a gondola. Nothing is truly off limits in Florence, not when you have so much time to spare. Florence is the city where you are meant to get lost, begin wandering down some side streets and lose your way entirely, because what is the beauty in the destination if you ignore the beauty in the journey?

“I was supposed to be saving my money for textbooks next year but fuck that shit!” Jimin cries out as you head down towards the Arno, making your way right towards Ponte Vecchio. Not that any of you have any intentions of buying jewelry that costs more than a mortgage, but you know that the stores along the main street that takes you there are worth your while. “Thank you illegal PDFs!”

“What the hell are you even going to buy?” Seokjin asks, looking Jimin up and down like a mannequin. “You already own like, one of every single clothing item in existence.”

“I reject this statement,” Jimin declares, but it’s no use. Seokjin’s right. Jimin seems to own everything despite what you know is a lack of funding in his bank account. He must go thrifting a lot. “I’ll figure out a way to spend my money, don’t shame me.”

“Think about it, Seok, how often you gonna get to go shopping in Italy?” Namjoon reasons, the peacemaker within the group.

Seokjin scoffs, as if that’s even a question he’s being asked. “Lots, obviously? Just gotta wait until my Instagram career takes off. Then I’ll be here every summer, bitches!”

Everyone laughs, partly because Seokjin’s enthusiasm is just genuinely amusing and partly because you all know that his Instagram career is going nowhere except the garbage. Things like that only happen to people with connections or people who are rich. Seokjin is neither, though he swears that he has a second cousin who’s a K-pop star. You aren’t necessarily sure if you believe him.

“Have fun melting your goddamn face off,” Jimin comments bitterly. His pointer finger and thumb are pinching the collar of his shirt as he fans it out in the hopes that he’ll cool down what must be burning skin underneath. Jimin’s got a casual dress shirt and shorts on and his sweat stains are quite honestly, record-breaking. You can’t imagine yourself to be any better. Simply walking on the concrete makes your body temperature rise something fierce and unrelenting. “It’s balls hot here.”

“It’s balls hot here everywhere, climate change is real,” Yoongi says snidely, though he isn’t faring much better. “This is what greenhouse gases are doing to our goddamn ecosystem.”

“I’m sorry?” Taehyung asks, and you already know that whatever is about to come out of his mouth is going to earn him some sort of physical response from Yoongi. “Global warming is a hoax created by China to steal American jobs. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Yoongi mutters even if the fondness peeks right through his words.

Fanning yourself as you beeline to the closest shaded part of the sidewalk, where the veranda offers a brief and weak respite from the blazing rays beating down on you, you heave out, “I could go for a water bottle. How about you Jungko—?” You turn to find the boy you thought had been walking right behind you gone, vanished into thin air. You know he couldn’t be far but the crowds on this road seem to be never-ending, and for a split second you’re worried you’ve lost him entirely.

“We lost Jungkook!” You shout to the rest of your friends, who are currently loitering outside a watch store as Jimin and Namjoon take a peek inside. They all shrug in response, none of them feeling any sort of a sense of urgency to find the boy. What if he’s been sucked into a black hole and none of you know because none of you bother to look for him?

“Of course we did!” Hoseok says, shrugging it off like it’s nothing. “He’s probably taking photos in one of the alleys!”

“I’ll go get him!” You shout to them. Hoseok gives you a thumbs up before he caves and walks into the watch store, desperate for any sort of air conditioned haven that he can find, even if not for very long.

Walking against the current of the crowd, your eyes scan the smaller streets that jut out from the main one, searching for the boy with the camera. He must be down one of these, in no scenario would he ever stop in such a busy road to take photos. And then, near the very beginning of the downhill slope, you see a mop of dark hair and a camera.

“Jungkook!” You call, rushing over to him. He’s looking at some smaller works of street art, tiny little drawings on the sides of buildings and walls of political cartoons, lips, stick figures. They look like tattoos on the skin, each with a different meaning, spread out along an arm or a chest or a back. Little drawings that make up a bigger picture. “Jungkook, you disappeared on us!”

“I hate being in the sun,” he tells you, which, valid. You hate it too. Never have you hated that ball of fire in the sky more than this vacation. “And these drawings are amazing. Very quirky, would probably get accepted into a top college.”

“You can’t just vanish like that, you know,” you tell him pointedly. “It’s busy as shit here. We’d lose you. I’d lose you!”

Jungkook places a hand on his heart, feigning appreciation. “Aw, would my girlfriend miss me if I was gone?”

You barely take notice of the way the word “fake” has slipped from his mind.

(Maybe if you pretend it’s not there this time, you can pretend that it was never there to begin with.)

You scoff, rolling your eyes even if his words cause a little grin to break out on your face. Jungkook seems to have this permanent effect on you where, in his presence, you’ll always end up smiling. He’s just a wonderful person. Someone worth smiling for. “No, just don’t wanna be held liable for your disappearance. I’d have to pay your college tuition. Fuck that.”

“Ever the romantic, Thumper,” Jungkook says. His smile reaches his eyes, makes little wrinkles appear at the corners of them. People say wrinkles are bad but wrinkles are proof that you are living your life the right way: filled with laughter and joy. Finding something truly wonderful and being unabashed about your admiration for it. That’s how you’re supposed to live your life. “Say Firenze!”

Yet another classic Jungkook as he catches you off guard, quickly pulling up his camera and snapping a photo before you can object, the familiar click of the camera ringing out throughout the alley. You know what the photo looks like before he can show it to you, know exactly what it’s going to be before seeing it yourself. It’ll be you, standing in front of the conjunction between the alleyway and the main street, the perpendicularly-moving crowd an unfocused blur behind you. It’ll be you, clear as day, with the beginnings of a giggle on your face.

(You. In love with the man behind the camera.)

“That’s going into the portfolio for sure,” Jungkook declares as he quickly scans through his most recent takes. “Some of my finest work, if I do say so myself.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Jeon,” you say as a warning, even if you know he’s right. In everything that Jungkook does he is improving, getting one step closer and closer to complete and utmost perfection. Jungkook is the kind of person God created and then realized that they were too close to immaculate, but it was too late, because he was already here. “Come on, we gotta meet up with the rest of them. Pretty sure Jimin’s about to drop all of his money on a watch.”

Jungkook sighs. “Not again.”

This time, when you walk into a clothing store, it isn’t one with articles that cost more than a car. Luckily. Meaning you can comfortably shop without your eyes widening comically when you look at the price tag. It’s another one of those movie fantasies, shopping in a visually, culturally, and historically breathtaking place like Italy. Another one of those silly tourist things you’ll do just for the hell of it.

You’re in the middle of inspecting a button-down shirt, one that is entirely asymmetrical in both its design and its pattern, with horizontal and vertical stripes crashing into each other, when Hoseok comes up to you with the most obscene shorts you have ever seen (save for his awful, awful denim ones). They are a fluorescent canary yellow, the color you would find in a Crayola box for elementary students, and they have bright green polka dots covering them. They’re horrifying, and yet, only Hoseok would ever be able to pull them off.

“What in tarnation,” you say, not so much a question as it is a gasp, eyebrows furrowing instantly as Hoseok holds up the offending article of clothing. It looks more like a very diseased banana than a piece of clothing.

“Aren’t these great?” He asks enthusiastically. “And they’re on sale!”

You wonder why. Maybe if you were back home, at your own shopping mall, you would tell him that he’s about as fashionable as a colorblind giraffe and that it would be a waste of his money, but you’re not back home. You’re in Italy, and if in Italy Hoseok wants to buy what may or may not be the ugliest pair of shorts you’ve ever laid eyes on, then, well, who are you to stop him?

“You know what, Hoseok?” You say, nodding your head in support. He deserves to treat himself, even if his tastes are questionable at best. “You do you.”

“Treat myself, bitch,” Hoseok says confidently, turning to face what you’re browsing through. It’s mindful shopping, not the same kind that you do back home, because you only have one chance to buy something nice. No returns, refunds, or exchanges. “What are you gonna get?”

“I don’t know. Something nice.”

“Way to be specific, Y/N,” Hoseok says sarcastically.

You scoff, accosted. “You have no right to be talking to me about fashion when you have those monstrosities in your hand.”

Hoseok gasps. “How dare you insult these shorts. They are now my pride and joy and I will always wear them around you just to spite you.”

“First of all, fuck you,” you spit out though there is no animosity to your words. Hoseok cackles before prancing off to find some other hideous items in the sale section hidden in the back corner, away from the customer’s view. Not without good reason, of course.

With your best friend gone, frolicking around the store’s lower level, you begin to migrate yourself, eyes scanning the racks and shelves and mannequins for something to catch your eye. For some reason you seem to have become pickier than before, as if the change in location suddenly altered your own taste when it came to shopping, like you’re being stingy because you know you can’t just up and return the items like you could elsewhere.

That is precisely when you feel a figure slide up next to you, placing a soft kiss on your cheek to alert you of his presence.

“Hey, Thumper,” Jungkook says. “What do you think?”

Over his graphic tee, he’s got on a faux leather jacket, a sleek black material that looks much more expensive than it actually is. It fits him extremely well, hugs the biceps he’s gotten from so many years of violin-holding and perhaps a couple years of some devoted weightlifting as well, compliments his flawless figure and small waist. It looks great on him. You find it only a little strange that a store in Italy is selling a high-quality, thick leather jacket in the middle of summer.

“It doesn’t go with your shoes,” you tell him, looking down at the Jesus sandals look he’s sporting.

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “Aside from my shoes, what do you think?”

You can’t help but be honest. This relationship has turned you into one hell of a softie. “It looks great on you, Jungkook. Everything does.” It comes out kind of like a sigh, like it’s something he should already know, so why is he bothering asking you? Does he need you to tell him that he’s beautiful too?

“You really think so?” Jungkook asks, looking at you as he takes the jacket off, hanging it over one arm as he flattens it out.

“Well, after Hoseok came up to me with the Satan of shorts, everything in this store seems nicer than it really is,” you joke. Jungkook laughs knowingly, having obviously caught a glimpse of Hoseok and those demons while walking around as well. “But yeah, I’m serious. You should get it.”

“It’s a little expensive,” Jungkook says hesitantly, eyeing the price tag. “I don’t know, maybe it’s not worth it. It’s not even real leather.”

“So? Save a cow and get it,” you tell him. “You shouldn’t be scared of it. We’re in Italy. You’re with your youth orchestra group. I’m here. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Words to live by.

Galileo Galilei once said that you must “measure what is measurable, and make measurable what is not so.” And you’ve lost count of the amount of times that Jungkook has pulled his hand into yours but you know that he’s kissed you on the cheek five times and you’ve seen him smile about as many times as there are stars in the sky. But what you cannot measure is your relationship with him. There is a contract written on a napkin somewhere but you wonder if he’s accidentally thrown it away while cleaning out his backpack, and you begin to wonder if you even care if he has. Galileo Galilei says that you need to make measurable what is not but you don’t know how you’re supposed to begin counting out your relationship with Jungkook when you yourself don’t even know how to define it. All of these numbers must add up to something but there is an unforeseen variable that you cannot solve for.

Galileo Galilei is a genius, but even still there are some unanswered questions.

On the edge of Florence and north of the Arno river is a smaller, less frequented church than the Duomo in the center called the Basilica de Santa Croce, and it is where Galileo is buried alongside people like Dante, Machiavelli, and Michelangelo. It is the deathbed of legends, of names permanently etched into history as shining stars, forgers of what is now the present. The Basilica de Santa Croce is not only an architectural wonder but it bears the names of some of the world’s most famous writers, philosophers, artists, leaders.

It just so happens to be your tourist stop of the day.

“That’s Dante!” Jimin shouts as you come up to the church, pointing towards the statue to the left of the main doors. Engraved in the stone is his name, Dante Alighieri. “He wrote that one book about hell.”

Namjoon looks as though he’s about to have an aneurysm with Jimin’s very obvious lack of deep and immense respect for not only the book but also the author behind it. You are willing to bet very good money that Namjoon poured out his heart, mind, and soul into the study of the book, whenever he was forced to read it during his mandated schooling. Coughing, he corrects, “He wrote the Divine Comedy, largely considered to be Italy’s greatest literary work, one of which features the poem Inferno. Yes.”

“That’s what I said,” Jimin says pointedly, making Namjoon sigh. You suppose that’s what he gets for easily being the only one in this entire group who’s somehow managed to retain the majority of his brain cells. You are actually quite impressed he hasn’t lost more considering how often he spends time with Taehyung.

“I’m really looking forward to this one,” Jungkook leans in to tell you as Namjoon doles out the tickets. It’s the middle of the day on a weekday and there is absolutely no line to enter, a shocking sight in a bustling tourist center like Florence. “Inferno was my favorite thing that I’ve ever read in all of high school. Knocked out Slaughterhouse-Five for the top spot.”

“Damn, what did Vonnegut ever do to deserve that, huh?” You joke, holding out your ticket for the guard waiting at the door to inspect. He gives a hearty yet stern nod and you and Jungkook walk inside. Ahead of you, Seokjin and Taehyung are already “ooh”-ing their way around the Basilica, much to the chagrin of literally everybody else. Hoseok’s already on his way to shushing them.

Jungkook loses his ability to speak when his eyes catch up with his mouth as he takes in the sight before him. Graves are littered throughout the entire building but shrines have been built into the walls, with messages and statues and marble decorating their designs. The people here deserve to be buried with such high distinction, revered so deeply not only by Italians of hundreds of centuries but by the whole world for their contributions to society, beliefs that have shaped the world as you know it.

You’d think he’d been rendered entirely speechless if it weren’t for the awe-stricken “Wow” to leave his mouth as he stares around the building, unable to focus his eyes all on one spot for there is simply too much to see. He doesn’t know where to turn but he does seem to be drifting towards Michelangelo’s tomb, a move you definitely saw coming considering the past two weeks spent here. Namjoon, Jimin, and Taehyung are busy looking at Machiavelli’s burial site, and a quick glance their way tells you that Namjoon is currently reciting all of Machiavelli’s greatest accomplishments as Jimin and Taehyung dumbly listen in. Hoseok and Yoongi are strolling around without a clear destination in sight, letting the grandeur of the place sink in. Seokjin has striked up a conversation with another group of Korean tourists, a family with two young children. They seem to be getting along incredibly well, and Seokjin even offers to take a photo.

“Never in a million years did I ever think I’d get to be here,” Jungkook tells you as you come up to Michelangelo’s tomb. A bust of the artists rests atop a stone coffin, and next to it, statues. “These women represent Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting,” he informs you, pointing to each respective statue. “His favorite things.”

“That’s—”

“It’s nerdy, I know,” Jungkook jokes, even if he continues to stare. He takes it all in like a breath of fresh air after being locked up for a year, lets it pierce his skin and melt into his bones. “I don’t know, I just think that he’s a genius.”

“It’s not nerdy,” you promise, equally as floored by the sight in front of you as well as beside you. Jungkook speaks like his passions aren’t worth being passionate about, but you think that he’s brilliant. “It’s really fucking cool, actually. The fact that you love this stuff so much, Jungkook. It’s incredible.”

“You think so?”

You nod. Knowledge is beauty and Jungkook is the most beautiful of them all.

Conveniently, right beside the Basilica de Santa Croce, on a road barely a five minute walk away, is a gelato store with an abundance of flavors to choose from. And it just so happens to be next on your list of places to visit, the overwhelming heat of Florence scorching your skin the moment you leave the blissful shade of the church.

On the Via Dei Neri there is a little gelato shop that bears the same name as the street, and when you arrive it is mostly empty, save for a couple of tourists who are seated in the plastic chairs in the corner of the store. Admittedly, the gelato here looks a lot more scrumptious than the thick, artificial flavors of Rome and Venice, beautiful colors and swirls decorating the tubs of the sweet.

“Wow, look!” Hoseok says, smacking your shoulder roughly as he points. “Mango cheesecake! And rice!”

“Rice?” Seokjin overhears, budging in. “Move over. My Asian ass is shaking.”

The one in Rome had over a hundred flavors but every single one of these look more delectable than any of the ones there. You can’t help but ache to taste each and every one, even if you know you’ll only be able to consume one or two before your stomach is filled to the brim.

This time, you are a little more giving with your blackberry and rose gelato, allowing Hoseok a single scoop of each with that tiny plastic spoon of his, letting him divulge into your gelato as you respectfully decline a bit of his own. He’s already attacked the entire surface area of the damn thing, and while mango cheesecake sounds delicious, Hoseok’s saliva, less so.

“It’s your loss,” he tells you over a mouthful of the dessert. He then proceeds to slurp up half of it like an animal starved. Your best friend is, quite frankly, disgusting.

“What’d you get,” Jungkook asks as he plops down heavily into the open seat next to you. You can hear the bone-shattering crash of something and peer under the table to find his phone lying face down on the floor. “Ah, fuck it. It’s already broken.” He shrugs carelessly and makes no move to retrieve his cellular device, much to your anxiety. You don’t know what he’s on but it’s certainly doing wonders for your fine lines.

“Blackberry and rose.”

“Oh, can I have some?” Jungkook asks hopefully. You sigh, resigning yourself to a life of letting all of the people close to you mooch off of your food, and hold out the cone to him. He helps himself to a small scoop of each flavor, humming in appreciation as he pops the whole thing into his mouth. “Mmm,” he says. “A rose by any other name would taste as sweet.”

“Nice wordplay,” you compliment dryly. “Let me have some of yours.”

“It’s mango,” he tells you, scooping some and holding it in front of your lips, ready to feed you. You comply instantly, opening your mouth to let him pop the spoon inside. And then, catching you off guard, he quickly takes a dollop on the tip of his finger and wipes it on your nose, much to your shock.

“Every fucking time we get gelato they’re at it again,” Jimin huffs when he sees the both of you giggling in the corner, retreating to the table where Seokjin and Yoongi sit, clearly trying to avoid looking your way so they don’t vomit up their gelato. “I think we’re gonna have to exile them from our gelato-scapades.”

“You know you don’t have to talk about us like we can’t hear you, right?” Jungkook asks pointedly.

“We know,” Jimin nods. “Go be gross elsewhere. I’m trying to stuff my face into the food of my culture.”

“Gelato is not the food of your culture,” Yoongi says. “We have the same fucking culture.”

“Ah ah ah,” Jimin says, shushing Yoongi with a finger to his lips. Yoongi, in retaliation, licks Jimin’s entire digit, but Jimin doesn’t even flinch. Like it’s normal for his finger to be licked by his friends. “This is rice gelato. Therefore, food of my culture.”

Seokjin, the biggest cone of rice-flavored gelato in his hand, high fives him.

Almost never does Bang receive enough credit for the work he puts into this orchestra. It’s his heart and soul and you are almost positive it’s the only thing he cares about, even if he’s spending the majority of his time sending glares Taehyung’s way. He’s the reason you’re even in Italy in the first place, and he is also the reason that you are currently standing in a line with tickets to enter Florence’s most famous art gallery instead of having to wait around for four hours in the blistering heat just for a spot in line.

“I pray to all of the higher powers above us and perhaps some demons as well just be sure that this place has air conditioning,” Taehyung declares as he attempts to fan himself with his ticket, the floppy piece of paper doing absolutely nothing for his body temperature. Even though you’re standing in the shade, covered by the shadow of the Uffizi, the heat is, quite frankly, still overwhelming.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Seokjin mutters. “The Lord works hard but the sun works harder.”

“Fuck that,” Taehyung grumbles, as if that’s going to do anything to calm the 500% humidity currently permeating the air.

“If you’re going to spend this entire trip complaining about the heat you’ll never be able to actually enjoy it,” Namjoon advises wisely, preferring to keep his obvious distaste for the weather to himself.

“That’s where you’re wrong, good sir,” Taehyung says, shooting Namjoon a finger gun alongside a wink. “I can complain about the heat and enjoy the trip at the same time. I’m a good multitasker.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. Taehyung’s always been like this.

The Uffizi, ironically enough, is shaped like a gigantic U, where you start at the very top floor of the museum and make your way around and down, slowly traipsing through room after room of stunning artwork, whether it be sculptures, paintings, and everything in between. You find the setup to be much more manageable than some of the other museums you’ve been to in your time as a museum aficionado, the layout easy to navigate and certain exhibits entirely unhidden.

More than once does Jungkook urge you to break away from your tour group and go exploring, and you almost cave in once or twice, but you understand that, between the two of you you are part of that select group of kids in your orchestra that don’t actually give Bang minor headaches, and therefore you should probably stay with your group, for Bang’s sake.

“This city is the birthplace of the Renaissance as we know it, please?” Jungkook asks, tugging on your arm as you enter another room filled entirely with stone sculptures and busts. You actually find his desire to abandon the tour group quite endearing, like he appreciates art so much he wants to explore it, admire it, cherish it in his own time, without having to keep up with the quick pace of the tour guide. It is something so unabashedly Jungkook, an unapologetic want to let the art sink in for himself without the crackly voice of a tour guide speaking into his ear.

“Jungkook, you know we shouldn’t,” you advise him, quite honestly shocked that you have turned into the sole diligent orchestra member between the two of you. Never in a million years could you imagine Jungkook wanting to break the rules and you wanting to follow them considering who you are as individuals and who you hang out with as friends.

“Aw, come on, Thumper, live a little,” he pleads. “Look, we’ve already drifted to the back of the group.”

He motions up ahead of you, where the tour group is currently gathered around a particular sculpture that even Jungkook bears very little interest in. You and Jungkook have strayed behind, and the rest of your friends are closer to the front, too immersed in the tour to notice your absence. Jungkook’s got a gleam in his eye and a wonder decorating his features, like he’s aching to get out and explore as much as he can. One of his hands is held tightly to his camera, the other, in your own. You can’t believe you’re about to do this.

“Fine,” you submit to his desires, not that you seem to mind very much either. You seem to have gotten progressively weaker and weaker to Jungkook’s causes as the trip’s gone on, both a blessing and a curse. “But if we get in trouble, it’s your fault.”

“Yes!” Jungkook cheers. He keeps his eyes trained on Bang, and when the conductor has his back turned to you, he grabs onto you and you quickly shuffle out of sight.

“This is literally such a shitty idea, Jungkook,” you tell him as you enter a different room, filled less with sculptures and more with art from the Gothic, pre-Renaissance periods. “We could get lost.”

“We’ll be fine,” Jungkook says, shrugging off your concerns. “I snagged a map. Look. We’re a couple of rooms away from The Birth of Venus and Primavera.”

“You just wanted to explore this place by yourself,” you say matter-of-factly, sighing as Jungkook tugs you towards another piece of artwork, lined with gold, blue, and red. It portrays a part of the story of Christ, a common muse amongst the artists of the age.

“This is true,” he admits to you, “but I’m not by myself. Look, I’m here with you.”

And maybe he only means that in a literal sense but you take it to heart anyway, allow yourself to fall into this fleeting dream where you and Jungkook are in Italy together, no loud group of friends or youth orchestra to interrupt your plans, where it is just you and him and the city of Florence all to yourselves. Where you can do what you please and take as much time as you need and explore all you want without anybody stopping you. Where you can hold hands and it isn’t just for show and take pictures of each other to preserve in the photo albums of your brain and your heart. A dream where you are in Italy together and there is no contract standing in your way, a bitter reminder that even if the location is real your relationship is not.

“I guess,” you say out loud, more a reminder to yourself than to him that you are together physically and nothing else.

“Come on, Botticelli is a couple of rooms over,” he says quickly, tugging you towards the prize he’s got his eyes trained on, arguably the most famous of the pieces housed in this museum. They’ll have crowds in front of them, for sure, but that’s alright. Jungkook’s tall, and he’ll be able to lift you up in more ways than one.

Though Jungkook does seem to be in a bit of a rush to get to the paintings, he takes his time exploring each room, reading the plaques in earnest and staring as closely as he can at the paintings, analyzing each one like the art student he was meant to be. It’s wondrous, really, the way he falls so deeply into the art in front of him, like a well he’ll never escape from. He looks at each piece like it is just as important as the one next to it, even if they aren’t nearly as famous as others, because to him art is a gift, a treasure that should be preserved, recognized, and celebrated.

As you approach the open doorway to the room containing Botticelli’s work, Jungkook gasps softly beside you, floored even from seeing the work from far away. It’s right there, right in front of him, and it’s as though Jungkook doesn’t really know what to do with himself now.

“Hey, let’s go,” you murmur to him. His feet seem to have given up and he’s rooted firmly in place, like if he takes another step he’ll simply collapse. “Come on, Jungkook. You’re almost there.”

It seems as though he’s in a trance as he follows you along, tugging him closer and closer to the piece. Primavera has less of a crowd in front of it than The Birth of Venus a few meters away, and so you pull him up close, standing right in front of the painting as he stares at it from in front of the glass that protects it.

“Look,” you whisper to him as if he needs the extra instruction. Jungkook can’t help the way his camera immediately comes up, knowing that even if he stares down the painting for another fifteen hours it will never be preserved in his brain the way a photo is.

You don’t know if you’d rather gaze at the artwork or at Jungkook, who is as much of a masterpiece as everything else in this museum is. You elect, just for today, to let your eyes drift to the art, because maybe, selfishly so, you’ll be able to continue looking at Jungkook long after you’ve left Italy. You barely notice the way he leaves your side to get a couple of different angles of the painting, allowing yourself to sink into the art as much as he has. You lack the analytical abilities and artistic prowess that Jungkook possesses at the tips of his fingers but that’s alright because you don’t need either of those to know that this is a piece of artwork worth saving.

“Beautiful,” Jungkook says when he joins back up at your side, your fears of being caught by your tour group long forgotten. You can’t help but wish that he wasn’t talking about the art but instead talking about you, but that is a thought to be shoved into the deep crevices of your mind, far from anything that may leave your mouth.

The crowds mean absolutely nothing when Jungkook lays his eyes on The Birth of Venus, the painting illuminated by a single bulb but otherwise shadowed for safe-keeping purposes. There’s an entire Chinese tour group standing in front of the painting, old ladies whipping out their massive iPads to take a thousand photos from the exact same position as though one of them will turn out better than all of the others.

“This,” Jungkook says when you finally make your way towards the painting. He doesn’t need to elaborate. You know. Italy is a dream for someone like Jungkook, someone who can’t help but fall in love with every new piece of art he comes across. And Jungkook is a dream for someone like you, someone who can’t help but fall in love with—

“Is this what you had dreamed of?” You ask him softly. Jungkook isn’t taking out his camera for this one. He doesn’t need to. This one he’s studied, analyzed, inspected, down to each and every stroke of the brush. Even if Jungkook isn’t an art major he is an artist nonetheless, and a painting as famous as this one is something he doesn’t think he’ll forget. Not in a million years.

“More,” he whispers back, and it feels sort of like a slow motion movie, like the world is stopping but you’ll forever be able to gaze at this painting, like it is the only thing left for your eyes to look at. That’s what this feels like. Jungkook’s grip on your hand has gotten tighter but you don’t mind at all, not when he looks like he’s just seen a supernova burst in front of him. Jungkook’s eyes are permanently decorated with wonder but right now they seem to have something else in them too, like awe, like amazement, like pure beauty is staring him right in the face and he doesn’t know what to do with himself because of it.

“Don’t you want to take a photo?” You ask, nudging his camera. Jungkook’s camera hangs limply from his neck and even if he’s got a hand holding the device he makes no move to do anything about it.

“No,” Jungkook says. “This is the kind of thing I want to remember all to myself.”

Sometimes, you wonder what goes on in that head of his when he sees artwork like this. Artwork so famous, so revered, so breathtaking, that he doesn’t know what to do with himself, how to react other than with an open mouth and an awed expression. But then you realize that the way he feels when he stares at paintings like The Birth of Venus, like The Last Judgement, is the way that you feel when you stare at him. Because even if he doesn’t realize it, he himself is art, the same kind of art that he loves. Art that is worth remembering.

You and Jungkook catch up with your group somewhere along the first floor, near the end of the guided tour. Not that any of them noticed that you were missing in the first place, though Hoseok does send you a wink and a cheeky little smirk when you make a reappearance. And as the tour guide wraps up, pointing out a couple of the last few notable pieces of art, you ask Jungkook how he feels, and he tells you that he never wants to forget this moment, right now, because it is everything he has ever wanted.

The city of Florence is littered with so many art museums, galleries, palaces that it’s hard to catch a break in such a bustling city. Not that you really mind, especially since they give you the evenings off to do your own thing, but it’s easy to recognize that this city is the birthplace of the Renaissance when, with each corner you turn, there is another place to be discovered, art to be found.

Someone who very, very obviously does not mind this whatsoever is Jungkook. In fact, when you spend so much time with him you often times find yourself roped into his expeditions to seek out more paintings, sculptures, churches, architecture, anything that even screams Florentine art to him. Not that it’s something that particularly bothers or inconveniences you. Especially when the rest of your friends are sick of Jungkook’s unyielding desire to art and you are, as his honorary fake girlfriend, are not.

Throughout your week and a bit in Florence you can’t count on both of your hands how many different museums, churches that you’ve explored together. Jungkook’s got a hand on his camera and he doesn’t seem to want to let go, constantly taking photos of the art and the mosaics and the designs and of you, even if you sometimes tell him you look awful and that the art is worth remembering more than you are. Jungkook seems to beg to differ. He says that all the photos are for his portfolio. You imagine that thing must be a mile long at this point considering how many memory cards he’s gone through during this trip.

“I’m hungry,” you whine one day when you’re journeying on your own for a little around lunchtime. You’ve got an arranged tour (courtesy of Bang) for later in the afternoon, a trip to The Academy to see Michelangelo’s David, but right now you’re free to do what you please. Jungkook’s already gotten you to go into the Basilica di San Lorenzo this morning, and your stomach is grumbling.

“Hey, here’s a place,” Jungkook points out as you come up the street to a restaurant in a square-that-is-not-a-square-but-more-like-a-triangle, a place with indoor and outdoor seating. The smell that wafts through the air is enough to have you and Jungkook both asking for a table for two, sitting down by the side of the covered outdoor veranda as you stare down the menus. They’ve got a pasta list the same size as some of the essays you submitted in high school, all of which look as appetizing as the previous.

“This place knows how to treat pasta-lovers well,” Jungkook comments as you pick out your pasta of choice, one with truffle that you know is going to be stinking up your breath for the rest of the day. It’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make for the sake of the meal. “I want to order everything.”

“Slow down there, tiger. We can come back, if you’d like,” you suggest, the implications of another fake date slipping your mind. The question of “What are we?” makes you laugh from how overused it is, but even still, it applies perfectly.

The waitress comes by quickly, taking your orders and swooping up the menus, and you’re left alone listening to the sounds of the street music from several meters away, a father and a son performing in the middle of the square to passersby. It feels peaceful, homey. Like this is where you are meant to be.

“Let me take a photo of you,” Jungkook pleads, already making to get his camera out. “Please?”

Instead of objecting like you normally would, you nod, allowing Jungkook to snap as many pictures as he wants. It’s high time you indulge him, with how much he asks you to. Smiling softly, you grin towards the camera as he snaps away, unable to erase the smile that grows on his face at the sight of you. You wonder if you really are that photogenic, because all of your school IDs say otherwise, quite frankly.

“Okay, now let me take a photo of you,” you demand, making grabby hands over the table towards Jungkook’s camera. Very rarely is Jungkook ever the one in front of the camera, always preferring to be behind it, have his finger clicking away on the silver button, which you find astounding considering how deserving Jungkook is of having his photo taken, deserving to have that luxury just as everyone else.

“What? No way,” Jungkook says, holding his camera near and dear to his heart. “No. I don’t get my photo taken.”

“That’s about to change,” you declare, going so far as to stretch over the table to see if you can loop Jungkook’s camera over his head to snag it for yourself.

“Excuse me?” Jungkook asks indignantly, though he’s making absolutely no move to stop you, already resigning himself to the reality of you snagging a photo of him. You easily pull his camera from him, sitting back down in your seat and holding the camera up to your eye, letting the lens focus in on the man sitting in front of you.

“You heard me,” you tell him. “Smile, Jungkook. A picture’s worth a thousand words.”

With a sigh, Jungkook does. He closes his eyes and grins widely and even through the tiny viewfinder he looks gorgeous, looks like he’s just part of the photo instead of the focus of it. Looks like he belongs here, in Florence, surrounded by the art that he so loves and the food that he craves. He smiles and it reaches the corner of his closed eyes and God, he’s beautiful. You don’t think the camera does him justice, but it sure as hell comes close enough. With a click, you take the photo and lower the camera, hoping that maybe, if he doesn’t hear you, you’ll be able to look at him just a little longer.

“Alright,” you say softly, handing him back his camera. “There. Now you’ll get to remember yourself here, too.”

Maybe, if you’re lucky, he’ll remember the girl behind the camera as well.

Michelangelo’s David is the kind of art that you don’t know what to do with yourself when you finally lay eyes on it. The kind of art that renders you not only speechless but your mind blank, an iconic piece of work that is the emblem of an era, an art form in and of itself. That’s what it is. David is the kind of art that holds nothing less than the highest praise possible.

It’s strange, organizing a tour group for a place like the Academy. It’s small, well-known only for its housing of Michelangelo’s famed statue. There’s not very much else to see other than some lesser known pieces, nor is the place suited for massive herds of people at a time. Even still, the building manages to cram in fifty youth orchestra members without too much of a hassle, so you suppose that the capacity is bigger than you thought.

David is, unsurprisingly, the main attraction. He has an entire section of the biggest room all to himself, standing proudly at the end of it. And even peering through the cracks of the doors in the entrance is enough to get Jungkook grinning, aching to see the sculpture for himself. Michelangelo isn’t necessarily Jungkook’s idol but he’s someone Jungkook knows so deeply, so profoundly, that it leaves a heavy impact on him either way.

When you make it inside the main room, Jungkook stops. His breath catches in his throat as he stares up at the sculpture, the five-meter tall man of marble proudly waiting for him at the end. The rest of the group shuffles ahead of him, desperate to get as up close and personal with the statue, but Jungkook refuses. He stays back to admire, looking above all of the people gathered around the glass barrier protecting the sculpture, a perfect view of the Biblical hero. Wordlessly, he pulls out his camera, immediately snapping a photo.

There is so little to say and so much to look at. What you are laying your eyes upon is nothing less than the symbol of an artistic god. Jungkook keeps a firm grip on your hand but says absolutely nothing, instead opting to simply walk up to the sculpture, look at it with his own two eyes, let the sight sink in like he has with so many others. This is a piece of art he wants engraved into his brain, etched permanently into his memory, and it’s easy to understand why.

He says nothing but he doesn’t need to. You can see it in his eyes, the way he gazes at the statue like if he blinks, he’ll forget it entirely. That expression of pure wonderstruckness in his eyes, decorating his face. He’s smiling, though. Like this is where he’s meant to be, nowhere else. He’s smiling and he’s beautiful and David is art but so is Jungkook, in every sense of the word.

It’s strange. It’s like you’ve fallen for Jungkook without even meaning to. Like the napkin on the tray table means nothing anymore.

With two days to go before you have to leave Florence, leave Italy once and for all, things are beginning to wind down. With visits to the major attractions already tucked under your belt and your last performance over last night, Bang seems have lost all motivation to keep his youth orchestra organized and instead has just given the lot of you free reign until you have to meet in the lobby of the hotel the day that you leave. It’s probably a mistake on his part, but you aren’t going to ruin your freedom by admitting that aloud.

Hoseok dragged you out the entire day on the hunt for clothes, leaving Jungkook to his own devices as Taehyung clung to him like a koala bear, citing his newfound girlfriend as reasoning for their lack of physical contact over the past few weeks. Jungkook had repeatedly reminded Taehyung that the two of them have slept in the exact same bed every single night since the beginning of the trip, and Taehyung is no stranger to draping his entire body over his bed buddy for the sake of warmth and comfort.

You and Hoseok and Jungkook and Taehyung reach the lobby of the hotel at roughly the same time, far past normal dinner time for such non-Italians like yourselves. Hoseok’s got about five shopping bags in his hands and looks about ready for a fat nap, but Jungkook and Taehyung are alive as ever.

“Long day, Hobi?” Taehyung asks when he sees your best friend, already collapsing into one of the chairs in the lobby.

“The longest,” Hoseok agrees. “Made all the more long by this one right here.”

“Excuse me!” You cry indignantly. You can’t believe Hoseok would roast you like this in front of your own fake boyfriend and his best friend. How could he do you like this. “I am a morale booster and incredibly fun to be around. Jungkook, vouch for me.”

“She’s fun sometimes,” Jungkook admits nonchalantly, making you sneer at him. Of course.

“Alright, fuck you.”

“You wanna bet?” Jungkook challenges.

“I’m taking Hoseok to the hotel restaurant before the two of you start doing something about the obvious sexual tension in the room. Okay, bye!” Taehyung says quickly, grabbing onto Hoseok’s arm and practically dragging him towards the hotel elevator before either you or Jungkook can stop him. The two of them disappear from your sight faster than you can say Florence, and pretty soon is it just the two of you waiting in the lobby.

“Have you eaten?” Jungkook asks, checking the time. It’s nearly eight o’clock, and the last thing you had was some plum gelato in a gelateria by the Duomo a couple of hours ago. You are, admittedly, a bit hungry.

“Not yet,” you tell him.

“Cool.” Jungkook nods. “Let’s go out.”

And so you and him leave the lobby in search of a nice restaurant to settle down in, perhaps indulge in a spritz since it is your second-to-last night, after all. Not that there’s a shortage of them around, but most of them seem to be filled to the brim with tourists, persistent waiters inviting you inside in the hopes that they’ll be able to gain your custom.

“Was there really some unresolved sexual tension between us in the lobby?” You ask, Taehyung’s words popping back into your head as Jungkook swings your interlocked hands together in between your bodies as you walk. “I didn’t even notice.”

“I don’t know, man, you were the one who said ‘Fuck you’. I didn’t know you wanted to bone that bad,” Jungkook jokes, though the sentences come out of his mouth completely seriously, making you gasp.

“Not like that! My God,” you exclaim in shock, giving Jungkook a shove. “Don’t talk about it like us wanting to bone. That’s so… unsexy.”

Jungkook chuckles. “Would you rather me be sexy about it? Didn’t know you were into exhibitionism, either.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“You love me,” Jungkook teases. It’s weird. Maybe you do.

“That’s debatable,” you warn, especially after the conversation you’ve just had. “Don’t forget about our napkin contract. Nowhere did it have any specifications on any sexual tension, real or not. So I don’t wanna hear it.”

Jungkook nods, lips pursed into a tight line at the mention of the napkin. “Yes, the napkin contract,” he says stiffly. “I had almost forgotten about that.”

That makes two of you.

You eventually stumble upon the same restaurant you had eaten at the day you went to see Michelangelo’s David, the one in the square-that’s-a-triangle. It’s busy, but the sound of Italian drifts through the air and you and Jungkook both know that you’ve found yourselves a restaurant worth visiting a second time, one without obnoxious tourists such as yourselves to ruin the immersion.

The two of you order the exact same things you did the last time you were here, but Jungkook’s left his camera with Taehyung (on accident, of course), meaning no photo opportunities tonight.

“Cheers to our second-to-last night in Italy,” Jungkook says, holding up his orange spritz. You grab your own, clinking his glass.

“Cheers.”

It’s bittersweet. You don’t want to go but you don’t know how much longer you can do this if you stay. Like you’re trying to hold onto something that’s not real in the hopes that maybe, if you grab tight enough, it will be. You know that the feelings, whatever kind of feelings they are, you have for Jungkook are indecipherable at best. Wondering if you’re in love with him or just in love with the feeling or if you’re even in love at all. When you look at Jungkook it’s not necessarily love. No fireworks, no fanfare. It just feels like beauty. Like you’re staring down a sense of euphoria in the face, and it’s him. Peculiar.

Your curfew is at ten o’clock sharp, but you and Jungkook have spent the last two hours lounging at this restaurant, making mindless jokes and tasteful commentary and laughing all the same. You’ll probably miss your curfew, but neither of you seem to mind. It’s gotten quieter at the restaurant now, most of the customers long on their way, but you and Jungkook have stayed. Watched as the sun set and the street lights came on, illuminating the cobblestone roads and alleyways as everyone makes their way back home.

“Do you wanna go?” Jungkook asks. The check has long since been taken but you and Jungkook made no effort to leave when it did. In fact, your waitress even gave the two of you a small glass each of complimentary champagne.

“I don’t want to go back to the hotel,” you whine, the idea of bringing this night to a close so soon incredibly unappealing.

Jungkook shrugs. Grins softly. Holds his warm hand out. “We don’t have to go back to the hotel.”

And this is how you end up strolling the streets of Florence, long after the other tourists have gone back to their places of lodging and only the locals remain, celebrating at bars and making their way back to their own homes. It’s a clear night tonight, not a single cloud covering the navy of the sky. There are hardly any stars visible in a bustling city like Florence, but that’s alright (Jungkook’s eyes are more than enough to keep you satisfied) because the moon is out, a crescent glow alongside the warm yellow of the street lamps.

The feeling is like the first day you put fairy lights up in your room and the sun sets and suddenly everything is romantic and wonderful and cozy all at once, a foreign sensation you are perfectly willing to get used to. That’s what this night feels like. Cozy. Homey. All things that make you wish it wasn’t so soon that you had to go, because you’ll never get something like this again. Something so intimate, so real.

There are only a few street musicians out playing now, most of them having packed up for the night, awaiting the next day to start the process all over again, but there is enough to create a little soundtrack for your stroll, the hazy hum of background music soothing your pounding thoughts. Jungkook doesn’t have his camera but it’s nice to see him without it, nice to see him walking with no purpose in mind, without his beautiful eyes hidden behind the black device in his hands. Without that camera looped around his neck it feels more like an everyday evening stroll rather than an excursion in Italy, like this is something you do normally, a routine that you have. It’s nice. It’s warm. It’s all him, really.

“This is so peaceful,” Jungkook comments as you stumble upon a lone street musician. She’s playing a soft melody on her flute, the soprano sound soothing, music to your ears. You don’t recognize the tune but you don’t need to, not in order to appreciate good music and talented players.

You and Jungkook wait around her for a while, loitering on the other side of the street as the moon reflects off of the silver of her instrument. She seems to notice your presence, smiling to herself as she continues to play. No dancing, this time. No need for it. You and Jungkook can simply sway back and forth the sound, the melody, without needing to break into moves.

When she finishes what you are sure is the fourth or fifth song you’ve hung around for, Jungkook walks up to drop a five Euro bill into the case in front of her, a donation she greatly appreciates. She deserves much more than five Euros, the both of you know as much. Someone as talented as her deserves a spot in an acclaimed orchestra. She’s not playing Top 50 Disney tunes, she’s playing sonatas, chorales, etudes, classics, all from memory. It’s clear she’s been studying the craft for plenty of years. The two of you clap as you leave, continuing to meander down the rest of the street, telling her grazie as you go. She deserves a lot more than this, but it’s all you can offer her right now.

“That was so nice,” Jungkook comments as the two of you wander around. You have no idea where you are, not with all of the stores you had been using as landmarks closed up, blinds drawn and doors locked, but that’s alright. Sometimes you don’t need to know where you’re going, you just need to know that you are going.

“I know,” you agree softly, humming the tune she had left you with. “Bang would like her.”

“I think that the London Symphony Orchestra would like her, quite honestly,” Jungkook compliments, something you absolutely have no choice but to agree with. She made your night.

“This is nice, too,” you add on softly. There’s little energy left in your bodies after such a long day, but just enough for you to continue to wander, no desire to go back to the hotel any time soon.

“This?” Jungkook asks, confused. He doesn’t stop walking but he does turn to look at you, a bewildered expression lacing his features.

“This. Walking around at night with the street lamps. It’s like… seventy degrees and breezy. There aren’t any more tourists. The alleyways are dark but still comforting. I like this. I like being here.”

The “with you” goes unsaid but you hope that Jungkook picks it up anyway, hope that he recognizes all the thoughts in your head you are too afraid to say aloud for fear that they may be lies or worse, that they might come true. Hope that the things left unsaid are said nonetheless, but in a wordless way.

Jungkook hums to himself, turning back to face forward. You don’t know what that means, but you can feel the way his hand on yours gets tighter, afraid to let you go. What’s bizarre is that you’re afraid for him to let you go as well.

There is something about Florence that feels more final than any of the other trips. Like this is the end of the road, the last stop. Because the nagging voice in your brain keeps reminding you, over and over, that you and Jungkook agree to stop with this fucking nonsense, put an end to this fake relationship but this real contract at the end of this vacation, and here you are. When you first wrote that thing down on the airplane napkin the end of your trip in Italy felt light years away but now, now it’s just on the horizon but you think you’d rather never see the sun again.

“I like being here, too,” he says softly, so inaudible that you could barely hear him if it weren’t for the quietness of the world around you.

You eventually become aware of your surroundings when you come across the magnificent Duomo, made all the more enchanting in the moonlight. It’s difficult to miss and even more difficult to not know where you are, other than the center of the city. Your hotel shouldn’t be too far away from here, down one of the side streets that connect to the square where the Duomo rests. Even in near darkness, it is an architectural marvel. The stones aren’t as colorful in the dark but that’s alright because you can still see the different patterns, the different shades of marble as they blend together.

“Hey, look,” Jungkook says, pointing up. There’s a bird flying overhead and it makes the entire scene all the more romantic. “A beautiful end to a beautiful stay in Italy.”

“Speaking of ending things,” you say, the idea popping into your head before you can stop yourself. You know you shouldn’t. Selfishly, you know that if you don’t mention anything then maybe this façade of a relationship can continue far past the end of this trip, but you won’t do that to yourself and more importantly, you won’t do that to him. You’ve fallen in love but it feels more like you’ve fallen in love with the feeling than with the boy. You can’t do that to him. “When are we gonna tell our friends?”

“About what?” Jungkook asks, clueless. Like he’s really forgotten.

“About us, silly,” you say, hoping to keep the tone light in spite of the darkness around you. “We’re finished in a couple days. The least we could do is fess up and come clean.”

“Oh,” Jungkook says, the realization sinking in. The smile that once decorated his face is gone, replaced by something unreadable. “Right. I forgot about that.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a laugh. Oh God, it’s getting awkward. It’s getting awkward and tense and stiff and this is exactly what you didn’t want, what you were hoping wouldn’t happen because that means that this fake relationship has become too real. It means that somewhere you had crossed the line between acting and reality but neither of you know when that happened and now you’re too scared to go back. Fuck. “I mean, I’ve always been pretty bad at confessing.”

Jungkook’s silent. He’s thinking. You can tell by the way his mouth sits solemnly on his face, the furrow of his brows. He’s standing in front of the Duomo with you but no longer are your hands intertwined. You can’t remember when they stopped being connected, and more importantly, you can’t remember who did it first. He’s thinking and you’re afraid to find out what about, worried that whatever he says will cause the whole thing to come crashing down like a wrong move in a game of Jenga. That’s what this feels like, now that you think about it. That’s what this whole relationship has felt like. Like a game of Jenga where everything is fine until everything isn’t.

And then, Jungkook pulls you in close, his one hand on your waist and the other around the back of your neck, and he kisses you.

Really kisses you. His warm lips press firmly onto yours and you gasp at the sensation but your body immediately melts into it, a feeling you cannot believe you starved yourself of for so long. He’s always been right there but you’ve never done anything about it until now, and now you don’t know what to do because of that. He really kisses you and it feels like a million years and a split second all at once because holy shit Jeon Jungkook is kissing you and you’re kissing back and then—

“I’m bad at confessing, too,” Jungkook says shyly, out of breath. His eyes are wide, like he can’t believe he’s just done that but it’s too late to take it back.

“Jungkook, what—”

“This whole thing, I don’t want it to end, Thumper,” he tells you. “It’s always been real to me. Fuck the napkin contract. I’ve always wanted to be with you, prank or not. I don’t want it to be over.”

It’s too much. It’s everything you were hoping to hear but your mind can’t seem to process it. Like a tsunami crashing into a pier, and you’re standing on the edge of it hoping that you stay dry but at the same time wishing it takes you with it.

Practically speechless, you say, “Jungkook, I—”

“Please, Y/N,” he begs, but you already feel yourself drifting away, a piece of wood floating out to sea. Your feet are moving faster than your heart but that’s alright because when in doubt, run.

“I can’t, Jungkook,” you say softly. You don’t notice the tears until they’re streaming down your cheeks, warped from your footsteps on the cobblestone as you dash away. “I can’t.”

You don’t turn back around but you don’t need to, not when you know Jungkook will still be there, as heartbroken as ever.

The next day is spent in your hotel bed, and that’s it.

You’re kidding, but you wish it was like that. You snuck into your hotel room far past curfew to a bed and a half of your sleeping roommates and, barely remembering to wipe away your makeup and brush your teeth, climbed into bed sniffling, wishing that the whole thing had just been a memory.

You know that it’s real when you wake up the next morning to find five missed calls and a dozen texts, all from Jungkook. You swipe away each one, letting the notification disappear from your phone, and that’s when you notice your empty room and the knock at your door. Hardly caring about your just-rolled-out-of-bed appearance, you trudge up to the door and find an animated Hoseok behind it, eyes wide and bucket hat a fluorescent highlighter yellow. He’s always had a thing for colors like that.

“Y/N! Ready to—oh my god, are you okay?” He asks.

“I’m fine, Hobi. I just woke up,” you tell him, not wanting to alert him of anything alarming. You’d hate to ruin his vacation with woes of your non-existent, pretend love life. It’d also mean explaining the entire thing to him, and you don’t know if you’re willing to sacrifice yourself like that. Not yet, at least.

“You just woke up?” Hoseok asks, in shock. “It’s noon! You never wake up this late, not even back home! Are you sure everything is okay?” He asks. He’s too good of a friend, too used to your mannerisms and habits. Nothing slips by him, goddamnit.

“Yes, I swear, Hobi,” you say, rubbing your eyes to get the sleep gunk out of them. “What do you want?”

“Well, I was going to ask you if you wanted to come out with me and we could go on a last-minute adventure before we have to leave tomorrow,” Hoseok suggests, an excursion that sounds much-needed considering the overwhelming amount of time spent with Jungkook the past few weeks, only to find yourself starved of his contact. “You could invite Jungkook, if you want. I don’t know what he’s up to…”

“No! No, it’s okay. Jungkook doesn’t need to come along with,” you exclaim, perhaps a bit too loudly for your liking. Hoseok scrunches up his nose in confusion, tilting his head like a bewildered puppy. Quickly, you search for an excuse before he can say anything. “I’ve been spending so much time with him recently. We should just do something together.”

“Alright… whatever you say, I guess.” Hoseok’s still hesitant, rightfully so, but he leaves you be and lets you get ready, camping out on your bed playing the new Harry Potter game on his phone. Last you heard, he was getting ready to duel that “bitch, Merula” in the courtyard. You emerge from your bathroom fifteen minutes later, though you would hardly consider yourself Italy-ready, you look mildly acceptable and hope that you’ve done a good enough job disguising the bags under your eyes, that the puffiness from last night’s crying extravaganza has gone down. It’d be nice if you could just simply go through the rest of the day without having to think of Jungkook but you can already feel yourself worrying about him and what he’s getting up to, what state you left him in last night. You don’t think you can bring yourself to see him again, even if on accident.

Hoseok’s animated self keeps your mind fairly occupied, though. He does a good job of distracting you even if he isn’t trying to, another one of the qualities he possesses that you so envy. He barely takes note of your less-energetic self, much more tired and reserved that normal, chalking it up to vacation fatigue rather than self-inflicted heartbreak. Luckily enough. You’d rather not start out your next conversation with him with, “Hey, remember when I told you Jungkook and I were dating? Well, it was all pretend except I ended up falling for him and now I don’t know what to do with myself, please help?”

“We didn’t get to spend a lot of time at Palazzo Vecchio, let’s go back,” Hoseok suggests, skipping up the street. “There’s that baby David that we didn’t get a very good look at.”

“We saw the real thing, Hobi,” you remind him.

“I know, but this one is just as cool and just as important,” Hoseok insists. “Namjoon told me that Palazzo Vecchio is Florence’s city hall. Isn’t that cool?”

You suppose it is. Though, anything that Hoseok gets excited about is cool in your eyes.

You spend the day out with Hoseok and it lightens your mood extraordinarily, Hoseok’s joy and excitement contagious, getting the best of even you. You knew that you made the right choice when you befriended Hoseok back as children. He always seems to know exactly what he’s doing, without even trying. The sun works hard but Hoseok works much harder.

“Can’t believe this is all over tomorrow,” Hoseok admits as he spreads out in the center of Palazzo Vecchio, happily lying down like a starfish in an aquarium display. You wonder if just the front of his body will get tanned from this, even if he spends only five minutes in the position. You’ll never let him live it down if he returns home from Italy with the front half of his body much darker in color than the back half. He’ll look ridiculous. “Wish we could stay here forever.”

“You and me both,” you admit. You wonder what Jungkook is doing right now, if he’s thinking of you just like you’re thinking of him.

“Feels like just yesterday Yoongi was downing three shots of espresso in quick succession.”

“He did do that yesterday, didn’t he?” You ask. You have this vague memory of him at a cafe somewhere in Florence, ordering either a third or a fourth espresso shot like the absolute heathen he is.

“Wait, let me rephrase that. Feels like just yesterday Yoongi was downing three shots of espresso in quick succession in Rome,” Hoseok emphasizes, making you laugh. He’s right, though. It does feel like just yesterday you were landing at the Rome International Airport and Jungkook was placing a slobbery, wet kiss on your cheek. Feels like just yesterday the two of you confessed your relationship to your friends. Feels like just yesterday you were standing in the Sistine Chapel, staring up at the ceiling together.

And it was just yesterday when all of the memories came crashing down around you, an earthquake striking your mind and leaving it in nothing but a pile of rubble.

“Are you gonna want to come back here? When we’re out of college and paid off our student debt?”

“So, never?” You joke even if the harsh reality permeates your jest. Capitalism can suck your left big toe.

“Okay, true,” Hoseok admits. “But seriously. Are you going to want to come back? When you’re older? Before the rising sea levels suck this entire peninsula under the ocean?”

And you think to yourself that you’d love to, but only if you got to come with a certain someone. Wishful thinking.

Hoseok drops you off at your hotel room after you grab some sandwiches to eat for dinner, and you’re about to close the door and pass out from a long day of walking and an even longer day of thinking, when you spot Seokjin jogging towards you. You think that he’s going for Hoseok but then he stops at your room, sending you a small smile.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says. “Mind if I come in for a second?”

“Come on in,” you invite him inside. Seokjin paces about the little floor space left in your room—Minnie’s ridiculously messy—before taking a seat on the edge of your shared bed with Miyeon and the only surface that isn’t covered in clothes. “What’s up?”

“Have you spoken to Jungkook recently?” Seokjin dives right in. The mention of his name is an arrow to your heart but the abruptness of it all causes alarms to go off in your brain.

“Uh—” you begin, sputtering for an answer that won’t lead to you giving yourself away. “Why do you ask?”

“Because his mood has taken a 180 this past twenty-four hours and I am almost certain it has something to do with you,” he says, but it doesn’t feel like he’s placing blame or pointing his fingers at you. It more just feels like an observation, something he’s picked up on in the past day. You’ll give him credit for that, at least.

“Wow, alright,” you say, hands up in surrender.

“Listen, Y/N,” Seokjin says before running a hand through his hair. It reaches the back of his neck and he tilts his head back, exasperated. “I know that you and Jungkook have had a fake relationship this entire time.”

“What?”

You stumble for a response, stuttering hopelessly even though Seokjin’s very obviously seen through your entire act. Are the two of you that transparent?

“Unlike everybody else, I didn’t have my headphones in when the two of you were discussing the terms of your agreement on the plane. I had very conveniently locked them up in my overhead carry-on and was much too lazy to fish for them,” Seokjin says pointedly, making you groan in despair as you collapse on the bed beside him.

“God, could this vacation get any worse?” You ask to the higher powers above you.

“I didn’t tell anyone, obviously,” Seokjin reminds you. “And quite frankly, I had no idea that it would snowball into this. I thought the two of you were just doing this for laughs and that’s it. You were gonna get everyone real good.”

“That was the plan,” you mumble bitterly.

“You know, Taehyung and I spoke a couple of days ago. About the two of you.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” You ask, grumbling into the pillow you’ve stuffed over your face. If you pray hard enough, maybe the ground will open up and swallow you whole.

“No, I’m rather good at keeping secrets, even if I wasn’t supposed to find out in the first place,” Seokjin says haughtily. “Taehyung told me that he was really proud of Jungkook for stepping up and confessing to you on the flight.”

You suddenly feel very guilty.

“He said that Jungkook had had this huge crush on you for ages beforehand and was just too scared to do anything about it.”

That makes you pop up like a puppet in a box, the pillow coming off your face and straight into your lap as you turn to Seokjin, shocked. “What?”

“He said that Jungkook really deserved somebody like you, because you made him so happy,” Seokjin continues, as if the life-altering revelation that Jeon Jungkook has been harboring this massive crush on you for ages prior to the agreement isn’t enough. “He said he hadn’t seen his best friend this happy in a really long time.”

(“He looks like he loves you a lot.”)

“You’re fucking with me,” you declare, the only feasible explanation at this point. There’s no way this is real. This is just another big prank orchestrated by all of your friends because Seokjin went on blabbing and now they’re getting back at you in the cruelest of ways. There’s no way that this is real.

“I’m not,” Seokjin insists firmly, and there’s a desperate part of your heart that’s aching for it to be true but your brain has the power and it’s telling your heart to move on. “But Jungkook’s been really down lately. I know that maybe you thought that the relationship was fake but it’s obvious that he didn’t.”

“It—I—” you begin, unable to form a coherent sentence. “But I was the one who fell in love with him! How is this even possible?”

Seokjin chuckles, a smile blossoming on his face. “I guess he had already fallen in love with you before this whole thing even begin.”

“I’m so fucking stupid,” you groan to yourself, collapsing back onto the bed and pressing the pillow over yourself, muffling your wails.

“You’re not, Y/N, listen,” he demands, pulling the pillow away from you. You wrestle him for a couple seconds but eventually let him have his way, the heat of the cushion coming off of your face. “Maybe the relationship was pretend on paper but it was rooted in reality. For the both of you. It’s clear that there are some feelings between the two of you. Maybe that’s why we all fell for it. Because it was real. You guys thought you were fooling us but the only people you were tricking were yourselves.”

“When did you get so wise, hmm, Seokjin?” You ask ruefully, unsure as to what to do next. You can’t just go back to Jungkook and ask to call an end to the fake part and but leave the relationship.

“I’m not wise, Y/N,” Seokjin says. “You two just looked like you needed a third party to help out.”

You grin, unbelievably thankful for a man by the name of Kim Seokjin. “I guess so, huh. So, what now?”

“Well, as far as I last heard, Jungkook was hanging around the Duomo. He told Taehyung he wanted to stay back for a little while.”

Your face lights up and your heart starts beating. “Really?” You ask, perhaps a bit too hopeful.

“Yeah,” Seokjin nods. “Go get your man.”

You bolt out the door.

Sure enough, you find Jungkook walking around the edges of the square, headphones in as the sun slowly sets over the horizon. There are still plenty of people out and about, finishing up their meals or just settling into their seats, and the street musicians are alive and active. Jungkook comes to a halt in front of a pair of violinists playing on one of the smoother streets in the area, a small crowd gathering around them.

Quickly, wordlessly, desperately, you dash up to Jungkook before he can slip from your sight and out of your hands forever.

“Jungkook!” You shout, and he can barely hear you over his music but he turns nonetheless, eyes widening when he sees you rushing towards him, already out of breath. You’re in orchestra, not a sports team. “Jungkook, wait!”

He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, but he does take a single earbud from his ear, turning to you with furrowed brows and a scrunched-up nose. “Y/N, what—?”

“Jungkook, don’t go,” you say as you catch up to him. Your shout seems to have interrupted the music in the background, both violinists and the crowd around them stopping to watch you. “I don’t want this to be over either.”

“What are you saying—?”

“I’m bad at confessing, too. Really bad. You probably already figured that out,” you joke, chuckling bitterly to yourself. “But when you said that you it’s always been real to you I realized that it’s always been real to me as well. That I don’t want to let you go, not here, not on the plane, and not back home. I want to be with you wherever you go.”

“You’re shitting me,” Jungkook says.

You shake your head, smiling at his disbelief. Like he can’t believe that all of his dreams are coming true. “I’m not. Fuck the napkin contract. That shit’s probably all crumpled up anyway. I want to be with you for real, no faking it, no acting, no games. I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want you.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Thumper?” He asks, coming up to you. His warm hands find purchase on your waist as he pulls you in close, guarding you tightly. You don’t even realize that you’re crying until his thumb comes up to wipe a stray tear away, and you laugh.

“I love you, Jeon Jungkook. For real, this time. No more contracts,” you tell him, gazing up into his eyes.

You have seen Jungkook stare at the most brilliant pieces of art in the world, seen him gaze into his camera to get the perfect shot, seen him glance at his music quickly before launching off into a song he’s memorized, and finally, you can say that you’ve seen Jungkook in love.

“You know what, Thumper?” He asks. “I love you too.”

When you kiss, the entire crowd and the two violinists explode into applause, but you barely take notice of them when Jungkook’s lips are on yours. Maybe Italy’s over but you and him are just beginning.

“Tell me about that portfolio you were making,” you say on the flight home. Everyone’s asleep around you, all but Seokjin wholly unaware that your relationship was even a farce to begin with. You think you’d like to keep it that way. Though maybe, in five years, you’ll come clean. Hopefully by that point, none of them will mind anymore. You’ve pushed the armrest that separates your seats up so you can snuggle up against him, his body temperature all the warmth you need on this frigid airplane.

“Oh, that?” He asks. He pulls up a page on his computer, and suddenly you’re presented with an entire album of pictures of just you, some you recognize and some you didn’t even realize he had taken. “It was this.”

“Are these all of me?” You ask, leaning in close. There must be at least four hundred photos in here and each of them have at least a bit of you in them, whether it be you talking with Hoseok or Namjoon or Yoongi or staring at art without knowing that Jungkook had been behind you, or the ones he’d convinced you to pose for or the ones that he sniped right before you had realized.

“Essentially, yes,” Jungkook admits guiltily, a cherry red tinting his cheeks as he curls in on himself, embarrassed. “I thought that when Italy was over, we’d just go back to being acquaintances or something, and I didn’t want to forget it. So I made this.”

“You have an entire album dedicated to me?” You ask. God, being in a relationship has turned the both of you into fucking softies. “I’m touched. Thank you.” You add onto your gratefulness by pressing a kiss into his cheek, making him blush impossibly harder.

“Yeah, well. I didn’t want to forget anything,” Jungkook says, something you can definitely agree with.

“Well, now you don’t have to,” you promise. “We can make new memories all the time, so you can delete that photo album of me. Or at least turn it into an Italy album rather than just a My Girlfriend album. That’s fucking cheesy as shit.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m never getting rid of this thing. There’s gems like this,” Jungkook says, pulling up a photo of you blowing into a tissue after a particularly hard sneeze in Venice.

You gasp, both endeared and incredibly offended. “Oh my God, I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I hate that I love you.”

“You know what? I’ll take it,” Jungkook says, pulling you in and planting a wet kiss on your cheek, right at the corner of your lips. “I hate that I love you, too.”

“Get a room!” Jimin shouts from next to you, sitting in the seat directly across the aisle from yours. He’s got this disgusted look on his face, but you and Jungkook just grin to yourselves. You have a feeling that you’re never going to get sick of grossing out your friends with your obnoxious public displays of affection.

“Can’t, the bathrooms are too small for what we want to do!” Jungkook calls back, making Jimin dry heave onto the floor beside the two of you before angrily stuffing his headphone back into his ear and hoping that the two of you will just shut the fuck up, for once. “I’m never gonna get sick of doing that.”

“Good.”

“Hey, Thumper, do you want to see all the photos I took of Seokjin? He’s gonna become Instagram famous, but not in the way he wants to because all of these photos are meme-worthy,” Jungkook asks, already clicking around to pull open the album.

“Oh my God, yes. You gotta send all of these to me,” you say, wrapping your body around Jungkook’s left arm as he begins to filter through each photo.

Jungkook’s got the window shade next to him cracked open the slightest bit, the night sky wholly unobtrusive considering the rest of the cabin is dark. You can’t make out the moon but you know that it’s there, somewhere, singing a melody that only the two of you can hear.

⇒ hmu with feedback or just talk to me here!

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #jungkook scenario #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #bts au #jungkook au #bts college au #jungkook college au #w: moonlight melody #THIS FIC IS LITERALLY 51K I KID YOU NOT #I HAVE SLAVED OVER THIS FOR SO LONG #MOONLIGHT MELODY BY RV IS BY FAR THE MOST LISTENED TO SONG ON MY ITUNES #AND FINALLY. SHE IS DONE

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