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mymelodyheart · 3 years

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Miles Between Us Chapter 11 ~Suspicious Minds~

Picture Edit by melodyheart

Previously in The Art of Non-Communication ...

A familiar bright red Fiat slowed down next to them just as Jamie was about to get into the car, and Ian, their brother-in-law, poked his head out of the window. "Hey, lads, guess who I just saw back in town?"

The brothers looked at each other and shrugged.

When Ian stalled, Willie blew out an impatient breath.

"Out with it!" Willie grumbled. "I've been away from work for far too long already."

Ian grinned. "Yer pal Christie."

Jamie waved a hand in the air in dismissal and turned to open the car door, not particularly interested in hearing the latest coming and going in Broch Mordha. "I'm pretty sure the lassies will be thrilled he's back."

"Aye, ye're probably right, but I dinnae think ye'd be too pleased to hear if one particular lass is enjoying his company."

Jamie whipped around. "What do ye mean?" He sounded like someone just launched a flying rugby pass onto his stomach.

"Saw Claire and Tom through the window of Slater's Arms. Probably sitting down for late lunch."

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Claire hurriedly made her way to Slater's Arms to meet Tom Christie. They'd arranged earlier to meet at the pub after he'd dropped her off at the village centre to do her errands, so she was surprised to see him waiting outside. After exchanging a hurried cursory hello, he allowed him to guide her through the half-filled bar, his hand ever so lightly touching her elbow. They were greeted by a string of boisterous sallies from the locals, to which Tom good-humouredly responded with a couple of wisecracks of his own . It was becoming pretty clear they were in his local haunt and was well-liked by its patrons. But she also suspected there could be whispers going around, wondering what she was doing with him. Despite those thoughts, she kept her head up, and a smile plastered to her face.

After navigating through the narrow maze of tables and chairs, they opted for an empty space by the window, away from the bar where a heated football discussion was just about to begin. They simultaneously slid into their seats, sitting opposite each other, his lopsided grin and lax manner putting her immediately at ease. He was seemingly oblivious to the curious stares around them, but Claire paid no heed to the attention they were garnering and pushed her earlier encounter with Jenny away from her mind. This was a professional meeting, a welcome distraction even though it was proving an impossibility not to picture Jamie across from her. Suddenly missing Jamie, she allowed her thoughts to momentarily drift and wondered what he was up to.

"Hey."

Claire snapped out of her reverie. "Huh?"

"I asked if ye're hungry."

"Oh! Well, I'm not sure," she murmured, squinting at the specials scrawled on the blackboard hanging behind the bar. "Sort of, I guess."

"Sort of?" he laughed. "What kind of answer is that?" He passed her a menu. "Here. Ye ought to try their haggis tweeds. They have the best in this area."

She snorted, taking the menu card and skimming through it. "Really? I've never met a Scot who liked haggis, and yet every one of you lot I've met recommends it to non-locals."

"Aaahh," he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. "To be honest, I dinnae like haggis myself when cooked the traditional way. But the haggis tweeds are different ...more palatable. They're rolled into balls, breaded and deep-fried. I'm quite sure ye'll like them."

"Hmmm ..." When she glanced up from the menu, she met his thoughtful gaze. Though smiling, he had an odd expression on his face. "Wot?" She smoothed her hair, thinking it must be all over the place. She dreaded what her hair looked like after being caught in the rain earlier on. She wished now she'd tied it back before leaving the cottage. "Anything wrong?"

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Just noticing ye dinnae look as upbeat as ye sounded on the phone the first time we talked. I was expecting ye to be more excited about selling me the idea of publishing my travel book. Ye kinda look as if something is bothering ye. Is anything the matter?"

She let out an exhale and placed the menu down. "I'm sorry. I've just had a rough day."

"Boyfriend problem?" he asked slowly.

She arched an eyebrow at him. Friendly as Tom was, Claire wasn't prepared to share any details of her personal life. "I just have a lot of things going on, and then you threw me out of the loop," she explained, not wanting to lie but not wanting to over-share either. "I was caught off-guard when you phoned earlier, and I wasn't expecting your call until, at least, sometime next week."

"Ye could've told me to meet at a later date. I wouldnae have minded."

"No! Today is fine," she assured him quickly. "I'm probably slowly weaning from the fast pace of hectic schedules in London, that at the first sign of change, I stumble a bit."

He grinned. "Weel, whatever is bothering ye, I dinnae like you looking so downcast. Maybe we can do something about it right now and tell ye a bit of good news. To cheer ye up."

"I like good news ..." she remarked, perking up, guessing he probably had a new picture or post on his blog he wanted to show.

"That's much better," he said when he caught a hint of a smile forming on her face. "As I was saying, I have a bit of good news. I've been giving your proposition a lot of thought ..." he shifted on his seat and took a deep breath. "I've decided I want to go ahead and publish my travel blog in print."

She blinked and swallowed before finding her voice. "But you haven't seen the projected sale and all the ..."

He waved a hand. "I'm quite sure after that impressive pitch over the phone, yer projected whatever and other wotnots ye wish to go over with me will be just as equally convincing. The idea is sold, and I'm on board."

"Just like that?"

He nodded his head, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Aye. Now that I've met ye in person, I'm pretty confident ye'll make sure I'll get a fair deal for my book. I'm a good judge of character, and I trust ye'll do what's right."

"Of course."

"So it's settled."

"Well, that's ...that's fabulous," she breathed, her mind rushing in all sorts of direction.

"This calls for a celebration, don't ye think?" he smiled, waving at the waitress.

Before Claire could reply, her purse vibrated. She pointed an index finger at Tom. "Hold that thought." She opened her bag and grabbed her phone. It was her boss, John Grey.

"Oh, hi, John! I'm in the middle of ..."

"Claire, I'm sorry to dump this on you," John said rapidly in a panicky tone. "Mary Hawkins just phoned and said she expects you to pick her up at Inverness Airport."

"Wot?!? But how? Why?" She glanced at Tom and noticed a light frown lining his brows. "She hasn't been answering any of my emails. What the hell is she doing in Inverness?" She knew it wasn't professional to be discussing another author over the phone with a potential client in front of her. But it couldn't be helped. At the moment, she was far too agitated to care. Mary Hawkins, the publishing's star author, had been elusive ever since she disappeared to France, and she'd been the reason Claire had decided to take a break in Scotland only to be given another job in the form of Tom Christie. "Please don't tell me you sent her here. I have enough on my plate as it is." She gave Tom an apologetic look, to which he just shrugged and smiled in understanding.

A frustrated sigh came from John. "I swear to God, this isn't my doing. She arrived yesterday here in London, and when she demanded to start work right away on her book, I assigned another editor. But she wouldn't have it. She insisted on working with you. So I told her you're in Inverness doing another project. And then she called a few minutes ago, demanding you pick her up at the airport. I swear I didn't know she was planning on flying to Inverness."

Oh, God! "John!" she whined. "I can't just drop everything and pick her up. I'm an editor, not a chauffeur! I'm in the middle of talks with Mr Christie."

"I'm terribly sorry for this mess, Claire but, isn't there anything you can do? Your boyfriend, perhaps? You know how Hawkins is a big deal for the company."

She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Claire felt she was being put in a position she didn't want to be in. On top of it all, her uncle would be arriving in two days, and there was the added worry she had with Jamie and potentially Jenny. The day was definitely getting worse by the second, but Claire reminded herself she was John's only hope, and he was a friend and had always been good to her. When she finally had the strength to open her eyes again, Tom mouthed something she couldn't quite catch.

Wot do you mean? She mouthed back, shaking her head.

"Claire, are you still there?"

"Yes!" she snapped, tamping down the urge to curse. "I'm here!"

"Well?"

She let out a frustrated breath. There was no way out of it. "Fine, John! But you owe me big time! I'll see what I can do." Damn it!

"You're a star!" John said, relief lacing his voice. "I knew I could rely on you. I'll text Hawkins to let her know you're on your way, and then I'll text you her private number. I don't think you'll have that. It's one of the reasons you couldn't get in touch with her. Anyway, let me know later how you get on."

Before she could answer, the line went dead. What the bloody hell just happened?

Claire dropped her head into her hands and groaned. She wanted to bawl, throw stuff and pull her hair out in frustration.

"Problems?"

She raised her head and looked at Tom. "I'm sorry you had to witness that. I have to cancel our meeting. I need to somehow get to Inverness and pick up this author I'm working with." Without going into too many details, Claire quickly explained her predicament, almost forgetting to breathe. By the time she finished, she was gasping for air and wondering if Tom understood what the hell she was on about. "As you can see, I probably have to organise her accommodation as well. So I really must get going." She stood up and grabbed her bag. "Raincheck?"

He got on his feet as well. "Look, I'm not doing anything for the rest of the day. How about I drive you to Inverness. I can even help you set her up."

"Tom, you don't have to."

"Hey, I'm about to get a book deal from your boss. Let me at least prove to ye what a perfect travel guide I am as I've portrayed on my blog."

Claire stopped to collect herself. On second thoughts, she did need Tom's help, and she couldn't well impose on Willie to drive her to Inverness when he'd been taking time off to check up on her ever since Jamie left. Maybe she could kill two birds with one stone and talk him through his own book's publishing process on their way to the airport. It was a brilliant idea, and hopefully, by the end of today, John would be able to draw up a contract for Tom. With a resigned smile, Claire appreciatively accepted the offer. "Alright then, but we do need to get going now."

"Absolutely. We'll go through the back door." When Claire looked at him curiously, he grinned. "I've parked the car in the staffs' parking lot. I'm good friends with the owner, so I get the privilege to walk through the kitchen and use the backdoor," he explained. Then he leaned closer to her ear and spoke in a low voice. "And if the chef is in a good mood, he might allow us to taste today's menu."

Claire laughed out loud, attracting attention from the pub's clientele. She ignored the curious stares. It was good to laugh again after the last couple of days of feeling down, and she owed it to herself to steer negativity and worries from her thoughts. "We'll stop by the cottage to get some clothes. Knowing my client, she'll probably want to stay in a posh hotel in Inverness and want to start working right away. She doesn't do bed and breakfast or small places. So I doubt she'll want to come to Broch Mordha."

Tom nodded with a smile as he took her hand and lead the way.

Heading to the back of the pub, Claire made a few mental notes on what she needed to take with her. She also reminded herself to message Willie about taking care of Rollo and Adso while she's away, hoping he would think nothing of it when he hears from the village gossip of her meeting with Tom.

...........

Jamie caught Willie's livid expression before the car started, and they were driving down the small country lane. He knew his brother was miffed with Ian, who'd sped ahead of them after revealing Claire's whereabouts with Christie. Though common sense told him he had nothing to be worried about, it had been still a punch in the gut to hear Claire was out with another man.

"Can ye speed up a bit?" Jamie muttered, shifting restlessly on his seat.

"We're not in a bloody motorway, and there are speed limits for a reason," Willie growled, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "And it will do ye a lot of good to use this time to calm down before we reach Claire. It's obvious ye're not thinking clearly."

Jamie almost wished he'd taken a ride with Ian instead. They couldn't see their brother-in-law's red Fiat anymore as it disappeared at a bend further ahead. But he knew Willie was right. He wasn't thinking clearly. It's just that, why it had to be Thomas Christie of all people Claire had chosen to go out with. He had nothing against the bloke, but he was a renowned player. What if Claire had grown tired of his condition and fell for Christie's charms? It wouldn't be a difficult feat as the bloke oozed charms by the bucketload. Hadn't he lost a girlfriend in the past because of Christie? Or was it because of his condition? He couldn't be sure anymore. Either way, knowing Claire was with Christie at this very moment was burning a hole in his stomach. "So ye're an expert on my thoughts now, are ye?" Jamie grunted, unable to think of a better excuse for his behaviour.

"I dinnae need to be an expert to know what ye're thinking ... it's written all o'er yer face," Willie retorted. "If ye'd called her up in the first place, then ye would've had a fair idea why she's meeting Christie, and ye wouldnae be in this stinking shite thinking the worse. The lass has been worried sick about ye, and she's put up with yer silence more than what could be expected of her. So do both yerselves a favour and calm the fuck down, aye?"

Jamie knocked back the claustrophobic sensation and forced himself to breathe. This had always been his trouble with his PTSD. He always had these intense emotions that always grew out of proportion to a point it would suffocate him, especially negatives ones like a feeling of lacking or guilt. Wasn't that what Geneva had said? There was a lot of misplaced guilt involved? And no matter what he did to get better, it was a bloody never-ending cycle that always brought him back to square one. But despite the shortcomings, he knew it would kill him if he didn't give himself a fighting chance with Claire. He might as well die trying. She was, after all, either going to be his reason for living or the reason he died. It was all right there, shining in front of him like a floodlight.

With a sigh, he tried to relax. Jamie knew justifying his earlier behaviour was a bad idea in both their current edgy states, but nothing would stop him from seeing Claire right now. It was like a need that required satisfying, and he couldn't wait to finally see her. He focused on the road ahead of them and listened to the radio to take his mind of negative thoughts.

It's a dreich Thursday afternoon, and here's another trip down memory lane with Mac's Classics here at MFR, with the biggest hits and the biggest throwbacks. Next up is a song sure to make ye forget the dreary days ahead – Let's get rickrolling with Never Gonna Give You Up.

"Turn it up," Jamie said suddenly, surprising his brother.

"What?" Willie glanced at him like he'd grown a pair of horns.

"I said, turn the bloody volume up!"

"Ye're joking, right? Rick fucking Astley? Nae chance pal!"

"Just do it," Jamie huffed, not caring what his brother thought of his song choice. When Claire had told him it had made her smile listening to it in the cafe the other day, he'd listened to it as well on his mother's antique record player. It was a bloody awful song, but for some strange reason, it had made him smile too.

Scowling and cursing under his breath, Willie eventually complied, and they listened to Rick Astley's song for the rest of the way. When they reached the village centre, Willie illegally parked outside Slater's Arms, carefully avoiding bumping into the menacing bollards. They were just about to get out of the car when Ian appeared from the pub, shaking his head.

Willie stuck his head out of the window. "What's the matter?"

"They're gone," Ian replied, shrugging, perplexity evident in his expression. "Spoke to Angus, and he said they didn't even order anything. They just got up and left."

Jamie got out of the car. "Did he say where they went?"

Ian narrowed his gaze at him. "I didnae ask."

Jamie ran a hand in front of his face and got back in the car. His brother had to work. There was only one thing left he could do, and it was to go back to the cottage, and if Claire wasn't there, he'd give her a call. He turned to Willie, letting out a sigh of resignation. "Just drop me off at the cottage. I've taken too much of yer time already."

"Ye sure?" Willie asked quietly. "I can drop ye off at Lallybroch. Yer car is there. Ye'll most probably need it soon, especially with more bad weather to come."

Jamie shook his head. He was certain Claire would be at home, and if not, surely later. He wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon but had every intention of making up for lost time with her. "It's time to go home," Jamie sighed, waving goodbye to Ian. "No more running away,"

Willie smiled, starting the car. "Good choice!"

It was a short drive to his cottage, and by the time they pulled up outside his house, the sun started to peek out for a splinter of a moment, his driveway though occupied by an unfamiliar vehicle. As soon as he saw a man's profile sat on the driver's seat, he immediately knew it was Christie. As if anticipating his next move and before he could yank off his seatbelt, Willie slapped a hand across his chest.

"What?" Jamie wheezed.

"Claire's in the cottage. Talk to her first and find out what's going on before ye jump to any conclusions."

Jamie breathed through a laugh, but he could hear it was edged with doubt. "What if I've fucked this up?"

"Ye havenae. And it's up to ye to keep that way. Now go to her. Ye'll find out soon enough there's a perfect explanation for Christie hanging about."

Words were fighting to leave his tongue, but he clamped his lips together and held them back. Vocalising the feelings raging inside his chest would only allow his emotions to run away with him. He reigned them in and took a deep breath. Whether it's a consequence of PTSD or not, he couldn't expect Claire to understand every time. So instead, Jamie gave Willie a reassuring nod and hoped his brother was right.

He got out of the car and walked straight to the cottage, refusing to acknowledge Christie. He knew he was being rude and could feel his brother's eyes boring into his back as well as Christie's. He didn't care because right at this moment, his primary focus was Claire.

As soon as he opened the door and saw Claire hooking a bag onto her shoulder, he bounded across the room, dropping his face into her neck and breathing for the first time in days. "Sassenach," he whispered. "I'm so sorry for leaving ye. I wasnae thinking. Please forgive me."

Claire dropped her bag on the floor, wrapping both arms around his neck. "Jamie, you're here," she breathed into his ear. "Are you alright? God, I've been so worried about you."

"I'm alright now that I'm here and ye're here," he rasped, lifting his head for a moment and eyeing the bags on the floor. "Why are yer bags packed?"

She followed his gaze. "I ...ah ... it's work, and I have to ..."

"Ye're going back to London?"

"No!"

That's all he needed to hear. Unable to wait any longer for an explanation, he pulled her into his arms as urgency pumped in his veins. He badly needed to absorb as much as he could of her, breathing her in, in huge gulps of air. His mouth travelled over her neck, into her hair, across her lips, whispering for forgiveness, his hands restless as he touched her everywhere.

"Hey, look at me ... there's nothing to forgive," she murmured, drawing away. She placed her hands on both sides of his face and searched his eyes. "I understand what you've been going through, and I know you're fighting your hardest. It's going to be alright."

"I've missed ye." He turned his face to kiss her palm before placing her hand on his chest. "I-I thought ye're better off without me. I thought I could walk away from ye, and it would be enough knowing ye're safe from me. But nothing was right. I was sick to the soul, knowing I've left ye. I wanted ye to be with a better man than me, but now ... I'm gonnae be selfish and beg ye to let me be that man by yer side."

"Jamie, where's this coming from?" she queried. "I was worried and afraid for you, but I haven't changed my mind about us." She sighed. "Your brother told me yesterday, you were seeing a therapist this morning. Did you go today?"

Jamie swallowed and nodded, unable to still his hands, touching her everywhere, needing to assure himself he was really holding her.

"Is this why you're talking like this? Has the therapy dug up a lot of unwanted issues? Because if it has, it's perfectly normal."

"No!" He let out a frustrated breath. He'd been so unpredictable with the symptoms of his PTSD coming and going, she wasn't taking him seriously when he needed her to hear him out. "No, please listen and look me in the eye. I panicked when I saw the bruises on yer arms, and without thinking, I left. I did what I did because I didnae think I could ever be the man for ye ...a bloody disappointment, constantly causing ye grief. But I understand now why my condition is out of control at the moment ... it's because I have suppressed emotions that need to come out. It's been coming out more because all this while, ye've been the key to my healing. So I'm handing everything inside me over to ye because I trust ye, and ye're the only one who can make sense of me. I cannae promise smooth sailing, Sassenach, but there is one thing I know ye can depend on and will always be constant despite my condition. And that's my love for ye. I can guarantee ye with certainty ye can rely on that. This isnae a result of my therapy talking, alright? I willnae let ye go for anything. I can work around my condition with ye by my side, and I'll work twice as hard to get better."

"Jamie, I love you too, and I have no doubt that ..."

"Then why are your bags packed?" he questioned accusingly. "And why is Christie outside waiting for ye?"

With a sharp intake of breath, Claire quickly explained everything from the call she received from her boss to Christie's involvement and an impatient Mary Hawkins waiting for her at the airport.

He could tell she was itching to go by the way she tried to subtly glance at her watch, but he was feeling too selfish. "How about I drive ye to Inverness?" he cajoled, his hand stroking her hair. "Willie is still outside. We'll get my car in Lallybroch, and I'll drive ye." He suddenly felt like a bastard keeping her from doing her work.

"Jamie, no!" she said gently but firmly. He knew she was restraining herself from rushing off, wanting to make sure he was alright first. "I can't be fretting about you being in a city when I have work to do. There's a possibility I'll be back tonight, but if Mary wants to work straight away on her book, then I have to stay in Inverness for a couple of nights, tops. Besides, I need to explain to Tom about his book's publication and make sure he hasn't changed his mind. Until we've drawn up a contract, nothing is certain." Her hands smoothed the hard muscles on his chest. "Besides, I need you to be here when my uncle comes. He'll be hiring a car, so he won't require picking up."

"What? Ye're uncle is coming here?" he almost shouted.

"No. I mean, uncle Lamb won't be staying here in the cottage even though you told him he could. I've already booked him a place in the village centre ...close to the amenities."

He let out a sigh of relief. He didn't think he was ready to bond with Harry's look-alike ...yet. If anything, he dreaded it, afraid of other suppressed memories dying to come out and choke him with guilt.

"Jamie, I really ought to go. I promise I'll call later and explain everything."

With a groan, he pulled Claire in once more in his arms and kissed her thoroughly, and she responded with a whimper that told him she was enjoying the kiss. He hadn't even had a second to savour getting her back before the prospect of letting her go again struck him like a baseball bat between the shoulder blades. But he wanted to give her something to remember while she's away and what she'll be missing if she didn't hurry up with her work. He slipped his hand under her cardigan, caressing her nipple with the calloused pad of his thumb and pressing his burgeoning erection against her belly.

"I love ye ...always remember that." His mouth coasted along the lines of her jaw, his hands squeezing her waist. "I ken ye've been patient and understanding with me, but just try to be extra tolerant with me for now. Can ye do that?"

She nodded, her face red from beard burn. "Alright, but I do need to go, Jamie." Her eyes flashed. "And you have nothing to worry about. So please rest up tonight because you'll need a hell of a lot of energy when my uncle comes."

It's the way she looked at him, pleading for understanding that became his undoing as if she's reading his thoughts, and despite everything he'd done, she couldn't find fault with a single one. He needed to be a better man and control his emotions and needs. Her work was important to her, and she was important to him. "Fine, I'll walk ye to the car." He stooped down to get her bags and followed her outside.

They stopped beside Christie's car, and Jamie watched the other man climbed out, both men grunting a greeting at each other.

"Am I still driving ye to Inverness, Claire?" Christie asked, avoiding Jamie's eyes.

Claire nodded. "Yes, please, if that's still alright with you. I'm so sorry I took so long."

"It's nae bother, and of course, I'll drive ye to Inverness," Christie smiled warmly.

A long silence stretched as the three of them just stood there. Christie rocked on his heels, and Jamie held on to Claire's bags like it was his lifeline.

Caught up in the awkwardness of the moment, Claire bit her bottom lip. "Well, I guess that's settled then. We best get going before Mary does something like bite some poor soul's head at the airport." Claire's attempt to sound cheerful lessened the tension in the air but not the one on Jamie's shoulders. She turned to him and tried to take her bags off his hands, but he couldn't seem to let go. "Jamie ...my bags," she whispered, her hand running up and down his forearm as if to tell him everything was going to be alright.

But instead of giving Claire's bags back to her, he begrudgingly handed them to Christie while launching if looks could kill look over her head. They had a few seconds of stare off until Claire's hands on his face forced him to look at her.

"Jamie, kiss me, goodbye?"

He didn't hesitate at her request and sucked on her bottom lip as she made a sobbing noise. That wee noise she made jolted something free inside of him, and he, too, wanted to cry. He couldn't remember wanting to openly cry before. Not like this. He couldn't control it, and it dragged him down, stealing oxygen from his lungs, but Claire's touches soothed him.

"I don't want to go," she murmured against his mouth. "Not one bit. But I'm doing this for us, remember that. The sooner I'm done with work, the more time we can spend time together."

He allowed himself to wade into the shallow waters of comfort Claire was starting to represent. He'd lived with this reality for too long that he wasn't enough. Or probably worse, he was too much. For years, these memories of loss and guilt and shame had been subdued. Now they're coming out with guns blazing, and he felt totally defenceless. But with her arms around him, he felt cocooned in her bubble of protection. So he clung to her like a drunk with his last shot of whisky, the desperation inside him going into overdrive, and he was practically mauling her lips with no care whose watching, drawing her onto tiptoes so he could get all of her from every angle.

"Jamie," she whispered shakily, gently pulling away. "My phone is going off every second. Mary is probably wondering why I haven't called her."

Breathe, lad, it's going to be alright. Don't lose yer cool, or ye'll drive her away. He let go and opened the car door for her, not taking any notice of the man waiting patiently at the driver's seat. "I'm sorry," Jamie mumbled.

"It's alright." She smiled in understanding, squeezing his hand. "I'll be back before you know it."

He held on to Claire's eyes, the only tangible thing he could grasp, giving him a renewed determination to manage the condition that had ruled him all his life. At that moment, the world suddenly made sense, and he was veering into a place he didn't recognise ...a place of calm, where the voices in his head had lost their dominion over his thoughts.

He watched as Christie's Land Rover drove away and was surprised when a hand landed on his shoulder. Jamie turned around to discover Willie stood there, a smile etched on his face. Jamie had forgotten about his brother, too caught up with Claire's departure and the intense emotions he'd nearly let out of control.

"Ye did well, bràthair. I'm so proud of ye."

Jamie dropped his head forward and let out an exhale, feeling a lot lighter in days. He knew he'd only scratched the surface of their relationship, but Claire was giving him all the time in the world to get back on his feet, and he was determined not to disappoint her. Though it had been a struggle not to let his emotions take control, it was at least a start. He glanced up at his brother and smiled.

"Ye alright there, Jamie lad?" Willie playfully slapped him on the back for good measure.

"Aye, I think so." This time Jamie meant it and believed his own words. He threw an arm around Willie's shoulder, squeezed it briefly before stepping back. "And thank ye for sticking around. I owe ye one."

"Aye ye do," Willie grinned. "How about repaying me like right now and coming to work. It should keep yer mind busy and help me catch up with a long list of jobs."

Jamie didn't need prodding. His mouth curved into a smile, and he nodded his head. "After seeing Christie, I think I'm in the mood for uprooting trees."

They shared a wicked glance and then laughed out loud.

Dear Readers,

Thank you all for your patience with this story and the feedback from the previous chapter.

Mental health stories are, I personally think, the hardest to put across because it involves a lot of emotions and psychological battle that are difficult to put into words. But I was determined to write this account even though it has its challenges, so I hope I've done it justice.

Part of the reason for pushing to write such a story that delves into the mind of a tortured soul is to raise mental health awareness because there are many things that people still don't understand about this illness. In saying that, some of you were disappointed by Jamie's behaviour, and I wanted that to happen to make a point.

In real life, it's so much easier to categorise and point out someone's shortcoming instead of trying to understand the psyche of a person's behaviour. From my perspective, each of us has undoubtedly suffered a form of mental illness at least once, but not everyone has the emotional and psychological strength and maturity to cope or overcome it. Nor do they have access to help. In Jamie' case, he's got a strong network of family, and he got Claire to help him get through it.

So the moral of the story is, spread kindness because you never know what really is going on in someone's mind.

For now, take care of yourselves. Until the next update ... X

#melodyheart #wonderwall #milesbetweenus #ClaireBeauchamp/JamieFraser #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #outlanderfanfic

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teatitty · 4 years

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Jailhouse Rock

A/N: Hey remember when I said I wanted to write a traditional fantasy AU with Patrochilles and DiarCu? This is based in that. I hate copy-pasting things to tumblr bc it never keeps my italics and I’m too lazy to edit this so here it is on AO3 as well

Days of peace were rare for Patroclus; even rarer still were the days without Achilles or Cu Chulainn around to stir up mischief. On his own, Patroclus liked to think he was a perfect example of good behaviour and that his own troublemaking was nothing more than a direct result of knowing two of the biggest arseholes this side of the continent, but whenever he voiced such a thing out loud, the response from his companions was always an intense roll of the eyes and a bark of laughter, so maybe he was just lying to himself.

Given his current predicament, that certainly seemed to be the case. In retrospect, he should’ve figured he’d end up getting arrested one of these days, but when you spend most of your time in the company of two people who somehow - consistently - manage to get themselves out of trouble, well, you sort of forget that consequences for your actions are a thing you need to worry about.

In his own defense, he hadn’t planned on getting arrested. It isn’t much of a defense, because he cannot recall a single person who has ever wanted to get thrown into a jail cell with shackles on their wrists (it didn’t matter that his own had been taken off earlier, it mattered that they’d bothered to put any on him in the first place), but he also hasn’t met every single person on the planet, so he supposes the defense counts for something.

He wonders who Achilles will be angrier at when he finds out about this; Patroclus, for punching the stupid fucking Guard in the face and breaking his pompous nose, or the Guard himself, for calling re-inforcements and manhandling Patroclus into this dingy, damp little cell. It’s not a matter of if Achilles will find out, so much as when he finds out, and Patroclus can only hope it’s soon, because he’s only been in here for a few hours and he’s already bored out of his god-damned mind.

The Guards posted outside of his cell won’t even talk to him. It’s extremely rude, in his opinion, not to entertain a guest when they’re groaning pitifully on the floor, even if said groaning was mostly due to the head pain. He really needs to learn the name of the Guard who clonked him. Bastard had a real mean arm and Patroclus itches to get some sort of revenge for the hit.

Alas, it doesn’t seem as though he’ll be getting that information anytime soon. He’ll just have to track the guy down once he gets sprung from this place and then clonk them from behind and see how they like it.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “if you ask me, I did you all a favour. I mean, he just has one of those voices, you know? The really annoying ones? The ones that just invite you to hit someone?” Nothing. Typical. Patroclus sighs up at the ceiling with exaggerated effort. “I love our little talks. Can’t get enough of them, truly.”

Maybe, if he talks long enough, one of them will actually tell him to shut up instead of just trying to glare holes into him through their helmets. Patroclus snorts at the thought. If that worked, then Achilles would’ve been dead a hundred times over by now. Or just covered in a lot more scars than he already has. Which is none. Obviously. Ugh, he really needs to get better company.

As if the Gods themselves heard his plea and were, for once in their lives, actually offering to help him, a commotion from the halls causes him to sit up with immense interest, and the Guards by his cell close their eyes and actually groan.

Whoever is being led - in chains? Sounds like it - down the hall, everyone clearly knows them, because even the other prisoners, who’ve been silent until now, start murmuring curses to themselves.

Finally, Patroclus thinks, some variety.

“ - I just think that in the grand scheme of things - and purely for everyone else’s interest, of course - that stealing a few rings from the locals isn’t that big of a deal when I’m just going to be selling them later. I’m helping the economy! Helping you pass money from one hand to another and get it circulating. How’s your wife, by the way, is she still getting the bad cramps? Of course she is. I can see it in your face. You really should take my advice and -”

“Diarmuid.” A Guard has never sounded so long-suffering before.

“Hm?”

“Shut up and get in the damn cell.”

Surprisingly enough, with a huge stroke of good fortune, the cell that this blessing in disguise - Diarmuid, his name is Diarmuid, Patroclus reminds himself. He’s never been very good at names - is dancing his way into, happens to be Patroclus’ very own, and he finds himself looking at a man who is decidedly, one hundred percent, not human at all.

Patroclus grins, absolutely delighted by this turn of events. Diarmuid, noticing that he is not alone in this cell, cocks his head to the side and just sort of. Stands there. Presumably blinking at him, but it’s hard to tell behind the tinted glasses perched on his nose. “Oh my gods,” Patroclus says before he can stop himself, “are you an elf?”

“No,” replies Diarmuid slowly. “But I can see why you’d think that.”

“He’s a menace,” one of the Guards mutters and Patroclus’ grin only widens.

“I knew you could talk,” he tells them and then to Diarmuid he says, “you have no idea how long I’ve been trying to get them to say something.”

“Oh,” Diarmuid says, “I’m not hallucinating then.”

“Not used to having company?”

“Not usually.”

He looks - well, if Patroclus had to hazard a guess, he’d say that Diarmuid looks completely out of his depth. “Don’t worry,” Patroclus tells him. “I don’t bite.” Which isn’t entirely a lie. He doesn’t bite usually but all bets are off when tavern brawls happen.

Diarmuid’s nose wrinkles. “Is that a hickey?”

It is, actually, though it’s a wonder he can see it at all amidst the other bruising. “I don’t bite,” Patroclus repeats, “but my boyfriend’s a bit of a dick.”

Something in Diarmuid’s posture relaxes at that admission, which is very interesting, and Patroclus pats the spot beside himself invitingly. He’s actually surprised when Diarmuid sits next to him. He’s less surprised that there’s an obvious gap being kept between them and that, unlike himself, Diarmuid’s posture remains straight and alert.

“Soooo…” Patroclus starts, “what are you in for?”

“That’s the best you could do, huh?”

Oh, a snarky one is he? Good thing Patroclus is used to that, or he might actually find this guy irritating. “What do you want me to start with, then? The fact that you’re apparently a regular visitor here? That you probably know everyone’s first names and family histories?”

“I wish he didn’t,” mutters the other Guard forlornly.

“Shut up,” hisses the first one, “don’t encourage them.”

“Too late for that,” they say in unison. The Guards curse.

There’s a long beat of silence as Patroclus waits to see if Diarmuid will reply to his earlier question. His patience pays off when, finally, Diarmuid sighs and says, “I got caught selling stolen goods for twice the profit.”

Patroclus whistles. “Impressive.” He means it. Sure, he got caught doing it, but the fact he had the balls to try at all - and, by the sounds of it, actually managed to make some of said profit - is worth applauding.

“And you?”

Patroclus shrugs. “Broke someone’s nose.”

“Holy shit,” Diarmuid breathes, “you’re the guy who finally shut Claudius’ trap up?”

“His name is Claudius?” A nod. “No wonder he’s such a dick, then. Hey! Tell your boss that I don’t regret what I did, alright? With a name like that, he had it coming to him!”

“You’re going to get a longer sentence if you do that.” Diarmuid sounds amused as anything. Patroclus grins back at him. He wonders how long Diarmuid’s sentence is and how many times he’s gotten his way out of it.

“Nah,” he says. “I’ll be out by tomorrow.”

“Because of your boyfriend?”

“Something like that.”

“Lucky,” Diarmuid whines. “I have to rely on my natural charm, and here you are getting Out Of Jail cards for free.”

They’re only ‘free’ if you don’t count the cost on Patroclus’ brain cell capacity, because for all that he loves Achilles with his entire soul, his boyfriend is, in fact, an idiot, and this has only seemed to get worse since they met Cu Chulainn a few years back. How does that saying go again? ‘Birds of a feather flock together?’

What does it say about him that he’s part of this flock? Nothing good, probably, so best not to think too much about it.

“Are you a vampire?”

“Okay, now you’re just naming every creature with pointy ears.”

Patroclus slumps down in his seat. “I don’t have much else to go on.” And it doesn’t look like Diarmuid is going to willingly give him any hints. “A dragonborn, maybe?”

Alright, maybe that one's a little bit of a deep cut, given how rare they are these days, but, hey, if he’s going for every race with pointed ears then…

“Also,” he continues, “you’re not a ‘creature’ you’re just a different race to a human.”

“Flattering,” Diarmuid says dryly. Patroclus doesn’t really get how any of that is ‘flattering’ in any way, shape or form but then what does he know? He’s human, after all, so maybe he really has just said something that - whatever. Doesn’t matter. He’s making friends! Cu will be so proud of him.

Does he have a concussion? Probably. None of his thoughts are making any sense today.

“I’m not a dragonborn.”

Okay, strike two off the list.

“Or a vampire.”

Strike three.

This would be so much easier if he wasn’t just relying on ‘ears pointy’ because that...really doesn’t narrow it down a whole lot. Are there really that many races with pointed ears? How has he never noticed this before? “You sure you’re not an elf? Or, like, elf adjacent?”

“If you were anyone else,” says Diarmuid, “I would’ve hit you for that. Luckily for you, I’m pretty sure you’re just a mouthy moron like I am, so congrats on saving your own skin, I guess.”

“It’s a gift,” he grins.

Diarmuid snorts. Progress is being made. Fuck yeah. “You’re not used to being in a cell, are you?”

Patroclus shrugs. “Not particularly.”

“First time?”

Oh now that’s just too easy a line to pass up. “Being in the company of a gorgeous man like yourself?” His lashes flutter and Diarmuid actually looks a little bit bewildered. “Hardly.”

“You...have a boyfriend.”

Astute of him.

“I do,” he agrees. “We have a comfortable and confident relationship.” By which he means that they’re allowed to flirt with whoever they want, whenever they want, it’s just dating and sex that are off limits until further discussion. Diarmuid - doesn’t really seem to get what he means. Which. Okay then. “Flirting is fine,” he clarifies with an easy tone.

“Oh.”

He still sounds a bit miffed by the whole thing so, in an effort to bring them back to their earlier comfort levels, Patroclus says, “lets play a game.”

Diarmuid stares at him. “A game,” he repeats.

“Just something to pass the time.”

“Am I going crazy or are you always like this?”

“It’s just me.” He feels no embarrassment in admitting it either. His mouth often moves faster than his brain can catch up, or his brain will move faster than his mouth, and rarely do they ever operate at the same capacity as each other. He forgets that not everyone can keep up with his rapid changes in conversation. Achilles’ mother is the only one who can understand him all of the time, but she’s back home in her river, so he has to - make an effort to slow down a little bit here.

How annoying.

“Ever heard of 21 Questions?”

The silence continues for long enough this time that Patroclus is almost completely certain he’s just gotten rejected. Diarmuid sighs. “Sure. I reserve the right to refuse answering anything personal, though.”

For all his earlier chatter, he’s surprisingly guarded and private. This, along with his keeping his own race a secret, intrigues Patroclus a lot more than it should. There’s a dull and distant warning bell ringing in his head; caution, it screeches, CAUTION.

“I reserve the same thing, then.”

Diarmuid blows some hair out of his face and, presumably, rolls his eyes behind his glasses. “I suppose,” he sighs dramatically. His lip twitches into a smile. Generously, Patroclus lets him go first. “What’s your name?”

He blinks, startled, and then laughs. “Oh I’m such an idiot,” he says and then holds out his hand. Diarmuid is wearing leather gloves under his shackles. Interesting. “It’s Patroclus. Pleasure to meet you.”

His grip is a little firmer than Patroclus expected but nowhere near the strength of Cu Chulainn’s. Which is a bit of an unfair comparison considering Cu’s specific bloodline but. Well. He doesn’t have a whole lot of non-human references to go on. Diarmuid holds himself as though he’s waiting to get shanked in the gut and Patroclus, ever so politely, asks, “what’s your favourite drink?”

Diarmuid blinks. “What?”

“Ah-ah-ah,” he chides, wagging his finger. “Not your turn to ask a question.”

“...tequila,” Diarmuid says at last.

“Oh that’s strong! I thought you might be an ale drinker, what with all the leathers and the -” he gestures to the window of the cell, hoping to encompass the city as a whole.

“Ah,” says Diarmuid. “Ale’s too bitter for me.”

“And tequila isn’t?”

His lip quirks. “Not your turn.”

“Right you are! Continue, then.”

“Who's your boyfriend?”

He doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Achilles.”

Diarmuid promptly chokes, as do the Guards outside. “You’re kidding. You don’t mean - you can’t mean -”

Patroclus inclines his head, delighted by the reaction. Achilles is famous here! Who knew!

“Holy shit.” Diarmuid’s voice raises a few octaves. “He’s going to kill me.”

“I doubt it,” says Patroclus dryly. “He’s more likely to whine about me getting better prison company than he did.”

“I’m not talking about Achilles,” hisses Diarmuid. “I’m talking about Cu Chulainn!”

Wait.

Wait a second.

Patroclus takes a step back to examine the man before him. Dark, curly hair? Check. A penchant for getting arrested? From what he can gather, check. Pointy ears? Absolutely. And -

He leans closer to try and get a whiff of whatever scent Diarmuid carries.

-- the distinct smell of a winter breeze.

A lot of different things fall into place at once.

“You’re the friend that Cu’s been looking for. The one that lost his favourite jacket.”

“I’m dead,” says Diarmuid. “I’ve been trying to get it back for him and now I’m going to die before I get the chance.”

“Is that why you were selling stolen goods?”

Reluctantly, Diarmuid nods. “I know where it is,” he admits mulishly. “I just don’t have the money to buy it back.”

Patroclus thinks this over. He doesn’t have any money either. Fuck it, he thinks, we’re already criminals anyway.

“Okay,” he says. “If you can get us out of here, I’ll help you get it back.”

“Don’t even try it,” warns Guard number one.

Diarmuid gives Patroclus a pathetically hopeful look. “You will?”

“Yes. On the condition,” he continues, “that you return it to him in person.”

“You know where he is.”

“I know where he is.”

Diarmuid considers this for all of two seconds. “Deal.”

And then he slips out of his shackles and shatters the fucking window with them.

#fate series #my writing #2.6K words of crack tbh #i dont know what this is please just take it

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yoonjinkooked · 5 years

Text

lockdown | (m) - Chapter 1

moodboard by @flajka

pairing; jungkook/female OC genre; college au, strangers to lovers, smut and tiny bit of fluff too, humor ofc rating; explicit words; 4.900

— synopsis; Eunhee is in trouble and facing a deadline - in comes curly haired jungkook to save her life, make her laugh and maybe, just maybe, fuck her brains out. When the two end up locked in a building overnight, who knows what will happen?

warnings (for this chapter): cursing, OC really wants to murder Tae, banter, cute Kook, slightly cocky Kook, hints of sexual tension. Just an introduction chapter, really.

A/N: I hope you enjoy the first part guys. I am now starting to work on Chapter 2 and will let you know when I plan on posting it. Let me know what you think - I’m still a tumblr newbie and basically, I’m crappin my pants.

With that being said, let’s start chapter 1 :)

In the life of a journalism major, there are a few life-changing, stress-inducing moments that essentially serve as a preview of what’s to come if you do decide stay on your chosen career path.

For me, a handful of these moments made me question anything and everything I have ever known about the career I’ve chosen to pursue back when I was 18 and frankly, a little bit stupid. One of these moments was back when I was doing an obligatory internship at a small, local newspaper, only to realize that the editors and big shots there expected me to do nothing more than to make them coffee and copy papers in their stead.

Another moment was when I attended my first murder trial, which probably would end up being a part of my future job, only to spend the entire afternoon wondering if this really is something I want to do for the rest of my life.

And the final moment, at least the final one that I can think of right now, is currently occurring, with me losing my shit as we are trying to get the final edition of this year’s university magazine ready for printing. And I, as one of two co-editors, will be the one to blame if anything goes wrong.

Half of my grade depends on this. My future job prospects depend on this. Whether or not the professor is happy can influence the direction of my masters’ next year. This is ride or die for me and I am losing it.

“Namjoon, where the hell is he?” I ask my co-editor, best friend and partner in crime. Who also happens to be the only person on this planet who is well equipped to deal with me losing my shit.

“I know as much as you do,” he reminds me, moving the phone away from his ear. “I am trying to reach him now. You panicking will not do us any good and it definitely won’t make Taehyung answer me sooner. So don’t panic and focus on the things we already have here and work with that. The photos aren’t the only thing we need to look over before it’s ready for print.”

I nod my head franticly, knowing deep down that he has a point but also knowing that won’t help me at all. It never does because whenever I am chasing a deadline, I follow the same line of action. Work, panic, panic some more, work, panic like the world is ending, forcefully calm down and then, finally, get shit done. I am not sure if I am on the ‘panic some more’ or ‘panic like the world is ending’ phase yet but as I run fingers through my hair, letting my nerves get the best of me, I am positive said hair is gray.

I hear Namjoon cursing under his breath but for the sake of getting things done, I ignore him for now and simply focus on the task at hand – proofreading. As long as I preoccupy myself with tasks that need to be done, I cannot focus on the fact that Taehyung is late, like he always is, despite it being the one time he truly needed to be on time.

So for the next few minutes, I go over several articles in the speed of light, once, twice, three times. No matter how much they’re using spell-check, our reporters still make mistakes and honestly, when I see my name below one title, I know I am not allowed to judge because I obviously do it too.

Campus activity, student achievements, published works and former alumni ‘look, they’re famous now’ column – all covered and grammatically perfect. And Namjoon is still trying to reach the one man we need the most right now. Slowly but surely, the other students are becoming less frantic and more calm and casual, because their tasks are all but finished. Namjoon, Hoseok and I? Not so much.

“Okay, what the hell?” Hoseok throws his pen rather violently on his desk. “He does this every time. Every damn time. I’m the designer – I need to go over everything and make sure the photos are put where they belong. How can I do that if I don’t have said photos?”

“Hoseok, I know I’m not the textbook definition of calm but we need to try to be,” I tell him, turning my chair to face him over our connected desks. “Try to design it somehow, leaving the space for the photos. Vertical or horizontal, I will find good photos to fit. And if I have to change something, I will.”

“Are you sure you can do that?” he looks doubtful, which is extremely insulting, since we have known each other for three years and have been working together for more than two.

“Basic editing? Yeah, I can do that,” I roll my eyes. “If you doubt my editing skills, you can stick around till midnight to check on me.”

“No way,” he shakes his head. “It’s Jimin’s birthday party tonight and you know I need to be there.”

“Are you serious?” I ask, not even sure why, since it’s absolutely obvious that he is dead serious. “This is the most important edition we’re going to release. We’ve been doing this for years and this is our grand exit, which we need to execute perfectly, and you’re telling me you want to go to a party?”

“I’ll be going too,” Namjoon covers the speaker of his phone to tell me. “Sure, this edition is a big deal and we want it done well but most is already done and this isn’t our entire life.”

“Oh please,” I reach for something, anything, and end up hitting him on the chest with a block of post-its. “You’re just going because you hope to hook up with Hyejin, even though we all know you will just end up drunk, alone and watching her from a distance.”

“How dare you?” Namjoon is flabbergasted.

“She isn’t wrong,” Hoseok chuckles, ignoring the glare Namjoon throws his way. “But he’s right about this not being our entire life. You will burn out, Eunhee. It’s been two weeks and you haven’t stopped thinking about this once,” he tells me, as if I needed to be reminded. “This is the final edition with you being the editor. You should celebrate, not stay here after hours and pulling the hair of your head.”

“With the two of you playing beer pong and complaining about girls ignoring you, someone has to be the responsible one,” I point out. “All of this is riding on the three of us and you’re just… gonna dump me?” the betrayal is evident in my voice and yet, neither one of them is bothered enough to look guilty. Before they’re co-editor and designer, they’re just stupid, horny students.

“It’s already done Eunhee,” Namjoon rolls his eyes. “The one doing the dumping here is Taehyung and you just told Hoseok you can handle the editing. If you’re not sure, you can send him your final version and he can fix it if it needs to be fixed.”

“I am not leaving that party to fix Taehyung’s mess,” Hoseok cuts in.

“Our mess,” I remind him. “We have until 4AM to send it. So long as you’re not wasted out of your mind, it’s doable. If you even need to fix anything. Taehyung is always late but he also always brings more than enough material for us to work with. He’s a jackass but a talented jackass.”

“And a jackass who can’t answer his phone,” Namjoon adds, throwing his phone on the desk, before sighing as he slumps down onto his chair. “I’m going to regret that,” he glares at his phone.

“I can’t force you to stay here and help me,” I mumble, watching as the student reporters casually leave our office space, not even bothering to say goodbye because it’s the final week – who cares, life goes on, we’re going to see each other eventually and our portion of work is done. “I can, however, remind you of this in the years to come, guilt tripping you into doing favors. Many, many favors.”

“You make it sound like you’re not already doing that half the time,” Hoseok points out.

“Not my problem you somehow always end up owing me one. Or two. Or five,” I shrug as I turn towards my laptop, planning on searching for some stock photos we might be able to use, if Taehyung doesn’t show up. I know that he always does, last minute or not, but I can’t leave anything to chance. While stock photos would be a cop-out of sorts, we need to have a plan B.

The next two hours pass in almost complete silence. An occasionally sigh would leave Hoseok and every now and then, Namjoon would curse under his breath as he tries to reach Taehyung for what has to be the hundredth time – so far, to no avail. The panic I felt earlier had already left my system so I was able to focus on other things, all the while ignoring what seems to be our pending doom.

The sun had set and the lights are now on and that son of a bitch is still not answering his phone.

“You know, at this point I’m starting to wonder if we have better chances of finding him at Jimin’s party,” Hoseok breaks the silence. “I’m done with all the pages, I left enough space for all kinds of photos and there’s literally nothing more that we need to do.”

“Speak for yourself,” I mumble as I open the email he just sent me, showing the draft for the final version of the magazine. It looks as amazing as possible, seeing as 98% of photos are missing – instead, white blocks serve as breaks between long rows of text. “You know what? You two go. Go and have fun and if you find him, kick his ass. There’s no way he’d ever miss Jimin’s party. I’ll stay here and finish this up and when you send him to me, I’ll kick his ass too,” I tell them.

“Eunhee, are you sure?” Namjoon walks over to my desks and leans on it, giving me what I can only describe as a look of pure and utter pity. “I don’t want to leave you hanging; you’re not the only one with the responsibility here.”

Seeing as I am the only one that will sit Jimin’s birthday party out, I kind of am, but I do not say it. “It’s okay Joon,” I reassure him. “Go. Have fun. Try to get some with Hyejin. I’ll take care of this, it’s not like it’ll be the first time I pull an all-nighter. Just find that bastard and get those photos to me.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Hoseok stands up and throws a bag over his shoulder. “We will find him and I will do my best to stay sufficiently sober if you need my help. Which, if you do, don’t hesitate to call me, okay?” I nod, knowing I would rather fix it myself than have drunk Hoseok ruin it. He’s majestic with the editing software but when drunk, he can’t even walk straight, much less edit.

“Just make sure to get his USB to me, even if you have to kill him to make it happen,” I remind them. Namjoon is still worried but I roll my eyes at him, which apparently is the sign he needed to get his things and leave. I wave them out, surprisingly relieved to have the office for myself.

I am a decent team player but the last couple of years have shown me that I do my best work when I do it alone. Not to say that I take all the credit – hell no. Joon is the editor as much as I am and half the work is done by him but at times like these, I just want him out and away, busy with Hyejin. This way, if it’s a mess – it’s my mess. If it’s a work of art – it’s my work of art.

With a coffee in one hand and glasses of my head, I go over last year’s photo folder – that’s a better plan B than some basic stock photos. Some of the photos look like a decent backup – our campus hasn’t changed much over the last couple of months, after all. As long as I avoid last year’s seniors, I might be able to pull off plan B without anyone except a handful of us knowing the truth.

Even the swimming team – they have won gold last year, they have won gold this year too. The members are all the same, no new freshmen, no seniors last year. If my memory serves me well, all of them kept their natural hair colors and I can totally use said photo in this month’s edition. Sure, Jimin and the rest of the team will probably know what’s up but that’s nothing a round of beer can’t fix.

Look at me – such a professional. Bribing my way to get the work done. Yay.

In the midst of scrolling, I pause to glance at the clock – it’s almost ten and still no sign of Taehyung. Stifling down the pending panic, I take a deep breath and decide to play some music, hoping to distract myself more. While 80s rock has its charms, I still fidget as I scroll through folders upon folders, grabbing hold of my favorite koala mug again and downing the rest of the coffee in one go. Needing something to distract me further, I open the top drawer of my desk, grabbing the emergency M&Ms I’ve kept there for a few weeks now, knowing I was bound to pull an all-nighter sooner or later.

Just as I down a handful of candy, someone knocks on the office door and I nearly choke. I cough, make sure a lone M&M is not going to kill me, take a deep breath and shout a ‘come in’.

The little hope I have deflates as I realize it’s not Taehyung, the bastard himself – instead, it’s a guy I know, but not really. Tall, wavy brown hair, wide brown eyes and a slightly dumbfounded look, hidden under the hood of his black sweatshirt as he barely steps inside the office, still with one foot out as if he is ready to run.

I am positive I know him. I’m sure we have class together, or had the year before. Or perhaps we just have classes in the same building – I know I’ve seen him before, in the background, on the side, but for the life of me, I can’t put a face to the name.

“Can I help you?” I ask, once he doesn’t speak up for a few moments.

“Yeah,” he snaps out of his daze, tilting his head before reaching for his pocket – I keep my eye on his hands, half expecting him to draw a gun and shoot me in place. “Taehyung sent me to give you this,” he says as he pulls out a USB stick out of his pocket.

Finally, I can breathe. Finally, I know I will manage to get this done tonight. “Thank fuck,” I sigh, closing my eyes for a second before opening them up again and realizing I have just confused the shit out of him. “I was positive the jackass would leave me hanging. I would have murdered him in cold blood.”

“He’d never do that,” the guy smiles at me, a smile that evaporates as quickly as it appeared; making me wonder if I even imagined it. “If he had told me sooner, you wouldn’t have to wait. He texted me like 10 minutes ago, telling me that I need to bring this to the office.”

“He left the stick with you and didn’t tell you what it’s for?”

“No, he asked me to edit the photos,” he tells me. “Oh. You don’t… I’m the G.C.F guy. I’m the other photographer,” he explains and suddenly, the little boxes in my head fall into their designated place.

Taehyung had a photography partner. I’d say a solid half of the photos we’d print were Taehyung’s, and the others belong to the guy always signed as JJK, G.C. F; I have never met him, never asked for his name and before tonight, he had never showed up in the office.

And now I can remember the guy more clearly – he always had a camera, either hanging around his neck or covering his face as he would relentlessly take photos.

“Ah, now I get it,” I smile. “I’m Eunhee, the editor.”

“I know,” he tells me. “Jeongguk.”

Yep, I know the name. It’s all clicking now.

“Well don’t just stand there Jeongguk,” I tell him as I stand up; I walk around my desk and start Hoseok’s PC, knowing that he has a better editing software ready to go. “I’m going to need your help for this. Everyone else is getting shitfaced at Jimin’s so if you’re up for it, you’re going to be the one to help me get this edition ready by 4AM. You up for it?”

Honestly, I’m not particularly surprised when he doesn’t answer me straight away – it’s not like I’m offering him free food, drinks and a night he’ll remember – quite the opposite, I’m offering him a night full of work. Simply put, I’m begging him to help me, without actually openly begging.

“Sure,” I hear him shuffle around as he puts his backpack down on the ground. “Where do you need me?”

"Just get yourself a chair," I wave my hand around the room, staring at nothing as I try to figure out where should we start from. I suppose that from the beginning is the only real answer to that one. "Hobi had set it all up for me to finish but I think I need to see what you've brought me, see what i have to work with," I decide, turning to Jeongguk, just in time to see him drag Namjoon's desk chair from the corner of the office.

"All of them are edited and ready for use," he reassures me with a tight smile as he joins me behind the desk, a good foot between our chairs. Noticing that he still has his hood up and covering half of his face, I bite my tongue and decide not to wonder why - he has his reasons, I suppose.

"Then we just need to decide what goes where and that is where you come to my rescue."

"What makes you think that should be my call?" he asks, not bothering to hide his surprise.

"Well, you're a photographer," I announce, as if the guy is not aware of his profession. "Doesn't that officially make you a better judge when it comes to esthetic mumbo jumbo?" I ask, because I truly don’t know. I am not familiar with the job requirements a photographer needs to fulfill, other than to have a camera, of course. I simply imagine they have some sense of beautiful. Wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong about something and that is why I ask – there’s no shame in not knowing.

After a beat of silence Jeongguk looks at me, keeping direct eye contact for one whole second, which is time enough for me to conclude that he is cute, ridiculously so. Cute in a way that no man in his early 20s is allowed to be. Yet not cute enough to make me focus on him instead of the task before us.

"I guess so," he tilts his head as i force my jaw shut - now is not an appropriate moment for ogling. "Aren't you the boss lady though?"

"Boss lady," I test the nickname and roll my eyes. "Difficult to work with, perhaps. Bossy? Don’t think so. But I’m taking it because I obviously need your help tonight - I am good with words, not at making them look good on paper."

“What you need to do here is not that hard,” he waves at the monitor and I turn to look at him. “Deciding on which photo should go where depends on… the overall page. The colors, the neighboring photos and countless other things. There are no rules – just feeling. Photography is feeling,” he waves his hands about as he talks, completely immersed in his explanation and making me wonder if he’s talking about this particular problem or just photography and its misconceptions in general.

“No rules?” I ask through a chuckle. “That’s not what people told me when I took a selfie from a downward angle.”

To my shock and frankly, shame, he stares at me in silence, blinking once, twice, three times. I gulp. “That was supposed to be a joke,” I elaborate in a low voice, as I hope that the ground will split in two and just swallow me into a never-ending dark hole. Or that Hobi’s PC will finally be usable.

“Oh. Okay.”

Well, this settles it then – absolutely no possibility of mild, harmless flirtation. That flat-lined reaction will end up being a source of trauma for me in the years to come – I just know I will end up awake at 3AM in like five years, thinking of how awkward this particular moment was.

“Finally,” I feel relieved now that I can actually work with Hobi’s PC – I slide the flash in, on the first go. I nearly celebrate the seemingly impossible victory but I decide to hold myself back. If Jeongguk can’t take a joke, he will probably think I am insane if I behave like I normally would. “Now let’s see what we have here,” I mumble, opening the pop up. One folder named 1 – I open it. I click on the first photo, of a group of students sitting on grass and talking (looks absolutely staged but based on what I know about Taehyung and his G.C.F partner, they don’t roll that way). I smile when I see a photo of our swimming team huddled up together, gold medals hanging around their necks – I won’t have to use last year’s photos after all. “These are really good. Perfectly edited too. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, it’s my job,” Jeongguk mumbles as he eyes the photos I scroll through. I can no longer tell if he’s serious or joking and I simply give it up altogether – who cares?

“This will fit perfectly,” I mumble as I finish going through the bunch of photos and end up on the first one – the one with a bunch of people that looks absolutely staged. I exit and go back to the folder, then back to the original one. It’s as if I could feel, actually physically feel, my heart slowly sliding down inside of my body. I go back and open the folder again, looking as the fear slowly grows in me. “Jeongguk, where are the other photos?” I somehow manage to utter.

“They’re all there,” he tells me, his eyes going wide when he notices the look of pure and utter horror on my face. “Taehyung told me you need 20 photos, no more, no less. There are 24, I added 4 more just in case, if you didn’t like some of them… Eunhee, what is going on?”

My chest goes up and down frantically as I try to calm the whole tornado of emotions that starts within me. Panic, worry, sadness and more than anything else, anger. Pure anger. “I will murder him.”

“What? Who will you… Taehyung?”

“I said,” I slowly speak, pausing for deep breaths. “200 photos. 200 photos, no more, no less. 200 from which we would end up using more than 100. I said 200, not 20.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah, oh shit.”

“What… where are you going?” Jeongguk asks as I jump off my chair and nearly fly over the desk to grab my handbag. I throw my phone inside of it and turn to look at him, only to find him flinching away from me. Apparently, I look as angry as I feel.

“I am going to Jimin’s birthday party,” I announce. “Where I will grab Kim Taehyung by the neck, drag him outside, throw him onto the ground and murder him in front of the entire student body. I’m thinking strangulation is the way to go. You should come too, take a few photos of it for the delayed magazine edition.”

“No!” Jeongguk snaps but I am already heading towards the door. His hand wraps around my wrist and he drags me back towards the desk.

“What?”

I don’t know what else to say because why the hell did he pull me like that?! I wasn’t actually going to murder Taehyung, no matter how much I might want to do so.

Jeongguk rolls his eyes at me and I feel even more stupid than he made me feel minutes ago. The nerve. “If you go there and yell at Taehyung, or even kill him in cold blood, you’re just going to end up wasting valuable time,” he tells me. Okay, true, I can’t argue with him on that one. “Not to mention that you won’t get the photos. He doesn’t have them on him at all times and even if he did, they aren’t edited.”

“So what you’re trying to tell me is that I am fucked? Like, missionary, sideways, in the ass fucked?”

“I wouldn’t choose that particular wording, but yes,” he sighs. “If you stay here, you’re not fucked. Just… follow me. It’ll make sense soon,” he seems impatient as he grabs hold of my wrist again and this time, he drags me out the door. I actually stumble to keep up with him, too confused to even ask him what the flying fuck he is doing and where the hell we’re going. He walks fast and with him dragging me behind him, I have no choice but to break into a light jog to keep my arm attached to my body.

Down the hallway and to the left, Jeongguk drags me towards the last door, in front of which he finally stops. He starts fidgeting and feeling himself up and down. It takes me a moment to realize that he is looking for the keys. “What are we doing here, what is this place?”

“This,” he unlocks the door and smiles at me mischievously. “Is my office.”

As soon as he turns on the light, it all makes perfect sense – it’s a darkroom. A darkroom which I had no idea existed, even though I have spent a bigger part of my college education just down the hallway. “Don’t just stand there, come on in,” Jeongguk urges me but I do not move. The hood that still covers half of his face, paired with the room’s red light, is making him look pretty ominous.

“No thanks, these places are as creepy as they seem in movies.”

Jeongguk laughs and shakes his head. “They’re not creepy. Suit yourself.”

“What the hell are we doing here?” I ask, feeling my earlier agitation return. Fix the mess then kill Taehyung. Stopping by a darkroom was not on my to-do list. “How the hell can this help?”

“As I said, this is my office,” he tells me and I see him rummaging through the top drawer in one of the desks that are lined up against a wall. “I keep my work here. Some, not all. Useless work mostly. Random campus photos I take just because I think the moment is worth capturing.”

“While that is very poetic and deep, how the heck can that help us now?”

“Haven’t I just said I take random campus photos?” he asks in annoyance. “I have at least one flash drive with random photos like the ones you might need. I’m a good photographer and,” he waves his hand and I notice something black in it – he walks over to me, takes my hand and puts the flash into it. “I’m the one who will make your words look good on paper.”

It’s not what he said – it’s the way he said it. For the first time tonight, his hood did not block my view of his entire face. The way his eyebrows lifted, followed by a smug smile and head tilt, my heart went into overdrive. His expression and the fact that he is a solid foot taller than I am makes it so easy for me to feel tiny, irrelevant, overpowered.

Despite being the talkative one of the duo, I am speechless for a moment because good lord, does he look hot right now. Like… please slam me against the wall and leave hickeys down my neck hot.

“Come on boss lady,” he laughs down at me. “Work awaits.”

What the fuck happened to the shy guy who couldn’t keep eye contact for longer than a second?! He is giving me whiplash! I again have to run to catch up with him but I do it without complaining, realizing that for tonight, he is my lifeline. This random dude who’s good at photography is my only hope.

Tonight’s going to be a very long night.

#jungkook smut #jungkook series #jungkook fanfiction #bts smut #bts jungkook #bts #bangtan #bangtan smut #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fanfics #jjk #jeongguk #jeongguk smut #jeon jeongguk #jeon jungkook

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orange-antics · 6 years

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Eddsworld miscellaneous hcs

ok there's probably like 100 of these already or something, but I thought I'd add mine anyway, because hey, it's fun and I'll probably change or add a few later. (Also this ended up waaaaaaaay longer then i meant it to be wh o ops so uh be warned its pretty damn long-)

Tom:

Shortest! (i know it's normally either edd or tord, but after seeing saloonatics, I just couldn't resist the idea of the grumpiest one being the smallest. Cute right?)

Relatively strong arms, more fat around his stomach and torso then his legs.

Occasionally works gigs at local clubs and stuff for money.

Doesn't have much social media aside from Facebook so he can occasionally stalk his old college mates.

He actually likes sports like football and tennis. (His favourite sport is seeing how many bars he can hit up in one nigh-//shot//)

His hair smells like pineapple! (And the rest of him like booze-)

He's up for pretty much anything if he's drunk enough to have fun and not remember enough to regret it

But not bowling.

N e ve r bo wl ing

He's still got a scar on his left arm from The End. :( But Matt and Edd helped him to fix it up, so it's all good!

He's actually a pretty chill and sensible guy, and despite being snarky and sarcastic whenever he can, he genuinely cares about his relationships with people, scared that one day they'll get bored of him and cast him aside. He's really just a goofball with big city dreams of becoming a rockstar.

Spends like two hours in the shower crying and listening to MCR

His favourite show is Bad Education. It's good for when he needs cheering up.

He likes snacks and foods that are crunch, and salty, spicy, and sometimes savoury. So Crisps, Pringles, Doritos, chex mix etc.

Edd:

Second shortest/third tallest

Kinda chubby tbh but he's the BEST at hugs.

His forearm game is actually pretty strong because of all the time he spends making art to pay for their bills (because hey, someone's gotta do it amirite). You don't wanna head into an arm-wrestling contest with this guy.

Makes money by selling his art and also taste-testing all the latest cola products! (Just...not the diet ones).

Aside from a devianart, redbubble and maybe even a tumblr for art commissions, he doesn't really care about social media. Or regular media. Politics who?

His favourite sport? Seeing how many cans of cola he can get through on an especially difficult project. (Cricket always looked kind of fun though)

Smells like cola and not taking a shower in days because he HAS to get the lineart perfect and edd are you ok when was the last time you slept- (jokes aside, i can see him smelling like graphite and paints and sharpies from his art supplies).

Can pull the perfect poker face like damn son having a baby face sure comes in handy when lying to your roomate about why there's broken guitar strings hanging out of Ringo's mouth again

Has a scar on the inside of his eyelid from the time Tom 'accidently' poked him in the eye with a pencil (...may or may not be based off personal experience)

Edd is pretty friendly and open with people, he likes getting to know them and joking around. He's the Ultimate Punmaster ™, and loves nothing more to poke fun. He sees the world through the eyes of a cartoonist, and will never miss a comedic opportunity.

Be warned! He's actually fairly smart, and can read people well, knowing just how to really get under someone's skin. It's a good thing he can't be bothered with any of that though.

Gets his best ideas either in the tub or when hes just about to sleep. Because of that, he keeps a water-proof and regular notebook. Nearly had a heart-attack countless times because he accidently swapped them around.

Despite his complaints about absurd plot conveniences, he actually likes Doctor Wh- i mean "Proffesor Why", there's just something about the concept of time travel...he also likes cartoons! Like, a lot. He'll watch most anything and everything if it's animated and the writing is decent.

Likes anything sour, sweet, and chewy! So Jelly Babies, Wine gums, Sour patch kids, that kind of thing

Tord:

(Most of these are heavily based upon his life as Red Leader so sorry if you were looking for more domestic Tord. Maybe I'll do seperate hcs for that one day)

Second tallest! Quite a bit taller then Tom, a bit taller then Edd, just about average height, if a bit taller. He's closer to Matt in height then Edd.

He's actually quite well-built! You wouldn't think it because of the baggy hoodie he wears but he's got pretty good muscle, and his endurance and strength is well above the others. This mostly comes from the logic that he's been training and leading the Red Army, so it just makes sense to me that he'd resemble a soldier physically, yknow? AU-wise, or before he started the whole world domination thing, he'd be a little more scrawny, but he could still kick everyone's ass (he probably tried copying numerous anime battle stances lol-)

He's pretty well off, it turns out you can get quite rich by adopting some uh...rather unconventional means of money-making. Of course you could always say he just sold his inventions.

Does having your own private network of underground intelligence-gathering units count as social media? No? Nevermind.(He has a hentaihaven account-)

He likes dodgeball, archery, and you guessed it, arcade shooter games. Anything where he can point and hit something basically.

He smells like gunpowder, dirt, oil from machine maintenance and the cold? Like if the cold had a smell, he would have that smell, does that make sense? He also probably smells like Old Spice because idfk it just reminds me of him ok.

He doesn't exactly get out to socialise much, be prefers to stay at his desk, or curled up next to the fire with a mug of hot cider when he wants to relax. Sometimes Paul and Pat will drag him outside when they think he needs a breath of fresh air, and they'll go visit the nearest marketplace for food and other supplies. He likes strategic games like Chess or Draughts, and it's a good way to show off and get practice at the same time.

Scar-wise, he probably has quite a few from his fights. Post-the end, I'm not sure what would happen to him, since I've seen people go in a lot of different directions. I DO think he'd replace him arm with the robotic one, since that seemed too heavily implied to not happen. Regarding his face, I think the burns and stuff would probably heal over time, and depending on the technology in the future, he'd either still have some heavy scarring, or maybe he'd develop some kind of treatment so that it restores him to almost fully healed. He could always go the cyborg route and end up half-man half-machine like we see with future Matt and Tom.

(About the patch on his face, I have a theory about how he he aquired that scar/injury. See, I don't think Tord founded Red Army by himself, no. I think he was introduced to it by Paul (who we see in the same classroom as them in Poweredd) who was kept back a few years cause....uh...yknow- Anyway I have a theory that Tord eventually climbed the ranks until he became second-in-command, and he then murdered Red Leader and took his title. Their fight is where he got that injury. It's not really canon-supported much, but I find it an interesting concept!)

You've probably guessed, but I kind of disgree with Tord's portrayal sometimes. I think I prefer the darker, meaner side to him. I wouldn't say he's (completely) evil, but I'm not really one for the whole "self-hating, regretful angsty Tord who just wants some love and support" and stuff. I mean, it's cute with ships amd fluff, amd ideally he does make amends and rejoin the group, but I just like the thought that he's genuinely not a nice guy yknow? Like, he's actually done some fucked up stuff, and The End is probably just one case. (Of course this is all opinion based so feel free to disagree if u wanna wheeze-)

Has the WORST sleeping schedule. Has been known to fall asleep in the bath/shower.

He prefers movies to shows. His favourite is the Kingsman series (he can relate on many different levels).

Likes bittersweet things, (just like his personality amirite-). So cake with coffee, or tarts, liquorice, hard candy, that kind of thing.

Matt:

(My favourite-)

He tol. Tallest of them all!

Someone once described him as "borderline twink" and tbh i agree. I feel like he'd have a slightly feminine figure (which is perfectly normal!) and he both rocks it, and knows he does.

He works at a nail salon every now and again, his self-confidence and bubbliness makes him get along well with customers. (Also Matt would definitely wear nail polish ok dont even try to convince me otherwise. Actually speaking of,)

He has EVERY kind of social media possible. Instagram, twitter, facebook, tumblr, facebook, snapchat, you name it! He's especially prominent on instagram. He likes to keep an ~aesthetic~

He likes gymnastics and dance, activities like that. Anything which puts him in a creative spotlight. He'd probably take up acting classes, and then insist on only being given monologues.

He'd probably have quite a pleasant and nature-y smell? Like uhh citrus-y, pine tree, a hint of flowers, that kind of thing. Although he'd DEFINITELY slap on way too much cologne on a date or something and end up smelling like he just emptied out a bottle of febreeze.

He'd probably go out quite a lot! I can see Matt being a social butterfly, his friendliness and general likeability probably mean that he's got a few friends and stuff around. I can also see him as the kind of person who'd enjoy taking walks in the park, sitting below a tree, that kind of thing. He probably runs a self-love session (that works a little TOO well). He wants to get out there and show off his beautiful face, so it doesn't take a lot to drag him outside (provided you keep a mirror on you, that is).

He doesn't really have any physical scars. I mean, i do hc him with freckles, but they don't count so. he has a mental scar. After he hit himself with the memory eraser gun, he completely erased his memories. It took a while for him to settle onto the personality he has now. His face was the one thing that he knew for certain held a sense of familiarity and stability, so that's partly why his narcissism boomed so much. He sometimes gets random flashbacks of being a zombeh leader, being less of a nicer person, and it can be quite unnerving for him. He also has other memory issues, which is why he can forget things so easily, and comes across as an idiot most of the time.

He can be quite oblivious, but I dont think hes a total idiot. He can read people fairly well, and is emotionally intelligent. He says stupid things sometimes despite knowing they'll get a reaction, just because he wants to, and thinks that life should be as fun and full of joy as possible. He's too trusting, and wants to see the good in everyone. At the end of the day, if you disrespect him (and his face), you'll see that he can be more then just the nice guy.

LUSH!! Matt is HERE for all those lush products. I'm talking bath bombs, lip scrubs, shower jellies, all that good stuff! And ofc he has like 100+ products for his hair and skincare routine, because let's face it, it's Matt. I also like to think he owns a bunch of bath toys and rubber duckies, and like the kid at heart he is, he'll sit in a bubble bath playing with them, and re-enacting all of their adventures.

He mostly prefers youtube videos over TV, so you bet he's subscribed to all the beauty gurus, vloggers, people like that. He does think children's cartoons are nice to watch though, so every once in a while he'll force Tom and Edd to sit with him and watch the latest season of My little pony.

He likes anything sweet and fun to look at! Especially if it's trending, so he can post pictures of himself eating/drinking it. So if there's another rolled ice cream/new starbucks-ccino/unicorn themed food item floating about, he'll probably be trying it.

(Ah man this turned out way longer then i thought. It went from simple headcanons to like full blown theories whoops- maybe i should make seperate posts if its too difficult to read? Anyway let me know what you think nonetheless!)

#eddsworld #ew matt #ew tom #ew tord #ew edd #eddsworld matt #eddsworld edd #eddsworld tom #eddsworld tord #ew hcs #headcanons #eddsworld headcanon

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galacticlee · 6 years

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The Entertainment Conflicts

These prompts made me cry they're amazing holy quiznack

For some reason, Tumblr decided to delete this ask, but here are your shidge ficlets, @rebelgirlmatrix1213

1)Soft!Shidge + music = my heart attack waiting to happen

And for 2) I got into Stranger Things only a few weeks ago, and I know for a fact they would love it. Besides, couples fighting over TV shows is the best, so why not.

Prompt from this post (x)

It was all started when Pidge snooped through his playlist one night before dinner.

Music was a welcomed privilege to have, and the Paladins hadn't realized the quietness of the void of space until it had departed them. Thus, once the five returned to their home planet, melodies were blasted through out their cars, homes, and whatever hang-outs they attended, the unmistakable urge to jump up and wildly dance as if no one was watching stronger than ever. Each earthling had their genre of tunes that they preferred; Keith loved old rock music, Hunk a fan of classical, and etcetera. The tunes that would exhale from the local stations were a blend of 'southern' and whatever their parents would listen to, the satellite edition blasting heavy-beated pop that would threaten to break a car's speakers or Broadway show tunes that no one in the universe could ever get quite right. It took him a while, but the Black Paladin finally found his comfort songs.

Shiro rocked out to whatever his tiny girlfriend would, thus the songs that would echo throughout the walls of their home vastly consisted of indie rock and whatever slow, electronic beats she felt fit the pair's collective emotion. The genre grew on him, creating a soft spot in his mind for anything that reminded him of Pidge. His now vast collection of memories with her included the pair with ear buds stretched between them, whether it be in bed, walking across busy city sidewalks, or huddled together on a crowded tram. Dancing together in their kitchen, or bedroom, or shower was a common event, socks or bare feet sliding and squirming across the tile or wood floor with ladles or hairbrushes or hands used as would-be microphones. Music was the warmth of her figure next to him in the early gold morning, the cooling touch of her fingers trailing across the back of his neck amidst steaming water, and the soft melody of her voice dancing from her lab as she worked on some intergalactic project. Anything that reminded him of her, especially a band or artist, helped his day go by.

Thus, as he explored her playlist, he began to grow a love for Lindsey Stirling.

He expected to be made fun of, as was the norm when either of the couple found a new, freaking-out-about thing to get behind. The teasing was always loose, always comfortable, but he couldn't quite put his metallic finger on why he kept the artist tucked in his pocket. Yet, he did, humming the tunes of the songs he could remember and sneaking his favorites into her phone.

But he could never hide anything from the intelligent Holt.

"Soooooo," She started, leaning over the kitchen counter with her feet kicking in the air, thumbs pressing against his phone's screen. Her smile was audible through her words, though he couldn't decipher if it was coy, sympathetic, or incredulous. "I see you have a favorite electric violinist."

He near dropped the spatula he was holding, mouth drawing together into a thin line and hand around a saucepan tightening whilst his face began to sting. Shiro stirred its contents faster, a tad bit nervously. "Hmm, what about it?"

He braced himself for the incoming roll of the honey-shaded eyes, or the awful violin impression, but they never seemed to arrive. Shiro glanced up from the pan, throwing his eyes over his shoulder and toward her. She wiggled in place, smile wide as she swung her legs back and forth against the cabinet and phone pressed in her lap. She fiddled with the sink's taps, choosing her next words with a pursed lip.

"Master of Tides or Crystalize?"

"What?"

"Master of Tides, then."

He narrowed his eyes, blinking as he ceased the stirring and reprocessed the statement. Pidge's freckled features were glowing, intelligent grin shining at her partner as she squirmed off the marble slab and neared him. Fingers pressed against the screen of his phone, her steps became bouncy, shoulders moving back and forth as a rhythm began to exit its speakers. He instantly recognized the noise, the thump of a beat fading out of the device and into his ears.

"No teasing?" He questioned, dropping the hand from the dish as she snatched onto it and twirled it around her.

Pidge shrugged, stuffing the phone in her pocket after transferring it to the speakers hidden around the home. "I may or may not have an obsession with her as well," She admitted, caramel freckles flushed as Katie unrolled his arm. "And I might know most of them by heart."

"Might?" The food was now forgotten, utensil set on an unoccupied burner as she grabbed his other hand, the melody that bled through the hidden speakers she installed for God knows why picking up its pace. The tune was familiar to him and appeared to be with her as they slinked across the kitchen floor, feet turning and hands clenched around each other's. She rose on her tip-toes, moving an arm to position on his broad shoulders.

"Oh, so we're really dancing now?"

"You call this dancing?"

He grinned as they moved, raising his metallic limb as she twirled underneath it, giving a snort and a roll of her energetic eyes in response. The song was faster, livelier as the pair's pace increased, knee and ankle-high socks sliding across frigid tile and arms dropped when dancing became more of a flail-your-arms-to-the-tune-and-feel-good sort of feat. They spun and waved and tossed and turned, grins breaking into uncontrollable laughter as the pace of the song hurried and slowed, on and on again. By the end of the song, both were wheezing from chuckling, Pidge's hands pressed to Shiro's cheeks and his upon her wrists as the electric instruments washed away, leaving an out-of-breath couple and a steady beat that was soon to past.

He was glad she snooped through his phone.

"Jancy will never top Mileven, Shiro, how dare you!" She shouted, pointing a finger toward him as she stretched away from him, digging her feet into the sofa's cushion. Shiro's face furrowed back at her as he leaned over, near spilling the contents of the bowl that lay in his lap.

"Jonathon and Nancy will always be the best paring in the show, Pidge." Shiro's voice was firm, and his steel grey eyes burned in the back of her head, but she stuck to her argument as she climbed back and thrust her fist into the sweetened kettle corn, stuffing her face full of it and resting her feet on his arm while awaiting him to continue. "Even the insane conspiracy theorist said that they belong together, and even Steve and the jocks though they were dating in Season One. So the Jancy plot is stronger than the Mileven."

She waited until he made a move for the corn to retaliate with her . "Sure, but think about it. Eleven and Mike are part of the main five or six that are the core of the series. Name a more iconic duo than them."

Shiro raised an eyebrow. "Alright. Batman and Robin. Spiderman and Deadpool. Coran and his moustache is also-"

She pursed her lips. "Coran is not an acceptable answer-"

"Should we even get on the Jopper subje-"

The two were interrupted by the screen in front of them thundering aggressively, the pair's heads swiveling to catch a glimpse of their collctive favorite show, Stranger Things. Pidge had come across the hit series while preparing to dive into the depths of Netflix one day, watched the first season, and promptly demanded her partner watch it alongside her. It was an instant hint, and both absorbed the irony of the government-hiding-secrets trope that they knew all too well about. And, as was the trouble of being a fan (or in this case, stan) and having your significant other be the same, it offered either pure happiness when you completely agree, or heated arguments in any other alternative.

For these two, it was indefinitely the latter.

Pidge squirmed closer to Shiro, tucking into his side as his arm fell instinctively over her shoulder. They sat in a few minuets of silence, watching as a group of kids biked down a road, only then speaking after the credits rolled and the 'Play next episode' button appeared. She turned her head to the side, strands of hair that fell out of her incredibly messy bun tickling the back of her neck as she spoke her following words with childish determination.

"We need to give Keith the Steve Harrington hair-cut."

Shiro exhaled a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Do you think he would really allow us to style his hair, much less give him a style from the 80's?"

The brunette rolled her eyes as she reached for the kettle corn, nudging the collar of her (Shiro's. It was Shiro's, but it as hers) shirt back over her bare, pale shoulder. "He's had a mullet for, like, seven years at least, and a mullet is one of the things that defined the eighties! We might as well have the damn thing piled taller than his Lion," Pidge reasoned, throwing a hand out to emphasize her statement as the other reached for the snack-bowl. Her only response was another shake of the head and a gesture to play the next episode in addition to Shiro's head slowly dipping to the side and resting on her covered shoulder. The opening minuets finished, theme starting up with it's scarlet-outlined letters floating across the screen when Pidge grabbed his flesh hand, turning her head to whisper in his ear.

"Hey, Shiro."

"Hmm?"

"Do you think I could make us have Eleven's powers?" Her golden eyes glittered, mouth forming into a curious smirk as she watched all of the ideas of consequence fire off in Shiro's synapses. The bowl of kettle corn was trashed as both moved quickly, Pidge aiming to leap away but was pinned down to the sofa by her much bigger, much stronger boyfriend. She gave a slight pout, forcing herself to restrain her laughter in her throat. His eyes were narrowed, the white patch of hair falling in between their eyes as he shook his head.

"Bad Idea. Bad, bad idea." He answered, tapping his fingers against her wrists which he held to the sofa's arm rest. Her response was an exaggerated sigh and a roll of her eyes, though her grin broke though her poorly cobbled-together pout while her freckled cheeks folded up.

"We just watched an eleven year-old girl flip a van, though," She reasoned, wrapping her legs around his torso as she flung a hand out to the screen, lips pressed together as she attempted to illustrate the failing point. The episode they had watched seemingly hundreds of times was becoming white noise, conversation no longer about Pidge running off to her lab but about keeping each other's focus. As Shiro listened on, he realized what he would say in the next few seconds could very well get him kissed, or get him killed. "That could help us defend the universe!"

"Only the kind of person who puts Mileven at top priority would say that."

"Don't you start-"

#shidge #shidge prompt #shidge fanfic #softshidge is my jam ok #don't lie to me and say they wouldn't fight over ships #because you know they would #shiroxpidge #takatie

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