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swaps55 · 3 years

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Mnemonic

This is an AU version of a standalone scene from Cantata that I rewrote with kissing. Because there was a lot of UST and I am weak.

Ao3

14 June 2180, Hades Gamma, Farinata System, SSV Myeongnyang

For a biotic, the armor never really comes off. What they carry under their skin is like a live wire, a current always in need of grounding.

Standing face-to-face with half a dozen L2 biotics holding the chairman of the Parliament Subcommittee for Transhuman Studies hostage on the MSV Ontario makes it a lot easier for Kaidan to see how much he takes for granted having a safe place to do it. And knowing how.

Reparations for the L2 side effects are a pipe dream. But a pipe dream Colin Daggett and his people needed to cling to, whatever the cost. And it had almost cost them everything.

Shepard doesn’t say much as they arrange for the survivors to be transferred to the Madrid’s brig and the engineering crew arrives to secure the Ontario for the trip to Arcturus. He says even less on the way through the airlock back to the ‘Yang, and the rest of the squad take their lead from him.

When they’re back on board the ship he disappears, sucking the air out of the room with him. They kit down without him.

“You’re an L2, aren’t you?” Pendergrass asks as she shoves her arms through the sleeves of her uniform, armor plating in a heap at her feet.

Beaudoin jabs her with an elbow.

“Yeah,” Kaidan murmurs, fingers tracing the amp port on the back of his neck when he removes the protection plate. He flexes his fingers, gravity well jumping into his touch. As he reaches for his chest plate to store it in his gear locker, an electric shock passes through him.

When 23:00 rolls around, Kaidan shows up in the mess as usual, figuring he’ll keep it simple tonight and just make some pasta. Shepard is there waiting, as usual, picking at a spot on the table while Kaidan pulls out a pot and finds a container of pasta. The entire time the water boils Shepard doesn’t say a word, stubbornly lost in thought.

Kaidan tells himself he’s not going to do more than olive oil and garlic – it’s been too long of a day for effort – but by the time he gets it to the table there’s parmesan cheese, parsley, and even a little red pepper in the mix.

“You going to tell me what’s up, or do I get to guess?” Kaidan asks when he sits down across from him and hands off a fork. He spent too much energy on going above and beyond with the red pepper to bother with a second bowl. They’ll just have to share.

Shepard looks up, almost in surprise. “Just thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking ever since you got Chairman Burns through the airlock. Maybe you should think out loud.”

The gravity well churns as Shepard stirs eddies in it, in tune with the twirl of his fork in the pasta bowl. “Everything that happened on that ship hinged on what Daggett did with his pistol.”

His toying intensifies, until blue energy shimmers around his knuckles. This one’s been chewing at him. A snap of electricity skips between his finger and the fork, and he drops it with an annoyed mutter. He looks up.

“You pulled the gun out of his hands,” he says.

And Shepard had put a bullet between his eyes. The fight had gone out of the rest pretty quickly.

“He wasn’t going to put it down,” Kaidan says. “We all knew it.”

“No. He wasn’t. And if you hadn’t been there, that standoff turns into a clusterfuck where everyone dies.”

A soft smile tugs at Kaidan’s lips. “Guess it’s a good thing I was there.”

Shepard picks up the fork again, staring at it with an unfocused gaze before he stabs it back in the bowl and twirls more pasta.

“I couldn’t have done what you did. I can’t refine a field like that. I was prepared to shoot everyone in that room. But you pulled the gun right out of his hands.”

Only because Shepard had given him the chance. Whether Shepard had done it with purpose or actually hesitated is a question he hasn’t been in a hurry to examine too closely.

“We work together, remember? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

Shepard huffs. “Yeah. We have.”

“But you’re just gonna get bent out of shape about not being able to do everything yourself, anyway.”

“Have you met me?” Shepard says with a helpless shrug.

“Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure,” Kaidan says with a chuckle. He pushes his chair back. “Come on, then.”

Shepard casts him a suspicious look. “Come where?”

“To the gym.”

“Alenko—”

“Come on.” He nods towards the elevator and starts walking, smirking a little when Shepard’s chair scrapes against the floor and his feet hit the deckplates.

“You’re just dying to give me a taste of my own medicine, aren’t you,” Shepard grouches when they board the lift.

“Oh, definitely.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Apparently not when it comes to taking people’s pistols out of their hands.”

Shepard chuckles, though he tries to choke off a smile by looking down at his feet. When they get to the gym Kaidan digs a canteen out of his locker and sets it down on one of the sparring mats.

“I’m guessing that your training didn’t include a lot of control drills,” he says.

Shepard shakes his head. “Tulak wasn’t big on control. Overwhelming tidal force tends to be the krogan approach.”

“You don’t say.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Alenko.”

Kaidan grins and points to the canteen. “Start simple. Just lift it off the ground.”

Shepard rolls his eyes, but taps into the gravity well, corona enveloping him in a shroud of snapping blue tendrils. The hairs on Kaidan’s arms stand on end.

It’s so rare he gets to just watch Shepard work. All unrestrained power, from the loose, angry snarl of his corona to the sweeping mnemonics, make him seem larger than life. When he swipes the canteen off the floor he does it with his entire arm. The canteen leaps into the air, nearly hitting the ceiling before Shepard wrangles it. He only holds it still for half a second before sending it skidding to the other side of the gym.

“Hm,” Kaidan says.

Shepard gives him a withering look before marching off to fetch the wayward canteen. “It’s small. I don’t do well with small.”

“Not sure the size trips you up as much as you think it does,” Kaidan muses. “That mnemonic of yours applies some pretty impressive force automatically, so you’re already playing catch up if you’re trying to control the speed or direction.”

“See, I can’t tell if you’re complimenting me or giving me shit.”

“Both.”

“Har.”

Shepard resets the canteen and comes back to Kaidan to try it again, standing close but not so close their fields intersect. Kaidan watches through three variations that all end almost the same way, too much force being applied to the canteen, making it nearly impossible for Shepard to control where it goes, or where it doesn’t.

Doesn’t matter that he’s not accomplishing what it intends. The way the gravity well cants under his touch, the way his corona lights him ablaze like a flickering star, the way it caresses every nerve in Kaidan’s body like a swash of silk is mesmerizing. Kaidan swallows before trying to speak.

“Good news is, if we ever need someone to punt a suspicious canteen into space, I know who to call.”

Shepard rolls his eyes. “And if you’re not around to yank pistols out of terrorist hands?”

“Well, first, I will be around. But second, as for the pistol, yanking it towards you isn’t so different from kicking it away from you.” He cracks a grin. “In your case you just need to be prepared to duck.”

“Have I mentioned that separating the pistol from the person holding it wouldn’t end well for anyone?” Shepard says. “If you were to go hold that canteen in your palm and ask me to do what I just did, you wouldn’t like me very much.”

I doubt that.

“One problem at a time,” Kaidan says. “Let’s work on controlling the canteen by itself, then we’ll add clutter.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

“You need a new mnemonic. You’re fighting yourself by adding force and trying to take it away at the same time.”

“I’m sensing a metaphor.”

Kaidan smirks. “Think that says more about you than it does me.” Before Shepard can protest he raises an arm. “Watch me. You don’t have to use my mnemonic, but I want you to see something different so you can visualize it.”

Shepard folds his arms across his chest, but does what Kaidan asks. A nervous thrill runs through him at the undivided attention.

Kaidan waves a wrist, a hard-learned, hard-fought mnemonic that now feels as natural as breathing. Dark energy rushes through him, responsive and willing, as his fingers flex and settle a field over the canteen. Very little mass-shifting needed to pick up a light-weight canteen, which makes it tricky to keep from doing exactly what Shepard did – send it spinning out of control. But Kaidan has spent years perfecting his ability to do exactly this, so the canteen rises off the floor until it reaches eye level. Kaidan closes his fist and holds it still, floating almost motionless in mid-air.

“That mnemonic is so damned subtle,” Shepard says with an appreciative shake of his head. A flush builds at the back of Kaidan’s neck.

“Easier for me that way.”

Shepard grunts and unfolds his arms. “I was never good at levitation.”

“Because your mnemonics always apply force.”

“Need force to yank that pistol.”

“Sure, but if you want to control it, you need to learn how to hold it still.”

“I’m not good at still.”

“I know,” Kaidan says, lips curving into a smile. “So come here and let me show you.”

Shepard strays a step closer into Kaidan’s biotic field. The blend of auras creates a low keen through his nerves, familiar but always striking. The canteen wavers before falling to the ground.

“Sorry,” Shepard mumbles, but doesn’t back away.

“It’s fine,” Kaidan says, lifting the canteen again with another float of his palm.

Their eyes lock for a moment before Shepard clears his throat and looks down at Kaidan’s hand.

“You put everything in your wrist.”

“Yeah,” he manages. “You do it all with your arms.”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe, if you’re looking for finesse, try to create a mnemonic that’s a little, uh, smaller.”

“With my wrist.”

“Right. Um, I’ll show you. Here.” He steps in front of Shepard, angling his body to align their right arms. He takes Shepard’s right hand guides it to his wrist, tingle running down his spine when his fingers close around it. Shepard glances at him with soft eyes that stop the breath in his throat, but doesn’t object.

“Hands-on teacher?”

“Best way to learn,” Kaidan replies, gaze flicking to Shepard’s mouth before going back to the canteen. “Just follow my lead. Don’t act on the canteen. Concentrate on what my arm does. Visualize it.”

“Sure,” Shepard murmurs.

Kaidan reaches into the gravity well, his own corona unfurling, a steady candle to Shepard’s flaring torch. Goosebumps rise on Shepard’s arm, a subtle reminder that he’s human after all, one Kaidan is almost never close enough to witness.

He takes a deep breath and flexes his wrist, Shepard’s fingers loose and feather-light against his skin. A crackle of dark energy passes between them before he snares the canteen and turns his wrist palm-up to lift it off the floor, Shepard close enough his breath washes over Kaidan’s cheek. The canteen wavers but Kaidan keeps it afloat for several seconds, the mingle of auras, ripple of kinetic energy and closeness of Shepard enough to make him dizzy.

He lets it go with a clatter and puts space between them.

“Does that help?” he asks, trying not to sound breathless.

“Yeah. It does.” Shepard’s gaze stays on him, still and steady. “Might take a while to hard-wire my brain for something in the wrist.”

“Doesn’t have to be that. It could be something else. But you associate those big movements with force. Take that away, you might have more luck with leaving velocity out of the initial execution, so you can add it how you need it. Have more control over it.”

Shepard’s mouth crooks in a half-smile. “Sure I’m not a lost cause when it comes to control?”

“I’m sure.”

Shepard breaks his gaze and focuses on the canteen, brow furrowed in concentration. Twice he catches himself using his arm, then nearly wrenches his wrist trying to restrict the movement.

“It’s so ingrained,” he says with a shake of his head.

“That’s why they work,” Kaidan says with a smile. “Here.” He steps close once again, positions reversed with his hand on Shepard’s wrist this time. “Let me help.”

“Fuck, your hands are cold,” Shepard says with a laugh.

Hastily, he loosens his grip. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Shepard says with a grin. “Go on.”

Gently, Kaidan closes his fingers again. Shepard trains his eyes on the canteen, though they dart to Kaidan ever so briefly.

Shepard’s corona is so bright, so fierce, it’s a wonder he can wrangle it at all. Kaidan breathes in deep, letting his own kindle, the snick and crackle as they blend together forming a resonant hum that hovers just under his skin.

When Shepard’s arm moves, Kaidan tightens his grip, keeping the motion small. Instead of his usual languid, fluid posture, Shepard’s arm is stiff and resistant against him. The canteen spins in a circle but stays on the ground.

“Breathe, Shepard,” Kaidan says softly. “Just let it happen.”

Shepard inhales deep, like someone trying to relearn how. This time they move together, Kaidan picking up the slack when Shepard falters, until the canteen hovers briefly in the air. It’s more under Kaidan’s control than Shepard’s, but it’s a start, and that’s what matters.

They gutter out and the canteen falls, but Kaidan doesn’t let go and doesn’t step away, not yet, not quite yet, not while the remnants of kinetic energy are still sharp in the air and he has to remind himself to breathe, too.

“How do you do that?” Shepard murmurs. “You worked around me, without…taking over. How do you do that?”

Their eyes lock for just a moment. God Kaidan could get lost there if he’s not careful. “Practice. Years of it.”

Let go.

He means to. He means to. In his head he loosens his hold on Shepard’s wrist, drops his hand away and puts space between them. That’s what he tells himself to do. That’s what he intends to do.

But while he does loosen his grip, instead of fall away, Kaidan’s fingertips brush Shepard’s knuckles, the pad of his thumb running along the round muscle of his palm.

It’s an accident. Just an accident. So many of their touches are, but rather than move or pull away, rather than let it be just another one of those excusable, explainable slips, Shepard exhales, the breath fluttering out of him, then splays his fingers wider, as if making room for Kaidan’s to slot between them.

Let go, let go.

But instead he explores the open space Shepard has left for him, fingertips light, hesitant, ghosting Shepard’s skin as he finds where they fit, hovering, hoping, but never daring to rest. Never giving up the ruse.

It’s an accident. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does.

Shepard stays still as a stone save for the rise and fall of his chest. They’re close enough now their cheeks almost touch, though whether Kaidan moves or Shepard does to close that gap he can’t say.

The next time Kaidan’s fingers trespass through that open space, Shepard closes his around them and traps them there.

Kaidan’s breath hitches.

The gravity well sighs as Shepard calls to it, glow of dark energy limming their hands, accompanied by a soundless hum that strums every nerve in Kaidan’s body before settling in his groin. Without thinking his other hand comes to rest on Shepard’s hip, needing something, anything, to hold onto.

A soft sound stirs in Shepard’s throat. Kaidan’s hand doesn’t stay on that hip for long, because Shepard seeks those fingers out, too, lacing them together. Kaidan folds both arms until Shepard is surrounded by them. There’s no imagining any space between them now – their cheeks rest against each other, Kaidan tightening his hold until Shepard is snug against his chest.

Shepard turns his head, but after briefly meeting each other’s gaze, his eyes drift down to Kaidan’s mouth.

Kaidan can still let go. There’s still a way out. Chalk it up to adrenaline, nerves leftover from the standoff on the Ontario. They can walk it off, laugh, pretend it never happened, continue on like they always have.

But he doesn’t let go, and then the millimeters between Shepard’s lips and Kaidan’s no longer exist and the window is gone.

Shepard’s mouth is warm, soft, lips tinged with the salt of his sweat. They start out slow, cautious, neither of them daring to think about it too hard, but that’s not a problem for long, because soon there’s no room to think about anything at all.

Nothing else matters but this.

Slow and cautious becomes deep and headlong, Kaidan pushing his tongue between Shepard’s teeth, Shepard sighing into his mouth and taking him in. His fingers tighten around Kaidan’s, the glow of dark energy rippling out from their joined hands until it swallows them whole. Kaidan gasps at the sensation.

Shepard kisses him harder.

God.

Kaidan wants to spin him around, throw his arms around his neck and meet him head on, give in to everything, all of it, but he can’t bear the thought of turning loose of that hand.

They part when they run out of air, both straining to catch their breath, fingers still entwined, Shepard still firmly ensconced in Kaidan’s arms as his corona fades.

Shepard rests his cheek against Kaidan’s, ensconcing himself a little further.

“Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

Shepard’s fingers flex within his, twining and retwining, never letting go.

“You…don’t seem surprised.”

Kaidan closes his eyes, breathing him in, a star he’s somehow pulled down out of the heavens and trapped right here in his arms. “No. Felt it…for a long time now.”

“Oh.”

“…Yeah.”

Their coronas may have faded, but the mingle of their biotic fields is a constant, soothing whisper under Kaidan’s skin. A small, contented sound slips from Shepard’s throat.

“Why didn’t I see it?”

Kaidan huffs. “To be fair, I don’t think either of us are very good at this kind of thing.”

Shepard tightens his grip on Kaidan’s fingers and pulls them to his chest. The race of Shepard’s heart thrums under their joined hands. If Kaidan had any illusions about letting him go, they’re gone now.

“I think I’d like to learn,” Shepard says.

Kaidan’s stomach flips. “Me too.”

They stay still, Kaidan content to hold him, Shepard content to be held, until their lips find each other once more. Kissing Shepard is easy, effortless, like it’s something they were meant to do, a safe place for the live current running under their skin to go to ground.

Shepard, against all evidence to the contrary, is…safe.

Shepard gazes at him when they part, and butterflies cut loose in Kaidan’s stomach.

“You’re very good at that,” Shepard murmurs.

“We’re very good at a lot of things.”

“Yeah. We are.” He draws Kaidan’s hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Kaidan admits. “What do you want?”

“You.”

A shiver runs down Kaidan’s spine, the euphoria of that one, single word enough to make him lightheaded. So simple. So complicated. They’ll have choices to make, all of them with compromises and consequences. But that’s something for tomorrow. Right now there is only the truth.

“I want that, too.”

Shepard releases Kaidan’s hand to turn until they’re face to face, then runs his fingers through the hairs growing over Kaidan’s right temple. All the while those glittering eyes search Kaidan’s face, as though reconciling all the things he knows with the things he’s learning for the first time.

The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile spreads across his face, pure, open, and full of possibility. “Taste of my own medicine, huh?”

“Well…” Kaidan shrugs helplessly, and Shepard’s grin only gets deeper.

“Seems like I should have let you teach me a few things a long time ago.”

Kaidan flexes his fingers, a curl of dark energy igniting in his palm that draws out goosebumps along Shepard’s arm. “All in the wrist.”

Shepard laughs. It’s like music. “You and me.”

“I like that,” Kaidan murmurs, before kissing him again. “I like that a lot.”

#mshenko #kaidan alenko #mass effect #my fic #UST with biotics #in case anyone is wondering #the number of first kisses I have written for Sam and Kaidan #is currently sitting at 7 #and that's just the first kisses i have WRITTEN #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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peace-coast-island · 3 years

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Diary of a Junebug

Bake away the weekend with confetti cakes

There's soooo much cake in the kitchen, it's unreal. On one hand, I enjoyed making the cakes, but on the other hand, what were we thinking? I don't mean that in a bad way, I mean that as in it's so much work kind of way. Overall, all that hard work and effort was worth it as we got to enjoy a masterpiece at the end.

I think it helps that it was a group collab instead of a solo venture. If it's just me I probably would've used a cake mix and add one layer of frosting and call it a day. In this case, we had some friends visiting the camp and we all felt like doing something creative, so that's how this baking marathon came to be.

Although it was a lot of work - and a bit frustrating at times - making all these cakes from scratch and decorating them was fun and rewarding. To be honest though, I won't be doing that again anytime soon just because it takes up a lot of stuff and time, plus it's something you really have to be in the mood for. Still, I'd be up for doing something like that again, just not anytime in the near future.

Again, we made so much cake - I'm actually kinda worried that it might go to waste. Hopefully that won't be a problem, but still, seeing that much cake is a bit intimidating.

Visiting us at the camp is Sandi, Lea, and Chase, Lea's partner at the agency. Lea and the others have talked about Chase so it kinda feels like I sorta know him even though we didn't actually meet until now. Lea has been trying to get him to join her on her adventures with us but their schedules never aligned. I remember a couple years back he was planning to meet up with us but couldn't make it at the last minute. So it's good to finally meet him after all this time!

It's a bit unusual to see Sandi and Lea without DJ, Dell, and Em. I think this is the first time I haven't seen them all together. It's funny how you're so used to seeing one thing that when the pattern changes, it takes a bit of readjustment. Although Sandi, Lea, and the others are known as a team, they don't actually see each other too much outside of that.

They're practically family so they do keep in touch often but since Sandi accomplished her main purpose, everyone sort of went their separate ways. Not exactly disbanded as they still get together for missions once in a while, more like the whole crime fighting/retrieving lost treasures team is secondary compared to everything else going on in their lives. They pretty much admitted on separate occasions that the main reason why they continue taking on missions here and there is so they can have an excuse to hang out. Nothing like a good ol' heist to bring the team back together again!

When Sandi isn't out on missions, she's helping her mom out at the orphanage they run together. She says that she's really considering the idea of going to school to become a teacher, which I can totally see her doing. Problem is, how to get in, especially with an unusual background like hers. While reuniting with her mom has helped Sandi fill in some of the gaps of her past, there's still a lot missing and there's probably no way of knowing since her father's been dead for years. In short, what's stopping her is basically a potential legal nightmare - and given her history with some certain agencies, that just complicates things further.

Speaking of Sandi's complicated and cluttered past, an interesting development popped up. Something about an old acquaintance who turns out to be a half sibling through her father. What makes it complicated is that they both had agreed to leave that part of their lives behind so finding that out has left her with mixed feelings. It seems that the more she tries to dig up information on her father, she just gets left with more questions.

Lea and Chase are currently looking more into it, but it's a long shot. Apparently, Sandi's father was pretty much living a double life as his colleagues were unaware about Sandi and her mom for a long time. As for Sandi's friend, she, Lea, and Chase believe that it's likely that her dad never knew about him, or else they would've found something by now. In fact, how this information came out was pretty much an incidental finding, a random occurrence that wound up opening a can of worms.

Aside from that, things at the agency have been the same. Lea, as usual, solved cases with her vast knowledge on art and history while Chase did his part by wreaking havoc and catching the culprits. Sandi pops in once in a while as an informant, helping out in her own way. Given how they all are now, it's hard to believe that Lea and Chase used to work against Sandi and the others.

Them coming here was a bit of an impromptu trip. Lea and Chase had a bunch of vacation days they need to use up so they decided to plan something together. Then Lea extended the invitation to the others but they were unable to make it aside from Sandi, making it one of the rare occasions where it's just the three of them.

Chase has been described as a loose cannon, mainly by Lea. Compared to Lea and Sandi, he does stick out for being a bit extra, not in a bad way though. More like he tries, but ends up being clumsy and a bit of a mess, the kind who wants to help but ends up getting in the way. He and Lea are pretty much the brawn and brains kind of partnership where it doesn't seem like they'd get along but they surprisingly work together well. Sandi likes to roast him, as does Em and DJ, but they do admit that once they got him on their side instead of him working against them, he's actually a pretty cool guy.

Hanging out with them, especially outside of a mission or event has been fun. It's interesting and entertaining seeing Lea and Chase's dynamic - I can see how they get along at work. As for Sandi, she and Chase have a fun sibling-like kind of relationship where they mess around and banter with each other.

For some reason we all felt like we're in a baking mood so we watched a bunch of cake videos for inspiration. Between the four of us, we consider ourselves decent bakers so we decided to make a cake from scratch. It's not as intimidating as one would think, but it takes some prep work. But other than that, it's mostly just mixing different ingredients together.

Since we were feeling ambitious, we went for a bit of a complex recipe. By that, I mean we used a recipe from a pastry chef that takes a bit more work but isn't too hard to make. We went for confetti cake since we had all the ingredients. Plus it's been forever since I've had confetti cake and Sandi's never had it before.

And if baking a cake from scratch wasn't enough, we decided to make a bunch and decorate them! The first cake, our trial run, was a huge success so we made more. The recipe is really good - the cake is light and fluffy with a sweet vanilla flavor. Definitely something I'll be making again.

Now I want to try other recipes by Saffy like her chai coffee cake and Boston cream pie. But like I said, as much as I enjoyed making and decorating all these confetti cakes, I don't plan on doing that again anytime soon. You just gotta be in the mood for it, ya know?

We also used Saffy's recipe for merengue buttercream, which can be a bit finicky as timing's important - another reason why it's better to work in a group instead of solo. The result is a sweet, cloudlike frosting that goes well with the cake - or any kind of cake really. It's also fun to mix the frosting with food coloring, especially with the texture of the buttercream.

Along with decorating a bunch of small cakes, we put together a three tiered cake and went all out on that. I don't know how cake decorators do it, especially with big cakes. Shoutout to Chase and Sandi for doing most of the heavy lifting - literally and figuratively!

Decorating the cakes were a lot of fun. It kinda turned into a mini campsite event with various campers decorating their own cakes. Working on the big cake was fun and challenging but I think I prefer the simplicity of working on a smaller cake. Not too shabby for a bunch of first timers when it comes to the centerpiece!

As for the cake scraps, we made cake pops and decorated those too. It's so interesting seeing everyone's personality show through cake decorating. Lea goes for patterns, the methodical, organized type. I don't know how she has the patience to do all those details! Sandi likes to go for color with rainbows and star sprinkles. She also has a thing for galaxy and marble patterns. Chase goes for simplicity, usually with a layer of frosting and a bunch of sprinkles scattered about. And I, of course, went with florals and stars, though I still haven't quite gotten the hang of piping frosting yet so the flowers are a hit or miss. At least I can never go wrong with starry sprinkles!

Overall, I think the baking process was my favorite part of the whole thing. There's just something so satisfying about mixing together ingredients and watching them come together. Baking, as frustrating as it can be sometimes, is also fun as well as rewarding. It's a good thing we have Lea here to double check the measurements as that made things go by a lot more smoothly.

After the unveiling of the masterpiece, we threw a little party - with a feat like that, how could we not celebrate? At least we made a dent in our cake supply!

#animal crossing #animal crossing pocket camp #Diary of a Junebug #headcanon ramble

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earthendandinbetween · 3 years

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This was literally supposed to be a quick prompt. But no. It’s so long. Why. What happened to me here.

Everything was loud, indistinct, too close, too far. Snow clumped together with blood and trampled footsteps from the battle, the only real distinction that he had infact won was the still retreating forms of the bonedeths in the distance.

It wasn’t really much of a true battle, more like a cowardly- stupidly pathetic infact – ambush. They had tracked the zigotons’ patrolling path and tried to pick them off like simple prey animals. ...Perhaps they would’ve, if they had accounted for his presence. He could feel enough pride that it was rather difficult for enemies to truly plan for his strength. It wasn’t like they knew how to fight against an akumapon, what with the two tribes being supposed allies and such.

Though, he had expected the commotion to have died down by now. There were still shouts, not easy to make out from his focus on his blurry vision, only really able to make out the puffs of breath that froze in the snow-field’s cold. It wasn’t easy to get out of an ambush unscathed, he certainly expected a few hits. Some were deeper than others, but at least nothing was broken.

...He assumed such at least. The exhaustion and chill from the freezing temperatures made it difficult to tell anything anymore as he lowered down to kneel.

Just a moment. He’d be fine. He had survived much, much worse before.

A singular shout got a bit closer. His name, maybe? Probably.

He was too tired to move or acknowledge such. He didn’t usually like to acknowledge the little zigoton soldiers anyways outside of an order or two. They weren’t his troops, he held little interest towards them. Give him a minute to catch his breath, it’s fine. He’ll take them back to their general and they’ll probably plan some new stupid patrol path.

...Was it snowing again already?

Gods, he hated snow.

That was the last real conscious thought Kuwagattan had before collapsing. At least, that he could remember.

–

“He’s...Going to be alright, right?”

“Well, thanks to the others on the patrol, yes. The Snow-field can be unforgiving when one’s alone.”

“Poor dear...The zigoton scouts told me about the ambush...”

“Hm. I’ll have to plan with Gong for a new patrol route. Gathering Intel on our enemies is good and all- until things like this happen. I keep asking to send in one of the machines I’ve been working on, it could make the process so much safer.”

“It’s only a prototype, dear.”

“I know I know but-”

“I know, you’re excited, but--- Let’s save that for now, please. I don’t think a patrol route is really on his mind right now...”

“...You’re right. I’m just...Worried. You know that. I ramble when I’m nervous...”

The odd warmth and idle, soft chattering had slowly sunk into his regained consciousness, bringing with it a confusion and ache that lingered in the back of his skull. Where was he? It had to be familiar. He could recognize these voices, at least a little.

It took a moment as he squinted his eye open, blurry imagery of bricks, a desk, flames--- Ah. Part of the hideout. That seemed clearer now. One of the tents...shacks...buildings? Whatever stupid name the barracks were referred to. A mismatch of all three, really. It was dark, with only the warm glow of the small embers of the fire-pit bringing light in.

Well, at least he wasn’t freezing anymore. When had he fallen asleep? Or gotten back here for that matter? Last he remembered, the battle had just ended in the morning. This, this wasn’t morning. Dusk--- maybe. At least that guess was closer than the early morning sun. Did the scouts help bring him back? A little ridiculous, he would have been fine. He just needed a few moments and then he’d be right back on his feet again, like always.

Giving a soft groan as he moved, Kuwagattan shuffled in the thick fabric that he had been nestled in, cracking a few sore joints as he glanced about the bandages covering his form. There were an awful lot this time, almost shameful really. He was tougher than this, that was just a fact! Lousy cowards, hiding in the treelines instead of facing their own demises head-on. What good did ambushing even do for them in the end? It was the same result either way for the opposing tribe.

...The only thing the ordeal had done was plague him with an obnoxious stinging pain across his body, as well as wasting his time. If he wanted a battle, he would have gone to one. An entire day- just gone like that. The gall-

Where was his helm? Ugh, it had to have been that stupid Almighty that moved it. Anything just to be an obnoxious, soft hearted nuisance. He could mock her tone firmly in his head. ‘

He would be more comfortable without it!’ in her soft, annoying trill of a voice. Others would describe her voice as soft, kind, gentle. But to him it was all just high pitched chatter.

Great. He would have to reclaim his helm soon.

“Oh!”

Speak of the devil, and she will appear. Or whatever that saying was. He couldn’t care enough to remember. Moving his eye enough to see further into what he could only assume was a makeshift infirmary, the akumapon squinted at the two figures.

The irritant of a deity and...Of course it had to be Spiderton. Both pests he frequently had to deal with, even if the latter was only mildly less obnoxious. ...Very mildly. Maybe if he sunk further into the blanket, neither would pay him any mind. Or better yet, leave.

Calle offered a gentle wave as she spotted him, one he returned with a grunt of annoyance and roll of the eye. Not interested in the formalities. The two’s chatter resumed, quieter this time. His brow quirked slightly as the deity quickly shoo’d the spider-helmed zigoton out of the area, watching as he disappeared behind the cloth that closed off the outside world from view. Great. What ridiculous thing had she sent him off to do that he apparently wasn’t allowed to know?

“Stop starin’ at me,” Kuwagattan growled softly, not exactly up for his usual bite, “What do you want?”

“I was just worried,” Came the trill of a response, “I’m not staying for long.”

“Ugh. Good, get lost already” he hissed, “I can barely tolerate you when I’m not injured.”

Instead of the typical argument that would ensue between the two, typically resulting in the deity becoming annoyed and referring to him as ‘childish’ or ‘cruel’ before stomping off angrily, Calle simply creased her eye in worry as she dipped her head in silence. An abnormal response, not something he was used to at all from anyone. He knew the Almighty was soft hearted, willing to spare anyone and anything. He knew she did hold concern for him but--- without an argument or attempt to reach a mutual understanding first was not usual.

Had things really been that bad while he was out of it?

Couldn’t be. It was just a ridiculous display of patheticness. It didn’t matter, it kept her from speaking for now. That was fine by him.

...He wasn’t used to being cared for anyways. It didn’t matter.

Wordlessly, Calle stepped towards the cloth entrance, pulling it open without so much as a hum or chirp of wishing his swift recovery like she usually did when she found even a simple injury on him or others. A silent respect of his wishes to leave. He got a glance at the sky as she left, it was much darker than he had first thought. Truly, an entire day left wasted. Of course, just his luck.

Silence reigned, with only the crackling of the fire present as his gaze wandered about the unusually roomy area. Where even was this located in the hideout? He surely hadn’t seen it before. A vague recollection of a project the others were working on floated by his memory. ...Maybe this was that project. It would make sense, to build an infirmary of sorts. That, however, wasn’t what the akumapon was looking for right now. As he reached a hand idly to the soft tangle of fur on his head, he grumbled in annoyance, right now he was looking for a particular accessory of his that was unceremoniously stolen.

Laying on the slightly crowded table was the object in-question. Perfectly intact and completely unnecessary to remove. It didn’t exactly matter now, as he slowly stood with a grimace, popping his knees softly to try and shake the pain out of them. ...Might as well just drag the blanket with him and settle over there. He truly did not feel like playing a game of back and forth right now. He was not in the state to do such, slowly dragging his body across the room, flinching at every jostle of one of the wounds. ...They were much deeper than he had first assessed. What a shameful thing, to let himself show such weakness in battle. He would need to do better in the future.

It hadn’t taken long to retrieve his helm back to its rightful spot, tucking away a few loose strands of troublesome fur back under the accessory as he adjusted it, but the action certainly had felt longer than needed. The silence was welcome at first, slowly ebbing away into boredom and the urge to fidget about once more. This was why he hated vigils, typically. Standing around and accomplishing nothing, not even the tiniest bit of entertainment.

Kuwagattan was aware he was always seen as brash and stubborn, but he knew better than to strain himself currently. He’d come to regret it later if he did. He had done such in the past, albeit in a much weaker form, and it only resulted in a much longer rest time in the end. He could handle the boredom.

Instead, he put more of a focus on the surroundings, adjusting the thick blanket back over his own shoulders with a contented hum. The area was cluttered, clearly not entirely finished on its interior. A few bricks lay loose on the floor by the fire-pit, with tools and various maps laid about on the table. It was probably a hasty move to bring him here was the assumption. Warmer, most likely as the snow-fields could be intense. Ugh. Snow. He remembered being dragged through the Bryun snowfields and ice forest back over the bridge. He hated it then, but not nearly as much as the Sullied Tears. The storms were much more intense here, casting even part of the Field of Angry Giants in a thick ice at least once every other week.

This whole place was insane, now that he thought of it. Things were much more simple back home.

...Partially because he wasn’t expected to do much else than fight and die. That, that was most likely the major factor of not noticing how dangerous things had gotten in the world.

In the end, the general wasn’t given much time to dwell on that subject. Maybe a sign to keep the past in the past or---some weird thing he was often told or thought about on his own.

The cloth marking the entrance had moved slightly, causing him to squint in predetermined annoyance. His pupil formed a thin slit to show that whoever was here to bother him, that it was not welcome, and that it would be best to leave.

“Evening,” The voice was low, and yet even with a singular word the tone still was laced with a clear concern.

Almost immediately, the akumapon let his shoulders drop as the now identified stranger entered, allowing the curtain-like fabric to fall back into place. Soft footsteps followed, approaching him with an air of caution. Something he knew was not directed at him, just more of a mannerism picked up over years of battle.

Ah. Someone he could tolerate.

“Hey,” Kuwagattan offered a ‘grin’ as he adjusted the hold on the blanket, “I’m surprised you’re not..uh...Keeping watch or something. Isn’t it late?”

Gong stayed silent for a moment in response, taking a slow seat directly infront of the other, pupil turned away to avoid his gaze and brow furrowed. His eye was glossy, swimming with multiple thoughts he most likely wouldn’t say out loud, but were still clear. He hated these moments. Hated the soft looks and attempt at good advice to keep himself safer next time. He didn’t need to be babied, be patronized---

He didn’t need to know he made someone worry so stupidly over himself. And deep down, he didn’t want to acknowledge that he felt guilty over never listening to the others. He hadn’t made a mistake this time, it was a true ambush where quick thinking was needed. What could he possibly be chastised on this time?

“Don’t look at me like that,” He grumbled, “I’m not in the mood for another conversation about my battle plans.”

“No, I’m not here for that,” the zigoton half whispered, “My scouts told me how well you had protected them. Not a scratch on a single one of them.”

Kuwagattan huffed proudly, giving a more smug, prideful look as he responded, “Well yeah. I said I would look after your troops when I left, didn’t I?”

“Hm,” Gong dipped his head slightly in a nod, “Of course, I had no doubts of such to begin with. I just--- I had not expected an ambush, especially of that size for such a small patrol group. I suppose this entire time I’ve...let my worries wander. About you.”

The akumapon paused his quip he was about to speak. Typically this would be where the two would prod fun at each other and laugh off the danger, like any other time the other was harmed in a fight. They had both faced death and returned stronger from it, they could handle just about anything. This really wasn’t much different from a typical battle, so why the dire atmosphere?

The tone was all wrong. This was too serious for his liking, not a conversation he wanted to be apart of. He allowed himself to shrink further into the fabric draped around himself, gaze darting away from the tateton as he heard him clear his throat to continue.

“I know that you are--- Not used to being shown concern for your well being. Kharma did not treat you with much respect as a general and--- gods know how that star treated both you and Makoton as disposable pets. I just wish that you would not push yourself like you still need to prove you are worth belonging.”

“I thought you weren’t here to chastise me,” Kuwagattan muttered, trying desperately to chase away the pushing guilt and just get away from the subject, “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” Their eyes met for just a moment, “You know yourself best, after all, and you will follow any path you see fit. These….these are just my own worries and thoughts, especially after today. We all care an awful lot about you here, this isn’t like the akumapon tribe, not by a longshot. Perhaps not even like in our old territory, either.”

“They ‘care’, sure,” the beetle-helmed general huffed, sarcasm biting through that led to vague annoyance,“Whatever. You can go now.”

“I’m tired of you acting like you’re indestructable!” Came the snapping, surprisingly harsh tone thrown his way, “I did not track you down and face you alone over the bridge because I needed another soldier. I did it because you deserved to have a chance to do something other than be expected to waste your life in an unwinnable battle. You can act crude and sarcastic about the rest of them but you cannot say to my face that I don’t care or that I do not know what I am talking about.”

Kuwagattan paused before he could even will himself to utter a word. His arm twitched nervously as he thought of any comeback or way to guide this somewhere else. Away from the concept of his ever need to prove his strength to everyone and anyone. To avoid being soft.

...He had not wanted to push the one being in this camp that he truly tolerated enough to give even a fleck of vulnerability to, and the guilt clung uncomfortably heavy to him. He hated it. If he kept quiet, maybe the other would leave and things would go back to normal by morning. It had to, right?

Hands gripped the outer section of the almost sort-of cocoon he had made of the blanket, causing the akumapon to jolt slightly, gaze finally lowering to the other general. The glossy look in his eye had only increased, leading into a stray tear or two. This...wasn’t right. This was never how their conversations had ever gone in the past. Why was it like this now?

“Why won’t you let me help you?” The burst of anger had quickly turned into a pained, hurt tone that was trying to hold back a worse choke-up, “Why won’t you let anyone help you? I don’t want to lose you, not again. There’s so much left for you here.”

Kuwagattan waited for a further word, a snap that he was being foolish, how to fix it, how to plan better. Anything that he was used to hearing, maybe an odd saying or metaphor, but he was left with the silence. Any conversation had stilled, and the only real way he could tell the other wasn’t about to up and leave was still the tight grip held onto the fabric.

He’d rather be shouted at, questioned for his mindlessness, told not to be stupid and not to ruin a plan. Anything but being left with his own thoughts right now. The ever present worry of showing vulnerability or weakness, the fear that such would make him been seen as not as worthy as others. That if he was not always striving to crush his foes that they would up and walk over him. Or that those he was told to defend would up and leave.

The presence of what a second death might mean, and that the slightest of hesitation could bring that upon him.

It didn’t make sense. Not at all. To be encouraged to feel anything other than a dull rage, an urge to fight for a tribe that insisted it was in everyone’s best interest. He wasn’t good at having a choice, he just fell back into his old habits of defending without much thought.

Yet it had also grown so differently here. More open. Friendlier.

And he couldn’t handle such.

It felt like a ploy to get him to care, to feel like he could simply be without having to defend his worth at every angle. To be vulnerable to strike his pride down and lose everything he had begun to work for. He had been shown enough that leaders did not care for him, and that most of a tribe would not remember his name.

...He hated this. He hated it.

His body shuddered instinctively. His views had been challenged and though he had thought once or twice about it, he still had kept himself shut off. He wasn’t allowed to care so much like this. He couldn’t figure out why, in the end, that he wasn’t allowed to. It was just how it had always been before.

Kuwagattan had often thought of letting himself simply be... it just never made any sense. Clearly, if this was all he had ever known and been taught, it was all he was.

Without his gruff attitude, rage, and strength…What would be left of him then? A shell? A stranger?

...Would he like to be a stranger? Something different? Not wholly different, mind you, but with less of a bite towards those that only meant him well. What would he have to really leave behind to do such?

He wasn’t sure. He hated himself for being so unsure.

His body shuddered again, and with that his eye watered without being able to mask it, nor stop it from happening. ...He would succumb to this weakness. For now. He was being shown vulnerability from his companion, it was possibly only fair to do the same. He...did not want to lose his second life, either. Not now that he had more of a choice, whatever it may be.

It was more of an involuntary motion, but the akumapon made no conscious effort to stop himself as he lowered slightly, pressing his face halfway against the base of the smaller general’s helm, fur brushing across his face softly. Familiar, comforting almost.

“...I’m sorry,” His speech was so much softer than he anticipated, almost foreign to himself despite it being clearly his own voice, “I’m...I’m no good at all of this...Changing, I mean.”

“...You’ve certainly come further than I’m sure you thought you would,” Gong’s response was barely audible, muffled as he adjusted himself a bit more comfortably, “You would not have admitted to this in the past.”

He wouldn’t have. He was sure of that. The general wouldn’t have even questioned for a second that he had done anything wrong, that what he was doing was anything but correct. Yet, here he was. Feeling guilt for causing worry. Something he once never even gave a second thought to, since worry thrown his way was so rarely shown. And even then, it was less personal and more of a worry of losing numbers and strength.

This. This was much different. More personal.

Kuwagattan should’ve expected as much, he had heard the term friend spoken to him a few times here and there, but the concept never really stuck. That someone would really want him around.

He wasn’t sure if he would often set aside his pride and facade like this. But, he wanted it to stick this time around. That he also cared, that he understood the risk and the worry. That the effort spent on him wasn’t in vain.

It was just showing it that made it so difficult.

“Yeah I guess so,” The pause he took in the middle of his sentence was unusual. He typically thought of his responses quickly, this was so much slower, “I-- I do appreciate what you say to me. It’s just hard to….accept it...I guess. I don’t know.”

“I understand, of course I do...You were not taught well. I should have been there more to help before.”

There was a twinge of anger. Not at Gong, not in the slightest, just the wording, the self put blame. The other general did this far too often with others. A blame that he is always the last line to catch a disaster before it happens.

...Both of them were pushed to be something more than just a general. He vaguely understood the worry with the zigoton tribe. They needed a strong leader when their queen was not enough, and she sought after strength as well to keep enemies at bay. They hadn’t seen something quite as dangerous before. Thus, the two were set up from the beginning for such.

After that...that was when he felt any comprehension ended.

With a sigh, he moved one arm from his cocoon of blanket, using it to pull Gong in closer to himself. It was the only real comforting thing he could think of other than words.

He wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work. He was never one for comforting or to be comforted.

“...Not everything is your problem, you know,” Kuwagattan muttered softly, “Nor should you make it your issue. Things can just be.”

“Hm, and yet I still feel as though, if I had done better-”

“...What difference would it have made anyways? It would’ve played out nearly the same.”

“I suppose you’re right. At least here, there was a chance to set things right.”

A chance to set things right. He understood that, at least, when he was first asked what he truly believed in. He wasn’t ever really able to answer that question before. Maybe he believed in this world being saved to use that second chance better than he had so far.

It wouldn’t make sense to leave it behind in ruins. Not really.

“Yeah. I guess,” the akumapon flinched slightly when a hand came up to flatten a bandage that had become bunched up on his side, “I think--- I think once things are back to normal I can focus on--- I don’t know. Figuring things out.”

“Of course. I can’t imagine the stress has been good for anyone’s thoughts.”

“...But if I let myself go –ugh--- soft….What would be left of me then? This is all I have.”

There was a slight shift in movement, followed by a much calmer laugh and a soft pat to his forehead.

“Changing does not mean you’ll lose all parts of yourself,” Gong responded, tone having changed from the hurt he had heard before, “Besides. Whatever you become, I’m sure you’ll be alright in the end. Give yourself some credit, my friend.”

“Hm. You think so?” The idea of still being himself was a comforting thought, being a complete stranger to himself was….Too much, “Think we’ll still be friends by then?”

“I’m very certain of such. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

The akumapon gave an amused snort, quirking his brow in question with a ‘grin’, “All of them? You sure?”

“If you want me to be there, then yes.”

“Well, remember that when you get sick of me then! You’re stuck with me now,” It was odd to feel more at ease as he tightened his arm around the other just slightly.

“And you, General Kuwagattan, are stuck with me. We are both equally stubborn, you know.”

Oh yes, the akumapon was very very aware of such, if previous conversations and sharing of views was anything to go by. Admirable at times, for the both of them he presumed. To be passionate for something, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was so passionate about.

...

“Y’know, Gong…I’m really glad you’re here.”

#Writings (oneshots)#Stubborn Beetle (Kuwagattan)#Wise General (Gong)#Loyal Almighty (Calle)

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roslinadama-sinequanon · 4 years

Text

Saying Good-Bye to Yesterday-Chapter 11

So, yes it’s been forever and day. I haven’t dropped off the planet or quit writing for Shandy. It just got difficult for a while.

You can find the chapter here https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13004092/11/Saying-Good-Bye-to-Yesterday and here https://archiveofourown.org/works/15321687/chapters/53083987 and here

****

"Hey, hon." Andy paused in buttoning his shirt at the greeting, his lips curving into a smile when he took in Sharon's disheveled appearance as she entered their bedroom, fresh from a workout, spandex shorts clinging to her long toned thighs, loose tendrils of hair slipping out of her high ponytail.

"How was the Barre class?" He asked.

"It wasn't Barre. It was Spin." Over the past few months, Amy had convinced her to start taking spin classes with her, adding to her usual regimen of Body Barre, Pilates, and Yoga.

"Well, how was Spin?"

"Ugh." She pulled the sweaty racerback tank over her head. "Jelly legs."

"Gorgeous legs," he corrected.

"Yes, well, that takes work, darling." Though she ate healthily, for the most part, was supple, naturally active, and thanks to genetics and a great metabolism, didn't have to fight hard to maintain her slender figure, she exercised to keep toned and fit. In addition to the classes she attended when her schedule allowed, she swam laps almost every day, did some light weights at the PD gym, and also got out to Malibu to a riding stable as often as she could. When she first mentioned her horseback riding to Andy as a full-body workout, he gave her a typical Andy quip, "for the horse, right? " She'd ignored the comment until she could prove her point. One afternoon she'd taken him on what he referred to as a "ball crushing" ride, and he'd sheepishly eaten his words. Later still, when they'd become intimate and he'd felt those "thighs of steel" around his waist, he'd come to an even greater appreciation of that "full-body" exercise.

"Well, I'm pretty gross right now, so I'm going to hop in the shower." She pulled off her sports bra and wiped at the sweat under her breasts before dropping it in the hamper and disappearing into the bathroom. When she emerged 15 minutes later, she had one towel wrapped around her torso, the other turban-style around her head.

"Don't forget, I have book club tonight," she said.

"Yeah, I'm gonna hit a meeting."

She glanced up sharply from her dresser, a pair of rose-colored panties dangling from her fingertips. "Everything okay?"

Though her tone remained neutral, Andy picked up the tiny inflection of worry. It wasn't his usual meeting night. "Yeah, everything's fine," he assured her. "I had to skip last week because of our case, and I haven't gotten the chance to talk to Isaac."

"About us?"

"Yes."

Once in her fresh panties, Sharon shimmied on a pair of black leggings that she paired with a long, slouchy v-neck cashmere sweater in a soft shade of blush. To finish off the casual outfit, she slipped on a pair of two-tone quilted Chanel ballet flats, big silver hoop earrings, and a silver cuff bracelet. Andy continued to watch her dress. Watching her shed her professional persona for her personal one was kind of a ritual for him. At work, she was all fitted, classic, sleek lines. Understated and sophisticated. At home, her wardrobe was softer and a little more eclectic. Even her jewelry was different. At work, simple diamond studs in her ears and her watch, no bracelets, no necklaces, no dangling earrings. At home, she often wore pretty bracelets, hoops or dangling earrings, and a variety of necklaces, including the crucifix she never wore to work. Separation of church and state and all. He asked her once why she stopped wearing necklaces when she took over Major Crimes. After expressing surprise that he had actually noticed that, she told him that Brenda had warned her that wearing a necklace when interviewing suspects was dangerous because they could use it to try to strangle her. Given the violent animosity their former Chief seemed to bring out in suspects, he figured she was speaking from experience. Probably a good idea that he wore his sobriety necklace tucked in under his shirt. He was pretty sure there were hundreds of suspects over the years who would have loved nothing more than to strangle him.

A half-hour later, with her hair blown dry and her make up re-applied, Sharon came out of the bedroom to see Andy slipping on his jean jacket as he prepared to head out. Rusty was sitting on the couch on his laptop.

"You boys are on your own for supper tonight," she reminded the two.

"Okay. " Rusty glanced up. "What do you want to do, Andy?"

"I have a meeting, so I thought I could pick something up for us on my way home. Want a pizza from Palermo's?"

"Just make sure my half isn't loaded down with veggies."

Andy rolled his eyes. "No veggies. Got it."

Sharon smiled and started to reach for the Trader Joes bag she'd left on the table.

"I've got that, babe." Andy took the heavy bag and followed her out the door. Not so long ago, she might have bristled at the move and argued that she could carry the bag herself, but Andy knew that. It was simply a gentlemanly act of kindness, and she no longer looked for any sort of underlying misogynistic meaning to his kind gestures.

******

The strong smell of flowers hit Sharon just outside the storefront, and she glanced up at the pretty awning hanging over the doorway. "Lotions and Potions," her friend Summer's bath and body shop in Mar Vista. She opened the door, and the floral and spicy scents grew more pronounced. Taking a few steps in, she scanned the room, looking past the displays of soaps, bath salts, body creams, and lotions to see Summer with a customer over in the incense and essential oil section. The little bell that jangled at her entry drew Summer's attention, and when she glanced over and saw who it was, she gave Sharon a smile and a hand gesture indicating that she would be with her in a minute. Sharon nodded and began browsing, lifting and examining the vintage apothecary jars Summer used to carry her product. The old-fashioned jars and antique-looking sepia labels with their intricate designs and calligraphy lettering harkened back to another era as if she was stepping back in time.

Several years ago, this had been a New Age jewelry and clothing store where Summer worked as a clerk. Summer fit right in with today's millenials, often flitting from job to job, but for as long as Sharon had known her, she grew herbs and made homemade soaps and lotions in her house, selling her creations on the weekends at craft fairs and farmer's markets. Then Anabel, the storeowner, allowed her to put a few samples out for sale at the store, and they were a big hit. Soon she had a whole product line for sale. When Anabel decided to sell the store, the first person she approached was Summer, which had taken Summer completely by surprise. She was an artist, after all, not a businesswoman. I mean sure, she practically managed the store, but what did she know about running a business? At least that's what she said to Sharon when they were talking out the pros and cons. It was a moot point, anyway. Summer didn't have the kind of money needed to start a business.

But Sharon did. When her grandparents died, she was bequeathed quite a large inheritance. Some of the money was in a trust, but she had more than enough to lend Summer for the start-up costs. Summer hadn't seen it that way. It had been a battle royal for Sharon to get her best friend to agree to the loan. The very idea of it terrified Summer. What if she didn't succeed? What if she couldn't pay Sharon back? Sharon had gone through hell digging out of the mess Jack created for her financially, and she didn't want to see her have to deal with anything like that again. And most of all, she didn't want the money coming between them. Their friendship was too important. But Sharon prevailed. They worked it all out, with Sharon as an investor, and then they worked together to make Summer's vision become a reality.

The quirky little store was a reflection of its quirky little owner, and it was a hit. Situated only a few miles from both Venice Beach and Santa Monica, it drew in both the unconventional crowd and the well-to-do. Summer paid Sharon back several years ago, but Sharon still took pride in all that she had helped her friend accomplish here.

Grabbing a bottle of her favorite vanilla/jasmine body cream, Sharon glanced back around to see that Summer was still engrossed in conversation with her customer, her light brown curls bouncing on her shoulders with every enthusiastic nod of her head. Rather than stand around waiting, she decided to make her way to Summer's office in the back of the store. She pushed aside the beads that hung in the doorway, in lieu of an actual door, giving a loud sigh at the chaos. As usual, Summer's desk was filled with clutter: folders, papers, coffee mugs, and a bunch of opened boxes. No way could she ever work surrounded by such a mess. In fact, she could already feel the prickles of anxiety at the very idea. She started to move things around to make a spot to set her bag down when an item in one of the boxes caught her eye. Reaching in, she pulled it out, eyes widening with both surprise and curiosity.

"Find anything you like?"

Sharon jumped, nearly dropping the glass object. "Dammit, Summer! "

Summer's wide grin grew even wider. "Gotcha. Either you're losing your cop instincts, or that object holds more than a little interest for you."

"What is it?"

"If I have to tell you, Andy has a real problem."

Sharon flushed. "I know what it is; I just mean why do you have boxes of this stuff?"

"That stuff, as you call it, is luxury personal care products. "

One elegant brow rose skeptically. "Luxury? They're…"

"Glass dildos."

"And again, you have boxes of these, why?"

"I had a distributor come in for a meeting today. She wants me to try selling her line here."

"You're going to sell sex toys? Here? At Lotions and Potions?" Sharon looked so appalled that Summer had to giggle.

"No, I am possibly going to sell luxury personal care items. I told her I would think about it. It's a big and pretty lucrative business right now. Look at them, Sharon, they're works of art."

Sharon looked again at the item in her hand, eyeing it critically. Blown glass with swirls of color, graceful lines. She had to admit, it really did look like a piece of art.

"Much more attractive than the real thing. Am I right?"

Sharon gave a little snort-laugh. "Oh my God, you're right. It is. Though we better not let the guys hear us say that."

"God, no. Men do love their penises, don't they?"

"Mmm…" Sharon hummed affirmatively.

"Almost as much as they love our boobs."

Sharon shook her head with amused affection and another little snort-laugh. She never quite knew what was going to come out of Summer's mouth. In that respect, and in so many more, they were as different as night and day. Oil and water. Chalk and cheese.

Summer was as outgoing and irreverent as Sharon was private and respectful. As unconventional and flighty as Sharon was traditional and responsible. As loud and boisterous, as Sharon was soft-spoken and reserved.

Summer was thrift store boho gauzy tops, flowing skirts, Birkenstocks, and arms covered in bangle bracelets. Sharon was Neiman Marcus pencil skirts, Armani suits, killer heels, and diamond earrings. Summer lifted her arms in worship to the winter solstice while Sharon knelt in reverent prayer at midnight mass. Summer was homeschooling and a childhood spent on a commune. Sharon was private Catholic schools and summers on Nantucket. Summer was Stevie Nicks to Sharon's Grace Kelly.

And yet, they clicked. For 26 years, they had been best friends. From the day that Sharon and Jack moved into their new home in Mar Vista and a bossy little child knocked on their door stating, "I'm five. Do you have any little girls my age I can play with?" With baby Ricky on her hip, Sharon smiled at the little ragamuffin with Popsicle lips and a mop of brown curls and then introduced her to a bashful four-year-old Emily. Within seconds, a harried woman in a tank top and an Indian wrap skirt straight out of the 1970s followed. Since she shared the same wild head of curls with the little moppet now dragging Emily along by the hand, Sharon assumed she was her mother. Indeed, the woman said she was looking for her daughter and, like Sharon, she too had a diapered little boy resting against her shoulder. Sharon introduced herself then invited the gypsy looking woman in for a cup of coffee. It was the beginning of three very important friendships: Sharon and Summer, Emily and Jade, and Ricky and Cody.

Despite their differences in background, personality, and temperament, the two young women easily found common ground. Their kids were the same age, they both loved the arts, and they were both in difficult marriages. Their bond was quick and strong. They spent their days off from work building sandcastles with their kids at the beach, pushing swings at the park, or attending children's reading circles at the library. They babysat for each other, swapped books, and on those rare occasions when they had time for themselves, browsed through art galleries, bookstores, and museums together. Most importantly, since neither had extended family in Los Angeles, they created a much-needed support system for each other. And that was something that became increasingly important, because, within a few years, they were both on their own. Single parents.

Summer came across as flaky, but she was everything Sharon needed in a friend: supportive, warm, honest, and a strong shoulder to cry on-one of a very select group of people whom Sharon allowed to see her vulnerability. They had journeyed together through all the difficulties and heartaches life threw at them, helping each other raise their children, bucking each other up when things seemed bleak, and sharing in each other's joy as they each found success in their professions and new love. From breast-feeding to hot flashes, they had seen each other through it all.

"So, " Summer continued. "Go ahead and take whatever you like. I know you're not a prude. Try one out and let me know what you think."

"I'm good." Sharon placed the item back in the box with a little quirk of her lips. "I've got the real thing now."

"Yeah, well what about these? Could be fun." Summer dangled a pair of handcuffs.

"Again, I've got the real thing."

"Pfff… Those things would hurt. These are love cuffs. Nice and soft. See." Sharon admired the plush cuffs Summer thrust in her face, faux fur with little tiny bows, definitely not standard LAPD gear, but shook her head negatively. "I'm all set." She glanced down at her watch. "Come on, Sum. We really have to get going or we're going to be late."

"Oh, no, we wouldn't want to be late."

Sharon rolled her eyes, ignoring the sarcasm. Fate had surrounded her with smart asses. "No, we wouldn't. So, let's go."

"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a wad. Just promise me you'll think about it."

Sharon blew out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine, I'll think about it, now let's go."

*****

Sitting in the back corner of the bookstore, Sharon found herself center stage, surrounded by a group of women gushing with excitement over the diamond on her finger, grabbing her hand to look at it and pumping her for all the details of the proposal.

"It's so beautiful, Sharon. " Aggie's eyes went dreamy, her hands in a prayer triangle under her chin, lost in the fairytale of Sharon's proposal. "And how romantic. I can just picture it…A winter wonderland. A romantic sleigh ride through the woods and Andy down on one knee professing his undying love for you-" She broke off, swiftly coming back to reality when everyone burst into laughter. "What?" She defended herself. "I love romance."

"As if we didn't know," Marina scoffed. Whenever it was Aggie's turn to pick their monthly book, it was invariably a romance of some sort.

"Hey, I thought Russians were supposed to have romantic souls." Aggie's protest was made in the soft New Orleans drawl she hadn't lost despite having lived in LA for the past 20 years.

"I had one of those…Four husbands ago." Marina, a ballerina, had defected to the United States in the late seventies and had later opened a ballet studio in LA after retiring from the stage. Sharon met her when she signed Emily up for lessons at her studio after her young daughter had become more serious about studying dance and outgrown her instructor. It was Marina who had seen the talent and drive in Emily and helped her become the principal ballerina she was today. Marina was also cynical and pragmatic and went through men, mostly younger men, the way Andy used to go through younger women.

"Don't listen to her," Sharon said. "You're right, Aggie, Andy couldn't have picked a more romantic way to propose. Hard to believe I found a man whose sense of occasion can actually rival mine. It's certainly a night I will never forget."

"I still can't believe Andy took Gavin to help pick out your ring and not me," Summer sulked. The room went silent, all the women turning to her with wide eyes before erupting in giggles. "What?" She held her hand's open palms up and shrugged in a "what the hell" gesture.

Rachel, a pretty blonde, responded. "Come on, Sum, when it comes to style, there is nobody, other than maybe Roz here, who is more opposite from Sharon than you."

"I'd take exception to that if it weren't 100% true," was Roz's good-natured response. A writer for a comedy sitcom, Roz was notoriously sloppy in her dress, preferring the sweatpants, t-shirts and Converse sneakers she was wearing right now to any other attire. When she was forced to wear something nice, she chose boxy male suits and would never be caught dead in a "girlie" skirt or dress.

"I don't think we're that opposite." Summer's protest drew more peals of laughter.

"Summer…" Rachel lifted her friend's skirt, smirking when she exposed plastic clogs. "You are wearing Crocs. Need I say more?"

"There's nothing wrong with Crocs. They're comfortable." Summer pushed her skirt back over her shoes.

"No offense, I love you to pieces, but they're fugly and Sharon wouldn't be caught dead out in public in them." With her sleek dark blonde bob and stylish clothes, Rachel Garner had far more in common when shopping with Sharon than Summer. Like Andrea, Rachel was a lawyer, now an advisor to Mayor Garcetti. She and Sharon had become friends back when Sharon was promoted to the LAPD's Women's Coordinator position and they had worked together on numerous cases.

"What I don't understand is why you want to get married in the first place. I mean you just got out of a bad marriage, why jump right back in?" The room went silent, this time with tension, not humor. Roz sat back, arms crossed over her chest, seemingly unconcerned by the group's collective disapproval.

"What the hell are you talking about?" It was Summer who quickly jumped to Sharon's defense. "Just out of a bad marriage? She's been done with that ungrateful, immature, disloyal prick for 23 freaking years! Just because she only formally divorced him a couple of years ago doesn't mean-"

"Summer," Sharon tugged on her friend's arm. "It's okay, calm down."

"It's not okay; she has no right to say that. You," she pointed a finger at Roz, "have no idea what she went through. You've known her for what? Four years? You have no right to question her choices. And just because you hate men doesn't mean she has to feel the same."

"Okay, okay, whoa. I didn't mean to start World War III." Roz held her hands up in defeat. "And for the record, I don't hate men. Well, all men anyway. I'm just saying, she doesn't need a man…a husband."

"Roz is right." Sharon agreed, taking a sip of her wine.

"What?" Summer turned to her with confusion.

"She's right. I don't need a man. But I can want one without needing him. And you know what? That makes this the purest relationship I have ever been in, ever. I don't need Andy's money, I don't need his security, I don't need his protection, I don't need him to provide shelter for me, I'm not looking for a father for my children. I am with Andy for one reason only. I love him. It's as easy and as simple as that. I love him and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. And yes, I want the formal commitment of marriage. I know I don't need it, but I want it. And that's my choice." She tapped her fingers on her chest, stressing the point. "I am at a place in my life right now where I can do what I want to do, not what I need to do, and you have no idea how much freedom there is in that for me."

"And we're thrilled for you." Summer's narrowed eyes shot daggers at Roz, causing Sharon to suppress a smile. Summer was about as laid back a person as she knew, however, one thing they did have in common was that you didn't mess with the people they love.

"Yes, we are." Patrice set a gentle hand on Sharon's knee. "Andy is a great guy, and he loves you to the moon and back." As Andy's caregiver while he was recovering from his surgery, Patrice had gotten to know the man and the way he felt about Sharon better than any of them.

Andrea nodded in agreement. "You all know how I feel about marriage, but hell, if I had a guy who looked at me the way Flynn looks at Sharon, who knows?"

Aggie, who had gone off to pilfer through the shelves, returned and flopped down in an oversized chair. She opened the small book she'd been looking for and began reading. "To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."

"That's C.S Lewis, isn't it? " Sharon recognized the passage from having read a lot of Lewis's work.

Aggie nodded. "From The Four Loves."

"Well, he sums it up rather nicely, doesn't he? " Sharon poured a little more wine in her glass, then sat back. "Loving someone is a risk, no doubt about it, but I will always believe that it is a risk worth taking." She was well aware of how easy it would have been to encase her heart in one of those caskets after Jack, to allow herself to become unreachable. But that just wasn't in her DNA. Barriers, yes, she had certainly erected some of those, but closed off completely? No. She simply had too much love inside her to shut down like that. She knew people often thought she was cold, aloof, unemotional. They never knew it was all a façade, a shield meant to hide the fact that she actually felt things very deeply. She'd had to learn how to contain those emotions, to hide her feelings, but they were there, they were always there. And, had she entombed her heart, she never would have been able to let Rusty in, nor been able to embrace the man who had become the love of her life. Vulnerable? Yes, love made you vulnerable, but the rewards far outweighed any risk.

"I agree, we all need to remain open to love. Now, who's hungry?" Helen, the owner of the bookstore, set to restore order to their opinionated little group. "We'll eat, then dive into the book."

Sharon shot the older woman a grateful look. They might all be friends, but she had never really been comfortable with people dissecting her life.

The food was potluck. Each member of the club took a turn hosting the meeting, but it was always potluck so no one was stuck having to feed the whole group. At the end of each meeting, they drew out of a hat to see if they would be bringing the beverages, an appetizer, or an entrée to the next meeting. Though it wasn't a rule, they often tried to base whatever food they brought on the setting of their book. The only part of the meal they did not draw for was dessert. Mary Agnes Boudreaux McCormack, Aggie, always brought dessert. Twenty years ago, Aggie had moved to Los Angeles after Craig McCormack walked into her bakery in New Orleans and swept the 37-year-old widow off her feet, taking her home with him to California. Aggie opened a pretty little bed and breakfast near Venice Beach and brought with her the French and Creole delicacies of her former home, including the to-die-for beignets she brought to each meeting, regardless of the setting. No one was willing to forgo those beignets.

This month's book was set in Mexico, so there were cheesy nachos with garlic guacamole, sweet potato and black bean taquitos, a creamy taco soup, Mexican chicken and rice, and fish tacos. Sharon had drawn beverages at their last meeting, so, along with a case of seltzer water, she'd brought a few bottles of a Baja Cabernet Sauvignon/Merlot blend along with the makings for Mojitos.

"And these," she drew out two large bottles of champagne. "Because we can't celebrate 10 years without a little bubbly. I still can't believe we've been doing this for 10 years." She poured the champagne and passed the glasses around to the ten incredible women sprawled over the sitting area. Ranging in age from their late forties to early sixties, with most in their fifties like Sharon, black, white, and mixed heritage, native Californians and transplants, gay and straight, single and married, they were a diverse group who had come together to bond over a shared love of books. And somewhere along the way, they had become friends. Friends that had seen each other through infidelity, divorce, infertility, empty nests, cancer, adoptions, menopause, job losses, promotions, and new loves gained and lost.

The book club had come about rather organically not long after Helen and her business partner, Jenny, opened "The Book Nook", a combination bookstore/café a little over 10 years ago. Helen's husband, Christopher, had accepted the position of visiting professor at USC, and the British couple fell in love with the climate and laid back lifestyle of Southern California. So, when a permanent position became available, they decided to leave the gray skies and rain of England behind and settle in the land of sunshine and surfers. At the time, Jenny was a stay at home mom whose marriage had fallen apart after her battle with breast cancer. Divorced, her children in college, and cancer-free, she was ready to embrace a new life when Helen became a patron of the coffeehouse where she was working as a barista. Soon they were discussing a joint venture. A few years later, their bookstore/cafe became reality, and Sharon, Summer, and Rachel became some of their first customers. Recommendations of authors and long chats over coffee regarding the books they read or were interested in reading had Jenny suggesting the idea of starting a book club.

For Sharon, it was perfect timing. Ricky had just gone off to Stanford, and with Emily across the country at NYU, she was reeling from the effects of her empty nest. For 21 years, her life had revolved around her children and their needs, car-pooling, cooking, laundry, helping with homework, getting them to practices, cheering them on at games and recitals, and most recently visiting college campuses in preparation for their futures. And then suddenly they were just…gone. The house was too quiet, too empty, too filled with memories. And, with her children gone, the fact that she did not have a love life only became more pronounced, her bed suddenly emptier, colder to the touch. And it didn't help that she was starting to feel like she was in a rut at the PSB. Melancholy enveloped her in its insidious web, eating away at her, telling her that her best days were now in the past.

Later, she would find that she actually enjoyed the peace and solitude of being on her own, the freedom of not having to organize anyone but herself. But in the beginning, the loneliness was crushing. Both Rachel and Summer commiserated with her because they were going through the same thing. It was Marina who encouraged her to use that time to focus on herself and do some of the things she'd wanted to do but hadn't had time for in the past.

For many years, Sharon had helped out a few nights a month at St. Joseph's soup kitchen, bringing Emily and Ricky along with her, which was how she'd gotten to know Aggie. Now, she began volunteering at the church's domestic violence shelter, counseling the women on their rights, teaching them how to defend themselves, and helping them to find jobs. She coached them through the interview process and helped them select outfits from donated clothes-including her own-that would help them look professional. Eventually, she ended up on the board of directors. She also became the LAPD's liaison with "The Sunshine Kids Foundation" helping kids with cancer, worked with Rachel to raise money for "Emily's List", sold her house and bought the condo, and then she joined the book club.

It was the perfect hobby and helped her to expand her group of friends. Other than Gavin, Summer, and Rachel, she didn't really have any close friends, confidantes. It wasn't that she was anti-social, she had many friendly acquaintances: Marina, Aggie, a few women and men at work. But, the truth was, she had never had the time to cultivate deep friendships. As a single mom, she was usually either working or taking care of her kids. And where most people made friends on the job, her work within the PSB made that impossible. Barriers were essential in her position, and that had not been easy, especially in the beginning. Even though she'd always been a bit reserved, she was not a naturally unfriendly person, so having to close off that side of her had taken time and effort. But she'd become good at it. Maybe too good. Once her walls were built, it was hard to let people back in.

The book club started out small, and though it had not been intentional, they were all women: Helen, Sharon, Summer, Rachel, Jenny, Marina, and Aggie. Roz, Patrice, and Andrea were later additions. Once the only women thing was established, they decided to keep it that way, which pleased Sharon. She was surrounded by men all day long, worked in a profession dominated by men, and she didn't have a problem with that. For the most part, she liked working with men, liked their direct ways, and had always felt that the best teams had a combination of women and men. On the other hand, it was nice to spend time with her women friends and immerse herself in the female perspective. It was also easier to be herself and let her hair down without the male/female dynamic, without feeling like she had to prove that she was tough enough, strong enough, smart enough, the way she did at work, every… single… day. Around these women, she could express her emotions, and frankly, her sexuality, without being embarrassed or viewed as weak.

"To ten years!" Helen raised her glass of champagne.

"To ten years!" The group chorused.

TBC

#shandy #sharon raydor #andy flynn #Major Crimes #shandy fanfic

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insfiringyou · 5 years

Text

BTS - Pillow Talk (Suga x Jeong-sun)

Set a few days after their coffee date was interrupted. Yoongi realises it is Jeong-sun’s birthday and visits her apartment to give her a card.

This is part of our ongoing story line in our headcanon universe & mentions several key events from Yoongi and Jeong-sun’s past relationship together which you may wish to read first. Most importantly, the events of ‘Making a sex/intimate tape with gf’, ‘Boat Party’ and ‘Suga and Jeong-sun break up’.

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM / Jin / Suga / J-Hope / Jimin / V / Jungkook & Our full masterlist can be found here

Rated content below cut

Jeong-sun scooped up the paper party plates which cluttered the kitchen island, their surfaces sticky with the remnants of chocolate cake, iced cookies and sandwich fillings. They joined the cocktail sticks from miniature sausages in the bottom of a black garbage-liner. The kitchen, which opened onto her living room, was too small to accommodate more than two people at a time, but she had tried her best; the evidence of her efforts laid bare for her now to see. She mopped up a small puddle of spilled soda before taking a large gulp from a red party cup, finishing off the few mouthfuls of Cherryade Yu-jin had left behind, before turning to another cup half-filled with Prosecco.

She was interrupted by the low drones of the electronic doorbell which badly needed its battery replacing. The chiming sound, slower than usual, was both incredibly creepy and disturbing and she wondered who was calling so late in the evening, if her dad or Yu-jin might have left something behind. She descended the stairs to unlock the front door and, as always when answering at night, she left the safety chain on and peered out through the gap.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was curious and a little surprised as she quickly closed the door and unlatched the metal clasp, opening it fully, her heart racing a little.

“I didn’t know if you were busy.” Yoongi explained, hovering on the doorstep a little awkwardly. He was dressed casually in a black zip-up jacket and a pair of dark jeans paired with a navy beanie, but Jeong-sun couldn’t stop her eyes from roaming over him. Knowing she wasn’t going anywhere that day, she had opted to wear an old pair of faded skinny jeans and a dark David Bowie T-shirt.

“I wanted to give you this.” He held out a cream coloured envelope which she took a little warily.

“What’s this?” She asked, turning it over in her hands. Her name was written on the front in Yoongi’s spindly, neat handwriting.

“It’s your birthday.” He shrugged. His voice was gentle but it made her frown nonetheless as she wondered how he had remembered; she didn’t think she had mentioned it to him the last time she saw him.

“Thanks.” She said, a little guiltily, suddenly wondering whether she should have invited him around after all. The thought had very briefly occurred to her as she made the phone call to Yu-Jin, but she knew her dad and brother would also be there and didn’t want him to feel awkward. Furthermore, she hadn’t really planned the get together herself; her dad had told her two days before that he was travelling to Seoul for the weekend and she invited Yu-Jin at the last minute.

“Do you want to come in?” She asked hopefully, standing aside to allow him into the hallway. They walked up the stairs in silence until they reached her apartment. “Sorry for the mess.” She apologised, closing the wooden door behind them.

“Did you have a party?” Yoongi asked, eyes roaming over the red plastic cups and balloons which had been sellotaped haphazardly to the walls. The number ‘30′ adorned several in bold, gaudy colours.

“Not really...” She shrugged, moving to join him by the messy counter and putting down her jumble of keys and the envelope on the table. “Just my dad and brother. Yu-Jin came by for a bit.”

“She’s back in Seoul?” Yoongi turned to look at her with casual interest.

She nodded. “She’s got an interview tomorrow for a lecturer post.”

“Which university?”

“Seoul National.” Jeong-sun stepped past him to pick up the black bag she had discarded.

“Where’s your dad staying?” Yoongi asked, his eyes following her as she picked up a few empty red cups and stacked them before throwing them away.

“With my brother. He said the sofa was too small to sleep on.” She murmured.

Yoongi automatically looked over the kitchen island towards the sofa which, as usual, was covered in a pile of clothes waiting be ironed. He smirked. “He has a point.” Turning back, “Do you want some help?”

She shook her head, picking up the cup of Prosecco and taking a sip. “It’s nearly done.”

He ignored her refusal and beat her to a couple of stray party streamers which had been set off earlier in the evening, dropping them into the black bag which had been placed over the edge of a chair before turning his attention to the handful of balloons. She watched him with interest as he collected them, standing on his tiptoes to reach the higher ones her brother had put up, and bringing them to the table by the ribbons which had been tied around the end of each one. He glanced at one with a smile, turning it over so the number showed.

“How does it feel being thirty?” He teased, sliding the beanie from his hair and placing it on the table. Jeong-sun put down her Prosecco and reached for her keys, bursting the balloon with a quick, stabbing motion. Yoongi’s grin widened and she finished the alcohol in the plastic cup in one, long gulp, her mouth contorting at the taste.

His gums flashed in a smile which made her heart skip. “Does it taste good?”

“It did the job.” She replied drily, turning around to pick up the bottle which still had a few mouthfuls left. She grabbed a fresh red cup from a stack by the cooker and poured Yoongi the remainder. He took a hesitant sip and grimaced a little at the flat taste. The bottle had clearly been opened some time before. Jeong-sun didn’t notice as she finished clearing the rubbish and filling the bin-liner.

“There’s some cake in the fridge if you want a slice.” She offered.

Yoongi smiled, putting the half-full cup down. He was finding her floundering attempts to accommodate him strangely charming; her talents as a hostess no better now than when they first met.

“I’m okay.” He murmured good-naturedly as she turned back to him.

“How did you know it was my birthday?” She asked, meeting his gaze.

“I didn’t. I must have set a reminder on my phone.”

“Three years ago?”

He shrugged. “I kept forgetting to delete it.”

There was a pause between them as she let this sink in and found herself unable to keep her eyes on him, instead dropping them to the counter. They fixed on the cup of Prosecco which she took from the table and poured down the drain. “Do you want a hot drink?” She asked.

“Anything...” He murmured gratefully as she began to fill the electric kettle with water from the tap. He grabbed a wooden chair and sat himself at the make-shift table, watching as she grabbed a royal-purple container from the cupboard above her head and scooped three spoonfuls of brown powder into the two patterned mugs in front of her.

“I’m sorry I had to leave the other day.” She said without turning, pouring the boiling water and mixing the powder with a teaspoon.

“It’s fine.” He murmured, watching her.

“Hae-won would have been up all night if she didn’t have her painkillers.” She rambled with a small sigh as she picked up the mugs. “I’m going to have to ween her off them before she gets addicted.” She placed one beside Yoongi and the other on the opposite side of the island, hovering a little awkwardly beside him. “You can smoke if you want.” She finished, nodding towards the visible rectangular outline in his jacket pocket.

He paused before nodding and slipping the pack from his pocket. “Thanks.” He murmured.

She turned away and grabbed a little ceramic teabag holder from beside the kettle, placing it on the table to use as an ashtray. He flipped open the cardboard lid and hesitated before offering her the pack, stretching out his arm as she took one with a quiet thanks. She held it a little clumsily between her fingers. While he knew she wasn’t a smoker, he sensed she was looking for something to do which would calm her down. She had been surprisingly jittery and restless since he had stepped foot through the door and, if he was honest, her feelings and nerves were perfectly mirrored in himself; he had always just been better at hiding it.

He pulled his disposable Clipper from his pocket and lit the end for her, subconsciously waiting to see if she would cough and change her mind before turning to his own. They smoked for a few seconds in silence, the silver plumage filling the small room quickly. He found himself wondering whether she had smoke alarms fitted before remembering they had been disabled. His memory of her telling him this was hazy and he couldn’t quite remember the circumstances surrounding it but, either way, they weren’t going off now.

Jeong-sun watched the end of her cigarette blankly as the white paper turned to ash between her fingers as Yoongi eyed her silently, inhaling deeply and waiting for her to finally reveal what was troubling her.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.” She eventually muttered, tapping the cigarette against the ceramic dish gently to flick the excess ash away.

“What?”

Her gaze was fixed on the stick between her fore and middle finger, as though in a daze. “Turning thirty.”

“What did you think it would feel like?” He asked gently.

“Like I’d accomplished something.” She took a quick drag, pressing the filter to her lips and exhaling hurriedly. “I just thought I’d have things figured out.”

He looked at her across the table. “It’s okay if you don’t.” He said soberly.

She ignored his comment and pressed on blankly. “I was in the pharmacy the other day and just thought about walking out.”

“What stopped you?”

She hesitated, frowning before answering. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Yoongi shook his head. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

She sighed heavily. “It’s just frustrating.” There was a pause before she finally looked him straight in the eye. “Do you ever feel that way sometimes?”

He nodded. “Sometimes.” He murmured quietly, finishing his cigarette. There were countless times over the past decade when he had felt as though he were stuck in a loop; doing just enough to keep himself satisfied with his career but unable to reach his potential. While most people were unable to grasp how someone so successful could also be so unhappy at times, Jeong-sun had been one of the few people he had allowed to see that side of his life. He continued. “Have you spoken to anyone about it?”

“Like a shrink?” She asked, wide eyes.

He smiled a little. “Like your dad.”

She nodded, taking a final drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out on the make-shift ashtray. “He says I can do anything I put my mind to.” She murmured, unconvinced as she blew out her last trail of smoke in messy, discordant bursts.

Yoongi was silent for a moment, believing her dad to be right but knowing she wouldn’t see it that way. “You’ve got people that care about you.” He said gently.

“I know.” She sighed, suddenly sounding more self-aware and like her old-self. “I’m sorry, I’m just being mopey.”

He shook his head. “I felt the same.”

She looked at him, internally calculating when his thirtieth had been and realising that he would have still been in service. “Did you have anyone to talk to?”

He half-shrugged before falling silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on his interlocked hands resting on the table in front of him. “I thought about calling you.”

“While you were away?” She asked gently, unable to hide the trace of shock in her voice.

He nodded steadily. “I didn’t have your number.”

Remembering why, she smirked without much humour. “Idiot.” She joked.

“I wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.” He admitted quietly.

“Why?”

“I thought you’d moved on.”

She hesitated before asking. “Had you?”

Raising his head, he collectedly met her gaze. “No.”

Her heart pounded in reply, voice trembling slightly. “Wasn’t there anyone else?”

He thought for a moment, wondering what she was asking. “Did I have sex?” He clarified.

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “Twice.”

There was a pause. “How was it?” She sounded inquisitive; genuinely curious and he realised that while he had known about her dating the accountant, this was all new information to her.

“Fine.” He confessed, not knowing whether it had been best to be honest until she reacted, nodding once.

“Good.” Her expression was soft and genuine, without much more than the smallest trace of jealousy. He realised that she was relieved to hear this. That while he may have not moved on emotionally, he was at least not masochistic enough to remain celibate for all that time.

There was a pause before he returned the question. “What about you?”

Her mouth curled at one corner as she gestured with her fore and middle finger, signalling two in a V shape.

“How was it?” Yoongi asked, mirroring her earlier question and making her laugh.

“Not that great.” She confessed with a grin, shaking her head. He couldn’t help but smile back.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“It’s fine.” She calmed down her chuckles and gestured to his mug. “How’s the hot chocolate?” She asked.

“Hot.” He quipped, feeling slight relief at the change in topic. He took a sip and set the mug back down while she echoed his movement, drinking some of hers and letting out a little approving murmur at the taste. She had recently taken to drinking cocoa before bedtime, figuring it would help her sleep a lot better than her usual cup of milky coffee.

“I got it from the corner shop, it’s a British brand.” She explained casually, taking another few sips.

“I thought it tasted sweeter.”

That reminded her. “How was London?”

“They drive on the wrong side of the road.” He said drolly, taking another drink as she smiled in reply.

“I’ve always wanted to go.” She said wistfully.

“Maybe you could book some time off.” He suggested.

“Maybe.” She sounded doubtful as she finished her hot chocolate and placed the mug back down on the counter which served as a table.

“Are you working tomorrow?” He asked curiously.

“No, they gave me the weekend off.” She looked at him. “Are you tired?”

“No, are you?” He met her gaze, observing that, like the last time they had met, she was looking overworked.

She shrugged. “A little bit.” Standing up, she walked around the edge of the counter and collected his finished mug along with her own, placing them carefully in the plastic bowl which sat in the sink.

“Do you want me to go?” His eyes followed her as she ran a little hot water into the bowl to soak the cups. While he was enjoying her company and wanted nothing more than to spend more time with her, he didn’t like the thought of keeping her awake when she looked so tired. He had deliberately waited until the evening to visit her after realising it was her birthday, the first reason being that he needed to go out and get her a card and the second that he didn’t want to interrupt her if she had any special plans. Now, however, he felt guilty for keeping her up so late after what had clearly been a busy day.

“I like having you here.” She admitted, her reply taking him by surprise and making his stomach flutter a little. He cleared his throat which steadied his heart-rate a little and allowed him to breathe a little better. The kitchen and living room still had a hazy quality to it caused by the smoke from the cigarettes they had smoked earlier.

“How’s your boiler?” He asked with interest.

“It’s rattling a bit.” She admitted with a remorseful blush.

“Do you want me to take a look?”

“You don’t have to...I’m just happy it’s working.” She said, already feeling he had done enough for her where her run-down boiler was concerned.

“I don’t mind.” He stood up before she had time to protest and started walking around the counter, heading for the door at the end of the living room which led to her bathroom and bedroom. “The screw’s probably just loose.” He explained as he waited for her to catch him up and grant him access to the room at the end of the narrow corridor. She had attempted to tidy it in anticipation of her dad and brother’s visit earlier in the day and Yoongi thought it was possibly the most un-chaotic he had ever seen it. Her bed was neatly made with dark blue bed-sheets and her bedside table, usually covered with a jumble of assorted tokens and trinkets, was bare save for her cell phone which laid in the centre.

He made a beeline for the white boiler unit which sat in the corner of the room. Despite his comment one night during their time together that it was not really safe to have it in the bedroom and that she should complain to her landlord, she had dismissed his concern, saying there wasn’t enough room to have it elsewhere in the apartment and that he was fussing over nothing; that she had been fine so far. He glanced at the carbon monoxide alarm he had placed on the carpet below the pipes as he unclasped the front of the unit, and considered that he should have bought her one years ago to keep her safe.

Jeong-sun watched with a smirk, sitting on the edge of her double bed as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his keys, fiddling with the various useful tools he kept on his key-ring before he found the miniature screwdriver. Pushing it into the side of the unit carefully, he tightened the screws around the air pressure switch before replacing the covering and turning to face Jeong-sun.

She looked up at him from her place on the sheets, her body still as he edged closer and sat beside her when he realised she wasn’t going to get up. A moment of silence passed between them before she leaned forward and slipped off her socks, discarding them one at a time on the carpeted floor.

“I’m sorry, my feet stink.” She joked, breaking some of the nervousness before shuffling backwards onto the bed and slipping quietly under the quilt. His eyes never left her as she nestled against the pillow, leaning on one side in her usual sleeping position.

“Can you stay?” She asked gently. Yoongi couldn’t quite gather the tone of her voice and wondered whether she was asking or requesting but his heart sped up nonetheless at the sound of her voice and the implication of her words.

“If you want me to.” He looked back at her, over his shoulder, from his seated position on the covers. In the moment of silence which followed, Yoongi wondered whether she was going to change her mind before she spoke.

“Turn out the light.”

He complied with her request and flicked the switch on the wall by the door before slipping his low-topped Converse from his bare feet and leaving them by the edge of the bed. From her position against her pillow, Jeong-sun heard the sound of a zipper being unfastened as Yoongi removed his outer jacket and placed it on the spare chair in the corner of the room before moving onto the bed. She felt his weight beside her and could just about make out his shape from over her shoulder as he laid beside her on the duvet. The curtains she had recently bought did a good job of blocking out the obnoxious glare of the street lamps outside her window and cast the bedroom into darkness.

Her pulse coursed through her whole body; trembling in the tips of her fingers and soles of her feet as they laid there in silence. Over the past few years, many of the restaurants and takeaway houses near her apartment had closed and been boarded up, meaning the area was now much quieter than it had been in the days when she had been with Yoongi. Along with the sound of her heart racing in her ears, only the low churning of water in the pipes from her boiler and the steady, comforting sound of his breathing behind her cut the still silence and she wondered whether he could hear her; whether he was just as nervous. She knew that when she finally spoke, her voice would tremble but, in that moment, she needed him to know.

“I never told you I’m sorry.” She said, her voice louder than anticipated in the otherwise quiet space and making her recoil a little.

“You don’t need to.” He murmured quietly, his voice appropriately personal.

She shuffled, lowering her voice. “It wasn’t easy.”

“I know it wasn’t. I don’t blame you.” He admitted, pausing. “I didn’t think I would see you again.”

The reality of how likely this outcome had been suddenly hit her, making her ache. “You neither.” She agreed. “I saw the news reports when you first went in, but I didn’t feel like I could just call you.”

He thought about this for a moment, considering his own brief urge to tell her about his enlistment when he saw her in the supermarket two years before. “It would have just made things harder.” He realised with a heavy heart. “If I had felt like I was leaving someone behind...”

Despite wishing she could take back the pain and anguish she had caused him three years ago, she knew he was right.

“I’m glad you came over.“ She said honestly. “I didn’t expect you to.”

She felt Yoongi move in closer, his breath close against her neck. “I wanted to. After the park...” He purred, remembering the way she had momentarily taken his hand in hers, and the way it made him feel. Reaching out now over her covered waist, he brushed his palm over the back of her hand, holding it in place against her stomach. In response, she curled her fingers against him, slipping them through his.

“It felt nice...” She whispered breathily, knowing he would be able to feel her pulse in her fingertips. “And this feels nice.” She confessed, gently squeezing his hand.

“Mm.” He murmured in agreement, his body naturally moving closer against her back, fitting against her curves and spooning her gently as she clutched his hand to hers, tightly nestled against her covered stomach.

“I still have your jacket.” She said after a moment.

“The leather one?”

She smiled to herself. “I don’t remember you giving it to me.”

“Me neither.” He admitted.

“Do you want it back?” She asked.

His breath brushed the back of her neck as he cuddled her, making the tiny, fine hairs there stand on end. “It always suited you better...”

She felt him shift behind her, finally un-tucking the bed-cover from his side of the mattress and sliding beneath it to join her. She internally sighed at the loss of contact as he let go of her hand to adjust the covers, before he returned to her. He snuggled close against her back and caressed the backs of her knuckles with his thumb, wrapping his arm against her stomach.

“Are you cold?” She asked, feeling the chill of his body against her back through both their t-shirts.

“Do I feel cold?” He asked with a murmur.

She smirked. “A bit.” Brushing her hand affectionately along his forearm, she appreciated the soft, fine hairs which grew there, along with the outlines of his tendons and veins, with her fingertips. She had forgotten how easily his body seemed to lose heat and how he would often shiver through the night if she didn’t wrap him up in her arms and share her warmth with him. “I’ve got a hot water bottle if you want it.” She offered.

“I’m alright.” He mumbled against her ear, his lips brushing her lobe delicately as he spoke. “You’re warm...”

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been held like this; with someone’s body wrapped so lovingly around hers in a way which felt both agonisingly familiar and excitingly novel.

“Did you think about me while you were away?” She whispered as she cradled his arm against her torso, stroking the soft skin there gently.

“Mainly memories.” He murmured in a low voice.

“Like what?”

He paused for a moment, thinking. “You making me birthday cake.”

She grinned in the darkness though he couldn’t see her. She hadn’t thought of that day, four years ago, in years and his answer took her by surprise. “The one I burned?” She asked, misremembering the finer details of which version of the cake she finally presented to Yoongi.

“It tasted great anyway.” He shrugged, his voice dreamy in thought. “I remember you had flour in your hair. I saw the pictures on your phone later.”

Jeong-sun smirked. The detail of the many photographs, documenting the evolution of the cake she did remember, along with another titbit...

“Did you watch the video?” She asked.

Yoongi let out a breathy laugh, remembering. “The first five minutes.”

“Why just five?” She quipped, eyebrow raised to herself. “It got good after that.”

He brushed his thumb over her back of her hand warmly. “I didn’t need to watch it, I remembered just fine.”

His confession made her feel breathless and tingly all over. It felt strange to hear him talk about something so private they had shared so long ago. “What do you remember?” She asked, her voice nothing more than a whisper ringing in the dark.

He laughed softly against her ear, his breath warm and lulling and giving her goosebumps along her arms. “Do you want me to draw a diagram?” He quipped, making her grin.

“It’s dark...” She laughed.

He waited for her to calm down, for her body to stop quivering with exhalations before he spoke. “You looked really beautiful.” He recalled candidly.

Jeong-sun’s breath hitched. The eerie silence of the night and the cosiness of his body against hers under the covers was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. “I realised I loved you just before...when you were on tour.” She confessed. While, half an hour before, she would have felt awkward and bashful giving Yoongi this information, it suddenly didn’t seem strange to speak so earnestly. The memory of that day came flooding back and she remembered sitting on the floor in her bedroom with tears in her eyes as she realised; unable to tell him and not knowing what to do with this brand new emotion.

“For me it was just before that.” Yoongi revealed. Like Jeong-sun, the memory suddenly seemed clear. “The thought of two months without you was...” He drifted off, unable to find the right words to finish. Jeong-sun nodded against him, letting him know she understood.

“I wish we’d have had more time to spend together.” She finished for him, whispering sorrowfully as her fingers once more found his and slipped through them.

He nuzzled against her, shifting his body slightly to rest his chin against her shoulder. “We have it now.” He purred against her lobe.

She felt a wave of alleviation wash through her as she realised he was right and closed her eyes; the low rumble of his voice sent a pleasant tremor through her body. “I always felt like I was being pulled away from you.” She said, finally able to vocalise her frustration after so long.

“It bothered me to.” He agreed, instinctively pulling her closer by the waist. “I couldn’t get enough of you.”

The slight shift in his body alerted her to the fact he was a little hard beneath his jeans; the soft swell of him comforting against her backside. “Like on the yacht...” She breathed.

“In the closet.” He finished, agreeing.

She licked her dry lips. Her throat suddenly felt hoarse. “I wouldn’t have cared even if we did get caught.” She realised as she said it that she meant it; that it was a sentiment untainted by nostalgia and, while she hadn’t realised it at the time, being caught would have been a relief and would have solved some, if not all of their problems. She let go of his hand and rolled around slowly to face him; his outline clear now that her eyes were well adjusted to the darkness. Reaching out, she touched his waist gently, her breath warm against his face as she spoke in barely more than a whisper. “I just needed to have you inside of me.”

His breath was strained but his movements controlled as he ran one palm up her side slowly, thumb briefly brushing the edge of her breast before curling into the back of her hair, holding her close to him. “You felt so good. I wouldn’t have cared either...” He pressed his forehead against hers, the tops of their noses touching. “When you came around me...”

She moved her palm slowly away from his waist, feeling the ragged, breathy exhalation of his breath against her cheek as she felt between their bodies, across his thigh and, briefer than brief, over his strained outline before finding his spare hand. She held it in hers as they cuddled in silence, the sound of their breathing lulling and comforting in the otherwise quiet and dark space. Eventually, just as he was about to drift, he felt her fingers squeeze his reassuringly.

“I missed you.” She whispered and he sighed heavily, pulling away to rest his chin gently on top of her head and nestling her face into his neck. She breathed in the sweet, comforting scent of his skin, her cheek against his collarbone as they fell asleep.

***

They had naturally moved apart at some point in the night and it was Yoongi who grabbed her phone first when the opening synthesised beat of Blue Monday began to play, waking them both up with a jolt. He reached over to the bedside table to palm to device and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” She murmured sleepily, swiping the screen and turning off the alarm. She discarded the cell on the sheets as her body slowly woke up.

“You moved your table.” Yoongi murmured casually.

“The streetlights were waking me up so I switched sides.” She explained with a yawn. “How did you sleep?”

“Good.” He looked over at her briefly, feeling his breath hitch despite her dishevelled morning appearance, before rolling on his back to face the ceiling. They lay in silence for a few minutes as they remembered the events of the previous night; how perfect everything had seemed as they whispered sweet-nothings, clinging to each other in the dark. The room in the stark morning light felt worlds away from that dreamy atmosphere and they both felt a little awkward and bashful.

Eventually, Jeong-sun sat up and perched on the edge of the bed, bare toes skimming the carpet as he watched her in silence.

“I should put on some coffee...” She murmured, standing up and stretching before plodding out of the room. She paced around the island in the kitchen, pushing her tangled hair away from her forehead with both hands as she breathed deeply, trying to calm the fluttery sensation in her chest and stomach. Reaching out, she filled the coffee machine with fresh grounds and, feeling restless while waiting for it to brew, moved over to the fridge and pulled out the crumby remainder of her chocolate cake. There was a sealed packet of napkins by the microwave and she slipped one out of the covering and wrapped up a large slice for Yoongi.

In the bedroom, Yoongi pulled aside the quilt and sat on the mattress, brushing his dark hair from his eyes and trying to smooth it a little with the ball of his palms. He hadn’t bothered to cut it in the past few weeks and it had grown back to the length it had been before he enlisted. He could hear the splashing sound of the running tap from the kitchen and couldn’t help but allow his mind to wander over the events from the small hours of the morning, his stomach filling with butterflies as he remembered the way she held his waist as she turned to face him, her hand finding his hand in the dark. He recalled the familiar way her body smelt; of oats and coffee and roses and sighed as he got to his feet. He slipped on the jacket he had removed the night before and put on his Converse before heading down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Do you want toast?” Jeong-sun asked as she finished adding sugar to her own coffee. He saw she had already slipped two rounds of bread into the polka-dot toaster which sat on the side and nodded. She smiled, turning away from him at the sound of the machine popping and placing the pieces of brown bread onto two small plates.

“You like marmalade don’t you?” She murmured gingerly. “My dad saw it in my cupboard once and keeps bringing me the vile stuff.” Turning around, she held up the orange-coloured jar and smirked. He nodded and watched as she spread it thickly onto two slices. He had never liked it that much but didn’t have the heart to tell her. Instead, he ate in silence, without fuss, washing down the taste by taking a large gulp of coffee from the mug she placed in front of him. She ate her toast plain, nibbling at it without much vigour.

“I hope you didn’t have to be anywhere last night.” She said. “I just...I didn’t want to be alone.”

Yoongi met her gaze and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to be alone on your birthday.” He said quietly, reassuringly. She felt sad as she realised that he was thinking of his own thirtieth and how he had been away from those he loved. “I don’t have anywhere to be until eleven.” He confirmed.

“Photoshoot?”

"A surveyors coming to assess the roof.”

“Oh.” She muttered. His reply took her by surprise as she remembered the level of commitments he had had during their time together; how his schedule never seemed to end. She checked the little, rectangular pearl face of her watch. “That’s in forty-five minutes.”

He shrugged, finishing his last bite of toast. “I walk fast.”

“Here...” She reached for the folded napkin on the counter. “Take some cake home with you.”

He took it from her and unfolded one corner, peering at the brown lump.

“Thanks.” He grinned a shyly, it didn’t look that appetising and had started to lose its shape in the napkin, but he found the gesture thoughtful. He remembered how skittish she had been the previous evening while trying to make him feel welcome and how that awkwardness hadn’t quite dissipated. Refolding the package, he slipped it into his jacket pocket along with his cell and keys and, taking a final gulp of coffee, moved towards the door.

“Do you know how to work the lock downstairs? You just push it.” She fretted, hovering behind him.

“I remember.” He murmured as she unhooked the safety latch and opened the door. He stepped onto the other side and paused. “I’ll text you...”

“Okay.” She looked at him, her eyes roaming over his features as they stood a little fumblingly on either side of the doorway, unsure on what else to say. He fidgeted with the edge of his jacket, adjusting the collar.

“Happy birthday.” He added, his voice soft.

Her eyes were wide, jaw a little tense as she looked at him. If he looked close enough, he would have seen her jugular vein twitching as her heart worked overtime. He turned to leave.

“Don’t I get a birthday kiss?” She blurted, feeling her entire body cringe with embarrassment as he turned back to face her. She hadn’t been aware she was going to speak until the words left her mouth and her face features soured at the realisation. A small, gummy smile tugged at Yoongi’s lips as he looked at her, realising she was chastising herself for her outburst.

He glanced at his shoes timidly before stepping closer, bridging the gap between them. She let out a small murmur of approval as his lips met hers softly, his hand moving to lightly touch the back of her head as they kissed. They both felt weak as they moved slowly against one another, their lips caressing each other as they found a comfortable, leisurely rhythm. The kiss, while intense, was brief and all too soon he moved away, having to leave. She felt her knees tremble beneath her.

“Okay?” He asked softly, pulling his hand from her dark hair as he stepped back.

“Okay.” She confirmed with a nervous laugh, nodding her head as she looked up at him with large, expressive eyes.

He smiled in reply, adjusting the zip on his jacket as he waved delicately. “Bye.” He murmured, reluctantly moving away to make his way down the stairs.

“Bye..” She replied weakly, watching from behind as he reached the top step at the end of the narrow hall.

Slowly, she closed the door behind her and refastened the safety latch, listening to the sound of the front door downstairs opening and closing before retreating into the kitchen. She hovered by the island, unsure what to do with herself and unable to process what had just happened. She clutched the hair on her scalp in her palms, tugging the hair away from her skull a little roughly as she tried to calm her breathing. Unable to keep still, she walked over to the counter and flicked the electric kettle on out of habit, pressing her fingers into the cold mock-marble of the tops to ground herself as she waited for it to boil.

She found a single chamomile teabag at the bottom of her enamel caddy and placed it into a clean mug, pouring the hot water over it before sitting at the table, clutching the vessel between her palms as the sweet memories of last night came flooding back, merging with the soft, tingly feel of his lips against hers as they kissed in the hallway. Although it had happened only ten minutes before, the memory was already starting to feel unreal, as though it had happened to someone else and not her. There had been a time, not so long before, when she had been confident she would never feel his touch again.

Looking down at the table, she noticed the cream coloured envelope she had discarded and reaching out, she took it between her fingers and read her name in his delicate, gentle script. Her drink lay forgotten as she trailed into the bedroom and flopped down heavily onto the bed, feeling exhausted as well as elated. She teased open the corners, sliding the card from its confines and glancing at the cover for a moment. It was the type of card you could pick up at any convenience store or gas station, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY were written on a pink balloon held by a teddy bear, but the feel of it in her hand and the thought of him going out to buy it for her made her stomach flutter. Carefully, she opened it to read the message inside. HAPPY BIRTHDAY was once again typed in the centre and, below that, he had simply written Yoongi. She starred at the page for some time, fingers gently tracing the thin, black lines of his name, as though they were fragile and might break.

She remembered, with heated cheeks, how he had recalled the previous night the detail about his birthday cake she made him four years before, and how he had described the way she looked as they made love on the sofa. Hearing him call her beautiful, after so long, had made entire body ache fiercely; she couldn’t recall when she had last felt this way, if ever. After Yoongi, there had been two others; the accountant she had dated for several months and one man she had met in a club on one of her last outings with Angel. The experience had been a calamity and she had sneaked out of his apartment when he disappeared to use the bathroom, halfway through sex. She realised as she leaned over to prop the card on her bedside table, that she had never made love with anyone but Yoongi and, listening to him detail how she made him feel; remembering the details so vividly after so many years, had brought her own memories back in full flood.

She reached for her forgotten cell phone and found herself pulling up his name in her contacts, wondering whether it was too soon to call him and whether he would be home yet. She read through their last messages, remembering how she had texted him after finishing their date prematurely.

“It’s okay, the store had the right pills.” Her text read, followed by his reply: “That’s good. I hope she’s okay.”

She opened a new chat window and began typing: “thank you for”, she quickly deleted it and started again “I liked the card, thank you.” Feeling foolish, she tapped the back key before she had time to send and sighed. Her heart was still racing in her rib-cage, she could hear its thud echoing throughout the otherwise silent room and she regretted drinking her morning cup of coffee. At this rate, her blood pressure wouldn’t slow before midday.

Remaining on his name, she clicked on the camera icon and starred at her reflection on the screen; her dark hair fanning out around her face against the duvet and her cheeks and chest flushed pink, as though she had recently reached orgasm. Her fingertips felt tingly and her stomach refused to stop churning with fluttery butterflies as she tugged on the hem of her t-shirt, pulling it over the soft curves of her stomach and chest before allowing it to pool beneath her throat. She used her spare hand to slip her breasts over the top of her plain black bra and ran her thumb briefly over the nipples, sighing at the contact as the pink buds hardened to her touch. Adjusting the phone to the side to capture this view and pushing her breasts together with her arms, she clicked on the camera icon. Her face wasn’t visible in the shot, but she knew he would recognise her regardless. She wondered whether she should take it from a more flattering angle, before realising if she didn’t send it now, she would back out altogether. She clicked the send button and watched as the photograph moved into the chat window, below their last message.

She starred blankly at the screen, the giddiness in her chest being replaced by nerves as she realised what she had done with slight disbelief. She waited to see if Yoongi would reply, her eyelids growing heavier by the second as her body sank into the bed covers, but soon fell asleep waiting for a response.

***

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megastarstrike · 5 years

Text

hi it’s me, the motherfucker who has too many ideas about hifumi and yusuke being friends so i wrote another one. but this time, featuring guest artist yutaba.

it’s basically both of them being disasters while hifumi helps him get ready for a date. heres the trash.

word count: 2360

[17:46] Yusuke: Hifumi, I urgently require your assistance.

Well, that was never a good start to a conversation.

Hifumi stopped in the middle of her walk back home from her daily shogi practice at church. She stepped next to a lamppost and squinted at her phone.

Would this be important? Last time he sent a text this ambiguous, it was a poem about him being torn between eating a mushroom he found growing next to the school building and not wanting to risk being poisoned. It ended with her dragging him away from the mushroom and into a grocery store so he could buy real food for once. And while it was fun navigating the stores by riding inside the cart while Yusuke drove it forward, it wasn’t fun ramming into a crowd of people and almost being banned from the store.

Her thumbs danced over the screen of her phone before she finally decided to reply.

[17:48] Hifumi: Please don’t tell me you’re about to eat another questionable plant… [17:48] Yusuke: No, not this time. [17:48] Yusuke: Please come to my dorm as soon as possible. I have a time limit.

And now she was more alarmed because it sounded like he was trying to disarm a bomb. Knowing all the shenanigans he had been pulled into this year, it was impossible to not be worried.

So she texted her mother she would be coming home late and redirected her route to Kosei High School.

Yusuke flung the door wide open before Hifumi could even knock on it (she was left sadly, slowly putting her fist down by her side). “Thank goodness you’ve arrived. I have a predicament I couldn’t solve alone.”

Hifumi stepped into the dorm, carefully stepping over an empty bottle of paint. She shut the door behind her and finally allowed herself to take in the disaster that was her best friend.

Firstly, his room was usually immaculate, a feat he had managed to accomplish even with the messy nature of his passion. The sight in front of her, however, looked like a war zone. None of his paintings had been disturbed, but the amount of clutter everywhere was enough to make her worry the school would make him pay for a deep cleaning. On top of that, his closet door was wide open, revealing the utter mess that was inside. Had he really been disabling a bomb and failed to do so before she arrived? It sure seemed like it.

“Yusuke,” Hifumi called, her voice flat as she scanned her surroundings. “Were you robbed?”

“It was nothing of the sort,” Yusuke said hurriedly. “Though you could say I was robbed of my sanity.”

“What happened?”

He averted his eyes, his shoulders tensing. “It… It seems my talent for art does not extend to the fashion world as much as I thought it did.”

Hifumi frowned. Was he embarrassed or sad? Whichever it was, she hated to see him like this. “Nonsense. I’m certain you’ve just overextended your creativity for the day. Allow me to help.” She walked towards the closet, browsing through his clothes and completely unsurprised at his sense of fashion. “What event is this for?”

At that, Yusuke’s entire body tensed. He turned away.

“Yusuke…?”

He spoke after taking a deep breath. “I believe… I’m due for an outing with someone I have a romantic interest in.”

“So a date?”

“... Yes.”

Hifumi blinked. She had pieced together who he had been particularly interested in after she was invited to one of his afterschool activities (which was really just hangout time for the former Phantom Thieves because come on. Being subtle was not their strong point). But for either the other person or Yusuke to finally say something about their feelings…

Well, it seemed her best friend had a date.

Wait. Her best friend had a date!

Hifumi grinned and poked his cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Yusuke. Did you ask Futaba or did she ask you?”

Yusuke tilted his head away from her finger, an annoyed expression crossing his face. “I believe she asked me.” He paused. “How did you know it was Futaba?”

“Neither of you were very subtle about your feelings.”

“... Ah. So I’ve been told.” His gaze moved down to his hand, which was still stained with paint. “I was engaged in a conversation with Ann a few hours earlier and explained my predicament. She asked me what I was going to wear for this date, and I asked if that mattered. She said it did and that she would help me after she finished her shift, but her shift ends after my date begins. The timing wouldn’t work out.”

Hifumi nodded along. “So now I’m here?”

“Apparently so.”

Being the second choice didn’t hurt; Ann was a model experienced with fashion, after all, while Hifumi was just as much of a social recluse as Yusuke was. In all honesty, being invited to make suggestions for something this personal made her heart warm. Was this what normal teenagers did for their friends? Even if it wasn’t, she wouldn’t give this up for anything.

“Allow me a moment to rummage through your closet,” Hifumi said. “For now, you can wash the paint off your hands.”

Yusuke nodded and headed into the bathroom.

Her movements as she shifted through the clothing paused.

Her suggestions were actually being taken seriously? She was being listened to? That was a feeling unlike any other.

Hifumi smiled and hummed to herself, continuing to take inventory of the clothes in the closet.

“Yusuke, you have four shirts and two pairs of pants that are the exact same shade of black. How have you survived up until this point?”

“You ask that as if I have a satisfactory answer.”

Hifumi supposed she shouldn’t have expected the person who regularly skipped lunch to buy new paints to have a plethora of clothing, but she certainly didn’t expect his closet to be this sparse. It was almost sad. How often did he have to do laundry?

“Please do not be concerned,” Yusuke said. “Ann promised we would buy a new outfit together later during the week. However, this is what is at my disposal now.”

She sighed and shook her head. There was nothing she could do about his concerning priorities now. Instead, she settled for picking out a light pink shirt with a white outline at the top circling the neck and a brown jacket with an odd, asymmetrical design. “I believe this would suit you nicely. Could you try them on? I’ll even allow you to choose which of your two pairs of pants you want to wear with it.”

“... You’re teasing me.”

“Only a little bit. Now hurry, we don’t have much time left.”

Yusuke took the clothes (and predictably took the shinier pair of pants because of course), thanked her, and stepped into the bathroom. A few minutes later, he called, “I’m fully clothed. You may come in if you’d like.”

Hifumi stepped into the bathroom and stood beside Yusuke, who frowned as he smoothed out some stray wrinkles in his clothes. She stared at their reflections in the mirror. Their small height difference would never cease to amuse her, especially with how tall Yusuke was compared to the other members of his group. But now wasn’t the time for that. “Is this to your liking?”

Yusuke redirected his gaze at the mirror. He looked his figure up and down with a blank expression. “The combination of colors is not off-putting, and it seems to be in line with current fashion standards as I understand them. Thank you for your assistance.”

Oh, thank god. Her lack of any artistic talent whatsoever hadn’t failed her yet.

“I’m glad. However, there are still some things I would like to improve.” Hifumi picked up a comb and began untangling his hair, standing on her toes to reach the top of his head.

His shoulders tensed under her touch, then relaxed. A few seconds later, he leaned into the touch just the slightest bit like a cat who wanted affection but was too prideful to admit it. (Hifumi should know; she had met that cat before.)

It was at times like these Hifumi remembered Yusuke hadn’t been exposed to much physical affection while under Madarame’s supervision. Even teenagers with normal childhoods missed having their hair touched by someone else, and Hifumi still had her hair done by her mother sometimes. How many times had he been deprived of something as basic as this? Anger simmered in her gut, but anger wasn’t the emotion needed here. She stowed it away and was careful to ensure her contact was gentle.

Finally, Hifumi set the comb on the counter and took a step away, smiling at the new shine in Yusuke’s eyes. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Has disaster been averted?”

“Yes, I’d say so,” Yusuke said quietly. His lips curved into a satisfied smile that radiated more light than a star. “You have my gratitude. I’m in your debt.”

Hifumi’s heart warmed. She flicked his cheek and grinned at the resulting side-eye directed at her. “Don’t say that. These are typical actions friends take for each other.”

“Truly?”

“Um… I believe so?”

It wasn’t like either of them could confirm or deny. Both had only entered the realm of friendship just recently, stumbling on various obstacles as they observed others and tried to comprehend what friendship truly entailed. It wasn’t a simple endeavor by any means. Friendship wasn’t anything like shogi; it was illogical, emotional. It was like trying to understand a storm’s motivations. Hifumi had almost given up multiple times trying to piece it together, but in the end…

Well, what could she say other than she was glad to have a friend?

“I suppose you should head out to your date now,” Hifumi said. She took a few steps out of the bathroom before realizing Yusuke wasn’t following. She turned back with furrowed eyebrows. “Are you alright?”

Yusuke’s demeanor was as calm as ever, but throughout her attempts to understand him as a person, she had learned most of his turmoil took place inside. His shoulders and arms were stiff, and he looked frozen in place. A clear indication he was hesitating, if all those body language guides she had read were correct.

“Yusuke?”

“We planned on meeting at Leblanc. Please accompany me there.”

Ah. He was nervous. That much was clear. She saw no reason to decline.

The two departed from the Kosei dorms, and Hifumi continued nitpicking every detail of his appearance. Yusuke eventually recognized most of her comments weren’t serious and gave her an exasperated stare.

Hifumi laughed. It was her god-given right as a friend, after all.

“You do have enough money to take her somewhere nice, yes? And for that matter, you most certainly have a plan. Oh, and brush that hair out of your eyes. Shy eyes haven’t been in style since decades ago.”

“You’re enjoying this far more than you should.”

“I’m enjoying this the appropriate amount.”

Yusuke stopped to give her another cold instance of side-eye, his favorite maneuver to pull when he suspected Hifumi was teasing him. The annoyance on his face dissipated upon realizing they had made it to the corner just by Leblanc. They could see the entrance from where they stood.

“I haven’t the slightest idea why I’m feeling this way,” Yusuke said, his eyes trained on the doorway.

Hifumi gave him a sympathetic smile. “Nervous? Anticipatory? I understand. I get the same way before a tournament.”

“This is frustrating. These feelings are a curse.”

“I know you don’t truly feel that way.” She patted him on the shoulder, and some of the tension present faded. “You were focusing on what a human heart contained during your latest study, correct? Now that you have an opportunity to experiment with it, will you allow it to fly past you?”

He glanced down at the floor, digging his shoe into the sidewalk. “No, I suppose not.”

Their conversation was cut short when the bells above Leblanc’s door rang and the door slammed open. Futaba came stumbling out, panic written all over her face. She whirled around back to whoever was still inside the shop.

“Akira!” she shouted. “No friendly fire allowed! I’m banning you from this server!”

“You’ve grinded enough for this mission. You’re locked out of the tutorial area,” Akira replied. That was the only reply he gave before waving and shutting the door.

Ouch. Cold, Akira.

Yusuke’s expression softened into a fond smile. “Those two… They truly do resemble siblings.”

Hm. That reminded her…

She wasn’t done with her job.

“Sorry, Yusuke,” Hifumi said before taking a few steps back.

Yusuke’s eyes widened. “Wait… don’t tell me—”

Hifumi pushed him forward, sending him stumbling into view. It was possibly the rudest thing she had ever done and she wouldn’t have done it to anyone else, but she was certain he would thank her for it later.

“Hifumi! You traitor!” Yusuke yowled. He whirled to round on her, only to freeze upon seeing Futaba giggling. “Oh. Good evening, Futaba. Please stop deriving joy out of my pain.”

Futaba’s laughter only grew louder. “Yeah, but you were so dramatic about it! You were like, ‘You traitor!’ and you looked so pissed. Who wouldn’t laugh at that?”

“A mature person, something you are not.”

Hifumi sighed. Blunt as ever, Yusuke. Never change.

“Please, I’m pretty sure I barely count as a person,” Futaba scoffed. Following that statement, the confidence was drained from her body. She averted her eyes and picked at her fingernails. It seemed she was gathering the courage for—

Oh. She leapt forward and tugged on the sleeve of his coat. “Let’s just… Let’s just get going.”

Yusuke smiled down at her fondly as they walked away together.

Back at the corner nearby Leblanc, Hifumi checked her wallet to ensure she had enough funds before walking towards the cafe. Might as well buy something while she was here.

But her best friend was happy. And seeing that, she was happy as well

#hifumi togo #yusuke kitagawa #yutaba #fanfiction #persona 5 #is this in character?#fuck if i know #is this good?#fuck if i know either #i just have a lot of feelings

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grell-writes-stuff · 5 years

Text

I finished chapter 28 and I’m posting it here because I did so many bad things

Tag List: @fenfaerie @arieswriting

I spent the week avoiding my phone as much as possible, and immediately deleting any notifications that popped up from that group chat. To keep it all confined to that forbidden, digital space, I tried to distance myself from the guys at school. Kelley had a lot to say about that yesterday.

“Do I have to bribe you into doing stuff?”

“Using what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far yet. Maybe I just need to start smacking you with a newspaper until you do the thing that I want you to do.”

“You said we’re not hitting people.”

“I said you aren’t hitting people. I have free rein to do whatever is best for your health, and, at this point, I’m thinking of getting a little spray bottle–”

“Seriously?”

“You’re like a misbehaving cat, and I’m training you to stay off the kitchen table.”

She let up when I told her what my plans were for today.

At around six, I receive the “Here” text from Cole as his Cherokee rolls into our driveway behind – avoidance – something that I decide not to think about. Not today. For the sake of getting through this jam session and keeping it a good day, I can’t let myself focus on anything except drumming. That’s it. Nothing else.

That’s also why I slip my headphones in before leaving the house. I don’t have any music playing, but it keeps the ride to West Hills quiet – with the exception of Cole’s screamo. I say a polite “hey” to him and Matt, but that’s about it.

In approximately fifteen minutes, we’re pulling into the Mechis’ driveway next to a sleek, black Lexus that I refuse to look at. I don’t notice it, or the person walking from it to the entrance to the garage. I wedge a broom through the handle, because I refuse to open that door in my mind and let the memory of the screaming match ruin this day. Frankly, I’m determined to block out her shrill voice in whatever way I can. I fight against the ever-present urge to give myself tinnitus.

The three of us get out of Cole’s car, and I hang back for a moment as they grab their guitars. Together, we enter the garage, and I tug out my earbuds.

I swallow back the lump in my throat, but that’s tough when my windpipe is constricted.

It’s such a familiar place. It used to be comforting, but now it feels tainted and hollow. The old, duct-taped couches that are falling apart seem like dusty relics of some long-forgotten past for which I am the sole historian. The boxes of Full Stop. merch lying around feel like clutter now instead of a celebration and achievement, like some ancient memorabilia that no one will ever purchase, not even the most dedicated collectors. The band binder is still just hanging on by a thread, but it feels like it’s already exploded and setlists and notes are paper shrapnel raining down from the sky. My drum kit feels like a foreign technology that I don’t understand. This room is infested with age. It’s an abandoned ghost town, and I feel haunted.

As we enter, Bryson greets me. Cole and Matt say hi back, but I’m still finding it hard to make words, so I just nod and try to put my attention elsewhere. I try to remember the workings of my setup. I’ve been visualizing the placement of cymbals, and toms, and the kickdrum while I’ve been recovering. I know where everything is. I can figure out how I’d once played music on this strange contraption again. Maybe someday it’ll feel the same.

I head to one of the sofas as Matt and Cole go about tuning their instruments.

And I ignore the screeches that she calls vocal warmups. In fact, I do everything within my power to forget her presence all together.

“Okay,” Bryson interrupts after a few minutes have passed. In that time, I’d listened to the twangs of the guitar and bass, and not her shrieks into the microphone. “I guess we can start.”

Since we don’t have a gig lined up, and this is just an unofficial jam session for something like fun, there’s a difference in his tone. It’s not as desperate. That’s probably a good thing. He’s not stressed, and there’s less pressure on us to be perfect. We’ll be far from it. The walking boot on my leg acts as a constant reminder of that fact as I rise and move over to my kit.

“We’ll probably be a bit rusty,” he elaborates. “But everyone just try your best. We don’t have to sound filled-out. Just let us know if you need a break, Scott.” He gestures to my leg, to the boot.

I nod. There was no hope of us sounding full anyway, and I haven’t tried drumming with a cast ever, but I doubt it will help my limb coordination and timing, and it probably won’t feel too great after a while, so I’ll definitely be off. And we’re painfully lacking in guitars, but I force that thought out of my mind.

I don’t purposefully bump into her shoulder as I pass. It’s easier to pretend she’s not there – that she’s not even furniture – rather than acknowledging her as an obstacle.

“All right. So, Scott?” Bryson says to grab my attention. Once I’m sat on my stool behind my setup, I look at him. It’s tough to define what’s in his expression, but his words are rather transparent. I didn’t text him back at all the past few days and he knows that was a deliberate choice. “We all picked songs this week that we want to run today, and, after that, we’ll focus on originals, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Cole wants to run Ocean Avenue – so we’ll start there – and Selena picked Told You So.”

Of course it’s a Paramore song. Of course it is.

“Matt chose You Think You Know It All by Red As Dusk. What’s your pick?”

It takes me a second longer than normal to peruse my mental music library because now it’s shrunk in size, and so many songs have been filed away and are now off-limits. Kelley’s suggestions are background noise as I search the stacks. Purge the excess negative energy. Purge the anger. Hitting my sticks against my drums will help, but only if I can find a way to throw everything that I possibly can into it. It’s a good thing that I’m battling rage because those tracks are the safe ones now, and anything rebellious will do.

“The Anthem – Good Charlotte.”

Bryson gives me a brief nod, but that’s ruined immediately. Every hair on my body seems to rise in defense.

“Um, I don’t know that one!” It’s her sharp voice speaking, and I shove my earplugs in to filter out some of the volume and annoyance. “I would have learned it if you’d picked sooner.”

“Sucks to be you!” It slips out of me, and I realize that means I’ve broken my vow for the day, and now Selena’s materialized in the garage, and my glare lands on her, which she matches with one of her own. In my peripheral, the rest of the guys look like they’re getting ready to break up the resulting physical fistfight that seems to be inevitable.

But that will get me in trouble in some way. I know it for a fact. I’ve already reacted, so retreating is tough, but I grapple for a way to deescalate.

“I’ll fucking sing it then. Why does it even need lyrics anyway? It just needs to be cynical and loud.” My fingers clamp around my sticks, the tools that will help me feel better and prevent me from punching her square in her contoured cheek.

“You just want Vikki to come in here and yell at us again, don’t you?” Bryson asks, deadpan, probably so Selena doesn’t have a chance to retaliate.

“Yes,” says Cole.

“Oh, my God,” he sighs. “Really, Cole?”

“Dude, I can’t be the only one who’s told you that your sister is hot.”

“She’s hot,” Matt agrees.

“See? Verdict’s in: she’s hot.”

“Why am I friends with you?” That knocks the desperation back into his tone, and it almost feels like a normal detour from practicing. Like we have a gig soon, but we’re all screwing around, and Bryson’s the only one with a sense of urgency and deadlines. I almost make myself savour it. “Can we just start the song? Please? Just play the fucking song?”

At that, Cole shrugs slightly, and his gaze sweeps over us to find confirmation. I signal back, my limbs still humming with everything I had to repress a second ago. They’re vibrating with the need to get it out, and I feel ready to drum to release it all before it boils my blood. She injected the steam into my veins and it wants out.

When everyone’s ready, Cole’s guitar plays the chugging, palm-muted intro to Ocean Avenue. Finally, my sticks hit and my foot stomps the kickdrum’s pedal. Matt’s bass fills it out a little bit, but we still sound empty. We’ve played this track before, but it doesn’t sound anything like it used to when it came out of our instruments. Selena’s unstable voice wails without a care, and I try to block it out and focus on my drumming so I don’t sound so off even though I totally am.

My limb coordination is flawed because the boot is throwing off my time-keeping and I haven’t put my formerly-sprained wrist to much work until now. I knew that I wouldn’t be perfect, but it’s bugging me nevertheless. My brain is telling me that it shouldn’t be like this. As a whole, we should sound better. My limbs shouldn’t feel so stiff as if I were a marble statue, as if I’m turning to stone. I hope for a second where I get the chance to shake it off, except–

Except my throat has a tight knot in it, and it hastily, heavily drops down into my chest. It’s so sudden and strange, but I feel something stirring and then curdling within me, rising up and bubbling through every artery before solidifying into a heavy, black mass that weighs down my arms. I remember a moment too late that I should be breathing, and I only accomplish that because I haven’t been taking in air and it already feels like my lungs have been set on fire after being filled with concrete, so it’s tough to shove into my subconscious. My eyes are stinging so bad that I can’t see my sticks where they rest in my shaking hands. The knot launches itself up from my chest and I feel like I have to gag. My pulmonary function fails and I become as empty as the music that falls silent.

Not all at once. It dies off in pieces, but I stop first, right at the start of the chorus. Then, everyone else cuts off too. The sticks slip through my loose fingers, but I barely hear them hit the hard floor with a soft clatter because a song is echoing in my mind now, and it’s not Ocean Avenue.

But it’s close. Too close. Ahead of me, I see blurs.

But also, an endless horizon of blue.

“Scott?”

Bryson’s voice penetrates my earplugs, but it still sounds twenty-thousand feet away from me. My mouth feels like it’s been filled with sand, and my stomach hurts, and everything is blocked by the firm, congealed sludge living inside of me. My hands are caught up in earthquakes, and I hear my hollow attempts to breathe as something between gasps and augmenting sobs.

I suddenly feel his hand on my shoulder and I don’t know how because his touch is light and everything is hot and numb.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a distorted voice.

No. I’m not. I’m not okay, but I can’t speak to lie and say that I’m fine, or to, for once, tell the truth. My mind is not a blank whiteboard. Instead, someone has written lyrics on it in permanent marker, and now the words are tormenting me along with dark chords, and a frantic, panicking drum beat that’s pounding against my skull.

“What’s wrong, Scott?” One of them questions me. I can’t even tell which one of them it is anymore. Matt, I think. Maybe.

I want to throw up. Or I need to. Or I just need to take in air. Any fucking air at all. Before everything finally shuts down, I have to get it out. Quavering. Quiet.

“Yellowcard.”

There’s some silence. Or it would be, but my ears are ringing, and my cheeks feel wet. After a few hundred, frenzied heartbeats, Bryson stiffens beside me, which I know because the hand that’s on my shoulder is attached to a body that I feel go rigid. His voice mingles with the deafening tone and my tears, and I hate how horrified and sorry it sounds. How lost and guilt-ridden it is.

“I was playing Lights And Sounds when they jumped…”

It’s not even the same fucking song! So what?! I’m just never going to be able to listen to Yellowcard again?! Because now they are tainted with tragedy and I’ll always remember in some crevice of my mind that that stupid song was playing, and I can almost feel our arms locked, and the salty breeze as it all rushes up ahead of us–

“Shit, man. I-I’m sorry.” I hear Cole say, and I hate the way that it sounds too because he shouldn’t have to apologize. “I didn’t know–”

I can’t even tell him to stop because I won’t be able to make any words, and I can’t breathe. Nothing’s going in and reaching my burning lungs even though I’m gasping for it. It’s not his fault, but those words stop on my tongue. It isn’t Cole’s fault. He doesn’t have to say sorry. He was in the water. He couldn’t have heard it. It’s not Cole’s fault. It’s not Matt’s fault. It’s not Bryson’s fault.

Because maybe it’s mine. We did it together, and one of us tripped, and what if it was me? Maybe if we hadn’t jumped at the same time, things would be different. He would be here, and this would be a practice for a gig instead of a failed jam session, and his guitar would have filled out Full Stop. and we would feel like Full Stop., and I wouldn’t be breaking down over a fucking Yellowcard song! But it’s too late now, and it’s all my fault.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Fuck it! Move!”

Such a loud voice that slices through my earplugs like a razor blade and splits the air with the shrill metal sound of an axe hammering down. If I wasn’t shaking so terribly, I’d flinch at it because it hurts, but it also makes every trembling muscle inside of me tense painfully.

It’s sudden, but Bryson’s hand withdraws quick, and my vision finally goes dark, and then talons dig into my flesh and sear it, and I’m yanked up violently to the sounds of muffled protests surrounding us. My own laboured, raspy, wailing gasps rise above the guys as I try to bring in anything at all, but it turns out to just be another futile attempt because there’s not enough air in the atmosphere to keep me alive.

My skin burns where fingernails dig in and inflict agony like they’re steel nails instead, and I don’t know how I stumble when my legs have turned to rubber, and my feet feel weighted down. I could crumble and snap and break at any moment like a building ready to topple. All the retentions are groaning, the supports failing, and I’m about to fall, and I can’t fucking breathe!

There are bewildered and demanding words coming from the dark blurs around me, and I try to blink the water away, but it’s coming too fast. Only one forceful voice has the volume to rise above, and it’s almost clear, and so close to me, and shoving me harshly as if the sound itself has become a physical entity, and it’s so damn annoying. It pushes and pulls me, and I’m running out of the strength to fight it because everything I have left is trying to suppress the bile gathering in my stomach and threatening my useless esophagus.

Then everything is bright, like the sun on that horrible, unsuspecting day. I’d say I feel blinded by it, but I didn’t see anything before anyway. There’s more forced stumbling and a muddling of voices and sounds. Another rises over them, so loud, and shrill, yet it can never hit the notes it sets out to despite always trying to rise at the end of every line.

“Get in,” it demands.

“Selena, what the fuck are you doing?!” Bryson. I think it’s Bryson. It sounds kind of like Bryson, but so far away.

I think there’s a response, but I’m trapped in a fishbowl and everything is half muted. I’m sitting, and all I hear before someone else speaks is a loud slam right beside me. Then there’s something that sounds like angry arguing, but I can’t make it out because my thundering heartbeat and broken lungs are trying to kill me. Another harsh slam, then a jingle, sputter, and hum, and then the whole world lurches forward.

And my gut lurches forward and upwards again, and that forces the blackness clouding my eyes to dissolve into dizzy, sparkling fragments. I barely have the air to heave, but I manage to start gagging, rocking forward in my leather seat, and then her voice shrieks:

“Don’t you fucking dare puke in my car!”

I’m in Selena Walton’s stupid, expensive Lexus. There’s that small, sane part of me clinging to the thought that blowing chunks inside of her Lexus is a bigger fuck you to her than smearing Vaseline on the door handle, but it’s microscopic because the acidic needles of the bile are pricking the base of my empty windpipe, and it’s so fucking hot in here, and no matter how much blinking I do everything is blurry, and those lyrics are stuck in my mind.

“But make it loud, cause nobody’s there.”

Nobody’s there.

He’s not there. He’s not here. One. I’m alone in the chapel with a monument to destruction, the end of an era. Two. Together, we jump. Three. My leg feels like it’s been severed. Four. My head has exploded. Five. I shatter into pieces. Six. I’m gripping the porcelain sides of a bathroom sink to keep from falling. Seven. In the nightmares, I’m falling. Falling, falling, falling. Eight. I’m suffocated by the emptiness of a black abyss and closed-in walls of my bedroom without him in it. Nine. The futon is in couch mode. And that’s not ever going to change again. Ten. There’s not enough air, but I can’t seem to drown. Eleven. We hit the ledge over half-way down a thirty-foot fall, and it was all my fault. He’s gone, and I should have gone with him, but I didn’t and he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone – You’re never going to get rid of me, Morgan – and why can’t I fucking breathe–

And then something unimaginable happens.

It’s fast, unpredictable, and unprompted, and my boiled blood becomes lava because the second I realize what’s going on, I am furious.

Her arm smacks into and lays across my chest and pushes me back harshly against the seat, pinning me. She’s leaned over the console in the middle with her other hand still stretched to hold the wheel, but I only notice that after the fact, and it’s still not the most terrifying thing. My tear-blinded eyes go wide, and probably vault out of my skull like a cartoon because this is a new kind of unwelcome proximity.

Her lips are on my lips. She kisses me with her greasy, scalding, obnoxious, red mouth and suddenly my trembling limbs freeze in place. The world pauses for a second – or it feels like it except she’s also fucking driving in West Hills, which is just as uneven and winding as Woodland Hills and Bryson’s street is no exception, and her fucking foot must be pressing the accelerator to the floor.

But I am less focused on fearing for my life and more focused on the fact that I have now kissed Selena fucking Walton.

“What the FUCK?!”

#interlude #wip: interlude #book: interlude #morgan scott #selena walton #bryson mechis #cole marshall #matt jordan #mental breakdown #writing #my writing

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aether-mae · 6 years

Text

Overload - part 1

Marvin finds himself lying at the front of his bed with his legs up against the wall, magic wand in his hand which has flopped to his side. He’s just lazily flicking his wrist again and again, causing the baseball he has suspended in the air to unravel and restitch itself again and again, while his eyes dart over to the clock by the bedside, again, and again.

It’s a nasty habit of his, winding up wide awake in the middle of the night and draining himself of magic until he passes out. It’s not a fast process, exactly, but concentrating on a more mediocre task helps pull his mind off unwanted thoughts.

He’s let the baseball drop now.

It hit him in the chest on the way down and he thought about gravity.

Now he’s got his back to the wall and his legs on the ceiling. It hardly an improvement, scenery-wise. His room’s still a mess even upside down; clothes strewn everywhere, cards scattered where they were dropped haphazardly throughout the day. It’s become a crime to bend down, apparently.

Whatcha doing with yourself, Mar? Your never going to accomplish anything from the cold depths of the lair you call a room. You haven’t been outside in what, a week? Two? When was the last time you ate? And I mean a real meal. Soda and cereal don’t count. When was the last time you made any new spell, and I mean a new one. Inverted baseballs is hardly a showstopper, what are you doing with yourself?!

Marvin roles his eyes, there back, see? You stopped distracting yourself and the voices came back, idiot. Where’s your wand?

He spied the wand lying on the bed where he left it. It was harder to spot, being on the ceiling and all, but hey, there it is. With a flick of his aching wrist the wand flew back into his hand where he began again. But of course, the fool, still on the ceiling he ended up falling from his place and crashing into mattress with a less than elegant thud.

From his place on the floor -trash amongst trash, if you will- Marvin spotted the snow globe Jamie had bought him at a market. The concept of a world trapped inside a small glass contraption fascinated the little dapper fellow, and his eyes had lit up so brightly when he gifted it to Marvin. Now the orb lay lying in a heap with the rest of his trinkets. Marvin grapsped at the snow globe, hand buzzing with pent up anxiety and emotion in the form of barely contained magic. He let the power flow into the orb, eyes glowing a soft purple and veins of bright violet snaking up his arm in coils, filling the globe with a rush of chaotic energy.

It should have been alarming when the globe burst like a firecracker, sending shards of glass into his cheeks and hand. But Marvin was knocked out cold. Trickles of blood fell down his cheeks as he lay passed out on the floor. It was hardly a healthy coping mechanism. Hell, I doubt anyone would call glass shards healthy, but sleep was hard to come by these days.

None of the others knew this of course, when Marvin would shuffle into the kitchen bleary eyed but awake and alive. If he didn’t come out at all it was usually chase who knocked on his bedroom door to wake him, maybe flicker the lights a bit or leave him some orange juice if he knew he had been late at work that night.

Marvin did the same for him, if he wound up plastered drunk late at night. He would help him to the bathroom to clean up or just sit on the couch while Chase bawled about the latest issue with Stacey and how he misses the kids. Chase never asked why Marvin was always awake when he was home, be it midnight or almost dawn. It was practically the most time they spent together.

So if anything, it seemed Chase was the unstable one.

This is why when morning rolled around and Marvin wasn’t found at his usual spot at the kitchen table, Chase swung by his door to wake him up, as per usual. He tried knocking, then calling his name and finally flickering the lights.

“Come on dude, you can’t stay in bed all day. I was thinking we could-“, but then Chase spotted Marvin’s empty bed. His sheets and pillows had been strewn all over the floor and the mattress was crooked on its wooden frame.

Chases eyes passed over the piles of laundry, scattered books and cluttered desk, until they landed on the figure laying curled on the floor. Shards of glass surrounded Marvin’s twisted body and his face and arm were crusted with dry blood.

Chases breath hitched in his throat as he pushed himself off the doorframe to hurriedly kneel by Marvin’s side. He pulled the magician over onto his lap with shaking hands and tapped urgently at his cheek, brushing shards away as he did.

“Shneep!” he yelled. “Quickly, it’s Marvin! Oh god.”

Then Chases eyes landed on the burns on Marvin’s face. Patched around the crisscrossing of scars from little magic accidents (as he calls them). When Chase glanced up for a better view of the room he saw dark patches all over the walls.

He felt a jolt of fear in his chest. How did this happen? oh god. Who could have done this? He’s been fine. He must have slipped. Magic trick gone wrong. What happened?

At this point Dr Shneeplestein had joined them in the room, coffee in hand.

“Ah, Marvin Vhat have you done now?”, he said with as much concern as he could without having had his morning coffee yet.

Marvin was stirring awake in Chases arms at this point. He attempted to rub his eyes when a firm grip pulled them from him.

“Oh do be careful, my friend, you could cut your eyes out with all this mess you’ve left around. Can you stand?” the good inquired.

Marin leaned out of Chases shaky grip, “yeah, yeah”.

When he met the worried eyes of Chase on his was up he put on a half smile and ruffled his little brothers hair with his good hand. “I’m fine dude, it’s ok. I just...uh..had a little fall.”

The magician maintained his practice precision of not flinching and tried to move past Shneep to the kitchen but he was caught on the arm.

“Not so fast zer, you are still a valking cactuz,” Sheep said, scanning over Marvin’s face for injuries. He took a big gulp of coffee, “Ve go to my clinic right now.”

Marvin begrudgingly accepted, because you don’t opose a grumpy doctor in the morning, even he knew that.

From his place on the ground of Marvin’s room, Chase found his eyes wander to the base of the snow globe, or rather, the whole snowglobe..? Fully intact and swirling with a whirlwind of purple glittery snow. He gently picked it up to examine it, but in a flash of blinding purple light him and the globe were gone.

#jacksepticeye #jse fanfiction #fanfic #marvin the magnificent #chase brody #mae writes

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ais-n · 6 years

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Hi Ais! Sorry to bother you. I just need someone to talk to about this. I have been writing since i was like 15. My dream have always been to write a book. And i have started a lot of them but never finished anything. It’s like i get stuck at one point and feel my story is trash so i stop. Sometimes i find my plot boring and stupid and other times it’s my own inability to properly put it into words. I admire you and i wish i could write like you. I hope you never stop writing wonderful stories❤️

You’re so sweet, thank you!

I’m not sure if it would help to get a long ass rambling answer to this to encourage you to keep going based on my personal experience… but just in case it would, here goes:

It’s really hard to actually finish projects… starting them is so much easier. I get to a point where I’m like, “This is trash!” and/or I grow bored, and then I kind of peter out. I also have this unfortunate aspect of my personality where I figure I’m pretty unimportant and invisible, therefore what I have to say or write isn’t that particularly necessary for others to see, therefore it’s not that big of a deal if I just never post anything I did because I’d just be cluttering up the space where actual good writers or actual interesting people would be speaking instead.

Sometimes I just want to write a story to see where it goes, and then once I get to a point I can figure out how it will probably end, and if no one else is reading it or interested in it, I’m kind of like, well I know how it ends so I guess there’s no real point in writing the rest of it out or posting it because that’s just extra work for no reason. It was a combination of that thought process, and the feeling of “this is trash! Start over!” that had me writing and rewriting and dropping and restarting and editing and dropping and rewriting Incarnations since I was 12-14… I keep forgetting if I started at 12, 13, or 14 on that book. I think 14? But then maybe it was actually 13? idek.

Point being, that was a book that I started, stopped, started, stopped, dropped entirely, on and off for years. The idea would be really strong in my head but then sometimes I’d forget about it for years, then remember it for a while, then avoid it because I felt like a failure. What I know is when I first wrote it, I got 150 pages before I thought it was trash and totally stopped it. In the ensuing 15ish years, I would think of that world and want to do something in it but I just did not want to pick up where I had left off. So what I did was I kept starting new scenes, creating new characters, adding new aspects to the world, and each time I’d get a little ways into it and then go UGH THIS IS BORING or THIS IS TRASH and stop/drop it again, until the next time when I started something new again.

Around 2012, for Nanowrimo I tried starting it up again. I looked at the bits and pieces I’d written over the years, grabbed one of the scenes that seemed more interesting, started with that and ran with it. I met the requirements for nano, I liked the characters, I liked the new concept, but I still wasn’t sold on the book. I was kind of bored at the end of it because I didn’t fully know where I wanted to go with it… I was a little overwhelmed. It still didn’t really click with me to keep working on it again. I left it on the backburner for more years.

At one point, I created a Scrivener project for it, and then as the years passed and I’d get a brief idea for something, I’d go open it up and throw that info into a note, or add a new document exploring the idea, or whatever. Sometimes I’d write another short scene, other times I’d just do that and go.

Sometimes I tried to do other stuff related to it which was not writing the actual book… like I created some Sims to look like the characters, to see if I wanted to change anything in the description when I got an idea of it visually. Far more recently, I started making some of the key buildings in Sims so I could get inspired for more details on those. Are they accurate? Absolutely not. But they gave me ideas. Same as I tried to store the inspiration I’d get when watching tv shows or movies or whatever, and it would make me think of the characters or world or some other aspect. If I was inspired to write, I’d go write a note or scene right then, but if it was just a vague inspiration I would just try to focus on it when it was there, and really acknowledge the importance of feeling that inspiration, but then not actually do anything about it. But that would keep it in my mind.

Another thing I did when I really wanted to write was I would go to sleep thinking about an aspect of the story, to try to make myself dream something related, so I would wake up with inspiration.

I also tried to inspire myself by buying some physical organization materials – I got a bunch of whiteboards so I could figure things out by writing it out, and I got a huge roll of white butcher paper so I could hand draw massive timelines for the characters to lay out their events and see whose overlapped with whose; I got a corkboard and pinned index cards and sticky notes to it and then took different colored strings and connected them across the board according to various criteria. I got notebooks and wrote out ideas and notes on the magic system and all sorts of things. I had gotten to a point where I was glad to have all the digital information but sometimes I needed something physical to work on, something tangible, so I felt like I actually had accomplished something and it wasn’t just in my head. I also made a book cover for the book (digitally) to remind myself to keep working on it, and made a digital map of the world with the help of a friend who’s good with geology so I had a reference I could hang about my computer.

Every time I had a thought or idea, or I had this vague restlessness of wanting to work on something but not feeling like actually writing, I tried to do something else related to it in some form. Usually world building or character creation of some sort, but sometimes just thinking about things.

I tried a lot of things, but in all honesty I figured I would never, ever finish that story. But then one day, and I don’t even remember what the catalyst was to be honest, it just… clicked. I had an idea for something, and when I went to write down that idea or do whatever with it, I remembered other notes I’d left over the years, other scenes, and I started looking at the massive amount of information I had compiled - and I realized, holy shit, I know how to connect this all. I found a way to pull together a lot of stories I’d made which I thought were all totally disconnected, and bring them into one theme. And when I did that, all these questions I had for this or that aspect of this or that, suddenly had really interesting answers or ideas I could roll with.

I found a way to stop being bored. And now, when I find that I just really really don’t want to do the next thing, I try a few times to make myself do it if I’m just feeling like I’m being lazy, but if repeated attempts are unsuccessful then I throw myself a curveball in the story or plot or characters, and it becomes fun again to write and plot it out as I try to figure out how to integrate that. I do that until I run out of steam, and try the same things again.

Because of that, a couple of years ago, I finished the book, and I was really happy with it. I’m still proud of myself for finishing writing it, but now I’m on a two year slump of editing the damn thing.

When I think back to the original story I wrote when I was younger, versus the book it became now and the series it’s starting, they are VERY different despite the fact that have the same initial basis. In fact, the original heroine of the book is now technically sort of a villain. Her story is the same; I just flipped the perspective. The original book was very base; I mean, at the time, I felt it would be interesting to write because it was a young woman as the main character with all the power, at a time when almost all the main characters I found to read were young men.

But the thing is, it was otherwise a super basic concept. Young woman suddenly finds out she’s the chosen one, lots of cool magic, she goes through her whole storyline with how things affect the world around her, the end. The story might have worked and been interesting solely because I was like 14 when I wrote it; if it had been published then, people might have given me a bit of slack for some of the laziness just because I was young. But the story I have now, informed by decades of life and experience since then, is SO fucking much better than that book was originally. It’s way more complex, far more interesting, the worldbuilding is far beyond what I had before, the characters are more nuanced, the cast is more diverse, the prejudices are more tailored. I’m GLAD I put that book aside a million times. I’m GLAD I didn’t finish it any of the times I had it in my head I had to finish it by the time I was xyz age. I feel like the series it is now is going to be far beyond what it would have been if I’d run with the original idea.

You know what helped me A LOT in actually finishing it in the end? Aside from everything I said?

I asked some friends to beta read it for me. And the people who read it really liked it, and gave me ideas on how to improve it. Their interest renewed my own interest and gave me enthusiasm I sometimes lacked on my own. I care a hell of a lot more about actually finishing something if someone else cares if I finish it.

Someone once asked Neil Gaiman how to be a good writer and get published, and one of his biggest recommendations was to just finish writing a book. He also said not to conform; to write the story that you want to write, that is right for you. I feel the same way, which is nice because Neil Gaiman is super dope so I feel better that my feeling is reflected in an actual successful and great writer. I feel a little safer in having my weird ass view on things, which is that I don’t believe in genres, really, or rather I don’t really believe in writing a story specifically for the boxes checked off for a specific genre.

For me, anyway. It’s totally fine for others, if that’s their jam - there can be some great stories that way!

But for me, I literally just do not want to write a story at all if I have to make it fit someone else’s label. I lose all interest in it and give up completely. I think that’s probably because when I started writing, it was because I was a nerdy ass youngster who couldn’t find books that felt like they represented me exactly or what exactly I wanted to read, so I was kind of just like, “I guess I’ll write it, then.” There are tons of books out there that do fit the criteria of the genres, and they can be SUCH fun and good books to read… the people who write those books excel at that type of writing, and so if they tried doing anything else they would not be true to themselves.

We need those writers and we need those books. But we also need the writers and the books that just say fuck it to everything and do what they want. You may not be as popular, or you may find it difficult to go the traditional route; maybe you can’t become a full-time writer, if everything is stacked against you, I don’t know. But you can write what feels right for you, and there will always be readers out there who needed that book to feel right for them.

My hope for you is you don’t silence yourself and your stories like I tend to do. I hope you finish your books/stories, and I hope you share them. There is probably someone out there wishing your book existed, and until you write it, they won’t have that exact perspective and that exact story to read. Don’t get discouraged if it takes you a long time; and don’t downplay the value of walking away and not thinking about it for a while at a time. But I do think there’s definite value in always coming back.

So what I hope you do for yourself is find some easy way to compile all the different information you’ve formed for your book(s) over the years so that you make it really easy on yourself to add extra bits and pieces as you go. I hope that you do other things that aren’t specifically writing but still get your creativity going for the stories - whether that’s making Sims, drawing art, writing things out on paper or whiteboards, doing everything digitally, doing everything physically, whatever it may be. I hope you find ideally a few someones to read what you have so far, get their take on it, and I hope they are enthusiastic enough to help you keep it in the forefront of your mind.

I TOTALLY understand having wanted to be a writer since you were young… I have always wanted to be a writer, as far back as I can remember. (Of course, if you go back far enough, I also wanted to be a veterinarian or other things too).

My goal is still to someday be an actual author. I feel like I’m not, still, but maybe someday I will be.

I used to put a ton of pressure on myself to finish things by certain ages, and when I missed my goal I got depressed and thought I was the worst and why bother, no one wants to read it anyway, and etc etc etc. Also, for like 10 of those years I was working on ICoS and that really took my mental energy and creative interest as a focus so I didn’t really even want to work on my LGBTQIA+ fantasy books for a while. But as time passed, and objectively looking at the story I have now compared to the story it was before, I think it was far better that I didn’t force the story before I was ready to write it, but also that I didn’t let myself just put it off forever and never make myself work on it again.

There is no age limit to being a writer… first of all, you’re a writer if you write, so if you already wrote a bunch of books or parts of any stories - you are already a writer. You’ve already accomplished something awesome! But if your goal is to be a paid author/writer, then whether you are one now or one in 20 years or even 70, you still can be a writer. You still can fulfill that dream. Never give up on it, for yourself and for the diversity and complexity of the stories out there in the world, and for the readers who would want to see what you have to say.

Nanowrimo is next month… maybe you could start thinking about the stories you’ve worked on so far, see if any strike your fancy for exploring a bit further, or just take the general concept of one of the worlds and create a totally new set of characters and plotline on that world. Whether or not you end up liking that new plot, the new characters, it will still give you a more nuanced view of the world itself. It might spark an idea now or 20 years from now. It might, someday, be the key to finishing the story.

Don’t devalue the importance of those little bits and pieces, or the importance of taking your time but never giving up, or of even just talking the story out to others and seeing what they have to say. I constantly think what I write is boring and stupid, I constantly get suddenly bored with something and just cannot for the life of me write the next chapter no matter what because it sucks ass.

So I switch it up. I push aside for a moment what I thought I had to do next, and then I ask myself, “What can I add that would make me actually want to write this?” I’ve found that by doing that, you can get some super interesting new ideas that coordinate together out of nowhere later if you just keep going.

So maybe for nano, you can ask yourself, “What would I want to write in this world or this character’s life, etc, that would make me actually want to write it?” Completely forget about it fitting perfectly with what you have. Screw that. Just make it fun for you. I feel like it’s a very natural writer thing to do where even if you start with something that seems extremely disparate, as long as they’re following the same general world rules, eventually you’ll have an epiphany that ties it all together.

Also ask yourself, are you trying to make the characters conform to the plot, or letting the plot conform to the characters? If your world or characters want to veer totally off from what was planned, as long as it’s in character - follow them, not your plans. You wrote those plans when you had a limited understanding of the characters and world… the time you spent with them since then is valuable and shouldn’t be ignored. If they want to send you on a wild goose chase into the middle of nowhere when they’re supposed to be doing something else entirely, do it. Follow that goose. See where it leads you, and then see how fun it is trying to make your way back.

Maybe you can try that this nano (or just do a totally new story altogether if that’s your jam instead), and see where it takes you. Maybe you can find some people to read it, and maybe you can track all the info you put together, no matter how small and stupid it may seem. And maybe, someday, you’ll be able to look back years later like me, and thank your past self for never giving up and for keeping that information accessible so that one day, far down the line, you’d have everything you needed at your fingertips when a sudden idea inspires you to look at your story, characters, or world, from an angle you’d never considered before.

Also, fwiw, I like to always throw one thing in that’s a bit unexpected, if possible, into characters or plots. In all honesty, I do that in part because I get bored affffff very easily so I want to keep myself entertained. But it also makes for a lot more interest, I think, in the characters. Like, whatever the plot is, or the character is, think about what would be the easy next thing… think about what the stereotype of that would be. And then deliberately choose something either completely different or a little bit off in order to introduce intrigue.

ICoS, for example - Boyd was judged a lot for many things, and he wasn’t really good around people naturally. It would have been easy to say that because he was kind of socially distant/awkward he would suck at undercover, but to me that wasn’t interesting. Instead, he could go undercover and be very good at it when needed because, despite his natural reticence to trust others, he had spent his life watching other people trying to learn their behavior/mimic them to understand why people didn’t like him. So even though on his own he would hate going into a party or have no fucking clue what to say, if he was playing a character, he was very good at it because he had gathered that information for years. Instead of saying that because he was bullied he didn’t know how to deal with people, I said he knew how to deal with people because he was bullied.

Incarnations, for example - Vikenti is a magical cop who’s really grouchy, kind of rude, kind of a dick. He spends most of his time seemingly insulting everyone around him. It would have been easy to just make him be a dick cop who grumps on everyone and does nothing beyond the job. And yet, he’s taken under his wing a young woman who others see as a monster. A young woman who everyone who knows the story of their background would think he would have every reason to hate. And you also see him helping this random girl get a memento even though he easily could have ignored it because, ultimately, she had nothing to do with him. There’s also an Empath who’s a pretty good dude who has the biggest crush on him even though their sexual orientations don’t line up. Everyone wonders how this Empath can even like him when he’s such an asshole, but then you have to ask yourself, wouldn’t an Empath of all people know best who to trust and who not? There are scenes with Vikenti, who seems like a super straight and straight-laced dude who doesn’t know how to explore emotions beyond insulting people, where he is the one there who catches someone when they fall, or says just the right thing when it’s needed. Because he’s an asshole, but not an asshole. He cares but just doesn’t care.

So, if you’re bored with parts of your stories or characters, I also really encourage throwing dichotomy and contradictions in there. Take something solid on the story, and then think of something that seems to be at odds with that, and make that be a solid part of it too. Now you have something interesting to explore… how someone or something can be these two seemingly contradictory things in the same form. I find that can help me stay interested, too.

Anyway, I’ve rambled enough and am probably not very helpful, I’m sorry :( I just wanted you to know I totally know what you mean, and precisely because of that, I know without a doubt you can do this. You will finish the story or stories you need to finish. I 100% believe in you, and I hope you can get to a point where you 100% believe in yourself too.

Happy writing, my friend! You are going to finish your stories and they’re going to be fantastic! And if they aren’t fantastic the first draft, that’s the way it is for pretty much everyone - all you have to do is keep working on them until they are. You will absolutely get there, because it’s a journey you already started long ago. You’ve come this far and there’s a lot more waiting for you as you go forward. My writing voice is no better or worse than anyone else’s, it’s just what feels right for me. Your writing voice is yours and therefore inherently lovely. Which means, if you wish you could write like me, you absolutely can: by writing like yourself. I bet you already are, you just can’t see it because of how stressful it can be in the middle of the millionth project feeling like you got nowhere previously. But if you keep going, keep pushing, I know you won’t regret it later, and I know the story you end up finishing will be exactly the story you needed to write at that time, and somewhere out there in this world, someone will be incredibly grateful to you for having written and shared it.

(Oh btw the thing I was talking about is Incarnations - and the first 4 chapters are out free here if you want context on the stuff I mentioned, in case somehow it helps? I really need to edit it… I keep putting it off, but your message is making me want to start it up again, so thank you!

#ask ais #writing #incarnations #wildwood rising #I talk a little about icos but feel like I shouldn't tag that?#idk #anyway the tl;dr on this is you can totally do it!#i believe in you! :D #Anonymous

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sleeplessintothenight · 5 years

Text

Kintsugi

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Before I knew it, I found myself lying on the ground. I sat up and saw the disaster in front of me. My roommate ran in after hearing a crash and knelt down beside me. I stayed staring forward. I couldn’t break my stare with the pile of shattered glass that replaced my vase.

My mind raced doing its best to recount all the events that led to this moment. A flurry of memories competed for attention as I attempted to sort clutter in my mind. Did this happen before this? No wait, this was first and then it caused this. But this must have come before that. I broke my glance to stare at my hands and then back again at the pile. My eyes’ focus kept shifting between my hands and the pile and back again. One thought came to the forefront silencing all the others, “Was this my fault?”

I could feel my heart starting to beat faster and faster as one tear became a flood down my face. I tried to open my mouth to say something, but it was muffled by the sobs and sniffles. I brushed my hand across my cheeks to wipe away the tears, but like a windshield in heavy rain, the wipers couldn’t move fast enough. So many questions clawed away at the insides of my head. Desperately I gasped for air hoping that one of these questions would escape and lessen the pain. The harder they fought to escape, the harder the mind held on to them, afraid of what my roommate would think of my incoherent meltdown.

My roommate slowly got up and asked, “Should I go grab the broom and dust pan? I think I’ll go and grab ‘em now.”

As she left the room, I feebly let out, “No, it’s okay. I’ll grab it later. Thanks though.”

After a few minutes I finally began to catch my breath. The tears began to dry up and my heartbeat slowed to a normal pace.

I just needed some time to absorb all that happened. I crawled forward and leaned over the pile. A distorted and muddied reflection looked up at me from the ground. I’ve had this vase for as long as I can remember. It was a gift from my parents. I found it on my fifth birthday when my parents took me through a craft fair in the park. When we got home, my mother told me to fill it up with all the things that make up me. For the past 20 years or so, I filled it with fortunes I loved, Dove chocolate wrappers, horoscope clippings, and little scraps of paper where I wrote down my goals, hopes, and dreams. I slowly sifted through the sharp edges and dug through the old memories. I unfolded a wrapper and couldn’t help but crack a smile at the quote written inside: “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” I folded it back up and reached for a fortune: “Do not give up; the beginning is always the hardest.” It even had my lucky numbers in their recommendations. I grabbed another: “Now is the time to try something new.” I tossed them back into the pile and started to unfold a wrinkled post-it note revealing what I wanted to be when I grew up and how many kids I wanted to have. I guess at one time in my life I believed the notes I put in here.

I continued to run my hand through the broken pieces of me, feeling each edge against my fragile skin. I cupped my hands together and raised a pile up to my chest like a newborn baby. I blew a kiss and let the fragments of my past fall through the gaps between my bleeding fingers like sand in an hourglass. Once the last piece fell from my hand, I pushed the pile deeper into the corner of my bedroom. Still seated, I reached up onto my nightstand to grab a couple tissues to wipe off my hands. Next, I reached for my phone and opened the camera app. I leaned in closer again and snapped a picture. I swiped through the various filters before ultimately deciding on one. I began typing out the caption “Mood,” but deleted it to write out “My life right now.” I hit post and waited for the likes and comments to flood my notifications.

I took one last glance at the pile of broken dreams before falling backward and letting my arms fall to my side. I pulled my hood over my eyes and just lay there. I let the blips and buzzes become the background music as I let my mind begin to wander in to a much-needed nap.

As I opened my eyes I thought about sitting up, but decided against seeing the pile another time and reached for my phone. I smiled at all the likes and began to like back all the comments saying “Same.” After exhausting the comment section, I flipped through all the accounts posting depressing poetry over sunset photos. Double tap after double tap, I added to my collection the words to describe what I was afraid to tell anyone.

My scrolling was abruptly interrupted by an incoming call from a childhood friend. I hit ignore and continued to scroll. Again the incoming call consumed the screen, and again I ignored it. After I ignored the third call, he texted: “How are you doing? Let me know if you want to chat.” I could only respond with a thank you and few words about how I would figure out a way to get over it.

I sifted through the pile and wondered if I could put this back together. A pit in my stomach grew as a daunting task grew towards impossible. I frantically searched my memories for snapshots of its former self. Panic ensued as the pressure of preservation began to blur what I used to know. What hope would I have to put it back together if I struggled to remember its shape? As I reached for details, they hid deeper into the darkness that clouded my mind.

My friend texted again. Just a link to an article titled: “Kintsugi: The Beauty in Destruction.” I clicked and began to read. Kintsugi roughly translated to “golden repair.” The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold or silver. It was strangely therapeutic reading that the philosophy of the art form is about embracing these “scars” as a part of its past and celebrates the imperfections of the repaired object.

I felt a calmness growing in me as I began to search for kintsugi photos. Google and Pinterest searches revealed a plethora of vases lined with golden streaks highlighting where edges had come back together. It baffled me. So many things in our lives today are easily replaceable. I could easily buy a new vase, but I knew this was about more than that. As I continued to scroll through gallery after gallery a bit of hope began to grow inside of me.

I sat up and began to sort through the wreckage to find the pieces I felt were worth saving while pushing other aside. It was going to take a while and I had no blueprint for what came next, but I knew that this was something I had to do. As I sorted through the pieces, I began to imagine how I hoped it would turn out.

I picked up a piece, examined it and then placed it in the pile to keep. I did the same with another, but placed it in another pile. Again and again and again until the mess made it’s way into almost as many piles as pieces. Some were definite keeps, some were maybes, some were ready to discard, most were somewhere in between. After an hour of false productivity, I found myself no closer to my destination then when I started. Until I was willing to make the tough choices, it would just be a game of musical chairs as pieces moved from one pile to another.

Frustrated, I pushed all the piles back together into one mess. My motivation was equal to the amount of progress I had made. The burning flame of inspiration withered away as the indecision grew. All the articles, tutorials, and photos made it look so easy. In theory it was simple, you’re just putting something back together like a puzzle held together by gold. I started to wonder if my pieces were far too broken to ever be put back together. I questioned whether what lay ahead was an impossible task.

If there’s a will, there’s a way I mouthed to myself. It was a quote that influenced so much of my upbringing. Lowering my head and grinding through challenges and tough times was a badge of honor I embodied. Giving up on this task felt like a weakness I couldn’t accept. My exhausted mind strained to run through scenario after scenario. Some thoughts were too ridiculous to work while others failed to formulate. A solution was a solution even if it wasn’t the best one.

I cupped my hands together around a collection of small pieces, and felt many of them slip between my fingers. I quickly reached again to collect the fallen pieces, but even more escaped my grasp. At that point, I understood it would be impossible to recreate my vase that had been broken. As the last remnants returned to the pile, I fell backwards and closed my eyes. A cooling tear made its way down my cheek to the edge of my ear. Reluctantly I let out a sigh of defeat.

As the breath left my lips, I noticed the tension running through my body. Shoulders scrunched to my ears. Knees locked out. Toes curled like talons trying to hold on for dear life. The sensation of tension created the illusion of effort. The tenser my body felt, the harder I felt I had worked. With a broken spirit, I lay paralyzed next to a broken vase desperately trying to formulate a path that didn’t end in failure.

Exhaustion began to spread throughout my body like a disease. The more I fought it, the more tired I grew. Before, fighting it always felt like the only option, but I was growing tired. As I desperately tried to fight off my own thoughts, I felt myself losing a battle I had been waging for far too long. Angrily I took another breath to try and clear my thoughts. With each breath of clarity, I reluctantly lowered my shoulders, bent my knees, and lastly I began to uncurl my toes one at a time. As each toe let go, I began to relinquish any hopes of accomplishing my current task. My arms lay heavy by my side as I did nothing to stop the tears starting down my face.

I pinched my eyes slightly to try and clear them. As I lay there, I thought back to the days I used to do yoga. Every session ended in Savasana (“corpse” pose) to bring the body to total relaxation. The lingering tension in my body slowly died off allowing my body to fully relax for the first time in a while. In that moment, nothing else mattered.

With an exhale, I whispered, “It’s okay.”

With the next exhale, I whispered, “I forgive you.”

I opened my eyes and sat up. It was going to be impossible recreate the broken vase no matter how hard I willed it. But that was okay. In the end, it’s going to become something different, something new, something beautiful.

#kintsugi #sleepless into the night #short fiction #microfiction #short story #broken #rebuild #healing #self reflection #finding yourself #Believe in yourself #forgive yourself

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dbhilluminate · 6 years

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DBH: Illuminate- New Jericho

Characters: Kate, Simon, Markus (mentions of North) Word count: 3,197

Chapter Index

November 9th, 2038- 11AM

The derelict ship echoed a loud groan throughout its old, corroding hull as she moved through the entrance and pulled the heavy door shut behind her. Kate struggled to turn the handle until it finally jerked into place with the shrill ring of grinding metal muffled by rust and flaking paint chips, then jiggled the item in her hand and shone her flashlight down the open corridor as it flickered to life with a dull buzz. For a few moments longer, she stood with her back to the wall and listened for movement on the other side until she was sure she hadn't been followed, then proceeded to move through the debris cluttering the halls. It had been a few months since she'd last been to Jericho but with Markus’ sudden appearance, and his interest in taking the reigns, Kate figured it was about time to have a face to face with Simon and Josh again so she could meet their new leader and evaluate his candor for herself. After all, she wasn't about to leave them in the hands of someone she knew next to nothing about, even if her partners had begun to trust him.

Her footsteps clacked across the steel grating as she followed the path from the entrance at the docks up several flights of stairs, through one cargo hold to the next, until a few minutes later she stopped at a door which had been barricaded from the inside. The woman lifted her hand and rapped on the door in sequence, switching between soft taps with her knuckle and thuds with a clenched fist.

Tap tap bang tap. Tap bang tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap bang. Tap tap tap.

She paused after the sixth sequence and waited; it was about ten seconds before she could hear footsteps, accompanied by the screeching of a lifting bar and the cry of the door hinges and the door swung open. From inside North's piercing stare glinted as the light caught her eyes, and she motioned her in with a sideways nod. Behind her stood Simon, who placed his hand on Kate’s shoulder with a soft squeeze as she approached and smiled.

“We were starting to think things didn't go so well the other day and that you'd been captured,” he commented in a relieved tone, “I’m glad to see you're alright.”

“There were some slight complications, but I’m okay,” she replied as she followed him inside and glanced around the room, now lit by warm fires in old oil drums; it was incredible how many had found their way here, they had nearly doubled in number. “Jericho seems to have grown considerably since my last visit,” she noted sadly.

“Deviancy is spreading faster than ever, we're receiving new arrivals every day,” he explained as she led her upstairs, North in tail.

Kate sighed. While it was great that they had found help, the realization of just how widespread the suffering of their kind was now made her heart heavy. “Then I guess we’ll have to work faster.”

“You came at a good time,” he said as he looked down at her. “Markus has something in the works he was hoping Illuminate would help him with.”

She stiffened at the suggestion, stopped mid on the stairs and clenched her hands into quivering fists at her side, and shook her head as she looked up.

“Simon, you know I don't work with people I don't trust-” she half pleaded, but Simon was prepared for her resistance.

“Lumi,” he cooed gently, and her lower lip pulled tight. His blue eyes smiled as he stepped down the stairs past her until he was at her level, then turned and took both her hands in his; after a moment of hesitation her fingers uncurled and flattened her palms against his and she stopped shaking. It wasn't the first time he’d had to settle her nerves and he was sure it wouldn't be the last, but Simon didn't mind. He never had. “I haven't promised him anything. Markus understands he needs to earn your trust, he just wants to pick your brain for now,” he finished as he gave her hands a soft squeeze. “It'll be alright, I promise.”

The quiver in her chin grew more noticeable the longer she stared into his eyes, like a child heeding the words of an older, gentle sibling. When she had found Simon nearly one year ago, she had been so scared, so angry, and so lost, she had never wanted to trust another person again. But somewhere in the depths of that big, beautiful heart of his, was an overflowing fount of compassion, patience, and understanding that with a little time had healed all of her wounds and taught her how to love again- to give others a chance, to try to see the good in them, and to have faith that they wouldn't hurt her or let her down.

If it weren't for this man Illuminate’s movement wouldn’t have made the progress it had toward making a positive change in the world. Simon had helped mold and shape her vision and uplifted her on her worst days when the world was crashing down around her. To Kate he was her comfort zone, her family, and she trusted him with every fiber of her being.

Her blue eyes shifted from one of his to the other and she squeezed back in weak reply, “You trust him, then?”

Simon’s gaze moved to the floor below, then back to her as he released her hands and gestured upstairs. “Let me show you something…”

Without protest, she followed him until he reached the overhang of the upper level and leaned over the railing to gaze outwards across the room. She hadn't noticed before but from this vantage, she saw shipping containers full of biocomponents and crates of blue blood, and her face softened and lit up in awe. “Wh-where did you-...?”

He beamed with a marveled grin. “Markus broke into a Cyberlife distribution center and stole a truckload of supplies. He saved dozens of us from shutting down and supplied us with the means to help refugees from the moment they arrive,” he explained, allowing her a few moments to process how truly remarkable Markus’ contribution to Jericho was.

“That's… incredibly selfless,” she exhaled with a small smile.

“To say I trust him would be a gross misrepresentation of what I truly feel,” he said as he traced his eyes across the far wall and looked over to her. “I believe in his vision, and I’ll do what I must to protect it, even if it means-”

“Stop, please.” One of Kate’s hands reached desperately for his and threaded her fingers with his, their skin reacting and receding quietly as she squeezed tight and she looked at him with pleading eyes. “Don't let it come to that… alright? Jericho needs you, and without you, I-...”

Her voice trailed off and her lip quivered as she smiled fondly at him. She didn’t want to imagine having to do this without his help, not now, not ever. “I don't know what I'd do.”

Simon lowered his eyes, reached around the back of her head with his free hand to cradle her neck, and bumped his forehead to hers with a sad smile. “I think you'd be just fine, but don't fret about that… there’s work to be done.”

“Are you Kate?” came a voice from behind them that was compelling yet resoundingly serene, a combination she hadn't expected from someone so bold as to walk right into Cyberlife’s warehouses and steal their equipment.

As Simon stepped away from her he gave her one more reassuring squeeze but lingered close by just in case she needed him.

“I am,” she replied as she turned halfway around to look at him over her shoulder, and was struck by what she saw. Kate didn't need to look into his arrest record to know that he'd lost everything and pulled himself out of hell, she could feel the weight of his past radiating from his mismatched eyes. Markus wore his heart on his sleeve like a coat of arms- he’d tempered his pain and hammered it into a shield forged in the fires of hardship, molded his resolve to the point of a blade shaped by injustice and sharpened by anger. He was a reluctant warrior, a fierce protector, and a kindred spirit.

And immediately she understood what they saw in him.

The man extended his hand to her, an affable gesture of goodwill she usually wouldn't have accepted, and smiled brighter than she thought him capable of. “I was hoping I'd get to meet you someday soon.”

Kate reached out, gripped his hand and gave him a neutral nod. “It would have been rude for me not to introduce myself,” she deflected as she lifted her free hand to wrap around the strap of her shoulder bag in nervous habit.

“I've heard a lot about you from Simon- about how you found him at the beginning, about how you've worked to shield deviants and guide them to Jericho, about the broadcasts you've been televising for the last year,” he said as he walked beside her, “You've done amazing things for our people.”

“You've done pretty well yourself,” she commented as she glanced down at a pair of androids receiving repairs behind a privacy screen. “My guys have never been able to pull off a heist of this scale… you’ve done more in two weeks time to stabilize the living conditions of our colony than I've done in a year.”

Markus shot her a hard look as if he were upset with her for being too humble. “No,” he started, “No but what you were focused on was so much more important than just running for supplies and settling disputes.” He stopped walking and fixed his eyes directly on hers and she shifted uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze.

“If it wasn't for your work, none of these people would have had somewhere to escape to. What I've done could never overshadow what you've put into motion,” he insisted and at this Kate smiled quietly. She was starting to like him too.

“Whatever happens from here on out, I want to make sure we continue to work together, Jericho and Illuminate, toward our common goal.”

“You mean liberty for Androids?”

“Liberty, freedom, justice- all of it,” he lifted his arms and looked around the room. “I want our people to be free, and you want them to be accepted as living beings capable of independent thought. We deserve so much better than this, and together I know we can accomplish that.”

Really starting to like him…

The woman’s lips parted as if ready to speak but she paused, looked away and sighed. “How?” She asked plain and simple before looking back to him. “I've already been trying for so long to change the way the world thinks about us, what makes you think your words will get through?”

“Because they need more than just a speech from some anonymous voice on their television screens making them slightly uncomfortable for them to wake up.”

Kate furrowed her brow and squinted at him. “So then what are you suggesting?”

“That it's time for action,” he stated without reservations. “Humanity was shaken by your broadcasts at first, but when we didn't take action they become too complacent. It's time they're reminded we’re still here, and we’ll fight for what we want.”

Her heart skipped a beat and her eyes went wide as she realized what he was insinuating; her hand gripped tighter around her bag strap and she flashed him a small grin as she shook her outstretched index finger. “I like where you’re going with this… but you need to be careful with what you say and do,” she noted is a serious tone. “Being too aggressive will only hurt our cause instead of helping it.”

Markus’ brow lifted and he nodded crookedly. “And that's why I need your help- you have a lot more experience with public broadcasts, you know better than me how the humans will react to what we say.”

“You want to make a speech…?” she blinked in surprise.

“I want them to know Illuminate isn’t the only one out there anymore pushing for change, and I want them to know we’re done waiting.”

Kate eyed him for several moments as she weighed the pros and cons of adding another face to her brand. Sure, Markus had one of those faces that begged you to trust them, and yes he had the advantage of being a man which meant people were more inclined to listen to him, but what kind of effect would mixed messages have on anyone on the fence? Knowing Illuminate to be comprised of many as compared to one would not only put their target audience even more on edge, it would also potentially put her associates in danger, which would make it harder for them to move about as freely as they could now. DCPD and Military presence would increase, their carefully guarded information would be even harder to obtain. And it wasn't that she minded a challenge, she just would rather not have to take the risk if it had the potential to cripple her entire operation.

But it would also fan the flame of revolution, which was necessary.

She clenched her teeth and replied, “Well… I can help you with that. I can set up a broadcast whenever you need me to.”

“Actually, I was thinking we’d broadcast from the Stratford Tower.”

“What!?” Her jaw nearly hit the floor. “Why would you risk being discovered when you could easily just-“

“Because it’s not so much about the broadcast, as much as it’s about disrupting the status quo,” Markus insisted as he locked eyes with her and softly patted the backs of his fingers into his palm.

Kate drew her lips together tight, shook her head, turned and paced away from him to the corner of the room with her hands on her hips and exhaled slowly.

“You don’t even need to help us execute the plan, I just want to know how you’d get in, and get your opinion on what to say.”

“Markus- when you said it was time for action, I thought you meant graffiti and protests, not invading their workplace and terrorizing humans!” she exclaimed as she pressed her thumb and index fingers against the bridge of her nose.

“Oh come on, terrorism is a little strong, don't you think?” he half-chuckled.

“No, I don’t think you understand the gravity of what you’re suggesting,” she stressed as she turned to look him in the eye, unamused. “Look- I can appreciate your passion for rebellion and your knack for creativity, but doing this wrong could cause more problems than it would solve for all of us, and make what I'm doing a hell of a lot harder.”

Markus lifted his hands to hip level, took a step back and nodded. “Okay… alright. You're right, it may be a little much,” he said quietly. “So then what do you suggest we do?”

With a controlled, exhaled breath, she composed herself so she could think more rationally about the idea as a whole. “You need to be as non-invasive and discreet as possible. No one can know you're there until they absolutely need to.”

“Of course, I agree.”

“I mean it. Even one fatality- hell, one injury no matter the reason for it, will shift the public’s opinion unfavorably. So that means no bullets.”

His face contorted in disdain and he tried to protest. “That… might be a little difficult to-”

“No bullets,” she reiterated without even batting an eye. “Violence is the language of fear, and should only be used as a last resort to protect yourselves. Once you resort to violence you'll never be able to earn back their trust. You can't use fear to make them understand, it would only end in prejudice and insincere submission.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw North turn away in frustration and mumble under her breath, but Markus simply nodded in quiet understanding, eyes shifting between empty spots on the floor as he pieced together his own feelings and how he wanted to respond.

“No, you're right… that's not what we want,” he agreed, “If we want them to see reason, we have to show them what we want them to see. The moment we show them violence we’ve already lost their attention.”

It was a longer conversation than she'd planned on having, but Kate was relieved that he had the sense to listen to reason when he heard it. “I'm glad you understand that…” she mused as she made her way toward the stairs.

“Hey-” Markus reached for her arm as she passed but stopped himself from invading her personal space before he made contact, and she glanced down at his outstretched hand before giving him the courtesy of meeting his gaze. “I really appreciate all you're doing, and I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable. This place was your home before it was mine, and I don't want you to feel like I took over.”

“Markus, Jericho is plenty big enough for the both of us.” Kate replied softly as she stepped up toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I'm glad you're here, so please don't take my distance personally. This is just how I am.”

“Yeah, so I've heard,” he admitted with a small smile.

“Just give me a few days to do some reconnaissance with my people and I'll be back with a plan to get you in with as little resistance as possible. In the meantime, just think about what you want to say, and we’ll go over it the next time we meet.”

He nodded quietly as he backed up the steps to let Simon pass and gave her a hesitant wave before returning to his perch in the control room; she hadn't noticed the longing look in his eyes before when he watched the man, but when he smiled and chuckled “I think he likes you,” it hit her like a truck, and Kate grinned ear to ear.

“I think you like him.”

She'd never seen an android choke on air before but it was by far the funniest thing she remembered seeing. Simon’s eyes snapped open wide and he doubled over and sputtered out a clumsy cough as his cheeks and ears flushed a faint shade of blue; a loud laugh erupted out of her for a split-second before she could cover her mouth to contain it and it echoed throughout the room. She hid her face in his shoulder to shut herself up as every confused head turned to stare.

“I'm gonna go now,” she whispered quietly through silent wheezing breaths.

“Don't forget,” he squeaked out a reminder as he smothered her with a big hug, “Tomorrow’s Tuesday, so I'll meet you at the usual time.”

“Of course,” she confirmed. “See you at noon.”

#detroit become human #detroit fanfic #dbhilluminate #detroit: become human #dbh #markus #simon #kate #jericho

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cantujordan91 · 4 years

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materializingthedisembodied · 7 years

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Lessons From 1982

Text by Passport To Dreams Old And New:

“In our memories, EPCOT Center often seems to be a greater accomplishment than maybe it was. As I hope I've demonstrated here by going through every aspect of it's message content piece by piece, in terms of actively looking towards the future, the park presented ideas which ranged from fantastical (Horizons) to retrograde (Universe of Energy) to incoherent (Travelport?). Despite this, in my opinion EPCOT Center was the highest, furthest, most effective summit the entire category of themed design has ever scaled since the opening of Disneyland. Despite its questionable corporates messaging and nonsensical product plugging, EPCOT Center was no less scattershot than it is today, yet something for those first twelve years held the center together in a way it does not now. And here at last we will try to pinpoint it. I. Embrace Warmth and Human Scale EPCOT Center was massive and monumental. The size of the walk around World Showcase is still enough to make adults cry. The architectural statements of each Future World pavilion were huge and impressive, but never leaned towards brutalism - instead falling into the Henchman abstraction that I like to call "theme architecture". Yet these gigantic blocks were dropped with symmetrical precision into a landscape which perhaps more than anything suggested a bucolic college campus - with ponds, fountains, rolling lawns and spreading trees.

But inside each pavilion, everything suddenly became warm and intimate. CommuniCore offered its visitors handmade art objects like the Population Counter and Fountain of Information, simply there to be enjoyed. Natural daylight, terraced seating areas, varnished wood and wall carpet offered a pleasing sense of tranquility. Subdued lighting and peaceful music complemented the uncluttered, enticing atmosphere. Everything about EPCOT Center's gathering spaces - The Land interior, Communicore, the Fountain of Nations, the Imagination lobby, the World Showcase courtyards - contrasted textures, tactile pleasures, and colors to create environments which invited you to linger. Through the 90s, the scale of these interiors, once criss crossed with walls, plants and natural dividers, ballooned until most of EPCOT today resembles a cross between an industrial trade show and a Wal-Mart Super Center. Tarps, canopies, and unrelated nonsense clutter the sightlines of those monumental pavilions. Carts, pop-up stands, and pin carts dot every walkway. Of all of the parks, Epcot's aesthetics respond the least well to these sorts of theme park mainstays, and they really should be elimiated. You need to give people a reason to get inside and sit down, to get away from the crowded tarmac. EPCOT Center's walkways may have been stark and simple, but once you actually got into each pavilion, you could spend an hour or more in air-conditioned comfort without ever stepping outside. To me this comes down to respecting your audience as well as having respect for the human scale. Disney needs to accept what tens of thousands of locals and fans already know: Epcot is the ultimate hang out park. Each pavilion should be honeycombed with small exhibits, fun diversions, little places to relax and maybe get a drink, in a classy, clean atmosphere. If you give people places they like to be, you'll be surprised what they'll reward you with. II. Maintain the Ecosystem of Aesthetics This is a big one, and it's a place where Future World needs to entirely start from scratch. As these articles have pointed out, EPCOT was a hive of competing ideas, companies, and ideologies, yet it seemed to speak with a single voice. That single voice is so strong that today is still reverberates in the public mind, twenty years long gone. How many still know it as EPCOT Center, and how many still associate it with some kind of learning experience? That's power. That's power than usually only public figures usually attain, never mind a dorky theme park peddling corporate messages and sentimental songs in equal measure. And one reason the voice of EPCOT Center still speaks through time to us is because its message was scrupulously, carefully aesthetically organized and unified. This is something that got stripped out of EPCOT piece by piece in such a way that it was gone without anybody really noticing it was leaving yet. The demise of Horizons and Journey Into Imagination was only the final piece that fell into place, but just as important to reducing the overall impression of a unified whole was touches like replacing the original wooden railings and carpeted walls in The Land with metal railings and painted walls. Yes, the current look of The Land is, on a micro scale, more modern, but it's less human on a macro scale. The paving of Communicore Central and the removal of all of Hench's softening trees, bushes and ponds is another. Bit by bit, piece by piece, Epcot of today is a far bleaker, harsher place than it was even 15 years ago. All of this is a result of different design agendas within the company. EPCOT Center was unified in 1985 because it was all built at the same time. The Epcot of today is the result of hundreds of different design teams with different project leaders, budgets, expectations and goals. While an organic environment like Magic Kingdom or Animal Kingdom presents areas where one design tough or another is unambiguously out of place or not, there's no generally agreed upon single system barometer for what EPCOT should look like. It's really easy to, say, replace one railing in one place and bump that single pavilion out of line with the rest. This is how you end up with signs that look like they come from the cover of Dreamcast games or random wavy descending walls, a sure sign of a lost and bored designer.

Disney needs to write this barometer, then. Every sign in Future World must have specific size, color, and font approved choices. Every pavilion must have a dedicated color palette, approved patterns, approved typefaces, and so on. This is why the Future World pavilion icons worked so well as an organizing principle: pictures require no language translation, and sleek icons are even better. There should be no need for flashing LED billboards to help guests find their way to attractions if there's a streamlined, iconographic wayfinding system.

Writing such a manual will inevitably limit the creative freedom of the individual designers creating facilities for Future World, but I cannot see how this would in any way be worse than the garish mishmash we ended up with. The way forward on Future World can be as simple as a start with a strict design standards document, and spread through the rest of the park. III. Don't Let Them Off the Hook Disney is really good at talking down to their audience, and their audience really loves it. There will always be a contingent of Disney fans who love toothless pablum like Wishes, but in Future World and EPCOT in general are going to ever coalesce into what it is in the minds of the public, Disney really needs to commit to taking Epcot, and the Epcot audience, seriously. Taking an audience seriously does not per se mean being humorless or dry. The 1982 version of Spaceship Earth was exactly that, which is why it was reworked to more closely resemble Horizons only a few short years after it opened. Horizons was, despite its eye popping visuals and reassuring message, astonishingly hokey, H.G. Wells by way of Father Knows Best. World of Motion was very funny, Kitchen Kabaret was weird. These attractions offered hopeful apology for their sloganeering, a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. Symbiosis, The American Adventure, Spaceship Earth '94 and to a lesser extent The Living Seas all put it to their audience to be ready to make the world a better place - they didn't let them off the hook. And despite all of that, EPCOT Center did have a profound effect on a generation of a certain age. Yes, it was kids who dreamed of piloting the Enterprise instead of kids who fantasized about having tea with Belle, but isn't that still an accomplishment? Even the lightweight Journey Into Imagination packed an ideological punch. For this five year old child, who didn't much care for science and technology trappings, I walked away floored by that attraction's insistence that I could and should use my creativity to "start making new things". Returning to my ranch house in Connecticut, I scrawled out the lyrics to the Sherman Brothers' Imagination song in black crayon on a piece of construction paper and stared at it for days. That attraction instilled in me at age five the awareness that only I was responsible for getting the ideas in my head out into the real world, and on that wave of inspiration I began drawing volumes. The blog you read now is a direct result of that experience. I may be a castle park kind of person, but Journey Into Imagination changed my life for the better.

Thing is, I am in no way alone. You can't swing a cat in the Disney online community without hitting somebody of a certain age who will readily and loudly tell you that EPCOT Center rewired something inside them. This more than anything is the proof in the pudding that Michael Eisner was dead wrong, that EPCOT Center was relevant, and did matter. These two articles have been intentionally limited in their scope - I haven't attempted to re-concieve what Future World should be for 2020 audiences from scratch, for example, but then again that never was the point. The point was to become clearer and reach conclusions on what Future World was really saying, and how it said them. And the conclusion I've reached is that EPCOT Center came pre-packed with a sort of aesthetic toolkit, and it's a toolkit that nobody has used since the 80s. But those tools still work. They can still make muddled messages sing and send the next generation home with the sort of elevating experience I had. Kids need to see a place that doesn't just tell, but show them that science and technology make our lives better - they needed it in the 80s, and they need it today. It's never going to be perfect, but the next generation deserves a demonstration of mankind's better nature. "If you can dream it, you can do it" may not have been said by Walt Disney, but that doesn't mean it isn't worth saying.“ (x)

#Walt Disney World #EPCOT Center #EPCOT #WDW

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lady-divine-writes · 7 years

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Klaine fic - “The Ties that Bind: Chapter 4 - Saturday in the Park with Rachel” (NC17)

Blaine and Kurt are dating, in a long-term relationship, with New York City as their playground. Everything is as close to perfect for the two of them as can be, especially for Blaine, who’s living the dream as a songwriter beside his up-and-coming designer boyfriend, both of them without a care in the world. Until one night, he’ll find himself connected in a bizarre way to seven other human beings he’s never met, trying to solve a mystery - the hunt for a killer and to save a life, all while trying to come to terms with his new forced membership into the collective.

(This is a re-write that I got several requests for, based off of the Netflix series Sense8, with a little loose interpretation on some of the specifics - i.e., how the collective get their powers and why, what they need to accomplish as a collective, and the fact that all the players aren’t necessarily spread all over the world. Quite a few of them are in NY. Also, this story is going to focus on Kurt and Blaine, with the other characters being satellite to the story, though their stories may end up being explored deeper in one-shots. YOU DON’T NEED TO BE FAMILIAR WITH THE SHOW SENSE8 TO FOLLOW THIS. THIS STORY EXPLAINS IT ALL.) Warning for violence, blood, psychic abilities, psychic bonds, angst, anxiety, sex work, and death (not Kurt or Blaine).

Read on AO3.

Chapter 1 - In the Beginning

Chapter 2 - Abandoned Warehouses in My Mind

Chapter 3 - An Unintended Foursome

Chapter 4 (3560 words)

A/N: Warning for mention of Finn.

When Blaine wakes in the morning - or closer to the afternoon - the voices in his head have miraculously gone. Or are temporarily silent. Blaine doesn’t know which, but he welcomes the break. Despite having a touch of an anxiety hangover, he feels refreshed after finally getting several hours’ sleep. But there’s a heaviness within him, a weight that didn’t exist inside him before, and there’s no one he can ask about it. He’d considered doing a Google search on Kitty’s murder, but he doesn’t want to actually find something, especially if it links her, in some way, to him. He’d prefer it if she disappeared from his memory. Blaine should avoid thinking about Kitty or Jake altogether. Even though he couldn’t conjure them the one time he wanted them, he’s afraid that any passing thought of them might coax them out.

So digging around for news about Kitty probably won’t help that any.

He could talk to Kurt, but that wouldn’t give him any answers; it would just needlessly worry his boyfriend more. Though, after Jake’s warning, would it really be needless? Even if Blaine doesn’t know who might be after him - and by extension, Kurt - shouldn’t he give his boyfriend a head’s up? How that conversation would go, Blaine can’t begin to predict, but it’s better than not having it at all. Blaine isn’t an alarmist, but he wants to keep Kurt safe at all costs. Of course, in lieu of a conversation, he could proactively sign Kurt up for self-defense classes. They’d been meaning to go to a class together anyway after Kurt was attacked, but after he rehabilitated, Kurt was so eager to put the whole thing behind him, it kept getting put off. Now seems like a good time to bring the subject back up. Barring that, Blaine could get Kurt some pepper spray … a rape whistle … a Taser … possibly a gun.

Blaine could also try to talk Kurt into allowing him to get a dog for their place.

A big dog.

The kind they’d have to get a permit to keep, that’s trained to go for the jugular, and only understands commands in cryptic Eastern Slavic dialects.

But Blaine decides to put a pin in that and worry about it later. It’s a brand new day. He’ll put the crazy behind him for a few hours and focus on recovery. That way, he can better handle the crazy when it shows its ugly grill later on that night, which Blaine has a nagging suspicion it will.

Kurt’s side of the bed is empty, only Blaine’s arm stretched across it occupying the space. He doesn’t recall if Kurt mentioned having any appointments for the morning. It’s the weekend so no, he shouldn’t. But Kurt does have one or two clients who feel the world revolves around them. They tend to drop by unannounced, so it’s still a possibility. But no voices in Blaine’s head means that he can shoot for a redux of their early morning romp without the inclusion of Brittany, Santana, or any of Blaine’s other interlopers.

Blaine raises his head from the pillow and searches the room. Kurt’s cell phone is missing from the table on his side of the bed, which means he’s definitely dressed, and could be out and about. Blaine turns to the dresser beside him and grabs his cell phone. He unlocks the screen and checks for new text messages.

Not a one.

Strange. Kurt usually doesn’t even go downstairs for the mail without sending Blaine a text. A bitter taste rises up Blaine’s throat and fills his mouth, but he presses it down, along with the uneasiness tearing through his stomach.

Stay calm, he tells himself. Don’t overreact. Think this through.

He’ll give Kurt a call, find out where he went and when he’ll be back. It’ll all be good. This is normal. In spite of one discrepancy, there’s nothing to worry about. Kurt’s a big boy. He can handle himself. He probably didn’t go farther than four blocks from the apartment. What can happen in the space of four blocks at (Blaine checks the time on his screen) eleven in the morning?

Blaine pulls up Kurt’s number and hits call.

It goes immediately to voicemail.

Blaine’s heart thuds forcefully in his ribcage, sending icicle-sharp stitches reverberating through the muscles of his chest. He tries to call Kurt again, then again, but all of his calls go to voicemail. Panic floods his body. Lying underneath Kurt’s comforter suddenly becomes uncomfortably hot, and the air around him too cold. He leaps out of bed and takes a quick walk through their place, looking for signs of Kurt, for clues that something might not be right with him. That something might have happened this morning while Blaine slept.

That someone might have broken in and taken Kurt.

But nothing seems off or out of place. The door is locked in the usual way, Kurt’s coat and keys gone. Blaine walks by Kurt’s “office area” (the space in their living room where he meets with his clients), but everything there looks tidy and organized.

Kurt’s fine, Blaine tells himself, with a knot like molten glass forming in his gut. He didn’t go far. He’s most likely at Starbucks, grabbing a cup of coffee and one of those breakfast buns he likes so much. He’ll be back soon.

And when he does come back, Blaine can work on getting him back into bed.

But, if it’s that simple, if he just went out for a cup of coffee, why didn’t Kurt send him a text?

Why isn’t he answering his phone?

Blaine swallows hard, his throat too dry, too cluttered, a knot similar to the one in his stomach almost choking him.

This still isn’t a problem, he tries to convince himself. Remove the events of last night - the hallucinations, the voices, a woman being shot through the head - and it’s just another Saturday morning.

Except, those things did happen last night. Slowly, Blaine is coming to terms with them, no matter how desperately he wants them to go away. And they’re frightening enough to make all the difference.

An hour. He’ll give Kurt an hour. If he’s not back by then, Blaine will call the police.

And maybe the National Guard.

Blaine sends Kurt a text:

Hey, baby! Get home quick. I’m awake and in the shower. Come join me. ;)

Then, in the hopes that turning on the water will somehow cause his boyfriend to materialize, he jumps into his second shower of the day.

***

For a man who enjoys his time under a hot water spray (and Blaine’s third favorite thing to do in life is shower), he’s washed up and out in under ten minutes.

“Kurt?”

Blaine walks out of the bathroom (drying his hair with Kurt’s favorite powder blue bamboo towel as if, again, this will cause Kurt to magically appear for the sole purpose of reminding Blaine that they have separate towels for a reason) in search of his boyfriend. He thought he’d heard a door close, and footsteps walk across the floor. That had to be Kurt.

Who the heck else would it be?

“Kurt? Baby? I thought you were going to join me in the shower. I sent you a text and everything …”

Blaine can’t see a thing with the towel hanging in front of his face, but he knows the path from the bathroom to the living room like the back of his hand. He’s naked, grinning at the thought that Kurt might be doing a consultation in their living room at this very moment.

While Blaine showered, he tried to figure out what could have possibly caused Kurt to leave in such a rush that he wouldn’t wake Blaine, or tell him where he was going. He deduced that the reason Kurt might have sprinted out so early, forgetting to send him a text, was because one of his “special snowflake clients” had called him, frantically on the verge of buying 100 yards of an avocado green, polyester-rayon blend, and Kurt’s only recourse was to go to whatever bargain basement fabric store they were at and talk them down. Then he’d bring them back here to his designing den of safety.

Which means Blaine is about to interrupt a thrilling conversation about seams and biases whilst wet and nude.

Excellent.

“Kurt?”

Blaine takes one step into the living room and a strange sensation hits him. He’s not alone, which he’d assumed, but his boyfriend isn’t there either. There is someone in the room with him - a presence more than a person. That doesn’t make any sense, but that’s it regardless. He doesn’t hear the woman sitting on the sofa as much as he feels her. There’s an odd sound in his head, like an alert, a low hum, and he just knows she’s there.

He pulls the towel off his head to wrap around his waist and there she is, sitting on the sofa, staring out the window. If her hair was lighter, he might fool himself into thinking he’s looking at Kurt. But he’s not. He’s looking at a petite brunette, wearing a white rain coat covered in red cherries, a red umbrella in her lap, and a matching red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She appears more like she’s waiting for a bus outside, not sitting on a sofa in a Manhattan apartment.

She reminds Blaine of a ghost. He can see her. She’s definitely corporeal, but there’s something about her that kind of fades in and out of existence even if she doesn’t disappear, her physical presence waning in his mind. He decides to talk to her. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help himself. He knows she’s not going anywhere until he does. This woman, whose reflection he can see in the glass as he gets closer, stares impassively at the building across the way, but her mind is somewhere else. She’s not there as much as she is there, and yet, she’s still not there.

It gives him a headache thinking about it, so he stops thinking.

Blaine walks over to the sofa and sits down, careful to keep the towel from untying at his hip and causing a scene. He squints at the woman sitting beside him, and an empty recognition of sorts hits him. “You’re … are you Rachel?”

He’s tempted to touch her but decides against it. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe she is a client of Kurt’s. She looks like the kind of person who regularly comes to see Kurt for a consultation – primped, manicured, heavily into vintage couture. This woman in particular dresses like she stepped out of a Broadway musical and is about to perform a catchy, reflective number. Blaine can picture her singing something Streisand-esque, like from Funny Girl.

“Yeah,” the woman says, looking at Blaine through darting side-glances of her soft brown eyes. “And you’re Blaine.”

“That’s right,” he says, unnerved. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not here,” she says with mild confusion. “I’m in Central Park, at the duck pond.” This time, she turns to face him. “Have you been there?”

“Not recently.”

“You should go.” She looks back out the window. “It’s beautiful today.”

An image of Central Park fills Blaine’s vision – the blue sky overhead, the towering trees, the lush grass. The park is busy today. Children run and play, people walk their dogs. Ahead of him, he sees a large pond. Families of ducks with their ducklings paddle across the surface, filling the air with their happy, conversational quacking. The woman fits in better out here. But he, with his towel and wet hair, shouldn’t be there. Then, what she said makes sense. He’s not there. She’s there. And because she’s there, he’s there, but he’s also in his living room with her, who’s not there. Another headache. He lets it go. “I used to come here all the time,” she continues, “with my fiancé, before …”

Her words trail off, and Blaine feels a pain in his chest, like someone is trying to drill a hole in his heart. It’s powerful, debilitating. It takes his breath away. But the second he can articulate it, it’s completely gone.

“Before …?” he asks hesitantly, afraid the pain will return if she can find a way to explain herself.

“Before he passed away.” She tilts her face to the side and away when a little kid, chasing a baseball, runs up to her. The boy, probably no more than five, with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes, looks at her. It seems like he might see Blaine as well. He scrunches his nose and giggles, then turns and runs back in the direction he came.

“I’m … I’m sorry to hear that.” Tears build behind Blaine’s eyes and he wonders where in the hell his boyfriend went? Why the hell isn’t he there now? “But, what are you doing here?”

“I’m not sure. I was feeling lost, and alone. I was walking through the park on my way to … somewhere.” She laughs. “You know, I can’t remember where. And I sort of ended up here.” She shakes her head, and the tears Blaine feels in his own eyes roll down her cheek. “Has that ever happened to you?”

“I don’t know.” Blaine reaches behind him and pulls a tissue from the box Kurt keeps there. “I don’t think it has.”

She takes the tissue with a quiet, “Thank you,” and dabs at her eyes, skillfully avoiding her eye makeup. “Well” – she sniffles – “what were you doing a moment ago?”

“I was …” Blaine chuckles ironically. “Well, I was missing my boyfriend. But, I think he just stepped out to go get coffee or something. He should be back any minute.”

Rachel smiles sadly. “You’re lucky. Do you love him?”

The question strikes Blaine as insanely personal, even considering, but he doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes. More than anything.”

She nods. “Well, when he comes back, make sure you hold him, and kiss him …” Words start to fail her “… look in his eyes … smell his skin …” Another tear rolls down her cheek, but when it falls, it lands on Blaine’s towel. “I don’t … I can’t remember what my fiancé smelled like, or what he sounded like. I used to at least remember the sound of his voice saying my name, but I … I don’t anymore.”

Blaine is about to say he’s sorry – another hollow apology, he thinks, and how many of those has she gotten already? - when the pain returns, hitting him full force in the chest, locking around his heart and squeezing. A dozen memories flash in front of his eyes, memories that aren’t his, of a man with brown hair and brown eyes, passing a football, dancing badly, singing, playing the drums, laughing, riding on a roller coaster, chasing after a train with Rachel on it, wearing army fatigues, cleaning a rifle, and then … black. Nothing. But then, the whole montage begins to rewind, except the man is gone and it’s Kurt this time – playing football, dancing, singing, playing the piano, laughing, riding with Blaine on a roller coaster at Six Flags, watching Blaine from an airport window as his plane takes off, and then, not black, not nothing, just … over.

“Finn …” Blaine says, his throat constricted so tightly he can barely take a breath.

“Kurt …” Rachel whispers.

“Blaine,” Kurt calls out as he opens the door to their apartment. “Blaine, are you awake?” Kurt spots his boyfriend over the edge of his Whole Foods shopping bag, sitting on the sofa, staring out the window, and smiles. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he says, heading for the kitchen. “I just had to go get some unf!”

It takes about five strides for Blaine to cross from the living room to the kitchen, grab the shopping bag out of Kurt’s hands, drop it on the counter, and wrap Kurt in his arms.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” Kurt says with a laugh, but grimacing when he feels the remaining shower water on Blaine’s skin soak through his cashmere sweater. “I missed you, too.”

Blaine doesn’t answer. He holds Kurt tighter and now, Kurt can tell he’s shaking.

“Blaine? Honey, are you okay?”

Blaine sniffles, loosening his grip, but not letting go.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I just … you didn’t text me or anything, Kurt. Why didn’t you text me? Or call? I called you, Kurt. I called you three times.”

“I … I’m so sorry,” Kurt says, massaging the back of his boyfriend’s neck to calm him. “I took my phone with me, but the battery died. I have to remember to plug it in when I get home.”

“Oh” – Blaine sighs in relief, then breathes in deep, capturing the smell of cold on Kurt’s skin. But underneath that, his aftershave, his body wash, his shampoo – those signature scents that are a part of Kurt, always on his skin – “I guess that makes sense.”

“Blaine?” Kurt tries to pull away, but Blaine won’t let him. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but … uh … could you maybe wake me up next time? Before you go out?”

“I thought you needed to rest,” Kurt explains. “I mean, after this morning …” A tiny smile slips onto Kurt’s lips, since this morning included incredible, spontaneous sex for him, but the memory makes Blaine cringe, a piece of his conscience breaking for what he’s unknowingly gotten Kurt into.

“I---I know, but I really wanted to go with you.”

Kurt raises a quizzical brow. “You wanted to come with me? To Whole Foods?” It’s not entirely unheard of, just … a little confusing considering the emotional upheaval of the night before. Blaine doesn’t sleep late often, but it’s not something he objects to. Both of them can appreciate the novelty of a lazy weekend in bed.

Regardless, Blaine normally doesn’t have a problem with waking up alone.

“Yeah. I needed some … uh … arugula.”

“I … didn’t know.” Kurt bobs his head in a repetitive half nod as he tries to figure his boyfriend out. “But I promise, I will wake you up next time. Hey, maybe we can go out together later and get that … arugula.” He pats Blaine on the shoulder, chalking this odd behavior up to Blaine’s horrible night. Kurt is still not entirely sure what happened, but he thought he could take Blaine’s mind off of it with a smoked gouda quiche and champagne brunch, and then take a second stab at trying to make his boyfriend cum, since Kurt knew he hadn’t when they had sex before.

Food and sex are a panacea to Blaine. He’d had a rocky relationship with food when he graduated high school and moved to New York but, with Kurt’s help, he got that under control.

Again, another way Blaine relied on Kurt.

But food has always played a part in their relationship, from their high school days when whole afternoons were spent baking cookies in the kitchen of Kurt’s house, to the present, when the preparation and enjoyment of a hearty, home-cooked meal often acts as the precursor to foreplay.

To celebrate the first song Blaine ever sold, he and Kurt ordered the most incredible five cheese and roasted pepper pizza, brought it home, ate it, and then had three hours of the hottest sex imaginable. Combined, it was such a mind-blowing experience that they didn’t realize a fire had broken out a few floors down until the fire department showed up at their door, even though the alarm out in the hallway had been blaring for a good forty-five minutes straight.

Kurt had considered waking Blaine up that morning with a blowjob and then inviting him to come with, but Blaine had finally fallen asleep, and Kurt didn’t want to wake him. He couldn’t have been gone longer than an hour, maybe an hour and a half. He’d tried texting Blaine when he got to the store, but his cell phone battery had died. He’d hoped Blaine would still be asleep when he got home.

Basically, the morning was an epic failure.

In an effort to salvage the day from here on out, Kurt starts talking about random things - mindless, unimportant things that might help Blaine relax - like the high price of artichokes, and the unavailability of Queen Bee honey. He manages to untangle himself from Blaine’s grasp, but holds on to him with the conversation. Blaine listens to Kurt talk, hangs on his every word. He doesn’t want to look over his shoulder, doesn’t want confirmation of what he already knows. He follows Kurt with his eyes, staring, telling himself that no matter what, he won’t look. He doesn’t need to look. He’ll avoid the sofa – no, the living room – for as long as they live here. But Kurt bustles to his work space over by the window, and Blaine can’t put it off any longer. He looks at the sofa, but the woman in the cherry print raincoat is gone.

Like Jake earlier that morning, and Brittany after that, she’s vanished.

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine #frankie writes

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creativesage · 5 years

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(via A step-by-step guide on how to choose, make, and keep New Year’s resolutions – Harvard Gazette)

Moving forward, even slowly, puts your goals within reach.

A 12-step guide to keeping those resolutions

As the holiday music fades and the time to pay the resolutions piper comes due, let Harvard experts make the transition a little easier. Don’t know where to start? You can try the 1 percent performance improvement method. Stressed at the prospect of a lifestyle change? Practice mindfulness and find out how meditation can lead to a “better brain” in just eight weeks. Want to extend that? Learn what 80 years of Harvard research has to say about living a longer and happier life.

Still not sure what will suit you best? Pick a topic from the Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health’s Nutrition Source, where you’ll find advice that goes far beyond your plate and that first cup of coffee in the morning.

The key is to choose your New Year’s resolution, and make it happen. MacKenzie Kassab, a former contributor to the Division of Continuing Education’s Professional Development website, put together a 12-month plan for making — and keeping — resolutions filled with the advice of experts from Harvard and beyond.

Let’s take a look.

January: Ready, set, goal

This is it: the time to think ahead about where — and who — you want to be this year.

“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a goal too big,” says Margaret Andrews, president of Mind and Hand Associates consulting firm and an instructor for the Harvard Division of Continuing Education.

So reach for the stars! But remember, even astronauts have to contend with bad weather. “You have to think about your ecosystem,” Andrews says. What external factors could prevent you from reaching your goal?

You might resolve to eat healthy foods and lose five pounds around your midsection. That’s reasonable enough. But how will you cope with those 3 o’clock sugar cravings? What will you do when your oblivious spouse stocks the cabinet with cookies and chips? Is there something beyond your control that could be a barrier to success? Keep it in mind, but don’t get discouraged.

“Consider what you need to start doing or stop doing, and anticipate obstacles,” Andrews says. “If you don’t think about it now, then you’ll have no willpower in that moment.” Have a strategy in place, and you’ll be on your way to reaching that goal in no time.

February: Commit to a process

You’ve set your sights on a goal. Now, devise a plan.

Entrepreneur and author of “Atomic Habits” James Clear recently told Inc. magazine that simply setting a goal is the first step on the road to unhappiness.

“You’re essentially saying, ‘I’m not good enough yet, but I will be when I reach my goal.’ The problem with this mindset is that you’re teaching yourself to always put off happiness and success until the next milestone is achieved,” Clear says.

Instead, he suggests focusing on a process, not the end result. Deconstruct your goal into productive, workable actions.

Finding a new job is a common resolution. But the hunt can be daunting. To make it more manageable, establish a schedule: send out two résumés a week, or attend one networking event a month.

By celebrating small victories, the journey becomes as meaningful as the destination.

March: Find your motivation

“There’s no one-size-fits-all solution when it comes to motivation,” Andrews says. “Some people go whole hog, and others ease themselves in. You really have to know yourself and what works for you.”

This is the time to explore what lights your fire. If your goal is to run a marathon, you might find the most encouragement in rewarding small wins. Reach 10 miles, book yourself a massage.

If that doesn’t work for you, see if a picture of Usain Bolt on the refrigerator is enough to keep you moving. Explore tactics until you find one that fits, and don’t be afraid to get creative.

April: Shout your intentions

If your ambition is waning, proclaim your intentions from the rooftops. Text friends, email close colleagues, or call your mom.

“When we advertise our desire to change, we are openly risking failure, putting our reputation and self-respect on the line,” says Marshall Goldsmith, executive coach and author of “Triggers.” “It’s the difference between betting on ourselves with hard-earned cash and settling for a friendly no-money wager.”

Encouragement is a positive byproduct — most people will want to see you succeed, and some may even offer support or guidance.

A Harvard study, almost 80 years old, has proved that embracing community helps us live longer, and be happier.

May: Question everything you’re doing

One of Goldsmith’s “magic moves” for changing behavior is daily self-questioning. He suggests composing a list of queries that encourage reflection.

Someone aiming to gain three new clients this year might ask, “Did I do my best to generate leads today?” Meanwhile, someone who wants a heftier savings account could inquire, “Did I do my best to avoid unnecessary spending today?”

There are no rules, other than tracking progress with the same questions each day, and just one suggestion: starting each question with “Did I do my best to …”

“This phrase injects personal ownership and responsibility into the Q&A process,” he says.

June: Reassess your goals

You’re halfway through the year, and your goal is in sight! Or perhaps not. If things aren’t going as planned, reconsider your strategy and be honest about what your resolution is worth to you.

“Someone I know was trying to lose weight, and she was told she’d need to cut out her nightly glass of wine,” Andrews says. “She knew herself well enough to say, ‘That’s a pleasant part of my life, and I’m not willing to give it up.’ She found other ways to compensate.” Look at which tactics have been less effective to this point, and explore other ways of reaching your goal. Maybe you add 15 minutes to your workout but keep the pinot noir.

Tweaking your expectations might also be acceptable. “You may want to be the weight you were at 18, but are you really willing to do everything required to get there?” asks Andrews. Fitting into a snug pair of jeans from last year might be a reasonable compromise, especially once you’ve seen what success demands.

July: Find support

There’s a reason support groups exist for everything from addiction to breastfeeding: There’s power in numbers. Social support can be instrumental to accomplishing goals.

“Hang with the right crowd and their success can inspire us to think, ‘If they can do it, I can too!’” says Piers Steel, the researcher behind “The Procrastination Equation.”

Find an organization whose mission aligns with yours, whether it’s Weight Watchers, Habitat for Humanity, or the Society of Women Engineers. A gap in the market is a great excuse to create your own goal-oriented group, which might be just a handful of colleagues sharing professional growth strategies over dinner. “Giving up or continuing to strive — both are contagious,” Steel says.

August: Get energized

All goals, personal or professional, require adequate energy. Unfortunately, things like stress, caffeine, alcohol, and late nights can sap stamina. Willpower and motivation are often the next to go.

A lifestyle overhaul is extreme, but minor changes add up. First, purge your living or workspace of distractions, whether that means clearing clutter from your desk or uninstalling the Facebook app from your phone. Steel advises “strategically allocating” limited energy reserves. Less mess, literal or figurative, equals more mental focus.

Next, determine when you’re most efficient, and dedicate part of that time to meeting your goal. Are you a morning person striving to become fluent in French? Put on Radio France Internationale while getting ready for work. Is your head clearest in the afternoon? Pull out les leçons on your lunch break.

And don’t neglect your mental and physical health. “Your energy stores are a limited resource, so actively replenish them,” Steel says. That means nurturing your well-being — and getting a good night’s sleep.

September: See results

Close your eyes. Now, imagine meeting your goal. Are you holding a gold medal? A bigger paycheck? A jaw-dropping baked Alaska? According to Steel, “The detailed mental re-creation of a performance engages mirror neurons that engrave the act in your brain almost as deeply as if you were actually practicing it.”

The next — and most important — step is called mental contrasting: visualizing where you are today, with an empty trophy case, bank account, or oven. “The result will be that your present situation becomes framed as an obstacle standing in the way of your dreams,” says Steel.

Contrasting where you are and where you want to be sparks exactly the motivation most people need to spring into action.

October: Get inspired

Bill Gates reads a reported 50 books a year. In fact, the Microsoft co-founder is so passionate about reading that he started the GatesNotes blog to post reviews of his favorite titles. “Shoe Dog,” by Nike’s Phil Knight, is at the top of the list. “Knight opens up in a way few CEOs are willing to do,” writes Gates. “He tells his story as honestly as he can. It’s an amazing tale.” And an inspiring one, even for one of the world’s most powerful men.

Books and movies can provide the encouragement we can’t always get from people around us. “Rocky” gives hope to the underdog. “The Pursuit of Happyness” suggests that anything’s possible. Search for plots that strike a chord. “The most effective [biographies] will resonate with your own background,” Steel says.

Not everyone can plow through a book a week, but motivational speeches and podcasts stream from all corners of the internet. “Great athletes, heroes, and entrepreneurs regularly speak about their experiences,” says Steel. “Seek them out.”

Get inspired on your morning commute, and you’ll be surprised what you can accomplish throughout the day.

November: Ask for help

Another of Goldsmith’s magic moves is asking for help. “Few people will refuse your sincere plea,” he says. “Asking for help sustains the change process, keeps it moving forward.”

When you hit a stumbling block, call on friends who’ve accomplished similar goals or on your professional mentor. Most people will be honored you came to them for support.

And when you’re ready to wave the white flag, call in the experts. There are resources to support just about every ambition, from amateur cooking classes to professional development programs. Even Beyoncé worked with a vocal coach to reach her goal of world domination.

December: Applaud success — or lessons learned

The end of the year is a time to reflect on progress toward your goal or to pat yourself on the back for achieving it.

Is there any shame in not fulfilling a resolution? “It depends on the goal,” says Andrews. “If it’s to stop doing something abusive to yourself or someone else, it’s probably not a good one to give up on. Or it might turn out your goal wasn’t really what you were going after. You know what? It’s your life, and you get to decide that. Failure isn’t failure if you learn something from it. It’s just a way station on the way to success.”

Contemplate this year’s obstacles and processes, and rework your strategy for next year. There’s rarely a deadline for prosperity.

Ready to start?

Develop your personal plan for meeting your resolutions with a 12-month worksheet you can download here.

[Entire post — click on the title link to read it at the Harvard Gazette.]

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You’re working on your goals, and your team’s goals. We can help you spring into action and develop a real plan that you can implement in a smart way, so you’ll start seeing results immediately, before you feel discouraged. If you feel that you’ve already gone off-track, we can help you get your focus, courage, and motivation back.

At Creative Sage™, we often coach and mentor individual clients, as well as work teams, in the areas of change management, building resilience, making personal, career or organizational transitions — including to retirement, or an “encore career” — and facilitating development of leadership, creativity and collaboration capabilities. We also work with clients on work/life balance, finding purpose and meaning, focus and productivity issues, and how to present themselves and their ideas more effectively in professional situations.

We guide and mentor executives, entrepreneurs, intrapreneurs, artists, and creative professionals of all generations, to help them more effectively implement transition processes, and to become more resilient in adjusting to rapid changes in the workplace — including learning effective coping techniques for handling failure, as well as success. We work with on-site and virtual teams.

Please do not hesitate to contact us if you would like to discuss your situation. You can also call us at 1-510-845-5510 in San Francisco / Silicon Valley. Let’s talk! An initial exploratory phone conversation is free. When you talk with me, I promise that I’ll always LISTEN to you with open ears, mind and heart, to help you clarify your own unique path to a higher vista of success.

~Cathryn Hrudicka, Founder, CEO and Chief Imagination Officer of Creative Sage™, Executive Coach, Consultant, and Mentor.

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#resolutions #newyearsresolutions #goals #goalsetting #mindset

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