#so all i've had to watch for the past several hours is my copy of rtc | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

awxcoffeexno · 11 months

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selfish

bf!joel x reader

fic masterlist summary: joel has work. and you miss him.

warnings: angst, so much angst!!!, plenty of pining, both characters are stubborn, there is 0 communication, if only they would just talk to each other!!, but obviously not, why would they do that?, also reader is pregnant (no use of y/n, no outbreak, mild age gap (reader is 23, joel is 28))

word count: just under 1.2k

a/n: this is my first fic on here and idek why i've written this but i'm pining so,, T.T

it's fifteen minutes past 8 and joel is still tapping away on his keyboard, brows furrowed, lower lip between his teeth.

you've only peeked into the room to see if he's finally done, but he isn't. so you walk back out to the living room and pick up the new copy of notes from underground that you bought at the old book shop yesterday.

you'd wanted him to come with you, even told him it would be lovely to have him. but whilst the whole country took the day off for a holiday you don't particularly celebrate, joel was still in your room, still tapping away at his keyboard. with a soft sigh, you had pressed a kiss to his forehead and he'd given you a sheepish smile. I'm sure you'll love it, baby. send me loads of pictures.

so alone you'd gone, sifting through the piles and piles of unsorted books, hoping to find something nice. you'd picked up a small, tattered book about duties of couples in marriage. a wedding present signed off by a distant uncle. giggled at the silly pictures and then put it aside. more unsorted books, several copies of jane eyre, pride and prejudice, a tale of two cities (🤢 you couldn't imagine ever picking that up again, what a terrible piece of prose).

until finally, a copy of notes from underground. fyodor dostoyevsky. you'd always wanted to read dostoyevsky but you'd never considered yourself having enough time or patience for him. deep breath. no better time than the present.

so here you are, curled up in the little nook next to the fire place where only you would think to sit. it's a tight spot but you like it. it's warm and comforting and since you don't have joel's arms, the brick wall will have to do. besides you’ve got olives and vanilla ice cream to keep your cravings at bay so at least there’s that.

you'd spent your day finally getting back to the painting you'd forgotten in the back of the attic last month, followed by work on your dissertation, glancing at your phone every now and then. no messages from joel. so you'd given him a missed call like you always did to catch his attention.

joel.

hi, baby, need a sec. brb.

and you'd given him a second. ten minutes. twenty. you knew you were being needy but before this god forsaken job you'd spent every day together, curled up in each other. you'd help each other with your assignments, him pressing absent-minded kisses to your shoulders as he flipped through his architecture textbook.

nearly an hour later he'd texted you back.

hi. sorry. got carried away.

no, it's okay. how are you?

and he'd gone on a rant about work. and you'd listened. and then he was gone again.

even when he came back home, all you'd gotten was a squeeze on the arm, a kiss on the forehead and a meeting, baby.

you'd wanted to scream. but how selfish would that be? he was working. besides your dissertation was waiting for you, the cursor blinking, jeering at you for leaving it mid word.

and now it is nearly two hours later. you've both eaten dinner in separate rooms and you're reading dostoyevsky.

dostoyevsky.

the clock is mocking you. tick, tock.

tick, tock.

tick, tock, you pathetic little bitch. he is working.

tick, tock, look at you! my god. he is working!

tick, tock.

"joel?"

nothing.

"joel!"

"hmm?"

"I'm bored."

he lets out a soft tired chuckle that makes your heart warm. "want me to come dance for you?"

idiot. you tell him as much.

you get up and tip toe to your room again. "hi."

"hi, sweetheart." his hair is soft and fluffy. you push your fingers through it, watching his eyes flutter shut.

you press a soft kiss to his lips. he smiles.

"do you have any time today?" you ask him, leaning back on your hands.

you really are pathetic. but you miss it. you miss having him all to yourself every night. you miss pressing soft kisses into his jaw without having to worry about his brows furrowing and him apologising because work was demanding his attention. you miss how he'd rub the anxiety away from your chest. didn't matter what the anxiety was about, he'd always take it away from you. and now he can't, because he's always anxious himself. about work. about you. about the baby you had on the way - the baby he was working so hard for.

and you want to be selfish. you want to tell him where it hurts. sometimes you do and you see his guilty little eyes as he looks over at you and tries to take it away. but it doesn't go away anymore. and he feels so fucking guilty about it. and you only add to his stress, and then you're feeling guilty too and it's not good for either of you.

"I'll be free in a bit, sugar. I'll be off at 10. I hope."

but that's not what you want. because once he's off at 10, he'll be tired. and he should rest.

but you're selfish.

so. "no, like. do you have any time today for me?" you rephrase and watch as his shoulders slack and his eyes darken.

look how sad you've made him.

"yeah. after 10." he's blunt. cold.

and that's because you know he wants to rest. and he knows he wants to rest. and you've just been selfish again and fuck, he's getting so tired. tired of constantly being pushed to show up. to be there. for work. for you.

you’d celebrated this job with him, hadn’t you?! made him a little cake and blown up balloons. it was a good job. hard work but it paid so fucking well. the two of you had planned this baby for so long. he’d taken up a diploma so that he wouldn’t have to support you on the wages of a contractor whilst you worked on your masters. but hindsight is 20/20 and you’d much rather have a small house and a tight budget and still have joel than sit in the living room alone, day after day as he worked his ass off trying to do what’s right what any man with self-respect would do.

tears sting your eyes. you miss him. and you're so fucking pathetic, making all of this about you. he notices but doesn't comment because he's done. he's done consoling you about something he is going through too.

but you're selfish. so you stand up and walk out and he's left staring at the ghost of your perfume wondering when something will finally let up. when something will give. when you'll just understand and let him be.

until then he knows that this cycle will repeat every day. because you're selfish.

not that he'd ever think that. because he's joel and fuck he loves you.

but you know it. and your clock knows it.

you're selfish.

if you're reading this, thank youu xx maybe I'll write some more. idk, but I hoped you liked it. <3

just migrated from reddit back to tumblr and I didn't realise how much I missed tumblr aaaaaaa

love, d 🖤

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shurisneakers · 2 years

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bridges break (ii)

summary: steve shuts himself away. you pull him along on a trip of a lifetime in an attempt to reconnect. great plan! except there's one big secret he's keeping from you that could change the course of your entire relationship, and there's no greasy stack of diner pancakes in the country big enough to hide behind.

(road trip!au, best friends to lovers)

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, mental health issues and disorientation, ptsd, swearing, my garbage attempt at humour and art history. lemme know if i missed anything and I'll tag it.

A/N: hi <3 thank u all for your bday wishes and yes i feel literally as old as this geriatric mf. love u guys

there's a poem in here that's been credited to a.j. it was written by the wonderful @barnesandco whose poetry you can find over on @pakpoetics so follow her and send some love!!

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

"Passport."

"Yes."

"Tablet."

"Yes."

"Synced calendar on your phone."

"Yes." Steve breaks away from the threshold of his apartment and into the cold air.

Mona face lags on the screen, and Steve waits for her to start moving again. The sun had just barely begun to peek through the clouds, the air chill with the thin layer of condensation, and she was already working on full steam.

He'd assured her, swore to her, that he wouldn't need a physical copy of the checklist delivered to him. Still, her call had come about ten minutes ago to make sure Steve had an updated copy of all the fundraisers and public service announcements he was scheduled to attend when he was back.

But then she asks, "Pager?"

"Pager?" Steve stalls in his steps.

"The Constitution?" she continues. "Declaration of Independence?"

He watches the desolate road in front of his apartment, biting back a wry smile. "Very funny."

"Sorry. Couldn't help myself," she says and then adds something else he doesn't catch.

"What'd you say?" He squints at the bars-- he had full network.

"I said, we've only got clearance for a month and one week," she says, louder. "And that's after a lot of negotiating. So please try to make it back by then."

"Gotcha," he says, studying a cyclist that rode past him leisurely. "How are you gonna keep busy?"

"I've got my ways," Mona replies. "Oh! Last thing before your vacation officially starts--"

A sleek, black SUV pulls up in front of him in true movie fashion. The window rolls down to reveal your face complete with a bright smile and sunglasses, both out of place for this time of the morning. Still, he can't control himself and his own lopsided smile grows at the sight.

"Too late," Steve says, waving to you before making his way around the back of the car. “Think it just did.“

"Just a document, I swear. Captain Ro-"

"It's just Steve, Mona." He sighs, balancing the phone between his shoulder blades as he leaves his two duffel bags in the trunk. “We've taken care of all of it. Even if I disappear tomorrow, it'll be fine."

The hecticness had slowed to a crawling pace, anyway. He put in a few extra hours, pre-recorded several videos for the public for various hypothetical scenarios, and in general seemed like he had done most of what he could from his position.

He made tired, but overall sincere, promises to return immediately if aliens landed up in the city again, or if Mona sent him an SOS. The latter was more of a priority.

"Okay, first of all, please don't do that,” Mona adds quickly. “If you’re planning on disappearing, then-"

"I was kidding." Sort of. "I'll sign the thing."

"Great!” He watches the white light on her face change to blue she switches apps. "Now, I know I said that was the last thing but-"

"Hanging up on you now." He closes the trunk firmly with a thud.

She lets out an exaggerated exhale before looking at him.

"I was just gonna say send me a postcard. I like the old, weird ones."

"I will keep that in mind," Steve promises. "Bye, Mona."

"Bye, Captain Rogers."

"Steve."

"Captain Steve," she replies swiftly before the screen goes dark, leaving him to stare at himself.

He shakes his head lightly, tucking his phone into his pocket and makes his way to the passenger's side.

"Hi," you say as he peers in through the window. "You ready to get this thing started?"

______

A map spread wide, arm to arm, takes up most of the space in the front.

"Why am I looking at this again?" he asks in delayed clarification, nevertheless not tearing his eyes away from it.

"For directions."

"Yes, but why?" The paper rustles as he folds it up in half neatly along the creases. "Last I checked, we still got GPS."

You have a firm grip on the steering wheel while your posture is relaxed back, one elbow leaning out the window.

There is an anticipatory curl in the corner of your mouth, and he’s lead to believe he is entirely too predictable in the kind of questions he asks.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right,” you reason, as he follows a trail down the printed road with his index finger. It’s a long way to go. "Like all the movies."

"Were these movies made after 2005?"

"You know, now that you mention it, they were in black and white," you say thoughtfully before turning to face him. “Are you absolutely sure you’re not hungry?”

“Positive. Had a good breakfast.” He can’t really see you through the obstruction of the map, but mostly he’s glad you can’t see him because he was still getting used to outright lying to you. “I got us some bars, just in case.”

“What bars?"

"Nuts, fruits. The usual. Oats."

"Stevie," you say in bewilderment, and he pulls down the paper to look at you, "I love you, but we’re not eating health bars on a road trip. Sam would have my head if I let you.”

“You might wanna avoid telling him about the protein shakes, then.”

“You did not.” Shock turns to horror at the idea of several containers worth of whey in his secondary duffel bag.

“Didn’t I?”

“No.” It takes no longer than a second to settle on. “You wouldn’t.”

The traffic you’ve spent half an hour in already graciously allows you to move a few inches forward. He wonders how long it would be till the skyscrapers and billboards would be swapped for a stretch of nothingness, a bright blue horizon and cloudless sky.

"Besides, even if you did," you continue, even though he thought the topic had already run its course, "once we start picking up all the unnecessary touristy shit at every stop along the way, I will not hesitate to throw your protein powder out first to save on space."

Steve smile reappears. "How much are you planning on buying?"

"Buddy, I got a whole other bag just for that," you draw out in a sing-song voice. "I'm gonna single-handedly fix this economy."

There’s a sharp reminder that flashes through his mind, leaving in its wake a sudden unsettling feeling that combs its way through him.

He should check if the list had made it with him on the trip. The stupid, godforsaken list.

"I wanted to get some stuff too," he says in an effort to placate it.

"Yeah? What stuff?"

"I’ll show you later," Steve waves off, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. "It's just some stuff from ‘round the country."

"Like memorabilia?"

"Kind of." He powers through the image of the torn notebook paper, a incomplete list in unruly handwriting, pressed between the folds of his pocket out of his brain.

"Sounds cool," you say. "We'll get 'em all."

“Why are you here, Captain?” she asks finally.

“You know why, doctor.” Steve's cheek leans on his fingers, leaving behind indents.

“It’s a part of your deal, I know,” she says, “but why are you here?”

Steve snaps the map up again, keeping him out of your sight before his eyes shut tightly.

“Where’s our first stop?” he musters as normally as he can.

“Given the state of this traffic, it'd be for lunch,” you reply, staring straight out at the line of cars in front of you. “After that it’s Pittsburgh. There’s this art museum I wanted to check out.”

Steve realizes he's been clenching his eyes too hard once the spots start dancing in front of him, forcing him to relax them.

“Art museum?”

“You like art, don’t you?”

“I do.” A heavyweight paper sketchbook and a set of good pencils were staples of his luggage. “But I didn't know you were into it now.”

“I mean, I've definitely developed an eye for the finer things, Steven. Art included.”

"Yeah? You got a favourite artist yet?"

"I don’t know if you’ve heard of this guy. He's kinda niche," you reply. "Bob Ross."

“Oh?”

"Big fan of the way he hits things with a brush. Very good use of space."

It's enough to make him laugh, dismiss the disembodied thoughts floating around in his head for a moment. He lowers the map and folds it up before tucking it back into the glove compartment.

Steve shifts in his seat again to pull out his phone, deciding to make himself useful by at least finding a good place to get lunch.

"According to the ratings, the nearest res-" he cuts himself off when he turns to look at you and finds a big grin on your face as you look out at the road ahead.

"What?" he asks instead, slightly confused.

“Nothing.” The smile on your face doesn’t let up. “Just been a while since I've heard that laugh."

_________

Steve’s been to one gallery since he was out of the ice.

For a man whose hand itches while his mind stalls, it’s criminal that the only time he had the opportunity to was on an undercover op.

It's strange how similar it all felt now, blue baseball cap covering his hair, oversized jacket with his hands shoved deep in the pockets and shoulders hunched to make himself smaller.

But this time, his low profile isn’t to trail a HYDRA operative. It was to avoid a seemingly unlikely confrontation in a silent hall. The crowd is sparse and scattered where available, but he supposes that was normal considering that it was a weekday evening.

You had gone in search of a map again, leaving him to his own devices for a few moments.

The place was gorgeous. A mix of both classical and modernism; high ceilings held up with marble pillars, art painstakingly carved into stone, grand staircases, and murals lining the walls, whereas the galleries were sleek, with plain white walls with strategic lighting, and labyrinth dividers.

Steve breathes in deeply, finding notes of aromatics they’ve used to enhance every human sense. If his being could fracture into shards of glass, he knew that the minute bits would be art, the ones that slip by unnoticed until you realize what filled in the gaps between the more significant pieces.

"Turns out they've got tours," you say, coming to stand beside him. "But they focus on specific artists or like, themed ones like the ‘Effect of Labor on Art’. Told 'em I'd ask you and let them know."

"Maybe we could just walk around for a while?" he proposes instead. A tour this early already seemed too restrictive, like he was following a schedule when he'd just managed to escape from one.

"That's what I was thinkin' too." You tap his shoulder lightly with a thin, folded brochure. "So I got us a map and a few directions from them to get started."

"Where to first?"

You narrow your eyes playfully at him. “How much do you know about contemporary art?”

“Haven't really had time to study it,” Steve replies. "I'd say roughly the same as you."

“So… not much.”

"I thought you had an eye for the finer things in life," he reminds as you begin leading the way.

"Oh yeah, I can definitely tell if it's fine or not." You grin. "Rest is obviously up for interpretation."

"So-- contemporary art first?"

You look down at the map where a little number indicated where you were. "Contemporary art first."

_____

Admittedly, this style of art isn’t really up Steve's alley, but he likes looking at them all the same. The symbolism isn't always decipherable, but he admires the flair and the subjectivity. Every piece of art had a bit of someone’s life in them, and it took a great deal to part with it from the kind embrace of your mind and leave it on a canvas.

His own sketches of Nat’s coffee cup on the window sill of their safehouse in Montana, or the view of Wakanda from the hall outside Bucky’s cryo chamber took a lot longer than some of the other quick doodles he’d leave on paper napkins.

"Art is subjective and all that, but I tell ya this, I got a lot to say about some of them."

Some of the pieces had colours that were striking, bold. Looking at them alone raises his spirits, even to the smallest degree.

Steve smiles slightly. "What does your fine eye make of it?"

“Of this one? It's... interesting,” you say, pausing in front of an acrylic on linen. Splashes of every shade of mustard in shapes, strokes, lines hiding lavender symbols at the back, highlighted by notes of black. "Very strong narrative."

Steve silently waits for an explanation.

“It’s about the artist’s love for her niece. There’s lavender for the nursery she helped paint, yellow for her love and the black’s representative of her troubled relationship with her sister,” you explain, eyes never leaving the painting. “She wishes she could see her niece more, be a part of her life but her sister isn’t having any of it. It’s why there’s such little lavender in the grand scheme of things, always hidden by a lot of black.”

Steve lingers at the picture, following every word you say with the intent of connecting it with what he can see. He knows you're talking about of your ass, but it was mildly impressive.

His eyes flicker towards you.

"Like I said," you finish, "very strong narrative."

“You just came up with that on the spot?" Steve asks instead.

“Who, me? Lying?” You scoff. “Never.”

His jaw clicks as it slides to the side before returning to its position, eyes trained on the floor with a shake of his head. He tries his best to hide his smile before looking back up at you.

The next few ones are observed in silence before you move on. You don’t provide your analysis, even though he waits for it, shifting focus between you and the art.

By the third one he realizes that you probably weren’t going to unless he asks. But he missed your voice. He could do with a little more of it.

“You got anything to say about this?“ he asks, face stoic as he points to one that from afar looks like oil pastels on paper. It’s scribbles upon scribbles of different colours, drawn without any restraint. "Strong narrative?"

He watches the corner of your mouth quirk up.

“Messy, non-linear narrative," you correct, head leaning to the side. "The creator was clearly thrilled about something. A lot of colours, messy. Man was having the time of his life.”

Steve feels a laugh bubble up to his chest. “Right.”

“These little circles here-” You point so confidently to the corner of the canvas, it almost sounds convincing “-they represent the magic mushrooms he was on while painting this.”

That was definitely… an opinion.

"Very insightful," he agrees, following you as you throw him a wink over your shoulder. “What about that?”

“This one’s easy.” You stop in front of a blank canvas. There’s a thin square of red outlining the boundary, but it’s bare except for it.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Wait, read the description first,” you encourage, pointing at the label at the side. “I wanna see if I’m right.”

“Unnamed, by Flo Dyer, is a prototypical minimalist abstraction.” A whole lot of words for a canvas full of nothing. “The visual and tangible characteristics of the piece pushes the interpreter into a journey of self-discovery.”

“Obviously,” you say. “Duh.”

---

The gallery is divided, each hosting works from different eras, Impressionist and Post-Impressionist. This, he has a little more experience. He'd read a few books, talked to kids who had enough money and time to get into art school, to have his mouth slightly agape the minute he steps in.

The detail and care in every restored painting hanging on the wall takes whatever words he could have from his throat, rolls them up and blows them into the wind. He wants to extend a finger forward, brush up against it and feel history under his skin. But he can’t, so he settles on watching from afar.

He wordlessly spends time in front of each painting, breathing in the passion and love of people who lived centuries before him.

The longest time he spends is at the portrait of a sleeping woman, head draped delicately over her forearm. You don't say anything, only sitting patiently beside him as he loses track of the evening.

It reminds him of the light through the window falling on the mattress pushed up against the wall. Slow afternoons and her sleeping figure under it, back turned to Steve. He wonders how the heat didn't seem to phase her.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, eyes not leaving the art.

Steve's attention snaps back to you, blinking away slow afternoons and the blanket left at the foot of the bed.

“Albert J Moore.” He can hear his own voice muted as it replies. “Acacias.”

Steve wants to ask if you can feel the same sense of peace that washes over him the longer he watches it.

He hopes you do. It’s a feeling he wants to float in for as long as he could.

___

Roaming around the museum on his own wouldn't have been nearly as fun. Steve liked seeing which ones you had a visceral reaction to, whether it be awe or criticism. Whatever facts he knew, he’d rattle off and you’d listen attentively as if his word was gospel. Each gallery with its own collection had something for him to linger at a little longer, and sometimes he explained why but others he couldn't.

The next gallery he enters, he enters through a small path until he comes to a stop in front of one piece in specific. Even without glancing at the name, he can tell the artist; it was so distinct.

Steve knew the works of Edward Hopper. Had seen them cited far more often these last few years than any other artist, but this is the first time he’s seen one in its original form.

Sunday, it’s called.

Sunday by Edward Hopper, 1926.

Oil on canvas, it has the almost sepia-like laziness that comes with the end of the week. Warm colours dip in and out of shadows, it paints the curbside of a road lining rows of closed shops.

In 1926, Steve was 8. A spunky, spitfire eight that by May, had already been in and out of the nurse’s office four times.

Eight-year-old Steve still remembered his ma asleep on the mattress that was usually reserved for his frail bones most of the week, until the weekend rolled around and she got two hours to herself on it for a nap. He left the apartment to find something else to do, somewhere else to let off some energy that came with pent up defiance at the world residing in his blood.

On Steve’s curbside, the shops weren’t closed for the weekend. They were ‘Sorry! Closed for Business’ on weekends, weekdays, months, years. Sometimes a new owner flipped over the cardboard sign to welcome people in, and flipped it right back after a month.

Edward Hopper’s curbside has a man in the forefront. There’s a cigarette in his mouth, and his arms are closed in a way that shuts him off from the world. In the deserted, empty street this man--

The man looks at him and Steve feels seen, as though his stare has pierced through the seven walls of defense that lines his chest.

The man looks at him and he knows. The man knows.

Steve feels it in his heart first, before it makes its way up to his throat like a rush of bile. His cheeks pain, ache. It’s a feeling he thought he got over a long time ago as everything unrelentingly went on.

He feels out of time.

“You know this one?” you ask when he doesn't make any movement,

"No." His answer is short, mumbled.

“What are you lookin’ at?”

His soul, it feels like. Bared out there for the world to see how much of a damn liar he is. The man and his cigar don’t look at you. They pierce through him and him alone.

Your gaze follows his. “He seems lonely.”

“Yeah,” Steve’s voice comes out hoarse, “he does.”

“’Least he’s got a smoke.” You’re optimistic, too radiant for a portrait like this. He’s glad that it doesn’t affect you the way it does him; at least he knows that you have nothing on your conscience to have exposed to the world like this.

The man has a cigar and Stevie has a shield.

And they’re both alone.

___

It takes you linking your arm with his for him to finally pull himself away from the painting, but the walk to the next gallery is spent with him wishing it would stop searing itself stronger into his brain each time he closed his eyes.

The final collection is at the far end of the hall, in a separate room altogether. Accessible only if you wanted to, which was good. Saves people from an uninvited gloom.

Pain and Perseverance: A Glimpse Look into the Darkest Years

He knows what it’s about. You do, too, which is why you turn to him hesitantly.

“We don’t have to go in,” you say, standing near enough to him for his enhanced hearing to catch your heartbeat. It tethers him, connects him to a living, breathing being.

“I think we should,” he replies, steadfast to the point it was almost robotic.

There is only one other person in the room with you both, and she isn’t paying much attention to him, so he takes off his cap in reverence.

It’s fitting how silent and closed off this part of the museum is to the rest of the world. A tribute to those who wouldn't be able to set foot into this room.

Your hand slides out from his and he lets you go gently. He knows you’re around, so it’s okay. He knew the second you'd walked in that you'd need space to process each piece on your own.

He quietly makes his way through the fifteen paintings and photographs, mulling over each one for a few seconds at the very least.

There’s one in all black, two birch wood trees on a hill with nothing else in the distance. Another blurry picture of a single armchair left to collect dust from years of unuse in the corner of an old age home.

Steve doesn't dare to swallow the heaviness in his throat. There is anger, regret, helplessness in the walls around him. But all of it stems from the same miserable channel- a single, desperate sadness.

He lands up at the final piece on display, a glass box standing tall. The woman from earlier is still there, unmoving.

Steve doesn’t disturb her, only stays a step away from her and instead stands in front of painting of comfort, of two men so close their necks entwined with each other.

“Sorry.” She clears her throat to get his attention, giving him a misty smile when he turns to look at her.

“Please,” he says, earnest and kind, “take all the time you need.”

“Feels like I’ve been here hours.” She inclines her head towards the casing. “There’s something about it.”

He only waits for her to finish. A few minutes of silence later, she takes a step to the side, allowing him a little space to stand beside her and see for himself what she had stopped at.

It’s a sculpture, a kid made of metal, with spangly arms and a tiny head molded rustically like years of weathering had done a number on him. His arms wrap around his knees, hugging them close to his body as he dipped his forehead in the valley they formed together.

Its emotion lays in its simplicity- anything more than what has been made would have been too much.

There’s a pull that doesn’t allow him to tear his eyes away from it. The only time he does is to read the artwork label, to gain a little more insight.

“Heartbreaking, isn’t it?” the stranger asks from beside him. His silence and the pit in his stomach is enough to answer.

He hopes she’s all right. He hopes she made it out all right.

Berta Pedrero (b. 1976)

Despair, 2020

In memory of her son, Mateo J. Pedrero.

If he dared to, he would shoot a little prayer into the sky for her son, wherever he is, but he stays grounded, eyes on the sculpture because he remembers he has forgone that right a long time ago.

The stranger beside him walks off after a few more minutes of silence. He can feel your hand slip into his, and he holds on, tighter than usual.

Steve continues to stare, long after she’s gone.

___

You read out the description from the pamphlet, the idea behind the execution and the artists who made it possible as Steve walks silently beside you.

“Took three years to curate it,” you inform him. “Fifteen different countries. They’ve included a quote.”

His gaze flicks to you, clearing his throat as he asks, “What is it?”

You wordlessly hand it over to him and he scans the page until it lands on the quote at the bottom.

Steve exhales, jaw tightening as he reads through it again.

The poets write of tragedy, not to honor the sorrow,

but to remind themselves that something survived it.

-A.J.

Though the sentiment is strong and he feels it in his bones, he discards his pamphlet on the way out. He already carries the weight of the world on his back, and he tries not to add the weight of the words to his pocket.

-----

"Okay, Rogers." You clap your hands together, rubbing your palms as you shift in your seat. "Prelude to the big event. Spill.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. "This wasn't the start of the road trip?"

"Nope. That only starts once we get to the first official stop. This is just the introduction. The prequel, if you may."

"Ah," he says from across the booth. "It was... impressive."

"Please note that at the end of this trip, you will be filling out a form on the overall serve so that we can improve our experiences for next time.” You sound exactly like some of the sales people he’s met, chipper yet monotone.

"Can't wait." Steve picks up his glass of water, avoiding your sight. Next time. "As if the very comprehensive survey you sent wasn't enough."

"You chose to be friends with a scientist. I had to check all the variables and preferences before I planned a trip."

"What did my fabric preferences have to do with the road we're taking?"

There's a wicked twinkle in your eye. "Just checkin’ those boxes, Rogers. Like I said, all variables"

The kitchen doors open, and Steve hears the crackle and sizzle from inside for a few seconds before they swing shut again. The brief opening is enough for the smell of meat grilling to overpower the scent of lemon pies in display domes, stale coffee and freshly mopped floors.

"What is it then?" Steve asks as you push a large glass towards him. "The trip you’ve planned?"

You look up at the waiter, giving him a quick smile as he leaves two milkshakes on the table.

"Route 66."

His eyebrows knit together in recognition. "The Mother Road?"

"You've heard of it." Your smile widens.

"Yeah, they started constructing it when I was a kid. I thought it didn't exist anymore."

“Technically it doesn’t,” you admit. “But I’ve done my research. We’re just following what it used to be. Old highways and signs and all that.”

He hums in agreement. “And if we get lost?”

“I got a couple of flare guns in the trunk,” you dismiss. “I’ll get you to California, Stevie, don’t you worry.”

He doesn’t doubt it.

“So,” you say, wiping your hands on your napkin before unlocking your phone and sliding it towards him, “We stay at the motel down the road tonight, get an early start tomorrow.”

Steve's reply is cut short before it even begins when someone comes to stand beside him.

"Here you go," the server drags the last syllable out, placing two hefty plates in front of you both. "Enjoy."

Steve thanks him courteously before says before eyeing what you'd convinced him to order.

“To the first burgers,” you hold up a fry, “and many more to come.”

Steve pulls the plate towards him where it joins his still untouched vanilla milkshake.

"No healthy stuff, you said?" He peers up at you.

"‘Least not for the first week,” you reply determinedly. "Relax. You can get back to the oat bars next week."

“I haven't only been eating protein shakes and nut bars,” he protests. “Microwave dinners. They aren't the healthiest, they should count.”

"I thought you hated those." Your eyebrows knit together. "Isn’t that why you cooked?"

Steve's voice immediately drops to a mumble. "Haven't had the time."

“She still pickin’ up those extra shifts?”

“Double this weekend.” Steve fidgets with a newspaper.

“How’re you gonna keep yourself fed?”

“I can cook.”

“Cereal ain’t a meal, kid.”

If you notice the shift in his tone, it's quickly distracted by the way he pushes a fry around the plate.

“Jesus, Rogers, it’s not gonna kill you.”

“I’m old.” Nevertheless, he pulls the glass towards him. “We can’t write off anything.”

You snort. “Just drink the milkshake, Stevie. It’s good for ya.”

Burgers, greasy, well-salted fries and exorbitantly large glasses of milkshakes; it’s probably the most American Steve’s felt in a while. The minute he takes a bite from it, his body sinks down with a content sigh that has you grinning.

“Tomorrow, the first stop; Chicago, right?” He takes another bite from his burger, watching you scroll through pictures of the motel for him.

“Yep.”

“We got plans there?” The food shouldn’t taste this good, but it does. Probably one of the better establishments you were going to encounter on this trip but he can’t really be bothered by the implications at that moment.

“I got a few ideas.” You pull your phone back before returning to your meal. “But mostly we’ll be figuring it out as we go. Survey results dictate that we don't follow a tight schedule.”

"Today we're in Morocco. Next week we'll be in Lebanon," she sings slowly. "After that who knows?"

"Depends on where we're needed next." He takes aim and throws his dart.

Beyond all the restrictiveness and tediousness, he was just really fucking tired of them.

“You know," you pipe up, observing his features for a second, "you’ve been doing this thing a lot."

“What?”

“Spacing out.” Ah, fuck. “You did it back there, at the museum too.”

Steve simply shrugs, head turned down to his plate. “It just happens."

“How long?”

As long as you'd known him, he had always been attentive, on his toes, waiting.

“A little while.” He can pinpoint exactly when and what had lead to it. Studying through window blinds, old uniforms, and all of a sudden his path for the future started to get less clear.

“Have you talked to anyone about it?”

“Not specifically."

You pause. "Does anyone know?”

Steve’s next exhale comes at a delayed pace.

"You'd be the first."

Your lips press together in a thin line, deep crevice between your eyebrows.

"I've just been tired lately," he deflects. It wasn’t a whole lie, but it feels wrong. He had time. He had time. He has to remind himself that he had time.

Steve continues quickly, “I'll be fine. Look, I'll be gettin' loads more sleep now anyway.”

He leans forward to steal a fry off your plate and it works to an extent. There's a small smile that pulls at one side of your face.

"Steve."

"Sweetheart." He cracks a smile. “I'll be fine, I promise. What have you been writing lately?”

The swift subject change has you furrowing your brows, and then a sigh when it registers. However, you drag yourself forward to take a sip from your milkshake.

“Nothing,” you admit. “Haven't written in a while.”

It’s the silence that lingers in the air that prompts you to go on.

“I dunno.” You twirl a fry around the plate. “Been hard to find something to write about.”

Steve finishes off the last of his burger, wiping his hands down on a napkin.

“When was the last time?”

Your eyes squint in contemplation. “Six, seven years ago?”

“Can I get y’all anything else?” the server chirps from beside the booth, refiling your glasses of water, while balancing a tray in another.

You look at Steve and he shakes his head. “No, thank you. Just the bill, please.”

“Sure thing,” he says, setting down a plate with a slice of pie. “Enjoy.”

You glance up in confusion. “I think you have the wrong table.”

“It’s on the house.” It’s clear who it’s for, though the answer remains up in the air.

Steve sends the man a side-smile. “Appreciate it.”

The server nods, before leaving the both of you alone.

“Told you your stupid cap isn’t going to do anything.” You laugh when Steve pulls it off his head and sets it down beside him, running a hand through his flattened hair.

“Just got us a free piece of pie, I’d say it has some use.” He passes you a spoon and pushes the plate so it’s in the middle of you both.

“Right, because it’s your fashion sense that won them over, Steven.” You break a piece of the crust. ”Lift your leg up, show ‘em your slacks. Maybe we could get an extra slice for the road.”

He laughs, partly at you and partly at the absurd amount of whipped cream on the pie itself. It was generous, to say the least, and melting all over the still-warm filling. Pretty as a picture.

“Fuck, that’s good.” You sigh, chewing thoughtfully. “I need to earn free food privileges if this is what I’m missing out on.”

“The pie’s the better end of the deal.” He shovels a spoonful into his mouth. “A lot of the time it’s beer bottles with your face on it.”

“Classy,” you reply, having seen exactly what he was referring to. “What's next? Your face on underwear?”

Steve's silence and his failing ability to hide a pained smile has you faltering in your movements.

"Really?"

"I've been shown pictures," he complains. "From what I know, they're not sold as a collection or retail line."

"Which means they're customized," you continue, fingers pinched together explanatory. "Does that make it better or worse?"

Steve's nose scrunches and he hides his distaste with a spoonful of pie in his mouth. "You tell me."

He’s a little grateful that you don’t shy away from pulling his leg. Makes him feel normal, like he was more than a concept; if there was something so hilarious about Steve as an ambassador for patriotic fireworks then it means that he hasn’t lost himself completely.

“What’s an average person gotta do around here to be inspiration for horrifying underwear, huh?” You send the last piece of pie his way. "Get printed on cereal boxes, et cetra et cetra."

“Get kidnapped, maybe.” He accepts it without an argument. “They’ll stick you on a couple of milk cartons.”

You narrow your eyes at him and he sends you a sly smile in return.

"Invent something.”

“Hell, maybe I will.” You wave your spoon around dangerously. “Get my name in a textbook.”

“You could do that,” he agrees. “You'd have the resources from the new job. A whole team under you, funding.”

You narrow your eyes at him. "Very smooth, Rogers."

His smile comes back bashful. “Why don’t you want to take it? I thought it’s everything you’ve worked towards.”

“It is.” You collect foam off the side of your glass with the straw, a distraction from having to look at him. “I’m just not sure I’m ready for it.”

“Is it the job or something else?”

Your lips press together, curling inward, but you don’t respond. It tells him he’s clocked you scarily fast.

“Job’s mine whenever I want it,” you say, eyes still trained on anything you could fiddle with. “I’m just not sure I’ll ever be ready."

Steve only slips his hand into yours the same way you did at the museum and squeezes. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

You give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and he returns it before you shake your head in an attempt to change the mood.

“I’m not kidding about the slacks, by the way.” It immediately relieves some of the tension that had settled in comfortably.

"Yeah, hold on, I'll lift my leg up," Steve affirms, clearing his throat.

“Damn right. Let’s see if we can score another flavour, I know you get hungry at night.”

Next part

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #captain america x reader #captain america x you #mcu fic #marvel fic #steve rogers fic #captain america fic #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers series #captain america fluff #captain america angst #captain america series

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just-a-whole-bunch-of-reblogs · 7 months

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Copy-pasted from another poster, which I'm leaving anonymous (the reblogs for that post were turned off by the time I found it, and I copy-pasted the text instead of taking screenshots because I didn't want to type out the alt text):

"I have been noodling over posting this for several days but I think it's important for some people to hear.

At a March on Saturday, at a pro Palestine march, my group and I were targeted by by nazis. Not targeted for violence, but targeted for recruitment. They weren't wearing swastikas, they weren't spewing blatant antisemitic hate speech. They seemed like two normal dudes. They marched with us, talked about how awful everything in Palestine was, how we wished world leaders would grow a pair and hold Israel responsible for fucking war crimes, how existing in the world right now was hard. They were empathetic, they were kind, they seemed like genuine good dudes.

Until we passed a synagogue where people were handing our water to marchers. They had signs defending Palestine on their table. But the tone of the conversation changed. These two seemingly normal dudes started talking about how "performative" the gesture felt, that Jewish people should be doing more. That they needed to PROVE it. They started talking about "Zionist" propaganda in the US, about how it was deeply entrenched in capitalism. Things that, on the surface, seemed reasonable but it set off alarm bells in my head.

When I was a kid, I remember getting the speech of "don't repeat anything your uncle or cousin so and so says and don't argue with them. Try to avoid them but if you can't be polite." Because those uncles and cousins said a lot of hateful things about anyone who wasn't like them, but their favorite targets were black people and Jewish people. I would find out as an adult it was because many of those uncles and cousins were in the Klan. When I studied hate symbols for a class in college, I found my self looking at images I'd seen on arms and necks and hands my whole life, because I live in an area of the US where the KKK is still around. And standing in that crowd, listening to these guys talk, i had the most horrible realization I've had in a long time.

We were being fished by Nazis. We were a group of able body, white American leftists. At a march in support of stopping the murder and genocide of Palestinians, these motherfuckers were out here, trying to find people they could get to hate Jewish folks. I wasn't the only one in my group who clocked it, and when we called them on it, the masks came off. They called us a bunch of "Jew loving bitches" before they moved on.

But we're marched with these guys for a couple hours, talked with them, laughed with them, brought them into our circle. For a moment we forgot we also weren't immune to propaganda, we weren't immune to people who make hate sound reasonable and that people like that never start out saying the quiet part out loud, they lean on your anger and your sense of helplessness to move you where they want you. If the last eight years has taught us anything, it's that fascists know how to adjust to the times, to work with what they got, to recruit. They know how to radicalize people, how to weaponize anger and helplessness. And I'm sitting here, every day, seeing posts that sound exactly like these guys did and it worries me.

I know I'm talking to the No Reading Comprehension Website, but I'm begging you guys to develop some now.

You are not immune to propaganda. We are all angry, as we fucking should be. We are watching an entire culture, thousands of lives, whole bloodlines, being wiped out in real time, and for many of us our nations are at best, wringing their hands, and at worst, shipping them weapons, all to protect capitalist greed. It's monstrous, it's disgusting. But look, REALLY LOOK, at the things you are tweeting, sharing, look at the language and how it's used. Take the time to educate yourself about how hate groups use social justice causes and civil unrest to recruit, research the posts your spreading, check your sources. If you are out protesting, be situationally aware, and do not be afraid to clock and call out Nazis. Listen to Jewish people, listen to their concerns, educate yourself on what Zionism and antisemitism actually are and how they can be weaponized. It doesn't feel as good as rage, it doesn't feel as good as having a group you can functionally rail against in a way we can't against a nation a world away, but it's a skill that's going to help you and a lot of other people in the long run."

Another poster in another reblog added:

"A lot of right-wing commentators on Twitter have pivoted to pro-Palestinian talking points and/or lies that sound good because they have a pro-Palestinian veneer. Don’t boost them. They are not your allies."

#current events #israel #palestine #antisemitism #activism #politics #important #you can recognize Palestinian people's right to live free of fear and discrimination #while ALSO recognizing Jewish people all over the world's right to live free of fear and discrimination #these things aren't at odds! in fact if you recognize all people as equals then it's the only rational conclusion you can come to!#you are not immune to propaganda #i am not immune to propaganda #in order to avoid it you have to do the work of interrogating yourself and your own beliefs and the messages of what's around you #(it's kind of ironic--the first post on/tangential to the current state of the israel-palestine mess that i actually *wanted* to reblog #and reblogs were turned off. although i can guess why)

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inkofamethyst · 7 months

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November 20, 2023

Weekend thoughts.

So I've had an album to help deal with anxiety for the past couple of years, and I think I now have an album to promote self-confidence and hype myself up before an event. Beyonce's Renaissance has been played regularly this semester (almost) straight through. It's great for a power walk to campus.

UGH okay so six months to the day after my last day of undergrad my school-supplied free HBO Max subscription was cruelly ripped from my grasp without warning. I knew it was coming eventually, and I've been working on clearing my watchlist for months. Unfortunately, their bet was totally on point. I immediately resubscribed. And best believe imma watch every CENT's worth (I watch a minimum of 1-2 Batman episodes a day these days, and when you consider the convenience, the cost isn't bad). So it seems that my streaming service hopping has begun, as it's neither necessary nor responsible to pay for several services that all have the same role. (I might let Max go over break to focus on reading and watching shows on my parents' accounts at home.)

My... ceramics-friend (a cohort member) invited me to a friendsgiving she was hosting (she knows a lot of people who live in the area), and it was not a bad time at all. I get nervous in situations (lol there could be a full stop right here) where I only know the host, but a couple of people I knew/was acquainted with showed up and that made things a bit better. I employed my usual strategy of "find a place to sit and then stay there" and that was good. I didn't stay to the end, but pretty close. I did meet some really cool people!! (Side note: I don't really drink bc I don't care for the taste, but we're now at the age where a goldenish drink is more likely to be gin with other flavors than apple juice and now I know that it is absolutely necessary to ask what something is before filling a glass (but best believe I finished my whole (tiny) glass like a big girl). I tell people that I'm a bit stunted due to covid but truthfully it's just because I'm pathetic boring uh uhh.. intensely introverted (still gotta mind how I talk about myself these days, even an unchecked joke could set my progress back)).

This summer I'd bought two pairs of Docs (one on a whim and then another that I'd wanted for years and years) because they were both ridiculously discounted. I'd broken in the impulse pair over the last several months (1461 patents, they're going to be my ~conference docs~ I think) then a week or so ago decided to start breaking in the other pair (1460 Nappa). Ngl, I thought they were a huge mistake at first. Tight, inflexible, tough to put on. My feet HURT. But. After a couple of days out (only a few hours at a time), they feel quite a bit better. Still months to go, I know, but I feel relieved.

Last thing: after having my third eye opened to the idea of building equity through a house and feeling intense rage against the idea of renting for the rest of my life (specifically if I choose to settle in one place), I've come to realize that this foreverrent thing touches more than just housing. I want to own my favorite albums now, my favorite movies, shows. I don't want my ability to consume my favorite media to be at the mercy of a streaming service. The most difficult part of that though (after figuring out the list of what I want to own and also paying for it over time) is figuring out where to store the hard copies. This might be a problem I spend more time working out this summer when there's less going on, but now that I'm ~radicalized~ I just wanted to state that it's on my radar. It's probably not reasonable to chip away at this while I'm in this apartment since it won't be my final place in grad school and I don't want to move more boxes than needed.

Today I'm thankful for.. uhm uhh OH I'm thankful that the clicking noises don't wake me up at night anymore.

I wonder how much of that half circle skirt I'll be able to complete at home over break [edit, four days later: none]. May have to hem during winter break.

Also the M9 reunion post-apogee was SO FUN k bye

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luna13e-blog · 1 month

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Hello

For the asks 3, 8, 13. I was going to be kind and copy and paste but the world is frustrating just now so sorry but I didn’t.

♥️♥️♥️a

Hello lovely,

And thank you. I really like to be asked. So here I come (I warn you, I am bored and chatty so it's going to be a long ass answer)

3. 3 films you could watch for the rest of your life and not get bored of?

Though one. I feel like since the pandemic my attention span shrank and since then I can barely watch 45min episodes so I'm afraid I'd get inescapably bored with any movie now. But I can tell you the movies I hold close to my heart that, perhaps, I can watch again and again even if I haven't watched them in a long time.

- Chocolat directed by Lasse Hallström, 2000. I had to google that but I know by heart that it has Johnny Depp and Juliette Binoche. I can't remember the first time I saw it but I remember it was with my mom in a time we were both having a fangirling time over Depp. I know I watched it at least three times after that, once I forced my crush at the time to watch it when I was a teen and I know that I eventually developed a crush on Juliette Binoche (it was developed because the first time I watched I was 10 and unaware I could like girls, yes, I was already aware that I liked ratty men, blame my mom). What I love about that movie is the story it tells around women (empowered by Vianne and her sensual chocolates), strong women that leave their abusive husbands, strong women that realize the wonders of being throughly fucked, and of course the main storyline: A single mother with a 6yo daughter, trying to make a life, honor a mother and building a village when they had nothing but each other. Is sensual and magic and I love it.

- The lord of the rings trilogy. I believe I don't need to specify actors and directors on this one. I watched it several times and even when I have to admit that watching the three of them in one go is something I'm not going to do ever again, I can still fall into the comfort of any of the three movies at any time. I'm a bit of a geek about how things are done and all the work they put in that movie (the camera tricks to make the hobbits look smaller, the detail in the costume's design, the architecture, the hundreds of extras they had to dress up because CGI was still shitty) still leaves me in awe. That and the fact that I believe the battle of Helm's Deep is still the best night stormy battle ever filmed (cof, not like certain GoT battles in the last seasons, cof). And I like the music. I also spent many hours shredding this movies into pieces with my favorite cousin because we read the books and a bookworm doesn't forgive certain things, but I was 9 (yes, I consumed that fucking huge trilogy at 9yo) and he was 19 and I'm forever thankful for the bonding opportunity those movies provided that otherwise would've been complicated to have.

- Arrival, directed by Denis Villeneuve, 2016. This is probably the only movie that doesn't involve bonding with people I love, but it does involve something I love ferociously: language. And something that fascinates me: Deep space and its creatures and the relativity of time. You already know that I like to nerd about memory, and that I've researched about how memory is altered by the words we use to tell it, how it changes it so deeply that it can also alter the perception of a given fact for a whole community. This movie explores that but instead of memories with the future, with a language so powerful that can alter the way we perceive time. And I find this amazing and beautiful. Because I do believe that words can alter time.

8. any reacquiring dreams?

Sadly, no. I used to have some when I was little but I don't remember them anymore and lately it's uncommon that I dream, and when I do I don't repeat it (thankfully because it's mostly nightmares).

13. what are you doing right now?

A weird question since evidently I am answering this ask, but alas, as I stated I'm a bit bored so I can elaborate. I'm sitting in the dark on the little thingy that's not a stool nor a chair by my living room window in a hoodie and underwear. I was smoking while I was answering the first question but I've stoped now, so in this second I'm regretting the decision to stay here since this thingy doesn't allow me to rest my back, I keep crouching over my phone because I am blind and I don't have my glasses on and my shoulders and neck are killing me. This fact explain why the other thing I'm doing is craving a massage. I'm also singing incessantly in my mind "and for a fortnight there we were forever", just that sentence in a loop. I also am thinking (yes, I type things and think about another) about a draft I was writing about Moody!Barty before I decided I didn't have the energy to pull it off tonight and drifted to this ask and, at the same time, thinking about an Evan's reply I started for you but decided it was starting to get uncannily sad so I moved to sad Moody!Barty and ended up here. I promise if you read all this I'll get your reply tomorrow.

Sending you many many squeezing hugs.

Btw, I don't know if it was a random choice or not, but 3, 8 and 13 are among my favorite numbers because they belong to the Fibonacci sequence. The 5 is missing between 3 and 8, but it'll do 😉

#silly little tumblr games #I love this asks

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doctorbrown · 7 months

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DOCTOBER '23 ⸺ 「 31 / 31 * FINALE | HEART 」

March 8, 1929

Whenever Erhardt was at the courthouse, if Emmett wasn't in his room, pouring over works that would make his father red-faced and angry, he could be found with a pillow propped up against the grandfather clock in the living room, leaning back and reading whatever caught his eye this time.

It had become a pattern over the years, one Sarah had learned quite quickly after the first two times wondering where her son had run off to when he wasn't anywhere to be found in his room. Emmett was at his most comfortable when his father wasn't at home—and she couldn't blame him for that, despite how she'd tried to soften the tension between her husband and her child—and he didn't hesitate to take full advantage of the house when it was open to him.

Sarah quirks a brow upon seeing the book clutched in Emmett's hands. ❝Are you reading one of my science-fiction novels again?❞

❝Father isn't home to yell at me for wasting my time reading this worthless trash.❞ He puts on his best impression of his father as he can, mimicking the gruffness of his voice and the accent he'd yet to lose even after nearly twenty years here. ❝He wouldn't even listen to me when I told them they were educational, because they were about science.❞

Sometimes, his parents seem like fire and ice compared to each other, opposites in every way eternally fated to clash, especially where their interests are concerned; there are days he simply can't understand how they get along.

❝I found this hidden in your library.❞ He holds up the copy of A Voyage to Arcturus he'd swiped, knowing he won't be reproached for his choice in reading material. Finally, he looks away from the book, and Emmett purses his lips, studying his mother's done-up hair and full state of dress, coming to the conclusion she must be going out again for some of the day's chores.

He wonders if this time, he'll be forced to go along.

❝You know your father usually gets home around five,❞ she says, prompting Emmett to lift his head as high as he can to see the hands of the grandfather clock above him, ❝so be cautious how long you spend out here, dear.❞ The time currently reads 11:00 exactly and he frowns.

❝Is Father ever going to get our grandfather clock repaired? It has been broken for weeks and I really liked the hourly chimes.❞

❝He said he sent out for a repairman, but that was two weeks ago and I've heard nothing since. At this rate, I don't know when it'll be repaired. I'll bring it up to him tonight at dinner. Speaking of—Emmett, I'm going out to pick up some groceries. I trust you'll behave for a few hours while I'm out?❞

Emmett nods and with a quick goodbye, Sarah closes the door behind her, leaving him alone.

The book in his hands no longer holds his interest. Now that they've brought it up, all he can think about is the broken clock, whose mechanical songs have been sorely missed over the past few weeks. The clock had always been a constant, a comfort, a staple in the house as far back as he can remember, and he'd found himself on more than one occasion peering into the glass, watching the pendulum swing and the weights dance with their precise, rhythmic grace.

It was as close to watching time live and breathe as he could get and it had captivated him, as did the smaller clocks set up in the house.

Just a few months ago, he'd disassembled the small bedside clock in his room to see how it worked and had managed to put it back together without either of his parents figuring out.

If he could do that, surely he could fix this one, his favourite clock in the entire house.

His father clearly didn't see the importance of having it operational again—that, or he simply didn't care—and he could already imagine how the conversation at dinner would go. Poorly. And the clock would remain broken for another several weeks.

If he didn't, nobody else would.

Emmett checks to make sure his mother really has left before he hurries to the storage room to dig out the toolbox he'd seen his father use several times.

It's heavier than he remembers, but his mind is made up and nothing is going to get in the way of his goal, even if he has to drag the box the rest of the way towards the house.

As he peers inside the glass, he starts to take stock of all the pieces within, studying each of them carefully as if the answer will suddenly leap out at him. There could be any number of things that silenced the clock and as far as he's concerned, the best solution is to start carefully removing pieces until he can pinpoint the culprit.

For a moment, the task feels gargantuan, what with all the sprawling, delicate clockwork, but he's got his wits, his determination, and his trusty toolbox, so as he stands on his toes, reminding himself to be slow and cautious, it starts to feel more doable.

I should start from the top down.

The side door only takes a little wiggling to get loose and Emmett marvels at the first real look he's ever gotten at the movement, glittering gold in its wooden case. His eyes widen at the mechanical marvel twisting before him and he finds it even more appealing than the ornate carvings inlaid into the dark cabinet.

The front door swings open easily and Emmett's touch is almost featherlight as he pulls the hands off the movement. The clock face looks unsettling without the hands there, almost like it's naked, and he frowns as he sticks the hands in his pockets for safekeeping.

Everything has to come out in order for him to properly inspect it, but the question now becomes how. How does he remove the movement without further damaging what he's trying to repair?

Emmett sticks his head through the open side panel again and lets out an excited aha! when he spots the latches holding the face of the clock in place. A firm push knocks it free and sends the face clattering to the ground. He winces at the sound, but a quick inspection reveals no new damage—nothing has snapped off or bent or broken, so he must still be okay.

The relief he feels at that is short-lived when he realises he has no idea what to do next.

He presses his lips together in thought and reaches back through time to try and feel around the different pieces of the machine. This is all just another puzzle, one created by someone who may understand time better than him, but he has science on his side, and if he follows the cables and pulleys back to their origin point, where they connect must be the problem.

A broken gear, perhaps, or a bent hammer, or something has gotten knocked out of place.

When he tries to pull at the movement again, it remains stubbornly locked in place, and so he drops his focus down to the weights dangling lifelessly at the end of their golden ropes.

Those, too, clatter to the ground in perfect synchronisation with the loud yelp of surprise he lets out.

The rest of the pieces follow unceremoniously after, one-by-one until he's left cradling the silent heart of the clock in his hands.

Emmett turns it over in his hands, scrutinising it from corner-to-corner to try and spot anything that screams this, this is the problem!

❝Emmett Lathrop Brown!❞ That cold, booming voice strikes fear straight into his chest and Emmett immediately freezes, clutching the clock's heart to his chest like a shield. He's sitting in the centre of the half-circle of dismembered clock parts and no amount of trying to talk his way out of this one is going to make him look any less guilty than he is.

His father's anger could level the house. He can feel it, a thousand white-hot blades digging into his skin, even from across the room.

He tries to look up at the clock above him, but instead of helping him, it screams accusations.

❝Y-Yes, Father?❞

#doctober 2023 #a broken clock may be right twice a day but in this case it was very wrong rip emmett #and with that...doctober is over!! it's bittersweet but i'm also thankful and i feel like i've grown more confident as a writer for this #fandom even if just by a little. to all who've read and liked and commented and reblogged any of these prompts i thank you wholeheartedly #you've definitely kept me going with your enthusiasm and i appreciate you greatly for it #i feel like emmett's love for reading definitely came from his mum and sarah is one of those types of people who will read a wide array #of different types of genres #and she likes to collect books too which young emmett helped himself to whenever erhardt wasn't around #it was basically their little secret #also the fact that even in the delorean owner's manual doc talks about the fact that his mum and dad did not part on good terms #just lends weight to this theory of mine; it was probably the culmination of a lot of bs and them not being fully compatible and the fact #that well he just treated their kid like shit and she was not about that #and in the comics erhardt was basically like 'you're just as stubborn as your son' just lends me to believe that he was not the #type of person who did well with others who didn't fully bend to his will #&; a great idea can change the world 「 hc 」#also given the origin of the grandfather clock and the neat science behind it #it seems so fitting that it be used as a main catalyst in doc's life - and that he'd love it #he just wanted to fix the clock okay and as you do when you're young you think you can do everything #doc being also wicked smart and too curious for his own good def didn't help but #doc's obsession with time and clocks is everything to me tbh #every clock is a little different and they all tell different stories and time is such a fascinating concept #man-made perhaps but still

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b0rtney · 5 months

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Trolls pretending to be nice, and nice people pretending to be trolls

As an author trying to promote her independently published novel on a clock-sounding app ticking away towards monetizing our attention and its purchasing power more and more openly, it's rare that a video of mine gets more than 500 views despite my nearly 80,000 followers. I did have a video recently get 'big' (around 100k views in 24 hours or so), and it was, of course, about shonen anime and the dearth of enjoyable ones recently made, in my opinion. I am a pretty lesbian girl with purple hair, so whenever I make any content about my opinions on male-targeted anime, I get heated responses. Death and rape threats in quantities large enough that I've privated my channel for three months are reactions I've gotten from the community at large, and nothing really dents your self-confidence after that, so I was ready for that as I waded through over a thousand comments to farm for content that I could somehow, in some way, relate back to my novels. To my absolute pleasant surprise, most of the comments were very respectful, even when disagreeing vehemently with me! I was able to have fun with replying to as many as I feasibly could, giving my opinions on different shows and, finally, someone asks the golden question: "if you think you can do better, why don't you?" They were intending to be condescending and a little snide, but my eyes lit up like a cat at Christmas lights and I immediately replied with a video to the effect of: "I'm so glad you asked! I can do better, and here is where you can find me doing better in all of the genres I'm critiquing plus a few more." The response in the comments of that video were overwhelmingly positive. "This sounds so fun!" and "Can you give me a link to copy/paste?" and "When is this coming out?" I got a few sales out of it even. Thank you, catty internet troll! From that video, I got a series of comments essentially telling me to check my DMs, from a 25-year-old amateur beatboxing guy. I don't accept unsolicited messages willy-nilly, but when I checked my 'message requests,' I found this guy essentially saying my work was awful, but he was going to give me five stars as an Amazon review anyways, so I could grow my influence. I laughed and ignored the message. Two hours later, this guy sends a second message saying he "thought about it some more" and was actually proud of me, saying that the flaws he had previously pointed out could be workshopped into a passable narrative voice and, for an amateur author, I was doing pretty good.

Beloved friends, I have been writing for 15 years. I have written over 70 short stories and eight or so novels, with frequent workshopping from other professional and academic authors. I have a degree in English and Creative Writing.

That all to say, this guy was not getting under my skin, because I know my writing is good and that guy is just a dick explaining my own field to me. Whatever. I laughed about it with some other writing friends. Later, in the comments of that same video, I got a commenter who called me, "cringe," and "hateful." These comments stuck out because they felt strangely dissonant for the video they were posted under. There was no reference to what was cringe, and the video is expressly kind in tone and content. Someone else commented asking them, "what do you mean?" and the troll replied, "just watch her other videos" while calling me hateful again. I saw the same account post similarly rude comments under several of my other videos. All of them had the same general theme: something that was not, in all actuality, very mean or based in reality, but would make great rebuttal fodder where I could paint myself as a poor, sweet victim of a cruel smear campaign. Not just that, they were liking several videos too! As I said, I've experienced hatewaves, so I can recognize them, and this was decidedly not that. No, this person, the best I can tell, is trying to help me and my content by getting people to rush to my defense! It seems to be a burner account, with no followers or following, so there's no way to tell if it's someone I know, but what a strangely kind thing to do!

Keep on trucking, you kind little troll account! And to anyone reading this, be aware that these algorithms on these clock apps farm negative content, so while I can find the beauty in it, please release yourself from the expectation that it must be so enjoyable.

Oh, and buy my book.

#tiktok #author things #promoting books as an author #indie author #algorithm shenanigans #idk how to tag being so so real XD

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incaensio · 9 months

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Con: [Interrogation] Heavensbee was a hack, wasn't he? With you being his number two, people are wondering. We all know you make dumb decisions sometimes, Snow. [Snickers] Awfully convenient that you were home. If we start browsing footage, messages, emails, and the like, are we gonna find things you've been desperate to hide?

"number two? you're making me out to be bigger than i am, general." as if the very presence of the higher-ranking man wasn't proof of constantinus' importance — rather, his name's. there's a small crack in his haggard confidence at the dig, though, a furrow of his fair brows. his grandfather must have approved a harsher line of questioning, even a mention of his past mistakes, but that probably wouldn't mean that his suspicions were raised. would it? "my grandfather asked for me to be at home. you may check with him if you'd like." the shrug is secure under the mask again, a dare offered.

Con: [Interrogation] You've benefitted the most about the systems in place here. Why bite the hand that feeds you? Besides, we have intel telling us that you might have aided in the kidnapping of Cordelia Snow. Why put her in the hands of savages, Constantinus? Was it that depressing not being either of your grandparents' golden grandchild?

see, poking him about not being the golden child may have hurt a few years, maybe a decade ago. he was the first born grandchild, shouldn't he have been a natural successor? it's not like uncle bad copy (coriolanus the second, the heir himself)'s boys were much brighter than he is. hadn't he done enough to make up for his father's failing?

now, it's just a bit too funny that it's a struggle for him to keep from smiling. still, he does, instead rolling his eyes. "what fucking world you live in that you think i'd be jealous of my baby cousin? like we aren't basically siblings. do you think i'd turn her to anyone seeking to harm her?" he's hoping there's a spike in a machine, transmiting the racing in his heart, obviously caused by his heated offense at this. "what's the intel, pray tell? that i gave her a fucking car? maybe that's something people like you can't do, but it's no big deal between us. if she needs a fucking hovercraft, we can get her one. i'm not going to pry on cora's life." he glares, and then there's a beat, when his face falls a little. he has years of rehearsed and swallowed tantrums to back up this little acting piece. "though maybe i should have had."

Con: [Interrogation] Nonetheless if you moved Cora, her blood will be on your hands. It will be just like Nadia's blood, Constantinus. So just tell us, when did you and Plutarch Heavensbee decide on rigging the arena?

it's been hours. the both of them are tired, that's clear. it's also obvious that they both want this to be over, so the interrogator is not going to be holding back punches just because he's a snow. another thing he's figured out? his family is definitely onto him. either that be the old man, or uncle coriolanus, or his brats, or anyone else (grandma? would she think it wise to share his grandest shame with someone else?), someone thinks it's best to fuck him over if it means getting the truth.

a truth he can't never let out, that he has to shape, somehow, into something else. he runs his hands through his face, a heavy sound muffled — a groan, maybe a sob. whatever sells this. "i know. god, i know. i shouldn't have — shouldn't have trusted the driver. i should have gone with her. fuck's sake." he keeps his hands on his face, like his shame is too big to be shared with the interrogator — and the several people who will certainly watch this footage, seeking the lies in his behavior.

"but i've got nothing to do with plutarch's plans. you've said it yourself, whatever would i gain from this? another woman i love dead? god." he unveils his face, ruddy and a bit wet (if he presses his eyes and a point in his head hard enough, that makes him cry; nevermind that the tears-trigger has already been pushed at the mention of nadia), then shakes his head. "i don't know when plutarch thought of it. sure, the arena is a collaboration, but the head gamemaker has the final saying, he's the one with control to its weaker sides. how would i even know the woman from seven would go out of her mind like that?"

#— 𝐶. 𝑆. : written.#eventidepast #eventideevent04

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acethatlovesdinos · 19 days

Text

I made this a long time ago, when I was first struggling with undiagnosed, unmedicated, and untreated depression and anxiety. (I think I was like 13 or 14???)

I've always been better at processing physical words, so writing and poetry became a strong outlet in that time frame.

When I wrote this, I was in a bad place, I would like to make that clear.

My mom showed it to my doctor when I finally spoke up about the issue, and he, as well as a few other professionals, told me I had put the topic of Depression into clearer words than many adults they'd treated in the past, and that I should publish that writing one day, because maybe it'd help some other people make sense of things too.

Anyway, here that is. It's completely unchanged from the day I wrote it, just a copy/paste from the original document.

Trigger warning for blatant description of severe depressive and anxiety symptoms, as well as brief mentions of self harm and suicide.

(btw I am now 19, I am okay, I got help years ago, everything is fine. You aren't alone, either. No one is beyond saving. I love you!)

--------------

I think it's depression.

I mean, why else would I feel like this? This is definitely not a way normal people feel and think. They don’t feel worthless or hopeless or like they’d be better off dead. They don’t stay awake until past eleven and wake up at 3 in the morning. They don’t spend half their nights crying silently because they’re worthless and broken and a waste of space. They don’t pray only to ask God why they’re like this. They don’t fall into tears about the most stupid things and act totally numb about the biggest tragedies.

They don’t think about what would happen if they caused physical harm to themselves. But I do. I feel worthless and hopeless and like I'm a waste of space. I spend hours at night just staring at my ceiling wondering why. Why I exist. Who would miss me if I wasn’t there? Who would even notice? Who would care? I wonder if death hurts sometimes. But I wouldn’t kill myself. Suicide doesn’t end the pain, it just passes it on to someone else.

Should I tell someone about this? Probably. But the biggest problem is that I can’t explain it. I can’t explain what’s wrong. I feel scared and sad and tired. All the time. And people ask me why I’m scared or what makes me sad, I can’t say why because I don’t exactly know myself. There’s just this constant feeling following me around and I don’t know why. Then they’ll say something like, “then stop being sad!” or “Don’t be afraid!” But they don’t understand. Fear isn’t a thing you can just…turn off. Especially when you don’t know what it is you’re afraid of. No one understands me because I don’t understand me.

I’m scared. I’m scared because I don’t know what it is. I’m human, okay? I fear the unknown. But I’m even more scared to identify the unknown. Because if I have depression, I’m broken. If I have depression, I fall under the category of “sad” in most people’s radar. When people think of depression, they think sad. They think of crying all night wrapped in blankets and watching youtube on your phone. But that’s only the tip of the very, very, very, very deep iceberg.

You can still feel happy when you’re depressed. It’s just that the feeling doesn’t last. You feel like everything that goes wrong is your fault. And you’re not always sad. If you were sad, at least you’d be feeling something. You just feel…numb. You don’t feel anything and struggle to focus or notice anything unless it’s right in front of your face. Even then, you hardly realize what it is. I wish people would understand this. But no one understands.

When people ask, “Do you wanna talk about it?” The answer is no, I don’t want to talk about it. I want to box up these feelings in a steel chest, lock it with a combo lock, tie it with chains, weld it shut, and throw it into the bottom of the Mariana Trench so I don’t have to think about it ever again. But I know I can’t do that. I’d like to, but I can’t. Because feelings aren’t physical objects. They aren’t something you can just throw away and forget about. They can’t be traded or lost. They can’t be sold for extra cash. The only things you can do is lock them away or share them.

It’s quiet. Terrifyingly quiet. Or it’s loud. Deafeningly loud. There’s no middle ground. Likewise, you either feel utterly alone or like you’re in the constant spotlight with everyone looking at you. You don’t control which one it is, you don’t control how you feel.

When you’re in the backseat of your own mind and you can’t see the driver, it’s one of the scariest things in the world. You’re not in control. You don’t know where you’re going. You think you’re going to crash. Then you don’t. You swerve out of the way and keep going. This happens again and again until you’re tired of it and actually hope you crash so it will end. You’re dizzy from the turns and you feel sick. You want to pull over, take a five minute break from going ten thousand miles an hour. But it doesn’t stop. It keeps going.

The only reason you don’t lose your lunch is because you likely didn’t eat any. For whatever reason, your appetite changes. Either you’re eating too much or not enough.

You lose almost everything that makes you happy.

For me, part of me knows this feeling is totally irrational and there’s no reason I should feel like the sad excuse of a human being that I feel I am. Time and time again, I try to change my mindset, make myself feel like what others praise me for. But it doesn’t work. Part of me wants to just give in to these feelings and reduce myself to a sad blanket-lump.

I try to ignore it. I try to fight it. But the fight never ends.

Do you know what insanity is? The true definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result each time you do so. So I’m insane. I fight those thoughts, each time expecting them to stay down, to let me win. But they keep getting back up. When I get knocked down, I get up, despite knowing it’s going to knock me down again. That’s just further proof of my insanity.

I’m tired. I’m tired of putting on a fake smile. I’m tired of saying I’m fine. I’m tired of lying. I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of yelling. I’m tired of being tired.

I’d like to give up, but school is in the way. School doesn’t matter anymore though. Grades? They’re just stress numbers. Numbers that somehow define your entire performance. I used to have good numbers, good reviews of my performance, but I’ve stopped caring. I’m more worried about surviving a school day with dry eyes than quadratic functions. I’m more worried about making sure I don’t break down than moon phases. I’m more worried about just surviving overall than trying to read in a language I’m just going to forget after a few weeks of summer.

One might think: If you’re hurting this badly, why haven’t you told anyone? If you’re hurting so much, why didn’t you ask for help before it got this bad? I didn’t tell anyone because I was afraid of becoming a problem. I was afraid of becoming a burden, dragging you down with me. I was afraid that this might be contagious, so I kept myself shut up so that no one has to suffer like I do.

And that, right there. “Suffer like I do.” That makes me sound like I’m the middle of the universe, doesn’t it? ‘Oh, woe is me! I cannot function because I feel sad!’ I’m afraid people will view me like that if I open up.

But it’s gotten too bad to hide at this point. I’m to the point where I have trouble with finding the urge to get up in the morning. I can’t find the urge to go to school. I can barely find the urge to even just live sometimes. I just want to give up and go back to bed.

-----------

I promise. None of you have to suffer alone in whatever you're going through. People can and will help you, if you let them. I understand that it's hard to ask for help, personal pride can genuinely get in the way of things. But if you want help and are truly looking to improve, you can and you will. I love you dearly, and I hope you're doing well. 💜💜💜 just know that there's always someone who cares. You're loved and cherished, each and every one of you! :]

#youre not alone #none of us are #it gets better #youll be okay #i promise #mental health awareness #mental health #depression awareness #depression #anxiety awareness #anxiety #tw suicidal thoughts #tw anxiety #tw depression

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willowbleedsonpaper · 3 years

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Winter In The Shade I

Part I

Sirius Black x Ravenclaw Reader

W.C. : 2184

Requested by @amourtentiaa : It is Sirius' fifth year at Hogwarts, the same year he ran away from home and to the Potter's. Soon, he discovers the unfamiliar sight of his brother Regulus smiling and looking truly happy, next to him a Ravenclaw girl who immediately captures his interest. What will happen when the Black family gets involved in their sons lives and the ones they hold close to their hearts?

Warnings: None.

Want to know when I post the next part? Add yourself to my taglist!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Regulus Black. The boy who was always by himself. He never seemed to smile, never laughed, he never had something funny to say. He looked the way a living statue would, walking around the castle with a monotonous look on his face, a perfect appearance, and the most flat sound of voice. Was he even alive? Many had asked themselves as they watched him walk past them.

You were about to find out he was indeed alive and, even if he wouldn’t admit it himself, in much need of a friend.

It was late at night, several hours after dinner, when you found yourself walking to the library for the fourth time that week. You had an herbology essay to write and were in need of a lot of research if you expected a decent grade, for some reason the exact book you were looking for was always taken, and there was only one copy of said book. Just your luck! At that point you didn’t even stop to ask for the book, just walking to the shelf where you already knew the book was supposed to be.

“Damn it.” you grunted, running your hand over the spines of the books there as you reached the empty space where the book was supposed to be. You lowered your head in exasperation, starting to read over the rest of the titles there to see if one could be of any use. You tilted your head, reading the titles in low murmurs as you walked backwards. “Ouch!” you complained, your hand instantly shooting to the side of your head where the hard feeling of what you saw was a book hit you.

“Are you alright?” asked the boy with a slight furrow of his eyebrows, placing the book he held now on the table as he neared you.

You shook your head lightly, getting the pain out of your head as you gave the boy a soft smile “I’m just fine.” you sighed, running a hand through your face as your eyes landed on the table next to you “No way.” you muttered in surprise, grabbing the book by the table and holding it to his face “Did you just hit me with Flesh-Eating Trees of the World ?”

Baffled, the boy gave you a nod “I believe so.” he said, watching as a smile appeared on your face before he said “I’m… Sorry?”

“Don’t be.” you mused “You won’t be needing this anymore, would you?” you asked, the relieved look on your face as he shook his head making him even more confused but managing to bring the smallest of smiles over his features “Thanks Merlin, I've been looking for this book over four days now.”

“I just managed to get it this morning.” he told you, your mind finally snapping out of its thoughts and more on the boy next to you.

You tilted your head, looking up at him with a kind smile “Well thank you for hitting the side of my head, I really needed it.” you said “And the book, of course.” you chuckled “It’s Regulus, right? Regulus Black.”

He awaited for the inevitable Sirius’ younger brother or any kind or relation to his older brother, but when you said nothing and just stared at him waiting for his answer he limited himself to nod.

You offered your hand to him with a kind look “Y/N Y/L/N.” you introduced yourself, shaking his hand eagerly once he took hold of yours. “I should be going now, but it was really nice talking to you.” you said, grabbing your things and walking away from him. You took one last look at him, waving your hand with a smile as his head followed your movements until you were nowhere to be seen.

His hand felt tingly as if the energy from your person remained in his skin, leaving an almost warm feeling he couldn’t quite place but he found himself looking for even more. He wanted to know more about you.

*******

You spent day and night reading the book, your essay nowhere finished as you still struggled with some of the terms there. You furrowed your eyebrows, scratching the back of your head as you turn the page back “What in Merlin's name is that?” you muttered to yourself as you turned yet another page back, looking for the term you knew but didn’t remember the meaning of. Your eyes were focused over the pages, running your fingers along the lines as you took your quill and a stray piece of parchment, taking quick notes of all the information you needed to remember.

“Healing properties?” you read, writing it down as your face turned into one of disbelief “Don’t know about that one… Side effects, that’s more like it.” you mumbled, writing furiously, not even noticing the scrap of the chair against the floor as someone took the seat in front of you.

“Do you always comment on everything you're reading?”

You rolled your eyes, looking up to see who was disturbing you when your face fell and quickly turned into a surprised one “Regulus.” you breathed out with a smile “I didn’t see you there, How are you?” you asked genuinely, putting your quill down.

“I’m fine.” he said softly, motioning with his eyes to the little mess before you “Still writing the Herbology essay?”

You groaned, letting your head fall back “Sadly, yes.” you sighed “Don’t tell anyone but Herbology isn't my strong suit.”

“Then I won’t bother you any longer.” he said “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked you and you shook your head, his eyes flashing with a glint you never thought you’d see in his eyes.

For hours, the two of you worked on silence. The ruffling of pages, quills clinking against the bottles of ink and your low murmurs as you read over and over the pages the only sounds that flowed in the air inside the small study bubble the two of you created. At times he would ask you questions, little things he didn’t quite understand and at last, you did the same.

“Regulus?” you called, the hum you got as a response making you continue “You already finished the essay, right?” you asked.

He lifted his eyes slowly, looking at you before he nodded “Yes.” he answered simply “Why?”

You took the book before you and slid it across the table, his eyebrows scrunched together as he followed your finger “Do you think you could explain this to me?” you asked, tapping the line in the book.

He broke into a small smile, nodding his head before he lifted his eyes and met yours “Only if you tell me one thing.” he said, making you curious.

“Alright.” you said doubtfully.

“How long have you been waiting to ask me that?” he asked and your jaw dropped before you could stop it.

“I-I…” you stuttered, the smile on his lips making you even more frustrated “Oh, shut it.” you grunted, fighting the smile that threatened to grow on your lips. But he raised an eyebrow as he returned to his own book, your smile finally breaking as you reached to take the book from him “Really?” you asked.

“You want your answers, I want mine.” he said calmly.

You playfully glared at him, squinting your eyes before you sighed “An hour.” you mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest.

He let out a breathy chuckle, taking the book from your hand “How Ravenclaw of you.” he said under his breath.

You smirked at the comment, leaning down on the table to get a better look of the book as you said “Your one to talk.” you said with an amused look on your face “The Slytherin that had to embarrass me first to help me.”

You both laughed at your attitudes, the smiles now permanent on your faces as the playful bickering never ended. Not that day or any other, it became a habit for the two of you to meet at the same table to study, get homework done and read the entire library out of fun.

There wasn’t a day you didn’t see him, and people started to notice.

“I’m going to the library.” you said, getting up from the spot in the grass you sat at with your friends.

“Going to see Black, again?” One of your friends asked you, the murmurs that rose from all of them making you stop.

“I am.” you said, turning to face them with a daring look “You have a problem with that?” you asked.

“Not at all.” she said, taking a look at the others surrounding her “It’s just… well, he is weird, don’t you think? Always by himself, never talks to anyone. Besides he’s a Black, nothing good can come out of that one, I’ve heard stories….”

“So you do have a problem.” you interrupted her, crossing your arms over your chest firmly “Well, you can keep your stories. And I don’t care if he is always by himself, I really don’t see the problem with that, maybe I’ll start following his example.” you spat, turning in your heel as you started to walk away.

“Y/N!” they called after you “You know we don’t mean it like that.”

“Why do you insist on spending time with him?” one of them asked.

“Because he is my friend!” you yelled, turning one last time to see them “He is my friend and I like spending time with him.” You awaited for their replies, squinting your eyes as they just stared at you with wide eyes, or what you thought it was you until you followed their gaze over your shoulder “What?” you snapped, turning sharply to find none other than Regulus standing behind you.

“Regulus.” you breathed out, letting your shoulders relax as he locked eyes with you.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Just fine.” you muttered, taking his arm and linking it with yours “I was just leaving.”

Arms linked together, you walked the halls of Hogwarts in silence, the tension in your body only rising as he stayed silent. “Wait.” you said, letting go of him as you literally let your body fall to the floor, sitting in the middle of the empty hallway “I need a moment.”

Regulus limited himself to stare at you, sitting on the floor with a furious hand running through your hair. Next thing he knew he was sitting next to you, playing with his hands.

“What are you doing?” you said suddenly, raising your head with a questioning look on your face.

He squinted his eyes “Waiting for you?” he said doubtfully.

You were supposed to be angry, not with him, but you were angry. Then why were you laughing, Regulus asking himself the same question. It didn’t take long for him to start laughing with you. It was a sight to be seen: Both of you sitting in the middle of the hall laughing.

“I’m sorry about what they said.” you said, after you both had calmed down and had spent a few minutes in silence “I really don’t know if you heard anything but… well, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” he said “I don’t care what they say. It was what you answered that I cared about.” he admitted, reaching for your hand to give it a firm squeeze “You’re my only friend.”

You smiled at that, returning the squeeze with a chuckle “You’re my only friend too.” you said, thinking about all the things that you had done together, days spent only with the other, the small jokes and things only the two of you understood “Best friend, actually.”

“Best friend.” he repeated, with a smile.

*******

Sirius Black couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw it. One afternoon, running away from Professor Mcgonagall, he took a left turn that got him separated from his friends, the familiar laughter he thought belonged to them getting him to an empty hall.

He was about to call for James, running out of a hall only to duck his head and run back to where he couldn’t be seen, his back flat on the stone wall. He was too far away to hear the words coming out of their mouths, but that wasn’t what he was more shocked about. He listened carefully, not catching anything but the carefree sound of their voices.

He took a quick glance, watching as Regulus helped the girl to her feet, linking their arms together as they walked away, the blue scarf and Y/H/C the only thing he got from the girl next to him.

Sirius wandered the halls dumbfounded, his attention no longer on the present as a body collided against his chest, the only reason he wasn’t on the floor because James held onto his shoulders. “Pads!” James said cheerfully, his face falling as he got no response “Padfoot?” he asked “You alright?”

Sirius’ eyes met with the concerned look of his friend “I saw my brother.” he blurted out “He was smiling.”

TAGS

Skittles

@iwritesiriusly / @trinimalfoyyy /

Marauders

@destourtereaux

#winter in the shade #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x ravenclaw!reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #regulus black #the marauders #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #sirius black fanfiction

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kreizlersdeadpoet · 3 years

Text

Confidence and Wit (The Boy on the Bridge) [An Alienist Fanfic]

Pairing: Fem!Oc X Laszlo Kreizler

Summary: Whilst in the early stages of solving the most recent murder to plague New York, Laszlo is introduced to a confident woman with a mysterious scar...who also happens to be John Moore's sister.

A/N: Hey, I've never written anything before! This is my first shot at writing as I have a tendency to self-insert an oc into every tv show/film that I watch so I thought I'd write this one down lol. There will most likely be more parts to this but I have no idea how to use tumblr sooo idk. Honestly this works as a self-insert I just love the name Vivian!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John Moore and Dr. Laszlo Kreizler sat around a small table in the well-lit living room of the Moore residence. Without the Zweig flie, the two men could not move forward in their investigation into the recent death of the boy on the bridge. They both sat amongst John’s drawings of the poor boy killed and several of Kreizler’s books on psychology, a topic John viewed irrelevant to the current situation.

“And how do you suppose my drawings and your books of ramblings will aid in finding the killer of this poor boy?” John questioned, already feeling the effects of the past day.

“I don’t believe it will,” Laszlo began “but it’s all we can do without the Zweig file unfortunately. I believe the post-mortem will prove invaluable to this investigation”

John poured himself another cup of tea, downing it as though it were a shot of whiskey. His head rested on the palm of his hand as he tried to process the situation he had gotten himself into over the past twenty four hours. He felt as though his spirit had temporarily dislocated from his body as images of the dead boy flashed before his eyes.

“something on you mind John?” Laszlo commented as though the past twenty four hours hadn’t happened. John’s head snapped forward,baffled by his friend's question.

“Something on my mind? Something on my min-yes Laszlo, a great deal no thanks to you!” John looked exasperated at his old friend. “Look, if we could simply rest whilst we wait to obtain the Zweig file then I would feel much better��

Laszlo shook his head slightly as he combed through another of his books. “There is no time to waste with a case like this. I fear that if I’m correct, a killer such as this will indeed kill again, and another child will be brutally mutilated”

John winced at that last part and reached to hastily pour himself another cup of tea as though it had the same effect as his beloved alcohol. All the while, a young woman had made her way down the long set of stairs in the hall of the house, heading straight to the bookshelf near the end of the living room. She wore a casual white blouse and long black skirt with waves of her hair cascading behind her. She scanned the bookshelf in silence, ignoring the two men bickering at the table as her presence went unnoticed.

“Psychology may not be of such use that it solves a case immediately, but it gives us an insight that the police tend to overlook unless I suggest it to them” Laszlo stated matter-of-factly as he recalled the many cases that went ‘unsolved’ due to the police’s reluctance to accept his perfectly valid evidence due to its root in the study of the mind.

Meanwhile the young woman had now stopped looking for books all together and instead stood listening to the conversation happening on the other side of the room.

“I don’t doubt that Laszlo, but when you claim that every individual’s actions can be explained using your studies, I’m sorry my friend but I find myself siding with the police” John chuckled, “and you know I don’t like siding with them often” he scanned the table of books before him and was suprised to see a copy of the ‘The Signal-Man’ by Charles Dickens mixed with Kreizler’s academic books. “What, and suppose you can explain to me that there’s some sort of psychological meaning behind my favourite Dickens novel too?” John said half-jokingly.

“Dickens suffered from siderodromophobia” is what Kreizler was just about to state smugly, however the doctor found he had not said a single word, and that it was someone else who had said those words. A woman.

“Dickens was victim to a train crash in 1865 and the accident had highly personal implications for him. He never recovered from the trauma; he lost his voice for two weeks following the accident." the young woman explained. "That was the inspiration for the book's plot though I’ve never actually seen you pick up an actual novel before John” she joked

The two men sat staring at the young woman, though John seemed to be staring in annoyance rather than surprise. This suggested to Kreizler that the two obviously knew each other well.

“Aren’t you supposed to be out with grandma?” John hissed, seemingly embarrassed by the young woman’s presence.

“yes, but I’m ill” is all she stated in return, grinning as she clearly saw humour in the fact that she very much did not look at all ill.

“yes, and I’m the king of England! You seem to be looking perfectly fine now. I told you I had important business to attend to today, why don’t you go out and sit in a park or something”

Laszlo sat in silence watching the two interact. He was both humoured and bewildered by the young woman’s wit.

“Important business?” she questioned “you draw pictures for a living John, I doubt it’s of any real Importance” the doctor had now noticed a strong English accent in the young woman's speech which only led to more questions.

Laszlo finally allowed himself to take in the woman’s apperence as the two continued to bicker between each other. She had dark, brown hair woven with strands of gold which were highlighted by the sunshine pouring onto her frame through the window. The sight was almost angelic Laszlo thought. Her dark brown eyes of million hues led Laszlo to question what the word “brown” even meant, and yet, there was a tiredness to her eyes that no woman of such a youthful age should ever be burdened with, he thought. That perked his curiosity. Still, her nose was in congregation with her eyes and lips to form a perfectly coordinated glow of confidence that morning. ‘Confidence and wit were a form of beauty’, something Laszlo remembered reading in one of his many books and something that certainly came to mind as he met the challenge in the woman’s eyes. However, it was the narrow thread of silver that ran from the bridge of her nose to the right side of her cheek that caught his attention the most. The scar wasn’t too prominent on her face, but it was definitely noticeable. She must have sensed his attentive eyes on her disfiguration as her confident stare diverted to the floor before she made her way over to the two men.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, John?” Laszlo asked, closing the book before him.

“Not if I can help it” John mumbled to himself before clearing his throat. “Uh, Laszlo this is Vivian Moore, Vivian this is Dr. Laszlo Kreizler, a dear old friend of mine”

“Moore?” Kreizler questioned and looked between the two. Vivian rolled her eyes. Of course, John had forgot to mention he had a sister, everyone seemed surprised to meet her when visiting the house.

“I’m his sister, unfortunately” she wore a small smile as she offered her hand out for Kreizler to shake, which he did. He wondered how Vivian had managed to go unseen for so long, after all, he and John had been good friends for a long while and never once did he mention a sister, only a brother. “of course I’ve heard a little about you Dr. Kreizler, its nice to finally meet you” Questions inevitably began to poke at Laszlo’s brain as they always did, and so the usual interviewing began.

“Your accent, its not like John’s its-“

“English, yes. I’ve lived across the pond most of my life, educated there too. I’m only here to visit for a few months before going back but i-“ Vivian's voice trailed off as her own attentive eyes then landed on the pictures sprawled across her living room table. “So it is true what they're saying about the boy on the bridge?” she asked, taking one of the drawings into her hand.

However, before she could inquire any further, John had snatched the sketch from his sister and scoffed at the change in subject. “Absolutely not” he said to himself, gathering all the drawings and placing them back into a folder. “You are not getting involved in any of this, nor will I have you pressing for information like you always do” John had also taken a mental note at how quickly his usually focused friend had now shifted all of his focus onto Vivian completely. “a woman should not even be remotely interested in such an incident as-“

“oh come on John” Vivian feigned offence as she rolled her eyes “I seem to be less troubled over a drawing than you given the irritable mood you’ve been in all morning. Don’t you know, women have their own minds now dear brother”

Laszlo smirked slightly, trying not to show John that he was taking sides despite the fact that he most certainly was. “Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes on the drawings could-" Laszlo began to suggest before being shot down immediately.

“Absolutely not!” John cried as he suddenly stood from his chair. “Laszlo, I implore you to not involve my sister in such investigations, this crime is not meant for the eyes and ears of a lady” he began clearing up the cluttered books and graphic notes that littered the table before him. John also wondered how his sister seemed so interested in the graphic depictions on his sketch paper, especially concidering certain facts of her past.

“Well, I won’t try and argue with him, he’s awfully sensitive sometimes” Vivian joked as she brushed down the front of her dress. “It was nice meeting you Dr. Kreizler, perhaps you can indulge my curiosity’s on this case when my brother is busy down the brothel” this humoured Kreizler greatly, much to his old friends distress and the sudden redness of his face.

“That’s enough Vivian” he warned as his lips tightened in annoyance. John thought that perhaps there was something in the waters of England that had made his sister return to New York with a new found cheek. Perhaps it was her new way of coping. He usually enjoyed her wit but not when it was at the expense of himself.

Vivian turned to return upstairs but before she could, Kreizler had finally spoken up again. “May I inquire about the scar on your face, Miss Moore?” he couldn’t help himself, her sudden introduction prompted too many questions from him and he needed answers. However, it very quickly became clear that perhaps he had crossed some sort of line as he watched Vivian’s radiant smile fade quicker than he could savour it.

"Laszlo!" John scolded quietly, not understanding why his friend couldn't just let people go without analysing every fibre of their existence. It doesn't take a genius like Kreizler to realise that scars never usually came accompanied with a funny origin and his sister was not an exception.

The tiredness in her eyes grew more prominent as she stared at Kreizler directly. As if she'd been asked the same question a million times prior and the answer wasn't a very nice one.

“you may not” she answered simply, her speech free of any specific emotion for Kreizler to take note of or analyse. It was clear that the doctor had struck a chord within Vivian and he almost instantly regretted his curiosity, though he would never admit that.

John had also seemed to forget his embarrassment from moments before and instead let out a small sigh that filled the rooms silence. “Vivian” he warned again, almost like a parent rather than a brother. He cared for her deeply but understood that Kreizler never meant harm in his question.

“it’s fine, I’m going. Apologies for disturbing you both” she spoke simply as she turned away from the two men and returned upstairs as silently as she had been when coming down them.

“I’m afraid i may have crossed a line?” Laszlo broke the silence as he was left again in the company of just himself and John. A small part of the doctor wished that Vivian had stayed a little longer, she seemed an interesting enough person to get to know considering she was John’s sister.

“ yes well when don’t you” John smiled sadly as his gaze lingered on the staircase momentarily. “you’ll have to forgive my sister, life has not always been too kind to her and her mood tends to change rapidly” he sat back down opposite Kreizler. He watched as his friend seemed to ignore most of this, clearly only waiting for him to reveal the truth behind the scar across his sisters face. John rolled his eyes at this. “I don’t believe it’s my position to tell you my sister’s business if she does not wish to share it herself. Besides, she’s my sister and not a child at your institute”

Suddenly, there was a frantic knock at the door and before the two men could process the sudden noise, the Moore’s resident maid had already opened the door.

Sarah Howard pushed past the maid as she made her way into the living room, a familiar sight from her childhood. “I have it” she stated boldly

“Sarah?” John questioned as he stood up once again from his seat.

“the Zweig file, I have it” Sarah marched over towards the two men and placed the file down on the table. She wanted to be a part of this investigation and Kreizler smiled unsurprisingly at her efforts.

“Thank you miss Howard, this file may indeed move the investigation forward quicker than we thought.” Though Dr. Kreizler was glad to see the file, his mind couldn’t help but wonder back to the woman he had just met. What could’ve happened to prompt such a reaction to his curiosity? And what did John mean by life not always being kind to her? Though his mind was certainly on the case of the Santorelli boy, a new line of curiosity had sparked across his mind: who was Vivian Moore?

#laszlo kreizler #John Moore #Sarah howard #The alienist #Daniel Brühl #Laszlo Kreizler x reader #Daniel Brühl x reader #andrea marowski x reader #niki lauda x reader #dr laszlo kreizler #Daniel bruhl x reader #Moore!oc #Luke Evans #Laszlo kreizler one shot #Laszlo kreizler imagine #Laszlo kreizler x y/n #Angst

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malachi-walker · 3 years

Note

Happy birthday, Mal! I love your fics, they evoke so much emotion in me and have made me cry many a time. I don't often reread fics, but i've reread multiple chapters of Rhythm and Blues because they're stuck with me so much. You capture the emotional pain of their trauma and the catharsis that comes with their growth so beautifully. You also write some brilliant meta and just consistently post some fantastic thoughts. Also your love for swords is very appreciated. <3 have a lovely day!

First of all, my apologies for not replying sooner. I was making my mind up about something that would definitely require the use of a read more and thus necessitate dragging myself to desktop (which I hate because my laptop predates the dinosaurs.)

But seriously. Thank you so much. This is honestly one of the sweetest comments I've ever gotten and definitely made my already pretty sweet bday even better.

So about that read more. In honor of you, @metalesbo, my friends @n7punk and @jem-jarrett and everyone else who sent me well wishes or just really loves my work... Here's the opening section of the next chapter of R&B. Enjoy. It's a long one.

Adora Eternia is about two months shy of her fourteenth birthday when she first realizes she's in love with her best friend.

Though--if asked--she would hasten to explain that it wasn't when she fell in love. But trying to pinpoint the exact moment is an exercise in catching mist: the more she tries to grasp it in her hands the more it spreads out and covers everything. It just is: pure and simple and very, very complicated.

It's the beginning of December and the whole town is covered in a thick blanket of snow. Winterfest will be here in a few weeks, so to help out the kids who want to get gifts for their friends the Right Zone administration has shuffled around the groups that usually take their monthly trips on the third and fourth Sundays of the month to double up with the other two. As part of group three, she and Catra got the first week (the other three members of their crew are week two folks anyway and thus outside the reorganization.)

It's still kinda weird to think that: their crew. For so long, it was just Catra and Adora. Adora and Catra. One unit bound together, just them against the world. But there's also something nice about being part of a small cluster, their "scrappy little lone wolf pack" as Catra had once put it with a wry grin before Lonnie shoved her over with an, "Excuse you, I'm a great people person when I'm not busy making sure you idiots haven't set yourselves on fire!"

They all got a good laugh out of that one.

But regardless, the holidays are coming up and this is the first year that any of their group has felt like actually doing anything for it, aside from wrangling together a sleepover and seeing if they can convince the kitchen staff to slip them some leftover eggnog.

They made each other promise not to go too extravagant and keep each person's gift to ten dollars or lower. Even though their quarterly stipend has increased from three hundred to four hundred to match with inflation over the past eight years, it still isn't a whole lot for three month's worth of expenses, especially when they also have to budget regularly for clothes to keep up with the seemingly endless growth spurts.

There's also the usual budgetary concern of keeping her and Catra's first aid kit well supplied...

Adora shakes her head to dislodge the intrusive thought and continues marching onward through the snow. This trip is a good thing. She won't let all the awful realities of their life taint it.

With so many kids running around and wanting to shop on their own to surprise their giftees, Right Zone had to negotiate with both the local police and whatever other civic authorities they could get ahold of to come out en masse and keep an eye on them all. The kids had still come with their usual teachers, of course, but doubling the load and also splitting up was a logistical nightmare. Which is just a convoluted way to say the town is positively crawling with uniformed officers, off duty members of the fire brigade, emergency personnel, and other such authority figures quietly keeping watch and making sure no one tries anything.

Adora knows that somewhere in the press of bodies, Grizzlor's busy wrangling two new "brats" (seven and nine, respectively, and definitely not friends.) Somewhere, a certain Magicat is probably grumbling over the indignity of being forced to wear shoes and kicking every snowpile she can, like she can send a direct message to whatever cosmic force is responsible for her current frustration.

On an ordinary month she and Catra--being old enough to be allowed a bit more freedom to do what they want--would buddy up to watch each other's backs while they did their shopping. But this isn't an ordinary month, so once they'd each gotten gifts for the other three they'd split up on opposite ends of Main Street with an agreement to move clockwise to avoid running into each other. Afterwards, the entire group would rendezvous at the small clock tower in the park a block over before heading back to Right Zone.

Ten dollars wasn't a lot to work with, but Adora had done her best: a new stress ball for Kyle, some moisturizing oil for Rogelio since the early winter shed had wiped out his supply and he'd been too busy to pick up some more, a twelve pound kettle weight for Lonnie now that their shared exercise routine was getting a bit too easy for her... Utilitarian choices, to be sure, but she's been paying attention and that has to count for something.

Catra's the difficult one, of course. Partly because Adora doesn't want to just get her something practical, but also because they share nearly everything between them already. About the only thing that is definitively off limits is Catra's guitar, and she's told Adora enough about her time with Tao over the years that Adora wouldn't even ask. Beyond that... Well, there's a reason why most of Adora's day off hoodies have small strands of orange fur stuck to them.

Still. I want to get her something that's hers. Something she'll like. Something she doesn't have to share with anyone, not even me.

In the end, she nearly walks past it. In one of the artisanal shops that dot small towns like liver spots, she finds a display of hand stamped necklace pendants, with a design sheet beside it. There are a lot of the usual nature designs and such, but the one that catches her eye is a treble clef with the five staff lines bleeding out from it. They ring the edge of the pendant in a half circle, and scattered haphazardly along the lines are the other music notes.

The lack of proper order would drive Adora insane. She understands that it's just meant to look pretty, not be an accurate representation of musical notation, but still... She knows her own (broken) brain well enough to know that.

It suits Catra, though.

"Hey," Mismatched eyes looked down at Adora as her head draped backwards over the back of their desk chair, the throbbing behind her left eye threatening to escalate into a migraine. "Guess I don't have to ask how the composing's going."

"It sucks," Adora groused back, sitting up and gesturing Catra over. She jabbed at two particular spots with the half chewed off eraser end of her pencil, two hard jabs each, like she was filing a complaint. "Most of it is just what I'm going for, but these two places here... They aren't sounding right. I've been going back and forth over structure all afternoon, but nothing I do helps."

"Hmmm..." Catra stroked her chin and nudged Adora over so she could sit on the arm of the chair (they'd never gotten around to requesting a second, mostly because Adora didn't want to risk Shadow Weaver suspecting they were getting too chummy.) "Got any scratch paper?"

Adora pointed to the pile of half crumpled notebook paper she used when making adjustments and Catra snorted. "Ok, dumb question. Just let me see here..."

Grabbing a pen, she quickly inked a fresh set of staff lines and copied the notes Adora had already put down, making sure to leave space to work. Glancing between the two, she drummed her fingers on the desk, playing along in her head.

"Hmm..." Catra murmured, worrying at her lower lip with a fang in a manner that was... Oddly distracting. "Ok, how 'bout this?"

Adora jolted, tearing her gaze from Catra's face to look at the sequence of notes scribbled onto the scratch paper. She paused, brow furrowing as she played them over in her mind's eye. It was a little unorthodox, veering away from the path she had carefully laid out... But also blending well with the next part. Almost like the notes took a quick detour and then lead the listener back to where she wanted them.

"Yeah..." Adora replied thoughtfully, the tension all over her body starting to smooth out. "Yeah, that could work."

"Awesome. Let's take a look at the next part."

They ultimately ended up spending several hours going over the entire piece, sussing out every place where Adora was having even the slightest niggle of unease. She didn't accept all of Catra's changes and Catra didn't push the matter, but the ones she did...

They felt right. More right than they had ever felt when it was just Adora running circles around herself.

When they finally finished up she looked over at Catra, tail waving sedately in that way it got when she was simultaneously engaged but relaxed, and asked, "Umm... Do you want to learn with me? I like doing this."

'I like making music with you.'

Catra paused, looking over at Adora searchingly, almost like she couldn't believe the question had come up. No matter how many years had passed between them, that look never really went away, and every time she saw it Adora's chest ached in a way that was hard for her to process.

"I'd like that."

Catra's composing style is very different from Adora's. More wild, more willing to bend and break the rules if it means maintaining audience engagement, but there's always an underlying order to the chaos. To her surprise and pleasure, Adora found herself learning just as much from Catra as Catra was learning from her. Their styles brought out the best in each other.

The jingle of a bell kicks her out of the memory. Mind made up even though it's nearly double her budget, Adora scans the stand of necklaces for the one with the treble clef pattern.

It isn't there. Adora swallows down the disappointment, though she can't help the sigh. Of course. The town was well aware of the large population of music students a short drive away and catered to them accordingly. But there are also dozens of kids out on the street tonight. It isn't that big of a surprise that the design sold out.

Not surprising, but disheartening nonetheless.

She's just begun to turn away when a voice calls from the back. "Hang on a sec there, little miss."

Adora jumps, but remains where she is as a large Taurian man with a massive snow white beard trundles out from a door behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. "Was there a particular design you were interested in?"

Adora points at the treble clef, hope rising. "This one. But it looks like it's already sold out."

"Hmm..." The man scratchs at his chin. "Well with Winterfest coming up, I'm out of blank pendants-"

Adora's shoulders slump.

"-But," The man continues with a smile. "I can double stamp it onto the back of another. Ordinarily I'd charge extra for that, but it's my fault for not ordering enough blanks. Rookie move. Besides, it's the holidays. Now would that be all right by you?"

Nodding frantically in case he changes his mind, Adora scans the other designs, quickly alighting on one in particular. "That one!"

"The claw marks? Bit of an odd combination, but the customer is always right," The old man winked as he reached out to take the necklace from her. "My jig and press is in the corner over here if you wanna watch."

Adora was glad he specified, because as nice as the man seemed there was no way in hell she was going into a back room with a stranger. But she stood next to the window beside a display of miscellaneous knick knacks and puzzles, watching him carefully place the pendant in a cushioned stand to avoid damaging the already printed side and tighten it into place before moving beside the machine.

"You're gonna want to cover your ears," He tells her, patting the machine with one massive hand. "Had to switch to a steam press when the arthritis caught up to me. Used to do it all by hammer. This boy's okay, but he gets loud."

Adora nods, glad for the warning when he bellows "Clear!" and the machine's hammer comes down once, twice, three times with a sound like the ringing of an enormous bell. Once the machine is stopped and carefully turned off, the old man removes the pendant from the press and hands it over to Adora for inspection. "What do you think? Does it pass muster?"

Adora runs her fingertips over the impressions in the metal, memorizing the feel of it, the leftover warmth of the impact. "Perfect."

"Good. Now let's get you rung up."

Counting the five dollars she attempted to surreptitiously slip into the tip jar (the old man winked as he turned back around, so stealth fail) Adora went very over budget, but the others would have to put a gun to her head for her to admit it.

Besides, it's Catra. They already know she's the sole exception to all of Adora's carefully maintained rules.

With everything finished, she continues trudging through the snow toward the park, breathing a sign of relief as she moves away from the shopping district and the people thin out; no one wanting to go to the park in the middle of such bleak weather. Angling around a clustered group of bare trees, she spots the small clock tower in the distance, as well as the figure already standing beside it. Grinning, Adora picks up the pace a bit until she can see Catra clearly and--

Her breath catches.

Since her only experience with this kind of thing has been through books, Adora always expected this moment would be more dramatic. Like back to back in the middle of a fight, or eyes locking from up on stage. Something spectacular, like fireworks, lime explosions, like the feeling of playing a song without a single mistake for the first time. It's always seemed like such a big deal in the stories, and in a way, it is.

Because there's Catra, lost in her own world as she gazes up at the streetlight that's just come on, her left hand extended to let the snowflakes fall into her palm and the light catches the orange of her fur just right to make a blaze of color against the black of her coat. She looks so small, standing in that space all alone on a cold winter's night, but Adora knows deep down that she could never be that small, not when she's Catra, not when she means so much...

Pretty much everything about the past hour--about her entire life since they met if she's being honest--snaps into crystal clear focus.

Oh. I get it now. I'm in love with you.

It's a bad idea. Adora knows that. Shadow Weaver is enough of a menace while believing Catra is simply her roommate, her sometime tool--and Catra had ended up being all too right about the torture not stopping, even after years of Adora trying to direct Weaver's attentions away from her. If the evil old bitch figures out Adora's feelings run deeper, so much deeper...

Her heart beats double time. This whole thing is an unmitigated disaster.

But it's still the best worst thing that's ever happened to her.

She must make a noise, because Catra's ear twitches in her direction, snapping her out of that distant contemplation. She turns her head and looks at Adora, lips curling in a lopsided grin. "Hey, Adora. Wow, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Adora blinks, coming back to herself and mumbling the first excuse that springs to mind. "... Just cold."

"Well no shit. C'mere."

When she closes the distance Catra glances around warily, making sure they're the only ones around, before reaching up and retying the scarf around Adora's neck, patting it once when she's done. "There. I know I make it look good, but you don't have the advantage of fur like me."

Adora looks down at the thin AC/DC t-shirt that Catra's wearing beneath her half open coat, the line of her collarbones and neck, and makes a snap decision. "Is it okay if I give you your present now?"

Catra blinks, a little thrown by the non sequitur. "I mean... Sure? Do you want me to give you yours?"

"I'm good with either," Adora shrugs, trying to ignore how fast her heart is beating, how much she wants to do this before this moment slips away. "I just want to."

There's a long moment of silence as they each examine the other, equally searching. What Catra's looking for, Adora doesn't know. She isn't sure she wants to know.

"Okay."

Breathing deep, Adora reaches into her pocket and pulls out the necklace on its leather cord. Careful to keep the pendant hidden in her hand, she passes it over, fingertips sparking as it's taken. Catra brings it close to her face, running her fingers over the four parallel slashes on the side facing her.

"Why the claw marks?"

Adora laughs, nervous butterflies positively rioting in her stomach. "Because you're a badass. Duh."

"True," Catra smirks, flipping it over and squinting at the other side. "And this?"

"Badass, loves music with all your heart. Not mutually exclusive concepts," Adora says, trying not to give away how much she thinks about this, how much she wants to take that hand in hers. She settles for a playful shoulder bump instead. "Plus we all know you're secretly a big softie."

"Excuse you, I am all sharp edges," Catra giggles, lightly elbowing her before transitioning into a soft little smile. "... Just not with everyone."

Oh God oh God oh God. That smile will absolutely be the death of her.

Swallowing past her horrible awareness of that softness, Adora asks, "So you like it?"

"I love it. Good luck ever getting me to take it off," Catra laughs, then frowns, flexing her fingers. "Hands have gone a little numb, though. Help me put it on?"

Adora.exe promptly crashes to desktop. But she still somehow manages to move, helping Catra hold back her mane so she can slip the leather cord over her head and tuck it beneath her hair. If she hesitates a moment too long in letting go, at least Catra only shoots her an amused glance. "How's it look?"

"Great," Adora manages to croak out, trying to swallow past the sudden dryness in her throat. "You look great. Umm... Happy early Winterfest, I guess?"

"Well, I'm gonna hold onto yours a little longer," Catra laughs, playfully sticking out her tongue before reaching out. "C'mere, you big dork."

Adora shuffles closer, mind and heart both screaming as Catra draws her into a hug, nuzzling her head against the side of her neck. A little whisper. "Thank you."

Adora swallows again, even harder. "You're welcome."

Between them, the necklace rests, the music side pressed right up against Catra's heart.

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Fun fact: the shopkeep is based off a cool old dude selling machine pressed necklaces I ran into at a Scottish festival when I was 13, and he made such an impression I never forgot him. Anyway, happy Valentine's! Have a Big Gay Realization!

#answers #rhythm & blues #the catradora rockstar au #featuring adora's big gay realization #and also fantasy christmas

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