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apersonshapedcomputer · 1 year

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(I have clawed my way through another semester to bring you part four of my hero x villain story! They now have names. There are new characters with actual speaking roles. There is ✨Fashion✨.

beginning, previous chapter)

Phase 3: Walk walk, fashion baby~

"You know, I kind of wish we were the same size right now, because this room calls to my inner child's need to play dress up."

Dawn was bouncing from mannequin to clothing rack, trying to take everything in at once. The nature of my work meant that I needed to have an extensive array of outfits to choose from. Some of these outfits were scattered across different safe houses I own, but most of them could be found in The Closet. I built The Closet to be a costumer's dream.

Three floors. Temperature controlled. Organized by color, style, and event. And of course, there was Deji.

Deji was a tall person, never seen without a fantastic outfit and meticulously decorated afro. The day's look appeared to be small lights, turning their hair into a glorious halo of stars, and a comfortable maxi dress in black and midnight blue. I took a moment to appreciate their artistry.

"Rhe, sweetness, you brought me a new doll to play with!" Deji exclaimed.

Dawn turned to us, concerned. "Uh, doll?"

It was too late for him. Deji pounced, measuring tape in hand. Their rich, low voice filled the room with questions like "Are there any fabrics or textures that you can't stand?" and "Do you know how to walk in heels?", as they gently poked Dawn into optimal measuring stances.

"Deji, this is Dawnstar, as I'm sure you already know. Dawn, this is Deji, expert tailor and fashionista." I sidled over to a lectern on one side of the room. It had a tablet built into it, allowing the user to view a catalogue of every item in The Closet, as well as a detailed archive of fashion history and trends. Directly in front of me was a short pedestal surrounded by mirrors, reminiscent of a high end dressing room in a bridal boutique. I began to scroll through color pallets and fabric types as Deji herded Dawn over to stand on the pedestal.

"What sweetness fails to mention is that I'm her *oldest* and *dearest* friend," Deji playfully intoned, "and I got to bear witness to *all* her awkward stages growing up." I shot them a frosty glower, to which they simply blew a raspberry at me.

How dare they bring up my dark past.

"Rhetoric? Control queen, stone cold poker-face, no hair out of place *Rhetoric* had *awkward phases*? *Plural*?!" Dawnstar seemed to no longer be perturbed by Deji's maneuvering, too delighted at the concept of me having once been... cringe. "I know she can be dramatic, but even when she's going full ham it's in a weirdly graceful way?"

"I too, am human, and have thus have on occasion made questionable decisions. I have since trained myself out of my more... troublesome tendencies or overly emotional reactions." I knew that he was very aware of my levels of self control, having seen me once stare down a Strorix Game-Master during the Deathgame incident, without balking. The Game-Master looked away first.

I smoothly pulled out my phone and pull up the official wedding invitation he received, slaying that conversation before Deji could talk about my version of an emo phase.

"The noise from our confrontation has died down a bit, but there are still a few mentions of it here and there. This is perfect, given that we have only two-and-a-half weeks until the wedding. That should be plenty time for Deji to work their magic on our outfits."

Deji snorted, "*Plenty* she says. Plenty! Two whole outfits in less than two weeks, and for the event of the *year*!" They devolved into aggrieved ranting as they finishing taking measurements.

I began to read the wedding invitation aloud, to drown out their griping.

"Together with their families, Lady Rong Shih and The Rockin' Sorcha Darrow invite Dinari "Dawnstar" Seidu-Tinio, along with a guest, to share in their wedding celebration." A second page lists location, time, and preferred style of dress.

"They seem to be following the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" policy rather than any real dress code, which leaves us plenty of room for creativity."

I looked back at Dawn to find him staring at me, eyes wide and his lips slightly parted. "You... I don't think I've ever heard you say my actual name before."

Oh, that was interesting. I decided to see what happened when I pushed this particular button.

"Well *Dinari*, you've never used my given name either. I'm starting to wonder if you even know it."

He made an interesting choking sound as I practically purred his name, it was even better than when I used pet names with him.

"W-wha? I mean- of course I know your name! It just- I got so used to calling you Rhetoric, and then Rhe - though that was more to try and mess with you early on and it didn't really work - but I *do* know your name, *Ms. Rhea Rivera*."

That... Alright, maybe I understood his reaction to the use of his name now. It felt... intimate, hearing that from him. Unlike him however, *I* was able to keep from showing much of a reaction. It did take me a half second longer to respond than normal however.

"Good, it would be rather embarrassing if we were to show up to the wedding and you started fumbling when introducing me to your ex. Hmm, the nickname Dawn suits you though... Perhaps Din as another nickname? Darling Din?"

A whirring sound interrupted any response he might have made. While we had been bantering, Deji had been using their portable controller to get clothing and fabric samples delivered to the dressing room. A panel of the wall smoothly opened up to allow a clothing rack to slither its way in. With the bounty of cloth and accessories came an excited giggling sound.

Perched atop the front of the serpentine rack was a 4 year old child, who's appearance could be summed up as Glitter. Glittery beads in her hair, glittery shoes, a slightly less glittery jumpsuit, and a cape decorated with glittery stars and planets.

Inanna was Deji's daughter, and she had made The Closet her playground. With all the poise of a queen, she skillfully kept her balance on the rack-turned-steed as it finished encircling the room. She quickly slid off her mount, little legs kicking in the air briefly before plopping down onto the carpet. I widened my stance and braced for impact.

36 pounds of gleeful child barrelled into me. I used her momentum to spin us both as I lifted her up to rest on my hip.

"*Titi*, I picked my clothes today! Look look look! I'm sparkly! I match Mr. Sparkly. Hi Mr. Sparkly!" She eagerly informed me on the state of her dress before waving her arms at Din. Such a well spoken and *loquacious* child.

"I see sweetheart. You may be the sparkliest child I have *ever* seen." I shot Din a look, and flicked my gaze towards the excitable little disco ball in my arms. He seemed to get the hint, and I could practically see him activate a mental switch labeled Child Mode.

"Hi there! Loving the outfit, I *wish* I had your sense of style when I was your age."

Inanna preened at his complement. "You know," Din tapped his chin, "I think I might just be able to help you add a little more bling to this situation!" With a twist of his fingers some of the light in the room bent around Inanna. Disco ball was an apt assessment, I needed to squint a little as Din's powers caused her outfit to light up in a stunning, multicolored display. Her squeal was precious, and near deafening.

I set her down as she began to wriggle, and she happily began to spin around. Din's face as he watched her toddle about was... soft. How dare he look so sweet?

I turned back to the tablet and started pulling up my dossier on Din's ex, Ezekiel Gray. My dislike for the man predated his relationship with Din, as his nosiness had resulted in unwanted scruitny on a few of my earlier schemes.

"Deji, I'm going to need you to scrap any designs that include bright yellows, beige, or salmon."

They turned their head towards me, owl like, a look of disgust on their face. "I'm insulted that you think that I would ever put you in *beige*."

"Right, right, my apologies for the insinuation. What color pallet would you recommend, oh great sage of fashion?"

Din raised his hand. "I vote watermelon!"

Both Deji and I paused to consider this.

"That..." I squinted, pondering viability of a watermelon color combo.

"...could work." Deji completed the thought.

They immediately start digging through the rack of clothes, quickly gathering items in pinks and greens. "Rhe, be a dear and punch in the codes for black beads, small black buttons, and white shoes please?"

I dutifully typed in the codes before grabbing a pink sleeveless top that had caught my eye. It had a high collar, though with a teardrop cut-out below where the collar bone would be. The color wasn't quite right, but I was sure that was an easy fix.

I sauntered over to where Din watched in fascination as Inanna used her kiddie tablet, creating outfit sets for her stuffed animals. He looked down in curiosity when I held the shirt up against his chest.

"Ooh, that's soft!" He delightedly stroked the top.

"This, with black accessories around the waist. And looser pants to even things out." I didn't need to turn to know that Deji had heard me.

Din seemed amused by my instructions. "At least I know I'm in good hands when you pick my outfits. I'll look good, *and* be comfortable." He was making that soft face again, but at me this time. That odd, warm and gooey feeling appeared in my chest again.

He liked the clothes I pick out for him.

He felt *comfortable* in them, and thus around me when I was taking care of him. And I... I felt more relaxed around him as well...

I'd been silent for 2.73 seconds, it was time to redirect before he noticed the effect that his damned dimples were having on me.

"As if I would be caught dead with my date looking uncomfortable because some scratchy clothes." I sniffed in mock disdain, turning to hand off the shirt to Deji. "We must be the most photogenic and comfortable looking people at this wedding!"

Inanna's head snapped up at my words. "Wedding!?" She looked to be vibrating with sudden excitement, looking like a puppy who just heard the word "treat".

Deji chuckled, "Now you've done it." The child began to emit a sustained, high pitched squeal. It was rather impressive, and I distantly wondered what kind of effect it would have on people with enhanced hearing. Still squealing, she began to flick her gaze between Din and I.

Oh dear. "Not *my* wedding sweetheart. Those heroes, the ah, magic sword lady and rockstar lady are the ones getting married."

One would have thought I had set fire to her plushy collection from the look of devastation on her face. "B-but... Uncle Sparkly...?" Her lip was wobbling. Those were *tears* in my precious niece's eyes. I thought fast, knowing I had a window of mere seconds to prevent the calamity.

"It's not my wedding *this time*. But you know," I rested my cheek on one hand and gazed thoughtfully into the distance, "I *could* bring back pictures for you, so that you can get inspiration for planning a wedding for me one day."

Her eyes widened at the prospect of event planning. She either did not catch, or did not care, that I had not specified a timeline or spouse; the joyous glint was back in her eyes, and she snatched up her tablet once more. "I'ma start now! You gotta have the *best* wedding, and then give me a little cousin as a present so I can dress them up." With that reveal of her plans for my future she bounded off to get a snack.

I was both immensely proud and slightly leery. Proud, because she clearly knew what she wanted and had no qualms about arranging the lives of people around her to fit her vision. Leery, because she was now locked onto the goal of marrying me off and drafting my hypothetical offspring as her dress up dolls.

Ah well, at least she wasn't crying.

Deji cackled from beside me. "HA! You know she's never gonna let that go right?" Still snickering they turned to Din, who was once more sporting an impressive blush. "Sorry hon, looks like you're trapped! Don't worry though, Rhe comes with perks. I'll give you the -*snrk*- the family discount on designs."

Din somehow went even redder at the mention of "perks". How cute.

I smiled a bit as I began to corral Deji back into finalizing our outfit designs. I'd give Din a bit of time to breathe before using this as teasing material. Even as we spent the rest of the day comparing the merits of different fabrics, debating appropriate amounts of glitter, and discussing ideal positioning of hidden pockets, an idle daydream began to take form in my mind. Nothing quite solid yet. Just a faint vision of wedding cakes, quite evenings spent in pleasant companionship, and a sly child with a disarming pair of dimples...

#villain x hero #hero x villain #rhetoric and dawnstar #i went through multiple picrews and dolldivine games trying to figure out how clothes work #i fully believe they can rock a pink and green color pallet #deji's superpower is making anthing into a good outift #inanna just kinda showed up? she wasn't planned #she just asserted herself into the narrative #this whole thing took so long because i was writing a 20 page single spaced paper on machine unlearning and can't multitask #probablly just one part left to this #hopefully it won't take me as long

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saltypiss · 2 years

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I feel like this opinion will frustrate many, which to be fair, it's written satirically but the opinion given is honest, not the humorous emotional detail. Was gonna add it to a thread on "how to trigger a fanbase with one sentence" and my dumbass read too quick and the input was "an opinion that would upset a fanbase" okay here you go lil fella don be med:

Honestly paper drawing is it's own form of art and in general writing on paper has it's benefits. You're eventually going to need to write on paper with a pen or pencil. So it's something you need to learn. I see the perspective that it's everyone's start, so if you're learning to draw, do it on paper.

These days we should be using tech more. Yes I know, dystopic, blah blah blah, but I grew up not knowing I was neurodivergent, it'd been great if I could just do alt+z instead of making this smudgey or overly outlined mess trying to fix something. In general you do not want me to send you a letter over a text, that's not a comment on humanity or you personally, nobody wants to read my chicken scratch.

As a kid, learning to write on paper wasn't hard, but I can safely say my attempts have always been shit unless I dedicate a long time to writing. It's chicken scratch that is legible but only after I explain why my ks look like H's sometimes. I prefer the bottom slant to be attatched to the bottom of the top slant, unless it's K.

Point is you don't have to deal with my scribble scrabble and you should not thank paper for that. At least with a mouse I'd honestly put the effort being able to undo.

Yes yes I get it, drawing and writing on paper, or anything, is eternal, writing or drawing on rocks, on canvas. Even using a typewriter is considered okay. In fact, our books use the same font we use on digital hardware.

The ability to write and draw will never go away, so let's just make starting to learn to draw, even write, be seen as encouraged on a digital format, and stop treating it like the devil of learning. You will learn faster on computers than your damn scrolls. And the transition won't be degenerative, it'll be progressive.

You can learn perspective and shading on paper, and you can on digital, but most people Are Not Going To Try when their second line fucks up and their eraser smudged the fuck out of the entire thing.

I only finally started trying to draw again since I switched to a drawing tablet, and I can say with no doubt, going from shitty no color lines on paper with these mistakes I could never undo at my level or resources, to being able to press 2 buttons, and have not just a pencil and paper, but the entire world of Google at my disposal to actually get a feel for perspective practice pieces without having to print it out and put a light underneath a glass table to just barely see what the hell I'm doing, to being able to adjust transparency at a few clicks, like, there's no good god damned reason everyone thinks you should start with pencil and paper and just suck it up.

People act like convenience is a bratty tool to be exploited by no talent artists, but the reality is you see so many "no talent" artists because they're learning at a faster, more socially diverse, and socially widerspread, thus monetarily feasible, rate, than your shitty tree parts and that stuff my grandma told me to stop sniffing in the basement as a kid. Bread? Idunno.

I got a Part 2 to this now:

And you know what? Fuck plagiarisers. People that steal people's art and claim it as their own. There's no point. You feel cool for a brief moment at best, but you have learned nothing. The only thing you proved is you wish you learned to draw at some point, but don't because you don't believe in yourself.

Art, is everything. Creation is art. Your house is art, the phone you hold is a creation, and thus art. Humanity is art. Your feelings towards your animals is art. Everything is a perspective. Everything is made by someone for another. In my opinion, The Meaning of Life is Other Life. This post is built off humanity and the time they put in to get us here. Undeniably.

Your opinion is yet another creation thats art inspires another to create their opinion and thus, the circle of creation completes. We create for others, breed for ot- bleck EC-

The meaning of life is other life. It's why we fucking hate the rich.

So I say we stop stigmatising tracing as practice. Don't claim it as your own, but claim the work put ontop as yours. Because plagiarism is the highest form of flattery. And further than that, you're learning. It may be training wheels and everyone is laughing at you, but I'm not. I see you trying, not even, I see you innovating in some ways. At least for yourself personally.

Just don't claim the art you brushed over as your own, just the brushwork you did. Otherwise, tracing is not bad. Theft is, but learning is not. Growth is not. You will learn faster from others than on your own.

In my opinion, paper and pencil and disdain for tracing for learning mentalities comes from the egotistical mentality that you should learn everything on your own, and fuck you for "trying to take a shortcut", even though 3 years from now you'll be further ahead of them in multitudes of aspects.

Now don't think I'm going to be an example, I thankfully don't need to be. I kindly refer you to *Gestures at the entire internet* and then ask you to name an artist that anyone will know off the top of their heads that doesn't primarily and if not entirely do everything digitally. Or if you need some help, I refer to you the animation creators on youtube and various other sites.

Oh I'm sure most if not all of them started with pencil and paper. Even sell specifically pen and paper for that audience who wants physical personal copies. Completely understandable, as I said, pen and paper is it's own art form. But I can safely and loosely say they sure as shit ain't primarily pen and paper these days. And didn't get better by sticking to physical format as fast and as monetarily as now.

All I'm saying is, digital media is king in learning. If you want to create on paper, go for it, but the stigma some have is ridiculous. Try googling various topics and all you see is the repeated mentality that they shouldn't invest in a drawing tablet. Shit they can go from 150-300, I get it, but we're talking people actually interested in growing a healthy talent and hobby, potentially one that can make some money at a faster rate.

I get it too, I'm definitely leaning on the 2 subjects of learning and monetary reasoning, but genuinely I couldn't name an artist that doesn't use social media, doesn't get inspired by other creator's and make a fan edit, doesn't use some form of digital editing even for physical media to be posted online.

All I'm really trying to stress is this: If it does become a bigger thing, you're going to use some form of digital format eventually. Might as well get a headstart?

#art #opinions that will upset someone #probably

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huber01huber · 2 years

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the-wild-wolves-around-you · 3 years

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hear those bells ring deep in the soul (a katsuki bakugo/reader fic)

Summary: Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. He'd worked hard to achieve his position, his fame. And now it was all going down the damn drain, along with his hearing.

~*~*

Bakugo is suffering from hearing loss as a side effect of his quirk, and he struggles with how to face this new challenge. Enter Reader with a healing quirk.

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo/Reader; Katsuki Bakugo/You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood & violence.

A/N: No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

Ao3 Link: Here

*****A/N Part 2: This post has now been updated to include the links to Ch 2

Ch 2 Tumblr Link: Here

Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. Actually, he’d argue he was tied for first place with the current Symbol of Peace, Shitty Deku. Their victory statistics were basically the fucking same, the only difference was the freckled idiot was made of smiles and sunshine and stupid fucking sugar or something. The whole world ate out of his scarred, fucked up hand, and Darling Deku ate up all the media’s attention in return.

In contrast, Bakugo wasn’t a “people person,” as Deku loved to put it, but… he also wasn’t the same fifteen-year-old brat who got muzzled on live national television. Pro Hero Dynamight was known for his crass, blunt language, his vicious streak of justice when it came to villains, but people also looked up to him. Extras cheered for him in the streets as he exploded past mid-battle. Children ran up to him on patrol and asked him to sign their books, their photos, their Dynamight merch. On one memorable occasion, that he may or may not have saved on his computer, a national news channel ran a live clip from a disaster site, a villain attack turned rescue mission after a building collapsed. The soundbite was only thirty seconds, a close up of a pale, dusty woman with a shallow cut on her brow. The splash of crimson and her bloodshot blue eyes were the only spots of color on her, everything else washed out in white plaster and cement dust, tear tracks carving grooves down her cheeks.

But the smile on her face could have lit up goddamn Tokyo.

“Dynamight saved us,” the woman had said to the news reporter, her voice full of awe and tears. “I-I got stuck under some debris, but I heard the moment Dynamight arrived, and I just knew we were safe. The battle was over a minute later, and then he just… pulled me out of the wreckage. He pulled us all out. He’s… the greatest hero I’ve ever seen.”

That was a nice stroke to his ego. And the dazed woman had been right. He had pulled everyone out of that building, and not a single person died that day, which only confirmed what he already knew:

Katsuki Bakugo was the best of the best. Deku might have been the better show pony, but Dynamight was an undefeated hero, fierce, fearless, ferocious.

Except right now… he was fucking scared out of his mind.

This couldn’t be happening.

“What?” he snarled at the extra in the white coat standing before him.

The man flinched and visibly recoiled, shuffling back a step and partially ducking behind his tablet device. When he spoke again, he’d raised his voice an entire fucking octave.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” the doctor stammered, but then he seemed to regain his composure and lowered his voice a little. “I… I wish I had better news for you, Dynamight, but…”

He trailed off and swallowed, the jut of his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the thin skin of his throat.

“But what?” Bakugo spat, something like magma roiling in his veins, pops of heat crackling against his palms like splatters of hot oil from a stove.

“B-But this… can’t come as a complete shock to you,” the doctor said as he glanced back at his tablet. “Other physicians before myself must have warned you of the risks.”

The risks. Bakugo bared his teeth in a silent snarl. What did this fucking extra, with his soft hands and softer body, know about risks? The heat in his palms grew until he could see their red-hot glow out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, who and how much do I gotta pay to fix it?” Bakugo demanded as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“That depends,” the doctor hedged and adjusted the square black glasses perched on his stupid face. “There are a variety of aid types—”

“I don’t want fuckin’ support gear or aids,” Bakugo sneered. “I want mine fixed.”

Now, the doctor’s face grew pitying. “I’m afraid that’s just not possible, given a number of factors, most importantly your current occupation.”

“My current occupation?” the hero seethed, teeth bared again like a wounded dog, a cornered wolf, snapping at the world. “Are you fucking KIDDING—”

A hint of fear sparked in the doctor’s eyes, but he suddenly raised a hand, palm out in the universal symbol for stop. “Dynamight, sir, I know this is distressing, but there are other sick patients in these walls, so please refrain from using your quirk.”

“I’m not usin’ shit,” Bakugo snapped, but then the doctor’s eyes flicked downward, and Bakugo followed them to his hands, wreathed in sparks and flares of flames, lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

The breath stuttered in Bakugo’s lungs.

He hadn’t even felt himself call upon his quirk.

Even worse… he hadn’t heard it when he did.

He dropped his hands quickly, shoving them back in his pockets. Bile rose in his throat, but he washed it down with blood as he bit through his tongue.

“There has to be… something,” he gritted out, curling his hands into fists in their confines. “A healer—”

“Healers are rarer than you think,” the doctor sighed and shook his head. “And what’s more, they’re usually specific and limited. Their abilities are tied to blood types or restricted to relatives or even limbs. One nurse here can only heal femur bones.”

“Bullshit they’re rare, I’ve met at least two goddamn healers just this month,” Bakugo spat. “These paramedics—”

“And how strong where they?” the doctor cut him off again, raising an eyebrow. “You said paramedics, so I’m going to assume their talents mostly lie in the superficial and basic: triage, stopping the bleeding, knitting skin back together, etc.”

“What’s your fucking point?” He was this close to punching the asshole right in the glasses.

“My point is the inner workings of your ear are much more delicate than a broken rib or lacerated arm,” the doctor said in a really condescending tone that Bakugo did not appreciate. “But let’s say you do find a healer specific enough and skilled enough to restore the hearing you have already lost without damaging anything else in the process. What then? I don’t imagine Japan’s Number Two Hero retiring less than ten years after his debut and hanging up his quirk.”

Bakugo scowled, heart kick-starting in his chest, his gut tying itself in a knot.

No. No, that wasn’t possible. Katsuki Bakugo was a hero, the best of the best. It was all he’d ever wanted, and he would be damned if it was taken from him.

The doctor must have seen as much on the blond’s face because he sighed and adjusted his glasses again. “Exactly. Which means you’re just going to keep destroying your ears again and again, and even if say Recovery Girl was still alive, the repetitive healing sessions would destroy your own body’s healing factor, and after a while, you would still lose you’re hearing.”

“Tch.” Bakugo looked away and gritted his teeth so hard they ached.

The doctor sighed. “You’re already at moderate hearing loss, Dynamight, so while we do still have some options, they are limited. Honestly… I’m surprised you didn’t come in sooner.”

He should have. He fucking should have. He’d been noticing little things for years, but he just brushed it off, yelled at Deku to speak the fuck up and stop mumbling, told himself his phone must be a piece of shit and that’s why he didn’t hear a call or message. The low persistent ringing he’d been experiencing since UA was harder to write off, but after a while, it was also easier to ignore.

Then, on his last mission, Bakugo was shoving some weak ass villain at a couple of cops. The battle had lasted less than five minutes, and he was still itching for a fight, his quirk burning just beneath the surface of his skin, like embers waiting to explode back into flame. In the next moment, a hand had suddenly clamped down on his shoulder from behind, and he’d reacted out of reflex, flipping his attacker over his shoulder and nearly blasting them in the gut for good measure.

“Whoa! Fuck, dude, it’s me!” Kirishima had yelped, his skin rippling and hardening in an instant. Wide, red eyes gaped up at him, and Japan’s Number Three Hero even looked a little worried. “Didn’t you hear me? I called your name like five times.”

Bakugo had dropped Red Riot like he was on fire. No. No, Dynamight hadn’t heard his patrol partner. In fact, all he could hear in the moment was the muted wailing of sirens, the low murmur of shouting extras, and the blood roaring in his head.

Now, two days later he was standing in front of a doctor who was telling him there was nothing more they could do.

But that was fucking unacceptable. He couldn’t lose his hearing. What kind of shitty hero would he be if he couldn’t hear where the villains were in battle or where stupid extras in need of saving were in rescue situations?

He wouldn’t be a hero at all, just a fucking liability.

Bakugo tried to imagine having to retire, to hang up his hero costume, to leave Shitty Hair in charge of their joint agency. What would he do? He’d wanted, and planned, to be a hero since he was five years old. He had no other skills, not really. It wasn’t like he could work a damn desk job. Well, UA might throw him a bone, offer him a pity faculty position.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

“What… are my options?” he asked haltingly as he snapped his eyes up and locked gazes with the doctor. “You said I still had some.”

The man in the white coat blinked in surprise, but then he straightened up and tapped at his tablet. “Currently, you have a few options, but you’d receive the best outcome if we did them all together. First, we can get you fitted for some hearing aids for you to wear while you are off duty. They would significantly increase your hearing capacity in your normal day-to-day life.”

Bakugo felt his face pull into a scowl. “Off duty? I need them while I’m on duty!”

“If you wear them while using your quirk, you’ll ruin the rest of your hearing in one blow,” the doctor said with a straight face. “Hearing aids amplify sounds. Amplifying your explosions is the last thing we want.”

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do then?” the hero snapped, heat flaring through his body with a supernova.

“Since I assume you’re going to continue your hero work, I would recommend contacting a support gear company.” The doctor made a note on his tablet. “We’ll email you the contact information for several companies the hospital has connections with, and once you chose one, we can send them your file. There are numerous noise-cancelling devices out there, but given your situation, you will probably need to collaborate with them for something custom. The goal is to having something to protect your ears-- a helmet, headphones, anything really—while you are using your quirk. Between such a device and the hearing aids, I hope we can preserve what’s left of your hearing and maybe give you a little bit back. But I will warn you… you’re hearing will never be as it was. You should know that now.”

You’re hearing will never be as it was.

The words cycloned through Bakugo’s head, round and round and round, destroying every other thought in their path. He felt detached from himself, the doctor’s voice fizzling out into a muffled drone. His vision seemed to narrow and darken, like he was viewing the world at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. One minute, he was standing there in that examine room, and then he blinked and was on the street, people rushing past him like a river unbothered by the boulder in its current.

He glanced down at his hand, at the paperwork for his follow up appointment and his fitting for the hearing aids. Heat squirmed under his skin, in his veins, like something living, something that wanted to get out.

Bakugo bared his teeth, crumpled the paper in his fist, and let the heat rush through his body, down through his arm, and into his hand. He didn’t hear the crackle, but he saw the flares of light, trapped between his palm and the paperwork like fireflies.

Then he opened his hand, and he watched the wind catch the ash and carry if off down the street, out of sight.

He needed a fucking drink.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Several hours later, Bakugo stumbled out of his usual dive bar, the taste of whisky still burning a hole through the back of his throat. The night was colder than he anticipated, colder than it should be for the beginning of autumn, and he grumbled and cursed as he hunched against the wind. He squinted at his phone, debating on whether to call a car, but in the end it was too much trouble. He was less than a half an hour’s walk from his apartment, and it was late, so he wouldn’t have to worry about extras coming up to him for photos or goddamn autographs.

Besides, the whisky hadn’t helped to quench the heat writhing through his veins, in fact the alcohol only made it worse. Bakugo felt restless, all pins and needles and ants, so maybe the brisk walk would burn off some of that energy.

Decided, Bakugo turned in the direction of home and began the long, stumbling journey through the midnight streets.

Time passed as sluggishly as his feet, which he made sure to stare down at so he didn’t trip over them. Like he anticipated, he passed no one on the sidewalks, and few cars rumbled past him. It wasn’t surprising, this neighborhood was mostly shops that closed by sundown and a few residences. The dive bar he’d left was a holdover from past decades when this side of town was rougher, but Bakugo suspected the old man who owned the joint would live on for at least another decade, if only to spite the development companies that kept trying to buy him out. The ornery bastard was half the reason Bakugo loved that bar, the other half being their decent whisky and usually empty stools.

“Shit,” he mumbled as he suddenly slipped, tittering on the edge of the curb.

He shook his head and managed to regain his balance, but when he took another step, he wobbled again.

“Come on, you drunk idiot,” he hissed at himself as he stumbled once more.

Except… he’d been standing still that time.

“Hah?” Bakugo squinted down at his feet.

The pebbles around his shoes rattled and jumped. He didn’t think he was that drunk, but he slapped his cheek with a bit of heat to his palm. The snap of warmth and pain woke him up a little, but when he glanced back down at the ground, everything was still moving.

“What the fu—”

Then the road undulated under his feet like a living thing, and the shockwave hit him a moment later.

Bakugo barked a curse as he was bucked several feet into the air, twin explosions blooming from his palms so he could right himself and land on his feet. He snapped his head up as he skidded to a stop, and the breath stilled in his lungs.

Up ahead, a man stood in the middle of the intersection, staring down the road to Bakugo’s left. Black rubble and goo floated around him like asteroids trapped in a planet’s orbit, and even from a distance, Bakugo could see the crazed smile on the man’s pale, black-streaked face.

A moment later, several heroes lunged out from around the corner and barreled straight for the villain, only to be blasted backwards as the villain flung out his hands and commanded the black debris and goo to slam into the idiots.

The villain threw back his head and seemed to laugh maniacally. Bakugo couldn’t hear it, but that didn’t matter. Lava was starting to boil in his veins, burning off the last of the whisky, and Dynamight felt an equally crazed smile stretch across his mouth.

This idiot had chosen the wrong road to fuck up tonight.

Heat condensed in his palms like collapsing stars, and then he was exploding forward, the taste of ozone and nitroglycerin on his tongue.

Within moments, Bakugo was able to determine the villain’s quirk revolved around asphalt. The bastard was able to pull large chunks of it out of the road and then liquify parts of them until they were scalding and sticky.

The other heroes—whoever they were, Bakugo didn’t even care to check—struggled to evade the villain’s attacks, but evasion wasn’t Dynamight’s style. He came at the bastard head on, exploding every rock and tar puddle in his way.

Of course, asphalt was flammable, so flames were flaring up all around the street now, but Bakugo wasn’t stupid enough to get burned. If the other heroes were, that was on them.

Dynamight was here to get the job done.

“Come here, ya sonvabitch,” Bakugo snarled as he blasted apart a chunk of asphalt aimed for his head.

The villain shrieked out something high-pitched that Bakugo didn’t catch, and then the fucker was swinging out his arm, a blob of black tar following the arc.

Bakugo let out a controlled burst toward his feet and backflipped through the air, crunching down on the roof of a parked car. He could see some of the other heroes waving at him from the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying over the wailing of the car alarm below him.

The villain’s sneer was a white slash on his black, goo-streaked face, and Bakugo bared his teeth back in an expression halfway between a feral grin and a beast’s snarl. He could feel the heat crackling along his palms as he contemplated his next move, but then the villain shouted something, and all the asphalt floating in the air rocketed back towards him like the fucker was a magnet.

As Bakugo watched, the debris and goo coalesced into a singular shape, liquifying and hardening in turns until a giant black arm the size of a semi was hovering over the road. The fingers wiggled in a jaunty little wave as the villain shouted something again that was lost to the car’s still wailing alarm, and then the giant hand curled into a fist and dropped down on Bakugo like the hammer of some god.

He exploded out of the way and up into the air right before the fist smashed into the car he’d been standing on, and the siren cut out with a muffled crunch.

Bakugo had barely landed before the arm was shooting out again, but this time it wasn’t aimed for him.

A stupid fucking extra had stumbled out of one of the buildings and stood gaping like a goddamn moron on the sidewalk. Several of the on-scene heroes rushed forward, but the hand swatted them aside like annoying flies. The idiot civilian was still just standing there, though, and Bakugo found himself airborne before he could even process the thought.

“Run!” he roared as he reached the extra and shoved him out of the way, but an instant later, he felt stony fingers wrap around his torso and squeeze.

Bakugo wheezed out a curse as the giant hand lifted him into the sky, the pressure around his ribs increasing with every second. The asphalt was hot in some places, too, scalding the skin of his left arm where it was pinned against his hip. He wrenched his right arm around and tried to aim at the wrist of the asphalt appendage, but the angle was off, and the few chunks he was able to blast were quickly replaced by more rubble and boiling tar.

“Fuck!” Bakugo screamed as the fist clenched down around him. His ribs strained, his lungs unable to expand, pain licking at him like the flames flickering in his peripherals.

Distantly, he heard the villain’s laughter below him, and as the arm swayed to the side, Bakugo realized he was right above the bastard. His vision swam, his ribs screaming, his arm burning, but Bakugo gritted his teeth as he aimed his right palm down. He concentrated every ounce of his quirk into his hand until it glowed white-hot, and the asphalt around him began to liquefy again.

The villain’s eyes widened as he realized what the hero was doing, and the fucker wildly swung out his arm in a last-ditch effort. The giant asphalt limb responded in kind, but Bakugo unleashed his quirk right before the arm flung him through the air.

A massive explosion rocked the street an instant later, and the subsequent shockwave slammed into his back and propelled him through a window.

He felt the impact and pain as he struck the glass, and then…

Nothing.

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

“Ouch, fuck!” you cursed as your pricked yourself for the millionth time.

A red drop of blood beaded up on the pad of your index finger, and you scowled before you sucked the smarting appendage into your mouth. It was more of a reflex than anything, since by the time you pulled your finger out, the pinprick of a wound was already healed. Healing such a small injury would usually barely even register to you, but the clock above your desk was inching closer and closer to midnight, and you’d been up since 6am. You also skipped dinner so you could finish altering the dress you were currently working on, which didn’t help your energy levels, but you were just a few stitches away from completing your task, so you hunched back over and powered through the next five minutes.

When you were finally done, you sat back in your chair with a sigh and threw down your needle and thread. The sewing table before you swam and doubled as your vision struggled to focus on something, and you rubbed at your tired, burning eyes. You always tried to work reasonable hours, have a healthy work-life balance, but somehow you always found yourself slaving away into the dark hours of the night. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t your fault. You’d lived here less than a year, so you didn’t know many people beyond your few neighbors and the old ladies who frequented your alterations shop.

You were also trying very hard to keep your grandparents’ business afloat.

Your grandfather had been a tailor, your grandmother a seamstress. They’d opened a shop together over fifty years ago, and if your parents hadn’t moved to America before you were born, you were sure you father would have taken over the family business. In the end, though, after your grandparents passed, you were the one to take up the needle and pull up your roots. You’d always loved making your own clothes, and you’d always felt… disconnected in America. Nothing had ever felt… right, no matter how many jobs you hopped around to. The US had been the only home you’d ever known, but when you and your parents spoke Japanese together, it had made something ache deep in the center of you, something you couldn’t name or place.

So, when your father said he was taking a trip to the homeland to sell his parents’ shop, you’d gone with him and somehow convinced him to sign everything over to you. Which was more than just a little insane. Your prior work history had been in food service and clothing retail, and your degree was in linguistics for fuck’s sake. You had no idea how to run a business, let alone in another country. Thankfully, you spoke Japanese fluently, so that had been one less hurtle to overcome, but everything else had been a dramatic learning curve. Getting to know the new city, figuring out the currency, hell even navigating the vastly different social norms of Japanese culture was daunting, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t have numerous fumbles along the way.

It, everything, had definitely taken some getting used to.

Now, a year later, things were just starting to really look up. You had used most of the money your grandparents left you to renovate the shop, get new equipment, and fix the upstairs apartment you lived in. About two dozen loyal customers helped to pay your bills and keep you afloat, and one-to-two new customers walked into your shop each month just on word of mouth. You weren’t rich by any means, but you weren’t struggling like you did in America. You felt… happy here, if a little tired. Fulfilled.

That might also have had something to do with your little… side business.

You bit your lip as your eyes shot to your window guiltily, like someone was watching you. You weren’t doing anything wrong—right now, anyways—but for the last six months, it’s been hard to shake off your paranoia.

And your guilt. Which was ridiculous. You weren’t hurting anyone. In fact, you were doing the exact opposite.

But it was still against the law. Here in Japan, at least.

That was another thing that took some getting used to. The Japanese government had strict laws on quirk usage, unlike in America where everything was about individualistic rights. In Japan, only heroes were given almost free reign, but even they had some restrictions on when and how they could use their powers.

For the rest of the Japanese populace, using quirks in day-to-day life, without official permission, was frowned upon at best and illegal at worst.

Because of your specific quirk, you leaned more toward the illegal side of things.

Healing quirks were rare. That’s what you’d been told all your life. Your mother’s quirk was the ability to lower fevers by somehow using her own body to regulate the temperature. Nothing super special or powerful, but she’d gone on to become a pediatric nurse, so she had used her quirk to its fullest and made a long, happy career for herself.

When you were young and your quirk manifested, you thought you would follow in your mother’s footsteps.

But as a teenager, you’d come to some hard realizations about yourself.

One, you weren’t strong enough to be a hero. You’d tried to get into a hero course in the States, several in fact. One course rejected you solely on your application, and then you failed two entrance exams. It had been a devastating blow to your youthful dreams and self-esteem, but your mother encouraged you, said being a hero wasn’t the only way to use your quirk for good.

So, you turned your focus to medicine… and quickly discovered that wasn’t right for you, either. Your mother hated when you said this but… you just weren’t smart enough. You had tried, really did, but everything was such a struggle, like Sisyphus slogging uphill through the mud. It just didn’t click for you like it did for your mom. You also hated to admit it, but you were a little squeamish. You were fine with small stuff, cuts and bruises, broken fingers, but once you had to dissect a large pig in an anatomy class, and the smell and weight of the pig’s slippery organs in your hands made your lunch rise up into the back of your throat. You somehow managed to make it through the class, but directly after you ran to the bathroom and emptied your own guts into the toilet.

With your dreams of being a hero and doctor dashed, you’d been a little aimless in college, taking random courses to fill your time and see if anything spoke to you. Then, during an 8am linguistics lecture you signed up for on a whim, something ignited inside you. Languages spoke to you like science and medicine never did. So, you’d changed your major to linguistics, minored in Japanese to feel closer to your parents, and took ever other language credit you could get your hands on. In between classes, you’d taken up sewing again while you listened to your audio assignments. It was just something to keep your hands busy at first, a skill your father taught you as a child until you abandoned it, but then your roommates complimented your work and started asking you to hem their jeans or take in their skirts. They offered to pay you, but you always declined, saying it was no trouble, you liked the work, and you liked being able to help.

At some point, you realized that was all you had ever wanted to do. Help people. And if you couldn’t save them as a hero, you would find some other way to make yourself useful.

So, you studied languages in the hopes of being able to help others communicate. You altered your friends’ clothes and made them small things like a monogrammed scarf or mittens. And, occasionally, you healed your roommates’ hangovers or food poisoning, stopped the bleeding when they cut their fingers making dinner, pushing through their pain to make them whole again. It wasn’t a lot, nothing really, but it was something, and it made you feel purposeful.

When you moved to Japan, you mourned the loss of being able to use your quirk on others, but you shoved the thought aside and focused on your work and the shop and figuring out how to settle down in your first home on your own.

Then, six months after you took over the shop, Mrs. Kojima, a little old lady in her seventies, had brought in her grandchildren’s uniforms to be patched and altered. She’d known your grandparents for many years, so she was always kind and had a story to share with you about your father in his youth or the gorgeous dresses your grandmother used to make. You always looked forward to Mrs. Kojima’s visits, and she always had a way of making you feel younger than you were, but not in a bad way. She just made you feel… nostalgic and safe, like you were listening to your late grandma talk over the phone.

This was probably why, when Mrs. Kojima slipped and fell in front of your counter, you reacted without thinking. The old lady barely had time to hit the floor and cry out before you were hovering over her, a green aura illuminating your hands. Her pain hit you a moment later, like a heated slap to the face, a bone-deep ache in your leg, but you gritted your teeth and pushed through the discomfort. Then you moved your fingers over to the hip Mrs. Kojima was clutching, and a moment later you felt the drain as your energy siphoned into the elderly woman’s body. Thankfully, it had only been a fracture, not a full break, so you barely even felt the difference in your strength, but as Mrs. Kojima gaped up at you, realization struck you like a freight train.

You had used your quirk, without a license, without permission, hell without the consent of Mrs. Kojima. Healing quirks were illegal for a reason, so many things could go wrong, and you weren’t properly trained. Your breathing hitched as panic seized your heart, squeezing like a vise, and your entire world had just begun to crash down around your ears when Mrs. Kojima sat up and threw her arms around you.

“Thank you,” she’d sniffled into your hair in Japanese. “Thank you so much.”

After the initial shock wore off, you had helped Mrs. Kojima into a chair, and she’d continued to thank you over and over again, saying how money was tight and she would have hated to be a burden to her children with hospital bills and a long recovery. She talked about how a lot of her elderly friends were in similar positions, dealing with perpetual aches and pains but having no way to pay for treatment or seek relief.

The sadness in her face had twisted something in your chest, an ache you were all too familiar with. It was the one you felt after you failed the hero course entrance exams. The ache you felt when you realized you could never be a doctor. The ache of being helpless in the face of suffering.

Your mouth had opened without your permission, and you told Mrs. Kojima that you would help her, and her friends, whenever they needed it. The elderly Japanese woman tried to wave you off, saying she didn’t want to get you in any trouble, but you had just smiled and said, “I’m fine with making a little good trouble.”

You didn’t know where your courage had come from, but you let it carry you past your fears and doubts.

So, for the last six months, Mrs. Kojima had brought all of her friends, and sometimes their children and grandchildren, to you when they were in need of healing. They always brought dresses or pants or blouses for you to fix as a cover, and you did do alterations work for them, but you also eased flaring arthritis, cataracts, fevers, and scrapped knees in the backroom. You refused to take payment for these secret services, it just felt wrong, but the little old ladies somehow always snuck large “tips” into your register when you weren’t looking.

Mrs. Kojima and every one of her friends and family members swore to their ancestors to keep your secret, and you trusted them, but you still couldn’t help proverbially looking over your shoulder, holding your breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the police to barge in and take you away.

It hadn’t happened yet, but the worry of it kept you up most nights, which was maybe another reason why you threw yourself into your work until you were so tired you just passed out.

You sighed again as you stretched and felt your back pop, releasing some of the tension in your spine. Glancing at the clock, you saw it was just past midnight, and you winced. You had to be up at five tomorrow—today, now—because Mr. Akane wanted to come in early before you opened the shop. His bad knee was giving him trouble again, an old injury he’d obtained as a boy. You were unable to fully reconstruct the joint—that took more strength and stamina than you currently possessed—but you were able to soothe his pain for weeks at a time, which he was immensely grateful for. He always brought you fresh fish when he came by, “gifts” he’d emphasized when you reminded him you didn’t take payment, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t appreciate the gesture. You weren’t exactly hurting for money, but you also didn’t normally splurge on fish caught just that morning, and you told yourself you deserved the small treat. Besides, the protein helped boost your energy and stamina levels, which meant you could heal more people, so really Mr. Akane was merely investing in his future treatments.

Your stomach grumbled at the thought of food, and you dragged yourself out of your chair before picking your way across your messy apartment to the kitchen. The apartment wasn’t very large, one large space for kitchen, dining, and living room, with one small bedroom and one bathroom down a hallway to the right when you walked in the front door. But it had been your grandparent’s home for many years before they bought a larger house after having your father, and it sat right above the shop, so you never had to worry about running late for work.

Bolts of fabric, some client pieces, and a few of your own personal sewing projects were strewn over every available surface of the main room, but you had the cleared path through the chaos memorized, so you were tossing leftovers in the microwave barely thirty seconds later. The warmed-up curry and rice—another “gift” from Mrs. Kojima—tasted as good as it had the last several days, and you hummed as the spiced meat slid down your throat and settled in your belly. After the first bite, your hunger seemed to hit you in full force, and you scarfed down every last bite in a matter of minutes. When you were done, the minor headache that had been pulsing behind your eyes abated, and you yawned as you rinsed off the dishes.

You set the damp plate on the edge of the counter as you reached for a towel, but then a sudden tremor, followed by a loud boom, seemed to shake the building, and the plate tittered on the counter’s edge for a moment before it crashed to the floor.

“Fuck!” you gasped as you jumped back and away from the ceramic shards, but another tremor-boom combo had you stumbling, and you scrambled to grab the back of the couch so you didn’t fall on your ass.

Your wide eyes took in the broken plate scattered at your feet before they jumped to the window on the opposite side of the room. The night sky was dark beyond, cut only by the dim street light just beyond the window’s view. You held your breath as your heart hammered in your ears, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, sweat slicking your palms.

What the fuck was that? Your first thought was earthquake—you hadn’t experienced one yet, but you knew they were common in Japan—but then you remembered the booms.

Maybe… maybe an electrical box blew? But no, the lights were still working. A car crash?

Then another boom vibrated you down to your very bones, and you fell to one knee as the breath hitched in your lungs.

That sounded… closer.

With your heart in your throat, you half scrambled, half crawled the last few feet to your window, and you peeked your head over the sill just as a flash off white-hot light lit up the night sky.

“Shit!” You squinted your eyes against the glare as you leaned back from the window, but then you saw a shadow streak through the air before it crashed into a car just at the edge of your peripherals.

You had the distant thought that Mr. Takeyoshi’s vehicle was very obviously totaled before you realized the thing that had crashed into the car was a person.

Your jaw gaped open as a hero pulled himself from the wreckage and shook his head groggily. The shadows—only broken by more flares of light as more explosions and fire seemed to erupt along the street—made it difficult to tell how injured the hero was. You didn’t recognize their yellow and teal costume, but you saw patches of blood along the hero’s bulky frame, and bile burned at the back of your teeth.

Holy shit. This wasn’t an accident. It was a villain attack.

Just as you had the thought, another explosion rattled your windows, making your ears ring, and you snapped your head to the side to see a man standing in the middle of the road about half a block down.

The man—villain, you realized quickly—swung his arms around like a conductor of an orchestra, but his instruments seemed to be the black rocks and liquid swirling around him. The debris glistened like an oil slick in the light of the flames, and as you watched, the villain shouted something and slashed his arm through the air.

Then a figure suddenly exploded onto the scene, lunging out from the shadows in a flare of white-hot light. It moved too fast for you to track, but the villain swung his arm again, and rocks and viscous black goo shot toward the figure still in mid-air.

A futile scream of warning caught in your throat, but then the figure seemed to explode and backflip through the air, landing on his feet but crushing the roof of a car beneath his boots. The wailing of the car’s alarm split the air, and you clenched your teeth until they ached.

The flames illuminated this new man’s face, a snarl of white teeth against the flames and smoke, but only the barest hint of recognition flared through you before everything exploded into chaos again. Another shout from the villain had all the rocks and black slime streaking back towards him, and you watched in horror as a stony black arm fifty feet long formed above the ruined street.

You knew you should be running, trying to find cover, calling the police, but you were glued there, on your knees before the window, you fingers digging grooves into the sill.

The next fifteen seconds seemed to simultaneously happen in slow motion and at hyper speed.

The giant rocky hand wiggled its fingers before it curled into a fist and slammed down on the wailing car and the man atop it.

The man—hero, you distantly thought, although your chaotic thoughts still couldn’t place him—launched up into the air with another explosion that rattled your windows, the car alarm cutting off as the vehicle was crushed an instant later.

The blond skidded into a landing half a dozen yards away, but then you suddenly saw Mr. Takeyoshi standing on the street, a ghostly apparition framed by smoke and flames.

You blinked, and the giant hand shot toward Mr. Takeyoshi, batting away several more heroes who tried to intervene.

Then the explosive hero was just there, pushing Mr. Takeyoshi out of the way, right before the hand wrapped around him.

You could hear the hero’s anguished scream through your window as he was crushed in the fist’s grip, and the sound hit you right in the solar plexus, knocking the breath out of you, bruising your insides, the pain settling into the familiar ache of being helpless in the face of suffering.

You watched uselessly as the hero was lifted up into the sky, struggling, setting off explosions left and right. Then the massive arm seemed to pause in the middle of the road, right above the villain, and your eyes locked onto the hero, his pale hair and skin stark against the black, rocky hand that held him trapped.

In the next instant, a white light, like a star going supernova, bloomed to life around the hero, illuminating the white slash of his snarling teeth before it became too bright for you to take. You slammed your eyes shut against the burning light, and the hair on the back of your neck stood on end, like the moment before lightning struck, as you dropped to the floor below your window.

Then the world exploded, the building shaking to its foundations, right before the window burst into a million shards of glass.

#bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugo katsuki/reader #bakugo/reader #bakugo katsuki/you #bakugo katsuki x you #my hero academia #mha spoilers #boku no hero academia #bnha #anime #fanfic #my writings #katsuki bakugo

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bonny-kookoo · 3 years

Text

Ready Player 01 | JJK x Reader | 🔞❤️☁️

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Genre: dystopia!AU, former Game developer!Jk, former pro gamer!JK, former IT specialist!Reader, former programmer!Reader, romance, Smut, slight cyberpunk elements

Warnings/tags: injustice, forcefully controlled public, violence (police/government officials against citizens), unfair powerplay, interrogation, tech talk, Jungkook be antisocial as FUCK but so is the reader lmao wbk, fear of physical contact (Haphephobia), past trauma and mentions of a bad childhood, insomnia, crime, smut because yes it’s me hello my content isn't kiddy-proof in the first place what yall want from me I'm not sure, but that’s waaY at the end ya know, friends to lovers, a slightly sassy AI but we love her, reader struggles with emotions, I mean same tbh, they're both so sweet tho I cant, not proofread because let me live

Summary: there’s a war going on; silent, but it’s there. Media has been strictly become controlled and regulated- to the point of making it illegal to own a TV or phone with internet access without a valid license. But there’s always some people that will try to break free from the controlling force.

"-a new age. This is a new year. And remember; we're doing this for the greater good. Until tomorrow." The news reporter stops talking after she somberly looks somewhere behind the camera that is pointed at her.

Your room is dark- the TV brightness on it's lowest setting so you can see what's going on- but outside, no one can see the light shining in your tiny apartment. Investing in blackout curtains had really paid off at the end of the day.

You don't want to get caught.

There's an announcement van driving past your window; the tiny slits in your curtains where the light from outside can creep its way inside brightening a bit as the headlights pass your windows. Something is spoken, and by now everyone knows the routine speech.

"Electricity will be shut down in five minutes. We advice to save all progress immediately- and we wish a good nights rest. Electricity will be shut down in five minutes..-" It repeats, over and over, counting down the minutes. You slowly move into your kitchen, opening one of the loose floor tiles to turn on your own emergency electricity system. With well practiced movements you close the tile again, moving the rug over it as you walk back into your living room, swiftly sliding the TV behind your wardrobe to make it disappear. As if on cue; there's a knock at your door.

The same as always. Routine. Two times, loud and clear. You don't even have to look through the peephole to know what awaits behind it.

"Yes?" You ask, rubbing your eyes as if you had been already asleep. The officer behind the door nods at you shortly, a mild smile on his face as he looks down at you.

"We didn't mean to wake you miss. Just routine, as usual." He says, peeking into your apartment to look for any electronics still running. It's pitch black however- so he simply nods, as his colleague notes something into his tablet. "We wish a good nights rest miss. Again, sorry for intruding." He apologizes, and you nod, closing the door.

Only when the street lights turn dark, do you move from your bed.

"Creator." The AI voice chimes up, her voice greeting you as as you lift the tile on the floor again- your phone connecting to the AI to show information you instantly decode and note down inside your head. "Player01 has just connected." The voice states, and you sit down on your cold kitchen flooring, smiling a little. "He has sent a message. Would you like me to play it?" The voice asks, and you take a deep breath.

"Yes." You say, and there's a small sound indicating the start of the voice message. A male voice is head.

"Hey, whats up?" He asks, and you can hear something in the background- maybe an empty can or something similar. "I uh.. I'm on my way. Should I bring anything? Ah wait, I know the answer to that.." He says, chuckling at the end of his sentence, and you can hear him zip up his jacket as he moves around. "Yeah uh.. just text or something, I'll bring stuff over. Can't have you starve." He ends, and the AI speaks up again.

"Would you like to repeat the message?" She asks, and you shake your head at her; a signal the artificial intelligence has come to detect quite well. "Should I archive it?" She questions again, and this time, you nod- something your invisible assistant can pick up due to motion sensoring.

"Send him a message." You say. "Tell him: I only need you. Get yourself here in one piece and I'm happy. And I'm very capable of taking care of myself." You state, and your phone shows a small loading message- indicating that the voice is doing as you said. It chimes up after a moment. "Thanks Kana." You say.

"No problem creator. Would you like for me to run through the databases now?" She asks, and you nod, a smile on your face. "Database search in progress. Estimated time: sixteen minutes and eighteen seconds." You huff out a breath as you look at the tiny display on your arm; tiny, yet powerful as it's your way of keeping Kana- your AI assistent- close at all times. Tonight, there would seem to be a lot to dig through.

They really added a lot of content these days.

It's not the door that makes you notice that there's a visitor after a while- He never uses it anyways for some reason. You're sitting on your kitchen floor with a small cup of tea in your hands- kept hot inside a slightly beaten-looking thermos can since you can't use to water boiler at night. Using anything other than Kana would cause a spike the police would be sure to notice; and you're not ready to get caught yet.

Not tonight.

It's a boy who, after a moment, opens the unclosed kitchen window to climb in; his combat boots getting a little snow and dirt from the outside into your apartment as his 80's looking jacket makes distinctive noises as it brushes against the sides of your window. His blonde hair has grown out a bit these days you notice- the roots clearly showing. It's a little wet and slightly curly from the moisture. It must be snowing outside- or maybe it had. You couldn't know for sure.

You never left your apartment.

He closes the window after slipping on the tiles inside a little, the plastic bags noisy as he almost drops them- sheepishly taking off his boots as he smiles at you. His socks are different from one another- but that's another thing so distinctive and just so.. him. He's his own person, always has been; it's what brought you two together, after all. You both stood out against the 'regular public' these days; with his brightly almost white-bleached hair he was like an albino in a sea of crows.

But you knew he didn't need that to stand out to you.

You can still remember the first few times the boy in front of you has visited you; the times where he had just dyed his hair to rebel out, or when he pierced your ears in exchange for you to do it to him as well. It was like you had made a blood pact in your kitchen that night- you had somehow gotten closer, formed a little more than just a simple companionship in order to riot against the law. He began growing close. Gave you a nickname. Began calling you his player 2. Began calling you his 'ace'. He had explained that he thought of it from memories of his gaming days; the two fighting teams always called red and blue, and one of his favorite weapons having that nickname- simply because it always 'saved his ass last minute'. He had rambled on about his last tournament after that, eyes sparkling and cheeks round from cold noodles.

You had become friends.

"hey." He says after sitting close across from you on the cold floor; the opened tile and Kana's core exposed to you two, the only source of light apart from your bracelet. The colorful LED's paint marks on his face and illuminate his features to you; but it does the same to you from his point of view. It's a familiar sight. "How are you?" He asks, almost shyly, but you know that's not what's bothering him.

"Hey Jungkook." You simply say with the hint of a smile, as you answer him. "Haven't slept well these days but, what's new I guess." You chuckle, and Jungkook smiles too- though a glimpse of concern is still shown your way. He knows however that forcing you to sleep won't do much good- your insomnia was too bad to really conquer it in a day or two just by taking naps.

And also; who was he to talk about solving personal issues.

"Have you seen the most recent reports?" You ask him, and the boy somberly shakes his head.

"I was unable to." He states. "They were patrolling close to my apartment complex because there had been someone reporting a Glitcher today." A 'glitcher'- a slang word now commonly used for people like Jungkook and you. People who went against the nightly routines, people who tried to trick the system by using electricity at night, owning media, consuming it, or dealing with it. It somehow became worse than underground drugs. "They pulled him out at around twelve or so- but they seemed too on edge the entire day, so I didn't risk it." He says, and you nod. Jungkook had always been a very good person when it came to calculating risk versus reward. He was good at reading people too- even though he didn't interact much, he got out of his apartment a lot more than you did. "Anything important?" He asks, and you shrug.

"There was a report that China and Japan were still on edge- with the chinese government arguing that they would soon start with 'more drastic measures to get things under proper control', whatever that means." You say, and Jungkooks brows furrow as he starts to pick on the skin of his jaw. "Let's just hope the flood doesn't throw us under the sea as well if it escalates I guess.." You say, and the boy across from you nods.

"Creator." Kana's voice chimes up, making Jungkook look up before remembering that the only source would be your bracelet, which you look at as well. "My scan of your body shows that you have not consumed a sufficient amount of calories today. I recommend a meal in the next five to eight minutes to avoid malnutrition." She says, and you groan. "I take this as a form of verbal communication. Running data search..." She says, as Jungkook looks at you; thoroughly amused by the teasing banter between the AI and his friend. "My data search concludes that you are annoyed, creator. I have only stated a fact however-" She continues, and Jungkook steps in.

"I've brought some leftovers from my dinner today we can eat." He says, pulling out some plastic containers as he moves to get proper cutlery out of your drawers. He makes sure to push them towards you, making sure to nod with a smile as you nod and thank him a little embarrassed. "It's nothing. You know I love you too much to let you starve!" He states with a grin, bunny teeth on full display as bitterness creeps up your throat- something you make sure to swallow down before beginning to eat.

Because the kind of love he's talking about right now, is not the kind of love you want him to feel for you.

"You forgot to give it a proper validation there-" He points out as you type away. "Otherwise it will just run instantly, and everything at once. That could crash older systems, and we know that V95 uses an older laptop, so we should take that into account." He says, and you nod, clicking back to the spot Jungkook is talking about.

This is what you're both good for.

Writing code for you had always been something you did with a passion- simply because you were good at it. Numbers and short phrases were something you could remember with ease; but you never had to think much about the visual aspect of programs in your department back when you were able to work for a simple programming company. You had simply always been tasked to program security systems and automatically updating firmware, or simple AI's for factory robots. Jungkook however had been all about the visuals; he had been programming games after all. That's why you two fit so well together in this scene. Whenever he would be in complete awe of the broad knowledge you had about official guidelines and security breaches, of staying undetected and unseen while still gaining as much as possible from every single line of code, he could always throw in his input to make sure the program you were both writing and updating for the glitch community was easy to use and simple enough so it could run smoothly on as many systems as possible. Be it phone, laptops, PC's- you two made it possible.

This program was connecting Glitchers all over the globe- and with yours and Jungkooks knowledge, you made it almost invisible. And even if it was somehow detected; there was no possible way to track down any of it's users.

The fact that you had to hide a simple program from the government made you sigh.

"Okay. Yeah I think that fixed the bug." He says, and looks at your arm- at Kana. "Oh, by the way, Kana?" he asks, and the chime gives him the cue to talk. "I heard you had a bug-fix too recently." He says, and the AI chimes again.

"I did, Player01." The AI answers. "The addition of code to my current program has proven to significantly increase my ability to observe and save more data." The female voice answers, and Jungkook grins. "You are happy, Player01." She states, and he nods.

"I am." He says.

"Why is that?" The AI asks, and Jungkook shrugs.

"I'm just happy you're doing well. Someone has to take care of ace when I'm not close by, yeah?" He states, and you try not to react to it. Jungkook is by now used to your more stoic expression; you're not too emotional and barely let things get under your skin. You've been hurt before, he knows this even if you never told him- he can see it in the way you hide inside the safety of your home, how you're so cold on the outside but still clinging onto him. Sometimes he wishes he could touch you; run his hand over your head to ruffle your hair like in those cheesy movies, hold your hand, or simply give you some reassurance in the form of a gentle hand on your back whenever you struggle.

But he's got his own demons, and they love clinging onto him just as much.

"V95 has connected to voice chat. Would you like to talk to him?" Kana states, ripping him out of his thoughts as he watches you nod.

"JK? Y/N?" A deep voice asks.

"We're here. Heard there was a raid close to you?" Jungkook asks, and he can see you grow a bit more serious at that. "Are you okay?" He adds, and V answers, although quite.. tired?

"I'm good. They got Jimin though." He states, and you sigh, running a hand through your hair as you stand up, frustrated. Jungkook knows you're trying to calm down by pacing. He doesn't mind. "They didn't officially arrest him, took him for 'questioning' though. We know what that's about." He states somberly, and Jungkook takes a deep breath.

"Jimin is a master manipulator V. He'll get himself out of it, I'm sure." Jungkook tries to reassure, but it doesn't gain him much than a hum from Taehyung on the other end of the line. "What about Sleeper?" He asks, and a chuckle is heard.

"He's been checking the videofeed from inside the past few nights. He said he's send some of the big bites to Ace though?" He says, and Jungkook looks over at your form.

"Yeah I've seen it." You simply say, though Jungkook grows uncomfortable with the way you're suddenly standing there. You're a little hunched, biting the skin on your thumb as you look at the tiles as if they suddenly began to move. He knows himself that things inside the 'rehabilitation centers' weren't all that nice to see- but you rarely ever displayed so much distress over it. "Let's just hope Jimin get's his ass out of this situation. We can't afford to loose him." You say, and V stays silent before he sighs.

"Yeah. I tell sleeper you've seen the stuff. Oh, and our prince charming has asked for a date with Ace. Again." Taehyung chuckles, and you groan- while Jungkook can't help but clench his jaw. Kim Seokjin was a very good asset to the team; with connections reaching deep inside the government and his position as a former lawyer- but he still hated his guts.

You didn't need to waste your time dating. You were totally capable of taking care of yourself, you had even said it personally! And for anything else Jungkook would provide for you. You didn't need anyone else than him.

He was totally not jealous of him.

"Can he not use our underground connections for that circus?" You say. "I don't even go grocery shopping, why would I want to go on a fucking date?" You mumble, sitting down next to Jungkook as you take a spoonful of rice. Jungkook feels a weird sense of satisfaction about the situation.

"Who knows." Taehyung says. "Alright, 10 Minute mark- I'll hear from you two soon. Take care." He says, and you both say your goodbyes before the line goes silent.

Although Jungkook hates physical contact, he likes keeping you close.

His heart is melting like chocolate as he notes the way your hand grips his jacket tightly as the two of you walk through town to get your license renewed- a way of holding onto him, and he somehow wishes it could be his hand. He knows yours would fit so perfectly in his, and yet he can't bring himself to do it.

His body is not cooperating.

He remembers vividly how his fear had developed; with his father and mother both being dramatically overworked and overwhelmed with having a kid at a young age, they had no idea how to make a child behave. Every second touch would bruise, every time he had been held would be force.

And at some point, he started to dislike physical touch completely.

It had just been like his growing interest in freelance climbing- the way he would walk and jump high over the heads of unsuspecting people, away from all judgemental gazes they'd throw his way for behaving the way he did. Only when the wind could hit him freely, only when he couldn't make out faces of anyone down below, only when he was high up- that was when he felt safe. The ground below had nothing of interest for him, no point in going down, as his apartment was located on the top floor of the complex. Jungkook never took the elevator, always the stairs.

He liked being reminded how high he lived.

And yet, there's one thing that pulls him down, brings his feet to the earth below, calls him like a siren song. It's you, hidden away from everyone's sight inside your tiny home, just as troubled and judged as himself.

He'd fallen in love with you the second you told him his name.

It had been a rainy night, his clothes drying on your heater as he was wrapped in two of your blankets; the smell of your fabric softener and something so typically you surrounding him like a mother's hug would a child. It had given him a feeling of comfort he had never quite experienced before, and it had also been the first time he had imagined what it would be like to hug you.

To have you close.

He had explained to you why he had freaked out when you reached for his arm to steady him when he almost fell inside your apartment through your window; had apologized and bowed his head in shame until you had simply shrugged.

"You don't have to justify yourself to anyone, Jungkookie." You had said. Jungkookie. "You're you. And I like you." You had said, not looking at him as you typed in some code to Kana's internal system.

His heart had warmed up at that.

And while you had accepted him, he had accepted you just as much. While at first caught off guard by your quiet and sometimes harsh way of treating him, he had also gotten to know just how gentle and delicately you treated the ones you loved. You were a loyal person, always going out of your way to be helpful, and silently basking in praise any time it was directed at you.

He loved that view. The way your cheeks would grow warm, how your eyes would sparkle; and he loved most of all, that he had been, according to Taehyung who was the second closest to you, the only one to see you smile.

You even laughed with him.

It filled him with pride to know that you were able to let go around him, even if it was just a little. It made him feel like he did something huge. It helped him sleep at night knowing that you were trusting him enough to let down your guard a little.

And it hurt him even worse knowing that he couldn't do the same thing for you.

He was a coward-

and you deserved a hero.

"Ace?" He asked, slipping through your window as he noticed the apartment silent and dark. Nothing greeted him. "..Ace?" He tried again, maybe you were asleep? But your apartment was quiet, empty, nothing spoke of your presence. Dishes were in the sink, a cup of water left untouched on the counter, and something inside of him churned painfully at the way this looked. He checked the kitchen tile, sliding it to the side like he's seen you do it countless of times.

It was dark.

Instead, he was greeted by a post it note. "Underneath the bed. Take care." Was all it read. He stood up, pushing your bed away from the wall noticing how your carpet had been torn a little. And as he lifted the cut flap of carpet, there was an envelope.

Your watch. A small in-ear piece, and your old IT-identification, folded.

A noise outside your hallway made his head snap up as he pushed the bed back into place, making an escape for it as he climbed outside the window, watch safely inside his jacket as he climbed back up on top of a building, before he examined it further, turning it on, after putting the earpiece in.

"Hello, Jungkook." Kana greeted him, and it felt weird to hear the AI say his name like that. "Creator has advised me to answer all questions you might have, and assist you from here on." She said, and Jungkook simply put the watch on, making his way to his own apartment.

"What happened?" He asked, his face serious as he walked.

"At around 6:12 O'clock, creator was taken into further questioning regarding illegal possession and knowledge of classified information and technological equipment. She had shown no resistance and complied with authorities. My observations however showed that she was taken with more force than necessary." Kana explained. Jungkook shook his head. "She had prepared for this instance during the night, approximately twenty-six minutes after you had left."

"She knew?!" He suddenly said, shutting his apartment door violently as he started to pace around, throwing his jacket on the couch. "Why didn't she contact me?"

"Analysis; your body shows signs of-" Kana started, but Jungkook interrupted.

"Shut up. Why didn't she tell me?" He asks again, and Kana seems to hesitate for a moment.

"Considering her close relationship to you, she probably wanted to not get you involved." She stated, and Jungkook sighed, sitting down on his couch as he gripped his hair. He should've stayed. Hell, it wasn't the first time he wanted to stay. He had dreamed of staying over, of fucking living with you for months to no end by now, but he was a coward. And this was his paycheck.

"Kana." He said lowly, and the small tune gave him the cue to talk. "Contact V95. Tell him it's urgent. We got an emergency." He says.

"I can't watch this." He says, jumping up and holding onto his head as to not punch his wall, unable to go through the videofeed of your interrogation room.

There's not much to see, but Jungkook knows that's simply because they haven't had the time to see to you yet. You and him knew best what really happened in these rooms, and he hated knowing that deep down they wouldn't go easy on you simply because you were a young woman. It didn't matter to them.

He'd seen teenagers way younger than you and him getting the rough treatment before- and elderly didn't get spared either.

The government bragged about having everything in order; yet they couldn't even control their own law enforcement it seemed. When he really thought back on his history lessons in school, not much had changed at all.

The world was still in utter chaos.

His palm shuts his laptop harshly- earning a tiny chime from the AI he’s already forgotten shares his home with him now. “I suggest that you practice care in treating your electronics to-“ he groans, successfully shutting it off at that. “Why are you frustrated?” It- she? Asks, and he sits down.

“I don’t know how to help her.” He admits in shame, thinking back to the footage of your hidden camera; the way they had pushed you to the ground, before grabbing you, leading you out of your apartment a few minutes away from him. “I don’t know what I should do.” He says.

There’s a bit of silence, until the AI speaks up again. “Do you have a romantic interest in my creator?” She asks, and his head snaps up at that.

“What the fuck? Why would you ask me this?!” He barks, unsure where to look since he can only hear the voice.

“I have observed both my creator and your behaviors; you seem to have a very deep rooted interest in each others well-being and opinions. This is commonly found in partnerships. I was only asking you to confirm if my assumption is correct.”

He’s silent for a moment, until he speaks again, watching the announcement van pass his window; voices dull and unintelligible though the walls and windows. “It’s no use anyways. Who wants someone they can’t even shake hands with?” He sighs, looking into his lap again. He hates that he’s like this; that even though he very much loves and adores you, there’s no magic moment that makes him forget- even though he craves the contact, he can’t do it. Every time he’s close to you, he knows that he could simply hug you; or let you rest your head on his shoulder, like in romantic movies. He wants to hold your hand, wipe your tears- but his body won’t cooperate. He can’t do it.

Not even with you.

“Creator seems very comfortable with you.” The AI states. “I have been asked to archive all text messages and phone calls of you two recently. When I asked for a reason, she claimed she would need it someday- I was unsure what she meant.” Jungkook furrows his brow, raising his head again. “Sometimes, when creator is deeply upset, she has the habit of playing some of the recordings of you singing, or reminding her to take care. My research has shown that it slows down her heartbeat to a more normal level and also improves her insomnia.” Jungkooks eyes widen at that.

Does that mean.. that you like him back?

"Kana, fuck- cut the feed." He says, agitated.

"Are you sure?" She asks, and he sighs, before yelling his frustration out, sitting down to take a deep breath. He slowly shook his head no. He couldn't let all your hard work go to waste like this.

He couldn't stay a coward.

"Jungkook, it appears to be that the creator is being let go." Kana suddenly chimes up, and Jungkook rushes to his pc setup to see for himself. And she's right- your arm is being held tightly, and something is being said to you, but your hands are no longer chained to the chair- you're free.

What just happened?

Jungkook sometimes really hates himself for being the way he is.

There's no sugarcoating it that you need comfort now more than ever, even though you don't openly show it to him. He can see it in the way you're still biting your nails, he can see it in your eyes which never stay on one point for too long. And he can definitely see it in the bruises on your upper arm, and the cut on your lower lip where you had bitten in anger and frustration. He wants to comfort you, he knows you'd let him- and yet he can't move any closer than where he is right now; only the length of his palm of space between you two. And yet it's like his joints are locked into place. He can't touch you.

What if he hurts you?

And it dawns on him right then and there while he watches you drink your can of overly sweet soda while typing your code like second nature, that he's not scared of you hurting him. He's scared of doing to you, what's been done to him. Because deep down he is aware that his parents never had bad intentions, never hated him or wanted him to suffer; they were simply unsure and not at all confident in how to really care for a child. They had been caught off guard and gotten overwhelmed by the sudden shift in their situation that they never truly knew what to do. And nowadays he felt like he was simply heading down the same road.

He was starting to feel like he was becoming just like them.

"Hm?" You ask him, ripping him out of his thoughts as he looks at you, your eyes wide and worried as you put down your almost empty can of soda. "What is it?" You ask him, and he wants to scream. He wants to throw a fit like a child at the way you seem to worry for him every time you should worry for yourself. He's a coward, he's useless, he's everything you don't need nor deserve in his eyes, and yet you always look at him like he's the main character of your favorite movie.

If he was, he was sure he'd be merely a sidekick- because you deserved to be the focus of every story told in his eyes. And if you weren't included in the tale, he knew he didn't want to ever know about it.

He swallows, before he manages to make his hand move, finger pointing at your arm where a green-ish bruise already formed. "Does it hurt?" He asks, and he's not even sure if he's asking you about the bruise, of if he's asking something else. He doesn't know what he's saying, doesn't even know if he's asking you or himself.

"No." You answer, and he looks at you, searching for any hint of a lie in your eyes. But he only sees that slight smile, lips turned a little, almost unnoticeable. But its there, he can see it, and he wants to print it into his mind to never forget it. You were so observant, knew him so well, that he was almost certain you knew of his inner fight and what he really meant with his blurted out question. "Are you okay?" You ask him, and he swallows again, eyes stinging with unshed tears as his body grows rigid like an unoiled machine, only moving with as much force as he can manage to come up with. His breathing is heavy as his eyes can't leave the spot on your arm, and your watch him with wide eyes as his shaking hand slowly reaches out.

He doesn't know what he expects to really happen.

Maybe like those electric shocks you get when someone had rubbed their socks on a carpet before touching someone else. Maybe he had expected to recoil instantly. Maybe he had expected nothing- but he was suddenly in a rush the moment his fingertip touched your warm skin, delicate, soft, everything his rough hands weren't.

And you were still as prey in front of a wolf.

But the wolf in this scenario was holding his breath while his tears finally fell. He wants to speak, but he can't, he doesn't know how to ask for something when he doesn't even know if he wants it.

But suddenly he moves again, his palm now resting fully against your upper arm, shaking, as it moves over the length of it, softly, as he imprints the way your soft skin feels. "Jungkook.." You whisper out, and he suddenly snaps, leans forward, his legs on either side of your body as he snakes his arms around you from behind, pulling you close to his chest. You can feel him shake as he holds you, his cheek resting against your back and you don't care about his tears staining your shirt as he suddenly cries openly and possibly for the first time since he was a mere child.

He's unsure, overwhelmed, because you're so warm, you smell so nice, you're so soft, and he can't let go, doesn't want to let go. He whines out as you turn a bit as he thinks you're moving away but you're simply placing your legs over his as you sit in his lap, hugging him back as you make sure to give him a gentle squeeze.

He calms down after a long while of simply existing. Of breathing you in, of feeling you. "You're right." He whispers into your neck, and you can't help but shiver, leaning into his hug.

"It doesn't hurt at all."

"You know, I get why you come up here." You comment, as Jungkook makes sure to hold your hand tightly in his, your feet dangling off the edge of the building you're sitting on top of. "It's nice." You say.

He's not listening that well though.

All he can really do is watch your face, illuminated by the neon lights of the city, hair swaying in the wind as you look down below. He doesn't quite know what you two really are, doesn't know how long it will take him to really come out of his shell and give you the love you deserve, but he's trying. He's fighting, he's left his cowardly self behind.

He want's to change.

And not just for you alone, because while he hates seeing you hurt, he knows what you two are doing- what all of you are doing- is for the greater good.

Jungkook hates your ideas sometimes.

Simply because he knows they will work, but also end up with you getting into danger at the end of it. And just like now, all he can do really is hope that you make it out as he keeps a watchful eye on your movements from above, giving you directions via Kana as you sometimes trip and stumble a little.

You're not a very active person; running wasn't really your thing.

Fuck, you were basically a hermit, the most you walked around was from your bedroom into the kitchen!

But then again, sacrifices had to be made somewhere. And Jungkook really admired you; because every time he thought that you had reached your limit, you would face it head first and break through it.

"Ace, try and somehow get to higher ground. They're caging you in from all sides." He urgently tells you as he watches police chase you down the roads, pushing citizens aside to not loose sight of you.

The plan had been simple. Gain all the attention so Taehyung could infect one of the police station's servers with a new worm, giving you all a better and easier access to any data and communication of the area. Jungkook couldn't play the bate well enough; and you had been on their radar already, making you the best option to gain their interest quickly enough.

Although Jungkook hated that part.

"Come on, ah fuck it." He grits out, jumping down to grab a ladder, making his way to a nearby area he could pull you up. There was no way you could reach any of the fire ladders yourself, and by now, things were getting too hot for him to risk anything. "Here!" He barks out, not thinking twice about grabbing your hand and helping you upwards, trying not to worry too much about your heavy breathing. And then there's it.

A pop, loud, followed by another, and another, and another. You're suddenly falling, scraping your knees on the ground below as he can't catch you, too startled by the fact that they had actually decided to shoot to react quick enough. "Fuck!" He says, eyes wide and pupils blown as he looks at you.

"Jungkook, why the fuck aren't you running?!" You yell at him, a scratch on the top of your left cheek as you push his leg away from you- the only thing you can reach. "Go!" You bark again, and he growls out something, before he manages to pull you onto his back, adrenaline not letting his brain process what he's doing.

He can't just leave you.

"Taehyung, get out, Ace has been shot. Whatever was uploaded has to be enough." He says via the in-ear piece, doesn't wait for a response. He still gets it.

"Fuck, what?! Okay okay, I'm out" He says, and Jungkook can only catch a glimpse of the older man leaving the building via the backside entrance. He's only concerned with getting you somewhere safe.

"Urgh." You groan, slowly sitting up on Jungkooks couch. "I mean, I know paintball hurts, but rubber bullets? Jesus.." You complain, while Jungkook looks at you with a dark expression. "What?" You ask him, and he huffs.

"You sound like you haven't almost been killed yesterday." He grimly says, and you shrug. "Stop. I'm serious." He tells you, and you let yourself fall back down onto his couch.

"Whatever. At least we killed their communication." You say, closing your eyes. "Must've at least pissed them off." You say.

"Kana." Jungkook suddenly says, waiting for the familiar sound to tell him she's active. "Shut down for now." He says, and you sit up, hissing instantly at the sudden movement.

"Hey- ah fuck!" You say, as you watch on your bracelet how Kana complies; shutting down. "Why would you do that?" You say in an offended matter, before you grow quiet, watching him go onto his knees in front of you, as he lets his head rest on top of your lap.

"I just want.. you to myself. Just.." He mumbles, and you slowly bring your hand to his hair. "Just for a moment." He says, and you sigh. Jungkook had been under a lot of stress recently, you no doubt being the main cause of most of it recently. So you simply let him be, as he closed his eyes. "Y/N?" He asks suddenly, and you answer him. "I love you." He says, and your body stops moving.

What?

"It's okay if you don't." He says, not moving from his spot, and neither opening his eyes. "I mean it. I only want you to know." He explains further. "Because I.. couldn't fucking live with myself if something happened to you, and I've never told you." He admits, and you can't help but stare at him. Jungkook looked down on himself so much that it was sometimes frustrating to see; simply because you saw him as such an amazing human being with countless talents and beautiful flaws.

You knew you couldn't muster up the strength to actually answer him; not so spontaneously. You weren't that expressive, you couldn't communicate as freely and colorful as he could. All your words seemed black and white to you, mixing into grey and mundane sentences while his words seemed to bloom into the most amazing paintings. He had a way of charming those around him- and he didn't even know.

You slowly leaned down instead, moving his hair to the side as you placed a feather-light kiss to the top of his cheek, close to his eye.

You hoped he would somehow understand you.

And as he moved again, looking at you with eyes that sparkled brighter than any city's skyline ever could, you knew he did.

He'd always understand you, no matter how you communicated with him.

You didn't need words to understand each other.

The shy kiss you two shared, bathed in the purple glow of the neon lights outside his window, spoke enough.

"You should try and sleep." Jungkook tells you, taking away your can of soda as you whine at him. "No buts. Come on, I'll finish this for you." He says, and you let him take over the keyboard of your laptop. It's something you really only let him get away with- anyone else would've probably lost a finger or two trying to touch your work.

You don't trust anyone but him at this point.

"I know that Kana snitched." You comment, as you lean your back against his shoulder. He chuckles. "Can't believe my own creation goes behind my back like that." You mumble, and Jungkook has a light tune to his voice as he speaks.

"Well, it's a good thing though." He tells you. "I worry about you." He says.

"Ugh come on, you know that's not the part I meant." You laugh, and he grins.

"Oh, you mean the part where you listen to my crappy ass singing to help you sleep?" He tells you with a teasing undertone. "No wonder you got insomnia trying to find rest to that." He chuckles, and you playfully hit his thigh.

"Shut up, your voice is nice." You say, and he's glad your eyes are closed, and you can't see him blush.

Somehow, moments like these re-energized him again. Because it proved to him that there was still a piece of that innocent and untainted you inside that thick shell you had put up to protect yourself. And considering that you let him see you like that made his pride grow taller than any of the skyscrapers of his city.

Maybe one day the two of you will have a future together that won't be so difficult and unfair like your current one was. Maybe one day, you both will have changed enough to teach the next generation about what you've overcome.

But then again; living in the moment seemed to fit a lot better in his eyes, as he watched you sleep soundly against his shoulder.

Yeah, this moment was more than enough for now.

The world won't change over night- you both know that. All of you know that. But small things were starting to make a difference here and there; for example, the letter you held towards Jungkook as his eyes widened.

"..and we have officially decided that we no longer want to participate in the case against the defendant. The result of this agreement is that all charges against Y/N L/N have been dismissed and are no longer being investigated." He reads out loud, almost whispering as if saying it too loud could make it a lie. "They let you go?" He asks, and you nod, the small bandaid on your cheek making you look even cuter in his eyes as you shrug.

"Jimin had reached out too. They've let him go home as well." You say. and Jungkook huffs out in disbelief.

After infecting the police station with the worm you had all worked on, you had scared the entire country enough to take a step back from the overall aggressive tone. It wasn't much- but it meant that they knew you were there. You existed, and you were not bowing down.

You were still untamed.

Jungkook smiled brightly as he put the letter down to the side, reaching out to you to pull you onto his lap. He simply holds you for a moment, his lips kissing the skin of your shoulder as if in a trance. "I love you." He tells you, and you smile, squeezing him a bit in your arms. "I really do." He assures you, and you nod.

You don't answer him, and he doesn't seem to mind as he leans back from you, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he grins, hands holding your face so delicately as he places a kiss onto your lips, making you close your eyes as he breaks away from you, letting you rest your head against his shoulder.

He's still not letting anyone very physically close other than you; he's still scared of going out and around like everyone else. You're still rather hiding inside his apartment- both of your apartment now- and you still have trouble sleeping.

But Jungkook keeps the nightmares away.

And you make him brave in exchange.

It's really weird to hear the sound of a radio nowadays.

Things are still far from normal- but recently, citizens had been given radios to listen to public broadcast again. It only played crappy music with some rare good tracks here and there, but it was better than nothing.

Jungkook couldn't help but think that your breathless voice was far more entertaining than any music station he can remember from his youth.

While he hates touching other people, even friends and family, he can't help but feel a rush whenever he touches you.

His hands can't stop on one specific spot, can't seem to stay still even for a moment as his lips nip and suck at the flesh of your neck and shoulder, marking what's his, visualizing that you really belong to him. He bears the same mark on his collarbone from last night, and he should have been satisfied, but even an early morning couldn't keep him away from you.

The rain hit the window harshly, but he didn't notice at all. All his eyes could see was your form underneath him, skin glowing as he moves above you, euphoria filling his veins as he can't look away from where you're connected, where his cock disappears inside of you over and over and over again.

"I love you." He breathes out as he comes undone, holding you close, resting his head against your shoulder, as you hold onto his arms, a smile, a genuine and big smile thrown his way as he can't help but smile along.

"I love you too, Jungkook." You say, and he chuckles.

The radio in the background still playing, as you lay in each others' arms.

(c)Bonny-Kookoo. Please stop reposting my content on AO3 thinking I won't find it. I'm literally everywhere you clowns.

To everyone else: Thank you for reading this mess- I really apologize for the messy storyline, but I just wanted to put this out before the entire thing escaped me again and I would end up struggling to find my way back into it (cough cough flashback to mean lmao). I promise to somewhat post more regularly. Thank you for your kind words and for sticking with me!

#bts imagine #bts #bts fanfic #jungkook imagine #bts fic #bts smut #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bts reactions

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alkalinefrog · 3 years

Note

hey, so, I had an art related question... if all of this is too much, feel free to ignore it.

the backstory is that I've had the same laptop since early high school but recently I had a birthday (I'm 28 now). my parents got me an HP laptop, and my friend got me a tablet, which she bought off of an online friend for $30. the problem is that I haven't had new technology like... ever? none that was actually mine anyway, and certainly nothing that could handle me using it for art.

and this is especially a problem when it comes to the tablet. my friend helped me get firealpaca onto the laptop, and get the tablet set up with the right drivers, aaaaand... I cannot make one line that looks good using it. I've been using pen and paper for so long and I have a really light touch, and it feels like I have to jam the pen down to get it to register, at which point I might as well have not set the pen sensitivity to anything at all because the thickest line is the only kind I can make?? any lighter and it won't show up on the screen at all. like I can ctrl+z and it doesn't even go back a step, the line didn't get drawn. there's like a 20% chance that any line I try to put down won't actually register. and tbh this isn't really what I had wanted... it's a huion tablet, which is the brand I wanted, but I was gonna buy myself one where you can see what you're drawing on the screen of the tablet itself. not just due to coordination issues, I think I could get used to that part, but because I feel like I wouldn't be having this specific problem with getting things to register. every single line I make looks like crap with this tablet, it makes me feel like I might as well be drawing with my feet, and I've been fidgeting with settings, and it doesn't seem like anything helps. I also still don't have a mouse for the laptop yet, so I can't click and drag anything very well because it has a trackpad, so messing with sliders is already aggravating.

I feel so lost and overwhelmed, and like if I buy anything else, I'm just going to end up with more unusable stuff because *I'm* probably the problem. I just don't know anything, and trying is mentally fatiguing me so quickly... my brain knows what I want my art to look like, and my hands can do it with a real pen. I just have absolutely no clue how to make this machine produce anything.

so I guess my questions are stuff like, what equipment do you use? are there tablets that will register a light touch or am I really going to have to be this heavy handed in order to work with one? what resolution/canvas size do you usually work on? any recommendations for what program to use?

overall, I'd really like to get myself something that feels more intuitive than the tablet... honestly, I was finding some success drawing with just my finger on the touch screen of my phone at one point. there were still a lot of problems with that, but the nail in the coffin was that my phone's memory space filled up and I had to get rid of the drawing app to make it functional again (it's an iphone, which is why). maybe I should just get an ipad or something...? though, one more thing on the mountain of potential options is the last thing my crumbling ADHD brain needs. I've been taking a break from art in general because I've still maintained my 40-hours-a-week work schedule through the whole pandemic... I do 10 hour shifts and work overnight, so I technically have free time since I only work 4 days a week, but the type of work I do leaves me with no energy at all. so I've been in an art slump and I've been wanting to get out of it, but this is just making art feel impossible, even though the whole reason why I've always wished I could draw digitally is so that I can color digitally. I had been drawing things in pen and scanning them to color in photoshop, but cleanup takes so long that I literally can't produce finished work anymore. I'm out of options that aren't prohibitively labor intensive and frustrating.

this was probably way too much information, but if you have any advice I'd be really grateful.

Huh, well first off HAPPY BIRTHDAY DUDE!! Congrats on the sweet new tech (even if it's been a bit frustrating) and well-deserved celebration!

From the sounds of it I think the main issue is probably your tablet (this is pure speculation on my end though, so you know, grain of salt and all). You're right in that you shouldn't have to fight against your equipment. I have a really light touch too and I've never had the same issue. I personally don't have any experience with huion tablets, but if you're having trouble getting your lines to register then it might have been worn down by the previous user. It's not so much about buying a monitor (the screen one) vs. tablet so much as getting working equipment.

An iPad is a great alternative!! I've played around with the apple pencil and procreate and it's a super intuitive program with (obviously) super easy set up! You get the drawing on the screen AND really nice pen pressure. I'm really happy seeing it opening up new doors for more people to get into digital art!

In terms of your current laptop/tablet situation:

My set up rn is pretty pricey ngl; I have a PC desktop computer with a 16 inch Wacom Cintiq. Getting started in digital art doesn't mean you have to drop a bag on a ton of equipment right from the get go though! If you're looking for a safe small investment, I'd recommend getting a Wacom Bamboo pen tablet!

This lil' baby right here is what I started with!! I think cost-wise it floats around 70ish bucks, but that's exponentially more affordable than buying a huge monitor. One of my friends who's also a pro artist uses a similar small tablet because it works great! That's an alternative that might be worth looking into.

You can also get free trials on other drawing programs (clip studio paint is a great one!) To test and see if it's a software issue with firealpaca.

You could also try checking online forums to see if anyone else is running into similar issues, or watch some YouTube videos of people reviewing different tablets. I know this might be even more overwhelming, so I'd try and narrow the scope to focus on one thing at a time.

My best advice right now would actually be to get a mouse, or any other accessories you need. I've also been in your shoes where I was completely overwhelmed, and I can say that checking off all the small easy things makes a HUGE difference! It makes you feel more in control of the situation, and even if you're still having trouble with digital art you can at least get more comfortable using your laptop in the mean time.

You got this dude!! I believe in you!!

EDIT:

Thanks @wooliebirds!

#ask #anonymous #advice

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litteidiot · 3 years

Text

Four Seasons With You

Volume one: Chapter 1- Spring

Easter Egg Hunt

Pairing: Victor x Mc

Summary: When an unexpected inconvenience gives you the opportunity to make this day unforgettable for him.

“I’ll see you later.” You chriped on a sunny morning. Basically hopping in front of him, you placed a gentle kiss on his lips before parting.

“So cheery today and the day barely started. Does a certain dummy has something in her mind?” Victor hooked his arm around your waist, giving you another kiss on the forehead. “Oh, it’s nothing, just springtime.” You smiled at him. “And it’s also Easter.” You added. He nod reminding himself about the holiday. Today he was supposed to be at home with you enjoying each other’s company. You made him promise you because he is on his day off he won’t look at any document nor report. He is yours only.

But last night in some ungodly hour, the management crew gave him a call, about some hiccups what occurred with the overseas department. The negotiation to collaborate with the new American company took a bad turn and they refused to do anything further if they can’t talk with the CEO of LFG. So it meant he has to go in for an impromptu meeting.

“I’ll make it up for you when I’ll get back.” He pulled you close again, hinting another soft kiss on your temple. It was still early in the morning. He tried to get up beside you without disturbing your sleep, but when you didn’t feel his warmth anymore, you woke up and followed him to the kitchen. You shook your head in refusal. “Don’t rush the meeting because you want to get back home earlier for me. Take your time I know you were in contact with this company for a long time. I’ll see you when you finished.” You smiled at him.

You know this deal can benefit LFG’s future in the overseas market. So of course you don’t want this to end badly because of some holiday. “Even though it means two batches of pudding.” The sweet smile on your makeup free face turned into a mischievous and greedy grin. “Such a dummy. Always thinking about her stomach.” He murmured pretending to be annoyed, but you knew this man long enough to know he will grant your wish. “When I get home I better not see chicklets, bunnies and an idiot running around the house.” With that he closed the door behind him and left.

While you made yourself a light breakfast, what only contained toast and eggs, your mind was furiously racing on how to spend the time while waiting for your boyfriend. As you kept musing on the possibilities on how to spend the day, you gradually remembered the little surprises you left in Victor’s office while you waited for him to finish his meeting a couple days back. A prankish smile tugged on your lips. Shoving down the remaining bites of your meal, and taking a few more sips of the coffee you hurried away to get dressed.

Walking in the step in closet you chose a casual wear for the day. Pushing and flipping the hanged up clothing articles you eventually found a nice beige colored dress among the many formal and ridiculously expensive clothings. When you became Victor’s partner and after the media acknowledged this information you got invitations to balls and fancier parties. It was a natural requirement you had to look high class just like him. Your boyfriend mercilessly spoiled you rotten with fancier and fancier dresses, personally tailored to your sizes by the finest taylors he could find. As the collection grew, it swallowed all your older clothes. The dress you posed with in front of the body sized mirror was like a scavenger hunt amongst the many night gowns and suit dresses.

Quickly putting on your chosen outfit, you left the penthouse in a hurry, barely being able to snatch your purse on the coat hanger. You were having an intense race with time. To not blow up your sudden Easter surprise you tried to do the shopping as quickly as possible. You don’t know when Victor comes home so it added another reason to make this fast.

***

“Goldman, the management team better have a good reason to call me in, because I have a better place to be today.” Victor’s stern voice echoed through his office the moment he stepped in. Several moments of keyboard clicking later Goldman began with his speach.

“The possible partner we are trying to convince suddenly got a more appealing offer from a different company. The deal was that the company will sponsor them PR commercials and advertisings, they can keep their position in the stock market and can have sixty percent of the income.” He said, flipping back and forth on the tablet.

“I see.— Victor rested his chin on his hands— “Remind me please about the deal LFG offered.” The assistant cleared his throat, opening the files what contained the agreement. “Comparing to the new proposal our offer is lacking. Because of their crash in the marketing area lately, you decided to not offer munch in case the collaboration would backfire.” After minutes of thinking, what felt like centuries Victor finally spoke up.

“Rewrite our proposal. Tell them LFG will ensure their stay in the stock market, and will back it up if any unpleasant problmes happens. Also mention they have a two months recovery time and we will give one hundred percent sponsorship with the possibility to function as an independent company like Kiseki Entertainment. This is the best deal they can get and they know it.”

From the very first moment, Kiseki Entertainment functioned independently. Under his guidance, you bloomed into a successful company in barely two years, becoming one of the most productive investments amongst the very few freelancers under LFG. “Arrange an online meeting in twenty minutes. During that, — he stood up, to make his way to one of the conference room— “collect informations about our opponent what can be used for LFG’s advantages.” Goldman nodded already holding his phone to his ear, summoning the staff needed for the conference.

“Anything else you want t— is that an Easter egg?” Goldman pointed at the bunch of tiny colorful eggs scattered around the coffee table. The more he looked the more he noticed. On the shelves, between Victor’s compture, on the coat hangers.

“Goldman who was the last person in my office?” He asked, walking around removing the candy eggs from their places.“Until this morning no one was in here. A few days ago only Ms. Mc stayed here, waiting for you to finish the meeting.”

Victor sighed.

Of course it was you.

***

You looked at the row of numbers at the screen, your purse, and then the ridiculous amount of Easter eggs piled up behind you. Maybe you carried away a little bit.

“Uh, excuse me for a second.” You kept digging in your purse in hope you will find your credit card. After minutes of unsuccessful searching you started to panic a little.

Your plan was to buy plenty of Eggs and hide them all around the mansion. You bought chocolate eggs and plastic eggs in all sizes and colors. Also a pink rabbit onesie because you couldn’t insist. You just didn’t expect the price what came with it.

“I’m sorry Miss, but you are keeping up the row. Do you wish to purchase these items?” The cashier lady asked what made you squeak and panic more. “Please debit these items on Victor Li’s account!” You blurted out. The cashier nodded typing away the informations. “Everything is settled, have a pleasant Easter.” The lady smiled handing you the bags. Thanking her and wishing for the same you made your way home. If you knew ypu will end up with multiple bags you will take the car.

“I’m back.” You opened the door of the house placing the bags on the floor. A small meow eachoed at the corner, a cat trotted towards you. “Hi Pudding, mommy is back.” You bent down to pick up the cat, a light huff leaving your lips. “Victor feeds you too well.” You giggle pocking at the fat at the cat’s belly. “I will bring some Easter spirit into this big house will you help me?” Like the animal just understood you, Pudding meowed and with a hop she escaped your embrace and walked away. Lazy cat.

Shrugging it off you unpacked and stared to hide all the eggs around the house. In the kitchen, the coffee table, the couch, hangers, in his suits. In other words you hide them everywhere you found it suitable. Now all you had to do is wait for his return.

***

Several hours passed, the sun was about to go down when he finally came home. Tossing away the book you were reading, you jogged to the entrance to greet him. “Welcome home!” You smiled at him, what left your face in a second. “Is everything alright at LFG?” You furrowed your eyebrows in conern when you saw his expression. “Sorry for keeping you waiting.” He said. “Nothing is wrong, my plans just takes a little more time to be accomplished.” Victor pulled you to his side, giving a kiss on the top of your head. “Let me make up for you with a dinner. It’s your call, I’ll make you anything.” He unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt and rolled it up while walking in the kitchen.

“Pudding!” You smiled, Victor rolled his eyes at your remark. “Dummy, you want pudding for dinner?” He asked opening the fridge. “What is that?” He held a green chocolate egg in his hand. “Ah, I see. We are mischievous today.” A smile crept up on the corner of his lips, putting the sweet aside. “So I assume the plenty of chocolate in my office was your doing too.”

“I have no idea what are you talking about.” You shuffled away. “I didn’t do anything.” He chuckled. “Of course you didn’t, those eggs are from the Easter Bunny. So what do you like to eat?” He asked again getting the pots and pans ready. Without a word he put another handful of eggs aside, making it harder for you to comtain the fit of laughter what is about to erupt from your chest.

“Beef ribs would be fine.” You composed yourself. Victor nodded and began to prepare the dish. “So tell me, what were you doing all day?” He asked putting away another egg when he opened the cabinet where the seasonings were. “Aside from scattering sweets all over the kitchen.” A soft giggle left your lips. “Just the usual. I cleaned up, fed the cat. You knows, the things I usually do.” You chatted nonchalantly, like having Easter eggs around the house is ordinary.

“Why you are so clingy all off a sudden?” He lookes at you in confusion when he notices you are following his every step with your eyes. “What? No, I’m not!” You grinned, getting more eager every time he found an egg.

But what you didn’t know that the more he found the more annyed he got. He saw Easter eggs everywhere. On the kitchen counter, in the fridge, on the cabinets even in the cat bowl. But he didn’t have the heart to tell you. You waited for him all day so he can bear with your pranks a little longer.

He didn’t know what will coming.

“The ribs are almost ready.” He closed the oven after flipping them in the pan. “It’s smells so good.” You hummed, mouth already watering just from imagining how smoothly you knife will slide through the juicy ribs.

“I’ll go set the table.” You hopped down from the barstool and opened one of the cabinets to get the plates. While you clattered with the utensils, Victor opened his phone to check the notification he got from his bank during the meeting. The numbers he saw is what made him finally snap.

“What did you do?!” He exclaimed, looking at you, eyes wide as saucers. His sudden harsh tone startled you, almost making you drop the plates you balanced in your hands. “$150?! What did you buy?!” He questioned, his eyes shooting daggers at you. He sighed. “Don’t tell me all that were for chocolate eggs! Are you out of your mind?” He raised his voice at you, his eyes casting a frightening shade. The last time he looked at you this way when you barged in his office, demanding for funding. And that was many years ago. You flinched under his cold stare.

“I’m sorry.— you put everything in your hands down— “I-I’ll go clean that up.” With that you left the kitchen, and disappeared at the corner.

“Mc, wait.” He called after you, immediately regretting the way he spoke to you. A wave of guilt went over him when he caught up to you in the living room. Like you said, you obediently rummaged around to find the eggs. And it would be fine if you wouldn’t sniffling quietly, occasionally reaching up to wipe your eyes. And he hates it when you cry. And despise it if he’s the reason behind your tears. He didn’t mean to be this harsh with you. Or at all.

“Mc.” Victor called your name. Looking at the source of his voice you wiped off your tears in a quick motion. “Don’t bother, — you turned back, to hide your bloodshot eyes.— “I’ll get everything done. Go set up the dinner.” His heart ached, watching you turning away to hide your tears from him.

“No.” He walked up to you, folding you into a hug. “Today I almost lost the client I negotiated for weeks. They got a better offer and I had to change plans. The meeting was unplanned, I should’ve been at home with you.” He murmured into your ear. You stood there in sock while he kept talking.

“So I got frustrated. I shouldn’t have to release my anger on you. You just wanted to spend this day with me. I’m sorry.” He apologized. You on the other hand was shocked. Your boyfriend is a prideful person. And goddamn, he is also stubborn just as much like you are. The man you get to know almost never makes mistakes and if he does, the ground can crack, there’s no money in this world for him to make him admit it. He had to regret his actions very much to muster out an apology.

“It’s okay.” You turned to face him, knowing he meant it. Reaching up you scarping your fingers through his soft and well kept hair. “It was my fault after all. I went overboard with the sweets. And I scattered them all around the house.” You added. “Dummy.” He sighed, a relieved smile tugged at the corner of his lips when he saw you are hot angry at him. A soft giggle escaped your lips, remembering again how many chocolate eggs you hide in this big house.

“This looks better.” He pulled away, wiping the remaining tears from the corner of your eyes. “From now on just smile only. It looks better on you than the tears.” A pink color appeared on your face. When this stone cold man get so romantic?

“I’ll go pick up the eggs. Just keep making the dinner I’ll be fine.” You turned around and walked away.

***

“Almost got it!” You stretched further, balancing with a net in your hand while Victor had a firm grip on your hip. You were practically levitating above the pool to reach for the plastic egg at the bottom. Victor during that grew some gray hair.“I can’t believe you literally threw eggs in the pool. What if I’m not around? You straight up jump in?” You glared at him above your shoulders. “Hold me still or let me go. I can get them myself.” You puffed up your cheeks and reached further.

“Idiot, you can’t even swim.” He sighed. “Mc, stop wiggling you going to fall in!” And like this is what gravity waited for, you slipped on the wet tile, you fell in dragging Victor with yourself. With a swift motion, he scooped you up in his arms and brought you up in the surface. “I told you to hold me!” You screeched between coughs. “If you wouldn’t throw eggs in here like an idiot you are we wouldn’t be in this situation.” He fired back sitting you on the edge of the pool and then he climbed out himself.

“Dummy.” He sighed for the millionths time today, draping you in a towel. “Go get changed or you’ll catch a cold.” He helped you up. In that moment a little smirk appeared on your face, and it stretched wider. “What is it? Don’t tell me you still have eggs.” Victor sighed, a miserable look on his face. “Nothing.” You smiled and ran away.

“How many times I have to tell you? Don’t run by the pool!” He yelled after you but you were already outside. Grabbing the paperbag left on the bedroom you hurried away to the shower. After taking a shower you put on the pink, fuzzy bunny onsie you bought today. Stepping out your bringht pink color looked way too odd compared to the black and claret themed bedroom you two shared.

“What on earth are you wearing this time?” Victor looked at you from the bed. While waiting, he used the guests bathroom and changed into a black silk sleepwear. You giggled and hopped in next to him. “I didn’t remember keeping a rabbit at home.” He chuckled. “Childish.” He added. Rolling your eyes at his comment you laid down besides him. “Today is still Easter so I’m excused.”

“You have 5 more minutes to be like this.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Then we are stretching it till tomorrow because I’m not changing.” You turned to face him.

Putting down his phone on the bedside table, Victor pulled you closer to his body. “I’ll make it up for you for being away. And for yelling at you.” He sighed, pressing his lips on the top of your head. As he moved closer to you something pierced into his side. Reaching to get it a small plastic egg was in his hand.

“Dummy.”

Your cheerful laugh echoed through the bedroom.

Still feeling tired? Grab some more story at Reading Corner

#mlqc #mlqc kiro #mlqc zhou qiluo #mlqc gavin #mlqc lucien #mlqc victor #mlqc xu mo #mlqc li zeyan #mlqc bai qi #mlqc mc #mlqc shaw #mlqc ling xiao #mlqc fanfiction #mlqc headcanon #four seasons with you series

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neonponders · 3 years

Text

Oh lord, here we go. Don’t be surprised if my sugardaddy!Billy and couture Steve turns into five parts orz for now, here’s part 3!

This is originally a birthday gift for @lazybakerart 💋and @edith-moonshadow enabled me to keep going with this with their Harringrove for Palestine donation🙏🏻.

Part 1 here ~ Part 2 here ~ read on ao3 ~

🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹

A week passed.

Billy didn’t leave a number for Steve to call, and when he tried to phone Billy’s secretary, she gave him a bullshit lie about international calls needing to occur within a certain timeframe, etc. Steve understood he was butting into Billy’s goings-on, during an hour he couldn’t play civilian.

That was another aspect of their relationship they kept dodging.

Steve did not consider white-collar crime unfamiliar. In fact, it’s wildly rampant in society; it just takes the right lawyers and judges to keep things swept under the rug.

Maybe Billy didn’t talk about it for the same reason Steve didn’t open up about his fears of being disposable. When they managed a safe little time capsule where underlying circumstances didn’t exist, things went great. Splendid, even.

But time capsules have to open at some point.

Billy called Steve.

“Hello?” he said to the unfamiliar number. If he sounded a little miffed, it’s because he’d taken more spam calls than genuine correspondences this past week, having not known what Billy’s international number was—

“Steve.”

That sounded…wrong.

“Billy?”

He could hear the man’s breath on the receiver. Heavier than it should have been. “I know you don’t like this. But I need you to come here.”

“What happened? Are you okay?”

Stupid question. Billy sounded half the man he was. Steve wanted to know what happened to the other half.

“I’m injured. I’ll be fine—”

“Define ‘injured.’”

“Steve,” Billy huffed like a laugh, but Steve could hear it stick in his throat. He hovered in the middle of his apartment, helpless to do anything but hold the phone to his ear. “I’m not arguing right now. Could you just…get in the car that comes to pick you up?”

“A car? What kind of car?”

“The driver will use the buzzer of your building. They won’t come up. Just get in the car and then the plane—”

“Plane? Billy, where did you go?”

He laughed again, a little of his voice leaking into it. “Steve, please. Can I see you or not?”

Steve croaked into the receiver, revolving listlessly in his apartment while his brain failed to keep up. “I-I—wha—um.”

Except, despite everything, like how very likely he would come back to only one or no jobs, it really wasn’t a choice for Steve. His chest ached for Billy. He missed the bastard’s smug smiles and longed for the animation he let fill his face when he relaxed with Steve.

And he felt the itch of being wanted. His ingrained eagerness to be with the person who needed him.

All of it scrambled in his brain so Steve wound up raising his voice while fisting his hair, “A plane? I have to pack! What do I pack?”

Billy’s voice came out breathily on the phone, like he filled it with relief. “You don’t need to pack anything—”

“I NEED PANTS, BILLY!”

Steve got in the car.

Steve got on the plane.

The stupid private jet in which Steve could have his own disco if he wanted because it seemed like only he and the pilot were on the damn thing. He brought the book Billy had gifted him about The New Yorker for something to distract himself, even though he mostly stared blankly at the pages while he waited for the plane to land.

A part of him expected to arrive in the middle of nowhere. Which, to be fair, they had to land in a private hanger outside of the city. But then the next car took him amongst grand buildings and turned into a narrow side street only residents would use. Steve burst upon the sidewalk, only hindered briefly by the receiving of a hotel key and the remark, “Room 532.”

Steve skipped the elevator. He wore heels in his spare time; he would’ve beaten the lift anyway.

As with any hotel, the key took some figuring out, but when he managed, he stepped into the suite. “Billy?”

It smelled like any other nice hotel. Cream carpets and matching walls. A splash of color on the rumpled bedspread amongst Billy’s clutter. Steve followed the floor plan of the sitting room to the bedroom and then the bathroom, where he heard the shower running. He knocked on the door, “Billy?”

And then louder, “Billy?”

“Come in.”

Steve carefully pushed into the room, unsure what he’d find…

What looked like two open first aid kits sat on the counter. Steve couldn’t read anything from those alone, but he didn’t have to because the shower was a large, glass cubicle. It stood big enough for four people. Billy sat on the floor, his chest wrapped in sodden cotton and gauze; barefoot underneath his black slacks. Steve opened the glass door as Billy lifted his head—

He knelt on the hard tiles, putting his arms around Billy’s neck to greet him, to hold him. Cool tendrils seeped through Steve’s hair, soft claws over his scalp until the water properly soaked his strands.

“Steve, your clothes.”

Instead of answering, he looked at the shower knobs and turned the hot water up. As soon as heat seeped over them, Billy melted against him. His head fell easily where Steve pulled him into the bend of his neck. Billy’s hands fumbled a little to find him, but all he could do was grasp onto him to avoid bending or twisting his injured torso.

Steve remained kneeling over him long past being soaked through.

He did not cry until Steve undressed, leaving his sodden raiment on the shower floor to retrieve the scissors from the first aid kits. He carefully snipped through the ruined gauze and medical tape. Soon a pile of white, and diluted pinkish-orange blood also sat on the floor. Whoever had stitched up Billy’s sides had done a good job, but Steve had to dry him off and rebind him.

After the first wince, Billy came undone. Steve wished he could say something to make it easier, but all he had were small reassurances and quietly given orders.

“Can you hold this here?”

“Lift your arm up.”

“Hang on. Almost done.”

An odd talent of Steve’s: tolerating pain with silent grace. A skill which Billy ironically lacked. But where Steve withheld, Billy knew how to release. Perhaps here was one of their bridges.

“Put your arm around me. Lift with your legs.”

The towels Steve put over their shoulders helped them grip one another. Once standing, Billy halted, “Wait. Take these off.”

To each of their credit, neither made a joke as Billy’s trousers and underwear landed with a wet slosh next to Steve’s pile. Steve wrapped his towel around his waist once Billy sat on the bed. With his hands freed, he went about drying Billy’s hair with his towel and opening the bed for Billy to fall into.

“Have you taken any meds?”

“Nothing spectacular.”

His head sagged on the pillow, following Steve to the bathroom, where he found an ibuprofen bottle and shook out two tablets. His eyes followed Steve’s hand raking his hair off his face, and the movement of his throat around a swallow. The filling of a glass at one of the sinks.

Billy let him wrangle a pillow underneath his body so he could swallow the pills with ease. Before he did so, Billy informed, “The blue pill bottle is sleeping meds.”

Steve went and read the label, even peeling the thing off to read the lengthy underside. “When did you last eat?”

“I’ll eat tomorrow. I need to rest now.”

But Steve went into the living room and pilfered through the mini fridge. He returned with apple juice and a granola bar. “If you take this on an empty stomach, you might vomit. I’m not letting you suffocate in your sleep.”

“They put that on there to avoid lawsuits,” Billy complained even while he accepted the juice bottle. He munched slowly, almost carefully on the sugar-glazed nuts of the granola bar while…

Steve got dressed. In Billy’s clothes.

He crouched right in between Billy’s suitcase and the open wardrobe to select one of his long-sleeves and boxer briefs. Billy blinked softly, feeling warmth blossom through his chest and sink through his belly.

Regardless, he sassed, “You’re not gonna sleep naked with me?”

Steve climbed next to him, facing him as if he intended to get up again soon. He tore into his own granola bar. “I don’t know what to expect with you. I’d rather not be forced out of the building naked.”

Billy’s hand touched his leg as he bit into the bar. “Nothing’s going to happen. There’s a menu on the table out there. Order room service.”

“Tomorrow,” Steve refused with a cheek full of almonds. “We’ll eat tomorrow. Or…when the sun’s up in two hours.”

Billy didn’t ask him to, but Steve stroked fingers through his hair after Billy took his sleeping medicine. “Don’t leave,” he moaned tiredly, the force of the little pill dragging him under.

“I’m not leaving. But you can’t octopus me in your sleep.”

Billy sighed, intending for more words to come out than the ones that did. “…test me…”

When his breaths came and went like the heavy sway of the ocean, Steve kept petting through his hair. Even though Billy couldn’t hear him anymore, Steve sighed, “Scared the shit out of me, idiot. I missed you. Don’t do that.”

Billy hummed in his sleep as if he heard him. Even drugged unconscious, the man tried to retort.

Steve leaned down to kiss his temple and tucked him in to keep him warm. When a knock on the door sounded, Steve donned one of the bathrobes and held a shoehorn behind the door as he answered. The shoehorn was a ridiculous ornate thing from the wardrobe; more like a walking stick than a device to help a heel slip into a boot.

The woman on the other side of the door dressed as expensively as Billy and appeared just as austere. Steve had never seen her before even though she acted like she knew him. “Is he well?”

“He’s asleep. What do you need?”

“To go over his intended schedule for today.”

“Reschedule it. He isn’t doing anything for at least two days.”

She did not look anxious. Merely…disappointed? “That will be…difficult.”

“He’s a difficult man,” Steve sighed, his posture tilting back into the room and warranting an end to this discussion. “Whoever expects to see him likely knows that.”

“Good morning, Mr. Harrington,” she dismissed.

“What is your name?” he halted.

“Elena Varma. Hargrove knows me as Elicit Vagina.”

Steve’s jaw went slack, and if she were anyone other than Billy’s secretary and personal guard, now would be the time to take his head off. Instead, she elaborated, “I’m a lesbian.”

“Right,” he nodded dazedly. “Are you single? I know somebody.”

Her dark eyes narrowed at him, but her mouth and brows moved with amusement. Like a test, she inquired, “Are they butch?”

“No,” he said a bit perplexedly, thinking of Robin’s amber blond bob and all of her many-colored Converse on which she doodled.

A pause. Then, “Does she have bad taste?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll be in touch.”

Steve exhaled, “Great,” under his breath as he shut the door. Crossing over to the living room, he set the shoehorn down and picked up the room service menu.

When Billy’s eyes next opened, it was to the beckoning of dishware clatter and summons of browned butter and tangy, aromatic cheese.

Steve sat much as he last remembered, sitting facing Billy while a tray sat where his pillows ought to be. A cart of more food stood by the food of the bed. Billy’s blurry gaze traveled back to Steve, who chewed on a croissant with a newspaper, of all things, in his hand.

It was perfect.

Minus the abhorrent headache and parchedness of his throat.

“Coffee.”

Billy couldn’t not smile at the wide eyes that lifted up to him. Steve rushed to swallow the lump in his cheek and handed him his glass of water from the tray. Billy shook his head. “No. Coffee.”

“Water first.”

Billy sighed and leaned over as much as his injured side allowed him to. He drained the glass. And he never got his coffee. Steve made him drink a strong cup of tea, as if that would replace Billy’s usual espresso in the morning.

“Your, um, personal assistant came by. She knows to reschedule all of your—whatever you do. I said you need two days.”

“Two days?” Billy chirped in the middle of grumbling over his tea. “That’s a vacation.”

Steve huffed a sound, but looked toward the window and it’s sheer, white curtains. “What street are we on?”

“What was that sound?” Billy diverted.

Steve looked at him. “What sound?”

“The sound you just made.”

“You mean the sound of you complaining that I work too much but consider two days a vacation. That sound?”

“Yeah, that sound,” he remarked. “I stand by what I said. You don’t need two jobs.”

“Billy, you got stabbed yesterday. Twice. Or whatever the hell happened to you.”

“I’ll have you know I was only stabbed once. The side mirror of a moving car clipped my other side.”

Whatever mirth he intended to be in that statement wilted in the face of Steve’s glare. Billy took the silent admonishment with grace and, after a moment, said, “I’m not the criminal you think I am.”

“I never said you were one.”

“Walking around with a stab wound and clear assault damage isn’t helping my case,” he responded with another unhappy sip of his tea. At least Steve put milk and sugar in it. Dessert for breakfast.

“Long story short: I got a job and the old man CEO noticed me. He liked me a lot. I was the one male secretary in the place; it was easy to notice me. The women liked me—”

“Women have always liked you,” Steve retorted quietly. But he set his things on the tray and laid across the bed to pillow his head on Billy’s thigh.

He gazed up at him while Billy continued, “It was easy. If the head of a building likes you, job promotions come fast. Training happens in the boss’s own office. Then the asshole died and both his heir, and the board, did not take it well to my name being in the will. I’ve been cleaning up a lot of their mess.”

Steve listened and processed, “This heir was driving the car?”

Billy snorted and instantly grimaced for the pain it caused him. Steve began to get up for the painkillers, but Billy’s fingers plunged into his hair; not gripping him, but softly holding his head. “Stay. I’m fine. No, I doubt the idiot even has a license. He can’t aim a blade, either. He’s running out of money, that’s why he’s so desperate.”

“Where is he now?”

Billy’s head tilted almost piteously at him. “Do you really want to know that?”

“Well I can’t decide which is more romantic: inviting me into a shit storm, or making sure I’m safe first.”

He could see some of the tension leave Billy’s face and shoulders as he reached for Steve’s tray and took his other croissant. “He’s in the hospital. But I don’t know if he’ll make it.”

Steve could read between the lines. “Us trust fund kids. We’re not built for street fighting.”

That earned an animated frown from Billy, who spoke regardless of his full mouth. “You gave me a hell of a wallop once.”

“I lost that fight.”

“You didn’t have a homophobic, retired veteran waiting for you to bring your sister home. And this guy clearly doesn’t have a pretty boy waiting for him or he might’ve won.”

Steve laughed but it faded as he just…marveled at Billy. They had never talked this openly before. However proud of Billy he felt, though, the nagging dark corner of his brain turned his thoughts onto himself. He let slip:

“You work so much harder than me.”

Billy immediately wasn’t having it. His head tilted again but instead of pity, it was chastisement. “Steve.”

“No, no—I just mean I’m proud of you.”

“You can be proud of me without sounding like I’m about to toss you out onto the curb. I just told you the very idea of you helped keep me alive.”

“And I abandoned two jobs and an overpriced apartment to be here, so I hope you mean it. You might be keeping both of us alive for a while—Hey.”

In between thrown bits of croissant and grapes, Billy chided, “I’ve been. Trying. To convince you. That I mean it. And it takes a drive-by to. Get. Your. Attention.”

“Okay! Okay—this is disgusting. Stop it!”

Steve reared up only to be ensnared by Billy’s overstretched arms. Steve caught himself on Billy’s collarbones so he did not press on his chest, tugging the skin on his sides. “B! Be careful.”

A hand cradled the side of Steve’s head as a soft smirk lifted Billy’s mouth. “Let me kiss you.”

Steve, defiant till the last, pushed him down so he didn’t exert himself. Then he kissed Billy slowly, reverently. He liked kissing Billy a whole lot. Loved it. He liked Billy’s taste and the sound of their lips parting before meeting for more. He liked the puffs of Billy’s breath across his cheek and his hands reaching for Steve. Finding him. Holding him.

Eventually, though, Billy whispered against his lips, “Why did you ask what street we’re on?”

Steve rolled his lips together, perhaps seeking a balm for being chapped from kissing, or nerves. “It’s fashion week. We might be able to see stuff from the window.”

Billy claimed one more kiss and then released him to clean up the bed and scout the street below. Billy managed to reach the bathroom on his own, where he took another pair of meds and readied for a day in. With Steve.

Steve, who insisted he stay in bed.

Steve, who found a full-length mirror in the wardrobe and held it half out the window so Billy could see the horizon of the street reflected from his place on the bed. He watched Steve more than anything. His giggles at how ridiculous it was to hold a mirror out the window. When his features relaxed as he watched the traffic and people arriving to a place a few blocks down. When he asked Billy if

“Can you see the red coat? That thing’s massive.”

And, “Somebody famous just got there. The paparazzi are going nuts.”

Steve really should have expected the events of the next day, but Billy still faced the stern glare and long blinks when he sighed. “B, you’ve only rested a day. Your stitches could still tear.”

“One runway isn’t going to kill me. We’ll pop in and not attend the after party. Elicit’s already managed to get tickets—”

“Her name’s Elena,” Steve frowned with his hands on his hips.

“No, it isn’t,” Billy scoffed, and went to dissect Steve’s luggage himself...

He grasped the linen shoe bag, recognizing the shape inside. He lifted one of the Hot Chick 100s. “You took packing seriously, huh?”

Steve seemed to be really grappling with patience. “I didn’t know what you needed. A nurse or a kinky leg to hold onto.”

“So I got both,” he grinned.

A reluctant, little smile pulled at Steve’s face. “I’m not wearing those out.”

Billy had already set the pair on the living room table when he grimaced, “What? Why not?”

Steve glanced at the windows like they might hold an answer. “Because I’ll be giant and make more noise than anyone else in heels.”

Billy wasn’t buying it. He held onto the back of the couch to help himself stand and then made his way to his own clothes. “If there’s any time to wear what you want and get away with it, it’s fashion week. Come here, no one’s going to let you wear jeans beside a runway.”

Billy had way too much fun dressing him. A quiet little warning bell went off in Steve’s head over this, but he couldn’t listen to it without also admitting that he enjoyed himself. One of Billy’s silk button-ups around his body felt nice.

Intimate.

A black suit jacket over it made Steve feel chic and professional. And when Billy asked him to lift his foot onto the bed, Billy double wrapped the chain of his pendant around Steve’s ankle. Amber and opals on one side, and a golden saint on the other.

“If you’re tired or hurt at any point, tell me,” Steve lectured in the car.

“Yes, dear.”

“I mean it,” he insisted, but Billy’s hand on his thigh tightened.

“I know, baby. I’m okay. The show’s not even two hours long. Try to relax. You look real hot.”

Steve snorted and rubbed the silk of his shirt between his fingers. “Is this shirt new?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I’ve never seen you wear it. And it would’ve matched my green shoes,” he added with slanted eyes at him.

“So what if I wanted to match my partner? Try and sue me.”

Partner. Steve caught his face in his hand, eyes aching with the moisture overflowing from his heart.

The car pulled up alongside a bustling street. Elena Varma accompanied them through the open double doors, but she kept to herself. She sheltered Billy’s other side while Steve slid an arm over Billy’s shoulders and held onto him. If a pair of eyes scrutinized them, Billy was hardly the only rich man with a pretty thing in heels on his arm. And people only had compliments for Steve’s classic choice in shoe.

The off-duty models sitting around them in the chairs along the runway were very sweet. Steve and Billy kindly refused their inquiries over attending the later afternoon events, but gratefully accepted their information about the show.

Models talk. And in this world where everyone knows someone who knows everyone, the models explained the architecture of the runway, the designer’s vision, the gossip about the model opening the show, and the model closing the show, etc.

“I like the butterflies,” Steve said, pointing to the ceiling, where a myriad of paper butterflies on wires fluttered with the air conditioning ventilation.

“I like you.”

Steve pointed flustered but narrowed eyes on him. “Are you even paying attention?”

“To the important things,” Billy replied, leaning back with an arm over the back of Steve’s chair. He did contribute, “I like the columns. The effect of the eroded marble and gold filigree is interesting. I enjoy looking at it.”

Steve leaned into him, resting a hand on Billy’s thigh as the lighting changed and the show began. The fashion proved largely sculptural instead of practical, but Steve pointed as models went by.

“My mom would know what that means.”

“If the designer was inspired by Greece, then it’s something mythological. Greece seems to be very in right now.”

“You read my magazines,” Steve accused with a smile.

“I smell the colognes.”

That earned Billy a soft nudge before Steve’s jaw relaxed in sight of a male model striding past them. “You’d look really good in that.”

“The gold speedo?”

“No,” he lightly slapped Billy’s knee. “The shirt.”

“I don’t really go for pastels.”

Steve turned soft eyes on him. He touched the underside of Billy’s chin with a fond knuckle. “You and your jewel tones.”

Then a model turned onto the stage wearing a sweatshirt totally encrusted with jewels. Steve and Billy exchanged looks, which ended with Steve covering his laughter and Billy pressing his face into Steve’s shoulder.

Steve and Billy left the show with at least one pocket full of models’ agents’ business cards. Steve had taken the time to write the models’ names on each card along with a descriptor, as if they actually intended to remember and reach out to them later that night, should their plans change.

Their plan did not change.

If anything, Steve and Billy only more firmly wanted to retire to their hotel room after they ordered coffees—and Steve nearly broke his ankle stepping off the pavement.

“The puddle lied! The water lied to me,” he lamented through laughter, having thought that the water was far shallower than it actually proved to be. He powered through their venture in the coffee shop, but as soon as they were in the car, Billy pulled his leg up to inspect his ankle and Steve held up one of the shoes.

“Holy shit. Look at that.” The flat of the heel now had a harsh angle to it, as if he’d worn these shoes for a decade instead of thrown off his stride by a waterlogged pothole. Both shoes had water and grit on the insides too.

“I’m sorry, B. These might need some work—Oo!”

Billy had touched his ice coffee to Steve’s ankle. “Don’t worry about it. Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah,” he said on a lighter note. “The ladies we sat with were really nice.”

“What about the show?”

That gave Steve pause. “Um. Honestly? They all walked too fast for me to really see much.”

Billy laughed so hard his stitches made him stop.

#harringrove #deeper than skin #neonponders #pondermoniums

45 notes · View notes

infinites-chaser · 3 years

Note

Librarian! PH. 52 MLQC MC / Victor :)

HELLO ANON U WERE ONE OF THE FIRST PEOPLE TO RESPOND TO MY LIBRARIAN ASK GAME I’M SO SORRY IT’S TAKEN SO LONG,,, victor is just. hard to write. aLSO I'm doubly sorry since i’ll be combining this with the Victor ask from @truth-be-told-im-lying hope neither of you mind T-T i don’t think my mind could do two victor ficlets akwlfjsdkls

ANyway I love you both LOTS AND LOTS hopefully this attempt at Victor isn’t extremely out of character;;; it’s a lowkey soulmates AU if that counts for anything :> aND this fic gets the special treatment of an actual Title bc True was wonderful enough to help me by typing Victor as an Enneagram Type One

okaaay and without further ado,

49, 52 + Victor/MC

‘[He] wakes up in [his] bed, determined to begin again.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 49)

‘As [he] pushes through the onlookers to meet [her], he is certain he is the only person moving.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 52)

((pronoun changes in both quotes to better fit the ficlet))

spoilers for Victor/MC’s childhood!

spend my whole life searching

Victor doesn’t believe in soulmates. (After half a lifetime of searching turning up nothing, he doesn’t believe in much.)

Once upon a time, he might’ve. (He wanted to). His heart rate doubled and sped up to match hers— a carefree little girl skipping across the road, too far away to hear his nerves cry danger, too caught up in dreams and fantasies to hear his warning shout. Time slowed down so he could save her, and on that afternoon on the crosswalk, drops of rain suspended in the air, he did.

At that age, he hadn’t had the sense to wonder why a young girl like her had been crossing the street without supervision. Why her smiles had come freely, but had always looked a little sad, a little wistful. Why she’d been so eager to accept his baked treats. Why she’d been at the playground without a parent. Why she’d always been alone.

Now, seventeen years later, he wishes he did. Wishes he’d known something as simple as her last name.

He dreams of her. Of finding her again: the girl whose heartbeat matched his. The girl whose smile had slowed down time itself for him, as if short moments with her could’ve each stretched into a gentle eternity. He’d wanted them to. He’d wanted to capture every moment spent with her, to make them last, to savor them, so they’d pass slow and sweet like honey on the tongue.

Time had passed slow when he’d wanted it to. Those sunlit afternoons had been sweet, they’d been happy.

Only, time is a fickle thing. When he takes his eye off it, it races away, too fast for him to keep up.

The kidnapping. The experiments. The torture.

The escape.

She saves him. He’s too slow to save her.

And even if he can stop time, here’s the thing: he can never turn the clock back.

Still, he wakes up. Every morning, he gets out of bed. Gets dressed and goes to work. The world around him moves on, and demands he does, too, even if his heart’s still eleven years old and clutching her motionless body, eleven years old, the only sound in his ears his pounding pulse, the absence of the accompaniment of hers an accusation more painful than any hateful words.

It’s a recurring theme in his life, time. It’s ironic, really, when he thinks about it. That he can stop time without lifting a finger, and yet, when it comes to things he cares about, people he loves most, he’s always eleven years old again, always too late.

(His Evol’s time control, but perhaps, all this time, he hasn’t been controlling time, it’s been controlling him. He’s imprisoned by a single moment, a memory, a regret. A past that can never be undone.)

Whenever he has spare time, he devotes himself to searching. Resigns himself to the fact he’ll probably never find her, if all he has to go off of is a child’s face, once preserved in his memory, now fading. Hair color. Eye color. Age. A name. Nothing more.

The searches turn up nothing.

He spends late nights in the office to distract himself, builds up a capitalist kingdom of a company, if only to put off for a few hours more the prospect of returning home to face his nightmares alone.

His father praises him for LFG’s growth over dinners filled with awkward silences. The name Victor Li appears more and more often in business newspapers. Investors approach him. He gets interviews. Gets offers for TV appearances, for sponsorships.

He takes them, these material successes. Wonders if any amount of them could ever make up for the failure from his childhood. If they could bring her back. He tells himself if he finds her, when he finds her, when he brings her back, it’ll be to a more perfect world. One in which he’ll never fail her again. It’s a foolish thought, but it keeps him going. With it in mind, he proceeds to work twice as hard.

Souvenir is what saves him. A small allowance, a self-indulgence, a seed of hope planted in what he thinks is his darkest time.

It’s for her, more than any of his frantic searching ever was. A dream, a foolish one, that one day she’ll step through his memories and through the restaurant’s door, that one day they’ll share a pudding together again, their hearts beating as one.

He doesn’t get to open Souvenir often; his job doesn't let him. He made sure of that, long ago. But when he does, after the last customer’s left, and he’s put up the closed sign, he cooks for two.

(The first time, Mr. Mills had taken a single look at his silent, still face, and his expression must've spoken volumes. The older man hadn't said a word, only helped clean the kitchen after, the normally gentle lines around his mouth pulled taut in a worried frown.)

He sets the second place at the table himself: carefully places fork, knife and spoon beside lukewarm appetizers, tucks a napkin under soup bowls going cold. Watches the empty seat and the untouched meal for an eternity before finally eating his own. His technique's impeccable. It has been ever since he'd aced his culinary lessons, since he'd bought out the school. He'd used the finest ingredients. He always does.

The food still crumbles like ash in his mouth. (It always does.)

Mr. Mills will find him there, nursing a glass of wine long into the night. He knows better not to question it, but sometimes he'll pull up a chair, drink a glass, too. talk of everything and nothing, talk of his parents, his sister's family, of times gone by.

Victor will never admit it, but the older man's presence makes those nights less hard. his stories, his memories — they keep the ice in his heart from spreading any further when it feels like nothing else will.

Ten years stretch into thirteen, into fourteen, into fifteen, into a broken clock, time stopped because does the passage of time mean anything if he measures it, measured it in time with her? If she's gone?

The meals shrink. First appetizers vanish, then entrees too, until all that's left are desserts, puddings that he stares at all evening, puddings a girl had loved once, that he can almost imagine her sitting there eating, her noticing him watching her and her answering blush and smile. His smile back.

Almost, because after all these years without her, he can’t quite imagine her face. Not as she would look now. Not even as she was, seventeen years back.

(He dreams and finds he doesn’t remember what her smile looked like, exactly. Doesn’t remember the sound of her heartbeat mingling with the sound of his.

Memory is cruel. Memory is imperfect. No matter if you can stop time, no matter how hard you try to memorize a moment, when you revisit it, it’ll never be the same as when you lived it the first time.)

Then:

The day starts like any other. He wakes up, gets out of bed, gets ready for another day of work, another night of searching. He scrolls emails while waiting for his espresso machine to heat, then puts his tablet aside when the coffee's done. He eats in silence. As always, he's done five minutes before he needs to leave for the company, the perfect amount of time for him to do a last-minute check in the mirror— his tie's straight, his shirt unwrinkled, not a hair on his head out of place. The reflection that stares back at him is unchanging; these days it barely shows even the passage of time.

He sighs. Shakes the thought off like the piece of lint it is on his otherwise immaculate state of being, and heads for the door, the lock automatically clicking behind him at eight o'clock am, exactly on schedule, exactly as planned.

He's about to take a seat in his car when an inexplicable urge to walk to work takes hold of him. He pauses. Calculates and re-calculates the time it would take (fifteen minutes, not accounting for rush hour traffic making crosswalks slow), and he's about to decide it's not worth it, it's a silly thought, but the urge intensifies.

Do it, the eleven-year-old in his heart seems to be telling him. You won't regret it.

He frowns and rubs his forehead— for a moment, he wonders if all his searching, all his foolish hopes are finally getting to his brain.

He decides to take the walk, anyway.

He regrets it, not nine minutes later, when despite the sun's light shining strong through the clouds, a light rain begins to fall.

Worse still, the traffic lights haven't changed once in the past ninety seconds. He won't be late, he'd accounted for this, but he's stuck in a crowd of pedestrians, and their chatter's beginning to grate on his nerves. He's considering calling the mayor about it after exactly one hundred seconds have passed— clearly, the light's broken, this is far too long for commuters to wait— but then, finally the walk sign flicks on.

He's already across the street when it happens:

First, a phone rings.

Then, the loud honking of a car.

Tires screech.

Time slows. Time stops.

He's back on the crosswalk in a matter of heartbeats, the inattentive idiot in his arms (it's a girl, it's always a girl, hair dark, eyes wide, expression shocked).

"You..." She says, blinking up at him with those wide, almost-familiar eyes. Distantly, he registers the echo of a heartbeat overlapping with his.

"Who are you?"

Who are you? His mind asks, but deep in his heart, he already knows the answer. It can't be.

"Evolver?" He says instead, shoving down memories that threaten to surface: another rainy day, another crosswalk, another heart that had seemed matched to his. He tells himself he's being delusional, that he thinks he can hear her heartbeat because she's in his arms, wide-eyed and fragile, her heartrate skittering back and forth like a fool— this isn't like his careful, methodical searching, this is a fluke beyond flukes, it means nothing, it'll lead to nothing in the end.

But she's in his arms, warm and soft against his protective embrace, she's in his arms and it feels so right it's almost painful, his pulse pulled into a panicked pace to match hers.

He sets her down abruptly, as if burned, and turns to go.

"Someone can't come to your rescue every time."

Around them, suspended raindrops begin to fall. The world, resumed. The world, once again predictable and mundane. Except for her.

He knows, without looking back, she's staring after him, her heart, his heart, still racing.

He allows himself a smile.

He allows himself some small sliver of hope.

(His frozen time starts moving again.)

#mlqc #mlqc victor #mlqc fanfic #val writes #hNnghghg this took so Long and writing vic gives me so much stress BUT HOPE Y'ALL ENJOY #u didnt hear it from me but it was actually really interesting to explore his character like this and. i've definitely developed more of an #appreciation :> of sorts #victor is an enneagram one and rly that's all that matters thats all u need to learn from this fic #also sOULmate AUs i love them that's it does this mean i think vic is MC's soulmate;;; maybe in this universe but not generally ailsjkfd #JUST FOR THE RECORD. i am not a vic stan so it must be said #TIL that mr mills does not have a wife/family and that makes me rly sad

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dross-the-fish · 3 years

Text

Art is not effortless

One of the most draining things about drawing for people who are not artists is their tendency to grossly underestimate how much time and effort goes into a good picture. And yes, full transparency, some of this rant was triggered by some entitled anons who show up to bitch about my breakroom doodles but most of it is also about friends and family who think I can just shit on a canvas and have a portrait of grandma ready by the time they finish their hair appointment. No, that's not how it works, if I'm going to make something "nice" then I need my equipment, either my tablet or my paints and pens, several hours to a few days time, and PLENTY OF REFERENCES. You cannot e-mail me one singular, blurry, badly lighted picture you took on your phone of an old scrapbook photo of your grandma at the aquarium in 1992 and expect a full realistic likeness. I'm sorry but bare minimum I need to make out enough detail to tell the difference between her and the giant fish she's standing next too.

"Oh, but Dross! You made that picture of a vampire guy in about 15 minutes! I'm just asking for that but with color and shading!" No, you're not, you're literally not just asking me to color a doodle because the whole process of drawing a "good" portrait is not the same as the one I use on casual sketches. A breakroom doodle takes about 10-15 minutes, 30 if I do it on my lunch break and I put a little more effort into it. It's usually done in my office with whatever pen or pencil I have on hand and no references whatsoever. This is not quality art, it's exactly what it says on the tin, a doodle I did on my break at work. It's not made to be colored and even if I did just color over it, it still wouldn't look as good as my serious pieces. A "good" portrait takes planning and research, I'll hunt out any references I need, maybe even watch a tutorial to get in the right headspace and usually do a few warm-ups or drafts before I make a loose sketch and start painting anything.

The difference between this

and this

Is more than just "color and shading" it's time and energy. Art is not effortless and I really wish more people understood that.

#Personal #rant #art

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sahbibabe · 4 years

Note

Hello! Hope you're having a wonderful day. I have a request, if that's okay with you. Can I have a soulmate AU 1#? The one about the craving? With Rufus? I was thinking, Rufus with a poor soulmate who craves the expensive foods he eats but doesn't have the money to buy them and sometimes doesn't even know what she's craving because it probably doesn't exist where she lives. I'm sorry if it's too detailed. It's okay if you don't want to do it. Thank you for taking the time to read this.

Here you go! I hope you enjoy! Tell me if you liked it and if not, what I can improve on! Thanks for requesting, hon! ♡

THE FIRST TIME IT HAPPENED, you were sitting in Seventh Heaven and trying to ignore the excited chatter and boisterous energy around you. You had just ordered what would be your meal for the night and the next morning─it was all you could afford, given your meager salary as a scrap collector. Tifa had given you a hefty discount, since you helped her out a lot by finding spare parts and fitting them to the building when she needed it, but you sometimes suspected it was out of pity.

Your dinner─a plate consisting of two pork chops, rice, and a small salad─had cost you twenty gil. In the eyes of some, that was cheap, practically a penny out of their pockets; but for you, that was half your salary gone, and you rationed out the rest through cheaply packaged ramen that ran for one gil at the market. You weren't very healthy as a result, but Tifa did her best to meet at least some of your body's nutritional requirements with what you could afford to buy. She had even slipped you a free slice of pie and a beer, said it was on her for helping out with watching Marlene, and disappeared before you could argue.

When you couldn't afford even ramen, you bought food replacement tablets. They were cheaper than even those packets of noodles, could be gotten anywhere, and worked well enough to keep your appetite low as long as you didn't burn off too many calories working. Compared to you, Tifa and her group were well off, and they bought more food than they could handle. They didn't even box the rest up; Tifa would, though, and stow it away for later for them. It made you angry, and a little jealous.

So when you had gotten the barest sip of your beer and tasted the most exquisite flavors you had ever been privy to in your entire life, you felt your mind go white trying to catch up with it. You had never tasted this before, whatever it was─it was strong, and tasted like pizza smelled, but it was… off, more potent.

Your sister, before she married and moved topside, had told you about this; that people, when they were a certain age, tasted what their soulmate was eating. She also had said sometimes people have threads, others have telepathic thoughts, and even names on their arms. There was no real rhyme or reason to it, she told you, but it helped narrow down the selection pool to general salaries. Whatever that meant.

The taste still lingering in your mouth, you looked down at your pork chops in disappointment, knowing you would not get the same satisfaction out of your food. You ate with a mechanical slowness, forcing yourself to appreciate what you got and to savor it. The beer and pie was only a little satisfying, mostly to your sweet tooth, but as you were walking to the bar to pay Tifa, the taste changed. Your soulmate was taking dessert, it seemed, because all you could taste was the cloying sweetness of strawberries and sugar, something tart or somewhat bitter.

Your stomach felt very, very empty.

You paid Tifa and she rung up your receipt.

"How was the pie?" She asked, her eyes bright. Keen on conversation. "Did you like it? You were pretty slow tonight."

"I'm sorry." You took the receipt from her and stuffed it down your bra with a sigh, too lazy to flip open the button lapel at your breast. "I just got my first… soulmate taste thing. Whatever you call it. I wish I could have enjoyed it more, to be honest."

"Really?" Tifa motioned for you to sit down. Clearly you weren't going anywhere until she got all of the details out of you, haven't experienced it herself yet. "Tell me all about it and I won't get offended."

"I'll take that," you laughed. Your stomach clenched uncomfortably, tasting the delicious dessert your soulmate was having but confused when nothing came down. "I don't know about the main course, but the dessert had fresh strawberries… I remember those from when my mom would steal them from up topside. Sugar. Something bitter, but with its own sweetness. I've only ever eaten ramen and your food my whole life so I can't say what it was."

You hadn't noticed that Cloud had taken a seat one over from you until he spoke.

"That sounds like the Soireé up top." When you blinked at the long absent merc with confusion, he elaborated grudgingly,"A lot of Shinra execs would eat it. It's a dessert. Strawberries and blueberries. I overheard a conversation about it. Sounds like what you were describing."

"Oh, so they must have money, then, to eat topside," Tifa gasped. "I wonder who it could be!"

"I don't know." You shrugged and rubbed your stomach, grimacing at the twang of pain. "Well, I'll head on home now. Thanks for the pie, Tifa. Just call if you need anything."

"Sure thing, [Name]! Get home safe."

For the next five years, you suffered with your soulmate's eating habits, and over time, you got good at determining when they ate. Their favorite food seemed to be some kind of soup that had very little flavor, but their palette was large and vast. They ate three times a day, ate a snack inbetween, or drank some gods awful concoction of chocolate and bitter powder that you couldn't stand and took days to get out of your mouth.

In those five years, you had gone from lowly scrap collector to the illustrious Madame M's secretary and student. She boarded you and fed you extremely better food than you had ever eaten before, supplied you with a far more generous salary because she liked you and treated you like a daughter, and even helped you get healthy and into physical shape.

You could massage someone's hand like nobody's business, or even do the poor man's massage, but what you really specialized in was a unique method of acupuncture that stimulated relaxation and blood flow. Madame M had deemed you successful enough to take your own clients, but refused to let you take hers; you had to gather your own.

So topside you went, clothed in traditional garb as she had told you, with your hair pinned up and decorated with jewels from Madame M's prized collection. She had given them to you with a proud smile, along with some rather serious looking adoption papers that would allow her to become your official mother. Even at twenty-nine years old you had cried like a baby and hugged her. She didn't even tut like she normally would and hug you back.

But as soon as you were topside, you couldn't resist it.

You tracked down the restaurant that sold the Soireé.

When Rufus woke up tasting strawberries and blueberries in his mouth, he sat ramrod straight in his chair. At his feet, Darkstar whined and nudged his knee, but he ignored it and focused more intently on the flavors playing on his tongue.

It was the unique taste of a Soireé.

Over the years, he had tasted many things, things that he had looked up and found belonged to the slummers, then the middle class elite, or the oriental flavors of Wall Market cuisines. None of it had ever come close to touching the foods that he ate or the indulgences he found himself to favor, but this was the first time he had ever tasted something so expensive from his soulmate.

A slummer no more, it seemed.

He raised an eyebrow and hit a number on a rotary phone his father insisted on keeping. "Tseng."

"Yes, Mister President?"

"Find out who's eating a Soireé at Vallei Astra."

Tseng was very, very quiet for a few moments. He wisely didn't question it. "Yes sir. I'll be back with you in a moment."

She sat on the back patio facing a genuine ray of sunshine. The manager had escorted him to her with a sickly smile, sweating bullets, and mumbled under his breath the entire time while he did. Rufus had quickly made him leave once he got sight of his target.

She wore the oriental styles of the Wall Market; a black kimono, a dark purple obi, and brilliant red and white cranes and dragonflies sewn into it with a careful hand. A very expensive piece of silk indeed. She wore true jewels in her hair, a far cry from a slummer's jewelry, and from behind, wore her hair in a high bun with some strands left to dangle around her shoulders.

He had seen Madame M once, when she answered a personal call for his father. She had left the building in a rage, but he had heard her yelling at him when the massage had been finished. Her obi har been untied when she left. Rufus could only assume his father had been attempting to make her his mistress.

This girl, her student, was bound to be a spitfire.

He straightened his tie and stepped outside. A pair of cool, calm [color] eyes turned and regarded him, a plucked eyebrow raised, as if asking who dared to interrupt her dessert. Even sitting, she looked down her nose at him.

Oh, yes, he would enjoy every part of this… Starting with those eyes.

#final fantasy #final fantasy 7 remake #soulmate au #soulmate #rufus shinra x reader #rufus shinra

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amrynth · 3 years

Text

New Years Waterworks

(For @docholligay‘s January Same Prompt Party. The prompt is Usagi and New Year’s Fireworks. Enjoy! Ao3 here)

It was the day of the New Year’s fireworks show and the snow was not supposed to stop until Monday. She knew that it was silly, knew that there were bigger problems in the world that she and her friends ought to be solving (such as who had the crystal star goblet on the back of their daydream tablet). But Usagi was inconsolable because she had been looking forward to seeing the fireworks ever since the location had been announced. She had even talked her dad into getting them special press passes so they could be closer. And now it wasn’t going to stop snowing and there was no point.

A freshet of tears welled in Usagi’s eyes and she hiccuped in a half-hearted effort to keep them from overflowing.

“Really, is that any way for a highschool student to behave?” Luna asked, curled on the bed with her back against Usagi’s pillow.

“Luna, lighten up,” Makoto said, dropping to sit on the bed. She’d only just returned from downstairs. “I mean, it’s New Year’s. Usagi’s been looking forward to this.”

The final reminder was what pushed her over the edge; a squeak and then a wail and then all the waterworks from Usagi. “What’s the point of being the cha-champion of justice if I can’t even watch fireworks?”

“Don’t cry Usagi, look. I’ve nearly finished the prototype.” Ami didn’t completely ignore that Usagi was in tears, but she tried not to look directly at Usagi so she didn’t get sucked into the depths of her despair.

As though on cue, Usagi’s tears dried immediately and Ami had her full attention. “Can we see it?”

“Yes. In just a few… now. Minako, would you get the lights?” Ami asked.

“Ban-banbanban!” Minako made a show of it, and the lights in Usagi’s room went out around all of them.

Luna, Makoto, Minako and Usagi all looked up expectantly while Ami fiddled with her phone before setting it in the center of the table she and Usagi were sitting at. For one moment it seemed like nothing would happen and Usagi was, once again, on the verge of tears. But a flash of light stopped the tears from coming and then the hologram kicked in and all five of them were watching small, slightly grainy fireworks silently explode in the middle of her bedroom.

“Ohh look at that one!” Usagi was enchanted, tears forgotten and her attention almost completely on the light show. It wasn’t a real firework show, but it was close enough to the real thing to let her briefly forget about the show they hadn’t been able to see.

Makoto’s phone abruptly started to beep and interrupted the magic. “Sorry. That’s the cookies, are you ready to pause this and do some decorating?”

The table was nearly knocked over in Usagi’s haste to get to her feet. To be fair, anyone would flip a table for Makoto’s cookies fresh from the oven. “Luna, watch my phone okay? And answer if Rei calls, my hands are going to be busy and you don’t even eat cookies.”

Behind her, Ami, Minako and Makoto exchanged looks as Usagi went downstairs and went on, at length, about why she didn’t understand how Rei could be so bossy about everyone else being punctual but not even make it to their fireworks cancellation party on time.

“Punctual is a good word, Usagi,” Ami complimented her, trying to interrupt her rant before she got a full head of steam going.

“It was on your vocabulary quiz last week,” she admitted.

Makoto pulled the tray of cookies from the oven and, satisfied that they were golden brown, set them aside to start cooling. The cookies themselves looked more like flowers than they did fireworks, but once they were decorated at least some of them ought to look right.

“Rei is going to be so jealous she didn’t get to eat hot cookies,” Usagi said, snagging a cookie as Makoto put it on a rack to cool.

“You’re going to burn yourself,” Minako said, a cookie already halfway to her mouth.

“Hot. Hot! Ah Hot!” Usagi juggled her cookie from hand to hand and barely saved it in time to shove it into her mouth.

It was still hot.

“Why didn’t Minako burn her hands?” Usagi wailed, cradling a cup of cold water Ami had given her.

“Volleyball calluses,” Minako declared, swallowing her perfect temperature cookie and showing off her hands.

Usagi hiccuped. “Can I learn volleyball?”

Minako shrugged. Usagi had proven to be bad at most sports where balls were involved and she didn’t want to get her hopes up.

“Here. Decorate some cookies,” Makoto said, setting a plate of fireworks cookies at places around the table, the icing all ready to go.

For the second time that night, Usagi quickly forgot about all her troubles, laughing with her friends as they each decorated their cookies with varying degrees of success. Usagi’s were fast and messy but she used a lot of colored sugar to make up for it because she liked that it looked like sparkles. Ami’s decorations were precise and small for the proportion of her cookies and she was only halfway done by the time everyone else had finished their plates. Minako picked colors she thought would make Usagi laugh and it worked, but it made for some cookies that were a little odd in the end. Makoto’s came out beautifully, she used a toothpick to blend her frosting colors and emulate shading, with perfectly manipulated sugar to create fireworks.

“Let’s go check with Luna and see if Rei is on her way,” Usagi said, glancing over toward the fifth plate with undecorated cookies.

They all trooped back up to Usagi’s room, where Luna hastily jumped back onto the bed in order to pretend she hadn’t just been watching Ami’s holograph fireworks show while the others were gone.

“Did Rei call?” Usagi asked, picking up her phone from where it lay on the bed. One missed call and a text from Rei letting her know she was on her way and would be there soon. Oh she was going to give Rei such a bad time when she got there. “But what’ll we do until she gets here?”

“Are you ready?” Minako asked.

Usagi’s interest was immediately piqued and she pulled her feet up on the bed with her. “Ready for what?”

It was precisely the question Minako had been waiting for. She lowered the lights and her phone was already set up so the flash was on as a spotlight. “For the Minako Fireworks Special Extravaganzathon!”

“Extravaganzathon isn’t actually a word,” Ami quietly corrected while settling on the bed beside Usagi.

“Well not with that attitude it’s not,” Makoto collapsed to sit on the floor with her back against the bed.

The Minako Fireworks Special Extravaganzathon was, in fact, a re-enactment of the New Year’s fireworks complete with pompoms and spangled handbags for effect. Minako had just finished the first musical number when three out of four phones lit up with a text message.

Usagi wasn’t fast enough to see who had texted Ami, Minako, and Makoto when they stopped to look at it. But Minako turned the lights back up. “Stay tuned for part two another night. There’s a big group dance at the end, it’s an interactive Extravaganzathon!”

“Sorry Usagi, but I’ve just remembered a project we need to work on,” Ami said, face turning red in a way that Usagi immediately knew meant she wasn’t being completely truthful.

“You’re leaving? But Rei isn’t even here yet,” Usagi said, her voice wavering in a way that threatened tears.

“Sorry Usagi,” Makoto said, smiling ruefully. “I’ll leave the cookies and supplies so you can decorate some more if you want.

“I’ll see you off,” Luna said, aware of the impending tears and not wanting to be in the room anymore.

Usagi watched them go and heroically kept her tears to little hiccups and sniffles until she heard the front door close as they all left. As soon as they were gone though it was a no-holds-barred wail that would have sent the fiercest youma fleeing if they had been fighting the enemy. She missed when her phone buzzed and only looked up from her tear-soaked pillow when a snowball hit her window with a soft thump. She sniffed and realized there was a text on her phone from Rei.

/Crybaby Usagi, come outside./

She got up on her knees and peered out the window but couldn’t see anything around the condensation. The solid circle of snowball that had stuck was a reddish blob. Usagi wiped her nose and thought about refusing to go out for about five seconds. But seeing what had kept Rei for so long was at least more interesting than crying herself to sleep. Usagi pulled her coat on and ran downstairs to pull her boots on at the door and stepped out completely prepared to get hit with a snowball.

Instead the sight that met her was Rei with a wide, red umbrella in the middle of a part of the driveway that had been very recently cleared of the still-falling snow. Usagi jogged the short distance over to her and the shelter of the umbrella from the snow.

“Been crying?” Rei asked, taking in Usagi and her puffy eyes.

“Well someone didn’t even bother to show up until everyone else got bored and left,” Usagi said, sort of wishing she’d rinsed her face at least. Rei looked beautiful with a flush of cold on her cheeks and the sparkle of something in her eyes.

“Well I had errands to run,” Rei said, her temper getting the better of her for a moment. She lifted a paper bag Usagi hadn’t seen in her hand until now, offering it to her.

Usagi took the bag before it could hit her in the chest and peeked inside. There was a pretty pathetic collection of children’s fireworks inside; sparklers and poppers and those little expanding snakes that it was far too wet with the snow to even set off. Warmth bloomed in Usagi’s chest; Rei must have been running around the whole city to even find this much in the way of fireworks they could set off in the driveway. No wonder she had been so late to make it to Usagi’s house.

Careful of the bag and its contents, Usagi threw her arms around Rei and hugged her, close to tears again but for a completely different reason than before. They had to huddle together under the umbrella and balance it along with a lighter to get the fireworks lit, but soon enough Usagi was setting off small, noisy firecrackers by throwing them into the cleared space of the driveway. When she ran out of noisy firecrackers, Usagi found sparklers in the bag and focussed all her attention on not letting the colorful light fall from her string.

The spark fell from her string and Usagi bit off a short, soft noise of objection as they both watched it fall into the snow and sputter out. After the frustrations of the night, Usagi felt new tears welling in her eyes. Before she could cry properly, one of Rei’s hands turned her chin up and the sparkler was completely forgotten as they kissed.

“Reeeiii,” Usagi said, turning pink and dragging her name out into at least four syllables. “Anyone can see us.”

Rei laughed, but she was just as flushed in the face. “Dummy Usagi, I just wanted to make sure your New Year’s was memorable. Besides, no one is going to see us.”

“But your hands are so cold!” Without further ado, Usagi took Rei by the hand and dragged her, umbrella and all, into the house.

“That’s how you do it,” Minako murmured with stars in her eyes and snow in her hair. The three of them were crouched in the bushes, not willing to go home until they too got to see the fireworks display they had helped coordinate with Rei.

“I can’t believe we’re still here,” said Ami. She had her hands over her eyes and her back to the driveway, but had been unable to resist peeking when the couple had kissed. “This is completely inappropriate.”

Makoto sighed dramatically, gazing at the lit window of Usagi’s room. “I never realized just how much Rei reminds me of my Senpai.”

#sailor moon #usagi #rei/usagi #same prompt party #fanfic #fireworks #I basically wrote this for a senpai joke #close my eyes and hope the keep reading cut works

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