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nat-20s · 3 years

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Part 4 of Wonderful! Au! This one isn’t an episode! And It’s not funny! It does, however, provide the context around Part 3! Also, Jon signs in this one, and sign languages have their own grammar and structure, but I display his signs translated into English and denote them with <> instead of “”. Here goes!

~*~

When, two days ago, Jon woke up gasping at 3 am, Martin didn’t think anything of it. Their nightmares were much like their chronic headaches: sometimes occurring daily, sometimes going weeks in without showing up. They were uncomfortable, surely, and sometimes had lingering effects, but there was a routine to them that took away much of their sting.

When he then throws off the covers, grabs the pack of cigarettes that only gets touched maybe three times a year, and makes a beeline for their balcony, Martin realizes that something worse is going on. Dread starting to settle in his stomach, he attempts to stave it off through action. He grabs the comforter and puts on a pair of slippers, going to accompany Jon. The early morning spring air is bracing enough to someone like himself, who, barring a certain deeply unpleasant year, had always run hot, it must be awful for the heat sink that is Jon. Sure enough, he finds Jon shifting on his feet, trying not to shiver too much as he’s handling the lighter.

Getting closer, while still allowing Jon breathing room, he offers over the blanket with a gentle smile and gentler words “Wanna talk about it?”

Jon doesn’t take the blanket. Jon doesn’t even look at him. “Talking to you has often been the problem, so no, thank you.”

Oof. Instinct tells him to react with a matching tone, to jab right back. That instinct is one that he’s long learned to ignore. Instead, he wraps the blanket around his own shoulders and replies with a certain level of blitheness, “Huh. Probably shouldn’t have married me then.”

Jon’s shoulders slump, and the harsh lines of his features soften. He still, however, won’t look at Martin. “Sorry, that was...a poor way of phrasing things. Sometimes I just think..”

There’s a silence between them for a few seconds as Martin waits for him to expand on the thought. When he doesn’t, Martin prompts, “Yes?”

Jon sighs with all of himself, before taking a drag of his cigarette. “Four years ago. If you hadn’t been there, I think I would’ve gone through with it. I’m glad for the life we got to build afterwards, but. Sometimes it feels as though I’m being rewarded for failure. Or perhaps, more accurately, for compliance.”

Four years ago. Four years ago exactly. The date dawns on Martin, simultaneously the worst day of their lives, and the day of their freedom from the fears. The realization makes him understand why Jon’s treading the ruts of a worn out argument, a old ache. These days, Martin doesn’t have much to say on the matter. He thinks the second Fucking Jonah Magnus opened the door, and that it was Fucking Jonah Magnus who did it, they no longer had any right choices to make. No matter what way they did the math, the outcome was always going to be terrible. However, when he wakes up warm, with their cat curled up at their feet and his husband curled into his side, he can regret the build up all he likes, but he can’t deny his joy at how it, eventually, all shook out. “Reward would imply intent, and I don’t think what we have now was orchestrated by anything other than ourselves. It’s not like the web promised us a summer wedding if we finished opening the rift.”

It’s too early to have the conversation. Jon seems to realize this at the same time that Martin does, because he snuffs out his cigarette on the railing, and says he’s going back to bed.

Four hours later, Jon leaves the apartment. He doesn’t say where he’s going, and Martin doesn’t ask. In the past, it would’ve been enough for his anxiety to spike, for the insidious thoughts of “this is it, he’s finally sick of me, always knew this would happen,” to circulate. He’s mostly able to stave off that way, able to come to the rational conclusion that this day was hard every year, and that they both needed space to process, that they weren’t even fighting, really. Mostly. He still has to keep himself busy to stave off the worst of it. The sardonic part of himself notes that their apartment’s always sparkling when they’re at their lowest, stress cleaning a habit the two of them share.

Jon gets home close to midnight, and doesn’t look at him as he falls asleep. On the couch. Maybe they’re fighting after all. Martin wishes someone had told him.

This morning, Martin wakes up cold for the first time in months. Blearily, he makes his way towards the kitchen, and finds Jon upright and scrolling on his phone. The bags under his eyes suggest he slept about as well as Martin. He looks up, at Martin, when he walks by, which is a marked improvement. Martin stops in his tracks, and he wants to think of something easy to say. He wants to offer tea or breakfast, he wants to give reassurances, he wants to remain steadfast in his conviction that saving their former world and ending up somewhere else was the best move, he want to smoothly open up discussion. Instead, he blurts out the question that’s been keeping him tossing and turning for the past several hours. “Are we okay?”

Jon opens his mouth, closes it, and lets out a frustrated huff through his nose. He raises his hand in a fist and nods with it. <Yes.>

Inanely, he asks, “Are you okay?,” which only gets him a flat stare before Jon signs <I’m getting some damn sleep.> and shoves past Martin to what is supposed to be their shared bed. Martin lets him, for now, but they’re going to clear out some of the tension this afternoon.

He makes the elective decision to record the episode by himself. He supposes he could send out a tweet telling their audience it’s an off week, but he wants to record it, both for himself and for Jon. After he’s done, he does a three knocks in rapid succession on the doorframe of the bedroom, a code they had established, god, back in the Prentiss days to let the other know it was them. Jon stirs under the covers, so he asks, “Can I come in?”

A hand rises up, giving the same nod as earlier. Before he walks in, however, he also asks, “Can I join you on the bed?”

<Yes.>

Martin crawls in next to him, and Jon immediately turns over to face him. Before he says anything, Jon signs <I love you.>

“I love you too. Hey, did..did you hear me recording?”

<No. You did an episode solo?>

“Yeah. Sort of figured you weren’t up for it.”

Jon shrugs and gives a tilt of his head that Martin reads as “Fair.” <What’s it about?>

Martin gives a shit-eating grin, the first smile hes given in the past two days. “It’s a surprise.”

Jon sticks out his tongue at him, which makes some of the weight on his lungs lift. “It’s also not what we need to discuss. What’s been going on, my love?”

Martin knew all that already, but, “There’s something else though, this time, isn’t there?”

Jon drops his eyes down to his hands, which he keeps resolutely still. With nothing but an earnest plea, Martin asks, “Why did you sleep on the couch? That’s not ‘same old, same old’.”

To his surprise, Jon comes in closer, only leaving enough room between them that he can still sign. <I love you. So much. Enough to terrify me, sometimes, but.>

“But?”

Involuntarily, Martin glances down to Jon’s abdomen. Despite his torso being covered, Martin knows the shape of the scar there, because there are times where he can still feel himself creating it. “I know how you feel. And it’s. It sucks, but I think it’s okay. As long as..as it’s not the only thing you see looking at me.”

Jon shakes his head, and gives an only slightly fragmented smile. <Not at all. Mostly I look at you and I see my favorite person in all of existence, literally.>

Martin relaxes into the mattress and runs his fingers through Jon’s hair. Pressing their foreheads together, he replies, “Ditto. Don’t tell The Duchess though, she’s the jealous type.”

That gets a proper laugh out of Jon, and Martin’s sure that they both know tomorrow is going to be better.

#wonderful! au #jonmartin #post canon #tma #jon sims #martin blackwood #THIS TOOK ME MENTALLY THREE DAYS I HATE WRITING THEM IN CONFLICT EVEN IF THE CONFLICT IS RELATIVELY GENTLE #also i didn't know!! what level they would be at after four years!! I think they're mostly okay but also!!! sometimes there's bad days!#anyway....they love each other...#part 5 will be fluffier i promise #also also should I transfer the main fics over to ao3 as well???

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spartanguard · 3 years

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partners

summary: SVU detective Emma Swan's new partner is not what she expected. Thankfully, that's a good thing.

A/n: So I've been watching a LOT of Law & Order: SVU lately and when I got to the episodes where Stabler was partnered with Dani Beck, it just smacked with CS feels. This is just a bit of exploration of that, in honor of @optomisticgirl ‘s birthday!!

B—HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Thank you for being the most amazing friend, and the best person to bounce crazy fic ideas off of (like this). I hope you have the most amazing day and I love you!!!!

Note: While there isn't any actual sexual violence in this story, it is an SVU AU, so it's mentioned.

rated T | 2.3k words | AO3

She met him while he was trying to arrest a perp who’d just walked.

“Are you Detective Swan?” he’d asked, and she immediately noticed his accent—the way it wrapped around her last name in a way that sent a shiver down her spine, but it was hard to tell if it was in a good way or not.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she tossed back.

“I’m your new partner. Killian Jones.”

She shook his offered hand (only later noticing he only had the one) and wondered—just what the hell were they about to get into?

[He was her second new partner in as many weeks. Graham, who she’d worked with since she joined the unit, had enough with special victims—with Boston in general—and had taken up some smalltown sheriff gig in Maine. Emma knew he’d be happier there, but it kind of left her in the lurch. They’d sent someone new over the week before, but her style didn’t gel with Mulan’s quite well enough—the woman was a damn fine detective but just...too different.]

Jones was new to special victims, transferring in on the recommendation of the captain at his previous precinct, where he’d worked in homicide. The dead victims, he was used to; the live ones—not so much.

It was pretty obvious on their first case together, when they were interviewing the young girl in the hospital. Emma—she’d seen enough of the world’s shitty side that little phazed her any more; growing up in the foster system made her uniquely suited to this line of work.

But Killian? He was visibly upset; she had to physically restrain him from running out of the hospital to start tracking down the culprit, holding him back by the sleeve of his leather jacket. They hardly had a lead on this. Something could be said for enthusiasm, but that didn’t excuse jumping ahead of themselves. That’s how you got into trouble—that was how criminals got away with murder (literally); she’d done that enough for the both of them, and had a feeling he had, too.

She felt they had a lot in common, actually; there was an obvious affinity for leather coats, but past that, there was something familiar in his eyes. Not that she’d met him before, or anything—just something in the determined set of his gaze when interviewing a suspect, in the empathetic way he handled the victim.

She still wasn’t sure if that was good or not, especially when he almost forgot protocol—almost lost them evidence—by rushing in too soon.

And she was half ready to walk into Captain Mills’ office to request a new partner (again) when she found him asleep at his desk with what could only be described as a murderboard spread out behind him. He looked younger and softer in his sleep, impossibly gorgeous with the way his long lashes rested on his cheekbones and gentle breaths from his full lips—and none of that was really pertinent, because the man had just researched his way to a solved case.

“Just who are you, Killian Jones?” she asked when she later woke him up with coffee and a bear claw (biting back a comment on the rumpled state of his usually pristine waistcoat-and-dress shirt combo).

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he drawled, holding her gaze intently before taking a long pull from his cup.

She knew she shouldn’t, but damn, did she.

It wasn’t until a couple cases later that she began to put together the pieces of him. It had been a doozy of a kidnapping, and he’d been on edge the whole time—right until they finally tracked down the little boy who’d been abducted. Emma slapped the cuffs on the miserable excuse for a father who’d taken him and Killian pulled the boy into his arms, visibly deflating once he knew he was safe.

She dragged him to their unit’s favorite bar that night and slid a glass of rum in front of him, along with the directive to “Talk.”

He downed it in one shot, then worried his bottom lip (much to Emma’s distraction) before saying, “Have I mentioned I have a daughter?”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise, but she let him explain without interruption. Her name was Alice; she was 8. He had sole custody, and with good reason: her mother, his ex-girlfriend, had kidnapped her from his apartment when she was only a few years old. “It’s the most scared I’ve ever been,” he confessed. “And today...it’s like I was right back in that moment.”

“I don’t blame you,” she replied, then finished her own whiskey. This was probably where she should drop some of her own tragic backstory, right? Like the scumbag who left her pregnant at 17, and the baby boy she put up for adoption? “Props to you for doing it on your own. I obviously couldn't.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, love; you gave him his best chance.” He gently set his hand over hers on the bar and she froze; not because he was cold—quite the opposite, actually—but between that tiny gesture of support and the understanding in those too-blue eyes, she felt more seen than she had by anyone in ages, even Graham.

It was suddenly too much, too intimate, and she yanked her hand away and ordered another drink. “Is your ex the name on your tattoo?” she asked, trying to put some space in between them (physically and emotionally).

It worked. He sat back up and tugged his right sleeve down with his prosthesis, hiding the ink, and she could almost see the walls go back up between them. “No. That’s...another story. For another time.” He stood and tossed some cash on the counter. “Alice is with my neighbor; I better go get her. See you ‘round.” And he left hastily.

It was what she wanted to happen. He’d suddenly gotten too close. So why did she feel like such an ass about it?

She was going to apologize at their next shift, but they got thrown into another case. And then another after it. It was a different kind of intense—a different kind of intimate—than that moment in the bar; very quickly, she had to trust him, and vice versa. That was something neither were predisposed to, but were managing to do...honestly, better than she had with anyone.

After putting another rapist behind bars, Killian said with a smirk, “I don’t mean to upset you, Swan, but I think we make quite the team.” And he winked (well, tried to), and she just blushed back, like she was a teenager in love all over again. That fact that would normally send her running but, for the first time in years, she wasn’t opposed to it—except for, y’know, the fact that he was her partner and they were coworkers and HR generally looked down on that kind of thing.

She doubted he was interested, anyway. They hadn’t really done anything outside of work since that night; he was always quick to get home to Alice, and she didn’t fault him that—especially when she finally met the kid, who was clearly her father’s daughter in all the best ways.

They got a call for a case late one weeknight; Emma easily beat him to the scene, since he had to make sure his neighbor could watch Alice at such an ungodly hour. She handed him a coffee when he got there and they made their way to the ME, to get the rundown on the vic.

Emma had been paying attention, but it shifted from the examiner to Killian pretty quickly; he stiffened at the description of what had been done to the victim, then when white as the sheet covering her when it was pulled back.

“Eloise,” he whispered, like he’d seen a ghost.

“Wait—as in…?”

He nodded. “Aye. Alice’s mum.”

“Shit.”

They got what little information they could from the scene and then started to head for the precinct, but he was shaking so much, she insisted on driving.

“Are you gonna be alright?” she asked.

He let out a hollow chuckle. “No, probably not.” Then, one long breath later, “It was Gold.”

She nearly missed their turn at that. “Gold? As in, the mysterious Mr. Gold, owner of the pawn store chain?”

“One and the same,” Killian said, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It’s the same as with Milah.”

She would have asked who that was, but he was resting his prosthesis over the spot on his arm where she knew the tattoo was. And she got a sinking feeling in her stomach that this was going to be a rough case.

Once they got to the office (and she got some more coffee in him), Killian explained: Milah was his ex, his first love—but also Gold’s wife. And while Gold was well-known for being a shady individual, no one had ever been able to pin anything on him.

But Gold did find out about their affair, and Killian came home one day to find Milah—dead, attacked and killed in the same way Eloise had been hours ago. He wasn’t sure what their connection was—and he didn’t think Gold knew about his to Eloise, especially since she’d only been released from jail last week—“But I know it’s him. And I’m going to prove it this time.”

(Apparently, last time had ended with him getting into an altercation with one of Gold’s lackeys. He escaped with his life, but not with his left hand.)

Milah’s case had gone cold, but given the similarities, they were able to pull the files. It took a few weeks—several late nights, more than a few breakdowns, many tears (mostly Killian’s, but Emma’s and Alice’s as well) before they finally—finally—had the evidence to pin both murders on Gold.

Tracking him down was another thing altogether, but they finally caught up with him in his penthouse apartment. To no one’s surprise, he didn’t go willingly; a fistfight broke out between he and Killian.

She was scared she’d have to intervene, knowing how personal it was. By the end of it, Killian had a black eye and a bloody lip, but Gold was in handcuffs, tossed unceremoniously in the back of a squad car.

Killian watched the vehicle pull away, then turned to Emma, and wrapped his arms around her in a bruising hug.

In any other situation, she would have gone stiff with shock, but she didn’t hesitate to lean right into him. Her desire to comfort him after that was just as strong as his need for comfort.

But then he pulled back, cupped her cheek, and pressed his lips to hers.

That did take her by surprise.

But she was equally quick to reciprocate.

Just as fast, it was over and he was walking away, leaving her utterly confused. Logically, she knew it was probably just an emotional reaction—a one-time thing.

However: he kissed her like he meant it. She was familiar with empty kisses and single-night flings—and that...was a whole lot more.

And she couldn’t deny it any longer: she wanted that more.

She arrived at the precinct early the next morning, hoping to beat him there so they could talk about whatever that had been. She’d even gotten up an hour before she usually did so she could get them good coffee. But he was already there, filling out forms at his desk.

“Hey,” she said, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward as she put the cup on his desk. “You taking care of the reports?”

“Um, yeah,” he stammered, pointedly focusing on the paperwork and not her.

She glanced down at the desk, and that wasn’t a report—that was a transfer form. “You want to leave?” she whispered, the familiar pain of betrayal washing over her. He didn’t want to be her partner anymore?

“Emma, I can’t stay here,” he said, only somewhat apologetic. (Also, though she didn’t realize it at the moment, it was the first time he’d used her given name.) “After this last case...it just wouldn’t be good form.”

“Fuck your good form, Jones!” she cried. “How can you say that, after everything these past few months? After last night?”

Calmly, he stood up and moved into her space. “I can’t be your partner any more, Emma,” he said, reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. “Because I want to be more than that. And last I checked, Captain Mills frowned upon inter-unit relations.”

That was true; she really did, more than most. But then the reality of what Killian was saying hit: “You...you’d give up your position for me?”

“Aye,” he answered, simply, like it wasn’t the heaviest thing anyone had ever told her.

What else was she supposed to do after a confession like that but kiss him? She rose up on her toes, gripped the lapels of his waistcoat, and found his lips with hers. He didn’t hesitate to pull her close and she was exceedingly glad no one else was in the squad room, because she’d never quite been kissed so closely to within an inch of her life as she’d been then.

(Also, it was a good thing no one was around when he pushed her onto his desk to deepen it further. If Captain Mills later noticed the forms were a bit crumpled, she didn’t say anything.)

Killian ended up transferring back to his old precinct, old job. It turned out they missed him. Emma knew exactly why; her next partner, David, was great, but no match.

Good thing she got to go home to Killian—and Alice—every night.

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thanks for reading, and send B all the birthday love! tagging some others:

@kat2609 @thesschesthair @xpumpkindumplingx t @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @profdanglaisstuff @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @its-imperator-furiosa @fergus80 @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook

#cs ff #cs modern au #cs detective au #happy birthday #optomisticgirl #my ff

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tryslora · 3 years

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If I'm lucky, all errors have been caught before posting this year, and I have properly accounted for all variations needed for removing a leap year. Man, leap years are killer to deal with in terms of tracking down tiny changes to formulas! BUT. I think I actually did better this year than last year. Can we not discuss the things I screwed up? Anyway. I really did doublecheck pretty much everything that goes back to the Wordcount sheet.

ANYWAY.

For those who have been waiting for this spreadsheet, here it is! Sorry to be so late. For those who haven't seen this before, please take a look, use if you'd like, and share if you want to. All I ask is that if you make changes and spread the changed sheet around, please credit me as the original inspiration and link back to the original as well.

2021 Word Tracking Spreadsheet

Instructions and explanation are behind a cut/read more to save your feed/dash. This spreadsheet was developed because I found that it helped me keep myself moving forward from year to year, and I've been using it since 2012. I've been sharing it after folks asked what I was using to track my words, and it has evolved over the years into the version below. The instructions include screenshots from the 2021 spreadsheet and have finally been updated because a few things have changed. So. I guess I should update the instructions!

This spreadsheet was designed to allow you to set monthly goals for your writing, and easily track your words on different projects each day. It totals up your words for the day, your words for the month, and your words for the year. As you carry it along year to year, you can even track trends in your writing habits (for example, I’ve learned that I really suck at writing in May/June/July).

I’m going to go through this tab by tab to show you what’s what, and how to set yourself up and work daily.

We are actually going to begin with the second tab: Monthly Totals. This is where your totals are tracked, and where you set your goals. You can either set all your goals ahead of time, or month by month.

On this tab, you can fill in your pledges per month, and your goal for the year in the cells marked in grey. The monthly pledges (see column D) will transfer to other tabs as needed, and will be used to calculate a daily expected word count for each month. If you set an annual goal (you don’t have to!), you’ll be able to see how close you are to making that goal, and whether your pledges add up to the annual goal.

New: You can see your words to goal, and average needed per day to get to the goal.

You can see my usual pledges here. I've lowered my goals recently because I've found that around 500 words expected per day actually encourages me to make more, and doesn't make me feel bad if I make fewer.

The Actual column (B) is calculated automatically for you based on what you fill in on the Wordcount sheet, so let the spreadsheet do the work for you!

===

The next tab we need to take a look at is the first one. This is where you’ll be doing your work, on the tab titled Wordcount.

It may look complicated, but I swear it’s not! It calculates pretty much everything you need, as long as you just keep copying information from row to row.

It’s set up so it’ll work whether you start a brand new project of 0 words, or carry forward a WIP that had words before the new year started. All you have to do is put in the title, the purpose (fest, community, this is all just for your notes), and the due date, then put in your starting word count. When you add a new project, make sure to fill that starting word count (0 or otherwise) down through ALL the prior days so that your totals stay consistent. The way I do this in Excel is to select from the starting total down to the current date, then choose Fill Down. All rows MUST be filled in or else your words will go negative (see above, where the cell G6 has a value, even though the word count did not change that day).

When a day begins, it’s easy. Just copy down the prior day (except January 1st, just start with the one in place) by selecting from column F through the last column after your current WIP and then copy it down to the next row.

For example, if I were ready to start Jan 3rd, I select from F6 through I6 (one after my last project) and copy those cells down (I do it by using the little square in the bottom right to drag it down, but you do what's best for you.

When you finish working on a project, enter its current word count.

Now, let's take a closer look at what's above.

I started two projects on Jan 1st: Title and Title2

Title started with 0 words

Title2 came in from last year with 20 words already written

On January 1st, I recorded 100 words for Title and 1200 for Title2, and the sheet calculated that I wrote 1280 words that day

On January 2nd I didn't do anything on Title, but Title2 inreased to 1300 TOTAL words (NOT new words), so I added 100 words that day.

On January 3rd, I added Title3 with 0 words to start, and I made sure that every row in my new column showed those 0 words.

The sheet color codes for days where you are below target or above target in the Actual Words/Day column. It’ll be white on zero days. You can see at a glance your trends for writing.

It also marks projects that have been added to as green on that day in their column, which is nice if you do a weekly or monthly round up. Again, you can see at a glance which projects you've worked on, versus the ones still waiting.

When you finish a fic, simply hide the column (do not delete it). That’s why copying the entire row from F to after last down is important, so you copy the hidden columns too.

Some information about the other columns.

Target Total is where you hoped to be that year by that date. If you’re not there, don’t worry!! Zero days are OKAY and give yourself a chance to catch up another time. If you need to adjust your pledges, go do that on the Monthly Totals tab and everything will update.

The Daily Target is the total you are hoping to reach to stay on target toward the Monthly Pledge for that month–it’ll be different each month depending on what you pledge.

===

Now let’s move on to some of the fun tracking pieces. Next up are Daily Graph and Monthly Graph, which are exactly what they sound like. I’ll show examples from my 2017 spreadsheet (note, the daily graph will look very up and down–that’s OKAY! Again, let yourself have zero days…).

Daily Graph

Monthly Graph

Please note that the monthly graph has changed slightly. The pledged words are a line, but the actual words are now an area graph so you'll be able to see that fill in, and see your pledge as a line over it. That will give something good to look back on at the end of the year, but I don't have a new example yet!

===

There is a weird little blank tab for tracking AO3 stats, if you want to do so like I do. Feel free to modify as you need, based on your own person fandoms. I just carry data through from year to year so I can see how things change.

===

The last two tabs are my favorite! The Annual Comparison tab becomes useful after you’ve been using the spreadsheet more than a year, because by keeping track of totals year to year, you can start to see what your writing tendencies are. This tab has changed this year!

In the main data, I have added a Range (difference between the current month and the average) and a Median. In both cases, it won't calculate (just like the average) until you're actually in that month. Prior calculations are against the prior year's data.

Just copy in your data from prior spreadsheets, then let the new column for this year calculate on its own. No work needed once you've put in the old data!

Sample data included solely to be able to make it make sense. It won't be in the sheet you download.

The chart has changed! The area chart is your average across all your data. The colored lines are all the years. The current year is in black, with markers, to make it really stand out. So you can see both how you are doing against your prior years and your typical average per month.

And the last tab helps you track your progress toward your pledges. This tab is why I created the spreadsheet in the first place. I did NaNo back in 2011 and realized that being able to see my progress helped keep me writing. I like visuals! It lets me see at a glance how I’m progressing toward my goal each month.

You don't need to fill in a thing on this sheet! It pulls in the pledge from where you set it on the Monthly Totals tab, and calculates your wordcount based on that sheet, and does everything for you. Just sit back and enjoy the charts. Red columns are the expected totals, and blue will be your actual progress. You can see whether you're ahead or behind (and DON'T WORRY if you're behind, it is OKAY).

Yes, that’s my actual horrible progress December 2018. It was a rough month.

Anyway, that’s it! Hope you like it, and if you’ve used it before, thank you for coming back. Feel free to ask if you have any questions!

2021 Word Tracking Spreadsheet

#word tracker #spreadsheet #2021 word tracking spreadsheet #writing resources

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lambourngb · 4 years

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This Hard Journey

Fic prompt: “There’s something you should know…” Michael Guerin Day 2. This picks up after yesterday’s “This Hard Life” - a part of interconnected ficlets of an AU after the shed, where Alex doesn’t join the Air Force. Mentions of Malex and an Alex/Other here. Finished on ao3 here.

***

He finally got a dog, was all that Michael could think as he sat outside of the house that matched the address Max pulled from the DMV. They had always wanted to get a dog together, but with pet deposits and the tight budget for rent and food, that had always been a non-starter for them. Not anymore.

The quiet shaded street just off of the Buchanan Arts District was lined with old-style Craftsman homes among the peppered in new, renovated sprawling McMansions born of the house flipping obsession during the real estate boom. New construction sprouting between old, mature trees, juxtaposing progress with tradition.

Alex had chosen one of the older homes, untouched by the remodeling fad with a large fenced in yard filling the property footprint, and a dog house that mimicked the main house in style. Two solid years of song-writing had rewarded Alex with financial security, and of course, after three years living in cramped efficiency apartments and noisy neighbors with Michael, the first thing Alex would want again was a house. The roots of his upper middle class childhood were never far away.

Pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, Michael worked to gather the courage that kept him propelled down the over 1,100 miles from Roswell to Nashville. He had made it here, the least he could do was knock on the door instead of freaking out over the fact that Alex had a house with a mortgage while all Michael could muster in the two years since was buying a bank-possessed Airstream.

At least it was better than sleeping rough in his truck again, something he had done when he fell behind on the rent after Alex had left.

Michael took a deep steadying breath and pushed himself out of his truck. The spans of sidewalk suddenly seemed longer than I-40 through Oklahoma. Another deep breath, the irony of borrowing Alex’s self-soothing habit not lost on Michael at all, he tucked his left hand into a pocket to hide the old damage and knocked firmly on the front door.

There was a long silence extended, shoving anticipation into chagrin as Michael turned his head to peek at the tiny side-carport, confirming there was a car there. A loud, chorus of deep barks picked up from within the house. The dog sounded big, but none of that registered as he picked up Alex’s voice, muffled and indistinct.

“-calm down, buddy. Stay- no, stay- It’s probably Daddy’s new speakers arriving-”

After two and half days of driving, Michael had perfected his speech to Alex. It hit every open wound between them, from the fact he was sorry he hadn’t gone with him, to the weak but true explanation that he wasn’t ready then, but he was now. Then finally the big dice throw, the gamble of everything, that every city needed a good mechanic, Nashville was no different, it was no pressure- but maybe? Maybe they could start over?

The door swung open, and like a bag of spilled marbles, all of Michael’s words scattered away from him.

“Michael?” Alex’s polite smile for an expected delivery dropped into disbelieving shock. He did a comical double take, looking back into the house, then to Michael, then over Michael’s shoulder. The classic Chevy truck parked on the street chased away the shock. “Jesus Christ, it really is you.”

“Alex.” Michael swallowed, his eloquence gone. “You look good.”

They had had three years together, and during that time Michael had seen so many different versions of Alex Manes. He had seen Alex tired, dark circles shading his eyes more consistently than eyeliner with an off-kilter alien antennae from the Crashdown. He had seen Alex resolute, using his shoulders to impart a warning in his black clad Wild Pony shirt to any drunk who dared to give him a hard time. He had seen Alex awkward, as he helped Michael with his chores at the Foster’s ranch when it came to cleaning out a cow pen or pulling the twine efficiently off baled hay. He had seen Alex ashamed, as Michael patiently explained during their first grocery store visit that the EBT card only covered certain items.

This Alex was new. Clean, well-rested, skin clear and not tight on his cheekbones from lean meals or bloated from cheap food. An earring shined from his ear, he was dressed in a soft v-neck shirt and artfully cut frayed jeans. Good was an understatement.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here- I’m here because Isobel got married, and um, she wanted to invite you, but I talked her out of it. I’m sorry. I mean for that, but also for like, everything. Not following you here was something I regretted every day since, but I thought- I thought I had to stay back then, but I don’t anymore- and there’s something you should know-”

“Babe? Is that our new speakers at the door?” A new voice called out, cutting off the word vomit that was spilling from Michael’s mouth beyond his control.

A male voice.

The wince and apology on Alex’s face told Michael everything he needed to know. Well. He probably should have seen that coming. Only Alex’s reaching out quickly to grab his hand as he turned away stopped him from bolting from the house.

“No, not our speakers, but an old friend from back home is here-” Alex called back, before turning back to make deliberate eye contact with Michael. “He wanted to stop by to say hello.”

A tall well-built black man came into view, holding a squirming pit bull in his arms, walked toward them both with a bright welcoming smile, “A friend from Roswell? An actual flesh and blood human who knows you? I was starting to think you were an alien, Alex.”

“Just because you’re related to half of Nashville and went to school with the other half, Dennis, doesn’t mean I sprouted from a pod-” Alex shot back playfully, clearly picking up a well-worn argument.

Like a couple. A real couple. With a house and a dog. Michael licked his dry lips, forcing his muscles upward, they probably had retirement accounts. In two years Alex had built something more secure than he had in the three years in Roswell.

“Well any friend of yours, Alex, is one of mine,” Dennis greeted, turning his head to avoid an excited dog kiss before transferring the bundle of fur into Alex’s arms in a fluid movement of trust. “I’m Dennis, welcome to Nashville, um-?” he prompted, extending his left hand to Michael.

“Michael Guerin,” he answered politely, before Michael lifted his left hand awkwardly from his pocket and offered his right in return. His name didn’t alter the warm smile on Dennis’s face. Ah. So he must be a nameless ex for Alex then. Swallowing hard, Michael continued, this time a little meanly, “this hand doesn’t shake so well after I got on the wrong side of a hammer, sorry. But good to meet you.”

The stutter of the clumsy interaction hid Alex’s wince and flash of pain of the reminder.

Feeling no joy from that, Michael picked up the conversation lightly, “I’m a friend from high school. Been doing some transport work, and a job sent me here to pick up a car to drive back to Roswell, so I thought I might stop in and see what the famous Alex Manes is up to…”

“I’m not famous, I just write the words,” Alex protested quietly, before backing away from the doorway. “We were just about to have lunch, if you want to stay-”

“He’s famous, don’t listen to him,” Dennis interjected proudly. “Did you hear that new song from Paramore? Alex wrote that.”

“Oh I know, I have all the singles Alex wrote,” Michael smiled, looking around the house and at the couple with another deep breath. “I’m his biggest fan, I think. But um, thank you, I can’t stay, I gotta hit the road back to-” he started to say home, but that hadn’t been true for a long time. “Back to Roswell.”

***

Hours later with his heart heavy, Michael checked into his room at the Super 8. Normally the expense would have bothered him, but after his day, he figured he was entitled to a little bit of spoiling. And if it was sad that plain wrapped soaps and tiny shampoo bottles constituted spoiling, well, he was content with that.

The clunky black case of his small portable DVD player was propped open on the hotel bed. It was a hand-me-down as technology and electronic gadgets moved into smoother, more versatile means. For him, it was perfect to watch a borrowed DVD in his Airstream since he lacked cable.

With the entire contents of a motel conditioner in his hair, Michael started the paused video file. The shaky dark footage started playing, the sound crackling with amateur hands, before the clear, strong voice of Alex Manes filled the air.

It was probably pathetic to watch this cribbed footage from YouTube, but the romanticism that fueled his journey down 1-40 was also the same sentiment that preserved this moment in amber for Michael. Pulling open his old notebook from high school, he let Alex’s voice singing about love and loss carry him through the calculations of point atmospheric entry and the parallax distance of habitable stars.

It would be a hard journey, but Michael didn’t know any other kind at this point. Roswell wasn’t his home. Nashville wasn’t going to be home either, but the universe was ever-expanding, surely there was a place for Michael?

#mgweek20 #guerinweek20 #malex fic #the lost decade #au after the shed #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #Malex #angst here but eventual happy ending #will it show up in the tags?#no one knows certainly not me

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thesassenachswiftie · 3 years

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Lover - Chapter 13: “Soon You’ll Get Better”

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Chapter 7 // Chapter 8 // Chapter 9 // Chapter 10 // Chapter 11 // Chapter 12

Summary: Claire and Jo go Christmas shopping; Claire gets a call at work that Lamb’s in the hospital in Boston where she fears she will need to spend the holidays without Jamie. In short: angst, but make it festive.

" This won't go back to normal, if it ever was It's been years of hoping, and I keep saying it because 'Cause I have to

Ooh-ah, you'll get better..."

CW: cancer, hospitals, illness of a loved one,

Notes: First of all, if you’re still here, thank you for reading, and thank you for bearing with me as I took a small hiatus. Hopefully I will be getting back to a more regular posting schedule, but work is really draining right now and it’s hard to find enough hours in the day to do everything.

As you know, each Chapter of this fic is based off a Taylor Swift song by the same name. This one was particularly difficult to write/approach because I actually haven’t listened to this song in over a year. In early Summer 2019, a tumor was found on my grandfather’s brain. This was also the summer I discovered Outlander, and the summer Taylor Swift released Lover. The day after Lover came out, I broke down sobbing in my apartment listening to this song and thinking about my grandfather, knowing his condition was worsening. That night, I recieved the call that my grandfather had passed. He was the kindest, purest soul and I write this chapter in part as a tribute to him. Many of the experiences Claire and Lamb share are based on my own experiences with my grandpa that summer, and this version of Lamb is very much based on my Grandpa Jim.

That being said, you may want to grab a box of tissues before reading, but hopefully not all your tears will be sad. I’m hoping to post again before Chistmas, but in case I don’t Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays--and Happy Hanukkah to any Jewish readers I may have--here is a Hanukkah present for you!

Chapter 13: “Soon You’ll Get Better”

“All I want for Christmas is yooouuuuu” the sounds of Mariah Carey rang out throughout the small boutique gift shop in the heart of the village of Northport.

“Good God, we’re only a week into December and I swear I’ve already heard this song three hundred times. I’m not exaggerating either. Two hundred and eight-four at the very least.” Jo scoffed exasperatedly.

“Are you complaining?” Claire asked in reply. “It’s a great song--a classic really.”

“Do you know how many incredible, amazing, beautiful, jolly Christmas songs there are in existence?” Jo was gearing up for one of their famous rants, “Yet, the radio stations only ever play the same eighteen songs, I swear!”

“It must be more than eighteen.”

“Fine. Twenty. Take this song for instance: Ingrid Michaelson has the most hauntingly beautiful cover of it--do you ever hear it? No! You only ever hear Mariah!”

“I, for one, like Mariah!” Claire interjected, playfully defensive.

“Who doesn’t? But she’s not the only powerhouse female vocalist out there! I’d just like to see a little diversity in my holiday music, is that so much to ask?”

Claire giggled. Her best friend always had an opinion on everything and she loved them all the more for it. “Do you think Jenny would like this candle?” Claire unscrewed the lid a locally-made jar candle, taking a sniff before placing it under Jo’s nose. It smelled like Lavender and Sage with just a hint of Eucalyptus.

“Does Jenny keep a lot of candles around, with all those children?” Jo chuckled back. “It does smell nice though.” Jo had only met Jenny a couple times when visiting Claire, but they had a knack for reading people and Claire was glad to have them along as a shopping partner.

“I suppose candles aren’t really her thing. Jenny seems very practical, but I don’t know what she would need that she doesn’t already have, and Jamie’s been no help!”

“I think you’re on the right track with the self-care/relaxation vibe, but maybe not something the children can use to burn the house down. What about an artisanal lotion set?” Jo inquired, gesturing at a nearby display.

“Oh that might work!” Claire took a squirt from the bottle labeled ‘tester’ inhaling deeply as she rubbed it between her palms. “Ooo that’s nice, I would appreciate this if I were a hardworking mother.”

“If things keep going the way they are with your man, LJ, you might just be before you know it” Jo made a lewd gesture with their hands, raising their eyebrows to make it clear exactly what they were implying.

“Jo! You’re terrible” Claire shrieked, smacking her friend playfully on the arm. Besides, not much of that happening these days if you haven’t noticed, Jamie is literally across the ocean.”

“Well, at least you can’t get knocked up from phone sex,” Jo replied. “What are you getting him anyway? I’m thinking something lacy and strappy, with little bows on it of course, to be festive. There’s a place down the street that might have something like that.”

“Hmm” Claire exhaled. “We’ll see.” Claire knew lingerie was definitely going to be part of Jamie’s Christmas gift, one she would be most excited for him to unwrap. God, she missed him. It had been over a month and they were settling into a routine, video chatting every night, sweet texts back and forth throughout the day, the occasional phone sex when they were both sick with desire for one other--but nothing was the same as the feel of their bodies pressed against each other in the heat of the moment, chasing each other’s climax. Claire couldn’t wait to be reunited with him in every way.

It was two days before Christmas break, only a few days left until Claire would find freedom for the next ten days and, most of all--the comfort of Jamie’s arms. Claire was sitting in her school nurse’s office, inhaling deeply during the first quiet moments she’d had all week. There was an uptick of student visits in the past couple weeks--a few were legitimate concerns tied to cold and flu season: students whose parents sent them to school when they weren’t quite well enough, overachievers who wanted to maintain their perfect attendance dragging themselves to school despite their bodies protestations. Most of her patients however, were suffering from something much more insidious: the eagerness to start their winter break early by skipping their classes. This time of year the air of the school felt different, students and teachers alike were burnt out, apathetic, and ready for a break. This attitude in the students fed into the teachers’ attitudes--overworked with the end of the marking period, trying to squeeze in Christmas shopping and decorating between grading. Claire did not envy Jo nor any of the other teachers during this time, but their exhaustion was so palpable in the air of the school that she was starting to feel it too. By tomorrow, most teachers would be shutting their doors and playing a holiday film, giving up on instruction all together--hopefully that would make for a quiet day for Claire. Really, if she could just get through the rest of the day it would be smooth sailing until Christmas--until Jamie.

Her silent musings were broken by the blaring sound of her office phone. She was expecting a teacher, calling to send a student down, but instead it was the school clerk, Glenda. “Hi Nurse Beauchamp, we have an outside call for you, it seems like it may be a personal call so if there’s any students with you we can send someone down to watch them if you’d like to take it privately here in the office.”

Claire's heart sank to her stomach. What could it be? She took a deep breath and swallowed to brace herself before replying “last student just left.”

“Alright, I’ll transfer you now.” The click of the call transferring sounded through the phone.

“Hello, this is Miss Beauchamp”

“Hello Miss Beauchamp, I’m Tammy, a nurse at Mass General we’re calling because you’re listed as the emergency contact for Quentin Beauchamp” a nasally voice croaked through the phone speaker--the voice was impersonal like that of a cashier saying “have a nice day” for the thousandth time, not fitting of a potential harbinger of death.

“Yes…” Claire replied, nervously, questioningly.

“Mr. Lambert was admitted this morning after showing signs of cognitive distress. An initial cat scan shows a mass on his brain. He’s currently undergoing testing to see if it’s cancerous.”

Claire’s lungs felt like they were about to collapse. Lamb had been diagnosed with prostate cancer several years ago, but had been able to live with it through treatment. Claire also knew that cancer was insidious and could spread throughout the body rapidly and without warning. She knew it was very likely that the mass was cancer. She tried to find her medical professional voice, but a diagnosis was different when it was someone you loved. Instead, she croaked out, “when will you know?”

“We should have the results by tomorrow. He’ll stay here overnight for monitoring and we’ll decide whether to admit him long term from there.”

“I’m on Long Island, should I drive up?”

“I’m afraid it’s too soon to tell, it could be nothing, but--” Claire cut her off, knowing exactly how bad it could be.

“I understand. I’ll drive up this evening.”

“Alright, he should be back in his room by then, he’s out getting his tests done now. It’s room 713 when you get here.” Claire wrote the number on a bright blue sticky note on her desk as the nurse spoke. “Have a nice day Ms. Beauchamp”

“Hmm” was all she could reply, as if she could possibly have a nice day. She hung up the phone, and finally let the deluge of tears she’d been holding back free.

She allowed herself to cry for a few minutes to get it out, but she knew she had to get to Boston as soon as possible. She picked up the phone again and dialed the main office.

“Hi Glenda, it’s Claire. I need to take the rest of the day off--I have to go to Boston, my uncle…” she couldn’t say it out loud for fear of unleashing the tears again “Is Principal Gowan there, I need to let him know.”

“Oh Nurse Beauchamp, I’m so sorry to hear that, let me know if you need anything. Mr. Gowan’s in his office, I’ll transfer you to him now, if he doesn’t answer just pack up your things and go, I’ll take care of it”

“Thanks Glenda, I really appreciate it”

----------

After getting the ok from her kind and understanding principal, Claire rushed back to Jamie’s apartment, hastily packed a bag (likely forgetting several things), informed Jenny where she was going--which was met with sympathy and genuine concern--and hopped back in the car for the journey to Boston. She entered the hospital doors several hours later, the buttons of her coat were tangled in her hair as she rushed, breathless, to the front desk to receive her visitor’s pass.

When she arrived at Lamb’s room, he was asleep. She didn’t want to wake him, but she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze to let him know she was there before settling into the armchair beside him to await his awakening. He looked so frail and small in the hospital bed, not at all like the strong, spirited man who had raised her. He had left the television on--some sports channel was playing a highlight reel of various golfing moments. No wonder Lamb fell asleep. Claire was staring at the screen, but her thoughts were elsewhere: worried about Lamb, wondering if she’d remember everything when she hastily packed, wondering what the future held. Would she have to spend Christmas in this hospital room? A golf ball soared across the Scottish Highlands on the screen. Jamie. Jamie was coming home Christmas Eve, she was supposed to pick him up from the airport, supposed to spend her holiday break with him, experience her first Hogmanay with the Murray family, be surrounded by love and laughter and family. Lamb was supposed to be fine, he was supposed to take the train down, spend Christmas with them. Every plan they had made was shattered into a million pieces. Would she even be able to see Jamie? She thought about the presents she’d bought for him, not yet wrapped, piled in the closet but definitely not hidden, especially considering it was his apartment. Of course he’d understand--she could tell him where they were, but the magic of unwrapping would be lost, it would feel entirely unsentimental. It was bad enough that she felt her gifts weren’t sentimental enough--what could she possibly get him to show how special he was to her? How could she communicate that with an object? If she were a painter she would paint him a painting, if she were a songwriter she would write him a song, but she was simply Claire, and practical gifts were all she knew. She had purchased a cozy blue sweater to match his eyes and keep him warm in the brisk London winters, a cool multi-tool the size of a credit card that would fit in his wallet and help him solve a variety of problems, a protective case for his phone, and a box of artisanal beef jerky. She had also procured a complicated piece of lingerie with a big red bow across the chest for him to unwrap the night of Christmas, which she knew he would enjoy. Everything was thoughtful enough and mostly practical, but she longed to be able to give him something truly special--a grand gesture to match her feelings for him. Claire glanced back at her uncle and immediately felt guilty being so selfish. I hate to make this all about me. Lamb always had a knack for helping her realize what was important when life’s situations overwhelmed her. She needed him for perspective, but how could she talk to him about this? How could she tell him how she felt? She knew it was wrong, but she was mad at him for getting sick so close to Christmas. Who am I supposed to talk to? What am I supposed to do if there’s no you? The tears were welling up in her eyes as she watched her most beloved uncle sleep--hooked up to machines, pale and listless in the hospital bed.

Claire slipped into the adjoining bathroom to try to compose herself--she didn’t want her uncle to wake up and see her upset, she knew he would try to comfort her, to be the rock he always had been for her. She was here to be his rock this time, she needed to stay strong for him. She looked at herself in the mirror, telling herself it was going to be ok--her uncle was strong and he’d been fighting a long time--he’d continue to fight. Soon you’ll get better. She had to convince herself it was true, pretend it wasn’t real, it wasn’t so bad. She knew it was a delusion, she could see it all over her glass face when she looked in the mirror. She was genuinely afraid that this could be when she lost him, if not physically right away, he could be lost mentally. She’d been hoping for years he would get better, but now it seemed he’d taken a turn for the worse. She took a few deep breaths and offered up a prayer. She wasn’t usually religious, but they say desperate people find faith, so she decided it was time to try. God? Jesus? Whoever is up there. I know I don’t much deserve anything from you, I’m not sure I’m exactly on good terms with you, but I’m inclined to believe you care and you are good. Besides, I’m not really asking anything for myself, not really. I just pray my Uncle is ok, I pray he gets better. He has to. Please don’t take his brilliant mind away from him. Please let him be ok. Please, I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever it takes to help him. Just please, please, don’t take him away from me. I need him. Please let him get better. Please let him get better. Claire continued to repeat the words like a mantra as she returned to her bedside chair. She stared at the collection of orange bottles on the tray table. Please let them help him get better. Please let him get better. Please, please, please let him get better.

Claire had no idea how long she sat there, repeating those words to herself, but her silent appeal was interrupted when a nurse entered the room to check her uncle’s vitals.

“Hi, I’m Brenda, I’ll be the nurse on duty tonight.” Brenda erased a name on a small whiteboard in front of the room and replaced it with her own.

“I’m Claire, I’m his niece.”

Brenda had made her way over to the other side of the bed and was checking the monitors beside the bed, making notes on the chart in her hand. “I hate waking them up, but I’m going to have to.” Claire was glad that she was much kinder than the nurse she had spoken with on the phone earlier—had that really been earlier? It seemed much longer since that phone call. “Excuse me, Quentin? Sir?” Brenda gently nudged his arm to awaken him. Lamb’s eyes fluttered open and he looked disoriented, Claire watched him carefully hoping that his disorientation was solely from being awoken mid-sleep and not from any neurological damage.

“Hi Uncle Lamb” Claire stammered, hoping she sounded cheerful anyway.

“Claire! My girl! You came all the way to see your old uncle!”

“Of course I did! How are you?” she replied warmly.

“Oh, I’m fine, they’re taking good care of me here.” Lamb’s voice sounded genuinely content and Claire felt comforted for the first time since the hospital had called her earlier that day.

“Hello sir, my name’s Brenda, I’ll be your nurse tonight. I just need to ask you a few questions and check your vitals.”

“What is your name?”

“Quentin Lambert Beauchamp”

“Good. When is your birthday?

“March 23th, 1939”

“Good, and who is the president?”

“Well, unfortunately…” both Claire and Brenda giggled at how Lamb began his sentence. Claire was well aware of Lamb’s opinions of the current president of the United States, and was glad to see he hadn’t lost his sly sense of humor or his disdain for the man. She was also glad he knew who the president was, hopefully his mental capacities were more promising than the worst-case-scenario her mind was conjuring.

----------

Claire stayed by her uncle’s side for the rest of the night, only leaving the room twice, once to find something to eat from a vending machine, and once for her nightly call to Jamie. She allowed herself to break down when talking to Jamie, sobbing over the phone. Jamie did his best to comfort her through the speaker, desperately wishing he could be there for her in person. Claire wished the same, longing to curl up in his strong embrace, and bury her swollen face in his chest. She couldn’t bring up the fact that she might have to spend Christmas in Boston. She was enough of a mess without facing the reality that they wouldn’t see each other, and when Jamie promised they’d see each other soon at the end of their call, Claire hung up quickly as another wave of emotion overtook her and she buried her face in her hands to cry some more.

The next morning, the doctor came in with Lamb’s results. Claire grasped Lamb’s hand, unsure of who was holding onto whom for comfort as the doctor explained that the mass on Lamb’s brain was in fact cancerous, but it was still relatively small and had been caught early. He explained that they could operate on it and remove it, however there was no guarantee that it wouldn’t come back or that they’d be able to get it all out. It was moments like these where Claire desperately wished she was already a surgeon, that she could feel in control of the outcome--though could she operate on her own uncle? Would she be able to hold her hand steady enough to do a good job? No, perhaps it was best left to the veteran surgeons in Boston.

After discussing all the details and options with the doctor’s, Lamb decided to go through with the surgery. It was scheduled for the day after Christmas and Claire resigned herself to the sobering fact that she’d be spending the holidays in the hospital. As the florescent hospital lights lit the room with an unnatural glow, Claire couldn’t tell him she was scared. She had to stay strong, she had to keep it together and remain positive and supportive.

----------

Claire spent the next few days devoted to her uncle, rarely leaving his bedside. Lamb had forced her to spend the nights at his apartment, which was probably for the best. She wasn’t sleeping well to begin with and the recliner at the hospital was only making matters worse. Claire was present and doting on him from morning to night though, helping her uncle order his meals, assisting him when he needed to use the restroom, adding and removing pillows and blankets as needed, or anything else he needed or wanted. Lamb had been moved to the cancer floor, and the window of his new room had a nice view of the Boston skyline. Lamb was making the best of a bad deal, he bragged about his ‘luxury accommodations’, he cracked jokes often, he liked the nicer nurses, he ordered extra dessert with all his meals and was in generally pleasant spirits. Claire could see the cracks in his cognition though. Sometimes he would change the topic he was discussing mid-sentence, and he couldn’t seem to keep time straight. Whenever anyone would mention Christmas, he would act surprised to know that it was coming up, and at one point he hinted at Claire that she might just get those roller skates she wanted for Christmas, a gift she had not asked for since she was eleven years old. He didn’t seem to know what year it was or how old Claire was. He did know who Claire was though, and for that she was thankful. He also knew who the president was whenever the nurses asked, always beginning his answer with a short preamble to make known his disdain.

Before they knew it, it was Christmas Eve and Claire couldn’t hide the sadness she felt on her face. She was glad to spend the evening with Lamb, but she had been looking forward to her first big family Christmas. She had filled in Jamie about Lamb’s condition and her subsequent stay in Boston over the course of their phone calls that week. She had also describe the Christmas gifts she had purchased for the Murrays, Jo, and Lamb, so Jamie would know the rest were for him. Jamie had agreed to put the Murrays gifts in gift bags and distribute them for her. They were meant to exchange family gifts that evening, the morning being reserved for Santa, and Claire was heartbroken to be missing out. In a matter of hours, and for the first time in two months, her and Jamie would be on the same continent, yet they wouldn’t be able to see each other. There was no way Claire could get into the Christmas spirit under these conditions. The hospital, despite being modestly decorated, was not the most festive atmosphere. Even a troop of Girl Scouts caroling their way through the hospital halls did nothing to assuage the weight of losing everything Claire had been looking forward to for the past two months.

“What’s a matter, my dear?” Lamb asked, showing genuine concern for his niece.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine, I promise, I’m just wishing things were different today.”

“Why today? Is it something special? I can’t seem to remember.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. You were supposed to come to Long Island and meet Jamie. We were going to spend the holiday with his family.”

“Yes, I remember, that’s today? Oh dear, I haven’t gotten your gift yet I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine, Lamb, I’m afraid I left your gift at home, so we’ll have to do that part later. We can take a raincheck on gift exchanging. I was just really looking forward to you getting to know Jamie.”

“I’m sure I’ll meet the lad soon; he seems really special to you.”

“He is; I know you’ll like him.”

“I already do.” He patted the top of her hand and turned his attention back to the sitcom on the television, providing humorous commentary to try to cheer Claire up.

----------

It was late Christmas morning. Uncle Lamb was napping again and Claire had switched the television to the Hallmark Channel--usually her guilty pleasure this season, today it was simply reminding her of how her Christmas was proving to be less than magical. For her there would be no Christmas kisses, no magical snowfall, no saving the small town family business or learning to love Christmas again. All that awaited her this Christmas were fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, and nurses visiting every 6 hours to check her uncle’s vitals. This Christmas would be decidedly the most un-magical she had ever experienced. She had had her share of unconventional Christmases in the past, in fact, she never really was a Christmas person, but it had started to feel special to her when she was living in New York. This Christmas though--this was one she was looking forward to more than ever before. Claire spent most of the morning crying, grieving over all she was missing. She should have spent the morning curled up in Jamie’s arms, watching the children open presents. She could picture the Murray’s living room, trashed with colorful wrapping paper from end to end, each child in their own private world fascinated by their latest favorite toy, Jenny and Ian beaming through tired eyes.

Claire was surprised Jamie hadn’t called her to fill her in on the details yet. He had called yesterday when his plane arrived--groggy and jet-lagged, his communication skills were not the most eloquent, but he tried his best to make her feel better. She hadn’t heard from him at all this morning though, not even a Merry Christmas text. Surely the jet lag would have woken him up as early as the children, and they must have been done opening presents by now. Claire tried to rationalize that Jamie was just spending time with his family, but she couldn’t help feeling hurt and ignored. She thought she was important enough to him that he could take a moment away from his family to at least text her, or to find some way to make her feel included from afar. Had his feelings changed in their months apart? Did coming home to a messy apartment turn him off? Did she find his Christmas gifts and come to think she didn’t care enough to get him something more thoughtful? She thought about calling him, but a mixture of pride and fear kept her from acting first, not to mention she couldn’t stop crying over these sappy Christmas movies.

Suddenly, a voice from the doorway rang through the room, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!” Claire looked up in confusion, momentarily unable to comprehend her surroundings and the disruption that had just entered them. Santa? No. The tall figure filling the door frame was dressed like Santa, beard and all, but the unmistakable Scottish burr gave away his true identity. If Claire hadn’t already been crying, she certainly was now. Jamie was standing in the doorway, dressed in a Santa suit, carrying a large, blue IKEA bag overflowing with wrapped presents and what appeared to be Christmas decorations.

“What?” Claire could hardly believe he was there, she rose from the chair and the couple met in the middle of the room for a hearty embrace. Claire buried her face in the soft, fluffy suit covering Jamie’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably. Perhaps the setting wasn’t a snow covered street in a small town, but this was her own Hallmark movie moment--and to be honest, those Hallmark guys had nothing on James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser. Jamie held her close, and tight, planting kisses in her curls and whispering softly to her.

“I’m here, mo nighean donn.” He caressed her shoulders with his thumbs, not releasing his embrace in the slightest, breathing in her scent, trying to absorb her fears and pain.

All of the commotion had awoken Uncle Lamb and after witnessing the couples’ embrace for longer than was comfortable, Lamb loudly cleared his throat to remind them of his presence in the room.

“Uncle Lamb!” Claire unfolded herself from Jamie’s embrace, keeping one arm around his back. Jamie sheepishly pulled the fake beard down around his neck to reveal his face and removed his Santa hat, clutching it tightly in the palm that wasn’t holding Claire. “This is Jamie, my Jamie. Jamie, this is my Uncle Lamb.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad it’s not Santa Claus, or we’d have a lot of explaining to do to the lad!” Lamb chuckled back.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, sir.” Jamie reluctantly released Claire from his grasp to step beside the bed, extending a firm but gentle hand to Lamb. “I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances.”

“Pleased to meet you as well, lad” Lamb replied, patting Jamie’s hand with his before releasing their handshake. “And don’t you worry about me, I have the best nurse there is taking care of me.” Two sets of proudly smiling eyes met Claire across the room.

“Oh I dinna doubt it for a second. Your niece is a rare woman.”

“Glad to see we’re in agreement. Now what’s all that?” Lamb gestured towards the large tote discarded near Claire’s feet.

“Aye, I thought I’d bring you two a bit o’ holiday cheer.” Jamie pulled a large cardboard box from the bag and extracted a small tabletop Christmas tree from it, unfurling each branch carefully and placing it on the countertop across the room, plugging it in to reveal fiber optic lights changing colors dreamily. “I usually insist on my Christmas trees being more, well, alive, but under the circumstances this’ll have tae do.” Jamie and Claire spent the next half hour or so festooning the room in garlands and placing tiny ornaments on the small tree. Claire tried to ignore that more than half of the bag was filled with brightly wrapped gifts, not sure whether she was hoping they were all for her, or hoping that they weren’t. After all, she didn’t have anything to give him and she didn’t know if he had looked through his gifts yet nor if he had appreciated them.

While they decorated, Jamie filled Claire and Lamb in on the events of the last few days. Jamie had called Jenny to tell her not to bother picking him up from the airport. He had planned on renting a car there and driving straight to Boston. Claire could hear Jenny’s voice loud and clear through Jamie’s imitation “ya clotheid! Have ya gone daft? Yer barely able to form coherent sentences amidst the jet lag from yer Christmas Eve flight, and ya wanna drive five hours tae Boston in that state!?! Claire willna appreciate ya ending up in a ditch on the side of the road as a Christmas present ya eejit!” Jenny had made a fair point, and Jamie had agreed to sleep at home and left shortly after he awoke that morning, staying only long enough for the children to open their stockings, and to watch their faces alight with surprise at the sudden appearance of piles of presents under and around the tree.

“I’m glad you took Jenny’s advice, but most of all I’m glad you’re here.” She embraced him again. “You didn’t have to do this though, Jamie, I know how important your family is to you.”

Jamie stepped back and lifted Claire’s chin with his thumb, looking into her eyes. “You are important to me, Sassenach.” he replied, with a sincerity that penetrated Claire’s heart. Claire responded by kissing Jamie chastely on the cheek, knowing her uncle was only four feet away--politely trying to ignore them and watch the television which he had flipped to an all-day marathon of A Christmas Story on repeat. Jamie’s welcome intrusion broke up the monotony of hospital life and seemed to give Lamb a better sense of what day it was.

“Now that we’ve got the place looking good and festive, I believe it’s traditional to exchange gifts on Christmas day.”

“Jamie, it’s too much, I--”

“Oh? Thought they were all for you, didja Sassenach?” he teased. Claire blushed. Of course; she hadn’t really--but who else would they be for? Surely Jamie wouldn’t spoil Lamb, a complete stranger to him, quite so much, and no one else was there. She looked dumbfounded as she tried to come up with a defense but Jamie stopped her. “Dinna fash, Sassenach, Jenny wrapped your gifts for me and Lamb before I could see and I bought them along too. She thanks ya for the wee lotions, by the way.”

“God bless Jenny! That woman is a Saint.” Claire also silently thanked God that she had left the present she was planning on wearing for Jamie that evening in her dresser drawer, that was not a gift she wanted Jenny to see, and was definitely not something she wanted him to be opening in front of her uncle.

The three exchanged gifts, save Lamb, who had nothing to give but smiles and approval for the young couples’ thoughtful gifts. Jamie was genuinely appreciative of Claire’s gifts, although she kept insisting that she hadn’t finished shopping and there was more to come; to which Jamie humbly rejected, claiming it wasn’t necessary. Jamie’s gifts to Claire were thoughtful and meaningful, the most touching ones being a print of a painting of the rose garden he had ordered from the Botanic Garden’s gift shop and a bracelet engraved with the words perennis amor, which caused Claire to tear up and embrace him tenderly in spite of her uncle’s presence.

The three enjoyed the rest of the day thoroughly. A Christmas Story played in the background and they laughed and shared stories with one another. Jamie was a born storyteller and Lamb was elated to have a fresh audience to recount his many adventures to, so conversation flowed naturally between them, with Claire occasionally interjecting. Claire mostly just sat back and admired the two men who were most important to her, filled with joy that they were getting along, that Jamie was there, that it was Christmas. For the first time in several days she had hope and peace. She was surrounded by love in that hospital room as well. She had all the things Christmas was said to bring, and for that she was grateful. Jamie had made her greatest Christmas wishes come true without her even asking and she felt lucky to be alive.

The hospital staff served their version of Christmas dinner for the small family, and while Claire was sure it paled in comparison to whatever Jenny had made, it was quite delicious, especially considering it was hospital food. Jamie ate in the armchair next to Lamb at Claire’s insistence, since the two were deep in conversation, and Claire sat in the chair on the other side of Jamie, taking in her magical Christmas scene, better than any Hallmark movie could depict.

After dinner, Jamie was fading fast, listening to one of Lamb’s stories with heavy eyes. She took one of the spare blankets and covered Jamie. “Looks like you’re still not over your jet lag”

“Hrmmphh, I ‘spose not.”

“Do you want me to go get you a coffee? I doubt the cafe downstairs is open today, but there’s a cappuccino vending machine a few floors down that isn’t terrible.”

“Aye Sassenach, that’d be bonny. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all, my love, I’ll be back soon.” Claire squeezed his hand before leaving the two men alone.

Jamie listened to her footsteps down the hall, and waited until he heard the ding of the elevator before he cleared his throat to speak frankly to Lamb. He sat up straight in the chair to ward off the sleepiness, having a few important things he wanted to say before Claire came back.

“Lamb, I need you to know, Claire is the most important person in my life. I love her sae much and I’d do anything for her.”

“I’m glad to hear that, I can see how happy you make her. She lights up when you’re around, it comforts my old heart to see.”

“I need you tae know, I’m very serious about her. I ken we haven’t been together that long, but I know--I know deep in my wame that I’m meant tae be hers. I want ya to know that I intend on spending the rest of my life making her happy, and while I havna bought a ring or ennathing yet, I wanted to ask yer blessing” Jamie paused for a moment before adding, “just in case.”

“Of course you have my blessing, son. I couldn’t be more glad to know that Claire will be so well cared for after I’m gone, truly.” Both men looked somber, knowing full well that this could be their last conversation, hoping dearly that it wasn’t. Claire returned with three cappuccinos in hand, surprised by the mood in the room.

“Everything alright, gentlemen? Don’t tell me Ralphie shot his eye out!”

“Och! Everything’s fine, Claire! I’m just tired is all, I’m sure this wee cappuccino will cure me in no time!” replied Jamie, eagerly taking a cup from Claire as she set another on Lamb’s tray table. The rest of the evening was quiet as Jamie took a nap, while Lamb and Claire watched A Christmas Story more intently then they had all day. Claire didn’t want to leave him alone so early on Christmas so she let Jamie nap until Lamb was asleep soundly for the night. The sense of joy she had felt all day was still present, but the nagging worry she felt about Lamb’s coming surgery was starting to settle in as well. Claire woke Jamie gently and Claire whispered softly to Lamb that they’d return in the morning, squeezing his hand before the couple quietly left the room.

----------

They walked out to Jamie’s car, since he still had his stuff packed in it, but Claire drove them back to Lamb’s apartment where she’d been staying. The cappuccino was helping Jamie stay coherent, but he was in no state to drive. They were quiet on the drive home, but kept their hands locked between the seats, grateful just to be in the presence of one another.

When they arrived at Lamb’s apartment, Jamie was so tired, he didn’t even want to brush his teeth, let alone do any of his usual nightly routines. However, he had spent the morning sweating in a polyester Santa suit over his clothes, and although he took it off shortly after his surprise arrival, he felt in need of a shower. Claire showed him where the bathroom was and made sure he had everything he needed, and got herself ready for bed.

Jamie showered quickly, not bothering to wash his hair, and only cleaning the parts of his body where any stench would be most concentrated, figuring the water would take care of the rest. A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, ready to collapse into bed, but not before embracing his sorcha. He scooped her into his embrace and she buried her face in his bare, firm chest, warm from the shower. He smelled clean, and fresh and most of like Jamie. “I’m so happy you’re with me, Jamie. You have no idea how much it means to me that you’re here.” the emotions of the day hit her again and her voice caught at the end of her sentence as tears filled her eyes once again. Jamie kissed her forehead softly, down to her nose, and landed on her lips, giving her the firm, passionate kiss they’d both been longing for all day--and for months before that.

“Mo cridhe.” Jamie breathed when they separated. “I’m here. I’ll always be here for you. I’ll no’ leave you alone when ya need me.”

“Oh Jamie” Claire was still crying, “I’ve been so worried. I’ve been trying to stay strong for Lamb, but I feel like this won’t go back to normal--if there ever was a normal with him. I’m scared he’s going to get worse, or--” her sentence dissolved into a fit of sobs, which she tried to stifle on Jamie’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to stay strong when you’re with me. I’ll be here to help you shoulder the burden. I’ll be here to soak up your tears. There’s two of us now, Claire.” He pressed a kiss into her curls. “You can feel your feelings now, mo cridhe. Lay your cares on me. Come now, let’s get ya tae bed. I’m no’ sure how much longer I can stand myself.”

Claire fell asleep wrapped safely in Jamie’s embrace, free to be herself fully. Free to be vulnerable she felt safe, she felt loved, she felt comfortable, and most new to her--she felt she had the hope and strength that she could carry on, no matter what was to come. She slept better than she had in weeks, secure in the embrace of her eternal love.

End Notes: Thanks again for reading!! By the way, the Ingrid Michaelson song Jo mentions is hauntingly beautiful and you should listen to it. Also, I hope you liked Jamie's surprise. This was going to be a lot more angsty of a chapter but Jamie refused to let Claire suffer and had other plans. I know this was full of a lot of emotional ups and downs, and hopefully we can all find some comfort in the fact that just because Christmas/the holidays may look different for a lot of us this year, it can still be special, and there's still light, joy, love, hope, and peace to be found in the midst of the darkness.

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kinetic-elaboration · 3 years

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fic writer interview

I was tagged by @she-who-the-river-could-not-hold- Thanks!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I have 217. And this might be an under-representative count of what I’ve posted because I’m not sure if I ever transferred all my LJ stuff to AO3. (I’ve seen some other people doing this meme and being embarrassed about having fic counts that are way lower than this... should I be sad about this? Is this pathetic? Idk man I like to write.)

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,253,278 lol

3. How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Okay, my fandom list on AO3 has 9 fandoms on it but some of those are random one-shots and one is only on the list because I wrote a drabble-length crossover between it and another fandom.

My main fandoms were/are RENT, Fruits Basket (though that was mostly something I obsessed over with friends IRL), Harry Potter, Star Trek (AOS), BBC Sherlock, and The 100.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Okay, time to embarrass myself lol.

1 - (by a lot) is a Star Trek fic.

2 - What We Built (T100, Bellarke)

3 - Rings This True (ST: AOS, K/S)

4 - Pitchforks and Pointed Ears (ST: AOS,K/S)

5 - An explicit, kinky Bellarke fic that’s posted anonymously (knowing it’s my number 5 by kudos makes me want to delete it lsjdfasdfjasdfkjasdfkasd)

5. Do you respond to comments; why or why not?

I do but I’ve been supremely bad about it recently. Like.. this year. And uh last year also.

I just... I know as someone who comments that I’m not exactly waiting on the edge of my seat for a reply from the author. But often the replies I do get are very nice, and I like knowing that the effort I put into writing a comment meant something to the person who put so much effort into writing the fic I read and enjoyed. Also, I am one of those bitches who’s always harping on people to comment--and about how comments are meaningful and kudos are not (I do not receive kudos emails). So I feel like I should show that I do read and appreciate the comments I receive. Also, I don’t get SO many that I can’t possibly reply to them all, tbqh. And finally, I’ve had some very nice discussions in comment threads over the years.

That said, I am shamefully behind atm. I have comments from the beginning of 2021 I haven’t answered. I even have a couple comments that include QUESTIONS that I haven’t answered. I do plan on getting back to them, in the spirit of better late than never, but it is tough sometimes when I feel so far behind.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Hmmm. I don’t really do angst all that often, or at least, not angst without a happy ending or like... traditional angst? I guess I would say it is new moon and twilight, which is a fic about mourning, because it doesn’t really have any resolution; nothing gets better, it just... is.

7. Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I’ve written one crossover, but it was just a little drabble thing for writing practice.

8 Have you ever received hate on a fic?

No. Not really. So. I have received a great number and great variety of comments on the ST fic that’s also at the top of my kudos list. A few of those comments might be considered ‘hate’ and they certainly made me feel pretty bad. They weren’t so much random flames as they were people who... felt betrayed by my choices or disagreed with my pacing or whatever. But I’ve also had comments on that fic that were more like... constructive criticism I didn’t ask for. One person insists on hating on one of my characters (”my” as in my iteration) and that’s pretty tough for me because I love him and I don’t want to write a version of him people hate. But there have been others too, that question my choices or provide advice I did not request. Tbh I think those ‘unasked for concrit’ comments hurt me worse and haunt me more severely than the outright ‘well this sucks now’ asshatery because those second types I can just delete (from my inbox, not the fic) and say ‘well your taste sucks lol sorry you wasted your time telling me I’m awful’ but the ones that are like ‘I’m your beta now’ make me second guess myself and doubt myself and kinda... make me feel like a failure a bit. I guess because I’m a sensitive flower lmao.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Well as you can see from my number 5 most popular fic being an embarrassingly kinky smut fest--on occasion I do! I used to more often, but for a while now, like several years, I’ve felt myself increasingly bored by both writing and reading sex scenes. Also, the way that fandom has evolved, such that my AO3 and my quite personal tumblr are linked and easy to find one from the other, makes me more self-conscious about putting explicit material out there, especially the non-boring kind. It says too much about me. That said, I wrote some smut recently that may or may not (probably won’t) be edited out of the final draft of an upcoming fic. It’s not good but eh, I don’t do this very often so why not.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yeah, a few! I feel like I should keep better track of the translations of my work but honestly I’m pretty bad at it.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not really. I was part of the Wreck JRoth Club earlier this year, which is a collaboration in the sense that the finished product on AO3 had many writers. But it wasn’t a collaboration in the sense that I worked with a co-writer on any of my sections. In other words, the writing process was the same as for a solo fic, it’s just that the draft was then betaed in part for continuity and combined with other chapters written by other authors. I used to think I’d like to co-write but I think I’m too much of a control freak tbqh.

13. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Kirk/Spock.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Oh man. Well, this is a question I probably should be deeply contemplating right now, since I wanted this year to be the year I finished my WIPs and I think the lesson I’ve learned is that next year should be the year I become comfortable abandoning some WIPs. But.. I’m very stubborn. So I still haven’t decided which, if any, I’ll officially jettison. I have some suspicions but I’m too embarrassed to name names atm.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I think I create a strong atmosphere and occasionally write some nice-sounding passages.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

All my characters are kinda similar, especially in the structure and sound of their internal monologues. They’re all me! Just wearing different hats.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

If you know other languages and it’s relevant to the fic, I don’t see why not. I think it’s polite to put translations in the end notes. (Yes I know google exists but I still think anything less is just bragging and being purposefully difficult.) I don’t generally write fics where this is relevant and my personal preference is to write in English but note in the descriptions or dialogue tags if something is actually in another language.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

The very very very first was Harry Potter--a supremely cringe-y and embarrassing Mary Sue fic I wrote about 3 pages of in a notebook in, like, 6th grade maybe? After that, I’m not really sure. I wrote both original fiction and fan fic for several years before I started posting, so it’s a bit hard to recall.

19. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Hmmm...it varies! I think right now I’d say I’m especially fond of Mountain Lion Mean. I had a good experience writing it, I love how it turned out, and I enjoy re-reading it!

I don’t know who’s done this so I’m going to lazily not tag anyone this time but please do this if you feel like it, and tag me back if you’d like!

#tag games #about me

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romewritingshop · 3 years

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30 qs - 20 blogs

Rules: Answer 30 questions and tag 20 blogs you are contractually obligated to know better!

Well for the record, you are not under a contractual obligation so don’t worry 😆 I offer you immunity. I would love to get to know some of you and let you guys know me so thank you @what-do-you-mean-theyre-evil @withbeautyandrage @shewillreadyou @nikki-2406

I’m gonna tag five people:

@eleanorbloom (I love you and want to know more 🧡)

@drariellevalentine (I am slowly reading Medically Inevitable and I am loving it 💕)

@ladylamrian (Writing your request is a lot of fun and I hope you’ll enjoy it 💜)

@utterlyinevitable (You’re amazing and I’m absolutely in awe of your work 💙)

@melaninnntae (I love the way you react to my fics and I am in awe of your aesthetic 💛)

Name/Nickname: I go by Rome here but if you’re close, I’ll tell you my real name 😉

Gender: female (she/her) or (They/Them)

Zodiac Sign: Aquarius ♒

Height: 5′0 to 5′1 (I actually dk)

Birthday: Feb 3 (It’s actually coming up soon 😅)

Lucky Number: 3, 14

When did you create this blog?: 18 June 2020

What do I post?: Choices fanfics, a bunch of other fanfics (Might transfer those to AO3) Memes sometimes but important stuff, fanart. I have a sideblog: @romereadingshop where I reblog fics I enjoy reading or fanarts I like, more important reblogs on there.

Last thing I googled: “The Yorkshire Ripper” 😶 “easter chocolate usa” 😄 “yt” 🤦🏽‍♀️

Do I get asks?: No. I’ve gotten one or two recently but that’s about it. Nothing on my other blog. I would love asks. sounds pathetic but I’m starved of conversation. Would love an anon ask,

Why did I choose my URL?: My first original blog was chroma3 which was something Tumblr suggested. I had a sideblog I wanted to start where I did writing and posted my reviews of stuff but Tumblr sucked and I wanted my writing blog to be my main. So I deleted and restarted (Had around 314 followers on there) I write stuff and technically it’s a shop where you look around for fics to try so I stuck with Rome Writing Shop. It’s diverse and not limited to a single fandom. This is the name I’ll be known by and die by 😅 I don’t have the strength to change it.

My current projects and wips: 🤣😂🤣😂🤣 I have a dissertation and essays to complete but in terms of here: Some of the titles are on my masterlist with ‘Coming Soon’. At the moment, I’m writing Baking Love which I aim to release monthly and have a completed series. My Colt series, Meeting in Paradise is going to be retconned so I’m sorry if you wanted to read it. I’ll be deleting it soon and a new story line. I have 2 - 3 requests to write and one which I hope to finish soon and post.

Favorite artist(s) (atm):

The Weeknd, especially with his new album After Hours.

Michele Morrone 😍

Shawn Mendes 🥰

Lubalin (Really love his internet drama songs) 🤩

Song stuck in my head:

'She stole my Broccoli’ - Lubalin (SLAPS HARD)

‘Love Faces’ - Trey Songz (Slowed version 🥴🥵)

‘Honey’ - Jessica Jimenez (🥵 Her voice)

Favorite song of all time:

‘Hard for Me' - Michele Morrone (All versions because they all hold significance in my heart. Helped me heal through tough times)

‘Fallin’ All in You’ - Shawn Mendes (It is so romantic and honest and I just want to dance with someone on that song)

Last movie: My Neighbour Totoro (Still haven’t finished it 😅)

Last show: Bridgerton on Netflix 😂 (Cannot get over Simon) and Night Stalker (It’s about the Richard Ramirez case and it freaked the fuck out of me)

Favourite food: Anything with seafood

Food I hate: Some Asian curries 😬 Other than not much, also don’t like jalapeños

Favourite colour: Black, brown, blue, purple, green and red. The dark shades the better but I do like pink, yellow. I basically named all the colours of the rainbow 😂 I like shades more than specific colours. Hate strong pinks.

Favourite animal: Don’t really have a specific fav. I prefer foxes and really got into ferrets 😂 Animals with ✨ big ‘Fuck you’ energy ✨

What I’m currently wearing: A purple iron man shirt with black leggings. If you DM me, I’ll tell you my underwear 😂 If it was upto me, I’d wear a baggy shirt and underwear with socks.

Dream job: A writer at PB (I’m still salty at their treatment of books and POC characters) or an Editor at a publishing company. Become a part - time YouTuber

Dream trip: Anywhere snowy, like Austria, Norway or Switzerland. Also want to go to Iceland. They’ve got such pretty places there.

Currently Reading: Should change that to start but I’m gonna start reading Shakespeare’s stuff: King Lear, As you like it, Much Ado about Nothing

Currently thinking about: When will my [REDACTED] jumper come?, How much of a disappointment I am (Literally most of the time) My uncompleted deadlines and goals.

Fun Facts: Despite having a licence for two years, I don’t know how to drive. (Insurance was expensive and now I’m terrified to get behind the wheel)

I’m Muslim and Pakistani. People think I’m Indian, Goan, Punjabi (One time Arab) and they think I’m Christian or Hindu but I am a fairly religious Pakistani Muslim with liberal thoughts (To an extent, most people take advantage of my liberal opinions so I have to clarify to an extent)

Never had a boyfriend, dated or kissed anyone (Alone but I’ve done dare stuff)

Top three fictional universes:

Choices (I want to be there with all my baes)

A world with Detectives, Murder and Mafia because I love mystery so I guess would that be Scooby Doo?

Detroit: Become Human universe or Almost Human. Love Androids with cops

#tag game #get to know me #get to know #rome talks #rome babbles #ask rome

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bnha-butterfly · 3 years

Text

Vampire Venom

Pairing: Human!Witch!Tokoyami x Black Male!Vampire! Reader

Summary: Tokoyami needs the venom from a male vampire for a special spell he hopes to cast on the upcoming full moon. After some inquiry he’s pointed into your direction. You just happen to be the only male vampire in the dorms.

Word Count: 2287

Warning: Mentions of blood, Reader bites Tokoyami. Nothing gory or gross just spooky vibes

A/n: Here’s my obligatory Tokoyami Fic for his birthday! Fun fact! All the witchy talk is real life stuff. Samhain (pronounced saa-wn) falls from moon fall on October 31st to moon fall November 1st and there’s a full blue moon on the 31st! All magic talk is actually cross-referenced with wiccan/witchcraft books for accuracy. Also this is my first Male!Reader fic ever so tell me how I did.

AO3 version HERE

UA High. Boarding school for the super natural. A day attending UA was never bland or ordinary. Not when the students and staff were all types of ghouls, demons, witches, werewolves and any other form of supernatural creature imaginable. There were the ever so occasional human transfer students or the human staff who somehow managed to find themselves swept up here. Although, they never seemed to last more than a semester. Sure it was still school at the end of the day, the assignments sucked and the exams were even worse. However, it was where the students called home.

The dorm's weren't any more mundane than the halls of the school's main buildings. The common room carpet had been scorched in areas from demons who had thought it smart to quite literally play with fire. The students had learned to wear earplugs to sleep on full moons to avoid being woken to werewolf howls, and occasionally the building shook and rumbled from witches spells gone wrong. Even then (y/n) couldn't help but be annoyed when a knock at his room door interrupted his otherwise calm evening. He had long since gotten out of class and changed out of his school uniform to something more comfortable.

With a soft sigh he got up from where he had sat and marked his place in the book he had been reading. Making his way over to the door of his room he opened it for (e/c) eyes to meet ruby colored ones. Tokoyami stood at the door, hands held at his sides and dark shadow resting on his left shoulder. (Y/n) raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

“May I help you?” the male asked. Him and Tokoyami had never been exceptionally close to one another. The two of them barely talked except for the occasional hello in passing, or when they’d been assigned group projects together. So it was weird to see him at the door.

“QUESTION” caws dark shadow from where he is perched on the other males shoulder. (Y/n) shots Tokoyami a look. He mutters something and waves of dark shadow and the vampire watches as the raven disappears into wisps of black and grey smoke. Tokoyami’s red eyes come to meet the others.

“As dark shadow said I have a question for you. See I’m in need of some vampire venom for a spell I plan on executing tomorrow night for Samhain, a certain werewolf we’re classmates with told me you were my best bet.” (Y/n) can’t help but sigh and push open the door to his room more, motioning the other male inside. (Y/n) already knew which particular werewolf in his class had sent Tokoyami to him. It had to have been Kirishima, he was the only werewolf he was even friends with, although he was more like an oversized golden retriever than a werewolf. The door closed behind Tokoyami and he took a seat at the desk chair. Watching as (y/n) crossed the room to sit on his bed.

“Pretty last minute to come and gather materials for your spell. It must be a pretty important one too seeing as you saved it for the last Sabbath of the year and it’s predicted to be a full moon, and a blue moon at that.” He says picking up his book from the bed and instead placing it on the nightstand. “Couldn’t find any vampire venom in the supplies closet?”

“I do apologize for asking you so last minute. But, as you said the spell I’m doing is particularly important and calls for fresh vampire venom. It has to be collected within 24 hours of the spell and you’re one of the few vampires in the class.” He says.

“What’s in it for me?” The vampire asks and the question grabs the other man’s attention. He must have expected him to want something in return, like he said he was one of the few vampires in the class. Not to mention that vampire venom, even the stuff that had been sitting on the shelf for a while, tended to carry a hefty price tag. A full vial of fresh venom could easily earn (Y/n) a couple hundred thousand yen if sold to the right person.

“What would you want in exchange? I’m sure I have enough to pay for it if that’s what you want. I mean only need half a vial.”

(Y/n) lets out a chuckle and takes a minute to think. “ How about this, you owe me a favor and give me 1000 (one thousand) yen. I’ll even give you a full vial as a sign of good fate.” (y/n) says narrowing his eyes as he looks at Tokoyami.

It's Tokoyami’s turn now to have his interest peaked. A favor and 1000 (one thousand) yen for a full vial that could easily cost hundreds of yen? The offer feels too good to be true and he almost turns it down. But, he needs the venom and (y/n) is his current best bet to get it. So he sighs and accepts the offer rather hesitantly.

“Let's do this tomorrow after sundown. It would be too early if I gave it to you now.” (Y/n) comments gesturing to the clock on the far wall of his room. Right over the doorway. Tokoyami hums in agreement and moves to leave the room. He pauses at the door and turns to look at (y/n).

“You never did tell me what that favor you wanted was.” Tokoyami says and he feels a small chill run up his spine as the other male smirks at him. The tips of his fangs are just barely visible in his partially open mouth and Tokoyami takes this instance to really look at the other male. He was attractive, but not in the hellish way the demons in the school were attractive, and not in the feral way that werewolves tended to be. No, (y/n) was attractive like an abandoned graveyard or the ruins of a church slowly being reclaimed by the earth. In a way that while pleasing to the eyes also tugged at one's wild urge to explore the mysterious. He forced himself to look away and anywhere but the other male. He could feel the tips of his ears go red and he hoped the room was too dimly lit for the flush on his cheeks to be evident.

“I’ll tell you what I want as a favor later on. I’m not in a rush for what I have planned.” (y/n) flashes Tokoyami a smile and picks back up the book he had been reading earlier. Tokoyami leaves and closes the door behind him. He heads back to his room and hopes that the red of his cheeks and ears are gone by the time he gets there so he doesn't have to hear dark shadow tease him about it. Tomorrow was going to be a very interesting day.

Classes for the first time in a week don’t feel like they drag on for longer than they should for (y/n), and he wonders if that's because after school he has something more to look forward to than his book.

(Y/n) joins Tokoyami on the roof later that night. Everything Tokoyami needs for the spell is laid on what (y/n) can only assume is some sort of ceremonial fabric, dead center on the fabric is an empty cauldron. The cauldron is obviously well loved, with sigils etched deep into the outer metal. Dark shadow is perched on the edge of the cauldron and flies over to perch himself on (y/n)’s shoulder. The door to the roof shuts behind him and alerts Tokoyami of his presence. (Y/n) approached the other and stood next to him. From his spot next to Tokoyami he could see the pentacle etched in the bottom of the cauldron and what he assumed were the supplies for the others spell.

Tokoyami cannot help but stare at (y/n) and he watches as the male makes his way from the rooftop door to where he has gathered all his materials. Vampires have always tended to look ethereal in the moonlight. But, for a second Tokoyam is sure he has never seen someone so handsome in his entire life. (Y/n)’s skin doesn't sparkle, but where the moonlight falls against his cheekbones his skin is highlighted this pale blue color. A stark and ethereal contrast against his dark skin. He doesn't look ashen and translucent the way pale vampires do and there is that thought again. That (y/n) is ethereal and beautiful the way church ruins are and Tokoyami is so busy drinking in the others appearance that he almost misses what he says.

“Do you need blood for your little spell?” (y/n) asks, quirking a brow at the other.

“No. Why?” Tokoyami says with a voice dripping curiosity.

“I mean, I’ll already be biting you so I mean it would be easier to get the blood from the wounds in your neck than from your palm or something.”

“What do you mean you'll be biting me?”

“Well how else do you expect to collect the venom? Unless you have someone else I can sink my fangs into. Although, seeing as it’s only me and you on the roof currently that doesn't seem to be the case.” Dark shadow caws indignantly from where he’s perched on (y/n)’s shoulder. “Correction. Me, you and Dark shadow” he says with a soft smile.

“Why can’t you just use a blood bag to trigger your venom? I thought the venom was just a natural effect of feeding for vampires?”

(Y/n) can't help but chuckle at that. “You really must not pay attention in monster biology. While venom production may just be a natural effect it only happens when we feed on something live. It has to be warm and it has to have a pulse, that’s what causes the venom in the first place.”

Tokoyami considers this and heaves a sigh. He’s come too far to stop here. Not when his end goal was so close in reach. “Fine. Fine I’ll let you bite me”

“Not like you had much of an option darling. Don’t worry I’ll be gentle with you.” (Y/n)’s voice is flirtatious and teasing and makes the tips of Tokoyami’s ears go red.

Tokoyami traces a small symbol in the air in front of him and with a puff of black and red smoke a beaker appears in his hand. The beaker has a thin piece of silicone secured tightly around the top of it. (Y/n) shoos off dark shadow from his shoulder and stands in front of Tokoyami facing him. He has a soft looking smile as if to calm the others nerves.

(Y/n) takes Tokoyami’s chin between his thumb and index finger and his (e/c) eyes begin to glow red around the edge. He tilt’s the other males head up and to the side, exposing the pale skin of Tokoyami’s throat to almost hungry eyes. (y/n) brings his face mere centimeters from Tokoyami’s neck and he can almost smell the sweet fragrance of his blood. He lets out a soft growl before opening his mouth and sinking his fangs into the other males neck.

This is the first time in months (y/n)’s fed on something other than a blood bag and it takes almost all of his control to take it easy on Tokoyami. It’s not long before he pulls his fangs out of the other's neck. Blood slowly trickles out of the twin puncture wounds and before (y/n) can even think about it his tongue flicks past his lips and swipes against the trail of blood. Then he presses his hand against the wounds to stop the blood from continuing to drip. He should have brought gauze with him but that's not worth considering now.

Tokoyami can not take his eyes off of (y/n). He was gentle just like he promised he would be. But, there is blood at the corner of his mouth. His blood, and the usual (e/c) eyes glow red. (Y/n) bares his fangs for Tokoyami and he blinks a few times. Pulls himself from his daydreaming and raises the beaker to (y/n)’s lips. He watches intently as the males fangs puncture the silicone covering the beaker and watches as his fangs drip a pinkish-purple liquid. It gathers at the tips of his fangs so fast that it looks similar to a barely open faucet. Slowly the production of the venom slows till it slowly collects at the end of the males fangs and slowly drips into the already collected venom. After a few minutes (y/n) pulls back and the glowing of his eyes dims until it’s completely gone. He smiles something sweet and Tokoyami feels his heart pound in his chest.

(y/n) slowly moves his hand from the others neck and gives himself a slight nod when the puncture wounds are no longer bleeding. Then realizing just how close the two of them are he takes a few steps back and looks away from Tokoyami.

“I’ll tell you what I want for that favor later. I’ll leave you to do your spell. Come and tell me how it goes when you're done.” (Y/n) says flirtatiously with a wink. He watches the tips of Tokoyami’s ears and his cheeks as they turn red. He stifles a chuckle and heads back down to his room. Leaving Tokoyami a blushing and flustered mess.

#tokoyami x reader #blackinbnha #Male reader #tokoyami fukimage #Black male reader #Tokoyami x male reader #bnha x male reader #halloween drabbles #Morpho Writes #bnha x poc!reader

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Text

Someone Left to Save (5)

Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by Anon

Summary: The Mantis crew arrives to the capital of Ulfin, in the planet of Pevera, under siege. They meet the local rebel cell spearheaded by the former Republic admiral, Jax Beneb, who seeks to destroy the Empire’s occupation that was aggressively imposed upon while exploiting the planet of its natural resources. A plan is devised to destroy the Imperial’s main base of operations—as well as their influence—in the planet; however, it was a do-or-die mission that you and Cal had gotten yourselves caught in.

A/N: I’m so sorry it took way longer than it should :((( Work got me close to a burnout and my laptop’s sometimes a lil bitch ;-; I should pick up the pick soon, but thank you for still reading this fic! I really appreciate it ❤

Tags: Force-Sensitive! Reader, Inquisitor! Reader, Jedi! Reader, Fake Death, Jedi turned Inquisitor, Seduction to the Dark Side, Turn to the Dark Side, The Dark Side of the Force, Aftermath of Torture, Torture, Psychological Torture, Redemption Arc! Reader, Possible Redemption, Premonitions | Trigger warning: Graphic bodily descriptions

Also in AO3

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 | Previous: Part 4 | Next: Part 6 | Masterlist

5 of ?

Cal reluctantly left the structure with his companions. Throughout the entire exit, the Jedi never spoke a word, Larki and Morzen could do nothing but glance at him every once in a while until they mounted their speeders again.

Not even BD-1 himself could get a response from his owner.

Throughout their exit from the structure, Cal spoke nothing. Larki and Morzen could only catch a glimpse of the Jedi, neither of them can say something of value to him—perhaps nothing at all. The three of them mounted their speeders and without even waiting for the two, Cal revs up the engine of his bike and sped out. Fortunately, Larki was able to catch up as soon as his own speeder sputtered to life.

The small search party returned to the temple ruins, as they were told by Cere via comlink in the middle of their drive. Cal’s entrance rattled some of the rebels loitering within the ruins’ vicinity, Cere included; when she saw that the headcount remained the same as they left, her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.

“Cal, where is [Y/N]?”

Silence. Cal’s eyes drooped, avoiding eye contact with Cere.

“Cal, where is [Y/N]?” Cere spoke through her clenched teeth while her fists shook with a confusion of anger, worry, and fear.

“T-This…” Cal stammered, unfolding his fingers to show the bracelet to Cere, which she instantly recognizes to be yours.

“That’s all they found?” the woman’s voice cracked.

Cere covered her gaping mouth with trembling hands, in full shock of the discovery, and her breathing became shaky. Her hands fell to her chest, as if her heart’s about to burst through her ribcage. Eventually, Merrin and Greez were drawn to the scene, quickly, the Nightsister spotted the trinket in Cal’s hand; she held her gasp and her eyebrows furrowed, she brought her hands to her mouth but they stopped at her chest.

Greez worriedly uttered your name.

Cal was given time to be alone. He stayed in one of the chambers of the temple that served as a sleeping quarters. For the rest of the day, Cal was exempted from strategy conferences by the grace of the empathetic Jax. The grief-stricken Jedi never let go of your bracelet, however, he was unresponsive even to the little boy staring at him as he sits on the floor in the far corner of the room.

BD-1 chirps and beeps from time to time, trying to fish a word out of Cal, but he would speak very little.

“She’s not gone, BD… I know it. So, why don’t they believe me? They look like they don’t,” Cal’s eyes trailed, aligning it with BD who’s nestled on the space between his crossed legs. “I’m not crazy, aren’t I?”

The little droid shook its head in reply, BD-1 nudged your bracelet with his head’s visor, followed by a sad, long beep that faded out. The hours felt like only minutes to the boy, he leaned his head against the cold, cobblestone wall and eventually dozed off.

That night, Cere personally went to the Cal’s room with a tray of food. Cal has lost track of the time that he didn’t wake in time for dinner. It was BD-1 who sensed Cere coming into the room, a quiet chirp emitted from the droid, and the woman carefully walked into his bedroom to set the tray down on a podium. Even upon her presence, Cal didn’t wake up; Cere’s eyes wandered to his open hand, one cord of the bracelet dangles out of his palm. She took a deep sigh and didn’t bother waking up to remind him to eat.

“Keep an eye out for him, BD, please…” she softly pleaded and then left. “And tell him to eat when he wakes.”

A good chunk of minutes passed after she left the room and Cal finally wakes. He blinks several times until his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room in the moonless night; the first thing he notices is the power lamp sitting next to his futon built from straw, animal hide, and mismatched pieces of cloth sewn together.

“Hey, BD… dozed for a long time, haven’t I?”

“Boo!” BD nodded and then gestured to the tray that Cere had left.

Cal’s stomach ferociously growled when his nostrils flared upon picking up the scent of the food—albeit having gone cold for a time. The rations weren’t exactly a culinary art, neither was it a cuisine, but it was enough to sate an empty stomach—the adrenaline from earlier had dulled Cal of his senses and awareness of the goings-on in his body, only then was he starting to realize just how hungry he is.

Cere had sneakily doubled the servings for each food type she’s prepared for Cal: three scoops of Lemus corn, a bowl of bone broth nearly filled to the brim, and two turkey drumsticks—instead of one as imposed by Jax to conserve rations per headcount.

“Looks like the fighters must’ve looted the Imps’ storehouse, huh?”

“Woo!”

The Jedi scrambled towards the food and helped himself, however, he didn’t exactly scarf down whatever’s on the platter. He only ate what he wanted and had some leftovers. He dismissed it and returned the tray on the podium.

—–

The Inquisitors, Seventh Sister and Fifth Brother, charted a course to one of the Imperial medical outposts and also their satellite fortress—a smaller likeness of their stronghold like that of the one in Nur—in Mons Golotha, a moon situated in the Outer Rim.

“We are bound to Mons Golotha in T-Minus 35 minutes, Seventh Sister,” reported the command ship’s admiral.

“Good, have them prepare a medical capsule for the bodies we’ve recovered—for immediate transfer.”

The admiral bowed in compliance and returned to overseeing the cadets on their computers.

The pair strode in exit of the bridge and to the command ship’s cramped medical bay. The Fifth Brother sensed the Mirialan’s thoughts dwelling on you.

“What’s on your mind, Sister?”

“The girl’s an intriguing subject. She’s going to be very busy in her interrogation when she wakes,”

“If she wakes,” reiterated the Fifth Brother.

There was silence between them as they marched through the corridors. Crew members avoid eye contact as much as possible from the Inquisitors in any way doable—tipping the rims of their uniform caps downwards so their eyes are obscured, others would maintain eye contact while speaking even though they caught the Seventh Sister giving them a passing glance when she entered their periphery.

The pair didn’t mind their fear of them, it was insignificant of them to pick up every single thought and feeling flooding this corridor.

Upon their arrival to the moon, Mons Golotha, they were instantly given confirmation to land and instructed whoever’s capable to transfer the patients from the medical bay to the shuttle for their descent to the surface. A couple of medical specialists assigned in the medbay helped in settling both you and the Second Brother in your own medical capsules, the 2-1B medical droid meticulously configured the control panels of both pods to the optimum setting for each one’s survival from the descent until the complete transfer.

From one medical specialist to another, you and the Second Brother were handed over. While being escorted to your rooms, the doctors and nurses were performing their SOPs in bringing in emergency patients.

“Both of them are in a vegetative state, but he’s in a more critical state. I want an operating table prepped for him and a Bacta tank filled to the brim—infused with antibiotics for his second to third degree burns. This surgery is strongly required pre-Bacta treatment.” Barked one of the doctors who led the way while the Inquisitor pair flanked them.

“The girl’s vitals are stable. I have a heartbeat! Blood pressure is low though, she’s suffering from minor concussions and burns,” diagnosed a second doctor who stood close to your own gurney. “Prepare a Bacta tank for her as well, infuse it with a mild painkiller and antibiotics for her burns so they won’t infect and blister.”

The nurses rushed to comply with the doctors’ orders. Your doctor was astounded with your body’s physical resilience, he wagered it was your fight-or-flight response or your self-preservation instincts despite lying down on the brink of unconsciousness—seconds before the Fifth Brother picked you up and spotted you. He may have not seen what happened to you, but he was sure that you were a fighter—perhaps even more of a fighter than the Second Brother, dare he thinks!

“Alright now, you little darling, let’s get you patched up.”

The female nurses strip you off of your soiled and scorched clothes, washed off the grime and soot that stuck to your skin and face, and attached the apparatus necessary for your body before submerging you to the vat of Bacta.

“How long will they be submerged?” asked the Fifth Brother to the Second Brother’s attending physician.

“That depends on their case, really. In his case, since he’s the most severely injured, it may take him weeks to recover fully—better if he regains consciousness in the middle of his treatment,”

“And…” the gray humanoids jerks his head to you in the tank. “What of her?”

“Well, evidently, her wounds are less fatal compared to the other patient. However, we are detecting some signs of internal bleeding. Recovery may take weeks as well, but perhaps it’ll be shorter for her.”

“Will she have regained her strength when she wakes up?” the Mirialan interjected.

“All of that will be determined on the amount of time she’ll use for rest and recovery,”

The Mirialan hummed and dismissed herself to the doctors. She contacted the Grand Inquisitors in private, reporting the diagnoses of the doctors for both you and the Second Brother, and your involvement with the rebel cell that they’ve encountered in Pevera.

“We found one of the Jedi helping the rebels, m’lord,” reported the Seventh Sister. “But she’s still being taken care of here.”

“Good, let her body relish the remainder of her days where she will not yet feel any pain and anguish,” the Grand Inquisitor snarled through the small hologram projection on the Seventh Sister’s holodisk. “She will answer to us the moment she opens her eyes.”

“The girl is a survivor—a better one than the Second Brother, he didn’t have it easy. I sense something in her, something familiar,”

“Oh? How intriguing,” the Grand Inquisitor took the bait. “I should like to hear what you have to say about this girl, Seventh Sister.”

“Yes, m’lord,”

“See to it that she recovers in her treatment, she has a lot to answer for us,” the Grand Inquisitor added before his hologram fizzled out.

The doctors and their companion medical droids worked on the Second Brother’s surgery meticulously and tirelessly. They picked up a pulse from him and then began their procedure. It was a gruesome image, even for the droids.

For one, a large patch of burnt flesh stands out from the Second Brother’s scarred, olive skin. It covered his left shoulder down to the left half of his torso. Shards and portions of his clothing—both the undershirt and the armor plates—have melted and stuck to his skin, tools were required to separate debris from the flesh. A string of viscous pus connected the removed shrapnel and his blistering, black and red skin. Bodily fluids oozed out from every orifice conceivable on his wounds—throughout the operation, he’s partially conscious, flinching on particular moments where the droids would prod their syringes and quite-delicate mandibles on his skin.

“I sense his hate, even in his dormant state,” the Fifth Brother commented as they watch the operation.

“Likewise. Last I heard, these two were fighting. I’m certain he’ll be most hostile towards her,”

“I checked the database,” the Fifth Brother huffed, and a curious Seventh Sister craned her head to face him. “I found her in the records: [Y/N] [L/N]. Another Jedi survivor, in hiding until she apparently joined the rebels with the other Jedi—Cere Junda and Cal Kestis—and then the Second Brother engaged her while trying to infiltrate the stronghold with the rebels.”

“They’re all the same,” the Mirialan scoffed.

The Inquisitors watched the doctors do their work until the surgeons have finished their job on the Second Brothers and then he was dropped into the tank. The two of you were being observed by the Seventh Sister and Fifth Brother, she watched the two of you bobbing in the liquid substance like apples in a bucket.

“Doctor, do whatever it takes to speed up the girl’s recovery period. We want her conscious as soon as possible,”

“B-But… Seventh Sister, we haven’t even carefully observed her wounds and their fatalities on her body!”

“Unless you want to be the one strapped to the Imperial torture chair, I suggest you do your job faster,”

“Y-Yes… m-madam.”

The Fifth Brother has gotten the hint of the Seventh Sister’s other plans for you. He’s been sensing it running in her mind ever since.

“Do you think she’ll get the Grand Inquisitor’s attention—even Lord Vader?”

The Mirialan girl turned to the gray humanoid, having to tilt her head back to emphasize their height difference, she smirked.

“I don’t doubt it,”

“And if she refuses?”

The smirked retained. Seventh Sister seemed to be amused to answer his question.

“Well, I think we can persuade her,” she pans her head to your tank: sections of hair floating about like soft tendrils, closed eyes yet bursting with life the open they shoot open, and a weakened spirit that she perceives as a blank slate. “One way or another.”

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kuriboo · 3 years

Text

Bit Shot

Rating: General Audiences Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS Words: 2,484 Relationship: Fujiki Yuusaku/Homura Takeru Characters: Fujiki Yuusaku, Homura Takeru, Kusanagi Shouichi Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - High School, Tag force, characters in vrains going to duel academy, Crushes, abandoned dorm before abandoned, Denial of Feelings, Idiots in Love, ...or at least one idiot in love, jury’s out on the second idiot

“The Tag Force tournament’s coming up in a couple of months,” Yusaku told Takeru. “Duelists will be teaming up for tag duels. Teams will be betting medals to try to collect the most. Some students are teaming up on Sundays to practice tag dueling before then. They’re in the duel arena in the main building right now, I think.”

“I thought you didn’t have time to make friends.” Kusanagi snorted. “Guess that changed when the new transfer student turned out to be cute.”

(This is a continuation of a prompt I wrote for a Vrains Rarepairs week a couple of years ago. I’ll include the link to the prompt, as well as the link to this fic on ao3, in the notes.)

⁂

Yusaku honestly hadn't been sure how he'd been planning to spend his Sunday, but he definitely hadn't planned to spend it practicing Tag Duels partnered with the new transfer student. He didn't care about Tag Duels at all. He could think of probably three hundred other things he'd rather be doing. But for some reason, he'd been unable to say no when Takeru asked him to be his partner.

Kusanagi could claim it was because Yusaku thought Takeru was ‘cute’ all he wanted. That was not the case.

(It was maybe a little bit the case. Yusaku refused to admit it to himself.)

When they reached the stadium where the practice duels were being held, Takeru faced the room with a smile. “Who should we duel first?"

Yusaku trailed behind him, trying (and failing) to hide how worn out he was. Why did the transfer student want to run the whole way here? "We should take a break first.”

Takeru laughed. "You're really funny,” he told Yusaku, even though Yusaku definitely hadn't been joking. “Hmm... if we're both Osiris students, maybe we should try to look for another pair of reds as well. See how we measure up against our own dorm.

"That makes sense,” Yusaku agreed. Takeru didn’t seem to want to say it but Osiris were also the worst dorm. As a new team, it made sense to seek out a weaker team for their first duel.

It didn't take that long to find an opposing team meeting their standards. "So, you’re looking for some Osiris on Osiris action!" one of their opponents asked.

“Please don't say it like that,” Yusaku mumbled under his breath.

Yusaku and Takeru’s team won the duel. But Yusaku didn't feel like he won.

"You destroyed my monsters to activate your spell, but I had a different combo planned for them,” Yusaku pointed out to Takeru.

Takeru didn’t seem to feel like he won, either. “That’s funny, coming from you. I only started doing that because you started using all my cards without my permission. You didn’t even ask!”

Yusaku rose an eyebrow. “Isn’t the point of a Tag Duel to try to play your cards well with your teammate’s?”

“Teamwork is more than just using your partner’s cards!” Takeru ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “You didn’t want me to destroy your cards? I didn’t want you using all my cards. If you asked, I would have said yes to some of them, but not all of them. I had really good combos planned, too. But halfway through the duel I figured if you were dishing it out, you could take it. I guess not, then.”

“What does it say about us that we lost to a team like them?” one of the opponents asked.

The other opponent shook their head. “They have good cards and skills individually, that’s all. They can’t beat every team like that. It was a close duel, anyway, thanks to our teamwork.”

Great. Even their opponents felt more victorious than they did. “Whatever. This seems like it’s not working out,” Yusaku said. “I don’t want to be here, anyway.”

“If you don’t want to be here, why did you agree to come with me?” Takeru sighed. “This could be salvageable. We could work on it, but if you don’t want to be here, there’s no point. We might as well leave.”

The two of them did leave. Takeru was clearly headed back for the Osiris dorms. Yusaku would prefer to go back to his room and complain to his roommate, but he didn’t want to walk the whole way there with the guy he was mad at. So he left in the opposite direction and let his feet and mind wander.

Yusaku honestly didn’t have an answer for the question, even now. Why did he want to practice Tag Duels with Takeru? He just hadn’t felt like he could say no, but there had to be a reason he’d felt that way. He had no problem telling people ‘no’, and did it all the time. So where did this feeling come from? The closest he had was still Kusanagi’s joke about a crush, and that idea just frustrated him further. He had no time to entertain any sort of crush that he may or may not have. (He was definitely leaning towards the not side, but better to leave it open until he knew for sure what it actually was). It would just be a waste of time, and Yusaku had wasted enough time already.

He stopped walking. His feet brought him to the other Blue Dorm. The last place an Osiris student belonged. Yusaku didn’t care about the whole ranking system, but that didn’t make it stop existing. Better to go back to his room before someone saw him.

⁂

“So, what’s the reading?” Kusanagi asked him when Yusaku returned to their room.

Yusaku pushed an extra button on his duel disk. He and Kusanagi had both modified their duel disks to register and record duel energy readouts from duels they participated in. He read out the result for his most recent duel, which was still the Tag Duel with Takeru.

Kusanagi blinked. “That’s the most energy we’ve seen from any duel,” he commented.

“There were 4 people participating in the duel.”

“We’ve both taken part in duels with 4 participants before.” Kusanagi leaned forward in his chair. “What happened in that duel? What made it different?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Yusaku groaned. Of course the duel generated more duel energy. Of course it did so that he’d have to talk about it, which was the exact opposite of what he wanted to do.

Kusanagi was not sympathetic to his plight. “Well, I guess I can’t make you. But it’s the only way we can make any progress right now, so I’d much rather you did.”

There wasn’t a good way out of this, was there? “I don’t know how it generated so much, it was nothing special. Dueled against a couple of other people in this dorm. We won, but he started using my cards like they were his, without caring what I wanted to use them for. When I pointed it out, he said I’d already been doing the same thing. Clearly we weren’t going to work out, so we left.”

Kusanagi stared at Yusaku. “Did you even ask him if it was okay to use his cards when you used them?”

“The point of a Tag Duel is to use your cards with your partner’s cards to duel as well as possible.” When Kusanagi continued to stare at Yusaku, giving no response, Yusaku answered his question. “No.”

“That’s not the point of a Tag Duel. You’re supposed to work together with your teammate, not just use their cards however you want. Teamwork requires communication, like asking if it’s okay to use their cards. I’m surprised you missed your own hypocrisy , by the way; it’s okay for you to use his cards, but not for him to use yours? Did you even try to work together and make the team work out, Yusaku? I know it’s hard for you to trust someone else to duel as well as you can, or to open up to anyone, but you can’t declare the team a failure if you didn’t even try.”

Yusaku hadn't wanted to try, really. “I don’t even know why I went.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Kusanagi told him. “It’s clear, though, that it wasn’t your strong teamwork that generated more duel energy. And we’ve both dueled against pairs that work well together before.”

Yusaku could feel something in his stomach drop. If it wasn’t him, teamwork, or their opponents, that only left one option. “It’s something about Takeru, isn’t it? Something about him, or his deck…”

“It’s a solid theory. We’ll need to test it, though. I hope you’re ready to apologize.”

⁂

Classes were boring at best, and awful at worst. Duel Academy did your average general education classes, with languages, history, math, and sciences if you wanted to call alchemy a general education (??) class. There was a cooking class, which was practical it nothing else. It was the dueling classes that were the worst, though. Multiple classes devoted to different mechanics and aspects of the game. Even dueling history. This was all well and good for most students of Duel Academy, but Yusaku was not most students. He wasn't here to duel, and he wasn't here for an education. He barely tuned into the classes he could handle, and slept through anything that involved dueling. As far as he was concerned, classes were just a waste of his time. He only came for appearances.

The last class of the day got out. Kusanagi, sitting nest to Yusaku, waved his hand in front of Yusaku’s face to make sure he was awake. Yusaku blinked; he was just about half-awake. Something resembling notes were scribbled down on the notebook in front of him, and Yusaku had no memory of doing so, but it was his handwriting. Before either one of them had gotten up, they both saw Takeru walk by their row to leave the room. Kusanagi gave Yusaku a meaningful look once Takeru was gone; right, yeah, Yusaku still needed to talk to him. He'd do it soon.

Kusanagi had already packed away everything from class. Yusaku hadn't started. Kusangi got up and left the classroom as well. The two of them had different plans for the day.

Yusaku had just wished packing away his things when someone sat down in the seat next to him.

“So, what brought you to our dorm yesterday?"

Yusaku tensed and looked over. One of the students from that Blue dorm was looking at him, a smile on his face.

"Yusaku, right? I heard you get called on in class earlier. I'm Fubuki." Fubuki offered a handshake. Yusaku didn't move, but Fubuki didn't seem to mind.

"I'm not, like, mad or anything. I'm not one of these Obelisks that are like, “Osiris Red students should stay where they belong’ or anything, you know? But I never see you guys ground our dorm, and I saw you yesterday, and I recognized you today, and I'm just kind of curious.

Well as long as this guy didn't care. "Was practicing Tag Duels. My teammate sad I had some issues so after we argued and left, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going.”

"Arguing with your partner sucks." Fubuki winced sympathetically. "I partnered with my buddy Ryo one week. We had some, uh, creative difference, and now whenever I go practice on Sundays, I go with Fujiwara. The whole thing was a lot less fun before I switched partners.”

“I wasn’t there for fun.”

“Most duelists are there for fun. Why were you, then?”

This guy asked a lot of questions. Yusaku fished in his head for an answer.

"Duel energy,” he settled on. “I'm interested in duel energy. " That was one way of putting it. "I thought an event like that might generale a lot it, a lot of duelists dueling in one place.”

"Did it?”

“I wouldn't know. I wasn't there long enough to find out.” That wasn’t enough, since Yusaku only got to measure the results of a single duel.

“Duel energy, So you're one of those types. My dorm has been researching Shadow Duels a lot lately. I wonder if there could be a connection between the two."

Yusaku was still annoyed at the line of questioning from Atticus, but now it was his turn to ask a question. “Shadow Duels?”

“If you lose it's more than just your pride on your line. They say you lose your soul, " Atticus answered. “There's a lot we're still not sure on, like how they were started. Maybe it has something to do with duel energy. Maybe you should come help us out some time. "

"Maybe I should."

Yusaku didn't know much about these Shadow Duels, but it seemed as plausible a theory as any. It was a good opportunity to learn more about duel energy, and that's why Yusaku came to Duel Academy in the first place. Not to duel, he'd never wanted to duel again, and only put up with it now to achieve his goals. No, he was here to learn more about duel energy.

Duel energy ruined his life, after all.

It ruined the life of Kusanagi’s brother, Jin, as well. Maybe if they could learn more about duel energy, maybe if they could figure out why, they could finally move on.

⁂

It's an easy process.

Knock on the door, apologize, make plans for Sunday. But Yusaku was stuck on step 1, because he didn't want to do step 2.

His reluctance didn't mean he was nervous, or afraid of rejection. If he faced rejection, it would be a set back, but he would find a way around it. He was even less concerned about the reasons for the possible rejection. He didn't care about Taken's feelings. Yusaku was an emissary of revenge, not politeness. He wasn’t there to make friends. (He did care about Takeu's feelings. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, even to himself.)

He didn’t want to be here and do this. But he needed to, so better to get it over with. Yusaku knocked on the door.

Takeru opened the door. He looked less than thrilled at recognizing Yusaku. "Oh. Hello."

“I wanted to apologize for the other day, I shouldn't have dueled the way I did, it was disrespectful to use your cards without communicating at all with you, and I should have trusted your own cards and strategies more. It was hypocritical of me to be upset about you dueling the same way I'd already been dueling. I was inconsiderate. I'm sorry." Yusaku had hit at least most of the points Kusanagi had said he should aim for while apologizing. He'd count that as a success. (He hoped he didn't come off as insincere, he really was trying.)

“I still shouldn’t have retaliated the way I did. I'm sorry, too,” Takeru said. “I appreciate your apology."

That threw Yusaku off. He didn't expect to receive an apology as well. "It’s... It's fine I, um deserved it. It wasn't really fair that I stopped you from trying out Tag Duels. I understand if you don't want me to be your teammate again, but if you do want to try again on Sunday, I will do my best to communicate better and try to work with you instead of, uh, what I did before."

Takeru folded his arms together “...I'll think about it. Come back on Sunday and I'll give you my answer."

It wasn't an outright rejection. Yusaku felt queasy for some reason. It wasn't an outright acceptance of the proposal, either. "Okay. "

#yugioh vrains #tater writes #firestormshipping

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saundraswriting · 3 years

Text

Deprived Chapter 1: Fateful Meeting

SUMMARY: Yeon-Woo has reasons for trying to keep the distance between him and Yoo-Han. He will convince him of that one day. Even if it means removing himself from the picture entirely

WARNINGS: Self-depreciating thoughts, possible SH?, slight mental emotional abuse/manipulation

NOTES: This is this first chapter of my Color Rush fic. I am thinking two or three parts. I posted a warning for the canon compliant mentality that comes with mono/probes. I hope you enjoy!

Read it here on Ao3

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The life of a mono is a lonely one.

Yeon-Woo's mother had explained that to him many times as he got older. She had found and lost her probe, she learned and lost the world of colors and prayed the same would not happen for her son. Her prayers were unanswered for he learned the pain of loss much to soon. She was getting ready for her day of errands, trying to explain the idea of yellow to him, gave him one last loving kiss and was never seen from again.

The life of a mono is a lonely one.

When the case ran cold, he was handed over to his aunt. She-with cheeks wet from tears-took in her nephew and sold what was left of her sisters keeping only what she could not part with. Yi-Rang didn't try to explain what happened only began working tirelessly with her show to begin explaining the truth behind the cases, the new and old, to try to understand what may have happened to her sister. She came and went, in the four years since his mother's disappearance, he became a functioning adult. He practically lived alone and only saw his aunt a couple days a month. The only time he saw her more was when he was in trouble at school.

The life of a mono is a lonely one.

School was hard. He got above average grades but his junior high years were peppered with failed attempts to make friends. They would be fine until somehow they found out he was a mono then he was alone again. Or he would be bullied into transferring and didn't have time to make friends. He was growing accustomed to being alone. He learned to enjoy his solitude, that would have to be enough. The black and white and gray world he lived in seem to sap him of his strength. Some days would pass, Yeon-Woo feeling as empty as his monochromatic vision. He would go to his room, dinnerless and studying until his eyes burned. He might not have anyone but his aunt, even so he refused to disappoint her more.

The life of a mono is a lonely one.

The first day of his new school was supposed to be quiet, easy. He wanted to go to school and come home and not see the look of mild disappointment on his aunt's face. It was anything but that. He made two new friends and met his probe. Yeon-Woo tried to focus on the pretty face but the swirling colors caused his head and stomach to roll, resulting in him passing out. He wasn't aware of the young man carrying him to the nurse's office or the conversation he and the nurse had. Yeon-Woo tried to wake up but the colors were too overwhelming so he closed his eyes again. After a bit he came to, blinking in surprise at the vast amount of color he could see just in the nurse's office. Yeon-Woo ran a fingernail lightly over the fabric of his pants, the vibrant color reminding him of something but not sure what.

"That is the color of the ocean. Ocean Blue or Deep Blue." A smooth voice chimed in from behind. Yeon-Woo could feel them lean closer, see their hand almost touch his.

"The ocean?" This is the color of the ocean?" Yeon-Woo couldn't help but repeat, trying to memorize the color and the words. He knew it was for naught, he would never see it again.

"Mm-hmm." The hand and body shifted away. Yeon-Woo sighed, looking around as the colors began disappearing. He took a deep breath trying to tell himself, he was glad the colors were vanishing. It was better this way.

"That's good, the colors are going away." Yeon-Woo said aloud. He was sure that the disappointment was on his face, and he was happy the person was behind him unable to see his sadness.

Yoo-Han stared at the back before him, watched as the muscles tensed and shoulders slumped. He could hear the uneasiness in the new student's voice and knew in that instant that he would convince Yeon-Woo to want to learn colors and show him his face. Yoo-Han couldn't bare to see this soft boy be sad any longer. He reached a hand out wanting to soothe the young boy who he could tell was unsure of what to do next.

"Don't touch my hair." He swatted away Yoo-Han's hand. "You shouldn't touch a stranger without permission."

Yoo-Han leaned over him, close to his face, not missing the slight flinch. 'He knows who I am, and he isn't used to human contact or attention.' He thought to himself. "Good thing we aren't strangers, Choi Yeon-Woo. You are my mono and I am your probe." Yoo-Han replied smiling through the mask.

"No. I refuse. I didn't want to meet my probe. This never happened." Yeon-Woo stood up and wobbled unsteadily. Yoo-Han came around the bed hand raised to help but was waved off.

"Are you upset that I am your probe?" Yoo-Han wasn't one for insecurities but having the person practically destined for you deny you at the first meeting was unsettling.

"Who it was doesn't matter. I never needed to meet my probe. I didn't need to meet them." Yeon-Woo said. "And you shouldn't be excited to meet your mono. Don't you know? I could hurt you, kidnap you, kill you, or eat you to keep my colors. Monos shouldn't meet their probes, it is bad for you." Yeon-Woo tried to explain.

"Most of those stories are blown out of proportion. Also the media fixates on the stories were the monos are overly violent because you all are different. I don't think you could hurt a fly." Yoo-Han dismissed Yeon-Woo's concerns with a strong roll of his eyes.

"Besides, you are telling me you don't need to meet your probe. You never said anything about not wanting to meet your probe." Yoo-Han leaned in close, ignoring how Yeon-Woo tensed. "Do you want to learn colors?"

Yeon-Woo froze at the question, Yoo-Han saw the longing well up in his eyes before he shoved it and Yoo-Han away. Yoo-Han stood right back up again but Yeon-Woo held his hands up and out like they weren't his and began walking backwards, eyes wide and face pale. "Monos are violent. Always." Yeon-Woo's voice was thick and rough. Yoo-Han felt his heart break for his mono. In that moment, Yoo-Han decided he was going to show this warm gentle boy the wonders of color and show him he deserved nice things. He could tell someone had taught Yeon-Woo that he didn't, society or a person it didn't matter; Yoo-Han would make it better. Yeon-Woo scurried back to his class, picking up his things to go home. The day had been a significant loss and he only hoped that he could convince his new friends Min-Jae and Joo-Haeng that he had been too stressed and didn't eat or sleep.

The next morning Yeon-Woo was convinced he shouldn't go to school. Only the thought of disappointing his aunt made him go once more. Upon arrival he wasn't met with a gang of bullies or the student council or even teachers. The morning progressed like the day before. Yeon-Woo was both pleased and not at the development. He was glad that Yoo-Han chose not to see him but he was looking forward to seeing the class representative and his friend. He changed his shoes trying not to think on it too hard, it was the way his life should be-lonely and gray.

He got to his room and there was Min-Jae and Joo-Haeng waiting outside for him. They reassured him that they had taken care of any rumors of yesterday. When they questioned him about his mono status, he couldn't find it in him to lie. He even told them that Yoo-Han is his probe. Even if he had to transfer in a few weeks once his aunt learned he found his probe he wanted to enjoy his friends. Yoo-Han even kept his distance, only speaking when necessary. The next few days passed that way. Yeon-Woo kept silent on his desire to see colors and see Yoo-Han's face but he was sure that Yoo-Han could read it on his face, he kept watching Yeon-Woo with an intense puzzled look on his face.

A week had passed, and Yeon-Woo was considering his warning actually got through to the stubborn boy. They rarely talked but shared glances more than what was appropriate. Yeon-Woo was trying to be happy that he pushed the caring probe away. Nothing about himself mattered, only the safety of his probe. Yeon-Woo was warming up to the idea of being without his probe, until the day came when he was late. Yeon-Woo was concerned, trying to stifle his questions. The concern he felt had to be evident or he was that predictable for Joo-Haeng to let him know he would be there later in the day. The message soothed the anxiety in his chest. Then terror built. 'We are already too close, if simple thoughts of his wellbeing ease any feeling about him'. The afternoon came, lunch already passed when Yoo-Han came in holding a strange fan looking object.

"I got you something, sunshine. I wanted to ask you again, if you wanted me to teach you colors." Yoo-Han asked softly. Yeon-Woo looked at him in anger. The other two boys watching curiously.

"I have told you once, that should be enough. I do not need to learn colors. You should stay away from me. I already get angry and violent when I see you. For your safety, you should stop." Yeon-Woo hissed at him. He paid no attention to the small fan-like object, only wanting to get over the fact he was already getting attached to this boy.

"I told you too. You will never hurt me. You are confused and that is okay. I figured that before you agree we could do a trial period. I would work with you and help with the color rushes and after a week or so, then you can decided if you never want to do it again." Yoo-Han explained fanning out the device in his hand. "What better to use than a artist's palette. I picked it up just for you." Yoo-Han's eyes were scrunched up under his mask, leading Yeon-Woo to believe he was smiling under the mask.

"No. Thank. You." Yeon-Woo turned to face the front pulling out headphones for the rest of the break. Yoo-Han stared at the back of his head for the rest of the day, scheming up ways to get his mono to agree. Yoo-Han had originally wanted to do this for the selfish reason to see Yeon-Woo's face but the longer he stayed near and the more he got to know Yeon-Woo, Yoo-Han realized he wanted and needed to spend time with this boy. There were soulmates for a reason, who was he to ignore such a destiny.

The rest of the day passed in a monotony of classes and homework. Until their last break, Yeon-Woo seeing no one was around sat down and spread out the palette. He thumbed through it, sighing in defeat. There was no real way to differentiate between the colors, leading to a large amount of confusion. Just as he was going to shut it, he felt familiar heat along his back. Panic made him lurch from his seat, trying to avoid more contact with the idol in training.

"You do want to see. Then let me show you." Yoo-Han bent over his shoulder and starting with the the read shades began listing the different colors. When Yeon-Woo tried to escape again, Yoo-Hann pulled down his mask, the desire to see his face in a color rush overtaking him.

Yeon-Woo blinked up at him, angry and confused. "I told you to not do that. What happens when you stop showing me your face and then I decide to kill you? I am a mono. We are destined to be alone. We are violent angry deprived people. I won't let your presence make me into something I have spent so long trying to avoid." He sat up and ignored Yoo-Han's calls.

"Yeon-Woo, you are pretty even when you are angry." The voice echoes through the empty halls, laughter on the edge of his tone. Yeon-Woo didn't answer him but a quick glance showed Yoo-Han fanning himself with the art palette.

The next couple of weeks showed the same trend. Yoo-Han would entice Yeon-Woo into a color lesson or color rush. The had one in the science lab, after Yeon-Woo flinched heavily at the blood prank. Yoo-Han believing it to be a simple yet distasteful prank, and Yeon-Woo seeing it as a live projection of the nightmares that had been riddling his sleep lately. Yoo-Han slipped his hand down, lacing his fingers with Yeon-Woos trembling ones. In that second, Yoo-Han realized Yeon-Woo's concerns for his safety weren't empty words to create distance but a real issue that tormented him. The color lesson was finished early, Yoo-Han ending it in a fit of jealousy over a rainbow. A rainbow he made to show Yeon-Woo, so he could see his face during a color rush and after as he saw the colors that evaded him day in and day out. Yoo-Han was entranced every time he saw Yeon-Woo experience colors, his eyes wide and mouth gaping. He looked so pretty. 'You'll never be alone again. I promise.' Yoo-Han swore to himself.

He clicked off the flashlight, determining the lesson to be over. Yeon-Woo shoved him into a cupboard practically spitting in anger. Yoo-Han decided then and there he would make their next lesson the last, he would show him that some time color didn't make anything better. Two days later had Yoo-Han waiting for Yeon-Woo to pick up his phone, waiting to invite him to the roof he planned for the next lesson.

Yeon-Woo seemed unable to focus on the view, more concerned with the color of Yoo-Han's hoodie. He trailed his fingers over the zipper, rubbing the fabric lightly. "I know that I shouldn't want to but I want to see colors. I want to see them. I need to see them, some days it is like a physical ache." Yeon-Woo sniffed slightly. Yoo-Han wanted to pull away, comfort this boy that had started to mean more than anything else. "The life of a mono is a lonely one." Yeon-Woo recited. Yoo-Han was confused but before he could say anything, Yeon-Woo sat up. "You were right. This view is lonely. I don't like it." Yeon-Woo turned away.

"I knew you wouldn't. I needed to show you that sometimes colors don't bring all the good emotions and words like you think that do." Yoo-Han tried to explain.

"I know. Yellow is supposed to be happy but all I know it as it sadness. My mom was trying to explain yellow to me the day she disappeared. I also know that one day, if we keep going like this, my desire for color will be the reason for you getting hurt. I am a mono, destined for a lonely life. You are Yoo-Han, you are destined for greatness. I don't want to change that by being selfish. I should want to share your greatness with the world, right?" Yeon-Woo asked. He didn't seem to be looking for an answer.

"Then I will have to make sure that I am always there to show you my face. If I am always with you then there will be no violence." Yoo-Han answered like it was easy. "Yeon-Woo, I won't let you be alone anymore. You want to be shown colors? I want to show you colors. So why don't we? Unless you want to stop."

"Yoo-Han! Who said I wanted to stop? If you are okay with this, maybe we can try it." Yeon-Woo seemed hesitant still, worried.

"We can only try. Come on, lets get you settled into bed. I can walk myself home." Yoo-Han sipped his mask back on, helping Yeon-Woo to his feet. They headed back in silence, Yoo-Han trying to think of a plan as a surprise for his mono. When he got his mono home, he bid him goodbye with a small press of his masked lips against his cheek. Yoo-Han on the bus ride home, bought tickets for next week at an art exhibit, the use of lights and media to make the rooms into art, seemed right up their alley.

Yeon-Woo and Yoo-Han grew closer over the next few days, like somehow the rooftop discussion opened the doors. They ate together, talked together more, studied together. Yoo-Han wanted to ask where Yeon-Woo's aunt was or what was covered up in the corner but refrained. They were enjoying their closeness, mono and probe, safe together. Then one day, the rain seemed to have a direct correlation to Yeon-Woo's mood. They were standing near each other, hands interlocked when out of nowhere Yeon-Woo tried to bolt. Yoo-Han was glad for the mask to hide his hurt, it had been several days since the last attempt at separation, he had been hoping they were getting over it.

"Yeon-Woo, What is your problem?" Yoo-Han wanted to reach out and comfort his mono. Yeon-Woo looked panicked, eyes wide, breaths heavy. 'Yeon-Woo, it is only me. You can tell me." Yoo-Han tried to soothe his...Yeon-Woo.

"I am sorry. I just...I realized..."Yeon-Woo trailed off, eyes flicking around.

"Realized what, sweetheart? You have me worried. Let me help you." Yoo-Han took a few steps closer, grabbing Yeon-Woo's arm.

"I realized that I want to keep you forever. I don't want to let you go." Yeon-Woo finally looked at Yoo-Han, with fear and terror in his eyes.

"Oh, my darling. That is all I have ever wanted to hear you say. I want to keep you forever too." Yoo-Han placed a slim hand on his cheek. "You don't have to let me go if you don't want to. I will be here as long as you want me to." Yoo-Han pulled him into a hug, squeezing tight. "Thank you for telling me. I am so happy. I don't want to let you go either. We'll be together forever. I promise."

They stood hugging under the awning of the school. Yoo-Han trying and failing to stop his heart from breaking when he felt his soulmate's shoulders shaking. He felt an anger unlike any he felt before at the world for telling this sweet soft boy he was unworthy of affection. Yoo-Han was all the more thrilled that tomorrow was their date for the art show. It seemed that after the emotional turmoil of the day, they would need it.

#saundrasays #saundraswriting #color rush #yoo han x yeon woo #protective yoo-han #soft yoo-han #yeon-woo deserves nice things #yoo-han is a nice thing #yeon-woo x yoo-han

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