#because i wrote this so long ago i'd half forgotten it

[tunastime]

Inbound, Outbound

The first submas fic I ever wrote! LOL I decided I needed one final thing for april fools so you get this fic from. about a month and a half ago! I think a lot has changed since I wrote this and I'd love to come back to the reuniting :3 maybe making it longer or what have you. but for now. here you go!

Sometimes when you wait for things, they come back to you. Sometimes they don't. Emmet continues life as normal as he can until the point in which the thing he's been waiting for the most finally does come back. Today just happens to be that day. (6745 words)

Ingo comes back on a winter day that Emmet would’ve otherwise forgotten.

It’s a pervasive winter in Nimbasa this year, the sky a white-blue, grey where it touches the edges of the buildings high above his morning train into the city center. Today is just as slow as usual, fifteen stretching into thirty, stretching in to forty-five minutes as people crush their way into the train car number eleven, Emmet’s favorite car on the six-in-the-morning inbound to Nimbasa commercial district. This train doesn’t go direct to Gear Station—it’s about four blocks from the city center. Which means that the train car is filled with grey and black suits, small children, and people in coats too thin or too bright for the weather. It’s his favorite car because if he looks over the few heads currently standing in front of him, he can see a poster with Elesa on it, advertising the Nimbasa Gym in bright, yellow and black letters. He doesn’t mind the length of the ride, really, even with the extra twenty minutes of walking.  It gives him enough time to think, whether that be better or worse. 

Emmet sniffles, pushing the scarf further up his nose, trying to keep in the heat. He can feel his face starting to red with the cold, and the subpar heat of the train car isn’t doing much help. He likes this car—he likes the whole system, because it runs so efficiently even with the stops, but he would like it a bit more if it were properly heated. He once bore Elesa to sleep talking about the rail system near their apartment complex in the city suburbs and art district, and after that he kind of kept it to himself and the engineers on shift.

The train car is still cold, and his scarf slips down his nose again as he adjusts his grip on the handle above him. Scrunching his face, he burrows into the collar of his coat and shrinks his shoulders to make space, shutting his eyes. He moves with the train car, as he does every morning, and sighs into the fabric of his coat. He files the cold away in the back of his mind. The train ride becomes routine, which means it fades into the background of his life, where everything rests mutely.

He might be somewhat of a celebrity, but the 6am is too crowded and too tired to notice him, or Ingo, or Elesa, for that matter. Elesa could live in the city center—running a gym is a lucrative business, and her clothing line, her brand deal, the posters with her face on them, even here in this train, raked in enough money to more than sustain on. Instead, Elesa lives two streets down from him (them) in a large apartment and she holds the crook of his arm on the train to keep steady. She didn’t this morning, though, which means Emmet has a little more stability where he stands, and a little less company. Not being recognized this morning means that he slips effortlessly from the train as the doors slide open, spilling out with other shoppers and business folk. He ducks through the exit as someone holds it open, and the smile on their face lingers a bit too long when they catch his eye. He thinks the words I’m sorry for your loss might come and hit him across the face, but they only nod. Emmet moves through the crowd alone again.

He makes his way carefully up the steps and onto the sidewalks of inner-Nimbasa, stepping with purpose as he stares down at his shoes. There’s a fine layer of ice and slush on the ground, but no snow. Anything that did fall just added to the grey slush on the side of the sidewalk, crunching under his boots as he walked. The cold still bites at his face as he makes his way down the block and across the street. He can still feel his fingers, though, which is a good sign. A few more streets of cold and slushy snow and trying to block the wind with his coat and he would be in the relative warmth of Gear Station, all tan marble and smooth floors. 

Winter. Of course the winter lingered. It was still winter when Emmet got off the train alone and it was still winter and cold and breezy and dark, now, as Emmet stood in his (their) office, watching the clock. 

5:45pm. He realizes he hasn’t eaten all day as a hard pang stabs through his stomach. Emmet takes a breath. It’s easy to fall into routine when nothing else seems to fit. It’s what he tells himself. He finds a way to make the day go faster, maybe looking for something at the end that wasn’t just the next day. He never had this issue before, waiting for the day to pass only for it to bleed into the next, and the next, and the next, and for the weekend to stutter and pause that blissful continuing trend. Work, go home, sleep, repeat. It gave no time to think about anything else—especially not Ingo.

It took longer the first year. Everything constantly pressed hard on the wound still open. He still remembers when everything shut down around him. It wasn’t winter then. It was spring, where the air still twinged cool, but he wasn’t kicking snow off his shoes before he entered the engineer’s office and ducked down the hall and to his and Ingo’s space. It was an almost instant halt, like throwing the emergency break. Emmet’s whole life screeched and threw up smoke. 

He remembers the first time someone questioned him that wasn’t the city police, staring up at him, mouth moving with words he didn’t understand. He stuttered, unable to form an answer to what do you think happened? How was he supposed to know? How was he supposed to put pieces together when he felt like he had been smashed into star fragments?

The subway shut down for three months straight. He could barely pick himself out of bed, and when he did, he couldn’t make it out of the door. He remembers lying in the dark for far too long, turning off his phone so no calls came through. The day bled into night and into the next day, with no routine, no operating procedure. Everything in his life revolved around Ingo—and now there was a distinctly Ingo shaped hole in his chest that he couldn’t fill. He remembers crawling his way out of the comforters and making it to the threshold of his bedroom door, sinking to the ground and staying there. It was only when Elesa made her way in that he moved, coaxed onto the couch to drink a glass of water. There were days where neither of them spoke. Elesa would set a duffel in the corner of Emmet’s room and a toothbrush in his bathroom and wordlessly, the space became hers too. Half asleep one night, she mumbled, very quietly, that it had been days since she’d had the energy to battle. The Nimbasa gym waitlist had grown to fifteen people. He said he was sorry. She laughed like she meant it. Tired. They were tired. Life moved on without them for a while. He held Elesa’s hand.

Every dark coat had been him, every set of stripes, every loud and hearty laugh. The space in their fridge, in their bathroom, on their couch, the spaces Elesa subconsciously left when she visited, all stayed like he might appear and fill them. At some point the spaces became memories, and the memories became a dull ache. The dull ache let him work, and the work became an ache instead. And then he started looking for answers. When he found none, he just kept looking.

He hangs up his white coat, noise from Gear Station trickling into the background. He puts his hat on the hook next to it. 

He is Emmet. He feels okay today.

He combs his hair back with his fingers, stepping back to navigate around to his desk, shutting off the computer screen and moving through the familiar motions of packing away his day. Eelektross snuffs, sleeping curled around his chair, still nursing a singe from their last battle. The rest of his team are tucked away in pokeballs, neatly set into the bag still resting on the desk. He runs a hand over the scales on Eelektross’ head, listening to the snort turn into a purr, long and rumbly. At least someone’s enjoying themselves. He leans against his desk. 

“Excellent job today, Eelektross,” he says. “Too good.”

Eelektross rumbles out an affirmative sound Emmet’s learned to recognize over the years. Tired and comfortable and thoroughly pleased. He’ll be sleeping under a huge eel weight tonight, most likely, which would be good for them both.

From the corner, Chandelure chirps. He glances up, watching her tilt lazily back and forth, flame flickering under the office’s lamplight. He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head at her.

“Ah—” he says. “I forgot, Chandelure. Is it time for the rounds, then?”

She chirps again, twirling in place. She nearly bumps the wall, moving out of the way as she remembers how much space she actually takes up. Emmet snorts, shaking his head. He rises from his leaning on the desk, shaking the feeling back into his right leg.

Gathering his coat and hat again, he pulls it over his shoulders, and opens the office door for Chandelure.

The two wander out into the filling-full train station. It’s busy now that so many are leaving work, Gear Station echoing with his footsteps and the tired laughter and voices of patrons filing in and out of the turnstiles. As he steps out, the noise is almost instant. Ah—he caught departing crowds at the wrong time, as the battle subway came to a close at the days end and people were busy reassigning themselves and marking their places for tomorrow. The energy in the station is bright and cheery. He lifts his hat, waving one hand, smiling with just his mouth. Chandelure spins, singing to herself. He offers a little bow as he departs, listening to cheers of his name until he manages to slip into the service stairs and away from the light and the noise.

He follows the familiar service corridor where it diverges from the central station, staring up into the rafters and eyes tracking across the windows high above him. Night trickles in, noise obscured by layers of stone and brick and marble. The stretch of granite towers above him, echoing the flicker of pride he feels swirling in his chest. Chandelure twirls ahead of him, leading him down to the closed lines as his eyes drag away from pidove in the rafters, cooing to themselves.

It’s important to walk the lines at night—mostly for the host of patrat and joltik and the occasional drilbur that liked to make the tunnels their home, but also to check that each car remained stationary, that light still flooded the dim tunnels, that someone wasn’t trapped. It wasn’t always his job—not with so many that staffed Gear Station, both above and below him. Maintenance often fell to him when it was needed, where he lingered in the office long after his scheduled shift end, when the last outbound train returned. 

The stairs down are quieter and darker than the rush of energy and light and cold air above him in Gear Station. 

Emmet starts his way toward the platform. Whatever he couldn’t find in the tunnels today, Eelektross would find later tomorrow morning, well before the first battle train. It was good he didn’t have to worry about the main tracks as often—not for checks and not for maintenance. He would mourn his sleep schedule much more than he already did if that were the case. Walking those initial tunnels would take him hours, knowing how far the service platform stretched.

Emmet doesn’t like this part of his job. It was always Ingo’s job. Everything seemed like it was Ingo’s job, now that it rested on his shoulders. When they’d first pitched the idea of the subway to the head of Gear Station at the time, it had been a risk Ingo automatically assumed. When he ran the night shift, safety checks were his duty, as much as they were Emmet’s in the morning. They’d assist with repair and management of the rest of the station as needed, falling into step alongside fellow engineers. There’s a small group in this tunnel now—voices echoing down the small corridor as he travels its length, a drilbur perched on their feet, warily inspecting a section of track. He supposed he considered himself lucky—any scheduled repairs to the Battle Subway could be completed shortly after the subway retired for the day, meaning he could be present if anything went wrong. This bit of maintenance was purely preventative—making sure nothing would be jostled loose by a rogue Earthquake.

Emmet ducks passed the group, nodding along as they toss bits of information his way, wishing him a good night.

Fetching the flashlight from his pocket, Emmet smacks it against his hand. The beam flickers to life, illuminating the tunnel in front of him far more than the stretch of yellow floodlights above his head. He sweeps the beam around the tunnel, listening for anything or anyone.

Emmet makes his way off the main platform and into the tunnel proper, along the service grate, eyes following the tracks. He stands at the edge of the platform for a moment, gazing into an empty car, light shining through. It reflects off the posters and signage inside, dull yellow where the lights inside don’t shine. He shivers. The air feels cold and charged, like a stray joltik had crawled up his neck and now rested in the collar of his coat. He turns the collar out, sweeping with one hand. No joltik. Rolling his shoulders back, Emmet steps back from the car and continues onward. A few feet ahead of him, Chandelure twirls idly, like she’s waiting for him to catch up. He waves the beam of the flashlight at her and she startles, chirring out, annoyed. 

“You can check on your own if you don’t want to wait,” he tells her. 

She warbles, waving her arms back and forth. He makes an affirmative noise.

“That’s what I thought.”

The large loop stretches further on to his left, where he can’t see, blocked by the stretch of railcar. He follows Chandelure through the space between the cars, ducking his head as they step onto the opposing platform, and continue their way back up. He pauses for a moment as they do, feeling his body go light as his head spins. He reaches out to the side wall, hand against the cold stone as he takes a long breath. Emmet blinks back spots for a moment, shaking his head gently. His stomach feels like its in knots, rolling over itself as he seems to settle from his moment of vertigo. No lunch will do that to you, he supposes.

Chandelure flickers. They’re almost done, which is good. It means he’ll be able to sit down for a second before he has to run to the train. They won’t need to check the two-team tunnel tonight—not only has Emmet not been able to run it, he checked it two weeks ago. He lingered a very long time in there, didn’t he? It had put a terrible ache in his chest enough to call Elesa to walk him home. Emmet frowns—Chandelure flickers again, dimming, brightening, dimming, brightening again. There’s that rush of dizziness again. He breathes out. He’s too far in his head, today, isn't he?

“Chandelure,” he says, in a way that almost reminds him of Ingo—a little out of breath from walking, but mostly just curious. “Is something wrong?”

She chimes, wobbling in place, eyes narrowing. It feels hesitant. Emmet shudders. After a beat, he reaches up, placing a hand on the near-glass surface of Chandelure’s body. She moves back toward him, chiming again.

“Right,” he says. “It’s different, right? Something’s changed.”

Another chirp.

Something tugs at his mind. Wasn’t there something he read about clairvoyance in pokemon? Future-telling, future-seeing, or whatever. But Chandelure’s behavior isn’t indicative of anything. That would just be odd. He can feel for just a moment the way his heart thumps a little faster against the line of his jaw. It couldn’t be that. It’s just what Elesa always said—he was looking for something that wasn’t there.

“Yyyyep-yep,” he says, mostly under his breath, voice thick. “But it should be fine, Chandelure. Let’s keep going, our track moves forward.”

She tilts back and forth, like a wave of a hand. Emmet snorts as they start forward. 

“You know I’m always one for a battle,” he says plainly. She chirrs, moving around to his right side, putting herself between the train car and Emmet. He follows her movement only for a second as they walk up the tracks, eyes still fixed on the steps up to the station. 

The city subway still rumbles through the ground and the walls around him, the noise soft and consistent as train cars move past. He pauses, listening in, shutting his eyes for a moment. It was late, now. He could feel a tired ache seeping into the creases of his elbows and right under his knees from standing all day. His head was starting to hurt, spinning as he stood completely still. He sighs roughly, squeezing his eyes tightly for just a moment. He’s lucky the pain didn’t extend to his feet—he would have to do quite the jog to catch the outbound train toward home, unless Elesa happened to be staying late again and could walk him back.

They start together toward the entrance as Emmet does his final scan of the furthest-out platform, satisfied nothing is out of place. The same cold air of the train tunnels permeates even here, despite the warm wash of yellow light across the walls and marble pillars. Emmet breathes in, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders as he stretches over his head, screwing up his face as his back pulls. He nearly complains—he feels much too old for this—but he can feel the sharp poke of Ingo’s voice in his mind—well, I’m two minutes older, so you can imagine how I feel—and it stops him pretty quickly. He’s not even thirty-five. What can he do but complain, right? Emmet fishes his keys from his pocket prematurely, ducking between the cars as he steps onto the loading platform.

Chandelure stops ahead of him. Her trill is quiet as Emmet reaches her side.

 There is a man standing on the platform. 

Emmet is very good at telling cosplayers from the real thing. You would think that would be some sort of a joke, but they really like to be authentic. Ingo and him never sold any merchandise of their coats or hats for fear of, well, that. This. Whatever this person was doing, standing on the closed platform in a ruined coat that looked like Ingo’s. 

Emmet swallows. Looks like and not is, right? Looks like and not. Not. Certainly not. Not when he turns and catches his eye. The breath lodges itself in Emmet’s throat, burning hot. Certainly not. Because he is very good at telling illusions from real life, and there are no dark types in the tunnels that can use copycat, and copycat can’t extend the likeness of himself onto another person who looks. Like. Who looks like his brother. And isn’t. Emmet tries to breathe. The breath is sharp on his teeth. His hands are shaking when his vision blurs, and he smears tears across his face.

Ingo looks frightened for a moment. When he looks into Emmet’s eyes, the grey looks washed out. Emmet breathes out, feeling it catch as he sighs, biting the inside of his cheek to keep grounded. There’s. It’s like nothing moves behind his eyes. Not a faint light of understanding. Not a spark of clarity. Ingo places a foot behind him. The line of Emmet’s spine goes cold all at once.

He stands still as he watches a slow realization pass over his brother’s face like a red flush, some flicker in his expression, before he sees his chest seize and breath stutter. Ingo blinks hard and fast, like it might be helping something, eyes flicking over Ingo’s face. He reaches forward, as if he’s expecting to push through Emmet and into air instead, and not the solid body he stands there with. It’s like his body moves before he realizes what’s actually happening. Emmet watches his movements, still calculated in the same way as they’ve always been. Emmet drags in a breath, sniffling hard. 

The lines of Ingo’s face pull. Emmet reaches out to him, copying. It’s what he’s always done—what they’ve always done. He steps forward, lurching to meet him.

The mirror image of himself, his brother, his Ingo, collides with him hard. Emmet feels him crumple into his arms as he drags him forward, arms locking around his ribcage. He squeezes Ingo tight to him. They buckle, Ingo leaning into him for support as his body is wracked with sobs. Emmet struggles to breathe as he sinks to his knees, smearing dirt and dark grime over his white pant-knees and boots.

Ingo’s hands fist in his coat as they fall. He squeezes Emmet in his arms, fighting for breath as he presses his face into his shoulder. Emmet laughs and it morphs into sobs. He turns his face into the tattered collar of Ingo’s coat and squeezes his eyes shut. Ingo. Ingo. Always Ingo. The bony joints of his elbows digging into his ribs as a kid, crushing him with his weight when he lost a pokemon battle, standing in his bedroom door at night when he had a nightmare. Cooking beside him, picking up his coffee, watching him tie Emmet’s tie around his own neck before passing it back to him. His brother Ingo, breathing too shallowly under his hands as he holds him, shaking with the effort of holding himself upright. He can feel the bones of his spine and shoulderblades, sharp and protruding even through several layers of fabric. His face looked so pale and thin. But Ingo holds him tightly, much tighter than he ever remembers, and it’s not just fear or relief or grief holding him to that strength, either. Emmet wheezes out, word unforming in his throat.

It’s not a nightmare. It feels real and warm and solid, like Ingo, like the platform under his knees, like the cold breeze on the back of his neck. Ingo may look different, far too gaunt for Emmet’s liking (and he supposes, now, that it may be like looking in a mirror, and he wonders how many bones Ingo can feel under his coat) but it’s him. No illusion or actor would crumble like this. It couldn’t be some sick joke—right?

He manages out words, and the first thing he chokes out through tears, voice warbling hard, is:

“Ingo—”

“Emmet,” Ingo grits out. 

“I am Emmet—” Emmet says weakly. “You are Ingo. You are real.”

“I—” Ingo chokes. “I am. I’m real.”

Ingo certainly feels that way. The breath echoes in his lungs, damp and wobbly. Emmet can feel his heart slam against his ribcage. He feels so small in his arms but he shakes with the effort of keeping himself stable and with the effort of holding on. He can feel his shoulders move and the way his tears have started to soak through Emmet’s coat and shirt. He’s real. 

Emmet laughs weakly, equally as wet.

“You are very strong,” he says softly, sniffling in, almost amused. “What happened to my brother?”

Ingo laughs. Emmet feels a new wave of tears bubble up in his chest and in his eyes. He presses his face into his shoulder a little more, like it were possible.

“Too much,” Ingo says, voice pitching. “Much too much.”

Emmet sighs into his shoulder, a sound he doesn’t think Ingo’s ever heard before. Ingo’s seen him cry a few times, especially when they were kids, but Ingo was always the more emotional of the two. This sound is such an odd mix of relief and grief and exhaustion pulled from his chest, like all the energy had trickled out of him.

Emmet holds tight to his brother in front of him, words not surfacing like they should. He only manages the weak sobs pressed into the collar of his coat. He screws his eyes shut again, clinging onto Ingo’s coat. The tile is cold and unyielding under his knees. Burning starts to prickle through his shins. Real feelings. Real sensations. Something to tether himself to. Ingo sniffles, coughing damply. He lets his body deflate a touch. Emmet’s chest twists and squeezes tight enough around his heart he feels it shove its way into his voice-box and beat there, pattering away.

“It’s you,” Emmet finally shudders out, voice breaking, sounding much more fragile than he wants to allow. Ingo burrows closer like it may do something. Emmet squeezes him. “Go-Go, please tell me this is real.”

“I promise,” Ingo manages. “I swear it.”

“You do?”

“You are Emmet,” he says slowly, sniffling. “I am your brother. I am real.”

“Good—” Emmet shudders. “Good.”

Ingo makes a pained noise, sighing out to his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. Emmet shakes his head, stilted from where he rests it.

“Don’t be sorry. Just—” he trails off. Just. Don’t leave again. Yeah.

Ingo nods slowly. After a moment he says:

“You are real,” in a half questioning tone. Emmet nods.

“I am. I am not a dream,” he says, huffing out a wet laugh. “You can pinch me.”

Ingo snorts.

“That’s not how that works,” He argues, own voice damp and amused. Emmet thumps his back between his shoulderblades.

“Go-Go,” he complains. Ingo wheezes. This feels so familiar it hurts.

“Sorry,” Ingo says, but the tone that leaks into his voice sounds like he’s very much not sorry. “I’m sorry.”

Emmet huffs again, soft and brittle.

“Ingo, I missed you,” he manages. “I missed you so much. So very much.”

“I know,” Ingo says softly, relaxing his hands, splaying them out over Emmet’s coat. “And yet you kept the subway running in my absence—” he huffs, amused. “Bravo.”

Emmet laughs once, just a small little sound, before it turns back into sobs, muffled against Ingo’s tattered coat. He leans his weight back as much as he can, trying to pull Ingo further into his arms, as if it were possible. Light cascades around them as Chandelure floats over, chiming softly to herself. Ingo pats Emmet’s back, running a little line over his shoulderblades as they sit together. He feels Ingo shift, as if he’s turned his head toward his Chandelure. Warmth blossoms in his chest. 

Ingo mumbles out something Emmet almost hears. 

“She took your absence very hard,” Emmet says, trying to add to a conversation he hadn’t heard.

Ingo sighs, short and soft. They’re less holding on and more leaning, now. 

“Oh,” he says softly. It’s all he says before he turns his head back into his shoulder. Emmet pats his back. He feels like someone’s taken toothpicks to his nerves. Why does it hurt? Why does Ingo sound so lost?

He leans back from Ingo, but he doesn’t let go. His hands find his shoulders, pulling away enough to see him properly. Emmet’s eyes scan his face. They’re the same grey as he’s always known them, but so much more tired, now, deep lines and dark circles around the bottom. He’s frowning, just a little, eyes still red-rimmed from crying, tears still falling haphazardly. Ingo sniffles. His hair lies the same, despite being unkept, and he’s got a terrible facial hair situation going on, like he’d forgotten how to use a razor. When Emmet studies him, Ingo’s face goes soft. He opens his mouth like he wants to speak, but shuts it when Emmet frowns. 

“Ingo,” Emmet says, frown deepening, eyebrows furrowing. He sniffles. He prods at the hollow of his cheek, looking perplexed. “You look horrible, like someone’s shaken twenty pounds off you.”

“Ah,” Ingo says, looking away.

“You may be much stronger than you were, but you look like you may fall over if I let you go.”

Ingo swallows. His expression morphs a few times, until he shuts his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I might.”

“Ah!” Emmet says, holding to his shoulders a bit tighter. Ingo smiles, just the sides of his mouth lifting. It feels right. “Don’t.”

Ingo snorts.

“I’ll try.”

Emmet nods, mouth a fine line. Ingo’s eyes flick over his face, this time. Emmet feels like pokemon under a magnifying glass being scrutinized. Ingo watches as Emmet blinks tears away, watches them track over his face, and watches as he reaches up to wipe them. Emmet shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice softening at the end unexpectedly. He swallows down a wave of cold guilt. Ingo’s hands clasp around his biceps.

“Emmet—” he starts.

“It’s okay,” Emmet manages out, expression cracking. He sniffles in, pulling in a fast breath as he does. He hears it catch, feels the shudder than comes with it. “You—it’s you.”

“That’s right,” Ingo says meekly, loosening his grip. Emmet’s wobbly smile falters, just for a moment.

“That’s good,” Emmet sighs. He blinks a few times, sniffs again, wipes at his face. Ingo’s hands fall away from his arms and into his own lap.

The frown lingers on Ingo’s face long after he’s dropped his hands. Emmet rises to a slow, shaky stand. Stuffing his gloves in his pocket, he wipes at his face with the back of his hand, giving Ingo a watery smile. When Ingo looks up at him, Emmet feels something click into his chest, warm, full, and settling. He smiles wider, enough to feel his eyes start to squint shut, enough to watch Ingo copy him, and the smile looks so natural on his face. It’s good. This is good. This. Feels. Good. It feels good.

“I don’t think you should sit on the floor anymore, Ingo,” Emmet says. He extends his hand.

“I think I’m a bit too old for it,” Ingo tells him. Ingo takes it. He holds his warm hand, half palm and half wrist. Emotion tumbles in his chest, painfully tight, as he leads Ingo toward the tunnel entrance. 

There’s something Ingo isn’t saying. Emmet knows it’s important. It’s not important enough to say now, that is, but he can feel it in the air of Ingo next to him as they duck into the empty station, back to the office, away from eyes that might say something before Emmet is ready to let the world know who showed up at his doorstep. It’s fine if Ingo doesn’t remember his pokemon, or the layout of Gear Station, or how he should feel, or where he’s been. He can’t ask him to. Not when there was a moment where Ingo couldn’t remember him, no matter how brief. He pushes fear deep into his chest and refuses to let it rise up.

He won’t let them diverge. He won’t let Ingo derail.

Whatever happens next, he’s not letting go of him.

The night comes easier than most.

It starts with Emmet sending a text—it’s last minute, which he despises, but he informs the head of the station that he isn’t feeling well and won’t be in at work for the next few days. He receives a spaced, but enthusiastic reply, and a reminder to use his sick time before he loses it. Probably better that he’s taking more days rather than less. Emmet feeds their pokemon, moving around the kitchen as he hears the shower running in the room across from his own. Busying himself with routine means he worries a little less about the question tugging at his mind, or the rush of anxiety and energy as he remembers everything, replaying it over and over again in his head. What if it isn’t Ingo that steps from the room? What if he looks completely different? What if—

Galvantula bumps his hand, nibbling at his sleeve. He’s still holding the bowl of food. He sets it on the floor as instructed, briefly pulled away from his thought.

Now, situated in the living room, a takeout bag rests on the coffee table, where Emmet is sitting next to the table, pulling out foil wrapped sandwiches and bags of chips and a too-shaken can of soda. He’s been watching Ingo’s face for a good part of the evening, seeing as lines come and go, how the sharp shape worsens when he frowns. Now, in a thick, high collared sweater and pajamas, grime scrubbed away with a hot shower, Ingo looks very small, and very alive, and very cold. Emmet pokes him with a socked foot as Ingo takes another ravenous bite of his egg and cheese sandwich. He has egg yolk all over his hands and down his chin.  

“I am Emmet,” he says, an awed smile lingering on his face. “And I am certain you are going to choke if you eat that fast.”

Ingo blinks, still chewing. Maybe two sandwiches was the right move after all. Emmet hasn’t touched the one he bought for himself yet. He’s been too busy making sure Ingo drinks a glass of water. Ingo flushes, though, as he realizes he’s made an runny-egg mess of the plate balanced on his knee. He looks sheepishly away, searching for something to wipe his hands with. When he can’t find anything, he sets the sandwich down, and wanders back to the kitchen.

“It’s like you haven’t eaten in weeks,” Emmet remarks. His stomach flips a bit at the implication, wondering when the last time Ingo actually had a warm meal in his body. He realizes he doesn’t even know where he’s been. What could be wrong with him. What he’d seen. He seems dazed, a bit lost, a bit spacey. It had taken him a good thirty seconds to recognize Emmet on that platform—though, if Emmet’s honest with himself, and he often tries to be, he isn’t much better. He’d swallowed down confusion just as fast as he could, and that was only a moment before he’d thrown himself at his brother. Ingo’s shoulders are a tense line.

“I’ve eaten,” Ingo says.

“Good.”

When Ingo wanders back over, sitting in his same spot, Emmet pushes the glass of water toward him. Ingo nods, smiling a little as he picks it up and takes a long drink. After he’s finished and set the glass down, Emmet starts on his sandwich. Between his first bite of hashbrown and egg and the next, he says:

“Ingo,” followed by. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

The two go quiet, even with the sound of foil and sandwiches. Ingo swallows, staring into his patterned plate. Emmet watches his face as much as he did prior. He can tell when a pause is calculated for drama, for intrigue, for embellishment, but this one is full of Ingo’s mind scrambling. Emmet can’t see it in action, but he can certainly imagine a million Ingo’s running around in his brain space, trying to compose an answer for Emmet that would satisfy him. Ingo takes another bite in the meantime.

Emmet stares into bits of potato in the foil on his lap. They’re not very interesting.

“What happened?” he asks softly, not looking up at him. He hears Ingo sigh, and sees him put the plate down in his peripheral.

“I—” Ingo starts, and the stutter of his voice is indicative of something very clear to Emmet.

“Ingo,” he says, looking up suddenly. “Don’t.”

Ingo swallows. His throat bobs. Emmet doesn’t even have to finish his sentence.

“I’ve forgotten everything,” Ingo says, in a way that is so un-Ingo-like. “Almost everything. It’s just—there. Right out of reach. Right out of my reach.”

The television casts color across Ingo’s face, obscuring his expression. Emmet fights to keep his expression cool and neutral, despite the way his heart begs to jump into his throat and throw a party. He has a sandwich to eat, not a heart. Silly heart. Silly Emmet. He supposes now that’s why Ingo’s reaction to Chandelure was so stunted. Or the way he skirted away from the station like it may reach out and pinch him like a dwebble. He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly.

“I don’t know why,” Ingo continues, picking at the seeds on top of his bagel. “I don’t know how, either. And I don’t think I can stomach the where and what, yet. I feel sick when I think too hard. Dizzy and sick.”

Emmet swallows roughly.

“It’s okay,” he says. Ingo shakes his head, shutting his eyes. Emmet watches his face warp, faltering as he holds back whatever emotion’s just bubbled up in his chest. He screws his eyes shut, new tears dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. “Go, listen—”

Emmet reaches. He brushes Ingo’s hand, and Ingo jerks back on instinct, recoiling. He looks at Emmet, expression blank, nervous, then cracking all at once. Emmet’s own face falters as they meet eyes. Emmet holds his hand over Ingo’s, waiting, still crouching in front of him. He tries for a smile, even as Ingo goes blurry.

“I’m glad you remembered me,” he warbles out. “We can keep going from there. Our tracks move forward.”

“I don’t believe my car in this two car train is very safe, Em,” Ingo sniffles. He takes Emmet’s hand, though, and Emmet curls his fingers over his, both hands around his one hand. He squeezes ever so.

“We’re known for our safety checks, brother,” Emmet says gently. “It’s just our standard operating procedure.”

Ingo laughs softly. The sound is damp, but real. Trying to be something positive. It’s all he can ask of him.

“Understood,” Ingo says. He nods, setting his face, despite the way tears still cloud his eyes, and his mouth still wobbles as he sniffles in. “We shall depart then.”

“We will!” Emmet says, squeezing his hands again. He drops them, then, patting Ingo’s knees like he were beating on the table. Ingo huffs out a laugh, shooing him away.

It doesn’t hurt any less, knowing how much might be absent. But it soothes it a bit to watch Ingo smile.

Later, sitting on the couch together, Ingo rests against Emmet, sandwiches eaten, chips picked through, water drank. His face has regained a touch of color, hands no longer shaking with exertion. He breathes slowly and softly as Emmet flips through television mindlessly, looking for anything. To his left, Eelektross snores, head resting on his knee. He runs a hand absently along the scales at the top of his head, listening to the drone of purr and the chatter of late night television.

“Brother,” Emmet says softly. “Ingo.”

Ingo makes no sound. His breath stays even and slow. Emmet snorts. Right. He supposes it’s payback—he can’t remember the amount of times he’d fallen asleep during movie night with Elesa. 

Elesa. 

Emmet startles.

Reaching for his phone, he hastily manages a message to Elesa. Something like: Come over ASAP. Good news. Very good. About Ingo.

 But his message reads in all lowercase like a run-on sentence, so he hopes in the morning Elesa will decipher it.

Emmet leans back, Ingo’s sleeping weight falling to Emmet’s side as he lies down on the couch cushions. His brother only partially adjusts in his sleep, better tucking into one side, head on his shoulder. Warm with sleep and food, Emmet lets his eyes unfocus. There’s too much static resting right under his skin to let him sleep. 

This is good, though. A moment of reprieve for him, and desperately needed for Ingo. Maybe in the morning they’ll talk about getting rid of that ridiculous beard of his.

Emmet hums softly to himself. He listens to the drone of the television for a moment, blissfully tired. There’s a moment of quiet just long enough to feel sleep tug at him.

Someone pounds on his door.

Ah. Well.

Miscalculation on his part, then.

[nocompromise-noregrets]

20 questions for fic writers

The impossibly lovely @mihrsuri tagged me in this a couple of weeks ago, and I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get round to it - but I find myself in need of distraction, just a little bit, as Last Cat Standing is in the veterinary hospital getting his radioactive iodine treatment for his thyroid, and we can't have him back for maybe ten days as he's going to be somewhat radioactive for a little while; I'm sure he's going to be fine (this is the treatment described to me by the treating vet as both 'the gold standard' and 'magical', in that it's effective in 99.5% of cases, and in the 0.5% it isn't, they just give it another go and then it's effective), but we haven't had an entirely cat-free house for this long in 20 years, and I'm feeling a bit weird about it. Also I'm procrastinating finishing off an essay plan (I'd rather just write the damn essay but no, we have to submit a plan for tutor feedback to make sure we're on the right lines, and as you all know by now, that's really not how I work XD )

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 362 (plus another 76 on the other account for the fandom that does not speak its name...)

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count? 1,491,388 (good grief; nearly 1.5 million?! and if you add in the 270,606 on the other account, that's 1,761,994 O.O )

3. What fandoms do you write for? Tolkien (chiefly the Hobbit movies, and LotR, a mix of movie and book-'verse); King Arthur (2004); Fisherman's Friends (fandom of one); The Alienist (TV; occasionally); Marvel (occasionally, chiefly bits of the MCU and X-Men comics/Evolution); Top Gun (here and there) - and a bewildering number of others...

4. What are your top five fics by kudos? My Heart Is An Empty Vessel (621); Shape Up (422); Safe (414); Not Alone (413); The Unworn Jumpers of Molly Weasley (343)

This is bewildering but also a fine illustration of the vagaries of AO3 and the absolute folly of measuring anything by the amount of kudos a fic has: Empty Vessel is three and a half years old, took two years to post and has 115 chapters, so was at the top of the tag many many times over those two years. Shape Up and Safe were written and posted not long after Top Gun: Maverick came out (I don't know how busy the tag still is, but it was very busy when the film came out so the fics in that fandom got a lot of interaction because a lot of people were there looking for fics) and are both one-shots. Not Alone is also a one-shot (for X-Men: Evolution) and has been up on AO3 for nearly twelve years (and has had a bit of a boost with the release of X-Men '97). And Unworn Jumpers (on which I really ought to put some sort of disclaimer, along with the small handful of other ancient HP fics I've got up there) is a seasonal one-shot that's been up for over ten years and tends to get a bit of a boost every December. So *shrugs* go figure. And if anyone wants to help the only HP fic in the top five not be in the top five any more, Come Home is only 36 behind it, and it is fluffy and cute and has Elrohir persuading Maglor to come to Imladris for Midwinter somewhat in the guise of the Elfling he hasn't been for a very long time... :D

5. Do you respond to comments? Yes. Sometimes it takes me a while (oh god six months, but I got up to speed with them all and now I'm trying to make sure I do it within a week) as I am a champion procrastinator but I feel it's important for me to say thank you. And sometimes squee a bit. :D And sometimes it makes me a new friend, which is extra-awesome.

I have a few very very old comments on the stuff I posted before 2020 which I never did get round to answering, which I feel bad about, but I also feel like it would be weird to go back and answer them now...I dunno, what do you guys think?

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I don't do angsty endings very often, but The Last Watch (in which Bard dies) is really sad, and Never Forgotten and See This Storm Through (in which Sigrid and Thranduil comfort each other after the funeral, and Legolas comes home to Dale to look after his father and his family and grieve with them, respectively) are almost as sad although they both end with a small amount of hope.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Ah, most of my fics end happily :D I'm far too tired for anything but, most of the time, these days. But let's face it, My Heart Is An Empty Vessel ends with a coronation and a wedding (spoiler alert! XD ) so let's go for that one.

8. Do you get hate on fics? I am lucky; the closest I've had was some anon complaining about Empty-Handed being a spoiler for the then-unposted Empty Vessel although the events it 'spoiled' were inevitable in the context of a mortal-immortal relationship, and someone whingeing in a bookmark comment that Thorin and Bilbo don't even talk until the end of Mr Underhill's Finest Seafood Specialities, thus completely missing the point of the fic (and the 'past' after the pairing tag) - it wasn't about them - which made me chuckle as much as the rudeness annoyed me.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Sometimes. I have phases when I feel like it, and (much longer) phases when I don't. It's generally only fairly tame and euphemistic (with the single and solitary exception of that one hanahaki fic about the twins the premise for which, although not the smut, came to me in a dream) and probably not all that imaginative since, as the acest of aces, the whole idea completely bewilders me XD

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? Not unless you count various different parts of the Tolkien legendarium. My brain just doesn't work that way.

11. (there doesn't seem to be a question 11; I feel like this might be one of those Tumblr traditions, as I've definitely done question memes on here before that have been lacking in a question 11...)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? I have! I am deeply honoured that my KA fic Anniversaries was translated into Russian by Elenabu some years ago, and It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like... appears on Lofter in Mandarin, translated by AntheaXi. There were a couple of other Russian translations of some of my very old stories, but that was 15 or 20 years ago and I can't actually remember which or where.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? I have! A long long time ago, the fic that eventually became the original novel that is Two of a Kind, the tale of Hal and Jack, was a co-production, and I really enjoy bouncing ideas back and forth - and of course, there is the Tudors OT3-'verse fandom stuff that @mihrsuri and I have been pinging to and fro just recently, which is also hugely enjoyable. :D :D :D

14. What’s your all time favorite ship? Oh, too many to name! Gawain/Galahad from KA2004, the bi widower dads, Legolas/Imrahil, Elladan/Elrohir, Erestor/Glorfindel, Sigrid/Tauriel, to name but a few.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I am determined to finish All I Want Is You. I am also determined to finish part whatever it is now of It's Always Been You, although that's been on the back burner for a long long time. There's one WIP on the other account which I'm also determined to finish although who knows if I'll ever get there. I'm not one for saying never, though. I was out of Tolkien fandom for 16 years, and after the fandom that does not speak its name fizzled out, I genuinely thought I'd never write again. And yet...here I am.

16. What are your writing strengths? Ooooh, I dunno. Spelling, punctuation and grammar, dialogue, leavening the serious romantic stuff with a bit of humour, kindness and love for the characters and settings, happy endings and quite a lot of fluff. :D

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Plot. XD Can't plot to save my life.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Only when necessary for character reasons, and always provide a translation. Otherwise you're shutting out readers who don't understand (unless it's not important that they actually understand precisely what's being said as long as they get the gist).

19. First fandom you wrote for? Knowingly? X-Men (comics), and that fic is here, although I posted it ten-odd years after first posting it to ff.net.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written? All of them. I cannot possibly choose.

Thank you so much for the tag, lovely! Entirely no-obligation tags go to @lemurious, @verecunda, @writerman, @scary-grace, @seagull-energy, @herawell, @thenookienostradamus, @sallysavestheday, @myeaglesong, @palavapeite, @bigneonglitter, @bishkebab, @peonybroadbeltofbuckland, @redeemer46, @spiced-wine-fic and anyone else who wants to do this - if you see this and fancy it, please consider yourself well and truly tagged!

[kabillieu]

I pulled this out of my drafts folder because it's a nice little thing I wrote a while back, and also a little self-absorbed (even moreso than usual), which is why I didn't publish it. But I wanted to remember this moment, so I'm putting it on the timeline today:

Another thing I'd like to record is something nice, but also sharing it feels like bragging? But it's literally just a nice thing Dominic said to me recently. We went on a date a couple nights ago, and I was really not feeling it, just bummed and sad about the state of the world, so I pulled up the questions to make someone fall in love with you on my phone, and we went through about half of them. I expect D to already be in love with me, but it was a nice exercise anyway. Maybe a little intense, but that's fine. One of the questions was to name five things about your partner that you admire. I've already forgotten what I said to Dominic. I am literally obsessed with my husband, so I don't feel bad about not being able to remember the five (I'm sure inane) things I said because I admire nearly everything about Dominic (except that he leaves his dirty socks everywhere). I walk through life convinced I'm a boring and vapid person who is probably a little stupid. Why do I think this? I know it's (probably) not true, but it's just what I assume about myself. I have no idea why I've been so fortunate to be loved by someone so well for so long when I'm not cute and don't even have a good personality. But here are the nice things he said about me anyway:

1.) I'm beautiful; 2.) I'm kind; 3.) I'm driven; 4.) I'm surprising; 5.) I'm even-keeled

It's nice to see yourself through your loved-one's eyes. I do appreciate that.

[astorytotellyourfriends]

annual writing self-evaluation

All answers should be about works published in 2023.

i. Optional if applicable: link to last year’s self-evaluation

1. List of works published this year (in the order that they were posted):

as per usual that list is too long for this post so here's my 2023 fic roundup

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

far and away it has to be before i bury you purely because it was 1. SUCH an endeavor to begin with, and 2. so unbelievably different from anything i've written before. like, the criminal minds au was me dipping my toe into the pool of horror/suspense, and this fic was diving in headfirst. and i know it's not everyone's cup of tea (or most people's, tbh) but i've been so pleased with the reactions of those who have read it and i'm so, so thankful for it 💛 (honorable mentions to always have & i always will and a tender age, tho)

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

it's not that i'm not proud of it but a fic that's been hanging over my head all year is if the fates allow because god i hate that it's almost been a year since i updated it and I'VE BEEN TRYING to work on it but my brain just refuses to focus on it! i'm really hoping to finish it soon, though (and the gd pirate au too UGH).

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

man am i glad i did an ask meme like a week ago that asked this question so i can snag an answer from that rather than spending 3 hours combing through my fics lol

5. Share or describe a favorite comment you received:

lmfao @cyraclove left this one on a snippet of the onlyfans au i sent her and it's my favorite thing ever

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

there's been a few instances of that over the last year but no specific events immediately come to mind. it seems to come and go in waves for me and all i can do is just ride it out and hope my inspiration comes back.

7. A scene or character that you wrote that surprised you:

ok like i swear to god i never thought i would write omegaverse and yet a tender age happened and it basically came pouring out of me and onto the page so like?? what the hell was that??? (also no i have not forgotten i promised a sequel, it's percolating i promise)

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

i tried new genres!! i really enjoyed the writing process!! (even if it made me absolutely insane at times)

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

i've said this a billion times before but i think next year i want to try writing original stuff alongside fic. idk if i'll finish a whole novel or what, but i'd at least like to start something.

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

my friends 💛

11. Anything in your real life show up in your writing this year:

not that i can think of but i did actually let my sister read some of my stuff and she told me that i have a lot of ust in my writing and (yes this is weird but she's my sister and i know she means well) that she wished i had an outlet for it irl so like. i guess that's something?

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

i always say the same goddamn thing and today i saw a post that really encapsulated that so i'm just going to copy it here:

13. Any new projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

as per usual, so many. i've got a bunch half-started already that i haven't shared yet and i'm really hoping to be able to get them Mostly Finished before i start posting them, so keep your fingers crossed and an eye out 👀

14. Tag three writers/artists whose answers you’d like to read:

@cyraclove, @medusasfinalgirl, @staceymcgillicuddy (and anybody else who would like to do this, i'm tagging u)

[thatlittleegyptologist]

Hello! You said you were bored and I am also bored so I thought I'd see if I have a question worth answering!

Been doing some casual genealogy on my family and have consequently been getting more into historical Egypt, Lebanon, and surrounding areas (we immigrated to the US a couple of generations ago, but most Karam families are still in Lebanon and Egypt). We unfortunately aren't sure what regions exactly we may have more direct relatives in (we didn't keep great records so I'm relying on public data), but I know that we were Christian Maronites from the area.

While broader histories of national religions, and politics are more widely accessible and easy to look through, it doesn't tell me much about what kind of daily lives my ancestors would have lived. I don't know if they had a unique way of doing certain things like making bread or shoes or clothes, or if there were any local dramas lol.

I guess what I'm actually asking is: are there any sort of lesser known regional history facts/stories that you can think of that you don't get to talk about often?

This isn't a "ooooh my family is from around Egypt tell me all of your secret pyramid info" lol, but more of a "were there any known Ea Nasir types around at some time in history that maybe one of my ancestors bickered with at some point?" Perhaps a localized story about someone's lost pet, or a grandma's recipe that no one else could get quite right.

While I think my draw to ancient Egypt has always been the same one of beauty, mysticism, and awe that most westerners face when first seeing the pyramids on tv, I'm trying to approach my forgotten genealogy a little less as a vague national identity and as more of a relatable neighborhood full of people at some point in time, where a family member some time ago was probably a lot more like me than I can imagine in today's age.

Obviously these stories wouldn't have necessarily come from a long dead family member of mine, but they were probably living not so different lives. And it's the smaller, more personal anecdotes you don't see in national geographic that make the biggest impact on a personal level. I can't identify my ancestry with gilded sarcophagi and pharaohs, but I sure can relate to struggling with your crops, y'know? 😅

Anyway, that was WAY too long, but I've been following your blog for a little while and felt like reaching out cause I think you're pretty cool. I just hope you're staying cool in this heat wave! (I am also living in the dark in front of a fan rn lol)

Thanks!! 😊✨🇱🇧🇪🇬✨

Hi!

Ok, so first off I know very little about early Christian Egypt aside from some of the Coptic texts (Apa Marcus and the like), but I can give you something from Ancient Egypt.

There's Paneb, who has a wonderful chequered history in the Village of Deir el Medina. Commits a lot of crimes, some of which he's guilty of, and some which have been invented by people he's wronged. Notably stole a goose and some copper chisels in two separate incidents. Also had a habit of sleeping with other men's wives.

There's also Naunakhte, also from Deir el Medina, who wrote a will disinheriting half of her children. She had property she had inherited from her father, and initially wrote a will where all her children were included. When she remarried, she updated the will to include her husband, but then disinherited several of her children because they did not look after where when she was sick and she couldn't be bothered with kids like that. Absolute power move.

[cheetee]

I told the discord I'd write an angsty character exploration if someone wrote me a comedy-adventure. So here's a story about @rinnysega's OC Gustavo Pinheiro, with some appearances from @papermachette's Chepe.

The Mosaic of Gustavo

“The memory loss,” says Gustavo, “It’s getting worse.”

They used to meet in the Casa Madrigal. But these days Julieta swings by on Saturday, after the morning market, and lets herself into his house, saving him the walk. His leg aches more than it did in the past, he’s sure, and he finds himself out of breath at the bottom of the Madrigal slope; perhaps she’s noticed the walks getting harder for him. And Julieta must be grateful to go to his empty house and drink coffee, surely, with so many little daughters and sobrinos at home.

“Getting worse?” says Julieta.

She has a little notebook, nestled in a bigger printed-book full of dense Latin words. Years ago she used to borrow his books on anatomy and study them; her studies have taken her beyond his outdated books of muscles and bones, though, which are better suited for learning to draw nudes than practising medicine anyway. She takes notes as he speaks, like a true doctor.

“Or so Chepito tells me.” He chuckles. “He says I forget things we did together. Or say things that didn’t happen. More often these days. Or maybe he’s just in a bad mood more?”

Julieta’s lips thin. “Chepe has always been ill-tempered.”

Julieta doesn’t like to tell Gustavo she dislikes Chepe, but there couldn’t’ve have existed two people more different in the world. Gustavo isn’t really bitter about it. Can he blame her? Sometimes Gustavo sees the way Chepe treats women and hopes none of his friends will end up on the receiving end of the thing Chepe calls romance. 

“He’s mellowed out for Brianna, hasn’t he?” Julieta asks him.

Gustavo’s expression brightens. He’d almost forgotten; of course his Chepito was different these days, with his little at girl.  “The baby! Sí, he adores her. I knitted her a little blanket, I don’t know if I showed you...”

“You did.” Julieta gives him a tight-lipped smile, but he recognises the flash in her eyes; a spark of confusion and upset. He’d said something he shouldn’t have said. But what it was, she doesn’t tell him. She only continues: “Chepe tells you you’re forgetting things. Like what? When did he say that?”

 “Have I told you about my first kiss?”

That takes Julieta off guard. She hesitates a moment, ignoring her notebook; then she laughs, her eyes crinkling the way they do, like an affectionate cat. If Gustavo could make drawings that could move, he would’ve loved to capture that movement, the way she tilts her head covers her mouth.

“No, Gus, never. It must have been a long time ago, no? That seems a reasonable thing not to remember.”

“Because I was talking to Chepe about my first kiss. It was Viviana Quinteros, it was a dare. We must only have been teenagers then. I mentioned it, because he must’ve known, right, we were friends then, no? And he said-”

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

“Kiss me.”

Chepe was only fourteen, but he looked older. Hard work and plentiful sunlight were giving him a man’s body like his father’s, well-toned and dry-skinned, and even if he was short, his facial hair was growing out more thickly than Gustavo’s. They sat side-by-side at the edge of the quarry-pool, the chill of the setting sun beginning to surround them, and they moved closer together, and Chepe grabbed Gustavo’s shoulder and said the words like they were urgent.

“What?” said Gustavo.

“Kiss me,” repeated Chepe, “If it’s true that you like boys as well as girls. Kiss me.”

Gustavo opened his mouth to protest. Then he looked at his friend’s face, the bow of his lips, the way his dark eyelashes framed his eyes, the half-smirk that Gustavo had looked at so often, and thought two deadly, dangerous words: Why not?

Chepe closed his eyes when Gustavo kissed him. The feeling was wetter and less natural than Gustavo had expected, but Chepe didn’t seem to wince; Gustavo didn’t want to close his eyes, didn’t want to miss the reddening of Chepe’s cheeks or the punch-drunk surprise in him as he pulled away. 

The two of them stared at each other for a moment, and then Gustavo grinned, mirroring that cocky grin that Chepe had so easily mastered.

“Couldn’t resist me, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Chepe went from bliss to anger so quickly, and he punched Gustavo in the arm, making Gustavo laugh, because he knew Chepe liked it and he knew Chepe wasn’t really angry. Chepe tried to shove Gustavo into the water, and Gustavo leaned into him, relishing the way his friend’s eyes widened in surprise and anticipation.

“Or what?” said Gustavo, pinning Chepe to the ground, and Chepe’s mouth twisted into an exhilarated grin.

“Kiss me again,” he said, hungrily, and Gustavo pushed him into the grass and

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

"Chepe said that was years after the first kiss, said I’d practically lost my virginity by fifteen. Which is, hey, pretty rude.”

Julieta laughs. Her sense of humour, hidden underneath layers of politeness and kindness, takes effort to discover; but it is, once uncovered, dirtier than one would imagine. She says, “I remember rumours about a very young Gustavo.”

“Me too. I don’t remember feeling like a Cassanova.”

“Does anyone feel like a Cassanova, at fifteen?” she smiles. She pauses to scribble something down in her notebook. “That doesn’t seem like so significant a detail to me, where forgetting things is concerned. Why don’t we try something more recent?”

“Like what?”

“Tell me something,” she pauses to read something in her book, “A piece of news. Something you heard in the last week.”

“In the last week?”

He scours his mind. This week... He hobbled his way up to the cliff to sketch the trees. He always does. Picked up his groceries. Chepe came around with two bottles of beer, didn’t he? But Gustavo isn’t big on news or gossip, really, and the only person he can think of who would tell him news is Julieta herself. 

He says so, and she laughs. "That would be fine."

An interesting thing... Didn’t Alejanda tell him something interesting, last time he saw in her town? He brightens up.

“It was pretty recent, wasn’t it?” he says, “When we were all at the Casa Madrigal and—”

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

“Mirabel, leave Señor Pinheiro alone,” said Julieta, “He’s here for his check-up.” But she was distracted, and not really paying attention to either of them. She’d been distant all week, and growing only colder with each failed search party and passing day with no news. And what could Gustavo do? With his leg, he couldn’t join the teams of men scouring the jungles, and she wouldn’t open up to him at the best of times, let alone now.

Little Mirabel dawdled in the doorway, glancing between her feet and him, not quite leaving and not quite staying either. Julieta was still bustling around the cupboards, so he bent down, grinning, and said, “It’s alright. Are you helping your Mamá in the kitchen, now that you’re five?”

“Sí,” she said shyly. 

“Will you learn how to bake bread like her?”

(Julieta often mixed her bread dough while Gustavo was there. Check-up was a generous term; it was more the cast that Gustavo needed to eat a substantial amount while he was there, and she rarely sat down to eat with him, preferring to do something that kept her hands busy and talk to him about his week. She said it helped with boundaries. What boundaries, he wasn’t sure.)

“Sí,” she said. 

She’s usually much more chatty. He glances at Julieta, sees that she’s still distracted, and gestures Mirabel a little closer.

“Are you feeling sad because your door faded away?” he asked her, and she nodded.

He was about to point to his leg and say, yes, I was sad after my leg broke too, but it’ll be okay, I found a good job that I like to do even if my leg doesn’t work, I painted all the pictures in town, and soon you’ll be so big I’ll have to change the mural in town so you’re a big tall lady, would you like to help me? But before he could get to any of those things, Julieta came around to sit at the table, shooing Mirabel away.

“Mamá is working, don’t bother Señor Pinheiro, he needs to eat,” she said, sounding tired and tense. She shut the door behind Mirabel and sighed.

“I don’t mind her,” said Gustavo, and Julieta kept holding onto the door for a long moment before turning to him and smiling.

“Thank you,” she said, “Now, we should get started. Tell me

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

"-And little Camilo got his gift! He shapeshifted into your mom and ran around, wasn't it chaotic?" Gustavo gave her a grin. "That's news."

Julieta nods. But her reaction is muted, unamused; it wasn't the answer she was hoping for, and he feels a bubble of annoyance rising in his stomach, because he's doing his best, and isn't that enough? He tries to change the subject. 

"How is Camilo?" he asks. "And Mirabel. The little twins."

That makes her laugh warmly. "The same as ever, Gus. Camilo causes trouble, and Mirabel... Well, I worry about Mirabel."

"Your youngest daughter," says Gustavo, "That's normal." 

Julieta's smile is sad. "Yes, I think so. But I can't help it." 

"I would have liked a daughter," says Gustavo wistfully, "To fuss over. Isn't that what they're for?" 

"Very true," says Julieta, and she looks up from her notebook to pat Gustavo on the hand.

"Oh, but," Gustavo brightens up, "Have you heard about Rosana Villanueva? I was talking to la Maestra and she told me—" 

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

"I'm sorry, Gustavo, but it simply wouldn't be appropriate," says Alma Madrigal. 

"Alma—" He remembers being warned to be polite. "Doña Madrigal, didn't we...?" 

"I know," said Alma, her mouth hardening into a grimace, "I know what we spoke about. But the fact simply remains, a family of two parents with good jobs is simply a better way for Miguel to grow up."

"I understand, but the Henriques already have three children... Wouldn't it be easier...?" 

"They approached me, Gustavo," she said, "I am sorry. I am sure you would have provided a fine home."

Gustavo felt his world, which had grown brighter and sweeter so much in the last month, begin to slip through his fingers and drip away. 

"I still can," he tried, not wanting to have let it go without a fight, but Alma Madrigal shook her head. 

"I'm sorry," she said, "Maybe another time. At least you still have

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

"Rosana Henriques wants someone to raise her grandchild, you know, because Imelda... she's, ah, not well... And I was thinking of letting her know, you know, I could be a surrogate. We'd have to find a wet nurse, but I think Maria Donato is due around them and she could help, and after that..."

Gustavo gives a bright smile and says, "It wouldn't be right for me to be the Papá, of course, if the Mamá is still there... But I could be Tío Gus. It would be—" 

"Excuse me," says Julieta, "Just one moment." And she hurries out like she really has to go. Women and the bathroom, Gustavo thinks to himself. 

It's a long moment, and Gustavo plays with the pages on Julieta's book. It's got thin pages, and the words have been printed as small and compact as possible, and he wonders that she gets through it all when it's not even in Spanish. 

Julieta comes back after a time, rubbing her eyes. 

"Is everything alright?" asks Gustavo. 

"Yes, yes, fine, thank you," she says, and gives him a watery smile. "We should... I was thinking, we should create a photo album for you. It might help."

"Help with what?" asks Gustavo. 

"The memory loss."

"Ah. Yes, maybe. I'm sure it could be supplemented with sketches."

Julieta takes her place opposite him again, and she gently shuts her notebook. This is the signal of the end of the checkup, the beginning of the social visit... Although, these days, the lines are increasingly blurred. She takes her empty coffee cup and gazes into it thoughtfully. 

"Do you remember," she says, "My wedding? Augustín and I?" 

"Ay, Julieta, I would never forget your wedding," he responds, and holds his hands out, framing an invisible stretch of canvas. "They wouldn't let me see the wedding dress, so I had to design one for the portrait. Blue, with the same flowers from the plates, and pearls around your neck..."

"Dolores asked me where the pearls were now," says Julieta, "And I refused to tell her, said they'd be her inheritance... It was mischievous of me, but I find it very funny, the idea of them looking for that fine pearl necklace when I'm gone... Not knowing it only existed in your imagination."

"Ah!" says Gustavo. "I would've given Augustín diamonds in his pocket-watch, if I'd have thought!" 

They laugh.

"But the pictures," says Julieta, "All those photographs, they're just sitting around now... Maybe I should bring them out, make a book for you."

"It couldn't hurt. It sounds like fun. But photographs don't capture things like drawings, do they? I drew you..." 

Gustavo closes his eyes and moves his hands, tracing over the lines. 

"You and Augustín, you pulled away from the kiss," he says wistfully, "And you look into each other's eyes, just for a moment, at the top of the altar, in your own world. Ah! It was so romantic! Not a person in town didn't believe in true love that day."

"I remember that sketch," says Julieta, "It was beautiful. You said you'd tear it out and give it to me when you had filled the sketchbook... Whatever happened to it?" 

"It's..." Gustavo begins, and has to pause to think. "I brought it home after the wedding and—" 

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

Gustavo watched Chepe sleeping, the rhythmic rise and fall of his bare chest in the dim light, and thought: I could live this way. 

It was torture, watching Chepe live; watching him tear through women like paper gowns, breaking hearts, coming home and growling about the current stupid bitch and her fucking bullshit, and Gustavo had to listen, aching with loneliness.  But in these moments it seemed terribly, terribly worth it, the way Chepe breathed softly, his face cast gentle and relaxed in the rising sunlight. Yes, Gustavo could live for these moments, would do it all again just to have these snatched handfuls of minutes, pretending Chepe loved him back and it was just the two of them.

Gustavo leaned, as gently as he could, over to the side of his bed. He pulled out his sketchbook, sliding the pencil out from where it was fixed between the bindings, and began to draw. 

This moment, frozen in time. A little piece of heaven, sequestered away, just for him. 

But the scratching of pencil on paper was too loud, and when Gustavo glanced up Chepe was groaning and turning around, narrowing his eyes at the sketchbook before Gustavo could hide it. 

"What're you doing?" muttered Chepe, voice thick with sleep."

Gustavo, infatuated with the gravel of his voice and the weight of sleep in his eyes, said, "You looked beautiful."

Chepe stared down at the sketchbook in Gustavo's hands, seeing the half-formed image of himself, and said nothing. Gustavo, feeling sentimental and feeling brave, said, "I love you—" 

Chepe reached over, grabbed a handful of paper, and yanked. Gustavo closed his eyes; there was the rip of tearing paper. 

"I told you not to fucking draw me," growled Chepe, tossing the handful of paper aside, letting it scatter onto the floor, and rolled onto his side to sleep again. 

Gustavo didn't feel angry. He felt exceptionally stupid, and the parts of him that knew he shouldn't were buried, long buried, and he ignored their cries. He whispered, "I'm

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

"Yes, that's right! I was so tired I just tossed it right aside. I must go and have a look for it." Gustavo drums his fingers on the table. "I should make you a new one. You and your two girls..."

"Three girls." 

"Three— Oh, yes, the three girls. With the..." He crinkles his brow. "The baby..."

"Mirabel."

He brightens. "My parents always said if they had a girl, they'd call her Mirabel. Have I told you that?" 

Julieta's fingers curl. 

"I don't remember," she says, after a pause. 

"Maybe if I had a little girl, I'd call her Mirabel."

"Yes, perhaps." Julieta is reaching for her notebook. "I should get going, Gustavo."

"So soon?" 

But it's nearly dark. Where does the time go? 

He walks her to the door, cheered by her company, but she says little else. 

"You won't stay for a drink?" he asks. 

"Oh, I have to go get ready for the party tomorrow..."

"The party?" 

"Antonio's..."

She looks him carefully in the face for a moment. Then she surprises him by leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. 

"Goodnight," she says, although it felt like just a moment ago that it was afternoon. 

"Goodnight," responds Gustavo, giving her a smile he hopes is cheerful, and she slips away and walks off, down the street.

It's not until he gets back to the kitchen that he sees she's left her textbook here, the dense one, and despite its weight he's sure he can catch up with her. 

He has to fiddle with the latch to get the door open, but he's sure she's still in earshot. 

"Julieta!" 

He looks around for her, squinting. 

"You forgot your book," he calls. 

But the night is empty, and silent in response; and eventually he draws back into the house. 

[beccasissy69]

My next session was a much less sexual one (although I was plugged). I was watching long hair videos. Brushing, curlers/rollers, ASMR hair and ASMR salon. Some were solo and some were very chatty. One really stuck out, a housewife doing a 50s style curled look and about half way through I was really feeling her and her life...or at least the life she was pointing towards.

This was followed up by some Cougar fun and once I learned to skip videos that were all sex (hot but kind of missing the point), it went swimmingly and some of the seductions had me drooling.

Then I was watching vintage porn films/videos, ideally the 70s or thereabouts. They were pretty different from what we get now, the styles and the makeup (so much blush!) but the sex seemed different as well. It was a little slower paced and felt "realler" and it never had the poundings you see today.

Next was hijab videos which were odd...CFNM but with completely reversed energy. Some of them were a little too silly, mostly when it was porn stars just using them as a prop but some were super hot. One where the guy came inside her veil and then pulled it down and she left which had me drooling.

I was then back in a chat room but they were all pretty dead (this was Superbowl Sunday which might explain it). A couple did start to chat but stopped responding pretty quickly. Frustrating and not in a good way 😾.

Then I was doing some prep for Valentine's Day and listening to some romantic ASMR to get me in the right mood. This was a nice change of pace and I'll skip V Day and the day after because I wrote them up a lot close to the time!

I then rewatched a French film (Pulsion) Goddess had me watch a while ago. I half remembered it but as I watched it this time, the main character was much less interesting and some of the others (mostly the married couple) stuck out more.

Pregnant sex was my next topic, which drove me absolutely wild. Tender but the guy came across as much more masculine and domineering (probably the amount of times they touch or rub her belly).

The final one I'll write about here was my weekend task. Which was giving my torso a BJ while applying yogurt/cream etc to the tip and watching gloryhole/female POV BJs on my headset. Then the last 20 minutes was close up of cum shots or lipstick videos.

This was a huge pain to set up 😂😂😂. First it took me a while to figure out I needed to prop the torso up on a chair. Then I started but I'd forgotten that I need to download videos I want to use on my headset. But once I got it all working, it absolutely sung...as long as I didn't move my head too violently (which threw off the headset).

This was one where I finished super late and took about 10 minutes just sitting and calming down afterwards 😅.

[spaceprinceencie]

Born to Die, Lived to Know

I wrote a story about Karkat dealing with the trauma of being a mutant because I don't think it's nearly addressed enough in the comic. I've actually had this idea floating around in my head for a while now. It was inspired originally by his route in pesterquest (highly recommend btw). I posted this to my ao3 a while ago but I thought I'd throw it on here now too, because I finally have some time and mental space to start posting things again!

Read it here on my ao3 or below the cut!

CW/TW: Angst, Trauma, Loneliness, Anxiety, implied PTSD, brief mentions of not eating, brief mention of vomiting, mild injury, some blood (b/c that is the source of his trauma)

It’s one of those nights on the meteor. Karkat’s commands that no one fall asleep have long been forgotten. At first, some of them believed him. At first, some of them were scared enough to listen to him. But like always, they adapted to that fear, because that’s how trolls were meant to be. You couldn’t run a productive society based on terror if no one could adapt to at least some level of fear. Really, Karkat thinks, the humans aren’t much different in that respect, even though their world seems so cushy compared to Alternia. But he’s seen that humans have the ability to adapt to some level of fear as well.

It all boils down to normalizing it, he guesses. The more normalized the terror, the less it feels like something to be afraid of.

It didn’t help that sleep was a pretty crucial part to living. Not many trolls can really handle going more than two days without sleep. Karkat knows that there are some trolls trained for it, to stay awake for days on end so they can meet their Empire-appointed quota for whatever shitty lowblood job they get stuck with.

He pauses in his thoughts for a moment, his finger stilling in the air where he had been lightly tapping it on the desk in front of his keyboard. He knows that there were some trolls trained for it, he corrects himself. Who knows if any of his species is alive outside the twelve of them on this meteor. Karkat drags his claws roughly through his hair.

The glare of his computer screen is harsh and bright, especially with all the other lights in the room off. He had actually settled down in a room alone to try to sleep himself. The others had stopped listening to his warnings, unsurprisingly. Really Gamzee was the first to break. Well, Karkat isn’t entirely sure break is the right word for him. He isn’t sure if Gamzee ever really understood the warnings or took them seriously.

Gamzee has always had a preponderance for staying up for days at a time, mostly zoning out or doing stupid shit like that fucking horn dance he’s been doing for literal hours a day recently. Karkat guesses that he just accidentally stayed up, and then eventually passed out. When he didn’t wake up screaming like Karkat had, it was like the unspoken fear was immediately neutralized. Some people were still wary, smart enough to know that even horrorterrors might not phase the clown, but eventually, one by one, they gave in to the exhaustion. Karkat isn’t sure what changed, but no one seemed to encounter whatever visions he had.

Karkat, on the other hand, was different from most of the other trolls he had met. Certainly different from everyone else he knew here on the meteor. Karkat had terror imprinted on his every action from the moment he was grown enough to understand what his blood color meant. There was nothing to normalize his terror. Adapting to it would mean death. He didn’t have that luxury.

That’s why, an entire day and a half after the last of his friends finally gave in and got some sleep, he was staring at an illuminated desk with exhaustion tearing at his mind. He had tried to sleep, really he did. But laying in the dark, the terror crept back up, just as cold and vicious as it had always been. Terror of what lies in wait in his dreams, terror of what the future might hold, terror of being with himself too long without a shred of distraction. It had always been something of a challenge to stay angry when he was alone. But losing that anger was more terrifying than anything else, really. Anger was easier, easier than anything else brewing in the depths of his mind. It certainly hurt less on the backswing.

He thought about trolling some of the humans for a little while, just to take his mind off things, but then thought better of it. He felt the exhaustion rattling his thinkpan so hard that he wasn’t sure what he’d say at this point. He wasn’t even sure if it would be coherent.

He thought very briefly about asking Kanaya to just… sit in the room with him, while he slept. But he dismissed the thought. She would agree, he knows. But he wasn’t sure he could live with himself, with that embarrassment. He wasn’t sure if her presence would even help him sleep, or if it would just drive his nerves up even higher. He really wished they had some sopor, it would at least have made the process a bit easier.

Karkat gets up from his desk, turning the computer off. The room is plunged into darkness, and he navigates to the human bed they had alchemized when they realized sopor-less cocoons weren’t all that comfortable. It was better than the cold metal floor of this weird fucking complex, he guessed. He lies down, not even bothering to get under the covers. He expects he’ll be up again in about fifteen minutes, like he’s been doing for the last few hours.

He sighs heavily, staring hatefully up at the dark ceiling. He closes his eyes, trying once again to regulate his breathing, control the flow of his thoughts.

But it isn’t long before he’s thinking about Alternia. He had managed to finally drift a bit, and then a stray thought caught onto the edge of his consciousness like a vicious fishhook. It pulled him slightly back into the waking world, but not enough that the images stopped flashing in front of his eyes - vivid and intense.

Alternia, where he had been marked for death the moment he was born. His home planet which would have seen him culled seconds after taking his first breaths. Something curls in his stomach, and images of the brooding caverns flash through his mind’s eye. His body as a grub would’ve been a blindingly bright image of exactly why he should have been killed. Some jade blood should’ve ended him then and there. And yet somehow he managed to get through all the trials and get picked by a lusus who decided not to kill him either. He’ll never understand why.

Not why they didn’t kill him. Why no one thought that letting him live might be the cruelest option.

And that’s the thought that takes hold of his mind when he finally slips under just enough that he can’t bring himself back out. Like drowning, he knows he has to escape before it gets ugly, but the more he thrashes, the deeper he goes. Down, down, down into the depths of a nightmare, inescapable. He knows it's a dream, usually does, but he never has much control over it. It’s more like reliving the worst memories of his life while locked in his own body - sick with the knowledge of what comes next.

The nightmares are never slow, either. They’re a rapidly shifting collage of all the worst points in his life. As if his mind has a hurricane of every horrible panic-riddled moment, ready for him to be thrown into and tossed around like debris.

It starts with one of the first days he learned of all the ins and outs of the hemospectrum. More than just the castes, but the outcastes too. He learned he’s one of them, and to expose that would be to die. He was barely a sweep old, and terror had been forced upon him like a hot branding iron. He wore his symbol in a shade of gray that felt more incriminating and more burning than the actual color of his blood. He learned early how to talk his way around the questions, if shouting philosophy and expletives counted as talking. He learned even earlier how to hide when he knew talking wouldn’t save him.

Then there was the day he had gone downstairs at the wrong time, and his lusus had accidentally slashed his arm open. There was terror choking him as the incriminating candy apple red splattered across the floor and stained his clothes. What he was most scared of though, was whether that color would finally remind his lusus that he shouldn’t be alive. He fled the room faster than he’d ever fled before, and he locked himself in his room for over a week. When he finally came back out, the wound barely a line and hidden by his sweater, he had lost a few pounds. His lusus brought home a fresh kill that night, but Karkat still couldn’t stand in the same room without that fear creeping up into his gut. He ate stale grubcakes in his room alone instead.

And of course there was a montage of every experience he turned down in order to hide his blood color from the few people in the world he hazarded to call friends. Every FLARP session he refused, every coffee date missed, every event ticket passed by. Some vicious pang of loneliness ripped through him.

Finally, it comes to the training sessions he had sweated through for hours a day everyday. He was never a fighter, he knows. He was always some pathetic weakling, clearly not made for fighting like every other troll was. The guardian of his planet in sgrub was the final nail in the coffin on that minor source of self-confidence. He can’t believe how fucking dumb he was. How blind his optimism was back then - expecting he could just prove his skill enough that they would have no choice but to let him be a threshecutioner? That they would just overlook his blaring mutation? It was so sad, he sometimes can’t believe he actually thought those things.

But then again, some horrible voice in his brain says, then again… what was the alternative? To believe that if you got to your Ordeals by some miracle, you would still just be killed on the spot anyway? What would the point of living even have been then? No, he had to believe he had some level of power, of agency, in that outcome. He had to believe in something.

If there was nothing he could do, why was he even kept alive in the first place? Just to suffer for sweeps in terror, hiding from everyone, shying away from living his life, and finally surviving to see his Ordeals just… to die?

Was that all he was good for? Just a mutant marked for death by his very genetic code. Karkat Vantas - born to die, having lived long enough to find out. How fucking pathetic.

He wasn’t even any good at leading, really. No one listened to him, especially not now, after they lost the chance to actually win their sgrub session. No, he lost the respect of everyone around him little by little, every day, every hour he tried to convince them he was good for something. It’s always been like that, that horrible voice in his head tells him, you’ve always been able to talk big but you’ve always ruined it once you tried to make good on all that lip service.

Karkat wakes up in a cold sweat, blood pusher thumping wildly in his chest, so hard it almost hurts. He tastes blood in his mouth, and turns to the side of the bed to vomit onto the floor. He curses, squeezing his eyes closed at the sight of the color he can’t seem to escape. The sentence he can’t seem to serve. His ball and chain, his fate and destiny. The cruelest joke ever played on him by the unforgiving, vicious Paradox Space.

He turns back over, burying himself into the blankets and pillows.

It's a small, hollow victory when he cries so hard he finally fatigues himself into a deep, dreamless sleep. But he supposes a small, hollow victory is the trend in his life. He might have escaped whatever fucked up cosmic joke he had been served on Alternia, but he only ever ended up in some other fucked up cosmic joke. The butt is always his death, it seems. Frankly, that punchline is getting old. Maybe Paradox Space needs to get new material.

[pamiiap]

i wrote something while listening to s2 of the magnus archives

-

(The following is a transcript of the audible parts of corrupted tapes found in The Magnus Institute's Archives.)

-and whenever I'm around someone too long they start to... forget. That's why I needed you to write that note for yourself, just in case it happens to you too.

Alright. I will just read the note for the record. Ahem.

You are taking a statement of Mariella Scout, about a phenomenon where people around her start to experience short-term memory loss. Whenever you forget, please add a tally to the space below.

Signed,

Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist

You may begin.

(The feed cuts out.)

-I thought I heard someone say her name was Agatha or Agnes or something like that, I don't recall...

I'm sorry, how did you get in here? This place is off limits.

(The first voice sighs.) Just read the damn paper, I'm sick of having to explain myself. And don't say you don't believe me, because I know you do. Just let me finish talking.

...

Oh. I- er. I'm sorry, do continue, Ms. Scout.

(The feed cuts out.)

Hey, this place is-

Off limits, you're not supposed to be here, this is a private institution, blah blah blah. Mr. Sims, why don't you ever read your letter first? Just, you know what?

(The rustling of paper can be heard.)

I'll tally for you. Since, you seem to keep forgetting.

Oh. Okay. Do go on Miss...

Scout, Mariella. Jesus. And so-

(The feed cuts out.)

And. That's it.

That's... what? I'm sorry, this is-

(A loud groan can be heard.) Off limits! Archive! Gah! By far, you are the most *annoying* person this has happened to. Most people just shrug it off, but you? You keep asking! In our half-hour conversation, you have forgotten why I was here twenty-three times! Most everyone only forgets once or twice or, if they're unlucky, maybe a dozen but- but-

Miss...

It's SCOUT! That's it, I'm done. Just. Bye, Jon.

(A door slams shut.)

(The feed cuts out.)

-ou're still here? It's half-past six.

Martin? What- I just got here. It can't be more than two o' clock.

Oh. Uh, that's not good. They said her side-effects would wear off in an hour.

What side effects? Who's-

One of the people you took a statement for today. You wrote a letter for yourself on your desk.

I don't rememb- (The sounds of rustling paper.) Oh. Well. That explains it.

Here, I have a pen. Let me add to the tally.

I've forgotten almost thirty times?

That we know of. She said you stopped tallying at one point, and she didn't stop you.

So. Why do you remember her?

If you'd listen to her statement, you would know it only happens to when she's around people physically. Recordings and such, you can still remember.

Then, why am I...

I don't know. Sorry.

(The feed cuts out.)

Why've you brought a second tape recorder in?

Jon? Did you forget again?

Sasha, what-

Oh, good lord. Ever since that statement you took yesterday, you keep forgetting things. I'm using this tape recorder so that you can listen to yourself.

And, who told you to do that?

You.

Oh. Go on, Sasha.

(The feed cuts out.)

Ugh. My head...

Jon? Hey, you're awake!

Tim? But- the worms- Prentiss, she was just here, we have to-

Jon! Jon, wait! You've forgotten again.

What?

Prentiss is dead. They incinerated her body months ago. Hell, her ashes are on your desk!

What are you talking about? Last I remember, this place had *thousands* of worms.

Oh, for God's sake, *look*-

(The feed cuts out.)

-y name? Jon... what's my name?

I- I don't- The place is o-

(Three people say this at the same time.) Off limits!

How many times has he forgotten, Martin?

...A hundred and fifty seven.

Jesus.

God.

Jon doesn't want to be taken to the hospital so, I'd say we just. Take shifts watching him.

That's... unethical, to say the least. I vow we take him to-

Since, when did you care about ethics?

Well, I-

(The feed cuts out.)

-don't think he can even walk down the street! He forgets ever two minutes and-

Mr... Blackwood? Mr. Bouchard?

Jon! I thought you'd gone mad by now, Christ. How are you feeling?

I'm feeling... why am I in the Archives?

You're- you don't remember? Do you know the name Sasha James? What's his name? What's my-

Martin.

Sorry, Elias.

Jon, who's Head Archivist?

Uh. Ms. Robinson? Gertrude, I think her name was. Saw her once.

Oh, fuck.

(The feed cuts out.)

-t's getting worse! Why won't you let us take you to the hospital, Jon?

I'm- I'm not injured? Tim, where are...

We're in the Archives. Gertrude Robinson is dead, you're Head Archivist. You don't trust me because you think I murdered her, for some reason. You forgot Sasha. Elias' first name. Hell, one time you forgot *milk* existed.

And you are...?

Fuck!

(The feed cuts out.)

Hey, look at me. Your name is Jonathan Sims, you work at The Magnus Institute as an Archivist. My name is Martin Blackwood, one of your assistants. You're not at college. Stay with me, Jon.

I... this is all really hard to believe, you know?

Yeah. I do.

...

You forgot again, didn't you?

I-

Your name is-

(The feed cuts out.)

Mum? Please, where- where is she?

Jon. It's okay. She'll be here soon. Stay calm.

(The feed cuts out.)

My name... my name is... Jo- J-

Take your time.

(The feed cuts out.)

-AAH! Wh- what? Martin? Where's Sasha? What-

Prentiss is dead, here's her ashes. You've been forgetting things, Jon.

Who's Jon?

(The feed cuts out.)

His memory keeps fluctuating. Sometimes, he can remember his name, our names, where he works... Sometimes, he... it doesn't seem to be as worse as before. He isn't calling me his Da, after all.

(The feed cuts out.)

This is going to hurt a little so, I want you to just... start singing.

Oh. Uhm. Okay. Mister...?

Call me Martin.

Okay.

In three, two, one-

(The feed cuts out.)

Ugh. What the hell? Where-

Jon?

Martin?

You remember me! Holy shit! Wait, what position are you in at The Magnus Institute?

Head... Archivist? Martin, what?

It worked! Yes, yes, yes! Oh my god, I'm so glad you're okay.

(The sound of clothes rustling.)

I- you're hugging me?

Sorry! I'll back off if-

No, no, it's okay.

Oh.

Thank you, Martin.

(Tape ends.)

[johnsamericano]

𝒯𝒽𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓎 𝓁.𝓉

This is a continuation to ten’s fic I wrote for 23 days of NCT, which you can read here. There will be more chapters to this, so I hope you enjoy!

warnings: mentions of sex.

summary: Your mother hires the most wanted tailor in town to design a new dress for the ball, who turns out to be completely different from what you’d expected. But you couldn’t allow yourself to catch feelings for him, not when you were finally so close to marrying your childhood crush.

Threads of destiny m.list.

“Is everything alright, miss y/n?”

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been locked in your room for about ten minutes now. Do you require my assistance?”

“Please, I'm having trouble with my corset.” You tried fastening it by yourself, but it turns out your arms weren't that long.

The maiden twisted the doorknob, walking in with her head down to avoid any sort of eye contact. Her cold hands slid along your back as she tied up the piece of clothing, triggering memories of what had just happened a few moments ago. Once again, you could feel that warm sensation installing at the bottom of your tummy.

“Mr. Seo looks very handsome, he's dressed in a white suit.” She said with a hint of mischief.

Ah yes, the white suit. A popular tradition amongst the town inhabitants. Whenever a gentleman intended to ask for a lady’s hand, he'd dress in all white to meet with the male in charge of her family.

You knew it was bound to happen, but not so soon, especially after your short encounter with the tailor.

“That’s...great.”

The special corset Ten had confectioned had to be discarded as neither of you knew how to adjust it. You never had the chance to look at the dress with it on, but it didn't look so bad with a traditional one.

“Let’s head out, Miss y/n.” The maid bowed, leading the way to the spiral staircase.

Johnny looked extremely handsome, his black hair perfectly slicked back as he spoke with your oldest brother, his best friend. But for some reason, the butterflies in your stomach didn't awaken at the sight of him like they usually did.

“There she comes.” Your mother stood up from the sofa she was sharing with your father, a bright smile plastered on her face. “You should leave for the ball already, it's getting late.” She encouraged.

Johnny and your father exchanged a firm handshake as if they were sealing a deal. Had he already asked for your hand?

“May I?” He extended his muscular arm your way, your fingers wrapping around it delicately, almost afraid you'd ruin the white fabric if you squeezed too hard. “Let’s get going.”

While riding on the carriage, Johnny was wearing his brightest smile, playing with something inside his pocket.

“You look adorable.”

Adorable. You didn't want to be adorable, you wanted to feel sensual, just like Ten had made you feel almost an hour ago.

‘Stop thinking about him.’

“Thank you, you don't look so bad yourself.” Johnny loved how cheeky you were, it was hard to find a woman like that in a small town like yours.

“I talked to your father.” He declared, unable to contain his excitement. But why couldn't you share his emotions?

“Really?” His hand rested on top of yours, warm as it squeezed your fingers, an improper action for an unmarried couple. Not as improper as letting another man touch your naked body, of course.

‘Stop thinking about him, y/n!’

Throughout the rest of your short trip, none of you brought up the topic again, but his hand remained on top of yours. The ride was calm, no sound but the birds chirping outside. A beautiful spring day.

“We’re here.”

If you’d known what awaited you inside the ballroom, you would've run in the opposite direction as fast as possible.

Not even half an hour into the event, Johnny dragged you along to the dance floor, wrapping his arms around your waist tightly while he gave small steps around the center of the room. Dancing was the only acceptable time where a man could touch a woman, and Johnny never missed the chance to use said privilege.

Normally, you enjoyed being pressed against his muscular chest, but not today. All your mind could think about was the tailor’s body, how well-formed it looked even though it wasn't nearly as big as Johnny's.

“Is everything alright?” Johnny inquired worriedly, his eyes looking for your lost ones. “Are you feeling sick?”

To be honest, you were. All those pairs of eyes staring at you with big smiles made the knot in your stomach tighten. The motive of the party was getting clearer with every person you saw leaning to whisper something to another with their eyes still glued on you.

“Everything’s alright.” You closed your eyes.

Just like your grandma used to say: out of sight, out of mind.

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

Nonetheless, Johnny decided it was best to take a seat, just to avoid any incidents. He sat down with a very pale version of you right at the center of the large table. Something was definitely going to happen.

“You made it!” With a dashing smile, Johnny stood up, walking towards a figure you knew all too well. “Look who’s here, y/n.”

Was this a divine punishment? Cause it sure felt like it.

“The dress turned out better than I expected. Nice to see you again, lady y/n.”

“H-how...?”

“We’ve been friends since we were kids, I recommended him to your mother.”

Ten remained as calm as ever, offering a comforting smile as his friend explained the nature of their relationship. But your mind was drifting to earlier that day when you let a simple tailor like him touch you. Stupid, stupid y/n.

“My lady?” He called for you with his high-pitched voice.

“Huh?”

“If you're not feeling well, I'll call the driver so we can get you home. Parties always come and go.” Your soon-to-be fiancee was about to stand up when you finally snapped out of it.

“I’m fine. You were saying your families had been friends for generations?”

“Oh, yes!” Your sickness was soon forgotten as he resumed the story. “He’s the first son of a foreign aristocrat family, though he gave up the family business to be a tailor. Quite a strange man as you can see.”

“A wealthy tailor, how odd.” It's all you had to say about the newly acquired knowledge.

An hour later, a group of maids came into the ballroom with treats of every flavor and cups of tea with the smallest flowers painted on them. Considering how nervous you were, having Ten just a seat away from you, you stuffed your mouth with every edible item on the long table. Johnny had taken notice of your strange behavior already, but he remained silent, not wanting to ruin the atmosphere the guests had created.

Right after the tea, the long table was quickly taken out of the room by trained butlers, leaving the dancing floor clear for any couple to dance on its elegant and shiny, cedar wood planks.

“May I have this dance?” The band had just installed themselves at a corner of the room, ready to start playing as soon as someone gave them a cue. Everyone seemed to be looking at you, expecting you to be the one to open the dance floor.

“You may.” Your elegant fingers wrapped around his hand, only squeezing lightly, a gesture proper of a lady like you.

As Johnny made his way to the center of the ballroom with your hand still in the warmth of his own, all eyes were fixed on you, the most popular couple in town. You were expected to be married by spring next year, though the idea didn't seem nearly as exciting anymore.

With a hand in the curve of your waist and the other one holding your fingers, he started spinning around, pacing his steps with the melody playing in the background. His chocolate orbs were staring into your soul with a tender smile, anxious for what would be coming after the ballad ended.

“Do you like me, y/n?” He didn't give you time to articulate an answer, the words coming rapidly out of his mouth as the beat started dying. “Because I sure do like you, and even if your feelings aren't as strong as mine, I'll make sure to even them throughout the coming years.” The room was silent, only the crack of his knee echoing through the fancy walls as he kneeled, pulling out of his jacket a small, wooden box with your initials and his written with gold. “Will, you, Lee y/n, do me the honor of being my wife?”

You were supposed to be looking at him, smiling at the good news. But your eyes were busy scanning the room, looking for him. Once your eyes met, he simply smiled, raising the glass of champagne he was holding as if making a toast.

He knew. He knew from the very beginning, and still, he decided to play innocent and steal your precious flower.

“Yes, my dearest Johnny. I'd be honored to spend the rest of my days with you.”

His lips gently pressed against the back of your hand, the sudden warmth of his plush, rosy pillows sending chills through your spine. You turned back to your now-fiancee right when Ten’s hand tightened around the glass, the tips of his fingers turning white from the pressure.

He envied his friend, for he’d never be able to have a lady such as you by his side. After all, despite his family’s wealth, he was nothing more than a simple tailor.

[dreamiesdotcom]

celestial | h.rj

Summary: To attribute full sight and still have the ability to describe things to someone who's never seen them means that you've felt the world deeper than anybody else.

Word count: 2164

a/n: idk whats up with me and midnights

Renjun's first question goes like this: "What does the pool look like?"

Naturally, Jeno panics; how do you explain a pool to someone who's never seen it? He's been so used to seeing it on a daily that he didn't even pay mind to the details. He debates on describing a rectangle, and then describing the waters, and then whatever the hell his 12-year-old mind could come up with. Naturally, he fails.

For him, you saved everything that day. You grabbed Renjun's hand, intertwining your fingers before grazing the water. "Do you feel that?"

"What exactly am I supposed to feel?"

"The water. Do you feel that constant flow and the relaxing cold?" you laughed then, patient even for the moody boy. He huffs out his cheeks and nods, you let go of his hands. "That's blue, Renjun. The water reflects the sky, and a pool is like a little ocean. An ocean is like a world filled with blue."

He tries to think of it, vast and endless fields of freedom. He couldn't, though; all he's known about the sky is that it was blue, and that blue is associated with sadness. He takes advantage of the fact that someone's willing to answer his question, and he asks again, "Is it scary?"

"Mhm, for some, it is. I'll let you in a secret, come here." You nod, and then he tilts his head to the side. He hears a splash, and doesn't expect it once he hears your voice after — "I'm actually scared of swimming pools."

"Didn't you just go in?"

"No, that was Jeno. I'm here." You poked a finger on his left arm, and he could tell you're wearing that cheeky grin. His stance softens. "I'm just beside you."

###

It was morning, the sun was shining and the scorching summer heat was kinder than everyone expected it to be. Somewhere around the room, Chenle and Jisung successfully trapped a sleeping Jaemin in a domino prison, Jeno's trying to convince them why this is such a bad idea and Mark is getting scolded by Hyuck. The TV fades to background noise, the plan of cooking extra pancakes long forgotten. Renjun leans his head on your shoulders, "What does the night look like?"

It felt like an odd question to ask as the sun is halfway to its peak, but Renjun's curiosity piques in no time. You hum for a bit to think, "The night is very different to a lot of people."

Very different for a lot of people... yeah, many things in the world are like that. He figured it out years ago when you told him about the swimming pools, and the airplanes, and the rollercoasters. He figured it out when you talked to him about books, when you taught him about colors, about shapes.

He still doesn't know what different looks like, and what importance it holds.

"Hyuck loves the night. You hear his laughter, right? He likes going on adventures and feeling the wind. I think, to him, the night looks like a harsh passing of the breeze you felt when we went out on a drive." He takes in your words. These days, he gets better with understanding metaphors — he learned that blue is not just a shade of sadness, and that sky doesn't always mean blue — he understands your words better. "But me... I just sleep. I don't like the night very much."

"Huh?"

"Have you ever been in a silent place, Jun?" you asked softly. "Not the silence you can fill with music. I'm talking about blank, emotionless silence; the one that echoes. The one that haunts you. The one that makes you feel alone. That's what the night looks like for me."

Renjun wanted to nod, and he wanted to say yes because he's been in that silent place for the longest time. It's all he's ever known, and it's all that he's ever seen; it's the only thing he sees — black, echoing, loud nothingness.

He didn't, though.

Instead, he asks a question, "What do you think about the night?"

"I think it's a question." comes quickly in a reply. "I still don't know how a nightmare town gives life to dreamers, but it does. It's a question I do not want to know the answer to."

Renjun knows of the stars and the sky, and you'd tried to explain their light by telling him what blinding comfort was — think of all your loneliest moments being washed away by the fire I told you about, and that's pretty much it, 'jun — and he knows of the big, gazing moon that changes shape now and then. It's what makes up most of the night, Jeno had said, so he knows that too.

What he doesn't know is why it seems so vicious to you, and what he doesn't know is that if he could see, would he have chosen to close his eyes to not witness such complex sadness.

###

It's at times like this when solace blooms in his heart. The rest of the world seems to be fast asleep, but he's so awake, so aware, so alive. You sit beside him, yet again brought him to the place you and Jaemin frequents in, and he ignores the jealous feeling in his chest. It's at times like this that Renjun realizes he's falling.

"Your smile must look beautiful," he wonders out loud. "Can you please tell me how your smile looks like?"

"Me?" You replied nonchalantly. Your chuckle passes as cold as the night breeze, and he wonders how the poet would write themselves as poetry. The blankness of your words dulls the hope in his eyes, "I... don't like it. My eyes... they always look tired. I always look tired. I hate myself."

For a moment, he dwells on his thoughts — Jaemin's brought you here, and you're more frequent here together, and he's seen how you looked against the glimmering stars. Did he fall in love? Did he want to keep you all to himself, like a little secret? Did he want to kiss you until all spite of yourself vanishes from your soul? Jaemin must've, Renjun knows. He knows because even blind, he's aware of how beautiful you truly are; not only he's heard it from his friends, but he feels it strongly. He couldn't see the city lights that he's heard of so many times, but he knows you shine brighter than them.

Hell, he couldn't even see you — he couldn't even see anything, but he knows you do. He knows you are. You think he's wrong, that he's more gorgeous, but he reaches for your hands.

He doesn't know what beautiful looks like. He just knows that it's breath-taking, soul-stealing, ethereal, and you.

"I think you smile like euphoria. I think you smile like the sound of music boxes, those with lovely tunes," he says, eyes closed and breathing fast. "I think... "

'I love you.' oh, how he wished it's easy to say those words. He purses his lips. "...you're one of the most beautiful people I've ever met, right next to my mother."

Beside him, you chuckled and held his hands. "You're sleepy."

"I am. Right now, I'm sleepy and I know you're beautiful." He squeezes your hands, looking at the direction he knows you're at. He lets out a shaky smile, "Tomorrow, I will be wide awake and I'd still think you're stunning."

It's at times like this that Renjun realizes he's falling. It's at times like this that he fears how much he can't wait to crash.

###

Renjun's biggest fear among many is that he'll never feel like this again.

He fell too hard. He fell too quickly and too harshly and he's only noticing it now when the impact makes itself known and he couldn't stand up. He knew that he was scared, he knew that he was afraid then, but only now did he know what it truly meant to be terrified; when he's sitting beside you on the roof, feeling the wind pass by, and he couldn't help but wonder what if it's not us, but I can never love the person meant for me because they're not you?

It's a silly thing, maybe. He did not believe in many things and fate is not one of the few he believed in. He thinks that love is something you choose for yourself — it's something you decide on your own. He thinks that the only problem in 'not being made for each other' is that you relied too much on what the stars wrote, and didn't write your story on your own. What even are these stars, aside from unknown giant speckles of light? Why should they decide someone's life?

He adores them, he knows, and now he can't help his curiosity: "How do the stars look like tonight?"

"They're bright. Very bright."

He swoons at the content sigh you let out before speaking, and he lets himself indulge. It's at moments like this when he lets himself feel, where he relishes in the adoration he nestles.

"They ought to be," he whispers to himself. "They gotta be bright if they're trying to outshine you."

Giggles fades to laughter, and genuine words burn forced. He could almost taste the bitterness of your words, "You haven't seen me."

Does he need to?

"I don't need to," he concludes. "There's so much more to you than what I couldn't see."

Because it's true. All those years you held this something in you, a piece of an old soul and an unknown heavenly something you ignored just so you could spite yourself. You had this way with words, this certain understanding of the world that he's never found in someone else. Renjun thinks that to attribute full sight and still have the ability to describe things to someone who's never seen them means that you've felt the world deeper than anybody else, and to know that the world is cruel but still choose to keep your eyes open is something that should be admired.

Right now, you're the closest to him you've ever been, and he bathes in the feeling of your lips hovering above his.

"I'm a mess, Huang Renjun."

"You're an art in progress," he whispers back, eyes fluttering shut as you close what little distance you have left. "But even half-made, you're a masterpiece."

###

If somebody asked Renjun if he ever saw this coming, he'd say "Why the fuck would you even ask me that question?"

Alright, jokes aside, never in his mind did he think life would turn out this way. First of all, a lot of unexpected things have already happened, but he's stubborn so of course, that doesn't convince him. He should've felt it coming, but of course, he refused to. After all, why would he even think of his best friend laying beside him on his bed, talking about random things all night in every way domestic? Why would he even think of you two being together, whispering sweet nothings to each other? He's guilty of doing those, yes, but that doesn't mean that he knows the answer. In a spur of the moment decision, he asks another question — "Why'd you choose me?"

"You're the only one who wanted me—IT'S A JOKE! Hey, hey, I was only kidding," you laugh, finding so many things entertaining about the fact that he's unamused. He preens at the soft kiss you placed on the edge of his lips, and then even more when you whisper, "You're the only one I wanted."

Normally, this is where his heart would do those weird flips and antics. This is the time where he'd feel like he's in another world, like he's invincible and oh so lucky to be thoroughly adored by the person he loves so much.

It's only that sometimes, Renjun feels unreasonable. He's sensitive and insecure and it's so much easier to find flaws in himself than to appreciate the things that made him who he is. Sometimes, he needs to ask some things he's not exactly sure of, things much like: "Even with... even with my eyes... like this?"

And it's you, and it's never dull when it's with you, everything is always beautiful and poetic. He doesn't know where that voice was coming from, but he hears it in his mind, and it tells him to trust you.

A butterfly kiss on each of his eyelids. A hand warm on the top of his hands. The rain pours heavily outside but it's muffled enough that it's calming, and all that he can think of is warm, so warm, so loved. You hold your foreheads close and keep them close for seconds, before you press a soft kiss on his lips, "Your eyes are beautiful, my love."

And for once, Renjun's not afraid to ask — "How do they look like?"

Beautiful and so much more.

"As if something straight out of a magical dream, because you are. You are magical," you whisper, breathing in slow intervals. "You are the closest to celestial a human could be."

[dormarunt]

VERY VERY VERY VERY EYE EMOJI ABT THIS FIC!! what all is on your wip list right now, if you dont mind my asking? 👀👀

I posted the fic! Earlier when I wrote this (I answer asks on my lunch break #adult) I had only disparaging things to say about this fic but now I kinda like it? Maybe? It's just smut. Okay so my endless WIP list:

- a two-parter fic based on a poem ("""poem""", more like nursery rhyme?). The first part is Andres' POV and it's finished, 7 short vignette chapters at 7-8k words in total. Beta'd, but not edited by me yet. AND!! i have a title for it, which - wow. - the second part of that fic, from Martin's POV, is... a mess, I have nothing but the structure and an idea that i can't seem to get on the page. - this wild, wild fic that I don't know whether I should even finish because it started off as the dumbest, crackiest idea that - and I'm not even kidding - the initial premise was based on a rude slang expression in Romanian. Does that sound vague? Well, would it make it easier if I said that the fic was completely heretical in its first incarnation, so I decided to handwave/create a magical, non-denominational being instead? No, not any clearer? Well, I have ~3k words of this and I abandoned it because I started writing this cracky idea too seriously and I don't even know what I want with it anymore. (But feel free to inquire more about it since I'm maybe embarrassed to even explain the expression that started it all) - this fic that's ready, I think? And has been ready for half a year but it's so depressing that I worked hard to un-depress it. I'm pretty sure it's even beta'd. Doesn't have a title (ofc) but it involves Martin and Andres in the Mint, and it's the both of them that are left behind, so they have to hide when the police is inside, and to wait to be rescued somehow. - a prompt (may or may not be yours?) that's pure smut, involving sextoys and a long day of edging, that lives 75% in my head. So far titled "GLASS". Because glass is a great material for toys <3 - this... thing? that sprung to me as a scene so it has no plot, temporarily called "Cockblocking beats" in which Martin gets jealous and denies any and all intimacy except they're both idiots and want it and hilarity would ensue if i got off my ass and wrote it. I got about 1.5k words of this, and a couple of ideas that are in my head alone. - this drabble I started eons ago of Martin enjoying some recreational choking with a Grindr hookup, in which he wakes Andres up in the middle of the night when he thinks he's killed the guy. barely 500 words and OMG. You know what I found in this document? The reply to a comment on my Secret Santa fic, that I began writing (in that doc) and apparently never finished. I am an ass, I'm sorry. And a disorganized ass at that, I only opened this doc to get a wordcount, otherwise I'd have completely forgotten it - in my mind, I died at that gorgeous comment, *and* replied too. On AO3, not in a document I haven't opened in *months*. - part 2 of "Love Instead". I have a good 5k of that written but I don't know if I should even finish it? I love the ending of part 1. It's heartbreaking and I might leave it at that. - the epilogue to "Libreria del Pecado" which is almost done but I can't finish. It's Martin (and Mirko) saying goodbye to the bookstore and I can't go through that again. I visited one of the bookstores I worked in, when @the--sound--of--rain came over to visit, and I CRIED. Just by being there. But I also cried when I saw that my first bookstore closed. I can't say goodbye to another bookstore, you know? the one in Libreria is based on both those beautiful places I worked in, and it's so close to my heart. - a mythology-inspired fic in which Martin is a "zburător" (and man would I love to hear how people pronounce that), which is a sort of succubus in Romanian folklore. They escape to a remote village in Romania and (spoilers since I may never finish this) Martin is that creature that unknowingly feeds off Andres, just by loving him the way he does, and he's the cause of his illness. Romanian folklore and all our specific mythical creatures are fascinating, though. And it holds up to have an old biddy speaking Spanish, what with the huge wave of Romanians migrating to Spain since 2007; it's facts.

Aaaand that's it! Thank you for giving me the chance to go through my WIP folder and to see what I have! You don't know how much this helped me! <3

[anissanightyoung]

Of kisses and Roman traditions

[SUMMARY] Where Seungkwan enjoys kissing you and blames it on the Romans.

Idk what this is. Fluff? Flirty!Seungkwan definitely. Oh and noona!reader😁

3,087 words

HAPPY 6 YEARS TO MY BOYS💖💎

masterlist

You and Seungkwan have already kissed on three occasions. You didn't want to put too much thought into it, and you never mentioned it anyway. But sometimes it's hard to stop thinking about what those kisses mean.

The first kiss was at Seungkwan's house. All your friends were already asleep, tired of playing all his board games, and drunk innumerable bottles of liquor. You had finished cleaning up when Seungkwan came towards you. "Yah, why did you clean? This is my apartment.” You laughed at his half-asleep state, you could see just how tired he was trying to beat Soonyoung with one drunk. He did his best, but Soonyoung kept giving him +2s and +4s of tequila or vodka and mixing alcohol in Seungkwan's system ended badly. He threw up twice overnight.

"Look at you, hangover's gonna bite your ass in the morning. And you know I can't sleep when this place is trashed." You can hear him laughing lazily, trying to stay awake. "Come on, let's get you to bed." Seungkwan grins, "Starving. Creamy cheese bagels. Feed me?" You laughed at his antiques. You met him a year ago, and you know drunk Seungkwan needs to eat before he goes to bed. "This is a way of waking up hangover-free, noona. You should try it." But you know that Seungkwan will still have a headache the following day, with an Americano as a telling sign.

"You're too cute for your own good, do you know that?" You joked to him, shaking your head. You were warming up the bagel when he took your hand. "Happy anniversary, noona."

"What?"

"Do you think I wouldn't remember? It's the anniversary of the first time we met.”

"What a sappy, sappy man you are." You laugh while finishing his sandwich. You turned around to face him and said "ah" so he could take a bite out of the bagel. When he did, it was as if he had tasted food for the first time. When he had already swallowed his first bite, he suddenly threw his arms into your waist, swallowing you in a cuddle. That surprised you because he's not usually that sweet, and now he's very touchy.

"What are you doing?" You asked him when he set his bagel down on the counter and tugged the ends of your shirt pulling you closer to him. This is the only time you have noticed how he is a few inches taller than you, and that he has long eyelashes a bit like those of a baby. You were that close to notice that. He slowly bent over your face, staring directly at your lips, waiting for you to stop him. When you didn't, he closed the gap between the two of you and kissed you softly.

When he retired, he laid his head upon the counter and slept his intoxication away. You figured he’s too wasted to have done so. When you asked about the kiss the next day, he brushed it off, saying,  “Sorry, got wasted trying to beat that tiger hyung.”  

“Just don’t do it again okay? Friends don’t do that.”

“Yepp,” popping the last letter, “I’ll take you to your favorite burger place to make it up to you.” He drags you to his car while holding your hand. When he was driving, he held your hand still. “Hey, it's not okay to kiss, but it's okay to hold hands?” There was complete silence.

“Friends can hold hands, sure. When did friends start kissing on the lips?

“Friends with benefits do.”

“Ya are you asking me to? Cause you know I’m not into that kind of shit!”

Seungkwan laughed at your outburst. “Joking noona, sheesh. You’re getting old.”

“Shut it, I’m barely a year older than you.”

Throughout the ride, he didn't let go of your hand. However, you didn't seem to mind the extra warmth.

The second kiss took place around a campfire.

Soonyoung told the three of you that he wanted to go for a drive, and you were shocked when he suddenly parked by a beach. You never asked how Soonyoung got all of your clothes and other belongings, but he seemed to need the view of a peaceful ocean at night, so you all decided. You were already there, and the semester had just ended.

While you and Seungkwan were eating dinner you bought near the store, Seokmin began jamming to a guitar and singing his heart out. Soonyoung was on the lookout for the beach's caretaker to inquire about some wood for a campfire.

“I swear, I know Soonyoung oppa is the most spontaneous of us all, but I never expected him to be this bad. Is it really because of the finals?” 

“He may look carefree, but hyung goes through a lot,” Seokmin chuckled. You understand; everybody has their own way of dealing with their baggage, and Soonyoung's are to be daring and laugh his problems away.

“Minnie, can you play the song you submitted for your music class as a group project?” Campfire?” You believe it is appropriate for the atmosphere of the evening. While Seokmin was singing, you glanced over at Soonyoung to see how he was doing. His smile is beaming, and his eyes are glassy as he takes in the stunning scenery in front of him. You were relieved to see that his plan worked.

You looked at Seungkwan, realizing that this was his first time hearing the track. “Kwannie, pay attention to the next line. It's comforting.” You sang with Seokmin when the part came up. It reminds you of how Seungkwan made getting out of bed easier every day. Your anxiety held you awake at night or made you fearful of what might happen the next day. But Seungkwan, he unintentionally shone on you at a difficult period. Slowly but steadily, you began to anticipate waking up knowing that he would face the day with you.

Soonyoung accompanied Seokmin to the market to buy some food after he finished jamming due to his hunger. It was time for you to jam. Of course, you'd choose Taylor Swift's The Way I Loved You, in honor of her Fearless cover. You've always admired Taylor Swift's music, especially the older songs because you identify with the words she wrote. You were grateful for how her music got you through your childish heartbreaks.

You were so engrossed in Seungkwan's angelic voice that you didn't know he was already squatting in front of you. Both of you were grinning at each other when the last chord was struck, and you kissed him as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. The kiss felt right; it felt like it was what completed the song you were singing; it felt like the happy ending the song promised. To keep your balance, you clutched his arm. When you jerked away from him when you awoke from your daydream, he immediately drew you back in and kissed you again, squeezing your hand three times.

The four of you had agreed to spend Christmas Day at Seokmin's. Your mother didn't let you hear the end of it when you told them you couldn't come home because your family has always been conventional. Your mother guilt-tripping you to come home, saying, "We're family, we're supposed to spend time together." “Ah, well, families are supposed to support one another, not nag each other to death when one fails to meet one's expectations.” After that, you hang up, assuming that if you don't agree, your mother will say something else that you don't want or need to hear.

Seungkwan was supposed to pick you up, so while you were waiting for him, you double-checked everything you'd packed to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything. Seungkwan's introduction of Soonyoung and Seokmin is one of the things for which you are grateful. You've outgrown your crappy friends from high school, so the trio is a breath of fresh air for you.

You place your bags in the trunk as soon as you see his car, like a little kid heading to Disney World. “Thanks for picking me up, Kwannie,” she said, beaming. You excitedly slid down to the passenger seat. He immediately hugged you once you were sitting, saying, "Ah noona, you're in a good mood?" You can see his smile doesn't reach his eyes when you've broken free from the embrace. He's giving you a fake one.

“This is my first trip away from my home. I already know it'll be a lot of fun.”

“Really? At Seokmin Hyung's house, you'll feel right at home. His mother prepares the most delicious Christmas dinner. My mother's cooking pales in comparison.” Seungkwan once gave you a dish made by her mother, and one bite was enough to make you feel like you'd died and gone peacefully to heaven. The fact that Seokmin's mother cooks better piqued your curiosity. “Ah really? Then I'd really have to give it a taste.” He smiled again, the false smile, and you're starting to get bothered by it.

“What are you doing, Kwannie?” You're giving me this strange grin.”

“What do you mean strange?”

“Fake smile. It's the first time you've feigned a smile at me. What’s up?”

“You can see right through me, can't you?”

“Yes, I do. Would you like to talk about it?”

“Nope. But I'd like to take your hand.”

Seungkwan is holding your hand and exhaling contentedly. He kept it until you arrived at Seokmin's house.

Seokmin's house is warm and inviting. They live in a house on a corner with a vibrant garden surrounding it. The living room has an L-shaped couch that can comfortably seat all four of you, with additional seating available. Seokmin and his sister have a wall full of family photos and accomplishments. You can tell Seokmin's parents are a laid-back, loving family, as shown by his kindness and good humor. You don't know if it was the long ride, but you fell asleep as soon as you sat on their couch after the house tour.

When you first awoke, you chose to visit their garden, which you recall has a swing set. Seungkwan is seated by himself.

You teased, "Where are your twins?"

“They went grocery shopping with Mrs. Lee.”

“What kept you from going?”

“Too exhausted from driving.”

“Then you should've just slept with me.”

Seungkwan swung his head in your direction right away. “I-uh, what?”

Then it dawned on you what you'd said. This is so humiliating. “Sleep!” you exclaimed, “Sleeping, with eyes closed and resting-“

“I never expected you to finally ask me-”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHEN YOU SAY "FINALLY" YOU LITTLE SHIT?”

He laughed out loud at your reaction while you chased him around the backyard. He quit running around after you told him that you wouldn't smack him in the head.

“I hate you.”

That made Seungkwan stop laughing.

“Do you regret meeting me?”

You were surprised at his sudden change of tone, no longer joking. “Is this what it’s all about?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“I'm not sure what got you to think like that. You said, “But you know our first meeting was a flop.” When people meet for the first time, they usually ask for each other's names, go through some more tedious formalities, and then seal the deal with a handshake. You had an early class with him, and you didn't mind sharing a seat with him almost every time because you thought he was one of the quiet ones. The year was difficult for you because things didn't go your way, you had a lot of misfortunes, and you had a lot of work piling up that was affecting your mental health.

As you sat down in your chair one fateful morning, you put your cup of coffee on your side of the table. This is where Seungkwan got his drink mixed up with yours because you both have the same coffee taste.

“- flop is an exaggeration for that noona-”

“-you drank my coffee in our 8 a.m. class thinking it was yours, I'll never forgive you.” Reliving that moment made you roll your eyes. “But you know what? You wouldn't have replaced it if you hadn't, and I wouldn't have had the best year of my life.” It may seem to be an exaggeration, but it is true. You were grateful for Seungkwan's carefree and playful personality, which helped you get through your lowest point. He had no idea what you were going through, but you were relieved that someone was taking care of you.

He can be seen chewing his mouth, attempting to conceal his smile. “Ah dumb main character in a drama,” air quotes the phrase, ‘I wish I hadn't met you.' “I instantly thought of you.”

“Huh, that's strange.”

“What is?”

“That. As I previously said, this has been the best year I've had in, what, three years? And it's all thanks to you. I might be harsh with you all of the time, cursing at you whenever I get the chance, but that's just how I am. I'm glad I got you as one of my most reliable friends, my rock, and my go-to person. Even Seokmin and Soonyoung oppa were introduced to me by you. Seungkwan, I'd rather live in a world with you in it. Don’t think otherwise.”

Seungkwan stared at you and felt a combination of emotions. He kissed you when he understood what he felt.  At first, you thought it’ll be quick like the last time, a peck. But he deepened the kiss, and when his tongue touched yours, you hear him groan. He tugged you closer, afraid you’ll get away. He reassuringly held your hands, squeezing them three times just like the second time. I can get used to this. You thought. You focused on his soft lips, how you’ve always felt content while kissing him.

He pulled away, his chest heaving for breath. “Holy shit,” Seungkwan said. You nodded in agreement, apparently unable to concentrate because of your heart beating so loudly.

“I-, uh, I--”

“I thought we’ve talked this through?-”

He sighed deeply before adding, “I-I got cold. Sorry, noona.”

“You dumb shit, if you were cold, I would have made you hot chocolate. I’m nice sometimes you know.”

“I don't mind,” he smirked, “you're hotter anyway.”

“What the heck is wrong with you? I swear to god, you've been flirting with me since that drunk uno shit.”

“It's a Roman thing to kiss under the mistletoe,” he said, pointing to the mistletoe he was carrying.

You both laughed it off, thinking about how ridiculous it sounded. “Roman tradition my ass.”

You and Seungkwan are both in the hospital on New Year's Eve.

“Ah, what a dumb plan you had there,” you exclaimed, staring at him in disbelief.

“Well, I've always wanted to go out of my comfort zone...”

You give him a light smack on the head. “Shut up. Now I'm trapped in a hospital over New Year's because of your dumb plan.”

It's never a good idea to combine Seungkwan with hiking. Sure, he's fit, but when was the last time he went hiking?

“Then have Seokmin hyung or Soonyoung hyung accompany me.”

“They're still at Seokmin's.” You and Seungkwan both arrived at your dorms earlier than anticipated. After all, you didn't want to overstay your welcome; it was your first time. You were worried that Seokmin's mother would think you were too at ease in their home.

“Well, if you want to go home, you can.”

“Who will look after you if I go home?”

For a moment, Seungkwan didn't dare add a sarcastic comment on that question. So, instead, “Come on y/n, don't be so mad...”

“Where are your manners, I'm your noona?”

“three kisses in and I still can't call you by your name?”

You blushed when you remembered all of the times Boo SeungKwan kissed you and how sweet his soft lips were.

“Noona is blushing, wah.”

“I hope your ankle doesn’t heal you little shit.”

Raising his eyebrows at you. "You don't mean that. You love me."

"Of course I do. I love all three of you."

He reached for your hand. "I bet you love me more." There it was again, Seungkwan surprising you with his sudden seriousness. He was staring straight into your eyes, waiting for your response. Luckily, a nurse came in to check his vitals.

 A few minutes after the nurse came out, both of you were ignoring each other due to that sudden tension. To ease the situation, both of you just watched television until you fell asleep.

"Y/n wake up." Nudging you by your shoulders. "We're nearing the countdown. Cmon," and urged you to stand by the window, waiting for the fireworks.

Seungkwan then leaned in to put an earphone in, with a song already playing in the background. You realized it was a song written by Soonyoung's classmate, Woozi, for a songwriting class. You were bopping your head to the music when the ten-second countdown started. 

You and Seungkwan alternately sang along.

10

9

"I promise myself, while drinking a glass of water in the morning, to tell you"

새벽에 물을 마시면서 혼자 다짐해 나는 너에게

8

7

"Beautiful words like the lines in a movie"

영화처럼 달콤하고 예쁜 그 말

6

5

"The words I've prepared overnight for days"

몇 날 며칠 밤새 연습했던 그 말

4

3

"I want to say them to you tomorrow with clenched fists"

내일은 꼭 두 주먹을 꽉 쥐고 말해주고 싶어

2

1

Seungkwan turned to face you just in time for the next line.

"You are pretty." 

너 예쁘다

As soon as the clock struck twelve and the fireworks went off, Seungkwan kissed you. What astonished you was how you knew he was about to kiss you and how you returned the kiss with fervor as he deepened it. You can't help but compare this man to fireworks; how dark it was before him, and how awestruck you were when he came into your life.

Seungkwan was the first to back away, touching his forehead to yours and giggling like a joyful little kid. “Did you know that it’s a Roman tradition to kiss on the first minute of the new year?”

“Blaming the Romans again, I see?” playfully raising your eyebrows at him.

He laughed at that, giving you no excuse. "I love you, Y/n."

You grinned as you silently thank the Romans for their weird traditions.

[likeshipsonthesea]

oh my GOD if you wrote something for "i’d suffer hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight" and nurseydex I'm pretty sure I'd combust pls do it

hello hi it’s been a while. so truth be told i wrote this, or started this, a long time ago, when you first sent in this prompt, and i didn’t like it, but then i read it again and ended up finishing it and..once again didn’t like it. and then i read it last night and thought it was pretty cool and now i’m posting it. fun story, i know.

warning for religious imagery/issues and internalized/referenced externalized homophobia.

nurseydex for the prompt i’d suffer hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight from Hozier’s Dinner & Diatribes. enjoy!

           On the first night back from spring break, Dex sits across the living floor from Nursey and thinks about Easter mass.

           It’s blasphemous, really. A rough rug, older than him, scratches at the exposed skin of his ankles, his wrists. The team around him laughs and mellows in waves. Bitty’s most recent pie sits cooling in the kitchen, chilled breezes from the open window carrying the scent of it into the living room. Dex ignores it all to watch Nursey bring the mouth of a bottle to his own mouth, rest the glass on the soft dip in his bottom lip. He tilts back his head, jaw lengthening, dropping. He swallows, and his throat bobs. A tendon in his neck guides Dex’s gaze up, up to his stubble, to his mouth, to the regal slant of his nose. His eyes.

           Nursey is looking. Half lidded. Green, burning. Forest fire.

           Dex thinks about Easter mass. Scratchy shirt cuffs rubbing red against bony wrists. The too-thin pages of the Bible like receipt paper on his fingertips, half imagining that the print came off with his touch. Songs about sacrifice, and love, and being beholden to a man who is at once so very human, and so very, very not. Ethereality in kindness. The sweet smell of wine, tasteless wafer. A body, given.

           Nursey looks away—back to Chowder, back to conversation.

           Dex wonders what he would give to be looked at like that for a moment longer. Condensation builds between his fingertips and his beer, and he takes a sip that tastes sweeter than it should. He reckons Nursey is some kind of holy. The descendant of a God long forgotten in name, but never spirit. The kind of God who loved rich smells and smart words, who knew the value of respect, and laughter. The kind of God who looked at love as something to be given, not sacrificed.

           Worship no other God before me. Dex’s beer turns bitter on his tongue.

           Blasphemous.

           Dex watches Nursey hands and imagines the punishment he’d endure. Each hit bloody, bruising. Would Nursey’s hands be smooth? Nails short, light scratches, pinkened skin. Dex would cry out, likely, as hard as he would try not to, under the onslaught. The sounds Nursey would make would be soothing, caressing and lovely and breathy and loud. Dex would shut his eyes and imagine in the darkness that he couldn’t see their frothing rage. Nursey, spread across bedsheets, hair haloed on pale pillowcase, eyelashes dusting the tops of his cheeks, smiling.

           During a lull in the silence, when everyone is busy, Dex stands up from the living room floor. He goes into the kitchen and grabs himself a bottle of water, prodding at the pie to see if it’s cool enough. Back to the doorway, he hears footsteps.

           “Not in the mood to chat tonight, Poindoodle?”

           Dex closes his eyes. Nursey’s voice lilts, laughter concealed in vowels outstretched and pointed consonants upturned. When he’s sleepy, or drunk, his words link together like holding hands, drifting thumbs tucked delicately against sweaty palms. Nursey talks with his hands. Sometimes Dex feels the words more than he hears them.

           “Tired, I guess,” Dex says, because all of this is too much to say outside of a confessional. He does not turn around.

           Nursey hums. “How was break?”

           Dex sways into his hands, feeling the pressure between the calluses on the inside of his knuckles and the vaguely floured countertop. “Good,” Dex says. It almost isn’t a lie.

           The nearly normal has become the best outcome he can hope for. Half beats between conversations about school, hockey, fall into place as if the music called for them all along. It is a tune now ingrained in him, even if the words never make sense, or make him sad. He remembers bits of songs they taught in Sunday school and hopes that one day this will be dulled as well. Home is this, and so it must be good, because by any other metric he might not go home again and the Bible has something to say about that, too.

           A hand on his shoulder. Warm, heavy. Nursey does not say anything. Dex counts the words he doesn’t say until he loses track trying to keep his tongue tamed. I love you. I miss you. I wish I was enough. I wish I could live in a world where what I am is enough. I wish you would touch me. What do I do to make you touch me?

           Nursey’s hand falls. “It’s nice to see you,” he says, and he waits a minute, a passage of time, full of breathing and not breathing, and Dex follows along intently. Nursey leaves the room. Dex counts the bones in his hands and bathes in the bloody faded pink of his knuckles.

           That night, after the drinks are gone and the lights are out and they’re all in their beds, like they should be, Dex shifts under his sheets and drags his own incompetent hands against his skin. Wrinkled elbows and knobbed shoulders, shuddering ribcage bones and fleshy sides. He prays, like he hasn’t in years, to someone he doesn’t know but is somehow surer about than whatever it is that stares at him as he sits in hard pews, scratchy and burning. Let me have this, he thinks, eyes shut, lips pressed together. Let me give myself to this.

           Somehow, his feet bring him to the hall side of a closed door. He cannot hear mumbling. Nursey talks in his sleep.

           I would suffer anything to know, Dex thinks, eyes tracing the lines carved into the wood. Let me know.

           He knocks.

           The door opens.

           Nursey stands, rumpled and perfect, one hand curled around the doorknob, holding himself up. His green eyes are deep, mossy, Maine-like and worried. “Dex,” he says, no fanfare. “What’s wrong?”

           “Let me in?” Dex licks his lips. They’re sweet.

           Nursey moves his body to make room for Dex and it takes all the restraint his church has taught him not to fill it up completely. Door closed, Dex inside, a foot and a half between their bodies. Dex’s fingers twist in his sweatpants.

           Nursey stares, expectation heavy. The weight of it, in this creaking room, in this darkness, is heady, not suffocating. Dex takes a deep breath.

           “I—” Dex knows what swallowed words taste like. Metallic and copper, razor blades on his tongue, kept safe by his teeth, lips, until his mouth fills with blood. He wants to say it, he wants Nursey to know, and yet he stares long enough for his eyes to adjust to the faded Maine green reflecting back at him.

           “Is everything alright?” Nursey finally asks, quiet, whispered.

           The question shudders his bones. Instead of answering, Dex says, “I missed you.”

           The shock of surprise is like a thunderstorm over the water, flashing quick and then muffled. “Oh?”

           Dex’s fingers knot up the material of his sweatpants. It leaves his ankles cold. “I did.”

           Harsh exhale, then slow. “Dex,” he says, he says Dex’s name again, not Poindoodle or Dexington or anything else. “What are you—” Swallowed words, razor blades.

           “I always miss you,” Dex says, because the rest of the words are rusted over with sweetened wine and this seems to be the truest thing he has inside him.

           “Dex,” Nursey says, and Dex would like to cry, sort of, because that name on those lips with that kind of homesick color staring at him wide and open feels more like coming home than two weeks of being in Maine and that aches in so many different, good and bad, kind of ways and he doesn’t think Nursey knows, he doesn’t think he could explain, all the things he’d go through to hear Nursey call him Dex, look at him like this.

           “Please,” Dex says, and he knows it doesn’t make any sense, any of it, but nothing does, really, and he thinks Nursey gets it anyway because in the next moment his mouth is parted over Dex’s and he tastes nothing like razorblades, nothing like wine, just sleep stale toothpaste and a sigh.

           Dex releases his sweatpants to curl his hands over Nursey, his hips, his back, the roundness of his elbow. Nursey does not pull back, he does not flinch away. He slips his thumb under the waistband of Dex’s sweatpants and just leaves it there, warm, like a promise.

[pretty-in-roses]

Pilot (Teaser) | KNJ

A/N: this is just a teaser i wrote pretty quickly and its kind of rushed but I wanted gauge reactions because police officers are a bit of a sticky subject as of late.

Summary:  Y/n L/n, a talented but carefree detective, and her colleague Kim Namjoon are on scene at a electronic store robbery, Shenanigans ensue.

"This job is eating me alive. I can't breathe anymore. I spent all these years trying to be the good guy. Ripped By mstoll, The man in the white hat.” I give a rueful smile.  “I'm not becoming like them. I am them." I’m gazing into the camera mock-serious.

"Hey! What are you doing, weirdo?" Namjoon calls out to me, interrupting my monologue and looking at me incredulously

"I'm doing the best speech from Donnie Brasco," I say as if it isn't already obvious. "Or, actually...Ten of me are doing the best speech from Donnie Brasco.” I point to the many TV’s behind me smiling. 

“What's up?" I mock looking to the video camera, smirking. 

"Get it together, man. Okay?" Namjoon looks at me exasperated, turning back to the store manager and continues listing things off his notebook "So, the store was hit about two hours ago. They took mostly tablets, laptops and cameras." I scoff and turn away looking at the other electronics in the store. I can't help but gravitate towards the keyboard and press the button to turn on the music. It's loud and interrupts Namjoons rambling, he shoots me a warning look which prompts me to press the off button. He turns back towards the store clerk and mumbles out a half-hearted apology.

"Sorry."

"I'd like a list of all your employees whoever had access to the store,” he says clicking his pen and closing his notebook “I'd also like to apologize for my partner. His parents didn't give him enough attention." He shoots me another look of irritation at my shenanigans and I can't help but smile, knowing I've already solved the case. He turns to me slowly as I interrupt his conversation.

"Uh... Detective? I already solved the case. We're looking for three white males, one of whom has sleeve tats on both arms." I voice smugly knowing it will piss him off. He narrows his eyes at me thinking for a moment before replying.

"And how do you know that?" He's looking at me as if I'm stupid, he truly should know better by now that I am an amazing detective and I'm always right. 

"I had an informant on the inside. He's been here for years. Watching, learning,

Waiting…” creating suspense I reach over and grab the stuffed bear.

“His code name… Fuzzy Cuddle Bear. He's a nanny cam." I grin at Namjoons look of disbelief shaking the bear in front of his face. 

"Ugh! You got lucky." Namjoon groans in defeat, scoffing and rubbing his temples to ease the furrow of his brows.

"No, I got here five minutes before you and figured that in this gigantic electronics store there had to be at least one working camera," I state matter of factly, opening the back of the bear up and taking out the memory card inserting it into the camera hooked up to the TV. Oh, Namjoon when will you learn that I'm always 3 steps ahead of you. My grin couldn't get any wider as the thieves were on-screen clear as day.

"Oh! Hi, bad guys." I mock tauntingly at the men on the TV robbing the store.

"You did it, Fuzzy, You busted 'em." I look at the bear proudly  "It's time to come home."

"I'm not sure if I can, I've been undercover so long, I've forgotten who I am. I've seen terrible things. I haven't known the touch of a man in many moons." I mimicked the bear as if it's speaking, holding it in front of my face, to make fun of Namjoon, effectively pissing him off even more if that was possible. He is clearly trying to suppress a smile until the bear hits on him.

"All right." He says rolling his eyes, smiling at my antics and walking away from me.

"Detective Kim? Don't walk away from me!" I yell, mimicking the bear's voice.

[halfasleepoetry]

I'd LOVE to read more Archer x Rogerina!!❤ Don't have any specific requests so maybe just something from one of the prompts you have? And I agree, I don't care what Joe's in as long as I get to see more from him!!!

Omg thank you for asking for Archer x Rogerina because I do have something to share that I couldn’t quite fit into the ongoing narrative! So this is not based on a prompt, but since Trip The Light Fantastic is told in Ben’s POV, as I was working on Joe’s character, I wrote his version of that night. And here it is:

I catch you looking back at me, looking through a cloud of steam

Archer x Rogerina AU, Joe’s POV

Right before senior year began, Joe had just broken up with his then-girlfriend who was cheating on him with a mutual friend for almost as long as they were together. That was enough to put him off any kind of relationships for a while. Besides, he thought he’d give being completely and truly single, a try. He kind of miss the sex and occasional cuddling, not that he’s particularly the cuddling type, but it’s nice to have a warm someone in bed and not wake up cold and alone sometimes. But to compare that with the kind of serenity and peace he has now and the headaches he saved, he’d rather keep being single, thank you. He has more time than ever now to read and write and drive by himself, and he has even started dancing regularly again.

And then there’s the Halloween party at the Maleks’. It’s the kind of party that all seniors go to, many juniors get invited to, and selected few sophomores could get in by miracle, and freshman could only dream of going. Maybe next year, or the year after. The host of such a party is always that one kid in the senior year who is filthy rich and you’re lucky if he isn’t an asshole who also buys his way through college. Well Joe sure is lucky. That kid, or those kids, because there are two of them, are his childhood best friends, Rami and Sami, whose father is a rich Egyptian-American business tycoon who moved to New York and built himself a business empire working closely with the Arabs and their oil in the 80s. 

It was last year that Rami told him he has his eyes on a certain London girl who is majoring in arts together with Joe, who is in her sophomore year. Her name is Lucy. Of course Joe knows her. Joe knows everyone. It comes with being occasionally recognized as that kid from Jurassic Park, and every time one of his professors brought up the fact we have someone in the class who is here on the personal recommendation of Steven Spielberg, he would slowly slide down his seat a little, hoping the remark would remain just a remark, and it would be forgotten by the end of the class. Sometimes it works exactly like how he wants it to be, sometimes it doesn’t. Either way, it earns him a reputation that he plays down and many friends, no, a large group of people he socializes with regularly. So he is some kind of a popular kid too, although a somewhat reluctant one. 

The Maleks’ mansion is pretty much his second home, and he was in his element that night, having accepted Lucy’s dare to show up in a girl’s character costume, and she even volunteered to do his make up, on one condition; no glitter involved. She did manage to put on something metallic-hued on his eyelids though, because he looked in the mirror and his eyes sparkled subtly whenever he blinks. Lucy had shrugged it off and told him, it wouldn’t be too noticeable, the house would be dim and there would be light strobes instead of actual lighting.

Lucy smiled up at him as she gave his make up, her handiwork, its last touch. “My goodness, you’re beautiful,” she marvelled. “Don’t make me change my mind, Luce,” he warned her. “No, don’t!” Lucy protested hurriedly. “No, no, no. Now let’s go.” But not before she stopped one last time to take a selfie with Joe, no, the Archer.

His Archer costume was a hit, apparently. But he made it very clear that he’s there just to enjoy the company of himself. And dance like mad, which was great because he had gotten back at it and been practicing for a while now. And that’s when he saw Rogerina. One sulky Rogerina who was drinking beer alone and trying not to look like he’s staring when he pretty obviously was doing exactly that. Joe thought that they look kind of wildly different, him and Rogerina who has a more muscular build and moody-boyish look. He even stood with his legs apart, chugging his beer with one hand on his hip, not even trying to appear feminine. But even across the room, Joe could feel his eyes on him, and they’re crazy-intense. He didn’t even know how to describe it, but he had never been stared at like that since he was five and sitting in an audition for Stanley Kubrick. 

He thought about it, but Rogerina obviously isn’t one of the people he knows, because he knows everyone here. Almost. Let’s find out who you are, Rogerina, he thought as one of his favourite songs came on, and he danced to it with an added flair, his moves all smooth and pronounced. Rogerina kept staring even as he made his way to Rami and Lucy. Lucy asked him if he’s murdering people on the dancefloor, and he just laughed it off. He headed to the kitchen to retrieve some rum he knew is kept somewhere safe and away from casual partygoers, half-hoping Rogerina would follow him there. And he wasn’t disappointed. Well he had to talk with Chace first, and the first thing Chace said to him was, “Hey there gorgeous.” 

“Asshole.” He laughed him off, because he knew Chace well. He’s always trying to get into someone’s pants, gorgeous girls or boys alike. They’ve fooled around before, but decided it’s better to remain friends as they are now. They talked shop and laughed, but from the corner of his eyes he could see Rogerina approaching the kitchen. He had never wanted a friend to disappear so fast before. And he’s glad when Chace decided to go looking for pretty girls at the pool.

The masked hesitation he could sense in Rogerina’s voice as he said hi to him was cute, to say the least. When was the last time he had been chased after like this? He was so determined too. He told him he came looking for a light for his cigarette. Classic excuse. He has a deep voice, British accent, and a very boyish smile. Definitely not a senior, maybe not even from the same department. He’d have remembered someone like him. Joe found himself looking into green eyes as Rogerina stepped closer to him to light up his cigarette from the mini kitchen lighter he was holding. He smelled nice, with a faint hint of aftershave. He wondered if he’d taste like beer and cigarette and something entirely different or surprising.

Mint, Joe thought later as they began kissing and he’s savouring the blonde’s lips. The cigarette he lit up earlier must be his first, as the taste was very faint, and it soon disappeared. The bitterness of malt and mint on his tongue fits right in with the Coke and rum sweetness on his own. 

Rogerina kissed him like he meant it, like the persistence by which he went after him to the kitchen, which found him pressing the sides of his knees on Rogerina’s hips, and that’s when he found the lighter innocently tucked in the side pocket of his skirt. He wasn’t even surprised, but he was absolutely delighted at the thought of this green-eyed British boy going after him and cooking up a lie to flirt with him. Makes him want to give him exactly what he wanted, and set him on fire while doing so. So he kissed him deeper, tongue all the way in, a hand in hair and another on his back, gripping him through the white shirt. He pushed himself forward and closer, so Rogerina could touch more of his exposed thigh. There’s growing heat at the base of his guts, and he slid even closer to give friction to it, and that’s when he realized they’re both hard.

Holy shit, he thought, and almost immediately wanted, no, needed more of this delicious friction. They’re separated by layers of fabrics, but fuck if this doesn’t feel so good, kissing a boy indecently in an open space, pushing and rubbing against each other fully clothed while the sound of the party droned on in the near distance. There’s no way this would not look exactly like what it was, and the thought of anyone potentially walking in on them is an incredible turn-on.

But Joe did pull away from Rogerina, mainly because he did not actually want anyone to walk in on them, and he needed to at least get a name. “Ben,” he told him in between breaths, eyes still transfixed on his lips. He looked like he was dazed and drunk, or somewhere in between. They were kissing again in no time, and when Joe deliberately pushed himself against Ben as he slid down the kitchen counter, they both moaned loudly into the kiss, and he almost lost his mind a little. They’re fast becoming like magnets, one gravitating to the other as soon as they pull away. He wanted to get his hands everywhere on Ben, wanted to touch him, kiss him, make him moan his name. They were strangers barely ten minutes ago, it’s so fucking insane, but there’s nothing else he’d want more right now than this green-eyed Brit in Rogerina costume. But not just yet.

So he smiled sweetly to him when he asked him nicely if he’d want to get out of the party with him, and he thought there’s no way he’d say no to that. They were kissing slower now, heartbeat calmer, desire kept in check. He held his hand close, making sure he wouldn’t change his mind. Something’s telling him he needed to do this right. This isn’t just a party hook-up, a fooling around kind of fun.

That same something’s also telling him he’s hooked, and it felt headier and sweeter than anything he’d drank tonight.

So when they did get out of the party, not before he caught Rami for the barest seconds to say goodbye, surprisingly without Lucy by his side, he decided they’re not going immediately to his place. He still has Ben’s hand in his, and he’s looking at him and smiling with his lucid green eyes and Joe wondered if it felt a little bit more than just infatuation or hormones. He thought about how ridiculous it was to think of it as anything more than what it was, but it lingered on long after.