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yanderecandystore · 4 years

Note

The bullies with an S/O that’s just completely off the board? Like no matter how much they look the bullies can’t find /anything/ on them, all their school papers are forged and their home just isn’t able to be found no matter how hard they look? Maybe due to the S/O changing their identity after doing something bad?

That's hella specific and I love it?? XD

Sure thing boo, let me see what I can do.

Also, I'll change the ocs profiles to be paper drawings with digital coloring because believe me boo, I'm tired of redrawing them (and I believe y'all are tired of always seeing these new drawings).

I noticed that my paper art is a lot better than my digital art, and although I'm kinda proud of them I still feel a little petty because I wish to do cool stuff on the computer ;-;.

Anyway, just a heads-up if you see something off with the oc's bios.

TW/Tags: I have no idea what to tag this lmao // identity theft // illegal/unauthorized inscription // not an accurate representation of university/how universities work lol // abusive household/abusive parents // I may or may not have changed your concept a little, I'm sorry for it 😔

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

Suspicion (fuck yeah, I don't know what to title this) [Yandere!Bully OC x Reader - Headcanon]:

→Adrien Coldwell:

For a person that prides themselves as the "know it all" when it comes to people's social media and reputation, he doesn't know anything about you.

This is a first for him, which is both annoying and honestly so intriguing. You didn't strike him as a person who would hide any secrets, and he had a hunch this was about to be good.

He searched for social media first, not finding anything about Avery Remington. Well, at least nothing with your face on it.

However, he did find something very, very interesting while looking at the school's documents, specifically the archives of all the students that have already studied here. He honestly didn't think he would find anything about you in these old papers, he was probably doing all this stupid work for nothing.

However, he was half right and half wrong. He didn't find anything about you, but this whole search wasn't completely lost, as he did find "you", Avery.

"- Student name Avery Remington, average grades and apparently no history of wrong doings or any bad behavior in general. Their registration to the Academy dates to 1980."

Oh. Ooooh, this was rich.

"- Huh." He said closing the documents and letting it where he found it. He was at least kind enough to let the palace a little organize after going through each paper trying to find your name.

Well, "your name". The only things that he kept for himself was photos of both the old documents about Avery Remington, and the earlier documents about Avery Remington. It was clear that you did something probably really, really bad, and you know he'll take advantage of it.

He had built his own theory about this, as in: you somehow found the paperwork of Avery's registration and their previous school's records so you could somehow impersonate them and get a free entrance to this institution.

He knew that you had something to hide, no one can be so perfect. But knowing the action itself wasn't enough for him, he needed to know the motive behind it.

For someone that is lazy and doesn't bother to care about important things, he sure spent a lot of time trying to scoop some dirt on you. When he finds the perfect opportunity, without any witness around, he'll take the chance to use this information against you.

"- Well, hello "Avery"." His tone was already suspicious, his voice not hiding anything from you. He came here to belittle you for his own entertainment.

"- H-Hi Adrien." You said shyly, hoping that your anxious mind was wrong and that this was all just a misunderstanding. You were hoping that the growing feeling of him possibly knowing about your fraud, was wrong.

"- Ya know, I'm kinda jealous of whatever plastic surgery you went through to look so young, maybe you should ask the faculty to correct your age tho." He said while showing the pictures he took of the documents.

"- Wait! I-I can-"

"- Honestly, I didn't think you were over 60 years old! Could have fooled me." His smug face was the selling point. You knew that you wouldn't find any form to convince him that what was on his phone was false.

He had a victorious smile on his face. Ever since you entered this school you always acted a little too paranoid and almost too friendly for his liking, and to confess to himself that he has fallen for you would be the bottom of the pit to him.

Still, he wanted to know why you did it. Why didn't you pay to get in if you wanted the scholarship so badly? What, you were too poor for it?

And what about a talent, or the test? Obviously, the university hasn't gone out of their way to pick a loser like you and insert you inside their classes on a whim, as they thought you were Avery Remington, a student that is already registered in school's documents (yet, of course, their system haven't verified the date of the registration, either by incompetence or by a "small mistake"). So you didn't do the test too, simply pathetic honestly.

Your sad dramatic story explaining how you managed to get into the academy. You did your best to get into the academy by legal means, but they always rejected you. Apparently you thought it would be a good idea to use your grandparent's documents to squeeze yourself into the institution.

"- But why in hell would you do such a thing? Are you that pathetic dearest?"

"- I… I wanted somewhere to go. Somewhere I could grow into a better person, a-away from-" You cut yourself short when the memories of your old home started to come into view.

For some reason, your parents couldn't stand the idea of you getting into a decent university, if anything, they thought you weren't capable of even washing some dishes at the local pizzeria. In their eyes, you were worthless.

When you found out your grandparent used to frequent this institution, and that they managed to disattached themselves from their familial routes and thrive as a musician you got instantly inspired! Determined to follow their steps and prove your family that you're just as worth ass-

"- Urghhhh- Boring! I don't care about all of that. Are you serious? You committed a crime just so you could stick it up to your shitty parents?"

"- …. Yes?"

"- Huh. Geez you're cooler than I thought. Listen, how about we make a deal?"

The deal was simple, he would not tell anyone about your little secret, and he would even help you keep your scholarship and help you reach your ambitions as long as you started spending more time with him. Which, at first you thought it sounded absurd, this man is holding your whole life by a thin thread as long as you give him attention?? What?!

And although that sounded extremely suspicious, you accepted it, not knowing that for the next few years you would have to endure a harsh training to discover your talents and to improve them before you two graduated. However, you started to think Adrien was starting to see your deal in a different light-

"- Come on now, after this we can go eat something okay? Where would you like to go this time? Our last date I chose the best restaurant I know, so you better choose something of equal value."

…. Date?

→Alexandra Coldwell:

You were suspicious from the very start. Overly friendly and too- Ugh! Too cute?!

You were always skittish whenever someone called you. What, you had a problem with your name or something?

And the worst part was how no one seemed to know where you lived. Every group project with you was considered annoying by most of your classmates, as you never called people in your house or never let anyone have your address, not even your phone number??

You didn't have any social media, what are you, a weirdo? What the hell??!

She is not even pissed about you being a loser, she is pissed that she has fallen for someone like you! A complete weirdo that was always panicking over nothing.

She started stalking you with the intention of finding at least one thing that she could hate on you so she wouldn't feel so- Lovey dovey towards you!

But what she really found was something worth an entire gold mine.

A private phone call between you and someone who was losing their shit. She couldn't understand too much of the conversation as she didn't have any context, yet she could hear a lot of things that you and the person were discussing.

The person yelled [Y/N] multiple times while in the phone call, saying how you were absolutely the worst mistake of their lives (which by the way, rude much? Who is this asshole?), that you were a selfish brat that needed to learn to appreciate their hard work.

Oh… Oh. She now knows who you're talking with. She decided to record the entire thing the moment she saw you taking your cellphone to have a private call.

She was planning on recording your voice for her own hearing pleasure, but this? This was so… Interesting.

"- [Y/N]?" She called your attention after the conversation ended, and because you haven't been accustomed to people calling you "Avery", you turned around saying "what" instinctively.

And when you noticed Alexandra smirk for a split second, you regretted answering your parents call. Not that you needed anymore reason to regret it, but this was certainly the last nail in the coffin.

You begged for her to understand that you couldn't go back, you simply can't go back to them, ever again! You told her the whole sob story about how your grandparent had decided to run away from home and fulfil their own dreams as a musician, even if people didn't really hear their music all that much, and now that you think about it, that's probably the reason why no one have recognized their name at all.

Your grandparent had a really small fanbase, and you knew that because you were part of them. They weren't popular at all compared to Amaryllis Academy standards, yet they were happy singing their songs to the world.

You kinda wish your family hasn't broken the old recorder that belonged to your grandparent. Their first album was in there, it was cheesy and filled with errors, yet they sounded so happy when doing what they loved, and you wanted something like that for yourself!

You needed to live that hell hole and so you did. You rented a small apartment that was falling apart, the reason why you never gave people your address was because you knew they would bully the hell out of you because of how poor you are.

After finishing your story you noticed Alexandra snoring beside you. You thought she was only exaggerating, but then you saw her drooling and acting really dizzy after you woke her up.

"- Oh my God, so… That was it? You ran away to follow your dreams and stuff?" She asked, still kinda sleepy.

"- What? Of course it was-" You were fuming with anger, how dare she-

"- And I thought you only looked cool because I liked you! You're pretty strong for sticking up for yourself." She interrupted you, looking at you with admiration in her eyes.

She proposed to you a deal. How about you two keep this secret together, and, if anything does happen she'll still help you stay inside the institution. However, you'll need to work your ass out to become the best you can be, and you'll let her guide you through, because you're too much of a dummy to do it all by yourself. You'll have to spend time with her and let her help you out.

At first, you thought it sounded absurd, this woman is holding your whole life by a thin thread as long as you give her attention?? What?!

And although that sounded extremely suspicious, you accepted it, not knowing that for the next few years you would have to endure a harsh training to discover your talents and to improve them before you two graduated. However, you started to think Alexandra was starting to see your deal in a different light-

"- Why you never hold my hand? Come on, "Avery", won't you hold the hand of your dearest girlfriend?" She asked playfully while taking your hand anyway.

…. Girlfriend?

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#sheep stuff #yandere oc #sheep's stuff #yandere x reader #yandere bully #yandere twins #yandere oc headcanons #yandere oc x reader #yandere bully x reader #yandere bullying #yandere headcanon #special delivery headcanons #special delivery request #yandere

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ravenbrenna09 · 5 years

Text

masterpiece

Title: masterpiece

Square Filled: Soulmates AU

Ship: Robbe IJzermans/Sander Driesen

Trigger Warnings: None applied

Created for @skamevents

So, Soulmate AUs are my absolute favorite trope of any AU ever and I love reading all of them. I love the names on the arms, having the same symbol, I love seeing color only if your soulmate is nearby, but one of my favorites is being connected by their skin. And, with Sander as an artist in canon, I absolutely HAD to use this one. Soulmate AUs absolutely FASCINATE me and so I had to do this one.

Now, because this fic ended up being WAY MORE than what I wanted it to be, it physically will not fit in this text box, so I will be putting the first scene of the fic into this with a read more link at the bottom (note: this is the same scene as my masterpiece snippet that I posted a few days ago). So, I hope you enjoy the rest of this chapter.

...

Read on AO3

...

Thursday was not Robbe’s day.

Thursday was, by far, Robbe’s longest and physically draining day. While his first class of the day didn’t start until a little before 12:00, his day wouldn’t end until about 23:00 which was when the library closed down. To add to his torture of a long day, thanks to extending his own shift so Amber could be picked up by her mother on her way home from work, his classes on Thursdays were particularly draining, filled with dry teachers that talked to the board and ignored any and all questions.

Letting out a sigh, Robbe turned to his introductory essay which was pulled up in another tab of the computer in front of him. The head of the department didn’t care about them working on homework, as long as their other jobs were done first, and Robbe had already put up the remaining books in the library, straightened up the desks where the student workers sat, and filed away a stack or two of files for one of his superiors.

Now, that all of his librarian work was done, at least until someone returned a book to the circulation counter and he would go off in search of its rightful spot, Robbe could focus on this essay, or a story, that his writing teacher had assigned as an “introduction” to their mindset as writers. And, the topic that had been chosen by his other 25 classmates was soulmates.

He let out a breath of air, burying his face in his hands.

Robbe hated soulmates.

Or, rather, he hated the idea of soulmates.

As a kid, Robbe would sit and watch his mother doodle on her skin with her favorite pen, watch the curve of her letters, her small doodles of flowers, appear on the exact same spot on his father’s hand. His parents would smile at each other, love in their eyes, and tease each other when the other got a stain on their hand because it affected both of them.

To little six-year-old Robbe, soulmates were everything that he had to offer and he thought that he didn’t have one because doodles never appeared on his skin. His mother had giggled at him, informing him that his soulmate’s doodles wouldn’t appear until after he reached puberty. Little Robbe had been confused as to why he had to wait, he now knew that the changing hormones and chemicals in the body at puberty that caused the connection to show fully, but no one, not even people researching and studying soulmates, could pinpoint how soulmates are chosen or when.

To present-day, eighteen-year-old Robbe, soulmates were crap.

His parents had been soulmates, had fallen in love, and got married, having Robbe shortly after. For the first eight years of Robbe’s life, his parents had been happily in love with one another. His father loved being home, loved cuddling his wife on the couch, to the point that Robbe would call them disgusting and throw a pillow at them and they would laugh. Then, his parents started fighting about little things, small minuscule details that shouldn’t matter. As the years went on, the fights got worse, louder and louder until Robbe couldn’t sleep at night anymore, sneaking out of his house and going to his best friend’s house to crash. Then, his father left them alone, found another woman who made him happier, and his mother spiraled, leaving Robbe caught in between, trying to help her.

His parents were soulmates and they had fallen out of love.

If the one person that you were destined to be with was supposed to leave you anyways, what was the point of having the ability to connect with them on a physical level?

Letting out a sigh, Robbe reached out, typing angrily. Soulmates are fucking stupid.

“Woah there,” Zoë teased, walking up with a cup of coffee in her hand.

Zoë was a barista and one of Robbe’s roommates. At the beginning of the year, Robbe had moved into the three-bedroom flatshare with her and a senior, Milan, because Robbe was not going to live with his dad, not after what he did to his mom, not with him and his new girlfriend. It was a minor miracle that the two of them had been so willing and that his father had been so understanding. His father wanted him to live in the dorms, but it was too expensive for Robbe. He was barely surviving month-to-month as it was and living in the dorms would be almost double the cost.

“What’s wrong?” Zoë questioned.

“What isn’t wrong?” Robbe questioned. “Of all the topics my writing class had to pick for our introductory assignment, they picked soulmates.” Zoë scrunched up her nose, understanding. “And, I can’t think of anything to write other than soulmates are fucking stupid.” As if she didn’t believe him, he turned the screen towards her and she stood on her toes to look, letting out a light breath through her nose. He let out a sigh, straightening the computer back. “Think that will get me full points?”

“I doubt it.” Zoë laughed. “Here, it’s from Chloë.”

“Again?” Robbe questioned. Chloë was a barista at the café, who had a crush on Robbe so obvious that even he could see it, which was saying something. When it came to realizing people having feelings for him, he didn’t have the best track record. Despite the fact that Robbe had several relationships, almost all of them had been as a result of the other person making the first move. “How many times have you told her that she’s not my type?”

“Robbe,” Zoë laughed, reaching out to pat his head with a tone that says many times. “I think the only way she’s going to be convinced that you aren’t interested in her is if she finds you making out with a guy. Not that I can blame her. You are a cute boy. Whether you want to admit it or not.” Robbe rolled his eyes before spotting the purple writing on the back of her hand. Zoë caught his gaze and scoffed. “My soulmate’s latest ‘conquest’,” she remarked, pivoting the hand towards Robbe so he could see.

Had a good time tonight was followed by a phone number, only the final digit was smudged.

Robbe knew that he had a soulmate, of course, but his soulmate wasn’t the type of person who slept around a lot, or if they did, they didn’t have girls writing numbers on the back of their hand in hopes of a second round.

On his sixteenth birthday, his best friend, Jens, had jokingly drawn a poor excuse of a birthday cake and sixteen candles on the back of his right hand (and Robbe will never admit to anyone how disappointed he was that it didn’t show up on Jens’ hand). Within an hour, as he sat in his biology class, his soulmate, whoever they were, had drawn an arrow to it and wrote awful, zero stars on booking.com before proceeding to draw a perfectly drawn cake, in pen, with the exact number on the candles, on the back of his left hand. The drawing looked perfect, meticulous, and every year, on that same day, another cake would appear on his hand with an additional candle.

Robbe had a soulmate.

Even if he didn’t want one.

Zoë let out a heavy sigh, pulling him back into the world of the present. “Every morning I wake up with a new number on my hand is another morning I question if you have the right idea,” she admitted, staring at her hand. “Soulmates are crap. I’m always half-tempted to call the number, tell her that he’s just going to find someone else, but what’s the point, right? Plus, it’s missing a digit.”

“Save a woman from getting her hopes up, probably. But, don’t worry,” Robbe remarked. “I’m sure he’ll get his head out of his ass soon.”

“Excuse me,” a voice remarked, over Zoë’s shoulder.

The two of them pivoted to find that a blond-haired man was standing behind them. The man was stunning, absolutely breathtaking as though he had been carved from stone. There was a black-beanie resting lightly on his head, covering the strands of white-blonde hair that poked out from the edge, and he had a pair of bright green eyes that were slightly hidden by the black-framed glasses on his nose. He was dressed in a pair of denim jeans, black converse, and a t-shirt with an artist that he didn’t recognize beneath his black hoodie.

Robbe felt his breath catch in his throat.

Looking like that in a hoodie, glasses, and a beanie was ridiculously unfair.

Especially to Robbe.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” he continued, pushing up his green bag further up his shoulder. “But, I need to check out this book for my art history class.”

“Of course,” Robbe replied, his voice cracking a little. There was a knowing look on Zoë’s face, a familiar eyebrow raised that she generally reserved only for Milan, as she shuffled to the side, taking the coffee with her. The man stepped forward, placing the book on the edge of the counter, and Robbe took the book from him, eager to make sure their hands didn’t touch. “Sorry about that. Do you have your id?”

“Yeah, it’s in here somewhere,” the man replied, digging his wallet out of his bag. He found it, handing it over to Robbe, their fingers brushing ever so slightly, almost like it was on purpose. Robbe felt a jolt shoot up his hand as he took the id in his hands, switching to the electronic check-out system, typing in his student id number and scanning the book. A name popped up. Sander Driesen.

Once Robbe had deactivated the electric security in the spine, he placed his id on top of the cover and slid it across the counter, “Here you go.” Robbe kept his hand on the other side of the book, making sure to pull his own hand away before Sander reached out to grab it. He took the book from the counter, grabbing his id and slipping it into his pocket. “It’ll be due on the 17th of next month.”

Sander sent him a grin, a slightly confident, slightly wicked grin, like he somehow managed to know the effect that he was having on Robbe and his already jumbled mind, almost as much as Zoë did. “Thank you, Robbe,” he remarked. At Robbe’s confused, puzzled look, Sander’s eyes dropped down to his chest and Robbe looked finding his nametag, wanting to slap his forehead. He glanced towards Zoë, who was still hanging off to the side with her chin against her palm, and Robbe thought he saw his eyes flicker down to her hand, recognition in his eyes, but then, Sander was smiling at her and saying to her, all confident and charming, “Sorry about interrupting your conversation.”

“It’s completely okay,” Zoë replied. “I was about to leave anyway.”

Sander moved off, grinning at her, and Zoë handed Robbe his coffee, a knowing glint in her eye as she boosted herself up over the counter to press a kiss against his cheek. He shoved her away, wiping away the residue of her signature red lipstick, and Zoë ran out the door, giggling all the way and promising to save him some leftovers from dinner. Robbe let out a sigh, trying to return to his essay on stupid soulmates, but found his eyes looking for Sander, who had disappeared.

Read The Rest on AO3

#brenna's soulmate au #brenna writes #my fic #my writing #sobbe #rosander #wtfock #wtfam #robbe ijzermans #sander driesen #skamevents #skamevents bingo #i decided to participate after all and soulmate au just happened to be on the bingo card #so like that was a win for me #sobbe fic #rosander fic #wtfock fic

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ih8paris · 3 years

Text

i hate paris

Do people still use tumblr? I’m so old. And I never used it. I don’t keep up with the times. I don’t give a shit. You know what? It all passes. Except facebook. They made a deal with the devil and really, was it worth it? I use facebook. I live in Paris and there are these groups for women, expats, cheap people like me that want free yoga. That’s what I use it for. And news. BBC CNN ABC NBC MSNBC, you get it and the posts. They report what the people supposedly want, but then we can see what the people are actually saying. Donald Trump won’t win? Look at voices talking? Look at the little people. It looked like he was going to win. What do you know, he did. But what if he had lost. What if Hilary didn’t get a handle on COVID and then Donald won in 2020? We would all be so fucked right now. Maybe we already are. Anyway, I’m not here to talk politics. I’m here to process my life choices and see if there were signs that I was making HUGE mistake.

So here’s the thing. I’m a bit untraditional. Growing up was shit. Chuck left and made sure to shit all over everything before he did. And the whole get married in your 20′s have babies get divorced get remarried have more kids bc hey you’re not old at 30 and this is the guy you actually wanted to have kids with. I rant but you get it. Traditional not for me. Also not traditional, i have some money. This money has paid for college, pastry school and yes this wonderful covid filled experience in paris: the city that hates me. I’m fortunate. I don’t live lavishly. It’s not that much money. I grew up poor, I pinch pennies. Then i do exciting things. Or maybe challenging things? I am fortunate and grateful. And guilt filled. I am given this gift and shit it away, trying make something out of this paris experience. It’s like a bad relationship where i keep begging to give it one more change. It will get better. I’m a fucking idiot. So here I am, you know third times the charm, right? Back in paris. Vaccinated. I’ve made connections with people. I feel confident that this will not be a waste. It will be fun. It will be educational. I will network. Gain experiences. Omg learn so much. Be able to travel. OH the hopes and delusions i had. But maybe we should start from the beginning.

Omg, which beginning. Paris, i guess, we can go back further when the moment calls. So 30 is approaching. I’ve moved back home. That’s story for another time. Remember my life is not traditional. So I’m home to help out and idk try to figure out what the fuck i want to do with my life. See the big mistake i made in my 20s was listening to people i don’t admire. i graduate with an art degree. my college exit interview said i am qualified to work at a bank or Kraft foods. no connects, recommendations. No direct. And my family keeps talking about getting a job, benefits, 401k. At one point a little later on, my grandpa was pushing for me to go into service. Sorry gramps, they don’t want me. My education was good. I learned a lot. They had good resources and a lot. But then nothings. So i worked at a bakery. I worked hard at this bakery. For more than a few months i worked 7 days a week. I didn’t have a life. i had money. Money i made. And apparently that was the most important thing, from the talks i keep getting from my family. And of course i wasn’t earning enough, so needed to work harder and climb the ladder. There is no ladder in a bakery. Whatever, I rant again. We’ll come back to this.

So 30. It’s looming. I’ve thought about grad school. The money I mentioned earlier. It’s had time to grow. The GRE expires after 5 years, not that i took it but 7 years after I graduated, i wasn’t taking it. So Europe. Europe is artsy. I would like to make good money, enjoy the work okay, but mostly make good money with the least amount of actual work. So teaching. My mom teaches. Computer programing. She’s the head of the department. She fucking hates it. The dude that was suppose to get that job, he died. It was sad. But they also didn’t replace him so when the other guy retired, it became her job. It was an unpleasant 10ish years. But again, I digress. So teaching. Work hard and play hard. And it’s always changing - ish. I guess as much as you want, or don’t. New students every 15 weeks. breaks at all the holidays. Summers off. And when you’re just about to get bored, you’re back at work. Maybe because this is the only lifestyle i know, but it doesn’t sound bad. I worked in an office of women in high school. That i for sure knew i never wanted. But teaching. College. Okay. I need a masters. Learn about MA and MFA. Start looking for jobs in Cali because life’s too short to fucking deal with the snow and mosquitos. Idk everyone doesn’t live in Cali. So now the plan is MFA. They are much more rare and more in demand at universities. More money - but this time i think chasing the money necessary bc Calif = expensive. Now back to looking in Europe. I love Italy. I would love to live in in Italy for more that just a semester but actually live Italian or close to it. The language makes sense. The people make sense. The art makes sense. And it’s omg gorgeous. Alas, no American accredited MFA programs I could qualify for in Italy. I don’t know if there were none but if there were, they would have been in textiles, or digital/graphic design. Which I don’t know anything about. I’m old school, metal work, drawing, printmaking - although so far we haven’t gotten along, another thing i going to try to make work before i leave this city that hates me, for good - painting, ceramics, you get it. I hate computers. I appreciate technology but my mom teaches computers therefore there was never a working computer in my house so we (my brothers and me) don’t do computers. So i find this school - in english and in Paris. Paris, so glamorous. Home of famous artists and their art. The Louvre and Eiffel Tower and Fashion. So okay, i check out their programs. One i have no fucking clue what it is. Still don’t. Another is Photography - pass. Graphics - no. List continues. Then i see Drawing. That’s interesting. I can draw, i draw well. This is a program i could probably get into. SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: you can get into any program. No program is ever full. It’s bull shit. Masters program. Undergrad = everyone is applying at the same time. Masters = ages range and much fewer people go. So don’t fall for that shit - EVER.

They have a one year and two year program. The second year is less than half the first year so makes sense to go the second year and get the MFA vs MA. So that works out. I’m reading and checking it out. Not sure what I’m looking for but in hindsight, i knew something was missing. Talk it over with my mom and her peers who are also teachers. Consensus - don’t be part of the first group. So i have an interview to get it - what a joke. It is also a time for me to learn more about the program. So i ask, is this new? How long has it been around. Answer: Oh no, it’s been working several years. Very confident. I didn’t have a follow-up, just said I don’t want to be in the first group. I said those words. Her response: Oh no no don’t worry. I was so naive. And yes this continued through the whole program. People’s personalities are what they are. So she lied to get me into the program and just kept lying. No respect for the insane about of money i was paying for this ‘experience’. No respect for the education i could have gotten somewhere else. Because this program had NO educational value. I’m not being bitter or dramatic. It was a complete waste of time and money. Then covid happened. Might have been a blessing in disguise. I can go into detail of the program later. This is just an overview of the beginning.

So, I get accepted. What a surprise. I’m now officially 30 and this - i feel- is my last hoorah. After this i will be an adult who can get an adult job and become an adult. But first i need housing. And a visa. Which is very confusing. So the French and Italians - Italians I am familiar with, tell you about it later. So they’re similar in that lazy, lack of thoroughness, that’s their thing. Difference being Italians own it, French hardcore deny. So I’m reading this paperwork and it says thing like you need to have all your documents before your visa appointment including plane ticket. Well I can’t go without the visa so why would i get a plane ticket? Cart before the horse shit - it’s very french, wait until you hear about banks.

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joopiterjoon · 4 years

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Boy Meets Evil- MiniMoni

Pairing: Namjoon x Jimin

Genre: PG-13, Strangers/enemies-kind-of to lovers?

Warnings/Tags: Kittygang!Jimin, Professor!Namjoon, swearing, mentions of gangs and gang violence, minor threats, bad art history knowledge

Wordcount: 3k

a/n: this started as a short drabble but now I have 3 parts so I think Imma turn it into a series maybe? and thanks as usual to @megahwn for betareading and reminding me I don’t suck at writing~~~

Part of ficswithluv’s #FWLBingo!

Namjoon rakes back his tawny hair with frustrated fingers. He scratches in bafflement as he circles another misspelling of Da Vinci. When he started teaching Art History, he never thought he’d have to teach spelling, too.

He doesn’t realize how far he’s sunk into his chair, now scribbling away on Renaissance essays with his nose only inches from the table, until someone bumps into his chair. He hurriedly corrects himself and takes the moment to have a break from reading about the same exact art piece again. He’d given his students free reign of the entire Renaissance to choose art from, yet they all chose from the first five google results.

One of those students sat across the cafe. He glanced up as Namjoon spotted him and gave a small smile of acknowledgment. Namjoon tried to give the same, but knew his distress was evident if not on his face then definitely by his haywire hair. He shakes his head, adjusting his glasses.

Jungkook. A good kid, trying to get a minor in Digital Art. Namjoon knows a lot of students have to take his class as a requirement, and he’s come to appreciate the quiet yet studious students like Jungkook. He may not speak in class, but he submits decent work on time. Even now, while several pairs of probable-students sit in the cafe off campus chatting and laughing, Jungkook has his laptop open and camera plugged in.

Seeing a student working hard motivates Namjoon to plow through the last three essays he has.

Before his red pen starts scribbling again, his attention is swept away by a man entering the cafe.

Art.

Namjoon loves art. It’s captured his attention since he was young. He read books on woodwork while his friends read Haikyuu! He took every art elective his senior year instead of taking early dismissal. He managed to get a degree in architecture to appease his parents just so he could also get a minor in art history. He finds art in everyday life. He appreciates unique design and complex color palettes. Art is not only his passion but the way he interprets the world.

The man who just walked through the cafe doors is art.

Soft, pink dusted hair smooths back as the man raises his sunglasses into his hair with a ring-clad hand only to reveal large, almost black eyes. His plush lips are pursed while he clearly looks for something, licking them in impatience. And as he weaves between tables, Namjoon has a clear view of a tight ass in tighter jeans, thick thighs bulging above the slits in the knees. As he rounds on a specific table in the back, Namjoon catches a glimpse of slim, delicate shoulders as the man’s jacket slides to his forearms. Namjoon glances down at the purple feathers lining the shoulder pads, trying to make out the words as the man bends over to place his hands on the table before him.

Kitty Gang

Namjoon’s throat dries. Kitty Gang, a notorious group of gangsters and good for nothings that wreak havoc as they please. Always pushing the law but never quite breaking it, at least, for the activities they get blamed for. Namjoon hadn’t heard that they were also so attractive. Maybe that was part of the man’s aura that drew Namjoon in to stare so long. Just like art, the deeper meaning of a person can shine through how they present themselves. And this man caused people to turn away, to scoot their chairs farther in, to gasp as his boot stomped on the floor.

Why is someone from Kitty Gang inside a student cafe? Namjoon heard about them on the edges of the college town. Were they here to cause an issue? Namjoon glanced around, trying to see if there were any other adults around. If not, he had a duty as a teacher. Especially since one of his students is here.

Namjoon does a double-take. His student, Jungkook, is who the member is talking to. Doing his best not to draw attention to himself, Namjoon tries to switch chairs. He’s not the only one, several girls craning their head to get a look at that powerful, attractive stranger. Namjoon’s not sure what he should do. If Jungkook catches his eye, maybe he’ll give him some kind of signal to help.

But when he catches sight of Jungkook, Namjoon’s surprised, to say the least. The boy is leaning back in his chair, laughing with the man. He seems completely at ease as he points to his screen. The pink-haired man steps around, putting a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder as he leans into his space to watch the screen together. They talk in hushed voices, a dangerous grin growing on the man’s face that regrettably makes Namjoon’s stomach warm, something causing him to squirm in his seat.

Then, the man grabs Jungkook’s jaw, holding him close as he plants a sloppy kiss on Jungkook’s cheek. That warming feeling in Namjoon’s gut grows, his heart racing. He tries to shake it off, adjusting in his seat. He’s always been drawn to the ghastly, to things eccentric that stand out. That’s art. That’s just what’s happening here. Of course he knows this is a dangerous situation that he might need to handle.

Jungkook shoves the man away. Namjoon’s jaw drops. Jungkook said no more than 5 words in class all semester. He always kept to himself, gentle smiles as he left the classroom, and here he is shoving at a… a gangster.

Oh, this is bad. He shouldn’t feel comfortable in this situation. He shouldn’t be locking forearms with the man as he shrugs his jacket back on, closing his computer and following the man out of the cafe. Namjoon watches, dumbfounded.

A feeling of protectiveness wells up in Namjoon, replacing the strange feeling from before. He has to do something as a professor and as an adult. Jungkook can’t go down this path.

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As the lecture hall empties after Namjoon’s lecture, he watches Jungkook make his way out of class. On time as always, attentive as always, and a soft smile as he makes his exit as always.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon says in a hushed voice. “Please wait a minute.”

Jungkook looks puzzled but pauses obediently, nodding as the others pass. Once the room is empty, he adjusts his backpack and asks, “What’s wrong, Namjoon?”

Namjoon feels a bit relieved for the difficult conversation ahead. He’d offered to all the students that they could use his first name. It helped level the hierarchy of the classroom, and it definitely made conversations like this seem more informal.

“I saw you at the cafe the other day,” Namjoon starts, setting down his paper and walking in front of the table that lines the Smartboard behind him.

Jungkook smiles a bit wider, “I know! It’s always funny seeing teachers outside of class.”

Namjoon chuckles. He remembers being like that, too. Wait, that’s not what this is about. “I also saw your friend.”

Jungkook tilts his head, eyes turned to the ceiling as he processes the information. “My friend?”

Namjoon narrows his gaze, not sure if Jungkook is playing dumb or really isn’t grasping it. If it’s the latter, it’s a good thing Namjoon stepped in because the boy is more naive than he expected. “Your friend with the pink hair.”

Jungkook’s eyes snap back to Namjoon. His cheeks turn a bit pink as he shrugs his shoulders. “Ah, him. That’s, yeah, that’s my friend.”

Namjoon straightens his glasses and tries to hold his shoulders back. When he practiced in the mirror, this pose looked relaxed yet strong. “Jungkook, you’re a college student, but you’re still young. You have many possibilities ahead of you. Some of them might seem more exciting than others, but you need to think about how what you do or who you associate yourself with now might affect your future. I try not to individualize praise or show favoritism, but you’re a good student. I can tell you’re hard-working. I just want you to think seriously about who you are getting involved with and make the best choices for yourself.”

Namjoon wants to pat Jungkook on the shoulder as the boy sinks in a bit more at Namjoon’s speech, but he refrains. Jungkook fluffs the back of his bedhead, not looking at Namjoon. “Ah, yeah, I appreciate your advice. Especially about me being a hard worker.”

Namjoon nods, giving a sympathetic smile. He was a junior in college once. Very recently in fact. He knows that there is a lot going on and a lot of tough choices.

“But Jimin isn’t as bad as people make him seem!” Jungkook suddenly blurts out. He seems surprised as Namjoon that he just said it, taking a step back like Namjoon might physically reprimand him.

“Who?” Namjoon asks.

“Jimin, my friend,” Jungkook says. Ah, the pink-haired man is named Jimin. It rings a bell in Namjoon’s skull, maybe having seen it in an article or two about Kitty Gang. But the real concern is Jungkook’s deeper than he thought, defending these people.

But there’s really nothing more he can do, Namjoon thinks as he sighs. He’s just a concerned teacher. He has no proof, and the only preemptive precaution he can do is send a notice to the university of potential care. That might be sent to Jungkook’s parents, and Namjoon doesn’t want to get all that involved.

“Look,” Namjoon tries, seeing Jungkook get more and more uncomfortable. “Just know I’m here if you need someone to talk to, okay? And if things get bad, you can reach out to me.”

“Things couldn’t get worse,” Jungkook says to the floor, where his eyes are now glued.

Jungkook’s word choice confuses Namjoon. He tries to lean into Jungkook’s field of vision. “Has something already happened?”

Jungkook lips part before he’s vigorously shaking his head no. Namjoon takes a deep breath through his nose and heads to the door, letting Jungkook know he can leave now. He can’t press this anymore or it might turn around on him.

“But if they do,” he adds kindly, just so Jungkook knows he’s here. Jungkook nods, cheeks a little red, and heads down the hall at a brisk pace.

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Again, Namjoon finds himself in awe of how his students manage to study the material but not really pay attention to the details. Three students in a row wrote 7100s instead of 1700s. Is this the power of test anxiety?

Shaking his head, he makes note of the error just so the students are aware, but continues to read through the passages to check the content. He’s starting to think he may need to change cafes soon. This one is starting to fill with negative energy, too many times he’s been here frustrated, tired, and underpaid.

It’s midterms, so the place is also brimming with the anxiety of students. The chatter that boomed weeks before is now filled with grumbling, complaints, and unspoken stress that somehow rings the loudest in the large cafe. Students mill in and out, some stopping by for distractions or to cheer on friends, so Namjoon just hunkers down and tries to focus on the fourteenth response to how Michelangelo Caravaggio influenced other Baroque painters.

So it’s no surprise that he doesn’t look up when the door opens. Doesn’t bother when he hears hushed whispers and girls giggling. Doesn’t glance when someone walks past his table. He only looks up when the chair across from his squeaks against the floor and someone plops down, elbows on the table and leather jacket fringe spilling onto his essays.

“Heard you’re interested in me,” a voice practically purrs. Namjoon frowns, wondering who would interrupt his work.

When he looks up, he decides he really needs to change cafes.

Soft, plush lips spread so wide across a face that almost looks cherub-like as eyes crinkle from the power of the grin, a head propped by ringed-fingers tilting this way and that. Newly dyed pink hair brushes back and forth over dark eyebrows.

Jimin.

Namjoon’s pen drops from his hand. He watches the barista stare him down in shock, a previous student who must know who Jimin is. Shit shit shit. Namjoon closes his eyes to process, then immediately opens them, not sure what will happen if he takes his eyes off the man.

“Not exactly interested,” Namjoon quips.

“Oh?” Jimin’s lips pull together to pout. Namjoon’s terrified that his first thought is cute. “But Jungkookie said you even pulled him aside to chat about me.”

Namjoon blanches at the man.

“It’s okay,” Jimin sighs, lifting his head to turn in the chair, crossing his legs casually. When he tosses his head over his shoulder and winks at Namjoon, Namjoon balls his fists against the flutter in his chest. He’s not attractive, he’s dangerous. The reminder is right there on his jacket, the edge of a sparkly “K” visible in the creases of leather. “Everyone is interested in me these days. Has to be my cute face. Don’t you agree?”

Namjoon chokes on air. The man laughs at that, doubling over. The sound is similar to glass tinkling in a sink, the sound soft but not quite shattering, but it rings louder than anything else in the cafe to Namjoon. He’s not the only one, several others turning in irritation then immediately going back to their work when they see who it is.

Jimin must be a notable figure in the gang, Namjoon assumes. Even the kids here know who he is.

“I am not interested in you,” Namjoon finally musters when the man’s laughs die down. “I’m interested in Jungkook having a-”

“Oh my god,” Jimin clasps his hands over his mouth before he’s bracing on the table to lean in close. Namjoon gasps at the sudden intrusion of personal space, and the smell of oil and something fruity fills his lungs. “Teacher, you’re interested in one of your students?”

“What? No!” Namjoon hisses, eyes darting this way and that for anyone who might have heard. But the one place he can’t look is in the sharp eyes boring into him, an eyebrow quirked in his peripheral. He coughs and adds, “Mind your distance.”

Jimin snorts. As he leans back, a smirk spreads on his face. He tips the chair back, balancing on the back two legs. Namjoon wishes they would slip on the floor. “No, sir, I think you should mind your distance. Moreover, mind your business.”

Namjoon gives the man his attention again, only to settle him with a cold look.

“Jungkookie is one of mine, you see. He’s like family. Don’t go giving him silly ideas like backing away from me,” Jimin drops the chair to the ground, and Namjoon curses the fact that he jumps at the thud. “He can’t leave me. You hear? So butt out of your students’ lives and mind your own business.”

Namjoon feels his cheeks heat at that, immediately pissed off by this, this punk trying to tell him what to do. But before he can even continue, Jimin’s hand is on his. It’s gentle at first, sliding up, until he’s sitting on the pulse point of Namjoon’s wrist. Namjoon looks down, Jimin’s hand surprisingly small and warm, but the rings feel cold against his palm.

“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, now would we?”

Namjoon feels the words shock him. Like a bolt of electricity running from where Jimin’s thumb pinches his pressure point up into the back of his skull. He cringes, not sure if Jimin’s actually doing something or if it’s the mere weight of his insinuation making him uncomfortable. He glares at him, but Jimin’s just smiling pleasantly at where Namjoon’s pulse races beneath his thumb.

“Looks like you got the message,” he hums, turning Namjoon’s wrist over. He places the pen back in his hand and pats it lightly. “You should focus on your actual work, teacher. Help all those students fulfill their dreams of working in cafes or an office or something.”

Jimin shrugs lightly as he stands. Namjoon, on the other hand, feels frozen. He even finds himself nodding when Jimin tilts his head in search of a response. When he does, the man smiles brightly and claps a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. Much the way Namjoon wanted to do it to Jungkook to get his point across, the sincerity of his words.

And Jimin’s words had been Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, now would we?

When Jimin’s hand leaves him, the spot somehow feels warmer. His pulse is still racing not only in his wrists but in his ears. He can’t help but turn to watch the man leave, noting the way everyone else watches, too. And damn it all, he’s reminded of how good he looks from behind. More so than the toned figure visible in his loose clothes, it’s the air he exudes. Reckless and brazen.

And even worse, something in Namjoon wants to know what would happen. What that anything could be from a man like Jimin.

This is part 1. Click here for part 2!

#minimoni #namjoon x jimin #namjoon fic #jimin fic #boy meets evil #thekimlinenet #hyunglinenetwork #bangtanhq #ficswithluv #namjoon #jimin #kitty gang #fwlbingo #bts fic

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ah-artcrew · 4 years

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AHAC GaBB Artist Feature

Kingpattillo

erlande! you can also call me jack! 20/nonbinary demigirl/new york! in high school, i once won 6th place in a spelling competition w/ over 30 people. i don't live an interesting life, haha!

What's your favourite medium to work with?

i can do traditional and digital, but i prefer digital art, hands down. god bless clip studio paint's vector lines, tbh

What's your art/making process?

1. sketch, drawing an idea when i get heavily inspired by something, like an AH video 2. 2nd, 3rd etc. sketches, building on that foundation until i'm satisfied. 3 (optional). cry 4. lines, usually the color black or dark brown 5. colors, my favorite part! sometimes, i add shading and lighting, but only when i feel like it'd work well, you know? 6. upload to socials, and hope for the best! :)

For the rest of your life, would you rather be blown back 10ft/3m every time you sneeze or have baby owls for fingers ?

i'd rather be blown back because, well, how would i use my fingers in everyday life if they were owls? also, do the owls need to be fed? will they eventually grow up? will they outlive me? lmfao

How would you describe your artstyle?

y'all know sanrio? y'all know g4 mlp? mash those two together. cute, pudgy and vibrant!

MAP Question - What was your inspiration for your AMV section? Why did you choose to do what you did?

looking at what was allowed in the amv, i was like "aye, why not include matt and alfredo? they weren't in the original video, and i want to include them bc i like them." and then i did :) i could have submitted still images, but i wanted to try animation again, and i'm really glad i did.

Who's your favourite Achievement Hunter and why?

dude, my username on most socials is "kingpattillo". take a wild guess lol. all jokes aside, jack is my favorite bc he's nice, funny, and down-to-earth. i really like his vibes. that's the reason i like michael as well, the original favorite. over time, i started to appreciate jack a lot more, and well, here we are!

What's your favourite AH video or series?

series: probably the king series (where's king jack? lmao) or the gta v heist series! i also enjoy the halo laso series!

What do you do when you're not watching AH?

i'm just a college student, dude. idk what i'm majoring it yet, but i hope it's computer related, maybe computer science? :0 in my free time, besides watching youtube, i make gifs! so many gifs, dude. i thinks it's the other thing i'm known for, besides art.

Where can we find you?

my main social is tumblr @kingpattillo, but for everything else? kingpattillo.tumblr.com/about

Favorite AH work:

https://kingpattillo.tumblr.com/post/612487414114598913/better-late-than-never-heres-the-design-i-made

Favorite Non-AH work:

https://kingpattillo.tumblr.com/post/186871754645

Artist/Friend Shoutout:

https://anthemono.tumblr.com/post/170868609067/ryan-and-jack-watching-dragons-hatch-together-last

#ahac #ah community #AHAC projects #GaBBAMV

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sometipsygnostalgic · 5 years

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It’s been a long decade

This time 10 years ago, I was 14, sneaking onto my brother’s computer, waiting for the new year with @alphahas and a bunch of others on the Roblox forums.

That doesn’t begin to express how much my life has changed this decade, but for some reason, it’s one of the most memorable parts.

In 2010 - I gained my first drop of internet fame making DBZ-themed Roblox clothing, dropped out of school for 3 months leading up to the summer holidays, bingeread all the Twilight books, decided that my education was more important than my feelings about getting bullied, went back into school, got my first Xbox and Laptop, and began playing on Xbox Live 6 hours a day.

In 2011 - I ditched Twilight for Discworld, made some new school friends for the first time in my life, played a LOT of Left 4 Dead 2 with my sister, got my heart broken by Modern Warfare 3, and at the end of the year, I moved in with my dad and his fiance for the first time - moving from a shitty, overcrowded, unclean house into a strict environment where yes I do have to shower every day, and yes I do eat proper food with actual utensils rather than used paper plates.

In 2012 - My dad and his fiance split up and kicked me back down to my mother’s house just before my GCSEs began, and I was obviously very unhappy about this, so I decided to bingewatch Adventure Time across the 3 weeks they took place. Fortunately my GCSEs survived the fallout. I became inspired to draw Adventure Time art, massively improved my digital art style within the space of a couple months, and opened my first tumblr blog dedicated to analysing Adventure Time.

In 2013 - My blog kicked off, I was making plenty of friends during my A-levels, and I was deeply enjoying school for the first time ever. On top of this, my dad finally got a place of his own and invited me to live with him. I’m still living with him now and the quality of life is much better, everything is much cleaner, we have actual heating, I’m actually clean, I had a stable food source, I cannot describe how much the change benefitted my life. Even if he is an unstable moody bastard. Oh, also, I read Homestuck.

In 2014 - I got really fit at the start of the year going to gym 3 times a week, then I studied AMERICAN POLITICS in A-level (which 2 years later I’d deeply regret). I did better in my A-levels this year than the previous year, so evened out to B’s all round. It might have been better if my good sociology teacher didn’t get sacked for accidentally sabotaging every health and social care student... Applied for university and got a placement in the best uni in Wales. Started Uni. Had tons of money for first time. Got fat very quickly, RIP my weight. Got depressed and lonely in Halls. Hated politics classmates. At the end of the year I deleted my Adventure Time blog, and.... started getting really into Homestuck.

In 2015 - Opened up this blog (hello it’s been 5 fucking years!!!), slouched off in university, became a massive Terezi stan, drew lots of Homestuck comics. I ate a tons of Quiche as well. It was okay. I’m going to be honest, other than this blog taking off not a lot of interesting things happened to me in 2015. However, Undertale came out this year, so that was cool.

In 2016 - Found Dad increasingly difficult to live with as he was getting frustrated with... everything about me, for some reason. It sucked. Brexit happened, the US election happened, Homestuck Act 7 happened, Hiveswap went off the map. I don’t remember much about this year and I’m glad for it because I was not happy. I think this is when I joined the Homestuck Reddit though/

In 2017 - Graduated University!!!! Volunteered in a charity shop for a few months whilst looking for a job, did 5 weeks of crappy work experience in a job centre. What else happened this year? I’m sure it was a lot of things but really I can’t remember. Got myself a Nintendo Switch. Became a permanent member of the Homestuck Discord.

In 2018 - I secured myself a job! Hooray!!!! This alleviated the tensions with my dad, because he was happy that I was finally working. We’ve been on good terms since. As irritating as working in customer service for 8 hours a day can be, I liked that I was doing something all the time and the year could be a memorable one for that reason, rather than fading away like the previous 3 years had. The year was capped off by Deltarune, and being given a fuckton of wine by work contractors.

In 2019 - A lot of terrible videogames came out earlier this year but it was mitigated by the release of DMC5, which must be cherished by all. I was put on short-time in January after the first Reckoning, then I got my full hours back in March when given a new role. Then our main client went into administration, and the OMEGA-Reckoning happened and everybody else in my tier lost their jobs with me as the sole survivor. We had no wine this year either, which is the saddest thing honestly. Later in the year I started taking up driving lessons, and I’m hoping that I’ll be able to drive by spring, though my instructor thinks that is too optimistic. I’ve found driving tough because of how my brain works; I can only concentrate on one thing at a time, so when I’m doing something right I’m usually doing something else wrong.

What am I doing today - Sitting here playing Persona Q2 and humming the new Pokemon OP to myself because it is catchy. I will probably open the champaigne soon.

From 10 years ago I’ve grown significantly. It’s almost like I experienced my teen years later, because I was so stunted from how I lived. I feel like it’s only now I’m reaching the maturity level, and degree of self respect, to call myself an adult. I’ve always struggled with relating to people offline as well, but... I’m growing okay with that. Who needs other people anyway? They just bring in drama. If I’m comfortable being by myself, there’s nothing wrong with that.

#personal

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ducklooney · 5 years

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My first fanfiction-Quack Pack fanfiction?!

Here is finally something to do, I would just ask for some mistakes that I have right now on fanfiction to correct me and show me some things that are wrong, since they are certainly written the way I imagine those things. Thank you in advance for your help. Since unfortunately not only on Tumblr, but also on Instagram and on Deviantart and other social networks there are few things related to the cartoon series "Quack Pack", I decided to write fanfiction. Since unfortunately there is not much fanart related to Quack Pack, I wish there was a little more, I actually thought I was drawing related to it, but since I do not have the conditions for it, and I draw on my computer and it turns out a little bad, I decided to do better with fanfiction writing, but not the ones most write, but quite different, mostly from my perspective, the way I would like it to be in my fanfiction. Who will and who will read and like what I will write about now (I will post at the beginning on my blog, then I will see what happens later), he can. Freely draw based on my story, and I would love to be a little more fanart related to the Quack Pack. I know the Quack Pack has had some problems and I'm sure to include many things in my fanfiction story, first and foremost from the comic book world, and this fanfiction is actually going to be some kind of crossover. Please note that this is my first fanfiction and there will probably be mistakes I make and please correct me. Thank you for your understanding. And if I forgot, it would mostly be based on Donald Duck and his nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie Duck (but in the Quack Pack version) and Daisy Duck, but there might be characters that could appear, but unfortunately they didn't appeared in the Quack pack but will certainly pop up in my fanfiction story, but it will be a surprise. There is so much to begin with, and I will certainly start over and this story will be divided into parts. Here I am going to start with my fanfiction story and I want you to enjoy my story and apologize in advance for some things I have offended by something and made some mistakes that made you offended and I apologize for that. And yes, if there are any questions, feel free to ask me. Here's a start:

Morning. It was dawn, actually. July month. Yesterday was over thirty degrees, and it's not easy for ducks to keep that temperature under so many feathers, and so is Donald Duck, who has experienced everything in his life and so on. He slept in one solid dream, and he certainly dreamed of beating the Evronians as a Duck Avenger, or of fighting Maui Mallard with his martial arts, or how he, as a Double Duck, perform special espionage missions to save the world or simply how he likes to fish on one lake and enjoy it. Whatever it is, he certainly loves that kind of dream. However, someone interrupts him, in the sense of someone or something interrupting his dream. Yes, it was a boring alarm clock and digital. It was four o'clock in the morning and Donald slammed his fist into his alarm clock to turn it off. He turned off the alarm clock and stood up all awake, realizing what day it would be like today. Yes, he will have a lot of work to do, both as a cameraman and as a reporter, but not with Kent Powers, who fired him long ago, but with Everett Ducklair, his chief. Yes, Donald hated Everett as much as he did Kent Powers before, as he kept upsetting his life by forcing him to do some trivial things instead of his main job, such as cleaning toilets, hallways, halls, and the like. Fortunately, for all his work, he was paid a lot of money, and with that Donald could be satisfied, first of all, because he devoted all his money to his beloved nephews. When he had some free time or a break at work, he thought of Huey, Dewey, and Louie, who were no longer young children and could soon be adults. They have long since entered puberty, their personalities have formed, and they will soon start whether or not for a year in high school. Although they had different traits, they still acted as a team except in some things. Donald, of course, first went to the bathroom to do his work, so he washed and brushed his teeth. Afterwards, he put on his Hawaiian shirt and went to have his breakfast. After breakfast, he got ready for work, but before he went to work, he wanted to go to his nephews' room to see if they were sleeping any longer. As they continue to sleep, Donald merely smiled at them and slowly approached them and gave them his parental kiss on their cheeks, but they did not notice or feel it after they slept soundly. Donald then left their room and walked down the stairs to retrieve his business bag. Yes, at that point it was five o'clock in the morning, but of course Donald had to get to work early, as his boss had ordered him to do. He had to be at work at six o'clock. So he took it in his bag, in the meantime he heard a loud voice, and Donald replied:

"Silence!", And gestured Donald with his index finger to his beak as a sign of silence, and pointed to the top floor, thinking it was one of his nephews. As the loud noise stopped, Donald turned to the hall and then to the door and meanwhile, his nephew Louie Duck appeared in his pajamas with a backwards cap and said to Louie his uncle: "Can I please Uncle Donald go with you to work?" "No!" Donald replies loudly, "you can't go to work, and besides getting out of bed now, is it too early to play and go to school?" "Uncle Donald, so we're on vacation now, school's not working during the month of July, have you forgotten that? Besides, we'll be alone when you're gone," Louie said, and Donald suddenly thought and put his hand on his forehead as that he had done something wrong. And they sit in a small chair in the hall.

I almost forgot about it. Yes, I worry about you, that something bad doesn't happen to you. I can't quite leave you alone. Especially not to my worst neighbor in the history of humanity, Neighbor Jones, and his family. It just makes a mess in my yard and makes my life even worse, and again I would not move, ”Donald said, sad. "Don't think so badly Uncle D, you're for my brothers and for me my best uncle, and also the best parent we have. You always think of us and keep an eye on us whenever you can, even if my brothers and I make hell instead let’s make paradise for you. ”Louie said as she approached her uncle. Uncle Donald hugged Louie crying with happiness and said, "You never make me hell, even if you sometimes ruin my house, but I'm very happy to have you, as if you were my sons and not my nephews. Without you I'm empty man." "Don't, Uncle Donald. So you have the best cousins you have, you have your girlfriend Daisy, who is also our aunt, you have Uncle Scrooge, you have best friends Panchito and Jose, and Goofy certainly, our mom Della, who is in space right now, and now I can't remember who else. But you have more support than you think, "Louie said, hugging his uncle. "Oooohh... Thank you Louie, but I have to tell you something and please promise me you won't tell your brothers or anyone, especially Fethry Duck. Okay?" "All right, Uncle Donald. But why?" Louie asked, wondering who was hiding something, since he was of such a nature that he neither loves nor can lie. "Here, Louie, why. You and I know that Uncle Scrooge and I had a fight, don't you?" "I know, Uncle D. I'm sad it must have happened, and I haven't seen Uncle Scrooge in a long time. I know he's a lot of stingy and hard-hearted, but I know for sure, and I believe he surely deep in our heart, thinks of us, and we probably miss him . ”Louie replies sadly. "Ooohh ... I know Louie, but then again, he only thinks of himself and his business and especially his money and I don't think I'm sending you there. In my opinion, better come to you Webby and Mrs. Beakly, than you to you go to Scrooge. And I wouldn't argue about it any more. Okay?!” "All right, Uncle D." Louie sighed miserably. "Next, my only real friends are Jose Carioca, Panchito, partly Goofy, Gyro Gearloose and Fenton. They are the only ones who give me confidence," Donald replied. "What about One? Lyla Lay? Kay K? Reginella? Don't they matter to you? And what about Fethry and Gus Goose?" Louie asked mysteriously. "Be quiet! Don't hear anyone. I know, but these are my private affairs, so don't talk to anyone about this or you won't go on adventures with me like Duck Avenger! Okay?!" - Donald replies angrily. "All right, Uncle Donald," Louie replies. "Yes, I know you very much love my cousin Fethry, or your further uncle, but I'm afraid to make a mess again so I have to pay big fines later. Remember the last time Fethry guarded you?" Donald asked. "I remember. But it was fun. We had a great time with Fethry and my cousin, or Fethry's nephew Dugan Duck," Louie says excitedly. "I know, but a mess was made, and besides, I had a lot of reports from my awkward neighbors. I can't allow such things next time. You understand what I'm talking about, don't you?" "I know, Uncle Donald. I know." Louie says sadly. "Then you know why I can't trust you, my cousin Gus Goose." "I know, because he only thinks about the food he eats all the time," Louie replies. "Not only that, but because he's too stupid," Donald replies. "Okay, but he's fun too," Louie replies. "Yes I know, but I can't take the risk again. What I'm talking about is babysitting, and since I can't trust everyone, I can only entrust that job to Dickie Duck, Goldie's granddaughter. I just hope she's not too busy writing her student master's work. " "Dickie is great. I don't mind being a babysitter. She's never bored with it," Louie replies happily. "I'm glad about that. I'll talk to her and if she's free, she'll come to watch over you. Okay?" "Ok, Uncle D." "Now, back to bed." "All right, Uncle." "And don't tell anyone about this, okay?" "Ok. And good luck at work, Uncle D." "Thank you Louie. Goodbye! See you in the evening," Donald said, getting up and heading for the door, in the meantime ringing the phone. "Who's calling this at this time ?!" Donald mumbled and picked up the phone and asked, "Who is it?" “Can I keep your nephews safe?” Fethry asked cheerfully in his sweater, living two blocks away from the Donald. "Noooooo!" - Donald angrily answered and hung up. Poor Fethry. All in all, he takes his bag and wristwatch, leaves the house, runs to the bus station, manages to catch the bus and leaves for work. However, it was six o'clock in the morning. Louie Duck goes to his room and goes to his deck chair (this was also his bed) and in his pajamas, wearing his cap on his head, reads a comic book while his brothers sleep. But Louie didn't read any comics related to super heroes, he read a comic about Darkwing Duck, which really existed in his world.

End of Chapter One.

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solivar · 5 years

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WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

In which Zen and Hanzo have an unexpected experience.

“So, you remember when I told you the fabric of reality around here is usually a schmancy high thread count thingamabobber?” Jaime asked, as they clustered around him in the tiny oasis of normality beneath the streetlights. “Well. About two, three o’clock this afternoon, the monitors started pingin’ like mad and, uh, yeah, now the local area immediately inside your house is all dia -- diaphra -- diaphragmous? See-through like?”

“Diaphanous,” Hana replied tersely. “The word you’re looking for is diaphanous.”

“That’s the word! Thanks, chippie -- ow, ow, hey, ow, okay okay okay, I’m sorry!” He held up hands and tablet in self-defense. “Thank you, Hana. Anyway, we gathered up all the extra stabilizer stakes we had charged and called Rein and booked it up here as quick as we could. The stakes and the wards Rein rigged up are keepin’ it isolated for now but, uh, we dunno for how long. We’ve definitely got interference bleedin’ into local communications already.”

“Yeah, we noticed.” Jesse budged over to let Reinhardt join their huddle, taking the opportunity to slide his arm around Hanzo’s shoulders as he did so. “So I’m guessing it’s not going t’be safe for anyone to go in there?”

“We have been working on that,” Reinhardt rumbled. “Mako and I have tested a solution -- a ward that stabilizes the local area around its wearers, preferably two or three to create a large area of usable space.”

“And by ‘tested’ he means ‘they went inside wearin’ a pair and made me monitor the situation from outside so I could start screamin’ if they disappeared,’” Jaime clarified, still obviously aggrieved.

“He,” Roadie rumbled, gesturing a complicated gesture at Hanzo, “shouldn’t. Too close to the cause. Wards might not be strong enough.”

“His bedroom wall was where all this got started,” Genji added thoughtfully. “Hanzo, is there anything up there you absolutely couldn’t live without? Is there some way we could, like, seal it shut extra strongly?”

Hanzo leaned into the comfortingly solid warmth of Jesse’s side, and considered -- the computer and art pad he used for digital and holographic designs were expensive pieces of equipment but replaceable. So were the majority of the physical supplies, inks and watercolors and paper, that he kept on hand at home. Santa Fe contained enough thrift stores to replace his entire wardrobe if necessary. “My bow and quiver are downstairs in the sports equipment closet -- so is my gym bag. Just those. If we can ward my bedroom shut, we should.”

“And by we, we mean absolutely not you.” Genji replied sweetly. “Zen, can you do that thing you did back at the Student Union again?”

“That depends entirely upon the availability of duct tape and Sharpies but, yes, I can.” Zen offered him a faintly apologetic smile. “And I should go in first to perform the binding, just to be safe.”

“D’you honestly think we go anywhere without enough duct tape to fasten our truck’s entire frame and undercarriage back together?” Jaime asked, moderately affronted, and it was clearly a rhetorical question because a moment later a caseful was hitting the sidewalk with an emphatic thud.

Hana wordlessly dug at least six different colors and opacities of markers out of her bag and offered them up as a sacrifice. “What? I hit the bookstore when I was done with class. I had a bad feeling, okay?”

“No judgment.” Genji replied with an easy soothing grin as Zen made his selection, armed himself with three full rolls of tape, and marched toward the condo with Roadie in tow. “Wards? Wearable kind?”

“Yes! Come, we’ll get you fitted up.” Reinhardt, it seemed, approached literally everything with boundless good humor and radiant competence; Hanzo rather suspected if someone told him an asteroid capable of sterilizing the biosphere was about to hit the Earth, he’d respond with a cheerful grin and a plan that just might work.

He led them to one of the three trucks taking up approximately four hundred percent of their allotted curbside parking: a flatbed pickup truck obviously cobbled together from the frames of at least two pre-modern-technology vehicles, sun-faded and rust-speckled, mounted to a hover rig by means that probably wouldn’t stand up to close inspection and might not survive actual aerodynamic hover forces, flanked by not one but two trucks that looked for all the world like home repair/landscaping contractor vehicles, which he supposed was a reasonable enough approach for itinerant craftworkers in disguise. Reinhardt opened the side-panel of the truck he had clearly arrived in, internal lights flickering on as it folded out to reveal a collection of bog standard tools and tool boxes firmly mounted to internal magnetic brackets.

“I actually am a mechanical engineer,” Reinhardt grinned at them, flipped a few more switches, and the side panel continued unfolding in a way that emphatically denied the reality of physical space restrictions, containing rank upon rank of drawers and shelves labeled in neatly precise script, holding components and finished pieces alike, some enormous and obviously meant to be hung on mounts even larger yet, some exquisitely tiny and delicate, an entire worktable, its surface etched in complex diagrams, drafting tools and equipment clipped to the edges, storage caskets racked together beneath the drawers.

The wearable wards were on the smaller end, emerging from one of the caskets, Reinhardt handing each of them one as they clustered around him. “They are more durable than they look but I would not suggest hitting one with a hammer if you could avoid it. They produce a more individual focused variation of Jaime’s reality stabilization matrix and draw some of their strength from their wearers and more from proximity to others of their same kind. Stay close to one another when you go inside.”

Hanzo tapped one of the wards -- a small disk, its surface inscribed with a complex sequence of curves and lines and angles, exterior edge an unbroken line of letters? Runes? Something vaguely literary in a language he absolutely did not recognize. “Is this...fast curing craft clay?”

“It is, my friend! Good eye.” Reinhardt clapped him hard enough on the shoulder to shift the entire group sideways six inches. “Some particularly bloody-minded purists argue against using such materials but, between us, in situations where time is of the essence, the results are just as good as spending six days scribing on disks of bone or metal, especially if the wards need only last so long.”

“I can believe that,” Hanzo agreed, having witnessed first hand what Zen could accomplish on the fly, and clipped the band around his wrist. The throbbing spiky pain in his chest dulled, almost immediately, to a fretful ache, and he drew his first unobstructed breath in a solid ten minutes. “It -- my chest hurts less.”

Reinhardt and Roadie exchanged a glance and Roadie took him gently be the elbow, guided him out of the group and to the cab of Reinhardt’s truck. “Sit. Truck’s warded, too. Don’t look when we open the door.”

Hanzo took a shivery breath. “Okay.” He pulled out his tablet, reflexively checked email and messages, looked anywhere but at the house as his family quietly discussed among themselves who was going first and how long they’d be allowed to stay inside. They had, perhaps unsurprisingly, attracted more than a little attention and he murmured, sotto voce, “Neighbors are filming.”

“Of course they are, because our neighbors are relentless busybodies with nothing better to do with their lives!” Genji raised his voice enough for most audio pickups to catch it, and then dropped back down to normal. “You want me to get your hamper out of the laundry room? I’m pretty sure you’ve got some unwashed clothes in there yet.”

“Please.” He offered his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “Be careful. That sounds so...stupid? Inadequate? Both?”

“Heartfelt. The word you’re looking for is heartfelt.” Genji grinned and closed the cab door, mouthed stay here, and made his way up the sidewalk to the front steps, where the door was beginning to open.

Hanzo forced himself to look away, thumbed open his library and picked a book at random, spent the next interminable period of nerve-wracking eternity reading the same page approximately a hundred and forty thousand times. He didn’t have to look because, despite the wards, a thread of ice dripped down his spine every time someone opened the condo door and he sat, tense with dread, until he heard their voices again, the sounds of suitcases and storage trunks and gear carriers thumping into place in the back of the pickup, Hana arguing for or against something with clearly audible vigor, Lucio’s husky laughter, Genji’s very best lazily unconcerned drawl that in absolutely no way successfully concealed the depths of his unease, Zenyatta calm and even and serene as only he could be, no matter the circumstances.

“Hanzo!” Hana yanked the door cab door open and only twenty years of finely honed reflexes that he hadn’t entirely allowed to go to pot in the last few saved him from hitting the ground with a total absence of grace. “Jeez, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were leaning on it.”

“That’s okay,” Hanzo accepted the hand Jesse, materializing at his side, offered to boost himself back to his feet. “It’s dark. What’s the problem?”

“Tell them I don’t have to put Tokki in the back of that...that...thing.” Hana gesticulated one-handed and just short of frantically at the truck.

“Tokki? Who’s --” It took a moment for the reality of what he was seeing to filter all the way into his mind but, gradually, he realized that Hana’s entire other hand, in fact her whole arm, was wrapped around an enormous pink something, something a solid four inches taller than she was, something that probably out-weighed her, too, something that looked like the unholy offspring of a torrid affair between a fuzzy pink fairground toy and a Gundam dakimakura. “What. What is that. How do you wash it. How.”

“You really need to do that little rising-falling thing with your voice when you’re trying to ask a real question, Hanzo.” Hana replied tartly. “This is Tokki, he’s very old, I brought him from home, and he is absolutely not riding in the truck.”

“There won’t be enough seats for everybody in the van if he doesn’t ride in the truck.” Genji pointed out in tones of sweet reason as he hefted the last of his own luggage into place. “Back me up here, aniki.”

“I’ll ride back in the truck with Jaime and Mako if you like, Hana.” Hanzo replied gravely. “You’re right, something so venerable and well-loved should not be subject to such an indignity.”

“I don’t know if I should punch you for making fun of me or hug you for agreeing with me.” Hana admitted and then settled for doing both. “Best big brother.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Hanzo agreed and waved her off. “Go on before I regret my munificence.”

“That was not the backup I expected.” Genji threw his hands in the air and walked away, muttering under his breath, to help Hana get her giant pink monstrosity aboard.

“I’d’ve offered to put him in the van’s storage but, uh, I don’t think he’d fit.” Jesse admitted and smiled down at him. “That was good of you -- she was actually pretty upset about it.”

“Given the expense and effort it must have taken to transport it from Korea, it must be very dear to her.” Hanzo replied quietly. “I trust everything went well?”

“Better than I thought they would, honestly.” For the first time, Hanzo realized he was wearing his weapons, gun-belt slung around his hips clipped with extra ammunition and less immediately identifiable objects of a potentially violent nature. “Wards worked like a charm and Doc Tekhartha’s got your bedroom door bound up like a frat house prank with extra magic just for giggles. And I have your things stashed in the van.”

“Thank you. It would be a genuine pain in the ass to have to replace my bow.” Hanzo smiled crookedly. “I may have some experience when it comes to the expense and effort of keeping beloved things close.”

“Archery, hmm? I admit, I’d wondered.” Jesse grinned, dark eyes glinting. “Strong hands and shoulders, lots of well-kept muscle, and you don’t strike me like the type to spend a lot of hours a week liftin’ weights.”

“And you’d be right because that’s the most boring form of exercise known to man.” Hanzo found a grin lurking at the corners of his own mouth and let it stay. “Great-Uncle Toshiro taught an entirely different regimen and Genji graciously assists me in maintaining it, though I do most of my target shooting at this little sporting goods place just at the city limits. The only place I’ve found with indoor and outdoor ranges for archery as well as firearms.”

“Navarro’s? Oh, yeah. Know ‘em well. They’re my supplier for some of the more normal stuff I keep on hand for survival caches -- not a craftworker among them, but they’re good people.” Oh so casually Jesse reached for his hand. “Maybe we could make a night of, uh, going there sometime.”

“If you two idiots could stop flirting for five whole seconds and help we might be able to get out of here sometime tonight.” Genji suggested, entirely loud enough for everyone up and down the street on both sides as far as the eye could see to overhear.

Hanzo, just barely, managed not to melt into a puddle of liquid humiliation as at least a few of the neighbors sent up a cheer in response to this intelligence. “We should probably help.”

“I’ll help you find a place to bury him where no one will ever find him later, if you want?” Jesse suggested but nonetheless immediately moved to help sort out the increasingly elaborate Jenga puzzle of everyone’s belongings, at least some of which were delicately electronic and quite probably highly experimental.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hanzo murmured in reply and took up station on the periphery of the increasingly contentious gathering, inserting suggestions as seemed appropriate, and as he stood became aware of a slow icy drip sliding down his spine and a sharp, cold pulse beneath his breastbone.

When had he taken the ward off? He couldn’t remember -- his wrist still felt its comforting embrace but when he looked down it simply wasn’t there, gone as if it had never been.

And when had he started walking towards the house? He had no conscious recollection of that, either, of when he’d begun obeying the relentless cold tension in his chest, like a line drawn taut, pulling at him like a fish well on the hook.

Behind him, he heard Jaime say, rather distinctly, “Uh, gang? You might wanna look at this.” And, beneath his voice, a frantic low-toned beeping.

He wanted to speak -- he wanted to say something, anything, but his tongue was pinned flat to the inside of his mouth and his teeth were welded together and his legs would not stop moving as he took the steps in two strides. Before him, the condo’s security access pad flicked from red to green, the locks slotted back into their mounts, and the door slowly, slowly cracked open, a thin slit of unrelieved darkness.

No. It took all his strength to articulate that thought, as his hand reached for the door handle, to open it further, to step inside.

Behind him, the steady monotone beepbeepbeepbeep of Jaime’s machinery sped up and grew louder BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP and through it heard a voice, more than one voice, raised in alarm, calling his name. But the metal of the door handle was cold -- burning cold, cold beyond anything nature could claim -- against the palm of his hand, throbbing against his breastbone, forcing the breath out of his lungs in heavy streams of frost.

And, again, he said, “no” only aloud this time, soft, thin, and it took what was left of his strength to yank the door shut, slamming it hard into its frame and his free palm against the lock plate. He felt the tension holding him, the relentless pull, snap like an over-stressed line and he staggered backwards, scrambled on the edge of the steps, caught himself on the railing as several pairs of arms tried to catch him from behind, and mostly succeeded.

“Hanzo --” Genji, that was Genji, arm wrapped tight across his chest, his chest which was no longer filled with an icy throbbing ache.

“Darlin’ --” And that was Jesse, catching hold of his arm, gently cradling the hook-fingered claw of his hand. “Easy, l’il brother, he’s hurt.”

“Get him away from the door.” And that was Zenyatta, and received immediate obedience from all three of them as through their combined efforts they got him turned away and back down to the sidewalk.

He was only mildly surprised to find he needed it -- his legs felt like rubber bands twisted and stretched nearly to breaking and his insides like freshly melted ice water and his head spun with exhaustion, as enervated as if he’d just run a marathon. Between them, Genji and Jesse settled him in the shotgun seat of Reinhardt’s truck, cab lights turned on as Zen examined his hand. “Where is your ward?”

“I’m...not certain?” Hanzo admitted, light-headedly. “I don’t remember taking it off. I --”

“Here,” Hana elbowed her way past his brother and his ranger, holding the band out for Zen’s perusal.

The ward was cracked cleanly across, only the wad of epoxy underneath it holding its pieces together, the magnetic clasp corroded to crumbling bits, the band itself dry and cracked. As Zen took it, it finished falling entirely to pieces, striking the sidewalk in rapidly decomposing bits.

“Too close,” Zen muttered. “We should have sent you back to the hacienda.” He snapped open the first aid case Rein set at his feet, pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, and began applying something wonderfully soothing to the reddened, blistered skin striping his palm.

“Maybe, Doc, but maybe not.” Jaime interjected. “‘Cause whatever he just did? It caused the anomaly to go pop. Shut down just as it was cyclin’ to its widest aperture.”

“Did you do something?” Genji asked, flicking a glance holding distinctly murderous intent over his shoulder at the house. “Did it do something to you?”

“I felt...called. Pulled.” Hanzo reached up with his free hand and scrubbed his aching, weary eyes. “Not a voice just...an impulse I couldn’t resist, like when I --” He stopped, breathed peace, continued. “Exactly like when I tore Zen’s wards off in the Student Union. I couldn’t stop myself, until I came to the door -- it wanted me to open it, to go inside but I...made myself not do that.”

“I’ll send you the data the sensors picked up.” Jaime flicked open a few screens, started a download. “‘Cause I’d like all your thoughts. But it looks to me like the anomaly was drawin’ power from him and when he cut it off, it couldn’t sustain itself any longer.”

“Too close,” Zen reiterated, as he finished taping bandages in place. “Reinhardt, if you would be so good as to take him back to the hacienda, right now, we will be directly behind you.”

“Of course, Doctor. Seatbelt, my young friend, and sit back. We will be home before you know it.”

***

Hanzo drowsed most of the way back to Cerrillos and woke much the better for it, enough so that he insisted on helping where he could, schlepping lighter items that wouldn’t tear the bandages off his hand before Terrifying Smoke Gabe insisted they stop for dinner. “It’s not going anywhere, the truck can sit overnight in the service garage, you’ve all done enough for one day. Come inside.”

Significantly more than just dinner that greeted them: it was the hacienda’s actual dining room, opened up for the first time since their arrival, a table to sit twenty laid out with exquisitely painted plates and gleaming silver and glasses of something pale yellow and fizzy, two enormous pans of enchiladas montadas, platters of tamales and flautas and chile rellenos, a crock of tortilla soup gently steaming next to a stack of earthenware bowls, a chafing dish of fruit salad sitting on ice, bowls of guacamole and salsa and extra cheese. At the far end, Hot Vampire Jack and Badass Granny Ana leaned against one another, half-dozing, bestirring themselves only when the noise of everyone trooping inside became too much to ignore.

Hot Vampire Jack cracked open one eye and muttered, “Frankly, I blame the lot of you for reactivating all his maternal instincts. On the other hand, I almost have to thank you because his empty nesting was about to result in a murder.”

“I made the prickly pear lemonade spritzer,” Ana added, not even bothering to open her eye. “You’re welcome.”

“We really have been adopted by supernatural entities living in a ghost town in the desert,” Hana observed, struck by what appeared to be fairly legitimate awe.

“Yes,” Hanzo agreed, pulling out a chair for her.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Amari? You look beat.” Lucio touched her shoulder gently. “Can I get you a plate?”

“That unholy fiend worked us like dogs,” Mrs. Amari replied, quavery and exhausted, reaching up to pat Lucio’s hand. “Such a good boy you are. I only wish I had a grandson like you before I go to meet my ancestors.”

“Are you trying to guilt trip my kid with that?” Terrifying Smoke Gabe misted in through the kitchen door carrying an armful of crocks and a condiment caddy. “Also: don’t listen to her, she was in charge of juicing lemons.”

“Juicing lemons is a very strenuous task for a woman of my advanced years,” Mrs. Amari replied loftily and accepted the bowl that Lucio handed to her. “Thank you, young man.”

Multiple sets of searing crimson eyes opened for the sole and express purpose of rolling at her. “Make yourselves comfortable, there’s plenty for everybody and -- what happened to your hand?”

An inky misty tentacle wrapped around Hanzo’s wrist, quite a bit warmer than he’d imagined it would be the first time he saw them, and reeled him over for examination, the bandages a bit roughened from hauling things but bearing no signs of seepage or blood. “Uhm. I’m not entirely sure myself,” Hanzo replied in what he hoped was a soothing tone of mildly alarmed squeak.

“An energy discharge of some sort at the condo -- his palm was burnt.” Zen mercifully interceded on his behalf.

“And by ‘energy discharge’ he means our boy here might have closed the spatial anomaly at the house just by tellin’ it to go away and layin’ hands on it.” Jamie added helpfully. “I’ll dump the readings I took after supper.”

“It wasn’t that exciting,” Hanzo demurred and earned himself a multi-eyed roll of his very own as Terrifying Smoke Gabe waved him off to his seat, where a plate filled by both Jesse and Genji awaited him.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Jack replied, dryly. “What happened?”

Hanzo heroically stuffed a flauta in his mouth to avoid having to go first but, as it happened, Jaime was more than happy to tell the tale and his body, now reminded by his taste buds that food was good and that he hadn’t actually had any since breakfast, insisted that he address that deficiency immediately and in mass quantities. He was midway through his third fully stuffed plate when he began hearing the words “....and then we all saw Hanzo walkin’ up to the house and the door startin’ to open…” and realized that he was going to have to stop inhaling calories long enough to speak and that quite literally everyone at the table was watching said inhalation with varying levels of knowledgeable amusement and borderline alarm.

“Uhm.” Hanzo said, setting his silverware down and dabbing the corners of his mouth with what had to be someone’s grandmother’s linen napkin, “I...wasn’t entirely operating under my own recognizance at that point -- moving without wanting to move, reaching for the door without wanting to reach for it. Something wanted me to touch it, to open it and I --” He took a breath, closed his eyes, as the memory washed over him, Jesse’s arms sliding comfortingly across his shoulders. “I refused. I said that I would not and closed it and --” He held up his injured hand, “This happened but the compulsion ceased at once.”

“And the anomaly collapsed pretty much immediately, too.” Jaime finished.

“And now he’s eating like he’s got two empty legs,” Jack observed meditatively.

“Interesting development,” Ana agreed, sipping her drink with a twinkle in her eyes.

“What these two tricksters are pucking around about is the use of some gifts can really take it out of the craftworker, physiologically speaking, and after particularly grueling spellwork you can feel like eating a horse. And, depending on your capabilities and needs, you might try.” Gabe shook his head at them. “You spent some power tonight, kid, and your body is demanding that you put it back in.”

“Spoilsport.” Ana literally, actually stuck her tongue out at him. “That’s why we usually have a hearty brunch before we try anything too enthusiastic these days. Reinhardt and I are not getting any younger -- our ability to draw on our physical resources for extra strength is not what it once was. Jack and Gabriel have their own hungers to feed when they are forced to exceed even their much greater limits. I strongly suspect that you are experiencing that need.”

“If the anomaly was caused by the Serpent-Wolf,” Zen murmured in the tone of one speculating aloud, “it may be using its connection to the magatama we found to circumvent the defenses we built around the condo -- we did bring Hanzo dangerously too close if that is the case.”

Hanzo swallowed the mouthful of soup he’d taken. “That wasn’t your fault. None of you could have known.”

Zen acknowledged the point with a graceful inclination of his head. “And you being strong enough to break its attempt to dominate you was not something it could have known. Now it does, and that increases the risk to you.” A fractional pause. “In Dr. Saddind-Maas’ absence, do you have reason to go back to campus right now? If not, you should probably stay here, where the defenses are more consistent and robust.”

Genji choked, swallowed, croaked, “Wait, wait, what?”

“Dr. Saddind-Maas appears to be missing,” Hanzo admitted reluctantly, around the remains of a fifth tamale. “I was, uh, questioned about the last time I saw her this afternoon --”

“Questioned?” Genji asked, and flicked a look at Zen. “You were, too, weren’t you?”

“I believe I said as much,” Zen replied, displaying such deft rhetorical evasion skills that Hanzo was briefly envious.

“You said that campus security had asked you about the Student Union --” Genji stopped, exchanged glances with Lucio and Hana. “The MiBs? Are they involved here somehow? Trying to make connections? Because we all know the campus rent-a-cops don’t have enough between their ears to fire up a light bulb much less the imagination necessary to put what’s actually going on here together.”

“One of the people who spoke to Hanzo was the head of security for TALON -- gave her name as Amelie Lacroix.” Jesse replied, hesitated fractionally. “The other one was Chase Whitehawk, acting in his capacity as an agent of the TSS.”

Across the table, Jack, Ana, and Reinhardt all went totally still in three completely separate and disturbing ways. Very deliberately, Jack took a sip of his soup, set it down, and said, “I’m still working on digging out more details about TALON -- my usual resources are markedly reluctant to share intel on them, which in and of itself says something. The Lacroix thing, though? That’s...not good.”

“The Lacroix are a family of vessenjaegers,” Reinhardt added, his tone freighted with a concern all the more disturbing coming as it was from him. “Monster hunters, witch hunters, greatly feared for centuries and with good reason. They are killers without peer.”

“The Whitehawks are much the same -- they’re a clan whose purpose has always been to protect the people from the naayéé, and they take that duty seriously.” The corner of Jesse’s mouth quirked back, the expression there and gone again, and Hanzo took his hand beneath the table, squeezed it gently. “Those forces making common cause, at the direction of unknown parties...well. I’m not sure that bodes well for anybody.”

“Not likely, no.” Jack replied flatly. “I’ll lean a bit harder where I can, open some other lines of inquiry. Otherwise, I tend to agree with the good doctor on the issue of Hanzo staying here in town for the time being.”

“I do have other classes, you know,” Hanzo said, aggrieved.

“Yes, but you can’t pass any of them if you die or have your soul eaten or your body stolen,” Terrifying Smoke Gabe pointed out sweetly. “And there are things you can do here to minimize the possibility of that outcome in the meantime.”

“...Point.” Hanzo was forced by native honesty to admit. “I can do most of my Instructor Aesthetics in Art Education work from here, too.”

The initial expression on Genji’s face, as he opened his mouth, suggested he was going to say one thing only to have his train of thought unexpectedly derailed, explosively, and sent plunging over the edge of a potentially bottomless ravine. “...I didn’t know you were taking education track courses.”

“It seemed a reasonable alternative to starving artistry,” Hanzo replied wryly. “Though I’m finishing that approach first -- Dr. Saddind-Maas thought it would be detrimental to studio program to fully commit to a second degree while one was already in progress.”

“You are a fucking masochist.” Genji informed him. “But, for the record, I think you’d make a good teacher -- I mean, you were a thousand orders of magnitude more patient with everybody back home and I’d have been. They’d still be looking for all the body parts if I had to teach Goro’s kids how to do anything.”

“Thank you,” Hanzo replied, absurdly touched.

“You’re welcome.” Genji smiled sweetly. “How long has your flaky thesis advisor been missing?”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” And at Genji’s flat look, “I don’t know for certain -- the two that interrogated me didn’t allow that information to slip. She has not, however, responded to the text I sent her this morning and the last communications I have from her were all sent on Saturday. She was...considering going to the condo.”

“So she might be actually, legitimately missing.” Genji said into the thoughtful silence around the table. “Or she could be shacked up somewhere with that Bob Ross clone who’s always telling the CS students they need to go outside and make a pot or something with her phone turned off.”

“Yes, exactly.” Hanzo looked down to discover his plate empty again and his stomach not immediately agitating for more and settled for sipping his lemonade.

“So we’re not going to panic yet.” Genji leaned back in his chair and glanced at Lucio and Hana. “I’ve got my usability testing practical tomorrow afternoon and lectures in the morning. You two?”

“Composition and rhetoric paper presentation in the morning, digital research seminar in the afternoon -- I’m not going to be out of class until close to seven.” Hana pulled out her tablet. “I might be able to ditch the seminar, the paper’s already been submitted, and my presentation on that one isn’t until Thursday at the earliest.”

“Lectures all day for me and for the next several -- my next presentation isn’t until Friday. That’d be the advanced sound design for digital media project I was working on with Cora before she actually disappeared.” Lucio glanced around the table. “D’you...think it might be risky for us to go to school with these MiBs lurking around?”

“Maybe?” Hot Vampire Jack answered. “It’d definitely look suspicious if you all dropped off the face of the Earth simultaneously.”

“True.” Genji sighed. “Look, the best we can do is hang close together, stay in contact with the hacienda, and call for help if we need it. If any of us get cornered alone, we answer their questions to the best of our ability, but we legit don’t know anything.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Lucio agreed and Hana nodded, frowning at her tablet.

Hanzo was excused that evening from after dinner chores by virtue of his wounded hand (“It’s not that badly wounded!”) and instead set to the task of sorting his own admittedly somewhat neglected laundry hamper and putting on a load to wash. It would, he admitted without shame, be nice to wear clothes that weren’t some variation of sweats and a tee-shirt again, even if the variation was only cargo pants, and to have his own pyjamas and underwear for bed. He set the machine, a high efficiency water recycling model, then wandered into the sitting room with the idle thought of restarting his book again, only to be ambushed by Zenyatta, carrying a much larger and more comprehensively supplied first aid kit.

“Sit,” Zen said in a tone close enough to a command that Hanzo, trained from the cradle to obey reasonable authority figures, immediately planted himself on the couch. “Let me see your hand -- the field dressing I used probably won’t stay put through the night.”

“Really, it’s not that bad,” Hanzo insisted, as Terrifying Smoke Gabe materialized to observe the proceedings.

“It was visibly blistering,” Zen countered, exasperated, as he carefully peeled off the last layer of bandaging and reached for a packet of delicately fragrant, likely exceedingly magical wet wipes. “It has to be -- oh. Oh my.”

The messy blistered blotch that had marred his right palm was significantly less of both -- the skin still reddened, as though he’d set his hand against something hot, and raised slightly, but not as if it were blistered. Instead it was a visible pattern: a near-perfect circle on the pad below the right index finger, a curving series of ridges across the palm below that resembled nothing so much as roiling stormclouds, jagged lightning crawling among their swirls.

Hanzo spoke for all of them when he said, “What fresh Hell is this?”

“Doesn’t look that Hellish to me, kid,” Terrifying Smoke Gabe observed from his perch on the back of the couch. “And, trust me, I speak with a certain quantity of direct personal experience on that score. Does it hurt?”

“Not...really?” He flexed his fingers and while the skin on his palm pulled a bit with the motion there wasn’t even much of a sting left. “We’re all seeing this as a pattern, right?”

“Yes,” Zen confirmed as he took gentle possession of Hanzo’s wrist and carefully applied a cool, damp wipe to it, then looked again.

The patterning didn’t wipe away but the red visibly faded and the swelling went down almost at once, clarifying the details so nicely that, when Genji strolled in squabbling good naturedly with Lucio and Hana, she could stop, lean over the arm of the couch, and say, “Hey! I’ve seen that somewhere before.”

His hand immediately became the central point of focus of the entire cluster as his brother and Lucio joined them, Genji giving him a narrow-eyed look containing a massive sibling concern storm and Lucio adding, “I’ve seen it too but I can’t remember where.”

“The genealogy chart.” Genji added, concern doing a little dance with realization on his face. “It was on the genealogy chart -- I remember it, too.”

“Really? I don’t --” And then he did, or thought he did, and dug around in his bag with his free hand, pulling out his tablet and pulling up the relevant files, poking through them until he came up with the mon of unknown origin/function list. “I’ll be damned.”

“Please don’t say that,” Genji replied not at all serenely. “Fifteen instances across both halves of the clan, over a thousand years -- including our missing warrior-woman.” He pulled up the list of holders. “And of course there’s no detailed information about how they came to be awarded it or possess it or why.” He paused, traced his fingers over the list. “Kazutaka had it, too.”

“That’s more often than not the truth of many of the older aspects of the clan’s history -- before we settled permanently in Hanamura, we carried our history on our backs.” Hanzo smiled wryly. “Bits and pieces got lost along the way.”

“Inconvenient that this was one of them.” Genji traced his fingertips over the mark. “There’s, like, a zero percent chance that this isn’t significant in some way, right?”

“It is extremely unlikely.” Zen replied, closing up the case, and taking Hanzo’s hand in both his own. “I thought it looked like ward-burn back at the condo -- that can happen when warding energies ground themselves through a physical conduit. But it may be more than that.”

“The spatial anomaly collapsed when he closed the door -- apparently to the second, from what you were saying, and Jaime’s data pretty much supports the conclusion.” Gabe replied thoughtfully. “You sense any residuals, Dr. Tekhartha?”

Three of Zenyatta’s orbs curled themselves into existence around them, glowing gently and chiming as they were wont to do, as he closed his eyes, a little concentration mark forming between his brows. Hanzo forced himself to relax, to breathe normally, to let his hand rest lightly in Zen’s and he was not entirely sure where the lightning-stroke-bright flash came from, his palm or Zen’s orbs, or the flare of purple, deeper and more vivid than any natural light, but the shockwave definitely forced their hands apart, and then the rest of them, and the next time Hanzo was aware enough to realize what was going on around him he was laying sprawled on his back between Genji and Terrifying Smoke Gabe on the sitting room’s exquisite hardwood floor, staring up at the definitely supernatural plasterwork of the ceiling, itself crackling with lightning-silver-eye wateringly-painful-violet threads of energy, rapidly dispersing. His skull was ringing like a selection of Lucio’s tuning forks, each set to a slightly different pitch, he was pretty sure a portion of his brain was trying to ooze out of his ears, and his hand ached from the tips of his fingers all the way to the elbow.

Next to him, Terrifying Smoke Gabe pushed himself up on his elbows, surveyed the wreckage of the living room and asked, “What the fuck just happened?”

“I...don’t know. Genji?” Hanzo reached over and gave his brother, dazed and blinking rapidly as he came back to his senses, a careful shake. “Are you okay?”

“What -- that was -- I’ve only seen that --” Genji bit down on what he’d been about to say, started scrambling to his feet, couldn’t quite manage it and sat down hard again. “Where’s Zen?”

The heavy couch they’d all been sitting on was laying on its back, throw pillows thrown, cushions askew. The end tables were likewise located far afield from their previous positions, at least one lamp smashed, the other tipped over but still alight, casting bizarre and vaguely threatening shadows across the wall and ceiling, along with the weirdly flickering violet light still emanating from beyond the tipped-over furniture.

“Zen?” Hanzo heaved himself to his feet one-armed, his skull slowly ceasing its suture-threatening vibrations, offering his good hand to Gabe as, in the near distance, dogs began barking and footsteps thumped across the floor and voices raised in alarm became clearly audible.

“Here,” For the first time in ever, or at least as long as Hanzo could remember, Zenyatta did not sound some species of serenely in control of himself, “I am here.”

He was, in fact, planted against the far wall next to the fireplace, folded around himself, his head in his hands. Scintillating filaments of purple flickered under his skin, girdling his fingers and wrists in patterns that pressed themselves into the backs of Hanzo’s eyes, stomach-churning with their intensity, as he made his way around the couch toward him. “Are you okay? What --”

“Wait.” He flug out a hand, palm up, and Hanzo froze where he stood. “Just...just a moment.”

The filaments marking his palm with a pattern not unlike an open, slit-pupiled eye flared and faded from the outside in, peeled away from his fingers and flowed up his arm and away and by the time Hot Vampire Jack burst in with Lucio and Hana and the pack in tow, he was mostly himself again, weary and slightly dazed and unnaturally out of sorts, a little ashy from the fireplace tools he’d slammed into, his eyes a washed-out dull gray. Jesse paused in the doorway and immediately crossed to his side, offering him a steadying hand as Genji helped Zen up, unsteadily, to his feet.

“I take this to mean,” Terrifying Smoke Gabe asked dryly, as he and Lucio and Hana righted the couch and got Zen settled on it, “that there were some remnant energies?”

“Yes,” Zenyatta replied, slightly brittle around the edges, and accepted the cup of tea Jack handed to him. “I am...not entirely certain why they reacted as strongly as they did but…” Zen looked up and caught his eyes, smiled with such ridiculously warm reassurance that Hanzo felt himself responding completely, comfort mingled with relief and gratitude. “Hanzo, I believe that you did close the door attempting to open there, in every possible and literal sense.”

Hanzo clutched Jesse’s hand, forced himself to reply calmly and evenly, “My gifts...do you think they are…?”

“I think,” Zenyatta replied carefully, “that you still possess an abundance of will, and of knowledge, and that you may finally be healing from the injury done you all those years ago. How this is tied to the Serpent-Wolf, or the magatama within you, or your bond with Ranger McCree, are questions we will have to answer sooner rather than later. But, for now, I think we should all rest and approach them with fresh eyes and minds, tomorrow. I, for one, have a wretched headache.”

#WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66 #I'll fix the italics tomorrow

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noona-clock · 6 years

Text

First Impression - Part 3

Genre: Museum!AU

Pairing: Youngjae (Got7) x You

By Admin B

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Youngjae waited a couple of days to email you; any longer than that, and he probably would’ve internally combusted because of all the anticipation.

In his head, the email went like this:

Thank you so much for talking with me and answering my questions at the exhibit the other day. I’m truly in awe of your knowledge of Renoir; I can’t imagine how much you know about other painters, as well. I really hope you weren’t just being nice when you offered to help me with my thesis because I would love for you to read over it. Would you want to meet up somewhere? Maybe for dinner?

I have to admit, I didn’t go to the museum just to see the exhibit. I saw you there on my first visit, and to be honest, I was immediately attracted to you. Meeting and speaking with you only solidified my feelings, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.

I applied for an internship there - yes, partly to be close to you. If I get hired, we could have a secret office romance. We could stay late to “work.” We could do our best to be professional around our co-workers when, really, we’re thinking about ripping --

Here’s how his email really went:

Thank you so much for taking the time to talk about the exhibit with me the other day. Should I send you my thesis? I understand if you’re too busy, but really, any notes would be greatly appreciated.

Thanks again.

-YJ

He sent it quickly, afraid that if he wrote any more, he would accidentally type out one (or more) of those thoughts swirling around in his head. That... would be bad. And very, very embarrassing.

Anyway!

Youngjae was expecting to hear back from you in a day or two; he figured you were pretty busy, and his thesis was definitely lowest on the totem pole of your responsibilities.

But after only twenty or so minutes, he got a notification on his phone.

New message Re: Youngjae - grad student from the museum

His brow furrowed in surprise, but he opened it almost immediately.

Sure, go ahead and send it! I’ll gladly read over it and send my thoughts - and any corrections if I see them, though I’m sure there won’t be many!

I’m so glad you liked the exhibit. I don’t always get to hear what people think of it, so thank you! If you come back, let me know. I can give you another tour if you’d like ;)

-Y/N

...Had -- had you just... Okay, was he imagining things, or had you just kind of flirted with him? Via email? I mean, you’d offered to give him another tour of the exhibit. You’d sent a winking smiley face. That was flirting, right?

So... Youngjae clicked on ‘reply’ and started typing out his own response.

Another tour? I would like that :) I have a feeling there’s a lot more I can learn from you.

-YJ

p.s. thesis coming soon - on my phone at the moment

And just minutes after he pressed ‘send,’ he got another notification. Another reply from you.

I’ll be waiting! ;)

-Y/N

Honestly, Youngjae had to applaud you for that response. It could mean you were waiting for his thesis or you were waiting for his next tour or both. No matter which one you really meant, his heart still beating just a little bit faster in anticipation.

The two of you spent the next few weeks emailing back and forth, and while the messages were mostly professional (since they had to do with Youngjae’s thesis and the Impressionist movement), there were a lot of flirtatious undertones. A lot of sentences tacked onto the end of an email which definitely toed the line. And a lot of winking smiley faces, mostly on your part.

Youngjae had come so close to just straight up asking you out more than a few times in these email exchanges, but the interview process for the museum internship was actually going really well. He figured he could wait a little while and just ask you out in person, at work.

When Youngjae received the call from the human resources department at the museum informing him he would be starting his internship the next day, it was all he could do not to send you an email sharing the good news. He wanted it to be somewhat of a surprise, though you actually may have known already. The two of you had mainly just talked about his thesis, so he wasn’t all that sure how much you were involved in the inner workings of the museum.

For the rest of the day and into the next morning, he kept going through different scenarios in his head. He imagined seeing you -- you seeing him -- for the first time. He would shoot you a half-smile, maybe a wink? You would smirk bashfully, probably. And then he would find a time and place to approach you privately. He would ask you out to lunch and-- why not? Dinner, too.

As Youngjae got off the bus at the museum stop, he let out a nervous but hopeful sigh. He was excited to see you and talk to you outside of the digital world, yes, but let’s not forget the main reason he was here: to work at an actual art museum. He would actually be putting his degree to good use, and that was something not many art students could say, to be quite honest.

There were a few other presumably new interns arriving at the same time, and Youngjae joined them, following them in through the main entrance and into the lobby.

A woman from HR, the employee who’d called him yesterday, greeted everyone and began a short speech about what they should expect during their internship here. They would be divided into different departments depending on their background and previous experience and whatnot, so really, this speech would do nothing to prepare them. They would learn everything they needed to know from their new bosses and co-workers.

Just then, a door next to the front desk opened, and museum employees started filing out to join the HR worker giving the speech. Youngjae’s eyes flitted around, searching for you.

He saw your hair first; you were walking next to someone, so he didn’t see the rest of you until you came to a stop about fifteen feet away from him. Youngjae’s heart skipped a beat, his stomach flipped anxiously, and he willed you to meet his eye.

You stood there for a few moments, listening politely... but then you started eyeing the new interns.

When your gaze landed on him, a smile tugged at his lips, just like he imagined it would. He was just about to wink, but then he realized your eyes had widened slightly.

And then you looked away from him almost immediately. He could see you take a deep breath, and you continued to avoid his gaze.

...What? What was going on? Why were you pretending not to know him?

Youngjae realized he hadn’t been paying attention because when he suddenly heard his name, he jumped a little in surprise.

“Yes?” he answered instinctively.

“Curating,” the HR woman stated, not even looking up from her clipboard.

Curating. He assumed she meant that was the department where he would be working, and his eyes immediately darted over to you.

You looked anxious. And you were still avoiding his gaze.

...Well, then. This would be interesting.

You heard the soft ding of your email notification, and you spun around in your desk chair, reaching out to shake your mouse and wake up your computer.

New interns starting today - meet in lobby ASAP.

Oh, fun! New interns!

You quickly locked your computer back up and sprung from your seat. Most of your co-workers were already on their way, so you fell into step with them, following them out into the museum lobby.

One of the ladies from HR was already talking to a small-ish group of young people, though you kind of zoned her out almost immediately. You would perk up if she assigned anyone to your department, of course, but you didn’t need to pay attention to anything else.

After a few moments, you lifted your gaze to take a look at the new guppies, wondering which ones would come under your wing for the next few months.

As you scanned the anxious but eager-looking interns, you couldn’t stop yourself from passing some quick judgments about their appearances. Tall, extremely well-dressed, very nervous, beautiful, too cool for school, Youngjae -- wait, what?!

Youngjae?!

Your eyes widened slightly, and you immediately averted your gaze.

Oh, god. Had you really just seen Youngjae? And not someone who looked like Youngjae?

Please let it be a lookalike, please let it be a lookalike, please let it --

“Choi, Youngjae,” your HR co-worker called out.

Damn it.

But then it got worse.

“Curating.”

WHAT?!

Oh, no. This was not good. Not good at all. Youngjae would be interning for you?! Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Before you knew it, the interns had been released into the wild, dispersing through the lobby and finding their new bosses.

Youngjae walked straight toward you.

Lord Almighty, he was even more good-looking than you remembered.

If you could have cursed out loud right now and not gotten fired (or at least a slap on the wrist), you would have.

“Hey --”

“Come with me,” you muttered, resisting the urge to reach out and grab his sleeve. You had to act normal until you got back to your office, and leading your new intern by his sleeve was not exactly normal.

Your shoes clacked loudly on the marble floor, Youngjae’s hurried footsteps trying to keep up with yours. You pushed through the employee door with a purpose and headed back to your office.

Once the two of you were safely inside, you closed the door as gently as you could. You certainly didn’t want to attract any attention.

“Y/N,” Youngjae began. You turned to see him taking a step toward you, and you instantly held your hand up to stop him.

“No,” you told him, finally meeting his eyes. His beautiful, sparkling, sweet eyes. They just made it that much more difficult for you to form coherent thoughts right now. So you took a deep breath, willing your brain (and your heart) to get a hold of itself. “Listen. I know -- I know we’ve been... we’ve been -- flirting. In our emails.”

A hopeful smile appeared on Youngjae’s lips, and you almost felt bad for what you were about to say.

Almost.

“But that has to stop here and now.”

“...What? Why?”

“Why?!” you chuckled. “Because you’re an intern now! I can’t -- you can’t -- we can’t!”

“But I’m just an intern!”

“No. Not just. You’re an intern. You’re basically an employee. My employee.”

Youngjae’s brow furrowed, and you could tell he desperately wanted to take a step toward you. But he resisted.

“Is there a rule that says --”

“I have a rule. I’m here for work, and that’s it. I can still help you with your thesis if you want me to, but nothing more.”

His brow furrowed even more, and damn it if you didn’t want to reach out and smooth it over with your fingers. But then he interrupted your thoughts by letting out a soft sigh.

“Okay, fine,” he murmured with a little nod.

Thank god. You’d been prepared to argue more, but Youngjae was smarter than you gave him credit for.

“No more flirting,” you proclaimed somewhat under your breath.

His gaze shifted, and he looked you right in the eye when he repeated, “No more flirting.”

You almost let out the biggest, longest sigh of relief. All in all, that hadn’t been as painful as you’d thought it would be. Youngjae had taken it pretty well.

So now you just had to get through the next three or so months with Youngjae as your intern. Youngjae, the guy you’d kind of, somewhat, somehow fallen for the first time you’d seen him. Youngjae, the guy you’d been emailing flirtatiously for the past few weeks.

...How hard could it be?

Part 4

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mutantsrisingrpg · 5 years

Photo

Congratulations ABBY! You’ve been accepted as IAPETUS.

Choosing between two amazing apps is always a hard thing to do. With Jack, it’s very easy to forget that he still has emotion left within him and to see it crack through in your app made me so happy, Abby! “Alma showed him kindness; he’s still trying to understand how to pay it back with interest.” This line, and more specifically the mention of kindness, pulled me into your app and sold me on him right away. That sliver of kindness can either make or break Jack in this world and I can’t wait to find out. We’re so excited to see both you and him back on the dash!

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Abby

PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 22

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST, 6-7/10 – I’m a full time grad student with a pretty heavy course and research load, so generally I’m busy during the day but my schedule is kind of flexible? Generally speaking I’ll be online every day but either in the early mornings or evenings.

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Jack Mizuno / Iapetus

GENDER/PRONOUNS: cis male & he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:

Jack Mizuno does not exist. He is a ghost, a dead end paper trail strung together by fraying ties that knot themselves so easily in circles. Jack Mizuno exists in sharp fragments littered against the pavement, indistinguishable from shattered glass; small, sharp, glittering like teeth. He wasn’t always like this – a dark, brooding thing shaking in his skin with a death-rattle that sounds so close to fingers on keys. He wasn’t ever quite human, but none of them were, fundamental flaws cut and cured in the womb and left to fester thereafter.

He lived in years, once. Whole handfuls of them, one right after another, like a fucking feast you never got full of. And then shit got bad – not just for him, but mostly for him within the confines of his adolescent tunnel vision. Years shrunk and shriveled, and sunk and shriveled some more. Sometimes he gets days, most of the time he lives in hours. If he’s lucky he gets a whole week of feeling like a person and not a tool, something to scratch out the cockroaches with when they get stuck in the cables.

He is empty and full. Stretched thin until he’s cracked and bloated, like a goose waiting to lose its liver for a main course. What did he expect? Jack has secrets, knows secrets, has seen and buried the terrible things mutants will do to and for each other in the name of survival. Most of them don’t belong to him. There has to be somewhere for it all to go.

Before Alma held him up by his hair and gave him a choice that wasn’t a choice at all, Jack had to make his own purpose. That was difficult, mostly because he didn’t feel he had one. He had a mutation that felt less like a mutation and more like a target blinking in binary. He had a computer. It doesn’t take a lot of brain power to piece together the next logical step. Jack never made a charity about what he could do for other mutants. It doesn’t make him a tin man in the corner banging on his keyboard for oil.

People like to call Jack a robot, it’s fine. They can say whatever they want, it has no bearing on whether Jack has a heart. He has quite a lot of it – heart. Even if half the time he’s shaking so violently he can’t feel it beating in his chest. The heart he holds on to so tightly, you see, is a balm on the coals raked over his skin every time he digs into another putrid crevice of the internet. It doesn’t surprise him, anymore, the human capacity for cruelty. Kindness, though, that’s what gets him every time. Alma showed him kindness; he’s still trying to understand how to pay it back with interest.

Self-preservation is paramount. Jack has been a bottom feeder for as long as he can remember – taking the ugly, awful work law enforcement doesn’t care for and private eyes find distasteful. It bred in him a fine-tuned intuition, sharp as a knife’s edge. He knows when to take the money, when to ask no questions, and when to disappear. Disappearing is an art like any other, and Jack is exceptionally good at it. A fool’s errand is inviting Jack into your life and thinking you can keep a secret from him after. He’s not curious, he’s careful. Thorough. He leaves nothing and then less to chance.

The knife’s edge is double sided – Jack has a flighty, nervous nature to him that he stamps down with caffeine and cigarettes. It doesn’t go away, and dampens at the expense of his better judgment, but doing so sweeps down the hair at the back of his neck and stills his fingers when there’s work to be done. Jack is a shark; stop swimming for too long and he’ll sink straight to the ground.

BIO:

Everyone expects it to still be snowing in March. Chicago, they say, with an endeared little smile and the flat ah to tell you without telling you they’re a native, winter from October to April. In 1989, March rained. Buckets of it for more days that most folks bothered counting. March was a gust at the end of winter just warm enough to make it miserable. Jack was born smack in the middle, when the city was drowning.

Jack’s mother was a nervous woman and his father was a ghost. He wondered, later, if that anxious constitution was something inherited from the womb; if his mother’s uneasy heart set in his a parallel double-step from conception. Perhaps it was imparted later, swallowed up by Jack’s open pores exposed early to the lined up bills on the kitchen counter, angry locks that stuck in the cold, and trembling hands over thread-bare collars.

His father was the kind of ghost that lingered heavy, an almost-hand that threatened above his shoulder and the doorway. More than once Jack wondered what he inherited from his father, what strange neuroticisms – or, indeed, mutations – he left in place of a hand print. It’s the only secret Jack has refused to recover.

School passes unremarkably. Jack is neither the bully nor the victim; insignificant enough to slip under the radar and glaze by. Not a top student. Not struggling. Lost in the waves that ebb through the blown-out halls, into the rusted chairs, out onto the buses that only run on hope and cold air. It’s all very – fine. It’s fine. His mother comes home with a hand in his hair and a question about his day she doesn’t wait to hear the answer to. His school work is swept aside to make room on the table to count what they’ve lost and earned for the day. When he’s old enough, Jack will drop his books to do the same.

They don’t quite get that far.

See, Jack doesn’t have a flash-bang mutation. There’s no schoolyard scuffle that goes from rowdy to lethal like the flip of a coin and gets the whole neighborhood straight on the news. His is a slow crescendo, and goes like this: His mother is spending laters nights at work, which means a locked door at home and the silent command to find something to do with his time. He’s about fourteen – not old enough to work somewhere safe but too old to be knocking on neighbors doors alone and hungry.

He settles for the library next to school. It’s warm, well-lit, and they have a computer. Jack only gets to go on those an hour a day at school. He noodles around when he’s bored of his homework, stumbles on things he shouldn’t but doesn’t know any better to avoid – or, rather, doesn’t know aren’t normal. He’s smart and stupid enough to keep this to himself, age up into high school with this secret tucked under his tongue; wait until the conversation has already turned to mutants before he dares to bring it up on his own. He doesn’t tell his mother, just yet, wants to know for sure that what he can do is something he can also control. Jack isn’t afforded that chance, either.

Eviction notices were a big red staple of Jack’s childhood – taped to the door or slipped quietly underneath it. It’s only when he’s fourteen with a head on fire that their landlord finally follows through. Jack comes home to the door wrenched open and their meager belongings scattered or gone. He finds his mother in a house down the street – an aunt’s maybe, or a distant cousin’s – with her face in her hands and shoulders shaking. It goes like that for some time, drifting just the two of them, until Jack comes back to their newest makeshift home and finds her gone.

What comes next is – dark. Jack comes to a week after his twenty-second birthday in an apartment reminiscent of his childhood, wearing clothes he doesn’t really recognize but smell like him. There might be someone in his bed. He might be squatting. He shut off for a while, he isn’t sure. The laptop left open on the floor is definitely his – it has his fingerprints all over it. Digital, mostly, but there’s the odd smudge that gives way to physical ownership. This is what he has now, neck deep in the chasm of loneliness: a keyboard and a client list a mile long.

It goes like this for some while. Jack stays in his probably-not-legally-rented apartment, waiting for the people who know how to find him, well – find him. Most of them pay well. He takes what feels safe and keeps himself warm, but freelancing for strangers with an envelope of cash is a near-vertical learning curve. Jack has an edge, but he’s also stupid in the early days. He still searches for his mother, when he can. He moves apartments twice and nearly gets taken into two more times beyond that.

The years of smooth sailing and steady income that flow in afterwards makes him arrogant, and reckless. It’s something between a favor and a job that gets him caught – a favor, because, damn him, he cares about the client more than he should, but still technically a job when there’s a paycheck at the end of it. Sentiment makes him desperate, experience makes him careless, and the resource he’d heard Blackburn might have had access to was never even there in the first place.

The first time he met Alma, the only thing Jack smelled was blood – his, probably. His mouth certainly felt full of it. He never had much use for religion in his short, cold life, even if his mother was devout for all of hers. Staring at Alma, one hand in his hair and offering him a choice that wasn’t really a choice at all, he might have almost understood. With a strong hand and an outstretched arm, he remembers the verses and psalms, as he stares at her. They might even feel true.

Jack is not a watchdog, but he’s something close, maybe. Alma offered him a purpose he already had in front of him but didn’t know how to take. There is no doubt Jack’s loyalty to the Blackburn Syndicate runs deep and unwavering. He believes in the cause, acts for the cause, maybe even lives for it. But he is still a solitary creature, and the rising tensions pull tight at his skin.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS: Please expand on at least one of the connections set out in the bio. There can be as little or as much as you want to be written here. We would love to see how you interpreted the connections we set out!

LENOX. Jack has spent time adrift – living through a haze that blurred the lines in his mind. He has no desire to return to that state, ever. He grounds himself in reality, more so than ever. His life depends on truth and the relentless pursuit of it. Lenox is a direct threat to his own stability, and worse, they seem to find pleasure from seeing him squirm under their little games. He hates it, he hates them, and he hates more how he doesn’t really hate it at all. Jack has built his life into a routine, and the illusions annoy him. They set his teeth on edge and give him the shakes for days after, but there’s a reason he hasn’t asked Alma for one of her fists into Lenox’s pretty little face.

ILIE. Jack doesn’t make a habit of sitting on any of his secrets. He tried it, once. He almost bled out on the pavement. The second time he was nearly locked up in a testing facility. So, no, he doesn’t hold on to the transgressions of others any more than he needs to. Chances are there’s some way to spin it in his favor – or, the Syndicate’s, now. It’s – different with Ilie. Jack is meant to be playing nice with the King’s Collective, so says the hand on his leash, but he just can’t help this small amusement. It’s a vice that will get him killed, or worse, he knows. The second he slips Ilie will go running, but it’s so nice to be the one in control for a time. Even if it’s not really enough, only the illusion of it.

RAHIM. Jack isn’t sure quite what to make of Rahim, and that’s a dangerous thing. Jack likes to have the answers – is rather used to it – and doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is left wanting for them. Enter, Rahim. A man Jack is meant to be getting along with, tries to get along with, but can’t quite seem to figure out. They dance around each other, careful, and Jack is unwilling to take the first step forward or back. He’s a watcher, so he watches. He knows it unsettles Rahim, and maybe that makes it all the more worth it. It’s more fun to earn the answers, anyway.

EXTRA:

Headcanons

Jack Mizuno is an alias, easy enough to assume. He told Alma his real name privately after he agreed to his terms, but no one else knows it as far as he’s aware.

He’s left handed; insignificant, but it’s a pet-peeve of his when people point it out like it’s something secret or exciting. There are lots of secret or exciting things about him, this isn’t one of them.

Jack doesn’t define his sexuality in strict terms or labels. He’s more of a convenience person who recognizes he has needs, but doesn’t much care who satisfies them. If he had to choose he might prefer men, but it’s only by a slim margin.

ANYTHING ELSE:

Nope ! ilu

#accepted #accepted: iapetus

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ravenbrenna09 · 5 years

Text

masterpiece - snippet

I caved and decided to just post it since I’m probably not going to be posting Sobbe-related stuff for a bit.

everyone blame @fehmyn for glasses!Sander because look at him:

Like why.

...

Thursday was not Robbe’s day.

Thursday was, by far, Robbe’s longest and physically draining day. While his first class of the day didn’t start until a little before 12:00, his day wouldn’t end until about 23:00 which was when the library closed down, and he was freed from his job so he could go home. To add to his torture of a long day, (which is really his own fault for taking Amber’s shift so she could be picked up by her mother on her way home from work), his classes on Thursdays were particularly draining, filled with dry teachers that talked to the board and ignored any and all questions.

He let out a breath of air, burying his face in his hands.

Robbe hated soulmates.

Or, rather, he hated the idea of soulmates.

To present-day, eighteen-year-old Robbe, soulmates were crap.

His parents were soulmates and they had fallen out of love.

If the one person that you were destined to be with was supposed to leave you anyways, what was the point of having the ability to connect with them on a physical level?

Letting out a sigh, Robbe reached out, typing angrily. Soulmates are fucking stupid.

“Woah there,” Zoë teased, walking up with a cup of coffee in her hand.

“What’s wrong?” Zoë questioned.

“I doubt it.” Zoë laughed. “Here, it’s from Chloë.”

Had a good time tonight was followed by a phone number, only the final digit was smudged.

Robbe had a soulmate.

Even if he didn’t want one.

“Save a woman from getting her hopes up, probably. But, don’t worry,” Robbe remarked. “I’m sure he’ll get his head out of his ass soon.”

“Excuse me,” a voice remarked, over Zoë’s shoulder.

The two of them pivoted to find that a blond-haired man was standing behind them. The man was stunning, absolutely breathtaking as though he had been carved from stone. There was a black-beanie resting lightly on his head, covering the strands of white-blonde hair that poked out from the edge, and he had a pair of bright green eyes that were partially hidden by the black-framed glasses perched on his nose. He was dressed in a pair of denim jeans, black converse, and a t-shirt with an artist that he didn’t recognize beneath his black hoodie.

Robbe felt his breath catch in his throat.

Looking like that in a hoodie, glasses, and a beanie was ridiculously unfair.

Especially to Robbe.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” he continued, pushing up his green bag further up his shoulder. “But, I need to check out this book for my art history class.”

Once Robbe had deactivated the electric security in the spine, he placed his id on top of the cover and slid it across the counter, “Here you go.” Robbe kept his hand on the other side of the book, making sure to pull his own hand away before Sander reached out to grab the book. He took the book from the counter, grabbing his id from the top and slipping it into his pocket. “It’ll be due on the 17th of next month.”

Sander sent him a grin, a slightly confident, slightly wicked grin, like he somehow managed to know the effect that he was having on Robbe and his already jumbled mind, almost as much as Zoë did. “Thank you so much,” he remarked. He glanced towards Zoë, who was still hanging off to the side, and Robbe thought he saw Sander’s eyes flicker down to her hand, a flicker of recognition flashing through them, but then, Sander was smiling at her and saying to her, all confident and charming, “Sorry about interrupting your conversation.”

“It’s completely okay,” Zoë replied. “I was about to leave anyway.”

#masterpiece fic #brenna's soulmate au #sander x robbe #sobbe #rosander #i'm sure everyone's getting frustrated at my random ficlets but i get inspiration and i must write #sander driesen #robbe ijzermans #wtfock #wtfam #fuck why am i getting so insecure over my writing

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