#some spaces are ugly because when i changed colour the edges stayed the old one and i cannot be assed to clean it up

[maryse127]

Spend the whole day revising the pattern. Am a lot happier with it now, especially the eye.

Old version:

New version:

[elen-aranel]

Stars Above the Desert

The Engineer’s Adventures

1-1 • 1-2 • 2 • 3 • 4

For: @autumnleaves1991-blog Writer Wednesday. Thank you so much for these prompts, Autumn, because without them the Engineer wouldn’t exist. Pairing: Captain Christopher Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N) Warnings: fluff WC: 1600 words Tag list: @jusvibbbin A/N: I didn’t think I had inspiration for today’s image and yet...

Alnath III is a desert planet, just on the borderline of Class L and Class M. The briefings you had read did go some way to explaining why the colonists had chosen this planet to settle: some were agriculturalists who wanted to develop drought resistant strains of crops; some were scientists who wanted a world they called ‘pristine’ for some biological experiments to do with the formation of life; and one or two were geologists who thought the planet might have resources they could exploit. Not the most obvious basis for a community but they seemed to be getting along, making it work.

The little town they have built is charming in its way; they have made an effort to make it feel like a home, with a little town square, and adobe-style buildings rather than prefabs. Still, you think, as you lie sweating in the sand under an empty water tank just outside town, powering down your phase compensator, you’d have chosen different a planet to colonise. One where the ground water wasn’t so deep you needed mechanical assistance just to get to it, or so laden with minerals and inorganic compounds that it was poisonous until purified.

At least this time it was Louvier rather than Chris who had ordered you to join the away mission, so Number One couldn’t complain.

“Try it again, Ensign Devrin,” you yell to your Tellarite colleague who is some twenty metres away at the control terminal for the well and purification plant you’re trying to fix.

“Aye, Lieutenant,” he shouts back. Everything is silent for a moment, then you hear the sound of water in the pipes below. But just as you’re about to get your hopes up there is an ugly metal grating sound and everything grinds to a halt.

“Sounds like the gears got stripped as well,” you mutter, entering your findings into a PADD.

You check the time. It’s more than half way through beta shift – 21:00 ship’s time but only 16:00 local time.

“Ensign, you might as well return to the ship. Take this to Louvier – he can add these to the fabrication list, though I’m guessing they won’t be ready until the end of gamma. We can get them installed tomorrow.” You stand and stretch, before handing the PADD to Devrin who has come closer to see what you’re working on.

“Aren’t you coming too?” Devrin looks at you, concern in his expression.

“Nah, there are still some things for me to do before the installation, and I want to check on the solar plant while we’re here – make sure all the batteries are nominal, that kind of thing. We don’t want to get called back next month for something else that’s gone wrong.”

“Well, if you’re sure...”

“I’m sure. Have a good evening, Devrin.” You smile at him as he calls for a beam out. You’ve sent the rest of your engineering team back to the ship because you want them fresh for tomorrow, and the things you have left to do don’t take more than one person.

You finish up installing new software to the water plant to accommodate the new components going in tomorrow, then take a walk over to the solar plant.

You’re glad you checked it – while the hardware is all okay – batteries all full at the end of the day, solar panels operating within tolerance – there’s a slight memory leak in the software. You’ve seen this issue on this type of controller before – it’s the kind of thing where it will be fine for ages then suddenly fail, plunging the colony into the dark and causing a lot of heartache. It’s an easy fix, but you make a note to suggest the colonists recruit an engineer on your report. You will not be volunteering.

It’s around 01:00 ship’s time when you finish everything, but only 20:00 local time. The colony is in the planet’s northern hemisphere, and it’s summer, so the sun is only just going down. Part of you considers returning to the ship, but really you had always planned to stay over. By the time you have some food, get back to your quarters, shower and lie down, it’ll be time to get up again. And much as you wouldn’t want to live here, it is nice to breathe fresh air for a while.

You call the bridge to let them know you’re staying. You’re not going to be the only one planetside overnight; almost the entire exobiology department beamed down, wanting to make the most of the Enterprise’s stay – it’s a change for them from endlessly cataloguing species on new planets and they don’t want to pass it up. The Ensigns at least are having a sleepover at one of the scientists’ houses, but you would rather not hear any more about drought resistant triticale variants. You had brought a sleeping bag, your own water and some protein bars.

You walk through the square, nodding to the couple of colonists who are about, and stop a bit away from the edge of town. You find a large flat rock to sit on, and eat a couple of protein bars as you watch the sun set peacefully below the horizon.

You drink some water, then set up your sleeping bag, hoping to get some rest. You’re usually okay at sleeping in uncomfortable places, but it’s cold. You force yourself to shut your eyes, and you keep your breathing slow and steady even as you shiver slightly. You go to pull your sleeping bag around you tighter, but as you do you feel a gentle weight settle over you. You frown and open your eyes.

“Chris?” You lean up on your elbows. “What are you doing here? You should be asleep.” You soften your chiding tone with a smile as he sits beside you, pulling the blanket he settled over you over himself as well.

“And miss the chance to spend time in the desert?” He presses a kiss to your temple and you move to sit up, leaning against him. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to beam down, and when I heard you were staying over I thought I’d come check on you. I thought you might be cold.”

“For somewhere that’s been so hot during the day the temperature sure does drop at night,” you say, enjoying the warmth of his body against yours. You unzip your sleeping bag to make it into a blanket for both of you. Chris helps, and with the two of you together with the sleeping bag and blanket over you, you feel yourself warming quickly. “But even so, it’s nice to have solid ground beneath me, and—not be running away from anything.” You look up at him sidelong.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that’s a good feeling,” he says, slipping his arm around your shoulders. “Is this your first time in a desert at night?”

“First time in a desert at all. Well,” you pause to consider. “Technically second time, because we had a family holiday to Monument Valley when I was eighteen months old. I don’t remember it though.”

“You never visited when you were at the academy?” You hear the surprise in his voice.

“No – my survival training was in the Alps, and then the Amazon. And my friends and I would take a shuttle to Mars or New Berlin when we had time off.” You look around at the dunes, stretching into the distance to mountains on the horizon, then back to him. “How does this compare to the desert where you grew up?”

“Less alive,” he answers instantly. “There were lots of plants growing – grasses, mesquite. I miss the smell. And animals, too – I found a burrowing owl nest as a kid, once. And there were sheep, tortoises, jackrabbits...” his eyes go a little faraway as he remembers. “But there are some similarities.”

He tips you both back, gently, pulling the covers over you. You’re looking at him, so you don’t understand what he’s doing at first, but you follow his gaze upwards, and gasp.

Above you is the Milky Way, almost like a sparkling splash of paint across the sky. You have never seen so many stars; the constellations are unfamiliar but you almost feel like you’re looking down on them. Like you could reach out and touch a star. “I can’t believe the colours,” you say, as you try to take it all in.

He squeezes you a little and you rest your head against his shoulder, still looking up. “This is why I joined up, really. I would sneak out at night and lie there, looking at the stars. It took Admiral Marcus to help me see that command track was the right path, but...” he lapses into silence for a while.

“There’s something magical about seeing them like this, isn’t there? Even though we get to call space home.” You feel him nod, and you can’t resist anymore.

You turn, reaching out, touching his jaw and tilting his face toward you. You kiss him, gently at first, but he turns, pulling you flush against him as he nips at your lower lip. You open your mouth into the kiss and press your body against him, and for long moments it’s just the two of you and the stars wheeling overhead.

There will be plenty of time for you to worry about getting the well fixed, for him to worry about everything that goes into running a starship...

But for a short while you can let everything go.

[kenzieam]

The Blue Plate Diner - Chapter One

@jewels2876​​  @moonbeambucky​​  @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​​  @iammarylastar​​@captstefanbrandt​​  @badassbaker​​  @pinknerdpanda​​  @oliviastan17​​ @mizzzpink​​​

I know I’m forgetting people, sorry. If you want in, hit me.

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Rating: M

Warnings: Language, general nuttiness, smut, major angst, drama

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FEEDBACK IS LIFE, Y’ALL!

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Years after leaving, Bucky returns to his hometown a successful lawyer, there only to clean up his recently deceased mother’s affairs, but hoping despite himself to see her again; Levka Riel, the girl he wanted all through high school and could never have. But their parting was anything but sweet and old wounds have festered for years in the shadows. Even if the truths in their past are revealed, has it been too long to repair the damage?

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Bucky sighed, stifling a yawn. He should have flown out, rather than renting a car and driving but he’d wanted the time to think that days of road travel allowed; flying wouldn’t have given him time to prepare.

He wasn’t ready for this. Any of it.

Not just the fact that his mother, a strong-willed old woman who’d raised him alone through grit and sacrifice, had passed away but returning to his hometown in general, with all the memories, good and bad, that haunted here.

It had all been a surprise, his weekly phone call to his mother had gone unanswered, the chief of police himself calling him the next morning with the news he’d begun to dread. At least the old girl had gone in her sleep, napping in her armchair, maybe even while waiting for her only child’s weekly phone call as she drifted off this mortal coil and, to be honest, he’d not really woken up from the dream since.

You’d think being a big-city lawyer would have helped grease the wheels a bit, but time had moved a hell of lot slower back home and, instead of handing everything over the phone like he’d wanted to, Bucky had finally be forced to concede and come back to handle his mother’s affairs personally.

He wasn’t ready for all of this, wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the woman who’d raised him, who’d gone without to provide for him but there was even more; he wasn’t ready to see her.

Levka Riel.

The only woman that had ever captured his heart, as cliche as that sounded.

The past should stay buried.

Yet here he was, driving directly back into the lion’s den.

He wasn’t ready for this.

The town looked pedestrian, tired and ordinary. It hadn’t seemed so when he’d lived there, but years away first at college, then law school followed by the big city showed him the truth now.

Small towns, small minds and he couldn’t wait to get back out of here.

A few days, a week tops. Sign all the paperwork, find a team to clean out the house and hire an agent to sell it in his absence, take his mother’s ashes back with him.

Get the hell out before he saw her.

Lev was still in town, as far as he knew, not that he asked his mom about her anymore; it was too painful, easier to focus on other things and besides, she’d given him her answer years ago, hadn’t she?

Hunger pangs kicked in as he ventured further into the town centre and the thought of trying to cobble something together in his mom’s empty house only made him more tired, so he was relieved to see that The Blue Plate was still open, a deliciously retro diner to the outsider that was just plain old to the locals. Pulling into the cracked parking lot, he parked the rental car and sat back, staring into the diner for a beat.

How many times had he come here in high school, either with his best friend Steve or alone, to sit in a corner booth and steal glances at Lev as she waitressed there? To wince and look away when she’d approach their table with a smile, lean down to give Steve, her lucky-as-fuck boyfriend, a kiss; maybe sit down in his lap for a minute or two, something which always caused a stir in Bucky’s pants, one he was grateful the table’s edge hid?

Too many fucking times.

There was only one waitress visible, as original as the tiles on the floor, old Hattie had been waitressing here at the Blue Plate from the day it opened, and they’d probably have to drag her out the back one day when she finally keeled over into their famous bread pudding, because it looked like the old bird would never willingly leave.

His stomach grumbled again, unimpressed with his brooding and he stepped out, glancing across the parking lot one more time. The newest vehicle in the lot, besides his own brand-new ride, was a battered old truck manufactured sometime during Reagan’s tenure, the original colour of paint a memory on it’s faded and dented flanks.

The bell binged, announcing his entry and a few tired heads raised to stare at him, some with mild curiosity, some a bit more rabid but, if anyone recognized him as Doris Barnes’ boy, who’d left almost a decade ago for the big city, nobody let on.

“Sit wherever you want.” Hattie called from behind the counter and Bucky chose a booth on the empty side of the diner, facing away from everyone else, where he could sit without overhearing any conversations or be forced to oblige in awkward small talk if his wandering gaze happened to cross anyone else’s.

Hearing footsteps approach, Bucky reached for a menu stood up in the condiments’ rack and flipped it open, turning over one of the coffee mugs left at each table for Hattie to fill.

“What can I get you?” It was not Hattie who asked, even as they filled his coffee cup and set a sweating glass of water beside it and Bucky glanced up, his heart beginning to pound. Something about this woman’s voice stirred old memories deep in his mind. When his eyes met hers, his heart jolted, adrenaline starting to course through his veins.

“Lev?”

She startled slightly, having obviously not recognized him from behind. “James?” She breathed, sounding suddenly alarmed. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes were wide, darting around his face and she looked anything but happy to see an old acquaintance, and why should she, with the ugly way they parted so many years ago?

“I didn’t know you still worked here.” Bucky mumbled, cheeks heating. A thousand different emotions coursed through him, everything from pleasant surprise to low fury, embarrassment and excitement.

“I didn’t know you were back in town.” She replied curtly.

“I’m here for Mom.” He answered, confused to see something bordering on disgust cross Lev’s face.

“Oh yes. I’m sorry to hear about your mother.” Lev sounded anything but sorry and, while Bucky struggled for something more to say, to make sense of the riot of feelings in his head, he wanted to do everything from flip the table over while he screamed at her to leaping to his feet and crushing Lev to his chest while he kissed her, she continued. “What can I get you?”

His answer was automatic, something he’d ordered here time and again. “Blue-cheese burger, medium rare and fries.” His carefully crafted diet, mostly greens and lean meats, was apparently out the window at the moment.

“Sure,” she turned to leave.

“Wait-” Bucky yelped, nowhere near ready to let her walk away yet, even as his skin burned with embarrassment. She hadn’t wanted him then, why the fuck would she want him now?

She hesitated, glancing back at him and he was stunned to see fear in her eyes. Why would she be afraid of him? He’d never done anything to hurt her… physically at least. “I need to get your order in.”

Bucky nodded weakly, subsiding into the booth as she hurried away. Picking almost obsessively at a cuticle, he glanced over his shoulder time and again, looking for Lev to come back but she flitted between customers at the other end, stealing worried glances his way every now and again and Bucky cursed himself for chickening out every time he decided to simply stand up and approach her.

“Here you go.”

“Lev, wait. I need to talk to-” he broke off with a frown as Hattie set the plate in front of him, regarding him with a raised brow. “Where’s Lev?”

“On her break.”

“But I need to-”

“I wouldn’t bother waiting around, son. She’s not here and the way she lit out, she don’t want to talk to you right now anyhow.” Mixed sympathy and suspicion coloured her gaze before she added. “Sorry to hear about your mama.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Mind what I said, eat your burger then go. Levi don’t want to see you.”

The woman had never had kids, but few could equal her ‘Mom has spoken’ tone and Bucky, picking at half his food and taking the rest with him, left not long after.

It was surreal, entering his childhood home; with the exception of a few minor upgrades, the house was just as he remembered, ruthlessly clean and organized, not even the few dust-bunnies daring to be out of place. His room was even worse, left just as he’d had it, bare and spartan by necessity, for if he’d cluttered it with too much his mother would have gone through and purged it all while he was at school. She’d tidied the space as necessary, changing the sheets regularly based on the whiff of pleasant detergent smell that hit him as he pulled them back, but there was no personality in the room anymore.

Had there ever been?

He couldn’t remember a time here where his mother wasn’t the biggest energy, the largest influence and policing force in his life. It hadn’t occurred to him to mind all those years ago, but time spent on his own, making his own way and living his own life coloured his memories now, or maybe just scraped away the rose-tint.

Is that why he hadn’t been home in almost eight years? Because of his mother, or because of her?          

A sudden wave of weariness hit him, a culmination of the last few days of numb shock coupled with the strange, almost furtive shame he now felt crawling his spine.

Lev had never left this place, never even left her old job by the looks of it and for someone who’d once followed her every move in high school, just dying for a bit of her light to shine on him, he’d done a good job of staying distant.

And why not? The way Lev had stared at him, from the corner of her eyes like she feared him suddenly launching himself at her and swinging his fists, wasn’t wholly unexpected.

Jesus, did he wish he had done things differently.

Stripping down to boxers, he awkwardly slid into the striped sheets, feeling the end of the mattress with a familiar comfort, a sense that, even though so many other things had changed, he still was too tall for his old bed.

Where was Lev right now? Still working, having returned to waitressing after Hattie had chased him off? Gone home? To a family, a husband? He’d never asked his mother, it would have been far too painful to know the truth, but Lev had probably married Steve, given him two or three little tow-headed angels and was at this moment regaling him with the story of ‘you’ll never guess who I saw at The Blue Plate tonight!’.

God, his body tightened at the thought of her, as it had so many nights before. She still looked amazing, her hair still that unique auburn, her eyes rarer and more vibrant than anyone else’s he’d seen. Her body was lush and curved, just as she’d been blessed in high school with, a frame that probably would have earned raised brows and silent scorn around the stick-figures who floated and clacked through the law firm, worried about the calories of the cheesecake they’d just binged and purged in the ladies room, but perfectly ideal in Bucky’s eyes.

He felt his cock respond, grow and lengthen in his boxers and, as he’d done time untold in high school, he reached down into his shorts and wrapped his hand around his girth; biting back a moan as he imagined Lev’s hand in its place. Slowly, he dragged his fist up and down, feeling the flesh swell and stiffen even further, straining in his grip.

He let go, lifted his hand to his mouth and spat on it for lubrication, then gripped himself again, imaging the warm drag and slick friction to be Lev’s body sheathed around him, cradling and embracing him. He couldn’t hold back a groan, a faint part of his mind reminding him that he didn’t need to be quiet, his mother wasn’t down the hall anymore and let it out; a low, harsh sound of pure want and need. Pre-cum added to the slickness and he increased his speed, eyelids fluttering as he fantasized Lev, straddling his bare hips, fingers scratching at his chest, throwing her head back in the ecstasy his cock was bringing her.

“Jesus, god. Lev-” he panted, holding down her hips as he snapped his upwards, burying himself as deeply as he could. “Fuck baby, you feel so goddamn good-”

“Oh god, Bucky.” She whimpered. “Give it to me-” her plea devolved into a moan of pure pleasure, her walls starting to flutter and squeeze around him.

“Take it,” he grunted heavily, teeth gritted, throwing his fuck up into her with everything he had, desperate to brand her his forever. “Take it, god baby-”

He came with a groan, back arching and head pushed back into his pillow, cock pulsing thickly in his hand, his seed jets of melted silk, splashing back onto his belly and chest, trickling over his hand. For a long moment he could only lay there, trapped in that half-awake, half-dream state, still feeling Lev, the heavenly way she gripped him with her walls, her cries of ecstasy as she climaxed, milking him for his cum, body trembling and then he opened his eyes and saw where he was; alone in a dark room and the fantasy was over.

******************************************************************************              The next days were quiet but strained; Bucky did not achieve half of what he wanted to do around the house because his mind refused to stop wandering. One minute he might be stacking dishes in paper, readying them to donate to the local second-hand shop and then he would find himself simply staring out the window, lost in one or more daydreams that seemed to grow sharper and more poignant with each passing day and, not surprisingly, featuring her.

He didn’t see Lev again, despite frequent trips out of the house in hopes of running into her and their parting played over and over again in his head, nearly driving him mad.

For years he’d desired her, longed for her, only to watch her date a string of assholes, his best friend Steve included while he ached for her in the darkness of his own room at night. Bitterly disappointed with himself for never screwing up the nerve to tell Lev what he felt, for staying in the shadows as her boyfriend’s tag-a-long third wheel, he’d left for college; not having the desire to return home until the summer between his second and third year.

A party, attended on a reckless whim, Lev and Steve broken up for the sixth or seventh time and both on the prowl, intent on driving the other mad with jealousy as they flirted and stole kisses in the corner.

Bucky had been only too willing to give in when Lev turned her violet eyes his way, just enough alcohol in his system to dull his senses, to convince him that she truly wanted him and not revenge.

Bliss upon bliss, sweet strains and he’d whispered all manner of love and devotion into her ear as he’d thrust into her body, confessing his feelings, his adoration from afar and only a distant, nearly silent part of his mind had remembered, as he spilled inside her, cock pulsing thick bursts of his seed, that they’d forgotten a condom. But that hardly matters, he remembered musing, as his body shuddered in release, as Lev’s walls milked him with her own climax, because this is it, we’ve broken through the wall, she will see now, that we belong together.

Seven years later, and she was staring at him in her diner like he was a ghost and going out of her way to avoid him in their small, small town.

And not once had she answered the letters he’d sent her, the ones begging for her forgiveness, begging for another chance.

[randomoranges]

Paint Job

 mid-ish november 2020

Edward finally gets home late, towards the end of the day. Had he known he’d been out this long, he would have asked Étienne to get a start on dinner, but now, they’ll have to figure something out on the fly. He had errands to run which took longer than expected and he’s honestly just glad to be home. He shucks his boots in time to Mercury’s greeting and doesn’t catch from where she came from. The house is quiet, he can tell that much, but it can mean a myriad of things. He’d left Étienne still curled up under layers of blankets in bed and had it not been for the classes Étienne was giving, he would have dragged his boyfriend along, if nothing but for the change of scenery. That, or he would have stayed in bed longer and indulged in a late morning with his boyfriend.

 Mercury wags her tail excitedly and keeps watch as Edward removes his coat and scarf and then follows him to the kitchen table where he puts down his bags loaded with goodies of all sorts. Edward takes the few minutes he needs to unload the groceries and when Mercury doesn’t vie for his attention, he figures it means Étienne is in no need of his immediate attention.

 When he’s done, he gives her a treat for no particular reason, but she doesn’t seem to mind, nor does she complain. He watches her for a moment, amused and fond of her antics and then decides it’s about time he find the owner of the dog. Mercury looks up and as if reading his mind, takes the lead and heads towards the guestroom. Edward follows behind and he’s about to throw a greeting in his boyfriend’s direction, but then lets the words stumble to a halt at his lips.

 The scene before him requires no interruption, if only for its rare occurrence. Étienne is at the wooden easel he’d made him, sat in front of it, and deep in concentration as he paints. He has earphones on, which would explain why he hasn’t looked away and he seems to be submerged in the painting he’s working on. Edward can’t say that Étienne looks as peaceful and happy as he’s already seen him while he painted, but it’s a better look than what’s been playing on Étienne’s features ever since his return.

 Edward has always enjoyed watching Étienne paint, even if he hadn’t always been privy to the spectacle. There’d been something exalting in the way Étienne painted, from the deep concentration etched on his face, to the peaceful smile dangling from his lips and the way he seemed to involve his entire body in the motion. Watching Étienne paint was an experience and Edward could get lost watching him as much as he did appreciating the final work.

 Étienne’s paintings were always bold and loud as if calling for attention and catching someone’s gaze – holding it there, screaming look at me! It was impossible to look away from the movement in the brushstrokes and the thick, bold lines that danced across the canvas in a multitude of colours. Étienne’s paintings were never quiet or subtle – they seized you from the inside and Edward loved the way he felt experiencing the work – the way he was left slightly out of breath as if submerged in deep water for a long while and finally coming back up for air.

 Edward liked watching the evolution of Étienne’s paintings – the assurance he’s gotten in his brushstrokes and lines- the risks he takes in his choice of colours and the movement he creates with them on the canvas. It’s been a fascinating journey and he’s only sorry he’s missed part of it. Still, he consoles himself with the few paintings he’s managed to save over the years – from the ones he quietly brought back that Étienne was ready to throw out, to the ones Étienne had told him he could take, since he didn’t care for them anymore. Edward has lovingly looked after them over all these years and likes putting them side by side with the newer works Étienne has gifted him; from the triptych a few years back to a more recent piece just last year.

 Perhaps, with time, he’ll be able to host his own retrospective of Étienne’s works. (And it doesn’t matter what it is Étienne thinks of his own body of work. Edward might not be as well versed in art as Étienne, but he can tell that Étienne is good at it. He needs to stop selling himself so short.)

 Étienne is still tense around the shoulders and there’s still an edge to the set of his brow and the intensity of his gaze, but even if his movements across the canvas are harsh and jerky, it’s a step forward from whatever state he’d been in a few weeks back. It’s a reprieve from the sleepless nights and the catatonic days; the mornings when Edward hadn’t been able to get Étienne out of bed and the times when he’d barely eaten a thing – the classes Étienne cancelled and the walks he never took Mercury on. Edward hadn’t dealt with this side of his boyfriend in ages and the setback had stunned him. Still, it had been better than the anger that had come afterwards.

 That, had been new.

 Étienne’s anger at the state of things, at his perceived helplessness and feelings of uselessness had culminated in some rather harsh words that had been exchanged which had honestly made Edward question what he had embarked himself in. Had made him wonder if – this was even – if maybe it hadn’t been rushed. If he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew.

 “I don’t need your fucking pity, Edward. I’m not a charity project.” Étienne had shouted at him one night, after Edward had asked if he needed anything.

 It had been the final straw. Edward had been sick and tired of being treated like garbage and he lashed out just as good. He wasn’t here to fall back on old ways. He wasn’t here to get used and abused by Étienne’s moods. He wasn’t going to accept this anymore. “You know, it’s a good thing I know this isn’t really you talking. That it’s whatever’s going on in that head of yours that’s making you act this way, but that doesn’t fucking excuse you. I’ve never pitied you and just because I give a fuck about you doesn’t mean that you get to treat me like shit.”

 Étienne had come after him, trying to get a bigger rise out of him, but Edward knew better and had walked away. They’d been making good progress, it would be a shame to throw it all away after losing so many years. It wasn’t worth it to get tangled up in the ugly bits again. Once had been enough.

 Still.

 It turned into a tense few days and the only saving grace was the video appointment Étienne had with his therapist. Amends had been made, better coping strategies had been found. Edward was only glad that whatever violent turn Étienne’s mood had taken was slowly ebbing back into a quiet simmer.

 There’d been an apology, naturally. Quiet words shared between them in the dark of night.

 “I’m sorry,” Étienne had started, reaching between the space of their bodies and hesitating for a moment, unsure whether or not it would be okay to take hold of Edward’s hands.

 “What for?” He’d asked, leaving his hand palm up, open and inviting for Étienne to take. His boyfriend had seized it like a lifeline, clutching at it as if his life depended on it. He didn’t want empty apologies; he deserved that much.

 “For being a right old jerk.”

 Edward had cracked a small smile at that, “Yeah, you have been. What of it?”

 “For lashing out at you. You’ve been – really good to me. Tolerant and helpful and patient. You didn’t deserve all of that. I am trying to keep it under control.”

 Edward knew all of that. It was why he had walked away. It was why he hadn’t decided to call it quits. He knew Étienne was really trying. Was getting the help he needed. He couldn’t fault him for what plagued him. He knew Étienne would rather function like a regular person instead of the assault his moods put him through.

 “Apology accepted.” To show that he meant it and that they were good, he’d opened his arms and let Étienne snuggle up to him. He’d held him close, rubbed his back, and wished that this storm would pass.

 The storm is passing, even if there are still a few lingering rain clouds left. This whole pandemic has taken its toll on Étienne, has left him ragged and raw and frayed at the edges, and Edward gets to see the damages left on his boyfriend day in and day out. Still, he thinks, he’d rather have a row with Étienne than let him slowly wither away back home alone.

 Mercury gives him away when she barks, perhaps bored that her master has not noticed the guest at the door and so Étienne finally looks away from his work and turns towards him. A smile, soft and gentle, blossoms on his face when he sees him and Edward consoles himself with the knowledge that there’s still this – that Étienne looks at him with such open fondness and care – that every day he lets his guard down just a smidgen more.

 “Hi Eddy.” Étienne removes the ear buds and Edward gets a whiff of jazz music coming from them. It’s a little different from what Étienne’s known to listen – grittier and angrier – fast paced and a mixture of notes fighting to be heard, but he supposes it fits with Étienne’s latest mood.

 Edward walks over to the easel and Étienne stands from the chair he’d been using. He’s wearing the rattiest most stained sweater Edward’s ever seen and a pair of sweat pants that may have once been black, but are now mostly multicoloured and still Edward thinks Étienne looks as lovely as always. He tugs him close, pulls him gently by the sleeve, until Étienne comes willingly in his embrace.

 “Careful, I might be full of paint,” Étienne warns, but Edward doesn’t care. He’s just happy Étienne looks a little bit better – that he seems to be on the mend – that he’s participating in life again.

 “I don’t know how you do it – but you have paint on your eyebrow,” He chuckles and Étienne looks up, as if he could see the paint and Edward wants more of this for his boyfriend. More of these innocent, silly moments when his guard is down and he doesn’t look haunted with the ghosts of his loneliness.

 “Errands go okay?” Étienne let’s Edward hold him, checks to make sure there isn’t any wet paint on his clothes and then molds himself to Edward’s body, making himself comfortable.

 “Not too bad. Good to be home though.”

 Étienne makes a humming noise at the back of his throat that could be agreement to Edward’s statement, but for all Edward knows, it could simply be Étienne letting him know that he’s comfortable and cozy.

 “Missed you today,” He finally says and looks up to catch Edward’s hazel gaze. The green of Étienne’s eyes is easier to see without his glasses in the way and Edward’s heart beats just a little faster. These are the moments that matter, he thinks – these quiet little exchanges that warm him up despite the cold outside.

 “Home now,” He reiterates, his voice a little thick with the moment and the emotions swimming inside his head. Étienne offers him another smile for his trouble and wiggles out of his embrace to sit back on the chair. He pulls Edward along with him and so Edward finds himself sitting on his boyfriend’s lap. Étienne holds him close, head on his chest, content little smile playing on his lips, and Edward leans in and let’s himself be held.

 He finally gets a good look at the painting and marvels at the intensity of it, as well as the dizzying display of figures and lines. It’s very loud, he thinks, and raw. It’s a little different from what Étienne usually does, but Edward believes he knows why.

 “It’s not much – but, it helps.” Étienne offers as an explanation.

 “I like it.” He does. He always means it, when he says he likes one of Étienne’s paintings. He likes the way they make him feel. From the raw emotions to the dizzying movement and everything in between. Étienne communicates in brushstrokes and white canvases he fills with his own essence and being and Edward is only glad he gets to read and interpret the messages once more.

 He wonders, and not for the first time, if all of Étienne’s paintings hadn’t always been a little bit autobiographical. That if he were to put them all side by side they would tell the great story of Étienne Maisonneuve. Of his triumphs and downfalls. Of misery and victory.

 “You always say that,” Étienne admonishes softly, but he still looks a little pink in the cheeks and slightly pleased by the compliment. “Thank you,” He ads and furrows his face back into Edward’s chest, where it’s perfectly ensconced in the folds of his clothing; where he’s safe and loved.

 FIN

[lokisgame]

A Generous Donation [4]

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

Scully took Mulder's blood sample to the lab and called Walter, asking him to get back to her with his opinion, as soon as he got the results. The past few weeks, worry was her default state of mind. Once Will went through all the children's ailments, he never really got sick. He laughed about it, running around in shorts when she burrowed in scarves and long sleeves. Now the thought of loosing his warmth made her blood run ice cold. The minute she saw Mulder walk through her door, she thought, not you, too. He was practically a stranger, someone she laughed with over chicken marsala and cheesecake desert. Yet in that moment, his face and kind eyes and warm hands, made her feel like he could, and would, put himself between her and the edge of darkness. Most guys would stop taking her calls and run, but he came looking for her and for the first time in weeks, she felt comforted. Scully's phone chirped and she sighed, seeing the caller ID. 

"Hi mom." "Hello honey, how's Will?" "He was alright this morning when I went to see him." "Good, that's good, and how's the other thing going?" "It's not like opening a phone book, we're looking, and I told you, it's a precaution, we're waiting to see, how he responds to treatment." "And if the treatment doesn't work and you won't have any time left?" "I am not sitting on my hands." Scully said, thinking, I just stuck a needle into someone I just met. "If you would let me find some private foundation, it would go…" "I know it would go faster," Scully said bitterly, "but let's wait with kicking someone out of the line, till we know there's no other way around it." "I see no reason to wait." "Well, I do, mom," I'm not giving up yet, "and I have to go." "Alright, we'll talk more about this later." I hope not, Scully thought and hung up.

She went to see Will around dinner time to keep him company, and as usual, he tried to send her away. "Go home mom," he said smiling faintly, "you'll need your strength to save me." "I've got plenty," she replied patting his hand, "I'm so strong, you can't even imagine." "I can imagine quite a bit." "Well, multiply that by one hundred and you'll know how strong I can be." "Wow, can I have some of it?" "You can have it all," she sighed, keeping her voice even as tears stung her eyes. "Good, I always wanted to leap over buildings and race speeding cars." "My hero," she smiled and picked up the book from his night table, found the bookmark and stared at the picture. "You did some reading today." "I had help." Will said, turning to his side, "professor Mulder stopped by. I hope Harvard won't charge us extra for home visits." Scully huffed out a laugh and closed the book, when Will added. "I like him." "He's a great teacher, from what I heard," she said. "No, I mean for you." "Will." "I'm almost twenty, mom, it's time for you to start dating, for real this time." "I'm too old," Scully sighed, but the memory of the kiss softened her smile.   "Maybe in dog years," Will chuckled, laying on the sarcasm, "you keep up that talk, and I'll make you a grandma." "What?" "As soon as I get out of here." "You will most certainly not." She laughed, swatting his arm. "Ouch!" Will faked a yelp, but didn't let go of the subject. "Mother, you're forty six, which is the new thirty five, you're hot, and you already have a guy lined up." "William," she warned. "I'm just saying." "How about we make a deal." She said and he crossed his arms, "you get better and I'll give the dating game one more shot." Will paused, his expression cleared and he grinned, sticking out his hand out, "You're on, shake on it?" "Deal," she said and smiled. "Now tell me, why won't you take grandmas' calls." He groaned and threw the sheet over his head, making her laugh.

An hour later she was sitting in the ringing silence of her car, no one to go home to, no one to talk to. Will was right, it was time.

"Coming!" Mulder yelled, trying to rub water out of his ear and zip up his jeans, all at the same time. Failing at both, he let the towel drop around his neck and with the button undone and his t-shirt untucked, he opened the door, and froze. "You're not my usual delivery guy." He said and smiled, leaning on the doorframe. Scully smiled back and held up a takeout bag. "29.99" "Got change for a hundred?" He stepped back and gestured her in. "Nope," she said and, climbing on tiptoes, kissed his cheek. "Keep the change." He grinned and took the bag, saying, "Hi, again." "Hi." She smiled and looked him up and down, from towel-dried hair and six-o-clock shadow on his cheeks, grey t-shirt and faded jeans, all the way to his bare feet. He looked warm and solid and completely at ease. "Can I have your coat?" Mulder said, then added, a little uncertain, "I assume you're staying." "You assume correctly," she said, then paused, "wait, you ordered already?" "Yup, Chinese, great minds think alike," he took her coat and hung it on the rack. "We'll have seconds," he said and headed for the kitchen, giving her a minute to look around. The room was warm, another pleasant surprise after the wide porch and warm light from the outside. There was fire in the fireplace, a rug under the couch and the coffee table, papers and knickknacks and books in bookcases. Actually, books seemed to cover every inch of free space, even stacked on steps leading to the second floor, which made her chuckle. Well, he was a professor of psychology at Harvard, she might have expect that. She followed Mulder and found a kitchen that was just right, with its' small dining area. Cutting boards and oven mitts looked used, knives had worn handles and banged-up mugs hung by their ears on a railing over the work table. There was even some dishes left in the sink, and she loved the place for what it was, not a flashy bachelors' pad, not an overgrown sleeping area, but a home, lived in and comfortable. "There's beer in the fridge," Mulder said, taking plates and napkins to the table. "You want some?" "Why not." She opened the fridge and to her surprise, there was more than just beer there too. She picked two bottles of Shiner Bock and opened them both, handing one to Mulder. "Cheers," he said, clinking his against hers and pulled out a chair for her, like a real gentleman. "Sorry about the mess, I didn't expect company." "What mess?" She said and started to unload the cartons of fried rice, spicy pork and sweet and sour chicken. "You should see our place when I work double shifts. Will does most of the cleaning anyway." "Wow, you raised one hell of a catch." Mulder chuckled, draped the towel over the back of his chair and sat down, accepting chopsticks she held out. "There was only the two of us, so we grew up fast." "Yeah, I know what that's like." "And what made you grow up?" "My little sister, she went missing when I was twelve." "I'm sorry." She dropped her gaze, and Mulder could almost see the light in her fade. He couldn't have that.   "Hey, it was long time ago," he said, and started forking out rice on her plate. "Here, eat, you need it." She picked up a chunk of sticky rice, put it in her mouth and tried to chew, but suddenly her throat closed. She looked at the food, at his hands, and the room turned into a warm-coloured blur. A sob broke free and huge, hot tears ran down her cheeks, and then warm darkness took her in. "Shhhh, it's okay, let it all out, don't hold back" Mulder crooned, his arms tight around her for the second time that day, and she sobbed even harder into his shoulder, feeling gentle hands cradle and soothe her. She fell in deeper, pulling him closer and did as he said. She thought about the injustice of it all, felt the pain and anger and helplessness, and let it all pour out of her, not in words but raw emotion. She fell apart, letting him hold her together as she bawled, while the food grew cold on the table. When she quieted and her breath came almost even, he asked softly. "Better?" "I'm sorry," she whispered, "it's so unlike me. I never break down like this." "Your kid is sick, I'd be worried if you wouldn't." He said, his own voice not quite steady. Scully looked up and there were tears in his eyes, wet trails on his cheeks. "Hey, and why are you crying?" "You should never cry alone," he said and his eyes fell shut when she wiped his cheeks, "it's bad luck." "Who makes up these rules?" "Fuck if I know, think you can eat now?" She glanced at the cold pork, it still looked fine. "Yes, sorry about that." "Stop apologising for everything, it's bad luck." "Mulder?" She said, letting go and missing his arms instantly. "Yeah?" "Kiss me." Mulder grinned and leaned in, brushing her tearstained cheek. "For luck," he whispered and pulled up a chair to sit beside her.

They ate the second delivery while it was hot, packing up the first as leftovers and took their third beers to the couch. "You wanna watch something?" Mulder asked, jumping because he almost sat on the remote. Scully leaned on his shoulder, pulled her feet up and sighed. "I'm so full, I can't think right now." "Good." Mulder said and flipping through channels found Julia Roberts on third try. Short hair, ugly dress, Sally Fields. He changed it, and fast. "Thanks," Scully murmured. "No problem, let's see it we can find something safe," he chuckled, "like WWE." "Hokey," she chuckled. "Tenis?" "Swimming," she said, teasing, "young, toned and practically naked." "Did I tell you I was on the swim team?" "You have now." She giggled and snuggled closer. Mulder stopped flipping through channels, when he saw Mel Gibson feeding biscuits to a Rottweiler. "Lethal Weapon." "That's a very guy movie." "You've seen that one too?" "I have a son." She said, but there was no pain in her voice anymore, only drowsy, full stomach contentment. "Okay, so you pick a movie and I'll make popcorn." "You still have room left?" "For popcorn? Always." She took the remote and turned to look after him. 6 feet tall, he couldn't weigh more than 180. "You have a gym in the basement I should know about? Where do you put it all." "I lied, I never quit the swim team," he chuckled rummaging through one of the cupboards, "and I run." "Where?" "Oh, here, there, depends on the day, why?" "I might join you sometime." "You see, we do have things in common." He said and slammed the microwave doors shut. It whooshed and soon enough, began to pop.

She fell asleep, with her head on his shoulder and her whole weight leaned under his arm, and when the credits rolled and Sting sang how he'd lay down his life for a friend, Mulder thought, "You and me both, man." God, she was a beautiful, with her features relaxed, lips parted in sleep, and a stand of hair falling over her cheek. Awake she was too distracting, he couldn't keep up with her smiles and tiny frowns, she was a sensory overload, and he didn't even dare to imagine, what she'd be like to touch. If he tried, he wouldn't be able to stop, and after the day she had, she needed rest to regain her strength. He knew how to be patient. Shifting, he stretched out on the couch, never easing the grip on her, making her shift with him, and Scully went down with him. Wedging herself between him and the couch, half draped over his side, not even half awake as he pulled the blanket over them both. "Shhh, it's okay," he whispered, when she shifted to fit his arms more comfortably. "Kiss," she mumbled, "bad luck." "Right," and stifling a laugh, he kissed her forehead. "Goodnight." "'Night." She sighed and was out. Mulder clicked the tv off, and last ambers in the fireplace were the only light that was left. "I don't want to love you," he thought, but as he did, he knew it was already too late.

[writingthingsisdifficult]

Oh my god they were roommates part 2

You are forced to take over the monitoring of Loki. Snapshots from the life of being a god handler.

It’s weird how a phrase or sentence can inspire a whole story. In this case it was “A polished turd is a turd nonetheless.” This is what grew from it. The whole story is almost 13.000 words long, so I felt I had to split it into parts. If I’m lucky, I will get home early enough to post part three tonight. If not, you will have to wait until tomorrow evening. 

If you like it, let me know. Knowing that people enjoy my writing is what keeps me posting my stories.

Word count: 3092

Part One

______________________________________________________________________

Three days later a black car dropped you off along with a large suitcase and a backpack. An agent helped you unload the car, then sped off, not wanting to spend more time than necessary with Loki. He greeted you with a sour smile, but offered to carry your suitcase, which was at least something, you thought with a grimace.

Halfway up the staircase, an old head poked out from the first floor door, curious eyes peering at the two of you. Loki offered a happy hello, and you nodded politely. The eyes lit up.

“Hello,” their owner said. “Are you moving in? Is she your girlfriend, Loki, dear?”

You both shook your heads vigorously. “Oh no, Mrs Martin. Y/N is just… a friend… and she needed a place to stay for a while. Until she can go back to her own place,” he added, and you weren’t sure whose ears it was meant for.

“Well, welcome to the neighbourhood, dearie,” Mrs Martin grinned. “It was about time Loki found a friend. You must be awfully lonely up there, all on your own. That, that other one who came to visit sometimes, what was his name, I didn’t like him.” She turned her eyes on you. “You take good care of Loki now. He’s ever so helpful when we need something, both me and Mr Howard in number 15, always fetching Alfie when he gets stuck in the tree, I don’t know how he does it.”

You shifted on the stairs. The backpack weighed more than you had expected. Rolling your shoulders, you gave a soft smile to Loki. You always knew he wasn’t as bad as they said he was.

“Oh my,” Mrs Martin said. “Of course, you’re busy, and here I am prattling on. Well, welcome, Y/N. It’s so good to see him with a friend. I’ll let you to get settled now.” She winked and disappeared back in her own apartment.

“Wow,” you mouthed.

Loki grimaced. “She’s usually much more talkative. But she’s a nice old lady. If it wasn’t for that hellish cat of hers…” He thought for a moment. “She always brings me leftover casserole on Sundays, too. It’s not edible, though…”

You tried to suppress a giggle, but it escaped as an ugly snort. Clapping a hand over your mouth to shut up, you almost missed the satisfied grin on Loki’s face.

The apartment was only on the second floor, fortunately, and relatively big considering its location. SHIELD evidently had used some influence in an attempt to placate Loki. He must have been sick and tired of moving every couple of months, which was, you suspected, why he hadn’t protested more.

“Shoes off,” he said, and you noticed his slippers for the first time.

Trying to seem graceful and dignified, you pulled off your boots, but the backpack slid over the back of your head and made you topple over into the wall. With a silent chuckle, Loki grabbed you and the backpack and turned you right side up.

You followed him into the apartment, face burning with embarrassment and hoping this wouldn’t be your new norm.

“This will be your chamber,” he said, bringing you out of your thoughts. The room in question was a cosy east facing room. It was a bit on the smaller side, but with a king size bed stretching almost from wall to wall, leaving only enough space for a small bedside table on each side and a nice dresser in the corner. The soft moss colour of the carpet went well with the greyish blue walls, and together with the sunlight through the window you were sure this would be a nice place to stay.

You considered it for a bit, then dropped your backpack on the floor and flung yourself onto the bed, bouncing a couple of times before coming to a rest. It was so soft you had to giggle. “This’ll do,” you said when you spotted Loki standing in the doorway with your suitcase. “Add a few personal touches here and there… Yeah, it’ll do.”

Loki motioned for you to follow him again, and you scooted off the bed. He pointed you in the direction of the kitchen, a large, modern space, and then the bathroom. There was only one you noted, a bit sceptical – and then he stopped outside the door to a west facing room. “Off limits,” he said, placing his hand on the door. It crackled like snow on a freezing day.

“Why?” In your mind you pictured a secret lab or something.

He looked at you as if you were exceptionally stupid. “Because I like my privacy,” he replied flatly.

“Of course. Your room. No go. Got it.” Finger guns. Oh, god. Why were you like this? Trying to make things as normal as possible, you put your hands in your pockets and rocked back and forth on your toes. “So, what do you do then? When you don’t have an assignment, I mean.”

Loki looked puzzled for a moment, but he apparently decided to play along. “I read,” he said, turning back to the living room. “Watch TV sometimes. I get a lot of free time. SHIELD doesn’t trust me to go on missions yet.”

The realisation punched you in the chest. He must be so bored! And you couldn’t imagine any of the other agents doing anything to lessen his days. That settled it: you were going to do your best to make sure Loki felt appreciated. Maybe then he would come out of his shell and show SHIELD that he was dependable.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in the living room, reading. Don’t disturb me. Even better: stay in your room, and everything will be almost as normal.” He wafted you away with a superior look in his face.

You closed your eyes and exhaled deeply. This was unacceptable. “Listen, Loki,” you said with your best Mum-voice. “We’re living together now. It has been decided, there’s nothing to do about it. You don’t have to like it, hell, I’m not particularly happy about the arrangement either.” Though you’re probably unhappier than me, you added in your mind. “Let’s at least try to make the best of it.” Stop acting like a sulking child.

Loki stiffened for a second, but then he seemed to melt. “I apologise,” he said after a short, uncomfortable silence. “Of course you did not choose this. I will try to be civil.”

You smiled widely. “Thank you. Now what do you want for dinner? It’s my first day here. Considering it a peace offering.”

_______________________________________________________________________

The knock on the door was soft, but unmistakable. Grimacing, you looked at the clock on the wall. It wasn’t even six yet, and the only reason you were up this early was because you had had a minor nightmare. Not wanting to go back to sleep and risk facing your fears again, you had decided to surprise Loki with breakfast.

Peering through the spy hole, you saw two agents with a large briefcase. What could they possibly want at this hour?

“Good… morning,” you offered as you opened the door.

“Morning, Agent Y/N.” They pushed their way past you without an invitation. “Where is Loki?”

“He’s… sleeping.”

“Go get him.”

“But… he expressly told me not to come into his room:”

The agent shrugged. “Well, I’m not coming back anytime soon. Either you go get him, or –“

You held up your hands. “No, I’ll get him. Two, uh two seconds.” Leaving the agents in the hallway, you shuffled over to Loki’s room, silently cursing them for coming at such an ungodly hour. You hesitated for a moment before knocking, remembering the crackling and Loki’s warning. It had only been a week, but a quick glance over your shoulder made up your mind for you. The agents were getting impatient.

Nothing happened when you knocked. Taking a deep breath, you opened the door slightly. “Loki? You awake?”

The room was dark, but in the soft light from the hallway you could see it was filled with books and magical knick-knacks. At least that was what you thought they were. A couple of succulents adorned his windowsill, and foreign symbols hung on the walls.

Loki was sleeping on his stomach, blanket partially discarded on the floor, revealing a dark t-shirt and a pair of pyjama pants that left practically nothing to your imagination. The light hit his face, and he stirred, twisting his body to look at you with drowsy eyes. “What?” He blinked in confusion and indignation.

“I’m sorry for waking you, but there’s someone here to see you. They didn’t say what they wanted, but I’m pretty sure you don’t want to miss them.”

Looking slightly dishevelled, but more put together than you did when rudely awakened from deep sleep, Loki emerged with a frown. “What is it?” When he saw the agents standing in the hallway, he straightened his back. With a flick of his wrist, his clothes shimmered, and suddenly he was wearing a crisp, white shirt and suit trousers.

The change made the agents gasp, and you noted the satisfied smirk that flitted over Loki’s face.          

The agent with the suitcase cleared his throat. “Agent Y/N has asked your tracking monitor to be removed, and SHIELD has decided to comply with her request. If you would kindly sit down for us. Thank you.”

Loki shot you a confused look before leading them into the living room, where he sat down on the edge of the sofa. He looked uncomfortable, like he was ready to defend himself if this turned out to be a trap.

Unpacking his suitcase, the agent got to work removing the ankle bracelet. Several codes and keys were required to unlock it, and then to disarm the alarm.

While his partner worked, the other agent turned to you. “Now, Agent Y/N, I trust you understand that you cannot be allowed to keep arms in the apartment with Loki unmonitored, so we ask you surrender any weapons you have to us. They will be delivered to the headquarters and returned to you upon need.”

In your mind you rolled your eyes, but out loud you said: “Of course.” You hurried to your room and unlocked the drawer you kept your gun in and returned with the case in a flash.

The agent looked doubtful, weighing the case in his hand. “Is this all?”

“Yes,” you replied. You had never been very fond of weapons. “Well, I do have a baseball bat by my bed, but that’s –“

“Not a weapon,” he finished for you.

The other agent smacked the lid of his suitcase and got to his feet. “Alright. Let’s roll.” You led him to the door.

Loki rolled his ankle and twisted to warm it up. He looked up when the second agent remained. “Can I help you?”

“Piece of advice,” he said before following the other agent out. “She trusts you more than I do. More than any other agent in SHIELD. Do not abuse that trust.”

_______________________________________________________________________

“Loki? Is that you?” You weren’t easily spooked, but you grabbed your baseball bat just to be safe. It had been a gift from your Dad the first time you moved to live on your own, and it had stayed with you – unused and collecting dust – ever since.

Opening the bedroom door slowly, you peeked through the slit. The apartment was dark. It was past midnight after all.

As you moved as silently as you could through the hallway to the living room, you kept your eyes open and a firm grip on the bat.

No sounds. That was strange. You could have sworn you heard something – a sudden creak behind you made you spin on the spot, and you swung the bat like a pro – straight through a dissolving, dark figure.

Laughter erupted behind you, and you turned again, this time with rising anger in your chest. Your heart hammered in your throat, and your ears were buzzing. You felt like screaming, but to your credit, you swallowed it, opting for a steely glare instead.

Loki was nearly crying with laughter. “You – you-hoo should have seen your face,” he started, but you cut him off. The moon shone through the window, lengthening the shadows in the room, and sharpening his features. He looked every bit the prince he was, but you ignored that for now.

Pushing the tip of the bat to his chest, you marched him backwards until he stumbled over a fold in the carpet and toppled into the armchair. “That was not funny!”

He grinned. “Yes, it was. You looked like you saw a ghost. Are you afraid of the dark, Y/N?” His voice changed, and his body shifted, and suddenly three copies circled you, making the hairs on your neck rise.

“Stop it!” Truth be told, the dark always had you just a little bit on edge. You weren’t exactly scared of ghosts and monsters; it was more just not being able to see what was out there.

His clones inched closer, and goosebumps spread down your spine and arms too. “I said stop it!” You tried to sound angry, but the pure joy on Loki’s face made it hard to mean it. It was rare to see him smile, and smiles like that felt like winning the lottery. But you were still annoyed that he scared you.

One by one the clones disappeared, and you lowered the bat. “I swear, Loki, if you ever pull a stunt like that again I will defenestrate you! Don’t think I won’t.”

That made him giggle, and despite yourself, you joined in.

“Well, that was interesting,” Loki said when you fell silent again. “You don’t like the dark –“

“I don’t like you.”

“You do!” He smirked. “You don’t like the dark, but you’re not afraid to explore it. Hmm.” He got up and brushed off his pyjama trousers. “Go back to sleep, Y/N. I am the most dangerous thing in the darkness here, and I won’t hurt you. I promise.” Glancing at the windows, he continued in a lighter voice: “At any rate, I like it here. The landlord won’t be pleased if you break his windows, huh.”

You nodded, but remained. What did he mean by saying that he was the most dangerous thing in the darkness? He didn’t really believe… “Loki,” you began, but you didn’t know what to say.

He no doubt picked up on the shift, because his face softened just a little bit. “Go back to sleep,” he repeated. “I promise I won’t make any more scary sounds in the night. And I do believe I owe you a proper breakfast for that little trick,” he added, striding past you with a little nod, and closing his bedroom door softly behind him. The lock clicked loudly.

“Yes, you do,” you muttered, shuffling back to your own room. Now that the danger was over, the adrenaline that kept you awake and alert was quickly fading, leaving you exhausted and filled with thoughts of Loki’s mental well-being.

Sunday came, and you were sitting in the living room scrolling mindlessly on your laptop, looking at memes and cute videos of kittens. Loki was sitting in his chair by the window as usual, reading a book in some foreign language you didn’t know. It was a lazy day, and you savoured it.

There was a knock on the door and you looked at Loki as if to ask if he expected visitors. He only grinned and nodded towards the door.

Outside was the old neighbour, Mrs Martin, and she was carrying a large pot. “I made enough for the two of you to share,” she said, holding up the pot higher. It smelled dreadful, but you smiled and took it anyway. “Thank you, Mrs Martin.”

“Oh, call me Lydia. And it’s my pleasure. Just come down with the pot when you’re done, that’s a good girl.”

“I will. Have a good day, Lydia.”

Closing the door behind you with your foot, you lifted the lid on the pot and immediately regretted it. Swallowing a gag, you handed the pot to Loki. “Get rid of this, will you?” You covered your nose and returned to your laptop. “Please?” you added when Loki remained seated.

He took the pot with him, and soon after you heard the toilet flush. When he came back, he wore a shit-eating grin. “I did warn you.”

“That you did. Maybe I’ll buy her a cooking class for Christmas.”

Loki shook his head. “Don’t bother. I already tried, and Mrs Martin is too fond of experimenting.”

The third time you talked to Mrs Martin, you had lived in the apartment for a good month, and you had settled in quite nicely. She was knocking on your door again, asking for help to get Alfie down from the tree.

Loki was pulling on his shoes, and you were trying to be amiable, attempting a bit of small talk, though it was never your forte.

Suddenly Mrs Martin set her dark eyes in you and gave you a knowing smile. “So, when are you two getting married?”

You almost choked on air, sputtering unintelligible noises while shaking your head.

“We’re not together, Mrs Martin,” Loki replied patiently, which took you by an even bigger surprise. You would have thought he’d at least be annoyed, but he smiled gently and walked past her down the stairs.

“I’ve told you to call me Lydia,” Mrs Martin called after him. “And don’t worry, dearie,” she said to you. “He’ll propose soon. I can see the love in his eyes.” She winked at you, then walked after Loki as fast as her short legs could carry her, leaving you staring after her in the doorway.

She was mistaken, of course she was. She had to be. Loki merely tolerated you. He didn’t… The thought had never even crossed your mind. You’ve grown to like him more and more over the weeks you had lived together, but he had never indicated… Shaking your head, you closed the door behind you and went to watch the spectacle from the kitchen window.

Loki was scaling the tree with grace, but convincing the menace of a cat to come with him was more work than you had expected. After closely avoiding sharp claws a few times, he finally got a hold of Alfie and tucked him securely under his arm before dropping back into the grass.

Part three

_______________________________________________________________________

Tagging my wonderful friends for this:

@80percentmarvel @tardis-is-mine @schwarzwaelder-kirschtorte @jessiejunebug

[secrecykept]

( ☯ ⋮ DRABBLE: Chesh. )

Main verse. 1800+ words of absolutely nothing. but hey, its his house and he talks to himself and his plants. bless him.

He stepped inside his house and closed the door behind himself with a soft click. A sigh escaped through a content smile and his shoulders dropped in relief.

Home Sweet Home.

In a casual search, his eyes swept around, ensuring that nothing had changed during his long week away. Yes, everything was right where he left it, but…his brother’s scent was a vague impression, which meant some of the chocolate hidden in the high kitchen cupboard was most likely gone. Typical.

Chesh chuckled to himself and shook his head, beginning to head further into the house. The short entryway flowed into the large, open plan style that he favoured.

Though he lived alone and didn’t technically ‘need’ such a big house, the animal side of him demanded the freedom of it and revelled in the provided space.

His lounge was to the left, set within a slightly lower level, a square frame. Having different layers and levels within the house kept the leopard appeased. All sorts of things had been incorporated into the house with that, and the other preferences of the feline, in mind.

Everything was as natural and organic as it could be, pleasing and gentle on the senses. The design of the house was environmentally friendly both because of Chesh’s own beliefs and because the therianthrope blood was comforted by it. The house was such a contrast to the heavy concrete and cold metal of the city he’d be trapped in recently.

Working overtime on a large, special order with his boss all week had been tough on his body in more ways than one. Every part of him, from skin to soul, had been getting more uncomfortable with every day and night he had been stuck there, instincts urging him to find the earth and its abundant life again, though of course he appreciated the spare room Mr Delaney let him stay in.

With only enough space for a large bed and a bedside table, the room had been a cage. The old décor, while faded and not too ugly, was still on the overwhelming side to his senses.

The complete opposite to the area he stood in now.

His house mimicked the feel of nature through its use of materials and the expansive windows which seemed to invite the outside in. The ‘trees’ supporting the ceiling, and the exposed beams high above, further added to the illusion of being surrounded by nature.

He took a deep breath in and then out, feeling the leopard relaxing along with him.

A yawn crept up on him and pulled on his muscles and jaw like a puppeteer tugging on strings, making him stretch out in a grand display. His shoulders and arms groaned at him, and he groaned right back and sighed as he relaxed himself down again.

Maybe an early night was in order.

Or perhaps simply an easy night of watching TV until he fell asleep. The quiet here was nice, but after such a long time of having someone else, and of having noise, around him during all hours…it was too quiet.

With that decided, he moved across large room, hopping down the small steps into the lounge area.

Along with the couch, armchairs, and coffee table, there was a less typical element; a large mattress inlaid within the space between the table and the wall which the TV was secured to. The mattress, neatly covered in a dark green bedsheet, was level to the hardwood floor and could easily be mistaken for a rug. Truth be told, he spent more time on that mattress than on the couch or even his actual bed.

He eyed it now and stole a couple of cushions from the couch to throw on it. The remote resting on the table became the next item to be scooped up. He tossed it lightly onto the new nest he was creating and then glanced over to the shelves full of DVDs.

“What should we watch, hmm?”

He heard a huff in the back of his mind, and he rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t talking to you, kittycat. I was talking to me.”

Ignoring his other side, Chesh idly rubbed his jaw and then slipped his hand to his neck and the join of his shoulder. Applying a little pressure caused a wince, and he became aware of the scents that clung to him. Sawdust and varnish, wood and hard work.

He sighed.

“Better have a shower first before getting too comfy…”

After a roll of his shoulders, he padded off to the right, jumping up the step and then stopping. His gaze flicked between the wide doorway to the kitchen, and the stairs at the far side that led up to the open, upper level.

“Food first or second?”

Dinner with his boss a few hours earlier seemed like forever ago now, but since his stomach didn’t growl or rumble, he gave it a pat.

“Later then. ‘Suppose it’s grocery time tomorrow anyway.”

He nodded to himself and continued on his way, making quick work of the stairs even while pulling his shirt off over his head. In a display of altogether too much practice, he balled up the shirt and tossed it into the basket across the room.

“Score!”

Pleased despite having no audience, he grinned. The expression eased off slowly after another yawn cracked through him. He avoided looking at his comfortable, ready-to-jump-on bed and set about removing the rest of his clothes. Living alone did have its benefits, there was no one to see him struggle with his shoes and pants, hobbling around as he yet again yawned.

“Damn I must be getting old…”

The chuffing laugh of the leopard in his mind brought him a pout. “Oh, shut it, I don’t need that from you. You’re as old as I am, y’know.”

It was with a great deal of sulking that Chesh finished stripping off and picked up his discarded clothes, adding them to the basket to join his shirt. Once the task was done, he perked up at the thought of the shower that awaited him.

The large, floor to ceiling windows nearby reflected his naked form, but the backdrop of dense forest was faintly visible still. Even if the glass had allowed him to be seen from the other side of it, he was not the type to mind. If someone out there was willing to climb up a tree to get a peek at him, they probably deserved it.

He sighed and turned away, heading to the generous en-suite. As always, he didn’t bother to close the door behind himself when he entered. The dark tile was cool beneath his feet as he crossed it, his destination the glass walls of the shower, though he did give a long look to the spa bath cradled within the floor.

“Not tonight,” he said to it in apology, “I’ll fall asleep and die if I do.”

He reached into the shower and turned the handle, prompting a high-pressure rush of water to rain down from the head set into the ceiling like a waterfall. Despite the water not being warm quite yet, he stepped under the spray anyway and let out a soft moan of approval.

“Oh yeah, that’s good…”

The water pelting his shoulders began to massage away some of the lingering aches. He sighed and closed his eyes, relaxing with a purr.

So good…

…….

He jolted back into wakefulness as his body swayed forward, one hand shooting out to brace against the glass wall. His hand slipped, but he kept on his feet with wide eyes and a colourful curse.

Time to get out already, this thing was dangerous.

After washing himself quickly, soapy bubbles swirling down the drain, he forced himself to shut off the water and step out into comparative coolness.

A towel was handy on the nearby rack, he snagged it and only bothered to rub it over his hair a few times before wrapping it around his waist. Drying off was far too much effort at this point.

He left wet footprints out of the bathroom and across the loft, if he slipped on them later then it was his own fault.

“Good thing I-“ Yawn. “-don’t live with anyone else.”

He shook his head to try force a little more awareness into his brain, which wasn’t the best thing to do while he was descending the steps. He nearly tumbled down them.

He was more awake now, needless to say.

And it was then that he looked across at the back of the room and spotted his little plants.

“Oh! My babies!”

He scampered so quickly over to them that his towel loosened and fell (almost tripping him up, but he was heedless).

“Please don’t die on me, okay? I know I totally forgot to feed you or get someone to look after you, but I’m here and it was only like a week, okay?”

The plants were nestled in rounded, forest green pots along the top of a shelf. Despite there being four pots, only two were filled. He’d only needed two, but there had been a deal to get three, and then he hadn’t wanted to leave the last one behind or for his third one to be without a partner.

He gently touched the soil of one plant and sighed. “Not too bad. Good thing you’re not high maintenance huh?”

Succulents and cacti made for good companions to one as busy and forgetful as he could be.

“Let me get you a drink now, okay, Ouchie? Pointy? I’ll be right back. Be good now.”

He spun around and made a beeline for the kitchen, bending to sweep up the fallen towel on the way. He slung the material over one of his shoulders and carried on with the task of getting water for his dear plants.

A cheerful but tuneless hum from him eased some of the silence within the house as he worked on caring for Pointy and Ouchie.

“There, better now, right?” he asked them once finished, “You’re looking happier already.”

He gave a satisfied nod and directed himself back across the lounge, jumping with both feet down the step this time, just for something different.

“Night you two,” he called back to them, “Don’t snore, okay? I need some beauty sleep; I think my hotness levels have dropped down to a mere 120%. Totally unacceptable.”

He yawned and narrowly missed walking into the edge of the coffee table on his way around to the mattress. He let his knees buckle and set him down on the welcoming softness. It took only a moment of fussing with the cushions before he was comfortable, and then he felt around for the remote and switched the TV onto the most boring channel he could find.

The droning voices closed his eyes and he was deep asleep within the minute.

[tarithenurse]

In Defense of Asgard (1/11)

Starring: Loki x fem/Inhuman reader. Warnings: language, violence, fluff now and then. Background: It’s been 20 years since the Thanos has been defeated. [Y/N] was a part of the group because of the skills she possesses as an Inhuman (sensing and manipulating living cells - a sideeffect being potential immortality). In the time leading up to the final battle, [Y/N] has formed an unlikely relationship with the only person completely opposite of her, but as the relationship developed, so has Loki. On a mission, they had met and swayed Adam Warlock (creation of the Sovereign) to join them. The Asgardians have found a new home planet, but their numbers are few (some Marvel comic canon involved here). Now they are married, even if [Y/N] has to spend an awful lot of time on Earth. A/N: Feedback appreciated!

[Reader’s PoV]

Old cities have an ability to simultaneously change and remain exactly the same. Walking through the capital in 2038 is not all that different from before [Y/N]’s life had turned upside down. Some of the facades have had a facelift, some of the shoddier buildings have been torn down and new ones taken their place, slightly taller and conforming to the architectural trends of this decade, carefully complimenting or clashing with the surroundings and affecting the balance of the entire street. Most people, particularly the businessmen and -women on lunch break, don’t seem to notice, of course. They are hurrying from point A to point B, only paying attention to what’s right in front of their feet, heads down to avoid any eye contact with the chuggers who’re trying to wrangle money for Greenpeace or Amnesty International.

Following a slower pace, [Y/N] makes it to the odd-shaped square housing a fountain adorned with storks. Despite the bleak weather, a bunch of teenagers have perched themselves around the edge, avoiding the areas where the spray of water blows towards. From here it’s possible to look over at the old castle that houses the government, but the last load of cruise-tourists is crowding around a street performer, who’s juggling torches. Maybe I should try juggling?

Lately, [Y/N]’s found herself getting bored with her usual activities. A sort of restlessness has invaded her life, and she knows why…enough time has passed that she will have to find another place to live than the lovely flat in New York, which she has been able to call her home the last 25 years, give or take.

“Princess.”

Heimdal’s voice doesn’t seem to have a place of origin, but [Y/N] looks around anyways…except she’s not seeing the city and its inhabitants and visitors, instead she’s looking through a rounded opening perched high in the mountains. Down below, a partially frozen river carries the viewers gaze towards the snow-covered plains and fields towards the capital of Asgard where a setting sun is reflecting off the windows and golden pillars.

“Heimdal.” It’s only a mutter, too low for those (whom she’s oblivious to) around her to hear.

The view swivels, and she faces the dark-skinned man with the impossible eyes. “My apologies, my lady. You are needed, but people are positioned too close to you to allow Bifrost to touch down.”

“I’ll see to it.”

The gentle man nods, and without further ado he returns her world back to normal.

Clouds are already gathering above, a clear sign that she has only a few seconds to create a safe space around her. Hurtling forward, into the juggler’s circle, [Y/N] doesn’t get further than to yell for people to stay back before the torrent of light and colour slams down around her, pulling the woman off the face of the Earth with such force that her guts must have been left behind. The purse slams against her hip. The wind whips around her, filling her ears with a painful roar. Never going to like this. Sure, it’s practical, because it’s a lot faster than travelling by spaceship, but it’s also nauseating.

…

[Y/N] slides off the back of the horse and hands over the reigns to the stable girl with a ‘thank you’. She’s cold from the ride through the wind and the snow, however that’s not her main concern. Heimdal hadn’t said much to explain why she’s back in Asgard without any notice, but it must be some sort of emergency, judging by the sombre look in his face. The first guard she meets explains that the king is in the council chambers with his advisors, so that’s where she hurries towards, glad that she’s indoors at least. Under normal circumstances, she’d have taken the trouble to dress for the weather at her destination, but that hadn’t been an option this time. Hurrying up the broad, winding staircase, she follows the largest corridor to where it ends at a large set of oak doors.

Again, she’s faced by a guard, but just like the other he recognizes her and allows her to enter without a word, and [Y/N] finds herself inside the council room, the long table laden with maps and rosters and several glittery holograms depicting golden vessels, smooth and deadly. Sovereign? Thor, Sif and Valkyrie are studying what must be the latest information and are startled by her sudden arrival. There’s something different abou –

“[Y/N]!” Thor’s serious frown is momentarily replaced by a delighted smile. “It is good to see you.”

As she greets them, she briefly explains how Heimdal had contacted her. “Where’s Loki? And is that the Sovereign?” [Y/N] nods towards the hologram.

Sif has already opened her mouth to answer, but [Y/N] turns to the door where Fandral and his two refound friends Hogun and Volstagg enter. The day the blond swordsman had been reunited with them, he’d cried, then he’d done anything in his power to help them through the long transition of recalling who they once were until, finally, the Warriors Three finally was a fact once more. They rarely went anywhere without each other, including a scouting mission they just had come back from…unfortunately it had not been enough to scout as they had been spotted by the enemy patrol. At least the casualties had been one-sided.

Listening carefully, [Y/N] gets confirmation that it is indeed the Sovereign, that are mounting a large-scale attack on either Xandar or Asgard as retaliation for the interference decades ago, that let them to lose Adam and their alliance with Thanos. Those gold-skinned bastards know how to hold a grudge.

“We are expecting Loki back this evening.” Valkyrie finally explains. “His familiarity with the Xandarian Nova Prima made him the optimal candidate to represent Asgard in the diplomatic meetings to secure a strong cooperation regardless of which planet is the first target.”

Nodding quietly, [Y/N] has to admit it makes sense even if she doesn’t like the idea that he isn’t here. “Adam?”

The possessor of the Soul Stone is always travelling in the hopes that he’ll find a way to neutralize the Infinity Stones for good. As it is now, the Aether was safely locked away deep in the vault of Valhalla.

Thor wrinkles his brow as if with a passion. “The distance is too great even for Heimdal to see him.”

A similar problem has shown its ugly face whenever the watcher has tried to glean information from the Sovereign, any meetings and communications take place under secured circumstances, blocking him from both seeing or hearing anything.

With time having been busy catching up to many of [Y/N]’s old teammates, it’s unlikely that any of them are capable of taking up arms in a space-battle, even if the United Nations panel did allow any enhanced individuals to take part. Vision and Parker might be able to, and maybe Stark assuming the suit would be able to compensate for his deteriorating vigour. T’Challa’s son might insist on taking his father’s place now that the mantle of the Black Panther has passed on, and perhaps Daisy could muster a team of Inhumans, but, [Y/N] has to remind herself, this is all speculations for now.

“What can I do?”

“That,” Sif says, “will depend on what Loki can tell us when he returns. You may be excused for now.”

Looking over at the queen, the Inhuman’s reminded of the foggy difference and discreetly scans the woman for anything that can explain it. Oh! “May I have a word with you in private, Sif?”

The request is granted, and the dark-haired sister-in-law walks side by side with [Y/N] until they are out of earshot of everyone. Coming to a halt by a potted palm tree, the casual conversation comes to a slow halt. Under the casual armour gown, a secret is brewing quietly, maybe even unknown to Sif too, and it’s itching in [Y/N]’s hand to find a place over the womb where the new life is growing.

“Congratulations are in order.” At least if it’s wanted.

For a moment Sif looks utterly confused, then her eyes widen and her hands fold over her abdomen. There’s joy (and a grain of terror) in the perfect face as she takes in the new knowledge.

“How long?” She’s a practical woman. “If Thor finds out before the war is over, then I doubt he will let me fight.”

“Probably not, no.” In fact, he might go as far as to ship her off in the complete opposite direction to protect his wife and unborn child. “It is very new…and very, very fragile still, so I urge you to take care.”

The prospect of motherhood appears no less of a challenge than any battle would, and Sif feels at home in the fray. Still, she allows her features to soften momentarily as she dreams of the possible future. Allowing her peace to become accustomed to the prospect, [Y/N] bids her farewell for now, and continues to Loki’s chambers.

…

A fire is roaring, serving as both the only source of heat and illumination in their quarters, and somehow failing at keeping [Y/N] warm. Technically it’s not a matter of temperature, but rather anxiety. A cold sense of dread has snuck up on the healer, making it impossible for her to find rest. I have no reason to fret. Having changed to the Asgardian outfit she uses for training or sparring (except the boots), she feels a bit more at ease as she pads over the soft carpets and cold stone floor in an endless circle, that leads past the fireplace, around the coffee table, past the chaise lounge and over to the tall glass panes forming a fragile barrier towards the snowy night. A faint image of a frowning woman stares back at [Y/N] each time she reaches this point. The reflection is enveloped in shadows, the flickering light only sporadically reaches the eyes that echo with a mix of orange and midnight. Get a grip. Her brain has other plans, but is temporarily amused by listing synonyms and translations for the mental order. Relax. Cool down. Unwind. Wait…A foot of snow is lying undisturbed on the balcony, and even though it’s powder, she still has to push hard to open the door leading out into the frosty air that makes her nose twitch and the small hairs stand on end.

Next moment, [Y/N]’s outside, naked feet sliding into the soft layer of white as she leaves a crack open to the now vacated living room. A few long steps, and then she’s standing at the railing, looking over the lower level of Valhalla and the capital, each surface covered under fluffy duvets that swallow up sounds and refracts the isolated light sources far below. None of the moons or stars are visible, as they are hidden beyond a thick cloud-layer that keeps releasing a steady fall of snowflakes.

For a while, [Y/N] amuses herself half-heartedly by poking patterns in the white cover on the railing, while her first her feet and later lower legs hurt and then go numb from the cold.

“My flower,” a familiar voice breaks the silence, “why are you out here?”

Turning clumsily on unfeeling limbs, she knows it’s simply the conjured image of Loki, but she can’t contain a happy squeak, because it means he must be home.

“I was restless, my dear.”

“My silly wife, get inside.” The image is smiling broadly, green eyes hinting at where inside. “I will be with you shortly.”

(I hope this made some good reading. Sorry about any spelling and/or grammatical errors....English isn’t my first language. Please feel free to comment or correct in any way you want!)

[k9cat]

The Shelf

Hello all! This is based off a post I found on @prinxietys blog, which can be found here, I’m also gonna tag @starlight-sanders, @angstymelon, and @mylasagnaisraw since they also added to the post to make it what it is. 

Big shout out to @parsnipit for proofreading this and being awesome 

This is also posted on Ao3 here

Warnings: Slight panic attack like thing, and some good old hurt/comfort 

The Shelf 

The shelf had appeared one day when Logic wasn’t paying attention. It didn’t even garner his attention, usually new shelves would soon fill themselves with books and little nick nacks that were deemed important to keep.

It was nondescript. Plain, and it fit the colour of all the other shelves in his room stacked high with books and things. It stayed empty.

 Until a bottle appeared on it. It was a small bottle, no taller than his pinky finger and stopped with a brown cork. The little paper stuck on the side read ‘embarrassment’ when he went to investigate the glass bottle which contained a lime green, stuff. He couldn’t figure out if it was liquid or not when he picked it up and the green swirled around in the bottle. It confused him, but he dismissed it. It was no harm to him, or anybody else, thus he left it alone.

 That was years ago now, and the shelf was now the most colourful thing in his room; second place was the bookshelves.

 Logan now had quite an interesting assortment of bottles on the shelf ranging in colour, size, and shape. All full of that not-quite-liquid-not-quite-gas stuff he could not figure out . It perplexed him so, to look at these things he did not understand. They distracted him, and made his thoughts wander when he wanted to focus. He shoved down the bubbly frustration he was feeling, closed the book he was trying to read, and rubbed his forehead, trying to make the oncoming headache go away. He was supposed to be Logic, not emotions, and he saw a tall skinny bottle with a twist cap appear beside the other assortment of bottles. Letting go of a sigh, he set the book aside on the side table beside his chair. He wasn’t going to be able to continue with it tonight.

 It was late into the evening and everyone was in their rooms after a long day of filming the next video. They were planning to start editing tomorrow after a good night’s rest. Yet he couldn’t find himself tired enough to properly fall asleep, thus the reading, thus the distraction of the bottles of things he didn’t understand, thus the new one appearing. Logan picked his way around the stacks of books and memories and boxes of facts and information organised in a seemingly scattered way around his room, he knew where everything was despite how messy it looked. He made his way to the shelf.

 He picked up the fragile skinny tube of sour yellow, reading the label that read ‘frustration’. Of course. He put the bottle back carefully. He looked over the shelf of many colours. He just didn’t understand, and he did not like not understanding. It wasn’t him, and it confused him and made his chest feel tight in an uncomfortable way and made his stomach twist in knots because he knew he would never get an answer no matter how many ‘why’s’ and ‘how’s’ he asked. No, that wasn’t him, the ugly feeling in his chest wasn’t him, not for him, he wasn’t made to deal with emotions. He couldn’t understand them, not matter how much he tried. Emotions were for Morality, and Anxiety, and even Creativity, but not him, not Logic, never Logan.

 He pushed them back, left them alone and saw another bottle appear on his shelf. It was a wide bottle that tapered skinny at the top, very conical in shape. Inside was an ugly red-brown colour with the label reading ‘confusion/frustration’. Logan stepped away, not looking at all the labels that read amusement, fear, giddiness, disappointment, remorse, love, and more. All the emotions he just didn’t understand, for he was Logic, thought, thinking, the mind, no room for those icky, sticky, confusing emotions. That tired him out more quickly than any social interaction.

 He flopped on to his bed, not caring that he should change into his pajamas, and let the lights dim in his room to darkness, the moon hanging in his window the only source of light. A night’s rest always helped him clear his mind and refresh for the next day. He was very close to slipping into sleep when he heard an ominous creaking from across the room, coming from the shelf, pulling him back to awareness. He ignored the sound.

 Sometimes when a bottle for a particularly heavy emotion appeared, the shelf would creak and groan until it accommodated the weight, and sometimes the sizes were deceptive. A large bottle could be very light, filled with orange ‘happiness’ and ‘joy’, and other would be small bottles, no more than a few ounces, heavy like a teaspoon of a neutron star, filled with ‘fear’ and ‘worry’ written in the smallest fonts. Yet the shelf always held, his resolve willing the wood to stay strong and not splinter under the pressure.

 The sound settled, and he let go of a tenseness he didn’t realize he had been holding. That may have been the incorrect thing to do. The shelf groaned under the weight again, sounding like a boat complaining about the water it was sinking into. That was the sound of stress, and it wasn’t a good one. He shoved down the small panic and fear that had been slowly rising up in him since the first creak of wood. Now was not the time to worry about the shelf breaking, since it should never break, and even if it ever did, he would need a clear head to deal with the mess. The little bottle of blue that appeared on the edge, taking up the last of the space, was the figurative last straw on the camel's back.

 The shelf itself stayed strong as ever, but the bracket that held up the shelf and supported it, did not.

 It was like watching slow motion, as he saw the wooden bracket fail under the weight, breaking off the wall. The shelf tipped with no support, sliding each and every bottle, big and small, tall and short, square and round, off of the wood like a waterfall, tumbling and racing to the ground in a confused rainbow. The frail glass shattering as it met unforgiving books and boxes and floor. He assumed the sound was a grand smash of clinking bottles and crunching glass, and of a plank of heavy wood falling off the last bracket and crushing any surviving bottles with its weight with a thud. He assumed that was what it sounded like, unable to comprehend the sounds past the rushing of blood in his ears. As soon as the first bottle cracked, Logic was swamped with all the suppressed emotions of years past. All the buried feelings, all the bottled not-understanding was released and feeling them all at once, unable to process them.

 Overwhelming panic made it difficult to breath in the first place, but mixed with the euphoria of happiness and the screaming rage of anger, he was stuck between hysterical laughter smashed together with pitiful crying, gasping for air in between it all. It was all so confusing and he couldn’t understand any of what was happening, and that was making him scared and that was making him worried and for the life of him he could not push it down so he could think. When he tried it welled up, even more vengeful than before, and he could not stop laughing through the tears that were rolling down his face unimpeded.

 The sounds he didn’t hear must had been loud. Through tear-obscured lenses, he saw Morality throw his door open wide. Ever the emotional one, he looked worried and concerned in his cat onesie, glasses askew, looking half awake, followed by Prince pushing past, sword brandished and ready to fight despite being in his own pajamas and looking half awake as well. Anxiety was a step behind, staying clear of the swinging metal, the only one looking awake and composed. Logic flinched back at the large movements, everything was too much and he couldn’t focus on the outside with how clouded his thinking was on the inside, trying to sort out what was happening and his heart clenched and his stomach felt queasy like he was going to puke and his eyes were scratchy with salty tears. The headache was coming back in full vengeance and now his glasses were smudged with fingerprints and tears from his hands covering his face and pulling at his hair and too much confusion.

 The others were talking. Their mouths were moving. They were looking at him, looking at each other, looking around the room, but he couldn’t hear past the blood rushing in his ears and over his panicked enraged laughter. Morality spotted the broken mess of emotions on the floor first, finding the little labels without getting cut on the shards. Somehow, he knew the heart looked surprised, and why does he know that look was filled with empathy and love and worry and- Patton was right in front of him. Arms wrapped tight around him in a firm, secure, warm embrace. He took a stuttered breath through his gasping laugh-screaming-cry, stiffening at the contact because it was too much feeling, but it wasn’t enough, yet it was too much and it was all so confusing.

 He felt the low vibrations of the soothing words he knew Patton was saying instead of hearing them, and it helped so much. It was better already, Patton was made for emotions, the heart, the deep feelings. The eldest knew what he was doing.

 Logic leaned into the hug, letting the heart feel the overwhelming emotions that wracked the brain. Patton was encouraging him to feel them, let them out, cry, laugh, scream, don’t bottle them up. Virgil sat beside him soon after, wrapping an arm around him and leaning his head on Logan’s shoulder despite how much the worried trait liked his personal space. The panic was still there, the worry and guilt and shame and fear still in turmoil, but it changed. Not uncontrolled, not running rampant anymore, it was grounded and a faint semblance of organised thought makes its way through the wake of emotions still turning inside of him.

 He was breathing better, and through the calming rush in his ears he heard the faint humming of a soft tune mindlessly weaving a melody through the air. Roman sat on his other side, free of his sword, and the harmony follows the melody, the creative side grounding him alongside the emotion oriented traits. The turmoil in his head and heart slowly settled as he lets the last of the crying run out and the pitiful giggles putter away and he is left feeling almost numb. Echoes of all the unknown, not understood things flick by here and there, but they are tempered by the others and everything settles into a peaceful, content feeling he thinks is called comfort.

 They sit on his bed for a while, and he listens to the song Patton and Roman are weaving together for what feels like hours. He knows though, that it can’t have been more than one since the shelf first broke. He took a deep breath and sat up straight, breaking the hug from Patton and shifting Virgil off his shoulder. Patton reached forward and pulled off his glasses, the soft fabric of his onesie wiping his face of tears and cleaning his glasses of streaks and prints.

 “There you are,” Patton said quietly with a smile when he returns the glasses, ending the song. “All better now.”

 He nods in agreement, not trusting his voice right now to be a steady, sure tone. They stay quiet in his room, words not necessarily needed right now, just sitting, together, stray emotions flickering in and out here and there, leftover tears and half weary smiles drifting past in the tail end of the storm. It was late, and he woke the others out of their sleep by evidence of their sleep wear, and it was getting later every minute they sat there. They should all be asleep, not here comforting him. Thomas won’t have a good day tomorrow if they didn’t rest and recharge as well. Thus, he puts up a face, a facade of being in control and composed. He straightens his back and starts building the walls back up and shoving down the feelings that belong to Patton, Virgil and Roman, not him, not the brain. As usual, a bottle appears on the shelf. A new shelf, same place, same look, but new, looking a little more robust. Thicker wood and stronger brackets and a square bottle of purple appeared on top, sitting center stage and proud of it.

 The shuffling sound drew all their attention in the quiet and Virgil made a face, shadow passing over his features as he frowns, dark and menacing. Sliding off the bed he made his way to the new shelf and plucks the new bottle off. The anxious trait did not even look at what the little paper stuck to the side said as he whipped his arm around and threw the glass at the wall, shattering it. He is flooded with the emotions he just shoved away, and his face falls and his walls were not strong enough and he slumps back into the hug Patton still wanted to give, tired and feeling a weird mix of emotions still.

 “You are never going to make bottles again,” Virgil said with a quiet fury. “It’s not healthy and I push down enough emotions for the both of us. You should never have to do that.”

 “Virgil is right, you don’t have to bottle it up, you are allowed to feel,” Patton assured with a gentle tenderness.

 “I- I don’t, know how.” He heard his voice waver no matter how much he tried to keep it stable.

 “What do you mean?” Roman asked, confused.

 “I, I don’t understand them, emotions. I don’t know how to comprehend them and make sense of them, I don’t feel, I’m not supposed to, I’m Logic,” he rambled a bit, trying to convey his not-understanding and confusion and frustration with the one thing he could not ever make sense of, the dreaded things mixing up again in his chest and hurting again. Patton must have felt it also, as he nodded for Anxiety to come sit back down and pulled Roman even closer so that the fanciful trait was also hugging him.

 “It’s okay that you don’t understand, that means you can learn then, and you love learning,” Patton soothed.

 “I tried, and it never makes sense.” He sounded brittle, exhausted, and his head was pounding from the crying or his headache or both.

 “Have you asked any of us?”

 He shook his head no. He didn’t want to sound emotional.

 “Ask us then. Maybe we can help you understand them better instead of bottling them up, okay?” The heart offered. Logan nodded, anything to understand he would accept.

 Patton started humming again, soft, and low, and Roman soon joined in again. The moonlight illuminated the room enough for them to pull back the sheets on his bed and fall into the comfort there, and that was okay. Roman was here to help make sense of it all and Virgil would protect them and Patton could smile for him, and if that was what he needed to know to start understanding emotions and not bottle them up, then it didn’t seem wrong to feel at all. And even though in the morning they were all slightly sluggish from the lack of sleep, he couldn’t help but feel better when he saw that the shelf was still empty.

[smuttbunnie]

blue.

Member: Taekook

Genre: Angst

Description: If it is not like the others, beat it until it is. If it does not fit in, then break it until it fits. If it is flawed, then burn it for it is useless. If it is different, let it die…for it doesn’t deserve to live.

The world is colourless. It’s grey and ashen, like an old photograph of black and white. In this bleached out, almost anemic world, people walk these waxen streets. They’re all a vibrant, bursting red, so vivid that it hurts the eyes. Crimson like only blood and apples can portray, so passionate and colourful…

Yes. People of red walk these waxen streets, in a world that is grey and ashen, like an old photograph of black and white. In a world of monotone scarlet, walking on a monochrome pallet, this single drop of blue is, surely, wrong.

“You damn brat! You disgusting son of a bitch, if you dare come back here again I’ll fucking beat you until you can’t run away!”

Yeah right, Jungkook thought to himself as he quickly turned the corner of the familiar alleyway. As soon as you sober up you’ll already have forgotten about it like always.

Stuffing his hands into the torn pockets of his jacket, he spat the remaining blood in his mouth out on the pavement, not even grimacing at the copper taste anymore. The most common reason for travel is to experience your five senses to the fullest. He chuckled under his breath, allowing his bangs to fall across his eyes like a shield against these dull surroundings.

What utter bullshit. 

Taste: Metal, like the irony, copper taste of blood. Touch: Easy, that’s pain. Physical more than mental recently. Smell: That permanent sting of alcohol on his old man’s breath. Sound: That incessant shouting and screaming. Sight: This damned red and grey world. Besides, the only reason he’d ever travel would be to get away from this sickening cesspool of a town.

Jungkook really hated red. It wasn’t necessarily the colour’s fault, it’s just that he’d really seen enough of it to last a lifetime by now. The red of his constant wounds, the red of the stamp on the bills that haven’t been payed yet. The red of all the normal, scampering little people around him… Red had seeped into everything, and he practically had to breathe, eat and sleep beside it.

Junkook sighed, not heavily, but one that was heavier than he let on. Blue was wrong now was it? Then what would that make red? Right? No…he really, really hated…the colour red.

***

The bubbly chatter of the classroom closely resembled the interminable, drone of a beehive. Buzz buzz they go, unceasing and bothersome. No no, more like infuriating. Ugh, just stop buzzing already he thought, gritting his teeth as the noise scratched like nails on the class’ chalkboard. 

A quick glance around the room told him nothing had changed overnight. Not that it ever does, or ever will that is. Everyone’s a revolting shade of red again, as usual. The boy in front reeks of green jealousy and the girl giggling amongst her friends is a fair shade of pink, probably gossiping about that guy she likes. Mijun’s a cheerful orange as usual, Seo-jun’s just radiating purple with her royal attitude and little, ol’ Kim is as white and innocent as the daisies outside. 

But even so, flaunting their colours around like it’s parade, they all stay this damned red. Pretty, pretty, petty red. Because if he’s red, and she’s red, and they’re red, then why must anyone be any different than red? He scrunched his face in annoyance, the buzzing becoming louder and louder. Everyone Jungkook’s ever met, has always been this frustratingly, persistent red. 

“Kookie?! What’s with that cut on your lip?!”

Looking up with surprise, a tanned face of worry with concern lined into his brow appeared before the young boy, dark chocolate eyes swimming in distress.  Ah. Junkook thought. He. He’s not red.

Taehyung’s hands roamed the boy’s face, grazing over the cut on his lip. Jungkook barely winced, slowly closing his eyes as he wondered if he could make time slow down for a little. These rough fingers of his older friend felt a little like sandpaper…has he been doing a lot of work for his part-time job again? So silly of him, his skin is a little dry too. He should look better after himself.

“Ah, it’s finally quiet…” Jungkook mumbled, opening his eyes as he let his selfish indulgence slip away. The worry on Taehyung’s face seems to only have increased, trailing his thumb over the corner of the boy’s mouth, inspecting the wound. “Kookie, are you okay? It looks like it hurts.”

“Pft, it always hurts you doofus” he chuckled, his companion taking a seat across him from the table. Ah, that nickname of his, he should really cut that out. Someday my heart will start hurting instead of speeding up, he morbidly thought, a smile that felt genuine yet seemed grim colouring his bruised lips.

Taehyung ran a hand though his hair, clicking his tongue as he ruffled his chestnut locks, brown like gingerbread with soft strands that begged for Jungkook to tangle his fingers into them. “If you tell me who did this I’ll just beat em’ up, you hear?” he angrily grumbled.

Taehyung probably did more harm than good. He attracts attention, and that attentions draws to this very noticeable blue. And in the end, blue is stained with bleeding red. The younger boy chuckled, grinning like he only ever could when his counterpart was near. “Oh~ I’m shaking in my boots!”

The space between them was filled with laughter and jokes from both sides, filling a gap that was only ever to be filled with conversation instead of touch. Jungkook still hadn’t figured it out yet. What colour Taehyung is. But to him, he didn’t think it mattered, since Taehyung was a little slow, rough around the edges and knew nothing of the drowning blue Jungkook was in. The only colour he was concerned with, was the rosy pink of Taehyung’s lips, and the pearly white of his teeth when he gave his lopsided smile.

***

“Eww! Oh gross dude, he touched you!’

*Thud*

“Oi, getting brave now are we? Stay in your place you gay fuck!”

*Slam*

“Are you getting off on this? Do you like being hit you masochistic little shit?”

*Crack*

Laughter echoed in the empty school halls, and jeers of wicked satisfaction echoed in Jungkook’s head. His pitch black hair was tossed in the direction his body was thrown, to and fro like a curtain swinging back and forth. He wondered how many hands it would take to count the bruises tonight? Maybe he’d break a record he chuckled.

“Look at him, the sick fuck’s laugh’n! Seems like we haven’t beaten em’ hard enough.”

He closed his eyes as he prepared for the next kick or punch, but the clear sound of his phone ringing sliced through the atmosphere. A wide grin spread over his face, laughter building in his chest as the red boys before him recoiled in horror.

“What’s with the freak, he’s seriously creeping me out!’

The young boy threw his head back laughing, wiping at the gathering tears in his eyes. Oh, what a day for his phone his to ring! What a day, what a day indeed!

“Sorry guys,” he mused between died out laughter. “My phone only rings when the only person in my contact-list calls.”

Giving a content sigh, he stumbled upright, grinning like a madman. This red really does bother him. 

“I don’t have time to play today.”

It’s easy to fight back for Jungkook. He had to face against his own father, which was almost three times the size of these high school punks. But it’s easier for him..easier when he takes the blows one by one. The knee to his stomach, the punch to his cheek, and even that slam against the wall. It’s becoming easier and easier to take it, it’s becoming more painful, and yet gives him more relief.

It’s becoming so easy. And it scares Jungkook. It’s terrifying, and no one will save this falling blue.

***

“Kookie, every time I see you, I feel like you just keep getting worse…” Don’t sound so sad. You should never be sad, I like you best when you smile and I can see the crinkles around your eyes… Junkook thought to himself, wondering if he could hide these wounds so Taehyung could make those happy faces again. Peaceful silence was carried along with the breeze, both of the boys staring out at the lake before them. The dark blue water lapped at the bank, and thoughts of throwing himself into the familiar blue plagued Jungkook’s mind like a virus. He felt sick. Maybe he was sick…

“Taehyung, what’s your favourite colour?”

“Eh? Why do you ask that all of a sudden?”

The younger boy smiled a tragic smiled, gazing at the slightly disturbed surface of the lake, finding some sort of tepid comfort in it. He was like this too. Disturbed. No one takes note because it’s only ever so slightly. This disturbed blue inside of him was painful. It’s painful Taehyung, it’s disturbingly painful.

“Mine’s red. No, it…it used to be red you see,” the younger boy started.

Jungkook took a shallow breath, his arms loosely hung around his knees brought up to his chest. His gaze rose to the azure sky, wondering if he could fall into it’s similar embrace. It’s pretty isn’t it? So why isn’t he? His blue is different. It’s ugly, it’s horribly, sickeningly unseemly.

“I was crazy about the colour. It was everyone’s favourite too, and no one was different you know? Everyone just liked red,” he grimly laughed, as if sorrow and laughter went hand in hand in a mournful waltz. Dancing, dancing, never stopping for a rest. This made Jungkook tired. Exhausted even…  Tired of this waltz, tired of laughing and sobbing when he wasn’t doing either.

“So I came to hate it…”

Taehyung had trouble making sense of what his friend was saying. It was like that with Kookie. He always spoke like it was some sort of a riddle…saying something, but always talking about something else. Why is it that he talks about colours, but it feels like he’s talking about something so much darker that Taehyung couldn’t see? It bothers him, it’s like this feeling that something was creeping closer, slowly making it’s way here. And Taehyung couldn’t see it.

“You shouldn’t hate red just because everyone likes it.”

To that the boy laughed again, resting his face into the palm of his hand. A common gesture, but the slight curling of his fingertips, as if he wanted to scratch his eyes out, made the gesture seem so horribly painful and gruesome.

“Ah, no Taehyung, you misunderstand.”

Jungkook swallowed the lump in his throat, wondering if this lump could just suffocate him already.

“I didn’t like a different colour because everyone liked red.”

Licking his dry lips, he couldn’t do anything but grit his teeth and scrunch his eyes shut, listening to his own voice choke on tears that would never make it past his facade.

“I hated red, because everyone hated me for suddenly liking blue.”

Taehyung stared at Jungkook, seemingly breaking apart. For a second, he looked like he was being torn apart by the world, bleeding blood that had run dry, crying tears that there was none left of anymore. His younger companion looked like he was in pain…unbearable pain that was far too heavy for him to carry. Yet he was forced to face this pain alone,suffering a silence too loud, and a colour too red. 

And a second later, Jungkook was looking up at him, smiling his goofy smile, and wearing those eyes that only showed this pretense of joy.

“You haven’t answered my question TaeTae!”

“Oh..yeah, sorry…” the older boy stammered, caught of guard by the sudden dark image that had spilled out before him, and the way Jungkook just quickly cleaned it up again, as if it was filthy.

Running a hand through his cinnamon hair like he always does, he gave a nervous grin, and Jungkook sighed at the cute curves of his mouth.

“I don’t know…I guess I sorta just like all of em’ you know?”

Ah…that’s such a Taehyung way of putting it, Jungkook smiled to himself, wondering what he might have done if Taehyung had said it was blue instead. He abruptly stood up, Taehyung gazing at him with surprise.

“Haha…I should’ve known it would be an answer like that…”

Junkook looked down at the boy…the boy who was stopping him from pretending he was red. He had long been blue before him, but still, Taehyung made him feel like being this shade of sapphire was his utmost privilege. He couldn’t thank a lot of things in his life. But if, only this, he could thank for this boy, and thank for having been blessed with this boy’s kindness.

“Thank you Taehyung. Tomorrow, you won’t have to bother with that faded blue again. The class will be a rosy red once more.”

Jungkook prided himself on his love for this boy. That’s all love he had left in that battered body of his. He would sooner leave this red world behind, than see that love die out.

***

There wasn’t anyone who would miss this blue. How should he rid himself of this colour? Jungkook thought that, it would be wonderfully ironic if this blue died being bathed in red. 

His mother ran away when she found out she had to raise a homosexual son. And his father tried to convince him otherwise with frequent beatings, as if, if he hit hard enough, the colour red could eventually be forced into him. 

Everyday, working to scrape by food, fighting to just live another day, struggling not to fall when everyone tried to trip him. It was all just to see that boy’s face. Just to see him smile, and say “Good morning Kookie!”

Yes. The people at school would be happy too. Maybe a little disappointed that there wasn’t an ugly colour to gossip about and punish anymore. And Taehyung…sooner or later he’ll hear the whispers of the girls, or notice the snickering of the boys. Sooner or later, he’ll notice that Jungkook’s not red, but awful, ugly blue. And then, people might start to mistake him for lapis too.

Raising the kitchen knife, Jungkook held it over his wrist, watching as even his coursing veins protested with the blue underneath his skin. It’s always noisy, always red. But with Taehyung it’s quiet…and being blue isn’t a crime. But it’s just becoming worse. The silence is short, and the red is too much.

It’s all too much. Too loud, too painful, too scared, too unloved, too lonely, too…too blue. He liked being blue…but now he’s starting to hate that colour. No. He hates himself…that’s it. He hates being blue, because it makes it so, so very painful. He knows it himself…that blue isn’t a crime, or that it isn’t a sin. But it is a burden. And he’s starting to hate this burden…that, in itself, is a crime, a sin, that Jungkook had committed.

A quick slice, and then he’ll finally be that lovely red his dad always wanted him to be. A quick slip of the hand, and it’ll be over. He’s so tired…so very tired. It’s better this way sin’t it? It’s better if this blue just, burns.

But his action was incomplete. The weapon is flung across the room by a strong hand ripping it from his own. Blood slowly begins to pour down his arm, a warm sensation after this cold abyss of hatred. Who? Who is it? Who’s keeping this blue from drifting off into dark black? Isn’t that what they all wanted? For me, to just give up, and die-

“You idiot!”

In his blurry state, Jungkook finally made sense of Taehyung’s face, angry and shouting with rage Jungkook had never seen before. A world of cinders and ash, cold as icy blue, slowly began to become warmer. He thought only red burned this brightly…but the world lit up like starlight spilling onto the ocean. It’s blue…and it’s full of warmth, and affection.

“What the hell were you thinking?! Suicide, what the fucking hell Kookie?!”

A soft whisper of an explanation, one that tumbles out of his mouth like he’s falling down a flight of stairs. “There’s no one who’ll care, so what does it matter-”

The burning sensation intensifies, as his cheek stings from the slap Taehyung throws across his face. It resounds throughout the small room, and rings in Jungkook’s ears.

“That’s just you being selfish you dumb asshole! I care, I matter! Did you even think about me?! How I would feel?!”

This time it was punch, and Jungkook had to blink to regain his focus, his spinning vision stopping to allow him to gaze at this pain-stricken face that seems to be a ghost of his cheerful Taehyung from school.

“How dare you attempt such a thing, deciding to just leave me behind with all your pain. I would have suffered! Stop thinking about what’s best for me, when I know damn well that it’s you living by my side. You’re not doing this with my interests…you’re being inconsiderate of my feelings for you, you bastard!”

Breathless and panting, Taehyung’s shouted words hung in the air, as heavy as lead. It made the atmosphere almost impossible to breathe. The blood coating Jungkook’s lip made Taehyung realize what he was doing, anger quickly fading into guilt and regret. The colours Taehyung was showing were so beautiful Jungkook thought, changing so quickly that it was like looking down a kaleidoscope of hues and shades. Taehyung, I like your colour the most. It’ll never be blue..but it’s so beautiful, do you know that? I’m so jealous…

“Oh shit, shit I’m sorry,” the boy whispered, flinging his arms around the stunned younger boy. He was squeezing him so tightly that Jungkook felt like all his wounds together couldn’t hurt like this did. This hurt was deep, deep in his chest. It’s the feeling of knowing he did something terribly wrong…that he had forsaken this boy’s love. It hurt so much, Jungkook wondered if he might be left in tears by the end of this.

“I’m sorry Kookie, I shouldn’t be hitting you when-when you’re always the one getting hit. Sorry Kookie, sorry okay? I won’t hit you, I won’t I promise…”

A smile, a smile of all things crept onto the blue boy’s face, as he burst out laughing. Seeing the bewildered and worried face of his companion, his luaghter only increased in volume, tears clinging to his lashes as he held his stomach in pain. It was this familiar waltz again. Where his sobs dance with his laughter. This hurt…this was hurting. It felt oddly good to hurt like this, Jungkook thought…

“Taehyung-” he sputtered, still laughing as he grinned widely; 

“This is the first time, I was ever so happy that someone hit me!”

Tears gathered in Taehyung’s eyes, rolling down his cheeks as he placed his large hands on Kookie’s small, drawn cheeks. He looked sick. When did he start looking so very ill? He’s skinny, like he’ll break in Taehyung’s hands. His dark hair, that pale skin of porcelain, those eyes that carried so much pain…it all looks so damaged. Did he even know, could he even possibly know how much he meant to him? How much he loved this boy? Taehyung was so angry, so very angry at the both of them. 

It’s not wrong, to be blue.

Pulling the boy close, Jungkook’s eyes widened in shock, colour exploding before his eyes that had grown so accustomed to grey and red. It was like fireworks was lighting up a dark night, one Kookie had been blindly stumbling in with a red blindfold tied around his head. The taste of copper was suddenly washed away by that of a salty taste, as Taehyung’s lips crashed against his, in a deeply craved kiss. 

He almost didn’t kiss back, the tears he tasted on his lips joined by that of his own. Unfallen tears, that always chose to stay clinging to his lashes, as if he was afraid of the marks it would leave. SIlver-blue, like that of morning dew and midnight rain. He… He’s- He’s blue.

Detaching himself from the bitter-sweet lips of the younger boy, Taehyung was shocked to see unending tears sliding down his companion’s pale face. It was the first time, Taehyung had seen Kookie cry. Tears fell, making up for all the lost time, for all the lost sorrow. Kookie smiled, so tragically happy that it broke Taehyung’s heart. The person before him, stained with tears, and blood and blue… No.  Stained was not the word Taehyung would use. It was painted. Painted with tears, and blood, and blue. That person, was very beautiful. Because that person was honest, earnestly happy and upset, and blue.

“You’re blue!” Kookie exclaimed, but it might have been a sob. “You’re blue, Taehyung you’re blue. You’re blue, you’re blue, you’re blue!” 

His laughter was swallowed as sobs wracked his small body, Taehyung pulling him into his embrace, trying to hold back tears of his own. Jungkook cried those words over and over again, afraid that if he didn’t say it, maybe it wouldn’t be true. How had he gotten into such a sate? This overwhelming happiness, it was almost enough to distract him from his broken, broken body.

“You’re blue…I’m so happy you’re blue, I’m so very very happy you’re blue,” Kookie sobbed into the material of Taehyung’s clothes. And in a choked whisper, he softly, again and again, cried; 

“You’re blue.”

Yes. People of red walk these waxen streets, in a world that is grey and ashen, like an old photograph of black and white. In a world of monotone scarlet, walking on a monochrome pallet, this single drop of blue is, surely, wrong. 

But with Taehyung’s hand in his, the streets will start to look silver. The world has a subtle beauty, like an old photograph that manages to be graceful yet crude. It’s a world of careful adoration, and tragic love. And even among all the pain and suffering, it still manages to be,

blue.

[felinevomitus]

Curated Renegade Unidentified: Interview with Loré Lixenberg

Loré Lixenberg is a British-born singer and voice artist. She has a wide repertoire, and performs regularly alongside orchestras such as The Halle, Tokyo Phill, BBCSO and many others. One performance of note includes the lead role, as Dora Maar, in David Toop’s opera Star-Shaped Biscuit, which was performed at Aldeburgh in 2012.

In the 1990s, Lixenberg was closely involved with Cluub Zarathustra, an avant-garde comedy troupe that boasted Stewart Lee, Simon Munnery and Richard Thomas among its ranks. Together with Thomas, Lixenberg developed and starred in Jerry Springer: The Opera, a controversial and satirical musical based on the well-known television chat show. Now based in Berlin, Lixenberg runs La Plaque Tournante – a cross-disciplinary art space focusing on inquiry and experimentation – along with composer and frequent collaborator, Frédéric Acquaviva. CRU, an annual magazine published by Lixenberg and Acquaviva, documents “what’s happening or what could have happened at La Plaque Tournante”.

On the 17th January 2017, Lixenberg performed alongside Frederic Acquaviva in his new work, MESS. The piece was composed for voice, skins, mouth, and the Buchla synthesiser. MESS was broadcast live via Deutschlandradio Kultur. This interview took place, at IKLECTIK, a few days after the performance.

Ilia Rogatchevski: I want to ask about your background. It is extremely varied and incorporates opera, comedy, direction, curation and publishing. How did you arrive to where you are now?

Loré Lixenberg: Everything I do, including activities that aren’t obviously vocal, are extensions of my vocal technique and came out of an inquiry about voice. I learned classical singing, because I wanted to have a technique that could help me do lots of different kinds of music and explore things a bit deeper. Natural voices, I think, are fantastic, but I wanted to go further.

Is that something that you discovered on your own – the need to develop your voice in different directions?

I went to some really great teachers, but I chose my own path. I didn’t go to music college. I heard people whose voices I really liked and went to them. For instance, Galina Vishnevskaya, who is a great Russian soprano, or Elisabeth Söderström, who is a great Swedish soprano, and a wonderful teachers  David Mason and Nick Powell.

The thing about Bel Canto technique is that people think it’s the voice of the elite. It has very strong associations, not all of which are positive, but I see it as a folk style that has been extended into a vocal technique. It’s from Italy and if you go to there and hear these folk [vocal] styles, you really hear the Bel Canto technique within them.

Although I started my music education as a composer studying with John Woolrich, Andy Vores and Robert Saxton. I went to the City University music department that at the time called itself The Consciousness Transformation Department!

I’d like to pick up on your work in comedy. You played an important role in Jerry Springer: The Opera, which is an immediate point of reference for many people. I’m interested to find out how you found that experience. Have you worked in comedy since? Do you think that laughter is conducive to your practice?

I’m passionate about comedy. Nobody takes it seriously enough. It’s all about timing and psychology. Perhaps it’s a bit serious to think about it that way, but I’ve had experiences with Richard Thomas where we would do a tour and we’d literally turn a room. The temperature in the room would turn for or against you. It’s literally a nanosecond between a joke landing and not.

The comedy I was involved in had a lot in common with music, free improvisation and performance art, especially from the 60s. When I was working in Cluub Zarathustra, in the 1990s, Simon Munnery was really involved in all of this. And I see a lot of composers now, taking on all of these things those comedians were doing (as well as from Nam June Paik, John Cage, Mauricio Kagel). For example, playing with technology or mixing up different styles [of delivery and performance].

Isn’t that how the idea for the Jerry Springer developed, because you’d be singing insults at hecklers?

Yes, it sort of came from that. Basically, I would be the opera device. If Richard or Simon or any of them were heckled, I would come out and sing expletives at the top of my voice at those people. Another job would be to warm the audience up as they came in. They would be sitting there and I would give them instructions from this throne that Simon had built. Jerry Springer also came out of the idea of using the innate operatic quality of heightened human situations that are presented in all their dubious glory on the Jerry Springer show.

But before Jerry Springer, I did a piece called Tourette’s Diva (2000), which was about a dysfunctional relationship between a mother and her daughter. It was basically one gag after another, but it was very dark. Really on the edge and much more so, in some ways, than Jerry Springer. It’s quite funny that there was so much fuss, with the far-right Christians going crazy [about Jerry Springer], but some of material in Tourette’s Diva was really fucked up.

Let’s move on to what you’re doing currently. In the description of the piece, MESS,which was performed in collaboration with Frédéric Acquaviva, you’re described as a “post-Brexit mezzo” – a voice without borders. To what extent would you agree with that description and what relationship, if any, does your voice have to border crossing, migration and liminality?

Frederic wrote this piece for me. He wrote it for Buchla, skins and mezzo. Sometimes I use mezzo to describe myself, sometimes I don’t. It’s a fantastic piece. Sometimes you can’t really tell what’s the Buchla and what’s the voice, because of the way he has written it. It’s very exact.

This idea of crossing borders describes me very well: always being in the cracks, somehow. Although that’s not a good analogy for voice, is it? [Laughs]. But also because I love to play with all these different colours, styles and techniques. I learnt Sevdah songs for a while, Bulgarian and Georgian music. I also studied carnatic techniques and other vocal disciplines for a while – I wouldn’t say I was an expert by any means – but I really went into these vocal techniques as much as a Westerner can.

And you’re an itinerant artist. You’re now in Berlin, but you were based in Vienna before that. How does the farcical reality of Brexit impact on your work?

I await with dread, I really do. The avant-garde, the experimental is international. I think it is very difficult to find an avant-garde that stays put. The whole journey of it has been to expand itself. So far, I don’t know about the practicalities – I just have to wait – but in terms of attitudes, that’s what I find the most scary. You don’t know what people think now, whereas before you thought that everyone was sort of on the same page and travelling towards a new ‘enlightenment’.

I’m also optimistic. Since the beginning of time, creativity and artists – like water and weeds – have always found the cracks in which to exist and flourish. The important thing is to keep going, to keep working, to be there, as an alternative, and to be there when the tide one day turns again, which it inevitably will.

That’s why Berlin is such a good place to be, because it’s still very open there. I think in London, there is a strata of people, especially musicians and artists, who are very open, but you just don’t know. [Brexit] has definitely awakened something ugly and repressive in some people.

Something you didn’t really know was there.

Or maybe it wasn’t there until it got an opportunity to be expressed.

Let’s talk a little bit more about Berlin. You’ve got a space there called La Plaque Tournante. What are its aims and origins?

It really came about from both Frederic and I wanting to start a space that was devoted entirely to the experimental and avant-garde. A true avant-garde. There are a lot of things going on that call themselves experimental or avant-garde, but they don’t have that rigorous spirit of inquiry.

We wanted a space that was modular and where visual and sonic art had equal weight. It’s not a gallery or concert space. It’s much more fluid. It’s in this old doctor’s surgery. There’s lots of different rooms connected by corridors, so every time you walk in there it’s different. Each event has a different vibe to it and each room can be used differently. For instance, one room can be used as a cinema and then it suddenly turns into a room with a bio-top in it. It changes shape, shrinks and expands.

CRU magazine documents “what’s happening or what could have happened at La Plaque Tournante”. I’m interested about the impetus behind publishing the magazine annually, rather than quarterly, or publishing documentation online, as it happens, or in booklets. What were the reasons behind this decision and choosing the 12” record sleeve format? What has been the response to these publications?

CRU magazine has a physical and an online presence. When you open the physical CRU magazine, there are posters and postcards you can pull out. Each poster is like a mini-exhibition. You can put all the posters on a wall and you’ll have the exhibition series from the whole year on your wall. And then, in the deluxe version, there are signatures of all the artists and two unique editions by artists [who participated in our programme] through the year. If the magazine was published quarterly, you’d only have one exhibition. I think it’s more interesting to have an overview of the whole year.

And the vinyl, well it’s playing with the of presentation, because everyone loves vinyl. It has really come back, it’s fashionable all of a sudden. CDs are not so fashionable. It’s just one of those things. The really  great thing about vinyl is the surface area on which to put an image. The format comes from a sense of irony and critical sense. People at book fairs would come up to us and go: “Ooh, it’s a vinyl! But it’s not a vinyl! What is it?” We wanted to create a hybrid.

You open it up and there are CDs inside…

Yes, exactly. There is also an online presence,when you buy CRU you can send a selfie to us. In return you get a code that gives you access to the online version of the magazine. The online magazine has many more photos as well as webcam footage from cameras placed in all the rooms during the events.

As an object, it appeals to people. Frederic’s work – he’s got an exhibition on at the moment at La Plaque Tournante called Music & Multiples, Multiple Musics – and some of his work is about that. The physical presence of the score or the recording is as important as what you hear. For instance, he composed a piece called Le Disque, which also plays with this vinyl format. It’s a vinyl shape, but it has CDs stuck to it and you take the CDs off… So, there’s a lot of play to this formatting.

And does that have a relationship to the name of the space?

You would have thought so, but [la plaque tournante] actually comes from the French term for a railway turntable. It’s also a euphemism for places where dodgy deals happen.

Dodgy deals of the avant-garde…

Yeah, exactly. It’s got lots of meanings.

One of the events that roused my interest was Music for Deaf People. It was a concert of mute works by composers like John Cage, Terry Riley, Isidore Isou and others, which are all performed in total silence. I’m interested to find out how that worked. No one was allowed to speak and, if you did, you were thrown out. What did you learn from that experience? Was it zen or was it the opposite?

It was fantastic! Personally, I absolutely loved it. Normally at the vernissage of something everyone’s chatting and drinking. It’s very loud and people are discussing [the work]. This time there was  total silence. I think there was more concentration on the work, because people couldn’t speak they were more focused on their own private response. They had to go outside to speak.

As for the recital itself, well, the pieces were just fantastic. All together they are really powerful and it’s great experience them bam, bam, bam. One after the other. You realise how silence is different every time. There is no such thing as one kind of silence. Every piece sculpted the silence in a different way. Sometimes its a really solid silence sometimes lighter and more fizzing. And from the audience, there was a really intense quality and concentration of listening.

It’s interesting that you say that, because even though they’re all different pieces, they’re performed in the same context. I would have loved to have been there.

Hopefully, we’ll do it again. The Silent Recital really, really works. It creates a space all of its own. Conversely, I also do something called Pret a Chanter there. It’s a cafe, which is an art piece. It is a real-time opera that has a manifesto and everyone has to vocalise in any way other than speaking. For instance, the conversation we’re having now, we’d have to be singing or grunting it. You can use any language or any sounds, but anyone who speaks gets thrown out.

Would you say that performances like this are more critical, more radical, more underground in Berlin than in London? Presumably, there is a reason why spaces like yours thrive in places like Berlin.

That’s simple. It’s money. For the space we’ve got, in the kind of area that we’re in – which is Rathaus Neukölln, similar to what Dalston was like ten or fifteen years ago – you couldn’t afford it. London does have a great scene though. There are things that happen in London that don’t exist in Berlin. With B@£ and £@B we want to make a link between activities in these two great cities.

Would you say that these economic conditions attract radicalism?

I think it just makes it more possible. There’s something about the word ‘radical’… I would put the focus on the experimentation, creativity and originality.The most important thing is experimentation and inquiry with a rigorousness to it as well. So that you’re not just randomly flapping around, but there is a real super-focus to what goes on, with a community of people who can simply afford to be there.

CRU magazine is available to purchase from the IKLECTIK book shop. La Plaque Tournante.