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obsessedtomone · 9 months

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Unravel Yourself Before Me ⛓️ Chapter 6 - The Exposé▸Shigaraki x femReader

Chapter Summary:

◤“Are you serious right now? Me being scared shitless means I’m into him? Did you hit your head on the way here?” you ask, starting to feel actually annoyed.

“But it’s not just that and you know it!” They smack your arm, beautiful eyes boring into yours and peering at your soul.

Of course it isn’t just that, but you’d never admit you feel anything for this fucked-up asshole to anyone, let alone your own damn self. ◢ Setting: University AU - No quirks (unless degenerate personalities count) Tags: Slow burn, Eventual Smut, Unhealthy/Toxic Relationships, Humiliation, Mentally Ill Reader, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to ??? Warning: Dead Dove – Do Not Eat | Mind the tags TW: Implied Su/Self H, Dubcon, Reader has a super shitty past like actually, Shigaraki Tomura is his own warning.

AO3 Crosspost | Chain Divider by firefly-graphics

Chapters: One • Two • Three • Four • Five • Six • Seven

Chapter 6 - The Exposé

All the noise, the chatter, the people—they drown out the silence as you sit like a loser in the corner of the busy shop, waiting.

With your leg bouncing—one of your many nervous tics—you cast an anxious look around you, unable to shake the feeling that everyone is watching you, even off campus. You’re hiding behind the safety of your hood, blankly seeing people going about their day, while you were waiting for Taylor to show.

“Girl, if we’re going to discuss fucked-up shit again, I really need something to sweeten it up” is what they told you over the phone, after your little mental breakdown in the hallway.

So they picked their favorite—and unfortunately a really fucking popular—bubble tea store in the area, for the both of you to have a talk in.

You’re torn between periodically checking your watch, your phone, or your surroundings, visibly on edge as you alternate doing so.

Conjuring whatever your therapist—or reddit post—told you to do when you’re having a huge panic attack and you’re not home, you begin taking deep breaths. You focus on the things around you first, the different smells, the people. The wallpaper that's slightly torn, in the corner where you’re sitting.

You look around, try your goddamn best, and unsurprisingly—it doesn’t fucking work.

It doesn’t, because save for your three different types of anxiety medication you take every day, nothing fucking works. You stopped taking heavy meds after you figured the worst of everything had passed, after life finally became somewhat stable, somewhat bearable.

So instead, you ride that nauseating wave of anxiety pulsating within you, and wait as patiently as you fucking can for it to just stop.

Shigaraki managed to do a number on you today, because you made sure you took off as soon as he’d left, not having the stomach to bump into more horny, borderline assailant creepy jocks anymore.

It was more than enough that your phone was blowing up with an incredibly stupid amount of assholes, messaging you, harassing you at regular intervals, and sending you enough dick pics to last you a lifetime. All in the span of a single fucking day.

You wanted to turn your phone off, but unfortunately, it was also the only way to contact Taylor outside the comfort of your PC, so you ended up just muting it, turning the notifications off and sucking it the fuck up until you got home today.

Your friend still had classes that they were eager to skip, in order to hurry and meet with you, but you managed to convince them to stay by compromising—hence your sitting down in an overrated bubble tea store, right in the middle of a crisis.

With a sigh, you sip on your plain black coffee, scrolling through social media and passing as much time as you can before you even have to think about dealing with him. Luckily, it didn’t take more than an hour, and the movement you see from the corner of your eye is a familiar one.

Taylor is dressed up in a slutty black mesh crop-top and a high-waisted pair of black leggings. A few flashy accessories and a pair of sunglasses sitting snug on top of their head, are complementing their skimpy club outfit nicely.

“You do realize winter starts in like a month, slut?” you ask, a knowing smile playing on your lips, pure relief coating your gaze at the sight of them before you.

You’re not alone, you’re not alone, you’re not alone.

Not this time.

“Oh yeah? Well how about—you shut the fuck up? It’s fucking winter all year ‘round for you, bitch!” They smile back at you, but a thought seems to cross their mind and their expression slips back into one of concern. “Are you doing okay, babe?”

“I’ll manage. Do you wanna order now, or?”

“It’s fiiine, I can always steal from yours and order later.” They wink at you, yoinking your drink before your very eyes, and you watch in horror as a major crime is about to unfold, right in front of you.

“Hold! Dude, it’s—”

“Eeww! Gross! How can you even drink this shit?!” Your friend basically throws the drink back at you, splashing some on the table and immediately getting back up to order.

You look at them through half-lidded eyes and speak in a bored tone, “If you would’ve asked first, I could have told you what it was.”

Taylor shows you the bird, mouths a ‘fuck yourself’ and makes their way to the counter to order. “Aaand we don’t know what he’s talking about? Like, at all?” they say, sipping on their milk caramel white tea diabetes and asks you.

“Nooo fucking clue. He kept talking like a goddamn psycho about this ‘pReSeNT’—” you reply, doing air quotes and mocking his stupid fucking voice, “—he’s got for me. I don’t know where, or what it is. Half expecting to find a dead body in front of my place today, tbh.”

“Hmm, guess we’ll have to wait and find out. Sucks, but there’s not much we can do, babe.”

Then, your friend starts eyeing you curiously, seemingly weighing something in their mind. You roll your eyes.

“Shoot. You’re not done.”

As if possessed, Taylor instantly lights up and throws a series of incredibly inadequate questions at you.

“Okay, okay, so—what did he smell like? Everyone says he looks like he doesn’t shower, and wears the same clothes all the time! Is it true? I’ve only seen him from a distance. And, and, oh! Do you think he’s interested in you? There’s no way he’s not, right? I mean he was fucking with you, but I’ve never heard of him interacting with anyone like that—getting all close and personaaal, pinning them to the freaking wall! Two times?! C’mon!” They go off, giggling, as if Shigaraki was truly just a misunderstood guy, a hopeless romantic, and not a rich psychopath who gets off on breaking people's bones and making girls cry.

If your friend notices the blatant shock on your face, they don’t react to it.

“So, I have a theory, okaaay? I think… that he kind of likes you? I mean I heard he’s beaten the shit out of female students before, for literally less than the shit you pulled, so he’s definitely cutting you slack. Oh, right! How come you didn’t pepper spray his ass? You never hesitated before.” A snicker escapes them when they can’t help but imagine it. “Bet it would’ve been so fucking funny to blind Shigaraki Tomura! He’d literally fucking kill you. Gasp! Do you think he’d screech?!”

You sigh, shaking your head and looking out of the window. “I fucking can’t with you.”

“Well?” They cast an expectant glance in your direction, waiting for you to respond until a frustrated exhale escapes your lips.

“Fuck, okay. You’re lucky I’m short on friends,” you say, as if you had any friends at all, and your gaze turns into a playfully irritated one, making them wiggle their perfectly-shaped tattooed eyebrows at you. “First of all, you have to stop humanizing him. He’s literally just a psycho.”

“A psycho you’re into,” they shamelessly add, batting their fake eyelashes innocently. You blink at them, taken aback by their audacity. “C’moon, all these years I’ve known you and this guy is the first who’s doing a number on you? Just look at you! You’re not acting like yourself! Be fucking for real, girl.”

“Are you serious right now? Me being scared shitless means I’m into him? Did you hit your head on the way here?” you ask, starting to feel actually annoyed.

“But it’s not just that and you know it!” They smack your arm, beautiful eyes boring into yours and peering at your soul.

Of course it isn’t just that, but you’d never admit you feel anything for this fucked-up asshole to anyone, let alone your own damn self.

“Listen, you can lie to yourself as much as you want, babe, but I’ve been around for way too fucking long for you to be able to hide that shit from me. Just sayin’.”

You roll your eyes and click your tongue.

“Whatever, you asshole.”

Taking a sip of your bitter drink, you start mentally preparing yourself to entertain your crazy bitch of a friend. They nod excitedly, waiting for you to continue.

It’s like they completely forgot the entire reason you’re here right now, but you brush it off because this is nothing new to you. You’ve known them long enough to know that, despite their perfect popular appearance, they still have flaws. Major flaws. And frankly it didn’t bother you.

“Dunno. I don’t think he doesn’t shower—and who the fuck cares if he wears the same clothes everyday? I do too? Are people seriously that fucking shallow?” you ask, brow furrowing at the nasty shit that Taylor and their peers seem to talk behind his back. “He smells fine. No B.O, just cigs and uh… cologne, maybe.”

You leave out the part where you don’t think you’ve smelled any sort of perfume on him before today, looking warily at your friend, who’s toying with the rim of their cup, using the tips of their forty dollar acrylic nails.

“And how the fuck should I know if he’s into me? He’s fucking weird all the time. His eyes are—when he looks at me… I don’t know. It’s intense. Like that bastard already knows everything about you and still expects you to disappoint him in some way. It’s really fucking weird, I’ve never met anyone like that before, so he is special, alright,” you scoff before continuing, “Also, kind of fucked that you believe some rumors and parrot the same shit your friends say. You literally said you don’t know him personally, and I bet none of your fake ass friends know him either.”

You shouldn’t defend him. You know you shouldn’t defend him, but you can’t fucking help it when you’ve been through the same shit your whole life. People just like to say things, and maybe some of the things they’ve said are true, but—

“What? Bitch I literally know someone who just looked at him wrong, and came back the next day with a broken arm and his dad losing his job. Don’t give me that.”

“Oh? Looked at him wrong, huh? He for sure didn’t say he looked weird, called his outfit shit, or made fun of his scars and skin problems, right? No way he’d said something disrespectful to his face, like the fact that he maybe doesn’t shower. The fuck you on? I’ve seen the way people look at him at school.”

Taylor narrows their eyes at you, scoffs and looks away.

A pang of anxiety replaces your irritation and you’re about to try to smooth things over, when they finally reply.

“Okay, fine. The guy thought it would be funny to steal his watch and prove he can get away with it. He lied to us too, by the way. But it’s not like he didn’t fuck with you too! He’s literally pushed you and invaded your privacy, threatened you and acted like a creep! And god knows what he was referring to earlier!” They fold their arms defensively.

Your friend is right, he does seem like an unpredictable individual, and you shouldn’t defend him over them. After all, you still haven’t told them about the ugly bruises.

“Sorry,” they begin, a remorseful look on their face and your eyes widened. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I know people acted like shit around you too in highschool. Still think that you should be careful, though. He’s violent and scary and I know I was messing around earlier, saying he’s interested in you, but I said that because no one has seen him with anyone on campus. Not unless they got into a fight. He’s acting super weird around you.”

You glance at the (now cold) drink in your hands and your shoulders slump forward. “It’s fine. I’m… sensitive because he’s scared me, and it pisses me off how weak I am. I thought I got over most of my mommy and daddy issues, but it only took a bigger asshole to bring them out of me again.”

Honestly, you wish you had the courage to beat his ass even if it meant he’d be beating yours in return. That way it would at least feel like you’ve tried.

“Honey, no. No, no, no. You’re not weak.” Taylor replies, your eyes becoming wet as they take your hands in theirs and their soft voice melts your heart. “You’re like, the strongest bitch that I know.”

“Shut up.” You look away, frowning with a blurry vision, as your tears threaten to spill over.

They squeeze your hands softly, expression full of understanding. “I’m serious. We’ll figure this whole thing out, okay? Sorry for being nosey, that was really fucked of me.”

“It’s fine, that’s not the issue. I’m just really tired, I think.”

It’s definitely not fine, but you know they mean well.

Your thoughts were running at a hundred miles per hour now, exhaustion catching up with your foggy brain.

─────────

Click —

You unlock the door to your apartment and look around to see if anything’s out of place. Maybe even for a dead body that wasn’t so out of the question anymore.

You double and triple check, going into every room two or three times. Everything’s where it’s supposed to be, and no one seems to have broken into your apartment yet.

If you somehow went back to the version you were this morning, you’d find the way you act right now to be kind of silly.

You were not, though, not anymore, and you know better now. After a well deserved warm shower, you sit down on your cheap thirty-dollar IKEA chair and boot your PC up. You decide that for the next few hours, gaming will be your best coping mechanism for all the stress you’ve gone through today, while you sit around, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You only manage to get through a couple of hours though, watching the timer of your League queue go up when your phone goes off. After pushing one side of your headset off of your right ear, you pick up.

“Yeah? I thought I saw you like five minutes ago, did you really miss me that much?” you joke, but it falls super flat when you hear Taylor exhale your name shakily.

Alarms were suddenly going off in your head.

“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?!”

Did he do something to them?!

“H-Hey, um. C-Can you check—S-Sorry, it’s really hard to speak right now,” they choke up.

Your own voice starts shaking and you frown at your white walls. “That’s okay, it’s okay. T-Take your time, I’m here. I’m listening. Should I come over?”

“N-No, hold on. Okay.” They take a deep breath before going on, “Do you remember t-that social media platform for college kids in our city? The popular one. T-The one where I hooked up with that douchebag who asked me to peg him, five minutes into our date?” Taylor took a pause and sniffled. “You didn’t wanna make an account because it was ‘normie shit’ and ‘a waste of time’, r-remember?”

“Yes? Taylor, what the fuck’s happening? Get to the point, please.”

“W-Well, I’ll send you my login info now, and you can c-check it yourself, hold on.”

You hear plastic nails tapping in quick succession on what you assumed was the screen of their phone.

“Can you tell me alread—”

“Hold on! Y-You have to see this, I—I really can’t,” they say, sniffling again and your brows pinching even more.

While waiting, your leg once again starts bouncing anxiously and your phone finally gets pinged. You put your friend on speaker, quickly typing in the address and login on your PC.

“So? What am I supposed to see?”

“J-Just keep scrolling, you’ll find it. I’m so fucking sorry, honey. We’ll go to the dean’s office, or the police… w-we’ll—fuck—we’ll get this sorted out, okay?” your friend attempts to reassure you, but they sounded like they needed it more right now.

You scroll for a while, still having no clue about what you’re supposed to find, listening to Taylor mumble some more and scrolling through random post after random post of annoying frat guys your friend follows, exes, friends, etcetera.

“I still don’t know what I’m supposed to—”

Until your eyes zone in on it, your first and last name displayed at the top of the post. [ Hiiii everyone!!! I’m the hot emo chick in your computer science class at Weston NexTech! ]

* Click Image Attachment

You swallow emptily, clicking on the first attachment.

Dread fills your lungs and suddenly—you’re unable to breathe.

What greets you is your barely legal self. Staring back at you.

It’s a selfie—your selfie—arm hooked under one of your legs, and pulling it upwards, while you use your other to raise the strap of your thong, teasing the viewer… your ‘boyfriend’ at the time.

It all clicks at once and you immediately understand what this is—

Revenge porn.

[ So, I bet that got your attention, right? Hehe! You better read closely now!

I’m making a post here because I’m suuuuper fucking bored,

and I was hoping you guys could cheer me up! :3 ]

* Click Image Attachment

“Babe? Y-You okay?”

“Hold on,” you reply snappily, feeling the tips of your digits turning painfully cold.

Your bare ass is on display in the second image, bent over the bed and looking back at the camera. Your stomach twists with heavy nausea.

You remember these pictures.

[ I’ve never done this before, but I looove attention <3 and

since you guys have got nothing to lose, we should all play

a game, okay?! Yaay!

I’ve always been shy and I thought it

would be fun to get to know everyone before

I graduate, so this little honor student

is going to cut you a deal, yeah? ]

* Click Image Attachment

You thought that maybe Taylor hung up on you, but in reality you just stopped being able to hear anything.

With your heart pounding wildly, you glance at the engagement and notice there are about two thousand people who’d liked the fucking thread.

Two whole thousands, and the thread doesn’t even fucking end there.

[ At the bottom of the thread you can find my email

and phone number! :D

And who knows, if it’s going really well, maybe I’ll even invite you over to my place!!!

Or depending on how this goes, I could share my

address with everyone! Wouldn’t that be fun? ]

* Click Image Attachment

Suddenly, a lot of today’s events start making sense to you.

The random phone calls, the spam emails, the people looking at you funny and jocks almost sexually assaulting you on the way to class.

[ You better hurry now, before it’s too late

and I change my mind! Hehe!

I’ll be posting new clips every Tuesday, at 11 PM,

make sure to watch them all!

So please, please, please! Text me, call me, or

hit me up IRL! I’d like to get to know as many of you hotties as I can <3

Keep in mind that I’m shy and I like assertive guys,

so don’t worry if I say no! I really, really like rough roleplay

as you can see below!

Till next Tuesday and thank you for the likes!!! <3 ]

* Play video

You must’ve shifted realities, because your body stopped feeling like your own.

Why were you here again?

Ah, because you decided to cut Shigaraki out of your project.

Or maybe because he’d asked to play with you and you were too stunned to respond to him.

Would you have played with him if the stun wore off that time, if he’d asked again? Probably not.

So then, you’re here because the two of you met at the convenience store, way back.

What had you said to him that day? Couldn’t you have just gotten out of the way like a normal human being? But he wasn’t mad the next day when he’d met you in class.

That means you must have fucked up badly, multiple times, right?

This is your fault. It’s always your fault.

But there’s no time for that, because you partially tune into reality again, and now you can hear Taylor crying softly on the speaker of your phone.

With a shaky grip on your mouse, you press play on the clip and the first noise you hear is your dealer fumbling with the camera, trying to set it up.

It’s been years.

This was a different time of your life, one that you’d like so desperately to erase from your brain, from your history.

You were high, and not on life, no.

You’re high on something crazy, like heroin. It was one of the first videos too, you remember. You can tell by the amount of scars and bruises you can see on yourself. And you’d let your dealer… your sort-of-ex, take pictures of your body as another form of payment, after sexual favors became too boring for him.

But it didn’t stop at that.

No, that was only the start. He’d started recording videos of the two of you fucking—really low quality amateur pornos—and then, as the months passed, he’d realized he could talk you into trying pretty much anything if he dangled the right prizes in front of your eyes.

You were way younger, really fucking stupid, always under the influence, with no safety-net and constantly daring life over and over to really mess you up. It meant you didn’t give a fuck about your situation, of some insignificant videos or pictures… at least at first.

If anything you used to like the attention from him.

From anyone.

But that all had changed, once you started cleaning up your act, once you were able to become confident again. You made him delete all of them, you really did, but the bastard must have had backups, something that did cross your mind at the time, but you thought—hoped—that he at least wouldn’t share them with anyone. He was a coward and a criminal after all. One that you had a lot of dirt on, in case he decided to fuck you over.

It should’ve been fine, you should’ve been safe.

Unless someone like Shigaraki managed to get a hold of him, threatening or paying him off to get what he wanted. Yeah, that must’ve been it.

But you haven’t gotten the slightest clue as to how he put two and two together to find your ex. You’d almost completely changed your identity since.

However, that must not matter for someone of Shigaraki’s caliber, because you’re now staring at the evidence that more than half of your university has had access to.

“Taylor,” you say in a monotone voice, a quiet tear escaping you.

“Y-Yes? Hun, I’m s-sorry. I’m r-really so-rry.”

Pain thrums through your cells and your chest hurts. You don’t know how to comfort them.

You don’t know how to comfort your fucking self.

“It’s… not the full video. He’s—he’s splitting it into parts. He’s planning to fuck with me by posting them week by week before class, so that he’ll be able to gauge my reaction. Like an actual psychopath.”

Your eyes glide over the thread quickly once more. Then, again. Reading it over and over.

Ah, he’s insane. Completely, utterly, off-his-fucking-medication insane.

You thought maybe your stupid fucking brain was playing tricks on you but no.

He’d left you a message. In the thread.

He’d actually left you a message.

You open notepad on your PC and write it down, side by side.

[ I bet that got your attention, right?—You better read closely now—I have got nothing to lose—We should play a game—I’m going to cut you a deal—It’s over—Depending on how this goes—I’ll share your address with everyone—You better hurry now, before it’s too late and I change my mind ]

You lose. Game over

Taylor is calling your name. You blink. Twice.

“W-We can go to the dean, right? T-They should understand. W-We’ll go together and—”

“No,” you interrupt, a feeling of numbness washing over you. “I’m not sure they’ll believe me. Plus his dad’s a big shot.”

“Please, we can—we can go to the police! He—He can’t get away with this!”

“It’s fine. I’m hanging up, okay? I’ll try calling him and if that doesn’t work then… I don’t know. I’ll just try calling him.”

“What? No! Don’t! We need the police—please, please, let’s go to the police!”

“You know I can’t do that, Tay. I’ll talk to you later. It’ll be fine,” you lie, cutting them off and hanging up.

Your hands are shaking, as you stare at his name in your contacts list.

‘You lose’ he’d said. ‘Game over’

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay, you chant in your head. You’ll be okay, you’ve been through worse, you’ll be okay.

Ring.

Ring—

“Yeah?” a hoarse voice replies with a curse under his breath, seemingly distracted, as sounds of a mechanical keyboard bleed through the phone speakers and up against your ear.

“It’s… It’s me.”

Then there was silence.

Until you hear a strange sound. It takes you a good second to realize that he’s fucking giggling.

“Uh-huuuh. What did you want? I’m busy,” he says while your hearing attunes to him mashing his keyboard louder.

You take a deep breath. “Take it down.”

“Hmmm? Take what down? You should be more specific, I’m not really following.” Shigaraki smiles and you could fucking hear it in his voice.

Your eyes screw shut, anger already bubbling within yourself. “You know what I mean, stop playing dumb. Take. It. Down.”

“Aaah, I don’t have time to play games with you, so either get to the point or—”

“What do you want, Shigaraki? Hm?” you growl, quickly losing your patience. “Do you want me to blow you? Sleep with you? What do you want from me?”

“Whoaaaa, what the hell? Chill! Do I look like some desperate fucking loser to you?” he says it, like he doesn't know. “Only idiots would think to fuck ugly bimbos like you, and it seems like you’re pretty much used goods at this point anyways, haha. Honestly, who’d fuck you at all ever again? I’ve seen all the shit your ex did—” He inhales sharply, key taps becoming frantic on the other side of the line. “Fuck! They’re on B, planting! Spinner, fucking TP there, stop wasting time, FUCK! HEY! Do you want to win, or what? Oh, you do? Then fucking LISTEN to me.”

After a long second of him huffing and puffing in your ear, it finally clicks in your brain.

Shigaraki is gaming, playing with his buddies, relaxing while you feel like your life is falling apart for the 1000th time this month.

“Okay,” you finally say.

“Okay? Okay, what?” he scoffs. “You know, you should try a little harder, moron. I told you what to do before, if you want me to help you.” Shigaraki pauses, focusing on his game for another moment. You watch your animated wallpaper turn into a dark screen due to your inactivity—until he snorts. “Yeah, maybe you do enjoy this kind of thing, after all. I wouldn’t really put it past you. After seeing those vids, boy, gotta admit.” He whistles and his mic peaks. “Didn’t think you were the type! Ahh, does the faculty even know? I wonder how they’d react, knowing their adorable little honors student was spending her free time fucking low-level druglords, getting high and recording shitty rape-porn!”

“What I do with my life, in private, is none of your fucking business!” you yell into your phone. “Do you even know how old I was in those? What I fucking went through? Did you not fucking see? Yet you still decide you wanna go ahead and dox me?” you ask desperately, voice cracking multiple times. “What kind of monster are you? How low can you fucking stoop, like actually?”

What were you trying to do? Appeal to his humanity? Does a guy like this even feel empathy? The last few ones in your life didn’t, and they were all really fucked up too. What’s the chance he’d listen? Probably none, but what’s the point in holding back anyways?

“Damn, don’t get emotional, man. Not my fuckin’ problem you let your shitty ass boyfriends fuck you up like that—Fuck, shut up! Wasn’t talking to you, idiot. Yeah, I’m in a call, focus on the fucking game!” he yells at his friends before continuing, “Listen, got anything else to say besides bitching and whining at me? Last I recall, I gave you two fucking options, and so far you’ve chosen to ignore both. So explain to me why I should do anything for you, hm? Make it count, too, ‘cos I’m really tired of hearing you cry in my fuckin’ ears.”

Wow—he was just… wow.

“I’m sorry,” you say honestly, breaking that apology record after all.

“Mm? Come again? Couldn’t hear ya.”

Tomura smiles expectantly.

At last, the breaking point. He’d hoped that ideally, it would’ve happened in class, with you kneeling before him in front of all NPCs to see, but this was okay too. He’s going to cut you a little more slack, you didn’t know who you were dealing with, after all.

See? He can be merciful as well.

Your jaw tightens, eyes becoming glassy with wet sadness for the nth time today.

“I’m fucking sorry, o-okay?”

The weight comes crashing on you all at once, and you finally break down crying in front of the devil himself.

You hear him saying ‘BRB’ and after some shuffling, the line becomes completely silent, save for your pathetic sobs.

Is he just listening to you suffer? Was he that fucking cruel?

“I-I’m sorry for being such a—such a bitch to you in the store—f-for talking to you in class and g-getting you in trouble with the professor. I-I’m really fucking sorry. I didn’t know better,” you sob. “I shouldn’t have—shouldn't have talked out of turn, shouldn’t have upset you—” Your voice cracks and you choke, “I-I wish I’d never talked to you. I was stupid. R-Really, really stupid to cross you. Will you please, please take the thread down? I’ll make sure I’ve learned m-my place. I won't bother you again.”

You sound so pathetic even to your own ears, as you descend into the beginnings of a panic attack. It’s over. It’s all over. Your life is going to be destroyed after this. You’ll lose your scholarship, Taylor will leave you and you’ll finally buy that rope and fucking hang—

He should be feeling thrilled, ecstatic even, now that he’s finally gotten to crush you.

You, with your filthy fucking mouth, always cursing at him, always talking shit and trying to piss him off. You, who are like everyone else in this world, who’ll sneer and think you’re better than him. He’s put you in your place where you belong, like everyone else who tries to fuck with him.

Held back, even.

That’s right, he’s holding back right now. He’s given you a choice and you finally used that stupid brain of yours to take it.

He should be feeling on top of the world, but instead he feels something twisting within him, hearing the broken desperation in your voice.

Ahhh. Anger. He’s feeling anger.

You wished you’d never talked to him? To never bother him again?

Shouldn’t you wish to be nicer? For him to forgive you? For him to like you?

The fuck kind of apology was this? Why were you so fucking clueless?

“That all?” he replies to your sobs, bored and indifferent.

“What?” you whisper.

“Is that fucking all, I asked. Are you fuckin’ deaf now or something?” He raises his voice at you and you flinch.

“I-I don’t u-understand, I’m being genuinely—”

“I DoN’t unDerStaAanD! Fucking—cry more, bitch,” Shigaraki mocks you. “You’re wasting my fucking time, so if that’s all you have to say, I’m hanging up.”

Fuck, he’s let himself become defensive. He’s being irrationally angry right now, losing his cool.

This hurt feels new to him, and he’s only ever felt it around you. That’s right, it’s your fault.

It’s your fault you disrespected him when he’d asked to play with you. It’s your fault you thought you could get away with getting him in trouble, it’s your fault he’s feeling this way right now.

It’s your fucking fault, and he’s angry, so very angry that someone like you is able to get to him, to hurt—

You feel your knuckles turning white from the pressure of your fingertips against the plastic case of your phone.

“Can you stop being a fucking child f-for one f-fucking second, and talk to me so I can understand?!”

“There’s nothing for you to understand. You’re fucking retarded, and I’m gonna make sure you can’t set a single fucking foot outside your house, without feeling scared that rapists and stalkers are camping next to your door. Stupid bitch, maybe I’ll post the entire fucking thing today, give ‘em your address and get it over with,” he grunts, voice low and cold. “I lost the game too, ‘cos of your sorry ass.”

“—really fucking hate you, Shigaraki! But you’re used to people feeling like that about you, aren’t you? Fucking with my life—with people’s lives like you’re some—what? Some god?” you spit, abandoning all your reasoning.

If he’s going to destroy your life too, might as well go down with a fight, right?

“You’re not, though,” you laugh bitterly, million thoughts racing through your head and you feel like your brain is gonna split. “You’re really not. You’re just a… you’re just a pathetic unoriginal asshole, and I can’t fucking believe how stupid I was to let myself—to ever think—to stoop so low and fucking feel like you’re—to fucking like someone like y—”

There’s silence.

And then you hear Shigaraki inhale softly.

Blood drains from your face.

Were you just about to… were you confessing to him?

Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid.

Your thumb hovers over the ‘end call’ button. Fuck this.

“What? What did you—what were you saying?”

“Fuck off,” you whisper, shoulders slumping.

“HEY! Repeat? What did you say? You can’t believe you what?” His voice is eager as he presses you, but you’re already checked out of the conversation.

“I said, go fuck yourself asshole. Pray I kill myself before I have to see you again.”

“If you fucking dare to hang up now, I swear to fucking GOD,” he yells, volume peaking again and you just end the call, turning your phone off and slumping in your chair.

Then, you giggle deliriously at the memory of you defending him a few hours ago.

What were you even saying? Ahh, right! ‘Don’t pick on him because of silly rumors. Don’t say stupid shit if you don’t know him!’

You’re so fucking stupid. Why the fuck did you friendly fire at your best friend of all people? They were right. He’s just a piece of shit. You’d even cried in front of him, begging him to stop. You’d fucking apologized.

Pathetic. That’s all you are. Fucking pathetic.

“Fuck this whole world, honestly,” you whisper to yourself.

Getting up, you grab your phone and use all your force to throw it across the room, hearing it smash against the wall and then fall to the floor. You hope it splintered and broke, the way you feel like your life has.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x y/n #emotional hurt/comfort #shigaraki tomura #unhealthy relationships #dead dove do not eat #trigger warnings #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki fanfiction #shigaraki x you #tenko shimura #tomura shigaraki #college au #reader is female

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thefanficmonster · 4 years

Text

Meant To Meet

The Curator (The Dark Pictures Anthology) x Reader (Female)

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Y/N and the Curator are enjoying an evening at the Repository, treating themselves to the many stories the place has to offer. But none of those books manages to capture Y/N’s attention quite like the person reading them. It’s about time she admitted it.

Requested by Anon. Hello! Sorry to be posting your request so late dear, I’ve been swamped with work and I really apologize for not being able to get to it sooner. Thank you for the request and for your incredible patience. Hope you enjoy the read. Love, Vy ❤

My mind is all over the place. I have a good reason to stay focused but I just can’t find it in me. This is the fifth story the Curator has attempted to read me today, but it’s been a struggle for me to memorize a single word let alone the plot and character names. Therefore, I can recall nothing from any of the passages read so far. I tried to blame it on the stories, but I’m starting to think I’m the problem. Who am I kidding, of course I am! But not entirely. What is a girl to do when she suddenly views someone she sees every day as something more than a friend. Sure, this would be a ridiculous thought if it were heard by anyone else. But not to me. I see perfect sense in it - he’s the only one that truly knows me. He notices the small details, understands how my brain works. He’s got insane insight on me that sometimes is quite scary.

He knows how to make the good moments memorable, the bad moments better, the sad endings into hope and good endings into excitement. He understands what it’s like to be stuck in one place. Literally and metaphorically.

Well, I met him while I was metaphorically stuck in this weird life of mine. I couldn’t figure out where I had come from or where I was going. All I knew was that I needed an escape, but I couldn’t find that either. I was the most hopeless I had ever been.

And then luck suddenly decided to move onto my side, flip a page I couldn’t. Get my life moving again.

I was heading to a job interview in a part of town I had never been in before. You can imagine I was not at all enthusiastic or even the tiniest bit hopeful. After going from one potential job to another, never hearing good news back and having to deal with the heavy heart of never being good enough, I was not looking forward to another rejection. It was a simple job I was going for - a personal assistant for a lawyer. Sure, it was a bit far from my apartment but it was a chance, and Lord knows I was gonna take each and all chances.

Walking down the empty, unfamiliar street, I kept looking at the signs, searching for the name of the lawyer I was supposed to meet with. I tried dialing the phone number I saw in the paper but no one picked up my call. I was already starting to deal with it, convincing myself this was better than a ‘Sorry, you’re not the fit we’re looking for, but we’ll stay in touch’.

I walked to the very end of the street, seeing nothing but signs of old-timey restaurants, barber and antique jewelry shops. It felt like I was in a different decade, not a different part of town. It felt so comfortable and homey and it would’ve been even more appealing if it wasn’t for the eerie vibe it gave off due to the lack of people walking around.

Eventually, I spotted them - two big wooden doors with small colorful windows on top of them. They were the fanciest element of the street, sticking out almost hypnotically. The temptation to invade the inside of the building behind them was eating away at me. One of the doors was even slightly open, like an invitation to walk in and explore what they hid.

No, this could end REALLY badly! Imagine if someone lives there!, I tried telling myself, tried to force my feet to move in any direction just away from the doors. However, they wouldn’t budge. I was stuck in place quite literally this time. Seeing my unmoving state as a sign and against my better judgement, I stepped forward, closing the distance between me and the two giant pieces of polished wood. Before I knew it, I had placed my hand on the golden handle of the slightly opened door and gave it that push that would result in it opening entirely, revealing a very faintly lit, ominous hallway at the end of which was another pair of wooden doors, these much more ordinary. I subconsciously walked in, my feet weighing down the wooden floorboards which were covered by a carpet.

I felt slightly more confident going in, seeing as how the place had no spirit to be a home. It was too dark, too creepy and definitely minimalistic. The walls framing the hallway did have a painting or two on them but even those paintings were rather off-putting, I couldn’t look at them for long. I expected the floorboards to creak with every step I took but they were surprisingly silent, not fulfilling the horror movie cliché I had in mind.

The other pair of doors wasn’t nearly as tempting to open, but I had run out of any hesitations at that point. Pushing them open I was met with a wonderland that seemed to have been created especially for me. Books, old books lining what looked to be an endless amount of shelves. I felt tiny surrounded by knowledge I was yet to discover. I felt a new sense of excitement bubbling up in my stomach, something I hadn’t felt in a while.

“Good afternoon.“ A male voice startled me, coming out of the blue. “How can I help you?“

I quickly turned around, looking for the voice’s owner. Then I saw it - a silhouette of a man sitting in an armchair by the unlit fireplace at the complete opposite end of the gigantic room. In his hands I could see the outline of a large book.

“Um, hello.“ I returned his greeting, making a few steps in his direction shyly, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to walk in like that I just...“

“Couldn’t help it?“ He cut me off, “Yes, this place does posses a strange power over the people that near it. Well...not all people. You must be quite special.“

I was taken aback by his words. Now at closer proximity, I could see his icy eyes. They were sending me a warm and friendly gaze despite how cold and empty they looked. He was clearly older than me, his attire and overall demeanor fitting in perfectly, not only with this place but with this entire part of town. His silver hair was slicked back, not a single piece of it out of place.

“Uh...thanks?“ I was well aware it sounded more like a question rather than an expression of gratitude to his questionable compliment, “I was actually in search of the office of Mr. Harper. A lawyer in the area. I’m going for a job interview. So, if you could point me in the right direction, I’d really appreciate it.“

The man nodded reluctantly, closing the book and placing it on the carpet with such caution as if it was fragile. He slowly got up, “I’m afraid you’re on the wrong street, Miss. And I’m sorry to inform you the spot you’d be applying for is already taken. Has been for a few days now, actually. Mr. Harper and I are good friends, he told me about it.” A small apologetic smile appeared on his face. “But, I’m not a bearer of bad news entirely. How about I give you a proposition?” He made a pause, scanning my face for a reaction. I raised an eyebrow at him as a signal for him to continue which he did after he got up from his chair, “You see, this place is too big to be kept by a single person. I could use a helping hand. We’ll discuss the paycheck, that won’t be a problem, I can assure you.”

A job. And I won’t even need an interview. Nor any special qualifications. Well-payed. Bonus is that I’ll get to spend my days in the company of so many books. So many stories. Sign. Me. Up!

You can bet I accepted the offer on the spot and I enjoyed every moment on the job since. The Curator, which is the man’s identity as I was soon to find out, was a pleasant, kind man who didn’t hold it against me when I’d drop my cleaning duties to sit on the floor and read a book that had distracted me. Hey, can anyone blame me? A bookworm like me being in the Repository is the equivalent of putting a kid in a toy store. Not to mention he’d read me stories while I was working or on break. What better job could I ask for?

Well....

Fast-forward to now - half a year later - a month ago, I found a far better paying job, a lot closer to home and one that’d allow for me to show my true skills, not just dusting shelves and organizing books and occasionally making tea. So, I was forced to quit, however, that didn’t stop me from coming back to the Repository.

To my dismay I only recently came to terms with the reasoning behind the magnetic energy this place possessed over me. The Curator was right about that pull this place had. For me it was different, though - it wasn’t the place pulling me back.

“Y/N you’re not listening again, are you?“ The Curator’s suddenly more authoritative voice shook my mind out of its wandering state, reminding me that there’s a present I should be living in.

I blink a few times as if awoken from a deep slumber. My eyes meet his and I feel my cheeks reddening under his caring gaze. “Of course I am!”

A smirk starts playing on his lips as if he has already proven his point, “Then tell me: what was Christopher’s dilemma?”

Well shoot, I should’ve expected a question to confirm my nonsense, too bad I didn’t hear a word he has read. “Um...how to end global warming?”

The Curator laughs, closing the book. “Alright, alright, I get that you’re not in the mood to be listening to stories today.” He sets it aside on his desk before leaning back in his chair, “Do not take this out of context, but why did you come today if you didn’t feel up for a read? Actually,” he straightens his posture yet again, “Why do you keep coming here altogether? Once again, don’t mistake this question for anything, I’m just curious. I know it’s far from your home and you either have to walk four miles or waste money on transport, either way, you’re wasting time...” He trails off, having run out of things to say. It probably has something to do with the blank stare I’m giving him unintentionally.

I snap out of it, shaking my head. “Um, isn’t it obvious?” Yeah, isn’t it? Like, whenever I’m around him I feel like I’m holding a big sign that says that I have fallen for my ex-boss - a man rather older than me, mind you. And on top of all that - a man that hasn’t nor will ever look at me with the same

His faint eyebrows raise the tiniest bit, “Obvious? Well, if it is, consider me ignorant.“ The usual smile returns, “Please, enlighten me.“

Am I really gonna do this right now? I mean, he never leaves this place so if I do end up making a fool of myself - which I’m most certainly will - all I have to do to avoid him is avoid coming here. How much do I have to lose? Only him. But then again, I’ve never had him to begin with,

“At first, it was all about the books and stories this place holds. It’s truly magical that way. Then it was the atmosphere, which is directly related to the books...and to you. And then it was only you.“ I pause before cringing and adding, “Please don’t make me elaborate. You can guess what I mean.“

He gives my outburst a slow, indecisive nod. “I see.” He mumbles, “Well, you can always find me here, Y/N. And while I do understand what you mean, I in no way encourage it. However,..” He makes a pause as if asking of me to look at him which I end up doing. Why is beyond me, but as I said, he has an effect on me I cannot describe, “I won’t discourage it either. Who am I to tell you how to feel or not to feel. We’re all human, after all. Except me, of course.” That has become an ongoing joke of him not being human, but I never pay much mind to it. “You deserve better than me, Y/N. Trust me, I know myself and I know you. I advise you let it go.”

The sympathetic look he’s giving me fills me with both shame and comfort. At last I got it off my chest. Sure, I made a fool of myself, but I now feel ten pounds lighter. “Then I’m inclined to listen to you. As of now...” I reach for the book he was reading me minutes ago, “You’ll be listening to me.”

He chuckles, leaning back in his chair once again, “I have nothing against it.”

I feel at peace, reading a story that I was an idiot not to pay attention to the first time. I’m once again reminded that the more a mind wanders, the more frightening things seem. I am now determined to never take my focus off the present. Because that’s the only way to truly live life: In the moment, with a clear head and a chest with nothing to weigh atop it.

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outroshooky · 5 years

Text

waiting for the sky to fall | jjk

⇢ genre: series; part one (i-saw-you-on-the-subway-every morning-this-week-and-i’m-possibly-in-love-with-you!au) (fluff)

⇢ pairing: jeon jeongguk x reader

⇢ word count: 6.3k

⇢ warnings: brief instance of anxiety; probably too much rambling about how pretty jeongguk is when he exists like that

⇢ a/n: a dearest birthday present for the love of my life and platonic soulmate @guksheart. cait, i cannot believe we have been a part of each other’s lives for over a year now. i adore you so so much and i am so proud of the bold, compassionate, wonderfully gay, fierce yet gentle, considerate, accepting, lovely woman that you are. i would not trade our sisterhood for the world, and i still cannot believe that you are coming to new york in a mere matter of months. i can only hope that we’ll have adventures like this one when you do.

this is heavily inspired by the commute i took to visit my friend in the city over the summer!! kudos to columbia university for loaning me some much-needed inspiration, although i never fell in love with anybody on the way there.

part one of the verses and vibes series. part two will be uploaded on december 20, 2019.

“bright star, would i were stedfast as thou art— not in lone splendour hung aloft the night and watching, with eternal lids apart, like nature’s patient, sleepless eremite,”

⤷ “bright star, would i were stedfast as thou art”; john keats

10:57pm.

Call it 11, it’s close enough.

Eleven o’clock in the evening.

A sacred time, those great appreciators of the universe would say. It is amazing how, as the wind caresses your hair with breezy fingers, there are some who walk the city streets below without pause. Some who cannot understand the sanctity of such a time, the security that comes with the blanket of nightfall— if you could call it nightfall in the heart of such a metropolis.

Below you beats a rhythm akin to the one in your soul, beneath the skin of your merely human chest. A home you’d heard so much about, fallen in love with before you’d even met, and god it couldn’t have felt more right. Over the edge of the balcony is utter chaos: taxi cabs honk an irregular staccato, the open! sign of the ramen shop one block over flickers its own neon melody. People shout, brakes screech, doors bang, dogs bark; to anybody else, it would be utter madness but to you- to you, it is simply home.

The ambient light mutes the glow of so many stars that pinprick the sky millions of miles above, arcing across the heavens in so many celestial designs. If you squint, you can pick out Casseopia, maybe even Ursa Major through the dim haze. The stars are far and few between, but it’s a quick glance to your left and right and you’re surrounded by majestic masterpieces, this time of a manmade design.

When you were younger, you used to muse that skyscrapers not only scraped the bright blue sky so far above, but supported the very cosmos itself with the slight curve in their arching backs. They bore the weight of the world, shouldering the immense task of keeping the stratosphere aloft. For a skyscraper to crumble was for the sky to fall, and yet you’d never seen one even waver in the wind.

Later, of course, you would learn that this was not the case. Earth herself kept the stratosphere in good health, and those wonderfully tall buildings existed as testaments to man’s great ability. However, there was a quiet part of you that still entertained the fantasy (as all of us do, in one way or another). And why not? It's moments like this, where you are surrounded by the dizzying breadth of the world out there and you can taste the sweetness of the universe’s ambrosia, that have you thinking twice about it all. Who says that we can't hold up the sky? Who says we don't spend our lives wondering, even if just a little bit, when the pillars will collapse and the sky itself will cave in one shuddering breath? Who decides when the Sun will burn, the Moon will freeze, when life as we know it tumbles to ash and dust?

“Baby?” His fingers interlock over yours, warm against the cool of the balcony railing. “Everything okay?”

His chest is warm against your back, grounding in its familiarity. You could name the planes and angles of his body like you could name the asterisms that freckle the night sky. He smells like cucumber soap when you turn and nuzzle into his neck, the damp locks of his hair tickling your forehead. You usually tease him when he’s post-shower like this, the bangs that tumble past his cheekbones giving the impression of a shaggy mop, but you spare him tonight. He squeezes over your hand, palm flush against your knuckles as your cheeks heat against his neck.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “Just taking a moment.”

Jeongguk tilts his head skyward, but he’s already got the universe in his eyes, wide and fawn. His chest rumbles when he speaks, soft velvet, a little gritty. “It's so beautiful out here.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” you raise your head to reply, brushing your nose to the column of his throat.

He’s got good composure but he's blushing now, between the lateness of the hour and the softness of your skin. He may smell of Dove and there’s a pimple dotting his cheek, but you’re stunning in the light and there’s a faint air of something sweet; if it’s your skin or your soul, he can’t decide. Perhaps both but he can’t help himself; his lips find your forehead and your eyes flutter shut. Contentment so simple, so lovely.

His arm slides around your shoulders and the way you fit into his side is divine insistence. The other half you never knew you had, and yet at one time, it wasn’t this way. Hard to believe, but that’s the reality of it, and you never even knew he filled a gap in your heart until the deed was done, and there was nothing you could do to unplug the hole.

He kisses your temple and you kiss his shoulder, exposed by the dip of his t-shirt. “Come to bed, baby.”

“But it’s so nice out here,” you whine.

“It’s late and you have class in the morning,” he coaxes quietly, his accented English gentle in your ears. “Come on.” His fingers slip from your own and you sigh, giving in.

“But you have to carry me inside.”

His eyes roll but he’s already stooping, and when he scoops you into his arms to press a kiss to your nose- he just can’t help himself- you poke his cheek and he grins a smile as warm as the lazy afternoon sun. “I love you.”

“I love you twice that amount.”

Jeongguk takes the balcony in stride, nudges the sliding door open with his foot. “Yeah, well I love you fifty times that amount. Squared.”

He kicks it closed behind him as you raise an eyebrow. “Cheater.”

“I’ll throw you on the bed, swear to god.”

“You’re mean,” You retort.

“No I’m not.” He turns the light off on his way in, bumps the bedroom door shut with his impossibly slender hip. “I’ll be the big spoon if you take that back.”

Bedsheets under your fingertips. “Fine.”

It is hard to believe that, merely a year ago, you would be coming inside to an empty bed. Merely a year ago, your world would be silent, save the busy hum outside your apartment windows. Merely a year ago, you hadn’t a clue that your world was about to turn upside down, flipped on its axis and spun into chaos in ways you’d never even considered possible. Merely a year, but a lifetime spent sitting, waiting, wishing- twiddling your thumbs, chewing on your fingernails, anxiously hoping for something, anything.

And that’s when, exactly three-hundred and sixty-four days ago, the columns gave out in a rush of dust, the cosmos itself unraveling at the seams of early morning.

Momentary silence, a stifled yawn. “Come cuddle.”

A sleepy, breathy, near-whisper. “Will you be the big spoon?”

Jeongguk chuckles, breath soft. “Always, baby girl. Always.”

one year before

There’s no better alarm clock than a caramel macchiato, sipped through tired lips and bleary eyes on the chaos of a Monday morning in the subway. You are far from a morning person, as evidenced by the death grip on your Starbucks cup, but you feel just a little more human with the help of four espresso shots and a pump of hazelnut. Having an off-campus apartment means it’s a roughly twenty minute subway ride between home and school, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, not when there’s not much of a difference between the two.

To be frank, the city is home- a comfort you never expected, the subject of a thousand love letters never to be written but in the deepest cavities of your soul. The grime of the sidewalks, the gritty rumbling of the subways, artful graffiti and corner bubble tea and a little bit of pride, thrumming in the deepest recesses of necessity. The city in which you grew up is merely a square foot to the square acres that are your romping ground now.

The wires of your headphones snake around your scarf, bundled up around your shoulders. It is that wonderful time before fall bleeds over completely into winter, a lingering cool breath, and arguably the best season of all. Thus, you are perfectly comfortable underneath a warm jacket, backpack slung across your shoulder as you swipe your card, pass through the turnstiles and on to the waiting train just across the platform.

The subway car rattles beneath you with a groan, darkness rushing past in so many variants of orange from the neon lights that dotted the tunnels. Around you, bodies press tight on the morning commuter train; in any other circumstance, it would make you anxious, but there’s an odd feeling of security it grants. The train slows, pulling into the next station, and you focus your attention on the page of Madeline Miller’s latest bestseller.

At the next station, the car decompresses as travelers shift, and you are left a moment to breathe before the train will inevitably fill again, two stops from now. Next to you, a purple jacket brushes your shoulder. Just above the top of your book, a pair of black Timberlands pauses before turning towards you and settling.

There really is no reason at all why these Timberlands would be special. There's no reason at all why your eyes find it necessary to track upwards, no reason why you should have glanced up from your delightful novel for the sake of one commuter’s settling. No reason at all why, as your eyes followed skinny jean-clad thighs to a leather jacket, and further, further.

His caramel-streaked hair brushes his cheekbones, styled in a way you’d typically call bedhead, but on him looks like art. His brow is soft yet defined, much like his jawline, cutting narrow. His lips are perfectly pink, a gentle pout, and his graceful nose a button. His shoulders are broad, the taper of his waist impossibly slender but hidden under the folds of his ridiculously oversized t-shirt.

And his eyes- his eyes.

You have poured over literature for hours upon hours, soaking in poetry and epics and novels alike, yet you have never understood what the poets meant until this very moment.

His eyes are the café au lait you sip on sunny afternoons, the sweetness of a chocolate bar, the warmth of a woolen blanket in wintertime. They glint with the light of a thousand stars but shine with the depth of a thousand galaxies, each and every one a testament to the great work of the universe. It is as if he holds the very cosmos in his pupils, and your breath is stolen from your lungs without a second thought.

He is stunningly beautiful but goes completely unnoticed by everyone else in the car, it seems, as the train picks up speed. There is no greater punishment than tearing your gaze away from him when you realize you've been staring too long to be socially acceptable. You force yourself to return back to your novel but end up reading the same line five times over, too distracted by the shift of his heels, the way he toys with the straps of his rucksack.

Part of you aches every time the train car fills, obscuring your view of the handsome stranger. Each time, you’re left wondering if he's moved, but each time, the crowds part to find him still seated on the garish plastic bench, glued to his iPhone. Your stop is the next and you can't help but feel anxious about getting up, about turning face and walking out of the train car. Your heart rattles an irregular tempo as you snap your book shut (still on the same page as twenty minutes ago), gather your things, and carefully stand amid the gently rocking car. He doesn't even look up at your sudden movement, and there's a part of you that is somehow irrationally crushed.

The train grinds to a halt and the doors slide open, and you spare one last longing look before striding across the grimy tile, minding the gap between the train and the platform. Foolish of you to want to stop your day for the sake of an attractive stranger. Foolish of you to think his day would stop, either.

With a muffled curse behind you, footsteps thud and voices grumble as a mop-haired boy with a rucksack on his shoulder bursts his way out of the train car, having nearly forgotten that this is his stop, too. When something brushes your arm as you jog up the stairs, you nearly drop your Starbucks with the realization that he is unintentionally keeping pace with you across the stairwell, lost behind the curtain of his fawn locks.

Anxiety melts to curiosity as you weave through the station, matching pace all the while as you’re spit out onto the street from underground and walk the mere half block to your university gates. He hesitates under them, a touch of nerves, but shakes his head and continues on under the tree-covered path of the quad. You lose him somewhere by the Economics building, heading towards the library as you turn towards Hamilton Hall, but the excited thrill in your veins outweighs any and all disappointment.

You're practically glowing during 8am lecture, dancing on air through your lunch break when you think you spot him across the dining hall, but in fact it's just that guy from your math gen-ed. You’d never admit to a stranger consuming your thoughts, but here’s a nagging feeling at the back of your skull as you zip up your bag at the end of your day and head towards the corner station.

A typical Monday indeed?

Anything but.

It was certainly unconventional, the way you launched yourself out of bed the next morning in favor of tripping into a pair of jeans and dashing to fix your hair in the bathroom mirror. You haven't put so much effort into getting ready in months, and factoring in time for a dab of makeup left you skipping breakfast in favor of slinging your bag over your shoulder to rush out the door on time.

An iced Americano restores breath to your lungs, but does nothing to soothe the jitter in your bouncing knee as the train doors shut and a voice crackles over the intercom, unintelligible. A chocolate croissant is light on your tongue, memories of the flaky pastry crossing your mind only to be drowned out by thoughts of the next station and the promises it holds.

With no novel in hand, it is easy for your eyes to flick to the crowd as the train slows coming into the station. Effortlessly, you pick him out even with the white mask across the lower half of his face obscuring his nose and mouth. His visage is scrawled, it seems, on the inside of your eyelids; it danced throughout your Human Behaviors class, teased you through the late night of cramming for midterms. You hoped the concealer would cover the dark spots under your eyes, but you couldn't be certain.

As the doors slide open and the crowd surges forward, you lose him for a moment in the streams and flows of people coming and going. He appears just down the car, button-down rolled at the elbows, and even from a distance you feel your cheeks heat as he finds an empty seat just across the aisle.

Yesterday, his jacket hid him to the knuckles under the security of worn leather. But today, pushed sleeves reveal the ink snuggled tight around his wrist, curling its way up his forearm to snake hidden under the folds of the unbuttoned dress shirt he so casually threw over another plain black t-shirt. Sunflowers and daisies and blossoms you can't even name bloom in color across his skin, geometric designs etching sculpture into living marble. He is a magnum opus through and through, bearing so many works of art on the canvas of his flesh.

The white wires of his headphones leave him oblivious to the world, the galaxies in his pupils twinkling under the stark white light. He is wholly unbothered by a group of high school girls tittering to his left, the judging eyes of the older gentleman to his right. He simply exists in all of his beauty, whether the world wishes to love him or not.

And then his eyes find you.

It is only for a moment, but his gaze renders you breathless, mind spinning, pulse racing. He blinks owlishly, staring only for a second, two, but it's long enough to feel your heart ricochet around your chest, caged butterflies in your chest soar against the crest of your ribcage. They dart in tandem, beating their fragile wings with a fluttering pulse; you swear you’re reduced to a mere teenager at the sight of him, and that’s just ridiculous. The train car around you is suspended; it is hard to believe you are breathing the same air merely a few paces away, but you are and it is him and the depth of his soul is staring you blind in the face.

You don’t know him but you know him, all at once. He says a thousand sweet nothings with the shine of the lights in his eyes, promises commandments to keep when his lashes flutter against the apples of his cheeks. He is a complete stranger but somehow, someway, a known companion. His fingers twitch against the fabric of his jeans and you wonder what they would feel like wrapped around yours, memorizing every divot with a careful reverence. How they would brush your hip when he pulls you against his side, how they would pull at you craving more, more, more—

A spice of cologne curls under your nose, a little floral, a little sweet. Perhaps it’s his, the scent that clings to his pillow in the morning and his jacket in the evening. The tap of the woman’s foot to your left is the beat of his footsteps on the creaky apartment floor as he announces he’s home, he’s brought dinner; life is simple and content—

He nods his head to the beat that flows quick through his headphones, eyes shut, in his own world. You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to share on your morning commute, fingers entwined with coffee in one hand but music in your heart—

Bodies around you ebb and flow, but the flurry is nothing compared to the images that swirl in front of you. Tracing his tattoos with the lightest touch, laughing till his nose scrunches at a shitty pun, early kisses and late-night touches. The warmth in his eyes when you do something stupid, the comfort in your arms around his shoulders when he’s doubting himself—

It’s a misplaced elbow to your ribs that jolts you out of reverie as the older gentleman seated next to you creaks to his feet. You wince and open your mouth to complain, but not before taking in the empty seat across the train car, devoid of leather and ink and beauty.

Where did he g—

That’s when the car doors slide shut and you, all too soon, come to a stunning realization:

The handsome stranger whom you have just spent twenty minutes daydreaming about is gone, nowhere to be seen, lost in the crowd of chaos that is the city.

And you have completely missed your stop.

Well, it’s a damn good thing taxi cabs exist.

Your alarm does not go off on Wednesday morning. Perhaps a fatal mistake, because by the time your dreary eyes crack open at the suspicious amount of rest you’re getting for the middle of the week, you are supposed to leave your apartment in eight minutes— shower, breakfast, makeup, and all.

Perhaps there is a god looking out for you after all, because you manage to make it out of the house only two minutes later (although just about all of the above had to wait). Your stomach grumbles as your feet trod down the littered stairs of the station, an insistent reminder that the last meal you had was ten hours ago, and you really need to eat sooner rather than later. No time meant no coffee meant cold hands, an unfortunate consequence, and you’re shivering your way through the turnstiles onto the train as the wind bites cool at the back of your neck.

You’re still drowsy from sleep, a ten page paper having kept you awake, so it is no surprise that you nod off on the train. You’re not sure when your mind clears of soporific fog, but when your eyes flutter open, the one person you’ve been waiting for is seated in front of you with his elbow slung across a backpack next to him, propping up his head as he too drifts off. A raven cloth mask covers his nose and his mouth, his eyelashes brushing the curve of his cheeks, a bit crimson from the chill. A binder slips crooked under his arm, threatening to topple to the floor. Squinting at the train board means you’ve got two stops left and you force yourself upright, rubbing your eyes only to wince at their dryness.

Though your eyes ache and sleep tugs at your bones, he is worth staying awake for as his body sways with the rhythm of the car. Around you, everyone is immersed in their own little slices of the world, completely oblivious to another tired traveler. There’s a scar on his cheek and a tiredness about him, and your heart, two sizes too big, aches for something you don’t quite understand. One station passes without interruption and he is still asleep, draped over his backpack with his notebook slipping further, further.

The train rounds the final bend, brakes screeching as it pulls into the station. The sudden deceleration is enough to send the stranger’s binder, packed with papers, spinning to the floor of the train just as you stand to gather your things. A few index cards here, some loose green and white papers there, and he is somehow still asleep through all of this, surrounded by oblivious minds and occupied hearts.

You have approximately five seconds to make a decision before the train fills with a swell of new passengers.

You don’t have to think when you’ve already made your choice.

Forgoing the cleanliness of your jeans, you stoop to the floor, scrabbling the spilled contents of paper and a pencil and a spare Chapstick into the mouth of the binder. People are already beginning to spill through the door, but you’re pushing your way through without a second glance, feet pounding the steps underneath you. You follow the beam of light that pours underground, cutting corners and rushing staircases until you are facing a narrow city block and the buildings that reach on tiptoe to kiss the heavens. The sun’s caress is warm on your cheeks as you stride through the gates, ever stony in their stoicism, and find a shady bench to sit and organize the mess in your hands.

It is a simple black binder filled to the brim with notebook paper, neat handwritten ideas that dissolve into simplistic sketches and jotted thoughts. You don’t mean to read it, you really don’t, but as you tuck the pencil into the neon green case looped through the rings, a single form catches your eye: an advertisement for the show in the greater library this weekend, set up by the architecture majors showcasing their designs in conjunction with the fine arts students.

He does fine arts? That must be the sketches in these pages. But perhaps it’s a casual hobby for him? Maybe he’s only interested in it and not actually pursuing it as a major. There’s Korean on this too; is he an international student? How long has he been going here? Why isn’t he dorming on campus with the others—

A cough in front of you, and when you glance upward, you nearly choke in surprise.

Hazel shines russet when his eyes catch the light that filters through the trees, twinkling with something unknown when they meet your own. His hair is tucked under a beanie, vivid red against the muddy brown of his oversized sweater. His mask is pulled down to his chin as he fidgets in front of you, twisting his fingers with almost a childlike nervousness. His lips part, plush, a little chapped. “Can I have that?”

His English is sweet, accented on the ears, a softer tone than you’re expecting, but you don’t mind it. Curse your nerves and your sweaty palms! “Oh! Yeah, sure!” You nearly shove the binder at him and he blinks owlishly, taking a moment to examine its contents, making sure nothing is out of place while you ramble on and on. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get it back to you on the train, but you were asleep and I didn’t want to bother you, especially since here that’s typically just not what people do, you know how they are- Oh, your pencils and things are inside the pencil case, I figured they would be too much to try to carry around before I found you, you know? And I didn’t want anything to get lost; I hate when things of mine go missing and I tend to be so scatterbrained.” You chortle nervously as he hugs the binder to his chest.

A small smile blossoms on the stranger’s face and you get the feeling there’s more he wants to say, but doesn’t know how. Instead, he bows graciously, a little pink in the cheeks, and states simply, “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, really! Don’t worry about it. It’s what I’d want someone to do for me and since I’ve seen you only recently on the morning train, I didn’t quite know if you’re new to campus or you’ve been here a while and just moved or something like that-” He’s still staring, eyes wide, and you realize you’ve been talking for far too long. “But ah, I’m sorry! Continue on, yeah? Have a good day!” You ramble, internally kicking yourself. Damn your loose tongue and damn this man for being so infernally, unfairly attractive.

He blushes even deeper, face flushing crimson, and shoulders his backpack. “You too…?” When he trails off, you realize he’s waiting for your name and nearly trip over your own tongue getting the syllables out. He repeats it once and nods, extending a hand. “My name is Jeongguk.”

The way his fingers brush yours is ingrained in the softness of your skin for the rest of your day, in the touch of cologne that lingers in the autumn air long after he’s gone to class. He is the sweetness of your afternoon Starbucks and the freckles of the night sky, dotted through the ambient fog that settles over the city with all the comfort of a blanket. Somehow, someway, there’s a name to the face.

A very handsome face, to boot.

You wake early that Thursday, early enough that you have time to wrap yourself in the fuzziest blanket you own and pad to the window to gaze out upon the city as it wakes slowly, block by block.

The city is sleepy too, rosy glow hanging lazily over the skyline, reluctant to slip into the brightness of daytime. It slumps against the skyscrapers, vibrant fingers brushing the glass with the softest caresses, whispering sweet nothings to the minds that rest just behind the other side. Perhaps dawn enjoys pampering her city like this, with the kindest affirmations and the prettiest, warmest eyes.

From your apartment window, it is as if first light is melting away, slipping lower and lower as the cracked-egg yolk of the sun leaks over the harbor, spilling over the urban jungle. As you stand, blanket around your shoulders and bathed in the beauty of early morning, a thought strikes you, a minute snippet of profound reality.

It is still on your mind as your feet cross the platform an hour later, effortlessly stepping over the gap into the narrow confines of the train car. It’s busier this morning and thus your usual seat is taken, leaving you to stand and cling for dear life to the pole. A stranger brushes your arm and someone pushes against your backpack, your throat tightening in response. Oh, how you hated busy days. Anxiety blurs your surroundings, swirling in color and breath and heat around you, an unfocused Polaroid. It is blurry and nothing is right, and the doors are opening and closing, opening and closing, and then there’s a new face pressing to your left, and your entire world melts at the very seams.

It is him. Him! He is here and real and in front of you, and has opted to completely ignore his usual (empty) seat in favor of standing with you, a kindly smile gracing the corners of his lips and he ducks his head into your field of view. His eyes flick to yours and the bokeh clears, your heart thrumming happily at the warmth they contain. His fingers grip above your own as he shifts to make sure others can flow around him; you take in that little scar on his cheek, the moles that dot his neck just under the folds of his jacket, the subtle lick of ink that dips into his collarbone. You can just make out the hum that trickles from his headphones over the rattling of the train, a melodic undertone, and his head dips to check his phone.

You’re the one to nudge Jeongguk when it’s your mutual stop, him flinching with surprise when he realizes how fast the ride has gone, and as you follow up through the station, you find that you are no longer trailing him, but instead by his side. He opts to walk next to you; when you tilt your head, asking the silent question, he merely smiles and pushes the pace just a bit. When you’re chasing sunlight on stone, borne out of the street into the mouth of the day, you find yourselves under the university gates, side by side. He takes out his earbuds, fidgeting with the wires as one foot taps the sidewalk. He’s nervous. “I just wanted to say thank you for getting my book yesterday,” he begins. “Properly thank you.”

“It’s nothing, Jeongguk!” You grin, perhaps a little flushed. “Anytime, really.”

Now it’s his turn to redden, shuffling in place. “Ah, is there anything I can do to return the favor?”

“Jeongguk, don’t be silly! Well…” you trail off. “Answer me one question. What’re you majoring in?”

He beams a little at this, glancing at the sidewalk. “I’m studying architecture here for a year; I’m from Seoul. I’m also learning English.” He winces. “Or trying to.”

“Well, I think you’re doing a great job. It’s amazing that you’re learning architecture in an urban environment like this!” You gesture above as a flock of pigeons flutters past. Like a damn Disney film.

His eyes follow the birds as they swoop above the street, ducking under lamps and through scaffolding. “It’s different from Seoul, but also like Seoul. I like it,” he confesses. “I really like the city. Any city is my city, not just Seoul. You know?”

God, he is so cute, it hurts. Hearing him talk is flowers blooming snug in your chest, winding around your nerves, soothing their live-wire ends. You can’t help but smile at him. “I know.”

“I don’t want to keep you too long…” Jeongguk hesitates as the bell in the clocktower resonates down the commons. “Class starts soon.”

You frown. “Too soon. Want to grab lunch over at Fourteenth?”

His brows furrow. “Fourteenth?”

“Fourteenth and Tenth, yeah. There’s a cute little cafe on the corner, great for people watching and Americanos. And bubble tea. There’s ramen a few shops down, too.”

“Ramen!” Jeongguk practically vibrates in excitement. You swear your face will crack from how hard you’re grinning, from shyness or joy or both. His nose scrunches; your stomach flutters. “Can I have your number? Wait, is that too direct? May I have your phone?” He shakes his head but you’re already handing him your device, a new contact at the ready.

“Text me when you get out of class. I’ll show you how real ramen is supposed to taste.”

Jeongguk raises a hand in farewell, slipping his own phone back into his pocket. You’ll never know that he saved your contact under 귀여운 여행자, nor that he suddenly has a reason to stay awake through his 8am.

And when he spots you sitting there under the Alma Mater a few hours later, his heart skips a beat in its chest. His phone vibrates in his hand.

Ready to eat?

He was born ready.

There’s a poetry book you like to read on Friday morning subway rides, one that filters breath into your lungs and stirs the lyrics in your heart. You soak up the comforts of literature with a mocha in the other hand, lo-fi in your ears, and obnoxiously colored plastic supporting your back. How wonderful life could be in all of its simple joys.

There’s warmth at your side in the form of a boy, a boy with the stars in his eyes and the galaxy in his heart who asked if he could sit next to you and with a pounding in your chest, you gladly accepted, moving your bag to your lap and returning to your Keats, singing cants of yearning all these years later.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--

No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever--or else swoon to dea—

A note is tucked into your open page, a folded piece of cream-white paper, smooth at the edges, unwrinkled. You glance up at him to find his gaze steadily fixed on a grayed gum stain, knee jumping up and down, up and down as he fingers the rip in his frayed jeans. You unfold the paper slowly, carefully.

Are you busy on Sunday afternoon? Because I’d really like to take you to an art exhibition on campus, and I think you’d look right at home among the masterpieces.

Jeongguk’s focus is on the floor and the floor alone as his stomach twists. Butterflies beat their wings against his ribcage, darting here and there, and he swears that if the train sways one more time, he may throw up his bagel right there and then.

He feels something at his right jacket pocket and flinches, only to notice it is your hand that retreats from it a second later.

He produces a familiar looking scrap of paper from his pocket with trembling fingers, unfolding it anew as he reads a new line of scribbled letters, squinting a little at the cramped figures.

An art exhibition? Sounds like a perfect first date to me.

And that’s how this beautiful thing begins.

an epilogue (of sorts): one year and one day later

There is a thought you had many moons ago, in the heart of a child but nestled in a timeless soul. A thought that was purely fantasy: of mankind supporting the weight of the heavens with the structures that scratch the sky around your tiny little apartment, shared not by one soul, but two. Never before had someone so fallen into your heart like he had, cradling it in his palms with sweet, sweet adoration. Jeongguk was yours and you were his, and that was simply how things were.

You had moved in shortly after you began dating, a decision some criticized but had felt purely natural to the both of you. It was easy to fall into a rhythm with him, easy to let him into the world you had built for yourself now expanding to fit one more.

He introduced you to Korean barbecue and held you when things wouldn’t go your way; you dragged him into the vortex of John Mulaney’s comedy and cried together while binging all seven Harry Potter movies in two days. He taught you some Korean while you polished his English, supplementing it with words he perhaps didn’t need to know, but you couldn’t help laughing when he mashed profanities in brand-new combinations. He loved tea and quiet nights on the couch; you craved the intimate moments high above it all, watching your city rush beneath you in all of its gritty, grimy, wonderful glory. Jeongguk’s pen scratches the page of his sketchbook as you gaze out at the lights that flicker in the apartment buildings seated securely in midtown, downtown, beyond.

We will never know when the sky decides to fall, to come crashing down to earth in all of her heavenly splendor. It is something known only in the fabric of the universe, stitched together in cosmic threads we cannot even hope to unravel. Not yet, anyways. It will come to us eventually, when it is time, comfortably so. In the meantime, you’ll look out over the balcony railing of your little studio apartment uptown, the night air breathing clear, with a blanket wrapped around your legs and Jeon Jeongguk by your side, unceasingly himself.

And that is everything you can ask for in this life and the next.

#bts #bts fluff #kpop fluff #jungkook fluff #kpop fanfiction #kpop scenario #bts au #verses and vibes #outroshooky #guksheart

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roseskiesandbutterflies · 4 years

Text

Loverboy (Jimercury Oneshot)

Summary: Jim goes to Heaven to find the man that's been tormenting his mind for almost a week. (The description is really bad so please just read it it's better than it sounds.)

A/N: This was sponsored by Loverboy by Adam Lambert which I recommend listening to and also to my sheer lack of impulse control. I hope you're all well and that you have a good rest of your day. Get some sleep if you need it, drink some water if you can and treat yourself because you deserve it. This is not optional. Let me know what you thought because my muse likes feedback, leave a like or perhaps reblog if you feel like it and maybe check out my other semi-decent works?? OK, enjoy my darlings.

Warning(s): alcohol, swearing, implied sexual content (OK why did I write it like that since when am I that posh)

Word Count: 2.2k+

Inspiration: Effervescent by @immistermercury on AO3, Loverboy by Adam Lambert, Mercury And Me by Jim Hutton

Taglist: @bhmay @briarrose26 @bijoukitty

Ask to be on my taglist!

Jim had thought Heaven would be a bit more exciting on a Friday night, if he was being as brutally honest as usual. It wasn’t somewhere he frequented much, preferring the atmospheres of the smaller clubs further south of London. For someone who wasn’t typically one to approach people first, large clubs were somewhat intimidating. He wasn’t the type of guy to buy men drinks out of the blue, to put himself in others’ personal bubbles with a smile that could do him all sorts of favours later on in the night. No, Jim would much rather people-watch with his pint of lager that never left his line of vision, something you’d expect from a patron of a coffee shop, not of a gay nightclub. Jim had adopted the philosophy that if anyone noticed and fancied the look of him, then they would go to him first. Although it was that kind of attitude that left you with a certain sense of disappointment and loneliness while sitting in the back of a taxi at four in the morning, only to take you to an even more disappointing and lonely flat and an even more disappointing and lonely bed.

This time, Jim was hellbent on not feeling anything of the sort tonight, and while that was largely down to amount of alcohol he’d drunk merely one hour into his evening, it did give him a certain air of confidence that made him almost unrecognisable. They don’t call it ‘liquid luck’ for nothing, Jim supposed as he made his way to the bar.

Heaven had a particular vibe about it that Jim found near enough impossible to pin down. It was an unspoken rite of passage, for you sure as hell didn’t get men looking to experiment down there, men who were just on the wrong side of naivety, men who weren’t gay but just in case, you never know. Men like that would get eaten alive in Heaven; ones with all sorts of bad intentions tended to lurk around the larger clubs. It wasn’t sinister, per se, but it was a bit much if you weren’t quite too sure what you were doing.

Heaven was almost always full to the brim with people, but despite that it was weirdly intimate, providing you found the right person. Jim had yet to do so but he had to give himself credit, he’d only been there for a couple of minutes. He ordered his drink, trying his best to not let the shock show on his face when he found out just how expensive drinks were at Heaven, and surveyed the scene before him. It wasn’t overly exciting, everyone in his line of vision seemed to already have someone, or in some cases multiple someones. For now, he decided to let himself be absorbed into the unique atmosphere, the deafening yet grounding music that vibrated through his very core, the fluorescent lights that illuminated what needed to be highlighted and created shadows over what needed to be hidden.

Jim couldn’t help but let his eyes drift over the sea of men surrounding him. He supposed he should have felt trapped or perhaps claustrophobic in his little corner, everywhere he looked he could see people who had yet to clock his presence. But it was just that, the fact that no one had even bothered to clock that he was there, that no one had even thrown him a glance, that made him feel somewhat isolated, something he never felt in his regular clubs. He was fighting every instinct in himself to finish his drink and go, to just forget that this evening had started in such a way, because he forced himself to remember why he was there in the first place.

That man. That one man who had somehow managed to stumble into his café on a bleak Sunday morning, still drunk from the night before and clearly not having slept yet. Why else do people go to artisan cafés at six in the morning, ask for the most lucrative drink Jim had ever heard of and then for the barista’s number because he looked simply ravishing, darling. As you can probably imagine, early morning shifts weren’t exactly busy, especially not on a Sunday of all days, and the man was just so eager to talk and inadvertently reveal half of his life story, Jim couldn’t find it in himself to let the rather interesting conversation die. He’d even offered to make him a cure for the inevitable hangover he was going to get after he eventually went to sleep. They’d talked about everything and nothing for a good two hours, until the lethargic customers looking for their pre-work coffees trickled in and heavily mumbled their never-changing orders. It was at that point when Jim had chased the man out with a tea towel and a message of get some damn sleep, for God’s sake, and once he was back behind the counter the stranger poked his head round the door to say the name’s Freddie, by the way, Freddie Mercury, before leaving for good with the sound of the bell above the door being the only thing left of his presence. Well, that, the innumerable empty cups he’d left on his table by the window and the smile etched onto Jim’s face that stayed there for the rest of the day.

At one point, Freddie had let slip that he’d been drinking with some friends at Heaven for most of the night, and that it was somewhere he went most evenings. So, Jim had taken a risk and gone on that Friday night, hoping to see his mystery man again.

He scanned over the club again and started to lose hope, even if Freddie was there, it was so dark he might struggle to see him. And even if he did, what would he do? Would Freddie even want to see him? Did he even remember him? He was rather drunk at the time, oh God what if he saw him and he didn’t even recognise his face-

“Jim!”

He snapped his head to the right so fast; he almost pulled a muscle in his neck. There he was, positively glowing under the lights that would have washed anyone else out, clad in the tightest leather, under the arm of another man. Jim’s stomach dropped about ten feet, but he refused to let that spoil his evening. Besides, he didn’t think he was capable of raining on Freddie’s oh-so-sunny parade. He forced a smile onto his face, “Freddie, hi!”

Freddie tugged on the arm of his companion like an incessant child, “Paul, this is the guy I told you about! He owns the café down the road!” His voice was so full of excitement, Jim could tell he was a little bit tipsy already, but the joy was genuine.

“I don’t own it, I just work there,” he justified, squirming a bit under intensive stare of Freddie’s friend. He knew that look, the one of suspicion, the one of I don’t know who you are, but I can’t trust you yet. Jim couldn’t find it in himself to blame him for that. He may have been trying to find reasons to hate Paul, but he just put it down to the jealousy that he knew he should be trying to rein in.

Freddie was oblivious to this, or at least was pretending to be for the sake of keeping the peace, “Oh shush, darling, you seemed pretty in charge when I was there.”

“That was only because I was the only one working at the time,” he said, feeling his smile become a bit more real and suddenly remembering why he was there in the first place. He was chasing this feeling of pure elation, this feeling of finally living that he hadn’t yet felt in the two months he’d been living in London.

“Enough of this boring stuff,” Freddie ducked out of Paul’s grasp and grabbed Jim’s free hand, “I want to dance,” his eyes sparkled, and Jim was sure it wasn’t from the lights overhead. Freddie quickly turned to Paul and said, “A glass of rosé for me, darling,” before tapping his arm and leading Jim through the crowd, leaving Paul with his lips parted in disbelief and in a state strongly reminiscent of a dead fish.

Further into the club, they had found a small space to dance. Freddie had his arms looped loosely around Jim’s neck and Jim had his hands tentatively on Freddie’s waist and their foreheads were practically touching because there wasn’t much space to do anything else. He couldn’t help but wonder if Freddie had chosen such a space on purpose, and he had no idea if he was just being hopeful or if he was actually onto something. He wasn’t all too sure where Freddie was going with this. He’d assumed that him and Paul were a thing, but they hadn’t actually done anything to suggest such a thing. He didn’t want to be seen as the guy who wrecks a relationship because he’s too selfish to think about the consequences of his actions. He knew he shouldn’t care about a man he’d met less than a week ago but when you’re practically alone in a city like London, you can’t help but cling to the first person who gives you even the slightest bit of attention.

This kind of attention was different, though. Jim wasn’t blind to the way Freddie looked at him, he knew exactly what that look meant and it sent shivers down his spine every time they locked eyes. Freddie leaned in closer, if that was even possible, and whispered in his ear, “You’re thinking too much, darling. You need to let yourself go.” Freddie pulled back and looked at Jim through his eyelashes, who in turn got goose bumps just from his tone of voice alone. It was honey, smooth and sweet, slipping into his mind and giving him a feeling that he didn’t think any drink or drug could top. He could feel himself slipping into a certain state of mind that felt softer than silk and tasted sweeter than sugar. He could lose himself in just the image of Freddie dancing like that, of Freddie holding him like that, and he was so damn grateful that he could have this all to himself, even if was only for one night.

Jim tried to come back to his senses, even though he wanted nothing more than to surrender them all to the man before him, “What do you want from me, Freddie? You already came here with someone.”

Freddie chuckled lightly, letting his eyes drift away before coming back to the bubble he’d created with Jim and had no intention of popping just yet, “Paul? No, he’s dull, darling. You on the other hand,” he paused for effect, looking Jim up and down before coming back to his ear, “You’re positively edible.”

Jim embraced the closeness for a second, not allowing himself to indulge in it for a moment longer or he would have been gone with no return, “I’m serious. I don’t want to be a game to you, I want to be more than that.”

Freddie breathed deeply, taking in Jim’s aura, “Paul thinks it’s more serious than it is, I don’t really care about him so neither should you. But this? I could get used to this, if you’ll let me,” he looked up at him again, the essence of faux innocence. Jim knew what he was asking, he could read between the lines, and gave him his answer by closing the gap between them.

The kiss was soft, it was slow, they were savouring every second for what it was worth. They had nowhere else to be, and if they did, they didn’t let it cross their minds for neither of them had ever experienced anything like this and they weren’t sure if they ever would again. It wasn’t perfect by any means, you can’t expect too much from a kiss in the middle of a nightclub, but it was so addictive and so different and so new and so exciting and just so human. It was that feeling that you never knew you wanted but once you tasted it for the first time, you just craved more and more and more.

When Jim finally pulled away, just wanting to see in Freddie’s eyes if he wanted it as much as he did, he found himself gasping slightly from the intensity of the look. It wasn’t like the one he’d gotten from Paul earlier, it was one so full of desire and passion, it was everything he’d been hoping for and more. He couldn’t stop himself from stealing another kiss, just a short one that promised so much more, before doing as Freddie had said only moments ago; he lost himself in the deafening music and the blinding lights and Freddie’s eyes.

And when he woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and Freddie in his arms, he was so glad that Freddie had stumbled into his life at six o’clock on a Sunday morning.

#jim hutton #Freddie mercury #jimercury #queen #queen fanfiction #jim hutton fanfiction #Freddie mercury fanfiction #queen imagine

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harryxmac · 5 years

Text

Small City Girl - Part Two

Y/N had tripled checked everything. She had everything, she hoped.

Two strong knocks echoed through her small apartment at 3 in the morning. With just the tiniest spring in her step, she walked towards the door.

Opening it up, she found Harry, looking cosier than ever, and she had to admit that her heart fluttered just a little.

“Morning, you” He smiled with his voice all raspy and rugged.

“Morning” She smiled leaning forwards and giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

The kiss on the cheek lingered, just slightly longer than a normal one would though. A tight little grin on each other their lips once she leant back.

“You all prepared, love?” He smiled peeking his head around the door to find her suitcase for the long weekend ahead.

Y/N pulled the suitcase that was on four wheels round the corner.

“Yep”

Without even thinking grasped her suitcase and waited for her to collect her things.

Her handbag, coat and keys in hand she left the cosy apartment with a click of the door.

Upon getting into the car, Y/N had noticed three things. A blanket on her seat, two coffee’s in the cup holder and two USB IPhone chargers.

“Brought you the blanket, m’ freezing so imagined you would be too” He smiled settling himself into the car and getting the heat going.

“We’re meeting the others there, shouldn’t be too behind, Nialls only just left, coffee for you to. M’know you’re a barista, but by m’standards it’s pretty decent” He smiled.

Y/N would like to say she was shocked, but she couldn’t find herself to be.

She knew he was a kind and thoughtful man through all that Jeff and Glenne has mentioned, but for her? That she was surprised at.

“You didn’t have to do that, really thoughtful of you, thank you.”Y/N thanked.

Harry shrugged it off as if he hadn’t texted Glenne asking for Y/N’s favourite coffee place that was open as early as they were awake, or asked Glenne if she was a blanket or hoodie person.

But, Y/N showed her appreciation, she hoped.

“And thank you for offering the lift and the room too, really helps.” Y/N smiled.

She could feel herself blushing a little and quickly tried to think about something else other than the loose jumper that hung upon his shoulders, or his scent of Dior Sauvage that surrounded the car walls with help from the heating.

His face. Looked soft and smooth, she almost wanted to reach out and caress it with the palm of her hand, just to see how it felt.

Or just to get her thumb and ever so gently run it over his bottom lip that was just the right shade and perfectly plumped.

Harry looked so undeniably fit focusing on the road, making driving look so effortlessly easy.

Y/N couldn’t help herself but think about what this drive to Paris would be like if they were together.

Harry would hold her right thigh with his strong hand once they’d got onto the motorway and he didn’t have to worry about turning or changing gear.

And maybe he’d lift her hand up and press the tiniest kiss upon it when she looked a little spaced out, or maybe he’d talk about what he was up to the week after so she knew what he was doing.

“T’hought it would be a good idea for you to ride with me, so I can get to know y’little” He smiled, still focusing on the road.

Y/N snapped out of her stare and smiled.

“Yeah, that’s lovely, m’still trying to get to know everyone really” Y/N draped the blanket over herself and snuggled up a little bit, trying to get as comfortable as she could.

“So, you work at that cute coffee place in Mayfair right?” He asked, shuffling his bum slightly in his seat. His Range Rover was roomy and comfortable for the pair of them.

“Yeah, been there two years now, I’m happy, doing a few classes at the Open Uni.” Y/N reached over to the console where she would pour a sugar packet in the Flat White and thanked Harry once more.

“Yeah, I’ve been there a few times, really like their coffee. And I remember you mentioning at Nialls, human resources right?” He enquired.

“Yeah, I’ve served you a few times” Y/n chuckled to herself, but Harry was blushing red raw at the embarrassment he hadn’t noticed her before or even remembered.

“But, yeah. Human resources, I love there’s so much to learn and I find it interesting” She smiled sipping her coffee and moving a strand of her hair behind her ear.

The roads rushed by them on the motorway, the low hum of the radio filled their silence. Harry couldn’t believe he would be so stupid to not even notice her at the coffee shop.

Granted, he had been there a number of times that he could count on his two hands, but why hadn’t he noticed the small city girl who had been consuming his thoughts over the past couple of weeks?

____________________

Harry had found a few things out about Y/N, he almost took pride in the fact that he knew little things about her now.

Like how she has to have a cup of tea before bed. She washes her sheets twice a week because she loves the feeling and smell of fresh sheets when she gets into bed, she doesn’t drink because it makes her feel funny, and her skin break out, but shes often tempted with a cosmo or five.

Equally, Y/N loved getting to know Harry through him himself and not some sleezy tabloid that wants to project anything bad about him. She liked how he was a candle fanatic, visited his Mum often, how his favourite scent is vanilla too, when he goes on tour he always takes a blanket from home so that he has a home comfort or even how his nose twitches so often and he doesn’t even realise it.

After everyone had met at the Eurostar and expressed their excitement to one another, Harry and Y/N had retreated back to the warmth of his car and were listening to one of Y/N chill playlists.

“Do you ever wish you weren’t famous?” Y/N blurts out before she even has time to think.

Harry pauses for a minute contemplating his answer.

“I do, to keep my family out of the spotlight, to provide security to know I can go to the shops and just go to the shops, or to like someone and it not be international tabloid gold.” Harry pauses, taking a breath, wanting to word this correctly.

Y/N had sensed he wasn’t done and allowed him to have his little time to think, to collect.

“But, it’s given me opportunities of a lifetime, and whilst it comes with responsibility and troubles, I’ve been able to support my family, give large amounts to charity, travel, show me Mum the world, experience feelings that you could only feel when you’re in this line of work”

Y/N turned in her chair to face Harry. She rubbed her tired face and paid close attention to him.

“I dated a girl a couple of months ago, was completely about the money and fame. But, she was so good, so good at making me believe that I meant something, that she deeply felt for me and that I was it for her.” Harry’s voice croaked talking so openly about his found heartbreak to a girl who he’s pretty sure he now fancies.

“I thought she was forever, she told I was for her, but she wasn’t. Sold stories on me that I never dreamed she would’ve. Going through heartbreak in the public eye is humiliating.”

Y/N wanted to comfort Harry, she could now see through his strong personality and happy demeanor that he was hurt, he desperately loved a girl who didn’t love him back.

Y/N reached her hand out to clasp around his. She softly ran her thumb over his knuckles. Harry turned his head slightly to catch a glimpse of her.

She looked so relaxed and snug in his passenger seat, with the blanket from his sofa and the jumper she stole after he moaned he was hot and she was cold.

In a way, despite Harry mentioning how he had his heart broken, he felt, just for a moment, that Y/N and he were a couple, going to Disney, and were desperately in love with one another.

So, Harry capped the conversation and revelled in that a little bit. Because since the first day that Amelia walked out, he felt content and bubbly at the sight of a woman, especially Y/N, looking so dotingly at him.

__________

“This room is so cute! Looks, they left us little teddies!” Y/N exclaimed running over to the beds and grabbing the Minnie and Mickey, Harry smiled and brought both of their suitcases in.

“Yeh ready to meet up with everyone? We’re gonna go do Space Mountain” Harry gleamed placing his suitcase by the bed that Y/N wasn’t currently laying on, stuffing her face with pillow chocolates.

“Yeah, come here, try one of these!” Harry walks over smiling at the cuteness she radiates. Grinning widely, Harry tried to seem uninterested in the confectionary Y/N held between her finger tips.

He couldn’t help but gleam inside when she motioned for him to open his mouth, allowing her to pop in the chocolate. Harry took the chocolate and ate it slowly.

“That’s good” He smiled.

“Good, that’s pretty good damn chocolate I’d say.” Y/N replied pinching the ones off of his bed and popping them on her side of the bed side table. Harry rolled his eyes and grabbed her scarf that she had thrown on the chair by the desk and threw it at her.

The scarf hit her face plushly and fell to her lap.

“If you think that’s good chocolate, then I need to take you out and show you proper chocolate.” Harry said with a raise of his eyebrows, slipping on his warmer boots and getting his hat from his bag.

“You want to take me out for chocolate” Y/N stated.

“I want to take you out for chocolate”

“As a date?”

Harry pondered for a minute, debating whether to go through with this after all he had mentioned about Amelia in the car.

But he remembered what his Mum had said.

“I would love to.”

Y/N rose from her bed and leant up to kiss his cheek.

“Yeah, suppose I could do that, now come on, I want to ride Space Mountain” Y/n urged, pulling his hand and him out the room towards reception to meet the rest of their gang.

_______________________

“A date. For chocolate?” Glenne repeated.

“That has to be the cutest thing ever” Emi added.

“Just to go get chocolate?” Lux enquired.

Y/N laughed. Waiting for the Buzz Lightyear ride, the girls were questioning Y/N about their drive, and clearly Y/N had to spill the chocolate date.

“Will you be quiet, he’s gonna hear us. Don’t want him thinking I’m crazy before I even smell the chocolate” She bantered.

“Oh, hush, he’s not even listening.” Glenne insisted.

Y/N turned to look at Harry who was standing with the boys. He looked daringly handsome. It was slightly cold out, being late November and all, but he made cold look effortlessly stylish, much like everything else he did in life.

Harry felt someone looking at him, looking up in front of him, he caught Y/N eyes. Sending her a quick wink before turning to nod at something Niall had said.

_______

The second time that they had a little moment for themselves at the park with everyone was when they were lining up for Tower of Terror, a few girls had noticed him in the line and he took quick photos with them and discussed light subjects whilst they all shuffled round the queues.

But everyone seemed to be in their little conversations and Harry was needing a little bit of attention, and affection…

“C'mere” He beckoned. Y/N, wrapped up all snug walked closer to Harry and Harry opened his arms wide for Y/N and she seemed to slot in them perfectly.

“Cold?” He asked. Y/N nodded nuzzling her head a bit further into Harry’s chest. Harry felt it was the right moment to press a soft kiss to her head and he gripped her a little tighter.

“After this, I’ll get you a hot chocolate” Harry said rubbing the small of his back with his large hands.

Y/N lifted her head. “Whipped cream and marshmallows?”

Harry nodded.

He began to think about the fans, and how if they saw him cuddled up with Y/N, what they would think?

Would they send her hate? Would they like her? Should he warn her? He can’t just push her off and say ‘let’s talk about it later’.

Rather, Harry took his Mum advice again. He wanted to live in the moment, cuddled up to a girl he kinda fancied.

After the ride, passing Y/N her hot chocolate, Harry felt a warmth within himself, unlike his outer body, that was freezing. Y/N and Harry sat on the wall, despite Y/N informing Harry that’s how you catch piles.

Hardy laughed and shuffled his body closer to Y/N. “Hot chocolate good?” He asked.

Y/N nodded. “Hit the spot” she smiled leaning in a nudging him slightly.

Hardy leaned in to, thankful for the affection

For them both, time seemed to slow right down and nothing around them seemed to matter as their lips slowly encased one another’s.

Harry tilted his head in order for their noses not too bump and their noses collided that ever so roughly, in their defence it was cold and they couldn’t feel their lips.

But never the less, their lips touched and encased one another’s, Y/N moaned a little, she was craning her neck, so she shuffled closer to Harry to kiss him a little better.

Hardy reached his hand over, the one that wasn’t holding a warm beverage and placed it on Y/N’s blushed cheeks, deepinging the kiss they shared.

“Y/N?! Harry!!?”

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry #harry styles smut #styles #harrystyles #daddy harry styles #harry gifs #harry manip #harry x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfics #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction

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prairiesongserial · 5 years

Text

Windfield Pass 8

With the town in sight, Owl was overflowing with energy. She ran ahead through the meadows, so far that Agnes could only see her by the tip of her hat. However, she stopped to pick every flower she saw, so that Agnes was able almost to catch up to her before Owl sprinted off again.

The school had just let out for the afternoon, and as Agnes and Owl drew closer, they could see children pouring out of the schoolhouse and down the paths that would take them to the many farmhouses surrounding town.

“Can I?” Owl asked, bubbling with excitement.

“I don’t see why not,” said Agnes.

Owl disappeared down the lane, trying to catch up to the children who were walking in a clump toward the center of town. Compared to the Windfield children, Owl was dressed provincially, and Agnes wondered if Willa and Ben’s plan had been doomed to fail from the start. Windfield had a tailor. Windfielders had buttons on their clothes. Only colony kids dressed like Owl, wearing long, loose shirts cinched at the waist with a gathered, pull-string skirt that could be let out with every growth spurt.

But as Agnes watched, Owl seemed to fit in just fine. The school kids were a couple years older than her, but they shared the ball they were bouncing down the road, and soon the lot of them were fast friends. Agnes trailed behind. She wasn’t sure where she should take her query about Owl - to a farming family, a prosperous one, that could use the extra hand? But there was less chance of her getting an education on the outskirts. The mayor, perhaps?

Agnes was still turning the question over when the baker spotted her through his window and hurried out to meet her. He was a stout, friendly man about five Agnes’s senior, named Paul.

“Dr. Hopper, you’re back sooner than expected,” he exclaimed. “Run out of jam cookies already?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m here.” Agnes spared Owl a glance. She was getting farther ahead, but it wasn’t hard to track a person down in a small town like Windfield. She’d turn up at someone or other’s dinner table. “That little one, there, in the hat - what do you think of her?”

“Awfully small to be in school,” Paul said. “Whose is she?”

Agnes had put some thought into what her answer would be. Owl needed a cover story, but one that would be difficult to verify.

“She’s an orphan I picked up in Pickton,” Agnes said easily. “They had a tight harvest this year, and asked if I might ask around here for someone to take her in.”

“Pickton? You’ve only been gone three days, four days? It would take you at least that long to get to Pickton. And I thought you were going...home.”

The way he said home was more than a little disapproving, but Agnes chose not to remark on it. “I had intended to stop in Harehaven, but I could see from the pass that there were too many muties on the move. I cut south, and happened upon a motorist, who graciously offered me a ride to Pickton.”

“Motorist?” Paul said, almost alarmed. Windfield and its neighbors were so far out of the way that a motorist was a rare occurrence, and usually accompanied by gang trouble.

“Just a farmer, by the look of her. She drove us halfway here, as thanks for taking the orphan girl.”

Paul only then remembered Owl.

“The orphan, that’s right, that’s right…”

“Your family doesn’t need any more help, does it?” Agnes said.

“Not from one that young, I’m afraid. Our hands are full enough.” Paul paused in thought. “Why don’t you take her to Marge? She knows the in and out of everything, and that’s her daughter, there, the tall one.”

Agnes squinted down the road. The gaggle of students had thinned as the children passed by their own homes. Now there were only two other girls.

“Thank you,” Agnes said, taking after them. “And I’ll be sure to be back for more cookies.”

“Any time, Dr. Hopper.”

Agnes lagged behind the girls as they made their way through town. Being the town’s only doctor afforded a certain amount of trust, more so than Windfield would afford any other traveller, even a traveling musician or clown who was known by the town. But being the doctor, that had overwritten even her contamination by association with Harehaven. It was a good sign that Paul had believed her about Owl. With any luck, the rest of the town would take her word as well.

The tallest of the schoolgirls - Marge’s daughter - stopped to flirt with a young man loitering outside the tailor’s shop. Agnes recognized him as the tailor’s son, and suspected that he had run out on his chores at just this time of day on purpose.

Agnes caught up to Owl, who gave her a surreptitious thumbs up. One of the remaining girls was a little closer to Owl in age, and was teaching her how to make a web out of a circle of string caught between her hands.

Marge’s daughter, whose name Agnes could not remember for the life of her, was in the middle of receiving a silk flower from the tailor’s son. It looked a bit clumsy - the boy might have made it himself. He was trying to fasten it to her lapel and every time he stuck her, the poor girl winced in silence, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

“Thank you for walking with Owl, here,” Agnes said to the younger girl with the string. “What’s your name?”

“She’s Mer’dith, and she says she has more strings at home, and she’ll give one to me so I can practice Jacob’s ladder,” Owl interjected.

“And that’s Ruthie, only she likes being called just Ruth now,” said Meredith matter of factly. “She’s gonna be ‘gaged, or that’s what Mrs. Marge says.”

Ruth flushed to the tips of her ears, as did the tailor’s son, who promptly stuck her again.

“I see,” said Agnes, turning to Ruth. “Mrs. Marge is your mother, correct? I’m Dr. Hopper. I’ve been instructed to speak with her. Would you mind showing me the way?”

“Yes, M’am,” Ruth said, and shyly took the silk flower away from the tailor’s son before he did any permanent damage. She walked briskly ahead, so that Owl and Agnes both struggled to keep pace. Her house wasn’t far, as Windfield wasn’t a particularly large town. The house was on a slim lane just off the main street, and was built at an unfortunate slant that looked quite unsafe. It leaned toward its neighbor almost comically, as if it were putting an ear up to the walls.

Ruth opened her front door, calling “Mama?” as she led Agnes and Owl inside. Meredith had hung around as well, perhaps because there was not likely to be anything more interesting to do at home. And all the better that she had: Meredith and Owl had become fast friends, and Meredith was taking the brunt of her questions. Owl explored the little parlor with fascination, at once jumping on the sofa and hollering “What is this?” only to be distracted seconds later by the clock on the mantle, then the vase of dried eucalyptus standing next to it.

“Mama, we have visitors,” Ruth called, perhaps unnecessarily.

“Heavens, you should have said you were bringing a guest, I would have had something to eat ready. Oh, shoot, the kettle - ” The sound of agitated bustling could be heard from the kitchen, and Agnes continued past the young ladies to speak with Marge. Agnes stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching silently for a moment as Marge fussed with a book of matches, trying to light the stove. Marge was a plump woman with red cheeks and red knuckles, and though Agnes had never known her name, she recognized her as a familiar face of Windfield. She was usually to be found near the water pump, animatedly offering her opinion on the goings on in town.

“Sorry to intrude,” Agnes said, and Marge gasped and dropped her match. Agnes paused. “And to startle you.”

Agnes supposed she must have a fairly startling appearance, presently. After days in the wilderness, sleeping in caves, and all that after having been soaked in the river, she was well worn with travel. And she was a stringy creature to start with, old and haggard, a form less suited to parlors and more to skulking in back alleys. Or so she had come to think of herself.

“Heavens, who are you? You aren’t that nice boy Reginald.”

“I’m afraid not,” Agnes replied. “I’m here to speak with you regarding some unusual business, but I’ve been told you are the person in the know.”

This was exactly what Marge wanted to hear, it seemed. She brightened at once. Her expression turned only slightly less bright at the sound of Owl launching herself from one piece of furniture onto another.

“Well, you’re quite welcome, do make yourself comfortable,” Marge said. “I’ll be out presently with a bit to eat - you look famished. Who do you have out there with you?”

“Meredith and - well, and the topic of conversation. A young girl.”

Marge looked very interested at that. She puttered between the cupboard and the ice box, and hollered for Ruth to fetch the nice tea cups from the pantry, as the kettle began to sing. Agnes hovered in the parlor, watching Owl and Meredith play on the floor with a pair of dolls Ruth had unearthed for them. Owl touched every seam of the doll reverently, as if she couldn’t quite believe that something so wonderful could be made of cloth and thread. That really brought Agnes back. She could feel herself becoming increasingly invested in finding Owl a placement in Windfield, despite her misgivings, as if giving Owl a proper doll would heal her own bereft childhood.

“Oh, my, you’re a little one,” Marge said as she entered the parlor with a full platter of cheese and pastry. “Eat up, all of you, eat.”

She settled in an overstuffed pink chair while Ruth brought in the tea and poured everyone a cup. Agnes hadn’t realized how sorely she had missed a hot drink, and relished every sip. Owl, meanwhile, forgot the doll at once at the sight of a meal. She crowded the coffee table and began to pile shortbread cookies into her skirt.

Agnes tapped her hand, setting her tea down for a second.

“Take cheese too. And try this, this is cured meat.”

Owl gave her a withering look, but took exactly one piece of cheese, then carried her bounty back over to Meredith and the dolls.

“Now, tell me what this is all about,” said Marge, as Agnes returned to her tea. “Who’s this little girl?”

“I’m Owl. I’m four,” Owl said. Then, promptly, she shoved another cookie in her mouth, freeing up her hands to play.

“Owl, now that’s a strange name,” Marge said. “Where is she from?”

“Pickton. She’s an orphan, and…”

“Right, right, I see,” Marge said, nodding. “And you’d like to know where to place her in Windfield. That’s a tough question...there’s always the farms, if only she were a little older. But a real little one like that...let me think about it.”

Marge closed her eyes, nodding her head slowly. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open.

“She’s not mutated, is she? That’ll be a deal-breaker.”

“No, she’s not,” Agnes said curtly.

“Well, Anna down at the general store has been trying to conceive without any luck, so you might ask her. Apart from her, let me think… Henry might take her. He and Rafael are in a bit of a bind financially, this year, but they’d be good parents.”

“That would be wonderful. Do you mind introducing us?”

“Oh, of course. But finish your tea first - please, eat some pastry.” Marge continued on about the ins and outs of the people in town, only some of whom Agnes knew by name. Hilda had started construction on an aqueduct, but had had to stop for the winter. The town mason had recently taken sabbatical to study her trade out west near the Idaho border - apparently the mill in Teton Town was of more efficient design - but she was back now, as of just last week.

“Oh, and a band of feral cats got into Lizzy Borton’s kitchen and tore down her nice lace curtains,” Marge continued, talking into her tea cup. “She suspects foul play, but then again, she always does.”

Agnes slowly sipped her tea and watched Owl get along with Meredith. She seemed happy, playing on the floor. This might have been her first time in a house with an upstairs, but after a few minutes of exploration, it was as if she had been living in houses all her life. She was young enough, Agnes supposed, that she could still accept new experiences easily. She had not seemed particularly surprised by Selkie or the caves, either.

When tea was finished, Marge got dressed for the cold, and the lot of them - minus Ruth, who had chores to attend to - made for the general store to speak with Anna. Owl hung back with Meredith. That was good. It would make leaving easier. Easier on Owl, at least.

Agnes hadn’t spared much thought to how it would feel to leave Owl behind, or where she would go next. She supposed she should make the trek down to Pickton in time for influenza season, but just thinking of more travel made her joints ache. One day she wasn’t going to be able to make her circuit anymore. Already, these past few years, she had felt the strain of pushing herself too far. With each passing season, she spent more time recovering from travel and less time administering to the townspeople. Agnes had spun the roulette wheel, so to speak, and would one day be stuck wherever it stopped. Would it be a humble colony like Harehaven, barely able to support an old doctor? Or a larger town like Windfield? Would she be resented? It might not be so bad to retire if she could visit with Owl, and if the town remembered her fondly for the work she had done.

“Here’s the general store, now,” Marge announced. “Anna, Anna dear, it’s Marge, I have Dr. Hopper with me to talk about you-know-what.”

Anna, a flush-faced, harried young woman, popped her head out the door and gave Marge a severe look.

“No one can tell you anything in confidence, Marge Whimble,” she snipped. But she held the door open for the lot of them to come inside. The general store wasn’t too busy, though a large man with a mustache was doing inventory along the back wall.

Owl circled the place, peering into barrels and touching the shelves and their contents, from jarred foods to candles to matches. Meredith quickly pulled her away from the breakables, explaining the rules to Owl, as well as the concept of “you break it, you buy it.”

“Just do keep your voice down,” Anna said, tearing her eyes away from the young ones and looking expectantly at Agnes.

“Well,” said Agnes. “I’ve learned from Marge that you may be interested in raising a young child. This is Owl, she’s an orphan from Pickton looking for a placement.”

Agnes stepped aside so that Owl could be seen properly. She was exploring a barrel of dried kidney beans with utter relish, giggling to Meredith.

“Can I have these?” Owl said, jumping in place. “Agnes, can I have these?”

Anna seemed to have been robbed of breath. She knelt by Owl to get a good look at her, and Owl immediately took her hands out of the barrel and tucked them behind her back.

“Hi, Owl. I’m Anna,” she said. “You’re from Pickton?”

“I guess,” said Owl quietly.

“She’s not, she’s from the mutie waste, she told me,” Meredith piped in. “She said she’s friends with them.”

“With...who?” Anna said, standing.

“With muties. And she had to hide in a tree from one of them, but then it didn’t eat her after all, and instead it dragged them through the river to its secret lair, and they came through the caves, and it still didn’t eat them, probably because it smelled the mutie waste on ‘em.”

Agnes stood speechless.

Windfield Pass 7 || Windfield Pass 9

#story

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vino-and-doggos · 6 years

Text

Duality, chapter 3

Read on AO3

Chapter Length: 3935 words (full length so far: 11,402)

Rated: E

Status: Incomplete (3/?)

Summary: Roy Mustang is a young man, dealing with his burgeoning sexuality, a difficulty alchemy teacher and his hard-set daughter, and a good-looking cadet that also likes quiche.

Shout out to @flourchildwrites for rewording and comma fixes. She’s kind of the best. (And she needs some love. Go read her stuff.)

Chapter 3: Antagony and Alchemy

Roy awoke with a start. Not a nightmare. Not his alarm shrieking. Just in an unfamiliar place.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to slow his racing heart. As soon as he started to calm down, however, he remembered that he had to meet with Master Hawkeye. Fuck. Was he late on his first day?

Roy scrambled out of bed, acutely aware that the taupe curtains on the four-poster were expelling small amounts of dust, as if indignant that they had been disturbed. Stumbling, he frantically pulled off his wrinkled pajama pants and glanced out the tallest of the windows in his room. Roy groaned, one foot still tangled in folds of fabric; the early light of day was just beginning to crack the horizon. Tendrils of pink-orange light had just started to seep through the crack in the curtains that matched the bedspread. In the pale gleam, the walls looked to be a sickly grey color - so unlike the deep, rich red of his room above the bar.

He briefly debated whether or not he should delay starting his day, but Roy’s bladder ached, demanding his full attention.

He re-situated his pants and stumbled into the hallway, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Roy was fairly certain that the bathroom was across the hall and to the left. He hesitantly approached and opened the door, and when he saw the cool blue tile, he was relieved - both physically and emotionally.

The young alchemist decided to make his way downstairs to poke around in the kitchen for some tea. As he descended the steps, he heard noise coming from the kitchen.

Roy attempted to sneak quietly down the hallway, approaching the kitchen with all the stealth of an excited labrador. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the mop of blonde hair move effortlessly around the kitchen.

“Was that really you attempting to be sneaky?” she asked, almost cruel humor evident in her voice. Miss Hawkeye hadn’t even turned around to speak to him. She just continued putting away dishes and checked on the kettle on the stove. Roy jumped at the sound of her voice.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked, almost out of reflex. At this question, Miss Hawkeye turned to look at him, a deadpan expression gracing her delicate features.

“Your footsteps are heavy, your clothes swish when you move, and I could hear you breathing.” Miss Hawkeye looked over her shoulder at him standing stunned in the doorway. “You might as well sit down. I’ll be starting breakfast in a few minutes.”

Roy slowly made his way to the small table and sat down, still regarding the back of the blonde’s head with a stupefied expression on his face. “How did you hear all of that?” There was so much noise as she continued cleaning - the clink of dishes against one another, the hiss of the gas at the stove, and the percussive sound of bubbles beginning to form as the water boiled all culminated in the quiet cacophony that was kitchen noise.

Inelegantly, Miss Hawkeye snorted. “Well, City Boy, the better question is how you think we get our meat here. I go hunting. You’d scare away a deer from five miles out with footsteps like those.”

“What’s wrong with a butcher shop?” Roy asked.

“Money,” Miss Hawkeye said shortly. “We’re not in the poorhouse, but why pay for meat when I can hunt it for the price of bullets? I do usually take it to the butcher for them to process it. He keeps the pelts as a fee.”

“Oh,” Roy intoned. He realized at that moment that he had never thought about where the goods he consumed came from. As he looked at the table in front of him, he heard Miss Hawkeye clear her throat.

“A vegetarian breakfast for you, then?” she said, not as unkindly as she had previously spoken to him, as she placed a cup of tea on the table in front of him.

Roy smiled sheepishly. “No, no, I’m sorry. I guess I just never thought about it before. Don’t feel like you have to cater to me! Thank you,” he said, nodding towards the teacup.

Miss Hawkeye raised an eyebrow at him and turned back to her task on the stove, now sizzling brightly with spicy-smelling meat in one pan and eggs in another. Roy sat and sipped his tea, oscillating between watching the girl bounce around the kitchen and taking in the rather spacious backyard through the window. As far as he could tell, the Hawkeye property extended to the tree line, a good fifty yards from the house.

Suddenly, his thoughts turned as he realized what an ungracious guest he was being. Aunt Chris would be ashamed. “Can I help you with anything?” Roy blurted, recognizing only after the words had escaped his mouth that Miss Hawkeye was putting a plate in front of him.

She looked down at his reddened face, a suspicious and questioning look marring her features. “No, not really,” she responded, a hard edge to her voice. “I’ll be right back.” With that, she dashed out of the kitchen carrying a tray with a covered plate, a teacup filled with liquid, and what Roy thought might be a sugar bowl.

He heard her ascend the stairs as he turned back to his breakfast, frowning at the short answer he received. The grimace was short-lived, however; Roy didn’t realize how hungry he was until he saw the food placed in front of him. He started to eat, still looking around and taking in his surroundings.

He hadn’t been in the kitchen last night. And it looked just like what he imagined a kitchen in a normal house would look like, he supposed. The kitchen at the bar was an industrial one, one designed to prepare food for a crowd of people all at once; Madam’s kitchen was cold, hard, and shiny. The Hawkeyes’ kitchen was more cozy, featuring a black cast iron stove along one wall and an intricately carved, coffee-colored buffet and hutch along the opposite wall. A checkerboard pattern adorned the floor.

The black and white pattern of the tile had just started to make Roy’s tired eyes dizzy when he heard Riza re-enter the kitchen.

“Do you ever get to eat breakfast with your father?” Roy casually asked.

“Sometimes,” Riza responded. “He usually sleeps in until the last minute, though. Up doing research,” she added, a hint of disdain tinting her voice.

Roy hummed in response. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, taking in the flavor of the meat - maybe pork? - before asking another question.

“I don’t mean any offense by this Miss Hawkeye, so please don’t take it as such.” A pregnant pause filled the air as Roy debated on whether or not he should continue. Master Hawkeye’s frail frame wasn’t something he felt he could ignore. “Your father doesn’t look well. Has he been sick recently?”

Miss Hawkeye seemed to deflate slightly as she sat down at the table with a plate of food. She hesitated, as though considering whether or not to even say anything at all.

“Father fell ill about three years ago. It was the same sickness that… took mama… I mean, Mother. But Father got better.” Bitterly and quietly, she said, “At least I thought he got better.” She carefully schooled her face into what might pass as indifference, letting the implication hang in the air.

The boy floundered for a moment. Dead parents he could handle. He’d been handling that on his own behalf for just about as long as he could remember. But a parent dying slowly, life and death hanging in the balance right before the young man’s very eyes? What was he supposed to think or say or do? There was one thing Roy was positive of: there was no way, on any plane of existence, that Miss Riza Hawkeye would accept any form of sympathy from him. So, he went with the optimistic route.

Clearing his throat, Roy said, “I’m sure the heat yesterday didn’t help. He’ll probably fair better as the days get milder. He’ll be able to get some more strength back before the cold sets in.”

Miss Hawkeye nodded as she lifted a bite of food to her mouth; he noticed that she didn’t look convinced.

Roy stood, reflexively taking his breakfast dishes to the sink. He scrubbed his plate and utensils, followed by his teacup. Turning to the stove, he grabbed the cast iron pans. Before the young man had made his way back to the sink, however, Miss Hawkeye maneuvered into in his path.

“Stop cleaning. That’s not something you’re expected to do.” She looked him like an alchemist - comprehending, deconstructing, and reconstructing the bits and pieces of her father’s latest apprentice. However, her gaze held no curiosity. It was uncertainty.

“It might not be expected of me,” started Roy, “ but I live here now, too. I don’t expect you to clean up after me. I’ll be as much help as I can be around the house.”

Roy heard Miss Hawkeye scoff under her breath. “Are you sure you know how?” Her eyes flitted from the pans in his hands to the soapy water in the sink.

“I helped my aunt and sisters clean since I was pretty young. I think I can handle it,” the young alchemist responded frigidly.

He noted, with some pride, that Miss Hawkeye seemed taken aback. “Do you want me to help you finish the dishes?” he inquired, an air of chilliness still permeating his tone, though it had warmed significantly in comparison to his last statement.

“I’ll wash, you dry?” the blonde grudgingly suggested.

“Sounds like a plan,” Roy responded, astonished that she agreed at all.

She looked at the pans again and said, “First thing… cast iron pans don’t go in soap. Ever.”

They worked quickly in companionable, albeit slightly awkward, silence. As Roy finished drying and stacking the last dish, he turned to Miss Hawkeye.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he started. “The last twenty-four hours have just been really overwhelming for me. Me coming here has to really throw a wrench in, well, everything.”

“Apology accepted,” she said efficiently. “I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t capable. I’ve done everything by myself for so long now that it’s just second nature.”

She didn’t actually apologize for her behavior, though, Roy noted. Not that it really matters, he thought.

“Thank you for breakfast, Miss Hawkeye.”

Eyebrows raised, she regarded the alchemist before her and hesitantly nodded.

She still doesn’t trust me. Although… Maybe this was a step in the right direction.

Just then, he heard the tell-tale sounds of movement in the bedroom above them. Realizing he only had about a half an hour before he was set to meet with Master Hawkeye, Roy excused himself to finish getting ready for the day.

He walked up the stairs contemplating the interesting meal he just shared with the youngest member of the household. Roy reached his room only to see the disheveled mess that he left the bed in as he rushed to get ready “on time” earlier.

The boy strode over to the bed with an air of determination. He straightened the sheets, comforter, and pillows and resolved that Miss Hawkeye would not be taking care of all of these chores by herself anymore. Stepping back and admiring the simple job, Roy smiled.

He approached his suitcase, resigned to unpacking later that day, and grabbed the first set of clothes he laid his hands on, and his toothbrush. He headed back towards the bathroom.

After washing his face, brushing his teeth, and changing into a new set of clothes, Roy felt ready and confident to tackle the day. He returned his belongings to his room and, glancing at the clock, realized he was due in Master Hawkeye’s study in only a few moments.

Stepping lightly, he made his way back down the stairs. My footsteps are not heavy, the apprentice thought. The young man took care to move in such a manner that wouldn’t make nearly as much sound.

Roy stopped in the doorway and found Master Hawkeye sitting at his desk.

“Well, come in. Let’s get started.”

The morning passed by either agonizingly slow or astonishingly fast depending on the mood of Master Hawkeye, and by the end of it, Roy had lost all sense of time. For hours, he remained in the center of the dimly lit study as Berthold paced the perimeter of his office. The young alchemist quickly learned to stand when answering Hawkeye’s questions and to sit and jot down what notes he possibly could when the learned man chose to lecture. Most of his notes were simply terms with “look up later” scrawled in nearly illegible writing beside it.

At times, Roy thought he was drowning; it seemed as though Master Hawkeye would question the propriety of an answer simply for the sake of doing so. Other moments, his teacher fell silent, shaky hands rummaging through the well-stocked bookshelves for a new book that he promptly tossed in Roy’s direction.

By the end of the morning, the aspiring alchemist had three more books to read, a task that would easily consume what was left of the day. Suddenly, he understood that his afternoons were not for rest or recklessness. He was expected to study - and study hard.

Around 2:00 in the afternoon, Roy and Master Hawkeye emerged from the study. The apprentice felt a hand clap him on the shoulder.

“Good work today, boy. I’m impressed with everything you managed to learn from the books alone,” the long-haired man pronounced.

Roy managed a weak smile and nod in his master’s direction. He was exhausted. And hungry. Breakfast with Miss Hawkeye seemed so far away. Master Hawkeye must have read his thoughts.

“I’ll bet there’s lunch prepared for us,” Hawkeye said as he used the hand on Roy’s shoulder to steer him towards the kitchen. Just as he suspected, there was a covered plate of sandwiches on the countertop waiting for them.

“Thank you,” Roy said meekly to the air, hoping that Miss Hawkeye would hear him, wherever she was.

After appetites had been sated, it seemed that Master Hawkeye’s daughter appeared from nowhere, only to disappear again, this time into the study with her father. While the small family converged, Roy returned to his room and unpacked his belongings. He barely managed to finish removing items from his suitcase before he heard the door to the study open and close again.

The apprentice noted that their meeting didn’t take long, but Roy couldn’t help but wonder what it was all about. He collapsed onto his bed with his notebook and pen and set out to write a letter to his aunt. He should probably let the Madam know that he made it safe and sound.

The months continued similarly. Every day, Roy would wake up and have breakfast with Miss Hawkeye. However, the conversation between the two youths remained stilted. No matter what he did, the little lady of the house refused to open up. Aunt Chris's letters counseled patience and persistence, and if there was one thing the Madam understood, it was a woman with a complicated past.

Keep trying, she wrote in her semi-regular correspondence. Her script, much like her advice, was bold and straightforward. Don't let her talk down to you, but never bite back. Little girls who were forced to grow up too fast are always too tough on the outside, Roy. Thankfully, I don't have to worry about you falling for her. William sends his regards.

After breakfast, Roy met with Master Hawkeye, and by 2:00 (but never before noon) they would break for lunch. Then, Miss Hawkeye entered the study for, what the young alchemist discovered, her own tutoring session. Roy scrambled each afternoon to complete the assigned reading. In between books, he attempted to rewrite the hastily-scrawled notes from that day’s lesson, as well as include anything that Master Hawkeye had stressed that he pay attention to during his reading. Evenings were dedicated to more shared meals between the youths of the house and leisure, though Roy would occasionally bring work that Master Hawkeye assigned. Miss Hawkeye preferred to complete her own schoolwork at the breakfast table after the meal had been cleared.

"So you're not studying alchemy with him after all. Just algebra and basic science?" Roy asked one morning over a piece of freshly baked bread. The loaf was dense, almost deflated, but he knew better than to complain. Miss Hawkeye chuckled sarcastically in response.

“I had to leave school when Mother got sick,” she said scornfully as her small fist curled into a ball. “So Father has continued to teach me.” A dark look crossed her face as her eyes traveled towards the door to Master Hawkeye’s study. Roy put another mental note in the “Master Hawkeye’s Daughter” folder: try to never be on the receiving end of that look.

The arrangement made sense when Roy stopped to think about it; if he had thought about it for more than a half a second his first night there, he probably would have made that conclusion on his own. How could Miss Hawkeye play housekeeper so well if she was also expected to attend school Monday through Friday? What he wasn’t expecting was the temper that came along with the answer or the edge to her voice that seethed with thinly-veiled disdain.

One mild November morning, Roy strolled into the kitchen and was shocked to see Master Hawkeye sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea. The young alchemist suddenly felt like the air was sucked out of the room. Was he still wearing his pajamas? Fuck. He was definitely still wearing his pajamas. Just because Hawkeye could walk around in his lounge-abouts didn’t mean that his apprentice could.

“Good morning, sir,” Roy said, careful to keep his face nonchalant, thinking poker face, poker face, poker face. Master Hawkeye had just had a talk with him the previous week about how alchemists had to protect their secrets and their research; to do that, Roy needed to learn to not show every emotion that he felt across his face. Roy was still trying to figure out what kind of research his teacher had conducted, but in the meantime, it was all about learning what he could and gaining the trust of his superior.

“Good morning, Mister Mustang,” the master responded with a nod of approval.

Miss Hawkeye, as usual, was flitting about the kitchen, getting breakfast ready. She and Roy had fallen into a pleasant rhythm over the past few months, despite conversations between them still feeling about as warm as Briggs in the middle of January. Roy retrieved plates and utensils from the appropriate cabinets. He set them on the countertop beside the stove, waited for Miss Hawkeye to fill them with food, and then delivered them to the table.

He could feel the older man’s eyes on him as he went about the normal morning routine. Master Hawkeye’s eyes were still glued to the boy as Roy gently put a plate down in front of him. “Thank you,” he grumbled, eyes never leaving Roy.

“I didn’t really do much,” Roy hedged sheepishly. “All the credit should go to Miss Hawkeye.” Roy turned to Riza to see that she had stiffened, her back still to the table. The small smile faded from Roy’s face.

Master Hawkeye cleared his throat. “Thank you, Riza.”

“You’re welcome, Father,” she responded crisply. She turned and made her way to the table, carrying a teapot and other necessary accouterments.

The trio ate awkwardly in silence.

Silence around a meal table wasn’t something Roy was used to, given the bustle of the bar, the rowdiness of his sisters, and the general calamity of attempting to feed so many mouths all at once. Even at the Hawkeye’s house, meals shared between Miss Hawkeye and Roy were never silent, though they were generally less boisterous than the meals the boy grew up with.

The clink of silverware against plates and the occasional ting of a glass being set down slightly too hard seemed to reverberate around the room. The young man would give almost anything to be back at the bar where he never had to worry about silence around a meal. Anything except a quality alchemical education, he supposed.

Master Hawkeye finished his food first, stood from the table, and addressed Roy, breaking the silence. “When you’re done, we’ll get started for the day.” Roy watched him walk around the table and continue down the hallway into his study. The apprentice turned back to the table just in time to see Miss Hawkeye’s demeanor relax significantly.

“Is everything… Are you okay?” Roy asked hesitantly. All he got was a stiff nod in return.

Roy began gathering dishes and moved towards the sink as he usually did when he heard a small sound from behind him.

“I’m sorry, what?” he said.

“Don’t worry about the dishes today. I’ll take care of it,” Miss Hawkeye explained. “Go ahead and start your lesson.”

Roy shot her a confused look but did as she asked. He walked down the hallway and entered Berthold’s study, only to find Master Hawkeye sitting at his desk with steepled fingers, not unlike the first night Roy met the man.

“What are your intentions toward my daughter.” The sentence was phrased like a question, but spoken with the cold clarity of a statement that left Roy shivering.

“Nothing, sir,” he said honestly. “We talk over breakfast, sometimes discuss what we’re studying. Occasionally she’s recommended books to me, as I have done for her. But otherwise, we don’t really interact. And besides, it’s not like I would like her anyway, I have a boy- uh, I mean someone waiting back in Central,” Roy rushed through his quasi-rambling explanation.

This is it, he thought. I’m out. I’m done for.

Even though he managed to keep his face straight throughout his explanation, the beads of sweat rolling down his neck betrayed him. Hawkeye’s lessons in controlling his emotions were working for his facial expressions. Roy’s bodily reactions were harder to dominate.

A raised eyebrow dominated his master’s face for a few silent seconds. Then, to Roy’s shock, a toothy smile split Hawkeye’s face. It looked almost demented in the low light of the morning.

“Thank you for your honesty, boy. I appreciate that you’ve respected me by not attempting to cross any boundaries.”

Roy frowned internally at this. Miss Hawkeye was the one who said she wasn’t interested in being friends. He was respecting her, not Master Hawkeye.

“But you don’t have to isolate yourself. You two can be friends,” the older man continued.

Roy made a sarcastic sort of sound. “Maybe you should tell her that,” he muttered under his breath. He realized at the last second that was said a bit louder than he meant to. Roy looked up, the slight panic in his eyes meeting the calm expression of his master.

He chuckled again, and Roy could have sworn he heard him say, “Maybe I will.”

“Alright, Mister Mustang. Let’s get started for the day. If you remember, I had you read and review Alchemic Transmutations of Water. Mercury is commonly associated with water in alchemy. What is the alchemical symbol that we use to denote water?”

“An upside-down triangle,” Roy answered confidently.

Master Hawkeye’s lips quirked up. “Correct. Now, explain why.”

#duality #duality chapter 3 #vino writes fanfiction #fma fanfiction #fullmetal alchemist fanfiction #precanon #precanon fanfiction

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roses-and-oceans · 6 years

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Once Upon a Dream ~ (Chpt. 2)

A/N: Hi hello, i’m so glad to hear positive things about this fic!! this has been my baby for months and love the way yall are taking in my words. Srry i havent been active, ive beeen depressed and sick and even more sick now.

If yall like my stuff and you wanna support me in a vry nice way, pls go over to my kofi and I can do very nice things 4 u 2!!! Any amount would help tremendously w bills, meds and gas!! srry fro the plug but ill make a seperate post.

Thanks very much, hope you enjoy!!!

Feathers tickled your nose as your eyes opened to a room of mirrors filled with golden moths flitting about. Vines and big blooms that look like trumpets hung about and drooped around a chandelier. As you stood up, the feathers became a trailing, long skirt. The puffiness and shape reminded you of the beautiful waterfowl you'd seen some mornings at a pond nearby your home. A dark, blood red sash was tied at your waist, around your neck and down your back.

As you moved to examine yourself on the mirrored walls between the heavy vines of gilded ivy and, the moths started to fly off the surface of the walls and surround you. You flinched at their movement but as they started to settle back down again, you began to make your way to the door. The insects followed you and began to feast on the golden trumpet flowers.

Some of the moths settled on your shoulders delicately and as their wings fluttered, they dusted you with light gold scales. The door swung open and the creatures erupted into flight, allowing you to leave the room with their gold blessings. You made your way down the halls, following the golden cracks in the marble floors. The tower was as cold as ever and it took all you could to not jump anytime the feathers on your dress fluttered.

The door at the top of the tower was already open. There were a few panes of colored glass broken on the floor. You ran inside.

The petals from the flowers all over the room were plucked from blooms and stems were broken. The pillows on the sheets were ripped and for the first time, you were scared.

This room was no longer safe, this room was tainted.

Where was the Prince? Was he safe?

Thundering steps echoed in the tower and you were rooted to the spot, too afraid to move.

Your prince came past the doorway, his hair flying everywhere. Despite being breathless, he still smiled when he saw you. The glass crunched underneath his scuffed shoes.

“You're alright,” he rasped. His eyes were shining, like magic. He took your face in his hands and kissed your forehead.

“You're safe.” He rested his forehead against yours. You took him by the wrists. You tried to speak, but your voice became bubbled in your throat. You've never spoken in your dreams.

He noticed your struggle and said, “It's okay, I'm okay. I thought something happened to you...”

There was a loud crash below and your eyes went to the door. He gripped you a bit tighter to catch your attention and he murmured, “I have to send you back early tonight. It's not safe here. Not anymore.”

You shook your head, taking in deep gulps of air. You wanted to plead with him to let you stay, to help him overcome whatever was destroying his home your safe place.

“No, I can't let you stay! Its too dangerous! Only I can fight this. I brought this upon myself..”

There was another crash. He looked back to the door and back at you. He kissed your forehead again.

“I'm so sorry.”

You were so confused. He took a deep breath, “I was fooling myself. I was only delaying the inevitable and my selfish actions dragged you into this fight.”

Fight?

“I wanted to live happily. I have lived through the darkest days and now that I found you-.”

The glass door exploded and he shielded you from the rainbow burst.

“I'm sorry.”

He shoved you to the bed.

You fell back and though you thought you were going to hit the bed, you kept falling. The air was whooshing around you and you felt yourself getting sick. You screamed. Everything was so dark.

You woke up in your own bed, the feeling of dropping still fresh. You gulped down air, pushed a hand against the fluttering of your heart.

What in the hell was that?

You looked outside your window; there was a blue haze in the morning air as it drizzled with rain.

And thus began your four days without sleep.

The rain didn't stop by the time you had set out to the bakery. There was a small pounding at the back of your head, your shoulders sagged and your eyes could not get used to the dim morning glow despite your best to.

As you came into the shop, Prompto smiled at you. His usual 1000 bolt smile was unusually dim.

“Hey, Y/N. How are you this morning?”

After greeting him as best as you could, you went tot he back to greet Gladiolus and Ignis. You stood at the doorway, taking a moment to watch Ignis work while Gladiolus was finishing up brushing glaze on finished pastries. Ignis was so hyper focused on setting everything up for the day; he was mixing a bowl of batter and had set one aside, “Gladio. Could you please set out three muffin pans? Also, set out three pie tins. Please grease and flour the tins and have Y/N and Prompto set the paper cups and get the third oven to heat up.”

“You got it, Iggy,” Gladiolus put down the glaze and began preparing the trays.

“Thank you.”

You stepped further into the kitchen and the floor creaking underneath you announced your presence to the men. Gladiolus looked you over, “Good morning. Rough night?”

You nodded, “Couldn't really sleep.”

Ignis suddenly appeared at your side with a mug, “Nor could I. Thunderstorms are quite a nuisance at times. Lucky for you, I'm quite well stocked on coffee.”

He motioned for you to take the mug. The earthy taste of the coffee warmed your bones and sent a buzz through you. Ignis even added a bit of milk and sugar to your liking.

“Hope it wasn't too bitter.”

“No, its perfect.”

Prompto was quiet the rest of the work day. He was usually so talkative, so full of jokes and quips. When he was sent out for a delivery task, you turned to the to the others, “Do you know what's wrong with Prompto?”

Ignis took a deep breath and said, “As you know, we come from the old Kingdom. The anniversary of its fall and the death of our many loved ones is approaching fast. Though it has been ten years, it has not gotten easier.

You nodded somberly, “I'm so very sorry about your home...”

Gladiolus shook his head, “No apologies needed.”

You all had gotten back to work. Something still felt off. You decided to talk to Prompto when he came back from his delivery.

There was still no sight of him at lunchtime. You were beginning to worry about him as the time went on and the rain fell harder. You weren't able to go down to the meadow as per usual so after you had eaten your fill, you stood at the back doorway and watched the rain fall. You shivered as the rain air went right through you. Though you loved the rain, you couldn't really enjoy it. You heard heavy footsteps behind you.

“Gil for your thoughts?” Gladiolus' rough voice came from behind you.

You sighed deeply, “Not really thinking, more tired than anything.”

You really were. The ache in your head had not gone away and you felt everything in your body. You were aware of all the aches and the pull of skin and muscles. You hated it.

Gladiolus leaned against the doorjamb, “I noticed that. Usually, your head is up in the clouds, but you're actually present today.”

You smiled, “Don't get used to it.”

That made Gladiolus laugh. You heard the rumble in his chest. It was almost comforting.

“Don't you worry about Prompto. It's always hard for him this time of the year.”

Thunder rumbled above you as you glanced at Gladiolus. He took a deep breath and went back to the warm bakery, to help Ignis. You stayed there for a few moments longer, trying to collect the pieces of peaces around you to glue into your head to help the ache.

Prompto came back soaked like a dog. You helped him dry off his hair and warmed him up with tea as the lunch hour was beginning to end. He ended up staying in the kitchen the entire time, enjoying the warmth of the ovens. Ignis served him his bowl of stew and Prompto looked at you with puppy dog eyes that made you chuckle to yourself. Even Gladiolus laughed when Prompto sneezed loudly enough to scare Ignis. It startled you, too, and Ignis was smiling, shaking his head from the flour that had puffed up from the jump.

Right as you finished your tasks for the day, a loud thunderclap roared over the bakery. It scared you out of your wits; you screamed and you knocked over the muffin pans you washed. The boys looked at you, Gladiolus coming over, “You alright?

You took a deep breath and leaned back against the counter. The lack of sleep and the unavoidable crash from the coffee had your body feeling wiry and shaky. It would not be wise to be outside.

“I'm alright,” You said as you yawned, “Tired 'is all.”

“That storm outside looks pretty nasty,” Gladiolus warned. You could feel it emanating off him; he didn't want you to go outside.

“I'll be-”

There was a sound ringing in your head. Everything went dark.

But you could hear someone singing. They had a rich voice. Their velvet-smooth crooning drew you in.

Whatever it was, whatever they were, it engulfed you in warmth. Comforting, warm like a body to lay with, nuzzling you closer. You could smell roses. Roses, but amplified. Roses, sea-salt, blood, skin, hair. All the smells came together and the body wrapped its arms around you. You looked up and you met golden eyes, maroon hair. The sharpest smile you've seen. He was beautiful. He sang a song, promising you a sunrise, promising if he failed, he'd die to make the sun come up.

“Y/N!”

You woke up and you were on the floor. Prompto was lifting your legs and Ignis held your head.

Oh, Gods above, your head. It was pounding, thundering like the sky outside. Next thing you knew, you were being carried by Gladiolus, up the stairs, to the boys' living space. He set you down on a red couch and Ignis wrapped a blanket around you. Already, your eye lids were heavy.

The boys began to prepare to go to bed in the low light. Ignis and Gladio stayed up a little later, talking in low voices. And then it was quiet.

You burrowed yourself in the blanket deeper. Suddenly, it was as if everyone had gone and you were alone, waiting. It felt silly to feel like that but it didn't change how you felt. You missed the warmth of your friend, the Prince. You hoped he was okay... And then the echoes of someone singing startled you.

That night was full of tossing and turning. Over and over again you heard the echoes of the honey voiced, wine-haired man singing to you. You couldn't understand the words but it still lulled you into a relaxed state.

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overdrivels · 6 years

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The Way to a Heart (11)

I am ridiculously and eternally grateful to @dickbutt-writes-again who has so patiently listened to me whine and helped me fix up this chapter, witnessing me wreck this chapter 4 times and still cheering me on. THANK YOU!!!! ♡♡

This chapter is a little rough, so Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism tag is applicable here.

<<Chapter 10

Hanzo is drunk—ridiculously so even by his own admittedly compromised standards.

Rain water soaks his clothes down to the very fibers and they cling to him like an ill-fitted second skin. The pounding in his head is only muted by the chill and the desperate writhing in his skin which bids him to get up, get up, get up, but that is hindered by the heaviness in his limbs. It's a good thing he cannot move—the sloshing in his stomach is relentless and revolt if he were to do so much as breathe too hard.

He closes his swollen eyes.

Where had he—where had it all gone wrong?

The past few weeks had been going relatively well. He had finally, finally grasped something resembling normalcy (if avoiding Genji and gorging himself was considered 'normal').

A shuddery breath leaves him slowly in a plume of mist that's pierced by the still-falling rain. It's not coming down as hard as before, luckily: relentless sheets that threatened to wash away the summer and his foolish self—too busy chasing after the blinding warmth of alcohol to care—off this rooftop and straight off the cliff and into the raging sea below. Now, it's nothing more than light pitter-patters against his face, gentle reminding him not to succumbed to the siren's call of a dark oblivion, and willed him to face reality.

Yes. Reality.

He had involved himself too much, ran away too much, dallied too much, so when reality caught up to him, he found himself cornered and woefully unequipped to handle it all. Even with all he's learnt in life, he found himself lacking in things such as reconciliation and courage—courage; when half his life could be summarized in daring acts that would make most cower just upon hearing of them.

He became too caught up in a pace that he thought he was in control of.

The beginning of summer's end was marked by Mei's timely return, and with her, souvenirs. Tiny, wrapped pieces of jerky was well-received by everyone and devoured in an instant. (It was worth noting that you had seemed particularly upset about it all despite being offered your own package, making short work of small talk, and their portions just a fraction smaller—Ana laughed it off quickly, claiming you to be 'cute' and pouting about everyone ruining their appetites.) There were sweets (white rabbit candies, gummies, and other unfamiliar items that were all delicious), imported teas, snacks, and lost daring of all, copious amounts of alcohol that, if Mei had been flying a commercial flight instead of 'Air Orca', would never had been allowed aboard. Just that alone removes the bits of disappointment at the lack of pineapple cakes that he didn't ask for.

Even better, Winston had begun to dole out missions. Though it was not yet Hanzo's turn, the anticipation keeps his spirits up. In the meantime, Hanzo was able to convince an eager Winston to give him access to detailed plans of the entire base and surrounding area under the guise of fortifying the base's defenses. (Apparently Fareeha was on charge of doing a risk assessment of the base and upgrading the security systems, but did not yet have the chance to complete it.)

The maps he received are incredibly dense, both in size and information, and he has to chunk it out in more manageable sections to study. He learns of the surrounding areas first—they were the first files and he is in no particular rush, the kitchen nor the treasure was going anywhere—such as the Moorish Castle and the Siege Tunnels of Gibraltar, both which have been partially restored and reconstructed for the Watchpoint's use once upon a time. The maps become his nighttime study and bedtime stories, but they don't keep him asleep for long; they are nothing against the insistent tittering in his veins that jolts him awake at night.

Originally, Hanzo avoided going to the kitchen in the middle of these spells as frequently as he used to, but there is only so much he can bear alone without sufficient distraction, and the kitchen was as good as any where he’s not left alone to this thoughts. So, one night, he caves.

It’s difficult to feel bad about it, too, when the kitchen lights are still on and you greet him with the same sort of welcome you would during any other time of the day, and tell him to draw up a stool to sit at the long, empty service window. He does so and sits, folding his hands at the counter, and then he’s reminded of Japan in that way: people who stayed alone at the bar-style tables of izakaya s and ramen shops and twenty-four hour fast food chains, refusing to go home to their families after a vicious night of drinking just to return to work in a few scant hours. He supposed he’s no different from them now.

You ask no questions other than the usual: “What would you like, Agent Hanzo?” for which he is grateful for.

“Anything.”

If he sounded weaker than usual, you didn’t say anything, and for once, you don’t tell him to enter his order into the terminal. Instead, you turn around and get straight to work, letting the steady sounds of your bustle speak for you. The stove clicks, porcelain clinks, water falls, and the consistent whisking and chopping give him something to focus on despite having nothing to do but wait. Each sound is a chant, a verse of a spell that sinks into his skin, skittering up his skull, filling in the crevices and forcing out something else darker bit by bit.

It’s not until you slide him his tea and snack that he realizes that the feelings that chased him away from his bed did not follow him here, or if it did, they did not remain for long. Your quiet presence on the other side of the counter remains casually vigilant, as if daring the sludge to return.

It’s strange. He never really liked having anyone observe his eating habits—it made him far too human, too vulnerable—but he found he didn’t particularly mind. Maybe he’s even a little grateful—not that he would ever voice it—that you’re willing to sacrifice your sleep for him and tend to his childish nightmares without so much as a complaint. He should probably feel guilty, but it’s hard to when you’re so accommodating. And if you ever feel angry, he’ll at least know, that the most mean-spirited thing you’ll do is merely la a slice of pepper in his food. He has nothing to fear.

Though, he has to constantly remind himself that even a mouse will bite a cat when cornered, and not to make light of you or take complete advantage of your hospitality.

But even so, he conveniently forgets, ignoring the possibility of that danger and stretching out this sense of comfort for as long as you would give it. More often than not, after that, he’s up before dawn breaks, sneaking in a quiet, secret moment before the base comes to life.

Luckily, you don’t seem to mind at all and it’s hard to feel guilty when you greet him just as brightly as you would any other time of the day, adjusting to his company with a prepared pot of tea and a small snack of your choice. Eventually, you even share jovial stories of the ‘good, old days’ among the sounds of your knife or stirring. The sounds were steady in their rhythm to the point of hypnotic, sending shivers up his spine and sinking into parts of him that he didn’t know existed, chasing away any lingering doubts. It’s not unpleasant; he enjoyed it—it was relaxing in ways that he didn’t think possible.

In return, he shares the less gruesome stories of his time on the run. There were undoubtedly parts that he could not share in polite company, and the amount of censoring he has to do puts into sharp perspective that he hasn’t been a particularly ‘good’ person—not that he’s ever claimed such a thing. But the number of ‘safe’ stories he could share with you is embarrassingly small.

Despite all that, he still returns, slowly learning more and more about all that you do.

It should frighten him to say that it’s become a habit, and the excuse that it’s for the treasure feels like a feeble afterthought.

Though, it’s hard to worry of those things when you ask him, “Would you like another serving of bread pudding?”

Immediately, he replies, “Please.”

His empty plate is immediately cleared off the counter and replaced with another bubbling piece of indulgence that he does not hesitate digging into even as you’re saying, “Be careful, it’s hot.”

As always, it’s mouth-wateringly soft, not quite as hot as you proclaim it to be, but still enough to make everything else feel cool by comparison, filling his belly with a comforting weight. There’s no raisins in it this time, no added textures to the bread pieces that have now melded into one. Cinnamon permeates his senses and the rich, silken taste of eggs wrap everything up into a neat package. The sweetness almost makes his toes curl and the corner of his mouth lift.

“Is it better with raisins? Or without them?”

“Without.”

“How’s the sweetness?”

“A little too much.”

“Understood, thank you.”

Amidst his eating, Hanzo almost misses you scribbling these notes down in a notepad before it’s shoved away into the pocket of your apron.

“You keep notes?”

“Yes, there are times I must adjust recipes or remember things for later, so I keep a notepad around.”

“How old-fashioned.” Though, he cannot say that he does not do the same.

You shrug, unperturbed. “Pen and paper is preferable in the kitchen. Too much technology tends to complicate things.”

“Is that so?”

You hum, a little inquisitive and you turn just slightly to give him a better view of the kitchen, gesturing vaguely inside. “Head Chef used to think that having complicated machinery in the kitchen makes your skill dull and takes away that...human element. Though, ‘human’ is kind of…subjective. But even now, we don’t have very fancy equipment.”

The archer understands the concept well. Despite Japan’s technological advancements, the residents of Shimada castle insisted on doing things the ‘old fashioned way’. Even his father was of the same mind: reliance on technology undermines one’s foundations. Yes, one could use guns or poisons to kill or have GPS track a person’s coordinates, but when you don’t have access to such conveniences, you have no choice but to rely on your own skill and knowledge—the basics.

He just didn’t think it also bled into the realm of cooking.

Bitterly amused, he thinks that if your Head Chef ever met his father, they’d probably get along. Though, he can’t remember his father partaking in many Western foods.

“So your Head Chef valued skill then.”

Haltingly, you say, “Well, yes, but…” He looks up when he hears you huff, his curiosity is immediately piqued. “Head Chef always went on and on about what makes good food.” You tick off each on a finger. “Good ingredients, good skill, and...lots of love.”

He almost balks.

Love?

As if sensing his skepticism, you wave a hand around. “I know, I didn’t believe him at first. But over time, I think I get it.” Your voice turns soft, twisting his stomach in an agonizingly sweet and painful way. “And I think I have to agree.”

He raises his cup to his lips to hide his sneer, and douses that bitterness with a large gulp of tea. 「What nonsense.」

But he was no chef. What could he ever know of what ‘love’ was in cooking? What does he even know of the concept itself?

Was it a tool? A feeling? Something lost and buried by the sands of time?

Unwittingly, he searches for an answer inside himself, but comes up empty. The word just does not lend itself to any experiences he can remember, none which he can attribute to it.

Slowly, he lowers his cup and stares down aimlessly at the sill.

What is ‘love’?

What meaning, what experiences can be attached to such a vague and general word?

The experiences he could potentially attach to such a word fall quite short. For Hanzo, the word is inadequate and far too simple. How could a single word ever express the varying weights of the different types out there? Loving a food is different from loving a person, and similarly, loving a parent is different from loving a lover; the severity of their meaning is so far apart, and yet, they’re still expressed with the same word.

English is a far too strange and distant language.

So what sort of love do you put in your cooking?

What sort of ‘love’ has he consumed?

And the twisting in his stomach becomes larger, threatening to consume him instead, in a feeling that he cannot name. It is not dark, but it has the potential to be more terrifying than those that haunt his dreams. It makes his skin feel too tight and releases a jitter in his veins not unlike the moments before he steadies himself to fire an arrow. That tension almost makes him want to leave.

“Is that the secret of the Cellar?” he asks sarcastically.

“Oh, that again?”

You lean against your side of the sill, arms crossed, but not angry. Contemplative, maybe.

The relief is instantaneous, flushing the tightness right out of him, when you take to the change of subject easily. That relief nearly overshadows the fact that he may have just gotten you to speak about something forbidden.

“Love...is not something that you can just put in a jar and leave it down in the Cellar. So, no, that’s not it. But, I guess you can say that it has something to do with it. Maybe?”

“Maybe?”

“...what do you think the the treasure is, Agent Hanzo?”

He tries to call the exact words that McCree gave him. “It is something that sustains the Watchpoint.”

He watches your reactions carefully—a thoughtful raise of your hand to your chin, a slight tension in your posture that borders between leaping at some truth and holding back to feign ignorance.

“What do you think can sustain this place, then?”

A question for an answer, is it? Fine, he’ll play this game—if only to get away from the uncomfortable and unfamiliar discussion of ‘love’.

There is a million different answers to your question. Alcohol, for one—it’s the answer that McCree gave. Money, is the next obvious one. Considering that you have hinted at the fact that you are more involved in Overwatch’s finances than strictly necessary—really, how do you know if the Watchpoint is capable of hiring another chef or not—it is likely that there is a vault beneath the kitchen, the last place anyone would look (other than the unused bathrooms scattered around the base that, despite the cleaning bots best efforts, look like they were imported straight from a horror game). Then there’s equipment, power generators, bots, and a number of other things.

However, the question sparks a memory. This very question has been posed to him long ago in his youth, confronted with the reality of being the clan’s scion and eventually, master. Replace ‘Watchpoint’ with ‘clan’ and his answer is simple.

“Its people.”

You falter, hand from your chin dropping as you consider his answer. A jolt of excitement makes him straighten in his chair. Is he correct?

“That’s a...very good answer,” you say slowly. The excitement in his gut quickly wanes at the tone of your voice. It sounds as though you’re not quite sure yourself.

“But is it correct?”

You seem to meander between thoughts. Quietly, you confess, “I don’t really know anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Your arms come down and fold neatly on the counter between you both. If he lean forward just a bit, he could grab hold of them and not let go until you give up the answer. But he watches and waits for your answer.

“You see, Agent Hanzo, I am very used to the Cellar. I’m sure some of it is very valuable, but to be very honest, I’m not...very sure which is the true ‘treasure’. I know what I consider to be a treasure, but I don’t exactly know what the Head Chef meant.”

Slack-jawed, he stares.

If you are lying, then you’re doing a very good job.

Very slowly, he asks, “So you chefs risk your lives to protect something that you don’t even know of?”

“No!” Your hands immediately balls into fists against the counter. “No, that’s not the case. There is— ” You choke on the words and then Hanzo glimpsed it with an out-of-place glee: victory. So you do know.

He leans in deeper into the window, and you step back. He can barely glimpse your face, but tactics like this is most effective when you’re level with the other person, but he’ll have to make do. He needs a bigger push, big enough to make you spill. You’re almost there, riled up, and likely to spill.

“Chef.” It’s in his grasp. “I understand this item is of utmost importance to you.” It’s so close. “And it would be wiser to have all the agents protect it.” If he can just break you—“But without knowing what it is, it could be destroyed in passing. It would be in your best interest to…”

What is he doing ?

“...to continue doing as you have.”

The relief from you is palpable as he draws back, slow and controlled. His heart is hammering in his chest, turning his nerves numb. The tantalizing answer was so close and all he had to do was just…

He forces himself to take a sip of his tea, wincing at the cool temperature.

“Chef, more tea.”

“Yes, of course.”

The teapot and teacup is cleared, and he watches you waltzing around the kitchen to fulfill his order. Folding his hands in front of his face, he wonders if he had just let something precious slip out of his grasp, if he had failed to make the mark, if he’ll ever get a second chance.

Though, when he finds himself with another serving of tea and another snack, he finds it hard to regret the decision too much. He’ll get to the answer soon, there’s no rush.

And he didn’t rush.

While he’s tempted to rub this into McCree’s face, he has to keep this quiet for now—if the gunslinger knew that you had begun to loosen up, he might dive in and attempt something himself, ruining his plans. No, Hanzo keeps these conversations close to him and your time even closer, lingering just up until the time the sky begins to lighten and the hints of dawn splashes into the cafeteria.

The conversations following do not encroach upon the treasure, but they do touch upon something more personal, giving him a better view of the person behind the dividing wall.

“And because of Patissier Woo, I don’t like handling chocolates. She’ll make you eat the chocolate if you mess it up, which sounds great, but when you have tons of it, it’s disgusting.”

“If it was such a waste, why did she not eat it herself?”

“She was an omnic.”

He nearly chokes on his tea. So there were omnics in the kitchen. Just as he had thought in the beginning.

Insensitive as it may be, he asks, “How did she make anything if she could not eat?”

“She took precise measurements and always took notes. She was one of the people who taught me about looking at people’s dishes to find out their likes and dislikes. Actually, a lot of the other chefs had that habit, too. We even compiled a database with everyone’s preferences.”

“Oh? Is it still being used now?”

“Of course!” You sound awfully proud. “It contains years of data from the Strike Commander down to the gardeners with allergies and everything. It’s really useful.”

“Is this data accessible by everyone?”

You take a moment to think. “It shouldn’t. It’s kept here, and I don’t think even Athena has access to it.”

“Ah, is that so? How reassuring.”

Occasionally, among the stories, you dole out gems like this and it makes piecing the puzzle together all the more satisfying.

But not all of these meetings are so carefree.

It’s slowly becoming more apparent that you’re getting distracted, troubled. It’s small things at first that he chalks up to fatigue: letting the kettle whistle for too long, missing a spot when you’re wiping down the counter. However, it becomes apparent that a lack of sleep is not the only thing on your mind.

Hanzo enters the kitchen at your unspoken meeting time as usual, but to his surprise, Winston is already there. The sight of the gorilla at the service window shocks all the sleep from his system and he unconsciously suppresses his breath—hiding himself and listening.

“I promise, we will do everything in our powe—”

“You don’t have to do anything, Winston.” Even from this distance, Hanzo could hear the uncharacteristic iciness in your voice. “Everyone risks their lives. I don’t. This is the least I can do.”

Winston leans forward, hands on the edge of the sill, seemingly exasperated and frustrated. “We are worried for you, and I’m sure your colleagues are as well.”

“They’re fine ! I c— we chose to do this, and I don’t want to take it back.”

“At least take some time off, you’ve been—”

“I’m fine !”

Winston, and even Hanzo, is taken aback by the volume of your voice. It echoes fiercely into the mess hall, the high, domed ceilings trapping the sound and twists it into something more haunting and lasting.

You huff angrily. “If you do not want have anything to order, Winston, please...just go.”

“Chef…”

“Please.” Hanzo watches as you grab Winston’s massive hand on the counter and give it a squeeze—a motion he could feel inside himself despite not being anywhere near. “I’m fine. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

Every bit of Winston’s stance projected reluctance and doubt even as he pulled away, seeming to hold onto your hand as long as he could. He looks like he wants to say more, but then shakes his massive head and makes his way out of the lonely cafeteria on his fists, completely bypassing Hanzo who took to the shadows. Up close, he could see the frustration on the scientist’s face. Whatever you both were talking about, Winston seems ridiculously worked up about it, and Hanzo wonders if he shouldn’t try to find out.

The door slides shut, casting everything back into silence, but Hanzo could still hear the echoes of your voice—angry and so reminiscent of the time you tried to force him to leave the kitchens.

Even a mouse will bite a cat if cornered.

Is it safe to approach? Should he draw back for today and leave you alone to process your thoughts and cool off? It would be the smartest idea, the safest for him.

But what about you?

You said so yourself, you’re fine .

And Hanzo knows it’s a damn lie.

Against his better judgment, he approaches the service window. It shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t bother him at all—months ago, he wouldn’t have cared. Now, it’s a little different. These past few weeks meant something . You mean something a little more than an estranged cook now.

Silently, he watches for a few moments when he gets to the window where Winston stood.

You’re roaming around the kitchen some distance away, a stormy expression set on your face and a tightness to your jaw. Ingredients for something gathered in your arms as you begin chopping away, a little harder and a lot messier. The sound is jarring rather than comforting, violent rather than relaxed. He’s almost wary of calling out to you in case you’re startled into taking out your own hand. The archer waits until you’ve set down your knife to reach over and take some leaves and shove them into your mouth.

“Chef.”

And he almost feels guilty when you whirl around, hand just inches away from knocking your knife over. It was good then that he did not call to you while you were still working. You wipe your hands quickly on your apron—a little dirtier than usual—and make your way to him. Before your face disappears entirely behind the upper part of the window, he sees the weariness in your eyes, in your face, the tension in your jaw and shoulders.

“Good morning, Agent Hanzo. What can I get you?”

No matter how well you try to hide it, the exhaustion is apparent in your voice. His answer never leaves his mouth despite it being open. Lately, he has let you decide for him, but in your current state, it may not be a wise idea. He must have reached some quota of bad decisions already, anymore may prove disastrous.

Eventually, he waves his hand. “I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Certainly. One moment.”

You don’t even get very far before he watches you slam your hip into a counter, too shaky on your feet to get very far before hunching over a counter.

“Chef!?”

“Hrughk—I’m fin, I’m fine, Agent Hanzo. Just...give me a minute.”

He waits a moment, but observes no change, no intervention from Athena, and against all good judgment, he goes around the bend to open the doors to the kitchen because you are decidedly not fine and likely haven’t been for a very, very long time.

At the sound of them opening, you struggle to raise your head. At distance, he can tell that you’re ridiculously unwell even through the thinly-veiled anger you’re directing at him.

“No, you can’t be in here. Get out.” Another timely lurch renders your warning ineffective.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s not so much of a monster as to leave you and watch you struggle. That’s tasteless and highly unnecessary. Even his kills were swift, leaving the least amount of suffering and regret. Though, he cannot say the same for Genji, not with the way his brother had humiliated him and made him suff—Hanzo shoves that thought of his mind. He cautiously makes his way toward you, carefully eyeing the items in your vicinity for anything you could throw at him (though he doubts you’d hit him even if you were completely well).

“I will call Dr. Zielg—”

“No!” Then quietly, “No, she’s sleeping. This is…normal.”

You would have to forgive him if he didn’t believe you. You look nothing short of unhealthy and it’s likely no one else notices with the way you conveniently hide your face behind the overhand of the service window. Whoever designed it clearly did not want the chefs to be seen or wanted to discourage interactions between the two worlds that it separates.

Here, there is no such barrier and your suffering is laid bare for him to see.

A prickle of panic rises in the back of his neck. The fact that you have abandoned your duty of protecting this place only shows how severe the situation is. A hand closes in on your shoulder and pushes you more upright and he does it with more ease than he would have expected.

“Chef. Focus. What do you need?” he asks gravely.

Listlessly, you wave at some vague direction. Hanzo’s not even sure if you know what you’re gesturing at, not with your eyes closed and brows knitted together in a tight and pained expression.

“I need to…get my medicine.”

“Where?”

For a moment, you don’t answer and Hanzo thinks you may have passed out,but you raise your head, eyes narrowed and face scrunched up, and trying to wave him away. If he didn’t know you were in pain, he would think you were incredibly annoyed. Perhaps you were. Perhaps this is not a state many have seen you in.

Two deep breaths later, you push yourself up and start batting away at his helping hand. You don’t seem keen on relying on his help and he’s not one to impose it on someone who does not want it (not that the opportunity has come up often).

As you pass, however, the sounds of a rumbling catches his attention. It takes him a moment to realize it was your stomach.

You don’t even seem to have the energy to be embarrassed about it.

“Don’t follow me,” you warn darkly, boding no compromise.

He’s tempted to do so just to spite you—it’s not as though you could even attempt to resist in your condition—but stays where he is to watch you press a hand against the Cellar door (of all things), which beeps after a moment and slides open far swifter than should be possible for a door of such thickness and size.

The door reveals a hallway or a tunnel, dotted by flickering lights that slowly turn on in your presence as if welcoming you. There could be doors on the side, but it’s difficult to tell. Some posters, aging and peeling, are plastered inside. The floor is covered in a different tile than that of the kitchen, and every so often, the scruffy tile is replaced by a strip of something grainy. It’s notably dirtier than the floor in the kitchen, well-used and a little ill-maintained.

And you stand there, gathering your breath, haloed by the doorway as its only defender and current refugee.

It would not be hard to attack you from behind, knock you out, and find out the truth of what lies beyond. But the thought of doing it this way—too easy, too cowardly—makes his lip curl and something vile curl up inside. Assassin as he may have been, this is not a mission of that sort, and you are not a target.

The door closes the instant you pass the threshold, bringing an end to his brief moment of contemplation, firmly keeping him out and leaving him alone in the desolate kitchen.

He never guessed he’d be allowed to stand here without the threat of you chasing him out. This would normally be a very ideal situation, but he’s already passed up the easy chance to go into the Cellar, it hardly seems worth the effort.

Now that he’s not being attacked or waiting for an ambush, he can study the place more leisurely. It’s not much different than the last time he was here. He runs a hand over one silvery counter and comes up with nothing. Everything is still meticulously clean, but evidences of having been used—scratches, stains, the general feeling of worn-ness, if that makes any sense—is visible on every centimeter of this place.

The walk-in freezers are lined with more items than before and previously empty containers are now fulfilling their purposes. Darkly, he wonders what happens if these were to go empty. Maybe it’s happened before and he just never noticed, or you never gave them the chance to notice.

He grabs a glass from a neatly lined shelf and fills it with water from one of several sinks and waits, fiddling with his communicator in his pocket just in case he needs to call Dr. Zielger. If you require medicine, chances are your problem is not something his meager medical knowledge could help with.

There’s also the other possibility of you collapsing on the other side with no way of calling for help. In which case, you’d likely die without anyone having known. Unless…?

“Athena.”

He almost jumps when he feels rather than hears the AI’s voice coming from the communicator he has in his hand. “Yes, Agent Hanzo?”

“Are you in contact with the chef at the moment?”

She pauses for a bit before answering. “Affirmative. The chef currently has a communicator and as such, I am able to establish contact if required.”

Hanzo stares at the Cellar door; now you’ve become a part of its secrets. If you truly perish behind that door, the secret of its bowels will likely go down with you provided that no other chef returns here. Even worse, no one except for himself would know what happened. Would you even have the strength to call out for help? Would you have the presence of mind to call Athena? Would he be able to open that door himself without preparations?

With those thoughts plaguing his mind, he grips the glass tightly in his hand and the communicator in the other, eyes intently on the door, waiting for it to open.

A minute becomes two, then five, then ten.

The panic at his neck, previously muted, becomes an insistent pressure that churns his nerves. He’s waited long enough. “Athena. Establish contact wi—”

The door slides open in that instant and you walk out, a little steadier, but no better beyond that. You tilt your head as though confused.

“Ah, you’re still here?”

He does not grace you with an answer, a little indignant, and instead hands you the glass he’s been holding. It’s lukewarm now, but it’s better than nothing. You blink at his gesture, a little unsure, and staring at his offering like you’ve never seen it before, but he has no time for this and thrusts the glass in your direction again. “Drink.”

Your hands tremble as you take the glass from him, and Hanzo is all too aware of your touch—a little too warm, your grip a little too weak—and the feeling of it lingers even as you move away. His own fingers tingle and he flexes them to get rid of it.

“Thank you.”

You drain the cup, refill it—nearly tipping onto him as you try to do so, and he has hold you by your upper arm to keep you from falling over—and finish it off again.

“You took your medicine then?”

You nod.

“Do you need anything else?”

You shake your head and tug your arm away with a lot less force than he knows you can exert. He lets you go, but keeps a watchful eye as you make your way back to the Cellar door and press your back against it, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor, the glass gripped loosely in your trembling hands.

The quiet is disconcerting, made even more so by this situation.

Here he is, a grown assassin, babysitting a cook. This situation feels far too close to memories he wants gone and buried lest they imposed themselves here, dredging up the same emotions that led up to his willing participation in a tragedy.

Without prompting, you begin to speak. “I should be the one asking you if you need anything. I'm sorry you have to see me like this, but please, don't tell anyone.”

Though your remorse different sharply from those distant memories. He crosses his arms, looking down at you sternly, but not unconcerned. “If you are unwell, why are you working?”

“I'm not sick or anything. It's not contagious.”

“Then what is it?”

You fidget with the glass in your hands, and more than once, Hanzo thought it would slip from your hands. You keep your eyes down, shoulders hunched in, guilty and ashamed. It seems that the sympathy that he had long thought evaporated in his youth still exists somewhere and he bends down until he’s squatting on the floor.

“I have…stomach ulcers and…acid reflux,” you murmur. Regardless of how quiet you try to be, your words echo clearly in this space. Hanzo’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He wasn’t aware—not that he had any reason to be. “I can’t—I mean, I can, but…eating is difficult and sometimes I just…forget.”

You fall silent and don’t offer any explanation as to how this came to be. There’s no reason to pry, especially if you’re not feeling particularly forthcoming with it. And somehow, he gets the sense that this was meant to be kept under wraps. Another secret of yours that you have seemed him worthy enough to share with.

Somehow, it feels like a very precious responsibility. Far too precious for him to be holding.

He wonders just how many other people know. Dr. Zielger and maybe Winston.

“You do not seem to be in the habit of forgetting things.”

You laugh, but it rings hollow.

“Madame Zielger said it would be handled if I were diligent about it, but…I’ve just been...busy.”

He supposes he understands and has no premise to lecture you on—he himself has been subjected to something similar about his liver and other issues that he had pointedly ignored throughout the years. While there are a good number of underground doctors in Japan and even more outside of it, he hadn’t taken the time to undergo a general physical, only visiting them for immediate emergencies and nothing more. Though, most of the time, his avoidance is on purpose and may or may not be stemming from his desire to feel something other than the zombie-like fog he's been encased in during the past ten years. But what distracts you so? Surely it can't be your duty that keeps you from your health. Is cooking for a base of under twenty people really so strenuous that you can neglect your health?

...or are you also running from something? Punishing yourself for something?

The thought makes his mouth go dry.

No. Not everyone is like him. You, least of all.

Derailing himself from the intrusive line of thought, he grasps upon something else. “Why do you call her Madame…?”

You look up, a little surprised and then you raise the glass to your lips, a poor attempt to smother the smile that takes over your face. It’s a softer look, a better one, one that knocks something loose inside his chest and makes breathing simultaneously easier and harder. “It was something the Head Chef used to do. I guess I just picked it up. That and maybe a few other habits.”

“Such as?”

Slyly, you grin. “That's a secret.”

“Hmph. Aren’t you full of them,” he says dryly, but with none of the barb.

It just sounds like another challenge to him.

That night felt like the beginning of something less distant, like some wall between the both of you have thinned. (Even more so now that he had your contact information to remind you to take your medicine—Hanzo really does not want to find out what happens when a chef is unavailable.) It's difficult to not want to throw this encounter into McCree’s face as well—he had seen the inside of the Cellar whereas the rest of Overwatch could not so much as get near it. It's an accomplishment that keeps his mood up.

That is, until you decided to be a meddling nuisance.

Hanzo can’t help the grimace that takes over his face at the memory that landed him up here in the first place.

He had been called down from his room for dinner—a little unusual as it was well before the time where the word ‘dinner’ no longer applied to whatever meal he was eating, however, he dismissed it even though something in the back of his mind tingled with suspicion. But it’s you, he had reasoned. What harm could you do? Give him more bell peppers?

He huffs a laugh to himself. You wouldn’t be so cruel as to waste food unnecessarily and feed any of them something you know would be ill-received.

However, the reason he was called down would have been far worse, far crueler than he would have imagined.

The sight that greets him is not unlike a party; everyone on base is there, drink bottles decorate the table and there’s a carefree chatter that fills up the incredibly large space with more ease than expected.

But what surprises him most is the fact that you’re standing there out in the open, waiting, and he has to take a moment to process it. You wear an expectant smile on your face, a bowl and ladle (too short to hit him if he kept his distance properly) in your hands.

“Bout time you got here,” grouses Torbjörn.

“Have a seat, Agent Hanzo. Everyone’s been waiting for you.” You gesture at the table, but he instead keeps his eyes on you, stricken a little by the contrasting imposition of a memory and the reality before him.

You look a lot less angry than he remembers. It's difficult to see you when you're working in the kitchen even if he is leaning into the window. It's different. You stand a little straighter, perhaps to be more presentable, and your posture is awkwardly formal like a newly hired maitre d’.

A snarky comment comes to the surface, but he holds his tongue. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you out here and it would probably not end at just one single pepper this time if he were to say anything about it, so he just nods his thanks.

He takes a step forward to do so, but he stops short, the reality of the situation slamming into him with knee-buckling speed as soon as he sees the table in its entirety.

There’s only one seat available at the table and it’s right at the edge of one of the long, long tables, right beside Genji.

Hanzo’s jaw tenses to the point of pain, his breathing slows and gains a weight that steadily crushes his insides.

He can feel everyone’s expectant gazes on him.

“Come on, come on, we’ve been waiting!” shouts Junkrat. He’s shushed by those surrounding him, but Torbjörn is already drinking something and mumbles, “Come on, prince. Ya going to let your problems keep us from eating? Peh.”

“We’re having jjigae! Come on!”

“Join us!”

“Reinhardt, don’t move so much, you’ll hurt your back again.”

His stomach twists violently, and for the second time ever, the acute sense of betrayal stabs at him—of everyone here whom he had expected to stay out of his personal business, of everyone here whom he trusted.

His thoughts trail off and he doesn't even know why he ever assumed any of that at all.

Anger, still slow, but soon to be broiling in his gut, makes him discard the possibility that it may not have been a scheme of your own volition or because some other meddling fool asked for it. It does not matter; this is for him to solve and his private life is not a circus to be put on display for everyone else to gawk at and attempt to fix. He is an adult. He is a Shimada. And while he will regret a chance to eat, he bites out, “I am not hungry.”

The mixed chorus of his name only fuels his desire to make himself scarce that much quicker.

“Wait, Agent Hanz—!”

“Leave me!”

He swings behind him half-heartedly, not really thinking, but he feels something against the back of his hand and then his stomach falls into the ground when he hears it: a sharp crash and the splash of liquids.

The tension in the room is as oppressive as the silence, but he does not bother turning around, doesn’t look anyone in the face, doesn’t look you in the face.

“Hanzo. Brother, yo—”

“You have no right to call me that!” And then, 「What ‘brother’?! What ‘Hanzo’?! Neither of those things do not belong in your mouth.」

「You—!」

He powers straight out of the kitchen, doesn't even listen to the clamoring behind him, and into his room where he fishes out the alcohol Mei had so graciously bought him from her trip. He hid himself away on the rooftops of the Watchpoint where he was sure no one would look or dare reach before he drinks himself into a stupor. The result of it is himself, here, waking up to the splash of rain trying to choke him, with nothing but the darkened heavens blanketing the skies, and the pull of a hangover, reminiscing on the past few days.

He clenches his teeth and exhales.

Foolish.

All because of your needless meddling, because of this stupid group’s interference, all his plans have gone up in flames.

He had lowered his guard, had tricked himself into believing something that was not reality.

There was no one to blame but himself. It was his fault he did not handle business faster, that he was such a coward, that he had let a false sense of sentimentality get the better of him.

In the end, he really didn't come to terms with anything.

He didn’t gain anything from coming here—to Overwatch.

He just ran away from it all.

‘Coward.’

Being called “brother” by someone he didn’t truly acknowledge as his brother was unsettling and painful. Being called plain “Hanzo” by someone who could have been (may actually be) his brother is even worse.

But who could he blame?

It was himself who decided to use his first name as an alias—he hadn't thought he cared, didn’t think it would matter here, so far away from Japan and away from traditions and—

—he thought he could have a new start here.

That he could begin moving toward a future again.

But he didn’t account for just how horrifying it would be, how terrifying it is to face your past or own up to it. Why is it so hard?

—“ Hanzo! Brother!”

“You have no right to call me that! ”—

Genji always knew how to ruin things with too many careless words—the clan, his position, his own relationships. But maybe in that same vein, Hanzo may have also ruined things with too few words.

Despite the cold, his body and eyes burned.

Is the coward’s way the way of Shimada, Hanzo?

A shaky sigh escapes him.

He’s so very tired.

He should return inside.

Carelessly, he raises an arm and flops it over across his torso to use as leverage to turn himself over. He gets about partway, leaning heavily on his other elbow with his vision swimming, before he notices a movement.

Hanzo watches with a moment’s of drunken indifference as the bottle that Mei had brought him, partially empty, begins to roll away.

He stares and stares until it gets about halfway away before he's stricken by a panic and lunges for the bottle. His entire body slips against the rain-slicked roof. His arm and shoulder sweeps off the sloped edge. the bottle rolling right off away from him and falling into the dark depths below. He could only hang precariously on the edge in muted horror—both at his actions (for a mere bottle , for heaven’s sake) and the loss of the remainder of his drink. The fear colder than the rain seeps into his bones and the ground simultaneously rushes and runs from his vision.

He thinks he hears the crash, but then he’s absolutely certain he hears shouting after. Hanzo lets his arm and head fall, teeth clenched tight as his stomach contents writhe for freedom.

If this world had any mercy, it would not be you who witnesses him breaking yet another thing. But at this point, he’s not even sure he deserves it.

“Agent Hanzo?!”

He withdraws his arm from the edge of the roof and struggles to slide himself deeper toward the center.

He’s not a coward.

He’s just has a sense of self-preservation.

A metal bowl rolls some short distance from the table it fell from until it knocks into the foot of a fallen omnic, still sparking at the neck and chest. The bowl clatters, almost an impromptu drumroll that heralds the shadow which drops over the fallen man, who curses just as rapidly as he blinks, trying to get his vision free of shimmering spots.

"Overwatch Operational Department, field logistics division ex-agent, Tanuja Singh Deshmukh?"

The chef’s head snaps up, eyes flashing, teeth bared.

“My name is Asim .”

Chapter 12>>

#the way to a heart #my writing #alcohol as a coping mechanism #why is tumblr site on mobile doing this #I put a read more in there for a reason damnit #twtah

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silicabeast34-blog · 5 years

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Four Loko, Joose, and Sparks: An Abridged History of Caffeinated Alcohol

Remembrances of Four Loko — the super-caffeinated, alcoholic energy drink available in every convenience store for a narrow window of time before intervention by the Food and Drug Administration at the end of the aughts — are their own genre of internet content.

It is, if there is such a thing, the internet’s beverage, even years after the demise of its original formula. “If you can remember your Four Loko experiences, it wasn’t a Four Loko experience,” comedian Kady Ruth recently tweeted, in response to a question from comedian Akilah Hughes asking for stories about the drink’s golden age. “Why tell, when you can show a photo series?” dancer and YouTuber Ava Gordy replied, attaching an image of herself surrounded by Four Loko cans and wearing a gas mask. Photos from Four Loko’s golden days are scattered around on Tumblr and Imgur, captured with the high-flash, red-eyed weirdness of disposable cameras and early iPhones.

In an oral history of Four Loko, published on Grub Street last summer, the team of Ohio State buddies who created it explained how the product went from a small production run in 2005 to a splashy New York City debut in 2009 to more than $100 million in revenue in 2010. In short: They made the cans tall and they gave them a neon camouflage print to make them stand out. Plus, they raised the alcohol level as high as they legally could for a malt beverage.

2010 sounds like such a long time ago that I was honestly surprised when one of the Gawker pieces about the moment mentioned the fact that Obama was president. I wasn’t old enough to drink or permitted to have more than one other person in my car at the time, but even I feel a bubbly sort of weakness in my chest reading a blog post about the founder of Ron Jon Surf Shops getting arrested for driving under the influence of Four Loko or a blog post about Chuck Schumer comparing Four Loko to “a plague” devastating the country.

Four Loko was beloved, and it is beloved in death. But why? What’s so great about caffeinated sugar-water full of booze, in a can, retailing for $2.50, other than the obvious? The drink is infamous, and maybe an important cultural moment, but it’s not unique. There were also micro-eras for the nearly identical drinks Sparks and Joose, and the vodka Red Bull got almost two decades. In fact, there’s a long history of people trying to showily ruin their nights or their lives with disgusting combinations of chemicals dreamed up for some business purpose that doesn’t especially concern them. Caffeine and alcohol shouldn’t mix, but they have always mixed.

“People are always looking for a way to get high,” William Rorabaug, a historian at the University of Washington, tells me. “Throughout history. It seems to be part of the human condition.”

The last super-boozy generation was the baby boomers, he explains, but their children got into a health kick — yoga, meditation, bicycles, running — mostly because they saw a lot of bad stuff happen to their parents and older siblings as a result of alcohol, and because they preferred marijuana. Mothers Against Drunk Driving got big in the 1980s, and heavy alcohol consumption dipped throughout the 1990s. It didn’t rise again until about 2003, he says, when “very sweet mixed drinks” that went down easy and would mess you up with sugar and alcohol at the time became more popular.

Philip Dobard, vice president of the National Food and Beverage Foundation, explains to me that the drinking age was lower when he was a teenager, which was in the 1970s, and that he really liked drinking Long Island iced teas. Though they’ve been rebranded as premium cocktails in recent years, Long Island iced teas used to be Diet Coke and the leftover dregs of various well spirits. “It was the vodka Red Bull of its day,” he reminisces. “It was high alcohol, not particularly high caffeine, but caffeine. It was a test of one’s humanity. A test of one’s mortality. You’re young and healthy and you’re not familiar with loss. Injuries, when they occur, quickly heal.”

“It was a test of one’s humanity. A test of one’s mortality. You’re young and healthy and you’re not familiar with loss. Injuries, when they occur, quickly heal.”

A current fact sheet from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention about mixing caffeine and alcohol states that it makes drinkers feel too alert (when they should feel sleepy and want to stop drinking or at least sit down and not risk “alcohol-attributable harms”). It also points out that “caffeine has no effect on the metabolism of alcohol by the liver ... (it does not ‘sober you up’) or reduce impairment due to alcohol consumption,” and some studies have found people who mix caffeine and alcohol are three times more likely to leave a bar while still heavily intoxicated and four time more likely to attempt to drive home.

But caffeinated alcohol and the type of high it provides is communal, Dobard notes. It’s almost charming, to want to strip yourself of inhibitions in the presence of people you like. “I don’t think that impulse is new,” Dobard adds. “I think the commercial forces are new.”

He’s right. The vodka Red Bull was invented in the late ’90s by none other than … Red Bull, which chased athletes in ski towns and the rave scene on the West Coast by giving cases of free energy drinks to bartenders, even paying them thousands of dollars to put it on the menu. The first mainstream alcohol and fortified caffeine beverage was an industry plant.

As Haley Hamilton noted in MEL’s recent oral history of the vodka Red Bull, combining alcohol with caffeine has a two-part effect: “The alcohol can dull the effects of the caffeine (boring), or more problematically, the caffeine can dull the effects of the alcohol, meaning you can drink way more than you normally would without feeling super-hammered.” Dobard is not personally familiar with Four Loko, but sympathizes with the plight of a generation that just wants to get as drunk as everyone else got to.

“There’s nothing inherently illicit about combining caffeine and alcohol,” he points out, adding that coffee liqueurs and coffee-based cocktails have been around for hundreds of years, commonly used as post-dinner digestifs. “The problem occurs when there’s so much of one or the other and it’s so available that it becomes easily and widely abused as a substance. That’s typically when government agencies step in and recognize it as a public health risk.”

(In 2010, the New York Times offered the following very funny, very ahistoric thought on the demand for Four Loko: “It has long vexed club-hoppers and partygoers: how do you stay awake while drinking alcohol late into the night? For years, alcohol and soda sufficed.” Imagine if we’d just cool-mom-blind-eyed everyone for choosing to drink gas station cocktails instead of doing cocaine!)

Gawker’s Hamilton Nolan commented on the persecution of Four Loko in 2010, writing that it was part of a “full-blown scapegoating operation,” and pointing out the obvious: “Isn’t the real issue here that kids are stupid?”

Caffeinated alcohol is a distinctly American flavor of stupid. We do it over and over.

That’s a fair question. Budweiser’s alcohol-and-caffeine drink BE was a hit in the United States in the early to mid-aughts but flopped immediately when tested overseas in 2006. Caffeinated alcohol is a distinctly American flavor of stupid. We do it over and over.

A can of Joose, which is 23.5 ounces, contains approximately 380 calories. (Compared to modern Four Loko, which is 660.) While both had 12 percent alcohol by volume and were fortified with caffeine, Joose had a few differentiating features, beyond the fact it was 40 cents cheaper and covered in skulls.

Sparks actually preceded both, and MillerCoors voluntarily removed the caffeine in 2008, before Four Loko even hit its stride. In the two years between its $215 million acquisition from the McKenzie River Corporation and this quiet surrender, Sparks had a 90 percent share of the “alcopop” market, which meant that with its death, Four Loko was primed to become an easy hit.

Today, even in the midst of the “wellness” boom, young people still post exuberantly about knocking back cans of Four Loko and making bad decisions, even though the caffeine has been removed and the current drink is no more dangerous than a wine cooler. In June 2016, long after Four Loko had been rereleased sans caffeine, the strange college journalism platform Odyssey Online published a guide to matching Four Loko flavors with your personality. “Gold Loko is a VERY IMPORTANT new flavor,” the possibly underage author wrote. “The people who drink these LOVE to live on the edge. They aren’t afraid of the challenge (of the added 2 percent alcohol volume).”

But it’s not special. None of it is special. I was a straitlaced high school soccer player during the Four Loko years, but I do remember, with a warm sort of disgust, the acrid taste of college ingenuity — tequila and blue Gatorade, whiskey and strawberry-kiwi Snapple, etc. There was no reason we couldn’t have chosen slightly less revolting combinations, except for the fact that it was kind of romantic not to. In 20 years, are you going to post throwback pics of a rum and Coke? It’s not shorthand for anything, and you would probably drink one now.

In November 2010, one of Four Loko’s creators, Chris Hunter, defended the drink vehemently to Fast Company, arguing that it had the same amount of caffeine as a Starbucks coffee, less alcohol than most craft beers, and less seductive packaging than a Bud Light Lime, and that dozens of other alcoholic beverages were available in the same 24-ounce cans. Asked about a widely publicized incident at Washington State University in which nine college students ended up hospitalized, with Four Loko cited throughout the police report, Hunter got even more defensive, telling reporter Austin Carr:

The police report showed there was supposedly illegal drugs at the party. That was mentioned about 14 times in the police report. There were multiple mentions of hard liquor, but there were only a few, maybe 2 to 3, mentions of Four Loko. It’s really unfair to say our drink was the cause of this.

The same month, his company reached a voluntary agreement with the New York State Liquor Authority to stop shipping Four Loko into the state, and the FDA issued a public warning about caffeine as an “unsafe additive” to alcoholic beverages, as well as private letters to four manufacturers — including Four Loko’s Phusion Projects — that stated, “[The] FDA is not aware of any publicly available data to establish affirmatively safe conditions of use for caffeine added directly to alcoholic beverages and packaged in a combined form.”

The FDA’s letter was sent to Charge Beverages Corporation (which made drinks called Core High Gravity HG Green and Core High Gravity HG Orange), New Century Brewing Company (which made the fortified beer Moonshot), and United Brands, which made Joose.

Jonathan Howland, a community health researcher at Boston University, told Science Daily just after the ban on Four Loko, “Although several manufacturers of caffeinated beer have withdrawn their products from the market, there is no sign that young people have decreased the practice of combining alcohol and energy drinks.”

There have been other gross party beverages meant to recapture the thrill of alcoholic energy drinks without drawing the same unwanted attention. Whipped Lightning, a combination of sugar, heavy cream, grain alcohol, and artificial flavoring had a brief heyday. Forty-proof chocolate milk did not quite. The super-cheap bottled sangria brand Capriccio had a moment, which the company leaned into, saying, “Believe the hype!” MEL’s Miles Klee recently sampled every flavor of a Mark Cuban-endorsed juice-box wine cooler called BeatBox, which has hideous, brightly colored marketing materials and a low price point, but concluded that its 11.1 percent alcohol content wasn’t really enough for anything other than an “unremarkable, if quietly pleasant weekend.”

In fact, even the FDA seems to be over the whole incident. When asked whether it would involve itself in the rise of alcohol-infused cold brew — such as those offered by the California-based Cafe Agave or the forthcoming offering from Skyy Vodka, announced March 15 — a spokesperson said the agency only considers products on a case-by-case basis, when action seems called for, and would have to get back to me.

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Source: https://www.vox.com/the-goods/2019/3/15/18265724/four-loko-history-joose-sparks-red-bull-vodka-caffeine

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floraexplorer · 5 years

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28 Things You’ll Learn on an East Coast Canada Road Trip

I’d never been to the east coast of Canada before I road-tripped through it.

In fact, I’d never visited Canada at all – but I’d always wanted to. Up until a few weeks ago, Canada still existed in my mind as a maple-syrup-soaked land of giant moose and friendly locals: essentially, a stereotypical dream. And when the plan of road tripping along Canada’s east coast emerged, I envisioned a highway dotted with Tim Hortons, ice rinks and, again, giant moose.

But over the course of a fortnight, my photographer friend Kim and I drove along the open highways of Nova Scotia and Newfoundland & Labrador, searching for every story we could find – and the stereotypes fell away in favour of something better.

Our search for stories led us to riding ATVs through tall grass and foraging for cloudberries in soggy marshland. To jigging for cod on a tiny fishing boat, wrapped inside a blanket of fog. To kayaking in the Atlantic ocean alongside the bobbing heads of sleek-bodied seals. To walking with ghosts in darkened cemeteries with lost German names inscribed on slabs of broken slate. To rising earlier than the light and hiking past stone stacks at sunrise. To drinking tea from china cups beside beach bonfires and toasting each other with homemade scones and jam.

And then there were the people: a seemingly never-ending stream of Nova Scotians and Newfoundlanders who are, truly, some of the most immediately friendly strangers I’ve ever met.

But the road was the central thread of this journey: following those painted strips of yellow line vanishing beneath our car tyres, the constant banks of trees broken up by a succession of unfamiliar names on roadsigns, and an ever-present stretch of asphalt winding out like a ribbon before us. And it also acting like a framework, allowing us to get to grips with Atlantic Canada from a fascinating perspective.

Here’s what we learned from a two week road trip across east coast Canada.

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Atlantic Canada will remind you of a dozen different places.

The east coast of Canada is comprised of four provinces: Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island (PEI), New Brunswick and Newfoundland & Labrador. Those first three are also called the Maritime provinces – the easternmost province of Newfoundland & Labrador only joined Canada in 1949, so it’s not included in that grouping.

These Atlantic provinces are clearly influenced by the different cultures of people who settled here – Scottish, Irish, English and French – along with the First Nations who have always called this part of Canada home. You’ll see these different cultures reflected in people’s accents, surnames, and names of locations: like the Irish brogue of Newfoundlanders, or the signs to places like Lower Shoal Highway, Little Heart’s Ease and Bear Nation River.

The landscapes are like Ireland and Scotland…

In Nova Scotia, we often mentioned we’d be visiting Newfoundland & Labrador next – and everyone said the same thing: that Newfoundland was exactly like Ireland.

This island province has the most stunning landscapes: wide sweeps of coastal cliffs, deep stretches of pockmarked earth, and sudden forests under vast expanses of sky. Fascinatingly, Newfoundland & Labrador is home to some of the oldest fossils on the planet, thanks to its history as a place where the continental plates collided.

… But the buildings look like they’re lifted from northern Norway.

Every time we passed one of the tiny fishing huts (called ‘stages’) which are dotted along Atlantic Canada’s coastline, I continually thought of the similar little red-roofed buildings in northern Norway.

It always makes me happy to draw parallels between two different parts of the world – and it makes sense in this case. Both Atlantic Canada and Arctic Norway rely heavily on fishing, hence why they position their buildings right above the water.

There aren’t many cars, and the road is often empty.

For long stretches of our driving days in both Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, we were treated to virtually empty roads. On the plus side, this meant maximum views of the surrounding landscape – but on the downside, we couldn’t play as many car games prompted by the vehicles around us (a firm favourite of mine is guessing what kind of person is driving based on their numberplate letters).

Luckily, Kim was treated to my second-favourite car game: the alphabet-based “I went to the supermarket” – except with a Canadian theme. This game pulled us through about two hours of driving at the end of our trip, along with a serious case of hysteria…

Your car snacks will all include maple in some form.

All good road trips need an assortment of local snacks for munching on. Keep a box of maple biscuits in the car for emergencies (along with some maple butter cereal bars for real emergencies).

The weather can change in an instant (especially in Newfoundland!)

Dressing for weather in the Maritime provinces is an education. We had constant blue skies and bright sunshine in Nova Scotia, but on arrival in Newfoundland our plane touched down in a thick soup of heavy fog.

Newfoundland is famed for its quick-to-change weather, thanks to the contrast with sea and air temperatures. The fog comes out of nowhere – but it can also fade away again pretty quickly.

Sadly, there’s a fair amount of roadkill.

In Nova Scotia, there were multiple occasions when I suddenly shouted, “Raccoon!” “Possum!” “Ohh… it’s a porcupine..!”

Seeing a little pile of upended quills perhaps isn’t the best way to see my first ever porcupine in the wild: unfortunately the highway is a dangerous spot for many Canadian animals, and it’s often the last resting place for the aforementioned critters – along with snakes, groundhogs and skunks.

Thankfully I was much happier in Newfoundland, as there’s barely any roadkill to be seen.

Luckily there’s also plenty of Canadian wildlife that’s alive and well!

It’s extremely tantalising to know that the forests on either side of the road could be filled with brown bears and moose (even if they’re hiding from view whenever you look). But there’s lots of other animals happily enjoying life in Atlantic Canada.

On our kayaking adventures in Blue Rocks, Nova Scotia, we watched the seals swim, surface and dunk themselves beneath the water again, and during a boat tour in New Bonaventure, Newfoundland, I saw my first ever bald eagle sat in the top of a far-off tree – which then took off in flight right in front of us. All my photos are way too blurry but I was so happy!

But the best wildlife sighting has to be in Elliston, NL, where an entire rock’s surface is covered in puffins. We sat on the rain-soaked grass and time seemed to stop as we watched these adorable little birds zoom around – and eventually a pair decided to land right in front of us. At the same moment, there were three or four whales in the ocean just beyond, their bodies and bursts of bubbles repeatedly appearing above the water’s surface.

I could have sat there all day long.

You’ll want to see moose – but also you DON’T want to see moose.

My not-so-secret predominant wish for our Canada trip was to see a moose casually mooching along the highway as we drove past. Kim, who was coincidentally doing all the driving, was not so keen. Particularly when I showed her this viral video of a moose in Alaska.

We didn’t end up seeing any moose in the end – and I’m actually quite grateful, because these guys are no joke.

Searching for coffee shops with espresso machines can lead you to some adorable cafes…

On a roadtrip, a caffeine hit in the mornings is basically mandatory – so Kim and I made it our mission to sample good coffee wherever we went. We’ve both spent our adulthoods drinking espresso coffee, but in the more rural parts of Atlantic Canada (particularly in Newfoundland) it proved quite difficult to find coffee shops which served cappuccinos and lattes.

Don’t give up the search though! Our need for caffeine often led us to some lovely places – like The Two Whales Coffee Shop in Port Rexton, NL, the Laughing Whale Coffee Roasters in Lunenberg, NS, and T.A.N. Coffee in Windsor, part of an alternative coffee shop chain in Nova Scotia.

… But you will inevitably find yourself inside a Tim Hortons.

Tim Hortons is a quintessentially Canadian chain and there are thousands of Tim Hortons stores across Canada. We automatically tried to avoid them in pursuit of the aforementioned independent coffee shops – but one foggy morning it was the only place serving coffee for miles around.

I’m glad we ended up there, because it turns out the coffee is pretty damn good. And the Timbits (delicious bite-sized doughnut holes in all kinds of flavours) aren’t to be sniffed at, either.

Sampling Canada’s fast food chains is a worthy endeavour.

If you’re going to try the Timbits from Tim Hortons, then you also need to try Canada’s other fast food offerings.

On our first day in Halifax we went straight to a poutine shop, sharing a box filled with chips smothered in cheese curds, pulled pork and gravy. It was sinfully delicious – and within 24 hours we’d also made our way to BeaverTails.

Inspired by Canada’s unofficial mascot animal, this pastry shop makes Canadian doughnuts and pastries, including their hand-stretched doughy namesake. I sampled a beavertail-wrapped hot dog while walking along the Halifax waterfront and it was way too tasty for its own good.

You could feasibly eat fresh lobster for every meal…

When dinnertime rolls around in Atlantic Canada, there’s always lobster in some format on the menu. Lobster poutine, lobster mac & cheese, lobster rolls, the infamous ‘Lunenburger’ (a beef burger topped with lobster and a scallop, served in its namesake town of Lunenburg, NS), lobster tagliatelle, or the pièce de résistance — an entire lobster.

If you have lunch at Hall’s Harbour Lobster Pound in the Bay of Fundy you’ll get the chance to meet Lowell, who gives you a behind-the-scenes tour of the lobster pound and regales you with fascinating lobster facts while wearing beautifully themed lobster socks.

Lowell will also introduce you to the biggest (live) lobster you’ve ever seen: he’s called Albert, and his claw is bigger than Lowell’s foot.

Or you can just stuff yourself with seafood.

I’ve spent the last few years trying to give up most meat, but I still fail miserably at avoiding seafood. Being pescatarian feels more acceptable when you’re right beside the ocean – so I full-on indulged. After two weeks of delicious seafood at every meal, I don’t think I can eat mussels, scallops, or chowder again for a while…

In Atlantic Canada, the word ‘fish’ always means ‘cod’.

The importance of cod in Canada’s history cannot be overstated. Once the most-fished-for fish in the country because it was so plentiful, decades of over-fishing eventually led to a ‘cod moratorium’ in 1992, which banned cod fishing throughout Canada.

It was the biggest fisheries collapse in world history: it put over 40,000 people out of work overnight, decimated hundreds of coastal communities and irreparably changed the social landscape of east coast Canada, particularly in Newfoundland.

Almost thirty years later, Atlantic cod isn’t extinct but it’s still officially vulnerable. The government have now allowed the recreational fishing of cod but the fishery as an industry remains closed.

If you visit Newfoundland & Labrador, prepare to kiss the cod. Seriously.

This province have taken their love of cod to a whole new level: it’s a crucial part of a tradition called the ‘Screech-in’ which welcomes visitors to the island.

On our third night in St John’s (and after a number of pints at the Yellowbelly Brewery), our blogger friend Candice took us to George Street for our official screech-in ceremony. We stood in a circle amongst a bunch of other visitors while a giant of a man dressed in fisherman’s gear slapped a huge wooden paddle against his flattened palm and shouted out lines of a poem, which we had to shout back in repetition.

One by one we kneeled down, then kissed a frozen cod held in front of us – which was swiftly followed by downing a shot of Screech rum. And just like that, we were honorary Newfoundlanders!

There are huge lighthouses all along the coast…

If you love lighthouses, you’re in luck. Atlantic Canada is famed for its lighthouses, and there’s even an easily-followable lighthouse route along the Nova Scotia coastline.

We stopped in at a fair few lighthouses during our trip, including the famed Peggy’s Point Lighthouse at Peggy’s Cove, just outside of Halifax. The Nova Scotia Lighthouse Preservation Society has a comprehensive list of which lighthouses are open to the public (including a few where you can spend the night!)

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…and you’ll see much smaller lighthouses too.

Miniature lighthouses seemed to be a typically Canadian thing which I didn’t quite understand, but was nonetheless totally happy about (particularly when I asked Google, “‘why does Canada love lawn lighthouses’ and found this guy).

We passed multiple houses with tiny lighthouse statues set on their front lawns – and when they also featured Canadian flags it was even better.

You’ll see the same outdoor deckchairs everywhere you look.

Adirondack chairs are perhaps my favourite discovery from the east coast of Canada. When I first spotted them along the Halifax waterfront I assumed they were only a city-wide thing, but we quickly realised that these wide colourful deckchairs are all over the place.

I’ve tried to learn their origin and why Canada loves them so much, but the best info I could come up with was this: to celebrate Canada’s 150th anniversary in 2017, Parks Canada placed 150 all-weather Adirondack chairs across the country in an effort to connect Canadians with nature.

Adirondack chairs are usually in pairs of two or groups of three. We saw them on the front porches of hotels and private homes, at the ends of docks and beside lakes – even on hiking trails – and the ultimate reward was scoring a pair of chairs at Halifax airport on our five hour layover before flying back to London!

There’s a maritime museum in almost every town…

The east coast of Canada has a rich maritime history, and they’re doing a great job of informing visitors about it.

If you’re anything like me, you’ll love wandering through rooms filled with old anchors, paddle boats, buoys and dinghies, fascinating metallic artefacts made from metal and material and wood, along with dozens of crinkled photographs depicting sailors and captains from days gone by.

My favourites were the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic in Halifax, which had an entire floor dedicated to artefacts from the Titanic sinking (Halifax was the closest port to the sinking so many of the victims were brought here for burial) and the Provincial Seaman’s Museum in Grand Banks, Newfoundland, which featured a dozen different hearses on sledge blades – used when the water froze over in the 1800s.

… And there are even more cemeteries…

Atlantic Canada’s relationship to death is prominent, which makes sense when you think how many generations of fishing and sailing families have lost their loved ones to the sea. That prominence is reflected in where they choose to bury their dead, with cemeteries placed in centralised locations in pretty much every place we visited.

When we spoke to Pat Redgrave, the owner of The Garrison Inn in Annapolis Royal, NS – which sits opposite one of Canada’s oldest cemeteries with headstones dating back to 1720 – he said that in a part of the world where young fishermen often die, it’s not really possible to ignore death. As a result, the prevailing attitude of Nova Scotians and Newfoundlanders towards death seems pretty accepting.

…Which means there are ghosts (and ghost stories) everywhere.

The folklore and legends of Atlantic Canada are well-renowned – perhaps because this part of Canada has more decades of documented history than most of North America, but also because rich oral traditions are commonplace here.

Ghost walks, cemetery tours, spooky tales of hotel hauntings and faded old photos will all do their best to creep you out. I absolutely love this stuff. Kim? Not quite so much. Just outside a cemetery on our late night ghost walk through Lunenburg, NS, I made her scream when I sidled up to her to whisper, “There’s a man in that car…”

Turned out the creepy figure sat in the driver’s seat was a real human man just there to use the free outdoor wifi. It was still hilarious.

You’ll find yourself following local superstitions.

After hearing enough tales of century-old traditions and superstitious behaviour, it’s likely you’ll start following along with some of it.

During our ghost tour in Lunenburg, we learned that generations of Lunenburgers have spat on the ground when they see a single crow (which indicates bad luck) in order to beckon in a second crow (which lifts that bad luck). The next day while driving, we saw our third single crow of the day…. and both rolled down our windows to spit.

You don’t want to tempt bad luck, after all…!

If you’ve got a question, just look for the question marks.

There’s a lot of questions you can ask in eastern Canada – and thankfully the provinces are prepared for it. That’s why they’ve marked out their tourist offices with giant question marks, along with question-marked highway signs indicating you’re about to get the chance to ask some questions!

The first time we saw a question mark sign we erupted into laughter. But that could also have been roadtrip-related hysteria.

You can enjoy a rather tasty glass of local wine in Nova Scotia.

People told us that the vineyards in Nova Scotia produce wine that can rival France and California! Apparently the province’s soil and climate are perfect for growing grapes – and with more than eighteen wineries and vineyards dotted throughout Nova Scotia (particularly in Annapolis Valley), it’s becoming a burgeoning industry.

We sampled a few different red wines during our week in Nova Scotia and loved them. My favourite? The ‘Great Big Friggin’ Red’, complete with a label which reminded me of the circus.

Craft beer in Atlantic Canada is pretty fantastic too.

Aside from wine production, they’re also pretty hot on their craft beer in Atlantic Canada. There are dozens of craft breweries which made this IPA drinker very happy – I particularly liked the Garrison Tall Ship IPA and the Quidi Vidi ‘Day Boil’ Session IPA.

We spent time sampling beers at the Yellowbelly Brewery in St Johns and the nearby Quidi Vidi Brewery, but our favourite discovery was a brand-new bar set inside an old church in Wolfville, Nova Scotia (aptly named ‘Church’) with an ever-changing menu of locally brewed craft beer.

The sunrises are stunning – if you manage to wake up early enough.

The east coast of Canada is privy to some spectacular sunrises, which you’ll often vow to see. Unfortunately, you’ll often miss them because you were having too much fun the night before! But when you finally manage it (on the last morning of your trip..!) it’ll be beautiful.

We roused ourselves from a peaceful slumber in the insanely comfy beds at The Fisher’s Loft Inn in Port Rexton, Newfoundland, to head out on the Skerwink Trail at 5am. With fresh dew on the leaves and skittering bugs around us, we walked along the cliff edge beside the sea stacks and watched the sky change colour with the rising sun.

The best part of an east coast Canada road trip? Everyone will make friends with you.

Perhaps my favourite part of Atlantic Canada was making friends with people. It was absurdly easy, and yet still felt so special.

We struck up conversation with a woman and her family while queuing for our rental car at Halifax airport, then spent the early hours of the morning with a group of twenty-somethings that night at a local bar. An elderly married couple approached us at dinner with recommendations of where to visit in Nova Scotia; a young wife talked with me at length about Canada’s indigenous history while we went fishing; and a random woman tied my plastic bib behind my neck before showing me how to eat the lobster on the table in front of me!

There is no doubt that I’ll come back to Canada. There are two more Atlantic provinces I’ve yet to explore – and a hundred more stories to hear and to tell…

Would you go on an east coast Canada road trip? Are there any typical road trip lessons I’ve missed out?

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Disclaimer: This trip was in collaboration with Tourism Nova Scotia and Newfoundland & Labrador, who hosted Kim and I – but the opinions about Canadian superstitions, giant moose and Adirondack deckchairs are all my own.

The post 28 Things You’ll Learn on an East Coast Canada Road Trip appeared first on Flora The Explorer.

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