#going straight to the portfolio if ill say

[cozystars]

various assests i made for a game jam vn! didn't think i had a knack for graphic designs/backgrounds, but here we are

play the game here!

[starwikia]

suicide cw

look i have been in this area before mentally. it sucks and i wouldn’t wish this on anyone. but, and this is going to sound callous, but i don’t feel any sympathy for james somerton. even if i hope he’s like. not dead. But thats all the amount of goodwill im willing to give him. The more i think about this really, the more angry i am. 

ngl this entire situation is another example of how white people weaponize their mental illness to avoid consequences. Im seeing it in real time.

this man has a continuous habit of using self-harm as a get-out-of-jail-for-free card. in both of his apologies, he has worded his supposed attempts in ways that were clearly meant to guilt people who displayed his plagiarism and overall horrendous history of racism and misogyny. i say supposed because, while i’m not saying those are lies and this would he such a fucked up thing to lie about that i don’t want to think he has, unfortunately, it’s been proven again and again that his word can’t be trusted, as he’s known to lie to try get out of consequences. Hes a proven liar. him lying about this is actually the best case scenario, because no one should go through this entire situation, wouldnt wish this on anyone, but you can only do this so often before people stop sympathizing with you. is this callous? Yeah, but like. I’m actually fucking angry he cant straight up take no as an answer. that this is how he reacts realizing he cant be one of the Cool Kidz™️ on youtube anymore. he acts like he DESERVES a career, like its not a privilege hes lost due to his own actions.

He lied about apologizing and forgiving people, he lied about giving the money to hbomberguy to give to ppl he ripped off (yknow, instead of doing it himself), he lied about the jessie gender situation and rewrote the narrative to make it so he isnt the bad guy, and hes the victim all along actually!

you can’t tell me that supposed last message of his isn’t meant to be a 13 reasons why esq attempt to deflect the blame “look i’m going to kill myself and it’s all YOUR PEOPLES FAULT for not letting me achieve my DREAM of being filmmaker IN PEACE!!! I just wanted Nick’s (the guy who I have thrown under the bus again and again) portfolio up!! Im just being a good friend dont you all FEEL BAD” he refuses to take ANY ACCOUNTABILITY of any of his actions and he IS STILL trying to shove the blame over to other people again.

it’s also pretty ironic people are like “uhhh well hbomber’s fans harassed him!!!” like hbomber outright told people NOT to HARASS JAMES!!! ALSO acting as if james doesn’t have a very real documented history of STRAIGHT UP sending his fans to harass and threaten smaller creators, more notably women, trans, and bipoc creators. especially after he’s stolen typically very personal anecdotes so he could profit from them. so why can he do it but the second people are like “hey this guys an actual piece of shit.” and he can’t handle it suddenly people are trying to white knight his shit? like no he doesn’t get that. he doesn’t get that at all just because he couldn’t handle the consequences of his actions. 

what? were supposed to stay quiet about a man profiting off of other minorities because he wanted to be the spokesman for all gay people? people tried to solve this on a smaller, more private scales for YEARS and he kept doing it. it was clear that the giant public video was the ONLY way to get people to notice. HE WOULDVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH STEALING 87 FUCKING THOUSANDS WORTH OF DOLLARS. HE CANT HANDLE THE FACT HE CANT GET AWAY WITH IT. 

am i supposed to feel bad for the guy who basically threatened a trans woman with the police? i don’t care what anyone says, it’s so fucking obvious that he threatened jessie by implying he was getting the police involved in their conflict. what am i supposed to act like that didn’t happen? are we supposed to pretend like he didn’t glorify nazi’s and outright said that gay people made up a good chunk of the nazis? That he didnt say america joined ww2 bc they were jealous of the NAZIS. WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO FUCKING SAY THAT. but then? He gives women (not even women most of the time, he misgenders nonbinary ppl constantly) shit for writing mlm. are we supposed to act like he doesn’t straight-up sees himself superior and better than people of color and steals their works to put himself on a pedestal? Are we supposed to act like he didnt spit on our elders by saying “only the boring gays survived aids” like man! Fuck you! He BLANTANTLY MAKES UP HISTORY TO PUT HIMSELF ON A PEDESTAL!! HE ACTIVELY TRIED TO REWRITE LGBT HISTORY TO SUIT HIS FUCKED UP NARRATIVES!

yes this sucks ! no one deserves this but no one should be making him a martyr. Thats what he fucking WANTS! He wants to be immortalized as a victim!! (again, supposedly, it was reported hes alive but its not confirmed).

The shit he got isnt near the amount of fucking callous behavior hes done again and again. Again, to drill this point, EVEN IF HE DIDNT CALL THE POLICE HE THREATENED A TRANS WOMAN INTO THINKING HE DID!!! The fact he tried to use a head injury to justify years of the outright ghoulish shit fucking astounds me. Why the fuck did anyone in his life thought it was a good idea to let him TRY to come back. in the end, he had options. he didn’t need to try to make a comeback. HE DIDNT NEED TO FUCKING LIE OR IGNORE THE SHIT HE WAS CALLED OUT ON the reality is, he wanted to come back thinking he could shove it under the rug, was told that no dude, you’re not allowed to be a youtuber anymore. you’re done. you need to move on and went full nuclear. it’s not on anyone’s hands but his own. HES BEEN DOING THIS TO HIMSELF!! But nah man we cant call his shit out bc hell may or may not kill himself. Fuck the other minorities who have the same issues but worse and sometimes BECAUSE of him. This is going to SUCKKKK so bad when other ppl, specifically white gays, are going to weaponize this shit to get away with their stuff.

[thepedanticbohemian]

Write what you know

When the college I was attending for journalism refused to give me life credit for 10-years-worth of clippings in my portfolio from actually working as a journalist at newspapers, magazines, and also as a foreign correspondent for Reuters Wire Services, I was pissed. I mean Hulk Big Mad.

I walked straight from the chair's office to admissions. I switched my major to Criminal Justice and crafted my own minor in pathophysiology and psychology because forensics wasn't a thing yet. I'd always dreamed of serving in the FBI...or writing about it. I couldn't pass the FBI PT--like how my Navy career ended by failing PT three times. I did finish an internship as a death investigator for a Coroner's Office in Illinois (the most interesting job I've ever done).

Since I write crime fiction suspense thrillers it ended well. I write heavily forensic and medical prose. My published novel, OVER THE RIVER, THROUGH THE WOODS, deals with an incurable brain disease and the repercussions on the married couple going through it. THE OUDERKIRK HOUSE is about both a 3-decade-long search for a child serial killer and a multiple murder cold case from 1968. The manuscript relies heavily on forensics, ballistics, and the whole spectrum of evidence.

If you feel ill-equipped, READ. Lots. As Stephen King is fond of saying, you'll never be a writer if you aren't a reader.

Research is my favorite part of my writing. The more I research, the deeper and more meaningful my characters and scenes.

[freetwitchfollowers]

The long walks

Strolling is thrilling. As each step you set forward, a muscle in your body moves, jerks and unwinds. While I'm no master strolling is great for you, specialists suggested long strolls for a ton of illnesses an individual might have.

I began strolling, not the short strolls, the one you need to completely finish, however the long hard walks where your feet follow with another and arms and hands strolling with you in grandeur and force.

The spot is the Games City Amman where extended lengths of room are as of now spread out along with trails and pathways inside what is designated "the woods", indeed, sort of woodland with pine trees that really stretch up out of the dark sky.

Free Twitch Followers

My significant other and sister previously convinced me. You stroll at your simplicity totally inundated from the streets and traffic that encompasses you.

I just being doing it for multi day, however I as of now feel my appendages are being wheedled into a new, might I venture to say, wellbeing status. I was astonished by the quantity of individuals who were moving along the cleared street and trails.

Youthful, old, ladies, men, even youngsters some with their families, some without, some were with companions, others all alone, they were all it. And this was promptly in the first part of the day. Vehicles were leaving, individuals getting out, and began moving.

Some were in a lively mode, others like me were relaxing yet others were running. It's the air, the outside air and oxygen filling your lungs with energy. Sooner or later, my back begins throbbing, and I'd have to pause and take a load off for five minutes.

Recently, I risked it, went into a digression and began strolling on the paths among the pine trees. Obviously, it was anything but a smooth ride, with promising and less promising times, and trails that crisscrossed. I glanced around, individuals from all over the place, the human stream steady.

At a specific stage, I didn't have any idea where the paths were taking me, having gone downhill, strolled a straight street, and afterward began to climb, it wasn't quite high, however another, turning, and one more and again, until it took me back to generally were I begun.

As opposed to my thought process, individuals are truly wellbeing cognizant, and I thought it was me that falled behind. Bear in mind, I saw a few to a great extent inside their vehicles with the entryway open, light up a cigarette, breathe in and drink espresso!

Remarks Marwan Asmar (creator) from Amman, Jordan on June 25, 2013:

Look to Proceed instructions to get-white-hair Instructions to Get White Hair asking the-new-occupation Asking Are They Destitute and Desperate or Tricky nextjs-portfolio-format 6 Best Next.js Portfolio Formats: A definitive Rundown Value remark. We underrate strolling constantly.

Zubair Ahmed

Hello there Marwan, an awesome center, yes I concur strolling is phenomenal for wellbeing. I will more often than not go for standard strolls after I finish my day in the workplace. It would marvels to loosen up the care and keep the body fit. Much thanks to you for sharing this data.

Audrey Chase from Pahrump NV

I live among the pine trees in the timberland and walk every day. Occasionally I feel like I could walk always and different days I scarcely make it by any means - yet I do it! Gratitude for this center point. I will pass it on.

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W. K. Hayes

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W. K. Hayes

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[jadelynlace]

Hvitserk’s First Tattoo / Ink Drinker Modern Vikings AU Request [Ivar x F!reader]

catch up on the porno, I mean series, here.

requested by: @quantumlocked310 ♡

author’s note: thanks to this post, you’ll all be subjected to the written requests. here is the visual reference for the tattoo Hvitserk gets (image isn’t mine and all credit goes to it’s original owner). mentions of brotherly bickering, Hvitserk being scared and Ivar tattooing.

synopsis: You finally talk Hvitserk into getting some ink.

✎

“Did I miss it?” You say, nearly falling in through the main door of the shop. “I almost took the ambulance over here just because it has lights and sirens,” Hvitserk offers you an estranged look, one mixed with him being mortified and slightly impressed with your timing after the over night shift.

“I’ve never seen you this excited,” Sigurd calls from his spot, pulling a record from the shelf as he goes about lining it up, pulling the needle over so the music can fill the room.

“She doesn’t even get this excited when she sees my dick,” Ivar teases from his spot and you offer him a less than kind finger gesture. 

“Can you blame me?” You remark back and Ivar only returns your original hand motion. “Did you pick yet?” You the ask as Hvitserk studies Ivar’s portfolio, as if he will be quizzed on it at the end of the session.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” He groans, another turn of the laminated pages.

“All of our best talks happen when it’s in the ambulance cabin at four in the morning,” You laugh, patting his back as you round the small counter. Ivar’s hands are quick to seat you on his lap, wrapping around you almost instantly and you both breathe in relief.

“Long night?” Ivar asks softly in your ear.

“Routine bullshit,” You grumble back, his hands tracing up your back and you could almost fall asleep in the very spot. One hand leaves your spine, reaching along the counter to grasp the tall can of his energy drink, offering it to you but you only shake your head. “That crap tastes like cough syrup,” You add as Ivar downs another gulp.

“Hurry up Hvitserk, we’re here after hours for this,” Ivar calls before he pulls the can back to his mouth.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to pop your cherry,” You say and Ivar looses some of the energy drink through a spray from his lips.

“You can get her name on your ass,” Sigurd says, walking past Hvitserk and tapping his uniform clad back. 

“Why? So Ivar and I can match?” Hvitserk grumbles back and you laugh against Ivar’s chest. 

“How do they know about that?” Ivar asks you quietly, through a teasing voice and you raise slightly, giggling against his mouth as your catch his lips with yours.

“Oh, for fucks sake—Hvitserk here, do that one,” Sigurd says, tapping his fingers against the page. “Paramedic Ragnarsson gets an anatomical tattoo,” 

“Nice choice,” Ivar hums, standing to his full height with you latched still around him and he sets you to sit along the counter.

“Is it nap time for the baby?” Sigurd says, voice taking on a toddler’s tone as he sits back at the front desk, and at the receiving end of the pen that flies from Ivar’s grasp. Leather combat boots stalk along the dark wooden floors, pulling the design from its laminated home before Ivar sends the image through the printer in the far corner. Your eyes catch sight of his back, the muscles in his biceps, the veins on his forearms as he programs the machine to spit out the stencil. Looming your eyes up the gray fabric of the old band tee, over the locks that he’s starting to comb into a bun, and then down the dark wash jeans and over how they end in the tops of his shoes. More thoughts swirl about how you couldn’t wait to undress him when you two would go to your apartment.

As Hvitserk makes himself comfortable in the black leather chair, he rolls up the uniform sleeve, a quick unbutton and folding of the blue material, already deciding on where he deemed the appropriate placement. The curl of his sleeve stops above his elbow and you could see the faint burn mark on his wrist from when he tried to eat a marshmallow that was still on fire. You watched Ivar position himself at his station, a meticulous arrangement of his tools, setting everything in a straight line to connect. There was a squirt of the ink into the containers, a pull of gloves onto his hands, wiggling his fingers into their spots and cracking his knuckles. You bit down on your own tongue to stop that moan that tried so hard to escape. Taking the razor to shave off the blond fuzz, he gingerly laid the stencil on his brother’s inner arm, pressing it gently before pulling it back.

“Double check in the mirror that you like the placement,” Ivar says, tossing his head towards the back wall with the mirror surrounded by an intense wooded frame Floki had built. Hvitserk stands, and you see the slight tremor in his hands, never a fan of any sort of pain—intentional or not. You’ve seen this man cry at the sensation of a paper cut, and all but sob when he jerked his shin against the metal grate on the ambulance’s bumper. But, he was also the man who would tell the patients that it was going to hurt—the realignment, or when he set up the hare for an isolated femur fracture—it was going to hurt and they had his full permission to break his hand if need be. You laugh every time there’s an active labor call, and Hvitserk reassures the mother that he has two hands, and if she needs to break one to push her child out, he’s willing to suffer. It calms the hysteria, even on the worst calls you two had walked into, Hvitserk always knew how to calm any of the demons that danced in the ambulance. Ivar turns to you as Hvitserk gazes, probably far longer than other client has to date, and slides himself over to where you’re perched. There’s a removal of one glove, an index finger and thumb on your chin as he kisses you once, twice, and third time. 

“I already know what I want to eat for dinner,” He whispers against your ear, just loudly enough so you’re the only one to hear his words. “But make sure you leave the polo on, baby girl,” He adds, kissing your temple and nudging the badge that’s on your chest, as a slow blush roses over your cheeks while he turns back around. “Alright brother, ready?” He calls, tapping the seat of the chair and Hvitserk takes a final look before plopping both himself down and his arm against the cushion. 

“Is it going to hurt?” Hvitserk asks, trying to bite the smile he’s showing while both Ivar and Sigurd are preparing to throw whatever they can reach. “I’m sorry I couldn’t resist,” Ivar offers him another lethal glare, nearly plucking the smile from his lips as he begins to spread a thin layer of the ointment across the purple ink. There’s a buzz from the needle gun and Hvitserk whimpers not unlike a puppy. Ivar’s glove-clad fingers stretch to pull the skin taunt, taking the gun down the first line and wiping it with a paper towel.

“Still alright, sir?” You say to Hvitserk as if he’s a patient in your ambulance and you’re watching an IV start. 

“Can you hold my hand?” He whines in a faked voice of concern.

“No,” You say back and there’s a snicker from Sigurd on the far side of the shop. The room dulls to only the noise of the record, the vibration of the needle and you watch Ivar so effortlessly in his element. Eyes watching, concentrating on what he’s doing yet singing lowly to the lyrics of the song that floods your ears alike. He rolls his chair slightly, maneuvering Hvitserk’s arm to his liking as he holds it down with his own. Strength unmatched because his least favorite thing is when the client fidgets, since it sends his work to become sloppy, and he’s grown accustomed to a way to hold the body part down to his liking. And that sight makes you think about him over you, body weight pressing against you like a weighted blanket, one with a smart mouth and curved lip who melts at the sheer stroke of your nails on his skin. Your thoughts rolls from the shift you worked prior, reanalyzing what you had done, gone through, pulling it to part like thread. They roll like waves but crash with thoughts of Ivar, his small comment earlier and then they shift. From work to pleasure and you’re squeezing your thighs before you realize it. Ivar’s voice comes through your ears to halt the dissection, and you move your head to see Hvitserk admiring the piece now forever on his skin and you smile back. Another layer of ointment and then it’s wrapped tightly with Ivar’s instructions to leave it on for an hour. 

“See? No need to be a little baby about it,” You tease him and he laughs.

“That’s his default setting,” Sigurd’s voice calls as he stands up. “Ivar you’re closing up tonight, right?” And Ivar just nods. “I will see your smiling face tomorrow morning then,” He adds sarcastically, and with a wave and check of his pockets he’s out the shops front door.

“Wasn’t as terrible as I thought,” Hvitserk jokes. “Maybe I will get your name on my ass after all,” You offer him a faked smile and forged laugh. “I’m going to head out too, I got the over time for tomorrow,” And he’s gone with a salute through his hand and the hundred dollar bill on the desk, leaving you and Ivar alone in the shop.

“I like seeing you in here,” You say softly as you watch him clear his materials, place everything in their homes and he smiles while he works. “You’re so relaxed,”

“I can say the same thing when I see you in that ambulance, baby,” He replies as he casts a look back to you and then he’s standing, arm grabbing you to come into his side. “Now let’s get going, I’m really looking forward to my dinner…”

Ink Drinker Tags:

@smileysam13579 @dreamtherapy @heisentwerk  @angelofthenightposts @ill-skillsgard @youaremyfamiliar @unbetaedimagines @kathryn-jane @readsalot73 @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @queen-sarang   @anastasiaskarsgard @andmyannabellee @walkxthexmoon  @flowers-in-your-hayr @peachyboneless @heavenly1927 @victoria-styles @quantumlocked310 @xbellaxcarolinax @mighty-ragnarssons @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @queen-of-upshur @nanahachikyuu @apenas-mais-uma-pessoa  @youbloodymadgenius @love-all-things-writing @theanxietyqueen17 @trip2themoon @fandomlifeandeverythingelse

*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

[maplecornia]

chapter 24

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 2.94K

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst | bts x female!reader | ot7

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: things are getting heavyyy

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language

tags: @kookaine | @fangirl125reader | @kookiebbyxx | @taradevonne | @rae-bear |@mangminnie | @pixiekooo

If you're still enough, you can hear the inner whispers of your heart.

Have you noticed?

You're able to hear everything you have kept locked away. It tries to break through the cage, and you can feel the chains growing weaker and weaker with each passing moment. Each tick of the clock drawing closer and closer to the moment where you can no longer hold it in.

Where you finally break down.

Taehyung sighs and leans back in his chair, the meeting room now empty and dark. It's hard to believe that at the break of day it was filled with conflict and torn decisions.

-

"I'm against it."

At the sound of Yoongi's sharp dismissal, it's as though the room wakes up. Some in protest, some in shock. Suga raises his brow at the reaction, almost scoffing when he sees it.

"It's too much of a risk." He sighs almost in contempt. "If you want her so badly, why not sign her with Source or Pledis? They're our shareholders for a reason. Plus, since we're all under HYBE it will be exactly like she were a BigHit affiliation. Given the way this industry runs, however, she's probably best out of Kpop and should be signed under HYBE America. After all, she is a foreigner."

Though they are harsh, his words make sense. This would be the most logical approach rather than breaking their ban on female trainees. They made the ban for a reason, Yoongi doesn't understand why they would throw that away for someone who is slightly talented.

Besides, what about every other talented girl before her?

What reason should she have to achieve the dream which they were denied?

"I have to agree with Yoongi," Jin speaks up, his brow furrowed in concentration. "She has a unique and beautiful voice, that much is true. It'd be a shame to let it go, but if you think about it, we wouldn't be letting it go. Giving it to another company under HYBE might provide a better chance for her in the industry."

Taehyung bites his lip, not liking where this is going.

Jin glances around the table, hesitating before he says his next piece.

"We just got back, can we trust that they'll accept us if we do this? Next thing you know there'll be rumors of a scandal."

Though it was all on their minds, it still hurts to hear it out loud.

Can they trust ARMY to be there for them this time?

"It is a bit concerning. She'll be the only female trainee in an all-male company. Can you imagine the rumors? The field day Dispatch would have? She'd be hated before she even had a chance to show them her worth." Jhope murmurs under his breath, his eyes sparkling with deep worry.

They've all faced that. The fear of being hated for just being you. For existing without the mask.

"But I liked her," Jimin says, leaning forward. Though his words are simple, they are said with the most sincerity. "She's someone you hardly ever see, her voice stays with you, it doesn't leave. It's the kind that people can't get enough of. That's something special...shouldn't we take that into account?"

Biting his inner cheek, Taehyung glances up at BangPD, wondering if he knows. Did Jungkook tell him? He knew about Yen, why wouldn't he have found out about him as well?

If only he hadn't saved that recording. If only he hadn't been so careless, then none of this would have happened.

Somehow he feels as though those moments are being stolen from him.

"Jimin has a point, Yoongi. Did you hear her?" Jin speaks up, his gaze glazing over as though he were looking into the distance. Or recalling a long forgotten memory. Yoongi scoffs and smirks bitterly.

"Of course I did, I have ears."

"Are you sure?" Jin mutters in response, but it's almost as though Yoongi can't hear him.

"Think of this realistically, you have to know there's zero to no chance of her making it. Even if she's talented." There's a moment of uncomfortable silence at his words, words which no one wanted themselves to say. Sighing, Suga gestures towards Namjoon.

"Come on, Joon back me up here."

The room turns to Namjoon, waiting to hear his response.

He stays silent for a moment, his hand resting on his chin as he ponders the situation, his deep eyes calculating moves and countermoves. Possible situation and solutions.

All while trying to forget that the possible trainee is Yen.

Biting his bottom lip, he can't help but remember the way she was in the studio. How her eyes lit up with unimaginable love and devotion. A look only a fellow artist would be able to recognize. She was made for this, he can tell. She yearns to sing, to be lost in music, enveloped in a world of her own making. To be able to share that with others.

Looking over at BangPD, he narrows his eyes thoughtfully.

"What are you planning to do?"

Yoongi's eyes widen at Namjoon’s question, and he leans back, looking to BangPD's response. Bang Sihyuk smiles softly, almost as though he expected this.

For some reason, that look irks Taehyung.

Don’t think you can control us. We weren’t made for your chessboard.

"It will be on a purely trial basis. I am planning to sign her as a trainee, but the public will not know about it until I am sure that she will be a good addition." He looks towards Suga, pointedly directing his next statement towards him. "I understand your concerns for her. After all, she would be our first female trainee for a while."

Suga bites his inner cheek in protest, leaning back in his chair and brooding.

"However, I have been planning this for a while now." The room goes silent with the revelation as they turn to him, waiting for him to reveal more. "Ever since you've left for the military, I've been thinking of possible trainees to recruit for a new girl group. The first girl group to be officially under BigHit entertainment. They would be managed, produced, and signed underneath our label. Not through a loophole like BE:LIFT, Source Music, or Pledis. This would be ours and ours alone."

Jimin shakes his head in confusion. "Why now? What changed?"

BangPD sighs, his careful eyes scanning the room in a calm and collected manner.

"I don't know entirely myself." He rubs his face before continuing, playing with the portfolio of Yen. "I thought it was time to expand our horizons, to try something new...I guess you could say I was inspired."

He glances towards Namjoon, and Joon can't help but remember that day all those years ago.

The day when BangPD proposed a plan, an inspiration to him, not quite unlike this one.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed in concentration, he turns to your smiling photo, still spread across the table.

Was it you?

Were you the reason for this inspiration?

"In any case, before I moved any further, I wanted to see if things would work out with her. One trainee. I didn't want to make a mistake like last time, hence the trial period." Bang Sihyuk continues, swaying a bit in his chair.

"Who would train her?" Taehyung mutters underneath his breath, unable to look away from your photo this whole time. Turning to BangPD, his eyes are aflame with conviction. "If we have our normal staff take part in her training, we won't be able to control who else could find out. If her existence were to be completely secret, who could we trust?"

It's a valid question, but Taehyung doesn't like the glint Sihyuk gets in his eyes at the notion. Silently, he wishes he never spoke up. Maybe then he would've been able to stay under the radar, and BangPD would never have to suspect he had any affiliation with the girl.

With Yen.

"You would."

Two words is all it takes.

Two words and the room is in an uproar.

"What are you talking about?! We have enough on our plate with our comeback, and now you expect us to train a girl who shouldn't even be here in the first place?!" Yoongi is so outraged that he stands, his chair rolling back into the wall.

"Yoongi, calm down--" RM begins, but Suga isn't willing to listen to anyone at the moment.

"Do you have any idea how much pressure we're under? And now you want to add an inexperienced trainee to our list of burdens just because she can sing?!" he snarls, his lip curling in disgust, his eyes dark with anger.

"Yoongi-hyung, you heard her voice. You have to admit that we found something here." Jungkook speaks up, meekly. Taehyung narrows his eyes his way.

Just what does Jungkook get out of all this? Taehyung knows he has to be the one who gave BangPD the file of your voice. He was the only other one there, besides Taehyung. Taehyung himself couldn’t bring himself to give you the flash drive, but Jungkook didn’t even think to tell you. He went straight to BangPD as though this were his decision to make. Did he even think of asking you what you thought?

What’s your angle?

Yoongi rolls his eyes, gesturing to the portfolio on the table.

"Yeah, we found something. But not something worth risking everything we built over!"

"Don't you think you're being a dramatic? We aren't even sure if this will work out. It's just a trial, and it's the best option for us to train them given the situation." Namjoon murmurs, rationally. Suga's eyes flame with defiance at the rebuttal and slams his hand on the table.

"And what happens if word gets out before we're ready?"

The room goes silent with the ultimatum, and they all avoid his gaze.

"What happens when we're the cause of her downfall?"

Glancing at each other, they ponder the question. A question that has weighed heavily on them ever since they debuted, ever since they became the star in the public's eye. Ever since the world knew about the boy group...

BTS.

Scowling, Yoongi pulls away.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't have time for this. I have work to do, work that has been waiting for us for 2 years! Or did you all forget our promise?" When they don't answer him, he scoffs, pulling his backpack on his shoulder and walking out the door. "I'll see you at practice."

There's a moment of silence as soon as Yoongi leaves, silence uncomfortable and pressing. Licking his lips in nervous anticipation, Hoseok looks at the rest of them, almost unsure.

"Is he going to be okay?"

BangPD leans forward, folding his hands on the table.

"Don't worry about Yoongi, I'll talk to him later. But what about the rest of you?"

His quick, analytical eyes scan the table, hovering over every one of them. Almost as if he were trying to predict what exactly they would say next.

"Do you agree?"

-

Now, Taehyung grits his teeth. His grip tightening around the water bottle he was playing with in his hands, he throws it across the wall. As he watches it crumble at the force, he finds the ruin in his mind easing. Water drips off of the wall, and he feels a sort of sadistic satisfaction at the sight of destruction.

Now he’s not the only one broken.

But once that fades, he's left once more with his memories and his regret.

"Dammit." He groans, dropping his face in his hands hopelessly.

-

Standing, Tae grabs Jungkook by the hand before he can follow the rest of them out. The door shuts behind them, leaving only him and Jungkook in the meeting room, an uneasy silence hanging over them. With words they need to say, questions waiting to be answered.

"Taeh--" Jungkook begins, but in his rush, Tae interrupts him.

"Were you there?"

The silence that blossoms between them grows to a deafening roar as Jungkook gently pulls away from Taehyung's firm hold. It creates a bitter but necessary distance between the two of them. It lets them know that they're different, that what happened back then was something that belonged to one as much as it did the other.

"You heard her too, didn't you?" Jungkook murmurs, his words turning Taehyung's blood cold. Smiling softly, Jungkook runs his hands through his hair. "I saw you as you were leaving, you were the one who recorded her, aren't you?"

Biting his bottom lip, Tae can't answer. Even though he knows that moment wasn't his, even though he knows that his ideas of fate and chance have been destroyed, he's unable to admit to it. He can't find it in him to voice the fact that he was there, that he gave birth to her chance, and he wanted it to be his and his alone.

Jungkook chuckles nervously at the silence before speaking once more.

"I wonder...why didn't you have the same idea as me?"

-

His hands tangled up in the locks of his hair, Taehyung stares at the slick wooden table, his heart in knots and his mind jumbled.

"Why didn't I?" he mutters to himself, a soft whisper that lingers empty on the air. "Why couldn't I say anything?"

Pulling away from the table, where Yen's future was decided this morning, he swallows hard. By the end of the day, he found himself lingering around this room, the studio, anyplace that reminded him of her.

Laughing bitterly, he rubs his forehead.

"Why..." He whispers, holding his phone tightly to his chest.

"Why can't I forget you?"

Biting his bottom lip, he quickly messages you, having the sudden urge to see you. Maybe then, would he realize what he can't find? Would he be able to create another memory, another moment in time? One that was yours and yours alone?

After a couple of moments, you don't answer.

Maybe...I was just afraid of letting go.

Standing almost decisively, he rushes out of the room, and down the hallways of the building.

I need to know.

As he rides the same elevator you rode yesterday down to the lobby, he holds his phone tighter in his hand.

If I don't find out now, I may never get another chance.

Desperate, he sends another message to you.

One more time.

Catching his face in the metallic walls of the elevator, he can't help but imagine yours smiling up at him. A face that makes everything seem alright again.

That's all I need.

What happens when that is taken away from him? What happens when he can no longer see the person who gives him courage? Biting his lip, he can feel the pain in his chest grow.

Just let me see you one more time.

He doesn't want to let you go.

As the elevator dings and he steps out, he pauses, seeing Namjoon right in front of him. Namjoon glances up, his eyes glazed over and tired, but when he sees Tae, they widen in recognition. Taehyung smiles inwardly to himself, he knows this look. A look lost in the wilderness of creativity and desolation.

"Oh, Taehyung!" he says, and Taehyung nods to him curtly before brushing past him and continuing to the front door. Namjoon, however, catches him by the wrist and Tae pauses, turning around.

"Namjoon?" His face is blank, but something in his eyes tells Tae to be wary. They are sort of dark, not really there, but urgent and anxious. Taehyung wonders how eyes can hold so many words, and yet tell you nothing at all.

"You knew, didn't you?"

At his words, Tae blinks, his heart pounding.

"I..."

"That's why you followed her, how you knew about her injury."

How does he know?

"When were you going to tell me?"

Biting his bottom lip, Taehyung can't help but feel a bit of aggravation towards his older friend. Why can't he keep anything to himself? Why is it a crime for him to live his own life, without everyone looking in? Yanking his arm out of Namjoon's grip, he scowls, turning on his heel.

"When it became your business."

Namjoon stands there, a bit in shock before rushing forward and taking Tae forcibly by the arm once more.

"Taehyung, wait!" At his touch, Tae tries to pull away, but Namjoon won't budge, his eyes desperate and wild. They unnerve Taehyung, make him want to escape, hide away until everything turns back to normal again. "If she's going to become an idol, any affiliation you have with her will only hurt her."

Tae's eyes widen at his words, snapping a hidden string he didn't know he had inside of him. RM doesn't notice, instead, his grip tightens around Tae until he feels as though he's suffocating from the inside out.

"You know that right?"

Gritting his teeth, Tae pulls away from Namjoon, staggering back until he's a good distance away. Raising his eyes to his hyung, Namjoon finds a look he's never seen in his younger friend before.

Loathing.

"Don't act as though you know everything." He spits before turning away and walking out of the door.

Namjoon sighs as he watches him leave before glancing over at the now empty lobby. The lobby where just a day ago, he met a sweet, cheerful girl. Someone who filled his mind with inspiration and wonder.

Smiling sadly, he rubs the back of his neck, looking up at the sky as though that will offer him the answers he seeks.

"Just who are you, Yen?"

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: this one was actually pretty hard to write, i'm ngl ;-;

chapter 25 here

check the Infinite Stars masterlist for more chapters

check my BTS masterlist for other BTS content

check out my masterlist for other kpop fanfics

[legionofpotatoes]

I love your art, it is very detailed in a neat way. Was wondering how you got started making it as a source of income? How did you get your first paid work, I'd love some advice on how to get started, if that's ok

Thank you. Of course it's okay, although I doubt I have enough work experience in art to really delve into this. I only went full freelance this year, and had been juggling art as a side hobby until then. If you're still interested in my somewhat narrow perspective, and are okay with my long-winded rambles, I'll give it a shot:

So to answer your question fully, I'll describe how I started and move into personal advice and learnings later on. As a disclaimer, I am a white cishet dude in my late twenties with a moderate cocktail of mental illnesses, but overall I can pass for a functioning adult so a lot I have to say may come laced with privilege I cannot fully identify.

So uhh I began drawing in around 2012? I think? Maybe halfway through 2011? And I mostly made fanart for things I enjoyed and tried to branch out in communities that felt nourishing to my style and interests (I caught a bug for alt posters and enjoyed mainstream movies so I spent a long time on posterspy early on). There were a handful of opportunities that came from there but I could only accept a couple because of primary workplace commitments. Still, it showed that networking in a focused community was definitely a good place to start; I myself have huge trouble committing to social networks and really staying socially active, but I knew it was an essential ingredient in succeeding so I tried to make myself be involved in challenges and art support trains etc. as much as I could.

In parallel to all that I also ran a few third party online stores (redbubble, teepublic) for disposable income and would sometimes, if rarely, hit around $100-150 a month from those sources combined. It is a sort of thing that requires helper accounts on other social media sites to promote it on, because the stores themselves have a huge volume of content that translates into low organic discoverability. Obviously it was never gonna be the way towards financial independence through art, and with community projects being few and far between, I opened private commissions in around uhhh 2017 I think, focusing on offering a few styles I knew I could do well, and sometimes operating in individual fandoms (it was mostly a bioware thing to be frank). But I had to close them back down after a year or so, again because of work-life conflict and how badly it was burning me out. The reason I kept trying to monetize this hobby is because I honestly hated what I did for my main job and wanted to see a way out in some shape or form in the future.

And then in 2020 I had to quit my main job altogether because of *gestures at pandemic* and deal with a mental breakdown from all the wonderful things it did to us and me specifically. I took a short break and decided to give art a shot full-time, and that was around May this year. I was planning on opening up commissions again (and I still am), but a few sudden opportunities that fell in my lap moved that timetable down and now I'm grateful to even be doing something I am getting adequately paid for.

So, with that somewhat limited perspective, here's what I've learned that I'd tell myself if I was just starting out:

1. Being a fan of something can be a shortcut towards effective networking kickoffs. Which are important evidently. If you love something and enjoy making content for it, join communities, settle into a combination of social media websites that feel right for those interests + your body of work + your inner rhythm, and try to play to content discovery as much as your mental health allows you to. Like I said, I know that I myself am incredibly bad at self-motivating to talk to people, so I found that synergizing common interests into fanart - which I enjoyed making anyway - could be a way to give myself a gentle nudge forward and build those bridges leading to community activities, which then net experience and coverage. Sometimes even freelance projects from official avenues. Again; picking the right spaces for what you're after is key. Companies roam twitter, concept art recruiters scour artstation or linkedin etc, instagram can land you private commissions and collab opportunities, so on and so forth. Find your niche and try to kick up dust. However...

2. I do not believe that any social profile can replace a good portfolio. The thing that made an immediate difference to me this year was building a coherent, simple website with my best work front and center and a contact form on top. Every single opportunity I got came from that form (maybe via twitter or instagram initially, but always sealing the decision after going through the website), so I firmly believe that showcasing your skills and portfolio in a visually arresting and user-friendly way is a big priority. I had some reservations about tackling that task but fortunately I had help from a savvy life partner and we slapped it together via wordpress in less than a day. Twitter/whatever social media is prevalent in your target groups is definitely important to get the right eyes on your shit, yes, but those eyes will then look for a second stop where your work and rates are more clear and concise. Simplicity is key imo, I cannot overstate this. So make a cute, simple portfolio!

3. Your skills and rates will grow and change as you do. Let them. Over the years I built several lasting professional relationships from my obsession over mass effect and kept getting opportunities both from bioware and their partner companies, some small and some a bit bigger. A one-off job earlier this year opened an unexpected door to another much larger commitment, and then the work I did there brought some attention from small businesses looking for commercial commissions. These were all incredibly different projects in terms of scope and budget, and I've been tackling them all on a case-by-case basis and slowly coming into my own irt my needs, rates, and SOW thresholds. It is still a work in progress (and a LOT of literal work as well), and very much a thing I struggle with in publicly marketing, which is why I felt a tad underqualified to answer your question in the first place (obviously I did not let that stop me). But what it means for me now is that I am rapidly developing into whatever my "version" of a functioning freelance artist is, and when the conditions for that guy are met, I need to be able to confidently plant myself and operate from that space despite past precedents. Do not let anyone bully you into downpricing what you yourself perceive as legitimate products of personal growth and development. Speaking of which...

4. The shitty challenge of turning envy into inspiration, and paddling outside your comfort zones in full riot gear. it is hard, but realizing that being a miserable, self-hating artist in my early days got me nothing but more misery back was the first real step I took and what truly blew the hinges off. I was just not pleasant to be around, I would badmouth my work all the time, and it all somehow made sense in my broken mind because the validation I sought was purely external and the way I sought it was through eliciting sympathy via self-victimization (even when I made something objectively nice). It all led fucking nowhere. Except perhaps to my own narcissism that I one day managed to identify and start managing. So I started looking at things that made me seethe with envy and calmly deconstruct and figure out their inner workings instead, do studies, and find nuggets of inspiration or discover new ways to approach rendering or building up specific elements. It was an application of analytical diligence to what I wanted to be a purely emotional, esoteric workflow, but that I deep down knew wasn't. Art is a discipline and a skill, and maybe it isn't a straight line, but you gotta find some line to thread nevertheless. Being self-hating was almost an identity I had to break out of, and despite it still being like, 4-5% there? I realize its cause and effect on me, my work, and those around me, so it is with a conscious choice that I gently set it aside when I work and especially when I learn. It won't always stay quiet, but the effort is the difference. Your doors towards accepting true growth and venturing into uncharted territories, art styles, and networking will really open from there. But there's a huge caveat...

5. Toolsets, accessibility, privilege, and all the good things that enable artistic expression and profitability are not given equal to all. you might do all the mental work I mentioned to be ready to rock and roll and learn and draw your way out of anything, but digital art is a fucking money pit that asks almost too much at times. I don't got a good case study here but identifying and ensuring accessibility to the tools you need to do your best work is, like, super important. The ergonomics can improve as you make money and settle into the job, but the basics have to be made available to you. And some of that might not even be under your direct control. That can be anything from pen tablets to software subscriptions to opportunities in hiring sullied by sexism or what have you. You gotta navigate all that through careful networking and money/time management. I don't do a good job of devoting specific slices of time to work/study, and my primary clutch is iPad software which went from a good deal to a nightmare scenario over the years. So all I can say here is do what I didn't; network, invest in a PC/tablet, and pick a software you'll learn that won't burn a hole in your pocket.

6. Be nice to work with? This one is hard to articulate and has landed my own ass in hot water in my early years because of how socially inept I am, but nothing is more worthwhile than being.. like. a good person to work with. That can be anything like meeting deadlines, or sometimes missing them but eloquently articulating why, being generous in early stages, being communicable and not too wordy in your emails, having a good grasp on abstract artistic concepts and how to describe them in simple terms, having a clear, laid out framework of your working rates in commercial and non-commercial projects and sticking to those guns with grace, understanding when you need to say no and saying it well, the works. Just being nice. Sometimes that might mean going headstrong with something you believe in, or simmering down and sucking up to the big man, all relative and adaptive. Part and parcel of the service provision dance that we all have to do in order to make bank. Know your lines here, obviously, and don't like. work for nazis. or uh.. *shudders* exposure. but be nice and empathetic and communicable and word will travel eventually. Skill may be in abundance these days, but good people are most certainly not, and capitalism has a way of bubbling up scarcity. Grim, but uh, them's the breaks.

I know I'm ultimately telling you to like. Have a body of work, make a portfolio, grow, and network. But that's really how I see it for now. And being nice can be a cherry on top that sets you apart, along with the inherent irreplaceable voice of your artwork. I think I rambled on enough, but if there is something specific you need my help with, even if you want to come off anon and talk in private, please feel free.

[spicysoftsweet]

Okay so hear me out, HELLO FIRST OF ALL :), I was reading your list of "normal things Hisoka does" and smiled at "hisoka sitting down with investment portfolio manager and talking about his financial goals". I was like "wow lucky lady who gets to sit in front of his fine self" but then I was also like "...what if they get NSFW at work!?":$ Sooooo if you don't mind (and want to), can I ask for an imagine of that with Hisoka (or Illumi he can get it too lol) Thank you

LET ME JUST LET YOU KNOW THAT I AM ASHAMED OF THIS. Man this is so dirty. Also it’s a tiny bit cracky on top of being NSFW. Also just assume at some point Hisoka put on a condom. Anyway here you go.

You sipped the last of your coffee, tapping your foot impatiently under the desk as you watched the clock on the bottom right corner of your office computer.

Late. Your client was late.

And as a result, you were now almost twenty minutes into your already too short lunch break, which you usually took starting 11:30am, just so that you could cover phone calls during the noon hours when everyone else would leave the office.

How could someone be late when it comes to talking about money? Didn’t they care?

Suddenly, you heard a sharp knock on your door, as if the very heavens were telling you to get over yourself. Hastily setting your mug down, and quickly closing out of Facelook, you fixed your customer service smile back onto your face and sat up straight in your chair, the picture of professionalism. You wouldn’t let whatever sloppy everyman who came in ruin your dedication to your craft.

Before you could even say ‘Come on in!’, a tall, somehow attractively disheveled-looking young man burst into the room, pausing briefly as he looked around, then giving you a half-smile that was almost inappropriately seductive. Or maybe you were just imagining it.

“Sorry that I’m late.” He said with a soft chuckle, adjusting his loose tie and smoothing out his slightly tight suit jacket as he sat down in the chair across from you, without asking your permission.

You faltered just a little bit before standing up and reaching out your hand to shake his, and introducing yourself as his new financial advisor. 

“Mr. M-Morow, is it?” You said, warmth settling in your cheeks as you looked him in the eyes. It was a warm summer day, but just a few hours ago the room had been freezing. His eyes were golden, narrow and heavy-lidded which gave him the impression of studying you a little too closely, which you realized was making you a little bit uncomfortable. He nodded slowly, still smiling all the while, his legs crossed and leaning forward. He was waiting for you to speak. 

While you opened up his portfolio and took a look at his rudimentary profile, all you could think of was how the clearly-borrowed, ill-fitting navy suit outlined his broad shoulders, narrow waist and obviously muscular arms. You gulped slightly focusing on the screen before you.

“I-It looks like you have never made any investments before,” you said, your voice higher than usual. You silently berated yourself in your head; this was so embarrassing. You hoped your pits weren’t sweating through your blouse with how warm it was in the room.  You really needed to fix the AC the moment this meeting was done.

He didn’t respond, so you looked back at him for a nonverbal response, and he was still watching you carefully, now leaned in even further, his chin resting in his hand.

This was too much. Your heart started to pound, and you started talking loudly to distract yourself.

“Do you own a mortgage or have a car that you’re leasing currently?” You asked. 

“Nope,” he said, curtly.

“Okay, uh.. Do you have any overseas investments?”  You followed up now, hoping for a reasonable response you could work with. 

“None at all,” he almost sang.

You turned to him again, your concern about his financial profile now outweighing your concern about how you were going to keep your panties dry during this meeting. You hated when people made your job difficult for you.

“What made you interested in investing now?” You asked, as politely as possible. While he was 28 years old based on his application, which was younger than many people who came into your office, he seemed disinterested himself in this meeting, his gaze still resting comfortably on you.

“I recently came into a large sum of money.”

“Inheritance?” You asked, preparing to give condolences to a likely deceased family member.

“Prize money,” he leaned back in his chair, relaxed and crossing his arms over his chest. A power pose. “To be fair, I’ve been winning the same amount every year, but it’s been building up.”

“What do you do for a living?” You clarified. He hadn’t written anything in the application in the occupation section, you had noticed earlier.

“Why, fight, of course,” he said, with another mischievous grin. 

You’d worked with people who were boxers or other types of athletes before, but for some reason, you had the impression that what he was referring to was different. The most important question to ask in his case was what he would do when he was no longer able to fight. That was the issue that plagued a lot of these types of clients.

When you asked him this very question, he laughed as if it were the most ridiculous thing to ask in the world. You might as well have told him to prepare for when he grew a third eyeball in the middle of his head. But then he added, “You do raise a good point, which is the very reason why I’m here today, on a friend’s recommendation.”

You gave him an odd look again, and turned back to your computer, still confused at his amusement from earlier. Then you took a quick look at his stated monetary assets and paled.

200 million Jenny a year? And no investments? This man was a financial disaster. 

“Would it be alright if I make a suggestion?” You started, whipping around in your chair to face him, only to find that he had moved almost imperceptibly to look over your shoulder at the computer.

You almost jumped, your heart beating out of your chest.  

“... Mr. Morow?” You started, looking up at him from where you were seated.

“Oh, am I too close?” He said, now with a low, sultry voice as he rested his hand on the back of your chair. 

Yes, he’s too fucking close, what the hell does he mean, ‘am I too close?’, you thought, both angry and flustered, but then he suddenly took a seat on the desk before you, hugging one knee.

“I can sense exactly how you feel about me, and I find you quite delicious myself.”

And now your heart was beating in an actual frenzy. Your mouth opened and closed, stunned. Was this really happening? At work? You glanced at the door, now concerned that at any moment, someone would walk in and find you getting a little too comfortable with your client. He saw your eyes travel frantically, and in an excessive show of confidence walked over to the door and promptly locked it.

Then he pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it aside, shaking out his well-built arms now that they were free from the restrictive fabric.

“If you aren’t too loud, no one will know.”

That was enough to convince you. 

He was before you quickly and hoisted you up onto the desk before kissing you on the neck, then lips, then in a trail down your chest between your breasts once you had unfastened the buttons of your blouse as fast as you possibly could. He unhooked the clasps of your bra, which somehow conveniently were at the front instead of the back, and palmed a breast, then both as he laid you onto your back, kissing hungrily all the while. Your legs hanging off the edge of the desk, he pulled down your already soaked panties, and tested the wetness of your heat with two fingers.

Sufficiently satisfied with your arousal, he flipped you over on your back so that you were bent over the desk. 

“Why aren’t you a dirty, dirty woman?” He whispered, pulling onto your hair just so, enough that your back arched. “This is just so incredibly unprofessional.”

Too embarrassed to speak and too worried to be heard outside, you stayed silent as he grabbed a handful of your ass. You decided to focus instead on the flood of sensation washing over you - the heat rising in the pit of your belly, the searing pain of his rough grip on your skin, and the clang of his belt unbuckling as he undid his pants. 

And in just mere moments, he was entering you, and you bit your lip hard enough you were sure you tasted blood to prevent yourself from crying out at the painful but delightful plunge of his hard cock into you. He continued to rut inside you, his hands in your hair, then around your throat and then gripping your hips as he moved faster and faster inside you, challenging your ability to stay stoic with a firm slap of your ass every so often. 

You couldn’t help but let out a soft moan several thrusts in, and he leaned over, whispering into your ear to tease you.

“It looks like you’re not too worried about losing your job.”

And to that your fire only increased, your walls tightening around him, and your eyes now stinging from the overwhelming pleasure you felt. 

And then he finally became more and more erratic, holding pressure on your bruising hips as he finally came, timed just mere seconds after you had tipped over into a shaking extremis and collapsed, sprawling over the desk.  

Dislodging from you, he quickly redressed, you still shaking and panting from pleasure, and sat back down in front of you, legs crossed and smiling as you struggled to reorganize yourself, a quivering mess.

“So about my assets, you were saying?” He said, at normal volume now, a sparkle in his eye.

[detroitbydark]

Chapter 11

Characters: Fox/Mouse (reader), appearances from Hound, Thire, Rule, Mace Windu, Yoda, and Padmé Amidala.

Warning: angst (y’all want me to hirt you right?)

A/N: so get ready to read nearly 6000 words of Fox’s self loathing, the CG being supportive vod, Jedi being Jedi, and Mouse being hurt yet again.

Current

The choices had been fresh ink or gut-rot barracks hooch. Fox chose the ink.

He’s down in the levels, he can’t remember which one exactly, far enough from prying eyes and questioning vod, that was all that had really mattered. The artist, a pantoran with a nice portfolio, was busy laying out the design. He can feel the cool transfer as it’s pressed over his heart and he drags in a ragged breath. This was penance. This was the closure he needed. He’d messed up. For two weeks he’d messed up and now any chance he had was gone along with her.

“You wanna talk about it, man?” The tattoo artist asks as he peels away the flimsy leaving the outline on his skin.

“No”

Two weeks earlier

Fox hates the sterile smell of the hospital, the beige walls, the gleaming metal all around. It reminds him of Kamino and a medbay he’d spent more than enough time in. He was never quite as strong or quite as fast as the other CCs in his batch, men that would go on to bear monikers like Gree and Bly and Wolffe. He made up for it in other ways. His mind was sharp, quick to come to a plan of action, he could think on his feet.

He remembers Sargent Kal coming into the CC classroom one day for a talk on urban combat- something that had piqued CC-1010’s interest from the word go- and how by the end of the lesson he’d ended up the star of the day. His observations as they’d talked through scenarios had left Kal remarking that he was “Sly as a Fox” and that the Triple Zero would be a good place for the likes of him. He was only the second in his batch to earn a name and he wore it around like a badge of honor.

Now he didn’t feel so honorable or so sly. He felt a lot of other things though. The psych droid, a loathsome device of he'd ever seen one, had talked him through what had happened in the Supreme Chancellor’s suite. It had questioned him over and over, maybe expecting the answers to change, about what his part in the assassination of Sheev Palpatine had been. He was tired. He wanted to wrap himself around his cyar’ika and pretend the whole day had been a nightmare.

That was impossible, she was somewhere else in the hospital being treated, shoved into a bacta tank. It had only been Rex’s firm voice that had convinced Fox to let the medic’s anywhere near her. When he’d let them take her limp body away from him-

Fierfek.

The handprint- a bloody partial across the left side of his breastplate, was still there.

“Commander Fox” a familiar voice cuts through the silent world of the room“ Much to think about you have“

He recognizes the Jedi Master, Yoda, immediately. There was no one else the ancient green Jedi could be mistaken for.

“I prefer to not“ being around a force wielder was not high on Fox’s current list of things to do.

“Such Is life”

“With all due respect sir,” he can hear the petulance in his own voice but he has neither the energy nor will to rein it in “I didn’t ask for this life.”

“But given to you it was, nonetheless. Choices you must make with what to do with it.“

Fox is quiet and the small Jedi Master matches it until the door opens again and General Windu joins the pair. Fox meets his gaze and the Jedi nods solemnly.

“Much discussion Master Windu and I have had these last few hours-“

“So it’s back to Kamino then? Reconditioning or Termination?” Fox can’t hide the bitterness in his voice. He doesn’t want to. He wants the world -or at least the two Jedi in the room- to see his pain. To feel it like he was.

Yoda sighs and moves to him, walking stick clicking in time with his steps. He hops up on the cold metal table next to Fox in a way that makes Fox think that the walking stick was not really necessary. He fights the urge to move away.

“A great disservice has been done to you, Commander. No, Kamino is not where you belong, deserve punishment you do not.”

The words burn. Fox is trapped between relief and a slow simmering rage, one that demands he be punished for his inability to protect those most vulnerable. First Fives. Now Mouse. He failed because he was weak-

“Stop” General Windu’s voice is firm. The look on Fox’s face must read pure terror because the Jedi huffs softly, “I don’t need to see inside your head to know what you're thinking. It’s all over your face. Do you know the kind of power Sidious possessed? To fight off that kind of insinuation would have been nearly impossible and that was before the chip-“

“The chip?” Fox attempts to rise to his feet but three green fingers press down on his arm. He looks down at the tired, ancient face of the Jedi Master and sits back down. “What of the chip? What has it got to do in all of this?”

The answer is simple. Everything.

Fox sits in cold shock as the Jedi describe to him what they’d learned of Palpatine’s- no, Sidious’ plans for the clone army. He stops them once to go to the bathroom and vomit. It wasn’t just Tup and Fives and him. It was all his vode. The entire clone army programmed to turn on their leaders, their friends with the utterance of a single phrase. He thinks of the hints Bly had made about his Jedi when they’d last spoken.

For a moment it’s more than he can fathom, and he holds a hand up for quiet. The Jedi allow it. He gives himself a minute, just one, before he pulls himself together, before he sits up straight and pushes the anguish, hurt, and the dirty feelings deep down.

“What now?” The implications of what has happened are finally becoming clear “The Republic can’t know the truth. There’ll be chaos in the streets. They’ll turn against the clones entirely” Fox worries more for his brothers than ever before. If the citizens knew…

“Correct you are, Commander” Yoda agrees..

“It needs to stay under wraps. The only people that will ever know it was anything other than an sudden death by natural causes will be us and the others that were in that room. Skywalker, Captain Rex, and-“

“Don’t say her name” it comes out as a growl, “leave her out of this.”

“There she was, Commander. Secrets she must learn to keep.”

Fox’s nails bite into the palms of his hands, “you won’t-“ he can’t bring himself to say the words.

“We will not force thoughts into her head.” Mace clarifies. “From what I’ve heard of her I think she’ll understand our reasoning for secrecy. Her injuries will be said to come from a mugging. You’ll fill out the report. Wrong place wrong time”

Wasn’t that the truth.

Fox nods slowly, “and what of my brothers?”

“Come out the chips must.” Fox flinches when a green finger taps at his temple, “but uncomplicated and quick it is.”

“We will let it be known that the chips are faulty and to continue to use them puts the clones in danger of having unforeseen medical problems.” Mace’s eyes narrow as Fox scoffs. He raises a brow challengingly, “do you think they’d rather know that they were all ticking timebombs? That at any moment they’d be triggered into mindless killers? Pawns?”

A tense moment passes with the two men glaring at one another. Of course Fox doesn’t think that would be any better.

“We’ll begin rotating troops through the nearest medical units capable of removal immediately.” Mace explains. “We can have the entire Coruscant Guard done by the end of the week and it appears with minimal down time. A day, tops.” He explains.

A quick nod is all the acknowledgement Fox can muster. He doesn’t like the idea of keeping the Guard in the dark and he hates having them undergo any medical procedure even more. He wasn’t the only clone who had lingering emotions when it came to the medbay, not by a long shot.

“I’ll go first.”

The Jedi at his side makes an agreeable hum. General Windu nods.

“As I would expect a good leader to do.”

Fox isn’t sure how much he buys into their approval.

13 days earlier

The official story was that Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine had succumbed to a sudden illness. The holonews was ablaze with stories: from the official release to the tabloid fodder. Fellow politicians waxed poetic on him as a man and a leader, someone who stepped forward when the Republic was in its darkest hour to take control of the chaos.

It was said his last words were, “and sorry I couldn’t give more for my people and the galaxy.”

If Fox’s eyes rolled any harder he was sure they’d fly from his head and ping around in his bucket. Sidious was dead. He didn’t deserve the adoration of billions or the high honors of his burial. He was a hu’tuun. The skanah was better suited as feed for the carrion birds than the marble burial chamber he’s laid to rest in with military honors provided by clones he’d have used as weapons against the very Republic they swore to protect.

10 days earlier

Four days without Mouse and Fox feels twitchy. It’s been over a year since he’s gone more than two days without laying eyes on her. Knowing that she was recently released from the bacta tank doesn’t make it any easier. He’d not wanted to see her floating in the tank for a plethora of reasons, the least of which was his own guilt. That didn’t stop him from setting up a guard rotation at her door as soon as he was cleared to return to duty. It also didn’t stop him from demanding regular updates on her care from the kits he was setting up at her room.

Ryk had been present when she’d been taken out of the tank and said she’d seemed in good spirits as she’d slowly come too.

Wren had gently indicated that she’d love some company while she was on bed rest.

Rule had given him a look that screamed, ‘don’t be a scum sucking piece of nerf fodder.’ As he’d explained that Mous’ika had been asking for him.

She’d been asking for him. Even after everything she wanted to see him.

And he couldn’t do it.

He’d made his way twice to the nurses station before turning and making an excuse to leave.

He couldn’t look at her. Sidious’ words still swirled in his head. even though General Yoda had reassured him that he was no longer under the sway of the Sith, the thoughts still lingered.

You were supposed to use her to fuck your baser urges out.

She’s using you to obtain a foothold in the guard.

She’s fooled you all.

The underlying message was unmistakable.

Why would anyone choose to care for a clone?

Fox almost wishes the headaches would return so he could focus on the pain in his head vs. that dull empty ache in his chest, a black hole behind his rib cage, but he hasn’t had one since both the Sith Lord and the chip were removed from his life.

9 days earlier

Bail Organa is voted into the Chancellorship by an overwhelming number of his peers.

It’s the best choice, as far as Fox is concerned. With Senator Amidala announcing a leave of absence to give birth to the best guarded secret since the clone army, it’s the only choice Fox finds acceptable.

Not like anyone would ask his opinion.

Organa is a good man, even if he is a politician. He’s only ever looked out for the Republic, never given in to self indulgent whims, never taken more than he deserved.

Fox touches the fresh scar on the right side of his head gently as Holonet News continues to replay the new Chancellor's inauguration from earlier. Barely more than a week and everything has changed.

General Windu was correct, medical had been able to get through the entire guard in rapid fire. All of his men were sporting matching scars, many were more than a little curious as to the actual reason their chips had been removed. He’s both insanely proud and horribly frustrated at the theories being bandied about. Some far too close for comfort.

They can never know. Nobody can ever know.

But somehow Bail Organa knows.

He’s only had one meeting, early this morning before the inauguration, in private with the new Chancellor but he’d alluded to things that left Fox speechless. He’d known Bail to have friends in high places, but he hadn’t realized how high.

“Think he’ll do better than the last one?”

Thire hovers in the doorway, unmoving until Fox inclines his head toward the open seat across his desktop.

“Can’t be any worse.” There’s no humor in his tone but Thire huffs out a quiet laugh.

There’s a lag in the conversation, not like one has truly begun, and Fox takes a breath before setting down his datapad and flicking the holo off. “How long have we known one another?” He asks looking up at his lieutenant.

“Long enough.”

“So, you and I both know that you're here for something else and It's not just to make quips about the new Alor.”

“I suppose that’s true” Thire’s face gives nothing away. Fox liked that about the shock trooper. He was reserved, yes, but also pragmatic. A problem solver, not ruled by his emotions. Which was all well and good but something about the way he’s staring makes Fox feel like he’s the problem needing solving.

“Spit it out.”

“Go see her.”

Fox raises a brow in his vod’s direction. “Is that an order”

“Respectfully sir” the corner of Thire’s mouth quirks almost imperceptibly before it falls away.

The little shit.

In reality, Fox had known this one going to come from one of his men. He’d expected Rule or Hound, the more brash and aggressive boys, to be the ones but Thire is not a complete shock. He’d never seemed particularly close to Mouse but the lieutenant did play things close to the chest.

“She had a nightmare last night while I was on watch. Woke up crying your name.”

Inside Fox crumbles. No amount of talking to a psych droid was going to fix that feeling. No amount of time would make him feel ok about what he’d allowed to happen to the woman he loved. Thire continues.

“A clone's lot is not much. They decant us. They train us. They ship us out to fight in their war. We live, maybe. We die, more likely. Nothing is given to us.” Thire runs a hand over his head, fingers scratching at the crown. “Sometimes though, a di’kut like you gets a break. That woman in that bed cried in my arms. Talked to me like I was you for over an hour and I let her. You know why?”

Fox has to unclench his jaw, work past the jealous ache rising up in his chest to respond, “why?”

“Because it’s the closest I’ll ever have to feeling that kind of emotion. I’m not ashamed to say I pulled your girl into my lap, held her close and said soft things I didn’t even know I knew into her pretty hair until she calmed down. I was happy to pretend to be your atin’shebs but you know what the real kicker is, Vod?”

Fox’s hands are like vice grips on the edge of his seat, knuckles pale white as a shinies armor. The thought of Mouse hurting is one thing, but to have someone else be the one to comfort her? It tears at him. “What?” He asks through gritted teeth.

“When she calms down she says, “I know you're not him. Thank you for letting me pretend for a minute”.

7 days earlier

He pretends like he doesn’t know where he’s going. Like talking to the kriffing psych droid really had him so out of sorts he didn’t realize he was getting on a turbo lift and heading up three flights after his appointment.

He tries to act like he doesn’t know his feet are carrying him to the room with the familiar red and white sentinel outside the door.

Rule quirks his helmet before snapping to attention.

“Commander Fox, sir?”

“At ease Sargent.” It's late, well past visiting hours but the few sentient nurses and the droids assisting them make no move to rush him along. Perks of the armor.

Rule relaxes and glances through the small transparisteel window on the door behind him before turning back.

“She just had some medicine.” He explains, “pain was getting pretty bad again.”

Fox’s bucket hides his cringe, allowing him to outwardly remain impassive and aloof, his voice even as he asks simple questions about visitors and any possible issues arising.

“No problems here sir. I think I heard her Doc say something about discharge tomorrow. She’s doing ok” what isn’t said hangs in the air.

She’d be doing better if you were with her

“That’s good. That’s good” Fox agrees, readily avoiding the things left unspoken. “Have you been relieved for dinner?”

“I have a ration bar in my pack sir.”

“Do I need to say it?”

The sunny tone of Rule’s voice tells him everything he needs to know. He can imagine the shit eating grin that accompanies it. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, sir?”

A quick glance up and down the hall shows nothing but gleaming white tile. No staff. No visitors. No one but Rule to bear witness to his moment of weakness.

“Take the night off Sargent. I’ll cover the watch.”

He stares at the emotionless visor for a beat waiting for his kit to argue, for him to make a smart comment.

It doesn’t happen.

Rule rolls his shoulders, stretching slightly as he makes his move past Fox. At the last second, Rule's hand shoots out, resting over Fox’s vambrace. The moment lingers without either speaking until Rule gently pulls the Commander in and knocks his bucket against Fox’s, pressing his forehead to his Commander’s.

Fox, claps a hand behind the sargents head and they sit there frozen for a moment in time, Rule offering more comfort in that one gesture than he’s felt in days. A Keldabe kiss to ease his fragile psyche.

“Alverde.” Rule offers quietly when the pair finally part.

“Sargent” Fox gives a minuscule nod. “Enjoy your night.” He watches the youngster head down the hall until he turns a corner and is gone from sight.

Fox manages to avoid looking in the room for five minutes exactly. He’s able to fight off the pull to enter it for another twenty. The draw of her is too much in the end and he finds himself slipping into her room before the first thirty minutes are even past.

The lights are low and the monitors and electronics surrounding her hum and buzz steadily. Everything is white and stark. His cyar’ika is nearly the same color as the sheet she lays under.

She looks small, and so achingly fragile Fox is afraid the weight of his look alone will break her. She shivers lightly and he lurches into motion, dragging the itchy comforter over her legs and tucking it around her shoulders. Her body stirs as his gloved hand grazes along her cheek.

He freezes as her eyes flutter open. Her pupils aren’t quite right. It seems to take her a moment to piece together what’s going on but when she does the realization that washes over her is visible.

“Fox” his name sounds like a long lost friend rolling from her lips. She struggles to sit up. A look of pain flashes across her face as she twists under the blankets.

“Stop that” he demands impotently, his gloves moving to press gently against her chest. “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

She blinks owlishly up at him in the way only a person on good pain meds can, like she doesn’t quite understand what’s been said and she’s not sure whether she should comply or question it. It’s somewhere between bemused and scared.

He cups her cheek in his hand, “easy precious girl.” He soothes. Mouse relaxes into his touch as his gloved thumb rubs softly. Her eyes flutter shut and he can feel the soft sound she makes against his palm.

This was already far past what he intended. He just wanted to see her, to prove to himself she was really alive and in one piece despite him.

Now, he finds himself already slipping into old habits.

More focused, her eyes open. Her hand slips up and grips his vambrace. Slowly she pulls his hand away from her face. She lets her fingers slip down into and through his. Her voice is thick with sleep when she speaks and Fox has to lean in to hear her.

“I knew you’d come”

Of course she had. Fox wonders if she knew him better than he knew himself. This was always going to happen no matter how many times he’d lied to himself. He pulls his hand away. Mouse’s hangs empty in the air for a moment before she sets it down over her chest.

The quiet burr and hum of the monitors around her are the only sound between them until he reaches up to his bucket and lets the seal pop with a soft hiss.

Her eyes scan his face as he sets the helm off to the side. There’s a question there he can’t decipher. “What can I do?”

A harsh laugh escapes Fox’s lips and Mouse frowns at him.

“I think you’ve done enough, cyar’ika.”

“Fox-“ it’s a scolding tone that holds no weight when she looks like a battered doll in a too big hospital bed. She closes her eyes when he doesn’t give in and offer her more.

The bed dips under his weight as he sits at the edge of it. “I just wanted to make sure you were, ok. Alright?” He holds back from touching her again. It takes an enormous amount of will.

“I’m ok, Fox. Because of you.”

It’s a lie. All of it. It can’t be anything else. “You're in a hospital bed,” he growls, pushing up to his feet and stalking toward the window. He can’t look at her. “You spent days floating in bacta. You-“

“I’m alive.”

“That’s not because of me.”

He hears the ruffle of sheets as he looks out over Coruscant. The lights of the buildings and speeders in the sky lanes, like stars in the polluted evening light.

“Fox-“ her hand touches his arm and he spins to steady her. Anger swells up in him.

“Kriff- Mouse, get back in bed” he orders lowly, “you’re going to get hurt.”

She sways gently on her feet in the too big hospital gown but her jaw is set, “will you listen to me?”

“Will you get back in bed?” Fox pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath before looking at her again. “Get back in bed and I’ll listen. Please.”

Mouse stands, arms crossed, glaring pointedly. Fox has had enough. Quick and smooth like a tactical insertion he scoops her up. Mouse makes a small noise as his arms slide behind her knees and his other arm cradles behind her shoulders. She breathes heavily as she looks up at him.

“You’re going back to bed.” He covers the small room in just a few steps. When he goes to set her down she slips her arms around his neck and holds on for dear life.

“I’m not getting back in that bed unless you come with me.”

“You’re not in the position to make demands.” But that’s a lie because, with him, she was always in the position to make demands. She just never had to.

“Please, Fox. I just want one good night. You can leave as soon as I'm asleep.”

It’s hard to say if it’s the tired tone of her voice, the smell of her skin so temptingly close, or just his own beaten down need to be close to her, regardless Fox gives in.

“The armor stays on.” He says as he settles into the bed, he tries to keep his boots off the bed the best he can. Mouse curls tighter against him. It can’t be comfortable against the plastoid but to look at her he’d never know. One hand rests along his jaw while the other wraps around his back keeping him from easily disentangling himself.

Fox can’t help himself as he slips one glove off and cards his fingers through her hair, stopping every so often to work out a tangle. Mouse sighs against him.

“Precious girl,” he hums lowly as her fingers trace along the stubble at his jaw, “go to sleep.”

“You're going to leave once I do.”

“Yes, that was the deal.”

“You’re not going to come back.”

Again, he’s struck with how well she knows him. “No, cyar’ika. I’m not.”

6 days earlier

His knuckles are wailing in pain and it feels so kriffing good. His hands, wrapped in protective tape are held tight and safe as he tenderizes the heavy bag in front of him. A low, guttural growl works its way up from his chest with each landed blow.

It’s the first time he’s felt in control in days. Even if it only lasted for his duration in the sparring rooms he didn’t care. When he closes his eyes he doesn’t see Mouse at the end of his blaster, the way her body recoiled and convulsed at the first shot. He doesn’t hear the scream that rips through her when the second bolt burns through her side. He doesn’t dwell on the voice in his head demanding the kill while Fox did everything to drag his near perfect aim away from center mass.

He pictures Sidious’ face on the bag and the pile of sloppy mash his fists were making it into. There’s catharsis in the exertion that a psych droid couldn’t give him.

“Commander, sir?”

Fox turns to see Hound stripped down to just his black under armor pants. He was a burly boy as far as clones went, thicker and more muscular through the torso, next to Hound, Fox looks almost lithe.

Fox pants lightly as he dips to grab a bottle of water and straighten back up. “What can I do for you?”

“I- do you need to-“

Fox watches as the man chooses his words carefully, finally gesturing first toward the mat.

“You wanna go a few, rounds? Looks like you could use it?”

A roll of tape is flipped through the air in answer. Hound catches it smoothly, giving Fox a happy grin as he begins wrapping his hands.

5 days earlier

There’s a neat hole in his wall, fist sized and fresh, less than a week old. Fox pretends like he doesn’t see Chancellor Organa eyeballing it with some amount of apprehension. What he can’t pretend is that a visit from the newly minted Chancellor to his office isn’t a surprise.

“Commander, you can drop the title with me.” The Chancellor says for the second time since his arrival.

“Sir, it’s frowned upon-“

“-not by me”

Fox huffs and closes his eyes to hide the roll of them. “Ok, fine. Can I get you something to drink? Some caf?”

Bail waves off the offer, “I won’t be long and it looks like you're woefully underserved.” He tips his head back toward the door and the empty desk.

A bristle of irritation tingles down Fox’s neck. “She was in the hospital. She was…” the words trail off. Part of protecting his little Mouse was keeping her involvement in the Sidious event quiet.

“I know, Commander.” Bail says quietly, “we share a friend on the council who’s made me aware of many interesting things.”

It feels like he’s being baited. He likes to think Organa wouldn't try to try to weasel information from him but his trust is a very delicate thing at the moment and he’s not willing to give an inch. His loyalty is to his men and the republic, after that only one other person had earned any devotion from him and that was not Bail Organa. At least not yet.

“If there’s anything I can do for her, anything she needs we can make that happen.”

Fox glances at the picture on his desk. It had come by courier earlier in the day. It’s been neatly matted and framed to be hung, a children’s drawing of a small green twi’lek child and him holding hands. He’d stared at it on his desk in silence for far too long before he felt something ugly bubble up. Now he had a hole in the wall. He hoped the picture would cover it.

Fox continues to look at the picture. He needs a second to pretend like he knows what Mouse needs. He doesn’t listen to the nagging voice inside of him saying it to him. He hates that voice, would smother it if he could.

“She needs time to heal.”

“I can make that happen.”

“Thank you.”

Earlier this day

“Senator Amidala” Fox greets the senator at the door, “this is a surprise. If I keep receiving politicians in my office I’m going to have to have it made more suitable.”

The senator gives him a bright smile, “it’s good to see you Fox.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, “it’s good to see you too Padmé.”

They were friends, of a sort. They’d seen enough together that Fox would gladly file her under battle buddies in his short list of friends. She looks lovely, as always, absolutely glowing. Her hand rests softly over the growing baby bump she was now proudly displaying.

“You look wonderful. Congratulations on the coming Ik’aad.” He offers gesturing toward her belly. His eyes linger and he remembers laying Mouse across his bed, placing kisses in a ring around her naval and imaging what it would be like someday when he-

Fox gives his head a quick shake and refocuses on the senator.

“Thank you.” He watches her eyes travel to the child’s drawing on the wall behind his desk before returning to him. “And how are you doing?”

“As well as can be expected. Chancellor Organa keeps a busy schedule and he’s insistent that I go with him. He’s got a lot of ideas and he asks my opinion. It’s different… but it’s nice.”

Padmé slips into the chair across from him.

“That’s wonderful” but she doesn’t sound like it’s wonderful. She sounds like she was here on a mission that he hasn’t been briefed on. He raises a brow at her. They’ve known each other long enough that she should know to just come out with it.

“We’re leaving for Naboo today. I want to have the baby in the lake country. It’s beautiful and peaceful.” She lets out a tired laugh, “and far away from the prying eyes of the holonet news.”

“They’ve been very… interested in you as of late” he offers diplomatically.

Another small laugh, “to say the least” Padmé sobers. “I just wanted to make sure you were ok with her going?”

Confusion must show on his face. Her?

Padmé frowns gently, the look of pity is out of place on her serene features, “you weren’t told, were you?”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to speak clearly.” Fox tries to bite back the tension but it slips into his voice.

She says Mouse’s name. Her real name.

“The Chancellor asked if we would take her with us. That she needed a place to finish recovering.” Padmé is watching his face. She’s trying to gauge his reaction.

He tries to give her nothing.

“She’s an amazing woman. She said if she went then she had to be useful. She’s going to be my assistant while I’m on leave-“

Fox holds up a hand. “She’s excellent at what she does. You’ll never be in better hands.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not her keeper. Mouse deserves to be safe and happy.” He shoots her a forced smile. “That’s not with me.”

Current

He had the rancor etched into his arm after Thorn had been killed in action on a mission Fox was supposed to have led. It was an inside joke they’d heard as shinies. Something about a Jedi and a rancor walking into a cantina. He can’t remember the punchline. It wasn’t funny anyways.

The Pantoran works the needle over his freshly shaven chest. Back and forth, outlining and filling. Pressing the ink into his skin to permanently mark him with another mark of regret, penance. Everytime he looks in the mirror, stripped down from his armor and his blacks he’ll see the reminder of what never was supposed to be, the thing that he went after when he knew it wasn’t allowed. The love that nearly destroyed the person he cared for beyond all others.

“So, this picture is pretty wicked” the Pantoran says conversationally. He glances back and forth from the reference picture Fox gave him, a partial hand print pressed against his armor, the fourth and fifth finger only partially visible and the heel of the hand smeared red. “Was it done in ink?”

“No. Blood.”

The Pantoran makes a sound of understanding. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the quiet.

Seconds, minutes, hours it’s all the same as Fox sits still as stone in the chair, the press of the needle intimately familiar.

He thinks of Mouse on a shuttle to Naboo.

This was what he’d needed. Mouse far away, somewhere safe. Somewhere no one could hurt her. Where he couldn’t hurt her. No matter what he’s told he still doesn’t believe there isn’t something in him that can be persuaded, to be flipped on, that won’t harm her.

He needed to focus on his job, his men, the Galactic Republic. There was no world in which he and Mouse would work and it was better that she wasn’t there to know that.

“Alright, mate.” The Artist sets the gun down and claps his hands once before rubbing them together. “You’re all set. Why don’t you take a looksy in the mirror while I grab the bacta gel and a dressing?”

Fox nods and pushes himself up. His back is stiff from laying still and he takes a moment to stretch and twist before stepping in front of the mirror. His eyes trace the ink. It’s a perfect replica of the picture, deep vibrant red fingers pressing into his armor, only now pressing into his heart. A reminder of what happens when he becomes selfish. When he wants more than the greater design allows for.

“It’s perfect.”

[heyitsani]

We Don’t Share the Same Blood

Batman Bingo 2020: Ice Cream/”You are my dad, right?”

Word Count: 2026

Rating: General 

Warnings: Dick’s low self-worth, is that a warning?  This is fluff peeps, not much to warn about.

Pairing: None 

Summary: When Bruce is unable to attend parent/teacher conferences at Gotham Academy with Damian, Dick steps up and takes his place.  The evening ends with ice cream and a revelation that puts to rest a lot of questions Dick has been asking himself.

Notes: Dick get a little stuck in his head here, but it’s mostly fluff.  These brothers give me life and this makes me happy after such an awful Damian day yesterday.

I also put it all under the cut because there wasn’t a really good “preview” cut off point.  Not because it’s NSFW or anything.  Good, clean fun here.

You can also read this on AO3 here

While the idea of having kids and a family one day had always been one that Dick had subscribed to, he had never thought he would take the less traditional path.  He always expected to settle down with a partner, maybe marry them, and then have children through conception or surrogacy.  Yes, adoption had been an option to consider, but he had always wanted to make sure that his family genes continued through at least one biological child.  Not because he wanted his kids to look like him, but because he wanted a piece of his parents to continue on, even when they couldn’t.

He wanted a Grayson to be in the world after he had gone from it.  He wanted to be selfish on one thing.

What he hadn’t thought would happen was that at the age of 27, he would be taking custody of the son of the man who had taken him in after his parents had fallen to their deaths. He hadn’t expected to be doing it alone with no one but the man he thought of as a grandfather to guide him. Sure, Bruce hadn’t always been the best father, but Dick had always thought he had done the best he knew how. Mostly.  And Dick had always expected to have Bruce to fall back on when he felt like he was drowning in the ocean of parenthood.

But he hadn’t had Bruce.

It had been him and a child who hadn’t wanted Dick.  Damian had wanted Bruce, not a poor substitute in the shape of Dick.  And the young Wayne had made it clear from the very beginning that Dick was nothing but an inconvenience.  That he wasn’t Bruce and he never would be.

Then things had started to change.  Jason stopped trying to kill them and Tim was off trying to find the man they all loved like a father.  And Damian stopped fighting Dick every step of the way.  He still fought, but he slowly started opening up to the older man and things started to fall into place.

They were good.  Dick was happy and Damian was flourishing.  He watched the kid go from an angry murderous brat to a haughty self-entitled brat.  And then, eventually, Dick started seeing an actual child emerge.  And he did everything he could to foster that in Damian.  He tried to give him back the childhood that had been stolen from him.

And Damian slowly became a son.

And then Bruce came back.

And Dick felt like his entire world was torn away from him and there was nothing he could do about it. It had hurt.  It had burned.  And he had punished himself instead of taking it out on Bruce.  Because it wasn’t his fault.  And it certainly wasn’t Damian’s fault.  

So, Dick had done the only thing he could do.  He went back to his apartment and kept his distance so Bruce had the opportunity to become a real father to Damian.

At least until Gotham Academy was calling him stating Damian needed someone to pick him up because he was ill, and Bruce was not answering his phone.  Dick had still been listed as a secondary contact and Damian had asked for him over Alfred.  And, of course, Dick had dropped everything and gone straight to the school he had once graduated from to pick his brother up from school.

He hadn’t even considered saying he wasn’t able to.  Not for Damian.  Never for Damian.

And though the kid looked green around the gills, he looked far too grateful when Dick appeared in the doorway of the nurse’s room.

That day Dick had moved himself back to the primary contact for the school and promised Damian that he would always come when his brother called.  Always.  It didn’t matter what he was doing, if Damian needed him then he would be there.  Like he had always tried to be for all of his siblings since he had failed Jason so spectacularly when he had first come to the family.

Damian was different, though.

Outside of the fact that Dick had blurred the lines of brother and parent in his own heart, sometimes he felt like Damian did the same.  Like Dick was something more than just another brother.  And a part of Dick hoped that was true.  Even if the other part of him felt beyond guilty for taking that from Bruce.  It wasn’t like his father figure had meant to be taken away from them for a whole year, forcing Dick to step into far too many roles that he had never wanted. Including, “father” for a kid who would have rather been anywhere else.

“Are you even listening to me, Richard?”  Damian’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, reminding him where they were and why.

Right.  Parent/teacher conferences that Bruce couldn’t be bothered to attend because the League had called on him.

“Sorry, Dami.  Got stuck in my head.”

Dick wasn’t surprised to see the teen heave a heavy sigh.  “I was explaining that these meetings are droll and pointless.  I am performing excellently in all of my courses and I don’t understand why we have to bother.”  Snorting out a laugh, Dick reached out and ruffled Damian’s hair.

“It’s so I can hear teacher’s gush about what an amazing student you are.”  His words were met with an eye roll before they continued their path to the first classroom.  And though Dick knew the teachers would all tell Dick that Damian was a bright kid and was very diligent, he knew they would also tell him that he was not the average middle schooler.

And Dick was well aware of that.

“Well, if it isn’t Richie Grayson,” a familiar voice called out.  Glancing over his shoulder, Dick smiled the familiar face of one of his old school friends.

“Hunter Blake, how are you?” Dick held out his hand to shake the other man’s but was surprised when the other man ignored it and found himself pulled into a hug instead.  It was quick, gentle, and over before Dick could really react but it still caught him off guard.  

“I’m good!  What are you doing gracing the halls of Gotham Academy on PT night?”

Glancing down at Damian, Dick was surprised to find the kid smiling brightly.  “Uh, I’m here with Damian.  Bruce couldn’t make it, so I’m filling in.”  Dick shook off the surprise at Damian’s expression just as he had the hug and looked back to Hunter.

“I don’t know why I never put that together.  I’m guessing you two are heading to my classroom now?”  Hunter looked down to Damian and Dick saw the teen nodding out of the corner of his eyes.  “I’m Damian’s art teacher.  Come on, I was just dropping off a forgotten purse in the office so I’m heading back that way too.”

“I didn’t realize you ended up teaching here.”

“Well, they certainly love to hire their graduates when they can,” Hunter laughed, and Dick nodded.  The trio walked in silence for a few more feet before Hunter was waving an arm toward a room.  “This is us.  Why don’t you go get your portfolio, Damian, while I talk to Dick?”  The teen wasted no time in hurrying off to grab something.

“So art?”

“I enjoyed it as a kid, turns out I’m pretty good at it but not good enough to make a living.”  Dick glanced around the room and took in all the art on display and shrugged.  

“You must be good with kids? Damian always talks about his art projects.  It’s obviously his favorite class.”

“No one has talent like him. He’s by far my most talented student. Probably the most talented student I’ll ever have.”  Dick followed Hunter to a wall of landscapes and immediately he could point out which one was his brothers.  The forest behind Wayne Manor was unmistakable but the style was one Dick had framed around his own apartment.  “He’s quiet and he’s reserved, but he is an artistic genius.  I hope he is encouraged at home to cultivate it?”

“I have numerous pieces framed around my own apartment.  I know Bruce has a few in his various offices as well.”  If anything, Dick had always worried that they had pushed it too much. But Damian was stubborn and if he didn’t want to do something then he didn’t do it.  So if he hadn’t wanted to draw, then he wouldn’t.

Hunter smiled brightly and clapped a hand on Dick’s shoulder.  “I’m glad to hear it.  I would love to be able to say I have a Damian Wayne original hanging in my classroom one day.  I’ll let him show you his portfolio.  I’ve got other parents to mingle with.”

“Thanks, Hunter.  Good to see you.”  Hunter said a you too before turning to approach a mother cooing over her daughter’s work.  Looking down to see Damian holding a book in his hands, Dick smiled and moved to sit at one of the desks so his brother could show off.  And Dick couldn’t stop the swell of pride in his chest as his brother showed him piece after beautiful piece.

When they had gone through the entire book, Dick smiled at Damian and told him just how amazing everything was and he watched the teen glow under the compliment.  As if it meant something coming from Dick.  Something more than it would had it come from someone else.

“What do you say to some ice cream?”

“That would be an acceptable end to this evening,” Damian agreed after he had returned from putting his portfolio back in it’s place.  And Dick couldn’t agree more because ice cream was an acceptable end to just about any evening.

“Richard,” Damian called softly as they walked the street with their individual cones.  Dick hummed in response as he watched the other people on the street, enjoying the cool but not cold night air.  “Thank you for attending tonight.”

Looking down, Dick smiled. “Of course, Little D.  I know I’m not Bruce, but I’ll always be where you need me to be.”

“Yes, you are not Father,” Damian agreed.  And though Dick knew that, the words did sting a little.  “But in full disclosure, you may not be Father, but you know you are my dad, right?”  Freezing in place, Dick stared at Damian as he processed his words.  He wasn’t Damian’s father but he was his dad.  That is what the teen had said.  

“Dames…”  Dick wasn’t sure what to say.  Did he tell him that he couldn’t do that to Bruce?  Did he thank him?  Did he hug him?

“I apologize if I have overstepped, but I thought you should know.”  There was an awkwardness to Damian and a slight blush on his cheeks, like he was embarrassed to admit such emotion.  It made Dick melt.  “I have spoke with Father about this regard and he told me that it was completely understandable, given the time you and I have spent together.”  Bruce knew?  And he apparently didn’t care.  “But I just wanted you to know that you may be my brother on paper, but to me you are more.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Dick finally responded, voice thick with emotion.  He wanted to say more, he wanted to gush all of his emotions onto Damian and make sure he knew that Dick felt the same.  That no matter what happened, Damian would always be his son. “It means more than you know.”

Nodding his head, Damian looked from Dick to his ice cream cone and then started walking again.  “Come, Baba.  Jon’s birthday is approaching, and I must find a gift to give him or I will never hear the end of it.  You shall aide me on this mission.”

Baba.  Dad.  

“Of course, Dames.  We wouldn’t want to disappoint a Kent.  You’d never survive the puppy dog eyes.”  Dick spoke through the happy tears that built in his eyes at the name, following his son down the street to see what the shops could offer.

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Flash: Focus (Part two)

Finally, I bring to you part two of a request by @something-tofightfor for image 7 of my image prompt list, choosing season 2 Billy Russo as the subject. You can find part one, titled “Zoom”, here. Thank y’all for reading and I really hope you enjoy!

Rating: R

Word count: 2300 on the nose.

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @maydayfigment @vetseras @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @crushed-pink-petals-writes @delos-destinations @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @tenhargreeves @witchygagirl @fific

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM!

The room was spinning, tilting, like a terrible, sudden case of vertigo. You needed to sit down; you were dizzy and heady and nauseated and your hands had started to tremble. Russo. Billy’s voice echoed in your ears, over and over again and it was all you could hear. Everything else fell away. 

This was the man you had fallen in love with, a fact you’d admitted to yourself when it was the end, when he kept doing tour after tour after tour and the letters and Skype visits stopped. Everyone experienced lost love, the one that got away, and Billy was that for you. 

How did he end up here? What had happened to him— did he get injured overseas? How long had he been in the psychiatric ward at Sacred Saints? Who had he killed? 

Taking a few steps back, you sank down onto one of two hard, uncomfortable chairs against the wall, clipboard on your lap. You stared at his signature there again on that release form and cleared your throat. 

“Excuse me, of course. Mr. Russo.” His name burned your throat like straight whiskey; felt abrasive on your tongue. You harbored no hard feelings or ill will, but you had so many questions. And another one invaded your mind then, blinking on and off like a neon sign,  blinding and intrusive. Why is he pretending not to know me?

 The two of you spent years together, passing time with greasy food in a neighborhood diner and dripping ice cream cones for dessert melting in the park; you’d spent time tangled in sheets, sometimes for most of the day; you’d lose time taking picture after picture of his perfect face with your old instant Polaroid camera… pictures you had somewhere in a shoebox in your apartment, stacked with other forgotten things you couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of, collecting layers of dust. Your heart continued to race, You had to say something…  so you said the first thing that entered your mind.

“How’ve you been, Billy?”

                                           ________________

“How’ve you been, Billy?”

How have you been, Billy? Fucking peachy. 

“Best time of my life,” he answered, glancing at you out the sides of his eyes, his view partially obscured by his mask. It took a few moments for it  to hit him, but when it did, he immediately bristled, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. It wasn’t easy, but he stood, the barrier of the bed along with a few feet of tile flooring between them. Holding his stance, he turned to look at you straight. Billy.  He always signed as William Russo, but you had called him… 

“Billy?” He almost spat the name. It meant one of two things: either that you knew him— which was impossible, he had not one iota of an idea who she was until you volunteered to introduce yourself— or his reputation had preceded him. “You’ve been told,” he continued, jutting his chin angrily toward the windows. “Didn’t they tell you I’m a felon? A dangerous man, to myself and others. A murderer.” His lip was curled beneath his mask, heat from his anger causing beads of sweat to form at his brow. 

“Part of it’s true.” He rolled his left shoulder, feeling a satisfying crack. “I’ve killed a lot of people, I could be a dangerous man.” He paused to let out a laugh, smirking at the horror in your eyes. “I’m a Marine. Bet they didn’t tell you that part, did they?” 

His eyes flashed with anger, and you quickly attempted to diffuse the situation. Abandoning your camera in your lap, you shook your head vehemently. “I know you were a Marine.” I know what it’s like to watch you leave for another tour overseas. I know what you look like in your dress blues. I know what it’s like to live with the thought of possibly seeing you for the last time. 

“Were?” His laugh was muffled, but not enough to disguise the darkness behind it. “I’m a lieutenant. Special Forces.”  

Your heart bled for Billy then. You heard the clear conviction and pride there in his voice behind the slight anger. His accent was thicker than you remembered. And it hit you in another harsh, sudden rush of realization that Billy wasn’t pretending not to know you; he didn’t know you.

 He didn’t know a decade had passed since he’d seen you, because he had no memory of your existence, your name. The last thing he remembered was fighting in Iraq. He’d lost years of his life, a life where he’d made a name for himself in the name of corruption, a life when he’d been living on sex, money,  power, manipulation and murder. It was a life he didn’t know and a life you didn’t know either. To both yourself and Billy, it was ten years of nothingness. 

“Lieutenant.” You corrected yourself softly. There were so many questions you wanted to ask him, but you were skittish about asking. This wasn’t the Billy Russo you knew. This was a phantom of someone you used to know.  Concentrate on your work, Y/N, you told yourself. You’re here to do a job, not get yourself re-involved in Billy Russo’s life. 

With two quick strides, Billy crossed the room, sitting in the identical chair a yard away. You managed to look at him and found him peering at you intensely, a curious yet accusing look in his eyes softening into one of desperation.  You’d never seen desperation in Billy’s eyes, and it was heartbreaking to the point that your breath caught in your throat. What happened to him?

“Frank.” His voice was just a shadow louder than a whisper. “Frank Castle… I need to… do you know Frank? I need to see Frank.” Dropping his head, Billy ran a hand over the short spikes of hair on his scalp. Once upon a time, you’d had a soft spot for his hair. You wondered why it had been shaved. “Please.”

Your chest seized and felt tight like you were in a vise. You suspected that Billy wasn’t quite this open with so many people, his therapist perhaps, but why you? You were only there to take a few pictures; you should have been gone, on your way home to a glass of red wine and some reading in bed, relaxing before returning to Sacred Saints. Tomorrow was photo talking day, but something nagged at you that photos of Billy couldn’t wait. Even before you’d known who he was, you had felt that intuition. 

But things hadn’t gone to plan, weren’t going to plan. So many wrenches had been thrown into your plans that they were barely recognizable. And you knew you had to answer Billy, but how?”

“Frank Castle,” you repeated. You had just moved back home to New York recently; you’d done a lot of traveling over the years, rented a place on the West Coast close to Napa Valley for most of that time. After you were satisfied with the bulk of your portfolio when you’d come back. “How do you know Frank Castle?” You had no plans to lie to Billy, and you wouldn’t allow a wrench to be thrown in that. 

“Frankie, he’s…he’s my best friend. My brother.” Again, he dipped his head and fixed his eyes on the floor. “I have to speak to him, please help me.” 

Swallowing past a lump of emotion that had become lodged in your throat, you dreaded what you knew you had to say. “I’m sorry, Billy. I don’t know a Frank Castle.” Why would I? You were quick to add, “But I’ll… if there’s a way, I’ll try to help you. I want to help you.” 

You paused for a moment, cursing yourself for getting involved. This wasn’t just a quick, professional snap of a few photos any longer. This had turned into you, a stranger in Billy Russo’s inky black eyes, offering to see what you could dig up on this Frank Castle; this became  you, foolishly putting yourself in a position that would inevitably lead to more time spent with the man you’d once loved that had, at one time, alluded to a future with you. But the question that seemed branded in the foreground of your mind the whole time, gnawing at your nerves and on the tip of your tongue… it was ringing in your ears, constantly threatening to tumble out of your mouth: What happened, Billy? How did you end up here? 

And despite all that was happening, this unfamiliar version of Billy Russo that you were still coming to terms with-- the man sitting across from you was not at all the man you’d known so many years ago-- wasn’t off-putting. You weren’t frightened, and you wanted to ask him. You had all but decided to, but suddenly, you remembered you were there to do a job. You had photos to take. You needed the images you’d capture of Billy, and you were afraid that if you asked a question that was considerably personal, your initial reason for reintroducing yourself into his life purely by chance would be foiled. Swallowing the words back down with the lump that had formed in your throat, you double-checked the settings on your camera that you’d mindlessly fiddled with earlier. Everything was ready. 

“Is now a good time?” You gestured to your camera that you held in one hand.

Billy remained still for a moment, not saying a word. He was still thinking about Frank, and he was thinking about the woman in front of him who had offered to help. For what? What’s in it for her? What’s her motive?

“You help complete strangers search for people often?” he asked, and you were struck once again with the thickness of his accent. He wasn’t trying to hide it at all, and you wondered if that was intentional, or if he just didn’t care. Either way, your memory didn’t recall such a stark accent; it had always been there, but not so obviously.

His question hung heavy in the room, and slight movement caught your eye. He had leaned forward in his chair, tilting his head to the side, eyes narrowed through the two holes of his mask. The way he regarded you with suspicion unnerved you, because what was also apparent in his eyes was a calculated coldness, and even that was partially removed. Billy’s eyes were, underneath it all, empty. You felt your chest constrict, followed by an awareness that you couldn’t seem to inhale an adequate amount of air. Your thoughts were on rotation. Billy, what happened to you? 

Before you could answer, he spoke again, asking the questions that had originally popped into his head. “Why-- for what? You get what?” His eyes narrowed a fraction more. “You got a motive.” 

The last of what he said wasn’t as much of a question as it was a statement. The surprise you felt was written all over your face, an unconscious raise of your eyebrows and widening of your eyes.

“A motive?” you repeated. Your expression of shock melted into one that mimicked confusion: a furrow of your brows. You felt almost dumbfounded, and you looked around the perimeter of the room. “What kind of motive could I possibly have, Billy? What could I “get” from doing it? Maybe helping someone to have some peace of mind, because it doesn’t seem like the people around here are giving you much of it.” Your voice was soft, but firm in your conviction. You felt like this man was an imposter, a total stranger. Yet,  in a contradictory manner, you were still utterly jarred at the fact that he didn’t remember you. There was no looking past it. How was it possible to be so affected by someone you no longer knew?

Billy blinked, and any shadow of emotion he’d held in his eyes was erased, replaced with the blank emptiness you’d seen when you first walked into the room. You looked away, out the window, and saw that the sun was hanging low, just over the horizon. You needed to get home. 

“I’m going to take a couple of shots if that’s okay with you. I’ll be back tomorrow to do some more work.” You turned your attention back to Billy, glancing upward into those empty eyes.  Hopefully, I’ll have some information for you.

He seemed as if he were far away, somewhere else entirely. His eyes were almost glazed over, and within two seconds, he was back again, though he wasn’t looking at you; instead, he dipped his head and ran two hands roughly over the short, dark hair on his scalp while rolling his left shoulder. Then, he raised his head and focused on you. Two tilts of his head, first to the left and then to the right, had you holding your breath. Some of his mannerisms were uncannily familiar. All at once, Billy was finally still, and with a sniff, he nodded his approval.

Finally able to do what you’d come to do originally, you held your camera to your face and peered through the viewfinder. Your heart dropped into your abdomen; Billy had once been your favorite subject to photograph, equally as attractive in any photo as he was in real time. It was he who was in full control of the camera with his defined, angular jawline, a smirk of his full lips or his dazzling, full grin that could light the entire city during a blackout. You thought you might give anything to take just one more Polaroid of that man that had been replaced with the phantom you had in focus.

I’ll work with what I have, you thought to yourself, and with the light pressure of your index finger, you pushed the shutter.

[missjanjie]

Signed, Sealed, Delivered | (2/?)

Title: Signed, Sealed, Delivered Summary:   Jan is in love with her French pen pal, Nicky. Her roommate, Crystal, is in love with her best friend, Gigi. A (perhaps ill-thought out) plan emerges: give Nicky a reason to visit by inviting her to Crystal and Gigi’s wedding. With a month to pull the scheme together, no one knows how this will end up. Word Count: 2.9k (this chapter) / 5.8k (total) Relationship(s): Sportsdoll (Jan Sport/Nicky Doll), Crygi (Crystal Methyd/Gigi Goode Rating: T (so far)

Read on AO3

and thanks to @janssports for beta-ing~

-

Crystal had spent two days trying to figure out how to explain this new situation to Gigi. She considered testing the waters by joking about it, then thought maybe she should just rip the Band-Aid off and tell her outright. But any train of thought drove her right into a wall. And Jan wasn’t much help either.

“Maybe you could text her,” Jan had mused offhandedly. She was trying to help as much as she could – her suggestion was made while she was sitting in front of her laptop researching what actually went into planning a wedding, method acting, if you will. They were committed to this lie now, it seemed like there was no choice but to go all in.

“Text her?!” Crystal’s eyes were wide, she couldn’t possibly be serious. “I can’t just be like, ‘Hey Geege, Jan told Nicky we’re getting married lol T-T-Y-L and hope for the best.”

“Well, obviously not that, no one says T-T-Y-L anymore.”

“Jan!”

Jan sighed, spinning her desk chair around to face her. “I’m sorry, but I already have a lot of ground to cover. Telling Gigi is your job.”

Crystal threw her head back and whined. “But I don’t wanna.”

“Would you rather I do it?”

She quickly put her hands up in surrender. “No, no, I got it,” she assured. “She’s still at the studio, I’ll just… go there and tell her when she’s finished. I’ll call you if I need backup.”

“Get it done, sis.” Jan hummed before turning back to the screen, mumbling under her breath about how unreasonably expensive wedding bouquets are. “They’re flowers. Why would you pay that much for fucking flowers?”

And Crystal had hoped the walk she took from there to the studio would help her build her nerve, but she was hit with a new wave of anxiety the moment Gigi saw her.

Gigi waved her over, not straying from her work station. “I’ll be about another fifteen minutes or so, but you can just hang out if you don’t mind waiting.”

“Oh, yeah, no that’s fine,” she assured, sitting at one of the empty stations. On a normal day, she would enjoy watching Gigi at work. There was something almost magical about watching someone create art they were passionate about that Crystal found absolutely entrancing. Plus, it was Gigi – she could watch her read the phone book.

“So, what’s up with you?” Gigi asked casually, holding up two different types of lace against white fabric.

Crystal wasn’t sure what she opened her mouth to say, but she ended up blurting out, “We need to pretend to be getting married when Nicky comes here to visit Jan.”

That stopped Gigi in her tracks. She set the lace down and turned to face her friend. “I’m sorry, what?”

Crystal took a deep breath, feeling almost relieved that she had ripped the bandage off, but still worried that she wouldn’t be able to explain herself in a way that would actually get the other girl on board with this charade. “So… here’s the thing. Jan obviously really wants to see Nicky in person, but they haven’t been able to commit to a plan. So I, being the super smart person I am, suggested she tell her there’s an event coming up that she should fly out for. And… long story short that event is our wedding and now we’re along for the ride.”

Gigi blinked, taking the time to digest the information she received. “What the fuck, Crystal?” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Well, when’s the ‘wedding?’”

“In like, a month. Maybe two.”

With her lips still in a fine line, Gigi let out a strangled noise of frustration. “In a month or two,” she repeated, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “You know what? Fuck it, let’s do what we have to do.”

Crystal felt a massive weight lift from her chest and she exhaled deeply. “Really?”

“I mean, I’m never gonna let you hear the end of it, but yeah. Sure. Why not?” She shrugged. Glancing over at her dress, she decided she’d done enough work for the day. “I guess we better reconvene with Jan then.”

As she pushed herself back to her feet, Crystal still felt a little lightheaded. Sure, she was thanking every possible deity that Gigi was on board with this half-baked scheme, but now she would have far fewer chances to suppress and ignore her feelings. “Yeah, she’ll definitely appreciate that.”

When they did return to the apartment, Jan was still on her laptop in her room, deeply immersed in her research. It took Crystal and Gigi getting right in front of her for her to even become aware of her presence. “Oh, hey guys,” she greeted, setting her laptop next to her on the bed before looking at Crystal. “Did you tell her?”

“Very subtle, Jan,” Crystal retorted flatly. “But yes, I told her.”

“When did you tell Nicky to come here?” Gigi asked.

Jan shrugged. “I didn’t give a specific date yet. So, you know, work that out amongst yourselves. Also, you guys should get registered at some stores. At least that way if someone stumbles upon it, you could get like… a toaster or something.”

“I do love toast,” Gigi mused. “But I wanna know just how far we’re taking this. Like, are Crystal and I gonna pretend to get married? Do we break up? Or are you gonna wait til after you get Nicky in bed with you and then tell her the truth?”

“I… haven’t actually gotten that far yet,” she admitted. “I don’t think we should stage a fake wedding, though. Because then you guys are just gonna have to keep up the act indefinitely or get a fake divorce. We’ll work it out as we keep going.”

Crystal leaned against Jan’s desk, finally coming to terms with the fact that the three of them were definitely not backing out of this, that there was no chance of just scrapping the plan and calling it a day. “So other than that, what do we need to do?”

Jan picked her laptop back up. “We need to make a couple of invitations, I figure we could just get one or two free samples, just to send one to Nicky and keep one for our own records. Crystal needs to rent or borrow a dress, and we should probably go through the motions of planning a wedding without like, going fifty thousand dollars in debt.”

“Rings!” Gigi suddenly exclaimed. “What are we gonna do about rings? That’s a pretty fucking important part of being engaged.”

Crystal and Jan looked at each other, both of them searching for an answer, but there was the slightest bit of amusement in their expressions when it became clear that Gigi was now taking this as seriously as they were. “I’m sure we could get some convincing fake ones online. It’s not like she’s a professional jewelry appraiser,” Jan suggested.

“I’m not wearing something that’ll turn my finger green,” Gigi warned with a grave deadpan. “I’ll see if my mom has anything we can borrow. She has a collection of vintage and like, random, unique jewelry. I’m sure she’ll let me temporarily poach something off of her.”

Jan arched her brow. “So you’re gonna rope her into this too? Or are you gonna give her some other excuse?”

That gave Gigi pause, and she realized she was either going to bring another person into the party or dig all of them into a deeper hole. “I should probably just tell her,” she decided, the other two girls nodding in agreement.

“I would really like to watch this conversation take place,” Crystal piped up.

“Well, why don’t you guys do that? I’ve got a call with Nicky in ten,” Jan chimed in, looking at her phone.

“Well, far be it for us to interrupt your sexy Skype session,” Gigi retorted with a soft laugh. “Come, Crystal,” she curled her finger, and the two of them left Jan to her own devices.

Jan waved them off before getting up to fix her hair and makeup in the mirror, then moved her laptop to her desk so she could look at the screen dead-on. When she saw Nicky calling, she beamed brightly as she answered it. “Well damn, what sort of runway are you dressed up for?”

Nicky laughed and looked down. Her hair was styled up in a bouffant and the normally straight locks were in gentle waves. Her makeup – which Jan knew she did herself – was immaculate beyond reproach. “Don’t jinx it, I had my friend take some headshots for my portfolio today. So, fingers crossed there are runways in the future.”

“It’s basically a given, I can just tell,” Jan grinned, her elbows propped on her desk and face in her hands. The look in her eyes was full to the brim with enamored adoration; even she was surprised that Nicky hadn’t picked up on her feelings. “And then I’ll get to say I knew you way back when.”

“Bitch please,” she scoffed. “If I ever get famous, you know I’m flying your ass out here first class. It wouldn’t be fun without my sweet Janice by my side.”

She blushed, her hands moving from her face to stroke her ponytail. Hearing Nicky call her ‘hers’ in any capacity had her heart ready to leap right out of her chest. It was times like that that made her wonder if it would’ve been that crazy for her to profess her feelings, if she was building all of this fear and anxiety over owning her feelings for nothing. It sometimes felt like a declaration of love was dancing on the tip of her tongue, threatening to slip past her lips.

But nothing was ever enough to get her over that hurdle. Her stubborn fear of rejection outweighed even common sense. So, instead, she kept it sweet and vague. “Well, you know I’ll always be there whether you like it or not.”

“I’m offended you think there’s a chance I wouldn’t.” Nicky scoffed playfully. “Anyway, what have you been up to today?”

“Oh, just… helping the girls with planning and stuff.” It was technically true, so she counted it as one less lie she was telling her. She found that the easiest thing to do was to just keep the focus off herself until she felt more confident in this charade. “It’s just boring details really. Have you been working on learning any songs lately?”

Nicky shook her head. “Actually, I was hoping to convince you to sing for me,” she cooed, batting her lashes in an over-exaggerated manner.

It was a look that Jan was an undeniable sucker for that look, and she was certain that Nicky had figured out that much. “I suppose I could do that. Any requests?”

Nicky tilted her head, taking a moment to think. “Can you do that one from Grease? The magic one?”

Jan giggled softly, knowing she meant ‘Those Magic Changes.’ The song had been buried in her repertoire for ages until she’d stumbled upon a clip of her performing it in her freshman year of college. She’d sent it to Nicky, just thinking it’d be a cute throwback of sorts, but her penpal absolutely loved it, and brought it up every time she could. She didn’t quite get it, but she was thrilled that there was something she could do that would make her so happy. “For you? Of course.”

Once Jan found the karaoke version of the song on her phone, she played it and sang along, serenading Nicky as she’d done a number of times. While it was night time in France, it was still late afternoon for her, so she wasn’t concerned about the volume. Though, even if it had been later, she probably would have risked it – it just wouldn’t be the same if she used her ‘neighbor friendly’ voice.

Nicky applauded cheerfully when Jan finished. Her eyes were bright and warm with the enthusiasm of a child who just heard their favorite bedtime story despite getting it every night. It simply never got old for her. “You’re going to have to sing me to sleep every night once we’re in the same time zone,” she mused.

“You know I will,” Jan smiled softly, her mind conjuring up the image of the two of them laying in bed together, cuddled up close after a long day. Nicky would hold her in her arms while she sang to her, then fall asleep in her embrace, knowing she would sleep soundly because she got to wake up in her arms. She already knew what she smelled like, thanks to her scented letters, and longed to be able to wake up to it lingering on her skin instead of soaked into paper, she just yearned for the day where none of her senses were deprived of the other girl.

“You’re so good to me,” she cooed.

“That’s right, now I’m going to remind you to take that makeup off.” She chuckled. “It’s like, a quarter to eleven where you are, I don’t want you falling asleep with all that on.”

Nicky snorted softly. “There it is.” She rolled her eyes fondly, then reached across her desk. “I came prepared for this,” she explained, holding up a pack of makeup wipes. And, just to assure her she was actually following through, she took a wipe out and began cleaning off her face.

Jan grinned triumphantly. “See? I knew I’d start to rub off on you sooner or later.” Of course, she was guilty of just as many bad habits, if not more. But that was beside the point as far as she was concerned. Either way, she watched until Nicky had finished cleaning off her face, and she almost found it unfair that someone could be even more flawless underneath the makeup.

“Okay, I’m going to get ready for bed before you lecture me about that too,” Nicky teased. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, bye!” She blew a kiss at the screen before they ended the call.

After the call ended, Jan closed her laptop and got up to look in the mirror. She stared at herself, silently questioning why she was like this, so hopelessly taken with someone that it clouded her judgement, that she let thoughts of her cloud both her waking thoughts and her dreams. It was as frustrating and painful as it was intoxicatingly addictive.

The only thing that pulled Jan from her train of thoughts was her phone ringing, and she nearly dropped it as she got it out from her pocket. “What’s up, Crystal? Please tell me this isn’t a crisis call.”

“No, no, everything’s fine,” Crystal quickly assured. “We’re at Gigi’s mom’s house and she invited us to stay for dinner. So I won’t be back for like… another couple hours, give or take.”

“Oh, okay, cool. I take it the ring issue was taken care of?”

Crystal beamed, admiring the ring on her finger as if Gigi had actually proposed to her with it. “Everything’s fine on that front, trust me. I have to send you a picture of this, you’re gonna die.”

Jan laughed lightly. “I’m sure I will. Go ahead, then enjoy your dinner. Tell Mama Goode I said hi.”

“Can do,” Crystal assured before hanging up, her eyes still trained on the ring. The ring itself was rose gold, the band carved with vine-like design. The diamond at the center was square-cut and surrounded by tiny, round diamonds. While just towing the line of being over-the-top, it had the sort of unique, quirky vibe that made it perfect for someone like her.

“It’s like it was made for you,” Gigi had told her when she picked it out. “It’s actually kind of spooky.” She had picked out a ring for herself as well, one that had more of an antique aesthetic that she appreciated. It was gold with diamonds embedded along the band, centering an ornately-bordered radiant-cut diamond. It wasn’t as flashy as Crystal’s, but she was drawn to the details in the ring.

When they put their left hands on the table next to each other, they noted that there weren’t any significant similarities between what they’d chosen, but both of their personalities seemed properly represented. “We should have a little hand-modeling shoot for this,” Gigi mused, figuring she could ask her mom for help with that as well. They had explained their circumstances right away, and much to their relief, Gigi’s mom had found their story to be very funny and agreed to help however they needed under the condition that she could retell the tale once everything was over with. Crystal was happy to agree to these conditions, while Gigi did so more reluctantly.

Crystal wouldn’t admit as much, but as she sat down for dinner with the Goodes, it felt all too right. Like she was just having a meal with her future wife and mother-in-law, the energy that flowed among the three of them was always so calm and natural, even-keeled and even quiet at times. It was a stark contrast from her own family dinners in both positive and negative ways. But when it came down to it, what stood out the most to her was that she felt so perfectly at home with them, she couldn’t help but wish this at least felt fake. It would be easier to bear when it was all over.

[wonwuism]

Chapter 3.

Tuesday | NYC Institute of the Arts | Rooftop Café17 | 01:47 pm

“I’m not saying tie dye is ugly, I’m just saying there’s a reason it’s never been used in fashion before. Like, ever.”

“Sounds like you just think it’s ugly.”

Wonwoo wasn’t really paying attention to his friends. Whenever Vernon and Minghao started yet another discussion about fashion he usually zoned out into his own thoughts until they decided to let him decide who was right, as if he understood what they were even talking about. There was a good reason that he designed games and they designed clothing.

“Wonwoo what do you think about multi colored clothes?” Wonwoo looked over at his friends and thought for a second.

“Depends. If you’re talking about color blocking, I love it. If you’re asking me if I think Vernons shirt is ugly. I do. I hate it.” Minghao threw his head back in laughter and clapped his hands so loud, people around them started looking where the sound was coming from.

“You’re both assholes, you know that right?” Vernon took an angry bite from his chicken sandwich. Wonwoo chewed on his cheek instead. He wasn’t hungry today. It had been three days since he scribbled his e-mail address on a post it note for Mingyu to take. He wasn’t even sure why he was thinking about it so much, but just the thought of Mingyu never actually sending the pictures kept running through his mind. After thinking about it for another five minutes he couldn’t take it any longer.

“Hey guys?” The two mouths that had been excitedly talking about their weekend and the weird night out they’d had both shut and his friends shifted their focus on Wonwoo now.

“How long do you think it takes for a photographer to, you know, edit pictures?” Minghao raised his eyebrows in suspicion, since this was so obviously not a Wonwoo kind of question. Vernon, however, never really questioned anything and reacted right away.

“Well, it depends on how many shots they took and how much editing those shots need in terms of photoshop and stuff.”

“They’re just portrait shots of one guy that someone took at the shop. I was wondering when he’s going to e-mail them to me.” Vernon opened his mouth to answer, but Minghao beat him to it. As usual he could see right through Wonwoo as well as Jun did. It was something about his Chinese friends that made it impossible to hide things from them.

“Are you waiting for the pictures or for him to contact you?” It was Vernons turn to raise his eyebrows now and before Wonwoo could even think of an answer, Minghao spoke again.

“You’re usually never impatient, much less when it’s about something you don’t really care about, like, I don’t know, pictures from the flower shop. Spill it Wonwoo, who is this guy.”

Wonwoo let out a breath. They got him. He shouldn’t have asked them about it and just waited it out. Now he was going to tell them all about his dumb crush and they were going to ask him about it all the time. He could feel the panic under his skin, knocking at his bones again, but he calmed himself down. He wasn’t going to let it get to him over something as silly as this. Vernon and Minghao were his friends and even though they didn’t know about his anxiety disorder, they wouldn’t make fun of him for anything. They never judged anyone and they wouldn’t start now.

“Okay, so-“ Two bodies turned his way dramatically. “All I know really, is that his name is Mingyu and that he’s a photographer. He said that the shots were for his portfolio as well as the model’s, so I doubt he’s a professional. Oh and he’s straight.”

“He’s straight?”

“Yeah I know, but I was already kind of crushing on him when he told me that he thinks he doesn’t like guys, so it was a little too late for me to do anything about it.”

Both boys nodded and Wonwoo saw them think about answers to questions he didn’t ask. They were looking for solutions for problems that didn’t exist yet, and even though he loved his friends for it, he didn’t need to hear their two cents on the situation, so he cut them off.

“Don’t worry though, he’ll send the pictures soon and that’ll be the end of it.”

Before another word was said, Wonwoo could see Juliette walk their way. She always walked so lightly, like nothing was weighing her down. Her brown ponytail swung across her back and she seemed to glow in the light that beamed down on the rooftop café. She was the prettiest girl Wonwoo knew. He waved at her to divert attention from his miserable story and all was forgotten when Vernon saw his girlfriend come over.

“Hey guys!” She pecked Vernon’s cheek and took a seat next to him. Vernon looked at her with stars in his eyes for a second and Wonwoo felt a little jealous as usual. Who could blame him though. The two had been in love since they talked for the first time and had been together for 5 years now, still as in love as they’d been that first day. They were the couple that handled their problems before talking to anyone else about them and the kind of couple that got along with each other’s friends well, but still gave each other enough space to live their own lives. They were the kind of couple to sit next to each other after being together for 5 years and still secretly hold hands under the table just because they liked it. It was cute.

“Hey, what’s up? Don’t you have class now?” Vernon asked. She shook her head and made a pouty face. “It got cancelled because miss Claudette fell ill. She’s my favorite teacher though, so I hope she gets better soon. And I really like her class, so I’m a little sad now.” She shrugged her shoulders and took a sip of her coffee. “Hey Jules?” It was Minghao. She raised her eyebrows at him and hummed a response.

“Do you know anyone in photography by the name Mingyu?” Wonwoo almost choked on his spit and avoided Vernon’s surprised look to shoot daggers from his eyes at Minghao. Juliette was sweet and he trusted her for sure, but Minghao knew that Wonwoo didn’t like talking about his personal stuff to people.

“Mingyu? Uhhhh Mingyu, Mingyu, Mingyu… No, I don’t think I know him. There’s a Min-gi, though. Maybe that’s the one you’re looking for?” Minghao turned to look at Wonwoo who shook his head no. “No, it’s definitely Min-gyu. Kim Mingyu, I think.”

“No, I don’t think we have anyone in the photography department with that name, sorry.” She didn’t ask any more information and Wonwoo was glad. She was like Vernon in a way that they were willing to help you as much as you needed them to, but they didn’t push you to tell them more.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s not really important anyway. I have to go, though. See you guys around.” He took his own empty cup and other trash off the table to throw it away and the others waved at him before he walked off. He didn’t really have to go. He was just leaving because they were talking about him too much for his liking. Wonwoo knew that they were just going to continue without him now, but as long as he wasn’t there to hear it, he didn’t really mind.

Wonwoo debated on whether to go home or to the flower shop to work on his project, but a text from Jihoon already decided for him.

Jihoon: I’m in WOOZI mode

He chuckled. Whenever he got that text he knew what time it was. Jihoon was in a huge producing flow and was making magic in their room. WOOZI was the name he produced under and this simple text let Wonwoo know not to come home for a while to not disturb the process. Some people would’ve thought it’s annoying not to be able to go home, but Wonwoo didn’t mind. It had been a while since Jihoon had sent him anything like this or let him hear a new song, so Wonwoo put his phone into his pocket and was on his way to the shop.

Tuesday | Pledis Flowers | 06:03 pm

Wonwoo was debating on what he would have for dinner. He’d been working on his game for a while without making a lot of progress for a few hours. He could get some Mexican takeout and treat Jihoon for doing well today. He was just about to text if his roommate had dinner plans yet, when his e-mail app showed a notification. Heart beating, fingers shaking, breath quickening. Wonwoo opened the e-mail and there it was. Mingyu’s name.

Hey Wonwoo!

I attached a folder with the shots I ended up choosing for my portfolio :)

I hope you like them enough to put them on the website!

I also added some tulips that I took a picture of the other day because I know you like flowers. Or I think you do, since you work in the flower shop haha

Anyway let me know what you think,

Mingyu

Wonwoo didn’t miss the way Mingyu added 10 numbers under his name. He gave Wonwoo his phone number. Wonwoo scolded himself for thinking too much about it. It just meant he preferred to discuss the pictures over the phone. That’s it.

With one click on the attached folder, Wonwoo held his breath. Jeonghan looked more like an angel than ever in these pictures. The lighting from outside hit his features perfectly and Wonwoo took a moment to appreciate the color correcting Mingyu had done to the pictures. They looked amazing and professional.

The last picture just showed an unedited shot of some pink and yellow tulips that made Wonwoo smile. He felt proud for somehow being a small part of this and he called Joshua over to show him the pictures. Seungcheol was with a customer and Wonwoo knew he didn’t really care much for the pictures anyway.

Josh stood behind him as Wonwoo opened the first one and with every new picture he could just feelJoshua go crazier. None of them said anything until the last picture was on the screen. “That’s all of them,” Wonwoo said. He looked over to his colleague to see what he could only describe as a man in love. Joshua was still staring at the screen with eyes glazed over, like his mind wasn’t really in the room anymore. “I’m in love with him. Good god, I’m so in love Wonwoo. I need to see him again.”

Wonwoo gave him a soft smile. He’d never seen Joshua like this. Usually it was all overly confident remarks and flirting, but the way he was looking at the pictures right now told Wonwoo that this time things might be different. He clicked the picture off the screen and it now showed the e-mail Mingyu sent him. He was about to close that tab, too, when Joshua stopped him.

“Wait, he gave you his phone number?” Big eyes stared at Wonwoo and he felt slightly uncomfortable at the fact that Joshua knew about it now. It had felt kind of secret before, and Wonwoo realized he actually liked it like that.

“Um, yeah, I think he wants me to let him know if I like the pictures that way.” Joshua all of a sudden seemed to be completely back into reality and he was almost shaking with excitement. “Wonwoo, this is perfect! You can help me get to Jeonghan through Mingyu! You have to call him right now! Please?”

Wonwoo thought about it. He didn’t want to ask Mingyu to help out arrange things for Joshua. Especially since he’d already mentioned he doesn’t like to get into other people’s personal business. What if he felt used or even got mad at Wonwoo for suggesting it?

“Not right now, but I’ll see what I can do, okay? But if I get too nervous about it please don’t be mad. I’m not even sure if I even have the guts to call him at all.”

Joshua nodded. He understood. “Yeah, that’s okay, just think about it, okay? You wanna grab dinner together? I’m craving pancakes.” Wonwoo shook his head no and told Josh he was probably going to treat Jihoon to Mexican food, since he worked hard today.

They talked a little about the pictures with Seungcheol while they worked on cleaning and organizing the shop and Wonwoo walked out with them to close for the day before waving them off and walking the other way to take a subway to his dorm. He decided that he’d just order takeout and pick it up before heading into the dorms without even asking Jihoon. He knew the boy probably hadn’t been outside anyway, so Wonwoo thought he could take the risk.

Tuesday | Wonwoo’s dorm room | 09:16 pm

Leftover takeout was on the floor and soft hip hop was playing in the background. Jihoon had told Wonwoo all about his new tracks and said that taking a walk the other day had really helped him out, so he decided to go for a walk every night from now on.

Wonwoo had his eyes closed and he listened to the sounds coming from Jihoons speakers. He didn’t hear the lyrics though. All Wonwoo could think about right now were ten little numbers. They spun around his head in a loop, demanding his attention. They made him nervous to no extent, but he knew they wouldn’t stop their torture until he pressed them into the screen on his phone and clicked the call button.

And he wanted to, he realized. He wanted to call Mingyu and talk about the pictures, just to hear his voice. Maybe they could talk about other things, like why Mingyu wasn’t majoring in photography and what he did do. Wonwoo didn’t know if he’d have the balls to ask about it, though. But he was going to call him right now. He had to.

Quickly, so he didn’t have any room to change his mind, Wonwoo pressed the numbers into his screen. He only saw them twice in the e-mail, but it had been enough to know them by heart already. Wonwoo blamed it on being a visual learner. With a shaky thumb he put the phone to his ear to hear it ring.

Pick up. Don’t pick up. Don’t. Don’t. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. No, don’t-

“Hello?” Shit.

“Hi, um… Is this- is this Mingyu?”

“Yeah this is he. Wait, Wonwoo is that you?” As every time, Mingyu switching to Korean made Wonwoo feel comfortable and a little light inside.

“Yeah, it’s me, hi.” He should’ve thought about what to say. This was awkward. Mingyu was going to think he’s weird. Great job Wonwoo.

“Oh hi! I’m so glad you called!” Mingyu sounded like the overexcited puppy that Wonwoo remembered, and it made him think that maybe this wasn’t all that awkward as long as Mingyu kept talking to him like this.

“Did you see the pictures I sent you? Wait, of course you did. You wouldn’t have called if you didn’t.” Wonwoo’s heart fluttered, because Mingyu was also nervous. “Yeah, I did. They were wonderful. So pretty.”

“Wonderful. I don’t think anyone’s said that about my pictures before. It sounds nice. Thank you.” It took a few seconds of silence to realize Mingyu couldn’t see him smile and Wonwoo felt a little stupid, but then Mingyu talked again and Wonwoo wondered if he didn’t hate the fact that Wonwoo was so quiet.

“So, I was thinking. I’ve been working on my portfolio for a while, but- I’m really bad at the whole design part of it. I can’t seem to make it look nice, no matter what I do. Would you, only if you want to, please help me out with it? Just give me some advice about coloring maybe, or placement? I’m really at the end of my wits here. I’ve spent hours on it already, but it still…” he laughed. “Yeah it looks like shit.”

Wonwoo laughed too. He liked that Mingyu was asking him for help. Not just because it’s him, but because it was a good thing that Mingyu wasn’t afraid to own up to his mistakes and it’s something that Wonwoo found to be a sign of good character. His mom had taught him that back when he was small. She also said Wonwoo was a little too good at it, since he saw mistakes that he didn’t even make. She was always right.

“Do you want to send it to me so I can make notes on it?”

“Actually, I think it’s best if we meet up. Is that okay with you?”

Wonwoo’s heart quickened and he tried not to breathe too fast so Mingyu would hear it. It was fine, this was fine. It was completely okay.

“You can pick the place if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

There it was again. Mingyu sensing Wonwoo’s anxiety, even through the distance of a phone call. Mingyu taking steps back to make him feel more at ease. Whether that be physical steps like the first time they met, or just a step back in his excitement over the phone, because he could tell it overwhelmed Wonwoo.

“Yeah, we can meet. I’ll think about the place. Is it okay if I text you about when and where?” All of a sudden being on the phone with Mingyu felt too close for Wonwoo and he wanted to get away from it.

“Oh, okay, yeah that should be fine. I’m available any night this week except for Friday.”

“Okay, I’ll see when I’m free. Goodnight Mingyu.”

“Wonwoo?”

“Yeah?”

“Were the flowers wonderful as well?”

Wonwoo closed his eyes so hard he saw white and all of a sudden he wanted to scream, or cry, or hit something. Mingyu was so incredibly nice to him and Wonwoo didn’t want him to. It was too much.

“They were,” he managed to squeak out.

“Good. Goodnight Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo hung up the phone and immediately a wave of panic hit him. Terrible thoughts washed over him. Thoughts that told him lies and that made him feel horrible about himself. Wonwoo curled himself up into a ball on his bed and tried to calm his breathing. The music in the background was so loud. Way too loud. But Wonwoo was frozen, so he couldn’t move to turn it down.

For twenty minutes Wonwoo panicked. His breathing went wild and his heart exploded with every beat. His hands shook and his head hurt so bad he wanted to split it in half to let out the monster hiding in his skull. After those twenty minutes his body gave up on him for the night, too exhausted to do anything else. Wonwoo fell into a restless sleep filled with scenarios in which he ruined everything.

Previous chapter. | Masterlist. | Next chapter.

[talesofpanem]

The Interview

Author: @xerxia31

Rating: T for potty language, adult situations, mentions of substance abuse and minor character death.

Summary: This has all the makings of the most uncomfortable job interview of all time.

Author’s note: This is for the prompt ‘work’, but I just couldn’t get it done on time. Thank goodness for make-up week!

————

It feels like entering another world, driving through the grounds of the west campus. Everything is wide open, lush, green, alive, a huge contrast to the dirty and crowded city where I’ve been living for the past two years.

There are young people everywhere on the expansive lawns, throwing frisbees or leaning against trees with books or binders in hand, and not a cellphone to be seen. It’s like a utopian fantasy world, on the surface.

But I know better.

I pull up to the building where my appointment will be. Grey stone, old, but not yet old enough to be considered classic. Its architectural failings have been compensated for by brightly-painted window trim and shutters, and climbing vines clinging to the stones, bursting with purple flowers. Elegant, but only if you don’t look too closely. For all of its window dressing, it’s an institution.

I’d been instructed to wait in the lobby, arranged as a waiting room of sorts. It’s little more than a dozen chairs ringing the area, facing the double set of interior doors, faded industrial carpet underfoot. I settle into one, the sun-hardened vinyl squeaks in protest. The walls are covered with inspirational posters, pictures of sunsets and mountaintops with words of wisdom in bold print underneath. Motivation. Persistence. Achievement. 

“Mr. Mellark?” 

I jump to my feet as a young woman with glossy black ringlets enters the room where I’ve been cooling my heels for twenty minutes. She smiles at me. “They’re ready for you now.”

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I wipe my hands on my suit pants before picking up my portfolio. I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous about anything. Young Peeta Mellark was an outgoing, gregarious fellow. But I haven’t been that guy in a very long time.

The doors close behind me, electronic locks snapping ominously. 

The young woman, Rue, she tells me her name is, leads me along a dim corridor, the floors polished to gleaming, reflecting scattered pools of light. “We only use emergency lighting in the offices on the weekends,” she confides. “Budget…” I nod. The schools where I worked while finishing my master’s degrees had all struggled with budgets too. Education is not a career that is steeped in money.

But working with children is what I’ve chosen. And this job, at this particular school, is the one I want more than anything.

Art therapist at the Panem Institute.

The Panem Institute is the preeminent residential facility for kids in trouble, kids struggling with substance abuse issues or mental health disorders. And unlike most centres of its kind, lack of funds is not a barrier to admission.

I can’t help wondering how different my life might have turned out if I’d had access to a place like this when I was a teen. Would I be established now, with a life I could be proud of? A wife, maybe even a family of my own?

Instead, I’m thirty, with a shiny new double MA in social work and art therapy, and precious little in the way of resumé experience. That the institute is even meeting with me is almost miraculous. Apart from student placements and volunteer work, I have almost nothing to show for my life.

But I want this job so badly I can almost taste it. This job, this place– this is why I’ve worked so hard the past six years, for the chance to make up for my own failings.

My childhood wasn’t fantastic, but it was typical by most measures. The youngest of three children, I was born upstate, in a quintessential white-washed all-American small town where everyone knew everyone else. My parents didn’t get along, but they stuck it out for the sake of us boys, which is retrospect was probably far, far worse for us than if they’d simply split.

Instead, beaten down by a life she hated and a town she couldn’t escape, my mother was cold, and often rough with us. Rye, Brann and I learned young to hide from her temper. She, in turn, hid in a bottle.

My dad, though, was my hero, mine and my brothers’ too. He coached our little league teams, came to every one of our wrestling matches, filled our lives with cookies and hugs. Shielded us from mother’s ever-increasing drunken and violent episodes.

Then midway through my senior year of high school, the unthinkable happened. My father, my kind, generous father, was murdered. Shot by some punk barely older than I was, killed for nothing more than the two hundred dollars in the cash register of the small family bakery my father owned.

I was devastated.

There was no one left to moderate my mother’s behaviour with my father gone and my brothers away at school. Down to one final obligation, freedom in sight, she made it her sole purpose in life to be rid of me as well. Or maybe she was just drowning in grief and alcoholism and wasn’t even aware of how she was acting, a theory my brother broached at the time. Whatever the reason, life at home deteriorated. Badly.

And like my mother, I sought refuge in a bottle. Or many, many bottles.

I’d already been offered a college wrestling scholarship based on my earlier performances. A good thing since I showed up at the state wrestling championship - my last ever high school wrestling meet and the first one where my father wasn’t a spectator - hungover as hell, or maybe still a little drunk, and ended up placing second.

College was supposed to be my escape, but by the time I got to State that September, I was far more interested in getting bombed than in studying or practicing. 

Over the course of a year, I destroyed every dream I’d ever had, every hope, every plan, every relationship. I alienated every friend, every mentor, even, eventually, my own brothers.

And I hadn’t even cared.

Twelve years later, I’ve clawed my way back, one sober day at a time, through more ups and downs than I can even remember. Fought to become a man my father would have been proud of. But I didn’t do it alone. Therapists and counsellors helped me heal, and in doing so showed me how satisfying it could be to guide someone back from the brink, to help set them on the right path.

And that’s why I’m here now, standing sweaty-palmed but hopeful at the door of a boardroom. Interviewing for a job where I could change the lives of troubled young people like I once was.

My escort, Rue, pulls the door open and gestures for me to enter. The room is small and much brighter than the hallway, with a pair of large windows and pale wood reflecting the warm afternoon light. It takes me a moment to adjust to the brightness, to focus on the group of people waiting for me.

Then the bottom drops out of my stomach, and out of my world.

I never got blackout drunk. Consequently, I remember every stupid decision I made, every assholish word I said. And the recipient of one of the tirades I regret most is sitting across the table, her ebony hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. 

Katniss Everdeen.

She and I went to school together, from kindergarten all the way through until I ruined my life. I had the worst crush on her back then. But until after we graduated from high school, she didn’t even know I was alive.

Imagine my shock when, a few months into my ill-fated college career, I ran into her at a party on campus. I’d had no idea she went to the same school. But I was well into a bottle of Bombay that night, and what should have been the start of an epic relationship, or at least a chance for me to talk to the girl I’d lusted after always, turned into a nightmare.

I was already slipping then, already on academic probation, already suspended from the wrestling team and constantly in trouble with my coaches. I was weeks away from losing everything - my scholarship, my sport, my friends. And every encounter with my professors, with my academic advisor, with the counsellor the athletic department had insisted on, every single one had impressed on me that I wasn’t good enough, though I am, in retrospect, certain that’s not what any of them had meant. But I’d had so much anger in my system then, so much loathing. 

And Katniss, beautiful, seemingly unattainable Katniss, for some reason seeing her there triggered the deepest well of self pity to open in my chest. She was, in that moment, the embodiment of everything I’d been told I could never have. My gut clenches and my heart hurts as I remember the vitriol I’d spewed at her that night, the accusations about her character and motivations, every one of them utterly untrue. I’d called her stuck-up, selfish, a bitch, among so many other words. Katniss, beautiful, stoic Katniss hadn’t reacted at all, apart from a widening of her eyes and maybe a slight trembling of her lower lip. When I’d run out of filth to throw her way, she’d simply blinked and said softly, “This isn’t you, Peeta.” Then she’d walked away.

I have heard those words in my head a thousand times since that night. 

It had taken another three years of couch-surfing and homelessness, of lying and begging and stealing to feed my addiction, before I finally hit rock-bottom. In an alley in the Capitol, with a bunch of other low-life scum just like me, I’d listened as they made plans to rob a convenience store a few blocks away. So desperate was I for the few bucks it would have garnered me that I was ready to go along with them… until I saw the gun.

The idea of robbing a little mom-and-pop convenience store at gunpoint was my come to Jesus moment. I was hunched in filth, hungry and so desperate for a drink that I was steps away from becoming the man who had killed my father.

The road back from that point wasn’t straight, and it wasn’t easy. I’d like to say that I never had another drink after that, but it’d be a lie. But I’ve been sober now for seven years and forty-four days, a purple medallion in my pocket reminds me every day how far I’ve come.

As does Katniss’s voice in my head, reminding me when I feel weak, when the cravings hit hard, that I’m not that person.

But she doesn’t know that. Looking across the table, she must be seeing the asshole who treated everyone, and especially her, like dirt.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Mellark,” an older, balding man says, smiling. I recognize his voice, Plutarch Heavensbee, the institute’s director, with whom I’ve spoken on the phone several times before today. I hesitate though, steeling myself to meet Katniss’s eyes. If she looks uncomfortable I’ll leave. It wouldn’t be fair to her if I stayed. As disappointing as it’ll be to walk away from this opportunity that I want so damned badly, I have only myself to blame.

I catch her gaze, silver pools in the sunlight, expecting her to be glaring at me. She’s not though, her expression is carefully neutral. But as if she sees the question in my glance, she nods.

Plutarch introduces the others in turn; Reza Seder, head of counselling services, Dr. Lavinia DeSantis, head of medical services, Alma Coin, head of security. “And of course you know Ms. Everdeen,” Plutarch says, his smile widening, and I can feel my eyebrows crawling up to my hairline. She knew I was coming, told the others that she knew me, and yet I’m still here. They’re still going to interview me.

“Hello, Peeta,” she says, in that smoky smooth bourbon voice that has acted as my conscience for years. And, okay, has narrated my fantasies too, if I’m being honest.

“I’ve already disclosed to the board that we grew up together,” she continues, “and they’re okay with my presence. But of course I’ll leave if it makes you uncomfortable having me here.” Her words and delivery are coolly professional, but beneath them I hear a faint note of pleading. She wants to be here, I just know it. And though I’m likely signing the death warrant on this job, I find myself asking her to stay.

This has all the makings of the most uncomfortable job interview of all time. But if I’ve learned anything from my primary therapist, Dr. Aurelius, it’s that I can’t run from my past. And if I’ve learned anything from AA, it’s that I can’t ignore my shortcomings.

Each member questions me, softballs to start - my education, my job experiences, my plans. I pull out my portfolio, walk them through the educational and therapeutic programs I’ve developed, outline what worked during my previous placements, what innovations I’d like to employ. They seem impressed, and I start to relax. 

“You didn’t go to college right after high school, Mr. Mellark?” Alma Coin asks, her strange, pale eyes cold and judgemental. I stiffen; this is where previous interviews have gone off the rails. I’d never outright lie about my addiction, but I’m not keen to bring it up either. Even seven years sober, people are reluctant to entrust an alcoholic to watch over children.

“That’s correct,” I tell her. “I didn’t start my undergrad until I was twenty-four.”

“Why is that?” I could tell her that I couldn’t afford it until then, that’s true, or about my father’s death throwing a spanner in my plans, also true.

Katniss is looking at me, grey eyes wide and guileless. She nods again, and it feels like encouragement. I know what I have to say.

“I’m an alcoholic,” I tell them, bracing for their reactions. But nobody flinches. “I’ve been sober for seven years. But I started drinking in high school, and I lost a lot of years to the disease.” Across from me, a hint of a smile graces Katniss’s pouty peach lips. I take it as my cue to keep going. “That’s why I went into social work, and why I want to work here so much. To help kids like me. To maybe save some of them from the mistakes I made.”

There are nods around the table, no one looks particularly surprised. I don’t know whether Katniss has told them, or if it came up in my background check.

“And you’re not concerned that working with addicted children might trigger you to revisit your own demons? Your CV is completely lacking in experience with troubled youth.” It’s true, my field placements were all in middle schools, my experience as an art therapist mostly with kids with ADHD or autism spectrum disorders. The kids here by and large have much more complex issues, abuse and addiction and mental illness all compounded, often violent and criminal backgrounds too. 

“I’ve spent years in therapy learning to cope with my triggers,” I tell Coin.

“That’s not the same as real-world experience,” Seder interjects. “These kids, the things they tell you, the things they’ve seen. It’s gutting.”

“I realize that,” I tell her, affecting the most professional tone I’m capable of despite the cavern that’s opened in my stomach, the knowledge that I’m nowhere near qualified enough in their eyes. “I completed a research project on intergenerational addiction in college and interviewed hundreds of young addicts.”

“That’s really not the same as interacting with them day to day,” Seder says, and it’s not cruel, but it feels dismissive.

“I also observed troubled youth in counselling during my practicum while I was in graduate school.” They know this, it’s in my resumé, along with letters of reference from the clinician supervisors. But Seder is shaking her head and Coin looks unimpressed and I can feel the opportunity slipping away.

“Peeta has volunteered as a mentor at the Children’s Hospital’s substance abuse treatment program for more than three years,” Katniss interjects, and every hair on my body stands on end. Because while that’s true, it’s also something that’s not in my resumé, something I’ve avoided self-reporting because it’s common knowledge that the program volunteers are all addicts in recovery themselves.

I have no idea how she knows that.

My gaze snaps to Katniss. Her expression remains carefully neutral, but there is the barest hint of a smile in her silver eyes.

“That’s an excellent program,” Dr. De Santis says, looking up from her notes for the first time. “They’re incredibly selective about who they choose to work with their clients.” 

“They are,” I agree. The screening had been brutal, but it had been necessary, so many of those kids have lead lives that make mine look like a walk in the park and many are not shy about sharing all of the horrific details. “They can’t risk having the volunteers drop out or relapse. The kids need the stability of knowing that they can’t scare away their mentors. So many of them have had everyone else in their lives give up on them.” I swallow hard; it’s the reason I volunteer there. I’ve seen myself in so many of their faces, kids who use alcohol and drugs to escape the pain, kids who lash out and push away the people around them before those people can abandon them. Like I’d done to my teachers and coaches, my friends and my brothers.

Like I’d done to Katniss, all of those years ago.

“How do you find your personal experiences impact your work with those children?” Katniss asks, a gently leading question, and one for which I am so grateful.

“I can empathise with them in ways that their doctors and case workers often can’t,” I say, mostly tamping down the waver in my voice. Four sets of eyes watch me intently. “It’s the whole basis for the program, giving these kids not only guidance, but hope for their future. If I can succeed after all of my mistakes, after all I’ve done, then they can too.”

“And you intend on continuing to volunteer there?” Coin asks.

“I do.” I’ve already checked with the hospital about whether this job would constitute a conflict of interest, they assured me it would not.

Across the table, each of the interviewers smiles, even Coin, though her smile looks a little less genuine. But I only have eyes for Katniss. Because her smile feels like forgiveness. And though this is my dream job, I feel like even if I don’t get it I’ve accomplished something monumental here. I’ve shown Katniss that she was right, that nasty boy who hurt her, who made her feel small and alone, that person wasn’t me.

Plutarch claps his hands. “Excellent, my boy,” he says. “Now let’s talk salary.”

“I… what?” 

“For the position.” At my expression, he laughs. “The interview is really just a formality,” he says, mirth twinkling in his eyes. “The job is yours if you want it.” He pushes a couple of papers across the table. A contract. “I know it’s a little less in salary than you’d make in private practice, but we offer a comprehensive benefits package. Take a couple of days to look it over and let us know.”

I don’t need a couple of days. I don’t need a couple of minutes. “I want the job,” I tell him firmly.

“Well then,” Plutarch booms with evident pleasure. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Mellark.” He reaches across to shake my hand firmly, and I can’t help my goofy grin. I got the job!

Plutarch informs me that their admin will get in touch with me over the next few days to file the tax and legal paperwork they need, and then I’ll begin at the start of the new term, some four weeks away. And I nod in all the right places, but my mind is spinning so fast I’m almost dizzy with it.

I shake each of their hands in turn, lingering just a bit longer to squeeze Katniss’s hand tightly. I thank each of them, but my gratitude to her means more. I think she can tell.

“Could you see Mr. Mellark out?” Plutarch asks Katniss, and she agrees, though she doesn’t meet my eyes. 

I follow her silently down the corridor, towards the exit, the delicate tapping of her heels on linoleum almost drowned out by the pounding of my pulse in my ears. Katniss was a cute kid, tiny and scrappy, and she had morphed into a fierce and self-possessed young woman  by the time we’d graduated high school. But now, at thirty, she’s an absolute bombshell. Still lean, but with delicate curves that her pencil skirt and blouse highlight perfectly. She walks with confidence, back straight, head held high. She’s more intimidating than ever.

At the electronic doors, she pauses, hand poised just above the lever that would release the locks. Then she sighs, and glances back at me over her shoulder. “Would you like to have a cup of tea with me? Catch up?” I’m nearly rendered speechless; not only is Katniss Everdeen willing to work with me, she’s willing to talk with me too. 

“I’d like that,” I rasp, the first words I’ve spoken directly to her in twelve long years.

She leads me back into the building and up a set of stairs. Another corridor stretches in front of us, windowless doors set close together. “Our offices,” she says. Partway down the hall, she stops and pulls a set of keys from her pocket. A small brass plate on the door reads Katniss Everdeen, Lead Addictions Therapist.

Her office is small, and appears to be set up for both paperwork and individual counselling sessions with a tiny desk tucked back into the corner but comfortable looking couches dominating the space. She confirms my guess. “I see the lower risk kids here,” she says. “It feels less institutional that way.”

I can only stare, stunned, as she unlocks a cabinet and withdraws a tea kettle. I knew Katniss’s title here from Plutarch’s introduction of course. But until now, it hadn’t really sunk in, what she does. She’s an addictions counsellor. How utterly incredible that she went into the very field that eventually inspired my own career path.

“Sit, please,” she says over her shoulder. I slip off my blazer, draping it over the arm of the couch, then sink into plush microfibre. The ceramic clink of teacups and spoons and the sultry sway of her perfect posterior as she putters, preparing tea and humming just faintly are almost hypnotic. For all of the times I’d thought about Katniss Everdeen, I never imagined I’d ever actually see her again, and good lord she’s so much hotter than even my edgiest fantasies. “Black, right?” she says, snapping me out of my lurid thoughts.

“Uh, yeah,” I say after a moment’s pause where I try to pull myself together and remember that she’s making tea, so that we can talk. So that I can apologize to her. As glorious as her ass is, I have no business looking at her that way. I lost any possible chance I might have had a dozen years ago.

But she knows how I take my tea. The last time I saw her, gin was the only thing I was drinking.

She sets a red mug in front of me, on the low table between the couches. But she herself sits beside me, instead of across from me, which surprises me. Though maybe it shouldn’t, since she’s a therapist. Knowing how to set someone at ease is part of her training. It’s backfiring in my case though, since her closeness feels intimate. I catch a hint of her scent, something fresh and green but with a little bit of spice, like a campfire in the woods. So perfectly Katniss. “How have you been?” she says, sipping from her own mug.

“Better,” I tell her, because she’s not asking to make small talk. In addition to knowing everything I confessed in the interview, she was there when my world fell apart, she saw first hand how shitty I was.

“I’m glad,” she says softly, and she smiles, and it’s so beautiful and sweet it nearly breaks my heart.

“I am so sorry,” I tell her, but the words are completely inadequate. How do you tell someone that they are not only your biggest regret, but also your biggest inspiration? “For how I treated you when I was drinking. You didn’t deserve any of that, and I have regretted it every day.”

“I know,” she says. 

“And what you did for me today,” I continue before my nerve runs out. “I can’t begin to thank you. You not only gave me this chance when you could have told any of them I wasn’t worth considering, but you actively helped me in the interview.”

“You earned the job, Peeta. Plutarch was already convinced before you even walked in the door.”

“The others weren’t.”

She laughs. “I knew Lavinia would love you. And Alma, well, she doesn’t really like anyone, but I have a feeling you’ll win her over eventually.”

“What about you?” I can’t help asking. She’s treating me so kindly, but she can’t possibly have forgiven me. I know she hasn’t forgotten. 

“I believe in second chances.” Her smile is softer, a little pained. ���I knew you’d find your way back.”

“I was such a dick.”

“You were,” she agrees. “But I knew that wasn’t you.”

“You said that back then too,” I tell her, my tea forgotten. “I, uhm.” My neck feels hot and I rub it distractedly. “I hear you saying that, when I’m having a difficult day. It’s helped me so much over the years. You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know.” It’s embarrassing as hell to admit that. But she deserves the truth.

She snorts, and it’s a sound so at odds with her elegant presentation and with the seriousness of our conversation. My gaze snaps up to her face, she looks amused and abashed. 

“You’re the reason I went into psychology,” she says, and my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “I was a biology major first year. But seeing how everyone failed you after your dad died, and how easy it was for you to fall…” she trails off. “And then when you came back to school to try again, sober and working so hard, I knew I’d made the right choice.”

“You were there?” 

She nods. “Just for a semester. I was finishing my masters. I saw you a couple of times on campus, but you never noticed me.”

Honestly, that’s probably for the best. That early in my recovery I was still so fragile, just getting through classes took every bit of effort I had, and I spent so many hours with my sponsor and therapist back then I had no time for anyone else. “I wish I’d known,” I tell her. “But I had my head pretty far up my own ass.”

“You didn’t though.” She looks away, towards the tiny, narrow window on the exterior wall, barred, like all of the windows I’ve seen in this building. “I watched you. I’ve kept track of you over the years, when I could. Even then you were already working so hard to make amends.”

I was. And I can tell by that specific word that she knows why. One of the steps in AA is making amends for the shitty things we’ve done, at least where doing so won’t cause any further damage. In those early years, I’d concentrated mostly on my brothers, and earning their trust again. But I also spent time speaking with professors and coaches who I had alienated. It would have been far easier to start over at a different college, and likely would have been less triggering. But it’d have been a coward’s way.

“I never got a chance before now to apologize to you,” I whisper. She’d kept track of me, but I hadn’t made the same effort. Before the booze, Katniss Everdeen was that perfect, unattainable fantasy woman I put on a pedestal and never approached. And after, I locked her away, so terribly ashamed by my actions that I never sought her out, even though she would have been easy to find. I was terrified by how she might look at me.

But she’s clearly a much bigger person than I could ever be.

“I think the time wouldn’t have been right before now,” she says. “For either of us.”

We lapse into silence, Katniss still staring out the window, me fiddling with the mug I’ve picked up again. “Can I ask you something?” she says, and there’s something in her tone that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Of course.”

“That night… why me?” She’s trying to keep her voice even, I can tell, but the slight waver slays me. 

“You were there, and I was a drunken asshole,” I rasp, but she shakes her head, glancing at me.

“It was more than that. The things you said…” she looks away, but not before I see the shine in her eyes. Not before I see the hurt I had been expecting all along. The knowledge that even all of these years later, my words continue to bother her is gut-wrenching. I feel like the biggest piece of shit.

“It was all bullshit, Katniss, the ramblings of an absolute lowlife shit of a human.”

“There’s always truth, even in ramblings,” she says softly. “It certainly wasn’t the first time I’d been called those things. But we’d never even spoken before then. I didn’t know you even knew my name.”

“I knew you, Katniss. I’d always been watching you.” She turns back to me eyebrows raised, confusion in every line of her beautiful face. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, and I don’t want to make excuses for my absolutely inexcusable behaviour. But she deserves the whole truth. I drop my gaze to my lap. “The truth is, I had a huge crush on you, nearly the whole way through high school.” 

She makes a little choking sound, and I can’t bear to look at her. I know I’m doing unfathomable damage to our potential working relationship, confessing like this. I’ll decline Plutarch’s offer, if being here will hurt her. But I can’t let her think that any of the awful things I said had even a speck of truth to them. I can’t let her take any blame. 

“In senior year,” I continue, “I had finally convinced myself that I was going to talk to you, to ask you to the Valentine’s dance. But then…” I trail off. My father had died at the end of January, and everything else in my life had fallen away, sucked into the black pit of grief.

A soft, cool hand lands on my forearm, and I glance up. Far from looking disgusted, as I was expecting, Katniss is looking at me with compassion, even through her confusion. “When I saw you that night,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out. “I had already screwed up everything else in my life. I was just so angry at the world, but mostly at myself. I was drowning in regret and self-loathing. And you were there, and you were every bit as beautiful as you had always been. And you just represented everything I wanted so badly and had fucked up. My father was gone, my sport was gone, and the girl of my dreams was completely out of my league. And I lost it, lashed out at you instead of at the person who really deserved it. Me.”

“You didn’t deserve it either,” she whispers, and her eyes shine silver under a film of moisture.

I place my hand over hers where it still rests on my arm, and she doesn’t pull away. “I’m truly sorry, Katniss. Hurting you is the biggest regret of my life.” 

“I accept your apology.” I squeeze her hand in gratitude, and a sad half smile ticks at her lips.

“I won’t take the offer,” I murmur, and her brow furrows again. “This is your career, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, being here.”

She shakes her head. “You won’t,” she says. “I’ve been watching you for so long, cheering for you from the sidelines. I feel like I know you. And I know you won’t ever repeat that mistake.”

“I won’t,” I swear. “I’ll always be an alcoholic, and there will always be a risk that I’ll relapse. But I’ve learned so much in therapy, about communication and managing my emotions. About coping. I have better mechanisms now, and a really great support group behind me.” It had taken a long time to make things right with my brothers, but they are my staunchest supporters now. And my sponsor, Haymitch, is a crusty old bastard, but he’d rip out someone’s throat before letting me down.

“Then stay,” she says. “I’d like to start again, if it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable. Build up that friendship we should have had.” She looks down at our hands. At some point, she’d flipped her palm and I’d entwined my fingers with hers.

“Always,” I whisper in awe, and she smiles, that beautiful, elusive smile that I know will be the stuff of all of my future fantasies. And maybe, just maybe, the stuff of my future reality too.

[picturebookmakers]

Axel Scheffler

In this post, Axel takes us on a journey through his art studio and career. As well as sharing wonderful development work from some of his much-loved picturebooks, he shows us unseen sketchbook pages, early illustration commissions, etchings he made as a student, and his recent work to educate children about the coronavirus.

Visit Axel Scheffler’s website

Axel: I’m not really sure how many books I’ve illustrated in the 30+ years that I’ve been working. Over 150. I mostly work for the UK market, but occasionally I do books with German publishers. Not picturebooks though, so nothing that collides with the co-edition market.

Each of the boxes you see here contains one of my books: the sketches, illustrations, dummies, alternate versions of covers, everything.

I organised these boxes with Liz, my assistant, to have all the main books there so we can find things for exhibitions. There’s still lots of drawings in these boxes which aren’t sorted yet. Liz is such a great help, but it’s very difficult for me to keep on top of everything. I think I would probably need two Lizes, or perhaps three.

So yes, I don’t really know where to begin... I’ve got endless sketchbooks and little drawings on paper. I’ve got some really old sketchbooks I could show you.

Shall we start with The Gruffalo?

My early sketches of the Gruffalo were thought by my editor to be too scary for small children. So I had to make him a bit rounder and more ‘cuddly’. Initially, I‘d also thought that all the animals would be wearing clothes, as they often do in picturebooks. But Julia had different ideas, and to be honest I was relieved. How would I have dressed the snake?

Here’s some spreads from the dummy...

I tried a lot of alternate covers for this book; I think there were twelve in total. There’s some where the Gruffalo doesn’t even feature on the cover.

My latest book with Julia is called ‘The Smeds and The Smoos’. It was quite nice to work on because it’s so different from the other books we’ve done together. The text is a bit like a mixture between Dr Seuss and Lewis Carol; it has this nonsense element. But it’s basically Romeo and Juliet in outer space.

It’s an alien story, so I didn’t have to draw any rabbits or squirrels for a change, and I could invent more. I had more freedom. But like always, I got bored with drawing the same characters over and over again. But that’s picturebooks.

There was quite a lot of development work in the case of this book. But when it’s a story about a fox or a squirrel, I don’t do this kind of stuff. Over the years, it’s become much quicker and easier working on my books. I do far less research than I used to. Now I generally just do a quick pencil sketch then go straight to artwork.

Sometimes I have to start again because things go wrong though. This was a finished piece that was abandoned. I think I suddenly thought that the rocket was far too big or something. I do that; I work on something for ages, and then I suddenly look at it from a distance and realise that something needs redoing.

Did you spot the little Gruffalo in this picture? Since ‘The Snail and the Whale’, I’ve hidden a Gruffalo in each of my books with Julia (not ‘The Ugly Five’ though).

For almost all of the books Julia and I have done together, our editor has been Alison Green. We’re an old established team. And I’ve always worked with the publisher Kate Wilson; I followed her from Macmillan to Scholastic, and then to Nosy Crow. Julia moved from Macmillan to Scholastic, and decided to stay there. So Julia and I have some of our joint titles with Macmillan and some with Scholastic. Julia does books with other illustrators for Macmillan, and I illustrate other books for Nosy Crow.

People often ask me which of the books I’ve done with Julia is my favourite. It’s quite hard to choose, but I enjoyed working on ‘The Smartest Giant in Town’. I liked the way I could do a crazy world with animals, giants, fairytale characters, everything mixed together without anyone caring or questioning it. I’ll show you a few things from the box...

For this book, the cover was changed at the last minute. The original design had the title written on a poster stuck on a brick wall, but the sales people said they wanted a landscape, so I did another one. Years later, they used the original design for a new paperback edition, so it wasn’t completely wasted in the end.

I mentioned my endless sketchbooks earlier. I’ll show you a few of them. This was mainly me playing around without thinking about what I was doing; it wasn’t a conscious thing.

I haven’t looked at these sketchbooks for ages. It was such a long time ago. I don’t work in sketchbooks like this anymore, and I no longer doodle. But for fun, I make illustrated envelopes for friends.

I often think about doing a book with just pictures, but I’m always too busy doing other things. Posthumously, perhaps there will be time to do this. I’d also love to experiment and be more spontaneous; it’s been my dream for decades to do something completely different. But when I receive a book project, I always feel under pressure to finish it, and I’m always late with everything, so I end up doing it the way I’ve always done it.

This is my drawing table, which is and always has been too small and too messy. I think I have to accept it will always be this way.

I use Saunders Waterford paper for my illustrations. It’s funny how we all have our special paper. My rough sketches are often quite small, so I have them blown up to the correct size. Then I trace the sketches on a lightbox onto my watercolour paper. After that, I draw the outlines in black ink with a dip pen. I colour everything with Ecoline inks using brushes, and then coloured pencils on top of it (I use Faber Polychromos and Prismacolour crayons). I might then need to redraw some of the black lines, or use some white gouache for highlights.

I studied History of Art in Hamburg, but left before graduating. I realised this wasn’t what I was good at; I’m not an academic.

Then I had to do my alternative service as conscientious objector. Sixteen months. There was still conscription then; that’s how old I am. I worked with mentally ill people in their homes. It was during this time that I had a friend studying ceramics at Bath Academy of Art in England. I went to visit her. I really didn’t know what else to do, so I thought maybe I could move to Bath and go to the art school. So this is what I did. The course was Visual Communications, so it was design, printmaking, photography, all that stuff. But I realised I only wanted to do illustration.

I’d gone to art college hoping to learn something. I don’t think that necessarily happened, but drawing intensively for three years was, I think, what I had needed to do. I don’t remember actually finishing any projects though.

Here’s some drawings from my student sketchbooks. I did lots of observational drawing back then, which I don’t anymore. I did it then because they told us to. I’m an obedient person!

While I was a student, I did an exchange in New York: Cooper Union Art College for three months. These drawings are of Jewish immigrants, meeting for coffee. It was 1984, so many of them were still alive; refugees from Germany or Austria. I heard them speaking German, so that’s how I knew.

Sketchbooks are such a good way of memorising things. Nobody really knows about these sketchbooks; I used to take them to interviews, but they’ve been hidden away for years.

After I graduated, I moved to London and took my portfolio around. My art teacher had suggested I should do this to get work, so that’s what I did. In those days, you had to ring them and ask to come around. I got two commissions straight away, and it’s been busy ever since, really. I’ve always had something to do.

Here’s some of my early commissions. Starting from 1985, I guess. Very pointy noses...

I did so much of this kind of work. It was a good way of earning money quickly. Occasionally, I still do editorial. I did some Brexit drawings for the remain campaign. Sadly, it didn’t help. Maybe I wrecked everything!

I’ll say a few words about the KIND book... 38 wonderful artists donated a picture to illustrate some of the many ways children can be kind. Such as sharing their toys or helping people from other countries to feel welcome.

One pound from each book sold goes to the Three Peas charity, which supports refugees from war-torn countries. It’s been a big success so far, and Three Peas has received a lot of money from sales in the UK and co-editions.

I’d quite like to do the UNKIND book next! I think illustrators would probably enjoy that, but I don’t imagine it would sell very well.

And now for something completely different! Some etchings I made when I was a student.

People often ask me which illustrators I’m inspired by. I don’t seek any direct influence on my work, but I’ve always said that Tomi Ungerer had the greatest influence on my approach to illustration. Although his style is quite different to mine, this humour and wackiness is something that has always appealed to me. And the details.

William Steig is someone I got into later, when I was already illustrating. And Edward Gorey of course. And Saul Steinberg. I think the Czech artist Jiří Šalamoun is wonderful. And I like Eva Lindström from Sweden a lot. She’s so great.

Okay, to finish with I’ll talk about the coronavirus work I’ve been doing...

I asked myself what I could do as a children’s illustrator to inform, as well as entertain, my readers here and abroad about the coronavirus. So I was glad when Nosy Crow asked me to illustrate a book on the subject. I think it’s extremely important for children and families to have access to reliable information in this unprecedented crisis.

You can download the free digital book in English here, and in over 60 other languages here.

I also wanted to do something light-hearted to cheer people up, and I thought, “What if I imagine some of our characters in corona situations?” Julia liked the idea and wrote rhymes for the new scenes. This was really more about entertainment than serious information.

Artwork and verse © Axel Scheffler and Julia Donaldson 2020. Based on characters from ‘The Gruffalo’s Child’ (2004), ‘Charlie Cook’s Favourite Book’ (2005), ‘The Smartest Giant in Town’ (2002), and ‘The Gruffalo’ (1999) — © Macmillan Children’s Books.

And here’s one more thing: my ‘letter from lockdown’. On The Children’s Bookshow website, you’ll find lockdown letters from lots of other wonderful authors and illustrators.

Illustrations © Axel Scheffler. Post edited by dPICTUS.

Buy this picturebook

The Gruffalo

Julia Donaldson & Axel Scheffler

Macmillan Children’s Books, UK, 1999

‘A mouse took a stroll through the deep dark wood. A fox saw the mouse and the mouse looked good.’

Walk further into the deep dark wood, and discover what happens when a quick-witted mouse comes face to face with an owl, a snake... and a hungry Gruffalo!

‘The Gruffalo’ has become a bestselling phenomenon across the world. This award-winning rhyming story of a mouse and a monster is now a modern classic, and will enchant children for years to come.

PUBLISHED IN THE FOLLOWING LANGUAGES & DIALECTS

Afrikaans

Albanian

Arabic

Australian

Azerbaijani

Basque

Belarusian

Bengali

Breton

Bulgaria

Catalan

Chinese (Simplified)

Chinese (Traditional)

Corsu

Croatian

Czech

Danish

Doric

Dundonian

Dutch

English

Esperanto

Estonian

Faroese

Farsi

Finnish

French

Frisian

Gaelic

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Georgian

German

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Greek

Guernésiais

Hebrew

Hindi

Hungarian

Iceland

Indonesian

Irish

Italian

Jèrriais

Kazakh

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Korean

Latin

Latvian

Lithuanian

Low German

Lowland Scots

Luxembourgish

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Maori

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Norwegian

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Swedish

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Tamil

Thai

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Ukrainian

US English

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Welsh

Xhosa

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The Smeds and The Smoos

Julia Donaldson & Axel Scheffler

Alison Green Books, UK, 2019

The Smeds (who are red) never mix with the Smoos (who are blue). So when a young Smed and Smoo fall in love, their families disapprove.

But peace is restored and love conquers all in this happiest of love stories. There’s even a gorgeous purple baby to celebrate!

PUBLISHED IN THE FOLLOWING LANGUAGES

Afrikaans

Catalan

Croatian

Dutch

English

Finnish

French

German

Hebrew

Hungarian

Italian

Korean

Luxenbourghish

Polish

Russian

Slovenian

Spanish

Swedish

Turkish

Ukrainian

Buy this picturebook

Kind

Alison Green, Axel Scheffler & 38 illustrators

Alison Green Books, UK, 2019

Imagine a world where everyone is kind; how can we make that come true? With gorgeous pictures by a host of top illustrators, KIND is a timely, inspiring picturebook about the many ways children can be kind, from sharing their toys and games, to helping those from other countries feel welcome.

One pound from the sale of each printed copy will go to the Three Peas charity, which gives vital help to refugees from war-torn countries.

PUBLISHED IN THE FOLLOWING LANGUAGES

Bulgarian

Catalan

Chinese (Simplified)

Chinese (Traditional)

English

French

German

Greek

Hebrew

Italian

Korean

Netherlands

Portuguese (Brazil)

Romanian

Spanish

Swedish

Turkish

Vietnamese

[timelordthirteen]

In All Things 12/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit (eventually)

Summary: A Rumbelle arranged marriage AU.

Chapter Summary: Bae has a birthday, and travel plans are made.

Notes: Apologies for the shortness of this chapter and also the typos. I spent too much time today finishing up my Rumbelle gifs through Christmas. :) The next chapter will be much longer to make up for it. For the 31 Days prompt #14: celebrate.

[AO3]

Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]

“Apple!”

Gold blinked. “Apple?”

Baeden beamed up at his father from his spot on the floor and nodded. “Apple. Moreen and I shook on it.”

Belle bit her lip as she smiled, and met Gold’s baffled gaze over the head of his son who was repeatedly stroking the back of the orange tabby in his lap. Said tabby was apparently named Apple, quite officially, and Belle was utterly delighted by the entire thing, including Gold’s puzzlement.

Baeden had been talking about this particular kitten since shortly after they were all named. It was clearly his favorite, and after a short discussion with Moreen’s mother, Gold had purchased the cat for two silver coins and a few rose clippings. Apple’s mother was an excellent mouser so there was the hope that the cat would eventually earn her keep in the winter months. Even if she proved to be a terrible hunter, she was a welcome addition to the household for the pure joy that she’d brought to his son’s face.

Jefferson laughed and shook his head. “It’s a fine name, Bae, don’t let your Papa let you otherwise.”

Gold sat back in his chair and waved a hand. “She’s your cat, son, you can call her whatever you like, but it’s not my fault if Ms. Potts starts tossing apples at your head every time you go around yelling for Apple.”

Grace gave him a doubtful look. “Ms. Potts isn’t that stupid.”

Belle reached over from her position on the end of the sofa and patted Gold’s hand. “I think Ms. Potts will very quickly learn the difference, and if she doesn’t, we’ll have lots of extra cider.”

Gold gave her a look, the corners of his mouth curving slightly. “I can tell that idea disappoints you.”

She pretended to look affronted, and stood abruptly, marching over to the desk under the window to retrieve a package wrapped in paper and tied with a red ribbon. Gold watched her as she went, momentarily confused.

She turned around, pivoting on her heel and making her skirt flare, and held the package up. “Happy Birthday!”

Baeden looked at her in surprise as the kitten wrapped her paws around his arm and attempted to bite his wrist. “For me?”

“It’s no one else’s birthday, silly,” Grace said, shoving at Bae’s shoulder.

Belle smiled at them both and held the package out for Bae to take. “Yes, of course it’s for you.”

“You needn’t have done that,” Gold said softly as she returned to her seat.

“Hush,” she replied, turning her smile to Gold as Bae grabbed and tore the paper straight down the front, scaring the kitten who jumped towards Jefferson. “I wanted to.”

The boy gasped, and all their gazes shifted back to him. “It’s - a book.”

“It’s pretty,” added Grace, leaning over touch the cover.

It was wider than it was tall and bound in a dark green leather, more like a ledger for keeping accounts than a book for reading. Bae opened it and flipped the pages, finding them blank. He looked up and pulled a face, which made Jefferson laugh.

“It’s for drawing,” he explained, looking to Belle to confirm his assumption.

Belle nodded and reached down to brush her fingertips against the kitten’s soft fur. “It’s so you can keep your pictures all in one place.”

He looked back down at the empty paper, heavier in weight than a printed book, and ran his hand over it lightly, his fingers tracing imaginary lines. “Like a - a portfolio?”

He met her eyes again, and she nodded. “Exactly. And I hope that once you have filled a few pages you’ll me have a look?”

Bae set the book aside and got up, scrambling to his feet. He came over to Belle and threw his arms around her neck, knocking her back against the sofa.

“Thank you.”

His voice was muffled in her hair, and she pressed her lips together as she returned his affection. “I’m glad you like it.”

She exchanged a look with Gold, who appeared to be on the verge of tears, and gave him a wobbly smile as well. Then Bae let go and went to his Papa, giving him a large hug as well. Gold pulled the boy up, grunting exaggeratedly under his weight.

“Happy Birthday, son.”

“This is the best birthday, right Apple?”

Bae slid back down to the floor and held out his hand towards the kitten who had taken a deep interest in the laces of Jefferson’s boots. She opened her little mouth as wide as she could, baring her tiny teeth, but only succeeded in letting out the quietest mew.

Gold snorted and shook his head. “Not very imposing is she.”

“She’ll grow into it,” Jefferson said, bending down to let the kitten sniff at his fingers.

Grace grinned and bent down until she was eye to eye with the animal. “She’s very ferocious.”

Gold leaned over towards Belle as the children become occupied with the cat, and asked quietly, “Are you ready for our trip tomorrow?”

“I think so,” she replied, watching the kitten play between the children and Jefferson. “Are you?”

He gave a short nod. “There’s some last minute things I’ll need to take care of in the morning, but we can leave soon after breakfast if you’re agreeable?”

She took a breath and nodded, wondering at the idea of visiting the place she’d once called home. “Yes, early is best. We’ll arrive before supper, and hopefully I’ll have time to speak with my father and settle things.”

“I hope so as well,” Gold said. Then he turned to Bae. “I think that’s enough celebration for one evening. We have quite a journey tomorrow.”

Jefferson pushed to his feet and clapped his hands. “Right, time for bed. Kittens and children upstairs!”

Bae groused a bit, but gathered up his new kitten and his book, and trailed after Jefferson and Grace, leaving Gold and Belle alone.

“Will you be bringing back anymore of your things?” He asked, crossing the room to pour himself a glass of brandy.

Belle laid back on the sofa and shook her head when Gold gestured with his glass to ask if she would also like some. “I’m not sure. I have enough clothes and books here, but I’ll have to see what might be left there. Some of it I haven’t missed so I’m not sure I really need it.”

He nodded and came to sit near her at the other end of the sofa. “You should have some new things as well.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’m sure I’ll acquire plenty, and fill up all my rooms until I overflow into the halls.”

He laughed and sipped at his drink. “You can have the whole of the north wing if you like, there’s a number of unused rooms.”

She smiled. “Are you trying to send me far far away from you?”

He picked up on her teasing, and smirked as he gave her a sideways glance. “It would save you from Bae’s snoring.”

She laughed, and let herself fall back against the sofa. “I’m sure he’s not that bad.”

“Say that after he falls asleep next to you and it sounds like a bear growling in your ear.” His tone seemed deadly serious, but his lips were twitching at a smile.

She rolled her eyes. “He’s too sweet of a boy for that.”

“If only that were also true.” They exchanged a grin, and then Gold sighed, his gaze drifting to the fireplace. “If your father isn’t well - if...if you’d like to stay -”

Belle frowned. “Stay? In Avonlea?”

He shrugged. “If you like. I’m sure your father would like to have you stay for a while. I can send a carriage for you when you’re ready to come back.”

There was something in his tone that suggested he wasn’t sure if she would, and she sat forward on the sofa, twisting to face him.

“Cameron.” She stopped and waiting for him to look at her. “I know what you’re trying to do, or at least I think I know, and I appreciate it, but -”

“Belle,” he interrupted. “Please, don’t misunderstand me, I only meant that - that I understand everything has happened a bit faster than you might have liked. And that’s my fault.”

She frowned again. “How do you mean?”

“I am afraid that I tend towards expediency,” he said, downing the last of his brandy before continuing. “I didn’t give you much time to decide anything, or to plan how to pick up your life and move somewhere else, and I recognize how imprudent that was.”

She reached for his hand immediately, almost startling him with her movement. “My place is here,” she said firmly. “My departure might have been a bit abrupt, but unless my father is truly gravely ill, or there is some matter that needs my attention, I have no plans to linger in Avonlea.”

Gold seemed uncertain of how to take her declaration, but he nodded in reply. “I think it’s time we sent ourselves to bed.”

She let go of his hand and glanced towards the clock on the far wall, the brass pendulum swinging rhythmically. “Indeed it is. I’m sure morning will come faster than we expect.”

“It always does,” he said cryptically.

Then he stood and offered his arm to her, which she took, and they walked quietly together until they arrived at the junction of the two hallways. As had become customary of late, they wished each other goodnight, and went in opposite directions.