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catslvrr · 1 year ago

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heaven sent — 06. art museum

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“Okay, I thought I was out of place at the ice skating rink. But this is considerably worse.” You crossed your arms over your chest, standing outside of the art museum that loomed over you.

“Don’t be such a party pooper, I’ll be an excellent tour guide.”

“We literally know nothing about art.”

“Not we,” she wagged her finger in your face with an annoying grin. “You know nothing about it.”

You scoffed, “Tell me one interesting art fact.”

“I know that there’s a guy named Picasso. He cut off his ear.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s Vincent Van Gogh.”

“Close enough,” she quipped indifferently. “Come on.”

Danielle dragged you inside. You flinched when she intertwined her fingers with yours.

“What are you doing?” You hissed, trying to pull away.

“Stop it,” she whispered. “There's a discount on the entry fee for couples, so act natural, babe.”

She emphasized the last part as the two of you neared the admission desk. Of course, you paid, and the two of you made your way into the exhibition.

“The guy at the desk didn’t even look at us twice,” you rolled your eyes. “I don’t think they care.”

“Well it worked,” she smiled proudly. “And you’re still holding my hand. I think you secretly like it.”

Blushing, you hastily tried to let go, but she only giggled in response and held your hand tighter, pulling you to the first artwork.

It was a blank canvas, with a blob of blue paint smack dab in the middle.

“Amazing,” you said, devoid of emotion. “This one really speaks to me.”

Danielle cleared her throat, and adjusted her glasses.

“This piece right here,” she took on a posh voice as she straightened her posture. “Is quite an exquisite piece. Made in the Baroque period by painter Jean DeJean.”

You tried to hold back a snicker.

“Jean DeJean?”

“Yes,” she nodded seriously. “An artist ahead of his time. This artwork in particular conveys his sense of isolation, the blue representing sadness and the single dot representing himself.”

“Wow,” you said in pretend awe. “I love the symbolism.”

“We’ll move on to the next piece now.” She gestured towards the next artwork. “Follow me, ma’am.”

You coughed back laughter as she strutted boldly in front of you. Surprisingly, she kept up the facade for a while, truly living up to her name as an excellent tour guide. You couldn’t help but laugh at her nonsensical explanations and pretentious acting.

And despite your initial reluctance, you found yourself enjoying your time. You caught yourself looking at her instead of the artwork more times than you’d like to admit. It was then that you knew it was over for you.

“So,” Danielle said, munching on your fries as you drove back to the apartment. “I’m a pretty good art museum tour guide, right?”

“Sure,” you answered playfully, eating a fry that she fed to you. “You should apply there. I’m sure everyone else would love to hear about Jean DeJean.”

She threw a fry at your face in response (“You just wasted a fry!”).

“I’m guessing you didn’t like art back in high school?”

You chuckled at the thought of your grades for art back then. “God, no. I cannot be artistic to save my life.”

“You can’t be worse than Jean DeJean,” she joked.

“I remember being so insecure of my pottery skills that I purposefully left a big air pocket in my clay figure. It exploded in the kiln and destroyed everyone else’s. My classmates were devastated.”

“Never mind,” she grimaced. “What subjects were you good at, then?”

“English. Guess I have a way with words.”

“That makes sense. Seeing that you do law now.”

“Yeah.” You paused. “Music, too.”

“I do remember seeing a keyboard in your room.”

“But that’s a story for another day.” You slightly smirked, mimicking Danielle’s words from the other day, “Ask me again tomorrow.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, still curious, but didn’t push it any further and focused back on the moving scenery outside.

“Honestly, today was a bit of a last minute thing.” You could see her peek at you out of the corner of your eye. “Did you enjoy it, though?”

You smiled. “Aren’t you tired of asking everyday?”

“Never,” she answered earnestly. “I always want to know.”

Your attempt to fight off a blush was futile. “Today was good. Like always.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” She teased.

Yeah, it is.

“You wish,” you rolled your eyes. “…Are you down for movie night later?”

She bit her cheek, clearly hesitant to respond.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to spend more time with me,” you rushed out awkwardly, hands tightly clutching the steering wheel. “I forget that this is your job.”

“No,” she hastily reassured you. “It’s not that. I love spending time with you.”

“Really?”

“I do. It’s just that…” she trailed off, then shook her head and smiled. “Nothing. Let’s watch Frozen.”

“Out of all movies, you choose Frozen.”

She turned down the radio and started to loudly sing Let It Go.

She has a nice voice. Maybe it’s another ‘messenger of God’ thing.

“Enough,” you groaned, resting your head on the steering wheel at a red light. “Save it for later.”

Later, the two of you lay on your bed, your laptop on your lap, as you pressed play. You didn’t know if it was the warmth radiating off Danielle, or if it was the way she was playing with your hair, but you fell asleep 30 minutes into the movie.

You got up in the middle of the night to find her already gone. You could still smell hints of her entangled in the sheets, a mixture of strawberries and vanilla. You always thought the bed had always felt so small, but tonight it had never felt emptier.

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#newjeans x reader #newjeans fanfic #newjeans fic #danielle marsh x reader #mo jihye x reader

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kagesdumpsterfire · 1 year ago

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I DO NOT SUBSCRIBE TO THE COFFEE THEORY! I can't. I HATE IT!

SPOILERS AHEAD, obviously.

Listen, I get it. I understand those of you that do. You need there to be a reason. Some explanation why Aziraphale would abandon Crowley for Heaven. Some reason that he would listen to Metatron. Why he would still (after everything they've been through and everything they've seen) believe Heaven is good. You need to have a reason to believe that Aziraphale wouldn't do that to the demon he is so obviously in love with.

You have made excellent arguments. You have used evidence to explain your point. You have done a great job making sure that your argument makes sense. And I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. You want so badly for there to be a reason that Aziraphale broke Crowley as he did. And there is, but coffee just isn't it. At least not in my opinion.

The reason is right there, in front of us all. It has been since the very beginning.

Let's take a look at Crowley. When he was an angel he was a very powerful one. (which is another bundle of theories entirely) He helped design the plans for the universe. Presumably, he spent the vast majority of his time doing so. He poured his heart and soul into creating something he believed was worth something. Look how excited he was to finally roll his project out. He was an artist admiring his work, watching it come to life, filled with glee at the thought of watching it grow and expand over millions of years, only to be told it was all for nothing. The thing he had spent his entire existence working on was going to be wiped out in less than a fraction of the time it was supposed to last. The thing he had put so much love into, was only created for someone else to destroy.

Imagine Dali being comissioned for a master peice and putting his all into it only for the buyer to paint over it because they didn't like that the clocks were melted. Imagine someone taking a Van Gogh and painting it to look more realistic because they weren't a fan of the colors. It was like that for him. So he asked questions. He wanted to know why and was rewarded by being tossed out of the only home he had ever known, doomed to dwell in a place that was the complete opposite. All because he didn't want to see his hard work, this thing of magnificent beauty, destroyed.

Crowley never belonged in Hell. That much is obvious. He was such a beautiful and joyful creature and now, he is a demon. And he's bitter. He has every right to be. And he's lonely. He doesn't like the demons anymore than he liked the thought of his work being wasted, but he is forced to dwell among them so he does what he can to make it as easy for him as possible, as long as it doesn't conflict with his morals. And he is so very lonely. He has no one. Except...

Except for the angel that helped him prime the engines for his creation. The angel that experienced the birth of his work. The angel that tried to advise him to keep himself safe. He found that angel again at the Eastern Gate of Eden. He learned that angel had committed a tiny act of rebellion of his own. Because he felt something wasn't right. And suddenly, Crowley was less lonely. He had found someone, still in Heaven, who also seemed to realize that not everthing the Almighty chose to do seemed to be right. Someone whose morals seemed to match his own.

He never wanted to make that angel fall as he had. He would never force someone to suffer the same fate he had suffered. He just wanted someone who understood him. Because he was lonely, and having Azriraphale understand him made him less so. He tried his best to show the Angel that not everything was black and white, and the angel seemed to understand that as well, no matter how much he denied it. How couldn't Crowley fall in love with him?

Crowley said it himself so many times. Aziraphale was his best friend. His only friend. The only being in existence that understood him. That really knew who he was. He had found someone to be at his side; on his side. So it became a balancing act. Keeping the angel happy and on his side and keeping Hell happy to keep himself alive. And he managed. For over 6000 years. Until the apocalypse threatened to destroy that balance. See for Crowley, I dont really think it was about saving humanity. Not entirely. He had obviously learned to love humanity over the years, but it was more than that. If the apocalypse happened, if humanity was wiped out, if he managed to survive the war between Heaven and Hell, then he would be well and truly alone. There would be no more reason for him to meet with the angel. The only thing that made his exile bearable. He would no longer have his best friend. His only friend. He would just be alone. Forever. And after that, what would be the point?

We saw evidence of him feeling this way when he thought Aziraphale had died in the bookshop. He didn't try to keep looking for Adam. He didn't try to keep fighting the end of the world. He didn't even try taking off to another planet. He just sat in a pub and got drunk, lamenting his fall. It wasn't until Azriraphale showed back up that he sprung back into action. He was ready to give up again until Aziraphale threatened to never talk to him again. Not kill him, but leave him alone. And he does what he can to fix it. He helps save the world to save his friendship with Aziraphale. He goes back to Heaven to save Aziraphale.

And when they win he finds happiness. He doesn't have to perform the balancing act anymore. Sure, he's obviously bored, but he's content. He has no home; no Hell. All he has is his car, a few plants, and his angel. And he is content. Until Gabriel shows up.

Gabriel upsets his balance. His presence threatens his perfect little world where it is just Crowley and Aziraphale, alone, together. Gabriel told Aziraphale to shut up and die. He wants him as far away from them as possible, lest his world be upended again. And he's mad at Aziraphale for not realizing that. So he storms out. He wants to let the angel deal with it himself, until he learns that could mean Aziraphale being erased from existence entirely. That means not only would Crowley be alone from that point on, but he would have been alone forever. So he goes back. He agrees to help. He does whatever the angel says to get rid of Gabriel. He can't stand the thought of losing Aziraphale forever; of Aziraphale never existing at all. And he learns it's because he's in love. The lady at the coffee shop is right.

And he returns to Heaven again to save Aziraphale. He does everything he can to restore their balance. He helps the supreme archangel of heaven run off with the archduke of Hell. He wins. They win. He resolves to finally tell Aziraphale how he really feels. And in walks the metatron. A minor bump in the road he thinks. Until Aziraphale returns.

Then, there is his angel, the being he fought for, the being he loves more than anything in all of existence, telling him everything he had worked for, was for nothing. The angel wants him to return to the beings who made his life hell; literally. There is his angel, telling him he's a bad guy, but he can be better. There is his angel, proving that he never actually understood Crowley at all. There is his angel, destroying everything he spent his existence working for.

Still, Crowley begs the angel to stay, at the bookshop; with him. He tells the angel how he feels and Azriraphale tells him that nothing lasts forever. From his point of view, Aziraphale is asking him to change who he is. To change what he belives. He makes a desperate effort to show the angel how much the little world he's worked so hard to make for them really means to him, and he's told, with three little words ("I forgive you"), that that world isn't good enough for Aziraphale. Everything he thought he knew, was wrong. Everything he had worked for, was once again, for nothing

The demon Crowley is broken.

Now let's look at Aziraphale:

He's an angel who watched the birth of a nebula. He got to witness the Joy it brought to Crowley to watch something he made come to life. He got to witness the other's excitement. He got to see Crowley in his purest form. And it was beautiful, but the angel he knew was dangerous. The angel he knew was asking questions. Something about that seemed wrong, but also not. And then, the angel he knew was gone. In that angel's place was a serpent; a demon. A foul creature who tried to thwart the will of God. Aziraphale knows he should despise him, but he can't, because despite being a demon, he is still kind. When Azriraphale was worried that he had done the wrong thing giving the first humans his sword, it was Crowley that alleviated that fear. When the flood was upon them, it was Crowley who lamented the death of all the worlds children. There were still glimpses of the angel he once was underneath. That creative, joyful, dangerous angel. But he was a demon now. And he was even more dangerous as a demon. More dangerous, because his questions about the way things were, still made sense.

The trials of Job, is when Azriraphale began questioning everything. There was Heaven, determined to let Hell destroy the life of a truly good man and the only being trying to save what little Job had left was the creature that Hell had sent to do their bidding. Crowley. There was Crowley showing more compassion for animals and children than actual angels. There was Crowley, showing him the wonders of humanity (through food) and all they had to offer. And he tempted Aziraphale. And he won. And when Aziraphale was sure that his lie to save Job's children would land him in Hell, there was Crowley, promising he would never tell anyone what he had done.

It was confusing for him. They stood side by side for millennia and he watched, time and time again, as Crowley the demon went out of his way, putting his very existence on the line to help others. To save them. He listened for centuries as the demon pointed out flaws in Heaven's plans. He knew every point to be correct and that was terrifying. Because that way of thinking was exactly how Crowley became a demon in the first place. That's how Crowley ended up being so lonely.

Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale was never truly alone. He may not have always agreed with the other angels, but he always had them. He always had someone to report to, someone to give orders and some place to call home. Even though he chose to stay on Earth, he never knew what it was like to be seperated from heaven. He also never knew what it would be like to be seperated from Crowley, the devil on his shoulder. No matter how much he hated to admit it, they had become friends. As long as Heaven never found out, Azriphale got to spend his existence having his cake and eating it too.

Until the apocalypse came. He was faced with a moral dilemma. He had grown to love the world and all that it offered, Crowley included. He knew it was wrong to go against Heaven, but he had the whispers of a demon in his ear for centuries; a demon who made a frightening amount of sense. He wasn't prepared to lose everything the world had to offer and he certainly didn't want to live a life where he only got to have a third of what he had his entire existence. So he fought against it. He fought against the apocalypse and won. And was rewarded with being exiled from Heaven.

For the first time in his whole life, Aziraphale got to experience a small portion of what Crowley had lived with forever. And it was sad. It was a little bit lonely. He had saved humanity and got to preserve his relationship with Crowley, but he was cut off from something he had had even before he had either of those things. That obviously stung. He was still an angel, but what is an angel without heaven? There were no assignments, no miracles to perform. Just existence. He was without purpose.

And then Gabriel came along, lost, confused, and in need of help. He had a purpose again. Even better if he could get Crowley on his side, because he knew the demon must be feeling listless as well. Not only that, but because through all of time and everything else, Crowley had been his anchor. His ground. He knew the demon wouldn't like helping another angel, but the demon loved to help him. And so he did. He knew Crowley would, because if he had learned anything from their time together, it's that Crowley is good.

He gets to spend time with his demon and help a fellow Angel. Who is in love with a demon. And isn't afraid to admit it. And that's new. He wasn't aware that was allowed. It wasn't, but there was Gabriel and Beelzebub turning against Heaven and Hell for each other. There was The Supreme Archangel andthe Grand Duke of Hell running away together as Crowley had offered for them to do so many times before; because they were in love. Heaven and Hell be damnd. It was possible.

And then there was the Metatron, offering him a place in Heaven again. Not only that, but offering him a High ranking position. Offering him Crowley at his side, in Heaven, where he knew the demon had always belonged. Because Crowley was good. And Heaven could be good. He could make changes. He could take Crowley's thoughts about how things should run and make them reality. They could fix things for Humanity and rebuild Heaven's opperations to how THEY belived it should be. He could have back everything he lost and MORE.

And there is Crowley spitting in his face. There is Crowley telling him he doesn't want Heaven back. There is Crowley not wanting to do what he has always done anyway (fighting for good) this time on the right side. There is Crowley begging him to stay and give up a peice of himself that he never truly let go of. But also...

Crowley is saying that he wants to be with him. Crowley is comparing their relationship to Gabriel and Beelzebub. Crowley is telling the Aziraphale that they don't need anything but each other. He agrees that they need each other. He needs Crowley, but he wants Heaven and humanity too. And he begs to have it all. And there is Crowley, tempting him again with something that humanity has offered. A kiss.

("I forgive you" ) he forgives Crowley for all of it. For the anger and anguish he has caused with his temptation. He forgives Crowley for walking away. He always forgives Crowley.

But he is still angry. He is angry enough to leave, but it is not without doubt. He wants to stay more than ever before, but he is as he has always been; an angel of duty. He second guesses himself when he hears that Heaven has the second coming planned, and he glances across the street to see Crowley, waiting for him to change his mind, but what Crowley wants is unfair. What Crowley did was unfair. But Crowley deserves to live in a world where Heaven does the right thing for once. And so he gets on the elevator.

Whether it is to help or hinder Heaven's plan is left unclear.

See, for the coffee theory to work, you have to ignore something about Aziraphale that neither he nor Crowley will admit. Aziraphale is downright sinful.

Aziraphale is greedy.

Aziraphale is gluttonous.

Aziraphale is envious.

Aziraphale is wrathful.

And Aziraphale is prideful.

But he is also full of slef doubt. And that is Crowley's fault.

Because Crowley is a voice of reason from the unlikeliest source.

Crowley is temptation for answers that no one knows the question to.

Crowely is selflessness wrapped in a snake's skin.

Crowley is goodness in the form of evil

Crowley is kind, against his very nature

Crowley is the only reason he ever began to question what was wrong and what was right.

For the coffee theory to work, you have to take away the fact that both Crowley and Aziraphale are complicated characters.

Of course Crowley wouldn't choose to go back to Hell. He hates Hell. Hell is cluttered and full of hateful creatures that want to end Humanity.

Of course Crowley wouldn't choose to go back to Heaven. He hates Heaven. Its bureaucratic and boring and full of self-righteous creatures that want to destroy humanity.

Crowley has seen both sides of the coin and that's why he chooses to stand on the edge.

But Aziraphale hasn't. He's seen what hell has done to Crowley. He's seen what they did to that once Joyous and Creative angel he knew. He sees that Heaven made a mistake. Several mistakes. And he is offered a chance to fix it.

Of course Aziraphale would jump at the chance to fix the type of mistakes that caused Crowley such suffering. Even if it means losing him. Because Crowley deserves, at the very least, that. He deserves better. And Aziraphale has the chance to give it to him.

For the coffee theory to work, you have to ignore the fact that Aziraphale would risk everything for Crowley, including the demon himself, just as the demon has done for him.

Anyway, that got a lot longer than intended, but that's why I hate the coffee theory. It takes away too much from the characters. It's too simple and uninteresting. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong but I would be super disappointed if they went that route. It takes away from who Crowley and Aziraphale are as characters.

Sorry for the rant and thanks for reading.

#good omens #spoilers #ineffable husbands #good omens 2 #coffee theory #not defending Aziraphale btw #still mad at him #but i understand #i still want the apology dance #dear sweet lord the amount of times my phone refused to let me spell Aziraphale correctly 🤦‍♀️

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notjustla · 5 years ago

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Steve Jobs (Danny Boyle, 2015)

An excellent cinematic portrait of an absolute asshole. Unfortunately, the movie offers no especial critique of said asshole, and there's a good chance that it will serve as a nuanced character study to other aspiring assholes. The douchebag culture of Silicon Valley has been excoriated at length elsewhere, but here every possible point of that critique goes by in less than 2 hours.

The movie is commendable for going some way toward explicitly exploding the more preposterous self-mythologies of Steve Jobs (that he was fired from Apple by John Scully, that he was a good designer, etc), but in the end it seems to resign itself to the perpetuation of a mythological figure. It seems to argue somehow that Steve Jobs really is worthy of our awe and even pity. If the movie had ended on one of his darker and more reprehensible lines, and simply cut to black, it would have achieved an even portrait.

The film confines itself entirely to the auditoriums where Jobs is preparing a product launch, which correctly identifies Jobs’ true nature as that of an actor, a performer. As demonstrated here, he is every bit the conjurer of alternative realities, presenting them at a tenor comparable to the mythology of the artists that he continuously cites (Dylan, Van Gogh, Shakespeare, et al). To clarify this point, what he conjures or “makes” is not something that resembles the actuality of those artists or their work, but the mostly bullshit narratives that have emerged around these artists in order to equate their artistic value with the market value they are alleged to command. While most of the people reacting to Jobs in the movie seem to buy his self-equation with these “tormented geniuses” the film also does point out that Jobs never actually built or designed anything in the ways those artists did, and even in this conflicted hagiography he much more closely resembles a record company executive or carnival barker. That said, limiting the movie space to a series of auditoriums was a brilliant decision and achieves a remarkably claustrophobic feeling, amounting to two thoughtful and bracing hours, trapped in a windowless green room with this dickhead.

The one moment of possible critique comes from the fictionalized Steve Wozniak (one of the actual artists and humanists behind Apple) who, after being shat upon by Jobs throughout the movie, finally identifies him correctly before reporters as an “asshole” and departs the auditorium, where we, meanwhile, remain trapped for several more minutes with this walking piece of shit. In real life at least, Wozniak gave an interview to Forbes in 2015, carefully delineating the falsities of the script, and making it clear that it does no service to historical personages or situations. His exact summation was that the film Steve Jobs "...isn't about reality. It's about personalities." It’s entertaining, to be sure.

Stylistically, it is steadicam realism through and through. And the handling of space is very compelling. However, it only breaks its overall monotony of interiors with a scene on the roof of the building, where we are permitted 5 minutes of air while watching Jobs achieve some sort of redemption. This is definitely the only scene where the asshat goes more than 5 minutes without launching a paranoid delusional accusation at another person.

Following this comes the final scene, and the only powerful aesthetic moment in the movie. The auditorium becomes permanently awash in the blue light of the photographers’ flashes, cloaking its anti-hero in a heavenly aura while he beams with vindication before a cheering audience, while some incredibly douchey corporate Let’s-Get-Pumped music swells. Here he also apparently gains the love of the daughter who, unsurprisingly, has also served as her dad’s human toilet through the entire flick. The message here is possibly that being a good dad involves making ex-wives beg for child support and settling arguments with their children via cash transfers.

In mythological terms, the message seems to be “At All Costs, No Matter What—Perform.” That would certainly serve as a mantra to the culture into which this movie emerged, assuming it refers to the type of “performance” for which one charges the highest prices.

#steve jobs #historical film

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 4 years ago

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The Ordeal

Pairing: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Reader Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only Warnings: Cursing; canon-typical violence; sexual content (non-explicit) Notes: Not beta-read. I was gonna make this a short chapter and then I didn’t! Whoops!

Brought about by @monicabennerman-blog asking how Techie got grazed by a bullet during The Worry chapter of The Pool

Summary: You’re not in the field often - you haven’t been in a position to do anything in-person since the Sutton case.

Eight charges of interstate transportation of stolen property, nine charges of theft from an interstate shipment, fifteen charges of theft of a major artwork. You stare down at Max Auerswald’s file in shock and shake your head. “How the fuck is this guy not in jail?” You ask. Z whistles to catch your attention, waves his hand in a cutting motion across his neck to signal you not to ask that again. You open your mouth to ask why, but Nick is storming into the room, face set and stony, and you shut right up and lean back in your seat and give Z a small nod of thanks. He gives you an answering nod and a thumbs up.

You turn your attention to the board as Nick sets it up. The last time the team nailed Auerswald was five years ago. The bust had accounted for the nine charges of theft from an interstate shipment and twelve of the fifteen charges of theft of a major art work. “He hit up The Getty and the Kohn with a crew of four, incapacitated the guards, knocked out the security system,” Nick tells you as the group gathers their notes. “Inside job?” “Good girl,” Nick confirms it with that, and you see Borracho bristle. You shoot him a look before turning back to where Nick is still pinning up pictures. The pictures of the crew that worked the job are all up, along with pictures of the artwork that the guys managed to recover. But there are only eleven pictures there. “The only piece we weren’t able to recover was Van Gogh’s Irises,” Nick’s arms are folded across his chest now, and he’s staring Auerswald’s picture down.

“It’s valued at $54 million,” Henderson tells you, “He swore up and down he didn’t have it, didn’t know where it was, but we got a tip from the FBI that it’s resurfaced. We worked the case last time, so it got kicked to us.” “Resurfaced where?” You ask. “Santa Ana,” Connors tells you, and you cringe, unable to help it. That’s outside of your jurisdiction. “Plan?” --

Borracho’s hated this from the beginning, you know that. You’ve been able to see it in the way he’s hovered around your desk when you’re listening to wire taps, when you’re pulling up rap sheets for the guys on the fly and cross-referencing known associates when someone asks. You’re not in the field often - you haven’t been in a position to do anything in-person since the Sutton case. But this Auerswald seems to be Nick’s White Whale. So when you’re working late one night and Nick manages to get the guy on the phone over VOIP, and you take the call because the guy’ll recognize Nick’s voice, Borracho’s not happy about it. When you help Nick set a rendezvous with Auerswald at a small gallery in the LA area, Borracho’s even less happy about it. The night before it’s set to go down, you lay in bed beside him. You don’t push him to talk, you just trace your finger over his chest in aimless patterns. And then something occurs to you and you ask, “Would you be this worried if this was going down my first year with the team?” “Yes.” His answer is flat and fast, and you push yourself up to peer down at him in the dark, trying to get a better read on what you’re sure are his frustrated features. You don’t want to turn the lamp on - it’s late, the two of you do need your sleep, but-- but, well, now your mind is going about four places at once. “Really?” Borracho sighs, his hand skating up your back, gentle and unhurried. “I didn’t even like bringing you with me to plant the bugs at Sutton’s.” You frown-- hell, you pout. “You told me I did a good job,” You argue, and you can’t help the petulance it leaves you with. “Sweetness,” Borracho sighs again, sounding very, very tired all of the sudden, “It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable, just… I know you’re safe when you’re in the office. There are too many variables when we’re out there, you know?” You do know. You worry about Borracho every day - you’ll never forget the day he was shot, or how it tore you up after. You don’t wish that on anyone, especially not on him. You’re certain he's still frowning; his hand is warm and rough on your back, and you can feel the smoothness of his wedding ring against your skin. Rather than tell him that things are going to be fine or that he has nothing to worry about, you push yourself up a bit more, straddling his hips. His hands fall to your thighs, yours, to his chest. You hear his huffed little laugh, and you grin. Got him. “You know what tomorrow is?” He asks. You do know, but you decide to play dumb for a moment, and hum thoughtfully before answering, “Sunday?” He laughs louder this time. “Smartass,” He mumbles. “Mm, but I got a cute ass, remember?” You tease, wiggling it against him before you lean down and kiss him. It’s dark, so you miss his lips a little at first, landing just to the left. But then he turns his head, and his hand curls around the back of your neck and corrects the angle, and you sigh, settling against his chest. The two of you should go to sleep, you really should, but you both need this. After you’ve tired one another out, after Borracho’s cleaned the two of you up, he pulls you into his side and nuzzles into your hair, mumbles, “Maybe we made a little Magalon.” And that hasn’t been on your mind in a while, but now it’s drifting out of where it’s made a home in the back of your mind. You feel your hand curl in on itself, pangs of anxiety coursing through you. You hum in answer and turn your head, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “That’d be a hell of an anniversary gift, huh,” You tease instead.

You can be worried about that later. -- Borracho’s got to go in before you have, but instead of your customary ‘good morning’ post-it, you’re kissed awake. You come up from sleep slowly, drawn out by the feeling of his lips drifting over your neck, his facial hair tenderly passing over the same areas - not enough to mark, but enough to wake you. You let out a sleepy little grumble, and Borracho lifts his head. He nudges his nose against yours before he pecks your lips gently. You push the covers aside, ignoring the cool of the room in favor of the heat of his body, and loop your arms around his shoulders to dry and draw him back down with you. “Mm-- Sweetness,” There’s a teasing and a warning to his tone. You heed neither of them as you try to slip a hand under his shirt. He laughs, drawing away, leaving you blinking sleepily up at him. “Didn’t want to go in before…” He trails off, uncertain, but you know what he meant: before he said goodbye - but the two of you don’t like that word. You’ll see him at the office before the rendezvous with Auerswald, but you’ll be with the guys. This is the last moment of real quiet the two of you will have for a long time. You reach out, taking hold of his hand and giving it a soft squeeze. “I love you, Benny,” You murmur sleepily. He smiles and ducks his head down, kissing you again. “Love you, too, Mrs. Magalon,” He murmurs, and you grin, “Happy anniversary.”

-- You drive to the rendezvous point alone. Borracho and Connors are in a car parked down the block; Nick, Z, and Henderson are in a surveillance van parked behind the small gallery that you’re meeting Auerswald in.

The man is perfectly cordial. His face has been burned into your mind for the past few weeks: a stout gentleman, a round face - beedy, dark eyes and a snub nose. He’s slow as he takes you through the gallery; you can hear Nick getting impatient in your earpiece, and it’s hard not to get anxious yourself when you know your boss is ready to pop. But then you’re led into a small back room. There are no windows - only one door in or out. You look around, feeling claustrophobic for the first time in your life. “Awfully cramped conditions,” You comment as Auerswald flicks a light on. “You must understand,” he tells you, “That these matters are best dealt with in close quarters...Intimate settings…” And you’ve been trying to ignore the way that the man has been leering at you, but he’s been making it difficult. Instead, you focus on the painting. “It’s quite beautiful…” You say, “If it’s real.” He reels away from you, a hand coming up to his chest in shock. “Real?” He repeats. You give him a wary look. “Mr. Auerswald, forgive me, but this piece, while exquisite, may very well be an exceptional fake. How can I be certain? You are asking quite a bit of money and I’d rather not shell out for what will turn out to be an excellent forgery.” “Ma’am, I can assure you that this is an authentic piece,” Auerswald swears. You keep the wary look on your face as you look over the painting. “But--” “No buts. If you’ve simply come to stare--” “If I wanted to simply stare, I’d have gone to a museum.” “As if you could still find this Van Gogh in a museum,” Auerswald begins to laugh, as do you, for appearances -- but in your ear, you can hear the van door being thrown open. It’s only a matter of moments before you hear the door of the shop being thrown open, the woman at the front scream, the sound of Nick’s voice and the thundering of the team’s footsteps. You didn’t have a gun - you weren’t allowed (you’d asked). So you have no way of holding Auerswald beyond the physical when the man began to make for the door, trying to close it. You reach out, catching hold of his jacket and yanking back. “What are you--” He begins to ask before his expression turns cold. You weren’t allowed to have a gun. No one asks criminals if they’re allowed. Auerswald’s is out of his jacket and points at you in seconds. You let go, taking a few steps back and raising your hands, watching him closely. “Auerswald!” Connors yells to draw his attention, but Auerswald doesn’t turn to look at him, or the rest of the team. You don’t look at the team, either - you’re too scared to look anywhere but at the man pointing a gun at you. “Drop it, you’re not making it outta here clean,” You hear Zapata warn. “You wanna add a murder charge to your rap sheet, be my guest,” Nick egged him on, “But you heard him, you’re not making it out of here without cuffs on.” You aren’t sure who fired first - you’d never know, really. It might’ve been Henderson, it might’ve been Auerswald. Either way, you hit the floor. Henderson fires at the guy’s foot, nails him, and he goes down; Auerswald fires, but misses you for the most part - a combination of your ducking out of the way and his flailing from being shot. Borracho is over you in seconds, murmuring that he has you, that you’re safe. “‘M fine,” You swear, your voice shaking a little as you reassure him, “I was just-- I mean, in case--” “Sweetness,” His voice is tight; he’s got one arm under you to help you sit up, the other is resting on your right forearm. You vaguely register the sound of Z calling in medical for two people, and then you feel the seering pain in your right bicep. You glance down, see the blood seeping through your suit jacket sleeve. “...Is that all?” You try to tease, but Borracho wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring daggers at Nick’s retreating back. -- “Stitches can come out in about ten days,” The EMT tells you, and thank her before you stand up. You’re a little shaky - from the adrenaline dropping away, or from your feet falling asleep in your stupid heels. Either way, Borracho’s hands are there to steady you. You lean against him, sliding your left arm around his waist. “Home?” You ask. He nods, eyes set ahead, and you know you won’t get anything out of him until you two are somewhere safe and quiet. You just brace yourself for the silent car ride and try to ignore the throbbing in your arm.

#The Pool #The Ordeal #Benny Borracho #Benny Borracho Magalon #Benny Borracho x Reader #Benny Borracho x You #Benny Borracho/Reader #Benny Borracho/You #Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon x You #Benny Borracho Magalon/You #Benny Borracho Magalon/Reader #Den of Thieves

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leonameowzz · 4 years ago

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If TW Dorm Leaders were BTS members

Disclaimer: This is just something I did for fun by combining 2 things that I really love so please don’t take it too seriously and have a nice day!

🐙Azul Ashengrotto - Kim Namjoon (RM)🐙

Both are very capable & responsible

One is managing a restaurant at the tender age of 17 while the other is the leader of the biggest boy band in the world

Eloquent and well-spoken

Azul is good negotiator and has an excellent grasp of how the law works given his infamous contracts while RM is known for his deep and meaningful song lyrics

IQ over 9000; super smart/geniuses

We all know how Azul was able to make a study guide based on the previous 100 years of past exams at NRC; RM has an IQ of 148 and scored in top percentage back in school

👑Vil Schoenheit - Kim Seokjin (Jin)👑

VISUALS

Vil is known for his looks, similar to Jin

Both are extremely hardworking

We know the lengths Vil goes to maintain his looks and he juggles being an influencer alongside being a student which is no mean feat. Jin also worked very hard to improve his vocal skills since he didn’t have any singing experience prior to joining BTS.

Both of them are this successful through the efforts they were willing to put in.

🦁Leona Kingscholar - Min Yoongi (Suga)🦁

Little meows meows~

I swear it wasn’t intentional at all that they’re both my ultimate biases

Both are sleepy bois

Though Leona is more of lazy sleeping while Suga is sleepy because he barely gets enough sleep working hard producing songs

Even though they’re more reserved and usually more chill, it doesn’t mean they’re cold, they’re just not too used to expressing themselves so openly in public and that’s totally fine!

Basically tsunderes

They’re actually really soft and show their affectionate side only to those they’ve warmed up to (at least that’s my HC for Leona and we all know how much Suga loves his members)

🌞Kalim Al-Asim - Jung Hoseok (J-Hope)🌞

THEY.ARE.LITERALLY.THE.SUN.ENOUGH.SAID

Let’s be honest, we all need a Kalim/J-Hope in our life

Their positivity will bring a smile to your face even on the worst days

Friendly & outgoing personality, they’re the ones initiating a conversation with you

Also they’re both super EXTRA (it’s literally a party everyday at Scarabia)

It can be a bit much at first to handle, but eventually their enthusiasm wins you over and you can’t help being roped into their shenanigans/ just laughing at their antics

Really good dancers (Fairy Gala & Chap 5 Kalim are prime examples and J-Hope’s the main dancer in the group)

🌹Riddle Rosehearts - Park Jimin🌹

Smol bois

Are teased about their height by others mainly Floyd/Jungkook but usually in good fun

They used to be very hard on themselves (Riddle obeying his mom’s rules to a tee while Jimin felt pressured to always deliver a perfect performance & good body image)

Fortunately, they’ve both gotten past that and are in a better place mentally #LoveYourself

Super scary when angry: Riddle’s entire face just swells red and it’s been mentioned before that Jimin is the scariest in the group when he’s angry

🐲Malleus Draconia - Kim Taehyung (V)🐲

Both have this mysterious aura about them

SO I just imagined Malleus singing to Singularity/Stigma (V’s solo songs) and holy heck that would really suit him?!?! Now imagine him performing that during VDC? Wigs snatched and hearts stolen

Ethereally beautiful; it’s hard to believe such beauty actually exists

Malleus being one of the most powerful beings in TW; V’s nickname is CGV since he looks like an anime prince irl

Malleus obsesses has a great interest in gargoyles while V likes drawing (fan of Vincent van Gogh); they both have this appreciation for vintage/artistic things?

They used to be very playful when they were younger (Malleus burning Lilia’s fringe; The members saw V and immediately knew he was the mischievous type) but now they matured into fine gentlemen

💀Idia Shroud - Jeon Jungkook💀

These 2 were the only ones left and tbh I wasn’t sure what to write about them but here’s what I managed

Both amazing gamers (Idia is the otaku/gamer nerd while JK plays Overwatch and other MMOs)

Both good at electronics (Ignihyde is the tech dorm and JK is good with cameras, video editing etc, GCF has entered the chat)

Both are socially awkward; at least JK used to be really shy with the other members when he first joined but now he’s as chaotic as the rest of them while Idia stills struggles with face-to-face/social interaction (as an introvert, I can relate).

And just like how JK’s members (older brothers) helped him come out of his shell, similarly Ortho can help his older brother become braver.

#twisted wonderland #twst #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #vil schoenheit #idia shroud #malleus draconia #bts #bts rm #bts jin #bts suga #bts jhope #bts jimin #bts v #bts jungkook #crossover

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years ago

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 4: City Of Dreams]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, not really angst but you can FEEL that the angst is coming, pre-angst???

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

He calls you at home, at the bare-bones flat you share with two Imperial College nursing students; he calls because he knows you want to see the world. He can’t give you the world yet, he can’t quite afford that. But what he can afford are two tickets to the British Museum, which are, incidentally, free.

Roger shows you the Rosetta Stone, a column from the Temple of Artemis, the Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser III, the River Witham swords, the Benin ivory mask of Queen Idia, Chinese jade, Incan gold, portraits of Anne Boleyn, bronze busts of Hadrian and Claudius, Rembrandts and Da Vincis and Van Goghs. He shows you the treasures of the living and the ruins of the dead, their currency and their gods and their flesh: skeletal mummies of people who walked the earth a millennium and a half before the Mayans, three thousand years before Alexander.

He’s uncharacteristically patient. He takes his time. He studies the maddeningly small words on the displays and asks you which relics you like best, whether they speak to you, what they say. He doesn’t want to leave even when you offer, even when you can see he’s restless for a cigarette, when he drums his fingers against his hip and gnaws his lower lip with those tiny canine teeth. Maybe there’s something else he’s even more ravenous for.

Roger wants to show you everything. There are alabaster-white, echoing corridors roped off for renovations, but that doesn’t stop him. He sprints with you down dimly-lit hallways—your fingers interlaced with his, your hair flying—and raises curtains and murky sheets of plastic to reveal marble faces, Anglo-Saxon helmets, Viking blades, fifth-century scrolls. He keeps watch as you look; and when he hears the footsteps of security guards he pulls you into the shadows, presses you flat against the wall, giggles in whispers as he clasps his palm over your mouth and begs you to be quiet. I’m trying, your gleaming eyes tell him, and when he lifts his hand away his burning sapphire gaze drops to your lips, and you think he might kiss you, and you think you might let him. But at the last moment you turn away, pretend you hadn’t noticed, tell him you think the footsteps are gone.

And the words ricochet perilously through your mind like shrapnel: I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

That once felt like a promise; now it feels like a plea.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have a deeply philosophical question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

John is laying across the studio couch on his back, using your maroon-tights-and-golden-sundress-clothed thigh as a pillow, holding his notebook with one hand and a dulling pencil with the other. You’re working through a pile of the band’s outfits that need mending, denim and leather and knits and polyester strewn over your lap; you are excellent at stitching, whether in fabric or flesh. Every once in a while you twirl a lock of John’s feathery hair, and he doesn’t seem to mind. “If Brian was a superhero, who would he be?”

“Spider-Man,” you reply instantly. “The limbs.”

“Ahhhh, of course! He’s a regular daddy longlegs, isn’t he?” John begins sketching. “I already have Roger as Thor—blond and ragey, likes to throw things—and Freddie as Iron Man. Innovative and unstoppable. Fearless leader. Shamelessly opulent.”

“How about you?”

John smirks, but maybe he winces a little too. “Doctor Strange.”

You frown down at him. “You aren’t strange, John.”

“I am,” he says simply. “But that’s alright. I make do.”

“I don’t find you strange.”

“Yes, well. You’re accustomed to patching together damaged things.”

Freddie explodes into the room, his tall black boots clopping on the linoleum floor. He waves his arms hysterically and thrusts his notebook towards you. I need your help, he’s written.

“Sure thing. Ask away.”

He scribbles another line and turns the notebook so you can see. Tell Brian he’s a twat.

You sigh. “Freddie, no.”

Behind the soundproof glass, Freddie, Roger, and Brian have been working on In The Lap Of The Gods: first Roger’s falsetto parts, then Freddie’s piano. This has been no easy task. Freddie is on complete vocal rest after being diagnosed with laryngitis, Brian is recovering from a duodenal ulcer (on top of his residual fatigue from hepatitis), and they’re all ready to strangle each other. Freddie opens his mouth to protest.

“Don’t you dare!” you cry, leaping to your feet. You start a fresh pot of tea on the hotplate and grab the flashlight from your bag. You’ve registered with a London-based travel nurse agency and, after heavy lobbying from Freddie and Roger, have officially been signed with the record company as Queen’s tour nurse. Assuming, of course, that the next tour ever happens. “Let me see.”

Freddie reluctantly plops down onto the couch so you can shine the flashlight down his inflamed throat.

“I better not find out you’ve been bitching at people,” you tell him. Freddie winks and flips his hair.

From the other side of the glass, you can see Roger jabbing an index finger at Brian, shouting, swearing, needling until Brian flings his hands into the air and stomps out of the studio.

“Well,” John says. “I’m glad that’s going well.”

You aren’t terribly alarmed; you’ve seen this before. Brian will spend a few minutes outside, pacing and muttering to himself under the sweltering August sky, and eventually he’ll right himself again—like a sailboat gaining traction in a storm—and return for round two or twelve or twenty. You pour Freddie a cup of piping hot tea with honey and slip into the live room, Freddie and John following behind you.

“How are things?” John asks cheerfully.

Roger is wearing a half-unbuttoned leopard print shirt, tight black leather pants, and black sweatbands on both wrists that he tugs at when he’s frustrated. He snorts in reply and rolls his eyes. Then he glances over at Brian’s Red Special. The guitar has been left unattended on its stand, shining and forbidden. Oh no.

“I wouldn’t,” John cautions.

But Roger does: he pulls the Red Special into his lap and begins to pluck away at it. You recognize the mournful intro riff of Stairway To Heaven. John whistles nervously. Freddie crosses his arms over his chest and taps the heels of his boots against the floor in disapproval.

“Roger, please,” you say. “Don’t stress the man out, you’ll give him another ulcer. You realize if he sees this he’s going to murder you. Hack you into tiny bits. We’ll never find all the pieces.”

Roger laughs. “Calm down, nothing’s gonna happen—” And then, as soon as he begins to adjust it, a tuning key pops off the head and rolls away. Freddie’s teacup shatters as it tumbles out of his grasp. Roger gapes at you and John and Freddie, horrified. “Oh no.”

“Roger!” you yelp, palms cupping your flushing cheeks.

John scoops the tuning key off the floor and rushes to Roger’s side. “Give it to me.”

Roger shoves the Red Special into John’s outstretched arms and begins hyperventilating, yanking at blond hair that you’ve learned is the product of cheap boxed dye. “Oh my god, Brian’s gonna...he’s...he’s...he’s gonna...”

Freddie bolts through the door and disappears outside, still clutching his notebook; he’ll try to delay Brian as long as he can. You wonder if you should join him, if that would make Brian even more suspicious, if there’s anything you can do. Roger paces like a lion behind iron bars.

John says softly as he works: “If I can’t fix it before Brian comes back, I’ll tell him I did it. He already hates me.” That’s not exactly true, and you all know it; but Brian and John clash better and connect worse than any of the rest of them. You marvel, momentarily, at how it can be possible for you to care so consumingly for four men who are so astronomically different. Ah, but perhaps you don’t care for them all in the same way.

“I can’t let you do that, Deaks,” Rog replies. Beads of perspiration are springing up along his temples, his collarbones, his neck. Don’t look, you tell yourself, feeling something scalding and hungry rippling through your skin like goosebumps.

“What can I do?” you ask desperately. “John, can I help...?”

“Almost there.” John is twisting the tuning key. You hear thumping against the door.

“Freddie, move!” Brian is shouting outside. “Move! What are you doing? What are they up to in there?!”

There’s a frantic commotion as John and Roger rush for the guitar stand. You spin to watch the door as it opens. Brian steps inside, his hawkish eyes narrowed. A frazzled Freddie materializes behind him. Your gaze darts back to the Red Special. It’s resting on the guitar stand where Brian left it, orderly and fully intact. Roger and John are chatting nonchalantly by the drum kit and trying to conceal the fact that they’re gasping for air. Oh thank GOD.

Brian peers back at Freddie. Freddie flashes an innocent grin. Brian props his hands on his waist and examines the room, taking long determined strides, fidgeting with the beaded choker around his neck. “Roger,” he says at last.

Roger bats his long eyelashes and casts you a knowing smile. “Hmm?”

“Why is there tea all over the floor?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Summer bleeds out, and autumn floods in like the tide. With dying leaves and cutting evening gales come other eventualities as well: a release date for Sheer Heart Attack, Killer Queen’s roaring reception as the album’s lead single, radio play and fanfare and the announcement that Queen’s first world tour will begin on the day before Halloween. So I might finally see some return on investment, you teased Freddie when he told you. He shot back: Just keep my vocal chords humming, bitch.

Tonight you’re at Top of the Pops with the rest of Queen’s usual entourage: Chrissie and Mary, Josephine and Veronica, assorted representatives and assistants from the record company Trident. The show has laid out a spread of fruit and meats and cheeses and cookies—biscuits, you remind yourself, you have to call them biscuits now—and alcohol...including Moët & Chandon, of course. You circle the table with Chrissie, piling free food onto your plate and sipping champagne, chattering mindlessly to distract yourselves from how petrified you all are. Freddie and Brian are still in hair and makeup; Roger is berating the producers for forcing Queen to perform to playback; John is compulsively snacking in some shadowy corner somewhere and avoiding the crowds, presumably with Veronica. You don’t dislike Veronica. She’s polite and gentle and undemanding, if a bit reticent around the band. You don’t think she would ever try to exploit John for the novelty of being with a musician, nor for the possibility of money and fame. But you sometimes wonder how much of John she really sees.

“Is this white cheddar?” Josephine asks as she stabs a cheese cube with a pink foil-tipped toothpick. “Or maybe gruyere? Monterey jack...?”

“I think it’s halloumi,” Chrissie offers.

“Ohhh, exotic!” Jo takes a bite. “It’s good, whatever it is.”

You pop a sliver of pineapple into your mouth. “My goal is to eat at least three of everything. And wrap extras in napkins to smuggle home. It’s a hard life, you know. Roping one’s fortunes to an almost-famous rock band.”

Jo smirks and shakes out her hair: dark, full, freshly trimmed. “I’ll have to live vicariously through you. I’m watching my figure.” She glances pensively down at her svelte body, which is sheathed in a silvery mini-dress.

“Love, you look amazing,” Chrissie says, somewhat pained. You’ve learned that when anyone suffers, Chrissie aches right along with them.

Jo just wrinkles her nose and shrugs. Jo is wilder than Veronica, edgier than Chrissie, less saccharine than Mary, more glamorous than you. She’s the only match you could imagine for Roger; and this brings you down some days, drags you low, sinks you into indigo melancholy. But lately Josephine has been the blue one, the quiet one. And you suddenly find yourself wondering if perhaps there is no match for Roger at all, no perfect counterbalance, no one soul that could tame his anywhere in the world.

“You’re flawless, Jo,” you tell her, but it feels hollow and anemic.

Mary appears, stroking her large gold earrings restlessly. “Fred’s almost done. They want to start in twenty minutes.”

You toss your empty plate into the garbage—rubbish, you amend mentally—and shake the crumbs from your dress. “I’ll go get John.”

You scuttle around the set, checking gloomy forgotten spots and the dressing rooms and broom closets. As you search, Roger finds you.

“Hey,” he says, mostly confidently, a dash apprehensively, his hands buried in his pockets.

“Hi. I’m trying to locate your bassist so you can pretend to perform in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s kind of you. I just passed him, though. He’s with Freddie. Everything is as it should be. Can I talk to you?”

“Um.” You stare at him, confused. “We’re already talking, aren’t we?”

“Yes, alright, true, but I have something important to say.”

“Okay.” You study him warily. Roger clears his throat and glimpses around. The two of you are standing in the shadow of a monstrosity of a lighting rig and are very much alone.

“I just...I wanted to inform you that...um...I’ll be...ah...well, you see...” He shakes his head and forces it out. “I’ll be breaking up with Jo soon. And I just wanted you to know. For you to be the first to know.”

You recoil, stunned. “Why would you break up with her?”

He smiles. “So I can take you out, of course.”

Oh my god oh my god oh my god. A furious barrage of images cascades through your mind: touching him, being touched by him, whispers in the darkness, rings, chapels, children, and then: Josephine. What it must feel like to be Jo, what the beginning looked like for her, what the end will: scorched earth and desolation. “I’m not interested,” you say, pleasantly surprised by the steadiness in your voice.

“Sure you are,” Roger replies, undeterred. “We’re going to be travelling all over. It’ll be museums and monuments and libraries and natural wonders galore. I can show you the world.”

“I’m really not.”

“Why wouldn’t you be interested?”

“Because I’m not looking to get played. And you seem like someone who might play me.”

Now he’s wounded; those massive pale eyes are glossy. “I most certainly would not.”

“Roger, I’m completely enchanted by you. You’re brilliant and fun and caring and so much smarter than people assume you are—”

“Thanks...?”

“—And you’re a fantastic friend. But if we do this and it doesn’t last...which, let’s be real, it probably won’t...I’ll lose you forever. And the band. And my job. The math just doesn’t work for me.” But, oh god, I’d do anything to rearrange those numbers.

Roger mulls that over, shuffles his feet, lights a cigarette. “I have a list, you know. Not a written list. It’s just in me, a part of me. Here.” He points at his chest. “It’s not long. It’s only things I can’t live without, or things I wouldn’t want to. There’s becoming a musician. There’s leaving Cornwall. There’s finding a band worthy of me. Check check check.” He takes a drag and exhales smoke into the air. “Next there’s becoming a famous rock star, seeing the world, providing for my family. That’s all coming together presently.” His eyes find yours. “You’re on that list now. And once something’s made the list, it never comes off.”

“Not until you’ve had it.”

That knocks Roger back, makes his brow furrow, makes him blink as it rolls through him; because maybe that cuts just a bit too close to the bone. Then his face clears like a cloudless sky and he smiles, brightly, blissfully, as he always does. “I’ll just have to change your mind.”

“You can try.”

He takes your left hand, skates his teeth lightly over your knuckles, grins mischievously. “I’m going to need one last toast for good luck.”

Roger leads you back to the snack table and pours three flutes of champagne: one for you, one for him, and one for Chrissie, who’s waited for you. John, Freddie, and Brian are testing their equipment on stage; Mary, Veronica, and Jo have commandeered spots with the best view and refuse to abandon them. The three of you toast, drain your champagne, and watch the preparations from afar. John is bopping around the stage as he strums his bass, lost in the music in his head.

“Such a strange man,” Chrissie murmurs, although not unkindly.

Roger immediately bristles. “He’s only strange if you don’t bother to try to understand him.”

“Oh hell, Rog, come on, I didn’t mean it like—”

But Roger pushes by her and breezes away. He swipes a pint of beer and a bunch of grapes off the snack table, saunters over to where John is playing, and gnaws the grapes messily as he points and asks John questions.

Chrissie sighs and turns to you. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You know I adore John.”

“I know it.” And of course, you adore him too. But you have something else on your mind. You tilt your champagne flute towards Roger. “What was he like when he and Jo first got together?”

“Why?” Chrissie asks, eyebrows raised. “You mean...was he the same way he is with you?”

You twirl your empty glass morosely. “Sure. If I am in fact that transparent.”

Chrissie chuckles and rubs your shoulder reassuringly. “Now now, don’t be grumpy.” She lights a cigarette and thinks. “Honestly, no. He’s different with you. More himself, less dramatic. Less always trying to be the dashing playboy. Just pure energy, that enthusiasm he has that’s almost childish. He’s happy. Really happy.”

You nod. “So you think I should give him a chance if he asks for it.”

“Absolutely not.”

You startle and whirl to her, not understanding.

Chrissie smiles tenderly, sadly, wishing she could change it. “He’ll ruin you. He ruins everyone. Now if he asked you in ten years? Fifteen years? Maybe. But if you say yes now, he’ll burn through you like battery acid. He’ll love you until you can’t imagine a world without him, until everything you were before is quarried from your bones. And then he’ll move on. He can’t help it, that’s just who he is. Reckless and wonderful and insatiable. And good luck trying to find anything on this whole fucking planet that can replace Roger Taylor.”

“I understand,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

You watch Queen up on the stage as they count down the minutes until showtime, how Freddie fluffs his hair and checks his eyeliner, how Brian meticulously rehearses his notes on the Red Special, how John and Roger exchange comments and jokes. And it occurs to you how symbiotic they are: Roger bringing passion and dauntlessness and fire, John tempering that when necessary and contributing something so dissimilar and yet vital, something steady and pragmatic and immutable. Brian’s a willow tree, Fred’s a lightning storm, Roger’s wildfire...but what is John?

You can’t decide. Roger is tapping away at the hi-hat and it sounds like a metronome, like something hypnotic, like a spell older than the pyramids.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

#queen #queen fanfic #queen fic #borhap #roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #but you can never leave #but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #roger taylor #queen fandom

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mi6-cafe · 5 years ago

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DRABBLES FOR WEEK 3 ARE HEEERE!

This week our competitors were asked to write exactly 300 words of pure dialogue inspired by the word: “slip”

HOW DO YOU VOTE?

Read all the drabbles. (they’re below the line)

Choose three that you like the most.

Fill out this VOTING FORM, telling us your favourites. (You can even leave anonymous feedback for the author).

NOTE: If you are a competitor, you CANNOT vote for your own fic. But please, do vote. :)

The voting period ends at 11:59 PM EST on Sunday night. Results will be posted and anonymous feedback will be emailed on Monday.

Drabbles below the cut:

Title: Slip of the Tongue Author: IrishWitch58 (captain-magicalkitty) Warnings:None Summary: Q let's something slip out during a private briefing. James actually does listen, especially when it's something he's been waiting to hear.

“This is a simple concept. Access the control center, find the central station, and insert this drive. Once it downloads, you enter this sequence on the keyboard, and remove the drive.”

“And what does the download do exactly?”

“It will send their outgoing communications to us first, allowing us to know their plans and modify them in ways the receivers will not suspect. The result will be that we will eventually close the net around the entire organization. The concept is not that difficult if you would just focus. I sometimes think you play up technological ignorance to get attention. I suspect I would be out of patience if I didn't love you.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you were playing at being ignorant and we have work to do. Now pay attention. We still have to get through this briefing if the mission is to have any chance of success.”

“I really think the briefing can wait just a bit. I believe you're trying to divert me. I know what I heard.”

“You didn't hear anything except my frustration with your lack of attention, 007.”

“Then why are you blushing, Q? You do blush very attractively. I recall you turned a lovely rosy shade the first time I kissed you...”

“Just stop right there, Bond.”

“Oh no, I don't think so. I especially remember how pink you turned the first time I put my tongue...”

“I said stop it, this is not the time or the place!”

“I'll stop if you admit it. I know what I heard. There's nothing wrong with my ears. As a matter of fact, you seem to like them as handles when I...”

“Dammit, James. Yes I love you, you arrogant, aggravating, man. Now can we please get to work?”

“With pleasure, darling.”

Title: The Village of Barnsley Author: Venstar Warnings: geekery Summary: roll for initiative.

The Village of Barnsley’s life force is slipping away. Peasants are fleeing and some have disappeared with no explanation.

Excellent. Peasants to do my bidding, ha!

Oaf.

No one seems to know the cause of the decay. What skulks through the twisted shadows of the night? It will take a brave and skillful band of adventures to solve the riddle!

I’m brave and skilled, that’s me.

You are weak and your dice are cursed, Alec you’re going to get us killed.

Do you think my goats are going to be okay?

You can sell them.

Never!

If the village is in trouble and they need food for information, we’re selling your goats, James.

Touch my goats and I’ll roll to shoot you with my longbow.

Children, please let the DM continue. I have a meeting tomorrow morning and I don’t want to show up with dark circles under my eyes.

Tanner has to fix the trouble in the town of the MI5 and MI6 joint task force. Maybe taking my dice will improve things for you.

I doubt it. Okay, so this village is slowly slipping away.

What’s in it for us?

Spoken like a true mercenary.

Hey, You want goats, I want benefits.

OKAY OKAY! Your band of merry men-

And women

Your band of merry men AND women

And for those of us who are undecided.

I swear to all that is unholy….YOUR BAND OF MERRY ARSEHOLES has become aware of the changes in Barnsley through some vague rumors. Do you want to roll to hear the rumors?

Yes.

No.

Shut up, Alec.

That’s Sir Alec the Brave to you!

Yes, we want to hear a rumor. Who gets to roll first? Goat man?

I agree one must gather intelligence.

Let’s roll! I want to hear a rumor!

Title: No, YOU do the mission report Author: stormofsharpthings Warnings: none Summary: slip - noun (FOR BOAT) a place where a boat or ship can be parked, between two piers

“007, why are you driving a boat through the harbour?”

“I’m piloting this yacht because it’s too bloody big to leave drifting as a navigational hazard. The harbour patrol would notice and there’s a dozen dead bodies aboard. I assume you don’t want an international incident...”

“Q,tell him it’d only be his third this year...”

“Alec, shut up and make sure the deck is clear. Q, find out where this wallowing scow normally docks, will you? We'll look suspicious if we just wander about like this too much longer.”

“Too late, James, harbour patrol incoming. Q, got any long-distance lasers?”

“Fuck. Alec, can you divert them somehow? We can’t let them board us.”

“007, head to the northern section of the harbour, to a marina called the Golden Seas.”

“Right. Alec?”

“Just steer us straight and leave the distraction to me.”

“006, why are you stripping that corpse?”

“Q, have you got a drone in the air somewhere? If so, you might want to avert your tender gaze...”

“006, why are you stripping?”

“Take a deep breath, quartermaster, I’m about to engage in a distraction guaranteed to send them away.”

“You’re...tell me you’re not actually...”

“Stop snickering, James, and please explain to our poor innocent quartermaster while I shout angrily at the fools who’ve dared to interrupt our erotic escapades.”

“Well, Q, when a boy likes another boy...”

“007!”

“No, quartermaster, Alec is not going to engage in sexual congress with a fresh corpse. But the harbour patrol won’t interfere with a rich man’s pleasure cruise, either. They know where their bribes come from, especially when they’re reminded in such colorful Russian. Entering the marina now, Q.”

“Oh, er, slip 24 is the correct one, 007.”

“Right. Dispatch a cleaning crew and we’ll be happy to report our mission complete.”

Title: Quotable Quotations Author: Anyawen Warnings: Summary: Film buffs Bond and Q trade movie quotes to stave off boredom. Bond slips a serious question into the game.

“I’m bored, Q.”

“You’re impossible, Bond.”

“'I do not think that word means what you think it means.'”

“I know exactly what it means, and if I had any doubt, your picture in the dictionary would surely give it away.”

“'Why so serious?'”

“MI6 frowns on using comms for idle chatter.”

“My flight’s been delayed twice, Q. If I have to watch another woman order some salted, drizzled, whipped, pumpkin-spiced abomination, I will go mad.”

“In the interests of preserving what little remains of your sanity, 'I’ll have what she’s having.'”

“'As you wish.'”

“You already quoted from The Princess Bride. You lose.”

“That was before you agreed to play. Doesn’t count.”

“Fine. 'I’m your Huckleberry.'”

“My what?”

“Oh, you don’t know that one? You lose. Again.”

“What’s it from?”

“Tombstone. 1993.”

“Never been a big fan of westerns.”

“'Nobody’s perfect.'”

“Hmmm. 'I can't see anything I don't like about you.'”

“Ha! 'As if.'”

“'You make me want to be a better man.'”

“'Everything is possible, even the impossible.'”

“'Today is a good day to try.'”

“'The present is well out of hand.'”

“'I love you beyond poetry.'”

“... 'I know.'”

"'I want you. I want all of you, forever. You and me, every day.'"

"Uh. 'You talking to me?'"

"'Shut up. Yes or no.'"

"... 'Surely you can't be serious.'"

"'Carpe Diem.'"

“'Even walls have ears,' Bond.”

“'Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.'”

“James …”

“'Go ahead, make my day.'”

“You’re really doing this over comms?"

"'Our lives are defined by opportunities—'"

"All right, then. 'You had me at 'hello'.'"

“That’s a yes?”

"Yes. 'Come what may.'"

"'I'm king of the world.'"

"Well, your majesty, tickets to Paris and a seat on the Eurostar should have you home in 10 hours. Boarding now. Gate B50. ‘Shake a leg.’”

Title: Freudian Slip Author: SouffleGirl91 Warnings: swearing Summary: Every now and then, the mask slips and he ends up saying exactly what’s on his mind (or, 5 times Bond has a slip of the tongue and 1 time it was Q)

“Don’t you get tired of following orders?”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes. We aren’t their dogs. Stop acting like you are.”

“Alec…”

“We could leave, you know? Make a run for it. They’d never find us.”

“I have to go. I’ve got a meeting with my leash. Lead. With my lead.”

“Don’t stick around for too long, James. Loyalty doesn’t always go both ways.”

“Goodbye, Alec.”

“-don’t care what happened with Trevelyan, I will not defend you in front of the select committee a second time. Is that understood?”

“Hm.”

“007, I asked you a question. Is. That. Understood?”

“Yes, mum.”

“...”

“Ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”

“Take some time. Get yourself together before you come back, Bond. Dismissed.”

“...Fuck.”

“So? How are you settling back in?”

“Fine.”

“Getting to know the new Quartermaster? He’s quite the-”

“Moneypenny, if M’s busy, you can just shoot me off. Shoo. Fuck. I didn’t mean that.”

“James? I thought we were past that? Is everything ok?”

“I’ll come back later.”

“...James?”

“The Van Gogh print I recognize, but what’s this one?”

“Hmm? Oh, that’s one of mine.”

“You paint?”

“Sometimes. When I’m not rebuilding guns for careless agents. They’re just daubs, really.”

“Not at all. I like your arse- art! ...I like your paintings, I mean.”

“...Thanks. I think.”

“You should leave.”

“Madeleine, what-?”

“You don’t want to be here, James. I don’t want someone who doesn’t want me back. This isn’t working.”

“So… what? It’s not me, it’s Q- you. You. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Go home, James.”

“Q.”

“Bond? You’re back?”

“I am.”

“They didn’t believe me, you know. When I told them you’d come back to me. Us. Shit. Back to MI6, I mean.”

“Actually, you were right the first time.”

“What?”

“Forget MI6, Q. I came back to you.”

“You- what?”

“If you’ll have me.”

Title: Note Passing Author: sunaddicted Warnings: none Summary: elementary school tactics are the very best "So, now we are passing notes as if we are kids still in school?" "I wouldn't have had to, if you replied to my texts" "Maybe there was a specific reason why I wasn't doing that - did you think of it while you folded this slip of paper and batted your lashes at Moneypenny to persuade her to pass it along?" "You really sound unnecessarily peeved by the note passing" "Let's say I just expect a little more maturity from a grown man" "I didn't think you would have appreciated being stalked around MI6 any better" "To be fair... that's true.Oh, stop it! I can hear your smugness" "You can't hear smugness" "When it comes to you? I can" "You're just being dramatic" "You're one to talk. Don't get me started: I'm very busy and I don't have the time to list all the ways and occasions in which you have proved how much of a drama queen you are. I actually don't even have the time for this call" "You could have just texted me your answer - or you know, you could have passed me a note: some of us still appreciate the beauty of the written word, the effort of picking out the best stationery-" "-you wrote yours on the back of a recei-" "-the intimacy of putting your handwriting on display. I could go on and on about the meaningfulness and superiority of handwritten notes" "You're so full of bullshit" "And you're stalling: for someone claiming to be oh so busy, you sure are enjoying keeping me on the phone" "Maybe I'm just making you gag for it" "If only you'd let me show how next to nonexistent my gag reflex is..." "Stop - stop right there.I'll come to dinner, happy?" "Immensely so, my dear Quartermaster"

Title: All Wrapped Up Author: Iambid (Flantastic) Warnings: Mature Summary: Q gives James a present

“Hello darling.”

“There you are. R told me you’d taken the afternoon off. Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh yes. I got a notification that a parcel was due to be delivered… I thought I’d better be here to receive it.”

“Have you been buying gadgets online again?”

“Not quite. Sit down.”

“Darling?”

“Shhh. Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m wearing a dressing gown in the middle of the afternoon?”

“Why are you wearing a…”

“Or perhaps you should be asking what I’m wearing under it?”

“Why, what… oh. Oh.”

“Do you like it? I found this company online that sells lingerie for men and when I saw that they had a full set in black satin with a matching waist slip and… well, you’re always saying how much you like satin and…”

“Q? Shut up.”

“Hehe… what are you-ARGH! Jesus fucking Christ, warn a guy next time!”

“You look delicious. I want you laid out like a platter…”

“Yes, but I’m sure I could have laid down on the sofa on my own.”

“Maybe. Now let’s see… I like the bra-let. Very sexy, but what I’d really like to see is what these stockings are attached to under your minxy little petticoat… oh. Well isn’t that sweet? Do you know, ladies don’t often go for suspender belts these days? It’s all hold ups. I can’t stand them. Oh, but this is lovely. Just look: you’ve got me a little gift too. All wrapped in satin, done up with a bow.”

“It’s not that little, you cheeky sod.”

“Mmmm, no. Especially not if I do this…”

“You’re a man of many talents.”

“Were they expensive?”

“Were what expensive?”

“The knickers. I have I feeling I’ll be tearing them off you before very long…”

“They were quite reasonable... Oh James…”

Title: Slip up Author: AtoTheBean Warnings: None Summary: In which Q fails at technology

“You should tell him.” “Oh my god, you are the worst, most meddlesome best friend ever.” “He’s been back six months—” “I’m very aware.” “—and he’s different.” “He’s n—” “He’s different. Less…" “Of a prat?” “The prat was charming. Worked on you.” “Shut it.” “Of course, love... You know, I think these little happy hours of ours might work better on Zoom. The telephone just doesn’t capture my commiserating, compassionate—” “Ha!” “—expression.” “I’m off duty. You don’t need to see my pajamas.” “Wouldn't be the first time. But I agree; they’re wasted on me. Best invite him over.” “You’re relentless.” “Because I love you. And you deserve happiness.” “Deserve has nothing to do with anything. I’ll have to refill my scotch if you’re going soft.” “Time for the second round, then.” “It’s the third, I think.” “Fine. Third. You shouldn’t wor—” “Hold on, someone else is ringing in. I’ll be back in a mo.” “Fine, but I’m not done—” “...Hello?” “Q? This is James Bond.” “...” “Bond?” “Yes... is this Q?” “It is. I just… I’m on another call. If you’d hold one moment… “Of course.” “...” “It’s him. On the other line. What do I do? If I talk to him right now, I know I’ll slip up and say something mortifying.” “...This is still James, Q.” “Oh god. Uh, sorry Bond. Just one moment. I’ll be right back.” “Of course.” “...” “I hate you. You’ve orchestrated this, somehow. Got me drunk and worked on me to tell him how I feel... and suddenly he’s got my number and he's calling on a Friday night…” “...” “Eve?” “Still James, actually.” “Bugger me!” “I was hoping we might start with dinner, actually. It sounds like the conversation will be... lively. Tomorrow at seven?” “...” “...” “Somewhere nice.” “Of course, Q.”

Title: Tongue-Tied Author: sorion Warnings: - Summary: Always listen to your Quartermaster.

"For the record, I do not approve of your course of action, 007."

"Duly noted."

"The only time you duly do anything, I would imagine."

"Dearest Q, if your tone of voice had implied that you truly did not approve or, dare I say it, you were even worried for me, I would have done more than note duly."

"Would you have noted aggressively?"

"At the very least, Quartermaster."

"I'm less than impressed. Assailants are closing in, by the way, in case you hadn't noticed. You also have a blind spot, your four o'clock."

"I had noticed, thank you. Keep me updated on my blind spot, please. ... ... ..."

"Bond! Report!"

"Just some unfriendly fire, no need to worry."

"I was not worried. I asked you to report."

"Of course."

"You will take me seriously."

"Always."

"I'd make a note, but there's activity in your blind spot."

"..."

"Move straight ahead. Watch your left."

"..."

"Take the stairs to the roof. I shut down all elevators."

"How very inconvenient."

"It'll be more inconvenient if they shut them down with you inside one. I can take over controls, but even I can't screw in a fuse remotely. And you don't want them to get to the roof before you, do you?"

"..."

"Can I assume from your heavy breathing that you are heeding my advice for a change? ... Don't laugh and run."

"Did you lock the door to the stairway behind me?"

"That goes without saying. They'll break it down soon enough, no doubt... But not before you get to your airlift."

"Smug little bastard, I love you."

"..."

"... Working with you."

"Slip of the tongue, 007?"

"Ah, well. The sneaking around was fun while it lasted."

"... I'll have you know that nobody here looks particularly surprised. Do stop laughing."

"There's my lift. Wait for me."

"Always."

#10

Title: you know my name (or you don't) Author: scarytheory Warnings: none Summary: Bond is bantering with Q over the earpiece. The topic is, as usual, the mystery of Q's name.

“I'm pretty sure it's Quigley.”

“Really, Bond? Do you believe that my parents would do that to me? Also, we should keep it professional while you're in the field.”

“This is a professional curiosity. Anyway, it says Quashawn in your documents, but I don't think that's true.”

”When did you see my files?”

”I'm a spy, remember?”

”I'll need to have a word with Eve.”

“Or maybe it's Quirrel.”

“Ten points for the Harry Potter reference, but sadly, Quirrel is a surname.”

“So you are admitting that your first name starts with Q?”

“No! Just concentrate on the mission, Bond. Seriously, sometimes I ask myself, how I could love such an annoying git.”

“…”

“What?”

“You're in love with me, Q?”

“No, that would be absurd! It was a slip of the tongue.”

“Ha!”

“Don't flatter yourself, Bond, it's just an expression. It wasn't meant in a romantic way at all.”

“So you love me non-romantically? That makes sense.”

“Oh, no. We are NOT doing this. Can we please go back to your obsession with my name?”

“Perhaps later, this is much more interesting.”

“Don't be a child, Bond. And thanks to you, now I'll need to burn this tape.”

“Such a shame. You could have a beautiful reminder of your love confession.”

“Bond! What do you need me to do to let this go?”

“…”

“Shit. I have to tell you my name, right?”

“I think that could work.”

“And if I do that, you promise that we'll never speak about this ever again?”

“Yes.”

“Well. Okay.”

“So?”

“It's John.”

“Really? That's…”

“Boring? Disappointing? Should I change my name to Quasimodo?”

“No. I actually like this one a lot. And… John?”

“What?”

“When I come back, we should discuss my alleged unprofessionalism over dinner. Non-romantically, of course.”

#11

Title: Static Author: Ksania / @starrboned-art Warnings: Implied canon-typical violence Summary: Bond and Q find themselves in a predicament.

"007."

"..."

"Bond."

"Mmh."

"James!"

"Oof!"

"Good, you're awake."

"I was awake this whole time."

"Of course, my bad for thinking otherwise. Your drooling face is obviously a technique to disarm your captors."

"Glad we're on the same page."

"Indeed."

"....Where are we, exactly?"

"And here I thought you were completely awake this whole time."

"Q."

"I don't know. A warehouse is my best guess. A few miles from London. Grabbed us on the way to Heathrow - how's your head?"

"Hmm, like I got hit by a two-ton truck."

"Memory still intact, I see."

"How are you awake?"

"Luck. Looking harmless enough not to be kicked in the head."

"Ha... Sitrep?"

"Three hostiles at least. One leader, two henchmen. Put a sack over our heads on the way here. Haven’t demanded anything yet - I guess an hour has passed since the car crash."

"Handcuffs?"

"Lockpick, back of the belt."

"Convenient."

"Bond! That is not my belt."

"Sorry, Q."

"Careful, Bond. Slip your fingers in the wrong pocket and you might find yourself without a hand."

"Why, Q, that's quite the image."

"Just get it done, I hear footsteps-"

"Hush, I almost have it-"

"Ah, I see you're finally awake, Mr. Bond."

"You have me at a disadvantage, Miss...?"

"No need for names. You gave us quite the chase in Berlin, Mr. Bond."

"If you wanted a private audience, you should have just said the word. No need for a crowd."

"No? I feel that your boy toy will be quite persuasive."

"Don't you dare-"

"My, villain standards are slipping these days."

"Q!"

"I'm quite alright, Bond. Told you to be careful with what you touch."

"What was it?"

"Oh, just a normal, state-of-the-art taser. Disguised as a credit card."

"And you never gave me one?"

"Only good boys deserve nice toys."

#12

Title: tête-à-tête Author: azure3795arts Warnings: none Summary: short conversations -

“—Focus on my voice. Breathe. In then out—”

“Q?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Sorry, but... Getting a little fuzzy.”

“Hold on. Evac on route. 2 more minutes.”

“I”m afraid I’ll have to see you later, Q.”

“What? 007, What do you—wait—”

“Take care of yourself.”

“No. Bond. Bond!”

“You know what they say about sleeping at your table.”

“That I’m dedicated to my work?”

“No. That you’ll drool and get a stiff neck for your trouble.”

“I don’t drool.”

“Sure. I thought I told you to take care of yourself.”

“Don’t you dare use that card with me, Bond.” – “Not after you did.”

“Resurrection. Hobby—”

“Shut up. You don’t have any equipment to turn in, so do us both a favor and get out.”

“Good morning to you, too, Quartermaster. I’ll leave you to it.”

“... Bond.”

“Yes?”

“Welcome back.”

“Thank you.”

“Does M not have more missions for you, or are you just going into early retirement?”

“Well, you saw the medical file, Q—”

“Bold of you to assume I keep track.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t suppose I can tell you to bugger off from my flat?”

“You can.” – “At the risk of abusing an injured personnel.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” – “Whatever. Stay or leave, just pick one and stop bothering me. And don’t disturb the cats.”

“I won’t.”

“Why keep a cot here if you’re not going to utilize it. At least drag your arse on it.”

“You have no right to tell me where to drag my arse, Bond. No right.”

“Yes, and I suppose you didn’t just nearly walk into a wall.”

“That was one time.”

“You can’t keep doing this, Q.”

“What do you—Who is it?”

“Q…”

“Oh, Miss Moneypenny. Come in.”

“Just... Who were you talking to just now?”

“Nothing. No one.”

#13

Title: Lingerie Author: sparklycitrus Warnings: None Summary: Q and Moneypenny have a pleasant chat on a Friday evening off-work.

“Eve, hello. What can I do for you?” “Hello dear boffin. Are you alone?” “Er, yes?” “Oh, good. Don’t worry, nothing disastrous has happened, I just need your expert opinion on a minor personal emergency. Hold one sec, I’m going to call you back on video.” “Video? Wait, what-?” -- “Hello again. Sorry, have I caught you at a bad time after all?” “Pardon my state of undress. I was just getting ready to go out.” “Ooh, is it a date? Who is it? No one I know, I hope.” “Eve – your emergency?” “Right, do change the subject. Well, no matter, here – gold or blue?” “…what?” “Gold, or blue?” “Are those… meant to be worn on a moving body? The construction doesn’t look sturdy enough for, well, anything really.” “You can come up with a detailed improvement plan later. Which one looks better?” “On you?” “No, on M. Of course on me. Tonight. Under a cocktail dress. Personally I like the gold one – makes my bosom look fuller, no? But the blue is a nicer color. And it works better with my shoes.” “…It has to match your shoes?” “What, you think I’m going to stand in a stranger’s bedroom barefoot. What kind of girl do you take me for?” “Uh…right. Apologies. The gold one, then. The brown accents compliment your eyes. The overall structure is more pleasing on a feminine curve. And yes, it does make bosoms look fuller.” “Excellent. Thank you darling. Now carry on with your evening. I shall go get ready myself.” “Ahem, where did you find these anyway?” “An absolutely adorable online boutique! Good prices, too. Why, thinking of getting one for yourself?” “…” “Oh, oh god. You are seeing someone. Oh it better not be–” “Goodbye, Eve. Have a pleasant evening.” “Q–Oi!”

#14

Title: Slip Over Pints Author: ladymars Warnings: No Warnings Apply Summary: R and S try to advise Q.

"I don't know why I let you two drag me here. Three Science Branch heads at the same place outside of Headquarters? There must be guidelines against this." "Well, I think that's 004 flirting with one of the secretaries, if that makes you feel better." "And this place does make M's favourite chips." "So, have another pint and tell us about your little crush..." "Oh, shush, R. It's nothing like that." "Q, dear, I heard you over the roar of the chemical hood. If Bond didn't hear you, he must be deaf from standing too close to explosions." "Hell, I heard you from across the room even. 'Why don't you go and-'" "I know what I said! It was just a slip of the tongue! Nothing more!" "I think you want a slip of something else from him..." "God, S, you're almost as vulgar as the agents. Leave poor Q alone." "If I'm as vulgar as the agents, then Q definitely has a chance with 007. I bet Bond'd appreciate the honesty." "...You'd really think so?" "Q, don't-" "Yeah! You have to be direct with guys like him, or else he's never gonna understand." "Well, I suppose S has a point... Even if he did hear you, he might not have noticed the double entendre." "Ugh, I'd say I was as direct as him driving a car into the side of a building." "He's going to try to justify it like you're justifying it now. Doesn't he spend all his inactive time at Q Branch?" "He hangs out around my Branch to get at the better weapons, obviously." "Or to get at the Quartermaster. We're trying to save you some time here. Turn the slip of the tongue into a slip into bed." "S, honestly, as bad as the agents..."

#15

Title: Not A Contract Author: Shush_MummyWriting Warnings: None Summary: Department heads are always swamped with paperwork.

“Eve, what is this?” “My darling Q, that is an EMP172 form – Official Notification of Intimate Relationship between Staff Members.” “But why is it on top of my Executive Signature pack? Am I supposed to give it to someone – it’s not Robert and that girl from Accounting is it? I’m the Department Head, I shouldn’t have to deal with personal things like this. That's for HR.” “Sweetheart – it’s for you. I even thought I would save you some time, see on page two - I have already filled out James’ details.” “I beg your pardon?” “You and one ruggedly handsome James Bond of course. That fish mouthed look is very unbecoming Q dear.” “But……” “But nothing. It’s just a slip of paper, not a contract. I am quite frankly tired of watching the two of you dancing around each other. It is time you both did something about it. And if you boys ever decide to make it completely official, I expect some credit during the Wedding speeches.” “Check the back page.” “DON'T SNEAK UP ON ME LIKE THAT!” “You’ve already signed it.” “Of course.” “Eve, please shut the door on your way out.” “I’m not going to sign this, until you have taken me out on a proper date.” “I have a booking for us, for tonight, at the Ritz. I’ll pick you up at your place at seven.” “How do you know where – no, never mind. Seven it is.” “And Q, that grey suit you wore to the Ministerial meeting last week, wear that – please.” “Alright. Now get out of my office. See you at seven, 007.” "If we are going to do this, I think you should start calling me James." "James. But call me Q - don't want you slipping up on mission."

Thank you to our amazing drabble writers for their contributions this week!

And thank you to you for reading and voting. You can see the results here.

#LDWS #james bond fanfiction #drabbles #signal boost #writing competition

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arsnovacadenza · 4 years ago

Text

Jeanpoleon fic- Punch-Drunk Love

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Characters: Jean, Napoleon, Mozart, mentions of Sebas, Theo, & Yukari (MC)

Pairings: Jean x Napoleon

Word count: 2388

Rating: T (because drinking)

Napoleon strode in the direction of the dining room. He had just returned from the thermae.

For once, he was completely awake and wasn't drawn into getting back to bed. Perhaps he could pass the night away in the company of wine? Sebastian just talked to him this morning about a possible new batch of wine they've never gotten before.

A new wine to taste? Curious. Napoleon thought. Too bad I have no one to share it with tonight.

But before his thoughts went any further, he began picking up faint, echoing voices as he walked nearer to the banquet hall.

"....I think you're a little too close."

"I think you're imagining things."

Did Napoleon just hear right?

Someone's in the dining room, and from the sounds of it, they seem drunk.

This early in the evening, no less.

So he picked up his pace, his curiosity growing as the voices became clearer.

"Jean, I really do think you're too close."

"I think you're imagining things."

Jean? Slurred? Napoleon unconsciously sped up his power walk, He knew Jean couldn't hold his liquor. Last time, he nearly climbed all over Theo for God's sake!

Back then it was amusing. But for some reason, Napoleon felt that this time he needed to check on Jean and whoever he's drinking with. Without realizing it, the former officer had broken into a sprint.

"It's completely abnormal for our cheeks to be smushed together like this," Mozart muttered as he pushed futilely against Jean’s chest.

"Aren't you the one who's being abnormal?" Jean's lashes brushed against the corner of Mozart's eye.

"Why?" Mozart slurred back.

"Well," a part of Jean's thigh almost rested on top of Mozart's. "Why are you grinning like that?"

"I don't think," the white-haired man tried to break away from Jean's wine-scented breath. "I'm any different than norma-"

"What is going on?"

Mozart's eyes immediately flew to the entrance of the dining room, where Napoleon stood with a hand on his hip. Good God, that hideous cape of him is looking more and more like a curtain with each passing day.

"Mozart? So it was you?" the former emperor's voice boomed oddly against the composer's ears. He tried to dislodge Jean since this scene was getting ridiculous, especially now that's somebody walked in on them."

"I what? There's Jean here if you can't tell," Mozart snapped back. Jean seemed to be lost in his haze, not even realizing that Napoleon had arrived on his scene.

Napoleon, on the other hand, was thoroughly stunned by the scene before him.

They were both sitting with their chairs pulled up against each other, Jean slinging an arm over Mozart's shoulder and pressing one side of his body against him. Mozart himself was apparently too intoxicated to put Jean back onto his seat. Even stranger, the man was smiling ear to ear despite his previous irritable reaction towards both Jean and Napoleon.

As he approached the couple, however, Napoleon's eyes fixed on Jean in a mix of fascination and astonishment.

Napoleon knew he had always been beautiful, but he'd never seen his pale skin stained with a red so rich. The soldier's head was tilted, displaying the curve of his slender neck. The underside of his sharp chin was all bared for the former emperor to see.

Napoleon stared at Jean's lips, lush and glistening from the alcohol. He often wondered why God would grace such features on a man.

Jean's otherworldly beauty betrayed his vigorous physique and excellent combat abilities. Napoleon himself would have to admit defeat if Jean were to utilize all of his vampire strength to fight.

Napoleon shook himself free from those thoughts as he addressed the drunken couple. "Mozart, why did you invite Jean to drink? You know how he responds to alcohol."

Mozart stared up at him defiantly, his grin only making him look more mischievous.

"He asked for it. I agreed so long as he'll keep me company," he answered almost smugly. "Are friends not allowed to drink wine together?"

Napoleon regarded Jean, who detached his face from Mozart's in favor of sitting himself fully on the latter's lap. Isn't this a little too far for even friends?

Napoleon had been the first to react when Jean clambered on Theo. Back then, he was embarrassed and apologized to the brothers afterward (Vincent only laughed and assured that it was fine). While he had watched the scene with amusement at first, his instincts won over when Jean started pressing younger Van Gogh’s face onto his chest.

Even Mozart wasn't as reactionary. What was he, a substitute parent to Jean?

But his reception towards what was happening now made him beg to differ.

He should've been alright with Jean drinking under Mozart's watch. He trusted the man. Jean might come across as naive, but he always kept to himself and never let his trouble burden others. Having a figure like Mozart around was an added safety net, much to Napoleon's relief.

Mozart was helping Jean explore his curiosity as a good friend would. There was no fault in that. He remained docile even when drunk, turned more amicable even. So, where was even the harm?

The problem didn't lie on Mozart. It was Jean.

It had already been borderline frightening when the reserved beauty suddenly let himself loose and ran his hands over another person. Moreover, even a man as sturdy as Theo couldn't free himself from Jean's death grip. The sight could've turned obscene if Jean launched himself on Yukari instead. Napoleon winced at the prospect.

Only now was he able to see the true extent of Jean's drunken behavior. Snuggling up to people, completely letting his guard down, and unknowingly flaunting his allure at unsuspecting spectators.

Jean settled himself back down, now with both legs dangling from Mozart's lap. His hand was now smoothing over Mozart's chest. All while nearly burying himself in Mozart's hair.

Napoleon's free hand gripped the handle of his sword rigidly. This can't be right.

He didn't realize that he was awash with a completely different sort of haze. Yes, it had been Jean's unknown side that caught him off guard, but it was something else entirely that tugged viciously at his heart.

There was just something in the way Mozart grinned right at him as he let Jean climb on his lap, cheeks almost rubbing together.

Are you jealous, Napoleon? his eyes seemed to speak. I bet you are.

Napoleon was appalled by his own reaction. Who's the drunk one here?

Without thinking, he bent over the two and scooped Jean right from on top of Mozart, unsurprised by the latter's lack of response. He secured Jean's position into a bridal carry.

Mozart lazily leaned back on his chair and eyed Napoleon coolly. "What gives you the right," he muttered.

Napoleon looked down at him with a stern look on his face. "Nothing," he answered briskly. "Just decency."

With Jean safely tucked in his arms, he turned away with a swish of his cape.

Napoleon was in a panic as he strode down the hallway, his hands full of Jean.

Napoleon was in a panic as he strode down the hallway, his hands full of Jean. The man kept rubbing his head against Napoleon's jacket, which made the walk even more awkward.

I have to deposit him somewhere quickly. Napoleon's brain whirred. But where? I don't want to climb up his tower, or we'll both fall.

Without thinking, he returned to his room. With much difficulty, he managed to turn the knob and opened his door without displacing Jean from his position.

After shutting the door with a foot, Napoleon fumbled his way to the bed and gently deposited Jean on his unmade covers. He let the man's feet dangle from the edge of the bed to prevent the boots from dirtying the sheets.

Beside the man, Napoleon sat down in a slump.

How did my evening turn out to be like this? He buried his face in his palm. When I thought about heading out to drink, this wasn't at all what I had in mind.

He snapped from his reverie when he heard a groan from the man next to him. Jean was curling up, obviously comfortable in a bed that's not even his.

Sighing, Napoleon moved over so he could remove Jean's long boots. His previous exasperation melted away as he smiled at Jean's face, still unaware of his surroundings.

Right, I'll spend the night in the attic, then. Napoleon mused. For once, he should sleep in a comfortable bed.

But just as he prepared to turn away, Jean's voice called out to him softly.

"S-stay." He slurred hoarsely.

Napoleon looked back at his vulnerable form. So Jean had been mindful this whole time.

"No worries," Napoleon replied. "I'll call Mozart here. Just wait."

But Jean's still gloved hand was already pawing at the air. "No need... Napoleon, come. Here."

How did he know it was Napoleon?!

Nonplussed, the man whom Jean called stood rigidly and returned to the bedside. Not knowing what to do, he grabbed the beckoning hand with his own.

"You realized it was me?" he whispered, face hovering over the man's prone body. "Jean, I thought you were too delirious to notice."'

Jean's eye gazed up at him. "Your voice...Napoleon." He slowly pulled the hand even closer.

And laid it on his chest, keeping it there. "I heard it...in the dining room."

Napoleon wasn't even sure which was more awkward: his hand on Jean's chest or knowing that Jean was aware of being carried in his arms into his room and laid on his bed. How did this withdrawn ex-soldier become so sticky?

"You!" Napoleon exclaimed. "Never mind. Let me take off my boots first."

If he were to spend the night this way, he'd better make himself as comfy as he could. After kicking his boots away, he hoisted Jean's body so his head would rest on the pillows.

Not knowing what to do, Napoleon sat back against the headboard. He was so overwhelmed with the whole situation it made him dizzy.

Jean tugged on his pants. Napoleon peeked at the man through his fingers. "What do you need?" he asked tiredly.

Without answering, Jean grabbed at the collar of Napoleon's shirt and attempted to drag him down. "Beside... me."

Napoleon, at any other time, would've relented and given him what he wanted without much fuss. But unexpected emotions had racked him tonight, and Jean’s simple request made his face burn hotter than ever.

"Y-you should take that cape off, first." Napoleon never stammered, but he just did. "Your overcoat too. Else you'll be sweating."

With Napoleon's assistance, they managed to take off Jean's cape and outer shirt. It soon joined with Napoleon's outer garments on the floor. The pair also discarded their belts at Napoleon's suggestion.

Now comfortable, Napoleon allowed himself to sink on the bed beside Jean. He hadn't been planning on sleeping, but he was in no mood to talk to the drunken soldier either. He laid on his back, feeling not at all sleepy (though he wished that he was).

Meanwhile, Jean was inching closer to him, completely abandoning the concept of personal space. His arm flailed around, not quite decided on whether it should cling to Napoleon's shoulder or his waist.

Eventually, it rested on the skin of Napoleon's exposed chest. Humming with satisfaction, Jean nuzzled into the side of Napoleon's neck. His silken hair felt soft and ticklish at the same time.

"Mmmm....." Jean breathed against the shell of his companion's ear. "So warm."

"I just got back from the thermae," Napoleon whispered back. "Now, go to sleep. Don't try anything funny."

Grunting, Jean propped himself of before falling on top of Napoleon. This time, he draped his legs over Napoleon's, encasing them in a hook. The man underneath him questioned whether the open palm over his chest could feel the mad drumming of his heart.

He struggled to free his arm from getting crushed under Jean's body in vain. Defeated, Napoleon tried embracing the other man instead, making it so that Jean's weight rested entirely on his body.

It didn't feel all that bad, having somebody else sleep on top of you.

And this is Jean, of all people. Never in my lifetime have I ever imagined that I'd be sharing a bed with Jean fucking d'Arc. And he —it’s a he! Who would have thought! —turned out to be this gorgeous too. Just what is wrong with my life?

What is wrong with me?

Before long, he could hear Jean's soft snore. He'd calmed down, at least for now. Napoleon allowed himself to card his fingers through Jean's hair. "What an evening," He huffed. "Looks like there's no other choice but to join you."

Napoleon shuffled so both were lying on their sides. Gritting his teeth, Napoleon pulled Jean closer, fully aware of the warm breath that’s caressing his jaw.

“See you in the morning, Jean.” Napoleon whispered. “Bonne nuit.”

And so, the French soldiers bid farewell to the night and rested quietly within each other’s arms.

But that’s a secret we’ll keep between us, right?

The next morning, Sebastian came to check up on Napoleon and went “HoLy SHiT”.

#ikevam jean #ikevam napoleon #jeanpoleon #ikemen vampire #drunk on your love story event #riri tries ikevam #I'm so dizzy I need to lay down

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talkfastromance4 · 4 years ago

Text

Ashton snippet

Found this while perusing through old docs, it’s titled ‘Don’t Call Me Angel” and it ends abruptly because I never finished or I don’t know what happened. But here’s a snippet of a TA!Ashton as an art teacher.

Might have to add this to my list of WIPs to finish if it gets good reviews. Let me know what you think :)

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

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Masterlist

• • • •

Ashton has always felt things so deeply. He loves deeply, he rages deeply, he sympathizes deeply and he plays his drums with everything he’s got. He tries to keep his emotions in check but they change like the tides, even he finds it hard to keep up with them.

Ashton lives, breathes and sweats creativity. His passion is seen in his brush strokes, his despair is shown through the negative space of his photographs. Long hours spent in the dark room and sometimes endless nights painting on large canvases in his studio apartment has given him the cliché brooding artist look; dark circles under his eyes complete the look.

When he’s not in the dark room or his apartment he frequents the coffee shop that is the perfect halfway point between his familiar places. It’s called Java Bean and serve the best iced coffee Ashton has ever tasted to tell you the God honest truth and the shop is a literal godsend for being open twenty-four hours.

Ashton’s insides are made of caffeine, paint and a constant ebb and flow of pulsating thoughts and phrases that won’t leave his mind unless he writes them down in his sketchbook. That’s another thing Ashton can never leave the house without, his sketchbook.

It’s large, black and hard covered even though the spine has long since lost the potency of its glue causing it to lie open like a cracked crab. It’s filled with his thoughts, lyrics he can’t get out of his head, small sketches of flowers or images he sees late at night when he dreams (when he gets a chance to sleep).

The book is his vice and he would rather die than ever part with it for Ashton is a closed book with every person (aside from his three best friends) but he opens up fully between those pages.

For his last year at University he’s the TA for his favorite art professor, Miss Dooley who is the perfect amount of scatter-brained and genius. She calls every student ‘pet’ and always has incense or essential oils burning in her classroom.

It has been Ashton’s wish and dream to be an art teacher for high school students, to help those like him who want to stay in their shell reveal who they truly are on the inside.

“Hello, my pet,” Miss Dooley trills in her usual sing song voice as Ashton enters the large art classroom.

He inhales the acrylic paint, the fresh wood waiting to be turned into canvases and the waxy aroma from the oil pastels stowed away in a cupboard. It’s one of his favorite smells in the world, the mediums just waiting to be used and Ashton’s fingers twitch in anticipation to create.

“Hey, Miss D,” he grins making a beeline to her desk at the front of the room. Behind her on the charcoal colored chalkboard is her name in calligraphy with broad strokes of curves and flowers.

‘Advanced Art Multi-Medium’ is written in block letters below her name as well.

“Excited for this year?” she asks rolling around a small was of blue putty in her hands. She claims it keeps her fingers and joints from failing so she’ll always be able to make art.

“Yeah, does it look like we’ll have a good class this year?” he taps the pads of his fingers on the black resin tabletop, a habit he’s always had when he’s anxious.

“Oh, I think so,” she beams her robin’s egg eyes twinkle. “It’s a full class this year, which I have you to thank for my little chickadee.”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“You’ve been the best student for the past six years you’ve been here, my prized pupil and a very handsome fella if you don’t mind me saying.”

Ashton feels the back of his neck heat up from her sentence full of compliments. Surely he’s not the reason for a full class this year? That’s ridiculous.

“I don’t think—“

Before he could finish the double wooden doors swung open and a flood of college students entered and Ashton couldn’t help but judge the first few that came in. He recognized three of the girls in front who were in Delta Zeta which he knew the only amount of creativity in their body was decorating photo backdrops.

Apart from them the rest of the class he’s seen hanging around the art wing of the school and at some of the showings he was at. At the rear was one of his best friends, Michael Clifford who decided a month ago to dye his hair a deep purple again. Michael smirks at his friend as he takes a seat next to a petite girl opening up a small black notebook.

Ashton let out an exasperated breath through his nostrils at his friend who did not tell him he’d be taking this class.

“ . . . Twenty- three . . . and twenty-four. Excellent! We’re all here!” Miss Dooley claps her hands together and moves to the front of her desk to smile sweetly at her pupils. “I recognize some of your faces but welcome to Advanced Art! I am Miss Dooley and this young man next to me is Ashton Irwin who will be my aide for this year. Would you like to inform them what this year will consist of?”

Ashton clears his throat then steps forward to stand next to Miss Dooley but ends up leaning his back against the counter behind him. He wanted them to see he was relaxed.

“Hey everybody. This year will be about using different mediums and creating something great out of them and also finding your niche in your art. Every class you’ll have five sketches of a landscape or a self-portrait or anything else that catches your eye. If you don’t have a sketchbook I recommend getting on.”

Every eye is on him and he is making a point not to look anywhere near Michael in the back. He clears his throat again before continuing.

“Your final exam for the first semester will be the beginning of your portfolio which will show the progression of your ‘voice.’ When—“

“Our voice?” a platinum blond of the Delta Zeta trio asks with her hand in the air, a confused pout on her glossed lips.

Ashton folds his arms across his chest, the leather of his jacket squeaks from the motion.

“Each artist has a voice in their work, a certain style that is all their own. That’s why when you see the blurred colors of a lily pond you know it’s Monet or the small pointed brush strokes and vivid colors of Van Gogh. Art is a voice for when you don’t know what to say, you can convey so much emotion into it. By the end of the year I want to be able to tell who’s piece is who’s, that’s how prominent it needs to be.

“If you don’t think you have it in you or won’t rise up to the challenge of being vulnerable, then I suggest you drop the class. Some people really want to be here and create art, I don’t want you to be deprived of that.”

He stands there eyeing each and every person almost daring one of them to stand up and walk out. A motion of a hand raise catches his eye in the back, he thinks it’s Michael and is ready to kick his friend out if he makes a rude comment. But it’s not Michael, it’s the girl sitting next to him.

“Yes, pet?” Miss Dooley calls on her.

“How many pieces should be in our portfolio?” she asks in a gentle voice but with sureness behind it.

“However many it takes to find your voice,” Ashton answers her. She nods then bends over her notebook to write furiously on the page.

“Well, since no one has jumped ship, let’s start off with a little exercise. Turn to the person you share a table with, introduce yourself and sketch them while you get to know each other. You will be each other’s buddies for the semester. Begin, my pets,” Miss Dooley claps her hands together again and all the students shuffle around for pencils and paper.

» » » » »

It’s a Friday night and Ashton is sitting in his favorite booth at Java Bean with his sketchbook out and earphones in to block out the small chatter of other college students. His first week of class as a TA went really well, a lot of the students showed promise. To his amusement Michael’s first sketches were of the little succulents he has scattered about his apartment.

Ashton was pleased that they took him seriously and Miss Dooley always offered her help and guidance to those who had questions. None of the students had approached Ashton but he was fine with that, he’s still learning by watching Miss Dooley interact with them.

Ashton’s hazel eyes landed on Michael and Calum approaching his table as he sipped at his black coffee. He licks his lips watching them approach with shit eating grins on their faces and he reluctantly removes his earphones. He closes his sketchbook with a soft thump, slightly glaring at his friends. They know better than to interrupt him while he’s drinking coffee and immersed in his sketchbook.

“Hey teacher,” Michael snickers pulling up a chair from the next table over. He slumps down in it with his fingers twiddling in his lap while Calum spins the chair opposite Ashton around and straddles it.

Calum pulls his dark gray beanie down lower over his ears then rests his chin on his elbows.

“Can I help you with something?” Ashton sighs leaning back in his own chair.

“Luke’s throwing a party tonight,” Calum begins, “a back to school rager, if you will.”

“Good for him.”

“C’mon Ash,” Michael whines leaning forward on his knees. “Come party with us like old times.”

“You mean like when we were freshman and your head caught fire?” Ashton quirked his eyebrows up.

“We were young and dumb then,” Michael waves it off. “Come on, it’ll be great. The girl I sit next to in your class will be there.”

“And?”

“What girl?” Calum pipes up.

“And she’s cute,” Michael shrugs, “and it will be fun for you to get out of your little hermit hole you’ve set up here.”

“I dunno guys. I want to get up early tomorrow to take some photos of the waterfall. In my photography class I’m doing a series of different locations throughout the seasons, and I think the—“

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Calum interrupts holding his hand up. “Just . . . come hang out with us before you get neck deep in your work, yeah? Just for a few hours.”

Ashton rolls his eyes then sighs before giving in.

“All right, fine. I’ll come.”

“YES! The Ash Man is back!” Michael hollers clapping his friend on the back and the other customers turn to look over in irritation.

“You’ve never called me that,” Ashton says gathering his stuff in his shoulder bag, “and don’t start now.”

The party was like any other party Ashton has been to in his college career, granted it is a bit tamer than when they were all freshman and sophomores. For the most part everyone had their clothes on which relieved Ashton. He hated having to try and wrangle whoever it was to get their clothes back on.

The townhouse was stuffy with vape smoke making the air foggy, beer and liquor filled his nose and he felt the music course through his body.

“Hey, you brought him!” Luke exclaims with a large smile. His arms are raised bringing Ashton in for a tight hug. “Glad you’re here, buddy.”

“Thanks man,” Ashton says tousling the younger guy’s golden curls.

“Drinks are in the kitchen, but I think I hear a shot of fireball calling your name,” Luke wiggles his eyebrows dragging the guys into the kitchen.

“I haven’t had fireball since New Year’s two years ago,” Ashton chuckles.

“Ashton! Hey!”

His head snaps when he hears his name then wishes that he hadn’t. The voice belonged to Breanne Thomas, a girl he used to hook up with on and off a few years back. She was even the model for some of his photography assignments.

“Oh, hey, Breanne,” he nods politely then shuffles past her into the kitchen. He did not want to relive old times with her at the moment.

“Yikes, sorry, mate,” Calum says handing him a shot glass filled with the golden liquid.

“Whatever, let’s cheers to a new year,” he shakes it off holding his glass up in the air. They all clink and down the shots heartily. Ashton remembers the burn as it travels down his throat and into his stomach.

As the night progresses he becomes pleasantly buzzed and that’s when he knows to stop. He just stumbles out of the bathroom when he hears his name being called and looks up to see Michael waving him over near the back of the house to the backyard.

Ashton pushes through the bodies, waves of weed swirl around his head and it’s so strong he’s sure he’ll get a contact high from it. When Michael becomes more in view he notices the girl from his class standing next to him.

“This is Lennox Hastings,” Michael introduces with a loopy smile. “Lennox Hastings this is Ashton Irwin. Our teacher. My best friend.” A small hiccup escapes him.

“Hi,” she smiles shyly at Ashton, “And it’s just Lennox. You don’t have to use my last name Michael.”

“It’s a badass name, Lennox Hastings! I have to say it all. You should show him your notebook, he’s got one too. Oops, I’ve got to go. Bye!”

He skirts away into the crowd and Ashton shakes his head at his drunken friend then turns to Lennox who now looks oddly familiar now that he knows her name. Apart from seeing her in his class he swears he’s seen her somewhere else before, but where? Or did she have a twin?

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with him as a table partner,” Ashton apologizes and she laughs lightly.

“He’s not so bad. He’s fun to talk to when I’m not working.”

“How’re you liking the class so far?”

“It’s good, I’ve been looking forward to it since I got here, actually. I was in all advanced classes in my high school and I’ve heard how amazing Miss Dooley is.”

“Yeah, she’s great,” he smiles then glances around at their surroundings. There’s a couple making out against the fridge and Ashton realizes it’s Calum and some short blond haired girl. “You wanna step outside? Get some fresh air?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” she smiles opening the door.

Ashton picks up two water bottles from the bucket on the counter then follows her into the warm August night. The screen door swings shut behind him, he inhales deeply and sits on the gliding bench besides Lennox.

“Thanks,” she says taking the water bottle from him and takes a sip. “This isn’t weird, is it?”

“What isn’t weird?”

“Us being out here? You’re basically my teacher,” she laughs nervously.

“Nah, I’m just an aide. I’m not a teacher yet,” he grins at her.

Now that he’s not inside the house with loads of distractions all around, he can finally get a good look at her. She looks familiar for some reason now as he stares at her in the yellow porchlight. Her auburn hair is pulled up in a half ponytail with some fly aways clinging to her round cheeks. Her eyelashes are long atop her doe eyes and Ashton finds himself wishing to see what type of blue they are and if he could paint them.

“You’ll make a good one,” she says pulling him from his wandering mind.

“Ya think?” he leans back and rocks the glider back and forth slowly, it creaks and groans as he does.

“Yeah, you control the room well and I can tell how passionate you are about art.”

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly. He’s never been able to take compliments well, whether it’s about his art or himself. “How’re the rest of your classes going?”

“Okay so far, lots of work already in my poetry class and advanced art,” she gives him a sly smirk and nudges his ribs playfully with her elbow.

“You write?”

“Mhm. Wrote a lot this summer, great inspiration,” she says grimly.

“That’s good, right? I’ve heard writers block is shit.”

“It is.”

“So what inspired you?” he turns his body so he’s angled towards her more.

Lennox shakes her head, a piece of hair clings to her lip and Ashton desperately wants to pull it away.

“I don’t want to bore you with my heartbreak, Mr. Irwin,” she says.

“Please, call me Ashton,” he grimaces at the title. “I’m an artist, too, remember? Heartbreak makes the artist.”

“You already know it, though, the cliché story of girl meets boy. Girl falls for boy and they date and commit but then the boy gets a record deal and leaves girl behind.”

“Wait,” Ashton sits up straighter when he heard record deal. “You aren’t talking about Harry Styles, are you?”

“You know him, huh?” she says airily.

“Yeah, we don’t get along very well. At all, actually,” he chuckles.

“How come?”

“That’s not important right now. I’m sorry he hurt you.”

• • • •

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mnthpprt · 4 years ago

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Chapter 23: Drawings And Diatribes

Today is the opening of Theo’s exhibition. I asked Sebastian for the evening off so I could go see it. Vincent’s paintings will be there, and I am curious to see if his style has changed much since he became a vampire. His art was always my favorite.

The Van Gogh brothers left earlier to set it up, so I take a carriage by myself to the city center. The place is already buzzing when I arrive. Vincent spots me when I walk in and greets me with a bright smile.

“Anaïs! I’m glad you made it, I want to show you something,” he says, taking my hand. I let him guide me through the crowd to the corner of the gallery, and we come to a stop in front of a small painting. It is a portrait of a woman in a yellow dress, with long dark hair flowing lose over her shoulders as she waters a potted white orchid.

“That’s me,” I gasp. I recognize my own face in the thick brushstrokes. The dress le Comte gave me and my green eyes are vivid with color against the dark background. It is truly beautiful. I throw my arms around Vincent and pull him into a hug, which he hesitantly returns. “I love it! I can’t believe my all time favorite artist painted me without me even knowing,” I laugh. “This is a dream come true.”

“Am I really your favorite?” Vincent asks shyly once I let go, scratching the back of his head.

“Of course. That use of contrasting colors! That impasto! Ah, I love everything about your art,” I reply with a smile.

Shakespeare approaches us and takes my hand to his lips in his usual old fashioned greeting. I didn’t know he would be here, but I’m not too surprised. I remember le Comte saying he and Vincent were friends.

“Guillaume, what a surprise. Here to support Vincent?”

“That, and to speak to thee, my lovely rose.” I playfully roll my eyes. He’s only calling me that to annoy me. “Now that thou hast come to the exhibition opening, I can’t help but feel a little jealous. I am premiering a new play on Friday, and it would be an honour if thou came to see it.”

“I can’t say no if you ask me like that,” I shrug, smiling. I spot Theo in the background, discussing business as usual, and quickly excuse myself. I want to congratulate him for putting this together. It seems to be quite successful, so far. “I’ll be there, I promise.”

I let go of Shakespeare’s hand and walk away. The art collector that Theo was talking to leaves him to go look at the other paintings, and I poke his shoulder with a finger.

“This is amazing, Theo,” I say when he turns around, before standing on my toes to greet him with a peck on each cheek. “You’re a great curator. Look how many people showed up!” He has good taste, clearly, and everyone can see that. I am not as knowledgeable in what constitutes ‘good art’ as I am in how to prevent it falling apart, but I have spent enough time in museums to know what a good exhibition looks like. This one is excellent.

“Thanks, hondje,” he replies. Judging by the lack of cutting remarks, he is in a good mood. The hint of a smile on his face makes dimples appear on his cheeks, which I find absolutely adorable. Too bad I rarely see it.

I’m more of a cat person, really,” I chuckle at his nickname. Ever since the ‘snack’ debacle, he uses it more often than he does my actual name, and Vincent kindly translated it for me. Theo scrunches up his face in disgust, making me laugh, and I leave him to do his own thing. With the amount of potential buyers that came tonight, he’s going to be busy.

For the next hour or so I simply observe the rest of the paintings. That is, until a bearded man approaches me. He looks somewhat familiar, although I can’t pinpoint where I’ve seen his face before.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. Are you the lady in that painting over there?” He recognizes me from Vincent’s portrait.

“I am,” I nod. The stranger furrows his brow thoughtfully, staring at me, and I feel a slight blush creeping over my cheeks.

“The artist did a wonderful job of capturing your likeness. I wonder how you managed to pose so naturally,” he ponders out loud.

“Oh, I didn’t. I just went about my day like I usually would, but I had no idea he was painting me.” The man keeps staring art me in silence, so I feel the need to explain. “The artist is my friend. I have been staying in his home for the past couple weeks.”

“I love it,” he mutters through his bushy beard. “No posing, no artifice, just the natural, unadulterated gaze of a friend... I should write about that.”

The lightbulb in my head lights up after hearing his words, making my eyes widen in recognition. I know where I’ve seen him. His photograph was on the back of the book I read on the airplane when I came to Paris.

“You’re Émile Zola,” I simply state, and he laughs.

“The one and only. I take it you’ve read my work, then?”

Holy shit. My stay here keeps getting more interesting: in the past week I have made out with Leonardo da Vinci, been painted by Vincent van Gogh, and now I am talking to the Émile Zola, the father of literary naturalism. I could swoon, if I had not frozen in place.

“I absolutely adored L’Œuvre,” I blurt out, “I recently finished reading it.” I regret saying that immediately. Fuck, what if it hasn’t been published yet? I messed up.

“I am glad to hear that. It received a lot of critique when it was first published.”

I breath out in relief. That was a close call. I should probably stop freaking out about historical figures’ work if I want to avoid letting on about their future. This magnificent writer before me has no idea that in a few months he will risk his entire career to expose the Dreyfus Affair, which hasn’t even happened yet.

“Yeah, I don’t understand the hate for impressionism either,” I say, looking back at Vincent’s painting. Though most of his work is technically postimpressionist, the paintings in the exhibition fit in with the time’s most transgressive styles, but I can still see his essence peak through. I figured le Comte would want his art to blend in a little better to avoid attention. “I personally prefer it. You know, ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’, and all that. People just need to respect others’ eyes, even if they don’t see the same as theirs.”

Zola lets out a chuckle and strokes his beard.

“I like you, mademoiselle...”

“Hondje!” Before I can give him my name, Theo interrupts. “We’re going to the tavern, you coming?”

“Sure, wait for me!” I turn to Zola, smiling. “Anaïs. My name, I mean. Thanks for the chat,” I say, excusing myself with a nod. I look back over my shoulder to see the author waving at me with an amused smile.

I catch up to Theo outside, where Vincent and Shakespeare are already waiting. Arthur is there, too, even though he did not visit the exhibition.

“Fancy to see you here, dove,” he says when he sees me, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Alright, I know an excellent place just two blocks from here. Let’s hurry before they run out of tables.”

“I’m actually pretty tired,” says Vincent. “I think I’ll just head home.”

Theo gives him a brotherly pat on the back, and I hug him goodbye. After he leaves, Shakespeare, who has been silent until now, chimes in.

“Alas, I must retire for the night as well.” He takes my hand to kiss it once again, and I notice Arthur and Theo share a meaningful glance. “I shall see thee on Friday, Anaïs. Farewell.”

He walks away too, leaving the three of us alone. Once I’m sure Shakespeare is too far to hear us, I immediately turn to the two men standing next to me.

“Okay, what was that about?”

“Theo hates Will,” Arthur chuckles. “He’s jealous because he spends time with Vincent, aren’t you, little brother?” he teases the other, playfully nudging him with his elbow.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Theo replies with a scowl. Then he turns to me. “Do not believe a word he says, hondje. This fool wouldn’t know a dog if it bit him in the ass, let alone what someone else is thinking.”

I laugh at the two of them bickering, before I double down on my inquiry. Arthur never really explained what the deal is with Shakespeare, but it’s clear that something else is going on.

“No, but really. Why are you all so weird around him?”

“We can discuss it over a few drinks!” Arthur declares cheerfully. I know he is just trying to distract me, but his fun attitude is contagious.

“Hell yeah, drinks!” I exclaim. Theo remains silent, looking angry as always, so Arthur and I begin chanting the word until he gives in.

“Fine by me,” he finally agrees with a shrug. I close my hand and push it towards Arthur, trying to give him a fist bump, but of course, he has no idea what that is. He stares at me with a raised eyebrow, and I grab his hand, gently bend his fingers, and bump it against my own, showing him how it works.

“Is this something people do in your time?” he asks, intrigue visible on his face.

“Mh-hm,” I nod. “Sort of like a celebratory gesture. We convinced Theo to drink with us, so now...” I explain, holding up my fist again. He does the same, bringing it to touch mine. “Fist bump.”

“Huh, it’s quite curious,” Arthur muses. “Fun, even.”

“I think it looks silly,” Theo chimes in. I shrug, letting out a chuckle.

“Maybe, but I think you’re just jealous.”

He rolls his eyes and begins walking away from the gallery, with Arthur not far behind. I follow, hoping that it’s not very far. The sky has been unusually cloudy today, and it might start raining any second.

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ultimaa · 5 years ago

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OFFSIDE

Two shot

PART I

Summary: "You’re young, attractive and rich, but Martinique stands between you and the love of your life. Damn, I'm happy I'm not you."

Eren had two sacred rules during his holidays: no football, no social media and no England. These purposes involved moving a thousand kilometers from his apartment in Liverpool to enjoy a peaceful summer in his native Shigansina, a small town in southern Germany where everyone knew each other. There he was simply Dr. Grisha's boy. "Really? Come on, man, go to French Polynesia or Dubai," his partner Connie Springer said. "Shigan-what? Okay, don't mind me. I’m sure parties are great in your town..." Honestly, Eren spent his days off sleeping and playing video games. Sometimes he jogged — after all, he earned his salary thanks to his body — and drunk HB beer, but what he liked most was the feeling of making up for lost time. He loved football and played in one of the best clubs in the world, history would seat him at the same table as Ian Rush, Michael Owen or Steven Gerrard. He loved Anfield, but he was too young when he said goodbye to the field of earth soccer and was taken to Melwood, where his parents visited him once a month. At the age of twenty-six, with a brilliant career, Eren Jaeger returned to Germany like an elephant going to die in a cave, with his family, and then repeated the cycle of nostalgia. However, that year would be different.

The Jaeger couple celebrated their 25th anniversary and they organized a small party with relatives and close friends. Only Eren Kruger, best man, who was in a submarine five thousand meters deep, was absent. As for the others, they all attended: Zeke and Pieck, who had come from Berlin, Aunt Faye, Keith Shadis (Eren’s Godfather), Tom Xaver (Zeke’s Godfather), Hannes, Armin and his grandfather, Kuchel Ackerman (bridesmaid), Kenny Ackerman (usher) and Levi Ackerman. Grisha did not like parties, but Carla settled the discussion with a resounding statement: "Silver anniversary aren’t celebrated every day, darling."

While Hannes, old Arlet, Pieck and Kuchel made a beef stew and the couple danced to the sound of Wiener Blut in the sitting room, Eren opened a bottle of beer and toasted with Armin and Zeke.

"You’re the only one, brother," Zeke pointed out. "You’ll retire bachelor. With ten Golden Balls, but a bachelor."

"The golden bachelor," Eren corrected. "Hey, Armin, you're single too."

"Annie and I are taking some time." His best friend shrugged.

Zeke laughed. He was a cardiologist. "I understand the heart much better than you... in all aspects," he used to say. And it was probably true: he was married to Pieck and the ring did not bother him yet.

"Really? She has been in Australia for two months. Do you know how long Australians last in bed, huh? About seventeen minutes, behind only the Americans, the Canadians and the English. As for the Germans, only eight percent have participated in a trio. If I were you, I'd start to worry."

"Did you just tell me I'm a bad lover?"

"No. Statistics, Armin. Information."

"This dude is like that." Eren took a sip. "He throw the stone and hides the hand."

"I have no interest in offending the virility of the Germans. I'm German, in case you haven't noticed. Siegfried is my grandfather and every Friday I go drinking with Wagner, but not all women know how to appreciate the Central European charm. Also, Melbourne is one of the best cities to live."

"Annie is in Sydney."

"See? That's precisely the problem." Zeke finished his beer and put a hand on Arlet's shoulder. "You know exactly where she is, but does she remember you? When a woman puts fifteen thousand kilometers between her and her partner, she only has one goal: to forget. And while she builds her new beginning, you water her plants."

"I still wonder how you seduced Pieck," Eren said. "Did you take her to dinner with Kaiser Wilhelm and Angela Merkel?"

"Actually, she won me. Well, I fell into the trap. I thought I could escape later. I was wrong and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I ain’t immune to women either."

Zeke showed a wide smile. He was blond and had a magnificent bearing. When the waltz was over, he congratulated Grisha and gave him a beer. Then he hugged Carla and cleared his voice. They all looked at him.

"This woman you see here is suicidal: marrying a Jaeger is dangerous, but marrying a divorced Jaeger with a child is deadly. The first time I saw her I was seven years old and I thought: Will she be like Miss Rottenmeier? No, thanks to God. I had always been Ezekiel, but she started calling me Zeke and that's how my friends, my coworkers and my wife call me. In a way, he baptized me. She ain’t my father's wife or my stepmother. Sorry, Eren; Being an only child is wonderful, but she’s also my mother and I would like us to toast her, the woman who brought us together here today. Cheers! Who’s in charge of the music? Auntie, put Spring’s Voices on. Eren and I are gonna dance."

"Wonderful idea." Armin laughed. "Football? As Martha Graham said, dance is the hidden language of the soul."

"You bastards." Eren took his brother's hand.

"Don't step on my shoes."

Among the music and the wild laughter of Kenny and Hannes, Eren did not realize what was about to happen. No clairvoyant would have guessed it. He looked sideways and saw her appear: black hair, aviator sunglasses, and a cigarette between her lips. White rolled-up shirt, capri pants and strappy sandals. He lost concentration and Zeke roared with laughter. He knew, of course. The last time he saw her was on the eve of her trip to Martinique, where she had spent the past year. The waltz ended and they both bowed. Eren did not want to raise the head. Why had no one warned him?

"Levi told me she came back last night," Zeke whispered.

Eren did not even hear the applause. He quickly returned to Armin, who was chatting with Keith Shadis, a retired military man, about the Ardennes Counteroffensive and the Nuremberg Trials. "I am almost sure," said his friend, a historian, "that Franz von Papen died in '69."

"Mikasa is here," Eren hissed.

"I know," he nodded, "and I'm gonna greet her, she's my lifelong friend and I'm glad to see her. You should do the same. Don't think about what happened."

"Did you know? Armin!"

His friend approached her. Great. Eren slipped out into the garden with a couple of beer cans and sat down on a wooden bench. Pretend you don't care, he thought. It belongs to the past, that's it! Fuck! You have to call it by its name: pain. Before she left, they drank like a fish and ended up going to bed. That was last summer. They had not spoken about it since then. He could already hear wise and eminent Zeke Jaeger’s voice: "So you haven’t had a girlfriend since Christ was crucified, but you shag with your best friend. Da ya need to talk, Eren?" Shit! Maybe he needed to tell someone how much her decision to go to Martinique hurt when he declared her love. She had a degree in Arts, so she was offered to do a study about Paul Gauguin, who spent a time on the island. So Zeke would say: "The Caribbean? I'm sorry, brother, I'm so sorry. You and Armin can cry together."

Eren was in love with her. It is one of those truths that one understands with a broken heart. And this led him to reject the insinuations of several, too many women in recent months. There were rumors that he was gay.

"Look who's here: Reds’ Hunter," Mikasa greeted him. "Can I sit?"

"You can do whatever you want." Eren was not angry, but a little drunk. He scratched his right arm; Delacroix's Liberty was tattooed from shoulder to elbow; Lower down, on the forearm, Goya’s Colossus collapses the Berlin Wall. On the inside of the doll, an M. Again, he could hear his brother's voice calling him an idiot.

Mikasa sat next to him. Her skin was not as pale as before: Caribbean tan. The serious mouth was the same and the gray eyes had not changed. She had a fine scar on her right cheek.

"Congratulations on winning the Premier."

"Yeah, well, first in Liverpool's history." Eren groaned. "How did it go with Gauguin?"

"Excellently. Van Gogh said that Gauguin didn’t paint with the brush, but with the phallus. However, mayby he didn’t die of syphilis..."

"Are you kidding me? Do you congratulate me on the championship and talk about Gauguin's cock?" He let out a sardonic laugh. "If that's all you have to tell me after all this time..."

"This is neither the time nor the place".

"I don’t care. We fucked, Mikasa."

"I know. I was there."

"Really? Because sometimes I think about it and it seems a mirage. You've been avoiging the matter a whole year, a fucking year. You show up at my parents' party like nothing's wrong and talking about fucking Gauguin." Eren paused. "Annie is in Australia. Do you know how long Australians last in bed? Seventeen minutes. How long do Martinicans last?"

"I know what you're implying," Mikasa said seriously, "and you're wrong, Eren. You’re very wrong. Do you think I would be able to do that after sleeping with you?"

Carla Jaeger interrupted them; the meal was ready. They were not hungry, but an inexplicable feeling oppressed them: Eren's blood boiled; Mikasa's was frozen.

"When you want us to talk as adults, let me know," she said.

Adults! Eren said nothing. He sat between Zeke and Armin, who gave him a questioning look. Eren sighed and started eating. He remained oblivious to all the conversations, sharing looks with Mikasa, sitting next to her uncle Kenny. One year had passed and perhaps he was angry, but he winked al her. She smiled and caught the kiss Eren discreetly sent her, and showed her thumb.

"Okay," Zeke said, after wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Have I ever told you about friendship between men and women? No, because it’s impossible. Were you and Annie ever friends, Armin?"

"Huh… Yeah?"

"No. You wanted to have sex, but you didn't tell her."

"I know you know," Eren whispered.

"I’ve known for a long time. In fact, I knew it before you did, bro. You were like Heidi and Peter, and now, if you were alone, this would become Nine and a half Weeks.

For Zeke it was too obvious, but what about the others? Eren looked at them closely. They talked about politics, football, past... Levi was the only one who remained silent. He was not a very talkative man, unlike his mother and uncle. Kuchel and Kenny talked and laughed like no one else. As for Mikasa, whose premature orphanhood led her to grow up with them, her character was soft; silent, good listener and without his cousin’s curtness. Did she tell someone what happened? Maybe Sasha Braus? After the meal, Eren felt adult enough.

The whole evening passed pleasant between anecdotes and skat hands. Keith Shadis left around six in the afternoon; He had to return to Munich for work. As for the others, Carla insisted that they stay for dinner. While Grisha and Zeke had a scholarly conversation about the latest advances in medicine, Kenny was laughing loudly with Mikasa by his side.

"I never imagined that we would have an artist in the family."

"I'm an art historian," Mikasa pointed out.

"If God doesn’t give you children, Devil gives you nephews." Kenny lit a cigarette. "Ackermans have always been country people. Levi was the first to go to university; He was already a whiz since childhood. Fortunately, Mikasa followed suit.

"What is Martinique like?" Carla asked.

"Quiet. When it rains, goodbye internet and light, and of course I have to mention mosquitoes, humidity, heat and earthquakes," she paused, "but people are lovely and the landscapes are spectacular. They are exactly like on postcards. Oh, and the accra is very good."

"We could go on vacation, honey." Zeke looked at Pieck. "I'm tired of Sardinia."

"But you have to be careful with snakes," Mikasa continued, smiling. "I was bitten by a eyelash viper. Nothing serious, but I wouldn’t repeat the experience."

"One year has been enough, hasn't it?" Eren, who was playing cards with Armin, had his ears set on the conversation.

"Yes. For now I will stay here I’ll go to Munich in September to work at the Alte Pinakothek."

"It's fantastic," said Armin.

"And you’ll be close," added Kuchel.

So Munich. However, Mikasa commented on the possibility of another trip. She specialized in Impressionism and did not rule out settling in France. After dinner, when it was time to say goodbye, Eren pulled out his cell phone and wrote her a message: "Do you wanna talk?" She looked sidelong at him and replied, "Come home tomorrow. We will be alone." Jaeger thought about that last one; He smiled, pleased, and quickly typed, "Good."

They all left except for Zeke and Pieck, who would spend a few days in the village before returning to Berlin. It was like going back fifteen years ago, when they still crowd around under one ceiling. Carla loved having them all there. Her good character led her to have an excellent relationship with her daughter-in-law. Grisha was pleased with the situation; He played chess with Zeke for hours, in total silence. Eren used to watch them, attentive to the gestures, wondering how they could drag on a duel that long. And it all ended with one word: "Checkmate."

Zeke followed him into the garden with a cigarette on the lips. He had tried to stop smoking, but there are things a man can never give up, like mentholated Camel.

"You don't smoke, do you? What a pity. One or two cigarettes once in a while doesn't hurt anyone, Mr. Perfect Abs." Zeke blew out the smoke. "Munich. A wonderful city, especially in October."

"We’re gonna talk tomorrow."

"One day I take a look at the yellow press and I see you with Historia Reiss, and I think you're a lucky bastard. You’re young, attractive and rich, but Martinique stands between you and the love of your life. Damn, I’m happy I’m not you."

"I love you too." Eren frowned.

"I’m trying to help you. Don't screw it up, okay? A bad step now and you will regret it all your life." His brother clapped him on the back. "Now If you can excuse me, I'm going to make love to my wife in my fifteen-year-old room."

"I didn't need to know that."

…

Having the house to herself, Mikasa went down to have black tea. Frugal breakfast, as always. She felt like an intruder in her own town and jet lag was not benevolent. She wanted to stay in bed, she’s just got ants in her pants. She did push-ups and thought about the last exhausting year. Operation Gauguin, as she called it, had been a true odyssey. Fuck the Caribbean. She had missed Europe, her family and friends, but duty is duty. As for Eren, she could not reproach him for anything. He was angry. She should not have slept with him before she left; Mikasa kept thinking about it for a moment. Secrets and sex are a bad combination for consciousness. Besides, she left without saying goodbye. She behaved like a real motherfucker and would do it again: sentimentality is not advisable before a possible trip with no return. No, she couldn't listen to Eren's feelings before getting on the plane. Deep down, she suffered from the greatest weakness: love.

She lay down on the floor and closed his eyes. God, the cold slabs were nicer than any bed in the Caribbean. The woman forgot the physical and mental exhaustion when Eren touched the knocker. She took a breath and decided to improvise. The first thing Mikasa noticed was Dior's perfume. He was wearing an unbuttoned black polo shirt, gray jeans, and deck shoes. The three-day beard and dapper cut fit him very well. Those tropical eyes ... Shit!

Silence. Glances. It was inevitable. Eren closed the door behind him and received her kiss in a frenzy. Mikasa bit his lips, tugged at his hair. The man held her prisoner in his arms, sliding his hands down her back, her hips and her neck, anxious and needy. Their mouths were lost in each other's. Eren threw his head back and went deeper, searching for lost time. He licked her lips from corner to corner. The touch of tongues was deadly like a sword dance. They parted, face to face, panting, obscene. Mikasa wanted to make love to him in the middle of the hall and tell him how much she had missed him.

"Did you want to talk?" Eren planted another kiss.

"Yes," Mikasa replied. "I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I have a very interesting story to tell you, but I don't know if it will be more exciting than winning the English league."

"Ok, you know I prefer Monet, but..."

"It has nothing to do with Gauguin." Mikasa took his hand and led him into the living room. If she thought about it, it was a concise thing, but difficult to assimilate. Eren sat down on the sofa. She made him coffee and moved to his side, maturing the words in her head. "It's complicated. If you don't believe it, I get it. I’ve spent more time in Cuba than in Martinique. I haven’t done any study about Gauguin."

"What?" Eren looked at her seriously. "What's going on, Mikasa?"

"I've been working for Interpol for a couple of years. No one knows, only you. Crimes against cultural heritage."

"I don’t get it. What does that have to do with Martinique and Cuba?"

"During Nazism many degenerate works were plundered. Gauguin, Chagall, Klee... Some works were located last year. There was a certain black market for art among many American magnates. That is why I went to Cuba together with a team, to find out the whereabouts of some Gauguin works lost since 38."

"It’s definitely more interesting than winning the Premier." Eren drank from his mug thoughtfully, still amazed. "Was it dangerous?"

"Not much. At least not for me. My job is to see, evaluate and give a verdict, not shooting. Do you think I'm out there drinking Martini and driving an Aston Martin?"

"The idea excites me." The man touched the scar on her face. "And this? I don't remember it. It’s not on the maps that I have of your whole body."

"Then you will have to add it." Mikasa took the cup from him, put it on the table and leaned against him, kissing him calmly and sweetly. For a moment she thought she would never see him again, or maybe he would see her repatriated corpse with a bullet in the head. God! She hugged him and rested her head on his heart. Eren stroked her hair and she trembled at the memory. "It was a shot. I don't know how I'm still alive. I was so lucky..."

"My God," Eren whispered. "Why did you not tell me? Don’t trust me?"

"I know you. Worry wouldn't let you focus."

"Of course not. And now that I know why you left, it will take me a few weeks to recover from my fright. Damn, it hurt so much when you answered my messages as if nothing... I wanted to tell you about my feelings, but you always talked about trivial issues and I thought you didn't care what happened between us. Why?"

"I was scared. I didn't want to think about you or our plans. What would have happened to all those words if I had died? Look at this scar. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. It happened a few days after arriving. It shouldn't have happened, but it did. A rich man held a clandestine exhibition, I infiltrated and they discovered me. I didn't want to tell you that I love you and then die. I don't do things that way."

"And how do you do it?"

"Like this." Mikasa kissed him again.

#eremika #Eren Jaeger #Mikasa Ackerman #eren x mikasa #zeke jaeger #snk #shingeki no kyojin #AoT #attackontitan #fanfic

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everygame · 4 years ago

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Cinco Paus (iOS)

Developed/Published by: smestorp Released: 12/02/2015 Completed: n/a Completion: 33 games, 632 points. Trophies / Achievements: n/a

So, Cinco Paus, then. It’s a game I’ve resisted playing for ages and ages largely because I wasn’t that into Michael Brough’s previous games (I somewhat liked 868-Hack, but I didn’t find it very compelling somehow?) but we got to a point where Metanet’s Raigan Burns just bought it for me so I decided to give it the old college try.

Cinco Paus is incredible. It’s also frustrating, unfair, probably taking the piss when it comes to time investment, and yet something that I managed to lose more time, more intensely on, than any game I’ve played in ages. Like legitimately losing 14 hours to it within the first three days.

It’s an easily misunderstood game, so I’m going to outline (first of all) that you absolutely should play it, unless you’re easily addicted to rogue-likes, in which case you probably shouldn’t. Basically, it goes like this:

You’re a wizard.

You have five wands that you don’t know the behaviors of; each wand does five things. Your goal is to compete FIFTY sets of five levels, which are five by five, by getting to the exit on each level.

Wands do a variety of things. You learn by shooting them (drag them to your wizard and point them in a direction; you can’t use them directly against a wall.) They don’t tell you what the thing they do is unless they do that thing so you can’t tell if it hurts an enemy unless you hit an enemy. But you also can’t tell if it does something good that requires it not to hit an enemy (the “buried treasure” ability) unless it doesn’t hit an enemy!

All the explanations are in Portuguese, so ignore them and just look them up here.

You can pick up items.

Books teach you one thing one wand does.

Gems. Collect five gems and you can unlock an artifact (you can have five) which do one (powerful) thing.

Keys. Collect five keys, which you can only do via wand shenanigans (there’s one key per level, and that always gets used up to unlock doors) and you can find a secret level (a hidden door on a wall that doesn’t contain an exit/entrance already) which will upgrade an artifact. Each artifact can have five upgrades. They’re extremely good.

Potions. Heal you one point. This is valuable, but if you’re at full health you can ignore or transform these.

Treasure. It’s just points! If you’re going for score, these are high risk because they give you nothing else. Transform ‘em early if you can, I say.

After a set of five levels, everything resets except for your gems, keys, score and artifacts. So you “keep” some progress.

If you die: you lose everything and start again.

Oh, and every set of five levels is basically the same; the layouts are close to random, but the selection of enemies you face are consistent; level 3 in your fiftieth game will have the same possible enemy selection as it would have in your first game (recounted in this excellent guide).

You die if you lose your hitpoints; you will generally die because an enemy hit you.

Enemies move after you do, semi-randomly.

If you walk into a space next to them, they will hit you. Do not do this! Make sure they move next to you, and hit them.

There are shrimp, lizards, toads and roosters. You don’t want to slug it out with the toads and roosters.

There are also Ghosts, who are weird; they will hit you if you move next to them, but if you are next to them and you move towards them, they’ll move away. That means you can’t kill them without a wand, but is also means that you can move and not get hit by them even if you think you’re trapped!

That’s… a lot. So you might be asking, what the hell am I doing?

Try and learn as much about the wands as soon as possible each run. If you can, track all the big things a wand can do (did it hit a wall, an enemy, etc).

Don’t get hit, and especially never ever get cornered (two enemies next to you) unless you have a big power that will pay off and kill them. On the first level, if you’re deep in a multi-game run, carefully slug it out with lizards if you would otherwise have to fire at point blank range. There are too many ways for things to go wrong on that first level and taking a couple of hits is more survivable than turning a lizard into a rooster, and then having the beam bounce off corners and duplicate it several times (and then teleport you in the center of them. Which could happen.)

Do whatever you can to get as many gems as early as possible; if you can dupe them, do so. If you can use transform on books/potions/treasure to try and get a gem, do it.

Do whatever you can to get as many extra keys. Upgraded artifacts are so important.

Above all: survive. If you’re fucking up a level, just do whatever to get to the exit. Don’t get greedy. There’s always the next level, or at worst the next set.

Right. So that reads as insanely complicated, I think, but the beauty of Cinco Paus is that it’s actually extremely simple. While there’s a lot of things a wand can do, the things you can do are limited, so the play-space is always extremely understandable (the map is always 5x5; you know you’re getting a particular set of enemies next time, etc.) It’s actually extremely elegant.

The thing about Cinco Paus is that it’s the closest I think I’ve come to truly seeing genius at play in game design. Like, ok, maybe that sounds absurd, but I mean like when you think about a piece of art or music where you think “oh, I could do that” and you probably could, but it’s the idiosyncrasies of the artist that make it something far more interesting and unique and you sort of second guess any critique of that.

I mean listen. This game looks like shit. Just shit. It’s disgusting to look at. I hate it. But maybe that’s totally still necessary to what it is. And I honestly think the decision to make all the text in Portuguese is… problematic? I know it came from a genuine interest in using the language (Brough is, or was, learning it) but that it’s used to make the game more mysterious and alien (for everyone except people who can speak, as he admits, the sixth most spoken language in the world) is kinda… I just don’t think it’s good.

And the thing is, for me it doesn’t add anything. This game could, I think, look crazy polished and feature some brilliant UI and be in English; like it could track all the things you’ve learned in a big database; fuck it could even cross off all the things you’ve tried. The game would still be extremely challenging, and if anything, more enjoyable as a puzzle.

But… would that actually be better? I’m not sure. I really can’t tell, because it’s a bit like saying Van Gogh should have just drawn normally.

So, you know, here’s to the iconoclasts. Fuck knows I’d probably have been a better games journalist if I didn’t put my best writing in a printed zine, you know? I still did it the way I wanted to.

I suppose the question might be though: why have I stopped playing? Well, I died frustratingly in the middle of my greatest run ever as it turns out Roosters had unlocked a way to warp me three runs ago and, despite being well prepared, I was warped by one where I was surrounded and literally couldn’t survive (some people might quibble.) I didn’t feel any rage, I felt pretty proud of getting that far, but the idea of starting the grind again made me really bored.

You see, in order to get to the point where Cinco Paus is really fun, you have to put up with the “starting grind” where with no artifacts yet you have to play loads of times trying to get a good start and get a few artifacts going. That’s potentially hundreds of games, and after bumping up against that for a few days I just said fuck it.

I know, you can’t question genius by my own parameters here, but I think about a similar genius (uh, actually not similar) Jeff Minter, and how he came up with that genius “high score save” where it just saved the game at your highest score each level and you could restart there. You could always restart too. Here I wish I could just pick a random artifact or two and start at level 5 or 10 with less score, even. Because it’s the getting of those that are the ball-ache when you’re so weak and shitey.

But look. It’s probably good. I kicked my habit. But I’m glad I played it. I’m better for it. I’m still not watching the Wire though.

Will I ever play it again? Maybe if he updates it, which I think has been rumoured. I’m taking a big break from Brough but I’ll be back for Imbrouglio though. Actually excited.

Final Thought: There’s no daily seed here, which might have kept me playing, but I realize that he can’t really do that because one person could just tell you what’s coming, plus doing fifty levels is, what… 8 hours or something? It’s wild that I want a game where everything is so restricted to five of anything still maybe streamlined a bit more. But as I said, what do I know? I’m not a genius.

#cinco paus #games #gaming #video games #smestorp #michael brough #ios #text #txt #review #game guide #guide #faq #iphone #ipad

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hyucksong · 6 years ago

Text

nct dream as school tropes [au]

mark; the overworked valedictorian™

the poor babe is overloaded with work,,,,

he has his honors classes, obviously, has to answer to all the prestigious colleges, has to write his valedictorian speech, is the president of the student council, and tutors on mondays and wednesdays,,,RIP mark the senior

catch him at lunch dizzy-eyed at his homework he got that day,,,,boy does homework at lunch

always makes time for his friends because he knows he can’t spend all he time studying,,,,though he tries

his college buddies always tell him it’ll get better when he graduates but mark calls BULLSHIT

he’s seen taeil act like an absolute zombie because of college and,,,,yikes

is always super stressed and everyone can tell, but he’s always happy for his friends and it makes them :(((( because he’s so cute :(((((

you’re a total underachiever at school, you meet because a teacher forces you to receive tutoring,,,,and mark is your tutor

he can feel the migraine just form looking at you,,,so he just plows though the stuff,,,,and sees something surprising….

you actually,,,,get it

he asks you why you underachieve and you literally say ‘because school isn’t stimulating enough’ sO

mark gets the idea to encourage you to learn,,,,and uses cool tactics to get you to study and work hard and you actually have,,,,fun

were kisses part of the motivation?

mayhaps

but the point is you passed your classes and graduated with your valedictorian boyfriend

everyone expects him to go into college for nuclear chemistry or some shit but homeboy,,,,goes into music production,,,,,like what

his friends? not surprised

the entirety of the school population? astounded

you celebrate by renting him a studio for a whole month and he legit,,,,cries because it’s the most thoughtful gift ever

and he thanks you by writing a song for you and singing it for you and he pulls you in once it’s done and kisses you til you can’t breathe

and then you’re very happy that you spent so much money on renting the place

he continues to rent the place even after the initial month because it holds so many memories of his friends and you

this time mark goes at his own pace in college,,,,he doesn’t overwork himself on things he doesn’t enjoy,,,,homeboy is happy

and that’s what matters

renjun; the smart alec ™

boy has the –__– face 25/8

he’s an unapproachable KING

he’s just a smart junior who couldn’t give two shits since ,,,you broke your leg and need help going up the stairs? he’s not your fuckin mom

but also,,,,buddyboy is a HUGE softy,,,,like dogs? you mean angels of purity and the sinners AKA humans don’t deserve them

he’s close as fuck with his family,,,,is a true babyboy

is he going to be the next valedictorian? yes. will he be overworking himself? no. he’s already seen mark,,,,sis ain’t pretty after exams

renjun is very naturally smart,,,,and that gives him a little pride , so he’s also very prideful and sarcastic

his humor is dry, existential and sarcastic, a proud squidward descendant

he looks pissed all the time but is actually just very deep in thought and too busy not caring to look nice

either comes to school in a smart casual outfit or looking soft™,,,,cute or intimidating, nothing in between

is he taking A1 notes? yes. is he also doodling on the margins? hell yes.

he owns several coffee table books filled with Monet, van gogh, frida kahlo, Picasso, Renoir, Cezanne…etc.

he’s a huge art nerd and would love to go to school for graphic design or something

his phone screen saver is always a baroque painting because….aesthetic and the technique? can you believe how beautiful it looks like most of that shit was fresco and that shit is hARD –

he meets you because he goes to an art exhibition by himself on the weekend and sees a painting that was so beautiful he almost cried,,,like damn

he asked the curator who tf drew that good shit and it was YOU,,,yes YOU!!!

he does internet stalking and learns you actually go to his school your just a recluse and you’re very introverted

he finds you (somehow) and asks is he can paint with you sometime,,,you say yes and you two meet at the studio on that saturday

and the saturday after that

….and then the saturday after that

long story short, he paints you painting (paint-ception) and uses it to ask you on a date,,,,uwu shit right there man

no one thinks he loves his neck to be touched,,,because he WILL stab whoever tries,,,,but with you….he’ll let it happen

he gives the softest kisses,,,like he’s scared of you but melts when you kiss his nose and it makes him :( soft

almost yeeted haechan out the three-story window of your studio when he tripped and spilled oil paints all over your painting

you stopped him with a kiss,,,,,you cute bitch

jeno; the gold-hearted jock™

the only time he looks intimidating is when he’s playing basketball,,,,that’s it,,,,

everyone knows how cute he is, even teacher’s know! the principal! the president! this bitch is cute!

a junior that’s so good at b-ball that he was offered a spot at several colleges,,,,several

he’s average at school, his notes are the most basic shit ever,,,,he hates science and math but can somewhat tolerate history and languages

he’s popular with girls involuntarily, was very confused when girls started to confess to him

always smiles and says thank you to the people that confess, but tells them that he has to focus on basketball

actually loves basketball, like he’s not faking or shit,,,it makes him so happy and stimulates his mind in all the right ways

forces his friends to play basketball with him when they hang out,,,just to have the satisfaction of absolutely crushing them

meets you when you went to the varsity basketball teams practice to take pictures for the yearbook, since you were in charge of the sports sections

you wanted to get a shot of the star™ of the team but a layup went wRONG and hit you square in the face

your camera was around your neck so it was fine

but your life flashes before your yes RIP

he screamed louder than you did and automatically took you to the nurses office and apologized so much it gave you more of a headache than the ball did

you cover his mouth out of desperation and it makes his heart go JIUHRGFIUBRG

and you were??? unaffected???? you just looked like you were suffering???

and you not throwing yourself at him was ???? attractive?

so when he saw you again when you had to take individual pictures of each b-ball member he asked you out

,,,,and the rest is history

his jerseys always go missing because you take them from him,,,,but you both tell the coach that he ‘lost’ it

he loves to run his fingers through your hair and massage your scalp and nape....and you just melt into his chest and it’s just....so cute

he just :::(((( wants your kisses and hugs and attention ::(((

he gives the best back-hugs,,,and his kisses are always sudden pecks that leave your heart racing

you always tell people that he’s the most annoying clingy crybaby ever but he’s your annoying clingy crybaby and you’ll fight anyone who hurts him

he insists on taking a picture of you and him together every game and posts them so that everyone knows you belong to him and he belongs to you

:(((( you guys are literally the cutest couple in the world, and you get slightly popular too

jeno gets jealous whenever guys still try to ask you out,,,,and he comes up and wrap his arms around your waist and mutter if you’re done yet while glaring at the guy or girl

he’s cute but protective :( so cute:(

haechan; the trickster™

this boy is a little annoying fuck that irritates teachers and students alike,,, but somehow people can’t hate him because homeboy,,,,is funny

he has detention like every weekend because he’s always acting up in class

he isn’t dumb, he has a few average classes and a few bad classes -- like everyone in junior year

but he excels in his extracurriculars, which are musical theater and choir,,,,his voice? angelic, everyone knows this

his theater buddies are the only people he can stand that aren’t his close friends//the dreamies

he plays pranks on the teachers with tacks on chairs, switches expo markers for permanent markers, pranks students with putting confetti in their lockers, making fun of them,,,,harmless things

but it still earns him a reputation for trouble

he doesn’t do drugs or skip classes, he’s not a ‘badboy’,,,,though sometimes he leaves English class early for an ‘appointment’

he always wears black skinny jeans with a hoodie and vans or converse, has hoodies of every color to ever exist, same with his shoes

sometimes wears a snapback and glasses -- he is one attractive boy

but girls know that he couldn’t care less about dating so no one approaches him, just admire form far away

no students really fight back with him, they just let him be him, they’re used to his antics

but you,,,,you have one hell of a temper sis,,,,,like damn

he gets the best reactions out of you, who usually gets so mad that you both get detention and spend your saturdays together cleaning the school

you hate his guts since he always gets you into trouble, and he loves your guts because you always react to whatever he says

however one time he takes it too far,,.,,

he decided to pull a classic prank on the teacher, one that might get him into a lot of trouble,,,,water in a pail above the door

all the students are in class when he sets up the prank, no one stopping him, and then he sits down, snickering

however the teacher comes in through the back door, surprising everyone, and everyone gasps when you walk through the front door, running late,,,,

and the water drops

you are completely soaked, head to toe, in what smells like dirty school water

you just glare at haechan who for once, regrets a prank,

the teacher grimaces and sends you and haechan to the office, to ‘talk it out’

you end up having to garden outside for detention,,,,and you don’t understand why you have to do it but you don’t complain, you just glare at haechan for the first half of detention

he feels really bad,,,,so he follows you around the garden asking for forgiveness in the form of....a date

you say no until he annoys you so much that you scream out

“OKAY YES GOD DAMN IT, PICK ME UP AT 7 PM”

you and homeboy always get into petty arguments that are solved through kisses

that one couple that is super judgmental of others and always bicker but it’s lowkey cute

you teach him to be less of an ass, and he teaches you to chill out,,,,he’s the only one that can calm your temper down,,,,,with cuddles

the teachers thank you every day for calming him down and you still get gifts from the students who were always teased

a power couple™

jaemin; the heartthrob™

girls are always surrounding him,,,,,like deadass they are EVERYWHERE

surprisingly, he doesn’t really like it because he can never talk to his friends at school without getting mobbed so :\

but he’s way too nice to ask them to leave or decline them so he just smiles and tries to be polite,,,,

but every girl thinks he’s into them when he’s that nice so homeboy can never cATCH A BREAK

dresses like a hardcore fuckboy, but he can’t help it he just really likes the style man

his teachers like him, and some of the younger one’s always have to remind themselves that he’s just a student whenever he flashes that smile

has a teacher hit on him before? yes, it was a very young female history (like 22, just graduated) earlier on in junior year and she just always winked at him and gave him random extra credit for no reason and he WAS TERRIFIED

asked his bffs (the dreamies) to report her because he was high key afraid to do it himself and they did and she was fired,,,,,best day of his life

his grades are on the better side, always is very neat and orderly despite common thinking

loves psychology and human geography because he loves people and wants to learn more about them

he meets you because you’re the president of the culture club, and he wants to join and want the vice president position

you’re very impartial about it honestly, you think he’s very attractive and all but you just want to make sure all the club members are,,,,good members and not just there for the college resume

you talk to him one-on-one for the interview and,,,,he literally just pops off with information and genuine positivity and curiosity and love for culture,,,,and you’re speechless

after he’s done he thinks he did something wrong because you’re just staring at him,,,,

“uh....did I say something wrong?”

“huh? o-oh, no....it’s just that -- you’re very popular for your looks but I think your mind is the most attractive part about you. you’re very genuine, it’s attractive.”

and the compliment that flowed from you so easily just,,,,,melted his heart

needless to say, he gets the position, and every time he sees you on Thursdays he just.....turns red

you’re blatantly attracted to him, not for his face, but for him and his mind

it makes him feel like he’s more than just a pretty face and you’re straight-forward flirting with him makes him feel a certain way that other girls just, can’t do to him

“jaemin”

“yeah?”

“we should go on a date to the culture museum downtown”

“o-o-okay”

like,,,,you say it all with a straight face,,,,you’re the one who makes all the first moves, and he loves it

you have him wrapped around your finger in the cutest way possible,,,

he calls you princess and always sweet talks you and when you two face-time each other, he always makes your stoic face crumble into red

he loves seeing you so unraveled, so he also always makes time to make-out with you after club

dating him is always genuine and full of sweet moments, arguments rarely happen because you’re very logical and honest and he’s empathetic and understanding -- you two are a perfect match

also you kind of scare the rest of the girls,,,so they stop crowing him and you’re just like ?????

his friends are so thankful because they can actually talk to him now

you queen lol

chenle; the class clown™

NOT THE SAME AS THE TRICKSTER

everyone is always consistently annoyed with the trickster,,,,but everyone literally loves chenle

the teachers, the student-body, the animals and administrators -- everyone

he’s genuinely funny and respectful, sometimes he’ll get caught off track when ever he talks too much but all he needs is a reminder

he’s a sophomore so teachers think he’ll grow out of it at some point,,, how wrong they are because his friends say that he’s the same even at sleepovers

other than being funny and loved,,, he’s also very bossy and occasionally whiny

like the student body loves him and all but get paired with him for a project? you need the patience of a thousand yoda’s like holy hell boy is bOSSY

yells at students who don’t listen to him,,,,but does it cutely so they still can’t hate him

you’d think he’d have amazing grades because he’s bossy in projects but he’s actually just mediocre because he spends all class coming up with jokes and finding the perfect time to interrupt the teacher for a joke

he comes to school in expensive clothes because he’s well-off and usually gets his friends expensive gifts too

his friend’s love him because he’s genuine and a funny non-asshole, unlike haechan who they also love but it a bit of a pain in the butt

you, you are the most sweetest, most patient, and loving person the whole world has ever seen, but you’re also very quiet

your face is ^W^ every single damn day

so one day when you get paired with chenle in a history project,,,,no one is surprised that you don’t even flinch at his commanding words

however, one day, when chenle has a pretty bad morning (like he forgot his homework, he forgot his lunch, he failed a test and spilled milk on his shirt)

he’s actually bossy enough to,,,,annoy the students and teacher, and his complaining gets so bad that he gets sent out into the hall to cool off

for the first time in his life, he actually gets in trouble trouble

the people in your group are all kinda irritated, but you are still ^w^, so the teacher asks if you can go out into the hallway and talk to him, because she’s worried about him

you nod and without a word, make your way out into the hallway

he sees you and crosses his arms, expecting you to scold him, but you just stand there and put a hand on his shoulder, asking very nicely if everything is okay

and he just,,,,feels compelled to vent to you,,,,

he feels like a little kid but is in such a better mood after the venting,,,,,he just hugs you and thanks you

“why didn’t you get annoyed at me earlier like everyone else?”

“because i think your pouting face is very cute and i figured you were just in a bad mood”

“hUH”

you are his venting person™

he literally tells you EVERYTHING

always asks you to also vent to him and so you try to, but you really never get annoyed with anything so you usually just tell him about your day

you only get annoyed at people when they hurt one of your friend’s feelings, so that;s that

cuddle everyday, every second,,,, non-stop love from and to chenle,,, a pure couple

you guys are just always supporting one another,,,,,and chenle is one of the only people who see you when you’re feelings down and sad and he just,,,,,gives you so much love that you :)

jisung; that dance kid™

the best sophomore dancer there is

the best dancer in the entire high school, PERIODT

literally talks about dance all.the.time. like,,,, Annie are you okay?

constantly thinking of routines and songs to dance to and watching others dancing videos and listening to music,,,,,this boy has one and one hobby onLY

gets yelled at in class from time to time because literally all he does is think dance dance dance dance dance

and so he sometimes takes his phone out of his pocket in class to watch videos when he’s bored,,,, on instinct and the teachers are just like -__-

but they’re used to it at this point

looks up to his older friend’s that are amazing dancers like ten and taeyong and always ask them for advice

they always tell him to look after and care for his body,,,,,but he can’t hear them because he’s busy staying up until 3 am getting this damn dance perfect --

always wears sweats to school, because he can dance in them automatically

sometimes wears nice clothes when chenle pesters him about it for eight days straight

girls don’t pay much attention to him because he seems too,,,,,spacey and just,,,,,,you can’t talk to him because he’s not paying attention

the guys in the school love him because they think he’s adorable but also extremely talented at dance so

did i mention that he sucks at science?

because he sucks at science, SO HARD

like, every other subject? A or A minus

but chemistry????? like???? what the actual holy god-sent fuck?

like? no one invited you, please leave

so he gets sent to a tutoring session by the school, because colleges say they don’t want him if he’s failing fucking chemistry

which jisung? calls bullshit on

and there he meets you,

also a student who thinks chemistry is the devil,,,,you’re just as bad as he is -- literally. everything you guys get wrong, the other gets wrong

its like bad telepathy

and you both are assigned to mark, jisungs friends lmao

but since he’s always busy, he sometimes has to cancel tutoring sessions because he has other things (even though jisung claims he cancels because he’s too busy smooching his girlfriend,,,,,ew)

so you and jisung meet up and study together twice a week, and it actually works,,,,you both go from a 67 to a 81 and that’s the best ya’ll could do and trust me the teachers AREN’T complaining

and during the last studying session, jisung is kind of :\ since you both get along so well and he felt comfortable with you

he asks why you got tutoring in the first place, and your answer surprises him

“ because i dance and well,,,,,my parents said i couldn’t keep dancing if i didn’t bring up my grades so”

and from there on out, you guys moved from studying sessions to dance sessions instead,,,,,and its always just the two of you hanging out at jisung’s and dancing and or chilling

they become like,,,,,dates,,,,,

and so you two at some point just,,,,,tell each other how you feel because of the sheet amount of time you spend with each other, and it feels,,,,natural

he isn’t very affectionate and neither are you

most times you two just lay on opposite sides of the couch and talk about deep thoughts and hold hands uwu

your kisses are only short small pecks because both of you are too shy to add force

you both are literally on the same brainwave, you guys share once single braincell but it’s,,,oddly enduring

you are best friends who just love to dance, think, and kiss :)

THEY GET LONGER AS YOU GO DOWN OMF IM SO SORRY I GOT REALLY CARRIED AWAY

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